« EelmineJätka »
LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.
My heart's chain wove ;
Was love, still love!
And days may come
Of milder, calmer beam,
As love's young dream!
When wild youth's past ;
To smile at last ;
A joy so sweet,
In all his noon of fame,
His soul felt-flame,
Which first-love traced ;
On memory's waste !
"Twas odour fled
As soon as shed ;
'Twas morning's winged dream ;
On life's dult stream !
On life's dull stream!
THE PRINCE'S DAY.*
1. THOUGH dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them,
And smile through our tears, like a sun-beam in showers; There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, More form’d to be grateful and bless'd than ours !
Bat, just when the chain
Has ceased to pain,
There comes a new link
Our spirit to sink
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;
Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true ;
While cowards who blight
Your fame, your right,
The Standard of Green
In front would be seen Oh! my life on your faith! were you summon'd this minute,
You'd cast every bitter remembrance away, And show what the arm of old ERIN has in it,
When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day. * This song was written for a fête in honour of the Prince of Wales's Birth-Day, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his seat in the county of Kilkenny.
In hearts which have suffer'd too much to forget ; And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded, And ERIN's gay jubilee shine out yet !
The gem may be broke
By many a stroke,
Each fragment will cast
A light, to the last ! And thus, ERIN, my country! though broken thou art,
There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay ; A spirit which beams through each suffering part,
And now smiles at their pain, on the Prince's Day!
WEEP ON, WEEP ON.
Your dreams of pride are o'er;
And you are men no more!
The sage's tongue hath warn’d in vain ;-
They'll learn to love your name ;
That now must sleep in blame!
Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,
“ Your web of discord wove;
“ But hearts fell off that ought to twine,
“ And man profaned what God hath given, « Till some were heard to curse the shrine
66 Where others knelt to Heaven !”
LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.
But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly,
But what they aim at no one dreameth!
My Nora's lid, that seldom rises ;
Oh, my Nora CREINA, dear!
In many eyes,
But all so close the nymph hath laced it, Not a charm of Beauty's mould
Presumes to stay where Nature placed it! Oh! my NORA's gown for me,
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Yes, my NORA CREINA, dear!
But, when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they're design'd
To dazzle merely or to wound us?
Pillow'd on my Nora's heart,
In safer slumber Love reposes
Oh, my NORA CREINA, dear!
Wit, though bright,
Hath not the Light
I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.
Nor thought that pale decay
And waste its bloom away, MARY!
Which fleets not with the breath;
Yet humbly, calmly glide,
Within their gentle tide, MARY!
Thy radiant genius shone,
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
We ne'er had lost thee here, MARY !
Though fairest forms we see,
Than to remember thee, MARY ! * * I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exqui. site inscription of Shenstone's, “ Heu ! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse !”