OH, the sight entrancing, With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing! May lead to death, But never to retreating. Oh, the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing O'er files array'd With helm and blade, And plumes in the gay wind dancing. Yet, 'tis not helm or feather- Could bring such hands And hearts as ours together. Leave pomps to those who need 'em---- And proud he braves The gaudiest slaves That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. Worth steel and stone, That keeps men free for ever. When the morning's beam is glancing With helm and blade, And in Freedom's cause advancing! SING-SING-MUSIC WAS GIVEN. SING-sing-Music was given, To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; Souls here, like planets in Heaven, By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks, But Love from the lips his true archery wings; And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks, At once sends it home to the heart when she sings. Then sing-sing-Music was given, To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; Souls here, like planets in Heaven, By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. When Love, rock'd by his mother, Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him, "Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him." Dreaming of music he slumber'd the while Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke, And Venus, enchanted, look'd on with a smile, While Love to his own sweet singing awoke. Then sing-sing-Music was given, To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; Souls here, like planets in Heaven, By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE. I WISH I was by that dim Lake, Deceitful world, my home should be; Where, come what might of gloom and pain, False hope should ne'er deceive again. The lifeless sky, the mournful sound My soul from life's deluding scene, And turn each thought, o'ercharg'd with gloom, Like willows, downward tow'rds the tomb. As they, who to their couch at night Cold, cold, this heart must grow, Unmov'd by either joy or woe, Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIMA! Он for the swords of former time! Oh for the men who bore them, When free yet, ere courts began With honours to enslave him, The best honours worn by Man, Were those which Virtue gave him. Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then! Were all the ramparts round them. The throne was but the centre, |