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It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue!

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 that are near!

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.

THROUGH GRIEF AND THROUGH DANGER.

AIR-I once had a True Love

THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way,

Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lav;

The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love

burn'd,

Fill shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turu'd:

Oh! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And bless'd e'en the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honour'd while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd;

Thy crown was of briers while gold her brows adorn'd:

She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st 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 loved not, or tur one thought from

tice.

They siander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail

Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale!

They say too, so long thou hast worn these ling'ring chains!

That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains;

Oh! do not believe them—no chain could that sou

subdue;

Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth

too!

ON MUSIC.

WHEN THROUGH LIFE UNBLEST WE ROVE.

AIR-Banhs of Banna.

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 flow'rs,

« Where the spirit of lord is, there is liberty. »

St. Paul, 2 Corinthians ii, 17

Is the grateful breath of song,

That once was heard in happier hours.
Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on,

Though the flow'rs have sunk in death.
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in Music's breath!

Music! oh! low 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 ev'n more false than they;

Oh! 'tis only Music's strain

Can sweetly sooth, and not betray!

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHEDI.

AIR-The Sixpence

Ir is not the tear at this moment shed,

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him,

These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who died lately at Madeira.

That can tell how beloved was the soul that's fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him: 'Tis the tear through many a long day wept, Through a life by his loss all shaded : "Tis the sad remembrance, fondly kept, When all lighter griefs have faded!

Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory sight, While it shines through 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 buried saints the grave perfume,
Where fadeless they've long been lying,

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

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'Tis 'belived 'That this harp that I wake now for

thee,

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