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You saw how he finish'd, by darting
His beam o'er a deep billow's brim-
In full liquid glory, like him.
Of moments like this be made up;
It dies ’mid the tears of the cup!
'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
AIR.--Groves of Blarney.
THE YOUNG MAY-MOON.
How sweet to rove
Through Morna's grove, *
And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days
And I, whose star,
More glorious far,
Or, in watching the flight
Of bodies of light,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
And his wild harp slung behind him.-
“ Tho' all the world betrays thee,
* “ Steals silently to Morna's Grove." See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's collection, by John Brown, one of my earliest college companions and friends, whose death was as singularly melancholy and unfortunate as his life had been amiable, honourable, and exemplary.
Could not bring his proud soul under;
For he tore its chords asunder ;
“ Thou soul of love and bravery!
“ They shall never sound in slavery!”
THE SONG OF O’RUARK, PRINCE OF BREFFNI.*
Where lately I left her behind;
That sadden'd the joy of my mind.
Should shine, when her Pilgrim return'd,
No lamp from the battlements burn'd! These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland ; if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances, as related by O'Halloran. “The king of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O’Ruark, prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O’Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested, to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns.”—The monarch Roderic espoused the cause of O’Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II.
“ Such,” adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation)," is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy.”
As if the lov'd tenant lay dead
But no, the young false one had fled.
My very worst pains into bliss,
When BREFFNI's good sword would have sought
Who dar'd but to doubt thee in thought !
Of Erin, how fall’n is thy fame;
And strangers her valleys profane ;
And tyrants they long will remain !
Go, flesh every sword to the hilt:
On theirs is THE SAXON and GUILT.
OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF
Where the sun loves to pause
With so fond a delay,
A thin veil o'er the day;
There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,
With affection, as free
From decline as the bowers,
Living always on flowers,
FAREWELL !--BUT, WHENEVER YOU WELCOME