By That Lake, Whose Gloomy Shore.[1]

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore Sky-lark never warbles o'er, 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 loved him well and long Wished 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 turned, Still her eyes before him burned.

On the bold cliff's bosom cast, Tranquil now, he sleeps at last; Dreams of heaven, 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 calm he sleeps, Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

Fearless she had tracked 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 mourned her fate. When he said, "Heaven rest her soul!" Round the Lake light music stole; And her ghost was seen to glide, Smiling o'er the fatal tide.

This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.

There are many other curious traditions concerning this Lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, etc.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her, sighing: But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking;-- Ah! little they think who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow.

NAY, TELL ME NOT, DEAR.

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns One charm of feeling, one fond regret; Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet. Ne'er hath a beam Been lost in the stream That ever was shed from thy form or soul; The spell of those eyes, The balm of thy sighs, Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl, Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

They tell us that love in his fairy bower, Had two blush-roses of birth divine; He sprinkled the one with a rainbow shower, But bathed the other with mantling wine. Soon did the buds, That drank of the floods Distilled by the rainbow, decline and fade; While those which the tide Of ruby had dyed All blushed into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

AVENGING AND BRIGHT.

Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin On him who the brave sons of Usna betrayed! For every fond eye he hath wakened a tear in, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling, When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in gore-- By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling, Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore--

We swear to revenge them!--no joy shall be tasted, The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, Our halls shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted, Till vengeance is wreaked on the murderer's head.

Yes, monarch! tho' sweet are our home recollections, Tho' sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall; Tho' sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections, Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called "Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach." The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman.

"Oh Nasi! view that cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman-green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red."--Deirdri's Song.

Ulster.

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.

HE.

What the bee is to the floweret, When he looks for honey-dew, Thro' the leaves that close embower it, That, my love, I'll be to you.

SHE.

What the bank, with verdure glowing, Is to waves that wander near, Whispering kisses, while they're going, That I'll be to you, my dear.

SHE.

But they say, the bee's a rover, Who will fly, when sweets are gone; And, when once the kiss is over, Faithless brooks will wander on.

HE.

Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, If sunny banks will wear away, Tis but right that bees and brooks Should sip and kiss them while they may.

LOVE AND THE NOVICE.

"Here we dwell, in holiest bowers, "Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; "Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers "To heaven in mingled odor ascend. "Do not disturb our calm, oh Love! "So like is thy form to the cherubs above, "It well might deceive such hearts as ours."

Love stood near the Novice and listened, And Love is no novice in taking a hint; His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glistened; His rosy wing turned to heaven's own tint. "Who would have thought," the urchin cries, "That Love could so well, so gravely disguise "His wandering wings and wounding eyes?"

Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise. He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping, He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs. Love is the Saint enshrined in thy breast, And angels themselves would admit such a guest, If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest.