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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, 

I  2 


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. 

3  3 


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. 

I  4 


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 ! 


K.  3 


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. 

L 


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.