Then, when battle's hour is over,
See the happy mountain lover,
With the nymph, who'll soon be bride,
Seated blushing by his side,-
Every shadow of his lot.
In her sunny smile forgot.
Oh, no life is like the mountaineer's,
His home is near the sky,
Where, thron'd above this world, he hears.
Its strife at distance die.
Nor only thus through summer suns
His blithe existence cheerly runs-
Ev'n winter, bleak and dim,
Brings joyous hours to him,
When, his rifle behind him flinging,
He watches the roe-buck springing,
And away, o'er the hills away
Re-echoes his glad "hurra."
Then how blest, when night is closing,
By the kindled hearth reposing,
To his rebeck's drowsy song,
He beguiles the hour along;
Or, provok'd by merry glances,
To a brisker movement dances,
Till, weary at last, in slumber's chain,
He dreams o'er chase and dance again,
Dreams, dreams them o'er again.
Truth in a deep well lieth-
So the wise aver:
But Truth the fact denieth
Water suits not her.
No, her abode's in brimmers,
Like this mighty cup-
Waiting till we, good swimmers,
Dive to bring her up.
WELCOME, Sweet bird, through the sunny air winging,
Swift hast thou come o'er the far-shining sea,
Like Seba's dove, on thy snowy neck bringing
Love's written vows from my lover to me.
Oh, in thy absence, what hours did I number!-
Saying oft, "Idle bird, how could he rest?”
But thou art come at last, take now thy slumber,
And lull thee in dreams of all thou lov'st best.
Yet dost thou droop-even now while I utter
Love's happy welcome, thy pulse dies away;
Cheer thee, my bird-were it life's ebbing flutter,
This fondling bosom should woo it to stay.
But no-thou'rt dying-thy last task is over—
Farewell, sweet martyr to Love and to me!
The smiles thou hast waken'd by news from my lover,
Will now all be turn'd into weeping for thee.
WHEN evening shades are falling
O'er Ocean's sunny sleep,
To pilgrims' hearts recalling
Their home beyond the deep;
When, rest o'er all descending,
The shores with gladness smile,
And lutes, their echoes blending,
Are heard from isle to isle,
Then, Mary, Star of the Sea,
We pray, we pray, to thee!
The noon-day tempest over,
Now Ocean toils no more,
And wings of halcyons hover,
Where all was strife before.
Oh thus may life, in closing
Its short tempestuous day,
Beneath heaven's smile reposing,
Shine all its storms away:
Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea,
We pray, we pray, to thee!
CALM as, beneath its mother's eyes,
In sleep the smiling infant lies,
So, watch'd by all the stars of night,
Yon landscape sleeps in light.
And while the night-breeze dies away,
Like relics of some faded strain, Lov'd voices, lost for many a day,
Seem whisp'ring round again.
Oh youth! oh Love! ye dreams, that shed Such glory once-where are ye fled?
Pure ray of light that, down the sky,
Art pointing, like an angel's wand,
As if to guide to realms that lie
In that bright sea beyond:
Who knows but, in some brighter deep
Than ev'n that tranquil, moon-lit main, Some lan may lie where those who weep Shall wake to smile again!
MARCH! nor heed those arms that hold thee,
Though so fondly close they come;
Closer still will they enfold thee,
When thou bring'st fresh laurels home.
Dost thou dote on woman's brow?
Dost thou live but in her breath?
March—one hour of victory now
Wins thee woman's smile till death.
Oh what bliss, when war is over
Beauty's long-miss'd smile to meet,
And, when wreaths our temples cover,
Lay them shining at her feet!
Who would not, that hour to reach,
Breathe out life's expiring sigh,-
Proud as waves that on the beach
Lay their war-crest down, and die?
There! I see thy soul is burning—
She herself, who clasps thee so,
Paints, ev'n now, thy glad returning,
And, while clasping, bids thee go.
One deep sigh, to passion given,
One last glowing tear and then
March-nor rest thy sword, till Heaven
Brings thee to those arms again.
THOU art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no,
Thy soul, to realms above us filed,
Though, like a star, it dwells o'er head,
Still lights this world below.
Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.
Through isles of light, where heroes tread! And flow'rs ethereal blow,
Thy god-like Spirit now is led,
Thy lip, with life ambrosial fed,
Forgets all taste of woe.
Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.
The myrtle, round that falchion spread
Which struck the immortal blow,
Throughout all time, with leaves unshed-
The patriot's hope, the tyrant's dread—
Round Freedom's shrine shall grow.
Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.
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