Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,
As softly green

As emeralds, seen

Thro' purest crystal gleaming!

Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf

So firmly fond

May last the bond,

They wove that morn together,
And ne'er may fall

One drop of gall

On Wir's celestial feather;

May Love, as shoot
His flow'rs and fruit,

Of thorny falsehood weed 'em ;

May VALOUR ne'er

His standard rear

Against the cause of Freedom!

Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

Old ERIN's native Shamrock!

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.

Ar the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we lov'd, when life was warm in thine eye;

And I think that, if spirits can steal from the regions of air,
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!

Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear,
When our voices commingling breath'd, like one, on the ear;
And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of souls,
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

2

Have circled the board since we met,

1 Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trefoil, to which in Ireland We give the name of Shamrock, in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the Pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this plant as a national emblem. HOPE, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, "standing upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-coloured grass in her hand."

2 "There are countries,

says MONTAIGNE, "where they believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields, and that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo."

As onward we journey, how pleasant
To pause and inhabit awhile
Those few sunny spots, like the present,
That 'mid the dull wilderness smile!
But Time, like a pitiless master,

Cries, "onward;" and spurs the gay hours

And never does Time travel faster,

Than when his way lies among flow'rs.
But come may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up:
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,
They die 'midst the tears of the cup.
This evening, we saw the sun sinking
In waters his glory made bright —
Oh! trust me, our farewell of drinking
Should be like that farewell of light.
You saw how he finish'd, by darting
His beam o'er a deep billows brim
So, fill up, let's shine at our parting,
In full, liquid glory like him.
And oh! may our life's happy measure
Of moments like this be made up;
"Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure,
It dies 'mid the tears of the cup!

"TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

"Tis the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,

No rose-bud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them;

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie wither'd,
And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

THE young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,
How sweet to rove

Through MORNA's grove,1

While the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

Then awake! the heavens look bright, my dear,
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,
And the best of all ways

THE Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him ;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
"Tho' all the world betrays thee,
"One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
"One faithful harp shall praise thee!'

The minstrel fell! - but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he lov❜d ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
"Thou soul of love and bravery!

"Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
"They shall never sound in slavery!

Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,
That sadden'd the joy of my mind.

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 - 'twas lonely
As if the lov'd tenant lay dead

Ah, would it were death, and death only!

But no, the young false one had fled.

1 "Steals silently to Morna's Grove."

See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's collection, by JOHN BROWN, one of my earliest college companions and friends, whose death was as singularly melancholy and unfortamate as his life had been amiable, honourable and exemplary.

2 These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland; if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances as related by O'Halloran. The king of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in these days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested, to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns." The Monarch Roderic 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 fickle 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."

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

OH! 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 lov'd 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!

FAREWELL! BUT, WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE

FAREWELL!

HOUR.

but, whenever you welcome the hour,
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcom'd 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 pathway of pain
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw
Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you!
And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
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 blest, 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 us'd 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.

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

Shall watch the fire awak'd by love.
Altho' 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 awak'd by Love.

And tho' my lute no longer

May sing of Passion's ardent speli,
Yet, trust me, all the stronger
I feel the bliss I do not tell.
The bee thro' 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 awak'd by thee.

YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.*

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

I'D mourn the hopes that leave me,
If thy smiles had left me too;

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