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—“ * -"Liberty!" Another no less striking, we all remember it, beginning The harp that once through Tara's halls the soul of music shed, So sleeps the pride of former days—so glory's thrill is o'er, The following lyrics possess great beauty Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,- Long, long be my heart with such memories filled! Oft in the stilly night, ere slumber's chain has bound me, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, now dimmed and gone, 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, Whose lights are fled, whose garland's dead, And all but he departed! Thus in the stilly night, ere slumber's chain has bound me, Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, And around the dear ruin each wish of Would entwine itself verdantly still. my heart It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known, As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, 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- His plumed bands could bring such hands Leave pomps to those who need 'em, And proud he braves the gaudiest slaves That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. The sword may pierce the beaver, 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 flower that blooms beneath the sea, Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie hid in more chaste obscurity. earthly feeling, Religion's softened glories shine, like light through summer foliage stealing, Shedding a glow of such mild hue, So warm, and yet so shadowy too, More beautiful than light elsewhere! Our national bard, BRYANT, like Wordsworth, is eminently a poet of nature, for he eloquently interprets to us her beautiful lessons. 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, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 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 shalt thou find a summer home and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, 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 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks Of the stern agony, and shroud and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Go forth under the open sky, and list To nature's teachings. * |