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WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.

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W

While History's Muse.

'HILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping Of all that the dark hand of destiny weaves, Beside her the genius of Erin stood weeping,

For hers was the story that blotted the leaves. But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame, She saw History write,

With a pencil of light

That illumed all the volume, her Wellington's name.

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Hail, star of my isle !" said the Spirit, all sparkling

With tears, such as break from her own dewy skies-

'Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,

I've watched for some glory like thine to arise.

For, though heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot,
And unhallowed they sleep in the crossways of Fame ;-
But O! there is not

One dishonoring blot

On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name,

"Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,
The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known;
Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,
Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.
At the foot of that throne for whose weal thou hast stood,
Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame,
And, bright o'er the flood

Of her tears and her blood,

Let the Rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!"

THOMAS MOORE.

Oh! Blame not the Bard.

H! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers

Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame, He was born for much more, and in happier hours His soul might have burned with a holier flame. The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,

Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart ; And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart!

But alas for his country!-her pride is gone by,

And that spirit is broken, which never would bend ; O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,

For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend ! Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray;

Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires; And the torch, that would light them through dignity's way, Must be caught from the pile where their country expires!

Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream
He should try to forget what he never can heal:
Oh! give but a hope-let a vista but gleam

Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel!
That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored;
While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius should cover his sword.

But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away,
Thy name, loved Erin! shall live in his songs;
Not e'en in the hour when his heart is most gay,
Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep,
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!
THOMAS MOORE.

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.

THE breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods, against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches tossed;
And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moored their bark

On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear ;

They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard, and the sea;

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang

To the anthem of the free.

The ocean eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roaredThis was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair,
Amidst that pilgrim band:
Why had they come to wither there,

Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;

There was manhood's brow serenely high,

And the fiery heart of youth.

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What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas? the spoils of war?—

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod :

They have left unstained what there they found—

Freedom to worship God!

MRS. FELICIA HEMANS.

B

Lines on Leaving Europe.

RIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast!
Fling out your field of azure blue;
Let star and stripe be westward cast,
And point as Freedom's eagle flew !
Strain home! oh lithe and quivering spars!
Point home, my country's flag of stars!

The wind blows fair! the vessel feels
The pressure of the rising breeze,
And, swiftest of a thousand keels,
She leaps to the careering seas!
O fair, fair cloud of snowy sail,

In whose white breast I seem to lie,
How oft, when blew this eastern gale,

I've seen your semblance in the sky, And longed, with breaking heart, to flee On cloud-like pinions o'er the sea!

Adieu, oh lands of fame and eld!

I turn to watch our foamy track,
And thoughts with which I first beheld
Yon clouded line, come hurrying back;

LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE.

My lips are dry with vague desire,—

My cheek once more is hot with joyMy pulse, my brain, my soul on fire!

Oh, what has changed that traveler-boy?

As leaves the ship this dying foam,

His visions fade behind-his weary heart speeds home!

Adieu, O soft and southern shore,

Where dwelt the stars long missed in heavenThose forms of beauty seen no more,

Yet once to Art's rapt vision given!

O, still the enamored sun delays,

And pries through fount and crumbling fane,

To win to his adoring gaze

Those children of the sky again!

Irradiate beauty, such as never

That light on other earth hath shone, Hath made this land her home forever; And could I live for this alone

Were not my birthright brighter far

Than such voluptuous slaves' can be—
Held not the West one glorious star
New-born and blazing for the free-
Soared not to heaven our eagle yet-

Rome, with her Helot sons, should teach me to forget!

Adieu, oh fatherland! I see

Your white cliffs on the horizon's rim,

And though to freer skies I flee,

My heart swells, and my eyes are dim!
As knows the dove the task you give her,
When loosed upon a foreign shore-
As spreads the rain-drop in the river

In which it may have flowed before-
To England, over vale and mountain,

My fancy flew from climes more fairMy blood, that knew its parent fountain, Ran warm and fast in England's air.

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