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One of Moore's fine heroic songs commences :
As by the shore, at break of day, a vanquished chief expiring lay, Upon the sands, with broken sword, he traced his farewell to the free; And there, the last unfinished word he, dying, wrote, was—"
Another no less striking, we all remember it, beginning,
The harp that once through Tara's halls the soul of music shed,
The following lyrics possess great beauty :
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,–
Oft in the stilly night, ere slumber's chain has bound me,
The smiles, the tears of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken ;
The cheerful hearts now broken!
When I remember all the friends, so linked together,
I feel like one who treads alone
Some banquet hall deserted,
And all but he departed !
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Like fairy gifts fading away,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
Would entwine itself verdantly still.
It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
To which time will but make thee more dear;
But as truly loves on to the close,
The same look which she turned when he rose.
We should honour any poet who gives utterance to so brave a sentiment as the following :
Yes, 'tis not helm nor feather
For ask yon despot, whether
And hearts as ours together.
The following lines illustrate Moore's exquisite taste and skill :Oh, what a pure and sacred thing is Beauty curtained from the sight Of the gross world, illumining one only mansion with her light! Unseen by man's disturbing eye, the Aower that blooms beneath the
sea, Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie hid in more chaste obscurity. A soul, too, more than half divine, where, through some shades of
earthly feeling, Religion's softened glories shine, like light through summer foliage
and yet so shadowy too,
Our national bard, Bryant, like Wordsworth, is eminently a poet of nature, for he eloquently interprets to us her beautiful les
Calm and meditative are his varied productions; and while they are characterized by classic elegance and grace, they also breathe a spirit of pure and exalted philosophy. The Lines to a Waterfowl, one of his earlier poems, and one of his most justly admired, is now before us :
Whither, midst falling dew,
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant fight to do thee wrong, As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — The desert and illimitable air,
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my
heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Will lead my steps aright.
That noble poem, Thanatopsis, so full of Miltonic grandeur and harmony, was composed by Mr. Bryant, in his eighteenth year. Listen to its majestic lines :
To him who, in the love of Nature, holds