The stately camel bends the knee :- There morn is like a new-waked rose, Soul of my soul, I die for thee. : THERE MAY BE PLEASURE IN THE THERE may be pleasure in the sound There may be joy to list the chime Of horn and hound, 'mid green hills ringing, And, in the Spring's calm evening time, To hear the thrush and blackbird singing; But never sound so sweet can be As voice of female melody! But sweet though be that silvery voice Its tones best bid the heart rejoice, When soft affection's words they borrow. A DRINKING SONG. BY LORD BYRON. FILL the goblet again! for I never before Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart to its core ; Let us drink?-Who would not? since through life's varied round In the goblet alone no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; That pleasure existed whilst passion was there! In the days of my youth-when the heart's in its spring, And dreams that affection can never take wing,- avow That friends, rosy wine, are so faithful as thou! The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange; Friendship shifts with the sunbeam;-thou never canst change; Thou growest old!-Who does not?-but on earth what appears, Whose virtues like thine but increase with their years. Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, For the more that enjoy thee, the more they enjoy. Then the season of Youth and its jollities past, There we find-Do we not?-in the flow of the soul, When the Box of Pandora was opened on earth, And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, Hope was left!—Was she not?—but the goblet we kiss, And care not for hope who are certain of bliss! Long life to the grape, and when summer is flown, And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven! TO LORD BYRON*. BY THOMAS MOORE. WHY hast thou bound around, with silver rim, Is this the cup wherein thou seek'st the balm, * On reading his 'Stanzas on the Silver Foot of a Skull mounted as a Cup for Wine.' Woe to the lip to which this cup is held! Strip, then, this glittering mockery from the skull, THE AMERICAN EAGLE. BY CHARLES WEST THOMPSON. BIRD of the heavens! whose matchless eye When thou hast ta'en thy seat alone, Bird of the cliffs! thy noble form Might well be thought almost divine; The mountain and the rock are thine; And there, where never foot has been, Bird of the sun! to thee-to thee The monarch mount his gorgeous throne; Throwing the crimson drapery by, That half impedes his glorious way; And mounting up the radiant sky, E'en what he is, the king of day! Before the regent of the skies Men shrink, and veil their dazzled eyes; Hast kingly rank as well as he; And with a steady, dauntless gaze, Thou meet'st the splendour of his blaze. Bird of Colombia! well art thou |