UC-NRLF 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
IRISH MELODIES, 
 
 THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 
 
 WITH AN APPENDIX, CONTAINING THE ORIGINAL 
 
 ADVERTISEMENTS, AND THE PREFATORY 
 
 LETTER ON MUSIC. 
 
 LONDON: 
 PRINTED FOR J. POWER, 34, STRAND, 
 
 AND 
 
 LONGMAN, HURST, REES, .ORME, AND BROWN, 
 PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 MDCCCXXI. 
 
The Engravings from the deiigna of W. H. BROOKE. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES, 
 Northumberland-Court. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 TO THE 
 
 MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGAL. 
 
 IT is now many years since, in a Letter pre- 
 fixed to the Third Number of the Irish Melodies, 
 I had the pleasure of inscribing the Poems of 
 that work to your Ladyship, as to a person whose 
 character reflected honour on the country to 
 which they relate, and whose friendship had 
 long been the pride and happiness of their au- 
 thor. With the same feelings of affection and 
 respect, confirmed if not increased by the expe- 
 rience of every successive year, I 'now place 
 those Poems, in their present new form, under 
 your protection, and am, 
 
 with perfect sincerity, your 
 
 Ladyship's ever attached friend, 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 Paris, June 10, 1821. 
 
 M56536? 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THOUGH an edition of the Poetry of the 
 Irish Melodies, separate from the Music, 
 has long been called for, yet having, for 
 many reasons, a strong objection to this 
 sort of divorce, I should with difficulty have 
 consented to a disunion of the words from the 
 airs, had it depended solely upon me to keep 
 them quietly and indissolubly together. But, 
 besides the various shapes in which these, as 
 well as my other lyrical writings, have been 
 published throughout America, they are in- 
 cluded, of course, in the two editions of all 
 my works printed at Paris, and have lately 
 appeared, in a volume full of typographical 
 errors, in Dublin. I have, therefore, readily 
 acceded to the wish of the Proprietor of the 
 Irish Melodies for a revised and complete 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 edition of the Poetry of the Eight Numbers, 
 though well aware that it is impossible for 
 these verses to be detached from the beau- 
 tiful airs to which they were associated, 
 without losing even more than the " animcc 
 dimidium" in the process. 
 
 The advertisements, which were prefixed 
 to the different numbers, the Prefatory Let- 
 ter upon Music, &c., will be found in an 
 Appendix at the end of the Volume. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 FIRST NUMBER. 
 
 Page 
 
 Go where glory waits thee 3 
 
 Remember the glories of Brien the brave ... 6 
 Erin ! the tear and the smile in thine eyes . . 9 
 Oh ! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade . 10 
 When he who adores thee, has left but the name . 11 
 The harp that once through Tara's halls . . .12 
 
 Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour 13 
 
 Oh ! think not my spirits are always as light . . 15 
 Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see . . 17 
 Rich and rare were the gems she wore . , .19 
 As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow . 21 
 There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet . 22 
 
 SECOND NUMBER. 
 
 Oh ! haste and leave this sacred isle . . . .27 
 
 How dear to me the hour when day-light dies . . 29 
 
 Take back the virgin page 30 
 
 When in death 1 shall calm recline . . 32 
 
 How oft has the Benshee cried 34 
 
 We may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast 36 
 
 Oh ! weep for the hour 3& 
 
 b 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Let Erin remember the days of old . . . .40 
 
 Silent, oh Moyle ! be the roar of thy water . . 42 
 
 -Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief 44 
 
 Sublime was the warning which Liberty spoke . . 45 
 
 Believe me, if all those endearing young charms . 47 
 
 THIRD NUMBER. 
 
 Like the bright lamp that shone in Kildare's holy fane 51 
 
 ' Drink to her, who long 53 
 
 Oh ! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers . 55 
 While gazing on the moon's light . . . .68 
 When day-light was yet sleeping under the billow . CO 
 By the hope within us springing . . . .62 
 Night clos'd around the conqueror's way . . .64 
 Oh ! 'tis sweet to think, that, where'er we roam . 65 
 Through grief and through danger . . . .67 
 
 When thro' life unblest we rove 69 
 
 It is not the tear, at this moment shed . . .71 
 7 Tis believ'd that this harp, which I wake now . . 72 
 
 FOURTH NUMBER. 
 
 Oh ! the days are gone, when beauty bright . . 77 
 Tho' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them . 79 
 Weep on, weep on, your hour is past ... .82 
 
 Lesbia hath a beaming eye 84 
 
 1 saw thy form in youthful prime . . . .86 
 By ttfat lake, whose gloomy shore . . . ,88 
 She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps 91 
 Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns . . 93 
 Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin . 95 
 
 What the bee is to the floweret 97 
 
 Here we dwell, in holiest bowers . . . .98 
 This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes . 100 
 
CONTENTS. XI 
 
 FIFTH NUMBER. 
 
 Page 
 Through Erin's Isle 105 
 
 At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly 108 
 One bumper at parting ! tho' many . . . 109 
 
 'Tis the last rose of summer Ill 
 
 The young May moon is beaming, love . . . 113 
 The miastrel-boy to the war is gone . . . .115 
 The valley lay smiling before me . . . .110 
 Oh ! had we some bright little isle of our own . . 119 
 Farewell, but, whenever you welcome the hour . 121 
 
 Oh ! doubt me not the season 123 
 
 You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride . . . 125 
 I'd mourn the hopes that leave me .... 127 
 
 SIXTH NUMBER. 
 
 Come o'er the sea 131 
 
 Has sorrow thy young days shaded .... 133 
 No, no not more welcome the fairy numbers . . ISO 
 When first I met thee, warm and young . . 137 
 
 While history's muse the memorial was keeping . 140 
 
 The time I've lost in wooing 142 
 
 \Vhere is the slave, so lowly 114 
 
 Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer . 14G 
 7 Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking . 147 
 I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining 149 
 
 Fill the bumper fair 151 
 
 Dear harp of my country, in darkness I found thee . 154 
 
 SEVENTH NUMBER. 
 
 My gentle harp, once more I waken .... 159 
 As slow our ship her foamy track . . . .161 
 In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown . 163 
 When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast lov'd 165 
 
Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Remember thee ! yes, while there's life in this heart 167 
 
 Wreath the bowl 168 
 
 Whene'er I see those smiling eyes . . . .171 
 If thou'lt be mine, the treasures of air . . . 172 
 
 To ladies' eyes a round, boy 174 
 
 Forget not the field where they perish'd . . . 176 
 They may rail at this lifefrom the hour I began it . 178 
 Oh! for the swords of former time . . . .180 
 
 EIGHTH NUMBER. 
 
 Ne'er ask the hour what is it to us . . . . 185 
 Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark . . . . 187 
 Yes, sad one of Sion if closely resembling . . 188 
 Drink of this cup you'll find there's a spell in . . 191 
 Down in the valley come meet me to-night . . 193 
 Oh, ye dead ! oh, ye dead ! whom we know . . 135 
 Of all the fair months, that round the sun . . 197 
 How sweet the. answer Echo makes . 200 
 
 Oh banquet not in those shining bowers . . . 201 
 The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking . . 202 
 Shall the harp then be silent, when he who first gave 204 
 Oh, the sight entrancing 208 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Advertisement prefixed to the First and Second 
 
 Numbers 213 
 
 Advertisement to the Third Number .... 217 
 Letter to the Marchioness Dowager of Donegal, pre- 
 fixed to the Third Number 219 
 
 Advertisement to the Fourth Number . . .235 
 Advertisement to the Fifth Number . ' . .239 
 Advertisement to the Sixth Number . . . 243 
 
 Advertisement to the Seventh Number . 245 
 
FIRST NUMBER. 
 
 Rich and rare were the gems she wore, 
 
 And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ; 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Go where glory waits thee, 
 But while fame elates thee, 
 
 Oh ! still remember me. 
 When the praise thou meetest 
 To thine ear is sweetest, 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 Other arms may press thee, 
 Dearer friends caress thee, 
 All the joys that bless thee 
 B 2 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 Sweeter far may be ; 
 But when friends are nearest, 
 And when joys are dearest, 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 
 II. 
 
 When, at eve, thou rovest 
 By the star thou lovest, 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 Think, when home returning, 
 Bright we've seen it burning, 
 
 Oh ! thus remember me. 
 Oft as summer closes, 
 When thine eye reposes 
 On its ling'ring roses, 
 
 Once so lov'd by thee, 
 Think of her who wove them, 
 Her, who made thee love them, 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 
 III. 
 
 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. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 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 us'd to sing thee, 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 
HUSH MELODIES. 
 
 WAR SONG. 
 
 REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN 
 THE BRAVE*. 
 
 I. 
 
 REMEMBER the glories of BRIEN the brave, 
 
 Tho' the days of the hero are o'er ; 
 Tho' lost to Mo N ONI A t and cold in the grave, 
 
 He returns to KINKORA J 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 ! 
 
 * Brien Borombe, the great Monarch of Ireland, who was 
 killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the lltii 
 century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five en- 
 gagements. 
 
 f Minister. The palace of Brien. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 7 
 
 II. 
 
 Mo N ONI A ! when nature embellished 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 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, 
 
 Than to sleep but a moment in chains I 
 
 III. 
 
 Forget not our wounded companions, who stood * 
 
 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 ! 
 
 # This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the 
 Dalgais, the favourite troops of Brien, when they were inter- 
 rupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, 
 Prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they mig'ht 
 be allowed to fight with the rest. " Let stakes (they said) be 
 stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied to and sup- 
 ported 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'Hallorau) pale, emaciated, and supported in this 
 manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops : 
 never was such another sight exhibited. "Hi STORY OF IRE- 
 LAND, Book 12, Chap. 1. 
 
8 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 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 ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 9 
 
 ERIN ! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN 
 THINE EYES. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 II. 
 
 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 ! 
 
10 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 OH ! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. 
 
 I. 
 
 OH ! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade 
 
 Where cold and unhonor'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 ! 
 
 II. 
 
 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. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 11 
 
 WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 resigned ! 
 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 ! 
 
 II. 
 
 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 ! 
 
12 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH 
 TARA'S HALLS. 
 
 I. 
 
 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, 
 Arid hearts, that once beat high for praise, 
 
 Now feel that pulse no more ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 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 shew that still she lives ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 13 
 
 FLY NOT YET. 
 
 I. 
 
 FLY not yet, 'tis 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 ! 
 'Twas but to bless these hours of shade 
 That beauty and the moon were made ; 
 'Tis 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 ! 'tis pain 
 
 To break its links so soon. 
 
 II. 
 
 Fly not yet, the fount that play'd 
 
 In times of old through AMMON'S shade*, 
 
 * Solis Fons, near the temple of Amraon. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 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 ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES, 15 
 
 OH ! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE 
 ALWAYS AS LIGHT. 
 
 I. 
 
 OH ! 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 touched 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 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 1 
 
16 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest, 
 
 Too often have wept o'er the dream they believ'd ; 
 And the heart, that has slumber'd in friendship securest, 
 
 Is happy indeed, if 'twas never deceived. 
 But send round the bowl, while a relic of truth 
 
 Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine, 
 That the sun-shine of love may illumine our youth, 
 
 Arid the moon-light of friendship console our decline. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 17 
 
 THO' THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH 
 SORROW I SEE. 
 
 I. 
 
 THO* the last glimpse of ERIN with sorrow I see, 
 Yet wherever thou art shall seem ERIN to me; 
 In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, 
 And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam. 
 
 II. 
 
 To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, 
 Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, 
 I will fly with my COULIN, and think the rough wind 
 Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind. 
 
 III. 
 
 And I '11 gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful it wreathes, 
 And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes ; 
 
18 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear 
 One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair* 
 
 * In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. an 
 Act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of 
 the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn 
 or shaven above the ears, or from wearing Glibbes, or Coulins, 
 (long locks) on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called 
 Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our 
 bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference 
 to her dear Coulin, (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all 
 strangers, (by which the English were meant) or those who 
 wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has reached 
 us, and is universally admired." WALKER'S HISTORICAL ME- 
 MOIRS OF IRISH BARDS, page 134. Mr. Walker informs us 
 also, that about the same period, there were some harsh mea- 
 sures taken against the Irish Minstrels. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 19 
 
 RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE 
 WORE *. 
 
 I. 
 
 RICH and rare were the gems she wore, 
 And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ; 
 But oh ! her beauty was far beyond 
 Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Lady ! dost thou not fear to stray, 
 
 " So lone and lovely, through this bleak way ? 
 
 " Are ERIN'S sons so good or so cold, 
 
 " As not to be tempted by woman or gold ?" 
 
 * This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote: <f The 
 people were inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue and 
 religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent 
 administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a 
 young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly 
 dress, undertook a journey alone from one end of the kingdom 
 to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which 
 was a ring of exceeding great value ; and such an impression 
 had the laws and government of this Monarch made on the 
 minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her 
 honour, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels." 
 WARNER'S HISTORY OF IRELAND, Vol. 1, Book 10. 
 
 C 2 
 
20 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Sir Knight ! I feel riot the least alarm, 
 
 " No son of ERIN will offer me harm : 
 
 " For though they love woman and golden store, 
 
 " Sir Knight ! they love honour and virtue more !" 
 
 IV. 
 
 On she went, and her maiden smile 
 In safety lighted her round the green isle. 
 And blest for ever is she who relied 
 Upon ERIN'S honor, and ERIN'S pride ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 21 
 
 AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE 
 WATERS MAY GLOW. 
 
 I. 
 
 As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow, 
 While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, 
 So the cheek may be ting'd with a warm sunny smile, 
 Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while. 
 
 II. 
 
 One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws 
 Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes, 
 To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring, 
 For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh ! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, 
 Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray ; 
 The beams of the warm sun play round it in Tain, 
 It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again ! 
 
22 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 THE MEETING OF THE WATERS*, 
 
 I. 
 
 THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 
 As that vale, in whose bosom the bright waters meet t ; 
 Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, 
 Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. 
 
 II, 
 
 Yet, it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene 
 Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
 'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, 
 Oh ! no, it was something more exquisite still. 
 
 III. 
 
 'Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near, 
 Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, 
 And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, 
 When we see them reflected from looks that we love. 
 
 * " The Meeting of the Waters," forms a part of that beau- 
 tiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the 
 county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a visit 
 to this romantic spot, in the summer of the year 1807. 
 
 f The rivers Avon and Avoca. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 IV. 
 
 23 
 
 Sweet vale of Avoc A ! how calm could I rest 
 
 In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, 
 
 Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should 
 
 cease, 
 And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace ! 
 
SECOND NUMBER. 
 
 How dear to me the hour when day-light dies, 
 And sunbeams melt along the silent sea. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 27 
 
 ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY. 
 
 ST. SENANUS *. 
 
 " OH ! haste and leave this sacred isle, 
 " Unholy bark, ere morning smile ; 
 " For on thy deck, tho' dark it be, 
 
 " A female form I see ; 
 " And I have sworn this sainted sod 
 " Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod !" 
 
 * In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an 
 old Kilkenny MS. and may be found among the Acta Sanctorum 
 HibernuEf we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and 
 his resolution not to admit any woman of the party ; he refused 
 to receive even a sister saint, St. Cannera, whom an angel had 
 taken to the island, for the express purpose of introducing her 
 to him. The following was the ungracious answer of Senanus, 
 according to his poetical biographer : 
 
 Cui Pr&sul., quid fceminis 
 
 Commune est cum monachis ? 
 
 Nee te nee ullam aliam 
 
 Admittemus in insulam. 
 
 See the ACTA SANCT. HIB. Page 610, 
 
 According to Dr. Ledwich, St. Senanus was no less a per- 
 sonage than the River Shannon ; but O'Connor, and other 
 Antiquarians, deny this metamorphose indignantly. 
 
28 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 THE LADY. 
 
 " Oh ! Father, send not hence my bark, 
 " Through wint'ry winds and billows dark ; 
 " I come with humble heart to share 
 
 " Thy morn and evening prayer ; 
 " Nor mine the feet, oh ! holy Saint, 
 " The brightness of thy sod to taint." 
 
 The Lady's prayer SENANUS spurn'd ; 
 The winds blew fresh, the bark returned. 
 But legends hint, that had the maid 
 
 Till morning's light delay'd, 
 And given the saint one rosy smile, 
 She ne'er had left his lonely isle. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 29 
 
 HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR. 
 
 I. 
 
 How dear to me the hour when day-light dies, 
 And sunbeams melt along the silent sea, 
 
 For then sweet dreams of other days arise, 
 And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee. 
 
 II. 
 
 And, as I watch the line of light, that plays 
 
 Along the smooth wave tow'rd the burning west, 
 
 I long to tread that golden path of rays, 
 And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest ! 
 
30 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE. 
 
 Written on returning a Blank Book. 
 
 
 I. 
 
 TAKE back the virgin page, 
 
 White and unwritten still ; 
 Some hand, more calm and sage, 
 
 The leaf must fill. 
 Thoughts come, as pure as light, 
 
 Pure as even you require ; 
 But oh ! each word I write 
 
 Love turns to fire. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet let me keep the book ; 
 
 Oft shall my heart renew, 
 When on its leaves I look, 
 
 Dear thoughts of you ! 
 Like you, 'tis fair and bright ; 
 
 Like you, too bright and fair 
 To let wild passion write 
 
 One wrong wish there ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 31 
 
 III. 
 
 Haply, when from those eyes 
 
 Far, far away I roam, 
 Should calmer thoughts arise 
 
 Tow'rds you and home ; 
 Fancy may trace some line, 
 
 Worthy those eyes to meet ; 
 Thoughts that not burn, but shine 
 
 Pure, calm and sweet ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 And, as the records are, 
 
 Which wandering seamen keep, 
 Led by their hidden star 
 
 Through the cold deep ; 
 So may the words I write 
 
 Tell thro' what storms I stray, 
 You still the unseen light, 
 
 Guiding my way ! 
 
32 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 THE LEGACY. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHEN in death I shall calm recline, 
 
 O bear my heart to my mistress dear ; 
 Tell her, it liv'd upon smiles and wine 
 
 Of the brightest hue, while it lingered here ; 
 Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow 
 
 To sully a heart so brilliant and light ; 
 But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, 
 
 To bathe the relic from morn till night. 
 
 II. 
 
 When the light of my song is o'er, 
 
 Then take my harp to your ancient hall ; 
 Hang it up at that friendly door, 
 
 Where weary travellers love to call *. 
 Then if some bard, who roams forsaken, 
 
 Revive its soft note in passing along, 
 Oh ! let one thought of its master waken 
 
 Your warmest smile for the child of song. 
 
 * " In every house was one or two harps, free to all tra- 
 vellers, who were the more caressed, the more they excelled 
 in music." O'HALJLORAN. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 33 
 
 III. 
 
 Keep this cup, which is now overflowing, 
 
 To grace your revel, when I 'm at rest ; 
 Never, oh ! never its halm bestowing 
 
 On lips, that beauty hath seldom blest ! 
 But when some warm devoted lover 
 
 To her he adores shall bathe its brim, 
 Then, then my spirit around shall hover, 
 
 And hallow each drop that foams for him. 
 
34 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED. 
 
 I. 
 
 How oft has the Benshee cried ! 
 How oft has death untied 
 Bright links that Glory wove, 
 Sweet bonds, entwiri'd by Love ! 
 Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth 1 
 Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth ! 
 Long may the fair and brave 
 Sigh o'er the hero's grave. 
 
 II. 
 
 We're fallen upon gloomy days*, 
 Star after star decays, 
 Every bright name, that shed 
 Light o'er the land, is fled. 
 
