Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount,
And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.1
Thus many, like me, who in youth should 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
These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see
One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves
From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.

Through purest crystal gleaming,

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

Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock !

Says Valour, 'See,
They spring for me,
Those leafy gems of morning!'

Says Love, 'No, no,
For me they grow,

My fragrant path adorning.'

But Wit perceives

The triple leaves,

And cries, Oh! do not sever

A type that blends

Three godlike friends,

Love, Valour, Wit, for ever!"

O the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock!

1 Proposito florem prætulit officio.-Propert. lib. i. eleg. 20.

2 Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of trefoil to which in Ireland we give the name of Shamrock, in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan Irish. I do not know

if there be any other reason for our adoption of this plant as a national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, 'standing upon tip-toes, and a trefoil, or three-coloured grass, in her hand.'

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!

May Love, as twine

His flowers divine,

Of thorny falsehood weed 'em!
May Valour ne'er

His standard rear

Against the cause of Freedom!

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

Of Bard and Chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock !

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.

AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air,
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!
Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear,
When our voices, commingling, breathed, like one, on the ear;
And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,

I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls,1
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

ONE bumper at parting !-though 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 hath in it
Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alås, till the minute

It dies, do we know half its worth.
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.

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

As onward we journey, how pleasant
To pause and inhabit awhile

Those few sunny spots, like the present,
That 'mid the dull wilderness smile!
But Time, like a pitiless master,

6

Cries, Onward and spurs the gay hours-
Ah, never doth 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.

We saw how the sun look'd in sinking,
The waters beneath him how bright,
And now let our farewell of drinking
Resemble that farewell of light.
You saw how he finish'd, 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.

'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 rosebud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,
To give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away!

When true hearts lie wither'd
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone!

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.
THE Young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,
How sweet to rove

Through Morna's grove,1

When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

1 'Steals silently to Morna's Grove.'-See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's collec tion, by John Brown, one of my carliest college companions and friends, whose death was as singu larly melancholy and unfortunate as his life had been amiable, honourable, and exemplary.

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.-
'Land of song!' said the warrior-bard,
'Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee !'

The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved 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 brave and free,
They shall never sound in slavery!'

THE SONG OF O'RUARK,

PRINCE OF BREFFNI.1

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 melancholy importance to Ireland, if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our di visions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances, as related by O'Halloran :-'The

king of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed

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

I flew to her chamber-'twas lonely,
As if the loved tenant lay dead;-
Ah, would it were death, and death only!
But no, the young
false one had fled.

And there hung the lute that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss,

While the hand that had waked it so often
Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.

There was a time, falsest of women!

When Breffni's good sword would have sought
That man, through a million of foemen,
Who dared but to wrong thee in thought!
While now--O degenerate daughter
Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame!

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

Already the curse is upon her,

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

On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt.

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

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.

him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns.' The monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while Mac Mur

chad fled to England, and obtained the assis tance of Henry II.

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