While she stole thro' the garden, where

heart's-ease was growing,

She culled some, and kist off its nightfallen dew;

And a rose, further on, looked so tempting and glowing,

That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too:

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), "That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!"

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 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 blest 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! 1

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!

1 "The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted

To be sure to find something still that is dear,

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.

2 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

On memory's waste.

'T was odor fled

As soon as shed;

'T was morning's winged dream;

'T was a light, that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream:

Oh! 't was light that ne'er can shine again

On life's dull stream.

summoned this minute,

You'd cast every bitter remembrance

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. LESBIA hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at no one dreameth. Sweeter 't is to gaze upon

My Nora's lid that seldom rises;
Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprises!
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear,
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,
Beauty lies

In many eyes,
But Love in yours, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath laced it, Not a charm of beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where nature placed it. Oh! my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,
My simple, graceful Nora Creina,
Nature's dress

Is loveliness

The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refined,

But, when its points are gleaming round

us,

Who can tell if they 're design'd

To dazzle merely, or to wound us? Pillowed on my Nora's heart,

In safer slumber Love reposes Bed of peace! whose roughest part Is but the crumpling of the roses. Oh! my Nora Creina dear, My mild, my artless Nora Creina! Wit, tho' bright, Hath no such light, As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL
PRIME.

I SAW thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of Time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Yet still thy features wore that light,
Which fleets not with the breath;
And life ne'er looked more truly bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams that run o'er golden mines, Yet humbly, calmly glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines Within their gentle tide, Mary!

So veiled beneath the simplest guise,

Thy radiant genius shone, And that, which charmed all other eyes, Seemed worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,

Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere; Or could we keep the souls we love, We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary! Though many a gifted mind we meet,

Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet,
Than to remember thee, Mary! 1

BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY
SHORE.2

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er,3
Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
"Here, at least," he calmly said,
"Woman ne'er shall find my bed."
Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

'T was from Kathleen's eyes he flew, Eyes of most unholy blue!

1 I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite inscription of Shenstone's, "heu! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse!"

2 This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.

3 There are many other curious traditions conconcerning this Lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, etc.