When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Through fields full of sun-shine, with heart full of play,

Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the


Thus some who, like me, should have drown and

have tasted

The fountain, that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,

And left their light urns all as empty as mine! But pledge me the goblet-while Idleness weaves Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see One bright drop or two, that has fall'n on the leaves

From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me!

Proposito florem pretulit officio.

Propert., Lib. i. Eleg. 2


AIR-Alley Croker

THROUGH Erin's Isle,

To sport awhile,

As Love and Valour wander'd,

With Wit, the sprite,

Whose quiver bright

A thousand arrows squander'd;
Where'er they pass,

A triple grass.


Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,

As softly green

As emeralds, seen

Through purest crystal gleaming!

1 St. 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 for three colouredgrass in hehand. >>

Oh the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of bard and chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock!

Says Valour, « See,

They spring for me,

Those leafy gems of morning!»

Says Love, « No, no,

For me they grow,

My fragrant path adorning!

But Wit perceives

The triple leaves,

And cries, «Oh! do not seve
A type that blends

Three godlike friends,

Love, Valour, Wit, for ever!»

Oh the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of bard and chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock!

So firmly fond

May last the bond

They wove that morn togetner,

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One drop of gall

On Wit's celestial feather!

May Love, as twine

His flowers divine,

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!


Ain-Molly, my Dear.

Ar the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly,

To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm

in thine eye!

And I think that, if spirits can steal from the region 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


Then I sing the wild song,

rapture to hear,

which once 'twas

When our voices, both mingling, breathed 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!


AIR-Moll Roe in the Morning.

ONE bumper at parting!-tnough many
Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any
Remains to be crown'd by us yet.
The sweetness that Pleasure has in it,
Is always so slow to come forth,

«There are countries, says Montaigne, where they believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of li berty, in delightful fields; and that it is those souls repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo.»>

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