I saw him, like a cloistered monk, at night, among his books, He read and mused and wrote, with troubled, earnest looks; Then late and weary sought his couch—I could not turn away, For still with earnest, troubled looks the restless sleeper lay. Then Fancy, by some magic art, the sleeper’s brain laid bare, O Heaven, it seemed a universe had been concentred there! The semblance of all outer things in miniature was there, And, working each a wondrous art, all spirits, foul and fair. Uncertain forms traversed a plain, far-reaching as the sight, Whereon, what seemed a “mount of pain,” uprose in misty light. “The flaming forge of life” glowed red, as burning fire could be, And restless workmen toiled to forge an immortality. Like beating surf on rocky shore, the sea of passion roared, Like meteor on a dusky sky Ambition flashed and soared. Far out imagination flew, on restless wings of light, And myriad strangest forms of thought glimmered in reason’s sight. Religion and her goddess train their golden offerings poor, The spirit of the wondrous past unfolds her wondrous store. And fast and fierce the work goes on, furnace and forge and fire, And busy hands, which ply the loom and weave the golden wire. In glee the shadowy workmen toil, and this the song they sing— “In deepest shade of destiny lies hid what man would know, And useful thought comes but by pain, drawn up from down below. He surely is a child of heaven who brings new truth to man, To whom ’tis given, with vision clear, the inner world to scan, ’Tis ours to work behind the veil, thanks to this earnest soul, Soon from these varied gems of thought shall rise a beauteous whole, Adown the aisles of distant time our thinker’s voice shall sound, Inspiring hope and life and joy to souls in darkness bound. To write a book inspired of heaven, O, ’tis a glorious task! Pale thinker, though thy brain run wild, what higher boon couldst ask?” And, Genius, by such toil as this thy fairest gifts are bought! And he’s a child of pain, though blest, whose life is earnest thought. Ye who, with careless eye, peruse the page ye’ve bought for gold, Ye little know the cost of that to you so cheaply sold. * * * * * GEMS FROM MOORE’S IRISH MELODIES. NO. II.—THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. [SEE ENGRAVING.] THE simple, yet exquisitely touching air to which Moore wrote the words of this song, is now one of the most familiar that we hear. Yet, familiar as it is, it never falls upon the sense without awakening in the heart the most tender, and even sad emotions. The song itself is in fine keeping with the melody.