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Shelley. Davies. — Barrett.

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Poems written in 1821. To.

The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow!
Poems written in 1821. To

SCROPE DAVIES.

Babylon in all its desolation is a sight not so awful as that of the human mind in ruins. Letter to Thomas Raikes, May 25, 1835.

EATON S. BARRETT. 1785-1820.

Not she with trait'rous kiss her Saviour stung,
Not she denied him with unholy tongue;
She, while apostles shrank, could danger brave,
Last at his cross, and earliest at his grave.

Woman. Part i. Ed. 1822.1

1 Not she with trait'rous kiss her Master stung,
Not she denied him with unfaithful tongue;
She, when apostles fled, could danger brave,
Last at his cross, and earliest at his grave.

From the original edition of 1810.

MISS FANNY STEERS.

The last link is broken

That bound me to thee,

And the words thou hast spoken
Have rendered me free.

Song.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 1795-1820.

When Freedom from her mountain height

Unfurled her standard to the air,

She tore the azure robe of night,
And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white,
With streakings of the morning light.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valour given;

Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?
The American Flag.

FELICIA D. HEMANS.

1794-1835.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, And stars to set; - but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Alas! for love, if thou art all,

The Hour of Death.

And naught beyond, O Earth!

The Graves of a Household.

Through the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of Orient mould,
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the mossbeds at its feet.

The breaking waves dash'd high

The Palm Tree.

On a stern and rock-bound coast;

And the woods, against a stormy sky,

Their giant branches toss'd.

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England.

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod,

They have left unstain'd what there they found,

Freedom to worship God.

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck

Shone round him o'er the dead.

Ibid.

Casabianca.

LORD BROUGHAM.

1779 – 1868.

Let the soldier be abroad if he will, he can do nothing in this age. There is another personage, a personage less imposing in the eyes of some, perhaps insignificant. The schoolmaster is abroad, and I trust to him, armed with his primer, against the soldier in full military array. Speech, January 29, 1828.

In my mind, he was guilty of no error, he was chargeable with no exaggeration. he was betrayed by his fancy into no metaphor, who once said, that all we see about us, Kings, Lords, and Commons, the whole machinery of the state, all the apparatus of the system, and its varied workings, end in simply bringing twelve good men into a box. Present State of the Law, Feb. 7, 1828. Pursuit of knowledge under difficulties.1 Death was now armed with a new terror.2

1 The title given by Lord Brougham to a book published in 1830, under the superintendence of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge.

2 Brougham delivered a very warm panegyric upon the ex-chancellor, and expressed a hope that he would make a good end. Although to an expiring Chancellor, Death was now armed with a new terror. - Campbell's Lives of the Chancellors, Vol. viii. p. 163.

From Edmund Curll's practice of issuing miserable catch-penny lives of every eminent person immediately after his decease, Arbuthnot wittily styled him "one of the new terrors of death."-Carruther's Life of Pope, second ed. p. 149.

544

Dibdin.-Payne.- Sprague.

THOMAS DIBDIN. 1771-1841.

O, it's a snug little island!

A right little, tight little island!

The Snug Little Island.

J. HOWARD PAYNE. 1792-1852.

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble there's no place like home.1 Home, Sweet Home?

CHARLES SPRAGUE. 1791-1874.

Lo, where the stage, the poor, degraded stage, Holds its warped mirror to a gaping age.

Curiosity.

Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends, An incarnation of fat dividends.

Behold! in Liberty's unclouded blaze

We lift our heads, a race of other days.

Ibid.

Centennial Ode. St. 22.

1 "Home is home though it be never so homely" is a proverb, and is found in the collections of the seventeenth century.

2 From The Opera of Clari— the Maid of Milan.

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