But in this instance, the minstrel was obliged to "keep his hands off;" there was a father in the way. "Fathers have flinty hearts!" says Jaffier, while Don Jerome cries, "Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!" but Bridget Cruise was not obstinate: and it is believed that the lines which follow are a translation from some stanzas of her own, in which, while she confesses her love, she bids her lover a hopeless farewell. BRIDGET CRUISE TO CAROLAN From the Irish. OH! tempt not my feet from the straight path of duty, And soon wouldst thou tire of the odourless beauty, Then cease thee-ah, cease thee to urge and to plain! For filial affections a daughter restrain, And worthless were she who had slighted their sway. Oh, how couldst thou trust for connubial affection Or where were thy bliss, when, on sad recollection, I will own to this bosom far dearer thou art Than all that earth's treasure, earth's pleasure supplies. But where am I urged by impetuous feeling? Thy tears win the secret long hid in my breast. O'er wounds that have rankled, and robbed thee of rest. Of her who in early affection you sought, And whose bosom to cheer thee would sacrifice aught But the love of Carolan for Bridget Cruise had sunk too deeply in his heart to be ever banished from it. Twenty years afterwards, when on a pilgrimage at Loch Derg, the blind bard recognized the object of his youthful affection by the touch of her hand, in assisting her out of the ferry boat. The incident, with some slight variation of the circumstances, more conducive to poetic effect, I have recorded in a ballad of my own, which being so site to the subject I venture to insert. "It is related of Carolan, the Irish bard, that when deprived of sight, and after the lapse of twenty years, he recognized his first love by the touch of her hand. The lady's name was Bridget Cruise, and though not a pretty name, it deserves to be recorded, as belonging to the woman who could inspire such a passion."-Songs and Ballads. "TRUE love can ne'er forget; Fondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, Thus My darling one sung a minstrel gray His sweet impassion'd lay, Down by the ocean's spray At set of sun; But wither'd was the minstrel's sight, Yet his heart was full of light; As he his lay begun. "True love can ne'er forget; Dearest, I love thee yet, My darling one! E Long years are past and o'er, When quick, with flashing stroke, Soon upon her native strand While the minstrel's love-taught hand "True love can ne'er forget; Fondly as when we met, Where the minstrel sat alone, Can true love find his own! CUSHLA MA CHREE.* From the Irish, BEFORE the sun rose at yester-dawn, To her cheek gave its glow, And her bosom was fair as the sailing swan Then, pulse of my heart! what gloom is thine? * Vein, or pulse of my heart. Her beautiful voice more hearts hath won Were crystals of dew, On the grass of the lawn before the sun— And, pulse of my heart! what gloom is thine ? I think it will be admitted that there is much grace and tenderness in this little fragment; I wish more had been preserved of the song, which is evidently from a superior hand, and if not ancient, is at all events after the manner of ancient Irish songs. Using the berry as a comparison instead of the rose, for example. The "sailing swan," besides, is a favourite image with the old Irish writers. The lyre of Orpheus is a classical allusion, too, which may remind those acquainted with Mr. Hardiman's "Irish Minstrelsy," of a remark he makes in that most interesting work—“ Our bards appear not only to have been well acquainted with the works of Anacreon, but to have admired, and in many instances imitated their beauties." He then gives a fragment, very elegantly translated by Mr. D'Alton, which he says is like Anacreon's twenty-second Ode, and refers to Mr. Moore's translation. He says, further, that "it bears great resemblance to the Epigram of Dyonisius." On making reference to Mr. Moore's work I find the likeness much stronger in the latter than in the former, so close indeed as to make the translations from the Irish and the Greek interesting. FRAGMENT. From the Irish. Translated by JOHN D'ALTON. SEE the ripe fruit; oh! were I such, Were I a rose, in some fair bower, FRAGMENT. From the Greek of Dyonisius. Translated by THOMAS MOORE. I WISH I might a rose-bud grow, And thou wouldst cull me from the bower, To place me on that breast of snow, Where I should bloom, a wintry flower. THE GIRL I LOVE, Translated from the Irish, CALLANAN, THE girl I love is comely, straight and tall; Here's a health to that charming maid whoe'er she be! The rose's blush but fades beside her cheek; Here's a health to the charming maid whoe'er she be! When I go to the field no youth can lighter bound, Had I the wealth that props the Saxon's reign; Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair I'd pay, Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its own green tree- YOU NEVER BADE ME HOPE, GRIFFIN You never bade me hope, 'tis true, But I looked in those eyes of blue, The vow should bind, with maiden sighs |