[TV* ° ^' 4 o o SONGS OF THE CELT. BY / CHAELES CASHEL CONNOLLY. P BALTIMORE: JOHN MURPHY & CO 1888. Copyright, 1888, By Charles Cashel Connolly. CONTENTS. Page. Song of the Exiled Harp, 9 The Vesper-bell, 22 Trace a Stone to Emmet's Glory, 25 Young Winnie of the Bawn, 28 Evening in Autumn, 30 Isle of My Birth I Greet Thee, 35 On the Death of a Child, 37 CConnell, 38 Beyond the Dark, 42 At Midnight, 43 In March, 44 The Valleys Where the Shamrocks Grow, ... 46 That Wild Beach Where My Own Cot Stands, . . 48 To a Maiden at Prayer, 53 At Sea, 54 I Would Forget Thee, 56 The Outcast, 58 To B.A.N , 60 Dermod the Sage, 61 Sweet Nannie of Athlone, 76 Gloom, . 78 Night, 79 Question, 82 Answer, 83 Light, . 84 To a Sleeping Child, 85 3 4 Contents. Page. The Hawthorn Blossom, 88 Mannie, 89 Potomac, 90 Man's Littleness, 91 A Dream, 92 Autumn, 93 To Birdie, 95 Long Ago, 97 The Dying Child, . 100 Flowers, 101 Esther, 102 Past, 104 To a Mother on the Death of Her Child, . . .111 Antrim's Curse, 113 Winter, 118 Beach Notes, 120 The Link that Binds, 122 To , 123 Dusk, 124 When Love is Dead, 127 Kindness, 128 Mollie, 129 Kevery, 130 In Sixty, 131 A Wink, 134 To , 140 Morn and Eve of Life, 141 The Bonny Banks of Brame, 142 Ambition, 143 The Waif's Ketrospect, 145 Her I Love, 153 When We Parted Years Ago, . . • . . .154 June, 155 Memory, 156 Forgiveness, 158 Old Erin Mavourneen, 162 Iola, 164 Contents. 5 Page. Flotsam, 169 Memory Wakes, 171 Oh, Heart of mine be Calm, 173 Mystery, 174 Daybreak, 176 The Plighted Maiden, 179 I've Wandered Far, 187 My Love, 189 Turgesius, 191 The Dying Orphan, 201 Eileen Machree, 203 Gallant Ship, 205 November, 206 I'm Weary, 208 Should years to Come, 209 Thoughts while Gazing on a Lily, 210 Faith, 211 Budding Bloom, 212 For Thee I Sigh, 213 Indian Summer, 215 Years, 216 Exertion, 217 Nora Dear, 223 The Sexton, 224 Time, 225 This World, 226 When the Cuckoo Sings Again, 288 Farewell ! Dear Land, My Native Isle, .... 230 Melancholy, 232 The Wintry Winds at Sea, 233 Soft Weather, 234 Serenade, 243 Where Are My Friends, 244 I knew Her well when but a Child, 245 Sallie will not Reason, 246 The Sailor's Tomb, .247 To Florence, 248 6 Contents. Page. The Locket, 249 Mary, 250 Kittie Waine, 252 Farewell, . 253 In the Offing, 254 Annie, 256 Tossed by the Gale on Fortune's Flow, .... 257 Ella, 258 A Child's Epitaph, 259 The Jilted Lover, 260 To , 261 What Is Life? 262 How It Happened, 263 Spring, 264 Crossing the Ford, 265 Friendship, 266 Blue-eyed Mary, 267 A Ehyme, 269 To a Belle, 271 Avoca, 273 Sing me a Song, 278 The Soldier Slain in Battle, 279 Thy Home Should Be, Love, 281 Who May Tell? 282 That Night, 283 Saddest, 284 Love, 285 Motion, 286 Charity, 287 Fannie, 290 To Many, 291 Lanty's Lament, . . . . ' . . . . 293 Famine, . 296 A Truant Child is Human Life, 297 The Two Brides, 298 Kate, 301 Trifles, 302 Contents. 7 Page. Dearest, 303 Think of Me, . . . : 304 Song of the Warrior Bard, 306 Ethel, 308 Lay of the Winds, 309 The Farmer's Wooing, 345 Words, 346 The Maiden Said, 347 Content, 348 The Kose-bud and Dew-drop, 349 An Infidel's Epitaph, 350 Winter Coming, 351 Come, Fair Love, 352 The Apple, 353 Obit, 354 All Vain, 355 Canzonet, 356 Something Wanting, 357 Anna, 358 They Cost " Rocks," 359 To a Sleeping Girl, . . 363 Sweet Maid of the Golden West, 364 Erin Weeps, 366 If I should dream my Life Away, 367 Up I up ! and be Doing, 368 The One I Love, 371 Trouble Double, 372 We Met, 382 Music, 384 My Dearie, 385 Childhood, 386 If we should Part, '. 387 The Ring, 388 When Starlight Fails, 389 Query, 391 Lost through Pride Yet to Memory Dear, . . . 394 Monody of a Coquette, 395 8 Contents. Page. In the Twilight, 398 A Sister of the Poor, 399 Vesper, 401 Sunset, 402 Eeapers, 403 Affection, 404 The Wreck, 406 Withered Bloom, . .409 Christian Faith, 410 Alice Jeane, 411 Wooed in Vain, 412 Darling, 414 The Language used in Heaven, 415 A Morning Prayer to our Mary Mother, .... 