That late were as harp-strings to each gentle
breeze;

The strangers and cousins and every one flown,
While we sit happy-hearted-together alone.

II

Some are off to the mountain, and some to the fair, The snow is on their cheek, on mine your black hair ; Papa with his farming is busy to-day,

And mamma's too good-natured to ramble this way.

III

The girls are gone-are they not? into town,

To fetch bows and bonnets, perchance a beau, down; Ah! tell them, dear Kate, 'tis not fair to coquette Though you, you bold lassie, are fond of it yet!

IV

You're not-do you say? Just remember last night, You gave Harry a rose, and you dubbed him your knight;

Poor lad! if he loved you-but no, darling! no,
You're too thoughtful and good to fret any one so.

V

The painters are raving of light and of shade,
And Harry, the poet, of lake, and of glade;

While the light of your eye and your soft wavy form
Suit a proser like me, by the hearth bright and warm.

VI

The snow on those hills is uncommonly grand,

But you know, Kate, it's not half so white as your hand,

And say what you will of the gray Christmas sky,
Still I slightly prefer my dark girl's gray eye.

VII

Be quiet, and sing me "The Bonny Cuckoo,"
For it bids us the summer and winter love through;
And then I'll read out an old ballad that shows
How Tyranny perished, and Liberty rose.

VIII

My Kate!
I'm so happy your voice whispers soft,
And your cheek flushed wilder from kissing so oft,
For town or for country, for mountains or farms,
What care I? My darling's entwined in my arms.

A NATION ONCE AGAIN

HEN boyhood's fire was in my blood,
I read of ancient freemen,

WH

For Greece and Rome who bravely stood,

Three Hundred men and Three men.'

And then I prayed I yet might see

Our fetters rent in twain,

And Ireland, long a province, be
A Nation once again.

And, from that time, through wildest woe
That hope has shone, a far light;
Nor could love's brightest summer glow
Outshine that solemn starlight:

It seemed to watch above my head
In forum, field, and fane;

Its angel voice sang round my bed,
"A Nation once again."

It whispered, too, that "freedom's ark
And service high and holy,
Would be profaned by feelings dark,
And passions vain or lowly:

For freedom comes from God's right hand,
And needs a godly train;

And righteous men must make our land
A Nation once again."

1 The Three Hundred Greeks who died at Thermopyle, and the Three Romans who kept the Sublician Bridge.-Davis.

So, as I grew from boy to man,

I bent me to that bidding -
My spirit of each selfish plan
And cruel passion ridding;
For, thus I hoped some day to aid
Oh! can such hope be vain?
When my dear country shall be made
A Nation once again.

TH

A PLEA FOR LOVE

HE summer brook flows in the bed, The winter torrent tore asunder; The skylark's gentle wings are spread Where walk the lightning and the thunder; And thus you'll find the sternest soul The gayest tenderness concealing, And minds that seem to mock control, Are ordered by some fairy feeling.

Then, maiden! start not from the hand
That's hardened by the swaying sabre-
The pulse beneath may be as bland
As evening after day of labour:
And, maiden! Start not from the brow

That thought has knit, and passion darkened

In twilight hours, 'neath forest bough,

The tenderest tales are often hearkened.

FONTENOY1

HRICE at the huts of Fontenoy the English col

T umn failed,

And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch

in vain assailed;

For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery,

And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary.

As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers burst,

The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed.

The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious

eye,

And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to

try.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!

And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at

eventide.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread, Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;

Steady they step a-down the slope-steady they climb the hill;

1 The battle of Fontenoy, fought in Flanders in 1745 between the French and the Allies-English, Dutch, and Austrians-in which the Allies were worsted. The Irish Brigade fought by the side of the French, and won great renown by their splendid conduct in the field.