112 JOHN B. DILLON, [1830-^0. To fame's bright temple men have made In latter days some madden'd rushes, And wrote names there o'er which, 'tis said. The goddess of the temple blushes ! No matter — dark'ning years will glide O'er all which fame can never cherish, And whate'er folly raised in pride, Like all of folly's works, will perish. THE ORPHAN'S HARP. The harp of the orphan is mute and still. And its notes will cheer us never ; For she who could waken its deepest thrill, Lies voiceless and cold, forever ! She sleeps in the vale, where violets bloom, And the wild rose twines above her : — No fi'iends to lament o'er her hapless doom — No kindred to pity, or love her. Her cheek wore a bloom in her early day, Ere the tear of sorrow started, Or childhood's bright dreams had faded away, And left her broken-hearted. The kind look of pity, or affection, smiled On the desolate orphan never ; Love's sweet illusion her heart had be- guiled — Then left it in gloom forever ! The depth of her anguish none could know — Her emotions never were spoken ; But the hope of heaven a gleam can throw Of joy, o'er the heart that is broken. She passed from earth, like the pensive light, Which slowly fades at even ; And her spotless spirit hath winged its fliglit, To its own brijiht home in heaven. Her harp hangs alone : — its music is hushed, And will waken no more on the morrow ; For the heart that loved its tones, was crushed. By its own deep weight of sorrow. No sigh is breathed o'er her lonely tomb — No eyes are dim with weeping ; But the violet, and the wild rose bloom O'er the grave where the orphan is sleeping. STANZAS. I K^fOV^/■ there are pangs, which rend the breast. When youth and love have vanished, When from its glorious place to rest, Hope's banished — But ye should not be sad, where the young and the gay With the dance and the song, chase dull sorrow away ; Where the cheeks of the old, as they gaze on the scene, Are lighted with smiles, where grief's fur- rows have been. Ye should chant the song in the festive hall. Where the tide of joy is flowing : Were the young and fair at pleasure's call. Come glowing. If ye would not live on thro' sunless years. The unlov'd lone wreck of time and tears — Ye should join the mirtli of the Itui* and free, In the bowers of love — in the halls of glee.
