And now before the open door The warrior priest had ordered so- So loud and clear, it seemed the ear And there the startling drum and fife The great bell swung as ne'er before. "Who dares ?"-this was the patriot's cry, For her to live, for her to die?" A hundred voices answered, "I!" THE FISHERMAN'S SONG. [This spirited lyrie appeared anonymously in an old Irish magazine.] AWAY-away o'er the feathery crest Of the beautiful blue are we : For our toil-lot lies on its boiling breast, And our wealth's in the glorious sea: And we've hymned in the grasp of the fiercest night, To the god of the sons of toil, As we cleft the wave by its own white light, And away with its scaly spoil Then oh for the long and the strong oar-sweep For when children's weal lies in the deep, And we'll think, as the blast grows loud and long, And we'll think, as the surge grows tall and strong, And we'll reel through the clutch of the shivering green, For the soothing smile of each heart's own queen, And her arms, like the flying foam. Then oh for the long and strong oar-sweep We have given, and will again; For when children's weal lies in the deep, Do we yearn for the land when tossed on this? "T were better to battle the wildest wave, Than be singing farewell to the bold oar-sweep If our souls should bow to the savage deep And if death, at times, through a foamy cloud, And oh 't were glorious, sure, to die, In our toils for some on shore, With a hopeful eye fixed calm on the sky, Then oh, for a long, strong, steady sweep; If our babes must fast till we rob the deep, "LOOK NOT UPON THE WINE WHEN IT IS RED." WILLIS. Look not upon the wine when it Is red within the cup; Stay not for pleasure when she fills Her tempting beaker up; Though clear its depths, and rich its glow, A spell of madness lurks below. They say 't is pleasant on the lip, And merry on the brain; They say it stirs the sluggish blood, Its rosy lights will turn to fire, Then dash the burning cup aside 'Tis red and rich, but grief and woe ICARUS; OR, THE PERIL OF BORROWED PLUMES. SAXE. THERE lived and flourished long ago, in famous Athenstown, One Dædalus, a carpenter of genius and renown; ('Twas he who with an auger taught mechanics how to bore— An art which the philosophers monopolized before.) His only son was Icarus, a most precocious lad,- And while he yet was in his teens such progress he had made, Now Dædalus, the carpenter, had made a pair of wings, Contrived of wood and feathers and a cunning set of springs, By means of which the wearer could ascend to any height, And sail about among the clouds as easy as a kite! "Oh, father," said young Icarus, "how I should like to fly! "Oh, would n't it be jolly, though,-to stop at all the inns; "Oh, father, please to let me go!" was still the urchin's cry; "I'll be extremely careful, sir, and won't go very high; Oh, if this little pleasure-trip you only will allow, I promise to be back again in time to fetch the cow!" "You're rather young," said Dædalus, "to tempt the upper air; But take the wings, and mind your eye with very special care; And keep at least a thousand miles below the nearest star— Young lads, when out upon a lark, are apt to go too far!" He took the wings-that foolish boy-without the least dismay, And still he flies-away-away; it seems the merest fun; Already, in his silly pride, he's gone too far aloft; The moral of this mournful tale is plain enough to all :- YE MAY DRINK, IF YE LIST.-PEASE. YE may drink, if ye list, The red sparkling wine, From beakers that gleam With the gems of the vine; Ye may quaff, if ye will, When the foam bends the brim, From a flagon or goblet, Till your eye shall grow dim; But I've sworn on the altar, And my soul is now free, Nor goblet for me. |