Obrázky na stránke

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.


AIR.--Crooghan a Venee.

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

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

* 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


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


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

When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in gore-+ By the billows of war which, so often, high swelling,

Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore !


[ocr errors]

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

The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed;

[ocr errors]


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 anciquity, 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 see over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red.” -Deirdri's Song.

+ Ulster.

Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted,

Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head !

IV. Yes, monarch! though sweet are our home recollections,

Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall ; Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affec

tions, Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all !


AIR.—The Yellow Horse.


He.-What the bee is to the floweret,

When he looks for honey-dew
Through the leaves that close embower it,

That, my love, I'll be to you !
She. What the bank, with verdure glowing,

Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my



She.-But, they say, the bee's a rover,

That he'll fly when sweets are gone;
And, when once the kiss is over,

Faithless brooks will wander on!

He.-Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,


banks will wear away,
'Tis but right that bees and brooks

Should sip and kiss them, while they may.


AIR.–Cean Dubh Delish.


“ Here we dwell, in holiest bowers,

" Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend ; “ Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers “ To Heaven in mingled odour ascend !

“ Do not disturb our calm, oh Love!

“ So like is thy form to the cherubs above, " It well might deceive such hearts as ours.'



Love stood near the Novice and listen'd,

And Love is no novice in taking a hint ;
His laughing blue eyes now with piety glisten'd ;
His rosy wing turn’d to Heaven's own tint.

" Who would have thought," the urchin cries,

" That Love could so well, so gravely disguise “ His wandering wings and wounding eyes ?”


Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping,

Young Novice; to him all thy orisons rise ;
He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping,
He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs.

Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast,
And angels themselves would admit such a

If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest.

« PredošláPokračovať »