Page images

Nay, Port, they say, will soon be rare

As juice of France or Spain-
And that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

Captain Charles Morris.


FAREWELL!—but whenever you welcome the hour,
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain,
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you.
And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night :
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles-
Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmur'd, “I wish he were here !"
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd!
Like the vase, in which roses have once been distillid-
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

Thomas Moore.



With deep affection,
And recollection,
I often think of

Those Shandon bells,

Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle

Their magic spells. On this I ponder Whene'er I wander, And thus grow fonder,

Sweet Cork, of thee; With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine,
While at a glib rate
Brass tongues would vibrate-
But all this music

Spoke nought like thine ;
For memory dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of the belfry knelling

Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells tolling
Old “Adrian's Mole” in,
Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets

Of Nôtre Dame;
But thy sounds were sweeter
Than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly ;

O! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.
There's a bell in Moscow,
While on tower and kiosk O!
In Saint Sophia

The Turkman gets;
And loud in air
Calls men to prayer
From the tapering summit

Of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there is an anthem

More dear to me,
'Tis the bells of Shandon
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.

Frank Mahony.



My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee! Here's a sigh to those that love me,

And a smile to those who hate; And whatever sky's above me,

Here's a heart for eyery fate. Though the ocean roar around me,

Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me,

It hath springs that may be won. Were't the last drop in the well,

As I gasp'd upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour
Should be-peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

Lord Byron.


In his last binn Sir Peter lies,

Who knew not what it was to frown:
Death took him mellow, by surprise,

And in his cellar stopp'd him down.
Thro' all our land we could not boast

A knight more gay, more prompt than he,
To rise and fill a bumper toast,

And pass it round with three times three.
None better knew the feast to sway,

Or keep mirth's boat in better trim;
For nature had but little clay

Like that of which she moulded him.
The meanest guest that grac'd his board

Was there the freest of the free,
His bumper toast when Peter pour’d,

And pass'd it round with three times three.
He kept at true good humour's mark

The social flow of pleasure's tide :
He never made a brow look dark,

Nor caused a tear, but when he died.
No sorrow round his tomb should dwell:

More pleased his gay old ghost would be,
For funeral song, and passing bell,
To hear no sound but three times three.

Thomas L. Peacock.

[ocr errors][merged small]

Fill the goblet again ! for I never before
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core:
Let us drink! who would not? since, thro' life's varied round,
In the goblet alone no deception is found.

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;
I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye;
I have loved !-who has not ?—but what heart can declare
That pleasure existed while passion was there?
In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring,
And dreams that affection can never take wing,
I had friends !-who has not?—but what tongue will avow,
That friends, rosy wine! are as faithful as thou?
The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange,
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam—thou never canst change;
Thou grow'st old—who does not?—but on earth what ap-

Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years ?
Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,
We are jealous !—who's not ?—thou hast no such alloy,
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.
Then the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ;
There we find-do we not ?-in the flow of the soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.
When the box of Pandora was opend on earth,
And misery's triumph commenced over mirth,
Hope was left, —was she not ?- but the goblet we kiss,
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.

Lord Byron.




SPARE, gen’rous Victor, spare the slave,

Who did unequal war pursue;
That more than triumph he might have,

In overcome by you.

« PreviousContinue »