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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.

'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,

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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 the Temple of Ammon.

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And thus, should woman's heart and looks

At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,

Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay,-Oh! stay,

When did morning ever break,

And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here?

OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT.

OH! think not my spirits are always as light,

And as free from a pang as they seem to you now; Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow. No:-life is a waste of wearisome hours,

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns ; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns. But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile

May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here, Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows! If it were not with friendship and love intertwin❜d;

And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my

mind.

But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest,

Too often have wept o'er the dream they believ'd; And the heart that has slumber'd in friendship securest,

Is happy indeed if 't was never deceiv'd.

But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth
Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be

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That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth, And the moonlight of friendship console our decline.

THO' THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH
SORROW I SEE.

THO' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;

In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,

I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.

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