IRISH MELODIES.

(CONTINUED.)

B

IRISH

MELODIES.

MY GENTLE HARP.

My gentle Harp, once more I waken
The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;

In tears our last farewell was taken,

And now in tears we meet again.

No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,

But, like those Harps whose heav'nly skill

Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
Thou hang'st upon the willows still.

And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
An hour of peace and triumph came,

And many an ardent bosom bounded

With hopes that now are turn'd to shame.

Yet even then, while Peace was singing
Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Tho' joy and hope to others bringing,
She only brought new tears to thee.

Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,
My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?
Alas, the lark's gay morning measure

As ill would suit the swan's decline!

Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee, Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains, When ev'n the wreaths in which I dress thee, Are sadly mix'd-half flow'rs, half chains?

But come if yet thy frame can borrow
One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me,
And show the world, in chains and sorrow,
How sweet thy music still can be;

How gaily, ev'n mid gloom surounding,
Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill
Like Memnon's broken image sounding,
'Mid desolation tuneful still!*

* Dimidio magicæ resonant ubi Memnone chordæ.—Juvenal.

IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.

In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own,

And the light that surrounds us is all from within; Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time

We can love, as in hours of less transport we

may;

Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime, But affection is truest when these fade away.

When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, Like a leaf on the stream that will never return; When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high,

First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn; Then, then is the time when affection holds sway

With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they, But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true.