Note 17, page 270, col. 2.
Oh, idol of my dreams! whate'er

Thy nature be-human, divine
Or but half heavenly.

In an article upon the Fathers, which appeared, some years since, in the Edinburgh Review (No XLVII),

and of which I have made some little use in these notes (having that claim over it—as quiddam notum propriumque-which Lucretius gives to the cow over the calf), there is the following remark :-« The belief of an intercourse between angels and women, founded upon a false version of a text in Genesis, is one of those extravagant notions of St Justin and other Fathers, which show how little they had yet purified themselves from the grossness of heathen mythology, and in how many respects their heaven was but Olympus, with other names. Yet we can hardly be angry with them for this one error, when we recollect that possibly to their enamoured angels we owe the fanciful world of sylphs and gnomes, and that at this moment we might have wanted Pope's most exquisite poem, if the version of the LXX had translated the Book of Genesis correctly.

The following is one among many passages, which may be adduced from the Comte de Gabalis, in confirmation of this remark:- Ces enfans du ciel engendrèrent les géans fameux, s'étant fait aimer aux filles des hommes; et les mauvais cabalistes Joseph et Philo (comme tous les Juifs sont ignorans), et après eux tous les auteurs que j'ai nommés tout à l'heure, ont dit que c'étoit des anges, et n'ont pas su que s'était les sylphes et les autres peuples des élémens, qui, sous le nom d'enfans d'Eloim, sont distingués des enfans des hommes. -See Entret. Second.

Note 19, page 272, col. 1.

Then first were diamonds caught, etc. Quelques gnomes, désireux de devenir immortels, avoient voulu gagner les bonnes graces de nos filles, et leur avaient apporté des pierreries dont ils sont gardiens naturels: et ses auteurs ont cru, s'appuyant sur le livre d'Enoch mal entendu, que c'étaient des pièges que les anges amoureux, etc. etc.-Comte de Gabalis.

Tertullian traces all the chief luxuries of female at

tire, the neck-laces, armlets, rouge, and the black powder for the eye-lashes, to the researches of these fallen angels into the inmost recesses of nature, and the discoveries they were, in consequence, enabled to make, of all that could embellish the beauty of their earthly favourites. The passage is so remarkable that I shall give it entire : Nam et illi qui ea constituerant, damnati in pœnam mortis deputantur: illi scilicet angeli, qui ad filias hominum de cœlo ruerunt, ut hæc quoque ignominia fœminæ accedat. Nam cum et materias quasdam bene occultas et artes plerasque non bene revelatas, sæculo multo magis imperito prodidissent (siquidem et metallorum opera nudaverant, et kerbarum ingenia traduxerant et incantationum vires provulgaverant, et omnem curiositatem usque ad stellarum interpretationem designaverant) proprie et quasi peculiariter fœminis instrumentum istud muliebris gloriæ contulerunt: lumina lapillorum quibus monilia variantur, et circulos ex auro quibus brachia arctantur: et medicamenta ex fuco, quibus lanæ colorantur, et illum ipsum nigrum pulverem, quo oculorum exordia producuntur.»-De Habitu Mulieb. cap. 2.-See him also De Cultu Fœm.» cap. 10.

Note 20, page 272, col. 1

the mighty magnet, set In Woman's form.

The same figure, as applied to female attractions, occurs in a singular passage of St Basil, of which the following is the conclusion:-A TV EVOUCKY XXTX του άρρενος αυτής φυσικήν δυναςειαν, ὡς σιδηρος, φη μι, πορρωθεν μαγνητις, τούτο προς ἑαυτον μαγγανευι. De Vera Virginitat. tom. 1, p. 727. It is but fair, however, to add, that Hermant, the biographer of Basil, has pronounced this most unsanctified treatise to be spurious.

Note 21, page 272, col. 1.

I've said, Nay, look not there, my love, etc.

loses much of its grace and playfulness, by being put I am aware that this happy saying of Lord Albemarle's into the mouth of any but a human lover.

Note 22, page 272, col. 2; Note.

