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Like them and these and all be changed,
And none preserve those songs but me
To think on what has been, what ne'er shall be.
TOM MOORE, again we 're met-
By the sparkles of thine eye,
By thy lip with bright wine wet,
Thou art glad as well as I.
And thine eye shall gleam the brighter
Ere our meeting shall be o'er
And thy minstrelsy flow lighter
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,
Yet less dear than when soft as the moonbeam's light,
Or the tinge in a hyacinth bell.
And gay is the playful tone,
As to flattery's voice thou respondest:
But what is the praise of the cold and unknown,
To the tender blame of the fondest?
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,
Whence come ye, floating so proudly by?
"We come from the land where the forest's gloom
Frowns darkly around the old warrior's tomb,
Where the ramparts he rear'd still their strength retain,
Though ye seek their defender's name in vain.
"We have cross'd the streams of the boundless west,
We have cluster'd in wreaths round the mountain's crest,
We have swept the prairie's lonely green,
O'er buffalo herds we have hung a screen,
We have shadow'd the path that the hunters take,
And obscured the gleam of the sunny lake."
Clouds that are skirted with golden light,
What have ye seen in your airy flight?
"We have seen stern gloom on the Indian's brow,
And the grief that stung him, but could not bow,
As he left the shore where his fathers rest,
To seek a new home in the far-off west.
"We have seen the desert from wildness freed, And the hardy husbandman scattering seed, Villages rising by every stream,
And the white sail glancing in morning's beam;
Yet we saw that woes every scene deprave,
For we look'd on many a fresh-dug grave."
Say, what is the end of your pilgrimage?
"We have seen the mountain oak scathed by age,
On the shiver'd crag there is writ-decay-
Shall we be more happy and strong than they?
Man's labors and glories doth time obscure-
And shall we, things of vapor and shade, endure ?
"Beauteous and dense as we seem to you,
We are vanishing fast from your wondering view,
For the sweeping gust and the sunny ray
Are hurrying and melting our fleeces away;
When the morning comes in its glowing sheen,
Not a mist will tell we have ever been.
Beautiful clouds, it is ever thus,
Stern time is consuming our works and us;
And ye-though storms in your robe are roll'd,
Though the thunder sleep in your dusky fold,
Though ye boast a heavenly home and birth
Ye must fade away like things of earth.
Is it the welcome roar
Of thundering signal gun?—
Hark! for the sound bursts through once more,
Rending night's robe of dun.
It is the welcome sound,
The joyous call to war,
For the near bugle screams around
The cry to arms-hurrah!
From beauty's straining arms
And banquet pleasures spring,
Bring out the trusty sword and steed,
Our proud old banner bring;
The drum is rolling loud,
Clatters the ponderous car,
And mustering warriors onward crowd
And blithely shout-hurrah!
The early dawn shall glance
On the long gleaming line,
Proudly the buoyant plume will dance,
And burnish'd bayonet shine;
The soldier's heart will leap
As trumpets ring afar,-
They summon him away to reap
His wreaths of fame-hurrah!
Lo! yonder comes the foe-
Rush on with gun and glaive,
For freedom 't is ye strike below
The banner of the brave;
On-on, until they fly,
Their fiercest daring mar
'Tis well! fling down the brand and cry
The victor shout-hurrah!
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,
And beardless valor, and experience gray,
In hideous uproar wild increase the noise,
While oft replenish'd cups exalt the noontide joys.
Oh, stream Lethean! reeking from the still,
How sweet thy stimulus at early dawn!
When wakes the thirsty wretch, the welcome rill
Dispels of recollection thoughts forlorn;
For oft the aching head at rising morn,
A sad memento of the evening past,
From long protracted slumber slowly drawn,
Toward the accustom'd cup a look will cast,
And sigh, perhaps in vain, to think that cup the last.
War's crimson banner broad unfurl'd,
Waves horrid o'er the western world;
Full swells the note of rolling drum,
Like distant thunder, hoarse and grum.
And sharp and shrill the piercing fife
Wakes the stern soul to deeds of strife.
The peaceful scythe its form forsakes,
The bending cutlass' curve it takes;
Wrenched from its shape by glowing heat,
And on the groaning anvil beat;
The shining pitchfork strait is set,
Transform'd to pointed bayonet,
Disdainful of its former trade
And proudly glitters on parade.
Each wayward youngster from the field
In fancy grasps the victor shield,
With beating heart he seeks the plain,
Intent on glory and on gain;
Before his eyes, in beam divine,
The rising hopes of plunder shine;