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 !

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,

с

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;
No, the heart that has truly lov'd never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turn'd when he rose.

ERIN, OH ERIN.

LIKE the bright lamp that shone in Kildare's holy fane, 19
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. 20 Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past,

And the hope that liv'd thro' it shall blossom at last.

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.

But oh the poet's love

Can boast a brighter sphere;

Its native home 's above,

Tho' woman keeps it here.

1

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, 21

On 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 might 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 ; 22 And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart.

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 't is 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.23

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!

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 ; 24
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

Play'd o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss),
"The moon looks

"On many brooks,

"The brook can see no moon but this ;"25