Poems

Falls on the seas,
’Tis thy voice that I catch
In the low breeze;
When the moon sheds her light
On things below,
Beams not her ray so bright,
Like thy young brow?
Spirit immortal! say,
When wilt thou come,
To marshal me the way
To my long home?

SONG

I sing the yellow leaf,
That rustling strews
The wintry path, where grief
Delights to muse,
Spring’s early violet, that sweetly opes
Its fragrant leaves to the young morning’s kiss,
Type of our youth’s fond dreams, and cherished hopes,
Will soon be this:
A sere and yellow leaf,
That rustling strews
The wintry path, where grief
Delights to muse.
The summer’s rose, in whose rich hues we read
Pleasure’s gay bloom, and love’s enchanting bliss,
And glory’s laurel, waving o’er the dead,
Will soon be this:
A sere and yellow leaf,
That rustling strews
The wintry path, where grief
Delights to muse.

TO THOMAS MOORE, Esq

Here’s a health to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet’s brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing,
Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever fond woman’s eyes eclipse
The midnight moon’s soft ray;
Whenever around dear woman’s lips,
The smiles of affection play:

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet’s brim we will fill,
For all that to life is endearing,
Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever the warrior’s sword is bound
With the laurel of victory,
Wherever the patriot’s brow is crowned
With the halo of liberty:

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet’s brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing
Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever the voice of mirth hath rung,
On the listening ear of night,
Wherever the soul of wit hath flung
Its flashes of vivid light:

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet’s brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing,
In thy strains is dearer still.

A WISH

Oh! that I were a fairy sprite, to wander
In forest paths, o’erarched with oak and beech;
Where the sun’s yellow light, in slanting rays,
Sleeps on the dewy moss: what time the breath
Of early morn stirs the white hawthorn boughs,
And fills the air with showers of snowy blossoms.
Or lie at sunset ’mid the purple heather,
Listening the silver music that rings out
From the pale mountain bells, swayed by the wind.
Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea,
While one by one the evening stars shine forth
Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens
Like floating purple wreaths of mournful nightshade!

THE MINSTREL’S GRAVE

Oh let it be where the waters are meeting,
In one crystal sheet, like the summer’s sky bright!
Oh let it be where the sun, when retreating,
May throw the last glance of his vanishing light.
Lay me there! lay me there! and upon my lone pillow
Let the emerald moss in soft starry wreaths swell;
Be my dirge the faint sob of the murmuring billow,
And the burthen it sings to me, nought but “farewell!”

Oh let it be where soft slumber enticing,