Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee!
After the fall of the Cistus flower;

When the Primrose of evening was ready to burst,
I heard thee last, as I saw thee first;
In the silence of the evening hour,
Heard I thee, thou busy, busy Bee.

Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy Bee!
Late and early at employ ;

Still on thy golden stores intent,

Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent
What thy winter will never enjoy;

Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy Bee!

Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy Bee!
What is the end of thy toil.

When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,
And all thy work for the year is done,
Thy master comes for the spoil:
Woe then for thee, thou busy, busy Bee!

SONNET.

O GOD! have mercy in this dreadful hour
On the poor mariner! in comfort here
Safe shelter'd as 1 am, I almost fear
The blast that rages with resistless power.

What were it now to toss upon the waves,

The madden'd waves, and know no succour near;
The howling of the storm alone to hear,

And the wild sea that to the tempest raves :
To gaze amid the horrors of the night,
And only see the billows' gleaming light;
And in the dread of death to think of her,
Who, as she listens, sleepless, to the gale,
Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale?
O God! have mercy on the mariner!

THOMAS MOORE was born in Dublin, or the 28th of May, 1779. At the age of four teen he entered the University of his native city, where he took his degree. In 1799 he became a member of the Middle Temple, and was called to the bar. Before he had completed his twentieth year he published his Translations of the Odes of Anacreon; and at once "became famous." The work was dedicated to the Prince of Wales,-and led to an introduction to his Royal Highness, and a subsequent intimacy, of which a variety of anecdotes are related; but that it terminated disadvantageously for both, we have unquestionable proof in the pages of some of the Poet's later writings. In 1803, Mr. Moore obtained an official situation at Bermuda: be filled it but for a short period, and returned to England. In 1806, he published the "Odes and Epistles;" in 1808, Poems, under the assumed name of Thomas Little; in 1817, Lallah Rookh; and in 1823, the Loves of the Angels. Besides these Poems, Mr. Moore has printed a variety of light poetical squibs-the value of which ceased with the topics that called them forth. His Prose works also are numerous: chief among them is his Life of Sheridan and the History of Ireland.

The Poet preferred retirement to celebrity-except that which the Muses so lavishly bestowed upon him; and resisted all attempts to lure him into the arena of public life. He was the idol of the circle in which he moved. A finer gentleman, in the better sense of the term, was nowhere to be found; his learning was not only extensive, but sound; and he was pre-eminent for those qualities which attract and charm in society. His voice, though not of large compass, was wonderfully sweet and effective, and he was a good musician;-to hear him sing one of his own melodies was, indeed, a rich treat. In person he was "little," and the expression of his countenance was rather joyous than dignified; there was, however, a peculiar kindliness in his look and manner, which in no way detracted from the enthusiasm his presence could not fail to excite. The Poet died at Sloperton, Wilts, on the 26th Feb., 1852; and his friend Earl Russell edited his "Diary" and wrote his Life. It is that of a man, not only of rarely cultivated intellect, but of lofty soul. There has been no writer who conferred more honour on his "calling." It is a great mistake to describe him as seeking the society of men of rank: they sought him indeed. He was high of soul, upright and just in all his dealings with his fellow men: and there was not one who better discharged the duties of husband, parent, friend, and neighbour. Of all the compliments he received, perhaps the briefest and the most conclusive is that of Dr. Parr, who bequeathed to him a ring-" to one who stands high in my estimation for original genius, for his exquisite sensibility, for his independent spirit, and incorruptible integrity."

It is scarcely necessary to comment on the poetry of Thomas Moore. It has been more extensively read than that of any modern author. Those who might not have sought it otherwise, have become familiar with it through the medium of the delicious music to which it has been wedded; and it would be difficult to find a single educated individual in Great Britain unable to repeat some of his verses. No writer has enjoyed a popularity so universal: and if an author's position is to depend on the delight he produces, we must class the author of "Lallah Rookh," and the "Irish Melodies," chiefest of the Bards" of modern times. His poetry, however, is deficient in those higher and more enduring materials which form the ground-work of imperishable fame. Its leading attribute is grace. The Poet rarely attempts, and more rarely succeeds in, fathoming the depths of the human heart, and laying open the rich vein that has been hidden by the dull quarry: he is always brilliant, but seldom powerful; he is an epicurean in poetry, and turns away from all objects which do not yield enjoyment. His fancy is perpetually at play;-things which please the senses are more contemplated than those which excite or control the passions; and while he

"Lives in a bright little world of his own "

we must not mistake the dazzling and brilliant light which surrounds him for the animating and invigorating sun.

We are by no means singular in thinking that the "Irish Melodies must be considered as the most valuable and enduring of all his works; they

"Circle his name with a charm against death."

THEY say that Love had once a book
(The urchin likes to copy you),
Where all who came the pencil took,
And wrote, like us, a line or two.

'Twas Innocence, the maid divine,

Who kept this volume bright and fair,

And saw that no unhallow'd line,

Or thought profane, should enter there.

And sweetly did the pages fill

With fond device and loving lore,

And every leaf she turned was still

More bright than that she turn'd before!

Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,
How light the magic pencil ran!
Till Fear would come, alas! as oft,

And trembling close what Hope began.

A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief,
And Jealousy would, now and then,
Ruffle in haste some snowy leaf,

Which Love had still to smooth again!

But, oh! there was a blooming boy,
Who often turn'd the pages o'er,
And wrote therein such words of joy,
As all who read still sigh'd for more!

And Pleasure was this spirit's name,

And though so soft his voice and look, Yet Innocence, whene'er he came, Would tremble for her spotless book!

For still she saw his playful fingers
Fill'd with sweets and wanton toys;
And well she knew the stain that lingers
After sweets from wanton boys!

And so it chanced, one luckless night
He let his honey goblet fall
O'er the dear book so pure, so white,
And sullied lines, and marge and all!

In vain he sought, with eager lip,

The honey from the leaf to drink, For still the more the boy would sip, The deeper still the blot would sink!

Oh, it would make you weep to see
The traces of this honey flood
Steal o'er a page, where Modesty
Had freshly drawn a rose's bud!

And Fancy's emblems lost their glow,
And Hope's sweet lines were all defaced,
And Love himself could scarcely know
What Love himself had lately traced!

At length the urchin Pleasure fled,
(For how, alas! could Pleasure stay!)
And Love, while many a tear he shed,
In blushes flung the book away!

The index now alone remains,

Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, And though it bears some honey stains, Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure!

And oft they say she scans it o'er,

And oft, by this memorial aided, Brings back the pages, now no more,

And thinks of lines that long have faded i

I know not if this tale be true,

But thus the simple facts are stated;

And I refer their truth to you,

Since Love and you are near related!

I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.

I SAW thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Yet still thy features wore that light
Which fleets not with the breath;
And life ne'er looked more truly bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams that run o'er golden mines,
Yet humbly, calmly glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!

So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,

And that which charm'd all other eyes,

Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary!