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 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, 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, 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, With affection, as free From decline as the bowers, 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 Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will, OH! DOUBT ME NOT. On! doubt me not-the season Shall watch the fire awaked by Love. Is o'er when Folly made me rove, Shall watch the fire awaked by Love. May sing of Passion's ardent spell, And hums his lay of courtship o'er, YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.1 You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, 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, 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 thou wert, like them, untrue. 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, My own love, my only dear! And, though the hope be gone, love, 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, Has love to that soul, so tender, Allured by the gleam that shone, Has Hope, like the bird in the story,2 If thus the sweet hours have fleeted, Each feeling that once was dearCome, child of misfortune! come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. NO, NOT MORE WELCOME. No, not more welcome the fairy numbers He thinks the full quire of Heaven is near,- 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 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 saw thee change, yet still relied, Still clung with hope the fonder, The heart, whose hopes could make it Deserves that thou shouldst break it! When every tongue thy follies named, Or found, in even the faults they blamed, I still was true, when nearer friends Some day, perhaps, thou 'It waken 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. The smiling there, like light on graves, I would not now surrender For all thy guilty splendour! And days may come, thou false one! yet, With smiles had still received thee, '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 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, 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 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, 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? From bonds so sweet to sever;- 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 Would pine beneath them slowly? At once may spring To the throne of Him who made it? Less dear the laurel growing, The brows with victory glowing! 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. "T is gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking, 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, The Sun-burst was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the royal banner. From the heaven of wit Wouldst thou know what first For wine's celestial spirit? The living fires that warm us. The careless Youth, when up To hide the pilfer'd fire in :But oh his joy! when, round, The halls of heaven spying, 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! Hath such spells to win us- DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY! DEAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee; 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, 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. |