Silence is in our festal halls,—

  Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er;

In vain on thee sad Erin calls,

  Her minstrel's voice responds no more;—

All silent as the Eolian shell

  Sleeps at the close of some bright day,

When the sweet breeze that waked its swell

  At sunny morn hath died away.

Yet at our feasts thy spirit long

  Awakened by music's spell shall rise;

For, name so linked with deathless song

  Partakes its charm and never dies:

And even within the holy fane

  When music wafts the soul to heaven,

One thought to him whose earliest strain

  Was echoed there shall long be given.

But, where is now the cheerful day.

  The social night when by thy side

He who now weaves this parting lay

  His skilless voice with thine allied;

And sung those songs whose every tone,

  When bard and minstrel long have past,

Shall still in sweetness all their own

  Embalmed by fame, undying last.

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,—

  Or, if thy bard have shared the crown,

From thee the borrowed glory came,

  And at thy feet is now laid down.

Enough, if Freedom still inspire

  His latest song and still there be.

As evening closes round his lyre,

  One ray upon its chords from thee.

[1] It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson.