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A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC.

See! from his native hills afar,
The rude Helvetian flies to war,
Careless for what, for whom he fights,
For slave or despot, wrongs or rights;
A conqueror oft-a hero never-
Yet lavish of his life-blood still,

As if 'twere like his mountain rill,
And gushed for ever!

O Music! here, even here,

Amid this thoughtless wild career,

Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.
There is an air which oft among the rocks

Of his own lovèd land, at evening hour,

Is heard when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks:
Oh! every note of it would thrill his mind

With tenderest thoughts-would bring around his knees
The rosy children whom he left behind,
And fill each little angel eye

With speaking tears that ask him why
He wandered from his hut for scenes like these.
Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar ;
Sweet notes of home-of love-are all he hears,

And the stern eyes, that looked for blood before,
Now melting mournful lose themselves in tears!

SWISS AIR.

BUT wake the trumpet's blast again,
And rouse the ranks of warrior men!

O War! when Truth thy arm employs,
And Freedom's spirit guides the labouring storm,
'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallowed form,
And like heaven's lightning sacredly destroys!
Nor, Music! through thy breathing sphere
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear
Of him who made all harmony

Than the blest sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn that man, awaking

From Slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty!

SPANISH AIR.

HARK! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Bursts the bold enthusiast strain,

Like morning's music on the air,

And seems in every note to swear,

By Saragossa's ruined streets,

By brave Gerona's deathful story,

That while one Spaniard's life-blood beats,

That blood shall stain the Conqueror's glory!

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal,

If neither valour's force nor wisdom's light

Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal Which shuts so close the book of Europe's right--What song shall then in sadness tell Of broken pride, of prospects shaded; Of buried hopes, remembered well, Of ardour quenched and honour faded?

What muse shall mourn the breathless brave, In sweetest dirge at memory's shrine?

What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave? O Erin! thine!

"The day is thine, the night also is thine: thou hast prepared the light and he sun. Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summ

and winter."-Psalm lxxiv. 16, 17.

I.

THOU art, O God! the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.

II.

When day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the opening clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze

Through golden vistas into heaven;
Those hues that make the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord! are thine.

III.

When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes ;-
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord! are thine.

I have heard that this air is by the late Mrs. Sheridan. ! cautiful old words, "I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair.

It is sung to the

IV.

When youthful spring around us breathes,
Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flower the summer wreathes
Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

AIR-Stevenson.

I.

THIS world is all a fleeting show
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow,—

There's nothing true but Heaven!

II.

And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;

And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb,-
There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Her love thy fairest heritage,*
Her power thy glory's throne,†
Till evil came, and blighted

Thy long-loved olive-tree ;+--
And Salem's shrines were lighted
For other gods than Thee!

III.

Then sunk the star of Solyma ;—
Then passed her glory's day,
Like heath that in the wilderness §
The wild wind whirls away.
Silent and waste her bowers,
Where once the mighty trod,
And sunk those guilty towers
Where Baal reigned as God!

IV.

"Go," said the Lord-"ye conquerors!
Steep in her blood your swords,
And raze to earth her battlements, ||
For they are not the Lord's!
Till Zion's mournful daughter
O'er kindred bones shall tread,
And Hinnom's vale of slaughter¶
Shall hide but half her dead!"

WHO IS THE MAID?**
AIR-Beethoven.

I.

WHO is the maid my spirit seeks,

Through cold reproof and slander's blight.
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?

Is hers an eye of this world's light?

No, wan and sunk with midnight prayer

Are the pale looks of her I love;

* "I have left mine heritage; I have given the dearly beloved of my soul into the hands of her enemies."-Jer. xii. 7.

"Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory."-Jer. xiv. 21.

"The Lord called thy name, A green olive-tree, fair, and of goodly fruit,” &c.-Jer. xi. 16.

For he shall be like the heath in the desert."-Jer. xvii. 6.

"Take away her battlements; for they are not the Lord's."-Jer. v. 10. "Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that it shall no more be called Tophet, nor the valley of the son of Hinnom, but the Valley of Slaughter; for they shall bury in Tophet, till there be no place."-Jer. vii. 32.

** These lines were suggested by a passage in St. Jerome's reply to some calumnious remarks that had been circulated upon his intimacy with the Matron Paula :-"Numquid me vestes_sericæ, nitentes gemmæ, picta facies, aut auri rapuit ambitio? Nulla fuit alia Romæ matronarum, quæ meam possit edomare mentem, nisi lugens atque jejunans, fletu pene cæcata."-Epist. "Si tibi

putem.