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Of his own loved land at evening hour Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks;

Oh! every note of it would thrill his mind With tenderest thoughts, and bring about his knees The rosy children whom he left behind; And fill each little angel eye

With speaking tears, that ask him why He wander'd from his hut to scenes like these? Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar, Sweet notes of home, of love are all he hears,

And the stern eyes that look'd for blood before, Now, melting mournful, lose themselves in tears!

(RANZ DES VACHES INTERRUPTED BY A TRUMPET.) But wake the Trumpet's blast again, And rouse the ranks of warrior men!

Oh War! when Truth thy arm employs, And Freedom's spirit guides the labouring storm, Thy vengeance takes a hallow'd form,

And, like Heaven's lightning, sacredly destroys.
Nor, Music, through thy breathing sphere
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear
Of Him who made all harmony

Than the bless'd sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn that man, awaking

From Slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty.


Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Bursts the bold enthusiast strain,
Like morning's music on the air,
And seems, in every note, to swear,

By Saragossa's ruin'd streets, By brave Gerona's deathful story,

That while one Spaniard's lifeblood beats, That blood shall stain a conqueror's glory!


But ah! if vain the patriot Spaniard's zeal,

If neither valour's force nor wisdom's lights Can break nor melt the blood-cemented seal

That shuts to close the book of Europe's rights, What song shall then in sadness tell

Of broken pride, of prospects shaded, Of buried hopes remembered well,

Of ardour quench'd, and honour faded? What Muse shall mourn the breathless brave, In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine? What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave? Oh, Erin! thine.


Bless'd notes of mirth! ye spring from sorrow's lay,

Like the sweet vesper of the bird that sings In the bright sunset of an April day,

While the cold shower yet hangs upon his wings. Long may the Irish heart repeat

An echo to those lively strains;
And when the stranger's ear shall meet
That melody on distant plains,
Oh! he will feel his heart expand

With grateful warmth, and, sighing, say— Thus speaks the music of the land

Where welcome ever lights the stranger's way;



Where, still the woe of others to beguile,

Is e'en the gayest heart's most loved employ; Where Grief herself will generously smile Through her own tears, to share another's joy!



THE mariner, when first he sails, While his bold oars the sparkling surface sweep, With new delight transported, hails The blue expanded skies and level deep.

Such young Ambition's fearless aim,

Pleased with the gorgeous scene of wealth and In the gay morn of early fame,


Nor thinks of evening storm and gloomy hour.

Life's opening views bright charms reveal, Feed the fond wish, and fan the youthful fire; But woes unknown those charms conceal, And fair illusions cheat our fierce desire.

There Envy shows her sullen mien, With changeful colour, grinning smiles of hate; There Malice stabs, with rage serene;

In deadly silence treacherous Friendships wait,

High on a mountain's lofty brow,


Mid clouds and storms, has Glory fix'd her seat
Rock'd by the roaring winds that blow,
The lightnings blast it, and the tempests beat.

Within the sun-gilt vale beneath [dwells, More moderate Hope with sweet Contentment While gentler breezes round them breathe, And softer showers refresh their peaceful cells.

To better genius ever blind,

That points to each in varied life his share,

Man quits the path by Heaven design'd, To search for bliss among the thorns of care.

Our native powers we scorn to know;
With steadfast error still the wrong pursue;
Instruct our forward ills to grow,
While sad successes but our pain renew.

In vain Heaven tempers life with sweet, With flowers the way that leads us home bestrews, If dupes to passion and deceit,

We drink the bitter and the rugged choose.

Few can on Grandeur's stage appear, Each lofty part with true applause sustain; No common virtue safe can steer, Where rocks unnumber'd lurk beneath the main.

Then happiest he whose timely hand To cool Discretion has the helm resign'd; Enjoys the calm, in sight of land, From changing tides secure, and trustless wind.



SHE comes, benign enchantress, heaven-born Peace,

With mercy beaming in her radiant eye!— She bids the horrid din of battle cease,

And at her glance the savage passions die! 'Tis Nature's festival; let Earth rejoice;

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Vanquish'd and conqueror pour exulting songs; In distant regions, with according voice, [longs! Let Man the victory bless-its prize to Man be


Resistless Freedom-when she nerves the arm, No vulgar triumph crowns the hero's might; She, she alone can spread a moral charm

O'er War's fell deeds, and sanctify the fight! Oh Gallia, in this bright immortal hour

How proud a trophy binds thy laurel'd brow! Republic, hail, whose independent power

All Earth contested once, all Earth confesses


Protecting spirits of the glorious dead,
Ah! not in vain the hero's noble toil,
Ah, not in vain the patriot's blood is shed,—

That blood shall consecrate his native soil!
Illustrious names to history's record dear,

And breathed when some high impulse fires the bard,

For you shall Virtue pour the glowing tearAnd your remember'd deeds shall still your country guard!

And thou, loved Britain, my parental isle,
Secure encircled by thy subject waves,
Thou land august, where Freedom rear'd her pile,
While gothic Night obscured a world of slaves;
Thy genius, that indignant heard the shock

Of frantic combat-(strife unmeet for thee!) Now views, triumphant, from his seagirt rock,

Thee unsubdued alone; for thou alone wert free!

Oh, happy thy misguided efforts fail'd,

My country, when with tyrant hosts combined! Oh, hideous conquest, had thy sword prevail'd And crown'd the' impious league against mankind!

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