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On her who, in thy fortune's fall,

With smiles bad still received thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believed thee.

Go-go-'tis vain to curse,

'Tis weakness to upbraid thee; Hate cannot wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made thee.

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WHILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping

Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,

For her's was the story that blotted the leaves. But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,

She saw History write,

With a pencil of light That illumed all the volume, her WELLINGTON's name! 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 Fame;

" But, oh! there is not

6 One dishonouring blot “ On the wreath that encircles my WELLINGTON'S



“ 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

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“Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame

“ And, bright o'er the flood

" Of her tears and her blood, “Let the rainbow of Hope be her WELLINGTON'S



AIR.—Peas upon a Trencher.

The time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing

The light that lies

In Woman's eyes,
Has been my heart's undoing.
Though Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorn'd the lore she brought me,

My only books

Were Woman's looks,
And folly's all they've taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,

Like him, the Sprite,*

Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me,
But while her eyes were on me-

If once their ray

Was turn'd away,
Oh! winds could not outrun me.

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* This alludes to a kind of Irish Fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields, at dusk :-as long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power; but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady Morgan (in a note upon her national and interesting Novel, O'Donnel) has given a very different account of that Goblin.

From bonds so sweet to sever ;

Poor Wisdom's chance

Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever!


AIR.---Sios agus sios liom.

WHERE is the slave, so lowly,
Condemn'd to chains unholy,

Who, could he burst

His bonds at first, Would pine beneath them slowly? What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, Would wait till time decay'd it,

When thus its wing

At once may spring To the throne of Ilim who made it ? Farewell, Erin! --farewell all Who live to weep our fall!

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