NO, NOT MORE WELCOME AIR.-Luggelaw. I. No, not more welcome the fairy numbers Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken II. Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing Of summer wind through some wreathed shellEach secret winding, each inmost feeling Of all my soul echoed to its spell! 'Twas whisper'd balm-'twas sunshine spoken !I'd live years of grief and pain, To have my long sleep of sorrow broken WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. AIR. O Patrick! fly from me. I. WHEN first I met thee, warm and young, The heart, whose hopes could make it Deserves that thou shouldst break it! II. When every tongue thy follies named, Or found, in even the faults they blamed, I still was true, when nearer friends Conspired to wrong, to slight thee; The heart that now thy falsehood rends, Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken III. Even now, though youth its bloom has shed, The few who loved thee once have fled, Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves, The smiling there, like light on graves, I would not now surrender One taintless tear of mine For all thy guilty splendour! IV. And days may come, thou false one! yet, When thou wilt call, with vain regret, On her thou'st lost for ever! On her who, in thy fortune's fall, 'Tis weakness to upbraid thee; Hate cannot wish thee worse Than guilt and shame have made thee. WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE. AIR.-Paddy Whack. I. WHILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping She saw History write, With a pencil of light That illumed all the volume, her WELLINGTON's name! 1 II. "Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies ; "Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, "I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. "For, though Heroes I've number'd, unbless'd was their lot, "And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of "Yet, still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, "The grandest, the purest even thou hast yet known; "Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, "Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. "At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood, Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame— 66 'And, bright o'er the flood |