The exulting shouts that mock thee in thy shame, Were those that led thee once to heights of fame; The bird that swoops to riot on thy breast, Is the same eagle that made safe thy nest. Hark at his shrilly scream! the sleuth-hounds wake, The bloody thirst which in thy heart they slake; Thy proud patricians, hunted down, survey The herds they kept most busy with the prey. These are the flocks they fostered from their foes, And these are first to drink the blood that flows. Wondrous the arts of vengeance, to inspire The maddened son to prey upon the sire! Wondrous the skill that fierce plebeian wields To make this last the bloodiest of his fields. Vain all thy prayer and struggle—thou art down, His iron footstep planted on thy crown; But in thy fate, ’tis something for thy pride, Thus self-destroyed, thou mighty suicide! ----- [A] The reader will be reminded by this passage of that noble and solemn speech made by the Ghost of Sylla, at the opening of Ben Johnson’s tragedy of Catiline: “Dost thou not feel me, Rome, etc.” * * * * * SONG.—THE CONGRATULATION. Give wings to thy wildest hopes, For thy destiny now is known, And even a lover’s dreams Could scarcely thus high have flown. Give wings to thy wildest dreams— The loved one now is thine, Nor moveth there on the earth A being so like divine. A form so noble and free, A heart so high and so true; Oh! thine is as bright a star As gleams in yon sky of blue. Then give to thy glad thoughts wings, Thy raptures no more conceal, For to thee every coming hour Can only new joys reveal. WILFRED. * * * * * [Illustration: THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.] * * * * * GEMS FROM MOORE’S IRISH MELODIES. NO. I.—THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. [SEE ENGRAVING.] There are two things that never grow old—good poetry and good music. They live in the heart like the memory of a beloved friend. Good poetry is the out-birth of real emotions. It is the language of the affections. When the heart feels deeply its utterance takes the form of poetry; and when it seeks to vary its affections and give them a deeper and more expressive form, it seeks the aid of music. Poetry, in coming into the mind, touches it with a sense of beauty, moves its sympathies, or elevates it into a higher appreciation of the pure and heroic; but when music is married to immortal verse, all becomes more intense and real. How fully this is perceived when we hear some familiar ballad or fine lyric sung with skill and taste. We saw beauties before, but now we feel them.