No-Man for his glory

To ancestry flies;

But Woman's bright story

Is told in her eyes.

While the Monarch but traces

Through mortals his line,
Beauty, born of the Graces,

Ranks next to Divine!

WREATHE THE BOWL.

WREATHE the bowl

With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight

Tow'rds heaven to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us.

Should Love amid

The wreaths be hid,

That Joy, th' enchanter, brings us, No danger fear,

While wine is near,

We'll drown him if he stings us;

Then, wreathe the bowl

With flowers of soul,

The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight

Tow'rds heaven to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us.

'Twas nectar fed

Of old, 'tis said,

Their Junos, Joves, Apollos;

And man may brew

His nectar too,

The rich receipt's as follows:

Take wine like this,

Let looks of bliss

Around it well be blended,
Then bring Wit's beam

To warm the stream,
And there's your nectar, splendid!

So wreathe the bowl

With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight

Tow'rds heaven to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us.

Say, why did Time

His glass sublime
Fill up with sands unsightly

When wine, he knew,

Runs brisker through,

And sparkles far more brightly?
Oh, lend it us,

And, smiling thus,

The glass in two we'll sever,
Make pleasure glide

In double tide,

And fill both ends for ever!

Then wreathe the bowl

With flowers of soul,

The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight

Tow'rds heaven to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us.

<

THE SONG OF O'RUARK,

PRINCE OF BREFFNI.8

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

I flew to her chamber-'twas lonely,
As if the lov'd 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 wak'd 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 inillion of foemen,
Who dar'd but to wrong thee in thought!

While now-oh degenerate daughter

Of Erin, how fall'n 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.

THE LEGACY.

WHEN in death I shall calmly recline,
O bear my heart to my mistress dear;
Tell her it liv'd upon smiles and wine
Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here.
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow

To sully a heart so brilliant and light;
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn till night.

When the light of my song is o'er,

Then take my harp to your ancient hall; Hang it up at that friendly door,

Where weary travellers love to call. Then if some bard, who roams forsaken, Revive its soft note in passing along, Oh let one thought of its master waken Your warmest smile for the child of song.

Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing,
To grace your revel, when I'm at rest;
Never, oh! never its balm bestowing

On lips that beauty hath seldom blest.
But when some warm devoted lover

To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Then, then my spirit around shall hover, And hallow each drop that foams for him.

WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past;
Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more.

In vain the hero's heart hath bled;

The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain; Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled, It never lights again.

Weep on-perhaps in after days
They'll learn to love your name;
When many a deed may wake in praise
That long hath slept in blame.

And when they tread the ruin'd Isle,

Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, They'll wond'ring ask, how hands so vile Could conquer hearts so brave?

"Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate "Your web of discord wove;

"And while your tyrants join'd in hate, "You never join'd in love.

"But hearts fell off, that ought to twine, "And man profan'd what God had given; "Till some were heard to curse the shrine, "Where others knelt to heaven!"

WHERE IS THE SLAVE.

On, where's the slave so lowly,

Condemn'd 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!