Page images

Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd,

Thro’ this world whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.

In France, when the heart of a woman set sail,

On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail,

But just pilots her off, then bids her good bye! While the daughters of Erin keep the boy

Ever-smiling beside his faithful oar, Thro’ billows of woe and beams of joy,

The same as he look'd when he left the shore. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown’d,

Thro’ this world whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.


T. Campbell.

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had low'r'd,

And the centinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpow'r’d,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,

Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track:

[ocr errors]

'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields travers’d so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledg’d we the wine cup, and fondly I swore,

From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o’er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us--rest, thou art weary and worn,

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stayBut sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.


Walter Scott.

O LADY twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the Cypress Tree;
Too lively glow the lillies light,
The varnish'd holly's all too bright,
The May flow'r and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine;
But Lady weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the Cypress Tree!

Let dimpled mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;

The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due;
The myrtle bough bids lovers live
But that Matilda would not give!
Then Lady twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the Cypress Tree!

Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses bought so dear:
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue
With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew.
On favour'd Erin's crest be seen
The flow'r she loves of emerald green:
But Lady twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the Cypress Tree!

Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair,
And while his crown of laurel-leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves ;
Let the loud trump his triumph tell.
But when you hear the passing bell
Then Lady twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the Cypress Tree!

Yes twine for me the Cypress bough,
But O Matilda, twine not now!
Stay till a few brief months are past,
And I have look'd and lov'd my last.
When villagers my shroud bestrew,
With pansies, rosemary, and rue,-
Then lady' weave a wreath for me,
And weave it of the Cypress Tree!


Lord Byron.

I ENTER thy garden of roses,

Beloved and fair Haideé,
Each morning where Flora reposes,

For surely I see her in thee.
Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,

Receive this fond truth from my tongue,
Which utters its song to adore thee,

Yet trembles for what it has sung;
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature,

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree,
Through her eyes, through her every feature,

Shines the soul of the young Haideé.

• But the loveliest garden grows hateful

When Love has abandon'd the bowersBring me hemlock—since mine is ungrateful,

That herb is more fragrant than flowers.
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice,

Will deeply embitter the bowl;
But when drunk to escape from thy malice,

The draught shall be sweet to my soul.
Too cruel! in vain I implore thee

My heart from these horrors to save: Will nought to my bosom restore thee?

Then open the gates of the grave.

As the chief who to combat advances

Secure of his conquest before,
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,

Hast pierc'd through my heart to its core.

Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish

By pangs which a smile would dispel? Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish,

For torture repay me too well? Now sad is the garden of roses,

Beloved, but false Haideé! There Flora all wither'd reposes,

And mourns o'er thine absence with me.


T. Moore.

OH! weep for the hour

When to Eveleen's bower
The Lord of the Valley with false vows came;

The moon hid her light

From the Heavens that night, And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.

The clouds past soon

From the chaste cold moon,
And heav'n smil'd again with her vestal flame;

But none will see the day

When the clouds shall pass away, Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen’s fame.

The white snow lay

On the narrow path way Where the Lord of the Valley cross'd over the moor;

And many a deep print

On the white snow's tint Shew'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.

« PreviousContinue »