Till a feebler cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; HOHENLINDEN. Their shots along the deep slowly ON Linden when the sun was low, boom: - All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills, with thunder riven; Then rushed the steed, to battle driven; And louder than the bolts of Heaven Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry. Few, few shall part where many meet; The snow shall be their winding-sheet: And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. THE MOTHER. Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy joy 'Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy : No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine; No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine; Bright as his maniy sire the son shall be In form and soul; but ah! more blest than he! Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last, Shall soothe this aching heart for all the past With many a smile my solitude repay, And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. Or lisps, with holy look, his evening prayer, Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear The mournful ballad warbled in his ear; How fondly looks admiring Hope the while, At every artless tear, and every smile! How glows the joyous parent to decry A guiless bosom, true to sympathy! THE RIVER OF LIFE. THE more we live, more brief appear Our life's succeeding stages: A day to childhood seems a year, And years like passing ages. The gladsome current of our youth Ere passion yet disorders, But as the careworn cheek grows wan, And life itself is vapid, It may be strange-yet who would change Time's course to slower speeding, When one by one our friends have gore And left our bosoms bleeding? Heaven gives our years of fading strength Indemnifying fleetness; And those of youth, a seeming length. Proportion'd to their sweetness FREEDOM AND LOVE. How delicious is the winning Of a kiss at love's beginning, When two mutual hearts are sighing For the knot there's no untying! [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 Bermuda, 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 of the Angels, 1823.] "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!" The glorious Angel, who was keeping 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 yet 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!" 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?" DISAPPOINTED HOPES. I KNEW, I knew it could not last - Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour, But 'twas the first to fade away. 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? Yet go on peril's brink we meet; Those frightful rocks—that treacher ous sea 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! Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. "There's a drop," said the Peri, "that down from the moon Falls through the withering airs of June |