But in this instance, the minstrel was obliged to "keep his hands off;" there was a father

in the way.

"Fathers have flinty hearts!"

says Jaffier, while Don Jerome cries,

"Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!"

but Bridget Cruise was not obstinate: and it is believed that the lines which follow are a translation from some stanzas of her own, in which, while she confesses her love, she bids her lover a hopeless farewell.

BRIDGET CRUISE TO CAROLAN

From the Irish.

OH! tempt not my feet from the straight path of duty,
Love lights a meteor but to betray!

And soon wouldst thou tire of the odourless beauty,
If grew not esteem upon passion's decay.

Then cease thee-ah, cease thee to urge and to plain!
I may not, I cannot, thy suit is in vain;

For filial affections a daughter restrain,

And worthless were she who had slighted their sway.

Oh, how couldst thou trust for connubial affection
The bosom untrue to its earliest ties?

Or where were thy bliss, when, on sad recollection,
I'd sink, self-condemn'd, self-abash'd from thine eyes?
Then cease thee—ah, cease thee!-'tis fated we part!
Yet, if sympathy soften the pang of thy heart,

I will own to this bosom far dearer thou art

Than all that earth's treasure, earth's pleasure supplies.

But where am I urged by impetuous feeling?

Thy tears win the secret long hid in my breast.
Farewell! and may time fling the balsam of healing

O'er wounds that have rankled, and robbed thee of rest.
Yet lose not, ah, lose not, each lingering thought

Of her who in early affection you sought,

And whose bosom to cheer thee would sacrifice aught
But love to a parent, the kindest and best.

But the love of Carolan for Bridget Cruise had sunk too deeply in his heart to be ever banished from it. Twenty years afterwards, when on a pilgrimage at Loch Derg, the blind bard recognized the object of his youthful affection by the touch of her hand, in assisting her out of the ferry boat. The incident, with some slight variation of the circumstances, more conducive to poetic effect, I have recorded in a ballad of my own, which being so site to the subject I venture to insert.

"It is related of Carolan, the Irish bard, that when deprived of sight, and after the lapse of twenty years, he recognized his first love by the touch of her hand. The lady's name was Bridget Cruise, and though not a pretty name, it deserves to be recorded, as belonging to the woman who could inspire such a passion."-Songs and Ballads.

"TRUE love can ne'er forget;

Fondly as when we met,

Dearest, I love thee yet,

Thus

My darling one

sung a minstrel gray

His sweet impassion'd lay,

Down by the ocean's spray

At set of sun;

But wither'd was the minstrel's sight,
Morn to him was dark as night,

Yet his heart was full of light;

As he his lay begun.

"True love can ne'er forget;
Fondly as when we met,

Dearest, I love thee yet,

My darling one!

E

Long years are past and o'er,
Since from this fatal shore,
Cold hearts and cold winds bore
My love from me."
Scarcely the minstrel spoke,

When quick, with flashing stroke,
A boat's light oar the silence broke
Over the sea;

Soon upon her native strand
Doth a lovely lady land,

While the minstrel's love-taught hand
Did o'er his wild harp run-

"True love can ne'er forget;

Fondly as when we met,
Dearest, I love thee yet,—
My darling one!"

Where the minstrel sat alone,
There, that lady fair hath gone,
Within his hand she placed her own,-
The bard dropp'd on his knee;
From his lips soft blessings came,
He kiss'd her hand with truest flame,
In trembling tones he named-her name,
Though her he could not see.
But oh!-the touch the bard could tell
Of that dear hand, remember'd well,-
Ah!-by many a secret spell

Can true love find his own!
For true love can ne'er forget;
Fondly as when they met;
He loved his lady yet,-
His darling one!

CUSHLA MA CHREE.*

From the Irish,

BEFORE the sun rose at yester-dawn,
I met a fair maid adown the lawn:
The berry and snow

To her cheek gave its glow,

And her bosom was fair as the sailing swan Then, pulse of my heart! what gloom is thine?

* Vein, or pulse of my heart.

Her beautiful voice more hearts hath won
Than Orpheus' lyre of old had done;
Her ripe eyes of blue

Were crystals of dew,

On the grass of the lawn before the sun—

And, pulse of my heart! what gloom is thine ?

I think it will be admitted that there is much grace and tenderness in this little fragment; I wish more had been preserved of the song, which is evidently from a superior hand, and if not ancient, is at all events after the manner of ancient Irish songs. Using the berry as a comparison instead of the rose, for example. The "sailing swan," besides, is a favourite image with the old Irish writers. The lyre of Orpheus is a classical allusion, too, which may remind those acquainted with Mr. Hardiman's "Irish Minstrelsy," of a remark he makes in that most interesting work—“ Our bards appear not only to have been well acquainted with the works of Anacreon, but to have admired, and in many instances imitated their beauties." He then gives a fragment, very elegantly translated by Mr. D'Alton, which he says is like Anacreon's twenty-second Ode, and refers to Mr. Moore's translation. He says, further, that "it bears great resemblance to the Epigram of Dyonisius." On making reference to Mr. Moore's work I find the likeness much stronger in the latter than in the former, so close indeed as to make the translations from the Irish and the Greek interesting.

FRAGMENT.

From the Irish. Translated by JOHN D'ALTON.

SEE the ripe fruit; oh! were I such,
That mellow hangs from yonder spray,
To win your eyes, to woo your touch,
And on your lips to melt away!

Were I a rose, in some fair bower,
By thee selected from the rest;
To triumph in thy choice, an hour,
And die-upon thy snowy breast.

FRAGMENT.

From the Greek of Dyonisius. Translated by THOMAS MOORE.

I WISH I might a rose-bud grow,

And thou wouldst cull me from the bower,

To place me on that breast of snow,

Where I should bloom, a wintry flower.

THE GIRL I LOVE,

Translated from the Irish, CALLANAN,

THE girl I love is comely, straight and tall;
Down her white neck her auburn tresses fall:
Her dress is neat, her carriage light and free-

Here's a health to that charming maid whoe'er she be!

The rose's blush but fades beside her cheek;
Her eyes are blue, her forehead pale and meek;
Her lips like cherries on a summer tree-

Here's a health to the charming maid whoe'er she be!

When I go to the field no youth can lighter bound,
And I freely pay when the cheerful jug goes round,
The barrel is full: but its heart we soon shall see-
Come, here's to that charming maid whoe'er she be!

Had I the wealth that props the Saxon's reign;
Or the diamond crown that decks the King of Spain,
I'd yield them all if she kindly smiled on me-
Here's a health to the maid I love whoe'er she be!

Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair I'd pay,
And five times five, for my love one hour each day;

Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its own green tree-
Oh! dear one, I drink a fond deep health to thee!

YOU NEVER BADE ME HOPE,

GRIFFIN

You never bade me hope, 'tis true,
I asked you not to swear;

But I looked in those eyes of blue,
And read a promise there.

The vow should bind, with maiden sighs
That maiden lips have spoken-
But that which looks from maiden's eyes
Should last of all be broken!