DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY! DEAR Harp of my Country in darkness I found thee, 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; SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING. SUBLIME was the warning that Liberty spoke, Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west- While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain! If the fame of our fathers, bequeath'd with their rights, Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same! For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain! Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd God prosper the cause-oh, it cannot but thrive, Its devotion to feel, and its right to maintain; 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, 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, There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, From decline as the bowers, And, with hope, like the bee, Our life should resemble a long day of light, THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING. THE wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall, When, hark! that shout From the vale without, “Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!" From his foaming cup, And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry. The minstrels have seized their harps of gold, And they sing such thrilling numbers,— Breaking forth from their place of slumbers! As the minstrels sang, 6 And the Sun-burst o'er them floated wide; Which their fathers broke, "On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cried. Like clouds of the night the Northmen came, 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. THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH PLEASURES AND WOES. THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes, So closely our whims on our miseries tread, That the laugh is awak'd ere the tear can be dried; And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies. : 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, Shall watch the fire awak'd by Love. And fairest hands disturb'd the tree, Is o'er, when Folly made me rove, Shall watch the fire awak'd by Love. And though my lute no longer I feel the bliss I do not tell. The bee through many a garden roves, Is o'er, when Folly kept me free, Shall guard the flame awak'd by thee. |