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 far 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.

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'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own loved island of sorrow.

NAY, TELL ME NOT, DEAR.

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.

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 ev'ry 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 Usnach," which has been translated literally from the Gaelic,. by Mr. O'Flanagan (see vol. i. of Transactions of the Gaelic So ciety 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 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 the Second Number of these Melodies, there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir; "Silent, oh Moyle!" etc.

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiuity, which Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a lasting reproach upon our nation

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwell

ing,*

When Ulad's 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! tho' sweet are our home recollections, Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness

fall;

Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections,

Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.

He. WHAT the bee is to the floweret,

When he looks for honey-dew,

lity, it the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement they so well merit.

"Oh Nasi! view that cloud that I here see in the sky! I see >ver Eman-green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red." — Deir dri's Song.

+ Ulster.

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'll 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."