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THE 
 
 HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 IRELAND'S Poets, 
 
 WITH 
 
 FULL AND CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM 
 
 THE 
 
 Irish-American Poets, 
 
 AND A COMPLETE DEPARTMENT OF 
 
 AUTHENTIC BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 COLLECTED *Kn F.DITED BV 
 
 DANIEL CONNOLLY. 
 
 JAN 12 1888 s 
 
 PUBLISHED BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 28 UNION SQUARE, NEW YORK. 
 1887 
 
n 
 
 
 iMitt-red according to Act of Congress. 
 
 in the year 1S87, by 
 
 DANIEL CONNOLLY, 
 
 n tl)e Office of the Librarian of I'ongr 
 
 at Washington, D. C. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 As the compilation of Poetry contained in this book has been prepared in the belief 
 that its merit will sufficiently commend it to the public, an extended introduction to it is not 
 deemed necessary. A few words bearing upon the character and influence of Irish poetry, 
 and especially Irish national poetry, by writers whose authority to speak upon the subject is 
 beyond any doubt, may, however, be given. And first, the glowing phrases of Thomas 
 Davis, in one of his mosteloquentand stirring national essays. " National poetry," he says, 
 "is the very flowering of the soul, — the greatest evidence of its health, the greatest excellence 
 of its beauty. Its melody is a balsam to the senses. It is the play-fellow of childhood, 
 ripens into the companion of manhood, consoles age. It presents the most dramatic events, 
 the largest characters, the most impressive scenes, and the deepest passions, in the language 
 most familiar to us. It shows us magnified, ennobles our hearts, our intellect, our country 
 and our countrymen, — binds us to the past by its condensed and gem-like history, to the 
 future by examples and aspirations. It solaces us in travel, fires us in action, prompts our 
 invention, sheds a grace beyond the power of luxury round our homes, is the recognized 
 envoy of our minds among all mankind and to all time. In possessing the power and ele- 
 ments of a glorious nationality, we owned the sources of a national poetry. In the combina- 
 tion and joint development of the latter, we find a pledge and a help to that of the former." 
 
 One of the first creditable collections of Irish ballad-poetry v/as made by Charles Gavan 
 Duffy, in 1845 — a period especially marked by the spirited literary revival attending the 
 Young Ireland movement. Speaking of the growth of Irish verse in English words, in his 
 preface to that useful and unpretentious book (" The Ballad Poetry of Ireland "), Mr. Duffy 
 said: — " Our Anglo-Irish ballads, like our best Anglo-Irish families, grew to be national 
 gradually, but instinctively and half consciously. Before the time of Swift, they were chiefly 
 written by followers of the Court. They were, of course, satires on the country, or carica- 
 tures on the manners and language of the natives. Swift snatched these weapons out of the 
 liands of the English faction and turned them against their own breasts. He rescued our 
 popular poetry from fribbles on the one hand, and from ignorant strollers on the other ; and 
 
 gave it a vigor and concentration which it never has whollv lost That strange 
 
 tenacity of the Celtic race, which makes a description of their habits and propensities when 
 Caesar was still a proconsul in Gaul, true of the Irish people of this day, has enabled them 
 to infuse the ancient and hereditary spirit of the country into all that is genuine in our 
 
P KEF ACE. 
 
 modern poetry. And even the language grew almost Irish. The soul of the countr) 
 stammering its passionate grief and hatred in a strange tongue, loved still to utter them in 
 its old idioms and cadences; uttering them, perhaps, wiih more piercing earnestness 
 because of the impediment, and winning out of the vcr>' difficulty an unconscious grace 
 and triumph. Some of the nameless, indefinite charms that win every reader of genuiii- 
 Anglo-Irish song are traceable to this source." 
 
 Referring to Mr. Duffy s valuable little volume in his supplemental "Book of Irish Ballads 
 which quickly followed it, one of Ireland's most successful poets, Denis Florence MacCartIn 
 admirably says: — "To us there can scarcely be anjthing more inteiesting than these 
 snatches and fragments of old songs and ballads, which are the chapters of a nation's 
 history. Without these, how difficult would it be for the best disposed and the most patri- 
 otic amongst us to free our minds from the false impressions which the study (superficial as 
 it was) of the history of our country, as told by those who were not her children or her 
 friends, had made upon us. Instead of the rude kerns that anti-Irish historians represent 
 our forefathers to have been, forever hovering with murderous intent round the fortresses 
 of the Pale, we see them, in their own ballads, away in their green valleys and inaccessible 
 mountains, as fathers, as brothers, as lovers and as husbands, leading the old patriarchal life . 
 with their wives and children, while the air is musical with the melody of their harps and 
 the lowing of their cattle ; we sec them hunting the red deer over the brown mountains, or 
 spearing the salmon in the pleasant rivers, — or, borne on their swift horses, descending in 
 many a gallant foray on the startled intruders of the Pale. What is of more importance, 
 we look into the hearts and minds of these people, — we see what they love with such 
 passion — what they hate with such intensity — what they revere with such sacred fidelity. 
 We find they had love, they had hate, they had loyalty, they had religion, they had con- 
 stancy, they had an undying devotion for the 'green hills of holy Ireland ;' and as such they 
 are entitled to our respect, our attection and our imitation." 
 
 All the conditions pertaining to Irish poetr)- — its inspiration, form, and expression — 
 have, however, undergone very great change since the period thus referred to. The songs 
 and ballads of the bards belong to a distant age. when all things except human nature itself 
 were very different from those of the present time. To-day, the poetry of the Irish race, 
 like tlie race itself, is widely scattered. It may, indeed, be said to mingle with the literature 
 of the world. Not only are the more popular Irish songs and ballads known in all 
 civilized parts of the globe, but many of the most spirited poems relating to Ireland have 
 been written thousands of miles distant from the sources of their inspiration. In the 
 circumstances of its production, as well is in its most salient characteristics, the poetry 
 identified with the Ireland of the present generation and the one preceding it, differs from 
 tliat of every other country. All the poets of America, England, Scotland, France, 
 Germany. Italy, Spain, have written at home, but it has not been so with their brethren of 
 Ireland. Even the most gifted of Erin's minstrels sang some of his sweetest strains in a 
 countr)' that was not his own. It is in America, however, which now contains in its great 
 national family so many millions of the Celtic race, that the largest and worthiest external 
 contributions to Irish poetical literature have been made. Almost as much pKX-try that may 
 be called Irish has been written in America during the past thirty or forty years as in 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Ireland itself. And it may with truth be added that the intrinsic value of the verse thus 
 produced does not sufifer by comparison with the poetry written in Ireland during the same 
 period. 
 
 This book, then, is designed to present as complete and varied a collection of the best 
 Irish and Irish- American poetry as can be oflfered in a single volume of convenient size. 
 Much time and care have been given to its preparation, and a distinct purpose to make it 
 worthy of the title selected for it has guided all the research and other labor it has 
 demanded. As an actual cyclopedia of the poetry of Ireland and the Irish race, it takes a 
 place that has not hitherto been occupied. The various collections of Irish verse which 
 have from time to time appeared have been restricted in character and material, and have, 
 consequently, failed to meet the demand for a complete work of this kind. An exception 
 might, perhaps, be made in the case of the " Ballads of Ireland" compiled a generation ago 
 by Edward Hayes ; but in addition to the circumstance that it is now practically out of print, 
 that collection contained very few poems written later than 1850, or by other than distinc- 
 tively native Irish authors. The ground covered by it was, therefore, necessarily limited, and 
 to the present generation the book is but little known. 
 
 Much good poetry drifts hither and thither on the stream of fugitive verse, and, if not 
 wholly lost, is likely to become forgotten. Many of the pieces here presented have been 
 rescued from the oblivion that seemed awaiting them in this way. It is not improbable that 
 some others of equal merit have escaped the Editor's search, but it may at least be said that 
 the search has been made with an active desire to obtain all worthy poems of this class 
 which it was possible to find. It has not proved practicable to examine every publication in 
 which such poems may have appeared, but all available means to discover good fugitive 
 pieces have been employed, with results which, it is hoped, will be accepted as showing an 
 impartial purpose in performing this somewhat difficult part of the work. 
 
 In arranging the poems according to the theme or motive of each, rather than chrono- 
 logically, or by inserting all the pieces by each author in consecutive order, the Editor has 
 followed the plan of the well-known " Household Book of Poetr\'," and the Library of 
 Poetry and Song," edited respectively by Charles A. Dana and William CuUen Bryant. 
 This has been done because the plan appears to be the most systematic of the many where- 
 on compilations of poetry have been prepared. It has involved much labor which could 
 have been avoided by adopting any of the more usual methods ; but a desire for thorough- 
 ness in every respect has prevailed over all other considerations, and it is believed that the 
 readers of the book will find the arrangement convenient and satisfactory. A perplexing 
 difficulty has been to find for each poem a place exactly suited to its theme, and this, it 
 must be confessed, has not been wholly overcome. A few pieces may possibly appear mis- 
 placed, but in extenuation of this fault it may be said that a gem is usually valued for itself, 
 without special reference to its setting. If the divisions were ten times the number they 
 are. some poems might still seem to be out of their proper place. 
 
 It will be observed that the part of the book occupied by humorous verse is not large. 
 It could easily be extended by inserting pieces of the kind called "comic," whereof there is 
 an offensive and quite unnecessary abundance. But this kind of verse is, in the main, 
 merely vulgar, and wholly unfit for admittance into decent company. Much of it that 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 passes as Irish is not Irish at all. but was written by persons totally incajKiblc of giving ir. 
 song or otherwise, the peculiar and elusive lights and shades of true Irish humor. Some, 
 however, is due to writers of Irish birth, who could easily have found better use for such 
 talent as they possessed than to exercise it for the .gratification of depraved tastes, whether 
 among their own people or others. .Ml verse of this class is rigorously excluded from the 
 present compilation, as it should be from every book having the slightest claim to a respec- 
 table character 
 
 As a few of the writers introduced are but remotely Irish, the propriety of introducing 
 them at all may possibly be questioned. It should, therefore, be said that no broader claim 
 than the circumstances warrant is made in the case of any of these. They are not presented 
 as Irish, but simply as poets who are partly, at least, of Irish extraction. It would be 
 obviously absurd, for example, to put the name of Mrs. Whitman or Dr. English on a list of 
 Irish poets, the blood of each having been well mixed on American soil. A kindred state- 
 ment may be made with reference to a few who were born in England. Any reader who is 
 curious to know why such writers are included in the book will find the reason set forth in 
 the Biographical Notes. The lines of Irish connection are there plainly and carefully drawn. 
 
 No effort has been spared to make the Biographical Notes full and accurate in all 
 essential respects. They are compiled from the results of diligent inquiry and research, and 
 can be commended as strictly authentic. It is not supposed that all readers of the poems 
 will consult them, but it is believed that those who do so will thereby enhance their appre- 
 ciation of the book as a whole. In some cases the notes have a direct bearing on the 
 poems, and the author and his verses should be brought together to assure a proper under- 
 standing of his motive. So far as the Editor is aware, the plan of giving what is substan- 
 tially a dictionary of authors, in a special department, has not hitherto been used in a book 
 of this character. 
 
 The work now completed was undertaken solely from a conviction that it needed to be 
 done. Several schemes similar in purpose to the one it represenu have been projected 
 from time to time, but the work itself has remained unperformed. In the form in which 
 it now stands, it represents several years of labor, pursued with a fixed purjxjse to reach a 
 worthy end. It doubtless contains some defects, but not many books of the class to which 
 it belongs are perfect in the eyes of all who read them. All that can be desired is, that it 
 will be judged with fairness, and received with such favor as it may deserve. It is, at all 
 events, the first complete compilation of good Irish and Irish-American poetrj' that has 
 been placed before the public. 
 
 In the course of its preparation much valuable aid has been rendered by various friendly 
 hands, both in Ireland and throughout the United States. For all such assistance, which 
 has in some instances amounted to cooperation, and for many courtesies kindly extended 
 by publishers, the Editor's most cordial thanks are due. An undertaking in which much 
 pleasure has lightened labor is now closed, but its results, it is hoped, will endure 
 
 D. C 
 
 New York, 1887 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS 
 
 O Poet Prophets ! God hath sent ye forth 
 With lips made consecrate by altar fire, 
 To guide the Future, not to tread the Past ; 
 To chant in glorious music Man's great Hymn, 
 The watchword of Humanity — Advance ! 
 Advance in Wisdom, Nobleness and Truth, 
 High aims, high purposes and self-control, 
 Which is self-reverence, knowing we shall stand 
 With crowned angels before God's great throne. 
 The Poet nerves the arm to do great deeds, 
 Inspires great thoughts, flings o'er the tears of life 
 The rainbow-arch, to save us from despair ; 
 Quickens the stagnant energies to act. 
 Bears the advancing banner of the age, 
 Full in the van of all Humanity ; 
 And with a strength God-given, rolls the stone. 
 As angels may, from off the sepulchre 
 Where souls lie bound, bidding them rise and live. 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS, 
 
 ALEXANDER, CECIL FRANCES. 
 
 The Little Sister's Song i35 
 
 The Lonely Flower 31S 
 
 The Burial of Moses 709 
 
 Alex.vnder, William (Bishup). 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1824. 
 
 Sonnets on Memory 240 
 
 Death of an Arctic Hero 644 
 
 Below and Above 684 
 
 Allingham, William. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1828. 
 
 Oh ! Were my Love 43 
 
 Lovely Mary Donnelly 55 
 
 The Milkmaid 63 
 
 Among the Heather 84 
 
 The Pilot's Pretty Daughter 90 
 
 Lullaby , I33 
 
 The Bright Little Girl 135 
 
 To the Nightingales 1 5° 
 
 The Winding Banks of Erne 176 
 
 Abbey Assaroe i8g 
 
 The Touchstone 214 
 
 The Ruined Chapel 263 
 
 The Maids of Elfinmere 335 
 
 The Fairy Shoemaker. . : 351 
 
 • Lady Alice 574 
 
 The Abbot of Innisfallen 713 
 
 Anster, John. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1793 ; died, iS'^7. 
 
 Oh ! If as .•Xrabs Fancy So 
 
 The I-airy Child 138 
 
 The Everlasting Rose 156 
 
 Walpurgis Night 376 
 
 Dirge Song 613 
 
 .\RMSTRONG, Edmund John. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1841 ; died, 1865. 
 
 Suspiria iy2 
 
 To Wicklow iiji 
 
 .\ Dedication 319 
 
 Among the Slain 578 
 
 Mary of Clorah 615 
 
 Armstrong, George Francis. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1845. 
 
 A Man's Devotion 113 
 
 Wicklow 190 
 
 In Meditation 316 
 
 The Singer 329 
 
 The Satyr 375 
 
 The Wreck oft M izcn Head 500 
 
 The Glen of the Horse 501 
 
 Work Song 508 
 
INDEX OF AUTHOK! 
 
 Slain in the Forefront 6oi 
 
 The Christ 662 
 
 A Psalm of Hope 685 
 
 Ashe, Isaac. 
 
 A phyncian, born in Ireland. 
 
 When my I.ove is Failing 682 
 
 Banim, John. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1798 ; died, 1842. 
 
 .Villcen 68 
 
 Soggarth Aroon 232 
 
 Barry, Michakl Joseph. 
 
 Bom in Ireland ; wrote in 48 period. 
 
 Bide Your Time 416 
 
 The Place to Die 451 
 
 The Wexford Massacre O18 
 
 Beamish, Fi.<irenck. 
 
 Sleep on, Mavourneen 71 
 
 Berkeley, George (Bisiioh). 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1684; died, 1753. 
 
 The Course of Empire 215 
 
 Blacker, William. 
 
 Born in Armagh, Ire., 1775; died in 1855. 
 
 Oliver's Advice 471 
 
 The Nativity 678 
 
 Blake, Mary E. 
 
 Born in Ireland ;— Boston, .M.->m. 
 
 Away From Home 118 
 
 The I.ittle Sailor Kiss 133 
 
 A Little .Mothers Lesson 140 
 
 Morning 163 
 
 Twilight 164 
 
 Compensations 232 
 
 Singing and Sighing 329 
 
 Our Record 425 
 
 Going and Coming 496 
 
 A Dead Summer 566 
 
 The Birthnight 626 
 
 BoTTA, Anne Charlotti; Lvnch. 
 
 Bom in Vermont ;— New ^'ork. 
 
 By the Sea 166 
 
 Books 212 
 
 Accordance 219 
 
 Sweetness 219 
 
 Wasted Fountains 224 
 
 Paul at Athens 7' i 
 
 UouciCAULT. Dion. 
 
 Born in Dublin, 1822. 
 
 The Wearing of the Green 432 
 
 Hovi.E, Esmeralda. 
 
 Born near Washington, D.C. 
 Unison 680 
 
 Boyle, John. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, about 1832 ; died, i£S5. 
 
 Object Lessons for Eithna 135 
 
 The Voice of Spring 144 
 
 The Robin Redbreast 148 
 
 My Argosy 223 
 
 San Salvador 273 
 
 MinnieBeck 315 
 
 To the Lyre 331 
 
 To Ireland 389 
 
 I Address to a Patriot 444 
 
 ! Arthur ^f cCoy 454 
 
 '' The Knight's Remorse 574 
 
 I Indications 692 
 
 I Brenan, Joseph. 
 
 I Bora in Ireland, 1838; died, 1857. 
 
 I Not for Rank or Gold 48 
 
 I Come to me. Dearest 106 
 
 I Florence, my Child 128 
 
 Blindness 213 
 
 A Prison Dream 236 
 
 Oblivion 238 
 
 An Exile's Dream 411 
 
 Bronte, Charlotte. 
 
 Bom in England, 1816 ; died, 1855. 
 
 Preference S5 
 
 Life 221 
 
 Evening Solace 293 
 
 Bronte, Emily. 
 
 Born in England, 1818 ; died. 1848. 
 
 A Day Dream 321 
 
 To Imagination 372 
 
 Brooke, R. S. (Rev.). 
 
 An Episcopal Rector, t}orn in Ireland. 
 Light and Shade 
 
 693 
 
 Brouuham, John. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1810 ; died. 1S80. 
 
 Polly O'Connor ' 1 
 
 My ain Donald 59 
 
 The Hymn of Princes 250 
 
 Peace and War 251 
 
 The Sword of Fontenoy j'"' 
 
 Brown, Frances. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1816 ; died. 1879. 
 
 Absent Children 130 
 
 If That Were True 212 
 
 The Winters 230 
 
 The Pleasant Days of Old 237 
 
 What Hath Time Taken ? 245 
 
 Songs of Our Land 401 
 
 Losses %i*> 
 
 The Four Travellers 597 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Browx, John Patrick. 
 
 Born in Philadelphia, Pa., 1839. 
 
 The Wedding— a Duet 
 
 Givet 
 
 The Color Bearer 
 
 Buckley, R. W. (Rev.). 
 
 Appears in *' Lyra Hibernica Sacra " as Curate 
 of St. Peter's, Dublin. 
 
 Evensong 
 
 King Edwin 
 
 Butler, Thom.-\s Ambrose (Rev.). 
 
 Horn in Ireland, 1837:— St. Louis, Mo. 
 
 The Lost Home 
 
 Butler, William Archer (Ri:v.). 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1814; died, 1847. 
 
 On a Child at Play 
 
 Song of the Streams 
 
 The Patriarchal Time 
 
 Callanan, Helena. 
 
 Born in Ireland, about 1864. 
 
 Withered Flowers 
 
 Saint Agnes 
 
 Callanan, J.\mes Joseph. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1795 ; died, 1829. 
 
 Govigane Barra 
 
 Sweet Avondu 
 
 Lines to Erin 
 
 Dirge for O'SuUivan ISeare 
 
 Pure is the Dewy Gem 
 
 Mary Magdalen 
 
 Campion, John T. 
 
 A physician, born in Ireland. 
 
 Charity 
 
 Good Morning 
 
 Carleton, William. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1794 ; died, 1869. 
 
 My Mountain Glens 
 
 The Churchyard Bride 
 
 Carpenter, Henry B. (Rev.). 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1840 -Boston, Mass. 
 
 Vive Valeque 
 
 Beyond the Snow 
 
 Carroll Malone. 
 
 The Orangeman's wife 
 
 Casey, John Keegan. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1846 ; died, 1870. 
 
 Song of Golden Headed Niamh 
 
 Donal Kenny 
 
 Christmas Memories 
 
 The Missioner 
 
 Our Noble Irish Girls 
 
 How Have Ye Labored? 414 
 
 j The Rosemary Crown : . 420 
 
 172 Ihe Rising of the Moon 458 
 
 ^^^ 1 Cassidy, P.\trick Sarsfield. 
 
 ■♦'" Born in Ireland;-New York. 
 
 The Sovereign People 510 
 
 Robert Emmet 633 
 
 6S7 
 
 Charlotte Elizabeth. 
 
 Authoress of the " Siege of Derry," etc. 
 
 The Maiden City 474 
 
 Cherry, Andrew. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1762 ; died 1812. 
 
 The Bay of Biscay, O ! 172 
 
 The Green Little Shamrock 302 
 
 Clarke, Joseph L C. 
 
 Born in Ireland ;— New York. 
 
 A Decade of Love 44 
 
 Speculum Vita; 250 
 
 Waiting for Washington 4SS 
 
 Cleary, T. S. 
 
 Born in Ireland. 
 
 Sledge and Pen. . . -. 517 
 
 CoLLiER, Thomas Stephens. 
 
 Born in New York, J842. 
 
 Sun Glow 161 
 
 Recompense 23a 
 
 Three Sonnets 240 
 
 What is the Gain ? 24S 
 
 Sacrilege 256 
 
 Sun Burst 421 
 
 Collins, William. 
 
 Born in Ireland ;-New York. 
 
 Our Own Land 39g 
 
 The Ride to Arboe 455 
 
 Moylan at Monmouth 489 
 
 Connolly, Daniel. 
 
 Born in Ireland ; — New York. 
 
 Trout Fishing 174 
 
 Memories of the Erne 17S 
 
 Compensation 231 
 
 Jasper Dean 266 
 
 The Eyes of an Irish Girl 314 
 
 Erina Regina 386 
 
 A Lay Sermon 412 
 
 The Leap for Life 460 
 
 Evicted 5S8 
 
 One Summer N'iifht 601 
 
 Mitchel — 1S75 62y 
 
 Connolly, Olivia Knight. 
 
 Born in Ireland ;— Australia. 
 
 Where are the Knights .' 305 
 
 Sympathies 316 
 
lO 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 PACE 
 
 The Story of a Star 298 
 
 Seed Time and Harvest 420 
 
 The Green Klag 431 
 
 St. John's live . . 715 
 
 CoNWAv, Katherinf, Eleanor. 
 
 Born 111 Rochcsief. N. V., 1853. 
 
 Remembered 77 
 
 A Song in May Time 146 
 
 Blooming out of Time 1 56 
 
 In a Strange Land 220 
 
 Out of the Shadow of Deatli 389 
 
 Another June 564 
 
 A Memory 565 
 
 My I-'ather's House 683 
 
 Lotus and Lily 688 
 
 Cowan, Samiel K. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1850. 
 
 Hccalined 262 
 
 The Bnricd Bells 264 
 
 The Voice of the Wind 320 
 
 Easter Voices 679 
 
 Harvest Time 6(/) 
 
 Cowan, William (Rev.). 
 
 -An Episcopal clergyman. Diocese of Dcrry. 
 
 Christmas (177 
 
 Crawi-ord.Jilia. 
 
 r.ornin Ireland. 
 
 We Parted in Silence 77 
 
 Dublin Hay 5S4 
 
 Crillv, Damki.. 
 
 Born in Ireland. 
 
 The Men of To-day 425 
 
 Toast-Song 440 
 
 Croker, Thomas Crofton. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1798 ; died 1854. 
 
 Cormac and .Mary 348 
 
 Croly, George (Rev.). 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1780; died 1860. 
 
 Hymn of the Universe 143 
 
 The Alhambra 197 
 
 Messolonghi's Ruins igS 
 
 I'ericles and Aspasia 257 
 
 The Atlantic 33S 
 
 Leonidas 486 
 
 A Dirge 660 
 
 Cro.nin, Patrick (Rr.v.). 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1837 ;— Buffalo, N.V. 
 
 The Wanderer's Home 120 
 
 After Ten Years 299 
 
 Marquette 646 
 
 Sursuni Corda 665 
 
 The I'wo-fold May 689 
 
 The Unfound 699 
 
 Cunningham, John. 
 
 Bom in Oublin, 1739 ; died 1773. 
 
 If I Were Nol Too Young '. fi<. 
 
 .\ I'astoral S_| 
 
 Ct'RRAN, IIkNRV GR.\TTAN. 
 Born in Ireland. 
 
 The Wearing of the Green 4;- 
 
 CuRRAN, John Philpot. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1750 ; died 1817. 
 
 Cushia Ma-Chree 395 
 
 The Monks of the Screw 539 
 
 Clsack, Mary F. 
 
 Widely known as Ihe " Nun of Kenmare." 
 
 In te Christe (.61 
 
 Darlev, George. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1785 ; died 1846. 
 
 Love Song 45 
 
 Steeds of the Ocean i 7<j 
 
 The Fairy Cavalcade 349 
 
 Davis, Eugene. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1857. 
 
 Our Vow 415 
 
 Queries 442 
 
 Davis, Francis. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1810 ; died, 1885. 
 
 Nanny (j.. 
 
 My Kidia dhu Asthorc (.5 
 
 .My Betrothed 7- 
 
 .\ Visit of the Beautiful 147 
 
 Caste and Creed . 210 
 
 Willie's .Mother 589 
 
 Kathleen Ban Adair 619 
 
 Davis. Thomas. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1814 ; died 1845. 
 
 The Banks of the Lee 47 
 
 Fanny Power 5 S 
 
 Maire Bhan .\stor 65 
 
 The Welcome 88 
 
 O, the M,->rriage 105 
 
 My Grave 403 
 
 The Penal Days 421 
 
 Our Own .Vgain 426 
 
 The Green .\bove the Red 430 
 
 The Geraldines 433 
 
 O'Brien of .■\rra 452 
 
 Fontenoy 467 
 
 The Sack of Baltimore 5S0 
 
 Lament for Owen Roe O'Neill 647 
 
 DERMonv, Thomas. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1775; died, i8oz. 
 
 The Pleasures of Poesy 323 
 
 On Songs 326 
 
 Sons of Hapless Erin 395 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Desmond, Daniel. 
 
 Born in Ireland. 
 
 The Toilers 519 
 
 De Vere, Aubrey (.Sir). 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1788 ; died, 1846. 
 
 Glengariff 170 
 
 Sad and Sweet 2og 
 
 Columbus 275 
 
 Early Friendship 297 
 
 Sing the Old Song 325 
 
 De Vere, Aubrey Thomas. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1814 ; died, 1883. 
 
 Florence Maccarthy's Farewell 44 
 
 Implicit Faith 214 
 
 Queen Margaret's Feasting 252 
 
 The Old Land 399 
 
 The Intercession 403 
 
 The Three Woes 417 
 
 The -Music of the Future 418 
 
 The Dirge of Athunree 437 
 
 A Ballad of Athlone 451 
 
 The Faithful Norman 454 
 
 Good Hearted 603 
 
 Grattan 624 
 
 Stella iMatutina 674 
 
 De Vere, Mary Ainge 
 
 Born in Brooklyn, N. Y. 
 
 The False Oracle 75 
 
 A Marriage 75 
 
 A Quiet House 121 
 
 The Spinner 220 
 
 A Poor Mother 243 
 
 The Wind-swept Wheat 26S 
 
 De Vere, Stephen (Sir). 
 
 Of the family of Aubrey De Vere. 
 
 To Maecenas 226 
 
 Intactis Opulentior 227 
 
 Doheny, Michael. 
 
 Born in Ireland; active in '48 moveinenl ; died 
 in America. 
 
 Acushla Gal Machree 397 
 
 Donnelly, Eleanor C. 
 
 Born in Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 The Poet's Little Rival 131 
 
 The -Sleeper's sail 356 
 
 The Fate of the Fairy Swan 36.S 
 
 St. Columba and the Stork 405 
 
 Missing 603 
 
 The Heavenly Fatherland 687 
 
 Dovvden, Edward. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1843. 
 
 A Dream 46 
 
 In the Garden 161 
 
 Oasis 250 
 
 Wise Passiveness 2gl 
 
 The Singer's Plea 2gi 
 
 The Inner Life 694 
 
 DovvLiNii, IJaktholomew. 
 
 Born in Limsrick, Ireland. 
 
 The Brigade at Foutenoy 46S 
 
 DowLiNo, Jeremiah ]. 
 
 A Physician, born in Tipperary. 
 
 The Claddagh Boatman 300 
 
 Dowi.iNO, Richard. 
 
 Horn in Ireland, 1846. 
 
 Good-Bye 78 
 
 The Bohemian's Ballad 330 
 
 Downing, Ellen. 
 
 Born in Ireland about 1830. 
 
 Talk by the Blackwater 69 
 
 Conal and Eva 73 
 
 Welcome Home to You 88 
 
 Were I But His Own Wife 107 
 
 The Old Castle 189 
 
 Drennan, William. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1754 ; died, 1820. 
 
 Charity to Man 295 
 
 Erin 391 
 
 The Wake of William Orr 645 
 
 Drew, Thomas (Rev). 
 
 Born in Limerick, 1800; died, 1S57. 
 
 Life's Last Hour 670 
 
 Drummond, William Hamilton. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1778 ; died, 1S65. 
 
 The Bed of Ocean 169 
 
 Old Age 673 
 
 Who is the Foe 674 
 
 Dufferin, Helen Selina (Lady). 
 
 Born in 1807 ; died in 1867. 
 
 Katey's Letter 53 
 
 Sweet Kilkenny Town 54 
 
 The Irish Emigrant's Lament 590 
 
 DuFi-v, Charles Gavan (Sik). 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1816. 
 
 Sweet Sybil 56 
 
 O'Donnell and the Fair Fitzgerald 94 
 
 The Patriot's Bride 1 1 1 
 
 Song of Innishowen 194 
 
 A Lay Sermon 215 
 
 The Voice of Labor 520 
 
 Egan, Maurice Francis. 
 
 Born in Philadelphia, Pa., 1852. 
 
 The Anxious Lover 40 
 
 Cyclops to Galatea 86 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Dangerous Frankness I13 
 
 When Mothers Watch 131 
 
 The Hitter Sweet 242 
 
 Maurice de Guerin 255 
 
 Theocritus 290 
 
 Kra Angelico 256 
 
 The String of the Rosary 672 
 
 Emmet, Rohkht. 
 
 Bom in 1778 ; died in i8oj. 
 
 Arbor Hill ig2 
 
 Enoi.ish, Thomas Di'nn. 
 
 Bom in Philadelphia, Pa., 1819. 
 
 Lullaby 134 
 
 Song of Fire 202 
 
 Ben Holt 298 
 
 Akeratos 256 
 
 The Fight at Lexington 490 
 
 Jack, the Regular 492 
 
 The Charge by the Ford 497 
 
 Fahy, Francis A. 
 
 Bom in Ireland. 
 
 The Flower of the Flock 62 
 
 The Ould Plaid Shawl 527 
 
 Falconkr, Edmund. 
 
 Bom in Ireland ; dramatist. 
 
 Killarney 187 
 
 Farkeli., Joseph (Rev.). 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1841; died, 1885. 
 
 Judith 242 
 
 What the Sea Said 2O3 
 
 Faussett, Alessie Bond. 
 
 Bora in County Tyrone. Ireland. 
 
 The Death of St. Columba 649 
 
 Ferguson, Samiel (Sir). 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1810; died, 1E86. 
 
 My Owen Hawn Con 64 
 
 The Little Maiden 134 
 
 The Liffey I75 
 
 Three Thoughts .' 20S 
 
 The F'airy Well of Lagnanay 348 
 
 The Naming of CuchuUin 475 
 
 The Gascon O'Oriscoll 4S3 
 
 The Forging of the Anchor 512 
 
 Thomas Davis, His Life, etc 626 
 
 The Burial of King Cormac 650 
 
 The Morning's Hinges 663 
 
 Flemin<:, Martin J. 
 
 Born near Rochester, N. Y. 
 
 Mortality 277 
 
 li.ETciiKR. Henry M. 
 
 Burn in Ireland. 
 
 l!y a Daisy-browed Str;ime 5^ 
 
 llarry'sAway 7' 
 
 Flood, Henry. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1733 ; died, 1791. 
 O, Mighty Fame 259 
 
 Forrester, Arthur M. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1850;— New York. 
 
 Old Boreen 3 ' 
 
 The Felons of our Land 440 
 
 The Three Knights 4()9 
 
 F'orrester, Eu.e.n. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1831 ; died, 1883. 
 
 The Mother's Warning 
 
 The Bonnie Gray Mare s2 
 
 A Letter from Home 120 
 
 The Widow's Message to htr Son 233 
 
 Friends across the Sea 297 
 
 The Songs of \jan% .Vgo 326 
 
 God Help the Poor 519 
 
 F'ORRESTER, F",\NNY. 
 
 Daughter of the preceding; born in England. 
 
 .\ Summer Song 147 
 
 Forgive and Forget 299 
 
 Spoken in .■Xnger 571 
 
 Fraser, John De Jean. 
 
 Bora in Ireland, 1809 ; died, 1849. 
 
 My Connor 1 10 
 
 Clondallagh 188 
 
 The Poet to his Son 270 
 
 Our Course 4'5 
 
 Furlong, Thomas. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1794 ; died, 1827. 
 
 Mary Maguire 61 
 
 The Spirit of Irish Song 326 
 
 Oh. Ireland, my Country 399 
 
 Blest be that Strain 699 
 
 Gallagher, James T. 
 
 Bom in Ireland ;— New ^■«^rk. 
 
 Self-Reliance 406 
 
 The Exile to his Son 4«o 
 
 Gallagher, William Davis. 
 
 Born in Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 Song of the Pioneers 123 
 
 The Cardinal Bird 15' 
 
 (ireen Hills of Adair 1S5 
 
 The Better Day 510 
 
 Forcvcrmore 5^7 
 
 Song of the Seraphim <'72 
 
 Geary, Eugene. 
 
 Bom in Irel.nnd. i86j ;— New York. 
 
 Father Dan 126 
 
 Maloga's Holy Well 187 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 n 
 
 GeoghegaX, Arthur Gerald. 
 
 Born in Ireland. 
 
 The Monks of Kilcrea 344 
 
 After Aughrim 420 
 
 Tyrell's Pass 463 
 
 Geoghegan, Mary. 
 
 Daughter of the precedini,'. 
 
 An April Day 145 
 
 A November Day 160 
 
 Geoghegan, William. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1844 ;— New York. 
 
 The Inney's Side 179 
 
 A Morning Dream 293 
 
 GiLMORE, Minnie. 
 
 Born in Boston, Mass. 
 
 At the Tryst 70 
 
 A Harvest Idyl 74 
 
 The House of the Children 1 2() 
 
 Missing 316 
 
 A Song of Contrast 5f)7 
 
 A Last Lullaby 569 
 
 Goldsmith, Oliver. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1728 ; died, 1774. 
 
 The Hermit g2 
 
 The Deserted Village 277 
 
 The Traveller 281 
 
 On Burke 286 
 
 On Garrick 286 
 
 The Logician Refuted 547 
 
 Elegy on a Mad Dog 551 
 
 Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize 552 
 
 Gr.wes, Alfred Percival. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1846. 
 
 Ki'ty Bahn 57 
 
 Often I Dream of the Day 8l 
 
 The Bank of the Daisies 83 
 
 The Blue, Blue Smoke 122 
 
 Fan Fitzgerl 525 
 
 Spinning Wheel Song 526 
 
 The Galway Mare 535 
 
 Father 0"Flynn 535 
 
 The Wreck of the Aideen 585 
 
 The Black Forty-si.x 58S 
 
 Gray, Jane L. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1800. 
 
 Reminiscences 1 26 
 
 Morn... 220 
 
 Griffin, Gerald. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1803 ; died, 1840. 
 
 - Aileen Aroon 59 
 
 Gilie Machree 63 
 
 A Place in thy Memory 76 
 
 O, Sweet Adair 185 
 
 Life's Voung Day 289 
 
 The Merriest Bird 330 
 
 The Isle of the Blest 337 
 
 The Bridal of Malahide 578 
 
 The Sister of Charity 703 
 
 GuiNEV, Louise Imogen. 
 
 Bom in Boston, Mass., 1861. 
 
 Adventurers 130 
 
 (Gloucester Harbor 132 
 
 Orient Born 1 36 
 
 The Rival Singers 254 
 
 Brother Bartholomew 271 
 
 Charandos 4S9 
 
 After the Storm 585 
 
 Halpine, Charles Graham. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1829 ; died, 1868. 
 
 Thine Eyes of Blue 49 
 
 My Southward Winging Oriole 74 
 
 lanette's Hair 106 
 
 The Tropic Bird 1 50 
 
 The Ruby Ring 289 
 
 The Nymph of Lurlieberg 315 
 
 Stamping Out 444 
 
 Truth in Parenthesis 532 
 
 Widowology Philosophized 532 
 
 In Buckinham Palice 541 
 
 Only Some Relics 575 
 
 An Exile's Grave 609 
 
 On Raising a Monument to the Irish 
 
 legion 637 
 
 A Vesper Hymn 663 
 
 Ha.milton. Anna Elizabeth. 
 
 Born in Dublin, 1843; died, 1S75. 
 
 The Garden Sepulchre 698 
 
 Hamilton, William Rowan. 
 
 liorn in Dublin, 1805 ; died, 1863. 
 
 Prayer for Calm 673 
 
 O Brooding Spirit 676 
 
 Harding, Edward. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1849. 
 
 Parted 50 
 
 Nightfall 164 
 
 The Poet 322 
 
 Trust 696 
 
 Heiburn, David. 
 
 Author of " Lays and Leeends of Donegal." 
 
 Three Trout a Day 536 
 
 HlLDEKKAND, ANNA LOUISA. 
 
 Born in Turlough, Castlerea, County Galway. 
 
 The Four Mountains 710 
 
•4 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 Hoi.MHS, Er»ioND G. A. 
 
 Horn in Ireland, 1850. 
 
 'Ilie I vory Gate 49 
 
 Childhood's Home 117 
 
 Nature's Answer 165 
 
 The Coast of Clare 17' 
 
 Sage — Poet — Saint 211 
 
 Waiting for the Dawn f>io 
 
 Hughes, John (.\rchbishoi'). 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1797; died, 1S64, 
 
 To the Home of my Fathers 39S 
 
 The Rainbow of Hope 697 
 
 Im-.ram, John Kells. 
 
 Born in Ireland, about 1820. 
 The Memory of the Dead 445 
 
 Irwin, Thomas Caulkielu. 
 
 I^orn in Ireland, 1833. 
 
 The Peasant's Pilgrimage gi 
 
 Song of All-Hallow's Eve 125 
 
 My Garden by the Sea 168 
 
 To an Urn 255 
 
 Spirit Company 293 
 
 Lucy's Attire 311 
 
 Hearth Song 324 
 
 My Violon 331 
 
 A Vision of Eire 396 
 
 The Potato Digger's Song 511 
 
 The Irish Reaper's Song 514 
 
 Only a Woman's Hair 577 
 
 Jordan, Margaret E. 
 
 Born in Portland, Maine. 
 
 Three Kisses 133 
 
 Ingratitude 700 
 
 The Burden of the Day 701 
 
 JiivrE, Patrick Weston. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 18J5. 
 The Land of Rest 355 
 
 Joyce, Rohert Dwyer. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1830 ; died, 1883. 
 
 Sweet GlengarifTs Water 71 
 
 Gwendoline and her Dove 87 
 
 I )eirdre and the King 96 
 
 Roving Bryan O'Connell 1 10 
 
 The Sun and the Flowers 158 
 
 Reflections 23S 
 
 Ode to Poverty 307 
 
 The Green and the Gold 43° 
 
 Crossing the Blackwater 452 
 
 The Blacksmith of Limerick s3: 
 
 The Rights of Man 515 
 
 The Burning of Kilcolcman 581 
 
 The Angel 671 
 
 Kane, John. 
 
 Bom in Ireland. 
 The Bells of I .ondonderry 197 
 
 Kavanaii, Rosi-. 
 
 Bom in County Tyrone, Ireland. 
 Ixiugh Bray 179 
 
 Keegan, James (Rev.). 
 
 Bom in Ireland, i8«o ; -St. I^uis, Mo. 
 
 f )ssian 247 
 
 The Bards of Old 248 
 
 Keegan, John. 
 
 Bora in Ireland. 1809 ; died, 1840. 
 
 The Dying Mother's Lament ;68 
 
 Caoch the Piper 5*7 
 
 The Holly and Ivy Girl 594 
 
 The Dark Girl at the Holy Well 595 
 
 Keli.y, Eva Mary. 
 
 Born in Ireland, about 1830. 
 
 Tipperary '95 
 
 The Irish Minstrel 4'-'!* 
 
 The People's Chief 44' 
 
 A Caoine 59* 
 
 Kelly, Thomas (Rev.). 
 
 Born in Dublin, 1769 ; died, 1855. 
 
 Christ is Born 679 
 
 On the Mountain's Top 679 
 
 Kelly, William D. (Rf.v.). 
 
 Born in Irt^land, 1846 ;— lUwlon, Mass. 
 
 Maying 83 
 
 By September Seas 168 
 
 Tom Moore 627 
 
 I )enis Florence McCarthy 631 
 
 Decoration I )ay 639 
 
 Keneallv, William. 
 
 I Bom in Ireland. 
 
 ' The Last Request sSb 
 
 Kenny, Jame.s. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1780 ; died, 1849, 
 
 Love's Remonstrance 42 
 
 Why are you Wandering Here ?. 5S 
 
 Keitel, Caroline (Lady). 
 
 Bora in England. 
 Robin Adair 59 
 
 Kickham, Charles Joseph. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1835 ; died, 1883. 
 
 My Ulick 66 
 
 W'hat's That to Any Man ? 300 
 
 Roryofthe Hills 457 
 
 In the Night-time 517 
 
IXDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 KiRCHHOKFER, Jui.IA G. M. 
 Born in Cork, 1855 ; died 1878 
 Silence 6i;7 
 
 Knovvles, James Sheridan. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1784 ; died, 1862 
 
 Virginius in the Forum 258 
 
 Tell Among the Mountains 258 
 
 Lane, Denny. 
 
 Born in Ireland. 
 
 Klate of -Vrraglen 54 
 
 Up for the Green 431 
 
 Lanigan, GkorgEiT. 
 
 Born in Canada, i'45 ; died, 1886. 
 
 The Godmother's Gift 137 
 
 The Golden Bridge 253 
 
 A Threnody 549 
 
 On the Height 686 
 
 Leckey, William E. H. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 183S. 
 
 On an Old Song 271 
 
 Le Fanu, Joseph Sheridan. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1814 ; died, 1873. 
 Shemus O'Brien 479 
 
 l.EVER, Charles James. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1806 ; died, 1872. 
 
 Mary Draper 526 
 
 The Widow Malone 531 
 
 The Man for Galway 535 
 
 Bad Luck to this Marching 538 
 
 It's Little for Glory I Care 538 
 
 Locke, John. 
 
 Born in Ireland ;— Xew Yorl; 
 
 Irish Love Song 46 
 
 Christmas Hearths 124 
 
 Morning on the Irish Coast 171 
 
 The Midnight Mass for Sarsfield 646 
 
 Lover, Samuel. 
 
 Torn in Ireland, 1797 ; died, iS68. 
 
 What will you do, Love ? 44 
 
 The Pilgrim Harper 57 
 
 Forgive, but don't Forget 76 
 
 The Silent Farewell 78 
 
 The Angel's Whisper 137 
 
 The Fairy Boy 13S 
 
 The Indian Summer 296 
 
 The Four-leaved Shamrock 302 
 
 Kitty McClure 528 
 
 Molly Carew 528 
 
 Rory O'Moore 529 
 
 Lanty Leary 530 
 
 Widow Machree 531 
 
 How to Ask and Have 534 
 
 Lysaoht, Edward. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1763 ; died, 1810. 
 
 Kate of Garnavilla 53 
 
 Sweet Chloe 313 
 
 From Bondage Free 315 
 
 .Maginn, William. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1794 ; died, 1841. 
 
 Waiting for the Grapes 290 
 
 The First Appearance of Helen 374 
 
 The Seige of Magdeburgh 482 
 
 .\n Imitation of Scott 543 
 
 Mahony, Rowland B. 
 
 Born in Buffalo, N. Y., 1864. 
 
 To the Wind Flower 15S 
 
 An Arcady 320 
 
 The Cjates of Dreams 321 
 
 Nepenthe 563 
 
 Easter 677 
 
 Mahony, Francis S. (Rev.). 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1804 ; died, 1866. 
 
 Time and Love 41 
 
 The Bells of Shandon 196 
 
 The Angel of Poetry 324 
 
 The Mistletoe 368 
 
 Malbrouck 547 
 
 Epitaph on Father Prout 550 
 
 Beranger's Autobiography 551 
 
 Maiden, Pray for Me._ 569 
 
 The Dog of the Three Days 604 
 
 Obsequies of David the Painte,- 642 
 
 Mangan, James Clarence. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1803 ; died, 184 .. 
 
 The Woman of Three Cows 233 
 
 Twenty Golden Years .\go 245 
 
 .V Song from the Coptic yi~ 
 
 The Fairies' Passage 352 
 
 Soul and Country 3S3 
 
 I )ark Rosaleen 404 
 
 Lament for Banba 436 
 
 Cahal Morof the Wine-red Hand 438 
 
 The White Lady 573 
 
 The Nameless One 59S 
 
 The Time of the Barmecides 604 
 
 The Wail and Warning of the Three Klialen- 
 
 deers 605 
 
 Lament for the Princes of Tyrone and Tyr- 
 
 connell 652 
 
 St. Patrick's Hymn Before Tara O57 
 
 O Mary, Queen of Mercy 723 
 
 Mannix, Marv E. 
 
 Born in New 'N'ork, 1846. 
 
 .■\n Irish Maiden's Love 47 
 
 Mothers 131 
 
 My Prison 136 
 
i6 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 One Corpus Chrisli ... 
 On a Picture of St. Agnci 
 The Child and the Elders 
 
 681 This World is All. 
 
 70a There is a Bleak Ueseri 
 
 "•' Morgan, Sidney (L.\dv). 
 
 „ ., Hum in Ireland, about 1 780' died. 
 
 Marston, Philip Bot rke. 
 
 BominEnKUnd. .850: died, 1887. Kale Kearney 
 
 AKurdcn 78 MiilR. M.vRloS. 
 
 What Two Saw 
 
 Roses and the Nightingale 
 
 Just .\sleep 
 
 .\t Parting 
 
 Garden Fairies 
 
 Love Lies a-dying 
 
 .V1.\TURIN, Edward. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1814; died, 1882. 
 
 Born in Chicago, III. 
 Shadows of the Sunset. . . 
 
 One Woman 
 
 The Poet 
 
 .\ Border Knight 
 
 MULCHINOCK, Wll.LI.AM P. 
 Bom in Ireland. 
 Sons of Labor 
 
 The Woods >64 Mulholland, Ros.\ 
 
 The Spirit Bridal . . 
 The Cid's Pennon . 
 
 Meaoher, Thom.\s Francis. 
 
 Born in Ireland, J8J3; died, 1807. 
 
 I Would not Die 
 
 The Young Enthusiast 
 
 Miu.iKEX. Richard .\lfred. 
 
 Bom ia Ireland, 1767 ; died, 1815. 
 The Groves of Blarney 
 
 Bom in IreUiid. 
 Lament of the Riv 
 
 The Builders 
 
 A Prayer 
 
 MONSELL, J. S. B. (Rev.). 
 
 Bom in Londonderry, i8ii ; died 1^75. 
 Stabat Mater 1 )olorosa 664 
 
 Failure 
 
 Saint Bridgiil 
 
 MuLLALY, Mary. 
 
 Bom in Ireland ;— New Y< 
 
 The Babes in the Wood 
 
 The Olden Time 
 
 Romance 
 
 Irish Music 
 
 The Many Nameless . . . 
 
 »73 
 310 
 675 
 691 
 
 Meeting the Dead 694 i Mullin, Michael (Rev.) 
 
 Moore, Thomas. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1779; < 
 
 , 185J. 
 
 Born in Ireland. 
 
 The Celtic Tongue. 
 
 Bom in England ; 
 Music in Nature. 
 
 Contrast 
 
 Haunted 
 
 Presentiment 
 
 MUNSTER, A. D. 
 •"arewell 
 
 -NewYorX 
 
 Loves Young Dream 39 .Mlnkittrick, Richard K. 
 
 The Wreath and the Clu-iin 4° | 
 
 Go Where Glory Waits Thee 75 1 
 
 The Feast of Roses 97 
 
 Come, Rest in this Bosom io6 | 
 
 When First I Met Thee "3 | 
 
 The Meeting of the Waters 1 76 
 
 Oft in the Stilly Night 294 
 
 The Lake of the Dismal Swamp 335 ; 
 
 By that Lake 347 I Murphy. K.vfharine. 
 
 Paradise and the Peri 362 Bo™ '" '«'»"'! ; <•■'=''• '8'- ■ 
 
 Sweet Innisfallen 384 ! The Irish Peasant Maiden 
 
 O, Blame Not the Bard 427 j Sentenced to Death 
 
 The Minstrel Boy 428 ^,i„j,.„y j. j (kev.). 
 
 Dear Harp of my Countr>- 42S ^^^^ j^ Ireland. 
 
 OratorPuff 533 „„p^,^,, 
 
 Larry OBrannigans Letters 555 , ^^j ^^^ , 
 
 She is far from the Land 57i ' 
 
 Shall the Harp, then, be Silent? 623 Mirphv, Joseph J 
 
 O, Breathe not his Name <'-4 Appears in " I.y 
 
 Lines on the Death of Sheridan 624 F""*!'. «"="'"•• 
 
 Thou Art, O Cod ! 683 On the Riviera . . 
 
 Come, ye Disconsobte 6S3 A Reverie 
 
 5S6 
 
 Hibernica Sacra " as of Old 
 
 682 
 687 
 
Murray, John Fisher. 
 
 Wrote much in Young Ireland period. 
 
 Dark Margaret 3°^ 
 
 The Lost Wife 597 
 
 Murray, Patrick (Rev.). 
 
 Editor of the " Irish Annual Miscellany." 
 
 The Rock of Cashel 193 
 
 The Sister of Mercy 705 
 
 McCafferi^, Michael J. A. 
 
 Born in New York, of Irish parentage. 
 Evening Hymn 671 
 
 McCann, M. J. 
 
 O'Donnell Aboo 457 
 
 McCarthy, Denis Florence. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1817 ; died, 18S2. 
 
 Love's Language 39 
 
 Kate of Kenmare 52 
 
 The Flower of Cushendall ()2 
 
 Wings for Home 118 
 
 The Awakening 143 
 
 Waiting for the May 146 
 
 The Paradise of Birds 152 
 
 The Vale of Shanganah 184 
 
 To Longfellow 227 
 
 The Irish Emigrant's Mother 234 
 
 Italian Myrtles 291 
 
 A .Shamrock from the Irish Shore 303 
 
 Remonstrance 405 
 
 The Pillar Towers of Ireland 434 
 
 O'Connell 630 
 
 To the Memory of Father Prout 631 
 
 McCarthy, Justin Huntly. 
 
 The Beloved 41 
 
 Amor Tyrannis 75 
 
 Arcadian 146 
 
 The Year's Angels 2O4 
 
 The Gods of Hellas 370 
 
 Ecdicius and Lalage 379 
 
 Adam Lu.x 594 
 
 McCarthy, Mary Stanislaus. 
 
 A nun in Dublin, and daughter of Denis Florence 
 McCarthy. 
 
 A Convent Elegy 576 
 
 McClure, William James (Rey.). 
 
 Born at Dobb's Ferry, N. Y., 1842. 
 
 Struggle and Triumph 239 
 
 Winter's Victim 312 
 
 On the Lake 320 
 
 McCuLLAGH, Thomas (Rev.). 
 
 a dissenting Minister ; born in Ireland. 
 Moses on Pisgah 708 
 
 McDermott, Hugh Farrar. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1833 ; — New York. 
 
 My Blind Canary 153 
 
 Last upon the Roll 241 
 
 A Bright Spot in the Sky 308 
 
 The Cobbler 518 
 
 In the Long, Long Ago 567 
 
 McDermott, Martin. 
 
 Born in Ireland. 
 
 A Wooing 6g 
 
 The Irish Exiles 408 
 
 McGee, Thomas D'Arcy. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1825 ; died, 1868. 
 
 The Irish Wife 108 
 
 The Haunted Castle 193 
 
 The Mountain Laurel 258 
 
 The Recusant 2gi 
 
 The Exile's Request 40^ 
 
 The Celts 435 
 
 DeCourcy's Pilgrimage 459 
 
 Lady Gormley 572 
 
 Lost, Lost Armada 584 
 
 God Bless the Brave 632 
 
 The Priest of Perth 639 
 
 The Testament of St. Arbogast 703 
 
 McIlwaine, William (Rev.). 
 
 Rector of St. George's Church, Belfast, Ireland. 
 
 Advent 676 
 
 The I lope of the .Saint 67S 
 
 Harvest Hymn 692 
 
 McKane, James N. 
 
 Ireland; Contributor to "Nation." 
 
 Mac Mahon's Defiance 462 
 
 McKowen, James. 
 
 Born in Ireland. 
 
 My Sailor Boy 73 
 
 Bonnie Twinklin' Starnies 317 
 
 McMullin, Mary A. 
 
 Born in Ireland. 
 
 The P'ireside at Home 121 
 
 The Passing Days C2i 
 
 A Hundred Years from Now 1:49 
 
 The Jiongs of Home 327 
 
 Norton, Caroline Elizabeth. 
 
 Born in England, 1807; died, i86g. 
 
 The One You Loved the Best 41 
 
 The Blind Man to his Bride 112 
 
 Farewell, thou Sunny Isle 121 
 
 Rosy Child, with Forehead Fair 137 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine 199 
 
 Oh, Erin, Sweet Erin 395 
 
 The King of Denmark's Ride 600 
 
i8 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Weep not for Him that Dieth 6lo 
 
 Morning and Evening 724 
 
 O'Brien, Attie. 
 
 Born in County Clart, Irclund; died, 1883. 
 
 Peggy 591 
 
 In Griers Unrest 592 
 
 O'Brien, Fitz-James. 
 
 Born in Ireland about i8a8 ; died, i86a. 
 
 Irish Castles 70 
 
 The Sea 166 
 
 A Fallen Star 228 
 
 The Prize Fight 251 
 
 The Countersign 261 
 
 The Demon of the Gibbet 336 
 
 The Lost Steamship 583 
 
 The Three Gannets 585 
 
 Kane 643 
 
 The Legend of Easter Eggs 721 
 
 O'Callaghan, T. CD. 
 
 Bom in Ireland ;— Brooklyn, N. Y. 
 The River of Time 246 
 
 O'CoNNELL, Daniel. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1S48 ;— San Francisco, Cal. 
 
 The Welcome Rain 148 
 
 Monterey 202 
 
 The Workers 521 
 
 O'Connor, Joseph. 
 
 Bom in New Yorlc, 1841. 
 
 If the Wind Rise 269 
 
 The Fount of Castaly 322 
 
 The White Rose 308 
 
 Riding to Battle 498 
 
 Cavalier's Sword Song 500 
 
 O'Connor, Michael. 
 
 Born in New York, 1837 ; died. 1S62. 
 
 My Beau 72 
 
 The Beauty 312 
 
 Reveille 497 
 
 O'CoNOR, Charles P. 
 
 Bom in Ireland ; — Canada. 
 
 My Darling Child 129 
 
 The Death of Eily 593 
 
 O'DoNNELL, D. Kane. 
 
 The Happy Village 122 
 
 o'DoNNF.Li., John Francis. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1837 ; dit-d, 1874. 
 
 Limerick Town 181 
 
 On the Rampart 182 
 
 Where ? 307 
 
 Our 1' ailh— Our Fatherland 400 
 
 Not Dead 402 
 
 Goldsmith's Grave 632 
 
 Ireland's Dead in Rome 648 
 
 OtjLE, George. 
 
 Bora in Ireland, i73g ; died, 1814. 
 
 Molly Asthore «■ 
 
 The Banks of Banna N 
 
 O'Hagan, John. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1822. 
 
 The Old Story 95 
 
 Dear Land 398 
 
 Ourselves Alone 4'4 
 
 O'Hara, Theodore. 
 
 Born in Kentucky, i8ao ; died, 1867. 
 
 The Bivouac of the Dead 635 
 
 The Old Pioneer 637 
 
 O'KeEFE, .\RTHIR. 
 
 A native of Killarney ; bom, 1S64 ; died, 1883. 
 
 The Prodigals 69(1 
 
 O' Kei.lv, Patrick. 
 
 .\n eccentric character ; early part of present ccn- 
 
 Litany for Doneraile 539 
 
 O'Mallev, Charles J. 
 
 Born in Kentucky. 
 
 Worthiness 2411 
 
 A City Populous 2(1; 
 
 Night after Harvest 6yi 
 
 O'Reilly, John Boyle. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1844 ;— Boston, Mass. 
 
 The Priceless Things 20<) 
 
 The Rainbow's Treasure 210 
 
 The Well's Secret 223 
 
 A Lost Friend 224 
 
 The Poison Flower .... 267 
 
 The Amber Whale 33S 
 
 The Treasure of Abram 369 
 
 My Native Land 384 
 
 Ireland— 1882 387 
 
 At Fredericksburg 494 
 
 The Fishermen of We.xford . 5S2 
 
 Wendell Phillips 634 
 
 The Trial of the Gods 712 
 
 O'Rvan, Francis. 
 
 Born in Ireland ;— New York. 
 
 Pleasant Glens of Munster 191 
 
 Kearing the City by Night . 265 
 
 A Bit of Romance 305 
 
 The Plain of Asphodel 373 
 
 O'Ryan, Julia M. 
 
 Born in Ireland. 
 The Abbey of Carennac 198 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 19 
 
 The Geraldine's Sleep 343 
 
 The Tintamarre 516 
 
 Orr, James. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1770 ; died, 1816. 
 
 The Irishman 
 
 The Irish Cottier's Death 
 
 O'Shaughnessey, Arthur. 
 
 Born in England, 1846; died, 188 
 
 Supreme Summer 
 
 Outcry 
 
 The Music Makers 
 
 The Song of a Fellow- Worker. . 
 The Fountain of Tears 
 
 A Farewell 570 
 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 CuthuUin's Heroes 477 
 
 Parnell, Fanny. 
 
 Born in Ireland ; died, 1882. 
 
 Will they Return ? 219 
 
 She is not Dead 3go 
 
 Ireland, Mother 392 
 
 Post Mortem 402 
 
 Dragon's Teeth 413 
 
 Justice 416 
 
 What Shall we Weep For ? 419 
 
 At the Ship's Side 565 
 
 The Younger Florus 565 
 
 At Daybreak ... 667 
 
 Thorns and Roses 689 
 
 Parnell, Thomas (Rev.). 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1679 ; died, 1718. 
 
 Hymn to Contentment 242 
 
 Edwin of the Green 353 
 
 Hymn for Morning 636 
 
 Pope, Richard T. (Rev.). 
 
 Born in Cork, 1799 ; died, 1859. 
 In Trouble and in Grief 668 
 
 Purcell, Edvi^ard (Rev.). 
 
 Born in Mallow, County Cork, Ireland ; died in 
 Cincinnatti, Ohio, 1S81. 
 The Autumn Leaf ico 
 
 iEAD, Charles Anderson. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1841 ; died. 
 Beyond the River 
 
 vEiLLY, Thomas Devin. 
 
 Born in Ireland ; active in Forty-eight penod ; 
 
 Riley, James Whitco.mb. 
 
 Born in Indiana, 1853. 
 The Clover 
 
 When the Frost is on tl 
 Our Kind of a Man . . . 
 A Descant on Fame. . . 
 
 Beautiful Hands 
 
 A Canary at the Farm. 
 My Fiddle 
 
 Robinson, William E. 
 
 Born in Ireland ;-Brooklyn 
 Hail, Brightest Banner . . , 
 Roche, James Jeefrev. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1847; — Bos 
 
 England 
 
 Andromeda 
 
 Sergeant Molly 
 
 For the People 
 
 The V-a-s-e 
 
 A Sailor's Yarn 
 
 The Way of the World . . . 
 Hubert the Hunter 
 
 UissELL, Matthew (Rev.). 
 
 Down by the Dodder 
 
 The Great Day 
 
 The Legend of St. Dorothy. 
 The First Redbreast 
 
 Ryan, Abram J. (Rev.). 
 
 Born in Virginia, 1840 ; died, 
 
 In Rome 
 
 A Thought 
 
 What Ails the World? 
 
 Wake me a Song 
 
 Erin's Flag 
 
 The Conquered Banner . . . . 
 
 They Never Tell Why 
 
 Sursum Corda 
 
 Out of the Depths 
 
 Song of the Mystic 
 
 RVAN, Carroli . 
 
 Born in Canada, 1839. 
 
 The Convent Porter 
 
 Strada San Giovanni 
 
 Ryan, James. 
 
 Born in Ireland ;— New York. 
 
 Love's Bliss 
 
 The Prayer of Ireland 
 
 Ryan, Margaret. 
 
 Born in Ireland. 
 
 Our Emigrants 
 
 Ryves, Elizabeth. 
 
 Born in Ireland ; died, 1779. 
 
 To Friendship 
 
 Ctesar and Cato 
 
 326 
 429 
 446 
 562 
 665 
 666 
 667 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Sadlier, Mary Anne. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1820 ; —Canada. 
 
 Out on the Sea 166 
 
 Song of the Irish- American Soldier 448 
 
 Savage, John. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1828 ;— New York. 
 
 A New Life 108 
 
 The Bath of the Golden Robin 154 
 
 The Plaint of the Wild Flower 157 
 
 The Sunlit Path 292 
 
 The Dead Year 260 
 
 Shaiin's Head 473 
 
 Game Laws 600 
 
 Seduui's. 
 
 Tlieolagian and Poet ; fifth century. 
 
 De Nativitate Domini 660 
 
 SENNorr, George. 
 
 Bunker Hill Centennial Ode 447 
 
 Serrano, Mary J. 
 
 Bom in Ireland ; — New York. 
 
 Captivity 155 
 
 Lines to an Exotic Plant 157 
 
 Freedom and Love 244 
 
 Dirge 613 
 
 SiiANLY, Charles Dawson. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1811 ; died, 1875. 
 
 An Idyl of April 145 
 
 The Bricr-wodd Pipe 310 
 
 Christmas in a Lighthouse 261 
 
 The Walker of the Snow 336 
 
 The Trumpet Smith 522 
 
 Civille Bellum ()03 
 
 Dirge (>36 
 
 Shea, John Augustus. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1802 ; died, 1845. 
 
 Spirit of Song 325 
 
 The Men of our Island 443 
 
 To America 445 
 
 Washington 446 
 
 The O'Kavanagh 458 
 
 Sheridan, Richard Brinslev. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1751 ; — died, 1816. 
 
 Had I a Heart So 
 
 To the Recording Angel 108 
 
 The Days when I was Voung 296 
 
 A Portrait 254 
 
 Let the Toast Pass 301 
 
 Sheridan, Thomas. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1684 ;— died, 1738. 
 
 Ballyjpellin 186 
 
 A Letter to Swift 549 
 
 SiGERSON, George. 
 
 Bon 
 
 MoCailin Donn c; 
 
 Crossing the Ferry 2<>4 
 
 In the City 522 
 
 Maire ni Milleoin 617 
 
 SiLi.ERY, Charles Dovne. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1807 ; died, 1836. 
 
 She Died in Beaut)- 5' 
 
 Simmons, Bartholemew. 
 
 Born in Ireland ; died, 1850. 
 
 The Lost Madonna 114 
 
 The Life of the Sea 167 
 
 The Hudson 183 
 
 The Flight to Cyprus 606 
 
 Napoleon's Tomb 641 
 
 Skidmore, Harriet M. 
 
 Of Irish-American parentage ;— California. 
 
 The Golden Sea 161 
 
 California's Mission Relics 203 
 
 Smythe, G. S. 
 
 Mary Stuart's Last Prayer 676 
 
 St. Coi.umbkille. 
 
 Born Dec. 7, 521;— died June 9, 597. 
 
 Song of Trust 657 
 
 •Sterling, John. 
 
 Bom in Scotland, 1806 ; died, 1844. 
 
 The Dreamer 169 
 
 Prose and Song 325 
 
 The Husbandman 512 
 
 Louis Fifteenth 599 
 
 Hymn of a Hermit 669 
 
 The Penitent 693 
 
 SioKEs, H. G. (Rev.). 
 Childhood's Promise 128 
 
 Stokes, Whitley. 
 
 Bom in Ireland ;— London. 
 
 Parting Lovers 42 
 
 King Ailill's Death 472 
 
 Lament for King Ivor 647 
 
 Man's Eight Elements 661 
 
 Si'LLivAN, Margaret F. 
 
 Born in Ireland ;— Chicago, 111. 
 
 In Ages Past 237 
 
 Sympathy 29^. 
 
 Revised 296 
 
 The Famine of 1880 4=3 
 
 A Prayer of Doubt 675 
 
 Si i.i.ivA.N, Timothy Danieu 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1837. 
 The Little Wife 107 
 
INDEX OF AUTHOnS. 
 
 Steering Home 109 
 
 A Plea for the Song Binis . 149 
 
 The Robin's Song 150 
 
 A National Anthem 385 
 
 Our Own Green Isle 441 
 
 The Tenant at Will 515 
 
 Side by Side 569 
 
 The Nun on the liattle-Field 612 
 
 Thomas Francis Meagher ... 628 
 
 SUI'PLE, G. H. 
 
 South M unster Clans 466 
 
 Sutton, E. A. 
 
 Born in Ireland ;— Canada. 
 
 The St. Patrick's Cross 304 
 
 Swift, Jonathan. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1667; died, 1745. 
 
 An Excellent New Song 544 
 
 On Wood the Ironmonger . 550 
 
 On the Death of Dr. Swift 552 
 
 Tate, Nahum. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1652 ; died, 1715. 
 
 The Man of Wisdom 218 
 
 Christmas Hymn 675 
 
 Taylor, Una Ashworth. 
 
 A Contributor to the Irish National Press. 
 
 The Ring and the Crown 385 
 
 In Exile 409 
 
 TiGHE, Mary. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1772 ; died, 1810. 
 
 The Vision of Love 45 
 
 At Killarney 1S7 
 
 The Lily 268 
 
 Sympathy 295 
 
 From Sorrow's Depths 695 
 
 Todd, James Henthorn (Rev.). 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1805 ; died, 1S69. 
 
 Lorica S. Patricii 659 
 
 Todhunter, John. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1839. 
 
 Hither, O Love 43 
 
 Lost — Found 49 
 
 The First Spring Day 144 
 
 The Banshee 387 
 
 Treacy, William P. (Rev.). 
 
 Born in Ireland. 
 
 The Monks of Erin 437 
 
 Trench, Richard Chenevi.x (Archbishop). 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1807 ; died, 1886. 
 
 Be Patient 20S 
 
 The Sirens 221 
 
 Vesuvius 222 
 
 Harmosan 486 
 
 O Hearts of Ours 680 
 
 The Kingdom of God 681 
 
 Gertrude of .Saxony 719 
 
 Tynan, Katharine. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1861. 
 
 Olivia and Dick Primrose 230 
 
 A Dream 321 
 
 Erin 392 
 
 The Dead Mother 611 
 
 A Tired Heart 672 
 
 Waller, John Francis. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1810. 
 
 Sweet Kitty Neil 57 
 
 The Spinning Wheel 82 
 
 Welcome as Flowers in May 89 
 
 The .Song of the Glass 32S 
 
 W'alpurgis Night 377 
 
 Derniot and Nora 527 
 
 Agnus Dei 668 
 
 A Christmas Carol 678 
 
 Walsh, Edward. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1809 ; died, 1850. 
 
 O'Donovan's Daughter . . 60 
 
 Mo Craoibhin Cno 67 
 
 Mairgraed ni Chealleadh 618 
 
 White, John (Rev.). 
 
 A Congregational minister in Belfast. 
 
 We will praise Thee 693 
 
 W^hite, Richard E. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1S43 ;-San Francisco. 
 
 The Cross of Monterey 714 
 
 The Midnight Mass 715 
 
 Whitman, Sarah Helen. 
 
 Born in Rhode Island, 1813; died, 1878. 
 
 The Maiden's Dream 80 
 
 Don Isle 188 
 
 A Song of Spring 329 
 
 The Sleeping Beauty 359 
 
 The Lost Church 716 
 
 Whyte, David (Rev.). 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1782 ; died, 1872 
 
 New Year 674 
 
 Wilde, Jane Francesca (Lady). 
 
 Born in Ireland. 
 
 Corrinne's Last Love Song 46 
 
 Cristan and Isolde 96 
 
 Man's Mission . 217 
 
 Related Souls 225 
 
 The Poet at Court : 269 
 
 To Ireland 383 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 The Exile 4«o 
 
 The Faithless Shepherds 412 
 
 Le Reveille 4I7 
 
 The Knight's Pledge 499 
 
 The Voice of the Poor 5<'2 
 
 U Via Dolorosa 572 
 
 Aspirations for Death 670 
 
 Wii.DE, Oscar. 
 
 Born in Ireland, 1855. 
 
 Silentium Amoris 77 
 
 Endymion 85 
 
 Impressions 170 
 
 Rome Unvisited 201 
 
 A Vision 261 
 
 Ave Iraperatrix. 
 
 Ballade de Marguerite 602 
 
 Wilde, Richard Henry. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1789 ; died, 1847. 
 
 To the Mocking Bird 1 56 
 
 Hymn to Gold 253 
 
 .My Life is Like 3>8 
 
 A Farewell to America 448 
 
 Napoleon's Grave 640 
 
 WiLKiNS, William. 
 
 Bom in Ireland. 
 
 May Carol 5° 
 
 Dei Gratia 
 
 149 
 
 Williams, Richard Dalton. 
 
 Bom in Ireland, about 1822 ; died, 1862. 
 
 To Kathleen 55 
 
 Longing i'9 
 
 Freedom 439 
 
 Munster War Song 466 
 
 The Mine of Tortona 483 
 
 Never Say Die 53^ 
 
 A Reverie 54^ 
 
 A Medical Student's Letter 548 
 
 The Legend of Stiffenbach 554 
 
 The Dying Girl 59^ 
 
 Clarence Mangan 
 
 The Sister of Charity 7^4 
 
 Wills, James (Rev.). 
 
 Bora in Ireland, 1790; died, i848. 
 
 The Burial 614 I 
 
 660 I 
 
 Providence 
 
 The Passing Bell. 
 
 
 Wilson, Anna T. 
 
 Bora in Ireland ;— New York. 
 
 Across the Gulf 614 
 
 A I'enitent 70O 
 
 Wilson, John Crawford. 
 
 Bom m Ireland, 1835 ; — London. 
 
 Hearts and Flowers 50 
 
 .Sunlight and Shade 80 
 
 St. Patrick and C«sar 540 
 
 The Death of Lily 563 
 
 Wolfe, Charles (Rev.). 
 
 Bom in Ireland, 1771 ; died, 1823. 
 
 Go, Forget Me 76 
 
 Oh, Say not That 319 
 
 If I had Thought 568 
 
 The Burial of Sir John Nfoore 625 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 My Brideen 67 
 
 The Peasant's Bride ill 
 
 The Olden Time 246 
 
 Man's Mortality 276 
 
 The Cruiskeen Lawn 328 
 
 The Enchanted Island 337 
 
 The Banshee's Summons 359 
 
 The Shan Van Vocht 439 
 
 " No, my Lord." 455 
 
 The Boyne Water 47' 
 
 The Revelry of the Dying 485 
 
 Kitty of Coleraine 525 
 
 The Lover's Complaint 530 
 
 The Maid of Cloghroe 540 
 
 The Poor Man's Darling 589 
 
 King Cormac's Crown 608 
 
 Deirdre's Farewell to Alba 608 
 
 Shane Dymas' Daughter 616 
 
 The Death of King Leury 651 
 
 The Convict and the Cross 706 
 
INDEX OF POEMS. 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Aileen Aroon Gerald Griffin 
 
 Ailleen John Banim. 
 
 Among the Heather. 
 Amor Tyrannis . . 
 
 Anxious Lover 
 
 At the Tryst.- 
 
 Bank of the Daisies. . 
 
 Banks of Banna 
 
 Banks of the Lee. . . . 
 
 Beloved, The 
 
 Blind Man to his Bride . . .C. E. Norton. 
 
 Bonnie Gray Mare Ellen Forrester . 
 
 Burden, A P. B. Marston . 
 
 By a Daisy-browed Strame. .A^. M. Fletcher. 
 Come rest in this Bosom . . . Thomas Moore. . 
 
 IV. Allingham . 
 .J. H. McCarthy 
 .M. F. Egan.... 
 .Minnie Gilmorc. 
 .A. P. Graves... 
 
 . George Ogle 
 
 . Thomas Davis. . 
 .J. H. McCarthy 
 
 Come to me. Dearest Joseph Brenan I06 
 
 Conal and Eva Ellen Doii,ning .... 73 
 
 Corinne's Last Love-Song. .Lady Wilde 46 
 
 Cyclops to Galatea M. F. Egan 86 
 
 Dangerous Frankness M. F. Egan 113 
 
 Decade of Love J. I C. Clarke. ... 44 
 
 Deirdre and the King K. D. Joyce 96 
 
 Donal Kenny J. K. Casey go 
 
 Dream, A Edw'd Dowden. ... 46 
 
 Endymion Oscar Wilde 85 
 
 False Oracle M. A. De Vere 75 
 
 Fanny Power Thomas Davis 58 
 
 Feast of Roses Thomas Moore 97 
 
 Florence MacCarthy's Fare- 
 well to his English Love. .A. T. De Vere .... 44 
 
 Flower of Cushendall D. F. McCarthy. . . 62 
 
 Flower of the Flock F. A. Fahy 62 
 
 Forgive, but don't Forget . . Samuel Lover 76 
 
 Gille Machree Gerald Griffin 63 
 
 Go, Forget Me Charles Wolfe 76 
 
 Good-bye R. Dowling 78 
 
 Go where Glory waits Thee. Thomas Moore 75 
 
 Gwendoline and her Dove . .R. D. Joyce 87 
 
 Had I a Heart R. B. Sheridan . . 80 
 
 Harry's Away H. M. Fletcher 71 
 
 Harvest Idyl Minnie Gilmore. ... 74 
 
 Hearts and Flowers J. C. Wilson 50 
 
 Hermit, The Goldsmith 92 
 
 Hither, O Love Jno. Todhunter 43 
 
 If I were not too Young.. . .J. Cunningham . ... 60 
 
 Irish Castles Fitz-J. O Btien 70 
 
 Irish Love Song John Locke 46 
 
 Irish Maiden's Love M. E. Mannix. ... 47 
 
 Irish 'Wife T. D. McGee 108 
 
 Ivory Gate E. G. A. Holmes. . . 49 
 
 Janette's Hair C. G. Halpine 106 
 
 Kate Kearney Lady Morgan 53 
 
 Kate of Arraglen Denny Lane 51 
 
 Kate of Garnavilla E. Lysaght 53 
 
 Kate of Kenmare D. F. McCarthy . . . 52 
 
 Katey's Letter Lady Dufferin 53 
 
 Kitty Bahn A. P. Graves 57 
 
 Little Wife T. D. Sullivan. ... 107 
 
 Lost-Found Jno. Todhunter. ... 49 
 
 Lost Madonna B. Simmons . 114 
 
 Lovely Mary Donnelly W. Allingham 55 
 
 Love's Bliss James Ryan 42 
 
 Love Song George Darley 45 
 
 Love's Language D. F. McCarthy. . . 39 
 
 Love's Remonstrance James Kenny 42 
 
 Love's Young Dream Thomas Moore 39 
 
 Maiden's Dream S. ff. Whitman ... 80 
 
 Maire Bhan Astor Thomas Davis. .... 65 
 
 Man's Devotion G. F. Armstrong. ..113 
 
 Marriage, A M. A. De Vere. ... 75 
 
 Mary Maguire Tkos. Furlong 61 
 
 May Carol Wm. Wilkins 50 
 
 Maying W. D. Kelly 83 
 
 Milkmaid, The W. Allingham .... 63 
 
 Mo Cailin Donn Geo. Sigerson 68 
 
 Mo Craoibhin Cno Edw'd Walsh 67 
 
24 
 
 INDEX OF POEMS 
 
 Molly Asthore Georgt Ogle 66 
 
 Mother's Warning Ellen Forrester ... 8l 
 
 My Ain Donald Jtto. Brougham. .89 
 
 My Beau M. O'Connor 72 
 
 My Betrothed Francis Davis 72 
 
 My Brideen Anonymous 67 
 
 My Connor J. D. Frasei 110 
 
 My Kallagh dhu Asthore. . .Francis DaiHs. ... 65 
 
 My Owen Bawn Con Sam'l Ferguson. ... 64 | 
 
 My 5>ailor Boy _/. McKoiven 73 
 
 My Southward Winging 
 
 Oriole C. G. //alpine .... 74 
 
 My Ulick C.J. Kickham 66 
 
 Nanny Francis Davis 60 
 
 New Life .John Savage 108 
 
 Not for Rank or Gold .Joseph Brenan 48 
 
 O'Donnell and the Fair Fitz- 
 gerald C. G. Duffy 94 
 
 O' Donovan's Daughter Edward Walsh. ... 60 
 
 Often I Dream of the Day. .A. P. Graves 81 
 
 Oh, if as Arabs Fancy John Anster. 80 
 
 Oh, were my Love IV. Allingham 43 
 
 Old Story /. O'/fagan 95 
 
 One you Loved the Best . . .C. E. Norton 41 
 
 O, the Marriage Thomas Davis 105 
 
 Outcry A. O'Shaughnessy. . 79 
 
 Parted Edvfd //arding . . 50 
 
 Parting Lovers Whitley Stakes 42 
 
 Pastoral /. Cunningham ... 84 
 
 Patriot's Bride C. G. Duffy m 
 
 Peasant's Bride Anonymous in 
 
 Peasant's Pilgrimage T. C. /nuin 91 
 
 Pilgrim Harper Samuel /Arner. 57 
 
 Pilot's Pretty Daughter W. Allingham 90 
 
 Place in thy Memory Gerald Giiffin 76 
 
 Polly O'Connor Jno. Brougham. ... 61 
 
 Preference C. Bronte 85 
 
 Remembered A". E. Conway 77 
 
 Robin Adair Lady Keppel, 59 
 
 Roving Br)'an O'Connell. ../i. D. Joyce 1 10 
 
 Silent Farewell Samuel /jntr. . ... 78 
 
 Silcntium Amoris Oscar Wilde 77 
 
 Sleep on, Mavourneen F. Beamish 71 
 
 Song of Golden Headed 
 
 Niamh /. K. Casey 86 
 
 Spinning Wheel J. F. Waller 82 
 
 Steering Home T. D. Sullivan. . . .lo<> 
 
 Sunlight and Shade /. C. Wilson 8i« 
 
 Supreme Summer •/. O' Shaughnessy. . 47 
 
 Sweet Glengariff's Water. . . /P. D. Joyce 71 
 
 Sweet Kilkenny Town iMdy Dufferin 54 
 
 Sweet Kitty Neil J.F. Waller 57 
 
 Sweet Sybil C. G. Duffy 5(1 
 
 Talk by the Blackwater Ellen Downing 69 
 
 Thine eyes of Blue C. G. //alpine 49 
 
 Time and Love F. S. Mahony 41 
 
 To Kathleen R. D.Williams.... 55 
 
 To the Recording Angel . . .R. B. Sheridan . . loS 
 
 Tristan and Isolde Lady Wilde 96 
 
 Vision of Love Mary Tighe 45 
 
 Welcome, The Thomas Davis 88 
 
 Welcome as Flowers in May.y. F. Waller 89 
 
 Welcome Home to You . . . .Ellen Downing. ... 88 
 
 We parted in Silence .Julia Crawford. ... 77 
 
 Were I but His Own Wife .Ellen Downing. . . . 107 
 
 What will you do, Love. . . . Samuel Lover. 44 
 
 When First I Met Thee. . . . Thomas Moore 113 
 
 Why are you wandering here .James Kenny 5.'* 
 
 Wooing, A M. McDermott .... fx) 
 
 Wreath and the Chain Thomas .\/oore 40 
 
 POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Absent Children Frances Brown. ... 130 
 
 Adventurers. L. /. Guiney 130 
 
 Angel's Whisper Samuel Lover. 137 
 
 Away from Home M. E. Blake 118 
 
 Babes in the Wood Mary Mullaly 139 
 
 Blue, Blue Smoke A. P. Graves 122 
 
 Bright Little Girl W. Allingham ... .135 
 
 Childhood's Home E. G. A. Holmes . . 117 
 
 Childhood's Promise //. G. Stokes 128 
 
 Christmas Hearths John Locke 124 
 
 Christmas Memories J. K. Casey 124 
 
 Fairy Boy Samuel Lover 138 
 
 Fairy Child John Anster. 138 
 
 Farewell, thou .Sunny Isle . . C. E. Norton 121 
 
 Father Dan Eugene Geary .... 126 
 
 Fireside at Home M. A. McMullin. ^121 
 
 I'lorence, My Child Joseph Brenan .... 128 
 
 Gloucester Harbor L. /. Guiney 132 
 
 Godmother's Gift G. P. Lanigan 137 
 
 Happy Village D. A'. O'Donnell . . I22 
 
 House of the Children Minnie Gilmore. . . 129 
 
 Letter from Home Ellen Forrester 120 
 
 Little Maiden Samuel h'ergusoii. . . 134 
 
 Little Mother's Lesson M. E. Blake 140 
 
 Little .Sailor Kiss M. E. Blake 133 
 
 Little Sister's Sonj; C. F. Alexander. ... 135 
 
 Longing R. D. Williams 119 
 
 Lost Home T. A. Butler 118 
 
 Lullaby W. Allingham .... 133 
 
 Lullaby T. D. English. . . .134 
 
 Mothers M. E. Mannix 131 
 
 My Darling Child C. P. O' Conor 129 
 
 My Prison M. E. Mannix 136 
 
 Object Lessons for Eithna. .John Boyle 135 
 
INDEX OF POEMS. 
 
 25 
 
 On a Child at Play. 
 
 Orient Born 
 
 Poet's Little Rival 
 
 Quiet House 
 
 Reminiscences . . . 
 
 .W. A. BulUr.. 
 . L. I. Guiney . . 
 .E. C. Donnelh . 
 .M. A. De Verv. 
 .Jane L. Gray. . 
 
 Rosy Child with Forehead 
 
 Fair C. E, iVorton. 
 
 Song of AU-Hallow's Eve. ..T.C. Inuin 
 
 Song of the Pioneers VV. D. Gallagher 
 
 Suspira E.J, Armstrong 
 
 Three Kisses M. E. Jordan. . 
 
 Wanderer's Home Pat'k Cronin. . . 
 
 When Mothers Watch M. E. Egan. . . . 
 
 Wings for Home D. F. McCarthy 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 Abbey Assaroe W. Allingham rSg 
 
 Abbey of Carrennac /. M. ff Kyan 198 
 
 Alhambra George Croly 197 
 
 April Day M. Gcoghegan 145 
 
 Arbor Hill Robt. Emmet 192 
 
 Arcadian J. H. McCarthy. . . 146 
 
 At Killarney Mary Tighe 187 
 
 Autumn Leaf Edw'd Purcell 159 
 
 Awakening, The D. F. McCarthy . . . 143 
 
 Ballyspellin Thos. Sheridan ... .186 
 
 Bath of the Golden Robin . .John Savage 154 
 
 Bay of Biscay, O Andrew Cherry . . . .172 
 
 Bed of Ocean ]V. H. Drummond 169 
 
 Bells of Londonderry John Kane 197 
 
 Bells of Shandon F. S. Mahony. . . . ig6 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine C. E. Norton 199 
 
 Blooming out of Time A'. E. Conway 156 
 
 By September Seas IV. B. Kelly 16S 
 
 By the Sea 4. C. L. Botta 166 
 
 California's Mission Relics .//. M. Skidmon .. .203 
 
 Captivity M.J. Serrano 155 
 
 Cardinal Bird W.D. Gallagher. . . 151 
 
 Clondallagh J. D. Eraser 188 
 
 Clover, The /. VV. Riley 162 
 
 Coast of Clare E. G. A. Holmes . . 171 
 
 Dei Gratia IVm. Wilkins 149 
 
 Don Isle S.H. Whitman 18S 
 
 Down by the Dodder M. Russell iSo 
 
 Dreamer, The Jno. Sterling 169 
 
 Everlasting Rose Jno. Anster 156 
 
 First Spring Daj' Jno. Todhunter. . . . 144 
 
 Glengariff Aubrey De Fere ... 170 
 
 Golden Sea //. M. Skidmore. . . l6i 
 
 Gougane Barra /. /. Callanan .... 1 84 
 
 Green Hills of Adair W. D. Gallagher . . 1S5 
 
 Haunted Castle T. D. McGee 193 
 
 Hudson, The B. Simmons 183 
 
 Hymn of the Universe George Croly 143 
 
 Idyl of April C. D. Shanly 145 
 
 Impressions Oscar Wilde 170 
 
 Inney's Side W. Geoghegan 179 
 
 In Rome Abram J. Ryan. . . .200 
 
 In the Garden Edw'd Dowden .... 161 
 
 Killarney E. Falconer 1S7 
 
 Lament of the River R. Mulholland. .... 173 
 
 .167 
 
 163 
 
 Life of the Sea B. Simmons 
 
 Liffy The Sam' I Ferguson. . 
 
 Limerick Town J. F. ffDonnell. 
 
 Lines to an E.xotic Plant ... A^. _/. Serrano... 
 
 Lough Bray Rose Kavanagh. . 
 
 Maloga's Holy Well Eugene Geary . . 
 
 Meeting of the Waters Thomas Moore. . . 
 
 Memories of the Erne D. Connolly 
 
 Messolonghi's Ruins George Croly 
 
 Monterey D. O'Connell .... 
 
 Morning M. E. Blake 
 
 Morning on the Irish Coast.. .John Locke 171 
 
 Music in Nature R. K. Munkittrick. 144 
 
 My blind Canary H. F. McDennott. .1^3 
 
 My Garden by the Sea T. C. Irwin 168 
 
 My Mountain Glens Wm. Carleton 192 
 
 Nature's Answer E. G. A. Holmes. . . 165 
 
 Nightfall Edited Harding. . . .164 
 
 November Day M. Geoghegan 160 
 
 Old Castle Ellen Downing 189 
 
 On the Rampart J. F. O'Donnell ... 182 
 
 O Sweet Adare Gerald Griffin 185 
 
 Out on the Sea M. A. Sadlier 166 
 
 Paradise of Birds D. F. McCarthy. . .152 
 
 Plaint of the Wild Flower. .John Savage 157 
 
 Plea for the Song Birds T. D. Sullivan 149 
 
 Pleasant Glens of Munster. .Francis O' Ryan. . . . 191 
 
 Robin Redbreast John Boyle 148 
 
 Robin's Song T. D. Sullivan 150 
 
 Rock of Cashel Pafk Murray 195 
 
 Rome Unvisited Oscar Wilde 201 
 
 Sea, The Fitz-J. O'Brien 166 
 
 Song in May-time . . .K. E. Conway 146 
 
 Song of Fire T. D. English 202 
 
 Song of Innishowen C. G. Duffy 194 
 
 Song of the Streams W. A. Butler 173 
 
 Steeds of the Ocean George Darley 170 
 
 Summer Song Fanny Forrester . . . 147 
 
 Sun and the Flowers R. D. Joyce 158 
 
 Sun-glow T. S. Collier 161 
 
 Sweet Avondhu J- J- Callanan .... 180 
 
 Tipperary Eva M. Kelly 195 
 
 To the Mocking Bird R. H. Wilde 156 
 
 To the Nightingales W. Allingham 150 
 
 To the Wind Flower R. B. Mahany 158 
 
INDEX OF POEM6. 
 
 To Wicklow h. J. Armstrofti;. . . iqi 
 
 Tropic liird C. G. Halfine 150 
 
 Trout Kishing D. Connolly 174 
 
 Twilight M. E. Blake 164 
 
 Vale of Shatigaiiah D. F. AfcCarthy. . . 184 
 
 Visit of the Beautiful Francis Datns 147 
 
 Voice of Spring . 
 
 Waiting for the May j'. r. .i/< i <ir,riy . .140 
 
 Wedding, The ./. F. Brown 172 
 
 Welcome Rain A O'Connell 148 
 
 When Krost is on the Punkin.y. W. Riley 162 
 
 Wicklow G. F. Armstrong. . . 190 
 
 Winding Banks of Erne. ...W. Allingham 176 
 
 .John Boyle 144 Woods, The . 
 
 .E.Malurin. 
 
 .164 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 Accordance A. C. /.. Bo/fa . . . .219 
 
 A HundredVears from now. J/. A. McMullin . .249 
 
 Akeratos T. V. English 256 
 
 Ave Imperatrix Oscar IVilde 274 
 
 Hards of Old James Keegan. .. .248 
 
 Htcalmed S. K. Cowan 262 
 
 Be Patient R. C. Trench 20S 
 
 Blindness Joseph Brenan ... .213 
 
 Bitter Sweet M. F. Egan 242 
 
 Books A. C. I.. Bolta 212 
 
 Brother Bartholemew /-. /. Giiiney 271 
 
 Buried Bells 5. A'. Co-wan 264 
 
 Builders, The .Ji. Afulholland. 210 
 
 Caste and Creed Francis Davis 216 
 
 Christmas in a Lighthouse. . C. D. Shanly 261 
 
 City Populous C.J. O'Malley 265 
 
 Columbus .-iubrey De Vere. . .275 
 
 Compensation D. Connolly 231 
 
 Compensations Af.E. Blake 232 
 
 Convent Porter Carroll Ryan 229 
 
 Countersign, The Filz-J. O'Biien . . . .261 
 
 Course of Empire George Berkeley. . . .215 
 
 Crossing the Ferry Geo. Sigerson 264 
 
 Dead Year John Savage 260 
 
 Descant on Fame /. IV. Riley 259 
 
 Deserted Village Goldsmith 277 
 
 England Jas. J. Roche 260 
 
 Fallen Star Fitz- '. O'Brien 228 
 
 Fra Angelico Af. F. Egan 256 
 
 Freedom and Love AT. J. Serrano 244 
 
 Givet J' E- Bro-.vn 222 
 
 Golden Bridge G. T. Lanigan . . . .253 
 
 Hymn of Princes Jno. Brougham . . . .250 
 
 Hymn to Contentment Thomas Pamcll . . .242 
 
 I lymn to Gold R.U. Wilde 253 
 
 If that were True Frances Brown. . . .212 
 
 If the Wind Rise J. O'Connor. 269 
 
 Implicit Faith A. T. De Vere 214 
 
 In Ages Past At. F. Sullivan . . . 237 
 
 Ina Strange Land K. E. Conimy 220 
 
 Intactis Opulentior S. De Vere 227 
 
 Irish Emigrants Mother. . .D. F. McCarthy. . .234 
 Jasper Dean D. Connolly 266 
 
 Judith .Joseph Farrell 242 
 
 Last upon the Roll H. F. AlcDermotl ..z^\ 
 
 Lay Sennon C. G. Duffy 215 
 
 Life C.Bront/. 221 
 
 Lily, The Afary Tighe 268 
 
 Lost Friend J. B. O'Reilly 224 
 
 Man of Wisdom Xahum Tale 218 
 
 Man's Mission Lady IVilde. 217 
 
 Man's Mortality Anonymous 276 
 
 Maurice de Guerin Af. F. Egan 255 
 
 Missioner, The J. K. Casey 218 
 
 Morn .J. L. Gray 220 
 
 Mortality At. J. Fleming . . . .277 
 
 Mountain Laurel T. D. AlcGee 258 
 
 Music Makers . . .A. 0' Shaughnessy .272 
 
 My Argosy John Boyle 223 
 
 Nearing the City by Night . Francis O'Ryan. . . . 265 
 
 Oasis Edw'd Dotuden. . . .250 
 
 Oblivion Joseph Brenan 238 
 
 Olden Time Anonymous 246 
 
 Olivia and Dick Primrose.. .Kath. Tynan 230 
 
 O Mighty Fame Henry Flood 259 
 
 On an Old Song IV. E. H. Leckey. .271 
 
 On Burke Goldsmith 286 
 
 On Garrick Goldsmith 286 
 
 One Woman Atation Afiiir 268 
 
 Ossian James Keegan 247 
 
 Our Emigrants Marg't Ryan 236 
 
 Out Kind of a Man /. W. Riley 217 
 
 Passing Days At. A. AfcAIullin. . 22 1 
 
 Peace and War Jno. Brougham . . .251 
 
 Pericles and Aspasia George Croly 257 
 
 Pleasant Days of Old Francis Brown. . . .237 
 
 Poet, The Alaiion Atuir 269 
 
 Poet at Court Lady Wilde 269 
 
 Poet to his Son /. D. Eraser 270 
 
 Poison Flower J.B. O'Rielly 267 
 
 Poor Mother Af. A. De Vere 243 
 
 Portrait, A R. B. Sheiidan. . . . 254 
 
 Priceless Things J. B. O'Reilly 209 
 
 Prison Dream Joseph Brenan 236 
 
 Prize-Fight, The Fitz-J. OBtien . . .251 
 
 Queen .Margaret's Feasting. ^4. T. De Vert 252 
 
INDEX OF POEMS. 
 
 27 
 
 Rainbow's Treasure 
 
 Recompense 
 
 Reflections 
 
 Related Souls 
 
 Rival Singers 
 
 ./. B. 0' /iielly . . . .110 
 
 ..T. S. Collier 230 
 
 Ji. D. Joyce 23S 
 
 .Lady Wilde 225 
 
 , .L. I.Guiney 254 
 
 River of Time T. O'Callaghan . . .246 
 
 Ruined Chapel W. Allingham 263 
 
 Sacrilege T. S. Collier 256 
 
 Sad and Sweet Aubrey De Vere. . . 20g 
 
 Sage— Poet— Saint E. G. A. Holmes. . .211 
 
 San Salvador John Boyle 273 
 
 Shadows of the Sunset Marion Muir 244 
 
 Sirens, The R. C. Trench 221 
 
 Soggarth Aroon John Banim 232 
 
 Sonnets on Memory VVm. Alexander. . .240 
 
 Speculum Vitoe ./. /. C. Clarke 250 
 
 Spinner, The M. A. De Vere 220 
 
 Struggle and Triumph W.J. McClure 239 
 
 Sweetness A. C. L. Botta. . . .219 
 
 Tell among the Mountains. .J. S. Xnowles . . . .258 
 
 Thought, A AbramJ. Ryan 207 
 
 Three Sonnets T. S. Collier 240 
 
 Three Thoughts Sam' I. Ferguson . . 20S 
 
 To an Urn 
 
 To Longfellow 
 
 To Miecenas 
 
 Touchstone, The 
 
 Traveller, The 
 
 Twenty Golden Years Ago. 
 
 Vesuvius . . . 
 
 Virginius in the Forum 
 
 Vision, A 
 
 Wasted Fountains 
 
 Well's Secret 
 
 What Ails the World 
 
 What hath Time Taken 
 
 What is the Gain 
 
 What the Sea Said 
 
 What Two Saw 
 
 Widow's Message to her Son, 
 
 Will they Return 
 
 Wind-swept Wheat 
 
 Winters, The 
 
 Woman of Three Cows , . . . 
 
 Worthiness 
 
 Year's Angels 
 
 .T.B.Irwin 
 
 D. E. McCarthy 
 
 . S. De Vere 
 
 W. Allingham. . 
 
 Goldsmith 
 
 , J. C. Mangan . . 
 R. C. Trench . . . 
 J. S. Knowles . . 
 
 . Oscar Wilde 
 
 .A. C. L. Botta. . 
 J. B. O'Rielly . 
 .Abram J. Ryan . 
 .Frances Brown. . 
 T. S. Collier.... 
 . Joseph Farrell. . . 
 .P. B. Mars ton. . 
 .Ellen Forrester. . 
 , Fanny Fame I I . . 
 M. A. De Vere. . 
 Frances Brown. . 
 J. C. Mangan . . 
 C. J. 0-Malley.. 
 J. JI. McCarthy. 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 After Ten Years Pat'k Cronin 
 
 Angel of Poetry F. S. Mahony 
 
 At Parting P. B. Marsion 
 
 Beautiful Hands /. W. Riley 
 
 Beauty, The M. O'Connor 
 
 Ben Bolt T. D. English 
 
 Bit of Romance Francis O'Ryan . . 
 
 Bohemian's Ballad R. Dowliiig 
 
 Bonnie Twinklin' Starnies. .J. McKowen 
 
 Brier-wood Pipe C. D. Shanly 
 
 Bright Spot in the Sky. . . .H. F. McDermott . 
 
 Charity J. T. Campion . . . . 
 
 Charity to Man Wm. Drcnnan. . . . 
 
 Claddagh Boatman J- J- Dowling . . . 
 
 Contrast R. JiT. Munkittrick. 
 
 Cruiskeen Lawn Anonymous 
 
 Dark Margaret J- P- Murray 
 
 Day Dream E. Bronte 
 
 Days when I was Young . . . A'. B. .Sheridan. . . . 
 
 Dedication, A E. J. Armstrong. . . 
 
 Dream, A Kath. Tynan 
 
 Early Friendship Aubrey De Vere. . . 
 
 Evening Solace C. Brontt' 
 
 Eyes of an Irish Girl D. Connolly 
 
 Forgive and Forget Fanny Forrester. . . 
 
 Fount of Castaly J. 0' Connor 
 
 Four-leaved Shamrock.. .. Samuel Lover 
 
 Friends Across the Sea Ellen Forrester. . . 
 
 From Bondage Free E. Lysaght. 
 
 Gates of Dreams R. B. Mahany. . . . 
 
 Good Morning J. T. Campion. . . 
 
 Green Little Shamrock Andrew Cheriy. . . . 
 
 I launted R. E. Munkittrick. 
 
 Hearth Song T. C. Irwin 
 
 In Arcady R. B. Mahany. . . . 
 
 Indian Summer Samuel Lover 
 
 In Meditation G. F. Armstrong . . 
 
 Irish Music Mary Mullaly 
 
 Irish Peasant Maiden Kath. Murphy. . . . 
 
 Italian Myrtles D. F. McCarthy. . . 
 
 I would not Die T. F. Meagher 
 
 Just Asleep P. B. Marston 
 
 Let the Toast Pass R. B. Shetidan 
 
 Life's Young Day Gerald Giiffin 
 
 Lonely Flower C. F. Alexander. . . 
 
 Lucy's Attire T. C. Irwin 
 
 Merriest Bird Gerald Griffin 
 
 Minnie Beck John Boyle 
 
 Missing Minnie Gilmore . . . 
 
 Morning Dream W. Ceoghegan 
 
 My Life is Like R. H. Wilde 
 
 My Violon T. C. Irwin 
 
 Nymph of Lurlieberg C. G. Halpine 
 
 Ode to Poverty R. D. Joyce 
 
28 
 
 INDEX OF POEMS. 
 
 Oft in the Stilly Night Thomas Moore . . . 
 
 Oh ! Say net That CAarUs Wolfe 
 
 Old Boreen A. M. Forrtster . 
 
 Olden Time Mary MuUaly. . . 
 
 On Songs Thos. Demiody. . . 
 
 On the Lake VV. J. McClure. . 
 
 Our Noble Irish Girls J. AT. Casey 
 
 Pleasures of Poesy T/ios. Dennody. . . 
 
 Poet, The £J-.iui NarJin,:.. 
 
 Prose and Song Jiio. Sterling . . . . 
 
 Recusant, The T. D. MeGee .... 
 
 Revised ...M.F. Sullivan. . . 
 
 Romance Mary Mullaly . . 
 
 Roses and the Nightingale. .P. B. Marslon . . . 
 
 Ruby Ring C. G. Ualpine . . 
 
 Shamrock from the Irish 
 
 Shore D. F. McCarthy. . 
 
 Singer, The C. F. Armstrong 
 
 Singer's Plea Edw'il. Do^oden . . 
 
 Singing and Sighing M. E. Blake 
 
 Sing the Old Song Aubrey De I 'en . 
 
 Song from the Coptic /. C. Mangan . . . 
 
 Song of Spring S. H. Whitman 
 
 Song of the Cilass J. F. Waller 
 
 Songs of Home M.A. McMullin . 
 
 Songs of I-ong Ago Ellen Forrtster . . .33b 
 
 Spirit Company 7'. Irxviu . . 293 
 
 Spirit of Irish Song Thos. Furlong . . . .320 
 
 Spirit of Song . . .J. A. Shea 325 
 
 Story of a Star O.K. Connolly . . . .2<>!i 
 
 St. Patrick's Cross E. A. Sutton 304 
 
 Strada Don Giovanni Carroll Kyan 2y2 
 
 Sunlit Path John Savage ag2 
 
 Sweet Chloe E. Lysaght 313 
 
 Sym|>athies . . .0. K. Connolly. . . .316 
 
 Symjjathy Mary Tighe 295 
 
 Sympathy M. F. Sullivan . . . 296 
 
 Theocritus. AI. F. Egan 290 
 
 To Friendship Elizabeth Ryfes... .297 
 
 To the L)Te •/<'/"» Boyle 331 
 
 Voice of the WiniJ S. K, Coitum ... 320 
 
 Wailing for the Grapes .... ll'm, Maginn . . .2g<> 
 
 Wake me a .Song Ahram J. Kyan . .yiU 
 
 What's that to any .Man. . . .€. J. Kiekham . . . .30<i 
 
 Where J. F. CDonnell. . .307 
 
 Where are the Knights O. K. Connolly. . . .305 
 
 White Rose /. O'Connor 30S 
 
 Winter's Victim W.J. MeClun. .312 
 
 Wise Passiveness Edii>d Do-.rdeii. . .2i»i 
 
 Withered Flowers H. Callanan 316 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Amber Whale J. B. O'Rielly . . . 
 
 Atlantic, The George Croty 
 
 Banshee's Summons Anonymous 
 
 By that Lake Thomas Moore. . . 
 
 C.-esar and Cato Elizabeth Ryves . . 
 
 Churchyard Bride Wm. Carleton 
 
 Cormac and Mary . . .T. C. Croker 
 
 Demon of the Gibbet Fitz-J. O'Brien. . . 
 
 Ecdicius and I.alage /. H. McCarthy . 
 
 Edwin of the Green Thomas Painell. . 
 
 Enchanted Island Anonymous 
 
 Fairies' Passage J. C. Mangan . . . 
 
 Fairy Cavalcade George Darley. . . . 
 
 Fairy Shoemaker W. Allingliam . . . 
 
 Fairy Well of Lagnanay Sam'l Ferguson. . . 
 
 Fate of the Fairy Swan! ....£. C. Donnelly. . . 
 First Appearance of Helen. . Wm. Maginn. . . . 
 Clarden Fairies P. B. Marston . . . 
 
 Geraldine's Sleep /. M. O'A'yan . . 
 
 Gods of Hellas J. //. McCarthy. 
 
 Isle of the Blest Gerald Griffin. . . 
 
 Lake of the Dismal Swamp. Thomas Moore. . 
 
 Land of Rest P. W.Joyce 
 
 Maids of Elfinmere W. Allingham.. . 
 
 Mistletoe, The F. S. Mahony... 
 
 Monks of Kilcrea A. G. Geoghegan 
 
 Paradise and the Peri Thomas Moore... 
 
 Plain of Asphodel Francis O'Kyan . 
 
 .Satyr, The G. F. Armstrong 
 
 Sleeper's Sail E. C. Donnelly . . 
 
 Sleeping Beauty S. H. Whitman . 
 
 Spirit Bridal E. Maturin 
 
 To Imagination E. Bronte 
 
 Treasure of Abram J. B. O'Rielly. . 
 
 Walker of the Snow CD. Shanly . . 
 
 Walpurgis Night John Anster. . 
 
INDEX OF POEMS. 
 
 29 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 Acushla Gal Machree 
 
 Address to a Patriot 
 
 After Aughrim 
 
 Andromeda 
 
 Banshee, The 
 
 Bide Your Time 
 
 Bunker Hill Centennial Ode. 
 Cahal Mor of the Wine-Red 
 
 Hand 
 
 Celtic Tongue 
 
 Celts. The 
 
 Conquered Banner 
 
 Cui Bono 
 
 Cushla Machree 
 
 Dark Rosaleen 
 
 Dear Harp of my Country. . 
 
 Dear Land 
 
 Dirge of Athunree 
 
 Dragon's Teeth 
 
 Erin 
 
 Erin 
 
 Edna Regina 
 
 Erin's Flag 
 
 Exile, The 
 
 Exile's Dream 
 
 Exile's Request 
 
 Exile to his Son 
 
 Faithless .Shepherds 
 
 Famine of 1880 
 
 Farewell to America 
 
 Felons of our Land 
 
 Freedom 
 
 Geraldines, The 
 
 Green Above the Red 
 
 Green and the Gold 
 
 Green Flag 
 
 Hail, Brightest Banner 
 
 Hopeless 
 
 How Have ye Labored 
 
 In Exile 
 
 Intercession 
 
 Irelanci. Mother 
 
 Ireland, 1882 
 
 Irish Exiles 
 
 Irishman, The 
 
 Irish Minstrel 
 
 Lament for Banba 
 
 Lay Sermon 
 
 Le Reveille 
 
 Lines to Erin 
 
 Memory of the Dead 
 
 Men of our Island 
 
 Men of To-day 
 
 Minstrel Boy 
 
 Michael Doheny. 
 John Boyle ..... 
 A. G. Geoghegan 
 Jas. J. Roche . . . 
 /no. Todhunter. 
 M. J. Barry. . . . 
 Geo. Sennott 
 
 /. C. Mangan . . 
 Michael Mullin . 
 T. D. McGee . . . 
 A brain J. Ryan. 
 J.J. Murphy... 
 J. P. Curran. . . 
 J. C. Mangan . . 
 Thomas Moore . . 
 
 J. O'Hagan 
 
 A. T. De Vere.. 
 Fanny Pai nell . 
 IVni. Drennan. . 
 Kath. Tynan . . . 
 
 D. Connolly 
 
 Abram J. Ryan.. 
 
 Lady Wilde 
 
 Joseph Brenan. . . 
 T. D. McGee . . . 
 J. T. Gallagher . 
 Lady IVilde..... 
 M. F. Sullivan . 
 R. H. Wilde.... 
 A. M. Forrester. 
 R. D. Williams. 
 Thomas Davis. . . 
 Thomas Davis . . 
 
 a: D. Joyce 
 
 O. A'. Connolly . . 
 W. F. Robinson. 
 J. J. Murphy. . . 
 J. K. Casey .... 
 Una A. Taylor.. 
 A. T. De Vere. . 
 Fanny Partiell. . 
 J.B.O-Reilly... 
 .)/. McDermott. . 
 
 . James Orr 
 
 , Eva M. Kelly. . . 
 Fanny Pamell . . 
 /. C. Mangan . . 
 
 D. Connolly 
 
 .Lady Wilde 
 
 ■ J. J. Callanan.. 
 . /. A". Ingram. . . 
 
 .J. A. Shea 
 
 . Daniel C> illy. . . . 
 . Thomas Moore . . 
 
 Monks of Erin W. P. Treacy. . . . 
 
 Music of the Future A. T. De Vere. . . 
 
 My Grave Thomas Davis . . . 
 
 My Native Land J. B. a Reilly . . . 
 
 National Anthem 7'. D. Sullivan . . 
 
 Not Dead /. F. O' Donnell. . 
 
 O Blame not the Bard Thomas Moore . . 
 
 Oh, Erin, Sweet Erin C. E. Noiton 
 
 Oh. Ireland, my Country . . . Thoi. Furlong.. . . 
 
 Old Land '.....A. T. De Vere... 
 
 Our Course J. D. Eraser 
 
 Our Faith— Our Fatherland./. F. ff Donnell.. 
 
 Our Own Again Thomas Davis . . . 
 
 Our Own Green Isle T. D. Sullivan . . 
 
 Our Own Land IVm. Collins 
 
 Our Record M. E. Blake 
 
 Ourselves Alone J. O'Hagan 
 
 Our Vow Eugene Davis. . . . 
 
 Out of the Shadow of Death. A'. E. Conway . . . 
 
 Penal Days Thomas Davis . . . 
 
 People's Chief Eva M. Kelly 
 
 Pillar Towers of Ireland. ...D. F. McCarthy. . 
 
 Post Mortem Fanny Pamell . . . 
 
 Prayer of Ireland James Ryan 
 
 Queries Eugene Davis. . . 
 
 D. F. McCarthy. 
 Una A. Taylor.. 
 
 J. K. Casey 
 
 0. K. Connolly . . 
 J. T. Gallagher. 
 
 Remonstrance 
 
 Ring and the Crown... 
 
 Rosemary Crown 
 
 Seed Time and Harvest 
 
 Self Reliance 
 
 Shan Van Vocht, .Anonymous . . . 
 
 She is not Dead Fanny Pat nell 
 
 Song of the Irish-American 
 
 Soldier .M. A. Sad/ier. . 
 
 Songs of our Land Frances Brown 
 
 Sons of Hapless Erin Thos. Dermody 
 
 Soul and Country /. C. Mangan. 
 
 Stamping Out C. G. Halpine . . 
 
 St. Columba and the Stork. £. C. Donnelly. 
 
 Sun Burst T. C. Collier. . . 
 
 Sweet Innisfallen Thomas Moore 
 
 Three Woes A. T. De Vere 
 
 Toast Song Daniel Ciilly. . 
 
 To America J. A. Shea 
 
 To Erin T. D. h'eilly . . 
 
 To Ireland Lady Wilde. . . 
 
 To Ireland John Boyle . . 
 
 To the Home of my Fathers. John Hughes. . 
 
 Up for the Green Denny Lane. . . 
 
 Vision of Eire T. C. Inuin. . . 
 
 Washington J- A. Shea. . . 
 
 Wearing of the Green D. Boucicault. 
 
 Wearing of the Green //. C. Curran . 
 
 What Shall we Weep iax^... Fanny Pamell 
 Young Enthusiast T. F. Mea-hcr 
 
 437 
 418 
 403 
 384 
 385 
 402 
 .427 
 395 
 399 
 399 
 415 
 400 
 426 
 441 
 399 
 425 
 414 
 415 
 389 
 421 
 441 
 434 
 402 
 391 
 442 
 40') 
 385 
 420 
 420 
 406 
 439 
 390 
 
 448 
 401 
 395 
 
 383 
 
 440 
 445 
 393 
 383 
 389 
 398 
 431 
 396 
 446 
 432 
 
INDEX OF POEMS. 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 Arthur McCoy John BoyU 
 
 At Fredericksburg /. B. O'Mdlly . . 
 
 Ballad of Athlone A. T. De Ver< . . . 
 
 Blacksmith of Limerick .. .K. D. Joyce 
 
 Border Knight Mai ion Muir. . . . 
 
 Boyne Water A nonymous 
 
 Brigade at Fontenoy B. Dowling. 
 
 Cavalier's Sword Song J. Connor 
 
 Charge by the Ford T. D. English . . . 
 
 Charondas L. /. Guiney 
 
 Cid's Pennon E. Malurin 
 
 Color Bearer J- P- Brown ... 
 
 Crossing the Blackwater. . . .R. D. Joyce 
 
 Cuthullin's Heroes Ossian 
 
 De Courcy's Pilgrimage ... T. D. AfcGee. ... 
 
 Faithful Norman A. T. De I'ere. . 
 
 F'ight at Lexington 7'. D. English . . 
 
 Fontenoy Thomas Davis. . 
 
 Gascon O'DriscoU Sam' I Ferguson . 
 
 Glen of the Horse G. F. Armstrong. 
 
 Going and Coming Af. E. Blake. . . . 
 
 Harmosan ... A'. C. Trench . . . 
 
 Jack the Regular T. D. English. . 
 
 King Ailill's Death WAitley Stoics. . 
 
 Knight's riedge Lady IVilJc 
 
 Leap for Life D. Connolly 
 
 Leonidas George Ctvly .... 
 
 McMahon's Defiance J. jV. AIcKane . . 
 
 454 Maiden City C. Elizabeth 
 
 494 Many Nameless ■ Mary Mullaly. . . . 
 
 451 Mine of Tortona K. D. Williams. . 
 
 455 I Moylan at Monmouth //'///. Collins 
 
 499 Munster War .Song R. D. Williams . . 
 
 471 Naming of CuchuUin Sam' I Ferguson. . . 
 
 468 No, my Lord Anonymous 
 
 500 O'Brien of Arra Thomas Davis . . . 
 
 497 O'Donnell Aboo M.J. McCann . . . 
 
 489 O'Kavauagh, The /. /(. Shea 
 
 487 Oliver's Advice Wm. Blacker 
 
 497 Place to Die M.J. Barry 
 
 452 Reveille M. O'Connor. 
 
 477 Revelry of the Dying Anonymous 
 
 459 Ride to .\rboe Wm. Collins 
 
 454 Riding to Battle /. O'Connor 
 
 490 Rising of the Moon J. K. Casey 
 
 467 Rory of the Hills C. J. Kickham . 
 
 483 Sack of Magdeburg Wm. Maginn.. . . 
 
 501 Sergeant Molly Jas. J. Roche. . . . 
 
 496 Shaun's Head John Savage 
 
 486 Shemus O'Brien J. S. Le Fanu . 
 
 492 South Munster Clans G. J/. Supple 
 
 472 Sword of Fontenoy Jno. Brougham . . 
 
 499 Three Knights A. M. Forrester . . 
 
 460 Tyrrell's Pass A .G. Geoghegan. . 
 
 486 Waiting for Washington J. I. C. Clarke . . . 
 
 462 Wreck off Mizen Head G. /•'. .-trmstrong. 
 
 POEMS OF LABOR. 
 
 Hotter Day W. D. Gallagher. 510 | 
 
 Cobbler, The // F. McDennotl. 518 | 
 
 Forging of the Anchor. . . . Sam'l Ferguson. . . 512 
 
 For the People Jas. J. Roche .... 509 
 
 God Help the Poor Ellen Forrester. . . 519 
 
 Husbandman, The John Sterling. ... 512 
 
 In the City Geo. Sigerson 522 
 
 In the Night-time C. J. Kickham ... 517 
 
 Irish Reaper's Song 7". C. fr-oin ... . 514 
 
 Potato Digger's Song T. C. Ir-.i'in 511 
 
 Rights of Man R. D. Joyce 515 
 
 Sledge and Pen 
 
 Song of a Fellow -worker. 
 
 Sons of I^bor 
 
 Sovereign People 
 
 Tennnt at Will 
 
 Tintamarre 
 
 Toilers, The 
 
 Trumpet Smith 
 
 Voice of Labor 
 
 Workers, The 
 
 Work Song 
 
 ...T. S. Clear)' 517 
 
 ...A. O' Shaughnessy 507 
 
 ...W.P.Mulehinock 5=1 
 
 ...P. S. Cassidy 510 
 
 ...T.D. Sullivan... 515 
 
 ...J.M. O'Ryan... 511. 
 
 . . .D. Desmond 511) 
 
 .. .C. D. Shanly 522 
 
 . . C. G. Duffy 520 
 
 ...D. O'Connell. 521 
 
 . . .G. F. Armstrong . 508 
 
 POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 Bad Luck to this Marchin'. . t.7/,ir/<-j _/. I^ver. . 53S 
 
 Beranger's Autobiography. .F. S. Mahony. ... 551 
 
 Canary at the Farm /. W. Riley 534 
 
 Dermot and Nora /. F. Waller. .... 527 
 
 Elegy on a Mad Dog Goldsmith 551 
 
 Klegy on Mrs. Mary VX-Mie .Goldsmith 552 
 
 Epit.-iph on F'ather Prout. . .F. S. Mahony. . . . 550 
 
 Excellent New Song Jonathan Swift. . 544 
 
INDEX OF POEMS. 
 
 .A. P. Graves... 
 .A. P. Graves . . 
 .A. P. Graves . . 
 R. A. MilHkni. 
 
 . Samuel Lover . . 
 
 Fan Fitzgerl. ..... 
 
 Father O'Flynn.. . 
 
 Galway Mare 
 
 Groves of Blarney . . 
 How to Ask and Ha 
 
 Imitation of Scott Win. Maginn . . . 
 
 In Buckinham Palice C. G. Halpine. . . 
 
 It's Little for Glory I C3.re. .Charles J. Lever. 
 
 Kitty McClure Samuel Lover. . . 
 
 Kitty cf Coleraine Anonymoiis 
 
 Lanty Leary Samuel Lo7'er . . . 
 
 Larry O'Branigan's Letters. Thomas Moore. . 
 
 Legend of Stiffenbach K. D. Williams . 
 
 Letter to Swift Thos. Sheiidan. . 
 
 Litany for Doneraile P. O^ Kelly 
 
 Logicians Refuted Goldsmith 
 
 Lover's Complaint Anonymous . . . . 
 
 Maid of Cloghroe Anonymous 
 
 Malbrouck F. S. Mahony . . 
 
 Man for Galway Charles J. Lever. 
 
 Mary Draper Charles J. Lever. 
 
 Medical Student's Letter . . .R. D. Williams. 
 
 Molly Carew Samuel Lover. . . 
 
 Monks of the Screw J- P- Curran. . . 
 
 My Fiddle /. W. Riley . . . . 
 
 Never Say Die R. D. Williams. 
 
 On the Death of Dr. Swift. .Jonathan Swift. 
 On Wood the Ironmonger. .Jonathan Swift. 
 
 Orator Puff Thomas Moore . . 
 
 Ould Plaid Shawl F. A. Fahy 
 
 Reverie, A .R. D. Williams. 
 
 Rory O'More Samuel Lover . . . 
 
 Sailor's Yarn Jas. J. Roehe: . . 
 
 Spinning Wheel Song A. P. Graves . . . 
 
 St. Patrick and Cajsar /. C. Wilson . . . 
 
 Three Trout a day D. Heplntm 
 
 Threnody, A G. T. Lanigan . . 
 
 Truth in Parenthesis C. G. Halpine. . . 
 
 V-a-se, The Jas. J. Roche . . . 
 
 Widow Machree Samuel Lover . . . 
 
 Widow Malone Charles J. Lever. 
 
 Widowology Philosophized. . C. G. Halpine. . . 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 
 
 Across the Gulf Anna T. Wilson. 
 
 Adam Lux J. H. McCarthy . 
 
 After the Storm L. I. Gtdney 
 
 Among the Slain E. J. Armstrong . 
 
 Another June K. E. Conway . . . 
 
 At the Ship's Side Fanny Pamell . . . 
 
 Ballade de Marguirite Oscar Wilde 
 
 Beyond the River Chas. A. Read . . . 
 
 Black Forty-Six A. P. Graves .... 
 
 Bridal of Malahide Gerald Griffin .... 
 
 Burial, The James Wills 
 
 Burning of Kilcoleman A'. D. Joyce 
 
 Caoch the Piper John A'eegan 
 
 Caoine, A Eva M. Felly. . . . 
 
 Civile Bellum CD. Shanly 
 
 Convent Elegy M. S. McCarthy. . 
 
 Dark Girl at the Holy Well. John A'eegan 
 
 Dead Mother A'ath. Tynan . . . . 
 
 Dead Summer M. E. Blake 
 
 Death of Eily C. P. CCotior. . . . 
 
 Death of Lily J. C. Wilson .... 
 
 Deirdre's Farewell to Alba. ..Anonymous 
 
 Dirge .]/./. Serrano. . . . 
 
 Dirge Song John Anster 
 
 Dog of the Three Days . . . .F. S. Mahony. . . . 
 
 Dublin Bay Julia Crawford . . 
 
 Dying Girl' R. D. Williams. . 
 
 Dying Mother's Lament John Keegan 
 
 Evicted D. Connolly 
 
 Exile's Grave C. G. Halpine 
 
 Exile's Lament T. C. Invin 
 
 Farewell A. M. Munster . . 
 
 Farewell, A A. O' Shaughnessy 
 
 Fishermen of Wexford /. B. O'Reilly . '. . 
 
 Flight to Cyprus B. Simmons ... . 
 
 Forevermore W. L>. Gallagher. 
 
 Fountain of Tears 4. 0' Shaughnessy 
 
 Four Travellers Frances Brown . . . 
 
 Game Laws John Savage 
 
 Good Hearted A. T. De Vere. . . 
 
 Holly and Ivy Girl John Keegan .... 
 
 If I Had Thought Charles Wolfe 
 
 In Grief's Unrest Attie O'Brien 
 
 In the Long, Long Ago. . . .H. !•'. McDermott. 
 
 Irish Cottier's Death James Orr 
 
 Irish Emigrant's Lament. . .Lady Ditfferin . . . 
 
 Kathleen Ban Adair Francis Davis . . . 
 
 King Cormac's Crown A nonymous 
 
 King of Denmark's Ride . . .C. E. Norton .... 
 
 Knight's Remorse John Boyle 
 
 Lady Alice W. Allingham . . . 
 
 Lady Gormley T. D. McGee 
 
 Last Lullaby Minnie Gilmore . . 
 
 Last Request W. Keneally . . . 
 
 La Via Dolorosa Lady Wilde 
 
 Losses Frances B>own. . . 
 
 Lost, Lost Armada '. . .T. D. McGee . . . 
 
 Lost Steamship FitzJ. O'Biien . . 
 
 Lost Wife J. F. Murray. . . . 
 
 Louis Fifteenth J. Sterling 
 
32 
 
 INDEX OF POEMS. 
 
 
 Love Liesa-dving 
 
 .P.B. Marston.. 
 
 570 
 
 She Died in Beauty CD. Silkry. . . . 
 
 563 
 
 Maiden, I'ray for Me.... 
 
 .F. S.Mahony... 
 
 569 
 
 She is far from the I.and. . . Thomas M acre . . 
 
 571 
 
 Maireni Milleon 
 
 . Geo. SigersoH ... 
 
 617 
 
 Side by Side T. D. Sullivan . 
 
 569 
 
 MargreadniChealleadh.. 
 
 .Edward Walsh.. 
 
 618 
 
 Slain in the Forefront G. F. Armsttvng 
 
 601 
 
 MaryofClorah 
 
 .E.J. Armstrong 
 
 6.5 
 
 Song of Contrast Minnie Gilmore . 
 
 567 
 
 Memory, A 
 
 . K. E. Conway . . 
 
 SbS 
 
 Spoken in Anger Fanny Forrester. 
 
 57« 
 
 Missing 
 
 .E. C. Donmlly. 
 
 603 
 
 They Never Tell Why Abram J. Ryan. . 
 
 562 
 
 Nameless One 
 
 . J. C. Mangan... 
 
 S08 
 
 Three (lannets Fitz-J. O'Brien. 
 
 585 
 
 Nepenthe 
 
 .R. B. Mahanv. . 
 
 563 
 
 Time of the Barmecides. . . . J. C. Mangan. . 
 
 604 
 
 Nun on the Battle Field. . 
 
 . T. D. Sullivan . 
 
 612 
 
 Voice of the Poor Lady Wilde 
 
 562 
 
 One Summer Night 
 
 .D. Connolly 
 
 601 
 
 Wail and Warning of the 
 
 
 Only a Woman's Hair. . . . 
 
 .T. C Invin. ... 
 
 577 
 
 Three Khalendeers J.C. Mangan. . . 
 
 605 
 
 Only Some Relics 
 
 . C. G. Halpine. . . 
 
 575 
 
 Wailing for the Dawn E.G. A. Holmes 
 
 610 
 
 Orangeman's Wife 
 
 .Carroll Malont.. 
 
 620 
 
 Weep not for him that DiethC. E. Norton . . . 
 
 610 
 
 
 
 591 
 58.) 
 
 Wexford Massacre M. J. Barry. . . 
 
 White Ladv J.C. Mangan . 
 
 
 Poor Man's Darling. ... 
 
 ..Anonymous 
 
 573 
 
 Presentiment 
 
 .R.K.Munkilhic 
 
 «• 601 
 
 Willie's Mother Francis Davis. . 
 
 589 
 
 Sack of Baltimore 
 
 .Thomas Davis.. 
 
 580 
 
 Wreck of the Aideen ■/./'. Gra7'es . . . 
 
 585 
 
 Sentenced to Death 
 
 .Kath. Murphy.. 
 
 595 
 
 Younger Florus Fanny Parnell . . 
 
 565 
 
 Shane Dyraas' Daughter. 
 
 .Anonymous 
 
 616 1 
 
 
 
 MEMOF 
 
 UAL POEMS. 
 
 
 Birthnight, The 
 
 .M. E. Blake. . . . 
 
 626 
 
 Marquette Patrick Cronin . . 
 
 646 
 
 Bivouac of the Dead 
 
 .Theo. ffHara... 
 
 635 
 
 Mitchel— 1875 D. Connolly 
 
 629 
 
 Burial of KingCormac... 
 
 . Sam' I Ferguson. . 
 
 650 
 
 Napoleon's Grave R. H. Wilde. . . 
 
 . 640 
 
 Burial of Sir John Moore. 
 Clarence Mangan 
 
 .Charles Wolfe... 
 .R.D. Williams. 
 
 625 
 628 
 
 Napoleon's Tomb B Simmons . 
 
 641 
 
 Obsequies of David the 
 
 Death of an Arctic Hero. 
 
 . Wm. Alexander. 
 
 .644 
 
 Painter F. -S. Mahony . . 
 
 642 
 
 Death of King I.eury 
 
 .Anonymous 
 
 651 
 
 O'Connell D. F. McCarthy . 
 
 630 
 
 Death of St. Columba. . . . 
 
 .A. B. Eausselt . . 
 
 649 
 
 Oh, Breathe not his Name. . Thomas Moore . . 
 
 624 
 
 Decoration Day 
 
 .ir. D. Kelly.... 
 
 6.39 
 
 Old Pioneer T/uo. O'Hara. . . 
 
 637 
 
 Denis Florence McCarthy 
 
 . W. D. Kellv .... 
 
 631 
 
 On Raising a Monument to 
 
 
 t l>irge,A 
 
 .C. D. Shanly ... 
 
 636 
 
 the Irish Legion C. G. Halpine . . . 
 
 637 
 
 Dirge for O'SuUivan Beare 
 
 .J.J. Callnan.. 
 
 648 
 
 Priest of Perth T. D. McGee. . . . 
 
 639 
 
 I Cod Bless the Brave 
 
 . T. D. McGee . . . 
 
 632 
 
 Robert Emmet P. S. Cassidy . . 
 
 (>33 
 
 C;oldsmith's Grave 
 
 /. /•'. ffDonnell 
 
 632 
 
 Shall the Harp then be Si- 
 
 
 Grattan 
 
 .A. r. De Vere.. 
 
 624 
 
 lent Thomas Moore . . 
 
 623 
 
 Ireland's Dead in Rome. . 
 
 .J.F. ffDonnell. 
 
 648 
 
 Thomas Davis, his Life, etc. Sam' I Ferguson. . 
 
 . 626 
 
 Kane 
 
 .Filz.J. ffBrien.. 
 
 64.1 
 
 Thomas Francis Meagher.. . T. D. Sullivan.. 
 
 . 628 
 
 Lament for King Ivor 
 
 . Whitley Stokes. . 
 
 647 
 
 Tom Moore W. D Kelly. . . . 
 
 . 627 
 
 Lament for Own Roe 
 
 
 To the Memory of Father 
 
 
 O'Neill 
 
 . Thomas Davis . . 
 
 647 
 
 Prout D.F. McCarthy. 
 
 . 6S1 
 
 Lament for the Princes. . . 
 
 . J. C. Mangan.. 
 
 62s 
 
 Vive Valeque H. B. Carpenter. 
 
 . 636 
 
 Lines on the Death of Sheri- 
 
 
 Wake of William Orr Wm. Drennan. . 
 
 . 645 
 
 dan 
 
 . Thomas Moore . . 
 
 624 
 
 Wendell Phillips J. B. ffReilly . . 
 
 . 634 
 
 MORAL AND 
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 
 Abbot of Innisfallcn 
 
 .ir. Alliiigham.. 
 
 7n 
 
 Aspirations for Death Lady Wilde 
 
 . 670 
 
 Advent 
 
 . li: Mcllwaine.. . 
 
 676 
 
 At Daybreak Fanny Pamtll . 
 
 . 667 1 
 
 Agnus Dei 
 
 .J.F Waller.... 
 
 668 
 
 Below and Above Wm. Alexander. 
 
 . 684 ■ 
 
 Angel, The 
 
 .R.D.Joyce 
 
 671 
 
 Beyond the Snow H. B. Carpenter. 
 
 690 
 
INDEX OF POEMS. 
 
 2>l\ 
 
 Blest be that Strain 7'. Furlong 
 
 Burden of the Day M. E. Jordan. . . 
 
 Burial of Moses C. F. Alexander. . 
 
 Child and the Elders M. E. Mannix. . . 
 
 Christ, The G. F. Armstrong . 
 
 Christ is Born Thomas Kelly. . . . 
 
 Christmas /F;«. Co'wan 
 
 Christmas Carol J. F. Waller .... 
 
 Christmas Hymn jVahum Tate 
 
 Come, ye Disconsolate Thomas Aloore. . . 
 
 Convict and the Cross Anonymous 
 
 Cross of Monterey R. E. White 
 
 De Nativitate Domini Sedulius 
 
 Dirge, A George Croly 
 
 Easter R. B. Mahany. . . 
 
 Easter Voices S. K. Cowan 
 
 Evening Hymn M.J. A.McCafferty 
 
 Evensong R. W. Buckley. ■ ■ 
 
 Failure R. Mulholland . . . 
 
 First Redbreast J/. Russell. 
 
 F'our Mountains 4. L. J/ilJelirand. 
 
 From Sorrow's Depths Maiy Tighe 
 
 Garden Sep ilchre •/ . E. Hamilton . . 
 
 Gertrude of Saxony A'. C. Trench .... 
 
 Great Day J/. Russell. 
 
 Harvest Hymn W. Mcllwaine. . . 
 
 Harvest Time S'. K. Co-ivaii 
 
 Heavenly Fatherland E. C. Donnelly. . . 
 
 Hope of the Saint W. Melhmine. . . 
 
 Hubert the Hunter Jas. J. Roche .... 
 
 Hymn for Morning Thomas Parnell . . 
 
 Hymn of a Hermit Jno. Sterling 
 
 Indications John Boyle 
 
 T ngratitude M. E. Jordan .... 
 
 Inner Life E. Do-vden 
 
 In te Christe M. F. Cusaclc 
 
 In Trouble and in Grief R. T. Tope 
 
 Kingdom of God R. C. Trench . . 
 
 King Edwin R. W. Buckley. 
 
 Legend of Easter Eggs. . . .Fitz-J. O'Brien. 
 
 Legend of St. Dorothy )/. Russell. .... 
 
 Life's last Hour 'Thomas Drew. . 
 
 Light and Shade R. S. Brooke.. . 
 
 Lorica S. Patricii /. //. Todd. . . . 
 
 Lost Church S. H. Whitman 
 
 Lotus and Lily K. E. Conway . ■ . 
 
 Man's Eight Elements Whitley Stokes . . . 
 
 Mary Magdalen J. J. Callanan. . . 
 
 Mary Stuart's Last Prayer. .G. S. Smythe 
 
 Meeting the Dead /. S. B. Monscll. 
 
 Midnight Mass h\ E. White 
 
 Morning and Evening C. E. Norton . . . 
 
 Morning's Hinges Sam'' I Ferguson. . . 
 
 Moses on Pisgah T. McCallagh. . . . 
 
 My Father's House K. E. Conway . . . 
 
 Nativity, The Wm. Blacker 
 
 New Year David Whyte 
 
 HACK 
 
 ..C.J. O'Af alley... 691 
 . . W. R. /Hamilton . 676 
 
 ..R. C. Trench 680 
 
 . . J. C. Mangan . . . 723 
 
 . . W. H. Drumntond 673 
 
 702 
 
 Night after Harvest 
 
 O Brooding Spirit 
 
 O Hearts of Ours 
 
 O Mary, Queen of Mercy 
 
 Old Age 
 
 On a Picture of St. Agnes. .M. E, Mannix 
 
 On Corpus Christi M. E. Mannix . 
 
 On the Height G. T. Lanigan. . 
 
 On the Mountain's Top. . . . Thomas Kelly. . 
 
 On the Riviera J. J. Murphy. . 
 
 Out of the Depths Abram J. Ryan. 
 
 Passing Bell James Wills. . . 
 
 Patriarchal Time ;/'. ./. Butler. . 
 
 Paul at Athens ■/. C. L. Botta . 
 
 Penitent, A A. T. Wilson. . 
 
 Penitent, The Jno. Sterling 6cj3 
 
 Prayer, A R. Mulholland ... 675 
 
 Prayer for Calm W. R. Hamilton 
 
 Prayer of Doubt M. F. Sullivan . 
 
 Prodigals, The Arthur O'Kee/e . 
 
 Providence James Wills .... 
 
 Psalm of Hope G. F. Armstrong 
 
 Pure is the Dewy tiem J- J- Callanan. . 
 
 Rainbovv of Hope John Hughes . . . 
 
 Reverie, A /. /. Murphy. . . 
 
 Saint Agnes //. Callanan .... 
 
 Saint Bridgid R. Mullholland. . 
 
 Silence ./. G. Kirchhoffer 
 
 Sister of Charity Gerald Griffin. . . 
 
 Sister of Charity R. D. Williams. 
 
 Sister of Mercy Patrick Murray . 
 
 Song of the Seraphim /F. D. Gallagher 
 
 Song of the Mystic .Abram J. Ryan. . 
 
 Song of Trust St. Columhkilte . . . 657 
 
 Stabat Mater Dolorosa /. 5. B. Monsell. 664 
 
 Stella Matutina ./. T. De Fere ... 674 
 
 St John's Eve t). A'. Connolly. . . 715 
 
 St. Patrick's Hymn Before Taray. C. Mangan 657 
 String of the Rosary /)/. F. Egan 672 
 
 Sursum Corda Abram J. Ryan. . 
 
 Sursum Corda Pat'k Cronin. . . . 
 
 Testament of St Arbogast.. . T. D. McGee . . . 
 There is a Bleak Desert. . . . Thomas Moore . . 
 
 This World is all Thomas Moore . . 
 
 Thorns and Roses Fanny Parnell . . 
 
 Thou art, O God Thomas Moore . . 
 
 Tired Heart Kath. Tynan . . . 
 
 Trial of the Gods J. B. ff Reilly . . 
 
 Trust Eduid Harding.. 
 
 Two-fold May PaC k Cronin ... . 
 
 Unfound, Th Pat'k Cronin 
 
 Unison Esmerelda Boyle , 
 
 Vesper Hymn C. G. Halpine. . . 
 
 Way of the World Jas. J. Roche. . . . 
 
 We will praise Thee John li'hite .... 
 
 When my Love is Failing. . . Isaac Ashe 
 
 Who is the Foe W. II. Drummo' 
 
 699 
 
 . 682 
 
 Y674 
 
PORTRAITS. 
 
 Thomas Moore, . 
 Gkrai.I) Griffin, 
 Denis Florence M"^Carthy, 
 Kev. Francis S. Mahony, . 
 Laiiy Wilde, 
 John Uoyi.e O'Reilly, 
 Fanny Taknill, . 
 Thomas Oshorne Dayis, 
 Sir Saml-el Ferguson, . 
 Charles G. Halfine, 
 James Clarence Mangan, 
 Key. Abram J. Ryan, 
 
 Frontispiece. 
 
 P.4GE 59- 
 
 " 153^ 
 ■• 197- 
 
PART L 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 I said it was a willful, wayward thing, 
 
 And so it is, — fantastic and perverse, — 
 
 Which makes its sport of persons and of seasons, 
 
 Taking its own way, no matter right or wrong. 
 
 It is the bee that finds the honey out 
 
 Where least you dream 'twould find that nectarous store 
 
 And 'tis an arrant masker — this same Love — 
 
 That most outlandish, freakish faces wears, 
 
 To hide his own. Looks a proud Spaniard now; 
 
 Now a grave Turk ; hot^Ethiopian ne.st, 
 
 And then phlegmatic Englishman ; and then 
 
 Gay Frenchman ; by-and-by, Italian, 
 
 All things a song ; and in another skip. 
 
 Gruff Dutchman ; still is Love behind the mask! 
 
 It is a hypocrite ! looks every way 
 
 But that where lie its thoughts ! will openly 
 
 Frown at the thing it smiles in secret on; 
 
 Shows most like hate, e'en when it most is Love; 
 
 Would fain convince you it is very rock 
 
 When it is water I ice when it is fire ! 
 
 Is oft its own dupe, like a thorough cheat ; 
 
 Persuades itself 'tis not the thing it is; 
 
 Holds up its head, purses its brows and looks 
 
 Askant, with scornful lip, hugging itself 
 
 That it is high disdain, — till suddenly 
 
 It falls on 'ts knees, making most piteous suit 
 
 With hail of tears and hurricane of sighs, 
 
 Calling oil heaven and earth for witnesses 
 
 That it is I.ove, true Love — nothing but Love I 
 
 JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 
 
POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 LOVE'S LANGUAGE. 
 
 O. the days are gone when beauty bright 
 
 Need I say how much I love thee ? — 
 
 My heart's chain wove ; 
 
 Need my weak words tell. 
 
 When my dream of Hfe, from morn till night, 
 
 That I prize but heaven above thee. 
 
 Was love, still love. 
 
 Earth not half so well ? 
 
 New hope may bloom, 
 
 If this truth has failed to move thee. 
 
 And days may come. 
 
 Hope away must flee ; 
 
 Of milder, calmer beam. 
 
 If thou dost not feel I love thee, 
 
 But there's nothing half so sweet in life 
 
 Vain my words would be ! 
 
 As love's young dream : 
 
 
 No, there's nothing half so sweet in life 
 
 Need I say how long I've sought thee .' — 
 
 As love's young dream. 
 
 Need my words declare, 
 
 
 Dearest, that I long have thought thee 
 
 Though the bard to purer fame ma)' soar, 
 
 Good and wise and fair.' 
 
 When wild youth's past; 
 
 If no sigh this truth has brought thee. 
 
 Though he win the wise, who frown d before. 
 
 Woe, alas ! to me ; 
 
 To smile at last ; 
 
 Where thy own heart has not taught thee, 
 
 He'll never meet 
 
 Vain my words would be ! 
 
 A joy so sweet, 
 
 
 In all his noon of fame. 
 
 Need I say when others wooed thee, 
 
 As when first he sung to woman's ear 
 
 How my breast did pine. 
 
 His soul-felt flame. 
 
 Lest some fond heart that pursued thee 
 
 And, at every close, she blush'd to hear 
 
 Dearer were than mine.' 
 
 The one lov'd name. 
 
 If no pity then came to thee. 
 
 
 Mixed with love for me. 
 
 No,— that hallowed form is ne'er forgot 
 
 Vainly would my words imbue thee. 
 
 Which first love trac'd ; 
 
 Vain my words would be ! 
 
 Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 
 
 
 On memory's waste. 
 
 Love's best language is unspoken. 
 
 'Twas odor fled 
 
 Yet how simply known ; 
 
 As soon as shed ; 
 
 Eloquent is every token. 
 
 'Twas morning's winged dream ; 
 
 Look, and touch, and tone. 
 
 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again 
 
 If thy heart hath not awoken. 
 
 On life's dull stream : 
 
 If not yet on thee 
 
 O, 'twas light that ne'er can shine again 
 
 Love's sweet silent light hath broken. 
 
 On life's dull stream. 
 
 Vain my words would be ! 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
 
40 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN. 
 1 bring thee, love, a golden chain. 
 
 I bring thee too a flowery wreath ; 
 The gold shall never wear a stain. 
 
 The flowrets long shall sweetly breathe. 
 Come, tell me which the tie shall be. 
 To bind thy gentle heart to me. 
 
 The Chain is form'd of golden threads. 
 
 Bright as Minerva's yellow hair, 
 When the last beam of evening sheds 
 
 Its calm and sober lustre there. 
 The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove. 
 
 With sun-lit drops of bliss among it. 
 And many a rose leaf, cull'd by Love, 
 
 To heal his lip when bees have stung it. 
 Come, tell me which the tie shall be. 
 To bind thy gentle heart to me. 
 
 Yes, yes. I read that ready eye. 
 
 Which answers when the tongue is loath. 
 Thou lik'st the form of either tie, 
 
 And spread'st thy playful hands for both. 
 Ah ! — if there were not something wrong. 
 
 The world would see them blended oft ; 
 The Chain would make the Wreath so strong ! 
 
 The Wreath would make the Chain so soft ! 
 Then might the gold, the flow'rets, be 
 Sweet fetters for my love and me. 
 
 But, Fanny, so unblest they twine, 
 
 That (heaven alone can tell the reason) 
 When mingled thus they cease to shine. 
 
 Of shine but for a transient season. 
 Whether the Chain may press too much. 
 
 Or that the Wreath is slightly braided. 
 Let but the gold the flow'rets touch. 
 
 And all their bloom, their glow is faded ! 
 O. better to be always free. 
 Than thus to bind my love to me. 
 
 The timid girl now hung her head. 
 
 And, as she turn'd an upward glance, 
 I saw a doubt its twilight spread 
 
 Across her brow's divine expanse. 
 Just then, the garland's brightest rose 
 
 Gave one of its love-breathing sighs — 
 O, who can ask how Fanny chose. 
 
 That ever look'd in Fanny's eyes? 
 "The Wreath, my life, the Wreath shall be 
 The tie to bind my soul to thee." 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 THE ANXIOUS LOVER. 
 
 ! I saw a damsel in a somber room. 
 
 j Laid low in beds of purple violet, 
 
 I And pale, sweet roses, that perfumed the gloom ; 
 
 And then I thought : This is a gray sunset 
 Of days of loving life. Shall he who stands 
 
 Beside her bier, in sorrow for his love. 
 Be first in Heaven to clasp her gentle hands. 
 To bow with her before the Lord above ? 
 
 If love can die, let my heart be as cold 
 
 As Galatea's was before the words 
 Of the warm sculptor drew it from the mold 
 
 And made her hear the sound of singing birds. 
 Love's sunshine and love's shadows, are they all 
 
 Like April sun and shadow on the earth ? 
 If love can die at sight of funeral-pall. 
 
 Would I had strangled •.: in its sad birth. 
 
 I know that the sweet Spring will surely go. 
 And leave no trace, e.\cept a blossom dry; 
 
 I know that life will pass as passes snow 
 
 When March winds blow and river-floods are 
 
 i;ig;i; 
 I know that all the maples on the hill. 
 
 That fire the air with flame, to ashes burn ; 
 I know that all the singing birds that fill 
 
 The air with song, to silent dust will turn. 
 
 Oh ! love, my love, can it, then, ever be 
 
 That thou or I may gaze upwn love's death ? 
 That thou shall some day, sad and silently. 
 
 Look on me dumb and cold and without 
 breath .' 
 Or, shall 1 see thee lying wliite and wan. 
 
 Like yonder damsel in the flower-bed. 
 And only say : " My lady sweet has gone : 
 
 She's lost to me ; she's dead ; w/nU nuaiteth 
 dead?" 
 
 If love can die, tlien I will no more look 
 
 Into thy eyes, and see thy pure thoughts there. 
 Nor will I read in any poet's book 
 
 Of all the things that poets make so fair. 
 If love can die, the poet's art is vain. 
 
 And thy blue eyes might well be blossoms blue, 
 And thy soft tears be only senseless rain. 
 
 Since love can die, like flowers and soulless 
 dew. 
 
 I care not for thy smile, if love can die. 
 
 I f I must leave thee, let me leave thee now. 
 Shall I not know thee, if in Heaven high 
 
 I enter and before the Holy bow ? 
 
LOVE'S ARTIFICE. 
 
 Shalt thou not know me when before the throne 
 Thou, white-robed one, shalt enter into h'ght ? 
 
 I cannot think the Lord of Love has sown 
 His precious seed to make but one day bright. 
 
 Would I were dead, if death is then the end 
 
 Of all the loving that makes life so fair. 
 If love can die, I pray the sun may send 
 
 Anarrow through my head, that death may tear 
 Away my soul, and make me soon forget 
 
 The fair, false hope of an eternal dawn, 
 Which yet may die like purple violet 
 
 Strewn on the robe of that sweet damsel wan. 
 
 Ah ! love, my love, when I look in thy eyes. 
 
 And hear thy voice, like softened village-bells. 
 Coming to one who long has sent up sighs 
 
 From foreign lands to be where his love dwells. 
 My heart lifts up itself in ecstasy. 
 
 " Life were not life if our strong love could die. 
 The earth may crumble, but our love and we 
 
 Shall live forever. This is true !" I cry. 
 
 MAURICE F. EGAN 
 
 TIME AND LOVE. 
 
 Old Time is a pilgrim ; with onward course 
 
 He journeys for months, for years ; 
 But the traveler to-day must halt perforce,— 
 
 Behold, a broad river appears. 
 " Pass me over !" Time cried ; " Oh ! tarry not. 
 
 For I count each hour with my glass ; 
 Ye, whose skiff is moored to yon pleasant spot,— 
 
 Young maidens, old Time come pass ! " 
 
 Many maids saw with pity, upon the bank. 
 
 The old man with his glass in grief ; 
 Their kindness, he said, he would ever thank. 
 
 If they'd row him across in their skiff. 
 While some wanted Love to unmoor the bark. 
 
 One wiser in thought sublime : 
 ■ Oft shipwrecks occur," was the maid's remark, 
 
 '• When seeking to pass old Time !" 
 
 From the strand the small skiff Love pushed 
 
 He passed to the pilgrim's side, [afloat,— 
 
 And taking old Time in his well trimmed boat. 
 
 Dipped his oars in the flowing tide. 
 Sweetly he sung as he worked at the oar. 
 
 And this was his merry song, — 
 " You see, young maidens who crowd the shore, 
 
 How with Love Time passes along! " 
 
 But soon the boy of his task grew tired, 
 As he often had been before ; 
 
 And faint from his toil, for mercy desired 
 Father Time to take up the oar. 
 
 In his turn grown tuneful, the pilgrim old 
 
 With the paddles resumed the lay ; [hold 
 
 But he changed it, and sung, "Young maids, be- 
 How with Time Love passes away !" 
 
 FRANCIS S, MAHONY. 
 
 THE BELOVED. 
 
 You know not of my love, and need not know ; 
 ■Why should you heed, if once again the snare 
 Of those clear eyes and crown of comely hair 
 Have brought another victim to lie low 
 Before your conquering feet, that well might go 
 Treading on lovers' bodies ever)'where ? 
 The thing is common, and you need not care, 
 Who have grown sick of loving long ago. 
 But for my part, it pleases me to lie 
 So in Love's chains, and dream glad hours away, 
 To sing you fair all other fair above. 
 Perchance I may prove wiser by-and-by, 
 And weep for this my folly ; but to-day 
 It pleases me to love you, and I love. 
 
 JUSTIN H. McCarthy. 
 
 THE ONE YOU LOVED THE BEST. 
 
 Oh! love — love well, but only once I for n;ver 
 never shall the dream 
 
 Of youthful hope return again on life's fast roll- 
 ing stream ; 
 
 No love can match the early one which young 
 affection nursed, — 
 
 Ah ! no — the one you loved the best is she you 
 loved the first. 
 
 Once lost — that gladsome vision past — a fairer 
 
 forir. may rise. 
 And eyes whose lustre mocks the light of starry 
 
 southern skies ; 
 But vainly seek you to enshrine the charmer in 
 
 your breast. 
 For still the one you loved the first is she you 
 
 loved the best. 
 
 Again— 'tis gone, 'tis passed away ; those gentle 
 tones and looks 
 
 Have vanished like the feathery snow in sum- 
 mer's running brooks ; 
 
POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 With weary pinions, wandering love forsakes 
 
 the heart — his nest. 
 And fain would rest attain with her whom hrst 
 
 you loved, and best. 
 
 Perchance some faithful one is found, when 
 
 love's romance is o"er. 
 With her you safe thro' storms may glide, to 
 
 reach life's farthest shore ; 
 But all too cold and real now you deem your 
 
 home of rest. 
 And you sigh for her you loveil the first, for her 
 
 you loved the best. 
 
 CAROLINE E. NORTON. 
 
 LOVE'S BLISS. 
 
 Flow on, my soul, in rills of pleasure bright ! 
 
 Attune each chord to notes of deepest bliss ; 
 My lips have tasted of the rapt delight 
 
 That springs from Love's first kiss ! 
 
 I seem to tread a newer, brighter land. 
 To breathe a sweeter and a purer air. 
 
 Since I have won the spotless heart and hand 
 Of her to me most fair. 
 
 I gazed into her eyes of liquid blue. 
 
 And saw there beam the rays of holiest love ; 
 Rang in my ears her promise to be true, 
 
 Like strains from heaven above, — 
 
 While o'er her cheeks the blushes crept and stole, 
 As steals the wind through fields of waving 
 
 Clear imaging the feelings of her soul, [grass. 
 As in a polished glass. 
 
 My .soul rejoiced the while her hand in mine 
 Was prisoned close ; her eyes to mine were 
 turned ; 
 
 The incense sweet of quenchless love divine 
 Within my bosom burned. 
 
 O, Love ! pure Love ! without thee, bleak and 
 bare [dole 
 
 This life would be, with nought but grief and 
 To haunt man's weary footsteps everywhere. 
 
 And torture heart and soul ! 
 
 O, Love, sweet Love ! what blisses now are 
 mine ! [sess 
 
 What joys erstwhile unknown my heart pos- 
 Since 1 have knelt me at thy sacred shrine. 
 
 And felt thy fond caress ! 
 
 JAMES RYAN. 
 
 PARTING LOVERS. 
 
 Winding upward rose a slender vine tree. 
 Winding upward round the fort of Buda. 
 Ah, no vine tree was it winding upward. 
 But a loving maiden round her lover ! 
 Early had the twain begun tlu-ir loving. 
 Loving ever since their days of childhood : 
 Now they had to say farewell forever. 
 
 To the maiden thus the stripling murmured : 
 " Three broad rivers, maiden, run before thee. 
 Nigh the third a garden green is growing ; 
 In the garden blooms a tree of ro.ses; 
 From that rose-tree pluck a rose, O maiden, 
 Lay it near thy heart, within thy bosom : 
 Faster than the rose leaves fade within it. 
 Faster fades my heart for thee, beloved !' 
 
 To the stripling thus the maiden answered : 
 " Three high mountains, youth, arise before thee. 
 From the third there flows a quiet fountain ; 
 Nigh the fountain lies a rock of marble ; 
 On the marble stands a silver chalice ; 
 In the silver chalice lies a snowflake. 
 Bear away the snowflake from the beaker. 
 Lay it near thy heart, upon thy bosom : 
 Faster than the flake of snow dissolveth. 
 Faster melts my heart for thee, beloved !" 
 
 —From tie ticrvian. 
 
 WHITLEY STOKES. 
 
 LOVE'S REMONSTRANCE, 
 
 Dear Tom, my brave, free-hearted lad. 
 
 Where'er you go, God bless you ! 
 You'd better speak than wish you had. 
 
 If love for me distress you. 
 To me, they say, your thoughts incline. 
 
 And possibly they may so ; 
 Then, once for all, to quiet mine, 
 
 Tom, if you love me, say so. 
 
 On that stout heart and manly frame 
 
 Sits lightly sport or labor. 
 Good-humored, frank, and still the same 
 
 To parent, friend, or neighbor. 
 Then why postpone your love to own 
 
 For me, from day to day so ? 
 And let me whisper, still alone, 
 
 " Tom, if you love me, say so," 
 
HITHER, O LO VE. 
 
 43 
 
 How oft when I was sick or sad 
 
 With some remembered folly, 
 The sight of you has made me glad. 
 
 And then most melancholy ! 
 Ah ! why will thoughts of one so good. 
 
 Upon my spirits prey so ? 
 By you it should be understood — 
 
 Tom, if you love me, say so ! 
 
 Last Monday, at the cricket-match. 
 
 No rival stood before you ; 
 In harvest time, for quick despatch 
 
 The farmers all adore you ; 
 And evermore your praise they sing. 
 
 Though one thing you delay sn ; 
 And I sleep nightly murmuring. 
 
 " Tom, if you love me, say so !" 
 
 Whate'er of ours you chance to seek. 
 
 Almost before you breathe it, 
 I bring, with blushes on my cheek, 
 
 And all my soul goes with it. 
 Why thank me, then, with voice so low. 
 
 And faltering turn away so } 
 When next you come, before you go, 
 
 Tom, if you love me, say so ! 
 
 When Jasper Wild, beside the brook. 
 
 Resentful round us lowered, 
 I oft recall that lion-look 
 
 That quelled the savage coward. 
 Bold words, and free you uttered then : — 
 
 Would they could find their way so. 
 When these moist eyes so plainly mean, 
 
 " Tom, if you love me, say so !" 
 
 My friends, 'tis true, are well to do. 
 
 And yours are poor and friendless ; 
 Ah, no ! for they are rich in you, — 
 
 Their happiness is endless. 
 You never let them shed a tear, 
 
 Save that on you they weigh so ; 
 There's one might bring you better cheer,— 
 
 Tom, if you love me, say so ! 
 
 My uncle's legacy is all 
 
 For you, Tom, when you choose it ; 
 In better hands it cannot fall. 
 
 Or better trained to use it. 
 I'll wait for years, but let me not 
 
 Nor wooed nor plighted stay so ; 
 Since wealth and worth make even lot, — 
 
 Tom, if you love me, say so ! 
 
 JAMES KENNY. 
 
 OH ! WERE MY LOVE. 
 
 Oh ! were my Love a country lass, 
 
 That I might see her every day ; 
 And sit with her on hedgerow grass 
 
 Beneath a bough of May ; 
 And find her cattle when astray, 
 
 Or help to drive them to the field, 
 And linger on our homeward way. 
 
 And vvoo her lips to yield 
 A twilight kiss before we parted, 
 Full of love, yet easy-hearted. 
 
 Oh ! were my Love a cottage maid. 
 
 To spin through many a winter night. 
 Where ingle-corner lends its shade 
 
 From fir-wood blazing bright. 
 Beside her wheel what dear delight 
 
 To watch the blushes go and come 
 With tender words, that took no fright 
 
 Beneath the friendly hum ; 
 Or rising smile, or tear-drop swelling. 
 At a fireside legend's telling. 
 
 Oh ! were my Love a peasant girl 
 
 That never saw the wicked town ; 
 Was never dight with silk or pearl. 
 
 But graced a homely gown. 
 How less than weak were fashion's down 
 
 To vex our unambitious lot ; 
 How rich were love and peace to crown 
 
 Our green secluded cot ; 
 Where age would come serene and shining, 
 Like an autumn day's declining. 
 
 WILLIAM ALUNGHAM. 
 
 HITHER, LOVE! 
 
 Hither, O Love ! Come hither 
 
 On pinions of young delight. 
 Ere the bloom of the morning wiiher. 
 
 While the dew lies bright ; 
 The meadows their balm are breathing. 
 
 Day bends o'er the limpid lake. 
 All nature her beauties wreathing 
 
 For thy sweet sake ! 
 
 O, joy is the mate of morning. 
 And love is the child of light. 
 
 And youth is the time for scorning 
 The bonds of night ! 
 
POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Then come — while the world lies jaded. 
 The elves of the woodland wake. 
 
 And dawn keeps her fields unfaded 
 For thy sweet sake I 
 
 JOHN TODHUNTER 
 
 ^^ 
 
 WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE? 
 
 FLORENCE MACCARTHY'S FAREWELL TO 
 HIS ENGLISH LOVE. 
 
 My pensive-browed Evangeline ! 
 What says to thee old Windsors pine, 
 
 Whose shadow oer thy pleasance sways? 
 It says, " Ere long the evening star 
 Will pierce my darkness from afar : 
 
 I grieve as one with grief who plays." 
 
 Evangeline ! Evangeline ! 
 
 In that far distant land of mine 
 
 There stands a yew-tree among tombs ! 
 For ages there that tree has stood, 
 A black pall dash'd with drops of blood ; 
 
 O'er all my world it breathes its glooms. 
 
 England's fair child, Evangeline ! 
 Because my yew-tree is not thine. 
 
 Because thy gods on mine wage war. 
 Farewell ! Back fall the gates of brass ; 
 The exile to his own must pass : 
 
 I seek the land of tombs once more. 
 
 Al'BRF.V T. DE VERE. 
 
 Ob, name it not, for though guilt and shame 
 Were on thy name. 
 
 Id still be true; 
 But that heart of thine, should another share it. 
 I could not bear it — 
 
 What would I do } 
 
 What would you do, love, when home returning. 
 With hopes high burning. 
 
 With wealth for you — 
 If my bark, that bounded o'er foreign foam. 
 Should be lost near home — 
 
 Ah, what would you do? 
 So thou wert spared, I'd bless the morrow. 
 In want and sorrow, 
 
 That left me you ; 
 And I'd welcome thee from the wasting billow. 
 My heart thy pillow !— 
 
 That's what I'd do. 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 What will you do. love, when I am going. 
 With white sail flowing. 
 To seas beyond ? 
 What will you do, love, when waves divide us. 
 And friends may chide us. 
 For being fond ? 
 Tho' waves divide us. and friends be chiding. 
 In faith abiding. 
 
 I'll still be true. 
 And I'll pray for thee on the stormy ocean. 
 In deep devotion — 
 
 That's what I'll do! 
 
 What would you do, love, if distant tidings. 
 Thy fond confidings 
 
 Should undermine ; 
 And I abiding 'neath sultry skies. 
 
 Should think other eyes 
 
 Were as bright as thine ? 
 
 A DECADE OF LOVE. 
 
 An angel came down with a golden lyre. 
 
 And the strings of the lyre were ten. 
 And the sound of its notes, played one by one. 
 
 Trembled and interwined; 
 And he passed away ere the playing was done. 
 
 But the harmony dwelt on the wind. 
 Like the mingling of all the celestial choir - 
 
 And the echoes it waked were ten. 
 
 I A spirit came beanng a chalice of tears, 
 I And the sighs that he breathed were ten. 
 I And the tears from the chalice dropped one by 
 I On my bride's fair face and mine; [one 
 
 But above us was glowing Love's glorious sun. 
 
 Whose rays are a joy divine 
 That shines serene through the passing years - 
 And the drops that it dried were ten. 
 
 A nymph came laughing o'er fields of June, 
 I And the roses she bore were ten, 
 ' And they dropped from her fingers, one by one. 
 , Kissing our brows as they fell, [run, 
 
 I While her laughter rang clear as the steamlets 
 Or the tones of our marriage bell, 
 
 Till out hearts beat time to the lightsome tune. 
 I And the perfumes she breathed were ten. 
 
 Oh, decade of love to my mar\'elling soul ! 
 
 Can the years 'oe truly ten 
 That have flown like a rhapsody, one by one. 
 
 O'er me and my darling bride? 
 
THE VISION OF LOVE. 
 
 45 
 
 Was it yesterday morn that her heart was won ? 
 
 Oh, years that in moments ^lide ! 
 Still rapt into ecstasy may ye roll 
 
 Though time counts slowly ten. 
 
 JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE. 
 
 LOVE SONG. 
 
 Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty 
 
 slumbers, 
 
 Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through 
 
 her hair ! 
 
 Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers 
 
 Breathed to my sad lute amid the lonely air ! 
 
 Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming 
 To wind round the willow banks that lure 
 him from above ; 
 
 Oh that, in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, 
 L too, could glide to the bower of my love I 
 
 Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms have 
 
 wound her. 
 
 Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay. 
 
 List'ning, like the dove, while the fountains 
 
 echo round her. 
 
 To her lost mate's call in the forests far away ! 
 
 Come, then, my bird ! for tlie peace thou ever 
 
 bearest. 
 
 Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me — 
 
 Come ! this fond bosom, my faith fulest, my fairest. 
 
 Bleeds with its death-wound, but deeper yet 
 
 for thee ! 
 
 CHORCE DARLEV. 
 
 THE VISION OF LOVE. 
 
 Oh, daring Muse, wilt thou indeed essay 
 
 To paint the wonders which that lamp could 
 
 show ? 
 And canst thou hope in living words to say 
 The dazzling glories of that heavenly view ? 
 Ah, well I ween, that if with pencil true 
 That splendid vision could be well express 'd. 
 The fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew 
 Would seize with rapture ^every wondering 
 
 breast, 
 ■When love's all-potent charms divinely stuo;l 
 
 conf:;s3'd. 
 
 All imperceptible to human touch, 
 His wings display celestial essence light. 
 The clear effulgence of the blaze is such. 
 The brilliant plumage shines so heavenly bright. 
 That mortal eyes turn dazzled from the sight ; 
 A youth he seems, in manhood's freshest years ; 
 Round his fair neck, as clinging with delight. 
 Each golden curl resplendently appears. 
 Or shades his darker brow, which grace majes- 
 tic wears. 
 
 Or o'er his guileless front the ringlets bright 
 Their rays of sunny lustre seem to throw. 
 That front than polished ivory more white. 
 His blooming cheeks with deeper blushes glow 
 Than roses scatter'd o'er a bed of snow ; 
 While on his lips, distill'd in balmy dews 
 (Those lips divine, that even in silence know 
 The heart to touch), persuasion to infuse. 
 Still hangs a rosy charm that never vainly sues. 
 
 The friendly curtain of indulgent sleep 
 Disclos'd not yet his eyes' resistless sway. 
 But from their silky veil there seem'd to peep 
 Some brilliant glances with a soften'd ray. 
 Which o'er his features exquisitely play. 
 And all his polish'd limbs suffuse with light. 
 Thus thro' some narrow space the azure day. 
 Sudden its cheerful rays diffusing bright. 
 Wide darts its lucid beams to gild the brow of 
 night. 
 
 His fatal arrows and celestial bow 
 Beside the couch were negligently thrown. 
 Nor needs the god his dazzling arms to show 
 His glorious birth ; such beauty round him shone 
 As sure could spring from Beauty's self alone. 
 The bloom which glow'd o'er all of soft desire. 
 Could well proclaim him. Beauty's cherish'd son ; 
 And Beauty's self will oft those charms admire. 
 And still reveal his witching smile, his glance's 
 living fire. 
 
 Speechless with awe, in transport strangely lost. 
 Long Psyche stood with fix'd adoring eye ; 
 Her limbs immovable, her senses toss'd 
 Between amazement, fear and ecstacy, 
 She hangs enamor'd o'er the deity : 
 Till from her trembling hand extinguish 'd falls 
 The fatal lamp — he starts — and suddenly 
 Tremendous thunders echo thro' the halls, 
 While ruin's hideous crash bursts o'er the 
 affrighted walls. 
 
 MARY TIGHE. 
 —From "Psyclte, or the Lfgcnd of Love." 
 
46 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 I dreamed I went to seek for her whose sight 
 Is sunshine to my soul ; and in my dream 
 I found her not ; then sank the latest beam 
 Of day in the rich west ; upswam the Night 
 With sliding dews, and still I searched in vain, 
 Thro' thickest glooms of garden-alleys quaint. 
 On moonlit lawns, by glimmering lakes where faint 
 The ripples brake and died, and brake again. 
 Then said I, "At God's inner court of light 
 I will beg for her;" straightway toward the 
 
 same 
 I went, and lo ! upon the altar-stair 
 She knelt with face uplifted, and soft hair 
 Fallen upon shoulders purely gowned in white. 
 And on her parted lips I read my name. 
 
 EDWARD DOWDF.X. 
 
 CORINNE'S LAST LOVE SONG. 
 
 How beautiful, how beautiful you streamed 
 up)on my sight. 
 
 In glory and in grandeur, as a gorgeous sunset- 
 light ! 
 
 How softly, soul-subduing, fell your words 
 upon mine ear. 
 
 Like low aerial music when some angel hovers 
 near! 
 
 What tremulous, faint ecstacy lo clasp yo-.ir 
 hand in mine, 
 
 Till the darkness fell upon me of a glory too 
 divine ! 
 
 The air around grew languid with our inter- 
 mingled breath. 
 
 And in your beauty's shadow I sank motionless 
 as death. 
 
 I saw you not, I heard not, for a mist was on 
 my brain — 
 
 I only felt that life could give no joy like that again. 
 
 And this was Love — I knew it not, but blindly 
 floated on. 
 
 And now I'm on the ocean waste, dark, deso- 
 late, alone ; 
 
 The waves are raging round me — I'm reckless 
 where they guide ; 
 
 No hope is left to light me, no strength to stem 
 the tide. 
 
 As a leaf along the torrent, a cloud across the sky. 
 
 As dust upon the whirlwind, so my life is drift- 
 ing by. 
 
 The dream that drank the meteor's light -the 
 
 form from Heav'n has flown — 
 The vision and the glory, they are passing — 
 
 they are gone. 
 Oh ! love is frantic agony, and life one throb of 
 
 pain; 
 Yet I would bear its darkest woes to dream 
 
 that dream again. 
 
 LADY wii.nE. 
 
 IRISH LOVE SONG. 
 
 Breathe gently, ye breezes, across the high 
 meadow. 
 Fall softly, ye shadows, dark robes of the night. 
 Unfold all your petals, wild mint and blue pansy. 
 Exhale all your odors. O, brook-lily bright :— 
 For she comes when the deep Sabbath stillness 
 of evening [west — 
 
 Steals out from the darkening woods in the 
 When the glen-throstle sings 'mid the chestnut's 
 dim branches. 
 And the twilight mist glides o'er the blue 
 lakelet's breast. 
 
 I'll weave this bright garland now here in the 
 shadow. 
 And think of her glances and greeting the while. 
 Till I hear the green wicket swing round on its 
 hinges. 
 And the light little foot on the steps of the stile : 
 She comes ! that's her voice from the low wood- 
 land pathway ; [brake ; 
 The sweet-brier fragrance floats up from the 
 She comes ! and auroral light swims round and 
 round her. 
 And fairy-like music her light footfalls make. 
 
 I see her glide out from the sycamore's shadow — 
 The white moon shines full on her beautiful 
 face ; [glowing ; 
 
 On her cheek the soft flush of the May-dawn is 
 And what nymph ever tripped with so dainty 
 a pace.' 
 O, tender-souled darling, come— quicker, como 
 quicker — 
 I'll crown with this rose wreath my heart's 
 summer queen ; 
 What are all the rich dow'rs of earth's opulent 
 kingdoms 
 To the joy of now kissing my blue-eyed 
 Kathleen ! 
 
 JOHN LOCKE. 
 
SUPREME SUMMER. 
 
 47 
 
 AN IRISH MAIDEN'S LOVE. 
 My love he has a soft blue eye, 
 
 With silken lashes drooping ; 
 Its glances are like angels' smiles, 
 
 From heaven's gates down-stooping; — 
 As bright as beams of Paradise, 
 
 As joyous and serene, 
 And when they shine upon me 
 
 I am jeweled like a queen. 
 
 My love he has the fondest heart 
 
 That maiden e'er took pride in ; 
 'Twas nurtured in the fair green land 
 
 His fathers lived and died in. 
 He holds us dear — that native land. 
 
 And me, his dark colleen, 
 And just because he loves me 
 
 I am happy as a queen. 
 
 My love he wraps me all around 
 
 With his true heart's devotion ; 
 With wealth more rare than India's gold, 
 
 Or all the gems of ocean ; 
 He clothes me with his tenderness. 
 
 The deepest ever seen. 
 And while I wear such costly robes 
 
 I'm richer than a queen. 
 
 Oh ! kindly does he soothe me when 
 
 My heart is faint and low ; 
 My joy is his delight, and all 
 
 My griefs are his, I know. 
 In the spring-time he is coming. 
 
 And I count the days between. 
 For, with such a royal king to rule. 
 
 Who would not be a queen,' 
 
 MARY E. MANNIX. 
 
 THE BANKS OF THE LEE. 
 Oh, the banks of the Lee, the banks of the 
 And love in a cottage for Mary and me ! [Lee, 
 There's not in the land a lovelier tide, [bride. 
 And I'm sure that there's no one so fair as my 
 
 She's modest and meek. 
 
 There's a down on her cheek, 
 
 And her chin is as sleek 
 
 As a butterfly's wing, 
 
 Then her step would scarce show 
 
 On the new-fallen snow; 
 
 And her whisper is low. 
 
 But as clear as the spring. 
 
 Oh ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the 
 And love in a cottage for Mary and me ! [Lee : 
 I know not how love is happy elsewhere, 
 I know not how any but lovers are there. 
 
 Oh! so green is the grass, so clear is the 
 
 stream. 
 So mild is the mist, and so rich is the beam. 
 That beauty should never to other lands 
 
 roam. 
 But make on the banks of the river its home. 
 When dripping with dew. 
 The roses peep through, 
 'Tis to look in at you 
 
 They are growing so fast; 
 While the scent of the flowers 
 Must be hoarded for hours, 
 'Tis poured in such showers 
 When my Mary goes past. 
 Oh ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the 
 
 Lee, 
 And love in a cottage for Mary and me ! — 
 Oh, Mary for me — oh, Mary for me. 
 And 'tis little I'd sigh for the banks of the Lee! 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS, 
 
 SUPREME SUMMER. 
 
 O heart full of song in the sweet song weather, 
 A voice fills each bovver, a wing shakes each tree. 
 
 Come forth, O winged singer, on song's fairest 
 feather. 
 And make a sweet fame of my love and of me. 
 
 The blithe world shall ever have fair loving 
 leisure. 
 And long is the summer for bird and for bee ; 
 But too short the summer and too keen the 
 pleasure 
 Of me kissing her and of her kissing me. 
 
 Songs shall not cease of the hills and the 
 heather ; 
 Songs shall not fail of the land and the sea ; 
 But, O heart, if you sing not while we are to- 
 gether. 
 What man shall remember my love or me .' 
 
 Some million of summers hath been and not 
 known her. 
 Hath known and forgotten loves less fair 
 than she ; 
 But one summer knew her, and grew glad to 
 own her. 
 And made her its flower, and gave her to me. 
 
POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 And slie and I, loving, on earth seem to sever j I shall die when the rose-tree about and above me 
 Some part of the great blue from heaven Her red-kissing mouth seems hath kissed 
 each day— | summer through ; 
 
 I know that the heaven and the earth are forever, I shall die on the day that she ceases to love me— 
 But that which we take shall with us pass away. But that will not be till the day she dies too. 
 
 And that which she gives me shall be for no lover 
 In any new love-time, the world's lasting while ; 
 
 The world, when it loses, shall never recover 
 The gold of her hair nor the sun of her smile. 
 
 A tree grows in heaven, where no season 
 blanches 
 Or stays the new fruit through the long 
 golden clime ; 
 My love reaches up, takes a fruit from its 
 branches. 
 And gives it to me to be mine for all time. 
 
 What care I for other fruits, fed with new fire, 
 Plucked down by new lovers in fair future line ; 
 
 The fruit that I have is the thing I desire. 
 To live of and die of- the fruit she makes mine. 
 
 And she and I, loving, are king of one summer 
 And queen of one summer to gather and glean : 
 
 The world is for us what no fair future comer 
 Shall find it or dream it could ever have been. 
 
 The earth, as we lie on its bosom, seems pressing 
 
 A heart up to bear us and mix with our heart ; 
 
 The blue, as we wander, drops down a great 
 
 blessing 
 
 That soothes us and fills us and makes the 
 
 tears start. 
 
 The summer is full of strange hundredth-year 
 flowers. 
 That breathe all their lives the warm air of 
 our love. 
 And never shall know a love other than ours 
 Till once more some phenix-star flowers above. 
 
 The silver cloud passing is friend of our loving ; 
 
 The sea, never knowing this year from last year. 
 Is thick with fair words, between warring and 
 soughing. 
 
 For her and me only to gather and hear. 
 
 Yea, the life that we lead now is better and 
 sweeter, 
 I think, than shall be in the world by and bye ; 
 For those days, be they longer or fewer or 
 sweeter, 
 I will not exchange on the day that 1 die. 
 
 Then, fall on us, dead leaves of our dear love- 
 roses, 
 
 And, ruins of summer, fall on us ere long. 
 And hide us away where our dead year reposes ; 
 
 Let all that we leave in the world be — a song. 
 
 And, O song that I sing now while we are to- 
 gether. 
 
 Go sing to some new year of women and men. 
 How I and she loved in the long loving weather. 
 
 And ask if they love on as we two loved then. 
 
 ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 
 
 NOT FOR RANK OR GOLD. 
 
 I LOVE thee not for rank or gold. 
 
 For land or social fashion : 
 I have lived too long with the gallant and bold. 
 I have learned too much from the great of old. 
 
 To coin a true man's passion. 
 
 I love thee not for thy wavy hair, 
 
 Which falls in shadowy showers; 
 
 Not for the form, so debonair ; 
 
 Not for the footstep, light as air. 
 
 Or the step of spring over flowers. 
 
 I love thee not for the loving eye. 
 
 So full of earnest beaming. 
 Which has caught its hue from the deep blue sky. 
 When the feathery clouds in slumber lie, 
 
 And Nature's soul is dreaming. 
 
 I love thee not for the noble brow. 
 
 Where the shadow of thought reposes ; 
 Not for the bosom, like sifted snow ; 
 Nor the cheek where rival tlow'rets glow — 
 
 The lilies beside the roses. 
 
 I love thee not for the gentle lays 
 
 Which thrill my bosom thorough.— 
 The faint, sweet echoes of olden days, 
 Ere life had proved a troubled maze 
 Of endless hope and sorrow. 
 
 I love thee for the trace of care 
 
 Which on thy forehead hovers. 
 
 Like a shadow from thy clustering hair ; 
 
 For the mystic sorrow sleeping there. 
 No eye but mine discovers. 
 
LOST— FOUND. 
 
 49 
 
 And (or the ghost of by-gone fears 
 
 Which is floating still above thee ; 
 
 For the secret sorrows and silent tears ; 
 
 For the mystery of thy early years, — 
 I love thee, dear, I love thee. 
 
 JOSEPH BRENAN. 
 
 THINE EYES OF BLUE. 
 
 Thine eyes of blue, the heaven's own hue. 
 Thy soft eyes thrill my fevered pulse ; 
 
 The light that lies within thine eyes 
 Hath blinded me to all things else. 
 Thine eyes of blue, etc. 
 
 Love at a single word may bloom. 
 
 The quick heart blossoming fair and free ; 
 One glance may gild the futures gloom. 
 
 And now thy bright eyes shine on me. 
 Thine eyes of blue, etc. 
 
 And canst thou ask me why my cheek. 
 Where thou art not, grows pale and wan ? 
 
 Why sadness that I can not speak 
 Surrounds my path when thou art gone.? 
 Thine eyes of blue, etc. 
 
 And, farther, canst thou wish to know 
 What change comes o'er me when we meet. 
 
 And why my pallid brow will glow, 
 And why my quivering pulses beat ? 
 Thine eyes of blue, etc. 
 
 —From the Frenck. 
 
 CHARLES G. H ALPINE. 
 
 THE IVORY GATE. 
 
 Beautiful, burning eyes, that I have prayed to 
 forget. 
 
 Why do you trouble my dreams ? Why do you 
 haunt me yet ? 
 
 Lit, as of old, by love that shone in the van- 
 ished years 
 
 Through a mist, that else vi'ere hidden — a lustre 
 of happy tears. 
 
 Bright as of old with laughter that rippled o'er 
 every look. 
 
 As the wayward sunbeams ripple o'er a danc- 
 ing woodland brook. 
 
 Deep — dark — dreamy eyes, that I have prayed 
 to forget. 
 
 Why do you break my slumber ? Why do you 
 haunt me yet ? 
 
 Rapt as of old from earth, again you try to 
 forecast 
 
 The joys of a happy future — now only a shat- 
 tered past. 
 
 Sweet eyes, I scarcely marvel that you should 
 
 pursue me yet, 
 For the soul in dreams remembers what it has 
 
 prayed to forget — 
 Its wreathed flowers of joyaunce, when it 
 
 should be garbed in care — 
 Forgets what it should remember, and hopes 
 
 when it should despair. 
 
 'Tis vain, bright eyes, I cannot— I know not 
 
 how to forget ; 
 Love laughs at the lapse of ages ; I love you, I 
 
 love you yet. 
 Oh ! come to me in my visions ; I will bear for 
 
 the brief delight 
 The cold, gray dawn that glimmers after the 
 
 dreams of night. 
 
 EDMOND G. A. HOLMES. 
 
 LOST -FOUND. 
 
 I wandered from my mother's side 
 In the fragrant path of morn ; 
 Naked, weary and forlorn 
 
 I fainted in the hot noon-tide. 
 
 For I had met a maiden wild. 
 
 Singing of love and love's delight ; 
 
 And with her song she me beguiled, 
 And her soft arms and bosom white. 
 
 Lovely and laughing eyes, that I have prayed to 
 
 forget. 
 Why do you vex my visions.' Why do you 
 
 haunt me yet.? 
 
 I followed fast, I followed far. 
 
 And ever her song flowed blithe and free 
 '• Where love's own flowery meadows are, 
 
 There shall our golden dwelling be !" 
 
POEMS- OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 I followed far, I followed fast. 
 
 And oft she paused and cried, " O here !" 
 liut where 1 came no flower would last. 
 
 And joy lay cold upon his bier. 
 1 wandered on, I wandered wide. 
 
 Alas! she fleeted with the morn ! 
 
 Weary, weeping and forlorn. 
 She left me in the fierce noon-tide. 
 
 Naked, bleeding and forlorn, 
 
 I wandered on the mountain side ; 
 To hide my wounds from shame and scorn, 
 
 I made a garment of my pride. 
 Till there came a tyrant gray ; 
 
 He stript and chained me with disgrace; 
 He led me to the public way. 
 
 And sold me in the market-place. 
 To many masters was 1 bound. 
 
 And many a grievous load I bore , 
 But in the toil my flesh grew sound. 
 
 And from my limbs the chains 1 tore. 
 I ran to seek my mother's cot. 
 
 And I found Love singing there. 
 And round it many a pleasant plot. 
 
 And shadowy streams and gardens fair. 
 Like virgin gold the thatch 1 see : 
 
 Like virgin gold the doorway sweet ; 
 And in the blissful noon each tree 
 
 A ladder for the angels' feet. 
 
 ■JOHN TODHUNTER. 
 
 PARTED. 
 
 Fair scenes in our remembrance dwell 
 
 When we have wandered far away. 
 Soft strains through memor)-'s caverns swell 
 
 Though every chord hath ceased to play ; 
 So from my heart thy voice— thy face 
 
 Time shall not steal nor distance sever. 
 Though from my path thine every trace 
 
 Hath passed away for ever. 
 
 When some bright dream of vanished hours 
 
 Is in thy heart ui)-springing. 
 When some loved song through fancy's bow'rs 
 
 In faded tones is singing. 
 When some faint chord long hushed and mute 
 
 'Neath memory's touch doth quiver — 
 Then think of one whose wayward foot 
 
 Hath passed away forever. 
 
 EDWARD HARDING. 
 
 HEARTS AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Is Love like the sunbeam 
 
 That gleams through a shower. 
 And kisses off gently 
 
 The dews from the flower ; 
 That cheers up the blossoms 
 
 And bids them be gay. 
 And lends them the fragrance 
 
 That perfumes the day ? 
 Yes ! Love is the sunbeam 
 
 That garlands the bowers. 
 And hearts that are freshest. 
 
 Life's blossoming flowers. 
 
 Is Love like the zephyr 
 
 Of calm summer eves. 
 That whispers soft music 
 
 Through half-opened leaves ; 
 That steals from the flow rets 
 
 The sweets they are given. 
 And bears on his pinions 
 
 Their odors to heaven .' 
 Yes ! Love is the zephyr 
 
 Of calm sunny hours. 
 That wafts through the valleys 
 
 The breath of the flowers. 
 
 Is Love like the tempest 
 
 That wantonly shakes 
 The buds from the stem 
 
 That he crushes and breaks . 
 That frights with his terrors 
 
 The bloom from the rose. 
 And scatters all beauties 
 
 The gardens disclose .•' 
 No ! Love is no tyrant 
 
 That frowningly lowers ; 
 He wooes like the zephyr 
 
 Where Hearts are the flowers. 
 
 JOHN CRAWFORD WILSON. 
 
 A MAY CAROL. 
 I shall see her to-day I 
 
 No wonder the skies are blue. 
 No wonder the world in its best array 
 
 Flaunts as tho' fashioned anew • 
 No wonder the world is at play, at olay. 
 
 In green, and purple, and gola. 
 For I shall see her to-day, to-day. 
 
 Who is all my joy to behold. 
 
KA TE OF ARRAGLEN. 
 
 51 
 
 I shall see her to-day ! 
 
 I woke with the joyful words, 
 And the blue sky laughed upon where I lay 
 
 With the twitter of leaves and birds ; | May, 
 And the soft winds brought me the scents of 
 
 And the sun sent goldenest light 
 To say, I shall see her to-day, to-day. 
 
 Who had filled my dreams all night. 
 
 The village will hold its festival. 
 
 And the joybells joyously chime : 
 My darling is coming, my all, my all. 
 
 The joy of the joyful time. [fly, 
 
 And the children will dance, and tlie flags will 
 
 And all hearts with the music stir, 
 And the birds, the winds and the flowers and 1 
 
 Will have all our joys in her. 
 
 The earliest roses peep. 
 
 For they know she will surely come. 
 And the lilac thicket, so sweet and deep. 
 
 Puffs down on her, fume on fume, 
 And the bluebells and lilies will all look up 
 
 As she comes by the greenwood way. 
 Where primrose and violet linger in hope 
 
 To see her, to see her to-day 
 
 I shall see her to-day ! 
 
 I dream of her night by night ; 
 No wonder my blood makes holiday. 
 
 And goes half mad with delight ; 
 No wonder the sunshine fills the air. 
 
 And the whole wide world is gay ; 
 For my love, my love, O so fair, so fair, 
 
 I shall see her to-day ! 
 
 WJLLIA.M WILKINS 
 
 KATE OF ARRAGLEN. 
 When first I saw thee, Kate, 
 That summer ev'ning late, 
 Down at the orchard gate 
 
 Of Arraglen, 
 I felt I'd ne'er before 
 Seen one so fair, asthore. 
 And fear'd I'd nevermore 
 
 See thee again. 
 
 I stopped and gazed at thee ; 
 My footfall luckily 
 Reach'd not thy ear. though we 
 Stood there so near ; 
 
 While from thy lips a strain. 
 Soft as the summer rain. 
 Sad as a lover's pain. 
 
 Fell on my ear, 
 
 I've heard the lark in June, 
 The harp's wild plaintive tune. 
 The thrush, that aye too soon 
 
 Gives o'er his strain,- 
 I've heard in hush'd delight 
 The mellow horn at night. 
 Waking the echoes light 
 
 Of wild Loch Lene ; 
 
 But neither echoing horn. 
 Nor thru.sh upon the thorn. 
 Nor lark at early morn. 
 
 Hymning in air. 
 Nor harper's lay divine. 
 E'er witch'd this heart of mine. 
 Like that sweet voice of thine. 
 That ev'ning there. 
 
 And when some rustling, dear. 
 
 Fell on thy listening ear. 
 
 You thought your brother near. 
 
 And named his name ; 
 I could not answer, though. 
 As luck would have it so. 
 His name and mine, you know. 
 
 Were both the same. 
 
 Hearing no answering sound. 
 You glanced in doubt around. 
 With timid look, and found 
 
 It was not he ; 
 Turning away your head. 
 And blushing rosy red. 
 Like a wild fawn you fic.-d 
 
 Far, far from niu. 
 
 The swan upon the lake. 
 The wild rose in the brake. 
 The golden clouds that make 
 
 The west their throno; 
 The wild ash by the stream, 
 The full moon's silver beam. 
 The evening star's soft gleam. 
 
 Shining above ; 
 
 The lily robed in white, — 
 All, all are fair and bright. 
 But ne'er on earth was sight 
 So bright, so fair. 
 
52 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 As that one glimpse of thee 
 That I caught then, machree ; 
 It stole my heart from me 
 
 That ev'ning there. 
 
 And now you're mine alone, 
 That heart is all my own- 
 That heart that ne'er hath known 
 
 A flame before ; 
 That form of mold divine, 
 That snowy hand of thine, 
 Those, locks of gold, are mine 
 
 For evermore. 
 
 Was lover ever seen 
 
 As blest as thine, Kathleen? 
 
 Hath lover ever been 
 
 More fond, more true ? 
 Thine is my every vow ! 
 For ever, dear, as now, 
 Queen of my heart be thou. 
 
 Mo cailin ruadh!* 
 
 DENNY LANE. 
 
 KATE OF KENMARE. 
 
 O .' many bright eyes full of goodness and glad- 
 ness. 
 Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart 
 loves to shine, 
 Ahd many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sad- 
 ness. 
 Have I worshipped in silence and felt them 
 divine ! 
 J5ut hope in its gleamings, or love in its dreamings. 
 
 Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fair 
 As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the 
 Roughty, 
 The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Ken- 
 mare ! 
 
 It was all but a moment, her radiant existence. 
 
 Her presence, her absence, all crowded on mc; 
 But time has not ages, and earth has not dis- 
 tance 
 
 To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee ! 
 Again am I straying where children are playing— 
 
 Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air. 
 Mountains are heathy, and there do I see thee. 
 
 Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Ken- 
 mare ! 
 
 •My golden-haired girl. 
 
 Thy own bright arbutus hath many a cluster 
 Of white waxen blossoms like lilies in air; 
 But, O ! thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustre. 
 No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear ! 
 To that cheek softly flushing, to thy lip brightly 
 blushing, 
 O ! what arc the berries that bright tree doth 
 bear? 
 Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Roughty, 
 That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Ken- 
 mare ! 
 
 O! beauty, some spell from kind Nature thou 
 bearest. 
 Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye. 
 That hearts that are hardest, from forms that 
 are fairest. 
 Receive such impressions as never can die ! 
 The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and airy. 
 Can stamp on the hard rock the shape it doth 
 wear. 
 Art cannot trace it nor ages efface it— 
 
 And such are thy glances, sweet Kate of 
 Kenmare ! 
 
 To him who far travels how sad is the feeling- 
 How the light of his mind is o'ershadowed 
 and dim. 
 When the scenes he most loves, like the river's 
 soft stealing. 
 All fade as a vision and vanish from him ! 
 Yet he bears from each far land a flower for 
 that garland. 
 That memory weaves of the bright and the 
 fair; 
 While this sigh I am breathing my garland is 
 wreathing. 
 And the rose of that garland is Kate of Ken- 
 mare ! 
 
 In lonely Lough Ouinlan in summers soft hours. 
 Fair islands are floating that move with the 
 tide. 
 Which, sterile at first, are soon covered wiih 
 flowers, 
 And thus o'er the bright waters fairy-like 
 glide ! 
 Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly 
 awakened. 
 And the heart bears a harvest that late was 
 so bare. 
 Of him who in roving finds objects in loving. 
 Like the fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of 
 Kenmare ! 
 
KATEY'S LETTER. 
 
 53 
 
 Sweet Kate of Kenmare. though I ne'er may 
 behold thee— 
 Though the pride and the jov of another you 
 be- 
 Though strange lips may praise thee and strange 
 arms enfold thee— 
 A blessing, dear Kate, be on them and on 
 thee! 
 One feeling I cherish that never can perish— 
 
 One talisman proof to the dark wizard, care — 
 The fervent and dutiful love of the beautiful. 
 Of which thou art the type, gentle Kate of 
 Kenmare ! 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE McCARTHY. 
 
 KATE OF GARNAVILLA. 
 
 Have you been at Garnavilla? 
 Have you seen at Garnavilla 
 Beauty's train trip o'er the plain 
 With lovely Kate of Garnavilla ? 
 
 Oh ! she's pure as virgin snows 
 Ere they light on woodland hill ;— ah, 
 
 Sweet as dew-drop on wild rose 
 Is lovely Kate of Garnavilla ! 
 
 Philomel, I've listened oft 
 
 To thy lay, nigh weeping willow , 
 Oh, the strain, more sweet, more soft. 
 
 That flows from Kate of Garnavilla ! 
 Have you been at Garnavilla ? 
 Have you seen at Garnavilla 
 Beauty's train trip o'er the plain 
 With lovely Kate of Garnavilla ? 
 
 As a noble ship I've seen 
 
 Sailing o'er the swelling billow. 
 So I've marked the graceful mien 
 
 Of lovely Kate of Garnavilla ! 
 Have you been at Garnavilla ? 
 Have you seen at Garnavilla 
 Beauty's train trip o'er the plain 
 With lovely Kate of Garnavilla? 
 
 If poet's prayers can banish cares. 
 No cares shall come to Garnavilla ; 
 
 Joy's bright rays shall gild her days, 
 
 And dove-like peace perch on her pillow, 
 
 Charming maid of Garnavilla ! 
 
 Lovely maid of Garnavilla ! 
 
 Beauty, grace and virtue wait 
 
 On lovely Kate of Garnavilla ! 
 
 EDWARD LYSAGHT. 
 
 KATE KEARNEY. 
 
 O, did you not hear of Kate Kearney .' 
 She lives on the banks of Killarney ; [and fly, 
 From the glance of her eye shun danger. 
 For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney. 
 For that eye is so modestly beaming. 
 You'd ne'er think of mischief she's dreaming : 
 Yet oh, who can tell how fatal's the spell 
 That lurks in the eye of Kate Kearney ! 
 
 O, should you e'er meet this Kate Kearney, 
 Who lives on the banks of Killarney, 
 Beware of her smile, for many a wile 
 Lies hid in the smile of Kate Kearney. 
 Though she looks so bewitchingly simple, 
 There's mischief in every dimple ; 
 And who dares inhale her mouth's spicy gale 
 Must die by the breath of Kate Kearney. 
 
 LADY MORGAN. 
 
 KATEY'S LETTER. 
 
 Och, girls dear, did you ever hear I wrote my 
 
 love a letter ? 
 And although he cannot read, sure I thought 
 
 'twas all the better ; 
 For why should he be puzzled with hard spelling 
 
 in the matter. 
 When the tnatii/tg was so plain that I loved 
 
 him faithfully ? 
 I love him faithfully, and he knows it, O ! he 
 
 knows it, 
 
 Without one word from me. 
 
 I wrote it, and I folded it. and put a seal 
 
 upon it ; 
 'Twas a seal almost as big as the crown of my 
 
 best bonnet ; 
 For I would not have the postmaster make his 
 
 remarks upon it. 
 As I said inside the letter that I loved him 
 
 faithfully. 
 I love him faithfully, and he knows it, O! he 
 
 knows it, 
 
 Without one word from me. 
 
 My heart was full, but when I wrote, I dared 
 
 not put the half in ; 
 The neighbors know I love him, and they're 
 
 mighty fond of chaffin'. 
 So I dared not write his name outside, for fear 
 
 they would belaughin'. 
 
} 
 
 54 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 So I wrote, "From little Kate, to one whom she 
 
 loves faithfully." 
 I love him faithfully, and he knows it, O ! he 
 
 knows it, 
 
 Without one word from me. 
 
 Now, girls, would you believe it, that post- 
 man's so consaited. 
 
 No answer will he bring me, so long as I have 
 waited ; 
 
 But maybe there mayn't be one, for the raisin 
 that I stated. 
 
 That my love can neither read nor write, but he 
 loves me faithfully. 
 
 He loves me faithfully, aixl I know, wliere'cr 
 my love is. 
 
 That ho is true to me. 
 
 LADY DUFFERIN. 
 
 SWEET KILKENNY TOWN. 
 
 I was walking in the fields near fair Boston 
 city. 
 Thinking sadly of Kilkenny, and a girl that's 
 there ; 
 When a friend came and toulJ me — late enough, 
 and more's the pity— 
 "There's a letter waitin" for ye, in the post- 
 man's care." 
 Oh ! my heart was in my mouth all the while that 
 he was spakin'. 
 For I knew it was from Katey— she's the girl 
 that can spell. 
 And I could'nt spake for crjin", for my heart 
 had nigh been breakin'. 
 With long^n' for a word from the girl I love 
 so well. 
 Oh ! I knew it was from Katey. Who could it be 
 but Katey? 
 The poor girl that loves me well in sweet 
 Kilkenny town. 
 
 Oh ! 'twas soon 1 reached the place, and thanked 
 them for the trouble 
 They were takin' with my letter, a-sortin" with 
 such care; 
 And they asked me " was it single?" and I towld 
 them 'twas a double ! 
 For wasn't it worth twice as much as any 
 letter there? 
 
 Then they sorted and they searched, but some- 
 thing seemed the matter. 
 And my heart it stopped beatin' when 1 
 thought what it might be ; — 
 Och I boys, would you believe it ? they had gone 
 and lost my letter — 
 My poor Katey's letter that had come .so 
 far to me. 
 For I knew it was from Katey. Who could it 
 be but Katey? 
 The poor girl that loves me well in sweet Kil- 
 kenny town. 
 
 I trembled like an aspen, but I said, " 'tis fun 
 your makin' 
 Of the poor foolish boy that's so asy for to 
 craze; 
 Och, gintlemen, then look again, maybe you 
 were mistaken. 
 For letters, as ye know, boys, are just as like 
 as pase !" 
 Then they bade me look myself, when they saw 
 my deep dejection. 
 But, och ! who could search when the tears 
 blind the sight ? 
 Moreover (as I tould them), I'd another strong 
 objection. 
 In regard of never learnin' to read or to write. 
 For I wasn't cute like Katey, my own darlin' 
 Katey, 
 The poor girl that loves me well in sweet Kil- 
 kenny town. 
 
 Then they laughed in my face, and they asked 
 nie (,tho' in kindness). 
 What good would letters do me that 1 
 couldn't understand. 
 And I answered " were they cursed with deaf- 
 ness and with blindness, 
 Would they care less for the clasp of a dear 
 loved hand?" 
 Oh ! the folks that re;id and write (tho' they're 
 so mighty clever), 
 See nothin' but the words, and they're soon 
 read through. 
 But Katey's unread letter would be spakin' to 
 me ever 
 Of the dear love that she bears me, for it 
 shows she is true ; 
 Oh ! well I know my Katey, my own darlin' 
 Katey, 
 The poor girl that loves me well in sweet Kil- 
 kenny town. 
 
 LADY DUFFERIN. 
 
LO VEL V MAR Y DON NELL V. 
 
 55 
 
 TO KATHLEEN. 
 
 My Kathleen dearest ! ia truth or seeming 
 No brighter vision ere blessed mine eyes 
 
 Than she, for whom, in Elysian dreaming. 
 Thy tranced lover too fondly sighs. 
 
 ! Kathleen fairest ! if elfin splendor 
 Hath ever broken my heart's repose, 
 
 'Tvvas in the darkness, ere purely tender. 
 Thy smile, like moonlight o'er ocean, rose. 
 
 Since first I met thee thou knowest thine are 
 This passion-music, each pulse's thrill — 
 
 The flowers seem brighter, the stars diviner. 
 And God and Nature more glorious still. 
 
 1 see around me new fountains gushing. 
 
 More jewels spangle the robes of night ; 
 Strange harps are pealing, fresh roses blushing. 
 Young worlds emerging in purer light. 
 
 No more thy song-bird in clouds shall hover — 
 
 ! give him shelter upon thy breast, 
 And bid him swiftly, his long flight over. 
 
 From heav'n drop into that love-built nest. 
 Like fairy flow'rets is Love thou fearest, 
 
 At once that springeth like mine from earth ; 
 'Tis friendship's ivy grows slowly, dearest, 
 
 But Love and lightning have instant birth. 
 
 The mirthful fancy and artful gesture, 
 
 Hair black as tempest, and swan-like breast. 
 More graceful folded in simplest vesture 
 
 Than proudest bosoms in diamonds drest 
 Not these, the varied and rare possession 
 
 Love gave to conquer, are thine alone ; 
 But, O ! there crowns thee di\ine expression. 
 
 As saints a halo, that's all thine own. 
 
 Thou art, as poets, in olden story. 
 
 Have pictur'd woman before the fall — 
 
 Her angel beauty's divinest glory — 
 The pure soul shining, like God, thro' all. 
 
 But vainly, humblest of leaflets springing, 
 
 1 sing the queenliest flower of love : 
 
 Thus soars the sky-lark, presumptuous singing 
 The orient morning enthroned above. 
 
 Yet hear, propitious, beloved maiden. 
 
 The minstrel's passion is pure as strong. 
 Though Nature fated, his heart, love-laden. 
 
 Must break, or utter its woes in song. 
 Farewell ! if never my soul may cherish 
 
 The dreams that bade me to love aspire. 
 By memory's altar ! thou shalt not perish. 
 
 First Irish pearl of my Irish lyre! 
 
 RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 
 
 LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. 
 
 Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the 
 
 best! 
 If fifty girls were round you I'd hardly seethe 
 
 rest. 
 Be what it may the time of day, the place be 
 
 where it will. 
 Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly they bloom 
 
 before me still. 
 
 Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on 
 
 a rock, 
 How clear they are, how dark they are, and they 
 
 give me many a shock, 
 Red rowans warm with sunshine and wetted 
 
 with a show'r. 
 Could ne'er express the charming lip that has 
 
 me in its pow'r. 
 
 Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows 
 
 lifted up. 
 Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like 
 
 a china cup. 
 Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so 
 
 fine; 
 It's rolling down upon her neck, and gather'd in 
 
 a twine. 
 
 The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded 
 
 all before ; 
 No pretty girl for miles about was missing 
 
 from the floor ; 
 But Mary kept the belt of love, and O, but she 
 
 was gay ! 
 She danced a jig, she sang a song, that took my 
 
 heart away. 
 
 When she stood up for dancing, her steps were 
 
 so complete. 
 The music nearly kill'd itself to listen to her 
 
 feet; 
 The fiddler moan'd his blindness, he heard her 
 
 so much praised, 
 ut bless 'd himself he wasn't deaf when once her 
 
 voice she raised. 
 
 And evermore I'm whistling ur lilting what you 
 
 sung. 
 Your smile is always ia my heart, your name 
 
 beside my tongue ; 
 But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count 
 
 on both your hands, 
 And for myself there's not a thumb or little 
 
 finger stands. 
 
} 
 
 56 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country 
 
 or in town ; 
 The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast 
 
 down ; 
 If some great lord should come this way. and 
 
 see your beauty bright, 
 And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. 
 
 O might we live together in a lofty palace hall, 
 
 Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet cur- 
 tains fall ! 
 
 O might we live together in a cottage mean and 
 small ; 
 
 With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the 
 only wall ! 
 
 O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress, 
 It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never 
 
 wish it less. 
 The proudest place would fit your face, and I am 
 
 poor and low ; 
 But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you 
 
 may go. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 SWEET SIBYL. 
 
 My love is as fresh as the morning sk)'. 
 
 My love is as soft as the summer air. 
 My love is as true as the saints on high, 
 
 And never was saint so fair ! 
 O, glad is my heart when I name her name. 
 
 For it sounds like a song to me — 
 I'll love you, it sings, nor heed their blame, 
 
 For you love me. As/or vuxchree ! 
 
 Sweet Sibyl ! sweet Sibyl ! my heart is wild 
 
 With the fairy spell that her eyes have lit ; 
 I sit In a dream where my Love has smil'd — 
 
 I kiss where her name is writ ! 
 O, darling, 1 fiy like a dreamy boy ; 
 
 The toil that is joy to the strong and true, 
 The life that the brave for their land employ, 
 
 I squander in dreams of you. 
 
 The face of my Love has the changeful light 
 
 That gladdens the sparkling sky of spring ; 
 The voice of my Love is a strange delight, 
 
 As when birds in the May-time sing. 
 O, hope of my heart ! O, light of my life ! 
 
 O, come to me. darling, with peace and rest ! 
 O. come like the summer, my own sweet wife, 
 
 To your home in my longing breast. 
 
 Be blessed with the home sweet Sibyl will sway 
 
 With the glance of her soft and queenly eyes ; 
 O I happy the love young Sibyl will pay 
 
 With the breath of her tender sighs. 
 That home is the hope of my waking dreams — 
 
 That love fills my eyes with pride— 
 There's light in their glance, there's joy in their 
 beams. 
 
 When I think of my own young bride. 
 
 BY A DAISY-BROWED STRAME. 
 
 Oh, she dwells by a daisy-browed stramc. 
 
 In one of the purtiest valleys — 
 The girl I'm not goin' to name. 
 
 For she's none of your Jennys or Sallys. 
 So there shan't be a slur or a slight 
 
 On Derr)''s wee blossomin' daughter. 
 That's as pure in my heart, and as bright 
 
 As the sun on the breast of Foyle water 
 
 Wee birds on the bushes all round. 
 
 So merrily whistlin' and singin' ; 
 Wee calves skippin' over the ground. 
 
 Where the shamrock and daisy are springin'- 
 Your time appears almost as fine 
 
 As your forebearers friskin' through Aiden ; 
 But your pleasures are nothin' to mine, 
 
 By the side of my innocent maiden. 
 
 Her cheek colors red and then white. 
 
 When up the green loanin" I'm comin'. 
 For she drapped a wee saicret one night 
 
 By the star that shines first in the gloamin'. 
 Iver since it, by night and by day. 
 
 I'm beside myself fairly with gladness ! 
 And faith, I heerd somebody say. 
 
 That love's but a beautiful madness. 
 
 Not a blot on her brightness I see. 
 
 She's the goold of perfection all over ; 
 But her faults would be beauties to me. 
 
 If a fault I had eyes to discover. 
 This evenin' down by the spring. 
 
 Where the moon at her shadow is gazin". 
 We'll meet when the bat's on the wing. 
 
 And the craiks clamor over the grazin'. 
 
 HENRY M. FLETCHER. 
 
THE PILGRIM HARPER. 
 
 57 
 
 KITTY BAHN. 
 
 Before the first ray of blushing day, 
 
 Who should come by but Kitty Bahn, [snow. 
 With her cheeks like the rose on a bed of 
 
 And her bosom beneath like the sailing swan. 
 
 I looked and looked till my heart was gone. 
 
 With the foot of the fawn she crossed the lawn, 
 Half confiding and half in fear ; 
 
 And her eyes of blue they thrilled me through, 
 One blessed minute ; then like the deer. 
 Away she darted, and left me here. 
 
 O sun, you are late at your golden gate. 
 
 For you've nothing to show beneath the sky 
 
 To compare to the lass that crossed the grass 
 Of the shamrock field ere the dew was dry. 
 And the glance she gave me as she went by, 
 
 ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 
 
 SWEET KITTY NEIL. 
 
 " Ah, sweet Kitty Neil ! rise up from your 
 wheel. 
 Your neat little foot will be weary from spin- 
 ning ; 
 Come trip down with me to the sycamore tree — 
 Half the parish is there and the dance is be- 
 ginning. 
 The sun is gone down, but the full harvest 
 moon 
 Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened 
 valley. 
 While all the air rings with the soft, loving 
 things 
 Each little bird sings on the green shaded 
 alley." 
 
 With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the 
 while, 
 Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, 
 glancing ; 
 'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues, 
 So she couldn't but choose to — go off to the 
 dancing. 
 And now on the green the glad groups are seen, 
 Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his 
 choosing ; 
 And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty 
 Neil— 
 Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought 
 of refusing. 
 
 Now Feli.K Magee puts his pipe to his knee, 
 And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in 
 motion ; 
 With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the 
 ground — 
 The maids move around just like sw-ans on the 
 ocean, 
 Cheeks bright as the rose — feet light as the 
 doe's — 
 Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing ; 
 Search the world all round, from the sky to the 
 ground. 
 No such sight can be found as an Irish lass 
 dancing ! 
 
 Sweet Kate ! who would view your bright eyes 
 of deep blue 
 Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so 
 mildly — 
 Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded 
 form — 
 Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb 
 wildly.' 
 Poor Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart. 
 Subdued by the smart of such painful yet 
 sweet love ; 
 The sight leaves his eye as he cries, with a sigh, 
 " Dance light,for my heart it lies under your 
 feet, IrcK.'- 
 
 JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. 
 
 THE PILGRIM HARPER. 
 
 The night was cold and dreary ! — no star was in 
 
 the sky. 
 When, travel-tired and weary, the harper raised 
 
 his cry ; 
 He raised his cry without the gate, his night's 
 
 repose to win. 
 And plaintive was the voice that cried : " Ah, 
 
 won't you let me in ?" 
 
 The portal soon was opened, for in the land of 
 
 song. 
 The minstrel at the outer gate yet never lingered 
 
 long ; 
 And inner doors were seldom closed 'gainst 
 
 wand'rers such as he, 
 For, locks of hearts to open soon, sweet music 
 
 is the key. 
 
 But if gates are oped by melody, so grief can 
 
 close them fast, 
 And sorrow o'er that once bright hall its silent 
 
 spell had cast ; 
 
58 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 All undisturb'd, the spider there his web might 
 
 safely spin, 
 For many a day no festive lay — no harper was 
 
 let in. 
 
 But when this harper entered, and said he came 
 
 from far. 
 And bore with him from Palestine the tidings of 
 
 the war. 
 And he could tell of all who fell, or !;lory there 
 
 did win. 
 The warder knew his noble dame would let 
 
 that harper in. 
 
 They led him to the bower, *ne lady knelt in 
 
 prayer ; 
 The harper raised a well-knowi. lay upon the 
 
 turret stair ; 
 The door was oped with hasty hand, true love 
 
 its meed did win, 
 For the lady saw her own true knight, when that 
 
 harper was let in I 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 FANNY POWER. 
 
 The lady's son rode by the mill ; 
 The trees were murmuring on the hill. 
 But in the valley they were still. 
 
 And seemed with heat to lower : 
 They said that he should be a priest. 
 For so had vowed his sire, deceased ; 
 They should have told him, too, at least. 
 
 To fly from Fanny Power. 
 
 The lonely student felt his breast 
 Was like an empty linnet's nest. 
 Divinely moulded to be blest. 
 
 Yet pining every hour ; 
 For see. amid the orchard trees, 
 Her green gown kirtled to her knees. 
 Adown the brake, like whisp'ring breeze. 
 
 Went lightsome Fanny Power. 
 
 Her eyes cast down a mellow light 
 Upon her neck of glancing white. 
 Like starshine on a snowy night, 
 
 Or moonlight on a tower. 
 She sang — he thought her songs were hymns ; 
 An angel's grace was in her limbs ; — 
 The swan that on Lough Erne swims 
 
 Is rude to Fanny Power, 
 
 Returned, he thought the convert dull. 
 At best a heavy, heartless lull, — 
 No hopes to cheer, no flowers to cull. 
 
 No sunshine and no shower. 
 The abbot sent him to his cell. 
 And spoke of penance and of hell ; 
 But nothing in his heart to quell 
 
 The love of Fanny Power, 
 
 He dreamed of her the live-long day ; 
 At evening when he tried to pray, 
 Instead of other saints, he'd say. 
 
 Oh holy— Fanny Power! 
 How happier seemed an exile's lot 
 Than living there, unloved, forgot ; 
 And, oh ! best joy, to share his cot 
 
 His own dear Fanny Power ! 
 
 'Tis vain to strive with Passion's might,- 
 He left the convent's walls one night. 
 And she was won to join his flight 
 
 Before he wooed an hour ; 
 So, flying to a freer land. 
 He broke his vow at Love's command. 
 And placed a ring upon the hand 
 
 Of happy Fanny Power. 
 
 i 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
 WHY ARE YOU WANDERING HERE? 
 
 " Why are you wandering here, I pray.' " 
 
 An old man asked a maid one day, 
 
 " Looking for poppies, so bright and red. 
 
 Father," said she, " I'm hither led." 
 
 " Fie ! fie ! " she heard him cr)', 
 
 " Poppies, 'tis known to all who rove. 
 
 Grow in the field and not the grove." 
 
 "Tell me again," the old man said, 
 
 " Why arc you loitering here, fair maid ? " 
 
 "The nightingale's song, so sweet and clear. 
 
 Father," said she " I'm come to hear." 
 
 " Fie ! fie ! " she heard him cr>', 
 
 " Nightingales all, so people say. 
 
 Warble by night, and not by day." 
 
 The sage looked grave, the maiden shy. 
 
 When Lubin jumped over the stile hard by ; 
 
 The sage looked graver, the maid more glum, 
 
 Lubin, he twiddled his finger and thumb. 
 
 " Fie ! fie! " was the old man's cry, 
 
 ■' Poppies like this, I own, are rare. 
 
 And of such nightingale's songs beware." 
 
 JAMES KENNY. 
 
;— it-^- 
 
 ^^^ 
 
ROBIN ADAIK. 
 
 59 
 
 AILEEN AROON. 
 
 ROBIN ADAIR. 
 
 When like the early rose, 
 
 What's this dull town to me? 
 
 Aiken aroon ! 
 
 Robin's not near- 
 
 Beauty in childhood blows. 
 
 He whom I wished to see, 
 
 Aileen aroon ! 
 
 Wished for to hear; 
 
 When like a diadem. 
 
 Where's all the joy and mirth 
 
 Buds blush around the stem. 
 
 Made life a heaven on earth ? 
 
 Which is the fairest gem? 
 
 O, they've all fled with thee. 
 
 Aileen aroon ! 
 
 Robin Adair! 
 
 Is it the laughing eye ? 
 
 What made th' assembly shine 
 
 Aileen aroon! 
 Is it the timid sigh ? 
 
 Aileen aroon ! 
 Is it the tender tone, 
 Soft as the stringed harp's moan?. 
 Oh, it is truth alone, 
 
 Aileen aroon ! 
 
 I know a valley fair, 
 
 Aileen aroon! 
 I knew a cottage there, 
 
 Aileen aroon ! 
 Far in that valley's shade 
 I knew a gentle maid. 
 Flower of the hazel glade, 
 
 Aileen aroon! 
 
 Who in the song so sweet ? 
 
 Aileen aroon ! 
 Who in the dance so fleet ? 
 
 Aileen aroon! 
 Dear were her charms to me. 
 Dearer her laughter free. 
 Dearest her constancy — 
 
 Aileen aroon! 
 
 Were she no longer true, 
 
 Aileen aroon! 
 What should her lover do ? 
 
 Aileen aroon ! 
 Fly with his broken chain 
 Far o'er the sounding main. 
 Never to love again, 
 
 Aileen aroon! 
 
 Youth must with time decay, 
 
 Aileen aroon! 
 Beauty must fade away, 
 
 Aileen aroon ! 
 Castles are sacked in war. 
 Chieftains are scattered far. 
 Truth is a fixed star, 
 
 Aileen aroon ! 
 
 GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
 Robin Adair : 
 What made the ball so fine ? 
 
 Robin was there : 
 What, when the play was o'er. 
 What made my heart so sore ? 
 O, it was parting with 
 
 Robin Adair! 
 
 lUit now thou art far from nic, 
 
 Robin Adair; 
 Hut now I never see 
 
 Robin Adair ; 
 Yet him I loved so well 
 Still in my heart shall dwell ; 
 O, I can ne'er forget 
 
 Robin Adair! 
 
 \VeIcome on shore again, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 Welcome once more again, 
 
 Robin Adair! 
 I feel thy trembling hand ; 
 Tears in thy eyelids stand. 
 To greet thy native land, 
 
 Robin Adair! 
 
 Long I ne'er saw thee, love, 
 
 Robin Adair ; 
 Still I prayed for thee, love, 
 
 Robin Adair ; 
 When thou wert far at sea. 
 Many made love to me, 
 But still I thought on thee, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 
 Come to my heart again, 
 
 Robin Adair ; 
 Never to part again, 
 
 Robin Adair; 
 And if thou still art true, 
 I will be constant, too. 
 And will wed none but you, 
 
 Robin Adair! 
 
 LADY CAROLINE KEPPEL* 
 
 ! biographical note. 
 
} 
 
 6o 
 
 POEAfS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 IF I WERE NOT TOO YOUNG. 
 
 In holiday gown and my new-fangled hat. 
 
 Last Monday I tript to the fair ; 
 I held up my head, and I'll tell you for what— 
 
 Brisk Roger 1 guessed would be there. 
 He wooes me to marry whenever we meet ; 
 
 There's honey sure dwells on his tongue ; 
 He hugs me so close, and he kisses so sweet, 
 
 I'd wed— if I were not too young. 
 
 Fond Sue, I'll assure you, laid hold of the boy 
 
 (The vi.xen would fain be his bride). 
 Some token she claimed, either ribbon or toy. 
 
 And said that she'd not be denied, 
 A top-knot he bought her, and garters of green ; 
 
 Pert Susan wjis cruelly stung ; 
 I hate her so much that, to kill her with spleen. 
 
 I'd wed — if I were not too young, 
 
 He whispered such soft pretty things in mine 
 ear! 
 He flattered and promised and swore ! 
 Such trinkets he gave me, such laces and gear. 
 
 That, trust me, mvjjockets ran o'er; 
 Some ballads he bought me, the best he could 
 find. 
 And sweetly their burden he sung; 
 Good faith, he's so handsome, so witty, and 
 kind, 
 I'd wed — if I were not too young. 
 
 The sun was just setting ; 'twas time to retire, 
 
 (Our cottage was distant a mile), 
 I rose to be gone— Roger bowed like a squire. 
 And handed me over the stile. 
 ° His arm he threw round me— love laughed in 
 his eye. 
 He led me the meadows among. 
 And prest me so close I agreed, with a sigh. 
 To wed — for I was not too young. 
 
 JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 I O for an hour as the day advances, [dances,) 
 I (Out where the breeze on the broom-bush 
 Watching the lark, with the sun-ray o'er us. 
 Winging the notes of his heaven-taught chorus ; 
 O to be there, and my love before me. 
 Soft as a moonbeam smiling o'er me ; 
 Thou would'st but love, and I would woo thee: 
 Girl of the dark eye ! closer to me. 
 
 O for an hour where the sun first found us, 
 (Out in the eve with its red sheets round us,) 
 Brushing the dew from the gale's soft winglets. 
 Pearly and sweet with thy long dark ringlets : 
 O to be there on the sward beside thee, 
 j Telling my tale though I know you'd chide me ; 
 Sweet were thy voice though it should undo me — 
 Girl of the dark locks ! closer to me. 
 
 O for an hour by night or by day, love, 
 I Just as the heavens and thou might say, love ; 
 
 Far from the stare of the cold-eyed many, 
 I Bound in the breath of my dove-souled Nanny ! 
 I O for the pure chains that have bound me, 
 i Warm from thy red lips circling round me ! 
 
 O, in ray soul, as the light above me, 
 
 Queen of the pure hearts, do I love thee ! 
 I FRANCIS n.wis. 
 
 NANNY. 
 
 O for an hour when the day is breaking 
 Down by the shore, when the tide is making ! 
 Fair as a white cloud, thou, love, near me. 
 None but the waves and thyself to hear me : 
 (J. to my breast how these arms would press thee ; 
 Wildly my heart in its joy would bless thee; 
 O, how the soul thou hast won would woo thee, 
 Girl of the snow-neck ! closer to me. 
 
 O'DONOVAN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 One midsummer's eve, when the Bcl-fircs were 
 
 lighted, 
 And the bag-piper's tone call'd the maidens 
 
 delighted, 
 I joined a gay group by the Araglin's water. 
 And danced till the dawn with O'Donovan's 
 
 daughter. 
 
 Have you seen the ripe monadan glisten in 
 
 Kerry .' 
 Have you mark'd on the Galtes the bl.ick 
 
 whortleberry .' 
 Or ceanaban wave by the wells of Blackwater .' 
 They're the cheek, eye and neck of O'Donovan's 
 
 daughter ! 
 
 Have you seen a gay kidling on Claragh's round 
 
 mountain } 
 The swan's arching glory on Sheeling's blue 
 
 fountain .' 
 Heard a weird woman chant what the fairy choir 
 
 taught her ? 
 They've the step, grace and tone of O'Donw an's 
 
 daughter I 
 
POLL V O'CONNOR. 
 
 6l 
 
 Have you mark'd in its flight the black wing of 
 the raven ? 
 
 The rose-buds that breathe in the summer- 
 breeze waven ? 
 
 The pearls that lie hid under Lene's magic 
 water ? 
 
 They're the teeth, lip and hair of O'Donovan's 
 daughter ! 
 
 Ere the Bel-fire was dimm'd, or the dancers 
 departed, 
 
 I taught her a song of some maid broken- 
 hearted ; 
 
 And that group, and that dance, and that love- 
 song I taught her, 
 
 Haunt my slumbers at night with O'Donovan's 
 daughter ! 
 
 God grant 'tis no fay from Cnoc-Firinn that 
 
 wooes me, 
 God grant 'tis not Cliodhna the queen that 
 
 pursues me, 
 That my soul lost and lone has no witchery 
 
 wrought her, 
 While I dream of dark groves and O'Donovan's 
 
 daughter ! 
 
 If, spell-bound, I pine with an airy disorder. 
 
 Saint Gobnate has sway over Musgry's wide 
 border ; 
 
 She'll scare from my couch, when with prayer 
 I've besought her. 
 
 That bright airy sprite like O'Donovan's daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 EDWARD WALSH. 
 
 MARY MAGUIRE. 
 
 Oh ! That my love and I 
 
 From life's crowded haunts could fly, 
 To some deep shady vale, by the mountain. 
 
 Where no sound could make its way 
 
 Save the thrush's lively lay. 
 And the murmur of the clear-llowing fountaii 
 
 Where no stranger should intrude 
 
 On our hallowed solitude, 
 Where no kinsman's cold glance could annoy u 
 
 Where peace and joy might shed 
 
 Blended blessings o'er our bed, 
 And love ! love alone still employ us. 
 
 Still, sweet njaiden, may I see 
 
 That I vainly talk of thee ; 
 In vain in lost love I lie pining ; 
 
 I may worship from afar 
 
 The beauty-beaming star 
 That o'er my dull pathway keeps shining. 
 
 But in sorrow and in pain. 
 
 Fond hope will still remain. 
 For rarely from hope can we sever ; 
 
 Unchanged in good or ill. 
 
 One dream is cherished still — 
 Oh ! my Mary, I must love thee for ever. 
 
 How fair appears the maid 
 
 In loveliness arrayed. 
 As she moves forth at dawn's dewy hour; 
 
 Her ringlets richly flowing, 
 
 And her cheek all gaily glowing, 
 Like a rose in her blooming bower. 
 
 Oh ! lonely be his life. 
 
 May his dwelling want a wife. 
 And his nights be long, cheerless and dreary. 
 
 Who cold or calm could be. 
 
 With a winning one like thee. 
 Or for wealth could forsake thee, my Mary. 
 
 THOMAS FURLONG. 
 
 -From the Irish. 
 
 POLLY O'CONNOR. 
 
 I will not venture to compare 
 
 Those flashing eyes 
 
 To sunny skies ; 
 To threads of gold thy wealth of hair ; 
 Thy cheek unto the rose's glow. 
 
 Thy polished brow. 
 To lilacs glancing in the light. 
 
 Or Parian white ; 
 Thy bosom to the virgin snow ; — 
 
 For these 
 Are weak and well-worn similes. 
 
 Thine eyes are like— like — let me se( 
 The violet's hue ^ 
 
 Reflected through 
 A drop of dew ; — 
 No, that won't do. 
 No semblance true 
 
 In ample nature can there be 
 
 To equal their intensity. — 
 
 Their heavenly blue. 
 
62 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 'Twere just as vain to seek . 
 
 Con. munificent in gifts ! 
 
 Thro' every flower to match thy glowing cheek. 
 
 I've seen the full round harvest moon 
 
 No gold could shed 
 
 Gleam through the shadowy autumn drifts 
 
 Such radiant glory as ensaints thy head ; 
 
 Upon thy royal rock of Doune. 
 
 Besides, I now remember, 
 
 I've seen the stars that glittering lie 
 
 That golden tresses are but flattered red. 
 
 O'er all the night's dark mourning pall. 
 
 And thine are living amber,— 
 
 But never saw so bright an eye 
 
 As when 'tis ripest, through the waving com 
 
 As lit the glens of Cushendall. 
 
 The sunbeams glance upon a harvest morn. 
 
 
 
 I've wandered with a pleasant toil. 
 
 To the pale lustre of thy brow 
 
 And still I wander in my dreams ; 
 
 The lily's self perforce must bow : 
 
 Even from thy white-stoned beach. Loch Foyle. 
 
 Thy bosom as the new-fallen snow 
 
 To Desmond of the flowing streams. 
 
 Is quite 
 
 I've crossed the fair green plains of Meath 
 
 As white. 
 
 To Dublin, held in Saxon thrall : 
 
 And melts as soon with loves warm glow ; 
 
 But never saw such pearly teeth 
 
 But then. 
 
 As her's that smiled by Cushendall. 
 
 While that receives an early stain, 
 
 
 Thy purer bosom doth still pure remain. 
 
 O Con ! thou'rt rich in yellow gold, 
 
 
 Thy fields are filled with lowing kine. 
 
 Since to my mind 
 
 Within thy castle wealth untold. 
 
 I cannot find 
 
 Within thy harbors fleets of wine ; 
 
 A simile of any kind. 
 
 But yield not. Con, to worldly pride. 
 
 I argue hence 
 
 Thou may'st be rich, but hast not all ; 
 
 Thou art the sense 
 
 Far richer he who for his bride 
 
 And spirit of all excellence ; 
 
 Has won fair Anne of Cushendall. 
 
 The charm-bestowing fountain whence 
 
 
 Fate doth dispense 
 
 She leans upon a husband's arm. 
 
 Its varied bounties to the fair. 
 
 Surrounded by a valiant clan. 
 
 The loveliest of whom but share 
 
 In Antrim's Glynnes, by fair Glenarm. 
 
 A portion of the gifts thou well canst spare. 
 
 Beyond the pearly paven Bann ; 
 
 JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 'Mid hazel wood, no stately tree 
 
 
 Looks up to heaven more graceful tall. 
 
 
 When summer clothes its boughs, than she, 
 McDonnell's wife of Cushendall! 
 
 
 THE FLOWER OF CUSHENDALL. 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
 
 
 —Front " Tilt Foray «/ Con O' DoHHell." 
 
 O Con, benevolent hand of peace ! 
 
 
 tower of valor firm and true ! 
 Like mountain fawns, like snowy fleece. 
 
 
 
 Move the sweet maidens of Tirhugh. 
 
 
 Yet though through all thy realm I've strayed. 
 
 THE FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. 
 
 Where green hills rise and white waves fall. 
 
 
 I have not seen so fair a maid 
 
 Maid of all maids! — and the wide earth is full 
 
 As once 1 saw by Cushendall. 
 
 of them, 
 
 
 Tender and witching, and slender and tall — 
 
 O Con. thou hospitable Prince ! 
 
 I know a maid takes the shine off the whole of 
 
 Thou, of the open heart and hand 
 
 them ; 
 
 Full oft I've seen the crimson tints 
 
 Kitty, agra, you outrival them all. [you, 
 
 Of evening on the western land. 
 
 Pretty and sweet are you, neat and complete are 
 
 I've wandered north, I've wandered south, 
 
 Type of the grace of an old Irish stock ; 
 
 Throughout Tirhugh in hut and hall. 
 
 Rich arc you, rare are you, fresh are you, fair are 
 
 But never saw so sweet a mouth 
 
 you — 
 
 As whispered love by Cushendall. 
 
 Kitty, agra, you're the flower of the flock. 
 
GILLE MACHREE. 
 
 63 
 
 When I kneel down at Mass where are my 
 thoughts, alas ? 
 
 Naught but the light of a bright face I see ; 
 All that my praying is, all that I'm saying is, 
 
 " God bless sweet Kitty, and keep her for me." 
 Hourly I sigh for you, proudly I'd die for you. 
 
 Joyfully lay down my life on the block ; 
 King on his throne for you true love might own 
 for you. 
 
 Reigning alone for you, flower of the flock. 
 
 Maid of all maidens, my life is entwined in thine. 
 
 Turning to thee like the flowers to the sun ; 
 Tell me, oh ! tell me, thy heart is enshrined in 
 mine — 
 Tell me, asthore, we had better be one. 
 Come with me, roam with me, over the foam 
 with me, 
 Come to my home with me, near Carrig rock. 
 Light of my life to be, sweetheart and wife to be, 
 Free from all strife to be, flower of the flock. 
 FRANCIS A. FAHY. 
 
 THE MILKMAID. 
 
 •O, where are you going so early ? he said ; 
 Good luck go with you. my pretty maid ; 
 To tell you my mind I'm half afraid. 
 But I wish you were my sweetheart. 
 
 When the morning sun is shining low. 
 And the cocks in every farm-yard crow, 
 I'll carry your pail 
 O'er hill and dale. 
 And I'll go with you a-rnilking 
 
 I'm going a-milking, sir, says she. 
 Through the dew and across the lea ; 
 You ne'er would even yourself to me. 
 Or take me for your sweetheart. 
 When the morning sun, etc. 
 
 Now give me your milking-stool a while, 
 To carry it down to yonder stile; 
 I'm wishing every step a mile. 
 And myself your only sweetheart. 
 When the morning sun, etc. 
 
 •O, here's the stile in-under the tree, 
 And there's the path in the grass for me, 
 And I thank you kindly, sir, says she. 
 And wish you a better sweetheart. 
 When the morning sun, etc. 
 
 Now give me your milking-pail, says he. 
 
 And while we're going across the lea. 
 
 Pray, reckon your master's cows to me. 
 
 Although I'm not your sweetheart. 
 
 When the morning sun, etc. 
 
 Two of them red, and two of them white. 
 Two of them yellow and silky bright ; 
 She told him her master's cows aright. 
 Though he was not her sweetheart. 
 When the morning sun, etc. 
 
 She sat and milked in the morning sun. 
 And when her milking was over and done, 
 She found him waiting, all as one 
 As if he were her sweetheart. 
 When the morning sun, etc. 
 
 He freely offered his heart and hand ; 
 Now she has a farm at her command, 
 And cows of her own to graze the land : 
 Success to all true sweethearts ! 
 
 When the morning sun is shining low. 
 And the cocks in every farm-yard crow, 
 I'll carry your pail 
 O'er hill and dale. 
 And I'll go with you a-nii!king. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 GILLE MACHREE. 
 
 Gille machree* sit down by me. 
 
 We now are joined and ne'er shall sever ; 
 
 This hearth's our own, our hearts are one. 
 And peace is ours for ever ! 
 
 When I was poor, your father's door 
 
 Was closed against your constant lover ; 
 With care and pain, I tried in vain 
 
 My fortunes to recover. 
 I said : "To other lands I'll roam, 
 
 Where Fate may smile on me, love ; " 
 I said : " Farewell, my own old home ! " 
 
 And I said : " Farewell to thee, love ! " 
 Sing Gille machree, etc. 
 
 I might have said, my mountain maid. 
 Come live with me, your own true lover ; 
 
 I know a spot, a silent cot. 
 Your friends can ne'er discover ; 
 
 •igiu. 
 
} 
 
 04 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Where gently flows the waveless lidc 
 
 By one small garden only ; 
 Where the heron waves his wings so wide. 
 
 And the linnet sings so lonely ! 
 
 Sing GilU machree, etc. 
 
 I might have said, my mountain maid, 
 
 A father's right was never given 
 True hearts to curse with tyrant force, 
 
 That have been blest in Heaven. 
 But then, I said ; " In after years, 
 
 When thoughts of home shall find her. 
 My love may mourn with secret tears 
 
 Her friends thus left behind her." 
 Sing Cille machree, etc. 
 
 O, no, I said, my own dear maid. 
 
 For me, though all forlorn for ever. 
 That heart of thine shall ne'er repine 
 
 O'er slighted duty — never. 
 From home and thee tho' wandering far 
 
 A dreary fate be mine, love ; 
 I'd rather live in endless war. 
 
 Than buy my peace with thine, love. 
 Sing Gtlle machree, etc. 
 
 Far, far away, by night and day, 
 
 I toiled to win a golden treasure ; 
 And golden gains repaid my pains 
 
 In fair and shining measure. 
 I sought again my native land. 
 
 Thy father welcomed me, love ; 
 I poured my gold into his hand. 
 
 And my guerdon found in thee, love. 
 Sing Gitlc machree, etc. 
 
 GERALD GRIFFI> 
 
 MY OWEN BAWN CON. 
 
 My Owen Bawn's hair is of thread of gold spun ; 
 Of gold in the shadow, of light in the sun ; 
 All curled in a coolun the bright tresses are — 
 They make his head radiant with beams like a star! 
 
 My Owen Bawn's mantle is long and is wide, 
 To wrap me up safe from the storm by his side ; 
 And I'd rather face snow-drift and wHnter-wind 
 
 there. 
 Than lie among daisies and sunshine elsewhere. 
 
 My Owen Bawn Con is a hunter of deer. 
 
 He tracks the dun quarry with arrow and spear — 
 
 Where wild woods are waving, and deep waters 
 
 flow. 
 Ah, there goesmy love, with the dun-dappled roe. 
 
 My Owen Bawn Con is a bold fisherman. 
 He spears the strong salmon in midst of the Bann: 
 And rock'd in the tempest on stormy Lough 
 Neagh, [spray. 
 
 Draws up the red trout through the bursting of 
 
 Mv Owen Bawn Con is a bard of the best. 
 He wakes me with singing, he sings me to rest ; 
 And the cruit 'neath his fingers rings up with a 
 sound. [ground. 
 
 As though angels harped o'er us. and fays under- 
 
 They tell me the stranger has given command. 
 That crommeal and coolun shall cease in the land. 
 That all our youth's tresses of yellow be shorn. 
 And bonnets, instead, of a new fashion, worn ; 
 
 That mantles like Owen Bawn's shield us no more. 
 That hunting and fishing henceforth we give o'er, 
 That the net and the arrow aside must be laid. 
 For hammer and trowel, and mattock and spade ; 
 
 That the echoes of music must sleep in their caves. 
 That the slave must forget his own tongue for a 
 
 slave's, [our ears, 
 
 That the sounds of our lips must be strange in 
 And our bleeding hands toil in the dew of our 
 
 tears. 
 
 O, sweetheart and comfort ! with thee by my side. 
 I could love and live happy, whatever betide ; 
 But ilioii. in such bondage, wouldst die ere a day— 
 Away to Tir-oen, then. Owen, away ! 
 
 There are wild woods and mountains, and streams 
 
 deep and clear. 
 There are lochs in Tir-oen as lovely as here ; 
 There are silver harps ringing in Yellow Hugh's 
 
 hall, 
 And a bower by the forest side, sweetest of all ! 
 
 We will dwell by the sunshiny skirts of the brake. 
 Where the sycamore shadows glow deep in the 
 lake ; [there. 
 
 And the snowy swan stirring the green shadows 
 Afloat on the water, seems floating in air. 
 
 Farewell, then, black Slemish, green Collon adieu. 
 My heart is a-breaking at thinking of you ; 
 But tarry we dare not when freedom hath gone,— 
 Away to Tir-oen. then. Owen Bawn Con ! 
 
A'fV KALLAGH DHU ASTHORE. 
 
 65 
 
 Away to Tir-o6n, then, Owen away ! 
 
 We will leave them the dust from our feet as 
 
 a prey, 
 And our dwellings in ashes and flames for a 
 
 spoil, — 
 'Twill be long ere they quench them with 
 
 streams from the Foyle ! 
 
 SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
 
 MAIRE BHAN ASTOR. 
 
 In a valley far away. 
 
 With my Maire bhan astor. 
 Short would be the summer-day. 
 
 Ever loving more and more ; 
 Winter days would all grow long. 
 
 With the light her heart would pour. 
 With her kisses and her song. 
 And her loving mait go leor. 
 
 Fond is Maire bhan astor, 
 Fair is Maire bhan asto , 
 Sweet as ripple on the snore. 
 Sings my Maire bhan astor. 
 
 Oh ! her sire is very proud. 
 
 And her mother cold as stone ; 
 But her brother bravely vow'd 
 
 She should be my bride alone ; 
 For he knew I lov'd her well, 
 
 And he knew she loved me too, 
 So he sought their pride to quell. 
 But 'twas all in vain to sue. 
 
 True is Maire bhan astor. 
 Tried is Maire bhan astor. 
 Had I wings I'd never soar 
 From my Maire bhan astor. 
 
 There are lands where manly toil 
 
 Surely reaps the crop it sows. 
 Glorious woods and teeming soil. 
 
 Where the broad Missouri flows; 
 Thro' the trees the smoke shall rise, 
 
 From our hearth with mait go leor. 
 There shall shine the happy eyes 
 Of ray Maire bhan astor. 
 
 Mild is Maire bhan astor. 
 Mine is Maire bhan astor. 
 Saints shall watch about the door 
 Of my Maire bhan astor. 
 
 THOM.^S DAVIS. 
 
 MY KALLAGH DHU ASTHORE. 
 
 Again the flowery feet of June 
 
 Have tracked our cottage side ; 
 And o'er the waves the timid moon 
 
 Steals, smiling like a bride ; 
 But what were June or flowers to me. 
 
 Or waves, or moon, or more. 
 If evening came and brought not thee — 
 
 My Kallagh dhu asthore ! 
 
 Let others prize their lordly lands. 
 
 And sceptres gemmed with blood, 
 More dear to me the honest hands 
 
 That earn my babes their food ; 
 And little reck we queens or kings 
 
 When daily labor's o'er ; 
 And by the evening embers sings 
 
 My Kallagh dhu asthore. 
 
 And when he sings, his every song 
 
 Is sacred freedom's own; 
 And like his voice his arm is strong. 
 
 For labor nursed the bone ; 
 And then his step, and such an eye ! 
 
 Ah, fancy ! touch no more ; 
 My spirit swims in holy joy 
 
 O'er Kallagh dhu asthore ! 
 
 His voice is firm, his knee is proud 
 
 When pomp's imperious tone 
 Would have the freeborn spirit bowed, 
 
 That right should bow alone ; 
 For well does Kallagh know his due, 
 
 Nor ever seeks he more ; 
 Would heaven mankind were all like you. 
 
 My Kallagh dhu asthore ! 
 
 And Kallagh is an Irishman 
 
 In sinew, soul, and bone ; 
 Not e'en the veins of old Slieveban 
 
 Are purer than his own ; 
 The wing of woe has swept our skies. 
 
 The foreign foe our shore. 
 But stain or change thy race defies. 
 
 My Kallagh dhu asthore ! 
 
 What wonder, then, each word he said 
 
 Fell o'er my maiden day, 
 Like breathings o'er the cradle-bed 
 
 Where mothers kiss and pray ; 
 Though dear your form, your cheek, and eye, 
 
 1 loved those virtues more. 
 Whose bloom nor ills nor years destroy, 
 
 My Kallagh dhu asthore ! 
 
66 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 O, could this heart, this throbbing thing. 
 
 Be made a regal chair, 
 I'd rend its every swelling string. 
 
 To seat you. Kallagh. there : 
 And O, if honest worth alone 
 
 The kingly bauble bore. 
 No slave wert thou, my blood, my bone. 
 
 My Kallagh dhu asthore ! 
 
 FRANCIS DAVIS. 
 
 MY ULICK. 
 
 My Ulick is sturdy and strong. 
 
 And light is his foot on the heather, 
 And truth has been wed to his tongue 
 
 Since first we were talking together. 
 And though he is lord of no lands. 
 
 Nor castle, nor cattle, nor dairy. 
 My Ulick has health and his hands. 
 
 And a heart-load of love for his M«ry,— 
 And what could a maiden wish more } 
 
 One night at the heel of the eve.— 
 
 I mind it was snowing and blowing.— 
 My mother was knitting. I b'lieve : 
 
 For mc, 1 was sitting and sewing ; 
 My father had read o'er the news. 
 
 And sat there a-humming. " We'll wake him,' 
 When Ulick stepped in at the door. 
 
 As white as the weather could make him ; — 
 True love never cooled with the frost. 
 
 He shook the snow out from his frieze. 
 
 And drew a chair up to my father ; 
 My heart lifted up to my eyes 
 
 To see the two sitting together. 
 They talked of our isle and her wrongs 
 
 Till both were as mad as starvation ; 
 Then Ulick sang three or four songs. 
 
 And closed with, "Hurrah for the Nation !" 
 O, Ulick, an Irishman still ! 
 
 My father took him by the hand. 
 
 Their hearts melted into each other ; 
 While tears that she could not command 
 
 Broke loose from the eyes of my mother. 
 " Ah, Freedom ! " she cried, " wirrasthrue, 
 
 A woman can say little in it ; 
 Hut if it could come by you two, 
 
 I've a guess at the way you would win it, — 
 "rwould not be by weeping, I swear." 
 
 CHARI.F.S J. KICKHAM 
 
 MOLLY ASTHORE. 
 
 As down by Banna's banks I strayed 
 
 One evening in May, 
 The little birds, with sweetest notes 
 
 Made vocal every spray ; 
 They sung their tender tales of love. 
 They sung them o'er and o'er — 
 Ah ! gra-machree, ma colleen ogc. 
 My Molly Asthore ! 
 
 The daisy pied, and all the sweets 
 
 The dawn of nature yields. 
 The primrose pale, the violet blue. 
 Lay scattered o'er the fields ; — 
 Such fragrance in the bosom dwells 
 Of her whom I adore, — 
 
 Ah! gra-machree, ma colleen oge. 
 My Molly Asthore! 
 
 I laid me down upon a bank. 
 
 Bewailing my sad fate. 
 That doomed me thus the slave of love. 
 
 And cruel Molly's hate. 
 How can she break the honest heai t 
 That wears her in its core } 
 
 Ah ! gra-machree, ma colleen oge. 
 My Molly Asthore! 
 
 You said you loved me, Mary, dear — 
 
 Ah! why did I believe? 
 Yet who would think such tender words 
 
 Were meant but to deceive ? 
 That love was all I asked on earth ; 
 Nay, Heaven could grant no more. 
 Ah ! gra-machree, ma colleen oge. 
 My Molly .Xsthore! 
 
 Oh, had I all the (locks that graze 
 
 On yonder yellow hill. 
 Or lowed for me the numerous herds 
 
 That yon green pastures fill. 
 
 With her I love I'd gladly share 
 
 My kine and tieecy store, — 
 
 Ah ! gra-machree, ma colleen oge, 
 
 My Molly Asthore ! 
 
 Two turtle doves above my head. 
 
 Sat courting on a bough ; 
 I envied them their happiness. 
 
 To see them bill and coo. 
 Such fondness once for me was shown. 
 But now, alas ! 'tis o'er,— 
 
 Ah ! gra-machree, ma colleen ogc. 
 My Molly Asthore ! 
 
MO CRAOIBHIN CNO. 
 
 67 
 
 Then, fare thee well, my Molly dear, 
 
 Thy loss I e'er shall mourn ! 
 While life remains in Strephon's heart, 
 
 'Twill beat for thee alone ; 
 Tho' thou art false, may Heaven on thee 
 Its choicest blessings pour ! 
 
 Ah ! gra-machree, ma colleen oge. 
 My Molly Asthore ! 
 
 GEORGE OGLE. 
 
 MY BRIDEEN. 
 
 My Brideen ! O, my Brideen wherever my lot 
 
 may be. 
 My heart in its fondest longings will ever turn 
 
 back to thee ; 
 Whether where snows are deepest, or tropical 
 
 sunbeams shine, 
 
 maid of the eyes like mountain lakes, this heart 
 
 will ever be thine. 
 
 With a soul that had never a stain, and a heart 
 that knows nothing of guile, 
 
 1 think I catch glimpses of heaven whenever I 
 
 see thy smile ; 
 A smile that with thoughts is teeming as lovely 
 
 as summer flowers. 
 And making a garden whenever it comes in the 
 
 heart of the passing hours. 
 
 Too bright for the earth that is groaning with 
 
 tears for the living and dead, 
 And only fit for the heaven where never a tear 
 
 was shed. 
 
 My Brideen ! O my Brideen ! I think of the long 
 
 ago, 
 When no cloud ever darken'd the skies, or 
 
 shadow the earth below. 
 Till all things transfigured by love, seem touch'd 
 
 by a grace divine. 
 And the beauty that is around me seems but the 
 
 reflection of thine. 
 
 Till my soul in thy soul seems lost, as a river is 
 
 lost in the sea, 
 And the earth is the earth no longer, but only a 
 
 part of thee : 
 And the heaven I see in the future doth seem to 
 
 me only fair. 
 For I know that where heaven is heavenliest my 
 
 spirit shall find thee there. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 '-From the Irish. 
 
 I dreamt of you once in the summer, when the 
 birds sang on every tree. 
 
 And the heart of the earth was beating with the 
 glory of being free, 
 
 And I knew that the flovi'ers were happier when- 
 ever they felt thy foot. 
 
 For thy touch, like the touch of a goddess, thrill'd 
 them down to the very root. 
 
 My Brideen ! O, my Brideen ! in vain may the 
 
 sunbeams fall. 
 In vain may the birds, the children of heaven, 
 
 sing songs for all. 
 For my heart, in its strong, strong longing, no 
 
 beauty or light can see, 
 Nor feel the wierd music of nature, unless when 
 
 they're shared by thee. 
 
 My Brideen ! O my Brideen, when I look on 
 
 those eyes of light, 
 I feel as my soul were bathed in an ocean of 
 
 thoughts too bright — 
 
 MO CRAOIBHIN CNO. 
 
 My heart is far from Liffey's tide 
 
 And Dublin town ; 
 It strays beyond the southern side 
 
 Of Cnoc-Maol-Donn, 
 Where Cappoquin hath woodlands green, 
 
 Where Amhan-Mhor's waters flow. 
 Where dwells unsung, unsought, unseen. 
 
 Mo craoibhin cno, * 
 Low clustering in her leafy screen. 
 
 Mo craoibhin cno ! 
 
 The high-bred dames of Dublin town 
 
 Are rich and fair, 
 With wavy plume, and silken gown. 
 
 And stately air ; 
 Can plumes compare thy dark brown hair .? 
 
 Can silks thy neck of snow ? 
 Or measur'd pace thine artless grace. 
 
 Mo craoibhin cno. 
 When harebells scarcely show thy trace. 
 
 Mo craoibhin cno ? 
 
 '■ Pronounced Ma Creez'in Kno; figurative meaning, *'My 
 
POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 I've heard the songs by Liffey's wave 
 
 The maidens sung — 
 They sung their land the Saxon's slave, 
 
 In Saxon tongue — 
 Oh ! bring nic here that Gaelic dear 
 
 Which cursed the Saxon foe. 
 When thou didst cliarm my rapturetl ear 
 
 Mo craoibltin cno ! 
 And none but God's good angels near, 
 
 Mo cracibUtn cno ! 
 
 I've wandered by the rolling Lee! 
 
 And Lene's green bowers - 
 Ive seen the Shannon's wide-spread sea. 
 
 And Limerick's towers — 
 And Liffey's tide, where hills of pride 
 
 Frown o'er the flood below ; 
 My wild heart strays to Amhan-Mhor's sid 
 
 Mo craoibhiii cno ! 
 With love and thee for aye to hide. 
 
 Mo oiioibhin cno ! 
 
 EDWARD WALSH. 
 
 MO CAILIN DONN. 
 
 The blush is on the flower and the bloom is on 
 
 the tree. 
 And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are carolling 
 
 their glee ; 
 And the dews upon the grasses are made dia- 
 monds by the sun. 
 All to deck a path of glory for my own Cdilin 
 Donn ! "^ 
 O, fair she is ! O, rare she is ! O, dearer still 
 
 to me ! 
 More welcome than the green leaf to winter- 
 stricken tree. 
 More welcome than the blossom to the weary, 
 
 dusty bee. 
 Is the coming of my tme love — my own 
 Cailin Uonn ! 
 
 O Sycamore, O Sycamore! wave, wave your 
 
 banners green : 
 Let all your pennons flutter, O Beech, before 
 
 my queen ! 
 Ye fleet and honeyed breezes, to kiss her hand 
 
 ye run. 
 But my heart has passed before ye lO my own 
 
 Cdilin Donn ! 
 
 O. fair she is ! etc. 
 
 • My brown-haired girl. 
 
 Ring out. ring out, O Linden, your merr)', leafy 
 
 bells: 
 Unveil your brilliant torches. O Chestnut, to the 
 
 dells ; 
 Strew, strew the glade with splendor, for mom 
 
 it cometh on. 
 O. the morn of all delight to me — my own 
 
 Cdilin Donn ! 
 
 Q. fair she is ! etc. 
 
 She is coming where we parted, where she wan- 
 ders every day ; 
 
 There's a gay surprise before her. who thinks 
 me far away. 
 
 O. like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of 
 freedom's won. 
 
 Is the joy around your footsteps, my own Cailin 
 Donn ! 
 
 O, fair she is ! etc. 
 
 GEORGE SIGERSO 
 
 ■ Irish. 
 
 AILLEEN. 
 
 'Tis not for love of gold I go, 
 
 'Tis not for love of fame ; 
 Tho' fortune should her smile bestow. 
 
 And 1 may win a name, 
 
 Ailleen. 
 
 And I may win a name. 
 
 And yet it is for gold I go, 
 
 And yet it is for fame. 
 That they may deck another brow, 
 
 And bless another name, 
 
 Ailleen, 
 
 And bless another name. 
 
 For this, but this. I go — for this 
 
 I lose thy love a while ; 
 And all the soft and quiet bliss 
 
 Of thy young, faithful smile. 
 
 Ailleen, 
 
 Of thy young, faithful smile. 
 
 And 1 i;" to brave a world I hate. 
 
 And woo it o'er and o'er, 
 And tempt a wave, and trj- a fate 
 
 ITpon a stranger shore. 
 
 Upon a stranger shore, 
 
 Ailleen. 
 
A WOOING. 
 
 69 
 
 O ! when the bays are all my own, 
 I know a heart will care ! 
 
 O ! when the gold is wooed and wo 
 I know a brow shall wear, 
 
 Ailleen. 
 I know a brow shall wear ! 
 
 And when with both returned again. 
 
 My native land to see, 
 I know a smile will meet me there, 
 
 And a hand will welcome me, 
 
 Ailleen, 
 
 And a hand will welcome me ! 
 
 A WOOING. 
 
 O ! when I think of you, dear. 
 
 At once my voice becomes a song ! 
 Your eyes so deeply blue, dear. 
 
 The clustering curls that richly throng, 
 Revealing, concealing. 
 
 The sweetest charms of hue and form ; 
 Your face's soft graces — 
 
 The eyes that awe and lips that warm ! 
 My thoughts to love's heat new, dear. 
 
 Expand, gush o'er, and sweep along. 
 And, as I think of you, dear. 
 
 At once my voice becomes a song ! 
 
 TALK BY THE BLACKWATER. 
 
 Faint are the breezes and pure is the tide, 
 Soft is the sunshine and you by my side ; 
 'Tis just such an evening to dream of in sleep— 
 'Tis just such a joy to remember and weep ; 
 Never before, since you called me your own, 
 Were you, I. and Nature, so proudly alone — 
 Cushlamacree. 'tis blessed to be 
 All the long summer eve talking to thee. 
 
 Dear are the green banks we wander upon — 
 Dear is our own river, glancing along — 
 Dearer the trust that as tranquil will be, 
 The tides of the future for you and for me ; 
 Dearest the thought, that, come weal or come 
 woe, [they'll flow- 
 
 Through storm or through sunshine together 
 Cushlamachree, 'tis blessed to be 
 All the long summer eve thinking of thee. 
 
 Yon bark o'er the waters how swiftly it glides — 
 My thoughts cannot guess to what haven it rides ; 
 As little I know what the future brings near. 
 But our bark is the same, and I harbor no fear ; 
 Whatever our fortunes, our hearts will be true — 
 Wherever the stream flows 'twill bear me with 
 Cushlamachree, 'tis blessed to be [you — 
 Summer and winter time clinging to thee. 
 
 ELLEN DOWNING. 
 
 I've listened with devotion 
 
 To many a sweet old Irish air. 
 But deeper my emotion 
 
 While gazing on your face so fair. 
 Like moonlight at lone night 
 
 That music falls — each timid lay 
 Gloom-fringed, and tinged — 
 
 But you are like the light of day. 
 Though heaven's sunny blue, dear. 
 
 That falls so wide, endures .so long, — 
 Lark-like ! — awaked by you, dear. 
 
 At once my voice becomes a song! 
 
 Ambition's tire may heat us, — 
 
 But ah ! the flame, while heating, sears ; 
 And patriot love, though sweet, is 
 
 Like flowers nourished half in tears I 
 The brave dies, and death buys 
 
 The freedom won in thundering fight ; 
 And faint woe and graves strow 
 
 The long, long way from Wrong to Right. 
 I ask of Heaven but you, dear: 
 
 Pure joys alone to love belong ; 
 And Heaven is kind to woo, dear. 
 
 At once my voice becomes a song ! 
 
 O have me I and I'll give you 
 
 A heart, with all its errors, true ; 
 I'll love you and believe you. 
 
 And you will smile on all I do ! 
 Yes, you'll cheer my home here. 
 
 And I'll strive for you abroad; 
 By day, toils — by night, smiles. 
 
 And mutual tears and prayer to God ! 
 So fadeless flowers will strew, dear. 
 
 The humble path we pass along ; 
 And life to me and you, dear. 
 
 Will be one high, harmonious song I 
 
 MARTIN MAC DERMOTT. 
 
70 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 AT THE TRYST. 
 
 O sun ! lift your head from its soft sicy-pillow. 
 
 And loosen your Rolden locks I [low — 
 
 There's something a-stir in the heart o' the wil- 
 
 Theres something a-stir in the flocks. 
 A baby-bird's cradle is slowly rocking, 
 
 Like boat on an untried stream, 
 And a lambkin's low bleat 
 Sounds as softly and sweet, 
 
 As music that floats through a dream, 
 O sun — 
 
 As music that floats through a dream ! 
 
 O baby-bird, aren't you weary of resting ? 
 
 Hark how the waking wind blows ! 
 Hey ! little eyes, that shine out from your nesting 
 
 Like dewdrops that hide in a rose. 
 The grasses are bending their heads in greeting, 
 
 The clover-blooms pinkly smile ; 
 And soon, soon it may be 
 That — ah ! well, you will see — 
 
 If you wait but a little while, 
 Obird — 
 
 If you wait but a little while ! 
 
 Meadow-face, meadow-face, how you are beam- 
 Tell me, who is it you see .' |ing ! 
 
 Nay. pansy-eyes, you may never be streaming 
 Shy glances, so tender, for inc. [ing. 
 
 Oh ! buttercups, bowed 'neath your yellow crown- 
 Hea\7 with over-warm sun. 
 
 / am heavy with love ! — 
 
 For the blue tide above. 
 And the grass-waves that gjreenly run. 
 
 Bright cups — 
 And the grass-waves that greenly run ! 
 
 Daisy-buds, daisy-buds, where are you drifting? 
 
 Whom do you quiver to meet .' 
 Little white arms, are you lifting, lifting, 
 
 To beckon two tarrying feet ? 
 May somebody softly be stealing, stealing, 
 
 Over the meadow-lands green ? 
 Oh ! my daisy-buds, say. 
 Is he coming to-day? 
 
 Your golden-crowned monarch, 1 mean, 
 O buds — 
 
 Your golden-crowned Sun-king, I mean ! 
 
 He comes ! he comes ! O, the glory out-welling 
 i From meadow and mount and wold I 
 I He comes ! he comes ! O, the song up-swelling 
 I From the nest in the willow-hold ! 
 
 j The lamb from her folding in white approaches 
 ! Like bride in her pure array ; 
 I And my heart is as light 
 I As a zephyr-wind's flight 
 
 Through the calm of a summer's day. 
 O Love — 
 
 Through the calm of a summer's day ! 
 
 Ay, he is coming ! pale star-grass and clover 
 
 And dainty blue flax a-tween, [cover, 
 
 .Ah ! fern-maiden, weep 'neath your bright hair 
 
 Since your smiling will not be seen. 
 Never a look for the up-looking daisy. 
 
 Never a glance to the lea ' 
 But the red rose of Love 
 On his bosom doth move. 
 
 And my love is coming to me, 
 O heart — 
 
 My lover is coming to me ! 
 
 MINNIE CILMORE. 
 
 IRISH CASTLES. 
 
 " Sweet Norah, come here and look into the fire. 
 
 Maybe in its embers good luck we might see ; 
 
 But don't come too rrear, or your glances so 
 
 shining 
 
 Will put it clean out, like the sunbeams, ma- 
 
 chree ! 
 
 "Just look 'twixt the sods, where so brightly 
 they're burning : 
 There's a sweet little valley with rivers and 
 trees. 
 And a house on the bank quite as big as the 
 squire's, — 
 Who knows but some day we'll have some- 
 thing like these ? 
 
 " And now there's a coach and four galloping 
 horses, 
 A coachman to drive, and a footman behind ; 
 That betokens some day we will keep a fine 
 carriage. 
 And dash through the streets with the speed 
 of the wind." 
 
 As Dermot was speaking, the rain down the 
 chimney 
 Soon quenched the turf-fire on the hollowed 
 hearth stone, 
 While mansion and carriage in smoke circles 
 vanished. 
 And left the poor dreamers dejected and lone. 
 
SWEET GLENGARIFF-S WATER. 
 
 71 
 
 Then Norah to Dermot these words softly whis- 
 pered, 
 " 'Tis better to strive than to vainly desire ; 
 And our little hut by the roadside is better 
 Than palace and servants, and coach— in the 
 fire !•• 
 
 'Tis years since poor Dermot his fortune was 
 dreaming. 
 Since Norah's sweet counsel effected his cure : 
 For ever since then hath he toiled night and 
 morning, 
 And now his snug mansion looks down on the 
 Suir, 
 
 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 
 
 HARRY'S AWAY. 
 
 Oh ! my sperrits are down, and I'm troubled and 
 
 pale, 
 And I shiver and quake as I listen the gale— 
 When I think of the ships tossed about on the 
 
 saye. 
 For my darling's upon it — my Harry's away. 
 
 In the day I can't work, and at night I can't 
 
 sleep. 
 For my heart and my head that it aises to weep. 
 Folk stare at the girl that was happy and gay, 
 But it's hard to be happy and Harry away. 
 
 The winds, when I'm up at the midnight alone. 
 In the windeys they sigh, in the chimley they 
 
 groan ; 
 And I always keep list'nin' to hear what they 
 
 say, 
 For fear it's the ghost of my love that's away 
 
 When I'm knitting I look at the nice rosy tree. 
 That he planted foment the front windey for me ; 
 And the path he walked up in the dim evenings 
 
 grey, 
 I love to stroll down it since Harry's away. 
 
 And my heart it grows sick when I call to my 
 
 mind 
 Iv'ry sintence I said, either cowld or unkind. 
 If the Lord send him back— and for that I will 
 
 pray— 
 I'll niver spake cross to my love that's away. 
 
 Autumn blasts, as ye're strippin' the valley and 
 
 plain. 
 Ye have wakened worse storms in my timorous 
 
 brain ; 
 But waft him back safe, and I'll watch your wild 
 
 play 
 With delight, when — my Harry's no longer away !! 
 HENRY M. FLETCHER. 
 
 SLEEP ON, MAVOURNEEN. 
 
 Sleep on, for I know 'tis of me you are dream- 
 ing. 
 Sleep on, till the sun comes to give you a call. 
 Though the pride of my heart is to see your eye 
 beaming. 
 Yet still to be dreamt of is better than all. 
 For then 'tis to yours that my heart's always 
 speaking, [way. 
 
 And then 'tis the spell that enchains it gives 
 And reveals all the love that I never, when wak- 
 ing, [to say. 
 Could get round my tongue, in the daylight 
 
 Yes, sleep on, mavourneen, my joy and my 
 
 treasure, 
 
 Not often does sleep get a comrade so fair. 
 
 And no wonder it is that his eye takes a pleasure 
 
 To watch by your pillow while you slumber 
 
 there. [breaking. 
 
 Then sleep, softly sleep, till the day-dawn is 
 
 And peeps in to give you a smile and a call ; 
 For though great as my joy is to see you when 
 waking. 
 Yet still to be dreamt of is better than all. 
 
 FLORENCE liE.^MlSlL 
 
 SWEET GLENGARIFF'S WATER. 
 
 Where wildfowl swim upon the lake 
 
 At morning's early shining, 
 I'm sure, I'm sure my heart will break 
 
 With sadness and repining. 
 As I went out one morning sweet, 
 
 I met a farmer's daughter. 
 With gown of blue, and milk-white feet. 
 
 By sweet Glengariff's water. 
 
 Her jet-black locks, with wavy shine. 
 Fell sweetly on her shoulder. 
 
 And, ah ! they make my heart repine 
 Till I again behold her. 
 
72 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 She smiled and passed me strangely by, | 
 
 Though fondly I besought i)er. 
 And long I'll rue her laughing eye | 
 
 By sweet (Wengariffs water. 
 
 Where wildfowl swim upon the lake 
 
 At early morning splendor, 
 Each day my lonely path I'll take. 
 
 With thoughts full sad and tender. 
 I'll meet my love, and sure she'll stay 
 
 To hear the tale I've brought her. 
 To marry me this merry May 
 
 By sweet Glengariff 's water. 
 
 ROBERT UWYER JOYCE. 
 
 MY BEAU. 
 
 Oh, I am dinned with rolling drums 
 
 And oft repeated cheers. 
 And tired of marching 'mid the throng 
 
 Beside the volunteers ! 
 For all day long my heart .ind eyes 
 
 Went with the foremost row. 
 Where, handsomest among them all, 
 
 I saw my darling beau. 
 
 The tears were on my cheeks unchecked 
 
 Throughout this woeful day ; 
 I did not heed the peoples looks, 
 
 I cared not what they'd say ; 
 For why should I disguise my grief. 
 
 Or strive to hide the woe 
 That burst unbidden at the thought 
 
 Of parting with my beau .' 
 
 ■you surely must have noticed, 
 
 As the ranks went marching by. 
 That tall young fellow in the front. 
 
 With such a bright blue eye. 
 I know a dozen hearts that ached 
 
 This day to see him go ; 
 But I alone among them all 
 
 Could claim him as a beau. 
 
 He was the only beau I had : 
 
 Of all the lads but he 
 Seemed ever to have cared to win. 
 
 Or thought of loving mc. 
 But had a thousand sought my hand, 
 
 Howe'er so rich, I'd throw 
 The greed of gold from out my heart. 
 
 And give it to my beau. 
 
 Yon starlit flag is dear to me. 
 
 Because beneath its shade. 
 To fight for what we all believe 
 
 Is right, he stands arrayed. 
 Though were he on the other side. 
 
 The stars and bars, I know, 
 Would be as dear as stripes and stars, 
 
 While floatmg o'er my beau. 
 
 A victory would be death to me, 
 
 Were he among the slain ; 
 I care not who shall win the fight. 
 
 So he comes back again ; 
 Nor to which side the bloody tide 
 
 Of war shall ebb or flow. 
 If it but brings me home unwrecked 
 
 That man-of-war, my beau. 
 
 MICHAEL O'CONNOR. 
 
 MY BETROTHED. 
 
 O I come, my betrothed, to thine anxious bride, 
 Too long have they kept thee from my side ; 
 Sure I sought thee by meadow and mountain, 
 
 asthore. 
 And I watched and wept till my heart was sore. 
 
 While the false to the false did say : 
 We will lead her away by the mound and the rath. 
 And we'll nourish her heart in its worse than 
 
 death. 
 Till her tears shall have traced a pearly path. 
 
 For the work of a future day. 
 
 Ah ! little they knew what their guile could do — 
 It has won me a host of the stern and true. 
 Who have sworn by the eye of the yellow sun, 
 That my home is their hearts till thy hand be won; 
 
 And they've gathered my tears and sighs ; 
 And they've woven them into a cloudy frown. 
 That shall girt my brow like an ebony crown, 
 Till these feet, in iny wrath, shall have trampled 
 down 
 
 All. all that betwixt us rise. 
 
 Then come, my betrothed, to thine anxious bride ! 
 Thou art dear to my breast as my heart's red tide ; 
 And a wonder it is you can tarry so long. 
 And your soul so proud, and your arm so strong. 
 And your limb without a chain ; [wind. 
 
 And your feet in their flight like the midnight 
 When he laughs at the flash that he leaves behind ; 
 And your heart so warm, and your look so kind — 
 I O ! come to my arms again ! 
 
MY SAILOR BOY. 
 
 /o 
 
 O, my dearest has eyes like the noontide sun ; 
 So bright that my own dare scarce look on ; 
 And the clouds of a thousand years gone by. 
 Brought back, and again on the crowded sky. 
 
 Heaped haughtily pile o'er pile. 
 Then all in a boundless blaze outspread. 
 Rent, shaken and tossed o'er their flaming bed, 
 Till each heart by the light of the heavens was 
 
 Were as naught to his softest smile ! [read. 
 
 And to hear my love in his wild mirth sing 
 To the flap of the battle-god's fiery wing ! 
 How his chorus shrieks through the iron tones 
 Of crashing towers and creaking thrones, 
 
 And the crumbling of bastions strong ! 
 Yet. sweet to niy ear as the sigh that slips 
 From the nervous dance of a maiden's lips. 
 When the eye first wanes in its love eclipse. 
 
 Is his soul-creating song ! 
 
 Then come, my betrothed, to thine anxious bride ! 
 Thou hast tarried too long, but I may not chide ; 
 For the prop and the hope of my home thou art. 
 Ay, the vein that suckles my growing heart : 
 
 O, I'd frown on the world for thee ! 
 And it is not a dull, cold, soulless clod. 
 With a lip in the dust at a tyrant's nod. 
 Unworthy one glance of the patriot's God 
 
 That you ever shall find in me ! 
 
 FRANCIS DAVIS. 
 
 CONAL AND EVA. 
 
 My Conal was poor and he never would sue — 
 
 I said, " I have riches enough for us two;" 
 
 My Conal was proud, from his girl he would take 
 
 No more than her heart— he has left it to break ; 
 
 For, O ! he is toiling far over the sea. 
 
 He never would stoop to owe riches to me. 
 
 My proud love. 
 
 The gold is all mine ; now there's no one to 
 
 share. 
 But for treasure or pleasure 'tis little I care, 
 For I'm dreaming all night, and I'm thinking all 
 
 day, 
 How he's poor and deserted, and far, far away. 
 With none to console him if sickness should 
 
 smite, — 
 With none to watch o'er him by day or by night. 
 My own love. 
 
 If I thought in the land of the stranger he'd find 
 A voice that could soothe him, a tie that could 
 
 bind — 
 If I thought he'd forget me, or wished to resign, 
 O ! never should reach him one murmur of mine ; 
 But I'd pray that the fair girl he chose for his own 
 Might love him and guard him as I would have 
 
 done, 
 
 My dear love. 
 
 But always he told me wherever he'd roam. 
 His heart would be true to the true heart at 
 
 home ; 
 That he'd love his poor Eva, though far from 
 
 her side. 
 And come back, with God's blessing, to make 
 
 her his bride ; 
 And sure when I think of each look and each 
 
 vow, 
 It seems like a sin to be doubting him now. 
 My fond love. 
 
 I'll not wrong him or grieve him by doubting or 
 
 care, 
 i But watch o'er him still with my blessing and 
 
 prayer ; 
 I'll go down to the sea-side, for there I can see 
 The spot where my darling last parted from me, 
 And I'll kneel on the bare stones the saints to 
 
 implore 
 That Conal and Eva may meet there once more, 
 My true love. 
 
 ELLEN DOWNING. 
 
 MY SAILOR BOY. 
 
 There is beauty in Willie's soft smile. 
 There is love in my Willie's blue eye ; 
 
 And his voice has the ring 
 
 Of the song-birds in spring. 
 And he's straight as the feathery rye. 
 
 I know that the wild cherry's bloom 
 Took its tint from his brow, that's so fair. 
 And the nuts of Glendhu, 
 They have borrowed their hue 
 From my true-lover's clustering hair. 
 
 I've found out for myself the fair star 
 That the mariner loveth to view ; 
 
 And through the lone night 
 
 I watch its pale light. 
 For my sailor's eye rests on it too. 
 
74 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 And I listen the wind of the South, 
 As it talks with the leaves on the tree ; 
 
 For that merry South breeze 
 
 Has come over the seas. 
 And I'm sure it has tidings for me. 
 
 J.A.MtS McKOWEN. 
 
 MY SOUTHWARD WINGING ORIOLE. 
 
 The fading sunsets golden light 
 Was glancing over town and river. 
 
 When flashed a vision on my sight, 
 One moment seen, yet fixed forever. 
 
 On memory's retina still glows 
 
 That picture, all my heart entrancing ; 
 
 The rosy mouth — the brow of snow. 
 The blue eyes in sweet dalliance dancing. 
 
 The dimples in her soft chin set. 
 
 Her maiden smile serene and peaceful. 
 And those brown locks — ah ! never yet 
 
 Were tendrils of the vine more graceful. 
 
 She came in robes of Quaker hue. 
 
 Such livery as the fawns inherit ; 
 But then her bonnet's dazzling blue 
 
 Gave hint of her celestial spirit. 
 
 " Great heavens ! " I cried ; " sweet sunny South, 
 Your praise — all poets well may rhyme it. 
 
 If such bright flowers as yonder mouth 
 Are native to this glowing climate.' 
 
 •• But no ; this fresh and joyous face. 
 This eye from which gay fancy sallies. 
 
 This artless and yet winning grace 
 All speak of Northern hills and valleys. 
 
 '• The languid beauties hereaway, 
 Who half the year for cool air stitle. 
 
 Their features lack the subtle play 
 Which leaves this face without a rival."' 
 
 And thus I thought, and thus I dreamed, 
 Your life in various colors painting ; 
 
 Now hope's blest ray upon me beamed. 
 Now left me in the darkness fainting. 
 
 Ah ! well, these dreams are idle all — 
 
 Mere shadows —and we chase them blindly ; 
 
 But yet my pulses rise or Jail 
 Just as 1 find you cross* or kindly. 
 
 And still on memory's retina glows 
 Thy picture, heart and brain entrancing ; 
 
 The rosy mouth — the brow of snow. 
 
 And those small feet just made for dancing. 
 
 Ne'er may the future bring regret 
 
 For these bright dreams which now caress me. 
 But. long in golden circle set. 
 
 May this fair image smile to bless me. 
 
 CHARLES G. H ALPINE. 
 
 A HARVEST IDYL. 
 
 The sun goes down, and the shadows deepen. 
 
 The gloam steals soft o'er land and sea ; 
 The birds grow still, and the winds go sweeping 
 
 Along the hush of the fragrant lea : 
 The stars peep out from their purple vesture. 
 
 The round moon smiles thro' her golden vail. 
 And o'er the air there is trembling sweetly 
 
 The first low note of the nightingale. • 
 
 Across the dark she can hear him coming — 
 
 The reaper, bent 'neath his yellow sheaves — 
 A glor>' breaks from the red log's shining, 
 
 And glows on high from the ruddy eaves. 
 A glory breaks from her heart and flickers 
 
 Along her cheek in a crimson flame. 
 As some one steps o'er the old farm threshold. 
 
 With lips closed soft on her spoken name. 
 
 She meets his eyes, in their blue reflecting 
 
 The fair young bloom of the early corn. 
 His hair sweeps hers with a golden ripple, 
 
 As break of sun on the dusky morn ; 
 His lips are sweet, and his cool breath passes 
 
 Across her face, like a wind of May. 
 While hand folds hand in a swift, strong pressure, 
 
 W'arm with the words that he dare not say. 
 
 Ah ! young reaper, fear not for thy harvest. 
 
 Lift the sickle and call for the wain ; 
 Low before thee, in tremulous waiting, 
 
 She droops her head, like the ripened grain. 
 She waits, not long ! for her eyes have spoken, 
 
 .•\nd heart reads heart, tho' the lips be mute — 
 Love was the seed of the reaper's sowing, 
 
 And love bears love as a fitting fruit ! 
 
 MINNIE UILMORE. 
 
GO WHERE GLOR Y WAITS THEE, 
 
 75 
 
 THE FALSE ORACLE. 
 
 She picked a little daisy flower, 
 
 With fringe of snow and heart of gold, 
 
 All pure without and warm within, 
 And stood to have her fortune told. 
 
 " He loves me," low she musing said, 
 And plucked the border, leaf by leaf, 
 
 " A little — too much — not at all — 
 With truest heart, beyond belief. 
 
 " A little — too much — not at all — " 
 So rang the changes o'er and o'er ; 
 
 The tiny leaflets fluttered down. 
 
 And strewed the meadow's grassy floor. 
 
 •• A little — too much — not at all 
 With truest heart."— Oh magic brief I 
 
 Ah, foolish task, to measure out 
 Love's value on a daisy leaf ! 
 
 For, as she plucked the latest left, — 
 With " Not at all," I heard her say : 
 
 " Ah, much you know, you silly flower — 
 He'll, love me till his dying day ! " 
 
 MARY AINGE DE VERE. 
 
 A MARRIAGE. 
 
 They stood together, he and she. 
 
 As tenderly as lovers may 
 Who know the breaking dawn will be 
 
 Their wedding day. 
 
 His flashing eyes told half his bliss ; 
 
 But hers seemed full of silent prayer. 
 As if a mightier voice than his 
 
 Had named her there. 
 
 Behind the altar and the ring, 
 
 Behind the brimming cup love holds, 
 
 Her timid soul sought wondering. 
 The future's folds. 
 
 His eyes were sweet ; she looked beyond 
 Through waiting years of sun and rain. 
 
 His clasp was dear ; she felt the bond 
 That might be pain ! 
 
 Yet he all gladness, she half fear. 
 
 Gave kisses only of delight ; 
 Love touched and brought them close and near , 
 
 That happy night. 1 
 
 Long afterward he waked to doubt 
 But she, with care-worn matron grace. 
 
 Shut patience in and passion out. 
 And held her place. 
 
 And never thought nor word went wild — 
 
 Content if only she could see 
 His features in the sleeping child 
 
 Across her knee. 
 
 Her doubt had end where his begun ; 
 
 She smiled, nor knew the bitter cost 
 At which his prison calm was won — 
 
 His freedom lost ! 
 
 MARY AlNGE DE VERE. 
 
 AMOR TYRANNUS. 
 
 Now could I weep with Autumn-time betrayed 
 To Winter's kiss, or mourn the dateless lease 
 Of Death's dominion, and the chill surcease 
 Of youth, and beauty harshly disarrayed. 
 Not by the common destiny dismayed, 
 But grieving to behold my wisdom cease, 
 Since Love has rudely shattered ancient peace. 
 And bears at me w-ith all his arms displayed. 
 Can I pluck patience from the stars, to teach 
 My sick soul comfort, bidding ' Be of cheer,' 
 That am like one who strives in vain to steer 
 His storm-shook vessel from some angry reach 
 Of dangerous rocks, where breaking terribly 
 Thunders the hoarse rebellion of the sea ? 
 I JUSTIN H. McCarthy. 
 
 GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. 
 
 Go where glory waits thee ; 
 But, while Fame elates thee. 
 
 Oh ! still remember me. 
 When the praise thou meetest. 
 To thine ear is sweetest. 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 Other arms may press thee. 
 Dearer friends caress thee. 
 All the joys that bless thee 
 
 Sweeter far may be ; 
 But when friends are nearest. 
 And when joys are dearest. 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 
76 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 When, at eve, thoti rovest. 
 
 Go ! and all that once delighted 
 
 By the star thou lovest. 
 
 Take— and leave me, all benighted. 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 
 Glory's burning gen'rous swell. 
 
 Think, when home returning. 
 
 Fancy and the poet's shell. 
 
 Bright we"ve seen it burning. 
 
 CHARLES WuLKt 
 
 Oh ! thus remember me. 
 
 
 Oft as summer closes. 
 
 
 When thine eye reposes 
 
 
 On its ling'ring roses 
 
 Once so loved by thee. 
 
 FORGIVE, BUT DON'T FORGET. 
 
 Think of her who wove them, 
 
 I'm going. Jessie, far from thee. 
 
 Her who made thee love them; 
 
 To distant lands beyond the sea; 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 
 I would not, Jessie, leave thee now. 
 
 
 With anger's cloud upon thy brow. 
 
 When, around thee, dying. 
 
 Remember that thy mirthful friend 
 
 Autumn-leaves are lying. 
 
 Might sometimes tcasi-. but ne'er offend; 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 
 That mirthful friend is sad the while,— 
 
 And, at night, when gazing 
 
 Oh, Jessie, give a parting smile. 
 
 On the gay hearth blazing, 
 
 
 Oh ! still remember me. 
 
 Ah, why should friendship harshly chide 
 
 Then should Music, stealing 
 
 Our little faults on either side .' 
 
 AH the soul of Feeling, 
 
 From friends we love we bear with those. 
 
 To thy heart appealing. 
 
 As thorns are pardoned for the rose ;— 
 
 Draw one tear from thee ; 
 
 The honey-bee, on busy wing. 
 
 Then let mem'ry bring thee 
 
 Produces sweets, yet bears a sting; 
 
 Strains I us'd to sing thee ; 
 
 The purest gold most needs alloy. 
 
 Oh ! then remember me. 
 
 And sorrow is the nurse of joy. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 Then oh! forgive me ere I part. 
 
 
 And if some corner in thy heart 
 
 '" 
 
 For absent friend a place might be, — 
 
 
 Ah, keep that little place for me ! 
 
 GO! FORGET ME. 
 
 •' Forgive — Forget," we're wisely told, 
 
 Go ! forget me ; why should sorrow 
 
 Is held a maxim good and old ; 
 
 O'er that brow a shadow fling .' 
 
 But half the maxim's better yet:— 
 
 Go ! forget me— and to-morrow 
 
 Then, oh ! forgive, but don't forget ! 
 
 Brightly smile, and sweetly sing. 
 
 SAMLEL LOVER 
 
 Smile— though 1 shall not be near thee ; 
 
 
 Sing— though I shall never hear thee. 
 May thy soul with pleasure shine, 
 
 
 
 Lasting as the gloom of mine. 
 
 A PLACE IN THY MEMORY. 
 
 Like the sun, thy presence glowing 
 
 A place in thy memory, dearest. 
 
 Clothes the meanest things in light ; 
 
 Is all that i claim. 
 
 And when thou, like him, art going, 
 
 To pause and look back when thou hearest 
 
 Loveliest objects fade in night. 
 
 The sound of my name ; 
 
 All things looked so bright about thee. 
 
 Another may woo thee nearer. 
 
 That they nothing seem without thee. 
 
 Another may win and wear, — 
 
 By that pure and lucid mind 
 
 I care not though he be dearer. 
 
 Earthly things were too refined. 
 
 If I am remembered there. 
 
 Go ! thou vision, wildly gleaming. 
 
 Remember me — not as a lover 
 
 Softly on my soul that fell. 
 
 Whose hope was crossed. 
 
 Go ! for me no longer beaming. 
 
 Whose bosom can never recover 
 
 Hope and beauty, fare'yc well ! 
 
 The light it hath lost ; 
 
IVE PARTED IN SILENCE. 
 
 77 
 
 As the young bride remembers the mother 
 She loves, tho' she never may see ; 
 
 As a sister remembers a brother, 
 O dearest, remember me ! 
 
 Could I be thy true love, dearest, 
 
 Could'st thou smile on me, 
 I would be the fondest and nearest 
 
 That ever loved thee ! 
 But a cloud on my pathway is glooming 
 
 That never must burst upon thine; 
 And Heaven, that made thee all blooming. 
 
 Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. 
 
 Remember me, then, O remember. 
 
 My calm, light love ! 
 Though bleak as the blasts of November 
 
 My life may prove, 
 That life will, though lonely, be sweet. 
 
 If its brightest enjoyment should be 
 A smile and kind word when we meet. 
 
 And a place in thy memory! 
 
 GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
 REMEMBERED. 
 
 Remembered still, my dearest ! remembered ! 
 
 Can it be 
 That, after all my waywardness, I'm still so dear 
 
 to thee ? 
 Though changed my outward seeming, that thy 
 
 heart no change hath known, 
 And the love I thought had left me is still my 
 
 own — my own ? 
 
 C) / remembered ! but I said, " I, too, can be 
 
 unheeding," 
 With smiling eyes and aching heart I stilled sweet 
 
 memory's pleading — 
 Or dreamed I stilled it — murmuring, "Soon shall 
 
 my strength atone 
 For the cares and joys he shares not, and the 
 
 triumphs won alone." 
 
 One word from thee, beloved, and the pent-up 
 fount's unsealed. 
 
 And all my self-deceiving to sense and soul re- 
 vealed. 
 
 And all that lonesome, toilsome past clear-pic- 
 tured unto me, — 
 
 O it never had a day, dear, unlit by prayer for 
 thee I 
 
 Fore'er divided .'—yea, for earth ; but our lives 
 
 have wider scope. 
 And the bonds between us strengthen with our 
 
 strong supernal hope. 
 For oh, my friend, my dearest, how God's love 
 
 halloweth 
 This love that, unaffrighted, looks in the face of 
 
 Death ! 
 
 K ■.THKRJNE E. CONWAY. 
 
 SILENTIUM AMORIS. 
 
 As oftentimes the too resplendent sun 
 Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon 
 
 Back to her somber cave, ere she hath won 
 A single ballad from the nightingale. 
 So doth thy beauty make my lips to fail, 
 
 And all my sweetest singing out of tune. 
 
 And as at dawn across the level mead 
 On wings impetuous some wind will come 
 
 And with its too harsh kisses break the reed 
 Which was its only instrument of song. 
 So my too stormy passions worked me wrong. 
 
 And lor excess of love my love is dumb. 
 
 But surely unto thee mine eye did show 
 Why 1 am silent, and my lute unstrung ; 
 
 F.lse it were better we should part, and go. 
 Thou to some lips of sweeter melody. 
 And I to nurse the barren memory 
 
 Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung. 
 
 OSCAR WILDE. 
 
 WE PARTED IN SILENCE. 
 
 We parted in silence, we parted by night. 
 
 On the banks of that lonely river ; 
 Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite. 
 
 We met — and we parted fore\er ! 
 The night-bird sung, and the stars above 
 
 Told many a touching story. 
 Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love, 
 
 Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. 
 
 We parted in silence. — our cheeks were wet 
 
 With the tears that were past controlling; 
 We vowed we would never, no, never, forget, 
 
 And those vows at the time were consoling. 
 But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine 
 
 Are as cold as that lonely river ; 
 .•\ncl that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine. 
 
 Has shrouded its fires forever. 
 
78 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 And now on the midniglit sky I look. 
 
 And my heart grows full of weeping, 
 Each star is to nie a sealed book, 
 
 Some tale of that loved one keeping. 
 We parted In silence, we parted in tears. 
 
 On the banks of that lonely river, 
 But the odor and bloom of those by-gone years 
 
 Shall hang o'er its waters forever. 
 
 JULI.V CRAWFORD. 
 
 A BURDEN. 
 Have I not dreamed of you all night long. 
 
 Love, my Love ? 
 Shall I not ii-ll my dream in a song, 
 
 O, my Love ? 
 
 Have 1 not worshiped you si.x long years, 
 Love, my Love .' 
 
 Have I not given you bounteous tears, 
 O, my Love } 
 
 Have 1 not said, when the spring wa 
 
 ■' Sweet, my Sweet. 
 
 More than the pride and flower of the year, 
 O, my Sweet " .' 
 
 Have I not said in the dawning grey — 
 
 '• Heart, my Heart, 
 
 I shall see my lady ere close of day, 
 
 O, my Heart " > 
 
 Have I not said in the silent night — 
 
 ■• Dove, my Dove, 
 
 So soft of voice and rapid of flight, 
 
 O, my Dove " .' 
 
 Have I not said in the summer hours — 
 " Rose, my Rose, 
 
 Greatly exalted above all flowers, 
 
 O, my Rose " ? 
 
 Have I not said in my great despair — 
 "Soul, my Soul, 
 
 Love is a grievous burden to bear, 
 
 O, my Soul " .' 
 
 Have I not turned to the sea and said — 
 •' Life, my Life, 
 
 If she be not mine, be thou my bed, 
 O, my Life"? 
 
 Have I not dreamed of your eyes and cried - 
 " Light, my Light, 
 
 Lead me where love may be satisfied, 
 O, my Light"? 
 
 Have 1 not trodden a weary road. 
 
 Saint, my Saint ? 
 
 And where, at last, shall be my abode, 
 O, my Saint ? 
 
 Sometimes I say, in an hour supreme — 
 " nride. my Bride ! 
 
 I shall hold you fast, and not in a dream, 
 O, my Bride !" 
 
 PHILIP HDURKE MARSTON. 
 
 THE SILENT FAREWELL 
 In silence we parted, for neither could speak. 
 But the tremulous lips and the fast-fading cheek. 
 To both were betraying what neither could tell,— 
 How deep was the pang of the silent farewell ! 
 
 There are signs — ah, the slightest! — that love 
 understands, [hands,— 
 
 In the meeting of eyes,— in the parting of 
 
 In the quick-breathing sighs that of deep passion 
 tell: 
 
 Oh ! such were the signs of our silent farewell ! 
 
 There's a language more glowing love teaches 
 the tongue [sung ; 
 
 Than poets e'er dreamed, or than minstrel e'er 
 But oh, far beyond all such language could tell. 
 The love that was told in that silent farewell. 
 
 SA.MUEL LOVER. 
 
 GOOD-BYE. 
 
 The winter trees are full of woe ; 
 
 The winter winds are wet with tears ; 
 The melancholy waters flow 
 
 And sob and mutter secret fears ; 
 
 And trees and winds and waters sigh 
 As I, love, say to you. Good-bye. 
 
 I know not why my spirits fail 
 
 While I, love, press your hand in mine. 
 I know my tears cannot avail 
 To give me other hours divine. 
 
 Like those when my love's lips were red 
 For kiss to come, for kisses sped. 
 
OUTCRY. 
 
 Your voice was silent, but your eye 
 
 And clinging pressure of your hand 
 Have given me a sweet reply 
 
 My heart stood still to understand. 
 
 You know my love is strong and pure ; 
 I feel your love is deep and sure. 
 
 I take your hand, but dare not meet 
 
 The meaning of your gentle look : 
 
 Love verses I've deemed over sweet, 
 
 But warmest glow in poet's book 
 
 Is cold to this soul-lighted haze 
 
 That blue eyes are to lover's gaze. 
 
 Good-bye : I pray that fate be kind, 
 
 And give me to your presence soon. 
 Oh, if a garland I may bind 
 Of roses for my love in June, 
 
 I'll crown my love with flow'rs, to be 
 Queen Absolute of love and me ! 
 
 RICHARD DOWLING 
 
 OUTCRY. 
 
 In all my singing and speaking, 
 I send my soul forth seeking : 
 O, soul of my soul's dreaming. 
 
 When wilt thou hear and speak ? 
 Lovely and lonely seeming. 
 Thou art there in my dreaming ; 
 Hast thou no sorrow for speaking ? 
 
 Hast thou no dream to seek ? 
 
 In all my thinking and sighing, 
 
 In all my desolate crying 
 
 I send my heart forth yearning, 
 
 O, heart that may'st be nigh! 
 Like a bird weary of flying. 
 My heavy heart returning, 
 Bringeth me no replying. 
 
 Of word, or thought, or sigh. 
 
 In all my joying and grieving. 
 Living, hoping, believing, 
 I send my love forth flowing. 
 
 To find my unknown love, 
 O, world that 1 am leaving, 
 O. heaven where I am going. 
 Is there no finding and knowing. 
 
 Around, within, above ? 
 
 0, soul of my soul's seeing, 
 O, heart of my heart's being, 
 O, love of dreaming and waking 
 
 And living and dying for — 
 Out of my soul's last aching. 
 Out of my heart just breaking, 
 Doubting, falling, forsaking, 
 
 I call on you this once more. 
 
 Are you too high or too lowly 
 
 To come at length unto me.' 
 Are you too sweet and holy 
 
 For me to have and to see "* 
 Wherever you are, 1 call you, 
 Ere the falseness of life enthral yc7, 
 Ere the hollow of death appal you, 
 
 While yet your spirit is free. 
 
 Have you not seen, in sleeping, 
 
 A lover that might not stay. 
 And remembered again with weeping. 
 
 And thought of him through the day ? — 
 Ah ! thought of him long and dearly. 
 Till you seemed to hold him clearly. 
 And could follow the dull tune merely 
 
 With heart and love far away. 
 
 Have you not known him kneeling 
 To a deathless vision of you. 
 
 Whom only an earth was concealing, 
 
 Whom all that was heaven proved true ? 
 
 O, surely some wind gave motion 
 
 To his words like a wave of the ocean ; 
 
 Ay ! so that you felt his devotion, 
 
 And smiled, and wondered, and knew. 
 
 And what are you thinking and saying. 
 In the land where you are delaying.' 
 Have you a chain to sever ? 
 
 Have you a prison tc break.' 
 O, love ! there is one love forever. 
 And never another love — never ; 
 And hath it not reached you, praying 
 
 And singing these years for you- sake ? 
 
 We two, made one, should have power 
 To grow to a beautiful flower, 
 A tree for men to sit under 
 
 Beside life's flowerless stream : 
 But I without you am only 
 A dreamer, fruitless and lonely ; 
 And you without me a wonder 
 
 In my most beautiful dream. 
 
 ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNr.SSV. 
 
8o 
 
 PO£JfS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 SUNLIGHT AND SHADE. 
 
 ' Wliich would you for Friendship, my < 
 maid, 
 
 For me that twilight time is past, those sunrise 
 
 colors gone — 
 The prophecies of childhood and the promises of 
 
 dawn ; 
 
 The sunlight of noon or the twilight of shade .'"U^^j ^^.^^^ / ^ ^^^^^^^ ^^.^^^ ^^.,, 
 
 • I would." said the maiden, "the sunlight of noon 
 
 For in it all nature seems glad ; 
 
 When songsters of air their sweet voices attune. 
 
 Our spirits should never be sad. [may ; 
 
 Pure Friendship we always embrace when we 
 
 And seems it not purest in sunlight and day ? " 
 
 speak of what has been, 
 While love assumes a gentler tone, and love a 
 calmer mien. 
 
 JOHN ANSTER. 
 
 " Which would you for Love. then, my own pretty 
 
 maid. 
 The sunliglit of noon or the twiliglit of shade ? " 
 "I would," said the maiden, "for Love that is pure. 
 
 The soft placid shadow of even ; 
 Then contact is rapture! — Oh, could it endure. 
 
 To lovers our earth would be heaven. 
 Love needs not the sunlight his wooings to aid ; 
 His whispers sound sweetest when breathed i;i 
 tlie shade." 
 
 JOHN CRAWl'OKU V.II..SON'. 
 
 0! IF, AS ARABS FANCY. 
 
 ^^\\ ! if, .IS Arabs fancy, the traces on thy brow 
 
 Were symbols of thy future slato, and I could 
 read them now. 
 
 Almost without a fear would I explore the un- 
 tie chart. 
 
 Believing that the world were weak to darken 
 such a heart. 
 
 As yet to thy untroubled soul, as yet to thy young 
 
 eyes, 
 The skies above are very heaven, the earth is 
 
 paradise ; 
 The birds that glance in joyous air. the flowers 
 
 that happiest be. 
 rhey toil not. neither do they spin, — are they not 
 
 types of thee .' 
 
 .A.nd yet, and yet, beloved cliild, to thy enchanted 
 sight, 
 
 Blest as the present is. the days to come seem 
 yet more bright ; 
 
 For thine is hope, and thine is love, and thine the 
 glorious power 
 
 Th.it gives to hope its fairy light, to love its rich- 
 est dower. 
 
 HAD I A HEART. 
 
 Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 
 
 I ne'er could injure you. 
 For. tho' your tongue no promise claim'd. 
 
 Your charms would make me true ; 
 Then, lady, dread not here deceit, 
 
 Nor fear to suffer wrong. 
 For friends in all the aged you'll meet. 
 
 And lovers in the young. 
 
 But when they find that you have bless 'd 
 
 Another with your heart. 
 They'll bid aspiring passion rest. 
 
 And act a brother's part. 
 Then, lady, dread not here deceit. 
 
 Nor fear to suffer wrong. 
 For friends in all the aged you'll ineet. 
 
 And brothers in the young. 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLIiY SHERIDAN, 
 
 THE MAIDEN'S DREAM. 
 
 "Thrice hallowd be that beautiful dream of love 
 when the maiden's cheek still blushes at the conscious 
 of her own innocent thoughts." — Jean Paul. 
 
 .\sk not if she loves, but look 
 In the blue depths of her eye. 
 
 Where the maiden's spirit seems 
 Tranced in happy dreams to lie. 
 
 All the blisses of her dreams, 
 ,\11 she may not. must not speak. 
 
 Re.id them in her clouded eye. 
 
 Read them on her conscious cheek. 
 
 See that cheek of virgin snow- 
 Damasked with love's rosy bloom ; 
 
 M.irk the lambent thoughts that glow 
 Mid her blue eye's tender gloom. 
 
THE MOTHER'S WARNING 
 
 As if in a cool, deep well, 
 
 Filled by shadows of the night. 
 
 Slanting through, a starbeam fell, 
 Filling all its depth with light. 
 
 Something mournful and profound 
 
 Saddens all her beauty now, 
 Falls her dark eye to the ground, — 
 
 Flings a sliadow o'er her brow. 
 
 Hath her love-illumined soul 
 
 liaised the veil of coming years — 
 
 Read upon life's mystic scroll 
 Its doom of agony and tears? 
 
 Tears of tender sadness fall 
 From her soft and love-lit eye, 
 
 As the night-dews heavily 
 
 Fall from summer's cloudless sky. 
 
 Still she sitteth coyly drooping 
 Her white lids in virgin pride, 
 
 Like a languid lily stooping 
 Low her folded blooms to hide. 
 
 Starting now in soft surprise 
 From the tangled web of thought, 
 
 Lo, her heart a captive lies. 
 
 In its own sweet fancies caught 
 
 Ah ! bethink thee, maiden yet. 
 Ere to passion's doom betrayed ; 
 
 Hearts where love his seal has set. 
 Sorrow's fiercest pangs invade. 
 
 Let that young heart slumber still. 
 
 Like a bird within its nest ; 
 Life can ne'er its dreams fulfill — 
 
 Love but yield thee long unrest. 
 
 Ah ! in vain the dovelet tries 
 
 To break the web of tender thought,- 
 The little heart a captive lies. 
 
 In its own sweet fancies caught. 
 
 SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 And tenderly, tenderly, with the corn, 
 
 Looks of love you threw me. 
 Till I stood up with looks of scorn 
 
 And withered your hopes to woo me. 
 
 Often and often I'm dreaming still, 
 
 With tears and smiles together. 
 Of the month I lay so weak and ill, 
 
 In the wild and wintry weather ; 
 While tenderly, tenderly, you would tap 
 
 To know the news of Nora, 
 Till I grew fonder of your rap 
 
 Than my father's voice, acltora. 
 
 But most I remember the plan concealed, 
 
 That through the spring amused you ; 
 To watch till you found me in the field 
 
 Where in autumn I refused you ; 
 Then earnestly, earnestly, in my eyes 
 
 To gaze till I returned you 
 The look of looks and the sigh of sighs. 
 
 On the spot where once I spurned you, 
 
 ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 
 
 OFTEN I DREAM OF THE DAY. 
 
 Often I dream of the day. asthore, 
 With secret sighs and laughter. 
 
 When you went reaping the oats before, 
 And I came gathering after ; 
 
 THE MOTHER'S WARNING. 
 
 He's false and he's cruel ! 
 
 Oh ! Cathleen, my jewel. 
 The depth of my trouble there's nobody knows , 
 
 While sweetly you're sleeping, 
 
 I'm waking and weeping — 
 This sad heart can find neither peace nor repose ! 
 
 Ah ! child, you're deceiving 
 My fond hopes, and grieving [day , 
 
 The love that would guard you by night and by 
 Oh, don't I know rightly, 
 I He's meeting you nightly. 
 
 The schemer, that's plotting to lead you astray ! 
 
 There's danger before you ! 
 Take heed, I implore you ! 
 Give ear to his lies, and his blarney no more ; 
 I Mavrone ! he'd deceive you, 
 
 He'd wrong and he'd leave you. 
 As false man has left many a poor girl before ! 
 
 You mind Dan O'Leary, 
 And his daughter Mary, [gay ; 
 
 That sweet blue-eyed colleen, so winsome and 
 With rosy cheeks glowing. 
 And fair ringlets flowing, [day. 
 
 1 You'd scarce meet her like in a long summer's 
 
82 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 With tears now we name her, 
 (Hush. Cathleeii ! don't blame her), 
 
 Poor thing shfi was motherless, thoughtless and 
 And she never detected, [young. 
 
 Nor even suspected, [tongue ! 
 
 The poison that dropp'd from his flattering 
 
 With false vows he sought her. 
 
 The old man's one daughter, 
 Alas ! for the fond heart that loved him too well ! 
 
 Alas! for O'Leary! 
 
 And woe to poor Mary ! 
 Sore, angels above might have wept when she fell ! 
 
 The low winds are sighing 
 
 Where Mary is lying. 
 And gently the summer dews fall on her grave ; 
 
 There comes old O'Leary 
 
 To pray for his Mary, | wave. 
 
 While o'er him the green willows mournfully 
 
 He's false and he's cruel ! 
 
 Come hither, my jewel. 
 Bend low, till 1 whisper the black traitor's name ; 
 
 The serpent whose wiling. 
 
 So sweetly beguiling, |shame ! 
 
 Brought that poor young colleen to sorrow and 
 
 KI.I.F.N FORRESTER. 
 
 THE SPINNING WHEEL. 
 
 Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning; 
 Close by the window young Eileen is spinning; 
 Bent o'er the lire her old grandmother, sitting, 
 Iscrooning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting — 
 " Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." 
 " 'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass 
 
 flapping." 
 "Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." 
 • "Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer 
 wind dying." 
 Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring. 
 Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the 
 
 foot's stirring ; 
 Sprightly and lightly and airily ringing. 
 Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden 
 singing. 
 
 " What's that noise that I hear at the window. I 
 
 wonder.'" [under." 
 
 " 'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush 
 
 " What makes you be shoving and moving your 
 
 stool on. [Cootun ' .'" 
 
 And singing all wrong that old song of • The 
 
 There's a form at the casement — the form of her 
 
 true love, [for you, love; 
 
 And he whispers, with face bent, " I'm waiting 
 
 Get up on the stool, through the lattice step 
 
 lightly; [brightly." 
 
 We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining 
 
 Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring. 
 
 Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the 
 
 foot's stirring ; 
 Sprightly and lightly, and airily ringing. 
 Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden 
 singing. 
 
 The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her 
 fingers, [ lingers ; 
 
 Steals up from the seat — longs to go. and yel 
 A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grand- 
 mother, (the other 
 Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with 
 Lazily, easily, spins tiow the wheel round ; 
 Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's somd; 
 Noiseless and light to the lattice above her 
 The maid steps— then leaps to the arms of her 
 lover. [swings ; 
 Slower— and slower— and slower the wheel 
 Lower— and lower— and lower the reel 
 rmgs ; [and moving 
 Ere the wheel and the reel stop their ringing 
 Through the grove the young lovers by moon- 
 light are roving. 
 
 JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. 
 
 THE BONNIE GRAY MARE. 
 " Come saddle me quickly, my bonnie gray mare; 
 And whisper, here. Andy— I'm going to the fair! 
 Bring down my drab breeches, my best coat of 
 
 frieze — 
 There's somebody there that I mean to surprise ! 
 My stout loaded whip — I might want it by 
 
 chance — (dance! 
 
 .'Vnd the new yellow waistcoat I wore at the 
 My Colleen shall see that there's few can compare 
 With Denis Malone and his bonnie gray mare !" 
 
 The gray mare is saddled, and bridled and all ; 
 And mounted by Denis, so handsome and tall. 
 With his glossy black hair, and his laughing gray 
 eye. [sigh ! 
 
 And a smile that would make all the pretty girls 
 
THE BANK OF THE DAISIES. 
 
 83 
 
 "So-ho! now my beauty! we'll show them this 
 
 day 
 What mettle we're made of" — so off and away ! I 
 Over hedges and ditches, away to the fair, I 
 
 Hie Denis Malone and liis bonnie gray mare ! 
 
 Over hi^h-ways and bye-ways, through bogs and 
 
 through brakes ; 
 By dark purple mountains, and blue sunny lakes; 
 Over broom-covered brae, over rush-covered 
 
 plain ; [lane ; ■ 
 
 Past many an old farm-house, and many a green j 
 And orchard, and meadow, and river, and stream. 
 And castle, and cabin, fly past like a dream. 
 As headlong they scamper away to the fair — 
 Young Denis Malone and his bonnie gray mare ! I 
 
 The bright summer sun had gone down in the ' 
 west, [nest ; 
 
 And the weary-vi-inged bird had gone home to its 
 The path was all silent — the hour was so still — 
 When, hark \ how they thunder along by the 
 
 mill- 
 One, two, three, four horsemen ! — five, six ! on 
 
 the track 
 Of o«^ who would rather not show them his back; 
 But what can he do with that sweet Kitty Clare, 
 Clasp'd firmly and fast on the bon n ie gray mare? 
 
 MAYING. 
 
 " Let us go maying ! " Robin said 
 To Maud, as he helped her over 
 
 A rustic stile, whence the pathway led 
 
 Thro' meadow lands that were white and red 
 With blossoms of the clover; 
 
 Where daisies lifted their starry head, 
 And violets grew, moreover. 
 
 And, side by side, as the youth and lass. 
 Went through the blossomy heather. 
 
 Love followed their footsteps in the grass 
 
 And, in that mischievous way he has. 
 Began to ponder whether 
 
 Or good or evil would come to pass 
 If he tied the twain together. 
 
 But, when their quest of the mayflowers through. 
 
 In the meadows they abided. 
 Under the boughs of the trees that grew 
 On a sloping bank, where soft winds blew 
 
 And silver waters glided ; 
 Then 1, who heard their whisperings, knew 
 
 How the little god had decided. 
 
 WILLIAM D. KELLY. 
 
 THE BANK OF THE DAISIES. 
 
 Her brothers and cousins are chasing behind. — 
 Their loud shouts of vengeance borne past on 
 
 the wind ; . When first I saw young Molly 
 
 But Denis he stops not to heed, or to hear, , Stretched beneath the holly. 
 
 Till their voices grow distant and faint on his ear, j Fast asleep, foreniat her sheep, one dreamy sum- 
 And Father O'Connor's white cottage at last 1 mer's day, 
 
 Beams brightly upon them — the danger is past ! With daisies laughing round her, 
 
 Ah! Denis, avourneen! what makes you stop 1 Hand and foot I bound her, 
 
 there, | Then kissed her on her blooming cheek, and 
 
 And lift pretty Kate from the bonnie gray mare.' , softly stole away. 
 
 The priest was at home, and the knot was soon 
 
 tied; [bride! 
 
 And Denis Malone kissed his blushing young 
 
 And now the long years have passed lightly 
 
 away — [day. 
 
 They laugh and they talk of that fine summer's 
 
 When, o'er mountains, and moorlands, and many 
 
 a wild track, [back ! 
 
 They rattled along with their friends (.') at their 
 
 Kate, smiling, assures us, and Denis will swear, 
 
 The best horse in all Ireland's the bonnie gp-ay 
 
 mare! 
 
 ELLEN FORRESTER. 
 
 But, as with blushes burning, 
 Tip-toe I was turning. 
 From sleep she starts, and on me darts a dread- 
 ful lightning ray : 
 My foolish flowery fetters 
 Scornfully she scatters. 
 And like a winter sunbeam she coldly sweeps 
 away. 
 
 But Love, young Love, comes stooping 
 O'er my daisies drooping. 
 And oh ! each flower with fairy power the rosy 
 boy renews : 
 
,S4 
 
 POEMS Ob THE AFtECTlONS. 
 
 Then t*ines each chamiing cluster 
 In links of starry lustre, 
 And with the chain enchanting my colleen proud 
 pursues. 
 
 And soon I met young Molly 
 Musing melancholy. 
 With downcast eyes and starting sighs, along 
 the meadow bank ; 
 And, oh ! her swelling bosom 
 Was wreathed with daisy blossom. 
 Like stars in summer heaven, as in my arms she 
 sank. 
 
 ALKKEL) PERCIVAL GRAVKS. 
 
 THE BANKS OF BANNA. 
 
 Shepherds, I have lost my Love, — 
 
 Have you seen my Anna ? 
 Pride of every shady grove 
 
 On the banks of Banna. 
 I for her my home forsook. 
 
 Near yon misty mountain ; 
 Left my flocks, my pipe, my crook. 
 
 Greenwood shade and fountain. 
 
 Never shall I see them more 
 
 Until her returning; 
 All the joys of life are o'er, — 
 
 From gladness changed to mourning. 
 Whither is my charmer flown ? 
 
 Shepherds, tell me whither ? 
 Ah ! woe for me, perhaps she's gone 
 
 Forever and forever ! 
 
 GEORGK OGLE. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 Her sheep had in clusters crept close by the grove. 
 
 To hide from the rigors of day. 
 And Phillis herself, in a woodbine alcove. 
 
 Among the fresh violets lay ; [dam, 
 
 A youngling, it seems, had been stolen from its 
 
 (Twixt Cupid and Hymen a plot). 
 That Corydon might, as he searched for his Iamb, 
 
 Arrive at this critical spot. 
 
 As thro' the gay hedge for his lambkin he peeps. 
 He saw the sweet maid with surprise ; [sleeps, 
 
 "Ye Gods, if so killing." he cried, "when she 
 I'm lost when she opens her eyes! 
 
 To tarry much longer would hazard my heart, 
 I'll onwards my lambkin to trace;" 
 
 But in vain honest Corydon strove to depart. 
 For love had him nailed to the place. 
 
 " Hush, hushed be these birds ! what a bawling 
 they keep ! " 
 
 He cried, "you're too loud on the spray : 
 Don't you see, foolish lark, that the charmer's 
 
 You'll wake her as sure as 'tis day. [asleep } 
 How dare that fond butterfly touch the sweet maid! 
 
 Her cheek he mistakes for the rose ; 
 I'd put him to death if I was not afraid 
 
 My boldness would break her repose." 
 
 Young Phillis looked up with a languishing smile, 
 
 " Kind shepherd," she said, " you mistake ; 
 I laid myself down just to rest me a while. 
 
 But, trust me, have still been awake." 
 The shepherd took courage, advanced with a bow. 
 
 He placed himself close by her side. 
 And managed the matter, I cannot tell how, 
 
 But yesterday made her his bride. 
 
 JOHN CU.WINGIIAM. 
 
 AMONG THE HEATHER. 
 
 One morning walking out, I o'ertook a modest 
 colkett. 
 
 When the wind was blowing cool, and the har- 
 vest leaves were falling ; 
 
 " Is our road by chance the same ? might we 
 travel on together }" 
 
 " O, I keep the mountain side," she replied, 
 "among the heather." 
 
 " Your mountain air is sweet when the days are 
 
 long and sunny. 
 When the grass grows round the rocks, and the 
 
 whin bloom smells like honey ; 
 But the winter's coming fast with its foggy, 
 
 snowy weather. 
 And you'll find it bleak and chill on your hill 
 
 among the heather." 
 
 She praised her mountain home : and I'll praise 
 
 it too. with reason. 
 For where Molly is, there's sunshine and flow'rs 
 
 at every season. 
 Be the moorland black or white, dees it signify 
 
 a feather. 
 Now 1 know the way by heart, every part, 
 
 among the heather.' 
 
PREFERENCE. 
 
 85 
 
 The sun goes down in haste, and the night falls 
 
 thick and stormy ; 
 Yet I'd travel twenty miles with the welcome 
 
 that's before me ; 
 Singing hi for Eskydun, in the teeth of wind and 
 
 weather ! 
 Love 'ill warm me as I go through the snow, 
 
 among the heather. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 ENDYMION. 
 
 The apple trees are hung with gold. 
 
 And birds are loud in Arcady. 
 The sheep lie bleating in the fold, 
 The wild goat runs across the wold. 
 But yesterday his love he told, 
 
 I know he will come back to me. 
 O, rising moon! O, Lady moon! 
 
 Be you my lover's sentinel. 
 
 You cannot choose but know him well, 
 For he is shod with purple shoon. 
 You cannot choose but know my love. 
 
 For he a shepherd's crook doth bear. 
 And he is soft as any dove, 
 
 And brown and curly is his hair. 
 
 The turtle now has ceased to call 
 Upon her crimson-footed groom. 
 
 The gray wolf prowls abgut the stall. 
 
 The lily's singing seneschal 
 
 Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all 
 
 The violet hills are lost in gloom. 
 
 O, risen moon ! O, holy moon ! 
 Stand on the top of Helice, 
 And if my own true love you see. 
 
 Ah ! if you see the purple shoon. 
 
 The hazel crook, the lad's brown hair. 
 The goat-skin wrapped about his arm, 
 
 Tell him that I am waiting where 
 The rushlight glimmers in the farm. 
 
 The falling dew is cold and chill, 
 
 And no bird sings in .■\rcady, 
 The little fawns have left the hill, 
 Even the tired daffodil 
 Has closed its gilded doors, and still 
 
 My lover comes not back to me. 
 False moon ! False moon ! O, waning moon ! 
 
 Where is my own true lover gone. 
 
 Where are the lips vermilion. 
 
 The shepherd's crook, the purple shoon? 
 Why spread that silver pavilion. 
 
 Why wear that veil of drifting mist .' 
 Ah ! thou hast young Endymion, 
 
 Thou hast the lips that should be kissed ! 
 
 OSCAR WILDE. 
 
 PREFERENCE. 
 Not in scorn do I reprove thee. 
 
 Not in pride thy vows I waive ; 
 But, believe, 1 could not love thee 
 
 Wert thou prince, and I a slave. 
 These then, are thine oaths of passion ! 
 
 This thy tenderness for me ? 
 Judged even by thine own confession. 
 
 Thou art steeped in perfidy. 
 
 Having vanquished, thou wouldst leave me- 
 
 Thus I read thee long ago ; 
 Therefore dared I not deceive thee 
 
 Even with friendship's gentle show ; 
 Therefore, with impassive coldness 
 
 Have I ever met thy gaze ; 
 Though full oft with daring boldness 
 
 Thou thine eyes to mine didst raise. 
 
 Why that smile .' Thou now art deeming 
 
 This my coldness all untrue, — 
 But a mask of frozen seeming. 
 
 Hiding secret fires from view. 
 Touch my hand, thou self-deceiver ; 
 
 Nay — be calm, for I am so: 
 Does it burn ? Does my lip quiver .? 
 
 Has mine eye a troubled glow } 
 
 Canst thou call a moment's color 
 
 To my forehead — to my cheek } 
 Canst thou tinge their tranquil pallor 
 
 With one flattering, feverish streak? 
 Am I marble ? What ! no woman 
 
 Could so calm before thee stand? 
 Nothing living, sentient, human, 
 
 Could so coldly take thy hand ? 
 
 Yes — a sister might, a mother : 
 
 My good-will is sisterly : 
 Dream not, then, I try to smother 
 
 Fires that inly burn for thee. 
 Rave not, rage not, wrath is fruitless ; 
 
 Fury cannot change my mind 
 I but deem the feeling rootless 
 
 Which so whirls in passion's wind. 
 
86 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Can I love ? O, deeply— truly — 
 Warmly — fondly — but not thee; 
 
 And niy love is answered duly. 
 With an equal energy ! 
 
 Wouldst thou see thy rival ? Hasten, 
 Draw that curtain soft aside ; 
 
 Look where yonder branches chasten 
 Noon with shades of eventide ; 
 
 In that glade where foliage blending 
 
 Forms a green arch overhead. 
 Sits thy rival, thoughtful bending 
 
 O'er a stand with papers spread, - 
 Motionless, his fingers plying 
 
 That untircd, unre^ting pen;- 
 Time and tide unnoticed flying. 
 
 There he sits, the first of men ! 
 
 Man of conscience — man of reason ; 
 
 Stern, perchance, but ever just ; 
 Foe to falsehood, wrong and treason,— 
 
 Honor's shield and virtue's trust ! 
 Worker, thinker, tirm defender 
 
 Of Heaven's trust — man's liberty; 
 Soul of iron. — proof to slander. 
 
 Rock where founders tyranny ! 
 
 Fame he seeks not. but full surely 
 
 She will seek him in his home; 
 This I know, and wait securely 
 
 For the atoning hour to come. 
 To that man my faith is given. 
 
 Therefore, soldier, cease to sue ; 
 While God reigns in earth and heaven, 
 
 I to him will still be true ! 
 
 CHARLOTTE BROXTE. 
 
 I Though I am dark and homely to the sight — 
 A Cyclops I, and stronger there are few — 
 
 Of you I dream through all the quick-paced night. 
 I And in the morn ten fawns 1 feed for you. 
 
 And four young bears ; O rise from grots below; 
 
 Soft love and peace with me forever know. 
 
 Last night I dreamed that I, a monster gilled, 
 I Swam in the sea and saw you singing there ; 
 I gave you lilies, and your grotto filled 
 
 With the sweet odors of all fiowers rare; 
 1 gave you apples, as 1 kissed your hand. 
 And reddest poppies from my richest land. 
 
 Oh. brave the restless billows of your world : 
 They toss and tremble ; see my cypress-grove. 
 
 And bending laurels, and the tendrils curled 
 Of honeyed grapes, and a fresh treasure trove 
 
 In vine-crowned /Etna, of pure-running rills! 
 
 O Galatea, kill the scorn that kills I 
 
 Softer than lambs and whiter than the curds, 
 
 O Galatea, listen to my prayer. 
 Come, come to land, and hear the song of birds : 
 
 Rise, rise, from ocean-depths, as lily-fair 
 I As you are in my dreams ! Come, then, O Sleep, 
 For you alone can bring her from the deep. 
 
 And Galatea, in her cool, green waves. 
 
 Plaits her long hair with purple flower-bells. 
 
 And laughs and sings, while black-browed 
 I Cyclops raves 
 
 I And to the wind his love-lorn stor)- tells : 
 I For well she knows that Cyclops will ere long 
 I Forget, as poets do, his pain in song. 
 
 MAlRirK K. KI-.AN. 
 zrafhrase from Thtocrilus. 
 
 CYCLOPS TO GALATEA. 
 
 Softer than lambs and whiter than the curds, 
 
 Galatea, swan-nymph of the sea ! 
 
 Vain is my longing, worthless are my words ; 
 Why do you come in night's sweet dreams to 
 me, I 
 
 And when I wake, swift leave me, as in fear 
 The lambkin hastens when the wolf is near ? 
 
 Why did my mother on a dark-bright day 
 
 Bring you for hyacinths a-near my cave ? 
 I was the guide, and through the tangled way 
 
 1 thoughtless led you ; I am now your slave. 
 Peace left my soul when you knocked at my heart- 
 Come, Galatea, never to depart. 
 
 SONG OF GOLDEN-HEADED NIAMH. 
 
 Oh ! come with me to Tirnan-og; 
 
 There fruit and blossoms bend each tree. 
 Red sparkling wine and honey flow. 
 
 And beauty smiles from sea to sea. 
 
 Your flowing locks will ne'er turn gray. 
 
 No wrinkles on your forehead come. 
 
 Nor burning pain nor grim decay. 
 
 Across the threshold of your home. 
 
 So haste away to Tirnan-og, 
 
 My white steed waits in golden sheen; 
 A diadem shall crown thy brow. 
 And I will be thy bridal queen. 
 
GWENDOLINE AND HER DOVE, 
 
 87 
 
 The feast is spread, within the hall 
 
 Flash drinking cups with gold encrowned ; 
 The harp leans lightly 'gainst the wall 
 
 To strike for thee the welcome sound. 
 A hundred sword-blades for thy hand, 
 
 A hundred of the swiftest steeds. 
 A hundred hounds, a matchless band 
 
 Where'er the hunted quarry leads. 
 So haste away to Tirnan-og, etc. 
 
 A hundred robes of precious silk, 
 
 And gems from an enchanted mine, 
 A hundred kine of sweetest milk, 
 
 And armor of the brightest shine. 
 And thou shalt wear that wondrous sword 
 
 Of keenest edge, whose flash is death ; 
 The summer wind will hear thy word. 
 
 And gently pour its tender breath. 
 So haste away to Tirnan-og, etc. 
 
 Young virgins, sweetest in the song. 
 
 And beauteous as the morning sun. 
 Around thy noble steps will throng 
 
 To make thy path a joyous one ; 
 And heroes, in the combat stern. 
 
 In speed and boldness unsurpassed. 
 Before whose prowess Fionn would learn 
 
 To bow his haughty head at last. 
 So haste away to Tirnan-og, etc. 
 
 O Oisin of the powerful hand ! 
 
 First in the chase, first in the war. 
 Over our sweet and glorious land 
 
 Thy gallant deeds were borne afar. 
 Loch Leine is deep, but deeper still 
 
 In Niamh's soul thy image dwells ; 
 Then turn thee westward from this hill 
 
 To where the sun-hued billow swells. 
 Oh ! haste away to Tirnan-og, etc. 
 
 JOHN KEEG.'iN C.\SEY. 
 
 GWENDOLINE AND HER DOVE. 
 
 " Come hither, come hither, thou snowy dove, 
 
 Spread out thy white wings fast and free ; 
 And fly over moorland, hill and grove. 
 
 Till thou reach the castle of gay Tralee. 
 Sir Gerald bides in the northern tower, 
 
 While heather is purple and leaves are green 
 Go, bid him come to thy lady's bovver. 
 
 For the love of his own dear Gwendoline ! 
 
 " Come hither, come hither, thou lily-white dove. 
 
 Spread out thy white wings fast and free ; 
 When thou'st given Sir Gerald my troth and love ; 
 
 In the northern turret of gay Tralee, — 
 Then speed thy flight to Dunkerron gate. 
 
 While heather is purple and leaves are green ; 
 And tell its lord of thy lady's hate, [line." 
 
 That he'll never look more on young Gwendo- 
 
 Away, away went the faithless dove. 
 
 Away over castle, and mount, and tree. 
 Till he lighted Dunkerron's gate above, — 
 
 Not the northern turret of gay Tralee ; 
 "Sir Donald, my lady hath lands and power, 
 
 While heather is purple and leaves are green ; 
 And she bids thee come to her far-off bower 
 
 For the love of thine own dear Gwendoline !" 
 
 Away, away went the false, false dove. 
 
 Nor rested by castle, or mount, or tree. 
 Till he lighted a corbeil stone above. 
 
 On the northern turret of gay Tralee ; 
 " Sir Gerald, my lady hates thee sore. 
 
 While heather is purple and leaves are green. 
 While the streams dance down the hills ; no more 
 
 Shalt thou look on the face of fair Gwendoline I" 
 
 " Thou liest, thou liest, O, faithless dove ! 
 
 I'll take my good steed speedily. 
 And hie to the bower of my lady-love. 
 
 And ask at its door if she's false to me ; 
 I'll ne'er believe but her heart is true. 
 
 While heather is purple and leaves are green !" 
 And never a bridle-rein he drew 
 
 Till he rode to the bower of Gwendoline. 
 
 Dunkerron's lord came by the gate — 
 
 A stout and a deadly foe was he — 
 And with lance at rest and with frown of hate 
 
 He rode at Sir Gerald of fair Tralee. 
 Sir Gerald bent over his saddle-bow, — 
 
 While heather is purple and leaves are green — 
 Struck his lance thro' the heart of his bravest foe 
 
 For the love of his own dear Gwendoline. 
 
 " Fair Gwendoline, 'twas a faithless dove, 
 I Yet 1 knew thou wert ever true to me ; 
 j 'Twas his words were lies, and thy troth to prove 
 ' I rode o'er the mountains from fair Tralee !" 
 He clasped his arms round that lady gay. 
 
 While heather is purple and leaves are green. 
 And the summer-tide saw their wedding day — 
 
 That trusting knight and fair Gwendoline. 
 I ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 
 
88 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 THE WELCOME. 
 
 Come in the evening, or come in the morning. 
 Come when you're looked (or, or come without 
 
 warning ; 
 Kisses and welcome yc^'ll "ind here before you. 
 And the oftener you come here the more I'll 
 adore you. 
 Light is my heart since the day we were 
 
 plighted. 
 Red is my cheek that they told me was 
 
 blighted ; 
 The green of the trees looks far greener than 
 
 ever. 
 And the linnets are singing, " true lovers don't 
 sever." 
 
 I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose 
 
 them ; 
 Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my 
 
 bosom. 
 I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire 
 
 you : 
 I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. 
 Oh, your step's like the rain to the summer- 
 vex 'd farmer. 
 Or saber and shield to a knight without 
 
 armor ; 
 I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars 'rise 
 
 above me. 
 Then, wandering. I'll wish you, in silence, to 
 love me. 
 
 We'll look through the trees at the cliff, and the 
 
 eyrie, 
 ■We'll tread 'round the rath on the track of the 
 
 fair\-. 
 We'll look on the .stars, and we'll list to the river. 
 Till you ask of your darling what gift you can 
 give her. 
 Oh, she'll whisper you : " Love as unchange- 
 ably beaming. 
 And trust, when in secret most tunefully 
 
 streaming. 
 Till the starlight of Heaven above us shall 
 
 quiver, 
 As our souls How in one down eternity's river." 
 
 So come in the evening, or come in the morning. 
 Come when you're look'd for, or come without 
 
 warning ; 
 Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you. 
 And the oftener you come here the more I'll 
 
 adore you. 
 
 Light is my heart since the day we were 
 
 plighted. 
 Red is my cheek that they told me was 
 
 blighted ; 
 The green of the trees looks far greener than 
 
 ever. 
 And the linnets are singing, "true lovers don't 
 
 sever." 
 
 THO.MAS DAVIS. 
 
 WELCOME HOME TO YOU. 
 
 A hundred thousand welcomes, and 'tis time for 
 you to come 
 
 From the far land of the foreigner, to your coun- 
 try and your home. 
 
 O ! long as we are parted, ever since you went 
 away, 
 
 I never passed a dreamless night or knew an easy 
 day. 
 
 Do you think I would reproach you with the sor- 
 rows that I bore ? 
 
 Sure the sorrow is all over, now I have you here 
 once more — 
 
 And there's nothing but the gladness and the love 
 within my heart. 
 
 And the hope, so sweet and certain, that again 
 we'll never part. 
 
 Did the strangers come around you with true 
 heart and loving hand .' 
 
 Did they comfort and console you when you sick- 
 ened in their land .' 
 
 Had they pleasant smiles to court you, and silver 
 words to bind } 
 
 Had they hearts more fond and lojal than the 
 hearts you left behind .' 
 
 There's a quiver on your proud lip, and a pale- 
 ness on your brow; 
 
 Maybe if they had so loved you, you would not 
 be near me now. 
 
 01 cruel was the coldness which my darling's 
 heart could pain ! 
 
 O ! blessed was whatever sent him back to me 
 again ! 
 
 A hundred thousand welcomes ! — how my heart 
 
 is gushing o'er 
 With the love and joy and wonder thus to see 
 
 your face once more ; 
 
How did I live without you through these long, For the love of that maid, wherever he strayed, 
 long years of woe ? Kept his soul from stain and his heart from guilt. 
 
 It seems as if 'twould kill me to be parted from j Like an angel from God, till his feet retrod 
 
 you now. I The cherished sod where his first love dwelt. 
 
 You'll never part me, darling — there's a promise 
 
 in your eye ; 
 I may tend you while I'm living — you will watch 
 
 me when I die ; 
 And if death but kindly lead me to the blessed 
 
 home on high, 
 What a hundred thousand welcomes shall await 
 
 you in the sky ! 
 
 ELLEN DOWNING. 
 
 WELCOME AS FLOWERS IN MAY. 
 
 At day's declining a maid sat twining 
 A garland shining with wild-flowers gay ; 
 
 But her heart was sore, and the tears swelled o'er 
 Her eye at the door on that eve in May. 
 
 " And take," she cried, to her young heart's pride, 
 " From your plighted bride, on this holy day, 
 
 A true-love token of fond vows spoken 
 That may not be broken —these flowers of May. 
 
 " In life and in death, if you hold to your faith. 
 Keep ever this wreath, 'twill be sweet in decay; 
 
 Come poor or with wealth, come in sickness or 
 
 health, [May. 
 
 To my heart you'll be welcome as flowers in 
 
 "Yet oh, if ever, when wide seas sever 
 Our hearts, you waver in faith to me, 
 
 A true Irish maid will never upbraid 
 Affection betrayed - from that hour you're free! 
 
 ' I set small store upon golden ore, [the sea ; 
 
 I'll not love you the more for your wealth from 
 The hand that will toil at our own loved soil, 
 
 Free from crime or spoil, is the hand for me." 
 
 The blessing half spoke, her fast tears choke. 
 And strong sobs broke the young man's prayer; 
 
 One blending of hearts, and the youth departs, — 
 The maid weeps alone in the silent air. 
 
 Full many a score the lone maid counted o'er 
 Of day-dawns and night-falls — a year lo the 
 day — j 
 
 When sadly once more at the seat by the door. 
 Stood the youth as before, on that eve in May. 
 
 " I bring you no store of the bright gold ore. 
 But, poor as before, I return to decay ; 
 
 For my bride I've no wealth but broken health, 
 Hopes withered and dead as these flowers of 
 May." 
 
 The maiden has prest her true love to her breast. 
 
 Her joyful haste makes no delay ; 
 In his arms she sighs, " 'Tis yourself I prize — 
 To my heart you are welcome as flowers in 
 May.'' 
 
 JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. 
 
 MY AIN DONALD. 
 
 Hey, Donald, my ain Donald ! 
 
 The sun is sinking doon. 
 The weary songsters, ere they rest. 
 Have piped their gloamin' tune. 
 The dew is fallin' on the leaf, 
 The breezes stir the flower. 
 And nature's heart is beatin' calm — 
 It is the evenin' hour. 
 You're a' my dreams by night, Donald, 
 
 You're a' my tiioughts by day ! 
 But, ah I they baith are full of care 
 
 Whene'er you are away — 
 Hey, Donald, my ain Donald ! 
 
 Hey, Donald, my ain Donald ! 
 
 You'll soon be hame wi' me. 
 And ilka darksome cloud will fade 
 
 Before your sunny e'e. 
 The mither bird that frae the nest 
 
 Can never dare to flee. 
 Greets not its mate wi' blither breast 
 
 Than, Donald, I do thee ! 
 
 You're all my dreams, etc. 
 
 Hey, Donald, my brave Donald ! 
 
 I know that, leal and true. 
 Your thought is never turned frae me, 
 
 As mine ne'er falls frae you. 
 Thus hand in hand and heart in heart. 
 
 We'll share life's joy or gloom, 
 And. when the night comes, gently sleep 
 
 Beneath the bonnie broom. 
 You're all my dreams, etc. 
 
 JOHN BROUGHAM 
 
90 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECT/ON.'- 
 
 DONAL KENNY. 
 "Come, piper, play the ' .Shaskan Reel,' 
 
 Or else the " Lasses on the Heather;' 
 And, Mary, lay aside your wheel 
 
 Until we dance once more together. 
 At fair and pattern oft before 
 
 Of reels and jigs we've tripped full many; 
 But ne'er again this loved old floor 
 
 Will feel the foot of Donal Kenny." 
 
 Softly she rose and took his hand, 
 
 And softly glided through the measure. 
 While, clustering round, the village band 
 
 Looked half in sorrow, half in pleasure. 
 Warm blessings flowed from every lip 
 
 As ceased the dancers' airy motion ; 
 O Blessed \'irgin ! guide the ship 
 
 Which bears bold JJonal o'er the ocean I 
 
 '• Now God be with you all I " he sighed. 
 
 Adown his face the bright tears flowing — 
 "God guard you well, avic," they cried, 
 
 " Upon the strange path you are going." 
 .So full his breast, he scarce could speak. 
 
 With burning grasp the stretched hands taking, 
 lie pressed a kiss on every cheek. 
 
 And sobbed as if his heart was breaking. 
 
 ■• Boys, don't forget me when I'm gone. 
 
 For sake of all the days passed over — 
 The days you spent on heath and bawn. 
 
 With Donal Ruadh. the rattlin' rover. 
 Mary, agra, your soft brown eye 
 
 Has willed my fate" (he whispered lowly); 
 •• Another holds thy heart : good bye ! 
 
 Heaven grant you both its blessings holy!" 
 
 A kiss upon her brow of snow, 
 
 A rush across the moonlit meadow. 
 Whose broom-clad hazels, trembling slow. 
 
 The mossy boreen wrapped in shadow ; 
 Away o'er Tullys bounding rill. 
 
 And far beyond the Inny river; 
 One cheer on Carrick's rocky hill, 
 
 And Donal Kenny's gone for ever. 
 ****** 
 The breezes whistled thro' the sails, 
 
 O'er Galway Bay the ship was heaving, 
 And smothered groans and bursting wails 
 
 Told all the grief and pain of leaving. 
 One form among that exiled band 
 
 Of parting sorrow gave no token ; 
 Still was his breath and cold his hand. 
 
 For Donal Kenny's heart was broken. 
 
 JUllN K.EEOAN CASEY. 
 
 THE PILOT'S PRETTY DAUGHTER. 
 O'er western tides the fair Spring Day 
 
 Was smiling back as it withdrew. 
 And all the harbor, glittering gay, 
 
 Return'd a blithe adieu ; 
 Great clouds above the hills and sea 
 Kept brilliant watch, and air was free 
 For last lark first-born star to greet — 
 When, for the crowning vernal sweet. 
 Among the slopes and crags I meet 
 The I'ilot's pretty Daughter. 
 
 Round her gentle, happy face. 
 Dimpled soft, and freshly fair. 
 
 Danced with careless ocean grace 
 Locks of auburn hair ; 
 
 As lightly blew the veering wind. 
 
 They touch'd her cheeks, or waved behind. 
 
 Unbound, unbraided, and unlooped ; 
 
 Or when to tie her shoe she stooped. 
 
 Below her chin the half-curls drooped, 
 
 And veiled the I'ilot's Daughter. 
 
 Rising, she tossed them g:iily biick. 
 With gesture infantine and brief. 
 To fall around as soft a neck 
 
 As the wild rose's leaf. 
 Her Sunday frock of lilac shade 
 (That choicest tint) was neatly made. 
 And not too long to hide from uew 
 The stout but no-way clumsy shoe. 
 And stocking's smoothly filling blue 
 
 That graced the Pilot's Daughter. 
 
 With look half timid and half droll. 
 And then with slightly downcast eyes. 
 
 And something of a blush that stole 
 Or something from the skies — 
 
 Deepening the warmth upon Iter cheek. 
 
 She turned wlien I began to speak ; 
 
 The firm young step a sculptor's choice ; 
 
 How clear the cadence of her voice ! 
 
 Health bade her virgin soul rejoice — 
 The I'ilot's lovely Daughter. 
 
 Were it my lot (the sudden wish)— 
 
 To hand a pilot's oar and sail. 
 Or haul the dripping moonlight mesh. 
 
 Spangled with herring-scale ; 
 By dying stars, how sweet 'twould be. 
 And dawn-blow freshening the sea. 
 With weary, cheery pull to shore. 
 To gain my cottage-home once more. 
 And clasp, belore I reach the door. 
 
 My love, the Pilot's Daughter t 
 
THE PEASANT'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 91 
 
 This element beside my feet 
 
 Allures, a tepid wine of gold ; 
 One touch, one taste dispels the cheat, 
 
 "Tis salt and nippinc cold : 
 A fisher's hut, the scene perforce 
 Of narrow thoughts and manners coarse 
 Coarse a ■ the curtains that beseem 
 With net- festoons the smoky beam. 
 Would never lodge my favorite dream. 
 E'en with my Pilot's Daughter. 
 
 To riches of the common earth, 
 Endowing men in their own spite, 
 
 The Poor, by privilege of birth. 
 Stand in the closest right. 
 
 Yet not the land alone grows dull 
 
 With clayey delve and watery pull : 
 
 And this for me, — or hourly pain. 
 
 But could I sink and call it gain ? 
 
 Unless a pilot true, 'twere vain 
 
 To wed a Pilot's Dauglitcr. 
 
 Lift /icr, perhaps ?— but ah ! I said, 
 
 Much wiser leave such thoughts alone. 
 So may thy beauty, simple maid. 
 
 Be mine, yet all thy own. 
 Join'd in my free contented love 
 With companies of stars above ; 
 Who from their throne of airy steep 
 Do kiss these ripples as iiiey creep 
 Across the boundless darkening deep, — 
 Low voiceful wave ! hush soon to sleep 
 Tiic gentle Pilot's Daughter ! 
 
 W1LLI.\M ALLINGHAII. 
 
 THE PEASANT'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 One morn, as through the dewy air. 
 
 The sun rose o'er the eastern flood, 
 A peasant youth and maiden fair 
 
 Within a hillside cottage stood ; 
 And round them gathered young and old. 
 
 Tall sires, and mothers gray and mild. 
 And pressed their hands in happy fold. 
 
 And murmured blessings on each child , 
 For swiftly comes their marriage day, 
 
 And by the custom of the age. 
 Unto a saintly shrine to-day 
 
 They'll pace in pious pilgrimage. 
 With faith and love each bosom heaves, 
 
 And happiness brims every heart, 
 As clustering by the cottage eaves 
 
 They stand to watch the pair depart. 
 
 ■' Good by, good by !" the inmates cry. 
 
 And cheeks are kissed and hands are pressed ; 
 The sunbeams fleck his bronzed neck. 
 I And brood upon her gentle breast ; 
 I And warm and kind the summer wind 
 
 Before them waves the woods divine, 
 As down the path of purple heath 
 
 They wander toward the sacred shrun-. 
 
 Now onward through the golden morn 
 
 Above the summer ocean's flow. 
 By side-long fields of poppied corn. 
 
 And sunny winding roads they go. 
 The warm wind, busy with the leaves 
 
 Of twinkling oaks that skirt the way, 
 Comes breathing of the wheaten sheaves 
 
 That tent the uplands o'er the bay ; 
 From cottage hearths the smoke doth rise. 
 
 And thro' the wooded mountain-breaks 
 They see, amid the opening skies. 
 
 The green ravines and purple peaks 
 That look along the harvest land. 
 
 And shadow many a singing guest. 
 And lapped awhile in noonday dreams, 
 
 Beside a wayside well they rest. 
 He plucks the flowers that round it spring. 
 
 And o'er her brow a chaplet weaves. 
 The while their happy whispering 
 
 Blends with the murmur of the leaves. 
 Till once again by wooded glen 
 
 And hills that greenly watch the brine. 
 With autumn's sun they wander on 
 
 Until they reach the sainted shrine. 
 
 "Ah, what," the peasant cried, "is wealth 
 
 That cannot banish care, asthore } 
 Sure we've light hearts, and strength and health, 
 
 f- 'd what can any lord have more ? 
 We've song and work for summer's hour. 
 
 And cottage hearths for winter's cold. 
 And peace is rarer far than power. 
 
 And love, my Mary sweet, than gold 1" 
 And as amid the woodland halls 
 
 They pace from out the noonday flame. 
 He hears the tinkling waterfalls 
 
 In sprayey accents shape her name : 
 All beauteous things that round him lie 
 
 He loves to blend with her and trace 
 In glimmering lake, and golden sky. 
 
 The tender image of her face. 
 The sun itself is like her crown ; 
 
 He thinks the lustrous stream that there 
 Through shadows brown is flowing down. 
 
 Is like the ripple of her hair ; 
 
92 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 And leaves that stray in crispy play 
 But fall to make her pathway tine. 
 
 As softly o'er the forest Hoor 
 They wander to the sainted shrine. 
 
 Now o'er the distant slopes of heath 
 
 The sea-ascending mists are rolled ; 
 Nov.- sinks the autumn sun beneath 
 
 The cooling chasm of pallid gold : 
 Beside the songless forest's crown 
 
 A star looks o'er their dusty way ; 
 Above the comfortable town, 
 
 The homely cloud of evening gray : 
 And now beyond the wild ravine, 
 
 Through branches wet with drizzling rills, 
 In darkness clear and cold is seen 
 
 The sullen lake and leaden hills 
 That guard the ruined isle below. 
 
 And o'er its leafy altar brood, 
 Mid hermit shadows moving slow. 
 
 Along the sacred solitude. 
 And as before the cross they stand 
 
 Through breathless spaces of the night, 
 The river murmurs glad, the lanti 
 
 Breathes round in desolate delight ; 
 And clear and far each spirit star 
 
 That sparkles thro' the depths divine. 
 Seems pausing there to hear the prayer 
 
 They murmur by the sainted shrine. 
 
 Oh. sacred is the watch they keep 
 
 Throughout the live-long night alone ; 
 In holy silence calm and deep 
 
 They worship till the stars are gone ; 
 And day flits past in wandering dreams, 
 
 O'er lessening lengths of road, till dawn 
 The western steeps sweet heaven seems 
 
 To smile above their straw-thatched town. 
 Where welcome rings amid the glow 
 
 Of yellow evening clear and still, 
 And dear old faces smile below. 
 
 As they ascend the homeward hill. 
 Come, maidens wreathe the village doors 
 
 With greenest leaves, above, beneath. 
 And deck the walls and strew the floors 
 
 With apron-full of blossomed heath ; 
 And twine the bridal crown of corn. 
 
 And leave it in the star-lit air. 
 Until the freckled autumn morn 
 
 Shall touch it, and the youthful pair, 
 '.Mid joyous eyes, and happy skies. 
 
 And singing birds and breathing kine, 
 Along the ways of olden days 
 
 Shall pace unto the Marriage Shrine. 
 
 THOMAS C. IRWIN. 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 " Turn, gentle hermit of the dale. 
 
 And guide my lonely way 
 To where yon taper cheers the vale 
 
 With hospitable ray. 
 
 •' For here, forlorn and lost I tread 
 With fainting steps and slow, 
 
 Where wilds immeasurably spread. 
 Seem lengthening as I go." 
 
 " Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, 
 " To tempt the dangerous gloom. 
 
 For yonder faithless phantom flies 
 To lure thee to thy doom. 
 
 " Here to the houseless child of want 
 
 My door is open still. 
 And though my portion is but scant, 
 
 I give it with good will. 
 
 "Then turn to-night and freely share 
 Whate'er my cell bestows — 
 
 My rushy couch and frugal fare. 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 " No flocks that range the valley free 
 
 To slaughter I condemn — 
 Taught by that power that pities me, 
 
 I learn to pity them. 
 
 " But from the mountain's grassy side 
 
 A guiltless feast 1 bring — 
 A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 
 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 " Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; 
 
 All earth-born cares are wrong; 
 Man wants but little here below, 
 
 Nor wants that little long." 
 
 Soft as the dew from he'aven descends. 
 
 His gentle accents fell ; 
 The modest stranger slowly bends. 
 
 And follows to the cell. 
 
 Far in a wilderness obscure, 
 
 The lonely mansion lay, 
 A refuge to the neighboring poor, 
 
 And strangers led astray. 
 
 No stores beneath its humble thatch 
 
 Requir'd a master's care. 
 The wicket, opening with a latch, 
 
 Receiv'd the harmless pair. 
 
THE HERMIT. 93 
 
 And now, when busy crowds retire 
 To take their evening rest, 
 
 The hermit trimmed his little fire. 
 And cheered his pensive guest ; 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast, 
 
 Alternate spread alarms ; 
 The lovely stranger stands confess'd, 
 
 A maid in all her charms. 
 
 And spread his vegetable store, 
 And gayly pressed and smil'd ; 
 
 And, skill'd in legendary lore, 
 The lingering hours beguil'd. 
 
 "And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
 A wretch forlorn," she cried, 
 
 "Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude 
 Where Heaven and you reside. 
 
 Around in sympathetic mirth 
 Its tricks the kitten tries— 
 
 The cricket chirrups on the hearth. 
 The crackling fagot flies ; 
 
 " But let a maid thy pity share, 
 Whom love has taught to stray — 
 
 Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
 Companion of her way. 
 
 But nothing could a cliarm impart 
 To soothe the strangers woe. 
 
 For grief was heavy at his heart, 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 " My father lived beside the Tyne, 
 
 A wealthy lord was he'; 
 And all his wealth was mark'd as mine ; 
 
 He had but only me. 
 
 His rising cares the hermit spied— 
 With answering care oppress'd ; 
 
 "And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
 " The sorrows of thy breast ? 
 
 " To win me from his tender arms 
 Unnumber'd suitors came ; 
 
 Who prais'd me for imputed charms. 
 And felt or feigned a flame. 
 
 " From better habitations spurn'd. 
 Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
 
 Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd. 
 Or unregarded love ? 
 
 " Each hour a mercenary crowil 
 With richest proffers strove ; 
 
 Among the rest young Edwin bow'd. 
 But never talked of love. 
 
 "Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 
 
 Are trifling, and decay — 
 And those who prize the paltry things. 
 
 More trifling still than they. 
 
 " In humble, simplest habit clad. 
 No wealth nor power had he ; 
 
 Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
 But these were all to me. 
 
 "And what is friendship but a name, 
 A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
 
 A shade that follows wealth or fame. 
 But leaves the wretch to weep .' 
 
 "And when beside me in the dale. 
 
 He carol'd lays of love. 
 His breath lent fragrance to the gale. 
 
 And music to the grove. 
 
 " And love is still an emptier sound— 
 The modern fair-one's jest : 
 
 On earth unseen, or only found. 
 To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 " The blossom opening to the day. 
 The dews of Heaven refined. 
 
 Could nought of purity display 
 To emulate his mind. 
 
 " For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush. 
 
 And spurn the se.x," he said; 
 But while he spoke, a rising blush 
 
 His love-lorn guest betray 'd. 
 
 " The dew, the blossom on the tree. 
 With charms inconstant shine ; 
 
 Their charms were his ; but, woe to me. 
 Their constancy was mine. 
 
 Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise. 
 
 Swift mantling to the view- 
 Like colors o'er the morning skies. 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 " For still I tried each fickle art, 
 
 Importunate and vain ; 
 And while his passion touched my heart, 
 
 I triumph'd in his pain. 
 
94 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 •' Till, quite dejected with my scorn, 
 
 He lefl me to my pride. 
 And sought a solitude forlorn. 
 
 In secret, where he died. 
 
 '• But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 
 
 And well my life shall pay ; 
 III seek the solitude he sought. 
 
 And stretch me where he lay. 
 
 "And there, forlorn, despairing, hid— 
 
 I'll lay me down and die ; 
 "I" was so for me that Edwin died. 
 
 And so for him will I." 
 
 " Forbid it. Heaven ! " the hermit cried. 
 
 And clasp'd her to his breast ; 
 The wondering fair one turned to chide, — 
 
 'Twas Edwin's self that prcss'd. 
 
 "Turn, Angelina! ever dear — 
 
 My charmer, turn to see 
 Thy own. thy long-lost Edwin here, 
 
 Restor'd to love and thee. 
 
 " Thus let me hold thee to my heart. 
 
 And every care resign; 
 And shall we never — never part. 
 
 My life— my all that's mine .' 
 
 " No : never from this hour to part. 
 
 We'll live and love so true ; 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart 
 
 Shall break thy Edwin's too." 
 
 OI.IVKR GOLHS-MITH. 
 
 O'DONNELLAND THE FAIR FITZGERALD. 
 
 A fawn that flies with sudden spring. 
 
 A wild bird fluttering on the wing. 
 
 A passing gleam of April sun, 
 
 She flashed upon me and was gone ! 
 
 No chance did that dear face restore, 
 
 Nor then, nor now — nor evermore. 
 
 But sure I see her in my dreams, 
 
 With eyes where love's first dawning beams, 
 
 And tones, like Irish music, say — 
 
 " You ask to love me, and you may ;" 
 
 And so I know she will be mine. 
 
 That rose of princely Geraldine. 
 
 A voice that thrills with modest doubt 
 A tale of love can ill pour out; 
 But. oh ! when love wore manly guise, 
 And warrior's feats woke woman's sighs. 
 
 With Irish sword, on Irish soil, 
 I might have won that kingly spoil. 
 But then, perchance, the Uesmond race 
 Had deemed to mate with mine disgrace ; 
 For mine's that strain of native blood 
 That last the Norman lance withstood ; 
 And still when mountain war was waged. 
 Their sparllis among the Normans raged. 
 And burst through many a serried line 
 Of Lacy, Burke and Geraldine. 
 
 And yet methinks in battle press 
 
 My love, 1 could not love you less ; 
 
 For, oh ! 'twere sweet brave deeds to do 
 
 For our old sainted land and you I 
 
 To sweep, a storm, through Barrensmore, 
 
 With Dowera's scattered ranks before. 
 
 Like chaff upon our northern blast. 
 
 Nor rest till Bann's broad waves were passed; 
 
 Till Inbhar sees our Hashing line. 
 
 Till Darha's lordly towers are mine. 
 
 And backward borne, as seal and sign. 
 
 The fairest maid of Geraldine ! 
 
 But, holy Bride,* how sweeter still 
 A hunted chief on Faughart hill. 
 With all the raging Pale behind. 
 So sweet, so strange a foe to find ! 
 Soft love to plant where terror spruny. 
 With honey speech of Irish tongue ; 
 Again to dare Clan Geralt's swords 
 For hope of some sweet, stolen words. 
 Till many a danger past and gone. 
 My suit has sped, my Bride is won, — 
 She's proud Clan Connell's queen, and mine. 
 Young Geraldine. of Geraldine ! 
 
 But sure that time is dead and gone. 
 When worth alone such love had won ; 
 For hearts are cold, and hands are bright. 
 And faith, and lore, and love arc naught I 
 Ah, trust me. no! The pure and true 
 The genial past may still renew ; 
 Still love as then ; and still no less 
 Strong hearts shall snatch a brave succes.s ; 
 And to their end right onward go. 
 As Erna's tide to Assaroe. 
 Oh ! saints may strive for martyr's crown. 
 And warriors watch by leaguered town, 
 But poor is all their toil to mine 
 Till I have won my Geraldine ! 
 
 CHARLES G.AVAN DUFFV. 
 
 ' St. Bride, or St. Bridgid. 
 
THE OLD STORY. 
 
 95 
 
 THE OLD STORY. 
 
 He came across the meadow-pass 
 
 That summer eve of eves, — 
 The sunlight streamed along the grass, 
 
 And glanced amid the leaves ; 
 And from the shrubbery below. 
 
 And from the garden trees, 
 He heard the thrushes' music flow 
 
 And humming of the bees ; 
 The garden gate was swung apart — 
 
 The space was brief between ; 
 iJut there, for throbbing of his heart. 
 
 He paused perforce to lean. 
 
 He leaned upon the garden gate ; 
 
 He looked, and scarce he breathed ; 
 Within the little porch she sate. 
 
 With woodbine overwreathcd ; 
 Her eyes upon her work were bent. 
 
 Unconscious who was nigh ; 
 But oft the needle slowly went. 
 
 And oft did idle lie ; 
 And ever to her lips arose 
 
 Sweet fragments, sweetly sung, 
 IJut ever, ere the notes could close, 
 
 She hushed them on her tongue. 
 
 Her fancies, as they come and go. 
 
 Her pure face speaks the while. 
 For now it i:; a flitting glow, 
 
 And now a beaming smile ; 
 And now it is a graver shade. 
 
 When holier thoughts are there — 
 An angel's pinion might be stayed 
 
 To see a sight so fair. 
 But still they hid her looks of light. 
 
 Those downcast eyelids pale — 
 Two lovely clouds so silken white. 
 
 Two lovelier stars that veil. 
 
 The sun at length his burnmg edge 
 
 Had rested on the hill. 
 And save one thrush from out the hedge. 
 
 Both bower and grove were still. 
 The sun had almost bade farewell ; 
 
 But one reluctant ray 
 Still loved within that porch to dwell 
 
 As charmed there to stay — 
 It stole aslant the pear-tree bough. 
 
 And through the woodbine fringe. 
 And kissed the maiden's neck and brow. 
 
 And bathed her in its tinTC. 
 
 "O, beauty of my heart !" he said 
 
 " O, darling, darling mine. 
 Was ever light of evening shed 
 
 On loveliness like thine ? 
 Why should I ever leave this spot. 
 
 But gaze until 1 die } " 
 A moment from that bursting thought 
 
 She felt his footstep nigh. 
 One sudden, lifted glance — but one, 
 
 A tremor and a start ; 
 So gently was their greeting done 
 
 That who would guess their heart ? 
 
 Long, long the sun hath sunken down. 
 
 And all his golden hail 
 Had died away to lines of brown 
 
 In duskier hues that fail : 
 The grasshopper was chirping shrill — 
 
 No other living sound 
 Accompanied the tmy rill 
 
 That gurgled underground, — 
 No other living sound, unless 
 
 Some spirit bent to hear 
 Low words of human tenderness, 
 
 And mingling whispers near. 
 
 The stars, like pallid gems at first. 
 
 Deep in the liquid sky. 
 Now forth upon the darkness burst 
 
 Sole kings and lights on high; 
 For splendor, myriad-fold, supreme. 
 
 No rival moonlight strove ; 
 Nor lovelier e'er was Hesper's beam. 
 
 Nor more majestic Jove. 
 But what if hearts there beat that night 
 
 That recked not of the skies. 
 Or only felt their imaged light 
 
 In one another's eyes ? 
 
 And if two worlds of hidden thought 
 
 And longing passion met. 
 Which, passing human language, sought 
 
 And found in utterance yet ; 
 And if they trembled as the flowers 
 
 That droop across the stream. 
 And muse the while the starry hours 
 
 Wait o'er them like a dream ; 
 And if, when comes the parting time. 
 
 They faltered still, and clung,— 
 What is it all ? — an ancient rhyme 
 
 Ten thousand times besung— 
 
96 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 That part of Paradise which man 
 
 Without the portal knows. — 
 Which liath been since the world began. 
 
 And shall be till its close ! 
 
 JOHN O'HAGAN. 
 
 TRISTAN AND ISOLDE. 
 
 None, unless the saints above. 
 Knew the secret of their love ; 
 For with calm and stately grace 
 Isolde held her queenly place. 
 The' the courtiers' hundred eyes 
 Sought the lovers to surprise. 
 Or to read the mysteries 
 Of a love, so rumor said. 
 By a magic philtre fed. 
 Which forever in their veins 
 Burned with love's consuming pains. 
 
 Yet their hands would twine unseen 
 In a clasp 'twere hard to .sever; 
 
 And whoso watched their glances meet. 
 Gazing as tliey'd gaze forever. 
 
 Might have marked the sudden heat 
 Crims'ning on each (lushing cheek, 
 As the tell-tale blood would speak 
 
 Of love that never should have been — 
 
 The love of Tristan and his Queen. 
 
 But, what hinders that the two, 
 
 In the spring of their young life. 
 Love each other as they do .'' 
 Thus the tempting thoughts begin- 
 Little recked they of the sin ; 
 Nature joined them hand in hand. 
 Is not that a truer band 
 
 Than the formal name of wife ? 
 
 Ah I what happy hours were theirs I 
 
 One might note them at the feast 
 Laughing low to loving airs. 
 
 Loving airs that pleased them best ; 
 Or interchanging the swift glance 
 In the mazes of the dance. 
 So the sunny moments rolled, 
 And they wove bright threads of goki 
 
 Through the common web of life ; 
 Never dreaming of annoy. 
 
 Or the wild world's wicked strife ; 
 Painting earth and heaven abo\e 
 
 In the light of their own joy. 
 In the purple light of love. 
 
 Happy moments, which again 
 Brought sweet torments in their train : 
 All love's petulance and fears. 
 Wayward doubts and tender tears, 
 Little jealousies and pride. 
 That can loving hearts divide ; 
 Murmured vow and clinging kiss. 
 Working often bane as bliss; 
 
 All the wild capricious changes 
 Thro' which lovers' passion ranges. 
 Yet would love in every mood, 
 Find Heaven's manna for its food ; 
 For love will grow wan and cold. 
 And die ere ever it is old, 
 That is never assailed by fears. 
 Or steeped in repentant tears. 
 Or passed thro' the tire like gold. 
 
 So loved Tristan and Isolde, 
 In youth's sunny, golden time, 
 In the brightness of their prime; 
 Little dreaming hours would come. 
 Like pale shadows from the tomb. 
 When an open death of doom 
 Had been still less hard to bear 
 Than the ghastly, cold despair 
 Of those hidden vows whose smart 
 Pale the cheek and break the heart. 
 
 LADY WILDE. 
 
 DEIRDRE AND THE KING. 
 
 It chanced, upon a morn of early spring. 
 When flowers began to bloom and birds to sing. 
 That Starn, the royal steward, passing by 
 The camp of Usna, cast his jurying eye 
 On DeirdrS. as she sat beneath a tree 
 Outside her tent door. Long and curiously 
 He eyed her from the grove wherein he stood. 
 Then walked away in silent, gladsome mood. 
 Like one who by a lucky chance hath found 
 Some treasure long since hidden underground. 
 ^■et said he naught until the king came home 
 From hostile shores, washed by the North Sea's 
 
 foam. 
 Where he and his and Usna's host imbrued 
 Their spears in blood, and many a tribe subdued ; 
 Then went he to the king. " Now, by thy head I 
 And by my father's hand, O King !" he said, 
 " The gem of gems I've found thee. I have seen 
 In Usna's camp bright beauty's peerless queen. 
 
THE FEAST OF ROSES. 
 
 97 
 
 The wife of Naisi — beautiful beyond 
 Ail youth's imaginings or day dreams fond, — 
 Yea, yea! so beautiful that 1 — even I — 
 Stood for a moment in wild ecstacy, [then 
 
 And blessed the gods that made her ! Take her 
 Unto thy throne, and slay these stranger men 
 In open hall, or bid me privately 
 To slay them." But the King said, "Far from me, 
 ! O Starn, be that fell day when friendship's band 
 And honor's law I break with my own hand. 
 Then tempt me not." But 'Starn said, " Though 
 
 the blood 
 Within the heart from childhood frozen stood, 
 'T would melt, O King, before her face divine 
 And run through all thy veins like boiling wine ! 
 But go thyself. Watch from the grove and see. 
 Then try and measure what thy love shall be." 
 And the King sought the grove himself and saw ; 
 And friendship's sacred tie, and honor's law, 
 yVnd fame and shame, and sense of wrong and 
 
 right, 
 Fled from his maddened bosom at the sight. 
 And in their stead there burned a raging flame 
 Of blindfold love no power on earth could tame. 
 " O Starn," he said, " go seek her privily, 
 And promise all a Queen should have from me !" 
 
 One morn while King and prince a hosting made 
 From the west ; while every grove and glade 
 Around the camp with fragrant bloom was 
 
 bright 
 Of daisies, primroses and shamrocks white. 
 And hyacinths, that with their trembling bells 
 Like a blue robe from heaven shone down the 
 
 dells, [screen 
 
 Twinkling with diamond dew-drops — to the 
 Of the sweet grove the old man came unseen. 
 And looked, and by the tent found Deirdre there, 
 Sitting and weaving flowers in garlands fair, 
 To crown her little boy, who on her knee 
 Laughed in the dancing shadows of the tree 
 That o'er them spread, rustling with young birds' 
 
 wings. 
 " Sweet is the song each bird of beauty sings 
 To him that owns it," .Starn thought, as he came 
 Out from the grove and told his tale of shame 
 And purpose dread. Then rose the loyal wife, 
 Grasping her babe full firm. " Now, by thy lire, 
 
 aged dog ! " she cried, " Come here no more ! 
 Thy little King ! Upon our native shore 
 
 The true hand of a king worth ten like thine 
 
 1 cast away for this brave lord of mine ! 
 Begone ! and leave me to my thoughts alone ! " 
 He fled, and sinking down she made her moan, 
 
 Clasping her child, and rocking to and fro 
 In trembling fear and new awakened woe ! 
 
 Four days before the Baeltin Feast at noon 
 The hosts returned in triumph, and full soon 
 Went Starn unto the king and told his tale, 
 Whereat the monarch's brow with wrath grew 
 
 pale. 
 And ten times stronger his hot bosom strove 
 With thoughts of vengeance and unlawful love. 
 And fierce he cried : " O Starn, come woe or weal, 
 Usna shall fall beneath the Alban steel 
 Before to-morrow's light !" " Nay, nay, O king!" 
 Old Starn replied. " The Baeltin Feast will bring 
 The hour to slay them, when unguardedly 
 They sit around the board and in their glee 
 Quaff the red wine within thy royal hall : 
 Then let them feel the Alban sword and fall. 
 Else, by the gods ! full stern shall be the fight 
 Ere they are slain !" But on that very night, 
 When Naisi knew the Alban 's treacherous mind, 
 He struck his camp and left the town behind — • 
 Full many a mile ere rose the morning ray, 
 As eastward to his fleet he made his way. 
 
 ROISERT DWYER JOYCE. 
 
 THE FEAST OF ROSES. 
 
 Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, 
 With its roses, the brightest that earth ever 
 gave. 
 Its temples, and grottoes, and fountains as clear 
 As the love-lighted eyes that hang over its 
 wave .' 
 
 O, to see it at sunset, — when warm o'er the lake 
 
 Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws. 
 Like a bride, full of blushes, when ling'ring to take 
 A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes! — 
 When the shrines through the foliage are gleam- 
 ing half shown, [own. 
 And each hallows the hour by some rites of its 
 Here the music of prayer from some minaret 
 swells [swinging. 
 Here the IVIagian his urn, full of perfume is 
 And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells 
 Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is 
 ringing. 
 Or to see it by moonlight, when mellowly shines 
 The light o'er its palaces, gardens and shrines ; 
 When the waterfalls gleam, like a quick fall of 
 stars [Chenars 
 And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of 
 
98 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Is broken by laughs and light echoing feet 
 From the cool shining wallcs, where the young 
 
 people meet.— 
 Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes 
 A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks. 
 Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one 
 Out of darkness, as if but just born of the Sun ; 
 When the spirit of Fragrance is up with the day, 
 From his harem of night— flowers stealing away; 
 And the wind, full of wantonness, wooes like a 
 
 lover 
 The young aspen trees, till they tremble all over; 
 When the East is as warm as the light of first 
 hopes, 
 
 And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl'd. 
 Shines in thro' the mountainous portal that opes, 
 
 Sublime, from that Valley of Bliss to the world ! 
 
 But never yet, by night or day. 
 In dew of spring, or summer's ray. 
 Did the sweet Valley shine so gay 
 
 As now it shines, — all love and light. 
 Visions by day and feasts by night ! 
 A happier smile illumes each brow. 
 
 With quicker spread each heart uncloses, 
 And all is ecstacy. — for now 
 
 The Valley holds the Feast of Roses ; 
 The joyous time, when pleasures pour 
 Profusely round, and, in their shower. 
 Hearts open, like the Summer's Rose, — 
 
 The flow'ret of a hundred leaves. 
 Expanding while the dew full flows. 
 
 And every leaf its balm receives. 
 
 'Twas when the hour of evening came 
 
 Upon the lake, serene and cool. 
 When Day had hid his sultry flame 
 
 Behind the palms of Baramoule, 
 When maids began to lift their heads, 
 Refresh'd, from their embroider'd beds. 
 Where they had slept the sun away, 
 And wak'd to moonlight and to play. 
 All were abroad. — the busiest hive 
 On Bela's hills is less alive. 
 When saffron beds are full in flow'r. 
 Than looked the Valley in that hour. 
 A thousand restless torches play'd 
 Through every grove and island shade; 
 A thousand sparkling lamps were set 
 On every dome and minaret ; 
 .\nA fields and pathways, far and near, 
 Were lighted by a blaze so clear, 
 Tliat you could see. in wandering round. 
 The smallest rose leaf on the ground. 
 
 Yet did the maids and matrons leave 
 Their veils at home, that brilliant eve ; 
 And there were glancing eyes about, 
 I And cheeks, that would not dare shine out 
 In open day. but thought they might 
 Look lovely then, because 'twas night. 
 And all were free and wandering. 
 
 And all e.xclaim'd to all they met. 
 That never did the summer bring 
 
 So gay a Feast of Roses yet ; — 
 The moon had never shed a light 
 
 So clear as that which blessed them there ; 
 The roses ne'er shone half so bright. 
 
 Nor they themselves looked half so fair. 
 And what a wilderness of flowers ! 
 It seemed as though from all the bowers 
 And fairest fields of all the year. 
 The mingled spoil were scattered here. 
 The Lake, too, like a garden breathes 
 
 With the rich buds that o'er it lie. 
 As if a shower of fairy wreaths 
 
 Had fall'n upon it from the sky I 
 And then the sound of joy, — the beat 
 Of tabors and of dancing feet ; 
 The minaret crier's chant of glee. 
 Sung from his lighted gallery. 
 And answered from a ziraleet 
 From neighboring harem, wild and sweet ; 
 The merry laughter, echoing 
 From gardens, where the silken swing 
 Wafts some delighted girl above 
 The top leaves of the orange grove ; 
 Or, from those infant groups at play 
 Among the tents that line the way, 
 Flinging, unawed by slave or mother 
 Handfuls of roses at each other. 
 
 Then the sounds from the Lake, — the low whis- 
 pering in boats. 
 , As they shoot through the moonlight ; — the 
 dipping of oars, 
 
 And the wild, airy warbling that everywhere 
 floats. 
 Through the groves, round the islands, as if 
 all the shores, 
 > Like those of Kathay, utter'd music and gave 
 
 An answer in song to the kiss of each wave. 
 
 But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of 
 feeling. 
 
 That soft from the lute of some lover are steal- 
 ing, — 
 
 Some lover, who knows all the heart-touching 
 power 
 
 Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour. 
 
THE FEAST OF ROSES. 
 
 99 
 
 O, best of delights, as it everywhere is, 
 
 To be near the lov'd One, — what a rapture is his 
 
 Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may 
 
 glide [his side ! 
 
 O'er the Lake of Cashmere, with that One by 
 If woman can make the worst wilderness dear, 
 Think, think what a heav'n she must make of 
 
 Cashmere ! 
 
