IRISH MUSIC.
The following song on the harp of our country has been sent to us by our friend Samuel Lover, the painter, poet, musician, dramatist, story-writer, and novelist of Ireland, for it is his pride to be in every thing Irish; and for this, no less than for his manly independence of character and sterling qualities of heart, we honour him. It cannot be said of him as of some of our countrymen at the other side of the water, that he is ashamed of us; and we are not, and we feel assured never shall be, ashamed of him.
We may remark that these verses owe their origin to an examination of Bunting’s delightful “Ancient Music of Ireland”—a work of which we have already expressed our opinion in our first number—and are adapted to be sung to the first melody in that collection, “Sit down under my protection.” We may also add, that it is the intention of the poet, when he prints the music and words together, to dedicate them to Mr Bunting, as a memorial of his gratitude for the services rendered to Ireland in the preservation of her national music—services which, as the author says, “will make his name be remembered amongst our bards.”
SONG.
BY SAMUEL LOVER.
Oh, give me one strain
Of that wild harp again,
In melody proudly its own,
Sweet harp of the days that are gone!
Time’s wide-wasting wing
Its cold shadow may fling
Where the light of the soul hath no part;
The sceptre and sword
Both decay with their lord,
But the throne of the Bard is the heart!
And hearts, while they beat
To thy music so sweet,
Thy glory shall ever prolong,
Land of honour, and beauty, and song!
The beauty whose sway
Waked the bard’s votive lay,
Hath gone to eternity’s shade;
While, fresh in its fame,
Lives the song to her name,
Which the Minstrel immortal hath made!
Proud harp, of wild string,
Where thy sweetness did ring
O’er the silence of other lands,
By the magic of minstrel hands,
Too oft did its wail
Load with sorrow the gale
O’er the land that was made to be free;
But, Isle of the West,
Raise thy emerald crest,
Songs of triumph shall yet ring for thee.
Poverty.—Poverty has in large cities very different appearances. It is often concealed in splendour, and often in extravagance. It is the care of a very great part of mankind to conceal their indigence from the rest. They support themselves by temporary expedients, and every day is lost in contriving for to-morrow.
When you intend to marry, look first at the heart, next at the mind, then at the person.
Pride is a vice, which pride itself inclines every man to find in others and to overlook in himself.—Johnson.