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"TIS WHEN THE CUP IS SMILING. Was it for this that her shout

Thrilled to the world's very core ? Italian Air.

Thus to live cowards and slaves, 'Tis when the cup is smiling before us, Do you not, e'en in your graves,

Oh ! ye free hearts that lie dead ! And we pledge round to hearts that

Shudder, as o'er you we tread ? are true, boy, true, That the sky of this life opens o'er us, And Heaven gives a glimpse of its blue.

NE'ER TALK OF WISDOM'S Talk of Adam in Eden reclining,

GLOOMY SCHOOLS. We are better, far better off thus, boy, thus;

Mahratta Air. For him but two bright eyes were shin- NE'ER talk of Wisdom's gloomy schools;

ingSee what numbers are sparkling for us! To draw his moral thoughts and rules

Give me the sage who's able

From the sunshine of the table ;When on one side the grape-juice is Who learns how lightly, fleetly pass dancing,

This world and all that's in it, And on t'other a blue eye beams, boy, From the bumper that but crowns his beams,

glass, 'Tis enough, 'twixt the wine and the

And is gone again next minute. glancing, To disturb even a saint from his The diamond sleeps within the mine, dreams.

The pearl beneath the water; Though this life like a river is flowing, While Truth, more precious, dwells in I care not how fast it goes on, boy, wine, on,

The grape's own rosy daughter ! While the grape on its bank still is And none can prize her charms like him, growing,

Oh ! none like him obtaiv her, And such eyes light the waves as Who thus can, like Leander, swim they run.

Through sparkling floods to gain her!

WHERE SHALL WE BURY OUR

HERE SLEEPS THE BARD!
SHAME?

Highland Air.
Neapolitan Air.

HERE sleeps the Bard who knew so well WHERE shall we bury our shame? All the sweet windings of Apollo's shell,

Where, in what desolate place, Whether its music rolled like torrents Hide the last wreck of a name

near, Broken and stained by disgrace? Or died, like distant streamlets, on the Death may dissever the chain,

ear ! Oppression will cease when we're Sleep, mute Bard ! unheeded now, gone ;

The storm and zephyr sweep thy lifeBut the dishonour, the stain,

less brow;Die as we may, will live on.

That storm, whose rush is like thy mar.

tial lay; Was it for this we sent out

That breeze which, like thy love-song, Liberty's cry from our shore?

dies away!

A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THESE verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste, and it very rarely happens that poetry, which has cost but little labour to the writer, is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I should not have published them, if they had not found their way into some of the newspapers, with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them.

With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman Senate for using the outlandish term Monopoly. But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude; with whom, ' If 'tis not sense, at least 'tis Greek.' To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that by 'Melologue' I mean

that mixture of recitation and music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember, is the prophetic speech of Joad, in the Athalie of Racine.

T. M.

INTRODUCTORY MUSIC—Haydn.

There breathes the language, known and felt

Far as the pure air spreads its living zone,
Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt

That language of the soul is felt and known.
From those meridian plains,

(Where oft, of old, on some high tower,
The soft Peruvian pour'd his midnight strains,

And call'd his distant love with such sweet power
That when she heard the lonely lay,

Not worlds could keep her from his arms away?) 'A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife have taken her to his home, but she cried “For and he my husband.”—Garcilasso de la Vega, in God's sake, sir, let me go; for that pipe which Sir Paul Rycaut's translation. you hear in yonder tower calls me with great

To tbe bleak climes of polar night,
Where, beneath a sunless sky,

The Lapland lover bids his reindeer fly,
And sings along the lengthening waste of snow,

As blithe as if the blessed light
Of vernal Phæbus burn'd upon his brow.

O Music ! thy celestial claim

Is still resistless, still the same ! And faithful as the mighty sea

To the pale star that o'er its realm presides,

The spell-bound tides
Of human passion rise and fall for thee !

GREEK AIR.

List ! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings,

While from Ilissus' silvery springs

She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn; And by her side, in music's charm dissolving, Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving,

Dreams of bright days that never can return;

When Athens nursed her olive bough
With hands, by tyrant power unchain'd,

And braided for the Muse's brow
A wreath, by tyrant touch unstain'd.

When heroes trod each classic field,
Where coward feet now faintly falter;

When every arm was Freedom's shield,
And every heart was Freedom's altar.

FLOURISH OF TRUMPET.

HARK ! 'tis the sound that charms The war-steed's wakening ears !

Oh! many a mother folds her arms
Round her boy-soldier, when that call she hears,
And though her fond heart sink with fears,

Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
With valour's fervour at the sound !

