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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER.
So All 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 'midst the tears of the cup.
OH! WHERE'S THE SLAVE.
Oh! where's the slave so lowly,
Condemn'd to chains unholy,
Who, could he burst his bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly?
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it.
Would wait till time decay'd it,
When thus its wing at once may spring
To the throne of Him who made It?
Farewell, Erin, farewell all
Who live to weep our fall!
Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouch'd and blowing,
Than that, whose braid is plucked to shade
The brow with victory glowing.
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,
The friends we've tried are by our side
And the foe we hate before us.
Farewell, Erin, farewell all
Who live to weep our fall! |
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OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS.
Oh! think not my spirits are always as light.
And as free from a pang, as they seem to you now. Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night
Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow. No—life Is a waste of wearisome hours,
Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers
Is always the first to be touched by the thorns. But send round the bowl, and he happy awhile—
May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here. Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile,
Or the smile that compassion can turn to a tear!
The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows!
If it were not with friendship and love intertwined; And I care not how soon I may sink to repose.
When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind. But they who have loved me the fondest, the purest.
Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed; And the heart that has slumbered In friendship securest
Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceived. But send round the bowl: while a relic of truth
Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine— That the sunshine of love may Illumine our youth.
And the moonlight of friendship console our decline. |
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OH, BREATHE NOT HIS NAME!
Oh, breathe not his name, let It sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid; Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.
But the night-dew that falls, though In silence 1t weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps. And the tear that we shed, though It secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. |
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