WHY SHOULD WE SIGH?

BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.

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 JOHN EVERETT.

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 Moo.e--
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.

BY THOMAS 0. FOLSOM.

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!

Lo! yonder comes the foe-
Rush on with gun and glaive,

For freedom 'tis 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 HEALTH.

BY EDWARD C. PINKNEY.

I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that like the air, 'tis less of earth than
heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds,

And something more than melody dwells ever in her words;

The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows

As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the

rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her

hours;

Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness, of young

flowers;

And lonely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she ap

pears

The image of themselves by turns,-the idol of past

years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the

brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain ;

But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman of her gentle sex the seeming paragon-
Her health and would on earth there stood some more
of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.