416 Songs of the Celt, SONG OF THE EXILED HARP. Baptistery of faith, my native isle ! Fond I vision of thee, and, the while, The verb of being, with glad impulse, Wakes the Sabbath throb of memory, And I joy in sweetest re very ; With feeling heart and bounding pulse, I sing of thee, and from the vast Of silence, where the mouldering past Lies tombed beneath succeeding years, I will recall, through memory's spell, The joys that were, and hopes that fell Beyond the brink, where death appears Long mourned and sanctified in tears. Far down the vale of cancelled ages, Where, coffined, rest the chiefs and sages Of Erin's early days of fame, — 9 10 Song of the Exiled Harp. When Druid priests and pagan sires Adored the sun, and Baal fires Flushed Tara's courts with lurid flame ; And 'neath the shade of branches dense Of the proud oak — the forest's prince — The rude Scythian chant was heard, And Clogher's fateful oracle-stone Told secrets of the far unknown, And river-gods held power absurd. Erst prophet, wise in mystic page, Told of a light in coming age — To be revealed to Heremon's race ; Far brighter than the stars or moon, Still brighter than the sun at noon — Light's burnished gold on idol's face ; And Fiounnala, swan of th' white plume, Poised on the wave in lonely gloom, — Wandered far, waiting, listening For the first peal of th' promised bell, To break the thrall and allotted spell Of the pagan and his teaching. Ere Succath * tended Milcho's flocks Along the valley of shamrocks, — A bond-lad in a stranger land, — * Saint Patrick's baptismal name. Song of the Exiled Harp. 11 And Rome's Celestine had decreed A mission of the holy creed, To bear th' Crucifix to Ireland. 'Twas then great Ollam's harp of song First woke the living notes which throng Tara's Psalter, and gave a tone To freedom, and a fearless voice To man, to speak his will, his choice, — What laws shall bind and be his own. Oh ! shade of the great departed ! Where are th' rights thy laws imparted In those far days of glory past? Not in th ? land they first made happy, — There clank but chains o'er unhappy Hearts, in the gloom of thraldom cast. II. A relic of those vanished years, I linger still 'mid earthly cares — A wanderer in another clime ; Far from the isle where sainted bards First touched and woke my tuneful chords To song and melody sublime. That dear isle, where primroses blow, And daisies bloom, and bright ferns grow, And hairbells hang their azure bells ; 12 Song of the Exiled Harp. And buttercups, with golden lips, Kiss the balmy wind, as it trips Through pastures green and mossy dells. And maidens, chaste as morning dew, With bloom as fresh and rosy, too, — And braided locks of glossy hair, With sprightly step and trusting mien, Trip lightly o'er the meadows green, To ask the Saviour's love in prayer, — As convent-bells, with warning chime, Peal out the matin hour of time — When faith, low kneeling at the Cross, Looks up to God, and humbly prays For mercy, and for wisdom's ways, To see His glory through the Mass. And abbeys old guard well the trust Of sainted monk and hermit's dust, In their long consecrated cells, — Those honored cells, so widely known To early faith, — whose every stone Some hallowed, prayerful legend tells. And pilgrims journey, far and near, With reverent step and fervent prayer, To drink in faith at holy streams ; Where sages, old in Christian lore, Oft knelt and quaffed and blest of yore, While pausing 'mid angelic dreams. Song of the Exiled Harp. 13 Those holy wells, those healing founts, Whose beaded rims the Shamrock mounts, To remind the pilgrim, as he kneels, — Of the symbol, meek and lowly, Which taught th' Trinity, and truly The unity of God reveals. in. Oft I have sang in other days, And thrilled the heart with stirring lays, In gala courts and banquet halls ; — When Erin had a ruling voice, When Erin held a nation's place, And banners floated from her walls. And rightful heirs held rightful bonds, O'er all the streams and emerald bounds Of their land, the land of bravery ! The land of virtue, and of song ! The land of Christians, true and strong ; — Land of the Cross and rosary ! In valleys fair, and on the hills, By placid lakes and crystal rills, Jehovah's sacred altars stood, — And anthems, loud in highest praise, Rose o'er the plains and wooded ways, From hearts o'erflowing with gratitude. 