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Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Fearless she had tracked his feet
Glendalough, thy gloomy wave
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;
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear,
In many eyes,
Lesbia wears a robe of gold,
But all so close the nymph hath laced it, Not a charm of beauty's mould
Presumes to stay where nature placed it.
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,
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 ? Pillowed on my Nora's heart,
In safer slumber Love reposes-
Oh! my Nora Creina dear,
Wit, tho' bright,
Hath no such light,
AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
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 remembered, even in the sky.
Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear! When our voices commingling breathed, like one, on the ear ;
And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
I think, oh my love ! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls, Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
THE YOUNG MAY MOON.
The young May moon is beaming, love,
How sweet to rove
Through Morna's grove,
And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days,
Now all the world is sleeping, love,
And I, whose star,
More glorious far,
Or, in watching the flight
Of bodies of light,
THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.
The time I've lost in wooing,
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,
Her smile when Beauty granted,
Like him the Sprite,
Whom maids by night
If once their ray
Was turned away
And are those follies going ?
Too cold or wise
For brilliant eyes
Poor Wisdom's chance
Against a glance
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, treedom, 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 echoed 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.
How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,
Goes answering light.
And far more sweet,
The songs repeat.
And only then,-
Breathed back again!