And give to joy alone, the view Of Britain's fame-on Waterloo. Anon. IT IS NOT THE TEAR. It is not the tear at this moment shed, When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light, For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, When we think how he lived but to love them! And as buried saints have given perfume To shrines where they've been lying; So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom Moore. O! LAND OF THE GODLY. O! Land of the Godly, how lone and deserted! And hushed is the voice of the monarch of song. 'Midst the towers of thy Salem the lone wolf is howling, O'er the wrecks of thy temple the wild Arab strays, 'Mong the tombs of thy fathers the tiger is prowling, As a dream we remember the fame of thy days. No longer the sounds of rejoicing and gladness, Byron. OUR FATHERS, WHERE ARE THEY? Our fathers, where are they?—and where Gone with the dream of things that were, As if they ne'er had been ; Beyond the wanderings of the morn, The vanished comet long deemed lost, From darkness re-appears. Seas ebb and flow upon the shore; Moons wax when they have waned away; But they who go, to come no more, Thou sun, that light'st the boundless skies, Is the great secret known? Ye breathe not of their place of rest, But roll in silence on your way, And the lone echoes of the breast Still answer, where are they? John Malcolm, Esq. I saw thy form in youthful prime, And life ne'er looked more truly bright As streams that run o'er golden mines, Nor seem to know the wealth that shines, Within their gentle tide. So veiled beneath the simplest guise Thy radiant genius shone, And that, which charmed all other eyes, If souls could always dwell above, Or could we keep the souls we love, Though many a gifted mind we meet, Moore. A SKETCH. I saw her in the morn of life—the summer of her years, Ere time had stole a charm away, or dimmed her smile with tears. The blush of morn was on her cheek-the tender light of even Came mellowed from her azure eye, whose sphere reflected heaven. I saw her once again, and still her form was young and fair, But blight was with her beauty blent—its silent trace was there. Her cheek had lost its glowing tint-her eye its brightest ray, The change was o'er her charms, which says, the flower must fade away. |