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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—"

_“Liberty!"

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Another no less striking, we all remember it, beginning,

The harp that once through Tara's halls the soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls as if that soul had Aed.
So sleeps the pride of former days—so glory's thrill is o’er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise, now feel that pulse no

more.

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The following lyrics possess great beauty :

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,–
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy :
And they come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
To bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled !
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled ;
You may break, you may ruir, the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

Oft in the stilly night, ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond memory brings the light of other days around me;

The smiles, the tears of boyhood's years,

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've seen around me fall, like leaves in wintry weather,

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,
Sad memory brings the light of other days around me.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and feet in my arms,

Like fairy gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,

Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart

Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,

To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,

But as truly loves on to the close,
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

For ask yon despot, whether
His plumèd bands could bring such hands

And hearts as ours together.
Leave pomps to those who need 'em,
Give man but heart and freedom,

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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

stealing,
Shedding a glow of such mild hue,

and yet so shadowy too,
As makes the very darkness there
More beautiful than light elsewhere !

So warm,

sons.

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,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

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.

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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 shalt thou find a summer home and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou’rt gone,

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,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain Aight,
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
A various language ; for his gayer

hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart :
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To nature's teachings.

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