WHY SHOULD WE SIGH? BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. WHY should we sigh when Fancy's dream, To cheer the lonely waste of years? Why should we sigh that earth no more TOM MOORE, AGAIN WE'RE MET. BY JOHN EVERETT. TOM MOORE, again we're met- And thine eye shall gleam the brighter And thy minstrelsy flow lighter With our healths to thee, Tom Moore. For thy boyish songs of woman Thrown about like unstrung pearls, Ere thy armed spirit's summon, Bade thee leave thy bright-haired girls; For thy satire's quenchless arrows On the foes thy country bore, For thy song of Erin's sorrows, Here's a health to thee, Tom Moore. Drink to Moore, drink to Moo.e-- To thee its glittering drops we pour, Drink a health to thee, Tom Moore. IS IT THE WELCOME ROAR. BY THOMAS 0. FOLSOM. Is it the welcome roar Of thundering signal gun? Hark! for the sound bursts through once more, Rending night's robe of dun. It is the welcome sound, The joyous call to war, For the near bugle screams around The cry to arms-hurrah! From beauty's straining arms Bring out the trusty sword and steed, And mustering warriors onward crowd, And blithely shout-hurrah! The early dawn shall glance On the long gleaming line, Proudly the buoyant plume will dance, And burnished bayonet shine; The soldier's heart will leap As trumpets ring afar, They summon him away to reap His wreaths of fame-hurrah! Lo! yonder comes the foe- For freedom 'tis ye strike below Their fiercest daring mar 'Tis well! fling down the brand and cry A HEALTH. BY EDWARD C. PINKNEY. I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds, And something more than melody dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the rose. Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness, of young flowers; And lonely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she ap pears The image of themselves by turns,-the idol of past years! Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain ; But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers. I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name. |