Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.

Ode. Ye Mariners of England.

Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain,
May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate!
Yea! ev'n the name I have worshipp'd in vain
Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again;
To bear is to conquer our fate.

Lines written on Visiting a Scene in Argyleshire.

Thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
The Soldier's Dream.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin;
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing,
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

The Exile of Erin.*

How little do you think upon

The dangers of the seas.

Give ear unto the mariners,

And they will plainly show

All the cares and the fears

When the stormy winds do blow."

The ballad is an adaptation from one by Martin Parker. * Tom Moore is by many persons supposed to have been the author of this.

M

Moore.

IRISH MELODIES.

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid.

O! Breathe not his Name.

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free, First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea. Remember Thee.

Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneel not before the same altar with me? Come Send Round the Wine.

The heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turn'd when he rose.
Believe me if all those Endearing Young Charms.

There's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream.

Love's Young Dream.

O the shamrock, the green, immortal shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of bard and chief,

Old Erin's native shamrock.

O the Shamrock !

Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd! Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd: You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

Farewell! but Whenever you Welcome the Hour

LALLA ROOKH.

And music, too, dear music! that can touch
Beyond all else the soul that loves it much,
Now heard far off, so far as but to seem
Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.

The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan,
Lines 941-944.

The trail of the serpent is over them all.

Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour,

I've seen my fondest hopes decay;

I never loved a tree or flower,
But 'twas the first to fade away.
I never nursed a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black
But when it came to know me well,

eye,

And love me, it was sure to die.

The Fire Worshippers. Lines 278-285.

Alas! how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied ;

That stood the storm, when waves were rough,

Yet in a sunny hour fall off,

Like ships, that have gone down at sea,

When heaven was all tranquillity.

Light of the Haram. Lines 183-190.

There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, When two, that are link'd in one heavenly tie, With heart never changing, and brow never cold, Love on through all ills, and love on till they die! One hour of a passion so sacred is worth

Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss ;

And oh! if there be an elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.

Fly to the desert, fly with me,

Our Arab tents are rude for thee;

But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt,
Of tents with love, or thrones without?

Concluding portion of Light of the Haram.

But bees, on flowers alighting, cease their hum,
So, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb.

Corruption. An Epistle. Lines 161, 162.

Yes, rather plunge me back in pagan night,
And take my chance with Socrates for bliss,
Than be the Christian of a faith like this,
Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway,
And in a convert mourns to lose a prey.

Intolerance. A Satire. Lines 68-72.

Friend of my soul ! this goblet sip,

'Twill chase that pensive tear;

"I is not so sweet as woman's lip, But, oh! 'tis more sincere.

Like her delusive beam,

'T will steal away thy mind: But, like Affection's dream,

It leaves no sting behind.

Juvenile Poems. Anacreontique.