Too blest if it tells me that, mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice had murmur'd, “I wish he were here!" Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy! Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd! Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd; You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. THOMAS Moore. WHEN WE TWO PARTED. WHEN we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Of what I feel now. And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er meWhy wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well:Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell. In secret we met In silence I grieve, If I should meet thee How should I greet thee?— LORD BYRON. LAMENT OF THE IRISH I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side The place is little changed, Mary; 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near- And my step might break your rest— For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip; And the kind look on your browI bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break- I'm biddin' you a long farewell, In the land I'm goin' to; They say there's bread and work for all, And often in those grand old woods I'll sit, and shut my eyes, Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. LADY DUFFERIN THE AGE OF WISDOM. Ho, pretty page with the dimpled chin That never has known the barber's shear, All your wish is woman to win, Wait till you come to Forty Year. Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, Billing and cooing is all your cheer; Sighing and singing of midnight strains, Under Bonnybell's window-panes,— Wait till you come to Forty Year! Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, All good fellows whose beards are grey, Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere Ever a month was pass'd away? Her fond heart throbs with many a fear! The fire that on my bosom preys I cannot bear to see thee shine. For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, To roam in climes unkind and new. Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay! JOHN LEYDEN. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. BREAK, break, break, On thy cold, gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. Oh, well for the fisherman's boy That he shouts with his sister at play! Oh, well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To the haven under the hill; But oh, for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. ALFRED TENNYSON. Is lone as some volcanic isle; The hope, the fear, the jealous care, But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here- now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, The sword, the banner, and the field, Awake! (not Greece-she is awake) Tread those reviving passions down, If thou regret'st thy youth, why live? Seek out-less often sought than found- LORD BYRON. ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR. MISSOLONGHI, Jan. 22, 1824. "TIS time this heart should be unmoved, My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! OLD LETTERS. OLD LETTERS! wipe away the tear Since first his youthful loins were girded. Yes, here are wails from Clapham Grove, Explain why childhood's path is sown With moral and scholastic tin-tacks; |