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! II. As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses, She brush'd him—he fell, alas! never to rise— “Ah! such,” said the girl," is the pride of our faces, "For which the soul's innocence too often dies!" III. 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. I. By the hope, within us springing, By that sun, whose light is bringing No charm for him, who lives not free! 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, And light him down the steep of years :- II. O'er his watch-fire's fading embers Where we dimm'd his glory's light! A chain, like that we broke from then. Ere the golden evening falls, May we pledge that horn in triumph round! * But oh! how bless'd that hero's sleep, O'er whom a wondering world shall weep! * "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. AFTER THE BATTLE. AIR.-Thy Fair Bosom. I. NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way, For ever dimm'd, for ever cross'd Oh! who shall say what heroes feel, II. The last sad hour of freedom's dream, Oh! who would live a slave in this? OH! 'TIS SWEET TO THINK. AIR.-Thady, you Gander. I. OH! 'tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove, 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, |