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 waked a new life through his frame,
And his soul-like the wood that grows precious in burning—
Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame!

4.-THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.-Moore.

"Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred, no rosebud, 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 I 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?

5.-LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.-Moore.

'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; 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 2 dream. young Though the bard to purer fame may soar, when wild youth 's past; though 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 loved name. No!-that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot which first love traced; still it lingering haunts the greenest spot on memory's waste. "Twas odour fled, as soon as shed; 'twas morning's wingèd 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.

3

6.-RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.-Moore.

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 beauty 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!

7.-SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.-Moore.

hero sleeps,

She is far from the land where her young
And lovers around her are sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking ;-

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

He had lived for his Love,-for his Country he died!
They were all that to life had entwined 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'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West-
From her own lovèd Island of Sorrow!

8.-BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.--Moore.

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 adored, 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 unprofaned by a tear,

That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close:

As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose.

9.-GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.-Moore.

'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. 2 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. 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 used to sing thee,-oh, then, remember me!

10. THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.-Moore.

3

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

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 ceasc,
And our hearts—like thy waters-be mingled in peace!

11. THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.-Moore.

Silent, O 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 furled?

When will heaven, its sweet bells ringing,
Call my spirit from this stormy world?
Sadly, O 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 bells ringing,
Call my spirit to the fields above?

12.-MUSIC.-Moore.

'When through life unblest we rove, losing all that made life dear, should some notes we used 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 voice of song that once was heard in happier hours; filled 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. 3 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 e'en more false than they; oh! 'tis only Music's strain can sweetly soothe, and not betray!

13.-THE MINSTREL-BOY.-Moore.

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,
“Though 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 loved 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!"

14.-DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.-Moore.

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 echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
That even 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 touched 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 waked was thy own.