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THE REMONSTRANCE.

By BARRY CORNWALL.

THOU'LT take me with thee, my love, my love?
Wherever thou'rt forced by fate, to move?
Over the land, or over the sea,
Thou know'st 'tis the same delight to me.
What say'st thou, dear?
Thy bride is here,

All ready to live and die with thee,

Her heart was in the song;
It murmur'd in the measure;
It touch'd the music all along,
With a grave sweet pleasure.

Thou wilt not leave me behind, behind,
To the malice of fortune, harsh and blind?
I'll follow thy call, as a bird would flee,
And sing or be mute as thou biddest me.
What say'st thou, dear,
To my fond, fond fear?

Thou can'st not banish thy love from thee!

Her heart was in the song;
It murmur'd in the measure;
It touch'd the music, all along,
With a grave sweet pleasure.

What say'st thou, my soldier, my love, my pride?
Thy answer? What, was I not born thy bride?
From my cradle e'er cherish'd for love and thee,
And dar'st thou now banish or bid me flee?
Smil'st thou at my fear?

Ah, then, my dear,

I know I may love-live-die with thee!

Her heart was in the song;
It murmur'd in the measure;
It touch'd the music, all along,
With a grave sweet pleasure.

THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE.

By COLONEL BLACKER.

It cannot be wondered at, that, from the great importance of the Battle of the Boyne, it should have been so celebrated in song by the party which triumphed. Having given the more modern song on the occasion, and the fragments of the ancient one, a third ballad on the subject may seem excessive; but it seems to me so well done as to have an undeniable claim to appear; and the soldier minstrel, in a true soldier-spirit, has done justice to the gallantry of his countrymen on both sides of the fight, with a liberality as rare as it is honourable in party chroniclers.

Ir was upon a summer's morn, unclouded rose the sun,
And lightly o'er the waving corn their way the breezes won;
Sparkling beneath that orient beam, 'mid banks of verdure

gay,

Its eastward course a silver stream held smilingly away.

A kingly host upon its side a monarch camp'd around, Its southern upland far and wide their white pavilions crown'd;

Not long that sky unclouded show'd, nor long beneath the

ray

That gentle stream in silver flow'd, to meet the new-born day.

Through yonder fairy-haunted glen, from out that dark ravine,

Is heard the tread of marching men, the gleam of arms is

seen;

And plashing forth in bright array along yon verdant banks, All eager for the coming fray, are rang'd the martial ranks.

Peals the loud gun-its thunders boom the echoing vales along,

While curtain'd in its sulph'rous gloom moves on the gallant throng;

And foot and horse in mingled mass, regardless all of life, With furious ardour onward pass to join the deadly strife.

Nor strange that with such ardent flame each glowing

heart beats high,

Their battle-word was William's name, and "Death or Liberty!"

Then, Oldbridge, then thy peaceful bowers with sounds

unwonted rang,

And Tredagh, 'mid thy distant towers, was heard the mighty clang;

The silver stream is crimson'd wide, and clogg'd with many

a corse,

As floating down its gentle tide come mingled man and horse.

Now fiercer grows the battle's rage, the guarded stream is

cross'd,

And furious, hand to hand engage each bold contending

host;

He falls the veteran hero falls, renown'd along the

Rhine

And he, whose name, while Derry's walls endure, shall brightly shine.

Oh! would to heav'n that churchman bold, his arms with triumph blest,

The soldier spirit had controll'd that fir'd his pious breast.

And he, the chief of yonder brave and persecuted band, Who foremost rush'd amid the wave, and gain'd the hostile strand ;

He bleeds, brave Caillemote-he bleeds-'tis clos'd, his bright career;

Yet still that band to glorious deeds his dying accents cheer.

And now that well-contested strand successive columns gain,

While backward James's yielding band are borne across the

plain.

In vain the sword green Erin draws, and life away doth fling

Oh! worthy of a better cause and of a bolder king.

In vain thy bearing bold is shown upon that blood-stain'd

ground;

Thy tow'ring hopes are overthrown, thy choicest fall

around.

Nor, sham'd, abandon thou the fray, nor blush, though conquer'd there,

A power against thee fights to-day no mortal arm may dare.

Nay, look not to that distant height in hope of coming aid

The dastard thence has ta'en his flight, and left thee all betray'd.

Hurrah! hurrah! the victor shout is heard on high Donore; Down Platten's vale, in hurried rout, thy shatter'd masses pour.

But many a gallant spirit there retreats across the plain, Who, change but kings, would gladly dare that battle-field again.

Enough! enough! the victor cries; your fierce pursuit forbear,

Let grateful prayer to heaven arise, and vanquish'd freeman spare!

Hurrah! hurrah! for liberty, for her the sword we drew, And dar'd the battle, while on high our Orange banners

flew ;

Woe worth the hour-woe worth the state, when men shall cease to join

With grateful hearts to celebrate the glories of the Boyne!

THE MOON.

A passage in KEATS.

O MAKER of sweet poets! dear delight
Of this fair world and all its gentle livers;
Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,

Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,
Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,
Lover of loneliness, and wandering,
Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!
Thee must I praise above all other glories
That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
For what has made the sage or poet write
But the fair paradise of Nature's light?
In the calm grandeur of a sober line,
We see the waving of the mountain pine;