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Was a syren of old, who sung

under the sea;

And who often at eve through the bright bilows

roved,.

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.

OH! the days are gone, when beauty bright
My hearts chain wove;

When

my dream of life, from morn till night
Was love, still love!

New hopes may bloom,

And days may come,

Of milder, calmer beam, ́
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream!

Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream!

purer fame may soar,

Though the bard to

When wild youth's past;

Though he win the wise, who frown'd before,

To smile at last;

He'll never meet

A joy so sweet

In all his noon of fame,

As when first he sung to woman's ear
His soul-felt flame,

And, at every close, she blush'd to hear
The one-loved name.

Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot,
Which first love has traced;

Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste!

"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
On life's dull stream!

THE PRINCE'S DAY. I

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 faith! were you summon'd this minute,

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 re

warded,

And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet!

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