WHEN grief assails the human frame,
Hope lends her sure and cheering light:
As does the taper's lambient flame,
Shine as more dark appears the night.
Here, while in sorrow deep we grieve,
Still does sweet hope illume the breast;:
Her soothing smiles our cares relieve,
And tell us we shall soon be blest.
MAN'S life is but vain, for 'tis subject to pain,
And sometimes as short as a bubble ;
Tis a medley of bus'ness, of losses or gain,
And care, toil, and sorrow and trouble.
But we'll take no care while the weather is fair,
Nor will we complain though it rain;
But we'll angle all day, banish sorrow and care,
And drink, smoke, and angle again.
THE YOUNG AND BLOOMING BRIDE.
'Twas on the Wolga rolling dark,
With strong and heavy tide,
Young Loscoff launch'd his little bark,
To leave his blooming bride.
"Go not, my love, to day from home,
"Tis Moska that implores;
See how the angry waters foam,
Hark, how the tempest roars"
"I heed not winds nor waves," said he,
"Nor fear the swelling tide;
At night I will return to thee,"
My young, my blooming bride.
Night came, and Moska still was seen
Upon the beaten shore;
The storm is past, the sky serene,
But he returns no more.
The moon-beams on the water play'd,
Reflected in her tear;
The night-bird scream'd, as on she stray'd,
Her bosom throb'd with fear:
At length his form upon the wave,
Her streaming eyes descry'd,
She sank, and join'd him in the grave,
A young and blooming bride.
WHEN Fortune smiles and with you dwell, "Tis-"Dear Sir, how d'ye do?
Your family, I hope, are well;
Can I serve them or you?"
But if, perchance, her smiles should cease,
And sorrow change your plight;
"Tis then-" I'm sorry for your case,
But times are hard-Good night."
If you for craving children plead,
For food or raiment pray;
"Tis then-" I cannot help your need,
I've other claims-Good day."
Yet as you stumble thro' life's mist,
You'll sometimes find a friend;
Who, smiling says-" Come, I'll assist
And bad times help to mend."
What grateful feelings fills the heart,
When friendship brings relief!
When friends assist to ease our smart,
And soothe our pain and grief.
Hail, sacred friendship! warm and kind,
Thou prop to those distress'd;
May thou fill ev'ry heart and mind-..
Each fair and manly breast.
MY HIGHLAND HOME.
My Highland home, where tempests blow,
And cold thy wint'ry looks,
Thy mountains crown'd wi' driven snow,
And ice-bound are thy brooks;
But colder far's the Briton's heart,
However far he roams,
To whom these words no joy impart,
"My native Highland home!"
Then gang wi' me to Scotland, dear,
We ne'er again will roam,
And with thy smile so bonny cheer
My native Highland home.
When summer comes, the heather bell
Shall tempt thy feet to rove;
The cushat dove, within the dell,
Invites to peace and love.
For blithesome is the breath of day,
And sweet the bonny broom,
And pure the dimpling rills that play
Around my Highland home.
Then gang wi' me, &c.
WHO has not heard of the vale of Cashmere,
With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,
Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear
As the love-lighted eyes that hang o'er their wave?
Oh! to see it at sun-set-when warm o'er the lake,
Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws,
Like a bride full of blushes, when lingering to take
A last look at her mirror at night ere she goes! When the shrines thro' the foliage are gleaming half shown,
And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. Here the music of pray'r from a minaret swells,
Here the Magian his urn full of perfumes is swinging, And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells
Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.
Or to see it by moonlight,-when mellowly shines
The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines;
When the water-falls gleam like a quick fall of stars,
And the Nightingales' hymn from the island of Chenars
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet,
From the cool, shining walks where the young people
Or at morn when the magic of daylight awakes
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks,
Hills, Cupolas, Fountains, call'd forth every one
Out of darkness, as they were just born of the sun.
When the spirit of Fragrance is up with the day,
From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away;
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover,
The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over.
When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes
And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl'd,
Shines in thro' the mountainous portals that opes,
Sublime, from the valley of bliss to the world!
THE EMERALD ISLE.
Or all nations under the sun,
Dear Erin does truly excel,
For friendship, for valour, and fun,
"Tis fam'd, as the world, sure, can tell.
The boys are all hearty, the girls
Sweet daughters of beauty they prove;
The lads they ne'er fear any perils,
The lasses are faithful in love.
Oh! success to the Emerald isle,
Where shillelah's and shamrocks abound,
May peace and prosperity smile
O'er the land and its natives around.
Our forefathers tell us, Saint Pat
Drove venom and toads from our shore,
The shamrock he bless'd, and for that
We steep it in Whiskey galore;
He told us, while time should remain,
Still happy would be the gay sod,
And bloom in the midst of the main,
By the footsteps of friendship still trod.
Oh! success, &c.
There's Wellington-Ireland's own son-
A hero that's matchless in story;
He's so brave he ne'er fought but he won,
And his name is their pride and their glory.
Invaded our sons would not sever,
Like lions they fought on the strand-
And may their descendants for ever
Protect their own beautiful land.
Oh! success, &c.
YE ask me, why only in moments of sadness,
I woo the soft dream which the muse can bestow
Like the smile of affection, 'tis lovely in gladness,
But brightest it gleams through the darkness of woe.
Unlike the light train that, in summer's gay bowers,
Enliven our pleasures, but fly from our tears,
My path she forsakes when I wander through flowers,
And lost in the sun-shine her light disappears.
In the night-time of pain, and the winter of sorrow,
When fades every scene that was blooming and fair, Oh! then, one bright ray from her soft light I borrow, It guides through the gloom, and forbids me despair. The world's busy triflers forgetting or scorning,
She shrinks into silence, or flies from their sightThey hail, like the lark, the bright rays of the morning, She sings, like the nightingale, only by night..
WHAT are sighs, but sorrow's breeze
Blowing o'er life's ruffled seas?
What are we? Barks sailing o'er
To a distant tranquil shore:
Pilots, then unfurl the sail,
Quickly sieze the fav'ring gale,
This will waft you to yon sphere,
Free from trouble, free from fear,
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