Where joyous youth, to Music's mellow strain,
Twines in the dance with nymphs forever fair,
While Spring eternal on the lilied plain

Waves amber radiance through the fields of air!

The tuneful Nine (so sacred legends tell)

First waked their heavenly lyre these scenes among : Still in your greenwood bowers they love to dwell; Still in your vales they swell the choral song!

But there the tuneful, chaste, Pierian fair,

The guardian nymphs of green Parnassus, now Sprung from Harmonia, while her graceful hair Waved in high auburn o'er her polished brow!

ANTISTROPHE I.

Where silent vales, and glades of green array,
The murmuring wreaths of cool Cephisus lave,
There, as the Muse hath sung, at noon of day,

The Queen of Beauty bowed to taste the wave;

And blessed the stream, and breathed across the land
The soft sweet gale that fans yon summer bowers;
And there the sister Loves, a smiling band,

Crowned with the fragrant wreaths of rosy flowers!

"And go," she cries, "in yonder valleys rove, With Beauty's torch the solemn scenes illume;

Wake in each eye the radiant light of Love,

Breathe on each cheek young Passion's tender bloom!

"Entwine, with myrtle chains, your soft control,
To sway the hearts of Freedom's darling kind!
With glowing charms enrapture Wisdom's soul,
And mould to grace ethereal Virtue's mind."

STROPHE II.

The land where Heaven's own hallowed waters play,
Where friendship binds the generous and the good,
Say, shall it hail thee from thy frantic way,
Unholy woman! with thy hands embrued

In thine own children's gore? O, ere they bleed,
Let Nature's voice thy ruthless heart appal!
Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed-

The mother strikes the guiltless babes shall fall!

Think what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall sting,
When dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear!
Where shalt thou sink, when lingering echoes ring
The screams of horror in thy tortured ear?

No, let thy bosom melt to Pity's cry,—
In dust we kneel-by sacred Heaven implore-
O, stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die,
Nor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore!

ANTISTROPHE II.

Say, how shalt thou that barbarous soul assume,
Undamped by horror at the daring plan?
Hast thou a heart to work thy children's doom?
Or hands to finish what thy wrath began?

When o'er each babe you look a last adieu,

And gaze on Innocence that smiles asleep, Shall no fond feeling beat to Nature true,

Charm thee to pensive thought- and bid thee weep?

When the young suppliants clasp their parent dear,
Heave the deep sob, and pour the artless prayer,
Ay, thou shalt melt; and many a heart-shed tear
Gush o'er the hardened features of despair!

Nature shall throb in every tender string,

Thy trembling heart the ruffian's task deny;
Thy horror-smitten hands afar shall fling
The blade, undrenched in blood's eternal dye.

CHORUS.

Hallowed Earth! with indignation

Mark, O mark, the murderous deed!

Radiant eye of wide creation,

Watch the accursed infanticide!

Yet, ere Colchia's rugged daughter
Perpetrate the dire design,
And consign to kindred slaughter
Children of thy golden line!

Shall mortal hand, with murder gory,
Cause immortal blood to flow?
Sun of Heaven!-arrayed in glory
Rise, forbid, avert the blow!

In the vales of placid gladness
Let no rueful maniac range;
Chase afar the fiend of Madness,
Wrest the dagger from Revenge!

Say, hast thou, with kind protection, Reared thy smiling race in vain ; Fostering Nature's fond affection, Tender cares, and pleasing pain?

Hast thou, on the troubled ocean, Braved the tempest loud and strong, Where the waves, in wild commotion, Roar Cyanean rocks among?

Didst thou roam the paths of danger,
Hymenean joys to prove?
Spare, O sanguinary stranger,
Pledges of thy sacred love!

Ask not Heaven's commiseration,
After thou hast done the deed;
Mercy, pardon, expiation,

Perish when thy victims bleed.

O'CONNOR'S CHILD;

OR,

"THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING."

I.

O, ONCE the harp of Innisfail

Was strung full high to notes of gladness;

But yet it often told a tale

Of more prevailing sadness.

Sad was the note, and wild its fall,
As winds that moan at night forlorn
Along the isles of Fion-Gall,

When, for O'Connor's child to mourn,
The harper told how lone, how far
From any mansion's twinkling star,
From any path of social men,
Or voice, but from the fox's den,
The lady in the desert dwelt ;

And yet no wrongs nor fears she felt;
Say, why should dwell in place so wild
O'Connor's pale and lovely child?

II.

Sweet lady she no more inspires

Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power,

As, in the palace of her sires,

She bloomed a peerless flower.

Gone from her hand and bosom, gone,

The royal broach, the jewelled ring,