HUSH, HUSH! "HUSH, hush!"-how well That sweet word sounds, When Love, the little sentinel, Walks his night-rounds; Then, if a foot but dare One rose-leaf crush, The night-elves cry, One dewdrop brush, THE PARTING BEFORE THE BATTLE. HE. ON to the field, our doom is sealed, SHE. Farewell, oh farewell, my love! May Heaven thy guardian be, And send bright angels from above To bring thee back to me. HE. On to the field, the battle-field, Where Freedom's standard waves, This sun shall see our tyrant yield, Or shine upon our graves. THE WATCHMAN. A trio. WATCHMAN. Past twelve o'clock-past twelve. Good night, good night, my dearestHow fast the moments fly! 'Tis time to part, thou hearest That hateful watchman's cry. WATCHMAN. Past one o'clock-past one. Yet stay a moment longerAlas! why is it so, The wish to stay grows stronger, The more 'tis time to go? WATCHMAN. Past two o'clock-past two. The hours must sure go wrong, WATCHMAN. Past three o'clock-past three. Again that dreadful warning! Had ever time such flight? And see the sky, 'tis morning So now, indeed, good night. WATCHMAN. Past three o'clock-past three. Good night, good night. SAY, WHAT SHALL WE DANCE. SAY, what shall we dance? Shall we bound along the moonlight plain To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain? Say, what shall we dance? Shall we, like those who rove Through bright Grenada's grove, To the light Bolero's measures move? Or choose the Guaracia's languishing lay, And thus to its sound die away? Strike the gay chords, Let us hear each strain from every shore That music haunts, or young feet wander o'er. Hark! 'tis the light march, to whose measured time, The Polish lady, by her lover led, Delights through gay saloons with step untired to tread, Or sweeter still, through moonlight walks, Whose shadows serve to hide The blush that's raised by him who talks Of love the while by her side; Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating sound Like dreams we go gliding around, Say, which shall we dance? which shall we dance? A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC. ADVERTISEMENT. THESE verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste, and it very rarely happens that poetry, which has cost but little labour to the writer, is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I should not have published them, if they had not found their way into some of the newspapers, with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them. With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman Senate for using the outlandish term Monopoly.' But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude; with whom, 'If 'tis not sense, at least 'tis Greek.' To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that by 'Melologue' I mean that mixture of recitation and music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember, is the prophetic speech of Joad, in the Athalie of Racine. T. M. INTRODUCTORI MUSIC-Haydn. There breathes the language, known and felt That language of the soul is felt and known, (Where oft, of old, on some high tower, And call'd his distant love with such sweet power That when she heard the lonely lay, Not worlds could keep her from his arms arsy1) 'A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but she cried "For God's sake, sir, let me go; for that pipe which you hear in yonder tower calls me with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife and he my husband."-Garcilasso de la Vega, in Sir Paul Bycaut's translation, To the bleak climes of polar night, The Lapland lover bids his reindeer fly, And sings along the lengthening waste of snow, As blithe as if the blessed light Of vernal Phoebus burn'd upon his brow. O Music! thy celestial claim Is still resistless, still the same! And faithful as the mighty sea To the pale star that o'er its realm presides, Of human passion rise and fall for thee! GREEK AIR. LIST! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings, She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn; FLOURISH OF TRUMPET. HARK! 'tis the sound that charms The war-steed's wakening ears! Oh! many a mother folds her arms Round her boy-soldier, when that call she hears, See! from his native hills afar, As if 'twere like his mountain rill, O Music! here, even here, Amid this thoughtless wild career, Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power. There is an air, which oft among the rocks |