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Ah dream too full of sadd’ning truth !

Those mansions o'er the main
Are like the hopes I built in youth, –
As
sunny

and as vain!

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,

Its point was still turn’d to a flying foe. Fellow-lab’rers in life, let them slumber in death,

Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave, That sword which he loved still unbroke in its

sheath, And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet

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.

“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 seald,

“Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. “ But, if graspd 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!”

а

66

OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF

OURS.

Oh, could we do with this world of ours
As thou dost with thy garden bowers,
Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,

What a heaven on earth we'd make it!
So bright a dwelling should be our own,
So warranted free from sigh or frown,
That angels soon would be coming down,

By the week or month to take it.

Like those gay flies that wing thro' air,
And in themselves a lustre bear,
A stock of light, still ready there,

Whenever they wish to use it;

So, in this world I'd make for thee,
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,
And the flash of wit or poesy

Break forth whenever we choose it.

While ev'ry joy that glads our sphere
Hath still some shadow hovering near,
In this new world of ours, my dear,

Such shadows will all be omitted :-
Unless they're like that graceful one,
Which, when thou’rt dancing in the sun,
Still near thee, leaves a charm upon

Each spot where it hath Aitted !

THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING.

The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall, *

And its Chief, 'mid his heroes reclining, Looks up, with a sigh, to the trophied wall.

Where his sword hangs idly shining.

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.

When, hark! that shout

From the vale without, “ 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.

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The minstrels have seized their harps of gold,

And they sing such thrilling numbers, 'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old, Breaking forth from their place of slumbers !

Spear to buckler rang,

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,

O'er the valley of Almhin lowering;
While onward moved, in the light of its fame,
That banner of Erin, towering.

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,

From this hour my soul is thine:
Come what will, from earth or heaven,

Weal or woe, thy fate be mine.

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