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O'er the brow of Care,

Smoothes away a wrinkle.


Sages can, they say,

Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray

From the starr'd dominions :So We, Sages, sit,

And, 'mid bumpers bright'ning, From the Heaven of Wit Draw down all its lightning!

Fill the bumper, etc.


Wouldst thou know what first

Made our souls inherit This ennobling thirst

For wine's celestial spirit?
It chanced upon that day,

When, as bards inform us,
PROMETHEUS stole away
The living fires that warm us.

Fill the bumper, etc.


The careless Youth, when up

To Glory's fount aspiring,
Took nor urn nor cup

To hide the pilfer'd fire in :-
But oh his joy! when, round

The halls of Heaven spying,
Amongst the stars he found
A bowl of Bacchus lying.

Fill the bumper, etc.


Some drops were in that bowl,

Remains of last night's pleasure,
With which the Sparks of Soul

Mix'd their burning treasure !
Hence the goblet's shower

Hath such spells to win us
Hence its mighty power
O'er that Flame within us.

Fill the bumper, etc.




AIR.--New Langolee.


Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee ;

The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, * When proudly, my own Island Harp! I unbound thee,

And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness

Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,

That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

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In that rebellious but beautiful Song, “When Erin first rose,"

,” there is, if I recollect right, the following line :“ The dark chain of silence was thrown o'er the deep !”

The Chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of “a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almhaim, where the attending Bards, anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook the Chain of Silence, and flung themselves among the ranks." See also the Ode to Gaul, the Son of Morni, in Miss Brooke's Reliques of Irish Poetry

II. Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers,

This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine; Go, sleep, with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,

Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,

Have throbb’d at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone ; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,

And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.

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