The ge may be broke.
By many a stroke,

But nothing can cloud its native ray;

Each fragment will cast

A light to the last,

And thus, Erin, my country! though broken thou


There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will


A spirit, that beams through each suffering part, And now smiles at their pain, on the Prince's day!


AIR-The Song of Sorrow.

WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past;
Your dreams of pride are o'er ;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more!

In vain the hero's heart hath bled;

The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain

Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again!

Weep on-perhaps in after days
They'll learn to love your name;
And many a deed may wake in praise
That long hath slept in blame!

And, when they tread the ruin'd isle,

Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, They'll wondering ask how hands so vile Could conquer hearts so brave?

« 'Twas fate, » they'll say, « a wayward fate Your web of discord wove;

And while your tyrants join'd in hate.
You never join❜d in love!

But hearts fell off, that ought to twine,

And man profaned what God had given, Till some were heard to curse the shrine, Where others knelt to heaven !»>


AIR-Nora Creina.

LESBIA hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth;

Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at no one dreameth!

Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon

My Nora's lid that seldom rises;

Few its looks, but every one Like unexpected light surprises! Oh, my Nora Creina, dear! My gentle bashful Nora Creina! Beauty lies

In many eyes,

But love in yours, my Nora Creina!

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath laced it
Not a charm of beauty's mould
Presumes to stay where Nature placed it!
Oh ! my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell, as heaven pleases"
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear!
My simple graceful Nora Creina!
Nature's dress

Is loveliness,

The dress you wear, mv Nora Creina!

Lesbia hath a wit refined,

Put, when its points are gleaming round us,

Who can tell if they're design'd
To dazzle merely, or to wound us?
Pillow'd on my Nora's heart,
In safer slumber love reposes;-

Bed of peace! whose roughest par
Is but the crumpling of the roses!
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear!
My mild, my artless Nora Creina!
Wit, though bright,

Hath not the light

That warms your eyes, my Nora Creina !



I SAW thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay

Would steal before the steps of time,

And waste its bloom away, MARY! Yet still thy features wore that light Which fleets not with the breath; And life look'd ne'er more purely bright Than in thy smile of death, MARY!

As streams that run o'er golden miņes,
With modest murmur glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, MARY?
So, veil'd beneath a simple guise,

Thy radiant genius shone,.
And that, which charm'd all other
Seem'd worthless in thy own, MARY!


If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left thy sphere;
Or, could we keep the souls we love,
We ne'er had lost thee here, MARY.
Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,

To live with them is far less sweet
Than to remember thee, MARY!!

I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite inscription of SHENSTONE's-«Heu! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse!

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