WHERE IS THE SLAVE? I. WHERE is the slave so lowly, His bonds at first, Would pine beneath them slowly? At once may spring To the throne of Him who made it? Who live to weep our fall! II. Less dear the laurel growing, The brows with victory glowing! And the foe we hate before us! Farewell, ERIN ! farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall! COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. AIR.-Lough Sheeling. I. COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer! Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last! II. Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, III. Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss, 'TIS GONE, AND FOR EVER. AIR.-Savournah Deelish. I. 'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking, Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the deadWhen Man, from the slumber of ages awaking, Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled! 'Tis gone-and the gleams it has left of its burning But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning, And darkest of all, hapless ERIN, o'er thee. II. For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting III. But, shame on those tyrants, who envied the blessing! "The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the Royal Banner. I SAW FROM THE BEACH. AIR.-Miss Molly. I. I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining, I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining,— Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise, So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave, that we danc'd on at morning, ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone. III. Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;— Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning, Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light. IV. Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning, FILL THE BUMPER FAIR. AIR.-Bob and Joan. I. FILL the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Ne'er so swiftly passes, As when thro' the frame It shoots from brimming glasses. Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. II. Sages can, they say, Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray From the starr'd dominions :So we, Sages, sit, And, 'mid bumpers bright'ning, From the Heaven of Wit Draw down all its lightning! III. Wouldst thou know what first For wine's celestial spirit? The living fires that warm us : IV. The careless Youth, when up To hide the pilfer'd fire in.- V. Some drops were in that bowl, Remains of last night's pleasure With which the Sparks of Soul Mix'd their burning treasure. Hence the goblet's shower Hath such spells to win us— Hence its mighty power O'er that Flame within us. Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY! AIR.-New Langolee. I, DEAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,* When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. II. Dear Harp of my Country, farewell to thy numbers, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; * In that rebellious but beautiful Song, "When Erin first rose," there is, if I recollect right, the following line :— "The dark chain of Silence was thrown o'er the deep!" The Chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of "a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almhaim, where the attending Bards, anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook the chain of Silence, and flung themselves among the ranks." See also the Ode to Gaul, the Son of Morni, in MISS BROOKE's Reliques of Irish Poetry. |