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To chase the moon-beams up the mountains,

You prepare,
Or dance with elves on brinks of fountains,

Mirth to share,
Now seen with love-lorn lilies weeping,
Now with a blushing rose-bud sleeping,
While fairies, from their windows peeping,

Cry, oh rare!

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CCXXVII.

DUNOIS THE BRAVE'!

t was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine, but first he made his orisons before St. Mary's shrine; And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven," was still the sol.

dier's prayer,

That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest

fair.”

* This is extracted from “ Paul's letters to his Kinsfolk :" the following is enote which precedes it; “ A relique of greater moral interest was given

His oath of honour on the shrine, he grav'd it with his sword,
And follow'd to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord;
Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war-cry fill'd the air-
“ Be honour'd aye the bravest knight, belov'd the fairest fair."

They ow'd the conquest to his arm, and this his liege-lord said,
“ The heart that has for honour beat, by bliss must be repaid-
My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair,
For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the fair."

And then they bound the holy knot before St. Mary's shrine, That makes a Paradise on earth, if hearts and hands combine And

every Lord and Lady bright that were in chapel there, Cried “Honour'd be the bravest knight-belov’d the fairest

fair."

me by a lady, whose father had found it upon the field of battle, (Waterloo.) It is a inanuscript collection of French songs, bearing stains of clay and blood, which probably indicate the fate of the proprietor. One or two of these romances I have thought pretty, and have since had an opportunity of having them translated into English, by meeting at Paris with one of our Scottish men of rhyme.”

We have only to add, that this song or ballad is very popular in France, and was written by one of Buonaparte's sisters, Fanny de Beauharnois, Ex: Queen of Holland.

CCXXVIII.

0 BEAUTY, PEERLESS IS THY GLOW,

O beauty, peerless is thy glow,

Resistless beams thy streaming eye,
When the soft tears of pity flow,

For heroes who in battle die,
Who would not die the warrior's death,
When beauty weaves the cypress wreath!

Nor cheerless shall the widow sigh,

The soldier's offspring friendless roam ; The tear enthron'd in beauty's eye,

Are stars to guide the wand'rers home. Who would not die the warrior's death, When beauty weaves the cypress wreath !

CCXXIX.

O WHEN AGAIN SHALL MY EYES ROVE

O when again shall my eyes rove,
O’er all the objects of my love?

Our cottages, our chrystal rills,

Our hamlets, and our native hills.
O when again shall my eyes rove,
O'er all the objects of my love ?

The flower, the beauty of our dell,
The lovely, gentle Isabelle;
In the elm's shade, when shall I bound
To the sweet pipe's enchanting sound,
When, when again shall wander sight,
On all the objects of delight.

My father and my mother,

My sister and my brother ;
My flocks, and lambs that bleat,
My shepherdess so sweet.

O when again, &c.

* These simple stanzas are a translation of the poetry sung by the Swiss to the celebrated Rans de Vatch. Rousseau says, the air impressed them with so violent a desire to return home to their own country, that it was forbidden to be played in the Swiss regiments, in the French service, on pain of death,

CCXXX.

o, WHEN SHALL I VISIT THE LAND OF MY

BIRTH

O, when shall I visit the land of my birth,
The loveliest land on the face of the earth ?
When shall I those scenes of affection explore,

Our forests, our fountains,

Our hamlets, our mountains,
With the pride of our vallies, the maid I adore ?
O, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead,
In the shade of an elm, to the sound of the reed?

When shall I return to that lowly retreat,
Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet,-
The lambs and the heifers that follow my call,

My father, my mother,

My sister, my brother,
And dear Isabella, the joy of them all ?
0, when shall I visit the land of my birth ?
'Tis the lovliest land on the face of the earth!

+ This is another translation of the preceding celebrated song, by Mr. Montgomery, author of " The Wanderer in Switzerland,” &c.

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