Clemens Alexandrinus is one of those who suppose that the knowledge of such sublime doctrines was derived from the disclosure of the angels. Stromat. lib. v, p. 48. To the same source Cassianus and others trace all impious and daring sciences, such as magic, alchemy, etc. <«<From the fallen angels (says Zosimus) came all that miserable knowledge which is of no use to the soul. — Πάντα τα πονηρα και μηδεν ωφελούντα την ψυχήν. Ap. Photium.

Note 24, page 276, col. 2.

--as 't is graved

Upon the tablets that, of old,

By Cham were from the Deluge saved.

The pillars of Seth are usually referred to as the depositories of antediluvian knowledge; but they were inscribed with none but astronomical secrets. I have, therefore, preferred here the tablets of Cham as being, at least, more miscellaneous in their information. The following account of them is given in Jablonski from Cassianus:- Quantum enim antiquæ traditiones ferunt Cham filius Noæ, qui superstitionibus ac profanis fuerit artibus institutus, sciens nullum se posse superbis memorialem librum in arcam inferre, in quam erat ingressurus, sacrilegas artes ac profana commenta durissimis insculpsit lapidibus.»

The Sephiroths are the higher orders of emanative being, in the strange and incomprehensible system of the Jewish Cabbala. They are called by various names, Pity, Beauty, etc. etc.; and their influences are supposed to act through certain canals, which communicate with each other. The reader may judge of the rationality of the system by the following explanation of part of the machinery :-« Les canaux qui sortent de la Miséricorde et de la Force, et qui vont aboutir à la Beauté, sont chargés d'un grand nombre d'Anges. Il y en a trente-cinq sur le canal de Miséricorde, qui recompensent et qui couronnent la vertu des Saints, etc. etc. For a concise account of the Cabalistic Philosophy, see Enfield's very useful compendium of Brucker.

Note 30, page 278, col. 2.

-from that tree

Which buds with such eternally.

. On les représente quelquefois sous la figure d'un arbre.... l'Ensoph qu'on met au-dessus de l'arbre Sephirotique ou des Splendeurs divines, est l'Infini. --L'Histoire des Juifs, liv. ix, 11.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THOUGH the beauties of the National Music of Ireland have been very generally felt and acknowledged, yet it has happened, through the want of appropriate English words, and of the arrangement necessary to adapt them to the voice, that many of the most excellent compositions have hitherto remained in obscurity. It is intended, therefore, to form a Collection of the best Original IRISH MELODIES, with characteristic Symphonies and Accompaniments; and with Words containing as frequent as possible allusions to the manners and history of the country.

In the poetical part, the Publisher has had promises of assistance from several distinguished Literary Characters, particularly from Mr MOORE, whose lyrical talent is so peculiarly suited to such a task, and whose zeal in the undertaking will be best understood from the following extract of a letter which he has addressed

to Sir JOHN STEVENSON (who has undertaken the arrangement of the airs) on the subject:

<< I feel very anxious that a Work of this kind should be undertaken. We have too long neglected the only talent for which our English neighbours ever deigned to allow us any credit. Our National Music has never been properly collected; and, while the composers of the Continent have enriched their operas and sonatas with melodies borrowed from Ireland-very often without even the honesty of acknowledgment—we have left these treasures in a great degree unclaimed and fugitive. Thus our airs, like too many of our countrymen, for want of protection at home, have passed into the service of foreigners. But we are come, I hope, to a better period both of politics and music; and how much they are connected, in Ireland at least,

The writer forgot, when he made this assertion, that the Public are indebted to Mr Bunting for a very valuable collection of Irish

Music; and that the patriotic genius of Miss Owenson has been employed upon some of our finest airs.

appears too plainly in the tone of sorrow and depression which characterises most of our early songs.-The task which you propose to me, of adapting words to these airs, is by no means easy. The poet, who would follow the various sentiments which they express, must feel and understand that rapid fluctuation of spirits, that unaccountable mixture of gloom and levity, which composes the character of my countrymen, and has deeply tinged their music. Even in their liveliest strains we find some melancholy note intrude-some minor third or flat seventh-which throws its shade as it passes, and makes even mirth interesting. If BURNS had been an Irishman (and I would willingly give up all our claims upon OSSIAN for him), his heart would have been proud of such music, and his genius would have made it immortal.

Another difficulty (which is, however, purely mechanical) arises from the irregular structure of many of those airs, and the lawless kind of metre which it will in consequence be necessary to adapt to them. In these instances the poet must write not to the eye but to the ear; and must be content to have his verses of that description which CICERO mentions, Quos si cantu spoliaveris, nuda remanebit oratio. That beautiful air, The Twisting of the Rope,' which has all the romantic character of the Swiss Ranz des Vaches, is one of those wild and sentimental rakes which it will not be very easy to tie down in sober wedlock with poetry. However, notwithstanding all these difficulties, and the very little talent which I can bring to surmount them, the design appears to me so truly national, that I shall feel much pleasure in giving it all the assistance in my

Oft as summer closes,
When thine eye reposes,
On its lingering roses,

Once so loved by theeThink of her who wove them, Her who made thee love themOh! then remember me.

When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying,

Oh! then remember me. And, at night when gazing On the gay hearth blazing,

Oh! still remember me. Then should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing,

Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing theeOh! then remember me.

WAR SONG. REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE.' AIR-Molly Macalpin.

REMEMBER the glories of BRIEN the brave,

Though the days of the hero are o'er;
Though lost to Mononia 2 and cold in the grave,
He returns to Kinkora 3 no more!

That star of the field, which so often has pour'd
Its beam on the battle, is set;

But enough of its glory remains on each sword
To light us to victory yet!

Mononia! when nature embellish'd the tint
Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
The footstep of Slavery there?

No, Freedom! whose smile we shall never resign,
Go, tell our invaders, the Danes,

That't is sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine,
Than to sleep but a moment in chains!

Forget not our wounded companions who stood 4
In the day of distress by our side;

While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood
They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died!
The sun that now blesses our arms with his light,
Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain!-

Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night,
To find that they fell there in vain!

'Brien Borombe, the great Monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements. The palace of Brien.

2 Munster.

4 This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favourite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, Prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest. Let stakes (they said) be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man." Between seven and eight hundred wounded men (adds O'Halloran), pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops :-never was such another sight exhibited."-History of Ireland, b. xii, ch. 1.

ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE

EYES.

AIR-Aileen Aroon.

ERIN! the tear and the smile in thine eyes
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies!
Shining through sorrow's stream,
Saddening through pleasure's beam,
Thy suns, with doubtful gleam,
Weep while they rise!

Erin! thy silent tear never shall cease,
Erin! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,

Till, like the rainbow's light,

Thy various tints unite,

And form, in Heaven's sight,
One arch of peace!

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

AIR-The Brown Maid.

On! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid :
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head!

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE.
AIR-The Fox's Sleep.

WHEN he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

Oh! say, wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd?
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;

For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee!

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love—
Every thought of my reason was thine;

In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above
Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
Is the pride of thus dying for thee!

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S

HALLS. AIR-Gramachree.

THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more!

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives

Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives!

FLY NOT YET.
AIR-Planxty Kelly.

FLY not yet, 't is just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids who love the moon! 'T was but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; "T is then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing. Oh! stay-Oh! stay.—

Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that oh! 't is pain
To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd

In times of old through Ammon's shade,'
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began

To burn when night was near:

And thus should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay-Oh! stay.—
When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here!

OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT.

AIR-John O'Reilly the Active.

On! think not my spirits are always as light,

And as free from a pang, as they seem to you now; Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow. No-life is a waste of wearisome hours,

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns! But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile; May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here, Than the tear that enjoyment can gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows,
If it were not with friendship and love intertwined;
And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,
When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind!
But they who have loved the fondest, the purest,
Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed;

Solis Fons, near the temple of Ammon.