Which near our planet smiling came;"
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own;

While brighter eyes unheeded play,
I'll love those moonlight looks alone
That bless my home and guide my way.

The day had sunk in dim showers,

But midnight now, with lustre meet,
Illumed all the pale flowers,

Like hope upon a mourner's cheek.
I said (while

The moon's smile

Played o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss),
"The moon looks

On many brooks;

The brook can see no moon but this;”+
And thus, I thought, our fortunes run,
For many a lover looks to thee,
While oh! I feel there is but one,
One Mary in the world for me.

ILL OMENS.

WHEN daylight was yet sleeping under the billow,
And stars in the heavens still lingering shone,
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,
The last time she e'er was to press it alone.

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 looked in the glass which a woman ne'er misses,
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly, fresh from the night flower's kisses,
Flew over the mirror and shaded her view.
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,

She brushed 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."

While she stole through the garden, where heart's-ease was
growing,

She culled some, and kissed off its night-fallen dew;

*"Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the single moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the others, is much more beneficial than they all put together."-Whiston's Theory, &c.

In the Entretiens d'Ariste, among other ingenious emblems, we find a starry sky without a moon, with the words, "Non mille quod absens.'

This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works :-"The moon looks upon many night flowers, the night flowers see but one moon."

An emblem of the soul.

And a rose further on looked 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 sighed at its mean-
ing),

"That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!"

BEFORE THE BATTLE.

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 in 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 blessed they sink to rest,
Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers
Where we tamed his tyrant might !
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 blessed that hero's sleep

O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!

AFTER THE BATTLE.

NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way,
And lightnings showed 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 dimmed, for ever crossed-

In the

* The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day."-Walker.

Oh! 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 watched, till morning's beam
Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet 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?

'TIS SWEET TO THINK.
'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've but to make love to the lips we are near !"
The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling,

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
It can twine in itself, and make closely its own.
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.
'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,

To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't 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 changeable 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 sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS. + THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheered my way,

Till hope seemed to bud from each thorn that round me lay;

* 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 worst 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.

Meaning allegorically the ancient church of Ireland.

The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burned;
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turned;
Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,

And blessed even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honoured, whilst thou wert wronged and scorned,
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorned;
She wooed me to temples, while thou layest hid in caves,
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be,
Than wed what I love not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail-
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had looked 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! foul is the slander-no chain could that soul subdue-
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!*

ON MUSIC.

WHEN through life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
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.

Like the gale that sighs along

Beds of oriental flowers

Is the grateful breath of song

That once was heard in happier hours;
Filled 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.

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!

"Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty."-St. Paul, 2 Corin thians, 17.

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.*

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,
'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded;
'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept,
When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light,

Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them,
For worth shall look fairer and truth more bright,
When we think how he lived but to love them.
And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume
Where buried saints are lying,

So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom
From the image he left there in dying!

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee.
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;

And who often, at eve, through the bright waters roved.
To meet on the green shore a youth whom she loved.
But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep,
Till Heaven looked with pity on true love so warm,
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.
Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheeks smiled the same-
While her sea-beauties gracefully formed the light frame;
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was changed to bright chords, uttering melody's spell.
Hence it came that this soft Harp so long hath been known
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;

Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay

To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away!

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

OH! the days are gone when Beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;

When my dream of life from morn till night

Was love, still love.

New hope may bloom,

And days may come

Of milder, calmer beam,

These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative.

who died lately at Madeira.