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 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 blest that hero's sleep, O'er whom a wond'ring world shall weep!

AFTER THE BATTLE.

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.

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove, We are sure to find something blissful and dear,

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

And that, when we're far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.? 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 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 change

able 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.3

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, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd,

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

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.

3 Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland.

Where the cliff hangs high and steep Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep. "Here, at least," he calmly said, "Woman ne'er shall find my bed." Ah! the good Saint little knew What that wily sex can do.

'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,Eyes of most unholy blue!

She had lov'd him well and long,
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd.

On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;
Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be:
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Glendalough, thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late,)
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, "Heaven rest her soul!”
Round the Lake light music stole ;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling o'er the fatal tide.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers are round her, sighing: But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov'd awaking;-
Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwin'd him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the
West,

From her own lov'd island of sorrow.

NAY, TELL ME NOT, DEAR.

NAY, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream

That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
The spell of those eyes,
The balm of thy sighs,

Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl.
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

They tell us that Love in his fairy bower
Had two blush-roses, of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower,
But bath'd the other with mantling wine.
Soon did the buds

That drank of the floods

Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade;

While those which the tide

Of ruby had dy'd

All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee.