Sivut kuvina

eaves of the several lodges sat singers, players upon the rude instruments of the land, and glib talkers, who waxed eloquent, and gesticulated with exceeding grace.

15. Footsteps rustled before and behind me. I stole into the thicket, and saw lovers wandering together, locked in each other's embrace, and saw friends go hand-in-hand, conversing in low tones, or perhaps mute, with an impressive air of the most complete tranquillity. The night-blooming cereus laid its ivory urn open to the moonlight, and a myriad of crickets chirped in one continuous jubilee.

16. Voices of merriment were wafted down to me; and, stealing onward toward the great meadow by the stream, where the sleepless inhabitants of the valley held high carnival, I saw the most dignified chiefs of Méha sporting like children, while the children capered like imps, and the whole community seemed bewitched with the glorious atmosphere of that particular night.

Mon'o dy, a species of poem of a mournful character.

Tŏm'těm, a large flat drum.
Nar'co tíz ing, sleep-producing.



Thomas Moore was born in Dublin on the 28th of May, 1779. He was the son of humble and respectable parents. He was sent to the Grammar School of Samuel White, and in 1795 to the University of Dublin. At the University his poetic genius displayed itself. There he commenced the translation of the Odes of Anacreon. He took his degree as Bachelor of Arts in 1798, and in 1799 he left the University. He afterward studied law in the Middle Temple, London. In 1801 he published his translation of the Odes of Anacreon. Other poems followed, among which are Lalla Rookh, The Loves of the Angels, Irish Melodies, etc. He died on the 26th of February, 1852.



HILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,

Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,
For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.

But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,

She saw History write

With a pencil of light,

That illum'ed the whole volume, her Wellington's name!

2. "Hail, Star of my Isle !" said the Spirit, all sparkling
With beams such as break from her own dewy skies-
"Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,
I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise.

For though Heroes I've number'd, unblest was their lot,
And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame ;-
But oh! there is not

One dishonoring blot

On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name!

3. "Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,

The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known;
Though proud was thy task other nations unchaining,

Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.
At the foot of that throne for whose weal thou hast stood,
Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame-
And, bright o'er the flood

Of her tears and her blood,

Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!"


4. Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,
When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
That e'en in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

5. Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers!

This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine. Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine; If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,

Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.


6. But wake the trumpet's blast again,
And rouse the ranks of warrior men!

O War! when Truth thy arm employs,
And Freedom's spirit guides the laboring storm,
'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallow'd form,
And like heaven's lightning sacredly destroys!
Nor, Music! through thy breathing sphere,
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear
Of Him who made all harmony,

Than the blest sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn that man, awaking
From Slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty!


7. From life without freedom, oh! who would not fly?
For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?
Hark, hark! 'tis the trumpet, the call of the brave,
The death-song of tyrants, and dirge of the slave.
Our country lies bleeding, oh! fly to her aid;
One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.
8. In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains;
The dead fear no tyrants; the grave has no chains.
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue and mankind, are heroes indeed!

And oh! even if Freedom from this world be driven,
Despair not at least we shall find her in heaven!


9. Farewell!—but whenever you welcome the hour
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain.
Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain,
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you.
10. And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up

To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles-
Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmured, "I wish he were here!"

11. Let Fate do her worst; there are relics of joy,

Bright dreams of the past which she cannot destroy,
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd!
Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd-
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

Děs' ti ny (myth.), the Three Fates; the

supposed powers which preside over human life, and determine its circumstances and duration.

Wel' ling ton (first Duke of), a cele

brated British general and statesman, born in Dublin, Ireland, on the 1st of May, 1769.




Louise Mühlbach, born January 5, 1814, was the daughter of the chief burgomaster of the city of Neubrandenburg, Prussia. Her real name was Clara Müller. At the age of twenty-five she married Theodore Mundt, a novelist of some repute, who left her a widow when she was forty-seven years old. Her first novel appeared about the year 1839, and was received with so much favor, that she soon followed it with others, and in a short time ranked with the best writers of the age. She is particularly successful as a historical novelist. Some of her most popular works are Bernthal, Joseph II. and his Court, The Empress Josephine, Marie Antoinette and her Son, Frederick the Great and his Court, Goethe and Schiller, Andreas Hofer, etc. She died September 26, 1873.


OW long and dreary was the year from the spring of 1785 to the spring of 1786, to Frederick the Second, the old philosopher of Sans-Souci, who day by day grew more hopeless, and into whose ear was daily whispered the awful tidings, "You must die!" He did not close his ears to these mutterings of age and decrepitude, nor did he fear death. For him life had been a great battle-a continuous conflict. He had ever faced death bravely, and had fought against all sorts of enemies; and truly, the worst and most dangerous among them were not those who opposed him with visible weapons, and on the battle-field.

2. It is easier to conquer on the field of battle, than to combat prejudices and extirpate abuses. And after the days of real battle were over, Frederick was compelled to wage incessant war against these evils.

Commerce flourished under his rule-the fruits of Prussian industry found a market in the most distant lands. The soldiers of war had become soldiers of peace, who were now warring for the prosperity of the people. This warfare was certainly, at times, a little severe, and the good and useful had to be introduced by force. But what of that?

3. Were the potatoes less nutritious because the peasants of Silesia were driven into the fields by armed soldiers and com

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