« VorigeDoorgaan »
As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, A butterfly, fresh from the night - flowers' kisses, Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,
She brush'd 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 heartsease was growing,
She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen
And a rose further on, look'd 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 hearts-ease was lost:
« Ah! this means,» said the girl, and she sigh'd at its meaning,
That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!»
BEFORE THE BATTLE.
BY THE HOPE WITHIN US SPRINGING.
-The Fairy Queen.
By the hope within us springing,
No charm for him, who lives not free!
Like the day-star in the wave,
Sinks a hero to his
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears!
Blessed is he, o'er whose decline.
The smiles of home may-soothing shine, And light him down the steep of years: 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
A chain like that we broke from them!
Oh! before the evening falls,
May we pledge that horn in triumph round!
But, oh! how blest that hero's sleep,
AFTER THE BATTLE.
NIGHT CLOSED AROUND THE CONQUEROR'S
AIR-Thy Fair Bosɔm.
NIGHT closed around the Conqueror's way,
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,
OH! 'TIS SWEET THINK.
AIR-Thady, you Gander.
OH! 'tis sweet to think that where'er we rove,
■ I believe it is Marmontel who says : « Quana on n'a pas ce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a. »—' -There
The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,
It can twine with itself, and make closely its
Then, oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
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 chan
And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,
are so many matte-of-fact-people, who take such jeu d'esprit as the defense of inconstancy to be 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.