Oh, give me one strain
Of that wild harp again,
In melody proudly its own,
Sweet harp of the days that are gone!
Time’s wide-wasting wing
Its cold shadow may fling
Where the light of the soul hath no part;
The sceptre and sword
Both decay with their lord,
But the throne of the Bard is the heart!
And hearts, while they beat
To thy music so sweet,
Thy glory shall ever prolong,
Land of honour, and beauty, and song!
The beauty whose sway
Waked the bard’s votive lay,
Hath gone to eternity’s shade;
While, fresh in its fame,
Lives the song to her name,
Which the Minstrel immortal hath made!
Proud harp, of wild string,
Where thy sweetness did ring
O’er the silence of other lands,
By the magic of minstrel hands,
Too oft did its wail
Load with sorrow the gale
O’er the land that was made to be free;
But, Isle of the West,
Raise thy emerald crest,
Songs of triumph shall yet ring for thee.
* * * * *
POVERTY.--Poverty has in large cities very different appearances. It is
often concealed in splendour, and often in extravagance. It is the care
of a very great part of mankind to conceal their indigence from the rest.
They support themselves by temporary expedients, and every day is lost in
contriving for to-morrow.
* * * * *
When you intend to marry, look first at the heart, next at the mind, then
at the person.
* * * * *
Pride is a vice, which pride itself inclines every man to find in others
and to overlook in himself.--_Johnson._