The gallant, graceful, young Chevalier,

Whose look is bonny as his heart is gay;
His sword in battle flashes death and fear,
While he hews through falling foes his way.

O'er his blushing cheeks his blue eyes shine
Like dewdrops glitt'ring on the rose's leaf;
Mars and Cupid all in him combine,

The blooming lover and the godlike chief.

His curling locks in wavy grace,

Like beams on youthful Phoebus' brow, Flit wild and golden o'er his speaking face, And down his ivory shoulders flow.

Like Engus is he in his youthful days,

Or Mac Cein, whose deeds all Erin knows, Mac Dary's chiefs, of deathless praise,

Who hung like fate on their routed foes.

Like Connall the besieger, pride of his race,
Or Fergus, son of a glorious sire,
Or blameless Connor, son of courteous Nais,
The chief of the Red Branch-Lord of the Lyre.

The cuckoo's voice is not heard on the gale,
Nor the cry of the hounds in the nutty grove,
Nor the hunter's cheering through the dewy vale,
Since far-far away is the youth of our love.

The name of my darling none must declare,
Though his fame be like sunshine from shore to
shore;

But, oh, may Heaven-Heaven hear my prayer!
And waft the hero to my arms once more.

Chorus.-My heart-it danced when he was near, Ah! now my woe is the young Chevalier; 'Tis a pang that solace ne'er can know, That he should be banished by a rightless foe.

S

GEORGE DARLEY

(1785-1846)

SONG

WEET in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers,

Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her

hair ;

Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers
Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air.

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming
To wind round the willow banks that lure him from

above;

O that in tears, from my rocky prison, streaming,

I too could glide to the bower of love!

my

Ah! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her,

Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her,

To her lost mate's call in the forest far away.

Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest,

Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to me Come, this fond bosom, O faithfullest and fairest, Bleeds with its death-wound, its wound of love for thee !

SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS

P the dale and down the bourne,
O'er the meadow swift we fly:
Now we sing, and now we mourn,
Now we whistle, now we sigh.

By the grassy-fringed river,

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep; 'Mid the lily-leaves we quiver,

To their very hearts we creep.

Now the maiden rose is blushing
At the frolic things we say,

While aside her cheek we're rushing,
Like some truant bees at play.

Through the blooming graves we rustle,

Kissing every bud we pass,

As we did it in the bustle,

Scarcely knowing how it was.

Down the glen, across the mountain,
O'er the yellow heath we roam,
Whirling round about the fountain,
Till its little breakers foam.

Bending down the weeping willows,
While our vesper hymn we sigh;

Then unto our rosy pillows

On our weary wings we hie.

There of idlenesses dreaming,
Scarce from waking we refrain,
Moments long as ages deeming
Till we're at our play again.

I

TO HELENE

On a gift-ring carelessly lost.

SEND a ring—a little band

Of emerald and ruby stone,
And bade it, sparkling on thy hand,
Tell thee sweet tales of one

Whose constant memory

Was full of loveliness, and thee.

A shell was graven on its gold

'Twas Cupid 'fin'd without his wingsTo Helene once it would have told

More than was ever told by rings:

But now all's past and gone

Her love is buried with that stone.

Thou shalt not see the tears that start

From eyes by thoughts like these beguiled; .Thou shalt not know the beating heart,

Ever a victim and a child:

Yet Helene, love, believe

The heart that never could deceive.

I'll hear thy voice of melody

In the sweet whispers of the air;