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12 |
IRISH MELODIES. |
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Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh ! no—it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should
cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. |
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ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY.
ST. SENANUS.*
" Oh ! haste and leave this sacred isle, " Unholy bark, ere morning smile; " For on thy deck, though dark it be,
" A female form I see; " And I have sworn this sainted sod " Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod."
* In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kilkenny MS., and may be found among the Acta Sanctorum Hibernice, we arc told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his |
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