 * I have endeavoured here, without losing that Irish charac- 
 ter, which it is ray object to preserve throughout this work, to 
 allude to the sad and ominous fatality, by which England has 
 been deprived of so many great and good men, at a moment 
 when she most requires all the aids of talent and integrity. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 35 
 
 Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth 
 Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth, 
 
 But brightly flows the tear, 
 
 Wept o'er a hero's bier ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh ! quench'd are our beacon lights 
 
 Thou, of the hundred fights * ! 
 
 Thou, on whose burning tongue t 
 
 Truth, peace and freedom hung ! 
 Both mute but long as valour shineth, 
 Or mercy's soul at war repineth , 
 
 So long shall ERIN'S pride 
 
 Tell how they liv'd and died. 
 
 * Tiiis designation, which has been applied to LORD NELSON 
 before, is the title given to a celebrated Irish Hero, in a Poem 
 by O'Gnive, the bard of O'Niel, which is quoted in the (t Philo- 
 sophical Survey of the South of Ireland." Page 433. " Con, 
 of the hundred fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and up- 
 braid not our defeats with thy victories !" 
 
 f Fox, " ultimus Romanorum." 
 
36 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 WE MAY ROAM THRO* THIS WORLD. 
 
 I. 
 
 WE may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast, 
 
 Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest ; 
 And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, 
 
 We may order our wings and be off to the west ; 
 But if hearts, that feel, and eyes, that smile, 
 
 Are the dearest gifts that heaven supplies, 
 We never need leave our own green isle, 
 
 For sensitive hearts and for sun-bright eyes. 
 Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, 
 
 Thro' this world whether eastward or westward you 
 
 roam, 
 When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, 
 
 Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her at home. 
 
 II. 
 
 In ENGLAND, the garden of beauty is kept 
 By a dragon of prudery, plac'd within call ; 
 
 But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept, 
 That the garden's but carelessly watch'd after all. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 37 
 
 Oh ! they want the wild, sweet-briery fence, 
 
 Which round the flowers of ERIN dwells, 
 Which warns the touch, while winning the sense, 
 
 Nor charms us least, when it most repels. 
 Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, 
 
 Thro' this world whether eastward or westward you 
 
 roam, 
 When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, 
 
 Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her at home. 
 
 III. 
 
 In FRANCE, when the heart of a woman sets sail* 
 
 On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try,. 
 Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, 
 
 But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-bye ! 
 While the daughters of ERIN keep the boy 
 
 Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, 
 Through billows of woe and beams of joy 
 
 The same as he look'd, when he left the shore. 
 Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, 
 
 Thro' this world whether eastward or westward you 
 
 roam, 
 When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, 
 
 Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her at home. 
 
38 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 EVELEEN'S BOWER. 
 
 I. 
 
 OH ! weep for the hour, 
 
 When to EVELEEN'S bower 
 The Lord of the valley with false vows came ; 
 
 The moon hid her light 
 
 From the heavens that night, 
 Arid wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame. 
 
 The clouds past soon 
 
 From the chaste, cold moon, 
 And heaven smiPd again with her vestal flame ; 
 
 But none will see the day, 
 
 When the clouds shall pass away, 
 Which that dark hour left upon EVELEEN'S fame. 
 
 II. 
 
 The white snow lay 
 
 On the narrow path-way, 
 Where the Lord of the valley crost over the moor ; 
 
 And many a deep print 
 
 On the white snow's tint 
 Shew'd the track of his foot-step to EVELEEN'S door. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 39 
 
 The next sun's ray 
 
 Soon melted away 
 Every trace on the path where the false Lord came ; 
 
 But there's a light above, 
 
 Which alone can remove 
 That stain upon the snow of fair EVELEEN'S fame. 
 
40 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD. 
 
 I. 
 
 LET ERIN remember the days of old, 
 
 Ere her faithless sous betray'd her ; 
 When MALACHI wore the collar of gold*, 
 
 Which he won from her proud invader ; 
 When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd 
 
 Led the Red- Branch Knights to danger t ; 
 Ere the emerald gem of the western world 
 
 Was set in the crown of a stranger. 
 
 * " This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the 
 Monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in 
 which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he en- 
 countered successively hand to hand, taking a collar of gold 
 from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as 
 trophies of his victory." WARNER'S HISTORY OF IRELAND, Vol. 
 1. Book 9. 
 
 J* " Military orders of knights were very early established in 
 Ireland ; long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary 
 order of Chivalry in Ulster, called CuraidJte na Craoibhe ruadh, 
 or the knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in 
 Emania, adjoiuiug to the palace of the Ulster kings, called 
 Teagh na Craoibhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Bed Branch ; 
 and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the 
 sick knights and soldiers, called Bron-bhearg, or the house of 
 the sorrowful soldier." O'HALLORAN'S INTRODUCTION, &c. 
 Part I. Chap. 5. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 41 
 
 II. 
 
 On LOUGH NE AGH'S bank as the fisherman strays*, 
 
 When the clear, cold eve's declining, 
 He sees the round towers of other days, 
 
 In the wave beneath him shining ! 
 Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime, 
 
 Catch a glimpse of the days that are over ; 
 Thus, sighing, look thro' the waves of time 
 
 For the long faded glories they cover ! 
 
 * It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough 
 Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden over- 
 flowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, like 
 the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says that the fisher- 
 men, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall 
 ecclesiastical towers under the water. Piscatores aquae illius 
 turres ecclesiasticas, quce more patrice arctce sunt et altce, necnon 
 et rotunda, sub undis manifeste, sereno tempore conspiciunt et 
 extraneis transeuntibus, reique causas admirantibus, frequenter 
 ostendunt. TOPOGR. HIB. DIST. 2. C. 9. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 THE SONG OF FIONNUALA*. 
 
 I. 
 
 SILENT, oh MOYLE ! be the roar of thy water, 
 
 Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, 
 While, murmuring mournfully, LIR'S lonely daughter 
 
 Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. 
 When shall the swan, her death-note singing, 
 
 Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd ? 
 When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, 
 
 Call my spirit from this stormy world ? 
 
 * To make this story intelligible in a song, would require a 
 much greater number of verses than any one is authorized to 
 inflict upon an audience at once ; the reader must therefore be 
 content to learn, in a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, 
 was, by some supernatural power, transformed into a Swan, 
 and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, over certain 
 lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, when 
 the first sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her re- 
 lease. 1 found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript 
 translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direc- 
 tion of that enlightened friend of Ireland, the late Countess of 
 Moira. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 43 
 
 II. 
 
 Sadly, oh MOYLE ! to thy winter wave weeping, 
 
 Fate bids me languish long ages away ; 
 Yet still in her darkness doth ERIN lie sleeping, 
 
 Still doth the pure light its dawning delay ! 
 When will that day-star, mildly springing, 
 
 Warm our isle with peace and love ? 
 When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, 
 
 Call my spirit to the fields above ? 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 COME SEND ROUND THE WINE. 
 
 I. 
 
 COME, send round the wine, arid leave points of belief 
 
 To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools ; 
 This moment's a flower too fair and brief, 
 
 To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools. 
 Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue, 
 
 But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl, 
 The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue, 
 
 Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. 
 
 II. 
 
 Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side 
 
 In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree ? 
 Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, 
 
 If he kneel not before the same altar with me ? 
 From the heretic girl of my soul shall I fly, 
 
 To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss ? 
 No ! perish the hearts, and the laws that try 
 
 Truth, valour or love by a standard like this ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 45 
 
 SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING. 
 
 I. 
 
 SUBLIME was the warning which Liberty spoke, 
 And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke 
 
 Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain ! 
 Oh Liberty ! let not this spirit have rest, 
 Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west- 
 Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot, 
 Nor oh ! be the Shamrock of ERIN forgot, 
 
 While you add to your garland the Olive of SPAIN ! 
 
 II. 
 
 If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights, 
 Give to country its charm, and to home its delights, 
 
 If deceit be a wound and suspicion a stain ; 
 Then, ye men of IBERIA ! our cause is the same, 
 And oh ! may his tomb want a tear and a name, 
 Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, 
 Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath 
 
 For the Shamrock of ERIN, and Olive of SPAIN ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 Ye BLAKES and O'DONNELS, whose fathers resign'd 
 The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find 
 
 That repose which, at home, they had sigh'd for in 
 
 vain, 
 
 Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light, 
 May be felt yet in ERIN, as calm, and as bright, 
 And forgive even ALBION, while blushing she draws, 
 Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause 
 
 Of the Shamrock of ERIN, and Olive of SPAIN ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 God prosper the cause ! oh ! it cannot but thrive, 
 While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive, 
 
 Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain ; 
 Then, how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die ! 
 The finger of Glory shall point where they lie, 
 While, far from the foot- step of coward or slave, 
 The young Spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave 
 
 Beneath Shamrocks of ERIN and Olives of SPAIN. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 4<7 
 
 BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING 
 YOUNG CHARMS. 
 
 I. 
 
 BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms, 
 
 Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, 
 Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, 
 
 Like fairy-gifts, fading away ! 
 Thou wouldst still be ador'd, as this moment thou art, 
 
 Let thy loveliness fade as it will, 
 And, around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart 
 
 Would entwine itself verdantly still ! 
 
 II. 
 
 It is riot, while beauty and youth are thine own, 
 And thy cheeks unprofan'd by a tear, 
 
 That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known, 
 To which time will but make thee more dear ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 Oh ! the heart that has truly lov'd, never forgets, 
 
 But as truly loves on to the close, 
 As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, 
 
 The same look which she turn'd when he rose ! 
 
THIRD NUMBER. 
 
 But while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning, 
 Her zone flew in two and the heart* s-ease was lost. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 51 
 
 ERIN! OH ERIN! 
 
 I. 
 LIKE the bright lamp, that shone in KILDARE'S holy 
 
 fane *, 
 
 And burn'd thro 1 long ages of darkness and storm, 
 Is the heart, that afflictions have come o'er in vain, 
 
 Whose spirit out-lives them, unfading and warm ! 
 ERIN ! oh ERIN ! thus bright, thro' the tears 
 Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears ! 
 
 II. 
 
 The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, 
 Thy sun is but rising, when others are set ; 
 
 And, tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung, 
 The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet. 
 
 ERIN ! oh ERIN ! tho' long in the shade, 
 
 Thy star will shine out, when the proudest shall fade ! 
 
 * The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which 
 Giraldus mentions, " Apud Kildariam occurrit Ignis Sauctae 
 Brigidae, quern inextinguihilem vocant ; non quod extingui non 
 possit, sed quod tarn solicit^ moniales et sanctae mulieres ignem, 
 suppetente materia, fovent et nutriunt ut a tempore virginis per 
 tot annorum curricula semper mansit inextinctus." Girald. 
 Camb. de Mirtibil. Hibern. Dist. 2. c. 34. 
 
 E 2 
 
52 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 UnchilPd by the rain, and unwak'd by the wind, 
 The lily lies sleeping thro' winter's cold hour, 
 
 Till Spring, with a touch, her dark slumber unbind, 
 And day-light and liberty bless the young flower *. 
 
 ERIN ! oh ERIN ! thy winter is past, 
 
 And the hope, that liv'd thro' it, shall blossom at last. 
 
 * Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the lily, has ap- 
 plied this imftge to a still more important subject. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 53 
 
 DRINK TO HER. 
 
 I. 
 
 DRINK to her, who long 
 
 Hath wak'd the poet's sigh ; 
 The girl, who gave to song 
 
 What gold could never buy. 
 Oh ! woman's heart was made 
 
 For minstrel hands alone ; 
 By other fingers play'd, 
 
 It yields not half the tone. 
 Then, here's to her, who long 
 
 Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, 
 The girl, who gave to song 
 
 What gold could never buy ! 
 
 II. 
 
 At Beauty's door of glass 
 
 When Wealth and Wit once stood, 
 They ask'd her, " which might pass ?" 
 
 She answer'd, " he, who could." 
 With golden key Wealth thought 
 
 To pass but 'twould not do : 
 While Wit a diamond brought, 
 
 Which cut his bright way through ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 So here's to her, who long 
 Hath v/ak'd the poet's sigh, 
 
 The girl, who gave to song 
 What gold could never buy ! 
 
 III. 
 
 The Love that seeks a home 
 
 Where wealth or grandeur shines, 
 Is like the gloomy gnome, 
 
 That dwells in dark gold mines. 
 But oh ! the poet's love 
 
 Can boast a brighter sphere ; 
 Its native home's above, 
 
 Tho' woman keeps it here ! 
 Then drink to her, who long 
 
 Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, 
 The girl, who gave to song 
 
 What gold could never buy ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 55 
 
 OH ! BLAME NOT THE BARD *. 
 
 I. 
 
 OH ! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers, 
 
 Where pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at lame ; 
 He was born for much more, and in happier hours, 
 
 His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. 
 The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, 
 
 Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart t, 
 And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire 
 
 Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart ! 
 
 * We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one 
 of those wandering bards, whom Spencer so severely, and, 
 perhaps, truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose 
 poems, he tells us, " Were sprinkled with some pretty flowers 
 of their natural device, which gave good grace and comeliness 
 unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing 
 of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to 
 adorn and beautify virtue." 
 
 f It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is 
 derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow , in the use of which weapon 
 the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly 
 more creditable to us than the following, *' So that Ireland, 
 (called the land of Ire, for the constant broils therein for 400 
 years,) was now become the land of concord." Lloyd's State 
 worthies, Art. The Lord Grandison. 
 
56 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 II. 
 
 But alas ! for his country her pride is gone by, 
 
 And that spirit is broken, which never would bend ; 
 O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, 
 
 For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. 
 Unpriz'd are her sons, till they Ve learn'd to betray ; 
 
 Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires ; 
 And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way, 
 
 Must be caught from the pile, where their country 
 expires ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure's soft dream, 
 
 He should try to forget, what he never can heal ; 
 Oh ! give but a hope let a vista but gleam 
 
 Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll 
 
 feel! 
 That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down 
 
 Every passion it nurs'd, every bliss it ador'd, 
 While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his crown, 
 
 Like the wreath of HARMODIUS, should cover his 
 sword *. 
 
 * See the Hymn, attributed to Alcaeus, Ev f 
 4>o<r< t( I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Har- 
 modius and Aristogiton, &c." 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 57 
 
 IV. 
 
 But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away, 
 
 Thy name, loved ERIN ! shall live in his songs, 
 Not ev'n in the hour, when his heart is most gay, 
 
 Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs ! 
 The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ; 
 
 The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, 
 Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, 
 
 Shall pause at the song of their captive and weep ! 
 
58 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHILE gazing on the moon's light, 
 
 A moment from her smile I turn'd, 
 To look at orbs, that, more bright, 
 In lone and distant glory burn'd. 
 But, too far, 
 Each proud star, 
 
 For me to feel its warming flame 
 Much more dear 
 That mild sphere, 
 
 Which near our planet smiling came * ; 
 Thus, Mary, be but thou my own 
 
 While brighter eyes unheeded play, 
 I'll love those moon-light looks alone, 
 
 WIrch bless my home and guide my way ! 
 
 * Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, 
 the single moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of 
 the others, is much more beneficial than they all put together." 
 WHISTON'S THEORY, &c. 
 
 In the Entretiens d' Ariste, among other ingenious emblems, 
 we find a starry sky without a moon, with the words Non mille, 
 quod absens. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 59 
 
 II 
 
 The day had sunk in dim showers, 
 
 But midnight now, with lustre meek, 
 Illumin'd all the pale flowers, 
 
 Like hope, that lights a mourner's cheek. 
 I said (while 
 The moon's smile 
 
 Play'd o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss,) 
 " The moon looks 
 " On many brooks, 
 
 " The brook can see no moon but this * ; 
 And thus, I thought our fortunes run, 
 
 For many a lover looks to thee, 
 
 While oh ! I feel there is but one, 
 
 One Mary in the world for me. 
 
 * This image was suggested by the following thought, which 
 occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works, " The moon 
 looks upon many night-flowers, the night-flower sees but one 
 moon." 
 
IRISH MELODIES, 
 
 ILL OMENS. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHEN day-light was yet sleeping under the billow, 
 
 And stars in the heavens still lingering shone, 
 Young KITTY, all blushing, rose up from her pillow, 
 
 The last time she e'er was to press it alone. 
 For the youth, whom she treasur'd her heart and her 
 soul in, 
 
 Had promis'd to link the last tie before noon ; 
 And, when once the young heart of a maiden is stoPn, 
 
 The maiden herself will steal after it soon ! 
 
 II. 
 
 As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses, 
 
 Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, 
 A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's kisses, 
 
 Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. 
 Enrag'd with the insect for hiding her graces, 
 
 She brush'd him he fell, alas ! never to rise 
 " Ah ! such," said the girl, " is the pride of our faces, 
 
 " For which the soul's innocence too often dies !" 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 61 
 
 III. 
 
 While she stole thro 7 the garden, where hearts'-ease 
 was growing, 
 
 She culPd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen dew ; 
 And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glowing, 
 
 That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too ; 
 But, while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning, 
 
 Her zone flew in two, and the heart's-ease was lost 
 u Ah ! this means," said the girl, (arid she sigh'd at 
 its meaning,) 
 
 *' That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost !" 
 
62 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 BEFORE THE BATTLE. 
 
 I. 
 
 BY the hope, within us springing, 
 
 Herald of to-morrow's strife ; 
 By that sun, whose light is bringing 
 
 Chains or freedom, death or life 
 Oh ! remember, life can be 
 No charm for him, who lives not free i 
 
 Like the day-star in the wave, 
 
 Sinks a hero to his grave, 
 Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears ! 
 
 Happy is he, o'er whose decline 
 The smiles of home may soothing shine 
 And light him down the steep of years : 
 But oh ! how grand they sink to rest, 
 Who close their eyes on victory's breast ! 
 
 II. 
 
 O'er his watch-fire's fading embers 
 Now the foeman's cheek turns white, 
 
 When his heart that field remembers, 
 Where we dimm'd his glory's light 1 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 63 
 
 Never let him bind again 
 
 A chain, like that we broke from then. 
 
 Hark ! the horn of combat calls 
 
 Ere the golden evening falls, 
 May we pledge that horn in triumph round * ! 
 
 Many a heart, that now beats high, 
 In slumber cold at night shall lie, 
 Nor waken even at victory's sound : 
 But oh ! how blest that hero's sleep, 
 O'er whom a wondering world shall weep ! 
 
 * " The Irish Coma was not entirely devoted to martial pur- 
 poses. In the heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of 
 them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day.'* 
 
 WALKER. 
 
64 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 AFTER THE BATTLE. 
 
 I. 
 
 NIGHT clos'd around the conqueror's way, 
 
 And lightnings shew'd the distant hill, 
 Where those, who lost that dreadful day, 
 
 Stood few and faint, hut fearless still ! 
 The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal, 
 
 For ever dimm'd, for ever crost 
 Oh ! who shall say what heroes feel, 
 
 When all but life and honor's lost ! 
 
 II. 
 
 The last sad hour of freedom's dream, 
 
 And valour's task, mov'd slowly by, 
 While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam 
 
 Should rise, and give them light to die I- 
 There is a world, where souls are free, 
 
 Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ; 
 If death that world's bright opening be, 
 
 Oh ! who would live a slave in this ? 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 05 
 
 OH ! 'TIS SWEET TO THINK. 
 
 I. 
 
 OH ! 'tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove, : 
 
 We are sure to find something, blissful and dear ; 
 And that, when we 're far from the lips we love, 
 
 We have but to make love to the lips we are near * ! 
 The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling, 
 
 Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, 
 But will lean to the nearest, and loveliest thing, 
 
 It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. 
 Then oh ! what pleasure, where'er we rove, 
 
 To be doom'd to find something, still, that is dear, 
 And to know, when far from the lips we love, 
 
 We have but to make love to the lips we are near. 
 
 * I believe it is Marmontel, who says " Quand on n'apas ce 
 que Von aime y ilfaut aimer ce que Von a." There are so many 
 matter-of-fact people, who take suchjeux d* esprit as this de- 
 fence of inconstancy, to be the actual and genuine sentiments 
 of him, who writes them, that they compel one, in self-defence, 
 to be as matter-of-fact as themselves, and to remind them, that 
 Democritus was not the worse physiologist, for having playfully 
 contended that snow was black ; nor Erasmus, in any degree, 
 the less wise, for having written an ingenious encomium of 
 folly. 
 
 F 
 
0() IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 II. 
 
 'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise, 
 
 To make light of the rest, if the rose is not there ; 
 And the world 's so rich in resplendent eyes, 
 
 'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. 
 Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, 
 
 They are both of them bright, but they're change- 
 able too, 
 And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike, 
 
 It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue ! 
 Then oh ! what pleasure, where'er we rove, 
 
 To be doom'd to find something, still, that is dear, 
 And to know, when far from the lips we love, 
 
 We have but to make love to the lips we are near. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 67 
 
 THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS. 
 
 I. 
 
 THROUGH grief and through danger, thy smile hath 
 
 cheer'd my way, 
 Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn, that round me 
 
 lay; 
 
 The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd, 
 Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd ; 
 Oh ! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, 
 And bless'd even the sorrows, that made me more dear 
 
 to thee. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and 
 
 scorn'd, 
 
 Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorri'd ; 
 She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in 
 
 caves, 
 Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas ! were 
 
 slaves ; 
 
 Yet, cold iii the earth, at thy feet I would rather be, 
 Than wed what I lov'd not, or turn one thought from 
 
 thee. 
 
68 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail 
 Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less 
 
 pale! 
 They say too, so long thou hast worn those lingering 
 
 chains, 
 That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile 
 
 stains 
 Oh ! do not believe them no chain could that soul 
 
 subdue 
 Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too * ! 
 
 * " Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty." St. 
 PAUL, 2 Corinthians, iii. 17. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 69 
 
 ON MUSIC. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHEN thro' life unblest we rove, 
 
 Losing all that made life dear, 
 Should some notes, we us'd to love 
 
 In days of boyhood, meet our ear, 
 Oh how welcome breathes the strain ! 
 
 Wakening thoughts that long have slept ; 
 Kindling former smiles again, 
 
 In faded eyes that long have wept ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Like the gale, that sighs along 
 
 Beds of oriental flowers, 
 Is the grateful breath of song, 
 
 That once was heard in happier hours ; 
 FilPd with balm, the gale sighs on, 
 
 Though the flowers have sunk in death ; 
 So, when pleasure's dream is gone, 
 
 Its memory lives in Music's breath ! 
 
70 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 Music ! oh ! how faint, how weak, 
 
 Language fades before thy spell ! 
 Why should feeling ever speak, 
 
 When thou canst breathe her soul so well? 
 Friendship's balmy words may feign, 
 
 Love's are ev'n more false than they ; 
 Oh ! 'tis only Music's strain 
 
 Can sweetly soothe, and not betray I 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 71 
 
 IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT 
 SHED*. 
 
 I. 
 
 IT is not the tear, at this moment shed, 
 
 When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, 
 That can tell how belov'd was the friend that's fled, 
 
 Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 
 'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept, 
 
 Thro' a life, by his loss all shaded ; 
 'Tis the sad remembrance, fondly kept, 
 
 When all lighter griefs have faded ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh ! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light, 
 
 While it shines thro' our hearts, will improve them, 
 For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, 
 
 When we think how he liv'd but to love them ! 
 And, as buried saints have giv'n perfume 
 
 To shrines where they've been lying, 
 So our hearts shall borrow a sweet 'ning bloom 
 
 From the image he left there in dying ! 
 
 * These lines were occabiouecl by the loss of a very near aud 
 dear relative, who died lately at Madeira. 
 
72 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. 
 
 I. 
 
 'Tis believ'd that this Harp, which I wake now for thee, 
 Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea ; 
 And who, often at eve, through the bright billow rov'd, 
 To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she lov'd. 
 
 II. 
 
 But she lov'd him in vain, for he left her to weep, 
 And in tears, all the night, her gold ringlets to steep, 
 Till heav'n look'd, with pity, on true-love so warm, 
 And chang'd to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Still her bosom rose fair still her cheek smiPd the 
 
 same 
 While her sea-beauties gracefully curPd round the 
 
 frame; 
 And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright 
 
 rings, 
 Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings * ! 
 
 # This thought was suggested by an ingenious design, pre- 
 fixed to an ode upon St. Cecilia, published some years since, 
 by Mr. Hudson of Dublin. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. i t> 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been 
 
 known 
 
 To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone ; 
 Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay 
 To be love, when I'm near thee, and grief when away ! 
 
FOURTH NUMBER. 
 
 Ah little they think who delight in her strains, 
 How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 77 
 
 LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 I. 
 
 OH I the days are gone, when Beauty bright 
 
 My heart's chain wove ; 
 When my dream of life, from morn 'till night, 
 
 Was love, still love ! 
 
 New hope may bloom, 
 
 And days may come, 
 Of milder, calmer beam, 
 But there's nothing half so sweet in life, 
 
 As love's young dream ! 
 Oh ! there's nothing half so sweet in life, 
 
 As love's young dream ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar, 
 
 When wild youth 's past ; 
 Tho' he win the wise, who frown'd before, 
 
 To smile at last ; 
 
 He '11 never meet 
 
 A joy so sweet 
 In all his noon of fame, 
 
78 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 As when first he sung to woman's ear 
 
 His soul-felt flame, 
 And, at every close, she blush'd to hear 
 
 The one lov'd name ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh ! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot, 
 
 Which first love trac'd ; 
 Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 
 
 On memory's waste ! 
 
 'Twas odour fled 
 
 As soon as shed ; 
 'Twas morning's winged dream ; 
 'Twas a light, that ne'er can shine again 
 
 On life's dull stream ! 
 Oh* 'twas light, that ne'er can shine again, 
 
 On life's dull stream ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 79 
 
 THE PRINCE'S DAY *. 
 
 I. 
 
 THO' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, 
 
 And smile thro' our tears, like a sun-heam in showers ; 
 There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, 
 More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours ! 
 But, just when the chain 
 Has ceas'd to pain, 
 
 And hope has enwreath'd it round with flowers, 
 There comes a new link 
 Our spirit to sink 
 Oh ! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, 
 
 Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay ; 
 But tho' 'twere the last little spark in our souls, 
 We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day. 
 
 * This song was written for a fte in honour of the Prince of 
 Wales's Birth-Day, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his 
 seat in the county of Kilkenny. 
 
80 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 II. 
 
 Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal ! 
 
 Tho' fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true ; 
 And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, 
 Is love from a heart, that loves liberty too. 
 While cowards, who blight 
 Your fame, your right, 
 
 Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array, 
 The Standard of Green 
 In front would be seen 
 Oh ! my life on your faith ! were you summoned this 
 
 minute, 
 
 You'd cast every bitter remembrance away, 
 And shew what the arm of old ERIN has in it, 
 When rous'd by the foe, on her Prince's Day. 
 
 III. 
 
 He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded 
 
 In hearts, which have suffered too much to forget ; 
 And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded, 
 And ERIN'S gay jubilee shine out yet ! 
 The gem may be broke 
 By many a stroke, 
 
 But nothing can cloud its native ray ; 
 Each fragment will cast 
 A light, to the last ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 81; 
 
 And thus, ERIN, ray country! tho' broken thouart, 
 There 's a lustre within thee, that ne'er will decay ; 
 
 A spirit, which beams thro' each suffering part, 
 
 And now smiles, at their pain, on the Prince's Day ! 
 
82 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 WEEP ON, WEEP ON. 
 
 I. 
 
 WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past ; 
 
 Your dreams of pride are o'er ; 
 The fatal chain is round you cast, 
 
 And you are men no more ! 
 In vain the hero's heart hath hied ; 
 
 The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain ; 
 Oh, Freedom ! once thy flame hath fled, 
 
 It never lights again ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Weep on perhaps, in after days, 
 
 They '11 learn to love your name ; 
 When many a deed shall wake in praise, 
 
 That now must sleep in blame ! 
 And, when they tread the ruin'd isle, 
 
 Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, 
 They '11 wond'ring ask, how hands so vile 
 
 Could conquer hearts so brave ? 
 
HUSH MELODIES. 83 
 
 III. 
 
 " 'Twas fate," they'll say, " a wayward fate 
 
 " Your web of discord wove ; 
 " And while your tyrants join'd in hate, 
 
 " You never join'd in love ! 
 " But hearts fell off, that ought to twine, 
 
 " And man profari'd what God hath given, 
 " 'Till some were heard to curse the shrine, 
 
 " Where others knelt to heaven !" 
 
 G 2 
 
84 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. 
 
 I. 
 
 LESBIA hath a beaming eye, 
 
 But no one knows for whom it beameth ; 
 Right and left its arrows fly, 
 
 But what they aim at no one dreameth ! 
 Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon 
 
 My NORA'S lid, that seldom rises ; 
 Few its looks, but every one, 
 
 Like unexpected light, surprises ! 
 
 Oh, my NORA CREINA, dear ! 
 My gentle, bashful NORA CREINA ! 
 Beauty lies 
 In many eyes, 
 But love in yours, my NORA CREINA ! 
 
 II. 
 
 LESBIA wears a robe of gold, 
 
 But all so close the nymph hath lac'd it, 
 Not a charm of beauty's mould 
 
 Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 85 
 
 Oh ! my NORA'S gown for me, 
 
 That floats as wild as mountain breezes, 
 Leaving every beauty free 
 
 To sink or swell, as Heaven pleases ! 
 
 Yes, my NORA CREINA, dear ! 
 My simple, graceful NORA CREINA ! 
 Nature's dress 
 Is loveliness 
 The dress you wear, my NORA CREINA ! 
 
 III. 
 
 LESBIA hath a wit refin'd, 
 
 But, when its points are gleaming round us, 
 Who can tell, if they 're design 'd 
 
 To dazzle merely, or to wound us ? 
 Pillow 'd on my NORA'S heart, 
 
 In safer slumber Love reposes 
 Bed of peace ! whose roughest part 
 Is but the crumpling of the roses. 
 
 Oh, my NORA CREINA, dear ! 
 My mild, my artless NORA CREINA ! 
 Wit, tho' bright, 
 Hath not the light 
 That warms your eyes, my NoRA CREINA 1 
 
86 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME. 
 
 I. 
 
 I SAW thy form in youthful prime, 
 
 Nor thought that pale decay 
 Would steal before the steps of time, 
 
 And waste its bloom away, MARY ! 
 Yet still thy features wore that light, 
 
 Which fleets not with the breath ; 
 And life ne'er look'd more truly bright 
 
 Than in thy smile of death, MARY ! 
 
 II. 
 
 t 
 As streams that run o'er golden mines, 
 
 Yet humbly, calmly glide, 
 Nor seem to know the wealth that shines 
 
 Within their gentle tide, MARY ! 
 So, veiPd beneath the simplest guise, 
 
 Thy radiant genius shone, 
 And that, which charm'd all other eyes, 
 
 Seem'd worthless in thy own, MARY ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 87 
 
 III. 
 
 If souls could always dwell above, 
 
 Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere ; 
 Or, could we keep the souls we love, 
 
 We ne'er had lost thee here, MARY ! 
 Though many a gifted mind we meet, 
 
 Though fairest forms we see, 
 To live with them is far less sweet 
 
 Than to remember thee, MARY ! * 
 
 * I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite 
 inscription of Shenstone's, " Heu! quanto minus est cum re- 
 liquis versari quam tui meminisse!" 
 
88 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 BY THAT LAKE WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE *. 
 
 I. 
 
 BY that Lake, whose gloomy shore 
 Sky-lark never warbles o'er t, 
 Where the cliff hangs high and steep, 
 Young Saint KEVIN stole to sleep. 
 " Here at least," he calmly said, 
 " Woman ne'er shall find my bed." 
 Ah ! the good saint little knew 
 What that wily sex can do. 
 
 II. 
 
 'Twas from KATHLEEN'S eyes he flew, 
 Eyes of most unholy blue ! 
 She had lov'd him well and long, 
 Wish'd him her's, nor thought it wrong. 
 
 * This Ballad is founded upon one of the many stories re- 
 lated of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glen- 
 dalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the County of 
 Wicklow. 
 
 f There are many other curious traditions concerning this 
 Lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, &c. 
 
HUSH MELODIES. S9 
 
 Wheresoe'er the saint would fly, 
 Still he heard her light foot nigh ; 
 East or west, where'er he turn'd, 
 Still her eyes before him burn'd. 
 
 III. 
 
 On the bold cliff 's bosom cast, 
 Tranquil now he sleeps at last ; 
 Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er 
 Woman's smile can haunt him there. 
 But nor earth, nor heaven is free 
 From her power, if fond she be : 
 Even now, while calm he sleeps, 
 KATHLEEN o'er him leans and weeps. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Fearless she had track'd his feet, 
 To this rocky, wild retreat ; 
 And when morning met his view, 
 Her mild glances met it too. 
 Ah ! your Saints have cruel hearts ! 
 Sternly from his bed he starts, 
 And with rude, repulsive shock, 
 Hurls her from the beetling rock. 
 
90 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 V. 
 
 GLENDALOUGH ! thy gloomy wave 
 Soon was gentle KATHLEEN'S grave ; 
 Soon the Saint, (yet ah ! too late,) 
 Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate. 
 When he said, " Heav'n rest her soul !' 
 Round the Lake light music stole ; 
 And her ghost was seen to glide, 
 Smiling, o'er the fatal tide ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 91 
 
 SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 
 
 I. 
 
 - 
 SHE is far from the land, where her young hero sleeps, 
 
 And lovers are round her, sighing ; 
 But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 
 For her heart in his grave is lying ! 
 
 II. 
 
 She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, 
 Every note which he lov'd awaking. 
 
 Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, 
 How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking ! 
 
 III. 
 
 He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died, 
 They were all that to life had entwin'd him, 
 
 Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
 Nor long will his love stay behind him. 
 
92 
 
 IRISH MELODIES, 
 
 JV. 
 
 Oh ! make her a grave, where the sun-beams rest, 
 When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
 
 They '11 shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West 
 From her own lov'd Island of sorrow ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 93 
 
 NAY, TELL ME NOT. 
 
 I. 
 
 NAY, tell me not, dear ! that the goblet drowns 
 
 One charm of feeling, one fond regret ; 
 Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns 
 Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet. 
 Ne'er hath a beam 
 Been lost in the stream 
 That ever was shed from thy form or sonl ; 
 The balm of thy sighs, 
 The light of thine eyes, 
 
 Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl ! 
 Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal 
 One blissful dream of the heart from me ! 
 Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, 
 The bowl but brightens my love for thee ! 
 
 II. 
 
 They tell us that Love in his fairy bower 
 Had two blush-roses, of birth divine ; 
 
 He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower, 
 But bath'd the other with mantling wine. 
 
94 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 Soon did the buds, 
 
 That drank of the floods 
 Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade ; 
 
 While those, which the tide 
 
 Ofrubyhaddy'd, 
 
 All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid ! 
 Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal 
 
 One blissful dream of the heart from me ; 
 
 Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, 
 
 The bowl but brightens my love for thee. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 95 
 
 AVENGING AND BRIGHT. 
 
 I. 
 
 AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of ERIN * 
 On him, who the brave sons of USNA betray ? d ! 
 
 For every fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in, 
 
 A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her 
 blade. 
 
 * The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient 
 Irish story called " Deirdri, or the lamentable fate of the sons 
 of Usnach," which has been translated literally from the Gaelic, 
 by Mr. O'FLANAGAN, (see vol. 1. of Transactions of tfie Gaelic- 
 Society of Dublin,) and upon which it appears that the " Dar- 
 thula" of Macpherson is founded. The treachery of Conor, 
 king of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was 
 the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated 
 in the destruction of Eman. " This story (says Mr. O'FLANA- 
 GAN) has been from time immemorial held in high repute as 
 one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are, e The 
 death of the children ofTouran;' < The death of the children 
 of Lear/ (both regarding Tuatha de Danans,) and this, *The 
 death of the children of Usnach,' which is a Milesian story." 
 It -will be recollected, that in the Second Number of these 
 Melodies, there is a ballad upon the story of the children of 
 Lear or Lir : " Silent, oh Moyle !" &c. 
 
 Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to anti. 
 quity, which Mr. O'FLANAGAN and others advance for the 
 
96 
 
 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 II. 
 
 By the red cloud that hung over CONOR'S dark 
 
 dwelling *, 
 When ULAD'S three champions lay sleeping in 
 
 gore t 
 
 By the billows of war which, so often, high swelling, 
 Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore ! 
 
 III. 
 
 We swear to revenge them ! no joy shall be tasted, 
 The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, 
 
 Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted, 
 Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yes, monarch! though sweet are our home recollections, 
 Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall ; 
 
 Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affee-* 
 
 tions, 
 Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all ! 
 
 literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon 
 our nationality, if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did 
 not meet with all the liberal encouragement which they merit. 
 
 * " Oh Naisi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I 
 see over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red." 
 Deirdri's song. 
 
 t Ulster. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 97 
 
 WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. 
 
 I. 
 
 He. WHAT the bee is to the floweret, 
 When he looks for honey-dew, 
 Through the leaves that close embower it, 
 That, my love, I'll be to you ! 
 
 She. What the bank, with verdure glowing, 
 
 Is to waves that wander near, 
 Whispering kisses, while they 're going, 
 That I'll be to you, my dear! 
 
 II. 
 
 She. But, they say. the bee's a rover, 
 
 That he '11 fly, when sweets are gone ; 
 And, when once the kiss is over, 
 Faithless brooks will wander on ! 
 
 He. Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, 
 
 If sunny banks will wear away, 
 ? Tis but right, that bees and brooks 
 
 Should sip and kiss them, while they may. 
 
 H 
 
98 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 LOVE AND THE NOVICE. 
 
 I. 
 
 44 HERE we dwell, in holiest bowers, 
 
 44 Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend ; 
 44 Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers 
 " To heaven in mingled odour ascend ! 
 44 Do not disturb our calm, oh Love ! 
 44 So like is thy form to the cherubs above, 
 44 It well might deceive such hearts as ours." 
 
 II. 
 
 Love stood near the Novice, and listened, 
 And Love is no novice in taking a hint ; 
 His laughing blue eyes now with piety glisten'd ; 
 His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint. 
 
 44 Who would have thought," the urchin cries, 
 " That Love could so well, so gravely disguise 
 44 His wandering wings, and wounding eyes ?" 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 99 
 
 III. 
 
 Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, 
 Young Novice, to hhn all thy orisons rise ; 
 He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping, 
 He hrightens the censer's flame with his sighs. 
 Love is the Saint, enshrined in thy breast, 
 And angels themselves would admit such a guest, 
 If he came to them, cloth 'd in Piety's vest. 
 
 H 2 
 
100 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH 
 PLEASURES AND WOES 
 
 I. 
 
 THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes, 
 
 That chase oiie another, like waves of the deep, 
 Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows, 
 
 Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep. 
 So closely our whims on our miseries tread, 
 
 That the laugh is awak'd, ere the tear can be dried ; 
 And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed, 
 
 The goose-feathers of Folly can turn it aside. 
 But pledge me the cup if existence would cloy, 
 
 With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, 
 Be ours the light Grief, that is sister to Joy, 
 
 And the short, brilliant Folly, that flashes and dies ! 
 
