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SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.
ILENCE is in our festal halls,
Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er;
In vain on thee sad Erin calls,
Her minstrel's voice responds no more ;—
All silent as th' Eolian shell
Sleeps at the close of some bright day, When the sweet breeze, that waked its swell At sunny morn, hath died away.
Yet, at our feasts, thy spirit long,
And ev'n within the holy fane,
When music wafts the soul to heaven, One thought to him, whose earliest strain Was echo'd there, shall long be given.
But where is now the cheerful day,
The social night, when, by thy side, He who now weaves this parting lay,
His skill-less voice with thine allied;
And sung those songs whose every tone,
When bard and minstrel long have past, Shall still, in sweetness all their own,
Embalm'd by fame, undying last.
Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,
Or, if thy bard have shared the crown, From thee the borrow'd glory came,
And at thy feet is now laid down.
His latest song, and still there be,
IGHT sounds the harp when the combat is over,
When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom; When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.
But, when the foe returns,
High flames the sword in his hand once more:
Is then the sound that charms,
And brazen notes of war, that stirring trumpets pour ;Then, again comes the Harp, when the combat is over— When heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom— When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.
Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining,
The hero's eye breath'd flame:
Soon from his neck the white arm was flung;
While, to his wak’ning ear,
No other sounds were dear
But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung. But then came the light harp, when danger was ended, And Beauty once more lull'd the War-God to rest ; When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.
POOR BROKEN FLOWER.
OOR broken flower! what art can now recover thee?
In vain the sun-beams seek
To warm that faded cheek;
The dews of heav'n, that once like balm fell over thee,
So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,—
Like sun-beams round her fall;
The only smile that could from death awaken her,