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III. Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray; The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again !

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.*
AIR.-The Old Head of Denis.

I.
THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;t
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

II.
Yet, it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill —
Oh! no-it was something more exquisite still.

III.

'Twas that friends the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

IV. Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should

cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace ! * “ The Meeting of the Waters” forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of the year 1807.

+ The rivers Ayon and Avoca.

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IRISH MELODIES.

No. II.

ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY.

AIR.The Brown Thorn.

ST. SENANUS.*
“ OH! haste and leave this sacred isle,

Unholy bark, ere morning smile;
“ For on the deck, though dark it be.

6 A female form 1 see;
And I have sworn this sainted sod
“Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod !"

THE LADY.
“Oh! Father, send not hence my bark
"Through wintry winds and billows dark
6. I come with humble heart to share

“Thy morn and evening prayer;
• Nor mine the feet, oh! holy Saint,

“ The brightness of thy sod to taint.” * In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kilkenny MS. and may be found amongt the Acta Sanctorum Hiberniæ, we are told of his flight to the Island of Scattery, and his resolution not to admit any woman of the party; he refused to receive even a sister saint, St. Cannera, whom an angel had taken to the island, for the express purpose of introducing her to him. The following was the ungracious answer of Senanus, according to his poetical biographer:

Cui Præsul, quid foeminis.
Commune est cum monachis ?
Nec te nec ullam aliam
Admittemus in insulam.

See the Acta Sanct. Hib. page 610. According to Dr. Ledwich, St. Senanus was no less a personage than the river Shannon; but O'Connor, and other Antiquarians, deny this metamorphose indignantly.

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The Lady's prayer Senanus sparn’d ;
The winds blew fresh, the bark return'd.
But legends hint, that had the maid

Till morning's light delay'd,
And given the saint one rosy smile,
She ne'er had left his lonely isle.

HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.

AIR. The Twisting of the Rope.

I.
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!

TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE.
Written on returning a Blank Book.

AIR.- Dermott.

I.
TAKE back the virgin page,

White and unwritten still ;
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;
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow

To sulley 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.* * “ In every house was one or two harps, free to all travel lers, who were the more caressed the more they excelled i music.”-O'HALLORAN.

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,
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.

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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 faitful 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,
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! * 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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