FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS.

Hark, 'tis the sound that charms
The war-steed's wak'ning ears! -
Oh! many a mother folds her arms

Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears;
And, though her fond heart sink with fears,

Is proud to feel his young pulse bound

With valour's fever at the sound.

See, from his native hills afar
The rude Helvetian flies to war;
Careless for what, for whom he fights
For slave or despot, wrongs or rights ;
A conqueror oft- -a hero never-
Yet lavish of his life-blood still,
As if 'twere like his mountain rill,
And gush'd for ever!

Yes, Music, here, even here,

Amid this thoughtless, vague career,

Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous pow'r -
There's a wild air which oft, among the rocks
Of his own loved land, at ev'ning hour,

Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks,

Whose every note hath power to thrill his mind

With tend'rest thoughts; to bring around his knees rosy children whom he left behind,

The

And fill each little angel eye

With speaking tears, that ask him why

He wander'd from his hut for scenes like these.

Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar ; Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears; And the stern eyes, that look'd for blood before, Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.

But, wake the trumpet's blast again,

And rouse the ranks of warrior-men!

Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs, And Freedom's spirit guides the labouring storm, 'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallow'd form, And, like Heaven's light'ning, sacredly destroys. Nor, Music, through thy breathing sphere, Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear Of Him who made all harmony,

Than the bless'd sound of fetters breaking, And the first hymn that man, awaking From Slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty.

SPANISH CHORUS.

Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Bursts the bold, enthusiast strain,

Like morning's music on the air;
And seems, in every note, to swear
By Saragossa's ruin'd streets,

By brave Gerona's deathful story,

That, while one Spaniard's life-blood beats, That blood shall stain the conqu'ror's glory.

SPANISH AIR. - YA DESPERTO."

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal,

If neither valour's force nor wisdom's light

Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal, Which shuts so close the book of Europe's right — What song shall then in sadness tell

Of broken pride, of prospects shaded, Of buried hopes, remember'd well,

Of ardour quench'd, and honour faded? What muse shall mourn the breathless brave,

In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine ? What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave? Oh Erin, Thine!

"The day is thine, the night also is thine: thou hast prepared the

light and the sun.

"Thou has set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and winter." - Psalm lxxiv. 16, 17.

THOU art, O GOD, the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine!

When Day, with farewell beam, delays

Among the op'ning clouds of Even,
And we can almost think we gaze

Through golden vistas into Heaven
Those hues that make the Sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, LORD! are Thine.

'I have heard that this air is by the late Mrs. Sheridan. It is sung to the beautiful old words, "I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair."

R