As eagles to the day-spring,
As torrents to the sea,
From every dark sierra,

So rush'd our hearts to thee.

Thy spirit is our banner,

Thine eye our beacon-mind, Thy name our trumpet, Mina! The mountain-bands are thine.

My Heart and Lute.

Thomas Moore.

I GIVE thee all, I can no more,
Though poor the offering be-
My heart and lute are all the store
That I can bring to thee.
A lute whose gentle song reveals
The soul of love full well,
And, better far, a heart that feels
Much more than lute can tell.

I give thee all, &c.

Though love and song may fail, alas!
To keep life's clouds away,
At least 't will make them lighter pass,

Or gild them if they stay.

If ever care his discord flings

O'er life's enchanted strain,

Let love but gently touch the string

'T will all be sweet again.

I give thee all, &c.

F

My Own Firęsidę.

Alaric A. Watts.

LET others seek for empty joys,

At ball or concert, rout or play; Whilst far from fashion's idle noise, Her gilded domes and trappings gay, I wile the wintry eve away,

'Twixt book and lute, the hours divide, And marvel how I e'er could stray

From thee my own Fire-side!

My own Fire-side!

Those simple words

Can bid the sweetest dreams arise; Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,

And fill with tears of joy mine eyes! What is there my wild heart can prize That doth not in thy sphere abide, Haunt of my home-bred sympathies, My own-my own Fire-side!

A gentle form is near me now;

A small white hand is clasp'd in mine:

I gaze upon her placid brow,

And ask what joys can equal thine! A babe, whose beauty 's half divine,

In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide; Where may love seek a fitter shrine,

Than thou-my own Fire-side?

What care I for the sullen roar

Of winds without, which ravage earth; It doth but bid me prize thee more:

The shelter of thy hallow'd hearth
To thoughts of quiet bliss give birth :
Then let the churlish tempest chide;
It cannot check the blameless mirth
That glads-my own Fire-side!

My refuge ever from the storm

Of this world's passion - strife and care; Though thunder-clouds the sky deform, Their fury cannot reach me there. There all is cheerful - calm and fair;

Wrath malice envy - strife and pride

Have never made their hated lair

By thee--my own Fire-side!

Thy precincts are a charmed ring,

Where no harsh feelings dare intrude; Where life's vexations lose their sting; Where even grief is half subdued; And peace there halcyon loves to brood. Then, let the pamper'd fool deride, I'll pay my debt of gratitude

To thee-my own Fireside!

Shrine of my household deities!

Fair scene of home's unsullied joys! To thee my burthen'd spirit flies,

When fortune frowns, or care annoys: Thine is the bliss that never cloys;

The smile whose truth hath oft been tried;
What, then, are this world's tinsel toys
To thee-my own Fireside!

Oh may the yearnings fond and sweet,
That bid my thoughts be all of thee,
Thus ever guide my wand'ring feet
To thy heart-soothing sanctuary!
Whate'er my future years may

be;

Let joy or grief my fate betide; Be still an Eden bright to me, My own-my own Fire-side! "

The Dead Trumpeter.

T. K. Hervey.

"WAKE, soldier !-wake!-thy war-horse waits

To bear thee to the battle back;

Thou slumb'rest at a foeman's gates
Thy dog would break thy bivouac ;
Thy plume is trailing in the dust,
And thy red falchion gath'ring rust!

Sleep, soldier!-sleep!- thy warfare oe'r,-
Not thy own bugle's loudest strain

Shall ever break thy slumbers more
With summons to the battle-plain;
A trumpet-note more loud and deep
Must rouse thee from that leaden sleep!

'Thou need'st not helm nor cuirass now;
Beyond the Grecian hero's boast
Thou wilt not quail thy naked brow,
Nor shrink before a myriad host:
For head and heel alike are sound,
A thousand arrows cannot wound!

Thy mother is not in thy dreams,
With that wild widow'd look she wore
The day-how long to her it seems!
She kiss'd thee at the cottage door,
And sicken'd at the sounds of joy
That bore away her only boy!

Sleep, soldier!— let thy mother wait
To hear thy bugle on the blast;
Thy dog, perhaps, may find the gate,
And bid her home to thee at last;

He cannot tell a sadder tale

Than did thy clarion, on the gale,

When last-and far away-she heard its ling'ring echoes fail!