The swelling breeze, with balmy breath,
Wafts fragrance from the purple heath;
And warbling woodlarks seem to say,
Sweet Anna! 'tis the dawn of day!

Ah! didst thou Love's soft anguish feel,
No sleep thy weary eye would seal;
But to the bank thou wouldst repair,
Secure to meet thy lover there.
In pity to my pangs awake!
Unwilling I thy slumbers break;
But longer absence would betray
I met thee at the dawn of day.

Yet though our parents now may frown,
Some pitying power our vows shall crown;

Be constancy and truth but thine,

While youth, and health, and love are mine;
Then shall our hearts united glow
With all that fondness can bestow,
And love extend his gentle sway

O'er close of eve and dawn of day.

These words are adapted to a graceful air in "A General Collection of the Ancient Music of Ireland," by Edward Bunting; the melody is entitled "The Dawning of the Day;" but there is another and finer Irish melody of the same name.

I NE'ER COULD ANY LUSTRE SEE.

SHERIDAN.

I NE'ER could any lustre see,
In eyes, that would not look on me;
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,
But where my own did hope to sip.

Has the maid, who seeks my heart,
Cheeks of rose, untouched by art?
I will own the colour true,
When yielding blushes aid their hue,

Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it, to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then,
'Till it grateful press again.

Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so, when I see

That heaving bosom sigh for me.

These are graceful lines, but they cannot fail to remind us of "Shall I like a hermit dwell ?" attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh, the concluding couplet of the first verse of which is as follows:

"If she undervalue me,

What care I how fair she be ?"

And this burden running, with slight variety, through Raleigh's song, is the germ of the idea in Sheridan. Sheridan, however, is not the only one open to the charge of plagiarism, for the happy idea had sufficient fascination to induce George Wither to take it up; but he certainly wrought it out still more beautifully in his exquisite song "Shall I, wasting in despair ?"-so exquisite as to tempt me to the insertion of the first verse, even at the expense of throwing Sheridan, so far, into the shade. The author of "The School for Scandal," however, can afford it.

"Shall I, wasting in despair,

Die because a woman's fair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day,

Or the flowery meads in May;

If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be ?"

MOLLY ASTORE.*

From the Irish. Translated by S. FERGUSON, M.R.I.A.

Он, Mary dear-oh, Mary fair,
Óh, branch of generous stem,
White blossom of the banks of Nair,
Though lilies grow on them;

You've left me sick at heart for love,
So faint I cannot see;

The candle swims the board above,

I'm drunk for love of thee!

Oh, stately stem of maiden pride,

My woe it is and pain,

That I, thus severed from thy side,
The long night must remain.

Molly my treasure.

Through all the towns of Innisfail
I've wandered far and wide,
But, from Downpatrick to Kinsale,
From Carlow to Kilbride,

'Mong lords and dames of high degree,
Where'er my feet have gone,
My Mary, one to equal thee
I never looked upon:

I live in darkness and in doubt
Whene'er my love's away-
But were the gracious sun put out,
Her shadow would make day.

'Tis she, indeed, young bud of bliss,
And gentle as she's fair-
Though lily-white her bosom is,
And sunny bright her hair,
And dewy azure her blue eye,
And rosy red her cheek,
Yet brighter she in modesty,
More beautifully meek!

The world's wise men, from north to south

Can never ease my pain

But one kiss from her honey mouth
Would make me well again,

SUCH WAS THE EYE.

From the Irish.

SUCH was the eye, that won my love,

And thrilled me with its brilliant glance; And such the form that once could moveThe voice could charm, the smile entrance.

I view thee, fairest, and I sigh,

Thou look'st so like what once was mine; Her red, red, lip, and sparkling eye,

And voice, and smile, were just like thine,

She's gone-inconstant as the wind,

That wantons with the summer flower; She's gone but madness stays behind; And heartless home, and joyless bower,

A fading eye, a powerless hand,

When, o'er the strings, it fain would stray; Deserted steed, and idle brand,

All tell me that my love's away.

F

Rt. Hon. JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN, Master of the Rolls in Ireland.

John Philpot Curran was born at Newmarket, in the county of Cork, in 1750, and died in 1817. Though the following song is remarkably sweet, and expressive of an affectionate nature, yet it is not by such a trifle that Curran is to be judged. Indeed, he wrote but few verses, and those must be considered as mere vers de Société, thrown off to amuse, rather than to command admiration. But though Curran did not write poetry (commonly so called) his speeches abound in the highest poetic qualities:-vividness of imagery-felicity of diction-intensity of expression-force and suddenness of contrast. As a potent orator and an undaunted patriot in the most dangerous times, John Philpot Curran must be classed among the highest in the annals of Ireland.

On the desert of life, where you vainly pursued

Those phantoms of hope, which their promise disown,
Have you e'er met some spirit, divinely endued,
That so kindly could say, you don't suffer alone?
And, however your fate may have smiled, or have frowned,
Will she deign, still, to share as the friend or the wife?
Then make her the pulse of your heart; for you've found
The green spot that blooms on the desert of life.

Does she love to recall the past moments, so dear,
When the sweet pledge of faith was confidingly given,
When the lip spoke the voice of affection sincere,

And the vow was exchanged, and recorded in heaven ?
Does she wish to re-bind, what already was bound,

And draw closer the claims of the friend and the wife ?
Then make her the pulse of your heart; for you've found
The green spot that blooms on the desert of life.

WHEN SABLE NIGHT.

SHERIDAN.

WHEN sable night, each drooping plant restoring,
Wept o'er her flowers, her breath did cheer,
As some sad widow o'er her babe deploring,
Wakes its beauty with a tear-

When all did sleep whose weary hearts could borrow
One hour of love from care to rest;
Lo! as I press'd my couch in silent sorrow

My lover caught me to his breast.

He vow'd he came to save me
From those that would enslave me;
Then kneeling,

Kisses stealing,

Endless faith he swore!

But soon I chid him thence,
For, had his fond pretence
Obtain'd one favour then,
And he had press'd again,

I fear'd my treach'rous heart might grant him more.

Burns, in his correspondence with Mr. George Thomson the publisher, writes thus :— "There is a pretty English song by Sheridan, in "The Duenna,' to this air, which is out of sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins

'When sable night each drooping plant restoring.'

"The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is the very native language of simplicity, tenderness, and love. I have again gone over my song to the tune, as follows:

'Sleep'st thou or wak'st thou, fairest creature ?

Rosy morn now lifts his eye,

Numbering ilka bud which Nature

Waters with the tears of joy."

The idea conveyed in the words I have given in Italics, is but the repetition of Sheridan's idea of Sable Night weeping over her flowers