His little army's last remains ;- They cross'd the chasm, and gain'd the towers;- To quiver to the Moslem's tread. 'Twas night when to those towers they came, And gloomily the fitful flame, That from the ruin'd altar broke, Glar'd on his features, as he spoke : ""Tis o'er-what men could do, we've doneIf Iran will look tamely on, And see her priests, her warriors driven Before a sensual bigot's nod, A wretch, who takes his lusts to heaven, If they will court this upstart race, Why, let them till the land's despair And, though but few-though fast the wave Of life is ebbing from our veins, Enough for vengeance still remains. As panthers, after set of sun, Rush from the roots of Lebanon His chiefs stood round-each shining blade Upon the broken altar laid And though so wild and desolate The wandering spirits of their dead; Nor symbol of their worshipp'd planet; Yet the same God that heard their sires Heard them, while on that altar's fires They swore the latest, holiest deed Of the few hearts, still left to bleed, Should be, in Iran's injured name, To die upon that Mount of FlameThe last of all her patriot line, Before her last untrampled shrine! IRISH MELODIES. GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. Go where glory waits thee; Oh! still remember me. Oh! then remember me. Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, Oh! then remember me. When, at eve, thou rovest Oh! then remember me. Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning, Oh! then remember me. Oft, as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its ling'ring roses, Once so loved by thee: Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them; Oh! then remember me. When, around thee, dying, Autumn leaves are lying, Oh! then remember me. And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, Oh! still remember me. Then should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, Draw one tear from thee; Then let mem'ry bring thee Strains I used to sing thee; Oh! then remember me. FLY NOT YET. AIR-Planxty Kelly. Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour, When pleasure, like the midnight flower, That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night, And maids who love the moon! Oh! stay,---oh! stay,--- Fly not yet! the fount that play'd, In times of old, through Ammon's shade, To burn when night was near; And thus should woman's heart and looks When did morning ever break, RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE. Rich and rare were the gems she wore, "Lady! dost thou not fear to stray, "So lone and lovely, through this bleak way? On she went, and her maiden smile THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. THERE IS NOT IN THIS WIDE WORLD A VALLEY SO SWEET. AIR-The Old Head of Denis. There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet Thus shall memory often in dreams sublime Catch a glimpse of the days that are over; Thus sighing look through the waves of time For the long-faded glories they cover! 'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. AIR-Groves of Blarney. "Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone: No flower of her kindred, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem; Go, sleep thou with them; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Has been my heart's undoing. Though 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. I hung with gaze enchanted, Was turn'd away, O! winds could not outrun me. For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? Is now as weak as ever! OH! WHERE'S THE SLAVE! Oh! where's the slave so lowly, Who, could he burst His bonds at first, Would pine beneath them slowly? What soul whose wrongs degrade it, Would wait till time decay'd it, When thus its wing At once may spring To the throne of Him who made it? And the foe we hate before us! WREATHE THE BOWL. Wreathe the bowl With flow'rs of soul, The brightest wit can find us; We'll take a flight Tow'rds heav'n to-night, And leave dull earth behind us! Should Love amid The wreaths be hid That Joy th' enchanter brings us, No danger fear While wine is near, We'll drown him if he stings us. Then wreathe the bowl With flow'rs of soul, The brightest wit can find us; We'll take a flight Tow'rds heav'n to-night, And leave dull earth behind us! 'Twas nectar fed Of old, 'tis said, Their Junos, Joves, Apollos, And man may brew His nectar too, The rich receipt's as follows:-- Let looks of bliss Around it well be blended, Then bring wit's beam And there's your nectar, splendid! Say, why did Time His glass sublime Fill up with sands unsightly, Runs brisker through, And sparkles far more brightly. And, smiling thus, The glass in two we'd sever, In double tide, Then wreathe the bowl, &c. OH, FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME' AIR-Name unknown. Oh, for the swords of former time! Oh, for the men who bore them, And tyrants crouch'd before them! Oh, for the swords of former time! &c. Oh, for the kings who flourish'd then! The throne was but the centre, Round which love a circle drew, Oh, for the kings who flourish'd then! &c. OH, BANQUET NOT. AIR-Planxty Irwine. Oh, banquet not in those shining bowers, More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. There, while the myrtle's withering boughs To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. Or, as some blighted laurel waves Its branches o'er the dreary spot, We'll drink to those neglected graves Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot! LEIGH HUNT. ODE FOR THE SPRING OF 1814. The vision then is past, That held the eyes of nations, Swept in his own careering blast, That far and wide, metallic twilight, shone; We look'd and saw the Wonder on his throne; We raised our eyes again, and lo, his place was gone! Nor did the Shape give way Nor did upon that final day Nor call on evil to restore from ill; But heav'n-ward things, that have their birth Experience, Truth, and Conquest of the will, Never did sweeter sound Than struck the balanced world around With frank eyes listening to the glassy spheres; And lo, how earth and sky, There's not a joy of spring, The leaves put out their hands into the ray; The bee, that rings the basking hour, Comes for his kiss from flow'r to flow'r; Glad faces are abroad with crowding play, And all creation keeps full-hearted holiday. The soldier sheathes his sword, The statesman breathes from thinking, The freeman feels his hope restored, When most his heart was shrinking. No more the widow bleeds To see the babe that feeds At her dear breast with sudden-stopping moan; And feels that in the world she shall not be alone. O Liberty! O breath Of all that's true existence! Thou at whose touch the soul, at death, The very captive's wall, If wrongly round him, like a curtain flies; The skim of birds, and the blue-doming skies, And sits with smile at heart, and patience-levell'd eyes. THOUGHTS OF THE AVON, On the 28th of September, 1817. It is the loveliest day that we have had The banks of Avon must look well to-day; And why must I be thinking of the pride In leafy fields, rural, and self-possest, It is not that I envy autumn there, Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none; That sprightliest, gravest, wisest, kindest one, |