VII.-BY THAT LAKE WHOSE GLOOMY

SHORE.

that Lake, whose gloomy shore

BY that whose s

Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young St. Kevin stole to sleep.
"Here, at least," he calmly said,
"Woman ne'er shall find my bed."
Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,-
Eyes of most unholy blue!

She had lov'd him well and long,
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd.

On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last!
Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.

But nor earth nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be :
Even now, while caim he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat;
And, when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.

Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude, repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Glendalough, thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late,)
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, "Heav'n rest her soul!"
Round the Lake light music stole ;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling o'er the fatal tide!

VIII.-THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

IS the last rose of summer

'TIS

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;

No flow'r of her kindred,

No rose-bud 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.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie wither'd,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

THE

IX.-THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

HE young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,
How sweet to rove

Through Morna's grove,

While the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake!-the heavens look bright, my dear, 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,

And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days,

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,
And I, whose star,
More glorious far,

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake!-till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,

Or, in watching the flight

Of bodies of light,

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear!

TH

X.-THE MINSTREL BOY.

HE Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him; His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.— "Land of song!" said the warrior bard, "Tho' all the world betrays thee,

One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery."

XI.-THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

HE time I've lost in wooing,

THE

In watching and pursuing
The light, that lies

In woman's eyes,

Has been my heart's undoing.
Tho' 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.

XII.-DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.

EAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,

When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,

That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.