Part 25 (2/2)

Fill high the boith Sains dance beneath the shade-- I see their glorious black eyes shi+ne; But gazing on each glowingtear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves

Place , save the waves and I, May hear ourand die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine-- Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

xxxVI GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE

THOMAS MOORE--1779-1852

Go where glory waits thee; But, while fame elates thee, O, still remember me!

When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, O, then remember me!

Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest, O, then remember me!

When, at eve, thou rovest By the star thou lovest, O, then reht we've seen it burning, O, thus remember me!

Oft as su roses, Once so lov'd by thee, Think of her ove them, Her who made thee love the, Autuht, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, O, still re All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, Draw one tear fro thee,-- O, then remember me!

xxxVII DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY

MOORE

Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, ave all thy chords to light, freedoht note of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sadness, That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still

Dear Harp ofis the last we shall twine!

Go, sleep with the sunshi+ne of fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine;

If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was _but_ as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own

xxxVIII COME, YE DISCONSOLATE

MOORE

Couish, Co your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish-- Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal

Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, Here speaks the Co,-- ”Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure”

Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us, What char hearts _he_ can reveal, Sweet as that heavenly pros us, ”Earth has no sorrow that God cannot heal”