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6. The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchednèss more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. Το find it wandering like a specter, lonely and joylèss, where all around is gay—to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgětfulness of sorrow.

7. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the gairish’ scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an ex'quisite voice ; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchednèss, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears.

8. The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrév'ocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably another's.

9. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and ěx'emplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her věry soul. She wasted away in a slow but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.



Masquerade, (mås'ker åd') an · Gairish, (går'ish), gaudy; showy; evening assembly of persons wearing very fine. masks, and amusing themselves with Exemplary, (égz'em plerl), serv. dancing, conversation, etc.

ing as a pattern ; commendable.

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HE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers around her are sighing ;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying.
2. She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,

Every note which he loved awaking-
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.
3. He had lived for his love--for his country he died ;

They were all that to life had entwined him-
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

Nor long will his love stay behind him.
4. Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,

When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the west,

From her own loved island of sorrow. THOMAS MOORE. THOMAS MOORE, the poet, was born in Dublin, in 1780. He showed from boy. hood an imaginative and musical turn; and various circumstances combined in impressing him early with that deep sense of the wrongs and sufferings of Ireland to which his poetry owes so many of its most powerful touches. He was educated at Trinity College, where he took his degree in 1798, after which he went to London to keep his terms for the bar. Poetry however had taken possession of his mind; and his gay translation of Anacreon was published in 1800. In 1804, having obtained a registrarship in Bermuda, he went out to discharge the duties of the office. It proved much less lucrative than he expected; and in a few months he returned home, from which time his course of life was very uneventful. In 1811 he married Miss Dyke, an amiable, attractive, and domestic lady. He soon after established himself permanently at Sloperton, near Devizes, visiting London, however, frequently, and making other excursions. In 1835 he received from government a pension of £300 a year; and in 1850, when his health was completely broken, Mrs. Moore obtained a pension of a hundred pounds. He died in the beginning of 1852. Of his serious poems, “Irish Melodies," and “Lalla Rookh" best support his fame. Many pieces of the former are exquisite for grace of diction, for beauty, and for a refined and ideal kind of pathos. The latter evinces great skill and care of execution, with marvelous richness of fancy, and singular correctness of costume, and establishes his claim to an important place among the great painters of romantic narrative. Moore's political satires, perhaps, show his genius in a more brilliant light than any of his other works. Of his prose writings, the most noted and worthy is the gorgeous romance of “The Epicurean," which appeared in 1827.





Wipe those poor lips of hers,
NE more unfortunate,

Oozing so clammily.
Weary of breath,

Loop up

her tresses Rashly importunate,

Escaped from the combGõne to her death!

Her fair auburn tressesTake her up tenderly,

While wonderment guesses, Lift her with care !

Where was her home? Fashioned so slenderly

6. Young, and so fair!

Who was her father ? 2.

Who was her mother ? Look at her garments,

Had she a sister ? Clinging like cērements,"

Had she a brother? While the wave constantly

Or was there a dearer one Drips from her clothing; Still, and a nearer one Take her up instantly,

Yět, than all other? Loving, not loathing!

7. 3.

Alas! for the rărity Touch her not scornfully!

Of Christian chărity Think of her mournfully,

Under the sun! Gently and humanly

Oh! it was pitiful! Not of the stains of her ; Near a whole city full, All that remains of her

Home she had none. Now is pure womanly.

8. 4.

Sisterly, brotherly, Make no deep scrutiny,

Fatherly, motherly Into her mutiny,

Feelings had chāngedRash and undutiful ;

Love, by harsh evidence, Past all dishonor,

Thrown from its eminence; Death has left on her

Even God's providence Only the beautiful.

Seeming estranged. 5.

9. Still, for all slips of hers- Where the lamps quiver

One of Eve's family- So far in the river,

1 Im port' ū nate, over-pressing in Cēre' ment, cloth dipped in request or demand; troublesomely melted wax, and wrapped about dead urgent.

bodies previous to embalming.

With many a light

12. From window and casement,

Ere her limbs, frigidly,
From garret to basement,

Stiffen too rigidly,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.

Decently, kindly,

Smooth and compose them ; 10.

And her eyes, close them, The bleak wind of March

Staring so blindly! Made her tremble and shiver;

13. But not the dark arch,

Or the black, flowing river: Dreadfully staring Mad from life's history,

Through muddy impurity, Glad to death's mystery,

As when with the daring Swift to be hurled

Last look of despairing Any where—any where

Fixed on futurity. Out of the world!


Pěrishing gloomily,
In she plunged boldly- Spurred by contumely,'
No matter how coldly

Cold inhumanity,
The rough river ran-

Burning insanity,
Over the brink of it!

Into her rest!
Picture it—think of it! Cross her hands humbly,
Dissolute Man !

As if praying dumbly,
Lave in it, drink of it,

Over her breast ! Then, if you can !

Owning her weakness, Take her up tenderly,

Her evil behavior, Lift her with care!

And leaving with meekness Fashioned so slenderly,

Her sins to her Saviour! Young, and so fair.

THOMAS HOOD. Thomas Hood, humorist and poet, was born at London, in 1798. The best incident of his early boyhood was his instruction by a schoolmaster who appreciated his talents, and was so interested in teaching as to render it impossible not to interest his pupil. At this period he earned his first fee-a few guineasby revising for the press a new edition of “Paul and Virginia.” In his fifteenth year, after receiving a miscellaneous education, he was placed in the counting. house of a Russian merchant; but, soon after learned the art of engraving. In 1821, having already written fugitive papers for periodicals, he became subeditor of the “ London Magazine," a position which at once introduced him to the best literary society of the time. *Odes and Addresses" soon after appear. ed. “Whims and Oddities,” “National Tales," "Tylney Hall,” a novel, and “The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies," followed. In these, the humorous fac

Còn' tu mē lý, rudeness or reproach compounded of haughtiness and contempt; despiteful treatment.

ulty not only predominated, but expressed itself with a freshness, originality, and power, which the poetical element could not claim. There was, however, much true poetry in the verse, and much sound sense and keen observation in the prose of these works. After publishing several annuals, he started a magazine in his own name. Though aided by men of reputation and authority, this work, which he conducted with surprising energy, was mainly sustained by bis own intellectual activity. At this time, confined to a sick-bed, from which he never rose, in his anxiety to provide for his wife and children, he composed those poems, too few in number, but immortal in the English language, such as the “Song of the Shirt,” the “Song of the Laborer," and the “Bridge of Sighs." His death occurred on the 3d of May, 1845.

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IKE leaves on trees the life of man is found,

Now green in youth, now withering on the ground;
Another race the following spring supplies,
They fall successive, and successive rise :
So generations in their course decāy;
So floŭrish these, when those have passed awāy.

She died in beauty, like a rose blown from its parent stem;
She died in beauty, like a pearl dropped from some diadem ;
She died in beauty, like a lay along a moonlit lake;
She died in beauty, like the song of birds amid the brake;
She died in beauty, like the snow on flowers dissolved away ;
She died in beauty, like a star löst on the brow of day ;-
She lives in glory, like Night's gems set round the silver moon;
She lives in glory, like the sun amid the blue of June.

Is she dead?...
Why so shall I be,-ere these autumn blasts
Have blown on the beard of Winter. Is she dead?
Ay, she is dead,-quite dead! The wild Sea kissed her
With its cold white lips, and then-put her to sleep :
She has a sand pillow, and a water sheet,
And never turns her head or knows 'tis morning!

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,

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