The fire that on my bosom preys

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; No torch is kindled at its blaze

A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share,

But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,

Glory and Greece, around me see ! The Spartan, borne upon his shield,

Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece--she is awake !)

Awake, my spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,

And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,

Unworthy manhood !--unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of beauty be.

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live ?

The land of honourable death
Is here :-up to the field, and give

Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found

A soldier's grave, for thee the best ;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,

And take thy rest.

THOMAS MOORE.

Born 1779. Died 1852.

MY BIRTHDAY. “My birthday !"—what a different sound

That word had in my youthful ears ! And now, each time the day comes round,

Less and less white its mark appears !

When first our seanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old ;
And, as Youth counts the shining links

That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks

How hard that chain will press at last !
Vain was the man, and false as vain,

Who said—“ Were he ordained to run
His long career of life again,

He would do all that he had done."
Ah! tis not thus the voice that dwells

In sober birthdays speaks to me ;
Far otherwise-of time it tells

Lavished unwisely, carelessly-
Of counsel mocked-of talents, made

Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid

Upon unholy, earthly shrines !
Of nursing many a wrong desire ;

Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire,

That crossed my pathway, for his star.-
All this it tells, and, could I trace

The imperfect picture o'er again,
With power to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay !
How quickly all should melt away-
All, but that Freedom of the Mind

Which hath been more than wealth to me,
Those friendships in my boyhood twined,

And kept till now unchangingly ;
And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where Love's true light at last I found,
Cheering within, when all grows dark,

And comfortless, and stormy round !

DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.

DEAR Harp of my Country ! in darkness I found thee,

The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,

And gave all thy chords to light ! freedom, and song!
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness

Have wakened thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill ;
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,

That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.
Dear Harp of my Country ! farewell to thy numbers,

This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine !

* Fontenelle : “Si je recomençais ma carrière, je ferai tout ce que j'ai fait.” Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,

Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,

Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone ; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,

And all the wild sweetness ak'd was thy own.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

This world is all a fleeting show,

For man's illusion given ;
The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow,-

There's nothing true but heaven !
And false the light on Glory's plume,

As fading hues of Even ;
And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb, -

There's nothing bright but Heaven !
Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven,
And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way,

There's nothing calm but Heaven !

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.

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him ;

His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.-“ Land of song!” said the warrior bard,

• Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy right shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell !- but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under :
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder ;
And said, “No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery !
Thy songs were made for the brave and free,-

They shall never sound in slavery !"

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

THERE's not in the wide world a valley so sweet,
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ;
Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart !
Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no-it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

CHARLES LAMB.

Born 1775. Died 1834.

LINES WRITTEN IN MY OWN ALBUM.

FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white,
A young probationer of light,
Thou wert, my soul, an album bright,
A spotless leaf ; but thought, and care,
And friend and foe, in foul and fair,
Have “written strange defeatures' there ;

And Time with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamped sad dates-he can't recall.

And error, gilding worst designs-
Like speckled snake that strays and shines-
Betrays his path by crooked lines ;

And vice hath left his ugly blot ;
And good resolves, a moment hot,
Fairly begun-but finished not ;

And fruitless late remorse doth trace-
Like Hebrew lore a backward pace-
Her irrecoverable race.

Disjointed numbers ; sense unknit;
Huge reams of folly ; shreds of wit ;
Compose the mingled mass of it.
My scalded eyes no longer brook
Upon this ink-blurred thing to look-
Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.

OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days ;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies ;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women ;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her -
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ;-
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood ; Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces ;--

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me ; all are departed ;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces,