What a union of all the affections and powers, By which life is exalted, embellished, refined, Oh, who that loves Erin-or who that can see Like a pyramid, raised in the desert, where he That one lucid interval, snatched from the gloom And, for one sacred instant, touched liberty's goal! Who, that ever hath heard him-hath drank at the source An eloquence, rich-wheresoever its wave Wandered free and triumphant-with thoughts that shone through, As clear as the brook's stone of lustre,' and gave, Who, that ever approached him, when, free from the crowd, In a home full of love he delighted to tread 'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bowed As if each brought a new civic crown for his head. That home where-like him who, as fable hath told, near Every glory forgot, the most wise of the old Became all that the simplest, and youngest hold dear. Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life, But at distance observed him-through glory, through blame, In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife, Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same— Such a union of all that enriches life's hour, Of the sweetness we love, and the greatness we praise, As that type of simplicity blended with power, A child with a thunderbolt only portrays. Oh no-not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mourns, Deep, deep o'er the grave where such glory is shrined O'er a monument Fame will preserve 'mong the urns Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind! Moore. THE SAILOR. The sailor sighs as sinks his native shore, Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew, True as the needle, homeward points his heart, When morn first faintly draws her silver line, Or eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave; When sea and sky in midnight darkness join, Still, still he views the parting look she gave. Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er, Attends his little bark from pole to pole; And, when the beating billows round him roar, Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul. Carved is her name in many a spicy grove, But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail; "Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand! Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furled; Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land, And clasps the maid he singled from the world. Rogers. EVENING THOUGHTS ON DEATH. The good man dies-it grieves us : He dies but, dying, leaves us A lasting legacy. And this becomes our comforter; And sweeter is the thought Of him who is departed, Than all that death has left: No longer, broken-hearted, Deem that thou art bereft ; For O! the good man's memory Is sweeter far than aught. No sorrows now disturb him, Heaven's azure arch is o'er him, The stars are brightly glowing, The breezes play around, The flowers are sweetly blowing, The dew is on the ground, And emerald mosses cover him How beautiful is death! His life-a summer's even, |