Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! As to the tabor's sound! We, in thought, will join your throng, Ye that through your hearts to-day What though the radiance which was once so bright Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; Strength in what remains behind, Which having been must ever be, In the faith that looks through death, And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forbode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquish'd one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway; I love the brooks which down their channels fret Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Another race hath been, and other palms are won. [SAMUEL ROGERS, the son of a banker, was born at Newington Green, near London, in the year 1762, and, after a careful education, was age. introduced into the banking establishment. His first desire to become a poet arose from reading Beattie's "Minstrel" when he was nine years of In 1792 he produced his most celebrated work, "The Pleasures of Memory," and in 1812, "Jacqueline," a tale. In 1825 appeared "Human Life," and in 1822, “Italy," a descriptive poem in blank verse. Through his affluent circumstances he was enabled to cultivate his favourite tastes, and to adorn his mansion in St. James's Place with the finest and rarest pictures, books, and gems. He died in the year 1856, in the ninety-fourth year of his age, and was buried in Hornsey Churchyard.] MINE be a cot beside the hill, A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Around my ivied porch shall spring The village-church, among the trees, THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. SLEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile---- Thy rosy lips still wear a smile And move, and breathe delicious sighs! Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks She starts, she trembles, and she weeps! Her fair hands folded on her breast: -And now, how like a saint she sleeps! A seraph in the realms of rest! Sleep on secure! Above control Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee: THOSE EVENING BELLS. BY THOMAS MOORE.—1780-1852. [THOMAS MOORE was born in Dublin on the 28th of May, 1780. In 1799 he proceeded to London to study law, and to publish, by subscription, a translation of "Anacreon.” In 1803 he obtained an official situation at Bermuda, the duties of which might be performed by proxy; but his deputy proved unfaithful, and the poet incurred heavy pecuniary losses. In 1813 Moore commenced his patriotic task of writing lyrics for the ancient music of his native country. His "Irish Melodies" display great fervour with melody of diction. In 1817 he produced an Eastern romance called “Lalla Rookh," which may be considered his most elaborate poem. His latest imaginative work was the " Epicurean." HOSE evening bells! those evening bells! THOS How many a tale their music tells, Those joyous hours are passed away; And so 'twill be when I am gone; THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS. FT in the stilly night OFT Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! |