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Talk of the cordial that sparkled for HELEN,

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philter form’d with such power

To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing;
Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,

As a harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. There, having, by Nature's enchantment, been fillid With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest

weather, This wonderful juice from its core was distillid,

To enliven such hearts as are here brought together! Then drink of the cup-you'll find there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortalityTalk of the cordial that sparkled for HELEN,

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

And though, perhaps—but breathe it to no one-

Like caldrons the witch brews at midnight so awful, In secret this philter was first taught to flow on,

Yet-'tisn't less potent for being unlawful. What though it may taste of the smoke of that flame

Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden

Fill up-- there's a fire in some hearts I could name, Which may work too its charm, though now lawless

and hidden. So drink of the cup-for oh there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortalityTalk of the cordial that sparkled for HELEN,

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.


Arr.-Open the Door softly.

Down in the valley come meet me to-night,

And I'll tell you your fortune truly
As ever 'twas told, by the new moon's light,

To young maiden, shining as newly.

But, for the world, let no one be nigh,

Lest haply the stars should deceive me ;
These secrets between you and me and the sky

Should never go farther, believe me.

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If at that hour the heavens be not dim,
My science shall call


A male apparition-the image of him,
Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.

Then to the phantom be thou but kind,

And round you so fondly he'll hover,
You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find

'Twixt him and a true living lover.

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Down at your feet, in the pale moon-light,

He'll kneel, with a warmth of emotion-
An ardour, of which such an innocent sprite

You'd scarcely believe had a notion.



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What other thoughts and events may arise,

As in Destiny's book I've not seen them, Must only be left to the stars and your eyes

To settle, ere morning, between them.

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Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead! whom we know by the

light you give From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like

men who live,

Why leave you thus your graves,

In far off fields and waves, Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,

To haunt this spot, where all

Those eyes that wept your fall, And the hearts that bewail'd


like your own, lie dead ?


It is true—it is true-we are shadows cold and wan;
It is true—it is true—all the friends we loved are gone.

But, oh! thus even in death,
So sweet is still the breath

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Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd


That, ere condemn'd we go

To freeze ʼmid Hecla's* snow, We would taste it awhile, and dream we live once


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Of all the fair months, that round the sun
In light-link'd dance their circles run,


* Paul Zeland mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.

+ The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or, more fully detailed, in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen, on the morning of May-day, gliding over the lake on his favourite white horse, to the sound of sweet, unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring-flowers in his path.

Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the

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