POLISH EPINICION. HARK to our cannon's thundering roar— Hark to the war-shouts mingling o'er On to the crimson strife, ye brave- This be our sacred battle-cry "Death or dear Poland's liberty!" Sons of the free-(who erst have bled Can we to slavery ever yield? No! by the fame of those who strove A moment's pause—the signal gun ! We'll rest us on our foeman's grave. They come, they come the crash is o'er, The Muscovite is slain or flown, 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, Then still be this our battle-cry- 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 No, no, dearest Mira, it never was meant Transplanted from heaven-her own native skies, O yes! twas ordain'd that dear woman should be And set in his arms-the Enchantress of night. What's vex'd thee, my love, that thy ripe rosy lip 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. |