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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 echo'd the deep sigh of sadness,
That ev'n 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;
I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,
And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own.

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SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING.

SUBLIME was the warning that 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!

If the fame of our fathers, bequeath'd 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!

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!

God prosper the cause-oh, it cannot but thrive,
While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive,

Its devotion to feel, and its right to maintain;
Then, how sainted by sorrow, its martyrs will die!
The finger of glory shall point where they lie;
While, far from the footstep of coward or slave,
The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave
Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain!

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.

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.
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.

THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING.

THE wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,
And its Chief, 'mid his heroes reclining,
Looks up, with a sigh, to the trophied wall,
Where his sword hangs idly shining.

When, hark! that shout

From the vale without,

“Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!"
Ev'ry Chief starts up

From his foaming cup,

And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry.

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The minstrels have seized their harps of gold,

And they sing such thrilling numbers,—
'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old,

Breaking forth from their place of slumbers!
Spear to buckler rang,

As the minstrels sang,

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And the Sun-burst o'er them floated wide;
While rememb'ring the yoke

Which their fathers broke,

"On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cried.

Like clouds of the night the Northmen came,
O'er the valley of Almhin lowering;
While onward mov'd, in the light of its fame,
That banner of Erin, towering.

With the mingling shock

Rung cliff and rock,

While, rank on rank, the invaders die:

And the shout, that last

O'er the dying pass'd,

Was "Victory! victory!"-the Finian's cry.

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THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH PLEASURES AND WOES.

THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another like waves of the deep,—
Each brightly or darkly, as onward 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-plumage 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 Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,

And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.

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When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,

Through fields full of light, and with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount,

And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flow'rs on the margin have wasted, And left their light urns all as empty as mine. But pledge me the goblet ;-while Idleness weaves These flow'rets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fall'n on the leaves, From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.

OH! DOUBT ME NOT.

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.
Although this heart was early blown,

And fairest hands disturb'd the tree,
They only shook some blossoms down,
Its fruit has all been kept for thee.
Then 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.

And though 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.

The bee through 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.

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