Oh! Blame Not The Bard.[1]

Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers, Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame; He was born for much more, and in happier hours His soul might have burned with a holier flame. The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart; And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart.

But alas for his country!--her pride is gone by, And that spirit is broken, which never would bend; O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray; Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires; And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way, Must be caught from the pile, where their country expires.

Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream, He should try to forget, what he never can heal: Oh! give but a hope--let a vista but gleam Thro' the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel! That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down Every passion it nurst, every bliss it adored; While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.

But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away, Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs; Not even in the hour, when his heart is most gay, Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains; The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!

We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spenser so severely, and perhaps, truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, "were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue."

It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following: "So that Ireland, called the land of Ire, from the constant broils therein for 400 years, was now become the land of concord." Lloyd's "State Worthies," art. The Lord Grandison.

WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT.

While gazing on the moon's light, A moment from her smile I turned, To look at orbs, that, more bright, In lone and distant glory burned. But too far Each proud star, For me to feel its warming flame; Much more dear That mild sphere. Which near our planet smiling came; Thus, Mary, be but thou my own; While brighter eyes unheeded play, I'll love those moonlight looks alone, That bless my home and guide my way.

The day had sunk in dim showers, But midnight now, with lustre meet. Illumined all the pale flowers, Like hope upon a mourner's cheek. I said (while The moon's smile Played o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss,) "The moon looks "On many brooks, "The brook can see no moon but this;" And thus, I thought, our fortunes run, For many a lover looks to thee, While oh! I feel there is but one, One Mary in the world for me.

This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere In Sir William Jones's works: "The moon looks upon many night- flowers, the night flower sees but one moon."

ILL OMENS.

When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow, And stars in the heavens still lingering shone. Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow, The last time she e'er was to press it alone. For the youth! whom she treasured her heart and her soul in, Had promised to link the last tie before noon; And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

As she looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses. Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's kisses. Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces, She brushed him--he fell, alas; never to rise: "Ah! such," said the girl, "is the pride of our faces, "For which the soul's innocence too often dies."

While she stole thro' the garden, where heart's-ease was growing, She culled some, and kist off its night-fallen dew; And a rose, further on, looked so tempting and glowing, That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too: But while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning, Her zone flew in two, and the heart's-ease was lost: "Ah! this means," said the girl (and she sighed at its meaning), "That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!"

An emblem of the soul.

BEFORE THE BATTLE.

By the hope within us springing, Herald of to-morrow's strife; By that sun, whose light is bringing Chains or freedom, death or life-- Oh! remember life can be No charm for him, who lives not free! Like the day-star in the wave, Sinks a hero in his grave, Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

Happy is he o'er whose decline The smiles of home may soothing shine And light him down the steep of years:-- But oh, how blest they sink to rest, Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers Now the foeman's cheek turns white, When his heart that field remembers, Where we tamed his tyrant might. Never let him bind again A chain; like that we broke from then. Hark! the horn of combat calls-- Ere the golden evening falls, May we pledge that horn in triumph round! Many a heart that now beats high, In slumber cold at night shall lie, Nor waken even at victory's sound-- But oh, how blest that hero's sleep, O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!

"The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day."--Walker.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

Night closed around the conqueror's way, And lightnings showed the distant hill, Where those who lost that dreadful day, Stood few and faint, but fearless still. The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal, For ever dimmed, for ever crost-- Oh! who shall say what heroes feel, When all but life and honor's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream, And valor's task, moved slowly by, While mute they watcht, till morning's beam Should rise and give them light to die. There's yet a world, where souls are free, Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;-- If death that world's bright opening be, Oh! who would live a slave in this?

'TIS SWEET TO THINK.

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove, We are sure to find something blissful and dear. And that, when we're far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips, we are near. The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling, Let it grow where it will, can not flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing It can twine with itself and make closely its own.

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be sure to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise. To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there; And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes, 'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too, And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike, It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue. Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be sure to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.