A\'

IRISH MELODIES.

LONDON :

SPOTTISWOODES and SHAW, New-street-Square.

IKISH MELODIES,

THOMAS MOORE.

LONDON: LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS.

1854.

CONTENTS,

Page

PREFACE prefixed to the Irish Melodies in the collected edition

of Moore's Works - - - vii

IRISH MELODIES.

(See Alphabetical Index at the end of the volume.)

APPENDIX.

Advertisement prefixed to the First and Second Numbers - 145 Advertisement to the Third Number - - - - 147 Letter on Music, to the Marchioness Dowager of Donegal, pre- fixed to the Third Number - - - -147 Advertisement to the Fourth Number - - - 155 Advertisement to the Fifth Number - - - - 156 Advertisement to the Sixth Number - - - - 1 58 Advertisement to the Seventh Number - - - 159 Dedication to the Marchioness of Headfort, prefixed to the

Tenth Number - - - - - - 160

INDEX ....... 161

PREFACE.

{Originally prefixed to the Melodies in the collected edition of Moore's Works.)

THE recollections connected, in my mind, with that early period of my life, when I first thought of in- terpreting in verse the touching language of iny country's music, tempt me again to advert to those long past days ; and even at the risk of being thought to indulge overmuch in what Colley Gibber calls " the great pleasure of writing about one's self all day," to notice briefly some of those impressions and influences under which the attempt to adapt words to our ancient Melodies was for some time meditated by me, and, at last, undertaken.

There can be no doubt that to the zeal and in- dustry of Mr. Bunting his country is indebted for the preservation of her old national airs. During the prevalence of the Penal Code, the music of Ireland was made to share in the fate of its people. Both were alike shut out from the pale of civilized life ; and seldom any where but in the huts of the pro- scribed race could the sweet voice of the songs of

Vlll PREFACE.

other days be heard. Even of that class, the itine- rant harpers, among whom for a long period our ancient music had been kept alive, there remained but few to continue the precious tradition ; and a great music-meeting held at Belfast in the year 1792, at which the two or three still remaining of the old race of wandering harpers assisted, exhibited the last public effort made by the lovers of Irish music to preserve to their country the only grace or ornament left to her, out of the wreck of all her liberties and hopes. Thus what the fierce legislature of the Pale had endeavoured vainly through so many centuries to effect, — the utter extinction of Ireland's Min- strelsy,— the deadly pressure of the Penal Laws had nearly, at the close of the eighteenth century, accom- plished; and, but for the zeal and intelligent re- search of Mr. Bunting, at that crisis, the greater part of our musical treasures would probably have been lost to the world. It was in the year 1796 that this gentleman published his first volume ; and the national spirit and hope then wakened in Ireland, by the rapid spread of the democratic principle through- out Europe, could not but insure a most cordial re- ception for such a work ; — flattering as it was to the fond dreams of Erin's early days, and containing in itself, indeed, remarkable testimony to the truth of her claims to an early date of civilization.

It was in the year 1797 that, through the medium of Mr. Bunting's book, I was first made acquainted with the beauties of our native music. A young friend of our family, Edward Hudson, the nephew of

PREFACE. IX

an eminent dentist of that name, who played with much taste and feeling on the flute, and unluckily for himself, was but too deeply warmed with the patri- otic ardour then kindling around him, was the first who made known to me this rich mine of our country's melodies: — a mine, from the working of which my humble labours as a poet have since de- rived their sole lustre and value. About the same period I formed an acquaintance, which soon grew into intimacy, with young Robert Emmet. He was my senior, I think, by one class, in the university ; for when, in the first year of my course, I became a member of the Debating Society, — a sort of nursery to the authorised Historical Society — I found him in full reputation, not only for his learning and elo- quence, but also for the blamelessness of his life, and the grave suavity of his manners.

Of the political tone of this minor school of oratory, which was held weekly at the rooms of different resident members, some notion may be formed from the nature of the questions proposed for discussion, — one of which, I recollect, was, "Whether an Aristocracy or a Democracy is most favourable to the advancement of science and literature ? " while another, bearing even more pointedly on the re- lative position of the government and the people, at this crisis, was thus significantly propounded : — " Whether a soldier was bound, on all occasions, to obey the orders of his commanding officer?" On the former of these questions, the effect of Emmet's eloquence upon his young auditors was, I recollect,

X PREFACE.

most striking. The prohibition against touching upon modern politics, which it was subsequently found necessary to enforce, had not yet been intro- duced ; and Emmet, who took of course ardently the side of democracy in the debate, after a brief review of the republics of antiquity, showing how much they had all done for the advancement of science and the arts, proceeded lastly to the grand and peril- ous example, then passing before all eyes, the young Republic of France. Referring to the circumstance told of Caesar, that, in swimming across the Rubicon, he contrived to carry with him his Commentaries and his sword, the young orator said, " Thus France wades through a sea of storm and blood ; but while, in one hand, she wields the sword against her aggressors, with the other she upholds the glories of science and literature, unsullied by the ensanguined tide through which she struggles." In another of his remarkable speeches, I remember his saying, " When a people advancing rapidly in knowledge and power perceive at last how far their government is lagging behind them, what then, I ask, is to be done in such a case ? What, but to pull the government up to the people?"

In a few months after, both Emmet and myself were admitted members of the greater and recog- nised institution, called the Historical Society ; and, even here, the political feeling so rife abroad con- trived to mix up its restless spirit with all our debates and proceedings; notwithstanding the constant watch- fulness of the college authorities, as well as of a

PREFACE. XI

strong party within the Society itself, devoted ad- herents to the policy of the government, and taking invariably part with the Provost and Fellows in all their restrictive and inquisitorial measures. The most distinguished and eloquent of these supporters of power were a young man named Sargent, of whose fate in after days I know nothing, and Jebb, the late bishop of Limerick, who was then, as he con- tinued to be through life, much respected for his private worth and learning.

Of the popular side, in the Society, the chief champion and ornament was Robert Emmet ; and though every care was taken to exclude from the subjects of debate all questions verging towards the politics of the day, it was always easy enough, by a side-wind of digression or allusion, to bring Ireland and the prospects then opening upon her within the scope of the orator's view. So exciting and power- ful, in this respect, were Emmet's speeches, and so little were even the most eloquent of the adverse party able to cope with his powers, that it was at length thought advisable, by the higher authorities, to send among us a man of more advanced standing, as well as belonging to a former race of renowned speakers, in that Society, in order that he might answer the speeches of Emmet, and endeavour to ob- viate the mischievous impression they were thought to produce. The name of this mature champion of the higher powers it is not necessary here to record ; but the object of his mission among us was in some respect gained ; as it was in replying to a long a 2

Xll PKEFACE.

oration of Ms, one night, that Emmet, much to the mortification of us who gloried in him as our leader, became suddenly embarrassed in the middle of his speech, and, to use the parliamentary phrase, broke down. Whether from a momentary confusion in the thread of his argument, or possibly from diffidence in encountering an adversary so much his senior, — for Emmet was as modest as he was high-minded and brave, — he began, in the full career of his eloquence, to hesitate and repeat his words, and then, after an effort or two to recover himself, sate down.

It fell to my own lot to be engaged, about the same time, in a brisk struggle with the dominant party in the Society, in consequence of a burlesque poem which I gave in, as candidate for the Literary Medal, entitled " An Ode upon Nothing, with Notes, by Trismegistus Rustifustius, D. D." &c. &c. For this squib against the great Dons of learning, the medal was voted to me by a triumphant majority. But a motion was made in the following week to rescind this vote ; and a fierce contest between the two parties ensued, which I at last put an end to by voluntarily withdrawing my composition from the Society's Book.

I have already adverted to the period when Mr. Bunting's valuable volume first became known to me. There elapsed no very long time before I was myself the happy proprietor of a copy of the work, and, though never regularly instructed in music, could play over the airs with tolerable facility on the piano- forte. Robert Emmet used sometimes to sit by me,

PREFACE. Xlll

when I wa3 thus engaged ; and I remember one day his starting up as from a reverie, when I had just finished playing that spirited tune called the Red Fox *, and exclaiming, " Oh that I were at the head of twenty thousand men, marching to that air ! "

How little did I then think that in one of the most touching of the sweet airs I used to pky to him, his own dying words would find an interpreter so worthy of their sad, but proud feeling f ; or that another of those mournful strains J would long be associated, in the hearts of his countrymen, with the memory of her § who shared with Ireland his last blessing and prayer.

Though fully alive, of course, to the feelings which such music could not but inspire, I had not yet un- dertaken the task of adapting words to any of the airs ; and it was, I am ashamed to say, in dull and turgid prose, that I made my first appearance in print as a champion of the popular cause. Towards the latter end of the year 1797, the celebrated newspaper called " The Press " was set up by Arthur O'Connor, Thomas Addis Emmett, and other chiefs of the United Irish conspiracy, with the view of preparing and ripening the public mind for the great crisis then fast approaching. This memorable journal, accord- ing to the impression I at present retain of it, was far

* " Let Erin remember the days of old."

f '« Oh, breathe not his name."

f " She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps/'

§ Miss Curran.

a B

XIV PREFACE.

more distinguished for earnestness of purpose and intrepidity, than for any great display of literary talent ; — the bold letters written by Emmet (the elder), under the signature of " Montanus," being the only compositions I can now call to mind, as entitled to praise for their literary merit. It required, how- ever, but a small sprinkling of talent to make bold writing, at that time, palatable ; and, from the expe- rience of my own home, I can answer for the avidity with which every line of this daring journal was de- voured. It used to come out, I think, twice a week, and, on the evening of publication, I always read it aloud to our small circle after supper.

It may easily be conceived that, what with my ardour for the national cause, and a growing consci- ousness of some little turn for authorship, I was naturally eager to become a contributor to those patriotic and popular columns. But the constant anxiety about me which I knew my own family felt, — a feeling more wakeful far than even their zeal in the public cause — withheld me from hazarding any step that might cause them alarm. I had ventured, indeed, one evening, to pop privately into the letter- box of The Press, a short Fragment in imitation of Ossian. But this, though inserted, passed off quietly ; and nobody was, in any sense of the phrase, the wiser for it. I was soon tempted, however, to try a more daring flight. Without communicating my secret to any one but Edward Hudson, I addressed a long Letter, in prose, to the * * * * * of * * * *, in which a profusion of bad flowers of rhetoric was

PREFACE. XV

enwreathed plentifully with that weed which Shak- speare calls "the cockle of rebellion," and, in the same manner as before, committed it tremblingly to the chances of the letter-box. I hardly expected my prose would be honoured with insertion, when, lo, on the next evening of publication, when, seated as usual in my little corner by the fire, I unfolded the paper for the purpose of reading it to my select auditory, there was my own Letter staring me full in the face, being honoured with so conspicuous a place as to be one of the first articles my audience would expect to hear. Assuming an outward appear- ance of ease, while every nerve within me was trembling, I contrived to accomplish the reading of the Letter without raising in either of my auditors a suspicion that it was my own. I enjoyed the pleasure too of hearing it a good deal praised by them; and might have been tempted by this to acknowledge myself the author, had I not found that the language and sentiments of the article were considered by both to be "very bold."*

I was not destined, however, to remain long un- detected. On the following day, Edward Hudson f,

* So thought also higher authorities ; for among the extracts from The Press brought forward by the Secret Committee of the House of Commons, to show how formidable had been the designs of the United Irishmen, there are two or three paragraphs cited from this redoubtable Letter.

•f- Of the depth and extent to which Hudson had involved himself in the conspiracy, none of our family had harboured the least notion: till, on the seizure of the thirteen Leinster delegates, at Oliver Bond's, a 4

XVI PREFACE.

— the only one, as I have said, entrusted with my secret, called to pay us a morning visit, and had not been long in the room, conversing with my mother, when looking significantly at me, he said, " Well,

you saw " Here he stopped ; but the mother's

eye had followed his, with the rapidity of lightning, to mine, and at once she perceived the whole truth. f< That Letter was yours, then ? " she asked of me eagerly ; and, without hesitation, of course, I ac- knowledged the fact ; when in the most earnest manner she entreated of me never again to have any connexion with that paper; and, as every wish of hers was to me law, I readily pledged the solemn promise she required. Though well aware how easily a sneer may be raised at the simple details of this domestic scene, I have yet ventured to put it on record, as affording an instance of the gentle and womanly watchfulness, — the providence, as it maybe called, of the little world of home, — by which, although placed almost in the very current of so headlong a movement, and living familiarly with some of the most daring of those who propelled it, I yet was guarded from any participation in their secret oaths, counsels, or plans, and thus escaped all share in that wild struggle to which so many far better men than myself fell victims.

in the month of March, 1798, we found, to our astonishment and sorrow, that he was one of the number.

To those unread in the painful history of this period, it is right to mention that almost all the leaders of the United Irish conspiracy were Protestants. Among those companions of my own alluded to in these pages, I scarcely remember a single Catholic.

PREFACE. XVU

In the mean while, this great conspiracy was hastening on, with fearful precipitancy, to its out- break ; and vague and shapeless as are now known to have been the views even of those who were engaged practically in the plot, it is not any wonder that to the young and uninitiated like myself it should have opened prospects partaking far more of the wild dreams of poesy than of the plain and honest prose of real life. But a crisis was then fast approaching, when such self-delusions could no longer be indulged; and when the mystery which had hitherto hung over the plans of the conspirators was to be rent asunder by the stern hand of power.

Of the horrors that fore-ran and followed the frightful explosion of the year 1798, I have neither inclination nor, luckily, occasion to speak. But among those introductory scenes, which had some- what prepared the public mind for such a catastrophe, there was one, of a painful description, which, as having been myself an actor in it, I may be allowed briefly to notice.

It was not many weeks, I think, before this crisis, that, owing to information gained by the college authorities of the rapid spread, among the students, not only of the principles but the organisation of the Irish Union*, a solemn Visitation was held by Lord Clare, the vice-chancellor of the University, with the

* In the Report from the Secret Committee of the Irish House of Lords, this extension of the plot to the College is noticed as " a desperate project of the same faction to corrupt the youth of the country by introducing their organised system of treason into the University."

XV111 PREFACE.

view of inquiring into the extent of this branch of the plot, and dealing summarily with those engaged in it.

Imperious and harsh as then seemed the policy of thus setting up a sort of inquisitorial tribunal, armed with the power of examining witnesses on oath, and in a place devoted to the instruction of youth, I cannot but confess that the facts which came out in the course of the evidence, went far towards justifying even this arbitrary proceeding; and to the many who, like myself, were acquainted only with the general views of the Union leaders, without even knowing, except from conjecture, who those leaders were, or what their plans or objects, it was most startling to hear the disclosures which every succeeding witness brought forth. There were a few, — and among that number, poor Robert Emmet, John Brown, and the two ******sf5 whose total absence from the whole scene, as well as the dead silence that, day after day, followed the calling out of their names, proclaimed how deep had been their share in the unlawful proceedings inquired into by this tribunal.

But there was one young friend of mine, ****** *y

| One of these brothers has long been a general in the French army ; having taken a part in all those great enterprises of Napoleon which have now become matter of history. Should these pages meet the eye of General ******, they will call to his mind the days we passed together in Normandy, a few summers since; — more especially our excursion to Bayeux, when, as we talked on the way of old college times and friends, all the eventful and stormy scenes he had passed through since seemed forgotten.

PREFACE. XIX

whose appearance among the suspected and ex- amined as much surprised as it deeply and painfully interested me. He and Emmet had long been intimate and attached friends; — their congenial fondness for mathematical studies having been, I think, a fur more binding sympathy between them than any arising out of their political opinions. From his being called up, however, on this day, when, as it appeared afterwards, all the most import- ant evidence was brought forward, there could be little doubt that, in addition to his intimacy with Emmet, the college authorities must have possessed some information which led them to suspect him of being an accomplice in the conspiracy. In the course of his examination, some questions were put to him which he refused to answer, — most probably from their tendency to involve or inculpate others ; and he was accordingly dismissed, with the melancholy certainty that his future prospects in life were blasted ; it being already known that the punishment for such contumacy was not merely expulsion from the Univer- sity, but exclusion from all the learned professions.

The proceedings, indeed, of this whole day had been such as to send me to my home in the evening with no very agreeable feelings or prospects. I had heard evidence given affecting even the lives of some of those friends whom I had long regarded with admiration as well as affection; and what was still worse than even their danger, — a danger ennobled, I thought, by the cause in which they suffered, — was the shameful spectacle exhibited by those who

XX PREFACE.

had appeared in evidence against them. Of these witnesses, the greater number had been themselves involved in the plot, and now came forward either as voluntary informers, or else were driven by the fear of the consequences of refusal to secure their own safety at the expense of companions and friends.

I well remember the gloom, so unusual, that hung over our family circle on that evening, as, talking together of the events of the day, we discussed the likelihood of my being among those who would be called up for examination on the morrow. The deliberate conclusion, to which my dear honest ad- visers came, was that, overwhelming as the conse- quences were to all their plans and hopes for me, yet, if the questions leading to criminate others, which had been put to almost all examined on that day, and which poor ******* alone had refused to answer, I must, in the same manner, and at all risks, return a similar refusal. I am not quite certain whether I received any intimation, on the following morning, that I was to be one of those examined in the course of the day ; but I rather think some such notice had been conveyed to me; — and, at last, my awful turn came, and I stood in presence of the formidable tribunal. There sate, with severe look, the vice-chancellor, and, by his side, the memorable Doctor Duigenan, — memorable for his eternal pam- phlets against the Catholics.

The oath was proffered to me. " I have an ob- jection, my Lord," said I, "to taking this oath." "What is your objection?" he asked sternly. "I

PREFACE. XXI

have no fears, my Lord, that any thing I might say would criminate myself; but it might tend to involve others, and I despise the character of the person who could be led, under any such circumstances, to inform against his associates." This was aimed at some of the revelations of the preceding day ; and, as I learned afterwards, was so understood. "How old are you, Sir?" he then asked. " Between seventeen and eighteen, my Lord." He then turned to his assessor, Duigenan, and exchanged a few words with him, in an under tone of voice. " We cannot," he resumed, again addressing me, " suffer any one to remain in our University, who refuses to take this oath." " I shall, then, my Lord," I replied, " take the oath, — still reserving to myself the power of refusing to answer any such questions as I have just described." " We do not sit here to argue with you, Sir," he rejoined sharply; upon which I took the oath, and seated myself in the witnesses' chair.

The following are the questions and answers that then ensued. After adverting to the proved existence of United Irish Societies in the University, he asked, " Have you ever belonged to any of these societies?" " No, my Lord." " Have you ever known of any of the proceedings that took place in them ? " " No, my Lord." "Did you ever hear of a proposal at any of their meetings, for the purchase of arms and ammunition?" "Never, my Lord." "Did you ever hear of a proposition made, in one of these societies, with respect to the expediency of assassi- nation?" "Oh no, my Lord." He then turned

XX11 PREFACE.

again to Duigenan, and, after a few words with him, said to me : — " When such are the answers you are able to give *, pray what was the cause of your great repugnance to taking the oath?" "I have already told your Lordship my chief reason ; in addition to which, it was the first oath I ever took, and the hesitation was, I think, natural." f

I was now dismissed without any further ques- tioning ; and, however trying had been this short operation, was amply repaid for it by the kind zeal with which my young friends and companions nocked to congratulate me; — not so much, I was inclined to hope, on my acquittal by the court, as on the manner in which I had acquitted myself. Of my reception, on returning home, after the fears enter- tained of so very different a result, I will not attempt any description ; — it was all that such a home alone could furnish.

* There had been two questions put to all those examined on the first day, — " Were you ever asked to join any of these societies?" — and " By whom were you asked ?" — which I should have refused to answer, and must, of course, have abided the consequences.

f For the correctness of the above report of this short examination, I can pretty confidently answer. It may amuse, therefore, my readers, — as showing the manner in which biographers make the most of small facts, — to see an extract or two from another account of this affair, published not many years since by an old and zealous friend of our family. After stating with tolerable correctness one or two of my answers, the writer thus proceeds : — " Upon this, Lord Clare repeated the question, and young Moore made such an appeal, as caused his lordship to relax, austere and rigid as he was. The words I cannot exactly remember; the substance was as follows: — that he entered college to receive the education of a scholar and a gentle- man j that he knew not how to compromise these characters by

PREFACE. XX111

I have been induced thus to continue down to the very verge of the warning outbreak of 1798, the slight sketch of my early days which I ventured to commence in the First Volume of this Collection : nor could I have furnished the Irish Melodies with any more pregnant illustration, as it was in those times, and among the events then stirring, that the feeling which afterwards found a voice in my country's music, was born and nurtured.

I shall now string together such detached notices and memoranda respecting this work, as I think may be likely to interest my readers.

Of the few songs written with a concealed political feeling, — such as "When he who adores thee," and one or two more, — the most successful, in its day, was "When first I met thee warm and young," which alluded, in its hidden sense, to the Prince Regent's desertion of his political friends. It was little less, I own, than profanation to disturb the sentiment of so beautiful an air by any connexion with such a subject. The great success of this song, soon after I wrote it, among a large party staying at Chatsworth, is thus alluded to in one of Lord Byron's

informing against his college companions; that his own speeches in the debating society had been ill construed, when the worst that could be said of them was, if truth had been spoken, that they were patriotic .... that he was aware of the high-minded nobleman he had the honour of appealing to, and if his lordship could for a moment con- descend to step from his high station and place himself in his situation, then say how he would act under such circumstances, — it would be his guidance." — HERBERT'S Irish Varieties. London, 1836.

XXIV PREFACE.

letters to me: — "I have heard from London that you have left Chatsworth and all there full of

6 entusymusy ' and, in particular, that

( When first I met thee' has been quite overwhelming in its effect. I told you it was one of the best things you ever wrote, though that dog * * * * wanted you to omit part of it."

It has been sometimes supposed that " Oh, breathe not his name," was meant to allude to Lord Edward Fitzgerald : but this is a mistake ; the song having been suggested by the well-known passage in Kobert Emmet's dying speech, "Let no man write my

epitaph let my tomb remain unin scribed,

till othfer times and other men shall learn to do justice to my memory."

The feeble attempt to commemorate the glory of our great Duke — "When History's Muse," &c. — is in so far remarkable, that it made up amply for its want of poetical spirit, by an outpouring, rarely granted to bards in these days, of the spirit of pro- phecy. It was in the year 1815 that the following lines first made their appearance : —

And still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, The grandest, the purest, ev'n 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, &c.

About fourteen years after these lines were written, the Duke of Wellington recommended to the throne the great measure of Catholic Emancipation.

PREFACE. . XXV

The fancy of the " Origin of the Irish Harp " was (as I have elsewhere acknowledged*) suggested by a drawing, made under peculiarly painful circum- stances, by the friend so often mentioned in this sketch, Edward Hudson.

In connexion with another of these matchless airs, — one that defies all poetry to do it justice, — I find the following singular and touching statement in an article of the Quarterly Review, Speaking of a young and promising poetess, Lucretia Davidson, who died very early from nervous excitement, the Reviewer says, " She was particularly sensitive to music. There was one song (it was Moore's Farewell to his Harp) to which she took a special fancy. She wished to hear it only at twilight, — thus (with that same perilous love of excitement which made her place the ^Eolian harp in the window when she was composing), seeking to increase the effect which the song produced upon a nervous system, already dis- easedly susceptible ; for it is said that, whenever she heard this song, she became cold, pale, and almost

* " When, in consequence of the compact entered into between government and the chief leaders of the conspiracy, the State Prisoners, before proceeding into exile, were allowed to see their friends, I paid a visit to Edward Hudson, in the jail of Kilmainham, where he had then lain immured for four or five months, hearing of friend after friend being led out to death, and expecting every week his own turn to come. I found that to amuse his solitude he had made a large drawing with charcoal on the wall of his prison, representing that fancied origin of the Irish Harp which, some years after, I adopted as the subject of one of the ' Melodies.'" — Life and Death of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, vol. i.

b

XXVI PREFACE.

fainting; yet it was her favourite of all songs, and gave occasion to those verses addressed in her fifteenth year to her sister."*

With the Melody entitled, " Love, Valour, and Wit," an incident is connected, which awakened feelings in me of proud, but sad pleasure, to think that my songs had reached the hearts of some of the descendants of those great Irish families, who found themselves forced, in the dark days of persecution, to seek in other lands a refuge from the shame and ruin of their own ; — those, whose story I have thus associated with one of their country's most character- istic airs : —

Ye Blakes and O'Donnells, 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.

From a foreign lady, of this ancient extraction, — whose names, could I venture to mention them, would lend to the incident an additional Irish charm, — I received about two years since, through the hands of a gentleman to whom it had been entrusted, a large portfolio, adorned inside with a beautiful drawing, representing Love, Wit, and Valour, as described in the song. In the border that surrounds the drawing are introduced the favourite emblems of Erin, the harp, the shamrock, the mitred head of St. Patrick, together with scrolls containing each, in-

* Quarterly Review, vol. xli. p. 294.

PREFACE. XXV11

scribed in letters of gold, the name of some favourite melody of the fair artist.

This present was accompanied by the following letter from the lady herself; and her Irish race, I fear, is but too discernible in the generous indiscretion with which, in this instance, she allows praise so much to outstrip desert : —

"Le25 Aout, 1836.

" Monsieur,

" Si les poetes n'etoient en quelque sorte une propriete intellectuelle dont chacun prend sa part & raison de la puissance qu'ils exercent, je ne saurois en verite comment faire pour justifier mon courage I — car il en falloit beaucoup pour avoir ose consacrer mon pauvre talent d'amateur a vos delicieuses poesies, et plus encore pour en renvoyer le pale reflet a son veritable auteur.

" J'esp£re toutefois que ma sympathie pour 1'Irlande vous fera juger ma foible production avec cette heureuse partialite qui impose silence a la critique : car, si je n'appartiens pas & Tile Yerte par ma naissance, ni mes relations, je puis dire que je m'y interesse avec un coeur Irlandais, et que j'ai conserve plus que le nom de mes peres. Cela seul me fait esperer que mes petit s voyageurs ne subiront pas le triste noviciat des etrangers. Puissent-ils remplir leur mission sur le sol natal, en agissant conjointe- ment et toujours pour la cause Irlandaise, et amener enfin une ere nouvelle pour cette he*roique et mal- heureuse nation: — le moyen de vaincre de tels adversaires s'ils ne font qu'un ? b 2

XXY111 PREFACE.

" Vous dirai-je, Monsieur, les doux moments que je dois a vos ouvrages ? ce seroit repeter une fois de plus ce que vous entendez tous les jours et de tous les coins de la terre. Aussi j'ai garde de vous ravir un terns trop precieux par Fecho de ces vieilles verites.

" Si jamais mon etoile me conduit en Irlande, je ne m'y croirai pas etrangere. Je sais que le passe y laisse de longs souvenirs, et que la conformite des desirs et des esperances rapproche en depit de 1'espace et du terns.

" Jusque-la, recevez, je vous prie, 1'assurance de ma parfaite consideration, avec laquelle j'ai 1'honneur d'etre,

" Monsieur, " Votre tres-humble servante,

"LA COMTESSE * * * * *.'"

Of the translations that have appeared of the Melodies in different languages, I shall here mention; such as have come to my knowledge.

Latin. — " Cantus Hibernici," Nicholas Lee Torre, London, 1835.

Italian. — G. Flechia, Torino, 1836. — Adele Custi, Milano, 1836.

French. — Madame Belloc, Paris, 1823. — Loeve Veimars, Paris, 1829.

Russian. — - Several detached Melodies, by the po- pular Russian poet Kozlof.

Polish. — Selections, in the same manner, by Niem- cewich, Kosmian, and others.

PREFACE. XXIX

I have now exhausted not so much my own re- collections, as the patience, I fear, of my readers on this subject. We are told of painters calling those last touches of the pencil which they give to some favourite picture the " ultima basia ; " and with the same sort of affectionate feeling do I now take leave of the Irish Melodies, — the only work of my pen, as I very sincerely believe, whose fame (thanks to the sweet music in which it is embalmed) may boast a chance of prolonging its existence to a day much beyond our own.

IRISH MELODIES.

IRISH MELODIES.

GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.

Go where glory waits thee, But while fame elates thee,

Oh ! still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest,

Oh ! then remember me. Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee

Sweeter far may be ; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest,

Oh ! then remember me !

When, at eve, thou rovest By the star thou lovest,

Oh ! then remember me. Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning,

Oh ! thus remember me.

IRISH MELODIES.

Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its ling'ring roses,

Once so lov'd by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them,

Oh ! then remember me.

When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying,

Oh ! then remember me. And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing,

Oh ! still remember me. Then should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing,

Draw one tear from thee ; Then let memory bring thee Strains I us'd to sing thee, —

Oh ! then remember me.

IRISH MELODIES.

WAR SONG

REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE.*

REMEMBER the glories of Brien the brave,

Tho' the days of the hero are o'er ; Tho' lost to Mononiaf, and cold in the grave,

He returns to Kinkora £ no more. That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd

Its beam on the battle, is set ; But enough of its glory remains on each sword,

To light us to victory yet.

Mononia ! when Nature embellish'd the tint

Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print

The footstep of slavery there ? No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,

Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, That 't is sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine,

Than to sleep but a moment in chains.

* Brien Borombe, the great Monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the llth century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements.

t Munster. { The palace of Brien.

B 2

IRISH MELODIES.

Forget not our wounded companions, who stood *

In the day of distress by our side ; While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood,

They stirr'd not, but conquered and died. That sun which now blesses our arms with his light

Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain ; — Oh ! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night,

To find that they fell there in vain.

ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES.

ERIN ! the tear and the smile in thine eyes Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies ! Shining through sorrow's stream, Saddening through pleasure's beam, Thy suns with doubtful gleam Weep while they rise.

* This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favourite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest. — " Let stakes (they said) be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man." " Between seven and eight hundred wounded men (adds O'Halloran), pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops; — never was such another sight exhibited." — History of Ireland, book xii. chap. i.

IRISH MELODIES.

Erin ! thy silent tear never shall cease, Erin ! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,

Till, like the rainbow's light,

Thy various tints unite,

And form in Heaven's sight One arch of peace !

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

OH ! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid ; Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

WHEN HE, WHO ADORES THEE.

he, who adores thee, has left but the name

Of his fault and his sorrows behind, Oh ! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame

Of a life that for thee was resign'd ? Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,

Thy tears shall efface their decree ; For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,

I have been but too faithful to thee.

B 3

IRISH MELODIES.

"With thee were the dreams of my earliest love ;

Every thought of my reason was thine ; In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,

Thy name shall be mingled with mine. Oh ! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live

The days of thy glory to see ; But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give

Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALL&

THE harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise,

Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells : The chord alone, that breaks at night,

Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant .breaks,

To show that still she lives.

IRISH MELODIES.

FLY NOT YET.

FLY not yet ; 'tis just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids who love the moon. 'Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made ; 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing.

Oh ! stay, — Oh ! stay, — Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, that oh ! 't is pain

To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet ; the fount that play'd

In times of old through Ammon's shade, *

Though icy cold by day it ran,

Yet still, like souls of mirth, began

To burn when night was near. And thus should woman's heart and looks At noon be cold as winter brooks, Nor kindle till the night, returning, Brings their genial hour for burning.

Oh! stay, — Oh! stay, — "When did morning ever break, And find such beaming eyes awake

As those that sparkle here ?

* Soils Fons, near the Temple of Aramon. B 4

IRISH MELODIES,

OH ! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT.

OH ! think not my spirits are always as light,

And as free from a pang, as they seem to you now :

Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow.

No : — life is a waste of wearisome hours, "Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns ;

f^nd the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers

t- — _ .,.— . — — •

I Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns. But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile : —

May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here, Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile,

And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear!

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows !

If it were not with friendship and love intertwin'd ; And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,

When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind. • But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest,

Too often have wept o'er the dream they believ'd ; i And the heart that has slumber'd in friendship securest

Is happy indeed if 't was never deceiv'd. But send round the bowl : while a relic of truth

Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine, — That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth,

And the moonlight of friendship console our decline.

IKISH MELODIES.

THO' THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE.

THO' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me ; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, "Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes, And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes ; Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.*

* " In the twenty- eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. an Act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing Glibbes, or Coulins (long locks), on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers (by which the English were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired." — WALKER'S Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards, p. 134. Mr. Walker informs us, also, that about the same period there were some harsh measures taken against the Irish Minstrels.

10 IRISH MELODIES.

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.*

RICH and rare were the gems she wore.

And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ;

But oh ! her beauty was far beyond

Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.

" Lady ! dost thou not fear to stray

" So lone and lovely through this bleak way ?

"Are Erin's sons so good or so cold,

" As not to be tempted by woman or gold ? "

" Sir Knight ! I feel not the least alarm, " No son of Erin will offer me harm : — "For, though they love woman and golden store, " Sir Knight ! they love honour and virtue more."

On she went, and her maiden smile In safety lighted her round the green isle ; And blest for ever is she who relied Upon Erin's honour, and Erin's pride.

* This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote: — "The people were inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value ; and such an impression had the laws and government of this mo- narch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels." — WARNER'S History of Ireland, vol. i. book x.

IRISH MELODIES. 11

AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS MAY GLOW.

As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow, While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, So the cheek may be ting'd with a warm sunny smile, Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes, To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring, For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting —

Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, Like a dead leafless branch in the summer's bright ray ; The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. *

THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ; f Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

* " The Meeting of the Waters " forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow ; and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of the year 1807.

f The rivers Avon and Avoca.

12 IRISH MELODIES.

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,

Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should

cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY.

ST. SENANUS.*

" OH ! haste and leave this sacred isle, " Unholy bark, ere morning smile ; " For on thy deck, though dark it be,

" A female form I see ; " And I have sworn this sainted sod " Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod."

* In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kilkenny MS., and may be found among the Acta Sanctorum Hibernia, we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his

IRISH MELODIES. 13

THE LADY.

" Oli ! Father, send not hence my bark, " Through wintry winds and billows dark : " I come with humble heart to share

" Thy morn and evening prayer ; " Nor mine the feet, oh ! holy Saint, " The brightness of thy sod to taint."

The Lady's prayer Senanus spurn'd ; The winds blew fresh, the bark return'd ; But legends hint, that had the maid

Till morning's light delay'd, And given the saint one rosy smile, She ne'er had left his lonely isle.

resolution not to admit any woman of the party ; he refused to receive even a sister saint, St. Cannera, whom an angel had taken to the island for the express purpose of introducing her to him. The follow- ing was the ungracious answer of Senanus, according to his poetical biographer :

Cui Prcesul: Quid fceminis Commune est cum monachis ? Nee te nee ullam aliam Admittemus in insulam.

See the Ada Sanct. Hib. p. 610.

According to Dr. Ledwich, St. Senanus was no less a personage than the river Shannon ; but O'Connor and other antiquarians deny die metamorphose indignantly.

14 IRISH MELODIES.

HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies, And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,

For then sweet dreams of other days arise, And memory breathes her vesper sigh to tiiee.

And, as I watch the line of light, that plays

Along the smooth wave tow'rd the burning west,

I long to tread that golden path of rays,

And think \ would lead to some bright isle of rest.

TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE.

WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK.

TAKE back the virgin page,

White and unwritten still ; Some hand, more calm and sage,

The leaf must fill. Thoughts come as pure as light,

Pure as even you require : But oh! each word I write

Love turns to fire.

Yet let me keep the book :

Oft shall my heart renew, When on its leaves I look,

Dear thoughts of you. Like you, 'tis fair and bright;

Like you, too bright and fair To let wild passion write

One wrong wish there.

IRISH MELODIES. 15

Haply, when from those eyes

Far, far away I roam, Should calmer thoughts arise

Tow'rds you and home ; Fancy may trace some line

Worthy those eyes to meet. Thoughts that not burn, but shine.

Pure, calm, and sweet.

And as, o'er ocean far,

Seamen their records keep, Led by some hidden star

Through the cold deep ; So may the words I write

Tell thro' what storms I stray — You still the unseen light

Guiding my way.

THE LEGACY.

WHEN in death I shall calm 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.

16 IRISH MELODIES.

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.

HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED.

How oft has the Benshee cried !

How oft has death untied

Bright links that Glory wove,

Sweet bonds entwin'd by Love ! Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth : Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth :

Long may the fair and brave

Sigh o'er the hero's grave !

* " In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were the more caressed, the more they excelled in music." — O'HALLORAK.

IRISH MELODIES. 17

We 're fall'n upon gloomy days ! *

Star after star decays,

Every bright name that shed

Light o'er the land is fled. Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth:

But brightly flows the tear

"Wept o'er a hero's bier.

Quench'd are our beacon lights — Thou, of the Hundred Fights ! f Thou, on whose burning tongue Truth, peace, and freedom hung ! J

Both mute, — but long as valour shineth,

Or mercy's soul at war repineth, So long shall Erin's pride Tell how they liv'd and died.

* I have endeavoured here, without losing that Irish character which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to the sad and ominous fatality by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent and integrity.

f This designation, which has been applied to Lord Nelson before, is the title given to a celebrated Irish Hero, in a Poem by O'Guive, the bard of O'Niel, which is quoted in the " Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland," page 433. " Con, of the hundred Fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories !"

{ Fox, " Romanorum ultimus."

18 IRISH MELODIES.

WE MAY ROAM THRO' THIS WORLD.

WE may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast, Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest ; And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, We may order our wings, and be off to the west ; t But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile, I Are the dearest gifts that Heaven supplies, We never need leave our own green isle,

For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you

roam,

When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh ! remember the smile that adorns her at home.

In England, the garden of Beauty is kept

By a dragon of prudery placed within call ; But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept,

That the garden 's but carelessly watch'd after all. Oh ! they want the wild sweet-briery fence

Which round the flowers of Erin dwells ; Which warns the touch, while winning the sense,

Nor charms us least when it most repels. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd,

Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you

roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh ! remember the smile that adorns her at home.

IRISH MELODIES. 19

In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail

On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail,

But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-bye. While the daughters of Erin keep the boy,

Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, Through billows of woe, and beams of joy,

The same as he look'd when he left the shore. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd,

Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you

roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh ! remember the smile that adorns her at home.

EVELEEN'S BOWER.

OH ! weep for the hour

When to Eveleen's bower The Lord of the Valley with false vows came ;

The moon hid her light

From the heavens that night, And wept behind the clouds o'er the maiden's shame.

The clouds pass'd soon

From the chaste cold moon, And heaven smil'd again with her vestal flame ;

"But none will see the day

When the clouds shall pass away, Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.

C 2

20 IRISH MELODIES.

The white snow lay

On the narrow path-way, When the Lord of the Valley cross'd over the moor ;

And many a deep print

On the white snow's tint Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.

The next sun's ray

Soon melted away Every trace on the path where the false Lord came ;

But there's a light above,

Which alone can remove That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame.

LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD.

LET Erin remember the days of old,

Ere her faithless sons betray'd her ; When Malachi wore the collar of gold, *

Which he won from her proud invader ; When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd,

Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger ; — f Ere the emerald gem of the western world

Was set in the crown of a stranger.

* " This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the Monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered successively, hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory." — WARNER'S History of Ireland, vol. i. book ix.

f " Military orders of knights were very early established in

IRISH MELODIES. 21

On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,

"When the clear cold eve 's declining, He sees the round towers of other days

In the wave beneath him shining ; Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,

Catch a glimpse of the days that are over ; Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time

For the long-faded glories they cover. *

Ireland ; long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of Chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhe na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Knights of the Red- Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster Kings, called Teagh na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Red- Branch; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bronbhearg, or the House of the Sorrowful Soldier." — O'HALLORAN'S Introduction, 8fc., parti, chap. v.

* It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water. Piscatores aquae illius turres ecclesiasticas, quce more patriot arctce sunt et allce, necnon et rotunda;, sub undis manifesto sereno tcmpore conspiciunt, et extraneis transeuntibus, reique causas admi rant ibus, fre- quenter ostendunt. — Topogr. Hib., dist. ii. c. 9.

0 3

22 IRISH MELODIES.

THE SONG OF FIONNUALA. *

SILENT, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water,

Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter

Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. When shall the swan, her death-note singing,

Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd ? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,

Call my spirit from this stormy world ?

Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping,

Fate bids me languish long ages away ; Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,

Still doth the pure light its dawning delay. When will that day-star, mildly springing,

Warm our isle with peace and love ? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,

Call my spirit to the fields above ?

* To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorised to inflict upon an audience at once ; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander for many hundred years over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, when the first sound of the mass-bell was

to be the signal of her release I found this fanciful fiction among

some manuscript translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira.

IRISH MELODIES. 23

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.

COME, send round the wine, and leave points of belief

To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools ; This moment's a flower too fair and brief,

To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools. Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,

But, while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl, The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue,

Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.

Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side

In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree ? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,

If he kneel not before the same altar with me ? From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly,

To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss ? No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try

Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this !

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 wes 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!

C 4

24 IRISH MELODIES.

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 rights 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 !

IKISH MELODIES. 25

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.

BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms,

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,

Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be ador'd, as this moment thou art,

Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart

Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,

And thy cheeks unprofan'd by a tear, That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,

To which time will but make thee more dear ; N^theJLearjt.tliat has truly lov'd never forgets,

But as truly loves on to the close, As the sun-flower turns on her god. whe.n he sets,

The same look which she turn'd when he rose.

26 IPvISH MELODIES.

ERIN, OH ERIN.

LIKE the bright lamp that shone in Kildare's holy fane, * And burn'd thro' long ages of darkness and storm,

Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain, Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm.

Erin, oh Erin, thus bright thro' the tears

Of a long night of bondage thy spirit appears.

The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, Thy sun is but rising, when others are set :

And tho* slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung, The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.

Erin, oh Erin, tho' long in the shade,

Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.

Unchill'd by the rain, and unwak'd by the wind, The lily lies sleeping thro' winter's cold hour,

Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind,

And daylight and liberty bless the young flower, f

Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past,

And the hope that liv'd thro' it shall blossom at last.

* The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions. " Apud Kildariam occurrit Ignis Sanctae Brigidae, quern inextinguibilem vocant ; non quod extingui non possit, sed quod tarn solicite moniales et sancta? mulieres ignem, suppetente materia, fovent et nutriunt, ut a tempore virginis per tot annorum curricula semper mansit inextinctus." — Girald. Camb. de Mirabil. Hibern., dist. ii. c. 34.

f Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the lily, has applied this image to a still more important object.

IKISH MELODIES. 27

DRINK TO HER.

DRINK to her who long

Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song

"What gold could never buy. Oh ! woman's heart was made

For minstrel hands alone ; By other fingers play'd,

It yields not half the tone. Then here's to her who long

Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy.

At Beauty's door of glass

When Wealth and Wit once stood, They ask'd her, " which might pass ? "

She answer'd, " he, who could." With golden key Wealth thought

To pass — but 't would not do : While Wit a diamond brought,

Which cut his bright way through. So here 's to her who long

Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy.

The love that seeks a home

Where wealth or grandeur shines^

Is like the gloomy gnome

That dwells in dark gold mines.

28 IRISH MELODIES.

But oh ! the poet's love

Can boast a brighter sphere ; Its native home 's above,

Tho' woman keeps it here. Then drink to her who long

Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy.

OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.*

OH ! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers

Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame ; He was born for much more, and in happier hours

His soul mi£~ht have burn'd with a holier flame. The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,

Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart ;f And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,

Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart.

* We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spenser so severely, and perhaps truly, describes in his " State of Ireland," - and whose poems, he tells us, " were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue."

f It is conjectured, by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a low, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following : " So that Ireland (cabled the land of Ire, from the constant broils therein for 400 years) was now become the land of concord." — LLOYD'S State Worthies, art. The Lord Grandison.

IRISH MELODIES. 29

But alas for his country ! — her pride is gone by,

And that spirit is broken, which never would bend ; O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,

For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unpriz'd are her sons, till they Ve learn'd to betray ;

Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires ; And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way,

Must be caught from the pile where their country expires.

Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream

He should try to forget what he never can heal : Oh ! give but a hope — let a vista but gleam

Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll

feel! That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down

Every passion it nurs'd, every bliss it ador'd, While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his crown,

Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.*

But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away,

Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs, Not ev'n in the hour, when his heart is most gay,

Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ;

The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,

Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep !

* See the Hymn, attributed to Alcseus, Ev fivprov K\a5i TO £upos q>opt]ff<a — " I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Harmodius and Aristogiton," &c.

30 IRISH MELODIES.

WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT.

WHILE gazing on the moon's light,

A moment from her smile I turn'd, To look at orbs, that, more bright, In lone and distant glory burn'd. But, too far Each proud star,

For me to feel its warming flame ; Much more dear That mild sphere,

Which near our planet smiling came ; * Thus, Mary, be but thou my own ;

While brighter eyes unheeded play, I'll love those moonlight looks alone, That bless my home and guide my way.

The day had sunk in dim showers,

But midnight now, with lustre meet, Illumin'd all the pale flowers,

Like hope upon a mourner's cheek. I said (while The moon's smile

* " Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the single moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the others, is much more beneficial than they all put together." — WHISTON'S Theory, fyc.

In the Entretiens cTAriste, among other ingenious emblems, we find a starry sky without a moon, with these words, Non mille, quod absens.

IRISH MELODIES. 31

Play'd o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss), " The moon looks " On many brooks,

" The brook can see no moon but this ; " * And thus, I thought, our fortunes run,

For many a lover looks to thee,

While oh ! I feel there is but one,

One Mary in the world for me.

ILL OMENS.

WHEN daylight was yet sleeping under the billow,

And stars in the heavens still lingering shone, Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow.

The last time she e'er was to press it alone. For the youth whom she treasur'd her heart and her soul in,

Had promis'd to link the last tie before noon ; And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,

The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses, Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,

A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's kisses,']' Flew over the mirror and shaded her view.

* This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works : " The moon looks upon many night-flowers, the night-flower sees but one moon."

f An emblem of the soul.

32 IRISH MELODIES.

Enrag'd with the insect for hiding her graces, She brush'd him — he fell, alas ! never to rise —

" Ah ! such," said the girl, " is the pride of our faces, " For which the soul's innocence too often dies."

While she stole thro' the garden, where heart's-ease was growing,

She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen dew ; And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glowing,

That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too : But, while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning,

Her zone flew in two, and the heart's-ease was lost : " Ah ! this means," said the girl, (and she sighed at its meaning,)

" That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost ! "

BEFORE THE BATTLE.

BY the hope within us springing,

Herald of to-morrow's strife ; By that sun, whose light is bringing

Chains or freedom, death or lite — Oh ! remember life can be No charm for him who lives not free !

Like the day-star in the wave,

Sinks a hero in his grave, Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

IRISH MELODIES. 33

Happy is he o'er whose decline The smiles of home may soothing shine, And light him down the steep of years : — But oh ! how blest they sink to rest, "Who close their eyes on victory's breast !

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

Now the foeman's cheek turns white, When his heart that field remembers,

Where we tam'd his tyrant might ! Never let him bind again A chain, like that we broke from then.

Hark ! the horn of combat calls —

Ere the golden evening falls, May we pledge that horn in triumph round!*

Many a heart that now beats high, In slumber cold at night shall lie, Nor waken even at victory's sound: — But oh ! how blest that hero's sleep, O'er whom a wond'ring world shall weep !

* " The Irish Coma was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day." — WAIJCER.

34: IRISH MELODIES.

AFTER THE BATTLE,

NIGHT clos'd around the conqueror's way,

And lightnings show'd the distant hill, Where those who lost that dreadful day

Stood few and faint, but fearless still ! The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,

For ever dimm'd, for ever crost — Oh ! who shall say what heroes feel,

When all but life and honour's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,

And valour's task, mov'd slowly by, While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam

Should rise and give them light to die. There 's yet a world where souls are free,

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ; If death that world's bright opening be,

Oh ! who would live a slave in this ?

•T IS SWEET TO THINK. '

* %

*T is sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,

We are sure to find something blissful and dear,

Arid that, when we're far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near ! *

* I believe it is Marmontel who says, " Quand on n'a pas ce qne ton aime, il faut aimer ce, que Von a" — There are so many matter-of- fact people, who take such jeux cTesprit as this defence of inconstancy

IRISH MELODIES. 35

The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing

It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. Then oh ! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,

To make light of the rest, if the rose is n't there ; And the world 's so rich in resplendent eyes,

'T were a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,

They are both of them bright, but they 're change- able too, And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,

It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue ! Then oh ! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

to be the actual and genuine sentiments of him who writes them, that they compel one, in self-defence, to be as matter-of-fact as themselves, and to remind them, that Democritus was not the worse physiologist for having playfully contended that snow was black ; nor Erasmus in any degree the less wise for having written an ingenious encomium of folly.

D 2

38 IRISH MELODIES.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.*

THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd

my way,

Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay; The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd, Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd ; Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to

thee.

Thy rival was horiour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and

scorn'd,

Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd ; She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves, Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas ! were

slaves ;

Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be, Than wed what I love not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail

Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale! They say too, so long thou hast worn those lingering

chains ; That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile

stains —

Oh ! foul is the slander — no chain could that soul subdue — Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth toolf

* Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland, t " Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty." — ST. PAUL, 2 Cor. iii. 1 7.

IRISH MELODIES.

37

ON MUSIC.

WHEN thro' life unblest we rove,

Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes we us'd to love,

In days of boyhood, meet our ear, Oh ! how welcome breathes the strain !

Wakening thoughts that long have slept ; Kindling former smiles again

In faded eyes that long have wept

Like the gale that sighs along

Beds of oriental flowers, Is the grateful breath of song

That once was heard in happier hours ; FilPd with balm, the gale sighs on,

Though the flowers have sunk in death ; So, when pleasure's dream is gone,

Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music ! oh how faint, how weak,

Language fades before thy spell ! Why should Feeling ever speak,

When thou canst breathe her soul so well ? Friendship's balmy words may feign,

Love's are ev'n more false than they ; Oh ! 'tis only Music's strain

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray !

D 3

38 *S IRISH MELODIES.

X

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED. i

IT is not the tear at this moment shed,

"When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how belov'd was the friend that's fled,

Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept,

'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded ; 'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept,

When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light,

Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them, For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,

"When we think how he liv'd but to love them. And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume

Where buried saints are lying, So our hearts shall borrow a sweet'ning bloom

From the image he left there in dying !

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis belie v'd that this Harp, which I wake now for thee, Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea ; And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters rov'd, To meet on the green shore a youth whom she lov'd.

* These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who died lately at Madeira.

IRISH MELODIES. 39

But she lov'd him in vain, for he left her to weep, And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep, Till Heaven look'd with pity on true-love so warm, And chang'd to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.

Still her bosom rose fair — still her cheeks smiFd the

same —

"While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light frame ; And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell, "Was chang'd to bright chords uttering melody's spell.

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been

known

To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone ; Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay, To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away!

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

OH ! the days are gone, when Beauty bright

My heart's chain wove ; "When my dream of life, from morn till night, "Was love, still love. New hope may bloom, And days may come Of milder, calmer beam, D 4

40 IRISH MELODIES.

But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream : No, there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar,

When wild youth's past ; Tho' he win the wise, who frown'd before, To smile at last ; He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear

His soul-felt flame,

And, at every close, she blush'd to hear The one lov'd name.

No, — that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot

Which first love trac'd ; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste. 'Twas odour fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream ; 'Twas a light, that ne'er can shine again

On life's dull stream :

Oh ! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream.

IRISH MELODIES. 41

THE PRINCE'S DAY.*

THO' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in,

showers :

There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours. But just when the chain Has ceas'd to pain,

And hope has enwreath'd it round with flowers, There comes a new link Our spirits to sink — Oh ! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,

Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay ;

But, though 't were the last little spark in our souls,

We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day.

Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal !

Tho' fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true ; And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, Is love from a heart that loves liberty too. While cowards, who blight Your fame, your right,

Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array, The standard of Green In front would be seen —

* This song was written for a fete in honour of the Prince of Wales's birthday, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his seat in the county of Kilkenny.

42 IKISH MELODIES.

Oh ! my life on your faith ! were you summon'd this minute,

You 'd cast every bitter remembrance away, And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,

When rous'd by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded

In hearts which have suffer'd too much to forget ; And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded, And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet. The gem may be broke By many a stroke,

But nothing can cloud its native ray ; Each fragment will cast A light to the last, — And thus Erin, my country, tho* broken thou art,

There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay ; A spirit which beams through each suffering part, And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.

WEEP ON, WEEP ON.

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 !

IKISH MELODIES. 43

"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 aisle

Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, They '11 wondering 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."

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

LESBIA hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth ; Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at no one dreameth. Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon

My Nora's lid that seldom rises ; Few its looks, but every one,

Like unexpected light, surprises.

44 IRISH MELODIES.

Oh, my Nora Creina, dear, My gentle, bashful Nora Creina, Beauty lies In many eyes, But love in yours, my Nora Creina !

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath lac'd it, Not a charm of beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it. Oh, my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.

Yes, my Nora Creina, dear, My simple, graceful Nora Creina, Nature's dress Is loveliness — The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refin'd,

But when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they 're design'd

To dazzle merely, or to wound us. Pillow'd on my Nora's heart

In safer slumber Love reposes — Bed of peace ! whose roughest part Is but the crumpling of the roses.

Oh, my Nora Creina, dear, My mild, my artless Nora Creina, "Wit, tho' bright, Hath no such light As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

IRISH MELODIES. 45

I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.

I SAW thy form in youthful prime,

Nor thought that pale decay Would steal before the steps of Time/

And waste its bloom away, Mary ! Yet still thy features wore that light,

Which fleets not with the breath ; And life ne'er look'd more truly bright

Than in thy smile of death, Mary !

As streams that run o'er golden mines,

Yet humbly, calmly glide, Nor seem to know the wealth that shines

Within their gentle tide, Mary ! So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise,

Thy radiant genius shone, And that which charm'd all other eyes

Seem'd worthless in thine own, Mary !

If souls could always dwell above,

Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere ; Or could we keep the souls we love,

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary ! Though many a gifted mind we meet,

Though fairest forms we see, To live with them is far less sweet

Than to remember thee, Mary !*

* I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite in- scription of Shenstone's, " Heu ! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse !"

46 IRISH MELODIES.

BY THAT LAKE WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.*

BY that Lake, whose gloomy shore Sky-lark never warbles o'er, f Where the cliff hangs high and steep, Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep. " Here, at least," he calmly said, " Woman ne'er shall find my bed." Ah ! the good Saint little knew What that wily sex can do.

'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew, — Eyes of most unholy blue! She had lov'd him well and long, Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong. Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly, Still he heard her light foot nigh ; East or west, where'er he turn'd, Still her eyes before him burn'd.

On the bold cliff's bosom cast, Tranquil now he sleeps at last ; Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er Woman's smile can haunt him there. But nor earth nor heaven is free From her power, if fond she be : Even now, while calm he sleeps, Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

* This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.

f There are many other curious traditions concerning this Lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, &c.

IRISH MELODIES. 47

Fearless she had track'd his feet To this rocky, wild retreat ; And, when morning met his view, Her mild glances met it too. Ah ! your Saints have cruel hearts ! Sternly from his bed he starts, And, with rude, repulsive shock, Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Glendalough ! thy gloomy wave Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave ! Soon the Saint (yet ah ! too late,) Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate. When he said, " Heav'n rest her soul ! " Round the Lake light music stole ; And her ghost was seen to glide, Smiling, o'er the fatal tide !

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

SHE is fur from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers are round her sighing ; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Every note which he lov'd awaking ; —

Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

48 IRISH MELODIES.

He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwin'd him ;

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest When they promise a glorious morrow ;

They '11 shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own lov'd island of sorrow.

NAY, TELL ME NOT.

NAY, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns

One charm of feeling, one fond regret ; Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet. Ne'er hath a beam Been lost in the stream That ever was shed from thy form or soul ; The spell of those eyes, The balm of thy sighs,

Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl. Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me ; Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

IRISH MELODIES. 49

They tell us that Love in his fairy bower

Had two blush-roses, of birth divine ; He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower, But bath'd the other with mantling wine. Soon did the buds That drank of the floods Distill'd by the rainbow decline and fade ; While those which the tide Of ruby had dy'd

All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid ! Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me ; Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

AVENGING AND BRIGHT.

AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of Erin * On him who the brave sons of Usna betray'd ! —

For every fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in,

A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.

* The words of this song -were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called " Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Us- nach," which has been translated literally from the Gaelic by Mr. O'Flanagan (see vol. i. of Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin}, and upon which it appears that the "Darthula" of Macpherson is founded. The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. " This story (says Mr. O'Flanagan) has been, from time immemorial, held

50 IRISH MELODIES.

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,* When Ulad's f three champions lay sleeping in gore —

By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling, Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore —

We swear to revenge them ! — no joy shall be tasted, The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed,

Our halls shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted, Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head !

Yes, monarch ! though sweet are our home recollections, Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall ;

Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affec- tions, Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all !

in high repute as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are, ' The death of the children of Touran ; ' « The death of the children of Lear* (both regarding Tuatha de Danans) ; and this, ' The death of the children of Usnach,' which is a Milesian story." It will be recollected that, in another part of these Melodies, there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir ; " Silent, oh Moyle J" &c.

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiquity, which Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality, if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement they merit.

* " Oh Nasi ! view that cloud that I here see in the sky ! I see over Eman -green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red." — Deirdri's Song.

Ulster.

IKISH MELODIES. 51

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.

He. — WHAT the bee is to the floweret, "When he looks for honey-dew, Through the leaves that close embower it, That, my love, I'll be to you.

She. — What the bank, with verdure glowing,

Is to waves that wander near, Whispering kisses, while they 're going, That I '11 be to you, my dear.

She. — But, they say, the bee's a rover,

Who will fly when sweets are gone ; And, when once the kiss is over, Faithless brooks will wander on.

He. — Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,

If sunny banks will wear away, 'Tis but right, that bees and brooks

Should sip and kiss them, while they may

LOVE AND THE NOVICE.

" HERE we dwell, in holiest bowers,

" Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend ; " Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers " To heaven in mingled odour ascend. " Do not disturb our calm, oh Love ! " So like is thy form to the cherubs above, " It well might deceive such hearts as ours." E 2

52 IRISH MELODIES.

Love stood near the Novice and listen'd,

And Love is no novice in taking a hint ; His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten'd ; His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint. " Who would have thought," the urchin cries, " That Love could so well, so gravely disguise " His wandering wings, and wounding eyes ? "

Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise. He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping, He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs. Love is the saint enshrin'd in thy breast, And angels themselves would admit such a guest, If he came to them cloth'd in Piety's vest.

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

THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes. Tha^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.

IRISH MELODIES. 53

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,

Thro' fields full of light, 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 flowers on the margin have wasted,

And left their light urns all as empty as mine. But pledge me the goblet — while Idleness weaves

These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fall'n on the leaves

From her fountain divine, 't is sufficient for me.

OH THE SHAMROCK.

THROUGH Erin's Isle, To sport awhile, As Love and Valour wander'd, With Wit, the sprite, Whose quiver bright A thousand arrows squander'd ; Where'er they pass, A triple grass f Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,

• " Proposito florem praetulit officio."

PROPERT. lib. i eleg. 20.

f St. Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trefoil, to which in Ireland we give the name of Shamrock, in

54 IRISH MELODIES.

As softly green As emerald seen Thro' purest crystal gleaming. Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock !

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock !

Says Valour, " See, " They spring for me, " Those leafy gems of morning ! " — Says Love, " No, no, " For me they grow, " My fragrant path adorning." But Wit perceives The triple leaves, And cries, " Oh ! do not sever " A type that blends " Three godlike friends, "Love, Valour, Wit, for ever ! " Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal, Shamrock !

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock !

explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the Pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoptio* of this plant as a national emblem. Hope, among the Ancients, was sometimes re- presented as a beautiful child, standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil, or three-coloured grass, in her hand.

IRISH MELODIES. 55

So firmly fond

May last the bond They wove that morn together,

And ne'er may fall

One drop of gall On Wit's celestial feather !

May Love, as twine

His flowers divine, Of thorny falsehood weed 'em !

May Valour ne'er

His standard rear Against the cause of Freedom ! Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock ! Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock !

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.

AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we lov'd, when life shone warm in thine

eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions

of air, To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me

there,

And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky ! E 4

Y\\

56 IRISH MELODIES.

Then I sing the wild song 't was once such pleasure to hear, "When our voices commingling breath'd, like one, on the

ear; And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison

rolls, I think, oh my love ! 't is thy voice, from the Kingdom

of Souls, * Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

ONE bumper at parting ! — tho' many

Have circled the board since we met, The fullest, the saddest of any

Remains to be erown'd by us yet. The sweetness that pleasure hath in it

Is always so slow to come forth, That seldom, alas, till the minute

It dies, do we know half its worth. But come, — may our life's happy measure

Be all of such moments made up ; They 're born on the bosom of Pleasure,

They die 'midst the tears of the cup.

* " There are countries," says Montaigne, " where they believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields ; and that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo. "

IRISH MELODIES. 57

As onward we journey, how pleasant

To pause and inhabit awhile Those few sunny spots, like the present,

That 'raid the dull wilderness smile ! But Time, like a pitiless master,

Cries " Onward ! " and spurs the gay hours — ! Ah,jiever doth JDime travel faster,

Than when his way lies among flowers, U But come — may our life's happy measure

Be all of such moments made up ; They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,

They die 'midst the tears of the cup.

We saw how the sun look'd in sinking,

The waters beneath him how bright ; And now let our farewell of drinking

Resemble that farewell of light. You saw how he finish'd, by darting

His beam o'er a deep billow's brim — So, fill up, let's shine at our parting,

In full liquid glory, like him. And oh i may our life's happy measure

Of moments like this be made up ; 'Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure,

It dies 'mid the tears of the cup.

58 IRISH MELODIES.

'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone ; All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone ; No flower of her kindred,

No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To pine on the stem ; Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may / follow,

When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle

The gems drop away ! When true hearts lie wither'd,

And fond ones are flown, Oh ! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone ?

IRISH MELODIES. 59

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

THE young May moon is beaming, love, The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,

How sweet to rove

Through Morna's grove,* When the drowsy world is dreaming, love ! Then awake ! — the heavens look bright, my dear, 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,

And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear.

Now all the world is sleeping, love,

But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

And I, whose star,

More glorious far,

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake ! — till rise of sun, my dear, The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,

Or, in watching the flight

Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

" Steals silently to Morna's grove."

See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's collection, by John Brown, one of my earliest college companions and friends ; whose death was as singularly melancholy and unfortunate as his life had been amiable, honourable, and exemplary.

60 IRISH MELODIES.

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him ; His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him. — " Land of song ! " said the warrior-bard,

"Tho' all the world betrays thee, " One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

" One faithful harp shall praise thee ! "

The Minstrel fell ! — but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under ; The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its cords asunder ; And said, " No chains shall sully thee,

" Thou soul of love and bravery ! " Thy songs were made for the pure and free,

" They shall never sound in slavery!"

IRISH MELODIES. 61

THE SONG OF O'RUARK,

PRINCE OF BREFFNI. *

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.

* These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland ; if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances, as related by O'Halloran: — "The king of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath ; and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, prince of Breflfhi, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns." — The monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II.

" Such," adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation), " is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischiefs in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy."

62 IRISH MELODIES.

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, thro' a million 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 thro' 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 Gruilt.

IK1SH MELODIES. 63

OH1 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.

64 IRISH MELODIES.

FAREWELL ! — BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.

FAREWELL ! — but whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcom'd it too, And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. His griefs may return, not a hope may remain Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain, But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you.

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night ; Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles — Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice had murmur'd, " I wish he were here!"

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy ; "Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy us'd to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd ! Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd — You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

IRISH MELODIES. 65

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. Altho' 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 tho' 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.

66 IRISH MELODIES.

YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.*

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride,

How meekly she bless'd her humble lot, When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,

And love was the light of their lowly cot Together they toil'd through winds and rains,

Till William, at length, in sadness said, " We must seek our fortune on other plains ; " —

Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.

They roam'd a long and a weary way,

Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, When now, at close of one stormy day,

They see a proud castle among the trees. " To night," said the youth, "we'll shelter there ;

" The wind blows cold, the hour is late : " So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air,

And the Porter bow'd as they pass'd the gate.

" Now, welcome, Lady ! " exclaim'd the youth,

" This castle is thine, and these dark woods all ! " She believ'd him craz'd, but his words were truth,

For Ellen is Lady of Eosna Hall ! And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves

What William the stranger woo'd and wed ; And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves,

Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed.

* This ballad was suggested by a well-known and interesting story told of a certain noble family in England.

IRISH MELODIES. 67

I'D MOURN THE HOPES.

I'D mourn the hopes that leave me,

If thy smiles had left me too ; I'd weep when friends deceive me,

If thou wert, like them, untrue. But while I've thee before me,

With heart so warm and eyes so bright, No clouds can linger o'er me,

That smile turns them all to light.

'Tis not in fate to harm me,

While fate leaves thy love to me ; 'Tis not in joy to charm me,

Unless joy be shar'd with thee. One minute's dream about thee

Were worth a long, an endless year Of waking bliss without thee,

My own love, my only dear !

And tho' the hope be gone, love,

That long sparkled o'er our way, Oh ! we shall journey on, love,

More safely, without its ray. Far better lights shall win me

Along the path I 've yet to roam : — The mind that burns within me,

And pure smiles from thee at home. F 2

68 IRISH MELODIES.

Thus, when the lamp that lighted

The traveller at first goes out, He feels awhile benighted,

And looks round in fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing,

By cloudless starlight on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering

As that light which Heaven sheds.

COME O'ER THE SEA.

COME o'er the sea, Maiden, with me,

Mine thro' sunshine, storm and snows j Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes. Let fate frown on, so we love and part not; 'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death were thou art not. Then come o'er the sea, Maiden, with me,

Come wherever the wild wind blows ; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes,

Was not the sea

Made for the Free, Land for courts and chains alone ?

Here we are slaves,

But, on the waves, Love and Liberty 's all our own.

IRISH MELODIES. 69

No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us — Then come o'er the sea, Maiden, with me,

Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows ; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes.

HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED.

HAS sorrow thy young days shaded,

As clouds o'er the morning fleet ? Too fast have those young days faded,

That, even in sorrow, were sweet ? Does Time with his cold wing wither

Each feeling that once was dear ? — Then, child of misfortune, come hither,

I '11 weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has Love to that soul, so tender,

Been like our Lagenian mine, * Where sparkles of golden splendour

All over the surface shine ? But, if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allur'd by the gleam that shone, Ah ! false as the dream of the sleeper,

Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

* Our Wicklow gold-mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve I fear, but too well the character here given of them. F 3

70 IRISH MELODIES.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story, *

That flitted from tree to tree With the talisman's glittering glory —

Has Hope been that bird to thee ? On branch after branch alighting,

The gem did she still display, And, when nearest and most inviting,

Then waft the fair gem away ?

If thus the young hours have fleeted,

When sorrow itself look'd bright ; If thus the fair hope hath cheated,

That led thee along so light ; If thus the cold world now wither

Each feeling that once was dear : — Come, child of misfortune, come hither,

I'll weep with thee tear for tear.

NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers

Of music fall on the sleeper's ear, When, half-awaking from fearful slumbers,

He thinks the full quire of heaven is near, —

* " The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it; but, as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again," &c. — Arabian Nights, Story of Kummir al Zummaun and the Princess of China.

IRISH MELODIES. 71

Than came that voice, when, all forsaken,

This heart long had sleeping lain, Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken

To such benign, blessed sounds again.

Sweet voice of comfort ! 't was like the stealing

Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell — Each secret winding, each inmost feeling

Of all my soul echo'd to its spell ! 'T was whisper'd balm — 'twas sunshine spoken ! —

I'd live years of grief and pain To have my long sleep of sorrow broken

By such benign, blessed sounds again.

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.

WHEN first I met thee, warm and young,

There shone such truth about thee, And on thy lip such promise hung,

I did riot dare to doubt thee. I saw thee change, yet still relied, Still clung with hope the fonder, And thought, tho' false to all beside, From me thou couldst not wander. But go, deceiver ! go, —

The heart, whose hopes could make it Trust one so false, so low, Deserves that thou shouldst break it. F 4

72 IRISH MELODIES.

When every tongue thy follies nam'd,

I fled the unwelcome story ; Or found, in ev'n the faults they blam'd,

Some gleams of future glory. I still was true, when nearer friends Con&pir'd to wrong, to slight thee ; The heart, that now thy falsehood rends, Would then have bled to right thee. But go, deceiver ! go, —

Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken From pleasure's dream, to know The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, tho' youth its bloom has shed,

No lights of age adorn thee : The few, who lov'd thee once, have fled,

And they who flatter scorn thee. Thy midnight cup is pledg'd to slaves,

No genial ties enwreath it ; The smiling there, like light on graves, Has rank cold hearts beneath it.

Go — go — tho' worlds were thine,

I would not now surrender One taintless tear of mine For all thy guilty splendour !

And days may come, thou false one ! yet, When even those ties shall sever ;

When thou wilt call, with vain regret, On her thou'st lost for ever;

IRISH MELODIES. 73

On her who, in thy fortune's fall,

With smiles had still receiv'd thee, And gladly died to prove thee all Her fancy first believ'd thee.

Go — go — 'tis vain to curse,

Tis weakness to upbraid thee; Hate cannot wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made thee.

WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE,

WHILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping

Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves, Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,

For hers was the story that blotted the leaves. 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 - " Thro' ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,

" I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. " For, tho' 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 " One dishonouring blot " On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name !

74 IRISH MELODIES.

" Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,

" The grandest, the purest, ev'n thou hast yet knowii ; " Tho' 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 !"

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

THE time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing

The light that lies

In woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing. Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorn'd the lore she brought me,

My only books

Were woman's looks, And folly's all they've taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted,

Like him the Sprite *

Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that's haunted.

* This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields at dusk; — as long as you keep your eyes

IRISH MELODIES. 75

Like him, too, Beauty won me, But while her eyes were on me,

If once their ray

"Was turn'd away, O ! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going ? And is my proud heart growing

Too cold or wise

For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing ? No- — vain, alas ! th' endeavour From bonds so sweet to sever ; —

Poor Wisdom's chance

Against a glance Is now as weak as ever.

OH, WHERE'S THE SLAVE.

OH, where 's the slave so lowly, Condemn'd to chains unholy,

Who, could he burst

His bonds at first, Would pine beneath them slowly ?

upon him, he is fixed, and in your power ; but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun ; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady Morgan (in a note upon her national and interesting novel, O'Donnel), has given a very different account of that goblin.

76 IRISH MELODIES.

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, Tho' 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.

IRISH MELODIES. 77

Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' 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, — Thro' 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, thro' all the gross clouds of the world ;

When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting, At once, like a Sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd. *

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 !

* " The Sun-burst " was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the royal banner.

78 IKISH MELODIES.

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, baptiz'd 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 danc'd 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 wak'd a new life thro' his frame,

And his soul — like the wood that grows precious in

burning — Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame !

IKISH MELODIES. 79

FILL THE BUMPER FAIR.

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 thro' the frame

It shoots from brimming glasses. Fill the bumper fair I

Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

Sages can, they say,

Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray

From the starr'd dominions : — So we, Sages, sit

And 'mid bumpers bright'ning, 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 ?

80 IRISH MELODIES.

It chanc'd 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,

Kemains 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.

IRISH MELODIES. 81

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.

* 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."

The Chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of " a celebrated conten- tion 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 Brookes's Reliques of Irish Poetry.

82 IRISH MELODIES.

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 heav'nly skill Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,

Thou hang'st upon the willows still.

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 turn'd to shame. Yet even then, while peace was singing

Her halcyon song o'er land and sea, Tho* 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 ev'n the wreaths in which I dress thee

Are sadly mix'd — half flow'rs, half chains ?

IRISH MELODIES. 83

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, ev'n 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.

As slow our ship her foamy track

Against the wind was cleaving, Her trembling pennant still look'd back

To that dear isle 't was leaving : — So loath we part from all we love,

From all the links that bind us ; So turn our hearts, as on we rove,

To those we've left behind us.

When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years

We talk, with joyous seeming, — With smiles that might as well be tears,

So faint, so sad their beaming ; While mem'ry brings us back again

Each early tie that twin'd us, Oh, sweet 's the cup that circles then

To those we've left behind us!

" Dimidio magica? resonant ubi Memnone chordae."— JUVENAL. G 2

84 IRISH MELODIES.

And when, in other climes, we meet

Some isle, or vale enchanting, "Where all looks flow'ry, wild, and sweet,

And nought but love is wanting ; We think how great had been our bliss,

If Heav'n had but assign'd 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 consign'd us, We turn to catch one fading ray

Of joy that's left behind us.

IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.

IN the morning of life, when its cares are unknown,

And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own,

And the light that surrounds us is all from within ; Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time

We can love, as in hours of less transport we may ; • Of our smiles, of our hopes, 't is the gay sunny prime,

But affection is truest when these fade away.

IKISH MELODIES. 85

When we see the first glory of youth pass us by,

Like a leaf on the stream that will never return ; When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high,

First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn ; Then, then is the time when affection holds sway

With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew ; tLove, nurs'd among pleasures, is faithless as they,

But the Love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true.

In climes full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers,

Their sighs have no freshness, their odour no worth ; 'T is the cloud and the mist of our own Isle of showers

That call the rich spirit of fragrancy forth. So it is not 'mid splendour, prosperity, mirth,

That the depth of Love's generous spirit appears ; To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth,

But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears.

WHEN COLD IN THE EARTH.

WHEN cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast lov'd,

Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then ; Or, if from their slumber the veil be remov'd,

Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again. And oh ! if 'tis pain to remember how far

From the pathways of light he was tempted to roam, Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star

That arose on his darkness, and guided him home.

G 3

86 IKISH MELODIES.

From thee and thy innocent beauty first came

The revealings that taught him true love to adore, To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame

From the idols he blindly had knelt to before. O'er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild,

Thou cam'st like a soft golden calm o'er the sea ; And if happiness purely and glowingly smil'd

On his ev'ning horizon, the light was from thee.

And tho', sometimes, the shades of past folly might rise,

And tho' falsehood again would allure him to stray, He but turn'd to the glory that dwelt in those eyes,

And the folly, the falsehood, soon vanish'd away. As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim,

At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair, So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him,

He but flew to that smile, and rekindled it there.

REMEMBER THEE.

REMEMBER thee ? yes, while there's life in this heart, It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art ; More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers, Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free, First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea, I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow, But oh ! could I love, thee more deeoly than now ?

IKISH MELODIES. 87

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs, But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons — Whose hearts, like the young of the desert bird's nest, Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast

WREATH THE BOWL.

WREATH the bowl

With flowers of soul, The brightest Wit can find us ;

We '11 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 '11 drown him if he stings us.

Then, wreath 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. o 4

88 IKISH MELODIES.

'T was nectar fed

Of old, 't is said, Their Junes, 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, wreath 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 !

IRISH MELODIES. 89

Then wreath 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.

WHENE'ER I SEE THOSE SMILING EYES.

WHENE'ER I see those smiling eyes,

So full of hope, and joy, and light, As if no cloud could ever rise,

To dim a heav'n so purely bright — I sigh to think how soon that brow

In grief may lose its every ray, And that light heart, so joyous now,

Almost forget it once was gay.

For time will come with all its blights,

The ruin'd hope, the friend unkind, And love, that leaves, where'er it lights,

A chill'd or burning heart behind : — While youth, that now like snow appears,

Ere sullied by the dark'ning rain, When once 't is touch'd by sorrow's tears

Will never shine so bright again.

90 IRISH MELODIES.

IF THOU 'LT BE MINE.

IP thou 'It be mine, the treasures of air, Of earth, and sea, shall lie at thy feet ;

Whatever in Fancy's eye looks fair,

Or in Hope's sweet music sounds most sweet, Shall be ours — if thou wilt be mine, love!

Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove, A voice divine shall talk in each stream,

The stars shall look like worlds of love, And this earth be all one beautiful dream In our eyes — if thou wilt be mine, love!

And thoughts whose source is hidden and high, Like streams that come from heaven -ward hills,

Shall keep our hearts, like meads that lie To be bath'd by those eternal rills, Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love !

All this and more the Spirit of Love

Can breathe o'er them who feel his spells ;

That heaven which forms his home above, He can make on earth, wherever he dwells, As thou 'It own, if thou wilt be mine, love I

IRISH MELODIES. 91

TO LADIES' EYES.

To Ladies' eyes around, boy,

"We can't refuse, we can't refuse, Tho' bright eyes so abound, boy,

'Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose. For thick as stars that lighten

Yon airy bow'rs, yon airy bow'rs, The countless eyes that brighten

This earth of ours, this earth of ours. But fill the cup — where'er, boy,

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, "We're sure to find 'Love there, boy,

So drink them all ! so drink them all !

Some looks there are so holy,

They seem but giv'n, they seem but giv'n, As shining beacons, solely,

To light to heav'n, to light to heav'n. While some — oh ! ne'er believe them —

"With tempting ray, with tempting ray, Would lead us (God forgive them !)

The other way, the other way. But fill the cup — where'er, boy,

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find Love there, boy,

So drink them all ! so drink them all !

In some as in a mirror,

Love seems pourtray'd, Love seems pour tray'd, But shun the flattering error,

'Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade.

92 IRISH MELODIES.

Himself has fixM his dwelling

In eyes we know, in eyes we know, And lips — but this is telling —

So here they go ! so here they go ! Fill up, fill up — where'er, boy,

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find Love there, boy,

So drink them all ! so drink them all !

FORGET NOT THE FIELD.

FORGET not the field where they perish'd,

The truest, the last of the brave, All gone — and the bright hope we cherish'd

Gone with them, and quench'd in their grave !

Oh ! could we from death but recover Those hearts as they bounded before,

In the face of high heav'n to fight over That combat for freedom once more ; —

Could the chain for an instant be riven Which tyranny flung round us then,

No! 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven, To let Tyranny bind it again !

But 'tis past — and tho' blazon'd in story

The name of our Victor may be, Accurst is the march of that glory

Which treads o'er the hearts of the free.

IRISH MELODIES. 93

Far dearer the grave or the prison

Illum'd by one patriot name, Than the trophies of all who have risen

On Liberty's ruins to fame !

THEY MAY RAIL AT THIS LIFE.

THEY may rail at this life — from the hour I began it,

I found it a life full of kindness and bliss ; And, until they can show me some happier planet,

More social and bright, I'll content me with this. As long as the world has such lips and such eyes,

As before me this moment enraptur'd I see, They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies,

But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

In Mercury's star, where each moment can bring them

New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high, Tho' the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them, *

They 've none, even there, more enamour'd than I. And, as long as this harp can be waken'd to love,

And that eye its divine inspiration shall be, They may talk as they will of their Edens above,

But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

* " Tous les habitans de Mercure sont vifs." — Pluralite des Mondes.

94 IRISH MELODIES.

In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendour,

At twilight so often we 've roam'd through the dew, There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender,

And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you. * But tho' they were even more bright than the queen

Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea, As I never those fair young celestials have seen,

Why — this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation,

Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare, Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station,

Heav'n knows we have plenty on earth we could spare. Oh ! think what a world we should have of it here,

If the haters of peace, of affection, and glee, Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere,

And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me.

OH FOB THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME!

OH for the swords of former time !

Oh for the men who bore them, When, arm'd for Right, they stood sublime,

And tyrants crouch'd before them !

* " La Terre pourra etre pour Venus 1'etoile du berger et la mere des amours, comme Venus Test pour nous." — Pluralite des Mondes.

IRISH MELODIES. 95

When free yet, ere courts began

With honours to enslave him, The best honours worn by Man

Were those which Virtue gave him. Oh for the swords, &c. &c.

Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then !

Oh for the pomp that crown'd them, When hearts and hands of freeborn men

Were all the ramparts round them ! When, safe built on bosoms true,

The throne was but the centre, Bound which Love a circle drew,

That Treason durst not enter. Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then !

Oh for the pomp that crown'd them, When hearts and hands of freeborn men

Were all the ramparts round them !

K

NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.

NE'ER ask the hour — what is it to us

How Time deals out his treasures ? The golden moments lent us thus

Are not his coin, but Pleasure's. If counting them o'er could add to their blisses,

I'd number each glorious second: But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,

Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd.

96 IRISH MELODIES.

Then fill the cup — what is it to ns How Time his circle measures ?

The fairy hours we call up thus Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,

Till Care, one summer's morning, Set up, among his smiling flowers,

A dial by way of warning. But Joy lov'd better to gaze on the sun,

As long as its light was glowing, Than to watch with old Care how the shadow stole on,

And how fast that light was going. So fill the cup — what is it to us

How Time his circle measures ? The fairy hours we call up thus

Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

SAIL ON, SAIL ON.

SAIL on, sail on, thou fearless bark —

Wherever blows the welcome wind, It cannot lead to scenes more dark,

More sad than those we leave behind. Each wave that passes seems to say,

" Though death beneath our smile may be, " Less cold we are, less false than they,

" Whose smiling wreck'd thy hopes and thee."

IEISH MELODIES. 97

Sail on, sail on — through endless space —

Through calm — through tempest — stop no more: The stormiest sea 's a resting-place

To him who leaves such hearts on shore. Or — if some desert land we meet,

Where never yet false-hearted men Profan'd a world that else were sweet, —

Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

THE PARALLEL.

YES, sad one of Sion* — if closely resembling, In shame and in sorrow, thy wither'd-up heart —

If drinking deep, deep of the same "cup of trembling" Could make us thy children, our parent thou art.

Like thee doth our nation lie conquer'd and broken, And fallen from her head is the once royal crown ;

In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken, And, "while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down."f

Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning, Die far from the home it were life to behold ;

Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning, Remember the bright things that bless'd them of old.

* These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jews.

f '« Her sun is gone down while it was yet day." — JER. xv. 9.

H

98 IEISH MELODIES.

Ah, well may we call her like thee, " the Forsaken," * Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves ;

And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken, Have tones mid their mirth like the wind over graves !

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance — yet came there the mor- row

That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night, "When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sor- row, Was shiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy sight.

When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City f Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drench'd her own lips ;

And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity, The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over

Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, And, a ruin, at last, for the earth-worm to cover, $

The Lady of Kingdoms § lay low in the dust.

* " Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken." — ISAIAH, Ixii. 4.

f "How hath the oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased !". — ISAIAH, xiv. 4.

J " Thy pomp is brought down to the grave, .... and the worms cover thee." — ISAIAH, xiv. 1 1 .

§ " Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms."-— ISAIAH, xlvii 5.

IEISH MELODIES.

DRINK OF THIS CUP.

DRINK of this cup — you'll find there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. "Would you forget the dark world we are in,

Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it ; But would you rise above earth, till akin

To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop

of it. Send round the cup — for oh there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — • Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philter form'd with such power

To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing ; Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,

A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. There having, by Nature's enchantment, been fill'd

"With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather This wonderful juice from its core was distilPd

To enliven such hearts as are here brought together. Then drink of the cup — you'll find there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. H2

100 IEISH MELODIES.

And though, perhaps — but breathe it to no one —

Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful, This philter in secret was first taught to flow on,

Yet 'tis n't less potent for being unlawful. And ev'n though it taste of the smoke of that flame

Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden — Fill up — there 's a fire in some hearts I could name,

"Which may work too its charm, though as lawless

and hidden. So drink of the cup — for oh there 's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

DOWN in the valley come meet me to-night, And I'll tell you your fortune truly

As ever 't was told, by the new-moon's light, To a young maiden, shining as newly.

But, for the world, let no one be nigh, Lest haply the stars should deceive me ;

Such secrets between you and me and the sky Should never go farther, believe me.

If at that hour the heav'ns be not dim, My science shall call up before you

A male apparition — the image of him Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.

IRISH MELODIES. 101

And if to that phantom you'll be kind,

So fondly around you he'll hover, You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find

'Twixt him and a true living lover.

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, He 11 kneel, with a warmth of devotion —

An ardour, of which such an innocent sprite You'd scarcely believe had a notion.

What other thoughts and events may arise, As in destiny's book I've not seen them,

Must only be left to the stars and your eyes To settle, ere morning, between them.

OH, YE DEAD!

OH, ye Dead ! oh, ye Dead ! whom we know by the light

you give

From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live,

Why leave you thus your graves,

In far off fields and waves, Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed ;

To haunt this spot, where all

Those eyes that wept your fall, And the hearts that wail'd you, like your own, lie dead ?

II 3

102 IRISH MELODIES.

It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan j And the fair and the brave whom we lov'd on earth are gone ;

But still, thus ev'n in death,

So sweet the living breath Of the fields and the flow'rs in our youth we wander'd o'er,

That ere, condemn'd, we go

To freeze 'mid Hecla's * snow, We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more !

O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS.

OP all the fair months that round the sun In light-linkM dance their circles run,

Sweet May, shine thou for me ; For still, when thy earliest beams arise, That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,

Sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the bright haunts where daylight leaves Its lingering smile on golden eves,

Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me ; For, when the last April sun grows dim, Thy Naiads prepare his steed f for him

Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee.

* Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.

f The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and his White Horse may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or

IRISH MELODIES. 103

Of all the proud steeds that ever bore Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,

White Steed, most joy to thee ; Who still, with the first young glance of spring, From under that glorious lake dost bring

My love, my Chief, to me.

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, When newly launched, thy long mane * curls,

Fair Steed, as white and free ; And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, Glide o'er the blue wave, scattering flowers

Around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,

Most sweet that death will be, Which, under the next May evening's light, When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,

Dear love, I'll die for thee.

more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of May-day, gliding over the lake on his favourite white horse, to the sound of sweet unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path.

Among other stories connected with this Legend of the Lakes it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl, whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning, threw herself into the lake.

* The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, " O'Donohue's white horses."

H 4

104 IRISH MELODIES.

ECHO.

How sweet the answer Echo makes

To Music at night,

When, rousM bj lute or horn, she wakes, And, far away, o'er lawns and lakes,

Goes answering light!

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet, Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star, Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar,

The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,

And only then, —

The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear, Is by that one, that only dear,

Breath'd back again.

OH BANQUET NOT.

OH banquet not in those shining bowers

Where Youth resorts — but come to me For mine's a garden of faded flowers,

More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. And there we shall have our feast of tears,

And many a cup in silence pour ; Our guests, the shades of former years,

Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more.

IKISH MELODIES. 105

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs

Their lifeless leaves around us shed, We '11 brim the bowl to broken vows,

To friends long lost, the chang'd, the dead. Or, while some blighted laurel waves

Its branches o'er the dreary spot, We'll drink to those neglected graves,

Where valour sleeps, unnam'd, forgot.

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

THE dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking, The night's long hours still find me thinking

Of thee, thee, only thee. When friends are met, and goblets crown'd, And smiles are near that once enchanted, Unreach'd by all that sunshine round, My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted By thee, thee, only thee.

Whatever in fame's high path could waken My spirit once is now forsaken

For thee, thee, only thee. Like shores by which some headlong bark

To the ocean hurries, resting never, Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark I know not, heed not, hastening ever To thee, thee, only thee.

106 IRISH MELODIES.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,

And pain itself seems sweet when springing

From thee, thee, only thee. Like spells that nought on earth can break,

Till lips that know the charm have spoken, This heart, howe'er the world may wake Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken By thee, thee, only thee.

SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT.

SHALL the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave To our country a name is withdrawn from all eyes ?

Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave

Where the first — where the last of her Patriots lies ?

No — faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips, Tho' his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost,

Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse,

And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost ! *

What a union of all the affections and powers By which life is exalted, embellish'd, refin'd,

Was embrac'd in that spirit — whose centre was ours, While its mighty circumference circled mankind.

* It is only the first two verses that are either fitted or intended to be sung.

IRISH MELODIES. 107

Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see, Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime —

Like a pyramid rais'd in the desert — where he And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time ;

That one lucid interval, snatch'd from the gloom And the madness of ages, when fill'd with his soul,

A nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her doom, And for one sacred instant, touch'd Liberty's goal —

Who, that ever hath heard him — hath drank at the source

Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force,

And the yet untam'd spring of her spirit are shown ;

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave

Wander'd free and triumphant, with thoughts that

shone through, As clear as the brook's " stone of lustre, " that gave,

With the flash of the gem, its solidity too —

Who, that ever approach'd him, when free from the

crowd,

In a home full of love, he delighted to tread 'Mong the trees which a nation had giv'n, and which

bow'd, As if each brought a new civic crown for his head —

108 IRISH MELODIES.

Is there one who hath thus, through his orbit of life, But at distance observed him — through glory, through blame,

In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,

Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same —

Oh no, not a heart that e'er knew him but mourns

Deep, deep o'er the grave where such glory is shrin'd —

O'er a monument Fame will preserve 'mong the urns Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind.

OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING.

OH, the sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing

O'er files array'd

With helm and blade, And plumes in the gay wind dancing ! When hearts are all high beating, And the trumpet's voice repeating

That song whose breath

May lead to death, But never to retreating. Oh the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing

IRISH MELODIES. 109

O'er files array'd With helm and blade, And plumes in the gay wind dancing.

Yet, 'tis not helm or feather — For ask yon despot, whether

His plumed bauds

Could bring such hands And hearts as ours together. Leave pomps to those who need Jem — Give man but heart and freedom,

And proud he braves

The gaudiest slaves That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. The sword may pierce the beaver, Stone walls in time may sever,

'Tis mind alone,

Worth steel and stone, That keeps men free for ever. Oh that sight entrancing, When the morning's beam is glancing

O'er files array'd

With helm and blade, And in Freedom's cause advancing I

110 IRISH MELODIES.

SWEET INNISF ALLEN.

SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well,

May calm and sunshine long be thine !

How fair thou art let others tell, 1 o feel how fair shall long be mine.

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell In memory's dream that sunny smile

Which o'er thee on that evening fell, When first I saw thy fairy isle.

'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one Who had to turn to paths of care —

Through crowded haunts again to run, And leave thee bright and silent there

No more unto thy shores to come, But, on the world's rude ocean tost,

Dream of thee sometimes, as a home Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hours To part from thee, as I do now,

When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.

For, though unrivall'd still thy grace, Thou dost not look, as then, too blest,

But, thus in shadow, seem'st a place Where erring man might hope to rest —

IRISH MELODIES. Ill

Might hope to rest, and find in thee

A gloom like Eden's on the day He left its shade, when every tree,

Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.

"Weeping or smiling, lovely isle !

And all the lovelier for thy tears — For, tho' but rare thy sunny smile,

'Tis heav'n's own glance when it appears

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few, But, when indeed they come, divine —

The brightest light the sun e'er threw Is lifeless to one gleam of thine.

'T WAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS. *

1T WAS one of those dreams that by music are brought, Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought' "When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on, And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.

The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes, And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er From Dinis' green isle to Glena's wooded shore.

* Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Killarney.

112 IRISH MELODIES.

He listen'd — while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest, The lingering sounds on their way lov'd to rest ; And the echoes sung back from their full mountain quire, As if loth to let song so enchanting expire.

It seem'd as if every sweet note that died here "Was again brought to life in some airier sphere, Some heav'n in those hills, where the soul of the strain That had ceas'd upon earth was awaking again.

Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath Seem'd to circle his name with a charm against death. He should feel a proud Spirit within him proclaim, " Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame :

" Even so, tho' thy memory should now die away,

" 'Twill be caught up again in some happier day,

" And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong,

" Through the answering future, thy name and thy song."

FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE.

FAIREST ! put on awhile

These pinions of light I bring thee, And o'er thy own green isle

In fancy let me wing thee. Never did Ariel's plume,

At golden sunset, hover O'er scenes so full of bloom

As I shall waft thee over.

IRISH MELODIES. 113

Fields, where the Spring delays,

And fearlessly meets the ardour Of the warm Summer's gaze,

With only her tears to guard her. Rocks, through myrtle boughs

In grace majestic frowning ; Like some bold warrior's brows

That Love hath just been crowning.

Islets, so freshly fair,

That never hath bird come nigh them, But from his course thro' air

He hath been won down by them. — * Types, sweet maid, of thee,

Whose look, whose blush inviting, Never did Love yet see

From heav'n, without alighting.

Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,t

And caves, where the gem is sleeping,

Bright as the tears thy lid Lets fall in lonely weeping.

* In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth), Dr. Keating says, " There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to light upon the rock."

f "Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind their ears ; and this we find confirmed by a present made A. c. 1094, by Gilbert, bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, arch- bishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls." — O'HALLORAN.

114 IRISH MELODIES.

Glens *, where Ocean comes,

To 'scape the wild wind's rancour.

And harbours, worthiest homes "Where Freedom's fleet can anchor.

Then, if, while scenes so grand,

So beautiful, shine before thee, Pride for thy own dear land

Should haply be stealing o'er thee, Oh, let grief come first,

O'er pride itself victorious — Thinking how man hath curst

What Heaven had made so glorious

QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND.

