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“Ah! this means," said the girl (and she sigh'd at

its meaning),
" That love is scarce worth the

repose

it will cost !"

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I.
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 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 :-

But oh! how grand they sink to rest,
Who close their eyes on Victory's breast!

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as lost

II.
O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,

Where we dimm'd his glory's light!
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!*

Many a heart, that now beats high,

In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound :-

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.

1. 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!

II.

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 give them light to die! There is a world, whère 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.

I.

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,

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.

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