DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. Dear Harp of my country! in darkness I found thee, Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine; Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Has throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES. Erin! the tear and the smile in thine eyes Erin! thy silent tear never shall cease, Erin! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase, Till, like the rainbow's light, Thy various tints unite, And form, in Heaven's sight, One arch of peace! 'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 'Tis the last rose of summer, To reflect back her blushes, I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone? GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. (b 1788 d 1824). SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. She walks in beauty, like the night Meet in her aspect and her eyes: One shade the more, one ray the less, Or softly lightens o'er her face; And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, SONNET ON CHILLON. Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless bloom Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. I. My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears: For they have been a dungeon's spoil, But this was for my father's faith |