IRISH MELODIES.

THOMAS MOORE.

I.-WHEN HE, WHO ADORES THEE.

THEN he, who adores thee, has left but the

Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

name

Oh! say, wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd?

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;

For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine;

In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine.

Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

II. THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH

TARA'S HALLS.

HE harp that once through Tara's halls

THE

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives,

Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.

III.-THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

HERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet

THER

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.

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no,-it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

IV.-BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.

BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms,

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away,

Thou would'st still be ador'd, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofan'd by a tear,

That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly lov'd never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turn'd when he rose.

OH!

V.-LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

H! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;

When my dream of life, from morn till night,
Was love, still love.

New hope may bloom,
And days may come

Of milder, calmer beam,

But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream:

No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;

Tho' he win the wise, who frown'd before,
To smile at last;

He'll never meet

A joy so sweet,

In all his noon of fame,

As when first he sang in woman's ear,
His soul-felt flame,

And, at every close, she blush'd to hear
The one lov'd name.

No, that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot
Which first love trac'd;

Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste.

'Twas odour fled

As soon as shed;

'Twas morning's wingèd dream; 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream:

Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream.

VI.-LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

L

ESBIA hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth;

Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at no one dreameth. Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon

My Nora's lid that seldom rises;

Few its looks, but every one,

Like unexpected light surprises!

Oh, my Nora Creina, dear!

My gentle, bashful Nora Creina!
Beauty lies

In many eyes,

But Love in yours, my Nora Creina!

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath lac'd it, Not a charm of beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it. Oh! my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases! Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,

My simple, graceful Nora Creina!

Nature's dress

Is loveliness

The dress you wear, my Nora Creina!

Lesbia has a wit refin'd,

But, when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they're design'd

To dazzle merely, or to wound us? Pillow'd on my Nora's heart,

In safer slumber Love reposes—
Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
Oh, my Nora Creina dear!

My mild, my artless Nora Creina!
Wit, tho' bright,

Hath no such light

As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina!