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If souls could always dwell above,

Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
Or, could we keep the souls we love,

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet,

Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet

Than to remember thee, MARY!*


AIR.-The Brown Irish Girl.

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er, S

* I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite inscription of Shenstone's, “ Heu! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse !"

+ This Ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the County of Wicklow.

ỹ There are many other curious traditions concerning this Lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, etc.

Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
“ Here at least," he calmly said,
66 Woman ne'er shall find


bed." Ah! the good saint little knew What that wily sex can do.


'Twas from KATHLEEN's eyes he flew
Eyes of most unholy blue !
She had loved him well and long,
Wish'd him her's, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her


before him burn'd.


On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;
Dreams of Heaven, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth, nor Heaven is free
From her


if fond she be :

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Even now, while calm he sleeps,
KATHLEEN o'er him leans and



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.

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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!

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AIR.—Open the Door.

1. 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!

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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.

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1. 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 waye 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


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.

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