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THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. 1797-1839.

I'd be a butterfly born in a bower,

Where roses and lilies and violets meet.

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Why don't the men propose, Mamma?
Why don't the men propose?

Why don't the Men propose?

She wore a wreath of roses
The night that first we met.

Friends depart, and memory takes
To her caverns, pure and deep.

She wore a Wreath.

them

Teach me to forget.

Tell me the tales that to me were so dear,
Long, long ago, long, long ago.

The rose that all are praising
Is not the rose for me.

Long, long ago.

The Rose that all are praising.

Oh pilot, 't is a fearful night!
There's danger on the deep.

Fear not, but trust in Providence,
Wherever thou may'st be.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder:1
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!

The Pilot.

Ibid.

Isle of Beauty.

1 I find that absence still increases love. -CHARLES HOPKINS: To C. C. Distance sometimes endears friendship, and absence sweeteneth it. HOWELL: Familiar Letters, book i. sect. i. No. 6.

CLARKE.

The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,
The holly-branch shone on the old oak wall.

The Mistletoe Bough.

Oh, I have roamed o'er many lands,

And many friends I've met;

Not one fair scene or kindly smile

Can this fond heart forget.

Oh, steer my Bark to Erin's Isle.

THOMAS DRUMMOND.1 1797-1840.

Property has its duties as well as its rights.2

Letter to the Landlords of Tipperary.

MCDONALD CLARKE. 1798-1842.

Whilst twilight's curtain spreading far,
Was pinned with a single star.

Death in Disguise. Line 227. (Boston edition, 1833.)

SAMUEL LOVER. 1797-1868.

A baby was sleeping,

Its mother was weeping.

The Angel's Whisper.

Reproof on her lips, but a smile in her eye.1

For drames always go by conthraries, my dear."

Rory O' More.

1 Captain Drummond was the inventor of the Drummond light. 2 DISRAELI: Sybil, book i. chap. xi.

8 Mrs. Child says: "He thus describes the closing day

Now twilight lets her curtain down,

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Ibid.

And pins it with a star.

4 See Scott, page 482.

5 See Middleton, page 172.

1

"Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure,
For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.
Rory O'More.
There was a place in childhood that I remember well,
And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales did
My Mother dear.

tell.

Sure the shovel and tongs

To each other belongs.

Widow Machree.

THOMAS HOOD. 1798-1845.

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea,
Or in the wide desert where no life is found.

Sonnet. Silence.

We watch'd her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

Our very hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes belied;

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

I remember, I remember

The fir-trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,

But now 't is little joy

To know I'm farther off from heaven

Than when I was a boy.

1 See Shakespeare, page 46.

The Death-Bed.

Ibid.

I remember, I remember.

She stood breast-high amid the corn
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.

When he is forsaken,
Wither'd and shaken,

Ruth.

Ibid.

What can an old man do but die?

Spring it is cheery.

Ode to Melancholy.

And there is even a happiness
That makes the heart afraid.

There's not a string attuned to mirth
But has its chord in melancholy.1

But evil is wrought by want of thought,
As well as want of heart.

Oh would I were dead now,

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Ibid.

The Lady's Dream.

And have a good cry!

A Table of Errata.

Straight down the crooked lane,

And all round the square. A Plain Direction.

For my part, getting up seems not so easy

By half as lying.

Morning Meditations.

A man that's fond precociously of stirring

Must be a spoon.

Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap
In imperceptible water.

O bed! O bed! delicious bed!

Ibid.

Miss Kilmansegg. Her Christening.

That heaven upon earth to the weary head! Her Dream.

He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way,
Tormenting himself with his prickles.

1 See Burton, page 185.

Ibid.

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold !

Bright and yellow, hard and cold.

Spurn'd by the young, but hugg'd by the old
To the very verge of the churchyard mould.
How widely its agencies vary, -

To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless,
As even its minted coins express,

Her Moral.

Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess,
And now of a Bloody Mary.

Another tumble! That's his precious nose!

Ibid.

Ibid.

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O God! that bread should be so dear,

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