 II. 
 
 When HYLAS was sent with his urn to the fount, 
 Thro' 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 way*. 
 
 * Proposito florem praetulit officio. Propert. Lib. 1 , Eleg. 20. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 101 
 
 Thus some who, like me, should have drawn 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 falPn on the leaves 
 
 From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me! 
 
FIFTH NUMBER. 
 
 The minstrel-boy to the war is gone, 
 In the ranks of death you'll find him. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 105 
 
 OH THE SHAMROCK! 
 
 I, 
 
 THROUGH ERIN'S Isle, 
 
 To sport awhile, 
 As LOVE and VALOUR wander 'd, 
 
 With WIT, the sprite, 
 
 Whose quiver bright 
 A thousand arrows squandered ; 
 
 Where'er they pass, 
 
 A triple grass * 
 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 
 
 Of Bard and Chief, 
 Old ERIN'S native Shamrock 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 beautiftil child, ' standing upon 
 tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-coloured grass in her hand." 
 
106 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 II. 
 
 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 sever 
 
 " A type, that blends 
 
 " Three god-like friends, 
 " LOVE, VALOUR, WIT, for ever !" 
 Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock ! 
 
 Chosen leaf 
 
 Of Bard and Chief, 
 Old ERIN'S native Shamrock ! 
 
 III. 
 
 So firmly fond 
 
 May last the bond, 
 They wove that morn together, 
 
 And ne'er may fall 
 
 One drop of gall 
 On WIT'S celestial feather ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 107 
 
 May LOVE, as shoot 
 
 His flowers 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 ! 
 
108 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT. 
 
 I. 
 
 AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly 
 To the lone vale we lov'd, when life was warm in thine 
 
 e ye, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 II. 
 
 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. 
 
 * " 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." 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 109 
 
 ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. 
 
 I, 
 
 ONE bumper at parting! tho' 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, 
 That seldom, alas, till the minute 
 
 It dies, do we know half its worth ! 
 But fill 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 As onward we journey, how pleasant 
 To pause and inhabit a while 
 
 Those few sunny spots, like the present, 
 That 'mid the dull wilderness smile ! 
 
110 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 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 flowers. 
 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. 
 
 III. 
 
 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 finished, by darting 
 
 His beam o'er a deep billow's 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 ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 Ill 
 
 '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 ! 
 
 II. 
 
 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. 
 
112 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 So soon may I follow, 
 
 When friendships decay, 
 And from Love's shining circle 
 
 The g;ems drop away ! 
 When true hearts lie wither'd, 
 
 And fond ones are flown, 
 Oh ! who would inhabit 
 
 This bleak world alone ? 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 113 
 
 THE YOUNG MAY MOON. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE young May moon is beaming, love, 
 The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love, 
 
 How sweet to rove 
 
 Through MORNA'S grove*, 
 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 
 
 To lengthen our days 
 Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Now all the world is sleeping, love, 
 
 But the Sage, his star-watch keeping love, 
 
 And I, whose star, 
 
 More glorious far, 
 Is the eye from that easement peeping, love. 
 
 * tc 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 unfor- 
 tunate as his life had been amiable, honourable and exemplary. 
 
114 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 Then awake' till rise of sun, my dear, 
 The Sage's glass we 11 shim, my dear, 
 
 Or, in watching the flight 
 
 Of bodies of light, 
 He might happen to take thee for one, my dear ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 115 
 
 THE MINSTREL-BOY. 
 
 I. 
 
 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-hard, 
 
 " Tho' all the world betrays thee, 
 " One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, 
 
 " One faithful harp shall praise thee !" 
 
 II. 
 
 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 !" 
 
 i 2 
 
116 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 THE SONG OP O'RUARK, 
 
 PRINCE OF BREFFNI*. 
 I. 
 
 THE valley lay smiling before me, 
 
 Where lately I left her behind ; 
 Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, 
 
 That sadden'd the joy of my mind. 
 
 * These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melan- 
 choly importance to Ireland ; if, as we are told by our Irish 
 historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting hy 
 our divisions and subduing us. The. following are the circum- 
 stances 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 pilgri- 
 mage, (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured 
 him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a hus- 
 band 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 Murehad fled to England, and obtained 
 the assistance of Henry II. 
 
 te 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." 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 117 
 
 I look'd for the lamp which, she told me, 
 Should shine, when her Pilgrim returned, 
 
 But, though darkness began to infold me, 
 No lamp from the battlements burn'd ! 
 
 II. 
 
 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. 
 And there hung the lute, that could soften 
 
 My very worst pains into bliss, 
 While the hand, that had wak'd it so often, 
 
 Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss. 
 
 III. 
 
 There was a time, falsest of women ! 
 
 When BREFFNI'S good sword would have 
 
 sought 
 That man, thro' a million of foemen, 
 
 Who dar'd but to doubt thee in thought! 
 While now oh degenerate daughter 
 
 Of ERIN, how falPn is thy fame ! 
 And, thro' ages of bondage and slaughter, 
 
 Our country shall bleed for thy shame. 
 
118 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Already, the curse is upon her, 
 
 And strangers her vallies 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. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 119 
 
 OH ! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE 
 OF OUR OWN ! 
 
 I. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 II. 
 
 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! 
 
120 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 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 ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 121 
 
 FAREWELL! BUT, WHENEVER YOU 
 WELCOME THE HOUR. 
 
 I. 
 
 FAREWELL! 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 brightened his path-way of 
 
 pain 
 
 But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw 
 Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you! 
 
 II. 
 
 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 !" 
 
122 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 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 filPd ! 
 Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilPd 
 You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will* 
 But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 123 
 
 OH ! DOUBT ME NOT. 
 
 I. 
 
 OH ! 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 disturbed the tree, 
 They only shook some blossoms down, 
 Its fruit has all been kept for thee. 
 Then doubt me ndt the season 
 
 Is o'er, when Folly made me rove, 
 And now the vestal Reason 
 Shall watch the fire awak'd by 
 
 II. 
 
 And tho' 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. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 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. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 125 
 
 YOU REMEMBER ELLEN*. 
 
 i. 
 
 You remember ELLEN, cur 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 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. 
 
 * This Ballad was suggested by a well-known and interesting 
 Story, told of a certain Noble Family in England. 
 
126 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 III. 
 
 " 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. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 127 
 
 I'D MOURN THE HOPES. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 II. 
 
 'Tis not in fate to harm me, 
 
 While fate leaves thy love to me ; 
 'Tis not in joy to charm me, 
 
 Unless joy be shar'd 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 ! 
 
128 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 And, tho' 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. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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 ! 
 
SIXTH NUMBER. 
 
 Come o'er the sea, 
 Maiden, with me! 
 
 K 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 131 
 
 COME O'ER THE SEA. 
 
 I. 
 
 COME o'er the sea, 
 
 Maiden ! with me, 
 Mine thro* sunshine, storm, and snows ! 
 
 Seasons may roll, 
 
 But the true soul 
 
 Burns the same, where'er it goes. 
 Let fate frown on, so we love and part not ; 
 'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not ! 
 
 Then come o'er the sea, 
 
 Maiden! with^ne, 
 Come wherever the wild wind blows ; 
 
 Seasons may roll, 
 
 But the true soul 
 Burns the same, where'er it goes. 
 
 II. 
 
 Is not the Sea 
 
 Made for the Free, 
 Land for courts and chains alone ? 
 
 Here we are slaves, 
 
 But, on the waves, 
 Love and Liberty's all our own ! 
 K 2 
 
132 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, 
 All earth forgot, and all heaven around us ! 
 Then come o'er the sea, 
 Maiden ! with me, 
 
 Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows ! 
 Seasons may roll, 
 But the true soul 
 Burns the same, where'er it goes. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 133 
 
 HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED. 
 
 I. 
 
 HAS sorrow thy young days shaded, 
 
 As clouds o'er the morning fleet ? 
 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 Has love to that soul, so tender, 
 Been like our Lagenian mine*, 
 
 Where sparkles of golden splendour 
 All over the surface shine 
 
 * Our Wicklow Gold-Mines, to which this verse alludes, de- 
 serve, I fear, the character here given of them. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 But, if in pursuit we go deeper, 
 Allur'd by the gleam that shone, 
 
 Ah ! false as the dream of the sleeper, 
 Like Love, the bright ore is gone. 
 
 III. 
 
 Has Hope, like the bird in the story *, 
 
 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 ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 If thus the sweet hours have fleeted 
 When Sorrow herself looked bright ; 
 
 If thus the fond hope has cheated, 
 That led thee along so light ; 
 
 * {i The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with 
 the talisman in his month. The Prince drew near it, hoping it 
 would drop it : but, as he approached, the bird took wing, and 
 settled again," &c. ARABIAN NIGHTS, Story of Kummir al 
 Zummaun and the Princess of China. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 135 
 
 If thus, too, the cold world wither 
 Each feeling that once was dear ; 
 
 Come, child of misfortune ! come hither, 
 I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. 
 
136 IRISH MELODIES, 
 
 NO, NOT MORE WELCOME. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 heav'n 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, blessed sounds again. 
 
 II. 
 
 Sweet voice of comfort ! 'twas like the stealing 
 
 Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell 
 Each secret winding, each inmost feeling 
 
 Of all my soul echoed to its spell ! 
 'Twas whisper'd balm 'twas sunshine spoken !- 
 
 I 'd live years of grief and pain 
 To have my long sleep of sorrow broken 
 
 By such benign, blessed sounds again ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 137 
 
 WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHEN first I met thee, warm and young, 
 
 There shone such truth about thee, 
 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, tho' false to all beside, 
 From me thou could st 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 ! 
 
 II. 
 
 When every tongue thy follies nam'd, 
 
 I fled th' unwelcome story ; 
 Or found, in even the faults they blam'd, 
 
 Some gleams of future glory. 
 
138 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 / still was true, when nearer friends 
 Conspir'd 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. 
 
 lit 
 
 Even now, tho' youth its bloom has shed, 
 
 No lights of age adorn thee ; 
 The few, who lov'd thee once, have fled, 
 
 And they who flatter scorn thee. 
 Thy midnight cup is pledg'd to slaves, 
 
 No genial ties enwreath it ; 
 The smiling there, like light on graves, 
 Has rank, cold hearts beneath it ! 
 
 Go go tho' worlds were thine, 
 
 I would not now surrender 
 One taintless tear of mine 
 For all thy guilty splendour ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 And days may come, thou false one ! yet, 
 When even those ties shall sever ; 
 
 When thou wilt call, with vain regret, 
 On her thou 'st lost for ever ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 On her who, in thy fortune's fall, 
 
 With smiles had still received thee, 
 And gladly died to prove thee all 
 Her fancy first believ'd thee. 
 Go go 'tis vain to curse, 
 
 'Tis weakness to upbraid thee ; 
 Hate cannot wish thee worse 
 
 Than guilt arid shame have made thee. 
 
140 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 her 's 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 illum'd all the volume, her WELLINGTON'S 
 name! 
 
 II. 
 
 " Hail, Star of my Isle !" said the Spirit, all sparkling 
 With beams, such as break from her own dewy 
 skies ; 
 
 " Thro' ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, 
 " I 've watch 'd for some glory like thine to arise. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 " For, tho' Heroes 1 Ve numbered, unblest 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 WELLING- 
 TON'S name ! 
 
 IIL 
 
 " Yet, still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, 
 
 " The grandest, the purest ev'n thou hast yet known ; 
 " Tho' 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 fame 
 " And, bright o'er the flood 
 " Of her tears and her blood, 
 Let the rainbow of Hope be her WELLING- 
 TON'S name !" 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. 
 
 I. 
 
 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. 
 Tho' 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 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 . 
 
 * 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 
 yes upon him, he is fixed and in your power ; hut the moment 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 Like him, too, Beauty won me, 
 But while her eyes were on me- 
 
 If once their ray 
 
 Was turn'd away, 
 O ! winds could not outrun me. 
 
 III. 
 
 And are those follies going ? 
 And is my proud heart growing 
 
 Too cold or wise 
 
 For brilliant eyes 
 Again to set it glowing 'i 
 No vain, alas ! th' endeavour 
 From bonds so sweet to sever ; 
 
 Poor Wisdom's chance 
 
 Against a glance 
 Is now as weak as ever ! 
 
 143 
 
 you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some induce- 
 ment) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which' 
 we call the Leprechaun ; but a high authority upon such sub- 
 jects, Lady MORGAN (in a note upon her national and interesting 
 Novel, O'Donnell) has given a very different account of that 
 Goblin. 
 
144 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 WHERE IS THE SLAVE ? 
 
 I. 
 
 WHERE is the slave, so lowly, 
 Condemn'd to chains unholy, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Less dear the laurel growing, 
 Alive, untouch'd, and blowing, 
 
 Than that, whose braid 
 
 Is pluck'd to shade 
 The brows, with victory glowing ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 145 
 
 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 ! 
 
146 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. 
 
 I. 
 
 COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer! 
 Tho' 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 ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same 
 Thro' joy and thro' torments, thro' 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 1 
 
 III. 
 
 Thou hast calFd me thy Angel in moments of bliss, 
 And thy Angel I '11 be, 'mid the horrors of this, 
 Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, 
 And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 'TIS GONE, AND FOR EVER. 
 
 I. 
 
 Tis 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 1 
 'Tis 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting 
 Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world ; 
 
 When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting, 
 At once, like a sun-burst, her banner unfurPd*. 
 
 Oh, never shall earth see a moment so splendid! 
 
 Then, then had one Hymn of Deliverance blended 
 
 The tongues of all nations how sweet had ascended 
 The first note of Liberty, ERIN ! from thee. 
 
 * " The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the an- 
 cient Irish to the Royal Banner. 
 
148 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 But, shame on those tyrants, who envied the blessing ! 
 
 And shame on the light race, unworthy its good, 
 Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing 
 
 The young hope of Freedom, baptiz'd it in blood ! 
 Then vanished for ever that fair, sunny vision, 
 Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision, 
 Shall long be remembered, pure, bright and elysian, 
 
 As first it arose, my lost ERIN ! on thee. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 149 
 
 I SAW FROM THE BEACH. 
 
 I. 
 
 I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining, 
 A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on ; 
 
 I came, when the sun o'er that beach was declining, 
 The bark was still there, but the waters were gone ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah ! such is the fate of our life's early promise, 
 So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known : 
 
 Each wave, that we danc'd on at morning, ebbs from us, 
 And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning 
 
 The close of our day, the calm eve of our night ;- 
 Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of 
 
 Morning, 
 
 Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best 
 light. 
 
150 HUSH MELODIES. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning, 
 When passion first wak'd a new life thro' his frame, 
 
 And his soul like the wood, that grows precious in 
 
 burning 
 Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 151 
 
 FILL THE BUMPER FAIR. 
 
 I. 
 
 FILL the bumper fair ! 
 
 Every drop we sprinkle 
 O'er the brow of Care 
 
 Smooths away a wrinkle. 
 Wit's electric flame 
 
 Ne'er so swiftly passes, 
 As when thro' the frame 
 
 It shoots from brimming glasses. 
 Fill the bumper fair ! 
 
 Every drop we sprinkle 
 O'er the brow of Care 
 
 Smooths away a wrinkle. 
 
 II. 
 
 Sages can, they say, 
 
 Grasp the lightning's pinions, 
 And bring down its ray 
 
 From the starr'd dominions : 
 
152 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 So We, Sages, sit, 
 
 And, 'mid bumpers bright 'ning, 
 From the Heav'n of Wit 
 
 Draw down all its lightning ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Wouldst thou know what first 
 
 Made our souls inherit 
 This ennobling thirst 
 
 For wine's celestial spirit ? 
 It chanc'd upon that day, 
 
 When, as bards inform us, 
 PROMETHEUS stole away 
 
 The living fires that warm us. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 153 
 
 V. 
 
 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 fair ! 
 
 Every drop we sprinkle 
 O'er the brow of Care 
 
 Smooths away a wrinkle. 
 
154< IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. 
 
 I. 
 
 DEAR Harp of my Country ! in darkness I found thee, 
 
 The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long*, 
 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 ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. 
 
 * 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 Almhaim, where the attending Bards, anxious, if 
 possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook 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 
 oflrish Poetry. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 155 
 
 II. 
 
 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, 'tis thy glory alone ; 
 J was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, 
 
 And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own. 
 
SEVENTH NUMBER. 
 
 As slow our ship her foamy track 
 Against the wind was cleaving. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 159 
 
 MY GENTLE HARP! 
 
 I. 
 
 MY gentle Harp! once more I waken 
 
 The sweetness of thy slumVring strain ; 
 In tears our last farewell was taken, 
 
 And now in tears we meet again. 
 No light of joy hath o'er thee broken, 
 
 But like those Harps, whose heav'nly skill 
 Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken 
 
 Thou hang 'st upon the willows still. 
 
 II. 
 
 And yet, since last thy chord resounded, 
 
 An hour of peace and triumph came, 
 And many an ardent bosom bounded 
 
 With hopes that now are turned to shame. 
 Yet even then, while Peace was singing 
 
 Her halcyon song o'er land and sea, 
 Tho' joy and hope to others bringing, 
 
 She only brought new tears to thee. 
 
160 
 
 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure, 
 
 My drooping Harp, from chords like thine ? 
 Alas, the lark's gay morning measure 
 
 As ill would suit the swan's decline ! 
 Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee, 
 
 Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains, 
 When ev'n the wreaths, in which I dress thee, 
 
 Are sadly mix'd half flow'rs, half chains ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 But, come, if yet thy frame can borrow 
 
 One breath of joy oh, breathe for me, 
 And shew the world, in chains and sorrow, 
 
 How sweet thy music still can be ; 
 How gaily, ev'n mid gloom surrounding, 
 
 Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill 
 Like MEMNON'S broken image, sounding, 
 
 'Mid desolation tuneful still !* 
 
 Dimidio magicae resonant ubi Memnone chordae, 
 Atque vetus Thebe centum jacet obruta portis. 
 
 JUVENAL. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 161 
 
 AS SLOW OUR SHIP. 
 
 I. 
 
 As slow our ship her foamy track 
 
 Against the wind was cleaving, 
 Her trembling pennant still look'd back 
 
 To that dear isle 'twas leaving. 
 So loath we part from all we love, 
 
 From all the links that bind us ; 
 So turn our hearts, where'er we rove, 
 
 To those we 've left behind us t 
 
 II. 
 
 When, round the bowl, of vanished years 
 
 We talk, with joyous seeming, 
 With smiles, that might as well be tears, 
 
 So faint, so sad their beaming ; 
 While mem'ry brings us back again 
 
 Each early tie that twin'd us, 
 Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then 
 
 To those we've left behind us ! 
 
 M 
 
162 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 And when, in other climes, we meet 
 
 Some isle or vale enchanting, 
 Where all looks flow'ry, wild and sweet, 
 
 And nought but love is wanting ; 
 We think how great had been our bliss, 
 
 If Heav'n had but assigned us 
 To live and die in scenes like this, 
 
 With some we 've left behind us ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 As travellers oft look back, at eve, 
 
 When eastward darkly going, 
 To gaze upon that light they leave 
 
 Still faint behind them glowing, 
 So, when the close of pleasure's day 
 
 To gloom hath near consigned us, 
 We turn to catch one fading ray 
 
 Of joy that's left behind us. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 163 
 
 IN THE MORNING OF LIFE. 
 
 I. 
 
 IN the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, 
 
 And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, 
 When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own, 
 
 And the light that surrounds us is all from within ; 
 Oh, it is not, believe me, in that happy time 
 
 We can love, as in hours of less transport we may ; 
 Of our smiles, of our hopes 'tis the gay sunny prime, 
 
 But affection is warmest when these fade away. 
 
 II. 
 
 When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, 
 
 Like a leaf on the stream that will never return ; 
 When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so 
 high, 
 
 First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn ; 
 Then, then is the moment affection can sway 
 
 With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew ; 
 Love, nurs'd among pleasures, is faithless as they, 
 
 But the Love, born of Sorrow, like Sorrow is true ' 
 
 M 2 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 In climes full of sunshine, tho' splendid their dyes, 
 
 Yet faint is the odour the flow'rs shed ahout ; 
 'Tis the clouds and the mists of our own weeping skies, 
 
 That call the full spirit of fragrancy out. 
 So the wild glow of passion may kindle from mirth, 
 
 But 'tis only in grief true affection appears ; 
 And, ev'n tho' to smiles it may first owe its birth, 
 
 All the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears 1 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 165 
 
 WHEN COLD IN THE EARTH. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHEN cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast lov'd, 
 
 Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then ; 
 Or, if from their slumber the veil be removed, 
 
 Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again. 
 And oh ! if 'tis pain to remember how far 
 
 From the path-ways of light he was tempted to roam, 
 Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star 
 
 That arose on his darkness, and guided him home. 
 
 II. 
 
 From thee and thy innocent beauty first came 
 
 The revealings, that taught him true Love to adore, 
 To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame 
 
 From the idols he blindly had knelt to before. 
 O'er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild, 
 
 Thou cani'st, like a soft golden calm o'er the sea ; 
 And, if happiness purely and glowingly smiPd 
 
 On his ev'ning horizon, the light was from thee. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 And tho', sometimes, the shade of past folly would rise, 
 
 And tho' falsehood again would allure him to stray, 
 He but turn'd to the glory that dwelt in those eyes, 
 
 And the folly, the falsehood soon vanished away. 
 As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim, 
 
 At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair, 
 So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him, 
 
 He but flew to that smile, and rekindled it there. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 167 
 
 REMEMBER THEE ! 
 
 I. 
 
 REMEMBER thee ! yes, while there 's life in this heart, 
 It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art ; 
 More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers, 
 Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours. 
 
 II. 
 
 Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious and free, 
 First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea, 
 I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow, 
 But, oh ! could I love thee more deeply than now ? 
 
 III. 
 
 No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs, 
 But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons 
 Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest, 
 Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast ! 
 
168 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 WREATH THE BOWL. 
 
 I. 
 
 WREATH the bowl 
 
 With flow'rs of soul, 
 The brightest Wit can find us ; 
 
 We '11 take a flight 
 
 Towards heav'n to night 
 And leave dull earth behind us ! 
 
 Should Love amid 
 
 The wreaths be hid 
 That Joy, th' enchanter, brings us, 
 
 No danger fear, 
 
 While wine is near, 
 We '11 drown him if he stings us 
 
 Then, wreath the bowl 
 
 With flow'rs of soul, 
 The brightest Wit can find us ; 
 
 We'll take a flight 
 
 Tow'rds heav'n to night, 
 And leave dull earth behind us ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 169 
 
 II. 
 
 'Twas nectar fed 
 
 Of old, 'tis said, 
 Their Junos, Joves, Apollos ; 
 
 And man may brew 
 
 His nectar too, 
 The rich receipt 's as follows ; 
 
 Take wine like this, 
 
 Let looks of bliss 
 Around it well be blended, 
 
 Then bring Wit's beam 
 
 To warm the stream, 
 And there 's your nectar, splendid ! 
 
 So, wreath the bowl 
 
 With flow'rs of soul, 
 The brightest Wit can find us ; 
 
 We'll take a flight 
 
 Towards heav'n to-night, 
 And leave dull earth behind us ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Say, why did Time 
 
 His glass sublime 
 Fill up with sands unsightly, 
 
 When wine, he knew, 
 
 Runs brisker through, 
 And sparkles far more brightly. 
 
170 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 Oh, lend it us, 
 And, smiling thus, 
 
 The glass in two we 'd sever, 
 Make pleasure glide 
 In double tide, 
 
 And fill both ends for ever ! 
 Then wreath the bowl 
 With flow'rs of soul, 
 
 The brightest Wit can find us ; 
 We '11 take a flight 
 Tow'rds heav'n to-night, 
 
 And leave dull earth behind us ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 171 
 
 WHENE'ER I SEE THOSE SMILING EYES. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHENE'ER I see those smiling eyes, 
 
 All filPd with hope, and joy, and light, 
 As if no cloud could ever rise, 
 
 To dim a heav'n so purely bright 
 I sigh to think how soon that brow 
 
 In grief may lose its every ray, 
 And that light heart, so joyous now, 
 
 Almost forget it once was gay. 
 
 II. 
 
 For Time will come with all his blights, 
 
 The ruin'd hope the friend unkind 
 The love, that leaves, where'er it lights, 
 
 A chill'd or burning heart behind ! 
 While youth, that now like snow appears, 
 
 Ere sullied by the dark'ning rain, 
 When once 'tis touch'd by sorrow's tears, 
 
 Will never shine so bright again ! 
 
172 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 IF THOU 'LT BE MINE. 
 
 I. 
 
 IF thou 'It be mine, the treasures of air, 
 Of earth, and sea shall lie at thy feet ; 
 
 Whatever in Fancy's eye looks fair 
 Or in Hope's sweet music is most sweet 
 Shall be ours, if thou wilt be mine, love ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Bright flow'rs shall bloom wherever we rove, 
 A voice divine shall talk in each stream, 
 
 The stars shall look like worlds of love, 
 And this earth be all one beautiful dream 
 In our eyes if thou wilt be mine, love ! 
 
 III. 
 
 And thoughts, whose source is hidden and high, 
 Like streams, that come from heaven- ward hills, 
 
 Shall keep our hearts like meads, that lie 
 To be bath'd by those eternal rills 
 Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love ! 
 
IRISH MELODHES. 173 
 
 IV. 
 
 All this and more the Spirit of Love 
 
 Can breathe o'er them, who feel his spells ; 
 
 That heaven, which forms his home, above, 
 He can make, on earth, wherever he dwells, 
 And he will if thou wilt be mine, love ! 
 
174 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 TO LADIES' EYES. 
 
 To Ladies' Eyes a round, boy, 
 
 We can't refuse, we can't refuse, 
 Tho' bright eyes so abound, boy, 
 
 'Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose. 
 For thick as stars that lighten 
 
 Yon airy bow'rs, yon airy bow'rs, 
 The countless eyes that brighten 
 
 This earth of ours, this earth of ours. 
 But fill the cup where'er, boy, 
 
 Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, 
 We 're sure to find Love there, boy, 
 
 So drink them all ! so drink them all ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Some looks there are, so holy, 
 
 They seem but giv'n, they seem but giv'n, 
 As splendid beacons, solely, 
 
 To light to heav'n, to light to heav'n. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 175 
 
 While some oh ! ne'er believe them 
 
 With tempting ray, with tempting ray, 
 Would lead us (God forgive them !) 
 
 The other way, the other way. 
 But fill the cup where'er, boy, 
 
 Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, 
 We 're sure to find Love there, boy, 
 
 So drink them all ! so drink them all ! 
 
 III. 
 
 In some, as in a mirror, 
 
 Love seems portray 'd, Love seems portray'd, 
 But shun the flattering error, 
 
 Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade. 
 Himself has fix'd his dwelling 
 
 In eyes we know, in eyes we know, 
 And lips but this is telling, 
 
 So here they go ! so here they go ! 
 Fill up, fill up where'er, boy, 
 
 Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, 
 We 're sure to find Love there, boy, 
 
 So drink them all ! so drink them all ! 
 
176 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 FORGET NOT THE FIELD. 
 
 I. 
 
 FORGET not the field where they perish'd, 
 
 The truest, the last of the brave, 
 All gone and the bright hope we cherish'd 
 
 Gone with them, and quench 'd in their grave ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh ! could we from death but recover 
 Those hearts, as they bounded before, 
 
 In the face of high heav'n to fight over 
 That combat for freedom once more ; 
 
 III. 
 
 Could the chain for an instant be riven 
 Which Tyranny flung round us then, 
 
 Oh ! 'tis not in Man nor in Heaven, 
 To let Tyranny bind it again ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 177 
 
 IV. 
 
 But 'tis past and, tho' blazon'd in story 
 
 The name of our Victor may be, 
 Accurst is the march of that glory, 
 
 Which treads o'er the hearts of the free. 
 
 V. 
 
 Far dearer the grave or the prison, 
 
 Illum'd by one patriot name, 
 Than the trophies of all, who have risen 
 
 On Liberty's ruins to fame ! 
 
 N 
 
178 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 THEY MAY RAIL AT THIS LIFE. 
 
 I. 
 THEY may rail at this life from the hour I began it, 
 
 I Ve found it a life full of kindness and bliss ; 
 And, until they can shew me some happier planet, 
 
 More social and bright, I '11 content me with this. 
 As long as the world has such eloquent eyes, 
 
 As before me this moment enraptured I see, 
 They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies, 
 
 But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. 
 
 II. 
 
 In Mercury's star, where each minute can bring them 
 
 New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high, 
 Tho' the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them *, 
 
 They've none, even there, more enamoured than I. 
 And, as long as this harp can be waken'd to love, 
 
 And that eye its divine inspiration shall be, 
 They may talk as they will of their Edens above, 
 
 But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. 
 
 * Tous les habit an s de Mercure sont vifs. 
 
 Pluralite des Mondes. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 179 
 
 III. 
 
 In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendour, 
 
 At twilight so often we 've roam'd through the dew, 
 There are maideus, perhaps, who have hosoms as tender, 
 
 And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you *. 
 But, tho' they were even more bright than the queen 
 
 Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea, 
 As I never those fair young celestials have seen, 
 
 Why, this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation, 
 
 Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare, 
 Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station, 
 
 Heav'n knows we have plenty on earth we could spare. 
 Oh ! think what a world we should have of it here, 
 
 If the haters of peace, of affection and glee, 
 Were to fly up to SATURN'S comfortless sphere, 
 
 And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me. 
 
 * La Terre pourra tre pour Venus Ptoile du berger et la 
 mere des amours, comme Venus Test pour nous. Jb. 
 
 N 2 
 
180 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME ! 
 
 I. 
 
 OH for the swords of former time ! 
 
 Oh for the men who bore them, 
 When, arm'd for Right, they stood sublime, 
 
 And tyrants crouch 'd before them ! 
 When pure yet, ere courts began 
 
 With honours to enslave him, 
 The best honours worn by Man 
 
 Were those which Virtue gave him. 
 Oh for the swords of former time ! 
 
 Oh ! for the men who bore them, 
 When, arm'd for Right, they stood sublime, 
 
 And tyrants crouch 'd before them. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh for the Kings who flourished then ! 
 
 Oh for the pomp that crown 'd them, 
 When hearts and hands of freeborn men 
 
 Were all the ramparts round them ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 181 
 
 When, safe built on bosoms true, 
 
 The throne was but the centre, 
 Round which Love a circle drew, 
 
 That Treason durst not enter. 
 Oh for the Kings who flourished then ! 
 
 Oh for the pomp that crown'd them, 
 When hearts and hands of freeborn men, 
 
 Were all the ramparts round them ! 
 
EIGHTH NUMBER. 
 
 spirits, from ail the lake's deep bowers, 
 
 Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers, 
 Fair Steed, around my love and thee. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 185 
 
 NE'ER ASK THE HOUR. 
 
 I. 
 
 NE'ER ask the hour what is it to us 
 
 How Time deals out his treasures ? 
 The golden moments, lent us thus, 
 
 Are not his coin, but Pleasure's. 
 If counting them over could add to their blisses, 
 
 I 'd number each glorious second ; 
 But moments of joy are, like LESBIA'S kisses, 
 
 Too quick and sweet to be reekon'd. 
 Then fill the cup what is it to us 
 
 How Time his circle measures ? 
 The fairy hours we call up thus, 
 
 Obey no wand but Pleasure's ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours, 
 Till Care, one summer's morning, 
 
 Set up, among his smiling flowers, 
 A dial, by way of warning. 
 
186 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun, 
 
 As long as its light was glowing, 
 Than to watch with old Care how the shadow 
 stole on, 
 
 And how fast that light was going. 
 So fill the cup what is it to us 
 
 How Time his circle measures ? 
 The fairy hours we call up thus, 
 
 Obey no wand but Pleasure's. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 187 
 
 SAIL ON, SAIL ON. 
 
 I. 
 
 SAIL on, sail on, thou fearless bark 
 
 Where ever blows the welcome wind, 
 It cannot lead to scenes more dark, 
 
 More sad than those we leave behind. 
 Each wave that passes seems to say 
 
 " Though death beneath our smile may be, 
 " Less cold we are, less false than they, 
 
 " Whose smiling wreck'd thy hopes and thee." 
 
 II. 
 
 Sail on, sail on through endless space 
 
 Through calm through tempest stop no more ; 
 The stormiest sea 's a resting-place 
 
 To him who leaves such hearts on shore. 
 Or, if some desert land we meet, 
 
 Where never yet false-hearted men 
 Profaned a world, that else were sweet 
 
 Then rest thee, bark, but not till then. 
 
188 IRISH MELODIES, 
 
 THE PARALLEL. 
 
 1. 
 
 YES, sad one of SIGN* if closely resembling, 
 In shame and in sorrow, thy wither'd-up heart 
 
 If drinking deep, deep, of the " same cup of trembling" 
 Could make us thy children, our parent thou art. 
 
 II. 
 
 Like thee doth our nation lie conquer 'd and broken, 
 And falPn from her head is the once royal crown ; 
 
 In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken, 
 And "while it is day yet, her sun hath gone downt." 
 
 III. 
 
 Like thine doth her exile, mid dreams of returning, 
 Die far from the home it were life to behold ; 
 
 Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning, 
 Remember the bright things that bless'd them of old ! 
 
 # These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by 
 Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally 
 Jews. 
 
 f " Her sun is gone down while it was yet day." Jer. xv. 9. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 189 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah well may we call her, like thee, " the Forsaken*," 
 Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves ; 
 
 And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they 
 
 waken, 
 Have breathings as sad as the wind over graves ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Yet hadst thou thy vengeance yet came there the 
 
 morrow, 
 
 That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night, 
 When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and 
 
 sorrow, 
 Was shiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy sight. 
 
 VI. 
 
 When that cup, which for others the proud Golden 
 
 Cityt 
 Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drench'd her own 
 
 lips, 
 
 And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity, 
 The howl in her halls and the cry from her ships. 
 
 * " Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken." Isaiah Ixii. 4. 
 f l< How hath the oppressor ceased ! the golden city ceased/' 
 Isaiah xiv. 4. 
 
190 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 VII. 
 
 When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came 
 over, 
 
 Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, 
 And a ruin, at last, for the earth-worm to cover *, 
 
 The Lady of Kingdoms t lay low in the dust. 
 
 * " Thy pomp is brought down to the grave and the 
 
 worms cover thee." Isaiah xiv. 1 1 . 
 
 t "Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms." 
 Isaiah xlvii. v. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 191 
 
 DRINK OF THIS CUP. 
 
 I. 
 
 DRINK of this cup you'll find there 's a spell in 
 
 Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality 
 Talk of the cordial that sparkled for HELEN, 
 
 Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 
 Would you forget the dark world we are in, 
 
 Only taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it; 
 But would you rise above earth, till akin 
 
 To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop 
 
 of it. 
 Send round the cup for oh there 's a spell in 
 
 Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality 
 Talk of the cordial that sparkled for HELEN, 
 
 Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 
 
 II. 
 
 Never was philter form'd with such power 
 
 To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing ; 
 
 Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour, 
 As a harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. 
 
192 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 There, having, by nature's enchantment, been filPd 
 
 With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest wea- 
 ther, 
 This wonderful juice from its core was distilFd, 
 
 To enliven such hearts as are here brought together ! 
 Then drink of the cup you '11 find there 's a spell in 
 
 Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality 
 Talk of the cordial that sparkled for HELEN, 
 
 Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 
 
 III. 
 
 And though, perhaps but breathe it to no one 
 
 Like caldrons the witch brews at midnight so awful, 
 In secret this philter was first taught to flow on, 
 
 Yet 'tisn't less potent for being unlawful. 
 What though it may taste of the smoke of that flame, 
 
 Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden 
 Fill up there 's a fire in some hearts I could name, 
 
 Which may work too its charm, though now lawless 
 
 and hidden. 
 So drink of the cup for oh there 's a spell in 
 
 Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality 
 Talk of the cordial, that sparkled for HELEN, 
 
 Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 193 
 
 THE FORTUNE-TELLER. 
 
 I. 
 
 DOWN in the valley come meet me to-night, 
 And I '11 tell you your fortune truly 
 
 As ever 'twas told, by the new moon's light, 
 To young maiden, shining as newly. 
 
 II. 
 
 But, for the world, let no one he nigh, 
 Lest haply the stars should deceive me ; 
 
 These secrets between you and me and the sky 
 Should never go farther, believe me. 
 
 III. 
 
 If at that hour the heavens be not dim, 
 My science shall call up before you 
 
 A male apparition the image of him, 
 Whose destiny 'tis to adore you. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then to the phantom be thou but kind, 
 And round you so fondly he '11 hover, 
 
 You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find 
 'Twixt him and a true living lover. 
 
 V. 
 
 Down at your feet, in the pale moon-light, 
 He '11 kneel, with a warmth of emotion 
 
 An ardour, of which such an innocent sprite 
 You'd scarcely believe had a notion. 
 
 VI. 
 
 What other thoughts and events may arise, 
 As in destiny's book I 've not seen them, 
 
 Must only be left to the stars and your eyes 
 To settle, ere morning, between them. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 195 
 
 OH, YE DEAD. 
 
 I. 
 
 On, ye Dead I oh, ye Dead! whom we know by the 
 
 light you give 
 
 From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like 
 men who live, 
 
 "Why leave you thus your graves, 
 In far off fields and waves, 
 
 Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your 
 bed, 
 
 To haunt this spot, where all 
 Those eyes that wept your fall, 
 
 And the hearts that bewaiPd you, like your own, lie 
 dead? 
 
 II. 
 
 It is true it is true we are shadows cold and wan ; 
 It is true it is true all the friends we loved are 
 gone. 
 
 But, oh 1 thus ev'n in death, 
 So sweet is still the breath 
 o 2 
 
196 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 Of the fields and the flow'rs in our youth we wander'd 
 o'er, 
 
 That, ere condemn'd, we go 
 To freeze mid HE c LA'S * snow, 
 We would taste it awhile, and dream we live once 
 more ! 
 
 * Paul Zeland mentions that there is a mountain in some 
 part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in 
 foreign lands, walk about and converse with those they meet 
 like living people. If asked why they do not return to their 
 homes, they say, they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and 
 disappear immediately. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 197 
 
 O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS*. 
 
 I. 
 
 OF all the fair months, that round the sun 
 In light-linked dance their circles run, 
 
 Sweet May, sweet May, shine thou for me ; 
 For still, when thy earliest beams arise, 
 That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies, 
 
 Sweet May, sweet May, returns to me. 
 
 * The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and 
 his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Kil- 
 larney, or, more fully detailed, in Derrick's Letters. For many 
 years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have 
 been seen, on the morning of M? v-day, gliding over the lake on 
 his favourite white horse, to the sound of sweet, unearthly music, 
 and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung 
 wreaths of delicate spring-flowers in his path. 
 
 Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the 
 Lakes, it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl, 
 whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this vi_ 
 sionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, and 
 at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning, threw herself into 
 the Lake. 
 
198 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 II. 
 
