1 Ah dream too full of sadd'ning truth! LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE. LAY his sword by his side,* -it hath served him too well Not to rest near his pillow below; To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave, – That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath, And himself unsubdued in his Yet grave. pause for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, As if breathed from his brave heart's remains ; Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear, Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!" And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep, "Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favourite swords of their heroes along with them. 66 "Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep, – "It hath victory's life in it yet! "Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield, "Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, "Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd, "Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. "But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath learn'd the proud use "Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain, "Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose, "Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!" OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS. Он, could we do with this world of ours What a heaven on earth we'd make it! Like those gay flies that wing thro' air, So, in this world I'd make for thee, Break forth whenever we choose it. While ev'ry joy that glads our sphere Such shadows will all be omitted:- THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING. THE wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,* The Palace of Fin Mac-Cumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson; in Leinster. It was built on the top of the hill, which has retained from thence the name of the Hill of Allan, in the county of Kildare. The Fenians, or Fenii, were the celebrated National Militia of Ireland, which this Chief commanded. The introduction of the Danes in the above song is an anachronism common to most of the Finian and Ossianic legends. "Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!" Ev'ry Chief starts up, From his foaming cup, And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry. The minstrels have seized their harps of gold, Breaking forth from their place of slumbers! As the minstrels sang, And the Sun-burst* o'er them floated wide; While rememb'ring the yoke Which their fathers broke, "On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cried Like clouds of the night the Northmen came, While onward moved, in the light of its fame, With the mingling shock Rung cliff and rock, While, rank on rank, the invaders die : And the shout, that last O'er the dying pass'd, Was "victory! victory!". the Finian's cry. * The name given to the banner of the Irish. THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS. THE dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er, Thy triumph hath stain'd the charm thy sorrows then wore; And ev'n of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains, Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains. Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart, That still the dark brand is there, tho' chainless thou art; And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burn'd, Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn'd? Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led, With eyes on her temple fix'd, how proud was thy tread! Ah, better thou ne'er had'st liv'd that summit to gain, Or died in the porch, than thus dishonour the fane. FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN. FROM this hour the pledge is given, |