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The Love of Home,

From a Poem by Montgomery, entitled

"THE WEST INDIES."

There is a land, of every land the pride,
Belov'd by Heaven o'er all the world beside ;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night,
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time tutored age and love exalted youth.
The wand'ring mariner, whose eyes explore,
The wealthiest isle, the most enchanting shore,
Views not a realm so beautiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air-
In every clime the magnet of his soul,
Touch'd by remembrance, trembles to that pole-
For in this land of Heavn's peculiar grace,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter place than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his soften 'd looks, benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend.
Here woman reigns, the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life-
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie-
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found!
Art thou a man-a patriot?-look around.
O, thou shalt find, however thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home.

SONG.

FROM MOORE'S LALLA ROOKH.

Bendemeer's Stream.

There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long : In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.

That bower and its music I never forget;

But oft when alone in the bloom of the year,
I think is the nightingale singing there yet?
Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?

No-the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave:
But some blossoms were gathered while freshly they
shone,

And a dew was distilled from their flowers, that gave
All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.
Thus Memory draws from delight, ere it dies,

An essence that breathes of it many a year,
Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes,

Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer.

FROM THE LONDON COURIER.

The Funeral of Sir John Moore,

WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA, IN SPAIN, IN 1808.

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried,
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero, was buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we bound him,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadily gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,

But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton hath laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock told the hour for retiring,
And we heard the distant random gun,
That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory,
We carv'd not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.

FROM MOORE'S MELODIES.

This Life is all chequered.

AIR" THE BUNCH OF GREEN RUSHES."

This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another like waves of the deep;
Each billow as brightly or darkly it flows,

Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,

That the laugh is call'd up ere the tear can be dried And as fast as the rain drop of pity is shed,

The goose plumage of folly can turn it aside, But pledge me the cup, if existence would cloy, With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise. Be ours the light Grief, that is sister to Joy,

And the short brilliant Folly, that flashes and dies!

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
Thro' fields full of sun-shine, with hearts full of play,
Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount,

And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.

Thus some, who like me, should have drawn and have tasted
The fountain, that runs by philosophy's shrine,
Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,
And left their light urns all as empty as mine!
But pledge me the goblet-while Idleness weaves
Her flow'rets together, if Wisdom can see

One bright drop or two, that has tall'n on the leaves
From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me!

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FROM MOORE'S MELODIES.

Tune-" St. Patrick's Day."

Tho' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them,
And smile through our tears like a sunbeam in showers,
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,
More form'd to be tranquil and blest than ours.
But just when the chain, has ceas'd to pain,
And hope has enwreath'd it round with flow'rs,
Then comes a new link, our spirits to sink.
Oh! the joys of such hearts like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness too brilliant to stay;
But though 'twere the last little spark in our souls,
We must light it up now on "Patrick's" Day.

Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal,
Though fierce to your foes, to your friends you are true,
And the tribute most high, to a head that is royal,
Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.

While cowards who blight your fame, your right,
Would shrink from the blaze of the battle away,

The standard of green, in front would be seen.
Oh! my life on your faith, were you summon'd this minute,
You'd cast every bitter remembrance away,
And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,
When rous'd by the foe on her Patrick's Day.

He loves the green Isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts that have suffered too much to forget,
And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded,
And Erin's green jubilee shine out yet,

The gem may be broke by many a stroke,
But nothing can cloud its native ray,

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Each fragment will cast, a light to the last.
And thus Erin, my country, though broken thou art,
There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay,
A spirit that beams through each suffering part,
And now smiles at their pain on her Patrick's Day.

The following sweet and touching lines were written by the Hon. HENRY ST. GEORGE TUCKER, of Virginia, on being solicited to know why he had ceased to court the poetic muse.

Days of my youth-ye have glided away;
Hairs of my youth-ye are frosted and gray;
Eyes of my youth-your keen sight is no more;
Cheeks of my youth-ye are furrow'd all oe'r;
Strength of my youth-all your vigor is gone;
Thoughts of my youth-your gay visions are flown..

Days of my youth- I wish not your recall;
Hairs of my youth---I'm content ye should fall;
Eyes of my youth---ye much evil have seen;
Cheeks of my youth---bath'd in tears ye have been;
Thoughts of my youth---ye have led me a stray;
Strength of my youth---why lament your decay.

Days of my age---ye will shortly be past;
Pains of age--yet awhile ye can last;
Joys of age--in true wisdom delight;
Eyes of my age---be religion your light;
Thoughts of my age--dread ye not the cold sod;
Hopes of my age...be ye fixed on your GOD!

They may rail at this Life.

BY THOMAS MOORE.

They may rail at this life---from the hour I began it
I've found a life full of kindness and bliss;
And until they can show me some happier planet,
More social and bright, I'll content me with this.

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