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What a union of all the affections and powers,

By which life is exalted, embellished, refined,
Was embraced in that spirit; whose centre was ours,
While its mighty circumference circled mankind.

Oh, who that loves Erin-or who that can see
Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime—
Like a pyramid, raised in the desert, where he

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
With the flash of the

stone of lustre,' and gave,


its solidity too.

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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,
But at distance observed him-through glory, through

In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,
Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same—

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,
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade;
He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more,
And busy fancy fondly lends her aid.

Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew,
Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime,
Charms with the magic of a moonlight view,
Its colours mellowed, not impaired, by time.

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,
Or eve's grey
cloud descends to drink the wave;
When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,

Still, still he views the parting look she gave.

Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,
Attends his little bark from pole to pole;
And, when the beating billows round him roar,
Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul.

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;
Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale!
In each he hears the welcome of a friend.

"Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!
Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furled;
Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land,
And clasps the maid he singled from the world.



The good man dies-it grieves us :
Why should the good man die?

but, dying, leaves us

He dies

A lasting legacy.

And this becomes our comforter;

And sweeter is the thought
Of him who is departed,
Than all that death has left:-
No longer, broken-hearted,
Deem that thou art bereft ;
For O the good man's memory
Is sweeter far than aught.

No sorrows now disturb him,
No disappointment there;
No worldly pride to curb him
In his sublime career:
Heaven's azure arch is o'er him,
Earth's tranquil breast beneath.
The stars are brightly glowing,
The breezes play around,
The flowers are sweetly blowing,
The dew is on the ground,
And emerald mosses cover him-
How beautiful is death!

His life-a summer's even,
Whose sun of light, tho' set

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