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Never again, in the green sunny bowers,

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!
Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace-where no perils can chase me?
Never again shall my brothers embrace me?
They die to defend me, or live to deplore!

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track:
"Twas autumn,-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us,-rest, thou art weary and worn ;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;-

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

{

Born 1777

Noel Thomas Carrington. Died 1830

A DEVONSHIRE poet who followed the profession of schoolmaster at Ply mouth. He has very pleasingly depicted the scenery of his native county in his poem of "Dartmoor."

THE PIXIES OF DEVON.

THEY are flown,

Beautiful fictions of our fathers, wove
In Superstition's web when Time was young,
And fondly loved and cherished: they are flown
Before the wand of Science! Hills and vales,
Mountains and moors of Devon, ye have lost
The enchantments, the delights, the visions all,
The elfin visions that so blest the sight
In the old days romantic. Nought is heard
Now, in the leafy world, but earthly strains-
Voices, yet sweet, of breeze, and bird, and brook,
And waterfall; the day is silent else,

And night is strangely mute! the hymnings high—-
The immortal music, men of ancient times

Have ravished oft, are flown! O ye have lost,

Mountains, and moors, and meads, the radiant throngs
That dwelt in your green solitudes, and filled
The air, the fields, with beauty and with joy
Intense; with a rich mystery that awed
The mind, and flung around a thousand hearths
Divinest tales, that through the enchanted year
Found passionate listeners!

The very streams
Brightened with visitings of these so sweet
Ethereal creatures! They were seen to rise
From the charmed waters, which still brighter grew
As the pomp passed to land, until the eye

Scarce bore the unearthly glory. Where they trod.
Young flowers, but not of this world's growth, arose,
And fragrance, as of amaranthine bowers,
Floated upon the breeze. And mortal eyes
Looked on their revels all the luscious night;
And, unreproved, upon their ravishing forms
Gazed wistfully, as in the dance they moved,
Voluptuous to the thrilling touch of harp
Elysian :

Thomas Moore.

Born 1779

Died 1852.

MOORE was born in Dublin, on 28th May 1779. His parents were Catholics and in humble circumstances, but gave him a tolerably good education; and in 1793, when the University of Dublin was opened to Catholics, he was sent there. He speedily distinguished himself by his classical attainments, but narrowly escaped a Government prosecution for treason, of which, indeed, he was not quite guiltless. In 1793 he contributed verses of considerable merit to a periodical called "Anthologia Hibernica ;" and in 1799 he removed to London, where appeared his translation of Anacreon, dedicated by permission to the Prince of Wales, which brought him into notice. His singing, too, became the rage in fashionable circles; and so popular was he that he obtained the appointment of AdmiraltyRegistrar for Bermuda, with a handsome salary. He set out for Bermuda in 1804, but wearying of the place he returned to England, leaving his duties to be performed by a deputy. On his return from Bermuda he published two volumes of poems, which were most unmercifully treated by the "Edinburgh Review." Moore considered the criticism as so personal that he sent a challenge to Jeffrey the editor, and a meeting was arranged; but while the seconds were loading the pistols, Moore and Jeffrey got into an agreeable chat, which was only interrupted by the arrival of the police, who carried them off to Bow Street: the matter was ultimately arranged, and the pair became fast friends ever after. In 1811, Moore married Miss Bessy Dyke, a lady who had attained some listinction on the Irish stage; she was a most suitable wife, and made for him a happy home. In 1807, Moore commenced his "Irish Melodies," a noble and patriotic work, which met with a most enthusiastic reception, especially from his countrymen; the first part was published in 1813, and the last part in 1834. In 1812, Moore commenced a series of satirica effusions which met with prodigious success: the wit, ease, and playfu ness of the satire captivated every circle; and the poet's reputation was such that a friend was able to make an arrangement with Murray the publisher for Moore to write an Eastern romance in poetry, and to get for it the sum of three thousand guineas. This, for a poem yet unwritten, is one of the most striking events in poetical history. The poem was finished and published in 1817. It had a wonderful sale-six editions were sold in as many months; and the truth of the descriptions were the wonder and delight of Orientalists, who knew Moore had never been in the East; even Jeffrey hailed it "as the finest Orientalism we have had yet." Moore's star was at its zenith, when notice arrived of the fraud of his deputy in Bermuda, entailing on him a loss of L.6000. An attachment was issued against his person, and Moore left for Paris; but by the kindness of friends he was ultimately enabled to compromise and settle the matter. Whilst on the Continent he composed "The Epicurean," a prose story, and "The Loves of the Angels," published in 1823. Moore's circumstances were not such as to free his mind from. anxiety; and on a hint to this effect to Lord John Russell, he in 1835 received a pension of L.300 a-year from Government. During the rest of his career Moore was chiefly engaged as a prose writer; his Life of Sheridan, and Life of Lord Byron, are among the best of his works at this period, In 1838 he resolved on a visit to Ireland the news preceded him, and

wherever he appeared he was greeted with rapturous enthusiasm; processions met him, triumphal arches were erected where he went, and if applause could give happiness he was at the summit of earthly felicity. The closing years of Moore's life were sad and melancholy: his children one by one sunk into the grave, and a settled depression gathered over the poet's mind, deepening as he drew near his end. He died on 25th February 1852.

FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS."
BUT quenched to-night that ardour seems,
And pale his cheek, and sunk his brow :--
Never before, but in her dreams,

Had she beheld him pale as now:

And those were dreams of troubled sleep,
From which 'twas joy to wake and weep;
Visions that will not be forgot,

But sadden every waking scene,

Like warning ghosts, that leave the spot
All withered where they once have been!
"How sweetly," said the trembling maid,
Of her own gentle voice afraid,

So long had they in silence stood,
Looking upon that moonlight flood-
"How sweetly does the moonbeam smile
To-night upon yon leafy isle !

Oft, in my fancy's wanderings
I've wished that little isle had wings,
And we, within its fairy bowers,

Were wafted off to seas unknown,
Where not a pulse should beat but ours,
And we might live, love, die alone!
Far from the cruel and the cold,-
Where the bright eyes of angels only
Should come around us, to behold
A Paradise so pure and lonely!
Would this be world enough for thee?"-
Playful she turn'd, that he might see
The passing smile her cheek put on ;
But when she marked how mournfully

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His eyes met hers, that smile was gone;
And, bursting into heart-felt tears,
"Yes, yes," she cried, my hourly fears,
My dreams have boded all too right—
We part-for ever part-to-night!

I knew, I knew it could not last

'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past! 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 eye,
But when it came to know me well,

And love me, it was sure to die!

FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM."

ALAS! how light a cause may move

Dissension between hearts that love!

Hearts that the world in vain has 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!
A something light as air-a look,

A word unkind or wrongly taken—
Oh! love, that tempests never shook,

A breath, a touch like this has shaken.
And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds,- -or like the stream,
That smiling left the mountain's brow,

As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Yet ere it reach the plain below,

Breaks into floods that part for ever. Oh you that have the charge of Love, Keep him in rosy bondage bound,

As in the Fields of Bliss above

He sits, with flow'rets fetter'd round :

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