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Is there nought thy cares can lighten
Nought can bid thy tears be dry— »

Nought thy fading hopes can brighten,
Gentle child of misery?

Ay! there is a home in Heaven,

Where thy heart shall grieve no more—
To spirits such as thine is given

Rest upon that peaceful shore.
Weep not then, sweet child of sorrow,

O'er the hopes that erst were thine,
Calmly wait that blessed morrow

Which shall bid them brighter shine'



Long slumbered the world in the darkness of error,

And ignorance brooded o'er earth like a pall:
To the mitre and crown men abased them in terror,

Though galling the bondage, and bitter the thrall: When a voice like the earthquake's revealed the dishonour—

A flash like the lightning's unsealed every eye, And o'er hill-top and glen floated liberty's banner,

While round it men gathered to conquer or die 1

'Twas the voice of the Press—on the startled ear breaking,

In giant-born prowess, like Pallas of old: 'Twas the flash of intelligence gloriously waking

A glow on the cheek of the noble and bold; And tyranny's minions, o'erawed and affrighted,

Sought a lasting retreat in the cloister and cowl, And the chains which bound nations in ages benighted

Were cast to the haunts of the bat and the owl.

Then hail to the Press! chosen guardian of freedom!

Strong sword-arm of justice! bright sunbeam of truth! We pledge to her cause, (and she has but to need them,)

The strength of our manhood, the fire of our youth: Should despot e'er dare to impede her free soaring

Or bigot to fetter her flight with his chain, We swear that the earth shall close o'er our deploring,

Or view her in gladness and freedom again.

But no!—to the day-dawn of knowledge and glory,

A far brighter noontide-refulgence succeeds; And our art shall embalm, through all ages, in story, Her champion who triumphs—her martyr who bleeds—4 And proudly her sons shall recall their devotion, While millions shall listen to honour and bless, Till there bursts a response from the heart's strong emotion, And the earth echoes deep with "Long life to the Prest!"



'Tis strange, the mystic link that binds

Remembrance to the past,
Whose faintest murmuring sound reminds

Of hopes too bright to last.
For ever and anon there steals

A tone of music fled,
Which to the mind a glimpse reveals

Of feelings long since dead.

'Tis strange an echo has the power

To wake the past again—
Recall to view each vanished hour,

And bring back all our pain.
In vain, alas! we try to fling

Its weight from off the heart— The very thought will quickly sting,

And fresher grief impart.

Oh! what a price does memory pay

For visions of delight!
For boyhood's dreams long past away,

How rapid is their flight!


Now! now cull the dew-dripping rosebud and braid it.

While it nestles the first smile of morn in its breast; Soon the withering gaze of the day-god may fade it,

And the rose may be flung from the brow it caressed. And soon, like the rose, may some joy that entwined us,

Fade from friendship's gay circle and never return; Of the past, memory's mirror may sadly remind us,

And the spirit but gaze on its shadows to mourn.

Then round with the bowl—oh! now let us drain it,

And bask in the beam that is shed o'er its brim; Soon the pitiless lip of old Time may profane it,

And his sullying breath bid its lustre be dim. Oh! thus may my spirit, when death shall unbind it,

Glide lightly away like the light rosy wave; And as dear be the memory that lingers behind it,

As the loveliest dream that the wine-cup e'er gave.



A Gentle breeze from her high brow

Throws back her raven hair,
Oh, gladness has no longer now

Her wonted empire there!

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