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Then say, with me,

Love, wilt thou flee,
And leave this darkling desert dread ?

And seek a clime

Of joy sublime, Where fadeless flowers a lasting fragrance shed?



Hail to the heroes whose triumphs have brightened

The darkness which shrouded America's name; Long shall their valour in battle that lightened, Live in the brilliant escutcheons of fame :

Dark where the torrents flow,

And the rude tempests blow, The storm-clad spirit of Albion raves ;

Long shall she mourn the day,

When, in the vengeful fray, Liberty walked like a god on the waves.

The ocean, ye chiefs, (the region of glory,

Where fortune has destined Columbia to reign,)
Gleams with the halo and lustre of story,
That curl round the wave as the scene of her fame :

There, on its raging tide,
Shall her proud navy ride,

The bulwark of freedom, protected by heaven;

There shall her haughty foe,

Bow to her prowess low,
There shall renown to her heroes be given.

The Pillar of Glory, the sea that enlightens,

Shall last till eternity rocks on its base,
The splendour of fame its waters that brightens,
Shall light the footsteps of time in his race :

Wide o'er the stormy deep,

Where the rude surges sweep,
Its lustre shall circle the brows of the brave;

Honour shall give it light,

Triumph shall keep it bright, Long as in battle we meet on the wave.

Already the storm of contention has hurled

From the grasp of Old England the trident of war, The beams of our stars have illumined the world, Unfurled our standard beats proud in the air :

Wild glares the eagle's eye,

Swift as he cuts the sky,
Marking the wake where our heroes advance;

Compassed with rays of light,

Hovers he o'er the fight ;
Albion is heartless-and stoops to his glance.



Why should we sigh when Fancy's dream,

The ray that shone mid youthful tears, Departing, leaves no kindly gleam,

To cheer the lonely waste of years ? Why should we sigh ?—The fairy charm

That bound each sense in folly's chain Is broke, and Reason, clear and calm,

Resumes her holy rights again.

Why should we sigh that earth no more

Claims the devotion once approved ? That joys endeared, with us are o'er,

And gone are those these hearts have loved ? Why should we sigh ?-Unfading bliss

Survives the narrow grasp of time; And those that asked our tears in this,

Shall render smiles in yonder clime.



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-haired girls ; For thy satire's quenchless arrows

On the foes thy country bore, For thy song of Erin's sorrows,

Here's a 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 surround 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.



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 burnished bayonet shine;
The soldier's heart will leap

As trumpets ring afar,-
They summon him away to reap

His wreaths of fame--hurrah!

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