And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We have but to make love to the lips we are near.

II.

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,

To make light of the rest, if the rose is not 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 doom'd to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We have but to make love to the lips we are near.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.

AIR.

I.
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 :
Oh ! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And bless'd even the sorrows, that made me more dear
to thee.

II.
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

Yet, cold in the earth, at thy feet I would rather be, Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from

thee.

a

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frailHadst 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 ! do not believe them-no chain could that soul

subdue Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too !*

ON MUSIC.

AIR.--Banks of Banna.

I.
When through life unbless'd we rove,

Losing all that made life dear,

* “Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.”—St. Paul, 2 Corinthians, iii. 17.

Should some notes, we used 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!

II.

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!

III.

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 even 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.*

AIR.—The Sixpence.

I.

It is not the tear at this moment shed,

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled,

Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept,

Through a life, by his loss all shaded ; 'Tis the sad remembrance, fondly kept,

When all lighter griefs have faded !

II. Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light, While it shines through our hearts, will improve