14 So7ig of the Exiled Harp. And Scoto kings the pallium wore, And chiefs and clans, did but adore The gospel truths in Messiah's name — Taught by His priest, the long endeared, And evermore to be revered, St. Patrick of transcendent fame. Bright days of peace, all void of war, When brightly shone the morning star Of Erin's faith and Christianity ; And nations sought her holy shrines, And nations blest her meek divines, — True teachers of humanity. And to her halls the stranger came, — Those halls of learning and of fame, Far spreading o'er the continent ; And forth she sent, with open hands And hearts, her sons to distant lands, To teach and guide the penitent. Many went, and far beyond th' main, Gaul knew her monks, and the rude Thane In Saxon bounds, left them in peace ; And heads high crowned, by right of blood, Bowed to Erin's higher priesthood, — And Rome, itself, received her grace. Song of the Exiled Harp. 15 IV. 'Twas then a land of tuneful prayer, — Ten thousand minstrels filled the air With bardic songs of fervent joy ; For Patrick's faith, each bosom thrilled, All o'er the isle the paean swelled, — Christ we found through our shepherd boy. By Mungert heights, where Shannon laves The emerald turf with crystal waves, Five hundred monks, the glory sang ; And Bangor's host with carol strain, Loud answered back the grand refrain, Till hill and vale with Gospel rang. And, from Iona, o'er the wave, The night winds bore an anthem grave, Voiced with echo of mournful thrill, — As full he struck the chords where slumbered Those wierd tones, with sorrow numbered, The exiled bard, great Columbkill ! On the lone cliff by ocean's waste, Where wild waves dash in stormy haste, And, shiv'ring faint, along the strand The bard oft sat with yearning gaze, Fixed on th' distant shimmering haze That veiled his own devoted land ! 16 Song of the Exiled Harp. That land he loved, but should not see While life's vision spaced the canopy Of stars, or land, or water's flow ; Doomed by his kindred, and his creed, To expiate one wrongful deed, In a life of penitential woe. Yet, in the dusk of funeral space, He, honored, rests in Christian peace, With kindred saints of lesser woe ; In that dear isle, his place of birth, — That sacred soil of all the earth, Where tears of faith do ever flow. And wheresoe'er, on the wide earth, In riches high, or low in dearth, Th' Christian Celt, with Calvary's faith Deep in his heart, kneels at the Cross, — And sees in Chrism, Stole and Mass, The grace that leads to life in death. Three hundred years of righteous peace Had blest the land, and filled with grace Her virtuous sons and daughters ; Three centuries since the Crosier waved O'er Tara's hallowed mount, and saved The emerald jewel 'mid waters — Song of the Exited Harp. 1? From the dusk and surrounding gloom Of pagan rites and pagan doom, To blaze and flash across the world, Its rays of Christian law and right, — Its beams of Christian love and light, To all benighted souls imperilled. Ah ! golden round of happy years ! Sad memory bemoans thee with tears, And feeling wakes but only sighs, — My trembling chords, with ling'ring tone, Dwell on thy glories half unknown, With melody of higher skies. When to the past I vision back, O'er buried shrines, and dimly track The ruined altars of those days, When thy bards of supernal song Awoke the soul of echo strong, To resound in future Christian lays. The dearest songs thy poets sing, Are those which picture thee, and bring To light some treasure of thy past, — To gild the page of modern story With a rarer golden glory, — And brightly shine unto the last. What nation hath such relics old, Such grand traditions to unfold, As thee, O land of ancient store ? 