From JACQUELINE. Oh! she was good as she was fair, As pure in thought as angels are— Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted, He shut the volume with a frown, The good are better made by ill, Sleep on, and dream of heaven awhile. Though shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still wear a smile, And move, and breathe delicious sighs! Ah! now soft blushes tinge her cheeks, Go-you may call it madness, folly, Oh! if you knew the pensive pleasure AN ITALIAN SONG. Dear is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager. The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers With my loved lute's romantic sound; The shepherd's horn at break of day, Sung in the silent greenwood shade: From ITALY.-Bergamo. Receiving my small tribute, a zecchine, Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees. ON A TEAR. Oh that the chemist's magic art The little brilliant, ere it fell, Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye; Then, trembling, left its coral cellThe spring of Sensibility! . . . Benign restorer of the soul ! Who ever fly'st to bring relief, The sage's and the poet's theme, That very law1 which moulds a tear, NOTE. Correction from the mathematicians. 1 Those very laws which mould a tear, And guide the planets in their course. A REFLECTION. This Child, so lovely and so cherub-like, . In any of its shapes, Must passion come, To cloud and sully what is now so pure? Yes, come it must. Nor in the watches of the night recalled Words he has wished unsaid and deeds undone? For what was Innocence will then be Virtue. From COLUMBUS. Canto VI. War and the Great in War let others sing, Who watched and served in humbleness and fear ; FROM THE PERSIAN. Built on Sir W. Jones's version. Thee, on thy mother's knees, a new-born child, THOMAS MOORE. [1779-1852 MIRIAM'S SONG. Exod. xv. 20. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave— How vain was their boasting! The Lord hath but spoken, And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord! Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? For the Lord hath looked out from his pillar of glory, And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. Oft in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me ; The smiles, the tears of boyhood's years, The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! |