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Like them and these and all be changed,
And none preserve those songs but me
Tom MOORE, again we're met
By the sparkles of thine eye,
Thou art glad as well as I.
Ere our meeting shall be o'er
With our healths to thee, Tom Moore.
For thy boyish songs of woman
Thrown about like unstrung pearls, Ere thy armed spirit's summon
Bade thee leave thy bright-hair'd girls ; For thy satire's quenchless arrows
On the foes thy country bore, For thy song of Erin's sorrows,
Here's health to thee, Tom Moore.
Drink to Moore, drink to Moore
What though England renounce him, Her dark days shall soon be o'er,
And her brightest band surrounds him. In the land, then, of the vine,
To thee, its glittering drops we pour, And in warmest, reddest wine,
Drink a health to thee, Tom Moore.
TO FANNI IN A BALL DRESS.
Thou hast braided thy dark flowing hair,
And wreathed it with rosebuds and pearls ; But dearer, neglected thy sweet tresses are,
Soft falling in natural curls.
Thou delightest the cold world's gaze,
When crown'd with the flower and the gem,
But thy lover's smile should be dearer praise
Than the incense thou prizest from them.
The bloom on thy young cheek is bright
With triumph enjoy'd too well,
Or the tinge in a hyacinth bell.
And gay is the playful tone,
As to flattery's voice thou respondest :
To the tender blame of the fondest?
THOMAS O. FOLSOM
Was born at Hallowell, Maine, in 1802. He received his education at the Academy in Exeter, New Hampshire, studied medicine in Boston, and entered into practice there, but his career was soon closed by a consumption. He died at Exeter, September 11th, 1827, at the age of 25.
He was for a year or two before his death, the editor of The Boston Spectator. In this, and other periodicals, he wrote a few poetical articles.
BEAUTIFUL clouds in the quiet sky,
“We have cross'd the streams of the boundless west,
Clouds that are skirted with golden light,
** We have seen the desert from wildness freed,
Say, what is the end of your pilgrimage ?
36 Beauteous and dense as we seem to you,
away; When the morning comes in its glowing sheen, Not a mist will tell we have ever been.
Beautiful clouds, it is ever thus,
Is it the welcome roar
Of thundering signal gun?-
Rending night's robe of dun.
The joyous call to war,
The cry to arms-hurrah!
From beauty's straining arms
And banquet pleasures spring,
Our proud old banner bring ;
Clatters the ponderous car,
And blithely shout-hurrah !
The early dawn shall glance
On the long gleaming line,
And burnish'd bayonet shine ;
As trumpets ring afar,-
His wreaths of fame-hurrah!
Lo! yonder comes the foe
Rush on with gun and glaive,
The banner of the brave;
Their fiercest daring mar-
The victor shout-hurrah!
JONATHAN M, SCOTT,
A NATIVE of Connecticut, wrote “ Blue Lights, or the Convention," published in 1817.
Land of the East, whose fertile vales unfold
The fairest product of the fruitful year ; Whose towering hills upon their summits hold A hardy race, to wildest freedom dear,
Unaw'd by danger, unrestrain’d by fear;
How are thy prospects changed! the plough no more, Worn bright by labor, checks the panting steer
Through reeking furrow toiling, as of yore, Nor clamorous seamen ply along the busy shore. Around some tavern door thy children stand,
Where swings the grating sign on windy day, Cheerless and sad, a melancholy band,
Till draughts of whiskey wile their cares away ; Then loud of tongue, impetuous for affray,
All raise at once of wisdom full the voice,
In hideous uproar wild increase the noise,
How sweet thy stimulus at early dawn!
Dispels of recollection thoughts forlorn ;
A sad memento of the evening past,
Toward the accustom'd cup a look will cast,
War's crimson banner broad unfurl'd,