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

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

Now the foe-man's cheek turns white,
While 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 them!

Hark! the horn of combat calls!

Oh! before the 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 ev'n at Victory's sound:

But, oh! how blest that hero's sleep,
O’er whom a wondering world shall weep!

AFTER THE BATTLE.

NIGHT CLOSED AROUND THE CONQUEROR'S

WAY.

AIRThy Fair Bosom.

Night closed around the Conqueror's way,

And lightning shew'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 crostOh! 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 watch'd till morning's beam Should rise, and give them light to die!

There is 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?

OH! "TIS SWEET TO THINK.

Air-Thady, you Gander.

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!!

1 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 jeu 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 on folly.

The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,

Let it where it will cannot flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing,

It can twine with itself, and make closely its

grow

own.

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!

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise, To make light of the rest if the rose be 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

changeable too: And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike, It will tincture Love's plume with a different

hue!

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