"How often have we heard from town,
Of being killed and undone,
By overturning carriages,
By thieves, and fires, in London.
You see what risks our landsmen run,
From noblemen to tailors;
So, Bill, let us thank Providence
OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowr'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep and the wounded to die
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice e're the cock crew I dreamt it again.
Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far, I had roamed on a desolate track;
Till autumn, and sunshine arose on my way,
To the home of my father, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields travers'd so oft,
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledg'd we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud, in the fullness of heart.
Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn,
And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
'Twas at night, when the bell had toll'd twelve, And sweet Susan was laid on her pillow, In her ear whisper'd some flitting elf, "Your love is now tost on a billow,
All was dark as she woke out of breath,
Not an object her fears could discover;
All was still as the silence of death,
Save fancy which painted her lover,
So she whisper'd a prayer clos'd her eyes,
But the phantom still haunted her pillow,
Whilst in terror she echoed his cries,
As struggling he sunk on a billow,
METHOUGHT I had for ever lain
My wild and wreathless harp aside,
Nor dreamt that forth its chords again
Would e'er break from my songs rude tide :
But Beauty's bidding is a spell,
Which minstrel may not disobey,
Her kindly smile, he knows full well,
Will be the guerdon of his lay.
My harp! my harp! long years have flown,
Since thou wert heard in bower or hall;
Retain'st thou still thy wonted tone?
Or has thy sweetness faded all?
Tho' grief has tamed the minstrel's fire,
And age has chilled his trembling hand,
Once more thy long neglected wire
He strikes, at Beauty's high command.
My harp! my harp! while o'er thy strings
Thy master's faltering fingers move,
Once more, within his bosom springs,
The mem'ry of his lays of love;
And love is Beauty's dearest theme,
Her daily thought, her nightly dream,
Her
purest prayers its influence move
And soar to Heaven on wings of love.
WRITTEN, COMPOSED, AND SUNG AT THE NORWICH MU-
SICAL FESTIVAL, 1830, BY MR. E. TAYLOR.
THE warrior, when in peace reposing
No dream of wild ambition knows :
Friendship and love their joys combining,
Smile on each day and gild its close.
But hark, the sound of distant war
Wakes in his breast its slumb'ring fire!
From far is heard the awful roar,
Bursting like billows on the shore :
He grasps again his sword and shield,
And dares again the ensanguin'd field.
FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER.
FLOW on, thou shining river,
But e'er thou reach the sea,
Seek Ella's bow'r, and give her
The wreaths I fling o'er thee.
And tell her thus, if she'll be mine,
The current of our lives shall be,
With joys, along their course to shine,
Like those sweet flow'rs on thee.
But if in wand'ring thither,
Thou find'st she mocks my prayer,
Then leave those wreaths to wither
Upon the cold bank there.
And tell her thus, when youth is o'er,
Her lone and loveless charms shall be
Thrown by upon life's weedy shore,
Like these sweet flow'rs from thee.
OUR MOMENTS OF GLADNESS.
F. C. H.
COME hasten where friendship invites us,
True peace and enjoyment to share ;
Where social sweet concord delights us,
Away with all sorrow and care!
No longer sit wasting in sorrow,
Or fruitless concern for to-morrow.
Haste, haste, festive wreaths to entwine,
Exchange the dark yew for the vine.
Rejoice! let the lyre and the song
Our moments of gladness prolong.
The wisest of mortals has told us,
Their season have all things on earth;
We've sorrowed, and what shall withhold us
From hailing enjoyment and mirth?
Like mountains, which long have been clouded
Where thickly rude tempests have crowded,
More brightly we smile when on high,
The sun shines unveil'd in our sky.
Rejoice! let the lyre, &c.
Most valued are gems that are rarest,
The joys that come seldom are dear;
To us are the moments the fairest
Which cheer us in fellowship here:
Let Peace and Benevolence tender
Surround our gay circle with splendour,
No envy or hate shall alloy
Our hearts thus united in joy.
Rejoice! let the lyre, &c.
How merrily we live that soldiers be,
Round the world we march with merry glee;
On the pleasant downs sometimes encamp'd we lie,
No cares we know, but fortune's frowns defy,
So long as we can see our colours fly.
THE scene was more beautiful far to my view
Than if day in its pride had array'd it;
The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure arch'd sky
Look'd pure as the spirit that made it :
The murmur rose soft, as I silently gaz'd
On the shadowy waves' playful motion,
From the dim distant isle, when the beacon-fire blaz'd,
Like a star in the midst of the ocean.
No longer the joy, in the sailor-boy's breast,
Was heard in his wildly-breath'd numbers;
The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest,
The fisherman sunk to his slumbers:
One moment I look'd from the hill's gentle slope,
All hush'd was the billows' commotion,
And thought that the day-star look'd lovely as hope,
That star of life's tremulous ocean.
The time is long past, and the scene is afar,
Yet, when my head rests on my pillow,
Will memory oft-times rekindle the star
That blaz'd on the breast of the billow.
In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies,
And death stills the heart's last emotion,
Oh! then, may the bright beam of mercy arise,
Like a star on eternity's ocean.
WHEN Hofer fell by Tyrol foe,
Why did the sun in heaven roll?
Unless to tell, its lovely glow
Usher'd to heaven a kindred soul.
When sorrow lower'd upon the brave,
Why did the lark ascend the sky?
Unless in music's voice it gave
To realms of bliss the hero's sigh.
Why did the rose, by Mantua's wall,
Drop a tear on that sad morrow?
Unless, to tell a brave man's fall
Gave to Nature's self a sorrow.
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