Oh! Blame not the Bard.

H! blame not the bard if he fly to the bowers Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame; He was born for much more, and in happier hours His soul might have burned with a holier flame. The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,

Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart ; And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart!

But alas for his country !—her pride is gone by,

And that spirit is broken which never would bend; O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,

For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend ! Unprized are her sons, till 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!

Then blame not the bard if in pleasure's soft dream
He should try to forget what he never can heal:
Oh! give but a hope-let a vista but gleam

Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel!
That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored;
While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius should cover his sword.

But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away,
Thy name, loved Erin! shall live in his songs;
Not e'en in the hour when his heart is most gay,

Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep,
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!
THOMAS MOORE.

CON

The battle-dawn is nigh;

And the screaming trump and thundering drum

Are calling thee to die!

Fight as thy father fought;

Fall as thy father fell:

Thy task is taught; thy shroud is wrought:

So forward, and farewell!

Toll ye my Second, toll!

Fling high the flambeau's light; And sing the hymn for a parted soul

Beneath the silent night!

The wreath upon his head,

The cross upon his breast,

Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed,
So, take him to his rest!

Call ye my Whole, ay, call
The Lord of lute and lay;
And let him greet the sable pall

With a noble song to-day!

Go, call him by his name!

No fitter hand may crave

To light the flame of a soldier's fame

On the turf of a soldier's grave.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

The Land of Lands.

You ask me why, though ill at ease,

YOU

Within this region I subsist,

Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas.

It is the land that freemen till,

That sober-suited Freedom chose;

The land where, girt with friends or foes, A man may speak the thing he will:

A land of settled government,

A land of just and old renown,

Where freedom broadens slowly down, From precedent to precedent:

Where faction seldom gathers head;

But, by degrees to fullness wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread.

Should banded unions persecute

Opinion, and induce a time

When single thought is civil crime,

And individual freedom mute;

Though power should make, from land to land,
The name of Britain trebly great-
Though every channel of the state
Should almost choke with golden sand-

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth,
Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky,

And I will see, before I die,

The palms and temples of the South.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 101

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.

THE

breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moored their bark

On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,

And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear ;

They shook the depths of the desert's gloom

With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard, and the sea;

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang

To the anthem of the free.

The ocean eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam;

And the rocking pines of the forest roared—
This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair,
Amidst that pilgrim-band:
Why had they come to wither there,

Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;

There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas? the spoils of war?—

They sought a faith's pure shrine !
Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod :

They have left unstained what there they found-

Freedom to worship God!

MRS. FELICIA HEMANS.

Lines on Leaving Europe.

BRIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast!

Fling out your field of azure blue;

Let star and stripe be westward cast,
And point as Freedom's eagle flew !
Strain home! oh lithe and quivering spars!
Point home, my country's flag of stars!

The wind blows fair! the vessel feels
The pressure of the rising breeze,
And, swiftest of a thousand keels,

She leaps to the careering seas!
O fair, fair cloud of snowy sail,

In whose white breast I seem to lie, How oft, when blew this eastern gale,

I've seen your semblance in the sky, And longed, with breaking heart, to flee On cloud-like pinions o'er the sea!

Adieu, oh lands of fame and eld!

I turn to watch our foamy track,
And thoughts with which I first beheld
Yon clouded line, come hurrying back;