Such sounds the warrior awestruck might have heard, While arm'd for fields of chivalrous renown:

Such the high hearts of kings might well have stirr'd, While throbbing still beneath the recent crown!

These notes once more! - they bear my soul away,
They lend the wings of morning to its flight;
No earthly passion in th' exulting lay,
Whispers one tone to win me from that height.

All is of Heaven!-Yet wherefore to mine eye Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source? Even while the waves of that strong harmony Roll with my spirit on their sounding course!

Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal
Thus by the burst of sorrow's token-shower?
-Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel
Our nature's limit in its proudest hour?

KEENE, OR LAMENT OF AN IRISH MOTHER OVER HER SON.

This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of the Irish Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild and deep pathos, and other characteristics analogous to those of the national music.

DARKLY the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!
Silent and dark!

There is blood upon the threshold

Whence thy step went forth at morn,
Like a dancer's in its fleetness,

Oh, my bright first-born!

At the glad sound of that footstep,
My heart within me smiled;

-Thou wert brought me back all silent
On thy bier, my child!

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!

Silent and dark!

I thought to see thy children
Laugh on me with thine eyes;
But my sorrow's voice is lonely
Where my life's flower lies.

I shall go to sit beside thee,

Thy kindred's graves among;

I shall hear the tall grass whisper-
I shall hear it not long!

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!

And I too shall find slumber

Silent and dark!

With my lost one, in the earth;

-Let none light up the ashes

Again on our hearth!

Let the roof go down!-let silence

On the home for ever fall,

Where my boy lay cold, and heard not

His lone mother's call!

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!

Silent and dark!

FAR AWAY.1

FAR away!-my home is far away,

Where the blue sea laves a mountain shore;
In the woods I hear my brothers play,
'Midst the flowers my sister sings once more,
Far away!

Far away! my dreams are far away,

When at midnight, stars and shadows reign; "Gentle child," my mother seems to say, "Follow me where home shall smile again!" Far away!

Far away! my hope is far away,

Where love's voice young gladness may restore; -O thou dove! now soaring through the day, Lend me wings to reach that better shore,

Far away!

1 This, and the five following songs, have been set to music of great merit, by J. Zeugheer Herrmann, and H. F. C., and are published in a set by Mr. Power, who has given permission for the appearance of the words in this volume.

THE LYRE AND FLOWER.

A LYRE its plaintive sweetness pour'd
Forth on the wild wind's track;
The stormy wanderer jarr'd the chord,
But gave no music back.

-Oh, child of song!

Bear hence to heaven thy fire!

What hopest thou from the reckless throng;
Be not like that lost lyre!

Not like that lyre!

A flower its leaves and odours cast
On a swift-rolling wave;
Th' unheeding torrent darkly pass'd,
And back no treasure gave.
-Oh! heart of love!

Waste not thy precious dower!
Turn to thine only home above,
Be not like that lost flower!

Not like that flower!

SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST.

SISTER! Since I met thee last,

O'er thy brow a change hath past,

In the softness of thine eyes,
Deep and still a shadow lies;

From thy voice there thrills a tone,
Never to thy childhood known;

Through thy soul a storm hath moved,

Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught
Hues too bright from troubled thought;
Far along the wandering stream,
Thou art follow'd by a dream:
In the woods and valleys lone
Music haunts thee, not thine own:
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain?
-Sister, thou hast loved in vain!

Tell me not the tale, my flower!
On my bosom pour that shower!
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted;
Tell me not of young hopes blasted;
Wring not forth one burning word,
Let thy heart no more be stirr'd!
Home alone can give thee rest.
-Weep, sweet sister, on my breast!

THE LONELY BIRD.

FROM a ruin thou art singing,

Oh! lonely, lonely bird! The soft blue air is ringing

By thy summer music stirr'd;