Oh! hurry thee on-oh! hurry thee on,
Thou terrible Bark! ere the night be gone;
Nor let morning look on so foul a sight
As would blanch for ever her rosy light!

TO ****** **********.

NEVER mind how the pedagogue proses,
You want not antiquity's stamp!

The lip, that s so scented by roses,
Oh never must smell of the lamd.

Old Cloe, whose withering kisses
Have long set the loves at defiance,
Now, done with the science of blisses,
May fly to the blisses of science!

Young Sappho, for want of employments,
Alone o'er her Ovid may melt,
Condemn d but to read of enjoyments
Which wiser Corinna had felt.

But for you to be buried in books—
Oh, FANNY! they're pitiful sages
Who could not in one of your looks
Read more than in millions of pages!

Astronomy finds in your eye

Better light than she studies above, And Music must borrow your sigh, As the melody dearest to love.

In Ethics-'tis you that can check,

In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels ; Oh! show but that mole on your neck,

And 'twill soon put an end to their morals.

Your Arithmetic only can trip

When to kiss and to count you

But eloquence glows on your lip

endeavour;

When you swear that you'll love me for ever.

Thus you see, what a brilliant alliance
Of arts is assembled in you-

A course of most exquisite science
Man never need wish to go through!

And, oh!-if a fellow like me

May confer a diploma of hearts, With my lip thus I seal your degree, My divine little Mistress of Arts!

MOORE'S

IRISH MELODIES.

VOLUME VII.

ADVERTISEMENT.

IF I had consulted only my own judgment, this work would not have been extended beyond the six numbers already published, which contain, perhaps, the flower of our national melodies, and have attained a rank in public favour, of which I would not willingly risk the forfeiture by degenerating, in any way, from those merits that were its source. Whatever treasures of our music were still in reserve, (and it will be seen, I trust, that they are numerous and valuable) I would gladly have left to future poets to glean, and with the ritual words "tibi trado," would have delivered up the torch into other hands, before it had lost much of its light in my own. But the call for a continuance of the work has been, as I understand from the publisher, so general, and we have received so

many contributions of old and beautiful airs,* the suppression of which, for the enhancement of those we have published, would resemble too much the policy of the Dutch in burning their spices, that I have been persuaded, though not without considerable diffidence in my success, to commence a new series of the Irish Melodies. T. M.

* One gentleman in particular, whose name I shall feel happy in being allowed to mention, has not only sent us near forty ancient airs, but has communicated many curious fragments of Irish poetry, and some interesting traditions current in the country where he resides, illustrated by the sketches of the romantic scenery to which they refer: all of which though too late for the present number, will be of infinite service to us in the prosecution of our task.

MELODIES.

MY GENTLE HARP!

AIR-" The Coina, or Dirge."

I.

My gentle Harp! once more I waken
The sweetness of thy slumbering strain ;
In tears our last farewell was taken,
And now in tears we meet again.
No light of joy hath o'er thee kroken,
But, like those harps, whose heavenly skill
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken-
Thou hang'st upon the willows still.

II.

And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
An hour of peace and triumph came,
When many an ardent bosom bounded
With hopes that now are turn'd to shame.
Yet even then, while peace was singing
Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Though joy and hope to others bringing,
She only brought new tears to thee.