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Thomas Doore

1779-1852

AS SLOW OUR SHIP

(From Irish Melodies, 1807-1834)

As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still look'd back
To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loath we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts, where'er we rove,
To those we've left behind us!

When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
We talk, with joyous seeming,
And smiles that might as well be tears,
So faint, so sad their beaming;
While mem'ry brings us back again
Each early tie that twin'd us,
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
To those we've left behind us!

And, when in other climes we meet
Some isle or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flow'ry, mild and sweet,
And nought but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss,
If Heav'n had but assign'd us

To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us!

As trav'llers oft look back a'; eve,
When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon the light they leave

Still faint behind them glowing

So, when the close of pleasure's day
To gloom hath near consign'd us,
We turn to catch one fading ray
Of joy that's left behind us.

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS (From the same)

The harp that once, through Tara's Halls

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,

As if that soul were fled:

-

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er;

And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more!

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!

George Gordon Byron

1788-1824

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

(1815)

"O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater
Felix! in imo qui scatentem

Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit."

I.

-Gray's Poemata.

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes

away,

When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;

'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,

But the tender bloom of heart is gone, e'er youth itself

be past.

II.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness

Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain

The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.

III.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its

own;

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our

tears,

And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

IV.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,

Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;

'Tis but as ivy leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.

V.

Oh could I feel as I have felt,—c -or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene:

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,

So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY

(From Hebrew Melodies, 1815)

I.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

5 Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

II.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place.

III.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

SONNET ON CHILLON

(Introduction to The Prisoner of Chillon)
(1816)

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind!
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,
For there thy habitation is the heart-
The heart which love of thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd—
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom
Their country conquers with their martyrdom,
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
Chillon thy prison is a holy place,

And thy sad floor an altar-for 'twas trod,
Until his very steps have left a trace
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
By Bonnivard!-May none those marks efface!
For they appeal from tyranny to God.

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