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Ain.-Sly Patrick.


Has sorrow thy young days shaded,

As clouds o'er the morning fleet? Too fast have those young days faded,

That, even in sorrow, were sweet? Does Time with his cold wing wither

Each feeling that once was dear ? Then, child of misfortune! come hither, I'll

weep with thee, tear for tear.


Has love to that soul, so tender,

Been like our Lagenian mine, * Where sparkles of golden splendour

All over the surface shineBut, if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allured by the gleam that shone,

* Our Wicklow Gold-Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, the character here given of them.

Ah ! false as the dream of the sleeper,

Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story, *

That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory-

Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,

The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest and most inviting,

Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the sweet hours have fleeted,

When Sorrow herself looked bright;
If thus the fond hope has cheated,

That led thee along so light;
If thus, too, the cold world wither

Each feeling that once was dear ;- ;
Come, child of misfortune! come hither,

weep with thee, tear for tear.

* “ The bird having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The Prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it: bat, as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again,” etc.-Arabian Nights, Story of Kummir al Zummaun and the Princess of China.




No, not more welcome the fairy numbers

Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When, half-awaking from fearful slumbers,

He thinks the full quire of Heaven is near,—
Than came that voice, when, all forsaken,

This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken

To such benign, blessed sounds again.


Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing

Of summer wind through some wreathed shellEach secret winding, each inmost feeling

Of all my soul echoed to its spell! 'Twas whisper'd balm—'twas sunshine spoken !

I'd live years of grief and pain,
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken

By such benign, blessed sounds again!


Air.- Patrick ! fly from me.

When first I met thee, warm and young,

There shone such truth about thee,
And on thy lip such promise hung,

I did not dare to doubt thee.
I saw thee change, yet still relied,

Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, though false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.

go, The heart, whose hopes could make it Trust one so false, so low,

Deserves that thou shouldst break it !

When every tongue thy follies named,

I fled th' unwelcome story;
Or found, in even the faults they blamed,

Some gleams of future glory.
I still was true, when nearer friends

Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;

The heart that now thy falsehood rends,
Would then have bled to right thee.

But go, deceiver! go,

Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken From pleasure's dreain, to know

The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, though youth its bloom has shed,

No lights of age adorn thee ;
The few who loved thee once have fled,

And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,

No genial ties enwreathe it;
The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank, cold hearts beneath it!

Go--go-though worlds were thine,

I would not now surrender
One taintless tear of mine

For all thy guilty splendour !

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And days may come, thou false one! yet,

When even those ties shall sever; When thou wilt call, with vain regret,

On her thou'st lost for ever!

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