 So felt the magnificent son of Acbar, [war 
 
 When from power and pomp and the trophies of 
 He flew to that Valley, forgetting them all 
 With the Light of the Harem, his young Nour- 
 
 mahal ; 
 When free and uncrown'd as the Conqueror rov'd 
 By the banks of that Lake, with his only belov'd 
 He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully 
 
 snatch [match. 
 
 From the hedges, a glory his crown could not 
 And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that 
 
 curl'd [world. 
 
 Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the 
 There's a beauty forever unchangingly bright 
 Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer day's 
 
 light, [der, 
 
 Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made ten- 
 Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. 
 This was not the beauty — O, nothing like this, 
 That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of 
 
 bliss I 
 But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays 
 Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, 
 Now here and now there, giving warmth as it 
 
 flies [eyes ; 
 
 From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the | 
 Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, I 
 Like the glimpses a saint hath of heav'n in his | 
 
 dreams. 
 When pensive, it seemed as if that very grace. 
 That charm of all others, was born with her face ! 
 And when angry, — for ev'n in the tranquilest \ 
 
 climes [times — j 
 
 Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms some- i 
 The short passing anger but seemed to awaken I 
 New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when | 
 
 shaken. j 
 
 If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye j 
 At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye. 
 From the depth of whose shadow, like holy re- 
 
 vealings [feelings. I 
 
 From innermost shrines, came the light of her i 
 Then her mirth — O, 'twas sportive as ever took 
 
 wing [spring ; 
 
 From the heart vnth a burst, like the wild bird in 
 
 Illum'd by a wit that would fascinate sages. 
 Yet playful as Peris just loos'd from their cages. 
 While her laugh, full of life, without any control 
 But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from 
 her soul ; [discover, 
 
 And where it most sparkled no glance could 
 In lip, cheek, or eye, for she brighten 'd all over. 
 Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, [sun. 
 When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the 
 Such, such were the peerless enchantments that 
 gave [slave : 
 
 I Nourmahal the proud Lord of the East for her 
 And though bright was his harem, — a living 
 
 I parterre [were there. 
 
 Of the flow'rs of this planet, — though treasures 
 For which Soliman's self might have giv'n all the 
 store [shore, — 
 
 That the navy from Ophir e'er wing'd to his 
 Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all, 
 And the Light of his Harem was young Nour- 
 mahal ! 
 
 But where is she now, this night of joy. 
 
 When bliss is every heart's employ ? — 
 
 When all around her is so bright. 
 
 So like the visions of a trance. 
 
 That one might think, who came by chance 
 
 Into the vale this happy night, 
 
 He saw that City of Delight 
 
 In Fairyland, whose streets and towers 
 
 Are made of gems and light and flowers ! 
 
 Where is the lov'd Sultana ? where, 
 
 When mirth brings out the young and fair. 
 
 Does she, the fairest, hide h?r brow. 
 
 In melancholv stillness now ? 
 
 Alas ! — how light a cause may move 
 
 Dissension between hearts that love ! 
 
 Hearts that the world in vain had tried. 
 
 And sorrow but more closely tied ; 
 
 That stood the storm, when waves were rough. 
 
 Yet in a sunny hour fall off. 
 
 Like ships that have gone down at sea. 
 
 When heaven was all tranquility ! 
 
 A something, light as air — a look, 
 
 A word unkind or \vrongIy taken — 
 O love, that tempests never shook, 
 
 A breath, a touch like this hath shaken. 
 And ruder words will soon rush in 
 To spread the breach that words begin ; 
 And eyes forget the gentle ray 
 They wore in courtship's smiling day ; 
 And voices lose the tone that shed 
 .A tenderness round all they said; 
 
POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Till fast declining, one by one, 
 The sweetnesses of love are gone. 
 And hearts, so lately mingled, seem 
 Like broken clouds,— or like the stream. 
 That smiling left the mountain's brow- 
 As though its waters ne'er could sever, 
 "S'a., ere it reach the plain below. 
 Breaks into floods that part forever. 
 
 O, you, that have the charge of Love, 
 
 Keep him in rosy bondage bound. 
 As in the Fields of Bliss above 
 
 He sits, wHth flow 'rets fetterd round ; 
 Loose not a tie that round him clings. 
 Nor ever let him use his wings ; 
 For ev'n an hour, a minute's flight 
 Will rob the plumes of half their light. 
 Like that celestial bird, whose nest 
 
 Is found beneath far Eastern skies, — 
 Whose wings, though radiant when at rest 
 
 Lose all their glory when he flies ! 
 
 Some difference, of this dangerous kind, — 
 By which, though light, the links that bind 
 The fondest hearts may soon be riven ; 
 Some shadow in Love's summer heaven. 
 Which, though a fleecy speck at first. 
 May yet in awful thunder burst ; 
 Such cloud it is, that now hangs over 
 The heart of the Imperial Lover, 
 And far hath banish'd from his sight 
 His Xourmahal, his Harem's Light ! 
 Hence is it, on this happy night, 
 When Pleasure through the fields and groves 
 Has let loose all her world of loves. 
 And every heart has found its own, 
 He wanders, joyless and alone, 
 And weary as that bird of Thrace, 
 Whose pinion knows no resting-place. 
 
 In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes 
 This Eden of the Earth supplies 
 
 Come crowding round— the cheeks are pale. 
 The eyes are dim:— though rich the spot 
 With every flower this earth has got. 
 
 What is it to the nightingale 
 If there his darling rose is not ? 
 In vain the Valley's smihng throng- 
 Worship hitn as he moves along ; 
 He heeds them not, — one smile of hers 
 Is worth a world of worshippers ; 
 They but the Star's adorers arc- 
 She is the Heav'n that lights the Star ! 
 
 Hence is it, too, that Nourmahal. 
 Amid the luxuries of this hour. 
 Far from the joyous festival. 
 
 Sits in her own sequester'd bower. 
 With no one near to soothe or aid 
 But that inspired and woundrous maid, 
 I \amouna, the Enchantress ; — one 
 O'er whom his race the golden sun 
 For unremember'd years has run, 
 ' Yet never saw her blooming brow 
 j Younger or fairer than 'tis now. 
 Nay, rather, as the west wind's sigh 
 j Freshens the flower it passes by. 
 Time's wing but seem'd, in stealing o'er, 
 I To leave her lovelier than before. 
 I Yet on her smiles a sadness hung, 
 I And when, as oft, she spoke or sung 
 ; Of other worlds, there came a light 
 From her dark eyes so strangely bright. 
 That all believ'd nor man nor earth 
 Were conscious of Namouna's birth ! 
 All spells and talismans she knew. 
 
 From the great Mantra which around 
 The Air's sublimer Spirits drew. 
 
 To the gold gems of Afric, bound 
 Upon the wandering Arab's arm 
 To keep him from the Siltim's harm. 
 And she had pledgd her powerful art. 
 Pledged it with all the zeal and heart 
 Of one who knew, though high her sphere. 
 What 'twas to lose a love so dear — 
 To find .some spell that should recall 
 • Her Selim's smile to Xourm.ihal I 
 
 I 'Twas midnight :— thro' the lattice wreath'd 
 With woodbine many a perfumed breath'd. 
 I From plants that wake when others sleep, 
 I From timid jasmine buds that keep 
 ! Their odor to themselves all day, 
 , But, when the sunlight dies away. 
 I Let the delicious secret out 
 To every breeze that roves about ; 
 When thus Namouna : — " 'Tis the hour 
 That scatters spells on herb and flower, 
 I .\nd garlands might be gather'd now. 
 That, twined around the sleeper's brow 
 I Would make him dream of such delights. 
 Such miracles and dazzling sight;-, 
 .\s Genii of the sun behold 
 At evening, from their tents of gold 
 Upon th' horizon — where they play 
 Till twilight comes, and ray by ray. 
 Their sunny mansions melt away. 
 
THE FEAST OF ROSES. 
 
 Now, too, a chaplet might be wreath 'd 
 Of buds o'er which the moon has breath'd. 
 Which worn by her whose love has stray'd 
 
 Might bring some Peri from the skies, 
 Some sprite, whose very soul is made 
 
 Of flow'ret's breaths and lovers' sighs, 
 And who might tell " 
 
 " For me, for me," 
 Cried Nourmahal impatiently, — 
 " O, twine that wreath for me to-night !" 
 Then rapidly, with foot as light 
 As the young musk-roe's, out she flew 
 To cull each shining leaf that grew 
 Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams, 
 For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams. 
 Anemones and Seas of Gold. 
 
 And new-blown lilies of the river, 
 And those sweet flow'rets that unfold 
 
 Their buds on Camadeva's quiver ; 
 The tuberose, with her silvery light 
 
 That in the gardens of Malay 
 Is called the Mistress of the Night, 
 So like a bride, scented and bright. 
 
 She comes out when the sun's away, — 
 Amaranths, such as crown the maids 
 That wander through Zamara's shades. 
 And the white moon-flower, as it shows 
 On Serendib's high crags to those 
 Who near the isle at evening sail. 
 Scenting the clove-trees in the gale ; 
 In short, all flow'rets and all plants 
 
 From the divine Amrita tree. 
 That blesses heaven's inhabitants 
 
 With fruits of immortality, 
 Down to the basil tuft that waves 
 Its fragrant blossoms over graves. 
 
 And to the humble rosemary 
 Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed 
 To scent the desert and the dead : — 
 All in that garden bloom, and all 
 Are gather'd by young Nourmahal, 
 Who heaps her baskets with the flowers 
 
 And leaves, till they can hold no more ; 
 Then to Namouna flies, and showers 
 
 Upon her lap the shining store. 
 
 With what delight th' Enchantress views 
 
 So many buds, bathed with the dews 
 
 And beams of that bless'd hour !— her glance 
 
 Spoke something past all mortal pleasures, 
 As, m a kind of holy trance. 
 
 She hung above those fragrant treasures. 
 
 Bending to drink their balmy airs 
 As if she mix'd her soul with theirs. 
 And 'twas, indeed, the perfume shed 
 From flowers and scented flame that fed 
 Her charmed life — for none had ere 
 Beheld her taste of mortal fare. 
 Nor ever in aught earthly dip, 
 
 [ But the morn's dew, her roseate lip. 
 
 j Filled with the cool, inspiring smell, 
 Th' Enchantress now begins her spell. 
 Thus singing, as she winds and weaves 
 In mystic form the glittering leaves : 
 
 I know where the winged visions dwell 
 
 That around the night bed play, 
 1 1 know each herb and flow'ret's bell, 
 j Where they hide their wings by day. 
 Then hasten we, maid, 
 To twine our braid ; 
 To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 
 
 The image of love that nightly flies 
 
 To visit the bashful maid, 
 Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs 
 
 Its soul, like her, in the shade ; 
 The dream of a future, happier hour 
 
 That alights on misery's brow. 
 Springs out of the silvery almond flower. 
 
 That blooms on a leafless bough. 
 Then hasten we, maid. 
 To twine our braid ; 
 To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 
 
 The visions that oft to worldly eyes 
 
 The glitter of mines unfold. 
 Inhabit the mountain herb that dyes 
 
 The tooth of the fawn like gold ; 
 The phantom shapes — O touch not them — 
 
 That appal the murderer's sight. 
 Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem. 
 
 That shrieks when pluck'd at night ! 
 Then hasten we, maid. 
 To twine our braid ; 
 To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 
 
 The dream of the injur'd patient mind 
 
 That smiles at the wrongs of men. 
 Is found in the bruis'd and wounded rind 
 Of the cinnamon, sweetest then. 
 Then hasten we, maid. 
 To twine our braid ; 
 To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 
 
102 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 No sooner was the flower)' crown 
 
 Placed on her head than sleep came down. 
 
 Gently as nights of summer fall. 
 
 Upon the lids of Nuurmahal ; — 
 
 And, suddenly, a tuneful breeze. 
 
 As full of small, rich harmonies 
 
 As ever wind, that o'er the tents 
 
 Of Azab blew, was full of scents. 
 
 Steals on her ear, and floats and swells. 
 
 Like the first air of morning creeping 
 Into those wreathy. Red Sea shells. 
 
 Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping; 
 And now a spirit form'd, 'twould seem, 
 
 Of music and of light, — so fair. 
 So brilliantly his features beam. 
 
 And such a sound is in the air 
 Of sweetness when he waves his wings, — 
 Hovers around her, and thus sings : 
 
 From Chindara's warbling fount I come, 
 
 Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell ; 
 From Chindara's fount, my fairy home. 
 
 Where in music, morn and night, I dwell. 
 Where lutes in the air are heard about. 
 
 And voices are singing the whole day long, 
 And every sigh the heart breathes out 
 Is turn'd. as it leaves the lips, to song I 
 Hither 1 come 
 From my fairy home, 
 And if there's a magic in Music's strain, 
 I swear by the breath 
 01 that moonlight wreath. 
 Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again. 
 
 For mine is the lay that lightly floats. 
 And mine are the murmuring, dying notes. 
 That fall as soft as snow on the sea, 
 And melt in the heart as instantly ;— 
 And the passionate strain that, deeply going. 
 
 Refines the bosom it trembles through. 
 As the musk wind, over the waters blowing, 
 
 Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too. 
 
 Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway 
 The Spirits of past Delight obey ;— 
 Let but the tuneful talisman sound. 
 And they come, like Genii, hovering round. 
 And mine is the gentle song that bears 
 
 From soul to soul, the wishes of love. 
 As a bird, that wafts through genial airs 
 
 The cinnamon seed from grove to grove. 
 
 'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure 
 The past, the present, and future of pleasure , 
 
 When Memory links the tone that is gone 
 With the blissful tone that's still in the ear; 
 
 And Hope from a heavenly note flies on 
 To a note more heavenly still that is ncir. 
 
 The warrior's heart, when touch d by me. 
 Can as downy soft and as yielding be 
 As his own while plume, that high amid death 
 Through the field has shone— yet moves with a 
 
 breath ! 
 And, O, how the eyes of Beauty glisten. 
 
 When Music has reach'd her inward soul. 
 Like the silent stars, that wink and listen 
 While Heaven's eternal melodies roll. 
 So. hither I come 
 From my fairy home. 
 And if there's a magic in Music's strain, 
 I swear by the breath 
 Of that moonlight wreath. 
 Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again. 
 
 'Tis dawn — at least that earlier dawn 
 Whose glimpses are again withdrawn. 
 As if the morn had waked, and then 
 Shut close her lids of light again; 
 And Nourmahal is up and trying 
 
 The wonders of her lute, whose strings — 
 O bliss ! now murmur like the sighing 
 
 From that ambrosial Spirit's wings. 
 And then her voice, — 'tis more than human — 
 
 Never till now had it been given 
 To lips of any mortal woman 
 
 To utter notes st) fresh from heaven 
 Sweet as the breath of angel sighs. 
 
 When angel sighs are most divine, — 
 " O let it last till night ! " she cries 
 
 " And he is more than ever mine." 
 And hourly she renews the lay. 
 
 So fearful lest irs heavenly sweetness 
 Should, ere the evening, fade away, — 
 
 For things so heavenly have such fleetness , 
 Rut. far from fading, it but grows 
 Richer, diviner as it flows ; 
 Till rapt she dwells on every string. 
 
 And pours again each sound along. 
 Like echo, lost and languishing. 
 
 In love with her own wondrous song. ' 
 
 That evening (trustin,','- that his soul 
 
 Might be from h.iunting love rcleas'd — 
 
 I5y mirth, by music, and the bowl), 
 Th' imperial Selim held a feast 
 
 In his magnificent Shalimar : — 
 
 In whose saloons, when the first star 
 
THE FEAST OF ROSES. 
 
 103 
 
 Of evening o'er the waters trembled, 
 The Valley's loveliest all assembled ; 
 All the bright creatures that, like dreams, 
 Glide through its foliage and drink beams 
 Of beauty from its founts and streams ; 
 And all those wandering minstrel maids — 
 Who leave— how can they leave ? — the shades 
 Of that dear Valley, and are found 
 
 Singing in gardens of the South 
 Those songs that ne'er so sweetly sound 
 
 As from a young Cashmerian's mouth. 
 
 There, too, the harem's inmates smile, — 
 
 Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair. 
 And from the Oarden of the Nile. 
 
 Delicate as the roses there ; — 
 Daughters of Love from Cyprus' rocks. 
 With I'aphian diamonds in their locks- 
 Light I'eri forms, such as there are 
 On the gold meads of Candahar ; 
 And they before whose sleepy eyes. 
 
 In their own bright Kathaian bowers. 
 Sparkle such rainbow butterflies 
 
 That they might fancy the rich tlowers 
 That round them in the sun lay sighing. 
 Had been bv magic all set Hying. 
 
 Every thing young, every thing fair 
 From east and west is blushing there. 
 Except — except — O, Nourmahal ! 
 Thou loveliest, dearest of them all. 
 The one, whose smile .shone out alone, 
 Amidst a world the only one ; 
 Whose light, among so many lights. 
 Was like that star on starry nights. 
 The seaman singles from the sky, 
 To steer his bark forever by ! 
 Thou wert not there — so Selim thought. 
 
 And every thing seem'd drear without thee ; 
 But, ah ! thou wert, thou wert.— and brought 
 
 Thy charm of song all fresh about thee. 
 Mingling unnotic'd with a band 
 Of lutanists from many a land, 
 And veil'd by such a mask as shades 
 The features of young Arab maids, 
 A mask that leaves but one eye free, 
 To do its best in witchery, — 
 She rov'd, with beating heart, around. 
 
 And waited, trembling, for the minute. 
 When she might try if still the sound 
 
 Of her lov'd lute had magic in it. 
 
 The board was spread with fruits and wine ; 
 With grapes of gold, like those that .shine 
 On Casbin's hills ; — pomegranates full 
 
 Of melting sweetness, and the pears. 
 And sunniest apples that Caubul 
 
 In all its thousand gardens bears; — 
 Plantains, the golden and the green, 
 
 Malaya's ncctar'd mangusteen ; 
 Prunes of Hokara, and sweet nuts 
 
 From the far groves of Samarcand, 
 And Basra dates, and apricots. 
 
 Seed of the Sun, from Iran's land : — 
 With rich conserve of Visna cherries 
 Of orange flowers, and of those berries 
 That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles 
 Feed on in Erac's rocky dells. 
 All these in richest vases smile. 
 
 In baskets of pure santal wood. 
 And urns of porcelain from that isle 
 
 Sunk underneath the Indian Hood, 
 Whence oft the lucky diver brings 
 Vases to grace the halls of kings. 
 Wines, too, of every clime and hue. 
 Around their liquid lustre threw ; 
 Amber Rosolli, — the bright dew 
 From vineyards of the (}reen Sea gushing ; 
 And Shiraz wine, that richly ran 
 
 As if that jewel, large and rare, 
 The ruby for which Kublai-Khan 
 Offer'd a city's wealth, was blushing. 
 
 Melted within the goblets there I 
 
 And amply Selim quaffs of each. 
 
 And seems resolv'd the Hood shall reach 
 
 His inward heart, — shedding around 
 
 A genial deluge, as they run. 
 That soon shall leave no .spot undrown'd. 
 
 For Love to rest his wings upon. 
 He little knew how well the boy 
 
 Can float upon a goblet's streams, 
 Lighting them with his smile of joy ; — 
 
 As bards have seen him in their dreams, 
 Down the blue Ganges laughing glide 
 
 Upon a rosy lotus wreath, 
 Catching new lustre from the tide 
 
 That with his image shone beneath. 
 
 But what are cups, without the aid 
 Of song to speed them as they flow ? 
 
 And see — a lovely Georgian maid. 
 
 With all the bloom, the frcshen'd glow 
 
I04 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Of her own country maidens* looks, 
 When warm they rise from Teflis" brooks 
 And with an eye, whose restless ray. 
 
 Full, Moating, dark — O. he, who knows 
 His heart is weak, of Heav"n should pray 
 
 To guard him from such eyes as those ! 
 With a voluptuous wildness flings 
 Her snowy hand across the strings 
 Of a syrinda, and thus sings : — 
 
 Come hither, come hither — by night and by day. 
 We Imger in pleasures that never are gone ; 
 
 Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away, 
 Another as sweet and as shining comes on. 
 
 And the love that is o'er, in expiring, gives birth 
 To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss; 
 
 And, O, if there be an Klysium on earth. 
 It is this, it is this. 
 
 Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh 
 
 As the flower of the Amra just op'd by a bee ; 
 
 And precious their tears as that rain from the sky. 
 
 Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. 
 O. think what the kiss and the smile must be worth 
 When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in 
 bliss. 
 And own if there be an Elysium on earth, 
 It is this, it is thi.s. 
 
 Here sparkles the nectar, that, hallow'd by love, 
 
 Could draw down those angels of old from 
 
 their sphere, [above. 
 
 Who for wine of this earth left the fountains 
 
 And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we 
 
 have here. 
 
 And, bless 'd with the odor our goblet gives forth. 
 
 What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would 
 
 For, O, if there be an Elysium on earth, [miss? 
 
 It is this, it is this. 
 
 The Georgian's song was scarcely mute. 
 
 When the same measure, sound for sound, 
 Was caught up by another lute. 
 
 And so divinely breathed around, 
 That all stood hush'd and wondering. 
 
 And turn'd and look'd into the air. 
 As if they thought to see the wing 
 
 Of Israfil, the Angel, there ;— 
 So powerfully on every soul 
 That new, enchanted measure stole. 
 While now a voice, sweet as the note 
 Of the charm 'd lute, was heard to float 
 
 Along its chords, and so intwinc 
 
 Its sounds with theirs, that none knew whether 
 The voice or lute was most divine. 
 
 So wondrously they went together :—- 
 
 There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has 
 
 told. 
 
 When two. that are link'd in one heavenly tie. 
 
 With heart never changing, and brow never cold. 
 
 Love on thro' all ills, and love on till they die I 
 
 One hour of a passion so sacred is worth 
 
 Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss ; 
 And, O, if there be an Elysium on earth 
 It is this, it is this. 
 
 'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words 
 But that deep magic in the chords 
 And in the lips, that gave such powei 
 As music knew not till that hour 
 At once a hundred voices said, 
 " It is the mask'd .Arabian maid !" 
 While Selim, who had felt the strain 
 Deepest of any. and had lain 
 Some minutes rapt, as in a trance. 
 
 After the fairy sounds were o'er. 
 Too inly touch'd for utterance, 
 
 Now motion 'd with his hand for more : 
 
 Fly to the desert, fly with me, 
 Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; 
 Hut, O, the choice, what heart can doubt. 
 Of tents with love, or thrones without .' 
 
 Our rocks are rough, but .smiling there 
 I The acacia waves her yellow hair. 
 Lovely and sweet, nor lov'd the less 
 For flowering in a wilderness. 
 
 Our sands are bare, but down their slope 
 I The silvery-footed antelope 
 As gfracefully and gayly springs 
 As o'er the marble courts of kings. 
 
 Then come — Thy Arab maid will be 
 The lov'd and lone acacia tree, 
 I The antelope whose feet shall bless 
 With their light sound thy loveliness. 
 
 O, there are looks and tones that dart 
 An instant sunshine through the heart. 
 As if the soul that minute caught 
 Some treasure it through life had sought ; 
 
O; THE MARRIAGE. 
 
 105 
 
 As if the very lips and eyes 
 Predestined to have all our sighs. 
 And never be forgot again, 
 Sparkled and spoke before us then. 
 
 So came thy every glance and tone 
 When first on me they breath'd and shone ; 
 Now, as if brought from other spheres. 
 Yet welcome as if lov'd for years. 
 
 Then fly with me, if thou hast known 
 No other flame, nor falsely thrown 
 A gem away, that thou hadst sworn 
 Should ever in thy heart be worn. 
 
 Come, if the love thou hast for me 
 Is pure and fresh as mine for thee — 
 Fresh as the fountain underground. 
 When first 'tis by the lapwing found. 
 
 But if for me thou dost forsake 
 Some other maid and rudely break 
 Her worship'd image from its base. 
 To give to me the ruined place ; — 
 
 Then, fare thee well. — I'd rather make 
 My bower upon some icy lake 
 When thawing sun begins to shine. 
 Than trust to love so false as thine ! 
 
 There was a pathos in this lay 
 
 That, e'en without enchantmeoit's art. 
 Would instantly have found its way 
 
 Deep into Selim's burning heart ; 
 But, breathing, as it did, a tone 
 To earthly lutes and lips unknown, 
 With every chord fresh from the touch 
 Of Music's spirit — 'twas too much ! 
 
 Starting, he dash'd away the cup. 
 Which, all the time of this sweet air, 
 
 His hand had held, untasted, up, 
 As if 'twere fixed by magic there ; 
 And naming her so long unnam'd, 
 So long unseen, wildly exclaimed. 
 "O Nourmahal! O Nourmahal! 
 
 Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, 
 I could forget — forgive thee all. 
 
 And never leave those eyes again !" 
 
 The mask is off — the charm is wrought. 
 And Selim to his heart has caught. 
 In blushes, more than ever bright. 
 His Nourmahal, his Harem's Light! 
 And well do vanished frowns enhance 
 The charm of every brighten'd glance ; 
 
 And dearer seems each dawning smile 
 For having lost its light awhile ; 
 And happier now for all her sighs. 
 
 As on his arm her head reposes, 
 She whispers him, with laughing eyes, 
 
 " Remember, love, the Feast of Roses.' 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 — Fro»t ^^Laiia Rookh,^ 
 
 ! THE MARRIAGE. 
 
 O ! the marriage, the marriage, 
 
 With love and mo biiachail for me, 
 The ladies that ride in a carriage 
 
 Might envy my marriage to me ; 
 For Owen is straight as a tower. 
 
 And tender and loving and true ; 
 He told me more love in an hour 
 
 Than the Squires of the county could do. 
 Then, O ! the marriage, etc. 
 
 His hair is a shower of soft gold. 
 
 His eye is as clear as the day. 
 His conscience and vote were unsold 
 
 When others were carried away ; 
 His word is as good as an oath, 
 
 And freely 'twas given to me ; 
 O ! sure 'twill be happy for both 
 
 The day of our marriage to see. 
 
 Then, O ! the marriage, etc. 
 
 His kinsmen are honest and kind, 
 
 The neighbors think much of his skill. 
 And Owen's the lad to my mind. 
 
 Though he owns neither castle nor mill. 
 But he has a tilloch of land, 
 
 A horse, and a stocking of coin, 
 A foot for the dance, and a hand 
 
 In the cause of his country to join. 
 Then, O ! the marriage, etc. 
 
 We meet in the market and fair — 
 
 We meet in the morning and night — 
 He sits on the half of my chair. 
 
 And my people are wild with delight. 
 Yet I long through the winter to skim, 
 
 Though Owen longs more, I can see. 
 When I will be married to him. 
 
 And he will be married to me. 
 
 Then, ! the marriage, etc. 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
io6 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 COME TO ME DEAREST. 
 
 Come to me dearest. I'm lonely without thee ; 
 l).ay-time and niRht-time I'm thinking about thee; 
 Night-time and day-time in dreams 1 behold thee. 
 Unwelcome the wakinjj that ceases to f<)ld thee. 
 Come to me. darliniif. my sorrows to lighten, 
 Come in thy beauty, to bless and to brighten, 
 Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly. 
 Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. 
 
 Swallows shall flit round the desolate ruin. 
 Telling of spring and its joyous renewing ; 
 And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold 
 
 treasure, 
 Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure ; 
 O Spring of my spirit ! O .May of my bosom ! 
 .Shine out on my soul till it burgeon and blossom — 
 The waste of my life has a rose-root within it. 
 And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. 
 
 Figure that moves like a song thro' the even — 
 Features lit up by a reflex of heaven — 
 Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother. 
 Where sunshine and shadows are chasing each 
 
 other ; 
 Smiles coming seldom, but child-like and simple, 
 And opening their eyes from the heart of a 
 
 dimple — 
 
 thanks to the Savior, that even thy seeming 
 Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming ! 
 
 You have been glad when you knew I was glad- 
 dened ; 
 Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened ? 
 As octave to octave and rhyme unto rhyme, love, 
 Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love ; 
 
 1 cannot weep but your tears will be flowing — 
 You cannot smile but my cheeks will be glowing — 
 I would not die without you at my side, love — 
 You will not linger when I shall have died, love. 
 
 Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, 
 Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow, 
 .Strong, swift and fond as the words which I 
 
 speak, love ; (cheek, love. 
 
 With a song on your lip and a smile on your 
 Come, for my heart in your absence is dreary ; 
 Haste, for my spirit is sickened and weary ; 
 Come to the arms which alone should caress 
 
 thee ; [thee. 
 
 Come to the heart which is throbbing to pre.ss 
 JOSEPH BRENAN. 
 
 COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. 
 
 Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken dear ! 
 Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is 
 
 still here ; 
 Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast. 
 .Vnd the heart and the hand all thy own to the 
 
 last! 
 
 Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same. 
 Thro' joy and thro' torments, thro' glory and 
 
 shame .' 
 I know not, I ask not if guilt's in that heart, 
 I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art • 
 
 Thou hast called me thy Angel, in moments of 
 bliss, 
 
 Still thy angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this— 
 
 Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pur- 
 sue, [too. 
 
 And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 JANETTE'S HAIR 
 
 Oh, loosen the snood that you wear, Janette, 
 Let me tangle a hand in your hair, my pet. 
 For the world to me had no daintier sight 
 Than your brown hair veiling your shoulders 
 white. 
 As I tangled a hand in your hair, my pet. 
 
 It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette, 
 It was finer than silk of the floss, my pet, 
 Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist, 
 'Twas a thing to be braided, and jeweled, and 
 kissed — 
 'Twas the loveliest hair in the world, my pet. 
 
 My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, 
 It was sinewy, bristled, and brown, my pet. 
 But warmly and softly it loved to caress 
 Your round white neck and your wealth of tress — 
 Your beautiful plenty of hair, my pet. 
 
 Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette, 
 Revealing the old, dear story, my pet — [sky. 
 
 They were gray, with that chastened tinge of the 
 When the trout leaps quickest to soap the fly. 
 .•\nd they matched with your golden hair, 
 my pet. 
 
WERE I BUT HIS OWN WIFE. 
 
 107 
 
 Your lips — but I have no words — Janette — 
 They were fresh as the twitter of birds, my pet, 
 When the spring is young, and the roses are wet 
 With the dew-drops in each red bosom set, [pet. 
 And they suited your gold-brown hair, my 
 
 Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette, 
 'Twas a silken and golden snare, my pet, 
 But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore 
 The right to continue your slave evermore, [pet. 
 With my lingers enmeshed in your hair, my 
 
 Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, 
 With your lips, your eyes, and your hair, my pet ; 
 In the darkness of desolate years I moan. 
 And my tears fall bitterly over the stone 
 That covers your golden hair, my pet. 
 
 CHARLES G. H.\LPINE. 
 
 THE LITTLE WIFE. 
 
 Frown not, my love ! ah, let me chase 
 
 Away the shade of care that lies 
 To-night so darkly on your face. 
 
 And mist-like o'er your manly eyes. 
 Ah, let me try the winning ways 
 
 You said were mine — the angel art 
 To pour at once ten thousand rays 
 
 Of dancing sunlight on your heart ! 
 My love, my life ! 
 Your little wife 
 
 Must bid these gloomy thoughts depart. 
 
 When love was young and hopes were bright, 
 
 I thought, 'midst all our dreams of bliss. 
 That clouds might come like these to-night, 
 
 And hours of sorrow such as this. 
 And, then, I said, my task shall be 
 
 To soothe his heart so fond and true. 
 And he who loves me thus, shall see 
 
 How much his little wife can do. 
 My heart, my life, 
 Your little wife 
 
 Must bid you dream those dreams anew. 
 
 Then let me lift those locks that fall 
 
 So wildly o'er your lofty brow. 
 And smooth, with fingers soft and small. 
 
 The veins that cord your temples now. 
 
 How oft, when ached your wearied head. 
 
 From manly care, or thought divine. 
 
 You've held me to your heart, and said 
 
 You wanted love so deep as mine ! 
 
 My own, my life ! 
 
 Your little wife. 
 
 That love is all her life's design. 
 
 And here it is — a love as wild 
 
 As e'er defied the world's control ; 
 The fondness of a tearful child. 
 
 The passion of a woman's soul, 
 All mingled in my breast for thee. 
 
 In one hot tide — I cannot speak : 
 But feel my throbbing heart, and see 
 
 Its brightness in my burning cheek — 
 My love, my life ! 
 Your little wife 
 
 Must cheer you, or her heart will break. 
 
 Ah, now the breast I found so cold. 
 
 Grows warm within my close embrace ; 
 And smiles as sweet as those of old 
 
 Are stealing softly o'er your face ; 
 And far within your brightening eyes 
 
 My image, true and clear, I see ; 
 Each shade of care and sorrow flies, 
 
 And leaves your heart again to me — 
 My love, my life ! 
 Your little wife 
 
 Its joy and light must ever be. 
 
 TIMOTHY D. SULLIVAN. 
 
 WERE I BUT HIS OWN WIFE. 
 
 Were I but his own wife, to guard and to guide him, 
 
 'Tis little of sorrow should fall on my dear ; 
 I'd chant my low love verses, stealing beside him. 
 
 So faint and so tender his heart would but hear ; 
 I'd pull the wild blossom from valley and high- 
 land, [down ; 
 
 And there at his feet would I lay them all 
 I'd sing him the songs of our poor stricken island. 
 
 Till his heart was on fire with a love like my own. 
 
 There's a rose by his dwelling — I'd tend the lone 
 
 treasure, [should come ; 
 
 That he might have flow'rs when the summer 
 
 There's a harp in his hall — I would wake' its 
 
 sweet measure, | 
 
 For he must have music to brighten his home. 
 
io8 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Were I but his own wife, to jjuidc anil t" guard 
 
 him. 
 
 'Tis little of sorrow should fall on my dear ; 
 
 I'or every kind glance my whole life would award 
 
 him, — 
 
 In sickness I'd soothe and in sadness I'd cheer. 
 
 My heart is a fount welling upward forever. 
 
 When I think of my true love by night or by day ; 
 That heart keeps its faith like a fast-flowing river 
 
 Which gushes forever and sings on its way. 
 I have thoughts full of peace for his soul to re- 
 pose in. 
 
 Were I but his own wife to win and to woo — 
 Oh. sweet if the night of misfortune were closing. 
 
 To rise, like the morning star, darling, for you! 
 
 ELLKN DOWNING. 
 
 THE IRISH WIFE. 
 
 1 would not give my Irish wife 
 
 For all the dames of the Sa.xon land— 
 1 would not give my Irish wife 
 
 For the Queen of France's hand. 
 For she to me is dearer 
 
 Than castles strong, or lands, or life — 
 An outlaw — so I'm near her 
 
 To love till death my Irish wife. 
 
 O, what would bo this home of mine — 
 A ruined, hermit-hauiited place. 
 
 Hut for the light that nightly shines 
 Upon its walls from Kathleen's face? 
 
 What comfort in a mine of gold — 
 
 What pleasure in a royal life. 
 
 If the heart within lay dead and cold. 
 
 If 1 could not wed my Irish wife .' 
 
 I knew the law forbade the bans- 
 
 1 knew my King abhorred her race — 
 Who never bent before their clans. 
 
 Must bow before their ladies' grace. 
 Take all my forfeited domain. 
 
 I cannot wage with kinsmen strife — 
 T.ike knightly gear and noble name. 
 
 And I will keep my Irish wife. 
 
 My Irish wife has clear blue eyes, 
 
 My heaven by day. my stars by night— 
 
 And twinlike truth and fondness lie. 
 Within her swelling bosom white. 
 
 My Irish wife has golden hair — 
 
 Apollo's harp had once such strings- 
 Apollo's .self might pause to hear 
 Her bird-like carol when she sings. 
 
 I would not give my Irish wife 
 
 For all the dames of the Saxon land — 
 I would not give my Irish wife 
 
 For the Queen of France's hand. 
 For she to me is dearer 
 
 Than castles strong, or lands, or lif. , 
 In death 1 would lie near her. 
 
 And rise beside my Irish wife. 
 
 THOMAS IiARCV McGEE. 
 
 TO THE RECORDING ANGEL. 
 Cherub of Heaven, that from thy secret stand 
 
 Dost note the follies of each mortal here. 
 Oh. if Eliza's* steps employ thy hand. 
 
 Blot the sad legend with a mortal tear I 
 Nor when she errs, thro' passion's w^ild extreme, 
 
 Mark then her course, nor heed each trifling 
 wrong ; 
 Nor when her sad attachment is her theme. 
 
 Note <lown the transports of her erring tongue. 
 But when she sighs for sorrow not her own. 
 
 Let that dear sigh to mercy's cause be given, 
 And bear that tear to lier Creator's throne 
 
 Which glistens in the eye upraised to Heaven. 
 
 RICHARD URINSI.KY SHERIDAN. 
 
 A NEW LIFE. 
 Is it fancy.? Am 1 dreaming.? 
 Do I tread the realms of faerx- — 
 Do my hopings mock my wild heart with the 
 I echoes of itself .' - 
 
 Is my soul lit by the beaming 
 I Of your radiant face, fair Lilla 
 i Or am I witched, like pilgrim, by the lagoon's 
 midnight elf.' 
 
 Sweet words arc ringing o'er mc. 
 And beside me and before me. 
 Yet 1 fear to think them truthful, lest I wake to 
 I find me wrong; 
 
 And the bliss of the first minute, 
 I When my heart caught them within it. 
 j Would woo me to eternal sleep, to ever dream 
 such song. 
 
 • 'I'iif atithor'ri wife, previously Miss Liiilt'y. 
 
STEERING HOME. 
 
 109 
 
 God is loving — God is jealous. 
 And we're every mortal fashioned 
 In the likeness of the Moulder ! and our symjia- 
 thies so bent ; 
 Can my words be over zealous. 
 Or my love be too impassioned ? 
 No, I cannot outstrip nature, though I fail to be 
 content. 
 
 1 have h;ul my drc.iin of glory. 
 And lia\-e quaffed my youthful chalice — 
 What bitter dregs lay thickening beneath ii . 
 starry foam ? 
 And my life broke, like the story 
 Of that oriental palace 
 Whose magic marble fabric sunk, and left no 
 trace of home. 
 
 In my thought's dim lonely prison. 
 Where I dwelt, a voice has risen, 
 As the Angel's imto Peter, giving comfort, hope 
 and cheer; 
 .And so full of light 's the tremor, 
 It now pulses through the dreamer. 
 He'd bless the thought that chains him to have 
 that angel near. 
 
 Was your heart so sympathetic 
 That it caught my words unspoken. 
 
 As they welled up, seeking utterance, love-con- 
 fused to very fear .' 
 Was it you that said, " I love thee }" 
 Was it I that said, " I love thee }" 
 
 Or did we each the other's heart unburden to the 
 
 When you twined your arms about me, 
 .Saying life was dark without me — 
 
 That I was the one comforter you prayed of 
 God to give — 
 That among the thousands lleeing 
 Past, you knew me as //la/ being ; 
 
 My heart, beneath the revelation, paused to say, 
 
 There's a strange new life upon me. 
 With a clarion-toned suffusion 
 Of Joy, that cannot sound itself with words of 
 mortal speech : 
 But it is no fancy won me. 
 No mere student-bred delusion ; 
 'Tis thy vatic words that make a dual future in 
 my reach. 
 
 What a bounteously decreeing 
 Gift hath love, when it receiving 
 Love for love, transfigures us to thnigs ui 
 dreamed before ! 
 Now I've two lives in my being, 
 Vou have two lives in your living. 
 And yet we have but one dear life between 1 
 evermore ! 
 
 imiN sava<;f.. 
 
 STEERING HOME. 
 
 Far out beyond our sheltered bay, 
 Against the golden evening sky, 
 
 A brown speck rises, then away 
 It sinks— it dwindles from my eye. 
 Again it rises : drawing nigh. 
 Its well-known shape grows sharp and clear- 
 It is his bark, my Donal dear ! 
 
 And oh ! tho' small a speck it be, 
 
 Kind Heaven, that knows my hope and fear, 
 Can tell the world it holds for me. 
 
 My boat of boats is steering home — 
 She bends and sways before the wind ; 
 
 I cannot see the milky foam 
 Beneath her bows and far behind. 
 But oh! I know my love will find, 
 Howe'er the evening current flows, 
 Howe'er the rising night wind blows. 
 
 The shortest cour.se his keel can dart 
 From where he is to where he knows 
 
 I wait to clasp him to my heart. 
 
 Come, Donal, home ! See by my side 
 Your little sons, impatient too. 
 
 All day they loitered by the tide, 
 And prattled of your boat and you. 
 Into the glancing waves they threw 
 Some little chips : the surges bore 
 Their tiny vessels back to shore, 
 
 Then would they clap their hands and say 
 The first was yours : then o'er and o'er. 
 
 Would ask me why you stayed away. 
 
 Come, Donal. home ! The red sun sets ; 
 
 Come to your children dear, and me ; 
 And bring us full or empty nets, 
 
 A scene of joy our hearth shall be. 
 
 You'll tell me stories of the sea; 
 
no 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 And I will sing the songs you said 
 Were sweet as wild sea-music made 
 
 By mermaids on the weedy rocks. 
 When in some sheltered quiet shade, 
 
 They sing, and comb their dripping locks. 
 
 He comes I he comes! My boat is near; 
 I know her mainsail's narrow peak. 
 
 They haul her flowing sheets — I hear 
 The dry sheeves on their pivots creak. 
 He waves his liand ; I hear him s|)eak 
 Come to the beach, my sons, with me: 
 He'll greet us from her side; and we 
 
 Shall meet him when he leaps to shore ; 
 Then take him home, and bid him see 
 
 Our brighter deck — our cottage floor. 
 
 TIMOTHY D. SULLIVAN. 
 
 MY CONNOR. 
 
 His eye is as black as the sloe. 
 
 His skin is as white as its blossom ; 
 He loves me, — but hate to the foe 
 
 Has the uppermost place in his bosom. 
 I forgive him. for sorrow unmixed 
 
 His'child. like himself, should inherit. 
 If hatred to chains had not fi.xed 
 
 The strong kernel-stone in his spirit. 
 
 The lark never soars but to sing. 
 
 Nor sings but to soar ; but my Connor 
 Surpasses the lark on the wing, 
 
 Tho' walking the earth without honor. 
 The fetters — the fetters awake 
 
 Deep passionate songs that betoken 
 The part and the place he will take 
 
 When bonds are held up to be broken. 
 
 He loves me more dearly than life, 
 
 Yet would he forsake me to-morrow, 
 And lose both his blood and his wife 
 
 To free his loved island from sorrow ; 
 And could I survive but to see 
 
 The land without shackle upon her, 
 I freely a widow would be, 
 
 Tho' dearly 1 dote on my Connor. 
 
 There is hope for the land where the ties 
 'Twixt husband and wife have been reckoned 
 
 As virtue the first, in strange eyes. 
 Yet one, in their own, but the second I 
 
 The sun never shines from the sky 
 If the country be long in dishonor. 
 
 With women— all braver than I — 
 And men — all as brave as my Connor. 
 
 JOHN D. FRASER. 
 
 ROVING BRIAN O'CONNELL. 
 " How do you like her for your wife, 
 
 Roving Brian O'Connell.' 
 A loving mate and true for life. 
 
 Roving Brian O'Connell." 
 ' ■ She's as fit to be my wife 
 As my sword is for the strife," 
 Said the Rapparee trooper. 
 
 Roving Brian O'Connell ! 
 
 " Ne'er to Mabel prove untrue, 
 
 Roving Brian O'Connell, 
 For oh I she'd die for love of you, 
 
 RoNing Brian O'Connell I" 
 " Oh ! my wild heart never knew 
 A flame so warm, so constant, too," 
 Said the Rapparee trooper. 
 
 Roving Brian O'Connell ! 
 
 " Her father died as dies the brave. 
 
 Roving Brian O'Connell ; 
 Beneath the blow the Saxon gave. 
 
 Roving Brian O'Connell." 
 " Next we'll meet the -Sa.xon knave 
 He'll get pike and gun and glaive !" 
 Said the Rapparee trooper. 
 
 Roving Brian O'Connell. 
 
 " How will you your young bride keep. 
 
 Roving Brian O'Connell ? 
 The foeman's bands are ne'er asleep, 
 
 Roving Brian O'Connell." 
 '■ In our hold by Conail's steep 
 Who dare make my Mabel weep ?" 
 Said the Rapparee trooper. 
 
 Roving Brian O'Connell. 
 
 " This day in ruined church you stand, 
 
 Roving Brian O'Connell ; 
 To take your young bride's priceless hand. 
 
 Roving Brian O'Connell." 
 •■ Oh. my heart, my arm. my brand. 
 Are for her and our own dear land !" 
 Said the Rapparee trooper. 
 
 Roving Brian O'Connell. 
 
 ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 
 
THE PATRIOT'S BRIDE. 
 
 THE PEASANT'S BRIDE 
 
 I was a simple country girl 
 
 That loved the morning dearly ; 
 My only wealth a precious pearl 
 
 I found one morning early. 
 I milked my mother's only cow. 
 
 My kind poor lovin' Driinin ; 
 I never envied then nor now 
 
 The kine of richer women. 
 
 The sun shone out in bonnie June, 
 
 And fragrant were the meadows ; 
 A voice as sweet as an Irish tune 
 
 (I know it was my Thady's), 
 Said, " Mary dear, I fain would stay. 
 
 But Where's the use repining? 
 I must away to save my hay 
 
 Now while the sun is shining." 
 
 Now Thady was as stout a blade 
 
 As ever stood in leather, 
 ■With hook or scythe, with plough or spade. 
 
 He'd beat ten men together ; 
 He's just the man, thought I, for me, 
 
 He is working late and early. 
 He shall be mine if he is free, 
 
 He takes my fancy fairly. 
 
 I gave my hand, though I was young. 
 
 And heart, too, like a feather. 
 Our marriage song by the lark was sung 
 
 When we were wed together ; 
 And many a noble lord, I'm told. 
 
 And many a noble lady, 
 ■Would gladly give a crown of gold 
 
 To be like me and Thady. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE PATRIOT'S BRIDE. 
 
 O ! give me back that royal dream 
 
 My fancy wrought, 
 ■When I have seen your sunny eyes 
 
 Grow moist with thought ; [mine 
 
 And fondly hop'd. dear love, your heart from 
 
 Its spell had caught ; 
 And laid me down to dream that dream divine, 
 
 But true, methought. 
 Of how my life's long task would be, to make 
 yours blessed as it ought. 
 
 To learn to love sweet nature more 
 
 For your sweet sake. 
 To watch with you — dear friend, with you ! — 
 
 Its wonders break ; 
 The sparkling spring in that bright face to see 
 
 Its mirror make — 
 On summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing 
 
 By linn and lake ; 
 And know your voice, your magic voice, could 
 still a grander music wake ! 
 
 On some old shell-strewn rock to sit 
 
 In autumn eves. 
 Where gray Killiney cools the torrid air 
 
 Hot autumn weaves : 
 Or by that Holy 'Well in mountain lone. 
 
 Where Faith believes 
 (Fain would I b'lieve) its secret, darling wish 
 
 True love achieves. 
 Yet, O ! its Saint was not more pure than she to 
 whom my fond heart cleaves. 
 
 To see the dark, mid-winter night 
 
 Pass like a noon, 
 Sultry with thought from minds that teemed, 
 
 And glowed like June : 
 ■Whereto would pass in sculp'd and pictured train 
 
 Art's magic boon ; 
 And music thrill with many a haughty strain, 
 
 And dear old tune. 
 Till hearts grew sad to hear the destined hour to 
 part had come sn soon. 
 
 To wake the old weird world that sleeps 
 
 In Irish lore ; 
 The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung 
 
 By Mulla's shore : 
 Dear Curran's airy thoughts, like purple birds 
 
 That shine and soar ; 
 Tone's fiery hopes and all the deathless vows 
 
 That Grattan swore ; 
 The songs that once our own dear Davis sung — 
 ah, me ! to sing no more. 
 
 To search with mother-love the gifts 
 
 Our land can boast — 
 Soft Erna's isles, Neagh's wooded slopes, 
 
 Clare's iron coast ; 
 Kildare, whose legions gray our bosoms stir 
 
 ■With fay and ghost ; 
 Gray Mourne, green Antrim, purple Glenmalur — 
 
 Lene's fairy host; 
 With raids to many a foreign land to learn to 
 love dear Ireland most. 
 
POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 And all those proud old victor-tields 
 
 We thrill to name ; 
 Whose metn"ries are the stars that light 
 
 Long nights of shame ; [Keep, 
 
 The Cairn, the Dun, the Kath, the Tower, the 
 
 That still proclaim [deep, 
 
 In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how 
 
 Was Eire's fame, 
 O ! we shall see them all. with her, that dear, dear 
 friend we two have lov'd the same. 
 
 Yet ah ! how truer, tend'rer still 
 
 Methought did seem 
 That scene of tranquil joy, that happy home, 
 
 !5y Dodder's stream ; 
 The morning smile, that grew a fixed star 
 
 With love-lit beam. 
 The ringing laugh, locked hands, and all the far 
 
 And shining stream 
 Of daily love, that made one daily life diviner 
 than a dream. 
 
 For still to me, dear friend, dear Love, 
 
 Or both — dear wife. 
 Your image comes with serious thoughts. 
 
 But tender, rife ; 
 No idle plaything to caress or chide 
 
 In sport or strife ; 
 But my best chosen friend, companion, guide, 
 
 To walk through life. 
 Linked hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, 
 true husband and true wife. 
 
 CHARLES IJAVAN DUFFY. 
 
 I THE BLIND MAN TO HIS BRIDE. 
 
 When tirsl. beloved, in vanished hours, 
 
 The blind man sought thy hand to gain. 
 They said thy cheek was bright as flowers 
 
 New freshened by the summer rain. 
 They .said thy movements, swift yet soft. 
 
 Were such as make the winged dove 
 Seem, as it gently soars aloft. 
 
 The image of repose and love. 
 
 They told me, too. an eager crowd 
 
 Of wooers praised thy beauty rare ; 
 But that thy heart was all too proud 
 
 A common lot to meet or share. 
 Ah ! thine was neither pride nor scorn. 
 
 But in thy coy and virgin breast 
 Dwelt preference, not of passion bom, — 
 
 The love that hath a holier zest ! 
 
 Days came and went ; — thy .step 1 heard 
 
 Pause frequent, as it passed me by : — 
 Days came and went :- -thy heart was stirred. 
 
 And answ-ered to my stifled sigh ! 
 And thou didst make an humble choice. 
 
 Content to be the blind man's bride. 
 Who loved thee for thy gentle voice. 
 
 And owned no joy on earth beside. 
 
 And well by that sweet voice I knew 
 
 (Without the happiness of sight) 
 Thy years, as yet, were glad and few. 
 
 Thy smile most innocently bright : 
 I knew how full of love's own grace 
 
 The beauty of thy form must be. 
 And fancy idolized the face 
 
 Whose loveliness I might not .see! 
 
 Oh ! happy days were those, beloved ! 
 
 I almost ceased for light to pine. 
 When thro' the summer vales we roved. 
 
 Thy fond hand gently linked in mine. 
 Thy soft •■ good night " still sweetly cheered 
 
 Th' unbroken darkness of my doom ; 
 And thy "good morrow, love." endeared 
 
 Each sunrise that returned in gloom ! 
 
 At length, as years rolled swiftly on. 
 
 They spoke to me of Time's decay — 
 Of roses from the smooth cheek gone. 
 
 Of ebon ringlets turned to gray. 
 Ah I then I blessed the sightless eyes 
 
 Which could not feel the deepening shade. 
 Nor watch beneath succeeding skies 
 
 Thy withering beauty faintly fade. 
 
 / saw no paleness in thy cheek. 
 
 No lines upon thy forehead smooth, — 
 But still the blind man heard thee spenk 
 
 In accents made to bless and soothe. 
 Still he could feel thy guiding hand 
 
 As thro' the woodland wilds we ranged, — 
 Still in the summer light could stand, 
 
 And know thy heart and voice unchanged. 
 
 And still, beloved, till life grows culd. 
 
 We'll wander 'neath a genial sky. 
 And only know that we are old. 
 
 By counting happier years gone by : 
 For thou to me art still as fair 
 
 As when those happy years began. — 
 When first thou camest to soothe and share 
 
 The sorrows of a sightless man ! 
 
WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. 
 
 Old Time, who changes all below, 
 
 To wean men gently for the grave, 
 Hath brought us no increase of woe, 
 
 And leaves us all he ever gave : 
 For I am still a helpless thing. 
 
 Whose darkened world is cheered by thee, 
 And thou art she whose beauty's spring 
 
 The blind man vainly yearned to see. 
 
 CAROLINE E. NORTON. 
 
 A MAN'S DEVOTION. 
 
 Thou dear, false-hearted, beautiful frail child, 
 Though when thine eyes go wandering o'er my 
 
 face. 
 Searching for true love-tokens, I can trace 
 Sweet fraud in all their glances free and mild. 
 And in thy lip's light smile I find not truth, 
 Nor stedfast love in pressure of thy hand, 
 Nor in thy love-words music meet to soothe 
 A man's strong soul, clear as they run, and bland. 
 
 Though I have read thy soul, child, through and 
 
 through. 
 And firm I am of will that no eye's glance 
 Could lull me into any amorous trance; 
 Yet doth my love spring evermore anew. 
 I dare not cast thee from me — thou, so frail 
 Who hast so trusted me, when I so long [fail, 
 Have wrought and toiled for — lest thy foot should 
 And thou be trodden by the brute-heart throng. 
 
 God loves the worst of us. His book declares : 
 Perchance 'tis god-like thus for men to clea\-c 
 To weak things He hath fashioned, —not to lea\e 
 The gem to perish for the crust it bears. 
 Howe'er it be, come, dear one, to my arms : 
 My summer glory in high Heaven is gained. 
 If only through the rough seas and the storms 
 Thou art borne back to God unscathed, unstained. 
 
 GEORGE F. ARMSTRONG. 
 
 But you have not fair Marie's tender voice. 
 Or Constance' smile in which all hearts rejoice. 
 Inconstant! Why ? 1 love the good in all. 
 
 The good in one, and like the roving bee, 
 (Are you has bleu, fair Helene, will you call 
 
 My " roving bee " a threadbare simile.') 
 I go from flower to fruit, and 1 love each. 
 The faint-tinged rose-bud and the carmine peach. 
 
 I love you for your eyes, O fair Helene, 
 Your blue, blue eyes, so deep and limpid-clear, 
 
 In whose deep depths are drowned many men. 
 And for their deaths have you not shed a tear; 
 
 And yet I love dear Rosalind's shy grace. 
 
 And — can I help it ?— little Celia's face. 
 
 I love the good in all, the good in one ; 
 
 Too frank am I .' Can't help it ! 'tis my way. 
 If you'll be Clytie, I will be the sun. 
 
 And you can follow me about all day, 
 And yet I'll smile on all and that will be 
 Love universal, not inconstancv. 
 
 Conceited.' How you wrong me, fair Helene, 
 I'm not Apollo, and I know that well. 
 
 But you're not Clytie ; if you were, why then 
 I'd follow you. Good gracious ! whocouldtell 
 
 The girl would get so mad ? A temper, too ! 
 
 I'll never trust in meekest eyes of blue ! 
 
 JIAURICE F. EGAN. 
 
 DANGEROUS FRANKNESS. 
 
 Inconstant? And why not, O fair Helene.' — 
 You have the bluest eyes I've ever seen. 
 
 Blue as the violets in that season when [green. 
 The fields and hills are tinged with faintest 
 
 WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. 
 
 When iirst I met thee, warm and young. 
 
 There shone such truth about thee. 
 And on thy lip such promise hung, 
 
 I did not dare to doubt thee. 
 I saw thee change, yet still relied. 
 Still clung with hope the fonder, 
 .\nd thought, though false to all beside. 
 From me thou couldst not wander. 
 But go, deceiver, go ! 
 
 The heart, whose hopes i-ould m;ike it 
 Trust one so false, so low, 
 
 Deserx^es that thou :Miouldst break it. 
 
 When every tongue thy follies nam'd, 
 
 I fled the unwelcome story ; 
 Or found, in ev'n the faults they blam'd, 
 
 Some gleams of future glory. 
 
114 
 
 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 I still was true, when nearer friends 
 
 Conspired to wrong, to slight thee ; 
 The heart that now thy falsehood rends, 
 Would then have bled to right thee. 
 But go, deceiver ! go ! 
 
 Some day, perhaps thou'lt waken 
 From pleasure's dream, to know 
 The grief of hearts forsaken. 
 
 Even now, tho' youth its bloom has shed. 
 
 No lights of age adorn thee : 
 The few, who lov'd thee once, ha\e fled. 
 
 And th6y,who flatter scorn thee. 
 Thy midni^t cup is pledg'd to slaves. 
 
 No genial ties in wreathe it ; 
 The smiling there, like light on graves. 
 Has rank cold hearts beneath it. 
 Go — go — though worlds were thine, 
 
 I would not now surrender 
 One taintless tear of mine 
 ?or all thy guilty splendor ! 
 
 And days may come, thou false one ! yet, 
 
 When even those ties shall sever ; 
 When thou wilt call, with vain regret. 
 
 On her thou'st lost forever ; 
 On her who, in thy fortune's fall 
 
 With smiles had still receiv'd thee, 
 And gladly died to prove thee all 
 Her fancy first believ'd thee. 
 Go — go— 'tis vain to curse, 
 
 'Tis weakness to upbraid thee; 
 Hate cannot wish thee worse 
 
 Than guilt and shame have made thee. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 THE LOST MADONNA. 
 
 O lost Madonna, young and fair ! 
 
 O'er-leant by broad embraciiiij trees 
 A streamlet to the lonely air 
 
 Murmurs its meek low melodies; 
 And there, as if to drink the tune. 
 
 And 'mid the sparkling sands to play. 
 One constant sunbeam still at noon 
 
 .Shot thro" the glades its golden way. 
 
 My lost Madonna, whose glad life 
 Was like that ray of radiant air, 
 
 The March-wind's violet scents blew rife 
 When last we .sought that fountain fair. 
 
 , Blithe as the beam from heaven arriving, 
 I Thy hair held back by hands whose gleam 
 I Was white as stars with night-clouds striving- 
 I Thy bright lips bent and sipped the stream. 
 
 Fair fawn-like creature I innocent 
 
 In soul as faultless in thy form,— 
 \s o'er the wave thy beauty bent 
 j It blushed thee back each rosy charm 
 
 How soon the senseless wave resigned 
 ' The tints, with thy retiring face. 
 While glassed within my mournful mind 
 Still glows that scene's enchanting grace. 
 
 Ah, every scene, or bright or bleak. 
 
 Where once thy presence round me shone. 
 To echoing Memory long shall speak 
 
 The Past's sweet legends, Worshipp'd One! 
 The wild blue hills, the boundless moor. 
 
 That, like my lot, stretched dark afar, 
 .\nd o'er its edge, thine emblem pure. 
 
 The never-failing evening star. 
 
 My lost Madonna, fair and young! 
 
 Before thy slender-sandalled feet 
 The dallying wave its silver Hung, 
 
 Then dashed far ocean's breast to meet ; 
 And farther, wider, from thy side 
 
 Than unreturning streams could rove, 
 Dark Fate decreed me to divide — 
 
 To me, my henceforth buried Love ! 
 
 S'es ! far for ever from my side. 
 
 Madonna, now for ever fair. 
 To death of Distance I have died. 
 
 And all has perished, but — Despair. 
 Whether thy fate with woe be fraught, 
 
 Or Joy's gay rainbow gleams o'er thee, 
 ['ve died to all but the mad thought 
 
 That what was once no more shall be. 
 
 'Tis well : — at least I shall not know 
 How time or tears may change that brow ; 
 
 Thine eyes shall smile, thy cheek shall glov/ 
 I To me in distant years as now. 
 i .\nd when in holier worlds, where Blame, 
 j And Blight and .Sorrow, have no birth, 
 ' Thou'rt mine at last — I'll clasp the same 
 i Unaltered -Angel known on earth. 
 
 BARTHOLOMEW SIMMONS. 
 
PART II. 
 
 POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Yes, there is the dwelling ; the warmth of the year 
 
 Still lives in each blossom that flourishes here ; 
 
 Yes, there is the dwelling, but lonely it seems, 
 
 As a land in which fancy stalks silent in dreams. 
 
 The door-way that welcomed the guest to the hall, 
 
 The creepers that whispered along the white wall ; 
 
 Each sweet of the summer smiles tenderly there, 
 
 But where are the dear hands that trained them ? oh, where ? 
 
 Ah, true to remembrance ! Ah, true to the thought. 
 
 Deep hid in my heart, of that love-Hghted spot 
 
 Ay. there are the flower-bordered paths where we walked. 
 
 And there are the groves where we listened and talked. 
 
 All lonesomely blooming ! I look, but in vain 
 
 For a symbol of light in the quiet domain ; 
 
 The lawn where the children once gamboll'd is there. 
 
 But where are the innocent faces? oh, where? 
 
 GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD, 
 
 CHILDHOOD'S HOME. 
 
 I passed through the open gateway and under 
 
 the bending trees ; 
 The boughs of the stooping beeches stirred in 
 
 the summer breeze ; 
 The branching shadows fluttered as asleep on 
 
 the lawn they lay, 
 And up through the sunny meadow the avenue 
 
 wound its way. 
 
 I passed through the open gateway, and I was a 
 
 child again : 
 The grass and the leaves were sparkling in jewels 
 
 of last night's rain ; 
 But lo ! a turn in the pathway clouded my eyes 
 
 with tears, 
 And I stood and gazed with rapture on the home 
 
 of my early years. 
 
 The same— and yet I marvelled, for surely of 
 
 old it stood 
 Fronting a boundless meadow, on the skirts of 
 
 a boundless wood ; 
 With a stately hill behind it, from whose heights 
 
 1 used to gaze 
 To where the horizon bounded the world of my 
 
 childhood's days. 
 
 But the hill was a little hillock, the wood was a 
 
 little grove; — 
 'Twas only a little paddock through which I 
 
 loved to rove ; 
 I climbed, but the wizard fancy had somewhere 
 
 lost his wand : 
 I looked to the far horizon, but the world lay 
 
 far beyond. 
 
 Yet the grass had its wonted verdure, the sun 
 
 had its wonted gold, 
 The raindrops trembled and sparkled, as ever in 
 
 days of old : 
 
 And clouds were ne'er more fleecy, and never a 
 
 fresher breeze 
 Passed with a crisper murmur through depths 
 
 of the greenwood trees. 
 
 And I wondered if one of the dear ones, who 
 
 left us and went his way 
 Into the kingdom of twilight, misty and cold 
 
 and gray, 
 Could rise from the depths of silence and come 
 
 for a little while, 
 And hear the breezes rustle and see the green 
 
 earth smile ; — 
 
 Would the earth he had left behind him, the 
 
 earth he had loved so well, 
 That once was higher than heaven, and deeper 
 
 than depths of hell — 
 Seem now but a mote in the sunbeam, a drop in 
 
 the water race, 
 Its life the pulse of a moment, — a foothold its 
 
 orb of space ? 
 
 Would he learn that its ancient limits, now 
 
 grown so narrow and near, 
 Had veiled from imagination the skirts of a 
 
 boundless sphere .' 
 Would he look to the uttermost verges that ever 
 
 his feet had trod, 
 And still find far beyond them the world of the 
 
 Heaven of God ? 
 
 Yet perchance as he gazed around him a tear of 
 
 regret might rise. 
 And blot for a passing moment all else but earth 
 
 from his eyes : 
 He would murmur, " Oh God, I know thee in the 
 
 least of thy works complete : 
 It is all as of old I left it — and then it was, oh ! 
 
 how sweet." 
 
 EDMOND G. A. HOLMES. 
 
POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 WINGS FOR HOME. 
 My heart hath Uken wings for home : 
 
 Away! away! it cannot stay. 
 My heart hath tal«en wings for home, 
 Nor all that's best of Greece or Rome 
 
 Can stop iu way. 
 My heart hath taken wings for home, 
 Away! 
 
 My heart hath taken wings for home, 
 O Swallow, Swallow, lead the way I 
 
 little bird ! fly north with me, 
 
 1 have a home beside the sea 
 Where thou canst sing and play. 
 
 My heart hath taken wings for home, 
 Away! 
 
 My heart hath taken wings for home. 
 But thou, O little bird ! wilt stay ; 
 
 Thou hast thy young ones with thee here. 
 
 Thy mate floats with thee through the clear 
 Italian depths of day. 
 
 My heart hath taken wings for home, 
 Away! 
 
 My heart hath taken wings for home, 
 
 Away! away! it cannot stay. 
 One spring from Brunelleschi's dome. 
 To Venice by the Adrian foam. 
 
 Then westward be my way. 
 My heart hath taken wings for home. 
 Away! 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
 
 AWAY FROM HOME. 
 The sunset falls across the sea 
 
 In flakes of golden light, 
 While the good ship sails fast and free 
 
 Into the silent night ; 
 But while I watch with dazzled eyes 
 
 The fading smile of day. 
 My heart is with our eastern skies, 
 
 And loved ones far away. 
 
 I hear the rippling of the waves 
 
 Like some sweet thought that thrills 
 When the coo! evening breezes play 
 
 On our New England hills , 
 While at each murmured word that breaks 
 
 .Across the tinkling spray. 
 Some echoing chord of memory wakes 
 
 For loved ones far away. 
 
 And as the moonbeams" silver light 
 
 Falls trembling from above, 
 To shine across the wooded height 
 
 And bless the home I love. 
 I know what eyes will meet it there. 
 
 What soul and lip will pray 
 That God may hold in tender care 
 
 Their loved one far away. 
 
 O life is bright as heaven above 
 When youth and hope are free ; 
 
 earth is fair and full of love 
 On land and shore and sea ; 
 
 But earth would dim and hope depart 
 If nearer day by day 
 
 1 could not lead this longing heart 
 To loved ones far away. 
 
 .MARY K. BLAKE. 
 
 j THE LOST HOME. 
 
 Come sit, my son, beneath the shade where 
 
 autumn winds are sighing ; 
 I The shadows, creeping down the woods, an- 
 nounce that day is dying ; 
 And far the murky clouds outspread the 
 
 floating flags of warning. 
 Where AUeghanies' giant hills were seen at 
 early morning. 
 
 Behold, my son, the fertile fields where golden 
 
 grain is swelling ; 
 .\nd far away the crested pines thy brothe.-'s 
 
 axe is felling ; 
 .\nd yonder see our cheerful cot beside the 
 
 mountain river — 
 Thy father knows no master here but God 
 
 the mighty Giver! 
 
 In other days, when life was young, and hope 
 
 was beaming o'er me, 
 I loved my father's lowly cot— I loved the isle 
 
 that bore me, 
 ; .\nd love it still, the dear old land : — tho' 
 ' ocean's waves divide us, 
 
 j Still, still shall memor>''s magic spell bring its 
 sweet shores beside us. 
 
 I O land of sorrows, Innisfail ! the saddest, still 
 
 the fairest ! 
 I Tho' ever-fruitful be thy breast, tho' green the 
 
 garb thou wearest, 
 
LONGING. 
 
 119 
 
 Tn vain- thy children seek thy gifts, and fondly 1 And cozy roof and porch and walls were cast I 
 
 gather round thee ; j earth together. 
 
 They live as strangers mid thy vales since dark And we, in woe, were forced to face the winters 
 
 oppression bound thee. direful weather. 
 
 My cherished home beside the glen, how could 
 I cease to love thee } 
 
 The yellow thatch was o'er thy walls, the beeches 
 waved above thee ; 
 
 Thy skies were like the seagull's wings, of pur- 
 est snowy whiteness ; 
 
 They woo'd the sun till round thy porch he flung 
 his golden brightness. 
 
 Alanna ! 'neath their native soil my parents* 
 
 hearts are sleeping, — 
 Across their lonely, grassy graves the shamrock 
 
 leaves are creeping ; 
 And we are here amidst these wilds, where 
 
 tyrants ne'er can bind us, 
 Witti lands as fertile — not so fair — as those we've 
 
 left behind us. 
 
 Methinks I still behold thy smoke ascend from 
 
 yonder thicket, 
 Methinks I see my aged sire beside thy open 
 
 wicket. 
 And hear my brothers' notes of mirth along the 
 
 valleys ringing, 
 Where maidens o'er the milking pails the rural 
 
 songs are singing. 
 
 .\round thy hearth, at day s decUne, arose the 
 
 voice of gladness ; 
 The fleeting years, as on they sped, flung in no ! 
 
 seeds of sadness ; | 
 
 And tho' the swelling tide of care oft rolled its 
 
 wave beside us, | 
 
 We clung in hope around our home — no perils ' 
 
 could divide us. 
 
 But ah ! at last dread Famine's breath brought 
 
 direful desolation ; ! 
 
 While tyrants bound their cruel laws around the 
 
 dying nation. 
 And spurned the wasted, withered poor, for help, 
 
 for mercy crying, — 
 The Saxons smiled with joy to hear that Celtic 
 
 sons were dying ! 
 
 My God ! it came — the fearful gale, against our 
 
 happy dwelling; 
 We strove and stood the shock awhile, tho' waves 
 
 of woe were swelling ; 
 Whilst, like a monster 'midst the deep, that loves 
 
 the tempest's thunder. 
 The lord who owned our lands desired to see us 
 
 smking under. 
 
 In vain we fed the hopes awhile ! in vain each 
 
 dear endeavor ! 
 My father's father's natal home was lost to us 
 
 forever ; 
 
 Yes, true, my son, thy father's soul has drunk 
 
 the bitter potion ; 
 Yet often 'midst these lonely woods he thinks 
 
 with fond emotion. 
 That yonder billows seek our isle— that gentle 
 
 zephyrs fan her, — 
 Oh, may her exiles see her too — to raise her 
 
 drooping banner ! 
 
 THOMAS AMBROSE BUTLER 
 
 LONGING. 
 
 ■Ah, 
 
 Waiting for the day." — McCarthy, 
 
 I wish I was home in Ireland, 
 For the summer will soon be there. 
 
 And the fields of my darling sire-land 
 To my heart will be fresh and fair. - 
 
 Down where the deep Blackwater 
 
 Glides on to its ocean rest. 
 And the hills, with their green-clad bosoms. 
 
 Roll up from the river's breast. 
 
 To sit where the waters murmur 
 To the birds in the bending trees, 
 
 While the silver wavelets glitter. 
 Stirred by the evening breeze ; 
 
 To watch while the silent fisher 
 
 Quivers his trembling line. 
 Where the trout from the golden river 
 
 Bound to the red sunshine. 
 
 While the song of the distant milker 
 Comes down with the evening cloud, 
 
 And the mist from the lowland ^■aIleys 
 Steals up like a snow-white shroud ; 
 
POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 To muse where the deep Blackwater. 
 
 Like a courser, comes bounding in. 
 With a rush, through the marble arches 
 
 That span it by Cappoqum, 
 
 When the dews on the woodlands glitter, 
 And the rocks rise so tall and grand, 
 ' And when all living things are happy. 
 
 But the sons of that hapless land. 
 
 For they sit by the stranger's waters. 
 
 As did Israel's sons of yore. 
 And their harps are hung on the willows. 
 
 And their hearts are crushed and sore. 
 I 
 
 As if from a plague-struck countr)'. 
 
 Far off flies the sun-brown Gael, 
 And his voice in the land that bore him 
 
 Is sunk to a fainting wail. 
 
 Like leaves in the autumn tempest. 
 
 Or clouds in the wintry wind. 
 Is he sweeping from green old Ireland, 
 
 While the Tyrant remains behind ;— 
 
 To waste his young life in sadness. 
 
 And toiling from day to day. 
 To long for a glimpse of Erm. 
 
 Ere he sleep in his bed of clay 
 
 I wish I was home in Ireland. 
 
 For the flowers will soon be there. 
 Clothing each vale and highland. 
 
 And loading the perfumed air. 
 
 For, in spite of the Saxon's scowlings. 
 
 The land to my heart is dear. 
 And to be but one day in Ireland 
 
 Were worth a whole lifetime here. 
 
 RICH.ARl) D.M.TOX WILLIAMS. 
 
 THE WANDERER'S HOME. 
 
 The river beneath me is flowing 
 To its grave in the solemn sea. 
 
 And the winds and the mists are blowing ; 
 
 Yet my feverish cheek is glowing 
 
 With burning thoughts of thee, my home. 
 With burning thoughts of thee. 
 
 All wearied around me are sleeping, 
 But my heart all slumbers flee : 
 
 For 1 thirk of a willow weeping. 
 
 And the dead, that are silent keeping 
 My sorrowing tears at parting. 
 My early home, from thee. 
 
 The roses are long ago withered 
 
 That I plucked there by the sea. 
 But the love of my soul forever 
 Flows on like this ceaseless river. 
 As deep and strong, for thee, my home. 
 My Island Home, for thee. 
 
 PATRICK CROM 
 
 A LETTER FROM HOME. 
 'Tis a dark rainy m(jrning. aiul droar\ , 
 I I'm ve.x'd, till I'm ready to scold; 
 Here I've sat, till my heart has grown weary. 
 
 .•\nd my feet are benumbed with the colil. 
 I have watched for an hour, ay, and better. 
 
 Still thinking the postman would tome. 
 And bring me a long, pleasant letter. 
 
 .A darling long letter from home. 
 Each morning my work I'm neglecting. 
 
 Still thinking the postman will come ; 
 Still watching, and always expecting 
 
 A darling long letter from home ! 
 
 There's much that I'd like to be knowing— 
 
 And first, there's the health of poor Jane: 
 And Lucy, if she has done growing, 
 
 And has she grown handsome or plain : 
 Does Willie get on with his schooling : 
 
 Does Charley still play on the flute; 
 Does Harry go on with his fooling. 
 
 And writing love songs to Miss Foote "> 
 My work every morning neglecting. 
 
 Still thinking the postman will come — 
 Still watching, and always expecting 
 
 A darling long letter from home ! 
 
 They wrote when dear Annie got married— 
 
 'Twas a week after her wedding day,— 
 Then they told me their plans had miscarried 
 
 Concerning Miss Isabel Grey. 
 How I wish I could only discover 
 
 The name of Kate's tall, dashing beau : 
 And I'd like to hear news of the lover 
 
 Of poor little Bessie Munroe. 
 Thus musing and gravely reflecting. 
 
 And wishing the postman would come. 
 Here I sit ever\' morning, expecting 
 
 A darling long letter from home, 
 
 There, there ! Rat-tat ! Well, I declare he 
 Has letters for Mistress McKay : 
 
 And surely— good gracious ! why, there, he 
 Is coming right over this way ! 
 
FAREWELL. THOU SUNNY ISLE. 
 
 Rat-tat ! Oh, I'm all in a tremble ! 
 
 But really, I think it's too bad 
 That people can't learn to dissemble, 
 
 And not seem so vulgarly glad. 
 Oh, nonsense ! — of course there are others 
 
 As glad for the postman to come. 
 With gossip from sisters and brothers. 
 
 With darling long letters from home ! 
 
 ELLEN FOKRESTER, 
 
 THE FIRESIDE AT HOME. 
 When, tossed on the billows of life's dreary 
 
 We drift o'er the waters afar, [ocean, 
 
 And vainly look up to the storm-clouds above 
 
 To catch the pale beam of a star, — [us 
 
 When sorrow's dark veil, like the wing of the 
 
 O'ershadows our path as we roam. [ tempest 
 On: heart-cheering beacon shines out through 
 the darkness — 
 
 The glow of the fireside at home. 
 
 Oft back to the light of the dear days departed 
 
 Does memory tenderly turn. 
 And for the sweet peace and contentment 
 that crowned them. 
 
 The heart must unceasingly yearn ; 
 For then, when the night over valley and 
 
 Had folded her mantle of gloom, [mountain 
 Loved faces, so dear that their smiles were our 
 
 Encircled the fireside at home, [sunshine 
 
 Oh, friends long departed, oh, bright days 
 long vanished. 
 
 When back to the years that are fled '"'• 
 
 We turn, from the joys and the woes of the 
 
 Tothinkof the loved and the dead, [present, j 
 The light wing of Fancy with fair)' touch | 
 brushes 
 
 The dust from the doors of the tomb. 
 And once more unites us — the dead and the 
 
 Around the bright fireside at home, [absent. 
 
 Oh. when the dim twilight of death isapproach- 
 
 Our wearisome journey near done, [ing. 
 And faintly and cold o'er our closing eyes 
 gleameth 
 
 The pale beams of life's setting sun, — 
 Then, Father Almighty, across the dark valley, 
 
 Its doubts and its shadows and gloom. 
 We pray that the liarht of Thy love and Thy 
 
 May guide us at last to our home, [mercy 
 
 MARY A. M^MULLIN. 
 
 A QUIET HOUSE. 
 My house is quiet now — so still ! 
 
 All day I hear the ticking clock ; 
 The hours are numbered clear and shrill ; 
 
 Outside the robin's chirp and trill ; 
 
 My house is quiet now — so still ! 
 
 But silence breaks my heart. I wait ! 
 And waiting, yearn for call or knock ; 
 
 To hear the creaking of the gate. 
 And footsteps coming soon or late — 
 The silence breaks my heart. I wait. 
 
 All through the empty house I go. 
 
 From hall to hall, from room to room ; 
 
 The heavy shadows spread and grow. 
 The startled echoes mock me so, 
 As through the empty house I go. 
 
 Ah, silent house ! If I could hear 
 Sweet noises in the tranquil gloom — 
 
 The joyous tumult, loud and near. 
 That vexed me many a happy year — 
 Ah, silent house, if I could hear! 
 
 Ah, lonely house, if once — once more. 
 My longing eyes might see the stain 
 
 Of little footprints on the floor. 
 The sweet child-faces at the door. 
 Ah, blessed Heaven — but once — once more ! 
 
 My house and home are very still ; 
 I watch the sunshine and the rain ; 
 
 The years go on ... . perhaps Death will 
 Life's broken promises fulfil — 
 My house, my home, my heart are still ! 
 
 MARY AINGE DE VERE. 
 
 FAREWELL, THOU SUNNY ISLE. 
 
 Farewell to thee, thou sunny isle ! 
 
 The waves around our bark are dancing. 
 Our snowy sail, unfurled the while. 
 
 In the noonday beam is brightly glancing. 
 
 Yet ere we sail. 
 
 Once more we hail 
 The land where first the sun shone o'er us ; 
 
 Where'er we rove. 
 
 With looks of love 
 We'll turn to thee — the land that bore us ! 
 
 Farewell to thee, who from our eyes 
 
 Are shrouded by the tears that blind us ; 
 
 Each passing breeze shall waft our sighs 
 To those we love — and leave behind us ! 
 
POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Yet though we roam 
 
 Far. far from home, 
 Whatever storms may hover o'er us,— 
 
 Where'er we rove, 
 
 With thoughts of love 
 We turn to thee— the land that bore us ! 
 
 Our home ! — oh, still that magic name 
 Shall breathe a holy spell around us. 
 And make us, e'en 'mid shouts of fame, 
 Sigh for the early links that bound us ! 
 
 The flowery ties. 
 
 The bright young eyes 
 That still in dreams seem watching o'er us ; 
 
 Oh ! while we rove. 
 
 The forms we love 
 Still people thee— the land th?t bore us ! 
 
 Tiie storms may rise, the winds may roar, 
 
 Triumphant still we sail thro' danger, 
 So we behold the land once more 
 That welcomes back the weary stranger. 
 
 The port we hail. 
 
 Furl up our sail. 
 While those we love stand mute before us ; 
 
 No more we rove, — 
 
 With joyful love 
 We leap to thee— the land that bore us ! 
 
 CAROLINE E. NORTON. 
 
 THE HAPPY VILLAGE. 
 
 As often I pass the roadside. 
 
 When wearily falls the day, 
 1 turn to look from the hill-top 
 
 At the mountains far away. 
 
 The red sun through the forests 
 Throws hither his parting beams. 
 
 And far in the quiet valley. 
 The happy village gleams. 
 
 There the lamp is lit in the cottage 
 As the husbandman's labors cease. 
 
 And 1 think that all things are gathered 
 Anil folded in twilight peace. 
 
 But the sound of merry voices 
 Is heard in the village street, 
 
 While pleased the grandame watches 
 The play of the little feet. 
 
 And at night to many a I 
 
 The rosy children come ; 
 To tales of the bright-eyed fairies 
 
 They listen and are dumb. 
 
 There seems it a joy forever 
 
 To labor and to learn. 
 For love with an eye of magic 
 
 Is patient to discern. 
 
 And the father blesses the mother. 
 And the children bless the sire. 
 
 And the cheer and joy of the hearthstone 
 Is as light from an altar fire. 
 
 O flowers of rarest beauty 
 
 In that green valley grow ; 
 And whether 'twere earth or heaven 
 
 Why shouldst thou care to know ? 
 
 Save that thy brow is troubled. 
 
 And dim is thy helpmate's eye 
 And graves are green in the valley. 
 
 And stars are bright in the sky. 
 
 D. KANE O'DONNELL. 
 
 THE BLUE, BLUE SMOKE. 
 O, many and many a time 
 
 In the ilim old days, 
 When the chapel's distant chime 
 
 Pealed the hour of evening praise, 
 I've bowed my head in prayer; 
 
 Then shouldered scythe or bill, 
 .And travelled free of care 
 
 To my home across the hill. 
 Whilst the blue, blue smoke 
 Of my cottage in the coom. 
 Softly wreathing. 
 Sweetly breathing. 
 Waved my thousand welcomes home. 
 
 For oft and oft I 've stood. 
 
 Delighted in the dew. 
 Looking down across the wood. 
 
 Where it stole into my view, — 
 Sweet spirit of the sod. 
 
 Of our own Irish earth. 
 Going gently up to God 
 
 From the poor man's hearth. 
 O. the blue, blue smoke, 
 
 Of my cottage in the coom. 
 Softly wreathing. 
 Sweetly breathing. 
 
 Waved my thousand welcomes home. 
 
SONG OF THE PIONEERS. I 23 
 
 But I hurried simply on, 
 
 Oh, the waves of life danced merrily, 
 
 When Herself from the door 
 
 And had a joyous flow, 
 
 Came swimming like a swan 
 
 In the days when we were Pioneers, 
 
 Beside the Shannon shore ; 
 
 Fifty years ago ! 
 
 And after her in haste, 
 
 
 On pretty, pattering feet, 
 Our rosy cherubs raced 
 
 Their daddy dear to meet ; 
 While the blue, blue smoke 
 
 The hunt, the shot, the glorious chase. 
 
 The captured elk or deer ; 
 The camp, the big bright fire, and then 
 
 
 The rich and wholesome cheer :— 
 
 Of my cottage in the coom. 
 
 Softly wreathing, 
 
 Sweetly breathing. 
 Waved my thousand welcomes home. 
 
 The sweet sound sleep at dead of night. 
 
 By our camp-fires blazing high,- 
 Unbroken by the wolf's long howl, 
 
 
 Or the panther springing by. 
 
 But the times are sorely changed 
 
 Oh, merrily passed the time, despite 
 
 Since those dim old days. 
 
 Our wily Indian foe, 
 
 And far, far I've ranged 
 
 In the days when we were Pioneers, 
 
 From those dear old ways. 
 
 Fifty years ago ! 
 
 And my colleen's golden hair 
 
 
 To silver all has grown. 
 
 We shunned not labor ; when 'twas due 
 
 And our little cherub pair 
 
 We wrought with right good will ; 
 
 Have children of their own ; 
 
 And for the homes we won for them 
 
 And the black, black smoke 
 
 Our children bless us still. 
 
 Like a heavy funeral plume. 
 
 We lived not hermit lives, but oft 
 
 Darkly wreathing, 
 
 In social converse met ; 
 
 Fearful breathing. 
 
 And fires of love were kindled then. 
 
 Crowns the city with its gloom. 
 
 That burn as warmly yet : 
 
 But 'tis our comfort sweet. 
 
 Oh, pleasantly the stream of life 
 
 Through the long toil of life. 
 That we'll turn with tired feet 
 
 Pursued its constant flow. 
 In the days when we were Pioneers, 
 
 From the noise and the strife, 
 
 Fifty years ago! 
 
 And wander slowly back 
 
 
 In the soft western glow. 
 
 We felt that we were fellow-men. 
 
 Hand in hand in the track 
 
 We felt we were a band 
 
 That we trod long ago, 
 
 Sustained here in the wilderness 
 
 Till the blue, blue smoke 
 
 By Heaven's upholding hand. 
 
 Of our cottage in the cooni. 
 
 And when the solemn Sabbath came. 
 
 Softly wreathing. 
 
 Assembling in the wood. 
 
 Gently breathing, 
 
 We lifted up our hearts in praver 
 
 Waves our thousand welcomes home. 
 
 To God the only good. 
 
 ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 
 
 Our temples there were earth and sky ; 
 
 
 None other did we know 
 
 
 In the days when we were Pioneers, 
 Fifty years ago ! 
 
 
 SONG OF THE PIONEERS. " 
 
 
 .V song for the early times out West, 
 
 Our forest-life was rough and rude. 
 
 And our green old forest home, 
 
 And dangers closed us round ; 
 
 Whose pleasant memories freshly yet 
 
 But here, amid the green old trees, 
 
 Across the bosom come : 
 
 Freedom was sought and found. 
 
 A song for the free and gladsome life 
 
 Oft thro' our dwellings wintry blasts 
 
 In those early days we led. 
 
 Would rush with shriek and moan ; 
 
 With a teeming soil beneath our feet. 
 
 We cared not : — tho'they were but frail. 
 
 And a smiling heaven o'erhead ! 
 
 We felt they were our own ! 
 
124 
 
 POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Oh, free and manly lives we led, 
 
 Mid verdure or micf snow. 
 In the days when we were Pioneers, 
 
 Fifty years ago ! 
 
 WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. 
 
 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS. 
 
 Here in my chamber alone 1 sit. 
 
 Watching the firelight s radiant glow. 
 While the musical chimes of the Christinas bells 
 
 Come solemnly pealing across the snow. 
 I know 'tis the season of mirth and love. 
 
 When yule-logs crackle and hearts beat high. 
 And pleasure's soft light shines calmly sweet. 
 
 Like a rainbow arch in the evening sky ; 
 But my heart is dimmed by a blotch of cloud. 
 
 Like a face half hid by a mourner's hand. 
 As I think and think of the empty chairs 
 
 By the Christmas hearths of the olden land. 
 
 Here 'tis a cot in the Golden Tale, 
 
 There 'tis a garret in Dublin town, 
 Here 'tis a hut 'ncath an Antrim cliff. 
 
 Or a home where the Moy goes dancing down ; 
 No matter what threshold our footsteps cross, 
 
 In each and all it is Christmas night. 
 The holly-bough shines in the ingle-nook, 
 
 And the feast-board glows in the fagot's light ; 
 But by every hearth there's an empty chair, 
 
 Whose shadow falls dark on the Christmas tree; 
 And at every board there's a vacant place 
 
 For some loved one over the black-waved sea. 
 
 Ah me I if the zephyrs that sweep to-night 
 
 From Ireland's valleys on viewless wing 
 Could bear us what blessings and sighs they hear, 
 
 What a treasure of heart-born love they'd bring! 
 Prayers for the thousands whose only dirge 
 
 Was the seaman's shout or the ship-bell's chime. 
 Prayers and blessings for all who left 
 
 The well-known home for the foreign clime. 
 God's peace be with them, our island kin !— 
 
 Their hearts come to us, ours bound to them. 
 And the love that is binding us each to each. 
 
 We'd abate for no earthly diadem ! 
 
 O, solacing bells of the Christmas time. 
 Pealing and pealing across the snow. 
 
 There's a whisper of hope in your every chime 
 For the sad and the travel-stained here below I 
 
 In the years that the womb of the future holds. 
 
 Let us hope and pray that a vacant place 
 By the Christmas hearth or the festive board. 
 
 Will little be known among Ireland's race. 
 That hope to the heart of the exiled one 
 
 Is as light to the lone on a darkened sea. 
 For its happy and ample fulfillment means 
 
 A race redeemed and a land made free ! 
 
 JOHN LOCKB. 
 
 CHRISTMAS MEMORIES. 
 
 Oh 
 
 these Christni.'is limes, niavourneen. are not 
 
 like the times of old, 
 When the light of love shone softly, and our 
 
 pulses felt no cold ; 
 When the laughter of the young hearts round 
 
 the hearth rang merrily ; — 
 Now the laughter and young hearts all are gone, 
 
 ashtore machree. 
 
 Methinks I see our darling Kate, her blue eyes 
 
 fi.\ed on mine ; 
 And dark haired Patrick resting soft his little 
 
 hand in mine ; 
 Methinks I hear brave Owen's voice, and Brian's 
 
 free and gay. 
 With soft cheeked Eily's mingling in the holy 
 
 Christmas lay. 
 
 Dreams ! dreams ! to-night the ancient hearth no 
 kindly look doth wear. 
 
 There is snow upon the threshold stone and 
 chilliness everj'whcre ; 
 
 No swell of rushing voices pours the holy Christ- 
 mas lay. 
 
 The young hearts, and the merry hearts, nia- 
 vourneen, where are they ? 
 
 Ah I blue-eyed Kate and Patrick Dhu, long, 
 long have found their rest. 
 
 Where Shruel's silent churchyard looks across 
 the Inny's breast ; 
 
 And, Eily, thy young heart lies cold and pulse- 
 less 'neath the sea 
 
 Full many and many a Christmas tide, alanna 
 bawn machree. 
 
 And by Potomac's blood-tinged wave brave 
 Owen nobly fell. 
 
 My gallant boy ! they say he fought right glori- 
 ously and well ; 
 
SONG OF ALL-HALLOW'S EVE. 
 
 125 
 
 And Brian's voice is hushed in death, where blue 
 Australian streams 
 
 Fill with their youthful melodies the exile's glow- 
 ing dreams. 
 
 Asthore, asthore, beside the light our faces shine 
 
 alone ; 
 But they are clustered with the stars before the 
 
 eternal throne : 
 With St. Patrick and St. Bridget and the angels 
 
 robed in white, 
 They sing the old remembered strains, their 
 
 Christmas hymn to-night. 
 
 Old love ! old love ! His will be bless'd that left 
 
 e'en you to me 
 To keep my heart from bursting with the wild, 
 
 wild memory. 
 That soothing glance, mavourneen, speaks of 
 
 Christmas times to come. 
 When the scattered hearts shall meet for aye in 
 
 God's eternal home, 
 
 JOHN KEEGAN CASEY. 
 
 SONG OF ALL-HALLOW'S EVE. 
 
 The year is growing aged and dull ; 
 
 Late rise the days, and weary soon ; 
 With morning fog the fields are full. 
 
 And fall the leaves with evening's moon. 
 Shut to the doors, and gather nigher. 
 Our summer time is scarcely past ; 
 Beside the fire, with cup and lyre. 
 We'll soon outsing the winter's blast. 
 Hour upon hour 
 Over our bower. 
 Shining and swift, departs, departs ; 
 Time to-night 
 Will quicken his flight. 
 To follow a while our bounding hearts. 
 
 Lo ! Autumn passed, with face of care, 
 
 This eve along the dusky road ; 
 Nut-clusters tinkled in his hair, 
 
 And rosy apples formed his load. 
 All friendless, by the withered thorn 
 
 The kind brown spirit lingered long — 
 Log-heap the fire, sing higher, higher. 
 
 And cheer his ghost with light and song. 
 
 Hour upon hour 
 
 Over our bower, 
 Mellow and mild, departs, departs ; 
 
 Time to-night 
 
 Must quicken his flight 
 To follow a while our bounding hearts. 
 
 Send round the wine of summer earth. 
 
 And speed the winter's twilight game ; 
 Bend, maidens, round the glowing hearth. 
 
 And guess at lovers by its flame ; 
 Soon Love shall ring from yonder spire 
 
 The joy each fairy-nut foretells ; 
 Love strike the lyre, love guard the fire. 
 And tune our lives like marriage bells. 
 Hour upon hour 
 Over our bovver. 
 Shining and swift, departs, departs ; 
 Time to-night 
 Has quickened his flight, 
 To follow a while our bounding hearts. 
 
 Smile, silvered Age, upon the band 
 
 Of joyous children grouped below — 
 
 Bright travelers from the morning land 
 
 Where we have wandered years ago. 
 
 The dawning heart to heaven is nigher 
 
 Than wisdom's snowiest brow can soar.— 
 Sing to the lyre, circle the fire. 
 
 And mingle with your youth once more ! 
 Hour upon hour 
 Over our bower. 
 Shining and swift, departs, departs, 
 Time to-night 
 Has quickened his flight 
 To follow a while our bounding hearts. 
 
 Loud on the roof the tempest moans, 
 
 And mirth would last as loud and long, 
 But yonder bell, in trembling tones. 
 
 Has blended with our ceasing song. 
 The children drowse, the girls retire. 
 
 To dream of love and fortune's smile. 
 Farewell, old lyre and friendly fire. 
 And happy souls, farewell a while. 
 Hour after hour 
 Over our bower, 
 Mellow and mild, departs, departs ; 
 Now Time will sing 
 Beneath his wing 
 A soothing song to our dreaming hearts. 
 
 THOMAS C. IRWIN. 
 
126 
 
 POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 FATHER DAN. 
 
 In the fairy bark of memor>', by love's frasjrant 
 breezes sped, 
 I sail once more across the wondrous main. 
 To the hills of holy Ireland, from view forever 
 fled. 
 And boyhood's halo beams o'er me again. 
 Oh, backward I am wafted to the fair and happy 
 time 
 When lijfhtly o'er the summer dells I ran. 
 As rose to heaven, soft and clear, the silv'ry 
 matin chime, 
 To answer early Mass for Father Dan. 
 
 REMINISCENCES. 
 I remember, I remember, when Sabbath morn- 
 ing rose, 
 We changed, for garments neat and clean, our 
 
 soiled week-day clothes ; 
 And yet no gaudy finery, nor brooch nor jewel 
 
 rare. 
 But hands and faces looking bright, and 
 
 smoothly parted hair. 
 'Twas not the decking of the head, my father 
 
 used to say. 
 But careful clothing of the heart, that graced 
 
 that holy day, — 
 'Twas not the bonnet nor the dress: and I bt- 
 
 lieve it true ; 
 But those were very simple times, and I wa- 
 
 simple too. 
 
 I'll ne'er forget his greeting as I reached the 
 vestry door, 
 1 lis mellow toned " good morning, child," to me ; 
 And oh! while lowly kneeling on the plain and 
 snow-white floor, 
 I lis kindly face I dearly loved to see I 
 I cm-ied not the wealthiest or proudest in the Its papered wall, its polished floor, and mantel 
 
 I remember, I remember, the parlor where wi 
 met; 
 
 land. 
 When I donned my surplice white, and black 
 
 soutane, 
 And knelt before that altar, in its simple beauty 
 
 grand, 
 To answer early Mass for Father Dan. 
 
 1 see the little chapel where it stood upon the hill. 
 And its cross that could be seen for miles 
 around. 
 And ever>' dear and charming spot remains in 
 memory still — 
 F..-ich sylvan slope, each fertile stretch of 
 ground. 
 When the strong frieze-coated peasantry awaited 
 at the door. 
 ,\nd whiled the time away ere Mass began, 
 Vntil the good old pastor came, with kindness 
 beaming o'er — 
 Then fond each greeting given to Father Dan. 
 
 I wonder if he thinks of me as in that eve gone by, 
 
 When he to me his parting blessing gave, 
 .\nd supplicated fervently the aid of Him on high 
 
 To guard my path across the dangerous wave ? 
 I'll t'link of him, I'll honor him, as in that sun- 
 bright lime. 
 
 When lightly o'er the summer dells I ran, 
 While on the fragrant breezes floated morning's 
 silv'ry chime, 
 
 To answer early Mass for Father Dan ! 
 
 EUGENE GEARY. 
 
 black as jet ; 
 'Twas there we raised our morning hymn, 
 
 melodious, sweet and clear. 
 And joined in prayer with that loved voice 
 
 which we no more may hear. 
 Our morning sacrifice thus made, then to thr 
 
 house of God 
 How solemnly, and silently, and cheerfully we 
 
 trod I— 
 1 see e'len now its low, thatched roof, its floor 
 
 of trodden clay. 
 .■Xnd our old pastor's timeworn face, and wig 
 I of silver gray. 
 
 I remember, I remember, how hushed and 
 ] mute we were. 
 
 While he led our spirits up to God in heartfelt. 
 
 melting prayer \ 
 To grace his action or his voice, no studied 
 
 charm was lent. — 
 Pure, ferx'ent. glowing from the heart, so to 
 
 the heart it went. 
 Then came the sermon, long and quaint, but 
 
 full of gospel truth ; 
 Ah me ! I was no judge of that, for 1 was then 
 
 in youth ; 
 But I have heard my father siiy. and well my 
 
 father knew. 
 In it was meat for full-grown men. and milk 
 
 for children too. 
 
 I remember. I remember, the morning sermon 
 done. 
 
ON A CHILD AT PLAY. 
 
 An hour of intermission came — we wandered 
 in the sun ; 
 
 How hoary farmers sat them down upon the 
 . daisy sod. 
 
 And talked of bounteous Nature's stores, and 
 Nature's bounteous God ; 
 
 And matrons talked, as matrons will, of sick- 
 ness and of health, — 
 
 Of births, and deaths, and marriages, of 
 poverty and wealth ; 
 
 And youths and maidens stole apart, within 
 the shady grove. 
 
 And whispered 'neath its spreading boughs 
 perchance some tale of love ! 
 
 I remember, I remember, how in the church- 
 yard lone, 
 I've stolen away and sat me down beside the 
 
 rude gravestone. 
 Or read the names of those who slept beneath 
 
 the clay-cold sod. 
 And thought of spirits glittering bright before 
 
 the throne of God ! 
 Or where the little rivulet danced sportively 
 
 and bright, 
 Receiving on its limpid breast the sun's 
 
 meridian light, 
 I've wandered forth, and thought if hearts 
 
 were pure like this sweet stream 
 How fair to heaven they might reflect heaven's 
 
 uncreated beam ! 
 
 I remember, I remember, the second sermon 
 
 o'er. 
 We turned our faces once again to our paternal 
 
 door; 
 And round the well-filled, ample board sat no 
 
 reluctant guest. 
 For exercise gave appetite, and loved ones 
 
 shared the feast ! 
 Then ere the sunset hour arrived, as we were 
 
 wont to do. 
 The catechism's well-conned page, we said it 
 
 through and through ; 
 And childhood's faltering tongue was heard 
 
 to lisp the holy word, 
 And older voices read aloud the message of 
 
 the Lord. 
 
 Away back in these days of yore — perhaps the 
 
 fault was mine — 
 I used to think the Sabbath day, dear Lord, 
 
 was wholly thine ; 
 When it behooved to keep the heart, and 
 
 bridle fast the tongue ; 
 
 But those were very simple days, and I was 
 
 very young. 
 The world has grown much older since those 
 
 sun-bright Sabbath days, — 
 The world has grown much older since, and 
 
 she has changed her ways : 
 Some say that she has wiser grown ; ah me ! it 
 
 may be true. 
 As wisdom comes by length of years, but so 
 
 does dotage, too. 
 
 Oh. happy, happy years of youth, how beauti- 
 ful, how fair. 
 
 To Memory's retrospective eye your trodden 
 pathways are ! 
 
 The thorns forgot — remembered still the fra- 
 grance and the flowers, — 
 
 The loved companions of my youth, and sunny 
 Sabbath hours ! 
 
 And onward, onward, onward still, successive 
 Sabbaths come. 
 
 As guides to lead us on the road to our eternal 
 home; 
 
 Or like the visioned ladder once to slumbering 
 Jacob given. 
 
 From heaven descending to the earth, lead 
 back from earth to heaven ! 
 
 JANE L. GRAY. 
 
 ON A CHILD AT PLAY. 
 
 On yester eve I saw at play 
 
 A child — 'twas fancy's precious prize-, 
 The lovely light of gladness lay 
 
 Couched softly in his gleaming eyes. 
 Come, gaze on me, my pretty child, 
 And smile again as thou hast smiled 
 Such happiness alive in thee 
 Makes me a child again to see. 
 
 Alone among the flowers he lies. 
 As fair as they, as coyly wild — 
 
 " To droop above thy vernal eyes 
 I'll set them in thy bonnet, child!" 
 
 A painful throb is in my heart, 
 
 I will not bid it to depart ; 
 
 I never knew what 'twas to grieve 
 
 With pleasure, till I saw this eve. 
 
 The primrose flower of life is here. 
 The rapturous promise of its spring; 
 
 Time touches it with gentle fear 
 To harshly touch so soft a thing. 
 
128 
 
 POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 So bright a flower was never set 
 
 In Flora s fading coronet ; 
 
 " Alas ! must thou, too, fade, my child ? — ' 
 
 The boy looked up at me and smiled. 
 
 Sweet spirit newly come from heaven. 
 
 With all the God upon thee still. 
 Beams of no earthly light are given 
 
 Thy heart even yet to bless and fill. 
 Thy soul, a sky whose sun has set, 
 Wears glory hovering round it yet ; 
 And childhood's .-ne grows sadly bright 
 Ere life hath deepened into iii^ht .' 
 
 WILLI.^.M ARCHER BUTLER. 
 
 CHILDHOOD'S PROMISE. 
 
 The lowliest peasant's babe is nol)Iy born ; 
 Smiles like a princess ; waves its tiny arms 
 With sparkling flexure Art can but admire. 
 Exulting mother-ward. As years unfold. 
 Have you not seen beneath the ragged thorn. 
 That with scant shadow cools the wayside bank, 
 The picture of a child .'. Its pretty limbs 
 Ennobling Poverty, as day's fresh spring 
 Glints on a russet heath ; its full, clear brow. 
 That breaks a tumbling sea of golden curls, 
 Bowed o'er its plans of shells or pottery. 
 With such a fixture of the studious eye, 
 And such a pause of motion as reveals 
 ' A mind conceiving, or a spirit stirred 
 I With self-discovery, — as an infant first 
 
 Stares at its fingers, wondering what they be. 
 
 And is that fairy vision, whicli reveals 
 In every gesture, attitude, the light 
 That glows as in some lantern's pictur'd glass 
 Within the frame it quickens, but a lump 
 Of puddled clay that waits the graver's tool ? 
 Or a true fragment of the broken crown. 
 Ere trodden under foot of man — of swine .' 
 What is the diamond coated o'er with clay 
 But common soil ? The sun may shine upon it. 
 But it cannot shine back upon the sun ; 
 But cleanse it— give the setter's patient skill 
 To face and educate its sparkling gifts, — 
 And, lo ! 'tis fitted to converse with Heaven. 
 All tremulous in ecstasy of light. 
 
 H. V. STOKES. 
 
 FLORENCE, MY CHILD. 
 1. 
 
 The little footsteps pattering near, 
 
 The little treble voice. 
 Strike to my soul a sense of fear. 
 
 When I would fain rejoice. 
 
 The pretty smile, the ringing laugh. 
 
 The peachy cheek to mine ; 
 The lips whose little kiss I quaff 
 
 More eagerly than wine ; 
 
 The childish griefs which quickly crowd 
 
 Behind some willful deed — 
 The shadows of a summer cloud 
 
 Upon a summer mead ; 
 
 The wayward ways, the baby talk. 
 The sudden searching glance ; 
 
 The gallant strivings made to walk. 
 And checked by every chance ; 
 
 All bring a sense of grief and joy. 
 
 Of blessing and of ban. 
 Because I see myself a boy. 
 
 And what I am— a man. 
 
 Wide are the future's gates unrolled. 
 
 And visions sad and proud 
 Come forth, — some clad in robes of gold, 
 
 Some shrouded with a shroud. 
 
 A host of hopes come forth v^'ith them, 
 
 And then a host of fears ; 
 For though I see the diadem, 
 
 I .see the victor's tears. 
 
 And when the night begins to fall, 
 I muse, with brain o'erwrought. 
 
 Until the shadows on the wall 
 Seem mockeries of thought. 
 
 II. 
 
 In those dark eyes a genius lies. 
 
 A glory and a might ; 
 As sleeps within the evening skies 
 
 The coming morning's light. 
 
 I recognize the power sublime — 
 
 The synonym of fame — 
 Which on the granite walls of Time 
 
 Can cut a deathless name. 
 
THE HOUSE OF THE CHILDREN. 
 
 129 
 
 I note the glorious strength concealed. 
 
 Which signalizes life, 
 The will to clutch and skill to wield 
 
 A weapon in the strife. 
 
 Those little hands, like lily leaves, 
 
 Are white and frail to view ; 
 But, oh ! what work a hand achieves, 
 
 If but the heart be true ! 
 
 May not its wondrous labor fill 
 
 The temple and the mart 
 With symbols of its thought and skill. 
 
 And miracles of art .' 
 
 My Child, that forehead pale and wide 
 
 Contains a busy brain ; 
 Oh ! may it know the thinker's pride. 
 
 But not the thinker's pain ! 
 
 JOSEPH BRENAN. 
 
 MY DARLING CHILD. 
 AUana fair, your dark brown hair. 
 Rests tangling on your neck so rare ! 
 Our Irish skies are in your eyes 
 
 My Eileen oge machree / * 
 Where'er I roam, o'er land and foam. 
 
 With me, for aye, abides one thought : 
 That God, from out His heart of love. 
 
 For me a joy has wrought. 
 
 J/rt viel astore, my darling child. 
 Allana blian — so fair and mild ! 
 Come to my kisses and my heart. 
 My Ei7een oge mackrec .' 
 
 Allana dear, you're ever near. 
 
 You bring me hope, and love and cheer ! 
 
 My Irish fay, my bloom of May, 
 
 My Eileen oge machree .' 
 \Vhere'er I stray, by night or day, 
 
 I know God's angels watch your sleep. 
 And Ireland's fairies thronging round 
 
 Sweet vigils ever keep. 
 
 Ma viel asiore, my darling child. 
 Allana b/tanso fair and mild ! 
 Come to my kisses and my heart. 
 My Eileen oge machree! 
 
 CHARLES P. O'CONOR. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF THE CHILDREN. 
 
 ' Young Ellen of ray heart. 
 
 O, the little Western cottage, set around with 
 grasses greenly ! 
 Tall hills rising high behind it, wide road 
 sweeping white before ; 
 Shadowed by young trees that ripple up the cool 
 west wind serenely, 
 As the spring day breaks in sunshine on that 
 far Missouri shore. 
 
 Skies are blue and bright above it. I can see 
 the high brown rafter 
 Warmed to gold beneath their shining, as the 
 fragrant day grows on ; 
 While ripe prairies run in yellow from swift winds 
 that follow after. 
 And the corn ope's blue eyes coyly, to the 
 kisses of the sun. 
 
 There is song of wren and robin ; stir of grass 
 and roll of river ; 
 There is sound of young leaves swaying to the 
 rhythmic beat of breeze. 
 But the music that is sweetest is of notes that 
 ripple ever 
 From the childish laughter ringing in the 
 shadow of the trees. 
 
 Hand in hand in fairy circle ! blithe as birds, no 
 bees more busy- 
 Young bough whitely o'er them budding, melts 
 its snow on their warm hair. 
 Round and round the dance goes gayly. till tlie 
 little heads grow dizzy. 
 Bells of childish laughter tinkling down the 
 silence of the air. 
 
 O quartet, that rises careless of all tune and time 
 and measure. 
 There was sweeter music never, nor a chord 
 of notes more true : 
 And the singers fair and famous, whom we ten- 
 der, toast and treasure. 
 Were but tyros, wee musicians, were they side 
 by side with you ! 
 
 For their purest strains and strongest, are but 
 broken chords completed 
 Where frail nature seeks perfectness from the 
 molding hand of Art ; 
 But the music of the children is the echo, soft 
 repeated, 
 Of the song that God and angels sing within 
 the spotless heart ! 
 
ISO 
 
 POEMS or NOME AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Ah! the song sin oft may silence, ere their 
 earthly way be wended — 
 Yet, O angels, shield them ever, till they rest 
 in sunny skies! 
 True as mother who leaves cradle not when 
 slumber song is ended. 
 But stays on to guard the dreaming she has 
 summoned to sweet eyes. 
 
 Soft spring sun, shine bland and brightly ; winds 
 blow warm, and stars serenely 
 Crown by night the rafters rising where a road 
 sweeps white before ; 
 Where fair children Ilit like (lowers thro' the young 
 spring grass grown greenly 
 Round the little Western cottage on the far 
 Missouri shore ! 
 
 MINN'IE GILMORE. 
 
 ABSENT CHILDREN. 
 
 They were simple of speech and mind, 
 Peasant mothers and neighbors kind, 
 Met in the shade of a leafy lime. 
 At the sweet midsummer's twilight time ; 
 When labor rests and memories wake. 
 When hearts grow sad for the absents" sake. 
 Thus of their absent ones they spake : 
 
 One said, " My child is far at sea ; 
 
 He loved the wild waves more than me — 
 
 More than his native vale and cot — 
 
 And chose the roving sailor's lot. 
 
 Some, but they might have feigned, foretold 
 
 That he was born for a captain bold. 
 
 And would come back with fame and gold. 
 
 " But many a day and many a year, 
 
 Is the sound of the deep sea in mine ear ; 
 
 And many a stormy winter's night 
 
 I wake with a strange and sore affright : 
 
 For the drowning cries of shipwrecked men 
 
 Seem mingling with the tempest then ; 
 
 And my poor heart cannot rest again." 
 
 Another said : " My child this day 
 
 Dwells in a city far away : 
 
 Lightly the young bird leaves the nest. 
 
 Though it holds the hearts that love him best, 
 
 For sights to see, and for wealth to win. 
 
 Early he went from kith and kin. — 
 
 'Tis said they prosper who thus begin. 
 
 " But still as the seasons come and go. 
 
 His thoughts more strange and distant grow 
 
 From us and from our village ways. 
 
 The city hath swallowed up his days. 
 
 And oft of the sin and of the snare 
 
 That lie in wait for his footsteps there, 
 
 I think with trembling and a prayer." 
 
 " My child," said the third, " hath voyaged o' 
 
 A deeper sea to a farther shore ; 
 
 A home and a welcome he hath found 
 
 In a fairer, mightier city's bound. 
 ' Early the songs of its happier bowers 
 i Won him away from us and ours, 
 I Yet my tears are dry that fell in showers. 
 
 , •• Cold hath the love of the living grown. 
 But 1 know that his is still my own ; 
 
 My fears grow dark and my hopes grow dim 
 For the children with me, but not for him. 
 Safe to the Ark hath tlown my dove ; 
 No change for youth and no chill for love, 
 I Is found in our Father's house above." 
 
 ' FRANCES BROWN. 
 
 ADVENTURERS. 
 
 When we were children, at our will. 
 
 That varnished summer blithe and free. 
 Dear shipmate ! how we loved to Hoat 
 Thro' wind and calm, in a little boat, 
 .All alone on the sparkling sea ! 
 
 One morn, defying storms we sailed 
 And sung our Credo, you and I, — 
 " Beyond the foam, the surge, the mist, 
 The sea-fog's moving amethyst. 
 The peaceful fairy islands lie." 
 
 Afar we urged the forward prow. 
 
 Half mad with longing as we hied ; 
 Yet at the sunset's dying glow 
 Faint-hearted, cea,sed, and homewards so 
 
 Came meekly with the evening tide. 
 
 Surely the Isle of Rest were near ! 
 
 Why did our childish ardor tire .' 
 Now more, oh, more the thousandth time I 
 We thirst for that celestial ciime. 
 
 We hunger with that old desire. 
 
THE POET'S LITTLE RIVAL. 
 
 131 
 
 Some day, when we shall sail again, 
 
 The home-lighis late indeed may burn ; 
 Let signals flutter on the shore, 
 Let tides creep up to the open door. 
 But with no tide shall we return. 
 
 LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 
 
 WHEN MOTHERS WATCH. 
 
 When mothers watch beside their children's 
 cradles, 
 
 And kiss the snowy brows and golden hair, 
 They do not see the future that is coming. 
 
 Though life is made of grief, and pain, and care. 
 
 But God is good to all the tender mothers ; 
 
 He veils the future, with its pain and sin ; 
 Though sometimes fears may dim the present 
 gladness. 
 
 Yet never can they quench the hope within. 
 
 Yes, God is very good to tender mothers ; 
 
 They see no thorn upon the golden head 
 Of him who plays among life's earliest roses. 
 
 That bloom a fleeting hour, and then are dead. 
 
 Yet she, the model of all earthly mothers. 
 Was never spared the pain of knowing this : 
 
 That, though the Christ-child played with bloom- 
 ing roses. 
 The cross must come, for all her prayerful bliss. 
 
 To look — He slept — upon his snowy eyelids. 
 And know that they should close upon the 
 tree ; — 
 To gaze upon His smooth and stainless forehead, 
 And know that there great drops of blood 
 should be ; — 
 
 To catch His dimpled hands and softly warm 
 them, 
 
 As mothers do, between her own, was pain ; 
 She felt the nail prints on their velvet surface — 
 
 She could not save her Lamb from being slain. 
 
 When mothers watch beside their children's 
 
 cradles, [fame, 
 
 And dream bright dreams for them of joy and 
 
 Let them remember Mary's trust through an- ' 
 
 guish. 
 
 And ask all blessings thro' the Holy Name. 
 
 MAURICE F. EC-^N. 
 
 MOTHERS. 
 
 Out of pain, into rapture, he is clasped to her 
 
 breast ; 
 " O, my love ! O, my dove, welcome home to 
 
 your nest !" 
 Mother heart beating time to each small cooing 
 
 note. 
 To each faint, limpid gurgle of the soft little 
 
 throat. 
 
 Soon the baby glances w-ai)der till they rest, 
 where she stands, 
 
 Flushed with love and eager longing, shining 
 eyes, waiting hands ; 
 
 Cheek to cheek, Hp to lip, as she holds her dar- 
 ling fast. 
 
 With a gladness that is fear, — " Will it last, can 
 it last .'" 
 
 All the day there is the cry of a child in her ears. 
 All the day baby hands reaching out to her tears, 
 While her arms stretch in vain through the 
 
 emptiness of air. 
 Though the world is full of him, everywhere, 
 
 everywhere. 
 
 She feels a gentle stir, through the night, in her 
 
 sleep, 
 Turning quick with tender soothing, but to wake 
 
 and to weep ; 
 " O, my baby ! O, my baby, you are underneath 
 
 the snow !" — 
 All the joy there is in loving, all pain mothers 
 
 know. 
 
 MARY E. WANNIX. 
 
 THE POET'S LITTLE RIVAL. 
 
 A dainty desk of rosewood. 
 
 With a half-completed sonnet. 
 And a bunch of summer roses 
 
 In a Sevres vase upon it ; 
 And a bronze and crystal standish. 
 
 And a golden pen or two, 
 Whole reams of satin paper, 
 
 Pink and azure and I'crii, 
 And the poets, great and tiny. 
 
 Scattered round in gold and blue. 
 
 On the wall a linnet singing, 
 In a niche a clock of buhl. 
 
 Underfoot an Indian matting ; 
 .4nd the casement, low and cool. 
 
132 
 
 POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Twined about with waving ivy, 
 Where the sunset glor>- bums; 
 
 And the light and shade go creeping, 
 Making bright and darl< by turns 
 
 The pendent baslcet swinging 
 From the trellis, full of ferns. 
 
 And the poet, ah ! the poet. 
 
 He quits his pleasant seat, 
 And sees his little daughter 
 
 In the garden at his feet. 
 Walking with her fair-haired mother. 
 
 In a dress of snowy lawn, 
 Prattling softly to the flowers 
 
 As they wander on and on ; 
 Saying, " I must make a poem 
 
 Ere the roses all are gone !" 
 
 Then the poet leans and listens, 
 
 With a quaint and tender air, 
 As the bird-like child goes darting 
 
 Through the beautiful parterre. 
 " Bravo ! bravo ! little poet ! " 
 
 (Startled, flushed with love's sunshine) 
 "See my poem, papa darling! — 
 
 Every word a blossom fine !" 
 "Sweet!" he says; "God bless thee, daughter, 
 
 Ne'er was poem writ like thine !" 
 
 ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 
 
 GLOUCESTER HARBOR. 
 
 North from the beautiful islands. 
 
 North from the headlands and highlands. 
 
 The long sea-wall. 
 The white ships flee with the swallow ; 
 The day-beams follow and follow. 
 
 Glitter and fall. 
 
 The brown ruddy children that fear not, 
 Lean over the quay, and they hear not 
 
 Warnings of lips ; 
 For their hearts go a-sailing. a-sailing. 
 Out from the wharves and the wailing 
 
 After the ships. 
 
 Nothing to them is the golden 
 Curve of the sands, or the olden 
 
 Haunts of the town ; 
 Little they reck of the peaceful 
 Chiming of bells, or the easeful 
 
 Sport on the down. 
 
 The orchards no longer are cherished ; 
 The charm of the meadow has perished : 
 
 Dearer, ay me ! 
 The solitude vast, unbcfricnded. 
 The magical voice and the splendid 
 
 Fierce will of the sea. 
 
 Beyond them, by ridges and narrows 
 The silver prows speed like the arrows 
 
 Sudden and fair ; 
 Like the hoofs of A! Horak the wondrous. 
 Lost in the blue and the thund'rous 
 
 Depths of the air ; 
 
 On to the central Atlantic, 
 Where passionate, hurrying, frantic 
 
 Elements meet ; 
 To the play and the calm and commotion 
 Of the treacherous, glorious ocean 
 
 Cruel and sweet. 
 
 In the hearts of the children forever 
 She fashions their growing endeavor. 
 
 The pitiless sea ; 
 Their sires in her caverns she stayeth. 
 The spirits that love her she slayeth. 
 
 And laughs in her glee. 
 
 Woe, woe, for the old fascination ! 
 The women make deep lamentation 
 
 In starts and in slips ; 
 Here always is hope unavailing. 
 Here always the dreamers are sailing 
 
 After the ships ! 
 
 LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEV. 
 
 SUSPIRIA. 
 Young Mother, with the tearful eyes bent lowly 
 In love and adoration o'er the child 
 That slumbers pillowed on your heaving breast. 
 Be all your thoughts of heaven serene and holy ! 
 By naught of earth be your true soul defiled, — 
 The only lulling of your babe to rest — 
 The fond heart beating e\enly and slowly. 
 And the soft breathing, like the music wild 
 Of summer breezes blowing from the west ! 
 
 Young Fatlier. tlo you come to see your boy. 
 Hearing the gentle mother two-fold joy. 
 Expectant of your footsteps ? Hush ! Draw nigh 
 In silence, for he sleeps— the child of heaven 
 Dreaming of heaven ; wake him not. Your eye 
 Beholds not those twin spirits hovering by. 
 One fair as mom, the other dark as even. 
 
THE LULLABY. 
 
 m 
 
 One fans the baby-brow with rainbow wings, 
 The other whispers with low murmurings 
 Beside his delicate ear. You cannot hear 
 The sweet mysterious melody, or see 
 Those dreams of more than poet's fantasy: 
 Therefore in lowly reverence draw near. 
 
 EDMUND J. ARMSTRONG. 
 
 THREE KISSES. 
 
 THE LITTLE SAILOR KISS. 
 
 O kisses they are plenty 
 As blossoms on the tree ! 
 
 And be they one, or twenty. 
 
 They're sweet to you and me ; 
 And some are for the forehead, and some 
 
 for the lips, 
 And some are for the rosy cheeks, and some for | 
 
 finger tips. 
 And some are for the dimples— but the sweetest | 
 
 one is this : 
 ■When the bonny, bonny bairnie gives his little 
 
 sailor kiss. 
 
 I will kiss the sailor. 
 This sailor lad so true ! 
 
 1 would not kiss a tailor, 
 A carpenter, or nailer. 
 But I will kiss this sailor 
 
 With bonny eyes of blue ! 
 With a sonsy smile, and yellow hair to snare the 
 
 sunshine in. 
 With a laughing mouth, and a rosy cheek and a 
 
 dimple in the chin ; 
 Three years old, with a heart of gold — ah. who 
 
 would want to miss 
 The chance to meet my darling with his little 
 
 sailor kiss ! 
 
 O then the tiny fingers 
 
 Creep, pinching, to your face 
 
 With a touch that thrills and lingers ; 
 
 And the rosy palms find place 
 
 To come pressing and caressing with soft and 
 
 clinging touch. 
 Not teasing you too little, and yet not overmuch, 
 While full of love and laughter the pretty blue 
 
 eyes glow. 
 And red lips tightly puckered pout roguishly 
 
 below. 
 O tell me, ye who know it, is there in this world 
 
 such bliss 
 As when the bonny bairnie gives his little sailor 
 
 kiss ! 
 
 M.IRY E. BLAKE. 
 
 I held a little child 
 
 Within my arms to-day ; 
 The deep blue eyes unclosed 
 
 'Neath morning's golden ray. 
 I pressed a loving l;iss 
 
 Upon the infant brow. 
 And whispered : " There is born 
 
 To earth a young life now." 
 
 I held the little child 
 
 Within my arms to-night; 
 The deep blue eyes unclosed 
 
 Beneath the taper's light. 
 I pressed a loving kiss 
 
 Upon the moistened brow. 
 And whispered : " There is born 
 
 An heir to heaven now." 
 
 I lay the little child 
 
 Within a casket white ; 
 The deep blue eyes are closed 
 
 To all save heaven's light. 
 I press a loving kiss 
 
 Upon the pure white brow. 
 And whisper : " There is born 
 
 To God an angel now." 
 
 MARGARET E. JORDAN. 
 
 THE LULLABY. 
 
 I saw two children hushed to death, 
 In lap of One with silver wings, 
 
 Harkenmg a lute, whose latest breath 
 Low lingered on the trembling strings. 
 
 Her face is very pale and fair. 
 Her hooded eyelids darkly shed 
 
 Celestial love, and all her hair 
 Is like a crown around her head. 
 
 Each ripple sinking in its place. 
 Along the lute's faint-ebbing strain. 
 
 Seems echo'd slowlier from her face. 
 And echo'd back from theirs again. 
 
 Yes, now is silence. Do not weep. 
 
 Her eyes are fixed : observe them long ; 
 And spell, if thou canst pierce so deep. 
 
 The purpose of a nobler song. 
 
 WILL1.4M ALLINGHAM. 
 
'34 
 
 POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 LULLABY. 
 
 So tired on this bright day of summer, 
 So faint with the fragrance of flowers 
 
 Her tongue than the green grass is dumber, 
 Her senses the heat ov-rpowers: 
 
 And what, now all these overcome her 
 Shall we do for this darling of ours ? 
 
 A mantle of velvet we give her. 
 
 And jewels that star-like shall gleam, 
 And a crown of red poppies to quiver 
 
 And nod as she crosses the stream- 
 As she crosses the still Slumber River, 
 
 And enters the broad land of Dream. 
 
 In that land let her wander at pleasure. 
 
 And visit the people of Sleep, 
 Who are lavish of glittering treasure 
 
 They rather would give her than keep. 
 And share in their joy beyond measure. 
 
 Till her heart in an ecstacy leap. 
 
 No black, frightful vision pursue her. 
 
 No trouble her senses affright : 
 But bright shapes and beautiful woo her. 
 
 Each clad in a vesture of light : 
 And e.xquisite pleasures thrill thro' her 
 
 The whole of the sweet summer night. 
 
 And if of her bliss she should weary. 
 
 As weary she possibly may, 
 Let the soul of our golden-haired deary 
 
 Come back to its dwelling of clay. 
 To make our existence less dreary. 
 
 And add a new light to the day. 
 
 THOMAS UUNN ENGLISH. 
 
 THE LITTLE MAIDEN. 
 
 Little maiden in the rain, 
 
 On the mountain road, 
 Never bloom of healthier grain 
 
 On a wet cheek glowed : 
 Never active little feet 
 Hastened footsteps more discreet. 
 
 Plain it is it was not play 
 Brought thee out of doors, 
 
 This tempestuous autumn day 
 O'er the windy moors ; 
 
 Something thou hast had to do. 
 
 Deemed of trust and moment too. 
 
 Now the errand duly done. 
 
 Home thou hiest fast ; 
 Through the flying gleams of sun. 
 
 Through the laden blast. 
 With the light of purpose high 
 Kindling bravely in thine eye. 
 
 Oh, 'twas fearful at the top 
 
 While it rained and blew. 
 Till the dark cloud lifted up 
 
 And the sun beamed through. 
 Showing all the country's side 
 Spread beneath thee, grand and wide. 
 
 Wondrous wide the world extends I 
 Thought 'st thou as thy glance 
 
 Traveled to the welkin's ends 
 O'er the bright expanse. 
 
 Stubble fields and browsing trees. 
 
 Spires and foreign parishes ! 
 
 Other children's homes are there 
 Sheltered from the storm ; 
 
 Others' mothers' arms prepare 
 Clasping welcomes warm ; 
 
 Others' fathers' fields are made 
 
 Fertile by the plough and spade. 
 
 Men and horses on the land, 
 
 Maidens in the byre ; 
 15oys and girls a merry band. 
 
 Round the evening fire :— 
 Such the world, for thee, and, lo 
 There it lay in glorious show. 
 
 Round thee in the glittering rays 
 
 By the rain-drops shed. 
 Shone the blossomed furze ablaze. 
 
 Shone the fern-brake red ; 
 Rough, but lovely as thy own 
 Life's ideal, little one ! 
 
 Then a glowing thought there came, 
 
 (iuess I not aright ?— 
 That the furze's yellow flame 
 Could not shine so bright. 
 Nor the fern-leaws spread so fair. 
 If the good God were not there. 
 
 Rightly to that thought 1 trace 
 All the courage high 
 
 Flashing through thy wetted face, 
 ! Mounting in thine eye, 
 
 I Now the cioud and driving ram 
 
 Close around thy path again. 
 
OBJECT LESSONS FOR EI TUNA. 
 
 Could these purblind eyes of mine 
 
 Past the curtain, see 
 Things unseen and things divine, 
 
 Sure it seems to me 
 I would see an Angel glide 
 Down the mountain by thy side. 
 
 SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
 
 THE BRIGHT LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Her blue eyes they beam and they twinkle, 
 Her lips have made smilmg more fair; 
 
 On cheek and on brow there's no wrinkle. 
 But thousands of curls in her hair. 
 
 She's little, — you don't wish her taller ; 
 
 Just half through the teens is her age ; 
 And baby or lady to call her. 
 
 Were something to puzzle a sage ! 
 
 Her walk is far better than dancing ; 
 
 She speaks as another might sing ; 
 And all by an innocent chancing. 
 
 Like lambkins and birds in the spring. 
 
 Unskill'd in the airs of the city. 
 
 She's perfect in natural grace ; 
 She's gentle, and truthful, and witty. 
 
 And ne'er spends a thought on her face ; — 
 
 Her face, with the fine glow that's in it. 
 As fresh as an apple-tree bloom — 
 
 And O ! when she comes, in a minute. 
 Like sunbeams she brightens the room. 
 
 As taking in mind as in feature. 
 
 How many will sigh for her sake ! — 
 
 I wonder, the sweet little creature. 
 What sort of a wife she would make. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 THE LITTLE SISTER'S SONG. 
 
 Sleep, little brother, you must not awaken 
 
 Till mother conies back to her baby again ; 
 Weary and long is the way she has taken, 
 
 Over the common and thro' the green glen ; 
 Up the steep hill by the path that is nearest. 
 
 Thinking of you as she hurries along. 
 Sleep, then, and dream that she's watching you, 
 dearest. 
 
 Rocking your cradle, and singing her song. 
 
 In the still room there's no sound to disquiet. 
 
 Only the clock, ticking even and low, 
 Only the bird in his cage hanging by it, 
 
 Chirping a note as he hops to and fro. 
 Out in the sunlight the woodbine is stirring. 
 
 Filling the air with its fragrance so sweet ; 
 On the low window-seat pussy sits purring, 
 
 Washing her face with her little white feet. 
 
 Far down the lane merry voices are ringing. 
 
 Comrades have beckoned me out to their play. 
 Why did you start .' It is I that am singing ; 
 
 Why did you frown ? I'm not going away. 
 Could I forsake you for play or for pleasure. 
 
 Lying alone in your helplessness here } 
 How could I leave you, my own little treasure. 
 
 No one to rock you, and no one to cheer } 
 
 In the room corners I watch the dark shadows, 
 
 Deep'ning and length 'ning as eveningcomes on? 
 Soon will the mowers return from the meadows. 
 
 Far to the westward the red sun is gone. 
 By the green hedgerow I see her now coming. 
 
 Where the last sunbeam is just on her track ; 
 Still I sit by you, love, drowsily humming, 
 
 Sleep, little baby, till mother comes back. 
 
 CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER. 
 
 OBJECT LESSONS FOR EITHNA. 
 When the Sabbath evening smiles 
 Over Carbery's rock-bound isles. 
 Winding bays and deep defiles; 
 
 And the sun, just half way o'er. 
 Flings his beams to either shore. 
 Love behind and hope before, — 
 
 Emblem of our ancient race. 
 Ever bound m glory's trace. 
 On the earth no resting place, — 
 
 Where the zephyrs, whisp'ring bland. 
 Woo the light waves on the strand. 
 Lead our Eithna by the hand. 
 
 She is coy and finely strung, 
 Wistful, weird, and sweet of tongue,— 
 Passing wise for one so young ; 
 
 And her eager eyes and ears 
 Treasure all she sees and hears — 
 Hers are wonder-working years. 
 
POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Show her on the sunlit sea. 
 Links of love to her of me, 
 And bespeak her tenderly. 
 
 Until ocean-sounds and sights 
 Steep her heart in soft delights; 
 Point her then the upland heights, 
 
 Where commingling cloud and mist, 
 By the parting sunbeams kissed. 
 Float like waves of amethyst, 
 
 j ORIENT BORN. 
 
 Beautiful olive-brown brow, chin where the 
 fairy print lies; 
 
 j Fragrant dark tresses above splendid myste- 
 rious eyes ; 
 
 Mellowest fires that glow under the calm of 
 1 her face. 
 
 Girl of all girls in the world for mould and 
 I for color and grace. 
 
 Ever changing form and hue, 
 By the light winds riven through. 
 Opening wondrous scenes to view — 
 
 Mountains in their vernal glow 
 Flinging dappled locks of snow 
 Where the torrents bound below. 
 
 Breaking from their wintry hold ; 
 Clasping hills and headlands bold. 
 Belts of sapphire gemmed in gold; 
 
 Valleys filled with topaz glooms. 
 Yew-trees wav-ng sable plumes 
 Over old historic tombs. 
 
 Rifled fane and hoary tower. 
 Records of perverted power. 
 In their most impressive hour. 
 
 When the shades are gaining higher, 
 And the lofty dome and spire 
 Vanish, touched by sacred fire, — 
 
 Fix by all a mother's art. 
 Irish objects on her heart; 
 But with life they will depart ; 
 
 Oft when touched by fancy's wings, 
 Will those fondly-cherished things 
 Rise to grand imaginings. 
 
 And renew the golden chain. 
 Severed by the rolling main. 
 To our native land again. 
 
 Weave the outlines, fondly weave, 
 1 shall point and purpose give 
 To the etchings — if 1 live. 
 
 So her life shall be to thine 
 As a fondly-clasping vine, 
 And a glory unto mine. 
 
 Such are the opal-like maids that flash in the 
 
 groves to and fro, 
 Dancers .\rabian; such, languorous ages ago, 
 
 Ptolemy's daughter; and so. breathing faint 
 
 cassia and musk. 
 Veiled young Moors on divans, singing and 
 
 sighing at dusk. 
 
 Never in opiate dreams have 1 o'ertaken you, 
 
 sweet 
 Never with senna-tipped hands ; never with 
 
 silken-shod feet ; 
 
 Still the love-charm of the East must over 
 
 and over be told 
 By and by havoc with hearts ! Ah. slowly. 
 
 my seven-year old ! 
 
 LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 
 
 MY PRISON. 
 Nor bolts nor bars my prison has. 
 No frowning turrets grim and high, 
 Seem to mock the smiling sky; 
 Yet could nor hold nor durance be 
 Stronger than that which bindeth me. 
 
 No tyrants stern my jailors are ; — 
 Six merry wardens guard the door. 
 With fun and frolic evermore ; 
 And one can neither dance nor sing. 
 But only laugh, "the cunning thing." 
 
 A pleasant place my prison is. 
 With pit-a-pat of childish feet 
 And baby-kisses, soft and sweet : — 
 There is no freedom half so dear 
 As these bright chains that bind me here. 
 
J^OSV CHILD, WITH FOREHEAD FAIR. 
 
 137 
 
 For life and death my bondage i;-! ; 
 Not rarest gem of land or sea, 
 Nor glittering gold may ransom me — 
 A willing captive, happier far 
 Than many crowned monarchs are. 
 
 A blessed thing my bondage is : — 
 O, joyous thraldom, gladly borne, 
 No chains were e'er so lightly worn, 
 As fetters held by childish hands, 
 W'hen mother-love has forged the bands. 
 
 MARY K. MANN IX. 
 
 THE GODMOTHER'S GIFT. 
 Beside the baby's cradle 
 
 She sat the whole night long. 
 To lay upon his little lips 
 
 The kisses six of song. 
 
 •' This is the kiss shall make him long 
 
 To drink," she softly sighed, 
 •■ The fount of beauty with the thirst 
 
 That ne'er is satisfied. 
 
 •■ This is the kiss shall ope the eye 
 
 And stimulate the brain 
 To see what others never saw 
 
 And he can ne'er attain. 
 
 ■'This is the kiss shall charm his lips 
 
 So that his whole life long 
 There honey bees of thought shall hive 
 
 The stinging sweets of song. 
 
 "And here the kiss of wandering 
 
 I print on feet and breast. 
 That he may for possession have 
 
 Desire and unrest. 
 
 •■And this shall be the kiss of love, 
 
 His life to consecrate 
 To her that shall be lost too soon, 
 
 Or be found out too late. 
 
 " These are the kisses five I give 
 
 My baby in his sleep ; 
 The sixth, and sacredest of all, 
 
 A little while I keep. 
 
 •' And he shall never know, or, known. 
 
 It never shall be told, 
 Which sweeter is — the kiss I give, 
 
 Or the kiss that I withhold." 
 
 GEORGE T. LANIGAN. 
 
 THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. 
 A baby was sleeping. 
 Its mother was weeping. 
 For her husband was far on the wild, raging sea. 
 And the tempest was swelling. 
 Round the fisherman's dwelling — 
 .Vnd she cried: ■'Dermot, darling, oh! come 
 back to me !" 
 
 Her beads while she numbered. 
 
 The baby still slumber'd, 
 .Vnd smiled in her face as she bended her knee ; 
 I " Oh ! blest be that warning. 
 
 My child, thy sleep adorning, [thee. 
 I'or I know that the angels are whispering with 
 
 "And while they are keeping 
 Bright watch o'er thy sleeping. 
 
 Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me — 
 And say thou would'st rather 
 They'd watch o'er thy father, [thee." 
 
 I''or I know that the angels are whispering with 
 
 The dawn of the morning 
 
 Saw Dermot returning, [see ; 
 
 i\nd the wife wept with joy her babe's father to 
 
 And closely caressing 
 
 Her child with a blessing, [with thee." 
 Saiil, " I knew that the angels were whispering 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 ROSY CHILD, WITH FOREHEAD FAIR. 
 Rosy child, with forehead fair. 
 Coral lips and shining hair. 
 In whose mirthful, clever eyes 
 Such a world of gladness lies ; 
 As thy loose curls, idly straying 
 O'er thy mother's neck, while playing. 
 Blend her soft locks' shadowy twiue 
 With the glittering light of thine, — 
 Which is fairest — she or thou .' 
 
 In sweet contrast are ye met. 
 
 Such as heart could ne'er forget : 
 
 Thou are brilliant as a flower, 
 
 Crimsoning in the sunny nour ; 
 
 Merry as a singing bird. 
 
 In the greenwood sweetly heard ; 
 
 Restless as if fluttering wings 
 
 Bore thee on thy wanderings ; 
 
 Ignorant of all distress. 
 
 Full of childhood's careles.sne'^s. 
 
POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 She is gentle ; she hath known 
 Something of the echoed tone 
 Sorrow leaves where'er it goes. 
 In this world of many woes. 
 On her brow such shadows are 
 As the faint cloud gives the star, 
 X'eiling its most holy light. 
 Though it still be pure and bright ; 
 And the color in her cheek 
 To the hue on thine is weak. 
 Save when flushed with sweet surprise 
 Sudden welcoine lights her eyes ; 
 And her softly chiselled face 
 (But for living, moving grace) 
 Looks like one of those which beam 
 In the Italian painter's dream — 
 Some beloved Madonna, bending 
 O'er the infant she is tending; 
 Holy, bright and undeliled 
 Mother of the Heaven-born child ; 
 Who, though painted strangely fair. 
 Seems but made for holy prayer, 
 Pity, tears and sweet appeal. 
 And fondness such as angels feel ; 
 Baffling earthly passion's sigh 
 With serenest majesty. 
 
 Oh ! may those enshrouded years 
 Whose fair dawn alone appears, — 
 May that brightly budding life. 
 Knowing yet nor sin nor strife. 
 Bring its store of hoped-for joy, 
 Mother, to thy laughing boy ! 
 And the good thou dost impart 
 Lie deep-treasured in his heart, 
 That, when he at length shall strive 
 In the bad world where we live, 
 Thy sweet name may still be blest 
 As one who taught his soul true rest ! 
 
 CAROLINE E. NORTON. 
 
 THE FAIRY BOY. 
 
 A mother came when stars were paling. 
 
 Wailing round a lonely spring ; 
 Thus she cried, while tears were falling. 
 
 Calling on the Fairy King :— 
 " Why with spells my child caressing. 
 
 Courting him with fairy joy ? 
 Why destroy a mother's blessing — 
 
 Wherefore steal my baby boy ? 
 
 ■ ' )"cr liie mountain, thro' the wild wood, 
 
 Where his childhood loved to play. 
 Where the flowers are freshly springing. 
 
 There I wander day by day ; 
 There I wander, growing fonder 
 
 Of the child that made my joy. 
 On the echoes wildly calling 
 
 To restore my fairy boy. 
 
 " Hut in vain my plaintive calling. 
 
 Tears are falling all in vain ; 
 He now sports with fairy pleasure. 
 
 He's the treasure of their train ! 
 Fare thee well, my child, forever ; 
 
 In this world I've lost my joy ; 
 But in the next we ne'er shall sever, — 
 
 There I'll tind my fairy boy !" 
 
 S.VMUEL I.OVER. 
 
 THE FAIRY CHILD. 
 
 The summer sun was sinking 
 j With a mild light, calm and mellow ; 
 I It shone on my little boy's bonnie cheeks. 
 And his loose locks of yellow. 
 
 The robin was singing sweetly, 
 And his song was sad and tender ; 
 
 And my little boy's eyes, while he heard the song. 
 Smiled with a sweet, soft splendor. 
 
 My little boy lay on my bosom 
 
 While his soul the song was quaffing. 
 The joy of his soul had tinged his cheek. 
 I And his heart and his eye were laughing. 
 
 I sate alone in my cottage. 
 ' The midnight needle plying ; 
 I feared for my child, for the rush's light 
 In the socket now was dying! 
 
 There came a hand to my lonely latch. 
 Like the wind at midnight moaning ; 
 
 I knelt to pray, but rose again. 
 
 For I heard my little boy groaning. 
 
 I crossed my brow and I crossed my breast. 
 
 But that night my child departed — 
 They left a weakling in his stead. 
 
 And 1 am broken-hearted ! 
 
 I O ! it cannot be my own sweet boy, 
 i For his eyes are dim and hollow. 
 My little boy is gone — is gone. 
 And his mother soon will follow ! 
 
THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 139 
 
 The dirge for the dead will be sung for me. 
 
 And the mass be chanted meetly. 
 And I shall sleep with my little boy, 
 
 In the moonlight churchyard sweetly. 
 
 JOHN ANSTER. 
 
 THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 Oh pleasant, pleasant were the days 
 
 We listened to the story. 
 Beloved of children, and beloved 
 
 Of story-tellers hoary. 
 
 Of Robin Redbreast, kindly bird, 
 Renowned in childhood's annals. 
 
 Whose fame rolls on from age to age 
 In ever deepening channels; 
 
 Who covered up the pretty babes 
 With leaves and moss and grasses. 
 
 And since in nursery legends lives, 
 And other birds surpasses — 
 
 Sweet, touching tale to which young hearts 
 
 Still tearful homage render ; 
 But I can tell a truer tale. 
 
 More touching and more tender ;— 
 
 No mythic tale of nursery lore, 
 
 No legend quaint and hoary, 
 But a true modern version of 
 
 The dear old precious story. 
 
 II. 
 
 Hither and thither, up and down. 
 Through fields and lanes so lonely. 
 
 Bordered with berry-bearing trees 
 And gemmed with wild flowers only ; 
 
 O'er brooks that babbled as they ran 
 Some tale well worth the knowing. 
 
 Round hillocks green, by sedgy pools. 
 Where flag and reeds were growing ; 
 
 Taking no heed of time or tide. 
 
 No note of wind or weather, 
 They wandered on and on and on, 
 
 Three little ones together. 
 
 \Vhilcs running races with the wind. 
 That fresh and keen was blowing; 
 
 Whiles panting as they paused for breath, 
 Their cheeks like roses glowing ; 
 
 Whiles lagging on the level ground. 
 Whiles climbing o'er the hilly. 
 
 Whiles prattling in the puzzling way 
 That foolish folks call silly, 
 
 Of earth and heaven, and home and all 
 Their joy and all their sorrow — 
 
 Of what they did on yesterday. 
 And what they'll do to-morrow. 
 
 So to and fro, with tireless feet 
 And hearts light as a feather. 
 
 And merry, chattering tongues, they went 
 These little ones together. 
 
 The sun went down, the wind blew keen, 
 The night looked bleak and dreary. 
 
 Their little hands grew numb with cold. 
 Their little feet grew weary. 
 
 Ah me, was there no angel voice 
 To utter words of warning.' 
 j Ah me, were there no angel eyes 
 To guard them till the morning .' 
 
 " Oh take me home." the youngest cried, 
 " And me too." said the other; 
 
 '• It's getting late, and cold and dark, 
 Oh take us home to mother!" 
 
 With loving care she turned to them — 
 
 Herself so little older — 
 And strove to warm each tiny hand 
 
 With hands as cold — nay colder. 
 
 Her shawl she wrapped about the one. 
 
 Her cloak about the other: 
 And strove with childhood's simple guile 
 
 Their vague wild fears to smother. 
 
 She led them to a sheltered spot, 
 
 Yet there the cold winds found them ; 
 
 So gathering up the withered leaves. 
 She piled them close around them. 
 
 Then whispering words of love and hope 
 So brave none could suspect, or 
 
 Dream of the terror at heart, 
 This six-year old protector 
 
140 
 
 POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Went forth to glean another heap. 
 
 Unknowing and uncaring 
 That there was merit in the act 
 
 Or virtue in the daring. 
 
 And came and went and went and came 
 With cold and terror shivering. 
 
 And every nerve in her slight frame 
 With toil unwonted quivering. 
 
 "One bundle more." she stooped and said. 
 
 " Will save us from the weather. 
 And, darlings, when the morning comes 
 
 We'll all go home together." 
 
 IV. 
 
 The morning came, the sun shone down 
 On hill and vale and meadow ; 
 
 The dewdrops glistened on the grass. 
 The stream half shine, half shadow. 
 
 Went murmuring on its way that led 
 Through mazes without number, 
 
 Round by the nook, where 'mid dry leaves 
 Two children lay in slumber. 
 
 And near them, by a brambly sheaf 
 
 That fell from her oerladen 
 And nerveless arms, lay cold in death 
 
 The little martyr maiden. 
 
 j MAKV MULLALV. 
 
 A LITTLE MOTHER'S LESSON. 
 Dolly! O Dolly, my darling! you're much too 
 
 naughty to-daj' ! 
 Come here to my arms this moment, and 
 
 listen to what I must say. 
 It's horrid to have to scold, and it isn't my 
 
 way at all. 
 But 1 must impress on your mind that Pride 
 
 goes before a fall ! 
 
 There's a wee little scowl on your forehead, 
 and a toss on the tip of your nose. 
 
 That told me. the moment I saw you, you 
 were thinking too much of your clothes; 
 
 After all my carefuUcst teaching, to think 
 that your ver)' first ball 
 
 Should make you forget in a moment, that 
 Pride goes before a fall ! 
 
 I 've told you over and over, whenever you had 
 
 a new dress. 
 That I loved you not one bit better and 1 
 
 loved you not one bit less ; 
 That 1 liked you best for yourself, so pretty 
 
 and sweet and small. 
 And that Pride was a dreadful thing, dear, 
 
 that goes before a fall ! 
 
 I used to be just like you, so fond of sashes 
 
 and things, 
 .\nd when I was dressed in my best it seemed 
 
 that my feet were wings. 
 And that I could fly with delight— but now I 
 
 am grown so tall, 
 ' And I know, for mamma has told me, that 
 
 Pride goes before a fall ! 
 I 
 Besides, I have felt it myself; for as sure as 
 
 sure could be. 
 The time 1 was most puffed up was a time of 
 
 trial for me ; 
 There was always a slap or a snub from nurse 
 
 or Kitty or Paul — 
 Oh. indeed I know ver^• well that Pride goes 
 
 before a fall ! 
 
 So Dolly. Dolly, my darling, be sure you heed 
 
 what I say. 
 And never look haughty or \'ain. as I found 
 
 you looking to-day ; 
 Now let me tie on your hat. and we'll go to 
 
 make a call. 
 But never, never forget, dear, that Pride goes 
 
 before a fall ! 
 
 MARY E. BLAKE. 
 
PART III. 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 Let us arise, and shake away the dust 
 
 Of brick and pavement from our flying feet ; 
 All former visions from remembrance thrust, 
 
 And even forget that once we trod the street. 
 
 Up in the mountains haply we may meet 
 Those glorious fancies that still shun the throng ; 
 
 The rill's wild music, tremulous and sweet. 
 Will lend a softer cadence to nur song. 
 The cataract's curbless strength may teach us to be strong. 
 
 And flowers, and perfumes, and untainted air, 
 
 .''ind forest green with dark cathedral glooms. 
 And the fleet birds, whose mission is to bear 
 
 Nature's true music on their outspread plumes ; 
 
 And mossy banks, and overhanging blooms 
 Of trailing honeysuckle — these shall teach 
 
 Our tongues to breathe the passion that consumes 
 The inmost spirit ; and we shall learn a speech 
 Wide-general enough all human hearts to reach. 
 
 H.\LPINE. 
 
POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 HYMN OF THE UNIVERSE. 
 
 Roll on, thou Sun ! in glory roll. 
 
 Thou giant, rushing through the Heaven, 
 Creation's wonder. Nature's soul. 
 
 Thou hast no Morn, and hast no Even ; 
 The Planets die without thy blaze ; 
 
 The Cherubim, with star-dropt wing, 
 Float on the ocean of thy rays, 
 
 Thou brightest emblem of their King ! 
 
 Roll, lovely Earth, in night and noon, 
 
 With Ocean's band of beauty bound, 
 AVhile one sweet orb, the pearly Moon, 
 
 Pursues thee through the blue profound ; 
 And angels, with delighted eyes. 
 
 Behold thy plains, and mounts, and streams, 
 In day's magnificence of dyes. 
 
 Swift whirling, like transcendent dreams. 
 
 Ivoll, Planets I ua your dazzling road. 
 
 Forever sweeping round the Sun 
 What eye beheld, when first ye glowed ? 
 
 What eye shall see your courses done ? 
 Roll in your solemn majesty. 
 
 Ye deathless splendors of the skies. 
 Ye Altars, from which angels see 
 
 The incense of Creation rise. 
 
 Roll, Comets, on your flaming cars. 
 
 Ye heralds of sublimer skies ; 
 Roll on, ye million-million stars. 
 
 Ye hosts, ye heavens of galaxies ! 
 Ye, who the wilds of Nature roam. 
 
 Unknown to all but angels' wings. 
 Tell us in what more glorious dome 
 
 Rules all your world, the KING OF KINGS. 
 
 C.F.ORGE CROLY. 
 
 THE AWAKENING. 
 
 A lady came to a snow-white bier. 
 Where a youth lay pale and dead ; 
 She took the veil from her widowed head, 
 And, bending low, in his ear she said ■ 
 ■' Awaken ! for I am here." 
 
 She passed with a smile to a wild wood near, 
 Where the boughs were barren and bare ; 
 She tapped on the bark with her fingers fair, 
 And called to the leaves that were buried there : 
 " Awaken ! for I am here." 
 
 The birds beheld her without a fear 
 As she walked thro' the dank-mossed dells; 
 She breathed on their drowsy citadels, 
 And whispered the young in their ivory shells : 
 "Awaken! for 1 am here." 
 
 On the graves of the flowers she dropped a tear. 
 But with hope and with joy, like us ; 
 And even as the Lord to Lazarus, 
 She called to the slumbering sweet flowers thus: 
 " Awaken ! for I am here." 
 
 To the lilies that lay in the silver mere. 
 To the reeds by the golden pond ; 
 To the moss by the rounded marge beyond. 
 She spoke with her voice so soft and fond : 
 " Awaken ! for 1 am here." 
 
 The violet peep'd, with its blue eye clear. 
 From under its own gravestone ; 
 For the blessed tidings around had flown. 
 And before she spoke the impulse was knovra : 
 " Awaken ! for I am here." 
 
144 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE AND /'LACES. 
 
 The pale gr;iss lay with its long looks sere 
 On the breast of the open plain ; 
 She loosened the nwtted hair of the slain. 
 And cried, as she filled each juicy vein : 
 " Awaken ! for I am here." 
 
 The rush roie up with its pointed spear 
 The flag, with its falchion broad ; 
 The dock uplifted its shield unawcd. 
 As her voice rung over the quickenin^j sad : 
 " Awaken ! for I am here." 
 
 The red blood ran through the clover near. 
 And the heath on the hills o'erhead ; 
 The daisy's fingers were tipp'd with rcil. 
 As she started to life, when the lady s.'.ia • 
 " Awaken ! for 1 am here." 
 
 And the young Year rose from his snow-wliiio 
 And the flowers from their green retreat ; [bier 
 And they came and knelt at the lady's feet. 
 Saying all, with their mingled voices sweet : 
 "O lady! behold us here." 
 
 DENIS FI.ORENCK McCARTHV. 
 
 MUSIC IN NATURE. 
 
 Far, far away, in fields of waving gold, 
 I hear the tassels' swaying symphonies. 
 
 While myriad insect-orchestras unfold 
 Their rasping medleys in the apple-tr«-:.. 
 
 I In seas of creamy clover, white and pink, 
 
 ! Hum tippling bells, all drowsy with perfume ; 
 
 And, in the orchard, one wild bobolink 
 1 Breaks the repose cf twilight's dreamy gloom. 
 
 The wind wakes solos in the sombre pine 
 Upon the hillside desolate and '.one ; 
 
 And, in the woods, thro' labyrinths of vine. 
 Is heard the brooklet's lisping monotom- 
 
 Which mossy caverns, echoing, repeat ; 
 
 While o'er my soul, in tender changes, flows- 
 Murmurous, melodious, and strangely sweet — 
 
 The subtle music no musician knows. 
 
 R. K. MUNKITTRICK. 
 
 THE FIRST SPRING DAY. 
 But one short week ago the trees were bare. 
 And winds were keen, and N-iolets pinched with 
 
 frost; 
 Winter was with us ; but the larches tossed 
 Lightly their crimson buds, and here and there 
 Rooks cawed. To-day the Spring is in the air 
 And in the blood ; sweet sun-gleams come and go 
 Upon the hills ; in lanes the wild flowers blow. 
 And tender leaves are bursting everywhere. 
 About the hedge the small birds peer and dart; 
 Each bush is full of amorous flutterings 
 And little rapturous cries. The thrush apart 
 Sits throned, and loud his rip>e contralto rings. 
 Music is on the wind— and. in my hear,. 
 Infinite love for all created things. 
 
 JOHN TOUHUXTER, 
 
 THE VOICE OF SPRING. 
 Welcome. O welcome, thou green, green grass. 
 
 So sweet through the red clay peeping! 
 But a month ago. and who'd think the snow 
 
 Held such treasure within its keeping? 
 You look so fresh from your long repose. 
 
 In the light of the sun. just risen. 
 I almost wish that beneath the snows 
 1 had shared your wintry prison. 
 The winter beheld you for death arrayed 
 
 The snow like a shroud above you, 
 Still was there an essence in every blade. 
 Which told there was One to love you. 
 
 How grand your robe of the emerald sheen. 
 
 How graceful your blades, and slender. 
 From the red earth's crust, all unstained by dust. 
 
 So beautiful, soft and tender ; 
 There's a throb of joy in the trees hard by. 
 
 As their buds in the dew-drops glisten. 
 And a voice of love in the air above. 
 
 And we pause that our hearts may listen ! 
 
 Let poets name it the voice of spring. 
 To the spirit of fragrance calling :— 
 
 To me 'tis the voice of the heavenly King 
 I Adown through the azure falling. 
 
 i Your slight stems bend as the soft winds sigh 
 Their love to the opening blossoms. 
 
 I And the hills rejoice as the streams give voice. 
 Breaking out of their verdant bosoms. 
 
AN APRIL DAY. 145 
 
 There's a rhythmic stave in each coursing wave, 
 
 The grassy lawns are all aglow 
 
 There's a spirit of song in the flowers, 
 
 With dandelion flowers. 
 
 And thelays of the birds, you can note their words: 
 
 And cowslips that in April blow. 
 
 " What a beautiful earth' is ours !" 
 
 Whether it smiles or showers. 
 
 Let who will call it the voice of spring. 
 Now wooing the flowers and grasses, 
 
 
 Out in the fields hard by the town, 
 
 To me 'tis the voice of the heavenly King, 
 Still breathing new life as He passes. 
 
 Where munching cattle rest, 
 
 The meadow-lark in coat of brown 
 
 
 And saffron-yellow vest. 
 
 And the earth is moved like a young bride loved, 
 ■Who hearkens her loved one's greeting ; 
 
 From topmost bough of some tall tree 
 
 His vernal song doth pour. 
 Piping his little note of glee 
 
 And her heart is stirred to its inmost chord. 
 
 The voice of His love repeating ! 
 
 Against the railway's roar. 
 
 The hills are rocked, and the streams unlocked, 
 
 In the thrill of her heart's expansion. 
 
 The robin from the orchard sings. 
 
 And the green and gold, where the snows lay cold. 
 
 The jay screams from the copse. 
 
 Outrival His starry mansion. 
 
 Flitting upon his azure wings 
 
 Let poets call this the voice of spring, 
 
 Among the spruce-tree tops. 
 
 To the spirit of beauty calling; 
 But to me 'tis the voice of the Great High King 
 
 
 And hark ! the distant campanile 
 
 Adown through the azure falling. 
 
 Rings out a merry chime. 
 
 Saluting with its bells of steel 
 
 In the far gone years the gifted seers 
 
 The festive Easter time ! 
 
 Ennumbered the stars of heaven. 
 
 CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. 
 
 But what learned sage can unroll one page 
 In the light of this morning given .' 
 
 
 
 O, who can number the blades of grass .' 
 Or who can reveal their essence ? 
 
 AN APRIL DAY. 
 
 Do the hosts of night in their heavenly flight 
 
 It is the most joyous day 
 
 Bespeak a more wondrous presence } 
 
 That ever has found its way 
 
 O scientist ! go revel in mist. 
 
 On the wings of the sunny hours, — 
 
 Expand and compress your gases ; 
 
 That ever did stray and roam 
 
 But give me the May, at the dawn of day. 
 
 From the heaven that is its home. 
 
 With the hills, the trees, and the grasses ! 
 
 Far down to this world of ours. 
 
 JOHN BOYLE. 
 
 There is such a golden air. 
 
 
 Such radiance everywhere. 
 
 
 Such song, and odor, and light ; 
 
 
 Such a flood of life supernal, 
 
 AN IDYL OF APRIL. 
 
 That the earth had kept eternal 
 
 
 Alive in her breast all night. 
 
 The motley month of smiles and tears 
 
 With shambling gait doth come, 
 
 Oh ! fair leaves, visibly budding. 
 
 And eager eyes and heedful ears 
 
 Oh, birds all the glad land flooding 
 
 And backward crook of thumb. 
 
 With a chorus of singing sweet. 
 
 
 All my being is one with you. 
 
 Ready with many a furtive wile 
 
 Is linked from the heaven's bright blue 
 
 The wayside lout to lure. 
 
 To the wet grass at my feet. 
 
 And send him from his road a mile. 
 
 
 Strange nothings to procure. 
 
 Now the earth must look again 
 
 
 As she rose from the Deluge rain. 
 
 And laughter in the lanes doth ring, 
 
 Clad in garb of morning dew ; 
 
 And from the village school ; 
 
 As young, and green, and glorious. 
 
 At every waif the urchins fling 
 
 And spotless as spreads before us 
 
 The cry of " April Fool ! " 
 
 The sky's unspeakable blue. 
 
i4<5 
 
 POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 
 
 Oh ! the miracle of spring. 
 
 Oh ! gladness of everything. ' 
 
 Oh ! joys the season doth give ; 
 Oh ! ineffable bloom of youth. 
 Of freshness, and hope, and truth ! — 
 
 I thank Thee, oh Clod, that 1 live ! 
 
 MARY CF.OC.HEGAN. 
 
 WAITING FOR THE MAY. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is weary waiting. 
 Waiting for the May — 
 Waiting for the pleasant rambles. 
 Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles. 
 With the woodbine alternating. 
 
 Scent the dewy way. 
 Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
 Waiting for the May. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is sick with longing. 
 Longing for the May — 
 Longing to escape from study. 
 To the young face fair and ruddy. 
 And the thousand charms belonging 
 
 To the summer's day. 
 Ah ! my heart is sick with longing. 
 
 Longing for the May. 
 Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
 Sighing for the May- 
 Sighing for their sure returning. 
 When the summer beams are burning, 
 Hopes and flowers that dead or dying 
 
 All the winter lay. 
 Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
 
 Sighing for the May. 
 Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing, 
 Throbbing for the May — 
 Throbbing for the sea-side billows, 
 Or the water-wooing willows ; 
 
 Where in laughing and in sobbing 
 
 Glide the streams away. 
 Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing. 
 Throbbing for the May. 
 
 Waiting sad. dejected, weary. 
 Waiting for the May. 
 Spring goes by with wasted warnings. 
 Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings; 
 Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 
 
 Life still ebbs away : 
 
 Man is ever weary, weary. 
 
 Waiting for the May ! 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE McCARTHY. 
 
 ARCADIAN. 
 
 His surely is a happy lot who dwells 
 
 In pleasant pastures far removed from town. 
 
 Whose life from sunrise till the sun goes down 
 
 The same unchanging peaceful story tells ; 
 
 Deep in the rustic lore of fleecy fells ; 
 
 I'roud of the harvest he himself has sown. 
 
 The spreading meadows that his hands have 
 
 mown. 
 And the great cattle that he buys and sells. 
 For whom the placid night brings slumber sweet. 
 Stirred by no sound of any dancing feet. 
 Lit by no light of any laughing eyes. 
 Whose quiet days unmoved by vain desire. 
 From summer's sunlight to the winter's tire. 
 Creep slowly on, until at last he dies. 
 
 JUSTIN H. McCarthy. 
 
 A SONG IN MAY-TIME. 
 A song for the joyful May-time, 
 
 A song like the song of a bird, 
 A song of the heart in its play-time. 
 
 With never a sorrowful word ! 
 
 A song— but whence shall I win it? — 
 
 Winged like the butterflies. 
 With the fresh-leaved woods breath in it, 
 
 And the glow of the glad sunrise ! 
 
 This is the song you ask, dear. — 
 
 Would I could do your will ! 
 But set me a song as a task, dear, — 
 
 A test of the singer's skill ? 
 
 A dweller in cities ever, 
 
 A toiler within the walls, 
 "Mid the tumult of man's endeavor. 
 
 Where the unseen fetter galls;— 
 
 Little I know of the tender. 
 
 Blithe songs that the free birds sing. 
 Little I know of the splendor 
 
 Of the wild wood'.s blossoming; 
 
 And less of the heart's sweet play-time — 
 So brief was mine, you know ;— 
 
 And the flowers of my beautiful May-time 
 Died under a strange, late snow. 
 
 Out of my life the cheery. 
 
 Sweet spirit of youth is fled ; 
 My songs are the sighs of the weary. 
 
 Or plaints for my dear ones dead. 
 
A SUMMER SONG. 
 
 147 
 
 Yet, you've loved this sad song-voice, dear. 
 You would give it a nobler range, 
 
 And because of your honor and choice, dear. 
 
 'Twere fair to ring out and rejoice, dear. 
 With the mirth of the May-time change. 
 
 O joy to be your joy-bringer — 
 When 'tis joy, dear, even to pray 
 
 That a fairer and gladder singer 
 Will sing your song of the May ! 
 
 KATHERINE E. CONWAY. 
 
 What, tho" you tell me she'll pass by-and-by? 
 So, too, shall we, but like her let us try, [the eye. 
 With the smile from the heart looking out from 
 
 To live while we live, if it were but a day — 
 
 To know how to live is to learn how to die, 
 
 With hope of renewal, like beautiful May ; 
 
 For death and the tomb. 
 
 And winter and gloom, 
 
 Are harbingers only of Heaven and May. 
 
 FRANCIS DAVIS. 
 
 A VISIT OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 You in the city, there, sallow and sere. 
 What shall I tell you ? — A visitor's here, 
 After a wander of all the round year ; 
 
 Gilded and garlanded ever so gay, — 
 Pure as God's pearl in the queen-flower's ear, — 
 Ah, the sweet stranger's our beautiful May! 
 Never were known 
 Such hearts as our own. 
 Since dropped on us, singing, our beautiful May! 
 
 April vk'as loving — had gifts for us, too — 
 Primrose and crocus, so golden and blue ; 
 Pouting so oft, tho', I doubt — to be true — 
 
 Some, in our souls, slyly wished her away. 
 Whether she dreamt of it. none of us knew; 
 But, while she brightened, the beautiful May 
 Flashed on the lawn, 
 Singing, " .'\pril is gone !" — [May! 
 Ah, of all the twelve sisters, be mine the sweet 
 
 Now, my young sycamore, tender and tall. 
 Comforts my eye with her new em'rald shawl ; 
 Now, too, the hawthorn, there, over the wall, 
 
 Tasselled with white, looks a queen in her way. 
 Who, do you think, and unasked, did it all .' 
 Oh, who but this stranger — our beautiful May! 
 Where's there a spot 
 To-day by our cot. 
 Without some new glory from beautiful May .' 
 
 Here is she — there is she — all the day long, 
 Coa.xing up flowers, and singing her song ; 
 Scenting our lilacs, that dazzle the throng ; 
 
 Coming and going there over the way ; 
 
 Doing so much— and so little that's wrong. 
 
 Oh, what should we do for our beautiful May.' 
 
 Song is not known 
 
 Could equal her own, 
 
 Else might we hymn to our beautiful May ! 
 
 A SUMMER SONG. 
 
 Oh, lovely sunbeams thro' the meadows dancing. 
 
 On golden pinions, all the livelong day, [ing. 
 Kissing young leaves, on crystal streamlets glanc- 
 
 Changing to living gold their silver spray! 
 Wee amorous elves, coquetting with the roses, 
 
 Wooing the daisy in her grassy bed, 
 Till the shy flower unconsciously uncloses 
 
 Her dew-gemmed leaves, and blushes rosy red ! 
 
 Gilding gray rocks, on rugged mountains 
 streaming. 
 
 Bidding the flowers in sheltered nooks awake, 
 Calling young song birds from their happy 
 dreaming. 
 
 Waking the laughter of the dimpling lake I 
 Playing "Bo-peep" amid the white buds blowing 
 
 In pearly clusters on the hawthorn tree, [ing 
 To the round eyes of wondering childhood show- 
 
 The rapid journeyings of the wandering bee. 
 
 Shedding a halo bright on youthful tresses. 
 
 Bidding young hearts for very rapture sing, 
 Touching the brow of care with kind caresses. 
 
 Or glinting lightly on the skylark's wing I 
 Ah, merry sunbeams, like sly cupids straying 
 
 In the glad footsteps of the rustic lass, 
 On sun-tanned cheeks and snow white kerchief 
 playing, 
 
 Twinkling like fireflies in the emerald grass. 
 
 Oh, lovely sunbeams, like blest angels gliding 
 
 Through courts of squalor, sickness, want and 
 gloom. 
 Telling of clouds like golden chariots riding 
 
 Proudly majestic o'er a world of bloom ; 
 Of winding lanes, and milk-white homesteads 
 peeping 
 
 Like modest virgins from secluded bowers ; 
 Of shallow pools, and baby streamlets leaping 
 
 In giddy gladness 'neath down-drooping flow- 
 
148 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 Dance, lovely sunbeams, thro' fair countr)' mead- j It has blessed us with its presence, when we 
 
 Bathe hill and cottage in your holy light, [ows. 
 From city slums go chase the mournful shadows 
 
 That fill poor homesteads with eternal night. 
 To those who pine in ignorance and sorrow 
 
 May all your tenderest, holiest gifts be given. 
 
 That sorrowing hearts one ray of hope may 
 
 borrow [heaven ! 
 
 In the sweet knowledge that you come from 
 
 FANNY FORRESTER. 
 
 deemed our grief the sorest ; 
 It has lifted us from sorrow with the freshness 
 of its kiss." 
 
 Thus the flower, and the brooklet, .ind the- h( 1 
 age in the meadows. 
 And the forest trees that panted through the 
 summer in their pain. 
 Looking upward, are rejoicing on the threshold 
 of the winter. 
 At the coming of the healer, at the advent of 
 the rain. 
 
 DANIEL O'CONNELL. 
 
 THE WELCOME RAIN. 
 
 "Welcome! oh, ye showers," said the (lowers, 
 parched and dying ; 
 " Long have we been waiting for the coming 
 of the rain ; 
 We weary of the sunshine, wc are wearied with 
 our sighing — 
 Oh ! ye showers," said the (lowers, '• ye arc- 
 welcome once again." 
 
 " Welcome ! " said the brooklet ; •' in my prison 
 on the mountain 
 I have sickened, I have thirsted for the pleasant 
 plains below ; 
 But now I hear the murmur of the shower-laden I 
 south wind. 
 And my waters, loosed from bondage, sing a ^ 
 pa;an as they flow. 
 
 " Oh ! lily bride who waiteth in the far off glen 
 to greet me, 
 I am rushing, rushing to thee in a long-husheil 
 rippling song; 
 Lift thy petals, my beloved, for I hurry on to | 
 meet thee. 
 And bathe thy brow in kisses by the sun with- 
 held too long." 
 
 " Oh ! the cooling, cooling rain," cried the herb- 
 I age in the meadows, 
 
 " Let us drink the balmy sweetness of a draught , 
 for months unknown ; 
 While in painless peace we slumber, 'neath the 
 unaccustomed shadows 
 Holding to the generous rain-drops hearts all 
 dry and sapless grown." 
 
 " It falls pattering on our leaflets," said the tall 
 trees in the forest. 
 "It comes dripping down our branches; it 
 comes fraught with life and bliss ; 
 
 THE ROBIN REDBREAST. 
 When balmy eve and roseate dawn 
 Announce the (loral goddess near. 
 And over swelling mead and lawn 
 
 The wild flowers, one by one. appear ; 
 From privet copse or hawthorn bush 
 The linnet pours her dulcet strain, 
 \ni\ the wild solo of the thrush 
 Leads captive all the warbling train. 
 Hut round our doors the redbreast pours 
 
 Her ever plaintive minstrelsy. 
 Soft, sweet, and low, as if to show 
 How true a little friend should be. 
 
 Touched by the summer's fcr\id breath. 
 
 The flowers, unrtolding, woo the bees ; 
 While droop the feathered tribes beneath 
 
 The arches of the forest trees ; 
 Then noonday silence reigns o'er all. 
 
 The drooping leaves are hushed, until 
 The mil rings out his martial call 
 
 Defiant to the skylark's thrill. 
 
 Then from her trance, with eye askance. 
 The redbreast lists their rivalry. 
 
 And pours her note from swelling throat 
 To show how true a friend should be. 
 
 Brown, whistling autumn tramps among 
 
 The fruitful trees and golden fields. 
 His jocund days are all a song, 
 
 For rich the offering Ceres yields — 
 While preens the finch her gorgeous coat 
 
 .Among the swaths of new-mown hay; 
 The blackbird sounds his bugle note 
 
 Secluded from the glare of day. 
 
 But still before the cottage door 
 The little redbreast we may see ; 
 
 Near, and more near her song we hear. 
 To show how true a friend should be. 
 
yl PLEA FOR THE SONG-BIRDS. 1 49 
 
 The sparrows seek the sheltering eaves, 
 
 A PLEA FOR THE SONG-BIRDS. 
 
 For winter's sigh is on the blast, 
 
 
 And, with the quickly passing leaves. 
 
 Spare the little singing-birds, oh ! turn your guns 
 
 The birds of passage, too, have passed ; 
 
 away ! 
 
 When swoops the hawk, on treach'rous wing. 
 
 Leave the little singing-birds to sing upon the 
 
 Upon his weak unwary quest. 
 
 spray ! 
 
 With panting heart and trembling wing 
 
 Life is all too full of sighs, of sorrows, and of 
 
 The robin seeks the gentlest breast, 
 
 wrongs- 
 
 And there receives the crumb she gives, 
 
 Spare the little melodists that fill the air with 
 
 'Till spring revisits lawn and lea. 
 
 songs ! 
 
 With looks of love still sings to prove 
 
 Why should they by cruel shots to gloomy death 
 
 How true a little friend can be. 
 
 be buried .' 
 
 Thrice blest the maid whose look and word 
 
 Surely there is not too much of music in the 
 
 world I 
 Fowlers, seek some other spoil ; turn your guns 
 
 away, 
 Leave the little singing-birds alive upon the 
 
 spray! 
 
 Awake to tenderest sympathies 
 The instinct of this lonely bird ! 
 
 By such unerring signs as these 
 Her name is placed among the good. 
 
 The cherished fav'rite of the plain. 
 
 She bears to stately womanhood 
 
 
 The household virtues in her train. 
 
 In the pleasant summer time, when all the woods 
 
 And then her cares the redbreast shares. 
 
 are green. 
 
 A neighbor in the alder tree. 
 
 Would you have a solemn silence brooding o'er 
 
 And pours her lay, the livelong day. 
 
 the scene .' 
 
 To show how true a friend should be. 
 
 Think how great a charm were lost to tender 
 
 JOHN BOYLE. 
 
 morns and eves. 
 
 
 If no tuneful little throats sang out amid the 
 
 
 
 leaves ! 
 
 DEI GRATIA. 
 
 Not to every bird that flies the bliss of song is 
 
 When hawthorn boughs begin to bud 
 
 given. 
 
 In eager green along the way. 
 
 Few they are that bear with them that special 
 
 And merry songsters toss a flood 
 
 gift of Heaven. 
 
 Of melody from spray to spray, 
 
 Sportsmen, if you needs must shoot, choose what 
 
 And in the budded branches play 
 
 else you may. 
 
 The little winds, not chill or loud. 
 
 But leave the little singing-birds alive upon the 
 
 But, softly lifted, softly bowed. 
 
 spray ! 
 
 Making the perches rock and sway ; 
 
 
 Then, gladsome as the iamb and lark, 
 I break from grievous thoughts away — 
 
 Gunsmen, by your own firesides, on many a 
 
 pleasant night. 
 Did not music touch your hearts with deep and 
 
 fond delight } 
 
 Forget what's wrong, forget what's dark. 
 
 And see the whole world good and gay. 
 
 When peariy skies break up in blue, 
 
 Heard you not the thrilling song with eager 
 
 Raining out milky, misty gold. 
 
 list'ning ears. 
 
 And all the sweet land through and through 
 
 As it lit your eyes with mirth, or made them 
 
 Is filled with pleasure manifold 
 
 moist with tears ? 
 
 Of growth and light and music bold. 
 
 Ah, but if you truly love the sad or merry 
 
 To close the wxiund and cure the smart. 
 
 strain. 
 
 And strengthen all the thankful heart 
 
 If you'd hear sweet music made by gentle hands 
 
 In joyful praises dawnward rolled ; 
 
 again, 
 
 Then meekly as the milkmaids bring 
 
 If you'd have your hearts still gladdened by the 
 
 Their primrose posies pure and cold, 
 
 poet's lay. 
 
 My soul grows happier— thinking spring 
 
 Spare the little singing-birds that sing upon the 
 
 The smile of him beneath the mould. 
 
 spray! 
 
 WILLIAM WILKIXS. 
 
 T. D. SULLIVAN. 
 
 1 
 
150 
 
 /•OEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 THE ROBINS SONG. 
 
 Beside a little (.abiii. at the dawning of the day. 
 Sang a little robin on a newly-budding spray : 
 Inside the humble dwelling were hearts oppressed 
 
 with care. 
 But the robin's song of joyanre canie trilling on 
 the air. 
 
 " Cheer up," .sang the robin. 
 •' Cheer up, cheer up ; .sec 
 All the clouds are passing 
 For you ai; well as me ! " 
 
 Within the little cabin the question pressing sore 
 Was how the wolf of hunger might be driven 
 
 from the door. 
 And where to get the money for the rent becom- 
 ing due. 
 And how to help the children, and what they 
 were to do. 
 
 " Cheer up," sang the robin, 
 " Cheer up, cheer up ; sec. 
 The land grows full of plenty 
 For vou as well as me ! " 
 
 The toiler in the cabm knit liis f- 
 
 frown ; 
 He thought of all the irueltiis that kept his 
 country down ; 
 ( He prayed aloud to Heaven to end her many 
 woes. 
 To bless her friends with triumph and humble 
 all her foes. 
 
 " Cheer up," sang the robin, 
 " Cheer up, cheer up ; see, 
 Here comes the day of freedom 
 For you as well as me ! " 
 
 r. I). SULLIVA.N. 
 
 THE TROPIC BIRD. 
 
 Not of our forests art thou ! Here the cold 
 
 Of winter soon would mar 
 Thy glittering plumage. — From afar. 
 
 From lands of gold. 
 And from the streams that roll along beneath 
 
 The quivering lotus bowers, 
 Where spreads the palm, and amaranthine llcnvers 
 
 In blushing wreath 
 Aye greet the kisses of the Eastern dawn, 
 
 Comest thou to us, bright bird. 
 
 I envy not his heart who, all unstirred. 
 
 Can look upon 
 Thy glittering wing, nor give his fancy rein 
 
 To tropic shore and glowing sky. 
 Streams, temples, woods, and with a sigh 
 
 Receive it back again. 
 For me, I look on thee, and in a dream. 
 
 Before the gazing eye, 
 The gorgeous pageant of the East rolls by 
 I On Ganges' stream. 
 
 I Gem-studded galleys, and the crimson slaves 
 I (Their tunics woven o'er 
 
 With sapphire studs and braids of yellow ore). 
 I The cedar waves 
 
 Her emerald boughs above them ; and on high, 
 ' Throned on the ivory poop. 
 
 The swarthy sultan, with a hoop 
 
 That well might buy 
 1 Our barren kingdoms, on his ample brow ; 
 
 And those young Georgian girls — 
 The raven tresses looped with sparkling pearls — 
 
 Before him bow. 
 All duteous to his nod. The silver oars 
 
 Flash as they hurry on 
 The peopled argosies ! 'Tis gone I 
 
 The purple shores 
 Are silent, save the speechless melody 
 
 Poured from the myrtle bowers. 
 What is't to me that here the hours 
 
 Of daylight flee ? 
 
 CHARLKS G. HALPIME. 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 I You sweet fastidious Nightingales ! 
 
 I The myrtle blooms in Irish vales. 
 By Avondhu and rich Lough Lene, 
 Through many a grove and bowerlct green. 
 
 I Fair mirror 'd round the loitering skiff. 
 
 I The purple peak, the tinted cliff. 
 The glen where mountain-torrents rave 
 And foliage blinds their leaping wave. 
 Broad emerald meadows fill'd with flow'rs. 
 Embosom 'd ocean-bays arc ours 
 With all their isles ; and mystic tow'rs 
 Lonely and gray, deserted long, — 
 
 ! Less sad if they might hear that perfect song I 
 
 What scared ye ? (surely ours of old) 
 The sombre Fowl hatch'd in the cold .' 
 King Henry's Normans, mail'd and stem, 
 Smiters of gallowglass and kem.> 
 
THE CARDINAL BIRD. I 5 1 
 
 Or, most and worst, fraternal feud, 
 
 Ten times repeated till the sound 
 
 Whicli sad lerne long hath rued ? 
 
 Filled every echoing niche around ; 
 
 Forsook ye, when the Geraldine, 
 
 And all things earliest loved by me, 
 
 Great chieftain of a glorious line, 
 
 —The bird, the brook, the flower, the tree,— 
 
 Was hunted on his hills and slain. 
 
 Came back again, as thus I heard 
 
 And one to France and one to Spain 
 
 The cardinal bird. 
 
 The remnant of the race withdrew ? 
 
 
 Was it from anarchy ye flew. 
 
 Where maple orchards towered aloft. 
 
 And foul oppression's bigot crew. 
 
 And spicewood bushes spread below, 
 
 Wild complaint, and menace hoarse. 
 
 Where skies were blue, and winds were soft. 
 
 Misled, misleading voices, loud and coarse ? 
 
 I could but go— 
 
 
 For, opening through a wildering haze. 
 
 Come back, O Birds,— or come at last ! 
 
 Appeared my restless childhood's days; 
 
 For Ireland's furious days are past ; 
 
 And truant feet and loitering mood 
 
 And, purged of enmity and wrong. 
 
 Soon found me in the same old wood. 
 
 Her eye, her step, grow calm and strong. 
 
 —(Illusion's hour but.seldom brings 
 
 Why should we miss that pure delight ? 
 
 So much the very form of things)— 
 
 Brief is the journey, swift the flight. 
 
 Where first I sought, and saw, and heard 
 
 And Hesper finds no fairer maids 
 
 The cardinal bird. 
 
 In Grecian or Devonian glades, 
 
 
 No loves more true on any shore, 
 
 Then came green meadows, broad and bright. 
 
 No lovers loving music more. 
 
 Where dandelions, with wealth untold. 
 
 Melodious Erin, warm of heart, 
 
 Gleam'd on the young and eager sight 
 
 Entreats you ;— stay not then apart. 
 
 Like stars of gold— 
 
 But bid the Merles and Throstles know 
 
 And on the very meadow's edge. 
 
 (And ere another Maytime go) 
 
 Beneath the ragged blackberry hedge. 
 
 Their place is in the second row. 
 
 'Mid mosses golden, gray and green, 
 
 Come to the West, dear Nightingales . 
 
 The fresh young buttercups were seen. 
 
