OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

Oft, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me ;

The smiles, the tears,

Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.
When I remember all

The friends, so link'd together,
I've seen around me fall,
Like leaves in wintry weather,

I feel like one

Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,

Whose garland's dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

WEEP NOT FOR THOSE,

WEEP not for those whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,

Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Death chill'd the fair fountain ere sorrow had

stain'd it, 'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course, And but sleeps till the sunshine of heaven has un

chain'd it, To water that Eden where first was its source! Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,

Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,

Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now, Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale,

And the garland of love was yet fresh on her brow! Oh! then was her moment, dear spirit, for fying From this gloomy world, while its gloom was un

known; And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying,

Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own! Weep not for her; in her springtime she flew To that land where the wings of the soul are un

furl'd, And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew,

Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.

THIS WORLD 18 ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

This world is all a fleeting show,

For man's illusion given;
The smiles of Joy, the tears of Wo,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-

There's nothing true but Heaven !
And false the light on Glory's plume,

As fading hues of even;
And Love, and Hope, and beauty's Bloom
Are blossoms gather'd for the comb-

There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven ;
And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way-

There's nothing calm but Heaven!

TO THE MEMORY OF JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ., OF DUBLIN.
If ever lot was prosperously cast,

If ever life was like the lengthen'd flow
Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last,

'Twas his who, mourn’d by many, sleeps below. The sunny temper, bright where all is strife,

The simple heart that mocks at worldly wiles, Light wit, that plays along the calm of life,

And stirs its languid surface into smiles; Pure charity, that comes not in a shower,

Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds, But, like the dew, with gradual, silent power,

Felt in the bloom it leaves among the meads; The happy, grateful spirit, that improves

And brightens every gift by fortune given, That, wander where it will with those it loves,

Makes every place a home, and home a heaven: All these were his. Oh! thou who read'st this stone,

When for thyself, thy children, to the sky Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone,

That ye like him may live, like him may die !

TO MY MOTHER.

THEY tell us of an Indian tree,

Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,

And shoot and blossom, wide and high,

Far better loves to bend its arms

Downward again to that dear earth
From which the life, that fills and warms

Its grateful being, first had birth.
'Tis thus, though wood by flattering friends

And fed with fame (if fame it be),
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,

With love's true instinct, back to thee!

DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.

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 loveliest thrill ; But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sad

ness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

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 slum

bers, 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; It was but as the wind passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.

VOL. II.-BB

SAMUEL ROGERS. 1762.

FROM

THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY."

Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene : Still'd is the hum that through the hamlet broke, When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play, And games and carols closed the busy day. Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more With treasured tales and legendary lore. All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows, To chase the dreams of innocent repose. All, all are fled; yet still I linger here! What secret charms this silent spot endear?

Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees, Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade, First to these eyes the light of Heaven convey'd. The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown

court,
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport,
When nature pleased, for life itself was new,
And the heart promised what the fancy drew.

See, through the fractured pediment reveal'd,
Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield,
The martin's old hereditary nest :
Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest!

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call!
Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall!
That hall, where once, in antiquated state,
The chair of justice held the grave debate.

Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung,
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;
When round yon ample board, in due degree,
We sweeten'd every meal with social glee.
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest,
And all was sunshine in each little breast.