QUICK ! we have but a second,

Fill round the cup, while you may: For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd,

And we must away, away ! Grasp the pleasure that 's flying,

For oh ! not Orpheus' strain Could keep sweet hours from dying, Or charm them to life again.

Then, quick ! we have but a second,

Fill round the cup, while you may ; For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd, And we must away, away !

IRISH MELODIES. 115

See the glass, how it flushes,

Like some young Hebe's lip, And half meets thine, and blushes That thou shouldst delay to sip. Shame, oh shame unto thee,

If ever thou see'st that day, When a cup or a lip shall woo thee, And turn untouch'd away !

Then, quick ! we have but a second,

Fill round, fill round, while you may $ For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd, And we must away, away !

AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS.

doth not a meeting like this make amends

For all the long years I've been wand'ring away — To see thus around me my youth's early friends,

As smiling and kind as in that happy day ? Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,

The snow-fall of time may be stealing — what then ? Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,

We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.

What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart, In gazing on those we 've been lost to so long !

The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part. Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng.

As letters some hand hath invisibly trac'd,

When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,

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116 IRISH MELODIES.

So many a feeling, that long seem'd effac'd,

The warmth of a moment like this brings to light.

And thus, as in memory's bark, we shall glide

To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, Tho' oft we may see, looking down on the tide,

The wreck of full many a hope shining through Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers

That once made a garden of all the gay shore, Deceiv'd for a moment, we'll think them still ours,

And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more.*

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,

Is all we can have of the few we hold dear ; And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,

For want of some heart, that could echo it, near. Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone,

To meet in some world of more permanent bliss ; For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on,

Is all we enjoy of each other in this, f

* " Jours charmans, quand je songe a vos heurcux instans, Je pense remonter le fleuve de mes ans ; Et mon coeur enchante sur sarive fleurie Respire encore 1'air pur du matin de la vie."

f The same thought has been happily expressed by my friend Mr. Washington Irving, in his Bracebridge Hall, vol. i. p. 213. The pleasure which I feel in calling this gentleman my friend is much enhanced by the reflection, that he is too good an American to have admitted me so readily to such a distinction; if he had not known that my feelings towards the great and free country that gave him Inrth have long been such as every real lover of the liberty and happiness of the human race must entertain.

IRISH MELODIES. 1 1 7

But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart, The more we should welcome and bless them the more,

They're ours, when we meet, — they are lost, when we part,

v. Like birds that bring summer and fly when 'tis o'er.

Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink, Let Sympathy pledge us, thro' pleasure, thro' pain,

That, fast as a feeling but touches one link, Her magic shall send it direct thro' the chain.

THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE.

IN yonder valley there dwelt, alone,

A youth whose moments had calmly flown,

Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night,

He was haunted and watch'd by a Mountain Sprite.

As once, by moonlight, he wander'd o'er The golden sands of that island shore, A foot-print sparkled before his sight — 'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite]

Beside a fountain, one sunny day,

As bending over the stream he lay,

There peep'd down o'er him two eyes of light,

And he saw in that mirror, the Mountain Sprite.

He turn'd — but, lo, like a startled bird, That spirit fled — and the youth but heard Sweet music, such as marks the flight Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite.

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118 IRISH MELODIES.

One night, still haunted by that bright look,

The boy, bewilder'd, his pencil took,

And, guided only by memory's light,

Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite.

" Oh thou, TV ho lovest the shadow," cried

A voice, low whisprring by his side,

"Now turn and see," — here the youth's delight

Seal'd the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.

" Of all the Spirits of land and sea,"

Then rapt he murmur'd, "there's none like thee,

" And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light

" In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite ! "

AS VANQUISH'D ERIN.

As vanquish'd Erin wept beside

The Boyne's ill-fated river, She saw where Discord, in the tide,

Had dropp'd his loaded quiver. " Lie hid," she cried, " ye venom'd darts,

" Where mortal eye may shun you ; " Lie hid — the stain of manly hearts

" That bled for me is on you."

But vain her wish, her weeping vain, — As Time too well hath taught her —

Each year the Fiend returns again, And dives into that water ;

IRISH MELODIES. 119

And brings, triumphant, from beneath

His shafts of desolation, And sends them, wing'd with worse than death,

Through all her madd'ning nation.

Alas for her who sits and mourns,

Ev'n now, beside that river — Unwearied still the Fiend returns,

And stor'd is still his quiver. "When will this end, ye Powers of Good ?"

She weeping asks for ever j But only hears, from out that flood,

The Demon answer, " Never ! "

DESMOND'S SONG.*

BY the Feal's wave benighted.

No star in the skies, To thy door by Love lighted,

I first saw those eyes.

* " Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally been so engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependents, called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable degradation o/ his family." — LELAND, vol. ii.

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120 IRISH MELODIES.

Some voice wliisper'd o'er me, As the threshold I cro&t,

There was ruin before me, If I lov'd I was lost.

Love came, and brought sorrow

Too soon in his train ; Yet so sweet, that to-morrow

'Twere welcome again. Though misery's full measure

My portion should be, I would drain it with pleasure,

If pour'd out by thee.

You, who call it dishonour

To bow to this flame, If you've eyes, look but on her,

And blush while you blame. Hath the pearl less whiteness

Because of its birth ? Ilnth the violet less brightness

For growing near earth ?

No — Man for his glory

To ancestry flies ; But Woman's bright story

Is told in her eyes. While the Monarch but traces

Thro' mortals his line, Beauty, born of the Graces,

Ranks next to Divine !

IRISH MELODIES. 121

THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

THEY know not my heart, who believe there can be One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee ; Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour, As pure as the morning's first dew on the flow'r, I could harm what I love — as the sun's wanton ray But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.

No — beaming with light as those young features are, There 's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far : It is not that cheek — 'tis the soul dawning clear Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear ; As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair, Is look'd up to the more, because heaven lies there !

I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE.

I WISH I was by that dim Lake* Where sinful souls their farewell take Of this vain world, and half-way lie In death's cold shadow, ere they die.

* These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition, called Patrick's Purgatcry. " In the midst of these gloomy regions of Donegal (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all Christendom, and was the

122 IKISH MELODIES.

There, there, far from thee, Deceitful world, my home should be ; Where, come what might of gloom and pain, False hope should ne'er deceive again.

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound

Of unseen waters falling round j

The dry leaves, quiv'ring o'er my head,

Like man, unquiet ev'n when dead ;

These, ay, these shall wean

My soul from life's deluding scene,

And turn each thought, o'ercharg'd with gloom,

Like willows, downward tow'rds the tomb.

As they, who to their couch at night Would win repose, first quench the light, So must the hopes that keep this breast Awake be quench'd, ere it can rest. Cold, cold, this heart must grow, Unmov'd by either joy or woe, Like freezing founts, where all that 's thrown Within their current turns to stone.

resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every country in Europe."

" It was," as the same writer tells us, " one of the most dismal and dreary spots in the North, almost inaccessible, through deep glens and rugged mountains, frightful with impending rocks, and the hollow murmurs of the western winds in dark caverns, peopled only with such fantastic beings as the mind, however gay, is, from strange association, wont to appropriate to such gloomy scenes." — Strictures on the Ecclesiastical and Literary History of Ireland.

IRISH MELODIES. 123

SHE SUNG OF LOVE.

SHE sung of Love, while o'er her lyre

The rosy rays of evening fell, As if to feed with their soft fire

The soul within that trembling shell. The same rich light hung o'er her cheek,

And play'd around those lips that sung And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak,

If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.

But soon the West no longer burn'd,

Each rosy ray from heav'n withdrew ; And when to gaze again I turn'd,

The minstrel's form seem'd fading too. As if her light and heaven's were one,

The glory all had left that frame ; And from her glimmering lips the tone,

As from a parting spirit, came. *

Who ever lov'd, but had the thought That he and all he lov'd must part ?

Fill'd with this fear, I flew and caught The fading image to my heart —

* The thought here was suggested by some beautiful lines in Mr. Rogers's Poem of Human Life, beginning —

" Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows Less and less earthly."

I would quote the entire passage, but that I fear to put my own humble imitation of it out of countenance.

124 IRISH MELODIES.

And cried, " Oh Love ! is this thy doom ?

" Oh light of youth's resplendent day ! " Must ye then lose your golden bloom,

" And thus, like sunshine, die away ?"

SING— SING— MUSIC WAS GIVEN.

SING — sing — Music was given

To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving ; Souls here, like planets in heaven,

By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,

But Love from the lips his true archery wings ; And she who but feathers the dart when she speaks At once sends it home to the heart when she sings. Then sing — sing — Music was given

To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving ; Souls here, like planets in heaven, By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

When Love, rock'd by his mother,

Lay sleeping, as calm as slumber could make him, " Hush, hush," said Venus, " no other

" Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him/' Dreaming of music he slumber'd the while,

Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke, And Venus, enchanted, look'd on with a smile,

While Love to his own sweet singing awoke.

IRISH MELODIES. 125

Then sing — sing — Music was given

To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving ;

Souls here, like planets in heaven,

By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

THOUGH HUMBLE THE BANQUET.

THOUGH humble the banquet to which I invite thee, Thou 'It find there the best a poor bard can command :

Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light

thee, And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.

And though Fortune may seem to have turn'd from the dwelling

Of him thou regardest her favouring ray, Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,

Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.

'Tis that freedom of mind which no vulgar dominion Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves ;

Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the

pinion, Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

'T is this makes the pride of his humble retreat,

And, with this, though of all other treasures bereav'd,

The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er receiv'd.

126 IRISH MELODIES.

Then, come, — if a board so untempting hath power To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine ;

And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower, Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine.

SING, SWEET HARP.

SING, sweet Harp, oh sing to me

Some song of ancient days, Whose sounds, in this sad memory,

Long buried dreams shall raise ; — — Some lay that tells of vanish'd fame,

Whose light once round us shone : Of noble pride now turn'd to shame,

And hopes for ever gone. — Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me ;

Alike our doom is cast, Both lost to all but memory,

We live but in the past.

How mournfully the midnight air

Among thy chords doth sigh, As if it sought some echo there

Of voices long gone by ; — Of chieftains, now forgot, who seem'd

The foremost then in fame ; Of bards who, once immortal deem'd,

Now sleep without a name ! —

IRISH MELODIES. 127

In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air

Among thy chords doth sigh ; In vain it seeks an echo there

Of voices long gone by.

Couldst thou but call those spirits round.

Who once, in bower and hall, Sate listening to thy magic sound,

Now mute and mouldering all ; — But, no ; they would but wake to weep

Their children's slavery ; Then leave them in their dreamless sleep,

The dead, at least, are free. — Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone,

That knell of Freedom's day, Or, listening to its death-like moan,

Let me, too, die away.

SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE.

Time — the Ninth Century.

TO-MORROW, comrade, we On the battle -plain must be,

There to conquer, or both lie low ! The morning star is up, — But there's wine still in the cup,

And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go ;

We'll take another quaff, ere we go.

128 IRISH MELODIES.

'T is true, in manliest eyes A passing tear will rise,

When we think of the friends we leave lone ; But what can wailing do ? See, our goblet's weeping too !

"With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own;

With its tears we '11 chase away our own.

But daylight's stealing on ; — The last that o'er us shone

Saw our children around us play ; The next — ah ! where shall we And those rosy urchins be ?

But — no matter — grasp thy sword and away, boy, away ;

No matter — grasp thy sword and away i

Let those who brook the chain Of Saxon or of Dane

Ignobly by their fire-sides stay ; One sigh to home be given, One heartfelt prayer to heaven,

Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra ! hurra ! hurra !

Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra !

IRISH MELODIES. 129

WANDERING BARD.

WHAT life like that of the bard can be, The wandering bard, who roams as free As the mountain lark that o'er him sings, And, like that lark, a music brings Within him, where'er he comes or goes, — A fount that for ever flows ! — The world 's to him like some play-ground, Where fairies dance their moonlight round ; If dimm'd the turf where late they trod, The elves but seek some greener sod : So, when less bright his scene of glee, To another away flies he.

Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom,

Without a bard to fix her bloom?

They tell us, in the moon's bright round,

Things lost in this dark world are found ;

So charms, on earth long pass'd and gone,

In the poet's lay live on. —

Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim ?

You've only to give them all to him,

Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand,

Can lend them life, this life beyond,

And fix them high, in Poesy's sky, —

Young stars that never die.

Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes, For, though he hath countless airy homes,

K

130 IRISH MELODIES.

To which his wing excursive roves, Yet still, from time to time he loves To light upon earth and find such cheer As brightens our banquet here. No matter how far, how fleet he flies, You've only to light up kind young eyes, Such signal-fires as here are given, — And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven. The minute such call to love or mirth Proclaims he 's wanting on earth.

ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON.

ALONE in crowds to wander on,

And feel that all the charm is gone

Which voices dear and eyes belov'd

Shed round us once, where'er we rov'd —

This, this the doom must be

Of all who've lov'd, and liv'd to see

The few bright things they thought would stay

For ever near them, die away.

Tho' fairer forms around us throng,

Their smiles to others all belong,

And want that charm which dwells alone

Round those the fond heart calls its own.

Where, where the sunny brow ?

The long-known voice — where are they now ?

Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,

The silence answers all too plain.

IRISH MELODIES. 131

Oh what is Fancy's magic worth,

If all her art cannot call forth

One bliss like those we felt of old

From lips now mute, and eyes now cold !

No, no, — her spell is vain, —

As soon could she bring back again

Those eyes themselves from out the grave,

As wake again one bliss they gave.

I 'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE.

I'VE a secret to tell thee, but hush ! not here, — .

Oh ! not where the world its vigil keeps : I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,

Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps ; Where summer's wave unmurmuring dies,

Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush ; Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,

The rose saith, chidingly, " Hush, sweet, hush!

There, amid the deep silence of that hour,

When stars can be heard in ocean dip, Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,

Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip : Like him, the boy*, who born among

The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush, Sits ever thus, — his only song

To earth and heaven, " Hush, all, hush !"

* The God of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians. K 2

132 IRISH MELODIES.

SONG OF INNISFAIL.

THEY came from a land beyond the sea,

And now o'er the western main Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,

From the sunny land of Spain. " Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams,

Our destin'd home or grave ? " * Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams,

They swept the Atlantic wave.

And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shines

A sparkle of radiant green, As though in that deep lay emerald mines,

Whose light thro' the wave was seen. " 'Tis Innisfail f— 'tis Innisfail ! "

Rings o'er the echoing sea, While, bending to heav'n, the warriors hail

That home of the brave and free.

Then turn'd they unto the Eastern wave,

Where now their Day-God's eye A look of such sunny omen gave

As lighted up sea and sky. Nor frown was seen through sky or sea,

Nor tear o'er leaf or sod, When first on their Isle of Destiny

Our great forefathers trod.

* " Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of a Western Island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit." — KEATING.

f The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland.

IRISH MELODIES. 133

THE NIGHT DANCE.

STRIKE the gay harp ! see the moon is on high,

And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean, Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye,

Obey the mute call, and heave into motion. Then, sound notes — the gayest, the lightest,

That ever took wing, when heav'n look'd brightest !

Again ! Again! Oh ! could such heart-stirring music be heard

In that City of Statues described bj- romancers, So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirr'd,

And statues themselves all start into dancers !

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,

And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us, — While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,

And, list'ning to ours, hang wondering o'er us ? Again, that strain ! — to hear it thus sounding

Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding —

Again ! Again ! Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay,

Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather, Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May,

And mingle sweet song and sunshine together !

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134 IRISH MELODIES.

THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.

THEKE are sounds of mirtli in the night-air ringing,

And lamps from every casement shown ; While voices blithe within are singing,

That seem to say «' Come," in every tone. Ah ! once how light, in Life's young season,

My heart had leap'd at that sweet lay ; Nor paus'd to ask of greybeard Reason

Should I the siren call obey.

And see — the lamps still livelier glitter,

The siren lips more fondly sound; No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter

To sink in your rosy bondage bound. Shall a bard whom not the world in arms

Could bend to tyranny's rude control, Thus quail at sight of woman's charms,

And yield to a smile his freeborn soul ?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,

The nymphs their fetters around him cast, And, — their laughing eyes, the while, concealing, —

Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last. For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,

Was like that rock of the Druid race, * Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,

But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.

* The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to dislodge from their stations.

IRISH MELODIES. 135

OH! ARRANMORE, LOV'D ARRANMORE.

OH ! Arranmore, lov'd Arranmore,

How oft I dream of thee, And of those days when, by thy shore,

I wander'd young and free. Full many a path I've tried, since then,

Through pleasure's flowery maze, But ne'er could find the bliss again

I felt in those sweet days.

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs

At sunny morn I've stood, With heart as bounding as the skiffs

That danc'd along thy flood ; Or, when the western wave grew bright

With daylight's parting wing, Have sought that Eden in its light

Which dreaming poets sing ; — *

That Eden, where th' immortal brave

Dwell in a land serene, — Whose bowers beyond the shining wave,

At sunset, oft are seen.

* " The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail, or the Enchanted Island, the Paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories." — BEAUFORT'S Ancient To- pography of Ireland.

K 4

136 IRISH MELODIES.

Ah dream too full of sadd'ning truth !

Those mansions o'er the main Are like the hopes I built in youth, —

As sunny and as vain !

LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE.

LAY his sword by his side, * — it hath serv'd him too well,

Not to rest near his pillow below ; To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,

Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe. Fellow-labourers in life, let them slumber in death,

Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave, — That sword which he lov'd still unbroke in its sheath,

And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause — for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,

As if breath'd from his brave heart's remains ; — Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,

Once sounded the war-word, " Burst your chains I" And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep,

" Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, " Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep, —

" It hath victory's life in it yet !

* It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favourite swords of their heroes along with them.

HUSH MELODIES. 137

t( Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield,

" Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, " Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd,

" Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. "But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath learn'd the proud use

" Of a falchion like thee on the battle-plain, — " Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose,

" Leap forth from thy dark sheath again ! "

OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS.

OH, could we do with this world of ours As thou dost with thy garden bowers, Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,

What a heaven on earth we'd make it ! So bright a dwelling should be our own, So warranted free from sigh or frown, That angels soon would be coming down,

By the week or month to take it.

Like those gay flies that wing thro' air, And in themselves a lustre bear, A stock of light, still ready there,

Whenever they wish to use it ; So in this world I'd make for thee, Our hearts should all like fire-flies be, And the flash of wit or poesy

Break forth whenever we choose it.

138 IRISH MELODIES.

While ev'ry joy that glads our sphere Hath still some shadow hovering near, In this new world of ours, my dear,

Such shadows will all be omitted : — Unless they are like that graceful one, Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun, Still near thee, leaves a charm upon

Each spot where it hath flitted !

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.