2 18 Song of the Exiled Harp. Thy Towers mark an age forgotten, Nor telleth aught of those begotten, Who capped their summits on thy shore. Far primeval mystery is thine, None may the legend well define That bands thy mystic days of old ; Mayhap thy fairy peopled bawns, Were once the dingles green and lawns, Where first created beings strolled. VI. How often, in far palmy days, I've sang to chiefs, a monarch's praise, — Through Brian's halls in liquid strains, Ere Clantarf's field was drenched with gore, And the old King was heard no more, Charging down the impious Danes. Clantarf, field of triumph ! And yet, That day of glory, darkly set In woeful gloom and falling tears ; — When Brian fell, a monarch real, A victim to assassin's steel, A Christian victor at his prayers. O Brian, King of lofty fame ! Hero of fifty fields, thy name Is strength unto the soldier's heart; Song of the Exiled Harp. 19 And thy glory nerves the warring front, When Irish blood withstands the brunt Of battle's fierce and deadly part. I vision o'er the waste of time, I see thee in thy manhood's prime, — "Brian, the brave," proud Erin's chief! In festive hall or tented field, Thy manly presence, still revealed ■ The soldier-king of true belief. Alas ! where now those pageants grand ? Their radiance shines in other land, Or lights the gloom in prison walls ; And Saxon hordes, with reckless feet, Tread the green turf, and desecrate Kincora's dust and ruined halls. Oh ! fatal hour ! when Dermod sought The Norman's aid, and foully brought A lingering curse to Erin's shore. For ages long, she's fought and bled, For ages long she's mourned her dead, Oh ! Saints, can there be many more ? Can justice live and still be calm? Can pity see and give no balm To aching wounds, and lips athirst, — Those long, long years of biding wrong, Those dismal cycles of funereal song, Those centuries of woeful rest ? 20 Song of the Exiled Harp. VII. How oft I muse, when shadows lie As daylight fades along the sky, Of thee, O island of sorrow ? Epic song of vanished glory, Long, hapless isle of saddest story, — Land of night and cloudy morrow ! Oh ! Erin dear, how dim thy fate ! The broad seas have many a freight Of thy sad people, yearly borne To stranger climes in other lands, — To find a grave on foreign strands ; Perchance, to suffer still and mourn. Yet, in lands far remote from thee, In fields of toil, and on the sea, Thy hardy sons are in the van ; And, in the forum, when the voice Tones ardent language, learning's choice, Trancing the listening ear of man — And valor tells vivid story Of fadeless chaplets of glory, Circling brows of Celtic vein ; Won by bold and vigorous steel, While riding on the warring keel ; Or charging on the battle plain. Song of the Exiled Harp. 21 The valiant throb that thrills each breast, And nerves the soul in deeds of test, On steady land or shifting sea — Is pulsed by memories of the past When Erin was a power blest, When Erin was a nation free ! In the lone watch at danger's post, Or ? mid the ranks of hostile host, The past of Erin ever brings A thrill of pride, and sense of will, To dare and do, and living still, — Is th' gallant blood of Tara's Kings. Oh ! bright and gala days of yore ! Oh ! halcyon days of happy lore, In Erin's old historic tome ! Oh ! when will ye again return, And gild anew the mouldering urn In lonely Tara's hallowed tomb ? 22 The Vesper-bell. THE VESPER-BELL. i. 'Tis evening, in the hazy west afar, Where vision pauses on the rim of space, Glints the parting sun 7 mid many a spar Of amber tint and curving line of grace, And cloudlets lie like sheaves of golden grain, All scattered o'er the ethereal plain. II. Aslant, the crescent moon low in the east Sheds on the lisping wave a slender light, And the eve-star, with steady beam and chaste, Illumes the vista in the vale of night ; And the flowers embalmed in sweetness lie, And the winds fold the leaves with autumn sigh. in. Listen ! now through the realm of pulsing air, The sacred Vesper-bell with cadence deep, Warns mankind 'tis the hallowed time of prayer, When angel choirs the harps of David sweep ; Now bend the suppliant knee, oh, breathing earth! Now claim, oh, spirit, thy immortal birth. The Vesper-bell 23 IV. Faith kneels, and candles bless'd, with steady beam Reveal the chancel gems and pictured walls, And priests anointed, as pale visions, seem Waiting meekly until the Saviour calls ; Waving incense pure with adoring word, Before the altar white, footstool of God. Oh, Vesper-bell ! revered for ages hearsed, What memories live in thy ancient tone ? For long cycles of time hath thy tongue rehearsed, In various climes around