WHEN daylight was yet sleeping under the billow,
And stars in the heavens still lingering shone,
Young Kitty, al! blushing, rose up from her pillow,
The last time she e'er was to press it alone.

For the youth whom she treasured her heart and her soul in,
Had promised to link the last tie before noon;

And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,
The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

As she look'd in the glass which a woman ne'er misses,
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly, fresh from the night flower's 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 heart's-ease was growing,
She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen dew;

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 heart's-ease was lost :

'Ah! this means,' said the girl (and she sighed at its meaning)
'That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!'

This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works:-The moon looks upon many

night flowers, the night flowers see but one moon.'

2 An emblem of the soul.

While she stole thro' the garden, where heartsease was growing, She culled some, and kissed off its night-fall'n dew,

And a rose further on looked so tempting and glowing,

That spite of her haste she must gather it too.

BEFORE THE BATTLE.
By the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
Chains or freedom, death or life-
Oh! remember life can be

No charm for him who lives not free!
Like the day-star in the wave,
Sinks a hero in his grave,

"Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

Happy is he o'er whose decline

The smiles of home may soothing shine,
And light him down the steep of years-
But oh! how bless'd they sink to rest,
Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
Where we tamed his tyrant might!

Never let him bind again

A chain, like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls-
Ere the golden evening falls,

May we pledge that horn in triumph round !1

Many a heart that now beats high,
In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound--
But oh! how bless'd that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!

AFTER THE BATTLE.

NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way,
And lightnings show'd the distant hill,"
Where those who lost that dreadful day
Stood few and faint, but fearless still!
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
For ever dimm'd, for ever cross'd-
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,
When all but life and honour's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valour's task, moved slowly by,

While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam
Should rise and give them light to die.

'The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages, onr ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day.'-Walker.

There's yet a world where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh! who would live a slave in this?

"TIS SWEET TO THINK.

'TIS sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,
We are sure to find something blissful and dear,
And that, when we're far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near !!
The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
It can twine in itself, and make closely its own.
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We've 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 isn't 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 changeable too,
And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,

It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue!
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.

THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way,
Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay;
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd;

Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd;

Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,

And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honour'd, whilst thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd,
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd;

I believe it is Marmontel who says, 'Quand themselves, and to remind them that Democritus on n'a pas ce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que was not the worse physiologist for having playl'on a. There are so many matter-of-fact people fully contended that snow was black; nor Eraswho take such jeux d'esprit as this defence of in-mus in any degree the less wise for having constancy to be the actual and genuine senti-written an ingenious encomium of folly. ments of him who writes them, that they compel Meaning allegorically the ancient church of one in self-defence, to be as matter of fact as Ireland.