« PredošláPokračovať »
For the youth, whom she treasured her heart and her
soul in, Had promised to link the last tie before noon; And, when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,
The maiden herself will steal after it soon!
As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.
She brush'd him—he fell, alas! never to rise66 “Ah ! such," said the girl," is the pride of our faces,
• For which the soul's innocence too often dies!”
While she stole through the garden, where heart's-ease
was growing, She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen dew; And a rose, further on, look'd 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 sigh'd at
its meaning), “ That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost !”
BEFORE THE BATTLE.
AIR.--The Fairy Queen.
By the hope, within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife;
Chains or freedom, death or life-
Like the day-star in the wave,
Sinks a hero to 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,
But oh! how grand they sink to rest,
Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
Where we dimm’d his glory's light !
Hark! the horn of combat calls
Ere the golden evening falls, May we pledge that horn in triumph round!*
Many a heart, that now beats high,
In slumber cold at night shall lie,
But oh! how bless'd that hero's sleep,
* “ 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.
Nigut 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 honour's lost!
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 yive 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.
AIR.-Thady, you Gander.
OH! '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,
* 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,