the world's zone, The Gospel teachings of the martyred dead, The eternal Creed of the living God. VI. On heights, in valleys parched 'neath burning suns, On plains of snow, on Alpine hills of ice, — Where'er green herbage grows and water runs, And Christian sage hath dwelt, thy mission'd voice To many a fainting soul hath given Hope on earth and promised joy in heaven. VII. Ah ! many a dream thou hast known fulfilled, And many a joy forever blighted ; And many a tear from the heart distilled, And many a smile on lips delighted ; 24 The Vesper-bell And the dust embalmed, and the tombless clay Of monarch and beggar all pass away. VIII. Thou hast witnessed many a bridal twain, Flushed with hope life's checkered mount as- cending, And hast heard full many a sad refrain O'er coffined earth, in earth descending; And hast known prodigal sons forgiven, And hast knelled many a saint to heaven. IX. Oh ! Bell of Rome ! Rome the mitred city, — Tomb of Pontiffs and of Father Saints, Nursery of prayer, and gospel equity ; High pillar'd on thy hills, thy learning paints Throughout the Christian world of divinity, The eternal glory of the Trinity. Oh ! Bell of Faith ! faith anthem of the soul ! Peal on and on thy creed's paternity, And sound thy octaves harmonic, and roll The symphony on to far eternity ; And knell creation's time allotted span, And toll the last, last passing soul of man. Trace a Stone to Emmet's Glory. 25 TRACE A STONE TO EMMET'S GLORY. Can this be Erin, once so great, But now the footstool of her foe? Is this the land where soldiers wait, Yet feel the culprit tyrant's blow ? II. Statesmen brave and eloquent of speech, Have sued for justice all in vain ; Years but weld more links to reach, With galling rust in Erin's chain. in. Language hath power, but the sword Well pointed, and the fierce rattle Of leaden bullets, thickly poured, Will shatter chains in freedom's battle. IV. He, who would be free, must suffer, Nor fear to fill an early grave; But, still dread alone the proffer, That bids him live and be a slave. 26 Trace a Stone to Emmet's Glory. The heart that's true, when Country calls Her Sons to right her bleeding wrongs, If in her cause its lifeblood falls, Will live a hero in her songs. VI. What cenotaph, or tomb revealed, Hath force to rouse to high desire, Like that where rests in earth concealed, A heart that glowed with freedom's fire ? VII. The proudest lines that mark the grave, Are those which tell, how in the van A soldier fought, and truly brave, He fell defending rights of man. VIII.. Oh ! for the liidit of Boru's sword ! To flash again, ere hope expires. Oh ! for the clans who heard his word, To light again the signal fires ! IX. Can ye, oh, sons of heroes dead, See foemen camp upon your hills? Has Erin's pride and valor fled, Is there no sword to right her ills? Trace a Stone to Emmet's Glory. 27 Where are the brave who front the strife, In other climes and on the deep ? Will they not bleed, aye yield up life, To guard th' turf where their fathers sleep ? XI. Do old traditions wake no more The Irish heart to bravery ? Will it espouse another shore And leave its own to slavery? XII. No ! die the thought that such could be ; — The Irish heart is throbbing still With pulse as brave, and nerve as free, As when her Chiefs held Tara's hill. XIII. Oh ! ye who have a lineal right, To Erin's soil, and Erin's story ; Arise ! arise in gallant might, And trace a stone to Emmet's glory ! 28 Young Winnie of the Bawn. YOUNG WINNIE OF THE BAWN. We met, — 'twas when the rowans bloom, Down by a streamlet flowing, Along the vale in vernal plume, And flowers sweetly blowing ; And fair was she and dear to me, And, proud was I in loving, The sweetest maid that ever strayed O'er purple heath, the sky beneath, — Young Winnie of the bawn. We sat beneath the rowan bloom, . A tale of love confiding, Till stars lit up the dewy gloom, And streamlet softly gliding ; And, she was fond, and dear the bond That bound my heart in loving, The sweetest maid that ever strayed O'er purple heath, the sky beneath, — Young Winnie of the bawn. Long years have flown and rowans blown, Since that fair eve of loving, And fairer