When, rest o'er all descending,
The shores with gladness smile,
And lutes, their echoes blending,

Are heard from isle to isle,
Then, Mary, Star of the Sea,
We pray, we pray, to thee!

The noon-day tempest over,
Now Ocean toils no more,
And wings of halcyons hover,
Where all was strife before.
Oh thus may life, in closing
Its short tempestuous day,
Beneath heaven's smile reposing,
Shine all its storms away:
Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea,
We pray, we pray, to thee!

SONG.

CALM as, beneath its mother's eyes,
In sleep the smiling infant lies,
So, watch'd by all the stars of night,
Yon landscape sleeps in light.

And while the night-breeze dies away,

Like relics of some faded strain, Lov'd voices, lost for many a day,

Seem whisp'ring round again.

Oh youth! oh Love! ye dreams, that shed Such glory once-where are ye fled?

Pure ray of light that, down the sky,
Art pointing, like an angel's wand,
As if to guide to realms that lie

In that bright sea beyond:
Who knows but, in some brighter deep

Than ev'n that tranquil, moon-lit main,

Some land may lie where those who weep Shall wake to smile again!

MARCH! nor heed those arms that hold thee,
Though so fondly close they come;
Closer still will they enfold thee,

When thou bring'st fresh laurels home.

Dost thou dote on woman's brow?

Dost thou live but in her breath?

March-one hour of victory now
Wins thee woman's smile till death.

Oh what bliss, when war is over
Beauty's long-miss'd smile to meet,
And, when wreaths our temples cover,
Lay them shining at her feet!

Who would not, that hour to reach,
Breathe out life's expiring sigh,-
Proud as waves that on the beach

Lay their war-crest down, and die?

There I see thy soul is burning-
She herself, who clasps thee so,
Paints, ev'n now, thy glad returning,
And, while clasping, bids thee go.
One deep sigh, to passion given,

One last glowing tear and thenMarch-nor rest thy sword, till Heaven Brings thee to those arms again.

SONG.

THOU art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no,

Thy soul, to realms above us fled,
Though, like a star, it dwells o'er head,
Still lights this world below.

Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Through isles of light, where heroes tread! And flow'rs ethereal blow,

Thy god-like Spirit now is led,

Thy lip, with life ambrosial fed,

Forgets all taste of woe.

Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!

No, dearest Harmodius, no.

The myrtle, round that falchion spread Which struck the immortal blow, Throughout all time, with leaves unshedThe patriot's hope, the tyrant's dread— Round Freedom's shrine shall grow. Thou art not dead-thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Where hearts like thine have broke or bled,

Though quench'd the vital glow,
Their mem'ry lights a flame, instead,
Which, ev'n from out the narrow bed
Of death its beams shall throw.
Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thy name, by myriads sung and said,
From age to age shall go,
Long as the oak and ivy wed,

As bees shall haunt Hymettus' head,
Or Helle's waters flow.

Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

SONG.

"RAISE the buckler-poise the lance

Now here

now there-retreat-advance!"

Such were the sounds, to which the warrior boy

Danc'd in those happy days, when Greece was free.

When Sparta's youth, ev'n in the hour of joy,
Thus train'd their steps to war and victory.
"Raise the buckler-poise the lance-
Now here now there-retreat-advance!"
Such was the Spartan warrior's dance.
"Grasp the falchion-gird the shield-
Attack-defend-do all, but yield."

Thus did thy sons, oh Greece, one glorious night,
Dance by a moon like this, till o'er the sea
That morning dawn'd by whose immortal light
They nobly died for thee and liberty!
"Raise the buckler-poise the lance--
Now here now there-retreat-advance!"
Such was the Spartan heroes' dance.

SONG.

I SAW, from yonder silent cave,
Two Fountains running, side by side;
The one was Mem'ry's limpid wave

The other cold Oblivion's tide.
"Oh Love!" said I, in thoughtless mood,
As deep I drank of Lethe's stream,
"Be all my sorrows in this flood

Forgotten like a vanish'd dream!"

But who could bear that gloomy blank,
Where joy was lost as well as pain?
Quickly of Mem'ry's fount I drank,

And brought the past all back again;
And said, "Oh Love! whate'er my lot,
Still let this soul to thee be true-
Rather than have one bliss forgot,
Be all my pains remember'd too!"

SONG.

АH! where are they, who heard, in former hours,
The voice of Song in these neglected bow'rs?

They are gone-all gone!

The youth, who told his pain in such sweet tone, That all, who heard him, wish'd his pain their own-He is gone he is gone!

And she, who, while he sung, sat list'ning by,
And thought, to strains like these 'twere sweet to die-
She is gone-she too is gone!

"Tis thus, in future hours, some bard will say
Of her who hears, and him who sings this lay-
They are gone--they both are gone!