Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly, On the bold cliff's bosom cast, But nor earth nor heaven is free 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; In many eyes, But Love in yours, my Nora Creina. 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. Oh! my Nora's gown for me, That floats as wild as mountain breezes, To sink or swell as Heaven pleases. My simple, graceful Nora Creina, 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? In safer slumber Love reposes- Hath no such light, As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina, 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! THE YOUNG MAY MOON. The young May moon is beaming, love, Through Morna's grove, When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! 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. THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. The time I've lost in wooing, In woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing. Were woman's looks, And folly's all they've taught me. Her smile when Beauty granted, Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that's haunted. Was turned away O! winds could not outrun me. And are those follies going? Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No, vain, alas! th' endeavour From bonds so sweet to sever; Against a glance Is now as weak as ever. DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; VOL. IV. ECHO. How sweet the answer Echo makes When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, Yet Love hath echoes truer far, Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star, The songs repeat. 'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere, And only then,— The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear, Breathed back again! Y |