Oh! would that I could raise The magic of that tongue; The spirit of those deathless lays, The Swan of Teios sung! Each song the bard has given, Its beauty and its worth, Sounds sweet as if a voice from heaven Was echoed upon earth. How mighty--how divine Thy spirit seemeth when The rich draught of the purple vine Dwelt in these godlike men. It made each glowing page, Its eloquence and truth, In the glory of their golden age, Outshine the fire of youth. Joy to the lone heart--joy To the desolate--oppress'd For wine can every grief destroy That gathers in the breast. The sorrows, and the care, That in our hearts abide, 'Twill chase them from their dwellings there, To drown them in its tide. And now the heart grows warm, With feelings undefined, Throwing their deep diffusive charm O'er all the realms of mind. The loveliness of truth Flings out its brightest rays, Clothed in the songs of early youth, Or joys of other days. We think of her, the young The beautiful, the bright; We hear the music of her tongue, Breathing its deep delight. We see again each glance, Each bright and dazzling beam, We feel our throbbing hearts still dance, We live but in a dream. From darkness, and from woe, A power like lightning darts; A glory cometh down to throw Its shadow o'er our hearts. And dimm'd by falling tears, A spirit seems to rise, That shows the friend of other years Is mirror'd in our eyes. But sorrow, grief, and care, Had dimm'd his setting star; And we think with tears of those that _were_, To smile on those that _are_. Yet though the grassy mound Sits lightly on his head, We'll pledge, in solemn silence round, THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD! The sparkling juice now pour, With fond and liberal hand; Oh! raise the laughing rim once more, Here's to our FATHER LAND! Up, every soul that hears, Hurra! with three times three; And shout aloud, with deafening cheers, The "ISLAND OF THE FREE." Then fill the wine-cup high, The sparkling liquor pour; For we will care and grief defy, They ne'er shall plague us more. And ere the snowy foam From off the wine departs, The precious draught shall find a home-- A dwelling in our hearts. * * * * * THE SNOW-WHITE VIRGIN. (_From a Winter Rhapsody. By Christopher North. Fytte III_.)