66

FROM IRISH MELODIES," BY T. MOORE, ESQ.

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE
WORE.*

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, or 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?"

This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote: "The people were inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value; and such an impression had the laws and government of this monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels." Warner's History of Ireland, Vol. I. Book 10. NO. 6. N. s.

H H

"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 blest for ever is she who relied Upon Erin's honour, and Erin's pride!

TO-MORROW.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE CHEVALIER PARNY.

ME with caresses still you cheat;
Promises you still repeat;

And Zephyr wafts, in wanton play,
Your faithless promises away!
"To-morrow," every day you cry:
I haste ere dawn illumes the sky;
I haste, but find my hopes betray'd,
For, flying constant to your aid,
Bashful Fear, provoking sprite!
Puts the sportive Loves to flight.
Yet, when deluded I complain,
"To-morrow," you exclaim again.
Laura! thank indulgent heaven,
Who so long the power has given,
In your face and form each day
Some new-born beauty to display.
Yet hope not that such matchless grace
Will always deck your form and face;
For, onward as he speeds, your bloom
TIME will touch with withering plume.
Then, Oh, of coy delay beware!

Quickly grant the promised blessing:
To-morrow you may be less fair,
And I, perhaps, not quite so pressing.
ED. P. M.

*. *. *.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON. AND is he gone? he whose bright genius shed, Even in its shaded glory, such a blaze

Of splendour round it, that the' admiring dread Of foes unconsciously advanced its praise! Are the high thoughts in his immortal lays Now all remaining of that mighty mind? Proud relics! yet the monument you raise Will last while lasts the name of England; twined With her's his fame shall stand, in her own language shrined.

Farewell, great spirit! whatsoe'er have been
The frailties which have link'd thee to the stock
Of frail mortality; yet have the keen

Barb'd shafts of calumny, with deadly shock,
Assail'd thee, waking feelings such as mock
The energy of words!-Those pangs are o'er!
Thou wert, as in mid-ocean is a rock

Round which the spumy billows heave and roar, That proudly stems their rage and now thou art

no more!

But glorious has the fall been, in the land,
The lovely land, which had so early caught
Thy fond idolatry: with that proud band

Of patriots, who in Freedom's cause have fought,
And with their blood immortal honours bought,
Regenerated Greece has seen thee rise-
A star whose lustrous influence hath brought
Blessings upon her-gladdening men's eyes,
And cheering the young dawn of Liberty's sun-rise
Greece in her fetters claim'd thine earliest sigh—
That she might burst them was thine earliest
[high,
"Twas granted her proud standard stream'd on
And Moslem tyranny, driven from its lair,

prayer