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When the proud and great stood by thee,
None dared thy rights to spurn;
Shall I, too, basely turn?
In the same this heart shall burn.
Tho' the sea, where thou embarkest,
Offers now no friendly shore,
Hope hath life, when life seems o'er.
When glory deck'd thy brow,
So fall'n and clouded now,
None so bright, so blest as thou !
SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS. *
SILENCE is in our festal halls,
Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er ; In vain on thee sad Erin calls,
Her minstrel's voice responds no more ;All silent as th' Eolian shell
* It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that the lines are meant as a tribute sincere friendship to the memory of an old and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson.
Sleeps at the close of some bright day, When the sweet breeze, that waked its swell
At sunny morn, hath died away.
Yet at our feasts, thy spirit long,
Awaked by music's spell, shall rise ; For, name so link'd with deathless song
Partakes its charm and never dies: And ev'n within the holy fane,
When music wafts the soul to heaven, One thought to him, whose earliest strain
Was echoed there, shall long be given.
But, where is now the cheerful day,
The social night, when, by thy side, He, who now weaves this parting lay,
His skilless voice with thine allied ; And sung those songs
whose every tone, When bard and minstrel long have past, Shall still, in sweetness all their own,
Embalm'd by fame, undying last.
Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,
Or, if thy bard have shared the crown, From thee the borrow'd glory came,
And at thy feet is now laid down. Enough, if Freedom still inspire
His latest song, and still there be, As evening closes round his lyre,
One ray upon its chords from thee.
It is Cicero, I believe, who says “naturâ ad modos ducimur ; and the abundance of wild, indigenous airs, which almost every country, except England, possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The lovers of this simple, but interesting kind of music, are here presented with the first number of a collection, which, I trust, their contributions will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of those half creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering in search of the remainder of themselves through the world. To supply this other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies which have hitherto had none, or only such as are unintelligible to the generality of their hearers, is the object and ambition of the present work. Neither is it our intention to confine ourselves to what are strictly called National Melodies, but, wherever we meet with any wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy home, we shall venture to claim it as an estray swan, and enrich our humble Hippocrene with