V.

24. LINES RELATING TO CURRAN'S DAUGHTER.

HE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

SHE

And lovers around her are sighing;

But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying.

2. She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking—

Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.

3. He had lived for his love-for his country he died;
They were all that to life had entwined him—
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

4. Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glōrious morrow;

They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the west,

From her own loved island of sorrow. THOMAS MOORE.

THOMAS MOORE, the poet, was born in Dublin, in 1780. He showed from boy hood an imaginative and musical turn; and various circumstances combined in impressing him early with that deep sense of the wrongs and sufferings of Ireland to which his poetry owes so many of its most powerful touches. He was educated at Trinity College, where he took his degree in 1798, after which he went to London to keep his terms for the bar. Poetry however had taken possession of his mind; and his gay translation of Anacreon was published in 1800. In 1804, having obtained a registrarship in Bermuda, he went out to discharge the duties of the office. It proved much less lucrative than he expected; and in a few months he returned home, from which time his course of life was very uneventful. In 1811 he married Miss Dyke, an amiable, attractive, and domestic lady. He soon after established himself permanently at Sloperton, near Devizes, visiting London, however, frequently, and making other excursions. In 1835 he received from government a pension of £300 a year; and in 1850, when his health was completely broken, Mrs. Moore obtained a pension of a hundred pounds. He died in the beginning of 1852. Of his serious poems, "Irish Melodies," and "Lalla Rookh" best support his fame. Many pieces of the former are exquisite for grace of diction, for beauty, and for a refined and ideal kind of pathos. The latter evinces great skill and care of execution, with marvelous richness of fancy, and singular correctness of costume, and establishes his claim to an important place among the great painters of romantic narrative. Moore's political satires, perhaps, show his genius in a more brilliant light than any of his other works. Of his prose writings, the most noted and worthy is the gor geous romance of "The Epicurean," which appeared in 1827.

VI.

25. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

With many a light

From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
10.

The bleak, wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,

Or the black, flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurled-
Any where-any where
Out of the world!

11.

In she plunged boldly-
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran—
Over the brink of it!
Picture it-think of it!
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can !—
Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care!
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair.

12.

Ere her limbs, frigidly,
Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
13.

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.
14.

Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,'
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,

Into her rest!

Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving with meekness
Her sins to her Saviour!
THOMAS HOOD.

THOMAS HOOD, humorist and poet, was born at London, in 1798. The best incident of his early boyhood was his instruction by a schoolmaster who appreciated his talents, and was so interested in teaching as to render it impossible not to interest his pupil. At this period he earned his first fee-a few guineas— by revising for the press a new edition of "Paul and Virginia." In his fifteenth year, after receiving a miscellaneous education, he was placed in the counting. house of a Russian merchant; but, soon after learned the art of engraving. In 1821, having already written fugitive papers for periodicals, he became subeditor of the "London Magazine," a position which at once introduced him to the best literary society of the time. "Odes and Addresses" soon after appeared. "Whims and Oddities," "National Tales," "Tylncy Hall," a novel, and "The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies," followed. In these, the humorous fac

1 Căn' tu mē ly, rudeness or reproach compounded of haughtiness and contempt; despiteful treatment.

ulty not only predominated, but expressed itself with a freshness, originality, and power, which the poetical element could not claim. There was, however, much true poetry in the verse, and much sound sense and keen observation in the prose of these works. After publishing several annuals, he started a magazine in his own name. Though aided by men of reputation and authority, this work, which he conducted with surprising energy, was mainly sustained by his own intellectual activity. At this time, confined to a sick-bed, from which he never rose, in his anxiety to provide for his wife and children, he composed those poems, too few in number, but immortal in the English language, such as the "Song of the Shirt," the "Song of the Laborer," and the "Bridge of Sighs." His death occurred on the 3d of May, 1845.

L

VII.

26. SELECT PASSAGES IN VERSE.

I. SUCCESSION OF HUMAN BEINGS.

IKE leaves on trees the life of man is found,

Now green in youth, now withering on the ground;

Another race the following spring supplies,

They fall successive, and successive rise:

So generations in their course decay;

So flourish these, when those have passed away.

II. DEATH OF THE YOUNG AND FAIR.

She died in beauty, like a rose blown from its parent stem;
She died in beauty, like a pearl dropped from some diadem;
She died in beauty, like a lay along a moonlit lake ;

She died in beauty, like the song of birds amid the brake ;
She died in beauty, like the snow on flowers dissolved away;
She died in beauty, like a star lost on the brow of day;—
She lives in glory, like Night's gems set round the silver moon;
She lives in glory, like the sun amid the blue of June.

III. A LADY DROWNED.-PROCTER.

Is she dead?.......

Why so shall I bc, -cro these autumn blasts

Have blown on the beard of Winter.

Is she dead?

Ay, she is dead,-quite dead! The wild Sea kissed her
With its cold white lips, and then-put her to sleep:
She has a sand pillow, and a water sheet,

And never turns her head or knows 'tis morning!

IV. LIFE OF MAN.-BEAUMONT.

Like to the falling of a star,

Or as the flights of eagles are,

Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in and paid to-night:
The wind blows out, the bubble dies;
The spring entombed in autumn lies;
The dew's dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.

V. CORONACH.-SCOTT.

He is gone on the mountain, he is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain, when our need was the sōrèst;
The fount, reappearing, from the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering, to Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper takes the ears that are hōary,
But the voice of the weeper wails manhood in glōry ;
The autumn winds rushing waft the leaves that are serest,
But our flower was in flushing when blighting was nearest.—
Fleet foot on the correi," sage counsel in cumber,"
Red hand in the foray, how sound is thy slumber!

Like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and forever!

VI. IMMORTALITY.-R. H. DANA.

"Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices
Hymn it unto our souls: according harps,
By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars
Of morning sang together, sound forth still
The song of our great immortality!

Thick-clustering orbs on this our fair domain,
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas,
Join in this solemn, universal song.

O listen, ye our spirits! drink it in

From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight;
'Tis floating mid day's setting glōries; night,
Wrapped in her sable' robe, with silent step,

· Coronach, (kõr′ o nak), a song of lamentation; a lament.

Correi, (kör rå), the side of a hill where game usually lies.

* Cum' ber, perplexity: distress. 1 Fō rāy, a sudden pillaging incursion in peace or war.

'Sa' ble, dark; black.