THE MUSE.

IRISH MELODIES.
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 BY THOMAS MooRE, Ese.; Just Published Sing, sweet Harp, 0 sing to me Some song of ancient days, Whose sounds in this sad memory Long-buried dreams shall rise = Some day that tells of vanished fame Whose light once round us shone; Ofnoble pride now turned to shame, And hopes forever gone,- Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me; Alike our doom Is cast, Both lost to all but memory, We lived but in the past. How mournfuly the midnight air Among thy chords doth sigh, As if 1t sought some echo there Of voices long gone by:- Of chieftains now forgot, who beam q The foremost then in fame; Of Bards who once immortal deem'd Now sleep without name, In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air, Among thy chords doth sigh: h vain if seeks some echo there Ofvoices long gone by. Could 'st thou but call those spirits round, Who once in bower and hall, Sat listening to thy magic sound, Now mute and mouldering all;-- But no;--they would but wake to weep Their children's slavery; Then leave them in their dreamless sleep, The dead, at least, are free !-- Hush sad Harp; that dreary tone, That knell of Freedoms day, Or, listening to its death-iike moan, Let me, too, die away.

 lLondon paper.