« PreviousContinue »
TOM MOORE, AGAIN WE'RE MET.
BY JOHN EVERETT.
Tom MOORE, again we're met
By the sparkles of thine eye,
Thou art glad as well as I.
Ere our meeting shall be o'er,
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.
BY THOMAS 0. FOLSOM.
Is it the welcome roar
Of thundering signal gun ?-
Rending night's robe of dun.
The joyous call to war,
The cry to arms--hurrah !
From beauty's straining arms
And banquet pleasures spring,
Our proud old banner bring;
Clatters the ponderous car,
And blithely shout-hurrah !
The early dawn shall glance
On the long gleaming line,
And burnished bayonet shine ;
As trumpets ring afar,-
His wreaths of fame--hurrah!
Lo! yonder comes the foe
Rush on with gun and glaive,
The banner of the brave;
Their fiercest daring mar-
The victor shout-hurrah !
BY EDWARD C. PINKNEY.
I Fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
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 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
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,
I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.
'TIS THE BREAK OF DAY.
BY ROBERT WALN.
'Tis the break of day, and cloudless weather,
For the waking morn
The wild-boar is shaking his dewy bristle,
For the waking morn