And if upon her bosom bright

Some drops of dew should fall from thee;

Tell her they are not drops of night,

But tears of sorrow shed by me.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED.

HAD I a heart for falsehood framed,

I ne'er could injure you;

For though your tongue no promise claim'd,

Your charms would make me true.

To you no soul shall bear deceit,

No stranger offer wrong;

But friends in all the aged you'll meet,
And lovers in the young.

But when they learn that you have blest
Another with your heart,

They'll bid aspiring passion rest,
And act a brother's part.

Then, lady, dread not here deceit,

Nor fear to suffer wrong;

For friends in all the aged you'll meet,

And brothers in the young.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE

DIED.

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be.

IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED.

It never through my mind had pass'd

The time would e'er be o'er,

And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain !

But when I speak-thou dost not say,
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er tnou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,

In thinking too of thee.

Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light unseen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore !

CHARLES WOLFE.

257

MARY MAGUIRE.

OH that my love and I

From life's crowded haunts could fly

To some deep shady vale, by the mountain,
Where no sound could make its way
Save the thrush's lively lay,

And the murmur of the clear-flowing fountain:
Where no stranger should intrude

On our hallowed solitude,

Where no kinsman's cold glance could annoy us;

Where peace and joy might shed
Blended blessings o'er our bed,

And love-love alone still employ us.

Still, sweet maiden, may I see

That I vainly talk of thee;

In vain in lost love I lie pining:

I may worship from afar

The beauty-beaming star

That o'er my dull pathway keeps shining:

But in sorrow and in pain

Fond hope will remain,

For rarely from hope can we sever;

Unchanged in good or ill,

One dear dream is cherished still

Oh, my Mary, I must love thee for ever

How fair appears the maid,

In loveliness arrayed,

As she moves forth at dawn's dewy hour;

Her ringlets richly flowing,

And her cheek all gaily glowing,

Like the rose in her blooming bower.

OH, MARY DEAR!

259

Oh, lonely be his life,

May his dwelling want a wife,

And his nights be long, cheerless, and dreary,

Who cold or calm could be,

With a winning one like thee

Or for wealth forsake thee, my Mary!

Translated by THOMAS FURLONG.

OH, MARY DEAR!

OH, Mary dear! bright peerless flower-
Pride of the plains of Nair-

Behold me droop through each dull hour,
In soul-consuming care.

In friends-in wine-where joy was found-
No joy I now can see;

But still, while pleasure reigns around,
I sigh, and think of thee.

The cuckoo's notes I love to hear,

When summer warms the skies; When fresh the banks and braes appear, And flowers around us rise:

That blithe bird sings her song so clear,

And she sings where the sunbeams shine

Her voice is sweet, but, Mary dear,

Not half so sweet as thine.

From town to town I've idly strayed,
I've wandered many a mile;

I've met with many a blooming maid,

And owned her charms the while;

I've gazed on some that then seemed fair,
But when thy looks I see,

I find there's none that can compare,

My Mary dear, with thee!

Translated by THOMAS FURLONG.

SLEEP, MY CHILD! (CUSHEEN LOO!)

SLEEP, my child! for the rustling trees,
Stirr'd by the breath of summer breeze,
And fairy songs of sweetest note,
Around us gently float.

Sleep! for the weeping flowers have shed.
Their fragrant tears upon thy head,
The voice of love hath sooth'd thy rest,
And thy pillow is a mother's breast.

Sleep, my child!

Weary hath pass'd the time forlorn

Since to your mansion I was borne,

Though bright the feast of its airy halls

And the voice of mirth resounds from its walls.

Sleep, my child!

Full many a maid and blooming bride
Within that splendid dome abide-
And many a hoar and shrivell'd sage,
And many a matron bow'd with age.

Sleep, my child!

Oh thou who hearest this song of fear,
To the mourner's home these tidings bear ;
Bid him bring the knife of the magic blade,
At whose lightning-flash the charm will fade.

Sleep, my child !