Of freedom, unrestrained, from ev'ry hill.

I think I hear those melting strains, that used
To raise the pearly tear in beauty's eye,.
And make the iron heart of courage thaw
With tenderness and sympathetic warmth;
Anon, those warlike ditties loudly burst
Upon mine ear, which oft were wont

To rouse the latent vigour of thy sons
Amid the sanguinary fight, and bid

Them, careless of surrounding death, to strike

For liberty and life. Before me rise

The hoary-headed bards of other days,

The former minstrels of my native land,

Whose song was wont, in festive hall, to swell

The burst of merriment and revelry;

Or, in the field of strife, to fire the nerve With dauntless energy, unbending strength. What means that melancholy air, with which,

"To rise no more,” and what should damp the fire Of freedom in the soul, and quench the spark,

The heaven-born spark of liberty divine?

Oh! what is life without the kindling glow
Of conscious independence, birth-right dear
Of ev'ry child of earth!-My native land!
May Heav'n soon wipe away the cloud that hides,
In deepest shades, thy suff'rings and thy wrongs.

But see, Erina, with a sylphic tread,

And harp, light o'er her graceful shoulder thrown,
The myrtle arbour seeks, where oft, amidst

The balmy ordour of umbrageous shrubs,
She loves to waste the peaceful hour, and dream
Of him, the tender youth, who bids her breast
With warmth enthusiastic swell. Hark! hark!
Her flying fingers touch the lyre, and thus,
In accents wildly sweet, to seraph voice

Melodious tuned, in echoing tones, she breathes.

Song.

Oh! what are the pleasures this bosom has known, Since first my dear Oscar declared he was mine, Since first I would languish to hear the sweet tone, In which he would falter, "Erina, I'm thine!"

How blest do I feel, when together we rove,
Amid the green arbour, or down the lone vale;
For sweet are his accents, his eyes speak of love,
And
my heart beats concordant to every soft tale.

But late when we wandered along by the shore,

Where grandeur and beauty the footstep invite; How talked he of blessings that love had in store, And painted the joys of domestic delight!

B

Upon the green-robed mountain, they infix

Their pensive gaze? why sleeps the slumb'ring harp?

Alas! they weep the soul of feeling fled,

Our native energy subdued, our race

Of patriotic heroes, like the oaks

That once upon the verdant hillock spread
Their goodly shade, now by the foe o'erturned.
But, hark! I hear the bending strings vibrate
A strain of sadness on the whistling gale,
Wild, wild the burthen of the lay resounds

Weep, Erin weep, thy glory fied,
Thy freedom sunk, thy patriots dead;
Thy once melodious harp unstrung,
Thy warrior chiefs exploits unsung.
No more shall rouse, at music's call,
The mirthful dance in festive hall;

No more, along the lonely vale,

Shall Echo bear the tuneful tale.

For where's the maid that swept the lyre, With all the minstrel's kindling fire?

Or where's the bard, that, 'neath the oak,

The soul of barmony awoke?

Hibernia's once illustrious name,

Her son's renowned in martial fame,

Alas! were fruitless all, to save

Her independence from the grave;

Or bid her, from the icy tomb

Of slavery, rekindling bloom.
Weep, Erin, weep, thy glory fled,
Thy freedom sunk, thy patriots dead;
Thy once melodious harp unstrung,
Thy warrior chieftain's feats unsung;
For gone the splendid days of yore,
And set thy fame to rise no more.