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 in his grave,

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

Happy is he o'er whose decline

The smiles of home may soothing shine, And light him down the steep of years:But oh, how bless'd 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,
When his heart that field remembers,
Where we tamed his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again

A chain, like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls-
Ere the golden evening falls,

May we pledge that horn in triumph round!23
Many a heart that now beats high,
In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound:-
But oh, how bless'd that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wond'ring world shall weep!

"Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,
To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't 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 sure to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way, And lightnings show'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 cross'dOh! who shall say what heroes feel, When all but life and honor's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valor's task, moved slowly by,
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam
Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet 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?

"TIS SWEET TO THINK.

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've 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 sure to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

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; 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 honor'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.

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! foul is the slander,-no chain could that soul subdue

Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!2