To meet on the green shore a youth whom she loved. But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep, And in tears all the night her gold ringlets to steep, Till Heav'n look'd with pity on true love so warm, And changed to this soft harp the sea-mainden's form! Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheek smiled the same, While sea-beauties gracefully curl'd round the frame; And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright rings, Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings! Hence it came that this soft harp so long hath been known This thought was suggested by an ingenious design, prefixed to an Ode upon St. Cecilia, published some years since, by M. Hudson, of Dublin To mingle love's language with sorrow's soft tone, Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To be love when I'm near thee, and grief when away! LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. OH! THE DAYS ARE GONE AIR-The Old Woman. On the days are gone, when beauty bright When my dream of life, from morn till night New hopes may bloom, And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life Though the bard to purer fame may soar, Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, He'll never meet In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear And, at every close, she blush'd to hear Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot, Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot "Twas odour fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream' Twas a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream! Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again THE PRINCE'S DAY.' THOUGH DARK ARE OUR SORROWS. AIR-St. Patrick's Day. THOUGH dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, And smile through our tears, like a sun-beam in showers; There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours! But, just when the chain Has ceased to pain, And hope has enwreath'd it round with flowers, 'There comes a new link Our spirits to sink! This song was written for a fête in honour of the Prince of WALES's birth-day, given by my friend, Major BRYAN, last year (1810), at his seat in the county of Kil Lenny. Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, Is a flash amid darknes, too brilliant to stay; But though 'twere the last little spark in our souls, We must light it up now, on our Prince's day. Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal! Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true! And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, Is love from a heart, that loves liberty too. While cowards, who blight Your fame, your right, Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array; The standard of green In front would be seen. Oh! my life on your this minute, faith were you summon'd You'd cast every bitter remembrance away, And shew what the arm of old Erin has in it, When roused by the foe, on her Prince's day. He loves the green isle, and his love is recorded In hearts which have suffer'd too much to forget; And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded, And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet! |