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No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,

Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives,
Is when some heart indignant breaks,

To show that still she lives.

The Minstrel-boy.

THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.—
'Land of song!' said the warrior bard,
'Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy right shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!'

The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under:
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, 'No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the brave and free,-

They shall never sound in slavery!'

The Meeting Of The Waters.

THERE'S not in the wide world a valley so sweet,
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet:
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart!

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no—it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosonij were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,

Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.


Charles Lamb.

Bor n 1775. Died 1834.

Lines Written In My Own Album.

FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white,
A young probationer of light,
Thou wert, my soul, an album bright,

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
And friend and foe, in foul and fair,
Have 'written strange defeatures' there;

And Time with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamped sad dates—he can't recall

And error, gilding worst designs—
Like speckled snake that strays and shines-
Betrays his path by crooked lines;

And vice hath left his ugly blot;
And good resolves, a moment hot,
Fairly begun—but finished not;

And fruitless late remorse doth trace—
Like Hebrew lore a backward pace—
Her irrecoverable race.

Disjointed numbers ; sense unknit;
Huge reams of folly ; shreds of wit;
Compose the mingled mass of it.

My scalded eyes no longer brook
Upon this ink-blurred thing to look—
Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.

Old Familiar Faces.

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

2 have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

1 loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;—
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood;
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces ;—

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

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The Fish, The Man, And The Spirit.

The Man to the Fish.

YOU strange, astonished-looking, angle-faced,
Dreary-mouthed, gaping wretches of the sea,
Gulping salt-water everlastingly,

Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be graced,
And mute, though dwellers in the roaring waste;
And you all shapes beside that fishy be,—
Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry,
Legless, unloving, infamously chaste :—
O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights,
What is't you do? what life lead? eh, dull goggles?
How do ye vary your dull days and nights?
How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles,
In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes, and bites,
And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles?

A Fish answers.

Amazing monster! that, for aught I know,
With the first sight of thee didst make our race
For ever stare! O, flat and shocking face,
Grimly divided from the breast below!
Thou that on dry land horribly dost go.

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