 Of all the smooth lakes, where day-light leaves 
 His lingering smile on golden eves, 
 
 Fair Lake, fair Lake, thou'rt dear to me ; 
 For when the last April sun grows dim, 
 Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him 
 
 Who dwells, who dwells, bright Lake, in thee. 
 
 III. 
 
 Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore 
 Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore, 
 
 White Steed, white Steed, most joy to thee, 
 Who still with the first young glance of spring 
 From under that glorious lake dost bring, 
 
 Proud Steed, proud Steed, my love to me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, 
 When newly launched, thy long mane * curls, 
 
 Fair Steed, fair Steed, as white and free ; 
 And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, 
 Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers, 
 
 Fair Steed, around my love and thee. 
 
 * The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on 
 a windy day, crested with foam, " O'Donohue's white horses." 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 199 
 
 V. 
 
 Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, 
 Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie, 
 
 Most sweet, most sweet, that death will be, 
 Which under the next May evening's light, 
 When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, 
 
 Dear love, dear love, I '11 die for thee. 
 
200 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 ECHO. 
 
 I. 
 
 How sweet the answer Echo makes 
 
 To Music at night, 
 
 When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, 
 And far away, o'er lawns and lakes, 
 
 Goes answering light. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet Love hath echoes truer far, 
 
 And far more sweet, 
 Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, 
 Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar, 
 
 The songs repeat. 
 
 III. 
 
 'Tis when the sigh in youth sincere, 
 
 And only then, 
 
 The sigh, that 's breath'd for one to hear, 
 Is by that one, that only dear, 
 
 Breath'd back again ! 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 201 
 
 OH BANQUET NOT. 
 
 I. 
 
 OH banquet not in those shining bowers, 
 
 Where Youth resorts but come to me, 
 For mine 's a garden of faded flowers, 
 
 More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. 
 And there we shall have our feast of tears, 
 
 And many a cup in silence pour 
 Our guests, the shades of former years, 
 
 Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more. 
 
 II. 
 
 There, while the myrtle's withering boughs 
 
 Their lifeless leaves around us shed, 
 We '!) brim the bowl to broken vows, 
 
 To friends long lost, the chang'd, the dead. 
 Or, as some blighted laurel waves 
 
 It branches o'er the dreary spot, 
 We 11 drink to those neglected graves 
 
 Where valour sleeps, unnam'd, forgot ! 
 
202 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE! 
 
 I. 
 
 THE dawning of morn, the day-light's sinking, 
 The night's long hours still find me thinking 
 
 Of thee, thee, only thee. 
 When friends are met, and goblets crown'd, 
 And smiles are near, that once enchanted, 
 Unreach'd by all that sunshine round, 
 My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted 
 By thee, thee, only thee. 
 
 II. 
 
 Whatever in fame's high path could waken 
 My spirit once, is now forsaken 
 For thee, thee, only thee^ 
 Like shores, by which some headlong bark 
 
 To the ocean hurries resting never 
 Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark, 
 I know not, heed not, hastening ever 
 To thee, thee, only thee. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 203 
 
 III. 
 
 I have not a joy but of thy bringing, 
 
 And pain itself seems sweet, when springing 
 
 From thee, thee, only thee. 
 Like spells, that nought on earth can break, 
 
 Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken, 
 This heart, howe'er the world may wake 
 Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken 
 By thee, thee, only thee. 
 
204 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT? 
 
 I. 
 
 SHALL the Harp then be silent, when he, who first 
 gave 
 
 To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes ? 
 Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave, 
 
 Where the first where the last of her Patriots lies ? 
 
 II. 
 
 No faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips, 
 Tho' his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be 
 crost, 
 
 Yet, yet shall it sound, mid a nation's eclipse, 
 
 And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost ! * 
 
 * It is only these two first verses, that are either fitted or in- 
 tended to be sung. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 205 
 
 III 
 
 What a union of all the affections and powers, 
 By which life is exalted, embellished, refin'd, 
 
 Was embrac'd in that spirit whose centre was ours, 
 While its mighty circumference circled mankind. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, who that loves Erin or who that can see, 
 
 Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sub- 
 lime 
 
 Like a pyramid, rais'd in the desert where he 
 And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time ! 
 
 V. 
 
 That one lucid interval, snatch'd from the gloom 
 And the madness of ages, when, filPd with his soul, 
 
 A Nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her doom, 
 And, for one sacred instant, touched Liberty's goal ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Who, that ever hath heard him hath drank at the 
 source 
 
 Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, 
 In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force, 
 
 And the yet untam'd spring of her spirit are shewn. 
 
206 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 VII. 
 
 An eloquence, rich wheresoever its wave 
 
 Wander'd free and triumphant with thoughts that 
 shone through 
 
 As clear as the brook's " stone of lustre," and gave, 
 With the flash of the gem, its solidity, too. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Who, that ever approached him, when, free from the 
 
 crowd, 
 
 In a home full of love, he delighted to tread 
 'Mong the trees which a nation had giv'n, and which 
 
 bow'd, 
 As if each brought a new civic crown for his head 
 
 IX. 
 
 That home, where like him who, as fable hath told*, 
 Put the rays from his brow, that his child might 
 come near, 
 
 Every glory forgot, the most wise of the old 
 
 Became all that the simplest and youngest hold dear. 
 
 * Apollo, in his interview with Phaeton, as described by 
 Ovid; * 4 Deposuit radios propriusque accedere jussit." 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 207 
 
 X. 
 
 Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life, 
 But at distance observed him through glory, through 
 blame, 
 
 In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife 
 
 Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Such a union of all that enriches life's hour, 
 
 Of the sweetness we love and the greatness we praise, 
 
 As that type of simplicity blended with power, 
 A child with a thunderbolt only portrays. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Oh no not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mourns, 
 Deep, deep, o'er the grave, where such glory is 
 shrin'd 
 
 O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong the urns 
 Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind ! 
 
208 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 OH THE SIGHT ENTRANCING. 
 
 I. 
 
 OH, the sight entrancing, 
 
 When morning's beam is glancing 
 
 O'er files, array 'd 
 
 With helm and blade, 
 And plumes, in the gay wind dancing ! 
 When hearts are all high beating, 
 And the trumpet's voice repeating 
 
 That song, whose breath 
 
 May lead to death, 
 But never to retreating ! 
 Oh the sight entrancing, 
 When morning's beam is glancing 
 
 O'er files, array'd 
 
 With helm and blade, 
 And plumes, in the gay wind dancing ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet, 'tis not helm or feather 
 For ask yon despot, whether 
 
 His plumed bands 
 
 Could bring such hands 
 And hearts as ours together. 
 
IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 Leave pomps to those who need 'em 
 Adorn but Man with freedom, 
 
 And proud he braves 
 
 The gaudiest slaves, 
 That crawl, where monarchs lead 'em. 
 The sword may pierce the beaver, 
 Stone walls in time may sever, 
 
 'Tis heart alone, 
 
 Worth steel and stone, 
 That keeps men free for ever ! 
 Oh that sight entrancing, 
 When the morning's beam is glancing 
 
 O'er files, array'd 
 
 With helm and blade, 
 And in Freedom's cause advancing ! 
 
 209 
 
TV Stothard, R.A. Del. 
 
 W. Hughes, Set. 
 
APPENDIX, 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 THE ORIGINAL ADVERTISEMENTS, 
 
 AND THE 
 
 PREFATORY LETTER ON MUSIC. 
 
 P 2 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 PREFIXED TO THE 
 
 FIRST AND SECOND NUMBERS. 
 
 POWER takes the liberty of announcing to 
 the Public a WORK which has long been a 
 Desideratum in this country. Though the beau- 
 ties 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 neces- 
 sary to adapt them to the voice, that many of 
 the most excellent Compositions have hitherto 
 remained in obscurity. It is intended, there- 
 fore, to form a Collection of the best Original 
 IRISH MELODIES, with characteristic Sym- 
 phonies and Accompaniments ; and with Words 
 containing, as frequent as possible, allusions to 
 the manners and history of the Country. Sir 
 JOHN STEVENSON has very kindly consented 
 to undertake the arrangement of the Airs ; and 
 the lovers of simple National Music may rest 
 secure, that, in such tasteful hands, the native 
 
214 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE 
 
 charms of the original melody will not be sacri- 
 ficed to the ostentation of science. 
 
 In the poetical Part, POWER has had pro- 
 mises 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 un- 
 dertaking will be best understood from the fol- 
 lowing Extract of a Letter which he has ad- 
 dressed to Sir JOHN STEVENSON on the sub- 
 ject : 
 
 " I feel very anxious that a Work of this kind 
 
 " should be undertaken. We have too long 
 
 " neglected the only talent, for which our Eng- 
 
 " lish 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 trea- 
 
 " sures in a great Degree unclaimed and fugi- 
 
 * The Writer forgot, wfoen 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. 
 
FIRST AND SECOND NUMBERS. 215 
 
 " tive. 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 
 
 u they are connected, in Ireland at least, appears 
 
 " too plainly in the tone of sorrow and depres- 
 
 " sion which characterizes 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, arid makes even mirth 
 
 " interesting. If BURNS had been an Irish - 
 
 u man, (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 
 
216 FIRST AND SECOND NUMBERS. 
 
 " mechanical) arises from the irregular struc- 
 ." ture of many of those airs, and the lawless 
 " kind of metre which it will in consequence be 
 " necessary to adapt to them. In these in- 
 " stances the Poet must write, not to the eye, 
 44 but to the ear ; and must be content to have 
 " his verses of that description which CICERO 
 44 mentions, 4 Quos si cantu spoliaveris, nuda 
 44 remowebit oratio.' That beautiful Air, 4 The 
 44 Twisting of the Rope,' which has all the 
 44 romantic character of the Swiss Ranz des 
 44 Vaches, is one of those wild and sentimental 
 44 rakes, which it will not be very easy to tie down 
 44 in sober wedlock with Poetry. However, not- 
 44 withstanding all these difficulties, and the 
 44 very little talent which I can bring to sur- 
 44 mount them, the design appears to me so 
 44 truly National, that I shall feel much plea- 
 44 sure in giving it all the assistance in my 
 44 power. 
 
 44 Leicestershire, Feb. 1807." 
 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 TO THE 
 
 THIRD NUMBER. 
 
 Ijv presenting the Third Number of this Work 
 to the Public, POWER begs leave to offer his 
 acknowledgments for the very liberal patronage 
 with which it has been honoured ; and to 
 express a hope that the unabated zeal of 
 those who have hitherto so admirably con- 
 ducted it, will enable him to continue it 
 through many future Numbers with equal spirit, 
 variety, and taste. The stock of popular Melo- 
 dies is far from being exhausted ; and there is 
 still in reserve an abundance of beautiful Airs, 
 which call upon Mr. MOORE, in the language 
 he so well understands, to save them from the 
 oblivion to which they are hastening. 
 
 POWER respectfully trusts he will not be 
 thought presumptuous in saying, that he feels 
 proud, as an Irishman, in even the very subor- 
 dinate share which he can claim, in promoting a 
 
218 THIRD NUMBER. 
 
 Work so creditable to the talents of the Country 
 a Work, which, from the spirit of nationality 
 it breathes, will do more, he is convinced, 
 towards liberalizing the feelings of society, and 
 producing that brotherhood of sentiment which 
 it is so much our interest to cherish, than could 
 ever be effected by the arguments of wise, but 
 uninteresting, politicians. 
 
LETTER 
 
 TO 
 
 THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGAL, 
 
 PREFIXED TO THE 
 
 THIRD NUMBER. 
 
 WHILE the Publisher of these Melodies very 
 properly inscribes them to the Nobility and 
 Gentry of Ireland in general, I have much plea- 
 sure in selecting one from that number, to whom 
 my share of the Work is particularly dedicated. 
 Though your Ladyship has been so long absent 
 from Ireland, I know that you remember it 
 well and warmly that you have not allowed 
 the charm of English society, like the taste of 
 the lotus, to produce oblivion of your country, 
 but that even the humble tribute which I offer 
 derives it chief claim upon your interest 
 from the appeal which it makes to your pa- 
 triotism. Indeed absence, however fatal to 
 some affections of the heart, rather strengthens 
 our love for the land where we were born ; and 
 
220 PREFATORY LETTER 
 
 Ireland is the country, of all others, which an 
 exile must rememher with enthusiasm. Those 
 few darker and less amiable traits, with which 
 bigotry and misrule have stained her character, 
 and which are too apt to disgust us upon a 
 nearer intercourse, become softened at a dis- 
 tance, or altogether invisible ; and nothing is 
 remembered but her virtues and her misfortunes 
 the zeal with which she has always loved 
 liberty, and the barbarous policy which has 
 always withheld it from her the ease with 
 which her generous spirit might be conciliated, 
 and the cruel ingenuity which has been exerted 
 to " wring her into undutifulness*." 
 
 It has often been remarked, and oftener felt, 
 that our music is the truest of all comments upon 
 our history. The tone of defiance, succeeded 
 by the languor of despondency a burst of tur- 
 bulence dying away into softness the sorrows 
 of one moment lost in the levity of the next 
 and all that romantic mixture of mirth and sad- 
 ness, which is naturally produced by the efforts 
 of a lively temperament, to shake off, or forget, 
 
 * A phrase which occurs In a letter from the Earl of Desmond to 
 the Earl of Ormond, in Elizabeth's time. Scrinia Sacra, as quoted 
 by Curry. 
 
UPON MUSIC. 221 
 
 the wrongs which lie upon it : such are the 
 features of our history and character, which we 
 find strongly and faithfully reflected in our 
 music ; and there are many airs, which, I think, 
 it is difficult to listen to, without recalling some 
 period or event to which their expression seems 
 peculiarly applicable. Sometimes, when the 
 strain is open and spirited, yet shaded here and 
 there by a mournful recollection, we can fancy 
 that we behold the brave allies of Montrose*, 
 marching to the aid of the royal cause, notwith- 
 standing all the perfidy of Charles and his 
 ministers, and remembering just enough of past 
 sufferings to enhance the generosity of their 
 present sacrifice. The plaintive melodies of 
 Carolan take us back to the times in which he 
 lived, when our poor countrymen were driven to 
 worship their God in caves, or to quit for ever 
 the land of their birth (like the bird that aban- 
 dons the nest, which human touch has violated); 
 and in many a song do we hear the last farewell 
 
 * There are some gratifying accounts of the gallantry of these 
 Irish auxiliaries in "The Complete History of the Wars in Scotland, 
 under Montrose" (1660). See particularly, for the conduct of an 
 Irishman at the battle of Aberdee i, chap 6. p. 49; and, for a tribute 
 to the bravery of Colonel O'Kyan, chap. 7. p. 55. Clarendon owns 
 that the Marquis of Montrose was indebted for much of his mira- 
 culous success, to this small band of Irish heroes under Macdonnel-^ 
 
222 PREFATORY LETTER 
 
 of the exile*, mingling regret for the ties he 
 leaves at home, with sanguine expectations of 
 the honours that await him abroad such honours 
 as were won on the field of Fontenoy, where the 
 valour of Irish Catholics turned the fortune of 
 the day in favour of the French, and extorted 
 from George the Second that memorable excla- 
 mation, " Cursed be the laws which deprive me 
 of such subjects !" 
 
 Though much has been said of the antiquity 
 of our music, it is certain that our finest and 
 most popular airs are modern ; and perhaps we 
 may look no further than the last disgraceful 
 century for the origin of most of those wild and 
 melancholy strains, which were at once the 
 offspring and solace of grief, and which were 
 applied to the mind, as music was formerly to 
 the body, " decantare loca dolentia." Mr. 
 
 * The associations of the Hindu Music, though more obvious and 
 defined, were far less touching and characteristic. They divided their 
 songs according to the seasons of the year, by which (says Sir William 
 Jones) "they were able to recall the memory of autumnal merriment, 
 at the close of the harvest, or of separation and melancholy during the 
 cold months, &c." Asiatic Transactions, vol. 3. on the Musical 
 Modes of the Hindus. What the Abbe du Bos says of the sympho- 
 nies of Lully, may be asserted, with much more probability, of our 
 bold and impassioned airs " elles auroient produit de ces effets, qui 
 nous paroissent fabuleux dans le recit des anciens, si on les avoit fai*t 
 entendre a des hommes, d'un naturel aussi vif que les Atheniens." 
 Re/lex, sur la Peinture, &c. torn. 1. sect. 45. 
 
UPON MUSIC. 223 
 
 Pinkerton is of opinion * that none of the Scotch 
 popular airs are as old as the middle of the six- 
 teenth century ; and though musical antiquaries 
 refer us, for some of our melodies, to so early a 
 period as the fifth century, I am persuaded that 
 there are few, of a civilized description, (and by 
 this I mean to exclude all the savage Ceanans, 
 cries f, rc.), which can claim quite so ancient a 
 date as Mr. Pinkerton allows to the Scotch. 
 But music is not the only subject upon which 
 our taste for antiquity is rather unreasonably 
 indulged ; and, however heretical it may be to 
 dissent from these romantic speculations, I can- 
 not help thinking that it is possible to love our 
 country very zealously, and to feel deeply in- 
 terested in her honour and happiness, without 
 believing that Irish was the language spoken in 
 Paradise t ; that our ancestors were kind enough 
 to take the trouble of polishing the Greeks ; or 
 that Abaris, the Hyperborean, was a native of 
 the North of Ireland||. 
 
 * Dissertation, prefixed to the 2nd volume of his Scottish Ballads. 
 
 t Of which some genuine specimens may be found at the end of 
 Mr. Walker's Work upon the Irish Bards. Mr. Bunting has disfi- 
 gured his last splendid volume by too many of these barbarous rbap 
 sodies. 
 
 $ See Advertisement to the Transactions of the Gaelic society of 
 Dublin. 
 
 O'Halloran, vol. l,part 1, chap. 6. 
 
 || Id. ib. chap . 7 
 
224 PREFATORY LETTER 
 
 By some of these archaeologists it has been 
 imagined that the Irish were early acquainted 
 with counter-point*; and they endeavour to 
 support this conjecture by a well-known passage 
 in Giraldus, where he dilates, with such elabo- 
 rate praise, upon the beauties of our national 
 minstrelsey. But the terms of this eulogy are 
 too vague, too deficient in technical accuracy, 
 to prove that even Giraldus himself knew any 
 thing of the artifice of counterpoint. There are 
 many expressions in the Greek and Latin writers 
 which might be cited, with much more plausi- 
 bility, to prove that they understood the arrange- 
 ment of music in parts f ; yet I believe it is 
 
 * It is also supposed, but with as little proof, that they understood 
 the diesis, or enharmonic interval. The Greeks seem to have formed 
 their ears to this delicate gradation of sound ; and, whatever diffi- 
 culties or objections may lie in the way of its practical use, we must 
 agree with Mersenne ( Preludes de 1'Harmonie, quest. 7.) that the 
 theory of music would be imperfect without it; and, even in practice, 
 (asTosi, among others, very justly remarks, Observations on Florid 
 Song, chap. l,sect. 16.) there;* no good performer on the violin, who 
 does not make a sensible difference between D sharp and E flat, 
 though, from the imperfection of the instrument, they are the same 
 notes upon the Piano-forte. The effect of modulation by enharmonic 
 transitions is also very striking and beautiful. 
 
 t The words TToixiXia and ZTtpofycavia, in a passage of Plato, and 
 some expressions of Cicero in Fragment, lib. 2, de Republ., induced 
 the Abbe Fraguier to maintain that the ancients had a knowledge of 
 counter-point. M. Burette, however, has answered him, I think, 
 satisfactorily. (Examen d'un passage de Platon, in the 3d vol. of 
 Histoire de 1'Acad.) M. Huet is of opinion, (Pensees Diverses) that 
 what Cicero says of the music of the spheres, in his dream of Scipio, 
 is sufficient to prove an acquaintance with harmony ; but one of the 
 
UPON MUSIC. 225 
 
 conceded in general by the learned, that, how- 
 ever grand and pathetic the melody of the an- 
 cients may have been, it was reserved for the 
 ingenuity of modern Science to transmit the 
 " light of Song" through the variegating prism 
 of Harmony. 
 