 The Rose and Myrtle bloom in Irish vales. 
 
 And small spring beauties, sent to be 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 The heralds of anemone ; 
 
 
 All just as when I earliest heard 
 
 - 
 
 The cardinal bird. 
 
 
 And on the slope, above the rill 
 That wound among the sugar trees. 
 
 THE CARDINAL BIRD. 
 
 She brought a redbird in a cage 
 
 I heard them at their labors still, 
 
 And hung it from my window-sill— 
 
 The murmuring bees ; 
 
 The redbird then was all the rage, 
 
 Bold foragers! that come and go 
 
 And may be still. 
 
 Without permit from friend or foe ; 
 
 I know not— I so long have been ' 
 
 In the tall tulip-trees o'erhead 
 
 Amid the city's dust and din. 
 
 On pollen greedily they fed ; 
 
 But when I was a little child 
 
 And from low purple phlox, that grew 
 
 I greatly loved its wood notes wild. 
 
 About my feet, sipp'd honey-dew. 
 
 Which lured me many a sunny day 
 
 How like the scenes when first I heard 
 
 Through maple forests far away ; — 
 
 The cardinal bird ! 
 
 For years, though, I had seldom hear 
 
 
 The cardinal bird. 
 
 How like !— and yet ... . The spell grows weak- 
 
 
 Ah, but I miss the sunny brow— 
 
 A day and then a week pass'd by — 
 
 The sparkling eye— the ruddy cheek ! 
 
 The redbird hanging from the sill 
 
 Where, where are now 
 
 Sang not ; and all were wondering why 
 
 The three who then beside me stood 
 
 It was so still — 
 
 Like sunbeams in the dusky wood .' 
 
 When one bright morning, loud and clear, 
 
 Alas ! 1 am alone. Since then. 
 
 Its whistle smote my drowsy ear. 
 
 They've trod the weary ways of men ; — 
 
15- 
 
 /'OEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 One on the eve of manhood died ; 
 Two in its flush of power and pride. 
 Their gjraves are ureen. where first we heard 
 The cardinal bird. 
 
 The redbird from the window hung, 
 
 Not long my fancies thus beguiled ; 
 Again in maple-groves it sung 
 
 Its wood-notes wild ; 
 For, rousing with a tearful eye, 
 I gave it to the trees and sky. 
 I miss'd so much those brothers three. 
 Who walk'd youth's flowery ways with me, 
 I could not, dared not. but believe 
 It, too. had brothers, that would grieve 
 Till in old haunts again was heard 
 
 The cardinal bird. 
 
 W1LLIA.M D. GALLAGHER. 
 
 THE PARADISE OF BIRDS. 
 
 It was the fairest and the sweetest scene — 
 
 The freshest, sunniest, smiling land that e'er 
 Held o"er the waves its sheltering arms of green. 
 
 Unto the sea and storm-vexed mariner : 
 No barren waste its gentle bosom scarred, [ice, 
 
 Nor Sims that burned, nor breezes winged with 
 Nor jagged rocks (Nature's gray ruins) marred 
 
 The perfect features of that paradise. 
 
 The verdant turf spreads from the crystal marge 
 
 Of the clear stream, up the soft-swelling hill, 
 Rose-bearing shrub, and stately cedars large 
 
 All o'er the land the pleasant prospects till. 
 Unnumbered birds tlicir glorious colors fling 
 
 Among the boughs that rustle in the breeze. 
 As if the meadow flowers had taken wing 
 
 And settled in the green o'erarching trees. 
 
 Oh ! Ita, Ita, 'tis a grievous wrong 
 
 That man commits who uninspired presumes 
 To sing the heavenly sweetness of their song. 
 
 To paint the glorious tinting of their plumes- 
 Plumes bright as jewels that from diadems 
 
 Fling over golden thrones their diamond rays — 
 Bright, even as bright as those three mystic gems. 
 
 The angels bore thee in thy childhood's days. 
 
 There dwells the bird that to the farther west 
 Bears the sweet message of the coming spring ; 
 
 June's blushing roses paint his prophet breast. 
 And summer skies gleam from his azure wing. 
 
 While winter prowls around the neighboring seas. 
 The happy bird dwells in his cedar nest. 
 
 Then flies away, and leaves his favorite trees 
 Unto his brother of the graceful crest. 
 
 Birds that with us are clothed in modest brown. 
 
 There wear a splendor words cannot express ; 
 The sweet-voiced thrush beareth a golden crown. 
 
 And even the sparrow boa.sts a scarlet dress. 
 There partial nature fondles and illumes 
 
 The plainest offspring that her bosom bear-^ . 
 The golden robin flies on fiery plumes, 
 
 .And the small wren a purple ruby wears. 
 
 Uirds, too, that even in our sunniest hours, 
 
 Ne'er to this cloudy land one moment stra> . 
 Whose brilliant plumes, fleeting and fair as 
 flowers, [decay. 
 
 Come with the flowers, and with the flowers 
 The Indian bird, with hundred eyes, that throws 
 
 From his blue neck the azure of the skies. 
 And his pale brother of the northern snows. 
 
 Bearing white plumes mirrored with brilliant 
 eyes. 
 
 Oft in the sunny mornings have 1 seen 
 
 Bright-yellow birds, of a rich lemon hue. 
 Meeting in crowds upon the branches green. 
 
 And sweetly singing all the morning thro'. 
 .And others, with their heads grayish and dark. 
 
 Pressing their cinnamon cheeks to the old trees, 
 .And striking on the hard, rough, shrivelled bark. 
 
 Like conscience on a bosom ill at ease. 
 
 And diamond birds chirping their single notes. 
 
 Now 'mid the tnmipet-flower's deep blossoms 
 seen. 
 Now floating brightly on with fiery throats. 
 
 Small-winged emeralds of golden green ; 
 And other larger birds with orange cheeks, 
 
 A many-color-painted chattering crowd. 
 Prattling for ever with their cur\ed beaks, 
 
 .And through the silent woods screaming aloud. 
 
 I Color and form may be conveyed in words. 
 
 But words are weak to tell the heavenly strains 
 That from the throats of these celestial birds 
 Rang through the woods and o'er the echoing 
 plains. 
 There was the meadow-lark, with voice as sweet, 
 I r?ut robed in richer raiment than our own ; 
 And as the moon smiled on his green retreat. 
 The painted nightingale sang out alone. 
 
-n^cc- (^i/u^c (^^/z^^i^rit^^: 
 
MY BLIND CANARY. 
 
 Words cannot echo music's winged note, 
 
 One bird alone exhausts their utmost power; 
 Tis that strange bird whose many-voiced throat 
 
 Mocks all his brethren ol the woodland bower; 
 To whom indeed the gilt of tongues is g^ven. 
 
 The musical rich tongues that fill the grove, 
 \ow like the lark dropping his notes from heaven, 
 
 Now cooing the soft earth-notes of the dove. 
 
 Oft have I seen him, scorning all control, 
 
 Winging his arrowy flight rapid and strong. 
 As if in search of his evanished soul. 
 
 Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song; 
 And as I wandered on, and upward gazed. 
 
 Half lost in admiration, half in fear, 
 I left the brothers wondering and amazed. 
 
 Thinking that all the choir of heaven was near. 
 
 Was it a revelation or a dream .' — 
 
 That these bright birds as angels once did dwell 
 In starry heaven with Lucifer supreme, 
 
 Half sinned with him, and with him partly fell ; 
 That in this lesser paradise they stray. 
 
 Float through its air, and glide its stream along, 
 And that the strains they sing each happy day 
 
 Rise up to God like morn and even song. 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
 From '* Tk£ Voyage o/ St. BrcndanS' 
 
 Wi BLIND CANARY. 
 
 Sweet singer to my dreams. 
 My blind canary, 
 I dwell upon the liquid note 
 That fills thy little breast and throat, 
 
 .■\nd comes forth piping, full and air\-. 
 Reaching far and far away, 
 To some dreamy, twilight day 
 Whose virgin star with softness beams 
 On fairy dell and fairy. 
 
 When night kneel.; down before the West 
 Insik-nt prayer. 
 That, till the morn unveils her _ye 
 In tranquil sleep the world shall lie, 
 
 And serf and king like blessings share ; 
 'Tis then thy voice like music falls 
 .■\long my heart's deserted halls, 
 Whose mould'ring rafters find their guest 
 Too sweet to bear. 
 
 Who made thy song so all divine. 
 My blind canary .' 
 Who taught thy little tongue to sing .' 
 Who gave thy voice a heavenly ring ? 
 
 How learnedst thou thus to sweetly vary 
 The long vibrations of thy muse. 
 And o'er high angels to diffuse 
 A lay too fine for hearts like mine. 
 So sad and weary } 
 
 What dark-winged fate close-sealed thine eyes. 
 My soul's enchanter ? 
 A fate, may be, of high decree 
 Ordained this world thou shouldst not see. 
 
 Or that our life's a cheat and banter. 
 
 The heart's deep wrong, the maiden's tear. 
 
 The pain, the strife, suspense and fear ; — 
 
 I Our woes to know thou art too wise. 
 
 Sweet heaven haunter. 
 
 Dost sing the joys of warmer climes, 
 My little stranger.' 
 Those changeless green Canary Isles, 
 j Where ever long the summer smiles 
 On tamarin and forest ranger } 
 On those green isles, lapped by the sea. 
 Perennial blooms thy parent tree. 
 Far from man's sins, far from his crimes, 
 And far from danger. 
 
 How cam'st thou from thy sunny isles. 
 In cold to wander.? 
 As poets from the heavens are flung 
 Mean mortals of this earth among. 
 
 For bread to sing, and starve, and pander. 
 Thou minstrel of the stately palms, 
 In frosty climes dost sing for alms. 
 Where man beguiles with heartless wiles. 
 Deceit and slander. 
 
 The yucca and the citron tree 
 
 Thou know'st no more ; 
 The guavas sweet and mangosteen 
 Will never more by thee be seen ; 
 
 Thy treble note no more will pour 
 O'er mango, palm and asphodel. 
 And pomegranate, and aureate bell ; 
 No more, my bird, thy vision's free 
 To see thy native shore. 
 
 There is a morn of brighter beams 
 Thine eyes beneath. 
 Than ever shone to mortal view 
 Or fancy's painting evei drew ; 
 
'54 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 Thy downy form is but the sheath. 
 And music, flashing on Its throne 
 Of paradise and burnished zone. 
 Thy world illumes, and incense teems 
 On thy laurel wreath. 
 
 When low the plume of awful death 
 In dusk descends 
 Upon the couch where life is run. 
 And cold oblivion's night begun. 
 
 Ere yet the soul its casement rends, 
 
 The lights of heaven pass in review. 
 
 And waning hopes their pulse renew: 
 
 Such scenes are thine, to which thy breath 
 
 Its sweetness lends. 
 
 ! minstrel of the mystic trill. 
 
 And rhyme elastic ! 
 There is a singer in my breast 
 That rises to thy vocal crest. 
 
 The' long her lute has lain monastic : 
 Thy dulcet notes with thee she'tl share 
 But since thy song's untinged with care. 
 She stoops, and droops, and wanders still 
 Amid her dreams dynastic. 
 
 1 dwell in space and nothingness ; 
 
 With thee I'd soar! 
 I live in echoes of the past. 
 Which from the grave are to me cast, 
 
 Like phantoms on the midnight shore, 
 When hope would come, a w-eight is here 
 Which crushes pride and lightens fear ; 
 For hope's misgivings bring distress 
 None can explore. 
 
 To thy far heights with thee I'd rise, 
 With soul unchained ; 
 To that domain beyond the sky, 
 Beyond the clouds that on me lie. 
 
 Beyond what thought has e'er attained. 
 O ! there falls a sheen of golden light 
 Chasing away the pensive night ; 
 It blends with rays of milder glow. 
 And bears me from this world below, 
 Till faith's maintained. 
 
 HUGH F. McDERMOTT. 
 
 THE BATH OF THE GOLDEN ROBIN. 
 
 The sun beams over Laurel side 
 
 To Ana-lo-mink water. 
 And nature smiles in rural pride 
 
 At all the gifts he brought her. 
 
 The merry greenwood branches hold 
 More cheer than castle's rafter. 
 
 The gurgling river ne'er is old 
 With sly and mellow laughter. 
 
 How welcome is the soothing sound 
 
 Of mingling water speeding 
 O'er pebbly bed with laugh and bound. 
 
 Through woodland banks receding! 
 Ah ! pleasant 'tis to close one's eyes, 
 
 \ni let the murmurous measure 
 With liquid tones of gay surprise 
 
 Fill up the fancy's pleasure. 
 
 But ere my hooded eyes could wake 
 
 Sweet fancy's happy scheming. 
 Came Robin Oriole to break 
 
 My sleepless, dulcet dreaming. 
 For Rob outshines the glowing day. 
 
 And in the sun's dominions 
 Seems like a ball of fire at play 
 
 On elfin sable pinions. 
 
 He glints the orchard's dropping dew. 
 
 Illumes the maple's mazes. 
 Dispels the pine-shade passing through. 
 
 And in the sunshine blazes. 
 And sweeping to a mossy bank. 
 
 His wings the fiame deliver 
 Where fern-encloistered pebbles fiank 
 
 An eddy from the river. 
 
 Here by the stream-indented path. 
 
 As master Rob did spy it. 
 Thought he, what chance for Sunday bath ! 
 
 So tempting, cool and quiet. 
 He quaintly eyed the little pool, 
 
 And hopt so self-confiding. 
 And peeked around, like boy from school. 
 
 To see none near were hiding. 
 
 Then, listening, seemed to mark the tone 
 
 Made by the eddies' patter ; 
 But bravely sprang upon a stone. 
 
 And plunged with splash and splatter. 
 The bath comes only to his knees. 
 
 But ducking as he flutters, 
 Against his throat the water sprees, 
 
 .•\nd round his body sputters. 
 
 It leapt in bubbles, as his crest 
 And w-ings were merrily toiling ; 
 
 You'd think his ruffled, fiery breast 
 Had set the water boiling. 
 
CAPTIVITY. 
 
 155 
 
 He stopt short in his merry ways, 
 
 As coy as any lady. 
 And, fluttering, sent a diamond haze 
 
 Around his bath so shady ; 
 
 Then popt out on the olive moss 
 
 So softly deep and luscious ; 
 Then skimni'd the blue-eyed fiow'rs across. 
 
 And perched within the bushes. 
 He perk'd his head like dandy prig, 
 
 Now feeling fine and fresher ; 
 And took the air upon a twig. 
 
 That scarcely felt his pressure. 
 
 Full suddenly he scanned his shank. 
 
 As though he had not reckon 'd 
 One dip enough, flew to the bank. 
 
 And gayly took a second ! 
 Oh ! how the jolly fellow dashed 
 
 The little waves asunder ! 
 Dove in his head and breast, and splashed 
 
 His pinion-feathers under. 
 
 Then standing up, as though to rest. 
 
 He looked around discreetly ; 
 Again with zest the pool caress'd. 
 
 And made his bath completely. 
 Out hopt he where the sun-fed breeze 
 
 Came streamward warmly tender — 
 A brilliant piece of Atomies 
 
 Amid this mountain splendor. 
 
 Oh, balmy is the mountain air 
 
 Of May, with sunlight in it ! 
 And blest is he from town-wrought care 
 
 Who can in greenwood win it. 
 But sun on Robin's radiant coat. 
 
 All drench'd, he fear'd might spoil it. 
 So to an alder grove did float 
 
 To make his feathery toilet. 
 He pick'd his wings and smooth'd his neck, 
 
 Arrang'd his vest's carnation. 
 And flew out without stain or speck 
 
 To dazzle all creation ! 
 
 JOHN SAVAGE. 
 
 CAPTIVITY. 
 
 ■Within a lofty palace-tower. 
 Embosomed in a fragrant bower 
 Of roses, bright with morning dew. 
 Softening the sunlight passing through. 
 A captive wildwood songster poured 
 A lay of such divine accord. 
 
 So dulcet soft and silver clear. 
 Unconsciously I paused to hear ; 
 And lingering in dreamy mood 
 In that enchanted neighborhood. 
 Sweet on my soul the melody 
 Stole, a remembered pain to be, — 
 A song from bitter sources fed, 
 That thus my heart interpreted : 
 
 " Oh ! for the forest's cool green shade, 
 The freedom of the forest's glade ; 
 The old familiar forest trees. 
 All glad with sylvan melodies ; 
 Their mossy roots with wild flowers gay. 
 And many-tinted in the ray 
 That struggling thro' the leaves lit up 
 With splendor many a flower cup ; 
 The rivulet, that, clear and bright. 
 Imprisoned held the noon-day light. 
 Or to the tranquil Summer moon 
 Still carolling its cheerful tune, 
 Lulled in their safe and downy nest 
 Our young ones' calm, untroubled rest. 
 
 " Oh ! for the broad and bright e.xpanse 
 Of Nature's genial countenance ; 
 The fresh and fragrant forest air. 
 Of life the spirit everywhere 
 That breathed, like all-pervading love. 
 Diffusing joy around, above. 
 Oh ! for the sylvan Summer dawn. 
 When friendly stars that, one by one. 
 Weary with watching, closed their eyes, 
 Withdrew from the awakening skies ; 
 In every grove while joyous song 
 To song responded, loud and long, — 
 Each wild-wood songster's matin lay 
 To greet the coming of the Day. 
 Oh ! for the pleasant Summer rain. 
 Gladdening the sultry woods again , 
 The ripe fruit hanging from the tree. 
 And berries wild, a banquet free 
 For Nature's careless children spread 
 From Nature's stores unlimited ; 
 Oh ! for the birds, the bees, the flowers, 
 The sharers of those happy hours." 
 
 He ceased, yet still the plaintive sound 
 Seemed lingering in the air around. 
 Diffusing through it a vague sense 
 Of doubt, with saddening influence. 
 That dimmed like clouds the radiant day- 
 Dull clouds no sun could drive away. 
 
1=^6 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 Poor captive !— nature made in vain 
 
 His heritage, her wide domain : 
 
 In vain his wings with power endowed 
 
 To pierce the lieaven-ascending cloud ; 
 
 One grain of wheat from out the sheaf, 
 
 From boundless forests one poor leaf. 
 
 Was counted bounty liberal 
 
 From him to whom he gave his all ; 
 
 His (light, that might have sought the stars. 
 
 Curbed by his prison's gilded bars. 
 
 And yet his master held him dear, 
 
 Well pleased his wild sweet songs to hear; 
 
 And often doubtless would requite 
 
 The efforts of his favorite 
 
 With fond caresses ; and should death 
 
 Untimely still his slender breath. 
 
 Perchance a silent tear would shed 
 
 On his lost songster's lowly bed, — 
 
 The meed of freedom sacrificed 
 
 To please a thoughtless egoist. 
 
 Child of the woods ! the splendor rare 
 His eye that greeted everywhere. 
 To him seemed tlull and faded when 
 He thought of his own native glen. 
 For his own native haunts he pined. 
 And fellowship with his own kind ; 
 For freedom, heritage of all 
 Who breathe the vital air and call 
 Their common Father Him who gave 
 Life both to tyrant and to slave. 
 Lacking this wealth he still was poor. 
 Rich in all else that could allure, — 
 Alas ! no splendor can illume 
 The darkness of the captive's doom I 
 
 .M.\RV J. SERRANO. 
 
 THE EVERLASTING ROSE. 
 Emblem of hope ! enchanted llower. 
 
 Still breathe around thy faint peifume. 
 Still smile amid the wintry hour. 
 
 And boast, even now, a spring-tide bloom : 
 Thine is, methinks, a pleasant dream, 
 
 Lone lingerer in the icy vale. 
 Of smiles that hailed the morning beam. 
 
 And sighs more sweet for evening's gale ! 
 
 Still are thy green leaves whispering 
 Low sounds to fancy's ear. that tell 
 
 Of mornings when the wild bee's wing 
 Shook dew-drops from thy sparkling cell ! 
 
 I With thee the graceful lily vied. 
 
 i As summer breezes waved her head ; 
 
 { And now the snow-drop at thy side 
 
 Meekly contrasts thy cheerful red. 
 I 
 
 I Well dost thou know each varying voice 
 I That wakes the seasons, sad or gay ; 
 The summer thrush bids thee rejoice. 
 
 And wintry robin's dearer lay. 
 Sweet flower ! how happy dost thou seem, 
 
 'Mid parching heat, 'mid nipping frost ; 
 j While gathering beauty from each beam. 
 
 No hue, no grace, of thine is lost ! 
 
 I Thus hope, mid life's severest daj-s, 
 
 I Still soothes, still smiles away despair ; 
 
 j Alike she lives in pleasant rays. 
 
 And cold affliction's winter air: 
 I Charmer alike in lordly bower 
 
 And in the hermit's cell, she glows ; 
 ' The poet's and the lover's llower, — 
 I The bosom's everlasting rose ! 
 
 JOHN ANSTKR. 
 
 TO THE MOCKING BIRD 
 Winged mimic of the woods ! thou motley fool 
 Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe .' 
 Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule 
 Pursue thy fellows still with jest and jibe ; 
 Wit, sophist, songster, yorick of thy tribe. 
 Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school ; 
 To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe ; 
 Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule! 
 For such thou art by day — but all night long 
 Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain. 
 As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song 
 Like to the melancholy Jacques complain. 
 Musing on falsehood, folly, vice and wrong. 
 And sighing for thy motley coat again. 
 
 RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 
 
 BLOOMING OUT OF TIME. 
 Poor flow'rets of the springtime that bloomed 
 not in your season. 
 Unseemly your unfolding 'mid the summer's 
 royal cheer ! 
 The sweet, red roses question — and, I ween, with 
 amplest reason — 
 " O me ! our frail, pale sisters — but where- 
 fore are ye here ? " 
 
THE PLAINT OF THE WILD FLOWER. 
 
 157 
 
 Hide your wan, wan faces, the radiant roses 
 stiame ye ! 
 Blush for your belatement as mortals blush 
 for crime ! — 
 But O my shy, sad flow'rets ! can I have heart to 
 blame ye ? 
 Must I crush your tender lives out for bloom- 
 ing out of time ? 
 
 KATHERINE E. CONWAr. 
 
 LINES TO AN EXOTIC PLANT. 
 
 Poor exile from the sunny land 
 
 Where Nature's wise and friendly care 
 First made thy fragile leaves expand 
 
 Beneath the warm and vital air, — 
 What adverse fate thy tender bloom 
 
 Transferred to an ungenial soil. 
 Where paler suns thy days illume. 
 
 And ruder airs thy sweets despoil ? 
 
 Of all thy kindred thou most fair ! 
 
 Recipient of a fatal grace, — 
 In solitary pride to wear 
 
 The fleeting glories of thy race. 
 The parent flower whose life with thine 
 
 In sweet mysterious union blent. 
 That drew to feed thy bloom divine. 
 
 Its virtue from each element, — 
 
 When southern airs with fragrance fraught 
 
 Thy petals stir, do they respond 
 To tidings from far regions brought. 
 
 That wake the memory of that bond ? 
 Do dreams of that evanished time 
 
 Within thy calyx hover now, 
 And memories of thy natal clime 
 
 Thy cold existence still endow.? 
 
 Do memories alone remain. 
 
 Or in thy cup some atom lie. 
 Left by warm drops of tropic rain 
 
 That sprang to kiss thee from the sky .' 
 Inwoven with thy being glows 
 
 The genial sunshine still, that first 
 Thy folded petals bade unclose, 
 
 And into perfect beauty burst .' 
 
 And when the pallid day is past 
 Of this cold hemisphere, do gleams 
 
 From southern constellations cast. 
 Revisit thee again in dreams ? 
 
 Do glowing noons and purple eves 
 
 In soft reflected splendor shine. 
 With shadows of broad tropic leaves. 
 
 Of palm and interlacing vine ? 
 
 Alas ! for thee the vine and palm 
 
 Shall bud no more ; no more be heard 
 By thee amid the airless calm 
 
 Of golden noons the humming bird. 
 The glancing wings of butterflies 
 
 With southern splendors lit, shall gleam 
 For thee no more ; thy native skies 
 
 With light eclipsed, for thee, shall beam. 
 
 And then a little while shall bloom. 
 
 The glory of a hostile soil ; 
 A while shall waste thy rich perfume 
 
 On winds that woo thee to despoil ; 
 Then, chill'd by Death's untimely frost. 
 
 For tropic skies no more shalt pine ; 
 But — odor, grace and beauty lost — 
 
 Content, thy barren state resign. 
 
 MARY J. SERRANO. 
 
 THE PLAINT OF THE WILD FLOWER. 
 
 I was not born for the town. 
 Where all that's pure and humble'stroddendown; 
 
 My home is in the woods — 
 The over-arching cloistered solitudes. 
 
 Where the full-toned psalm 
 Of Nature at her matin broke the calm 
 
 Of cloudy pillowed Night, 
 With calmness made more visible by light : 
 
 And when the Minstrel noon 
 Made every young stem spring, as to a tune ; 
 
 Aye, where our joys were led 
 To suit the fluted measures of the orb o'erhead. 
 
 I ant forlorn 
 Here mid the waking jargon of the day ; 
 Noon brings no light, no song of birds at play ; 
 My plume is in the dust : I pine and pray 
 For the old woods, the grand old woods away 
 
 Where I was born. 
 
 Here I am dying ; I want room ; 
 Room for the air of heaven, for the bloom 
 
 Of never-tiring nature ; room [boom 
 
 For the verdure-freighted clouds, and thunder 
 
 That sounds relief to drouthy earth ; 
 Room for the sunlight and the exhaustless mirth 
 
i5« 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 Of laughing July's breeze, 
 Untangling the meshes of the branching trees ; 
 
 Room for cool night and ruddy day. 
 For peace, for health, — aught naturally gay ; 
 
 Room to take vital breath 
 And look on anything not painted death ! 
 
 I am forlorn— 
 I, who from the earliest golden age. 
 Sat by the regal oak's foot, like a page. 
 And, mantled in moss, at the close of day 
 Slept by my prince, in the woods far away 
 
 Where 1 was born. 
 
 111. 
 
 Here is no room — no room 
 For even a flower's life ; nothing but a tomb, 
 
 O. forest gods ! look down. 
 And shield your other offspring from the town ! 
 
 Ah! would that 1 could die I sigh, 
 
 Where o'er my wreck the forest-flowers might 
 
 And clustering shrubs anear 
 Weave dirges low, like leaves above my bier ; 
 
 Where kindly chestnut-leaves 
 Would shade the woe of every plant that grieves. 
 
 And e'en the oak's head [dead. 
 
 Let fall the tears of dew when his poor page is 
 
 1 am forlorn : 
 Night brings no darkness and the day no light ; 
 Noon brings no noise to vary my affright ; 
 I'm dying 'neath the city's loathsome blight, 
 Far, O my mother Nature I from thy sight. 
 Far from thy earth, thy heaven, and the wood- 
 land bright 
 
 Where 1 was born. 
 
 JOHN SAVAGE. 
 
 TO THE WIND-FLOWER. 
 
 Sweet, winsome flower that decks the wold. 
 Despite the snowdrift's chilling cold, 
 Dost thou to March's kiss unfold 
 
 Thy petals pure .' 
 Or hast thou wakened at the song 
 The redbreast trills, as bold and strong 
 Through early groves he wings along, 
 
 Of summer sure ? 
 
 Nay, soft as is thy perfume thrown, 
 So is thy mystic coming known ; 
 Thou bloomest where the winds have blown, 
 A beauteous thing ! 
 
 That we may know when storms are rife. 
 And tawdry joys fade in their strife. 
 The sweetest flowers of human life 
 
 From trouble spring. 
 
 Thus thou within this tangled dell. 
 Where wildling woodsy spirits dwell. 
 Hast cast the magic of thy spell 
 
 O'er all the scene. 
 Like some fair maid with face demure. 
 Yet witching glance from eye-depths pure. 
 Whose every aspect doth allure 
 
 With grace serene. 
 
 Sure blest, sweet flower, is lot of thine. 
 And doubly blest compared with mine ; 
 Thou seest content each sun decline. 
 
 Nor askest why. 
 I dumbly watch youth's rosy years. 
 As each 'twixt meteor hopes and fears 
 Trembles and fades, and disappears. 
 
 In leaden sky. 
 
 But e'en upon thy tender leaf 
 I spy a dew-drop tear of grief — 
 Would human sorrows were as brief. 
 
 And, oh, as few ! 
 Yet oft what seemelh gruesome ill 
 Is but the dew our souls distil 
 To keep us sweet against our will. 
 
 And fair to view. 
 
 ROWLAND B. MAHANY. 
 
 THE SUN AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Come hither with song and with glances bright ; 
 
 Sing to the Glory who walks this way 
 Forever unchanged the arching height. 
 The Helper, the Maker of man's delight. 
 
 The Father of Morning, whose piercing ray 
 
 Illumes tlie shores where the darkness lay ! — 
 Sing to the Softener of grief, the Sower, 
 
 The Ripener, the Reaper, the Lord of day. 
 The Slayer of death and the Life bestower ! 
 
 ■VVhen Light withdrew from the Darkness old. 
 And the fresh blue heavens and the cr>'stal sea 
 
 Laughed in the primal Morning's gold. 
 
 Earth's roi-ky wastes lay stark and cold. 
 Without voice of zephyr or streamlet's glee. 
 Then the golden Sun smote the barren lea 
 
THE A UTUMX LEAF. 
 
 159 
 
 And the shores and the hills and the plains and 
 passes. 
 And the birthday was of the shrub and tree, 
 Of the painted flowers and the fragrant grasses. 
 
 The clouds arose from the ocean's breast 
 And fell on the deserts in silver showers. 
 
 The streams awoke in their sweet unrest, 
 
 And the new-born winds at the sun's behest 
 Sang in the leaves of the springing bowers. 
 Till the waste, transformed, was a world of 
 flowers, [glisten, 
 
 Where the glory of light from the dews w6uld 
 And they whispered sweet in the windy hours 
 
 With no eyes to see them, no ears to listen. 
 
 Then the Maker of Gods^ who ruled the .span 
 
 Of the starry kingdoms, the sun. the earth. 
 To the uttermost spaces ere time began. 
 Of the red clay wrought him the primal Man. 
 
 Of the bright flowers fashioned the woman's 
 birth ; 
 
 For the joy of their bodies and hours of mirth 
 He gave them the grape and the wine to follow. 
 
 The game of the forest, the fish of the firth. 
 And the corn and the fruit of the plain and hollow. 
 
 But best for them and the soul's delight, [spun. 
 
 The flower-web of glory round the earth he 
 The purple of Heather, the Mead-blooms bright. 
 The May and the delicate woodbine's white. 
 
 The Daisy fresh, and the darling One. 
 
 The hyacinth young ; and a splendor shone 
 From the bloom in meadow and wood-glade stilly. 
 
 And the garden glowed in the golden Sun, 
 With the Pink and the Rose and the saffron Lily. 
 
 Come hither, come hither, with garlands meet 
 
 For youth's bright brow and for Age's head. 
 Of the fairest flowers that the mornings greet 
 With perfumed breath and with kisses sweet 
 
 In glen and hollow and garden bed ; 
 
 For Summer is come and the Winter's sped 
 From moor and mountain, from field and forest. 
 
 And the birds in the greenwood woo and wed, 
 And the blossoms laugh where the frosts lay 
 hoarest. 
 
 Come hither, come hither, our song to weave 
 Of joy, where the old Oaks branching rise ! 
 Under their shadows let no heart grieve, 
 I-et love meet love and its truth believe, 
 
 And laugh meet laughter ! — while sunny skies 
 Brighten the sward and the sweet hour flies,— 
 
 From fell and forest, by spring and river. 
 
 From brake and bank where the dewdrop lies, 
 Gather the garlands and praise the Giver ! 
 
 ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 
 — From ^^Blanid.^"^ 
 
 THE AUTUMN LEAF. 
 
 The Summer sun has passed away, and o'er 
 
 the mountain's head 
 A diadem of golden hue is beautifully spread ; 
 A rich and varied mass of leaves, where ev'ry 
 
 brilliant tinge 
 In mingled shade around the pines is shining 
 
 like a fringe. 
 
 But hark ! the wailing wind is heard, it sweeps 
 
 in murmurs by ; 
 A thousand rainbow-colored leaves go whirling 
 
 down the sky; 
 They bid the setting sun farewell, whilst chilled 
 
 with evening breath 
 They fall around the parent tree, still beautiful 
 
 in death. 
 
 The fallen leaf, the fallen leaf, what hand can 
 
 now restore 
 The life that filled its slender vems, the blood it 
 
 knew before ? 
 Its beauty all has passed away, its lonely hour 
 
 And man. who blessed its summer shade forgets 
 that it was dear. 
 
 A solemn silence lulls the scene, the ancient 
 
 woods are hushed ; 
 The leaves have filled the rocky cleft, where late 
 
 the fountain gushed ; 
 Against the clear, cold azure sky the withered 
 
 boughs appear. 
 Where, mournfully, some lingering leaf hangs 
 
 desolate and sere. 
 
 The colored web vv'hich Autumn weaves, of 
 purple and of gold. 
 
 In loom of blue and crimson tints, across the 
 vale is rolled. 
 
 Ah ! who will give us back the sun, the fountain 
 and the shade. 
 
 The singing birds that fluttered there, the min- 
 strels of the glade .' 
 
i6o 
 
 POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 
 
 Alas, the leaf which on the branch in verdant 
 
 beauty hung. 
 Its Summer hour of fragrance o'er, upon the 
 
 ground is flung; 
 It never more, refreshed with dew. the radiant 
 
 sun shall see, 
 Nor with its kindred bloom again upon their 
 
 parent tree. 
 
 The moaning wind is heard at eve its requiem 
 to wail. 
 
 Where, with its brethren of the glen, it slum- 
 bers in the vale ; 
 
 And birds that love the genial sun in farewell 
 numbers sing. 
 
 The Autumn leaf, the yellow leaf, the nursling 
 of the Spring. 
 
 But Spring shall come, and every flower again 
 be lifted up, 
 
 Ihe tulip, like a pearl, shall keep the dewdrop 
 in her cup ; 
 
 .\round the cottage home shall bloom the blue- 
 bell and the rose, 
 
 .\nd trees that drooped in winter winds a thou- 
 sand buds disclose. 
 
 Ah ! thus when Death shall close the scene, may 
 
 Heaven's eternal spring 
 Around the soul her fadeless wreaths, her sacred 
 
 roses fling ; 
 .\nd, when she looks in triumph back, will not 
 
 her world of bliss 
 Seem happier for the gloom that rests on all 
 
 thats found in this.' 
 
 EUW.\RD PURCELL. 
 
 A NOVEMBER DAY. 
 
 .'\s in some day of autumn weather 
 When winds are still and clouds are low. 
 
 And the bare branches crouch together 
 And Nature's pulse is beating slow ; 
 
 When heaven is far, and earth anear. 
 
 All in her misty shrouding drear, — 
 
 Her old blood cold ; then suddenly 
 Some light breeze stirs the hea\T air. 
 
 The dim clouds break, — an azure sky 
 Lies far above, so soft and fair. 
 
 And in that tiny patch of blue, 
 
 Lo ! all the ways of spring we view : 
 
 The young leaves' stir, the streamlet's rush, 
 The little breeze that swiftly passes, 
 
 The buoyant cadence of the thrush. 
 The early dew on tender grasses. 
 
 The pale young flower beneath our feet, 
 
 A thousand perfumes, vague and sweet. 
 
 What though cold winter lives around 
 In blighted grass and songless branches? 
 
 What though the dead leaves strew the ground ? 
 Up there they swing in merrj' dances : 
 
 To us somehow the spring hath come. 
 
 Though earth below is dark and dumb. 
 
 So in some still, sad. pulseless life. 
 That thus its burden drear is bearing. 
 
 When the tired heart, no more at strife 
 With its poor fate, resolves on wearing 
 
 An attitude of patient calm — 
 
 Life's music tuned to minor psalm ; — 
 
 When like dead flowers our hopes arc dead. 
 
 And all is dull and wintry season. 
 All fancies flown, all young dreams fled. 
 
 No guide henceforth but sober reason ; 
 So through our clouds of apathy 
 Upbreaks a glimpse of ecstasy. 
 
 It may be but a few leaves throbbing 
 
 Against the bosom of the shy. 
 It may be but a low breeze sobbing 
 
 In a gold twilight's mystery. 
 The flutter of a swift bird's wings. 
 Or some note in the song he sings. 
 
 And with a rush of fresh desire 
 
 Our rapt eyes see. afar. — afar. 
 As through the glow of sunset fire. 
 
 The gates of paradise ajar. 
 To the fair land of promise leading. 
 Where sweet gales meet us fresh from Eden. 
 
 All great things possible then seem, 
 
 .W\ hopes fulfilled, more grand and glorious 
 Than ever came into the ken 
 
 Of the dim life we thought before us ; 
 I Transfigured, raised above our will- 
 Cur Canaan viewed from Pisgrh's hill. 
 
 I The commonplace, the low, the mean. 
 
 The weary, dull-day life we live. 
 The petty beings we have been 
 
 The thoughts untrue to words we give. 
 Are blotted out, and for a space 
 What we would be for once we face. 
 
THE GOLDEN SEA. 
 
 We breathe in that diviner Spring, 
 We live a life that's all-sufficing; 
 
 And what angelic harpists sing 
 
 Falls on our ears in strains enticing 
 
 Bathe in the light above this mist 
 
 In which we live not, but exist, — 
 
 Feel some prophetic thrill of bliss. 
 Hear some sweet whisper in our ears, 
 
 " It will not be for aye like this. 
 Thy crown lies in the coming years. 
 
 Life is not all a sober burden 
 
 For unto each must come some guerdon." 
 
 MARY GEOGHEGAN. 
 
 SUN-GLOW. 
 
 Lo, the sun-light, and tlie south-wind, and the 
 morning : 
 Lo, the fragrance and the glory of the day ; 
 You, who sneer at life with wild and bitter scorn- 
 ing ; [way. 
 You, who gather thorns and thistles by the 
 
 Lo, the bird-songs, and the blossoms, and the 
 beauty : 
 Lo, the purple and the amber of the sky ; 
 You, who scoff at hope that clings to toil and 
 duty; 
 You, who pass love's shining gifts so coldly by. 
 
 Lo, the music of the robins and the beeches ; 
 
 Lo, the gladness of the willow, and the larch ; 
 You, who wander in life's gray and windless 
 reaches ; 
 
 You, who in despair's sad army sadly march. 
 
 Lo, the cornfields, with the sun-glow on them 
 falling ; 
 Lo, the bounty of the ocean and the land ; 
 Lo, the valleys to the hill-tops bravely calling ; 
 These are free to willing brain and ready 
 hand. 
 
 THOMAS S. COLLIER. 
 
 IN THE GARDEN. 
 Past the town's clamor is a garden full 
 Of loneness and old greenery ; at noon [croon, 
 When birds are hushed, save one dim cushat's 
 A ripen'd silence hangs beneath the cool 
 Great branches; basking roses dream and drop 
 A petal, and dream still; and summer's boon 
 Of mellow grasses, to be levelled soon 
 By a dew-drenched scythe, will hardly stop 
 At the uprunning mounds of chestnut trees. 
 Still let me muse in this rich haunt by day, 
 And know all night in dusky placidness 
 It lies beneath the summer, while great ease 
 Broods in the leaves, and every light wind's stress 
 Lifts a faint odor down the verdurous way. 
 
 EDWARD DOWDEN. 
 
 THE GOLDEN SEA. 
 
 Lo, the distance, and the star-light, never weary ; 
 
 Lo, the river, seaward rushing, brave and true ; , r , , , 
 
 You, who see the weeks keep growing dull and , ^ '°"S for the golden sea ! 
 
 , r J A song for the Wide and wondrous mam 
 
 dreary ; [to do. I j, / ■ , f , , , 
 
 xr . ^ J If , , r or the wmd-swept waves or the eolden ■, 
 
 You, who hnd no work for your strong hands ~, ^ ,■ , , ' 
 
 ■' *" That sway on the sunlit lea I 
 
 Lo, the future, grand with purpose, and en- 
 deavor ; [emprise ; 
 Lo, the present, rich with struggle, and 
 You, who moan and pray for some oblivious 
 never, [eyes. 
 Shutting out each noble promise from your 
 
 Lo, the hand-clasps, and the watching, and the 
 
 waiting ; 
 
 Lo, the splendor and the faithfulness of love ; 
 
 You, who garner to your souls the senseless 
 
 hating, [prove. 
 
 That at last a fierce, destroying flame will 
 
 i-ay ^ 
 
 Over the mighty deep, 
 Over the waste of the waters vast. 
 The stormy rack and the roaring blast 
 
 In Nemesis-fury sweep. 
 
 Woe for the ships that gave 
 Their priceless freight to the trait'rous tide. 
 And dared, in their boasted strength, to glide 
 
 Over the slumbering wave I 
 
 Woe for the storm-rent sails. 
 For the riven masts, and the parted rope., 
 And the human power that vainly copes 
 
 With the strength of ocean gales I 
 
i6^ 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 But siiijj for llie wave of gold — 
 For the sliming billows that whisf>er low 
 To the suinnier breezes that come and go. 
 
 Uf their magical wealth untold. 
 
 Sweet store of the sunlit lea! 
 Ah. richest treasures of golden grain ! 
 Ah, priceless freight of the creaking wain, 
 
 Of the land's proud argosy ! 
 
 From heaven that smiles above. 
 From the golden touch of the royal sun- 
 The shining sea of the vale hath won 
 
 The rarest gift of his love. 
 
 For he came in regal pride 
 To bathe in the dewy and verdant sea. 
 And lo ! on the breast of the fragrant lea, 
 
 A bright Pactolus-tide ! 
 
 Gone was the emerald hue, 
 But over the wind-swept meadows rolled 
 The wondrous billows of shining gold. 
 
 With diamond crests of dew. 
 
 While ships to death go down. 
 The golden waves of the plain are rife 
 With glorious dower of wealth and life. 
 
 Their glad explorer's crown. 
 
 This is the priceless boon 
 Of the golden sea that the sickle cleaves — 
 The billowy heaps of the banded sheaves, 
 
 Upreared in the summer's noon. 
 
 Then swell the harvest glee ! 
 Of gleaner's carol and reaper's strain 
 Be this the ringing and glad refrain, 
 
 " All hail to the golden sea ! " 
 
 HARRIKI- M. SKIDMORE. 
 
 THE CLOVER. 
 
 Some sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose, 
 And the pansies and pinks that the summertime 
 
 throws 
 In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays 
 Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiny days; 
 But what is the lily, and all of the rest 
 Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his breast 
 That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and 
 
 dew 
 Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew." 
 
 I never set eyes on a clover-field now, 
 I Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow, 
 
 But my childhood comes back jest as clear ai. 
 I as plain 
 
 As the smell of the clover I'm snifTm' again; 
 1 And 1 wunder away in a bare-footed dream. 
 
 Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that 
 
 gleam 
 1 With the dew of the dawn of the morning of lo\ . 
 
 Ere it wept o'er the graves that I'm wecpin'abf)\ ' 
 
 And so 1 love the clover— it seems like a part 
 Of the sacredest sorrows and joys of my hart . 
 And wharever it blossoms, oh. there let me bow 
 .\nd thank the good God as I'm thankin' him 
 now; [die. 
 
 And I pray to him still for the strength when ! 
 To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye. 
 And loviii'ly nestle my face in its bloom 
 While my soul slips away in a breth of perfuuit. 
 
 ! JAMES WHIICU.MU RILEY. 
 
 WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN. 
 
 I When the frost is on the punkin and (he fodder - 
 
 in the shock. 
 And you hear the kyouck and gobble of lii 
 
 struttin" turkey-cock. 
 And the clackin'of the guineys. and the cluckn 
 
 of the hens. 
 I And the rooster's halleylooyer as he tiptoes ■ 
 I the fence ; 
 
 O it's then's the time a feller is a-feelin' at 1 
 
 best. 
 With the risin' sun to greet him from a night 
 
 peaceful rest. 
 .As he leaves the house bare-headed, and goes 
 
 out to feed the stock. 
 When the frost is on the punlyin and the fodder's 
 
 in the shock. 
 
 I There's something kind o' harty-like about the 
 atmosphere 
 When the heat of summer's over and the coolin" 
 I frost is here — 
 
 Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms 
 
 on the trees. 
 And the inumble of the huniniin' birds and 
 
 buzzin' of the bees ; 
 I But the air's so appetizin' ; and the landscape 
 j through the haze 
 
 Of a crisp and sunny mornin' of the airly autumn 
 days— 
 
Is a pictur" that no painter has the colorin' to 
 
 mock — 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's 
 
 in the shock. 
 
 The husky, rusty rustle of the tossels of the corn, 
 And the raspin of the tangled leaves, as golden 
 
 as the morn ; 
 The stubble in the furries— kind o' lonesome 
 
 like, but still 
 A-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they 
 
 growed to fill ; 
 The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper 
 
 in the shed ; 
 The hosses in their stalls below — the clover 
 
 overhead ! — 
 O, it sets my heart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a 
 
 clock. 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's 
 
 in the shock ! 
 
 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 the beautiful feet of 
 
 i6; 
 
 Heard through the summer trees, thus does she 
 
 sing beside him : 
 " Wake ! for the darkness flies ; wake ! for the 
 
 world is waiting ; 
 Life is begun anew, with all its promise before 
 
 you ; 
 Thine are the golden hours that fill the hand of 
 
 the Present. 
 Wake ere the moments pass, and gathering 
 
 strength from prayer. 
 Light on the altar of life a lamp that shall brighten 
 
 the future ! " 
 
 j Hers are the rosy lips that bend by the sick man's 
 j pillow, 
 
 Cooling with lingering breath the flush on the 
 
 heated forehead. 
 Waking the smile of hope that fled in the dark 
 
 night-watches, 
 And kissing the restless eyes like touch of a swift- 
 j winged blessing. 
 
 Memory holds the past, and shrouding her face 
 
 in darkness. 
 Sits by its silent doors and waits the coming of 
 
 evening, 
 Then on its golden hinge turning the shadowy 
 
 portal 
 Bears to the waiting heart the wealth of its 
 
 buried treasure ; 
 
 Fair on the eastern hills : 
 
 the Morning, 
 Waking the psalm of life and the matin hymn of j But clasping her sister's hand, the angel who 
 
 labor ; ' i guards the future — 
 
 Touching with heavenly fire the looming moun- I Hope, with her shining hair— walks through the 
 
 tains of shadow. | rose-bright hours. 
 
 Till the hidden landscape flames in a sudden | Cleaving the morning air ; then lifting her radi- 
 
 blaze of glory : 
 
 ant pmions. 
 
 Calling with earnest voice the breeze that -slept j R'ses above the clouds, and pierces the blue 
 
 in the valleys. 
 Till it beats with a quicker pulse, dashing the 
 mist before it. 
 
 beyond them. 
 
 Thus when the sunset sleeps on the old man's 
 ^ , , , . , ■, f , , .1 silver tresses. 
 
 Over her laughmg eyes the veil of the dawn is ; g^^^j^^ ^-^ ^.^^^^ ^^,^^_ ^^ j^^„^ ^^.^^^^ Memor>- 
 
 ,,. ,. °^ '"^', ! waits him, 
 
 Hidmg the sudden light that erst would startle ^^i^; -^ ^^e crown he won in the davs 
 
 and blind us. ' departed 
 
 Shading her blushing face, till, casting its veiling B^^ i„ ^^^ ^-^^ ^^^^^^ y^^^^ stands on the 
 
 from her 
 
 She shines on our dazzled eyes, the fairest queen 
 of the hours. 
 
 Hers are the gentle hands that tap at the dream- 
 er's window, 
 
 Chasing the shapes away that people his land of 
 shadows. 
 
 While, with a voice that' falls like the far-off 
 ripple of fountains 
 
 threshold of manhood. 
 Daring with eagle glance the blaze of its morning 
 
 sunshine, 
 Hope on her shining wings pierces the way 
 
 before him, 
 Flushing the path with light that soon will be 
 
 gone forever. 
 Pointing to bliss beyond, and urging his swift 
 
 feet onward. 
 
 MARY E. BI.AKE. 
 
1 64 
 
 POEAfS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 Out of the pearly gates and golden portals of 
 
 sunset, 
 Crushing the amber light in the shade of her 
 
 night-black tresses, 
 Weaving with subtle hands the mystical web of 
 
 darkness. 
 Comes through the quiet air the shadowy form 
 
 of Twilight. 
 Wondrously fair is she as the star that gleams on 
 
 her bosom. 
 Holding the splendid robe that airily floats around 
 
 her; 
 Wondrously fair is she, with eyes that are pure 
 
 as heaven, — 
 Eyes from whose quiet light the blessing of 
 
 peace ascending 
 Falls on the cares of the day, hushing them all 
 
 to silence. 
 
 Out of the pearly gates she leads to their old- 
 time places 
 Feet that are silent now, — forms that have passed 
 
 forever ; 
 Gently she draws them near, wooes them to sit 
 
 beside us. 
 Holding our hands once more, speaking from 
 
 soul to spirit. 
 Back to the white-haired sire she brings the 
 
 days of his childhood. 
 Laughter and noisy games, and visions of boyish 
 
 faces, — 
 Days when his heart was light, and all his hopes 
 
 and his longings 
 Hung like pictures of gold on the beautiful 
 
 walls of the future. 
 Back to the mother's ears it brings the prattle of j 
 
 children 
 (Grown to be women and men) clinging again 
 
 around her. 
 Fastens the broken links she lost in the quiet 
 
 churchyard. 
 And shows her the golden chain completed and 
 
 clasped in heaven. 
 
 But to the young man's eyes it shows in the dawn 
 
 of promise 
 The beautiful days to come, the battles that lie 
 
 before him ; 
 Flashes of love and fire, xictories worth the 
 
 winning. 
 Honor and wealth and fame, the strife and the 
 
 crown of glory. 
 
 So does she weave her spells, till on her soniLii^ 
 
 garments 
 Crushed and hidden away lie all the roses of 
 
 sunset. 
 And a quick arrow, shot from the silver quiver 
 
 of moonbeams, 
 Drops through the dim gray trees to tell us the 
 
 night approaches ; 
 Then in her shadowy wings folding the gifts she 
 
 brought us,— 
 Dreams of the beautiful past, hopes of the beau- 
 tiful future, — 
 Like to a dream herself departs the mystical 
 
 Twilight. 
 
 MARY K. ULAKE. 
 
 NIGHTFALL. 
 
 On wood and wave the gathering shadows fall. 
 The trees are whispering in the twilight gray 
 As if one last " good-night " they fain would say 
 Ere darkness shrouds them in her dusky pall. 
 Now one by one broad oak and poplar tall 
 Melt into shade, the golden-mantled day 
 Past the hushed lakelet softly steals away. 
 And solemn night sits silently on all. 
 But hark I the night-wind slowly creeping by 
 With low, dull moan the spreading darkness fills, 
 And slumbering nature wakes to sympathy — 
 For one and all the oaks and poplars sigh. 
 And floating faintly o'er the far-off hills 
 A deep sad voice conies sobbing from the sea. 
 
 EDWARD HARDING. 
 
 THE WOODS. 
 
 Hail, old woods ! — primeval woods ! 
 
 Nature's holy solitudes ; 
 From age to age. Religion's everlasting pile ! 
 Deep in your midst she raised her vast abode. 
 
 Her temple roofed and arched by God, 
 And solemnly lighted like cathedral aisle. 
 I never hear your clustered branches stirred 
 By the hushed anthem of the summer wind. 
 
 But call to mind 
 The solemn hour Jehovah's voice was heard 
 
 Passing from tree to tree. 
 As glides the organ's grand solemnity, — 
 
NATURE'S ANSWER. 
 
 Summer's bright blush from earth took instant 
 flight, [blight ! 
 
 And Autumn threw around her yellow robe of 
 Altar and temple, both in one— all hail ! 
 The sun on ye like incense pours his light. 
 And clouds, in passing, weave that holy veil 
 That screens your inmost shrine from mortalsight. 
 A^es have past ; and human eyes 
 Have closed in their eternal sleep ; 
 Yet ne'er hath one beheld those mysteries. 
 Like sacred rites, locked in your bosom deep ; 
 But, like the Ark of Cov'nant, that within 
 Preserved the record dark of human sin, 
 The Law, the Manna, and the Rod, 
 The proofs and miracles of Israel's God, 
 Age upon d^^tyc've shut from mortal eye. 
 The phantom-secrets that within ye lie! 
 
 How softly rests the sun upon ye now. 
 As tho' all heaven were open to the view, 
 And its bright Hierarchy showered below, 
 From 'neath their waving wings of golden hue, 
 All light they borrowed from th' Eternal throne, 
 
 When veiled before their God they stand, 
 
 Each casting down His burning zone 
 The fadeless starlight of that Better Land ! 
 
 Lo ! silence everywhere, 
 Pillowed on downy waves of sleeping air ; 
 
 Silence, such as swayed 
 Creation when God sent his Fiat forth. 
 Commanding Light to be, and Light was made, 
 While guilty Darkness fled the face of Earth ! 
 
 Temples of eldest Nature, fare-ye-well ! 
 Cathedrals God-made ! ye whose incense streams. 
 
 Like adoration's soul 
 At sound of matin or of vesper bell. 
 When choiring harmonies roll 
 'Mid the organ's swell. 
 And Heaven reveals itself to Worship's dreams ! 
 Farewell! ye Temples piled and arched by Him 
 Whose praise for aye shall echo 'mid your tra- 
 cery dim. 
 Not dark ; for while the Sun looks down. 
 Image of God's fadeless crown. 
 Or, while the lady Moon 
 Lights up her cresset for the midnight-noon, 
 Upon your shrines shall burn that holy ray, 
 Earth's foretaste of a distant — endless day ! 
 Holy of Holies ! bared to Man, adieu ! 
 When Nature consecrates the heart — that heart's 
 with You ! 
 
 EDWARD i!ATURIN. 
 
 NATURE'S ANSWER. 
 
 I stood alone upon the white cliff's verge ; 
 The great blue sea came rolling in below ; 
 I heard the murmur of the restless surge ; 
 I watched the ripples melting into snow. 
 A few white clouds that floated o'er the blue 
 Deepened the azure splendor of the sky ; 
 Thro' fields of golden corn the south wind flew, 
 And ripples tracked it as it wandered by. 
 I could have thought that Nature lay asleep ; 
 It was the hush of noon when ail things rest ; 
 The measured flow and reflow of the deep 
 Were rhythmic pulsings of her mighty breast. 
 And when the poppies fluttered, and I heard 
 The rustling wind — it was her voice that stirred. 
 
 Her breath was mine : I breathed and was content; 
 Her life was flowing in a boundless flood ; 
 No need to ask what Nature's being meant ; 
 My answer was the pulsing of her blood, 
 I only knew that all around me moved 
 A vast eternal self-sufticing life ; 
 The faintest flutter of the poppies proved 
 How deep a harmony controlled the strife. 
 Somewhere in woodland depths the cooing dove 
 Sent from afar this message to my soul : 
 ' When life is light and liberty and love, 
 Life is itself its own supremest goal." 
 The south wind whispered as it fanned my hair : 
 "Be strong — trust Nature — wake from thy 
 despair." 
 
 I heard a voice that was not of the wind, 
 
 A laughing sound that was not of the sea ; 
 
 It came again, — I turned and looked behind, — 
 
 A little child was standing near to me. 
 
 Her hair was golden as the sun in heaven. 
 
 Her arms were browner than the sunburnt wheat; 
 
 The ruddy flush that life and health had given, 
 
 Rivalled the scarlet poppies at her feet. 
 
 She looked at me from eyes of heaven's own blue, 
 
 That like the sky, glowed with a sunny smile, — 
 
 A smile of joy and innocence, that knew 
 
 No tear of misery — no cloud of guile. 
 
 I bade her tell the secret of her bliss. 
 
 She raised her lips and answered— with a kiss. 
 
 But the wind answered as it rustled by. 
 And the waves answered from the rocks below,— 
 There came this answer from the azure sky. 
 This from the ocean's fringe of melting snow : 
 
1 66 
 
 POEMS OF XA TURE AND PLACES. 
 
 •• She is our sister, and our hearts are glad, 
 For we are Nature's children, and our breath 
 Is Natures breath,— whose eyes are only sad 
 What time she weaves new life from threads of 
 
 death. ■ 
 And so I learned that joy is all around, 
 That whoso will can make that joy his own ; 
 I learned of every tint and every sound 
 That life and happiness are theirs alone. 
 The central currents of whose being glide 
 In harmony with Nature's ample tide, 
 
 EDMOND G. A. HOLMES. 
 From *^ Naturg Lost and Funnd^^ 
 
 THE SEA. 
 
 Ebb and flow ! ebb and flow ! 
 By basalt crags, by caverns low. 
 Through rifted rocks, o'er pebbly strand. 
 On windy beaches of naked strand ' 
 
 To and fro ! to and fro ! 
 
 Chanting ever and chanting slow, 
 
 Thy harp is swept with liquid hands, 
 
 And thy voice is breathing of distant lands! 
 
 Sweet and low I sweet and low ! 
 
 Those golden echoes I surely know ; 
 
 Thy lips are rich with the lazy south. 
 
 And the tuneful icebergs have touched thy mouth. 
 
 Come and go ! come and go ! 
 
 The sun may shine and the winds may blow, 
 
 But thou wilt forever sing, O sea ! 
 
 And I never, ah ! never, shall sing like thee ! 
 
 FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN. 
 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 Bur\' me by the sea. 
 When on my heart the hand of death is prest, 
 If the soul lingereth ere she join the blest. 
 
 And haunts awhile her clay. 
 Then 'mid the forest shades 1 would not lie. 
 For the green leaves like me would droop and die. 
 
 Nor 'mid the homes of men. 
 The haunts of busy life, would I be laid : 
 There ever was I lone, and my vexed shade 
 
 Would sleep unquiet then ; 
 The surging tide of life might overwhelm 
 The shadowv boundaries of the silent realm. 
 
 No sculptured marble pile 
 To bear my name be reared upon my breast,— 
 Beneath its weight my free soul would not rest; I 
 
 But let the blue sky smile, 
 The changeless stars look lovingly on me. 
 And let me sleep beside this sounding sea : 
 
 This ever-beating heart 
 Of the great Universe ! here would the soul 
 Plume her soiled pinions for the final goal, 
 
 Ere she should thence depart ; 
 Here would she fit her for the high abode. 
 Here by the sea she would be nearer God. 
 
 I feel his presence now : 
 Thou mightiest of his vassals, as I stand 
 And watch beside thee on the sparkling sand. 
 
 Thy crested billows bow ; 
 And as thy solemn chant swells thro' the air, 
 My spirit, awed, joins in thy ceaseless prayer. 
 
 Life's fitful fever o'er. 
 Here then would I repose, majestic sea ; 
 E'en now faint glimpses of eternity 
 
 Come o'er me on thy shore: [given. 
 
 My thoughts from thee to highest themes are 
 As thy deep distant blue is lost in Heaven. 
 
 ANNE C. I- BOTTA. 
 
 OUT ON THE SEA. 
 Out on the sea are shadows 
 
 From the drifting clouds above, 
 That drape th' eternal portals 
 
 Of the realms of peace and love. 
 
 Out on the sea is sunlight 
 Where never shadow falls. 
 
 But floods of golden splendor 
 From heaven's cerulean halls. 
 
 Out on the sea is beauty 
 
 In hues that ever change, 
 In light and shade, in sun and cloud. 
 
 And all things bright and strange. 
 
 Out on the sea is music. 
 
 Where winds and waters meet, — 
 The wildest, grandest minstrelsy. 
 
 Vet strangely, sadly sweet. 
 
 Out on the sea is terror. 
 
 When the storm-king rages wild. 
 And to the low'ring heavens above 
 
 The giant waves are piled. 
 
THE LIFE OF THE SEA. 
 
 167 
 
 Out on the sea is mystery, 
 
 A world of fear and dread, — 
 With the vast unfathonied depths below, 
 
 And the white bones of the dead. 
 
 Out on the sea are argosies 
 With treasures rich and rare, — 
 
 The wealth that nations interchange, — 
 Man's choicest works are there. 
 
 Out on the sea are armaments 
 Surcharged with death and doom. 
 
 From forth whose yawning mouths of flame 
 The murderous cannons boom. 
 
 Out on the sea is majesty 
 
 When the whirlwind rides the wave. 
 And the dread abyss of ocean yawns 
 
 As 'twere creation's grave. 
 
 Out on the sea is power, 
 
 The might of heaven's great King, 
 Who speaketh in the thunder 
 
 And rides the tempest's wing ! 
 
 M.VRY A. SADLIER 
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SEA. 
 These grassy vales are warm and deep. 
 
 Where apple-orchards wave and glow ; 
 Upon soft uplands, whitening sheep 
 
 Drift in long wreaths. — Relow, 
 Sun-fronting beds of garden thyme, alive 
 With the small humming merchants of the hive, 
 And cottage homes in every shady nook [brook. 
 Where willows dip and kiss the dimples of the 
 
 But all too close against my face 
 
 My thick breath feels these crowding trees ; 
 They crush me in their green embrace. — 
 
 I miss the Life of Seas ; 
 The wild free life that round the flinty shores 
 Of my bleak isles e.xpanded Ocean pours, — 
 So free, so far, that, in the lull of even. 
 Naught but the rising moon stands on your path 
 to heaven. 
 
 I miss the madd'ning Life of Seas, 
 
 When the red. angry sunset dies. 
 And to the storm-lash 'd Orcades 
 
 Resound the seaman's cries : 
 'Mid thick'ning night and fresh'ning gale, upon 
 The stretch'd ear bursts despair's appealing gun, 
 O'er the low reef that on the lee-beam raves 
 With its down-crashing hills of wild, devouring 
 
 These inland love-bowers sweetly bloom, 
 
 White with the hawthorn's summer snows ; 
 Along soft turf a purple gloom 
 
 The elm at sunset throws : 
 There the fond lover, listening for the sweet 
 Half soundless coming of his maiden's feet. 
 Thrills if the linnet's rustling pinions pass, [grass. 
 Or some light leaf is blown rippling along the 
 
 But Love his pain as sweetly tells 
 
 Beneath some cavern beetling hoar. 
 Where silver sands and rosy shells 
 
 Pave the smooth glistening shore — 
 When all the winds are low, and to thy tender 
 Accents, the wavelets, stealing in, make slender 
 And tinkling cadence, wafting, every one, 
 A golden smile to thee from the fast-sinking sun. 
 
 Calm through the heavenly sea on high 
 
 Comes out each white and quiet star — 
 So calm up ocean's floating sky 
 
 Come, one by one, afar. 
 White quiet sails from the grim icy coasts 
 That hear the battles of the whaling hosts, 
 Whose homeward crews with feet and flutes in 
 tune, [moon. 
 
 And spirits roughly blithe, make music to the 
 
 Or if (like some) thou'st loved in vain. 
 
 Or madly wooed the already won, 
 Go when the passion and the pain 
 
 Their havoc have begun. 
 And dare the thunder rolling up behind 
 The deep, to match that hurricane of mind : 
 Or to the sea-winds, raging on thy pale [tale. 
 Grief-wasted cheek, pour forth as bitter-keen a 
 
 For in that sleepless, tumbling tide — 
 When most thy fever'd spirits reel, 
 Sick with desires unsatisfied, 
 
 Dwell life and balm to heal. 
 Raise thy free sail, and seek o'er ocean's breast 
 — It boots not what— those rose-clouds in the 
 
 west. 
 And deem that thus thy spirit freed shall be. 
 Ploughing the stars thro' seas of blue Eternity. 
 
 This mainland life I could not live. 
 
 Nor die beneath a rookery's leaves ; 
 But I my parting breath would give 
 
 Where chainless Ocean heaves ; 
 In some gray turret, where my fading sight 
 Could see the lighthouse flame into the night. 
 Emblem of guidance and of hope, to save ; 
 Type of the Rescuer bright who walked the 
 howling wave. 
 
1 68 
 
 POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES 
 
 Nor dead, amid the chamers breath, 
 
 Shall rise the tomb with lies befooled. 
 But, like the Greek, who faced in death 
 
 The sea in life he ruled. 
 High on some peak, wave-^rdcd. will I sleep, 
 My dirge sung ever by the choral deep ; 
 There, sullen mourner, oft at midnight lone 
 Shall thy familiar friend, the thunder, come to 
 groan. 
 
 55oft vales and sunny hills, farewell ! 
 
 Long shall the friendship of yon bowers 
 Be sweet to me as is the smell 
 
 Of their strange lovely (lowers ; 
 And each kind face, like every pleasant star 
 Be bright to me, though ever bright afar ; 
 True as the sea-bird's wing, f seek my home 
 And its glad life, onoe more, by boundless 
 Ocean's foam ! | 
 
 UARIHOI-OMEW SIM.MONS. 
 
 BY SEPTEMBER SEAS. 
 
 The wind this morning blows from the sea 
 With the sweetness of salt in its breath; 
 
 The balm of its kisses falls on me. 
 Lazily swinging the trees beneath. 
 
 Where my hammock dips like boats that ride I 
 
 The white capped billows of yonder tide. 
 
 All week, from the inland fields of flowers, 
 Had zephyrs wafted odorous scents 
 
 Of roses Flora within her bowers 
 
 Burned to the summer for frankincense: 
 
 Until 1 dreamt that my dwelling stood 
 
 In groves of spice-trees and sandalwood. 
 
 The green leaves curled on the drooping boughs 
 Beneath the warmth of the scented breeze; 
 
 Knec-dccp in cool pools, the drowsy cows 
 Resigned themselves imto reveries; 
 
 The chirping voice of the katydid 
 
 Was ail the sound that indolence chid. 
 
 And who could linger and keep from dreams 
 When summer whispered her late farewells 
 
 To groves and meads, where the falling streams 
 Tinkled like music of silver bells ? 
 
 And the sweet voice of the winds which crooned 
 
 Sang to the soul till its senses swooned. , 
 
 Alas, for songs of the summer days 
 
 Whose sweet enchantment is heard no more ! 
 I watch the sea where a misty haze 
 
 Drifts slowly out from the sandy shore, 
 .And the shape it takes, I fancy, seems 
 The vanishing wraith of summer dreams. 
 
 Over the hills, in a golden dress. 
 Autumn is coming adown the path ; 
 
 In new-mown meadows her fixjtsteps press 
 Where reapers gather the aftermath ; 
 
 And the trees and vines are all aglow 
 
 With the tints her scarlet banners show. 
 
 A truce to dreaming ; the year wanes fast 
 And half its labor is still undone ; 
 
 While folded sails hug the idle mast. 
 The port lies off by the setting sun ; 
 
 .And syren songs and restraining hands 
 
 Delay my vessel in pleasure-lands. 
 
 And still the wmd that crosses the sea 
 With the sweetness of salt on its lips. 
 
 Flings down its kisses which fall on me 
 In this hammock that lazily dips 
 
 Down and across, like the boats to-day 
 
 In the crested billows of yonder bay. 
 
 WILLIAM D. KELLY. 
 
 MY GARDEN BY THE SEA. 
 
 There is a garden by the sea, 
 
 Tranquil as eternity. 
 
 Where oft 1 breathe in happy dreams. 
 
 'Mid bowers so thickly roofed with rose, 
 
 The spirit, lapped in leaves at noon. 
 
 Forgetting earth and all its pain. 
 
 Is lulled asleep by falling rain 
 
 Or liquid lapse of streams ; 
 
 Now where one fronts the sunset glows. 
 And one. the rising moon. 
 
 And there's a chamber latticed round 
 With foliage, where the shady sound 
 Is heard of bubbling, mossy springs. 
 In which I rest long summer nights 
 Girt by the ambrosial solitude ; 
 
 While the doves nestle in sweet air. 
 
 Flamed by one earnest star, and where 
 I wake with stir of golden wings 
 That round the open casement brood. 
 
 And waves, and wavering lights. 
 
THE BED OF OCEAN. 
 
 [69 
 
 Amid its flowers and fadeless trees 
 Its spacious, splendoroui silences. 
 Its seasonless monotonies 
 Of sun and moon and ocean shore, 
 And watery woodland's undertone; 
 The soul, inspiring mellow breath. 
 Secluded past domains of death, 
 Thro' Beauty's calm immensities, 
 Delighted, silent and alone, 
 Would range for evermore. 
 
 THOMAS C. IRWIN. 
 
 THE DREAMER. 
 
 Once more, thou darkly rolling main, 
 
 I bid thy lonely strength adieu ; 
 And sorrowing leave thee once again, 
 
 Kamiliar long, yet ever new ! 
 And while, thou changeless, boundless sea, 
 
 I quit thy solitary shore, 
 I sigh to turn away from thee. 
 
 And think I ne'er may greet thee more. 
 
 Thy many voices which are one. 
 
 The varying garbs that robe thy might, 
 Thy dazzling hues at set of sun, 
 
 Thy deeper loveHness by night, 
 The shades that flit with every breeze 
 
 Along thy hoar and aged brow, — 
 What has the universe like these .' 
 
 Or what so strong, so fair as thou .' 
 
 And when yon radiant friend of earth 
 
 Has bridged the waters with her rays, 
 Pure as those beams of heavenly birth, 
 
 That round a seraph's footsteps blaze. 
 While lightest clouds at times o'ercast 
 
 The splendor gushing from the spheres, 
 Like softening thoughts of sorrow past, 
 
 That fill the eyes of joy with tears, — 
 
 The soul, methinks, in hours like these. 
 
 Might pant to flee its earthly doom. 
 And freed from dust to mount the breeze. 
 
 An eagle soaring from the tomb. 
 Or mixed in stainless air to roam 
 
 Where'er thy billows know the wind. — 
 To make all climes my spirit's home. 
 
 And leave the woes of all behind. 
 
 Or wandering into worlds that beam 
 Like lamps of hope to human eyes. 
 
 Wake 'mid delights we now but dream. 
 And breathe the rapture of the skies. 
 
 But vain the thought ; my feet are bound 
 To this dim planet, — clay to clay, — 
 
 Condemned to tread one thorny round, 
 And chained with links that ne'er decay. 
 
 Yet while thy ceaseless current flows. 
 
 Thou mighty mam, and shrinks again, 
 Methinks thy rolling floods disclose, 
 
 A refuge safe, at least from men. 
 Within thy gently heaving breast. 
 
 That hides no passions dark and wild, 
 My weary soul might sink to rest. 
 
 As in its mother's arms a child. 
 
 JOHN STERLING. 
 
 THE BED OF OCEAN. 
 
 Amazing world ! how vain the thoughts of man, 
 
 Thy depths, thy terrors, and thy wealth to scan ! 
 
 Down, down unfathomably deep are laid. 
 
 Where plummet never dropped, where thought 
 ne'er strayed, [unknown. 
 
 Earth's vast foundations, — wrecks of worlds 
 
 By central shocks dismembered and o'erthrown. 
 
 What fissures, gulfs, and precipices dread. 
 
 And dismal vales with ivory bones o'erspread ; 
 
 Vast cemet'ries. where Horror holds his court. 
 
 Prowls the fell shark, and monstrous krakens 
 
 sport. 
 j What mines of gold and gems of emerald ray, 
 
 What floors of pearl the coral grots inlay ! 
 
 Here, still as death, the oak-ribbed vessel lies, 
 ] Wedged in the grasping rocks no more to rise ; 
 
 Sent hissing down, as thro' the sulph'rous air 
 
 Rang the mixed shouts of triumph and despair ; 
 
 Now sluggish limpets on the decks repose ; 
 
 Thro' the rent ports the oozy tangle grows. 
 
 And climbs the poop, where Glory's hands un- 
 furled 
 j The red-cross flag that awed the watery world. 
 
 The victor here and vanquished side by side. 
 
 Sleep ghastly pale, sad wrecks of human pride ; 
 I Their nerveless hands yet grasp the fatal steel. 
 
 And yet the warriors' ire they seem to feel. 
 ! Unhallowed ire ! oh, guilt ! oh, rage unblessed ! 
 
 Here, here. Ambition, come and plume thy crest ! 
 
 Here see thy trophies, relics of the brave, 
 
 Untimely slain, and whelm'd beneath the wave. 
 
 See children, husbands, fathers long deplored, 
 
 Unshrouded, gashed, and mangled by the sword ; 
 j Here build the proud memorial of thy fame, 
 ' And down to hell thy triumphs loud proclaii 
 
 proclaim. 
 
:70 
 
 POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 
 
 All-righteous Heaven! how long shall murd'rous 
 
 war 
 O'er slaughtered hosts impel his ruthless car; i 
 And cursed Ambition, drunk with folly, plan 
 The guilt, the crimes, and miseries of man ? ' 
 
 WILLIAM H. URLMMOND. 
 — From "Tkt GiaHt*s Causeway.'^ 
 
 And spreading wide across the wold 
 
 Wakes into flight some fluttering bird. 
 
 And all the chestnut tops are stirred. 
 
 And all the branches streaked with gold. 
 
 OSCAR WIL 
 
 IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 I. 
 
 The sea is flecked with bars of gray. 
 The dull dead wind is nut of tune, 
 And like a withered leaf the moon 
 1^ blown across the stormy bay. 
 
 Etched clear upon the pallid sand 
 The black boat lies : a sailor boy 
 Clambers aboard in careless joy 
 With laughing face and gleaming hand. 
 
 And overhead the curlews cry, 
 Where through the dusky upland grass 
 The young brown-throated reapers pass. 
 Like silhouettes against the sky. 
 
 II. 
 
 To outer senses there is peace, 
 A dreamy peace on either hand. 
 Deep silence in the shadowy land. 
 Deep silence where the shadows cease. 
 
 Save for a cry that echoes shrill 
 From some lone bird disconsolate ; 
 A corncrake calling to its mate ; 
 The answer from the misty hill. 
 
 And suddenly the moon withdraws 
 Her sickle from the lightening skies. 
 And to her somber cavern flies. 
 Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze. 
 
 III. 
 
 The sky is laced with fitful red. 
 The circling mists and shadows flee, 
 The dawn is rising from the sea. 
 Like a white lady from her bed. 
 
 And jagged brazen arrows fall 
 Athwart the feathers of the night, 
 And a long wave of yellow light 
 Breaks silently on tower and hall, 
 
 GLENGARIFF. 
 
 : A sun-burst on the bay ! Turn and behold ! 
 The restless waves, resplendent in their glory. 
 Sweep glittering past yon purpled promontory. 
 Bright as Apollo's breast-plate. Bathed in gold. 
 Yon bastioned islet gleams. Thin mists are rolled 
 Translucent through each glen. A mantle hoary 
 
 I Veils those peaked hills, shapely as e'er in story 
 Delphic, or .Alpine, or Vesuvian old, | proud 
 
 Minstrels have sung. From rock and headland 
 
 I The wild-wood spreads its arms around the bay ; 
 The manifold mountain comes, now dark, now 
 
 I bright. 
 
 Now seen, now lost, alternate from rich liyht 
 To spectral shade ; and each dissolving clou i 
 Reveals new mountains while it floats away. 
 
 AUBREY DE VERE. 
 
 STEEDS OF THE OCEAN. 
 
 O'er the wild gannet's bath 
 Come the Norse Coursers ! 
 O'er the whale's heritance 
 Gloriously steering ! 
 With beaked heads peering. 
 Deep-plunging, high-rearing. 
 Tossing their foam abroad. 
 Shaking white manes aloft, 
 Creamy-necked, pitchy-ribbed 
 Steeds of the ocean ! 
 
 O'er the sun's mirror green 
 Come the Norse Coursers ! 
 Trampling its glassy breadth 
 Into bright fragments ! 
 Hollow-backed, huge-bosomed. 
 Fraught with mailed riders. 
 Clanging with hauberks. 
 Shield, spear, and battle-a.xe. 
 Canvas- winged, cable-reined 
 Steeds of the ocean ! 
 
MORN/.VO ON THE IRISH COAST. 
 
 71 
 
 O'er the wind's ploughing field 
 Come the Norse coursers ! 
 By a hundred each ridden. 
 To the bloody feast bidden, 
 They rush in their fierceness 
 And ravine all round them ! 
 Their shoulders enriching 
 With fleecy-light plunder, 
 Fire-spreading, foe-spurning 
 Steeds of the ocean ! 
 
 GEORGE DARLEY. 
 -From '^Elltalslan" 
 
 THE COAST OF CLARE. 
 
 LISCANNOR BAV. 
 
 Two walls of precipices black and steep. 
 The storm-lashed ramparts of a naked land. 
 Are parted here by leagues of lonely sand 
 That make a bay ; and up it ever creep 
 Billowy ocean ripples half asleep, 
 That cast a belt of foam across the strand, 
 Seething and white, and wake in cadence grand 
 The everlasting thunder of the deep. 
 And there is never silence on that shore ; 
 Alike in storm and calm foam-fringes gird 
 Its desolation, and the Atlantic's roar 
 Makes mighty music. Though the sea be stirred 
 By scarce a breath of breeze, yet evermore 
 The sands are whitened, and the thunder heard. 
 
 NEAR KILKEE. 
 
 I once did wander on a misty day 
 
 In solitary mood along the verge 
 
 Of those dark cliffs that hear the mournful dirge 
 
 Of billows breaking in Intrinsic Bay ; 
 
 Far, far below rose sheets of blinding spray 
 
 Flung from the waves that ceaselessly submerge 
 
 The fallen fragments of the cliffs, and surge. 
 
 And foam, and boil, and then are sucked away. 
 
 White sea-mists hid the waters waste and wide ; 
 
 The winds were hushed, yet broke eternally 
 
 The melancholy thunder of the sea, 
 
 That voice of solitude : companionless 
 
 I wandered on ; there reigned on every side 
 
 The majesty of utter loneliness. 
 
 LOOPHEAD. 
 
 A sheer surf-beaten island fronts the shore. 
 Close to the headland cliffs, whence stormy waves 
 Have sent it : there the sea imprisoned raves 
 Between dark dungeon walls, and evermore 
 Deep in that chasm, with sullen booming roar, 
 
 Conies surging in a rushing, raging tide, [side. 
 That pants and boils, and climbs each dripping 
 Then sinks as madly as it rose before. 
 Beyond, bright crests of ocean waves are tost 
 Into the far faint haze that ends the view : 
 Northward, the headlands of a rocky coast 
 Are white with surf; while southward, broad and 
 The Shannon rolls, in tranquil majesty, [blue, 
 Into the billows of the boundless sea. 
 
 FROM THE CLIFFS OF BALTARD. 
 
 Across the heaving ocean's billowy flow 
 Lie paths of gold that deepen into red : 
 
 ' The west is bright : black storm-clouds overhead 
 
 I Give a strange sweetness to the evening glow. 
 The swell of the Atlantic breaks below, 
 With thunderous resonance : long lines of white 
 Tell where the iron coast beats back the might 
 
 I Of stormy seas : dark headlands fringed with 
 
 j snow — 
 
 From blue Loophead to Arran's sunken strand — 
 
 ' Deep gloomy precipice-encircled bays, 
 Sheer craggy islets, flats of whitened sand, 
 Are all scarce dimmed by veils of purpling haze : 
 While somewhere in the glory of the west 
 Lie the enchanted islands of the blest. 
 
 EDMOND G. A. HOLMES. 
 
 MORNING ON THE IRISH COAST. 
 
 Th' aimin an Dhia ! but there it is. 
 
 The dawn on the hills of Ireland ! 
 God's angels lifting the night's black veil 
 
 From the fair, sweet face of my sireland ! 
 Oh, Ireland, isn't it grand you look, 
 
 Like a bride in her rich adornin'. 
 And with all the pent up love of my heart, 
 
 1 bid you the top o' the 
 
 This one short hour pays lavishly back 
 
 F"or many a year of mourning ; 
 I'd almost venture another flight, 
 
 There's so much joy in returning — 
 Watching out for the hallowed shore, 
 
 All other attractions scornin'; 
 Oh, Ireland, don't you hear me shout .' 
 
 I bid you the top o' the mornin'. 
 
 Ho I ho ! upon Cleena's shelving strand. 
 The surges are grandly beating. 
 
 And Kerry is pushing her headlands out 
 To give us the kindly greeting ; 
 
POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 
 
 Into the shore the sea-birds fly 
 On pinions that know no drooping ; 
 
 And out from the cliffs, with welcomes charged, 
 A million of waves come trooping. 
 
 Oh, kindly, generous Irish land. 
 
 So leal and fair and loving, 
 No wonder the wandering Celt should think 
 
 And dream of you in his roving ! 
 The alien home may have gems and gold — 
 
 Shadows may never have gloomed it ; 
 Mut the heart will sigh for the absent land. 
 
 Where the love-light first illumed it. 
 
 And doesn't old Cove look charming there, 
 
 Watching the wild waves' motion. 
 Leaning her back up against the hills. 
 
 And the tip of her toes on the ocean ? 
 I wonder I don't hear Shandon's bells. 
 
 Ah, maybe their chiming's over. 
 For it's many a year since I began 
 
 The life of a Western rover. 
 
 For thirty summers, astore machree. 
 
 Those hills I now feast my eyes on. 
 Ne'er met my vision, save when they rose. 
 
 Over Memory's dim horizon. 
 Even so, 'twas grand and fair they seemed 
 
 In the landscape spread before me ; 
 But dreams are dreams, and my eyes would ope 
 
 To see Texas' sky still o'er me. 
 
 Ah ! often upon the Texan plains. 
 
 When the day and the chase were over. 
 My thoughts would fly o'er the weary wave, 
 
 And around this coast-line hover ; 
 .And the prayer would rise, that some future day 
 
 All danger and doublings scornin', 
 I'd help to win my native land 
 
 The light of young liberty's mornin'. 
 
 Now fuller and truer the shore-line shows — 
 
 Was ever a scene so splendid } 
 I feel the breath of the Munster breeze. — 
 
 Thank God that my exile's ended. 
 Old scenes, old songs, old friends again. 
 
 The vale and cot I was born in ! 
 < )h, Ireland, up from my heart of hearts, 
 
 1 bid you the top of the mornin'. 
 
 THE BAY OF BISCAY, 1 
 
 Loud roared the dreadful thunder. 
 
 The rain a deluge showers. 
 The clouds were rent asunder 
 
 By lightning's vivid powers : 
 The night both drear and dark, 
 Our poor devoted bark. 
 Till next day there she lay 
 In the Bay of Biscay, O ! 
 
 Now dashed upon the billow, 
 Our opening timbers creak ; 
 
 Each fears a watery pillow. 
 None stops the dreadful leak ; 
 
 To cimg to slippery shrouds. 
 
 Each breathless seaman crowds. 
 
 As she lay till next day 
 
 In the Bay of Biscay, O ! 
 
 At length the wished for morrow 
 Broke through the hazy sky ; 
 
 Absorbetl in silent sorrow, 
 Each heaved a bitter sigh ; 
 
 The dismal wreck to view 
 
 Struck horror to the crew 
 
 As we lay on that day 
 
 In the Bay of Biscay, O! 
 
 Her yielding timbers sever. 
 
 Her pitchy seams are rent. 
 When heaven, all bounteous ever, 
 
 Its boundless mercy sent ; 
 A sail in sight appears. 
 We hail her with three chfeers : 
 Now we .sail with the gale 
 
 From the Bay of Biscay. O ! 
 
 ANDREW CHERRY. 
 
 THE WEDDING-A DUET. 
 
 Oh I never such a sight : 
 As pale and breathless she lies hushing 
 The throbbing her young bosom fills, 
 .\nd puts her silver fingers forth, 
 .\nd through the parted bushes peers 
 So anxiously, and sweet and long. 
 A wondering at his lonesome stay. 
 Whom she, light-footed from the West, 
 All through the endless night and wood. 
 Hath sought, led on by the CIreat Spirit, 
 She, the soft-voiced, lovely Jimiata : 
 
 There in the morning light. 
 
LAMENT OF THE RIVEIx 
 
 11 
 
 Oil ! never such a sight : 
 As flushed and frowning, he came rushing 
 Adown between the mist-crowned hills, 
 Down from his wigwam in the North, 
 Quitting the skies whose watchful tears 
 Had shaped him stout of limb, and strong 
 Of arm to push his manly way- 
 Through stubborn ridge from base to crest. 
 To where he surely wist he should 
 Meet her, led on by the Great Spirit, 
 He, the young and lordly Susquehanna, 
 
 There in the morning light. 
 
 Oh ! never such a sight : 
 He sweeping round the valley's bend 
 While she, on maiden tip-toe rising. 
 Feasts loving glances on the friend 
 She has so lonesome been abiding ; 
 He, helpless, seeks the fatal shore. 
 Charm-blinded by her eyes, dark-flashing 
 Witliin the portals of the door 
 Through which her slender form is passing : 
 He opens wide his giant arms. 
 The young and lordly Susquehanna ; 
 She nestles there her virgin charms. 
 The soft-voiced, lovely Juniata ; 
 
 There in the bright sunlight. 
 
 Oh ! never such a sight : 
 Down in the green-cloak-white-lined bay, 
 Y^QW snug together they are lying. 
 When night shuts up the gates of day. 
 And bids the plover stop his piping ; 
 All still but assonance of wind 
 Humming its ever-changing whimpers 
 To consonance of waves, that find 
 Shorj-rest in unisonic whispers ; 
 How lightly sleeps, that wedding-eve. 
 The young, true-hearted Susquehanna ; 
 And by his side, no more to leave. 
 The sweet-breathed, lovely Juniata : 
 
 There in the dim twilight. 
 
 JOHX PATRICK BROWN. 
 
 " The imaged sun floats proudly on our breast 
 Ever beside each wanderer, tho' there be 
 Many to tread our path of turf and flowers : 
 A thousand sparkling orbs for one imprest 
 On us— for ours is the bright mimicry 
 Of Nature, changing with the changeful hours. 
 
 " And thus we have a world, a lovely world, 
 ! A softened picture of the upper sphere 
 I Sunk in our crystal depths and glassy caves ; 
 
 And every cloud beneath the heavens unfurled, 
 I And every shadowy tint they wear, sleeps here. 
 
 Here in the voiceless Kingdom of the waves. 
 
 " On to the ocean ! ever, ever on ! 
 Our banded waters, hurrying to the deep, 
 I Lift to the winds a song of wilder strife ; 
 And white plumes glittering in to-morrow's sun 
 Shall crest our waves when starting out of sleep 
 For the glad tumult of their ocean life. 
 
 ^ " On to the Ocean ! through the midnight chill. 
 Beneath the glowing stars, by woodlands dim, 
 A silvery wreath of beauty shall we twine. 
 Thus may our course — ceaseless, unwearied still^ 
 Pure — blessing as it flows — aye shadow Him 
 Our courses who unlocked with hand divine I " 
 
 SONG OF THE STREAMS. 
 
 " The dirge of Nature is her streams ! Their song 
 Speaks a soft music to man's grief, and those 
 Most love them who have loved all else in vain ; 
 We charmed that lone one as he passed along 
 From the dark thraldom of his dream of woes, — 
 His sadness died before our sadder strain. 
 
 WILLIAM ARCHER BUTLER. 
 
 -From "Evensong of i 
 
 LAMENT OF THE RIVER. 
 
 Mourns the river : I came down from the moun- 
 Jubilant with pride and glee, [tain 
 
 Leaping thro' the winds, and shouting 
 That I had an errand to the sea ! 
 
 The rocks stood against me, and we wrestled. 
 But I leaped from the holding of their hands. 
 
 Leaped from the holding, and went slipping 
 And sliding into lower lands. 
 
 I carolled as I went, and the woodlands 
 
 Smiled as my song murmured by, 
 And the birds on the wing heard me singing. 
 
 And dropped me a blessing from the sky. 
 
 The flowers on the bank heard me singing, 
 And the buds that had been red and sweet 
 
 Grew redder and sweeter as they listened. 
 And their golden hearts began to beat. 
 
174 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 The cities through their din heard me passing, 
 They came out and crowned me with their 
 towers; 
 ' The trees hung their garlands up above me, 
 And coaxed me to rest among their bowers. 
 
 But 1 laughed as I left them in the sunshine : 
 There was never aught of rest for me 
 
 Till I mingled my waters with the ocean, 
 Till I sang in the chorus of the sea. 
 
 Ah me ! for my pride upon the mountain, 
 Ah me ! for my beauty in the plains. 
 
 Where my crest floated glorious in the sunshine. 
 And the clouds showered strengtli into my 
 veins. 
 
 Alas ! for the blushing little blossoms. 
 
 And the grasses with their long golden drifts. 
 For the shadows of the forest in the noontide. 
 
 And the full-handed cities with their gifts. 
 
 I have mingled my waters with the ocean, 
 I have sung in the chorus of the sea, 
 
 And my soul from the tumult of the billows 
 Will nevermore be jubilant and free. 
 
 I sing, but the echo of my mourning 
 Returns to me shrieking back again. 
 
 One wild weak note amongst the myriads [main. 
 That are sobbing 'neath the thunders of the 
 
 Oh. well for the dewdrop on the gowan. 
 Oh, well for the pool upon the height. 
 
 Where the kids gather thirsty in the noontide. 
 And stars watch thro' all the summer night. 
 
 There is no home-returning for the waters 
 To the mountain, whence they came glad and 
 
 There is no happy ditty for the singer [free; 
 That has sung in the chorus of the sea. 
 
 ROSA MULHOLLAND. 
 
 I By winding paths and mossy lanes, 
 
 I All brightly fringed with flower and berry, 
 
 ] We pass, nor pause to note the strains 
 
 \ Of woodland warblers blithe and merry, 
 
 , Our thoughts are bent on " cast " and " play," 
 
 We hardly heed the splendors o'er us. 
 But haste with quickening steps away 
 
 To reach the glorious sport before us. 
 
 With lisping, low-voiced monotone 
 
 The brook flows by in curves and sallies. 
 And bears its rippling music down 
 
 To daisied slopes and verdant valleys ; 
 , Through serried pines the sunlight falls 
 
 Like grains of gold thro' emerald drifted. 
 And near, the cleft and towering walls 
 
 Of ledge and cliff to heaven are lifted. 
 
 Soft winds blow down from ridge and grove 
 
 Where balsam boughs are gently swaying, 
 j And round a silvery beech abo'-e 
 
 Two heedless squirrels are briskly playing : 
 But now to work with rod and line. 
 
 And dainty flies on trusted leader ; 
 We'll take the first auspicious sign. 
 
 And cast below yon slanting cedar. 
 
 A gleam, a splash ! By George, he's fast ! 
 
 A lusty fellow, and how he rushes. 
 Now here, now there, now swiftly past 
 
 .•\ bend of fern and alder-bushes ! 
 The whistling line spins merrily out ; 
 
 He leaps, and flings a sparkling torrent 
 Of crystals round, then wheels about 
 
 And heads straight up the foamy 
 
 TROUT-FISHING. 
 
 Across the fields and through the dew 
 
 Still sparkling on the blossomed clover 
 We lightly trudge, with all the blue 
 
 Broad arch of morning beaming over ; 
 The woods before are dark and cool. 
 
 With here and there a golden glimmer 
 And over many a wayside pool, 
 
 A gleam, a flasli, a shade, a shimmer. 
 
 Behind a boulder now he darts, 
 I And now across to deep recesses 
 Beneath a brambly bank, then starts 
 
 For sheltering beds of tangled cresses ; 
 1 But vain, all vain !— subdued at last, 
 I He yields, and faintly gasps and flotmders ; 
 I 'Tis o'er, — your sportive hour is p;ist, 
 O royal prince of plump two-pounders ! 
 
 Again with feathery touch the flies 
 
 Dance lightly over pool and shallow. 
 And, darting tlirough reflected skies. 
 
 The wary trout retreat or follow ; 
 .\ " coachman " now their fancy takes. 
 
 Or now a " miller " or now a "had; I 
 .\nd many a plunging beauty breaks. 
 
 To tr^• our skill and test our tackle. 
 
THE LI F FEY. 
 
 175 
 
 Still higher, higher mounts the sun. 
 
 The morn hastes on and noon is nearing ; 
 Now varying sounds come borne upon 
 
 The breeze that blows o'er copse and clearing : 
 The far cock-crow, the jangling bell 
 
 That tells where browsing herds are straying ; 
 The quail's clear pipe in lonely dell, 
 
 The woodman's call, the hound's deep baying. 
 
 Still down the grassy marge we go, 
 
 Now list'ning to the tall trees moaning, 
 Now catching from a glade below 
 
 A drowsy mill's perpetual droning; 
 Still on :— the miller's brown-faced boy 
 
 Stands knee-deep in the shining water, 
 And near, with startled glance and coy. 
 
 The miller's comely dark-eyed daughter. 
 
 So through the long, bright, balmy day 
 
 In shade and sun alternate ranging, 
 ■We speed the hastening hours away. 
 
 Where scene and sound are ever changing. 
 Till all the hills are dashed with gold 
 
 That pales eve's dimly dawning crescent. 
 And twilight falls on field and wold. 
 
 Like veiling gauze o'er forms quiescent. 
 Soft, soothing calm of summer woods. 
 
 Of streams that chant in rhythmic numbers. 
 Of fragrant, flowery solitudes. 
 
 Where peace with folded pinions slumbers. 
 Full oft to thee doth fancy take 
 
 Her airy flight from burdened highways, 
 To roam again by brook or lake. 
 
 Or dream in leafy paths and byways. 
 
 DANIEL CONNOLLY. 
 
 THE LIFFEY. 
 
 Delicious Liffey ! from the bosoming hills [pure, 
 What man who sees tliee issuing strong and 
 
 But with some wistful, fresh emotion fills. 
 Akin to Nature's own sweet temperature. 
 
 And, haply, thinks : — on this green bank 'twere 
 sweet 
 
 To make one's mansion sometime of the year ; 
 For health and pleasure on these uplands meet. 
 
 And all the isle's amenities are here. 
 
 Hither the merry music of the chase 
 Floats up the festive borders of Kildare ; 
 
 And slim-bright steeds extending in the race 
 Are yonder seen, and camping legions there. 
 
 These coverts hold the wary-gallant fo.x ; 
 
 There the parked stag waits his enlarging day . 
 And there, triumphant o'er opposing rocks. 
 
 The shooting salmon quivers thro' thy spray. 
 
 The heath, the fern, the honey-fragrant furze 
 Carpet thy cradling steeps ; thy middle flow- 
 Laves lawn and oak-wood : o'er thy downward 
 course 
 Laburnums nod and terraced roses blow. 
 
 To ride the race, to hunt, to fowl, to fish. [do. 
 To do and dare vi'hate'er brave youth would 
 
 A fair fine country as the heart could wish. 
 And fair the brown-clear river running through. 
 
 Such seemest thou to Dublin's youth to-day, 
 Oh clear-dark Liffey, mid the pleasant land ; 
 
 With life's delights abounding, brave and gay. 
 The song, the dance, the softly yielded hand, 
 
 The exulting leap, the backward flying fence. 
 The whirling reel, the steady-leveled gun ; — 
 
 With all attractions for the youthful sense. 
 All charms to please the manly mind, but one. 
 
 For thou, for them, alas ! nor History hast, 
 Nor even Tradition ; and the Man aspires 
 
 To link his present with his Country's past. 
 And live anew in knowledge of his sires ; 
 
 No rootless colonist of alien earth. 
 
 Proud but of patient lungs and pliant limb, 
 
 A stranger in the land that gave him birth, 
 The land a stranger to itself and him. 
 
 Yet. though in History's page thou may'st not 
 High places set apart for deeds sublime [claim 
 
 That hinge the turnings of the gates of Fame 
 And give to view the avenues of Time ; 
 
 Not all unglorious in the olden day 
 
 Art thou, Moy-Liffey ; and the loving mind 
 
 Might round thy borders many a gracious lay 
 And many a tale not unheroic find. 
 
 Sir Almeric's deeds might fire a youthful heart 
 To brave contention 'mid illustrious peers ; 
 
 Tears into eyes as beautiful might start 
 At tender record of Isolda's tears ; 
 
 Virtue itself uplift a loftier head, [stancy, 
 
 Linked through the years with Ormond's con- 
 
 And airs from Runnymede around us spread, — 
 Yea, all the fragrance of the Charter Tree 
 
1 70 
 
 POEAfS OF yA TURE AND PLACES. 
 
 Wafted down time, refresh the conscious soul Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest 
 With Freedom's balms, when, firm in patient In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I lo. 
 
 Uublin's I)e Londres. to Pandolfo's scroll [zeal, j best. 
 
 Alone of all refused to set his seal ; Where the storms which we feel in this cold wur 
 
 should ceiise. 
 
 Or when her other Henry's happier eyes 
 Up-glancing from his field of victory wor 
 
 Beheld, one moment, 'neath adoring skies. 
 The lifted isle lie nearer to the sun.— 
 
 And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled 
 peace. 
 
 THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE. 
 
 For others, these. I. from the twilight waste 
 
 Where pale Tradition sits by Memory's grave. 
 Gather this wreath, and ere the nightfall haste | Adieu to Ballyshaiinon ! where I was bred ar 
 
 ! born : 
 
 I Go where 1 may, I 11 think of you. as sure a 
 I night and morn ; 
 
 At summer eve by stream and dimpling pool, 1 The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every 
 
 To fling niy votive garland on thy wave. 
 Wave, waft it softly ; and when lovers stray 
 
 Gather thy murmurs into voice, and say. 
 Witli liquid utterance, passionate and full. 
 
 Scorn not, sweet maiden, scorn not, vigorous 
 youth. 
 
 is known. 
 And not a face in all the place but partly sciii: 
 
 my own. 
 There's not a house or window, there's not a fiei 
 
 or hill, 
 
 The lay, though breathing of an Irish home. J^"'. east or west, in foreign lands. I'll recollc 
 
 That tells of woman-love and warrior-ruth 
 And old e.xpectancy of Christ to come. 
 
 SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
 —Front *'Af^sgvtfra.** 
 
 them still; 
 I leave my warm heart with you, though my ba' : 
 
 I'm forced to turn — 
 ' So adieu to Ballyshannon and the windlnif bank- 
 of Erne ! 
 
 No more on pleasant evenings we'll sauntc 
 
 down the Mall, 
 Where the trout is rising to the fly, the salmoi. 
 j to the fall ; 
 
 reet j xhe boat comes straining on her net. and heavii 
 she creeps. 
 
 meet. Cast off. cast off !— she feels the oars, and to Ik-: 
 
 Oh. the last rays of feeling and life must depart berth she sweeps ; 
 
 Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my Xow stem and stern keep hauling, and gathering 
 heart. up the clue. 
 
 Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the 
 
 THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 
 
 There is not in the wide world a valley so 1 
 
 As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters 
 
 Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the 
 
 scene 
 Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
 'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill. 
 Oh, no— it was something more exquisite still. 
 
 Then they may sit, and have their joke, and se: 
 
 their pipes to burn — 
 Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks 
 
 of Erne ! 
 
 Twas that friends, the beloved of 
 
 of the waterfall, the mirror of the 
 
 Who made ev'ry dear scene of enchantment 1 When all the green-hilled harbor is full from 
 
 side to side- 
 
 And who felt how the best charms of nature From Portnasun to Bulliebawns. and round tin 
 improve j Abbey Bay, 
 
 When we see them reflected from looks that we | From the little rocky island to Coolnargit sand- 
 love, hills gray ; 
 
THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE. 
 
 ^11 
 
 While far upon tlie southern Hne, to guard it like And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the 
 
 a wall. 
 
 heath and fern,- 
 
 The Leitrim mountains, clothed in blue, gaze \ For I must say adieu-adieu to the winding banks 
 
 calmly over all, 
 And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag 
 
 at her stern ; — l 
 
 Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of | 
 
 Erne ! 
 
 Farewell to you, Kildony lads, and them that 
 pull an oar, 
 
 A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to 
 Mullaghmore ; 
 
 From Killybegs to Carrigan, with its ocean- 
 mountain steep. 
 
 Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the 
 deep ; 
 
 From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by 
 Tullen strand. 
 
 of Erne ! 
 
 The thrush will call through Camlm groves the 
 
 livelong summer day ; 
 The water run by mossy cliffy and bank with 
 
 wild-flowers gay ; 
 The girls will bring their work and sing beneath 
 
 a twisted thorn. 
 Or stray with sweethearts down the path among 
 
 the growing corn ; 
 Along the river-side they go, where I have often 
 
 been,^^ 
 Oh, never shall I see again the days that I have 
 
 seen. ^ 
 A thousand chances are to one I never may re- 
 turn, — 
 
 Level and long, and white with waves, where Adieu to Ballyshannon. and the winding banks 
 
 gull and curlew stand ; 
 Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers 
 
 you discern : — 
 Adieu to all the billowy coast and winding banks 
 
 of Erne ! 
 
 of Erne ! 
 
 Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbors 
 
 meet. 
 And the fiddle says to boys and girls " get up 
 j and shake your feet," 
 
 Farewell Coolmore, — Bundoran ! a:id your sum- To "shanachus " and wise old talk of Erin's days 
 
 mer crowds that run 
 
 gone by- 
 
 From inland homes, to see with joy th' Atlantic i Who trenched the rath on such a hill, and whe 
 
 setting sun ! 
 To breathe the buoyant salted 
 among the waves ; 
 
 the bones may lie, 
 md sport I Of saint, or king, or warrior-chiefs ; with tales of 
 fairy power. 
 
 To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the i Add tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the 
 
 gloomy 
 
 twilight hour. 
 
 To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the I The mournful song of exile is now for me to 
 
 crabs, the fish ; 
 
 Young men and maids to meet and smile, and 
 form a tender wish ; 
 
 The sick and old in search of health, for all 
 things have their turn — 
 
 And I must quit my native shore, and the wind- 
 ing banks of Erne ! 
 
 Farewell to every white cascade from the Har- 
 bor to Belleek, 
 
 And every pool where fins may rest, and 1x7- 
 shaded creek ; 
 
 The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and 
 holly grow ; 
 
 The one split yew-tree gazing on the curbing 
 flood below ; 
 
 The Lough that winds through islands under 
 Turavi' mountain green : 
 
 The Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with 
 tranquil bays between ; 
 
 learn — 
 Adieu, my dear companions on the winding 
 banks of Erne ! 
 
 Now measure from the Commons down to each 
 
 end of the Purt, 
 From the Red Barn to the Abbey, I wish no one 
 
 any hurt ; 
 Search through the streets, and down the Mall 
 
 and out to Portnasun, 
 If any foes of mine be there, I pardon every 
 
 one ; 
 I hope that man and woman kind will do the 
 
 same by me. 
 For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the 
 
 sea. 
 My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often 
 
 fondly turn. 
 To think of Ballyshannon and the winding banks 
 
 of Erne ! 
 
POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 
 
 If ever I'm a moneyed man. I mean, please God. And thee. Tetunny, blandly calm, within whose 
 to cast i solemn shade 
 
 My golden anchor in the place where youthful The mingled dust of sire and son in peaceful 
 years were passed ; rest Is laid ; 
 
 Though heads that now are black and brown Corlea's green vale. Cliff's sutely halls, Laput.. 
 must meanwhile gather gray, emerald grove. 
 
 New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones Fair Camlin woods, and Kathleen's Fall, In; 
 drop away — \ famed in lays of love ; 
 
 Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world To Ballyshannon's shingly strand, and bri;^ 
 
 beside; Bundoran Bay- 
 It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through To each and every dear old spot doth memory- 
 lands and waters wide. fondly stray ! 
 
 And ii the Lord allows me. 1 surely will return Much changed. 1 fear, is all the scene, yet 
 
 To my native Ballyshannon, and the winding 
 banks of Erne. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 MEMORIES OF THE ERNE. j 
 
 The summer days are darker now. the wintry 
 
 days more drear. 
 And leaf and flower in glen and bower more 
 
 sober seem, and sere. 
 Than when, in boyhood's sunny days, which 
 
 knew no hour of shade. 
 Along thy banks, O stately Erne, with idle steps 
 
 I strayed ! 
 'Twas five and twenty years ago, and long years 
 
 they have been. 
 Yet freshly still before me spreads the fair. 
 
 familiar scene — 
 The blooming slopes, the billowy fields, the 
 
 winding paths and ways. 
 The woodlands near, the hills afar, all veiled in 
 
 mystic haze. 
 And. gliding grandly to the sea. with many a 
 
 Hash and gleam. 
 And many a curve by swelling shores, the dear 
 
 old storied stream. 
 That flows and frets o'er ford and fall, to meet 
 
 the waves below. 
 And murmurs still the song it s.ing a thousand 
 
 years ago ! 
 
 To thee, Belleek, where anglers came from all 
 the country round. 
 
 And simple lives of lowly toil by simple joys 
 were crowned ; 
 
 And thee, Rose-isle, whose ivy-crested crumb- 
 ling tower hath stood 
 
 Through centuries a warder gray above the foamy 
 flood ; 
 
 grandly thou dost flow, 
 O stately stream, as erst thou didst a thousand 
 years ago ! 
 
 A mother, parted from her child, whose absen 
 spans the years. 
 
 Sees not. when gazing fond and far. with vision 
 dimmed by tears. 
 
 A stalwart form, with bearded face and vigor- 
 ous, manly ways. 
 
 But still beholds the darling boy she clasped in 
 happy days ; 
 
 The boy may be to manhood grown, and all his 
 ways be strange. 
 
 But to the mother's wistful eye Time's hand hath 
 wrought no change : 
 
 And thus doth faithful memory still preser\-e the 
 favorite scene. 
 
 And picture o'er each cherished charm, though 
 long years intervene ; 
 
 Mayhap the scene is sadly changed, and many a 
 charm decayed. 
 
 But o'er the lamp that memory holds no dark- 
 ening hand is l.iid. 
 
 New footsteps press thy banks, O Erne, but still 
 thy waters flow 
 
 With rhythmic murmur as they did a thousand 
 years ago ! 
 
 Since last, like soothing strains at eve, their rip- 
 pling cadence fell 
 
 On ears not then attuned to notes of prouder, 
 loftier swell, 
 
 I've stood where Hudson's mighty tide sweeps 
 downward to the sea. 
 
 And gazed on Mississippi's grand expanse of 
 majesty ; 
 
 Potomac's war-scarred shores I've seen, by sum- 
 mer bloom made fair. 
 
 And climbed the hills which sentinel the lordly 
 Delaware ; 
 
LOUGH BRAY. 
 
 By many a sylvan stream I've strayed, and many 
 
 a mossy shore. 
 Where varying splendors glorified the emerald 
 
 landscape o'er ; 
 To each and all, in north and south, and east, 
 
 and bounteous west, 
 I freely grant a generous meed, and hold their 
 
 charms confessed ; 
 But still to thee my heart returns, and all its 
 
 currents flow. 
 Dear Erne, still murmuring as thou didst a 
 
 thousand years ago. 
 
 Alas! that from the peaceful vale where calm 
 
 contentment smiled, 
 And simple pleasures, sweetly pure, the passing 
 
 hours beguiled — 
 Alas ! that thence thy children's steps in youth 
 
 or age should turn. 
 No more to press thy blooming banks and flowery 
 
 paths, O Erne ! 
 But chance and fate hath thus decreed, and were 
 
 I now to stand 
 Upon thy shore, this face might be a strange one 
 
 in the land ! 
 The kindly friends, the comrades dear, whom 
 
 last I saw through tears. 
 Are changed, I ween, as mucli as I, by five and 
 
 twenty years ! 
 And some in calm Tetunny sleep, and some 
 
 have strayed afar. 
 To dree or die 'neath tropic sun or glittering 
 
 northern star. 
 But thou, bright Erne, thy course doth run, to 
 
 meet the waves below, 
 And chanteth still the song they heard a thou- 
 sand years ago. 
 
 DANIEL CONNOLLY. 
 
 THE INNY'S SIDE. 
 
 Green grows the turf by Inny's side. 
 And white the daisies spring. 
 
 When April cometh forth a bride 
 To hear the brown thrush sing. 
 
 And peeps my bonny gem of blue. 
 Sweet, pure, forget-me-not. 
 
 The sheltering rushes slyly through ; 
 And by that favored spot 
 
 The proud swan sails with open wing, 
 
 The water lilies wait 
 Till summer's sun to them shall bring 
 
 The white robes of their state. 
 
 On Inny's banks, by Inny's stream. 
 
 In Ballymulvey's grove, 
 I dreamt my earliest, tenderest dream 
 
 Of never-ending love. 
 
 Vain mortals that we dreamers are — 
 
 All things must end below. 
 And after April cometh June, 
 
 And after June tide, snow. 
 
 And so, grown old, I ponder on, 
 Those day.s by Inny's stream. 
 
 And find the hopes I built upon 
 Were but a sweet, brief dream I 
 
 A dream.' Well, be it ever so — 
 
 Such visions pleasures bring; 
 Too soon comes winter with his snow ; 
 
 Let young hearts dream in spring. 
 
 WILLIAM GEOGHEGAN. 
 
 LOUGH BRAY. 
 
 A little, lonely moorland lake. 
 
 Its waters brown and cool and deep — 
 
 The cliffs, the hills behind it make 
 A picture for my heart to keep. 
 
 For rock and heather, wave and strand. 
 Wore tints 1 never saw them wear ; 
 
 The June sunshine was o'er the land- 
 Before, 'twas never half so fair ! 
 
 The amber ripples sang all day. 
 
 And singing spilled their crowns of white 
 Upon the beach, in thin pale spray 
 
 That streaked the sober sand with light. 
 
 The amber ripples sang their song. 
 When suddenly from far o'erhead 
 
 A lark's pure voice mixed with the throng 
 Of lovely things about us spread. 
 
 Some flowers were there, so near the brink 
 Their shadows in the wave were thrown: 
 
 While mosses, green and gray and pink. 
 
 Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone. 
 
t8o 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 \nd, over all, the summer sky 
 Shut out the town we left behind ; 
 
 'Twas joy to stand in silence by. 
 One bright chain linking mind to mind. 
 
 Oh, little lonely mountain spot ! 
 
 Your place within my heart will be 
 Apart from all life's busy lot 
 
 A true, sweet, solemn memory. 
 
 ROSE KAVANAGH. 
 
 SWEET AVONDU. 
 
 On Cicada's hills the moon is bright. 
 Dark Avondu still rolls in light : 
 All changeless is that mountain's head. 
 That river still seeks ocean's bed ; 
 The calm blue waters of Loch Lene 
 Still kiss their own sweet isles of green ; 
 But Where's the heart as firm and true 
 As hill, or lake, or Avondu } 
 
 It may not be : the firmest heart 
 From all it loves must often part ; 
 I A look, a word will quench the flame, 
 I That time or fate could never tame ; 
 I And these are feelings proud and high 
 That through all changes cannot die. 
 That strive with love, and conquer too — 
 I knew them all by Avondu. 
 
 Farewell, ye soft and purple streaks 
 Of evening on the beauteous Reeks ; 
 Farewell, ye mists that love to ride 
 On Cahir-bearna's stormy side 
 Farewell, November's moaning breeze. 
 Wild minstrel of the dying trees ; 
 Clara, a fon>l farewell to you ! 
 We meet no more by Avondu. 
 
 No more ; but thou, O glorious hill. 
 Lift to the moon thy forehead still ! 
 Flow on. flow on. thou dark, swift river 
 Upon thy free, wild course forever; 
 Exult, young hearts, in lifetime's spring. 
 And taste the joys pure love can bring ; 
 But, wanderer, go I they're not for you — 
 Farewell, farewell, sweet Avondu ! 
 
 To-morrow's breeze shall swell the sail 
 That bears me far from Innisfail ; 
 But, lady, when some happier youth 
 Shall see thy worth and know thy truth, 
 
 Some lover of thy native land 
 Shall woo thy heart and win thy hand, 
 O, think of him who loved thee too. 
 And loved in vain by Avondu ! 
 
 JAMES J. CALLANAN. 
 
 DOWN BY THE DODDER. 
 
 Nature I love in all her moods. 
 
 But I more oft have sought her 
 ' Where on the silence of green woods 
 
 Breaks in the rush of water. 
 The noise of streamlets' ceaseless flow 
 
 Has soothed my spirit ever, — 
 Blank seems fair nature's fairest show 
 
 Without some gleaming river. 
 
 I Had I to own a grand estate 
 
 (The notion makes me shiver) 
 
 For these three things I'd stipulate 
 , A lake, a hill, a river. 
 
 Your dull, flat, woody parks may be 
 I Baronialler and broader ; 
 
 A glen for me 'twi.xt hills and sea, 
 I With a live stream like Dodder. 
 
 Too long have I thy neighbor been. 
 
 Dear stream, without exploring 
 Thy course amid the meadows green. 
 
 Thy purling and thy roaring ; 
 For thou, too, placid stream, hast roared. 
 
 While in wild wintry weather 
 Thou hast thy mountain torrent poured 
 
 Between the crags and heather. 
 
 Thy mountain cradle's far away. 
 
 Thy race is run ; and mine is 
 Nearer perhaps — ah ! who can say 
 
 How near? — unto xfi/inis. 
 And so from life's loud dusty road, 
 
 A somewhat jaded plodder, 
 I steal to this serene abode. 
 
 And thee, suburban Dodder. 
 
 I lean me on this orchard wall 
 
 And sniff the pears and cherries — 
 Each shrub and tree, both great and small. 
 Stoops 'neath its load of berries. 
 ' That redbreast thieving yonder, see ! 
 
 Poor innocent marauder, 
 I The seventh commandment binds not thee 
 I A-robbin' near the Doddc. 
 
LIMERICK TOWN. 
 
 And now our seaward ramble meets 
 
 A rustic, quaint and still town, 
 Which you must spell with double / — 
 
 God bless it, dear old Milltown ! 
 Yet here, even here, one likes to dine : 
 
 Rich scenery's poor fodder 
 For poet going up the Rhine, 
 
 Or going down the Dodder. 
 
 My song must cease, but thine goes on; 
 
 Thy musical, meek murmur 
 Broke nature's silence ages gone — 
 
 Thy voice has but grown firmer. 
 In shade and shine, grave, gay, sing on, 
 
 And scoop thy channel broader ; 
 From dawn to dark, from dark to dawn. 
 
 Flow on, sing on, O Dodder ! 
 
 Flow on ! Poor Moore once warbled here 
 
 " Flow on, thou shining river !" 
 Thy race is run, the sea is near, 
 
 My muse grows sad — forgive her. 
 And as we've strewn upon thy banks. 
 
 Our very softest sawder. 
 Flash back thy sunniest smile in thanks 
 
 Upon thy Laureate, Dodder! 
 
 I leave thee. Shall it be for aye, 
 
 A river's long forever ? 
 " I will return," we often say. 
 
 And yet return, ah ! never. 
 Well, on life's road, through dust or flowers, 
 
 A not less useful plodder 
 I'll be, please God, for these calm hours 
 
 Spent on the banks of Dodder. 
 
 M.^TTHEW RU.SSELL. 
 
 LIMERICK TOWN. 
 
 Here I've got you. Philip Desmond, standing in 
 
 the market-place, 
 'Mid the farmers and the corn-sacks, and the hay 
 
 in either space. 
 Near the fruit-stalls, and the woman knitting 
 
 socks and selling lace. 
 
 There is High street, up the hill-side 
 
 shops on either side. 
 Queer, old-fashioned, dusky High street— here 
 
 so narrow, there so wide. 
 Whips and harness, saddles, signboard; 
 
 out in quiet pride. 
 
 twenty 
 
 Up and down the noisy highway, how the mar- 
 ket people go ! 
 
 Country girls in Turkey kerchiefs— poppies mov- 
 ing to and fro— 
 
 Frieze-clad fathers, great in buttons, brass and 
 watch-seals, all a-show. 
 
 .Merry- merry are their voices, Philip Desmond, 
 unto me, 
 
 Dear the mellow Munster accent, with its inter- 
 mittent glee ; 
 
 Dear the blue cloaks and the gray coats, things 
 I long have longed to see. 
 
 E'en the curses, adjurations, in my senses sound 
 
 like rhyme. 
 And the great rough-throated laughter of that 
 
 peasant, in his prime. 
 Winking from the grass-bound cart-shaft, brings 
 
 me back the other time. 
 
 Not a soul, observe you, knows me, not a friend 
 
 a hand will yield. 
 Would they know, if to the land-marks all around 
 
 them I appealed .' 
 Know me! If I died this minute — dig for me 
 
 the Potter's field ! 
 
 Bricks wa.x gray, and memories grayer, and our 
 faces somehow pass 
 
 Like reflections from the surface of a sudden- 
 darkened glass. 
 
 Live you do, but as a unit of the undistinguished 
 mass. 
 
 "Pshaw! you're prosy." Am I prosy? Mark 
 
 you then this sunward flight : 
 " I have seen this street and roof-tops ambered 
 
 in the morning's light. 
 Golden in the deep of noonday, crimson on the 
 
 marge of night. 
 
 " Continents of gorgeous cloud-land, argosies of 
 blue and flame. 
 
 With the sea-wind's even pressure o'er this roar- 
 ing fabourg came." 
 
 This is fine supernal nonsense. Look, it puts 
 my cheek to shame. 
 
 Come, I want a storm of gossip, pleasant jests 
 
 and ancient chat ; 
 At that dusky doorway yonder my grandfather 
 
 smoked and sat. 
 Tendrils of the wind-blown clover sticking in his 
 
 broad-leafed hat. 
 
POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 
 
 There he sat and read the paper. Fancy I recall 
 
 him now ! 
 All the shadow of the house-front slanting up 
 
 from knee to brow ; 
 Critic he of far convulsions, keen-eyed judge of 
 
 sheep and cow. 
 
 Now he lives in God's good judgment. Simon, 
 
 much he thought of me. 
 Laughing gravely at my questions, as I sat upon 
 
 his knee- 
 As I trifled with his watch-seal, red carbuncle 
 
 fair to see. 
 
 Ancient house that held my father, all are gone 
 
 beyond recall. 
 There's where Uncle Michael painted flower-pots 
 
 on the parlor wall, 
 There's where Nannie, best of she-goats, munched 
 
 her hay and had her stall. 
 
 Many a night from race and market down this 
 street six brothers strode. 
 
 Finer, blither, truer fellows never barred a coun- 
 try road. 
 
 Shouting, wheeling, fighting, scorning watch- 
 man's law and borough code. 
 
 Hither, with my hand in her hand, came my 
 
 mother many a day, 
 She, the old man's pet and darling, at his side 
 
 or far away. 
 And her chair was near the window, half in 
 
 square and half in bay. 
 
 Oh, my mother, my pure-hearted, dear to me 
 as child and wife, 
 
 Ever earnest, ever toilsome in this quick unrest- 
 ing strife, 
 
 Ever working out the mission of a silent, noble 
 life. 
 
 Do I love you ? Can you ask me } Do I love you, 
 
 mother mine ? 
 Love you ! Yes, while God exists and while His 
 
 sun and moon shall shine, 
 1 was yours. O, sweet, bright darling, in the 
 
 Heavens I shall be thine; 
 
 If 1 write this rhyming gossip, all about the 
 
 ancient street, 
 Tis because the very footpaths were made 
 
 blessed by your feet ; 
 Dear, pale mother ! writing of you, how my 
 
 heart and pulses beat ! 
 
 Beat and beat with warm convulsions, and \v.\ 
 
 eyes are thick with tears, 
 And your low song by my cradle sounds again j 
 
 within mine ears : 
 Here's the highway which you trod once, 1 thrii r 
 
 filled with childish fears. 
 
 Rolled the wagons, swore the carters outside in 
 
 the crowded street. 
 Horses reared, and cattle stumbled, dogs barkfl 
 
 hfgh from loads of wheat. 
 But inside the room was pleasant, and the 
 
 with thyme was sweet. 
 
 Others now are in their places, honest folk who 
 
 know us not, I 
 
 Do I chafe at the transition ? Philip, 'tis the com- I 
 mon lot ; 
 
 Do your duty, live your lifetime, say your pra\ 
 ers, and be forgot. 
 
 JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNELI. 
 
 ON THE RAMPART: LIMERICK. 
 
 Cheerily rings the boatman's song 
 
 Across the dark-brown water ; 
 His mast is slant, his sail is strong. 
 His hold is red with slaughter — 
 With beeves that cropped the field of Glynn, 
 
 And sheep that pricked their meadows. 
 Until the sunset-cry trooped in 
 The cattle from the shadows. 
 He holds the foam-washed tiller loose. 
 
 And hums a country ditty ; 
 For under clouds of gold turned puce, 
 Gleam harbor, mole, and city. 
 
 O town of manhood ! maidenhood ! 
 
 By thee the Shannon flashes — 
 There Freedom's seed was sown in blood. 
 To blossom into ashes. 
 
 St. Mary's, in the evening air. 
 
 Springs up austere and olden ; 
 Two sides its steeple gray and bare. 
 
 Two sides with sunset golden. 
 The bells roll out, the bells roll back. 
 
 For lusty knaves are ringing ; 
 Deep in the chancel, red and black. 
 
 The white-robed boys are singing. 
 
THE HUDSON. 
 
 The sexton loiters by the gate 
 
 With eyes more blue than hissop, 
 A black-green skull-cap on his pate 
 And all his mouth a-gossip. 
 This is the town beside the flood — 
 The walls the Shannon washes — 
 Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood, 
 To blossom into ashes. 
 
 How thick with life the Irish town ! 
 
 Dear gay and battered portress. 
 That laid all save her honor down, 
 To save the fire-ringed fortress. 
 Here Sarsfield stood, here lowered the flag 
 
 That symbolized the people — 
 A riddled rag, a bloody rag. 
 
 Plucked from St. Mary's steeple. 
 Thick are the walls the women lined 
 
 With courage worthy Roman, 
 When, armed with hate sublime, if blind. 
 They scourged the headlong foemaii. 
 This is the town beside the flood. 
 
 That round its ramparts flashes. 
 Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood, 
 To blossom into ashes. 
 
 This part is mine : to live divorced 
 
 Where foul November gathers, 
 With other sons of thine dispersed. 
 
 Brave city of my fathers— 
 To gaze on rivers not mine own. 
 And nurse a wasting longing. 
 Where Babylon, with trumpets blown, 
 
 South, North, East, West, comes thronging— 
 To hear distinctly, if afar. 
 
 The voices of thy people — 
 To hear through crepitating jar 
 The sweet bells of thy steeple — 
 
 To love the town, the hill, the wood. 
 
 The Shannon's stormful flashes, 
 Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood. 
 To blossom into ashes. 
 
 JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNKLL. 
 
 From rocks embattled, that, abrupt and tall. 
 Heave their bulk skyward like a castle-wall, 
 And hem thee in, until the rapids hoarse 
 Split the huge marble with an earthquake's force, 
 To where thy waves are sweet with summer 
 
 scents. 
 Flung from the highland's softer lineaments — 
 Each lovelier change thy broadening billows take, 
 Now sweeping on, now like some mighty lake. 
 Stretching away where evening-tinted isles 
 Woo thee to linger mid their rosy smiles — 
 The lonely cove, the village-humming hill, 
 The green dell lending thee its fairy rill — 
 All, all are old familiar scenes to one 
 Who tracks thee but by fancy's aid alone. 
 
 Yet well his boyhood's earnest hours adored 
 The haunted headlands, since he first explored 
 With Weld the vast and shadowy recesses 
 Of their grand woods and verdant wildernesses ; 
 Since first he opened the enchanted books 
 Whose words are silver, liquid as the brooks. 
 Of that loved wanderer who told the west 
 Van Winkle's wondrous tale, and filled each breast 
 By turns with awe, delight, or blithe emotion, 
 Painting the life thy forest-shadows knew. 
 What time the settlers, crowding o'er the ocean. 
 Spread their white sails along thy waters blue. 
 
 Theirs were the hearts true liberty bestows, 
 The valor that adventure lights in men ; 
 And in their children still the metal glows, 
 As well can witness each resounding glen 
 Of the fair scene, whose mellow colors shine 
 Beneath the splendor of yon evening orb. 
 That sinks serene as Washington'.s decline. 
 Whose memory here should meaner thoughts 
 
 THE HUDSON. 
 
 Sound to the sun thy solemn joy forever ! 
 Roll forth the enormous gladness of thy waves. 
 Mid boundless bloom, thou bright majestic river. 
 Worthy the giant land thy current laves ! 
 Each bend of beauty, from the stooping cliff. 
 Whose shade is dotted by the fisher's skiff,— 
 
 Here rose the ramparts, never reared na vam 
 When justice smites in two the oppressor's chain ; 
 Here, year on year, thro' yonder heaven of blue. 
 The bomb's hot wrath its rending volleys threw 
 Against those towers, which, scorning all attack. 
 Still rolled the assailants' shattered battle back ; 
 Till, as they fled in final rout, behind 
 Soared the Republic's flag, high-floating in the 
 
 wind 
 Long may that star-emblazoned banner wave 
 Its folds triumphant o'er a land so brave. 
 Fanned by no breeze but that which wafts us now 
 The laugh of Plenty, leaning on the plough ! 
 
 BARTHOLOMEW SIMMONS. 
 
184 
 
 AND PLACES. 
 
 THE VALE OF SHANGANAH. 
 
 When I have knelt in the Temple of Duty. 
 Worshipping honor and valor and beauty — 
 When, like a brave man. in fearless resistance, j 
 I have fought the good fight on the field of exis- I 
 
 tence; 
 When a home 1 have won in the conflict of labor. 
 With truth for my armor and thought for my | 
 
 sabre. 
 Be that home a calm home where my old age 
 may rally, i 
 
 A home full of peace in this sweet pleasant 
 valley. 
 Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! * 
 Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 
 May the accents of love, like the droppings of 
 manna, [nah! 
 
 Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanga- ■ 
 
 But here, even here, the lone heart were be- 
 nighted. 
 No beauty could reach it. if love did not light it : 
 'Tis this makes the Earth. Ol what mortal can 
 
 doubt it ? 
 A garden with //—but a desert without it I 
 With the lov'd one. whoso feelings instinctively 
 teach her. 1 feature. 
 
 That goodness of heart makes the beauty of 
 How glad through this vale wouUl 1 float down 
 
 life's river. 
 Enjoying God's bounty, and blessing the Giver ! 
 Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 
 Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 
 May the accents of love, like the droppings of 
 manna. |nah! 
 
 Fall light on my heart in the Vale of Shanga- 
 DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
 
 Fair is this isle— this dear child of the ocean- 
 Nurtured with more than a mother's devotion ; 
 For see ! in what rich robes has Nature arrayed 
 her. (Heder. 
 
 From the waves of the west to the cliffs of Ben 
 By Glengariff's lone islets — Loch Lene's fairy 
 water. [her; 
 
 So lovely was each that then matchless I thought 
 But I feel, as I stray through each sweet-scented 
 
 alley. 
 Less wild but more fair is this soft verdant valley ! 
 
 Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 
 
 Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 
 
 No wide-spreading prairie — no Indian savanna. 
 
 So dear to the eye as the Vale of Shanganah ! 
 
 How pleased, how delighted, the rapt eye reposes 
 On the picture of beauty this valley discloses, 
 From that margin of silver, whereon the blue 
 water [daughter! 
 
 Doth glance like the eyes of the ocean foam's 
 To where, with the red clouds of morning com- 
 bining. 
 The tall "Golden Spears" o'er the mountains 
 
 are shining. 
 
 With the hue of their heather, as sunlight 
 
 advances, [lances ! 
 
 Like purple flags furled round the staffs of the 
 
 Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 
 
 Greenest of vales is the \'ale of Shanganah ; 
 
 No lands far away by the calm Susquehannah. 
 
 So tranquil and fair as the Vale of Shanganah ! 
 
 • Lying to the south of Killeny hill, near Dublin. 
 
 GOUGAUNE BARRA. 
 
 There is a green island in lone ( '.ougaunc Barra.* 
 Where AUua of songs mshes forth as an arrow ; 
 In deep-valleyed Desmond — a thousand wild 
 
 fountains 
 Come down to that lake from their home in the 
 
 mountains. 
 There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken 
 
 willow 
 Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow ; 
 As. like some gay child that sad monitor scorning. 
 It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning. 
 
 And its zone of dark hills— oh. to see them all 
 briglu'ning. 
 
 When the tempest flings out its red banner of 
 lightning. 
 
 And the waters rush down, "mid the thunder's 
 deep rattle. 
 
 Like clans from the hills at the voice of the battle ; 
 
 And brightly the tire-crested billows are gleaming, 
 
 And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are scream- 
 ing. 
 
 Oh, where is the dwelling in valley, or highland. 
 
 So meet for a bard as this lone little island } 
 
 How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara, 
 And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera. 
 Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home 
 
 by the ocean. 
 And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion, 
 
 • A lake in the western part of the county of Cork, and 
 
O SWEET ADARE. 
 
 And thouglit of thy bards, when assembling 
 
 together. 
 In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy 
 
 heather, I 
 
 They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and ; 
 
 slaughter, 
 And waked their last song by the rush of thy 
 
 water ! \ 
 
 High sons of the l>Te, oh, how proud was the 
 
 feeling, 
 To think while alone through that solitude 
 
 stealing, 
 Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number, 
 I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber. 
 And mingled once more with the voice of those 
 
 fountains 
 The song's even echo forgot on her mountains ; 
 And gleaned each gray legend, that darkly was 
 
 sleeping 
 Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty 
 
 were creeping. 
 
 Last bard of the hills ! were it mine to inherit 
 The lire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit. 
 With the wrongs which like thee to our country 
 
 has bound me. 
 Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around 
 
 me. 
 Still — still in those wilds might young liberty 
 
 rally. 
 And send her strong shout over mountain and 
 
 valley ; 
 The star of the west might yet rise in its glory. 
 And the land that was darkest be brightest in 
 
 story. 
 
 I, too, shall be gone — but my name shall be 
 
 spoken 
 When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken ; 
 Some minstrel will come, in the summer eve's 
 
 gleaming. 
 When freedom's young light on his spirit is 
 
 beaming. 
 And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion. 
 Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of 
 
 ocean, 
 Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that 
 
 river, 
 O'er the heart, and the harp, that are weeping 
 
 forever. 
 
 JAMES J. CAI.I.ANAN. 
 
 GREEN HILLS OF ADAIR. 
 
 How oft in the spirit we yearn 
 
 For faces and forms that have fled ! 
 
 While the calm lights of memory burn. 
 
 How oft from the living we turn 
 
 To the dead ! 
 
 So my thoughts now go wandering back. 
 
 O'er a quiet and shadowy track. 
 
 Till they rest by a murmuring stream. 
 
 Where in years gone I dreamed a sweet dream. 
 Among the green hills of Adair — 
 The beautiful hills of Adair. 
 
 And a maiden, as sweet as the flowers 
 
 That bloomed by that murmuring stream. 
 Walked beside me among the wild bowers. 
 Thro' the months, and the days, and the hours 
 
 Of that dream. 
 But a messenger cruel as Death 
 Broke in on that dream, and her breath 
 I'assed away with a prayer and a sigh. 
 As that murmuring stream glided by, 
 Among the green hills of Adair — 
 The beautiful hills of Adair. 
 
 But I wander there yet, and I hear 
 The tones of that murmuring stream; 
 .And the form and the face that were dear. 
 In the beauty of youth reappear; 
 
 And I dream — 
 Oh, 1 dream of a land and a life. 
 Lying far beyond earth and its strife. 
 Wherein, not again to be crossed, 
 ! shall find the sweet spirit 1 lost 
 
 Among the green hills of Adair, 
 
 The beautiful hills of Adair. 
 
 WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. 
 
 SWEET ADARE. 
 
 sweet Adare, O lovely vale, 
 
 O soft retreat of sylvan splendor ! 
 Nor summer sun nor morning gale 
 
 E'er hailed a scene more softly tender. 
 How shall I tell the thousand charms. 
 
 Within thy verdant bosom dwelling. 
 When lulled m Nature's fost'ring arms, 
 
 Soft peace abides and joy e.xcelling ! 
 
 Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn 
 The slumbering boughs your song awaken. 
 
 Or linger o'er the silent lawn 
 With odor of the harebell taken. 
 
ibb 
 
 POEMS OF SATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 Thou rising sun. how richly gleams. 
 
 Thy smile from far Knocktiernas mountain 
 Oer waving woods and bounding streams, 
 
 And many a grove and glancing fountain. 
 
 Ye clouds of noon, how freshly there, 
 
 When summer heats the open meadows, 
 O'er parched hill and valley fair, 
 
 All coolly lie your veiling shadows. 
 Ye rolling shades and vapors gray. 
 
 Slow creeping o'er the golden heaven. 
 How soft ye seal the eye of day. 
 
 And WTeathe the dusky brow of even. 
 
 In sweet Adare the jocund Spring 
 
 His notes of odorous joy is breathing. 
 The wild birds in the woodland sing, 
 
 The wild flowers in the vale are breathing. 
 There winds the Mague, as silver clear. 
 
 Among the elms so sweetly flowing. 
 There fragrant in the early year 
 
 Wild roses on the banks are blowing. 
 
 The wild duck seeks the sedgy bank 
 
 Or dives beneath the glistening billow 
 Where graceful droop and clustering dank 
 
 The osier bright and rustling willow ; 
 The hawthiirn scents the leafy dale, 
 
 In thicket lone the stag is belling. 
 And sweet along the echoing vale 
 
 The sound of vernal joy is swelling. 
 
 GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
 BALLYSPELLIN. 
 
 All you that would retine your blood. 
 
 As pure as famed Llewellyn, 
 By waters clean, come every year 
 
 To drink at Ballyspellin.* 
 
 If lady's cheek be green as leek 
 When she comes from her dwelling. 
 
 The kindling rose within it glows 
 When she's at Ballyspellin. 
 
 The sooty brown, who comes from town, 
 Grows here as fair as Helen ; 
 
 Then back she goes to kill the beaux 
 By drink of Ballyspellin. 
 
 * Once a famous Spa in Kilkenny. 
 
 Our ladies are as fresh and fair 
 As Rose, or bright Dunkelling ; 
 
 And .Mars might make a fair mistake 
 Were he at Ballyspellin. 
 
 We men submit as they think fit. 
 
 And here is no rebelling ; 
 The reason's plain : the ladies reign, 
 
 They're queens at Ballyspellin. 
 
 By matchless charms, unconquered arms. 
 They have the way of quelling 
 
 Such desperate foes as dare oppose 
 Their power at Ballyspellin. 
 
 Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance, 
 To bring their Anne or Nell in, 
 
 With so much grace, I'm sure no place 
 Can vie with Ballyspellin. 
 
 No politics, no subtle tricks. 
 
 No man his country selling; 
 We eat, we drink, we never think 
 
 Of these at Ballyspellin. 
 
 The troubled mind, the puffed yvith wind, 
 
 Do all come here pell-mell in. 
 And they are sure to work their cure 
 
 By drinking Ballyspellin. 
 
 Death throws no darts thro" all these parts 
 
 No sextons here are knelling ; 
 Come, judge and try. you'll never die 
 
 Hut Hve at Ballyspellin. 
 
 Except you feel darts tipt with steel 
 Which here are every belle in : 
 
 When from their eyes sweet ruin Hies, 
 We die at Ballyspellin. 
 
 Within this ground we all sleep sound. 
 
 No noisy dogs a-yelling ; 
 Except you wake, for Celia's sake. 
 
 All night at Ballyspellin. 
 
 There all you see, both he and she : 
 
 No lady keeps her cell in : 
 But all partake the mirth we make 
 
 Who drink at Ballyspellin. 
 
 THOMAS SHKRIDAN 
 
MALOGA'S HOLY WELL. 
 
 87 
 
 AT KiLLARNEY-JULY, 1800. 
 
 How soft the pause ! the notes melodious cease, 
 Which from each feeling could an echo call ; 
 Rest on your oars, that not a sound may fall 
 To interrupt the stillness of our peace. 
 The fanning west wind breathes upon our cheeks, 
 Yet glowing with the sun's departed beams. 
 Through the blue heaven the cloudless moon 
 
 pours streams 
 Of pure, resplendent light, in silver streaks 
 Reflected on the still, unruffled lake ; 
 The Alpine hills in solemn silence frown. 
 While the dark woods night's deepest shades 
 
 embrown ; 
 And now once more that soothing strain awake ! 
 Oh. ever to my heart with magic power [hour ! 
 Shall those sweet sounds recall that rapturous 
 
 MARY TIGHIi. 
 
 KILLARNEY.* 
 
 By Killarney's lakes and fells, 
 
 Emerald isles and winding bays. 
 Mountain paths, and woodland dells. 
 
 Memory ever fondly strays. 
 Bounteous nature loves all lands ; 
 
 Beauty wanders everywhere. 
 Footprints leaves on many strands. 
 But her home is surely there. 
 Angels fold their wings and rest 
 In that Eden of the west. 
 Beauty's home, Killarney, 
 Heaven's reflex, Killarney. 
 
 Innisfallen's ruin'd shrine 
 
 May suggest a passing sigh. 
 But man's faith can ne'er decline. 
 Such God's wonders floating by 
 Castle Lough and Glena Bay. 
 
 Mountains Tore and Eagle's nest ; 
 Still at Muckross you must pray, 
 Though the monks are now at rest. 
 Angels wonder not that man 
 There would fain prolong life's .span. 
 Beauty's home, etc. 
 
 No place else can charm the eye 
 With such bright and varied tints 
 
 Every rock that you pass by 
 Verdure borders or besprints. 
 
 Virgin there the green grass grows, 
 
 Every morn spring's natal day. 
 Bright hued berries daff the snows, 
 Smiling winters frown away. 
 Angels often pausing there, 
 Doubt if Eden were more fair, 
 Beauty's home, etc. 
 
 Music there for echo dwells. 
 
 Makes each sound a harmony, 
 Many voic'd the chorus swells. 
 
 Till it faints in ecstasy. 
 With the charmful tints below 
 
 Seems the heaven above to vie, 
 All rich colors that we know 
 Tinge the cloud wreaths in that sky. 
 Wings of angels so might shine, 
 Glancing back soft light divine. 
 Beauty's home, etc. 
 
 EDMUND FALCONER. 
 
 * These stanzas are usually ascribed to Balfe, but were 
 •itten by Falconer (whose real name was O'Rorke), and sung 
 his drama, " The Peep o'Day Boys." 
 
 MALOGA'S HOLY WELL. 
 
 I loved to stray where Puncheon's stream 
 Winds thro' fair meadows, vernal dressed. 
 
 And watch the sunlight's farewell gleam 
 When cloud-isles floated in the west ; 
 
 No place was there that nursed its tide. 
 On which I dearer loved to dwell. 
 
 Than when, entranced. I stood beside 
 Maloga's Holy Well. 
 
 The cloister, ivy-clad, looked down 
 In solemn splendor o'er the .scene — 
 
 On tombs time-worn to gray or brown- 
 Memorials of what once had been. 
 
 The shadow of the hawthorn tree 
 Upon its mystic waters fell, 
 
 And wrapped in beauteous mvsterv 
 
 Maloga's Holy Well. 
 
 Upon its velvet, mossy brink 
 
 Betimes I knelt in silent prayer, 
 Then from the goblet rose to drink 
 
 The blessed waters sparkling there ; 
 I watched its bubbles, rapture-bound, — 
 
 How sweet upon it then to dwell, 
 
 When dreamy stillness reigned around 
 
 Maloga's Holy Well. 
 
POEMS OF XA TURF. AND PLACES. 
 
 Still memory often pointing back 
 
 To varied joys of vanished years, 
 With roses strews the exile's track— 
 
 The exile's lonely spirit cheers ; 
 Its wavering hand might cease to trace 
 The changing tints of grove and dell. 
 But from it time can ne'er efface 
 
 Maloga's Holy Well. 
 
 EUGENE GEARY. 
 
 CLONDALLAGH. 
 
 Are the orchards of Scurragh 
 
 With apples still bending? 
 Are the wheat-ridge and furrow 
 
 On Cappaghneale blending ? 
 Let them bend— let them blend ! 
 
 Be they fruitful or fallow, 
 A far dearer old friend 
 
 Is the bog of Clondallagh ! 
 
 How sweet was my dreaming 
 
 By Brosna's bright water. 
 While it dashed away, seeming 
 
 A mountain's young daughter ! 
 Yet ti) roam with its foam, 
 
 By the deep reach, or shallow. 
 Made but brighter at home 
 
 The turf tires from Clondallagh ! 
 
 If whole days of a childhood 
 
 More mournful than merry, 
 I sought thro' the wild wood 
 
 Young bird or ripe berry, 
 Some odd sprite, or quaint knight. 
 
 Some Sinbad, or Abdallah, 
 Was my chase by the light 
 
 Of bog fir from Clondallagh ! 
 
 There the wild duck and plover 
 
 Have felt me a prowler 
 On their thin, rushy cover. 
 
 More fatal than fowler : 
 And regret sways me yet. 
 
 For the crash on the callow; 
 When the matched hurlers met. 
 
 On the plains of Clondallagh! 
 
 Yea. simply to measure 
 The moss with a soundless 
 
 Quick step, was a pleasure 
 
 Strange, stirring, and boundless ; 
 
 For its spring stfemed to fling 
 
 L'p my foot, and to hallow 
 My spirit with wing. 
 
 O'er the sward of Clondallagh ! 
 
 But alas ! in the season 
 
 Of blossoming gladness. 
 May be strewed over reason 
 
 Rank seeds of vain sadness ! 
 While a wild, wayward child, 
 
 With my young heart all callow, 
 It was warmed and beguiled 
 
 By dear Jane of Clondallagh ! 
 
 On the form with her seated. 
 
 No urchin dare press on 
 My place, while she cheated 
 
 Me into my lesson ! 
 But soon came a fond claim 
 
 From a lover to hallow 
 His hearth with a dame— 
 
 In my Jane of Clondallagh I 
 
 When the altar had risen. 
 
 From Jane to divide me, 
 I seemed in a prison, 
 
 Tho' she still was beside me : 
 And I knew more the true. 
 
 From the love, false or shallow. 
 The farther I flew 
 
 From that bride, and Clondallagh ! 
 
 JOHN U. KRAZER 
 
 DON ISLE.* 
 
 Lonely beneath the silent stars 
 
 It stands, a gray and moldering pile. 
 Wrecked in the wild Cromwellian wars. 
 
 The sea-girt castle of Don Isle. 
 The wild waves beat the castle wall. 
 
 And bathe the rocks with ceaseless showers ; 
 Dark heaving billows plunge and fall 
 
 In whitening foam beneath the towers. 
 
 High beetling o'er the headland's brow. 
 
 All seamed and battle-scarred it stands. 
 And rents and gaping ruins show 
 
 The ravage of the spoiler's hands. 
 
 • Cromwell's siege of Ihe sea-girt castle and fortress of Don 
 Isle, which was heroically defended by a female descendant 
 of Nicholas Le Poer, Baron of Don Isle, is represented by 
 Sir llemard Burke, in his •• Romance of Irish History," ;i5 
 •est. See biographical note. 
 
ABBEY ASS A ROE. 
 
 189 
 
 Two hundred years have rolled away, 
 And still, at twilight's haunted hour, 
 
 A ghostly lady seems to stray 
 By ruined barbacan and tower. 
 
 Dauntless within her own domain 
 
 She held at bay her father's foe, 
 Till faithless followers fired the train 
 
 That laid her feudal fortress low ; 
 Afar her exiled children roam ; 
 
 She perished in the smouldering pile. 
 The last of all her house and home, 
 
 The lonely lady of Don Isle. 
 
 The gray moss gathers on the wall. 
 
 And low beneath the crowning stars 
 The crumbling turrets waste and fall. 
 
 Wrecked in the wild CromwelHan wars ; 
 And peasants round their evening fire 
 
 With many a tale the hours beguile. 
 Of warrior ghosts and spectres dire. 
 
 That haunt the castle of Don Isle. 
 
 S.\RAH HELEN WHITM.- 
 
 How the ghosts of dead ages must glide thro' 
 
 the gloom, 
 And the forms of the mighty arise from the tomb, 
 And the dream of the past through the wailing 
 
 winds moan, [own. 
 
 For they twine round the ruin as if 'twere their 
 
 There is an old Castle hangs over the sea. 
 And ages of glory yet, yet shall it see, [sky. 
 
 And 'twill smile to the river, and smile to the 
 And smile to the free land when long years go by ; 
 And children will listen, with rapturous face. 
 To the names and the legends that hallow the 
 
 place. 
 When some minstrel of Erin, in wandering nigh. 
 Shall sing that dear Castle more grandly than I. 
 
 ELLEN DOWNING. 
 
 THE OLD CASTLE. 
 There is an old Castle hangs over the sea — 
 'Tis living thro' ages, all wrecked tho' it be; 
 There's a soul in the ruin that never shall die. 
 And the ivy clings round it as fondly as I. 
 O ! proud as the waves of that river pass on, 
 Their tribute they bear to that Castle so lone. 
 And the sun lights its gray head with beams 
 
 from the sky, 
 For he loves the dear ruin as fondly as I. 
 
 Right grand is the freedom which dwells on the 
 
 spot, 
 For the hand of the stranger can fetter it not ; 
 The strength of that Castle its day-spring has 
 
 told. 
 But the soul of the ruin looks out as of old ; 
 And the river— the river no tyrant could tame- 
 Sweeps boldly along without terror or shame ; 
 Yet she bends by that Castle so stately and high. 
 And sings her own love-song as gladly as I. 
 
 How weird on those waters the shadows must 
 seem, [dream. 
 
 When the moonlight falls o'er them as still as a 
 
 And the star-beams awake, at the close of the 
 day, 
 
 To gaze on a river eternal as they ! 
 
 ABBEY ASSAROE. 
 
 Grey, grey is Abbey Assaroe, by Ballyshannon 
 
 town. 
 It has neither door nor window, the walls are 
 
 broken down ; 
 The carven stones lie scatter'd in briar and nettle- 
 j bed; 
 
 j The only feet are those that come at burial of 
 
 the dead. 
 I A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the 
 I tide. 
 
 Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in 
 
 pride ; 
 The boor-tree and the lightsome ash across the 
 
 portal grow, 
 And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey 
 Assaroe. 
 
 It looks beyond the harbor-stream to Gulban 
 mountain blue ; 
 
 It hears the voice of Erna's fall,— Atlantic 
 breakers too ; 
 
 High ships go sailing past it ; the sturdy clank 
 of oars 
 
 Brings in the salmon boat to haul a net upon the 
 shores ; 
 
 And this way to his home-creek, when the sum- 
 mer day is done. 
 
 The weary fisher sculls his punt across the set- 
 ting sun ; 
 
 While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, his cot- 
 tage white below ; — 
 
 But grey at every season is Abbey Assaroe. 
 
I90 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 There stood one day a poor old man above its 
 
 broken bridge ; 
 He heard no runninjj rivulet, he saw no nioun- 
 
 tain-ridgc ; 
 He tum'd his back on Shecjjus Hill, and view'd 
 
 with misty sisjht 
 The abbey walls, the burial-jjround with crosses 
 
 ghostly white ; 
 Under a weary weight of years he bow'd upon 
 
 his stafT, 
 I'erusing in the present time the former's epitaph ; 
 For, grey and wasted like the walls, a figure full i 
 
 of woe, I 
 
 This man was of the blood of them who founded ] 
 
 Assaroe. 
 
 From Derry Gates to Drowas Tower, Tirconnell 
 
 broad was their's ; 
 Spearmen and horsemen, bards and wine, and 
 
 mitred abbot "s prayers ; 
 With chanting in the holy house which they had 
 
 builded high 
 To God and to Saint Bernard — whereto they 
 
 came to die. 
 No workhouse grave for him. at least ! the ruins I 
 
 of his race I 
 
 Shall rest among the ruined stones of this their i 
 
 saintly place. 
 The fond old man was weeping, .iiid tremulous ' 
 
 and slow 
 Along the rough and crooked road he crept from 
 
 Assaroe. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINllH.WI. 
 
 WICKLOW. 
 
 Yes, this is Wicklow ; round our feet 
 And o'er our heads its woodlands smile ; 
 
 Behold it. love. — the garden sweet 
 And playground of our stormy isle. 
 
 Look round thee from this wooded height 
 Where, girdled in its sheltering trees. 
 
 Our home uprears its turrets bright, — 
 Our own dear home of rest and peace. 
 
 Is it not fair, the leafy land ?— 
 Not boasting Nature's sterner pride. 
 
 Voluptuous beauty, scenes that stand 
 By minds immortal deified ; 
 
 Yet fraught with sweet, resistless spells 
 That wake a deep, a tranquil love, — 
 
 The witchery of the ferny dells 
 The magic of the murmuring grove, 
 
 The ever-present var>'ing sea. 
 
 The graceful Peaks, the violet hills. 
 
 The fruitful lawn and flowery lea. 
 The breezy moors, the golden rills. 
 
 A land with every delicate tint 
 Of fleeting shadow, wandering light. 
 
 Rich as the rainbows when they glint 
 O'er its own bays ere falls the night. 
 
 1 lere all the year the mountains change 
 From month to month, from hour to hour. 
 
 Now rosy-flushed, now dim and strange. 
 Now sparkling from the sunlit shower. 
 
 Now far in moving clouds withdrawn ; 
 
 Or gilt with yellowing fern and larch. 
 Or smit with crimson beams of dawn, 
 
 Or silvered with the sleets of .March. 
 
 Fair when the first pale primrose shines. 
 
 The first gay moth the furze has kissed ; 
 When under t^ittle Giltspear's pines 
 
 The bluebells seem an azure mist ; 
 
 When summer robes with all her leaves 
 The rough ravine, the lakelet's shore. 
 
 Or when the reaper piles his sheaves 
 Beside the pools of Avonmore ; 
 
 When the brown bee on Croghan bites 
 In eager haste the heathbell through. 
 
 And children climb Gleneelys hights. 
 To gather fraughans fresh with dew ; 
 
 When grouse lie thick in lonely plots 
 
 On Lugnaquillia's lofty moor. 
 And loud the sportsman's echoing shots 
 
 Ring from the rocks of Glenmalure. 
 
 Fair when the woodland strains and creaks 
 As loud the gathering whirlwinds blow, 
 
 And thro' the smoke-like mist the Peaks 
 In warm autumnal purples glow; 
 
 When madly toss the brackens' plumes 
 Storm-swept upon the seaward steep. 
 
 And far below them foams and fumes 
 On beach and cliff the wrathful deep. 
 
 Till cloud and tempest, creeping lower. 
 
 Old Djouce's ridges swathe in night, 
 And down through all his hollows pour 
 
 The foaming torrents, swollen and white ; 
 
 Or when o'er Powerscourts leafless woods. 
 
 With crests that down the tempest lean. 
 Bend, braving winter's fiercest moods. 
 
 The pines in all their wealth of green. 
 
PLEAS A. XT OLENS OF MU.VSTER. 
 
 191 
 
 A tract of quiet pastoral knolls ; 
 
 Of farms ; of gardens breathing balm ; 
 Gray beaches where the billow rolls 
 
 With wandering voice in storm or calm ; 
 
 Of sombre glen and lonely lake. 
 
 Of ivied castles, ruined fanes, 
 Wild paths by crag and skyey brake. 
 
 And dewy fields and bowery lanes ; 
 
 With glimpses sweet and prospects wide 
 Of sea and sky from wood or scar. 
 
 And faint hills glimmering from the tide 
 That tell of other realms afar. 
 
 A spot that owns the priceless charm 
 Of gentler human hearts and minds, — 
 
 A people whom the roughest storm 
 True to its kindlier impulse finds ; 
 
 A kindly folk in vale and moor, 
 
 Unvexed with rancors, frank and free 
 
 In mood and manners, — rich with poor 
 Attuned in happiest amity ; 
 
 Where still the cottage door is wide, 
 The stranger welcomed at the hearth. 
 
 And pleased the humbler hearts confide 
 Still in the friend of gentler birth ; 
 
 A land where always God's right hand 
 Seems stretching downward to caress 
 
 His wayward children as they stand 
 And gaze upon its loveliness, 
 
 GEORGE F. ARMSTRONG. 
 rout " De Verdun 0/ Darragk." 
 
 TO WICKLOW. 
 
 Adieu, sweet country ! O'er the roaring deep. 
 
 By the wild tempest on the billows borne, 
 
 A waif of youth, I go : and I could weep 
 
 With childhood's tears to see thee, this fair morn. 
 
 Thy dark peaks lit with blushes of the dawn. 
 
 Thy rough shores beaten by the whitening main. 
 
 Thy lowland paradise of grove and lawn, — 
 
 Encinctured in a bow of jewelled rain ; 
 
 For I may look upon thy face no more 
 
 For many a rolling year. Ah me ! how oft 
 
 By thy wild rivulets and flowery dales. 
 
 Thy broken chapels and thy crumbling towers. 
 
 Thy grand old hills and solitary vales, 
 
 Have I in childhood wandered " • • 
 
 Ah ! happy hours forever flown, 
 
 Forever flown. 
 The dark sea with its hollow moan 
 Of moonlit waves on wintry shores, 
 The darkling cataract that roars 
 Through leafless wood and lonely moor. 
 The gloomy tarn whose dismal sigh 
 Rolls upward toward a stormy sky 
 At midnight ; such are as the swell 
 Of marriage music to the mournful knell 
 Of that deep sigh — " no more I " 
 No more ! no more ! 'tis murmured by the breeze. 
 The sweet wild breeze that stirs the silvery hair. 
 And blows a mist of tearful memories 
 In eyes now waxing dim. No more ! no more I 
 The pure sweet perfume of the summer air 
 At rosy dawn, the heaving ocean-wave 
 That breaks in playful spray on glimmering sands. 
 Bearing low whisperings from distant lands 
 Of those who never may return ; the bloom 
 Of flowers that blossom o'er a lonely grave 
 Forgotten save by one, whose trembling hands 
 Have twined thechaplets, and whose tender eyes 
 Weep o'er them year by year ; the purple gloom 
 Of even, and the changing lights that fall 
 Above the skies of setting suns ; all, all 
 One burthen breathe alone— no more ! no more I 
 
 EDMUND J. ARMSTRONG. 
 
 PLEASANT GLENS OF MUNSTER. 
 
 Pleasant glens of Munster, glorious in the noon- 
 light, 
 Charming in the moonlight, sparkling in the dew. 
 When hath seer or poet, wrapt in visions golden. 
 Ever yet beholden sweeter glens than you .' 
 There the feathered warbler cheers the shaded 
 
 arbor ; 
 There the flowers of morning match the skies of 
 
 blue; 
 There the streamlet winding shows delight in 
 
 finding 
 Sweet excuse for spending the happy days with 
 you. 
 
 On the cliffs that darken where the waves sur- 
 round you, 
 
 On the crags that bound you breaks the ocean's 
 roar; 
 
 Billows wildly booming, with tyrant force de- 
 luded. 
 
 Make hut more secluded the far receding .shore : 
 
'9- 
 
 POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 
 
 There the rampart swelling guards the chieftain's 
 dwelling, 
 
 There the regal ruin teems witli olden lore ; 
 
 There the liumble shealing looks as though re- 
 vealing 
 
 A hundred thousand welcomes to all who find 
 the door. 
 
 In the blooming gardens walks the rosy maiden [ 
 Midst the branches laden down witli fruits un- [ 
 
 told ; 
 Where the com is gleaming, moving deep and 
 
 deeper. 
 Sweeps the swarthy reaper swatlis of brownish 
 
 gold: \ 
 
 On the swards of silver, where the sloe-trees 
 
 thicken. 
 Where the boughs of quicken let the moonbeams 
 
 through, 
 Fairy bands sing nightly, as the host advances, 
 "Never knew our dances sweeter glens than you." 
 
 Had I bardic vigor to intone your praises, 
 '.Mid your verdant mazes I'd take bolder wing, — 
 1 would vent my numbers to a theme so tender 
 On a harp of spleador and a sounding string; | 
 To such task demandful of a soul thus gifted, i 
 Since I can't be lifted, what will weakness do.' j 
 Dreams and yearnings merely cannot reach it j 
 nearly ; [to you. 
 
 Then I'll speak more dearly and send my heart | 
 
 FRANCIS 0'RY.\N. ! 
 
 ARBOR HILL' 
 
 No rising column marks this spot 
 
 Where many a victim lies ; 
 But oh ! the blood whicli here has streamed. 
 
 To heaven for justice cries. 
 
 It claims it on the oppressor's head. 
 
 Who joys in human woe. 
 Who drinks the tears by misery shed. 
 
 And mocks them as they flow. 
 
 It claims it on the callous judge. 
 Whose hands in blood are dyed. 
 
 Who arms injustice with the sword. 
 The balance throws aside. 
 
 It claims it for its ruined Isle, 
 Her wretched children's grave ; 
 
 Where withered Freedom droops her head. 
 .\nd man exists— a slave. 
 
 O sacred Justice! from this land 
 
 From tyranny abhorred ; 
 Resume thy balance and thy seat. 
 
 Resume — but sheathe thy sword. 
 
 No retribution should we seek — 
 
 Too long has horror reigned ; 
 By mercy marked may Freedom rise. 
 
 By cruelty unstained. 
 
 Nor shall a tyrant's ashes mix 
 With those our martyred dead ; 
 
 This is the place where Erin's sons. 
 In Erin's cause have bled. 
 
 And those who here are laid at rest. 
 
 Oh ! hallowed be each name ! 
 Their memories are forever blest — 
 
 Consigned to endless fame. 
 
 Unconsecrated is this ground. 
 
 Unblessed by holy hands ; 
 No bell here tolls its solemn sound. 
 
 No monument here stands. 
 
 But here the patriot's tears are shed. 
 The poor man's blessing given : 
 
 These consecrate the virtuous dead. 
 These waft their fame to heaven. 
 
 ROBERT KMMKT. 
 
 MY MOUNTAIN GLENS. 
 
 Take, proud ambition, take thy fill 
 
 Of pleasures, won thro' toil or crime ; 
 Go, learning, climb thy rugged hill. 
 
 And give thy name to future time ; 
 Philosophy, be keen to see 
 
 Whate'er is just, or false, or vain. 
 Take each thy meetl ; but oh I give me 
 
 To range my mountain glens again. 
 
 Pure was the breeze that fanned my cheek. 
 
 As o er Knockmany's brow 1 went. 
 When every lonely dell could speak 
 
 In airy mu.sic, vision sent ; — 
 False world, I hate thy cares and thee. 
 
 I hate the treacherous haunts of men ; 
 Give back my early heart to me, 
 
 Give back to me my mountain glen. 
 
THE HAUNTED CASTLE. 
 
 193 
 
 How light my youthful visions shone. 
 
 When spanned by Fancy's radiant form ; 
 But now the glittering- bow is gone, 
 
 And leaves me but the cloud and storm. 
 With wasted form and cheek all pale, 
 
 With heart long seared by grief and pain, 
 Dunroe, I'll seek thy native gale, 
 
 I'll tread my mountain glens again. 
 
 Thy breeze once more may fan my blood. 
 
 Thy valleys all are lovely still ; 
 And I may stand where oft I stood, 
 
 In lonely musings on thy hill. 
 But. ah ! the spell is gone, — no art. 
 
 In crowded town, or native plain. 
 Can teach a crushed and breaking heart 
 
 To pipe the song of youth again. 
 
 WILLI.\M CARLETON. 
 
 THE HAUNTED CASTLE. 
 "How beautiful! — how beautiful!" — cried out 
 
 the children all. 
 As the golden harvest evening's moon beamed 
 
 down on Donegal ; 
 And its yellow light that danced along the Esker 
 
 to the Bay — 
 There tinged the roofless Abbey's walls, here 
 
 gilt the Castle gray. 
 " How beautiful ! — how beautiful ! — let us go 
 
 hide and seek " — 
 Some run along the river's edge, some crouch 
 
 beside the creek ; 
 While two, more dauntless than the rest, climb 
 
 o'er the Castle's wall. 
 And without note on horn or trump, parade the 
 
 princely hall. 
 
 Brave little boys, as bright as stars, beneath the 
 
 porch they pass'd. 
 And paused just where along the hall, the keep 
 
 its shadow cast ; 
 And, heaven protect us ! there they saw a strange 
 
 fire burn away. 
 And, sitting in the ingle-nook, an ancient man 
 
 and gray ; 
 He sat upon his stony seat like to another stone. 
 And ever from his breast there brake a melan- 
 choly moan : 
 But the little boys they feared him not, for they 
 
 were two to one. 
 And the man was stooped and aged, and sad to 
 
 look upon. 
 
 And he who was the eldest— his mother called 
 
 him Hugh — 
 Said, "Why for, sir, do you make moan, and 
 
 wherefore do you rue } 
 Are you one of the old-time kings, lang syne 
 
 exiled to Spain, 
 Like a linnet to its last year's nest, that here 
 
 returns again?" 
 And the shape stood up and smiled, as the tiny 
 
 voice he heard. 
 And the tear that hung upon his cheek fell to 
 
 his snowy beard — 
 "My boys," he said, "come sit ye here beside 
 
 me, until I 
 Tell you why I haunt this earth, and what so 
 
 makes me sigh. 
 
 " I am the Father of their Race — the Cinnel- 
 
 Connell's sire — 
 And therefore thus I watch their home, and 
 
 kindle still their fire ; 
 For the mystic heat would perish amid a land of 
 
 slaves 
 If it were not tended nightly by the spirits from 
 
 their graves ; 
 And here I still must keep my stand until the 
 
 living are 
 Deemed meet to track the men of might along 
 
 the fields of war ; 
 And, ah! my little men," he said, " my watch 
 
 is very long — 
 Unpromised of an early end — uncheered by 
 
 friend or song. 
 
 ■' And the present is embittered by the memories 
 
 of old,— 
 The bards and their delights, and the tales the 
 
 gossips told ; 
 I remember me the ringing laughs and minstrel- 
 
 sie divine 
 That echoed here for Nial Garv and Thorlough 
 
 of the Wine ; 
 I remember how brave Manus — an early grave 
 
 he met— 
 Traced the story here of Columb-cille, a tale 
 
 surviving yet ; 
 And, O! I weep like Jacob when of Joseph's 
 
 death he heard. 
 When I think upon you, young Hugh Roe, 
 
 Tyrconnell's staff and sword ! 
 
 " My boys, he was not thirty years of age, 
 
 although his name 
 Was spread all over Ireland upon the wings of 
 
 fame ; 
 
194 
 
 POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 
 
 Entrapped, imprisoned, frozen, on Wicklows 
 
 wintry hills, 
 He rose, he fought, he died afar, crowning our 
 
 country's ills; — 
 Alas! 1 cannot help but cry— and you. what, 
 
 crying, too.' 
 Indeed it might melt iron hearts to think upon 
 
 my Hugh. 
 My boys, go home, remember him. and hasten 
 
 to be men. 
 That you may act. on Irish soil, his gallant part 
 
 again." 
 
 " How beautiful ! -how beautiful !" cried out the 
 
 children all. 
 As the two boys clambered over the ancient 
 
 Castle wall ; 
 " Run here — run there — take care — take care ;" 
 
 but silently and slow — 
 To humble homes, the little friends, warm hand 
 
 in hand, they go ; 
 And from that night they daily read in all the 
 
 quiet nooks 
 About their homes, old Irish songs and new- 
 made Irish books; 
 And many a walk and many a talk they had 
 
 down by the Bay, 
 Of the Spirit of the Castle Hall, and the words 
 
 they heard him say. 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
 SONG OF INNISHOWEN. 
 
 God bless the gray mountains of dark Donegal, 
 
 God bless Royal Aileach, the pride of them all ; 
 
 For she sits evermore like a Queen on her throne. 
 
 And smiles on the valleys of Green Innishowen, 
 
 And fair are the valleys of Green Innishowen, 
 
 And hardy the fishers that call them their own — 
 
 A race that nor traitor nor coward have known 
 
 Enjoy the fair valleys of Green Innishowen. 
 
 O ! simple and bold are the bosoms they bear. 
 Like the hills that with silence and nature they 
 share ; | his own, 
 
 For our God. who hath planted their home near 
 Breathed His spirit abroad upon fair Innishowen. 
 Then praise to our Father for wild Innishowen. 
 Where fiercely for ever the surges are thrown— 
 Nor weather nor fortune a tempest hath blown 
 Could «hake the strong bosoms of brave In- 
 nishowen. 
 
 See the bountiful Coutdah careering along — 
 A type of their manhood so stately and strong 
 On the wear)' for ever its tide is bestown, 
 So they share with the stranger in fair Iniii 
 howen. 
 God guard the kind homesteads of fair Inni 
 
 howen. 
 Which manhood and nrtue have chosen i 
 
 their own ; 
 Not long shall that nation in slavery groan. 
 That rears the tall peasants of fair Innishowen. 
 
 Like that oak of St. Bride which nor Devil nor 
 
 Dane. 
 Nor Saxon nor Dutchman could rend from her 
 
 fane. 
 They have clung by the creed and the cause of 
 
 their own 
 Through the midnight of danger in true Innis- 
 howen. 
 Then shout for the glories of old Innishowen. 
 The stronghold that foeman have never o'er- 
 
 thrown — 
 The soul and the spirit, the blood and the boii. 
 That guard the green valleys of true Innis- 
 howen. 
 
 Nor purer of old was the tongue of the Gael. 
 When the charging aboo made the foreigner quail ; 
 Than it gladdens the stranger in welcome's soft 
 
 tone. 
 In the home-loving cabins of kind Innishowen. 
 O ! flourish, ye homesteads of kind Innishowen 
 Where seeds of a people's redemption .ir 
 
 sown ; 
 Right soon shall the fruit of that sowing have 
 
 grown. 
 To bless the kind homesteads of green Innis- 
 howen. 
 
 When they tell us the tale of a spell-stricken band 
 
 All entranced, with their bridles and broadswords 
 in hand. 
 
 Who await but the sword to give Erin her own. 
 
 They can read you that riddle in proud Innis- 
 howen. 
 Hurrah for the spaemenof proud Innishowen!— 
 Long live the wild Seers of stout Innishowen!— 
 May Mary, our mother, be deaf to their moan 
 Who love not the promise of proud Innishowen! 
 
 CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 
 
THE ROCK OF CASHEL. 
 
 195 
 
 TIPPERARY. 
 
 Were you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the 
 fields are so sunny and green, 
 
 And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Gal- 
 tees look down with so proud a mien ? 
 
 'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on 
 all Irish ground — 
 
 God bless you, my sweet Tipperary, for where 
 could your inatch be found ? 
 
 They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness 
 is in your eye : 
 
 But I'll not let them dare to talk so black and 
 bitter a lie. 
 
 O! no, macushla storin ! bright, bright, and 
 warm are you, 
 
 With hearts as bold as the men of old, to your- 
 selves and your country true. 
 
 And when there is gloom upon you, bid them 
 
 think who has brought it there — 
 Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not made 
 
 for your face so fair ; 
 You've a hand for the grasp of friendship— 
 
 another to make them quake, 
 And they're welcome to whichsoever it pleases 
 
 them most to take. 
 
 Shall our homes, like the huts of Connaught, be 
 
 crumbled before our eyes ? 
 Shall we fly, like a flock of wild geese, from all 
 
 that we love and prize ? 
 No ! by those who were here before us, no churl 
 
 shall our tyrant be ; 
 Our land it is theirs by plunder, but, by Brigid, 
 
 ourselves are free. 
 
 No ! we do not forget the greatness did once to 
 
 sweet Erie belong ; 
 No treason or craven spirit was ever our race 
 
 among ; 
 And no frown or no world of hatred we give — 
 
 but to pay them back ; 
 In evil we only follow our enemies' darksome 
 
 track. 
 
 O ! come for a while among us, and give us the 
 
 friendly hand ; 
 And you'll see that old Tipperary is a loving and 
 
 gladsome land ; 
 From Upper to Lower Ormond, bright welcomes 
 
 and smiles will spring , 
 On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is like a 
 
 king. 
 
 EVA M.\RV KELLV. 
 
 THE ROCK OF CASHEL. 
 
 Fair was that eve, as if from earth away 
 
 All trace of sin and sorrow 
 Passed, in the light of the eternal day, 
 
 That knows nor night nor morrow. 
 
 The pale and shadowy mountains, in the dim 
 
 And glowing distance piled ! 
 A sea of light along the horizon's rim, 
 
 Unbroken, undefiled ! 
 
 Blue sky, and cloud, and grove, and hill, and glen, 
 
 The form and face of man 
 Beamed with unwonted beauty, as if then 
 
 New earth and heaven began. 
 
 Yet heavy grief was on me, and I gazed 
 On thee through gushing tears. 
 
 Thou relic of a glory that once blazed 
 So bright in bygone years ! 
 
 Wreck of a ruin ! lovelier, holier far. 
 
 Thy ghastly hues of death, 
 Than the cold forms of newer temples are — 
 
 Shrines of a priestless faith. 
 
 In lust and rapine, treachery and blood, 
 
 Its iron domes were built ; 
 Darkly they frown, where God's own altars stood, 
 
 In hatred and in guilt. 
 
 But to make thee, of loving hearts the love, 
 
 Was coined to living stone ; 
 Truth, peace, and piety together strove 
 
 To form thee for their own. 
 
 And thou wast theirs, and they within thee met. 
 
 And did thy presence fill ; 
 And their sweet light, even while thine own is set. 
 
 Hovers around thee still. 
 
 It is not work of mind, or hand, or eye. 
 
 Builder's or sculptor's skill. 
 Thy site, thy beauty, or thy majesty — 
 
 Not these my bosom thrill. 
 
 'Tis that a glorious monument thou art. 
 
 Of the true faith of old. 
 When faith was one in all the nation's heart. 
 
 Purer than purest gold. 
 
 A light, when darkness on the nations dwelt. 
 
 In Erin found a home — 
 The mind of Greece, the warm heart of the Celt, 
 
 The bravery of Rome. 
 
196 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 But O ! the pearl, the gem, the glory of her youth. And psalm, and hymn, and gold, and preci' > 
 That shone upon her brow ; And gems beyond all price. [stoti' 
 
 She clung forever to the Chair of Truth — 1 And priest, and altar, o'er the martyr's bones, 
 
 Clings to it now ! ' And daily sacrifice. 
 
 Love of my love, and temple of my God ! 
 
 How would I now clasp thee 
 Close to my heart, and, even as thou wast trod. 
 
 So with thee trodden be ! 
 
 O, for one hour a thousand years ago. 
 
 Within thy precincts dim. 
 To hear the chant, in deep and measured flow. 
 
 Of psalmody and hymn ! 
 
 To see of priests the long and wliite array. 
 
 Around thy silver shrines — 
 The people kneeling prostrate far away. 
 
 In thick and checkered lines. 
 
 To see the Prince of Cashel o'er the rest. 
 
 Their prelate and their king. 
 The sacred bread and chalice by him blest. 
 
 Earth's holiest offering. 
 
 To hear, in piety's own Celtic tongue, 
 The most heart-touching prayer 
 
 That fervent suppliants e'er was heard among.— 
 O, to be then and there ! 
 
 There was a time all this within thy walls 
 Was felt, and heard, and seen ; 
 
 Faint image only now thy sight recalls 
 Of all that once hath been. 
 
 The creedless. heartless, murderous robber came. 
 
 And never since that time 
 Round thy torn altars burned the sacred flame. 
 
 Or rose the chant sublime. 
 
 Thy glory in a crimson tide went down. 
 
 Beneath the cloven hoof — 
 Altar and priest, mitre, and cope, and crown. 
 
 And choir, and arch, and roof. 
 
 O, but to see, when thou wilt rise again— 
 
 For thou again wilt rise — 
 And with the splendors of thy second reign 
 
 Dazzle a nation's eyes ! 
 
 Children of those who made thee what thou wast. 
 Shall lift thee from the tomb, | 
 
 And clothe thee, for the spoiling of the past, ' 
 In more celestial bloom. 
 
 And endless prayer, and cruciti.x, and shrine. 
 
 And ail religion's dower. 
 And thronging worshippers shall yet be thine - 
 
 O, but to see that hour ! 
 
 And who shall smite thee then .'—and who sli, 
 see 
 
 Thy second glory o'er ? | f r< 
 
 When thev who make thee free themselves .1 
 
 To'fall no more. 
 
 PATRICK MURk.A\ 
 
 THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 
 
 With deep affection 
 
 And recollection 
 1 often think of those Shandon bells. 
 
 Whose sound so wild would, 
 
 In days of childhood, 
 Fling round my cradle their magic spells. 
 
 On this 1 ponder, 
 
 Where'er 1 wander, 
 And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee ; 
 
 With thy bells of Shandon, 
 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
 I've heard bells chiming 
 
 Full many a clime in. 
 Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine ; 
 
 While at a glib rate 
 
 Brass tongues would vibrate, 
 But all their music spoke naught like thine : 
 
 For memory dwelling 
 
 On each proud swelling 
 Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free. 
 
 Made the bells of Shandon, 
 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
 I've heard bells tolling 
 
 •• Old Adrian's Mole " in. 
 Their thunder rolling from the Vatican, 
 
 And cymbals glorious. 
 
 Swinging uproarious 
 In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame : 
 
CT/cyaru:^ c_x c 
 
THE ALHAMBRA. 
 
 [97 
 
 But thy sounds were sweeter 
 
 Than the dome of Peter 
 Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly 
 
 O ! the bells of Shandon, 
 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
 There's a bell in Moscow, 
 
 While on tower and kiosko 
 In St. Sophia the Turkman gets, 
 
 And loud in air, 
 
 Calls men to prayer 
 From the tapering summit of tall minarets. 
 
 Such empty phantom, 
 
 I freely grant 'em ; 
 But there's an anthem more dear to me, — 
 
 'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
 FR.4NCIS S. MAHONV. 
 
 But now the mountain flowers have lost their 
 
 rich perfume. 
 And the lark has now no rapture, the nodding 
 
 rose no bloom. 
 Since they took you from the ocean to lay you in 
 the tomb. 
 
 Never merry 
 Shall sound for me sweet bells of Londonderry. 
 
 But merrily they'll sound when my heart has 
 
 passed away, 
 To the fisher near his nets, and the hillmen 
 
 mowing hay. 
 To mothers at their doorsteps, and lovers in the 
 May, 
 
 Making merry. 
 Shall chime the silver bells of Londonderry. 
 
 JOHN KANE. 
 
 THE BELLS OF LONDONDERRY. 
 
 How sweetly rang the bells when we chased the 
 
 honey bee, 
 And loudly sang the lark to you, love, and to me. 
 While winds of sunny April were whi.spering in 
 glee; 
 
 Sing merry ! 
 When childhood heard the bells of London- 
 derry. 
 
 How softly rang the bells when we clomb the 
 
 misty hill, 
 When we reached the pebbled cradle of the 
 
 foamy mountain rill. 
 And pledged our lo\e at noontide when every 
 bird was still; 
 
 Sing merry ! 
 So clearly rang the bells of Londonderry. 
 
 And sprightly was the dancing beneath the 
 
 flowered thorn, 
 When the little eastern moonlight, like plenty's 
 
 golden horn. 
 Lit our way from stile to stile through the fields 
 of whispering corn. 
 
 Sing merry ! 
 So gayly rang the bells of Londonderry. 
 
 THE ALHAMBRA. 
 
 Palace of beauty ! where the Moorish lord. 
 King of the bow, the bridle and the sword, 
 Sat like a genie in the diamond's blaze. 
 Oh ! to have seen thee in the ancient days. 
 When at the morning gates the coursers stood, 
 The " thousand " milk-white. Yemen's fiery blood, 
 In pearl and ruby harnessed for the king ; 
 And thro' thy portals poured the gorgeous flood 
 Of jewelled Sheik and emir, hastening. 
 Before the sky the dawning purple showed, 
 Their turbans at the Caliph's feet to fling. 
 
 Lovely thy morn, — thy evening lovelier still. 
 When at the waking of the first blue star 
 That trembled on the Atalaya hill. 
 The splendors of the trumpet's voice arose. 
 Brilliant and bold, and yet no sound of war 
 But summoning thy beauty from repose. 
 The shaded slumber of the burning noon. 
 Then in the slant sun all thy fountains shone, 
 Shooting the sparkling column from the vase 
 Of crystal cool, and falling in a haze 
 Of rainbow hues on floors of porphyry. 
 And the rich bordering beds of every bloom 
 That breathes to African or Indian sky. 
 Carnation, tuberose, thick anemone. 
 
 Then was the harping of the minstrel heard 
 In the deep arbors, or the regal hall. 
 Hushing the tumult of the festival. 
 When the pale bard his kindling eye-ball reared. 
 
198 
 
 /'O/iMS Ol- j\A TUKE A.\i) /•LACES. 
 
 And told of eastern glories, silken hosts, 
 
 Towered elephants, and chiefs in topaz armed : 
 
 Or of the myriads from the cloudy coasts 
 
 Of the far western sea. the sons of blood, 
 
 The iron men of tournament and feud, 
 
 That round the bulwarks of their fathers swarmed. 
 
 Doomed by the Moslem's scimetar to fall ; 
 
 Till the Red Cross was hurled from Salem's wall. 
 
 Where are thy pomps, Alhambra, earthly sun. 
 That had no rival and no second ? — gone ! 
 Thy glory down the arch of time has rolled. 
 Like the great day-star, to the ocean dim ; 
 The billows of the ages o'er thee swim. 
 Gloomy and fathomless ; thy tale is told. 
 Where is thy horn of battle ? that but blown, 
 Brought every chief of .\fric from his throne ; 
 Brought every spear of Afric from the wall ; 
 Brought every charger barbed from the stall. 
 Till all its tribes sat mounted on the shore. 
 Waiting the waving of thy torch to pour 
 The living deluge on the fields of Spain. 
 Queen of earth's loveliness, there was a stain 
 Upon thy brow — the stain of guilt and gore ; 
 Thy course was bright, bold, treacherous — and 
 
 'tis o'er. 
 The spear and diadem are from thee gone ; 
 Silence is now sole monarch of thy throne ! 
 
 GEORGE CROLY. 
 
 MESOLONGHI'S RUINS. 
 
 Glorious spirits ! ye have past : 
 On the ground your blood is cast. 
 
 Tower and bastion all are won. 
 Round the new Thermopylae 
 Lies the gore and lies the clay. 
 
 To high heaven the soul is gone. 
 
 Flow my tears ! Nay, let no tear 
 Stain the slumbers of that bier. 
 
 Till the tear of blood shall come. 
 None o'er you the turf must spread, 
 Naked lie, ye gallant dead, 
 
 Naked wait the hour of doom. 
 
 Shame to Europe ! On her ear. 
 Night and day, and month, and year, 
 
 While arose your agony, — 
 While before the Ottoman 
 Christian blood in torrents ran. 
 
 She could calmly see you die. 
 
 Shame to Europe ! when her hand 
 Could have crush 'd the ruffian band. 
 
 Like the worm beneath her feet. 
 Let her now bemoan, bepraise. 
 Will it quench your ramparts' blaze } 
 
 Will it rend your winding sheet .' 
 
 Gold and empire, mighty things ! 
 What are ye when Time's wild wings 
 
 Smite ye, as he rushes on .' 
 Down go sceptre, shield and bust ; 
 Babylon is dust to dust ; 
 
 Rome is widow'd, worthless, lone ! 
 
 But till earth shall groan her last. 
 Ne'er shall this spot be o'erpast ; 
 
 Eyes shall weep and hearts shall swell ; 
 Aye, and flame, with freedom's flame. 
 When is heard its fated name. 
 
 Sublime, indelible ! 
 
