Beside that cottage porch

A girl was on her knees,
She held aloft a snowy scarf,

Which fluttered in the breeze;
She breathed a prayer for him,
A prayer he could not hear,
But he paused to bless her as she knelt,
And wiped away a tear.

He turned and left the spot

Oh, do not deem him weak;
For dauntless was the soldier's heart,
Though tears were on his cheek:
Go watch the foremost rank

In danger's dark career,

Be sure the hand most daring there
Has wiped away a tear.

OH, NO! WE NEVER MENTION HER.'

H, no! we never mention her;

OH,

Her name is never heard;

My lips are now forbid to speak

That once familiar word.

From sport to sport they hurry me,

To banish my regret;

And when they win a smile from me,

They think that I forget.

They bid me seek in change of scene

The charms that others see;

But were I in a foreign land,

They'd find no change in me.
'Tis true that I behold no more
The valley where we met;
I do not see the hawthorn tree—
But how can I forget!

They tell me she is happy now

The gayest of the

gay;

They hint that she forgets me now,
But heed not what they say;
Like me, perhaps she struggles with
Each feeling of regret;

But if she loves as I have loved,
She never can forget.

"I'D BE A BUTTERFLY."

I'D be a butterfly born in a bower,

Where roses and lilies and violets meet;
Roving for ever from flower to flower,

Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.
I'd never languish for wealth or for power,
I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet;
I'd be a butterfly born in a bower,

Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.

Oh! could I pilfer the wand of a fairy,

I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings; Their summer day's ramble is sportive and airy,

They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings.

4.09

Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary,

Power, alas! naught but misery brings;

I'd be a butterfly, sportive and airy,

Rocked in a rose when the nightingale sings.

What though you

tell me each gay little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day; Surely 'tis better, when summer is over,

To die, when all fair things are fading away. Some in life's winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay:

I'd be a butterfly, living a rover,

Dying when fair things are fading away.

SHE

The night that first we met,

Her lovely face was smiling

Beneath her curls of jet;

Her footstep had the lightness,
Her voice the joyous tone,
The tokens of a youthful heart,
Where sorrow is unknown;

I saw her but a moment

Yet, methinks, I see her now,
With the wreath of summer flowers
Upon her snowy brow.

A wreath of orange blossoms,

When next we met, she wore ;

The expression of her features

Was more thoughtful than before;

And standing by her side was one
Who strove, and not in vain,

To soothe her, leaving that dear home
She ne'er might view again.

I saw her but a moment—

Yet, methinks, I see her now,
With the wreath of orange blossoms
Upon her snowy brow.

And once again I see that brow,
No bridal wreath is there,
The widow's sombre cap conceals

Her once luxuriant hair;
She weeps in silent solitude,
And there is no one near
Το press her hand within his own,
And wipe away the tear.

I see her broken-hearted!

Yet, methinks, I see her now
In the pride of youth and beauty,
With a garland on her brow.

Rev. Charles Wolfe.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA.

OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

NOT

As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-
But we left him alone with his glory.