* The palace of Fin Mac-Cumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) in Leinster. It was built on the top of the hill, which has retained from thence the name of the Hill of Allen, in the County of Kildare. The Finians, or Fenii, were the celebrated National Militia of Ireland, which this chief commanded. The introduction of the Danes in the above song is an anachronism common to most of the Finian and Ossianic legends.

IRISH MELODIES. 139

The minstrels have seiz'd 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, 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.

* The name given to the banner of the Irish.

140 IKISH MELODIES.

THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.

THE dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er, Thy triumph hath stain'd the charm thy sorrows then wore, And ev'n of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains, Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.

Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart, That still the dark brand is there, tho' chainless thou art ; And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burn'd, Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn'd ?

Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led, With eyes on her temple fix'd, how proud was thy tread! I Ah, better thou ne'er hadst liv'd that summit to gain, Or died in the porch, than thus dishonour the fane.

FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN.

FROM this hour the pledge is given,

From this hour my soul is thine : Come what will, from earth or heaven,

Weal or woe, thy fate be mine ! When the proud and great stood by thee,

None dar'd thy rights to spurn ; And, if now they're false and fly thee.

Shall I, too, basely turn ?

IRISH MELODIES. 141

No ; — whate'er the fires that try thee, In the same this heart shall burn.

Tho* the sea, where thou embarkest,

Offers now no friendly shore, Light may come where all looks darkest,

\ Hope hath life, when life seems o'er, id of those past ages dreaming,

An

When glory deck'd thy brow, Oft I fondly think, though seeming

So fall'n and clouded now, Thou 'It again break forth, all beaming,

None so bright, so blest as thou.

SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS. *

SILENCE is in our festal halls, —

Sweet Son of Song ! thy course is o'er : In vain on thee sad Erin calls,

Her minstrel's voice responds no more ; — All silent as th' Eolian shell

Sleeps at the close of some bright day, When the sweet breeze, that wak'd its swell

At sunny morn, hath died away.

* It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson.

142 IRISH MELODIES,

Yet at our feasts, thy spirit long,

Awak'd by music's spell, shall rise ; For name so link'd with deathless song

Patrakes its charm and never dies : And ev'n within the holy fane,

When music wafts the soul to heaven, One thought to him, whose earliest strain

Was echo'd there, shall long be given.

But, where is now the cheerful day,

The social night, when, by thy side, He who now weaves this parting lay

His skilless voice with thine allied ; And sung those songs whose every tone,

When bard and minstrel long have«past, Shall still, in sweetness all their own,

Embalm'd by fame, undying last.

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame, —

Or, if thy bard have shar'd the crown, From thee the borrow'd glory came,

And at thy feet is now laid down. Enough, if Freedom still inspire

His latest song, and still there be, As evening closes round his lyre,

One ray upon its chords from thee.

APPEND! X.

ADVERTISEMENT

PREFIXED TO THE

FIRST AND SECOND NUMBERS.*

THOUGH the beauties of the National Music of Ireland have been very generally felt and acknowledged, yet it has happened, through the -want of appropriate English words, and of the arrangement necessary to adapt them to the voice, that many of the most excellent compositions have hitherto remained in obscurity. It is intended, therefore, to form a Collection of the best Original Irish Melodies, with characteristic Symphonies and Accompaniments ; and with Words containing, as frequently as possible, allusions to the manners and history of the country. Sir John Stevenson has very kindly consented to undertake the arrangement of the Airs ; and the lovers of Simple National Music may rest secure, that in such tasteful hands, the native charms of the original melody will not be sacri- ficed to the ostentation of science.

In the poetical Part, promises of assistance have been received from several distinguished Literary Characters ; particularly from Mr. Moore, whose lyrical talent is so peculiarly suited to such a task, and whose zeal in the undertaking will be best understood from the following Extract of a Letter which he has addressed to Sir John Stevenson on the subject : —

I feel very anxious that a work of this kind should be under- taken. We have too long neglected the only talent for which our English neighbours ever deigned to allow us any credit. Our National Music has never been properly collected f ; and, while

* It is, perhaps, necessary to state that the '•' Irish Melodies " were originally published in Numbers, to which the following advertisements, &c., were respectively prefixed.

t The writer forgot, when he made this assertion, that the public are indebted to Mr. Bunting for a very valuable collection of Irish Music ; and that the patriotic genius of Miss Owenson has been employed upon some of our finest airs.

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146 PREFATORY NOTICES.

the composers of the Continent have enriched their Operas and Sonatas -with Melodies borrowed from Ireland, — very often with- out even the honesty of acknowledgment, — we have left these treasures, in a great degree, unclaimed and fugitive. Thus our Airs, like too many of our countrymen, have, for want of protec- tion at home, passed into the service of foreigners. But we are come, I hope, to a better period of both Politics and Music ; and how much they are connected, in Ireland at least, appears too plainly in the tone of sorrow and depression which characterises most of our early Songs.

The task which you propose to me, of adapting words to these airs, is by no means easy. The Poet, who would follow the various sentiments which they express, must feel and understand that rapid fluctuation of spirits, that unaccountable mixture of gloom and levity, which composes the character of my countrymen, and has deeply tinged their Music. Even in their liveliest strains \ve find some melancholy note intrude, — some minor Third or flat Seventh, — which throws its shade as it passes, and makes even mirth interesting. If Burns had been an Irishman, (and I would willingly give up all our claims upon Ossian for him,) his heart would have been proud of such music, and his genius would have made it immortal.

Another difficulty (which is, however, purely mechanical) arises from the irregular structure of many of those airs, and the lawless kind of metre which it will in consequence be necessary to adapt to them. In these instances the Poet must write, not to the eye, but to the ear ; and must be content to have his verses of that description which Cicero mentions, " Quos si cantu spoliaveris nuda remanebitoratio" That beautiful Air, " The Twisting of the Rope," which has all the romantic character of the Swiss Ranz des Vaches, is one of those wild and sentimental rakes which it will not be very easy to tie down in sober wedlock with Poetry. However, notwithstanding all these difficulties, and the very little talent which I can bring to surmount them, the design appears to me so truly National, that I shall feel much pleasure in giving it all the assistance in my power.

Leicestershire, Feb. 1807.

PREFATORY HOTICES. 147

ADVERTISEMENT

TO THE

THIRD NUMBER.

IN presenting the Third Number of this work to the Public, the Pub-, Usher begs leave to offer his acknowledgments for the very liberal patronage with which it has been honoured ; and to express a hope that the unabated zeal of those who have hitherto so admirably con- ducted it, will enable him to continue it through many future Num- bers with equal spirit, variety, and taste. The stock of popular Melodies is far from being exhausted ; and there is still in reserve an abundance of beautiful Airs, which call upon Mr. Moore, in the language he so well understands, to save them from the oblivion to which they are hastening.

LETTER ON MUSIC,

TO

THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGAL.

PREFIXED TO THE THIRD NUMBER.

WHILE the Publisher of these Melodies very properly inscribes them to the Nobility and Gentry of Ireland in general, I have much pleasure in selecting one from that number, to whom my share of the work is particularly dedicated. Though your Ladyship has been so long absent from Ireland, I know that you remember it well and warmly — that you have not allowed the charm of English society, like the taste of the lotus, to produce oblivion of your country, but that even the humble tribute which I offer derives its chief claim i 2

148 PEEFATORY NOTICES.

upon your interest from the appeal which it makes to your patriotism. Indeed, absence, however fatal to some affections of the heart, rather strengthens our love for the land where we were born ; and Ireland is the country, of all others, which an exile from it must remember with most enthusiasm. Those few darker and less amiable traits with which bigotry and misrule have stained her character, and which are too apt to disgust us upon a nearer intercourse, become softened at a distance, or altogether invisible ; and nothing is re- membered but her virtues and her misfortunes — the zeal with which she has always loved liberty, and the barbarous policy which has always withheld it from her — the ease with which her generous spirit might be conciliated, and the cruel ingenuity which has been exerted to " wring her into undutifulness." *

It has been often remarked, and oftener felt, that our music is the truest of all comments upon our history. The tone of defiance, suc- ceeded by the languor of despondency — a burst of turbulence dying away into softness — the sorrows of one moment lost in the levity of the next — and all that romantic mixture of mirth and sadness, which is naturally produced by the efforts of a lively temperament to shake off, or forget, the wrongs which lie upon it, — such are the features of our history and character, which we find strongly and faithfully reflected in our music ; and there are even many airs, which it is difficult to listen to, without recalling some period or event to which their expression seems applicable. Sometimes, when the strain is open and spirited, yet shaded here and there by a mournful recol- lection, we can fancy that we behold the brave allies of Montrose f, marching to the aid of the royal cause, notwithstanding all the per- fidy of Charles and his ministers, and remembering just enough of past sufferings to enhance the generosity of their present sacrifice. The plaintive melodies of Carolan take us back to the times in which he lived, when our poor countrymen were driven to worship their God in caves, or to quit for ever the land of their birth — like the

» A phrase which occurs in a Letter from the Earl of Desmond to the Earl of Ormond, in Elizabeth's time. Scrinia Sacra, as quoted by Curry.

t There are some gratifying accounts of the gallantry of these Irish auxiliaries in " The Complete History of the Wars in Scotland under Montrose " (1660). See particularly, for the conduct of an Irishman at the battle of Aberdeen, chap, vi, p. 49. ; and for a tribute to the bravery of Colonel O'Kyan, chap. vii. p. 55. Claren- don owns that the Marquis of Montrose was indebted for much of his miraculous success to the small band of Irish heroes under Macdonnell.

LETTER ON MUSIC. 149

bird that abandons the nest which human touch has violated ; and in many a song do we hear the last farewell of the exile *, mingling sad regret for the ties he leaves at home, with sanguine expectations of the honours that await him abroad — such honours as were won on the field of Fontenoy, where the valour of Irish Catholics turned the fortune of the day, and extorted from George the Second that memorable exclamation, " Cursed be the laws which deprive me of such subjects ! "

Though much has been said of the antiquity of our music, it is certain that our finest and most popular airs are modern ; and perhaps we may look no further than the last disgraceful century for the origin of most of those wild and melancholy strains which were at once the offspring and solace of grief, and were applied to the mind, as music was formerly to the body, " decantare loca dolentia." Mr. Pinkerton is of opinion f that none of the Scotch popular airs are as old as the middle of the sixteenth century ; and though musical anti- quaries refer us, for some of our melodies, to so early a period as the fifth century, I am persuaded that there are few, of a civilized de- scription (and by this I mean to exclude all the savage Ceanans, Cries J, &c.), which can claim quite so ancient a date as Mr. Pinker- ton allows to the Scotch. But music is not the only subject upon which our taste for antiquity is rather unreasonably indulged ; and, however heretical it may be to dissent from these romantic specula- tions, I cannot help thinking that it is possible to love our country very zealously, and to feel deeply interested in her honour and happiness, without believing that Irish was the language spoken in Paradise § ; that our ancestors were kind enough to take the trouble

* The associations of the Hindu music, though more obvious and defined, were far less touching and characteristic. They divided their songs according to the sea- sons of the year, by which (says Sir William Jones) " they were able to recall the memory of autumnal merriment, at the close of the harvest, or of separation and melancholy during the cold months," &c. — Asiatic Transactions, vol. iii., on the Musical Modes of the Hindus.— What the Abbe du Bos says of the symphonies of Lully, may be asserted, with much more probability, of our bold and impassioned airs — " elles auroient produit de ces effets, qui nous paroissent fabuleux dans le recit des anciens, si on les avoit fait entendre a" des hommes d'un naturel aussi vif que les Athenieus." — Reflex, sur la Pemture, tyc. torn. i. sect. 45.

t Dissertation, prefixed to the 2d volume of his Scottish Ballads.

% Of which some genuine specimens may be found at the end of Mr. Walker's Work upon the Irish bards. Mr. Bunting has disfigured his last splendid volume by too many of these barbarous rhapsodies.

§ See Advertisement to the Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin, L 3

150 PREFATORY NOTICES.

of polishing the Greeks *, or that Abaris, the Hyperborean, was a native of the North of Ireland, f

By some of these archseologists it has been imagined that the Irish were early acquainted with counter-point J ; and they endea- vour to support this conjecture by a well known passage in Giraldus, where he dilates, with such elaborate praise, upon the beauties of our national minstrelsy. But the terms of this eulogy are too vague, too deficient in technical accuracy, to prove that even Giraldus him- self knew any thing of the artifice of counter-point. There are many expressions in the Greek and Latin writers which might be cited, with much more plausibility, to prove that they understood the arrangement of music in parts § ; yet I believe it is conceded in general by the learned, that, however grand and pathetic the melody of the ancients may have been, it was reserved for the ingenuity of modern Science to transmit the "light of Song" through the va- riegating prism of Harmony.

Indeed, the irregular scale of the early Irish (in which, as in the music of Scotland, the interval of the fourth was wanting [j,) must

* O'Halloran, vol. I. part iv. chap. vii.

t Id. ib. chap. vi.

J It is also supposed, but with as little proof, that they understood the diesis, or enharmonic interval.— The Greeks seem to have formed their ears to this delicate gradation of sound ; and, whatever difficulties or objections may lie in the way of its practical use, we must agree with Mersenne (Preludes de r Harmonic, quest. 7.), that the theory of Music would be imperfect without it ; and even in practice (as Tosi, among others, very justly remarks, Observations on Florid Song, chap. i. sect. 16.), there is no good performer on the violin who does not make a sensible difference between D sharp and E flat, though, from the imperfection of the instru- ment, they are the same notes upon the piano-forte. The effect of modulation by enharmonic transitions is also very striking and beautiful.

§ The words treixiXitx, and IrtgoQuviM, in a passage of Plato, and some expressions of Cicero in Fragment, lib. ii. de Republ., induced the Abbe Fraguier to maintain that the ancients had a knowledge of counter- point. M. Burette, however, has answered him, I think, satisfactorily. (Examen d'un Passage de Platon, in the 3d Vol. of Histoire de VAcad.) M. Huet is of opinion (Pensees Diverges), that what Cicero says of the music of the spheres, in his dream of Scipio, is sufficient to prove an acquaintance with harmony ; but one of the strongest passages, which I recollect, in favour of the supposition, occurs in the Treatise attributed to Aristotle — Hip K.6<riu.i>v, — Meua-ixn Se o&ts &,/&«• x»i /3a.£tif, x. r. A.

|| Another lawless peculiarity of our music is the frequency of what composers call consecutive fifths ; but this is an irregularity which can hardly be avoided by persons not very conversant with the rules of composition ; indeed, if I may venture to cite my own wild attempts in this way, it is a fault which I find myself continually committing, and which has sometimes appeared so pleasing to my ear, that I have surrendered it to the critic with no small reluctance. May there not be a little pedantry hi adhering too rigidly to this rule ? — I have been told that there are

LETTER ON MUSIC. 151

have furnished but wild and refractory subjects to the harmonist It was only when the invention of Guido began to be known, and the powers of the harp* were enlarged by additional strings, that our melodies took the sweet character which interests us at present ; and while the Scotch persevered in the old mutilation of the scale f , our music became gradually more amenable to the laws of harmony and counter-point.

In profiting, however, by the improvements of the moderns, our style still keeps its originality sacred from their refinements ; and though Carolan had frequent opportunities of hearing the works of Germiniani and other masters, we but rarely find him sacrificing his native simplicity to the ambition of their ornaments, or affectation of their science. In that curious composition, indeed, called his Concerto, it is evident that he laboured to imitate Corelli ; and this union of manners so very dissimilar, produces the same kind of uneasy sensation which is felt at a mixture of different styles of architecture. In general, however, the artless flow of our music has preserved itself free from all tinge of foreign innovation J, and

instances in Haydn of an undisguised succession of fifths ; and Mr. Shield, in his Introduction to Harmony, seems to intimate that Handel has been sometimes guilty of the same irregularity.

* A singular oversight occurs in an Essay upon the Irish Harp, by Mr. Beauford, •which is inserted in the Appendix to Walker's Historical Memoirs: — " The Irish (says he) according to Bromton, in the reign of Henry II. had two kinds of Harps, ' Hibernici tamen in duobus musici generis instrumentis, quamvis praecipitem et velocem, suavem tamen et jucundum :' the one greatly bold and quick, the other soft and pleasing."— How a man of Mr. Beauford's learning could so mistake the meaning, and mutilate the grammatical construction of this extract, is unaccount- able. The following is the passage as I find it entire in Bromton ; and it requires but little Latin to perceive the injustice which has been done to the words of the old Chronicler : — " Et cum Scotia, hujus terras filia, utatur lyra, tympano et choro, ac Wallia cithara, tubis et choro, Hibernici tamen in duobus musici generis instru- mentis, quamvis prcecipitem et velocem, suavem tamen et jucundam, crispatis mo- dulis et intricatis notulis, efficiunt harmoniam." — Hist. Anglic. Script, page 1075. I should not have thought this error worth remarking, but that the compiler of the Dissertation on the Harp, prefixed to Mr. Bunting's last Work, has adopted it implicitly.

t The Scotch lay claim to some of our best airs, but there are strong traits of difference between their melodies and ours. They had formerly the same passion for robbing us of our Saints, and the learned Dempster was for this offence called " The Saint Stealer." It was an Irishman, I suppose, who, by way of reprisal, stole Dempster's beautiful wife from him at Pisa — See this anecdote in the Pinacolheca of Erythrseus, part i. p. 25.

t Among other false refinements of the art, our music (with the exception perhaps

of the air called " Mamma, Mamma," and one or two more of the same ludicrous

L 4

152 PREFATORY NOTICES.

the chief corruptions of which we have to complain arise from the unskilful performance of our own itinerant musicians, from whom, too frequently, the airs are noted down, encumbered by their taste- less decorations, and responsible for all their ignorant anomalies. Though it be sometimes impossible to trace the original strain, yet, in most of them, " auri per ramos aura refulget*," the pure gold of the melody shines through the ungraceful foliage which surrounds it — and the most delicate and difficult duty of a compiler is to en- deavour, as much as possible, by retrenching these inelegant super- fluities, and collating the various methods of playing or singing each air, to restore the regularity of its form, and the chaste simplicity of its character.

I must again observe, that in doubting the antiquity of our music, my scepticism extends but to those polished specimens of the art, which it is difficult to conceive anterior to the dawn of modern im- provement ; and that I would by no means invalidate the claims of Ireland to as early a rank in the annals of minstrelsy, as the most zealous antiquary may be inclined to allow her. In addition, indeed, to the power which music must always have possessed over the minds of a people so ardent and susceptible, the stimulus of per- secution was not wanting to quicken our taste into enthusiasm ; the charms of song were ennobled with the glories of martyrdom, and the acts against minstrels, in the reigns of Henry VIII. and Eliza- beth, were as successful, I doubt not, in making my countrymen musicians, as the penal laws have been in keeping them Catholics.

