BEFORE THE BATTLE.

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 to his grave,

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

Blessed is he o'er whose decline

The smiles of home may soothing shine,
And light him down the steep of years :-
But, oh, how grand 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
While his heart that field remembers
Where we dimm'd his glory's light!

Never let him bind again

A chain like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls-
Oh before the 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 blest that hero's sleep,

O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!

AFTER THE BATTLE.

NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way,
And lightning shew'd 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 dimm'd, for ever crost―
Oh who shall say what heroes feel,

When all but life and honour's lost!

"The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages our ancestors quaffed meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day."-Walker.

The last sad hour of freedom's dream
And valour's task moved slowly by,
While mute they watch'd till morning's beam
Should rise and give them light to die!
There is a world where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh! who would live a slave in this?

OH 'TIS SWEET TO THINK.

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,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We have but to make love to the lips we are near.

'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 changeable 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.

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.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.

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.

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 lov'd not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail—
Hadst 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.

WHEN through life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
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 !

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!

Music!-oh! how faint, how weak,
Languages 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;
Oh! 'tis only music's strain

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray!

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.*

IT is not the tear at this moment shed,

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him,
That can tell how beloved was the soul that's fled,
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.
'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept,
Through a life, by his loss all shaded;
'Tis the sad remembrance fondly kept
When all lighter griefs have faded!

Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light,

While it shines through our hearts, will improve them,

For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,

When we think how he lived but to love them!

And as buried saints the grave perfume

Where fadeless they 've long been lying,

So our hearts shall borrow a sweet'ning bloom
From the image he left there in dying!

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis believed that this harp which I wake now for thee
Was a siren of old who sung under the sea;

And who often at eve through the bright billow roved
To meet on the green shore a youth whom she loved.
But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears all the night her gold ringlets to steep,
Till Heaven look'd with pity on true-love so warm,
And changed to this soft harp the sea-maiden's form!
Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheek smiled the same-
While her sea-beauties gracefully curl'd round the frame;
And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright rings,
Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings!

Hence it came that this soft harp so long hath been known

To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;

Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay
To be love when I'm near thee and grief when away!

These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who died lately at Madeira.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

OH! the days are gone when beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;

When my dream of life, from morn till night,
Was love, still love!

New hope may bloom,

And days may come,

Of milder, calmer beam,

But there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream!

Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream!

Though the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;

Though he win the wise, who frown'd before,
To smile at last;

He'll never meet

A joy so sweet

In all his noon of fame

As when first he sung to woman's ear
His soul-felt flame,

And at every close she blush'd to hear
The one loved name!

Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot,
Which first love traced;

Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste!

'Twas odour fled

As soon as shed;

'Twas morning's wing'd dream;

'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again

On life's dull stream!

Oh! 'twas a light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream!

THE PRINCE'S DAY.*

THOUGH dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them,
And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in showers;
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,
More form'd to be grateful and blessed than ours!

* This song was written for a fete in honour of the Prince of Wales's birthday, given by my friend Major Bryan; at his seat in the county of Kilkenny.