Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing, On lips that beauty hath seldom blest; To her he adores shall bathe its brim, 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; 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; They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail- 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, She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died, O! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West Thomas Moore. 361 AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS AND doth not a meeting like this make amends As smiling and kind as in that happy day? We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again. What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart, When held to the flame will steal out on the sight, The warmth of a moment like this brings to light. And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide, That once made a garden of all the gay shore, And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more. So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most, For want of some heart, that could echo it, near. But, come-the more rare such delights to the heart, The more we should welcome, and bless them the more! 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! They come ! they come ! the knell is rung 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, Wear they the livery of the Czar ? Nor tasselled silk, nor epaulette, Nor plume, nor torse No splendour gilds, all sternly met, But, dark and still, we inly glow, Condensed in ire ! Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, Wrongs, vengeance, and the cause are ours, Madmen! they trample into snakes The wormy clod! Like fire beneath their feet awakes Behind, before, above, below, They rouse the brave; Where'er they go, they make a foe, Ebenezer Elliot. 363 PLAINT DARK, deep, and cold the current flows O'er its sad gloom still comes and goes Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goes Though myriads go with him who goes, For all must go where no wind blows, Yet why should he who shrieking goes 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! Ebenezer Elliot. 364 THE MEN OF GOTHAM SEAMEN three! What men be ye? To rake the moon from out the sea. And your ballast is old wine. Who art thou, so fast adrift? I am he they call Old Care. 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 And every pledge in earth I laid, |