A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; Clement C. Moore, 1779-1863. ECHOES. How sweet the answer Echo makes When roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away o'er lawns and lakes Goes answering light! Yet Love hath echoes truer far And far more sweet Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star Of horn or lute or soft guitar The songs repeat. 'Tis when the sigh,-in youth sincere And only then, The sigh that's breathed for one to hear Is by that one, that only Dear Breathed back again. Thomas Moore, 1780–1852 THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS. OFT in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears The words of love then spoken! The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends so link'd together Like leaves in wintry weather, Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose garland's dead, Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. Thomas Moore. THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled, So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise No more to chiefs and ladies bright The chord alone that breaks at night Thus freedom now so seldom wakes,- Is when some heart indignant breaks Thomas Moore COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here: Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame ? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, O BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. O! BREATHE not his name, let it sleep in the shade, But the night dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, Thomas Moore. THOSE EVENING BELLS. THOSE evening bells! those evening bells! Of youth, and home, and that sweet time Those joyous hours are passed away; And so 'twill be when I am gone- Thomas Moore. MIRIAM'S SONG. SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! His chariots, and horsemen, all splendid and brave, How vain was their boasting!—the Lord hath but spoken, And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Thomas Moore. SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, He had lived for his love, for his country he died, Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow. Thomas Moore. OH BLAME NOT THE BARD. OH! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers But, alas for his country -her pride has gone by, For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, still they've learned to betray; Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires; And the torch, that would light them through dignity's way, Must be caught from the pile where their country expires. Thomas Moore. DISAPPOINTED HOPES. I KNEW, I knew it could not last- I never loved a tree or flower, But 'twas the first to fade away. |