Then drink of the cup-you'll find there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality-Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality."

And though, perhaps,-but breathe it to no one-
Like chaldrons the witch brews at midnight so awful,
In secret the philter was first taught to flow on,
Yet-'tis not less potent for being unlawful.

What though it may taste of the smoke of that flame, Which in silence extracted its virtues forbiddenFill up there's fire in some hearts I could name, Which may work too its charm, though now lawfu! and hidden.

So drink of the cup-for oh! there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality-
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

ECHO.

AIR-"The Wren."

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,

When rous'd by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawn and lakes,
Goes answering light.

Yet love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,

Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn or lute, or soft guitar,

The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh in youth sincere,
And only then-

The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear
Is by that one, that only dear,
Breath'd back' again.

OH, BANQUET NOT.

AIR" Plenxty Irwine."

Он, banquet not in those shining bowers,
Where youth resorts-but come to me,
For mine's a garden of faded flowers,
More fit for sorrow, for age and thee.
And there we shall have our feasts of tears,
And many a cup of silence pour-
Our guests, the shades of former years,
Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs
Their lifeless leaves around us shed,
We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,
To friends long lost, the chang'd, the dead,
Or, as some blighted laurel waves
Its branches o'er the dreary spot,
We'll drink to those neglected graves,
Where valour sleeps unnam'd, forgot.

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

AIR-" Staca an Mharaga." (The Market-Stake.)

THE dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking The night's long hours still find me thinking Of thee, thee, only thee.

When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,
And smiles are near, that once enchanted,
Unreach'd by all that sunshine round,

My soul like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee.

Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit once, is now forsaken
For thee, thee, only thee.

Like shores, by which some headlong bark
To the ocean hurries-resting never-
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening over
To thee, thee, only thee.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet, when springing
From thee, thee, only thee.

Like spells, that nought on earth can break,
Till lips that know the charm have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world may wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken

By thee, thee, only thee.

NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.

AIR-"My husband's a journey to Portugal gone."

NE'ER ask the hour, what is it to us,
How Time deals out his treasures?
The golden moments lent us thus,
Are not his coin, but Pleasure's.

f counting them over could add to their blisses,
I'd number each glorious second;
But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,
Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd.
Then fill the cup, what is it to us
How Time his circle measures?
The fairy hours we call up thus,
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,
Till Care, one summer morning,

Set up, among his smiling flowers,
A dial, by way of warning;

But Joy lov'd better to gaze on the sun,

As long as his light was glowing,

Than to watch with old Care how the shadow stole on,
And how fast the light was going.

So fill the cup, what is it to us,
How time his circle measures?
The fairy hours we call up thus,
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

NOTES.

Note 1. Page 10.

I wrote these words to an air which our boatmen sang to us very frequently. The wind was so unfafavourable that they were obliged to row all the way, and we were five days in descending the river from the Kingston to Montreal, exposed to an intense sun during the day, and at night forced to take shelter from the dews in any miserable hut on the banks that would receive us. But the magnificent scenery of the St. Lawrence repays all these difficulties.

Our Voyageurs had good voices, and sung perfectly in tune together. The original words of the air to which I adapted these stanzas, appeared to be a long incoherent story, of which I could understand but little, from the barbarous pronunciation of the Canadians. It begins,

Dans mon chemin j'ai renconter.
Deux cavaliers tres-bien montes,

And the refrain to every verse was,

A l'ombre d'un bois je m'en nais jouer,

A l'ombre d'un bois je m'en vais danser. I ventured to harmonize this air, and have published it. Without that charm which association gives to every little memorial of scenes of feelings that are past, the melody may be thought common and trifling; but I remember when we have entered, at sun-set, upon one of those beautiful lakes into which the St. Lawrence so grandly and so unexpectedly opens, I have heard this simple air with a pleasure which the finest compositions of the first masters have never given me; and now, there is not a note of it which does not recall to my memory the dip of our oars in the St. Lawrence, the flight of our boat down the Rapida and all those new and fanciful impressions to w