V.

O Mary! gifted child of song,
Awake thy tender, melting strain,
That, raptured, wafts the soul along
The shining track of hope again!

VI.

Let Eveleen's sweet numbers tell

Of mountain stream and moonlit grove, Of aged thorn, and fairy dell,

And the wild haunts of peace and love!

VII.

Now let the Exile's master-hand

Sweep boldly o'er the trembling wire, And with bright dreams of fatherland The coldest hearts with love inspire!

VIII.

Juvernicus, awake thy strains,

With sword half-sheathed and half-drawn,

Let those old consecrated fanes

Be first to catch young Freedom's dawn.

IX.

Glenalvon, weave each glowing line
Above the unforgotten brave;

With one sweet wreath of song entwine

The heroes of the "Croppies' Grave."

X.

The Peasant next, with feelings strong,
And soul that cannot brook the chain,
Will tune the harp to Freedom's song,
While Slavery's footprints here remain.

XI.

Raymond of Forth, thy pastoral lay
So sweetly redolent of spring,
Reminds us of a former day,

And all its glories round us fling.

XII.

Come, let us pledge before yon mound,
The Croppies' Grave of ninety-eight;
Let minstrel harps once more resound
Above the silent Stone of Fate!

No. 32

LAMENT

For not knowing the Irish Language, addressed to the Bards assembled in Bardic Session at the grave of the celebrated giant, Diarmuid O'Duibhne, in Barmoney, Co. Wexford.

I.

OH! ask me not to sing to-day,

My heart, my soul is far away

With other tunes ;

My harp's unstrung, my voice is weak,
Let Cormac, Shemus, Donald speak,
Or Mary thoughts of splendour wake
In glorious rhymes.

II.

But let me pass among the throng,
Nor ask for ballad, tale, or song
O'er Diarmuid's breast;

If I have touched with trembling hand
The wild harp on my native strand,
The words were of the Saxon's land,
But ill-expressed.

III.

Alas! I do not know the tongue
My father to his proud harp sung
For king and chief;

That voice is hushed, those strains are o'er,
The bards appear in hall no more,
They sunk amid their country's gore,
And chains, and grief!

IV.

Those strains that oft in moonlight hour, Rose soft and sweet from lady's bower, And haunted grove,

No longer give unmixed delight

To lady fair and crested knight,

Nor breathe in banquet-hall of light
The soul of love.

V.

That language in whose depth there dwells
A tenderness that throws its spells
Around the soul,

Drawing into its magic ring

Each hope that earth left withering,
And making an eternal spring

Light up the soul;

VI.

Or bursting like the earthquakes' shock
From lonely glen or beetling rock,
Spreads terror round;

While trampled plume and cloven crest,
And broken lance and bleeding breast,
And many a dying warrior pressed
The gory ground.

VII.

But, oh! that language scares no more
The tyrant from our native shore

With battle cry;

And yet, neglected as thou art,
I still could take thee to my heart,
And prize thee as the brightest part
Of times gone by.

VIII.

Yes, yes, though persecuted long,
Thy spirit lives enthroned in song,
And yet will blaze

When love and vengeance shall inspire
Some native bard to strike the wire,
And call forth all the latent fire
Of other days.

IX.

Brothers, I'm done, this lowly strain
May never more be heard again
By hill or dell;

Farewell! my heart is with the past,
My words are weak-at random cast
My heart is Erin's to the last,
Farewell! farewell

No. 33.

TO S.

I.

As music on the moonlight sea,
When souls are tuned to melody,
Sends forth each trembling note afar
To you, bright twinkling, evening star;
So does my soul in transport fly

To that lov'd star-this bright black eye.