And the sounds of joy and grief

From her people wildly rose,
As death withdrew his shades from the day ;

While the sun looked shining bright,
O’er a wide and woful sight
Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise !

For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine-cup shines in light ;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,

Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,

Elsinore !
Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride

Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,

With the gallant good Riou :
Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave !

While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave !

THOMAS MOORE.

1779-1852. Born in Dublin, and studied at Trinity College. Completed his University education in 1799, and left Dublin for England to enter himself as a member of the Middle Temple, and to study for the English bar. Literature, however, was more attractive to him than law, and he devoted himself to the former. He obtained the countenance and support of some of the most distinguished men of the day, including Lord Lansdowne, the Duke of Bedford, and Lord John Russell, and won for himself almost unbounded popularity as a poet. Through the influence of the last named nobleman, a pension of £300 a year was bestowed upon him. Moore lived a life of great brilliance and fashion, moving as a welcome visitor in the most aristocratic circles. He died in 1852, and was buried in Bromham churchyard, Wiltshire.

Moore's chief works are :--Lalla Rookh and Irish Melodies.

THE POWER OF GOD.

Thou art, O God, the life and light

Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Are but reflections caught from Thee !
Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.
When day with farewell beam delays

Among the opening clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze

Through golden vistas into heaven,
Those hues that make the sun's decline,
So soft, so radiant, Lord, are Thine.
When night, with wings of starry gloom,

O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume

Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes,
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord, are Thine.

When youthful Spring around us breathes,

Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh, And every

flower the Summer wreathes, Is born beneath that kindling eye: Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are Thine.

O THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S

TEAR!

O Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear !

How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,

We could not fly to Thee.
The friends, who in our sunshine live,

When winter comes are flown ;
And he, who has but tears to give,

Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,

Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,

Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,

And e'en the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,

Is dimmed and vanished too,-
Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom,

Did not Thy wing of love
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom

Our peace-branch from above ?
Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright,

With more than rapture's ray;
As darkness shows us worlds of light

We never saw by day.

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,

To give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To pine on the stem ;
Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle

The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered

And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone ?

THE POWER OF MUSIC. WHEN through life unblest we rove,

Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes, we used to love

In days of boyhood, meet our ear, Oh, how welcome breathes the strain !

Wakening thoughts that long have slept; Kindling former smiles again

In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale that sighs along

Beds of Oriental flowers,
Is the grateful breath of song

That once we heard in happier hours.
Filled with balm, the gale sighs on,

Though the flowers have sunk in death; So, when pleasure's dream is gone,

Its memory lives in music's breath. Music! oh, how faint, how weak,

Language fades before thy spell ! Why should feeling ever speak

When thou canst breathe her soul so well? Friendship's balmy words may feign;

Love's are e'en more false than they; Oh 'tis only music's strain

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray!

REMEMBER ME.

Go where glory waits thee,
But while fame elates thee,

Oh, still remember me.
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,

Oh, then remember me.
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee

Sweeter far may
But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,

Oh, then remember me.
When at eve thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,

Oh, then remember me.

be;