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HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.

AIR.-The Twisting of the Rope.

1.

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,

And sun-beams melt along the silent sea,
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

II.
And, as I watch the line of light that plays

Along the smooth wave toward the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays,

And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest!

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Some hand more calm and sage

The leaf must fill. Thoughts come as pure as light,

Pure as even you require ; But oh! each word I write

Love turns to fire.

II.

Yet let me keep the book ;

Oft shall my heart renew,
When on its leaves I look,

Dear thoughts of you!
Like you, 'tis fair and bright;

Like you, too bright and fair To let wild passion write

One wrong wish there !

III.

Haply, when from those eyes

Far, far away I roam, Should calmer thoughts arise

Towards you and home, Fancy may trace some line

Worthy those eyes to meet ;

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!

THE LEGACY.

AIR._Unknown.

I.

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 ;

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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.

IL.

.

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 allude 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.

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