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48 |
IRISH MELODIES. |
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He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwin'd him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest "When they promise a glorious morrow ;
They '11 shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own lov'd island of sorrow. |
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NAY, TELL ME NOT.
Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
One charm of feeling, one fond regret; Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet. Ne'er hath a beam Been lost in the stream That ever was shed from thy form or soul; The spell of those eyes, The balm of thy sighs, Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl. Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee. |
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