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Even now, while calm he sleeps,
KATHLEEN O'er him leans and weeps.


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Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat ;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah! your saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And, with rude, repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.

V. GLENDALOUGH! thy gloomy wave Soon was gentle KATHLEEN'S grave; Soon the saint (yet, ah! too late) Felt her love and mourn'd her fate. When he said, “ Heaven rest her soul!” Round the Lake light music stole ; And her ghost was seen to glide, Smiling, o'er the fatal tide!


AIR.-Open the Door.


She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers are round her, sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

, For her heart in his grave is lying!


She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,

Every note which he loved awaking.--
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking!

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,

They were all that to life had entwined him,-
Nor soon shall the tears of his country

be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.


Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest,

When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the West,

From her own loved Island of Sorrow!


AIR.-Dennis, don't be threatening.

Nay, tell me not, dear! that the goblet drowns

One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.

Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream
That ever was shed from thy form or soul;

The balm of thy sighs,

The light of thine eyes,
Still float on the surface and hallow my

bowl! Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal

One blissful dream of the heart from me! Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee!

They tell us that Love in his fairy bower

Had two blush-roses, of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower,

But bathed the other with mantling wine.

Soon did the buds,

That drank of the floods
Distill’d by the rainbow, decline and fade;

While those which the tide

Of ruby had dyed All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal

One blissful dream of the heart from me ; Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee.


AFR.--Crooghan a Venee.

I. AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of ERIN *

On him who the brave sons of Usna betray'd !-

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* The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story, called “Deirdri, or the lamentable fate of the sons of Usnach," which has been translated literally from the Gaelic, by Mr. O'FLANAGAN (see vol. 1. of Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin), and upon which it appears that the “ Darthula” of Macpherson is founded. The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which

For every fond he hath waken'd a tear in,
A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her



II. By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,"

When Ulap's three champions lay sleeping in goreBy the billows of war which, so often, high swelling,

Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore !


We swear to revenge them !-no joy shall be tasted,

The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed;

terminated in the destruction of Eman. “ This story (says Mr. O’FLANAGAN) has been from time immemorial held in high repute as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are, • The death of the children of Touran;' • The death of the children of Lear' (both regarding Tuatha de Danans); and this, • The death of the children of Usnach,' which is a Milesian story.”—It will be recollected, that in the Second Number of these Melodies there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir: “Silent, oh Moyle!” etc.

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to anliquity, which Mr. O'FLANAGAN and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement which they merit.

* « Oh Naisi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I sec over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red.” -Deirdri's Song.

+ Ulster.

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