 Indeed the irregular scale of the early Irish 
 (in which, as in the music of Scotland, the in- 
 terval of the fourth was wanting*) must have 
 furnished but wild and refractory subjects to the 
 harmonist. It was only when the invention of 
 Guido began to be known, and the powers of the 
 harp t were enlarged by additional strings, that 
 
 strongest passages, which I recollect, in favour of the supposition, 
 occurs in the Treatise, attributed to Aristotle. Uipi Yi^^ov 
 MotOTJOi ' OEI; a/xa xa; /2ap<f x. r. X. 
 
 * Another lawlessjpeculiarity of our Music is the frequency of, what 
 composers call, consecutive fifths ; but this is an irregularity, which 
 can hardly be avoided, by persons not very conversant with the rules 
 of composition ; indeed if I may venture to cite my own wild at- 
 tempts in this way, it is a fault which I find myself continually com- 
 mitting, and which has sometimes appeared so pleasing to my ear, 
 that I have surrendered it to the critic with considerable reluctance. 
 May there not be a little pedantry in adhering too rigidly to this 
 rule 1 I have been told that there are instances, in Haydn, of an 
 undisguised succession of fifths ; and Mr. Shield, in his Introduction 
 to Harmony, seems to intimate, that Handel has been sometimes 
 guilty of the same irregularity. 
 
 t A singular oversight occurs in an Essay upon the Irish Harp, by 
 Mr. Beauford, which is inserted in the Appendix to Walker's Histo- 
 rical Memoirs. " The Irish (says he), according to Bromton, in the 
 reign of Henry II. had two kinds of Harps, ' Hibernici tamen in 
 duobus musici generis instrumentis, quamvis praecipitem et velocem,, 
 
226 PREFATORY LETTER 
 
 our melodies took the sweet character which 
 interests us at present ; and while the Scotch 
 persevered in the old mutilation of the scale *, 
 our music became gradually more amenable to 
 the laws of harmony and counter-point. 
 
 In profiting, however, by the improvements of 
 the moderns, our style still kept its originality 
 sacred from their refinements ; and though Ca- 
 rolan had frequent opportunities of hearing the 
 works of Geminiani and other masters, we but 
 rarely find him sacrificing his native simplicity to 
 the ambition of their ornaments, or affectation of 
 
 suavem tamen et jucundam," the one greatly bold and quick, the 
 other soft and pleasing." How a man of Mr. Beauford's learning 
 could so mistake the meaning, and mutilate the grammatical con- 
 struction of this extract is unaccountable. The following is the passage 
 as I find it entire iu Bromton, and it requires but little Latin to per- 
 ceive the injustice, which has been done to the words of the old 
 Chronicler : " Et cum Scotia, hujus terrae filia, utatur lyr&, tympano 
 et choro, ac Wallia cithara, tubis etchoro Hibernici tamen in duobus 
 musici generis instruments, quamvis prcrcipttem et veloceni, sua- 
 vem tamen et jucundam, crispatis modulis et intricatis notulis, 
 efficiunt harmoniam. " Hist. Anglic. Script, pag. 1075. I should 
 not have thought this error worth remarking, but that the compiler 
 of the Dissertation on the Harp, prefixed to Mr. Bunting's last Work 
 has adopted it implicitly. 
 
 * The Scotch lay claim to some of our best airs, but there are 
 strong traits of difference between their melodies and ours. They 
 had formerly the same passion for robbing us of our Saints, and the 
 learned Dempster was, for this offence, called " The Saint Stealer." 
 I suppose it was an Irishman, who, by way of reprisal, stole Demp- 
 ster's beautiful wife from him at Pisa. See this anecdote in the 
 
 Pinacotheca of Erythraeus, part 1, page 25. 
 
UPON MUSIC. 227 
 
 their science. In that curious composition, in- 
 deed, called his Concerto, it is evident that he 
 laboured to imitate Corelli ; and this union of 
 manners so very dissimilar produces the same 
 kind of uneasy sensation, which is felt at a mix- 
 ture of different styles of architecture. In ge- 
 neral, however, the artless flow of our music has 
 preserved itself free from all tinge of foreign 
 innovation*, and the chief corruptions, of which 
 we have to complain, arise from the unskilful 
 performance of our own itinerant musicians, from 
 whom, too frequently, the airs are noted down, 
 encumbered by their tasteless decorations, and 
 responsible for all their ignorant anomalies. 
 Though it be sometimes impossible to trace the 
 original strain, yet, in most of them, " auri per 
 ramos aura refulgetf," the pure gold of the 
 melody shines through the ungraceful foliage 
 which surrounds it, and the most delicate and 
 
 * Among other false refinements of the art, our music (with the 
 exception perhaps of the air called" Mamma, Mamma," and one or 
 two more of the same ludicrous description) has avoided that puerile 
 mimickry of natural noises, motions, &c., which disgraces so often the 
 works of even the great Handel himself. D'Alembert ought to have 
 had better taste than to become the patron of this imitative affecta- 
 tion. Discours Preliminaire de V Encyclopedic. The reader may 
 find some good remarks on the subject in Avison upon Musical 
 Expression ; a work, which, though under the name of Avison, was 
 written, it is said, by Dr. Brown. 
 
 t Virgil, ^Eneid, lib. 6. v. 204. 
 
228 PREFATORY LETTER 
 
 difficult duty of a compiler is to endeavour, as much 
 as possible, by retrenching these inelegant su- 
 perfluities, and collating the various methods of 
 playing or singing each air, to restore the regu- 
 larity of its form, and the chaste simplicity 
 of its character. 
 
 I must again observe, that, in doubting the 
 antiquity of our music, my scepticism extends 
 but to those polished specimens of the art, which 
 it is difficult to conceive anterior to the dawn of 
 modern improvement ; and that I would by no 
 means invalidate the claims of Ireland, to as 
 early a rank in the annals of minstrelsey, as the 
 most zealous antiquary may be inclined to allow 
 her. In addition, indeed, to the power, which 
 music must always have possessed over the minds 
 of a people so ardent and susceptible, the sti- 
 mulus of persecution was not wanting, to quicken 
 our taste into enthusiasm ; the charms of song 
 were ennobled with the glories of martyrdom, 
 and the acts against minstrels in the reigns of 
 Henry VIII., and Elizabeth, were as success- 
 ful, I doubt not, in making my countrymen 
 musicians, as the penal laws have been in keep- 
 ing them Catholics. 
 
 With respect to the verses which I have 
 
UPON MUSIC. 229 
 
 written for these Melodies, as they are intended 
 rather to be sung than read, I can answer for 
 their sound with somewhat more confidence than 
 their sense ; yet, it would be affectation to deny 
 that I have given much attention to the task, 
 and that it is not through want of zeal or indus- 
 try, if I unfortunately disgrace the sweet airs of 
 my country, by poetry altogether unworthy of 
 their taste, their energy, and their tenderness. 
 
 Though the humble nature of my contributions 
 to this work, may exempt them from the rigours 
 of literary criticisms, it was not to be expected 
 that those touches of political feeling, those tones 
 of national complaint, in which the poetry some- 
 times sympathizes with the music, would be 
 suffered to pass without censure or alarm. It 
 has been accordingly said, that the tendency of 
 this publication is mischievous*, and that I 
 have chosen these airs but as a vehicle of dan- 
 gerous politics as fair and precious vessels (to 
 borrow an image of St. Augustinf), from which 
 the wine of error might be administered. To 
 
 * See Letters, under the signatures ofTimaeus, &c., in the Morning 
 Post, Pilot, and other papers. 
 
 t " Non accuso verba, quasi vasa electa atque pretiosa; sed vinuni 
 erroris, qnod cum eis nobis propinatur." Lib. 1. Confess, chap. 10. 
 
230 PREFATORY LETTER 
 
 those who identify nationality with treason, and 
 who see, in every effort for Ireland, a system of 
 hostility towards England, to those too, who 
 nursed in the gloom of prejudice, are alarmed 
 by the faintest gleam of liberality, that threatens 
 to disturb their darkness ; like that Demophon of 
 old who, when the sun shone upon him, shivered * ! 
 to such men I shall not deign to apologize, for 
 the warmth of any political sentiment which 
 may occur in the course of these pages. But, as 
 there are many, among the more wise and to- 
 lerant, who, with feeling enough to mourn over 
 the wrongs of their country, and sense enough 
 to perceive all the danger of not redressing them, 
 may yet think that allusions in the least degree 
 bold or inflammatory, should be avoided in a 
 publication of this popular description I beg of 
 these respected persons, to believe, that there is 
 no one who deprecates, more sincerely than I 
 do, any appeal to the passions of an ignorant 
 and angry multitude ; but, that it is not 
 through that gross and inflammable region of 
 society, a work of this nature could ever have 
 been intended to circulate. It looks much higher 
 
 * This emblem of modern bigots was head-butler (Tptt7reo7r<wo?) 
 to Alexander the Great. Sext. Empir. Pyrrh. Hypotli. Lib. 1. 
 
UPON MUSIC. 231 
 
 for its audience and readers it is found upon 
 the piano-fortes of the rich, and the educated 
 of those, who can afford to have their national 
 zeal a little stimulated, without exciting much 
 dread of the excesses into which it may hurry 
 them ; and of many, whose nerves may be, now 
 and then, alarmed with advantage, as much 
 more is to be gained by their fears, than could 
 ever be expected from their justice. 
 
 Having thus adverted to the principal objec- 
 tion, which has been hitherto made to the poeti- 
 cal part of this work, allow me to add a few 
 words in defence of my ingenious coadjutor, Sir 
 John Stevenson, who has been accused of having 
 spoiled the simplicity of the airs, by the chro- 
 matic richness of his symphonies, and the 
 elaborate variety of his harmonies. We might 
 cite the example of the admirable Haydn, who 
 has sported through all the mazes of musical 
 science, in his arrangement of the simplest 
 Scottish melodies ; but it appears to me, that 
 Sir John Stevenson has brought a national feel- 
 ing to this task, which it would be in vain to 
 expect from a foreigner, however tasteful or 
 judicious. Through many of his own composi- 
 tions we trace a vein of Irish sentiment, which 
 
232 PREFATORY LETTER 
 
 points him out as peculiarly suited to catch the 
 spirit of his country's music ; and, far from 
 agreeing with those critics, who think that his 
 symphonies have nothing kindred with the airs 
 which they introduce, I would say that, in ge- 
 neral, they resemble those illuminated initials 
 of old manuscripts, which are of the same cha- 
 racter with the writing which follows, though 
 more highly coloured * and more curiously orna- 
 mented. 
 
 In those airs, which are arranged for voices, 
 his skill has particularly distinguished itself, 
 and, though it cannot he denied that a single 
 melody most naturally expresses the language of 
 feeling and passion, yet, often, when a favourite 
 strain has been dismissed, as having lost its 
 charm of novelty for the ear, it returns, in a har- 
 monized shape, with new claims upon our in- 
 terest and attention; and to those who study 
 the delicate artifices of composition, the con- 
 struction of the inner parts of these pieces must 
 afford, I think, considerable satisfaction. Every 
 voice has an air to itself, a flowing succession of 
 notes, whicfi might be heard with pleasure, in- 
 
 * The word " chromatic" might have been used here, without any 
 violence to its meaning. 
 
UPON MUSIC. 233 
 
 dependent of the rest, so artfully has the har- 
 monist (if I may thus express it) gavelled the 
 melody, distributing an equal portion of its 
 sweetness to every part. 
 
 If your Ladyship's love of Music were not 
 known to me, I should not have hazarded so long 
 a letter upon the subject ; but as, probably, I 
 may have presumed too far upon your partiality, 
 the best revenge you can take is to write me 
 just as long a letter upon Painting ; and I pro- 
 mise to attend to your theory of the art, with a 
 pleasure only surpassed by that, which I have 
 so often derived from your practice of it. May 
 the mind which such talents adorn, continue 
 calm as it is bright, and happy as it is virtuous ! 
 
 Believe me, your Ladyship's 
 
 Grateful Friend and Servant, 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 FOURTH NUMBER. 
 
 THIS Number of THE MELODIES ought to 
 have appeared much earlier ; and the writer of 
 the words is ashamed to confess, that the delay 
 of its publication must be imputed chiefly, if 
 not entirely, to him. He finds it necessary to 
 make this avowal, not only for the purpose of 
 removing all blame from the publisher, but in 
 consequence of a rumour, which has been circu- 
 lated industriously in Dublin, that the Irish 
 Government had interfered to prevent the con- 
 tinuance of the Work. This would be, indeed, 
 a revival of HENRY the Eighth's enactments 
 against Minstrels, and it is flattering to find 
 that so much importance is attached to our com- 
 pilation, even by such persons as the inventors 
 of the report. Bishop LOWTH, it is true, was 
 of this opinion that one song, like the Hymn to 
 Harmodius, would have done more towards 
 
236 ADVERTISEMENT TO 
 
 rousing the spirit of the Romans than all the 
 philippics of CICERO. But we live in wiser 
 and less musical times ; ballads have long lost 
 their revolutionary powers, arid we question if 
 even a " Lillibullero" would produce any very 
 serious consequences at present. It is needless, 
 therefore, to add, that there is no truth in the 
 report ; and we trust that whatever belief it ob- 
 tained was founded more upon the character of 
 the Government than of the Work. 
 
 The Airs of the last Number, though full of 
 originality and beauty, were perhaps in general, 
 too curiously selected to become all at once as 
 popular as, we think, they deserve to be. The 
 Public are remarkably reserved towards new 
 acquaintances in music, which, perhaps, is one 
 of the reasons why many modern composers 
 introduce none but old friends to their notice. 
 Indeed, it is natural that persons, who love 
 music only by association, should be slow in 
 feeling the charms of a new and strange melody; 
 while those, who have a quick sensibility for this 
 enchanting art, will as naturally seek and enjoy 
 novelty, because in every variety of strain they 
 find a fresh combination of ideas, and the sound 
 has scarcely reached the ear, before the heart 
 
THE FOURTH NUMBER. 237 
 
 has rapidly translated it into sentiment. 
 After all, however, it cannot be denied that 
 the most popular of our national Airs are 
 also the most beautiful ; and it has been our 
 wish, in the present Number, to select from those 
 Melodies only which have long been listened to 
 and admired. The least known in the collec- 
 tion is the Air of " Love's young Dream ;" but it 
 is one of those easy, artless strangers, whose 
 merit the heart acknowledges instantly. 
 
 T. M. 
 
 Bury Street, St. James's, 
 Nov. 1811. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 TO THE 
 
 FIFTH NUMBER. 
 
 IT is but fair to those, who take an interest in 
 this Work, to state that it is now very near its 
 termination, and that the Sixth Number, which 
 shall speedily appear, will, most probably, be 
 the last of the series. Three Volumes will 
 then have been completed, according to the ori- 
 ginal plan, and the Proprietors desire me to say 
 that a List of Subscribers will be published with 
 the concluding Number. 
 
 It is not so much from a want of materials, 
 and still less from any abatement of zeal or 
 industry, that we have adopted the resolution of 
 bringing our task to a close ; but we feel so 
 proud, for our country's sake and our own, of 
 the interest which this purely Irish Work has 
 excited, and so anxious lest a particle of that 
 interest should be lost, by any ill-judged pro- 
 traction of its existence, that we think it wiser 
 
240 ADVERTISEMENT TO 
 
 to take away the cup from the lip, while its 
 flavour is yet, we trust, fresh and sweet, than to 
 risk any longer trial of the charm, or give so 
 much as not to leave some wish for more. In 
 speaking thus I allude entirely to the Airs, 
 which are, of course, the main attraction of these 
 Volumes ; and, though we have still many popu- 
 lar and delightful Melodies to produce *, yet it 
 cannot be denied that we should soon experi- 
 ence some difficulty, in equalling the richness 
 and novelty of the earlier Numbers, for which, 
 as we had the choice of all before us, we na- 
 turally selected only the most rare and beautiful. 
 The Poetry too would be sure to sympathize 
 with the decline of the Music ; and, however 
 feebly my words have kept pace with the 
 excellence of the Airs, they would follow 
 -their falling off, I fear, with wonderful alacrity. 
 -So that, altogether, both pride and prudence 
 counsel us to stop, while the Work is yet, we 
 believe, flourishing and attractive, and, in the 
 imperial attitude " stantes mori," before we 
 
 * Among these is Savourna Deelish, which I have hitherto only 
 withheld, from the diffidence I feel in treading upon the same ground 
 with Mr. Campbell, whose beautiful words to this fine Air have 
 taken too strong possession of all ears and hearts, for me to think of 
 tproducing any impression after him. I suppose, however, I must 
 -attempt it for the next Number. 
 
FIFTH NUMBER. 241 
 
 incur the charge either of altering for the worse 
 or, what is equally unpardonable, continuing too 
 long the same. 
 
 We beg, however, to say, it is only in the 
 event of our failing to find Airs as exquisite as 
 most of those we have given, that we mean thus 
 to anticipate the natural period of dissolution, 
 like those Indians, who put their relatives to 
 death, when they become feeble : and they, 
 who wish to retard this Euthanasia of the Irish 
 Melodies, cannot better effect it than by con- 
 tributing to our collection, not, what are called 
 curious Airs, for we have abundance of them, 
 and they are, in general, only curious, but any 
 really sweet and expressive Songs of our Coun- 
 try, which either chance or research may have 
 brought into their hands. 
 
 T. M. 
 
 Mayfield Cottage, Askbourne, 
 December, 181,3. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 TO THE 
 
 SIXTH NUMBER. 
 
 IN presenting this Sixth Number to the Pub- 
 lic as our last, and bidding adieu to the Irish 
 Harp for ever, we shall not answer very confi- 
 dently 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 an- 
 nounced 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 
 R 2 
 
244 SIXTH NUMBER. 
 
 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. To one gentleman in 
 particular, who has been many years resident in 
 England, but who has not forgot, among his various 
 pursuits, either the language or the melodies of 
 his native country, we beg to offer our best 
 thanks for the many interesting communications 
 with which he has favoured us ; and we trust that 
 he and our other friends will not relax in those 
 efforts by which we have been so considerably 
 assisted ; for though the Work must now be 
 considered as defunct, yet as Reaumur, the 
 naturalist, found out the art of making the cicada 
 sing after it was dead it is not impossible that, 
 some time or other, we may try a similar ex- 
 periment upon the Irish Melodies. 
 
 T. M. 
 
 Mayfield, Ashbourne, 
 March, 1815. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 TO THE 
 
 SEVENTH NUMBER. 
 
 IF I had consulted only my own judgment, 
 this Work would not have been extended be- 
 yond the Six Numbers, already published; 
 which contain, perhaps, the flower of our na- 
 tional melodies, and have attained a rank in 
 public favour, of which I would not willingly risk 
 the forfeiture, by degenerating, in any way, from 
 those merits that were its source. Whatever 
 treasures of our music were still in reserve, (and 
 it will be seen, I trust, that they are numerous 
 and valuable,) I would gladly have left to future 
 poets to glean, and, with the ritual words " tibi 
 trado," would have delivered up the torch into 
 other hands, before it had lost much of its light 
 in my own. But the call for a continuance of 
 the work has been, as I understand from the 
 Publisher, so general, and we have received so 
 
246 
 
 SEVENTH NUMBER. 
 
 many contributions of old and beautiful airs *, 
 the suppression of which, for the enhancement of 
 those we have published, would resemble too 
 much the policy of the Dutch in burning their 
 spices, that I have been persuaded, though not 
 without considerable diffidence in my success, 
 to commence a new series of the Irish Melodies. 
 
