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 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 ?-
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! Aling 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 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.

'TIS THE BREAK OF DAY.

BY ROBERT WALN.

'Tis the break of day, and cloudless weather,
The eager dogs are all roaming together,
The moor-cock is flitting across the heather,
Up, rouse from your slumbers,

Away!
No vapour encumbers the day;
Wind the echoing horn,

For the waking morn
Peeps forth in its mantle of gray.

The wild-boar is shaking his dewy bristle,
The partridge is sounding his morning whistle,
The red-deer is bounding o'er the thistle,
Up, rouse from your slumbers,

Away!
No vapour encumbers the day;
Wind the echoing horn,

For the waking morn
Peeps forth in its mantle of gray.