O! remember life can be

No charm for him who lives not free!
Like the day-star in the wave,
Sinks a hero in his grave,

Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.
Happy is he o'er whose decline

The smiles of home may soothing shine,
And light him down the steep of years-
But oh! how blest they sink to rest,
Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
Where we tam'd his tyrant might!
Never let him bind again

A chain, like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls-
Ere the golden evening falls,

May we pledge the horn in triumph round!*
Many a heart that now beats high,
In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound-

But oh! how blest that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!

"The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed mead out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day."-Walker.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

Air-"Thy fair bosom."

NIGHT clos'd around the conqueror's way,
And lightnings show'd the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day
Stood few and faint, but fearless still!
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
For ever dimm'd, for ever crost-
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,
When all but life and honour's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valour's task, mov'd slowly by,
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam
Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh! who would live a slave in this?

"TIS SWEET TO THINK.

Air-"Thady, you gander."

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,
We are sure to find something blissful and dear,
And that, when we're far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near 1*
The heart, like a tendril, accustom❜d to cling,

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
It can twine in itself, and make closely its own.
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something, still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

"Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise, To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there; And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes, 'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair.

I believe it is Marmontel who says "Quand on n'a pas ce que l'on aime, faut aimer ce que l'on a."-There are so many matter-of-fact people who take such jeux d'esprit as this defence of inconstancy to be the actual and genuine sentiments of him who writes them, that they compel one, in self-defence, to be as matter-of-fact as themselves, and to remind them that Democritus was not the worst physiologist for having playfully contended that snow was black; nor Erasmus, in any degree, the less wise for having written an ingenious encomium of folly.

Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too,

And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,

It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue! Then, oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be doom'd to find something, still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We have but to make love to the lips we are near.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.*

Air-"I once had a true love."

THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way,

Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay:

The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd,

Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd; Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honour'd, whilst thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd,

Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd;

*Meaning allegorically the ancient church of Ireland.

She woo'd me to temples, whilst thou layest hid in

caves,

Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were

slaves;

Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be, Than wed what I love not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frailHadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale!

They say too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains;

That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains

Oh! foul is the slander-no chain could that soul

subdue

Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth toc!*

ON MUSIC.

Air-"The banks of Banna."

WHEN thro' life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we us'd to love,
In days of boyhood, meet our ear,

"Where the spirit of the Lord is there is liberty."St. Paul, 2 Corinthians iii. 17.