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Till a feebler cheer the Dane

HOHENLINDEN.
To our cheering sent us back;
Their shots along the deep slowly On Linden when the sun was low,
boom :

All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; Then ceased, and all is wail,

And dark as winter was the flow
As they strike the shattered sail;

Of Iser rolling rapidly.
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.

But Linden saw another sight

When the drum beat at dead of night, Out spoke the victor then,

Commanding fires of death to light As he hailed them o'er the wave:

The darkness of her scenery. “Ye are brothers! we are men! And we conquer but to save:

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, So peace instead of death let us bring; Each horseman drew his battle blade, But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,

And furious every charger neighed
With the crews, at England's feet,

To join the dreadful revelry.
And make submission meet
To our king."

Then shook the hills, with thunder

riven;

Then rushed the steed, to battle driven; Then Denmark blessed our chief,

And louder than the bolts of Heaven That he gave her wounds repose;

Far flashed the red artillery.
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,

But redder yet that light shall glow As death withdrew his shades from the

On Linden's hills of stained snow, day; While the sun looked smiling bright

And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.
O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,

Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Now joy, Old England raise,

Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze,

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;

Who rush to glory or the grave! And yet amidst that joy and uproar

Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, Let us think of them that sleep,

And charge with all thy chivalry.
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore.

Few, few shall part where many meet;
The snow shall be their winding-sheet:

And every turf beneath their feet
Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou:

THE MOTHER.
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their

[The Pleasures of Hope. ] grave; While the billow mournful rolls,

Lo! at the couch where infant beauty And the mermaid's song condoles,

sleeps, Singing glory to the souls

Her silent watch the mournful mother of the brave.

keeps;

Died away.

Or lisps, with holy look, his evening

prayer, Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear The mournful ballad warbled in his ear; How fondly looks admiring Hope the

while, At every artless tear, and every smile! How glows the joyous parent to decry A guiless bosom, true to sympathy!

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She, while the lovely babe unconscious

lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with

pensive eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy joy Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my

boy: No lingering hour of sorrow shall be

thine; No sigh that rends thy father's heart

and mire; Bright as his maniy sire the son shall

be In form and soul; but ah! more blest

than he ! Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at

last, Shall soothe this aching heart for all the

past With many a smile my solitude repay, And chase the world's ungenerous scorn

away.

“ And say, when summoned from the

world and thee, I lay my head beneath the willow-tree, Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone

appear, And soothe my parted spirit lingering

near? Oh, wilt thou come, at evening hour, to

shed The tears of memory o'er my narrow

bed; With aching temples on thy hand re

clined, Muse on the last farewell I leave behind, Breathe a deep sigh to winds that mur

mur low, And think on all my love, and all my

woe?”

THE RIVER OF LIFE.
The more we live, more brief appear

Our life's succeeding stages :
A day to childhood seems a year,

And years like passing ages.
The gladsome current of our youth

Ere passion yet disorders,
Steals lingering like a river smooth

Along its grassy borders.
But as the careworn cheek grows wan,

And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, Ye Stars, that measure life to man,

Why seem your courses quicker? When joys have lost their bloom and

breath And life itself is vapid, Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,

Feel we its tide more rapid? It may be strange - yet who would

change Time's course to slower speeding, When one by one our friends have gore

And left our bosoms bleeding?

Heaven gives our years of fading strength

Indemnifying fieetness; And those of youth, a seeming length.

Proportion'd to their sweetness.

