POLISH EPINICION.

HARK to our cannon's thundering roar—
Hark to the brazen trumpet-blast-

Hark to the war-shouts mingling o'er
The dying as they strike their last.

On to the crimson strife, ye brave-
On to the struggle, hand to hand-
Now is the time to nobly save,
Or perish for, our parent-land.

This be our sacred battle-cry

"Death or dear Poland's liberty!"

Sons of the free-(who erst have bled
Like us on this red slaughter-field,)
Children of the immortal dead,

Can we to slavery ever yield?

No! by the fame of those who strove
And died to gain our country's right-
No! by the hope of woman's love
We'll fall, or win the coming fight.
This be our sacred battle-cry-
"Death or dear Poland's liberty."

A moment's pause—the signal gun !
Up to the shock, ye Polish brave,
And, ere the setting of yon sun,

We'll rest us on our foeman's grave.

They come, they come the crash is o'er,

The Muscovite is slain or flown,
The northern Eagle soars no more,
The well-won victor-plain's our own.
Still, still, be this our battle-cry—
"Death or dear Poland's victory."

Iö Pan-now let us sing

Our hymn of praise for victory—

Iö triumphe-thou, O King,

And God of Hosts, we kneel to thee.

On this carnage-ground we kneel,
Listen to Sarmatia's breath,
Deign to bless our patriot steel,
Free us, Lord, or give us death!

Then still be this our battle-cry-
"Death or dear Poland's liberty!"

THE MATRIMONIAL IRIS.

"There are arts to reclaim the wildest men, as there are arts to make spaniels fetch and carry-chide 'em often, and feed 'em seldom."

"Silence is the perfect herald of joy ;-I were
But little happy if I could say how much."

No, no, dearest Mira, it never was meant
The frown of dear woman to cause or allow ;
It ne'er was design'd, when to us she was sent,
That sorrow or anger should ruffle her brow.

Transplanted from heaven-her own native skies,
She came, as an angel, to consecrate man,
And the fire that celestially beams in her eyes
First lit the love-flame that in Eden began.

O yes! twas ordain'd that dear woman should be
To man, in his darkness, the sun of delight—
To rise from his bosom-the Goddess of day,

And set in his arms-the Enchantress of night.

What's vex'd thee, my love, that thy ripe rosy lip
Should pout, as 'twere suing, in truth, for a kiss?
Some amorous bee has, I fear, been to sip

Its sweets, and has stung thee while mad with the bliss.

Then a tear, now a smile-'tis the type of our lovesA shower and sunshine that mingle together

And I swear, by dear Venus, her swans, and her doves, That it looks like the rainbow of honey-moon weather.

So you be the shower-I'll be the sunshine,

Or

you be the sunshine-and I'll be the shower,

It matters not which-if you'll tell me you're mine,

And we'll "mingle" them, dear, to the best of our

power.