What means the spectre? Why intent Thought Eglamore, by which I swore Unfading constancy? Here am I, and to-morrow's sun That bliss is ne'er so surely won So from the spot whereon he stood, And whispers caught, and speeches small, Soul-shattered was the knight, nor knew If Emma's ghost it were, He touched-what followed who shall tell? Of slumber-shrieking, back she fell, And the stream whirled her down the dell In plunged the knight! when on firm ground The rescued maiden lay, Her eyes grew bright with blissful light, Confusion passed away; She heard, ere to the throne of grace His voice, beheld his speaking face, So was he reconciled to life: Brief words may speak the rest; Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course, Nor fear memorial lays, Where clouds that spread in solemn shade, Are edged with golden rays! Dear art thou to the light of heaven! Though minister of sorrow, Sweet is thy voice at pensive Even; Shalt take thy place with Yarrow! GRATTAN'S LAMENTATION. MOORE. SHALL the harp then be silent, when he, who first gave To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes? Shall a minstrel of Erin, stand mute by the grave, Where the first-where the last of her patriots lies? No-faint though the death-song may fall from his lips, Though his harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost, Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse, And proclaim to the world what a star has been lost! What a union of all the affections and powers, By which life is exalted, embellished, refined, Was embraced in that spirit-whose centre was ours, While its mighty circumference encircled mankind. Oh, who that loves Erin-or who that can see That one lucid interval, snatched from the gloom Who that ever hath heard him-hath drank at the source Of that wonderful eloquence all Erin's own, In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force, And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown— An eloquence, rich-wheresoever its wave Wandered free and triumphant-with thoughts that shone through, As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," and gave Who, that ever approached him, when, free from the crowd, In a home full of love, he delighted to tread 'Mong the trees which a nation had giv'n and which bowed, As if each brought a new civic crown for his head That home, where-like him who, as fable hath told, Put the rays from his brow, that his child might come near Every glory forgot, the most wise of the old Became all that the simplest and youngest hold dear. Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life, But at distance observed him,-through glory, through blame, In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife, Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same Such a union of all that enriches life's hour, Oh, no-not a heart that e'er knew him, but mourns, Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory is shrined O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong the urns Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind! ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. KEATS. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, |