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What a union of all the affections and powers,
By which life is exalted, embellished, refined,
Oh, who that loves Erin-or who that can see
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time!—
That one lucid interval, snatched from the gloom
And the madness of ages, when, filled with his soul, A nation o'erleaped the dark bounds of her doom,
And, for one sacred instant, touched liberty's goal!
Who, that ever hath heard him—hath drank at the source Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own,
In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force, And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown
An eloquence, rich-wheresoever its wave
Wandered free and triumphant-with thoughts that shone through,
As clear as the brook's
stone of lustre,' and gave,
its solidity too.
Who, that ever approached him, when, free from the crowd, In a home full of love he delighted to tread
'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bowed
As if each brought a new civic crown for his head.
That home where—like him who, as fable hath told, Put the rays from his brow, that his child might come
Every glory forgot, the most wise of the old
Became all that the simplest, and youngest hold dear.
Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life,
In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,
Such a union of all that enriches life's hour,
Of the sweetness we love, and the greatness we praise, As that type of simplicity blended with power,
A child with a thunderbolt only portrays.
Oh no-not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mourns, Deep, deep o'er the grave where such glory is shrined
O'er a monument Fame will preserve 'mong the urns Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!
The sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew,
True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
Through all the horrors of the stormy main ; This, the last wish that would with life depart, To meet the smile of her he loves again.
When morn first faintly draws her silver line,
Still, still he views the parting look she gave.
Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,
Carved is her name in many a spicy grove,
In many a plantain forest, waving wide; Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove, And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tribe.
But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail;
"Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!
EVENING THOUGHTS ON DEATH.
The good man dies-it grieves us :
but, dying, leaves us
A lasting legacy.
And this becomes our comforter;
And sweeter is the thought
No sorrows now disturb him,
His life-a summer's even,