And braided for the Muse's brow

A wreath by tyrant touch unstain'd;
When heroes trod each classic field

Where coward feet now faintly falter;
When every arm was Freedom's shield,
And every heart was Freedom's altar.

FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS.

HARK, 'tis the sound that charms
The war-steed's wakening ears!

Oh! many a mother folds her arms

Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears;
And, though her fond heart sink with fears,
Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
With valour's fever at the sound.

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 gush'd 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 loved 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 wander'd 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 look'd for blood before, Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.

SWISS AIR- RANZ DES VACHES."

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 hallow'd 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 bless'd sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn that man, awaking
From slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty.

SPANISH CHORUS.

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 ruin'd streets,

By brave Gerona's deathful story,

That while one Spaniard's life-blood beats, That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory.

SPANISH AIR-" YA DESPERTO."

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 remember'd well,

Of ardour quench'd, 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 ODES OF ANACREON.

THE ODES OF ANACREON.

[IT may be necessary to mention that, in arranging the Odes, the Translator has adopted the order of the Vatican MS. The number is given of each Ode in Barnes and the other editions.]

ODE I.

Ανακρεων ιδων με.

(The 63d in Barnes.)

I SAW the smiling bard of pleasure,
The minstrel of the Teian measure;
'Twas in a vision of the night

He beam'd upon my wondering sight;
I heard his voice, and warmly press'd
The dear enthusiast to my breast.
His tresses wore a silvery die,
But beauty sparkled in his eye;
And, as with weak and reeling feet,
He came my cordial kiss to meet,
An infant of the Cyprian band
Guided him on with tender hand.
Quick from his glowing brows he drew
His braid, of many a wanton hue;
I hung it o'er my thoughtless brow,
And ah! I feel its magic now!
I feel that even his garland's touch
Can make the bosom love too much!