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Thoughts that not burn, but shine

Pure, calm, and sweet!

IV.

And, as the records are,

Which wandering seamen keep,
Led by their hidden star

Through the cold deep-
So
may

the words I write
Tell through what storms I stray,
You still the unseen light

Guiding my way!

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When in death I shall calm recline,

O bear my heart to my mistress dear; Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine

Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here;

Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow

To sully a heart so brilliant and light; But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,

To bathe the relic from morn till night.

II.

When the light of my song is o'er,

Then take my harp to your ancient hall; Hang it up at that friendly door,

Where weary travellers love to call.* Then if some bard, who roams forsaken,

Revive its soft note in passing along, Oh! let one thought of its master waken

Your warmest smile for the child of song.

III.

Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing,

To grace your revel when I'm at rest ; Never, oh! never its balm bestowing

On lips that beauty hath seldom blest! But when some warm devoted lover

To her he adores shall bathe its brim,

*“In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were the more caressed the more they excelled in music.”-O’HALLORAN,

Then, then my spirit around shall hover,

And hallow each drop that foams for him.

HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED.

AIR.—The Dear Black Maid.

I.
How oft has the Benshee cried !
How oft has Death untied
Bright links that Glory wove,

Sweet bonds, entwined by Love!
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth !
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth !

Long may the fair and brave
Sigh o'er the hero's grave.

II.
We're fallen upon gloomy days, *
Star after star decays,

* I have endeavoured here, without losing that Irish character which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allade to the sad and ominous fatality by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent and integrity.

Every bright name, that shed

Light o'er the land, is fled.
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth,

But brightly flows the tear
Wept o'er a hero's bier !

III.

Oh! quench'd are our beacon-lights-
Thou, of the hundred fights!*
Thou, on whose burning tonguet

Truth, peace and freedom hung!
Both mute--but long as valour shineth,
Or mercy's soul at war repineth,

So long shall Erin's pride
Tell how they lived and died.

* This designation, which has been applied to LORD NELSON before, is the title given to a celebrated Irish Hero, in a Poem by O'Gnive, the bard of O'Niel, which is quoted in the “ Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland." Page 433. “Con, of the hundred fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories!”

+ Fox, “ ultimus Romanorum."

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We may roam through this world like a child at a feast,

Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest ; And when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, We

may order our wings and be off to the west; But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile,

Are the dearest gifts that Heaven supplies, We never need leave our own green isle,

For sensitive hearts and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, Through this world whether eastward or westward

you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.

Il.

In ENGLAND, the garden of beauty is kept

By a dragon of prudery, placed within call; But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept,

That the garden's but carelessly watch'd after all.

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