Varying thro' each winning measure,
Soothing every sense to pleasure,

Wild intense delight imparting,

Pain-touch'd rapture, sweet tho' smarting;

He to whom such joy is given,

Hath, while here, his share of Heaven.

Happy is he who hath gain'd thy love,
Happy is he who hath won thee;
Thy princely sires look from above,

And smile in their pride upon thee:
The race of Tarah, the men of name,
First in the gory fields of fame.

Oh! fair one! wherever thou art,

There is light for the eyes and balm for the heart; The desire of desires, the essence of all,

That can torture, or soften, or soothe, or enthrall.

Thy step is life and lightness,

And thy glance hath a thrilling brightness;

Thy waist is straight and slender,

And thy bosom gently swelling,

Outdoes the swan's in whiteness,

When she starts from her tranquil dwelling,

And breasts the broad lake in splendor.

Sweet girl these locks so wildly curl'd

Have snares and spells for many;

Oh! far may we range thro' this weary world,
And find thee unmatch'd by any.

K

Tá sea̸bhác na h-Eirne « n-éinfheacht Linne,

Go céillidhe, gastá, sásta,

Ariamh go fóil nách deárnáidh ciste,

Acht Kg bronnadh óir 'n « mhámáibh ; Tá a súil már dhrúcht zo nuadh Kir lile, 'Y á gnúis már clódh-mhín PhárrthKis Amharc 'n a deóigh ní dheárnáidh si-se,

Acht buán Kg brostúgha̸dh cáil mháith'; Tá cuach bheinn'-Ea̸dáir az éálózhadh linne, Níor go bheAl-Kith-seánnáigh,

Azur Yeabhác ná H-Eirne Kg triall Ar g-coinne, Már rún mhilis bheách ná béáltoine;

A chiúin-bhean bhéusách, shéimhídhe, shockir, Uadh d' Aisdear thug cumánn Kgus Kilne, Hí fhuil éán Kir chráébh is cKóíne binnea̸s,

lona cuchd-teks do dháil-sı.

Art thou a thing of earth,

A maid of terrestrial birth;

Or a vision sent from on high

In peerless beauty beaming—

Like those shapes that pass o'er the poet's eye, When he lies all idly dreaming.

Rejoice! rejoice! with harp and voice,
For the hawk of Erne is near us ;*
She comes with a smile our cares to beguile,
She comes with a glance to cheer us:
Not lov'd and lovely alone is she,

But bounteous as high-born dames should be.
On she moves while the eyes of all,

Hail the ground where her footsteps fall;

Sweet are her tones as the treasur'd store,

Which the weary, weary bee

Culls from the flowers he lingers o'er,

When he wanders far and free;

Sweeter far than the cuckoo's lay,

That rings on the ear on a summer's day:
But come, let this the rest declare,

In this bumper flowing o'er,
We pledge the fairest of all the fair-
The daughter of old O'More.

Glukirfidh mise feásdá, suás Ann sán n-áisdeár,

Nach Kin Fheidhlim uk Héill bhéupfkidh mé án

chuairt,

An t-óiz-fhea̸r de'n bh-fréimh, d'a̸r chóir do bheith ccéim, Súd é mo széul Kgus ní náire liom A luadhadh :

Pa̸zárt geanamhuil, bárrámhuil, cráidhbhea̸ch, suidire, Hach léigfeadh nea̸ch d'a̸r cheárt d'a̸ cháirde uile

ukidh;

Líonta̸r suia̸s na sgála̸ídhe, 'nois dár liom is feárr iad, Léizídh thart an t-sláinte úd Fhéidhlime úí Nuadh.

Hi'l spórt Kir An d-tálámh nach dho-sán budh dual; Pléir mar bhíodh Kir buile 's « dáimh chuige zhlukis,

PHELIM O'NEILL.

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

At length thy bard is steering,

To find thy gay hearth again;

Thy hand, thy voice so cheering,

Still soothes him in grief or pain :

Thy sires have shone in story,

Their fame with friendly pride we hail;

But a milder, gentler glory

Is thine-my belov'd O'Neill!

Still cheerful have I found thee,

All changeless in word or tone,

Still free when friends were round thee,
And free with thy bard alone :-
Fill up the bowls-be drinking-

'Tis cheering still woe or weal; Come pledge with lips unshrinking,

The dear-the belov'd O'Neill !