A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

Clement C. Moore, 1779-1863.

ECHOES.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night

When roused by lute or horn, she wakes,

And far away o'er lawns and lakes

Goes answering light!

Yet Love hath echoes truer far

And far more sweet

Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star

Of horn or lute or soft guitar

The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh,-in youth sincere

And only then,

The sigh that's breathed for one to hear

Is by that one, that only Dear

Breathed back again.

Thomas Moore, 1780–1852

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.

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 words of love then spoken!

The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends so link'd together
I've seen around me fall

Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled

Whose garland's dead,
And all but he departed!

Thus in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

Thomas Moore.

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.

THE harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled,

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone that breaks at night
Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus freedom now so seldom wakes,-
The only throb she gives

Is when some heart indignant breaks
To show that still she lives.

Thomas Moore

COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.

COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here:

Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast,

And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame ?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,

I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too.
Thomas Moore.

O BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

O! BREATHE not his name, let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed,
As the night dew that falls on the grave o'er his head.

But the night dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

Thomas Moore.

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

THOSE evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime !

Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone-
That tuneful peal will still ring on;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

Thomas Moore.

MIRIAM'S SONG.

SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed-his people are free.
Sing-for the pride of the tyrant is broken,

His chariots, and horsemen, all splendid and brave, How vain was their boasting!—the Lord hath but spoken, And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed-his people are free.

Thomas Moore.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her sighing;

But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking ;-

Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him ;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest

When they promise a glorious morrow;

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow.

Thomas Moore.

OH BLAME NOT THE BARD.

OH! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers
Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame,
He was born for much more, and in happier hours
His soul might have burned with a holier flame;
The string that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,
Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;
And the lip, which now breathes but a song of desire,
Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart.

But, alas for his country -her pride has gone by,
And that spirit is broken, which never would bend;
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,

For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, still they've learned to betray; Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their

sires;

And the torch, that would light them through dignity's way,

Must be caught from the pile where their country expires.

Thomas Moore.

DISAPPOINTED HOPES.

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.