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 passions write
One wrong wish there.

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.

And, as the records are,

Which wand'ring seamen keep,
Led by their hidden star,
Through winter's deep;
So may the words I write
Tell through what storms I stray,

You still the unseen light,
Guiding my way!

HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.

AIR" The twisting of the Rope."

How dear to me the hour when day-light dies,
And sun beams melt along the silent sea;
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And mem'ry breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

And as I watch the line of light that plays

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

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

THE LEGACY.

WHEN in death I shall calm recline,

O bear my heart to my mistress dear! Tell her it liv'd upon smiles and wine Of the brightest hue, whilst it linger'd here: 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.

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 awaken Your warmest smile for the child of song.

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 have seldom blest;
But when some warm devoted lover,
To her he adores shall bathe its brim,
Oh! then my spirit around shall hover,
And hallow each drop that foams for him.

THE DIRGE.

AIR-"The dear black Maid."

How oft has the Benshee cried,
How oft has death untied
Bright links that glory wove,
Sweet bonds entwin'd 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.

We're fall'n upon gloomy days,*
Star after star decays;
Ev'ry 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 the hero's bier.

Oh! quench'd are our beacon lights,
Thou, of the hundred fights,†
Thou, on whose burning tongue
Truth, peace, and freedom, hung!‡
Both mute-but, long as valour shineth,
Or mercy's soul at war repineth,

* I have endeavoured here, without losing that Irish character which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to that sad and ominous fatality, by which England has been deprived of so manygreat and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent and integrity.

† This designation, which has been applied to lord Nelson before, is the ti tle given to a celebrated Irish hero, in a poem by O'Gnive, the bard of O'Nial, which is quoted in the "Philosophical Survey of the south of Ireland," page 433. Con, of the hundred fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories!"

So long shall Erin's pride
Tell how they liv'd and died.

WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD.

AIR" Garyone."

We may roam through this world, like a child at a feast,

Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest, And when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, We may order our wings and be off to the west. But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile, Are the dearest gift that heav'n supplies, We never need leave our own green isle

For sensitive hearts and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,

When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.

In England, the garden of beauty is kept
By a dragon of prudery, plac'd within call;
But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept,
That the garden's but carelessly watch'd after all.