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Till a feebler cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;

HOHENLINDEN.

Their shots along the deep slowly ON Linden when the sun was low,

boom: -

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All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neighed

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;

Then rushed the steed, to battle driven; And louder than the bolts of Heaven Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry.

Few, few shall part where many meet; The snow shall be their winding-sheet: And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

THE MOTHER.
[The Pleasures of Hope.]

Lo! at the couch where infant beauty

sleeps,

Her silent watch the mournful mother

keeps;

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 mine;

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.

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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!

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 fleetness;

And those of youth, a seeming length. Proportion'd to their sweetness

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!

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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 youth as a precocious genius. He came to London in 1799, and was received into fashionable society. In 1803 he was made Admiralty Registrar at Bermuda, 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 poetical works are: Odes of Anacreon, 1800; Little's Poems, 1801; 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.]

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"Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far As the universe spreads its flaming wall;

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

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!"

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Where was there ever a gem that shone Like the steps of Allah's wonderful throne?

And the Drops of Life-oh! what would they be

In the boundless Deep of Eternity?"

DISAPPOINTED HOPES.
[Lalla Rookh.]

I KNEW, I knew it could not last -
'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis
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? Yet go on peril's brink we meet; Those frightful rocks—that treacher

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!

THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE

[Lalla Rookh.]

BLEST tears of soul-felt penitence!
In whose benign, redeeming flow
Is felt the first, the only sense

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. "There's a drop," said the Peri, "that down from the moon

Falls through the withering airs of June

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