So speaks affection, ere the infant eye Can look regard, or brighten in reply. But when the cherub lip hath learnt to

claim A mother's ear by that endearing name; Soon as the playful innocent can prove A tear of pity, or a smile of love, Or cons his murmuring task beneath her

FREEDOM AND LOVE, How delicious is the winning Of a kiss at love's beginning, When two mutual hearts are sighing For the knot there's no untying!

care,

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(THOMAS Moore was born at No. 12, Aungier Street, Dublin, on May 28, 1779. He began to print verses at the age of thirteen, and became popular in early you:h as a precocious genius. He came to London in 1799, and was received into fashionable society. In 1803 he was made Admiralty Registrar at Berniuda, a post he soon resigned to a deputy, and returned to England after travelling in Canada and the United States. In 1819 he was involved in financial ruin by the embezzlements of his Bermuda agent, and left England in company with Lord John Russell. He Came back to England in 1822. After a very quiet life, the end of which was saddened by the deaths of his five children, he died at Sloperton on Feb. 25, 1852. His chief poctical works are : Odes of Anacreon, 1800; Little's Poems, 1800; Odes and Epistles, 1806; Irish Melodies, 1807 to 1834: Lalla Rockh, 1817; The Fudge Family in Paris, 1818; Rhymes on the Road, 1819; The Loves of the Angels, 1823.)

and sea,

for me,

PARADISE AND THE PERI. Though mine are the gardens of earth (Lalla Rookh.]

And the stars themselves have flowers ONE morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood, disconsolate;

One blossom of heaven outblooms And as she listened to the Springs

them all! Of Life within, like music flowing, And caught the light upon her wings Though sunny the Lake of cool Cash

mere, Through the half-open portal glowing,

With its plane-tree isle reflected clear. She wept to think her recreant race

And sweetly the founts of that valley Should e'er have lost that glorious Though bright are the waters of Sing-su

fall: place!

hay, “ How happy!” exclaimed this child of | And the golden foods, that thitherward air,

stray, “ Are the holy spirits who wander there, | Yet - oh, 'tis only the blest can say 'Mid flowers that never shall fade or How the waters of heaven outsnine fall;

them all!

“Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far As the universe spreads its faming

wall; Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years, One minute of heaven is worth them

all!”

Where was there ever a gem that shone Like the steps of Allah's wonderfu.

throne? And the Drops of Life - oh! what

would they be In the boundless Deep of Eternity?

The glorious Angel, who was keeping
The gates of Light, beheld her weeping;
And, as he nearer drew and listened
To her sad song, a tear-drop glistened
Within his eyelids, like the spray

From Eden's fountain, when it lies On the blue flower, which — Bramins

say Blooms nowhere but in paradise ! “Nymph of a fair, but erring line!' Gently he said

one hope is thine. 'Tis written in the Book of Fate,

The Peri yet may be forgiven Who brings to this Eternal Gate

The Gift that is most dear to Heaven ! Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin; 'Tis sweet to let the Pardoned in!

DISAPPOINTED HOPES.

(Lalla Rookh.) I KNEW, I knew it could not last 'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but is

past! Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour,

I've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never loved a tree or flower,

But 'twas the first to fade away. I never nursed a dear gazelle,

To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well,

And love me, it was sure to die!
Now too — the joy most like divine

Of all I ever dreamt or knew,
To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,
Oh, misery! must I lose that too?

- on peril's brink we meet; Those frightful rocks-that treacher.

Yet go

ous sea

No, never come again - though sweet, Though heaven, it may be death to

thee. Farewell — and blessings on thy way,

Where'er thou go’st, beloved stranger! Better to sit and watch that ray, And think thee safe, though far away, Than have thee near me, and in

danger!

Rapidly as comets run
To th' embraces of the sun:
Fleeter than the starry brands,
Flung at night from angel hands
At those dark and daring sprites,
Who would climb th' empyreal heights,
Down the blue vault the Peri Hies,

And, lighted earthward by a glance That just then broke from morning's

eyes, Hung hovering o'er our world's ex

panse. But whither shall the Spirit go To find this gift for Heaven? “I know The wealth," she cries “of every urn, In which unnumbered rubies burn, Beneath the pillars of Chilminar; I know where the Isles of Perfume are Many a fathom down in the sea, To the south of sun-bright Araby; : I know too where the Genii hid The jewelled cup of their king Jamshid, With life's elixir sparkling highBut gifts like these are not for the sky.

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