With respect to the verses which I have written for these Melo- dies, as they are intended rather to be sung than read, I can answer for their sound with somewhat more confidence than for their sense. Yet it would be affectation to deny that I have given much attention to the task, and that it is not through want of zeal or industry, if I unfortunately disgrace the sweet airs of my country, by poetry altogether unworthy of their taste, their energy, and their tenderness.

Though the humble nature of my contributions to this work may exempt them from the rigours of literary criticism, it was not to be

description,) has avoided that puerile mimicry of natural noises, motions, &c., which disgraces so often the works of even Handel himself. D'Alembert ought to have had better taste than to become the patron of this imitative affectation. See Dis- cours Preliminaire de V Encyclopedic. The reader may find some good remarks on the subject in Avison upon Musical Expression ; a work which, though under the name of Avison, was written, it is said, by Dr. Brown * Virgil, ^neid, lib. vi. verse 204.

LETTER ON MUSIC. 153

expected that those touches of political feeling, those tones of national complaint, in which the poetry sometimes sympathises with the music, would he suffered to pass without censure or alarm. It has been accordingly said, that the tendency of this publication is mis- chievous*, and that I have chosen these airs hut as a vehicle of dangerous politics — as fair and precious vessels (to borrow an image of St. Augustin f), from which the wine of error might be admi- nistered. To those who identify nationality with treason, and who see, in every effort for Ireland, a system of hostility towards Eng- land,— to those, too, who, nursed in the gloom of prejudice, are alarmed by the faintest gleam of liberality that threatens to disturb their darkness — like that Demophon of old, who, when the sun shone upon him, shivered j: — to such men I shall not deign to offer an apology for the warmth of any political sentiment which may occur in the course of these pages. But as there are many, among the more wise and tolerant, who, with feeling enough to mourn over the wrongs of their country, and sense enough to perceive all the danger of not redressing them, may yet think that allusions in the least degree bold or inflammatory should be avoided in a publication of this popular description — I beg of these respected persons to be- lieve, that there is no one who deprecates more sincerely than I do any appeal to the passions of an ignorant and angry multitude ; but that it is not through that gross and inflammable region of society a work of this nature could ever have been intended to circulate. It looks much higher for its audience and readers : it is found upon the piano-fortes of the rich and the educated — of those who can afford to have their national zeal a little stimulated, without exciting much dread of the excesses into which it may hurry them ; and of many whose nerves may be, now and then, alarmed with advantage, as much more is to be gained by their fears than could ever be ex- pected from their justice.

Having thus adverted to the principal objection which has been hitherto made to the poetical part of this work, allow me to add a few words in defence of my ingenious coadjutor, Sir John Stevenson, who has been accused of having spoiled the simplicity of the airs by

* See Letters, under the signatures of Timaeus, &c. in the Morning Post, Pilot, and other papers.

t " Non accuso verba, quasi vasa electa atque pretiosa ; sed vinum erroris quod cum eis nobis propinatur." — Lib. i. Confess, chap. 16.

I This emblem of modern bigots was head-butler (re»*goTaios ) to Alexander the Great. Sext. Empir. Pyrrh. Hypoth. lib. i.

154 PREFATORY NOTICES.

the chromatic richness of his symphonies, and the elaborate variety of his harmonies. We might cite the example of the admirable Haydn, who has sported through all the mazes of musical science, in his arrangement of the simplest Scottish melodies ; but it appears to me, that Sir John Stevenson has brought a national feeling to this task, which it would be in vain to expect from a foreigner, however tasteful or judicious. Through many of his own compositions we trace a vein of Irish sentiment, which points him out as peculiarly suited to catch the spirit of his country's music ; and, far from agree- ing with those fastidious critics who think that his symphonies have nothing kindred with the airs which they introduce, I would say that, in general, they resemble those illuminated initials of old manu- scripts, which are of the same character with the writing which fol- lows, though more highly coloured and more curiously ornamented.

In those airs, which are arranged for voices, his skill has parti- cularly distinguished itself ; and, though it cannot be denied that a single melody most naturally expresses the language of feeling and passion, yet often, when a favourite strain has been dismissed, as having lost its charm of novelty for the ear, it returns, in a har- monised shape, with new claims upon our interest and attention ; and to those who study the delicate artifices of composition, the construction of the inner parts of these pieces must afford, I think, considerable satisfaction. Every voice has an air to itself, a flowing succession of notes, which might be heard with pleasure, indepen- dently of the rest — so artfully has the harmonist (if I may thus express it) gavelled the melody, distributing an equal portion of its sweetness to every part.

If your Ladyship's love of Music were not known to me, I should not have hazarded so long a letter upon the subject ; but as, pro- bably, I may have presumed too far upon your partiality, the best revenge you can take is to write me just as long a letter upon Painting ; and I promise to attend to your theory of the art, with a pleasure only surpassed by that which I have so often derived from your practice of it May the mind which such talents adorn con- tinue calm as it is bright, and happy as it is virtuous 1

Believe me, your Ladyship's

Grateful Friend and Servant,

THOMAS MOORE.

PREFATORY NOTICES. 155

ADVERTISEMENT

TO THE

FOURTH NUMBER.

THIS Number of the Melodies ought to have appeared much earlier; and the writer of the words is ashamed to confess, that the delay of its publication must be imputed chiefly, if not entirely, to him. He finds it necessary to make this avowal, not only for the purpose of removing all blame from the publisher, but in consequence of a rumour, which has been circulated industriously in Dublin, that the Irish Government had interfered to prevent the continuance of the Work.

This would be, indeed, a revival of Henry the Eighth's enact- ments against Minstrels, and it is flattering to find that so much importance is attached to our compilation, even by such persons as the inventors of the report. Bishop Lowth, it is true, was of opinion that one song, like the Hymn to Harmodius, would have done more towards rousing the spirit of the Romans, than all the Philippics of Cicero. But we live in wiser and less musical times ; ballads have long lost their revolutionary powers, and we question if even a " Lillibullero " would produce any very serious consequences at present. It is needless, therefore, to add, that there is iro truth in the report ; and we trust that whatever belief it obtained was founded rather upon the character of the Government than of the Work.

The Airs of the last Number, though full of originality and beauty, were, perhaps, in general, too curiously selected to become all at once as popular as, we think, they deserve to be. The Public are re- markably reserved towards new acquaintances in music, which, per- haps, is one of the reasons why many modern composers introduce none but old friends to their notice. Indeed, it is natural that persons who love music only by association, should be slow in feeling the charms of a new and strange melody ; while those, who have a quick sensibility for this enchanting art, will as naturally seek and enjoy novelty, because in every variety of strain they find a fresh

156 PREFATORY NOTICES.

combination of ideas ; and the sound has scarcely reached the ear, before the heart has rapidly translated it into sentiment. After all, however, it cannot be denied that the most popular of our National Airs are also the most beautiful ; and it has been our wish in the present Number, to select from those Melodies only which have long been listened to and admired. The least known in the collection is the Air of "Love's Young Dream; " but it is one of those easy, artless strangers, whose merit the heart acknowledges instantly.

T. M.

Bury Street, St. James's, Nov. 1811.

ADVERTISEMENT

TO THE

FIFTH NUMBER.

IT is but fair to those who take an interest in this "Work, to state that it is now very near its termination, and that the Sixth Number, which shall speedily appear, will, most probably, be the last of the series. Three volumes will then have been completed, according to the original plan, and the Proprietors desire me to say that a List of Subscribers will be published with the concluding Number.

It is not so much from a want of materials, and still less from any abatement of zeal or industry, that we have adopted the resolution of bringing our task to a close ; but we feel so proud, for our country's sake and our own, of the interest which this purely Irish Work has excited, and so anxious lest a particle of that interest should be lost by any ill-judged protraction of its existence, that we think it wiser to take away the cup from the lip, while its flavour is yet, we trust, fresh and sweet, than to risk any longer trial of the charm, or give so much as not to leave some wish for more. In speaking thus, I allude entirely to the Airs, which are, of course, the main attraction of these volumes; and though we have still many popular and

PREFATORY NOTICES. 157

delightful Melodies to produce *, yet it cannot be denied that we should soon experience some difficulty in equalling the richness and novelty of the earlier numbers, for -which, as we had the choice of all before us, we naturally selected only the most rare and beautiful. The Poetry, too, would be sure to sympathise with the decline of the Music ; and, however feebly my words have kept pace with the excellence of the Airs, they would follow their falling off, I fear, with wonderful alacrity. So that, altogether, both pride and prudence counsel us to stop, while the Work is yet, we believe, flourishing and attractive, and in the imperial attitude " stantes mori" before we incur the charge either of altering for the worse, or what is equally unpardonable, continuing too long the same.

We beg, however, to say, it is only in the event of our failing to find Airs as exquisite as most of those we have given, that we mean thus to anticipate the natural period of dissolution — like those Indians who put their relatives to death when they become feeble — and they who wish to retard this Euthanasia of the Irish Melodies, cannot better effect it than by contributing to our collection, not what are called curious Airs, for we have abundance of them, and they are, in general, only curious, but any real sweet and expressive Songs of our Country, which either chance or research may have brought into their hands.

T. M.

Mai/field Cottage, Ashbournc, December, 1813.

* Among these is Savourna Decllsfh, which I have hitherto only withheld from the diffidence I feel in treading upon the same ground with Mr. Campbell, whose beautiful words to this fine Air have taken too strong possession of all ears and hearts, for me to think of producing any impression after him. I suppose, however, I must attempt it for the next Number.

158 PREFATORY NOTICES.

ADVERTISEMENT

SIXTH NUMBER.

IN presenting this Sixth Number to the Public as our last, and bidding adieu to the Irish Harp for ever, -we shall not answer very confidently for the strength of our resolution, nor feel quite sure that it may not prove, after all, to be only one of those eternal fare- wells which a lover takes of his mistress occasionally. Our only motive, indeed, for discontinuing the Work was a fear that our trea- sures were nearly exhausted, and an unwillingness to descend to the gathering of mere seed-pearl, after the very valuable gems it has been our lot to string together. The announcement, however, of this intention, in our Fifth Number, has excited a degree of anxiety in the lovers of Irish Music, not only pleasant and flattering, but highly useful to us ; for the various contributions we have received in consequence have enriched our collection with so many choice and beautiful Airs, that if we keep to our resolution of publishing no more, it will certainly be an instance of forbearance and self-command unexampled in the history of poets and musicians. To one Gentle- man in particular, who has been many years resident in England, but who has not forgot, among his various pursuits, either the lan- guage or the melodies of his native country, we beg to offer our best thanks for the many interesting communications with which he has favoured us ; and we trust that he and our other friends will not relax in those efforts by which we have been so considerably assisted ; for, though the work must now be considered as defunct, yet — as Reaumur, the naturalist, found out the art of making the cicada sing after it was dead — it is not impossible that, some time or other, we may try a similar experiment upon the Irish Melodies.

T. M.

Mayjield, Ashboitrne, March, 1815.

PKEFATOKY NOTICES. 159

ADVERTISEMENT

TO THE

SEVENTH NUMBER.

IF I had consulted only my own judgment, this Work would not have extended beyond the Six Numbers already published; which contain, perhaps,. the flower of our national melodies, and have at- tained a rank in public favour, of which I would not willingly risk the forfeiture, by degenerating, in any way, from those merits that were its source. Whatever treasures of our music were still in reserve, (and it will be seen, I trust, that they are numerous and valuable,) I would gladly have left to future poets to glean, and, with the ritual words " tibi trado," would have delivered up the torch into other hands, before it had lost much of its light in my own. But the call for a continuance of the work has been, as I understand from the Publisher, so general, and we have received so many contribu- tions of old and beautiful airs *, the suppression of which, for the enhancement of those we have published, would resemble too much the policy of the Dutch in burning their spices, that I have been persuaded, though not without considerable diffidence in my success, to commence a new series of the Irish Melodies.

T. M.

* One Gentleman, in particular, whose name I shall feel happy in being allowed to mention, has not only sent us nearly forty ancient airs, but has communicated many curious fragments of Irish poetry, and some interesting traditions current in the country where he resides, illustrated by sketches of the romantic scenery to which they refer ; all of which, though too late for the present Number, will be ot infinite service to us in the prosecution of our task.

»160 PREFATORY NOTICES.

DEDICATION

TO

THE MARCHIONESS OF HEADFORT,

PREFIXED TO THE

TENTH NUMBER.

IT is with a pleasure, not unmixed with melancholy, that I dedicate the last Number of the Irish Melodies to your Ladyship ; nor can I have any doubt that the feelings with which you receive the tribute will be of the same mingled and saddened tone. To you, who though but little beyond the season of childhood, when the earlier numbers of this work appeared, lent the aid of your beautiful voice, and, even then, exquisite feeling for music, to the happy circle who met, to sing them together, under your father's roof, the gratification, what- ever it may be, which this humble offering brings, cannot be otherwise than darkened by the mournful reflection, how many of the voices which then joined with ours are now silent in death !

I am not without hope that, as far as regards the grace and spirit of the Melodies, you will find this closing portion of the work not unworthy of what has preceded it. The Sixteen Airs, of which the Number and the Supplement consist, have been selected from the immense mass of Irish music which has been for years past accu- mulating in my hands; and it was from a desire to include all that appeared most worthy of preservation, that the four supplementary songs which follow this Tenth Number have been added.

Trusting that I may yet again, in remembrance of old times, hear our voices together in some Of the harmonised airs of this Volume, I have the honour to subscribe myself,

Your Ladyship's faithful Friend and Servant,

THOMAS MOORE. Sloperton Cottage, May, 1834.

INDEX.

-> A--< £ £> >? f >Sr .

' J^v #/?/? Ua / / «-*

Page

After the Battle. 34

Alone in crowds to wander on , 130

And doth not a meeting like this make amends 115

As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow 11

As slow our ship her foamy track 83

As vanquish'd Erin wept beside 118

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping 55

Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin 49

Before the Battle 32

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms 25

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore 46

By the Feal's wave benighted 119

By the hope within us springing. 32

Come o'er the sea 68

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer 76

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief 23

Dear Harp of my country! in darkness I found thee 81

Desmond's Song 119

Down in the valley come meet me to-night 100

Drink of this cup — you'll find there's a spell in 99

Drink to her who long 27

Echo 104

Erin! oh Erin! 26

Erin! the tear and the smile in thine eyes 4

Eveleen's Bower 19

II

162 INDEX.

Page

Fairest! put on awhile 112

Farewell ! — but whenever you welcome the hour 64

Fill the bumper fair 79

Fly not yet ; 'tis just the hour 7

Forget not the field where they perish'd 92

From this hour the pledge is given 140

Go where Glory waits thee 1

Has sorrow thy young days shaded 69

Here we dwell, in holiest bowers 51

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies 14

How oft has the Benshee cried 16

How sweet the answer Echo makes 104

I'd mourn the hopes that leave me 67

If thou'lt be mine, the treasures of air 90

111 Omens 31

In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown 84

In yonder valky there dwelt, alone 117

I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining 78

I saw thy form in youthful prime 45

It is not the tear at this moment shed... 38

I've a secret to tell thee, but hush ! not here 131

I wish I was by that dim Lake 121

Lay his sword by his side , 136

Lesbia hath a beaming eye 43

Let Erin remember the days of old 20

Like the bright lamp that shone in Kildare's holy fane 26

Love and the Novice 51

Love's young Dream 39

My gentle Harp, once more Iwaken 82

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns 48

Ne'er ask the hour — what is it to us 95

Night clos'd around the conqueror's way 34

No. ^ot more welcome the fairy numbers 70

INDEX* 163

Page

O'Donohue's Mistress 102

Of all the fair months that round the sun 102

Oh! Arranmore, lov'd Arranmore 135

Oh banquet not in those shining bowers 104

Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers 28

Oh ! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade 5

Oh! could we do with this world of ours *. 137

Oh! doubt me not .., 65

Oh for the swords of former time 94

Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own 63

Oh ! haste and leave this sacred isle 12

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright .*. 39

Oh, the sight entrancing 108

Oh! the Shamrock 53

Oh! think not my spirits are always as light 8

Oh! 't is sweet to think that where'er we rove ^ 61

Oh ! weep for the hour 19

Oh ! where's the slave so lowly 75

Oh, ye Dead ! oh, ye Dead! whom we know 101

On Music 37

One bumper at parting! — tho' many 56

Quick! we have but a second 114

Remember the glories of Brien the Brave 3

Remember thee ? yes, while there's life in this heart 86

Rich and rare were the gems she wore 10

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark 96

Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave 106

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps 47

She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre 123

Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water 22

Silence is in our festal halls 141

Sing — sing — Music was given 124

Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me 126

Song of Innisfail 132

Song of the Battle Eve 127

Strike the gay harp ! see the moon is on high 133

M 2

164 INDEX.

Page

St. Senanus and the Lady 12

Sublime was the warning that Liberty spoke 23

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well 110

Take back the virgin page 14

The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking 105

The dream of those days 140

Thee, thee, only thee 105

The Fortune-teller 100

The harp that once through Tara's halls 6

The Irish Peasant to his Mistress 36

The Legacy 15

The Meeting of the Waters 11

The Minstrel boy to the war is gone 60

The Mountain Sprite 117

The Night Dance , 133

The Origin of the Harp 38

The Prince's Day 41

The Parallel 97

The Song of Fionnuala 22

' The Song of O'Ruark 61

The time I've lost in wooing 74

The valley lay smiling before me 61

The Wandering Bard 129

The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall 138

The young May moon is beaming, love 59

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 11

There are sounds of mirth 134

They came from a land beyond the sea 132

They know not my heart, who believe there can be 121

They may rail at this life — from the nour I began it 93

This life is all chequered with pleasures and woes 52

Tho' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them 41

Though humble the banquet 125

Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see 9

Through Erin's Isle 53

Through grief and through danger 36

'Tis believ'd that this Harp 38

'Tis gone,' and for ever, the light we saw breaking 77

INDEX. 165

Page

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove 34

'Tis the last rose of summer 58

To Ladies' eyes around, boy 91

To-niorrow, comrade, we 127

'T was one of those dreams that by music are brought Ill

War Song 3

"Weep on, weep on, your hour is past 42

We may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast 18

What life like that of the bard can be 129

What the bee is to the floweret , 51

When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast lov'd 85

When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow 31

Whene'er I see those smiling eyes 89

When first I met thee, warm and young 71

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name 5

When in death I shall calm recline 15

When thro' life unblest we rove 37

While gazing on the moon's light 30

While History's Muse the memorial was keeping 73

Wreath the bowl 87

Yes, sad one of Sion — if closely resembling 97

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride ,..», 66

THE END.

LONDON :

SPOTTISWOODKS and SHAW, New-street-Square.