Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow
To sully a heart so brilliant and light;
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn till night.
When the light of my song is o'er,
Then take my harp to your ancient hall;
Hang it up at that friendly door,
Where weary travellers love to call.[1]
Then if some bard, who roams forsaken,
Revive its soft note in passing along,
Oh! let one thought of its master waken
Your warmest smile for the child of song.
Keep this cup, which is now o'er-flowing,
To grace your revel, when I'm at rest;
Never, oh! never its balm bestowing
On lips that beauty has seldom blest.
But when some warm devoted lover
To her he adores shall bathe its brim,
Then, then my spirit around shall hover,
And hallow each drop that foams for him.
[1] "In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were
the more caressed, the more they excelled in music."--_O'Halloran_.
HOW OFT HAS THE BANSHEE CRIED.
How oft has the Banshee cried,
How oft has death untied
Bright links that Glory wove,
Sweet bonds entwined by Love!
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth;
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth;
Long may the fair and brave
Sigh o'er the hero's grave.
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