OH! 'TIS SWEET TO THINK.

AIR.-Thady, you Gander.

I.

On! '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 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 doom'd to find something, still, that is dear,

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 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,

And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips we are near.

II.

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,

To make light of the rest, if the rose is 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 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 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 near.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.

AIR.

I.

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: Oh! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And bless'd even the sorrows, that made me more dear to thee.

II.

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

Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows

adorn'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 loved not, or turn one thought from

thee.

III.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frailHadst 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

Oh! do not believe them-no chain could that soul

subdue

Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!*

ON MUSIC.

AIR.-Banks of Banna.

I.

WHEN through life unbless'd we rove, .

Losing all that made life dear,

* “Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.”—St. PAUL, 2 Corinthians, iii. 17.

Should some notes, we used to love

In days of boyhood, meet our ear, Oh how welcome breathes the strain! Wakening thoughts that long have slept ; Kindling former smiles again,

In faded eyes that long have wept!

II.

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!

III.

Music!-oh! 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 even more false than they;