Then who art filling each hour’s golden measure Full of good deeds, and of kindness and love, Who bindeth the wounded, and helpeth the weary, For what is thy toil—who thy work shall approve? “High heaven will approve, though my labors are humble, For the soul’s truest welfare I toil, not in vain; Earth from her bosom such treasures bestows not, With the soul back to heaven return they again.” * * * * * APRIL. By April, of the sunny tress, The mighty spell of death is broke, As marble, with a food caress, To life the son of Belus woke. W. H. C. H. [Illustration: TOM MOORE. (_See page 593._)] * * * * * TOM MOORE.—THE POET OF ERIN. BY BON GAULTIER. The celebrated poet of the Irish Melodies—so long a member of that glorious company of British bards which, a perfect galaxy of genius, illuminated the first quarter of the present century—is no more. He saw them all run their high careers, and pass away—and now he, too, is gone. For the last couple of years, his brilliant and active mind had given way—the soul had sunk before its “dark cottage,” and his life was second childishness and mere oblivion. None of his old cotemporaries remain, at present, but the last among them—Samuel Rogers, the banker-poet, now between 80 and 90 years of age—who, seeing that his poems are not likely to descend to posterity, has, at least, resolved to go a good part of the way himself. We do not mention Montgomery—he was never ranked in the peerage of Parnassus, to which Moore belonged.