Rt. Hon. JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN, Master of the Rolls in Ireland.

John Philpot Curran was born at Newmarket, in the county of Cork, in 1750, and died in 1817. Though the following song is remarkably sweet, and expressive of an affectionate nature, yet it is not by such a trifle that Curran is to be judged. Indeed, he wrote but few verses, and those must be considered as mere vers de Société, thrown off to amuse, rather than to command admiration. But though Curran did not write poetry (commonly so called), his speeches abound in the highest poetic qualities:vividness of imagery-felicity of diction-intensity of expression-force and suddenness of contrast. As a potent orator and an undaunted patriot in the most dangerous times, John Philpot Curran must be classed among the highest in the annals of Ireland.

On the desert of life, where you vainly pursued
Those phantoms of hope, which their promise disown,
Have you e'er met some spirit, divinely endued,
That so kindly could say, you don't suffer alone?

And, however your fate may have smiled, or have frowned,
Will she deign, still, to share as the friend or the wife?
Then make her the pulse of your heart; for you've found
The green spot that blooms on the desert of life.

Does she love to recall the past moments, so dear,
When the sweet pledge of faith was confidingly given,
When the lip spoke the voice of affection sincere,

And the vow was exchanged, and recorded in heaven?
Does she wish to re-bind, what already was bound,

And draw closer the claims of the friend and the wife? Then make her the pulse of your heart; for you've found The green spot that blooms on the desert of life.

WHEN SABLE NIGHT.

SHERIDAN.

WHEN sable night, each drooping plant restoring,
Wept o'er her flowers, her breath did cheer,
As some sad widow o'er her babe deploring,
Wakes its beauty with a tear—

When all did sleep whose weary hearts could borrow
One hour of love from care to rest;
Lo! as I press'd my couch in silent sorrow

My lover caught me to his breast.

He vow'd he came to save me

From those that would enslave me ;

Then kneeling,

Kisses stealing,

Endless faith he swore!

But soon I chid him thence,

For, had his fond pretence
Obtain'd one favour then,
And he had press'd again,

I fear'd my treach'rous heart might grant him more.

Burns, in his correspondence with Mr. George Thomson the publisher, writes thus: "There is a pretty English song by Sheridan, in the 'Duer.na,' to this air, which is out of sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins

When sable night, each drooping plant restoring.'

The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is the very native language of simplicity, tenderness, and love. I have again gone over my song to the tune, as follows:

Sleep'st thou or wak'st thou, fairest creature?

Rosy morn now lifts his eye,

Numbering ilka bud which Nature
Waters with the tears of joy.""

The idea conveyed in the words I have given in Italics, is but the repetition of Sheridan's idea of "sable night" weeping over her flowers.

i

OH TELL ME, SWEET KATE.

LADY MORGAN.

The following stanzas are taken from "Irish Melodies, by Miss S. Owenson" (the maiden name of Lady Morgan). She, as well as the Hon. Geo. Ogle, G. N. Reynolds, and Edward Lysaght, was before Moore in the worthy work of introducing to the notice of the world the melodies of her native land by means of suitable verse adapted to them, and thus may be honourably noted among the precursors of the illustrious bard who crowned the patriotic work by giving world-wide celebrity to the Irish melodies, and who so often mingled with the charm of his song a plea for his country. Lady Morgan's verses did not aim so high; but her novels did. The authoress of "O'Donnell" and "Florence M'Carthy" is among the most freedom-loving and sparkling of the Irish novelists.

soul?

OH tell me, sweet Kate, by what magical art,
You seduced ev'ry thought, ev'ry wish of my
Oh tell how my credulous fond doating heart,
By thy wiles and thy charms from my bosom was stole.

Oh whence, dangerous girl, was thy sorcery, tell,

By which you awaken'd love's tear and love's sigh? -
In thy voice, in thy song, lurks the dangerous spell?
In the blush of thy cheek, or the beam of thine eye?

MY LOVE'S THE FAIREST CREATURE.

LADY MORGAN.

My love's the fairest creature,

And round her flutters many a charm,

Her starry eyes, blue-beaming,

Can e'en the coldest bosom warm;

Her lip is like a cherry

Ripely sueing to be cull'd;

Her cheek is like a May rose

In dewy freshness newly pull'd.

Her sigh is like the sweet gale,

That dies upon the violet's breast,

Her hair is like the dark mist,

On which the evening sunbeams rest;

Her smile is like the false light

Which lures the traveller by its beam;

Her voice is like the soft strain,

Which steals its soul from passion's dream.

9

These sweet stanzas appeared in "The Spirit of the Nation" under the signature of Domhnall Gleannach, and the rhythm of the beautiful air to which they are adapted has been preserved with a fidelity that proves praiseworthy care and a nice ear on the part of the writer. The rhythm is so peculiar that, without knowing the air, a reader is liable to miss the proper accentuation of the lines, and therefore, to insure his pleasure in enjoying their harmony, I venture to point it out.-Let the accent be laid on the fourth syllable of every line.

WHEN first I saw thee, Cate,
That summer evening late,
Down at the orchard gate
Of Araglen,

I felt I ne'er before

Saw one so fair, a-stor,+
I fear'd I'd never more
See thee again.

I stopp'd and gazed at thee,
My footfall, luckily

Reach'd not thy ear, tho' we

Stood there so near;

While from thy lips, a strain,
Soft as the summer rain,
Sad as a lover's pain,

Fell on my ear.

I've heard the lark in June,
The harp's wild plaintive tune,
The thrush that aye too soon
Gives o'er his strain;
I've heard, in hush'd delight,
The mellow horn at night
Waking the echoes light

Of wild Loch Lein ;+
But neither echoing horn,
Nor thrush upon the thorn,
Nor lark at early morn

Hymning in air,

Nor harper's lay divine,

E'er witch'd this heart of mine

Like that sweet voice of thine,

That evening there.

* Thus spelled in the original. Caitlin is the true spelling of the name which m re frequently appears in Anglo-Irish songs as "Kathleen."

And when some rustling, dear,
Fell on thy list'ning ear,
You thought your brother near,
And nam'd his name,

I could not answer-though,
As luck would have it so,
His name and mine, you know,
Were both the same-

Hearing no answ'ring sound,
You glanced in doubt around,
With timid look, and found
It was not he;
Turning away your head
And, blushing rosy red,
Like a wild fawn you fled
Far, far from me.

The swan upon the lake,
The wild rose in the brake,
The golden clouds that make
The west their throne,
The wild ash by the stream,
The full moon's silver beam,
The evening star's soft gleam,
Shining alone;

The lily rob'd in white-
All-all are fair and bright :-
But ne'er on earth was sight
So bright, so fair,

As that one glimpse of thee
That I caught then, ma chree,*
It stole my heart from me
That evening there.

And now you're mine alone,
That heart is all my own-

That heart, that ne'er hath known