sleeping?

TO THE DEAD.

On the lone waters' shore
Wander I yet;
Brooding those moments o'er
I should forget.
'Till the broad foaming surge
Warns me to fly,
While despair's whispers urge
To stay and die.
When the night's solemn watch
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