See! from his native hills afar,
The rude Helvetian flies to war,
Careless for what, for whom he fights,
For slave or despot, wrongs or rights ;
A conqueror

oft

;-a hero neverYet lavish of his life-blood still,

As if 'twere like his mountain rill,

And gush'd for ever!
O Music ! here, even here,

Amid this thoughtless wild career,
Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.
There is an air, which oft among the rocks

:

Of his own loved land, at evening hour, Is heard when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks :

Oh! every note of it would thrill his mind With tenderest thoughts—would bring around his knees The rosy children whom he left behind,

And fill each little angel eye

With speaking tears that ask him why He wander'd from his hut for scenes like these?

Vain, yain is then the trumpet's brazen roar, Sweet notes of home-of love-are all he hears,

And the stern eyes, that look'd for blood before, Now melting mournful lose themselves in tears !

SWISS AIR.

But wake the trumpet's blast again,
And rouse the ranks of warrior men !

O War! when Truth thy arm employs,
And Freedom's spirit guides the labouring storm,
'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallow'd form,

And like heaven's lightning sacredly destroys !
Nor Music ! through thy breathing sphere,
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear

Of him who made all harmony,
Than the blest sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn that man, awaking

From Slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty !

SPANISH AIR.

HARK ! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Bursts the bold enthusiast strain,
Like morning's music on the air,

And seems in every note to swear,
By Saragossa's ruin'd streets,

By brave Gerona's deathful story,
That while one Spaniard's life-blood beats,

That blood shall stain the Conqueror's glory!

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal,
If neither valour's force nor wisdom's light

Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal,
Which shuts so close the book of Europe's right-
What
song

shall then in sadness tell Of broken pride, of prospects shaded ;

Of buried hopes, remember'd well, Of ardour quench'd and honour faded ?

What muse shall mourn the breathless brave, In sweetest dirge at memory's shrine ?

What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave ? O Erin ! thine!

IRISH AIR_Gramachrec.

THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS.

1823.

PREFACE.

This Poem, somewhat different in form, and much more limited in extent, was originally designed as an episode for a work about which I have been, at intervals, employed during the last two years. Some months since, however, I found that niy friend Lord Byron had, by an accidental coincidence, chosen the same subject for a drama ; and as I could not but feel the disadvantage of coming after so formidable a rival, I thought it best to publish my humble sketch immediately, with such alterations and additions as I had time to make, and thus, by an earlier appearance in the literary horizon, give myself the chance of what astronomers call an Heliacal rising, before the luminary, in whose light I was to be lost, should appear.

As objections may be made, by persons whose opinions I respect, to the selection of a subject of this nature from the Scripture, I think it right to remark that, in point of fact, the subject is not scriptural--the notion upon which it is founded (that of the love of angels for women) having originated in an erroneous translation by the LXX. of that verse in the sixth chapter of Genesis, upon which the sole authority for the fable rests. The foundation of my story, therefore, has as little to do with Holy Writ as have the dreams of the latter Platonists, or the reveries of the Jewish divines; and, in appropriating the notion thus to the uses of poetry, I have done no more than establish it in that region of fiction, to which the opinions of the most rational Fathers, and of all other Christian theologians, have long ago consigned it.

In addition to the fitness of the subject for poetry, it struck me also as

1 The error of these interpreters (and, it is said, understood to mean the descendants of Seth, by of the old Italic version also) was in making it Enos—a family peculiarly favoured by Heaven, oi Ayyedol tov Beov, 'the Angels of God,' instead because with them men first began to call upon of the Sons'-a mistake which, assisted by the the name of the Lord'-while, by' the daughters allegorizing comments of Philo, and the rhapso- of men' they suppose that the corrupt race of dical fictions of the Book of Enoch, was more Cain is designated. The probability, however, is, than sufficient to affect the imaginations of such that the words in question ought to have been half-Pagan writers as Clemens Alexandrinus, translated the sons of the nobles or great men,' Tertullian, and Lactantius, who, chiefly among as we find them interpreted in the Targum of the Fathers, have indulged themselves in fanciful Onkelos (the most ancient and accurate of all the reveries upon the subject. The greater number, Chaldaic paraphrases), and as, it appears from however, have rejected the fiction with indig. Cyril, the version of Symmachus also rendered nation. Chrysostom, in his twenty-second Homily them. This translation of the passage removes upon Genesis, earnestly exposes its absurdity; and all difficulty, and at once relieves the Sacred Cyril accounts such a supposition as eyyus uwplas, History of an extravagance, which, however it bordering on folly. According to these Fathers may suit the imagination of the poet, is incon. (and their opinion has been followed by all the sistent with all our notions, both philosophical theologians, down from St. Thomas to Caryl and and religious. Lightfoot), the term "Sons of God' must be

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