[1] This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere In Sir William Jones's works: "The moon looks upon many night- flowers, the night flower sees but one moon."
ILL OMENS.
When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow,
And stars in the heavens still lingering shone.
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,
The last time she e'er was to press it alone.
For the youth! whom she treasured her heart and her soul in,
Had promised to link the last tie before noon;
And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen
The maiden herself will steal after it soon.
As she looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses.
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly,[1] fresh from the night-flower's kisses.
Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,
She brushed him—he fell, alas; never to rise:
"Ah! such," said the girl, "is the pride of our faces,
"For which the soul's innocence too often dies."
While she stole thro' the garden, where heart's-ease was growing,
She culled some, and kist off its night-fallen dew;
And a rose, further on, looked so tempting and glowing,
That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too:
But while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning,
Her zone flew in two, and the
heart's-ease was lost:
"Ah! this means," said the girl
(and she sighed at its meaning),
"That love is scarce worth the
repose it will cost!"
[1] An emblem of the soul.
BEFORE THE BATTLE.
By the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
Chains or freedom, death or life—
Oh! remember life can be
No charm for him, who lives not free!
Like the day-star in the wave,
Sinks a hero in his grave,
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.
Happy is he o'er whose decline
The smiles of home may soothing shine
And light him down the steep of years:—
But oh, how blest they sink to rest,
Who close their eyes on victory's breast!
O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
Where we tamed his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again
A chain; like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls—
Ere the golden evening falls,
May we pledge that horn in triumph round![1]
Many a heart that now beats high,
In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound—
But oh, how blest that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!