AFTER THE BATTLE.

NIGHT clos'd 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 crost
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,

When all but life and honour's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valour's task, mov'd 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 !*

"Quand on n'a pas ce que

* I believe it is Marmontel who says, Ton aime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a.”—There are so many matter-offact people, who take such jeux d'esprit as this defence of inconstancy

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.

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,

To make light of the rest, if the rose is n'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 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 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.

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;

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, 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 love 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

Oh! foul is the slander-no chain could that soul subdueWhere shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!+

* Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland.

t "Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty."-ST. PAUL, 2 Cor. iii. 17.

ON MUSIC.

WHEN thro' life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we us'd 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,

Language 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 ev'n 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 belov'd was the friend that's fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. "Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept, 'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded; 'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light,

Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them,
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
When we think how he liv'd but to love them.
And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume
Where buried saints are lying,

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

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis believ'd that this Harp, which I wake now for thee, Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;

And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters rov'd,
To meet on the green shore a youth whom she lov❜d.

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