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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 – flowers' 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 hearts.
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 hearts-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! »
By the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife
Chains or freedom, death or life-
Like the day-star in the wave,
Sinks a hero to his grave,
Blessed is he, o'er whose decline,
The smiles of home may-soothing shine, Aud light him down the steep of years :
But, oh! how grand they sink to rest,
O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
Now the soe-man's cheek turns white, While luis heart that field remembers
Where we dimm’d his glory's light
Hark! the horn of combat calls !
Oh! before the evening falls,
Many a heart that now beats high
In slumber cold at night shallllie,
But, oh! how bleat that hero's sleep,
AFTER THE BATTLE.
NIGHT CLOSED AROUND THE CONQUEROR'S
Air-Thy Fair Bosim.
NIOH closeds around the Conqueror's way,
And lightning shew'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 zeala.
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 moved slowly by, While mute they watch'd till morning's beam
Should rise, and give them light to die ! There is 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 ?
OH! 'TIS SWEET THINK.
Air-Thady, you Gander.
OH! '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 have but to make love to the lips we are
1 I believe it is Marmóntel who says : « Quana on n'a pas ce quc l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a. »- There
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, 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
"Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,
To make light of the rest if the rose be not 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 chan
geable too: And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,
are so many matte-of-fact-people, who take such jeu d'esprit as the defense of inconstancy to be 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.