Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown'd me,
I made thee a gem and the wonder of earth,—
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,
Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.

Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted

In strife with the storm, when their battles were won, Then the eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun! Farewell to thee, France! but when liberty rallies

Once more in thy regions, remember me thenThe violet still grows in the depth of thy vallies; Tho' wither'd,-thy tears will unfold it againYet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us, And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice, There are links which must break in the chain that hath bound us,

Then turn thee, and call on the chief of thy choice.

NE'ER trouble thyself with the times nor their turning,
Affection's run circular and wheel about,
Away with thy murmuring, and thy heart burning,
With the juice of the grape we'l quench the fire out,
Ne'er chain nor imprison thy soul up in sorrow,
What fails us to day, may befriend us to morrow..

ANGEL OF LIFE.

RECITATIVE.

ANGEL of life! thy glittering wings explore
Earth's loneliest bounds, and ocean's wildest shore.
Lot to the wintry winds the pilot yields

His bark careering o'er unfathom'd fields:

Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar,

Where Andes, giant of the western star,

With meteor standard to the winds unfurl'd,

Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world.

AIR.

Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm,
Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form;

Rocks, waves, and winds the shatter'd bark delay,'
Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away;
Yet Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep,
And sing to charm the spirit of the deep.

SWEET GRATITUDE.

THE waves shall cease to flow,
Or on the beach intrude:
The wind shall cease to blow,

The ocean to be rude.

Ere I forget; ah! can I? No!

The bond of Gratitude?

Sweet Gratitude! sweet Gratitude!

The bond, the bond, of Gratitude!
Sweet Gratitude!

Time's sand shall cease to go,
False pleasure to delude;
Or youthful hearts be slow,
To love when fondly woo'd;
Ere I forget, ah! can I? no!
The bond of Gratitude!

Sweet Gratitude! &c.

THE COMPANIONS.

WITH thy step in the stirrup, one cup of bright wine, We'll drink the success of thy sabre and mine:

When as boys we took down the bright arms from the

wall,

And rushed, in mock combat, around the old hall,
We long'd in true warfare the weapons to wield:
-Now the foe is before us, and yonder the field.
We'll onward together, thy steed beside mine,
Our blow be as one when we rush on the line;
Should one fall, one only, the other will try
A step for his vengeance, another to die--
On the neck of the fallen yield up his last breath,
And the vow of their boyhood be cancelled by death.
But rather this evening as victor's we'll ride

O'er the field of our conquest, the place of our pride,

With our names on each lip, but named only as one—
'Tis the glory of either what each may have done.
Now on for the harvest that darkens yon plain,
We come back in honour, or come not again.

DROWN IT IN THE BOWL.

THE glasses sparkle on the board,
The wine is ruby bright,

The reign of pleasure is restor❜d,
Of ease and fond delight.

The day is gone, the night's our own,

Then let us feast the soul;
If any pain or care remain,
Why drown it in the bowl.

This world, they say's a world of woe,
But that I do deny ;

Can sorrow from the goblet flow ?-
Or pain from beauty's eye?
The wise are fools, with all their rules,
When they would joys controul;
If life's a pain, I say again,

Let's drown it in the bowl.

That time flies fast the poet sings;

Then surely it is wise,

In rosy wine to dip his wings,

And seize him as he flies.

This night is ours! then strew with flowers

The moments as they roll:

If any pain or care remain,

Why drown it in the bowl.

I LOV'D THE MAID FOR LOVING ME.

I DID not love her for her face,
I did not love her for her grace,
Tho' all must own that she is fair,
And wears a most bewitching air.
I did not love her for her form,
Tho' she a Stoic's heart might warm-
Ah! no, if told the truth must be,
I lov'd the maid for loving me.

"Twas not her wit inspir'd my love,
Tho' all who hear her must approve ;
"Twas not her virtues all so rare,
For she is good as she is fair:

"Twas neither beauty, wealth, nor birth,
But charms, I own, of magic worth;
Ah! no-if told the truth must be,
I lov'd the maid for loving me.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

Lord Byron.

SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, so eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent ;
A mind, at peace with all below,
A heart, whose love is innocent!

STAY TRAVELLER.

STAY trav'ller, tarry here to-night,
The rain yet beats, the wind is loud,
The moon, too, has withdrawn her light,
And gone to sleep behind a cloud.
"Tis seven long miles across the moor,
And should you chance to go astray,
You'll meet, I fear, no friendly door,
Nor soul to tell the ready way..

Come, dearest Kate, our meal prepare,
This stranger shall partake our best
A cake and rasher be his fare,

With ale that makes the weary blest.
Approach the hearth, there take a place,
And, till the hour of rest draws nigh,
Of Robin Hood, and Chevy Chace
We'll sing then to our pallets hie,
Had I the means I'd use you well,
"Tis little I have got to boast;
Yet, should you of this cottage tell,
Say, Hal, the Woodman, was your host,

RISE GENTLE MOON,

DAY has gone down on the Baltic's broad billow,
Ev'ning has sigh'd her last to the lone willow,
Night hurries on, earth and ocean to cover;
Rise gentle moon, and light me to my lover.

'Twas by thy beam he first stole forth to woo me,
Brighter since than hast thou ever seem'd to me;
Let the wild waves still, the red sun roll over,
Thine is the light, of all lights, to a lover.

THE SAILOR.

Rogers.

THE Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade;
He climbs the mast to feast his eyes once more,
And busy fancy fondly lends her aid.

Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he know,
Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime,
Charms with the magic of a moonlight view;
Its colours mellow'd, not impaired, by time.
True as the needle, homeward points his heart
Thro' all the horrors of the stormy main;
This, the last wish that would with life depart,
To meet the smile of her he loves again.