 Down shall go your murderer's reign 
 Like an universal stain ; 
 
 Down the turban 'd Kfead shall go. 
 Come the stroke from man or heaven. 
 Blood shall for your blood be given, 
 
 Woe be measured for your woe ! 
 
 Mesolonghi, till the day 
 Of the pillar 'd earth's decay 
 
 Thou shalt be a holy shrine, 
 Wreck'd and ruin'd as thou art. 
 Consecrated to the heart, 
 
 Glory be to thee and thine. 
 
 GEORGE CROLY. 
 
 THE ABBEY OF CARENNAC. 
 
 I Here in God's house of the open dome. 
 Vigil is kept by the pilgrim breeze ; 
 Here, from its sun-illumined tome. 
 
 Labor entones its litanies. 
 For discipline here is the chastening rain ; 
 
 For burden, the fruit of the bending tree ; 
 The thorn of the rose for a pleasant pain. 
 
 And palm for a costless victory. 
 Oh ! if my vow but bound to these, 
 'Twere long ere my laggard steps grew slack ; 
 Oh ! that the wilful world would please 
 , To leave me my flocks, my birds and bees, 
 j My ivied stall and my hours of ease, 
 I And my little Abbey of Carennac. 
 
BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 
 
 199 
 
 Far from the city's guarded gate. 
 
 Free from the crush of its silken crowds, 
 I see the sun in his purple state. 
 
 And the changing face of the courtier clouds. 
 My thoughts are mine when my task is sped ; 
 
 My head aches not, and my heart is full ; 
 And the laurels that cumber my careless tread 
 
 Are the only ones that I choose to pull. 
 Away from my friends I love them best ; 
 
 Away from my books no lore I lack ; 
 Here — no longer a flying guest. 
 With wavering foot that finds no rest, — 
 Truth comes home to this lovely breast 
 
 In this little Abbey of Carennac. 
 
 Thus, half hid from the smile of spring. 
 
 Under the bough of a blossomed tree, 
 My single wish is the grace to sing 
 
 The praise of a spot where a bard should be. 
 Sounding clear as the forest call, 
 
 Wakening man in the monarch's breast, 
 Many-voiced as the water's fall, — 
 
 Speaking to every soul's unrest. 
 My song should seize with a minstrel sway 
 
 Yon green twin isles and their busy hac. 
 The hamlet white, and the convent gray. 
 And the lodge for the wanderer on his way ; 
 And thus to France in my little lay 
 
 Give my little Abbey of Carennac. 
 
 To journey again on the hard highway, 
 
 To enter a garrulous, troublous train ; 
 Uncalled to come, and unbid obey. 
 
 To feign it pleasure and feel it pain ; 
 To float, a straw on an idle stream ; 
 
 To glitter, a mote by the sunbeam sought. 
 To walk, a shade in a waking dream ; 
 
 To strive for nothings where all is nought. 
 An iron tongue to summon away. 
 
 And a rope of sand to hold me back, 
 Are the call to go and the will to stay; 
 Clamorous Duty and still delay — 
 Oh, gilded gloom! oh, green and gay 
 
 Of my little Abbey of Carennac. 
 
 Fields that teem with the fruits of peace. 
 
 Let your reapers reap and your binders bind ; 
 1 cannot flee, for a fond caprice 
 
 Yon stony spot to my hand assigned. 
 To me are numbered the seeds that grow; 
 
 Not mine the loss of the perished grain. 
 If, working, I watch for the time to sow. 
 
 And waiting, pray for the sun and rain. 
 
 My day to God and the king I lend ; 
 
 The wish of my heart will bring me back 
 A few last lightsome hours to spend, 
 And to pass with my life-long-looked-for friend,' 
 Through a quiet night and a peaceful end, 
 
 From my little Abbey of Carennac. 
 
 JULIA M. O'RYAN. 
 
 -From the French i 
 
 BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 
 
 A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, 
 There was lack of woman's nursing, there was 
 
 dearth of woman's tears ; 
 But a comrade stood beside him while his life 
 
 blood ebbed away, 
 And bent with pitying glances to hear what he 
 
 might say. 
 The dying soldier faltered, as he took that com- 
 rade's hand, 
 Antl he said : " I never more shall see my own, 
 
 my native land ; 
 Take a message and a token to some distant 
 
 friends of mine. 
 For I was born at Bingen — at Bingen on the 
 
 Rhine. 
 
 " Tell my brothers and companions, when they 
 
 meet and crowd around, 
 To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vine- 
 yard ground. 
 That we fought the battle bravely, and when the 
 
 day was done. 
 Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale beneath the 
 
 setting sun. 
 And amidst the dead and dying were some grown 
 
 old in wars. 
 The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the 
 
 last of many scars ; 
 And some were young — and suddenly beheld 
 
 life's morn decline ; 
 And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen on 
 I the Rhine. 
 
 ■■ Tell my mother that her other sons shall com- 
 ' fort her old age, 
 
 ] And I was but a truant bird, that thought my 
 
 home a cage : 
 i For my father was a soldier, and even as a child, 
 My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of strug- 
 gles fierce and wild; 
 
200 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE ANt) PLACES. 
 
 And when he died, and left us to diWde his 
 
 scanty hoard, 
 I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my 
 
 father's sword ; 
 And with boyish love 1 hung it where the bright 
 
 light used to shine 
 On the cottage wall at Bingen — calm IJingen on 
 
 the Rhine! 
 
 " Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob 
 
 with drooping head. 
 When the troops are marching home again, with 
 
 glad and gallant tread ; 
 But to look ufwn them proudly, with a calm and 
 
 steadfast eye, 
 For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid 
 
 to die. 
 And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my 
 
 name. 
 To listen to him kindly, wHthout regret or shame; 
 And to hang the old sword in its place (my 
 
 father's sword and mine) — 
 For the honor of old Bingen— dear Bingen on 
 
 the Rhine ! 
 
 And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in 
 
 mine. 
 But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen 
 
 on the Rhine." 
 
 His voice grew faint and hoarser — his grasp was 
 
 childish weak — 
 His eyes put on a dying look — he sighed ami 
 
 ceased to speak ; 
 His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark nf 
 
 life had (led— 
 The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land — 
 
 was dead ! 
 And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly 
 
 she looked down 
 On the red sand of the battle field, with bloody 
 
 corpses strewn ; 
 Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light 
 
 seemed to shine. 
 As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingen on 
 
 the Rhine. 
 
 CAROLINE E. NORTON. 
 
 " There's another— not my sister ; in the happy ' 
 
 days gone by, j 
 
 You'd have known her by the merriment that 
 
 sparkled in her eye ; | 
 
 Too innocent for coquetry — too fond for idle 
 
 scorning — 
 O, friend ! I fear the lightest heart makes some- i 
 
 times heaviest mourning ; ] 
 
 Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the j 
 
 moon be risen, I 
 
 My body will be out of pain — my soul be out of 
 
 prison) 
 I dreamed 1 stood with her, and saw the yellow 
 
 sunlight shine 
 On the vine-clad hills of Bingen — fair Bingen on 
 
 the Rhine ! 
 
 " I saw the blue Rhine sweep along— I heard, or 
 seemed to hear. 
 
 The German songs we used to sing, in chorus 
 sweet and clear ; 
 
 And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting , 
 hill. I 
 
 The echoing chorus sounding through the even- j 
 ing calm and still ; 
 
 And her glad blue eye was on me as we passed i 
 with friendly talk ' 
 
 Down many a path beloved of yore, and well- 
 remembered walk. i 
 
 IN ROME. 
 At last the dream of youth 
 
 Stands fair and bright before me. 
 The sunshine of the home of truth 
 
 Falls tremulously o'er me ; 
 
 And tower and spire, and lofty dome 
 In brightest skies are gleaming ; 
 
 Walk I, to-day, the streets of Rome, 
 Or am I only dreaming ? 
 
 No. 'tis no dream ; my very eyes 
 
 Gaze on the hilltops seven ; 
 Where crosses rise and kiss the skies. 
 
 And grandly point to heaven. 
 
 Gray ruins loom on ever)- side. 
 
 Each stone's an age's stor)- ; 
 They seem the very ghosts of pride 
 
 That watch the grave of glory. 
 
 There senates sat. whose sceptre sought 
 
 An empire without limit : 
 Theirgrandeur dreamed its dream, and thought 
 
 That death would never dim it. 
 
 There rulers reigned ; yon heap of stones 
 Was once their gorgeous palace ; 
 
 Beside them now, on altar thrones. 
 The priests lift up the chalice. 
 
ROME UN VI SI TED. 
 
 There legions marched, with buclclers bright. 
 
 And lances lifted o'er them. 
 While flags, like eagles plumed for fight. 
 
 Unfurled their wings before them. 
 
 There poets sang, whose deathless name 
 
 Is linked to deathless verses ; 
 There heroes hushed, with shouts of fame. 
 
 There trampled victim's curses. 
 
 There marched the warriors back to home. 
 
 Beneath yon crumbling portal. 
 And placed upon the brow of Rome 
 
 The proud crown of immortal. 
 
 There soldiers stood with armor on. 
 
 In steel-clad ranks and serried. 
 The while their red swords flashed upon 
 
 The slaves whose rights they buried. 
 
 Here Pagan pride, with sceptre, stood, 
 And fame would not forsake it, 
 
 Until a simple cross of wood 
 Came from the East to break it. 
 
 That Rome is dead — here is the grave — 
 
 Dead glory rises never ; 
 And countless crosses o'er it wave. 
 
 And will wave on forever. 
 
 Beyond the Tiber gleams a dome 
 
 Above the hilltops seven ; 
 It arches o'er the world from Rome, 
 
 And leads the world to heaven. 
 
 .\BRAM J. RYAN. 
 
 ROME UNVISITED. 
 I. 
 The corn has turned from gray to red. 
 Since first my spirit wandered forth 
 From the drear cities of the north. 
 And to Italia's mountains fled. 
 
 And here I set my face toward home. 
 For all my pilgrimage is done, 
 Although, methiiiks, yon blood-red sun 
 
 Marshals the way to Holy Rome. 
 
 O Blessed Lady, who dost hold 
 Upon the seven hills thy reign I 
 O Mother without blot or stain. 
 
 Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold ! 
 
 O Roma, Roma, at thy feet 
 I lay this barren gift of song ! 
 For, ah ! the way is steep and long 
 
 That leads unto thy sacred street. 
 
 II. 
 
 And yet what joy it were for me 
 To turn my feet unto the south, 
 And journeying toward the Tiber mouth 
 
 To kneel again at Fiesole ! 
 
 And wandering through the tangled pines 
 That break the gold of Arno's stream. 
 To see the purple mist and gleam 
 
 Of morning on the Appenines ; 
 
 By many a vineyard-hidden home. 
 Orchard, and olive-garden gray, 
 Till from the drear Campagna's way 
 
 The seven hills bear up the dome ! 
 
 III. 
 
 A pilgrim from the northern seas — 
 What joy for me to seek alone 
 The wondrous Temple, and the throne 
 
 Of Him who holds the awful keys ! 
 
 When, bright with purple and with gold, 
 Come priest and holy Cardinal, 
 And borne above the heads of all 
 
 The gentle Shepherd of the Fold. 
 
 O joy to see before I die 
 The only God-anointed King, 
 And hear the silver trumpets ring 
 
 A triumph as he passes by ! 
 
 Or at the altar of the shrine 
 Holds high the mystic sacrifice. 
 And shows a God to human eyes 
 
 Beneath the veil of bread and wine. 
 
 IV. 
 
 For lo ! what changes time can bring ! 
 The cycles of revolving years 
 May free my heart from all its fears,- 
 
 And teach my lips a song to sing. 
 
 Before yon field of trembling gold 
 Is garnered into dusty sheaves, 
 Or ere the autumn's scarlet leaves 
 
 Flutter as birds adown the wold. 
 
POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 
 
 I may have run the glorious race, 
 
 And caught the torch while yet aHame, 
 And called upon the holy name 
 
 Of Him who now doth hide His face. 
 
 SONG OF FIRE. 
 
 DSCAU WILDE. 
 
 MONTEREY. 
 
 In a mantle of old traditions. 
 
 In the rime of a vanished day. 
 The shrouded and silent city 
 
 Sits by her crescent bay. 
 
 The ruined fort on the hill-top, 
 Where never a bunting streams. 
 
 Looks down, a cannonless fortress, 
 On the solemn city of dreams. 
 
 Gardens of wonderful roses. 
 
 Climbing o'er roof-tree and wall. 
 Woodbine and crimson geranium. 
 
 Hollyhocks, purple and tall. 
 
 Mingle their odorous breathings 
 
 With the crisp salt breeze from the sands. 
 Where pebbles and sounding sea-shells 
 
 Are gathered by children's hands. 
 
 Women with olive faces 
 
 .•Vnd the liquid Southern eye. 
 Dark as the forest berries 
 
 That grace the woods in July, 
 
 Tenderly train the roses 
 
 Gathering here and there 
 .-V bud, — the richest and rarest — 
 
 For a place in their long dark hair. 
 
 Feeble and garrulous old men 
 
 Tell, in the Spanish tongue. 
 Of the good, grand times at the Mission, 
 
 And the hymns the Fathers sung ; 
 
 Of the oil, and the wine, and the plenty. 
 And the dance in the twilight gray ; 
 
 " Ah, those." and the heads shake sadly, 
 " Were good times in Monterey." 
 
 Behind in the march of cities, 
 
 The last in the eager stride 
 Of village and town and hamlet, 
 
 She dreams by the ocean's side. 
 
 DANIEL O'CONN'ELL. 
 
 1 Sometimes prisoned at the centre, with my throt - 
 ■ I shake the sphere ; 
 
 Through the snowy-topped volcanoes, at il 
 I surface I appear. 
 
 i Then 1 burst through chains that bind me, start ;■ 
 I mortals with my power ; 
 
 Over prairies wide I scurry, feed on forests, towi i 
 devour; 
 
 Strike the ships midway in ocean, and the teen- 
 ing towns devour. 
 
 Fire they call me. I am father of the graiiii- 
 
 rocks that lie 
 Ages deep beneath the mountains, unpcrceived 
 
 of mortal eye ; 
 At my breath they sprang to being, at my touch 
 
 their crystals came. 
 That were merely shapeless atoms ere 1 kissed 
 
 them with my flame. 
 Ere with ardor I embraced them, ere I kissed 
 
 them with my flame. 
 
 I Rarest gems of countless value, nuggets of the 
 
 yellow gold 
 I That through all the time historic, men and em- 
 pires has controlled ; 
 
 And the grim and swarthy iron, conqueror on 
 land and sea, 
 
 With the many meaner metals, owe their birth 
 and shape to me. 
 
 Gleaming ores and dazzling crystals owe their 
 birth and shape to me. 
 
 When the rolling of the thunder strikes the 
 
 trembling wretches dumb. 
 When the vision-blinding lightning rends the 
 
 murky clouds, I come. 
 Fear attends me, horror after, ruin round me 
 
 wide I cast. 
 Men my name with bated breathing mutter when 
 
 my steps have passed : 
 Gazing voiceless on the ashes where my terribh 
 
 steps have passed. 
 
 Rear they palaces of beauty, fair without and 
 
 rare within. 
 Stores of hand -work, filled with fabrics, wealth 
 
 and profits hard to win ; 
 I Temples grand, with costly altars, where the 
 
 wretch for sin atones. 
 I appear and they are ruins, shapeless heaps of 
 ! blackened stones — 
 
 Molten metal, crumbled columns, timbers charred, 
 
 and blackened stones. 
 
CALIFORNIA'S MISSION RELICS. 
 
 :c3 
 
 Not alone on land I smite them, but with red, 
 
 devouring lips 
 On the ocean sate my hunger with their richly 
 
 freighted ships 
 Swarthy sailors, pallid women, pray in vain for 
 
 mercy there. 
 While my crackling and my roaring swell their 
 
 chorus of despair — 
 While I dance from deck to mast-head to their 
 
 chorus of despair. 
 
 In the densely crowded city, without pity, I 
 
 affright 
 Startled wretches roused from slumber, in the 
 
 still and sombre night. 
 Tenement house or brown-stone palace, either is 
 
 the same to me ; 
 If they manage to subdue me, gloomy will their 
 
 triumph be — 
 Toppled walls upon my foeman tokens of my 
 
 vengeance be. 
 
 Yet malign I am not always ; witness for me 
 
 truly when 
 I become the humble servant of the toiling sons 
 
 of men. 
 Drive the engine, heat the furnace, melt the ore 
 
 and soften steel ; 
 Like the monarch in the story, aid the wife to 
 
 cook a meal — 
 Monarch, wandering from earth's centre, aid the 
 
 wife to cook a meal. 
 
 Tho' they see me when the lightning strikes in 
 wrath the lofty domes, 
 
 Yet I love to cheer the dweller in the lowly cot- 
 tage homes. 
 
 From the hearth my flickering shadows on the 
 wall I cast at night. 
 
 While I crackle — that's my laughter — at the 
 children's wild delight ; 
 
 As to see those tossing shadows they display 
 their wild delight. 
 
 Foe of life have mortals called me — foe of all 
 
 that breathes or stirs, 
 Hence the terror-stricken pagans are my abject 
 
 worshippers. 
 Life ! there were no life without me ; and what 
 
 time I shall e.xpire, 
 All things growing, all things living, all shall pass 
 
 away with fire. 
 Air, heat, motion, breath, existence — all shall 
 
 pass away with fire. 
 
 In the solemn Day of Judgment, at the awful 
 
 time of doom. 
 When all quick and dead are parted, there to 
 
 light and those to gloom, 
 Then the earth that one time bore me, wrapped 
 
 within my wild embrace. 
 Shall behold my final splendor as I bear her out 
 
 of space ; 
 And we twain shall pass together, pass forever 
 
 out of space. 
 
 THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 
 
 CALIFORNIA'S MISSION RELICS. 
 
 Full many a theme of twilight song and story 
 
 Yet lives in elder lands ; 
 The stern-eyed sphinx uplifts her forehead hoary 
 
 Above the desert sands ; 
 
 And Greece still holds, with firm, defiant power. 
 
 From Lethe's dread abyss. 
 The ruined walls that yet so richly dower 
 
 Her proud Acropolis. 
 
 The castled height— of legends quaint and olden 
 
 The fierce and fitting shrine- 
 Still darkly shine within the sunset golden 
 
 That lights the mystic Rhine. 
 
 But these are records of a clouded ,glor\\ 
 When wrong o'ermastered right ; 
 
 One burden dread fills all their sounding story— 
 The ruthless rule of might. 
 
 Ah ! fairer far the relics thou enshrinest, 
 
 Bright sovereign of the West ! 
 O'er sacred walls a fadeless wreath thou twinest — 
 
 The amaranth of the blest ! 
 
 Nor Egypt's fanes, nor stately domes enclosing 
 
 The sculptured gods of Greece, 
 Can match the home of love divine reposing 
 
 Beneath the wings of peace. 
 
 No feudal halls, no banner-flaunting tower, 
 
 Frowned grimly o'er the land ; 
 Nor vassal trains, nor mail-clad hands of power 
 
 Enforced a stern command. 
 
204 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 
 
 Humbly they stood, yet crowned with sunny 
 Those wondrous walls of clay ; [splendor, 
 
 A i)o\vL-r benigfn, an influence sweet and tender, 
 I k'ld there its potent sway. 
 
 And knees were bent, when sang the angel-story 
 
 From out the mission-tower. 
 While gleamed its cross with halo-crown of glory. 
 
 Twined by the sunset hour. 
 
 The gray-robed monk, the messenger of Heaven. And so, when crime, with trail of serpent blighted 
 
 There ruled his willing band ; 
 No blood-spot clung, nor taint of worldly leaven. 
 To that anointed hand. — 
 
 The sheen of stately halls. 
 The tender beam of Eden-blessings lighted 
 Those rude adob^ walls. 
 
 That steadfast hand, to truth securely leading O golden land, thy richest, rarest treasure 
 
 The forest's wayward child, — Dwells not in darksome mines ; |ure — 
 
 That gentle hand, that tamed with silent pleading , Still prouder wealth thou hast in countles.s meas- 
 The savage nature wild. Thy holy mission-shrines. 
 
 There docile hearts bowed low in adoration 
 When 'neath that humble dome, 
 
 In sacred rite, in endless clean oblation 
 Love sought His earthly home. 
 
 Let Eastern lands yet vaunt in song and story 
 
 Their ivy-mantled halls ; 
 A halo-flame, a nimbus wreath of glory, 
 
 Encrowns thy sacred walls. 
 
 HARRIET .M. SKID.MORE. 
 
PART IV. 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 The world was made when a man was born : 
 
 He must taste for himself the forbidden springs ; 
 
 He can never take warning from old-fashioned things ; 
 
 He must fight as a boy, he must drink as a youth, 
 
 He must roam, he must love, he must swear to the truth 
 
 Of the friend of his soul, he must laugh to scorn 
 
 The hint of deceit in a woman's eyes, 
 
 That are clear as the wells of paradise. 
 
 And so he goes on, till the world grows old. 
 
 Till his tongue has grown cautious, his heart has grown cold, 
 
 Till the smile leaves his mouth and the ring leaves his laugh, 
 
 And he shirks the bright headache you ask him to quaff; 
 
 He grows formal with men, and with women polite. 
 
 And distrustful of both when they're out of his sight; 
 
 Then he eats for his palate, and drinks for his head, 
 
 And loves for his pleasure,— and 'tis time he was dead ! 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
POEMS OF REFLECTION, 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 There never was a valley without a faded flower, 
 There never was a heaven without some little 
 cloud ; 
 The face of day may flash with light in any 
 morning hour. 
 But evening soon shall come with her shadow- 
 woven shroud. 
 
 There never was a river without its mists of 
 gray. 
 There never was a forest without its fallen 
 leaf; 
 And joy may walk beside us down the windings 
 of our way, 
 When, lo ! there sounds a footstep, and we 
 meet the face of grief. 
 
 There never was a sea-shore without its drifting 
 wreck. 
 There never was an ocean without its moaning 
 wave ; 
 And the golden gleams of glory the summer- 
 sky that fleck. 
 Shine where dead stars are sleeping in their 
 azure-tinted grave. 
 
 There never was a streamlet, however crystal 
 clear. 
 Without a shadow resting in the ripples of its 
 tide ; 
 Hope's brightest robes are broidered with the 
 sable fringe of fear. 
 And she lures us, but abysses girt her path on 
 either side. 
 
 The shadow of the mountain falls athwart the 
 lowly plain, 
 And the shadow of the cloudlet hangs above 
 the mountain's head. 
 
 And the highest hearts and lowest wear the 
 shadow of some pain. 
 And the smile has scarcely flitted ere the an- 
 guish'd tear is shed. 
 
 For no eyes have there been ever without a 
 weary tear, 
 And those lips cannot be human which have 
 never heaved a sigh ; 
 For without the dreary winter there has never 
 been a year. 
 And the tempests hide their terrors in the 
 calmest summer sky. 
 
 The cradle means the coffin, and the coffin 
 means the grave ; 
 The mothers song scarce hides the De pro- 
 fiindis of the priest ; 
 You may cull the fairest roses any May day ever 
 gave 
 But they wither while you wear them ere the 
 ending of your feast. 
 
 So this dreary life is passing — and we move 
 amid its maze. 
 And we grope along together, half in dark- 
 ness, half in light ; 
 And our hearts are often burdened by the mys- 
 teries of our ways. 
 Which are never all in shadow and are never 
 wholly bright. 
 
 And our dim eyes ask a beacon, and our weary 
 feet a guide. 
 And our hearts of all life's mysteries seek the 
 meaning and the key ; 
 
 And a cross gleams o'er our pathway; on it 
 hangs the Crucified, 
 
 And he answers all our yearnings by the whis- 
 per, " Follow Me." 
 
 ABRAM J. RYAN. 
 
1 
 
 :o8 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 THREE THOUGHTS 
 
 Come in. Sweet Thought, come in ; 
 
 Why linger at the door ? 
 Is it because a shape of sin 
 
 Defiled the place before ? 
 "Twas but a moment there ; 
 
 1 chased it soon away ; 
 lichold. my breast is clean and I 
 
 Come in. Sweet Thought, and stay. 
 The .Aveet Thought said me " No; 
 
 I love not such a room ; 
 Where uncouth inmates come and go, 
 
 And back, unbidden, come. 
 1 rather make my cell 
 
 From ill resort secure. 
 Where love and lovely fancies dwell 
 
 In bosoms virgin-pure." 
 
 Oh. Pure Thought, then I said. 
 
 Come thou, and bring with thee 
 This dainty Sweetness, fancy bred. 
 
 That flouts my house and nie. 
 No peevish pride hast thou. 
 
 Nor turnest glance of scorn 
 On aught the laws of life allow 
 
 In man of woman born. 
 Said he, " No place for us 
 
 Is here : and. be it known. 
 You dwell where ways are perilous 
 
 For them that walk alone. 
 There needs the surer road. 
 
 The fresher sprinkled floor. 
 Else are we not for your abode :" — 
 
 And turned him from the door. 
 
 Then, in my utmost need. 
 
 Oh, Holy Thought. I cried. 
 Come thou, that cleansest will and deed, 
 
 And in my breast abide. 
 " Yea, sinner, that will I, 
 
 And presently begin ;" 
 And ere the heart that heav'd its sigh. 
 
 The Guest Divine came in. 
 As in the pest-house ward 
 
 The prompt Physician stands, 
 As in the leaguer'd castle yard 
 
 The warden with his bands. 
 He stood, and said. " My task 
 
 Is here, and here my home ; 
 And here am I. who only ask 
 
 That I be asked to come." 
 
 See how in formless flight 
 
 The ranks of darkness run, 
 E.xhale and perish in the light 
 
 Stream'd from the risen sun ; 
 How, but a drop infuse 
 
 Within the turbid bowl. 
 Of some eli.xir's virtuous juice. 
 
 It straight makes clear the whole ; 
 So from before his face 
 
 The fainting phantoms went. 
 And. in a clear and sunny place. 
 
 My soul sat down content ; 
 For — mark and understand 
 
 My ailment and my cure — 
 Love came and brought me, in his hand. 
 
 The Sweet Thought and the Pure. 
 
 SAMUEL FERGL'SIJN. 
 
 BE PATIENT. 
 Be patient, O be patient ! Put your ear against 
 
 the earth.— 
 Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the 
 
 seed hath birth ; 
 How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little 
 I way, 
 
 I Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the 
 I blade stands forth to-day. 
 
 Be patient, O be patient! for the germs of 
 I mighty thought 
 
 Must have their silent undergrowth, must under- 
 I ground be wrought ; 
 
 But as sure as ever there's a power that makes 
 
 the grass appear. 
 Our land shall smile with liberty, the blade-tinic 
 
 shall be here. 
 Be patient, O be patient ! go and watch tlu- 
 
 wheat-ears grow. 
 So imperceptibly that you can mark nor change 
 
 nor throe. 
 Day after day. day after day. till the ear is fully 
 
 grown. 
 And then again, day after day, till the ripened 
 
 field is brown. 
 Be patient. O be patient ! though yet our hopes 
 
 are green. 
 The harvest fields of Freedom shall be crowned 
 
 with sunny sheen, 
 Be ripening, be ripening ! mature your silent way. 
 Till the whole land is tongued with fire on 
 Freedom's harvest day I 
 
 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 
SJP AND SWEET. 
 
 209 
 
 THE PRICELESS THINGS. 
 
 Those are vulgar things we pay for, be they 
 stones for crowns of kings ; 
 ! While the precious and the peerless are unpriced 
 symbolic things. 
 
 Common debts are scored and cancelled, weighed 
 
 and measured out for gold ; 
 But the debts from men to ages, their account is 
 
 never told. 
 
 Always see, the noblest nations keep their high- 
 est prize unknown ; 
 
 Chseronea's marble lion frowned above unlet- 
 tered stone. 
 
 Marathon and Balaklava — who shall mete the 
 
 worth of these .' 
 Shall we huckster with our lifeboats that defy 
 
 the leaping seas ? 
 
 Ah, the Greeks knew ! Come their victors hon- 
 ored from the Sacred Games, 
 
 Under arches red with roses, flushed to hear their 
 shouted names ; 
 
 See their native cities take them, breach the wall 
 
 to make a gate ! 
 What supreme reward is theirs who bring such 
 
 honors to their State .' 
 
 In the forum stand they proudly; take their 
 
 prizes from the priest : 
 Little wreaths of pine and parsley on their naked 
 
 temples pressed I 
 
 We in later days are lower? Ay ! a manful stroke 
 is made, 
 
 And we raise a purse to pay it — making manli- 
 ness a trade. 
 
 Sacrifice itself grows venal— Midas surely will 
 
 subscribe ; 
 And the shallow-souls are satisfied when worth 
 
 accepts the bribe. 
 
 But e'en here, amidst the markets, there are things 
 
 they dare not prize ; 
 Dollars hide their sordid faces when they meet 
 
 anointed eyes. 
 
 Lovers do not speak with jewels : flowers alone 
 
 can plead for them ; 
 And one fragrant memory cherished is far dearer 
 
 than a gem. 
 
 .Statesmen steer the nation safely ; artists pass 
 
 the burning test, 
 And their country pays them proudly — with a 
 
 ribbon at the breast. 
 
 When the soldier saves the battle, wi'aps the flag 
 
 around his heart, 
 \V'h(_) shall desecrate /lis honor with the values of 
 
 the mart ? 
 
 Krom his guns of bronze we hew a iece, and 
 
 carve it as a cross : 
 Fur the gain he gave was priceless, as unpriced 
 
 would be the loss. 
 
 When the poet sings the love-song, and the song 
 
 of life and death. 
 Making millions cease their weary toil and wait 
 
 with wondering breath ; 
 
 When he gilds the mill and mine, inspires the 
 
 slave to rise and dare ; 
 Lights with love the hopeless garret, tells the 
 
 tyrant to beware ; 
 
 When he steels the pang from poverty, with 
 
 meanings new and clear. 
 Reconciling pain and peace, and bringing blessed 
 
 visions near : 
 
 I His reward } Nor cross nor ribbon, but all others 
 
 high above, 
 They may wear their splendid symbols — he has 
 earned the people's love. 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 SAD AND SWEET. 
 
 Sad is our youth, for it is ever going. 
 Crumbling away beneath our verj- feet ; 
 Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing 
 In current unperceived, because so fleet ; 
 Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing. 
 But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat ; 
 Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing. 
 And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet ; 
 And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us 
 Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; 
 And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us 
 A nearer good to cure an older ill ; [them 
 
 And sweet are all things when we learn to prize 
 Not for their sake, but His who grants them or 
 denies them ! 
 
 AUBREY DE VF.RE. 
 
POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 THE BUILDERS. 
 
 I saw the builders layinj; 
 
 Stones on the grassy sod, 
 And people praised them, saying: 
 
 •■ A fane to the mighty God 
 Shall rise aloft in glory, 
 
 Pillars and arches wide. 
 Windows stained with the story 
 
 Of Christ the Crucified." 
 
 I saw the broken boulders 
 
 Lie in the waving grass. 
 Flung down from bending shoulders, 
 
 And said our lives must pass 
 Ere wide Cathedral spreading 
 
 Can span this mossy field. 
 Where kine are. slowly treading. 
 
 And flowers their honey yield. 
 
 " Oh. dreaming builders, tarry 1 
 
 Unchain your souls from toil. 
 Leave the rock in the quarry, 
 
 The bloom upon the soil ; 
 For life is short, my brothers. 
 
 And labor wastes its sore ; 
 Why toil to gladden others 
 
 When you shall breathe no more ? 
 
 " Oh, come with footsteps springing. 
 
 With empty hands and free. 
 And tread the green earth singing, 
 
 • The world was made for me I ' 
 Pray amid nature's sweetness 
 
 In pillared forest glade, 
 Content with the incompleteness 
 
 Of fanes that the Lord has made ! " 
 
 Thj builders, never heeding, 
 
 Kept piling stone on stone ; 
 Thjir hands with toil were bleeding, — 
 
 I went my way alone ; 
 Prayed in the forest temple. 
 
 And ate the wild bee's store ; 
 My life was pure and simple. — 
 
 What would the Lord have more? 
 
 The years, like one long morning. 
 
 They all llew swiftly by ; 
 < )ld age, with little warning. 
 
 Came creeping softly nigh. 
 Now (be we all forgiven !) 
 
 I longed to see. alar. ! 
 What the builders had raised to heaven 
 
 Instead of the tender grass. 
 
 I heard a sweet bell ringing 
 
 Over the worid so wide. 
 I heard the sound of singing 
 
 Across the even-tide ; 
 What sight my soul bewilders 
 
 Beneath the sunset's glow? 
 The fane that the dreaming builders 
 
 Were building long ago ! 
 
 "Tis not the sculptured portal. 
 
 Or windows jewelled wide. 
 With joys of the life immortal. 
 
 And woes of Him who died. 
 That fill my soul with wonder. 
 
 And drain my heart of tears. 
 And ask with voice of thunder, 
 
 " Where are thy wasted years ? " 
 
 But a thousand thousand creatures 
 
 Kneel down where grew the sod, 
 And hear with glowing features 
 
 The words that breathe of Ood. 
 Alone and empty-handed. 
 
 1 wait by the open door ; 
 Such work hath the Lord commanded. 
 
 And I can work — no more ! 
 
 The builders, never heeding. 
 
 They lie and take their rest. 
 And hands no longer bleeding 
 
 Are folded on each breast. — 
 The grass waves o'er them sleeping. 
 
 And flowerets red and white, 
 Where I kneel above them weeping. 
 
 And whisper. " You were right." 
 
 ROS.V MULHOLLAND. 
 
 THE RAINBOW'S TREASURE. 
 
 Where the foot of the rainbow meets the field. 
 
 And the grass resplendent grov\-s, 
 The earth will a precious treasure yield. 
 I So the olden story goes. 
 I In a crystal cup are the diamonds piled 
 j For him who can swiftly chase 
 j Over torrent and desert and precipice wild. 
 To the rainbow's wandering base. 
 
 I There were two in the field at work, one day, 
 j Two brothers who blithely sung. 
 When across their valley's deep-winding way 
 I The glorious arch was flung ! 
 
THE SAGE—THE POET— THE SAINT. 
 
 And one saw naught but a sign of raiti, 
 And feared for his sheaves unbound ; 
 
 And one is away, over mountain and plain. 
 Till the mystical treasure is found ! 
 
 Through forest and stream, in a blissful dream, 
 
 The rainbow lured him on ; 
 With a siren's guile it loitered awhile. 
 
 Then leagues away was gone. 
 Over brake and brier he followed fleet ; 
 
 The people scoffed as he passed ; 
 But in thirst and heat, and with wounded feet. 
 
 He nears the prize at last. 
 
 It is closer and closer — he wins the race — 
 
 One strain for the goal in sight : 
 Its radiance falls on his yearning face — 
 
 The blended colors unite ! 
 He laves his brow in the iris beam — 
 
 He reaches — Ah woe ! the sound 
 From the misty gulf where he ends his dream, 
 
 And the crystal cup is found ! 
 
 'Tis the old. old story ; one man will read 
 
 His lesson of toil in the sky ; 
 While another is blind to the present need, 
 
 But sees with the spirit's eye. 
 You may grind their souls in the self same mill. 
 
 You may bind them heart and brow ; 
 But the poet will follow the rainbow still, 
 
 And his brother will follow the plough. 
 
 JOHN' BOVLE O'REILLY. 
 
 THE SAGE-THE POET-THE SAINT. 
 
 They stand with their hands outstretched in love 
 of a far-off shore — 
 
 The glow of evening around them, and a burn- 
 ing light before ; — 
 
 They gaze where the sun is setting, and tlie 
 ocean waves are rolled. 
 
 And their hearts are fain to follow that pathway 
 of reddening gold. 
 
 They stand and gaze till their faces have caught \ The Poet— his eyes are burning, his heart is a 
 
 their reflected glow. heart of fire ; 
 
 And a mystic brightness is shed o'er the things His hands have fashioned the world by the light 
 
 of the earth below, of his own desire : 
 
 When they look away from the Heaven ; and He will not tarry for knowledge,— too quickly 
 
 they cannot see aright. | the moments flee,— 
 
 For it may be their eyes are dazzled by the flood i And his is the passionate longing of the heart, 
 
 of immortal light. j that sees, to see. 
 
 In their hearts there is bitter yearning — a thirst 
 
 that is never slaked — 
 A love that can have no dying, — no creature of 
 
 Death awaked. 
 And these have the grace to tread where none 
 
 but their feet have trod ; 
 And could they but see their goal, they would 
 
 know that their goal is God. 
 
 One end to their endless longing — one aim amid 
 
 all their strife, 
 But the end is itself the way. and the aim is the 
 
 whole of life : 
 The Sage, the Poet, the Saint — we have given to 
 
 each his name. 
 But if they have all one goal, then all are at last 
 
 the same. 
 
 For we speak, and we needs must speak, of 
 
 mind and heart and soul, 
 But Spirit is ever one and an undivided whole : 
 We look but a little way — the part can see but 
 
 a part — 
 And only Thyself— O God !— canst see Thyself 
 
 as Thou art. 
 
 The Sage — ah ! we know a little of our little 
 
 things below, — 
 riut his is the restless striving of the mind, that 
 
 knows, to know. 
 He asks what is } and in asking his hands have 
 
 broken the bond 
 Of what seems — and he presses on to the one I 
 
 Am beyond. 
 
 His God is the God of Truth. Eternal and far 
 
 and dim. 
 And he knows not that in his striving God has 
 
 come near to him ; 
 He calls us, but who may follow — for whose are 
 
 the eyes to view 
 The blinding beams of the sun in his heaven of 
 
 endless blue. 
 
POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 His God is the God of Beauty.— so near, could 
 
 he only find,— 
 He sees where no others see, yet even his eyes 
 
 are blind : 
 We praise him. and start to follow, but the light 
 
 of the heart has fled. 
 And vainly we look around us. for the world lies 
 
 dark and dead. 
 
 But the Saint— his eyes are ever upturned to the 
 blue above. 
 
 And his is the endless yearning of the .soul, that 
 loves, to love : 
 
 He looks at the clear deep Heaven, whose cloud- 
 less depths may tell 
 
 Of the pure and selfless Spirit where God loves 
 best to dwell. 
 
 His Gotl is the God of Love — so far. yei so deep 
 
 within, — 
 Whom a life of longing and loving and losing self 
 
 may win : 
 He leads us, and all would follow — but we linger 
 
 from day to day. 
 And think there is time for starting, and so life 
 
 glides away. 
 
 EU.M<JNU 
 
 HOL.MliS. 
 
 IF THAT WERE TRUE. 
 
 'Tis long ago, — we have toiled and traded. 
 
 Have lost and frettetl. have gained and grieved 
 Since last the light of that fond faith faded ; 
 
 But friends — in its day — what we believed ! 
 The poets' dreams, and the peasants' stories — 
 
 Oh. never will time that trust renew ! 
 Yet they were old on the earth before us. 
 
 And lovely tales — had they been true ! 
 
 Some spake of homes in the greenwood hidden. 
 
 Where age was fearless, and youth was free- 
 Where none at life's board seemed guests un- 
 bidden. 
 
 But men had years like the forest tree : 
 Goodly and fair, and full of summer. 
 
 As lives went by when the world was new. 
 Ere ever the angel steps passed from her. — 
 
 Oh. dreamers and bards, if that were true ! 
 
 Some told us of a stainless standard. 
 
 Of hearts that only in death grew cold. 
 Whose march was ever in freedom's vanguard. 
 
 And not to be stayed by steel or gold. 
 
 The world to their very graves was debtor,— 
 The tears of her love fell there like dew ; 
 
 But there had been neither slave nor fetter 
 This day in her realms had that been true ! 
 
 Our hope grew strong as the giant-slayer. 
 
 They told that life was an honest game. 
 Where fortune favored the fairest player. 
 
 And only the false found loss and blame. 
 That men were honored for gifts and graces, 
 
 And not for the prizes folly drew ; 
 But there would be many a change of places 
 
 In hovel and hall, if that were true ! 
 
 Some said to our silent souls. What fear ye .' 
 
 And talked of a love not based on clay— 
 Of faith that would neither wane nor weary. 
 
 With all the dust of the pilgrim's day : 
 They said that fortune and time were changers. 
 
 But not by their tides such friendships grew ; 
 Oh. we had never been trustless strangers 
 
 Among our people, if that were true ! 
 
 And yet, since the fairy time hath perished. 
 
 With all its freshness, from hills and hearts. 
 The last of its love, so vainly cherished. 
 
 Is not for these days of schools and marts. 
 Up. up ! for the heavens still circle o'er us ; 
 
 There's wealth to win and there's work to do ; 
 There's a sky above and a grave before us — 
 
 And. brothers, beyond them all is true ! 
 
 KK.\NCES BKOWX. 
 
 BOOKS.-LET THERE BE LIGHT. 
 
 Light to the darkened mind 
 Bear, like the sun. the world s wide circle round. 
 Bright messengers that speak without a sound ; 
 
 Light on the spirit blind 
 Shall fall where'er ye pass ; your living ray 
 Shall change the night of ages into day ; — 
 
 God speed ye on your way. 
 
 In closet and in hall 
 Too long alone your message hath been spoken. 
 The spell of gold that bound ye there is broken ; 
 
 Go forth and shine on all. 
 The world's inheritance, the legacy * 
 
 Bequeathed by genius to the race are ye ; 
 
 Be like the sunlight, free. 
 
BLINDNESS. 
 
 ■13 
 
 A mighty power ye wield ; 
 Ye wake grim centuries from their deep repose, 
 And bid their hoarded treasuries unclose, 
 
 The spoils of time to yield. 
 Ye hold the gift of immortality ; 
 Bard, sage, and seer, whose fame shall never die, 
 
 Live thro' your ministry. 
 
 Noiseless upon your path. 
 Freighted with lore, romance, and song, ye speed, 
 Moving the world, in custom and in creed. 
 
 Waking its love or wrath ; 
 Tyrants, that blanch not on the battle-plain. 
 Quail at your silent coming, and in vain 
 
 Would bind the riven chain. 
 
 Shrines that embalm great souls, [hold. 
 
 Where yet the illustrious dead high converse 
 As gods spake through their oracles of old, 
 
 Upon your mystic scrolls. 
 There lives a spell to guide our destiny, — 
 The fire by night, the pillared cloud by day. 
 
 Upon our upward way. 
 
 ANNE C. L. BOTTA. 
 
 BLINDNESS.' 
 
 Farewell, farewell, spice-islands of my childhood, 
 
 Where I have lingered long ! 
 Farewell the glories of the vale and wildwood. 
 
 The laughter and the song ! 
 Farewell the sunny pleasures you inherit — 
 
 For I am drifting forth ; 
 My helm deserted by my Guardian Spirit, 
 
 My prow unto the North ! 
 
 The golden shores of sunshine round me spread- 
 Refuse a boon of light ; [ing. 
 
 And fast my shattered soul is deathward head- 
 Wrecked on a sea of night ! . [ing. 
 
 There is no angry tempest flapping sunward 
 Its black wings through the air ; 
 
 The ruin, in a calm, is hurried onward 
 Through channels of despair. 
 
 Around me is a darkness omnipresent 
 
 With boundless horror grim, 
 Descending from the zenith, ever crescent. 
 
 To the horizon's rim ; 
 
 The golden stars, all charred and blackened by it. 
 
 Are swept out one by one ; 
 My world is left, as if a Joshua's fiat — 
 
 A moonless Ajalon ! 
 
 How long, O Lord ! I cry, in bitter anguish. 
 
 Must I be doomed, alone, [guish. 
 
 A chained and blinded Samson — thus to lan- 
 
 In e.xile from the sun .' 
 Or must I hope for evermore surrender, 
 
 And turn my eyes on high. 
 To find, instead of brave and azure splendor, 
 
 A black cloud on the sky ? 
 
 Come nearer to me. Soother of my sorrow. 
 
 And place your hand in mine ; 
 That my o'er-darkened soul shall, haply, borrow 
 
 A little light from thine : 
 That, bearing all which fortune has commanded 
 
 Until my fortunes end. 
 The Crusoe-land on which I may be stranded 
 
 Shall have at least a friend ! 
 
 And read aloud some wisdom-given volume — 
 
 The work of golden hours — 
 In which the stately thoughts rise like a column 
 
 Crowned with Corinthian flowers — 
 In which the epic Greek moves, solemn sounding, 
 
 With he.xametric sweep ; 
 And every line has some fine pulses, bounding 
 
 With passion grand and deep I 
 
 Or read to me once more that burning ballad 
 
 Compact of passionate fire. [pallid. 
 
 Which bright-eyed Sappho, fond, and fierce, and 
 
 Swept from her sounding lyre — 
 That larger utterance of a glorious woman 
 
 The Palmyrene preserved. 
 To show how like a frantic god's, the human 
 
 Spirit is subtly nerved I 
 
 Or rather read how Aja.x prayed, when round him 
 
 Were corpses cold and stark. 
 And plotting deities had closely bound him 
 
 In vapors dim and dark — 
 Read how he prayed to Jove with eager passion 
 
 To sweep away the night — 
 That he might meet his fate in hero fashion, 
 
 And perish in the light ! 
 
 Since then a greater hero fought and perished. 
 
 Within a silent room ; 
 And, as our Goethe felt that all he cherished 
 
 Was sinking into gloom — 
 
/OEM^ UJ- RLl t.l. 
 
 As o'er his features stole the fatal pallor. 
 
 He looked above and cried— 
 In echo of that prayer of Grecian valor— 
 
 " More light, O Lord !" — and died ! 
 
 That cry is mine, my friend ! but uttered vainly — 
 
 The ear of Hcav'n is deaf ! 
 And I may persevere in prayer, insanely, 
 
 And win no true relief ! 
 Close up the books, for grim and ghastly darkness 
 
 Has settled over all— 
 My soul is wrapped for evermore in starkness. 
 
 Within this funeral pall ! 
 
 Farewell, farewell, spice-islands of my childhood. 
 
 Where I have lingered long ! 
 Farewell the glories of the vale and wildwood. 
 
 The laughter and the song ! 
 Farewell the sunny pleasures you inherit — 
 
 For I am drifting forth ; 
 My helm deserted by my Guardian Spirit, 
 
 My prow unto the North ! 
 
 JOSEPH BRENAN. 
 
 THE TOUCHSTONE. 
 
 A man there came, whence none could tell. 
 Bearing a touchstone in his hand ; 
 And tested all things in the land 
 
 By its unerring spell. 
 
 Quick birth of transmutation smote 
 The fair to foul, the foul to fair ; 
 Purple nor ermine did he spare. 
 
 Nor scorn the dusty coat. 
 
 Of heir-loom jewels prized so much. 
 
 Were many changed to chips and clods, 
 And even statues of the gods 
 
 Crumbled beneath his touch. 
 
 Then angrily the people cried. 
 
 " The loss outweighs the profit far ; 
 
 Our goods suffice us as they are ; 
 We will not have them tried." 
 
 And since they could not so avail 
 To check his unrelenting quest. 
 They seized him. saying — " Let him test 
 
 How real is our jail ! " 
 
 But, though they slew him with the sword. 
 And in a fire his touchstone burn'd. 
 Its doings could not be o'erturn"d. 
 
 Its undoings restored. 
 
 And when, to stop all future harm, 
 
 They strew'd its ashes on the breeze ; 
 They little guessed each grain of these 
 
 Conveyed the fwrfect charm. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLI.VGHAM. 
 
 IMPLICIT FAITH. 
 
 Of all great Nature's tones that sweep 
 Earth's resonant bosom, far or near. 
 
 Low-breathed or loudest, shrill or deep. 
 Few, few are grasp'd by mortal ear. 
 
 Ten octaves close our scale of sound ; 
 
 Its myriad grades, distinct or twined, 
 Transcend our hearing's petty bound. 
 
 To us as«colors to the blind. 
 
 In sound's unmeasured empire thus 
 The heights, the depths alike we miss : 
 
 Ah, but in iiu-asitrcU sound, to us 
 A compensating spell there is ! 
 
 In holy music's golden speech 
 Remotest notes to notes respond : 
 
 Each octave is a world ; yet each 
 Vibrates to worlds its own beyond. 
 
 Our narrow'pale the vast resumes; 
 
 Our sea-shell whispers of the sea : 
 Echoes are ours of angel plumes 
 
 That winnow for infinity ! 
 
 Clasp thou of Truth the central core ! 
 
 Hold fast that center's central sense ! 
 An atom there shall fill thee more 
 
 Than realms on Truth's circumference. 
 
 That cradled Saviour, mute and small. 
 Was God — is God while worlds endure. 
 
 Who holds truth truly holds it all 
 In essence, or in miniature. 
 
 Know that thou know'st ! He knowcth much 
 Who knows not many things ; and he 
 
 Knows most whose knowledge hath a touch 
 Of God's divine simplicity. 
 
 AUBREY T. DE VERE. 
 
t LA V SERMON. 
 
 THE COURSE OF EMPIRE. 
 
 On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in 
 America. 
 
 The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime 
 
 Barren of every glorious theme, 
 In distant lands now waits a better time, 
 
 Producing subjects worthy fame ; 
 
 In happy climes, when from the genial sun 
 And virgin earth such scenes ensue, 
 
 The force of art by nature seems outdone. 
 And fancied beauties by the true ; 
 
 In happy climes, the seat of innocence. 
 Where nature guides and virtue rules. 
 
 Where men shall not impose for truth and sense 
 The pedantry of courts and schools. 
 
 There shall be sung another golden age. 
 
 The rise of empires and of arts. 
 The good and great uprising epic rage, 
 
 The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 
 
 Not such as Europe breeds in her decay ; 
 
 Such as she bred when fresh and young, 
 When heavenly flame did animate her clay. 
 
 By future poets shall be sung. 
 
 Westward the course of empire takes its way ; 
 
 The four first acts already past, 
 A fifth shall close the drama with the day ; 
 
 Time's noblest offspring is the last. 
 
 GEORGE BERKELEY. 
 
 A LAY SERMON. 
 
 Brother, do you love your brother ? 
 
 Brother, are you all you seem } 
 Do you live for more than living } 
 
 Has your Life a law, and scheme .'' 
 Are you prompt to bear its duties. 
 
 As a bra\e man may beseem ? 
 
 Brother, shun the mist exhaling 
 From the fen of pride and doubt. 
 
 Neither seek the house of bondage 
 Walling straitened souls about ; — 
 
 Bats ! who, from their narrow spy-hole 
 Cannot see a world without. 
 
 Anchor in no stagnant shallow — 
 Trust the wide and woundrous sea. 
 
 Where the tides are fresh forever. 
 And the mighty currents free ; 
 
 There, perchance, O I young Columbus, 
 Your New World of truth may be. 
 
 Favor will not make deserving — 
 (Can the sunshine brighten clay?) 
 
 Slowly must it grow to blossom. 
 Fed by labor and delay, 
 
 And the fairest bud of promise 
 Bears the taint of quick decay. 
 
 You must strive for better guerdons ; 
 
 Strive to be the thing you'd seem ; 
 Be the thing that God hath made you, 
 
 Channel for no borrowed stream ; 
 He hath lent you mind and conscience ; 
 
 See you travel in their beam I 
 
 See you scale life's misty highlands 
 
 By this light of living truth ! 
 And with bosom braced for labor. 
 
 Breast them in your manly youth ; 
 So when age and care have found you, 
 
 Shall your downward path be smooth. 
 
 Fear not on that rugged highway 
 Life may want its lawful zest ; 
 
 Sunny glens are in the mountain. 
 Where the weary feet may rest. 
 
 Cooled in streams that gush forever 
 From a loving mother's breast. 
 
 " Simple heart and simple pleasures," 
 So they write life's golden rule; 
 
 Honor won by supple baseness. 
 State that crowns a cankered fool, 
 
 Gleam as gleam the gold and purple 
 On a hot and rancid pool. 
 
 Wear no show of wit or science. 
 
 But the gems you've won and weighed : 
 
 Thefts, like ivy on a ruin. 
 
 Make the rifts they seem to shade : 
 
 Are you not a thief and beggar 
 In the rarest spoils arrayed ? 
 
 Shadows deck a sunny landscape. 
 Making brighter all the bright ; 
 
 So, my brother, care and danger 
 On a loving nature light, 
 
 Bringing all its latent beauties 
 Out upon the common sight. 
 
2l6 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 Love the things that God created. 
 
 ^fake your brother's need your care ; 
 Scorn and hate repel (.od's blessings, 
 
 But where love is. they are there ; 
 As the moonbeams light the waters. 
 
 Leasing rock and sand-bank bare. 
 
 Thus, my brother, grow and flourish. 
 
 Fearing none and loving all ; 
 For the true man needs no patron. 
 
 He shall climb and never crawl ; 
 Two things fashion their own channel— 
 
 The strong man and the waterfall. 
 
 CHARLES UAVAN DUFFY. 
 
 CASTE AND CREED. 
 
 Come, man ! your hand, a brother sings, 
 
 Or silken be't or sergy ; 
 The wars of nations leave to kings. 
 
 And those of creeds to clergy ; 
 And taste with us that grand sublime 
 
 Which zests your ever)' other. 
 By holding man, whate'er his clime. 
 
 His caste, or creed, a hrother ! 
 May all who'd show opposing views. 
 
 Their harvests find tremendous. 
 While, oh, from such, and from their dues. 
 
 The Lord of love defend us. 
 
 What, tho' the waves should walk the air, 
 
 Betwixt each earthly acre ; 
 What, though each hill a differing prayr 
 
 Should offer to its Maker ; — 
 Do these make men the less akin, 
 
 Or plead for hate and slaughter ? 
 If so, whate'er the weight of sin. 
 
 It lies with hills and water. 
 Ah. if, indeed, ye hold a creed 
 
 That conscience calls a high one, 
 Then hold it for your spirit's need. 
 
 And not a scourge for my one ! 
 
 We've fair, we've foul in every clime, 
 
 In every creed and calling ; 
 We've men to sport their chaff sublime 
 
 O'er every feather's falling ; 
 We've men of straw, of stick, of stone. 
 
 We've soul whose flavor such is 
 If, loathing virtue — blood and bone. 
 
 Adores x!a& ghost on crutches! 
 
 Ah, virtue, ever in our throats. 
 Much wear and tear attend thee ! 
 
 Tor, wear thou wilt, as wear our coats. 
 But, faith, 'tis worse to mend thee ! 
 
 Still wherefore make the wordy moan 
 
 O'er ills that mayn't be mended. 
 Where will's so weak that thousands groan 
 
 In guilt they ne'er intended .' 
 Our own poor mite of righteous ways 
 
 Let's hold from frost and ferment. 
 But not for crowds or stated days. 
 
 Like Save-all's Sabbath garment ! 
 Let's clear our light to show the right. 
 
 To aid in its e.\tending ; 
 And, loathe the bile would green the sight 
 
 O'er any Worth's ;iscending ! 
 
 My neighbor's weal is weal to me, 
 
 If reared not on my ruin ; 
 And though for what I feel or be, 
 
 He'd care no more than Bruin, 
 I'd say, enjoy your silken share, — 
 
 Yea, as I hope for heaven ; 
 For Coin and Care a wedded pair 
 
 Are six times out of seven ! 
 Miss Fortune trips a painted porch. 
 
 Too oft in slippery sandal. 
 Where coldlicr glares her gilded torch 
 
 Than Misery's farthing candle ! 
 
 Then creeds and classes, to-or-fro, 
 
 They smile with each, my brother I 
 We must have sun, and shade, and snow, — 
 
 They'll come to aid each other ! 
 Let matter, too, enjoy its grades 
 
 Nor deem it an unsound thing, — 
 'Twere just as wise to measure blades 
 
 Because the world's a round thing. 
 We must have low, we must have high. 
 
 And many a niche between them ; 
 The height may be a tinselled lie— 
 
 The men are what's within them I 
 
 And mark me. men, a day shall dawn 
 
 When neither serge nor ermine. 
 Nor clime nor class, shall make the man. 
 
 Nor creed nor worth determine ! 
 'Twill come, 'twill come, and come to stand- 
 
 The cast of Love-i.h:ht Stature. 
 When love alone, where'er your land. 
 
 Shall tell the who and -uiliat you're ! 
 
.STAN'S MISSION. 
 
 God send it soon, in peace — in might, ' 
 God guide its rear and vanguard ; 
 
 Hurrah for Love ! for Light ! for Right! 
 The mind, and moral standard ! 
 
 Then, brother man, if ail agreed. 
 
 Though live we may'nt to see such, 
 Let's tack this trifle to our creed. 
 
 And chant a long " So be such ! " 
 All knavish souls, or high or low. 
 
 May conscience-cuffs distress them ; 
 But honest hearts, where'er they grow. 
 
 The King of Kingdoms bless them ! 
 May all who hold a sicklier thought. 
 
 Hold bitters too, to mend it; 
 But bless, O Heaven, the better taught ! — 
 
 Their teaching. Lord defend it ! 
 
 FRANCIS DAVIS. 
 
 OUR KIND OF A MAN. 
 
 The kind of a man for you and me ! 
 
 He faces the world unflinchingly, 
 
 And smites as long as the wrong resists. 
 
 With a knuckled faith and force like-tists ; 
 
 He lives the life he is preaching of, 
 
 And loves where most is the need of love ; 
 
 His voice is clear to the deaf man's ears, [tears; 
 
 And his face sublime through the blind man's 
 
 The light shines out where the clouds were dim. 
 
 And the widow's prayer goes up for him ; 
 
 The latch is clicked at the hovel door, 
 
 And the sick man sees the sun once more, 
 
 And out o'er the barren field he sees 
 
 Springing blossoms and waving trees. 
 
 Feeling, as only the dying may, 
 
 That God's own servant has come that way. 
 
 Smoothing the path as it still winds on [gone. 
 
 Through the golden gate where his loved have 
 
 The kind of a man for me and you. 
 However little of worth we do : 
 He credits full, and abides in trust 
 That time will teach us how more is just. 
 He walks abroad and he meets all kinds 
 Of querulous and uneasy minds. 
 And, sympathizing, he shares the pain 
 Of the doubts that rack us, heart and brain. 
 And, knowing this, as we grasp his hand. 
 We are surely coming to understand ! 
 He looks on sin with pitying eyes — 
 E'en as the Lord, since Paradise- 
 
 Else, should we read, though our sins should glow 
 As scarlet, they should be white as snow ! 
 And feeling still, with a grief half glad 
 That the bad are as good as the good are bad, 
 He strikes straight out for the Right — and he 
 Is the kind of a man for you and nie ! 
 
 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 
 
 MAN'S MISSION. 
 
 Human lives are silent teaching — 
 
 Be they earnest, mild, and true — 
 Noble deeds are noblest preaching 
 
 From the consecrated few. 
 Poet-Priests their anthems singing, 
 Hero-swoids on corselet ringing. 
 
 When Truth's banner is unfurled ; 
 Youthful preachers, genius-gifted. 
 Pouring forth their souls uplifted. 
 
 Till their preaching stirs the world. 
 
 Each must work as God has given 
 
 Hero hand or poet soul — 
 Work is duty while we live in 
 
 This weird world of sin and dole. 
 Gentle spirits, lowly kneeling. 
 Lift their white hands up, appealing 
 
 To the throne of Heaven's King — 
 Stronger natures, culminating. 
 In great actions incarnating 
 
 What another can but sing. 
 
 Pure and meek-eyed as an angel. 
 
 We must strive — must agonize ; 
 We must preach the saint's evangel 
 
 Ere we claim the saintly prize — 
 Work for all — for work is holy — 
 We fulfill our mission solely 
 
 When, like Heaven's arch above. 
 Blend our souls in one emblazon, 
 And the social diapason 
 
 Sounds the perfect chord of love. 
 
 Life is combat, life is striving. 
 
 Such our destiny below — 
 Like a scythed chariot driving 
 
 Through an onward pressing foe. 
 Deepest sorrow, scorn, and trial 
 Will but teach us self-denial ; 
 
 Like the alchemists of old, 
 Pass the ore through cleansing fire 
 If our spirits would aspire 
 
 To be God's refined gold. 
 
2l8 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 We are struggling in the morning 
 
 With the spirit of the night. 
 But we trample on its scorning — 
 
 Lo ! the eastern sky is bright. 
 We must watch. The day is breaking ; 
 Soon, like Memnon's statue waking 
 
 With the sunrise into sound. 
 We shall raise our voice to Heaven, 
 Chant a hymn for conquest given, 
 
 Seize the palm, nor heed the wound. 
 
 We must bend our thoughts to earnest, 
 
 Would we strike the idols down ; 
 With a purpose of the sternest 
 
 Take the Cross, and wait the Crown. 
 Sufferings human life can hallow. 
 Sufferings lead to Cod's \'alhalla ; — 
 
 Meekly bear, but nobly try. 
 Like a man with soft tears flowing. 
 Like a God with conquest glowing, 
 
 So to love, and work, and die! 
 
 L.\DY WILDE. 
 
 THE MISSIONER. 
 
 He stood upon the mountains bare. 
 The sunlight pierced the cold blue air; 
 Kar off a lonely waterfall 
 Crashed through a roughened granite wall, 
 Up from the cliff the eagle rose 
 Over a land of blackest woes. 
 And as the watcher gazeth down 
 Through the dim haze of field and town 
 He crieth, with cheek of burning hue, 
 ■• Work ! there lies work for a man to do. 
 
 •• Hearts beat there, to blcnil and mould. 
 Sifting the clay from the precious gold, 
 Girding the brave for the cause of right. 
 To wage against wrong a gallant fight ; 
 To lift the cloud from the darken'd brain 
 And light it up with God's fire again, 
 Unfurling the flag of the good and true — 
 This is the work for a man to do." 
 
 And he went forth — a Missioner, 
 Down from that mountain, cold and bare, 
 With a heart as fresh as a holy well. 
 And a tongue as sweet as a honey cell. 
 Round him a nation's strength and pride, 
 .Ml bent before that resistless tide — 
 The seed was sown and it quickly grew — 
 That was the work which a man could do. 
 
 But ere the reaping th' Evangelist 
 P'rora the face of the land he loved was missed 
 He trod the path of the yellow stars. 
 Free from the earth and its slimy wars — 
 Free ! yet his spirit dwelt with those 
 Who waged the strife with freedom's foes. 
 And his voice was heard 'mid the good and tnu . 
 " I've shown ye the work for men to do." 
 
 JOH.\ KEEr.AN CASHV. 
 
 THE MAN OF WISDOM. 
 
 The man that's wise to know all things aspires. 
 But first the knowledge of himself desires ; 
 How far the compass of his strength can go. 
 But his own weakness studies most to know. 
 
 He reasons more by practice than by rule ; 
 His logic's learned in obser\ation's school ; 
 Taught by experience truly to reflect. 
 Can first himself and then his friends direct ; 
 He ne'er suspends but in a doubtful case. 
 Ne'er doubts where resolution should take place ; 
 Of every needful thing just care does take, 
 But's most concerned for his immortal stake ; 
 Without that scope counts fruitless each cd- 
 
 deavor. 
 Nor would be happy once if not forever. 
 
 Himself best knowing, best himself can trust ; 
 Others, so far as he has proved them just : 
 The world may him deceive, but ne'er abuse. 
 Who trusts no more than he can bear to lose. 
 While close retirement is to him a screen. 
 Himself looks thro,' but sees the world unseen. 
 Yet shows, when forced the daylight to abide. 
 Prudence, not affectation, made him hide ; 
 Does never causeless from his purpose range ; 
 When reason calls he never fears to change. 
 From everything instruction he can draw. 
 And from him each instruction i . a law. 
 
 To ages past his nimble thoughts can climb ; 
 In things to come prevent the speed of time ; 
 Unborn events by past events foretell. 
 And in conjecture be prophetical. 
 
 Hi 
 
 he ne'er suffers to rebel. 
 
 Or h.astens their first mutiny to quell; 
 By honor's light, in all his projects sails, 
 .\n(l boards a second when a former fails , 
 Makes disappointment but improve his skill, 
 ! And fetches strength fro:n v.hct succeeded ill. 
 
SWEETNESS. 
 
 219 
 
 Some wrongs he sees not, but with silent art 
 Dissembles wounds too powerful foes impart ; 
 Loves to owe less in good turns than he may ; 
 For bad, would be in debt and never pay : 
 Censures unjust or just alike to him : 
 Those he deserves not, these he can contemn ; 
 Slights scandal, lays no violent hands on blame. 
 Gives slander scope till it expires with shame. 
 His joys no fears, his hopes know no despairs ; 
 Safe in the circle of his own affairs, 
 From others' strife he timely does retire. 
 Nor thrusts his hand into a needless fire ; 
 He best the purchase of his wit can tell, 
 And how to value, keep and use it well ; 
 Himself his own best lawyer, and his skill 
 His readiest and most faithful oracle. 
 
 NAHUM TATE. 
 
 WILL THEY RETURN ? 
 
 I heard the naked fields and leafless woods make 
 For the sweet spring, [moan 
 
 For hawthorn bloom and primrose breath, and 
 wild bee's drone. 
 And flash of butterflies on elfin wing. 
 
 j I heard the silver sands in starlight chill make 
 For the bright sea, [moan 
 
 Whose feet with mocking fugues had left them 
 parched and lone. 
 And still in sapphire ripples seemed to flee. 
 
 I I heard the widowed skies, all sable-robed make 
 For the glad sun, [moan 
 
 For all their depths of blue, with radiant gold- 
 veins sown, 
 And rainbow-woofs from melting cloud-flakes 
 spun. 
 
 I heard a hero's heart at every throb make moan 
 
 For hopes once bright ; 
 For dreams of glory waned like witch-fires from 
 their throne. 
 For daylight's rising cressets quenched in 
 deadly night. 
 
 Spring shall come back to you, sere woods and 
 wind-swept plains ! 
 The rose shall blush ; 
 The throstle and the nightingale shall raise their 
 strains, 
 And thousand brooklets with sweet babble 
 gush. 
 
 [ Bleak sands, ye soon shall feel the ocean's soft 
 Like mother's love ; [caress, 
 
 O widowed skies, your spouse shall come again 
 to bless 
 With tingent kisses all below.— above ; 
 
 But thou, O heart, beat on and make thy cease- 
 Ask not for rest ! [less moan. 
 1 When the slain eagle soars, shall freedom's hopes 
 once flown. 
 Return to their cold nest ! 
 
 FANNY PARNELL. 
 
 ACCORDANCE. 
 
 He who with bold and skilful hand sweeps o'er 
 The organ-keys of some cathedral pile. 
 Flooding with music vault and nave and aisle. 
 Though on his ear falls but a thundrous roar ; 
 In the composer's lofty motive free. 
 Knows well that all that temple, vast and dim. 
 Thrills to its base with anthem, psalm and hymn. 
 True to the changeless laws of harmony. 
 So he who on these changing chords of life 
 With firm, sweet touch plays the Great Master's 
 Of truth and love, and duty, evermore, [score 
 Knows, too, that far beyond this roar and strife. 
 Though he may never hear, in the true time, 
 These notes must all accord in symphonies 
 sublime. 
 
 ANNE C. L. BOTTA. 
 
 SWEETNESS. 
 
 The honey-bee that wanders all day long 
 The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er, 
 To gather in his fragrant winter store. 
 Humming in calm content his quiet song. 
 Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast, 
 The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips, — 
 But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips 
 The single drop of sweetness closely prest 
 Within the poison chalice. Thus if we 
 Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet 
 In all the varied human flowers we meet 
 In the wide garden of humanity. 
 And, like the bee, if home the spoils we bear. 
 Hived in our hearts, it turns to nectar there. 
 
 ANNE C. L. BOTTA. 
 
POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 THE SPINNER. 
 
 The spinner twisted her slender thread 
 
 , As she sat and spun : 
 " The earth and the heavens are mine." she said, 
 
 " And the mcwn and sun ; 
 Into my web the sunlight goes, 
 
 And the breath of May.— 
 And the crimson life of the new-blown rose. 
 
 That was born to-day." 
 
 The spinner sang in that hush of noon, 
 
 And her song was low : — 
 •' Oh morning, you pass away too soon. 
 
 You are swift to go; 
 My heart o'erflows like a brimming cup 
 
 With its hopes and fears, — 
 Love, come and drink its sweetness up 
 
 Ere it turn to tears ! " 
 
 The spinner looked at the falling sun : 
 
 " Is it time to rest .' 
 My hands are weary, my work is done, 
 
 I have wrought my best ; — 
 I have spun and woven with patient eyes. 
 
 And with fingers fleet ; 
 Lo ! where the toil of a lifetime lies, 
 
 In a winding sheet ! " 
 
 MAKV AINGE DE VERE. 
 
 Have done with fruitless yearning — 
 ' Know ye not there's no returning ? 
 
 : The wrathful sea's between ye and your far 
 I fatherland. 
 
 The worst it threatens, brave ye ! 
 Now from yourselves I save ye, 
 Lo, the ships that bore ye hither ablaze up 
 the strand I 
 
 IN A STRANGE LAND. 
 
 Behold your quest is ended. 
 And the new land, strange and splendid. 
 No longer luring from afar, is firm beneath your [ 
 tread ; 
 And the way is free before ye, | 
 
 The skies unclouded o'er ye. 
 And the past is dusk and darkness, and the dead I 
 have earthed their dead. 
 
 Raise yoiir Cross and raise your Altar — 
 Why pale ye thus and falter ? 
 Are ye men or love-lorn maidens ? — ye late were 
 stern and brave. 
 What's worth a strong man's weeping? 
 The new land hath in keeping 
 The most the old could give ye— a death-dart 
 and a grave. 
 
 KAIHERINE E. CONW. 
 
 MORN. 
 
 Morn is the time to wake- 
 
 The eyelids to unclose— 
 Spring from the arms of Sleep, and break 
 
 The fetters of repose ; 
 Walk at the dewy dawn abroad, 
 And hold sweet fellowship with God. 
 
 Morn is the time to pray : 
 
 How lovely and how meet 
 To send our earliest thoughts away 
 
 Up to the mercy seat ! 
 Embassadors, for us to claim 
 A blessing in our Master's name. 
 
 Morn is the time to sing : 
 
 How lovely 'tis to hear 
 The mingling notes of Nature ring 
 
 In the delighted ear ! 
 And with that swelling anthem raise 
 The soul's fresh matin song of praise I 
 
 Morn is the time to sow 
 
 The seeds of heavenly truth. 
 While balmy breezes softly blow 
 
 Upon the soil of youth ; 
 And look to thee, nor look in vain, 
 O God, for sunshine and for rain. 
 
 Mom is the time to love : 
 
 As tendrils of the vine, 
 The young affections fondly rove, 
 
 And seek them where to twine. 
 Around thyself, in thine embrace. 
 Lord, let them find their resting place ! 
 
 Morn is the time to shine. 
 
 When skies are clear and blue, — 
 Reflect the rays of light divine 
 
 As morning dew-drops do : 
 Like early stars, be early bright. 
 And melt away like them in light. 
 
\tlFE. 
 
 Mom is the time to weep 
 
 O'er morning's hours misspent : 
 
 Alas ! how oft from peaceful sleep, 
 On folly madly bent, 
 
 We've left the straight and narrow road, 
 
 And wandered from our guardian, God ! 
 
 Morn is the time to think. 
 
 While thoughts are fresh and free. 
 
 Of life just balanced on the brink 
 Of dark eternity ! 
 
 And ask our souls if they are meet 
 
 To stand before the judgment seat. 
 
 Morn is the time to die. 
 
 Just at the dawn of day, — 
 When stars are fading in the sky. 
 
 To fade like them away : 
 But lost in light more brilliant far 
 Than ever r^erged the morning star. 
 
 Morn is the time to rise. 
 
 The resurrection morn, — 
 Upspringing to the glorious skies. 
 
 On new-found pinions borne, 
 To meet the Saviour's smile divine : — 
 Be such ecstatic rising mine ! 
 
 JANE L. GRAY. 
 
 THE PASSING DAYS. 
 
 How swift and noiseless, on viewless pinions, 
 The sunny hours of our life flit past ; 
 
 The priceless moments drift by us idly 
 A5 falling leaves in the autumn blast. 
 
 We turn aside from life's toils and duties 
 To mourn the glad hours forever gone ; 
 
 We let the present glide by unheeded. 
 And sigh for days that may never dawn. 
 
 We vainly dream of some bright ideal. 
 Some Spirit-Eden of light and bloom. 
 
 To draw the soul from the boundless real 
 That must await it beyond the tomb. 
 
 He from, whose breath leap the passing ages. 
 Who bids them onward forever roll, 
 
 Alone can answer the spirit-cravings 
 That ever spring in the deathless soul. 
 
 Oh, may we grasp at the fleeting moments, 
 1 And make each day, as He bids it come, 
 I A golden round in life's upward ladder. 
 To lift our footsteps the nearer home. 
 
 Life here should be a harmonious poem. 
 Whose breathing numbers could never die — 
 
 A song of praise, on whose strains melodious 
 The soul might soar to its home on high. 
 
 If no harsh note mars its mellow music, 
 No jarring discord of hate or wrong 
 
 Disturbs the flow of the magic numbers 
 
 That sweetly blend in that deathless song, — 
 
 Then, when our life-hymn at last is finished. 
 When sleeps the clay in its kindred sod. 
 
 Rejoicing angels shall chant its anthem 
 Before the throne of the Author — God. 
 
 .MARY A. MciMULLIN. 
 
 THE SIRENS 
 
 Ulysses, sailing past the Sirens' isle, [fast 
 
 Sealed first his comrades' ears, then bade them 
 Bind him with many a fetter to the mast. 
 Lest those sweet voices should their soul beguile. 
 And to their ruin flatter them, the while 
 
 j Their homeward bark was swiftly sailing past .' 
 And thus the peril they behind them cast, 
 Tho' chased by those weird voices many a mile. 
 
 i But yet a nobler cunning Orpheus used ; 
 No fetter he put on, nor stopped his ear; 
 
 \ But ever, as he passed, sang high and clear. 
 The blisses of the gods, their holy joys. 
 And with diviner melody confused 
 And marred earth's sweetest music to a noise. 
 
 RICHARD CHENKVIX TRENCH. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Life, believe, is not a dream. 
 
 So dark as sages say ; 
 Oft a little morning rain 
 
 Foretells a pleasant day; 
 Sometimes there are clouds of gloom. 
 
 But these are transient all ; 
 If the shower will make the roses bloc 
 Oh, why lament its fall ? 
 Rapidly, merrily, 
 Life's sunny hours flit by ; 
 
 Gratefully, cheerfully, 
 Enjoy them as they fly. 
 
POEMS OF REJECTION. 
 
 What though Death at times steps in 
 
 And calls our best away ? 
 What though Sorrow seems to win 
 
 Oer Hope a hea\7 sway ? 
 Yet Hope again elastic springs, 
 
 Unconquered, though she fell ; 
 Still buoyant are her golden wings, 
 Still strong to bear us well. 
 Manfully, fearlessly, 
 The day of trial bear ; 
 
 For gloriously, victoriously, 
 Can courage quell despair. 
 
 CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 VESUVIUS. 
 
 I. 
 
 As when unto a mother, having chid 
 Her child in anger, there have straight ensued 
 Repentings for her quick and angry mood. 
 Till she would fain see all its traces hid 
 Quite out of sight— even so has Nature bid 
 Fair flowers, that on the scarred earth she has 
 
 strewed, 
 To blossom, and called up the taller wood 
 To cover what she ruined and undid. 
 Oh ! and her mood of anger did not last 
 More than an instant, but her work of peace, 
 Restoring and repairing, comforting 
 The earth, her stricken child, will never cease ; 
 For that was her strange work, and quickly past. 
 To this her genial toil no end the years shall bring. 
 
 H. 
 That her destroying fury was with noise 
 And sudden uproar ; but far otherwise. 
 With silent and with secret mysteries. 
 Her skill of renovation she employs : 
 For Nature, only loud when she destroys. 
 Is silent when she fashions ; she will crowd 
 The work of her destruction, transient, loud, 
 Into an hour, and then long peace enjoys. 
 Yea, every power that fashions and upholds 
 Works silently,— all things, whose life is sure 
 Their life is calm ; silent the light that moulds 
 And colors all things ; and without debate 
 The stars, which are for ever to endure, (state. 
 Assume their thrones and their unquestioned 
 
 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 
 GIVET, 
 
 " O Peregrine I 
 What saw you in (iivet ?" 
 
 •■ O friend of mine ! 
 An arm so graceful and so fair. 
 That flashed a moment in the air, 
 From out a mansard window high 
 Above the slow-awaking street. 
 The misty morning breeze to try. 
 The misty morning light to greet. 
 No fairer reached the first fair arm 
 Into the boughs in Paradise, 
 And through the break let in the harm 
 Of light on two unguarded eyes. 
 Than this one in Givet, 
 O friend of mine !" 
 
 " O Peregrine ! 
 What saw you in Givet ?" 
 
 •• O friend of mine ! 
 Three hundred white caps bobbing up. 
 Three hundred bobbing down, to stop 
 Or speed the fierce-fought bargaining 
 Upon the swarming market-place. 
 Where eager Flemish women sing 
 The song of travail of their race. 
 On Babel's mart to women first 
 The shock of many strange tongues came; 
 And worry of that hour accurst 
 Still works in them ; so do not blame 
 
 The women of Givet, 
 O friend of mine !" 
 
 HI. 
 
 •' O Peregrine ! 
 What saw you in Givet?" 
 
 •' O friend of mine ! 
 The church so spacious and so white. 
 In from the misty morning light- 
 Not dead, but pulsing with the blood 
 Of the expiring sacrifice ; 
 Ne.ir which men-bearing women stood 
 And gazed entranced with tearful eyes, 
 Or kissed with loving lips the ground. 
 Like them that stole at set of sun 
 Beneath the outstretched arms, and round 
 The feet of the All-saving One ! 
 I saw this in Givet, 
 O friend of mine !" 
 
 JOHN PATRICK BROWN. 
 
THE WELL'S SECRET. 
 
 223 
 
 MY ARGOSY. 
 
 My thoughts are outward in their flight, 
 
 And restless as the foam 
 Through which a good ship holds to-night 
 
 Her westward pathway home ; 
 I see her trail her sable crest, 
 
 And spread her wings of speed. 
 While every stanchion in her breast 
 
 Is trembling like a reed. 
 With gallant pride she flings aside 
 
 The waves in angry foam. 
 And night or day I watch her way. 
 
 And sing her welcome home. 
 
 Last eve I saw her outward bound, 
 
 Her canvas on the gale, 
 And watched her pennon wearing round 
 
 The headland of Kinsale. 
 I saw Slieve-Ronan sink behind, 
 
 The sun go down before, 
 And as a seabird on the wind 
 
 My heart put out from shore ; 
 And through the night I hailed her flight. 
 
 Beneath the starlit dome. 
 And through the day I watched her way 
 
 And sang her welcome home. 
 
 Betimes I see her gallant form 
 
 Careering up the waves. 
 Betimes adrift before the storm. 
 
 Toward ocean's yawning caves ; 
 Again I see her quivering spars 
 
 Go reeling round the sky, 
 Then righting, greet the topmost stars. 
 
 And wave her pennon high 
 Still through the night I hail her flight 
 
 Beneath the starlit dome. 
 And night or day I track her way, 
 
 And sing her welcome home. 
 
 What though she bears within her hold 
 
 To me no treasure-trove — 
 Kind Heaven ordained not links of gold 
 
 To bind or hallow love — 
 No gems of Orient mines or marts. 
 
 No laurel wreath of fame — 
 The earnest of two kindred hearts 
 
 Is all from her I claim. 
 For this to-night I hail her flight 
 
 Beneath the starlit dome, 
 And night and day for this I pray. 
 
 And weave a welcome home. 
 
 These are my treasure, these my prize ; 
 
 A heart my lot to share ; 
 A playful child with azure eyes. 
 
 And sunlight in her hair. 
 For these I pray the mighty Power 
 
 That ruleth land and sea. 
 However seas or skies may lower. 
 
 To speed my Argosie ! 
 And guard her flight throughout the night. 
 
 Beneath the starry dome, 
 And be the stay by night and day 
 
 Of those I welcome home. 
 
 JOHN BOYLE. 
 
 THE WELL'S SECRET. 
 
 I knew it all my boyhood : in a lonesome valley 
 meadow. 
 Like a dryad's mirror hidden by the wood's dim 
 arches near; 
 Its eye flashed back the sunshine, and grew dark 
 and sad with shadow ; 
 And I loved its truthful depths where every 
 pebble lay so clear. 
 
 I scooped my hand and drank it, and watched 
 the sensate quiver 
 Of the rippling rings of silver as the drops of 
 crystal fell ; 
 I pressed the richer grasses from its little trick- 
 ling river. 
 Till at last I knew, as friends know, every 
 secret of the well. 
 
 But one day I stood beside it on a sudden, unex- 
 pected, 
 When the sun had crossed the valley and a 
 shadow hid the place ; 
 And I looked in the dark water — saw my pallid 
 cheek reflected — 
 And beside it, looking upward, met an evil 
 reptile face : 
 
 Looking upward, furtive, startled at the silent, 
 swift intrusion ; 
 Then, it darted toward the grasses, and I saw 
 not where it fled ; 
 But I knew its eyes were on me, and the old- 
 time sweet illusion 
 Of the pure and perfect symbol I had cherished 
 there was dead. 
 
224 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 O, the pain to know the perjury of seeming truth 
 that blesses ! 
 My soul was seared liUe sin to see the false- 
 hood of the place ; 
 
 And the innocence that mocked me, while in dim 
 unseen recesses 
 
 Too late ! too late ! O. could he then have know 
 When his love died, that mine had perfect grow i 
 That when the veil was drawn, abased, chastih. 
 The censor stood, the lost one truly pnzed. 
 
 Too late we barn— a man must hold his frieii. 
 
 There were lurking fouler secrets than the Unjudged. accepted, trusted to the end. 
 
 furtive reptile face. John ii.ivi.E oreili 
 
 WASTED FOUNTAINS 
 
 And since then, — O, why the burden?— when 
 
 the joyous faces greet me, I 
 
 With eyes of limpid innocence, and words 
 
 devoid of art, ..^^nd ,|,eir nobles Imvc Kilt their litlle . 
 
 I cannot trust their seeming, but must ask what they came to the pit>, and found no water; 
 
 eyes would meet me , ""^" "'^'' 'rap'y-'-/"-""'"'*, «iv- 3- 
 
 Could 1 look in sudden silence at the secrets ] ^vhen the fitful fever of the soul 
 
 of the heart. 
 
 JOHN BOVLE OREILLY. 
 
 A LOST FRIEND. 
 
 My friend he was ; my friend from all the rest ; 
 With childlike faith he oped to me his breast ; 
 No door was locked on altar, grave or. grief ; 
 No weakness veiled, concealed no disbelief ; 
 The hope, the sorrow and the wrong were bare, 
 And ah, the shadow only showed the fair. 
 
 I gave him love for love ; but deep within 
 I magnified each frailty into sin ; 
 Each hill-topped foible in the sunset glowed, 
 Ob.scuring vales where rivered virtues flowed. 
 Reproof became reproach, till common grew 
 The captious word at every fault I knew. 
 He smiled upon the censorship, and bore 
 With patient love the touch that wounded sore ; 
 Until at length, so had my blindness grown, 
 He knew 1 judged him by his faults alone. 
 
 Alone, of all men, I who knew him best. 
 Refused the gold, to take the dross for test ! 
 Cold strangers honored for the worth they saw ; 
 His friend forgot the diamond in the flaw. 
 
 At last it came — the day he stood apart. 
 When from my eyes he proudly veiled his heart ; 
 When carping judgment and uncertain word 
 A stern resentment in his bosom stirred ; 
 When in his face I read what I had been. 
 And with his vision saw what he had seen. 
 
 Is awakened in thee first ; 
 And thou gocst like Judah's children forth 
 To slake thy burning thirst ; 
 
 And when dry and wasted, like the springs 
 
 Sought by that little band. 
 Before thee, in their emptiness. 
 
 Life's broken cisterns stand ; — 
 
 When the ripened fruits, that tempted. 
 
 Turn to ashes on the taste ; 
 And thine early visions fade and pass, 
 
 Like the mirage of the waste ; — 
 
 When faith darkens, and hopes languish. 
 In the shade of gathering years ; 
 
 And the urn thou bear'st is empty. 
 Or o'erflowing with thy tears, 
 
 Because those transient springs have failed th^ 
 
 And those founts of youth are dried ; 
 I Wilt thou, among the mouldering stones. 
 In weariness abide ? 
 
 Wilt thou sit among the ruins. 
 With all words of cheer unspoken, 
 
 Till the silver chord is loosened ; 
 Till the golden bowl is broken ? 
 
 Up, and onward ! towards the east 
 
 Green oases thou shalt find ; 
 Streams that rise from higher sources 
 
 Than the |>ools thou leav'st behind. 
 
 Life has import more inspiring 
 
 Than the fancies of thy youth ; 
 It has hopes as high as heaven ; 
 
 It has labor,— it has truth. 
 
RELATED SOULS. 
 
 It has wrongs that may be righted, 
 Noble deeds that may be done ; — 
 
 Its great battles are unfought, 
 Its great triumphs are unwon. 
 
 There is rising from its troubled deeps 
 
 A low, unceasing moan ; 
 There are aching, there are breaking 
 
 Other hearts beside thine own. 
 
 From strong limbs, that should be chainless, 
 
 There are fetters to unbind ; 
 There are words to raise the fallen ; 
 
 There is light to give the blind. 
 
 There are crushed and broken spirits. 
 That electric thoughts may thrill ; 
 
 Lofty dreams to be embodied 
 By the might of one strong will. 
 
 There are God and Truth above thee. — 
 
 Wilt thou languish in despair.? 
 Tread thy griefs beneath thy feet, — 
 
 Scale the walls of Heaven by prayer. 
 
 'Tis the key of the apostle 
 
 That opes Heaven from below ; 
 'Tis the ladder of the patriarch. 
 
 Whereon angels come and go. 
 
 ANNE C. L. BOTTA. 
 
 RELATED SOULS. ^ 
 
 Between us may roll the severing ocean 
 
 That girdles the land where the red suns set, 
 But the spell and thrill of that strange emotion 
 
 Which touched us once is upon us yet. 
 Ever your soul shadows mine, o'crleaning 
 
 The deepest depth of my inmost thought ; 
 And still on my heart comes back the meaning 
 
 Of all your eloquent lips have taught. 
 Time was not made for spirits like ours, 
 Nor the changing light of the changing hours ; 
 For the life eternal still lies below 
 The drifted leaves and the fallen snow. 
 
 Can we forget — v\hile these memories waken, 
 Like golden strings 'neath the player's hands, 
 Or as palms that quiver by night winds shaken, 
 Warm with the breath of the perfumed lands ? 
 Philosophy lifted her torch on high, [thereby. 
 And we read the deep things of the spirit 
 And I stood in the strength your teachings gave 
 As under truth's mighty architrave. 
 
 Royally crowned were those moments of feeling. 
 
 Or sad with the softness of twilight skies. 
 While silent tears came mournfully stealing 
 
 Up thro' the purple depths of our eyes ! 
 I think of you now— while ocean is dashing 
 
 The foam in a thunder of silver spray. 
 And the glittering gleams of the white oars 
 
 Die in the sunset flush of the day. [flashing 
 For all things beautiful, free, divine. 
 The music that floats thro' the waving pine. 
 The starry night, or the infinite sea. 
 Speak with the breath of your spirit to me. 
 
 All my soul's unfulfilled aspiration — 
 
 Founts that How from eternal streams — 
 Awoke to life, like a new creation. 
 
 In the Paradise light of your glowing dreams. 
 As gold refined in a three-fold fire. 
 
 As the Talith robe of the sainted dead. 
 Were the pure, high aims of her heart's desire, 
 The words we uttered, the thoughts half said. 
 j We spoke of the grave with a voice unmoved, 
 I Of love that could die as a thing disproved, 
 i And we poured the rich wine, and drank at our 
 
 pleasure. 
 Of the higher life, without stint or measure. 
 
 Time fled onward without our noting, 
 
 Soft as the fall of the summer rain, 
 While thoughts in starry cascades came floating 
 
 Down from the living fount of the brain. 
 Vet, better apart ! Without human aidance 
 
 I cross the river of Life and fate — [dence 
 Wake me no more, with that voice, whose ca- 
 
 Could lure me back from the Golden Gate ; 
 For my spirit would answer your spirit's call. 
 Though life lay hid where the death-shadows fall, 
 .\nd the mystic joys of the world unseen 
 Would be less to me than the days that have 
 been. 
 
 Chords struck clear from our human nature Life may be fair in that new existence [joice, 
 
 Will vibrate still to that past delight, , Where saints are crowned and the saved re- 
 
 When our genius sprang to its highest stature, j But over the breadth of the infinite distance 
 
 And we walk like gods on the spirit height. | I'll lean and listen to hear your voice. 
 
220 
 
 POEMS OJ- KEFLECTIOX. 
 
 For never on earth, thoutjh the tempest rages, 
 And never in heaven, if God be just. 
 
 Never through all the unnumbered ages 
 Can souls be parted that love and trust. 
 
 Walt — there are worlds diviner than this. 
 
 Worlds of splendor, of knowledge and bliss! 
 
 Across the death river— the victory won— 
 
 We shall meet in the litjht of a changeless sun. 
 
 LAUV WILUE. 
 
 Around the future Jove has cast 
 A veil like night : he gives us power 
 To see the present and the past. 
 But kindly hides the coming hour. 
 And smiles when man with daring eye 
 Would pierce that dread futurity. 
 
 TO MAECENAS. 
 Maecenas, thou whose lineage springs 
 
 From old Etruria's kings. 
 Come to my humble dwelling. Haste ; 
 A caskunbroached of mellowed wine 
 Awaits thee, roses interlaced 
 And perfumes pressed from nard divine. 
 Leave Tibur sparkling with its thousand rills 
 Forget the sunny slopes of ^Esute. 
 And rugged peaks of Telagonian hills 
 That frown defiance on the Tuscan sea. 
 Forego vain pomps, nor gaze around 
 From the tall turret of thy palace home 
 On crowded masts, and summits temple- 
 crowned. 
 The smoke, the tumult, and the wealth of 
 Rome. j 
 
 Come, loved Maecenas, come I 
 
 How oft in lowly cot 
 Uncurtained, nor with Tyrian purple spread. 
 Has weary State pillowed its aching head 
 And smoothed its wrinkled brow, all cares 
 
 forgot .' 
 Come to my frugal feast and share my humble 
 
 lot. 
 For now returning Cepheus shoots again 
 His fires long-hid; now Procyon, and the 
 Of the untamed Lion blaze amain : [Star 
 
 Now the light vapors in the heated air 
 
 Hang quivering: now the shepherd leads 
 His panting flock to willow-bordered meads 
 
 By river banks; or to those dells [dwells. 
 Remote, profound, where rough Silvanus 
 Where by mute margins silent waters creep, | 
 
 And the hushed zephyrs sleep. 
 
 Too long by civil cares opprest 
 Snatch one short inter\'al of rest. 
 Nor fear lest from the frozen North 
 Don's arrowed thousands issue forth. 
 Or hordes from realms by Cyrus won. 
 I Or Scythians from the rising sun. 
 
 Wisely and justly guide thy present state. 
 Life's daily duty : the dark future flows 
 Like some broad river, now in calm repose 
 Gliding untroubled to the Tyrrhene shore. 
 
 Now by fierce floods precipitate. 
 
 And on its frantic bosom bearing 
 Homes, herds, and flocks, 
 Drowned men and loosened rocks . 
 Uprooted trees from groaning forests toarint; . 
 Tossing from peak to peak the sullen waters 
 
 Blest is the man who dares to say. 
 Lord of myself. I've lived to-day : 
 To-morrow let the Thunderer roll 
 Storm and thick darkness round the pole, 
 Or purest sunshine : what is p>ast 
 Unchanged for evermore shall last : 
 Nor man, nor Jove's resistless power 
 Can blot the record of one vanished hour. 
 
 Fortune capricious, faithless, blind. 
 
 With cruel joy her pastime plays. 
 
 Exalts, enriches, and betrays ; 
 
 One day to me. anon to other kind. 
 
 I can approve her when she stays. 
 
 But when she shakes her wanton wing, 
 
 .And soars aloft, her gifts to earth I fling, 
 
 .And, wrapped in Honor's mantle, live and die 
 
 Content with dowerless poverty. 
 
 When the tall ship, with bending mast, 
 
 Reels to the fury of the blast. 
 
 The merchant trembles and deplores, 
 
 Not his own fate, but buried stores 
 
 From Cyprian or Phcenician shores: — 
 
 He with sad vows and unavailing prayer 
 
 Rich ransom offers to the angry gods; 
 
 I stand erect ; no groans of mine shall e'er 
 
 .Vffront the quiet of those blest abodes: 
 
 My light, unburthened skiff shall sail 
 
 Safe to the shore before the gale, 
 
 While the twin sons of Leda point the way. 
 
 .\nd smooth the billows with benignant ray- 
 
 .STEPHEN DE VERE. 
 Horace, Jiwk III. die 29. 
 
TO LONGFELLOW. 
 
 227 
 
 INTACTIS OPULENTIOR. 
 Though India's virgin mine. 
 
 And hoarded wealth of Araby be thine ; 
 Though thy wave-circled palaces 
 
 Usurp the Tyrrhene and Apulian seas. 
 When on thy devoted head 
 The iron hand of Fate has laid 
 The symbols of eterm.1 doom, 
 
 What power shall loose the fetters of the 
 dead ? 
 
 What hope dispel the terrors of the tomb? 
 
 Happier the nomad tribes whose wains 
 Drag their rude huts o'er Scythian plains ; 
 
 Happier the Getan horde 
 To whom unmeasured fields afford 
 Abundant harvests, pastures free : 
 
 For one short year they toil, 
 Then claim once more their liberty. 
 And yield to other hands the unexhausted 
 soil. 
 
 The tender-hearted stepdame there 
 Nurtures with all a mother's care. 
 The orphan babe : no wealthy bride 
 Insults her lord or yields her heart 
 To the sleek suitor's glozing art. 
 The maiden's dower is ■f)urity. 
 Her parents' worth, her womanly pride. 
 To hate the sin, to scorn the lie. 
 Chastely to live, or, if dishonored, die. 
 
 I He hears : he fears no toil, nor sword, nor 
 
 sea; 
 He shrinks from no disgrace but virtuous 
 poverty. 
 
 Forth ! 'mid a shouting nation bring 
 Thy precious gems, thy wealth untold : 
 
 Into the seas, or Temple, fling 
 Thy vile unprofitable gold. 
 
 Roman ! Repent, and from within 
 
 Eradicate thy darling sin : 
 
 Repent! and from thy bosom tear 
 
 The sordid shame that festers there. 
 
 Bid thy degenerate sons to learn 
 In rougher schools a lesson stern : — 
 The high-born youth, mature in vice. 
 
 Pursues his vain and reckless course. 
 Rolls the Greek hoop or throws the dice, 
 
 But shuns the chase and dreads the horse. 
 His perjured sire with jealous care 
 Heaps riches for his worthless heir. 
 Despised, disgraced, supremely blest. 
 Cheating his partner, friend, and guest. 
 Uncounted stores his bursting coffers fill, 
 But something unpossessed is ever wanting 
 still. 
 
 STEPHEN DE VERE. 
 Homce, Book ///. ft/,- 24. 
 
 Breathes there a patriot brave and strong 
 Would' right his erring country's wrong. 
 Would heal her wounds and quell her rage .- 
 Let him with noble daring first 
 Curb Faction's tyranny accurst : 
 
 So may some future age 
 Grave on his bust, with pious hand, 
 The F.vrHER of his native land: 
 Virtue yet living we despise. 
 Adore it lost, and vanished from our eyes. 
 
 Cease, idle wail ! 
 The sin unpunished, what can sighs avail.' 
 
 How weak the laws by man ordained. 
 
 If Virtue's law be unsustained ! 
 
 A second sin is thine! The sand 
 Of Araby, Gaetulia's sun-scorched land. 
 The desolate realms of Hyperborean ice. 
 Call with one voice to wrinkled avarice ■ 
 
 TO LONGFELLOW. 
 I Pensive within the Colosseum's walls 
 ] I stood with thee, O Poet of the West ! 
 The day when each had been a welcome guest 
 In San Clemente's venerable halls : — 
 With what delight my memory now recalls 
 That hour of hours, that flower of all the rest, 
 When, with thy white beard falling on thy breast, 
 That noble head, that might well serve as Paul's, 
 j In some divinest vision of the saint [dead, 
 
 1 By Raphael dreamed— I heard thee mourn the 
 ' The martyred host who fearless there, tho' faint, 
 Walked the rough road that up to heaven's 
 
 gate led : 
 These were the pictures Calderon loved to paint 
 In golden hues that here perchance have fled. 
 
 Yet take the colder copy from my hand, 
 Not for its own, but for the Master's sake ; 
 Take it, as thou, returning home, wilt take 
 From that divinest soft Italian land 
 
228 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 Fixed shadows of theiieauliful and grand 
 In sunless pictures that the sun doth malce — 
 Reflections that may pleasant memories wake 
 Of all that Raphael touched, or Angelo planned:— 
 As these may keep what memory else might lose. 
 So may this photojsfraph of verse impart 
 An image, though without the native hues 
 Of Calderon's fire, and yet with Calderon's art, 
 Of what thou lovest thro' a kindred muse 
 That sings in heaven, yet nestles in the heart. 
 OEMS FLORENCE McCARTHV. 
 —DtdicatioH of Calderon's "Chrysanthut amdVarU." 
 
 A FALLEN STAR. 
 I. 
 I sauntered home across the park, 
 
 And slowly smoked my last cigar ; 
 The summer night was still and dark. 
 With not a single star. 
 
 And, conjured by. I know not what, 
 A memory floated through my brain. 
 
 The vision of a friend forgot, 
 Or thought of now with pain. 
 
 A brilliant boy that once 1 knew. 
 
 In far-off, happy days of old, 
 With sweet, frank face, and eyes of blue, 
 
 And hair that shone like gold : 
 
 Fresh crowned with college victory. 
 The boast and idol of his class. — 
 
 With heart as pure, and warm, and free 
 As sunshine on the grass ! 
 
 A figure sinewy, lithe, and strong, 
 A laugh infectious in its glee, 
 
 A voice as beautiful as song. 
 When heard along the sea. 
 
 On me, the man of sombre thought. 
 The radiance of his friendship won. 
 
 As round an autumn tree is wrought 
 The enchantment of the sun. 
 
 He loved me with a tender truth. 
 
 He clung to me as clings the vine. 
 And. like a brimming fount of youth. 
 
 His nature freshened mine. 
 
 Together hand in hand we walked : 
 We threaded pleasant country ways. 
 
 Or, couched beneath the limes, we talked. 
 On sultry summer days. 
 
 For me he drew aside the veil 
 Before his bashful heart that hung. 
 
 And told a sweet, ingenuous tale 
 That trembled on his tongue. 
 
 He read me songs and amorous lays. 
 Where through each slender line a fire 
 
 Of love flashed lambcntly, as plays 
 The lightning through the wire. 
 
 A nobler maid he never knew 
 Than she he longed to call his wife ; 
 
 A fresher nature never grew 
 Along the shores of life. 
 
 Thus rearing diamond arches up 
 Whereon his future life to build, 
 
 He quaffed all day the golden cup 
 That youthful fancy filled. 
 
 Like fruit upon a southern slope. 
 He ripened on all natural food. — 
 
 The winds that thrill the skyey cope. 
 The sunlight's golden blood ; 
 
 And in his talk I oft discerned 
 A timid music vaguely heard ; 
 
 The fragments of a song scarce learned, 
 The essays of a biid, — 
 
 The first faint notes the poet's breast. 
 
 Ere yet his pinions warrant flight. 
 Will, on the margin of the nest. 
 
 Utter with strange delight. 
 
 Thus rich with promise was the boy. 
 
 When, swept abroad by circumstance. 
 We parted.— he to live, enjoy. 
 
 And I to war with chance. 
 
 II. 
 The air was rich with fumes of wine 
 
 When ne.xt we met. 'Twas at a feast. 
 And he, the boy I thought divine. 
 
 Was the unhallowed priest. 
 
 There was the once familiar grace. 
 The old. enchanting smile was there ; 
 I Still shone around his handsome face 
 The glory of his hair. 
 
 But the pure beauty that I knew 
 
 Had lowered through some ignoble task ; 
 
 Apollo's head was peering through 
 A drunken bacchant's mask. 
 
THE CONVENT PORTER. 
 
 229 
 
 The smile, once honest as the day, 
 Now waked to words of grossest wit ; 
 
 The eyes so simply frank and gay, 
 With lawless fires were lit. 
 
 He was the idol of the board ; 
 
 He led the careless, wanton throng ; 
 The soul that once to heaven had soared 
 
 Now grovelled in a song. 
 
 He wildly flung his wit away 
 In small retort, in verbal brawls, 
 
 And played with words as jugglers play 
 With hollow brazen balls. 
 
 But often when the laugh was loud. 
 And highest gleamed the circling bowl 
 
 I see what unseen passed the crowd, — 
 The shadow on his soul. 
 
 And soon the enigma was unlocked 
 The harrowing history I heard, — 
 
 The sacred duties that he mocked. 
 The forfeiture of word. 
 
 And how he did his love a wrong — 
 His wild remorse — his mad career — 
 
 And now — ah ! hearken to that song, 
 And hark the answering cheer ! 
 
 HI. 
 
 Thus musing sadly on the law 
 
 That lets such brilliant meteors quench, 
 Down the dark path a form I saw 
 
 Uprising from a bench. 
 
 Ragged and pale, in strident tones 
 It asked for alms — I knew for what ; 
 
 The tremor shivering through its bones 
 Was eloquent of the sot. 
 
 It begged, it prayed, it whined, it cried. 
 It followed with a shuffling tramp — 
 
 It would not, could not be denied, — 
 I turned beneath a lamp. 
 
 It clutched the coins I gave, and fled 
 With muttered words of horrid glee. 
 
 When, like the white, returning dead, 
 A vision rose to me. 
 
 A nameless something in its air, 
 A sudden gesture as it moved, — 
 
 'Twas he, the gay, the debonnaire ! 
 'Twas he, the boy I loved. 
 
 And while along the lonesome park 
 
 The eager drunkard sped afar, 
 I looked to heaven, and through the dark 
 
 I saw a falling star ! 
 
 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 
 
 THE CONVENT PORTER. 
 
 He was an ancient, bearded man. 
 
 Within the archway seated. 
 Who through the summer, lone and long. 
 
 The rosary repeated. 
 He rang the bell for matin prayers. 
 
 At noontide for the reapers, 
 And, when the evening shadows fell. 
 
 He rang it for the keepers. 
 And sometimes, too, he knolled a knell 
 
 For everlasting sleepers. 
 
 From day to day he said his beads, 
 
 Within the archway staying ; 
 The sun arising found him there 
 
 And, setting, left him praying. 
 On him would little hands attend. 
 
 And little footfalls pattered ; 
 Around him, where the fig trees bend. 
 
 Were purple treasures scattered ; 
 The whispering cypress was his friend. 
 
 For him the ivy chattered. 
 
 But seldom at that convent gate 
 
 A traveller dismounted ; 
 The outer world of toil and hate 
 
 Passed by it unaccounted. 
 J.Ionotonous, and quaint, and calm, 
 
 The prayerful seasons glided ; 
 The vesper hymn and morning psalm 
 
 The days alone divided. 
 That by the dial, near the palm. 
 
 Were left all undecided. 
 
 So years went by, until one day 
 
 The night cloud, westward rolling. 
 Came round the friar's dim retreat 
 
 Without the vesper tolling. 
 The birds still sang on ivy sprays, 
 
 The children still were playing. 
 The Porter, as in former days. 
 
 Seemed rosaries still saying. 
 But — Death had found his quiet ways. 
 
 And took the old man praying. 
 
 CARROLL RYAN. 
 
POEAfS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 OLIVIA AND DICK PRIMROSE. 
 
 A rustic maiden, delicately fair. 
 With sweet mute lips, and eyes serene and mild. 
 That look straight sunward, while, with gentle 
 Clings to her side a little loving child. [air 
 
 Linking a chain of daisies ; this is all. 
 And yet methinks old memories bestir 
 At sight of this maid-lily, fair and tall ; 
 Sweet as the rose the dainty hands of her 
 Enclose in careless chains and happy thrall. 
 
 1 see the gentle vicar, old and kind, [praise ; 
 
 The good house-mother, quick to blame and 
 All the quaint story rises to my mind. [days; 
 The meadow-bank that bloomed with flowering 
 And in the hay-field now I seem to see 
 Olivia stand, with happy down-cast eyes. 
 Singing with simple girlish minstrelsy. 
 While oer the ethereal blue of summer skies 
 Long feathery lines of cloud float restfully. 
 
 He sang of happy home, who home had none. 
 Of sweet hearth joys whose ways were lone and 
 
 bleak. 
 And oft his voice rang out with truest tone 
 When wintry winds froze tears upon his cheek. 
 A deathless fount of song was ever springing 
 From out his bright child-nature, pure and sweet, 
 Soft comforting and surest healing bringing; 
 And when earth's sharpest thorns pierced his 
 
 feet 
 His way was gladdened with his inward singing. 
 KATHARINE TYXAN. 
 
 RECOMPENSE. 
 
 Dear friend, the grass is musical above 
 The silent earth that holds thee in its peace, 
 
 And tossing daisies seem the place to love. 
 And mark the passing days with fond increase. 
 
 Why should 1 mourn for one whose journey lies 
 So near my own that I can almost hear 
 
 His soul's swift answer, as its throb replies 
 To all that stirs my soul with pain or cheer.' 
 
 The days with their recurring songs are loud. 
 Even as they were when you were here with me; 
 
 The sunlight lingers in the floating cloud, 
 The wind is sweet with saltness of the sea. 
 
 Low calls the sparrow from the frowsy hedge, 
 The oriole shines among the whispering leaves. 
 
 The wind-flowers sway along the tumbling ledge. 
 And hillsides gleam with promise of the sheaves. 
 
 I hear the waves that murmur on the sand. 
 
 The sea-birds crooning where the reef is bare, 
 And see the white sails parting from the land. 
 
 Bound for an Orient freight of spices rare. 
 
 This is the path our feet so often trod. 
 
 And yonder ancient rock the accustomed seat ; 
 The buttercups are yellow in the sod. 
 
 The clover blossoms at its base are sweet ; 
 
 The valley narrows through the azure haze. 
 
 Wherein the hills like massive giants loom ; 
 The river sleeps in willow-guarded ways. 
 
 And lilies star the cool and fragrant gloom. 
 
 There is no change in leaf, or flower, or tree ; 
 
 The wild thorn yonder is as sweet and strong 
 As when you trod this winding path, and we 
 
 Heard the clear gladness of the robin's song. 
 
 Yes, you were here one little year ago, 
 And saw the world grow wondrous sweet and 
 
 And now alone I wander to and fro. [fair; 
 
 And seek you. knowing that you are not there. 
 
 The shadowy silence holds you. yet I feel. 
 
 When in the old familiar haunts 1 stand. 
 That one swift moment can your face reveal. 
 
 And give to me the clasping of your hand. 
 
 THDMAS S. COLLIKR. 
 
 THE WINTERS. 
 
 We did not fear them once ; tlK- dull grey mom ■ 
 ings 
 No cheerless burden on our spirits laid ; [ings 
 
 The long night watches did not bring us warn- 
 That we were tenants of a house decayed. 
 
 The early snows like dreams to us descended ; 
 The frost did fairy work on pane and bough ; 
 
 Beauty, and power, and wonder have not ended— 
 How is it that we fear the winters now ? 
 
 Their home fires fall as bright on hearth and 
 chamber. 
 
 Their northern stariight shines as coldly clear; 
 The woods still keep their holly for December, 
 
 The world a welcome vet for the new year. 
 
COM PENS A TION. 
 
 231 
 
 And far away in old remembered places 
 The snowdrop rises and the robin sings ; 
 
 The sun and moon look out with loving faces ; 
 Why have our days forgot these goodly things ? 
 
 Why is it now the north wind finds us shaken 
 
 By tempests fiercer than its bitter blast. 
 Which fair beliefs and friendship, too, have taken 
 
 Away like summer foliage as they passed ; 
 And made life leafless in its pleasant valleys. 
 
 Waning the light of promise from our day, 
 Till the mists meet even in the inward palace, 
 
 A dimness not like theirs to pass away ? 
 
 It was not thus when dreams of love and laurels 
 
 Gave sunshine to the winters of our youth. 
 Before its hopes had fallen in fortune's quarrels 
 
 Or time had bowed them with his heavy truth; 
 Ere yet the twilights found us strange and lonely, 
 
 With shadows coming when the fire burns low 
 To tell of distant graves and losses only ; 
 
 The past that cannot change and will not go. 
 
 Alas ! dear friends, the winter is within us. 
 
 Hard is the ice that grows about the heart, 
 With petty cares and vain regrets that win us 
 
 From life's true heritage and better part. 
 Seasons and skies rejoice, yea, worship rather ; 
 
 But nations toil and tremble even as we. 
 Hoping for harvests they will never gather. 
 
 Fearing the winters which they may not see. 
 
 FRANCES BROWN. 
 
 COMPENSATION. 
 
 Yes, the years are passing quickly ; months seem 
 
 days and days but hours ; 
 Gloom is o'er us, dearth around us, ere we've 
 
 gathered summer's flowers ; 
 And the swiftly changing seasons, sped by time's 
 
 unwearied wing. 
 Mingle suns and snows together, hastening on 
 
 from spring to spring. 
 
 'Twas not so, my friend and comrade, when to 
 us the world was new. 
 
 Then the fields were ever blooming and the 
 skies were always blue ; 
 
 And a yearning spirit filled us to leave youth be- 
 hind and stand 
 
 Firm on manhood's highway, scanning all the 
 promised golden land. 
 
 Ah, those years of wistful dreaming ! Had we 
 
 known what things should be 
 In the future's plains and valleys, on its surging, 
 
 storm-beat sea. 
 Would desire have spurred us onward from the 
 
 simple ways which then 
 Blossomed round us, to the thorn-set paths that 
 
 tire the feet of men ? 
 
 Naught behind had power to hold us ; all before 
 
 had charms to woo ; 
 Hope to me held forth her gariands, Love her 
 
 rose-wreathed crown to you ; 
 Hope has vanished. Love has perished ; dust lies 
 
 deep on rose and bay, 
 Yet, though storm and gloom beset us, sunshine 
 
 oft has warmed our way. 
 
 Many a face has smiled upon us, brightening 
 
 hours that else were drear, 
 Many an eye with kindness kindled, sparkling 
 
 friendship, glancing cheer ; 
 O'er the scenes now fading from us, many a 
 
 drifting cloud has strayed 
 Yet, my friend, when all is balanced, we have 
 
 seen more sun than shade. 
 
 Dreams are gone, the world is real ; this we've 
 
 learned and this we know ; — 
 Though we build Utopian mansions, still our 
 
 feet must tread below ; 
 All the gloss and glow that fancy spreads to lure 
 
 the steps of youth 
 Fast recede and faster vanish, driven by staid, 
 
 prosaic truth. 
 
 Now, with grave-eyed age advancing, heralded 
 by silvery gleams 
 
 Though the locks that late were ebon, every sea- 
 son shorter seems ; 
 
 Spring makes fluttering haste for summer, au- 
 tumn grasps the flowers of June, 
 
 Winter's fretful shadows flit before September's 
 mellow moon. 
 
 Ours is not a new experience ; nay, 'tis much as 
 
 other men's ; 
 Since time's eariiest cycle human hearts have 
 
 pondered nows and thcns ; 
 This, at least, the years have taught us : roses 
 
 bloom where snow has lain. 
 And the sun, though darkness whelm it, shines 
 
 and glorifies again. 
 
 DANIEL CONNOLLY. 
 
23; 
 
 ;!'II.ECTlO.\. 
 
 COMPENSATIONS. 
 
 " Why must we mourn for vanished li;^; : 
 
 For plcasurt-s lost, as fair as lleeting. 
 And weep beneath the eyes of night. 
 
 The memory of our former greeting? 
 Is joy too weak to live alway? 
 
 Is life so fond of paie-browcJ sorrow. 
 That every hope which blooms to-day 
 
 Must fade and die before to-morrow ? " 
 
 But—" Nay," a voice within replied, I 
 
 So sweet I could not choose but hear it, — 
 " (lod never yet hath light denied 
 
 To those whose souls can draw them near it ; | 
 Look up in trust, and see beyond j 
 
 Those clouds of ill this vain repining, 
 A fathers strength sustained and fond, 
 
 A father's love securely shining." 
 
 Bu; doubting still, and weak. I moan ; 
 
 "Your heaven's too far— give something nearer ; 
 Why are we left to stand alone. 
 
 With all gone by that made life dearer ? 
 The friends we seek clasp hands and part, 
 
 The souls we love draw throbbing near us. 
 Eye speaks to eye, heart leans on heart. 
 
 When naught remains to help or cheer us." 
 
 '■ And yet. and yet."— the voice rang clear. 
 
 And proud as love and faith could make it, — 
 " While memory holds your friendship near 
 
 Can loss or change or sorrow break it .' 
 - Soul meets with soul ;— an instant "s ray 
 
 Can forge a chain no time can sever ; 
 Thro' life, thro" death, by night and day. 
 
 Thus meeting once they meet forever ! " 
 
 MARY E. BLAKE. 
 
 SOGGARTH ARGON. 
 
 Am 1 the slave they say. 
 
 Soggarth Aroon ? 
 Since you did show the way. 
 
 Soggarth Aroon. 
 Their slave no more to be. 
 While they would work with me 
 Ould Ireland's slavery, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon ? 
 
 Why not her poorest man. 
 
 Soggarth Aroon. 
 Tr)' and do all he can. 
 
 Soggarth Aroon. 
 Her commands to fulfill 
 Of his own heart and will. 
 Side by side with you still. 
 
 Soggarth Aroon? 
 
 Loyal and brave to you. 
 
 Soggarth Aroon, 
 Yet be no slave to you. 
 
 Soggarth Aroon. — 
 Nor, out of fear to you — 
 Stand up so near to you — 
 Och ! out of fear \.oyou .' 
 
 Soggarth Aroon ! 
 
 Who, in the winter's night. 
 
 Soggarth Aroon, 
 When the could blast did bite. 
 
 Soggarth Aroon. 
 Came to my cabin-door. 
 And, on my earthen-floor. 
 Kn;;lt by me. sick and poor, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon ? 
 
 Who, on the marriage-day, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon, 
 Made the poor cabin gay, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon — 
 And did both laugh and sing. 
 Making our hearts to ring. 
 At the poor christening, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon? 
 
 Who. as friend only met. 
 
 Soggarth Aroon. 
 Never did flout me yet. 
 
 Soggarth Aroon ? 
 And when my hearth was dim, 
 Gave, while his eye did brim. 
 What I should give lo him. 
 
 Soggarth Aroon ? 
 
 Och ! you. and only you, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon ! 
 And for this I was true to you, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon; 
 In love they'll never shake. 
 When for ould Ireland's sake. 
 We a true part ditl take. 
 
 Soggarth Aroon. 
 
 JOHN BANIM. 
 
THE WIDO WS MESSAGE TO HER SON. 
 
 233 
 
 THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS. 
 
 O, woman of Three Cows, agrah, don't let your 
 
 tongue thus rattle ! 
 O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you 
 
 may have cattle. 
 1 have seen — and, here's my hand to you, I only 
 
 say what's true — 
 A many a one with twice your stock not half so 
 
 proud as you. 
 
 Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't 
 
 be their despiser. 
 For worldly wealtli soon melts away, and cheats 
 
 the very miser, 
 And death soon strips the proudest wreath from 
 
 haughty human brows ; 
 Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good 
 
 Woman of Three Cows ! 
 
 See where Mononia's heroes lie. proud Owen 
 
 Moore's descendants, 
 'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had 
 
 the grand attendants ! 
 If tluy were forced to bow to Fate, as every 
 
 mortal bows, 
 Ca.w you be proud, can _)■('« be stiff, my Woman 
 
 of Three Cows } 
 
 The brave sons of the lord of Clare, they left the 
 
 land to mourning ; 
 Mavrone ! for they were banished, with no hope 
 
 of their returning — 
 Who knows in what abodes of want those youths 
 
 were driven to house .' 
 Yet_)'0« can give yourself these airs, O, Woman 
 
 of Three Cows ! 
 
 O, think of Donnell of the Ships, the Chief whom 
 
 nothing daunted — 
 See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, 
 
 unchanted ! 
 He sleeps, the great O'SuIlivan, where thunder 
 
 cannot rouse — 
 Then ask yourself, should jw/ be proud,., good 
 
 Woman of Three Cows } 
 
 O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose 
 
 names are shrined in story — 
 Think how their high achievements once made 
 
 Erin's greatest glory — 
 Yet now their bones lie mould'ring under weeds 
 
 and cypress boughs. 
 And so, for all your pride, will yours. O. Woman 
 
 of Three Cows. 
 
 Th' O'CarroIls also, famed when fame was only 
 
 for the boldest. 
 Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and 
 
 oldest ; 
 Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or 
 
 carouse .' 
 Just think of that, and hide your head, good 
 
 Woman of Three Cows I 
 
 Your neighbor's poor, and you. it seems, are big 
 
 with vain ideas. 
 Because, forsooth, you've got three cows, — one 
 
 more, I see, than s)ic has ; 
 That tongue of yours wags more at times than 
 
 charity allows. 
 But if you're strong be merciful, great Woman 
 
 of Three Cows ! 
 
 Now, there you go ! You still, of course, keep 
 
 up your scornful bearing. 
 And Fm too poor to hinder you ; but, by the cloak 
 
 Fm wearing. 
 If I had but four cows myself, even tho' you 
 
 were my spouse, 
 I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my 
 
 Woman of Three Cows ! 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 THE WIDOW'S MESSAGE TO HER SON. 
 
 Remember, Denis, all I bade you say ; 
 
 Tell him we're well and happy, thank the Lord, 
 But of our troubles, since he went away. 
 
 You'll mind, avick, and never say a word ; 
 Of cares and troubles, sure, we've all our share, 
 The finest summer isn't always fair. 
 
 Tell him the spotted heifer calved in May, 
 She died, poor thing ; but that you needn't 
 mind ; 
 
 Nor how the constant rain destroyed the hay ; 
 But tell him God to us was ever kind. 
 
 And when the fever spread the country o'er. 
 
 His mercy kept the "sickness" from our door. 
 
 Be sure you tell him hovi^ the neighbors came 
 And cut the corn and stored it in the barn ; 
 
 'T would be as well to mention them by name — 
 Pat Murphy. Ned JiFCabe, and James M'Carn, 
 
 ."Xnd big Tim Daly from behind the hill; 
 
 But say, agrah — Oh. say I missed him still. 
 
234 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 They came with ready hands our toil to share— "O come, and leave this land of death, this is! 
 
 'Twas then 1 missed him most — my own right of desolation, — 
 
 hand ; This speck upon the sun-bright face of Goii 
 
 1 felt, although kind hearts were 'round me there, sublime creation ; 
 
 The kindest heart beat in a foreign land, fme. Since now e'er all our fatal stars the most maliv 
 Strong hand ! brave heart ! oh, severed far from I hath risen, 
 
 By many a weary league of shore and sea. When Labor seeks the Poor-house, and Inii' 
 
 I cence the Prison ! 
 
 And tell him she was with us— he'll know who ; 
 
 Mavourneen, hasn't she the winsome eyes. 
 The darkest, deepest, brightest, bonniest blue 
 
 I ever saw, except in summer skies ? 
 And such black hair ! It is the blackest hair 
 That ever rippled over neck so fair. 
 
 Tell him old Pincher fretted many a day. 
 
 And moped, poor dog, 'twas well he didn't die ; 
 
 Crouched by the road-side how he watched the 
 
 way, [by— 
 
 And sniffed the travelers as they passed him 
 
 Hail, rain, or sunshine, sure, 'twas all the same. 
 
 He listened for the foot that never came. 
 
 Tell him the house is lonesome-like and cold. 
 The fire itself seems robbed of half its light ; 
 
 But, maybe 'tis my eyes are growing old. 
 And things look dim before my failing sight. 
 
 For all that, tell him 'twas myself that spun 
 
 The shirts you bring, and stitched them everyone. 
 
 Give him my blessing, morning, noon and night. 
 Tell him my prayers are offered for his good. 
 
 That he may keep his Maker still in sight. 
 And firmly stand as his brave father stood. 
 
 True to his name, his country, and his God, 
 
 Faithful at home, and steadfast still abroad. 
 
 ELLEN FORRESTER. 
 
 THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER. 
 
 I. 
 
 " O come, my mother, come away, across the 
 sea-green water ; 
 
 O come with me and come with him, the hus- 
 band of thy daughter ; 
 
 O come with me and come with them, the sister 
 and the brother. 
 
 Who, prattling, climb thy aged knees, and call 
 thy daughter—' mother !' 
 
 '• Tis true, o'er all the sun-brown fields the husl. 
 ' wheat is bending ; 
 
 I 'Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a bctb 
 j time is sending; 
 
 j "Tis true the island's aged face looks happi. 
 
 and younger, 
 I l>ut in the best of days we've known the sickm^ 
 and the hunger. 
 
 " When health hrcatheii out in every breeze, too 
 
 oft we've known the fever — 
 Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of 
 
 the bereaver ; 
 Too well remember many a time the mournful 
 
 task that brought hini. 
 When freshness fanned the summer air, and 
 
 cooled the brow of autumn. 
 
 "But when the trial, though severe, still testified 
 
 our patience. 
 He bowed with mingled hope and fear to God's 
 
 wise dispensations ; 
 We felt the gloomiest time was both a promise 
 
 and a warning. 
 Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the 
 
 morning. 
 
 '• But now, through all the black expanse, no 
 
 hopeful morning breaketh — 
 No bird of promise in our hearts the gladsome 
 
 song awaketh ; 
 No far-off gleams of good light up the hills of 
 
 expectation — 
 Nought but the gloom that might precede the 
 
 world's annihilation. 
 
 " So, mother, turn thine aged feet, and let our 
 
 children lead 'em 
 Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty 
 
 and to freedom ; 
 Forgetting nought of all the past, yet all the past 
 
 forgiving ; 
 Come let us leave the dying land, and fly unto 
 
 the living. 
 
THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER. 
 
 f 
 
 235 
 
 " They tell us, they who read and th 
 
 Ireland's ancient story. 
 How once its Emerald flag flung out a sunburst's 
 
 fleeting glory ; 
 O! if that sun will pierce no more the dark 
 
 clouds that efface it. 
 Fly where the rising Stars of Heaven commingle 
 
 to replace it. 
 
 " So come, my mother, come away, across the 
 sea-green water ; 
 
 O ! come with us, and come with him, the hus- 
 band of thy daughter ; 
 
 O ! come with us, and come with them, the sis- 
 ter and the brother. 
 
 Who, prattling, climb thine aged knees and call 
 thy daughter — mother." 
 
 II. 
 
 "Ah! go my children, go away — obey this in- 
 spiration ; 
 
 Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youth- 
 ful expectation ; 
 
 Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough 
 the expectant prairies ; 
 
 Go, in the sacred name of God, and the blessed 
 Virgin Mary's. 
 
 ■' But though I feel how sharp the pang from 
 
 thee and thine to sever, 
 To look upon these darling ones the last time 
 
 and for ever ; 
 Yet in this sad and dark old land, by desolation I 
 
 haunted, I 
 
 IVIy heart has struck its roots too deep ever to be 
 
 transplanted. 
 
 " A thousand fibres still have life, although the ! 
 
 trunk is dying— | 
 
 They twine around the yet green grave where | 
 
 thy father's bones are lying ; 
 Ah ! from that sad and sweet embrace no soil 
 
 on earth can loose 'em. 
 Though golden harvests gleam on its breast, 
 
 and golden sands in its bosom. 
 
 " Others are twined around the stone, where ivy 
 blossoms smother 
 
 The crumbling lines that trace thy names, my 
 father and my mother ; 
 
 God's blessing be upon their souls — God grant, 
 my old heart prayeth. 
 
 Their names be written in the Book whose writ- 
 ing ne'er decayeth. 
 
 Ala 
 
 ! my prayers would never warm within 
 those great, cold buildings. 
 
 Those grand cathedral churches, with their mar- 
 bles and their gildings ; 
 
 Far fitter than the proudest dome that would 
 hang its splendor o'er me, 
 
 Is the simple chapel's white-washed wall, where 
 my people knelt before me. 
 
 " No doubt it is a glorious land to which you 
 
 now are going. 
 Like that which God bestowed of old, ^\•ith milk 
 
 and honey flowing ; 
 But where are the blessed saints of God, whose 
 
 lives of His law remind me. 
 Like Patrick, Brigid, and Columbkille, in the 
 
 land I'd leave behind me.> 
 
 " So leave me here, my children, with my old 
 
 ways and old notions ; 
 Leave me here in peace, with my memories and 
 
 devotions ; 
 Leave me in sight of your father's grave, and as 
 
 the heavens allied us. 
 Let not, since we were joined in life, even the 
 
 grave divide us. 
 
 " There's not a week but I can hear how you 
 
 prosper better and better. 
 For the mighty fireships over the sea will bring 
 
 the expected letter ; 
 And if I need auglit for my simple wants, my 
 
 my food or my winter firing, 
 Thou'lt gladly spare from thy growing store a 
 
 little for my requiring. 
 
 " Remember with a pitying love the hapless land 
 
 that bore you ; 
 At every festal season be its gentle form before 
 
 you ; 
 When the Christmas candle is lighted, and the 
 
 holly and ivy glisten. 
 Let your eye look back for a vanished face— for 
 
 a voice that is silent, listen ! 
 
 " So go, my children, go away — obey this inspir- 
 ation ; 
 
 Go with the mantling hopes of health and ycum- 
 ful expectation ; 
 
 Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough 
 the expectant prairies ; 
 
 Go, in the sacred name of God, and the blessed 
 Virgin Mary's." 
 
 IJENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
 
POEMS OF JiEFLECriOX. 
 
 OUR EMIGRANTS. 
 
 Ye wander far and fai, 
 I}y many a distant star, 
 
 By many an olive shore. 
 The swallows come and go. 
 
 And come ajjain with May ; 
 The tide-waves ebb and flow. 
 The brown hair turns to gray, 
 But ye come back no more. 
 
 Why must ye go away 
 In hundreds every day. 
 
 As from a plague ye fled ^ — 
 O young man, maid, and cuiia, 
 
 Ye leave a fertile soil, 
 A climate soft and mild, 
 A land to pay all toil, 
 A land of glorious dead. 
 
 The savage rears her child, 
 And in the forests wild 
 
 Finds all his need demands; 
 But from a verdant shore, 
 
 And from the hills ye love. 
 Ye rush forth evermore. 
 While angels weep above — 
 Sad exiles in all lands. 
 
 Ye cut the quinine wood, 
 Wliere once the red man stood, 
 
 Where dwells the humming bird; 
 Hut far and far away. 
 
 Across the deep green sea. 
 Throughout the night and day. 
 Your thoughts for ever flee, 
 In love that finds no word. 
 
 Ye dig the yellow gold 
 
 From streams of wealth untold. 
 
 Through weary, painful hours. 
 Oh ! leave it where it lies. 
 
 Just standing where it stood, 
 For to our aching eyes 
 
 It bears a mark of blood,— 
 Of your life's blood and oura, 
 
 'Tis bought with too much pain. 
 It has a crimson stain, — 
 
 The red sweat of your hearts ; 
 ■^'e give it full and free, 
 
 Ye eat the bitter bread. 
 To keep the old roof-tree 
 Above the bent gray head 
 That to the grave departs. 
 
 Oil ! come to us once more. 
 Come from the olive shore. 
 
 Across the salt sea-foam ; 
 We'd rather than the gold 
 
 That ye were with us here ; 
 We'd suffer want and cold. 
 Nor shed a single tear. 
 If ye v/cre but al home. 
 
 \Ki;.\REr KVAX. 
 
 A PRISON DREAM. 
 
 In a cell of old Kilmainham 
 
 1 lay on my cold, hard bed ; 
 And our loving God sent down a Dream. 
 
 And it sat beside my head ; 
 And the Dream-voice whispered low, sweet wordf?. 
 
 And the clouds of sorrow fled. 
 
 As a mother sits by a suffering child. 
 
 Soothing it to its sleep. 
 The gentle Dream sat by my side. 
 
 And I could feel it weep ; 
 And 1 loved it, for it came from God, 
 
 And its love was very deep. 
 
 The Dream rose up, and took my hand. 
 
 And led me from the night ; 
 Led me to where the sun was warm. 
 
 And where the earth was bright ; 
 And I felt like a slave who has snapped his chain 
 
 And I laughed with a child's delight. 
 
 I thought 1 heard a river flow. 
 
 We stood by the river soon ; 
 And the tears sprung up from my swelling heart 
 
 When I heard its gentle tune ; 
 Its notes were dear in days gone by. 
 
 When my youth was in its noon. 
 
 For a moment the vision fled my sight. 
 
 And a darkness rose between ; 
 And the shadow of old Kilmainham's walls 
 
 Spread broad across the scene ; 
 But it passed, like the shade of a passing cloud, 
 
 And again the earth was green. 
 
 And old familiar faces rose. 
 
 And smiled on me in joy ; 
 And the long-lost mates who played with me 
 
 When I was a careless boy— 
 When my life was a vein of virgin gold, 
 
 Unstain'd by foul alloy. 
 
THE PLEASANT DA YS OF OLD. 
 
 237 
 
 And the river of my life flowed back 
 
 To the home of my early years ; 
 And I read of my suffering native land — 
 
 I read of her hopes and fears ; 
 And my mother watched me while I read. 
 
 And her ej'es were filled with tears. 
 
 And the smiling dream went beckoning on, 
 
 To a quiet, spring-clad grove. 
 And under the guardian trees I heard 
 
 The voice of the one I love ; 
 And the God who loveth loving hearts, 
 
 Smiled peace on us from above. 
 
 Again the vision fled my sight. 
 
 And darkness rose between. 
 And the shadow of old Kilmainham's walls 
 
 Spread broad across the scene ; 
 And I woke, and the loving dream had fled, 
 
 And I was as I had been. 
 
 JOSEPH BRENAN. 
 
 IN AGES PAST. 
 
 On a Paper Knife :>/ Irish. Oak. 
 
 The fair young oak that gave thy blade 
 To carver with a cunning hand. 
 
 Stood ages since within a glade 
 Of that forever shadowed land 
 Where lies a slave did once command 
 
 The world of science, art and craft : 
 
 The fair strong oak that made thy haft 
 Leafed first in rapture near a strand 
 
 Where armored Northmen once did wade 
 From bristling galleys, fore and aft. 
 
 To meet oak spears with gleaming tips. 
 
 That drove them, reeling, to their ships, 
 Like pallid fiends, with terror daft ; 
 For, high above the silver sand. 
 
 Where spears and banners meet and mi.\. 
 
 They hear the chant of holy lips. 
 They see a god-like figure stand 
 And hold against them, like a wand, 
 
 A simple oaken crucifix. 
 
 And deeper in the shadowed glade 
 
 Where grew thy fair young parent tree ; 
 
 Where spiced winds the cedars swayed. 
 
 The sun's last rays reluctant fade 
 
 On abbey tower overlaid 
 
 With braided ivy, tress on tress ; 
 While sweetly, from its dim recess 
 
 Thro' cell and chapel, floats a wave 
 Of undulating stringed chords : 
 
 The abbess' voice, majestic, grave, 
 Gliding thro' chancel, crypt and nave. 
 Repeats in glorious Gaelic words 
 
 A song of heavenly joy and hope. 
 That thrills the ancient gray grim dun. 
 And rises o'er the moated scarp. 
 Whose warders' sightless eyelids ope 
 When, with the setting of the sun. 
 
 The abbess smites her oaken harp. 
 
 MARGARET F. SULLIVAN. 
 
 THE PLEASANT DAYS OF OLD. 
 
 Oh ! the pleasant days of old, which so often 
 people praise ! 
 
 True, they wanted all the luxuries that grace our 
 modern days ; 
 
 Bare floors were strewed with rushes — the walls 
 let in the cold ; 
 
 Oh ! how they must have shivered in those pleas- 
 ant days of old ! 
 
 Oh ! those ancient lords of old, how magnificent 
 
 they were ! 
 They threw down and imprisoned kings— to 
 
 thwart them who might dare .' 
 They ruled their serfs right sternly ; they took 
 
 from Jews their gold — 
 Above both law and equity were those great 
 
 lords of old ! 
 
 Oh ! the gallant knights of old, for their valor so 
 
 renowned ! 
 With sword and lance, and armor strong, they 
 
 scoured the country round ; 
 And whenever aught to tempt them they met 
 
 by wood or wold. 
 By right of sword they seized the prize — those 
 
 gallant knights of old I 
 
 Oh ! the gentle dames of old, who, quite free 
 
 from fear or pain. 
 Could gaze on joust and tournament, and see 
 
 their champions slain ! 
 They lived on good beefsteaks and ale, which 
 
 made them strong and bold — 
 Oh! more like men than women were those 
 
 gentle dames of old ! 
 
238 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 Oh ! those mighty towers of old. with their tur- I 
 
 rets, moat and keep, | 
 
 Their battlements and bastions, their dungeons [ 
 
 dark and deep I I 
 
 Full many a baron held his court within the ] 
 
 castle hold ; , 
 
 And many a captive languished there, in those 
 
 strong towers of old ! 
 
 Oh! the troubadours of old, witli their gentle 
 
 minstrelsie 
 Of hope and joy, or deep despair, whiche'er 
 
 their lot might be ! — 
 For years they ser\'ed their lady-love ere they 
 
 their passions told — 
 Oh! wondrous patience must have had those 
 
 troubadours of old ! 
 
 Oh ! those blessed times of old. with their chivalry 
 
 and state ! 
 I love to read their chronicles, which such brave 
 
 deeds relate ; 
 I love to sing their ancient rhymes, to hear their 
 
 legends told — 
 But, heaven be thanked ! I live not in those 
 
 blessed times of old ! 
 
 KRAXCKS liROWN. 
 
 Forgotten ! well, he ran a gallant course, 
 A starry path, although it closed in night — 
 
 He crossed Oppression's path with manly for' 
 And died a soldier of the host of Right. 
 
 You may forget him— you may raise no stone 
 His fame was even of the smallest span ; 
 
 He wants no epitaph, but this alone : [man.' 
 
 " Here sleeps a nameless man who died fm 
 
 JOSEPH nRENAN. 
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 . Give me my logic, then — if I must drink 
 The golden draught— from minds that clearly 
 
 think. 
 And write their thoughts in proper, technic way. 
 That shows me the pure gist of what they say. 
 But give me no inversions, — give me not 
 For weary hours to wade some dreadful plot. 
 At first philosophy, at last a novel. 
 Where Hodge speaks bastard logic in his hovel. 
 And all the characters are of one school. 
 With syllogistic cant the only rule ! 
 
 OBLIVION. 
 
 *'J'('M ti'ili I'l' /flr^ottm in ii 7vceJl\^' 
 
 Forgotten I sooth, it is a dismal doom — 
 The word comes toning like a funeral knell. 
 
 Withering soul-flowers like a hot simoom. 
 Breaking the dreaming boy's ecstatic spell. 
 
 Forgotten ! yes ; and yet the young man died. 
 To bring his fellows nearer to the sun ; 
 
 And danger braved, and even death defied 
 To lead them to a goal they never won. 
 
 Forgotten ! yet he gave his sinewy youth 
 To wrestle ever with the giant. Wrong, 
 
 And waved aloft the banner of the Truth, 
 And guarded it the foremost ranks among. 
 
 And struggled bravely, while he yet had breath 
 Smiting the mighty, striking for the poor ; 
 
 And bared his bosom to the shaft of Death, 
 Thinking his blood earth's gaping wounds 
 could cure. 
 
 Or, if with poesy my mind I feed. 
 Give me the pipings of the grand old reed [ran 
 That great ones kissed, and blew in strains that 
 With heavenly solace through the mind of man. 
 Give me the fond, the gay " Arabian Nights," 
 With all their treasures and their dear delights ; 
 With Grimm and Andersen to range the shore 
 Of pristine legend and enchanted lore ; 
 Or with Cervantes' knight to feel the thwack 
 Of rustic cudgels on my noble back; 
 To slay chimeras, with love's subtlest art 
 To woo and conquer fair Dulcinea's heart. 
 Or charge the wind-mills, and half dead to lie. 
 With Sancho Panza and his proverbs by ! 
 Give me the thought direct, that brightly runs 
 O'er interstellar spaces, planets, suns, [main, 
 Through earth's hard crust and hell's Tartarean 
 From Milton's and from Dante's wondrous brain ! 
 Give me with Homer through the battle wind. 
 With all my shouting myrmidons behind. 
 To urge the snorting steeds, and break the wood 
 Of Trojan lances by Scamander's flood ; 
 Or, with bright Tasso. on the sounding plain 
 To couch the spear, and breast the arrows' rain 
 I From walls of high Jerusalem, and show 
 My knightly prowess 'gainst the Paynim foe ; 
 
STRUGGLE AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 Or, with sweet Spenser, travel dales and woods 
 
 To look on nature in her different moods, 
 
 To stray with Una through enchanted groves, 
 
 And kiss the flower of innocence she loves, 
 
 To conquer dragons with the Red-Cross Knight, 
 
 With Calidore behold the Graces bright, 
 
 Or lay the iron flail of Talus strong 
 
 On the proud backs of Ignorance and Wrong ! 
 
 Or, if to verse at home my soul incline, 
 Give me the polished thoughts that nobly shine 
 Like pearls of price, or threads of virgin gold. 
 Through silken pages, where the tale is told 
 Of that weird Stethoscope, wherein the flies 
 The doctors stunned with their deceiving cries. 
 And with the Deacon let me ride away [Shay, 
 Through summer woods, upon the One Hoss 
 Talk with the Autocrat, and hear the Poet, [it ! 
 And drink life's subtlest charm, and scarcely know 
 
 Or give me him, high culture's noble son. 
 
 The Scholar and the Poet both in one. 
 
 Whose verse of varied movement falls and swells 
 
 In melody like his cathedral bells. 
 
 Now full and grandly caltn, now soft and tender. 
 
 Sparkling with wit, and bright witli passion's 
 
 splendor. 
 With him down Fancy's river let me sail. 
 And, with Sir Launfal, find the Holy Grail, 
 Or set myself some merry hours to spend 
 With quaint Hosea Biglow for my friend. 
 Or by the kitchen fire to sit in clover. 
 And do the blessed Courtin' ten times over ! 
 
 Or give me him who called the armed dead — 
 
 The Skeleton — from out his narrow bed [brave. 
 
 By Newport Tower; with him the blasts I'll 
 
 And tell mad stories of the Norland wave, 
 
 In the King's hall, and there, to test my truth, 
 
 Hold up in Alfred's face the Walrus Tooth ! 
 
 I'll seek, with Hiawatha, the bright West, 
 
 The infinite Green Prairies of the Blest ; 
 
 I'll wander by Atlantic's coast, and see 
 
 The lovely meadows of sweet Arcadie ; 
 
 In the warm forge with Gabriel blithely sing, 
 
 The bellows blow and make the anvils ring. 
 
 See fair Evangeline in coif and tassel. 
 
 And smoke a pipe with Benedict and Basil ! 
 
 Or let me look on Death with him whose gaze 
 Found philosophic lore in youthful days, [bless 
 'Neath the Grim ribs, with many a thought to 
 And soothe the human heart in its distress. 
 Or place my hand in his, and let me go 
 To sylvan places where sweet waters flow. 
 
 And sit me down beside some crystal stream. 
 And list to sounds like music in a dream, — 
 The wood's deep stirrings, voice of all wild things, 
 The murmur of innumerable wings. 
 The song of birds, the waves, the zephyr's fan, 
 And in all blended hear the voice of Pan ! 
 
 Or I will wander out 'neath summer skies. 
 With Concord's sage, to look in Nature's eyes. 
 And find therein new hopes for future years. 
 The while she whispers in our listening ears — 
 Weird sentences and sybilline decrees [trees, 
 From cave and bank of flowers, rock, fern and 
 j And brook that, singing, through the green wood 
 
 travels. 
 Whose meanings he — her Priest — alone unravels! 
 
 Or snow-bound, let me, lingering, cheer the mind 
 III happy converse with companions kind, 
 And with them watch the pearly wonders gleam 
 O'er forest, plain, rough glen and gelid stream, 
 Or frosty magic on the panes assume [bloom. 
 New forms of light, transcending summer's 
 And if I had them not, then let me ride 
 With Skipper Ireson. feathered, tarred, and dyed, 
 Through Marblehead, with rope-coils round my 
 
 wrists. 
 And hear the yells, and feel the housewives' fists 
 Till I repent me, and roll back the wain 
 Of truant thought to Nature's joys again ! 
 
 ROBERT DWVER JUVCE. 
 — FrOTTl a Poem inscribed to Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 STRUGGLE AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 Rise, brother-bard, rehearse with me 
 The Past, that was Futurity : 
 And up the shining hills of Thought 
 1 Muse o'er the deeds that men have wrought. 
 And on the bright Parnassian peak 
 These words of meditation speak : 
 
 In the struggle is the triumph. 
 
 Hail ! gracious youth, thou, too, may'st come ; 
 Leave passion's revel, pleasure's hum. 
 The strife, the jealousy, the guilt. 
 The recklessness of error's tilt ; 
 Thy soul, confirmed in noblest light. 
 Will vow at last—" for truth and right. 
 
 In the struggle is the triumph," 
 
240 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 O, sage— most rev'rend are thy years. 
 Transfixing folly, lessning tears- 
 Come, thou shalt teach me many things 
 Of earth, air. sea : of paupers, kings ; 
 Of angels bred in poverty. 
 Of demons reared in luxury. 
 
 Of the struggle and the triumph. 
 
 Youth linked to age, and bard to bard 
 Stand forth, united for reward ! 
 And whether on the mount or plain. 
 In town or forest, still retain 
 The soul above the diadem. 
 As champion of the apothegm— 
 
 In the struggle is the triumph ! 
 
 WILLIAM J. McCLURE. 
 
 THREE SONNETS. 
 
 NOT LOST. 
 
 LIGHT AND DARK. 
 
 In far. bright spaces of sun-lighted air 
 My soul went wandering one summer day. 
 And saw. in clouds remote, fierce lightning pla\- 
 About huge worlds, whose mountains, high aii' : 
 Shone lurid in the never-ceasing glare ; [bari-. 
 These swung along a wild, tempestuous way 
 Where storm and darkness held eternal sway. 
 And high winds roared their loud, unceasing 
 
 blare. 
 Then turning from this vast and troubled seem 
 In purple distances I saw those spheres 
 Where life is rich with love, and glad with son^ 
 Who could not choose these different workl- 
 
 between ? 
 Give me the light, even tho" it shine thro' tears . 
 Annihilation is too cold and long. 
 
 1 HO.M.VS S. COLLIER. 
 
 Yes. cross in rest the little snow-white hands ; i 
 Do you not see the lips so faintly red [fled, 
 
 Wilh love's last kiss? Their sweetness has not 
 Though now you say her sinless spirit stands 
 Within the pale of God's bright summer lands. 
 Gather the soft hair round the dainty head. 
 .■\.s in past days. Who says that she is dead, 
 .\nd nevermore will heed the old commands.' 
 To your cold idols cling : I know she sleeps. 
 That her pure soul is not by vext winds tost ^ 
 .\Iong the pathless altitudes of space ; 
 This life but sows the seed from which one reaps 
 The future's harvest. No, I have not lost 
 The glory and the gladness of her face. 
 
 OBLIVION. 
 
 .Above bright orient seas, sun-kissed, arise 
 rhe legend-haunted isles in whose dim groves 
 The ghoul and genii sang their burning loves ; 
 Whose forest paths are rich with fragrant sighs 
 Of winds that lingering pass where sleeping lies 
 The glittering cobra, or where softly moves 
 The lithe, sleek tiger, whose fierce blood-thirst 
 
 proves 
 The minister of death and swift surprise. 
 There, sad and sleep-oppressed, the weary slave 
 Sinks into dreams where fallen orange blooms 
 Lie like white stars amid the odorous shade, 
 And mighty ruins mark an empire's grave. 
 What nation slumbers in those verdurous glooms ? 
 How soon shall we to such oblivion fade .' 
 
 SONNETS ON MEMORY 
 
 IDEAS FADING IN THE MEMORY. 
 
 Quickly they vanish to a land unlit, [mourn. 
 
 Things for which no man cares to smile or 
 
 Forgotten in the place where they were born ; 
 
 Each hath a marvelous history unwrit, 
 
 A fathomless river floweth over it. 
 
 Quickly they fade, with no more traces worn 
 
 Than shadows flying over fields of corn 
 
 Wear, as in soft processional they flit. 
 
 The thought (much like the children of our youti > 
 
 Doth often die before us, and presents 
 
 The very semblance of the monuments 
 
 To which we are approaching aye in sooth. 
 
 Where, though the brass and marble do not wasi< 
 
 The tints are faded and the lines effaced. 
 
 REVIVAL OF MEMORY. 
 
 Sadly. O sage, thine images are told. 
 Think we of cornfields, where again there fall. 
 At memory's touch that is so magical. 
 All the long lights that ever rippled gold. 
 Across their surface, all the manifold 
 Wavelets of tremulous shadow; and withal 
 Through doors and windows of a haumed hall. 
 Those buried children of the days of old. 
 Those evanescent children of dead years. 
 Clouded or glorious, glide into the room. 
 Sudden as yellow leaves drop from the tree. 
 And all the molder'd imagery reappears. 
 I And all the letter'd lines are fair to see. 
 I And all the legend lives above the tomb. 
 
LAST UPON THE ROLL. 
 
 2\\ 
 
 MARVELS OF MF.MORY. 
 
 Strange dying, resurrection stranger yet ! 
 
 In the deep chamber. Memory, let me dwell. 
 
 Folded in a recess ineffable. 
 
 Lo I in that silent chamber sadly s^t, 
 
 I must hear, and breath of violet 
 
 (Though npwers be none within a mile to smellj 
 
 From breath of lily I can finely tell. 
 
 And I with joy remember my regret. 
 
 And I regretful, think how glad 1 was. 
 
 O men who roam to see world-famous tracts. 
 
 Immaculate skies, or from the mountain pass 
 
 The great white wonder of the cataracts. 
 
 Visits to many a lovely land ye weave 
 
 In looms of fancy — hwX. yoiirsclnes ye leave. 
 
 WILLIAM ALEXANDER. 
 
 Septem- 
 
 LAST UPON THE ROLL. 
 
 She sits at the open window, on a calr 
 
 ber day. 
 And out on the mead before her she watches the 
 
 girls at play ; 
 On her face a breeze blows gently, and kisses 
 
 her locks of snow. 
 And she thinks of the days when she was young, 
 
 seventy years ago. 
 
 The fields are green as they were then, and the 
 
 big old rocks as gray. 
 The land and sky are as fair to see, the sun has 
 
 as mild a ray ; 
 The drowsy kine rest on the hill, the lambs skip 
 
 to and fro. 
 Just as they did when she was young, seventy 
 
 years ago. 
 
 The sturdy youth, with dancing eyes and the 
 
 vigor of lusty veins. 
 Jumps on the cok, and o'er the fence, to show no 
 
 fear restrains ; 
 Full well he knows that a neighbor's rose is 
 
 watching behind a tree. 
 And her maiden pride, at love's full tide, follows i 
 
 him over the lea. 
 
 The lowly cot, the mansion high, cover hill and ' 
 
 dale the same, | 
 
 And wealth's the pride of old and young, and 
 
 poverty the shame ; 
 And the bright blue eye of the cottage maid is 
 
 cast demurely down. 
 As she bends before a sister proud, who wears 
 
 a silken gown. 
 
 The tawny west falls on the mead, and the chil- 
 dren homeward fly. 
 
 For now they see the whizzing bat, and hear the 
 screech-owl's cry ; 
 
 The jumping curls strike rosy cheeks, and fear 
 with laughter peals, 
 
 For each one knows, as she whirling goes, there's 
 a goblin at her heels. 
 
 .She looks at her shrivelled fingers, and she 
 
 smoothes her wrinkled hand. 
 And the old, old love comes back to her, as she 
 
 studies the golden band ; 
 That dear old ring is loose and thin since first he 
 
 placed it there, 
 And at love's shrine he said "be mine," and 
 
 knelt with her in prayer. 
 
 Eighty years of joy and tears through life's sad 
 chambers moan, 
 
 And still she hears in memory's ears a once- 
 familiar tone ; 
 
 In long, sweet notes to her it floats, and it tells 
 of the olden time. 
 
 When love was strong, and life a song, and hope 
 was in its prime. 
 
 A little beyond the play-ground, on the slope of 
 
 yonder hill, 
 Her dim eyes mark the gravestones where those 
 
 she loved lie still ; 
 And her thoughts have silent nursing, and her 
 
 soul a silent grief, 
 But her tear is the bier on which her sorrow finds 
 
 relief. 
 
 Now her heart is as light as the mornings with 
 
 wings of a soul made free. 
 And away, away to the tender loves she is all 
 
 love to flee ; 
 And the God she adores so humbly, and the 
 
 Christ she loves so well 
 Will take her soon to the waiting ones, beyond 
 
 life's weary spell. 
 
 And her staff is lifted slowly, and she moves 
 
 around with care, 
 For her darlings now are sleeping — she might 
 
 wake them unaware : 
 And she gropes around to find them, and to 
 
 bless them in her soul, 
 Till a whisper comes ; — " We wait, mother ; you 
 
 are last upon the roll." 
 
 HUGH F. McDERMOTT. 
 
POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 JUDITH. 
 Now sliall I live lliro" many a lonely year 
 To see my deed and me to history grow ; 
 And men shall call me great, and deem mc 
 
 great. 
 But other thoughts than live on lips in words 
 Shall nestle voiceless in tlieir inmost hearts ; 
 And women who rnay envy me my fame 
 Shall grudge me not the doing of the deed 
 From which my fame was born. 
 
 When I am old. 
 And when my hand is weak, and white my head, 
 They shall divine a fierceness in my eye, 
 And judge by all they heard, not all they sec ; 
 And they shall hedge my name and me with 
 And make my face part of each festival ; [state. 
 But mothers who, me childless, shall proclaim 
 Mother of Israel, yet shall shrink to lay 
 Their innocent children on my widowed lap ; 
 And innocent maids shall shudder secretly. 
 And deem that blood, though justly shed, lea .es 
 Upon the hand that shed it, and deem too [st^in 
 The deed that made me great left me unsexed. 
 
 By it shall I be known ; the woman's part 
 
 In me shall be forgotten, or recalled 
 
 To raise the strangeness of my manlike deed. 
 
 Judith, who quailed not when her enemy's head 
 
 Beneath her robe distilled the gory drops, — 
 
 Who struck not once, but twice, and sawed the 
 
 head 
 
 From off the wine-steeped carcass of its lord — 
 
 Who wound with fearless footstep thro' the camp. 
 
 And from the white lips of her enemy's head 
 
 Forced voiceless augury of the morrow's fight : 
 
 These shall men know ! 
 
 But not the Jewish maid 
 
 Who gave her young heart to her heart's young 
 
 And found the path of love and duty one, [lord 
 
 Leading her feet within Manasses' gates — 
 
 Not her. who out of common household cares 
 
 Made links to bind her to her husband's heart, 
 
 Was joyful in his joys, and in her dreams 
 
 Saw him in honor at the city gates 
 
 With Judah's elders, nor could even dream 
 
 Of any fame save what must come thro' him— 
 
 Not her, whose heart was soft and womanlike. 
 
 So large that, like a hospitable house 
 
 That shelters not alone the present guests 
 
 But keeps a place for any guest God sends. 
 
 Within that woman's heart she kept a place 
 
 For children and grandchildren of her hope. 
 
 JOSEPH F.ARRF.I.L. 
 —From " jHditk: a Stua^" 
 
 THE BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 " I'd miller be 
 
 A Pagso auckled ia a creed oulwont. 
 So might 1, Rtandiaf on thi» pleasant to. 
 Have cllmpae* that would make mc leu (..r.^..,.— 
 Have night of Proteus rixinic from the sea. 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.*' 
 
 — II 'm-jTm^rtJt. 
 
 When pan-pipes in young shepherds' haivK 
 
 Sang as old Grecians tell us of. 
 When the fair summer in all lands 
 
 Was dedicate to sports of love. 
 When from the sea old Triton rose. 
 
 And lust was love and love was lust, 
 iVnd on the gray clouds, in repose. 
 
 Lay Juno, spouse of Jove august ; 
 Then all life's sweetness lived on earth. 
 Then its short joys were little worth. 
 
 But now beyond the crescent moon. 
 
 Though Dian's gone and Pan is gone, 
 iVnd Clytie has forgot the boon 
 
 That from Apollo her love won. 
 There comes a gleam of higher light. 
 
 The birds of eve no longer sing 
 Of love that lives a single night. 
 
 And brings the heart no comforting— 
 The love of Clytie and the Sun, 
 Of Dian and Endymion. 
 
 The moon is sadder than of yore 
 
 It shone on Christ and Calvary, 
 The roses bear the thorns he wore. 
 
 And sighs and moans sound on the sea 
 But earth is not the end of life. 
 
 For earthly love transfigured 
 Sees rest and peace beyond the strife. 
 
 And longing souls are homeward led 
 By Him to whom the gods arc nought. 
 By Him who earth and all things wrought. 
 M.AURICF- F. EG.AX. 
 
 HYMN TO CONTENTMENT. 
 Lovely, lasting peace of mind ! 
 Sweet delight of human kind ! 
 Heavenly born and bred on high. 
 To crown the favorites of the sky 
 With more of happiness below 
 Than victors on a triumph know ! 
 Whither. O whither art thou fled. 
 To lay thy meek, contented head .'' 
 What happy region dost thou please 
 To make the seat of calms and ease ? 
 
.7 POOR MOTHER. 
 
 243 
 
 Ambition searches all its sphere 
 Of pomp and state, to meet thee there; 
 Increasing avarice would find 
 Thy presence in its gold enshrined ; 
 The bold adventurer ploughs his way 
 Through rocks amid the foaming sea, 
 To gain thy love, and then perceives 
 Thou wert not in the rocks and waves ; 
 The silent heart, which grief assails. 
 Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, 
 Sees daisies open, rivers run, 
 And seeks, as I have vainly done. 
 Amusing thought — but learns to know 
 That solitude's the nurse of woe. 
 
 No real happiness is found 
 
 In trailing purple o'er the grouna 
 
 Or in a soul exalted high 
 
 To range the circuit of the sky, 
 
 Converse with stars above, and know 
 
 AH nature in its forms below ; 
 
 The rest it seeks, in seeking dies. 
 
 And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise. 
 
 Lovely, lasting peace, appear ! 
 The world itself, if thou art here. 
 Is once again with Eden blest. 
 And man contains it in his breast. 
 'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 
 I sung my wishes to the wood. 
 And lost in thought, no more perceiv'd 
 The branches whisper as they wav'd. 
 It seemed as all the quiet place 
 Confessed the presence of the Grace, 
 When thus she spoke : — "Go, rule thy will. 
 Bid thy wild passions all be still ; 
 Know God and bring thy heart to know 
 The joys which from religion flow ; 
 Then every grace shall prove its guest. 
 And I'll be there to crown the rest." 
 
 O ! by yonder mossy seat. 
 In my hours of sweet retreat, 
 Might I thus my soul employ. 
 With sense of gratitude and joy ! 
 Raised as ancient prophets were. 
 In heavenly wisdom, praise and pray'r ; 
 Pleasing all men, hurting none, 
 Pleased and blest with God alone. 
 Then while the gardens take my sight 
 With all the colors of delight, 
 While silver waters glide along 
 To please my ear and court my song, 
 I'll lift my voice and tune my string, 
 And thee, great source of Nature, sing. 
 
 The sun that walks his airy way. 
 To light the world and give the day ; 
 The moon that shines with borrowed light. 
 The stars that gild the gloomy night, 
 The sea that rolls unnumbered waves. 
 The wood that spreads its shady leaves. 
 The field whose ears conceal the grain. 
 The yellow treasure of the plain, — 
 All of these, and all I see, 
 Should be sung, and sung by me ; 
 They speak their Maker as they can, 
 But want and ask the tongue of man. 
 
 Go, search among your idle dreams. 
 Your busy or your vain extremes. 
 And find a life of equal bliss. 
 Or own the next begun in this. 
 
 THOMAS PARNELL. 
 
 A POOR MOTHER. 
 
 " I give you joy." Her lips put on a smile 
 To mock the woeful shadow in her eyes ; 
 " Nay, I've no wish to blame you. Tears and 
 
 sighs 
 Won't make nor mend ; — but only, the surprise, 
 
 .0 .sudden! . . . Let me breathe a little while. 
 
 " See, dear, 'twas only yesterday, I thought. 
 Looking abroad, the world seemed green and 
 
 glad 
 I thought, 'God's given me this, the kindest lad. 
 The dearest child that ever woman had. 
 
 And health and hands.' I envied no one aught. 
 
 " All this, I said, is mine ; my heart beat fast 
 V/ith pride, with joy, with mother's happiness. 
 I held both hands above it, to repress [guess 
 Great thrills of joy . . Ah, God ! I could not 
 
 How brief a time my counted wealth would last. 
 
 " I knew you loved her .' child, I never knew ! 
 I saw you walk, and talk, and dance, and jest ; 
 It seemed but foolish pastime at the best — 
 And you were both so young . . Imadenotest. 
 
 No question of the future for you two. 
 
 " But marriage is not death .' you'll love me still .' 
 
 A little— yes —with such love as may spread 
 
 In overflow beyond your child's bright head. 
 
 Your wife's fair eyes ... Ah no — the past 
 
 lies dead, 
 
 And time goes on, and Nature has her will. 
 
POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 " Nay— hush ! forgive me ; I must weep— or die: 
 Still, dear, I bless you. Through these blintlinjj 
 
 tears 
 I greet you bravely, (or the hopes and fears 
 And all the mystery of untried years. — 
 
 I greet the man — but oh, my iay, good-bye ! 
 
 MARY AINGE DE VERE. 
 
 SHADOWS OF THE SUNSET. 
 
 Woman born amonjj the roses, rosy-cheeked and 
 
 rosy-crowned, 
 Lookinjf on whom men exclaim : Behold, true 
 
 womanhood is found ! 
 This the woman's place and glory, this her liap- 
 
 piness and bound. 
 
 I could mock with bitter laughter, did my heart 
 
 not break in pain 
 l^or the sad fates of the silent who can never 
 
 smile again, — 
 For the tales of lonely Kansas, drifted by the 
 
 snow and rain. 
 
 When the stars of midnight tremble, and the 
 
 cheek of morning pales, 
 I can hear them calling, calling, as the wind, 
 
 repentant, wails 
 By the awful Lake of Donner, and the yawning 
 
 Utah vales. 
 
 Mothers of a new-born Nation, crowned with 
 
 snow, and clad in fire 
 By that Sun-god w-hose old altars burn beside 
 
 the Christian spire. 
 And whose feet the warm sea w-aters kiss with 
 
 indolent desire. 
 
 They have heard the singing bullet, they have 
 
 watched their dead alone. 
 Under heaven's seeming marble. God, an image 
 
 overthrown. 
 In the distance looming terror more than song 
 
 has ever shown. 
 
 They have seen the babes they cradled brained 
 
 before their hopeless eyes. 
 Smoke from charring homesteads all along the 
 
 line of prairie rise. 
 Tasted many deaths, undying, in the horrors of 
 
 surprise. 
 
 Aye, they suffered ; but they conquered, let il- 
 
 border cities tell 
 Where they sowed those gracious flowers wonn 
 
 know and love so well. 
 How upon their shining steps the dews of bin 
 
 diction fell. 
 
 And their daughters, straight and ruddy, nursccl 
 at breast the frost wind bared. 
 
 Meeting danger as a playmate, daring all that 
 men have dared. 
 
 Can their free-born courses by your petty ton 
 passes be squared .' 
 
 Man of men the ruler! Poet, far more generci 
 
 ;md true. 
 You shall walk the deep-sea hollows, you sIul; 
 
 climb the clouded blue. 
 Ere the slightest woman's heart will yield its 
 
 secrets up to you. 
 
 MARION MLIK 
 
 FREEDOM AND LOVE. 
 
 Oh ! that my lips with sacred fire 
 
 Were touched, that I might speak the word 
 That, leaping from the impassioned lyre. 
 
 Should flash electric through love's chord ; 
 
 That this, responsive to the voice 
 
 That greeting man, proclaimed him free. 
 
 Thrilling through earth should bid rejoice 
 The great heart of Humanity ! 
 
 Freedom and Love ! divinest gifts 
 
 By gracious Heaven on man bestowed ; 
 
 To Heaven itself Love's magic lifts 
 
 The soul where Freedom's light hath glowed. 
 
 For he whose breast hath never felt 
 
 The rapture liberty inspires, — 
 Love's fire his soul shall never melt, — 
 
 Its spirit in his grasp expires. 
 
 A nobler destiny is ours 
 
 Than despots of our slaves to make ; 
 And scorning Heaven's life-giving showers. 
 
 Our thirst at turbid waves to slake. 
 
 O brothers ! cast the bonds aside 
 
 That in a slavery blind and base 
 Have held our souls ; and deified. 
 
 No more let Self usurp Love's place. 
 
WHAT HATH TIME TAKEN? 
 
 245 
 
 From every clime, in every tongue 
 
 The greeting shout from man to man : — 
 
 Freedom, full-armed, from Light hath sprung 
 To end the strife that greed began. 
 
 And Love, divinely fair and bright, 
 Shall crown with peace the new bom reign; 
 
 Justice return to earth ; and Right, 
 Not Might, hold sway o'er men again. 
 
 MARY J. SERRANO. 
 
 TWENTY GOLDEN YEARS AGO. 
 
 Oh, the rain, the weary, dreary rain, 
 
 How it plashes on the window-sill I 
 Night, I guess, too, must be on the wane, 
 
 Strass and gass * around are grown so stiU. 
 Here I sit, with coffee in my cup — 
 
 Ah ! 'twas rarely I beheld it flow 
 In the tavern where I loved to sup 
 
 Twenty golden years ago ! 
 
 Twenty years ago, alas ! — but stay — 
 
 On my life, 'tis half-past twelve o'clock ! 
 After all, the hours do slip away — ■ 
 
 Come, here goes to burn another block ! 
 For the night, or morn, is wet and cold. 
 
 And my fire is dwindling rather low ; — 
 I had fire enough, when young and bold. 
 
 Twenty golden years ago ! 
 
 Dear ! I don't feel well at all, somehow ; 
 
 Few in Weimar dream how bad I am; 
 Floods of tears grow common with me now, 
 
 High-Dutch floods, that reason cannot dam. 
 Doctors think I'll neither live nor thrive 
 
 If I mope at home so ; — I don't know — 
 Am I living no%u ? I was alive 
 
 Twenty golden years ago ! 
 
 Wifeless, friendless, flagonless, alone. 
 
 Not quite bookless, tho', unless 1 choose, 
 Left with naught to do, except to groan. 
 
 Not a soul to woo, except the muse — 
 Oh ! this is hard for me to bear. 
 
 Me, who whilom lived so much e7i Jiaut. 
 Me, who broke all hearts like china-ware. 
 
 Twenty golden years ago ! 
 
 Perhaps 'tis better ;— time's defacing waves 
 Long have quench'd the radiance of my brow- 
 
 They who curse me nightly from their graves, 
 Scarce could love me were they living now ; 
 
 But my lonelmess hath darker ills — 
 
 Such dun-duns as Conscience.Thought and Co., 
 
 Awful Gorgons ! worse than tailors' bills, 
 Twenty golden years ago ! 
 
 Did I paint a fifth of what I feel. 
 
 Oh, how plaintive you would ween I was ! 
 But I won't, albeit I have a deal 
 
 More to wail about than Kerner has ! 
 Kerner's tears are wept for wither'd flowers. 
 
 Mine for wither'd hopes ; my scroll of woe 
 Dates, alas ! from youth's deserted bowers, 
 
 Twenty golden years ago ! 
 
 Yet may Deutschland's bardlings ilourish long , 
 
 Me, I tweak no beak among them ; hawks 
 ' Must not pounce on hawks ; besides in song 
 , I could once beat all of them by chalks. 
 I Though you find me, as I near my goal, 
 j Sentimentalizing like Rousseau, 
 I Oh ! I had a grand Byronian soul 
 I Twenty golden years ago ! 
 i 
 Tick-tick, tick-tick ! not a sound save Time's 
 
 And the wind-gust as it drives the rain — 
 Tortured torturer of reluctant rhymes, 
 
 Go to bed, and rest thine aching brain ! 
 Sleep ! no more the dupe of hopes or schemes ; 
 Soon thou sleepest where the thistles blow — 
 Curious anti-climax to thy dreams 
 Twenty golden years ago ! 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 WHAT HATH TIME TAKEN ? 
 
 I What hath Time taken .' Stars that shone 
 
 On the early years of earth. 
 And the ancient hills they looked upon. 
 
 Where a thousand streams had birih ; 
 I Forests that were the young world's dower, 
 ! With their long unfading trees ; [power,— 
 ' And the halls of wealth, and the thrones of 
 
 He hath taken more than these. 
 
 He hath taken away the heart of youth. 
 
 And its gladness, which hath been 
 Like the summer sunshine o'er our path. 
 
 Making the desert green ; 
 The shrines of an early hope and love. 
 
 And the flowers of every clime. 
 The wise, the beautiful, the brave. 
 
 Thou hast taken from us, Time ! 
 
246 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 What hath Time left us ?— desolate 
 
 Cities and temples lone. 
 And the mijjhty works of genius, yet 
 
 Glorious when all are gone ; 
 And the light of memory, lingering long 
 
 At eve on the western seas, — 
 Treasures of science, thought and song, — 
 
 He hath left us more than these. 
 He hath left us a lesson of the past. 
 
 In the shades of perished years; 
 He hath left us the heart's high places waste, 
 
 And Its rainbows fallen in tears. [still, 
 
 But there's hope for the earth and her children 
 
 Unwithered by woe or crime. 
 And a heritage of rest for all. — 
 
 Thou hast left us these. O Time ! 
 
 FRANCES BROWN. 
 
 THE OLDEN TIME. 
 My blessing rest upon thee, thou merry, olden 
 
 time, 
 When the fairies were in fashion, and the world 
 
 was in its prime ; 
 Every ruin had its goblin, every green rath had 
 
 its fay, 
 Till the light of Science chased them from their 
 
 ancient haunts away. 
 How rich wcrt thou in legends, of magic lamps 
 
 and ring — 
 Of genii, whom a single word to mortal aid 
 
 would bring ; 
 Of caves of gold and diamonds, where foot had 
 
 never been, 
 Till by the favored one their depths were all un- 
 veiled and seen. 
 
 Thou wert the time for monarchs — then kings 
 
 were kings indeed. 
 With potent, fairy sponsors to summon at their 
 
 need; 
 Whose wands could change their enemies to 
 
 marble at their will : 
 Ah, many a king would need to have those 
 
 wands of power still ! 
 
 O cruel race of stepmothers ! where have you 
 
 vanished now .' 
 Where are the henpecked husbands who before 
 
 you used to bow, 
 And yield their lovely daughters to glut your 
 
 jealous ire. 
 Forgetful, mid your blandishments, of ev'n the 
 
 name of sire ? 
 
 Sweet beauteous f>ersecuted tribe, princesses 
 
 young and fair. 
 With faces like a poet's dreams, anil veils of 
 
 flowing hair. 
 Beloved by vile enchanters, who turned to stone 
 i and wood, 
 
 The princes who to rescue you dared steel, and 
 
 tire, and flood ; 
 
 I Fierce cannibalish giants, who dwelt in forests 
 
 wild. 
 And worn and weary wayfarers to darksome 
 
 dens beguiled ; 
 Brave knights with charmed weapons, who laid 
 
 the monster low. 
 And opening wide the dungeon doors, bid cease 
 
 the captive's woe,— 
 
 Where are you all departed.'— where lie your 
 
 treasures hid .' 
 Where are the pearls and emeralds that came 
 
 when they were bid .' 
 Where are the mines of gold and gems, that but 
 
 to think of now, 
 Dazzles our mental eyes with light— Old World, 
 
 where art thou .' 
 
 We want those endless riches, we want the 
 
 magic spells. 
 That brought the fairies to your aid, from woods 
 
 and hills, and wells ; 
 We've no enchanters now-a-day. no cabalistic 
 
 flames — 
 The worid has lost them all. and keeps but their 
 
 time-honored names. 
 
 O. could I find a magic wand, I'd bring those 
 
 days again — 
 I'd call the treasures from the caves of earth and 
 
 throbbing main ; 
 The land should be a glorious land, as 'twas in 
 
 ancient time. 
 When the fairies were in fashion, and the world 
 
 was in its prime. 
 
 .ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE RIVER OF TIME. 
 Oh, River of Time ! the long ago thou wert but 
 
 a rippling rill. 
 And the dulcet rhyme of thy crystal flow was 
 
 sweet as wind-harp's trill ; 
 That song of joy like a lullaby on the air rose 
 
 soft and low. 
 As thy ripples sped from their fountain-head 
 
 and flashed in the morning's glow ; 
 
While Earth's fair queen, in radiant sheen, 
 
 flower-crowned by angel hands. 
 The beauteous grace of her mirror'd face oft 
 
 scann'd in thy golden sands ; 
 And the dreamy moon, in night's mystic noon, t 
 
 when her full, round orb shone bright. 
 Gazed down with pride on thy silvery tide, pale 
 
 shimmering in her light. 
 While the primal stars in their gilded cars rolled I 
 
 on through the azure hight — ! 
 
 Fair, glittering gems, bright diadems high set on I 
 
 the brow of Night. I 
 
 Oh, River of Time ! thy stream has swelled thro' 
 
 the centuried lapse of years — 
 Has grown and swelled since of old it welled 
 from its fount 'mid the starry spheres, , 
 
 Till now, broad and deep, with majestic sweep, i 
 
 like the roll of an inland sea, ' 
 
 That stream, erst a rill, turns God's mighty mill 
 
 on its course lo eternity ! 
 Oh, methinks I hear, rising high and clear on 
 
 the ghostly midnight wind, j 
 
 The surge and the roar of thy waves evermore | 
 
 and the rush of the flood behind, ] 
 
 And the shrieks of the lost on thy bosom tossed, i 
 
 like wrecks on the ocean waves, ' 
 
 Drifting out to sea, oh. River, with thee, far ! 
 
 away from the land of graves ! j 
 
 Oh, River of Time ! from the days of yore flow- 
 ing on to the billowy sea. 
 
 Bring us back once more from the silent shore 
 the friends who have flown with thee, 
 
 The myriad host of the loved and lost — the hearts 
 that were fond — ah, me ! — 
 
 The beauty and bloom in the grave's dark womb 
 —the spirits that wander free 
 
 From sin's dark slime in that wondrous clime- 
 bright land of the ransomed souls, 
 
 Where Death's cold shadow ne\'er falls, nor 
 death-bell sadly tolls. 
 
 Ah ! in vain we crave, for thy ebbless wave, 
 when it passeth the grave's dark bourne. 
 
 With its freight of souls, as it seaward rolls, 
 never can nor will return ! 
 
 Oh, River of Time ! flowing slowly on, with the 
 wrecks of our hopes and dreams — 
 
 On, evermore on to the great Unknown, where 
 the rapturing vision gleams. 
 
 And the white souls float in space, as the mote 
 on summer's irradiant beams — 
 
 '^ 247 
 
 Oh ! swollen thy flood with the priceless blood 
 which ever and ay doth well 
 
 From human souls slain on Life's battle-plain 
 by the ambushed hosts of hell; 
 
 Sin's juggernaut rolls over prostrate souls thick 
 strewn on the field of strife. 
 
 While thy mystic tide with their blood is dyed- 
 red blood from the battle of life ! 
 
 Oh, River of Time ! in the dim. dark past, full 
 
 many and many a year, 
 Thou'st left thy fount on that sacred mount, 
 
 long lost to both sage and seer ; 
 No human eye, as the years sped by, has ever 
 
 beheld, I ween. 
 That mystic mount, or that crystal fount, all 
 
 bright in its virgin sheen. 
 Since the first twain fell 'neath the tempter's 
 
 spell, amid Eden's flowery bowers, 
 When earth was young, ere yet upsprung the 
 
 thorns among the flowers ; 
 When thy limpid stream in the morning gleam 
 
 reflected the heavenly towers. 
 And Paradise rang with the silvery clang of the 
 
 harps of seraphic powers ; 
 For Earth, at its birth, in its child-like mirth, 
 
 flower-gemmed and green and fair, 
 Careering through space, in emulous race with 
 
 the stars and the spirits of air, 
 Was Higher, I ween, to the angelic scene, than 
 
 this Earth of ours to-day. 
 With its deep, dark crime, oh. River of Time — 
 
 in sorrow and sin grown gray ! 
 
 T. O'D. O'CALLAGHAN. 
 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 Ossian, son of the Kmg, thy name to me 
 Comes like a burst of magic music, blown 
 By some stray wand'ring wind from o'er the sea. 
 That over perfumed woods and vales hath flown, 
 Gath'ring bright memories of those olden day. 
 When higher rose than all the clash of war. 
 Or roar of winds and waters, thy proud lays ; 
 Till, as we listen, all the direful jar [strain. 
 
 Of those wild times sinks hushed before thy 
 That filled green Erin's land from main to sound- 
 ing main. 
 
 O prince, and bard, and knight of high emprise, 
 Thou wert a ray of glory through the gloom, 
 A golden morning star in thund'rous skies, 
 X strong enchanter at whose touch the tomb 
 
24!^ 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 Opes wide its f^ates and renders back its dead, 
 Whose deeds shall never die while song has power 
 To spread its halo round the hero's head 
 (Such is of song supreme the priceless dower) ; 
 Who dared and did for nrtue. loN-e and fame. 
 In those heroic days when life was linng flame. 
 
 O royal bard ! whose deeds were as thy song, 
 A light sublime to guide the souls of men ; 
 O stainless knight ! whose war was waged on 
 On throned king and bandit in his den ; [wrong, 
 O sweet, strong voice ! too oft a voice of dole, 
 No singer e"er had sorrow great as thine ; [soul 
 Ten thousand swords did pierce thy heart, thy 
 Was one dark sea of sadness, one deep mine 
 Of woe no tongue, or pen. or song could tell — 
 Wherefore thy strain endures, — whence thou 
 didst sing so well. 
 
 JAMES KEEGAN. 
 
 THE BARDS OF OLD. 
 
 Those oklen bards, those glorious bards, who ' 
 
 sang in the distant times, — 
 They stir me like a trumpet bl.ist — their wild 
 
 melodious rhymes ; 
 In those old strains, o'er Erin's plains the Fenian I 
 
 legions march, , 
 
 And still their living deeds are blazed on song's I 
 
 triumphal arch. I 
 
 I see the stern unconquered Fionn, that thunder- 
 bolt in fight, 
 Pursue from Tara's princely bowers young 
 
 Grainne's love-lit flight ; 
 The milk-white stag on Lenc's cLar strand her 
 
 northward swift career ; 
 Deep-mouthed Bran, the matchless hound, and 
 
 Osgar's magic spear ; 
 The chase, the strife, the free, gay life,— witch. 
 
 dragon, men and beast ; 
 The games they played, the works they made. 
 
 the rich and joyful feast : 
 That was the life— 'twas life indeed; those were 
 
 the glorious times, 
 When men wrought deeds well worthy song, and 
 
 bards sang deathless rhymes. 
 
 Those olden bards, those glorious bards, who 
 
 reigned when earth was young, — 
 When Love and Beauty fired their muse, how 
 
 sweet the songs they sung ! 1 
 
 They're living still, shall live for aye, those queens j 
 
 and ladies bright. 1 
 
 Who sat enthroned in the world of song, like 
 
 stars in summer's night. I 
 
 There Niav, the maid of golden curls, still curb 
 
 her snow-white steed.— 
 She whose soft eyes and jewelled hand are wnr- 
 
 rior minstrels' meed ; 
 O'er Muma's sea in twilight bower swan-bosonu-. ! 
 
 Cliona reigns, 
 And Deirdre's fate still wakes the tear in Ul.i-l 
 
 lonely plains ; 
 To the moaning wind on Moyle's cold wave Lir 
 
 daughters yet are wailing, 
 And still in the low moon's waning light the 
 
 cygnets sad are sailing. 
 Sublime were the lays of the olden, bards, and 
 
 sweet the songs they sung ; 
 And though the world grows old and hoar, their 
 
 strains are ever young. 
 
 Those olden bards, those glorious bards, thi , 
 
 sang of land and sea. 
 The stars that roll through changeless paths, ll 
 
 winds that rove so free ; 
 A pjean of joy to Sol they poured, to Lun.i 
 
 gladsome hymn, — 
 An ode to the light of day so bright, a ranit ; 
 
 the d.irk night dim. 
 They looked to the sky with raptured eye. thr 
 
 dreamed of the restless main. 
 And evermore to the flowery earth they chanti 
 
 the mystic strain. 
 By the winding streams they loved to stray, or 
 
 far among forests green. 
 And oft at gloaming's tranquil hour in lonesome 
 
 raths were seen. 
 Their words were of hope to the sons of men. of 
 
 praise to God on high, — 
 Their songs were of beauty that ne'er grows old. 
 
 of virtue that ne'er shall die. 
 O honor those olden, glorious bards — honor their 
 
 deathless songs ! — 
 IJut for them, mayhap, e'en hope had despaired 
 
 in the night of our darksome wrongs I 
 
 JAMES KEEGAN. 
 
 WHAT IS THE GAIN? 
 
 What is the gain. 
 If one should run a noble race. 
 And at the last, with weary pace. 
 Win to the goal, and find his years 
 A harvest field of waste anil tears. 
 Of turmoil and of buried trust. 
 Rich with dead hopes and bitter dust. 
 And strife, and sneer, and ceaseless pain. 
 
 What is the gain ? 
 
A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NO IV. 
 
 249 
 
 What is the gain, 
 When, having reached a sunlit height. 
 Through barren sweeps of gloomful night, 
 Hoping to see beyond the crest 
 Fair lands of beauty and of rest. 
 There lies before, stretched far away 
 Unto the confines of the day 
 A desolate and shadeless plain. 
 
 What is the gain ? 
 
 What is the gain. 
 To sail for months of cold and toil 
 Across wide seas, where winds recoil, 
 Only to gather strength and roar 
 A louder challenge than before, 
 And find, when through fogs thick and dun 
 The rocky coast at last is won, 
 No haven from the storm-vexed main. 
 
 What is the gain ? 
 
 What is the gain ? 
 The race is won, we see the light. 
 We conquer where the storm-winds fight; 
 We show the way to those who wait 
 With faint hearts by the walls of fate ; 
 Our banners flutter in the van 
 Of battles fought for thought and man. 
 And ignorance and darkness wane. 
 
