I look'd for the lamp, which she told me Should shine when her pilgrim return'd; But, though darkness began to infold me, No lamp from the battlements burn'd!

I flew to her chamber-'t was lonely
As if the loved tenant lay dead!-
Ah! would it were death, and death only!
But no-the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute, that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss,
While the hand that had waked it so often
Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.

There was a time, falsest of women!

When Breffni's good sword would have sought That man, through a million of foemen,

Who dared but to doubt thee in thought! While now-oh, degenerate daughter

Of ERIN!-how fall'n is thy fame!

And, through ages of bondage and slaughter,
Our country shall bleed for thy shame.

Already the curse is upon her,

And strangers her valleys profane; They come to divide—to dishonour, And tyrants they long will remain! But, onward!-the green banner rearing, Go, flesh every sword to the hilt; On our side is VIRTUE and ERIN!

On theirs is THE SAXON and GUILT.

OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN!

AIR-Sheela na Guira.

Oa! had we some bright little isle of our own,
In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone,
Where a leaf never dies in the still-blooming bowers,
And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers;
Where the sun loves to pause

With so fond a delay,

That the night only draws

A thin veil o'er the day;

Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give!

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,
We should love, as they loved in the first golden time;
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there!

With affection, as free

From decline as the bowers,
And with Hope, like the bee,
Living always on flowers,

Our life should resemble a long day of light,

And our death come on, holy and calm as the night!

tually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns.-The Monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II.

« Such, adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation), is the variable and tickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy..

FAREWELL!-BUT, WHENEVER YOU

WELCOME THE HOUR.

AIR-Moll Roone.

cup,

FAREWELL!-but, whenever you welcome the hour
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return-not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brighten'd his path-way of pain-
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you!
And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends! shall be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles!-
Too bless'd, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmur'd, « I wish he were here!»
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;
Which
come, in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd!

Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd

You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

OH! DOUBT ME NOT.
AIR-Yellow Wat and the Fox.

On! doubt me not-the season
Is o'er when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal Reason

Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.
Although this heart was early blown,
And fairest hands disturb'd the tree,
They only shook some blossoms down,-
Its fruit has all been kept for thee.
Then doubt me not-the season

Is o'er when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal Reason

Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.
And though my lute no longer

May sing of Passion's ardent spell,
Yet, trust me, all the stronger
I feel the bliss I do not tell.
The bee through many a garden roves,

And hums his lay of courtship o'er,
But when he finds the flower he loves,
He settles there, and hums no more.
Then doubt me not-the season
Is o'er when Folly kept me free,
And now the vestal Reason
Shall guard the flame awaked by thee.

YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.1
AIR-Were I a Clerk.

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride,
How meekly she bless'd her humble lot,

1 This Ballad was suggested by a well-known and interesting story. told of a certain noble family in England.

When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,
And love was the light of their lowly cot,
Together they toil'd through winds and rains,
Till William at length, in sadness, said,
We must seek our fortune on other plains;
Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.

They roam'd a long and a weary way,

Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, When now, at close of one stormy day,

They see a proud castle among the trees. To-night, said the youth, « we 'll shelter there; The wind blows cold, the hour is late :So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, And the porter bow'd as they pass'd the gate.

Now, welcome, Lady! exclaim'd the youth,—

This castle is thine, and these dark woods all.▾ She believed him wild, but his words were truth, For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall! — And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves

What William the stranger woo'd and wed; And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves, Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed.

I'D MOURN THE HOPES.

AIR-The Rose-Tree.

I'D mourn the hopes that leave me,
If thy smiles had left me too;
I'd weep when friends deceive me,

If thou wert, like them, untrue.
But, while I've thee before me,

With heart so warm and eyes so bright,

No clouds can linger o'er me,—

That smile turns them all to light!

'T is not in fate to harm me,
While fate leaves thy love to me;
T is not in joy to charm me,
Unless joy be shared with thee.
One minute's dream about thee
Were worth a long, an endless year
Of waking bliss without thee,

My own love, my only dear!

And, though the hope be gone, love,
That long sparkled o'er our way,
Oh! we shall journey on, love,
More safely without its ray.
Far better lights shall win me

Along the path I 've yet to roam,The mind that burns within me,

And pure smiles from thee at home.

Thus, when the lamp that lighted

The traveller, at first goes out, He feels awhile benighted,

And looks round, in fear and doubt.

But soon, the prospect clearing,

By cloudless star-light on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering

As that light which Heaven sheds!

No. VI.

In presenting this Sixth Number as our last, and bidding adieu to the Irish Harp for ever, we shall not answer very confidently for the strength of our resolution, nor feel quite sure that it may not prove, after all, to be only one of those eternal farewells which a lover takes of his mistress occasionally. Our only motive indeed for discontinuing the Work was a fear that our treasures were beginning to be exhausted, and an unwillingness to descend to the gathering of mere seed-pearl, after the very valuable gems it has been our lot to string together. But this intention, which we announced in our Fifth Number, has excited an anxiety in the lovers of Irish Music, not only pleasant and flattering, but highly useful to us; for the various contributions we have received in consequence have enriched our collection with so many choice and beautiful Airs, that, if we keep to our resolution of publishing no more, it will certainly be an instance of forbearance and self-command unexampled in the history of poets and musicians.

Too fast have those young days faded,
That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Does Time with his cold wing wither
Each feeling that once was dear?-
Then, child of misfortune! come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear,

Has love to that soul, so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine,
Where sparkles of golden splendour
All over the surface shine-
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,2
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory-
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the sweet hours have fleeted,
When Sorrow herself look'd bright;
If thus the fond hope has cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus, too, the cold world wither

Each feeling that once was dearCome, child of misfortune! come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.
AIR-Luggelaw.

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When, half-awaking from fearful slumbers,

He thinks the full quire of Heaven is near,-
Than came that voice, when, all forsaken,
This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign, bless'd sounds again.
Sweet voice of comfort! 't was like the stealing
Of summer wind through some wreathed shell-
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling

Of all my soul echoed to its spell!

"T was whisper'd balm-'t was sunshine spoken!I'd live years of grief and pain,

To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
By such benign, bless'd sounds again!

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. AIR-O Patrick! fly from me. WHEN first I met thee, warm and young, There shone such truth about thee,

Our Wicklow Gold-Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, the character here given of them.

The bird having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The Prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it: but, as be approached, the bird took wing, and settled again, etc.-Arabian Nights, Story of Kummir al Zummaun and the Princess of China.

And on thy lip such promise hung,
I did not dare to doubt thee.

I saw thee change, yet still relied,

Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, though false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.
But go, deceiver! go-

The heart, whose hopes could make it
Trust one so false, so low,

Deserves that thou shouldst break it!

When every tongue thy follies named,
I fled the unwelcome story;

Or found, in even the faults they blamed,
Some gleams of future glory.

I still was true, when nearer friends
Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart that now thy falsehood rends,
Would then have bled to right thee.
But go, deceiver! go,-

Some day, perhaps, thou 'It waken
From pleasure's dream, to know

The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, though youth its bloom has shed, No lights of age adorn thee;

The few who loved thee once have fled,

And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,
No genial ties enwreathe it;

The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank, cold hearts beneath it!
Go-go-though worlds were thine,

I would not now surrender
One taintless tear of mine

For all thy guilty splendour!

And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When even those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret,
On her theu 'st lost for ever!
On her who, in thy fortune's fall,

With smiles had still received thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believed thee.
Go-go-'t is vain to curse,

'T is weakness to upbraid thee;

Hate cannot wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made thee.

WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.

AIR-Paddy Whack.

WHILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of ERIN stood weeping,
For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.
But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,
She saw History write,

With a pencil of light

That illumed all the volume, her WELLINGTON's name!

