صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني

Otomèca shares thy spoils,
Tlàscalà in triumph smiles*.
Mourn, devoted city, mourn!
Mourn, devoted city, mourn!

'Cease your boast, O stranger band,
Conquerors of my fallen land!
Avarice strides your van before,
Phantom meagre, pale, and hoar!
Discord follows, breathing flame,
Still opposing claim to claim † ;
Kindred demons, haste along!
Haste, avenge my country's wrong!'

Ceased the voice with dreadful sounds,
Loud as tides that burst their bounds;
Roll'd the form in smoke away,
Amazed on earth the' exorcists lay;
Pondering on the dreadful lore,

Their course the' Iberians downward bore;
Their helmets glittering o'er the vale,

And wide their ensigns fluttering in the gale.


*The Otomies were a fierce, savage nation, never thoroughly subdued by the Mexicans. Tlascala was a powerful neighbouring republic, the rival of Mexico.

Alluding to the dissensions which ensued among the Spaniards after the conquest of America.



THERE breathes the language known and felt
Far as the pure air spreads its living zone;
Wherever Rage can rouse or Pity melt,

That language of the soul is felt and known. From those meridian plains

Where oft, of old, on some high tower,

The soft Peruvian pour'd his midnight strains, And call'd his distant love with such sweet


That when she heard the well known lay,
Not worlds could keep her from his arms away;
To those bleak realms of polar night,

Where the youth of Lapland's sky

Bids his rapid reindeer fly,

And sings along the darkling waste of snow
As blithe as if the blessed light

Of vernal Phoebus burn'd upon his brow;
Oh Music! thy celestial claim

Is still resistless, still the same;

And faithful as the mighty sea

To the pole star that o'er its realm presides, The spell-bound tides

Of human passion rise and fall from thee.


List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings
While, from Ilyssus' flowery springs,

Recited by the author, at the Kilkenny Theatre, in 1810. The performers were gentlemen of the neighbouring country; and the profits were given to the charitable institutions of Kilkenny.

She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn, While, by her side, in Music's charm dissolving, Some patriot youth the glorious past revolving, Dreams of bright days that never can return; When Athens nursed her olive bough

With hands by tyrant power unchain'd, And braided for the Muse's brow

A wreath by tyrant touch unstain'd; When heroes trod each classic field, Where coward feet now faintly falter, And every arm was Freedom's shield, And every heart was Freedom's altar.

(GREEK AIR INTERRUPTED BY A TRUMPET.) Hark! 'tis the sound that charms

The war-steed's wakening ears

Oh! many a mother folds her arms


Round her boy-soldier when that sound she
And, though her fond heart sinks with fears,

Is proud to see his young pulse bound

With valour's fever at the sound.-

See from his native hills afar

The rude Helvetian flies to war,
Careless for what, for whom he fights,
For slave or despot, wrongs or rights,

A conqueror oft, a hero never;

Yet lavish of his lifeblood still

As if 'twere like his mountain rill, And gush'd for ever!


Oh Music! here, even here

Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power. There is an air, which oft among the rocks

Of his own loved land at evening hour

Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks ;

Oh! every note of it would thrill his mind With tenderest thoughts, and bring about his knees The rosy children whom he left behind; And fill each little angel eye

With speaking tears, that ask him why He wander'd from his hut to scenes like these? Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar, Sweet notes of home, of love are all he hears,

And the stern eyes that look'd for blood before, Now, melting mournful, lose themselves in tears! (RANZ DES VACHES INTERRUPTED BY A TRUMPET.) But wake the Trumpet's blast again, And rouse the ranks of warrior men!

Oh War! when Truth thy arm employs, And Freedom's spirit guides the labouring storm, Thy vengeance takes a hallow'd form,

And, like Heaven's lightning, sacredly destroys.
Nor, Music, through thy breathing sphere
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear
Of Him who made all harmony

Than the bless'd sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn that man, awaking

From Slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty.


Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Bursts the bold enthusiast strain,
Like morning's music on the air,
And seems, in every note, to swear,

By Saragossa's ruin'd streets, By brave Gerona's deathful story,

That while one Spaniard's lifeblood beats, That blood shall stain a conqueror's glory!


But ah! if vain the patriot Spaniard's zeal,
If neither valour's force nor wisdom's lights
Can break nor melt the blood-cemented seal
That shuts to close the book of Europe's rights,
What song shall then in sadness tell

Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,
Of buried hopes remembered well,

Of ardour quench'd, and honour faded?
What Muse shall mourn the breathless brave,
In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine?
What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave?
Oh, Erin! thine.


Bless'd notes of mirth! ye spring from sorrow's lay,

Like the sweet vesper of the bird that sings.. In the bright sunset of an April day,

While the cold shower yet hangs upon his wings.

Long may the Irish heart repeat

An echo to those lively strains;
And when the stranger's ear shall meet
That melody on distant plains,

Oh! he will feel his heart expand

With grateful warmth, and, sighing, say—

Thus speaks the music of the land

Where welcome ever lights the stranger's way;



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