And a rose further on looked so tempting and growing
That, spite of her haste, she mus gather i

But, while o'er the roses too carelessly want

Her zone flew in two and the heart s-case was lost "Ah! this means," said the girl (and she signed at its mean » ing),

"That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!"

BEFORE THE BATILE.

By the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
Chains or freedom, death or life —
Oh! remember life can be

No charm for him who lives not free!
Like the day-star in the wave,
Sinks a hero in his grave,

Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

Happy is he o'er whose decline
The smiles of home may soothing sline,
And light him down the steep of years
But oh! how blessed 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 tamed 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 blessed that hero's sleep
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!

AFTER THE BATTLE.

NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way,
And lightnings showed 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 dimmed, for ever crossed

"The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial parp

In the

heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Damh hunters

do their beverage at this day."--Walker.

ODE XXXIII.

'TWAS noon of night, when round the pole
The sullen Bear is seen to roll;
And mortals, wearied with the day,
Are slumbering all their cares away:
An infant, at that dreary hour,
Came weeping to my silent bower,
And waked me with a piteous prayer,
To save him from the midnight air!
"And who art thou," I waking cry,
"That bidd'st my blissful visions fly?"
"O gentle sire!" the infant said,
"In pity take me to thy shed;
Nor fear deceit a lonely child,
I wander o'er the gloomy wild.
Chill drops the rain, and not a ray
Illumes the drear and misty way!"
I hear the baby's tale of woe;
I hear the bitter night-winds blow;
And, sighing for his piteous fate,
I trimmed my lamp and oped the gate.
'Twas Love! the little wandering sprite,
His pinion sparkled through the night!
I knew him by his bow and dart;
I knew him by my fluttering heart!
I take him in, and fondly raise
The dying embers' cheering blaze;
Press from his dank and clinging hair
The crystals of the freezing air,
And in my hand and bosom hold
His little fingers thrilling cold.
And now the embers' genial ray
Had warmed his anxious fears away;
"I pray thee," said the wanton child,
(My bosom trembled as he smiled,)
"I pray thee let me try my bow,
For through the rain I've wandered so
That much I fear, the ceaseless shower
Has injured its elastic power."
The fatal bow the urchin drew;
Swift from the string the arrow flew;
Oh! swift it flew as glancing flame,
And to my very soul it came!
"Fare thee well," I heard him say,
As laughing wild he winged away;
"Fare thee well, for now I know
The rain has not relaxed my bow;
It still can send a maddening dart,
As thou shalt own with all thy heart!"

ODE XXXIV.

O THOU, of all creation blest,
Sweet insect! that delight'st to rest
Upon the wild wood's leafy tops,
To drink the dew that morning drops.
And chirp thy song with such a glee
That happiest kings may envy thee!
Whatever decks the velvet field,
Whate'er the circling seasons yield,
Whatever buds, whatever blows,
For thee it buds, for thee it grows.
Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear;
To him thy friendly notes are dear
For thou art mild as matin dew,
And still, when summer's flowery hue
Begins to paint the bloomy plain,
We hear thy sweet prophetic strain;
Thy sweet, prophetic strain we hear,
And bless the notes, and thee revere !
The Muses love thy shrilly tone;
Apollo calls thee all his own;
'Twas he who gave that voice to thee.
'Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy.
Unworn by age's dim decline,

The fadeless blooms of youth are thine
Melodious insect! child of earth!
In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth;
Exempt from every weak decay
That withers vulgar frames away;
With not a drop of blood to stain
The current of thy purer vein;
So blest an age is passed by thee.
Thou seem'st-a little deity!

ODE XXXIV.

CUPID once upon a bed

Of roses laid his weary head;

Luckless urchin, not to see

Within the leaves a slumbering bee!
The bee awaked-with anger wild
The bee awaked, and stung the child.
Loud and piteous are his cries;
To Venus quick he runs, he flies!
"O mother! I am wounded through
I die with pain-in sooth I do!
Stung by some little angry thing,
Some serpent on a tiny wing-
A bee it was-for once, I know,
I heard a rustic call it so."

Thus he spoke, and she the while
Heard him with a soothing smile;
Then said, "My infant, if so much
Thou feel the little wild-bee's touch,
How must the heart, ah Cupid! be
The hapless heart that's stung by thee!"

ODE XXXVI.

IF hoarded gold possessed a power
To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,
And purchase from the hand of death
A little span, a moment's breath,
How I would love the precious ore!
And every day should swell my store;

That when the Fates would send their minion,
To waft me off on shadowy pinion,

I might some hours of life obtain,
And bribe him back to hell again.
But, since we ne'er can charm away
The mandate of that awful day,
Why do we vainly weep at fate,
And sigh for life's uncertain date?
The light of gold can ne'er illume
The dreary midnight of the tomb!
And why should I then pant for treasures?
Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures;
The goblet rich, the board of friends,
Whose flowing souls the goblet blends !
Mine be the nymph whose form reposes
Seductive on that bed of roses;
And oh! be mine the soul's excess,
Expiring in her warm caress!

ODE XXXVII.

'TWAS night, and many a circling bowl
Had deeply warmed my swimming soul;
As lulled in slumber I was laid,
Bright visions o'er my fancy played !
With virgins, blooming as the dawn,
I seemed to trace the opening lawn;
Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew.
We flew, and sported as we flew!
Some ruddy striplings, young and sleek,
With blush of Bacchus on their cheek,
Saw me trip the flowery wild
With dimpled girls, and slyly smiled;
Smiled indeed with wanton glee,
But, ah! 'twas plain they envied me.

And still I flew and now I caught
The panting nymphs, and fondly thought
To kiss-when all my dream of joys,
Dimpled girls and ruddy boys,
All were gone ! Alas!" I said,
Sighing for the illusions fled,

66

'Sleep! again my joys restore,

Oh let me dream them o'er and o'er !"

ODE XXXVIII.

LET us drain the nectared bowl,
Let us raise the song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectared bowl, the choral swell!
Him who instructs the sons of earth
To thrid the tangled dance of mirth :
Him who was nursed with infant Love,
And cradled in the Paphian grove;
Him that the snowy Queen of Charms
Has fondled in her twining arms.
From him that dream of transport flows
Which sweet intoxication knows;
With him, the brow forgets to darkle,
And brilliant graces learn to sparkle.
Behold! my boys a goblet bear,
Whose sunny foam bedews the air.
Where are now the tear, the sigh?
To the winds they fly, they fly!
Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking,
Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking!
Oh! can the tears we lend to thought
In life's account avail us aught?
Can we discern, with all our lore,
The path we're yet to journey o'er?
No, no! the walk of life is dark;
'Tis wine alone can strike a spark!
Then let me quaff the foamy tide,
And through the dance meandering glide;
Let me imbibe the spicy breath
Of odours chafed to fragrant death;
Or from the kiss of love inhale
A more voluptuous, richer gale!
To souls that court the phantom Care
Let him retire and shroud him there;
While we exhaust the nectared bowl,
And swell the choral song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectared bowl, the choral swell!