HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea;
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

And, as I watch the line of light, that plays Along the smooth wave toward the burning west,

I long to tread that golden path of rays, And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest.

Moore.

THE JOURNEY ONWARDS.

As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still looked back
To that dear Isle 'twas leaving.
So loath we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us :
So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
To those we've left behind us!

When, round the bowl, of vanished years.

We talk, with joyous seeming,
With smiles that might as well be tears,
So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again
Each early tie that twined us,
Oh! sweet's the cup that circles then,
To those we've left behind us!

And, when in other climes, we meet
Some isle or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery wild and sweet,
And nought but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss,
If Heaven had but assigned us,
To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us!

As travellers oft look back at eve,
When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave,

Still faint behind them glowing ;-
So when the close of pleasure's day

To gloom hath near consigned us, We turn to catch one fading ray

Of joy that's left behind us.

Moore.

THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.

Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village-green,
With magic tints to harmonize the scene.

Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet broke,
When round the ruins of their ancient oak
The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play,
And games and carols closed the busy day.
Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more
With treasured tales, and legendary lore.
All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows
To chase the dreams of innocent repose.
All, all are fled; yet still I linger here!
What secret charms this silent spot endear?
Mark yon old mansion frowning through the
trees,

Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze.
That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade,
First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed.
The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown
court,

Once the calm scene of many a simple sport; When all things pleased, for life itself was new, And the heart promised what the fancy drew. See, through the fractured pediment revealed, Where moss inlays the rudely sculptured shield,

The martin's old, hereditary nest,

Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest!
As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call!
Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall !
That hall, where once, in antiquated state,
The chair of justice held the grave debate.
Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly
hung,

Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;
When round yon ample board, in due degree,
We sweetened every meal with social glee.
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest ;
And all was sunshine in each little breast.

'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound;
And turned the blindfold hero round and round.
Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring;
And fancy fluttered on her wildest wing.

As o'er the dusky furniture I bend,

Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend.

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As through the garden's desert paths I rove, What fond illusions swarm in every grove! How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, We watched the emmet to her grainy nest; Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing, Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring!

How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive

rhyme,

The bark now silvered by the touch of Time; Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid, Through sister elms that waved their summershade;

Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat, To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat!

The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses grey,

Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Quickening my truant feet across the lawn ; Unheard the shout that rent the noon-tide air, When the slow dial gave a pause to care.

Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship formed and cherished

here ;

And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions and romantic dreams!

But hark! through those old firs, with sullen swell,

The church-clock strikes! ye tender scenes, farewell!

It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace The few fond lines that Time may soon efface.