GRANT me, I cried, some spell of art, To turn with all a lover's care, That spotless page, my Eva's heart, And write my burning wishes there.
But Love, by faithless Laia taught How frail is woman's holiest vow, Look'd down, while grace attempered thought Sate serious on his baby brow.
"Go! blot her album," cried the sage, "There none but bards a place may claim;But woman's heart's a worthless page, Where every fool may write his name."Until by time or fate decayed, That line and leaf shall never part;Ah! who can tell how soon shall fade The lines of love from woman's heart.
LINES TO A LADY, ON HEARING HER SING "CUSHLAMACHREE."YES! heaven protect thee, thou gem of the ocean;Dear land of my sires, though distant thy shores;Ere my heart cease to love thee, its latest emotion, The last dying throbs of its pulse must be o'er.
And dark were the bosom, and cold and unfeeling, That tamely could listen unmoved at the call, When woman, the warm soul of melody stealing, Laments for her country and sighs o'er its fall.
Sing on, gentle warbler, the tear-drop appearing Shall fall for the woes of the queen of the sea;And the spirit that breathes in the harp of green Erin, Descending, shall hail thee her "Cushlamachree."
