Though foul are the drops that oft distil

On the field of warfare, blood like this,
For Liberty shed, so holy is,

It would not stain the purest rill

That sparkles among the bowers of bliss!
Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere

A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,

'Tis the last libation Liberty draws

From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!"

Moore wrote those undying lines, the Canadian Boat-Song, during his passage of the St. Lawrence, from Kingston. He pencilled the lines, nearly as they stand in his works, in the blank page of a book which happened to be in his canoe. Some thirty years afterwards, a friend showed this original draught to Moore, when he recalled his youthful days, and alluded in a touching manner to his passage down the rapids of life.

His prelude to The Loves of the Angels is very beautiful :

'Twas when the world was in its prime,

When the fresh stars had just begun

Their race of glory, and young Time

Told his first birth-days by the sun :
When, in the light of nature's dawn,
Rejoicing men and angels met
On the high hill and sunny lawn,-
Ere Sorrow came, or Sin had drawn

'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet!

When earth lay nearer to the skies

Than in these days of crime and woe,
And mortals saw, without surprise,

In the mid-air, angelic eyes

Gazing upon this world below.

One of Moore's fine heroic songs commences :

As by the shore, at break of day, a vanquished chief expiring lay, Upon the sands, with broken sword, he traced his farewell to the free; And there, the last unfinished word he, dying, wrote, was-"Liberty!"

*

Another no less striking, we all remember it, beginning—

The harp that once through Tara's halls the soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls as if that soul had fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days—so glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise, now feel that pulse no

more.

The following lyrics possess great beauty :

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,-
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy:
And they come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
To bring back the features that joy used to wear.

Long, long be my heart with such memories filled!
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled;
You may break, you may ruir. the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

Oft in the stilly night, ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond memory brings the light of other days around me;
The smiles, the tears of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone, now dimmed and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!

When I remember all the friends, so linked together,
I've seen around me fall, like leaves in wintry weather,

I feel like one who treads alone

Some banquet hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled, whose garland's dead,

And all but he departed!

Thus in the stilly night, ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad memory brings the light of other days around me.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy gifts fading away,

Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,

And around the dear ruin each wish of

Would entwine itself verdantly still.

my heart

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,

That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,

The same look which she turned when he rose.

We should honour any poet who gives utterance to so brave a sentiment as the following:

Yes, 'tis not helm nor feather-
For ask yon despot, whether

His plumed bands could bring such hands
And hearts as ours together.

Leave pomps to those who need 'em,
Give man but heart and freedom,

And proud he braves the gaudiest slaves
That crawl where monarchs lead 'em.

The sword may pierce the beaver,
Stone walls in time may sever,
'Tis mind alone, worth steel and stone,

That keeps men free forever!

The following lines illustrate Moore's exquisite taste and skill:

Oh, what a pure and sacred thing is Beauty curtained from the sight Of the gross world, illumining one only mansion with her light! Unseen by man's disturbing eye, the flower that blooms beneath the

sea,

Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie hid in more chaste obscurity.
A soul, too, more than half divine, where, through some shades of

earthly feeling,

Religion's softened glories shine, like light through summer foliage stealing,

sons.

Shedding a glow of such mild hue,

So warm, and yet so shadowy too,

As makes the very darkness there

More beautiful than light elsewhere!

Our national bard, BRYANT, like Wordsworth, is eminently a poet of nature, for he eloquently interprets to us her beautiful lesCalm and meditative are his varied productions; and while they are characterized by classic elegance and grace, they also breathe a spirit of pure and exalted philosophy. The Lines to a Waterfowl, one of his earlier poems, and one of his most justly admired, is now before us:

Whither, midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

There is a Power whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,The desert and illimitable air,

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.