1279.-WREATHE THE BOWL. Wreathe the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest Wit can find us; Towards heav'n to-night, And leave dull earth behind us! The wreaths be hid That Joy, the enchanter, brings us, While wine is near- Towards heav'n to-night, And leave dull earth behind us! 'Twas nectar fed Of old, it's said, Their Junos, Joves, Apollos; His nectar too; The rich receipt's as follows:- Around it well be blended; Then bring Wit's beam And there's your nectar, splendid! Towards heav'n to-night, Say, why did Time Fill up with sands unsightly, Runs brisker through, And sparkles far more brightly? And, smiling thus, The glass in two we'd sever, In double tide, And fill both ends for ever! The brightest Wit can find us; Towards heav'n to-night, And leave dull earth behind us! Thomas Moore.-Born 1780 Died 1852. 1280.-FILL THE BUMPER FAIR. Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle Smooths away a wrinkle. Wit's electric flame Ne'er so swiftly passes Every drop we sprinkle Sages can, they say, Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray From the starred dominions :So we, sages, sit, And 'mid bumpers bright'ning, From the heaven of wit Draw down all its lightning. Would'st thou know what first For wine's celestial spirit? The living fires that warm us: The careless Youth, when up To hide the pilfer'd fire in.- The halls of heaven spying Among the stars, he found A bowl of Bacchus lying! Some drops were in that bowl, Remains of last night's pleasure, With which the sparks of soul Mix'd their burning treasure. Hence the goblet's shower Hath such spells to win us; Hence its mighty power O'er that flame within us. Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852. 1281.-AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS. And doth not a meeting like this make amends For all the long years I've been wand'ring away To see thus around me my youth's early friends, As smiling and kind as in that happy day? Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine, The snow-fall of Time may be stealing-what then ? L. Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine, We'll wear the gay tinge of Youth's roses again. What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart, In gazing on those we've been lost to so long! The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part, Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng; As letters some hand hath invisibly traced, When held to the flame will steal out on the sight, So many a feeling, that long seem'd effaced, The warmth of a moment like this brings to light And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide, To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide, The wreck of full many a hope shining Like her delusive beam, "Twill steal away the mind, But like affection's dream, It leaves no sting behind. Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade- Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852. 1283.-GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE! Go where glory waits thee; O then remember me! Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, When, at eve, thou rovest O then remember me! Once so loved by thee, When, around thee dying, Draw one tear from thee- O then remember me! Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852. 1284.-FLY TO THE DESERT. Fly to the desert, fly with me- Our rocks are rough; but smiling there Our sands are bare; but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope As gracefully and gaily springs As o'er the marble courts of kings. Then come-thy Arab maid will be O! there are looks and tones that dart As if the very lips and eyes So came thy every glance and tone, Then fly with me,-if thou hast known Come, if the love thou hast for me, Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, No more to chiefs and ladies bright Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, Is when some heart indignant breaks Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852. 1286.-SONG. As by the shore, at break of day, Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852. 1287.-0! 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.-Born 1780, Died 1852. 1285. THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. The harp that once through Tara's halls 1288. 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; For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of glory, And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has triumph'd, his people are free. Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852. 1289.-ARRANMORE. O! Arranmore, loved Arranmore, And of those days when by thy shore Full many a path I've tried since then, How blithe upon the breezy cliffs Or when the western wave grew bright Have sought that Eden in its light That Eden where th' immortal brave Whose bowers beyond the shining wave, Ah, dream, too full of saddening truth! Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852. 1290.-MIRIAM'S SONG. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has triumph'd-his people are free. Sing for the pride of the tyrant is broken, His chariots, his 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 triumph'd-his people are free. Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord, His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword! Who shall return to tell Egypt the story Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? 1291.-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- Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852. 1292.-THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS. Oft in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Of boyhood's years, 'The words of love then spoken; Now dimm'd and gone, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, When I remember all The friends so link'd together Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852. ! 1293.-THE JOURNEY ONWARDS. As slow our ship her foamy track When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years And when in other climes we meet Some isle or vale enchanting, Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, And nought but love is wanting; We think how great had been our bliss If Heaven had but assign'd us To live and die in scenes like this, With some we've left behind us! As travellers oft look back at eve Still faint behind them glowing,- Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died 1852. Come now, fling up the cinders, fetch the coals, And take away the things you hung to air; Set out the tea-things, and bid Phoebe bring The kettle up. Arms and the Monks I sing. J. H. Frere.-Born 1769, Died 1846. 1295.-THE GIANTS AND THE ABBEY. O'er woods and waters her mysterious hue, new, Till their brute souls with inward working bred Dark hints that in the depths of instinct grew Subjective-not from Locke's associations, Each was ashamed to mention to the others It seems as if one heard Heaven's thunders melt J. H. Frere.-Born 1769, Died 1846. 1294.-MR. MURRAY'S PROPOSAL. I've a proposal here from Mr. Murray. He offers handsomely-the money down; My dear, you might recover from your flurry, In a nice airy lodging out of town, At Croydon, Epsom, anywhere in Surrey; If every stanza brings us in a crown, I think that I might venture to bespeak A bedroom and front parlour for next week. Tell me, my dear Thalia, what you think; Your nerves have undergone a sudden shock; Your poor dear spirits have begun to sink; On Banstead Downs you'd muster a new stock, And I'd be sure to keep away from drink, And always go to bed by twelve o'clock. We'll travel down there in the morning stages; Our verses shall go down to distant ages. And here in town we'll breakfast on hot rolls, And you shall have a better shawl to wear; These pantaloons of mine are chafed in holes ; By Monday next I'll compass a new pair 1296.-WAR SONG ON THE VICTORY OF BRUNNENBURG. The gates were then thrown open, and forth at once they rush'd, The outposts of the Moorish hosts back to the camp were push'd; The camp was all in tumult, and there was such a thunder Of cymbals and of drums, as if earth would cleave in sunder. There you might see the Moors arming themselves in haste, And the two main battles how they were forming fast; Horsemen and footmen mixt, a countless troop and vast. The Moors are moving forward, the battle soon must join, "My men stand here in order, ranged upon a line! Let not a man move from his rank before I give the sign." |