London. Published by Knight & Lacey. July. I. 1924.

Page 97

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

A triple grass*

Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,
As softly green

As emeralds, seen

Through purest crystal gleaming!

Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trefoil, to which in Ireland we give the naine of Shamrock, in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the Pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any reason for our adoption of this plant as a national emblem. HOPE, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, "standing upon tip-toes, and a tre foil, or three-coloured grass in her hand.

Oh the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock,

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

Old ERIN'S native Shamrock!
Says VALOUR, "See,
"They spring for me,
"Those leafy gems of morning!"
Says LovE,"No, no,
"For me they grow,
"My fragrant path adorning!"
But WIT perceives
The triple leaves,

And cries, "Oh! do not sever
"A type that blends

"Three god-like friends,

"LOVE, VALOUR, WIT, for ever!"

Oh the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock! Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

Old ERIN'S native Shamrock!

So firmly fond

May last the bond,

They wove that morn together;
And ne'er may fall

One drop of gall
On WIT's celestial feather;

May Love, as shoot

His flowers and fruit,
Of thorny falsehood weed 'em!
May VALOUR ne'er

His standard rear

Against the cause of freedom!

Oh the Shamrock, the green
Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

immortal Shamrock!

Old ERIN's native Shamrock!

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE
ILLUSTRIOUS BYRON.

"A mighty spirit is eclipsed-a Power
Hath passed from day to darkness, to whose hour
Of light no likeness is bequeathed-no name—
Focus at once of all the rays of Fame!"

Lord Byron's Monody on the Death
of R. B. Sheridan.

MOURN not the Hero and the Bard,
Mourn not the Patriot's glorious fall;
He lived to claim the world's regard,
And died but to preserve it all!*
“Swan-like,” our Byron "sung and died,"
Where virtue combats against crime;
He died no death of sluggard-pride,

In Albion's "cold and cloudy climet."

But struggling with the free and brave,
On Glory's consecrated ground,
(A soil no longer Freedom's grave)
An enviable death he found.

Mourn not! ah, bootless words! the hand
That traces them is trembling;
Nor can the general heart withstand
Grief that defies dissembling.

Ours are indeed unhappy days!
When all of high and bright,
Who claim the generous Spirit's praise,
Thus early feel Death's blight.

See the Greek song in Don Juan, beginning
"The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!

Where burning Sappho lived and sung."

+ Sec Dedication of the Prophecy of Dante, than which a nobler poem does not exist in any language: "Lady, if for that cold and cloudy clime,

Where I was born, but where I would not die!" &c.