July the Fourth Charles Tennyson-Turner, Born 1808 OLD IRONSIDES Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! And burst the cannon's roar; The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more. Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, The harpies of the shore shall pluck Oh, better that her shattered hulk And give her to the god of storms, Oliver Wendell Holmes THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise No more to chiefs and ladies bright The chord alone that breaks at night Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, Is when some heart indignant breaks, Thomas Moore MUSIC WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Percy Bysshe Shelley Ah! With what thankless heart I mourn and sing! Look, where our children start, Like sudden spring! With tongues all sweet and low Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe To thee and time! Bryan Waller Procter HARK, HARK! THE LARK Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, His steeds to water at those springs And winking Mary-buds begin With everything that pretty bin, Arise, arise! William Shakespeare A SONG FOR MUSIC Weep you no more, sad fountains: Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets:Doth not the sun rise smiling, When fair at even he sets? Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes! While She lies sleeping Softly, now softly lies, Sleeping! Anon THE BROOK-SIDE I wander'd by the brook-side, I could not hear the brook flow, But the beating of my own heart I sat beneath the elm-tree, But the beating of my own heart He came not, no, he came not, The night came on alone, The little stars sat, one by one, Each on his golden throne; The evening air pass'd by my cheek, But the beating of my own heart For the beating of our own hearts Richard Monckton Milnes |