«Hail, Star of my Isle!» said the Spirit, all sparkling With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies, Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise.

For, though heroes I've number'd, unbless'd was their lot,
And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame;-
But, oh there is not
One dishonouring blot

On the wreath that encircles my WELLINGTON's name!

Yet, still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,

The grandest, the purest even thou hast yet known; Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood, Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fameAnd, bright o'er the flood

Of her tears and her blood,

Let the rainbow of Hope be her WELLINGTON's name!»

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

AIR-Peas upon a Trencher.

THE time I've lost in wooing,

In watching and pursuing
The light that lies

In Woman's eyes,

Has been my heart's undoing. Though Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorn'd the lore she brought me, My only books

Were Woman's looks,

And folly 's all they 've taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,
Like him, the Sprite,'
Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that 's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me
But while her eyes were on me-

If once their ray

Was turn'd away, Oh! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise

For brilliant eyes

Again to set it glowing?
No-vain, alas! the endeavour

From bonds so sweet to sever;-
Poor Wisdom's chance

Against a glance

Is now as weak as ever!

WHERE IS THE SLAVE? AIR-Sios agus sios liom. WHERE is the slave, so lowly, Condemn'd to chains unholy,

This alludes to a kind of Irish Fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields, at dusk :-as long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power: but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I bad thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprochaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady Morgan (in a note upon her national and interesting novel O'Donnel), has given a very different account of that goblin.

Who, could he burst
His bonds at first,

Would pine beneath them slowly?
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decay'd it,
When thus its wing

At once may spring

To the throne of Him who made it?
Farewell, Erin!-farewell all
Who live to weep our fall!

Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouch'd, and blowing,
Than that whose braid
Is pluck'd to shade

The brows with victory glowing!
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,
The friends we've tried

Are by our side,

And the foe we hate before us! Farewell, Erin!-- farewell all Who live to weep our fall!

COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. AIR-Lough Sheeling.

COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer! Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still

here;

Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last!

Oh! what was love made for, if 't is not the same Through joy and through torments, through glory and

shame?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt 's in that heart,

I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!

Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I 'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,— Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or-perish there too!

'T IS GONE, AND FOR EVER.
AIR-Savournah Deelish.

"T is gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking,
Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead-
When man, from the slumber of ages awaking,

Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled! 'I is gone-and the gleams it has left of its burning But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning, And, darkest of all, hapless Erin! o'er thee.

For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting Around thee, through all the gross clouds of the world;

When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting,
At once, like a sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd.1

The Sun-burst was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the royal banner.

From the heaven of wit
Draw down all its lightning!
Fill the bumper, etc.

Wouldst thou know what first
Made our souls inherit
This ennobling thirst

For wine's celestial spirit?
It chanced upon that day,
When, as bards inform us,
Prometheus stole away

The living fires that warm us.
Fill the bumper, etc.

The careless Youth, when up
To Glory's fount aspiring,
Took nor urn nor cup

To hide the pilfer'd fire in :But oh his joy! when, round,

The halls of heaven spying,
Amongst the stars he found
A bowl of Bacchus lying.

Fill the bumper, etc.

Some drops were in that bowl,

Remains of last night's pleasure, With which the Sparks of Soul

Mix'd their burning treasure!
Hence the goblet's shower

Hath such spells to win us-
Hence its mighty power
O'er that flame within us.
Fill the bumper, etc.

DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY!
AIR-New Langolee.

DEAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee;
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,1
When proudly, my own Island Harp! I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine; Go, sleep, with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,

Have throbb'd at our lay, 't is thy glory alone;

I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,
And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.

In that rebellious but beautiful song, When Erin first rose, there is, if I recollect right, the following line:

The dark chain of silence was thrown o'er the deep! The chain of silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almbaim, where the attending bards, anxions, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, sbook the chain of silence, and flung themselves among the ranks. See also the Ode to Gaul, the son of Morni, in Miss BROOKE's Reliques of Irish Poetry.