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(xxx.) Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, Where my dear father took thee to his heart, And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove With thee, as with an angel, through the grove Of peace, imagining her lot was cast In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love. And must this parting be our very last ? No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.

(xxxi.) “ Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, If I had lived to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge;—but shall there then be none, In future times—no gentle little one To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me? Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run, A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!”

(xxxii.) Hushed were his Gertrude's lips ! but still their bland And beautiful expression seem'd to melt With love that could not die! and still his hand She presses to the heart no more that felt. Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt, And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,Of them that stood encircling his despair He heard some friendly words ; but knew not what

they were.

(XXXIII.) For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives A faithful band. With solemn rites between 'Twas sung how they were lovely in their lives, And in their deaths had not divided been. Touch'd by the music, and the melting scene, Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd :Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen To veil their eyes, as pass'd each much-loved shroud, While women's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud.

(xxxiv.) Then mournfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth; Prone to the dust afflicted Waldegrave hid His face on earth ;-him watch’d, in gloomy ruth, His woodland guide; but words had none to soothe The grief that knew not consolation's name; Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth, He watch’d, beneath its folds, each burst that came Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame !

(xxxv.) "And I could weep;”--th' Oneyda chief His descant wildly thus begun : “ But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son, Or bow this head in woe! For, by my wrongs, and by my wrath, To-morrow Areouski's breath, (That fires yon heaven with storms of death,) Shall light us to the foe : And we shall share, my Christian boy, The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

(xxxvi.) “But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep: Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, To see thee, on the battle's eve, Lamenting, take a mournful leave Of her who loved thee most: She was the rainbow to thy sight! Thy sun- - thy heaven--of lost delight.

(xxxvII.)
" To-morrow let us do or die!
But when the bolt of death is hurld,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world ?
Seek we thy once-loved home?
The hand is gone that cropt its flowers;
Unheard their clock repeats its hours;
Cold is the hearth within their bowers !
And should we thither roam,
Its echoes and its empty tread
Would sound like voices from the dead !

(XXXVIII.)

Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
Whose streams my kindred nations quaff'd,
And by my side, in battle true,
A thousand warriors drew the shaft ?

Ah! there, in desolation cold,
The desert serpent dwells alone,
Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone,
And stones themselves to ruin grown,
Like me are death-like old.
Then seek we not their camp,—for there
The silence dwells of my despair !

(xxxix.)

But hark, the trump! to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears
Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry the last—the first-
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;
Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief !”

Thomas Moore.

1779-1852. “SURELY you must have been born with a rose in your lips, and a nightingale singing on the top of your bed,” said Samuel Rogers to Moore; and there is much significance in the conceit. Moore's poems are full of colour, while their melody is almost faultless. His verse is sensuous and sweet. It seldom reaches passion or heroic aspiration. There is no profound depth of thought, no far insight of human nature or character. But it is full of airy fancies which are wrought into musical numbers characterised by exquisite finish which at its best shows no signs of elaboration. The flow and modulation of his lines give them an immediate affinity to music, and it seems but in the natural order of things that they should have been sung in a tender, sympathetic voice by the poet himself. Moore's songs still live in popular appreciation, now that “ Lalla Rookh ” is seldom read, and its splendours—astonishing as they are -have to a great extent ceased to hold the fancy of a younger generation. Even his Irish patriotic songs are remembered with something of the thrill which they caused when they were sung in fashionable drawing-rooms more than half a century ago.

Though Moore had less depth and less force of genius than some, he had as much learning as most of his contemporaries, and a warmer and more

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