 This is the gain. 
 
 THOMAS S. COLLIER. 
 
 WORTHINESS. 
 
 Whatever lacks purpose is evil ; a pool without 
 
 pebbles breeds slime ; 
 Not any one step hath chance fashioned on the 
 
 infinite stairway of time ; 
 Nor ever came good without labor, in toil, or 
 
 in science or art : 
 It must be wrought out thro' the muscles — born 
 
 out of the soul and the heart. 
 
 Why plow in the stubble with plowshares ? — 
 
 why winnow the chaff from the grain .' 
 Ah, since all of His gifts must be toiled for, 
 
 since truth is not born without pain ! 
 He giveth not to the unworthy, the weak or the 
 
 foolish in deeds ; 
 Who giveth but chaff at the seed-time shall reap 
 
 but a harvest of weeds. 
 
 As the pyramid builded of vapor is blown by 
 His whirlwinds to naught. 
 
 So the song without truth is forgotten ; His 
 poem to man is man's thought. 
 
 Whatever is strong with a purpose, in humble- 
 ness woven, soul-pure. 
 
 Is known to the Master of Singers : He touch- 
 eth it, saying "Endure!" 
 
 CH.'^RLES J. O'MALI.EY. 
 
 A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 
 The surging sea of human life forever onward 
 
 rolls. 
 Bearing to the eternal shore each day its freight 
 
 of souls ; 
 But though our bark sails proudly on, pale Death 
 
 sits at the prow. 
 And few shall know we ever lived — a hundred 
 
 years from now. 
 
 Oh, mighty human brotherhood, why fiercely war 
 
 and strive. 
 While God's great world has ample space for 
 
 everything alive .' 
 Broad fields, uncultured and unclaimed, are 
 
 waiting for the plow 
 Of progress, that should make them bloom a 
 
 hundred years from now. 
 
 Why should we toil so earnestly in life's short, 
 narrow span. 
 
 On golden stairs to climb so high above our fel- 
 low man .' 
 
 Why blindly at an earthly shrine our souls in 
 homage bow } 
 
 Our gods will rust, ourselves be dust, a hundred 
 years from now. 
 
 Why prize so much the world's applause.' why 
 
 dread so much its blame .' 
 A fleeting echo is its voice of censure or of fame ; 
 The praise that thrills the heart, the scorn that 
 
 dyes with shame the brow, 
 Will be as long forgotten dreams a hundred years 
 
 from now. 
 
 Earth's empires rise and fall, O Time ! like break- 
 ers on thy shore ; 
 
 They rush upon thy rocks of doom, are seen, 
 and seen no more ; 
 
 The starry wilderness of worlds that gem night's 
 radiant brow. 
 
 Will light the skies for other eyes a hundred 
 years from now. 
 
250 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 hou, before wlioss sleeoless eyes the past and 
 future stand 
 
 They are there, and no lemiK-si can hide them ; 
 
 They glow wHth accusing and shame. 
 Tho" the years be all dead, they arc living, 
 'Mid the silence they cry for forgiving, 
 
 With direful acclaim. 
 
 All open page, like babes we cling to Thy pro- 
 tecting hand ; 
 Change, sorrow, death, are naught to us if we \ 
 may safely bow ' 
 
 Beneath the shadow of Thv throne a hundred , On the wreck-plank of life is there pardon, 
 years from now. I When joy is worn hollow in sin .' 
 
 MARy A. McMULLlN. | When the heart sees no light in the sparkle. 
 Nor gloom where the drowsy waves darkle 
 0"er foeman and kin ? 
 
 OASIS. 
 
 Let them go by — the heats, the doubts, the strife ; 
 
 I can sit here and care not for them now. 
 Dreaming beside the glittering wave of life 
 
 Once more — I know not how. 
 
 There is a murmur in my heart, I hear 
 Faint, oh so faint, some air I used to sing : 
 
 It stirs my sense ; and odors dim and dear 
 The meadow-breezes bring. 
 
 Just this way did the quiet twilight fade 
 Over the fields and happy homes of men. 
 
 While one bird sang as now, piercing the shade. 
 Long since — I know not when. 
 
 EDWARD DOWDE.V. 
 
 Then brush the world's mist from the mirror 
 
 While life in our bosom is sweet. 
 And turn, with a love of the purest. 
 O'er pathways the fairest and surest. 
 The trace of our feet. 
 
 JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE. 
 
 SPECULUM VITAE. 
 
 Let us look in the glass for a moment. 
 
 Let us brush off the mist from its face — 
 The mirror of life that is broken 
 When Death in our ears knells the token 
 To crumble in space. 
 
 We must fall whether praying or pining. 
 Whether fearing or mocking the blow. 
 
 Brush the mist from the mirror, then, trembling; 
 
 The grave is no place for dissembling — 
 There vaunting lies low. 
 
 The eyes, as they glaze to earth's glory. 
 
 Peer into that mirror of pain. 
 Where the slain of our years lie all gory. 
 Bent over by grim shadows hoary. 
 
 Recording each stain. 
 
 Not a blot nor a blemish escapes them. 
 The sins of the lone and the crowd, 
 Ihe crime where we pandered or paltered, 
 The dark things that lips never faltered. 
 There crv out aloud. 
 
 THE HYMN OF PRINCES. 
 
 Lord, we have given, in Thy Name, 
 The peaceful villages to llame ; 
 Of all the dwellers we've bereft, — 
 No trace of hearth, of roof-tree left ; 
 Beneath our war-steed's iron tread 
 The germ of future life is dead ; 
 We have swept o'er it like a blight : — 
 To Thee the praise, O God of Right! 
 
 We have let loose the demon-chained 
 
 In bestial hearts, that unrestrained. 
 
 Infernal revel it may hold. 
 
 And feast on villanies untold. 
 
 With ravening drunkenness possessed. 
 
 And mercy banished from each breast ; 
 
 All war's atrocities above : — 
 
 To Thee the praise, O God of Lvjel 
 
 Some hours ago on yonder plain 
 There stooti six hundred thousand men. 
 Made in Thine image, strong and rife 
 With hope, and energy, and life. — 
 And none but had some prized one, dear. 
 Grief-stricken, wild with anxious fear ; 
 A third of them we have made ghosts : — 
 To Thee the praise, O Lord of Hosts / 
 
 The sacred temples we've not spared. 
 For they the broad destaiction shared. 
 The annals of time-honored lore. 
 Lost to the world, are now no more. 
 
THE PRIZE-FIGHT. 
 
 251 
 
 What reck we if the holy fane 
 And learning's dome are mourned in vain ? 
 Our work these landmarks to efface: — 
 To Thee the praise, O Lord of Grace ! 
 
 Secure behind a wall of steel, 
 
 To watch the yielding columns reel. 
 
 While round them sulphurous clouds arise. 
 
 Foul incense wafting to the skies, 
 
 From our home-manufactured hell. 
 
 Is royal pastime we like well. 
 
 As momently death's ranks increase : — 
 
 To thee the praise, O God of Peace .' 
 
 Thus shall it be while human kind. 
 
 Madly perverse, or wholly blind. 
 
 Will so complacently be led 
 
 At our command their blood to shed. 
 
 For lust of conquest, or the sly. 
 
 Deceptive diplomatic lie ; 
 
 To us the gain, to them the ruth :- 
 
 To Thee the praise, O God of Truth I 
 
 JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 PEACE AND WAR. 
 
 Peace everlastingly with those 
 
 Who still the perfect truth disclose. 
 
 And, in all places, nobly dare 
 
 The mask from speciousness to tear ; 
 
 Who not by words, but actions, show 
 
 The attributes of heaven below ; 
 
 Who never with presumption scan 
 
 The failings of their fellow-man, 
 
 But those who've fallen in evil ways 
 
 By gentle admonition raise. 
 
 And thus in deed true homage give 
 
 To Him who died that we might live ; — 
 
 Peace everlastingly with those 
 
 Who still the perfect truth disclose. 
 
 War to the uttermost with all 
 
 Who hold the human mind in thrall ; 
 
 Be they bold villains who appear 
 
 With bolder faces, scorning fear, — 
 
 Who in their mastery of evil, 
 
 Were there a chance, would cheat the devil ; 
 
 Or be they fat " professors," sleek, 
 
 Soft, placid-voiced, and seeming meek, — 
 
 Their aspirations worldly greed. 
 
 And selfishness their only creed, — ■ 
 
 Who in deceit so long have trod. 
 
 They fain would hope to cheat their God ;- 
 
 War to the uttermost with all 
 
 Who hold the mind of man in thrall ! 
 
 JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 
 THE PRIZE-FIGHT. 
 
 1. 
 Hammer and tongs ! What have we here .'' 
 Let us approach, but not too near. 
 Two men standing breast to breast. 
 Head erect and arching chest ; 
 Shoulders square and hands hard clenched. 
 .\nd both their faces a trifle blenched • 
 Their lips are set in a smile so grim. 
 And sturdily set each muscular limb. 
 Round them circles a ring of rope. 
 Over them hangs the heaven's blue cope. 
 Why do they glare at each other so } 
 What ! you really then don't know } 
 This is a prize-fight, gentle sir ! 
 This is what makes the papers stir. 
 Talk of your ocean telegraph ! 
 'Tisn't so great an event by half, 
 As when two young men, lusty and tall, 
 
 With nothing between them of hate or wro; 
 Come together to batter and maul, 
 Come to fight till one shall fall, — 
 Hammer and tongs. 
 
 n. 
 
 Round about is a bestial crowd. 
 
 Heavily jawed and beetle-browed ; 
 
 Concave faces trampled in. 
 
 As if with the iron hoof of sin , 
 
 Blasphemies dripping from their lips. 
 
 Pistols bulging behind their hips, 
 
 Hands accustomed to deal the cards, 
 
 Or strike with the cowardly knuckle-guards. 
 
 Who are these rufiianly fellows, you say, 
 
 I That taint the breath of this autumn day.> 
 These are " the Fancy," gentle sir. 
 
 I The Fancy.' What are they to her ? 
 
 I O, 'tis their fancy to look at a fight. 
 To see men struggle, and gouge, and bite. 
 
 I Bloody noses and bunged-up eyes, — 
 These are the things the Fancy prize ; 
 And so they get men, lusty and tall. 
 
 With nothing between them of hate or wro: 
 To come together to batter and maul. 
 To come and fight till one shall fall, — 
 Hammer and tongs ! 
 
252 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 III. 
 
 Grandly the autumn forests shine. 
 Red as the gold in an Indian mine ! 
 A dreamy mist, a vapory smoke, 
 Hangs round the patches of evergreen oak. 
 Over the broad lake shines the sun, — 
 The lake that Perry battled upon.— 
 Striking the upland fields of maize 
 That glow through the soft October haze. 
 Nature is tracing with languid hand 
 Lessons of peace over lake and land ; 
 Ay I yet this is the tranquil spot 
 Chosen by bully, assassin and sot 
 To pit two young men, lusty and tall. 
 
 With nothing between them of hate or wrongs. 
 One with the other, to batter and maul. 
 To tussle and tight till one shall fall, — 
 Hammer and tongs ! 
 
 IV. 
 Their faces are rich with a healthy hue. 
 Their eyes are clear, and bright, and blue ; 
 Every muscle is clean and fine, 
 And their blood is pure as the purest wine. 
 It is a pleasure their limbs to scan,— 
 Splendid types of the animal man. 
 Splendid types of that human grace. 
 The noblest that Cod has willed to trace, 
 Brought to this by science and art ; 
 Trained, and nourished, and kept apart; 
 Cunningly fed on the wholesomest food. 
 Carefully watched in every mood : 
 Brought to this state, so noble and proud, 
 To savagely tussle before a crowd. — 
 To dim the light of the eyes so clear. 
 To mash the face to a bloody smear. 
 To maim, deface, and kill, if they can, 
 The glory of all creation, — Man ! 
 This is the task of those, lusty and tall. 
 With nothing between them of hate or 
 wrongs, — 
 To bruise and wrestle, and batter and maul, 
 And fight till one or the other shall fall.- 
 Hammer and tongs I 
 
 With feet firm planted upon the sand. 
 Face to face at " the scratch " they stand. 
 Feinting first — a blow — a guard ! 
 Then some hitting, heavy and hard. 
 The round fist falls with a horrible thud ; 
 Wherever it falls comes a spout of blood ! 
 Blow after blow, fall after fall, 
 For twi'iity minutes they tussle and maul. 
 
 The lips of the one are a gory gash, 
 The other's are knocked to eternal smash ! 
 The bold bright eyes are bloody and dim. 
 And, staggering, shivers each stalwart limb. 
 Faces glow with stupid wrath, 
 Hard breaths breathed through a bloody froth ; 
 Blind and faint they rain their blows 
 On checks like jelly, and shapeless nose ; 
 While concave faces around the rope 
 Darken with panic, or light with hope. 
 Till one fierce brute, with a terrible blow. 
 Lays the other poor animal low. 
 Are these the forms so noble and proud. 
 That, king-like, towered above the crowd ? 
 Where are the faces so healthy and fresh ? 
 There ! — those illegible masses of flesh. 
 Thus we see men lusty and tall, wrongs 
 
 Who, with nothing between them of hate o 
 Will bruise, and batter, and tussle and maul. 
 And fight till one or the other shall fall, — 
 Hammer and tongs, 
 
 VI. 
 Trainers, backers, and betters all, — 
 Who teach young men to tussle and maul. 
 And spend their muscle, and blood and life. 
 Given for good, in a loathsome strife, — 
 I know what the Devil will do for you. 
 You pistoling, bullying, cowardly crew ! 
 He'll light up his furnaces red and blue. 
 And treat you all to a roast and a stew ; 
 O, he'll do you up, and he'll do you brown. 
 
 On pitchforks cleft into mighty prongs. 
 
 While chuckling fiends your agonies crown, 
 
 By stirring you up and keeping you down, 
 
 Hammer and tongs ! 
 
 ^■ITz-TA^rES o'brif.x. 
 
 QUEEN MARGARET'S FEASTING. 
 
 I Fair she stood— God's queenly creature ! 
 
 Wondrous joy was in her face ; 
 Of her ladies none in stature 
 
 Like to her, and none in grace. 
 On the church-roof stood they round her, 
 
 Cloth of gold was her attire ; 
 They in jeweled circle wound her ;- 
 
 Beside her Ely's king, her sire. 
 
 Far and near the green fields glittered. 
 
 Like to poppy-beds in spring. 
 Gay with companies loose-scattered. 
 
 Seated each in seemly ring. 
 
THE GOLDEN BRIDGE. 
 
 253 
 
 Under banners red or yellow : 
 
 There all day the feast they kept, 
 From chill dawn and noontide mellow 
 
 Till the hill-shades eastward crept. 
 
 On a white steed at the gateway 
 
 Margaret's husband, Cahvagh, sate ; 
 Guest on guest, approaching, straightway 
 
 Welcomed he with love and state. 
 Each passed on with largess laden, 
 
 Chosen gifts of thought and work, 
 Now the red cloak of the maiden. 
 
 Now the minstrel's golden torque. 
 
 On the wind the tapestries shifted ; 
 
 From the blue hills rang the horn ; 
 Slowly toward the sunset drifted 
 
 Choral song and shout breeze-borne. 
 Like a sea the crowds unresting 
 
 Murmured round the gray church-tower; 
 Many a prayer, amid the feasting, 
 
 For Margaret's mother rose that hour. 
 
 On the church-roof kern and noble 
 
 At her bright face looked half dazed ; 
 Naught was hers of shame or trouble ; — 
 
 On the crowds far off she gazed : 
 Once, on heaven her dark eyes bending. 
 
 Her hands in prayer she flung apart ; 
 Unconsciously her arms e.xtending. 
 
 She blessed her people in her heart. 
 
 Thus a Gaelic queen and nation 
 
 At Imayn till set of sun 
 Kept with feast the Annunciation, 
 
 Fourteen hundred fifty-onq. 
 Time it was of solace tender ; — 
 
 'Twas a brave time, strong yet fair ! 
 Blessing, O ye angels, send her 
 
 From Salem's towers and Inisglaaire ! 
 
 AUBREY T. DE VERE. 
 
 I do repent me of that early sin, 
 ! The folly of my inconsiderate days ; 
 ' And now, however late, would fain beg^n 
 I To burn thee incense, and to hymn thy praise. 
 
 If all who truly worship thee may win, 
 ' I too would offer thee a laureate's lays. — 
 
 Haply for ears tuned to sweet chimes unfit, 
 j And yet not worse than have for gold been writ. 
 
 Most subtle casuist ! pure, and calm, and sweet. 
 Whose sweet persuasion, eloquent, tho' dumb. 
 
 Ever converted men the most discreet, 
 Or, if it failed, failed only in the sum,— 
 
 Wheie shall we find thee rank and title meet. 
 High priestess of the kingdom not to come. 
 
 Since even now thy rule and reign are seen 
 
 Rock of all faiths, of every realm the queen ? 
 
 RICHARD HENKY WILDE 
 
 THE GOLDEN BRIDGE. 
 
 Let him listen, whoso would know. 
 Concerning the wisdom of King Tee Pah. 
 
 Fair is Pekin, with round it rolled 
 
 Wave on wave of its river of gold ; 
 
 They gird its walls with their ninefold twine. 
 
 And the bridges that cross them are ninety and 
 
 nine ; 
 And as soon as the wind of morning blows. 
 And the gray in the East takes a fleck of rose. 
 Upon each bridge 'gins the shuffle and beat 
 Of hundreds of hoofs and thousands of feet ; 
 And all day long there is dust and din, 
 .\nd the coolie elbows the mandarin, 
 .•\nd gibe is given, and oath and blow, — 
 'Twas thus in the time of King Tee Poh. 
 
 It grieved the King that it should be so; 
 Then out of his wisdom spoke King Tee Poh. 
 
 HYMN TO GOLD. 
 
 In my hot youth I did account thee base, 
 
 Forsware thy worship, and renounced thy name 
 Defied thy touch, aye, and blasphemed thy face 
 
 For empty pleasure and still emptier fame : 
 What brought they .' Disappointment and Dis- 
 grace, 
 Imputed faults and genius, pride and shame, — 
 False friends, that cooled 
 flew 
 
 " Build me a hundredth bridge, the best. 
 Higher and wider than all the rest. 
 With posts of teak, and cedarn rails. 
 And planks of sandal, \vith silver nails ; 
 Gild it and paint it vermilion red. 
 And over it place the dragon's head ; 
 And be it proclaimed to high and low. 
 That over this fortunate bridge shall go 
 Passenger none that doth not throw 
 and summer love, that j Golden toll to the river below ; 
 
 And when the piece of gold is cast. 
 
 With the first wintry withering wind that blew. ! Thrice let the trumpet sound a blast. 
 
254 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 And the mandarin write, with respectful look. 
 The passenger's name in a silken book. 
 So that I, the King, may have in hand 
 The list of the wealthiest in my land." 
 
 Straightway the bridge ■was builded so. 
 As had spoken the wisdom of King Tee Poh. 
 
 And every day from dawn till dark. 
 
 They who watched the fortunate arch could mark. 
 
 Like a cloud of midges, that glow and gleam, 
 
 The gold toll cast to the hurrj-ing stream ; 
 
 And all day the trumpet sounded loud. 
 
 And the mandarin of the guard kowtowed. 
 
 And he wrote the name, with respectful look, 
 
 Of the passenger high in his silken book • 
 
 And all the while grew the renown 
 
 Of the fortunate arch in Pekin town. 
 
 Till of the wealthiest it was told, 
 
 '• He spends his day on the bridge of gold." 
 
 And when a month and a day were spent. 
 The King Tee Poh for his treasurer sent. 
 " Go to the bridge," said he, " and look 
 At the list of names in the silken book. 
 And of all that are written, small or great, 
 Confiscate to me the estate : 
 As the sage Confucius well doth show, 
 A wealthy fool is the State's worst foe." 
 
 And the treasurer whispered, bending low, 
 "Great is the wisdom of King Tee Poh." 
 GEORGE T. LANIG.A.N. 
 
 THE RIVAL SINGERS. 
 Two marvellous singers of old had the city of 
 
 Florence,— 
 She that is loadstar of pilgrims, Florence the 
 
 beautiful,- - 
 Who sang thro' bitterest envy their exquisite 
 
 music. 
 Each for o'ercoming the other, as fierce as the 
 
 seraphs 
 At the dread battle pre-mundane, together down- 
 wrestling. 
 And once when the younger, surpassing the best 
 
 at a festival. 
 Thrilled the impetuous people, O. singing so 
 
 rarely ! 
 That upon their shoulders they raised him, and 
 
 carried him straightway 
 Over the threshold, 'mid ringing of belfries, and 
 
 shouting. 
 
 Till into his pale cheek mounted a color like 
 
 morning 
 t (For he was Saxon in blood) that made more 
 
 resplendent 
 The gold of his hair for an aureole round and 
 
 above him. 
 Seeing which, called his adorers aloud, thanking 
 
 Heaven 
 That sent down an angel to sing for them, taking 
 
 their homage ; — 
 While this came to pass in the city, one marked 
 
 it, and harbored 
 A purpose which followed endlessly on, like his 
 
 shadow. 
 Therefore at night, as a vine that aye clamber- 
 i ing stealthily 
 
 I Slips by the stones to an opening, came the 
 
 And left the deep sleeper by moonlight, the 
 
 Saxon hair dabbled 
 With red. and the brave voice smitten to death 
 
 in his bosom. 
 Now this was the end of the hate, and the striv- 
 ing and singing ; 
 But the Italian through Florence, his city familiar. 
 Fared happily ever, none knowing the crime and 
 
 the passion, 
 Winning honor and guerdon in peaceful and 
 
 prosperous decades. 
 Supreme over all, and rejoiced with the cheers 
 
 and the clanging. 
 Carissima .' what ? And you wonder the world 
 
 did not loathe him .' 
 Child, he lived long, and was lauded, and died 
 
 very famous. 
 
 LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEV. 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 Tell me. ye prim adepts in Scandal's school. 
 Who rail by precept and detract by rule. 
 Lives there no character so tried, so known. 
 So decked with grace, and so unlike your own, 
 That even you assist her fame to raise, 
 .Approve by envy, and by silence praise ! 
 .\ttend !— a model shall attract your view : 
 Daughters of calumny. 1 summon you ! 
 You shall decide if this a portrait prove. 
 Or fond creation of the Muse and Love ; — 
 Attend, ye virgin critics, shrewd and sage. 
 Ye matron censors of this childish age, 
 Whose peering eye and wrinkled front declare 
 A fixed antipathy to young and fair ; 
 
MAURICE DE GUERIN. 
 
 255 
 
 By cunning cautious, or by nature cold. 
 In maiden madness virulently bold ! 
 Attend, all ye who boast — or old or young — 
 The living libel of a slanderous tongue ! 
 So shall my theme as far contrasted be 
 As saints by fiends, or hymns by calumny. 
 
 Adorning fashion, unadorned by dress. 
 Simple from taste, and not from carelessness ; 
 Discreet in gesture, in deportment mild. 
 Not stiff with prudence, nor uncouthly wild : 
 No state has Amoret, no studied mien ; 
 She frowns no goddess and she moves no queen. 
 The softer charm that in her manner lies 
 Is framed to captivate, yet not surprise ; 
 It justly suits th' expression of her face, — 
 'Tis less than dignity, and more than grace ! 
 On her pure cheek the native hue is such. 
 That, formed by heaven to be admired so much. 
 The hand divine, with a less partial care. 
 Might well have fi.xed a fainter crimson there. 
 And bade the gentle inmate of her breast — 
 Inshrined Modesty ! — supply the rest. 
 But who the peril of her lips shall paint .' 
 Strip them of smiles— still, still all words are faint I 
 But moving Love himself appears to teach 
 Their action, tho' denied to rule her speech. 
 And thou who seest her speak and dost not hear. 
 Mourn not her distant accents 'scape thine ear ; 
 Viewing those lips, thou still may'st make pretense 
 To judge of what she says, and swear 'tis sense ; 
 Clothed with such grace, with such expression 
 
 fraught. 
 They move in meaning, and they pause in thought ! 
 But dost thou farther watch, with charmed sur- 
 The mild irresolution of her eyes. [prise, 
 
 Curious to mark how frequent they repose 
 In brief eclipse and momentary close. 
 Ah ! seest thou not an ambushed Cupid there, 
 Too timorous of his charge, with jealous care 
 A'eils and unveils those beams of heavenly light, 
 Too full, too fatal else for mortal sight? 
 What tho' her peaceful breast should ne'er allow 
 Subduing frowns to arm her altered brow. 
 By Love. I swear, and by his gentle wiles, 
 More fatal still the mercy of her smiles ! 
 Thus lovely, thus adorned, possessing all 
 Of bright or fair that can to woman fall. 
 The height of vanity might well be thought 
 Prerogative in her, and Nature's fault. 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEV SHERIDAN. 
 
 ith the Comedy 
 
 TO AN URN. 
 
 Mute urn, whose heart is empty now 
 
 Of the dear ashes of a heart ! 
 Who bearest on thy marble brow 
 
 Naught but a name, and cry of grief. 
 
 Memorial sad as brief ; 
 Hast thou an echo, like the ocean shell, 
 Thy vague dim history to tell. 
 
 Or in faint mystic murmurs to impart 
 That of the soul invisible 
 
 Whose form is flown ? 
 A ruin amid ruins still thou art, 
 Silent and alone. 
 
 Was it a hero whose proud dust 
 
 Was once thy treasure, mournful urn } 
 
 A fool of battle's gloried lust. 
 
 Death's puppet in a world where death 
 Allows of life so brief a breath } 
 
 Or maiden fair, whose gentle breast 
 
 Love filled, and sorrow laid at rest } 
 
 Or poet brain whose thoughts would burn 
 
 In reverie, like the golden west ? 
 
 Or wise, bright-thoughted sage ? 
 Or little child from tearful mother torn } 
 Love's, life's last heritage. 
 
 Yon star-world shining o'er the sea, 
 
 O urn. upon thy silent form, 
 Tho' bright, may be a grave like thee ; 
 
 The symbol of a vanished past 
 
 In yonder unimagined vast. 
 Where suns and spheres, the bright abodes 
 Of spirits ranging up to gods 
 
 Awhile in life's eternal storm 
 Take shape and die. Yon senseless star 
 Ere yet thro' future fires it pass, 
 
 Ere yet from ruin 'tis re-born. 
 Bears its dim epitaph afar 
 Like thine — " Alas ! " 
 
 THOMAS C. IRWIN. 
 
 MAURICE DE GUERIN. 
 
 The old wine filled him. and he saw. with eyes 
 Anoint of Nature, fauns and dryads fair 
 Unseen by others ; to him maidenhair 
 And waxen lilacs and those birds that rise 
 A-sudden from tall reeds at slight surprise 
 Brought charmed thoughts ; and in earth every- 
 where 
 He, like sad Jacques, found unheard music rare 
 As that of Syrinx to old Grecians wise. 
 
:^o 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 A pagan heart, a Christian soul had he, 
 
 He followed Christ, yet for dead Pan he sighed. 
 
 Till earth and heaven met within his breast : 
 
 As if Theocritus in Sicily 
 
 Had come upon the Figure crucified 
 
 And lost his gods in deep, Christ-given rest. 
 
 MAURICE F. EGAN. 
 
 FRA ANGELICO, 
 
 Art is true art when art to God is true. 
 And only then. To copy Nature's work 
 Without the chains that run the whole world 
 
 through 
 ("lives us the eye without the lights that lurk 
 In its clear depths: no soul, no truth is there. 
 Oh praise your Rubens and his fleshly brush ! 
 Oh love your Titian and his carnal air ! 
 Give me the trilling of a pure toned thrush. 
 And take your crimson parrots. Artist— saint ! 
 Oh Fra Angelico, your brush was dyed 
 In hues of opal, not in vulgar paint ; [sighed. 
 You showed to us pure joys for which you 
 Your heart was in your work, you never feigned : 
 You left us here the Paradise you gained ! 
 
 M.\UR1CE 1-. EGAN. 
 
 Then came the day when over all the walls 
 The Romans surged, and Death laughed loud 
 and high. 
 
 And there was wailing in the palace halls. 
 And sounds of lamentations in the sky. 
 
 Tom from its place, it lay within the hand 
 Of Probus, whose keen sword had rent a way. 
 
 With rapid blow.s amid the priestly band 
 Whose piteous prayers moaned through that 
 dreadful day. 
 
 And there, beside the wall, he stopped to gaze 
 
 Upon the fortune that would give his life 
 I The home and rest that come with bounteous 
 I days, 
 
 I And bring reward for toil and warlike strife. 
 
 I 
 There was no cloud in all heaven's lustrous blue. 
 
 Yet suddenly a red flash cleft the air. 
 And the dark shadow held a deeper hue— 
 
 A dead man, with an empty hand, lay there. 
 
 THOMAS S. COLLIER. 
 
 AKERATOS. 
 
 SACRILEGE. 
 
 Beside the wall, and near the massive gate 
 Of the great temple in Jerusalem, 
 
 The legionary, Probus. stood elate, 
 His eager clasp circling a royal gem. 
 
 It was an offering made by some dead king 
 Unto the great Jehovah, when the sword 
 
 Amid his foes had mown a ghastly ring. 
 Helped by the dreaded angel of the Lord. 
 
 There, on his rival's crest, among the slain, 
 Thro' the red harvest it had clearly shone 
 
 Lighting the grimness of the sanguine plain 
 With splendors that had glorified a throne. 
 
 Above the altar of Gods sacred place, 
 A watchful star, it lit the passing years. 
 
 With radiance falling on each suppliant's face. 
 Gleaming alike in love's and sorrow's tears. 
 
 Till swept the war-tide thro' the sunlit vales 
 Leading from Jordan, and the western sea 
 
 And the fierce hosts of Titus filled the gales 
 With jubilant shouts and songs of victory. 
 
 To Argos, after Troia fell, there came, 
 I Seeking for alms and ease, one sunny day, 
 A soldier, battle-scarred and old and gray — 
 Akeratos his name. 
 
 He would not beg without amends for alms ; 
 So with a lyre the passers-by he stopped. 
 Hoping thereby to see some silver dropped 
 From giver's willing palms. 
 
 In early days his skill was well maintained ; 
 But rough campaigns had robbed him of his 
 
 power ; 
 And so he stood there twanging, hour on hour. 
 Without one lepton gained. 
 
 At length, all wearied, hungered and athirst. 
 He ceased, and leaned against a pillar there. 
 And thought himself, so utter his despair. 
 Forsaken and accurst. 
 
 Then came a stranger where he leaned, and 
 said — 
 " Why not play on, old man, and strive to please 
 The passing crowd? You who won victories. 
 Might now perchance win bread." 
 
PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 
 
 257 
 
 Akeratos looked up. His eyes were filled 
 With weakling tears; again he bowed his head- 
 That once proud soldier — and he humbly said— 
 " I am no longer skilled." 
 
 " Then," said the stranger in a pleasant way, 
 " Why not to me a thing so useless hire } 
 Here's a didrachmon ; give me now the lyre ; 
 For one hour let me play." 
 
 The soldier smiled. "My lord," he said, "the sum 
 'T would buy three lyres like this of mine, may- 
 hap." 
 " It is a bargain then. Hold out your cap : 
 Be motionless and dumb." 
 
 A purple vapor seemed to fill the place ; 
 Fragrance and light and music in the air — 
 Each man majestic and each woman fair — 
 One, dignity ; one, grace ; 
 
 Till, in their joy, before that soldier old, 
 Not coins alone they cast, but silver bands, 
 And rings and bracelets, gems from foreign 
 And ornaments of gold ; [lands. 
 
 And when the heap had to its utmost grown, 
 Making the soldier rich in all men's sight. 
 Around the singer's form a blaze of light 
 In dazzling glory shone. 
 
 The stranger took the lyre and swept the chords. 
 And through the air a startling prelude rang ; 
 Then, with a clear and stirring voice, he sang — 
 Voice like the clang of swords — 
 
 How Hektor perished, slain by Achilleus ; 
 How Herakles fair Hippolute slew ; 
 How Zeus the mighty Titans overthrew — 
 The sire-dethroning Zeus ; 
 
 The rush of chariots and the clash of blades ; 
 O'er beaten earth the ring of iron hoofs ; 
 The crackling roar of flames from burning roofs; 
 The screams of frighted maids ; 
 
 The curses of the priests of plundered fanes ; 
 The dying groan upon the bloody field 
 Of some stout warrior, pillowed on his shield. 
 Life ebbing through his veins. 
 
 And as he sang, the people stopped to hear. 
 And crowds from every quarter gathered round. 
 Breathless and eager, swallowing every sound 
 With rapt, attentive ear : 
 
 And when the song was o'er the people filled 
 The soldier's cap with golden coins, and cried, 
 " O singer ! silver-tongued and fiery-eyed. 
 Whose tones our souls have thrilled — 
 
 " Singer, whose voice from sirens on the shore 
 Has sure been borrowed, and whose fingers 
 
 rain 
 Such music on the strings, oh ! sing again— 
 Sing us a song once more !" 
 
 And once again that wondrous voice was heard : 
 This time it sang not of affairs of arms. 
 But of the sea-foam's daughter and her charms. 
 Till all men's hearts were stirred. 
 
 The men of Argos stood in hushed surprise. 
 As there the god of poetry and song, 
 Phoibos ApoUon, from the awe-struck throng 
 Ascended to the skies. 
 
 THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 
 
 PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 
 
 This was the ruler of the land 
 When Athens was the land of fame ; 
 
 This was the light that led the band 
 When each was like a living flame ; 
 
 The center of earth's noblest ring,^ 
 
 Of more than men the more than king. 
 
 Yet not by fetter, nor by spear, 
 His sovereignty was held or won : 
 
 Feared, but alone as freemen fear. 
 Loved, but as freemen love alone. 
 
 He waved the scepter o'er his kind 
 
 By nature's first great title— Mind ! 
 
 Resistless words were on his tongue : 
 Then eloquence first flashed below ; 
 
 Full armed to life the portent sprung — 
 Minerva from the Thunderer's brow ! 
 
 And his the sole, the sacred hand 
 
 That shook her sgis o'er the land. 
 
 And throned immortal by his side 
 A woman sits with eye sublime, — 
 
 Aspasia, all his spirit's bride ; 
 
 But if their solemn love were crime. 
 
 Pity the Beauty and the Sage — 
 
 The crime was in their darkened age. 
 
258 
 
 POEMS OF REl- LECTION. 
 
 He perished, but his wreath was won — 
 He perished in his height of fame ; 
 
 Then sunk the cloud on Athens' sun, 
 Yet still she conquered in his name. 
 
 Filled with his soul, she could not die ; 
 
 Her conquest was posterity. 
 
 GEORGE CROLV. 
 
 TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again! 
 1 hold to you the hands you first beheld, 
 To show they still are free. Methinks I hear 
 A spirit in your echoes answer me. 
 And bid your tenant welcome to his home 
 Again ! O sacred forms, how proud you look ! 
 How high you lift your heads into the sky ! 
 How huge you are ! how mighty and how free ! 
 How do you look, for all your bared brows. 
 More gorgeously majestical than kings 
 Whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine ! 
 Ye are the things that tower, that shine, whose 
 
 smile 
 Makes glad, whose frown is terrible, whose forms, 
 Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear 
 Of awe divine, whose subject never kneels 
 In mockery, because it is your boast 
 To keep him free ! ye guards of liberty, 
 I'm with you once again ! — I call to you 
 With all my voice ! I hold my hands to you 
 To show they still are free ! I rush to you 
 As though 1 could embrace you ! 
 
 JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 
 
 VIRGINIUS IN THE FORUM. 
 
 iyirgin ia is cia imed as the da ugh tfro/a slave. ) 
 
 Virgtnius.—'\\x\, I must speak, or else go mad ! 
 And if I do go mad, what will then hold me 
 From speaking.' Were't not better, brother, 
 
 think you. 
 To speak and not go mad, than to go mad 
 And then to speak.' 
 
 Appius. — Your answer, now, Virginius ? 
 Virginius. — Here it is ! 
 Is this the daughter of a slave ? I know 
 'Tis not with men. as shrubs and trees, that by 
 The shoot you know the rank and order of 
 The stem. Yet who from such a stem would 
 look 
 
 For such a shoot .' My witnesses are these — 
 The relatives and friends of Numltoria, 
 Who saw her, ere \'irginia's birth, sustain 
 The burden which a mother bears, nor feels 
 The weight, with longuig for the sight of it ! 
 Here are the ears that listened to her sighs 
 In nature's hour of labor, which subsides 
 In the embrace of joy !-the hands, that when 
 The day first looked upon the infant's face. 
 And never looked so pleased, helped her up to it. 
 And thanked the gods for her, and prayed them 
 
 send 
 Blessing on blessing on her. Here the eyes 
 ' That saw her lying at the generous 
 j And sympathetic fount, that at her cry 
 I Sent forth a stream of living liquid pearl 
 ' To cherish her enamelled veins. The lie 
 I Is most abortive, then, that takes the Hower — 
 The very flower our bed connubial grew— 
 To prove its barrenness ! Spe.ik for me. friends. 
 Have I not spoke the truth ? 
 
 JAMES SHERIDAN' KNOWLES. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN LAUREL. 
 Far upon the sunny mountain, laurel groves were 
 
 growing. 
 Silently adown the river came a hot youth rowing; 
 Looking up afar he spied 
 The green groves on the mountain side- 
 Quoth the youth, and fondly sighed,— 
 "I'll pluck your plumes and sail anon; fair the 
 wind is blowing !" 
 
 Landing, then, he took his way to where the 
 
 groves were growing ; 
 Far he travel'd, all the morn, from the calm 
 stream flowing ; 
 In the sultry June noontide. 
 He reach'd the groves he had espied. 
 And sat down on the mountain side ; 
 Sing the snowy, plumy laurels, laurels gaily 
 blowing ! 
 
 Sat and slept within the groves of laurels bright 
 
 and blowing— 
 Oh I the deadly laurel tree, with flowering poison 
 glowing ! 
 Down they fell on lip and brain, 
 Oh ! that odorous, deadly rain I 
 He never shall return again 
 To his boat, upon the stream afar, so calm and 
 gently flowing ! 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
O MIGHTY FAME. 259 
 
 A DESCANT OF FAME. 
 
 And of the sweet perfume it spilled 
 
 
 He drank to drunkenness, and flung 
 
 Once in a dream I saw a man, 
 
 His long hair back, and laughed and sung, 
 
 With haggard face and tangled hair. 
 
 And clapped his hands as children do 
 
 And eyes that nursed as wild a care 
 
 At fairy tales they listen to. 
 
 As gaunt starvation ever can ; 
 
 While from his flying quill there dripped 
 
 And in his hand he held a wand 
 
 Such u.usic on his manuscript 
 
 Whose magic touch gave life and thought 
 
 That he who listens to the words 
 
 Unto a face his fancy wrought. 
 
 May close his eyes and dream the birds 
 
 And robed with coloring so grand 
 
 Are twittering on every hand 
 
 It seemed the reflex of some child 
 
 A language he can understand. 
 
 Of heaven, fair and undefiled— 
 
 He journeyed on through life, unknown. 
 
 A star of purity and love- 
 
 Without one friend to call his own. 
 
 To woo him into worlds above. 
 
 He tired. No kindly hand to press 
 
 And as I gazed, with dazzled eyes. 
 
 The cooling touch of tenderness 
 
 A gleaming smile lit up his lips 
 
 Upon his burning brow, nor lift 
 
 As his bright soul from its eclipse 
 
 To his parched lips God's freest gift — 
 
 Went flashing into Paradise ; 
 
 No sympathetic sob, or sigh 
 
 Then tardy Fame came through the door. 
 
 Of trembling lips— no sorrowing eye 
 
 And found a picture— nothing more. 
 
 Looked out through tears to see him die. 
 
 
 And fame her greenest laurels brought 
 
 And once I saw a man, alone 
 
 To crown a head that heeded not. 
 
 In abject poverty, with hand 
 
 
 Uplifted o'er a block of stone. 
 
 And this is fame ! A thing, indeed, • 
 
 That took a shape at his command 
 
 That only comes when least the need 
 
 And smiled upon him, fair and good — 
 
 The wisest minds of every age 
 
 A perfect work of womanhood. 
 
 The book of life from page to page 
 
 Save that the eyes might never weep. 
 
 Have searched in vain ; each lesson conned 
 
 Nor weary hands be crossed in sleep. 
 
 Will promise it the page beyond— 
 
 Nor hair that fell from crown to wrist. 
 
 Until the last, when dusk of night 
 
 Be brushed away, caressed and kissed. 
 
 Falls over it, and reason's light 
 
 And as in awe I gazed on her. 
 
 Is smothered by that unknown friend 
 
 I saw the sculptor's chisel fall— 
 
 Who signs his iioin deplume The End. 
 
 I saw him sink, without a moan. 
 
 JAMES WHITCOMB KILEY. 
 
 Sink lifeless at the feet of stone. 
 
 
 And lie there like a worshipper. 
 
 
 Fame crossed the threshold of the hall, 
 
 
 And found a statue— that was all. 
 
 MIGHTY FAME. 
 
 And once I saw a man who drew 
 
 mighty fame ! 
 
 A gloom about him like a cloak, 
 
 Thou for whom Cssar restless fought. 
 
 And wandered aimlessly. The few 
 
 And Regulus his god-like suffering sought ; 
 
 Who spoke of him at all but spoke 
 
 What can the sense of mortals tame. 
 
 Disparagingly of a mind 
 
 And nature's deepest murmurings hush. 
 
 The Fates had faultlessly designed : 
 
 That thus on death they rush ? 
 
 Too indolent for modern times— 
 
 What horror thus, and anguish they control, _ 
 
 Too fanciful, and full of whims 
 
 Lulled by thy airy power which lifts the daring 
 
 For talking to himself in rhymes. 
 
 soul ? 
 
 And scrawling never-heard-of hymns. 
 
 
 The idle life to which he clung 
 
 The female spirit still, 
 
 Was worthless as the songs he sung ! 
 
 And timorous of ill. 
 
 I saw him, in my vision, filled 
 
 In softest climes, by thy almighty will. 
 
 With rapture o'er a spray of bloom 
 
 Dauntless can mount the funeral pyre, 
 
 The wind threw in his lonely room ; 
 
 And by a husband's side expire. 
 
26o 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION, 
 
 No unbecoming human fear 
 
 The exalted sacrifice delays. 
 In youth and beauty's flowering year. 
 
 Serene she mingles with the blaze. 
 
 The Indian, on the burning iron bound. 
 By busy tortures compassed round. 
 
 Beholds thee, and is pleased. 
 
 With towering frenzy seized ; 
 Tells them they know not how to kill. 
 Demands a torment fit for man to feel, 
 And dictates some new pang, some more enven- 
 omed wound. 
 
 The halls of Odin rang.— 
 
 Amidst the barbarous clang 
 
 Of boastful chiefs and dire alarms, 
 
 The warrior hears thy magic cry. 
 Thundering, — " To arins ! to arms ! " 
 
 Struck by the sound, behold him fly 
 O'er the steep mountain's icy bar. 
 
 And drive before him Shout and Pain, 
 And Slaughter mad, the dogs of war; 
 
 Then, of his bootless trophies vain. 
 Back to the halls of Death return, [earn. 
 
 And brood upon the name which his wide ruins 
 
 HENRY FLOOD. 
 —From a ^^ Pindaric Ode to Fatne.^'' 
 
 She has scourged the weak and the lowly 
 
 And the just with an iron rod ; 
 She is drunk with the blood of the holy — 
 
 She shall drink of the wrath of God ! 
 
 JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 Her robes are of purple and scarlet. 
 And the kings have bent their knees 
 
 To the gemmed and jewelled harlot 
 Who sitteth on many seas. 
 
 They have drunk the abominations 
 
 Of her golden cup of shame ; 
 She has drugged and debauched the nations 
 
 With the mystery of lier name. 
 
 Her merchants have gathered riches 
 By the power of her wantonness. 
 
 And her usurers are as leeches 
 On the world's supreme distress. 
 
 She has .scoured the seas as a spoiler ; 
 
 Her mart is a robber's den. 
 With the wrested toil of the toiler. 
 
 And the mortgaged souls of men. 
 
 Her crimson flag is flying. 
 
 Where the East and the West are one; 
 Her drums while the day is dying 
 
 Salute the rising sun. 
 
 WHAT TWO SAW. 
 
 I heard thunder of drums, and the trumpet's blast. 
 And 1 saw red banners that waved on the air, 
 .And I heard the shouts of those fighting there ; 
 I saw tires blaze, saw the tents o'ercast. 
 Saw cannon front cannon, deep, deadly and vast, 
 Heard the conqueror's shout, the cries of despair. 
 Of falling and wounded, who died with the glare 
 Of flame on their features, distraught and aghast. 
 You stood beside me, but what did you see .' 
 No field of battle, but one sown with corn, 
 Yellow corn, which in time man's bread should be; 
 You heard not the cry of the hope forlorn. 
 You heard not the feet of the hosts that flee ; 
 But my soul at your feet lay dead, down borne. 
 
 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTO.S'. 
 
 THE DEAD YEAR. 
 
 Yet another chief is carried 
 From life's battle on his spears, 
 
 To the great \'alhalla cloisters 
 Of the ever-living years. 
 
 Yet another year— the mummy 
 
 Of a warlike giant vast — 
 Is niched within the pyramid 
 
 Of the ever-growing past. 
 
 Years roll through the palm of .Ages 
 As the dropping rosary speeds 
 
 Through the cold and passive fingers 
 Of a hermit at his beads. 
 
 One year falls and ends its penance. 
 
 One arises with its needs. 
 And 'tis ever thus prays Nature, 
 
 Only telling years for beads. 
 
 Years, like acorns from the branches 
 
 Of the giant Oak of Time, 
 Fill the earth with healthy seedlings 
 
 For a future more sublime. 
 
 JOHN SAVAGE. 
 
CHRISTMAS IN A LIGHT-HOUSE. 
 
 261 
 
 A VISION. 
 Two crowned Kings, and One that stood alone 
 With no green weight of laurels round his head, 
 But with sad eyes as one uncomforted, 
 And wearied with man's never-ceasing moan 
 For sins no bleating victim can atone, 
 And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed. 
 Girt was he in a garment black and red. 
 And at his feet I marked a broken stone 
 Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees. 
 Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame 
 I cried to Beatrice, " Who are these ? " 
 And she made answer, knowing well each name, 
 " ^schylos first, the second Sophokles, 
 And last (wide stream of tears !) Euripides." 
 
 OSCAR WILDE. 
 
 THE COUNTERSIGN. 
 
 Alas ! the weary hours pass slow. 
 
 The night is very dark and still, 
 And in the marshes far below 
 
 I hear the bearded whippoorwill. 
 I scarce can see a yard ahead. 
 
 My ears are strained to catch each sound ; 
 I hear the leaves about me shed. 
 
 And the springs bubbling through the ground 
 
 Along the beaten path I pace. 
 
 Where white rags mark my sentry's track ; 
 In formless shrubs I seem to trace 
 
 The foeman's form with bending back. 
 I think I see him crouching low, 
 
 I stop and list — I stoop and peer — 
 Until the neighboring hillocks grow 
 
 To groups of soldiers far and near. 
 
 With ready piece I wait and watch. 
 
 Until my eyes, familiar grown. 
 Detect each harmless earthen notch. 
 
 And turn guerrillas into stone. 
 And then amid the lonely gloom. 
 
 Beneath the weird old tulip-trees, 
 My silent marches I resume. 
 
 And think on other times than these. 
 
 Sweet visions through the silent night ! 
 
 The deep bay-windows fringed with vine. 
 The room within, in softened light, 
 
 The tender, milk-white hand in mine ; 
 The timid pressure, and the pause 
 
 That ofttimes overcame our speech, — 
 That time when by mysterious laws 
 
 We each felt all in all to each. 
 
 And then that bitter, bitter day. 
 
 When came the tinal hour to part. 
 When, clad in soldier's honest gray, 
 
 I pressed her weeping to my heart. 
 Too proud of me to bid me stay. 
 
 Too fond of me to let me go, — 
 I had to tear myself away. 
 
 And left her stolid in her woe. 
 
 So comes the dream— so fleets the night — 
 
 When distant in the darksome glen. 
 Approaching up the sombre height, 
 
 I hear the solid march of men ; 
 Till over stubble, over sward. 
 
 And fields where gleams the golden sheaf, 
 I see the lantern of the guard 
 
 Advancing with the night relief. 
 
 " Halt ! who goes there .' " my challenge cry : 
 
 It rings along the watchful line. 
 " Relief ! " I hear a voice reply. 
 
 " Advance, and give the countersign ! " 
 With bayonet at the charge, 1 wait, 
 
 The corporal gives the mystic spell ; 
 With arms at port I charge my mate. 
 
 And onward pass, and all is well. 
 
 But in the tent that night awake, 
 1 I think, if in the fray I fall. 
 Can I the mystic answer make 
 
 When the angelic sentries call .' 
 And pray that heaven may so ordain. 
 That when I near the camp divine, 
 I VVhate'er my travail or my pain, 
 I yet may have the countersign. 
 
 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 
 
 CHRISTMAS IN A LIGHT-HOUSE. 
 
 Darkly the drear December day 
 
 Hung on the dripping light-house shrouds, 
 And up my lonely tower the spray 
 
 Leaped madly at the clouds ; 
 And eastward with the racing tide 
 
 There drove a living, roving sail. 
 Which thro' her steersman hoarse replied 
 
 Unto my friendly hail. 
 
 The tantalizing rover passed 
 
 (As passed another long ago). 
 And idly by the signal-mast 
 
 I watched the ocean-strow : 
 
262 
 
 POEMS Of REFLECTIO.W 
 
 Wild sea-wracks toiling ceaselessly 
 
 Around my insulated rock : 
 The sleepers of the mystic sea. 
 
 Awakened by the shock. 
 
 Sea-shreds come swarming up my wall, 
 
 Mad relics of destractive things, 
 That with the white spray rise and fall 
 
 In wild meanderings; 
 And from amid the lambent heaps 
 
 That kiss the railing where I stand, 
 A coral-beaded branch up-leaps 
 
 Unto my grasping hand. 
 
 ! Holly. Holly, Holly tree. 
 Emblem of love unwithering ! 
 
 Thy coral-beaded branch to me 
 
 Old memories doth bring. 
 The Almanac I daily scan. 
 
 The time-piece ticking on the wall. 
 The roving bark that eastward ran, 
 
 None such to me recall. 
 
 1 see the windrows of the years. 
 
 Dead memories drifted up a strand. 
 One tired pearl that perseveres 
 
 To reach the quiet land : 
 And sea-waifs of sad mistletoe, 
 
 That other dying sea-waifs follow ; 
 And thorny shells that come and go ; 
 
 And roseate shells — all hollow. — 
 
 The gray December day wears by. 
 
 The night falls on my lonely tower, 
 I light the argand gala.\y 
 
 And watch till morning's hour ; 
 Pacing my gallery below 
 
 With steps that elsewhere seem to rove ; 
 And all is darkness here — but O ! 
 
 The splendid light above ! 
 
 CHARLES DAWSOX SHAXLV. 
 
 BECALMED. 
 
 It was as calm as calm could be, 
 
 A death-still night in June ; 
 A silver sail on a silver sea. 
 
 Under a silver moon ; 
 Not a breath of air the still sea stirred, 
 
 But all on the dreaming deep 
 The white ship lay, like a white sea-bird. 
 
 With folded wings asleep. 
 
 For a long, long month not a breath of air, 
 
 For a month not a drop of rain ; 
 And the gaunt crew watched in wild despair. 
 
 With a fever in throat and brain ; 
 And they saw the shore, like a dim cloud, stand 
 
 On the far horizon-sea : — 
 It was only a short day's sail to the land. 
 
 And the haven where they would be. 
 
 Too faint to row, no signal brought 
 
 An answer, far or nigh ; — 
 Father, have mercy ! leave them not 
 
 Alone on the deep to die. 
 And the gaunt crew prayed on the decks above. 
 
 And the women prayed below : 
 " One drop of rain, for Heaven's great love ! 
 
 Oh, God ! for a breeze to blow ! " 
 
 Kut never a shower from the skies would burst. 
 
 And never a breeze would come ! 
 Dear Heaven ! to think that man can thirst, 
 
 .\nd starve in sight of home ! 
 Hut out to sea, with the drifting tide. 
 
 The vessel drifted away, 
 Till the far-off shore, like the dim cloud died. 
 
 And the wild crew ceased to pray ! 
 
 Calm gleamed the sea : calm gleamed the sky : 
 
 No cloud — no sail — in view : 
 .Vnd they cast them lots, for who should die 
 
 To feed the star\'ing crew ! 
 Like fiends they glared, with their eyes aglow. 
 
 Like beasts, with hunger wild. 
 But a mother prayed, in the cabin below. 
 
 By the bed of her little child ! 
 
 It slept : and lo! in its sleep it smiled: 
 
 A babe of summers three : 
 " O Father, save my little child. 
 
 Whatever comes to me ! " 
 I Like beasts they glared, with hunger wild, 
 
 And red glazed eyes aglow ! 
 And the death-lot fell— on the little child 
 
 That slept in the cabin below ! 
 
 .\nd the mother shrieked, in wild despair, 
 
 " O God. my child, my son ! 
 They will take his life : it is hard to bear : 
 
 Yet, Father. Thy will be done ! " 
 And she woke the child from its happy sleep, 
 
 .And she knelt by the cradle-bed : 
 •' We thirst, my child, on the lonely deep : 
 
 We are dying, my child, for bread I 
 
WHAT THE SEA SAID. 
 
 " On the lone, lone seas no sail, no breeze : 
 
 Not a drop of rain in the sky ! 
 We thirst — we starve— on the lonely seas : 
 
 And thou, my child, muit die ! " 
 She wept : what tears her wild soul shed 
 
 Not I, but God. knows best. 
 And the child rose up from its cradle-bed, 
 
 And crossed its hands on its breast : 
 
 " Father ! " he lisped, " so good — so kind — 
 
 Have pity on mother's pain ! 
 For mother's sake, a little wind ! 
 
 Father, a little rain ! " [deck : 
 
 And she heard them shout for the child from the 
 
 And she knelt on the cabin stairs : 
 " The child ! " they cry, "the child— stand back — 
 
 And a curse on your idiot prayers ! " 
 
 And the mother rose, in her wild despair, 
 
 And she bared her throat to the knife : 
 " Me — me — strike ! strike ! but spare, O spare 
 
 My child — my dear son's life ! " 
 O God, it was a ghastly sight ! 
 
 Red eyes, like flaming brands, 
 And a hundred belt-knives flashing bright 
 
 In the clutch of skeleton-hands ! 
 
 " Me — me — strike ! strike ! ye fiends of Death ! " 
 
 But soft ! thro' the ghastly air 
 Whose falling tear was that .' whose breath 
 
 Waves thro' the mother's hair .' 
 A flutter of sail— a ripple of seas — 
 
 A speck on the cabin-pane ! 
 O God ! it is a breeze— a breeze — 
 
 And a drop of blessed rain ! 
 
 And the mother rushed to the cabin below. 
 
 And she wept on her babe's bright hair : 
 " The sweet rain falls, the sweet winds blow : 
 
 Father hath heard thy prayer ! " 
 And the gaunt crew fell on their bended knees ; 
 
 And they cried in raptures wild : [breeze : 
 
 " Thank God ! thank God, for His rain and His 
 
 Thank God for her little child ! " 
 
 SAMUEL K. COWAN. 
 
 THE RUINED CHAPEL. 
 
 By the shore, a plot of ground 
 Clips a ruin'd chapel round, 
 Buttress'd with a grassy mound ; 
 
 Where Day and Night and Day go by, 
 And bring no touch of human sound. 
 
 Washing of the lonely seas. 
 Shaking of the guardian trees. 
 Piping of the salted breeze ; 
 
 Day and Night and Day go by 
 To the endless tune of these. 
 
 Or when, as winds and waters keep 
 A hush more dead than any sleep, 
 Still morns to stiller evenings creep, 
 
 And Day and Night and Day go by; 
 Here the silence is most deep. 
 
 The empty ruins, lapsed again 
 
 Into Nature's wide domain. 
 
 Sow themselves with seed and grain 
 
 As Day and Night and Day go by ; 
 And hoard June's sun and April's raiiL 
 
 Here fresh funeral tears were shed ; 
 And now the graves are also dead ; 
 And suckers from the ash-tree spread. 
 
 While Day and Night and Day go by ; 
 And stars move calmly overhead. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 WHAT 'IHE SEA SAID. 
 
 The wash of the wave on the shingle. 
 The fringe of the foam on the sand ; 
 
 The soft twilight hush in which mingle 
 Faint sounds of the sea and the land— 
 
 All these ; and the sun dies in splendor. 
 And shoreward the gray shadows fleet ; 
 
 And the sea flings its song sad and tender 
 In waves at my feet. 
 
 The waves catch the starlight, and glisten 
 In broken and shadowy gleams. 
 
 And my ears are entranc'd as they listen 
 To music, like music of dreams. 
 
 O ! ear, by what fanciful weening, 
 O ! heart, by what mystical lore, 
 
 Can one clothe with a voice and a meaning. 
 The sound on the shore ? 
 
 To my sad heart it whispers a story. 
 As sad as man's heart, and as old, 
 
 That the poet must purchase his glory 
 By sorrows that cannot be told-- 
 
 That the crown of the singer tho' shining. 
 With gems like a cluster of stars. 
 
 Round a painstricken forehead is twining, 
 Scarce hiding fate's scars. 
 
2b4 
 
 j'OEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 Tor the spent wave has fill'd, but to languish , 
 
 The sparkle is lost in the foam : 
 With a cry, like despair and like anguish, 
 
 The billow rolls wearily home. 
 It was mute when it rose as a billow. 
 
 But moans when it strikes on the strand. 
 
 Singing death-songs, it sinks on its pillow — 
 
 Hard pillow of sand. 
 
 Dash a heart on the hard world and break it, 
 'Twill break to the sound of a song, 
 
 Only hearts that know sorrow can make it 
 Give music whose echo lives long. 
 
 Only sad hearts flash out into stories 
 That live on men's lips thro' the years ; 
 
 Poets' lives when most brilliant with glories, 
 Are glistening with tears. 
 
 Sad memories and ghosts of lost faces 
 Crowd in from the song from the past ; 
 
 For, Iho' grief lose its first sting, its traces 
 .\re branded on life to the last ; 
 
 And to-day will melt into to-morrow. 
 And years may be added to years. 
 
 But from sorrow comes harvests of sorrow. 
 And fountains of tears. 
 
 JOSEPH F.\RRELL. 
 
 Sometimes the seaman sailing near. 
 
 When the breezes faintly blow, 
 Will turn from the shore, and pause on his oar. 
 
 While the rolling waters flow. 
 To listen the sound, on the quiet deep, 
 
 Of the bells that moan below. 
 
 There are hearts that beat in the human breast. 
 
 That humble and lowly be. 
 Though made to throb unto mighty ends. 
 
 Like the bells beneath the sea. 
 That were made to chime from the lofty tower 
 
 Of a church in a far countree. 
 
 SAMUEL K. COWAN. 
 
 THE BURIED BELLS. 
 
 A fair ship sailed, with the bells aboard 
 
 For a church in a far countree. — 
 With sweet chime-bells for a far-off church ; 
 
 But a storm blew suddenly, 
 And the fair ship sank, and the hollow bells 
 
 Moaned down into the sea. 
 
 In the cruel tide, by the sweet bells' side. 
 
 Full many a heart lies there. 
 That had hoped to list to the holy chimes 
 
 Ring out on the Sabbath air. 
 And bow their heads to the hallowed call, 
 
 With their hands uplift in prayer. 
 
 But now, when the waves are blown with wind, 
 
 And the ruffling ripples swell. 
 There comes a sound from the depths beneath. 
 
 Like the chime of a marriage bell ; 
 Anon, to the slow long sweep of the deep, 
 
 A moan like a funeral knell. 
 
 THE YEAR'S ANGELS. 
 
 Out watching all alone the dying year 
 I sudden saw two forms before me stand, 
 One like an angel bearing in its hand 
 Such lily-flowers as to the saints are dear ; 
 The other was a shapeless thing of fear, 
 A dusky vision on whose brow the brand 
 Of vile old age seemed writ by God's command. 
 Of whom I wondering asked, "What do ye here?" 
 To whom the angel answered, " Woe is me, 
 I am your hopes — I am what might have been. 
 Look on my face, and as you look lament." 
 Then that foul other, smiling terribly. 
 "As in this bright one thou thy hopes hast seen, 
 Now look on me and learn their fulfillment." 
 JUSTIN H. McCarthy. 
 
 CROSSING THE FERRY. 
 
 " The stream glides smooth. O Ferrj'man ! 
 
 The bowery trees between ; 
 Your life. I warrant, as smoothly ran 
 
 'Mid flowery meads as green ? " 
 
 " The river is swifter than once it was, 
 
 O Sailor of the sea ! 
 Or my heart has hurried the flight of Age, 
 
 For the woe that came on me." 
 
 " Gray Ferryman ! give to me the oar ; 
 
 You should, indeed, have rest, 
 'Mid your children under the sycamore. 
 
 In yon white cottage-nest." 
 
A CITY POPULOUS. 
 
 ^65 
 
 " There is none within that cottage white, 
 
 O Sailor of the sea ! 
 None now, alas, to take my place — 
 
 But what is that to thee ? " 
 
 " I am weary with travel, Ferryman! 
 
 And now we touch the brink, 
 I pray you give me, as you can. 
 
 To rest, and eat and drink." 
 
 " There is desolation in my home, 
 
 O Sailor of the sea ! 
 'T would smite thy heart with utter woe — 
 
 Go thou thy way from me." 
 
 All joy seemed suddenly to fail 
 The youth — he bowed his head, 
 
 And drawing near, said low, all pale — 
 " Is she, my mother, dead ? " 
 
 Upon his neck he fell : — " My son ! — 
 
 My lost son from the sea ! — 
 She is not dead, but dieth. — Death 
 
 Before thy voice will fiee ! " 
 
 GEORGE SIGERSON. 
 
 NEARING THE CITY BY NIGHT. 
 
 Daylight was dying and dimness was creeping. 
 
 Landscape and life were despoiled of their 
 charm ; 
 Swift on our straight iron path we were sweeping. 
 
 Anxious and mute 'mid the solemn alarm. 
 Awful the shadows that round us were massing ; 
 Huge and misshapen the things that were 
 passing, 
 
 Further, still further from life and from light ; 
 On we went fearing, and on went careering, 
 
 And so we were nearing the city by night. 
 
 Wayfarers, strangers, each other unknowing, 
 Still more unknown was the goal that we 
 sought ; 
 Morn found us reckless of where we were going ; 
 Night on a sudden brought gloom in our 
 thought ; 
 
 Ah ! this strange city, how much did we fear it ! 
 No one had seen it or ever been near it ; 
 
 What did it keep for us — pain or delight ? 
 Thus we went fearing, and thus went careering. 
 
 And so we were nearing the city by night. 
 
 Terrible tales had been told us about it ; — 
 
 Can we be certain we there shall find rest ? 
 Are we so near it ? Ah ! would we could doubt it ! 
 
 Could we fly back from it, that might be best. 
 One blessed chance then indeed hovered o'er us. 
 Of meeting the friends who had gone there 
 before us, 
 
 But still with uncertainty blended affright,— 
 Thus we went fearing, and thus went careering, 
 
 And so we were nearing the city by night. 
 
 Stars glimmered out, but our fear was unceasing — 
 
 Stars could be baleful no less than benign : 
 Cavernous darkness and phantoms increasing — 
 
 These were the prospect our eyes could divine ; 
 Forests of vastness that ever kept booming. 
 Valleys of blackness that roared at our coming. 
 
 Can it be wondered our souls were affright .' 
 Thus we went fearing, and thus went careering. 
 
 And so we were nearing the city by night. 
 
 Ah ! but I dare not go on to the ending, — 
 
 Landscape nor fancy can match in its tone 
 The depth of the crisis sublime and transcend- 
 ing — [unknown ! 
 
 The crisis when man goes to meet the 
 Whether these things are all true evidences. 
 Or parts of a dream that stills hangs o'er my 
 senses. 
 
 Often I shudder and think with affright. 
 That ever there's somebody, somebody fearing. 
 
 And somebody nearing the city by night. 
 
 FRANCIS O'RYAN. 
 
 A CITY POPULOUS. 
 
 O'er a strange city populous 
 
 In a haze-sky floats the moon. 
 And the shadows hang like vapors 
 
 Under the trees of June ; 
 And the dewdrops, radiant, mystic, 
 Glow like fire-opals tremulous; 
 Strewn in the silent grasses- 
 Sown on the untrod mosses 
 That grow in that city populous. 
 
266 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 Within that city populous 
 
 Rise towers of purest white, 
 Feet-claspt with rainy mosses 
 
 And ivies trailinj; bright ; 
 Pale flowers and fxiorous lilies 
 Adrowse in the dreamy light 
 
 Which, as in legends fabulous. 
 Sheens in pearl-waves nebulous 
 O'er that strange city populous. 
 
 At the gate of that strange, dim city 
 
 Stands a Silence pale ; unkissed 
 Are her red lips, parted, trembling ; 
 
 And her braids of tawny mist 
 Seem born of the flying night-clouds. 
 
 And dank with the dews of June, 
 While at her feet the nightshades 
 
 Hang dripping beneath the moon. 
 
 Strange is it — still and sombre — 
 
 This city dim and old ; 
 You would deem it ruined, haunted, 
 
 All is so hushed and cold 
 When at midnight the moon's splendor 
 
 Drops down in showers of gold. [palaces 
 
 Yet often over its length of storm-worn, marble 
 Trampleth the tempest-blown rain from the 
 cliffs of the cold north seas. 
 
 Green are its streets and i 
 
 In the moonlight cold, unpaven, 
 
 And its grasses dank, unshaven, 
 Mixed with rue and yarrow ; 
 .\nd here, by the dim. white arches, 
 The murmurous, rustling larches 
 
 Lift up cold hands to heaven ; 
 Here, too. in the grasses verdurous. 
 Like a pale pearl, filmy, tremulous. 
 The glow-worm lights his lamp 
 Under the nightshades damp 
 That grow in that city populous. 
 
 Where is that populous city 
 
 Where the lilies drift in balm? 
 Where all night long the shadows 
 
 Float in the odorous calm? 
 O Heart ! it is ever near you. 
 
 Praying you enter in 
 And lie with its beautiful Silence, 
 
 At rest from toil and sin. 
 Yet beware ! From that siren Silence, 
 
 And her mystic quiet marvellous, 
 Retumeth none who enter 
 
 Into that city populous. 
 
 CH.ARLES J. O'MALLEY. 
 
 JASPER DEAN. 
 
 The apples were red in the orchard, the meadows 
 
 were sober and bare. 
 The woods were aflame with a splendor thai 
 
 glowed in the glorified air. 
 
 Through the valley a tremuluous murmur ran 
 
 drowsily all the day long. 
 Where a brook kissed the pebbles, and passed 
 
 them, and sang its perpetual song. 
 
 Leaning over the gate of his garden, the leaves 
 
 all awhirl at his feet, 
 Jasper Dean mused, like one who was dreaming 
 
 a dream far more bitter than sweet. 
 
 " I am fifty year old this October," he muttered, 
 
 " and how do I stand ? 
 Well, I own a smart house and two hundred 
 
 good acres of tol'rable land. 
 
 " There's many a man would be happy with half 
 
 what I've got to my name. 
 But I'm not; and I reckon most likely there's 
 
 suthin" or other to blame. 
 
 " There's a feelin' that sometimes comes on me, 
 and mostly at this time o' year — 
 
 When the birds fly away, and the dimness gives 
 notice that winter is near,— 
 
 " There's a feelin' that sometimes comes on me, 
 and makes me half wish to be dead ; 
 
 AntI I don't know e.xackly what brings it to buzz 
 like a bee in my head. 
 
 " It may be the change o' the seasons, with death 
 
 and decay all around ; 
 Or it may be a wish growin' stronger for suthin" 
 
 that ain't to be found. 
 
 " There is hardly a day but the neighbors are 
 
 talkin' about my affairs. 
 I don't thank 'em for mindin' my bus'ness. I'm 
 
 sure I don't meddle with theirs. 
 
 " But they talk and they talk, and the drift of it 
 
 all is about my dull life. 
 It is dull, I know that very well ; but I'm now 
 
 past the time for a wife. 
 
 When a man touches fifty, like me, he had bet- 
 ter be sayin' his prayers. 
 Than frettin' himself about women and runnin' 
 his head into snares. 
 
THE FOISON-FLOWER. 
 
 267 
 
 "There was Absalom Brown, that went off and 
 ; got married at 'most fifty-five ; 
 
 If he hadn't done that, I don't doubt but the 
 critter would still be alive. 
 
 " But the woman he took, she just worried his 
 
 wits out in less'n a year ; 
 Though when he went off she was ready with 
 
 many a crocodile tear. 
 
 " But all women are not o' that sort. There are 
 
 plenty as good as can be ; 
 And if I had married at thirty it might have 
 
 been better for me. 
 
 i " There's the house, and a good one it is — not a 
 i better the county can show ; 
 
 I But I never go in without feelin' a dullness, in- 
 stead of a glow 
 
 "A home may seem ever so pleasant and ever 
 so neat and so fine, 
 ; And still have no comfort within it ; and that's 
 what's the matter with mine. 
 
 " There is never a voice to give welcome, and 
 
 never a glad smile to greet, 
 And my heart never throbs to the musical patter 
 
 of innocent feet. 
 
 "What's the use of a man always strivin'? He 
 I gains but a little at last ; 
 
 And it gen'rally comes, if at all. when the time 
 to enjoy it is past. 
 
 j " Now, if I had married at thirty, as I had a no- 
 tion to do, 
 I Who can tell but my heart would be lighter, the 
 j home a more pleasant one, too ? 
 
 I 
 
 j " But somehow I waited and waited ; and now 
 I I am fifty year old ; 
 
 There is plenty o' frost in my hair, and my blood 
 \ has grown sluggish and cold ; 
 
 "I feel more like restin' than workin', and every 
 
 year that goes by 
 'Pears to tell me I'd better be careful, and leaves 
 
 me a trifle less spry. 
 
 "And suthin' comes on me in autumn — I don't 
 
 know exackly what way — 
 That makes me feel sad-like and solemn, and 
 
 sets all mv ideas astray 
 
 " It may be the change o' the seasons, with death 
 
 and decay all around. 
 Or it may be a wishin' and longin' for suthin' 
 
 that ain't to be found. 
 
 "A man without some one to care for is not what 
 
 a man ought to be. 
 And a home without some one to cheer it ain't 
 
 pleasant to have or to see. 
 
 " Now, if I had married at thirty— psha 
 
 I am drivellin' on, 
 With a lot o' things still to be seen to, 
 
 sun, as I live, a'most gone. 
 
 here 
 
 •' There's a chill in the air about sundown — I 
 
 reckon I'd better get round. 
 Or I'll have that old rheumaliz shootin' all through 
 
 me again, I'll be bound ! " 
 
 JIEL CONNOLLY. 
 
 THE POISON-FLOWER. 
 
 In the evergreen shade of an Austral wood, 
 
 Where the long branches laced above. 
 
 Through which all day it seemed 
 
 The sweet sumbeams down gleamed 
 
 Like the rays of a young mother's love. 
 
 When she hides her glad face with her hands 
 
 and peeps 
 At the youngling that crows on her knee 
 'Neath such ray-shivered shade, 
 In a banksia glade. 
 Was this flower first shown to me. 
 
 A rich pansy it was, with a small white lip 
 And a wonderful purple hood : 
 
 And your eye caught the sheen 
 
 Of its leaves, parrot-green, 
 Down the dim gothic aisles of the wood. 
 And its foliage rich on the moistureless sand 
 Made you long for its odorous breath ; 
 
 But ah ! 'twas to take 
 
 To your bosom a snake. 
 For its pestilent fragrance was death. 
 
 And I saw it again, in a far northern land, — 
 Not a pansy, not purple and white ; 
 Yet in beauteous guise 
 Did this poison plant rise. 
 Fair and fatal again to my sight. 
 
POEMS OF REFLECT/ON. 
 
 And men longed for her kiss and her odorous Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales. 
 
 breath 
 When no friend was beside them to tell 
 
 That to kiss was to die. 
 
 That her truth was a lie, 
 And her beauty a soul killing spell. 
 
 JOHN' BOYLE C'REILLY. 
 
 ONE WOMAN. 
 
 As wanderers, thirsting in the wilderness. 
 Long for lost wells forever deep and cold ; 
 
 So, in the moments of my lone distress. 
 My heart goes back to seek the love of old. 
 
 Calm, earnest eyes, so full of light for nie. 
 
 Dear, kindly voice, more eloquent than strong. 
 Soul firm in its great love for liberty, 
 
 And its proud scorn of prejudice and wrong. 
 
 I see it all ; hair silvered ere its time. 
 The pale cheek turning paler hour by hour ; 
 
 And weep the life that perished in its prime 
 Before all learned the compass of its power. 
 
 Now gone forever ! here, alone and weak. 
 
 I feel the absence of his grave caress ; 
 And cold they call me, that I cannot speak 
 
 With those dear memories of new tenderness. 
 
 So let them judge, whose idle hearths are warm, 
 For whom Life's flower in full perfection 
 
 1 must endure it, as I faced the storm (thrives. 
 That never beat on their protected lives. 
 
 But there's one gift I asked. O Lord, of Thee, 
 
 To grant the laurel I desired to claim ; 
 Not for the comfort of weak vanity. 
 But for the garland of my father's name ! 
 
 MARION MIIR. 
 
 The lily wraps her silver vest, 
 I Till vernal suns and vernal gales 
 
 Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast. 
 Oh, many a stormy night shall close 
 
 In gloom upon the barren earth. 
 While still in undisturbed repose. 
 Uninjured lies the future birth. 
 
 And ignorance, with skeptic eye, 
 
 Hope's patient smile shall wondering view. 
 Or mark her fond credulity. 
 
 As her soft tears the spot bedew ; 
 Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear. 
 
 The sun, the shower indeed shall come. 
 The promised verdant shoot appear. 
 
 And nature bid her bk)ssoms bloom. 
 
 /\nd thou, O virgin queen of spring, 
 
 Shalt from thy dark and lowly bed, 
 Bursting thy green sheath's silken string. 
 
 Unveil thy charms, and perfume shed ; 
 Unfold thy robes of purest white, 
 
 LInsullied from their darksome grave. 
 And thy soft petal's flowery light 
 
 In the mild breeze unfettered wave. 
 
 So faith shall seek the lowly dust 
 
 Where humble sorrow loves to lie, 
 .And bid her thus her hope intrust, 
 
 And watch with patient, cheerful eye ; 
 And bear the long, cold, wintry night. 
 
 And bear her own degraded doom ; 
 And wait till heaven's reviving light. 
 
 Eternal spring, shall burst the gloom. 
 
 M.\Ry TIGHE. 
 
 THE LILY. 
 
 How withered, perished seems the form 
 
 Of yon obscure, unsightly root I 
 Yet from the blight of wintry storm 
 
 It hides secure the precious fruit. 
 The careless eye can find no grace. 
 
 No beauty in the scaly folds. 
 Nor see within the dark embrace 
 
 What latent loveliness it holds. 
 
 THE WIND-SWEPT WHEAT. 
 
 Faint, faint and clear — 
 Faint as the music that in dreams we hear — 
 Shaking the curtain fold of sleep, 
 That shuts away [of day, 
 
 The world's hoarse voice, the sights and sounds 
 Her sorry joys, her phantoms false and fleet- 
 So softly, softly stirs 
 The wind's low murmur in the rippled wheat. 
 
 From West to East 
 
 The warm breath blows, the slender heads drop 
 As if in prayer ; [low 
 
 Again, more lightly tossed in merry play, 
 They bend and bow and sway 
 
THE POET AT COURT. 
 
 269 
 
 With measured beat, 
 But never rest- 
 Through shadow and through sun 
 Goes on the tender rustle of the wheat. 
 
 Dreams more than sleep, 
 
 Fall on the listening heart and lull its care ; 
 
 Dead years send back 
 
 Some treasured, half forgotten time ; — • 
 
 Ah, long ago. 
 
 When sun and sky were sweet. 
 
 In happy noon. 
 
 We stood breast high, 'mid waves of ripened grain, 
 
 And heard the wind make music in the wheat ! 
 
 Not for to-day — 
 
 Not for this hour alone — the melody 
 
 So soft and ceaseless thrills the dreamer's ear ! 
 
 Of all that was and is, of all that yet shall be, 
 
 It holds a part - 
 
 Love, sorrow, longing pain ; 
 
 The restlessness that yearns ; 
 
 The thirst that burns ; 
 
 The bliss that like a fountain overflows ; 
 
 The deep repose ; 
 
 Good that we might have known, but shall not 
 
 know ; 
 The hope God took, the joy He made complete- 
 Life's chords all answer from the wind-swept 
 
 wheat. 
 
 ^rARV AINGE DE VERE. 
 
 IF THE WIND RISE. 
 
 An open sea, a gallant breeze. 
 
 That drives our little boat — 
 How fast each wave about flees 
 How fast the low clouds float ! 
 
 " We'll never see the morning skies. 
 If the wind rise." 
 " If the wind rise 
 We'll hear no more of earthly lies." 
 
 The moon from time to time breaks out 
 
 And silvers all the sea ; 
 The billows toss their manes about. 
 The little boat leaps free. 
 
 " We'll never see our true loves' eyes. 
 If the wind rise." 
 " If the wind rise 
 We'll waste no more our foolish sighs.' 
 
 She takes a dash of foam before, 
 
 A dash of spray behind ; 
 
 The wolfish waves about her roar, 
 
 And gallop with the wind. 
 
 " We'll see no more the woodland dyes, 
 If the wind rise." 
 " If the wind rise 
 We've heard the last of human cries." 
 
 The sky seems bending lower down, 
 
 And swifter sweeps the gale ; 
 Our craft she shakes from heel to crovm 
 And dips her fragile sail. 
 
 " We may forgive our enemies 
 If the wind rise." 
 " If the wind rise 
 We'll sup this night in Paradise." 
 
 JOSEPH O'CONNOR. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 He suffers ; but his mournful days are crowned 
 
 By the diviner joy of those to be ; 
 
 His heart may bleed, yet he hath power to see 
 
 All loves wherewith the universe is bound : 
 
 And tones that link the living sense of sound 
 
 With the deep secrets of infinity. 
 
 Blow through his spirit, beautiful and free. 
 
 He knows, though all the world upon him frowned. 
 
 By the immortal burdens it hath borne. 
 
 How lofty is the soul that in him dwells. 
 
 Life he can lay aside — a garment worn — 
 
 And, smiling, walk among the asphodels ; 
 
 For glory and despair, all joy and woe. 
 
 And love and action, are to him a show. 
 
 MARION MUIR 
 
 THE POET AT COURT. 
 
 He stands alone in the lordly hall — 
 
 He, vi'ith the high, pale brow ; 
 But never a one at the festival 
 
 Was half so great, I trow. 
 They kiss the hand, and they bend the knee, 
 
 Slaves to an earthly king ; 
 But the heir of a loftier dynasty 
 
 May scorn that courtly ring. 
 
 They press, with false and flattering words. 
 Around the blood-bought throne ; 
 
 But the homage never yet won by swords 
 Is his— the Anointed One ! 
 
270 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 His sway over every nation 
 Extendeth from zone to zone ; 
 
 He reigns as a god o'er creation- 
 The universe is his own. 
 
 No star on his breast is beaming. 
 
 But the light of his flashing eye 
 Reveals, in its haughtier gleaming, 
 
 The conscious majesty. 
 For the Poet's crown is the godlike brow — ■ 
 
 Away wnth that golden thing I 
 Your fealty was never yet due till now— 
 
 Kneel to the god-made King ! 
 
 LADY WILDE. 
 
 THE POET TO HIS SON. 
 
 Come forth, my son, into the fields, — 
 
 What is there in the crowd 
 Of hearts or scenes the city yields 
 
 To make young spirits proud ? 
 Girt by mankind. \vc dream a God 
 
 May in the skies abide; 
 Hut O ! he must be all a clod. 
 Who feels not on the fragrant sod, 
 
 God walketh by his side ! 
 
 Could I withdraw thee from the cold. 
 
 The mean, the base, the stern. 
 And selfish craft that young and old 
 
 From grasping crowds must learn ; 
 How gladly to some rural nook 
 
 Would I transplant thy mind ; 
 From nature's brow and sage's book, 
 To learn that highest lore— to look 
 
 With love upon mankind ! 
 
 Field, forest, glen, rock, hill, and stream. 
 
 Green robe and snowy shroud — 
 The calm, the storm, the lightning gleam, 
 
 The sea, the sky. the cloud. — 
 Are volumes the Eternal One 
 
 Hath sent us from above, ■ 
 For every heart to study on 
 And learn to suffer, seek, or shun, 
 
 In charity and love. 
 
 The weak may there be taught to cope. 
 
 The mighty to beware ; 
 The fond to doubt, the slave to hope, 
 
 The tyrant to despair — 
 
 Changing and changeless, that which dies. 
 
 And that no death can mar. 
 Silent and sounding, wild and wise, 
 Before each mood of passion rise 
 
 A beacon, or a bar. 
 
 My son, to these rich volumes oft 
 
 From throngs and streets retire ; 
 So shall thy spirit soar aloft 
 
 From low and base desire. 
 And when thy country, chained or free, 
 
 From city and green sod 
 Arrays the people's majesty. 
 Thy soul, in truth and wisdom, be 
 
 .\ soul that spoke with God. 
 
 JOH.N D. FRAZKR. 
 
 WHAT AILS THE WORLD? 
 
 " What ails the world } " the poet cried ; 
 "And why does death walk everywhere.' 
 And why do tears fall anywhere ? 
 And skies have clouds, and souls have care.'' 
 
 Thus the poet sang, and sighed. 
 
 For he would fain have all things glad, 
 All lives happy, all hearts bright ; 
 Not a day would end in night, 
 Not a wrong would vex a right — 
 
 And so he sang — and he was sad. 
 
 Through his very grandest rhymes 
 
 Moved a mournful monotone — 
 
 Like a shadow eastward thrown 
 
 From a sunset— like a moan 
 Tangled in a joy-bell's chimes. 
 
 " What ails the world .' " he sang and asked — 
 And asked and sang — but all in vain ; 
 No answer came to any strain. 
 And no reply to his refrain — 
 
 The mystery moved 'round him masked. 
 
 " What ails the world .' " An echo i 
 
 " Ails the world .' " The minstrel bands. 
 With famous or forgotten hands. 
 Lift up their lyres in all the lands. 
 
 And chant alike, and ask the same 
 
 From him whose soul first soared in song, 
 A thousand, thousand years away. 
 To him who sang but yesterday. 
 In dying or in deathless lay — 
 
 " What ails the world ? " comes from the throng. 
 
O.V A.V OLD SONG. 
 
 271 
 
 They fain would sing the world to rest ; 
 And so they chant in countless keys, 
 As many as the waves of seas, 
 An-.I as the breathings of the breeze, 
 Yet even when they sing their best- 
 When o'er the listening world there floats 
 Such melody as 'raptures men — 
 When all look up entranced, and when 
 The song of fame floats forth — e'en then 
 A discord creepeth through the notes. 
 
 Their sweetest harps have broken strings. 
 Their grandest accords have their jars. 
 Like shadows on the light of stars ; 
 And somehow, something ever mars 
 
 The songs the greatest minstrel sings. 
 
 And so each song is incomplete. 
 And not a rhyme can ever round 
 Into the chords of perfect sound 
 The tones of thought that e'er surround 
 
 The ways walked by the poet's feet. 
 
 " What ails the world .' " he sings and sighs ; 
 
 No answer cometh to his cry. 
 
 He asks the earth and asks the sky — 
 
 The echoes of his song pass by 
 Unanswered, — and the poet dies. 
 
 ABRAM J. RYAN. 
 
 BROTHER BARTHOLOMEW. 
 
 Brother Bartholomew, working-time. 
 
 Would fall into musing and drop his tools ; 
 
 Brother Bartholomew cared for rhyme 
 More than for theses of the schools ; 
 
 And sighed, and took up his burden so. 
 
 Vowed to the Muses, weal or woe. 
 
 At matins he sat, the book on his knees. 
 But his thoughts were wandering far away 
 
 And chanted the evening litanies. 
 Watching the roseate skies go gray, 
 
 Watching the brightening starry host 
 
 Flame like the tongues at Pentecost. 
 
 "A foolish dreamer, and nothing more ; 
 
 The idlest fellow a cell could hold ; " 
 So murmured the worthy Isidor, 
 
 Prior of ancient Nithiswold ; 
 Yet pitiful, with dispraise content. 
 Signed never the culprit's banishment. 
 
 Meanwhile Bartholomew went his way, 
 And patiently wrote in his sunny cell ; 
 
 His pen fast travelled from day to day; 
 His books were covered ; the walls as well. 
 
 " But O for the monk that I miss instead 
 
 Of this listless rhymer I " the Prior said. 
 
 Bartholomew dying, as mortals must. 
 Not unbeloved of the cowled throng. 
 
 Thereafter, they took from the dark and dust 
 Of shelves and of corners, many a song 
 
 That cried loud, loud to the farthest day, 
 How a bard had arisen — and passed away. 
 
 Wonderful verses ! fair and fine. 
 Rich in the old Greek loveliness ; 
 
 The seer-like vision, half divine ; 
 Pathos and merriment in excess. 
 
 And every perfect stanza told 
 
 Of love and of labor manifold. 
 
 The King came out and stood beside 
 Bartholomew's taper-lighted bier. 
 
 And turning to his lords he sighed: 
 
 " How worn and wearied doth he appear — 
 
 Our noble poet — now he is dead I " 
 
 " O tireless worker ! " the Prior said. 
 
 LOUISE l.MOGEN GUINEY. 
 
 ON AN OLD SONG. 
 
 Little snatch of ancient song. 
 What has made thee live so long? 
 Flying on thy wings of rhyme 
 Lightly down the depths of time, 
 Telling nothing strange or rare. 
 Scarce a thought or image there. 
 Nothing but the old, old tale 
 Of a hapless lover's wail ; 
 Offspring of some idle hour, 
 Whence has come thy lasting power } 
 By what turn of rhythm or phrase. 
 By what subtle, careless grace 
 Can thy music charm our ears 
 After full three hundred years.? 
 
 Little song, since thou wert born 
 In the Reformation morn. 
 How much of great has passed away. 
 Shattered or by slow decay I 
 Stately piles in ruins crumbled, 
 Lordly houses lost or humbled. 
 
POEMS OF MEFLECT/O.W 
 
 Thrones and realms in darkness hurled. 
 
 Noble flags forever furled, 
 
 Wisest schemes by statesmen spun. 
 
 Time has seen them, one by one. 
 
 Like the leaves of autumn fall — 
 
 A little song outlives them all. 
 
 There were mighty scholars then 
 With the slow, laborious pen 
 Piling up their works of learning. 
 Men of solid, deep discerning. 
 Widely famous as they taught 
 Systems of connected thought, 
 Destined for all future ages ; 
 Now the cobweb binds their pages. 
 All unread their volumes lie 
 Mouldering so peaceably, 
 ColTmed thoughts of coffined men; 
 Never more to stir again 
 In the passion and the strife. 
 In the fleeting forms of life ; 
 All their force and meaning gone 
 As the stream of thought flows on. 
 
 Art thou weary, little song. 
 Flying through the world so long? 
 Canst thou on thy fairy pinions 
 Cleave the future's dark dominions 
 And with music soft and clear 
 Charm the yet unfashioned ear. 
 Mingling with the things unborn 
 When perchance another morn 
 Great as that which gave thee birth 
 Dawns upon the changing earth ? 
 It may be so, for all around, 
 With a heavy crashing sound, 
 Like the ice of polar seas 
 Melting in the summer breeze. 
 Signs of change are gathering fast, 
 Nations breaking with their past. 
 
 The pulse of thought is beating quicker, 
 The lamp of faith begins to flicker. 
 The ancient reverence decays 
 With forms and types of other days ; 
 And old beliefs grow faint and few 
 As knowledge moulds the world anew, 
 .A.nd scatters far and wide the seeds 
 Of other hopes and other creeds ; 
 And all in vain we seek to trace 
 The fortunes of the coming race. 
 Some with fear and some with hope. 
 None can cast its horoscope. 
 Vaporous lamp or rising star. 
 Many a light is seen afar. 
 
 And dim, shapeless ligures loom 
 .•\ll around us in the gloom — 
 Forces that may rise and reign 
 .As the old ideals wane. 
 
 Landmarks of the human mind. 
 
 One by one are left behind. 
 
 And a subtle change is wrought 
 
 In the mould and cast of thought. 
 
 Modes of reasoning pass away, 
 
 T>TJcs of beauty lose their sway. 
 
 Creeds and causes that have made 
 
 Many noble lives, must fade ; 
 
 And the words that thrilled of old 
 
 Now seem hueless, dead, and cold 
 
 Fancy's rainbow tints are flying. 
 
 Thoughts, like men, arc slowly dying ; 
 
 All things perish, and the strongest 
 
 Often do not last the longest ; 
 
 The stately ship is seen no more. 
 
 The fragile skiff attains the shore ; 
 
 \nA while the great and wise decay. 
 
 And all their trophies pass away, 
 
 Some sudden thought, some careless rhyme 
 
 Still floats above the wrecks of time. 
 
 WILLIAM K. H. LF.CKEY. 
 
 THE MUSIC MAKERS. 
 
 We are the music makers. 
 
 We are the dreamers of dreams. 
 Wandering by lone sea-breakers. 
 
 And sitting by desolate streams ; — 
 World-losers and world-forsakers. 
 
 On whom the pale moon gleams : 
 Yet we are the movers and shakers 
 
 Of the world forever, it seems. 
 
 With wonderful deathless ditties 
 We build up the world's great cities. 
 And out of a fabulous story 
 We fashion an empire's glory : 
 One man with a dream, at pleasure 
 
 Shall go forth and conquer a crown ; 
 And three with a new song's measure 
 
 Can trample a kingdom down. 
 
 We. in the ages lying 
 
 In the buried past of the earth. 
 Built Nineveh with our sighing. 
 
 And Babel itself in our mirth ; 
 
SAJV SAL VADOR. 
 
 272, 
 
 And o'erthrew them with prophesyiiv.j 
 To the old of the new world's worth ; 
 
 For each age is a dream that is dying. 
 Or one that is coming to birth. 
 
 A breath of our inspiration 
 
 Is the life of our generation ; 
 
 A wondrous thing of our dreaming 
 
 Unearthly, impossible seeming — 
 
 The soldier, the king, and the peasant 
 
 Are working together in one, 
 Till our dream shall become their present, 
 
 And their work in the world be done. 
 
 They had no vision amazing 
 
 Of the goodly house they are raising ; 
 
 They had no divine foreshowing 
 
 Of the land to which they are going : 
 
 But on one man's soul it hath broken. 
 
 A light that doth not depart ; 
 And his look, or a word he hath spoken. 
 
 Wrought flame in another man's heart. 
 
 And therefore to-day is thrilling 
 With a past day's late fulfilling ; 
 And the multitudes are enlisted 
 In the faith that their fathers resisted. 
 And, scorning the dream of to-morrow. 
 
 Are bringing to pass as they may. 
 In the world, for its joy or its sorrow, 
 
 The dream that was scorned yesterday. 
 
 But we, with our dreaming and singing. 
 
 Ceaseless and sorrowless we ! 
 The glory about us clinging 
 
 Of the glorious futures we see. 
 Our souls with high music ringing : 
 
 O men I it must ever be 
 That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, 
 
 A little apart from ye. 
 
 For we are afar with the dawning 
 
 And the suns that are not yet high, 
 And out of the infinite morning 
 
 Intrepid you hear us cry — 
 How, spite of your human scorning, 
 
 Once more God's future draws nigh. 
 And already goes forth the warning 
 
 That ye of the past must die. 
 
 Great hail ! we cry to the comers 
 From the dazzling unknown shore . 
 
 Bring us hither your sun and your summers. 
 And renew our world as of yore ; 
 
 You shall teach us your song's new numbers. 
 And things that we dreamed not before : 
 
 Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers. 
 And a singer who sings no more. 
 
 I.RTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 
 
 SAN SALVADOR. 
 
 A flovv'ry waste, through ages gray. 
 In ocean's lap Columbia lay, 
 Save where its erring people troil 
 As e.xiles from the face of God ; 
 While slowly moved, from place to place, 
 The footsteps of his chosen race. 
 Ere yet arose th' empyrean gem, — 
 The star that led to Bethlehem, — 
 Still kept an angel watch and ward 
 O'er this dominion of the Lord. — 
 Adoremus dc 
 
 Upon the mountains of the land. 
 The angel took his patient stand. 
 And thro' the ages watched and wept, 
 As human passions surged or slept ; 
 For well he knew how human will 
 And pride retard God's mercy still. 
 Yet well he knew that even these 
 Must yield at length to His decrees ; 
 The destined hour might be afar. 
 But mercy steps from star to star. 
 Adoremus dominum ! 
 
 The rolling plains and forests green. 
 Put on or doffed their sylvan sheen ; 
 From mountain chains the rivers rolled. 
 Through azure beds besprent with gold ; 
 From peak to peak the thunder spoke, 
 The mountains felt the lightnnig's stroke; 
 From out the day's or night's repose, 
 The ever-startling war-whoop rose ; — 
 But still the angel, all alone. 
 Sent this refrain to heaven's throne, — 
 Adoremus dominum ! 
 
 'Twas autumn ; and the angel stood 
 
 Gazing afar o'er ocean's flood; 
 
 While twilight died, in purp'ling shades. 
 
 Along the tropic everglades; — 
 
 He saw the rainbow in the sky. 
 
 And knew the destined hour was nigh ; — 
 
274 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 There, as the wearied albatross. 
 He saw afar, the labnng cross 
 Arise, or sink behind tlie wave. 
 And sang to heaven this joyous stave, — 
 Adoremus dominum ! 
 
 Amid the gloom, far out at sea, 
 A frail barque rode ; alternately 
 Her slender mast and trembling spars 
 Went circling through the rising stars; 
 Now, flung athwart, engulfed from sight, 
 Now standing on the waves, aright ;— 
 But gazing, steadfast from her prow. 
 A seaworn man of solemn brow, 
 The symbol'd cross in his right hand,— 
 'Twas thus Columbus sought the land,— 
 Adoremus dominum ! 
 
 The wails of a desponding crew 
 Pierce his heroic bosom through. 
 He points the way the seamew goes, 
 A sign the ocean-wanderer knows ; 
 Still rings that wild rebellious cry,— 
 He points the sea rack drifting by. — 
 The land is near !— O, blessed sign ! 
 He kneels and thanks the Power benign ! 
 Uplifts the croslet on his sword. 
 While rings from all to mercy's Lord, — 
 Adoremus dominum ! 
 
 The morning dawned. — O, heavenly light ! — 
 What isles, what wonders crown his sight !— 
 Pledging both north and southward coasts. 
 An offering to the Lord of Hosts ; 
 He plants his banner on the shore. 
 And names the place San Salvador, — 
 For there salvation's reign began. 
 And there the angel blessed the man, 
 Thence bore to heaven, on spreading wings. 
 Those tidings to the King of Kings, — 
 Adoremus dominum ! 
 
 JOHN BOYLE. 
 
 AVE IMPERATRIX. 
 Set in this stormy Northern sea. 
 
 Queen of these restless fields of tide, 
 England ! what shall men say of thee. 
 
 Before whose feet the worlds divide? 
 
 The earth, a brittle globe of glass, 
 Lies in the hollow of thy hand. 
 
 And through its heart of crystal pass. 
 Like shadows through a twilight land. 
 
 The spears of crimson-suited war. 
 
 The long white crested waves of fight. 
 And all the deadly fires which are 
 
 The torches of the lords of Night. 
 
 The yellow leopards, strained and lean. 
 
 The treacherous Russian knows so well. 
 With gaping blackened jaws are seen 
 
 Leap through the hail of screaming shell. 
 
 The strong sea-lion of England's wars 
 Hath left his sapphire cave of sea. 
 
 To battle with the storm that mars 
 riie star of England's chivalry. 
 
 The brazen throated clarion blows 
 Across the Pathan's reedy fen. 
 I And the high steeps of Indian snows 
 Shake to the tread of armed men. 
 
 And many an Afghan chief, who lies 
 
 Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees, 
 I Clutches his sword in fierce surmise 
 When on the mountain-side he sees 
 
 The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes 
 
 To tell how he hath heard afar 
 The measured roll of English drums 
 
 Beat at the gates of Kandahar. 
 
 For southern wind and east wind meet 
 
 Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire, 
 England with bare and bloody feet 
 I Climbs the steep road of wide empire. 
 
 O lonely Himalayan height, 
 ' Gray pillar of the Indian sky, 
 I Where saw'st thou last in clanging fight. 
 Our winged dogs of Victory.' 
 
 The almond groves of Samarcand, 
 ; Bokhara, where red lilies blow, 
 I And Oxus, by whose yellow sand 
 
 The grave white-turbaned merchants go : 
 
 And on from thence to Ispahan, 
 
 The gilded garden of the sun. 
 Whence the long dusty caravan 
 
 Brings cedar and vermilion ; 
 
 And that dread city of Cabool 
 
 Set at the mountain's scarped feet. 
 Whose marble tanks are ever full 
 
 With water for the noonday heat : 
 Where through the narrow straight Bazaar 
 
 A little maid Circassian 
 Is led, a present from the Czar 
 
 Unto some old and bearded khan, — 
 
' COLUMBUS. 
 
 275 
 
 Here have our wild war-eagles flown, 
 And flapped wide wings in liery fight ; 
 
 But the sad dove, that sits alone 
 In England — she hath no delight. 
 
 In vain the laughing girl will lean 
 To greet her love vi-ith love-lit eyes . 
 
 Down in some treacherous black ravine. 
 Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies. 
 
 And many a moon and sun will see 
 The lingering wistful children wait 
 
 To climb upon their father's knee ; 
 And in each house made desolate. 
 
 Pale women who have lost their lonl 
 
 Will kiss the relics of the slain — 
 .Some tarnished epaulet — some sword — 
 
 Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain. 
 
 For not in quiet English fields 
 
 Are these, our brothers, lain to rest. 
 
 Where we might deck their broken shields 
 With all the flowers the dead love best. 
 
 For some are by the Delhi walls. 
 
 And many in the Afghan land. 
 And many where the Ganges falls 
 
 Through seven mouths of shifting sand. 
 
 And some in Russian waters lie. 
 
 And others in the seas which are 
 The portals to the East, or by 
 
 The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. 
 
 O wandering graves ! O restless sleep ! 
 
 O silence of the sunless day ! 
 O still ravine ! O stormy deep ! 
 
 Give up your prey ! Give up your prey ! 
 
 And thou whose wounds are never healed, 
 
 Whose weary race is never won, 
 O Cromwell's England ! must thou yield 
 
 For every inch of ground a son .'' 
 
 Go ! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head. 
 Change thy glad song to song of pain ; 
 
 Wind and wild wave have got thy dead, 
 And will not yield them back again. 
 
 Wave and wild wind and foreign shore 
 Possess the flower of English land — 
 
 Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more. 
 Hands that shall never clasp thy hand. 
 
 What profit now that we have bound 
 
 The whole round world with nets of gold. 
 
 If hidden in our heart is found 
 The care that groweth never old .' 
 
 What profit that our galleys ride. 
 
 Pine-forest-like, on every main ? 
 Ruin and wreck are at our side. 
 
 Grim warders of the House of pain. 
 
 Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet ? 
 
 Where is our English chivalry? 
 Wild grasses are their burial-sheet, 
 
 And throbbing waves their threnody. 
 
 O loved ones lying far away. 
 
 What word of love can dead lips send ! 
 O wasted dust ! O senseless clay I 
 
 Is this the end ! is this the end I 
 
 Peace, peace I we wrong the noble dead 
 
 To vex their solemn slumber so : 
 Tho' childless, and with thorn-crowned head, 
 
 Up the steep road must England go. 
 
 Yet when this fiery web is spun, 
 Her watchman shall descry from far 
 
 The young Republic like a sun 
 
 Rise from these crimson seas of war. 
 
 OSCAR WILDE. 
 
 COLUMBUS. 
 
 I. 
 
 The crimson sun was sinking down to rest. 
 Pavilioned on the cloudy verge of heaven ; 
 And Ocean, on her gently heaving breast, [even; 
 Caught and flashed back the varying tints of 
 When on a fragment from the tall cliff riven. 
 With folded arms, and doubtful thoughts op- 
 pressed, 
 Columbus sat, till sudden hope was given, — 
 A ray of gladness shooting from the West. 
 Oh. what a glorious vision for mankind 
 Then dawned above the twilight of his mind- 
 Thoughts shadowy still, but indistinctly grand ! 
 There stood his Genius, face to face, and signed 
 (So legends tellj far seaward with her hand,— 
 Till a new world sprang up, and bloomed within 
 her hand. 
 
2jb 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 II. 
 
 He was a man whom danger could not daunt, 
 
 Nor sophistry perplex, nor pain subdue ; 
 
 A stoic, reckless of the world's vain taunt. 
 
 And steeled the path of honor to pursue : 
 
 So. when by all deserted, still he knew 
 
 How best to soothe the heart-sick, or confront 
 
 Sedition, schooled with equal eye to view 
 
 The frowns of grief, and the base pangs of want. 
 
 But when he saw that promised land arise 
 
 In all its rare and bright varieties. 
 
 Lovelier than fondest fancy ever trod ; 
 
 Then softening nature melted in his eyes ; 
 
 He knew his fame was full, and blessed his God. 
 
 And fell upon his face, and kissed the virgin sod. 
 
 III. 
 
 Beautiful realm beyond the western main. 
 That hymns thee ever with resounding wave ! 
 Thine is the glorious sun's peculiar reign. 
 Fruit, flowers, and gems in rich mosaic pave 
 Thy paths ; like giant altars o'er the plain 
 Thy mountains blaze, loud thundering, 'mid the 
 
 rave 
 Of mighty streams that shoreward rush amain. 
 Like Polypheme from his ^ttnean cave. 
 Joy, joy for Spain ! a seaman's hand confers 
 These glorious gifts, and half the world is hers ! 
 But where is he— that light whose radiance glows 
 The loadstar of succeeding mariners ? 
 Behold him ! crushed beneath o'ermastering 
 
 woes, — 
 Hopeless, heart-broken, chained, abandoned to 
 
 his foes ! 
 
 AUBRKV DE VERE. 
 
 MAN'S MORTALITY.* 
 
 Like a damask rose you see. 
 
 Or like blossom on a tree. 
 
 Or like a dainty flower in May, 
 
 Or like the morning to the day. 
 
 Or like the sun. or like the shade. 
 
 Or like the gourd which Jonas had- 
 
 * The original of this poem is said to have been found in an 
 ancient Irish MS. in Trinity College, Dublin, and the trans- 
 lation is ascribed to the eminent Celtic scholar. Dr. O'Oono- 
 van. It is proper to s.iy, however, that a poem identical with 
 Its 6rst and second stanzas appears in some old collections, 
 credited to Simon Wastell, an English writer of the .Sixteenth 
 
 Even such is man, whose thread is spun. 
 Drawn out and out, and so is done. 
 
 The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, 
 
 The flower fades, the morning hasteth. 
 
 The sun sets, the shadow flies. 
 
 The gourd consumes ; the man— he dies. 
 
 ■ Like the grass that's newly sprung, 
 I Or like the tale that's new begun. 
 ! Or like the bird that's here to-day. 
 Or like the pearled dew in May, 
 Or like an hour, or like a span. 
 Or like the singing of the swan — 
 Even such is man, who lives by breath. 
 Is here, now there, in life and death. 
 The grass withers, the life is ended, 
 The bird is flown, the dew's ascended. 
 The hour is short, the span not long. 
 The swan's near death— man's life is done. 
 
 Like the bubble in the brook. 
 
 Or in a glass much like a look. 
 
 Or like the shuttle in weaver's hand. 
 
 Or like the writing on the sand. 
 
 Or like a thought, or like a dream. 
 
 Or like the gliding of the stream — 
 
 Even such is man. who lives by breath, 
 
 Is here, now there, in life and death. 
 The bubble's out, the look forgot. 
 The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot. 
 The thought is past, the dream is gone. 
 The waters glide — man's life is done. 
 
 Like an arrow from the bow. 
 
 Or like the swift course of water flow. 
 
 Or like the time 'twixt flood and ebb 
 
 Or like a spider's tender web. 
 
 Or like a race, or like a goal. 
 
 Or like the dealing of a dole — 
 
 Even such is man. whose brittle state 
 
 Is always subject unto fate. 
 
 The arrow's shot, the flood soon spent. 
 The time no time, the web soon rent. 
 The race soon run, the goal soon won. 
 The dole soon dealt — man's life soon done. 
 
 Like to the lightning from the .sky. 
 Or like a post that quick doth hie. 
 Or like a quaver in a song. 
 Or like a journey three days long. 
 Or like snow when summer's come. 
 Or like a pear, or like a plum — 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 2/7 
 
 Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow, 
 Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow. 
 The lightning's past, the post must go. 
 The song is short, the journey so. 
 The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall. 
 The snow dissolves, and so must all. 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 MORTALITY. 
 
 Oh, thou wreck of a form once divine. 
 Stranded here on the shore of life's sea, 
 
 What emotions awake in his breast 
 Who pauses to contemplate thee ! 
 
 Where now is that pilot, thy Soul, 
 
 On life's voyage thy guard from each snare ? 
 Is he safe in the haven of Peace. 
 
 Or engulfed in the depths of Despair .' 
 
 When the storm that o'erwhelmed thee arose. 
 At the will of the all-ruling Power, 
 
 And swift came the tempest of death 
 
 Wert thou ready to meet that dread hour ? 
 
 Didst thou strive in the cause that was just. 
 With the vigor and ardor of youth .' 
 
 With honor thy helm, didst thou steer 
 Ever on towards the beacon of truth } 
 
 Didst thou scorn what was selfish and base ? 
 
 Didst thou fight for the true and the right .>- 
 Oh, if it were thus, then again 
 
 Shalt thou float on the Rivers of Light! 
 
 Once, perchance, from this grim hollow skull, 
 In the pride of thy swift-speeding days. 
 
 Shone the flame of an intellect, bright 
 With the purest, serenest of rays. 
 
 Once, with graces of form and of mind. 
 It may be thou wert dear to some heart ; 
 
 But now, in thy mouldering decay. 
 How dread, how repulsive thou art ! 
 
 Ah. to thee let the vain beauty come. 
 And the miser who toils but for gold, 
 
 To again read that sermon, so trite 
 To the ear — to the heart never old ! 
 
 Oh, thou wreck of a form once divine. 
 
 Stranded here on the shore of life's sea, 
 What a lesson thou teachest to him 
 
 Who pauses to contemplate thee ! 
 
 MARTIN J. FLEMING. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
 Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring- 
 swain. 
 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid. 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms delay 'd ; 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease. 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 
 How often have I loitered o'er thy g^een. 
 Where humble happiness endeared each scene ; 
 How often ha\-e I paused on every charm. 
 The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill, [hill, 
 
 The decent church, that topp'd the neighboring 
 The hawthorn-bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
 For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made ! 
 How often have I blest the coming day 
 When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play, 
 And all the village train, from labor free. 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree. 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 The young contendmg as the old survey'd : 
 And many a gambol frolic'd o'er the ground, 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went 
 
 round; 
 And still as each repeated pleasure tired, 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd : 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown. 
 By holding out, to tire each other down ; 
 The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face. 
 While secret laughter titter'd round the place; 
 The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love. 
 The matron's glance that would those looks 
 reprove ; — [like these, 
 
 These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports 
 With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
 These round thy bowers their cheerful influence 
 shed, — [are fled ! 
 
 These were thy charms — but all these charms 
 
 Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn. 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with- 
 drawn ; 
 Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen. 
 And desolation saddens all thy green : 
 One only master grasps the whole domain, 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
 But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
 Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries; 
 
2 78 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECJioy. 
 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
 And the long grass oertops the mould ring wall ; 
 And, trembling, shrinking from a tyrant's hand, 
 Far, far away thy children leave the land. 
 Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 
 Where wealth accumulates and men decay ; 
 Princes or lords may llourish or may fade, 
 A breath can make them as a breath has made ; 
 But a bold peasantry, their county's pride. 
 If once destroy 'd can never be supplied. 
 
 A time there was, ere England's griefs began. 
 When every rood of ground maintain'd its man ; 
 For him light labor spread her wholesome store. 
 Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
 His best companions, innocence and health. 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train 
 Usurp the land and dispossess the swain ; 
 Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose. 
 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; 
 And every want to luxury allied. 
 And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
 Those gentle hours that plenty made to bloom. 
 Those calm desires that asked but little room, 
 Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful 
 
 scene. 
 Lived in each look and brighten'd all the green ; 
 These, far departing, seek a kindlier shore. 
 And rural mirth and manners are no more. 
 
 Sweet Auburn I parent of the blissful hour, 
 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power; 
 Here, as I take my solitary rounds. 
 Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, 
 And, many a year elaps'd, return to view 
 Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
 Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. 
 Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 
 In all my wanderings found this world of care. 
 In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
 I still had hopes my latest hours to crown. 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
 To husband out life's taper at the close. 
 And keep the llame from wasting by repose ; 
 I still had hopes— for pride attends us still- 
 Amidst the swains to show my book-Icarncd skill, 
 AroanJ mv lire an evening group to dr;iw. 
 And tell of all I felt and all I saw ; 
 And. as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue. 
 Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, 
 1 still had hopes, my long vexations past. 
 Here to return — and die at home at last. 
 
 O blest retirement, friend to life's declme. 
 Retreats from care, that never must be mine. 
 How blest is he who crowns in shades like these 
 A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try; 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly. 
 For him no wretches, bom to work and weep. 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep ; 
 No surly poster stands in guilty state. 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate. 
 But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
 .\ngels around befriending Virtue's friend ; 
 Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, 
 W'liile resignation gently slopes the way; 
 .\nd all his prospects bright'ning to the last. 
 His heaven commences ere the world be past. 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close. 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
 There, as I passed with careless steps and slow. 
 The mingling notes come soften'd from below ; 
 [ The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
 1 The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; 
 I The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the f)ool. 
 The playful children just let loose from school ; 
 The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring 
 
 wind. 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, — 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
 And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
 But now the sounds of population fail. 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale. 
 No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread. 
 But all the bloomy flush of life is dead. 
 All but yon widow'd, solitary thing. 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring. 
 She, wretched matron, forc'd in age, for bread. 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread. 
 To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn. 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 
 She only left off all the harmless train. 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, 
 And still where many a garden-flower grows 
 
 wild ; [close, 
 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place dis- 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear. 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
 Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his 
 
 place ; 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 79 
 
 Unskilful \\z to fawn, or seek for power, 
 liy doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 
 Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, — 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to riie, 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
 He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain ; 
 The long- remember'd beggar was his guest, 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast. 
 The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims al- 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, [low'd; 
 Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away; 
 Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 
 Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields 
 were won. [glow ; 
 
 Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. 
 And e'en his failings lean'd to Virtue's side; 
 But in his duty prompt at every call. 
 He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all; 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
 To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies. 
 He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, 
 Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd. 
 The rev'rend champion stood. At his control. 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to 
 
 raise. 
 And his last fait 'ring accents whisper'd praise. 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
 His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway. 
 And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man. 
 With steady zeal each honest rustic ran ; 
 E'en children follow'd with endearing wile. 
 And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's 
 
 smile. 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd. 
 Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares dis- 
 tress 'd ; 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
 As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the 
 storm, [spread. 
 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way. 
 With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay. 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
 The \-illage master taught his little school ; 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew; 
 Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face; 
 Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper circling round, 
 Convey 'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd ; 
 Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught. 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
 The village all declar'd how much he knew, 
 'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too , 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. 
 And e'en the story ran that he could gauge ; 
 In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill. 
 For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; 
 While w-ords of learned length, and thund'ring 
 
 sound, 
 Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around. 
 And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew. 
 That one small head could carry all he knew. 
 But past is all his fame. The very spot 
 Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot. 
 
 Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high. 
 Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. 
 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts 
 inspir'd, 
 
 I Where grey-beard mirth, and smiling toil retir'd ; 
 
 1 Where village statesmen talk'd with looks pro- 
 
 I found. 
 
 And news much older than their ale went round. 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
 The parlor splendors of that festive place ; 
 The white-washed wall, the nicely-sanded floor. 
 The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; 
 The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 
 The pictures plac'd for ornament and use. 
 The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
 The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day. 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay. 
 While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
 
 I Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten 'd in a row. 
 Vain transitory splendors ! could not all 
 Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall ! 
 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
 
 j An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
 
 I Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
 
28o 
 
 J'OEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
 No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. 
 Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear; 
 The host himself no longer shall be found 
 Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
 Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 
 
 Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 
 These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art; 
 Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play. 
 The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
 Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
 Unenvy'd, unmolested, unconlin'd. 
 But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
 With all the freaks of wanton wealth array 'd. 
 In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain. 
 The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
 And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy. 
 The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy .' 
 
 Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
 The rich man's joy increase, the poor's decay, 
 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the Hmits stand 
 Between a splendid and a happy land. 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. 
 And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
 Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound. 
 And rich men (lock from all the world around. 
 Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
 That leaves our useful products still the same. 
 Not so the loss. This man of wealth and pride 
 Takes up a space that many poor supply 'd ; 
 Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
 Space for his horses, equipage and hounds ; 
 The robe that wrajis his limbs in silken sloth, 
 Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their 
 
 growth ; 
 His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green : 
 Around the world each needful product flies, 
 For all the luxuries the worid supplies. 
 While thus the land s adorn'd for pleasure, all 
 In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. 
 
 As some fair female unadorn'd and plain. 
 Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
 Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies. 
 Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
 But when those charms are past, for charms are 
 frail. 
 
 When time advances, and when lovers fail. 
 
 She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. 
 
 In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
 
 Thus fares the land by luxury betray 'd ; 
 
 In nature's simplest charms at first array 'd. 
 
 But verging to decline, its splendors rise 
 
 Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
 
 While scourged by famine from the smiling land. 
 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
 
 And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
 
 The country blooms— a garden and a grave. 
 
 Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside. 
 To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
 If to some common's fenceless limits stray 'd 
 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
 Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
 .And e'en the bare-worn common is deny'd. 
 If to the city sped— What waits him there? 
 To see profusion that he must not share ; 
 To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
 To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
 ■fo see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
 F.xtorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
 Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade. 
 There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
 Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps 
 
 display. 
 There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
 The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight 
 
 reign. 
 Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train; 
 Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square. 
 The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
 Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
 Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
 
 Are these thy serious thoughts ?— Ah, turn thine 
 
 eyes 
 Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies. 
 She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distresl : 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn. 
 Now lost to all : her friends, her virtue fled. 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, , 
 
 And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the 
 
 shower. 
 With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour. 
 When idly first, ambitious of the town. 
 She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 
 Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, 
 Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
 At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 
 
 Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
 Where half the convex world intrudes between. 
 Through torrid tracks with fainting steps they go, 
 Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
 Far different there from all that charmed before, 
 The various terrors of that horrid shore : 
 Those blazing suns that dart a downward rav. 
 And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
 Those matted woods where birds forget to sing. 
 But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
 Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance 
 
 crown'd, 
 Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
 Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
 The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
 Where crouching tigers wail their hapless prey. 
 And savage men more murd'rous still than they ; 
 While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 
 Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. 
 Far different these from every former scene, 
 The cooling brook, the grassy vested green. 
 The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
 That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 
 
 Good heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that part- 
 ing day 
 That called them from their native walks away ; 
 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, [last, 
 Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their 
 And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
 For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
 And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, 
 Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. 
 The good old sire, the first prepar'd to go 
 To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; 
 But for himself in conscious virtue brave. 
 He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
 -His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
 The fond companion of his helpless years. 
 Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 
 And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
 With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes 
 And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
 And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear. 
 And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 
 Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
 In all the silent manliness of grief. 
 
 O luxury ! thou curst by heaven's decree. 
 How ill-exchang'd are things like these for thee I 
 How do thy potions with insidious joy. 
 Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
 
 Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown. 
 
 Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 
 
 At every draught more large and large they grow, 
 
 A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
 
 Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, 
 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 
 
 E'en now the devastation is begun. 
 And half the business of destruction done ; 
 E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, 
 I see the rural virtues leave the land. [sail, 
 
 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the 
 That idly waiting flaps with every gale. 
 Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
 Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
 Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
 .A.nd kind connubial tenderness are there ; 
 And piety, with wishes plac'd above. 
 And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
 -Vnd thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid. 
 Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
 Unfit in these degenerate times of shame. 
 To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 
 Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd. 
 My shame in crowds, my solitary pride. 
 Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe. 
 That found'st me poor at first and keep'st me so; 
 Thou guide by which the noble arts excel. 
 Thou muse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
 Farewell ! and O ! where'er thy voice be tried. 
 On Torno's cliffs, or Pambarnarca's side. 
 Whether where equinoxial fervors glow, 
 <3r winter wraps the Polar world in snow. 
 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. 
 Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime; 
 Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
 Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
 Teach him that states, of native strength possest. 
 Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
 As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away ; 
 While self-dependent power can time defy. 
 As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 THE TRAVELLER ; 
 
 OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 
 
 Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow. 
 Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ; 
 Or onward, where the rude Corinthian boor 
 Against the homeless stranger shuts the door ; 
 Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
 A weary waste expanding to the skies ; — 
 
POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see. 
 My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee : 
 Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain. 
 And drajjs at each remove a lengthening chain. 
 
 Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
 And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ; 
 niest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
 To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ! 
 Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
 .And every stranger finds a ready chair ! 
 IJlest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned. 
 Where all the ruddy family around 
 Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail. 
 Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
 Or press the bashful stranger to his food. 
 And learn the luxury of doing good I 
 
 But me, not destined such delights to share. 
 My prime of life in wandering spent, and care, 
 Compelled, with steps unceasir.g, to pursue 
 Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view; 
 That like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
 Allures from far. yet, as I follow, flies; 
 My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,- 
 And find no spot of all the world my own. 
 ii'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
 I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
 And, placed on high, above the storm's career. 
 Look downward where a hundred realms appear; 
 Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide. 
 The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 
 
 When thus creation's charms around combine. 
 Amidst the store should thankless pride repine.' 
 Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
 That good which makes each humbler bosom 
 
 vain ? 
 Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can. 
 These little things are great to little man ; 
 And wiser he whose sympathetic mind 
 Exults in all the good of all mankind, [crowned, 
 Ye glittering towns with wealth and splendor 
 Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
 Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
 Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale; 
 For me your tributary stores combine : 
 Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine ! 
 
 As some lone miser, visiting his store. 
 Bends at his treasure, counts, recoimts it o'er ; 
 Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill. 
 Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still ; 
 Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, [plies; 
 Pleased with each good that Heaven to man sup- 
 
 Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
 I To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
 i And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find 
 Some spot to real happiness consigned, 
 Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest. 
 May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 
 
 But where to find that happiest spot below. 
 Who can direct, when all pretend to know? 
 The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
 Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
 Extols the treasures of his stormy seas. 
 And his long nights of revelry and ease ; 
 j The naked negro, panting at the line, 
 1 Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine. 
 Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave. 
 And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
 Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam. 
 His first, best country, ever is at home. 
 And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare. 
 And estimate the blessings which they share. 
 Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
 An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
 As different good, by art or nature given. 
 To different nations makes their blessing even. 
 
 Nature, a mother kind alike to all. 
 
 Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call ; 
 , With food as well the peasant is supplied 
 I On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 
 
 And though the rocky-crested summits frown, 
 ' These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. 
 
 From art more various are the blessings sent ; 
 
 Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content. 
 I Yet these each other's power so strong contest, 
 j That either seeins destructive of the rest, [fails ; 
 
 Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment 
 
 And honor sinks where commerce long prevails ; 
 I Hence every state to one loved blessing prone, 
 j Conforms and models life to that alone. 
 ] Each to the favorite happiness attends. 
 
 And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; 
 I 'Till carried to e.xcess in each domain. 
 i This favorite good begets peculiar pain. 
 
 I But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
 And trace them through the prospect as it lies; 
 Here for a while my proper cares resigned. 
 Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
 Like yon neglected shrub at random cast, 
 
 j That shades the deep, and sighs at every blast. 
 
 Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, 
 : Bright as the summer, Italy extends, 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 28; 
 
 Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side. 
 Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; 
 While oft some temple's mould 'ring tops between 
 With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 
 Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast. 
 The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
 Whatever fruits in different climes were found. 
 That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
 Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear. 
 Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
 Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
 With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
 These here disporting own the kindred soil, 
 Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
 While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 
 To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 
 
 But small the bliss that sense alone bestows. 
 
 And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
 
 In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
 
 Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
 
 Contrasted faults through all his manners reign; 
 
 Tho' poor, luxurious ; tho' submissive, vain ; 
 
 The' grave, yet trifiing; zealous, yet untrue; 
 
 And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 
 
 All evils here contaminate the mind, 
 
 That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
 
 For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date. 
 
 When commerce proudly flourished through tlie 
 
 state ; 
 At her command the palace learnt to rise. 
 Again the long-fallen column sought the skies ; 
 The canvas glowed beyond e'en Nature warm. 
 The pregnant quarry teemed with human form, 
 Till, more unsteady than the southern gale. 
 Commerce on other shores displayed her sail ; 
 While nought remain'd of all that riches gave, 
 But towns unmanned, and lords without a slave : 
 And late the nation found with fruitless skill 
 Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 
 
 Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
 By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; 
 From these the feeble heart and long-fallen 
 An easy compensation seem to find. [mind 
 
 Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayed. 
 The paste-board triumph and the cavalcade ; 
 Processions formed for piety and love, 
 A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
 By sports like these are all their cares beguiled. 
 
 I The sports of children satisfy the child ; 
 
 j Each nobler aim, represt by long control. 
 Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
 
 While low delights succeeding fast behind. 
 In happier meanness occupy the mind : [sway. 
 As in those domes, where Cicsars once bore 
 Defaced by time and tottering in decay, 
 There in the ruin, heedless of the dead. 
 The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed : 
 And, wondering man could want the larger pile. 
 Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 
 
 My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey 
 Where rougher climes a nobler race display. 
 Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion 
 
 tread. 
 And force a churlish soil for scanty bread ; 
 No product here the barren hills afford. 
 But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. 
 No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array. 
 But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 
 No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast. 
 But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
 Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm. 
 Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
 Tho' poor the peasant's hut, his feasts tho' small, 
 He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
 Sees no contiguous palace rear its head 
 To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
 No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal 
 To make him loath his vegetable meal : 
 But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil. 
 Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
 Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose. 
 Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 
 With patient angle trolls the tinny deep, [steep ; 
 Or drives his venturous plough-share to the 
 Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the 
 And drags the struggling savage into day. [way, 
 At night returning, every labor sped. 
 He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
 Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 
 His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; 
 While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard. 
 Displays her cleanly platter on the board : 
 ' And haply, too, some pilgrim, thither led. 
 With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 
 Thus every good his native wilds impart. 
 Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
 And e'en those ills, that round his mansion rise. 
 Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
 Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms. 
 And dear that hill which lifts him to the .storms; 
 And as a child, when scaring sounds molest. 
 Clings close and closer to the mother's breast. 
 So the loud torrent, and the whiriwind's roar. 
 But bind him to his native mountains more. 
 
.-.S4 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 Such are the charms to barren states assigned ; 
 Their wants but few, their wishes all conlined. 
 Yet let them only share the praises due, 
 If few their wants, their pleasures are but few; 
 For ever)' want that stimulates the breast. 
 Dccomes a source of pleasure when redrest ; 
 Hence from such lands each pleasing science 
 
 flies. 
 That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
 Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy. 
 To till the languid |)ause with finer joy ; | flame, 
 Unknown those powers that raise the soul to 
 Catch every nerve, and vibrate thro' the frame. 
 Their level life is but a mouldering fire, 
 Unquenched by want, unfanned by strong desire ; 
 Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
 On some high festival of once a year, 
 In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
 Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 
 
 But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow : 
 Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low. 
 For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
 Unaltered, unimproved the manners run : 
 And love's and friendship's finely pointed d.irt 
 Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
 Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
 May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest ; 
 But all the gentler morals, such as play [way, 
 Thro' life's more cultured walks, and charm the 
 These, far dispersed on timorous pinions fly. 
 To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 
 
 To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
 I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. 
 Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
 Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can 
 
 please. 
 How often have I led thy sportive choir. 
 With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire.' 
 Where shading elms along the margin grew. 
 And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew; 
 And haply, tho' my harsh touch faltering still. 
 But mocked all tune, and marred the dancer's 
 
 skill ; 
 Yet would the village praise my wondrous ])ower. 
 And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. 
 Alike all ages ; dames of ancient days 
 Have led their children thro' the mirthful maze. 
 And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore. 
 Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore. 
 
 So blest a life these thoughtless realms display. 
 Thus idly busy rolls their world away ; 
 
 Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear. 
 For honor forms the social temper here. 
 Honor, that praise which real merit gains. 
 Or e'en imaginary worth obtains. 
 Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, 
 It shifts in splendid traflic round the land ; 
 From courts to camp«, to cottages it strays. 
 And all are taught an avarice of praise ; 
 They plea.se, are pleased, they give to get esteem 
 Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem 
 
 But while this softer art their bliss supplies. 
 It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
 For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought. 
 Enfeebles all internal strength of thought. 
 And the weak soul, within itself unblest. 
 Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
 Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art. 
 Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; 
 Here vanity assumes her pert grimace. 
 And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; 
 Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
 To boast one splendid banquet once a year ; 
 The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws 
 Nor weighs the solid worth of self applause. 
 
 To men of other minds my fancy flies. 
 Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies. 
 Methinks her patient sons before me stand. 
 Where the broad ocean leans against the land. 
 And sedulous to stop the coming tide. 
 Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
 Onward methinks. and diligently slow. 
 The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; 
 Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar. 
 Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. 
 While the pent ocean rising o'er the pile. 
 Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
 The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale. 
 The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail. 
 The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
 A new creation rescued from his reign. 
 
 Thus while around the wave-subjected soil 
 Impels the native to repeated toil. 
 Industrious habits in each bosom reign. 
 And industry begets a love of gain. 
 Hence all the good from opulence that springs. 
 With all those ills superfluous treasure brings. 
 Are here displayed. Their much-lov'd wealth im- 
 Convenience, plenty, elegance and arts ; [parts 
 But view them closer, craft and fraud appear. 
 E'en liberty itself is bartered here. 
 
THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 285 
 
 At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 
 The needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; 
 A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves. 
 Here wretches seek dishonorable graves, 
 And calmly bent, to servitude conform. 
 Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 
 Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old ! 
 Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; 
 War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; 
 How much unlike the sons of Britain now, 
 
 Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing 
 And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 
 Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride. 
 And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide ; 
 There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
 There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
 Creation's mildest charms are there combined, 
 Extremes are only in the master's mind ! 
 Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state 
 With daring aims irregularly great ; 
 Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
 I see the lords of human kind pass by ; 
 Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band. 
 By forms unfashioned, fresh from Nature's hand. 
 Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 
 True to imagined right above control, — [scan. 
 While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to 
 And learns to venerate himself as man. 
 
 Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here; 
 Thine are thooe charms that dazzle and endear : 
 Too blest indeed were such without alloy ; 
 But, fostered e'en by freedom, ills annoy; 
 That independence Britons prize too high. 
 Keeps man from man. and breaks the social tie ; 
 The self-dependent lordlings stand alone. 
 All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown; 
 Here by the bonds of nature feebly held. 
 Minds combat minds, repelling and repelled ; 
 Ferments arise, imprisoned factions roar. 
 Repressed ambition struggles round her shore. 
 Till overwrought, the general system feels 
 Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 
 
 Nor this the worst : as nation's ties decay. 
 As duty, love and honor fail to sway. 
 Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law. 
 Stilt gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
 Hence all obedience bows to these alone. 
 And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
 The time may come when, stripped of all her 
 
 charms. 
 The land of scholars and the nurse nf arms. 
 
 Where nobler stems transmit the patriot flame, 
 Where kings have toiled, and poets wrote for 
 One sink of level avarice shall lie, [fame. 
 
 And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonored die. 
 
 Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, 
 I mean to flatter kings or court the great ; 
 Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire. 
 Far from my bosom drive the low desire I 
 And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
 The rabble's rage and tyrant's angry steel ; 
 Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
 By proud contempt, or favor's fostering sun, — 
 Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure ! 
 I only would repress them to secure. 
 For just experience tells, in every soil, 
 That those that think must govern those that toil ; 
 And all that freedom's highest aims can reach 
 Is but to lay proportioned loads on each ; 
 Hence, should one order disproportioned grow. 
 Its double weight must ruin all below. 
 
 Oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires. 
 Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
 Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
 E.xcept when fast-approaching danger warms ; 
 But when contending chiefs blockade the throne. 
 Contracting regal powers to stretch their own ; 
 When I behold a factious band agree 
 To call it freedom when themselves are free. 
 Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw. 
 Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law. 
 The wealth of climes where savage nations roam 
 Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home,— 
 Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start. 
 Tear off reserve and bare my swelling heart. 
 Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
 I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 
 
 Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour 
 
 When first ambition struck at regal power ; 
 
 And thus, polluting honor at its source, 
 
 Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
 
 Have we not seen, round Britaifi's peopled shore. 
 
 Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore .' 
 
 Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste. 
 
 Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste } 
 
 Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain. 
 
 Lead stern depopulation in her train. 
 
 And over fields where scattered hamlets rose 
 
 In barren, solitary pomp repose } 
 
 Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, 
 
 The smiling, oft frequented village fall .? 
 
286 
 
 POEMS OF REFLECTION. 
 
 Beheld the duteous son, the sire decayed, 
 Tne modest matron, and the blushing maid. 
 Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, 
 To traverse climes beyond the western main. 
 Where wild Oswego spreads her swamp around. 
 I And Niagara stuns with thundering sound ? 
 E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
 Thro' tangled forests and thro' dangerous ways, 
 Where beasts with man divided empire claim. 
 And the brown Indian marks with murd'rousaim: 
 There, while around the giddy tempest flies. 
 And all around distressful yells arise. 
 The pensive exile, bending with his woe. 
 To stop too fearful, and too faint to go. 
 Casts a long look where England's glories shine. 
 And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. 
 Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
 That bliss which only centres in the mind ; 
 Why have I strayed from pleasures and repose. 
 To seek a good each government bestows .' 
 In every government, though terrors reign. 
 Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, 
 How small, of all that hu:nan hearts endure. 
 That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ' 
 Still to ourselves in every place consigned. 
 Our own felicity we make or find ; 
 With secret force which no loud storms annoy 
 Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
 The lifted axe. the agonizing wheel. 
 Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel. 
 To men remote from power but rarely known. 
 Leave reason, faith, and conscience ail our own 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Like an ill- judging beauty, his colors he spread. 
 And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 
 On the suge he was natural, simple, affecting; 
 'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting. 
 With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
 He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day ; 
 Tho' secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick, 
 If they were not his own by finessing and trick ; 
 He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack. 
 For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle 
 them back. [came. 
 
 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what 
 And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame ; 
 Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease. 
 Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. 
 But let us be candid, and speak out our mind. 
 If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
 
 OLIVER GOLIJSMITII 
 — From ** Rttaiiation.'* 
 
 ON BURKE. 
 
 ON GARRICK. 
 Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, 
 An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; 
 As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; 
 As a wit, if not first, in the very first line; 
 Yet. with talents like these, and an excellent 
 
 heart. 
 The man had his failings ;— a diiptf to his art. 
 
 Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was 
 
 such 
 We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much ; 
 Who. born for the universe, narrowed his mind. 
 And to party gave up what was meant for man- 
 kind ; [his throat 
 Though fraught with all learning, yet straining 
 To persuade Tommy Townshend * to lend him 
 a vote; [refining; 
 Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on 
 And thought of convincing while they thought 
 
 of dining ; 
 Though equal to all things, for all things unfit. 
 Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 
 For a patriot too cool, for a drudge disobedient. 
 And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient ; 
 In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed or in place, 
 
 sir. 
 To eat mutton cold, and split blocks with a razor. 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 — From ** Retaliation.^* 
 
 * I-ord Sydney. 
 
PART V. 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 Do you remember all the sunny places, 
 
 Where in bright days long past we played together .- 
 Do you remember all the old home faces 
 
 That gathered round the hearth in wintry weather ? 
 Do you remember all the happy meetings 
 
 In summer evenings round the open door — 
 Kind looks, kind hearts, kind words and tender greetings 
 
 And clasping hands whose pulsings beat no more ? 
 Do you remember them ? 
 
 Do you remember when we first departed 
 
 From all the old companions who were round us, 
 How very soon again we grew light-hearted. 
 
 And talked with smiles of all the links which bound us? 
 And after, when our footsteps were returning. 
 
 With unfelt weariness, o'er hill and plain. 
 How our young hearts kept boiling up, and burning. 
 
 To think how soon we'd be at home again ? 
 Do you remember this ? 
 
 Do you remember how the dreams of glory 
 
 Kept fading from us like a fairy treasure ; 
 How we thought less of being famed in story. 
 
 And more of those to whom our fame gave pleasure .' 
 Do you remember in far countries weeping 
 
 When a light breeze, a flower, hath brought tominil 
 OKI happy thoughts which till that hour were sleeping. 
 
 And made us yearn for those we left behind ? 
 Do you remember this? 
 
 CAROLINE E. NORTON. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT and RETROSPECTION, 
 
 THE RUBY RING. 
 
 Dear brother, when the listless pen 
 
 Sways idly in my wearied lingers, 
 And round my throbbing heart and brain 
 
 No ray of brighter fancy lingers, 
 I catch the sparkle of the stone 
 
 That speaks of friendship undecaying. 
 And straight the clouds aside are thrown— 
 
 A fresher light is round me playing. 
 
 They say that talismans of old 
 
 Protected from all hidden dangers 
 That spirits lay within the gold, 
 
 At once protectors and avengers. 
 The ring you gave, like these, may prove 
 
 The bane of grief, the source of pleasure ; 
 For all is pleasing that can move 
 
 Remembrance of an absent treasure. 
 
 Like friendship's fire, the brilliant toy. 
 
 Deep set in memory's golden circle. 
 Throws back the ruddy beam of joy, 
 
 And in the dullest night will sparkle. 
 The ring, like memory — endless both— 
 
 Its warmth from out my heart is getting. 
 And, like myself, of foreign growth. 
 
 Rejoices in a Yankee setting. 
 
 My muse— a v^'oman, and you know 
 
 The female heart inclines to jewels — 
 Whene'er she wants " full speed " to go. 
 
 Her engine at the ruby fuels. 
 The pistons of alternate rhyme 
 
 Move up and down with steady motion ; 
 The train of thought, defying time. 
 
 Speeds on tlirough earth, and air, and ocean. 
 
 The Koh-i-noor in Bntain's crown 
 Is India's blood-mark set upon her ; 
 
 The sapphire clasp of beauty's gown 
 Perchance was purchased by dishonor. 
 
 The miser's gold is dim with tears. 
 
 And rusted thick vyith cent, per centage ; 
 
 My ring, then, clearly it appears, 
 O'er these can claim immense advantage. 
 
 The lips, by Cyprian Venus planned, 
 
 Convey love's telegraphic greeting. 
 But friendship meets us hand to hand. 
 
 To feel how cither's pulse is beating. 
 And on ttiat hand this ring I hold. 
 
 As prized as talisman by dervis, 
 And may that hand be proud and cold 
 
 When 'tis not warmly at thy service. 
 
 LIFE'S YOUNG DAY. 
 
 When filled with thoughts of life's young day. 
 Alone in distant climes we roam. 
 
 And year on year has rolled away. 
 Since last we viewed our island home, 
 
 O then, at evening's silent hour. 
 
 In chamber lone or moonlit bower, 
 I How sad on memory's listening ear 
 i Come long lost voices sounding near 
 ' Like the wild chime of village bells 
 
 Heard far away in mountain dells. 
 
 But, oh ! for him let kind hearts grieve, 
 I His term of youth and e.xile o'er. 
 Who sees in life's declining eve, 
 I With altered eyes, his native shore ! 
 With aching heart and weary brain, 
 Who treads those lonesome scenes again. 
 And backward views the sunny hours 
 When first he knew those ruined bowers. 
 And hears in every passing gale 
 Some best affection's dying wail. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 O say what spell of power serene 
 
 Can clicer that liour of sharpest pain. 
 And turn to peace the anguish keen 
 
 That deeplier wounds because 'tis vain? 
 "Tis not the thought of glory won. 
 Of hoarded gold or pleasures gone. 
 Hut one bright course, from earliest youth, 
 t)f changeless faith, unbroken truth;— 
 These turn to gold the vapors dun 
 That close on life's descending sun. 
 
 UKRALU gkikhn 
 
 BEAUTIFUL HANDS. 
 
 O, your hands they are strangely fair! 
 Fair for the jewels that sparkle there — 
 I'air for the witchery of the spell 
 That ivory keys alone can tell ; 
 Hut when their delicate touches rest 
 Here in my verse do I love them best ; 
 And 1 clasp with eager acquisitive spans 
 My glorious treasure of beautiful hands.' 
 
 Marvellous — wonderful — beautiful hands ; 
 They can coax roses to bloom in the strands 
 Of your brown tresses ; and ribbons will twine, 
 Under mysterious touches of thine, 
 Into such knots as entangle the soul, 
 And fetter the heart under such a control 
 As only the strength of my love understands 
 My passionate love for your beautiful hands' 
 
 As I remember the first fair touch 
 Of the beautiful hands that I love so much, 
 1 seen\ to thrill as I then was thrilled. 
 Kissing the glove I had fouml unfilled — 
 When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow 
 As you said, half laughingly. " Keej) it now I 
 And dazed and alone in a dream I stand 
 Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand I 
 
 When first I lovetl in the long ago. 
 And held your hand as I told you so- 
 Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss 
 And said. " I could die for a hand like this ! "— 
 Little I dreamed that Love's fulness yet 
 Had to ripen when eyes were wet 
 And prayers were vain in their wild demands 
 For one warm touch of your beautiful hands. 
 
 Beautiful hands ! O beautiful hands ! 
 Could you reach out of the alien lands 
 Where you are lingering, and give me. to-night. 
 Only a touch— were it ever so light — 
 
 My heart were soothed, and my weary brain 
 Would lull itself into rest again— 
 For there is no pleasure the world commands 
 Like the caress of your beautiful hands. 
 
 JAMES WHITCOMB KILEY. 
 
 THEOCRITUS. 
 
 Daphnis is mute, and hidden nymphs complain. 
 And mourning mingles with their fountains' song. 
 Shepherds contend no more, as all day long. 
 They watch their sheep on the wide, cyprus-plain ; 
 The master-voice is silent, songs are vain ; 
 Blithe Pan is dead, and tales of ancient wrong, 
 Done by the gods when gods and men were 
 
 strong, 
 Chanted to reeded pipes, no prize can gain ; 
 O sweetest singer of the olden days, 
 In dusty books your idyls rare seem dead, 
 The gods are gone, but poets never die ; 
 Though men may turn their ears to newer lays, 
 Sicilian nightingales enraptured 
 Caught all your songs, and nightly thrill the sky. 
 
 MAURICK V. EGAN. 
 
 WAITING FOR THE GRAPES. 
 
 That 1 love thee, charming maid 
 
 1 a thousand times have said. 
 And a thousand times more I have sworn it ; 
 
 Hut 'tis easy to be seen. 
 
 In the coldness of your mien, 
 I'hat you doubt my affection or scorn it. 
 
 Ah me ! 
 
 Not a single grain of sense is 
 
 In the whole of these pretences 
 
 l"or rejecting your lover's petitions ; 
 
 i Had I windows in my bosom, 
 
 O, how gladly I'd expose 'em, 
 
 To undo your f:\ntastic suspicions ! 
 
 Ah me ! 
 
 You repeat I've known you long. 
 
 And you hint I do you wrong 
 In beginning so late to pursue ye. 
 
 But 'tis folly to look glum 
 
 Because people did not come 
 Up the stairs of your nursery to woo ye. 
 
 Ah me ! 
 
ITALIAN MYRTLES. 
 
 291 
 
 In a grapery one walks 
 
 Without looking at the stalks, [bearing ; 
 While the bunches are green that they're 
 
 All the pretty little leaves 
 
 That are dangling at the eaves 
 Scarce attract e'en a moment of staring, 
 
 Ah me ! 
 
 But when time has swelled the grapes 
 To a richer style of shapes, 
 And the sun has lent warmth to their blushes, 
 Then to cheer us and to gladden, 
 To enchant us and to madden. 
 Is the ripe ruddy glory that rushes. 
 
 Ah me ! 
 
 O, 'tis then tliat mortals pant 
 
 While they gaze on Bacchus' plant, 
 O, 'tis then — will my simile serve ye ? 
 
 Should a damsel e'er repine, 
 
 Though neglected like a vine ? 
 Both ere long shall turn heads topsy-turvv ! 
 Ah me ! 
 
 WILLIAM MAGINN. 
 
 THE SINGER'S PLEA. 
 
 "Why do I sing ? " 1 know not why, my friend ; 
 The ancient rivers, rivers of renown, 
 A royal largess to the sea roll down. 
 And on those liberal highways nations send 
 Their tributes to the world, — stored corn and wine, 
 Gold-dust, the wealth of pearls, and orient spar. 
 And myrrh, and ivory, and cinnabar, 
 And dyes to make a presence-chamber shine. 
 But in the woodlands, where the wild flowers are, 
 The rivulets, they must have their innocent will, 
 Who all the summer hours are singing still ; 
 The birds care for them, and sometimes a star. 
 And should a tired child rest beside the stream 
 Sweet memories would slide into his dream. 
 
 EDWARD DOWDEN. 
 
 WISE PASSIVENESS. 
 
 Think you I choose or that or this to sing.' 
 I lie as patient as yon wealthy stream. 
 Dreaming among green fields its summer dream. 
 Which takes whate'er the gracious hours will 
 Into its quiet bosom ; not a thing [bring- 
 
 Too common, since perhaps you see it there 
 Who else had never seen it, though as fair 
 
 As on the world's first morn ; a fluttering 
 Of idle butterflies ; or the deft seeds 
 Blown from a thistle-head ; a silver dove 
 As faultlessly ; or the large, yearning eyes 
 Of pale Narcissus ; or beside the reeds 
 A shepherd seeking lilies for his love, 
 And ever more the all-encircling skies. 
 
 EDWARD DOWDEN. 
 
 THE RECUSANT. 
 
 You swore me an oath when the grass was green. 
 
 To win me a royal dower, 
 To take me hence to the altar, I ween. 
 
 And thence beyond their power. 
 
 By St. Berach's staff, and St. Ruadan's bell. 
 
 And by all the oaths in heaven. 
 You swore to love me, when spring was green, 
 
 While breath to your body was given. 
 
 And your faith has flown ere the corn is ripe. 
 And your love ere the leaves do fall — 
 
 I am not treated as queen or wife, 
 Or honored or dowered at all. 
 
 Oh ! false and fair and tickle of faith. 
 
 Nor lover nor name need I ; 
 I have had young lovers true to the death. 
 
 And others who shall not die. 
 
 I shall be wooed when the spring is green, 
 
 I shall win me a royal dower, 
 And my true lovers all, ere long, I ween, 
 
 Shall save me from your power. 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
 ITALIAN MYRTLES. 
 
 By many a soft Ligurian bay 
 
 The myrtles glisten green and bright. 
 Gleam with their flowers of snow by day. 
 
 And glow with fire-flies thro' the night ; 
 And yet, despite the cold and heat, 
 Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. 
 
 There is an island in the West, 
 
 Where living myrtles bloom and blow, 
 
 Hearts where the fire-fly Love may rest 
 Within a paradise of snow — 
 
 Which yet, despite the cold and heat, 
 
 Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. 
 
292 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 Deep in tliat gcnlle breast cf i;<i;ie. 
 Like fire arfd snow witliin the pearl. 
 
 Let purity and Ijve combine, 
 O warm, pure-hearted Irish girl ! 
 
 And in the cold, and in the heat, 
 
 B; ever fresh and pure and sweet 
 
 Thy bosom bears as pure a snow 
 As e'er Italia's bowers can boast ; 
 
 And thoujh no fire-fly lends its glow, 
 As on the soft Ligurian coast, 
 
 'Tis warmed by an internal heat 
 
 Which ever keeps it pure and sweet. 
 
 The fire-flies fade on misty eves — 
 
 The inner fires alone endure ; 
 Like to the rain that wets the leaves. 
 
 Thy very sorrows keep thee pure. 
 They temper a too ardent heat, 
 And keep thee ever pure and sweet. 
 
 DF.XIS FLORENCE McCARTHV. 
 
 STRADA SAN GIOVANNL 
 
 'Twas a quiet little by-way, 
 
 Steep and rugged as Parnassus, 
 Leading from the noisy highway 
 Filled with carbonari asses. 
 Lofty houses lean above it 
 
 Whispering like neighbors canny ; 
 Still in memory 1 love it, 
 Dingy Strada San Giovanni. 
 
 Shrined in niches on the comers, 
 
 Saints and martyrs smile down grimly 
 On tlie unbelieving scorners 
 
 Stalking through the twilight dimly. 
 Going no one knoweth whither 
 
 By the Casa Frangipani, 
 Where the votive flowers wither, 
 
 Down in Strada San Giovanni. 
 
 When the summer days were weary 
 
 With the breathings of sirocco 
 Bbwing with persistence dreary, 
 
 Red and sultry from Morocco ; 
 Quiet was that shady ally 
 
 Where there were not passers many. 
 Like an ancient Jliff-walled valley. 
 
 Lonely Strada San Giovanni. 
 
 With her cushion making laces. 
 
 Deftly working like a fairy. 
 Fairest of the island graces, 
 
 Little Annie Cammellieri 
 Sat upon a doorstep singing. 
 
 Giving little heed to any. 
 To and fro her bobbins flinging 
 
 In old Strada San Giovanni. 
 
 Gentle dark-eyed little maiden, 
 
 Dream of unforgotten pleasure, 
 With her tresses coin-o'erladen. 
 
 All her dowry and her treasure; 
 Long ago, — while multiplying 
 
 Shadows gather thick and many- 
 Still a sunbeam, time defying. 
 
 Shines in Strada San Giovanni. 
 
 CARROLL RYAN. 
 
 THE SUNLIT PATH. 
 I pity those who sing and sigh 
 Of happy days long smce gone by ; 
 Whose only thoughts of joy are cast 
 Upon the memories of the past ; 
 Whose sole delight is with the hours 
 Too swiftly fled in love's young bowers. 
 As though advancing years had brought 
 No trusting heart, no lovelit thought. 
 No magic touch, no balmy word. 
 No face still through the years adored, 
 
 Alas, alas, 
 
 That life should pass 
 Thus, lifeless as a face on glass. 
 Thro' shine and shade the changeless ray 
 Of love brings blessings every day. 
 
 Tho' bright, 'tis not in boyhood's fire 
 
 Is found the flame of man's desire ; 
 
 Nor in the maiden's fancy free 
 
 The woman's proud idolatry. 
 
 Young love but breathes the yearning tones 
 
 By which the soul a presence owns 
 
 That, lit by Faith, may lead the heart 
 
 To find on earth heaven's counterpart. 
 
 This has no past, no age, no tears. 
 
 It suits all seasons and all years 1 
 
 Alas. alas. 
 
 'Tis best life pass 
 Thus, like the sunshine thro' the glass. 
 Through weal and woe along life's way. 
 True love brings sunlight every day. 
 
 JOHN SAVAGE 
 
EVENING SOLACE. 
 
 293 
 
 A MORNING DREAM. 
 
 Here, far removed from meadows green, 
 
 From tranquil shade or woodland lawns, 
 I in my attic lie alone. 
 
 And dream the while the morning dawns. 
 About my brain there flit like birds, 
 
 Thoughts of a past surpassing fair ; 
 I hear old unforgotten words, 
 
 Remembered footsteps on the stair. 
 
 This is my fairest, happiest time. 
 
 This moment of my morning dream. 
 Before I hear the unwelcome chime 
 
 That sounds more oft in gloom than gleam. 
 I see the lilies fair and white. 
 
 That gently swayed in that still place, 
 Half garden, half a desert bright. 
 
 Where last I saw you face to face. 
 
 1 see you as you stood ; I hear 
 
 Your voice that mingled with the birds'. 
 And all the sounds afar and near, 
 
 Making a prelude to your words. 
 I look beyond, across the wold, 
 
 To where the windmill stood and hurled 
 Its giant arms that turned and rolled 
 
 In dizzy motion, quickly whirled. 
 
 I see the pigeons wheeling high 
 
 Above our heads — the golden bees. 
 Treasured with honey-laden thigh. 
 
 Like winged insect argosies. 
 I see it all ; it fades and dies 
 
 Into the gray of waking hours. 
 As rainbows fade in summer skies. 
 
 Whose brilliant colors mocked the flowers. 
 
 O, weary light ! that comes to glad 
 
 A hundred hearts, no smile you bring 
 To me, whose heart, though now so sad. 
 
 Was once as light as swallow's wing. 
 O fields ! where never more my feet 
 
 Shall tread, as in the long ago. 
 In dreams I smell your fragrance sweet. 
 
 And see the corn-flowers sway and blow. 
 
 WILLIAM GEOGHEGAN. 
 
 SPIRIT COMPANY. 
 
 Up cheerful as the morn I rise, 
 Though foreign airs around me blow. 
 
 For well I deem that Spirit eyes 
 Look into mine where'er I go : 
 
 So, in the viny window nook. 
 With southern sunlight round, I sit 
 
 And read aloud from some old book. 
 Old music lines of poet wit, 
 
 That those 1 love around may hear me. 
 
 And melt in sweet mute laughter near me. 
 
 With them I stroll all day along 
 
 The fresh blue bay and sunny shore. 
 And hear the brown old fisher's song. 
 
 Above his nets hummed o'er and o'er; 
 And wander up the evening cliffs, 
 
 Askirted by the shadowy limes ; 
 And as I watch the fading skiffs, 
 
 I whisper oft of loved old times. 
 That those I love around may hear me. 
 And smile with gentle memories near me. 
 
 And when the golden sunset dips 
 
 Beneath the garden's walnut trees, 
 In vintage gay I bathe my lips. 
 
 Till the white star floats up the seas; 
 Then as upon the hill o'erhead, 
 
 The quiet shepherd pens his fold, 
 I sit among the stilly Dead, 
 
 And sing the songs they loved of old. 
 And hear their echoes grown divine. 
 Come back thro' this waked heart of mine. 
 
 But when o'er hill and ocean soon 
 
 Falls the deep midnight blue and rare. 
 And tolling bell and rounded moon 
 
 Awake the tranced time of prayer — 
 Through starry casement lone I gaze 
 
 Up on the heavenly path they've trod. 
 And murmur o'er their love and praise, 
 
 With lowly knees before our God ; 
 And hear — as though beyond the sea. 
 The loved Old Voices pray for me. 
 
 THOMAS C. IRWIN. 
 
 EVENING SOL'.CE. 
 
 The human heart has hidden treasures, 
 
 In secret kept, in silence sealed, — [ures. 
 
 The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleas- 
 
 Whose charms were broken if revealed. 
 And days may pass in gay confusion. 
 
 And nights in rosy riot fly. 
 While, lost in fame's or wealth's illusion. 
 
 The memory of the past may die. 
 
294 
 
 POEXfS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 But there are hours of lonely musing, 
 
 Such as in evening silence come, ' 
 
 When, soft as birds their pinions closing. 
 
 The heart's best feelings gather home. 
 Then in our souls there seems to languish 
 
 A tender grief that is not woe ; 
 And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish i 
 
 Now cause but some mild tears to flow, , 
 
 And feelings, once as strong as passions. 
 
 Float softly back— a faded dream, 
 Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations. 
 
 The tales of others' sufferings seem. 
 Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding. 
 
 How longs it for that time to be. 
 When, through the mists of years receding. 
 
 Its woes but live in reverie ! 
 
 And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer 
 
 Or evening shade and loneliness ; 
 And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer. 
 
 Feel no untold and strange distress :— 
 Only a deeper impulse given 
 
 By lonely hour and darkened room, 
 To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven, 
 
 Seeking a life and world to come. 
 
 CHARLOTTE BRUNTE. 
 
 OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT. 
 
 Oft, in the stilly night. 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me. 
 Fond memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me ; 
 The smiles, the tears. 
 Of boyhood's years. 
 The words of love then spoken ; 
 The eyes that shone. 
 Now dimni'd and gone. 
 The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
 Thus, in the stilly night, 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me. 
 Sad memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 When I remember all 
 
 The friends, so link'd together. 
 I've seen around me fall. 
 
 Like leaves in wintry weather, 
 1 feel like one 
 Who treads alone 
 
 Some banquet hall deserted. 
 
 Whose lights are fled, 
 
 Whose garlands dead. 
 
 And all but he departed ! 
 
 Thus, in the stilly night. 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me. 
 Sad memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 Charity was a little child. 
 Blue-eyed, beautiful, and mild ; 
 Full of love and full of light. 
 As the moon is to the night. 
 Tiny foot and snowy hand- 
 Little carved ivory wand- 
 Little osier basket white- 
 Little vase of something bright. 
 Hid in dress quite cunningly. 
 Had the sweet child. Charity ! 
 
 Where the aged tottered on- 
 Weak and haggard, cold and wan ; 
 Loit'ring in the cheering sun. 
 Shivering in the rayless moon. 
 Wrinkled o'er by icy time. 
 Moaning for his faded prime, 
 Wrapp'd in r^gs and wretchedness. 
 Lying down in hopelessness ; 
 With vase and basket there would be 
 The beautiful child, Charity ! 
 
 Where the sick were like to die. 
 Unheeded all by human eye, 
 Parching with the bleeding mouth. 
 Gasping with the burning drought. 
 Sleepless, raving— sorc-opprest, 
 Staring eye and heaving breast. 
 Deserted, sad, and comfortless. 
 In that lone and last distress ; 
 With vase and basket there would be 
 The beautiful child. Charity ! 
 With her osier basket white ; 
 With her vase of something bright. 
 Hid in her dress quite cunningly— 
 God-loved — pure child— Charity ! 
 
 JOHN T. CAMPION. 
 
THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 295 
 
 CHARITY TO MAN. 
 
 O sweeter than the fragrant flower 
 
 At evening's dewy close, 
 The will, united with the power. 
 
 To succor human woes ! 
 
 And softer than the softest strain 
 
 Of music to the ear. 
 The placid joy we give and gain 
 
 By gratitude sincere. 
 
 The husbandman goes forth a-field : 
 What hopes his heart expand ! 
 
 What calm delights his labors yield — 
 A harvest, from his hand ! — 
 
 A hand that providently throws. 
 
 Not dissipates in vain ; 
 How neat his field, how clean it grows ! 
 
 What produce from each grain ! 
 
 The nobler husbandry of mind. 
 
 And culture of the heart — 
 Shall this with men less favor find. 
 
 Less genuine joy impart ? 
 
 O ! no ; your goodness strikes a root 
 
 That dies not, nor decays ; 
 And future life shall yield the fruit 
 
 Which blossoms now in praise. 
 
 The youthful hopes that now expand 
 Their green and tender leaves. 
 
 Shall spread a plenty o'er the land. 
 In rich and yellow sheaves. 
 
 Thus, a small bounty, well bestowed. 
 May perfect heaven's plan ; — 
 
 First daughter to the love of God 
 Is charity to man. 
 
 'Tis he who scatters blessings round 
 
 Adores his Maker best ; 
 His walk thro' life is mercy-crowned. 
 
 His bed of death is blest. 
 
 WILLIAM DRENNAr 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 Wert thau sad, I would beguile 
 
 Thy sadness by my tender lay ; 
 Wert thou in a mood to smile. 
 
 With thee laugh the hours away ; 
 Didst thou feel inclined to sleep, 
 
 I would watch and hover near ; 
 Did misfortune bid thee weep, 
 
 I would give thee tear for tear. 
 
 Not a sigh that heaved thy breast 
 
 But I'd echo from my own; 
 Did one care disturb thy rest. 
 
 Mine, alas ! were also llown ; 
 When the hour of death should come, 
 
 I'd receive thy latest sigh ; 
 Only ask to share thy tomb. 
 
 There contented with thee die. 
 
 MAKV -IIGHE. 
 
 THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 O ! tell me a tale of the long ago. 
 
 For I'm sick of the present time , 
 Roll back the centuries like a scroll, 
 
 And show me earth in her prime; 
 And I care not whether the scene be laid 
 
 In a sunny or golden clime ; 
 
 But back, far back in the shadowy past. 
 
 When aims and hopes were high. 
 When life was a path to heaven, and earth 
 
 The vestibule of the sky ;— 
 O ! lay the scene in the glorious Past, 
 
 The past that can never die ; 
 
 When hearts were pure as the sky above. 
 
 And hands as open as day ; 
 When men were trusty, and tender, and true. 
 
 And women as true as they ; 
 And poverty never was thought a crime.' 
 
 As it is in our evil day. 
 
 It may be on sea, or it may be on shore, 
 
 I care not how that may be ; 
 In baron's hall, or in peasant's cot. 
 
 Or beneath the greenwood tree, 
 But a tale, a tale of the olden time 
 
 I pray thee tell to me. 
 
 For men are now but living graves. 
 
 Where dead hearts buried lie. 
 Though not an epitaph tells the tale 
 
 Of how they died, or why ; — 
 Oh, it was not so in the olden time. 
 
 The blessed time gone by. 
 
 Then the heart never died before the man. 
 But was fresh and green to the last. 
 
 And lived unwithered beneath the snows 
 That time o'er his temples cast, — 1 
 
 Ah ! mind never crushed life out of the heart 
 In the underrated past. 
 
290 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 They believed, 'tis true, in dragons and elves, " The gloomy rain 
 
 But in angels and spirits too ; Doth but conceal the brightness ol tlic azure 
 
 With windmills they tilted .ind fought, but then space. 
 
 They K.ive tyrants and knaves their due ; And start the grass-blades ; beautiful flowers 
 
 O. this world was a pleasanter world by far apace 
 
 When it and mankind were new. Are young again. 
 
 So tell ine a tale of the olden time, " Each hath new birth 
 
 When feelings were deep and true ; When skies are overcast ; when thus thy soul is 
 
 When women thought more of duties than rights, sad. 
 
 And men could dare and do ; 1 Thy azure's only hid ; dear love, my heart is 
 
 j glad,— 
 
 When faith was not follv. and all believed 
 
 In a heaven beyond the blue. 
 
 MARY MUl 
 
 THE DAYS WHEN I WAS YOUNG. 
 0. the days when I was young. 
 
 When I laughed in fortune's spite : 
 Talked with love the whole day long. 
 
 And with nectar crowned the night ! 
 Then it was, old Father Care. 
 
 Little recked I of thy frown ; 
 Half thy malice youth could bear. 
 
 And the rest a bumper drown. 
 
 Truth, they say, lies in a well. 
 
 Why, I vow I ne'er could sec; 
 Let the water-drinkers tell — 
 There it always lay for mc : 
 Tor when sparkling wine went round, 
 
 Never saw I falsehood's mask ; 
 But still honest truth I found 
 At the bottom of each llask. 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLKV SHKRII)A> 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 " Sweet friend," said she, 
 
 " I have no heart for wit, or mirth, or converse 
 
 bright : 
 My sky's o'ercast. the rain in torrents f.ills; 'tis 
 night 
 
 Of grief with me." 
 
 But then spake I : — 
 " When skies are overcast, and gray, and d.imp. 
 
 and sad 
 Are all men's thoughts, with torrents is llie earth 
 made glad 
 From the black skv. 
 
 thine earth." 
 
 MARGARET F. SULLIVAN. 
 
 THE INDIAN SUMMER- 
 
 When summer's verdant beauty flics. 
 
 And autumn glows with richer dyes, 
 
 A softer charm beyond them lies- 
 It is the Indian summer. 
 
 Ere winter's snows and winter's breeze 
 
 Bereave of beauty all the trees. 
 
 The balmy spring renewal sees 
 
 In the sweet Indian summer. 
 
 And thus, dear love, if early years 
 Have drowned the germ of joy in tears, 
 A later gleam of hope appears— 
 
 Just like the Indian summer. 
 And ere the snows of age descend. 
 Oh, trust me, dear one, changeless friend. 
 Our failing years may brightly end, — 
 
 Just like the Indian summer, 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 REVISED. 
 
 I read a legend, sweet and quaint. 
 The other day. amid the faint 
 Calm light of early dusk ; 
 The story, odorous of musk. 
 Smiled in a dust-bound olden book. 
 Forgotten in a lover's nook. 
 
 Of course you know it :— how he strove 
 To shape the marble like his Love, 
 Th.it ancient sculptor ; how his hand. 
 Guiding the chisel like a wand. 
 So perfect made each beauteous part, 
 Jove breathed in it his lady's heart. 
 
FR/ENDS ACROSS THE SEA. 
 
 The dainty myth in modern time 
 Will serve to tell in careless rhyme : 
 Our sculptor sneers there is no Jove ; 
 Science hath made a myth of Love ; 
 So practical the race has grown 
 That even Beauty's heart is stone. 
 
 JrARGARKT F. SULLIVAX. 
 
 297 
 
 Soft Peace descends to guard her reign 
 From anxious fear and jealous pain ; 
 She no delusive hope displays. 
 But calmly guides our tranquil days. 
 Refines our pleasure, soothes our care. 
 And gives the joys of Eden here. 
 
 ELIZABETH RYVES. 
 
 I WOULD NOT DIE. 
 
 I would not die in this bright hour. 
 
 While Hope's sweet stream is flowing ; 
 I would not die while Youth's gay flower 
 
 In springtide pride is glowing. 
 The path I trace in fiery dreams 
 
 For Manhood's flight, to-morrow. 
 Oh, let me tread 'mid those bright gleams 
 Which souls from Fame \\ill borrow. 
 I would not die I I would not die I 
 
 In Youth's bright hour of pleasure ; 
 I would not leave, without a sigh, 
 The dreams, the hopes I treasure ! 
 
 I set young seeds in earth to-day. 
 
 While yet the sun was gushing. 
 
 And shall I pass, ere these, away, 
 
 Nor see the flowerets blushing .' 
 
 Are these young seeds, when earth looks fair. 
 
 To rise with fragrance teeming, 
 And shall the hand that placed them there 
 Lie cold when they are gleaming .' 
 
 I would not die ! I would not die ! 
 
 In Youth's bright hour of pleasure ; 
 I would not leave, without a sigh. 
 The dreams, the hopes I treasure ! 
 
 THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. 
 
 TO FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Fond Love, with all his winning wiles — 
 Of tender looks and flattering smiles. 
 Of accents that might Juno charm. 
 Or Dian's colder ear alarm. 
 No more shall play the tyrant's part. 
 No more shall lord it o'er my heart. 
 
 To Friendship, sweet benignant power, 
 I consecrate my humble bower, 
 My lute, my muse, my willing mind. 
 And fix her in my heart enshrined ; 
 She, heaven-descended queen, shall be 
 My tutelar divinity. 
 
 EARLY FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 The half-seen memories of childish days. 
 When pains and pleasures lightly came and went ; 
 The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent 
 In fearful wanderings thro' forbidden ways ; 
 The vague, but manly wish to tread the maze 
 Of life to noble ends ; whereon intent. 
 Asking to know for what man here is sent. 
 The bravest heart must often pause, and gaze ; 
 The firm resolve to seek the chosen end 
 Of manhood's judgment, cautious and mature ; 
 Each of these viewless bonds binds friend to 
 
 friend 
 With strength no selfish purpose can secure ; — 
 My happy lot is this, that all attend 
 That friendship which first came, and which 
 
 shall last endure. 
 
 AUBREY DE VERE. 
 
 FRIENDS ACROSS THE SEA. 
 
 Deep is the hush of the sweet summer night. 
 The dark hills slumber in a soft repose ; 
 
 The river glitters 'neath the moonbeams white. 
 The dewdrop trembles on the folded rose, — 
 
 Fair moon ! sweet stars ! that softly smile on me, 
 
 Oh, smile upon my friends across the sea. 
 
 The balmy summer breeze around me plays. 
 And in a voice all tremulous and low. 
 
 It seems to whisper me of other days, 
 Sweet mournful stories of the " long ago," — 
 
 Oh, gentle breeze that whispereth so to me. 
 
 Go whisper to my friends across the sea. 
 
 Tell them that never can my heart forget 
 My childhood's home, my kindred far away ; 
 
 But that with fondest love, and sad regret. 
 My spirit turns to them by night and day. 
 
 Speed, speed thee swiftly o'er the moonlit sea. 
 
 And tell my friends the words I've told to thee. 
 
29S 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 But should'st thou find them locked in slumber And lo ! where afar 'mid the surry throng 
 deep, A glorious orb sailed slow along 
 
 Then blow thy softest, — let them slumber on ; 1 In his lordly pride of majestic sway. 
 Hover around them— kiss them as they sleep. — , Uegirt with power like an atmosphere. 
 
 Breathe in their cars my name — and then be- 
 gone. 
 Then, gentle summer breeze, they'll dream of me. 
 Their lonely wanderer far across the sea. 
 
 ELLEN FORRESTER. 
 
 CONTRAST. 
 
 He paused at the grave just made 
 As the mourners turned to go ; 
 
 His heart lay there in the shade 
 With the one asleep below. 
 
 On the budding limb above 
 
 .•\ robin alert, elate. 
 Sang liveliest songs of love 
 
 L'nto his new-found mate. 
 
 R. K. -MUNKITTRICK. 
 
 HAUNTED. 
 
 And the yoimg star felt as he lloated near 
 
 The rule of the king she was formed to obey. 
 A strange joy thrilled thro' her voice's tone, 
 
 And flashed like light to her inmost core. 
 To think, when bound in his glittering zone 
 
 The awful space-depths she should fear no more. 
 " He comes ! " she cried. " and 1 by his side 
 
 Shall blessing and blest roll on thro' Time, 
 And the ringing rhyme of my spirit chime 
 
 Will sweetly blend in his song sublime." 
 
 This iris-tinted shell 
 
 Is breathing ceaselessly. 
 With mimic surge and swell, 
 
 The music of the sea. 
 
 So deep within my heart 
 
 That made an empty choice. 
 Rings clear, while years depart. 
 
 The music of her voice. 
 
 R. K. MUNKITTRICK. I 
 
 But the planet, unheeding, in might passed by. 
 
 And 'mid the fair stars that gemmed his sky 
 Of small avail were her tremulous beam ; 
 
 And worthless her song with its low refrain, 
 I To the full-toned swell of his choral strain, 
 I As a dew-drop's fall in a rushing stream. 
 
 I marked the cold shadow that o'er her came 
 I When she knew that her path alone should be. 
 
 And the glory gone from her being's aim 
 Till Time fades into Eternity. 
 
 The vision passed, but my tears fell fast 
 For the wasted Love and vanished Bliss ; 
 
 And I murmured low, •' There are souls I know 
 Crushed here below with a woe like this." 
 
 OLIVIA KNIGHT CONNOLIV. 
 
 THE STORY OF A STAR. 
 
 There came to my soul a vision rare. 
 
 As 1 watched thro' a summer twilight's air 
 
 The growing light of one trembling star. 
 I looked far back to its primal birth, 
 And saw it spring like a brighter Earth 
 
 To its destined place in the ether far ; 
 With a gentle guardian, a Spirit of Love, 
 
 To temper the glow of its central fire. 
 To guide it aright 'neath the Eye above. 
 
 And utter its song 'mid the spheral choir. 
 "But I never was made," she softly said, 
 
 " To wander alone thro' the realms of space. 
 Nay, rather to wait on some planet great [face." 
 
 And brighten his night with the light of my 
 
 BEN BOLT. 
 
 Don't you remember sweet Alice. Ben Bolt — 
 
 Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown — 
 Who wept with delight when you gave her a 
 smile. 
 
 And trembled with fear at your frown .' 
 In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, 
 
 In a corner obscure and lone. 
 They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, 
 
 .■\nd .Mice lies under the stone. 
 
 Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, 
 
 Which stood at the foot of the hill. 
 Together we've lain in the noon-day shade. 
 
 And listened to Appleton's mill. 
 The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The rafters have tumbled in, [gaze 
 
 And a quiet that crawls round the walls as you 
 
 Has followed the olden din. 
 
AFTER TEN YEARS. 
 
 299 
 
 Do you mind of the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, 
 
 By the edge of the pathless wood, | 
 
 And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs. 
 
 Which nigh by the doorstep stood ? 
 The cabin has gone to ruin, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The tree you would seek for in vain ; 
 And where once the lord of the forest waved ' 
 
 Are grass and the golden grain. 1 
 
 And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, 
 
 With the master so cruel and grim. 
 And the shaded nook in the running brook. 
 
 Where the children went to swim ? 
 Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The spring of the brook is dry. 
 And of all the boys who were schoolmates then, 
 
 There are only you and I. 
 
 There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, 
 
 They have changed from the old to the new ; 
 But 1 feel in the deep of my spirit the truth 
 
 That there never was change in you. 
 Twelve months twenty have passed, Ben Bolt, 
 
 Since first we were friends, yet I hail 
 Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth, 
 
 Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale. 
 
 THOMAS DUNN ENGI-ISH. 
 
 Those that are dearest may cruelly grieve us. 
 
 Bitter resentment but adds to our pain ; 
 Let us be merciful, soon they may leave us — 
 Let them not seek our forgiveness in vain, 
 
 Though we have suffered long 
 
 Under a cloud of wrong, 
 They who have wounded may comfort us yet ; 
 
 Tongues can but idly preach, — 
 
 Only kind actions teach 
 Life's noblest lesson — Forgive and forget. 
 
 FANNY FORRESTER. 
 
 FORGIVE AND FORGET. 
 
 Were we but generous, kind, and forbearing. 
 
 Soon would this earth be an Eden of flowers ; 
 Then would the frowns we are constantly wearing 
 
 Melt in the laughter of happier hours ; 
 Then would a holier light 
 Make life's dark pathway bright. 
 
 Shining where anger and discord have met ; 
 Then would all warfare cease. 
 Angels would whisper " Peace ! " 
 
 If we would only forgive and forget. 
 
 When a loved friend we have thoughtlessly 
 wounded 
 Let us not seek his forgiveness alone ; 
 Owning our error, with courage unbounded. 
 Oh ! let us earnestly strife to atone — 
 Conquer our pride, and then 
 Hold out our hand again, 
 Sure that our friend will respond to us yet ; 
 Then will he haste once more — 
 Knowing our wrath is o'er— 
 Eager as we to forgive and forget. 
 
 AFTER TEN YEARS. 
 
 Like the warm winds of spring to the icicled 
 
 trees. 
 That moaned like sad ghosts all the winter 
 
 winds through ; 
 Like the first sight of land when long tossed on 
 
 the seas ; 
 Like the breath of fresh flowers to the cheek of 
 
 disease. 
 Are those sweet words that come from afar on 
 
 the breeze, 
 From thy heart to mine, my fond friend ever 
 
 true ! 
 
 Ah ! this decade of years, and the depth of their 
 
 woe ! 
 ! Since I pressed thy white hand 'neath that 
 
 piercing cold blast ; 
 And the silence that froze all my glad spirit's 
 
 flow. 
 And the doubtings that sometimes would flit to 
 
 and fro. 
 And the dark fears, lest distance and absence 
 
 should throw 
 Some shade of forgetfulness round thee at last ! 
 
 Oh, my friend, fondest friend of my heart — fai 
 away ! 
 This long-dreamed-of message is balm to my 
 soul ; 
 Like a sudden-found spring 'neath the parched 
 
 desert's ray. 
 It will freshen my life, and restore my lost May, 
 And thy sweet eyes will smile, and thy heart will 
 still pray 
 For thy Brother afar, though the sad seasons 
 roll! 
 
 PATRICK CRONIN. 
 
300 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 WHAT'S THAT TO ANY MAN? 
 
 May discord and treason keep far from our shore, 
 
 , , ^ , \ And union and peace light our homes evermore ! 
 
 ve a pound for to spend. ^^ ^J^^f for^to I ^^.^ ^^^ ^j^^ „, ^^ f^,,^^^.^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^ 
 
 man, 
 I So we'll live and be merrj- as lon>; as we can ; 
 
 [lend, I 
 
 Caed millc failthe. a heart for a friend; 
 No mortal 1 envy, nor master 1 own. 
 
 Nor lord in his castle, nor king on his throne. • ,^ 'w v . u i i j .u u i j 
 _ ... , ° ,- ,,, O we II chng to old Ireland through weal and 
 
 Come, hll up your glasses, the hrst cup we II \ thrt)u 'h woe 
 
 And what's that to any man whether or no ? 
 
 drain 
 To the comrades we've lost on the red battle 
 
 plain ; 
 O we'll cherish their fame, boys, who died long 
 
 ago, 
 And what's that to any man whether or no? 
 
 The spinning wheel stops and my girls grow 
 
 pale. 
 While their mother is telling some sorrowful tale 
 Of old cabins levell'd, and coffinless graves. 
 And ships swallowed up in the salt ocean waves ; 
 But, girls, that's all over for each of you now. 
 You'll have twenty-tive pounds ind a three-year 
 
 old cow. 
 O we'll drink launa 'luiuitii at your weddings. 1 
 
 trow. 
 And what's that to any man whether or no ? 
 
 Come here, Banathee, sit beside me awhile, 
 And the pulse of your heart let me read in your 
 
 smile. 
 Would you give your old home for the lordliest 
 
 hall.'' 
 Ha ! you glance at my rifle that hangs on the 
 
 wall. 
 And your two gallant boys on parade-day are 
 
 seen 
 In the ranks of the brave 'neath the banner of 
 
 green ; 
 O I've taug'nt them to guard it 'gainst traitor 
 
 and foe. 
 And what's that to any man whether or no? 
 
 But the youngest of all is the white-headed boy. 
 He's the pulse of your heart, and our pride and 
 
 our joy. I 
 
 From the huriing or dance he will steal off to j 
 
 pray. 
 And wander alone by the river all day ; 
 He's as good as the priest at his Latin, I hear, 1 
 And to college, please God. we will send him 1 
 
 ne.xt year. 
 O he'll offer the Mass for our souls when we go, ' 
 And what's that to any man whether or no ? 
 
 Join hands, then, old neighbor, one cup more 
 
 we'll drain, 
 And caed mille failtlie again and again. | 
 
 CHARLES J. KlLKHA.M. 
 
 THE CLADDAGH BOATMAN. 
 
 I am a Claddagh boatman bold. 
 
 And humble is my calling. 
 From morn to night, from dark to light. 
 
 In Galway bay I'm trawling; 
 I care not for the great man's frown, 
 
 I ask not for his pity. 
 My wants are few, my heart is true. 
 
 1 sing a boatman's ditty. 
 
 1 have a fair and gentle wife. 
 
 Her name is Eily Holway ; 
 With many a wile, and joke, and smile, 
 
 1 won the prize of Galway ; 
 For twenty years, 'mid hopes and fears, 
 
 With her I've faithful tarried ; 
 Her heart to-night is young and light. 
 
 As when we first were married. 
 
 I have a son, a gallant boy, 
 
 U nsiained by spot or speckle ; 
 He pulls and hawls, and mends the trawls, 
 
 .And minds the other tackle ; 
 His mother says the boy. like ine. 
 
 Loves truth, and hates all blarney — 
 The neighbors swear in Galway bay 
 
 There's not the like of Barney. 
 
 Thank God. I have another child. 
 
 Like Eily, lithe and slender; 
 She clasps my knee and kisses me 
 
 With love so true and tender ; 
 Though oft will rage the howling blast 
 
 Upon the angry water. 
 I ne'er complain of wind or rain. 
 
 For I think of my little daughter. 
 
 When Sunday brings the hour of rest. 
 
 That sweet reward of labors. 
 We cross the fields to early Mass 
 
 And walk home with the neighbors. 
 
THE IRISH PEASANT MAIDEN. 
 
 O, would the rest of Erin's sons 
 
 Were but like us united ; 
 I'm loath to swear, but by my oath, • 
 
 Her name should not be slighted. 
 
 JEREMIAH J. BOWLING. 
 
 THE OLD BOREEN. 
 
 Embroidered with shamrocks and spangled with 
 daisies. 
 Tall fcxgloves like sentinels guarding the way, 
 The squirrel and hare played bo-peep in its mazes, 
 The green hedgerows wooed it with odorous 
 spray ; 
 The thrush and the linnet piped overtures in it ; 
 The sun's golden rays bathed its bosom of 
 green. 
 Bright scenes, fairest skies, pall to-day on my eyes, 
 For I opened them first on an Irish boreen ! 
 
 It flung o'er my boyhood its beauty and gladness. 
 
 Rich homage of perfume and color it paid ; 
 It laughed with my joy — in my moments of sad- ' 
 ness, 
 What solace I found in its pitying shade ! 
 When Love, to my rapture, rejoiced in my cap- 
 ture. 
 My fetters the curls of a brown-haired colleen. 
 What draught from his chalice, in mansion or 
 palace, 
 So sweet as I quaffed in the dear old boreen ? 
 
 But green fields were blighted and fair skies be- 
 clouded. 
 Stern frost and harsh pain mocked the poor 
 peasant's toil ; 
 Ere they burst into blossom the buds were en- 
 shrouded, 
 The seed ere its birth crushed in merciless soil ; 
 Wild tempests struck blindly, the landlord, less 
 kindly. 
 Aimed straight at our hearts with a " death 
 sentence " keen ; 
 The blast shared our sheeling, which he, more 
 unfeeling. 
 Left roofless and bare to affright the boreen. 
 
 A dirge of farewell through the hawthorn was 
 pealing 
 The wind seemed to stir branch and leaf with 
 a sigh, 
 As, down on a tear-bedewed shamrock sod 
 kneeling, 
 I kissed the boreen a fond weeping good-by. 
 
 And vowed that should ever my patient endeavor 
 The grains of success from life's harvest-field 
 glean. 
 Where'er fortune found me, whatever ties bound 
 
 me. 
 My eyes should be closed in the dear old boreen. 
 
 ARTHUR M. FORRESTER. 
 
 LET THE TOAST PASS. 
 
 Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen, 
 
 Here's to the widow of fifty ; 
 Here's to the flaunting, extravagant quean, 
 And here's to the housewife that's thrifty : 
 Let the toast pass. 
 Drink to the lass ; 
 I warrant she'll prove an e-xcuse for the glass. 
 
 Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize. 
 And now to the maid who has none, sir ; 
 
 Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes. 
 
 And here's to the nymph with but one, sir. 
 Let the toast pass, etc. 
 
 Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow. 
 And to her that's as brown as a berry ; 
 
 Here's to the wife with a face full of woe. 
 And now to the girl that is merry. 
 Let the toast pass, etc. 
 
 For let 'em be clumsy or let 'em be slim. 
 Young or ancient, I care not a feather ; 
 
 So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim. 
 And let us e'en toast them together. 
 Let the toast pass, etc. 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 THE IRISH PEASANT MAIDEN. 
 
 One summer, on a walking tour, my wayward 
 
 will my only law. 
 Crossing a meadow-path, at eve, 1 saw— I'll tell 
 
 you what I saw — 
 A fair, soft-smiling Irish face, with deep-gray 
 
 eyes and lashes long. 
 And rich brown hair all streaked with gold, and 
 
 ripe lips bursting into song — 
 
3o: 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 One of those songs they ever sing, those Irish 
 
 maids, when evening falls- 
 Some wild verse, passionate and strong, their 
 
 country's woe or pride recalls ; 
 Or some gay legend of their chiefs by fairy held 
 
 in glittering thrall ; 
 Or gentle tale of love and youth — the sweetest 
 
 and the best of all ! 
 
 Upon a woodbine-tangled hedge one sun-kissed 
 
 arm upheld her pail. 
 The milk within it foaming high to match her 
 
 whiter throat would fail ; 
 Beneath my gaze her song was hush'd, her 
 
 brow's pure arch drawn slowly down ; 
 But soon her smile's sweet sunshine burst again, 
 
 and chased away the frown. 
 
 And roguish dimples peeped once more, in baby- 
 play, from cheek and chin. 
 
 The rosy mouth half-oped, and showed the lovely, 
 glistening pearls within. 
 
 "Good evening, pretty girl," I cried ; "well met 
 at close of sultry day ; 
 
 A draught of milk from your kind hand, re- 
 freshed will send me on my way." 
 
 "And welcome, sir," was her reply, a quick blush 
 veiling all her face ; 
 
 Then bent the vessel to my lips with ready, un- 
 pretending grace. 
 
 My thirst allayed I lingered still beside her, 
 'neath the sunset sky. 
 
 And giving many a merry word, received as 
 many an arch reply. 
 
 Yet ever an expectant glance across the fields 
 
 her bright eyes cast. 
 Until a stout young peasant lad came hastening 
 
 up the path at last. 
 Then with good eve, I slyly said, " I see of me 
 
 you have no need," 
 She flung me back a laughing look, and nodded 
 
 me a gay God -speed. 
 
 'Twas scarcely fair, I freely own, yet one short 
 
 glance I cast behind — 
 Pausing as if to lift my hat, and bare my hot 
 
 brow to the wind— 
 In time to catch the eager kiss which claimed 
 
 the shy, young, promised wife, — 
 Well, well; the pair are fitly matched: God 
 
 speed them on their way through life ! 
 
 KATHARINE MURPHY. 
 
 THE GREEN LITTLE SHAMROCK. 
 
 There's a dear little plant that grows in our isle, 
 
 'Twas .St. Patrick himself, sure, that set it ; 
 And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile. 
 
 And with dew from his eye often wet it. 
 It thrives through the bog, through the brake, 
 
 through the mireiand ; 
 And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ire- 
 land. 
 The sweet little shamrock, the dear little 
 
 shamrock, 
 The sweet little, green little shamrock of 
 Ireland. 
 
 This dear little plant still grows in our land. 
 
 Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin, 
 Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can com- 
 mand. 
 In each climate that they may appear in ; 
 And shine through the bog. through the brake, 
 
 through the mireiand. 
 Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland, 
 The sweet little shamrock, the dear little 
 
 shamrock. 
 The sweet little, green little shamrock of 
 Ireland. 
 
 This dear little plant that springs from our soil. 
 
 When its three little leaves are extended. 
 Denotes from one stock we together should toil 
 
 And ourselves by ourselves be befriended ; 
 And still through the bog, through the brake, 
 
 through the mireiand. 
 From one root should branch, like the shamrock 
 of Ireland. 
 The sweet little shamrock, the dear little 
 
 shamrock. 
 The sweet little, green little shamrock of 
 Ireland. 
 
 ANDREW CHERRY. 
 
 THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK. 
 
 I'll seek a four-leaved shamrock 
 
 In all the fairy dells. 
 And if I find the charmed leaves. 
 
 Oh. how I'll weave my spells. 
 I would not waste my magic might 
 
 On diamond, pearl or gold ; 
 For treasures tire the weary sense — 
 
 Such triumph is but cold. 
 
A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE. 
 
 But I would play the enchanter's part 
 
 In casting bliss around : 
 Oh ! not a tear nor aching heart 
 
 Should in the world be found, 
 
 Should in the world be found. 
 
 To worth I would give honor, 
 
 I'd dry the mourner's tears ; 
 And to the pallid lip recall 
 
 The smile of happier years , 
 And hearts that had long been estranged, 
 
 And friends that had grown cold, 
 Should meet again like parted streams. 
 
 And mingle as of old. 
 Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part. 
 
 Thus scatter bliss around ; 
 And not a tear nor aching heart 
 
 Should in the world be found, 
 
 Sliould in the world be found. 
 
 The heart that had been mourning 
 
 O'er vanished dreams of love. 
 Should see them all returning. 
 
 Like Noah's faithful dove. 
 And Hope should launch her blessed bark 
 
 On Sorrow's dark'ning sea, 
 And Mis'ry's children have an Ark, 
 
 And saved from sinking be. 
 Oh ! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, 
 
 Thus scatter bliss around. 
 And not a tear nor aching heart 
 
 Should in the world be found. 
 
 Should in the world be found. 
 
 SAMURL LOVER. 
 
 A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE. 
 
 O postman ! speed thy tardy gait — 
 
 Go quicker round from door to door ; 
 For thee I watch, for thee I wait. 
 
 Like many a weary wanderer more. 
 Thou bringest news of bale and bliss. — 
 
 Some hfe begun, some life well o'er. — 
 He stops, he rings ! O Heaven ! what's this } — 
 
 A shamrock from the Irish shore ! 
 
 Dear emblem of my native land. 
 
 By fresh fond words kept fresh and green ; 
 The pressure of an unfelt hand — 
 
 The kisses of a lip unseen ; 
 A throb from my dead mother's heart — 
 
 My father's smile revived once more— 
 Oh, youth ! oh, love ! oh, hope thou art. 
 
 Sweet shamrock from the Irish shore ! 
 
 Enchanter, with thy wand of power. 
 
 Thou mak'st the past be present still ; 
 The emerald lawn— the lime-leaved bower — 
 
 The circling shore— the sunlit hill ; 
 The grass, in winter's wintriest hours. 
 
 By dewy daisies dimpled o'er. 
 Half hiding 'neath their trembling flowers. 
 
 The shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 And thus, where'er my footsteps strayed, 
 
 By queenly Florence, kingly Rome — 
 By Padua's long, and lone arcade- 
 
 By Ischia's fires and Adria's foam — 
 By Spezzia's fatal waves that kissed 
 
 My poet sailing calmly o'er ; 
 By all, by each, I mourned and missed 
 
 The shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 I saw the palm-tree stand aloof. 
 
 Irresolute 'tw^ixt the sand and sea ; 
 I saw upon the trellised roof 
 
 Outspread the wine that was to be; 
 A giant-flowered and glorious tree 
 
 I saw the tall magnolia soar; 
 ISut there, even there, 1 longed for thee, 
 
 Poor shamrock of the Irish shore I 
 
 ^>'ow on the ramparts of Boulogne, 
 
 As lately by the lonely Ranee, 
 At evening as I watch the sun, 
 I I look ! I dream ! Can this be France 
 I Not Albion's cliffs, how near they be. 
 
 He seems to love to linger o'er ; 
 1 But gilds, by a remoter sea, 
 I The shamrock on the Irish shore ! 
 
 I'm with him in that wholesome clime — 
 I That fruitful soil, that verdurous sod — 
 i Where hearts unstained by vulgar cnme 
 I Have still a simple faith in God : 
 ' Hearts that in pleasure and in pain, 
 j The more they're trod rebound the more, 
 I Like thee, when wet with heaven's own rain, 
 
 O shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 i 
 
 Memorial of my native land. 
 
 True emblem of my land and race — 
 Thy small and tender leaves expand 
 
 But only in thy native place. 
 Thou needest for thyself and seed 
 
 Soft dews around, kind sunshine o'er- 
 I Transplanted thou'rt the merest weed, 
 
 O shamrock of the Irish shore. 
 
POEMS OF SENT/MEXT AXD RETROSPECTION. 
 
 Here on the tawny fields of France, 
 
 Or in the rank, red English clay. 
 Thou showest a stronger forin perchance ; 
 
 A bolder front tliou mayest display. 
 More able to resist the scythe 
 
 That ci:t so keen, so sharp before ; 
 But then thou art no more the blithe 
 
 Bright shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 Ah, me ! to think — thy scorns, thy slights. 
 
 Thy trampled tears, thy nameless grave 
 On Fredericksburg's ensanguined heights. 
 
 Or by Potomac's purpled wave ! 
 Ah, me ! to think that power malign 
 
 Thus turns thy sweet green sap to gore. 
 And what calm rapture might be thine, 
 
 Sweet shamrock of the Irish shore I 
 
 Struggling, and yet for strife unmeet, 
 
 True type of trustful love thou art ; 
 Thou liest the whole year at my feet, 
 
 To live but one day at my heart. 
 One day of festal pride to lie 
 
 Upon the loved one's heart — what more ? 
 Upon the loved one's heart to die, 
 
 O shamrock of the Irish shore! 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE .MCCARTHY. 
 
 THE ST. PATRICK'S CROSS. 
 Come, raise me up, alannah ! Lift me up a little 
 
 more. 
 And let the sunshine touch my bed. and stream 
 
 upon the floor ; 
 Draw back the curtain farther yet — let enter 
 
 ev'ry ray. 
 And make the place look cheerful, child, for this 
 
 is Patrick's Day. 
 
 Once more I bid it welcome — 'tis the last for me. 
 
 I fear; 
 I've had a long. lon^ journey, but the end is 
 
 drawing near ; 
 Thank God I I 've seen my share of years ; but 
 
 somehow, child, to-day. 
 My heart grows warm and youthful anil my 
 
 thoughts are far away. 
 
 You know my old brown chest, asthore — go now 
 and lift the lid. 
 
 And bring me what you'll find there, in the bot- 
 tom comer hid ; 
 
 A little colored pasteboard cross— 'ds faded, 
 
 quaint and old. 
 And yet 1 prize it dearer far than if 'twere solid 
 
 gold. 
 
 : Long years ago I carried it across the rolling sea. 
 And Time, with all its changes, has not stolen it 
 
 from me. 
 Just as you read the other day, and I believe it 
 
 true. 
 That ev'r\'where we Irish go. Cod's cross will fol- 
 low, too. 
 
 .-Vnd there are twined around it. child, what you 
 can't understand, 
 ; Old memories of other days — of youth and native 
 
 land; 
 As dry and withered rose leaves speak of sum- 
 ! mers past and gone. t 
 
 So life's bright, early springtime in this little 
 cross lives on. 
 
 It tells me of the first time that I wore it, long ago. 
 Pinned here upon my shoulder, ah! but sure 
 
 you'll never know 
 How grand 1 felt that morning, with my cross 
 
 and ribbon green ; 
 God and country bound together— I was prouder 
 
 than a queen. 
 
 How light and gay my spirits, as we children 
 climbed the hill 
 
 To seek for four-leaved shamrocks while the dew 
 was sparkling still. 
 
 While the blackbird sang his welcome— the prim- 
 rose showed her face. 
 
 And violets were nodding from each cosy hid- 
 ing place. 
 
 My little cross I around you, oh, how many mem'- 
 
 ries cling ! 
 Old times, old scenes, old faces to my mind this 
 
 day you bring ; 
 Come, pin it on my shoulder, child, in spite of 
 
 age and pain. 
 For Ireland and St. Patrick let me wear it once 
 
 again ! 
 The weight of years may bend me, but my soul 
 
 will ever pray. 
 May God be with the good old land, and bless 
 
 her honored day. 
 And round the cross entwining may her sham- 
 rocks e'er be met. 
 That as she bore the burden she may share the 
 
 triumph yet. 
 
 E. A. SUTTON. 
 
A BIT OF ROMANCE. 
 
 305 
 
 WHERE ARE THE KNIGHTS? 
 
 Gone are the gallant Knights of Old, 
 With steely casque and waving crest, 
 
 With red-roan steed all cased in gold, 
 With glittering mail and lance in rest 
 To strike for Honor's high behest ; 
 
 Gone ! — but the world were craven-cold, 
 And reft of all its first and best. 
 If lived not yet in many a breast 
 
 The spirit of those Knights of Old ! 
 
 Ah, many a heart beats calmly brave 
 'Neath spirit-armor bright and strong 
 
 Nor lacks the hand befitting glaive 
 To coinbat 'gainst the Paynim throng 
 Of Error, Ignorance and Wrong, — 
 
 With generous ardor, lion-bold. 
 
 The Cross to guard through trials long. 
 And live as worthy to have sprung 
 
 From the heroic Knights of Old ! 
 
 OLIVIA KNIGHT CONNOLLY. 
 
 ROMANCE. 
 
 There is no romance in this world, men say. 
 
 It died out long ago, 
 With the mail-clad knights and the ladies gay, 
 And fortalicc. and joust, and roundelay. 
 
 And arquebus and bow ; — 
 With the simple truth and the trust sublime. 
 And the fervor and faith of the olden time. 
 
 And the glory of long ago. 
 
 There is no romance in this world, we're told. 
 
 It died out long ago ; 
 Yet the sun and the moon rise and set as of old. 
 And the grass springs up through the bare, 
 brown mould. 
 
 And the seasons come and go ; 
 And the winds sweep by as they did of yore. 
 And the waves break thundering on the shore, 
 
 And the stars and the blossoms glow ! 
 
 What ! no romance in this world of ours ? — 
 
 We hear it o'er and o'er ; 
 ■Yet in knightly soul, not in knightly lance. 
 Dwelt the lofty spirit of old Romance 
 
 That lumined the days of yore ; 
 And in glowing mind and in earnest will. 
 In souls that soar and in hearts that thrill. 
 
 It will live for evermore ! 
 
 MARY MULLALY. 
 
 A BIT OF ROMANCE. 
 
 Show me the regions of sober reality. 
 
 Where can their definite landmarks be found? 
 Whether subjected to chance or fatality. 
 
 Have they a limit that circles them round .' 
 One thing I know, that such narrow periphery 
 
 Scarce would give room for the cast of a lance ; 
 A denizen there could scarce venture to whiff 
 ere he 
 
 Stumbled outside on some bit of romance. 
 
 Treading the chisel-cut streets of Brickopolis, 
 
 Hampered by certainties, elbowed by facts. 
 No need to gaze at an air-built acropolis. 
 
 Furnished with fairy-like dramas in acts ; 
 If you but plagiarize, let no fine rage arise. 
 
 Out of the common-place make no advance : 
 Flout ideality, lean on reality.— [romance. 
 
 You shall have touched the true source of 
 
 Call up Tom Gradgrind, and look at the build 
 of him ! 
 
 Concrete he says he is, concrete he seems : 
 The very volition appears to be drilled of him, — 
 
 Hard-fisted foe to delusions and dreams ; 
 Yield to his platitude, give him all latitude. 
 
 Soon in the regions of boast he'll advance, 
 Taking his frothing^ess all out of nothingness. 
 
 Beating Munchausen himself with romance. 
 
 What ! no romance in this world of ours. Sirs, I'm not one-half as good as I ought to be ; 
 
 Where the feelings ebb and flow. Error has found me at times more or less ; [be : 
 
 Where the heart to the music of love keeps time, ] Life has not placed me as high as I thought to 
 
 Or stumbles and halts like a broken rhyme, \ What I ambitioned I dare not confess ; 
 
 Or sinks 'neath its weight of woe ; ; But the erratical can be dogmatical, [vance,— 
 
 Where the battle of life rages day and night, ; Those who fall back may make others ad- 
 
 And the deathless struggle of Might and Right I So I am holding forth, so I am scolding forth. 
 
 Goes on as in long ago. Taking for text my old foe-friend romance 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 What I intend this farrago tu indicate 
 
 Simply is this : — ev'ry outburst of rhyme, 
 Without something to illustrate, something to 
 vindicate. 
 
 Taken at rhyming, perhaps, may be prime ; 
 But, to make phrases which others will ven- 
 erate, — 
 
 That cannot happen thro" sloth or by chance • 
 Paper and pen have been often degenerate, — 
 
 Poetry always sees life as romance. 
 
 Stand by life's tide as it rushes with men along, — 
 
 Nothing more wonderful, nothing less rare ! 
 Crassus and Lazarus. Falstaff and Fenelon, 
 
 Emmet and Arnold are all of them there ; 
 Urummel and Bellarmine, Cato and Cataline. 
 
 Cortes and Casas are under your glance : 
 Venus and Sycorax. Mentors and Telemaques. — 
 
 Are not these groups as grotesque as romance ? 
 
 FRANCIS O'RYAX. 
 
 DARK MARGARET. 
 
 We sit by the fire. 
 
 My poor old wife and I ; 
 The fire burns slow, our hearts are low,. 
 
 And the tear stands in the eye, 
 For our daughters three who are over the sea. 
 
 Far, far, in the wooded west ; 
 One after one, our darlings are gone ; 
 
 But our Mary we loved the best. 
 
 My brother's son 
 
 Sits in the chimney by us ; 
 The staff of our age — hard, hard is the page 
 
 Oi the lesson that keeps him by us. 
 For he longs to be free, to go over the sea. 
 
 Where his kindred have found their rest. 
 One after one, our darlings are gone ; 
 
 But our Mar)' he loved the best. 
 
 Welcome. Margaret ! 
 Dear Margaret, have you come .' 
 Draw nigh to the fire, and tighten the wire. 
 And sing us a song from home. 
 I For though heaven denies the light to your eyes. 
 Yet never were expressed 
 By the Harper King, such strains as you sing. 
 And our Mary loved ihem best. 
 
 Sit by me. Margaret, 
 Dear Margaret, sit by my side ; 
 For you loved my dearest daughter, far o'er the 
 world-wide water. 
 Who should have been our Patrick's bride. 
 
 ! sing me Iwr songs, for my poor heart longs 
 To clasp her to my breast ; 
 
 Tho' tears it will bring, yet my dariing must sing 
 What our Mary loved the best. 
 
 You are there, Patrick ! 
 1 feel your breathing soft upon my cheek ; 
 A tear is in v<iur eye, and well your heart knows 
 why:' 
 You are there I say, although you do not speak. 
 
 1 have been to pleasant .Meatn, and to rich Fin- 
 
 gal beneath. 
 And homeward I am going to the west ; 
 And I thought as I did pass I would sing the 
 
 "Colleen D/uis," 
 \ That one you loved so well, and best. 
 
 Hark ; she sings. 
 Tremblingly over the strings her fingers stray, 
 And the light that heaven denies to her clear but 
 darkened eyes, [tray. 
 
 Her wreathed smiles and dimpling cheeks be- 
 (") I it is our •' Colleen Dhas," as her pleasant 
 days did pass. 
 Loudly lilting at the milking with the rest ; 
 Soon, soon, alas ! in sighs and tears, she leaves 
 our longing eyes ; 
 The Mary we .-ill loved the best. 
 
 No more, my dearest Margaret — 
 Sing the " Colleen Dhas " no more ; 
 For her father and her mother loved her more 
 than any other, 
 And her parting grieves them sore. 
 You have been to pleasant Meath. and to rich 
 Fingal beneath, 
 And homeward you are going to the west ; 
 ; Tell us all the country news, the merriest you 
 can choose. 
 To pleasure the old couple we love best. 
 
 I have been to pleasant Meath. and to rich Fin- 
 gal beneath. 
 .And homeward I am going to the west ; 
 I will tell the country news, the merriest I can 
 choose. 
 To pleasure the old couple we love best. 
 
ODE TO POVERTY. 
 
 307 
 
 Your Mary has come home — your loved and 
 
 loving one. 
 
 And here she comes to tell you all the rest I 
 
 Now, Patrick, fill your glass, while I sing the 
 
 •• Colleen Dhas" 
 
 With a welcome home to Mar>', you love best ! 
 
 JOHN FISHER MURRAY. 
 
 WHERE? 
 
 A minute gone ! She lingered here, and then 
 Passed, with face backward turned, through 
 yonder door ; 
 
 The free foid of her garments' damask grain 
 Fashioned a hieroglyph upon the floor, 
 Then straightened, as it reached the corridor. 
 
 Down the long passages, I heard her feet 
 Moving — a crepitating music slow — 
 
 And next her voice, an echo exquisite. 
 But modulated in its tender flow, — 
 A harp thro' which the evening breezes blow. 
 
 Upon the table there were books and flowers, 
 And Indian trifles : a Mahratta blade 
 
 Whose ivory hilt sustained a cirque of towers. 
 Wedded by the inexplicable braid 
 On Vishnu's shrine at harvest full moon laid. 
 
 The curtains shook ; a scarlet glamour crossed 
 The stained wood and the white walls of the 
 
 Wavered, retreated, trembled, and was lost 
 Between the statue's plinth, the console's gloom, 
 And yon tall urn of yellow blossomed broom. 
 
 I see her face look backward at me yet. 
 Just as she glided by the cypress chair ; 
 
 Her happy eyes with happy tears are wet. 
 And, over bust and shoulders, cool and fair, 
 Stream the black coils of her abundant hair. 
 
 In what far past — in what abysm of time. 
 Have I beheld that self-same look before .' 
 
 There was no difference of hour or clime: 
 
 A garment made a figure on a floor, [dor. 
 
 Which straightened, sweeping toward a corri- 
 
 l^are trifles were around me, curtains blew. 
 And worked their restless phantasms on a ceil ; 
 
 A sidelong bird across a casement flew. 
 Upon the table glittered graven steel. 
 And a low voice thrilled me with soft appeal. 
 
 All things were there, as all things are, to-day. 
 But where.' I half remember, as a dream. 
 
 Such accidents, in epochs long grown gray — 
 Such glory, but with ever-narrowing beam, 
 From which I'm severed by some shoreless 
 stream. 
 
 Have I forgotten ?— is this flash of light, [start. 
 Which makes the brain and pulse together 
 
 Some ray reflected from the infinite 
 
 Worlds, where I may hap have left a heart — 
 The Infinite of which I am a part .' 
 
 Who shall unriddle it ? Return, sweet wife. 
 And with thy presence sanctify this pain ; 
 
 Cling to my side, O faithful help of life ! 
 Lest in the hour when night is on the wane. 
 The destinies divide us two again. 
 
 JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNELL. 
 
 ODE TO POVERTY. 
 
 O kind acquaintance ! thou who, proverbs say. 
 Dost make strange fellows meet in tawdry bed, — 
 Comrades of wistful mouth, keen eyes of gray. 
 Rough, world-bewrinkled face and hoary head. 
 They say a gulf's between us that no tread 
 Of thine can cross, tho' loving me so well. 
 Yet still I long to clasp 
 Thy hand with friendly grasp. 
 For, spite of their predictions, who can tell .■' 
 
 What days we had, old comrade, you and I, 
 Bright years ago, when I was gay and young ; 
 With you I roamed the ferny mountains high, 
 Heard nature's voice in streams, in winds that 
 sung, [tongue ;— 
 
 And wood -birds warbled with melodious 
 With you and other just as quaint compeers. 
 What days and nights we had. 
 Well mixed of gay and sad ; 
 What revels, and what laughter, and what tears ! 
 
 Ah ! many a lord of power and high renown. 
 Driven from his state, at last shook hands with 
 thee; -[frown 
 
 And many a queen and mighty king, whose 
 Would shake the world, have kept thee company : 
 Thee they derided, while I reverently 
 Call on thee, brother, with affection kind, 
 That if misfortune's pain 
 Should come to me again, [mind ! 
 Thou'lt leave me still the heaven of peace and 
 
 ROBERT mVYER JOYCE. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSHECTION. 
 
 A BRIGHT SPOT IN THE SKY. 
 The dream of years ofttimes betrays 
 A golden grief over golden days. — 
 A grief which chants, on memory's shell. 
 The requiem of a sad farewell ; 
 But when its strains grow low and die. 
 There is a bright spot in the sky. 
 
 With all life's ills I am content. 
 If well my days are daily spent ; 
 When phantoms from a distant land 
 Shall come and lead me by the hand. 
 Resigned I II go. without a sigh, 
 For there's a bright spot in the sky. 
 
 Should hearts grow cold and men forget 
 The hand that placed them in its debt. 
 Since error is the fate of all. 
 And some will stand, and some will fall. 
 No man by me shall prostrate lie 
 While there's a bright spot in the sky. 
 
 This world is good to him that lives 
 Within the bounds that nature gives ; 
 But roses bloom and roses fade, 
 And brightest jewels have their shade , 
 If gloom surround, then gaze on high, 
 And find a bright spot in the sky. 
 
 In every home let sunshine dwell. 
 
 On every face let kindness tell. 
 
 In every heart let peace find rest; 
 
 And should pale sorrow wring the breast 
 
 Take courage then and look on high — 
 
 There's still a bright spot in the sky. 
 
 To other hearts and other hands, 
 To other climes and other lands. 
 The coast is dark along that main 
 Whose pilgrims ne'er return again ; 
 But in that long and last good-bye. 
 A star will guide from sky to sky. 
 
 HUGH F. McDERMOTT. 
 
 THE WHITE ROSE. 
 
 It is a withered rose. 
 That like a rose's corpse, full dry and wan 
 
 Finds here its last repose. 
 Its lustre dulled, its form and softness crushed, 
 The tender life with which its petals flushed. 
 And all its soul of subtle fragrance gone ; 
 
 A primal rose that bloomed 
 Among the kindling brands, as white as frost. 
 
 Where Zillah stood undoomed. 
 Or from .Mahomet's forehead lluttered fair 
 To earth, when Al Borak cleft through the air 
 In flight to heaven, might leave so frail a ghost. 
 
 The poet moralist 
 Hath ever taken sombre joy to sing 
 
 Uf)on a theme so trist. 
 And write in dust of roses lessons grim : — [dim. 
 That pleasures must be snatched ere they grow 
 For germs of death in folds of beauty cling ; 
 
 That since the roses die. 
 No mortal loveliness may long endure ; 
 
 No joy outlast a sigh ; 
 No passion's tlirill. no labor's work remain 
 Beyond a season ; that decay doth reign ; — 
 Though in the tyrant's very riot, sure. 
 
 Some pledge of hope is found, 
 That all the universe is not a grave 
 
 And life sits somewhere crowned. 
 Not Tasso's soft persuasion unto sin 
 I find, dear rose, thy withered leaves within. 
 Nor any precept Epicurus gave ; 
 
 To me thou dost not breathe 
 A thought of festivals, or memory 
 
 Of woven, wine-dippetl wreath. 
 Or kisses on ripe lips, or fond regret 
 For bounds by time to fleeting pleasures set. 
 Or wish to bring thy beauty back to thee. 
 
 To kiss thy leaves I bend. 
 And lo : The crash of cannon fills mine ears : 
 
 I see the banners blend 
 Into the battle smoke : and the long lines 
 Of marching men where glint of bayonet shines 
 Through clouds of dust ;— the hopes, the hates, 
 the fears 
 
 Of old thrill through my heart ; 
 Again the myriad ghosts of the great war 
 
 From out their cerements start ; 
 Again the nation in the contest strains 
 Its every ner\'e ; again the deep refrains 
 Of groan and cheer break on us from afar ! 
 
 What mystery of power 
 To fill the mind with visions such as these 
 
 Lies in this scentless flower ? 
 'Tis three and twenty years this very June, 
 Since first it opened to the southern noon 
 And swung in languor to a southern breeze ; 
 
THE WHITE ROSE. 
 
 309 
 
 And on the stalwart breast 
 Of one that wore the blue, while yet in bloom, 
 
 'Twas set, in gallant jest ; 
 In the long march's dust it drooped its head 
 And in the smoke of Gettysburg lay dead. 
 With many a life more precious finding doom. 
 
 Beside a farmer's home 
 In shade and shine this rose of battle grew. 
 
 What time the rolling drum 
 Announced the crisis of the war at hand, 
 As Meade pressed swiftly north through Mary- 
 And ever closer to Lee's columns drew ; [land, 
 
 On that grim, weary march 
 Rain seldom fell ; the June sun fiercely glowed. 
 
 And seemed all things to parch ; 
 The winds grew still, nor in their motion swung 
 The dust that round the lithe battalions clung 
 For miles on many a winding country road. 
 
 The women stood in groups 
 And watched with tear-wet eyes and smiling lips 
 
 The marching of the troops ; 
 The smiles came at the sight of manhood stern 
 Moving to sacrifice with unconcern ; 
 The tears were for the battle's drear eclipse 
 
 That was so soon to fall 
 On many a home where then the sunshine slept — 
 
 The shadow of a pall ; [and stars. 
 
 And though their hopes went with the stripes 
 Or lingered far away with stars and bars. 
 Yet they were women still — and smiled and wept ! 
 
 And where this rosebud lush 
 Had blossomed into innocence and peace 
 
 Upon its modest bush, 
 A column halted for a rest at noon 
 And the tired soldiers, glad of such a boon, 
 Flung knapsacks off, stacked arms, and took 
 their ease. 
 
 And there to one that quaffed [zest, 
 
 From the deep farm-house well, with careless 
 
 A luscious draught, 
 A fair girl said, scorn lurking round her mouth : 
 " Dare these men meet the veterans of the South,'" 
 Half earnestly she spoke, and half in jest. 
 
 The soldier's serious eyes 
 An instant flashed, and then grew soft again, 
 
 While yet the quick surprise 
 Was flushing his bronzed cheek ; but he was born 
 To reverence womanhood, and not to scorn ; 
 And so disdained to wound her with disdain. 
 
 He spoke with quiet grace 
 In even tones, a smile both quaint and grave 
 
 Upon his firm, strong face : 
 " To wear in the ne.xt battle give to me 
 A rose," he said, " and then the rose will see I" 
 In sobered mood she plucked this flower and 
 gave. 
 
 It seems another age [bloom 
 
 When things like these were done ; the rose's 
 
 He took as battle gage. 
 And with his laughing comrades went his way. 
 Well knowing that the columns wide astray 
 Were fast converging for the day of doom ! 
 
 O streams of rippling steel 
 That northward flowed with current ever true ! 
 
 In thought we watched you wheel 
 Among the hills, a-winding to and fro. 
 The weapons sparkling o'er the men below 
 Like glancing foam above the waves of blue ! 
 
 We knew your end and source, [dire. 
 And that your torrents, crowned with portents 
 
 Would keep their onward course 
 Till in the battle's plunge, with thunder's roar 
 And scorching flames, your cleansing tides 
 
 should pour 
 Abroad, and save the nation as by fire ! 
 
 The first day of July, 
 Just north of Gettysburg, the fight began 
 
 Whose memory will not die. 
 There lay along the outskirts of a wood 
 A regiment busy in the work of blood ; 
 And he that wore the rose watched every man. 
 
 Alert, unvexed, intense. 
 And kept the firing cool, and fierce and fast ; 
 
 In front in column dense [flinch 
 
 Stern Southern valor stormed, and would not 
 Nor be denied, yet could not win an inch — 
 Till far outflanked, our lines gave way at last. 
 
 Behind the frightened town. 
 On Cemetery Hill the rout was stayed; 
 
 And there the men lay down 
 And slept content among the graves that night : 
 And there this pallid rose, in soft moonlight. 
 Upon its wearer's heaving bosom swayed. 
 
 The gathered armies clashed. 
 And on the circling hills, the second day, 
 
 Incessant cannon crashed ; 
 And shot and shell tore up each reverent mound 
 And flung the tombstones' shattered fragments 
 
 round — ■ 
 Poor rose, that heard the din of such a fray ! 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 On the third day, behold ! 
 It saw the climax of the battle come ; 
 
 When calm, and stern, and bold 
 The jjreat \'irjjinians charged and could not win, 
 Tho' manhood's Hower, as they have ever been 
 In field or hall, or by the hearth of home. 
 
 How proud their column moved 
 Up the long slope of death with stubborn tread. 
 
 Obeying him they loved ! 
 And still against the storm of fire that scourged 
 Supporting squadrons backward as it surged. 
 How fierce they held their way unwearied ! 
 
 Mayhap with other foes 
 They might have won ; but ever slow to yield 
 
 And ever prompt to close 
 Were Hancock's men ; and the \'irginian shaft 
 That pierced our lines was shattered, head and 
 
 haft. 
 Within the wound ! — And Lee had lost the field ! 
 
 Amid the eddied smoke, 
 The groans of dying men, and the glad cheer 
 
 Of victory that broke 
 F"rom hill to hill, this thing of beauty died. 
 And he that wore and had forgot it, sighed 
 And thought of it again as something dear ; 
 
 So from his breast he took 
 The rose and sent it home to have it set 
 
 Within this simple book. 
 The favorite of a girl he loved and lost, 
 And 'mid the leaves it lingers like a ghost — 
 Though they be gone the flower abideth yet ! 
 
 And often when I gaze 
 Into its folds and see these visions fair. 
 
 Mine eyes are filled with haze 
 Of tears for him that wore it, true and brave ; 
 Almost 1 turn to fling it on his grave 
 Beside the little flag that flutters there !— 
 
 Then sigh for power to close 
 Within the amber clear of poetry 
 
 This pale and withered rose 
 That else must pass and crumble into dust 
 And squander in some wild and windy gust 
 The essence I would set in melody. — 
 
 The feelings of the time 
 When first it bloomed ; the deeds of sacrifice ; 
 
 The thoughts and acts sublime ; 
 The scenes of battle with their woe and scathe, 
 The courtesy and courage, love and faith — 
 That I can read within it with mine eyes ! 
 
 JOSEPH O'CONNOR. 
 
 THE BRIER-WOOD PIPE. 
 
 Ha ! bully for me again, when my turn for the 
 picket is over. 
 
 And now for a smoke as 1 lie, with the moon- 
 light, out in the clover. 
 
 My pipe is onljKhe knot from the root of a brier- 
 wood tree, 
 
 But it turns my heart to the Northward — Harry 
 gave it to me. 
 
 And I'm but a rough, at the best, bred up to the 
 
 row and the riot ; 
 But a softness comes over my heart when all are 
 
 asleep and quiet. 
 
 For many a time in the night strange things 
 
 appear to my eye. 
 As the breath from my brier- wood pip>e curls up 
 
 between me and the sky. 
 
 Last night a beautiful spirit arose with the wisp- 
 
 ing smoke ; 
 O, I shook, but my heart felt good, as it spread 
 
 out its hands and spoke ; 
 
 Saying, " I am the soul of the brier ; we grew at 
 
 the root of a tree, 
 Where lovers would come in the twilight— two 
 
 ever, for company. 
 
 " \\'here lovers would come in the morning — ever 
 
 but two together ; 
 When the flowers were full in their blow; the 
 
 birds in their song and feather ; 
 
 "Where lovers would come in the noontide, loi- 
 tering — never but two. 
 
 Looking in each other's eyes, like pigeons that 
 kiss and coo. 
 
 "And O, the honeyed words that came when 
 
 their lips were parted. 
 And the passion that glowed in the eyes, and the 
 
 lightning looks that darted ! 
 
 "Enough : Love dwells in the pipe— so ever it 
 
 glows with fire! 
 \ And I am the soul of the bush, and the spirits 
 '■ call me Sweet Brier." 
 
 That's what the brier-wood said, as nigh as my 
 I tongue can tell, 
 
 And the words went straight to my heart, like 
 the stroke of the old fire-bell. 
 
LUCY'S ATTIRE. 
 
 To-night I lie in the clover, watching the blos- 
 
 somy smoke ; 
 I'm glad the boys are asleep, for I aint in the 
 
 humor to joke. 
 
 I lie in the hefty clover; up between me and the 
 
 The smoke of my pipe arises : my heart will be 
 quiet, soon. 
 
 My thoughts are back in the city, I'm everything 
 
 I've been ; 
 1 hear the bell from the tower, I run with the 
 
 swift machine, 
 
 I see the red shirts crowding around the engine 
 
 house door ; 
 The foreman's hail from the trumpet conies with 
 
 a hollow roar. 
 
 The reel in the Bowery dance-house, the row in 
 the beer saloon, 
 
 Where I put in my licks at Big Paul, come be- 
 tween me and the moon. 
 
 I hear the drum and the bugle, the tramp of the 
 
 cow-skin boots. 
 We are marching on our muscle, the Fire Zouave 
 
 recruits ! 
 
 White handkerchiefs wave before me — O, but 
 
 the sight is pretty 
 On the white marble steps, as we march through 
 
 the heart of the city. 
 
 Bright eyes and clasping arms, and lips that bade 
 
 us good hap. 
 And the splendid lady who gave me the havelock 
 
 for my cap. 
 
 O, up from my pipe-cloud rises, there between 
 
 me and the moon, 
 A beautiful white-robed lady : my heart will be 
 
 quiet, soon. 
 
 The lovely golden-haired lady ever in dreams I 
 
 see. 
 Who gave me the snow-white havelock — but 
 
 what does she care for me ? 
 
 Look at my grimy features ; mountains between 
 
 us stind: 
 I with my sledge-hammer knuckles, she with her 
 
 jeweled hand ! 
 
 What care I .' — the day that's dawning may see 
 
 me, when all is over. 
 With the red stream of my life blood staining 
 
 the hefty clover. 
 
 Hark ! the reveille sounding out in the morning 
 
 air; 
 Devils are we for the battle — Will there be 
 
 angels there .' 
 
 Kiss me again, Sweet Brier, the touch of your 
 
 lips to mine 
 Brings back the white-robed lady with hair like 
 
 the golden wine ! 
 
 CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. 
 
 LUCY'S ATTIRE. 
 
 When the summer's sultry noon 
 
 Flecks her chamber with its rays, 
 Or in arbors sweet the moon, 
 
 Warmly waning through the haze, 
 Sheds along her careless hair 
 Languid lustres, she shall wear 
 Floating robes of purest white. 
 And perfled scarf as airy light 
 As morning cloud ; but when the crown 
 Of golden autumn turns to brown. 
 And sad the wind of sunset blows 
 About the evening's shortened close ; 
 When bees have settled in their hive. 
 And leaf-strewn gates are closed at five ; 
 When moonlight fays in pantries flock. 
 O'er milky pail and honey-crock, — 
 O then in garb of russet she 
 Shall pace the rounds of housewifery ; 
 
 With key-bunch safe in apron fold. 
 Mix with the twilight ouphs, and feast 
 In morning casements, looking east, 
 
 The bright-eyed robin puff'd with cold. 
 
 When December's leaden day 
 
 Scarcely breaks the clasp of niglit. 
 Soft shall be her garb and gay, 
 
 Soft and warm in winter's spite ; 
 Nettled caps of closest coil 
 Shall guard her locks in silken toil ; 
 Bonnets blithe of darling dyes 
 Enshade her forehead's coquetries ; 
 
312 
 
 J'OEAfS OF SENr/AfE.Vr AXD RETROSPECT It 
 
 Collars crescent shaped and white, 
 Needled from the flaxen skein 
 Round her jjentle throat will show 
 Like a wreath of crispy snow ; 
 Ever her finj;er tips shall glow 
 In tiny gloves that fit as tight 
 As pink sheaths of the i>erfunied bean. 
 
 But when norland tempests stir. 
 mowing o'er the frosted lands, 
 
 She must wear, without demur. 
 
 Cosy refuges of fur 
 
 For sweetest neck and cold white hands ; 
 
 So that whosoe'er she meet 
 
 Shall deem her soft salute a treat : 
 
 And though skies arc gray and dull 
 Round about her, yet within 
 
 Mantle lined with warmest wool, 
 Shall her merry heart make din ; 
 
 As she treads the noon-day town 
 Toward the costly decked bazaar: 
 
 Or, by evening forest brown 
 
 Wanders with her favorite star. 
 
 Such shall seem her outward dress ; 
 
 As the mystic seasons roll 
 Seasoned with them ; while no less 
 
 Shall their image tinge her soul. 
 Chaste as chill December ; bright 
 As starry July's summer night ; 
 Pure as April's gelid buds, 
 Rich as -August's fruited woods. 
 Blending in its many moods 
 Nature's warnitli with Heaven's light. 
 
 rUDMAS c. IRWI 
 
 WINTER'S VICTIM. 
 
 Ah, crony mine, alone we sit. 
 While round us howls the winter. 
 
 And thoughts of beauty dying Hit. 
 As sparks from yonder splinter. 
 
 Earth, air, and sky are bleak and chill- 
 Blest \'irgin guide the comer. 
 
 Who ventures o'er this Highland hill— 
 'I'lie Mionumcnt of summer. 
 
 Relight your meerschaum, crony mil 
 Let's dream in clouds together; 
 
 Refill your glass with friendly wine. 
 We'll loast the summer-weather. 
 
 For oh, wild frosts shall ne'er congeal. 
 Nor make our hearts the glummer. 
 
 Nor blight the kindness that we feel 
 For earth-delighting summer. 
 
 Hark ! heard you not a cry full faint. 
 Yet loud to ears of pity .' 
 
 Ope, ope the do<5r, no human plaint 
 Shall pass us to the city. 
 
 What's here ? a girl and aged man- 
 He guards but to benumb her — 
 
 'Tis winter, shivering and wan. 
 And "neath his robes the summer. 
 
 Come in, come in, thou hoary form. 
 
 Come in, thou frozen beauty ; 
 Here glows the firelight glad and warm. 
 
 With hearts of tender duty. 
 Take thou the farthest ingle-rest, 
 
 Weird sjige, where thou may'st slumber; 
 The maiden is the more distrest — 
 
 Ah ! saddened is the summer. 
 
 And crony mine— the embers fade, — 
 
 A chill is in her bosom — 
 Alas ! she's dead, the lovely maid : — 
 
 White-haired ! but why accuse him ? 
 He sleeps as with a soul of grace. 
 
 With mien than erst not grummer— 
 Haste, haste thee, comrade, seek a place 
 
 Where we may bury summer. 
 
 Lost bloom ! the north-wind moans her dirge, 
 
 Be ours to aye commend her ; 
 But grieve not, comrade, she'll emerge 
 
 From out the grave in splendor. 
 She'll rise again and charm the world ; 
 
 Then, wand'ring never from her, 
 We'll laugh to see old winter hurled 
 
 From all the paths of summer, 
 
 WII.I.I.\M J. McCLURE. 
 
 THE BEAUTY. 
 
 Be it my most pleasing duly 
 To describe a little beauty ; 
 Though I never saw her face 
 But within a picture-case. 
 'T would look better in a bonnet. 
 With a wreath of flowers upon it, 
 .\nd a loving smile to sun it. 
 But even round that picture cover 
 Love and memory ever hover. 
 Like the bees round tops of clover. 
 
SWEET CHLOE. 
 
 zn 
 
 It is the daguerreotype 
 
 Of all that's rich, and rare and ripe ! 
 
 Let me count the rosary 
 
 Of her charms, and bend the knee 
 
 Of unpretending poesy 
 
 Before the heather-covered shrine 
 
 Of this patron-saint of thine. 
 
 Who, combining every grace, 
 
 Reigns a female Bonny-face : — 
 
 Hair in deep, dark currents flowing, 
 
 Whose smooth waves with light are glowing, 
 
 As in countless drifts and whorls 
 
 It breaks upon her neck in curls ; 
 
 Flashing eyes with azure tinged. 
 
 Jetty arched and silken-fringed ; 
 
 Blest he'll be whom their warm glances 
 
 Coax along to love's advances; 
 
 Happy he who shall behold 
 
 Love's first buds in them unfold. 
 
 Her dainty nose I'll not define 
 
 As either Greek or aquiline, 
 
 Nor it with ostentation call 
 
 " The noblest Roman of them all " — 
 
 But all their beauties blent in one 
 
 Could only make this paragon ; 
 
 For in it mingle all the graces 
 
 Seen in those of classic faces. 
 
 Cheeks on which, tho' peace reposes, 
 
 War again the jealous roses. 
 
 A dainty mouth enwreathed with smiles, 
 
 But free from all coquettish wiles. 
 
 Whose curved lips, vermilion-hued. 
 
 Are love's own sweet similitude ; 
 
 While thro' them oft are seen beneath 
 
 Flashing, pearl-enameled teeth. 
 
 Throat that like a marble column, 
 
 Curtained by her tresses' volume. 
 
 Stands revealed as in a niche. 
 
 Splendidly adorned and rich. 
 
 Moulded to artistic lines. 
 
 And polished till it fairly shines. 
 
 There you see all rare and bright, 
 
 A face of which I dream at night. 
 
 If her charms I've rightly told, 
 
 'Tis an angel you behold. 
 
 Who will win and wear the beauty ? 
 
 Some old fellow grim and sooty. 
 
 You smile, and doubtless think it funny — 
 
 Let me add, he'll have the money ! 
 
 A sour and mouldy, hard old crust. 
 
 Round whom dame Fortune drifts her dust,— 
 
 Some brute, who may abuse and thump her- 
 
 Or some sleek young counter-jumper — 
 
 A shrewd, adulterating grocer, — 
 
 Methinks I hear you mutter, " No, sir I" 
 
 Ah ! my boy, you should know better ; 
 
 One of them is sure to get her. 
 
 Depend upon it, she'll be won 
 
 By Jones, or Brown, or Robinson. 
 
 If she fishes for her mate 
 
 With youth and beauty as her bait, 
 
 The chances are she'll catch a Tartar, 
 
 And die a matrimonial martyr; 
 
 Or, after years of angling, marry 
 
 Tom. aye. even Dick or Harry. 
 
 If her heart is not as true 
 
 As her features fair to view. 
 
 For you to strive to rival Mammon 
 
 Is worse, my friend, far worse than gammon. 
 
 Most beauties are, you should consider. 
 
 Knocked down to the highest bidder. 
 
 Every one has some sweet face 
 
 Prisoned in a picture-case, 
 
 Or by memory's magic art 
 
 Photographed upon the heart ; 
 
 And we all, in gloomy days. 
 
 Steal apart and on them gaze. 
 
 Some bring thoughts of hope and gladness, 
 
 Some of by-gone days and sadness ; 
 
 As old eyes by longing kindled. 
 
 Fondly to past pleasures travel. 
 
 And weird fingers, lean and dwindled. 
 
 All their web of life unravel 
 
 For the threads of golden sheen 
 
 That far apart are dimly seen. 
 
 MICHAEL O'CONNOR. 
 
 SWEET CHLOE. 
 
 Sweet Chloe advised me. in accents divine. 
 
 The joys of the bov\l to surrender; 
 Nor lose, in the turbid e.xcesses of wine, 
 
 Delights more ecstatic and tender; 
 She bade me no longer in vineyards to bask, 
 Or stagger, at orgies, the dupe of a flask. 
 For the sigh of a sot's but the scent of the cask. 
 And a bubble the bliss of the bottle. 
 
 To a soul that's exhausted, or sterile, or dry, 
 The juice of the grape may be wanted ; 
 
 But mine is revived by a love-beaming eye, 
 And with fancy's gay flow'rets enchanted. 
 
POEMS OF SESTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 Oh I who but an owl would a t^ariand entwine 
 Of Bacchus' ivy — and myrtle resign ? — 
 Yield the odors of love for the vapors of wine, 
 And Chloe's kind kiss for a bottle ? 
 
 EDWARD LVSAGHT. 
 
 OUR NOBLE IRISH GIRLS. 
 
 God bless our noble Irish girls, 
 
 God bless them all to-day ; 
 We'll send the prayer far o'er the land. 
 
 For other lips to say ; 
 For when the tyrant's hand was laid 
 
 Upon the true and brave. 
 In the tender pride of womanhood 
 They rose to help and save. 
 
 Then here's our own dear Irish girls. 
 
 Here's to o«r maiden band. 
 Who yet are seen to wear the green 
 In the cause of the dear old land. 
 
 What time a foeman's hireling crew 
 
 Surrounded Limerick's wall. 
 The maids of Limerick bravely stood 
 
 To answer manhood's call. 
 The spirit's not departed yet 
 
 With the faithful who have died 
 For freedom's cause — our own dear hearts 
 Still muster by our side. 
 
 Then here's our own brave Irish girls. 
 
 Here's to the maiden band, 
 Who still are seen to wear the green 
 In the cause of the poor old land. 
 
 And walking in the funeral throng 
 
 Which told a nation's woe. 
 Ye showed the spirit changeless yet 
 
 Of the days of long ago. 
 The rain might fall, the wild wind sweep 
 
 O'er bridge and street and square. 
 But firm as soldiers in the ranks 
 So pressed ye onward there. 
 
 Then here's our own true Irish girls, 
 
 Here's to the maiden band. 
 Who yet are seen to wear the green 
 In the cause of the dear old land. 
 
 Oh, may the starry eyes which looked 
 
 On mourning Freedom's sign, 
 Yet flash their glorious light upon 
 
 A nation's marshalled line. 
 
 And may the prayer which maiden li|)> 
 
 Have sent to God above. 
 
 Bear to our stricken motherland 
 
 The golden crown of love. 
 
 Then here's to the noble Irish giris, 
 
 God bless the maiden band. 
 Who yet are seen to wear the green 
 In the cause of the dear old land. 
 .lOH.N KtEGAN CASEV. 
 
 THE EYES OF AN IRISH GIRL. 
 
 ^ou may talk about black eyes and blue. 
 
 About brown eyes, and hazel and gray ; 
 You may praise as you please every hue 
 
 Known on earth since its earliest day ; 
 But no other eyes under the sun 
 
 Can set poor human hearts in a whirl. 
 With their pathos and mischief and fun. 
 
 Like the eyes of a bright Irish girl. 
 
 They are soft as the down on a dove. 
 
 They are mild as a midsummer dawn. 
 They are warm as the red heart of love. 
 
 They are coy as the glance of a fawn ; 
 Tender, pensive, and dreamy as night. 
 
 Bright and pure as the daintiest pearl. 
 Yet as merrily mad as a sprite 
 
 Are the eyes of a young Irish girl. 
 
 They can soothe and delight with a 'oeam. 
 
 They can rouse and inspire with a glance. 
 They can chill and reprove with a gleam 
 
 That is keen as the flash of a lance : 
 To bring peace, or the pangs of despair 
 
 To one's breast, be he noble or thurl, 
 There is nothing on earth to compare 
 
 With the eyes of a true Irish girl. 
 
 ^'ou may search cabin, cottage and hall. 
 
 Thro' the loveliest lands that are known ; 
 But the loveliest land of them all 
 
 Has no eyes like the eyes of our own ; 
 There are faces, no doubt, quite as sweet. 
 
 And as fair, under ringlet and curl, 
 But no light like the splendors that meet 
 
 In the eyes of a glad Irish giri. 
 
 Ah ! Dame Nature was cruelly kind 
 When she took from her lenderest skies 
 
 The most e.xquisite tints she could find 
 And bestowed them on soft Irish eyes; 
 
THE N YMPH OF L URLEIBERGH. 3 1 5 
 
 For no other eyes under the sun 
 
 While birds a-wing will soar and sing 
 
 Can set poor human hearts in a whirl, 
 
 To greet the King of morning risen. 
 
 With their pathos and mischief and fun 
 
 And, nature-stirred, the captive bird 
 
 Like the eyes of a bright Irish girl. 
 
 Will join accord to cheat his pri.son— 
 
 DANIEL CONNOLLY. 
 
 So while my heart had felt, apart. 
 
 
 A transient start, it passed, fair lady. 
 
 
 For love on guard, kept watch and ward, 
 
 
 And closed and barred its door already. 
 
 FROM BONDAGE FREE. 
 
 E'en so we've met, and part, but yet. 
 
 Thy spirit is from bondage free ! 
 
 With fond regret, no other motive. 
 
 Death gave thee guiltless liberty ; 
 
 I drop a flower in beauty's bower, 
 
 Sweet victim of ungrateful love, 
 
 To one sweet hour of pleasure votive- 
 
 Flit happy through the realms above ! 
 
 Its only aim a thought to claim. 
 
 No priest am I, with rigid rule 
 
 From one of Eve's transcendent daughters— 
 
 Thy merits to arraign ; 
 
 When Minnie Beck— when yonder deck 
 
 No dunce untaught in sorrow's school. 
 
 Is but a speck upon the waters. 
 
 I feel for others' pain ; 
 
 JOHN BOYLE. 
 
 An humble offering on thy bier, 
 I drop a sympathetic tear. 
 
 
 THE NYMPH OF LURLEIBERGH. 
 
 Life's toils are mercifully brief : 
 
 In Lurleibergh's deep shadowed vale. 
 
 Death gives the woe-worn heart relief ; 
 
 Where all the Rhine's blue waters meet, 
 
 When hope is fled, 'tis bliss to die- 
 
 A maiden sat, as fair and pale 
 
 Griefs ending with a single sigh. 
 
 As were the lilies at her feet; 
 
 Delusive love dissolves the heart. 
 
 Her hair in wild profusion flowing 
 
 Where vivid passions glow ; 
 
 From roses richly wreathed above 
 
 The fault was nature's— thine the smart ; 
 
 To hide the gentle bosom, glowing 
 
 I well can feel thy woe ; 
 
 With mingled thoughts of fear and love. 
 
 Sweet one, may'st thou, thro' heaven's skies. 
 
 Oh, Nymph of Lurleibergh ! thy lute. 
 
 A kindred spirit recognize. 
 
 Why stands it thus untouched and mute ? 
 
 EDWARD LVSAGHT. 
 
 What pensive shadows cloud thine eye. 
 
 
 And cheat the moments as they fly .' 
 
 
 Thou art too young, too fair for pain 
 To dim the smile or wring the brain ; 
 
 
 MINNIE BECK. 
 
 Too pure thou seem'st for thought of ill. 
 
 
 Yet sad thou art, and pensive still. 
 
 Minnie Beck, if snow-white neck. 
 
 
 Without a speck to mar its graces ; 
 
 Yea, thou art sad, although no tear 
 
 If golden hair o'er forehead fair. 
 
 Bedews thy silken-fringed lid. 
 
 Where time nor care hath left its traces ; 
 
 And all the more will sorrow sear 
 
 If lustrous eyes that sink and rise 
 
 When thus in mute endurance hid. 
 
 In soft surprise, their chastened glances 
 
 Thine eyes are fixed upon the river. 
 
 Devoid of skill, yet looks that will 
 
 As past thy feet its waters roll 
 
 Be fatal still as levelled lances ; 
 
 And, swift as are its ripples, quiver 
 
 
 The tides of feeling in thy soul. 
 
 If twinkling feet, that part and meet 
 
 Oh, Nymph of Lurieibergh ! the crown 
 
 As light and fleet as Terpsichore's 
 
 Of flowers you wear will wither soon. 
 
 In festal scene, with grace and mien, 
 
 The lute's harmonious chords will slack, 
 
 Marked you the queen of circling glories ; 
 
 And youth, once flown, comes never back; 
 
 If form— no more— made man adore. 
 
 The gushing waters, pure and sweet. 
 
 In days of yore, the Paphian statue, 
 
 That pour their tribute to thy feet, 
 
 Then ask not why or wherefore I 
 
 Soon pass the bowers of trellised vine, 
 
 Should breathe a sigh while glancing at you. 
 
 And perish in the stormful brine. 
 
3i6 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 We should not waste in tears the hours 
 
 Of youth, that all too fleetly flow ; 
 In spring the fields are decked with flowers. 
 
 And wintry age is capped with snow; 
 And thou art in the spring of being. 
 
 And thou shouldst be as light and gay 
 As is the lark when upward fleeing 
 
 To bathe his pinions in the ray 
 That calls the bluebell from the meadow, 
 And steeps the hill in sultry shadow ; 
 That bathes the morning lake in fire 
 And tips with gold the village spire. 
 I too have felt the hopeless void 
 Of pleasures lost when most enjoyed. 
 And learned, alas ! that tears are vain 
 To wash sad memories from the brain. 
 
 CHARLES a. HALPINE. 
 
 IN MEDITATION. 
 This is the picture ? Then, I take 
 
 The free gift from the free. 
 • Like .' "— O most like : " but flattering.? " no ! 
 
 Too true for flattery. 
 That hair is just such doubtful gold. 
 
 Those eyes the same blue-gray. 
 As that which rotmd your forehead falls, 
 
 As yours that shift and play ; 
 That upper lip's faint, prideful curve. 
 
 That full lip's fire and fear ; 
 That tightened nostril's lurking scorn — 
 
 (,How pitiless ! how dear !) — 
 That fair smooth circle of the head ; 
 
 That white, unwrinkled brow — 
 (Just where the woven tresses part, 
 
 A shade, perhaps, too low) — 
 That languid eyelash ; that pale cheek, 
 
 A trifle straight and thin. 
 Strong in its coldness, strangely weak. 
 
 There sloping towards the chin ; 
 Those eyelids lightly lined with thought. 
 
 But seldom worn with tears ; 
 And those inexorable curls 
 
 Behind tiic jewelled cars — 
 They live— it breathes— your soul is here. 
 
 Ay. madam, clear and plain ; 
 And gaining from your slender hand 
 
 This image bright. 1 gain 
 Indeed your heart's true love . . . clink ! clash 
 
 Ah ! there amid my weal 
 I cast it from me— thus, thus, thus 
 
 Ti) grind it with my heel. 
 
 GF.OROE F. ARMSTRONG. 
 
 MISSING. 
 
 A little old house on a hill ; 
 Behind it tall pines, and before 
 The white drift of sea to the shore. 
 
 Across the night shadows the trill 
 Of a bird ; and the tender and sweet 
 Love-sigh of the grass at my feet. 
 
 O little old house on the hill. 
 
 Where is she, who. in simshine and snow. 
 
 Dwelt here in the years long ago .' 
 
 Beyond the wide sea, and the shrill 
 Cry of winds, one hath borne her afar. 
 And high above us as yon star. 
 
 O little old house on the hill. 
 
 Sweet her eyes, and how splendid and fair 
 
 The rippled gold float of her hair. 
 
 Doth love in her heart hold us still .'— 
 
 Ah I the night, how it darks and grows chill, 
 
 O little old house on the hill ! 
 
 MINNIE GILMORE. 
 
 SYMPATHIES. 
 
 Green vine ! low trailing thro' the tangled grass. 
 Yet clasping nought by which thy tendrils pass. 
 
 Say, whither tendest thou.' 
 " Towards yonder grand, wide reaching stately 
 
 tree. 
 Long years I strive ; there shall my resting be. 
 
 Not here, nor now : 
 There shall I cling, and to the sun uprear, 
 .After my nature, fruitage ripe and fair 
 
 Clustered on every bough ! " 
 O earnest vine, this life of mine 
 Hath a goal and a shrine, like thee ! 
 
 Bright bird, swift cleaving thro' the autumn air. 
 Silent and lonely, tell me why and where 
 
 Thou wing'st thy eager flight } 
 •• P'ar. far beyond the blue and shining sea 
 Lies a fair land, earth's only home for me. 
 
 Glowing in southern light ; 
 There shall I dwell, there pour forth all my song. 
 Buried within my panting heart so long - 
 
 A song of strong delight ! " 
 O bird, my breast hath a wild unrest. 
 And an utterance-que.st, like thee / 
 
J?OS£S AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 317 
 
 Brown sailor, dreaming in thy drifting bark, 
 Why o'er the ocean, trackless, wide and dark 
 
 Sailest thou night and day ? 
 "The storm-blast tore me from a tranquil shore. 
 And billows tossed me since, whose angry roar 
 
 Scareth my joys away ; 
 But I will steer me to a calmer sea. 
 Where lies a flowery islet, lone and free, 
 
 And anchot there for aye ! " 
 O sailor bold, 'mid Life s ocean cold 
 My heart craveth a hold like thee ! 
 
 Tired pilgrim, resting in the date-tree's shade. 
 The sun is up ; why is thy step delayed ? 
 
 Why dost thou linger here ? 
 ' Weary and hot the waste I've travelled o'er. 
 As hot and weary lies the waste before. 
 
 Unknown, and full of fear ; [cree, 
 Rich fruits are scattered here, by Heaven's de- 
 And wells of silvery light flow bounteously. 
 
 Deep springing, cool and clear." 
 Then rest thee a space; — I too, 'mid the waste. 
 Have found a bright place, like thee ! 
 
 OLIVIA. KNIGHT CONNOLLV. 
 
 BONNIE TWINKLIN' STARNIES. 
 
 Bonnie twinklin' starnies ! 
 
 Sae gentle and sae bright — 
 Ye woo me and ye win me 
 
 With your soft and silver light. 
 Now, peepin' o'er the mountain — 
 
 Now glintin' in the streams — 
 Now kissin' the red heather-bell 
 All with your winsome beams. 
 Bonnie twinklin' starnies ! 
 
 Sae gentle and sae bright — 
 Ye woo me and ye win me 
 With your soft and silver light. 
 
 Bonnie twinklin' starnies ! 
 
 When gloamin' sheds its tinge. 
 And strings the crystal dew-drop 
 
 Around the gowan's fringe — 
 How often do I linger. 
 
 With keen and anxious eye. 
 To watch your bonnie faces 
 
 Come glintin' frae the sky. 
 
 Starnies ! twinklin' starnies ! etc. 
 
 Bonnie twinklin' starnies ! 
 
 Bright guardians of the skies — 
 How can we dream of wickedness 
 
 Beneath your sleepless eyes ? 
 
 Cold and pulseless is the heart. 
 And deeply fraught with guile. 
 
 That does na feel the " lowe o' love," 
 When ye look down and smile. 
 
 Bonnie twinklin' starnies ! etc. 
 
 J.\MES McKOWEN. 
 
 ROSES AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 In my garden it is night-time. 
 But a still time and a bright time. 
 For the moon rains down her splendor, 
 And my garden feels the wonder 
 Of the spell which it lies under 
 In that light so soft and tender. 
 
 While the moon her watch is keeping 
 All the blossoms here are sleeping 
 And the roses sigh for dreaming 
 Of the bees that love to love them 
 When the warm sun shines above them, 
 And the butterflies pass gleaming. 
 
 Could one follow roses' fancies. 
 
 When the night the garden trances. 
 
 Oh, what fair things we should chance on ! 
 
 For to lilies and to roses, 
 
 As to us, soft sleep discloses 
 What the waking may not glance on. 
 
 But hark ! now across the moonlight. 
 
 Through the warmness of the June night. 
 
 From the tall trees' listening branches 
 Comes the sound, sustained and holy, 
 Of the passionate melancholy. 
 
 Of a wound which singing stanches. 
 
 Oh, the ecstasy of sorrow 
 
 Which the music seems to borrow 
 
 From the thought of some past lover 
 
 Who loved vainly all his lifetime. 
 
 Till death ended peace and strife-time, 
 And the darkness clothed him over ! 
 
 Oh, the passionate, sweet singing. 
 
 Aching, gushing, throbbing, ringing, 
 
 Dying in divine, soft closes. 
 
 Recommencing, waxing stronger. 
 Sweet notes, ever sweeter, longer. 
 
 Till the singing wakes the roses I 
 
 Quoth the roses to the singer : 
 "Oh, thou dearest music-bringer. 
 Now our sleep so sweetly endeth. 
 Tell us why thy song so sad seems. 
 When the air is full of glad dreams. 
 And the bright moon o'er us bendeth." 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 Sang the singer to the roses : 
 " Love for you my song discloses. 
 Hence the note of grief it borrows." 
 Quoth the roses. " Love means pleasure." 
 Quoth the singer, " Love's best measure 
 Is its pure attendant sorrows." 
 
 phi: IP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 
 THE LONELY FLOWER. 
 I saw upon a ruin bare, 
 
 A little wall flower grov\ing. 
 There was no ivy creeping there. 
 
 No other blossom blowing ; 
 But when the wind did rise and fall. 
 
 And all was wildly swaying. 
 Then wide around the broken wall 
 
 Came sweetest perfume straying. 
 
 I know within our village street 
 An old man. bowed and hoary ; 
 
 Sons he has had, and daughters sweet, 
 And days of strength and glory. 
 
 WITHERED FLOWERS. 
 
 Hidden away from others' sight. 
 Tied softly round with ribbon white. 
 I keep a few poor withered flowers, 
 Dead children of June's sunny hours. 
 They were the sweet gift of a friend— 
 With every leaf dear mem'ries blend. 
 How could I throw my flowers away ? 
 S/ie wore them on her bridal day. 
 
 I touch them tenderly as though 
 They lived and blushed in summer's glov 
 Dried leaves, they wear for me a hue 
 Hrightcr than roses gemmed with dew. 
 I prize them for the giver's sake ; 
 1 prize them for the thoughts they wake ; 
 Remembrance makes December May — 
 I cannot throw my flowers away. 
 
 Bright orange flowers, green maidenhair. 
 Their fragrance filled the house of prayer; | 
 Of one great joy they were a part — 
 Small things bring sunshine to the heart. 
 There is no beauty in them now. 
 Fast crumbling into dust — but how I 
 
 Could I despise them in decay.* i 
 
 She wore them on her bridal day. i 
 
 HELENA C.\LLANAN 
 
 But they have gone and left him here. 
 
 In loneliness and blindness. 
 With but one little grandchild dear. 
 
 To soothe him with her kindness. 
 
 She leads him on, by field and lane. 
 
 The paths he likes to wander ; 
 She asks him o'er and o'er again 
 
 The tales he loves to ponder ; 
 And still she heareth all he says. 
 
 And .still her bright eye glistens. 
 He knows it by the hand she lays 
 
 In his hand while she listens. 
 
 'Twas sweet upon that ruin wild. 
 
 To find the wall-flower springing. 
 But sweeter far that gentle child. 
 
 Around the old man clinging, 
 .^lid broken hopes, and cares, and fears. 
 
 She stands in lonely beauty. 
 .\nd brightens all his waning years 
 
 With her dear love and duty. 
 
 CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER. 
 
 MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. 
 
 My life is like the summer rose. 
 
 That opens to the morning sky. 
 But ere the shades of evening close. 
 
 Is scattered on the ground — to die. 
 Yet on the rose's humble bed 
 The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
 As if she wept the waste to see, — 
 But none shall weep a tear for me ! 
 
 My life is like the autumn leaf. 
 
 That trembles in the moon's pale ray; 
 Its hold is frail, its date is brief, 
 
 Restless — and soon 'twill pass away, 
 ■^'et ere that leaf shall fall and fade. 
 The parent tree will mourn its shade. 
 The winds bewail the leafless tree, 
 But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 
 
 My life is like the prints which feet 
 
 Have left on Tampa's burning strand; 
 Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 
 
 \\\ trace will vanish from the sand ; 
 Yet, as if grieving to efface 
 .Ml vestige of the human race. 
 On that lone shore loud moans the sea. 
 But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 
 
 RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 
 
GOOD MORNING. 
 
 319 
 
 JUST ASLEEP. 
 
 For a space the shadows lift now, 
 
 Now that we are nearly met ; 
 By what windings shall we drift now, 
 
 To what shore our keel be set ? 
 Dearest sleep, so long denied me, 
 To what region wilt thou guide me ? 
 
 Let us leave behind old sorrow. 
 
 In the room where Death has been ; 
 
 Let it bide there till to-morrow. 
 Let it stalk of no man seen. 
 
 Though to-morrow it will find me. 
 
 Yet to-night 'twill stay behind me. 
 
 Yes, to-morrow, iron-hearted 
 
 As the heart of all my days. 
 We shall be no longer parted. 
 
 No more travelling by strange ways ; 
 But together, whom forever 
 Death alone can really sever. 
 
 Wilt thou show me fair dream spaces 
 Where my dead ones do not seem 
 
 Dead with dust upon their faces 
 
 Underground where comes no dream, 
 
 But with living lips to cheer me. 
 
 And with ears that love to hear me } 
 
 Wilt thou take me to the shining 
 Happy, precious, fleeting past. 
 
 When the heart had no divining 
 Of what life could be at last. 
 
 Driven out of all its courses. 
 
 Beaten back by viewless forces.' 
 
 From the terror and the passion 
 And the loneliness and strife, 
 
 Take me in soft, tender fashion 
 To the old sequestered life ; 
 
 Let me move in the old places. 
 
 Let me look on the old faces. 
 
 Close against thy deep heart press me 
 
 Till thine inmost soul I see, 
 With thy loveliness caress me. 
 
 Who am tired of all that be ; 
 So, beloved, till the morrow 
 There shall be no thought of sorrow. 
 
 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 
 A DEDICATION. 
 
 How sadly like a Rachel's piteous wails, 
 Dying in anguish, faintly, brokenly. 
 With more of woe than all a poet's tales ? 
 
 Thy music is thy speech : so half in fear 
 
 I link this story now in rhythmic law. 
 
 And miss in words that plaintive warble, clear 
 
 And dreamful, which first woke my soul with awe. 
 
 And thrilled it into motion, as a mere 
 
 Is rippled weirdly by a mountain flaw. 
 
 EDMUND J. ARMSTRONG. 
 
 My land, my Erin, can we sing of thee, 
 
 Save in that music ringing thro' thy vales. 
 
 And thro' thy people's hearts— how bold and free, 
 
 OH! SAY NOT THAT. 
 
 Oh ! say not that my heart is cold 
 
 To aught that once could warm it. 
 That nature's form, so dear of old. 
 
 No more has power to charm it ; 
 Or that th' ungenerous world can chill 
 
 One glow of fond emotion 
 For those who made it dearer still. 
 
 And shared its wild devotion. 
 
 Still oft those solemn scenes I view 
 
 In rapt and dreamy sadness ; 
 Oft look on those who loved them too 
 
 With fancy's idle gladness. 
 Again I long to view the light 
 
 In nature's features glowing. 
 Again to tread the mountain's height. 
 
 And taste the soul's overflowing. 
 
 Stern duty rose and frowning flung 
 
 Her leaden chain around me ; 
 With iron look and sullen tongue 
 
 He muttered as he bound me : — 
 The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven 
 
 Unfit for toil the creature ; 
 These for the free alone are given. 
 
 But what have slaves with nature } 
 
 CHARLES WOLFE. 
 
 GOOD MORNING. 
 
 The willows droop along the Nore, 
 
 And bow down o'er its flowing. 
 And blossoms paint its winding shore, 
 
 'Mid summer perfumes glowing; 
 And sunbeams smile, and bright birds sing. 
 
 Like flowers the sky adorning. 
 And bending down upon the wing, 
 
 They bid my love—" Good morning ! " 
 
 Good morning — Good morning! 
 As if with sweet and lyric string. 
 
 They bid my love good morning. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 The breezes blow along the Norc, 
 
 Mid teeming fruit-trees creeping. 
 As if to whisper fairy lore 
 
 Where loneliness is sleeping ; 
 Upon their lips are perfumed sighs 
 
 That give the senses warning. 
 As gently roving through the skies. 
 
 They bid my love—" Good morning ! " 
 
 Good morning — Good morning ! 
 As if with magic melodies, 
 
 They bid my love good morning. 
 
 The swallows swoop along the Nore, 
 
 And dip their bosoms, gliding ; 
 As if some joyous news they bore. 
 
 And wantoned in their pridmg; 
 As if were theirs both time and tide. 
 
 For heeding or for scorning ; 
 Bit in their speed, and in their pride. 
 
 They bid my love — "Good morning!" 
 
 Good morning — Good morning ! 
 Yes, whilst they mock at road or guide. 
 
 They bid my love good mornin.'?. 
 
 JOHN T. CA.MPION. 
 
 ON THE LAKE. 
 
 Swift o"er the lake the li;.fht boat moves, 
 
 With Youth and Beauty freighted. 
 Past shrubby headlands, floral coves. 
 
 So picturesquely mated, — 
 Past rustic houses on the shore. 
 
 And lovers roving, resting. 
 And children gathring more and more, 
 
 The slopes and arches crestin j;. 
 
 The sky is of a cloudless blue, 
 
 The waters ripple brightly ; 
 The boatman dips his paddles true — 
 
 They sparkling rise, and lightly ; 
 And now in sunshine, now in shade. 
 
 While gliding hither, thither. 
 Sweet Youth and Beauty, heaven-made, 
 
 A heaven make together I 
 
 Anon they step upon the land, 
 
 A land of summer-glory ; 
 No blight before, on either hand. 
 
 No scenes decayed or hoary ; 
 But all is green, and grand, and bright. 
 
 And Youth and Beauty roaming 
 Down od'rous dale, up healthful height. 
 
 Rejoice until the gloaming. 
 
 WILIJAM J. .McCLURE. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 
 " What meanest thou, O fresh spring wind. 
 
 Whistling so cheerily? 
 Why at yon sunny nursery-blind 
 
 Singest so merrily ? " 
 " In yon fair room a babe is bom ; 
 I sing to greet the merry mom." 
 
 " What meanest thou, O summer wintl. 
 That thou dost breathe so low .' 
 
 What burtlen bearest on thy mind .' 
 What secret none may know ? " 
 
 " Beneath yon spreading chestnut-bough 
 
 Two lovers breathe a solemn vow." 
 
 " What meanest thou, O autumn wind. 
 
 .Moaning so drearily .' 
 Why at yon muffled window-blind 
 
 Wailest so wearily .' " 
 " Death's anguish rends a mourner's breast ; 
 She wails for sleep— she moans for rest." 
 
 " What meanest thou. O winter wind. 
 
 Striding so mightily ? 
 What secret rapture dost thou find 
 
 Rending the cloud-cast sky ? " 
 " From earth this night a soul is riven : 
 I roll the clouds away from heaven." 
 
 SAMUEL K. COWAN. 
 
 I IN ARCADY. 
 
 I wandered in .\rcadia's dreamful realm 
 When dew of morning lay upon the world, 
 And in it every floweret was empearled 
 By that bright sun of promise whose sweet rays 
 Lightened with life of love and beauty all my tiays. 
 
 There rippling rills the daisies overwhelm. 
 
 That skirt the shores of the enameled mead ; 
 
 There Pan blew music from the oaten reed. 
 And all the chorus of the Nymphs and Fauns 
 Gleamed in the mazy dance on those enchanted 
 lawns. 
 
 Adown the joyous pathway of the past 
 
 A glory fell, that filled the hours with pride ; 
 For lo ! one came more fair than Tithon's bride. 
 And her white brow was love's imperial shrine. 
 While nameless grace was blent in face and form 
 I divine. 
 
 j Her witching words an echoing cadence cast. 
 ' Blown from the h.irp .'Eolian of the soul 
 
 To chords of mine, she erstwhile did control 
 In that auroral prime ; and when she smiled. 
 Lilies and maribelles bloomed forth upon the wild. 
 
A DAY DREAM. 
 
 Yet, like a running river in the liand. 
 These visions of a fair dissolving view 
 Elapse, nor will they ever more be true 
 Till Memory, the enchanter, lifts the screen, 
 And swiftly backward glide the glittering years 
 between. 
 
 Life is the thinker's thought ; then, golden land. 
 
 Where Love hung on the rosy lips of Youth, 
 
 They who have quaffed thy magic wells of 
 
 truth. 
 
 Still by thy singing streams will aye sojourn : — 
 
 Return, Arcadian days! — Arcadian hours, return I 
 
 ROWLAND B. MAHANY. 
 
 THE GATES OF DREAMS. 
 
 Where memory's silver ripples flow 
 O'er golden sands of recollection ; 
 Where fairy shapes in visions glow 
 And murmuring voices, sweet and low, 
 Float from the realms of long ago. 
 
 To lend the scene perfection ; 
 In border lands of pure delight, 
 Of rainbow day, and sapphire night. 
 Imagination's rosy beams 
 Fall on the golden gates of dreams. 
 
 ROWLAND B. MAHANY. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 One night I dreamt of a happy valley, 
 
 Where came not Winter with frost or snow, 
 Where sunlight gilded each verdurous alley. 
 
 Touching each leaf with a golden glow ; 
 The gay-plumed song-birds in troops together, 
 
 Each bright-hued feather a spot of light. 
 Sang gay sweet chants to the fair, calm weather 
 
 From rosiest dawn till the purple night. 
 
 Daintiest blossoms, deep-hued and tender, 
 
 Shone thro' the grasses, all emerald green ; 
 Delicate fern-fronds, tall and slender, 
 
 Hung over a rivulet passing between ; 
 Silvery its flowing, and cool its plashing. 
 
 Its soft drops dashing a pearly shower 
 O'er thirsty flowerets, and merrily splashing 
 
 The brown bee seeking his honey dower. 
 
 Roses, crimson, snow-white and creamy. 
 Their passionate sweetness displayed to view. 
 
 Bearing, each in its gold heart dreamy, 
 Odorous vapors distilled with dew. 
 
 Queenly lilies, pallid and saintly. 
 
 Quivering faintly as south-winds pass. 
 
 Their silvery whiteness contrasting quaintly 
 With pansies purple, amid the grass. 
 
 But, ah ! my vision has passed, not knowing ; 
 
 Alas ! that roses should ever pale, 
 That white of lily should lose its glowing. 
 
 That golden sunlight should fade and fail. 
 Ah me I that ever such sweetest seeming 
 
 Should be but dreaming of winter night. 
 Only to wake to the gray dawn, deeming 
 
 Its coming colder for so much light. 
 
 KATHARINE TYNAN. 
 
 A DAY DREAM. 
 
 On a sunny brae, alone I lay. 
 
 One summer afternoon ; 
 It was the marriage-time of May 
 
 With her young lover June. 
 From her mother's heart seemed loath to [ 
 
 That queen of bridal charms. 
 But her father smilled on the fairest child 
 
 He e'er held in his arms. 
 
 The trees did wave their plumy crests. 
 
 The glad birds caroled clear ; 
 And I, of all the wedding guests. 
 
 Was only sullen there. 
 There w^as not one but wished to shun 
 
 My aspect void of cheer; 
 The very gray rocks, looking on. 
 
 Asked, " What do you do here ? " 
 
 And I could utter no reply ; 
 
 In sooth I did not know 
 Why I had brought a clouded brow 
 
 To meet the general glow. 
 So, resting on a heathy bank, 
 
 I took my heart to me. 
 And we together sadly sank 
 
 Into a reverie. 
 
 We thought, " When winter comes again, 
 
 Where will these bright things be ? 
 All vanished, like a vision vain. 
 
 An unreal mockery. 
 The birds that now so blithely sing. 
 
 Through deserts, frozen dry. 
 Poor spectres of the perished spring, 
 
 In famished troops will fly. 
 
32: 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 " And why should we be glad at all ? 
 
 The leaf is hardly green 
 Before a token of its fall 
 
 Is on the surface seen." 
 Now, whether it were rcall/ so, 
 
 I never could be sure. 
 But as ill fit of peevish woe 
 
 I stretched me on the moor, 
 
 A thousand thousand gleaming fires 
 
 Seemed kindling in the air ; 
 A thousand thousand silvery lyres 
 
 Resounded far and near : 
 Methought the very air I breathed 
 
 Was full of sparks divine. 
 And all my lieather-couch was wreathed 
 
 By that celestial shine ? 
 
 And while the wide earth echoing rung 
 
 To their strange minstrelsy, 
 The little glittering spirits sung. 
 
 Or seemed to sing, to me. 
 " O mortal ! mortal ! let them die ; 
 
 Let time and tears destroy. 
 That we may overflow the sky 
 
 With universal joy ! 
 
 " Let grief distract the sufferer's breast, 
 
 And night obscure his way; 
 They hasten him to endless rest. 
 
 And everlasting day. 
 To thee the world is like a tomb, 
 
 A desert's naked shore ; 
 To us in unimagined bloom 
 
 It brightens more and more ! 
 
 " And, could we lift the veil and give 
 
 One brief glimpse to thine eye, 
 Thou wouldst rejoice for those that live, 
 
 Btxatist- they live to die." 
 The music ceased ; the noonday dream. 
 
 Like dream of night, withdrew ; 
 But fancy still will sometimes deem 
 
 Her fond creations true. 
 
 EMILY BRONTE. 
 
 THE FOUNT OF CASTALY. 
 I would the fount of Castaly 
 
 Had never wet my lips ; 
 For woe to him that hastily 
 
 Its sacred water sips ! 
 
 Apollo's laurel flourishes 
 
 Above that stream dinne ; 
 Its secret virtue nourishes 
 
 The leaves of love and wine. 
 
 No naiad, faun, or nereid 
 
 Preserves its haunts in charge. 
 
 Or watches o'er the myriad 
 Of flowers about its marge. 
 
 But aye around the caves of it 
 
 The muses chant their spells. 
 And charm the very waves of it. 
 
 As out the fountain wells. 
 
 Its joyous tide leaps crystally 
 
 Up neath the crystal moon. 
 And falling ever mistily 
 
 The sparkling drops keep tune. 
 
 The wavelets circle gleamily. 
 
 With lilies keeping tryst ; 
 Fair emeralds glisten dreamily 
 
 Below, and amethyst. 
 
 Once taste that fountain's witchery 
 
 On old Parnassus' crown. 
 And to this world of treachery. 
 
 Ah, never more come down I 
 
 Your joy will be to think of it ; 
 
 'Twill ever haunt your dreams; 
 You'll thirst again to drink of it 
 
 Among a thousand streams. 
 
 JOSEPH O'CONNOR. 
 
 'iHE POET. 
 
 The poet passed through the busy ways 
 
 Where wealth and power dwell. 
 And his dreamy eyes, far-absent gaze 
 
 On many a sorrow fell ; 
 Around his path — unseen — unheard. 
 
 By the onward-straining crowd — 
 Wept loveliness that grief had seared, 
 
 And youth that pain had bowed. 
 
 But his wandering soul was far away 
 
 In the happy land of dreams. 
 Where the silver-crested wavelets play 
 
 In the sunlight's golden gleams. 
 And verdant knolls and sunny slopes 
 
 In long perspective rise. 
 To where the purple mountain-tops 
 
 Are merged in summer skies. 
 
THE PLEASURES OF POESY. 
 
 The poet stood in the bright saloons 
 
 Where mirth and pleasure shine, 
 The walls were wreathed with gay festoons, 
 
 And the goblets foamed with wine ; 
 Yet he stood alone 'mid the surging throng — 
 
 A moon in a troubled sky^ 
 While the swell of many a blithesome song 
 
 Unheeded passed him by. 
 
 For his soul was wandering far away 
 
 In the sunny land of dreams, 
 And he heard but the wildwood s breezy lay, 
 
 And the murmur of falling streams; — 
 He heard but the song of happy birds 
 
 In joyous concert there, 
 And the swelling ocean's solemn chords 
 
 Far borne on the quivering air. 
 
 The poet loved, but he loved in vain. 
 
 Of fancies his hopes were wove ; 
 For alas ! he had naught but his wayward strain 
 
 And his hidden store of love. 
 And so. like the color of sunset skies. 
 
 His life-joy ebbed away. 
 And the tender light in his eager eyes 
 
 Grew fainter day by day. 
 
 Ah ! wearily, wearily waned the years 
 
 Till the tardy end drew nigh, 
 But a loving God dispelled his tears. 
 
 As the shadow of death stood by ; 
 For he saw far away in the golden even 
 
 The fields of glory stand ; 
 And he cried aloud, for the dawning Heaven 
 
 Was his own old Wonderland. 
 
 EDWARD HARDING. 
 
 AT PARTING. 
 
 I put my flower of song into thy hand 
 
 XnA turn my eyes away ; 
 It is a flower from a most desolate land. 
 
 Barren of sun and day. 
 
 Even this life of mine. 
 As two who meet upon a foreign strand, 
 
 ' f was mine with thee to stay : 
 I put this flower of song into thy hand. 
 
 And turn my eyes away. 
 
 And look where no lights shine. 
 
 By phantom wings this desolate air seems fanned. 
 
 Where sky and sea show gray ; 
 I put my flower of song into thy hand, 
 
 And turn my eyes away ; 
 
 But to no other shrine. 
 
 My hopes are like a little Christian band 
 
 The heathen came to slay ; 
 I put this flower of song into thy hand. 
 
 And turn my eyes away ; 
 
 Keep thou the song in sign. 
 
 Some day, it may be, thou by me shalt stand. 
 
 When no words my lips say. 
 And, holding then this song-flower in thy hand, 
 
 Shalt turn thy eyes away. 
 
 And drop pure tears divine. 
 We part at fate's inexorable eommand ; 
 
 We part to meet no day ; 
 I put my flower of song into thy hand. 
 
 And turn my eyes away — 
 
 These eyes that burn and pine. 
 
 Thy way leads summerward, thy paths are 
 spanned 
 By boughs where spring winds play ; 
 I put my flower of song into thy hand. 
 And turn my eyes away 
 
 To life's dark boundary line, [bland, 
 Fair are thy groves, thy fields are bright and 
 
 Where exile has no sway ; 
 I put my flower of song into thy hand, 
 And turn my eyes away. 
 
 To meet Fate's eyes malign. 
 
 Sometimes when twilight holds and fills the land. 
 
 And glad souls are less gay. 
 Take thou this song-flower in thy tender hand. 
 Nor turn thine eyes away. 
 
 There in the day's decline. 
 My life lies dark before me, all unplanned ; 
 
 Loud winds assail the day ; 
 I leave my song-flower folded in thy hand. 
 And turn my eyes away, 
 
 And turn my life from thine. 
 
 PHILIP EOURKE MARSTON. 
 
 THE PLEASURES OF POESY. 
 
 Rail as ye list, ye minions of decay. 
 And ban the wight for other ages born ; 
 Wave the pined minstrel from your gate away. 
 Nor waste one glance upon his state forlorn ; 
 You cannot close the portals of the morn. 
 When the fair Dawn first opes her dewy eye ; 
 Your mandate cannot hush the vocal thorn. 
 Embitter frolic Zephyr's fragrant sigh. 
 Or chase gay evening down the many-colored sky. 
 
3^4 
 
 POEAfi OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 Nor may you of their gorgeous garb deprive 
 The flowery tribe that gem the woodland waste ; 
 Nor mar the murmurs of the honeyed hive ; 
 Nor will, by your vam menace, be effaced 
 The various tints, in bright embroidery traced 
 By fancy's touch, that fringe the purple cloud ; 
 Tho' little by your vaunted presence graced. 
 The thrush will twitter from his leafy shroud. 
 And tell the babbling brook his amorous oain | 
 aloud. 
 
 Free o'er the furze-clad hill of yellow bloom, 
 My devious step may wander, unconfined. 
 Nor miss the tissued labors of the loom, 
 Fumed by the incense of the western wind. 
 My nature will no courtly shackles bind. 
 No servile flattery, varnished o'er with art ; 
 While, on yon mountain's misty summit shrined. 
 Majestic sitting from the world apart, 
 I to great Nature pour the homage of my heart. 
 
 To airy regions may my spirit roam. 
 Wafted on wild Imaginations wing; 
 There can I find and fix my viewless home, 
 And reign o'er magic realms creative king ; 
 And while soft breezes sweep th' Eolian string. 
 Or the loud tempest swells the bolder base. 
 Bid my slight servants nectared banquets bring, 
 And laughing at the little pomp of place, [space. 
 Triumphant raise my throne o'er time and bounded 
 
 Then wail not. Genius, thy unworthy lot. 
 Where'er thou sadly shrink'st from sight profane ; 
 Thy patient labors shall not be forgot. 
 Nor lost the influence of thy lofty strain. 
 From glory's nodding crest, of crimson stain. 
 The laurel shall forsake its seat sublime, 
 The prostrate column load the groaning plain ; 
 While rising o'er the wreck, thy sacred rhyme 
 Shall fire to noble deeds the sons of future time. 
 THO.MAS DERMODY. 
 
 Lowly bums the whitened hearth, 
 
 Slowly turns the quiet earth ; 
 
 Now the woods and skies are dumb. 
 
 In the dizzy midnight hum. 
 
 Come to me, sweet phantom, come. 
 
 Hidden in the folded gray 
 Of thy garment, bear the urn 
 
 Full of Lethe's unsunned streams ; 
 Bnng the flowers that live in dreams, 
 Bring the boy * who often seems 
 O'er the earth with me to stray. 
 When the weary planets bum. 
 In a cloud of shifting light. 
 Thro' the hollow life of night 
 Mimicking the scenes of day : 
 Ye are coming nigher, nigher. 
 With my song I seem to tire. 
 I can hear thy spirit's hymn 
 Round my faint ear's closing rim, — 
 Ye are coming, phantoms dim. 
 
 THOMAS C. IRWIN. 
 
 HEARTH SONG. 
 Spiri'L of the half-closed eyes 
 Pacing to a drowsy tune. 
 Come to me ere midnight wanes, 
 Come with all thy dreamy trains. 
 Scattering o'er me poppy rains; 
 Dropping me 'mid weary sighs 
 Deep into a feathered swoon. 
 Leave thy odorous bed an hour — 
 Leave thy ebon-curtained bower- 
 Leave thy cavern to the moon. 
 
 THE ANGEL OF POETRY. 
 
 TO LETITIA E. LANDON. 
 
 I Lady ! for thee a holier key shall harmonize the 
 I chord, — 
 
 In Heaven's defence Omnipotence drew an 
 
 avenging sword ; 
 I But when the bolt had crushed revolt, one angel, 
 I though fair and frail, 
 
 ! Retained his lute, fond attribute ! to charm that 
 
 gloomy vale. 
 The lyre he kept his wild hand swept ; the music 
 
 he'd awaken 
 Would sweetly thrill from the lonely hill where 
 
 he sat apart forsaken ; 
 There he'd lament his banishment, his thoughts 
 
 to grief abandon. 
 And weep his full. — 'Tvvas pitiful to see him 
 weep, fair Landon ! 
 
 He wept his fault I Hell's gloomy vault grew 
 vocal with his song ; 
 
 But all throughout, derision's shout burst from 
 the guilty throng , 
 
 God pitying viewed his fortitude in that unhal- 
 lowed den ; 
 
 Freed him from hell, but bade him dwell amid 
 the sons of men. 
 
 ' Morphe 
 
SPIRIT OF SONG. 
 
 325 
 
 Lady ! for us, an exile thus, immortal Poesy 
 
 Came upon earth, and lutes gave birth to sweet- 
 est minstrelsy ; 
 
 And poets wrought their spell-words, taught by 
 that angelic mind, 
 
 And music lent soft blandishment to fascinate 
 mankind. 
 
 Religion rose! man sought repose in the shadow 
 
 of her wings ; 
 Music for her walked harbinger, and genius 
 
 touched the strings : 
 Tears from the tree of Araby cast on her altar 
 
 burned. 
 But earth and wave most fragrance gave where 
 
 Poetry sojourned. 
 Vainly, with hate inveterate, hell labored in its 
 
 rage. 
 To persecute that angel's lute, and cross his 
 
 pilgrimage ; 
 Unmoved and calm, his songs poured balm on 
 
 sorrow all the while ; 
 Vice he unmasked, but virtue basked in the radi- 
 ance of his smile. 
 
 Oh, where, among the fair and young, or in 
 
 what kingly court. 
 In what gay path where pleasure hath her favor- 
 ite resort, 
 Where hast thou gone, angelic one ? Back to 
 
 thy native skies ? 
 Or dost thou dwell in cloistered cell, in pensive 
 
 hermit's guise ? 
 Methinks I ken a denizen of this, our island — 
 
 nay, 
 Leave me to guess, fair poetess, queen of the 
 
 matchless lay ! 
 The thrilling line, lady ! is thine ; the spirit pure 
 
 and free ; 
 And England views that angel muse, Landon ! 
 
 revealed in thee! 
 
 FRANCIS S. MAHONY 
 
 SING THE OLD SONG. 
 
 Sing the old song, amid the sounds dispersing 
 That burden treasured in your hearts too long ; 
 Sing it with voice low-breathed, but never 
 name her : 
 She will not hear you, in her turrets nursing 
 High thoughts, too high to mate with mortal 
 song- 
 Bend o'er her, gentle heaven, but do not claim 
 her! 
 
 n twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses. 
 She shades the bloom of her unearthly days ; 
 
 The forest winds alone approach to woo her. 
 Far off we catch the dark gleam of her tresses ; 
 And wild birds haunt the wood-walks where she 
 strays. 
 Intelligible music warbling to her. 
 
 That spirit charged to follow and defend her. 
 He also, doubtless, suffers this love-pain ; 
 
 And she perhaps is sad, hearing his sighing. 
 And yet that face is not so sad as tender ; 
 Like some sweet singer's, when her sweetest 
 strain 
 
 From the heaved heart is gradually dying. 
 
 .AUBREY DE VERB. 
 
 PROSE AND SONG. 
 I looked upon a plain of green 
 
 That some one called the land of prose, 
 Where many living things were seen. 
 
 In movement or repose. 
 
 I looked upon a stately hill 
 
 That well was named the mount of song. 
 Where golden shadows dwelt at will. 
 
 The woods and streams among. 
 
 But most this fact my wonder bred. 
 Though known by all the nobly wise, — 
 
 It was the mountain streams that fed 
 The fair green plain's amenities. 
 
 JOHN STERLING. 
 
 SPIRIT OF SONG. 
 Spirit of Song ! that, in the elder time. 
 Mysterious dwelling far beyond the eye 
 Of vision unethereal, throned sublime, 
 Held'st near the golden chambers of the sky, 
 O'er Pindus ample or Olympus high. 
 Not widely were thy inspirations then 
 Bequeathed ; for then thou did'st the gift deny 
 Of sacred song, save to the wondrous men — 
 The eremites of Soul, by thoughtful grove and 
 glen. 
 
 Then was thy kindling influence confined 
 Within the precincts of the classic East : 
 But in that olden empire of the Mind, 
 She spreads no longer now th' exclusive feast. 
 
3=6 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 In charmed Castaly, her song has ceased : 
 The fruitage offerings of the Delphic bowers 
 Are consecrated not, by Deiphos" priest. 
 Now to the bard of Thebes : from Athens' 
 
 towers. 
 No shout of Freedom now rings to the circling 
 
 hours ! 1 
 
 But where the burning Occident unfolds 
 Her mountains high and inland oceans vast, i 
 Where Liberty her chosen realm beholds. 
 And hears her songs arise on every blast. 
 As by Eurotas sung in ages past ; I 
 
 Spirit of Song ! into that kindred clime— | 
 
 For, thou with Liberty deep kindred hast — 
 Did'st thou advance to meet the march of Time 
 And inspiration breathe, exaltingly sublime. 
 
 JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF IRISH SONG. 
 Loved land of the bards and saints ! to me 
 There's naught so dear as thy minstrelsy ; 
 Bright is Nature in every dress, 
 Rich in unborrowed loveliness. 
 Winning in every shape she wears ; 
 Winning she is in thine own sweet airs. 
 
 What to the spirit more cheering can be 
 
 Than the lay whose lingering notes recall 
 The thoughts of the holy, the fair, the free. 
 
 Beloved in life, or deplored in their fall ! 
 Fling, fling the forms of art aside, — 
 
 Dull is the ear that these forms enthrall ; 
 Let the simple songs of our sires be tried, — 
 
 They go to the heart, and the heart is all ! 
 
 THOMAS FURLONG. 
 
 ON SONGS. 
 
 Oh ! tender songs ! 
 Heart-heavings of the breast, that longs 
 
 Its best beloved to meet ; 
 You tell of youth's delightful hours. 
 Of meetings amid jasmine bowers. 
 Ana vows, like perfume of young flowers. 
 
 As fleeting, but more sweet. 
 
 Oh I glorious songs ! 
 That rouse the brave 'gainst tyrants' wrongs. 
 
 Resounding near and far ; 
 Mingled with trumpet and with drum, 
 Your spirit-stirring summons come. 
 And urge the hero from his home. 
 
 And arm him for the war. 
 
 Oh ! mournful songs ! 
 When sorrow's hosts, in gloomy throngs. 
 
 Assail the widowed heart. 
 You sing, in softly soothing strain. 
 The praise of those whom death hath ta'en, 
 .And tell that we shall meet again. 
 
 And meet no more to part. 
 
 Oh ! lovely songs ! 
 Brcathmgs of heaven, to you belongs 
 
 The empire of the heart ; 
 Enthroned in memory, still reign 
 O'er minds of prince, and peer, and swain. 
 With gentle power, that knows not wane 
 Till thought and life depart. 
 
 THOMAS DER.MODY. 
 
 WAKE ME A SONG. 
 Out of the silences wake me a song. 
 Beautiful, sad. and soft, and low ; 
 Let the loveliest music sound along, 
 And wing each note with a wail of woe. 
 Dim and drear 
 As hope's last tear. 
 Out of the silences wake me a hymn. 
 Whose sounds are like shadows soft and dim. 
 
 Out of the stillness in your heart — 
 
 A thousand songs are sleeping there, — 
 Wake me a song, thou child of art ! — 
 The song of a hope in a last despair. 
 Dark and low, 
 A chant of woe. 
 Out of the stillness, tone by tone. 
 Cold as a snow-flake, low as a moan. 
 
 Out of the darkness flash me a song. 
 Brightly dark and darkly bright : 
 
 Let it sweep as a lone star sweeps along 
 The mystical shadows of the night. 
 Sing it sweetly. 
 
 Where nothing is drear, or dark, or dim. 
 
 And earth song soars into heavenly hymn. 
 
 ABRAM J. RYAN. 
 
 THE SONGS OF LONG AGO. 
 
 Oh, sing to me ; oh, sing again. 
 Those old familiar lays — 
 
 I love each sweet pathetic strain 
 That breathes of other days. 
 
A SONG FROM THE COPTIC. 
 
 c,27 
 
 Well may my heart be deeply moved, 
 Well may my tears o'erflow — 
 
 Those were the songs my mother loved — 
 The songs of long ago ! 
 
 When winter nights were dark and long, 
 
 We'd gather round her knee. 
 To listen to the thrilling song 
 
 Of love and chivalry — 
 Of noble knights and ladies fair. 
 
 Till our young hearts would glow — 
 Oh, wild and sweet, and wondrous were 
 
 Those songs of long ago ! 
 
 Then sing — for, oh, I love to hear 
 
 The songs my mother sung ; 
 Whose echoes many a weary year 
 
 Around my heart have hung — 
 While wafted to me from above. 
 
 Her sweet voice, soft and low, 
 Seems mingling with the music of 
 
 Those songs of long ago ! 
 
 Oh, mother, dear ! your songs are still 
 
 The sweetest songs to me ; 
 No songs like them my heart can thrill — 
 
 No modern melody 
 Can stir the fountain of my tears. 
 
 Until their waters flow, 
 Like those dear songs of by-gone years — 
 
 The songs of long ago ! 
 
 ELLEN FORRESTER. 
 
 THE SONGS OF HOME. 
 
 Come, sister, sit by my weary couch 
 
 As the day's bright face grows pale. 
 And sing me one of the sweet old songs 
 
 We loved in our native vale ; 
 The present floats like a dream away, 
 
 And thoughts of the dear past come ; 
 Fond memories cling round the vanished days,- 
 
 Oh, sing me a song of home ! 
 
 The scenes we loved in our childhood days. 
 
 When life was so bright and fair. 
 Ere Time's rude pencil on heart or brow 
 
 Had written a line of care. 
 Shine brightly in memory's magic glass. 
 
 Though far from them now we roam. 
 As over the lonely heart-strings creep 
 
 The strains of a song of home. 
 
 What happy evenings long gone by 
 
 Do those dear old songs recall, 
 When the echoes of glad voices rang 
 
 From our cheerful cottage wall ; 
 Loved faces far from our sight to-night, 
 
 Or moldering in the tomb, 
 Come back with their old, familiar smiles. 
 
 Called forth by the songs of home. 
 
 When life's pale lamp has at last gone out. 
 
 And our joys and woes have flown. 
 May we hear the angel choirs that sing 
 
 Around the eternal throne ; 
 And, oh, how sweet in those joyous strains 
 
 Will the glad notes be that come 
 From well loved voices that long ago 
 
 Sang the dear old songs of home. 
 
 MARY A. McMULLIN. 
 
 A SONG FROM THE COPTIC. 
 
 Quarrels have long been in vogue among sages ; 
 Still, though in many things wranglers and 
 rancorous. 
 All the philosopher scribes of all ages 
 
 Join, una voce, on one point to anchor us. 
 Here is the gist of their mystified pages. 
 
 Here is the wisdom we purchase with gold : — 
 Children of light, leave the world to its mulish- 
 
 ness. 
 Things to their natures, and fools to their foolish- 
 ness ; 
 Berries were bitter in forests of old. 
 
 Hoary old Merlin, the great necromancer. 
 Made me, a student, a similar answer. 
 
 When I besought him for light and for lore: — 
 Toiler in vain ! leave the world to its mulishness. 
 Things to their natures, and fools to their foolish- 
 ness ; 
 
 Granite was hard in the quarries of yore. 
 
 And on the ice-crested heights of Armenia, 
 And in the valleys of broad Abyssinia, 
 
 Still spake the oracle just as before :— 
 Wouldst thou have peace, leave the world to its 
 
 mulishness, 
 Things to their natures, and fools to their foolish- 
 ness; 
 Beetles were blind in the ages of yore. 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 -Adapted /yarn Goethe. 
 
328 
 
 POEMS OF SE.Vr/AfENT AND RETROSPECTION 
 
 THE SONG OF THE GLASS. 
 
 Once Genius, and Beauty, and Pleasure, 
 
 Sought the goddess of Art in her shrine ; 
 And prayed her to fashion a treasure. 
 
 The brightest her skill could combine. 
 Said the goddess, well pleased at the notion, 
 
 •• Most gladly I'll work your behest ; 
 From the margin of yonder blue ocean 
 Let each bring the gift that seems best." 
 Chorus. 
 Then push round the flagon, each brother, 
 
 But till bumper-high ere it pass ; 
 And while we hob-nob one another 
 You'll sing us " The Song of the Glass." 
 
 Beauty fetched from her ocean-water 
 
 The sea-wraik that lay on the strand ; 
 And Pleasure the golden sands brought her 
 
 That he stole from Time's tremulous hand. 
 But Genius went pondering and choosing, 
 
 Where gay shells and sea-flowers shine ; 
 Grasped a sun-lighted wave in his musing. 
 
 And found his hand sparkling with brine. 
 
 Then push round the Hagon, etc. I 
 
 " 'Tis well," said the goddess, as smiling, | 
 
 Each offering she curiously scanned. 
 On her altar mysteriously piling 
 
 The brine, and the wraik, and the sand ; 
 Mi.\ing up with strange spells as she used them 
 
 Salt, kali, and flint in a mass, 
 With the tlame of the lightning she fused them. 
 
 And the marvellous compound was— Glass ! 
 Then push round the flagon, etc. 
 
 Beauty glanced at the Crystal, half-frighted, 
 
 l-"or stirring with life it was seen ; 
 Till gazing, she blushed all delighted. 
 
 As she saw her own image within. 
 " Henceforth," she e.Kclaimed, " be thou ever 
 
 The mirror to Beauty most dear ; 
 Not from steel, or from silver, or river. 
 
 Is the reflex so lustrous and clear." 
 
 Then push round the flagon, etc. 
 
 But Genius the while rent asunder 
 
 A fragment, and raising it high, 
 Looked through it, beholding with wonder 
 
 .New stars over-clustering the sky. 
 With rapture he cried, "Nmv is given 
 
 To Genius the power divine 
 To draw down the planets from heaven. 
 
 Or roam thro' the st.irs where they shine !" 
 Then push roimd the flagon, etc. 
 
 The rest fell to earth— Pleasure caught it ;— 
 Plunged his bowl, ere it cooled, in the mass ; 
 
 To the form of the wine-cup he wrought it. 
 And cried. •• Ht-re's tlu true use of gLisst" 
 
 Then leave, boys, the mirror to women- 
 Through the lens let astronomers blink — 
 
 There's no glass half so dear to a true man 
 As the wine-glass when filled to the brink. 
 Then push round the flagon, etc. 
 
 JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. 
 
 THE CRUISKEEN LAUN. 
 
 Let the farmer praise his grounds, 
 And the huntsman praise his hounds. 
 
 The shepherd his sweet scented lawn ; 
 While I, more blest than they. 
 Spend each happy night and day 
 
 With my charming little cruiskeen laun. 
 
 Gra-ma-chref ma cruiskeen, 
 
 Slainte-gael ina-vourneen. 
 
 Gra-ma-chree a coolin baun. haun, baun, 
 
 Gra-ma-chrce a coolin baun.* 
 
 Immortal and divine. 
 Great Bacchus, god of wine. 
 
 Create me by adoption your son. 
 In hope that you'll comply. 
 My glass shall ne'er run dry. 
 
 Nor my darling little cruiskeen laun. 
 Gra-ma-chree ma cruiskeen, etc. 
 
 And when grim death appears. 
 After few but happy years. 
 
 And tells me my glass it is run, 
 I'll say, begone, you slave ! 
 For great Bacchus gives me leave 
 
 Just to fill another cruiskeen laun, 
 Gra-ma-chree ma cruiskeen, etc. 
 
 Then fill your glasses high. 
 Let's not part with lips adry, 
 
 Though the lark now proclaim it is dawn. 
 And since we can't remain. 
 May we shortly meet again. 
 To fill another cruiskeen laun. 
 Gra-ma-chree ma cruiskeen, etc. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 -My heart's 
 
 love 
 
 U my lit 
 
 i=juk; 
 
 Bright health t 
 
 > my d .r 
 
 ne; 
 
 My hewt- 
 
 
 r locks. 
 
A SONG OF SPRING. 
 
 329 
 
 THE SINGER. 
 Ah, my life has grown a song, a song. 
 
 And the throat may not be still. 
 It is music, music faint and strong, 
 
 And God must have his will. 
 Alack ! — the rest of his singers gay 
 
 He hath given them wings for mirth. 
 To soar and sing, to whirl and play. 
 
 Over earth and the ways of earth. 
 O to flit thro' leaves, to swing on the bough. 
 
 To do as an eagle dare. 
 To feel the cool flood catch the brow 
 
 Diving adown the air ; 
 To leap from the nest in the crag's high crest. 
 
 And drift thro' shower and shine. 
 To make of the billow a moonlight pillow. 
 
 To dance and duck in the brine ; 
 In Autumn days thro' fathomless ways 
 
 Fly to a sunbright south ! 
 O to cross the plains of the ice and rains, 
 
 And the realms of death and drout'.i ; 
 To beat the cloud with a pinion proud 
 
 High over the stormy lands !— 
 Is it meet to walk with bruised feet, 
 
 To clamber with bleeding hands .' 
 Alack ! why cannot my soul made free 
 
 To the fields of its God upclimb.' — 
 
 Rest thee, rest thee ; shall it not be 
 In a little, a little time.' 
 
 Or.ORGE F. .\RMSTRONG. 
 
 SINGIHG AND SIGHING. 
 When my heart was singing 
 
 All the world sang too, 
 Merry laughed the greenwood, 
 And the skiei were blue ; 
 In and out, round about, thro' the tasseled corn, 
 Golden bees, on the breeze, Hew to chase the 
 morn. 
 And adown the lil'.l-sidc. 
 
 Through the mjlcy glen. 
 Every rippling streamlet 
 
 Danced and laughed again — 
 When my heart was singing. 
 
 When my heart was sighing 
 
 All the world was gray, 
 Cloud and moaning breezes 
 
 Hid the light a.va;: ; 
 
 Gaunt and bare, thro' the air, rose the barren hill. 
 Loud and clear, rising near, piped the locust 
 shrill. 
 And the gloom without us 
 
 Seemed to find a rest 
 In the gathering shadows 
 Hidden in my breast. 
 When my heart was sighing. 
 
 Between song and sighing 
 
 Not a day had flown. 
 Not a change had fallen 
 Save on me alone ; 
 Shade or light, dark or bright, from my spirit 
 still [or ill ; 
 
 Came the bloom, came the gloom, painting good 
 So through all the seasons. 
 
 Every day departs. 
 Painted with the changes 
 Of our changing hearts. 
 Sighing thus or singing. 
 
 MARY E. BLAKE. 
 
 A SONG OF SPRING. 
 In April's dim and shadowy nights. 
 
 When music melts along the air. 
 And Memory wakens at the kiss 
 
 Of wandering perfumes, faint and rare — 
 
 Sweet springtime perfumes, such as won 
 Proserpina from realms of gloom. 
 
 To bathe her bright locks in the sun. 
 Or bind them with the pansy's bloom. 
 
 When light winds rift the fragrant bowers 
 Where orchards shed their fioral wreath. 
 
 Strewing the turf with starry flowers. 
 And dropping pearls at every breath ; 
 
 When all night long the boughs are stirred 
 With fitful warblings from the nest ; 
 
 And the heart flutters like a bird 
 With its sweet passionate unrest, — 
 
 Oh ! then, beloved, I think on thee ! 
 
 And on that life so strangely fair. 
 Ere yet one cloud of memory 
 
 Had gathered in hope's golden air. 
 
 I think on thee and thy lone grave 
 On the green hillside far away ; 
 
 I see the wilding flowers that wave 
 Around thee as the night-winds sway ; 
 
330 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 
 
 And still, though only clouds remain 
 On life's horizon, cold and drear. 
 
 The dream of youth returns again. 
 With the sweet promise of the year. 
 
 I linger till night's waning stars 
 
 Have ceased to tremble thro" the gloom. 
 
 Till through the orient's cloudy bars 
 I see the rose of morning bloom ! 
 
 All Hushed and radiant with delight. 
 It opens through earth's stormy skies. 
 
 Divinely beautiful and bright. 
 As on the hills of paradise. 
 
 Lo ! like a dew-drop on its breast 
 The morning star of youth and love. 
 
 Melting within the rosy east. 
 Exhales to azure depths above. 
 
 My spirit, soaring like a lark, 
 
 Would follow on its airy flight, 
 And, like yon little diamond spark, 
 
 Dissolve into the realms of light. 
 
 Sweet-missioned star ! thy silver beams 
 
 Foretell a fairer life to come. 
 And through the golden gate of dreams 
 
 Allure the wandering spirit home. 
 
 SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 THE MERRIEST BIRD. 
 
 The merriest bird on bush or tree 
 
 Was Robin of the grove, 
 When in the jocund spring-time he 
 
 Sang to his nesting love ; 
 Unknowing he the art to frame 
 
 Methodic numbers vain. 
 For as each varied feeling came 
 
 He wove it in his strain ; 
 With freedom gay 
 He poured his lay. 
 While heaved his little breast of fire 
 To rival all the woodland choir. 
 
 Upon a day, a luckless day. 
 
 When drove the wintry sleet, 
 Some urchins limed a willow spray 
 
 To catch poor Robin's feet ; 
 They sought, by measured rule and note. 
 
 To change his woodland strain : — 
 
 Do, r<-, mi. /a he heeded not — 
 He never sang again I 
 
 His joy is o'er. 
 
 He sings no more. 
 Nor knows the genial, kindling thrill 
 That only freedom's children feel. 
 
 You who would dull the poet's fire 
 
 With learning of the schools. 
 Gay fancy's feet with fetters tire. 
 
 And g^ve to Genius rules, — 
 Had bounteous Nature's counsel hung 
 
 Upon your will severe, 
 Tom Moore had ne'er green Erin sung. 
 
 Nor Burns the banks of Ayr ; 
 
 O'er-awed, I ween, 
 
 Both bards had been. 
 
 Nor dared to strike the simple lute 
 
 In your majestic presence mute. 
 
 GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
 THE BOHEMIAN'S BALLAD. 
 
 The princes and peers have their lands, 
 
 The statesmen their bribes and their speeches 
 The soldiers their bullets and brands, 
 
 The doctors their philters and leeches — 
 We, sons of the fork, have no gear, 
 
 We've B's on our chests to make honey; 
 We sing, and the notes that you hear 
 
 Are draughts on demand for your money. 
 So here's to the fork and the chords ! 
 
 Lord Mayors have their coaches of state. 
 
 And judges black caps and relations. 
 And toadies the smiles of the great, 
 
 And sailors their hemp complications — 
 We, sons of the palette and brush. 
 
 Can tuck 'neath an arm all the lumber 
 For changing boiled oil into lush. 
 
 And melting red gold from raw umber. 
 So here's to the palette and brush I 
 
 The merchants have opium and silk. 
 
 The spinners their fans and their fact'ries, 
 And those who are artists in milk 
 
 Their plaster-of-Paris and lact'ries — 
 We. sons of the pen, have our goods 
 
 Afloat on the cranium ichor. 
 For slaves we have tenses and moods 
 
 To fetch us the pipes and the liquor. 
 
 So here's to the quill of the goose ! 
 
TO THE L YRE. 
 
 331 
 
 Then fill up our cups to the brim, 
 
 We'll drink to the ladies that love us ; 
 Not those we adore on this dim 
 
 Earth here, but those dwelling above us ; 
 They feed us with nectar and sighs ; 
 
 They smile when dame Fortune abuses ; 
 When tired of the earth through the skies 
 
 Let us fly to our ladies, the Muses. 
 
 So here's to the glorious Nine . 
 
 RICHARD DOWLU'G. 
 
 MY VIOLON. 
 
 Within my little lonely room 
 
 Where many a crimson evening shines, 
 I cheer away the falling gloom 
 
 With songs beneath the casement vines : 
 Sweet memories haunt the lingering day 
 That hovers o'er each golden sun — 
 Each time I play 
 Brings back a ray — 
 Sing to me, sing, old Violon. 
 
 Old friends, your homes in sunset shine. 
 
 The trees around them softly sigh. 
 While o'er the rolling distant brine 
 
 You sail from home and poverty ; 
 I see your vessel far away, 
 
 I see your faces sad and wan 
 
 Turned where the day 
 
 Sets wild and gray — 
 
 Sing to them, sing, old Violon. 
 
 Old books, companions of my youth. 
 
 And friends of age, still brightening earth. 
 How oft we've mused above your truth. 
 
 How often smiled upon your mirth ! 
 Your date recalls the happy years. 
 
 And all who blessed them passed and gone- 
 Their smile appears 
 'Mid falling tears- 
 Sing to them, sing, old Violon ! 
 
 Companionless amid the days 
 
 I wander in the autumn blast. 
 Through fields and trees,and well-known ways, 
 
 The silent scenery of the past. 
 Like friends the distant mountains smile, 
 O'erflowed by the departing sun^ 
 A little while, 
 A little while, 
 Sing to them yet, old Violon. 
 
 Yon pale autumnal cloud of white 
 
 Stood in the cold east all day long. 
 And in the silent sky to-night 
 
 Under the full moon hears my song. 
 My fancy whispers mournfully— 
 
 'Tis some dear spirit beloved and gone, 
 Come back to see 
 Old earth and me — 
 Sing to her, sing, old Violon. 
 
 Ah ! soon, sweet friend, thy aged strings 
 
 To stranger fingers shall resound ; 
 But, when to thy rich murmurings 
 
 The joyous dancers beat the ground. 
 
 Through the gay window, with the moon, 
 
 I'll look ere mirth and dance be done. 
 
 And list thy tune. 
 
 Though soon, too soon. 
 
 Death wafts me from my Violon. 
 
 THOMAS C. IRWIN. 
 
 TO THE LYRE. 
 Weird harp, evoke the scenes of youth. 
 
 The morn of life, the golden hours, 
 When reason first e.\pands to truth. 
 As to the sun the sleeping flowers. 
 The heart, like swallow on the wing. 
 The step, like dun-deer in the spring. 
 The faith and hope, like vines that cling 
 Round ruined towers ! 
 
 The feast of shells, the royal games. 
 
 The banquet hall, the revelrie ; 
 The herald-roll of glorious names ; 
 
 And oh ! recall our country free ! 
 Or wake the soul-inspiring words 
 That swept and swelled thy passion -chords- 
 Bold echoes to the clash of swords 
 For libertie I 
 
 But no, those strains of loftier flight. 
 Ah, me ! usurp the bard's control. 
 
 For shadows darket'than the night. 
 Congeal his heart, oppress his soul ! 
 
 The requiem of his land is knelled. 
 
 The spirit broken — never quelled — 
 
 And sorrow cannot be dispelled 
 By song or bowl ! 
 
 We've seen her people fearless stand. 
 
 And the avenging hour draw near ; 
 Seen the oppressors of the land 
 
 Or fly afar, or pale with fear ! 
 
)32 
 
 POEMS OF SE.Vr/AfE.Vr A.VD RETROSPECTION. 
 
 What see we now — bereaven one ? 
 Thy day of resurrection gone. 
 And thee, betrayed, and leaning on 
 The broken spear' 
 
 Away, ye glowing rliapsodies. 
 
 Fond memories of the days of yore ! 
 The echoes of the moaning seas 
 
 At midnight over Aileach's shore. 
 The reeds that murmur by the streams. 
 The shadows of departed dreams, 
 Those be thy voices, these thy themes 
 For evermore ! 
 
 JOHN BOYLE. 
 
 IRISH MUSIC. 
 
 Oh. dear old airs of Ireland, 
 
 Fresh from the heart you spring ! 
 Oh, g^and old airs of Ireland, 
 
 Your spell around us Ihng I 
 The ear may be untuned, untaught. 
 
 The eye unused to glisten ! 
 But yet when these sweet strains arise. 
 
 The heart keeps still to listen. 
 
 Old airs, old airs, ye raise the dead. 
 
 Ye bring the past before me ; 
 The very winds that swept the hills 
 
 In youth, are blowing o"er me! 
 They rustle through the bearded grain. 
 
 Amid the trees they dally ; 
 They stir the primrose in the mead. 
 
 The shamrock down the valley. 
 
 I'm home again : The Irish earth 
 
 And Irish sky are meeting. 
 And these old airs on Irish winds 
 
 Go by me like a greeting. 
 How siveet they are ! how grand they are ! 
 
 How tender and how glowing ! 
 How weirdly sad. h' <v wildly glad. 
 
 How full to over-fl"wing 
 
 With memories of olden days. 
 With Ireland's grief and glory— 
 
 The pride and pathos, love and hate. 
 That chequer her sad story I 
 
 The burning sense of bitter wrong. 
 
 The scorn of base compliance. 
 That flings even in the face of Fate 
 
 Its deep and stern defiance ! 
 
 Ah me ! ah me ! that fearful wail ! 
 
 A heart is surely breaking. 
 And. like the swan, in melixly 
 
 Its leave of life is taking; 
 And unto that heart's agony 
 
 Mine listened till it grew sick — 
 Then, tell me not those sighs arc notes. 
 
 That storm of tears mere music ! 
 
 Hush, hush ! it dies away in sobs. 
 
 Grief's tide is ebbing slowly ; 
 But ere the last faint sound is heard — 
 
 Ere it has died out wholly — 
 Bursts forth a strain so wildly gay. 
 
 So bubbling o'er with gladness, 
 It reels like Msenad in her play. 
 
 Or Bacchant in his madness ;— 
 
 A strain that drives off thought and care 
 
 As day drives off a spectre. 
 And fills the heart up to the brim 
 
 With pleasure's sparkling nectar. 
 Then, while each sense is all distraught 
 
 With mirth's inlo.xication. 
 Rolls out a glorious battle-hymn— 
 
 The challenge of a nation ! 
 
 Tell me not of Italian airs, 
 
 To sense, not heart, appealing : 
 Was ever sound so full of soul. 
 
 Or notes so strung with feeling 
 As in those dear old airs that spring 
 
 From passion or devotion. 
 Or love that hides within the heart. 
 
 Like pearls within the ocean ? 
 
 Old airs, old airs, how faithfully 
 
 Each changing mood ye render, — 
 The sad, the proud, the fierce, the gay. 
 
 The martial and the tender I 
 Fresh are ye as the breeze that sweeps 
 
 From Carrick to Kinsale, 
 And sweet as a hawthorh hedge in bloom. 
 
 Old songs of Innisfail ! 
 
 MARY MVLLALV. 
 
PART VI. 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 High on the hill-top 
 
 The old king sits ; 
 He is now so old and gray 
 
 He's nigh lost his wits. 
 With a bridge of white mist 
 
 Columbkill he crosses, 
 On his stately journeys 
 
 From Slieveleage to Rosses ; 
 Or going up with music 
 
 On cold, starry nights, 
 To sup with the queen 
 
 Of the gay Northern Lights. 
 
 They stole little Bridget 
 
 For seven years long ; 
 Wheu she came down again 
 
 Her friends were all gone. 
 They took her lightly back 
 
 Between the night and morrow ; 
 They thought she was fast asleep. 
 
 But she was dead with sorrow. 
 They have kept her ever since 
 
 Deep within the lakes, 
 On a bed of flag leaves. 
 
 Watching till she wakes. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. 
 
 " They made her a grave too cold and damp 
 
 For a soul so warm and true ; [Swamp, 
 
 And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal 
 Where, all night long, by a tire-fly lamp, 
 She paddles her white canoe. 
 
 " And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, 
 
 And her paddle I soon shall hear ; 
 Long and loving our life shall be. 
 And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree 
 When the footstep of death is near. " 
 
 Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds : 
 
 His path was rugged and sore ; 
 Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, 
 Through many a fen where the serpent feeds. 
 
 And man never trod before. 
 
 And, when on the earth he sank to sleep. 
 
 If slumber his eyelids knew. 
 He lay where the deadly vine doth weep 
 Its venomous tear and nightly steep 
 
 The flesh with blistering dew. 
 
 And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, 
 And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, 
 
 Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, 
 
 "O where shall I see the dusky lake, 
 And the white canoe of my dear ? " 
 
 He saw the lake ; and a meteor bright 
 
 Quick over its surface play'd ; — 
 "Welcome," he .said, "my dear one's light!" 
 And the dim shore echoed for many a night 
 
 The name of the death cold maid. 
 
 Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark. 
 
 Which carried him off from the shore ; 
 Far, far he followed the meteor spark. 
 The wind was high and the clouds were dark, 
 And the boat returned no more. 
 
 But oft from the Indian hunter's camp 
 
 This lover and maid so true 
 Are seen at the hour of midnight damp 
 To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp. 
 
 And paddle their white canoe ! 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 THE MAIDS OF ELFIN-MERE. 
 
 'Twas when the spinning-room vi-as here. 
 
 There came Three Damsels clothed in white. 
 
 With their spindles every night ; 
 
 Two and one, and Three fair Maidens, 
 
 Spinning to a pulsing cadence. 
 
 Singing songs of F.lfin-Mere ; 
 
 Till the eleventh hour was toU'd, 
 
 Then departed through the wold. 
 
 Years ago, and years ago ; 
 
 And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow 
 
 Three white Lilies, calm and clear. 
 And they were loved by every one ; 
 Most of all, the Pastor's son. 
 Listening to their gentle singing. 
 Felt his heart go from him, clinging 
 Round these Maids of Elfin-Mere ; 
 Sued each night to make them stay. 
 Sadden 'd when they went away. 
 
 Years ago, and years ago ; 
 
 And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow. 
 
 Hands that shook with love and fear 
 Dared put back the village clock,— 
 Flew the spindle, turn'd the rock, 
 Flow'd the song with subtle rounding. 
 Till the false " eleven " was sounding ; 
 Then these Maids of Elfin-Mere 
 Swiftly, softly, left the room. 
 Like three doves on snowy plume. 
 
 Years ago, and years ago ; 
 
 And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow. 
 
POEMS OF THE lAfAGINATIOA. 
 
 One that night who wander'd near 
 Heard lamentings by the shore, 
 Saw at dawn three stains of gore 
 In the waters fade and dwindle. 
 Nevermore with song and spindle 
 Saw we Maids of Ellin-Mere. 
 The Pastor's Son did pine and die : 
 Because true love should never lie. 
 
 Years ago, and years ago ; 
 
 And the tall reeds sigh as the wnnd doth blow. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHA.M. 
 
 ! 
 " Cling closer, Maud, and trust in God ! ] 
 
 Cling close !— Ah, heaven, she slips from me ! " j 
 A prayer, a groan, and he alone 
 
 Rode on that night from the gallows-tree. 
 
 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. j 
 
 THE DEMON OF THE GIBBET. 
 
 There was no west, there was no east. 
 
 No star abroad for eyes to see ; 
 And Norman spurred his jaded beast 
 
 Hard by the terrible gallows-tree. 
 
 " O. Norman, haste across this waste, — 
 For something seems to follow me ! " 
 
 ," Cheer up, dear Maud, for, thanked be God, | 
 We nigh have p>assed the gallows-tree ! " 
 
 He kissed her lip : then — spur and whip ! j 
 
 And fast they fled across the lea ! 
 But vain the heel, and rowel steel, — 
 
 For somethmg leaped from the gallows-tree ! 
 
 " Give me your cloak, your knightly cloak. 
 That wrapi^ed you oft beyond the sea ! 
 
 The wind is bold, my bones are old. 
 And 1 am cold on the gallows-tree," 
 
 "O holy God ! O dearest Maud, 
 
 Quick, quick, some prayers— the best that be ! 
 A bony hand my neck has spanned, 
 
 And tears my knightly cloak from me I " 
 
 " Give me your wine, — the red, red wine. 
 That in the flask hangs by your knee ! 
 
 Ten summers burst on me accurst. 
 And I'm athirst on the gallows-tree ! " 
 
 " O Maud, my life, my lo\nng wife ! 
 
 Have you no prayer to set us free ? 
 My belt unclasps,— a demon grasps, 
 
 And drags my wine-flask from my knee ! " 
 
 " Give me your bride, your bonnie bride, 
 
 That left her nest with you to flee ! 
 O she hath flown to be my own. 
 
 For I'm alone on the gallows-tree! " 
 
 THE WALKER OF THE SNOW. 
 
 Speed on, speed on, good master. 
 
 The camp lies far away ; 
 We must cross the haunted valley 
 
 Before the close of day. 
 How the snow-blight came upon me 
 
 I will tell you as we go, — 
 The blight of the shadow-hunter 
 
 Who walks the midnight snow. 
 
 To the cold December heaven 
 
 Came the pale moon and the stars 
 As the yellow sun was sinking 
 
 Behind the purple bars. 
 The snow was deeply drifted 
 
 Upon the ridges drear. 
 That lay for miles bctvs-een me 
 
 And the camp for which we steer. 
 
 'Twas silent by the hillside 
 
 And by the sombre wood. 
 No sound of life or motion 
 
 To break the solitude. 
 Save the wailing of the moose-bitid 
 
 With plaintive note and low. 
 And the skating of the red leaf 
 
 Upon the frozen snow. 
 
 And 1 said, " though dark is falling. 
 
 And far the camp must be. 
 Yet my heart it would be lightsome 
 
 If I had but company." 
 And then I sang and shouted. 
 
 Keeping measure as 1 sped 
 To the harp-twang of the snow shoe. 
 
 As it sprang beneath my tread. 
 
 Nor far into the valley 
 
 Had 1 dipped my weary way 
 When a dusky figure joined me 
 
 In a capuchin of gray. 
 Bending upon the snow shoes 
 
 With a long and limber stride. 
 And I hailed the dusky stranger 
 
 As we travelled side by side. 
 
THE ISLE OF THE BLEST. 
 
 2)2)7 
 
 But no token of communion 
 
 Gave he by word or look, 
 And the fear-chill came upon me 
 
 At the crossing of the brook. 
 For I saw by the sickly moonlight, 
 
 As I followed, bending low. 
 That the walking of the stranger 
 
 Left no footmarks on the snow. 
 
 Then the fear-chill gathered o'er me 
 
 Like a shroud around me cast, 
 And I sank upon the snowdrift 
 
 Where the shadow-hunter passed. 
 And the otter-hunters found me 
 
 Before the break of day 
 With my dark hair blanched and whitened- 
 
 As the snow on w^hich I lay. 
 
 But they spoke not as they raised me. 
 
 For they knew that in the night 
 I had seen the shadow-hunter, 
 
 And had withered in his blight. 
 Sancta Maria speed us ! 
 
 The sun is falling low- 
 Before us lies the valley 
 
 Of the Walker of the Snow. 
 
 CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. 
 
 THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 
 
 To Rathlin's Isle * I chanced to sail 
 
 When summer breezes softly blew. 
 And there I heard so sweet a tale. 
 
 That oft I wished it could be true. 
 They said, at eve, when rude winds sleep, 
 
 And hushed is every tuibid swell, 
 A mermaid rises from the deep, 
 
 And sweetly tunes her magic shell. 
 
 And while she plays, rock, dell, and cave 
 
 In dying falls the sound retrain, 
 As if some choral spirits gave 
 
 Their aid to swell her witching strain; 
 Then, summoned by that dulcet note. 
 
 Uprising to th ' admiring view, 
 A fairy island seems to float. 
 
 With tints of many a gorgeous hue. 
 
 And glittering fanes, and lofty towers. 
 All on this fairy isle are seen ; 
 
 And waving trees, and shady bowers. 
 With more than mortal verdure green. 
 
 : north coast < 
 
 And as it moves, the western sky 
 Glows with a thousand varying rays ; 
 
 And the calm sea, tinged with each dye. 
 Seems like a golden flood of blaze. 
 
 They also say, if earth or stone, 
 
 From verdant Erin's hallowed land. 
 Were on this magic island thrown. 
 
 For ever fixed it then would stand. 
 But when for this some little boat 
 
 In silence ventures from the shore. 
 The mermaid sinks, hushed is the note. 
 
 The fairy isle is seen no more, 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE ISLE OF THE BLEST. 
 
 On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye 
 
 dwell, 
 A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell : 
 Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest. 
 And they called it Hv-Brasail, the isle of the 
 
 blest; 
 From year unto year, on the ocean's blue rim. 
 The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim ; 
 The golden clouds curtained the deep where it 
 
 lay. 
 And it looked like an Eden, away, far away ! 
 
 A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale. 
 In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail; 
 From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west, 
 I'^or though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasail^as blest. 
 He heard not the voices that called from the 
 
 shore — 
 He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar; 
 Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day. 
 And he sped to Hy-Brasail. away, far away ; 
 
 Mom rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle. 
 O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile ; 
 Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy 
 
 shore 
 Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before ; 
 Lone evening came down on the wanderer's 
 
 track. 
 And to Ara again he looked timidly back ; 
 O ! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, 
 Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away ! 
 
 Rash dreamer, return ! O, ye winds of the main. 
 Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again. 
 
338 
 
 POEMS OF THE I At AGIN A TION. 
 
 Rash fool ! for a vision of fanciful bliss. 
 To barter thy calm life of labor and peace. j 
 
 The warning of reason was spoken in vain ; ! 
 
 He never revisited Ara again ! i 
 
 Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, 
 And he died on the waters, away, far away, 
 
 GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
 THE ATLANTIC* 
 
 Roll on. thou Ocean, dark and deep. 
 
 Thou wilderness of waves ! 
 Where all the tribes of earth might sleep 
 
 In boundless graves. 
 
 The sunbeams on thy bosom wake, 
 
 Yet never pierce thy gloom : 
 The tempests sweep, yet never shake 
 
 Thy mighty tomb. 
 
 Great mystery, unfathomed bier. 
 
 Thy secret, who hath told ?— 
 Guilt, power, and passion's wild career, 
 
 Man, and his gold. 
 
 There lie earth's myriads in the pall, 
 
 Secure from sword and storm. 
 And he, the feaster on them all. 
 
 The canker-worm. 
 
 Bright from Heaven's hand, thy mountain's 
 Once basked in morning's beam ; [brow 
 
 And loved thy midnight moon to glow 
 On grove and stream. 
 
 And stately from thy tree-crowned height 
 
 Looked down the holy fane ; 
 And filled thy valley of delight 
 
 The golden grain. 
 
 And floated on thy twilight sky. 
 
 The dewy field's perfume. 
 The vineyard's breath of luxury, — 
 
 Now, all the tomb ! 
 
 An ocean shrouds thy glory now ; 
 
 Where are thy great and brave. 
 Lords of the sceptre and the bow .' — 
 
 Answer, wild wave ! 
 
 Crime deepened on the recreant land. 
 
 Long guilty, long forgiven ; 
 There power uprearcd the bloody hand. 
 
 Pride scoffed at Heaven ! 
 
 Then came the word of overthrow. 
 The judgment thunders f>ealed. 
 
 The fiery earthquake burst below,— 
 Her doom was sealed ! 
 
 Now in her halls of ivory. 
 
 Lie ocean weed and serpents' slime ; 
 Buried from man and angel's eye. 
 
 The Land of Crime ! 
 
 GEORGE CKOLV. 
 
 THE AMBER WHALE. 
 A harpooxer's story.* 
 
 We were down in the Indian Ocean, after sperm, 
 
 and three years out ; 
 The last si.x months in the tropics, and looking 
 
 in vain for a spout, — 
 Five men up on the royal yards, weary of strain- 
 I ing their sight ; 
 
 I And every day like its brother,— just morning and 
 j noon and night- 
 
 Nothing to break the sameness : water and wind 
 I and sun, 
 
 I Motionless, gentle, and blazing, — never a change 
 I in one. 
 
 Every day like its brother : when the noonday 
 
 eight-bells came, 
 'Twas like yesterday; and we seemed to know 
 
 that to-morrow would be the same. 
 The foremast hands had a lazy time : there was 
 
 never a thing to do ; 
 The ship was painted, tarred down, and scraped ; 
 I and the mates had nothing new. 
 
 We'd worked at sinnet and ratline till there wasn't 
 
 a yarn to use. 
 I And all we could do was watch and pray for a 
 
 sperm whale's spout — or news. 
 It was whalers luck of the vilest sort; and. 
 
 though many a volunteer 
 : Spent his watch below on the look-out, never a 
 whale came near, — 
 
 • The localinn of a vast island, or rather continent, i 
 space which now forms the bed of the Atlantic Ocean, 
 subject of several ancient traditions, and is 
 
 have a strange belief as to the formation of am- 
 ber. They say that it is a petrifaction of some internal part 
 of a whale ; and they tell weird stories of enormous whales 
 seen in the warm latitudes, that were almost entirely trans- 
 formed into the precious substance. 
 
vt "B^g (h^ii 
 
THE AMBER WHALE. 
 
 339 
 
 At least of the kind we wanted : there were lots 
 
 of whales of a sort, — 
 Killers and finbacks, and such like, as if they 
 
 enjoyed the sport 
 Of seeing a whale-ship idle ; but we never low- 
 ered a boat 
 For less than a blackfish, — tliere's no oil in a kil- 
 ler's or finback's coat. 
 There was rich reward for the look-out men, — 
 
 tobacco for even a sail. 
 And a barrel of oil for the lucky dog who'd be 
 
 first to " raise " a whale. 
 The crew was a mixture from every land, and 
 
 many a tongue they spoke ; 
 And when they sat in the fo'castle, enjoying an 
 
 evening smoke. 
 There were tales told, youngster, would make you 
 
 stare, — stories of countless shoals 
 Of devil-fish in the Pacific and right-whales away 
 
 at the Poles. 
 There was one of these fo'castle yarns that we 
 
 always loved to hear, — 
 Kanaka and Maori and Yankee ; all lent an eager 
 
 ear 
 To that strange old tale that was always new, — • 
 
 the wonderful treasure-tale 
 Of an old Down-East harpooner who had struck 
 
 an Amber Whale ! 
 Ay, that was a tale worth hearing, lad : if 'twas 
 
 true we couldn't say, 
 Or if 'twas a yarn old Mat had spun to while the 
 
 time away. 
 
 " It's just fifteen years ago," said Mat, "since I 
 
 shipped as harpooneer 
 On board a bark in New Bedford, and came 
 
 cruising somewhere near 
 To this whaling-ground we're cruising now ; but 
 
 whales were plenty then. 
 And not like now, when we scarce get oil to pay 
 
 for the ship and men. 
 There were none of these oil wells running then, 
 
 — at least, what shore folk term 
 An oil well in Pennsylvania, — but sulphur-bot- 
 tom and sperm 
 Were plenty as frogs in a mud-hole, and all of 
 
 'em big whales, too; 
 One hundred barrels for sperm-whales ; and for 
 
 sulphur-bottom, two. 
 You couldn't pick out a small one ; the littlest 
 
 calf or cow 
 Had a sight more oil than the big bull whales we 
 
 think so much of now. 
 
 We were more to the east, off Java Straits, a 
 little below the mouth, — 
 
 A hundred and five to the east'ard and nine de- 
 grees to the south ; 
 
 And that was as good a whaling-ground for mid- 
 dling-sized, handy whales 
 
 As any in all the ocean ; and 'twas always white 
 with sails 
 
 From Scotland and Hull and New England, — 
 for the whales were thick as frogs, 
 
 And 'twas little trouble to kill 'em then, for they 
 lay as quiet as logs. 
 
 And every night we'd go visiting the other whale- 
 ships 'round. 
 
 Or p'r'aps we'd strike on a Dutchman, calmed 
 off the Straits, and bound 
 
 To Singapore or Batavia, with plenty of schnapps 
 to sell 
 
 For a few whale's teeth or a gallon of oil, and the 
 latest news to tell. 
 
 And in every ship of that whaling fleet was one 
 wonderful story told, — 
 
 How an Amber Whale had been seen that year 
 that was worth a mint of gold. 
 
 And one man — mate of a Scotchman — said he'd 
 seen, away to the west, 
 
 A big school of sperm, and one whale's spout 
 was twice as high as the rest; 
 
 And we knew that that was the Amber Whale, 
 for we'd often heard before 
 
 That his spout was twice as thick as the rest, 
 and a hundred feet high or more. 
 
 And often, when the look-out cried, 'He blows!' 
 the very hail 
 
 Thrilled every heart with the greed of gold, — for 
 we thought of the Amber Whale. 
 
 ■' But never a sight of his spout we saw till the 
 
 season there went round. 
 And the ships ran down to the south'ard to an- 
 other whaling-ground. 
 We stayed to the last off Java, and then we ran 
 
 to the west. 
 To get our recruits at Mauritius, and give the 
 
 crew a rest. 
 Five days we ran in the trade winds, and the 
 
 boys were beginning to talk 
 Of their time ashore, and whether they'd have a 
 
 donkey-ride or a walk. 
 And whether they'd spend their money in wine, 
 
 bananas, or pearls. 
 Or drive to the sugar plantations to dance with 
 
 the Creole girls. 
 
340 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINA TION. 
 
 But they soon got something to talk about. Five i We soon got close as was right to go ; for the 
 
 days we ran west-sou'-west, school might hear a hail. 
 
 But the sixth day's log-book entry was a change Or see the bark, and that was the last of our 
 
 from all the rest ; : Bank-of Lngland Whale. 
 
 For that was the day the masthead men made • ' Let her luff." said the Old .Man, gently. ' Now. 
 
 every face turn pale, I lower away, my boys. 
 
 With the cry that we all had dreamt about, — ; And pull for a mile, then paddle, — and mind 
 
 ' He Blows ! the Amber Whale!" [ that you make no noise.' 
 
 " And every man was motionless, and every 
 
 speaker's lip 
 Just stopped as it was, with the word half said : 
 
 there wasn't a sound in the ship 
 Till the captain hailed the masthead, ' Where- 
 
 away is the whale you see ?' 
 And the cry came down again, ' — He blows ! 
 
 about four points on our lee. 
 And three miles off, sir,— there he blows ! he's 
 
 going to leeward fast I' 
 And then we sprang to the rigging, and saw the 
 
 great whale at last ! 
 
 " Ah ! shipmates, that was a sight to see : the 
 
 water was smooth as a lake. 
 And there was the monster rolling, with a school 
 
 of whales in his wake. 
 They looked like pilot-fish round a shark, as if 
 
 they were keeping guard ; 
 And, shipmates, the spout of that Amber Whale 
 
 was high as a sky-sail yard. 
 There was never a ship's crew worked so quick 
 
 as our whalemen worked that day, — 
 When the captain shouted, ' Swing the boats, 
 
 and be ready to lower away ! ' 
 Then, ' A pull on the weather-braces, men ! let 
 
 her head fall off three points ! ' 
 And off she swung, with a quarter-breeze strain- 
 ing the old ship's joints. 
 The men came down from the mastheads ; and 
 
 the boat's crews stood on the rail. 
 Stowing the lines and irons, and fixing paddles 
 
 and sail. 
 And when all was ready we leant on the boats 
 
 and looked at the Amber's spout. 
 That went up like a monster fountain, with a 
 
 sort of a rumbling shout, 
 Like a thousand railroad engines puffing away 
 
 their smoke. 
 He was just like a frigate's hull capsized, and 
 
 the swaying water broke 
 Against the sides of the great stiff whale : he was 
 
 steering soiith-by-west, — 
 For the Cape, no doubt, for a whale can shape 
 
 a course as well as the best. 
 
 " A minute more, and the boats were down . 
 
 and out from the hull of the bark 
 The" shot with a nervous sweep of the oars, like 
 
 dolphins away from a shark. 
 Each officer stood in the stern, and watched, as 
 
 he held the steering oar. 
 And the crews bent down to their pulling as 
 
 they never pulled before. 
 
 " Our Mate was as thorough a whaleman as I 
 
 ever met afloat ; 
 And I was his harpooneer that day. and sat in 
 
 the bow of the boat. 
 His eyes were set on the whales ahead, and he 
 
 spoke in a low, deep tone, 
 And told the men to be steady and cool, and the 
 
 whale was all our own. 
 And steady and cool they proved to be : you 
 
 could read it in every face. 
 And in every straining muscle, that they meant 
 
 to win that race. 
 ' Bend to it, boys, for a few strokes more, — bend 
 
 to it steady and long ! 
 Now, in with your oars, and paddles out, — all 
 
 together, and strong ! ' 
 Then we turned and sat on the gunwale, with 
 
 our faces to the bow ; 
 And the whales were right ahead, — no more than 
 
 four ships' lengths off now. 
 There were five of 'em, hundred-barrellers, like 
 
 guards round the Amber Whale. 
 And to strike him we'd have to risk being stove 
 
 by crossing a sweeping tail ; 
 But the prize and the risk were equal. ' Mat,' 
 
 now whispers the mate, 
 Are your irons ready ? ' 'Ay, ay, sir.' ' Stand up, 
 
 then, steady, and wait 
 Till I give the word, then let 'em fly, and hit him 
 
 below the fin 
 As he rolls to wind'ard. Start her, boys ! now's 
 
 the time to slide her in ! 
 Hurrah ! that fluke just missed us. Mind, as soon 
 
 as the iron's fast, [boys, at last. 
 
 Be ready to back your paddles, — now in for it, 
 Heave! Again!" 
 
THE AMBER WHALE. 
 
 341 
 
 "And two irons flew : the first one sankin the joint, 
 Tween the head and hump, — in the muscle; but 
 
 the second had its point 
 Turned off by striking the ambtr case, coming 
 
 out again like a bow. 
 And the monster carcass quivered, and rolled with 
 
 pain from the first deep blow. 
 Then he lashed the sea with his terrible flukes, 
 
 and showed us many a sign 
 That his rage was roused. ' Lay off," roared the 
 
 Mate, ' and all keep clear of the line ! ' 
 And that was a timely warning, for the whale 
 
 made an awful breach 
 Right out of the sea ; and 'twas well for us that 
 
 the boat was beyond the reach 
 Of his sweeping flukes, as he milled around, and 
 
 made for the Captain's boat, 
 That was right astern. And, shipmates, then 
 
 my heart swelled up in my throat 
 At the sight I saw : the Amber Whale was lash- 
 ing the sea with rage. 
 And two of his hundred-barrel guards were ready 
 
 now to engage 
 In a bloody fight, and with open j?.ws they came 
 
 to their master's aid. 
 Then we knew the Captain's boat was doomed ; 
 
 but the crew were no whit afraid, — 
 They were brave New England whalemen,— and 
 
 we saw the harpooneer 
 Stand up to send in his irons, as soon as the 
 
 whales came near. 
 Then we heard the Captain's order. ' Heave ! * 
 
 and saw the harpoon fly. 
 As the whales closed in with their open jaws : a 
 
 shock, and a stifled cry 
 Was all that we heard ; then we looked to see if 
 
 the crew were still afloat, — 
 But nothing was there save a dull red patch, and 
 
 the boards of the shattered boat ! 
 
 " But that was no time for mourning words : the 
 
 other two boats came in. 
 And one got fast on the quarter, and one aft the 
 
 starboard fin 
 Of the Amber Whale. For a minute he paused, 
 
 as if he were in doubt 
 As to whether 'twas best to run or fight. ' Lay 
 
 on ! ' the Mate roared out, 
 'And I'll give him a lance ! ' The boat shot in ; 
 
 and the Mate, when he saw his chance 
 Of sending it home to the vitals, four times he 
 
 buried his lance. 
 A minute more, and a cheer went up, when we 
 
 saw that his aim was good ; ' 
 
 For the lance had struck in a life-spot, and the 
 
 whale was spouting blood ! 
 But now came the time of danger, for the school 
 
 of whales around 
 Had aired their flukes, and the cry was raised, 
 
 ' Look out ! they're going to sound !' 
 And down they went with a sudden plunge, the 
 
 Amber Whale the last. 
 While the lines ran smoking out of the tubs, he 
 
 went to the deep so fast. 
 Before you could count your fingers, a hundred 
 
 fathoms were out ; 
 And then he stopped, for a wounded whale must 
 
 come to the top and spout. 
 We hauled slack line as we felt him rise ; and 
 
 when he came up alone. 
 And spouted thick blood, we cheered again, for 
 
 we knew he was all our own. 
 He was frightened now, and his fight was gone, 
 
 — right round and round he spun. 
 As if he was trying to sight the boats, or find the 
 
 best side to run. 
 But that was the minute for us to work : the boats 
 
 hauled in their slack. 
 And bent on the drag-tubs over the stern to tire 
 
 and hold him back, 
 The bark was five miles to wind'ard, and the 
 
 mate gave a troubled glance 
 At the sinking sun, and muttered, ' Boys, we must 
 
 give him another lance. 
 Or he'll run till night ; and, if he should head to 
 
 wind'ard in the dark. 
 We'll be forced to cut loose and leave him, or 
 
 else lose run of the bark.' 
 So we hauled in close, two boats at once, but 
 
 only frightened the whale ; 
 And, like a hound that was badly whipped, he 
 
 turned and showed his tail. 
 With his head right dead to wind'ard ; then as 
 
 straight and as swift he sped 
 As a hungry shark for a swimming prey ; and, 
 
 bending over his head, 
 Like a mighty plume, went his bloody spout. 
 
 Ah ! shipmates, that was a sight 
 Worth a life at sea to witness. In his wake the 
 
 As you've seen it after a steamei s screw, churning 
 
 up like foaming yeast ; 
 And the boats went hissing along at the rate of 
 
 twenty knots at least. 
 With the water flush with the gunwale, and the 
 
 oars were all apeak. 
 While the crews sat silent and quiet, watching 
 
 the long, white streak 
 
342 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINA TION. 
 
 That was traced by the line of our passage We 
 
 hailed the bark as we passed, 
 And told them to keep a sharp look-out from the 
 
 head of every mast ; 
 'And if we're not back by sundown,' cried the 
 
 Mate, ' you keep a light 
 At the royal cross-trees. If he dies, we may stick 
 
 to the whale all night." 
 
 "And past we swept with our oars apeak, and 
 
 waved our hands to the hail 
 Of the wondering men on the taffrail, who were 
 
 watchmg our Amber Whale 
 As he surged ahead, just as if he thought he 
 
 could tire his enemies out ; 
 I was almost sorrowful, shipmates, to see after 
 
 each red spout 
 That the great whale's strength was failing : the 
 
 iweep of his flukes grew slow. 
 Till at sundown he made about four knots, and 
 
 his spout was weak and low. 
 Then said the Mate to his boat's crew : ■ Boys, 
 
 the vessel is out of sight 
 To the leeward : now. shall we cut the line, or 
 
 stick to the whale all night ? ' 
 •We'll stick to the whale!' cried every man. 
 
 ' Let the other boats go back 
 To the vessel and beat to wind'ard, as well as 
 
 they can, in our track.' 
 It was done as they said : the lines were cut, and 
 
 the crews cried out, ' Good speed ! ' 
 As we swept along in the darkness, in the wake 
 
 of our monster steed. 
 That went plunging on, with the dogged hope 
 
 that he'd tire his enemies still,— 
 But even the strength of an Amber Whale must 
 
 break before human will. 
 By little and little his power had failed as he 
 
 spouted his blood away. 
 Till at midnight the rising moon shone down on 
 
 the great fish as he lay 
 Just moving his flukes ; but at length he stopped, 
 
 and raising his square, black head 
 As high as the topmast cross-trees, swung round 
 
 and fell over — dead ! 
 
 "And then rose a shout of triumph. — a shout that 
 
 was more like a curse 
 Than an honest cVieer; but, shipmates, the 
 
 thought in our hearts was worse. 
 And 'twas punished with bitter suffering. We 
 
 claimed the whale as our own. 
 And said that the crew should have no share of 
 
 the wealth that was ours alone. 
 
 We said to each other : We want their help till 
 
 we get the whale aboard. 
 So we'll let 'em think that they'll have a share till 
 
 we get the Amber stored. 
 And then we'll pay them their wages, and send 
 
 them ashore — or afloat. 
 If they show their It-mper. Ah! shipmates, no 
 
 wonder 'twas that boat 
 And its selfish crew were cursed that night. 
 
 Next day we saw no sail. 
 But the wind and sea were rising. Still, we held 
 
 to the drifting whale, — 
 .And a dead whale drifts to windward, — going 
 
 farther away from the ship. 
 Without water, or bread, or courage to pray with 
 
 heart or lip 
 That had planned and spoken the treachery. 
 
 The wind blew into a gale, 
 \ And it screamed like mocking laughter round 
 j our boat and the Amber Whale. 
 
 " That night fell dark on the starving crew, and 
 
 a hurricane blew next day ; 
 Then we cut the line, and we cursed the prize as 
 
 it drifted fast away, 
 I As if some power under the waves were towing 
 I it out of sight ; 
 
 And there we were, without help or hope, dread- 
 ing the coming night. 
 Three days that hurricane lasted. When it 
 
 passed, two men were dead ; 
 And the strongest one of the living had not 
 
 strength to raise his head. 
 When his dreaming swoon was broken by the 
 
 sound of a cheery hail. 
 And he saw a shadow fall on the boat,— it fell 
 
 from the old bark's sail ! 
 And when he heard their kindly words, you'd 
 
 think he should have smiled 
 With joy at his deliverance ; but he cried like a 
 
 little child. 
 And hid his face in his poor weak hands, — for he 
 
 thought of the selfish plan, — 
 And he prayed to God to forgive them all. And, 
 
 shipmates, I am the man ! — 
 The only one of the sinful crew that ever beheld 
 
 his home; 
 For before the cruise was over, all the rest were 
 
 under the foam. 
 It's just fifteen years gone, shipmates," said old 
 
 Mat, ending his tale ; 
 "And I often pray that I'll never see another 
 
 Amber Whale." 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
THE GERALDINE'S SLEEP. 
 
 343 
 
 THE GERALDINE'S SLEEP.* 
 
 The midnight just over, the dawning but gray, 
 While birds seeic their voices I'll up and away. 
 My purpose a secret my silent heart keeps — 
 To see for myself if the Geraldine sleeps. 
 Shall I stand as the stranger, and see as he sees.' 
 No, down by the lakeside I'll kneel on my knees. 
 Will the wind make no sound or the waters no 
 
 stir, 
 Where iny Geraldine lies in the depths of Lough 
 
 I cover my face, for I blush, when 'tis said 
 That the Geraldine living is still as the dead : 
 That the hot blood that burst from the Boteler's 
 
 chains 
 Now runs thin and cold through the Geraldine's 
 
 veins. 
 I know, for I've heard it, how seanachies tell 
 Of his steed silver-shod by the Sacsanach's spell. 
 But — slumbering son of a warrior line — 
 By what spell have they bound him, my own 
 
 Geraldine ? 
 
 Does he dream there is summer and sunshine 
 
 above, 
 And but rain falling soft on the land of his love .' 
 Have her tears trickled down to the bed where 
 
 he lies. 
 And sorrows too heavy forbade him to rise ? 
 Oh ! false is that dreaming and fatal that rest ; 
 Now, hush thee, sweet west wind — he loved thee 
 
 the best ; 
 Wave gently and woo him to listen, fair lake. 
 My Desmond, my Desmond, awake ! oh, awake ! 
 
 False lake, must thou mimic the storms of the 
 
 deep } 
 Does thy breast rise and fall but to cradle his 
 
 sleep } 
 Art thou bound, in thy calm, by the pitiless foe. 
 To hide with thy darkness the secrets below ? 
 Lone and sad now I leave thee — a pilgrim in vain. 
 But I'll tread thy green borders in triumph again. 
 When spell against spell shall discover thy caves. 
 And Desmond rides rough-shod thy traitorous 
 
 waves. 
 
 • Garrett Fitz Gerald, the fourth Earl of Desmond, is one 
 of the spell-bound heroes of tradition, who are one day to re- 
 turn and hold their own again. He sleeps in Lough Gur, in 
 the County Limerick, his silver-shod steed entranced beside 
 him. When the shoes are worn off the wakened horst 
 
 The charm of the stranger is subtle and strong ; 
 But ears sealed to speech will re-open to song. 
 Not to me, not to me is the proud task assigned ; 
 But I'll circle our Erin a File to find. 
 Within a green ring where the Green People 
 
 dwell 
 He shall weave it at midnight, a spell against 
 
 spell; 
 Love, Magic and Music, Joy, Sorrow and Hope, 
 Shall blend it and blind it as twists of a rope. 
 
 Not rudely my Geraldine's trance it shall break. 
 But steal on his sleeping as dawn on the lake. 
 It shall tell in the tongue that his fosterhood 
 
 spoke. 
 How, weeping and bleeding, his Love wears the 
 
 yoke; 
 How his kinsfolk are scorners, his knightliest 
 
 Long pride of the proudest, is spotted with 
 
 shame. 
 In strain sweet as mead, yet soul-stirring as 
 
 wine, 
 It shall taunt him with Thomas, " the silk of his 
 
 kine." 
 
 Then the long summer evening I'll sail by the 
 shore 
 
 Where Ocean keeps tryst with the faint Avon- 
 more ; 
 
 Going out with the tide, coming in with the 
 flow. 
 
 Till I win a mermaiden to sing it below. 
 
 But mermaids are false and but sing to betray ; 
 
 She might wake my O'Desmond to lure him 
 away. 
 
 Than King of the Deep, shared in exile with 
 her, 
 
 I'd rather he still slept his sleep in Lough Gur. 
 
 O seed of the mountains and valleys he trod, 
 
 Are your arms enchanted, your feet silver- 
 shod? 
 
 Ye men of his Munster, quick, circle him round ! 
 
 The pulse of his heart-strings will leap at the 
 sound. 
 
 With foot on his shamrock and face to his skies, 
 
 Call ye on your chief and he cannot but rise. 
 
 Then, then the Green Lady shall reign as of 
 yore. 
 
 And the Geraldine, wakened, will slumber no 
 
 JULI.A M. O'RYAN. 
 
344 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 THE MONKS OF KILCREA.* 
 
 FYTTE I. 
 
 Three monks sat by a bogwood fire ! 
 
 Bare were their crowns, and their garments gray; 
 
 Close sat they to that bogwood fire. 
 
 Watching the wicket till break of day ; 
 
 Such was ever the rule at Kilcrea. 
 
 For whoever passed, be he Baron or Squire, 
 
 Was free to call at that abbey, and stay. 
 
 Nor guerdon, nor hire for his lodging pay. 
 
 Though he tarried a week with its holy choir ! 
 
 Three monks sat by a bogwood fire ! 
 Dark looked the night from the window pane. 
 They who sat by that bogwood fire 
 Were Eustace, Alleyn, and Thade by name, 
 And long they gazed at the cheerful flame ; 
 Till each from his neighbour began to inquire 
 The tale of his life before he came 
 ToSaint Bridget's shrine, and the cowl had ta'en; 
 So they piled on more wood, and drew their seats 
 nigher 
 
 Three monks sat by a bogwood fire ! 
 Loud wailed the wind thro' cloister and nave, 
 And with mournful air, by that bogwood fire, 
 The first who spake it was Eustace grave. 
 And told " He had been a gallant brave 
 In youth, till a comrade he slew in ire : 
 And he then foreswore both bastnet and glaive. 
 And. leaving his home, he had crossed the wave 
 And taken the cross and cowl at Saint Finbar's 
 spire ! " 
 
 Three monks sat by a bogwood fire ! 
 
 Swift thro' the glen rushed the river Lee ; 
 
 Alleyn next, by that bogwood fire. 
 
 Told his tale — a woful man was he ! 
 
 Alas ! he had loved unlawfullie ! 
 
 But whom and where he prayed them not inquire ; 
 
 And he fled to the altar's foot to free 
 
 His soul from sin, and it was sad to see 
 
 How much sorrow had wasted the mournful friar. 
 
 Three monks sat by a bogwood fire ! 
 And red its light on the rafters shone ; 
 The last who spoke by that bogwood fire 
 Was Thade ; of the three the only one 
 
 • As the whole of this excellent poem makes a book of 150 
 pages, only a few extracts from it can be given. Kilcrea Ab- 
 bey, County Cork, was founded in 1494. by Cormac, Lord of 
 Muskerry, and dedicated to St. Ilridget. Its monks belonged 
 to the Franciscan Ofxler, commonly called Gray Friars. 
 Cromwell subjected it to outrage and mutilation, but its ex- 
 tensive ruins arc still picturesque and interesting. 
 
 Whom care or grief had not lit upon : 
 But, rosy and round, thro' city and shire 
 His mate for innocent glee there was none; 
 And soon frank he told. " How, a peasant's son. 
 He was reared for the Church by their former 
 Prior." 
 
 Three monks sat by a bogwood fire ! 
 
 The moon looked o'er all with clouded ray; 
 ' And there they sat by that bogwood fire. 
 
 Watching the wicket till break of day ; 
 
 And many that night did call anil stay,— 
 1 All whose names— if gentles, ye do not tire — 
 ' In his next rude strain shall the bard essay ; 
 I For here ends the first fytte of " The Monks of 
 i Kilcrea." 
 
 The bell of the ablx;y had numbered ten. 
 O'er tower and roof rolled its sullen chime ; 
 Yet still by the fire sat those holy men. 
 Keeping their ^►igil till morning's prime ; 
 And much did they marvel that, ere that time 
 No traveller called, as 'twas common then 
 For pilgrims to flock to Saint Bridgid's shrine ; 
 So they placed on the board the pitchers of wine. 
 Game from the mountain, and meat from the 
 
 pen, 
 And red trout that was caught in Dripsey Glen. 
 
 On the table were flagon and pasty good. 
 On the hearth clean swept blazed a bogwood fire. 
 Around were settles of the dark oak wood. 
 And all that a weary guest could require. 
 There was water in pans, to wash off the mire. 
 Garment to don, and hose, and doe-skin shixjn ; 
 In never a hostel throughout the shire 
 Could you purchase for gold, or borrow for hire 
 Such comforts, as freely for all. as boon. 
 The monks of Kilcrea strewed around that cheer- 
 ful room. 
 
 There came a loud knock to the abbey gate. 
 And a voice in the storm was heard outside, 
 KvA Eustace arose from where sad he sate. 
 Went to the wicket and of>enetl it wide. 
 And crost the threshold with a hea\7 stride. 
 A Saxon stranger ; he was sore distrait. 
 And told how he lost both his way and guide. 
 That his horse was drown'd in fording the Bride, 
 Then took off his cloak, a dripping weight, 
 And look'd like a man who for life had struggled 
 late! 
 
THE MONKS OF KILCREA. 
 
 345 
 
 Again came a knock to the abbey gate, 
 While sad the wind moan'd thro' bower and tree, 
 And AUeyn arose, and opened the gate, 
 And entered the room, a Rapparee ! 
 And haggard, and pale, and begrimed was he; 
 As he leant on a spear in a drooping state ! 
 His scanty garments scarcely reach'd his knee, 
 Yet, tho' feeble and worn was his mien and gait, 
 Still he glared on the Saxon with a look of hate. 
 
 Again came a knock to the abbey gate, 
 And a voice outside made a rueful din, 
 And Thade uprose and opened the gate ; 
 And lo ! he ushered a Gleeman in. 
 Threadbare his cloak, he was wet to the skin ; 
 Yet the leer of his eye told a roguish mate. 
 And he winked around with a cunning grin. 
 As deep in the flagon he stuck his chin. 
 And scarce would the loon for a blessing wait. 
 When his kind host heaped the food on his plate ! 
 
 And there long they sat by that bogwood fire. 
 The monks of Kilcrea and those travellers three, 
 And each as they sat by that bogwood fire 
 Told by turns his name and his history ; 
 The Saxon ! the Gleeman ! the Rapparee ! 
 And, gentles, once more, if ye do not tire, 
 I'll sing to you each in their due degree. 
 As of old a sennachie taught the lay to me ! 
 
 From " The Gleemax's Tale." 
 
 The Hermit of Saint Bridget's well. 
 
 He stands in fervent prayer, 
 With hands upraised to heaven to bless 
 
 A youth and maiden fair 
 
 Before him kneeling there. 
 "And if I err " — 'twas thus he spoke, — 
 
 •' May saints assoil my sin. 
 And the good thought that prompted this 
 
 From heaven my pardon win. 
 Save that her mother, now at rest, 
 And with God's angels pure and blest. 
 Had made me pledge my plighted word. 
 
 Upon her dying bed. 
 That thou, young chief of Inchiquin, 
 
 Her daughter fair should wed, 
 
 The holy words had ne'er been said ; 
 But this, and the strong wish for peace, 
 And hope those quarrels fierce will cease. 
 Hath moved my breast, thro' love of thee. 
 
 To join her fate to thine ; 
 And may God's blessings on you be — 
 
 The fault and penance mine. 
 But Cormac, here thou must not stay ; 
 
 For Onah's sake — thou shall away. 
 I ween within this baronie 
 Thou hast no other friend but me , 
 And wert thou here one instant known, 
 Begirt by fpes, and thus alone, 
 Hadst thou a thousand lives, yet all 
 To glut dark Donat's rage would fall , 
 And then on gentle Onah's head 
 His direst vengeance would be shed." 
 
 Light to his feet the young chief sprung, 
 And the good hermit's hand he wrung. 
 '• Yes, Father, — yes, thy words are truth ; 
 
 No longer must 1 tarry now, 
 But for her sake, so lately mine. 
 All other hopes and thoughts resign. 
 
 And instant go ; and, dear one, thou 
 
 Wilt see me o'er the mountain's brow." 
 With tearful eyes and woful heart. 
 The hermit saw his guests depart ; 
 And, sinking on his bended knee, 
 Aves and Paters thrice said he. 
 That good Saint Bridget safe would guide 
 The gallant youth to Callan side. 
 With beating hearts and thoughtful air. 
 Onward they went, that youthful pair ; 
 Though grave, their bosoms ne'ertheless 
 O'erflowed with silent happiness ; 
 And linked together, hand-in-hand. 
 
 They left that hermit good ; 
 And passing by the path that ran 
 Along the slopes of Lisoskan, 
 
 On Mohir's cliffs they stood. 
 
 The ocean broad beneath them lay, 
 
 Spread out in countless miles ; 
 And. lit with sunshine, creek and bay 
 
 In dazzling splendor smiles ; 
 And seeming nigh, though far away. 
 
 Are Arran's holy isles. 
 At the sea-verge, remote as eye 
 Can object see or aught descry. 
 
 Wild Conemera's peaks ascend ; 
 But yet so faint, 'twas doubtful still 
 To separate the cloud from hill — 
 
 Outline and shape so blend. 
 'Twas calm around, and you might note. 
 Far down below the seagulls float. 
 
 Poised in the middle air ; 
 .-Vnd lower still, if brain and nerve 
 Taught not your reeling sight to swer\'e. 
 
 The billows whitening, where 
 Beneath their surface, hid from \dew. 
 
 Some rock opposed them there ; 
 
346 POEMS OF THE IMAGINA TION. 
 
 And boiling upwards through the green 
 
 From -The Rapparee's Tale." 
 
 Of the clear wave, the foam is seen. 
 With scattered crags, that fancy well 
 Can shape to spire and pinnacle. 
 
 The Saxon landed— young and tall. 
 Fair haired, and richly dressed withal, 
 With goodly sword, and golden spur. 
 
 
 And scanty cloak, all faced with fur. 
 
 
 With shaven lip, and cold blue eye ; 
 
 Long gazed the chief and maiden, long 
 
 His step was proud, his bearing high. 
 
 Beheld with niar\el warm and strong 
 
 And full of scorn the look he cast 
 
 The splendid glories of this scene. 
 
 On all around until he past 
 
 Sleeping in loveliness serene ; 
 
 Where Aithne stood, and then he gazed 
 
 And buoyant hope, with mimic art. 
 
 Like one with sudden light amazed ; 
 
 As fair a scene within each heart 
 
 Then sate him down and by her side 
 
 With magic hues and tints portrayed, 
 
 The livelong night remained to bide. 
 
 And the dark future cloudless made ; 
 
 I marked his face, so free and bold,— 
 
 With mutual trust, and love sore tried. 
 
 The courtly words his false lips told 
 
 Ami fond fidelitie. 
 
 To her who by his side was set 
 
 A youthful lover and his bride- 
 
 In blushing innocence ; and yet. 
 
 Why should they gloomy be ? 
 
 Although the wild fawn on the hill 
 
 God's sky was o"er them, and around 
 
 Was not more startled, listened still. 
 
 The hills and mountains free ; 
 
 All this 1 marked with jealous care ; 
 
 Beneath their feet the sea ! 
 
 And but 'twere infamy and shame 
 
 Oh ! not in scene or hour like this 
 
 To wrong a stranger's holy name ; 
 
 Can doubt or sorrow mar the bliss. 
 
 I would have stabbed the Saxon there ! 
 
 The gushing love and tenderness 
 
 
 Such fond and faithful hearts will bless I 
 
 Six days he tarried ; on the first 
 
 And what was all this world to them, 
 
 I left the glen and sought the hill. 
 
 Its sneers or hollow guile, 
 
 Fearful my smothered rage might burst, 
 
 Its wreaths of fame, or riches vain, 
 
 And teach my erring hand to kill. 
 
 But gauds and fardels vile ? 
 
 So up I went to hunt the stag 
 
 More dear to him was Onah's smile 
 
 By the deep valley's shattered crag ; 
 
 Than all the countless stores of gold 
 
 But vain the wish, the effort vain,— 
 
 In coffers claspt. that misers hold ; 
 
 My foot lacked speed, my hand lacked aim ; 
 
 More dear to her the soft low tone 
 
 And thro' my heart and thro' my brain 
 
 Of Cormac's voice to her alone 
 
 Conflicting thoughts all fiercely prest. 
 
 In whispered praise or vow. 
 
 And love, and hate, and fierce disdain. 
 
 Than brightest gem or coronet 
 
 Like famished wolves, my soul possessed. 
 
 In dazzling splendor ever set 
 
 And. holy men, ye err to say 
 
 On proud Ban Tierna"s brow ! 
 
 That still for sinful man 'tis good 
 
 And each the other's welfare sought. 
 
 To dwell apart in solitude 
 
 Without one mean or selfish thought. 
 
 From human neighborhood away; 
 
 With all that pure ennobling glow 
 
 For never in the wildest hour 
 
 By true love only given. 
 
 That heard our slogan in the Pale, 
 
 That teaches souls like theirs to know 
 
 When blazing rick, and burning tower. 
 
 A bright foretaste of heaven. 
 
 And corn-stacks scattered in the gale. 
 
 Oh, could such feelings only last. 
 
 And goaded kine. and slaughtered men 
 
 Nor age nor care their freshness blast. 
 
 Were thick as leaves around us then. 
 
 Or cause their bloom to flee ; 
 
 .\nd screams and curses filled the air; — 
 
 Nor cold neglect, nor sour distrust. 
 
 Never. I say. within me woke. 
 
 E'er choke their gushing founts with dust. 
 
 "Mid all those scenes of blood and smoke. 
 
 Then man might walk, all purified. 
 
 Such fearful thoughts of hate and sin 
 
 Once more with angels by his side. 
 
 As stirred my heaving breast within, 
 
 And earth an Eden be. 
 
 Lone, sitting on the hill-side there ! 
 
THE MONKS OF KILCREA. 
 
 347 
 
 Like whispering fiends they thronging past. 
 And each still darker than the last- 
 Though oft repressed, yet still renewed. 
 Oh, saints preserve in pitying mood 
 The jealous heart from solitude ! 
 
 I left the hills, and turned me home, 
 
 And Aithne found within it, lone, 
 
 Silent, and drooping ; sad and pale. 
 
 She met my view, and brief her tale: 
 
 That Tirlogh left that morn Glenbride, 
 
 The Saxon on his way to guide, 
 
 Nor back would come for three days space ; 
 
 And as she spoke her conscious face 
 
 Flushed with a deep and crimson glow. 
 
 And tremulous her voice and low. 
 
 And then her eye, that never yet 
 
 But mine had frank and' freely met 
 
 In all the purity of youth. 
 
 Confiding innocence, and truth. 
 
 Now changed and altered in its ray. 
 
 Still shunned my glance and turned away, 
 
 As if afraid her thoughts to speak ; 
 
 And there were tears upon her cheek — 
 
 Tears for the Saxon ! — Saint Columb ! yes ! 
 
 And wrung from her heart by sore distress. 
 
 And fierce my bursting soul spoke out 
 
 Each secret thought and jealous doubt ; 
 
 And taxed her there in words of scaith 
 
 With falsehood's wile, and broken faith. 
 
 At first she struggled to reply, 
 
 With flushing cheek and kindling eye. 
 
 But faltered soon, and silent kept. 
 
 And only wrung her hands and wept. 
 
 Not long this lasted. On a day 
 When we had been since morn away. 
 Tracking the red deer on the hills, 
 
 Ere yet the mist the mountain left — 
 Hunting the herd by bush and brook. 
 
 And cairn, and crag, and rocky cleft. 
 Until a buck, the rest apart, 
 My arrow wounded in the heart. 
 And all the echoes round about 
 Gave back glad Tirlogh 's hunter's shout ; 
 And from his belt his skeyn he drew, 
 And o'er the tussochs eager flew 
 To where amid the red fern gaspt 
 The noble stag, his boundings past. 
 And with his keen and glancing knife 
 Ended its struggles with its life. 
 So swift the chase, the herd so fleet. 
 
 And we had tracked their course so far, 
 
 That when we reached the lake once more 
 The sunshine of the day was o'er, 
 And on the waters, calm and gray. 
 The night-mist like a mantle lay ; 
 
 And in the sky the gloaming star 
 Peeped o'er the hills as down we strode, 
 Staggering beneath our heavy load. 
 Methought 'twas strange to Tirlogh's cry 
 That Aithne's voice gave no reply. 
 .■\nd all was silent — spark nor smoke 
 Above the Tinbath curling broke ; 
 The doorway open, and an air 
 Of strangeness on its threshold there . 
 But where was Aithne.' God ! how wild 
 Did Tirlogh call upon his child, 
 And searched the lake, the wood, the hill. 
 
 And all the neighbors round about ; 
 But useless were our efforts still, 
 
 And all was misery and doubt. 
 And then we thought that she had gone 
 .'\cross the hills to Lemnacon, 
 To her mother's gossip ; and tho' late, 
 .^.cross the ford we hurried straight. 
 In vain — no tidings could we get, 
 Nor eves had Norah on her set ; 
 But a strange herd that morning met 
 Two strangers riding through Glenshee, 
 Whose muffled face he could not see ; 
 One tall, with sword and breastplate dight, 
 The other seemed a gossoon slight ; 
 And that they gallop'd fleet and fast, 
 And to the Saxon's country past ! 
 
 ARTHUR GERALD GEOGHFGAN. 
 
 BY THAT LAKE. 
 
 By that Lake, whose gloomy shore 
 Skylark never warbles o'er. 
 Where the cliff hangs high and steep. 
 Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep, 
 " Here, at least," he calmly said, 
 " Woman ne'er shall find my bed." 
 Ah ! the good Saint little knew 
 What that wily sex can do. 
 
 'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew, — 
 Eyes of most unholy blue ! 
 She had lov'd him well and long, 
 Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong, 
 Whereso'er the Saint would fly, 
 Still he heard her light foot nigh ! 
 East or west, wher'er he turn'd. 
 Still her eyes before him burn'd. 
 
u^s 
 
 POEMS OF THE JMAGJA'ATION. 
 
 I ).i the bold cliffs hosom cast. 
 iVanquil now he sleefw at last ; 
 Dreams of heavn. nor thinks that e'er 
 Woman's smile can haunt him there. 
 Mul nor earth nor heaven is free 
 From her power, if fond she be : 
 liven now. while calm he sleeps, 
 Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps. 
 
 Fearless she had track'd his feet 
 To this rocky, wild retreat ; 
 And when morning met his view. 
 Her mild glances met it too. 
 Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts! 
 Sternly from his bed he starts. 
 And with rude, repulsive shock. 
 Hurls her from the beetling rock. 
 
 Glendalough. thy gloomy wave 
 Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave ! 
 Soon the Saint (yet ah I too late,) 
 Felt her love, and mourn 'd her fate. 
 When he said, " Heav'n rest her soul !" 
 Round the Lake light music stole ; 
 And her ghost was seen to glide. 
 Smiling o'er the fatal tide. 
 
 rnoM.^s MOORE. 
 
 CORMAC AND MARY. 
 " She is not dead — she has no grave — 
 
 She lives beneath Lough Corrib's water; 
 And in the murmur of each wave 
 
 Methinks I catch the songs I taught her." 
 Thus many an evening on the shore 
 
 Sat Cormac raving wild and lowly; 
 Still idly muttering o'er and o'er. 
 
 " She lives, detained by spells unholy. 
 
 " Death claims her not. too fair for earth. 
 
 Her spirit lives — alien of heaven ; 
 Nor will it know a second birth 
 
 When sinful mortals are forgiven! 
 Cold is this rock— the wind comes chill. 
 
 And mists the gloomy waters cover: 
 But O I her soul is colder still — 
 
 To lose her God — to leave her lover ! " 
 
 The lake was in profound repose. 
 
 Yet one white wave came gently curling. 
 And as it reach'd the shore, arose 
 
 Dim figures — banners gay unfurling. 
 Onward they move, an airy crowd : 
 
 Thro' each thin form a moonlight ray shone. 
 While spear and helm, in pageant proud. 
 
 .■\ppear in liquid undulation 
 
 Bright barbed steeds curvetting tread 
 
 Theii trackless way with antic capers 
 And curtain clouds hang overhead, 
 
 Festoon'd by rainbow-color'd vapors. 
 And when a breath of air would stir 
 
 That drapery of Heaven's own wreathing. 
 Light wings of prismy gossamer 
 
 Just moved and sparkled to the breathing. 
 
 Nor wanting was the choral song, 
 
 Swelling in silvery chimes of sweetness ; 
 To sound of which this subtle throng 
 
 Advanced in playful grace and fleetness. 
 With music's strain, all came and went 
 
 I'pon poor Cormac s doubting vision ; 
 Now rising in wild merriment. 
 
 Now softly fading in derision. 
 
 •• Christ, save her soul." he boldly cried ; 
 
 And when that blessed name was spoken. 
 Fierce yells and fiendish shrieks replied. 
 
 And vanished all,— the spell was broken, 
 .^nd now on Corrib's lonely shore. 
 
 Freed by his word from power of fairy. 
 To life, to love, restored once more. 
 
 Young Cormac welcomes back his Mary, 
 
 TH()M.\S CROrrON CROKKR. 
 
 THE FAIRY WELL OF LAGNANAY, 
 
 Mournfully, sing mournfully ! — 
 " O listen. Ellen, sister dear! 
 
 Is there no help at all for me. 
 But only ceaseless sigh and tear.' 
 
 Why did not he who left me here. 
 With stolen hope steal memory ? 
 
 listen, Ellen, sister dear! 
 (Mournfully, sing mournfully !)— 
 
 I'll go away to Sleamish hill, 
 
 I'll pluck the fairy hawthorn-tree. 
 And let the spirits work their will ; 
 
 1 care not if for good or ill. 
 
 So they but lay the memory 
 Which all my heart is haunting still ! 
 
 (Mournfully, sing mournfully I) — 
 The Fairies are a silent race. 
 
 And pale as lily flowers to see ; 
 I care not for a blanched face. 
 Nor wandering in a dreamy place. 
 
 So I but banish memory .— 
 I wish I were with Anna Grace." 
 
 (Mournfully, sing mournfully!) 
 
THE FAIRY CAVALCADE. 
 
 349 
 
 ■' Hearken to my tale of woe !" 
 
 'Twas thus to weeping Ellen Con 
 Her sister said in accents low, 
 
 Her only sister, Una bawn ; 
 
 'Twas in their bed before the dawn 
 And Ellen answered, sad and slow, 
 
 " O Una, Una, be not drawn 
 (Hearken to my tale of woe !j — 
 
 To this unholy grief, I pray. 
 Which makes me sick at heart to know. 
 
 And I will help you if I may : — 
 
 The fairy well of Lagnanay — 
 Lie nearer me, I tremble so — 
 
 Una, I've heard wise women say 
 (Hearken to my tale of woe !) 
 
 That if before the dews arise 
 True maiden in its icy flow 
 
 With pure hand bathe her bosom thrice. 
 Three lady-brackens pluck likewise. 
 
 And three times round the fountain go. 
 She straight forgets her tears and sighs !" 
 
 Hearken to my tale of woe ! 
 
 All, alas ! and well away ! — 
 
 " O sister Ellen, sister sweet, 
 Come with me to the hill, I pray. 
 
 And I will prove that blessed freet." 
 
 They rose with soft and silent feet 
 They left their mother where she lay, 
 
 Their mother and her care discreet, 
 (All, alas ! and well away I) 
 
 And soon they reached the Fairy Well, 
 The mountain's eye, clear, cold, and gray. 
 
 Wide open in the dreary fell : 
 
 How long they stood 'twere vain to tell 
 At last upon the point of day, 
 
 Bawn Una bares her bosom's swell. 
 (All, alas ! and well-away !) 
 
 Thrice o'er her shrinking breasts she laves 
 The gliding glance that will not stay 
 
 Of subtly-streaming fairy waves : — 
 
 And now the charm three brackens craves. 
 She plucks them in their fringed array : — 
 
 Now round the well her fate she braves. 
 All, alas ! and well-away ! 
 
 Save us all from Fairy thrall ! 
 
 Ellen sees her pace the rim 
 Twice and thrice, and that is all — 
 
 Fount and hill and maiden swim 
 
 Ail together melting dim ! 
 " Una ! Una !" thou may'st call. 
 
 Sister sad ! but lith or limb 
 (Save us all from Fairy thrall !) 
 
 Never again of Una bawn, 
 
 Where now she walks in dreamy hall. 
 
 Shall eye of mortal look upon ! 
 
 Oh ! can it be the guard was gone. 
 That better guard than shield or wall ? 
 
 Who knows on earth save Turlagh Daune ? 
 (Save us all from Fairy thrall !) 
 
 Behold the banks are green and bare. 
 No pit is here wherein to fall : 
 
 Aye — at the fount you well may stare. 
 
 But nought save pebbles smooth is there, 
 And small straws twirling one and all. 
 
 Hie thee home, and be thy pray'r. 
 Save us all from Fairy thrall. 
 
 SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
 
 THE FAIRY CAVALCADE. 
 
 Have you not oft, m the still wind, 
 Heard sylvan notes of a strange kind. 
 That rose one moment, and then fell, 
 Swooning away like a far knell.' 
 Listen 1 — that wave of perfume broke 
 Into sea-music, as I spoke, 
 Fainter than that which seems to roar 
 On the moon's silver-sanded shore. 
 When through the silence of the night 
 Is heard the ebb and flow of light. 
 
