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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
177 |
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NAY, TELL ME NOT, DEAR.
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 lorm or soul; The balm of thy sighs, The spell of thine eyes, 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! They tell us that Love, in his fairy bower
Had two hlush roses of birth divine; He sprinkles the one with a rainbow's shower But bathed the other with mantling wine. Soon did the buds That drank of the floods
Distilled by the rainbow decline and fade; While those which the tide Of ruby had dyed All blush'd into beauty, like the sweet maid; 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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MY OWN.
By the' strange beating of my heart,
Finding no place for all its joy — By those soft tears that wet my cheek,
Like dews from Summer sky— By this wild rush through every vein—
This chok'd and trembling tone, Surcharg'd with bliss it cannot tell—
I feel thou art my own. And yet it cannot all be true,
I've dream'd a thousand wilder dreams; But this is brighter, wilder far,
Than even the wildest seems. I've dream'd of wonders, spirit-climes,
Of glories and of blisses won; But ne'er before did vision come,
To say thou wert my own! My own! my own! thus gazing, on,
My life-breath seems to ebb away; And o'er and o'er, and still again,
The same dear words I say! I know—I know It must be true.
And here, with Heaven and Love alone, I hold thee next my heart of hearts,
For thou art all my own! |
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CUSHLA-MO-CHREE.
Sty the green banks of Shannon I wooed thee, dear Mary,
When the sweet birds were singing in summer's gay pride, From those green banks I turn now, heart-broken and dreary.
As the sun sets to weep o'er the grave of my bride. Idly the sweet birds around me are singing;
Summer, like winter, is cheerless to me; I heed not if snow falls, or flow'rets are springing,
For my heart's-llght is darkened—my Cushla-mo-chree! |
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