 T. M. 
 
 * One Gentleman, in particular, whose name I shall feel happy in 
 being allowed to mention, has not only sent us near forty ancient airs* 
 but has communicated many curious fragments of Irish poetry, and 
 some interesting traditions, current in the country where he resides, 
 illustrated by sketches of the romantic scenery to which they refer ; 
 all of which, though too late for the present Number, will be of infi- 
 nite service to us in the prosecution of our task. 
 
INDEX. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 
 After the battle 64 
 
 As a beam o'er the face of the waters . 21 
 
 As slow our ship 161 
 
 At the mid hour of night . . . .108 
 Avenging and bright . . . .95 
 
 Before the battle 62 
 
 Believe me, if all those endearing . . 47 
 By that lake whose gloomy shore . .88 
 By the hope within us springing . .62 
 
 Come o'er the sea . . . . .131 
 Come, rest in this bosom . . , .148 
 Come, send round the wine . . .44 
 
 Dear harp of my country . . . .154 
 Down in the valley come meet me to-riight 193 
 Drink of this cup you'll find there's a spell 19 1 
 Drink to her who long . . . .53 
 
250 INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 
 Echo How sweet the answer Echo makes 200 
 
 Erin! oh Erin! 51 
 
 Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eye . 9 
 Eveleen's bower . . . . .38 
 
 Farewell, but whenever you welcome . 121 
 Fill the bumper fair . . . .151 
 
 Fly not yet 13 
 
 Forget not the field where they perish'd . 176 
 
 Go where glory waits thee ... 3 
 
 Has sorrow thy young days shaded . .133 
 
 Here we dwell, in holiest bowers . .98 
 
 How dear to me the hour . . .29 
 
 How oft has the Benshee cried ' . . 34. 
 
 How sweet the answer Echo makes . . 200 
 
 I'd mourn the hopes that leave me . .127 
 
 If thou'lt be mine, the treasures of air . 172 
 
 111 omens 60 
 
 In the morning of life . . . .163 
 
 I saw from the beach . . . .149 
 
 I saw thy form in youthful prime . . 86 
 
 It is not the tear, at this moment shed . 71 
 
INDEX. 251 
 
 Page 
 
 Lesbia hath a beaming eye . . .84 
 
 Let Erin remember the days of old . . 40 
 
 Like the bright lamp that shone . .51 
 
 Love and the novice . . . .98 
 
 Love's young dream . . . .77 
 
 My gentle harp . . . . .159 
 
 Nay, tell me not, dear . . . .93 
 
 Ne'er ask the hour what is it to us . .185 
 
 Night clos'd around the conqueror's way . 64 
 
 No, not more welcome the fairy numbers 136 
 
 Of all the fair months that round the sun . 197 
 Oh ! banquet not in those shining bowers . 201 
 Oh! breathe not his name . . .10 
 Oh! doubt me not the season . .123 
 
 Oh! for the swords of former times . .180 
 Oh! had we some bright little isle . .119 
 Oh ! the days are gone when beauty bright 77 
 Oh ! the sight entrancing .... 208 
 Oh! the Shamrock . . . .105 
 
 Oh! think not my spirits are always . .15 
 Oh! 'tis sweet to think . . . .65 
 Oh ! weep for the hour . . . .38 
 Oh ! blame not the bard . . .55 
 
252 INDEX. 
 
 I>0 
 
 Oh, ye dead! oh, ye dead! . . .195 
 
 On music . . . . . .69 
 
 One bumper at parting . . . .109 
 
 Remember the glories of Brien the brave . 6 
 Remember thee! yes, while there's life . 1G7 
 Rich and rare were the gems she wore . 19 
 
 Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark . .187 
 Shall the harp then be silent . . .204 
 She is far from the land . . . .91 
 Silent, oh Moyle! be the roar of thy water 42 
 St. Senanus and the Lady . . .27 
 Sublime was the warning which Liberty . 45 
 
 Take back the virgin page . . .30 
 The dawning of morn, the day-light's sinking 202 
 The harp that once thro' Tara's hall . 12 
 
 The Irish peasant to his mistress . .67 
 
 The legacy 32 
 
 The meeting of the waters . . .22 
 The minstrel boy to the war is gone . .115 
 The origin of the harp . . . .72 
 
 The prince's day ... . . .79 
 
 The song of O'Rourk .... 116 
 
INDEX. 53 
 Page 
 
 The song of Fionnuala . . . .42 
 
 The time I've lost in wooing . . .143 
 
 The valley lay smiling before me . .116 
 
 The young May moon is beaming love . 113 
 
 They may rail at this life . . .178 
 
 Tho' dark are our sorrows to-day . . 79 
 
 Tho' the last glimpse of Erin . . .17 
 
 Through Erin's isle 105 
 
 Thro' grief and thro' danger . . .67 
 
 This life is all chequer'd . . . .100 
 
 'Tis believ'd that this harp . .72 
 
 'Tis gone, and for ever . . . .147 
 
 Tis the last rose of summer . . .111 
 
 To ladies' eyes a round, boy . . .174 
 
 War Song 6 
 
 Weep on, weep on, your hour is past . 82 
 
 We may roam thro' this world . . .33 
 
 What the bee is to the floweret . .97 
 
 When cold in the earth . . . .165 
 
 When day-light was yet sleeping . . 60 
 
 Whene'er I see those smiling eyes . .177 
 
 When first I met thee, warm and young 137 
 
 When he who adores thee . . .11 
 
 When in death I shall calm recline . .32 
 
 When thro' life unblest we rove 69 
 
254 INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 
 Where is the slave so lowly . . . 1 44 
 While gazing on the moon's light . .58 
 While History's Muse . . . .140 
 Wreath the bowl 168 
 
 Yes, sad one of Sion . . . .188 
 You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride 125 
 
 LONDON: 
 Printed by W. CLOWES, Northumberland-court. 
 
MUSICAL WORKS, 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY J. POWER, 34, STRAND, 
 
 Proprietor of the whole of Mr. Moore's Lyrical Compositions. 
 
 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 With Symphonies and Accompaniments by HENRY R. BISHOP, 
 and Sir JOHN STEVENSON, Mos. Doc. 
 
 Price 15s. each Number. 
 No. I. 
 
 Carolan's Concerto 
 The pleasant Rocks 
 Planxty Drury 
 The Beardless Boy 
 Go where Glory waits thee 
 Remember the Glories of Brien 
 Erin ! the Tear and the Smile 
 Oh 1 breathe not his name 
 When he who adores thee 
 The Harp that once 
 Fly not yet 1 
 
 Oh ! think not my Spirits 
 Tho'the last Glimpse of Erin 
 Rich and rare were the Gems 
 As a beam o'er the face of the 
 The Meeting of the Waters 
 
 No. II. 
 
 St. Senanus and the Lady 
 .How dear to me the Hour 
 Take back the virgin Page 
 The Legacy (When in Death I 
 
 shall calm recline) 
 The Dirge (How oft has the Ben- 
 
 shee cried !) 
 
 We may roam thro* this World 
 Eveleen's Bower (Oh ! weep for 
 
 the Hour) 
 
 Let Erin remember the Days of old 
 Silent, oh Moyle ! be the Roar of 
 Come, send round the Wine 
 Sublime was the Warning 
 Believe me, if all those endearing 
 
 No. III. 
 
 Cean dubh Delish 
 
 The snowy-breasted Pearl 
 
 Planxty Johustone 
 
 Captain Megan 
 
 Erin, oh! Erin (Like the bright 
 
 Lamp) 
 Drink to her 
 Oh ! blame not the Bard 
 While gazing on the Moon's Light 
 When Day-light was yet sleeping 
 Before the Battle (By the Hope 
 
 within us springing 
 After the Battle 
 Oh ! 'tis sweet to think 
 The Irish Peasant to his Mistress 
 When thro' Life unblest we rove 
 It is not the Tear at this Moment 
 'Tis believ'd that this Harp 
 
 No. IV. 
 
 Love's young Dream (Oh ! the 
 
 Days are gone) 
 The Prince's Day (Tho' dark are 
 
 our Sorrows) 
 Weep on, weep on 
 Lesbia hath a beaming Eye 
 I saw thy Form in youthful Prime 
 By that Lake whose gloomy Shore 
 She is far from the Land 
 Nay, tell me not 
 Avenging and bright 
 What the Bee is to the Floweret 
 Love and the Novice (Here we 
 
 dwell in holiest Bowers) 
 This Life is all chequere 
 
25(5 
 
 MOORE'S LYRICAL WORKS. 
 
 No. V. 
 
 Thro' Erin's Isle 
 
 At the mid Hour of Night 
 
 One bumper at Parting! 
 
 'Tis the last Rose of Summer 
 
 The young May Moon 
 
 The Minstrel Boy 
 
 The Valley lay smiling before me 
 
 Oh ! had we some bright little Isle 
 
 Farewell ! but whenever you 
 
 Oh 1 doubt me not 
 
 You remember Ellen 
 
 I'd mourn the Hopes that leave me 
 
 No. VI. 
 
 Come o'er the Sea 
 
 Has Sorrow thy young Days shaded 
 
 No, not more welcome 
 
 When first 1 met thee 
 
 While History's Muse 
 
 The Time I 've lost in wooing 
 
 Oh ! where 's the Slave 1 
 
 Come, rest in this Bosom 
 
 'Tis gone., and for ever 
 
 I saw from the Beach 
 
 Fill the bumper fair 
 
 Dear Harp of my Country 
 
 No. VII. 
 
 My gentle Harp ! once more \ 
 As slow our ship her foamy Track 
 In the Morning of Life, when its 
 When cold in the Earth lies the 
 Remember thee ! yes, while there's 
 Wreath the Bowl 
 Whene'er I see those smiling Eyes 
 If thou'lt be mine, the Treasures 
 To Ladies' Eyes a Round, Boy 
 Forget not the Field where they 
 They may rail at this Life 
 Oh for the Swords of former Time ! 
 
 No. VIII. 
 
 Ne'er ask the Hour 
 
 Sail on, sail on 
 
 The Parallel 
 
 Drink of this Cup 
 
 The Fortune-teller 
 
 Oh ye Dead ! 
 
 O'Donohue's Mistress 
 
 The Echo 
 
 Oh banquet not 
 
 Thee, thee, only thee 
 
 Shall the Harp, then, be silent ? 
 
 Oh the Sight entrancing 
 
 POPULAR NATIONAL AIRS, 
 
 With Symphonies and Accompaniments by HENRY R. BISHOP, and 
 Sir JOHN STEVENSON, Mus. Doc. 
 
 Price 12s. each Number. 
 
 No. I. 
 
 A temple to friendship Spanish 
 
 All that's bright must fade Indian 
 
 Dost thou remember ? Portuguese 
 
 Fare thee well! thou lovely onel Sicilian 
 
 Flow on, thou shining river! Portuguese 
 
 Oh ! come to me when daylight sets Venetian 
 
 Oft in the stilly night Scotch 
 
 Reason, Folly, and Beauty Italian 
 
 Should those fond hopes Portuguese 
 
 So warmly we met Hungarian 
 
 Those evening bells The bells of St. Petersburg 
 
 Hark ! the vesper hymn is stealing Russian 
 
MOORE'S LYRICAL WORKS. 
 
 257 
 
 No. II. 
 
 Coine, chase that starting tear away French 
 
 Common sense and genius Ditto 
 
 Gaily sounds the castanet Maltese 
 
 Hear me but once French 
 
 Joys of youth, how fleeting Portuguese 
 
 Love and Hope Swiss 
 
 Love is a hunter-boy Languedocian 
 
 My harp has one unchanging theme Swedish 
 
 Oh ! no not e'en when first we lov'd Cashmerian 
 
 Peace be around thee Scotch 
 
 Then fare thee well English 
 
 There comes a time German 
 
 This Work Is published in Royal Quarto, embellished with Illustrations, 
 designed by T. STOTHARD, R. A., and engraved by CHARLES 
 HEATH and J. MITAN. 
 
 *** An Edition of the above Work, with New Plates, is just published 
 in One Volume, and may be had in Boards, price 24s., or in a variety 
 of Elegant Bindings. Also a few Copies in Folio, with Proof Plates on 
 India Paper. 
 
 THE THIRD NUMBER IS IN THE PRESS. 
 
 A SERIES OF 
 
 SACRED SONGS, DUETS, AND TRIOS. 
 
 The Music composed and selected by Sir JOHN STEVENSON and 
 Mr. MOORE, II. Is. 
 
 No. I. 
 
 Thou art, oh God ! 
 
 This world is all a fleeting Show 
 
 Fall'n is thy Throne 
 
 Who is the Maid 1 
 
 The Bird let loose 
 
 Oh! Thou whodry'st the Mourner's 
 
 Weep not for those 
 
 The Turf shall be my fragrant 
 
 Sound the loud Timbrel 
 
 Go, let me weep 
 
 Come not, oh Lord ! 
 
 Were not the sinful Mary's Tears 
 
 As down in the sunless Retreats 
 
 But who shall see 
 
 Almighty God (Chorus of Priests) 
 
 Oh fair ! oh purest ! 
 
 LALLA ROOKH. 
 
 Selections from that Celebrated Poem, the Music by the following Noble 
 and Eminent Composers : 
 
 Five Songs and a Duet Lady Flint 5 
 
 Spirit of bliss, Trio LordBurghersh . . 3 
 
 Fly to the desert, Canzonet Ditto 2 
 
 Her hands were clasp'd, Recitative and Air.. T. Attwood 1 G 
 
258 
 
 MOORE'S LYRICAL WORKS. 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM LALLA ROOKH continued. 
 
 The Acacia Bower T. Attwood 1 9 
 
 The cold wave my love lies under Ditto 1 6 
 
 The song of the fire worshipper Ditto 2 
 
 The Arabian maid Eishop 2 
 
 The Feast of Roses Ditto 2 
 
 The Georgian maid Ditto 2 6 
 
 The Peri pardoned, Recit. and Aria Dr. Clarke 2 
 
 The Spirit's song, Recit. Andante and Aria. . . . Ditto 2 6 
 
 Namouna's song, Recit. and Aria Ditto 2 
 
 Oh! let me only breathe the air J. C. Clifton .... 1 6 
 
 We part for ever Harris 1 6 
 
 Bendeemer's Stream, Ballad W. Hawes 2 
 
 Paradise and the Peri, Recit. and Song Ditto 2 
 
 Farewell to Thee, Araby's Daughter G. Kiallmurk*. . . 2 
 
 Thenrty with me, Ballad Ditto 2 
 
 Fly to the Desert, Ballad Ditto 2 
 
 Hinda's Appeal to her Lover Ditto 2 
 
 'Twas his Voice, Recit. and Air Sir J. Stevenson . 2 
 
 Now Morn is blushing, ditto Ditto 2 
 
 Oh ! fair as the Sea-flower, Ballad T. Welsh 2 
 
 The Peri's Song, ditto Ditto 2 
 
 J. POWER begs to inform the Composers of Music, and Music- 
 sellers, that he is the only person authorized by Messrs. LONGMAN 
 and Co. to publish, with Music, the Songs or Verses in the above Poem. 
 
 A Melolos;"e upon National Music 3 
 
 M. P., an Opera, in Three Acts 15 
 
 Dialogue to ditto.. 2 6 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 Black and Blue Eyes 2 Fly from the World 1 6 
 
 Friend of my Soul 1 6 
 
 an I again that Form 1 6 From Life without Freedom. . 2 
 
 Cease, oh cease to tempt .... 2 
 
 Come, take the Harp 2 Golden Chain 2 
 
 Come, teH me, says Rosa .... 1 6 Good Night 3 
 
 ome, tell me where the Maid 2 
 
 Here in this lone little Wood 2 
 
 Day of Love 2 Here's the Bower 2 
 
 DearAunt 2 H w happy once 2 
 
 Dear Fanny 2 
 
 Didnot 1 6 Light Sounds the Harp ...... 2 d 
 
 Does the Harp of Rosa 1 6 Lottery, the 2 
 
 Love and Time 2 
 
 Fanny Dearest 2 Love thee, dearest 2 
 
 Farewell, Bessy ".*.".'. .".".".". '.'.*. 1 6 Love's light Summer Cloud ..20 
 
MOORES LYRICAL WORKS. 
 
 259 
 
 S ONGS cont inued. 
 
 Maid of Marlivale 
 
 2 
 
 
 
 Sweet Lady, look not thus.... 
 
 2 
 
 i 
 
 2 
 1 6 
 1 6 
 1 
 2 
 2 
 
 2 
 2 
 2 
 2 
 2 
 1 
 2 
 2 
 1 6 
 
 2 
 2 
 
 Oh f Liberty ... 
 
 S 
 
 1 
 2 
 2 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 T<ike b'trk ii.e Si^h .......... 
 
 Oh! nothing in Life can sadden 
 Oh ! remember the Time 
 Oh! see those Cherries .... 
 
 ho' Fate, my Girl 
 Thou ha-t sent me a flowery., 
 jo Juli-i W3epiii<* ... 
 
 
 
 Oh ! why should the -Girl .... 
 Oh! Woman 
 
 2 
 2 
 1 
 2 
 2 
 1 
 
 1 
 1 
 
 2 
 1 
 2 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 G 
 
 6 
 6 
 
 () 
 
 
 6 
 
 Tyrone Song of Liberty .... 
 
 When Charles was deceived.. 
 When Leila touch'd the Lute.. 
 W^hen midst the 2ay 
 
 Oh ! yes, so well, so tenderly 
 Oh ! yes, when the bloom .... 
 
 Orator Puff 
 
 When Time who steals our .. 
 When Twilight Dews 
 
 Poh! Dermot, go 'long 
 
 Will you come to the Bower 
 Wilt thou say Farewell 
 
 Rabbinical Origin of Women 
 Sale of Loves .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Sweet is the Dream . 
 
 
 DUETS. 
 
 Alas! poor Lubin 1 6 Nights of Music 2 6 
 
 Dear, in pity 1 6 No, never shall my soul forget 2 6 
 
 Here'stheLip 2 ~ 
 
 Invest my Head 2 
 
 Joys that pass away 2 
 
 Life-Boat, the 2 6 
 
 Love and the Sundial 2 
 
 Love, my Mary, dwells ...... 2 
 
 Love wandering thro* the .... 2 
 
 
 .... 2 
 
 o 
 
 
 ... 1 
 
 G 
 
 
 .... 2 
 
 
 
 
 ... 2 
 
 
 
 
 .... 2 
 
 
 
 GLEES. 
 
 A Broken Cake 
 
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 1 
 
 o 
 
 
 9 
 
 (i 
 
 Oh ! Lady fair 
 
 | 
 
 n 
 
 
 | 
 
 o 
 
 
 1 
 
 o 
 
 Finland Love Song .......... 
 
 <> 
 
 (J 
 
 Sigh not thus ............. 
 
 1 
 
 ft 
 
 
 1 
 
 o 
 
 Song that lightens the languid 
 
 s 
 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 (1 
 
 
 f 
 
 o 
 
 Holy be the Pilgrim's Sleep.. 
 
 5 
 
 o 
 
 
 ? 
 
 
 
 
 ? 
 
 6 
 
 W^hen Time who steals ...... 
 
 9 
 
 o 
 
 Now let the Warrior wave . . 
 
 2 
 
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r 
 
 112180 
 
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 LIBRARIES