REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE.* WAR SONG. REMEMBER the glories of Brien the brave, Tho' lost to Mononia † and cold in the grave, That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd But enough of its glory remains on each sword, Mononia! when Nature embellish'd the tint No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, That 'tis 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 * While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, 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 ERIN, the tear and the smile in thine eyes, 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 man." "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. Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease, 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, 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, For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; 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, No more to chiefs and ladies bright The chord alone, that breaks at night. Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, Is when some heart indignant breaks, FLY NOT YET. FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour And maids who love the moon. 'Twas 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 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 the Temple of Ammon. |