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His little army's last remains ;-
"Welcome, terrific glen!" he said,
"Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread,
Is Heav'n to him who flies from chains!"
O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way, known
To him and to his chiefs alone,

They cross'd the chasm, and gain'd the towers;-
"This home," he cried, " at least is ours-
Here we may bleed, unmock'd by hymns
Of Moslem triumph o'er our head;
Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs

To quiver to the Moslem's tread.
Stretch'd on this rock, while vultures' beaks
Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks,
Here, happy that no tyrant's eye
Gloats on our torments-we may die!"

'Twas night when to those towers they came, And gloomily the fitful flame, That from the ruin'd altar broke,

Glar'd on his features, as he spoke :

""Tis o'er-what men could do, we've doneIf Iran will look tamely on,

And see her priests, her warriors driven

Before a sensual bigot's nod,

A wretch, who takes his lusts to heaven,
And makes a pander of his God!
If her proud sons, her high-born souls,
Men in whose veins-oh last disgrace!
The blood of Zal and Rustam rolls,

If they will court this upstart race,
And turn from Mithra's ancient ray,
To kneel at shrines of yesterday!
If they will crouch to Iran's foes,

Why, let them till the land's despair
Cries out to heav'n, and bondage grows
Too vile for ev'n the vile to bear!
Till shame at last, long hidden, burns
Their inmost core, and conscience turns
Each coward tear the slave lets fall
Back on his heart in drops of gall!
But here, at least, are arms unchain'd,
And souls that thraldom never stain'd;-
This spot, at least, no foot of slave
Or satrap ever yet profan'd;

And, though but few-though fast the wave

Of life is ebbing from our veins,

Enough for vengeance still remains.

As panthers, after set of sun,

Rush from the roots of Lebanon
Across the dark sea-robber's way,
We'll bound upon our startled prey ;-
And when some hearts that proudest swell
Have felt our falchion's last farewell;
When hope's expiring throb is o'er,
And ev'n despair can prompt no more,
This spot shall be the sacred grave
Of the last few who, vainly brave,
Die for the land they cannot save!"

His chiefs stood round-each shining blade Upon the broken altar laid

And though so wild and desolate
Those courts, where once the mighty sate;
Nor longer on those mouldering towers
Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers,
With which of old the Magi fed

The wandering spirits of their dead;
Though neither priest nor rites were there,
Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate;
Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air,

Nor symbol of their worshipp'd planet; Yet the same God that heard their sires Heard them, while on that altar's fires They swore the latest, holiest deed Of the few hearts, still left to bleed, Should be, in Iran's injured name, To die upon that Mount of FlameThe last of all her patriot line, Before her last untrampled shrine!

IRISH MELODIES.

GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.
AIR-Maid of the Valley.

Go where glory waits thee;
But, while fame elates thee,

Oh! still remember me.
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,

Oh! then remember me. Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee

Sweeter far may be;

But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,

Oh! then remember me.

When, at eve, thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,

Oh! then remember me. Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning,

Oh! then remember me. Oft, as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its ling'ring roses,

Once so loved by thee: Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them;

Oh! then remember me.

When, around thee, dying, Autumn leaves are lying,

Oh! then remember me. And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing,

Oh! still remember me. Then should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing,

Draw one tear from thee;

Then let mem'ry bring thee Strains I used to sing thee;

Oh! then remember me.

FLY NOT YET.

AIR-Planxty Kelly.

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour,

When pleasure, like the midnight flower, That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids who love the moon!
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
That beauty and the moon were made;
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Set the tides and goblets flowing!

Oh! stay,---oh! stay,---
Joy so seldom weaves a chain,
Like this to-night, that oh! 'tis pain
To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet! the fount that play'd,

In times of old, through Ammon's shade,
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like sounds of mirth, began

To burn when night was near;

And thus should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter-brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay,-oh! stay,-

When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here!

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.
AIR-The Summer is coming.

Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;
But oh! her beauty was far beyond
Her sparkling gems and snow-white wand.

"Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,

"So lone and lovely, through this bleak way?
"Are Erin's sons so good or so cold
"As not to be tempted by woman or gold?"
"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm;
"No son of Erin will offer me harm:
"For though they love woman and golden store,
"Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more!"

On she went, and her maiden smile
In safety lighted her round the Green Isle;
And bless'd for ever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honour, and Erin's pride!

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

THERE IS NOT IN THIS WIDE WORLD A VALLEY SO SWEET.

AIR-The Old Head of Denis.

There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart!

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Thus shall memory often in dreams sublime Catch a glimpse of the days that are over; Thus sighing look through the waves of time For the long-faded glories they cover!

'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

AIR-Groves of Blarney.

"Tis the last rose of summer,

Left blooming alone:
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them;

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,

Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

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Has been my heart's undoing. Though wisdom oft has sought me, I scorn'd the lore she brought me ; My only books

Were woman's looks,

And folly's all they've taught me.
Her smile when beauty granted,

I hung with gaze enchanted,
Like him the Sprite
Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, beauty won me,
But while her eyes were on me,
If once their ray

Was turn'd away,

O! winds could not outrun me.
And are those follies going?
And is my proud heart growing
Too cold or wise

For brilliant eyes

Again to set it glowing?
No-vain, alas! th' endeavour
From bonds so sweet to sever;-
Poor wisdom's chance
Against a glance

Is now as weak as ever!

OH! WHERE'S THE SLAVE!
AIR-Sios agus sios liom.

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 pluck'd to shade
The brows with victory glowing!
We tread the land that bore us,
Our 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!

WREATHE THE BOWL.
AIR-Noran Kitsa.

Wreathe the bowl

With flow'rs of soul,

The brightest wit can find us;

We'll take a flight

Tow'rds heav'n to-night,

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And leave dull earth behind us! Should Love amid

The wreaths be hid That Joy th' enchanter brings us,

No danger fear While wine is near, We'll drown him if he stings us. Then wreathe the bowl With flow'rs of soul, The brightest wit can find us;

We'll take a flight

Tow'rds heav'n to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us!

'Twas nectar fed Of old, 'tis said, Their Junos, Joves, Apollos, And man may brew

His nectar too,

The rich receipt's as follows:--
Take wine like this,

Let looks of bliss

Around it well be blended,

Then bring wit's beam
To warm the stream,

And there's your nectar, splendid!
So, wreathe the bowl, &c.

Say, why did Time

His glass sublime

Fill up with sands unsightly,
When wine he knew

Runs brisker through,

And sparkles far more brightly.
Oh, lend it us,

And, smiling thus,

The glass in two we'd sever,
Make pleasure glide

In double tide,
And fill both ends for ever!

Then wreathe the bowl, &c.

OH, FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME' AIR-Name unknown.

Oh, for the swords of former time!

Oh, for the men who bore them,
When, arm'd for right, they stood sublime,

And tyrants crouch'd before them!
When pure, yet ere courts began
With honors to enslave him,
The best honours worn by man
Were those which virtue gave him.

Oh, for the swords of former time! &c.

Oh, for the kings who flourish'd then!
Oh, for the pomp that crown'd them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men
Were all the ramparts round them!
When safe built on bosoms true,

The throne was but the centre,

Round which love a circle drew,
That treason durst not enter.

Oh, for the kings who flourish'd then! &c.

OH, BANQUET NOT. AIR-Planxty Irwine.

Oh, banquet not in those shining bowers,
Where youth resorts---but come to me,
For mine's a garden of faded flowers,

More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee.
And there we shall have our feast of tears,
And many a cup in silence pour---
Our guests the shades of former years,
Our toasts to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs
Their lifeless leaves around us shed,
We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,

To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. Or, as some blighted laurel waves Its branches o'er the dreary spot, We'll drink to those neglected graves Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot!

LEIGH HUNT.

ODE FOR THE SPRING OF 1814.

The vision then is past,

That held the eyes of nations,

Swept in his own careering blast,
That shook the earth's foundations!
No more throughout the air
Settles the burning glare,

That far and wide, metallic twilight, shone;
No more the bolts from south to north
Leap in their fiery passion forth:

We look'd and saw the Wonder on his throne; We raised our eyes again, and lo, his place was gone!

Nor did the Shape give way
To mightier spirits like him,

Nor did upon that final day
Elder Corruption strike him.
The long-taught world no more
Those idle charms explore,

Nor call on evil to restore from ill;

But heav'n-ward things, that have their birth
And shed their early tears on earth,

Experience, Truth, and Conquest of the will,
These took the Troubler's place, and bade the
Plague be still.

Never did sweeter sound
From discord drop resolving,

Than struck the balanced world around
Once more set smooth revolving;
And princely visions rare
Went stepping through the air,

With frank eyes listening to the glassy spheres;
The Eagles of the north were seen
Sailing the sunny Doves between;
The Lily whiten'd from its dust with tears;
And Hopes with lifted smiles, and holy-minded
Fears.

And lo, how earth and sky,
As if the charm completing,
From winter's other tyranny
Revive and give us greeting.

There's not a joy of spring,
But's up upon the wing;

The leaves put out their hands into the ray;

The bee, that rings the basking hour, Comes for his kiss from flow'r to flow'r; Glad faces are abroad with crowding play, And all creation keeps full-hearted holiday. The soldier sheathes his sword, The statesman breathes from thinking, The freeman feels his hope restored, When most his heart was shrinking.

No more the widow bleeds

To see the babe that feeds

At her dear breast with sudden-stopping moan;
But while his earnest task he plies,
Smiles in his grave uplifted eyes,
Gath'ring his little hand into her own,

And feels that in the world she shall not be alone.

O Liberty! O breath

Of all that's true existence!

Thou at whose touch the soul, at death,
But leaps to joy and distance;
Before thy present call,

The very captive's wall,

If wrongly round him, like a curtain flies;
The green and laughing world he sees,
Waters, and plains, and waving trees,

The skim of birds, and the blue-doming skies, And sits with smile at heart, and patience-levell'd eyes.

THOUGHTS OF THE AVON,

On the 28th of September, 1817.

It is the loveliest day that we have had
This lovely month, sparkling, and full of cheer;
The sun has a sharp eye, yet kind and glad;
Colours are doubly bright: all things appear
Strong outlined in the spacious atmosphere;
And through the lofty air the white clouds go,
As on their way to some celestial show.

The banks of Avon must look well to-day;
Autumn is there in all his glory and treasure;
The river must run bright, the ripples play
Their crispest tunes to boats that rock at leisure;
The ladies are abroad with cheeks of pleasure;
And the rich orchards, in their sunniest robes,
Are pouting thick with all their winy globes.

And why must I be thinking of the pride
Of distant bowers, as if I had no nest
To sing in here, though by the houses' side?
As if I could not in a minute rest

In leafy fields, rural, and self-possest,
Having, on one side, Hampstead for my looks,
On t'other, London, with its wealth of books?

It is not that I envy autumn there,

Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none;
Nor yet that in its all-productive air
Was born Humanity's divinest son,

That sprightliest, gravest, wisest, kindest one,
Shakspeare; nor yet,-oh no,-that here I miss
Souls, not unworthy to be named with his:

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