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Till the fire-drake hath o'ergone you,
The wheel of Fortune guide you,
The Boy with the bow beside you
Run aye in the way, till the bird of

And the luckier lot betide you.


SILENT, O Moyle, be the roar of thy water,

Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,

While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter

Tells to the night-star her tale of


When shall the swan, her death-note singing,

Sleep, with wings in darkness furled? When will heaven its sweet bell


Call my spirit from this stormy world?

Sadly, O Moyle, to thy winter wave weeping,

Fate bids me languish long ages


Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,

Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.

When will that day-star, mildly springing,

Warm our isle with peace and love? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,

Call my spirit to the fields above? THOMAS MOORE.


LITTLE was King Laurin, but from

many a precious gem His wondrous strength and power, and his bold courage came; Tall at times his stature grew, with

spells of gramarye,

*Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, when the first sound of the mass bell was to be the signal of her release.

Then to the noblest princes fellow might he be.

WARTON: Little Garden of Roses.


IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran, Through caverns measureless to

man, Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled


And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incensebearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Infolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demonlover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething.

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced:

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless


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While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,

Possessed beyond the Muse's painting:

By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,

Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round, They snatched her instruments of sound;

And as they oft had heard apart, Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each (for Madness ruled the hour) Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewildered laid, And back recoiled, he knew not why,

E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings:

In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woful measures, wan Despair Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled;

A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!

Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale..

She called on Echo still, through all the song;

And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,

And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung; - but with a frown Revenge impatient rose: He threw his blood-stained sword, in thunder down;

And with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full
of woe!

And, ever and anon, he beat
The doubling drum, with furious

And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien,

While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed;

Sad proof of thy distressful state: Of differing themes the veering song was mixed:

And now it called on Love, now raving called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sate retired;
And from her wild sequestered seat,
In notes by distance made more

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul:

And dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,

Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,

Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of Peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.

But O! how altered was its sprightlier tone,

When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known;

The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen,

Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys

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O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thine ancient lyre aside?
As in that loved Athenian bower,
You learned an all-commanding

Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endeared,
Can well recall what then it heard;
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy. Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording Sister's page:
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest seed could more pre-

Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard age;

E'en all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound,
O bid our vain endeavors cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!


AWAKE, awake, my Lyre!
And tell thy silent master's humble


In sounds that may prevail;
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
Though so exalted she,

And I so lowly be,

Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.

Hark! how the strings awake:
And, though the moving hand ap-
proach not near,
Themselves with awful fear
A kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try;
Now all thy charms apply;
Revenge upon her ear the conquests
of her eye.

Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure

Is useless here, since thou art only found

To cure, but not to wound,

And she to wound, but not to cure.

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