Perhaps you'll think of school-days then, Of happy school-days, long since past, When you and I, in careless youth, Thought that those days would always last.

TO MASTER GEORGE TWIDDY.

G o on your way, my youthful friend, E arth's joys and woes to feel, O 'er rough and smooth, your course will tend, R ight on, thro' woe and weal, G ird up yourself then, for the fight, E ach foe to meet without affright.

T hink not too much of joy or woe, W hich one and all must meet, I n duty's path still onward go, D ark days and bright to greet, D etermin'd still to do your best, Y our work, be sure, will then be blest.

TO MISS ----

The fairest flowers often fade, And die, alas! too soon, Ere half their life is sped, they droop, And wither in their bloom.

But may thy life thro' future years, In healthful beauty shine, And when you think of other days, Think of this wish of mine.

TO MISS MILLY SCOTT.

Memories of happy school-days, In which we view the years gone by, Long they last, and long they cheer us-- Live well the moments as they fly, Your youth is pa.s.sing swiftly by.

See, then, Milly, that your school-days Can no mem'ries sad retain.

Onward! upward! be your motto, Try and try, and try again, The future will reward the pain.

THOMAS MOORE.

The land of poetry and mirth, Of orators and statesmen, too, To one more genial, ne'er gave birth, Than when, gay Moore, it brought forth you.

The land of Goldsmith, Wolfe and Burke, May well, with gladness, sound thy name, And honor thee, whose life and work Produc'd a bright and joyous flame.

Thy lively genius, sparkling, free, Emitted rays, which sparkle yet, And gladden hearts across the sea, When tears of pain their eyelids wet.

Mild Goldsmith sang with taste, and well, And so did Wolfe, his plaintive ode, But thou, alone, possess'd the spell, That served to ease thy country's load.

O'Connell work'd with wondrous skill, With silv'ry tongue, and prudent head, With patriotic heart and will, To ease Oppression's crushing tread.

He did remove th' oppressor's weight, Or made it rest more lightly there, But still there crowded in the gate The ills of life we all must share.

Great Burke, with comprehensive mind, Pour'd forth his thoughts, too lofty far, To glad his humble, simple kind, Who could not reach the lowest bar.

But thou brought forth thy tuneful lyre, And swept it with a skilful hand, And hearts, with joy and hope afire, Arose to bless thee, thro' the land.

Thy songs of love, religion, fame, Resounded from each hill and dale, And fann'd the patriotic flame, In beautiful Avoca's vale.

They reach'd us here, we have them now, And treasure them, both rich and poor; And here's a green wreath for thy brow, Of Irish shamrocks, Thomas Moore.

In fadeless verdure may it stay, And long thy gifted head entwine, For time will mark full many a day, Till head and heart shall live, like thine.

ROBERT BURNS.

One hundred years have come and gone, Since thy brave spirit came to earth, Since Scotland saw thy genius dawn, And had the joy to give thee birth.

There was no proud and brilliant throng, To celebrate thine advent here, And but the humble heard the song, Which first proclaim'd a poet near.

But genius will a.s.sert its right To speak a word, or chant a lay, And thou, with independent might, a.s.serted it from day to day.

No fawning, sycophantic whine, Marr'd the clear note thy spirit blew, Thy stirring words, thy gift divine, Were to thyself and country true.

Tho' heir to naught of wealth, or land, Thy soaring mind, with fancy fir'd, Saw, in Creation's lavish hand, The gifts display'd, thy soul desir'd.

The field, the forest and the hill Supplied thee with exhaustless wealth, The singing birds, and flowing rill, Unto thy soul gave food and health.

An honest man thou lov'd, and thou Wert honest to thy bosom's core, As harden'd hand, and sweated brow, A true, tho' silent witness bore.

No empty theorizer, thou, Thy words said what thyself would do, Thou ne'er would make thy spirit bow, That worldly honors might accrue.

Torn by temptations, strange and wild-- Hard-hearted critics laugh to scorn The fate of the "poetic child,"

In rugged, bonnie Scotland born.

But let them laugh, they laugh in vain.

For they, or we, who know in part, Can never gauge the mighty strain, That burst the genial poet's heart.

It is enough for us to know The songs he sang for Scotland's sake, Which winds of time can never blow Into oblivion's silent lake.

O Burns! thy life was sad, we know, Thy sensitive and fertile mind Had to withstand full many a blow, Dealt by the ignorant and blind.

But let us do thee justice here, Tho' distant from thy native sh.o.r.e, For all thy faults repress the sneer, And thy great qualities explore.

In Canada, where all are free, And none can e'er be call'd a slave, Let Scotia's sons remember thee, And weave a garland for thy grave.

In fancy, let them grace thy brows With wreathes of fadeless asphodel, And let them yearly plight their vows Unto the bard they love so well.

BYRON.

While genius endows the sons of men With eloquence, or with poetic pen, It leaves them still the frailties of our frame, It does not curb, but fans th' unrighteous flame.

It gives a wider, n.o.bler range of thought, But such advantage, oft, is dearly bought.

Man's lower nature troubles scarce the low, But, like a fiend, at natures high doth go.

Of such a nature, now, these lines shall tell, Who wrote full many a line, and wrote them well.

Byron, the n.o.ble, sensitive and high, Whose bosom hath not heav'd for thee a sigh?

Whose breast hath not full often given room To mournful thoughts, for thy untimely doom?

Thy genius soar'd to regions bright and fair, And thou, such times, were with thy genius there.

And then thy lofty mind, 'neath pa.s.sion's sway, Left its high throne, and wander'd far astray.

'Twas strange and sad, that one so richly bless'd, Should find within the world, so much unrest; But we can in thy life and nature see The means, to some extent, that fell'd the tree.

Thy shining youth, men much too freely prais'd, And then the cry of blame, too loudly rais'd.

The fickle crowd, thy person loudly curs'd, And then thou fled, and dar'd them do their worst.

Unfortunate in love, thy youthful heart Was pain'd, and likewise with the burning smart Thy vanity receiv'd from critic's pen, Which often makes sarcastic, stronger men.