AVENGING AND BRIGHT. AVENGING and bright falls the swift sword of Erin1 A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade. By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,2 We swear to revenge them!-no joy shall be tasted, Yes, monarch! though sweet are our home recollections, WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. He.-WHAT the bee is to the floweret, When he looks for honey-dew, Through the leaves that close embower it, She.-What the bank, with verdure glowing, She.-But, they say, the bee's a rover, Who will fly when sweets are gone; The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called 'Deirdri; or, the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach,' which has been translated literally from the Gaelic by Mr. O'Flanagan (see vol. i. of Trans. actions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin), and upon which it appears that the 'Darthula' of Macpherson is founded. The treachery of Conor, king of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. This story,' says Mr. O'Flanagan, 'has been from time immemorial held in high repute as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are "The Death of the Children of Touran," ""The Death of the Children of Lear" (both regarding Tuatha de Denans), and this "The Death of the Children of Usnach," which is a Milesian story. At p. 205 of these Melodies will also be found a ballad upon the story of the Children of Lear, or Lir; 'Silent, O Moyle !' &c. Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiquity which Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality, if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement which they merit. 2 O Nasi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red.'-Deirdri's Song. 3 Ulster. He.-Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, Should sip and kiss them while they may. LOVE AND THE NOVICE. 'HERE we dwell in holiest bowers, Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; Do not disturb our calm, O Love! So like is thy form to the cherubs above, Love stood near the Novice and listen'd, And Love is no novice in taking a hint; 'Who would have thought,' the urchin cries, Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, And angels themselves would admit such a guest, THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH PLEASURES AND WOES. THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes, That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy, And the light brilliant Folly that flashes and dies. When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount, 1 And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. So firmly fond They wove that morn together, One drop of gall On Wit's celestial feather! May Love, as twine Of thorny falsehood weed 'em! May Valour ne'er His standard rear Against the cause of Freedom! O the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock! AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT. Ar the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls,1 ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. ONE bumper at parting!-though many Remains to be crown'd by us yet. It dies, do we know half its worth. They die 'midst the tears of the cup. 1 'There are countries,' says Montaigne, where they believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty in delightful fields; and that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo.' 'As onward we journey, how pleasant Cries, Onward!' and spurs the gay hours- Ah, never doth time travel faster, Than when his way lies among flowers. We saw how the sun look'd in sinking, TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. "TIs the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions To reflect back her blushes, I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, When true hearts lie wither'd THE YOUNG MAY MOON. Through Morna's grove,1 When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Steals silently to Morna's Grove.'-See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's colles tion, by John Brown, one of my earliest college companions and friends, whose death was as singa. larly melancholy and unfortunate as his life had been amiable, honourable, and exemplary. |