As she look'd in the glass which a woman ne'er misses,
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly, fresh from the night flower's kisses,'
Flew over the mirror and shaded her view.
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,

She brush'd him-he fell, alas! never to rise-
"Ah! such," said the girl, " is the pride of our faces,
"For which the soul's innocence too often dies."

While she stole through the garden, where heart's-ease was growing.

She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen dew; And a rose further on look'd so tempting and glowing, That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too;

But, while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning

Her zone flew in two and the heart's-ease was lost: "Ah! this means," said the girl (and she sigh'd at its meaning),

"That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!"

BEFORE THE BATTLE.

By the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
Chains or freedom, death or life-
Oh! 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 bless'd 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 tamed his tyrant might!

An emblem of the soul.

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 that 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 bless'd that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!

AFTER THE BATTLE.

NIGHT closed 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 cross'd-
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, moved 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.

"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!

2

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

2 I believe it is Marmontel who says, "Quand on n'a pas ce que l'on aime, il 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 worse 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.

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. 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 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.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.'

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;
She woo'd me to temples, while 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 frail-
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale,

1 Meaning allegorically the ancient church of Ireland.

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 subdueWhere shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!1

ON MUSIC.

WHEN through life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we used to love,
In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!
Wakening thoughts that long have slept!
Kindling former smiles again

In faded eyes that long have wept.
Like the gale that sighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,
Is the grateful breath of song

That once was heard in happier hours;
Fill'd with balm, the gale sighs on,

Though the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in Music's breath.
Music! oh, how faint. how weak,
Language fades before thy spell!
Why should Feeling ever speak,

When thou canst breathe her soul so well?

Friendship's balmy words may feign,

Love's are even more false than they;

Oh! 'tis only Music's strain

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray!

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT
SHED.2

Ir is not the tear at this moment shed,

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.

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

2 These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who died lately at Madeira.