Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing,
To grace your revel, when I'm at rest:
Never, O! never its balm bestowing

On lips that beauty hath seldom blest;
But when some warm devoted lover

To her he adores shall bathe its brim,
Then, then my spirit around shall hover,
And hallow each drop that foams for him.

359

Thomas Moore.

THE IRISH

PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS

THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my

way,

Till hope seemed to bud from each thorn that round me lay;
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd,
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd;
Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,

And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd;
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd;
She woo'd me to temples, whilst thou lay'st hid in caves;
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be
Than wed what I lov'd not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail-
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale!
They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains,
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains:
O! foul is the slander-no chain could that soul subdue-
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!

Thomas Moore.

360

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND

SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers are round her, sighing:

But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov'd awaking;—
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.

He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwin'd him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

O! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow:

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West
From her own lov'd island of sorrow.

Thomas Moore.

361

AND DOTH NOT A MEETING

LIKE THIS

AND doth not a meeting like this make amends
For all the long years I've been wand'ring away--
To see thus around me my youth's early friends

As smiling and kind as in that happy day?
Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,
The snow-fall of time may be stealing-what then?
Like alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine

We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.

What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart,
In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,
Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng.
As letters some hand hath invisibly trac'd,

When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,
So many a feeling, that long seem'd effac'd,

The warmth of a moment like this brings to light.

And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide,
To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew,
Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide,
The wreck of full many a hope shining through;
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers,

That once made a garden of all the gay shore,
Deceiv'd for a moment, we'll think them still ours,

And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more.

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,
Is all we can have of the few we hold dear,
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,

For want of some heart, that could echo it, near.
Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone,
To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,
For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast’ning on,
Is all we enjoy of each other in this!

But, come-the more rare such delights to the heart,

The more we should welcome, and bless them the more!
They're ours when we meet-they are lost when we part,
Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er.
Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,
Let Sympathy pledge us, thro' pleasure, thro' pain,
That, fast as a feeling but touches one link,

Her magic shall send it direct thro' the chain !

362

BATTLE

SONG

Thomas Moore.

DAY, like our souls, is fiercely dark :

What then? 'Tis day!

We sleep no more; the cock crows-hark!
To arms! away!

They come ! they come ! the knell is rung
Of us or them;

Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung

Of gold and gem.

What collared hound of lawless sway,

To famine dear

What pensioned slave of Attila,

Leads in the rear?

Come they from Scythian wilds afar,
Our blood to spill?

Wear they the livery of the Czar ?
They do his will.

Nor tasselled silk, nor epaulette,

Nor plume, nor torse

No splendour gilds, all sternly met,
Our foot and horse.

But, dark and still, we inly glow,

Condensed in ire !

Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know
Our gloom is fire.

In vain your pomp, ye evil powers,
Insults the land;

Wrongs, vengeance, and the cause are ours,
And God's right hand!

Madmen! they trample into snakes

The wormy clod!

Like fire beneath their feet awakes
The sword of God!

Behind, before, above, below,

They rouse the brave;

Where'er they go, they make a foe,
Or find a grave.

Ebenezer Elliot.

363

PLAINT

DARK, deep, and cold the current flows
Unto the sea where no wind blows,
Seeking the land which no one knows.

O'er its sad gloom still comes and goes
The mingled wail of friends and foes,
Borne to the land which no one knows.

Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goes
With millions, from a world of woes,
Unto the land which no one knows?

Though myriads go with him who goes,
Alone he goes where no wind blows,
Unto the land which no one knows.

For all must go where no wind blows,
And none can go for him who goes,
None, none return whence no one knows.

Yet why should he who shrieking goes
With millions, from a world of woes,
Reunion seek with it or those?

Alone with God, where no wind blows,

And Death, his shadow-doomed, he goes:

That God is there the shadow shows.

O shoreless Deep, where no wind blows!
And, thou, O Land which no one knows-
That God is All, His shadow shows!

Ebenezer Elliot.

364

THE MEN OF GOTHAM

SEAMEN three! What men be ye?
Gotham's three wise men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?

To rake the moon from out the sea.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine-

And your ballast is old wine.

Who art thou, so fast adrift?

I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,
In a bowl Care may not be-
In a bowl Care may not be.

Fear ye not the waves that roll?

No: in charmèd bowl we swim.

What the charm that floats the bowl?

Water may not pass the brim.

The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.

And our ballast is old wine

And your ballast is old wine.

Thomas L. Peacock.

365

THE GRAVE OF LOVE

I DUG beneath the cypress shade
What well might seem an elfin's grave,

And every pledge in earth I laid,
That erst thy false affection gave.