Irish Melodies (Google eBook)

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J. Power, 1821 - Ballads, Irish - 259 pages
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Page 12 - THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed. Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.
Page 154 - DEAR Harp of my country ! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp ! I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song...
Page 44 - Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree ? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneel not before the same altar with me...
Page 70 - Music ! oh how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell ! Why should Feeling ever speak, When thou canst breathe her soul so well ? Friendship's balmy words may feign, Love's are ev'n more false than they ; Oh ! 'tis only Music's strain Can sweetly soothe, and not betray ! IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.
Page 91 - He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him, Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Page 22 - THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ! f Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh ! no it was something more exquisite still.
Page 122 - Let Fate do her worst ; there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy ; Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Page 10 - OH ! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. OH ! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid ; Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head. But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
Page 162 - ... us ! And when, in other climes, we meet Some isle or vale enchanting, Where all looks flowery, wild and sweet, And nought but love is wanting ; We think...
Page 149 - Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning The close of our day, the calm eve of our night : Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning, Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light.

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