Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye Brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few, shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulcher. * * * * * THOMAS MOORE IRELAND, 1779-1852 THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS The Harp that once through Tara's Halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more. No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells: The chord alone that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. * * * * * GEORGE GORDON NOEL, LORD BYRON ENGLAND, 1788-1824 CHILDE HAROLD'S FAREWELL TO ENGLAND Adieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea, We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee,