AVENGING AND BRIGHT.

AVENGING and bright falls the swift sword of Erin1
On him who the brave sons of Usna betray'd—
For every fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in,

A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,2
When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in gore-
By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling,
Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore-

We swear to revenge them!-no joy shall be tasted,
The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed,
Our hall shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted,
Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head!

Yes, monarch! though sweet are our home recollections,
Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall;"
Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections,
Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!"

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,
That, my love, I'll be to you.

She.-What the bank, with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear.

She.-But, they say, the bee's a rover,

Who will fly when sweets are gone;
And, when once the kiss is over,
Faithless brooks will wander on.

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,
If sunny banks will wear away,
'Tis but right that bees and brooks

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;
Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers
To heaven in mingled odour ascend.

Do not disturb our calm, O Love!

So like is thy form to the cherubs above,
It well might deceive such hearts as ours.'

Love stood near the Novice and listen'd,

And Love is no novice in taking a hint;
His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten'd;
His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint.

'Who would have thought,' the urchin cries,
"That Love could so well, so gravely disguise
His wandering wings and wounding eyes?'

Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping,
Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise.
He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping,
He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs.
Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast,

And angels themselves would admit such a guest,
If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest.

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH PLEASURES AND WOES.

THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another like waves of the deep-
Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,
Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,

That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried;
And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,
The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.
But pledge me the cup-if existence would cloy,
With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,

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,
Through fields full of light, and with heart full of play,

Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount,

1

And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.
Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted
The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine,
Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted
And left their light urns all as empty as mine.
But pledge me the goblet-while Idleness weaves
These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see
One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves
From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.

So firmly fond
May last the bond

They wove that morn together,
And ne'er may fall

One drop of gall

On Wit's celestial feather!

May Love, as twine
His flowers divine,

Of thorny falsehood weed 'em!

May Valour ne'er

His standard rear

Against the cause of Freedom!

O the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf

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
To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air,
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!
Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear,
When our voices, commingling, breathed, like one, on the ear;
And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,

I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls,1
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

ONE bumper at parting!-though many
Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any

Remains to be crown'd by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure hath in it
Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas, till the minute

It dies, do we know half its worth.
But come-may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,

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
To pause and inhabit awhile
Those few sunny spots, like the present,
That 'mid the dull wilderness smile!
But Time, like a pitiless master,

Cries, Onward!' and spurs the gay hours-

Ah, never doth time travel faster,

Than when his way lies among flowers.
But come-may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,
They die 'midst the tears of the cup.

We saw how the sun look'd in sinking,
The waters beneath him how bright,
And now let our farewell of drinking
Resemble that farewell of light.
You saw how he finish'd, by darting
His beam o'er a deep billow's brim-
So, fill up, let's shine at our parting,
In full, liquid glory, like him.
And oh! may our life's happy measure
Of moments like this be made up;
Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure,
It dies 'mid the tears of the cup.

TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

"TIs the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,
To give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem ;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away!

When true hearts lie wither'd
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone!

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.
THE Young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,
How sweet to rove

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.