- Be duteous and tender to him, as to me:

Look up to the mercy-seat then;
And passing this shadow of death, which I see,

Come, come to my arms back again.


To the foregoing Air.

The Hero may perish his country to save,

And he lives in the records of fame;
The Sage may the dungeons of tyranny brave

Ever honour'd and blest be his name!
But Virtue that silently toils or expires,

No wreath for the brow to entwine;
That asks but a smile-but a fond sigh requires

O Woman! that virtue is thine. *

* Our readers, we are persuaded, will pardon us for again introducing them to Mr. Thomson, the Gentleman whom we had occasion to mention so frequently in our first volume as a correspondent of Burns's, and the Editor of an elegant musical work, for which the greater part of that Poet's songs were expressly written. It is to this Gentleman alone, perhaps, that we are wholly indebted, not only for the best of Burns's pieces, but also for a great variety of the most admirable lyrics, written by some of the first poets of the present day; for it may be questioned if one-half, or even any at all, of the exquisite songs which are to be found in Mr. Thomson's pages, would ever have seen the light, but for the impulse given to the genius of the Bards by the consideration, that their productions would be united to the most delightful music, and handed down to posterity in a work which, for grandeur of design, and elegance of execution, has hitherto, in all probability, never been equalled.

We have no doubt of obtaining Mr. Thomson's forgiveness for

having taken from the second Volume of his Irish Airs harmonized by Beethoven, and recently published, the two foregoing songs as a specimen of the poetical contents of the whole workat least, of those volumes, the contents of which have not yet become the property of the public. We do not say we have selected these pieces, because we can recollect of no case in which we found it more difficult to make a selection than from the present. volume. Every song contained in it is so rich, so full of beauties of the rarest kind, and each possesses so many excellences peculiar to itself alone, that were we to attempt a selection, we should never be able to satisfy ourselves that the pieces we had chosen were better than those we had left behind. On this account we only say we have taken two pieces, and the two we have taken are from the beginning of the volume. They are from the pen of Professor Smyty of Cambridge,a Gentleman who has contributed largely to the enriching of the work, and whose pieces unquestionably place him in the first rank of lyric Bards.

On the merits of the musical department of Mr. Thomson's work, we are certainly less capable of delivering an opinion; but, were it otherwise, we have no doubt that the judgment ex. hibited by Mr. THOMson in selecting the airs, and the genius displayed by such composers as PLEYEL, Hayden, and BEETHOVEN (who have all been successively employed on the work) in harmonizing them, would be found equally above our praise. It may be stated, however, that the airs adopted by Mr. THOMSON are allowed, on all hands, to be the very best of those that are peculiar to the three countries from whose stores he has selected, viz. the Scottish, the Welsh, and the Irish;—and those who are at all acquainted with the names of the three composers abovementioned, will at once see how much their symphonies and accompaniments, executed, as they are said to have been, in their happiest style, must add to the merits, and enhance the value, of the work. In short, we are of opinion that the amateurs of exquisite music, and elegant poetry, will no where find both united in higher perfection than in this work of Mr. THOMSON’s; and we are happy in having an opportunity of paying to that Gentleman the tribute of our gratitude, both for having united


or own airs, and the airs of our sister countries, with the rich ind delicate accompaniments of the greatest composers of the ge, and also for having so happily succeeded in eliciting, from o many eminent Poets, verses which are not only highly charac feristic of these airs, but which also reflect the highest honour in the talents of the writers, and which, but for the projection of his work, might never have been called into existence.


TUNE" The fair-hair'd Girl.WHEN full in the broad light of Heav'n is display'd The web of affliction that tyranny weaves, And power in the spoil of the weak stands array'd,

The heart of humanity grieves. It weeps at the sight, and it sighs for the day That brings to the sufferer freedom and peace;When men to their proud haughty tyrants shall say,

The reign of oppression must cease.
Dear Erin, long time o'er thy heath-cover'd hills
The loud cry of wrong has been borne on the blast;
The sigh of despair all thy green vallies fills;

Thy bright-beaming sky is o'ercast.
Around thy low cabins, in days that are fled,
On all hospitality scatter'd her smiles;
The coming she welcom'd, the going she sped-

Her joy was to lighten their toils.
How chang'd now the scene!-in these cabins no more
Thy sons find the joyful delights of a home;
By strangers displaced, on, a far foreign shore

Unpitied and wretched they roam. But cheer thee-the thick heavy clouds break apart; Hope's star thro' the darkness, transported, I see; The time hastens on when thy sons with one heart

Shall shake off their chains and be free,

And then all the wrongs that have wrapt thee in gloom
Shall fade like the mists of the morning away;
The sunshine of gladness thy hours shall illume,

And joy her gay visions display.
And then too, his sorrows all over, thy Bard
Shall pour on thy ear all the charms of his song;
And sweetly the notes of thy harp shall be heard

Resounding thy green vales among.


Tune-" The Moreen.”
Hear, Comrades, hear your Chieftain's voice,

We're now on the eve of glory-
Say, is it not your hearts' fix'd choice

Or to conquer, or live in story?
Then, come, let the gay glass circle round-

A warrior's heart ne'er sorrow'd-
Let mirth flow free, bright smiles abound,

And be joy from the grape's juice borrow'd.
Now hark! the deeds your sires have done,

How the harp's loud notes resound them! Thro' fame's fair page their stories run,

And bright glory's rays beam around them.
Like them you pant for the glorious strife

I see your ardour swelling;
High in your breasts the pulse of life

Throbs, the fire of your keen souls telling.

Put round once more the sparkling wine

'Tis a cup to love and beautyThen, Erin, hearts and swords are thine

Due to thee are our lives and duty.

We'll boldly on at our country's call,

And die, or be victorious;
'Tis nobler with the brave to fall,

Than to yield for a life inglorious. *

* The Editor cannot help again stating his conviction that his readers, in common with himself, will have marked with regret the deplorable paucity of even middling pieces of poetry to accompany those exquisitely beautiful effervescences of Irish melody, which are the delight of every lover of music,the merit (if merit it may be called) of most of the songs which may be deemed national, turning exclusively, as was formerly noticed, on barbarous indelicacy or wretched pun. It is highly gratifying to think that this defect is now fully remedied by the labours of the indefatigable Mr. THOMSON, whose work has been already referred to. As the labours of that Gentleman, however, may be beyond the reach of a number of the readers of this work, the Editor has solicited some of his poetical friends, on whose talents he could rely, to furnish him with new sets of, verses for a few of the best Irish airs. In consequence of this application he has received from one Gentleman Why weep thus dear Norah (p. 177), Put round the full glass (p. 208), and The soul of an Irishman (p. 209); and from another, My Muse let us wake, see 1. 179. The two songs which we now give, viz When full in the broad light of Heav'n, and Hear, comrades, hear, are by the author of My Muse let us wake; and it will be found, the Editor hopes, that they, as well as the others above-mentioned, fully justify the confidence he placed in the talents of their authors. They contain, he thinks, those bright flashes of sentiment that secure to poetry its genuine object, namely, the excitement, even in our amusements, of those glowing sympathies and expanded feelings which are the best guarantees of individual liberty, and national independence. | Vol. II.

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