They say there's bread and work for all, ' Were it fifty times as fair! And often in those grand old woods And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, LOVE NOT. Hon. MRS. NORTON. Here we find another gifted daughter of the house of Sheridan upholding the hereditary honours of her race in this exquisite lyric. Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay! Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow'rs Things that are made to fade and fall away, When they have blossomed but a few short hours. Love not, love not! Love not, love not! The thing you love may die— Love not, love not! Love not, love not! The thing you love may change; Love not, love not! Love not, love not!-Oh, warning vainly said Love not, love not! In making the record in the line above, I have noted a birth and death the most brilliant and the most lamented of all the lyric poets that have done honour to that land, emphatically called, "The Land of Song." I have alluded already, in the preface to this volume, to the want of a selection from Moore's best songs, in a work like this, which the strict guardianship kept over them by the proprietors of the copyright renders impossible. A few of his early songs, however, young firstlings of fancy, strayed away into the world and were forgotten, or not thought worthy, perhaps, of being gathered into the fold of the "gentle shepherds" of Paternoster-row; and some of them I have caught, and though they will not bear a comparison with those that climbed higher up Parnassus in later years, yet, as of the same stock that became so famous, there is interest in looking at them, however much the breed was afterwards improved. But, imagery apart, we like to see the first attempts of genius; and the early specimens of the muse of Moore, that follow, will not be unacceptable when looked upon in the light they are presented. The song that follows derives an additional interest from the name that it celebrates, as we may infer it was addressed to that lovely and amiable woman who awaked the rapturous adoration of his youth, and was the solace of his age. SWEETEST love, I'll ne'er forget thee, Fonder, warmer, to regret thee, Lovely, gentle, as thou art! Farewell, Bessy! We may meet again. Yes, oh! yes, again we'll meet, love, We may meet again. Yet I feel my heart is breaking, Farewell, Bessy! We may meet again. Calm to peace thy lover's bosom— Farewell, Bessy! Yet, oh! not for ever. MILD MABLE KELLY.* CAROLAN. Born 1670. Died 1738. Translated by SAMUEL FERGUSON. Turlogh O'Carolan, born at Nobber in the county of Westmeath, may be looked upon as the last of the race of the ancient bards of Ireland. When we consider that he lost his sight at the age of eighteen, from smallpox, which bereft him of the use of books, it is surprising what an air of literary accomplishment, and how much refinement pervade his compositions. When we remember the country he lived in had been recently devastated by civil war, it is evident the mingled mirthfulness and tenderness of his effusions sprang from innate inspiration, not from the "form and pressure" of the time. Though he is more generally known by his music than by his poetry, the latter was of such a high standard, in the opinion of Goldsmith, who, in his boyhood saw Carolan, and in later life wrote about him, that he said "his songs may be compared to those of Pindar, they having the same flight of imagination." The works of Carolan, taken altogether, display a wonderful fertility of invention, and, being the last of the bards, we may well apply to him the oftenquoted "Tho' last not least." Limited space forbids saying more about one of whom so much might be said; so, without further preface, we give one of his songs which fully sustains his own reputation and that of his country. *There are three versions of this famous song:-one by Miss Brooke, in her "Reliques of Irish Poetry," and another in "Hardiman's Minstrelsy;" but, as in many other instances, Mr. Ferguson's translation is far the best.. WHOEVER the youth who, by heaven's decree, Has his happy right hand 'neath that bright head of thine, From all sorrow is free, Till the day of his death:-if a life so divine And the youth of the land are love-sick for her sake. No strain of the sweetest e'er heard in the land Fall asleep where they stand; Oh, for her blooms the rose, and the lily ne'er wanting The dewy blue blossom that hangs on the spray, Deceit never lurked in its beautiful ray Το Dear lady, I drink to you, slainte go bragh!† gaze on her beauty the young hunter lies 'Mong the branches that shadow her path in the grove; The rash gazer surprise, All eyesight departs from the victim of love, And the blind youth steals home with his heart full of sighs. Oh, coolun of curls to the grass at your feet; At the goal of delight and of honor I am, To boast such a theme for a song so unmeet. *Coolun, or cuilin-head of hair. + Pronounced softly, Slawn-tha' go bra, meaning " Save you, or health to you for ever." The lady, thus celebrated, was of the family of Castle Kelly in the County of Galway. What a charming touch of poetry, is that of the young hunter hiding to get a glance at this radiant beauty-and the consequence that follows-he is dazzled even to the loss of vision, "And the blind youth steals home with his heart full of sighs." This is the more touching, when we remember it was a blind poet who wrote it :-how often did he himself steal home with his heart full of sighs? Carolan thus makes a direct allusion to his blindness in a passage translated by Miss Brooke. "Ev'n he whose hapless eyes no ray Yet, though he cannot see the light, He feels it warm, and knows it bright." O, JUDITH, MY DEAR! From Hardiman's Minstrelsy. Translated from the Irish by Edward Walshe. O, JUDITH, my dear, 'tis thou that hast left me for dead; Thy person is peerless-a jewel full fashioned with care, GO! FORGET ME. Rev. CHARLES WOLFE. Born 1791. Died 1823. Go, forget me-why should sorrow Brightly smile, and sweetly sing. Like the sun, thy presence glowing, Go, thou vision wildly gleaming, |