No mercy now can clear her brow
For this world's peace to pray;

For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way!—

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway!

Love in a Cottage

They may talk of love in a cottage,
And bowers of trellised vine-
Of nature bewitchingly simple,
And milkmaids half divine;

They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping
In the shade of a spreading tree,
And a walk in the fields at morning,
By the side of a footstep free!

But give me a sly flirtation.

By the light of a chandelier— With music to play in the pauses,

And nobody very near;

Or a seat on a silken sofa,

With a glass of pure old wine, And mamma too blind to discover

The small white hand in mine.

Your love in a cottage is hungry,
Your vine is a nest for flies-
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,
And simplicity talks of pies!
You lie down to your shady slumber
And wake with a bug in your ear,
And your damsel that walks in the morning
Is shod like a mountaineer.

True love is at home on a carpet,
And mightily likes his ease-
And true love has an eye for a dinner,
And starves beneath shady trees.
His wing is the fan of a lady,

His foot's an invisible thing,

And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel
And shot from a silver string.

Monterey

We were not many-we who stood
Before the iron sleet that day-

Yet many a gallant spirit would
Give half his years if he then could
Have been with us at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot, it hailed
In deadly drifts of fiery spray,
Yet not a single soldier quailed

When wounded comrades round them wailed
Their dying shout at Monterey.

And on-still on our column kept

Through walls of flame its withering way; Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoiled aghast,

When, striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And braving full their murderous blast, Stormed home the towers of Monterey.

Our banners on those turrets wave,

And there our evening bugles play; Where orange boughs above their grave Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many, we who pressed
Beside the brave who fell that day;
But who of us has not confessed
He'd rather share their warrior rest
Than not have been at Monterey?

The Mint Julep

"T is said that the gods, on Olympus of old

(And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt), One night, mid their revels, by Bacchus were told

That his last butt of nectar had somehow run out!

But determined to send round the goblet once more,
They sued to their fairer immortals for aid
In composing a draught, which, till drinking were o'er,
Should cast every wine ever drank in the shade.

Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded her corn,

And the spirit that lives in each amber-hued grain, And which first had its birth from the dew of the morn, Was taught to steal out in bright dewdrops again,

Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board

Were scatter'd profusely in every one's reach, When call'd on a tribute to cull from the hoard, Express'd the mild juice of the delicate peach.

The liquids were mingled while Venus look'd on

With glances so fraught with sweet magical power, That the honey of Hybla, e'en when they were gone, Has never been miss'd in the draught from that hour.

Flora then, from her bosom of fragrancy, shook,
And with roseate fingers press'd down in the bowl,
All dripping and fresh as it came from the brook,
The herb whose aroma should flavor the whole.

The draught was delicious, and loud the acclaim, Though something seemed wanting for all to bewail;

But Juleps the drink of immortals became,

When Jove himself added a handful of hail.