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REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE

BRAVE.*

WAR SONG.

REMEMBER the glories of Brien the brave,

Tho' the days of the hero are o’er;
Tho’ lost to Mononia † and cold in the grave,

He returns to Kinkora | no more.
That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd

Its beam on the battle, is set;
But enough of its glory remains on each sword,

To light us to victory yet.

Mononia! when Nature embellish'd the tint

Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print

The footstep of slavery there?
No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,

Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, That 't is sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine,

Than to sleep but a moment in chains.

* Brien Boromhe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements. † Munster.

The palace of Brien.

Forget not our wounded companions, who stood *

In the day of distress by our side ; While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood,

They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died. That sun which now blesses our arms with his light,

Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain; Oh ! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night,

To find that they fell there in vain.

ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN

THINE EYES.

ERIN, the tear and the smile in thine eyes,
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies !

Shining through sorrow's stream,
Saddening through pleasure's beam,
Thy suns with doubtful gleam,

Weep while they rise.

* This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favourite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest. — “Let stakes (they said) be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound

“Between seven and eight hundred wounded men (adds O'Halloran) pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops; — never was such another sight exhibited.” History of Ireland, book xii. chap. i.

man."

Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease,
Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,

Till, like the rainbow's light,
Thy various tints unite,
And form in heaven's sight

One arch of peace !

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid :
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it

weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he

sleeps ; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

WHEN HE, WHO ADORES THEE.

WHEN he, who adores thee, has left but the name

Of his fault and his sorrows behind, Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was resign'd?

Yes, weep, and however

my foes may condemn, Thy tears shall efface their decree; For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,

I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;

Every thought of my reason was thine ;
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,

Thy name shall be mingled with mine.
Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live

The days of thy glory to see ; But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give

Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S

HALLS.

The harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,

As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o’er,
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,

Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone, that breaks at night.

Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives,
Is when some heart indignant breaks,

To show that still she lives.

FLY NOT YET.

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids who love the moon. 'T was but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing.

Oh! stay, - Oh! stay, –
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that, oh! 'tis pain

To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd
In times of old through Ammon's shade, *
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began

To burn when night was near.

Solis Fons, near tae Temple of Ammon.

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