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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 honor's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valor'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.

'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. *

* 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 matterof-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 on 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 with itself, and make closely its own. Then O 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 is n't there; And the world 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 O 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 to bud from each thorn that round me lay;

* Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland.

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 ev'n the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honor'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd,

Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows a

dorn'd ;

She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st 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!

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

That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains

O, foul is the slander!

subdue

no chain could that soul

Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too.*

* "Where the spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.”—ST Paul. 2 Cor. iii. 17.

ON MUSIC.

WHEN through 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,
O 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! O 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 ev'n more false than they ;

Oh 'tis only Music's strain

Can sweetly soothe and not betray.

IT IS NOT THE TEAR.

IT is not the tear at this moment shed,*

When the cold turf has just been lair o'er him, That can tell how belov'd was the friend that's fled Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. "Tis the tear through many a long day wept, 'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded 1;

'Tis the one remembrance fondly kept, When all lighter griefs are faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light,

Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them;
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
When we think how he liv'd but to love them!
And as fresher flowers the sod perfume
Where buried saints are lying,

So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom
From the image he left there in dying!

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'TIS believ'd that this Harp, which I wake now for thee,

Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea,
And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters rov'd,
To meet on the green shore a youth whom she lov’d.

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

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