WHEN daylight was yet sleeping under the billow, For the youth whom she treasured her heart and her soul in, And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, As she look'd in the glass which a woman ne'er misses, She brush'd him-he fell, alas! never to rise- While she stole through the garden, where heart's-ease was growing, And a rose further on look'd so tempting and glowing, But, while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning, Her zone flew in two and the heart's-ease was lost : 'Ah! this means,' said the girl (and she sighed at its meaning) This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works:-The moon looks upon many night flowers, the night flowers see but one moon.' 2 An emblem of the soul. While she stole thro' the garden, where heartsease was growing, She culled some, and kissed off its night-fall'n dew, And a rose further on looked so tempting and glowing, That spite of her haste she must gather it too. BEFORE THE BATTLE. No charm for him who lives not free! "Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears. Happy is he o'er whose decline The smiles of home may soothing shine, O'er his watch-fire's fading embers Now the foeman's cheek turns white, Never let him bind again A chain, like that we broke from then. May we pledge that horn in triumph round !1 Many a heart that now beats high, AFTER THE BATTLE. NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way, The last sad hour of freedom's dream, While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam 'The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages, onr ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day.'-Walker. There's yet a world where souls are free, "TIS SWEET TO THINK. 'TIS sweet to think, that, where'er we rove, Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, To be sure to find something still that is dear, 'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise, To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there; Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too, It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue! To be sure to find something still that is dear, THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS. THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way, 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, whilst thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd, I believe it is Marmontel who says, 'Quand themselves, and to remind them that Democritus on n'a pas ce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que was not the worse physiologist for having playl'on a. There are so many matter-of-fact people fully contended that snow was black; nor Eraswho take such jeux d'esprit as this defence of in-mus in any degree the less wise for having constancy to be the actual and genuine senti-written an ingenious encomium of folly. ments of him who writes them, that they compel Meaning allegorically the ancient church of one in self-defence, to be as matter of fact as Ireland. |