scenes I may have known, In lands where I've been roving ; Young Winnie of the Bawn. 29 Yet, living still, is every thrill That bound my heart in loving, The sweetest maid that ever strayed O'er purple heath, the sky beneath,— Young Winnie of the bawn. 30 Evening in Autumn. EVENING IN AUTUMN. Daylight departs beyond the burnished hills, And wandering winds, with soft vesper tone, Murmur through forests brown and russet dells, While slants along the gorgeous western zone The lingering sunset tints, and afar And brightening gleams the fair evening star. II. Where'er the vision rests, with learning gaze, Ear as the eye can reach the landscape round, There lightly hangs an amethyst veil of haze, O'er cliff and tree, o'er fen and rolling ground. Mild Autumn's humid breath of scented air Embalms the dying summer everywhere. in. Now the feasted herds are homeward tending, With lagging pace along the old by-lane, And the milkmaid sings with a happy blending Of sorrow and gladness, some old love strain, As on bended knee, in the homestead vale, Flows the pure sweet milk in her milking pail. Evening in Autumn. 31 IV. In the orchards ripe hang fruit all mellow, With sun-freckled cheeks that blush and dimple, Amid clustered leaves, just turning yellow, Scarlet bright, and sorrel tipped, and purple ; And bees are busy among the flowers, In sweet clover glens and woodland bowers. In the hedges sparse, and in the fallow The brown and drowsy insects loll and buzz ; While within the wilted stubble furrow, And in the sedges, and 'neath the tangled furze, The quick and nimble-footed crickets fill The ambient air with chirpings fast and shrill. VI. Through lowland grove and through the mountain pine The fleet and frisky squirrels a-nutting go, In brakes and dusky tracts the glow-worms shine, And wary spiders, darting to and fro, Through shreds and ragged webs, intently peer On the fast-fading wreaths round summer's bier. VII. Hark, upon the slopes the west winds whistle, And arouse, as with a start, the listless trees, And lift the down from the nodding thistle 32 Evening in Autumn. With fondling touch and gentle cooing breeze, Adown the slants the dry leaves leap and twirl In many a tricky and fantastic curl. VIII. Lo ! yonder, where the crescent valley dips, And the old church stands on a rising mound ; Its tall gray spire in the eve's eclipse, Casting a shadow on the graves around ; And flitting swallows are twittering low A loving farewell ere they southward go. IX. Mark where that aged willow, drooping sad, Spans the shorn glebe with shadow long and cool ; And stately reeds lean o'er the yielding sod That brinks the stream and shimmering liquid pool, — Where swanlets, regal in their downy \v T hite, Seek covert 'neath the willow for the night. Hard-by, in forest shade, a cottage stands, Home-like, with rural porch of quaint design, All braided o'er with chaplets green, and strands Of creepers, and many a clinging vine, And garlands rare, twined with a maiden's skill, Festoon the door and old-time window-sill. Evening in Autumn, 33 XI. There sit two lovers, in twilight glory, Hand clasped in hand, bright eyes beaming tender, Fond lips whispering the old, old story, Of hearts well mated, that naught may sunder; Not e'en the dismal wave that washes o'er The stranded wrecks on Lethe's silent shore. XII. Happy they ! O lover strong ! be thou the oak, With brave and sheltering arms extended ; And she, the clinging vine. Nor Time revoke Those pledges now in union blended, — Those vows of loyal faith and trusting love, Those bonds of earth, and sainted souls above. XIII. 'Tis twilight on the dim, receding hills ; Vesper star of many a prayer and sigh Beams fondly on the mute and pausing rills, Where, brightly mirrored, all her glories lie, — And lights the russet banks where twilight lingers, Caressing still the leaves with dewy fingers. XIV. Now comes the farmer stout, a-whistling loud, From harvest field of fruitful harvest toil ; With careless mien, and sturdy step and proud, 3 34 Evening in Autumn. He treads the beaten path o'er crispy soil ; Mayhap his sweetheart on the stile is waiting To exchange the evening kiss and greeting. xv. Or, haply, yonder, where a fitful torch Just dimly lights the crystal window-pane, A comely wife waits on the homestead porch To welcome him back to her heart again, — In her arms clasped a sprightly cooing boy, The household pet, and father's fondest joy. XVI. Full proud is he, as prince of any realm ; A prince in truth is he, — a freeman born — He guides his bark of state, the" plough his helm, His shield and banner proud, the waving corn ; His subjects, cattle kind, and growing fields ; His income, just the crop the harvest yields. XVII. 'Tis night ; the dew leans heavy on the leaves, And languid toil and labor seek repose ; The sickle rests among the banded sheaves, And the last wild flowers their sweet lips close, The night bird's song from out the valley copse Floats smoothly along the echoing slopes. Isle of My Birth, I Greet Thee ! 35 ISLE OF MY BIRTH, I GREET THEE ! From other climes Fve journeyed far, Over stormy seas, and drear, To rest on thee my native soil, — Sad land of the falling tear ; Some years have gone with boyhood's dream, That dream, the dearest only, Since from thy shores, a cheerless boy, I wandered far and lonely. Isle of my birth, I greet thee ! Glad is my heart to meet thee, — Land of the Shamrock, Erin astore ! Many a scene and change I've known, Beneath other skies than thine ; Many a hope I've seen fulfilled, — And many a joy was mine ; While straying long o'er foreign sands, In happier lands, and free, Yet, through each scene, my fondest dream, Was ever, dear land, of thee. Isle of my birth, I greet thee ! Glad is my heart to meet thee, — Land of the Shamrock, Erin astore ! 36 Isle of My Birth, 1 Greet Thee ! From glories bright in ages gone, A lingering spark still burns, And lights the gloom, that clouds the turf Where rest thy patriots' urns ; Each heart that claims thy sacred soil Its birthplace, and its glory, Looks back with pride where'er it goes, To their valor, high in story. Isle of my birth, I greet thee ! Glad is my heart to meet thee, — Land of the Shamrock, Erin astore ! No lapse of time, or chance can change, The wanderer's soul from loving Thy altars old, thy virtues grand, Thy genial ways of living ; Long years of wrong and suffering sad, Have. traced thy page with sorrow, Yet, hope ! life's blest and radiant star, Reveals a brighter morrow. Isle of my birth, I greet thee ! Glad is my heart to meet thee, — Land of the Shamrock, Erin astore ! On the Death of a Child. 37 ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. i. Evening was, and silence, — A shadow came where the white brow rested; Two folded hands, a parting smile, — The angel of death caressed it. ii. Two light wings pass the stars, — Two white wings folded at the Right Hand ; Harps of David, a welcome sing, — The guileless dove from mortal land. in. One being less to grieve, — One mortal less to be forgiven ; One treasure less on earth's domain, — One sweet spirit more in heaven. IV. Weep not an angel's flight, — Oh ! parents fond, sister dear and brother ; If tears must fall, be they of joy, — Th' child is with our Mary Mother. 38 aConnell. O'CONNELL. While travelling by the Mediterranean tide, In land beyond his own, O'Connell died, — His heart intent on Christian Rome, to yield His breath where Peter preached, a God revealed. He would not see the land he loved so well Suffer for bread, or hear the doleful knell — Of death, where Famine's grim and yawning grave Engulfed the hearts he prized, but could not save. He died, alas ! of a grief-stricken heart, — That high priest of thought and most classic art, In eloquence, pleading just and humane laws, The champion leader in his country's cause. A being of power, whose voice could wake Heroic thrills in breast of youth, and break The weary thrall of age, and cause to flow Afresh the vital tide when hope was low. A patriot ever true, whose ardent spell Could unite his people and discord quell ; A man of peace, who upon Tara's hill, Marshalled thousands who waited but his will. A hero on the hustings, first in front To battle for his country, and bear the brunt Of hostile thrusts from purple-guarded foes, A giant fearless of united blows.