Two sisters by the goal are set, Transform'd, when won, to drossy mold; CORONACH. [From the Lady of the Lake.] He is gone on the mountain, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The font, reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow; But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory; The autumn winds rushing, Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain, TIME. [From the Antiquary.] Why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall, Dost thou its former pride recall, Or ponder how it passed away? "Knowst thou not me?" the deep voice cried, Desired, neglected, and accused? Before my breath, like blazing flax, Redeem mine hours-the space is brief While in my glass the sand-grains shiver, When Time and thou shalt part for ever!" MOORE. THOMAS MOORE, a man of humble origin, was born in Dublin, A.D. 1770. During his college course he took a vehement interest in Irish political matters, and is said to have been exposed to danger in 1798. Soon afterwards he visited England, in which country he passed the greater part of his mature life. His musical, as well as his literary and social talents, made him a general favourite; while his political opinions, and the skill with which he advocated them in squib and epigram, recommended him to the leaders of the Whig party. A large proportion of his verses are thus but verses of the day, the subject admitting of no more; and some of his earlier poems are open to a heavier charge, that of immorality. Far the best of his poems, the most real at once and the most imaginative, are those which were written most under the influence of genuine feeling, and which had the advantage of being adapted to the ancient music of his native land-viz. The Irish Melodies. There is in the poetry of Moore a remarkable brilliancy of fancy and wealth of wit, as well as much sweetness both of sentiment and versification; but to imagination and passion, pathos and power, moral elevation and fidelity to nature, it makes little pretension; nor has it always the merit of sound diction and consistency. In religion Moore was a Catholic. Except Lord Byron, he was probably the most popular poet of his day; as may be inferred from the circumstance that his publisher gave him 3000l. for his Lalla Rookh. During his later life Moore resided at Sloperton Cottage, Wilts, where he died A.D. 1852. HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR. How dear to me the hour when twilight dies, For then sweet dreams of other days arise, And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee. And, as I watch the line of light that plays Along the smooth wave toward the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays, And think 't would lead to some bright isle of rest. HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED. How oft has the Benshee cried! We're fall'n upon gloomy days; Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth Quench'd are our beacon lights— Tell how they liv'd and died. LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD. Let Erin remember the days of old, Ere her faithless sons betray'd her; When Malachi wore the collar of gold, Which he won from her proud invader; Ere the emerald gem of the western world On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays, He sees the round towers of other days Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime, THE SONG OF FIONNUALA. Silent, O Moyle, be the roar of thy water, When shall the swan, her death-note singing, When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Sadly, O Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping, When will that day-star, mildly springing, AFTER THE BATTLE. Night clos'd around the conqueror's way, The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal, O, who shall say what heroes feel, When all but life and honour's lost? The last sad hour of freedom's dream And valour's task mov'd slowly by ; While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam There's yet a world where souls are free, If death that world's bright opening be, SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps, She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died, O, make her a grave where the sunbeams rest They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the west, LORD BYRON. GEORGE GORDON, Lord Byron, the descendant of one of those Norman families which attended the Conqueror to England, was born in London A.D. 1787. In 1798 he succeeded to the ancestral title, on the death of his grand-uncle. Till his eleventh year he was brought up chiefly in Scotland; he went afterwards to Harrow, and in 1805 entered Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1807 he published his Hours of Idleness. It possessed little merit; but the ungenerous ridicule with which the book was assailed exercised a salutary influence on the future fame of the poet, by stimulating him to new and stronger exertions. In 1809 he set out on his travels, and visited Spain, Portugal, and Turkey. It was at this period also that he wrote the first two cantos of Childe Harold. On their publication he suddenly, as he expressed it, “woke and found himself famous." His popularity was increased by each new work-his social position, his genius, and much in his personal character, combining to make him the idol of the many; but, while his literary ambition was stimulated by a success almost unprecedented, the vanity and egotism which vitiated his genius were fostered proportionately. In 1815 he married; and the next year his wife separated from him. The cause of their quarrel has never |