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And what pictures of pebbled and min

nowy brooks In the vetches that tangled their

shore.

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye

were dear, Ere the fever of passion or ague of

fear Had scathed my existence's bloom; Once I welcome you more, in life's pas.

sionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my

age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow!
The meteor flag of England

Shall yet territic burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return;
Then, then, ye ocean warriors,

Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow, When the fiery tight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow.

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

Ye mariners of England,

That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand

years The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again

To match another fue; And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow!

OF Nelson and the North
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly

shone:
By each gun the lighted brand
In a bold, determined hand;
And the prince of all the land
Led them on.
Like leviathans afloat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine,
While the sign of battle flew
O'er the lofty British line:
It was ten of April morn by the chime,
As they dristed on their path;
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a tiine.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave; For the deck it was their field of fame

And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,

Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow!

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain wave,

Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak

She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore,

But the might of England flushed,
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rushed
O'er the deadly space between.
“Hearts of oak!” our captains cried;

when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
Again ! again ! again!
And the havoc did not slack,

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
O'er a wide and woeful sight,

Of Iser rolling rapidly.
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.

'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,

Few, few shall part where many meet; Elsinore.

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
grave;

[The Pleasures of Hope.] 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;

She, while the lovely babe unconscious Or lisps, with holy look, his evening lies,

prayer, Smiles on her slumbering child with Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear pensive eyes,

The mournful ballad warbled in his ear; And weaves a song of melancholy joy - How fondly looks admiring Hope the Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my

while, boy:

At every artless tear, and every smile! No lingering hour of sorrow shall be How glows the joyous parent to decry thine;

A guiless bosom, true to sympathy! No sigh that rends thy father's heart

and mine; Bright as his maniy sire the son shall be

THE RIVER OF LIFE. In form and soul; but ah! more blest

The more we live, more brief appear than he !

Our life's succeeding stages: Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last,

A day to childhood seems a year, Shall soothe this aching heart for all the

And years like passing ages. past

The gladsome current of our youth With many a smile my solitude repay, Ere passion yet disorders, And chase the world's ungenerous scorn Steals lingering like a river smooth away.

Along its grassy borders. “ And say, when summoned from the

But as the careworn cheek grows wan,

And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, world and thee, I lay my head beneath the willow-tree,

Ye Stars, that measure life to man, Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone

Why seem your courses quicker? appear,

When joys have lost their bloom and And soothe my parted spirit lingering breath near?

And life itself is vapid, Oh, wilt thou come, at evening hour, to

Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, shed

Feel we its de more rapid? The tears of memory o'er my narrow bed;

It may be strange -- yet who would With aching temples on thy hand re- change clined,

Time's course to slower speeding, Muse on the last farewell I leave behind, When one by one our friends have gone Breathe a deep sigh to winds that mur- And left our bosoms bleeding?

mur low, And think on all my love, and all my Heaven gives our years of fading strength woe?”

Indemnifying fieetness;

And those of youth, a seeming length, So speaks affection, ere the infant eye

Proportion'd to their sweetness.
Can look regard, or brighten in reply.
But when the cherub lip hath learnt to
claim

FREEDOM AND LOVE.
A mother's ear by that endearing name;
Soon as the playful innocent can prove How delicious is the winning
A tear of pity, or a smile of love, Of a kiss at love's beginning,
Or cons his murmuring task beneath her When two mutual hearts are sighing
care,

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 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 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 the Angels, 1823.)

and sea,

for me,

PARADISE AND THE PERI. Though mine are the gardens of earth

[Lalla Rookk.] ONE morn a Peri at the gate

And the stars themselves have flowers 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 CashThrough the half-open portal glow.

mere, ing,

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 floods, 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 flaming

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 wonderful

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 pet 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 '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?

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

Yet go

ous sea

Rapidly asocomets 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 flies,

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.

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 knos, “There's a drop," said the Peri," that

down from the moon Falls through the withering airs of June

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