As she look'd in the glass which a woman ne'er misses, She brush'd him-he fell, alas! never to rise- 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, No charm for him who lives not free! Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears. Happy is he o'er whose decline The smiles of home may soothing shine, O'er his watch-fire's fading embers Now the foeman's cheek turns white, An emblem of the soul. Never let him bind again A chain, like that we broke from then. May we pledge that horn in triumph round!' AFTER THE BATTLE. NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way, 'TIS SWEET TO THINK. "TIS sweet to think, that, where'er we rove, 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, It can twine in itself, and make closely its own. To be sure to find something still that is dear, 'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise, '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; 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; 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, In faded eyes that long have wept. That once was heard in happier hours; Though the flowers have sunk in death; 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 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. |