92 ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS' BIRTH.

Then toast him long, and ne'er repine,

His songs shall cheer our inmost grief;
And round the green Scotch thistle twine
The broad and bonnie Buckeye leaf.

For wealth and rank the world, by turns,
May battle for a common lot,
But Nature makes us kin to Burns,
And joins Columbian with the Scot.

He rests not with the dust of Kings
In hollow monumental urns;
His spirit's flame to Heaven springs,

And in the heart lives Robert Burns!

LINES

ON THE

DEATH OF TOM MOORE.

"THE harp that hung in Tara's hall" is mute,
Its wizard strain is now forever o'er;
The mighty master of earth's sweetest lute
Sleeps silently-green Erin's poet, Moore!

Greece never matched his lyric art:
In Sappho's wildest rhapsody,
He threw his hand across the heart,
And every chord was harmony.

Who is there, where our mother tongue
Hath given echoes to the shore,
That hath not heard, or hath not sung,

The stanzas of the minstrel, Moore!

94

ON THE DEATH OF

ΤΟ Μ MOORE.

Tom Moore! It is a household name,
Through all the land, in every part;
The deathless memory of his fame
Is carved upon the human heart.

Thy name shall live while love shall last,
While music's voice hath grief or glee,
"When twilight dews are falling fast,"
Or gold-clad morning walks the sea!

And oft thy spirit on its wings

Shall pause to listen, in its flight,
While some sweet voice enraptured sings
Thy strain, "Oft in the stilly night."

While love, and lute, and friendship last,
Thy being can not yet be o'er;

And when they from the earth have passed,
Go thou with them, sweet minstrel, Moore.

But first, before Oblivion throws

His veil of shadows over thee,

Earth shall behold her last red rose
Fall lifeless on the barren lea!

And now the misty land of shade
Grows musical by Lethe's shore,
With strains, by unseen angels played,
Who greet with joy the ministrel, Moore.

ROM E.

HARK! thunder, from the Vatican,
Comes rolling o'er the sea;
From the seven hills of Tiber,
Hark, the shout of Liberty!
Oh, glorious, oh, glorious!

The deep-mouthed sound hath sped
From the temples, and the sepulchres
Of the great and mighty dead;
The Genius of the city,

Rises up in majesty,

And from the Coliseum cries,

"Ye men of Rome, be free!"

Ye gods! it is a noble sight,
As ever thrilled the heart,
From out those ruined halls to see
The ghost of freedom start.
Too long she hath worn cerements,
Like a tenant of the tomb,

But the solid rock is severed,

And she stalks forth from the gloom;

And a light is all about her,
Like the light of other days,
And a halo round her forehead,
With a glory seems to blaze.
Behold upon her arm, a shield,
Like sunrise on the sea;

And from her golden trump she speaks, "Ye men of Rome be free!"

Your children must not hear it

Nor your sires from their graves,
They who bequeathed you honors,—
That you wear the chains of slaves.
Lift high your voices, Romans!
With a pæan most divine;
Let it echo from Vesuvius,

To the blue-robed Apennine;
For the clouds that lowered on ye
Are scattered by the gale,
And the night hath gone--'tis morning
'Tis morning! Romans, hail!

Too long thine ancient armor,

Hath formed a food for rust,

And the proudest of thy chivalry
Cringed lowly in the dust;

'Tis time thy chains should fall from thee, To show thy might again;

"Tis time that Rome should be herself,

And Romans should be men!

The Parthenon may crumble,