'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 !1
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.3

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 on n'a pas ce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a. There are so many matter-of-fact people who take such jeux d'esprit as this defence of inconstancy to be the 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 of folly.

2 Meaning allegorically the ancient church of Ireland.

She woo'd me to temples, while thou layest 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 love not, or turn one thought from thee.
They slander 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 those lingering chains;
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains-
Oh! foul is the slander-no chain could that soul subdue -
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too !1

ON MUSIC.

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 car,
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 flowers,

Is the grateful breath of song

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

Though the flowers have sunk in death
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,

Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music! oh, how 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 even more false than they;

Oh! 'tis only Music's strain

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray!

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.2

IT is not the tear at this moment shed,

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

That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled,
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.

Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.'-St. Paul, 2 Corinthians, iii. 17.

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

'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept,
"Tis life's whole path o'ershaded;
"Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept,
When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light,

Kept alive in 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 fresher flowers the sod perfume
Where buried saints are lying,

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

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee, Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea; ·

And who often, at eve, through the bright waters roved,
To meet on the green shore a youth whom she loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep,
Till Heaven looked with pity on true love so warm,
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.

Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheeks smiled the same-
While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light frame;
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was changed to bright chords, uttering melody's spell.

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;

Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay,
To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away!

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

OH! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;

When my dream of life from morn till night
Was love, still love.

New hope may bloom,

And days may come
Of milder, calmer beam,

But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream :

No, there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream.

THOUGH dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them,
And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in showers:
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,
More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours.

But just when the chain

Has ceased to pain,

And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers,
There comes a new link

Our spirits to sink

Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;
But, though 'twere the last little spark in our souls,
We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day.

Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal!
Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true;
And the tribute most high to a head that is royal,
Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.

While cowards, who blight

Your fame, your right,

Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array,

The standard of Green

In front would be seen

This song was written for a fête in honour of the Prince of Wales's birthday, given by my friend Major Bryan, at his seat in the county of Kilkenny.

Oh! my life on your faith! were you summon'd this minute,
You'd cast every bitter remembrance away,
And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,
When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts which have suffered too much to forget:
And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded,
And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet.

The gem may be broke

By many a stroke,

But nothing can cloud its native ray,
Each fragment will cast

A light to the last,—

And thus Erin, my country, though broken thou art,
There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay;
A spirit which beams through each suffering part,
And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.