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Drink to her, who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh ;
The girl, who gave to song

What gold could never buy.
Oh! woman's heart was made

For minstrel hands alone;
By other fingers play'd,

It yields not half the tone.
Then, here's to her, who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy!

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At Beauty's door of glass

When Wealth and Wit once stood, They ask'd her," which might pass ?” She answer'd," he who could."



With golden key Wealth thought

To pass—but 'twould not do: While Wit a diamond brought,

Which cut his bright way through! So here's to her, who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy!


The Love that seeks a home

Where wealth or grandeur shines, Is like the gloomy gnome

That dwells in dark gold mines. But oh! the poet's love

Can boast a brighter sphere ; Its native home's above,

Though woman keeps it here ! Then drink to her, who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy!

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Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers,

Where Pleasure lies carelessly smiling at Fame ; He was born for much more, and in happier hours

His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,

Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart,

* We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spencer so severely, and, perhaps, truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, “ Were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which gave good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue.”

+ It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following : “ So that Ireland (called the land of Ire, for the constant broils therein for 400 years) was now become the land of concord.” -Lloyd's State Worthies, Art, The Lord Grandison

And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,

Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart!


But alas! for his country her pride is gone by,

And that spirit is broken which never would bend; O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,

For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray; Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their

sires; And the torch, that would light them through dig

nity's way, Must be caught from the pile where their country

expires !


Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure's soft dream,

He should try to forget what he never can heal; Oh! give but a hope-let a vista but gleam Through the gloom of his country, and mark how

he'll feel! That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay dowo

Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored,

While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown,
Like the wreath of HARMODIUS, should cover his


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But, though glory be gone, and though hope fade away,

Thy name, loved Erin ! shall live in his songs ;
Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay

Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs!
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ;

The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,

Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!

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While gazing on the moon's light,

A moment from her smile I turn'd,

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* See the Hymn, attributed to Alcæus, Žr Qos dognow—" I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Harmodius and Aristogiton,” etc.

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