When, at eve, thou rovest By the star thou lovest, O, then remember me! Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning, O, thus remember me! Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its lingering roses, Once so lov'd by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them, O, then remember me! When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying, O, then remember me! And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, O, still remember me! Then, should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee,-- O, then remember me! XXXVII. DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. MOORE. Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sadness, That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine! Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine; If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was _but_ as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own. XXXVIII. COME, YE DISCONSOLATE. MOORE. Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, Come, at God's altar fervently kneel; Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish-- Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name saying,-- "Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure." Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us, What charm for aching hearts _he_ can reveal, Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us, "Earth has no sorrow that God cannot heal." XXXIX. ON A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR. LEIGH HUNT.--1784-1859.