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 the whole volume, her Wellington's name!
'Hail, Star of my Isle !' said the Spirit, all sparkling
With beams such as break from her own dewy skies-
'Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,
I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise.
For though Heroes I've number'd, unblest was their lot,
And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame ;-
But oh there is not
On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name!
'Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,
The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known;
Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,
Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.
At the foot of that throne for whose weal thou hast stood,
Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame—
And, bright o'er the flood
Of her tears and her blood,
Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!'
Он, where's the slave so lowly
Condemned 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.
Less dear the laurel growing
Alive, untouch'd, and blowing,
Than that whose braid
Is pluck'd to shade
The brows with victory glowing.
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.
COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.
COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here:
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too.
'TIS GONE, AND FOR EVER.
'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.
'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,
For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting
Around thee through all the gross clouds of the world,
When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting,
At once, like a Sun-burst her banner unfurl'd.
1 'The Sun-Burst' was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the royal banner.
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!
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, baptized it in blood!
Then vanish'd for ever that fair, sunny vision,
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision,
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and elysian,
As first it arose, my lost Erin, on thee.
I SAW FROM THE BEACH.
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.
And such is the fate of our life's early promise,
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known;
Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us,
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.
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.
Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning,
When passion first waked a new life through his frame,
And his soul- like the wood that grows precious in burning-
Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite.flame!
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 through 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.
Sages can, they say,
Grasp the lightning's pinions,
From the starr'd dominions :So we, Sages, sit
And 'mid bumpers brightening,
From the heaven of Wit
Draw down all its lightning.
Wouldst thou know what first
Made our souls inherit
This ennobling thirst
For wine's celestial spirit?
It chanced upon that day,
When, as bards inform us,
Prometheus stole away
The living fires that warm us,
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,
Among the stars he found
A bowl of Bacchus lying.
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.
DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.
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 even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.
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;
It was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,
And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.
MY GENTLE HARP.
My gentle Harp! once more I waken
The sweetness of thy slumbering 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 heavenly skill
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken-
Thou hang'st upon the willows 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.'
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 Re
The Chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish.liques of Irish Poetry.
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,
Though joy and hope to others bringing,
She only brought new tears to thee.
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 even the wreaths in which I dress thee
Are sadly mixed-half flowers, half chains!
But come-if yet thy frame can borrow
One breath of joy-oh, breathe for me,
And show the world, in chains and sorrow,
How sweet thy music still can be ;
How gaily, even 'mid gloom surrounding,
Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill-
Like Memnon's broken image, sounding,
'Mid desolation, tuneful still!
As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still looked
back
To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loth 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!
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 memory brings us back again
Each early tie that twined us,
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
To those we've left behind us!
And when, in other climes, we meet
Some isle or vale cnchanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild, and
sweet,
And nought but love is wanting,.
We think how great had been our bliss,
If Heaven had but assigned us
To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us!
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.
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