 Oh, shut the eye and ope the ear! 
 Do you not hear, or think you hear, 
 A wide hush o'er the woodland pass, 
 Like distant waving fields of grass ! — 
 Voices I — ho ! ho ! — a band is coming. 
 Loud as ten thousand bees a-humming, 
 Or ranks of little merry men 
 Tromboning deeply from the glen. 
 And now, as if they changed, and rung 
 Their citterns small, and riband-slung. 
 Over their gallant shoulders hungl — 
 
 A chant ! a chant ! that swoons and swells 
 Like soft winds jangling meadow-bells ; 
 Now brave, as when in Flora's bower 
 Gay Zephyr blows a trumpet flower ; 
 Now thrilling fine, and sharp, and clear. 
 Like Dian's moonbeam dulcimer; 
 But mixed with whoops, and infant laughter, 
 Shouts following one another after. 
 As on a hearty holyday 
 When youth is flush and full of May ; 
 Small shouts indeed, as wild bees knew 
 Both how to hum, and holloa too. 
 
350 
 
 POEMS OF THE /Af AGINATION. 
 
 What ! is the liv ing meadow sown 
 With dragon-teeth, as long agone ? 
 Or is an army on the plains 
 Of this sweet clime, to fight with cranes? 
 Helmet and hauberk, pike and lance, 
 Gorget and glaive thro' the long g.'ass glance. 
 Red-men, and blue-men, and buff-men, small, 
 Loud-mouthed captains, and ensigns tall. 
 Grenadiers, light-bobs, inch-people all, 
 They come I they come I with martial blore 
 Clearing a terrible path before; 
 Ruffle the high-peaked flags i' the wind. 
 Mourn the long-answering trumpets behind. 
 Telling how deep the close files are. — 
 Make way for the stalwart sons of war! 
 
 Hurrah 1 the bluff-cheeked bugie band. 
 Each with a loud reed in his hand ! 
 Hurrah I the pattering company. 
 Each with a drum-bell at his knee ! 
 Hurrah ! the sash-capt cymbal swingers ! 
 Hurrah! the klingle-klangle wringers! 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the elf-knights enter. 
 Each with his grasshopper at a canter! 
 His tough spear of a wild oat made, 
 His good sword of a grassy blade. 
 His buckram suit of shiny laurel. 
 His shield of bark, embossed with coral ; 
 See how the plumy champion keeks 
 His proud steed clambering on his hips, 
 With foaming jaw pinned to his breast, 
 Blood-rolling eyes. and arched crest; 
 Over his and his rider's head 
 A broad-sheet butterfly banner spread. 
 Swoops round the staff in varj'ing form. 
 Flouts the soft breeze, and courts the storm. 
 
 Hard on the prancing heels of these 
 Come on the pigmy Thyades ; 
 Mimics and mummers, masqueraders 
 Soft flutists and sweet serenaders 
 Guitarring o'er the level green, 
 Of tapping the parched tambounne. 
 As swaying to and swaying fro. 
 Over the stooping flowers they go, 
 That laugh within their greeny breasts 
 To feel such light feet on their crests. 
 And even themselves a-dancing seem. 
 Under the weight that presses them. 
 
 But hark ! the trumpet's royal clangor 
 Strikes silence with a voice of anger : 
 Raising its broad mouth to the sun 
 As he would bring Apollo down. 
 
 The in-backed, swoln. elf-winder fills 
 With its great roar the fairy hills ; 
 Each woodland tuft for terror shakes. 
 The field-mouse in her mansion quakes. 
 The heart-struck wren falls thro' the branches. 
 Wild stares the earwig on his haunches ; 
 From trees which mortals take for flowers. 
 Leaves of all hues fall off in showers ; 
 So strong the blast, the voice so dread, 
 'Twould wake the very fairy dead ! 
 
 Disparted now. half to each side. 
 Athwart the curled moss they glide. 
 Then wheel and front, to edge the scene. 
 Leaving a spacious glade between ; 
 With small round eyes that twinkle bright 
 As moon-tears on the grass of night. 
 They stand spectorial. anxious all. 
 Like guests ranged down a dancing-hall 
 Some graceful pair, or more, to see 
 Winding along in melody. 
 
 Now pine their little orbs in vain, 
 For borne in with an oaten strain 
 Three pretty Graces, arm-entwined. 
 Reel in the light curls of the wind ; 
 Their flimsy pinions sprouted high 
 Lift them half-dancing as they fly ; 
 Like a bright wheel spun on its side 
 The rapt three round their centre slide, 
 And as their circling has no end. 
 Voice into sister-voice they blend, 
 Weaving a labyrinthian song 
 Wild as the rings they trace along. 
 
 GKORGE DARLEV. 
 
 GARDEN FAIRIES. 
 Keen was the air. the sky was very light, 
 Soft with shed snow my garden was, and white. 
 And walking there, I heard upon the night 
 
 Sudden sound of little voices. 
 
 Just the prettiest of noises. 
 
 It was the strangest, subtlest, sweetest sound — 
 It seemed above me, seemed upon the ground. 
 Then swiftly seemed to eddy round and round. 
 
 Till I said. " To-night the air is 
 
 Surely full of garden fairies." 
 
 And all at once it seemed I grew aware 
 That little shining presences were there, [air ; 
 White shapes and red shapes danced upon the 
 Then a peal of silvery laughter. 
 And such singing followed after 
 
THE FAIRY SHOEMAKER. 
 
 As none of you, I think, have ever heard, 
 More soft it was than note of any bird. 
 Note after note, most exquisitely deferred, 
 
 Soft as dew-drops when they settle 
 
 In a fair flower's open petal. 
 
 •' What are these fairies?" to myself I said : 
 For answer then, as from a garden's bed. 
 On the cold air. a sudden scent was shed — 
 Scent of lilies, scent of roses, 
 Scent of summer's sweetest posies. 
 
 And said a small sweet voice within my ear, 
 "We flowers that sleep thro' winter, once a 
 
 year 
 Are by our flower queen let to visit here ; 
 That this fact may duly flout us — 
 Gardens can look fair without us. 
 
 "A very little time we have to play. 
 Then we must go, oh ! very far away. 
 And sleep again for many a long, long day. 
 Till the glad birds sing above us. 
 And the warm sun comes to love us. 
 
 " Hark what the roses sing, now, as we go ; " 
 Then very sweet and soft, and very low — 
 A dream of sound across the garden snow — 
 
 Came the sound of roses singing, 
 
 To the lily-bell's faint ringing. 
 
 " Softly sinking through the snow. 
 
 To our winter rest we go. 
 
 Underneath the snow to house 
 
 Till the birds be in the boughs. 
 
 And the boughs with leaves be fair. 
 
 And the sunshine everywhere. 
 
 Softly through the snow we settle. 
 
 Little snow-drops press each petal. 
 
 O ! the snow is kind and white, — 
 
 Soft it is, and very light ; 
 
 Soon we shall be where no light is. 
 
 But where sleep is, and where night is — 
 
 Sleep of every wind unshaken. 
 
 Till our Summer bids us waken." 
 
 Then toward some far-off goal that singing j 
 
 drew. 
 Then altogether ceased ; more steely blue 
 The blue stars shone, but in my spirit grew 
 
 Hope of summer, love of roses, 
 
 Certainty that sorrow closes. 
 
 PHILIP HilURKE MARSTON. 
 
 THE FAIRY SHOEMAKER. 
 Little cow-boy. what have you heard 
 
 Up on the lonely rath's green mound ? 
 Only the plaintive yellow bird 
 
 Singing in sultry fields around, 
 Charr)'. charry, charry. chee-e ! 
 Only the grasshopper and the bee .' 
 " Tip-tap. rip-rap, 
 Tick-a-tack-too ! 
 Scarlet leather sewn together. 
 
 This will make a shoe. 
 Left, right, pull it tight : 
 
 Summer days are warm ; 
 Underground, in winter. 
 Laughing at the storm !" 
 Lay your ear close to the hill. 
 Do you not catch the tiny clamor ; 
 Busy click of an elfin hammer, 
 Voice of the Lupracaun sinking shrill, 
 As he merrily plies his trade.' 
 He's a span 
 
 And a quarter in height. 
 Get him in sight, hold him fast, 
 And you're a made 
 Man ! 
 
 You watch your cattle the summer day, 
 Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay ; 
 How should you like to roll in your carriage, 
 And look for a duchess's daughter in marriage ; 
 Seize the Shoemaker — so you may! 
 
 " Big boots a hunting, 
 Sandals in the hall ; 
 White for a wedding feast. 
 
 And pink for a ball. 
 This way, that way. 
 
 So we make a shoe. 
 Getting rich every stitch, 
 •• Tick-tack-too ! " 
 Nine and ninety treasure-crocks 
 
 This keen miser-fairy hath. 
 Hid in mountain, wood, and rocks. 
 Ruin and round-tower, cave and rath. 
 And where the cormorants build ; 
 From times of old 
 Guarded by him ; 
 Each of them filled 
 Full to the brim 
 With gold ! 
 
 I caught him at work one day myself. 
 
 In the castle-ditch where the foxglove grows ; 
 
 A wrinkled, wizened, and bearded elf. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAOIXATIO.W 
 
 Spectacles stuck on the point of his nose. 
 Silver buckles to his hose. 
 Leather apron — shoe in his lap — 
 •• Rip-rap. tip-tap. 
 Tick-tack-too ! 
 A grig skipped upon my cap, 
 
 Away the moth flew. 
 Buskins for a fairy prince. 
 
 Brogues for his son. — 
 Pay me well, pay me well. 
 When the job is done ! " 
 The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt : 
 I stared at him. he stared at me. 
 ■• Serxant. sir ! " " Humph ! " says he. 
 And pulled a snuflf-box out. 
 He took a long pinch, seemed belter pleascf 
 
 The queer little Lupracaun ; 
 Offered the box with a whimsical grace. — 
 Pouf I — he flung the dust in my face. 
 And. while I sneezed. 
 Was gone I 
 
 WILLIAM .AI.LIXGHAM. 
 
 THE FAIRIES' PASSAGE. 
 Tap, tap! Rap. rap! "Get up, Gaffer Ferryman!" 
 " Eh ? who is there ?" The clock strikes three. 
 " Get up — do. Gaffer ! you are the \ er\' man 
 
 We have been long — long — longing to see. " 
 The Ferryman he rises, growling and grumb- 
 ling, [tumbling. 
 And goes fum-fumbling. and stumbling and 
 Over the wares on his way to the door • 
 
 But he sees no more 
 
 Than he saw before. 
 Till a voice is heard—" O Ferryman, dear ! 
 Here we are waiting, all of us here ! 
 We are a wee, wee colony, we ; 
 Some two hundred in all, or three. 
 Ferr)' us over the river Lee 
 
 Ere dawn of day, 
 
 And we will pay 
 
 The most we may. 
 
 In our own wee way !" 
 
 Who; 
 
 What 
 
 you? Whence came you: 
 place are you going to.'" 
 " O, we have dwelt over long in this land. 
 The people get cross, and are growing so 
 knowing, too ; 
 Nothing at all but they now understand : 
 We are daily vanishing under the thunder 
 Of some huge engine or iron wonder ; 
 
 That iron — O, it has entered our souls!" 
 
 " Your souls.' O, Goles ! 
 
 You queer little drolls! [with speed. 
 
 Do you mean .'" " Good Gaffer, do aid us 
 
 For our time, like our stature, is short indeed ! 
 And a very long way we have to go. 
 Eight or ten thousand miles or so. 
 Hither and thither, and to and fro. 
 With our pots and pans, 
 .And little gold cans ; 
 I But our light caravans 
 
 I Run swifter than Man's !" 
 
 " Well, well, you may come !" said the Ferry- 
 man, affably ; 
 ' Patrick ! turn out. and get ready the 
 barge !" 
 Then again to the little folk : " Though you 
 seem laughably 
 Small. I don't mind, if your coppers be 
 large." 
 O, dear ! what a rushing, what pushing, what 
 
 crushing 
 (The waterman making vain efforts at hushing 
 The hubbub the while) there followed these 
 words I 
 1 What clapping of boards ! 
 
 I What strapping of cords ! 
 
 What stowing away of children and wives. 
 And platters, and mugs, and spoons, and 
 
 knives! 
 Till all had safely got mto the boat. 
 And the Ferrj-man clad in his tip-top coat, 
 And his wee little farers were fairly afloat ! 
 Then ding! ding! ding! 
 And kling! kling! kling! 
 How the coppers did ring 
 In the tin pitcherling? 
 
 Off then went the boat, at first very pleasantly. 
 
 Smoothly, and so forth, but after a while 
 It swayed and it swagged this and that way. 
 
 and presently 
 Chest after chest, and pile after pile. 
 Of the little folk's goods began tossing and 
 
 rolling. 
 And pitching like fun. beyond fairy control- 
 
 ing! 
 O. Mab ! if the hubbub was great before. 
 It was now some two or three million times 
 
 more ; 
 Crash went the wee crocks and the clocks ; 
 
 and the locks 
 Of each little wee box were stove in by hard 
 
 knocks ; 
 
EDWIN OF THE GREEX. 
 
 353 
 
 And then there were oaths, and prayers, 
 
 and cries — 
 " Take care !" — " see there 1" — " oh, dear ! 
 
 my eyes !" 
 " I am killed " — " I am drowned "—with 
 groans and sighs; 
 Till to land they drew ; 
 " Yeo heo ! Pull to ! 
 Tiller-rope, thro' and thro !" 
 And all's right anew. 
 
 " Now, jump ashore, ye queer little oddities ! 
 Eh ! what is this ? Where are they at all ? 
 Where are they, and where are their tiny 
 commodities? 
 Well, as I live !" — He looks blank as a wall. 
 The poor Ferryman. Round him and round 
 him he gazes. 
 But only gets deeplier lost in the mazes 
 Of utter bewilderment I — all, all are gone. 
 And he stands alone. 
 Like a statue of stone. 
 In a doldrum of wonder. He turns to steer, 
 And a tinkling laugh salutes his ear. 
 With other odd sounds ; — " Ha, ha ! ha, ha ! 
 Tol-lol, zid-ziddle — quee-quee — bah-bah ! 
 Fizzigigiggidy ! — psha, sha, sha !" 
 ■■ O, ye thieves, ye thieves, ye rascally thieves !" 
 The good man cries; he turns to his pitcher 
 And there, alas ! to his horror perceives 
 That the little folk's mode of making him 
 richer 
 Has been to pay him with — withered leaves ! 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 EDWIN OF THE GREEN. 
 
 A Fairy Tale in the Ancient Style. 
 
 In Britain's isle and Arthur's days, 
 When midnight fairies daunced the maze, 
 
 Lived Edwin of the Green : 
 Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth, 
 Endow'd with courage, sense and truth, 
 
 Tho' badly shap'd he'd been. 
 
 His mountain back might well be said 
 To measure heighth against his head. 
 
 And lift itself above ; 
 Yet spite of all that nature did 
 To make his uncouth form forbid. 
 
 This creature dar'd to love. 
 
 He felt the charms of Edith's eyes. 
 Nor wanted hope to gain the prize, 
 
 Cou'd ladies look within ; 
 But one Sir Topaz dress'd with art, 
 And, if a shape could win a heart. 
 
 He had a shape to win. 
 
 Edwin (if right I read my song) 
 With slighted passion pac'd along 
 
 All in the moony light ; 
 'Twas near an old enchanted court. 
 Where sportive fairies made resort 
 
 To revel out the night. 
 
 His heart was drear, his hope was cross 'd 
 'Twas late, 'twas far. the path was lost. 
 
 That reach'd the neighbour-town ; 
 With weary steps he quits the shades, 
 Resolv'd the darkling night he treads. 
 
 And drops his limbs adown. 
 
 But feant he lays him on the floor, 
 When hollow winds remove the door ; 
 
 A trembling rocks the ground : 
 And (well I ween to count aright) 
 At once an hundred tapers light 
 
 On all the walls around. 
 
 Now sounding tongues assail his ear, 
 Now sounding feet approachen near. 
 
 And now the sounds encrase : 
 And from the corner where he lay 
 He sees a train profusely gay 
 
 Come prankling o'er the place. 
 
 But (trust me, gentles) never yet 
 Was dight a masquing half so neat. 
 
 Or half so rich before ; 
 The country lent the sweet perfumes. 
 The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes. 
 
 The town its silken store. 
 
 Now, whilst he gazed, a gallant drest 
 In flaunting robes above the rest. 
 
 With awful accent cry'd : — 
 " What mortal of a wretched mind. 
 Whose sighs infect the balmy wind. 
 
 Has here presum'd to hide .'" 
 
 At this the swain, whose vent'rous sou 
 No fears of magick art controul. 
 
 Advanced in open sight; 
 " Nor have I cause of dreed," he said, 
 " Who view, by no presumption led. 
 
 Your revels of th: night. 
 
-C4 POEMS OF THE 
 
 IMAGINATION. \ 
 
 •• "Twas grief for scorn of faithful love. 
 
 When screaming all at once they fly. 
 
 Which made my steps unweeting rove 
 
 And all at once the tapers dye ; 
 
 Amid the nightly dew." 
 
 Poor Edwin falls to floor ; | 
 
 " Twas well ! " the gallant cries again ; 
 
 Forlorn his state, and dark the plare 
 
 *' We fairies never injure men 
 
 Was ever wight in sike a case 
 
 Who dare to tell us true. 
 
 Through all the land before ? 
 
 •• Exalt thy love-dejected heart. 
 
 But soon as dan Apollo rose. 
 
 Be mine the task, or ere we part. 
 
 Full jolly creature home he goes. 
 
 To make thee grief resign : 
 
 He feels his back the less : 
 
 Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce: 
 
 His honest tongue and steady mind 
 
 Whilst I with Mab my partner daunce. 
 
 Had rid him of the lump behind, , 
 
 Be little Mabel thine." 
 
 Which made him want success. [ 
 
 He spoke, and all a sudden there 
 
 With lusty lively hed he talks. 
 
 Light music floats in wanton air : 
 
 He seems a dauncing as he walks. 
 
 The monarch and the queen : 
 
 His stor)' soon took wind ; ' 
 
 The rest their fairie partners found ; 
 
 And beauteous Edith sees the youth , 
 
 And Mabel trimly tript the ground 
 
 Endow'd with courage, sense and truth. 
 
 With Edwin of the Green. 
 
 Without a bunch behind. 
 
 The dauncing past, the board was laid. 
 
 The story told. Sir Topaz movd. ' 
 
 And siker such a feast was made 
 
 (The youth of Edith erst approv'd) 
 
 As heart and lip desire ; 
 
 To see the revel scene : 
 
 Withouten hands the dishes fly. 
 
 At close of eve he leaves his home. 
 
 The glasses with a wish come nigh. 
 
 And wends to find the ruin'd dome 
 
 And with a wish retire. 
 
 All on the gloomy plain. 
 
 But now to please the faine King, 
 
 As there he bides, it so befell. 
 
 Full ev'ry deal they laugh and sing. 
 
 The wind came rushing down a dell, 
 
 And antick feats devise ; 
 
 A shaking seiz'ri the wall ; 
 
 Some wind and tumble like an ape, 
 
 Up spring the tapers as before. 
 
 And other some transmute their shape 
 
 The fairies bragly foot the floor, 
 
 In Edwin's wond'ring eyes. 
 
 And musick fills the hall. 
 
 Till one at last, that Robin hight 
 
 But certes sorely sunk with woe 
 
 (Renown 'd for pinching maids by night) 
 
 Sir Topaz sees the elfin show. 
 
 Has hent him up aloof : 
 
 His spirits in him dye; 
 
 And full against the beam he flung. 
 
 When Oberon cr>s : " A man is near ; 
 
 Where by the back the youth he hung. 
 
 A mortal passion, cleeped fear. 
 
 To spraul unneath the roof. 
 
 Hangs flagging in the sky." 
 
 From thence " Reverse my charm," he crys. 
 
 With that Sir Topaz (hapless youth !) 
 
 ■• And let it fairly now suffice 
 
 In accents faulfring ay foi ruth 
 
 The gambol has been shown ; " 
 
 Intreats them pity graunt ; 
 
 But Oberon answers with a smile. 
 
 For als he been a mister wight. 
 
 •■ Content thee Edwin for a while ; 
 
 Betray d by wandring in the night. 
 
 The vantage is thine own." 
 
 To tread the circled haunt. 
 
 ! Here ended all the phantome play ; 
 
 " Ah, lofell vile !" at once they roar ; 
 
 ! They smelt the fresh approach of day. 
 
 • And little skiird of fairie lore. 
 
 And heard a cock to crow ; 
 
 Thy cause to come we know ; 
 
 The whirling wind that bore the crowd 
 
 Now has thy kestrell courage fell. 
 
 Has clapp'd the door, and whistled loud. 
 
 And fairies, since a lie you tell. 
 
 To warn them all to go. 
 
 Are free to work thee woe. ' 
 
THE LAXD OF JiEST. 
 
 Then Will, who bears th2 wispy fire 
 To trail the swains among the mire, 
 
 The caitive upward flung; 
 There like a tortoise in a shop 
 He dangled from the chamber-top. 
 
 Where whilome Edwin hung. 
 
 The revel now proceeds apace, 
 Deftly they frisk it o'er the place, 
 
 They sit, they drink, and eat ; 
 The time with frolick mirth beguile, 
 And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while 
 
 Till all the rout retreat. 
 
 By this the stars began to wink ; 
 They shriek, they fly. the tapers sink 
 
 And down y'drops the knight . 
 For never spell by fairie laid 
 With strong enchantment bound a glade 
 
 Beyond the length of night. 
 
 Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay 
 Till up the welkin rose the day. 
 
 Then deem'd the dole was o'er; 
 But wot ye well his harder lot : — 
 His seely back the bunch has got 
 
 Which Edwin lost afore. 
 
 This tale a sybil-nurse ared ; 
 
 She softly strok'd my youngling head, 
 
 And when the tale was done. 
 " Thus some are born, my son " (she crys), 
 " With base impediments to rise. 
 
 And some are born with none. 
 
 " But virtue can itself advaunce, 
 
 To what the fav'rite fools of chaunce. 
 
 By fortune seem'd design'd ; 
 Virtue can gain the odds of fate 
 And from itself shake ofT the weight 
 
 Upon th' unworthy mind." 
 
 THOM.4S PARNELL. 
 
 THE LAND OF REST. 
 
 A land of youth, a land of rest, 
 
 A land from sorrow free ; 
 It lies far off in the golden west. 
 
 On the verge of the azure sea. 
 A swift canoe of crystal bright. 
 
 That never met mortal view. — 
 We shall reach the land ere fall of night. 
 
 In that strong and swift canoe ; 
 We shall reach the strand 
 Of that sunny land. 
 
 From druids and demons free ; 
 
 The land of rest 
 
 In the golden west 
 On the verge of the azure sea ! 
 
 A pleasant land of widening vales, bright 
 
 streams and verdurous plains. 
 Where summer all the live-long year in 
 changeless splendor reigns ; [bloom ; 
 A peaceful land of calm delight, of everlasting 
 Old age and death we never know, nor sick- 
 ness, care or gloom ; 
 The land of youth. 
 Of love and truth. 
 From pain and sorrow free. 
 The land of rest 
 In the golden west. 
 On the verge of the azure sea ! 
 
 There are strange delights for mortal men in 
 
 that island of the west 
 The sun comes down each evening in its 
 golden vales to rest ; 
 And though far and dim 
 On the ocean's rim 
 It seems to mortal view. 
 We shall reach its halls 
 Ere the evening falls. 
 In my strong and swift canoe ; 
 And evermore 
 That verdant shore 
 Our happy home shall be ; 
 The land of rest 
 In the golden west. 
 On the verge of the azure sea ! 
 
 It will guard thee, gentle Connla. of the 
 
 flowing golden hair. 
 It will g-uard thee from the druids. from the 
 
 demons of the air. 
 My crystal boat will guard thee till we reach 
 1 that western shore. 
 
 I Where thou and I in joy and love shall live 
 j forevermore. 
 
 From the druid's incantation. 
 
 From his black and deadly snare. 
 From the withering imprecation 
 Of the demon of the air. 
 It will guard thee, gentle Connla. of the 
 ! flowing golden hair ; 
 
 My crystal boat shall guard thee till we reach 
 
 that silver strand 
 Where thou shalt reign in endless joy. the 
 King of the Fairyland I 
 
 I PATRICK WESTON JUVCE. 
 
356 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 THE SLEEPER'S SAIL. 
 
 ' Mother ! I've been on the cliffs out yonder. 
 Straining my eyes o'er the breakers free. 
 To the lovely spot where the sun was setting. 
 Setting and sinking into the sea. 
 
 The sky was full of the fairest colors. 
 Pink and purple and paley green : 
 
 With great soft masses of gray and amber, 
 And great bright rifts of gold between. 
 
 And all the birds that way were flying. 
 
 Heron and curlew overhead. 
 With a mighty eagle westward floating, 
 
 Every plume in their pinions red. 
 
 And then I saw it, the fair>' city. 
 Far away o'er the waters deep ; 
 
 Towers and castles and churches glowing 
 Like blessed dreams that we see in sleep. 
 
 What is its name ? " " Be still, a cushla, 
 (Thy hair is wet with the mist, my boy). 
 
 Thou hast looked, perchance, on the Tir- 
 na-n'oge, 
 Land of eternal youth and joy. 
 
 Out of the sea when the sun is setting. 
 It rises golden and fair to view ; 
 
 No trace of ruin or chanfje of sorrow, 
 No sign of age where all is new. 
 
 ' Forever sunny — forever blooming — 
 
 Nor cloud, nor frost can touch that spot ; 
 Where the happy people are ever roaming. 
 The bitter pangs of the past forgot." 
 
 ' Mother ! we've known no end of trouble 
 Since the night when father was drowned 
 i' the bay ; 
 The cow lies dead in the poor old stable, 
 The black bread fails us day by day. 
 
 ' Why should we hunger, weep and hunger, 
 Your cheeks grow hollow, your hair turn 
 white. 
 When over the sea to the Tir-na-n'oge 
 In father's boat we can sail to-night.'" 
 
 ' Nay, nay, my boy, lie down and slumber ; 
 God's ways arc dim to human pride : 
 None dare sail to the Tir-na-n'oge 
 Save those whom angels come to guide." 
 
 The lad's dark eyes grew wide and misty, j 
 The eager flush his cheeks forsook : ^ 
 
 As he laid him down on his bed of heather. 
 The wind the crazy cabin shook. 
 
 Hunger and cold and want and sorrow ' 
 Howled, like wolves, at the broken wall : 
 
 But wrapt in the arms of a weary mother, i 
 
 The brave young heart forgets them all. , 
 
 And the gloom melts into a sunset splendor, t 
 
 A castled isle in the rosy west, [thronging, I 
 
 Where the happy souls the shores are I 
 
 Of the Golden City of endless rest. ■ 
 
 Xone dare sail to the Tir-na-n'cge, | 
 
 Sazie those whom angels come to guide !" ' 
 
 In his deep, deep sleep, the little dreamer j 
 
 Sees the door of the house set wide. j 
 
 And a beckoning shape, vague, tall and i 
 shining. 
 With flick'ring hair in the doorway stands: 
 The deep eyes draw him — a strange voice 
 calls him — 
 While sleep relaxes the mother's hands. 
 
 Ah ! little she dreams that the gentle patter. 
 
 Of her boy's bare feet on the homely floor. 
 Like the sound of rain on the hawthorn 
 falling, 
 
 Will stir the pulse of her heart no more ! 
 
 Little she dreams that his clear eyes never 
 Again in her face the smile shall seek; 
 
 Or his young arms clasp her neck, while ever 
 The bright lips warm her withered cheek ! 
 
 He feels the salt wind past him rushing. 
 The moonlit cliffs are white as snow. 
 
 As step by step, he slowly clambers 
 Down to his father's boat below. 
 
 • How close it seems — the fairy city — 
 More bless 'd and beauteous than before ; 
 
 The moonshine, like a bridge of silver. 
 Stretching away to its flow'ry shore. 
 
 What matter if the sail be broken .' 
 The hands of angels guide my boat : 
 
 We'll sing the Ave Maris Stella, 
 As down the pleasant tide we float. 
 
 " O fair and lovely Tir-na-n'oge ! 
 
 1 see thy castles close at hand : 
 Thy fragrant winds are wafted o'er mc, 
 
 The happy saints are on the strand. 
 
THE CHURCH-YARD BRWE. 
 
 357 
 
 My father! — is it he? how altered 1 
 
 Bright — strong? Gray-haired and poor 
 no more ? 
 
 Good Angel ! hold the boat securely, — 
 'Tis but a step — I'll leap ashore." 
 
 High on the cliffs the lighthouse keeper 
 Caught the sound of a piercing scream ; — 
 
 Low in her hut the lonely widow 
 Moaned in the maze of a troubled dream ; 
 
 And saw in her sleep a seaman ghostly, 
 With seaweeds clinging in his hair, 
 
 Into her room, all wet and dripping, 
 A drowned boy on his bosom bear. 
 
 Vainly the lighthouse keeper lingered. 
 And peered, good soul, thro' the moonlit 
 
 Vainly the widow, waking, fingered [pane; 
 The empty bed where her boy had lain. 
 
 Over Death's sea on a bridge of silver, 
 The child to his Father's arms had passed ; 
 
 Heaven was nearer than Tir-na-n'oge, 
 And the Golden City was reached at last. 
 
 ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD BRIDE. 
 The bride she bound her golden hair — 
 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
 And her step was light as the breezy air. 
 When it bends the morning flowers so fair. 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 And oh, but her eyes they danced so bright, 
 
 Killeevy, oh. Killeevy ! [light. 
 
 As she longed for the dawn of to-morrow's 
 Her bridal vows of love to plight. 
 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 The bridegroom is come with youthful brow, 
 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
 To receive from his Eva her virgin vow ; — 
 " Why tarries the bride of my bosom now. 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy ?" 
 
 A cry — a cry ! 'twas her maiden spoke, 
 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! 
 " Your bride is asleep — she has not awoke , 
 And the sleep she sleeps will be never broke, 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevj'." 
 
 Sir Turlough sank with a heavy moan, 
 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
 And his cheek became like the marble stone — 
 '• Oh, the pulse of my heart is forever gone ! 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." 
 
 Now the keen is loud ; it comes again, 
 
 Killeevy, oh. Killeevy ! 
 And rises sad from the funeral train. 
 As in sorrow it winds along the plain 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 And, oh, but the plumes of white were fair, 
 
 Killeevy. oh, Killeevy ! 
 When they flutter'd all mournful in the air, 
 As rose the hymn of the requiem prayer, 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 There is a voice that but one can hear, 
 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
 And it softly pours, from behind the bier. 
 Its note of death on Sir Turlough's ear. 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 The keen is loud, but that voice is low, 
 
 Kinee\'y, oh, Killeevy ! 
 And it sings its song of sorrow slow, [woe. 
 And names young Turlough's name with 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 The grave is closed, and the Mass is said, 
 
 Killeev)-, oh. Killeevy ! 
 And the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed, 
 The fairest corpse among the dead, 
 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 The wreaths of virgin white are laid, 
 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
 By virgin hands o'er the spotless maid ; [fade 
 And flowers are strewn, but they soon will 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 " Oh, go not yet — nor yet away, 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
 Let us feel that lift- is near our clay," 
 The long departed seem to say. 
 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 But the, tramp and the voices of life are gone, 
 
 Killeevy. oh, Killeevy ! 
 And beneath each cold forgotten stone. 
 The mouldering dead sleep all alone. 
 By the bonnie g^reen woods of Killeevy. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATKW 
 
 But who is he who lingereth yet ? 
 
 Killeevy, oh. Killeevy ! 
 The fresh green sod with his tears is wet. 
 And his heart in the bridal grave is set. 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeex'y. 
 
 Again the funeral voice came o'er. 
 
 Killeevy. oh. Killeevy I 
 The ptassing breeze, as it wailed before. 
 And streams of mournful music bore. 
 By the bonnie gjreen woods of Killeevy. 
 
 Oh, who but Sir Turlough. the young and " If I to thy youthful heart am dear. 
 
 Killeevy. oh, Killeevy ! [brave. , Killeevy. oh, Killeevy ! [here 
 
 Should bend him o'er that bridal grave, | One month from hence thou wilt meet me 
 
 And to his death-bound Eva rave, Where lay thine Evas bridal bier. 
 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.' 
 
 " Weep not — weep not." said a lady fair, 
 
 Killeevy, oh. Killeevy ! 
 " Should youth and valor thus despair. 
 And pour their vows to the empty air. 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy .'" 
 
 There's charmed music upon her tongue, 
 
 Killeevy. oh. Killeevy ! 
 Such beauty —bright, and warm, and young- 
 Was never seen the maids among. 
 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 A laughing light, a tender grace, 
 
 Killeevy, oh. Killeevy ! 
 Sparkled in beauty around her face. 
 That grief from mortal heart might chase. 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 " The maid for whom thy salt tears fall, 
 
 Killeevy. oh. Killeevy! 
 Thy grief or love can ne'er recall ; 
 She rests beneath that grassy pall. 
 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 " My heart it strangely cleaves to thee, 
 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
 And now that thy plighted love is free. 
 Oh, give its unbroken pledge to me. 
 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevj'." 
 
 The charm is strong upon Turlough 's eye, 
 
 Killeevy. oh. Killeevy ! 
 His faithless tears are alre.idy dry. 
 And his yielding heart has ceased to sigh, 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 " To thee," the charmed chief replied, 
 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
 •' I pledge that love o'er my buried bride ; 
 Oh ! come, and in Turlough 's hall abide. 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." 
 
 He pressed her lif>s as the words were spoken, 
 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
 .And his banshee s wail — now far and broken. 
 Murmured : " Death," as he gave the token. 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevj'. 
 
 " Adieu — adieu !" said the lady bright, 
 
 Killeevy. oh. Killeevy ! 
 .\nd she slowly passed like a thing of light. 
 Or a morning cloud, from Sir Turlough's sight. 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 \ow Sir Turlough has death in everj' vein, 
 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! [main 
 
 .\nd there's fear and grief o'er his wide do- 
 .Vnd gold for those who will calm his brain, 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 '• Come, haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride, 
 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevj' ! 
 Sir Turlough the brave, green Truagha's pride 
 Has pledged his love to the churchyard bride 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.' 
 
 The leech groaned loud : " Come tell me this, 
 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! 
 By all thy hopes of weal and bliss. 
 Has Sir Turlough given the fatal kiss, 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.'" 
 
 • The banshee's cry is loud and long, 
 
 Killeevy, oh Killeevy! 
 .At eve she weeps her funeral song. 
 And it floats on the twilight breeze along. 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." 
 
 •' Then the fatal kiss is given^thc last 
 
 Killeevy, oh. Killeevy ! 
 Of Turlough's race and name is past. 
 His doom is seal'd, his die is cast. 
 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy, 
 
THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 
 
 359 
 
 " Leech, say not that thy skill is vain, 
 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
 Oh, calm the power of his frenzied brain. 
 And half his lands thou shalt retain. 
 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." 
 
 The leech has failed, and the hoary priest, 
 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
 With pious shrift has his soul released. 
 And the smoke is high of his funeral feast. 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 The shanachies now are assembled all, 
 
 Killeevy, oh Killeevy ! 
 And songs of praise in Sir Turlough's hall 
 To the sorrowing harp's dark music fall. 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 And there is trophy, banner, and plume, 
 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! 
 And the pomp of death with its darkest gloom 
 O'ershadows the Irish chieftain's tomb. 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy ! 
 
 The month is closed, and green Truagha's 
 pride, 
 Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
 Is married to death — and, side by side. 
 He slumbers now with his church-yard bride 
 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 
 
 WILLIAM CWRLETON. 
 
 THE BANSHEE'S SUMMONS. 
 I am come. I am come from the land unknown. 
 For the earth I have quitted my airy throne, 
 I have left the heights of yon starry sphere. 
 To sing his dirge in a mortal's ear. 
 UIHlu, Ullilu.' morn comes fast, 
 A soul will have sped ere the moonlight's past. 
 
 I am come, I am come, as I came before 
 
 To the sires of thy house in the days of yore ; 
 
 Many a chieftain has heard my cry — 
 
 Many a dame of thy ancestry. 
 
 Ullilu, Ullilu! thou must go 
 
 To join them either in joy or woe. 
 
 Hast thou call'd up tears to the widow's ej^e .' 
 Hast thou listen'd in vain to the orphan's cry .' 
 Hast thou driven the hungry' from thy door? 
 Or taken the roof from the starving poor.' 
 Ullilu, Ullilu .' take the cost ! 
 Ye mourners weep, for a soul is lost! 
 
 Hast t'nou seen thy country sunk in woe, 
 And taken the side of the tyrant foe ? 
 Or a traitorous part has thy bosom played. 
 Hast thou risen on the wreck of friends 
 Ullilu, 67///W.'' then weep on, [betrayed.- 
 
 Ye mourners, weep, for a soul is gone ! 
 
 Or hast thou striven for the good of all } — 
 Did danger daunt not— nor death appal? 
 Didst thou urge thy way in virtue's path. 
 Fearing no vials of human wrath? 
 Ullilu, Ullilu .' earth must wail. 
 But heaven's bright angels record the tale. 
 
 Tremble not then, as thou hear'st my cry; 
 Why should a good man fear to die ? 
 Mourners, let your mourning cease. 
 Such a death is the soul's release. 
 Away on the morn's first beam I soar, 
 A sleeper will waken on earth no more. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.* 
 
 ' A tale of forests a 
 
 Where a lone castle by the sea 
 
 Upreared its dark and moldering pile, 
 Far seen, with all its frowning towers. 
 
 For many and many a weary mile ; 
 The wild waves beat the castle walls, [ers. 
 
 And bathed the rocks with ceaseless show- 
 The winds roared fiercely round the pile. 
 
 And moaned along its moldering towers. 
 
 Within those wide and echoing halls, 
 
 To guard her from a fatal spell, 
 A maid of noble lineage born 
 
 Was doomed in solitude to dwell. 
 Five fairies graced the infant's birth 
 
 With fame and beauty, wealth and power ; 
 The sixth by one fell stroke reversed 
 
 The lavish splendors of her dower. 
 
 Whene'er the orphan's lily hand 
 
 A spindle's shining point should pierce. 
 She swore upon her magic wand. 
 
 The maid should sleep a hundred years. 
 The wild waves beat the castle wall, [ers : 
 
 And bathed the rocks with ceaseless show- 
 Dark heaving billows plunge and fall 
 
 In whitening foam beneath the towers. 
 
 * This poem was conjointly written by Mrs. Whitman and 
 her sister. Miss Power, although only the name of Mrs. 
 Whitman is appended to it. 
 
;6o 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 There, rocked by winds and lulled by waves, 
 
 In youthful grace the maiden grew, 
 And from her solitary dreams 
 
 A sweet and pensive pleasure drew ; 
 Yet often, from her lattice high, 
 
 She gazed athwart the gathering night, 
 To mark the sea-gulls wheeling by. 
 
 And longed to follow in their flight. 
 
 One winter night, beside the hearth 
 
 She sat and watched the smoldering fire. 
 While now the tempest seemed to lull. 
 
 And now the winds rose high and higher; 
 Strange sounds are heard along the wall, 
 
 Dim faces glimmer thro' the gloom. 
 And still mysterious voices call. 
 
 And shadows flit from room to room. 
 
 Till, bending o'er the dying brands. 
 
 She chanced a sudden gleam to see : 
 She turned the sparkling embers o'er. 
 
 And lo I she finds a golden key ! 
 Lured on, as by an unseen hand. 
 
 She roamed the castle o'er and o'er, 
 Through many a darkling chamber sped. 
 
 And many a dusky corridor \— 
 
 And still, through unknown, winding ways 
 
 She wandered on for many an hour, 
 For gallery still to gallery leads. 
 
 And tower succeeds to tower. 
 Oft wearied with the steep ascent. 
 
 She lingered on her lonely way. 
 And paused beside the pictured walls. 
 
 Their countless wonders to sur\ey. 
 
 At length upon a narrow stair 
 
 That wound within a turret high. 
 She saw a little low-browed door. 
 
 And turned, her golden key to trj' ; 
 Slowly beneath her trembling hand 
 
 The bolts recede, and backward flung 
 With harsh recoil and sullen clang 
 
 The door upon its hinges swung. 
 
 There in a little moonlit room. 
 
 She sees a wierd and withered crone. 
 Who sat and spun amid the gloom. 
 
 And turned her wheel with drowsy drone. 
 With mute amaze and wondering awe 
 
 A passing moment stood the maid. 
 Then, entering at the narrow door. 
 
 More near the mystic task surveyed. 
 
 A sudden longing seized her breast. 
 
 To twine the fleece, to turn the wheel : 
 She stretched her lily hand, and pierced 
 
 Her finger with the shining steel ! 
 Slowly her hea%y eyelids close. 
 
 She feels a drowsy torpor creep 
 From limb to limb, till every sense 
 
 Is locked in an enchanted sleep. 
 
 A dreamless slumber, deep as night. 
 
 In deathly trance her senses locked ; 
 At once through all its massive vaults 
 
 And gloomy towers the castle rocked 
 The beldame roused her from her lair, 
 
 And raised on high a mournful wail,- 
 A shrilly scream that seemed to float 
 
 A requiem on the dying gale. 
 
 " A hundred years shall pass," she said, 
 
 " Ere those blue eyes behold the morn. 
 Ere these deserted halls and towers 
 
 Shall echo to a bugle-horn ; 
 A hundred Norland winters pass. 
 
 While drenching rams and drifting snows 
 Shall beat against the castle walls. 
 
 Nor wake thee from thy long repose. 
 
 " A hundred times the golden grain 
 
 Shall wave beneath the harvest moon ; 
 Twelve hundred moons shall wax and wane 
 I Ere yet thine eyes behold the sun I" 
 She ceased : but still the mystic rhyme 
 The long-resounding aisles prolong, 
 j And all the castle's echoes chime 
 ! In answering cadence to her song. 
 
 She bore the maiden to her bower, 
 I An ancient chamber wide and low. 
 Where golden sconces from the wall 
 
 A faint and trembling lustre throw; 
 A silent chamber, far apart. 
 
 Where strange and antique arras hung. 
 That waved along the moldering walls. 
 
 And in the gusty night wind swung. 
 She laid her on her ivorj' bed. 
 
 And gently smoothed each snowy limb. 
 Then drew the curtain's dusky fold 
 
 To make the entering daylight dim, 
 
 II. 
 .And all around, on every side. 
 Throughout the castle's precincts wide. 
 
 In every bower and hall. 
 All slept : — the warder in the court. 
 The figures on the arras wrought. 
 
 The steed within his stall. 
 
THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 
 
 361 
 
 No more the watch-dog bayed the moon. 
 The owlet ceased her boding tune, 
 
 The raven on his tower, 
 All hushed in slumber still and deep, 
 Enthralled in an enchanted sleep, 
 
 Await th' appointed hour. 
 
 A pathless forest, wild and wide, 
 Engirt the castle's inland side. 
 
 And stretched for many a mile ; 
 So thick its deep, impervious screen. 
 The castle towers were dimly seen 
 
 Above the moldering pile. 
 
 So high the ancient cedars sprung. 
 So far aloft their branches flung. 
 
 So close the covert grew, 
 No foot its silence could invade. 
 No eye could pierce its depths of shade. 
 
 Or see the welkin through. 
 
 Yet oft, as from some distant mound 
 The traveller cast his eyes around. 
 
 O'er wold and woodland gray. 
 He saw, athwart the glimmering light 
 Of moonbeams, on a misty night, 
 
 A castle far away 
 
 A hundred Norland winters passed , 
 
 While drenching rains and drifting snows 
 Beat loud against the castle walls. 
 
 Nor broke the maiden's long repose. 
 A hundred times on vale and hill 
 
 The reapers bound the golden corn — 
 And now the ancient halls and towers 
 
 Re-echo to a bugle-horn ! 
 
 A warrior from a distant land. 
 
 With helm and hauberk, spear and brand 
 
 And high, untarnished crest. 
 By visions of enchantment led, 
 Hath vowed, before the morning's red. 
 
 To break her charmed rest. 
 
 From torrid clime beyond the main 
 He comes the costly prize to gain. 
 
 O'er deserts waste and wide ; 
 No dangers daunt, no toils can tire, — 
 With throbbing heart and soul on fire 
 
 He seeks his sleeping bride. 
 
 He gains the old, enchanted wood. 
 Where never foot of mortal trod. 
 
 He pierced its tangled gloom ; 
 A chillness loads the lurid air. 
 Where baleful swamf)-fires gleam and glare. 
 
 His pathway to illume. 
 
 Well might the warrior's courage fail, 
 Well might his lofty spirit quail. 
 
 On that enchanted ground ; 
 No open foeman meets him there, 
 But, borne upon the murky air. 
 
 Strange horror broods around. 
 
 At every turn his footstep sank 
 
 Mid tangled boughs and mosses dank. 
 
 For long and weary hours. 
 Till, issuing from the dangerous wood. 
 The castle full before him stood, 
 
 With all its flanking towers ! 
 
 The moon a paley lustre sheds ; 
 Resolved, the grass-grown court he treads 
 
 The gloomy postal gained. 
 He crossed the threshold's magic bound, 
 He paced the hall, where all around 
 
 A deathly silence reigned. 
 
 No fears his venturous course could stay 
 Darkling he groped his dreary way, — 
 
 Up the wide stair-case sprang : 
 It echoed to his mailed heel ; 
 With clang of arms and clash of steel 
 
 The silent chambers rang. 
 
 He sees a glimmering taper gleam 
 Far off, with faint and trembling beam. 
 
 Athwart the midnight gloom ; 
 Then first he felt the touch of fear. 
 As with slow footsteps drawing near. 
 
 He gained the lighted room. 
 
 And now the waning moon was low. 
 The perfumed tapers faintly glow. 
 
 And, by their dying gleam. 
 He raised the curtain's dusky fold. 
 And lo ! his charmed eyes behold 
 
 The lady of his dream ! 
 
 As violets peep from wintry snows. 
 Slowly her heavy lids unclose. 
 
 And gently heaves her breast ; 
 But all unconscious was her gaze. 
 Her eye with listless langour strays 
 
 From brand to plumy crest. 
 
 .i^ rising blush begins to dawn. 
 Like that which steals at early morn 
 
 Across the eastern sky ; 
 And slowly, as the morning broke. 
 The maiden from her trance awoke, 
 
 Beneath his ardent eye I 
 
.^62 
 
 POKMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 As the first kindling sunbeams threw 
 Their level light athwart the dew. 
 
 And tipped the hills with flame, 
 The silent forest boughs were stirred 
 With music, as from bee and bird 
 
 A mingling murmur came. 
 
 From out its depths of tangled sloom, 
 There came a breath of dewy bloom, 
 
 And from the valleys dim 
 A cloud of fragrant incense stole. 
 As if each violet breathed its soul 
 
 Into that floral hymn. 
 
 Loud neighed the steed within his stall. 
 The cock crowed on the castle wall. 
 
 The warder wound his horn : 
 The linnet sang in leafy bower, 
 The swallows, twittering from the tower. 
 
 Salute the rosy morn. 
 
 But fresher than the rosy morn. 
 And blither than the bugle-horn. 
 
 The maiden's heart doth prove. 
 Who, as her beaming eyes awake. 
 Beholds a double morning break. 
 
 The dawn of light and love ! 
 
 SARAH HELEN WHIT.MAN. 
 
 PARADISE AND THE PERI. 
 One morn a Peri at the gate 
 Of Eden stood, disconsolate : 
 And as she listened to the springs 
 
 Of Life within, like music flowing. 
 And caught the light upon her wings 
 
 Through the half open portal glowing. 
 She wept to think her recreant race 
 Should e'er have lost that glorious place 
 
 " How happy." exclaim'd this child of air, 
 " Are the holy Spirits who wander there, 
 
 'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall , 
 Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea. 
 And the stars themselves have flowers for me, 
 
 One blossom of Heaven outblooms them all I 
 
 •' Though sunny the Lake of cool Cashmere, 
 With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear. 
 
 And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall : 
 Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, 
 And the golden floods that thitherward stray, 
 Yet — O, 'tis only the Blest can say [all ! 
 
 How the waters of Heaven ouuhine them 
 
 I "Go, wing thy flight from .star to star, 
 [ From world to luminous world,.as far 
 
 As the universe spreads its flaming wa 
 Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, 
 And multiply each through endless years. 
 One minute of Heaven is worth them all I " 
 
 The glorious Angel, who was keeping 
 The gates of Light, beheld her weeping ; 
 And, as he nearer drew and listen'd 
 To her sad song, a teardrop glisten'd 
 Within his eyelids, like the spray 
 
 From Eden's fountain, when it lies 
 On the blue flow'r. which — Brahmins say - 
 
 Blooms nowhere but in Paradise. 
 
 "Nymph of a fair but erring line ! " 
 Gently he said — "One hope is thine 
 Tis written in the Book of Fate, 
 
 Tht- I'eri yet may be forgiven 
 H 'ho brings to this Eternil gate 
 
 The Gift that is most ilear to Heaven > 
 Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin— 
 'Tis sweet to let the Pardon'd in." 
 
 Rapidly as comeu run 
 
 To the embraces of the sun ; — 
 
 Fleeter than the starrj' brands 
 
 Flung at night from angel hands. 
 
 At those dark and daring sprites 
 
 Who would climb the empyreal heights, 
 
 Down the blue vault the Peri flies. 
 
 And. lighted earthward by a glance 
 That just then broke from morning's eyes. 
 
 Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse. 
 
 But whither shall the spirit go 
 
 To find this gift for Heav'n — "I know 
 
 The wealth," she cries, "of every urn 
 
 In which unnumbered rubies burn. 
 
 Beneath the pillars of Chilminar ; 
 
 1 know where the Isles of Perfume are, 
 
 Many a fathom down in the sea. 
 
 To the south of sun-bright Araby ; 
 
 I know, too, where the Genii hid 
 
 The jewelled cup of their King Jamshid 
 
 With life's elixir sparkling high.- 
 
 But gifts like these are not for the sky. 
 
 Where was there ever a gem that shone 
 
 Like the steps of Allah's wonderful Throne ? 
 
 And the Drops of Life — O, what would they be 
 
 In the boundless Deep of Eternity? " 
 
 While thus she mused, her pinions fanned 
 The air of that sweet Indian land. 
 
PARADISE AND THE PERI. 
 
 Whose air is balm ; whose ocean spreads 
 O'er coral rocks and amber beds ; 
 Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam 
 Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem ; 
 Whose rivulets are like rich brides. 
 Lovely, with gold beneath their tides ; 
 Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice 
 Might be a Peri's Paradise ! 
 But crimson now her rivers ran 
 
 With human blood — the smell of death 
 Came reeking from those icy bowers, 
 And man, the sacrifice of man. 
 
 Mingled his taint with every breath 
 Upwafted from the innocent flowers. 
 
 Land of the Sun ! what foot invades 
 
 Thy pagods and thy pillared shades, 
 
 Thy cavern shrines and Idol stones. 
 
 Thy Monarchs and their thousand Thrones: 
 
 'Tis he of Gazna, — fierce in wrath : 
 
 He comes, and India's diadems 
 Lie scattered in his ruinous path — 
 
 His bloodhounds he adorns with gems 
 Torn from the violated necks 
 
 Of many a young and loved Sultana ; 
 
 Maidens, within their pure Zenana, 
 
 Priests in the very fane he slaughters. 
 And chokes up with the glittering wrecks 
 
 Of golden shrines the sacred waters ! 
 
 Downward the Peri turns her gaze. 
 And, through the war-fields bloody haze 
 Beholds a youthful warrior stand 
 
 Alone beside his native river, — 
 The red blade broken in his hand. 
 
 And the last arrow in his quiver. 
 •'Live ! " said the Conqueror, — "live to share 
 The trophies and the crowns I bear ! " 
 Silent that youthful warrior stood, 
 Silent he pointed to the flood 
 All crimson with his country's blood. 
 Then sent his last remaining dart. 
 For answer, to th' Invader's heart. 
 
 False flew the shaft, though pointed well ; 
 The Tyrant liv'd, the Hero fell I — 
 Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay, 
 
 And, when the rush of war was past. 
 Swiftly descending on a ray 
 
 Of morning light, she caught the last — 
 Last glorious drop his heart had shed. 
 Before its free-born spirit fled ! 
 
 "Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight, 
 "My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. 
 
 Though foul are the drops that oft distil 
 On the field of warfare, blood like this, 
 
 For Liberty shed, so holy is. 
 It would not stain the purest rill, 
 
 "That sparkles among the Bow«rs of Bliss . 
 O, if there be, on this earthly sphere, 
 A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, 
 'Tis the last libation Liberty draws 
 From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her 
 cause ! " 
 
 "Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave 
 
 The gift into his radiant hand, 
 "Sweet is our welcome of the Brave 
 
 Who die thus for their native Land. — 
 But see — alas ! — the crystal bar 
 Of Eden moves not — holier far 
 Than ev'n this drop the boon must be. 
 That opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee ! " 
 
 Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, 
 
 Now among Afric's lunar Mountains 
 Far to the South, the Peri lighted ; 
 
 And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains 
 Of that Egyptian tide — whose birth 
 Is hidden from the sons of earth. 
 Deep in those solitary woods. 
 Where oft the Genii of the Floods 
 Dance round the cradle of their Nile, 
 And hail the new-born Giant's smile. 
 Thence over Egypt's palmy groves. 
 
 Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings, 
 The exil'd Spirit sighing roves ; 
 And now hangs listening to the doves 
 In warm Rosetta's vale, — now loves 
 
 To watch the moonlight on the wings 
 Of the white pelicans that break 
 The azure calm of Moeris' Lake. 
 'Twas a fair scene — a Land more bright 
 
 Never did mortal eye behold ! 
 Who could have thought, that saw this ni.'^ht 
 
 Those valleys and their fruits of gold 
 Basking in Heaven's serenest light ; — 
 Those groups of lovely date trees bending 
 Languidly their leaf-crown 'd heads. 
 Like youthful maids, when sleep descending 
 
 Warns them to their silken beds ; — 
 Those virgin lilies, all the night 
 
 Bathing their beauties in the lake. 
 That they may rise more fresh and bright. 
 
 When their beloved Sun's awake ; — 
 Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem 
 The relics of a splendid dream ; 
 
 Amid whose fairy loneliness 
 Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard. 
 
364 
 
 Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting 
 Fast from the moon, unsheathj its gleam,) 
 Some purple-wing 'd Sultana* sitting 
 
 Upon a column, motionless 
 And glittering like an Idol bird ! 
 
 Who would have thought, that there, cv'n 
 
 Amid those scenes so still and fair, [there. 
 
 The Demon of the Plague hath cast 
 
 From his hot wing a deadlier blast. 
 
 More mortal far than ever came 
 
 From the red Desert's sands of flame ! 
 
 So quick, that every living thing 
 
 Of human shape, touch 'd by his wing. 
 
 Like plants, where the Simoom hath pass'd. 
 
 At once falls black and withering 1 
 
 The sun went down on many a brow. 
 
 Which, full of bloom and freshness then. 
 Is rankling in the pesthouse now. 
 
 And ne'er will feel that sun again. 
 And, O, to see th' unburied heaps 
 On which the lonely moonlight sleeps- 
 The very vultures turn away, 
 .■\nd sicken at so foul a prey 
 Only the fierce hyena stalks 
 Throughout the city's desolate walks 
 At midnight, and his carnage plies: — 
 
 Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets 
 The glaring of those large blue eyes 
 
 Amid the darkness of the streets! 
 
 " Poor race of men !" said the pitying Spirit, 
 
 " Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall — 
 Some flow'rets of Eden ye still inherit. 
 
 But the trail of the Serpent is over them all 1" 
 She wept — the air grew pure and clear 
 
 Around her. as the bright drops ran ; 
 For there's a magic in each tear. 
 
 Such kindly Spirits weep for man ! 
 
 Just then beneath some orange trees. 
 Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze 
 Were wantoning together, free. 
 Like age at play with infancy — 
 Beneath that fresh and springing bower, 
 
 Close by the Lake, she heard the moan 
 Of one who, at this silent hour. 
 
 Had thither stol'n to die alone. 
 One who in life where'er he mov'd. 
 
 Drew after him the hearts of many ; 
 Yet now, as though he ne'er were lov'd 
 
 Dies here unseen, unwept by any ! 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 None to watch near him — none to slake 
 
 The fire that in his bosom lies. 
 With cv'n a sprinkle from that lake. 
 
 Which shines so cool before his eyes. 
 No voice, well known through many a day. 
 
 To speak the last, the parting word. 
 Which, when all other sounds decay. 
 
 Is still like distant music heard ; — 
 That tender farewell on the shore 
 Of this rude world, when all is o'er, 
 Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark 
 Puts off into the unknown Dark. 
 
 Deserted youth ! one thought alone 
 
 Shed joy around his soul in deaths 
 That she. whom he for years had known. 
 And lov'd, and might have call'd his own. 
 
 Was safe from this foul midnight's breath, — 
 Safe in her father's princely halls. 
 Where the cool airs from fountain falls, 
 Freshly perfum'd by many a brand 
 Of the sweet wood from India's land, 
 Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd. 
 
 But see — who yonder comes by stealth. 
 
 This melancholy bower to seek. 
 Like a young envoy, sent by Health. 
 
 With rosy gifts upon her cheek.' 
 'Tis she — far off. through moonlight dim, 
 
 He knew his own betrothed bride. 
 She, who would rather die with him. 
 
 Than live to gain the world beside ! 
 Her arms are round her lover now. 
 
 His livid cheek to hers she presses. 
 And dips, to bind his burning brow. 
 
 In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses. 
 Ah! once, how little did he think 
 .-Vn hour would come, when he should shrink 
 With horror from that dear embrace. 
 
 Those gentle arms, that were to him 
 Holy as is the cradling place 
 
 Of Eden's infant cherubim ! 
 And now he yields — now turns away, 
 Shuddering as if the venom lay 
 All in those proffer'd lips alone — 
 Those lips that, then so fearless grown, 
 Never until that instant came 
 Near his unask'd or without shame. 
 
 ■•f) let me only breathe the air. 
 
 The blessed air that's breathed by thee 
 And. whether on its wings it bear 
 
 Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me 
 
PARADISE AND THE PERI. 
 
 365 
 
 There — drink my tears while yet they fall,— 
 
 Would that my bosom's blood were balm, 
 And well thou knowest I'd shed it all 
 
 To give thy brow one minute's calm. 
 Nay, turn not from me that dear face — 
 
 Am I not thine, thy own loved bride — 
 The one, the chosen one. whose place 
 
 In^life or death is by thy side.' 
 Think'st thou that she. whose only light 
 
 In this dim world from thee hath shone. 
 Could bear the long, the cheerless night 
 
 That must be hers when thou art gone? 
 That I can live, and let thee go. 
 Who art my life itself? — No, no — 
 When the stem dies, the leaf that grew 
 Out of its heart must perish too ! 
 Then turn to me, my own love, turn. 
 Before, like thee. I fade and burn ; 
 Cling to these yet cool lips, and share 
 The last pure life that lingers there !" 
 
 She fails — she sinks — as dies the lamp 
 In charnel airs, or cavern damp. 
 So quickly do his baleful sighs 
 Quench all the light of her sweet eyes. 
 One struggle — and his pain is past, — 
 
 Her lover is no longer living! 
 One kiss the maiden gives, one last 
 
 Long kiss, which she expires in giving! 
 "Sleep," said the Peri, as she stole 
 The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul. 
 As true as e'er warmed woman's breast — 
 " Sleep on, — in visions of odor rest. 
 In balmier airs than ever yet stirred 
 Th' enchanted pile of that lonely bird. 
 Who sings at the last his own death lay. 
 And in music and perfume dies away!" 
 Thus saying, from her lips she spread 
 
 Unearthly breathings through the place. 
 And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed 
 
 Such lustre o'er each paly face 
 That like two lovely saints they seemed, 
 
 Upon the eve of doomsday taken 
 From their dim graves, in odor sleeping ; 
 
 While that benevolent Peri beamed 
 Like their good angel, calmly keeping 
 
 Watch o'er them till their souls should 
 waken. 
 
 But morn is blushing in the sky; 
 
 Again the Peri soars above. 
 Bearing to Heav'n that precious sigh 
 
 Of pure, self-sacrificing love. 
 
 High throbbed her heart, with hope elate, 
 
 Th' Elysian palm she soon shall win, 
 For the bright Spirit at the gate 
 
 Smiled as she gave that offering in; 
 And she already heard the trees 
 ! Of Eden, with their crj'stal bells. 
 Ringing in that ambrosial breeze 
 
 That from the throne of Alia swells; 
 And she can see the starr)' bowls 
 
 That lie around that lucid lake. 
 Upon whose banks admitted souls 
 
 Their first sweet draught of glory take! 
 
 But, ah! even Peri's hopes are vain — 
 
 Again the Fates forbade, again 
 
 Th' immortal barrier closed — " Not yet,' 
 
 The angel said, as with regret 
 
 He shut from her that glimpse of glor)', — 
 
 " True was the maiden, and her storj'. 
 
 Written in light o'er Alla's head. 
 
 By seraph eyes shall long be read. 
 
 But, Peri, see — the crystal bar 
 
 Of Eden moves not, — holier far 
 
 Than even this sigh the boon must be 
 
 That opes the gates of Heav'n for thee." 
 
 Now, upon Syria's land of roses 
 Softly the light of eve reposes. 
 And, like a glory, the broad sun 
 Hangs over sainted Lebanon ; 
 Whose head in wintry grandeur towers. 
 
 And whitens with eternal sleet. 
 While summer, in a vale of flowers. 
 
 Is sleeping rosy at his feet. 
 
 To one who looked from upper air 
 
 O'er all the enchanted regions there. 
 
 How beauteous must have been the glow. 
 
 The life, the sparkling from below! 
 
 The gardens, shining streams, with ranks 
 
 Of golden melons on their banks. 
 
 More golden where the sunlight falls; 
 
 Gay lizards, glittering on the walb 
 
 Of ruined shrines, busy and bright. 
 
 As they were all alive with light ; 
 
 And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks 
 
 Of pigeons, settling on the rocks. 
 
 With their rich restless wings that gleam 
 
 Variously in the crimson beam 
 
 Of the warm West, as if inlaid 
 
 With brilliants from the mine, or made 
 
 Of tearless rainbows, such as span 
 
 The unclouded skies of Peristan. 
 
366 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 And then the mingling sounds that come, 
 Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum 
 Of the wild bees of Palestine, 
 
 banqueting thro' the flowerj' vales ; 
 And Jordan, those sweet banks of thine. 
 
 And woods so full of nightingales. 
 
 But naught can charm the luckless Peri • 
 Her soul is sad, her wings are weary — 
 Joyless she sees the sun look down 
 On that great Temple once his own. 
 Where lonely columns stand sublime. 
 
 Flinging their shadows from on high, 
 Like dials, which the wizard. Time, 
 
 Had raised to count his ages by ! 
 
 Yet haply there may lie concealed 
 
 Beneath those Chambers of the Sun, 
 Some amulet of gems, annealed 
 In upper fires, some tablet sealed 
 With the great seal of Solomon, 
 Which, spelled by her illumined eyes, 
 May teach her where, beneath the moon. 
 In earth or ocean, lies the boon, 
 The charm, that can restore so soon 
 An erring Spirit to the skies. 
 
 Cheered by this hope, she bends her thither ■ 
 
 Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven, 
 
 Nor have the golden bowers of Even 
 In the rich West begun to wither; — 
 When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging 
 
 Slowly, she sees a child at play. 
 Among the rosy wild flowers singing. 
 
 As rosy and as wild as they ; 
 Chasing, with eager hands and eyes. 
 The beautiful blue damsel-flies 
 That fluttered round the jasmine stems. 
 Like winged flowers or flying gems : — 
 And, near the boy, who. tired with play. 
 Now nestling 'mid the roses lay. 
 She saw a wearied man dismount 
 
 From his hot steed, and on the brink 
 Of a small imaret's rustic fount 
 
 Impatient fling him down to drink ; 
 Then swift his haggard brow he turned 
 
 To the fair child, who fearless sat. 
 Though never yet hath daylight burned 
 
 Upon a brow more fierce than that, — 
 Sullenly fierce — a mixture dire. 
 Like thunder clouds of gloom and fire. 
 In which the Peri's eye could read 
 Dark tales of many a ruthless deed : 
 
 The ruined maid— the shrine profaned — 
 Oaths broken — and the threshold stained 
 With blood of guests I — there written all. 
 Black as the damning drops that fall 
 From the denouncing Angel's pen. 
 Ere Mercy weeps them out again. 
 
 Yet tranquil now that man of crime 
 (As if the balmy evening time 
 Softened his spirit) looked and lay. 
 Watching the" rosy infant's play ; — 
 Though still, whene'er his eye by chance 
 Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance 
 
 Met that unclouded, joyous gaze 
 As torches, that have burnt all night 
 Through some impure and godless rite. 
 
 Encounter morning's glorious rays. 
 
 But, hark ! the vesper call to prayer 
 
 As slow the orb of daylight sets 
 Is rising sweetly on the air. 
 
 From Syria's thousand minarets! 
 The boy has started from the bed 
 Of flowers, where he had laid his head, 
 And down upon the fragrant sod 
 
 Kneels, with his forehead to the south. 
 Lisping th' eternal name of God 
 
 From Purity's own cherub mouth. 
 And looking, while his hands and eyes 
 Are lifted to the glowing skies. 
 Like a stray babe of Paradise. 
 Just lighted on that flowery plain, 
 And seeking for its home again. 
 O. 'twas a sight— that Heav'n— that child — 
 A scene, which might have well beguil'd 
 Ev'n haughty Eblis of a sigh 
 For glories lost and peace gone by ! 
 
 And how felt he, the wretched Man 
 I Reclining there — while memory ran 
 I O'er many a year of guilt and strife, 
 I Flew o'er the dark flood of his life. 
 Nor found one sunny resting-place. 
 Nor brought him back one branch of grace. 
 " There -aHis a time." he said, in mild. 
 Heart-humbled tones — " thou blessed child ! 
 When, young and haply pure as thou, 
 I look'd and pray'd like thee — but now — ' 
 He hung his head — each nobler aim. 
 
 And hope, and feeling, which had slept 
 From boyhood's hour, that instant came 
 Fresh o'er him. and he wept— he wept.' 
 Blest tears of soul-felt penitence I 
 In whose benign, redeeming flow 
 
THE SPIRIT BRIDAL. 
 
 367 
 
 Is felt the first, the only sense 
 
 Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. 
 
 " There's a drop," said the Peri, "that down 
 
 from the moon 
 Falls through the withering airs of June 
 Upon Egypt's land, of so healing a power. 
 So balmy a virtue, that ev'n in the hour 
 That drop descends, contagion dies, 
 And health reanimates earth and skies ! — 
 O, is it not thus, thou man of sin. 
 
 The precious tears of repentance fall.' 
 Though foul thy fiery plagues within. 
 
 One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all!" 
 
 And now — behold him kneeling there 
 
 By the child's side, in humble prayer. 
 
 While the same sunbeam shines upon 
 
 The guilty and the guiltless one, 
 
 And hymns»of joy proclaim through Heaven 
 
 The triumph of a soul Forgiven ! 
 
 'Twas when the golden orb had set, 
 While on their knees they linger'd yet, 
 There fell a light more lovely far 
 Than ever came from sun or star, 
 Upon the tear that, warm and meek, 
 Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek. 
 To mortal eye this light might seem 
 A northern flash or meteor beam 
 But well th' enraptur'd Peri knew 
 'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw 
 From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear 
 Her harbinger of glory near ! 
 
 " Joy, joy forever ! my task is done. 
 
 The Gates are pass'd, and Heaven is won ! 
 
 O, am I not happy .' I am, I am — 
 
 To thee, sweet Eden ! how dark and sad 
 Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam, 
 
 And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad ! 
 Farewell, ye odors of Earth, that die 
 Passing away like a lover's sigh ; — 
 My feast is now of the Tooba Tree, 
 Whose scent is the breath of Eternity. 
 Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone 
 
 In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief ;^ 
 O. what are the brightest that ev'r have blown 
 To the lote tree springing by Alla's throne. 
 
 Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf? — 
 Joy, joy forever ! — my task is done ! — 
 The gates are passed, and Heav'n is won ! 
 
 THE SPIRIT BRIDAL. 
 
 Go — gather the diamonds that float through 
 the waves. 
 All sparkling with light through the long 
 summer's day, [caves 
 
 And let ocean give up from her hiddenmost 
 Every gem she holds purest and brightest of 
 ray. 
 To declc with their sheen 
 The fair brow of our queen 
 For the bridal of Spirit and Mortal — away ! 
 
 And twine with the garland the beam of the 
 
 As she tremblingly kisses the water at even, 
 Impearling the fair, fragrant flowers of June 
 With her soft light that flows like a river, 
 thro' heaven ; 
 And blend with the wreath 
 Honor, Passion and Faith, 
 To mortal the purest and holiest given. 
 
 And with the beam mingle the hues that the 
 bow 
 From its watery prison m harmony flings. 
 Emblazoned with colors as radiant as though 
 They had flashed from a wave of the Sera- 
 phim's wings ; 
 Let every ray be 
 
 As bright as ye see [springs. 
 
 The Sun, when at morn from the Ocean he 
 
 Then weave her a robe from a wreath of the 
 foam [shore. 
 
 That the storm-spirit dashes in sport on the 
 And braid it with pearls from the mermaid's 
 green home. 
 That lies deep in the wave, 'neath its sap- 
 phire floor ; — 
 And the bridal robe twine 
 With that rich golden line [ore. 
 
 That the summer sun flings on the water, like 
 
 Take for her chariot the amber ye find 
 
 All fresh from the night-mourning sea-bird 
 that weeps. [wind 
 
 And give her for steeds the fleet wings of the 
 As over the ocean in winter he sweeps, — 
 Haste, Spirits — away. 
 From the regions of Day 
 To depths where the dolphin in revelry leaps. 
 Edward Maturin. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. [ From " T/w Enchanted Ring." 
 
368 
 
 I'OEMS OF THE IMAGJNATJO.W 
 
 THE FATE OF THE FAIRY SWAN. 
 
 "When shall the ftwan her death-note sioging. 
 
 hlecp with wings in darkness furled ? 
 When shall heaven its sweet bell ringing. 
 Call my spirit from this stormy world ? * 
 
 — SoHgo/ FiOHHunLt. 
 
 Up and down the crystal river 
 
 Sailed the fair enchanted Swan : 
 In the east a rose-flush quivered. 
 In the west the stars grew wan ; 
 On the bank in costume rude, 
 Knelt a mighty multitude. 
 
 While the dew in gentle showers 
 
 Itethed the bishops cape and crook : 
 
 Gemmed the altar, crowned with flowers. 
 
 Flashed on chalice, bell and book. — 
 
 Vested priest, upon the g^ass. 
 
 Offered up the first great Mass. 
 
 First great Mass on Erins altars, 
 
 Sunburst brighter than the dawn ! 
 Closer to the reeds and rushes. 
 Swam the fair enchanted Swan : 
 Throbbing fast and droopino; low. 
 Feathered breast, and wings of snow. 
 
 With her wierd bright eyes she watched them. 
 
 That mysterious multitude. — 
 
 Prostrate on the ground, and sobbing. 
 
 .\s they beat their breasts subdued ; 
 
 Ever)' lip, (unshorn or bare) — 
 
 Trembling with ecstatic prayer 
 
 " Sanctus ! Sanctus.' Satutus!" murmured 
 
 At the shrine the bending priest. — 
 All was still — the ver)- breathing 
 Of that mighty gathering ceased, — 
 As, upon the hush there fell 
 Silver)' tinkling of a bell ! 
 
 Sacred sound, so long awaited ! 
 
 Blesstid chiming, long deferred ! — 
 In the mist among the rushes 
 
 Something white and trembling stirred. 
 As the Bird in rapture strong 
 Sang her last delicious song: 
 
 "Farewell. Erin, 'mid the waters. 
 
 Shining, like an em'rald green, — 
 Ne'er again shall Fionnuala 
 On your sparkling lakes be seen ; 
 After ages of unrest. 
 Sweet shall be her slumbers blest. 
 
 " Christ hath triumphed I Christ hath riven 
 
 From my soul its shackles sore : 
 Farewell, Erin, lov'd of heaven ! 
 Never shall I see thee more. 
 — Chime, O chime, thou holy bell ! 
 Lir's lone daughter breathes — farewell !' 
 
 Ringing sweetly, ringing softly, — 
 
 Lo I a white ethereal shape. 
 With the last clear note of triumph 
 Winged to heav'n its glad escape. 
 
 Farewell, lake ! Farewell, bright river ! 
 Fionnuala is free forever! 
 
 El.KANOR C. DONNELLY. 
 
 THE MISTLETOE. 
 \ Prophet sat at the Temple gate. 
 
 And he spake the passers by, 
 In thrilling tone, with words of weight. 
 
 And fire in his rolling eye : — 
 ■■ Pause thee, believing Jew, 
 
 Nor move one step beyond. 
 Until thy heart hath pondered 
 The mystery of this wand :" 
 And a rod from his robe he drew. 
 'Twas a withered bough. 
 Torn long ago 
 From the branch on which it grew, 
 But the branch long torn 
 Showed a bud new born. 
 That had blossomed there anew. 
 That wand was " Jesse's Rod," 
 And the bud was the birth of God. 
 
 A Priest of Eg>'pt sat meanwhile 
 
 Beneath a lofty palm, 
 And gazing on his native Nile 
 
 As in a mirror calm. 
 He saw a lowly Lotus plant. 
 
 Pale orphan of the flood. 
 And long did the aged hierophant 
 
 Gaze on that beauteous bud ; 
 For well he thought as he saw it float 
 
 O'er the waste of waters wild. 
 Of the symbol told of the cradle boat 
 
 Of the wondrous Hebrew child. 
 
 Nor was that lowly Lotus dumb 
 
 Of a mightier infant yet to come, 
 
 If mystic skiff 
 
 And hieroglyph 
 
 Speak aught in Luxor's catacomb. 
 
THE TREASURE OF ABRAM. 
 
 369 
 
 A Greek sat on Colonni's cape, 
 
 In his lofty thoughts alone, 
 And a volume lay in Plato's lap. 
 
 For he was that lonely one ; 
 And oft as the sage gazed o'er the page. 
 
 His forehead radiant grew. 
 For in Wisdom's womb of the Word to come 
 
 The vision blest his view 
 He broached that theme in the Academe 
 
 In the teachful olive grove, 
 And a chosen few that secret knew 
 
 In the Porch's dim alcove. 
 
 A Sybil sat in Cumae's cave, 
 
 In the hour of infant Rome, 
 And vigil kept and warning gave 
 
 Of the Holy One to come ; 
 'Twas she who had culled the hallowed branch, 
 
 And sat at the silent helm, 
 When .-Eneas, sire of Rome, would launch 
 
 His bark over Hades' realm. 
 And now she poured her vestal soul 
 Through many a bright illumined scroll 
 By priest and sage 
 Of an after age 
 Conned in the lofty Capitol. 
 
 A Druid stood in the dark oak-wood 
 
 Of a distant Northern land. 
 And he seemed to hold a sickle of gold 
 
 In the grasp of his withered hand ; 
 And he slowly moved around the girth 
 
 Of an aged oak to see 
 If an orphan plant of wondrous birth 
 
 Had clung to the old oak tree ; 
 And anon he knelt and from his belt 
 
 Unloosed his golden blade. 
 Then rose and culled the Mistletoe 
 
 Under the greenwood shade 
 
 O blessed bough, meet emblem thou 
 
 Of all dark Egypt knew. 
 Of all foretold to the wise of old. 
 
 To Roman, Greek and Jew. 
 And long, God grant, time-honored plant, 
 
 May we behold thee hung 
 In cottage small or in baron's hall. 
 
 Banner and shield among. 
 Thus fitly rule the mirth of Yule 
 
 Aloft in thy place of pride, 
 Still usher forth in the land of the North 
 
 The solemn Christmas Tide. 
 
 FRANCIS S. MAHONY. 
 
 A Xoel ascribed to Abclard. 
 
 THE TREASURE OF ABRAM. 
 I. 
 In the old Rabbinical stories. 
 
 So old they might well be true — 
 The sacred tales of the Talmud. 
 
 That David and Solomon knew — 
 There is one of the Father Abram, 
 
 The greatest of Heber's race. 
 The mustard seed of Judea 
 
 That filled the holy place. 
 'Tis said that the fiery heaven 
 
 His eye was first to read. 
 Till the planets were gods no longer. 
 
 But helps for the human need ; 
 He taught his simple people 
 
 The scope of eternal law. 
 That swayed at once the fleecy cloud 
 
 And the circling suns they saw. 
 But the rude Chaldean peasants 
 
 Uprose against the seer. 
 And drave him forth — else never came 
 
 This Talmud legend here. 
 
 With Sarah his wife, and his ser\ants. 
 
 Whom he ruled with potent hand. 
 The Patriarch planted his vineyards 
 
 In the Canaanitish land ; 
 With his wife — the sterile, but lovely, 
 
 The fame of whose beauty grew 
 Till there was no land in Asia 
 
 But tales of the treasure knew. 
 In his lore the sage lived — learning 
 
 High thought from the starlit skies ; 
 But heedful, too, of the light at home. 
 
 And the danger of wistful eyes ; 
 Till the famine fell on his corn-fields. 
 
 And sent him forth again, 
 To seek for a home in Egypt, — 
 
 The land of the amorous men. 
 
 II. 
 Long and rich is the caravan that halts at 
 
 Egypt's gate, 
 While duty full the stranger pays on lowing 
 
 herd and freight. 
 Full keen the scrutiny of those who note the 
 
 heavy dues ■ 
 From weanling foal to cumbrous wain, no 
 
 chance of gain they lose. 
 But fair the search, — no wealth concealed ; 
 
 while rich the gifts they take 
 From Abram's hand, till care has ceased, and 
 
 formal quest they make. 
 
370 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 They pass the droves and laden teams, the 
 
 weighted slaves are past. 
 And Abram doubles still the gifts ; one wain — 
 
 his own — is last- 
 It goes unsearched I Wise Abram smiles, 
 though dearly stemmed the guest ; 
 But haps will come from causes slight. 
 And hidden things upspring to light : 
 A breeze flings wide the canvas fold, and deep 
 within the wain, behold I 
 
 A brass-bound, massive chest ! 
 
 •' Press on !" shouts Abram. " Hold !" they 
 
 cry ; " what treasure hide ye here .'" 
 The word is stern — the answer brief : " Treas- i 
 
 ure ! 'tis household gear ; 
 Plain linen cloth and flaxen thread." The 
 
 scribes deceived are wroth ; 
 " Then weigh the chest — its price shall be the 
 
 dues on linen cloth I" 
 
 The face of Abram seemed to grieve, though 
 
 joy was in his breast, 
 As carefully his ser\'ants took and weighed 
 
 the mighty chest. 
 But one hath watched the secret smile; he 
 
 cries — " This stranger old 
 Hath used deceit: no cloth is here— this 
 
 chest is filled with gold !" 
 " Nay, nay," wise Abram says, and smiles, 
 
 though now he hides dismay ; 
 " But time is gold : let pass the chest — on 
 
 gold the dues I pay !" 
 But he who read the subtle smile detects the 
 
 secret fear : 
 " Detain the chest ! nor cloth nor gold, but 
 
 precious silk is here I" 
 
 Grave Father Abram stands like one who 
 
 knoweth well the sword 
 When tyros baffle thrust and guard ; slow 
 
 comes the heedful word : 
 " I seek no lawless gain — behold ! my trains 
 
 are on their way. 
 Else would these bands my servants break, 
 
 and show the simple goods I take. 
 That silk ye call ; but, for time's sake, on silk 
 
 the dues I pay!" 
 
 " He pays too much I" the watcher cries; " this 
 man is full of guile ; I 
 
 From cloth to gold and gold to silk, to save a I 
 paltry mile ! 
 
 Thi^graybcard pay full silken dues on cloth 
 
 for slave-bred girls ! 
 Some prize is here — he shall not pass until he 
 
 pay for pearls I" 
 
 Stern Abram turned a lurid eye, as he the 
 
 man would slay : 
 .An instant, rose the self-command ; but thin 
 
 the lip and quick the hand. 
 .As one who makes a last demand ; " On 
 
 pearls the dues I pay! " 
 
 •'He cannot pass!" the watcher screamed, 
 
 as to the chest he clung; 
 " He shall not pass! Some priceless thing he 
 
 hideth here. Quick, workmen bring! 
 I seize this treasure for the King!" 
 Old Abram stood aghast ; it seemed the knell 
 
 of doom had rung I 
 
 III. 
 
 Red-eyed with greed and wonder. 
 
 The crowd excited stand ; 
 The blows are rained like thunder 
 
 On brazen bolt and band ; 
 They burst the massive hinges. 
 
 They raise the ponderous lid, 
 .And lo ! the peerless treasure 
 
 That Father Abram hid : 
 
 In pearls and silks and jewels rare. 
 Fit for a Pharaoh's strife ; 
 
 In flashing eyes and golden hair 
 Sat .Abram's lovelv wife ' 
 
 J()H> 
 
 (JVLK O REILLV. 
 
 THE GODS OF HELLAS. 
 The gods are all forgotten long ago — 
 The merry gods to whom the Grecian prayed 
 In those soft words so honey-sweet to flow 
 Like some rare vintage that for long has stay- 
 Deep hidden in some happy earthen jar, ^ed 
 Whose ruddy grapes were ripely grown be- 
 neath some fortunate star. 
 
 They have gone hence and left us, floated 
 Over the pallid ocean of the sky, [out 
 
 Into those purpling clouds that cling about 
 The setting splendor of the sun, and lie 
 L'pon the edge of plain or sea, unfurled 
 To the dim shapes of stately gods who ruled 
 an elder world. 
 
THE GODS OF HELLAS. 
 
 371 
 
 But ye who pity these poor deities [earth, 
 Whose temples long have crumbled to the 
 Who from their groves and happy summer 
 
 seas 
 Have fled, and left no echo of their mirth 
 Pour a libation out to every one 
 Of the immortal gods who long ago are dead 
 
 and gone. 
 
 Although for us the gods are never dead — 
 For us who, in the yellowing wastes of dawn 
 Still see Aurora hasten from her bed — 
 For us who hear on every upland lawn 
 The pipings of God Pan upon the breeze. 
 And see the merry Satyrs chase the Dryads 
 through the trees. 
 
 And surely when the summer clothes the wold 
 With gaudy grasses and a world of flowers. 
 We may believe that Saturn's age of gold 
 Has come again, and the delightful hours 
 May pass like comely maidens on their way 
 About the flaming chariot of the glorious god 
 of day. 
 
 In such an hour upon some woodland hill 
 Lapped in a lazy leisure we may lie. 
 And dream that Grecian gods inhabit still 
 The coloured temples of the shifting sky. 
 Still hearken with some pity to our sighs. 
 And watch our mortal grief and joy with 
 kindly deathless eyes. 
 
 They are not dead, the joyous gods of Greece. 
 A Pan endures where any green thing grows ; 
 Within their hills the Oreads sleep in peace ; 
 The Naiads float where any river flows ; 
 The Dryads linger in each haunted wood ; 
 And still Poseidon and the Nereids rule the 
 writhing flood ; 
 
 And in the evening clouds about the sky 
 You may behold the shapes of ancient gods. 
 Can you not see great Ares sweeping by .' 
 And in yon storm-rack Z-us the saviour nods 
 His curls ambrosial ; in that vapour, see. 
 The fiery steeds of Dis bear off Persephone ! 
 
 Hail, heavenly Hera, floating down the wind. 
 Borne by thy gaudy birds, the Argus-eyed ! 
 Now that the gods are banished, do you find 
 That Zeus remains more faithful by thy side 
 Than when of old his uncontrolled desire 
 On half the heroes of the world bestowed a 
 heavenly sire.' 
 
 Great Pan, the laughing fountains and the 
 Of ancient rivers are thy altars still ; [edges 
 And where the wind makes sport among the 
 Thy pleasant pipings of lost Syrinx fill [sedges 
 The hollow groves and mossy mountain 
 ledges : [hedges. 
 
 And so we find old Arcady between our leafy 
 
 God of the gardens, lord of Lampsacus, 
 Grinning with half shut eyes against the sun 
 Altho' the world has laughed and left you 
 With desplate altars where sad ivies run, [thus 
 Yet, while the Queen of Love finds worship- 
 pers, 
 Be well assured your horde of slaves shall aye 
 out-number hers. 
 
 Wing-footed Hermes, cunning King of thieves. 
 Whose duty 'twas to herald down to hell 
 The ghosts more thick than winter-scattered 
 
 leaves. 
 Say, hast thou led the shapes of gods as well .' 
 Hast thou, thyself a shade, been forced to float 
 Across the muddy waves of Styx in Charon's 
 
 creaking boat .' 
 
 Archer Apollo, young in the world's age, 
 Come with the sunshine in your face and hair ! 
 You served Admetus once ; ah ! with what wage 
 Will ye serve us, whose summer fields are fair, 
 And fair our meadows and our wood-clad hills. 
 And fair our babbling rivers as the old Cas- 
 talian rills.' 
 
 O golden lord of sunlight, goodliest 
 Of all thy heavenly fellows, where are they. 
 Calliope, Euterpe, and the rest 
 Of thy nine maidens .' Have they lost their way 
 To old Parnassus, where the trembling trees 
 Give to the winds the echo of your ancient 
 melodies.' 
 
 Where is thy sister Artemis to-day. 
 Lyric Apollo.' Do her white feet run 
 Down the green track to bring the stag to bay 
 In some unknown-of forest, where the sun 
 Shines on the shapes of deathless deities. 
 That wander in eternal youth among eternal 
 trees .' 
 
 Surely of moonlit nights the Parthenon 
 Beholds Athene, and the broad white brows 
 Of Pallas bent in godlike grief upon 
 Her much loved Piraeus, where the prows 
 Of all the nations cluster as of old. 
 When she was throned in solemn pride of 
 ivorj' and gold. 
 
372 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAOISATIOX. 
 
 Surely about that ghostly hour when dawn 
 Creeps through the sky and stars on Sulamis. 
 The ghosu come thick from each Elysian lawn 
 And from the hollow flowerless fields of Dis, 
 And wend their way from the still town in 
 
 pairs 
 To greet their goddess at the head of holy 
 
 temple stairs. 
 
 Those comely youths with lissom limbs that 
 Around thy storied frieze, O. Virginal ! [ride 
 Those glorious girls for whom their lovers 
 
 sighed 
 What time they went upon thy festival. 
 
 ! Bearing thy yellow garments softly spun [run. 
 
 I In token that another year of jocund life was 
 
 I Once more the noisy gaily colored crowd 
 People thy holy courts with many a gift ; 
 Once more the choral voices, rising loud 
 In clear triumphant tuneful union, lift 
 Thy holy praises to the heedless sky. 
 O goddess, these are dead and gone who 
 thought not thou could'st die I 
 
 Down on the hill the long-deserted stage [see 
 Is thronged with changing shadows ; sure I 
 The tortured Titan brave Olympian rage. 
 And CEdipus bewail his misery 
 By white Colonos. from whose olive trees 
 Thick haunting nightingales make moan to 
 everj' wandering breeze. 
 
 Medea, with love's rum in her heart, 
 I Calls to her young with cruel Colchian breath ; 
 The great good-humoured giant takes the part 
 Of the true woman and o'ermasters death ; 
 And lo, from seat to seat runs ghostly mirth, 
 While Socrates in basket swings between the 
 heaven and earth ! 
 
 O Dionysius, gladdest-hearted god. 
 Do not the purple vineyards hold you still } 
 Do you not rule us with your tendrilled rod. 
 And the soft juices that defeat the will. 
 From any heed of cruel hours that creep 
 Away in fancies brighter than the dreams of 
 poppied sleep .•' 
 
 For every man to whom the subtle fire 
 Gives an unreal lordship of the earth. 
 And feigned accordance of his heart's desire — 
 The love of woman or what nobler worth 
 His heart most hungers after — each of these 
 Adds one more loyal worshipper to all your 
 votaries. 
 
 No more the dappled leopards draw thy car 
 Adown the noisy flower-sown street : no more 
 Some baby Bacchus on a giant jar, 
 
 , By jolly vine-clad Satyrs lifted o'er 
 The heads of all the laughing people, wields 
 
 ' His little thyrsus in the praise of him the 
 vineyard yields. 
 
 1 Perchance on summer evcningp calm and still, 
 1 You sit with Ariadne by your side 
 On the soft slope of some Arcadian hill. 
 
 Singing and drinking of the purple tide. 
 Crushed beneath sunburnt feet with mcrr\- 
 i noise 
 
 Of laughter and of rustic song from brown- 
 skinned girls and bojrs. 
 
 .IfSTIN H. M'CARIIIN. 
 /•>..«/ •• Thf GoJs ../ llelUis." 
 
 TO IMAGINATION. 
 
 j When wean' with the long day's care, 
 
 And earthly change from pain to pain. 
 And lost, and ready to despair. 
 
 Thy kind voice calls me back again: 
 Oh, my true friend. I am not lone 
 While thou canst speak with such atone ' 
 
 So hopeless is the world without. 
 
 The world within I doubly prize ; 
 Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt, 
 
 And cold suspicion never rise ; — 
 Where thou, and I, and Liberty 
 Have undisputed sovereignty. 
 
 What matters it that, all around, 
 i Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie, 
 If but within our bosom's bound 
 
 We hold a bright, unclouded sky. 
 Warmed with ten thousand mingled rays 
 Ot suns that see no winter days ? 
 
 Reason, indeed, may oft complain 
 
 For Nature's sad reality. 
 And tell the sutifering heart how vain 
 
 Its cherished dreams must always be ; 
 And Truth may nidely trample down 
 The flowers of Fancy, newly blown : 
 
 But thou art ever there, to bring 
 j The hovering visions back, and breathe 
 ! New glories o'er the blighted spring, 
 I And call a lovelier life and death; 
 
THE PLAIN OF ASPHODEL. 
 
 nz 
 
 And whisper, with a voice divine, 
 Of real worlds as bright as thine. 
 
 I trust not to thy phantom bliss. 
 Yet still, in evening's quiet hour. 
 
 With never-failing thankfulness 
 I welcome thee. Benignant Power ; 
 
 Sure solacer of human cares. 
 
 And sweeter hope, when hope despairs ! 
 
 EMILY liRONTE. 
 
 THE PLAIN OF ASPHODEL, 
 
 '• Xaked and dry on the plain of Asphodel."— //ow/.v 
 
 I. 
 
 Looking down the slopes of splendor, 
 
 Where the garden spreads in glorj'. 
 
 Where the forms, all bright and tender, 
 
 Seem to speak a gentler storj' 
 Than the written page can show us 
 Or than memory can bestow us — 
 If your mind could be uplifted 
 With a sudden manumission. 
 Could be mercifully gifted 
 
 With a special-sent permission 
 Of delight in this bright vision, — ■ 
 You might think that life was painless. 
 You might think that man was stainless. 
 You might think that earth was paradise 
 
 Because it bloomed so well ; 
 You'd not think such star-like creatures. 
 So unstamped with earthly features. 
 Could be found to glow and flourish 
 
 On the plain of Asphodel — 
 
 Could be found in such bright beauty 
 
 On this plain of Asphodel. 
 
 Ah ! those flow'rets are no other 
 
 Than the scarce and stinted wrapping 
 
 Of our earth, the sheltering mother. 
 Of the dead, in gala trapping : — 
 
 All these gardens in their glory 
 
 Bloom on lethal territory : 
 
 This dead clay, so gaily wreathed, 
 Is all human, and its brightness 
 
 Is but grief, for once it breathed ; 
 And our living spirit's lightness 
 Starts and soars with scorn's uprightness :• 
 
 Must our flesh be decked, polluted 
 
 As the sod — at least transmuted ? 
 
 Must this panoramic grandeur 
 
 Which the soul can love so well. 
 
 Rightly rendered, show us plainly 
 That our eyes admire it vainly? — 
 For this place of our devotion 
 
 Is the plain of Asphodel — 
 All this lovely earthly garden 
 
 Is the plain of Asphodel. 
 
 'Tis a vast humiliation. 
 
 But let truth be ever gaining — 
 What is flesh, that its prostration 
 
 Should induce this keen complaining? 
 Flesh is far the poorest sample 
 Of this earth we proudly trample ; 
 Earth is strengthful ; flesh is forceless ; 
 
 Earth is fruitful ; flesh is failing ; 
 Earth is guileless; flesh remorseless; 
 
 Earth is blooming; flesh is ailing. 
 
 And its works are unavailing: — 
 On the day that earth receives it, 
 All its quickening vigor leaves it ; 
 Is it then a guest too noble 
 
 In this new abode to dwell ? 
 Harassed, shattered, bloated, blighted 
 For its passion-gusts requited. 
 Does it lend too high an honor 
 To the plain of Asphodel ? 
 Is our flesh too fine a treasure 
 For the plain of Asphodel? 
 
 IV. 
 No ; but yet there's consolation : 
 
 Truth may scare with sudden flashes ; 
 But it lends no degradation 
 
 To ourselves to see our ashes. — 
 When our eyes are skilled in reading 
 By its light, there's joy succeeding ; 
 If this soil of earth is vested 
 
 With a dazzling, fragrant presence. 
 It is mercy's hand that drest it ; — 
 
 Are not human hearts its essence ? 
 
 Glorious thought that lifts, not lessens ! 
 Howsoever foul they ended, 
 When the breath of heav'n descended 
 They have reappeared in lustre 
 
 Which we feel but cannot tell : 
 Reappeared, those hearts of ours, 
 Glorious, stainless, sinless flowers ! 
 Lovely, darling, heav'nly flowers, 
 
 On this plain of Asphodel ! 
 
 Aye. in many a flow'r immortal 
 
 On this plain of Asphodel. 
 
 FRANCIS o'rvan. 
 
374 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOS. 
 
 FIRST APPEARANCE OF HELEN. i 
 
 ' - " - '■-, --he (Helen) is transferred, accordinK 
 
 ■ikjes, to Deiphobus. The only pa>- 
 xliiced in company with her nrw \\\\%- ' 
 ' ihe hncs which I am about to tranft- 
 
 From the boy his sire departed, 
 And to Ilion's coast he came 
 
 When to valiant war yc started 
 All for me — a thing of shame." 
 
 From her perfumed chamber wending 
 
 Did the high-born Helen go; 
 Artemis she seemed descending. 
 
 I^dy of the golden bow ; 
 Then Adrasta, bent on duty. 
 
 Placed for her the regal chair : 
 Carpet for tlie feet of beauty 
 
 Spread Alcippe soft and fair. 
 
 .And Atrides spake, replying, 
 
 " Lady, so 1 think as thou. 
 Such the glance from eyeballs flying. 
 
 Such his hands, his feet, his brow ; 
 Such the locks his forehead gracing; 
 
 And I marked now. as I told 
 Of Odysseus' deeds retracing, 
 
 Down his cheeks the tear-drop rolled. 
 
 Phylo came the basket holding. 
 
 Present of Alcandra's hand; 
 Fashioned was its silver)- moulding 
 
 In old Egj'pt's wealthy land ; 
 She, in famous Thebe living. 
 
 Was of Polybus the spouse. 
 He with soul of generous giving 
 
 Shared the wealth that stored his house. 
 
 • While he wiped the current straying 
 
 With his robe of purple hue." 
 Nestor's son then answered, saying — 
 
 •• What thou speakest. King, is true. 
 He who at thy board is sitting 
 
 Is of wise Odysseus sprung ; 
 Modest thoughts, his age befitting. 
 
 Hitherto have stilled his tongue. 
 
 Ten gold talents from his cotTer, 
 
 Lavers twain of silver brought, 
 With two tripods at his offer. 
 
 Had he to Atrides brought ; 
 While his lady came bestowing 
 
 Gifts to Helen rich of price. 
 Gave a distaff, golden, glowing. 
 
 Gave this work of rare device 
 
 Shaped was it in fashion rounded, 
 
 AH of silver but the brim. 
 Where by skillful hand 'twas bounded 
 
 With a golden guarded rim. 
 Now to Helen Phylo bore it, 
 
 Of its well-spun labor full. 
 And the distaff laid she o'er it. 
 
 Wrapt in violet-tinted wool. j 
 
 Throned then and thus attended, 
 
 Helena the King addressed : [ 
 
 " Menelaus, Jove-descended, j 
 
 Know'st thou who is here thy guest.' 
 Shall I tell thee, as 1 ponder, 
 
 What I think, or false or true 
 Gazing now with eyes of wonder 
 
 On the stranger whom I view .> 
 
 " To address thee could he venture. 
 
 While thy winning accents flowed. 
 In our ravished ears to enter. 
 
 As if uttered by a god ! 
 At Gerenian Nestor's sending 
 
 Comes beneath my guidance he. 
 In the hope thy well intending 
 
 To his guest of help may be. 
 
 " Many a son feels sorrow try him 
 
 While his sire is far away. 
 And no faithful comrades by him. 
 
 In his danger prop or stay. 
 So, my friend, now vainly sighing. 
 
 O'er his father absent long. 
 Finds no hand on which relying. 
 
 He may meet attempted wrong." 
 
 Kindly Menelaus spake him. 
 
 Praised his sire in grateful strain. 
 Told his whilome hope lo take him 
 
 .■Xs a partner in his reign ; 
 .AH were softened at his telling 
 
 Of the days now jjast and gone ; 
 Wept Telemachus. wept Helen, 
 
 Fell the tears from Nestor's son. 
 
 '■ Shape of male or female creature, 
 Like to bold Odysseus' son ; 
 
 Young Telemachus in feature. 
 As this youth I have seen none. 
 
 Gushing came they for his brother. 
 Slain by Dawn-born Memnon's sword; 
 
 But his grief he strove to smother. 
 As unfit for festal board. 
 
THE SATYR. 
 
 Ceased the tears for wo and slaughter, 
 
 And again began the feast ; 
 Bore Asphalion round the water, 
 
 Tendered to each noble guest. 
 
 Then to banish gloomy thinking, 
 
 Helen on gay fancy bent, 
 In the wine her friends were drinking 
 
 Flung a famed medicament : 
 Grief-dispelling, wrath-restraining. 
 
 Sweet oblivion of all wo ; 
 He the bowl thus tempered drainmg 
 
 Never felt a tear to flow. 
 
 Not if she whose bosom bore him 
 
 Or his sire in death were laid ; 
 Were his brother slain before him. 
 
 Or his son with gory blade. 
 In such drugs was Helen knowing; 
 
 Egypt had supplied her skill, 
 Where those potent herbs are growing. 
 
 Some for good and some for ill. 
 
 wiLLiA.M m.\gin: 
 From the "(Wvjjv " of Il.'nuy. 
 
 THE SATYR. 
 Was he aweary of dancing in the woods 
 To Pan's wild fluting, when he drooped his 
 
 head 
 Thus o'er his bosom, with his limbs outspread 
 Amid the pines and rocky solitudes. 
 And fell a dozing so deliciously.' 
 Did some fantastic daemon in the wine 
 Tangle his brain in such a sleepy twine, [glee. 
 And drench him with that quaint and drowsy 
 Or drifted he to sleep with idle sails, 
 Charmed with witch lullabies of luscious 
 
 nightingales? 
 Blithe creature in whose being meet and 
 
 mingle [things 
 
 Man's motions with the life of dumb dull 
 Of field and thicket, and the spirit's wings 
 Half-pledged begin to pulsate and to tingle, 
 With faint forefeelings of potential flights ; 
 Dream of Sin's soilure makes him not afraid, 
 No curb of Conscience on his heart is laid 
 To check his quickening senses' soft delights ; 
 He roams the woods in measureless content, 
 Quaffing earth's mystic boons in pleased 
 
 bewilderment. 
 
 All rich and gummy odors soothe his sense ; 
 
 All flavors of ripe berries in the brake. 
 
 Or fruits that can the thirst of summer slake ; 
 
 All sounds of winds that come he knows not 
 I whence. 
 
 Whispering amid the tree-tops and the reeds, 
 j With bleat of sheep and low of uddered cows 
 I All glints of sunshine on the glossy boughs 
 
 And little leaflets bright with dewy beads ; 
 
 The hornless kids that butt him, and the 
 j lambs [clumsy palms. 
 
 That push against his knees and lick his 
 
 But ah ! the vines, the vines in autumn's glow, 
 ' With bloomy bunches trailing from the stem. 
 What wooing witchery abides in them [low 
 That he should love to bask their boughs be- 
 Like full-fed tortoise dozing in his shell. 
 While o'er his breast and neck and visage 
 brown [ping down, 
 
 Plump grapes and golden leaves come drop- 
 .^nd all the air exhales a fruity smell, 
 And every tendril tickling brows and nose 
 Is as a touch of love to lull him to repose.' 
 
 The trickling brook was dainty to his lip. 
 But sure 'twas Bacchus' self, on frolic bent, 
 That by the fount his thirsty mates frequent 
 Laid once a beaker purple to the tip 
 With honeyed vintage tempting him to taste. 
 Gods ! how he eyed the bright mysterious 
 
 draught. 
 Then took it timidly, and sipped, and laughed. 
 Then drained it to the lees in eager haste. 
 Then laughed as if his joy could never fail. 
 And like a dancing rivulet skipped adown the 
 
 dale! 
 
 He nibbles the brown nuts with squirrel-mirth. 
 And gambols kid-like thro' the rocky glades ; 
 He dances in the flickering olive-shades 
 To magic melodies of air and earth 
 That seize him with a reinless ecstacy. 
 And whirl him leaping in fantastic round 
 With jerking arms and feet that fly the ground ; 
 While Pan, half-hid in cave or hollow tree. 
 Pursues him, while he pipes, with twinkling 
 eyes, [flies. 
 
 And holds his shaggy side for laughter as he 
 
 In sooth he seems the sport of all the gods ; 
 Gay Eros hath bewildered his poor heart, 
 And set him sighing for the nymphs that dart 
 With twinkling feet across the woodland sods; 
 For them he capers, smiles and blithely sings ; 
 They flatter him with mischief in each eye ; 
 He fingers their smootti necks, and off they 
 hie. 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGI.\ATIO.\ 
 
 And round the rocks their mirthful laughter 
 
 rings; 
 Well pleased he laughs with them that laugh 
 
 at him. [dim. 
 
 And they forbear to chide a sense so vague and 
 
 Stop, and behold him as he dozes there. 
 His listless limbs extended on the rock. 
 Close by his side a goat from the black flock 
 Munches the wy fallen from his hair; 
 The hornet whizzes harmless by; a bird 
 With saflron breast beside an olive's root 
 Drops down to peck the berries at his foot . 
 Because these two long hours he hath not 
 
 stirred. 
 The nightingale above him trills at ease, 
 The lizard stares and pouts, then climbs his 
 
 gnarled knees. 
 
 He dreams of noonday slumber as he sleeps, 
 Of drowsy whispers in the waving tree 
 And far-ofi murmurs of the mystic sea. 
 And some soft eye that thro' the thicket peeps. 
 And glossy purring things that brush his palm. 
 And troops of laughing naiads at the spring 
 His face affrights amid their gambolling 
 And white-necked drvads with their breath of 
 
 balm. 
 And then of Bacchus and his purple wiles. 
 And, happier than a child, amid his sleep he 
 
 smiles. 
 
 GEOKCE FRANCIS ARMSTRONG. 
 From "./ CarhmJ from (7r,;Yi:" 
 
 CitSAR AND CATO. 
 
 A Dial<^ue in tlu- Elysian Fields. 
 
 Across the narrowing stream, as Cato's eye 
 Marked the pale train, nor marked without a 
 
 sigh. 
 The shade of Caesar rushing on his view. 
 Swift to the utmost verge of Lethe flew. 
 And fain had plunged beneath the parting 
 
 But fate forbad his daring limbs to lave, 
 Or with a tyrant's unrepented crimes 
 Taint the pure ether of Elysian climes. 
 
 "Tis Cato's self — his form, his godlike mien, 
 As Mars determined and as Jove serene! " 
 
 Exclaimed the astonished ghost: — " that robe 
 
 he wears. 
 With garland of immortal oak. declares 
 The stubborn patriot who disdained to live 
 On any terms that Ca»ar's [xiwcr could 
 
 give." 
 With looks of mild benignity, like those 
 Which Mercy, checked by stricter justice. 
 
 shows 
 When bending o'er some wretch whose 
 
 impious deeds 
 Oppose the grace for which he N-ainly pleads. 
 Great Cato turned, and to the guilty shade 
 Thus the soft tribute of compassion paid :— 
 
 ■• Ill-fated ghost ! since death's avenging spear 
 
 Hath stopt thy vices in their mad career ; 
 
 Since Rome from thee no future ills can know. 
 
 Cato's no longer fallen Cssar's foe. 
 
 But would those waves, whose drowsy cur- 
 rents glide 
 
 With lingering pace our spirits to divide. 
 
 Back roll their stream, my former wrongs 
 effaced. 
 
 I'd soothe thy sorrow in my arms embraced ; 
 
 For well my soul each tender feeling knows 
 
 Which to a Roman's grief a Roman owes." 
 
 '• Proud shade !" exclaimed the indignant 
 
 ghost again, 
 •• Take back the insulting pity I disdain ; 
 Fall'n tho' I am by murder's treacherous 
 
 steel. 
 Think not my god-like soul debased I feel. 
 Caesar is Caesar, though from empire hurled. 
 Great as when throned the master of the 
 
 world I 
 O glorious name I my glowing spirit towers 
 When memory brings again those golden 
 
 hours. 
 Which saw me like the undaunted eagle soar 
 To heights of radiant fame untracked before : 
 Saw me o'er empires stretch my sceptred 
 
 hand. 
 .■\nd round my throne dependent monarchs 
 
 stand. 
 
 1 ■' Nor canst thou, Cato. rigid as thou art. 
 If Candor guide thee, blame the aspiring 
 part [voice 
 
 Which Caesar chose, since Rome's consenting 
 That Caesar hailed the Emperor of her choice. 
 ' Great as thou art I' they cried, ' to glory born, 
 
 [ The humbler fortunes of thy fathers scorn ; 
 
WALPURGIS NIGHT— FROM "FAUST.' 
 
 Z77 
 
 A throne for thee the favoring powers ordain, 
 An empire worthy Jove's immortal reign. 
 Seize then the blessing, and, with sails un- 
 furled [world ; 
 Launch forth at once the sovereign of the 
 O'er Rome and Rome's proud lords extend 
 
 thy sway 
 And bow by arms her senate to obey ! " 
 
 Smiling calm scorn on Caesar's vaunting pride. 
 Thus to his vain appeal the sage replied : — 
 " How weak that judgment which decides a 
 
 fame 
 By the low rabble's censure or acclaim ! 
 An impious herd, unprincipled and bold 
 The tools of faction and the slaves of gold. 
 Stand ever prompt at mad ambition's call 
 Alike to pour their venal praise on all ; 
 With throats of brass to thunder forth the 
 
 deeds 
 Of each proud consul who for triumph pleads ; 
 Who their base suflfrage (still by gifts ob- 
 tained). 
 Bribes with the wealth from plundered na- 
 tions drained ; 
 And from the hackneyed bursts of such ap- 
 plause. 
 Drawest thou a sanction, Julius, to thy cause ? 
 O lost to shame, to truth, to honor lost. 
 Who glorying thus in infamy can boast 
 The triumph of his guilt ! Say. in the throng 
 Who roared thy praise in their intemperate 
 
 song. 
 And like wild bacchants m their orgies lewd, 
 With drunken riot sober sense subdued, 
 Joined there one citizen whose generous soul 
 Breathed its free thoughts disdainful of con- 
 trol? [led. 
 Spoke there one man but those by mterest 
 Of fame regardless, and to virtue dead ?" 
 
 ELIZABETH RVVES. 
 
 WALPURGIS NIGHT-FROM "FAUST." 
 
 Scene : Harts Atoimtaiiis ; — Present : Faust. 
 Mepkistopheles, and Witches. 
 
 Meph. Come, be alive — so far, so well, 
 We're at the half-way pinnacle. 
 The worst is over now ; catch fast 
 My mantle, while we turn and cast 
 A glance beneath us on the mines 
 Where Mammon in the mountains shines ! 
 
 Faust. What a strange glimmer stains the 
 ground. 
 Like the dull heavy clouds around 
 The east, ere yet the sun ascends : 
 Far down the dusky hue extends, 
 For leagues below earth's surface spread. 
 A gloomy, thick, discolored red, 
 Tinging the dreary sides of this 
 Desperate, hope-deadening precipice — 
 Here rises smoke, there vaporous white- 
 ness. 
 But yonder what a blaze of brightness 
 On every object round is gleaming ! 
 Now in a narrow thread 'tis streaming, 
 And now the illuminating current 
 Bursts sparkling like a winter torrent, 
 Here, round the vale, you see it wind. 
 In long veins delicate and slender. 
 And there in bondage strict confined. 
 It brightens into burning splendor! 
 A thousand sparks, like gold-dust, sprink 
 
 ling 
 The waste air. are before us twinkling, 
 And see the tall rock kindling, bright'nmg. 
 Glows with intensity of lightning- 
 Turret, 'twould seem — and fence and spii-e 
 Lit up at once with festal fire. 
 Meph. Well, is not Mammon's princely hs.ll 
 Lit gayly for our festival ! 
 I'm glad you've seen it — the wild night 
 Bodes storm, that soon will hide it quite — 
 Already is it swept from sight. 
 Wild work is on the winds — I see already 
 Omens that say the boisterous guests are 
 coming. 
 Faust. The angry gale blows insolently 
 upon us ! 
 How keen and cold upon my neck it falls. 
 Like strokes of some sharp weapon. 
 Meph. Firmly seize 
 
 The old projections of the ribbed rock — 
 Else it will blow you down into the chasm 
 Yawning below us like a sepulchre. 
 Clouds frown heavily, and hearken 
 How the wood groans as they darken. 
 And the owls, in fear and frigh' 
 At the stormy face of night. 
 Beat the air in homeward flight ; 
 The halls of evergreen are shaking. 
 And their thousand pillars breaking. 
 Hearken how the tempest wrenches 
 Groaning trunks and crashing branches. 
 And the earth beneath is rifted. 
 And the shrieking trees uplifted — 
 
178 
 
 Bole, and bough, and blossom cheerful. 
 
 Fair trees fall in ruin fearful ; 
 
 How the haughty forest brothers 
 
 Bend and tremble I — how they fall I 
 
 How they cling on one another's 
 
 Arms I — each crushes each and smothers, 
 
 Till, tangled, strangled, down come all ; 
 
 And the wild Winds through the ruin 
 
 Are howling, hissing, and hallooing! 
 
 Down the valleys how they sweep. 
 
 Round and round, above and under. 
 
 Rend the giant cliffs asunder. 
 
 And. with shout and scream ap[>alling. 
 
 Catch the mighty fragments falling ! 
 
 How they laugh, and how they leap. 
 
 As they hurry oflf their plunder I 
 
 Headlong steep, and gorges deep. 
 
 Gulf, and glen, and rock, in wonder. 
 
 Echo back the stormy thunder ! 
 
 List '. — I thought I heard a ringing 
 
 In my ear of voices singing — 
 
 Above, around us, faint, now clearer. 
 
 Distant now, now warbling nearer ; 
 
 Now, all the haunted hill along. 
 
 Streams the maddening, magic song I 
 WiTCHKS IN Chorus. On to the Rrocken 
 the witches are flocking— 
 Merry meet, merry part, how they gallop 
 and drive. 
 
 Yellow stubble and stalk are rocking. 
 And young green corn is merr>' alive. 
 
 With the shapes and shadows swimming by. 
 To the highest heights they fly. 
 Where Sir Urian sits on high. 
 
 Throughout and about. 
 
 With clamor and shout. 
 
 Drives the maddening rout. 
 
 Over stock, over stone ; 
 
 Shriek, laughter, and moan. 
 
 Before them are blown. 
 A Voice. Before the rest— beyond the best— 
 
 Who to lead the group is fitter .' 
 
 In savage pride see Baubo ride 
 
 On her sow about to litter. 
 Chorus, Baubo — honor to whom honor — 
 
 Benediction be upon her — 
 
 Foward. mother ! — as we speed us. 
 
 Who so fit as thou to lead us ! 
 
 Foward — clear the way before us ! 
 
 Then follow we in screaming chorus ! 
 A Voice. Whence came you ? 1 
 
 A Voice. Over Ilsenstein — 
 
 As I passed 1 jxjeped into a nest 
 
 POEMS or THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 And the night-owl, scared from her stupid 
 
 rest, 
 Fi.xed her frightened eyes on mine ! [past, 
 .A Voice. She grazed my side as she hurried 
 And the skin is sore and the blast is chill : 
 Look there — see where— 'tis bleeding still. 
 Chorus of Wuches. The way is long, and 
 weary, and wide — [side — 
 
 And the madman throng crowds on every 
 The pitchforks scratch, and the broom- 
 sticks scrape. 
 Will the child within escape. 
 When the mother, crushed to death. 
 Suffocating, pants for breath.' 
 Wizards and Warlocks [Sem/cliorus i]. 
 Like the lazy snail, we linger and trail : 
 Our woman-kind as fleet as the wind. 
 Have left us far and far behind — 
 On a road like this men droop and drivel. 
 While woman goes fearless and fast to the 
 devil. 
 Wizards and Warlocks [Sfmic/iorus i]. 
 Swift they go, and swift they go, 
 .\nd gain a thousand steps or so. 
 But slow is swift, and swift is slow. 
 Woman will bustle, and woman will justle. 
 But yet at the end will lose the day. 
 For hurr)' and hurry as best she may, 
 Man at one long bound clears the way. 
 Voices fro.m above. Come with us — come 
 with us from Felsen-see, 
 From the lake of rocks to the eagle height 
 Of the hills — come with us — to-night— to- 
 night! 
 Voices fro.m below. To wander above, is 
 the thing wc love. 
 Oh for one hour of this one night ! 
 For one mad dance on the Brocken height ! 
 When shall we join in the wild delight? 
 We have washed, and washed, and washed 
 
 us white 
 Again and again — we are barren quite — 
 But our hearts are aglow, our cheeks are 
 bright — [a-right. 
 
 We have watched a-left — we have watched 
 And we hear the sound of the far-off flight 
 As they hurry away, and are swept from 
 
 sight. j 
 
 The Two Choruses. That wind that scat- 
 tered the clouds is dead, [moon : 
 And they thicken soon o'er the wandering 
 She hides her head — and the stars arc fled : 
 With a whispering, whistling, drizzling 
 sound. 
 
ECDICIUS AND LALAGE. 
 
 379 
 
 And a fall of meteor fires around — 
 Onward, onward, hurry, skurr)', 
 The hell-driven rout of wizards hurry. 
 Voice from below. Stop — stop — stop! 
 Voice from above. What voice is this 
 Calls to us from the abyss .' 
 Seems it that the words just spoken 
 From the crannied rock have broken? 
 Voice from below. Stop— stop — stop — for 
 me — for me — 
 Guarded and bound with slant rocks round — 
 Stop — stop — stop — and make me free — 
 Three hundred years moiling, three hun- 
 dred years toiling, 
 Hurr)' work — weary work — step after step ; 
 I grasp and I grope, and in time I have hope 
 To climb to the top — sisters, stop — sisters, 
 stop — [prayer, 
 
 I anoint every joint, and I pray my own 
 In the May-sabbath night, to the Prince of 
 the air. — [hinder'd 
 
 Are you not my kindred ? — and why am I 
 From mixing among you, and meeting him 
 there ? 
 Both Choruses. Brooms fly fast when war- 
 locks ride 'em ; 
 Rams, with those who know to guide 'em ; 
 Broken branches gallop lightly ; 
 Pitchforks, too, make coursers sprightly. 
 A buck-goat or boar is as good as the best 
 of them, [rest of them ? 
 
 Each man for himself and who cares for the 
 Many an egg-shell air-balloon 
 To-night will land at our saloon ; 
 He who fails in his endeavor 
 To join us now, is gone forever. 
 Half-Witch \from ifkmA.. Far away I hear 
 their laughter. 
 Hopelessly I stumble after ; 
 Cannot rest at home in quiet — 
 Here I cannot join the riot. 
 Witches [in chorus\ Strengfth is given us 
 by this ointment — 
 We will keep to-night's appointment — 
 We can speed on sea, no matter 
 Were the sail a cobweb tatter ; 
 And a plank as weak and thin as 
 Snail's abandoned shell our pinnace. 
 He who cannot fly to-night. 
 Will never soar a wizard's flight. 
 Both Choruses. And when we've reached 
 the topmost bound. 
 Like swallows skim the haunted ground ; 
 
 Far and wide upon the heath. 
 Spread your circling guard beneath ; 
 Watch and ward 'gainst treacherj'. 
 With all the hosts of witcherj-. 
 Meph. The air is heavy and oppressive. 
 And the whirling din excessive ; 
 Rattling with the ceaseless babble 
 Of the tumultuous hell-driven rabble ; 
 Sultry, vaporous, and sickening; 
 To a denser substance thickening, 
 Burning noisomely, and glittering 
 With fiery sparks forever frittering, 
 Poisoning everything it reaches, — 
 .Atmosphere for fiends and witches. 
 
 lUi Gir 
 
 of Goiliw 
 
 joh> 
 
 ECDICIUS AND LALAGE. 
 ECDICIUS. This is a dull world. Ma.xentius, 
 And a most sleepy city. Nothing stirs 
 Worthy a moment's wonder day by day; 
 Each like his fellow dwindles thro' the glass. 
 The very Gallileans keep their peace. 
 And we for prudent reasons are content 
 To let them slumber safe. What news to-day? 
 
 Maxentius. Little, my lord. A ship has come 
 
 to port 
 Having on board a messenger from Caesar, 
 Who will be straightway here. The news of 
 Is fortunate, — 'tis said the Persians fly ; [war 
 Nothing beside save this, that from the Pharos, 
 Another ship — a galley, too, of war — 
 Is sighted out at sea, and in its wake 
 Still further sail. 
 
 ECDICIU.S. Belike more messengers 
 
 Of Julian's fiery mind. 'Tis well, Maxentius, 
 I would be left alone. Let none approach. 
 Unless indeed the Lady Lalage. — 
 
 I had an evil dream last night ; I dreamt 
 That death had taken me and Lalage, 
 And on his mighty wings had wafted us 
 i To the chill side of Sty.x. Alone we stood, 
 .■\lone and shivering in the starless air ; 
 And at our feet the oozy water washed 
 With loathsome lapping ; and a silent fear 
 Possessed my soul, for it most strangely seem- 
 That we had left some well-lit festival [ed 
 To pass between the gloomy gates of death 
 
38o 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 And watch that sundering stream — on the one 
 Our agony, and on the other side [side 
 
 Thick dari<ness and the drear abode of Dis. 
 Then, as we waited, on the stream appeared 
 A wherry, and the form of one that rowed. 
 I beckoned, and he came. Ye gods, how cold 
 The slippery ledge where could our feet scarce 
 As she and I — yea, I and Lalage — [cling. 
 Stood waiting for that fatal boat to hold 
 Its silent passage on that murky tide ! 
 For round that prow the waves went noise- 
 lessly. 
 Then, as the boat drew nearer, she and I 
 Looked at each other ; and I most miserable, 
 I stooped and kissed thatsweet small mouth of 
 
 hers. 
 So cold with death behind, and clung to her 
 With a great joy to find love not forgot 
 In that dim kingdom of the pallid shades. 
 Then clinging to that last long kiss of ours, 
 We turned and saw the barge lay but a length 
 From where we stayed : and then I saw the 
 
 face 
 Who wafted it to shore. It was the face 
 Of that dark hermit, with a smile on it 
 Of such malignant triumph that the look 
 Haunts me to-day, as it would stay by me 
 Till I had seen the latest of my suns. 
 Then Lalage cried out. — a fearful cry \ 
 Whereat, like some spell broken, all the place. 
 The silent stream and the gray silent rocks. 
 And that wild face that bent its gaze on us. 
 And she and I, all seemed to float away 
 Upon a tide of dreams ; and I awoke 
 With that wild cr)' still ringing m my ears. 
 And that fell visage staring into mine. 
 To thank the gods I had but had a dream. 
 And when I tell it, Lalage will laugh 
 Her laugh, so sweet a man might die to hear; 
 And I shall kiss her, and it be forgot 
 
 ( La lage comes in . ) 
 Lalage. So grave and full of thought ? 
 
 Then Lalage troubles the State. 
 
 EcDiciUS. Let all the fond world perish 
 
 Before one thought for it should be a bar 
 Between us twain I But 'twas not to the State 
 My mind was given, but to yourself, sweet 
 What have you there ? [queen ! 
 
 Lalage. Here is a thing for you 
 
 I took this moment from a fellow's hand, 
 A messenger of Julian's fresh from sea, 
 The ver)' foam upon him, and his speech 
 Salt as the ocean. He would fain refuse 
 The precious roll to me ; but when I frowned. 
 And bent my forehead in Olympian wTath, 
 He yielded up his treasure. Welcome me, 
 If not for mine own merit, for the grace 
 That girdles an imperial messenger. 
 
 EcDiciu.s. Angel of love, thou art more wel- 
 come here 
 Than Julian's herald, or than Jove himself. 
 With all the stars about him. Where is this 
 That knows so rare a bearer.' [letter 
 
 Lalage. Great Ecdicius. 
 
 Upon my knees I humbly offer up 
 The sacred characters that Cffisar's hand 
 Has traced on parchment, holied by histoucn 
 Beyond the human. Do I carry it well .' 
 Is it not thus that all you lesser gods, 
 Jove's deputies, are customed to receive 
 The heavenly message .' 
 
 Ecdicius. Never, by thy goddess. 
 
 From such an Iris : nor do kisses p>ay 
 The pains of Caesar's jjeople. 
 
 Lalage. Truce ! a truce 
 
 Vou do forget your letter, stay my breath, 
 .\nd outrage Caesar. Let us both be wise. 
 Read you your letter. I will stand aloof 
 And look wise counsel. 
 
 JU.SriN H. .MCARTHV. 
 From ** Srrapion" a dramatic poem. 
 
PART VIL 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 She is a rich and rare land ; 
 Oh ! she's a fresh and fair land ; 
 She is a dear and rare land — 
 This native land of mine. 
 
 No men than her's are braver, — 
 Her women's hearts ne'er waver,— 
 I'd freely die to save her, 
 And think my lot divine. 
 
 She's not a dull or cold land ; 
 No ! she's a warm and bold land ; 
 Oh ! she's a true and old land, — 
 This native land of mine. 
 
 Could beauty ever guard her, 
 And virtue still reward her, 
 No foe would cross her border — 
 No friend within it pine. 
 
 Ob ! she's a fresh and fair land ; 
 
 Oh ! she's a true and rare land ; 
 
 Yes, she's a rare and fair land, — 
 
 This native land of mine. 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
1 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 TO IRELAND. 
 My country, wounded to the heart, 
 
 Could I but flash along thy soul 
 Electric power to rive apart 
 
 The thunder clouds that round thee roll. 
 And by my burning words uplift 
 Thy life from out Death's icy drift. 
 Till the full splendors of our age 
 Shone round thee for our heritage— 
 As Miriam's, by the Red Sea strand 
 Clashing proud cymbals, so my hand 
 Would strike thy harp 
 Loved Ireland ! 
 
 She flung her triumphs to the stars 
 
 In glorious chants for freedom won. 
 While over Pharaoh's gilded cars 
 
 The fierce, death-bearing waves rolled on ; 
 I can but look in God's great face. 
 And pray Him for our fated race. 
 To come in Sinai thunders down. 
 And, with his mystic radiance, crown 
 Some prophet leader with command 
 To break the strength of Egypt's band. 
 And set them free, 
 Loved Ireland ! 
 
 New energies, from higher source. 
 
 Must make the strong life-currents flow. 
 As Alpine glaciers in their course 
 
 Stir deep the torrents 'neath the snow. 
 The woman's voice dies in the strife 
 Of Liberty's awakening life : 
 We wait the hero-heart to lead, 
 The hero who can guide at need. 
 And strike with bolder, stronger hand 
 Tho' towering hosts his path withstand, 
 Thy golden harp. 
 Loved Ireland 1 
 
 For I can breathe no trumpet call 
 
 To make the slumbering soul arise ; 
 I only lift the funeral pall. 
 
 That so God's light might touch thine eyes. 
 And ring the silver prayer-bell clear. 
 To rouse thee from thy trance of fear ; 
 Yet. if thy mighty heart has stirred 
 Even with one pulse-throb at my word. 
 Then not in vain my woman's hand 
 Has struck the gold harp while I stand 
 Waiting thy rise, 
 Loved Ireland ! 
 
 LADY WILDE, 
 
 SOUL AND COUNTRY. 
 
 Arise ! my slumbering soul, arise ! 
 And learn what yet remains for thee. 
 To dree or do ! 
 The signs are flaming in the skies— 
 A struggling world would yet be free, 
 And live anew. 
 The earthquake hath not yet been born. 
 That soon shall rock the lands around. 
 Beneath their base. 
 Immortal freedom's thunder horn. 
 As yet, yields but a doleful sound 
 To Europe's race. 
 
 Look round, my soul, and see and say 
 If those about thee understand 
 Their mission here ; 
 The will to smite — the power to slay — 
 Abound in every heart— and hand 
 Afar, anear. 
 But, God ! must yet the conqueror's sword 
 Pierce mind, as heart, in this proud year.' 
 O, dream it not ! 
 
384 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 It sounds a false, blaspheming word, 
 Begot and born of moral fear— 
 And ill-begot ! 
 
 To leave the world a name is nought ; 
 To leave a name for glorious deeds 
 And works of love — 
 A name to waken lightning thought. 
 And fire the soul of him who reads. 
 This tells above. 
 Napoleon sinks to-day before 
 The unguilded shrine, the singU soul 
 Of Washington ; 
 Truths name, alone, shall man adore, 
 Long as the waves of time shall roll 
 Henceforward on I 
 
 My countrymen I my words are weak. 
 My health is gone, my soul is dark. 
 My heart is chill- 
 Vet would I fain and fondly seek 
 To see you borne in freedom's bark 
 O'er ocean still. 
 Beseech your God, and bide your hour 
 He cannot, will not, long be dumb ; 
 Even now his tread 
 Is heard o'er earth with coming p)ower ; 
 And coming, trust me, it will come. 
 Else were he dead I 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE .MANGAN. 
 
 MY NATIVE LAND. 
 It chanced to me upon a time to sail | 
 
 Across the Southern Ocean to and fro ; j 
 And. landing at fair isles, by stream and vale 
 
 Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go. 
 And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep. 
 
 Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone. 
 Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless 
 sweep. 
 
 And left us yearning still for lands unknown. 
 
 And when we found one, — for 'tis soon to find 
 
 In thousand-isled Cathay another isle.— 
 For one short noon its treasures filled the 
 mind, [smile. 
 
 And then again we yearned, and ceased to 
 And so it was, from isle to isle we passed, 
 
 Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips ; 
 And when that all was tasted, then at last 
 
 ■We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips. 
 
 I learned from this there is no Southern land 
 
 Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men. i 
 
 Sick minds need change ; but, when in health < 
 
 they stand (again, j 
 
 "Neath foreign skies their love flies home j 
 
 And thus with me it was : theyearning turned i 
 
 From laden airs of cinnamon away, I 
 
 And stretched far westward, while the full I 
 heart burned 
 
 With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay! 
 
 My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief! 
 
 My land that has no peer in all the sea i 
 
 For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf,— j 
 
 If first to no man else, thou'rt first to me. 
 New loves may come with duties, but the first I 
 
 Is deepest yet, — the mother's breath and 
 smiles: 
 Like that kind face and breast where 1 was 
 
 nursed [ 
 
 Is my poor land, the Niobo of isles. 
 
 JOHN BOVLE O'REILLY. ' 
 
 SWEET INNISFALLEN. 
 
 Sweet Innisfallen. fare thee well. 
 
 May calm and sunshine long be thine! 
 
 How fair thou art let others tell,— 
 To feel how fair shall long be mine. 
 
 Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell 
 In memory's dream that sunny smile. 
 
 Which o'er thee on that evening fell. 
 When first I saw thy fairy isle. 
 
 'Twas light, indeed too blest for one 
 Who had to turn to paths of care,— 
 
 Through crowded haunts again to run. 
 And leave thee bright and silent there. 
 
 No more unto thy shores to come, 
 But on the world's wide ocean tossed. 
 
 Dream of thee sometimes as a home 
 Of sunshine he had seen and lost. 
 
 Far better in thy weeping hours 
 To part from thee, as I do now. 
 
 When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers. 
 Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow. 
 
 For, though unrivall'd still thy grace. 
 
 Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, 
 But thus in shadow, seem'st a place 
 
 Where erring man might hope to rest- 
 
THE RIXG AXD THE CROWN. 
 
 385 
 
 Might hope to rest, and find in thee 
 A gloom like Eden's, on the day 
 
 He left its shade, when every tree. 
 
 Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way. 
 
 Weeping or smiling, lovely isle ! 
 
 And all the lovelier for thy tears — 
 For though but rare thy sunny smile, 
 
 'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears. 
 
 Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few. 
 But, when indeed they come, divine — 
 
 The brightest light the sun e'er threw 
 Is lifeless to one gleam of thine ! 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 A NATIONAL ANTHEM. 
 God save our native land ! 
 May His strong sustaining hand 
 Be for aye her sure protection and her stay ; 
 May He bid her strength increase. 
 Give her comfort, joy, and peace. 
 And banish feud and faction far away! 
 God save Ireland, pray we loudly, 
 May Heaven's choicest blessings on her fall ! 
 From every harm and woe 
 That may lay a nation low. 
 May God save Ireland, say we all ! 
 
 From evil-hearted foes, 
 
 And from traitors worse than those. 
 From schemings of the slavish and the vile, 
 
 From the blighting civil strife 
 
 That makes dark a nation's life. 
 Oh. may God protect our own beloved isle ! 
 
 God save Ireland, pray we loudly. 
 
 May Heaven's choicest blessings on her fall ! 
 From every harm and woe 
 That may lay a nation low, 
 
 May God save Ireland, say we all ! 
 
 May a grace from God above 
 
 Fill her people's hearts with love, [hurled, 
 May foolish hates and fears from thence be 
 
 And her sons for ever stand 
 
 Gallant guardians of a land 
 The brightest and the bravest in the world ! 
 
 God save Ireland, pray we loudly. 
 
 May Heaven's choicest blessings on her fall ! 
 From every harm and woe 
 That may lay a nation low. 
 
 May God save Ireland, say we all! 
 
 May the years, as on they roll. 
 
 Never touch her heart or soul 
 ■With a stain to dim her old and honored name. 
 
 But may Ireland dear be still 
 
 As a light upon a hill. 
 In the pure and holy splendor of her fame! 
 
 God save Ireland, pray we loudly, 
 
 Mav Heaven's choicest blessings on her fall ! 
 From every harm and woe 
 That may lay a nation low. 
 
 May God save Ireland, say we all ! 
 
 TIMOTHY D. SULLIVAN. 
 
 THE RING AND THE CROWN. 
 The banqueting hall is a glare of light, 
 
 It gleams on the ruddy wine — 
 On the fair queen's face as she feasts to-night. 
 On the gems and the raiment fine. 
 And her crown of gold. 
 Is it the wind or a woman's wail 
 
 That rings through the palace wide .' 
 The face of the fair queen grows death-pale. 
 ■' It is naught," saith one at her side- 
 But her lips are cold. 
 
 " One stands witnout at the palace gate. 
 
 Fair queen, and would speak with thee." 
 " Bid her come in. for the hour is late, 
 And say what she would with me. 
 Ere the night be spent." 
 ■■ She will not within. In mist and rain 
 
 On the threshold stone she stands ; 
 She bears a sword and a broken chain. 
 And a ring on her bleeding hands. 
 And a banner rent. 
 
 " Her face gleams wnite thro' the driving rain, 
 
 In her eyes there sleepeth Death ; 
 The ring thou gavest she brings thee again — 
 
 •Thy ring for her crown,' she saith. 
 And bids thee come down." 
 The queen hath risen and left her place. 
 
 On the threshold stone she stands, 
 In the wind and rain they meet face to face ; 
 
 One bears a ring in her bleeding hands. 
 And one wears a crown. 
 
 •' Pale sister, enter and dwell with me, 
 Thy banner and sword lay down ; 
 
 Thy chains are broken, thy hands are free. 
 And what would avail a crown 
 For thy pallid brow.?" 
 
386 
 
 POEMS OF PATJilOTISM. 
 
 " Nay. sister, I pass not within thy door, 
 
 On the stone there is a stain— 
 The blood of my sons is on the floor ; 
 
 God judge between us twain 
 As we stand here now." 
 
 ■' Within is shelter, and bread, and wine- 
 
 Oh ! enter and rest thee here." 
 " The cry of famine, fair sister mine. 
 
 It ringeth still in mine ear. 
 And thy voice is low." 
 " Pale woman, thy vesture dark lay by — 
 
 Here are robes for thee to wear," 
 " Nay, sister, there is a crimson dye 
 
 That stains thy raiment fair — 
 Whence it comes I know ! 
 
 " I bring thy ring for my crown," she saith. 
 
 But the fair queen turns in scorn 
 From the weary eyes where sleepeth Death, 
 
 And the feet that are bruised and worn • 
 And the night is long. 
 In the wind and the rain, in the silent street, 
 
 Alone a woman stands, 
 A ring she hath trodden beneath her feet. 
 
 And she bears a sword in her hands 
 To avenge her wrong. 
 
 UNA A.SHWORTH TAYLOR. 
 
 ERINA REGINA. 
 O land of the harp and the shamrock, 
 O fair land and gallant and true. 
 O land that no power can subdue. 
 So brave in the trust that cndureth. 
 So firm in the faith that assureth, 
 So steadfast and fearless. 
 Through ages all cheerless. 
 
 And dim with the darkness of wrong! — 
 O daughter of sorrow, long stricken. 
 
 And sorrowing ever anew. 
 With grief and with longings that quicken 
 
 To pangs and to prayer and to song. 
 While shadows around thee still thicken 
 
 And scarcely one ray shineth through ! — 
 O queen in the high court of duty. 
 Though prone in thy grace and thy beauty 
 
 And trampled and bound by the strong. 
 Who cruelly taunt and deride thee. 
 And mockingly jeer thee, or chide thee, 
 
 And scourge thee with many a thong— 
 O queen, though long robbed of thy reign 
 Yet despair not ; thou'lt have it again, 
 
 I And the crown that is ruthlessly rent from thee 
 
 now. 
 Yet once more shall sit fair on thy brow ! 
 
 Man's strength is the strength of an hour. 
 
 And the strength of the tyrant is man's . 
 It breaks in the pride of its power. 
 Yea, breaks like the stem of a flower. 
 And crumbles and passes away ; 
 
 .■\nd the mightest measures and plans 
 Beaten out in the forges of mind. 
 To repress, and to shackle and bind. 
 Drop to dust on the pathway of time ; 
 And though wrong be triumphant to-day. 
 
 Yet the purpose of Heaven remains. 
 
 And though justice lie bleeding in chains 
 At the feet of incarnadined crime. 
 Yet shall right 
 Rise in panoplied might. 
 
 And lift up, and avenge, and requite ; 
 And the haughtiest captains and kings 
 
 Shall go down as the proudest have gone : 
 
 Shall go down, leaving nought but a name . 
 And their dust shall be scattered on wings 
 Of the wind unto places where none 
 
 Shall know ought of their fame or their 
 shame I 
 O brave land ! that hath suffered so lonji. 
 
 O true land ! that the ages have seen 
 Steadfast still, with the grasp of the strong 
 
 On thy throat — O immutable queen ! 
 Yet again shall the crown that is now 
 Ravished from thee, embellish thy brow : 
 
 The night and the darkness are passing. 
 The dawn and the splendor draw near. 
 Be of cheer, O true land, be of cheer. 
 
 For on fields that you see not are massing 
 Strong forces that patiently form 
 
 For the sanctified task of redressing 
 The wrongs that have grown with the years 
 Not wild forces of tumult and storm. 
 
 That descend and destroy, and arc broken, 
 Leaving ruin and madness and tears, 
 
 .\nd the shame that can never be spoken, 
 1 Not these, but the legions of thought. 
 
 Slowly marshalling over the world, 
 ' With the legends of liberty wrought 
 I Upon banners that ne'er shall be furled. 
 They will come to thee, Erin, at last, 
 
 Lol their plumes are on mountain and 
 
 Thou wilt rise when they greet thee, and 
 
387 
 
 From thy limbs every fetter and chain ; 
 
 And from lands of the east and the west, 
 Shall thy far-scattered children return 
 
 Never more to weep with thee and mourn, 
 
 Never more to behold thee opprest. 
 But to clasp thee and crown thee again, 
 
 And to build thee a throne, [reign. 
 
 Where, triumphant, once more thou shalt 
 
 Happy Queen of Thine Own. 
 
 DANIEL CONNOLLY. 
 
 THE BANSHEE. 
 
 Green, in the wizard arms 
 Of the foam-bearded Atlantic. 
 An isle of old enchantment, 
 A melancholy isle. 
 Enchanted and dreaming lies; 
 And there, by Shannon's flowing. 
 In the moonlight, spectre-thin. 
 The spectre, Erin, sits. 
 
 An aged desolation. 
 
 She sits by old Shannon's flowing. 
 
 A mother of many children. 
 
 Of children exiled and dead ; 
 
 In her home, with bent head, homeless. 
 
 Clasping her knees she sits. 
 
 Keening, keening. 
 
 And at her keene the fairy-grass 
 
 Trembles on dun and barrow ; 
 
 Around the foot of her ancient crosses 
 
 The rj-e-grass shakes and the foxglove swings ; 
 
 In haunted glens the meadow-sweet 
 
 Flings to the night wind 
 
 Her mystic mournful perfume : 
 
 The sad spearmint by holy wells 
 
 Breathes melancholy balm. 
 
 Sometimes she lifts her head, 
 
 With blue eyes tearless. 
 
 And gazes athwart the reek of night 
 
 Upon things long past. 
 
 Upon things to come. 
 
 And sometimes when the moon 
 Brings tempest upon the deep. 
 And roused Atlantic thunders from 
 His caverns in the west. 
 The wolf-hound at her feet 
 Springs up with a mighty bay. 
 And chords of mysterj' sound from 
 The wild harp at her side. 
 
 Strung from the heart of poets ; 
 
 And she flies on the wings of tempest 
 
 Around her shuddering isle, 
 
 With gray hair streaming, 
 
 A meteor of evil omen. 
 
 The spectre of hope forlorn, 
 
 Keening, keening. 
 
 She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp 
 
 Shiver on the gusts of night : 
 
 O'er the four waters she keenes — 
 
 Over Moyle she keenes. 
 
 O'er the sea of Miledth, 
 
 And the strait of Strongbow, 
 
 And the ocean of Columbus. 
 
 And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her 
 cloudy hovering heroes. 
 
 And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters 
 of Innisfail, 
 
 Chanting her song of destiny. 
 
 The rune of the weaving Fates ; 
 
 And the nations hear, in the void and quak- 
 ing time of night, 
 ; Sad unto dawning, dirges. 
 ! Solemn dirges. 
 
 And snatches of bardic song ; 
 
 And they dream of the weird of kings, 
 
 And tyrannies moulting, sick 
 
 In the dreadful wind of change. 
 
 Wail no more. Lonely one ! 
 Mother of Exiles, wail no more ! 
 Banshee of the world — no more ! 
 Thy sorrows are the world's. 
 Thou art no more alone — 
 Thy wrongs, the world's. 
 
 JOHN TODHUNTER. 
 
 IRELAND- 1882. 
 
 "Island of Destiny! Innisfail! 
 
 when their wearj' ej'es 
 First looked on thy beauteous bosom from 
 
 the amorous ocean rise. 
 
 they cried 
 
 "Island of Destiny! Innisfail!" we cry. dear 
 
 land, to thee. 
 As the sun of thy future rises and reddens the 
 
 Eastern sea ! 
 
3»8 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 Pregnant as Earth with its gold and gems and It is mud that coheres ; but the sand is free. 
 
 its metals strong and fine. till the lightning smite the shore. 
 
 Is thy soul with its ardors and fancies and And smelt the grains to a crystal mass, to re- 
 sympathies divine. turn tosand no more. 
 
 Mustard seed of the nations I they scattered And so with the grains of our Irish sand, that 
 
 thy leaves to the air, flash clear-eyed to the sun. 
 
 And the ravisher pales at their harvest that When a grand Idea smites them and smelts 
 
 flourishes everywhere. them into one I 
 
 Queen in the right of thy courage! manacled. When the sands are free. O Tyranus! like the 
 
 scourged, defamed ; wind are your steel and speech ; 
 
 Thy voice in the teeth of the bayonets the your brute force crushes a legion, but a soul 
 
 right of a race proclaimed. it can never reach. 
 
 " Bah ! •' they sneered from their battlements ; Ireland of Destiny ! Innisfail ! for thy faith is 
 
 '• her people cannot unite ; the payment near: 
 
 They are sands of the sea, that break before j^e mine of thy future is opened, and the 
 
 the rush of our ordered might ! " golden veins appear. 
 
 And wherever the flag of the pirate flew, the j^y hands are white and thy page unstained. 
 
 English slur was heard, '■ Reach out for the glorious years. 
 
 And the souls of the shallow echoed the And take them from God as His recompense 
 
 boast of the robbers word. for thy fortitude and tears. 
 
 But we— O Sun ! that of old was our god, we j^ou canst stand by the way ascending, as 
 
 look in thy face to-day, thy tyrant goes to the base : 
 
 As our Druids who prayed in the ancient time, 
 and with them we proudly say : 
 
 "We have wronged no race ; we have robbed no 
 land ; we have never oppressed the 
 weak !" 
 
 And this in the face of Heaven is the nobler 
 thing to speak. 
 
 We cannot unite — thank God for that \— in 
 
 such unity as yours. 
 That strangles the rights of others, and only 
 
 itself endures. 
 
 As the guard of a blood-stained spoil and the 
 red-eyed watch of the slave ; 
 
 No need for such cursed unity to a race free- 
 souled and brave. 
 
 The peoples that band for plunder are the 
 mud of the human stream. 
 
 The base and the coward and sordid, without 
 an unselfish gleam. 
 
 It is mud that unites ; but the sand is free — 
 
 ay, every grain is free. 
 And the freedom of individual men is the 
 
 highest of liberty! 
 
 The seeds of her death are in her, and the 
 signs in her cruel face. 
 
 On her darkened path lie the corpses of men, 
 [ with whose blood her feet are red ; 
 
 And the curses of ruined nations are a cloud 
 I above her head. 
 
 O Erin, fresh in the latest day, like a gem 
 
 from a Syrian tomb. 
 The burial clay of the centuries has saved thy 
 
 light in the gloom. 
 
 Thy hands may stretch to a kindred world : 
 there is none that hates but one ; 
 
 And she must hate as a pretext for the rapine 
 she has done. 
 
 The night of thy grief is closing, and the sky 
 
 in the East is red : 
 Thy children watch from the mountain tops 
 
 for the sun to kiss thy head. 
 
 O Mother of men that are fit to be free, for 
 
 their test for Freedom borne. 
 Thy vacant place in the Nations' race awaits 
 I but the coming morn ! 
 
 JUHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
TO IRELAND. 
 
 389 
 
 OUT OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 
 
 Erin— 1800— 1885. 
 
 " She died from you," they said, " in the flush 
 of lier bridal bloom." 
 But they lied with their hearts and lips- 
 beloved, thou could'st not die ! , 
 They lured thee out of my arms, and shut j 
 thee alive in the tomb. 
 And guarded with fire and sword the place 
 of thine agony. | 
 
 And they laughed but yester-eve, in their 
 cruel strength and scorn. 
 Saying, " Still through the years he seeks 
 her — O fondest, faithfullest ! 
 And still are fools to follow his beck on a 
 hope forlorn, 
 And never a one a-weary — and oh, the idle 
 quest !" 
 
 Did they dream their swords could sunder the 
 bonds of soul to soul ? 
 Or that flames could daunt my purpose, 
 though lit from the central hell ? 
 Ah, they thought I grieved like a man — that 
 time would ease my dole, 
 With a new fair face forgetting what late I 
 loved so well. 
 
 They knew me not — changeless, deathless, 
 what time with heart grief-riven. 
 For thee in mortal seeming the paths of 
 pain I trod — 
 But I am Freedom— Freedom — and I've stood 
 in the highest heaven. 
 With the seven armored angels who guard 
 the throne of God. 
 
 Courage, mine own, nor falter, but hold for 
 thy life to me- 
 Look not back where the flames and the 
 swords and the serpents were- 
 Look up ! for yon stars are the souls of the 
 men who died for thee, 
 Crushed under the stone they would roll 
 from the door of thy sepulchre. 
 
 Ah, me ! but thy face is wan, and thy sweet 
 eyes dimmed with tears. 
 And the soul on thy pale lips flutters as if 
 it were fain to flee — 
 Ah, God ! for thy years of waiting — thy tor- 
 tured, murdered years — 
 Ere I rent thy tomb and fled through the 
 Valley of Death with thee ! 
 
 But oh ! for our journey's end, and home, and 
 the light of dawn, 
 And the sweet green earth, the bird-singing, 
 the balm of the soft sea air — 
 Oh, to hold thee close to my heart till the 
 chill of the grave is gone 
 And kiss thy lips and thy hands and the 
 strands of thy long fair hair. 
 
 Courage, mine own, nor falter, but cling for 
 thy life to me — 
 Hear the home-welcoming music, nor faint 
 nor far away- 
 And the conquering Cross ablaze in the 
 heavens above us — see ! 
 We are out of the Shadow of Death — but 
 one step more to the day ! 
 
 K.\THERINE E. CONWAY 
 
 TO IRELAND. 
 
 A song of love to my own old land, 
 
 The land of my fathers' graves. 
 Though none to-night in so sad a plight 
 
 Looks over old ocean's waves. 
 New lands arise beneath other skies ; 
 
 Old lands from their thrall spring up ; 
 Still in captive state at the stranger's gate 
 
 Thou art draining the bitter cup. 
 But still my love unto thee, old land, 
 And to every land to-night. 
 Whether East or West, by the tyrant pressed. 
 That fell in the cause of Right ! 
 
 Yet thou wert great in thy time, old land. 
 
 Though fallen and captive now, 
 A sceptre swayed in thy queenly hand. 
 
 And a crown on thy regal brow. 
 In the days of eld thy sons upheld 
 
 The painted Briton's cause ; 
 Gave a grave to the Dane on their native plain, 
 
 And to Scotland her kings and laws. 
 So here is my love unto thee, old land. 
 And to every land to-night. 
 Whether East or West, by the tyrant pressed, 
 That fell in the cause of Right I 
 
 Then thou wert a name of renown, old land. 
 In the halls of the chiefs and kings ; 
 
 When thoughts divine, like the beaded wine, 
 Arose from the minstrel's strings. 
 
390 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM 
 
 Then the Brehon gave his counsel grave. 
 
 And the Druid his runic lore; — 
 The light of their time to their race anri 
 clinic, — 
 
 And the saints could do no more. 
 Then here is my love unto them, old land, 
 And to all true men to-night. 
 Whether East or West in their homes op- 
 pressed. 
 Or that fell in the cause of Right. 
 
 When I look from those ages to this, old land. 
 
 And the stormy gulf between. 
 Where by field and flood your heroes stood. 
 
 The Red above — or the Green : 
 With a soul aflame, each glorious name 
 
 Through the clouds of time I call ; 
 But to check my joy, I see thee nigh. 
 
 And a mourner, the last of all. 
 Still a song of love to thee, old land. 
 And to every land to-night. 
 Whether East or West, by the tyrant pressed. 
 That fell isi the cause of Right ! 
 
 Yes, thou art g^eat in thy lore, old land. 
 
 And thy gift, divine, of song ; 
 Thou art even great in thy fallen state. 
 
 For thy ceaseless hate of wrong. 
 Ay, free or thrall, thou wert great in all. 
 
 But greatest of all to me. 
 That though stricken low by a heartless foe. 
 
 Thou never wouldst bend the knee. 
 Then here is my love unto thee, old land. 
 And to every land to-night. 
 Whether East or West, by the tyrant pressed, 
 That fell in the cause of Right I 
 
 JOHN BOYLE. 
 
 SHE IS NOT DEAD ! 
 
 Who said that thou wast dead, O darling of 
 my heart ? 
 My fairest one amid the daughters. 
 My lily brooding on the waters. — 
 Who said that thou wast dead, and I from 
 thee must part? 
 
 Who said that thou wast dead, and called me 
 
 from thy side .' 
 
 Bright saint and queen of my devotion. 
 
 My spotless, priceless pearl of ocean,— 
 
 My bitter ban shall rest upon the knaves who 
 
 lied! 
 
 1 They said that thou wast dead, tho" fair thy 
 beauty shone. 
 My sweet Undine gently gleaming [ing. 
 Thro" crystal mists of tear-drops stream- 
 That catch the iris-tints from .Aphrodite's 
 
 They said that thou wast dead, O chosen one 
 
 of Fate.— 
 
 My sovereign lady proud and peerless. 
 
 My swan-like Valkyr wild and fearless. 
 
 My deathless maid whose soul recks not for 
 
 love or hate. 
 
 They said that thou wast dead, they wiled me 
 far from thee : 
 But ah I my heart was sadly pining, — 
 ' Its tendrils still around thee twining. 
 Drew back my soul in bonds, as noonbcams 
 draw the sea. 
 
 And then I saw that still the life was in thine 
 ! eyes. 
 
 O sweet I most loved, most sorrow-laden ! 
 The flashes from thy ravished Aidenn 
 Played o'er tny face like lightnings o'er the 
 twilight skies. 
 
 And then I knew at last that thou could'st 
 never die, 
 O sister of the great Immortals, 
 That standest hard by Freedom's pwrtals, 
 j Until an unseen Hand shall open from on 
 I high- 
 
 Lo ! roses red thy lovers strew before thy 
 
 shrine. [flowing, 
 
 Dipped deep in bl<jod from heart-veins 
 
 1 With hues of death and passion glowing, 
 
 I Yet thou regardest not. for thou wast born 
 
 divine. 
 
 Lo I roses while thy lovers strew before thy 
 feet, 
 Bright blossoms of pure lives and holy ; 
 But thy firm eyes look upward solely. — 
 Our love can bring no offerings that for thee 
 are meet. 
 
 Thou art our queen. — we bare our bosoms 
 to thy tread ; 
 Thy empty throne for thee is waiting; 
 Tread on, all heedless still of love or 
 hating! 
 Enough for us who kneel, to know thou art 
 not dead. 
 
 FANNY PARNKLL. 
 
391 
 
 THE PRAYER OF IRELAND. 
 O Lord ! my sorrows are too great to bear ! 
 My feet wax weary and mine eyes grow dim ; 
 Give ear. O Lord ! unto my earnest prayer 
 And lift the burden from each wearied limb ! 
 When others left Thee and blasphemed Thy 
 With loyal faith I firmer clung to Thee; [name. 
 Yet they are great in riches and in fame. 
 While I have naught but shame and misery. 
 
 Why hast Thou left me. Lord, these dreary 
 Beneath the lashes of the tyrant's rod? [years 
 Loud were my groans, and bitter all my tears, 
 Yet these moved not Thy pity, O my God ! 
 At times, so great my anguish and my grief — 
 (O. Lord ! I crave forgiveness for the thought !) 
 When I had prayed and did not find relief. 
 Methought. O Lord, by Thee I was forgot! ; 
 
 But yet Thy will in everything be done ! 
 Thou knowest best ; but oh ! 'tis hard to bear. 
 To be denied fair Freedom's glorious sun, 
 Yet see it beaming round me everywhere : 
 With naked feet to tread a thorny way, 
 Faint and athirst, and grieving piteously. — 
 Must this continue. O my God, for aye? 
 Is there no end to my Gethsemane? 
 
 Roll back. O Lord ! from the dark sepulchre. 
 Where I have lain for many a wearyyear. 
 The heavy stone that keeps me prisoned there; 
 Strike low the girded guard that hovers near. 
 Have pity. Lord, assuage my bitter woe ; 
 With bleeding heart to Thee I fervent pray. 
 To strike to earth the mocking, ruthless foe, 
 And give to me ere long an Easter day ! 
 
 Behold me. Lord, and ease my poignant pain. 
 
 listen to my children's wailing cry ! [vain ? 
 They pray to Thee — O shall their prayers be 
 Aid them, my Father, else they surely die ! 
 Or if it be Thy holy will that they 
 
 Worse than Egyptian bondage must endure 
 For years to be. O strengthen them, I pray. 
 And keep their Faith both steadfast and 
 secure ! 
 
 What crime. O Lord, in primal hour was done 
 By me or mine against Thy holy word. [sun. 
 That blotted from our sky bright Freedom's 
 And laid us prostrate 'neath a foreign horde ? 
 
 1 know not. O my God ! but this I know. 
 
 If we have sinned, our punishment is great ! 
 Absolve us. Father! O. dispel our woe. [state ! 
 And lift Thy children from their wretched 
 
 » JAMES RYAN. 
 
 ERIN. 
 
 When Erin first rose from the dark swelling 
 
 flood. 
 God bless'd the green island, and saw it was 
 I good ; 
 
 I The em'rald of Europe, it sparkled and shone. 
 In the ring of the world, the most precious 
 
 stone. 
 In her sun. in her soil, in her station thrice 
 
 blest, 
 With her back towards Britain, her face to 
 
 the West, 
 Erin stands proudly insular, on her steep shore. 
 And strikes her high harp 'mid the ocean's 
 
 deep roar. 
 
 But when its soft tones seem to mourn and 
 
 to weep, 
 The dark chain of silence is thrown o'er the 
 
 deep ; 
 At the thought of the past the tears gush from 
 
 her eyes. 
 And the pulse of her heart makes her white 
 
 bosom rise. 
 O ! sons of green Erin, lament o'er the time. 
 When religion was war, and our country a 
 
 crime. 
 When man, in God's image, inverted his plan, 
 And moulded his God in the image of man. 
 
 When the int'rest of state wrought the general 
 
 woe, 
 The stranger a friend, and the native a foe ; 
 While the mother rejoic'd o'er her children 
 
 oppressed. 
 And clasp'd the invader more close to her 
 
 breast. 
 When with pale for the body and pale for the 
 
 soul. 
 Church and state joined in compact to con- 
 quer the whole ; 
 And as Shannon was stained with Milesian 
 
 blood . 
 Ey'd each other askance and pronounced it 
 
 was good. 
 
 By the groans that ascend from your fore- 
 fathers' grave. 
 
 For their country thus left to the brute and 
 the slave, 
 
 Drive the Demon of Bigotry home to his den. 
 
 And whpre Britain made brutes now let Erin 
 make men. 
 
392 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 Let my sons like the leaves of the shamrock 
 
 unite, 
 A partition of sects from one footstalk of right. 
 Give each his full share of the earth and the 
 
 sky, 
 Nor fatten the slave where the serpent would 
 
 die. 
 
 Alas! for poor Erin that some are still seen. 
 
 Who would dye the grass red from their ha- 
 tred to Green ; 
 
 Yet. O ! when you're up and they're down, let 
 them live. 
 
 Then yield them that mercy which they would 
 not give. 
 
 Arm of Erin, be strong! but be gentle as 
 bra\e I 
 
 And uplifted to strike, be still ready to save! 
 
 Let no feeling of vengeance presume to defile 
 
 The cause of. or men of. the Emerald Isle. 
 
 The cause it is good and the men they are true, 
 And the Green shall outlive both the Orange 
 
 and Blue 1 
 And the triumphs of Erin her daughters shall 
 
 share, 
 With the full swelling chest and the fair flow- 
 ing hair. 
 Their bosom heaves high for the worthy and 
 
 brave. 
 But no coward shall rest in that soft swelling 
 
 wave I 
 Men of Erin ! awake and make haste to be 
 
 blest ; 
 Rise, Arch of the Ocean and Queen of the 
 
 West ! 
 
 WILLIAM DRE.XNAX. 
 
 Hast thou not sons, like the ocean-sands.^ 
 Hast thou not sons with brave hearts and 
 
 hands .' 
 Hast thou not lu-irs for thy broad, bright lands.' 
 What have they done. — or what will they do 
 
 for thee .' 
 
 Ireland, mother! 
 
 Were I a man from thy glorious womb. 
 I'd hurl the stone from thy living tomb : 
 Thy grief should be joy, and light thy gloom. 
 The rose should gleam "mid thy golden broom. 
 Thy marish wastes should blossom and bloom ; 
 I'd smite thy (oes with thy own long doom. 
 While God's heaped judgments should round 
 
 them loom ; 
 Were I a man. lo I this would I do for thee, 
 Ireland, mother ! 
 
 FANNY PARNELL. 
 
 IRELAND, MOTHER ! 
 Vein of my heart. light of mine eyes. 
 Pulse of my life, star of my skies. 
 Dimmed is thy beauty, sad are thy sighs, 
 Fairest and saddest, what shall I do for thee .•" 
 Ireland, mother I 
 
 Vain, ah vain is a woman's prayer ; 
 Vain is a woman's hot despair ; 
 Naught can she do. naught can she dare. — 
 I am a woman, I can do naught for tjiee, 
 Ireland, mother! 
 
 ERIN. 
 
 Love ! what have we done to thee ? 
 
 Thou hast given thine own a bitter cup to 
 
 drain ; 
 I Thy kisses on our lips are red with pain ; 
 I Where are our noblest, who for love of thee, 
 j Made mad with glamour of thy matchless face 
 j Found sweet as thy white arms the g.-ave's 
 embrace ; [death, 
 
 j And for thy sake danced down dim ways to 
 
 Crowning their fair young brows with cypress 
 ! wreath 
 
 ' For roses at a feast .' Perchance they stand 
 
 Freed from the fetters forged by thy small 
 hand. 
 
 Knee-deep in sun-washed meads of asphodel, 
 
 Forgetting thee, and with them all is well. 
 
 Dost thou forget the dear lives quenched in 
 night. 
 
 That still thine eyes smile with divinest light. 
 
 And men go mad for one long look of them.' 
 
 The mystic jewels of thy diadem 
 
 .Are tears, and blood, and pain. O fatal fair. 
 
 Thy love is but a fever and a fret ! 
 
 With the gold river of thy sunset hair 
 
 Hide thy white beauty, let ourthraldom cease. 
 
 Away from thee are flower-set paths of pwace. 
 
 And peace is sweet, and we would fain forget. 
 
 So said I in my heart. 
 
 Grown hot with pain for Emmet, and Wolfe 
 
 Tone. 
 And dear Lord Edward, all the fair seed sown, 
 
393 
 
 Nor saw for tears the golden wheat ears 
 
 start 
 Where martjTs' blood is fruitful, and a rain 
 Great as the seas hath dyed with crimson stain 
 Thy deep-sea robe, and washed thy white feet 
 
 red. 
 Ah ! love, forgive, I knew not what I said ! 
 They were thine own, thy yearning arms did 
 
 hold 
 The bodies rent for thee, thy lips were cold 
 When thou didst kiss the faces, chill and 
 
 fine. 
 That flushed no more for any kiss of thine. 
 Or any passion-sweet look, or love-soft tone. 
 Beloved ! how oft in patience thou hast sown 
 A shining growth for Freedom, when the 
 
 skies 
 Were red with dawn, and others' argosies 
 Of golden, gleaming grain showed rich and 
 
 heaped. 
 And in thine hour, but this thy hand hath 
 
 reaped — 
 A fair, crushed harvest for thy granary. 
 Tears, and a slain hope dead across thy knee. 
 
 Death borne for thee were sweet. 
 
 And glorified for thee are chains and shame. 
 
 Our words are prayers when we name thy 
 
 name ; 
 Make of our hearts a pathway for thy feet 
 To that fair goal of Freedom, where our 
 
 hands 
 Shall raise thy throne above all other lands, 
 To shine for aye against the western fire. 
 Then, quenched at last, their hunger and 
 
 desire, 
 Our hearts shall ask no other boon but sleep 
 Under thy shamrocks, nor shall vigil keep, 
 Finding night sweet within the soft, still bed, 
 While gold and glad the day goes byo'erhead. 
 There is no other land like thee, beloved ! 
 No heart that once was thine has ever roved. 
 No resting-place we find save thy dear breast ; 
 He seeks no other kiss who once had pressed 
 The cleft red flower of thy unsmiling mouth. 
 In chains thou dost the world's enthroned sur- 
 pass; 
 For loss of thee, the gold sun of the south 
 Lacks light and warmth ; thy yearning exiles 
 
 come 
 Like children tired, who turn with tears to 
 
 home. 
 And lay them gladly in thy churchyard grass. 
 
 KATHARINE TYNAN. 
 
 TO ERIN. 
 
 My country ! — -too long, like the mist on thy 
 mountains. 
 The cloud of affliction hath sadden'd thy 
 brow ; 
 Too long hath the blood-rain empurpled thy 
 fountains. 
 And Pity been deaf to thy cries — until now. 
 
 Thou wert doom'd for a season in darkness to 
 languish. 
 While others around thee were basking in 
 light; 
 Scarce a sunbeam e'er lighten'd the gloom of 
 thy anguish — 
 In the " Island of Saints " it seem'd still to 
 be night. 
 
 Of thy children, alas ! some in sorrow forsook 
 thee. 
 They could not endure to behold thee dis- 
 tress'd ; 
 In ■■ the land of the stranger " did others 
 o'erlook thee. 
 Unworthy the life-stream they drew from 
 thy breast. 
 
 And the song of the minstrel was hushed in 
 thy bowers ; 
 For Discord's dire trump thy lov'd harp was 
 thrown by ; 
 While, strong as the ivy that strangled thy 
 towers, 
 The gripe of oppression scarce left thee a 
 sigh! 
 
 That is past — and for aye let its memory 
 perish ; 
 The day-spring arises, while weariness 
 ends ; 
 Wake, Erin! forbear thy dark bodings to 
 cherish — 
 The wheel hath revolv'd and thy fortune 
 ascends! 
 
 Yes, thy cause hath been heard — men have 
 wept at thy story. 
 Alas! that a land of such beauty should 
 mourn ! 
 Have thy children ne'ergrac'd the high niches 
 of glory ? 
 Was kindness ne'er known in their bosoms 
 to burn ? 
 
394 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 Yes, rich as the mines which thy teeming hills 
 nourisli. 
 Are their stores of the genius which nature 
 
 thy valleys that 
 flourish, 
 The fragrance of feeling that breathes from 
 their hearts ! 
 
 That, when Britons stood forth in my trial 
 undaunted, 
 My children slunk back unconcerned in my 
 weal. 
 
 last spark yc 
 
 'Oh, if yet in your bosom ( 
 treasure 
 Of love for the land of your sires— of your 
 birth— 
 When stung to despair, in their wildness what Return I and indulge in the soul-thrilling 
 
 wonder 
 
 pleasure 
 
 If sometimes their souls from affection Of hailing that land "mong the brightest on 
 
 might rove? 
 That frenzy subsiding, their feelings the 
 fonder 
 Will seek theirown halcvon channel of love! ' 
 
 THOMA.S DKVIN RKILLV. 
 
 Let the past be forgotten I Yet shall thou, 
 fair Erin. 
 
 LINES TO ERIN. 
 
 Fling off the base spells which thy spirit When dullness shall chain the wild harp that 
 
 would praise thee, 
 disap- When its last sigh of freedom is heard on 
 thy shore. 
 
 enslave ; 
 Thou shalt, like the sea-bird, a whi 
 pcaring. 
 
 Emerge witli thy plumage more bright from When its raptures shall bless the false heart 
 the wave. that betrays thee. 
 
 Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee 
 Once more "mong the verdure and dew of thy more! 
 
 mountains 
 The shamrock shall ope its wet 
 sun. 
 
 to the When thy sons are less tame than their own 
 ocean waters. 
 
 While fondly the muse shall recline by thy When their last flash of wit and of genius is 
 fountains, o'er. 
 
 And warble her strains to the rills as they When beauty and virtue forsake thy young 
 
 daughters. 
 
 Then tuning thy mild harp, whose melody 
 slumbers, i 
 
 As high on the willow it waves in the When the 
 breeze ; 
 Let poesy lend thee her liveliest numbers. 
 To sound thy reveille, thy anthem of praise. 
 
 Oh, then, dearest Erin. I'll love thee 
 more ! 
 
 And say unto those that have left thee for- 
 saken — 
 "Return, oh. return, to your lone mother's 
 arms ! 
 Other lands in their sons 
 awaken ; 
 Shall Erin alone for her race hav 
 charms .' 
 
 that now holds his bright path 
 o'er thy mountains. 
 Forgets the green fields that he smiL-d on 
 before. 
 
 When no moonlight shall sleep on thy lakes 
 and thy fountains. 
 Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no 
 more ! 
 
 'Oh, blush as ye rove, that it e'er should be 
 taunted. 
 That strangers have felt what my own could 
 not feel ; 
 
 n a fondness When the name of the Sa.xon and tyrant shall 
 sever. 
 When the freedom you lost you no longer 
 deplore. 
 When the thoughts of your wrongs shall be 
 sleeping forever, 
 Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no 
 more ! 
 
 JAMES J. CALLANAN. 
 
OH, ERIN! SWEET ERIN! 
 
 395 
 
 CUSHLA-MA-CHREE. 
 
 Uear Erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises. 
 
 An emerald set in the ring of the sea, | 
 
 Each blade of thy meadows thy faithful heart 
 
 prizes. 
 
 Thou queen of the west, the world's ctishla- \ 
 
 ma-chree. 
 
 Thy gates open wide to the poor and the 
 stranger. 
 There smiles hospitality, hearty and free ; 
 Thy friendship is seen in the moment of 
 danger, 
 And the wanderer is welcomed with cushla- 
 ma-chree. 
 
 Thy sons they are brave, but the battle once 
 over, 
 In brotherly peace with their foes they 
 agree. 
 And the roseate cheeks of thy daughters dis- 
 cover 
 The soul-speaking flush that says, cushla- 
 ma-c/irei. 
 
 Then flourish forever, my dear native Erin, 
 While sadly I wander an exile from thee. 
 And firm as thy mountains, no injury fearing. 
 May Heaven defend its own cushla-ma- 
 chree. 
 
 JOHN PHILl'or CURRAX. 
 
 SONS OF HAPLESS ERIN.* 
 Weep, sons of Hapless Erin, weep; 
 Your chains in tears of anguish steep; 
 And as you bend the streaming eye. 
 Where pale and plundered brethren lie. 
 On Albion's head no blessings breathe — 
 She's tinged with blood the victor wreath I 
 
 Lol where the famished peasant lies; — 
 No more with freedom flash his eyes; 
 No more the smiling pleasures steal 
 From heaven, to bless his temp'rate meal ; 
 Even hospitality no more 
 Courts the tired stranger to the door 
 
 Wisdom, indignant, flies the land 
 Where folly plants her venal band 
 Gay humor drops the beamy dart 
 All powerless on corruption's heart ; 
 
 tb 
 
 ' The Catholics of Ireland ' 
 
 And, veiled in shame's most sullen hues. 
 Fair honor follows with the Muse. 
 
 Sweet country, shall I never hear — 
 Best music to the patriot's car — 
 The ploughman's carol, as he wakes 
 The small larks from the russet brakes.' 
 Or twilight, as it creeps along. 
 Made lovely by his evening song. 
 
 For ah ! without the laborer's toil 
 
 (So much despised — the courtier's spoil !) 
 
 Without the soft arts that refine 
 
 The soul, and knit in bonds divine, 
 
 The vacant boast, the armed train. 
 
 Or all that tyrants grant -are vain ! 
 
 The speeding sail that oft of yore 
 Commercial wealth and jjlenty bore. 
 Droops in the gale ;— some IJriti.^h god 
 Has barred the ocean's open road, 
 In cruel, cold, unpitying jest 
 Saying, Thou be wretched ! / am blest ! 
 
 Weep, sons of hapless Erin, weep ; 
 Your chains in tears of anguish steep ; 
 And as you bend the beaming eye. 
 Where pale and plundered brethren lie 
 On Albion's head no blessing breathe,— 
 With blood she's tinged the victor wreath ! 
 THOMAS DERMODY. 
 
 OH, ERIN ! SWEET ERIN 1 
 Oh, Erin ! sweet Erin! thy strains 
 
 To the heart-broken exile are dear ; 
 And each note in its sweetness remains 
 
 Long, long on the listening car. 
 But even when those sounds should be gay. 
 
 Such sorrow is mixed with their tone, 
 .And each note melts so slowly away. 
 
 That our hearts feel their sadness alone. 
 
 Oh, 'tis thus when life's sunshine is o'er 
 -And its visions in darkness are hid. 
 
 When the friends of our youth are no more. 
 I .\x\<.\ our hearts cease to beat as they did, 
 
 A sound will bring back thoughts that pass. 
 Like a shadow on all that is glad 
 
 We may laugh, if we will — but alas! 
 E'en the sound of our laughter is sad, 
 
 CAROLINE E. NORTON. 
 
396 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 A VISION OF EIRE. 
 Once in a vision grand. 
 We saw, above this Land, 
 
 Its bright, eternal genius rise. 
 
 With ever)' gift endowed. 
 But robed in stormy cloud. 
 
 And girt about by various destinies. 
 O'er her. from foam to foam, 
 \ rainbow arched its dome ; 
 
 Clouds swept her throne of sunshine, thunder. 
 
 Her mountains green and hoar. 
 Her wave-wild coasU. rivers and grassy plains. 
 Behind her lay the past— a mighty sea 
 Of splendor and of shadow, phantom-thronged 
 With figures who her state had raised or 
 wronged. 
 Saviour and enemy ; 
 And in the space of day. 
 Remote in vapors gray, 
 The Future into golden being rising o'er the 
 spray. 
 
 Lo ! from that Past there came 
 Figures of fate and fame. 
 Warrior and minstrel, poet, saint, and sage. 
 Who with her foes had fought. 
 Who with their harps had caught 
 And echoed Pagan glories, many an age ; 
 Who changed her hosts of death 
 Inspired by Love's bright Faith, 
 Baptizing thereunto Barbarity ; 
 
 Who sailed within the bark 
 
 Of letters, when thick dark 
 
 And deluge reigned around, and saved us 
 
 H istory. 
 And toward the van of that cloud-crossed 
 
 array. 
 Still richer in the front of temperate time. 
 Heroes of mind and action more sublime, 
 Chiefs of an ampler day- 
 Spirits whose thoughts and deeds. 
 For universal needs, [feeds. 
 
 Are omnipresent now wherever life or spirit 
 
 Then, as we gazed upon 
 That Future, where the sun 
 
 Now lifts through .\pril mists his rim of fire, 
 O'ergoldening a great 
 Island, whose summer gate 
 
 Glows with the riches which all states desire— 
 We looked where Europe spread, 
 And past the ocean's bed. 
 
 Westward and South, saw mighty realms in- 
 crease. 
 Both cradles of new life, 
 Franchised from histor>''s strife, 
 Armed with all powers, yet emulous of peace ; 
 And looking past the present's shade and 
 
 strife. 
 RoUmg o'er thrones and hosU. surveyed afar 
 Human communities erasing War 
 Out of their book of life ; 
 And civilization free. 
 Based upon industry. 
 Become the symbol of mankind's federative 
 empiry. 
 
 Nor was it man alone 
 Whose brain essayed to tone 
 Time's widening harmonies that heavenward 
 run ; 
 But his bright counterpart. 
 Life's nurse and holy heart. 
 Who raised earth's anthem soaring to the sun. 
 Woman — as slave too long 
 Accounted by the strong. 
 Or. even in years less barbarous, little more 
 Than child — matured now. 
 Raised her meridian brow. 
 As potent, if more soft, from shore to shore ; 
 Emancipated from the ignorant chains of old, 
 And o'er Intelligence enthroning Love. 
 Her guiding influence was seen to move 
 "Through stormless climes of gold, 
 Progress ! thy bark, whose course. 
 By revolution's force, 
 So often has been wrecked by man 'mid rocks 
 and billows hoarse. 
 
 Then, like the orbs that roll 
 Through space, from pole to pole. 
 
 Crowned with their rights, the Peoples, great 
 and small. 
 Moved through the age. intent 
 On rich development. 
 
 The spiritual gravity of Justice swaying all; 
 Faith, love, truth, happiness. 
 Sources and ends which bless 
 
 Each home and nation, and inspire theirsong; 
 And for the races here. 
 And the soul's future sphere, 
 
 Consecrating present effort passed thro' time 
 along : 
 
 Till human lives, expunged of stain and flaw, 
 
 Endowed in every zone with liberty. 
 
 Perfectest freedom, governed only by 
 
ACUSHLA GAL MACHREE. ^^y 
 
 The double bonds of law, 
 
 ACUSHLA GAL MACHREE. 
 
 Moved brightly through the skies 
 
 The long-long wished for hour has come, 
 
 Toward vaster destinies — 
 
 But come, asthore, in vain, 
 
 Above them, God, and in the distance, heav- 
 
 And left thee but the wailing hum 
 
 en's infinity. 
 
 Of sorrow and of pain ; 
 
 Then thought we ; when all those 
 Nations, no longer foes, 
 • In federative families consulted what was best 
 
 My light of life, my only love. 
 
 Thy portion sure must be 
 
 Man's scorn below, God's wrath above — 
 
 For Being, ever^'where ; 
 
 Acushlagal machree. 
 
 Our Genius, strong and fair, [West, 
 
 'Twas told of thee the world around. 
 
 Stretched forth a hand to Europe and the 
 
 'Twas hoped for thee by all, 
 That with one gallant sunward bound 
 
 To make this Earth's wide home 
 
 One true, bright Christendom ; 
 
 'Thou'd burst long ages' thrall ; 
 Thy fate was tried, alas ! and those 
 
 Conjoining powers to harmonize all strife 
 
 And foster every mood 
 
 Who perilled all for thee 
 
 Of the Useful and the Good, 
 
 Were cursed and branded as thy foes, 
 Acushlagal machn-L: 
 
 To beautify the deepening Poem of Life. 
 
 Then saw we, energized and glorified, 
 
 Eire, thy Genius, and a fresh life spring 
 
 What fate is thine, unhappy isle. 
 
 And flourish bounteous 'mid the isle's green 
 
 That e'en the trusted few 
 
 ring. 
 
 Should pay thee back with fraud and guile 
 
 And spread its influence wide. 
 
 When most they should be true .' 
 
 Till field and shore and mart, 
 
 'Twas not thy strength or.courage failed 
 
 Throbbed with her living heart, 
 
 Nor those whose souls were free ; 
 
 And golden Commerce robed her, while she 
 
 By moral force wert thou betrayed. 
 
 crowned her brows with Art. 
 
 Acttshla gal niachrce. 
 
 THOMAS C. IRWIN'. 
 
 
 
 I've given thee my youth and prime. 
 
 
 And manhood's waning years; 
 
 
 I've blest thee in thy sunniest time. 
 
 ANDROMEDA. 
 
 And shed for thee my tears ; 
 And mother, tho' thou'st cast away 
 
 They chained her fair young body to the cold 
 
 The child who'd die for thee. 
 
 and cruel stone : 
 
 My fondest wish is still to pray 
 
 The beast begot by sea and slime had marked 
 
 For aishla gal machree . 
 
 her for his own ; 
 
 
 The callous world beheld the wrong, and left 
 
 I've tracked for thee the mountain sides 
 
 her there alone. 
 
 And slept within the brake. 
 
 Base caitiffs who belied her, false kinsmen 
 
 More lonely than the swan that glides 
 
 who denied her. 
 
 On Lua's fairy lake ; 
 
 Ye left her there alone ! 
 
 The rich have spurned me from their door 
 
 
 Because I'd set thee free. 
 
 My beautiful, they left thee in thy peril and 
 
 Yet do I love thee more and more — 
 
 thy pain : 
 
 Acushla gal machree. 
 
 The night that hath no morrow was brooding 
 
 
 on the main ; 
 
 I've run the outlaw's bold career. 
 
 But lo ! a light is breaking of hope for thee 
 
 And borne his load of ill. 
 
 again. 
 
 His troubled rest and waking fear 
 
 'Tis Perseus' sword aflaming, thy dawn of day 
 
 With fixed, sustaining will ; 
 
 proclaiming. 
 
 And should his last dread chance befall, 
 
 Across the western main. 
 
 E'en that should welcome be. 
 
 Ireland, my Country ! he comes to break 
 
 In Death, I'll love thee more than all— 
 
 thy chain. 
 
 Acushlagal machree. 
 
 JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 
 
 MICHAEL DOHENY. 
 
398 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 DEAR LAND. 
 When comes the day all hearts to weigh. 
 
 If staunch they be or vile. 
 Shall we forget the sacred debt 
 
 We owe our mother isle ? 
 My native heath is brown beneath. 
 
 My native waters blue ; 
 But crimson red o'er both shall spread. 
 Ere 1 am false to you. 
 
 Dear land, 
 Ere I am false to you. 
 
 When I behold your mountains bold. 
 
 Your noble lakes and streams, 
 A mingled tide of grief and pride 
 
 Within my bosom teems. 
 I think of all — your long, dark thrall. 
 
 Your martyrs brave and true ; 
 And dash apart the tears that start — 
 
 We must not ■weep for you, 
 
 Dear land, 
 We must not weep for you. 
 
 My grandsire died his home beside, 
 
 They seized and hanged him there ; 
 His only crime, in evil time. 
 
 Your hallowed green to wear. 
 Across the main his brothers twain 
 
 Were sent to pine and rue ; 
 And still they turn'd, with hearts that burned 
 
 In hopeless love to you. 
 
 Dear land. 
 In hopeless love to you. 
 
 My boyish ear still clung to hear 
 
 Of Erin's pride of yore. 
 Ere Norman foot had dared pollute 
 
 Her independent shore ; 
 Of chiefs, long dead, who rose to head 
 
 Some gallant patriot few. 
 Till all my aim on earth became 
 
 To strike one blow for you. 
 
 Dear land, 
 To strike one blow for you. 
 
 What path is best your rights to wrest 
 
 Let other heads divine ; 
 By work or word, witli \oice or sword. 
 
 To follow them be mine. 
 The breast that zeal and hatred steel 
 
 No terrors can subdue ; 
 If death should come, that martyrdom 
 Were sweet, endured for you, 
 
 Dear land. 
 Were sweet, endured for you. 
 
 JOHN o'hagan. 
 
 TO THE HOME OF MY FATHERS. 
 ; Does Freedom still breathe in the bard's rustic 
 number.' 
 Can his harp, by the Genius of Liberty 
 strung. 
 Be mute, while the land where his forefathers 
 slumber 
 Is bleeding in bondage and bleeding unsung.' 
 
 Is no Washington near thee, thou captive of 
 ages. 
 To marshal thy bra\e ones and lead them 
 to war .' 
 Is no Franklin arrayed in the list of thy sages.' 
 In that of thy heroes, no young Bolivar? 
 
 Thy sons must forsake thee if worth bids 
 them cherish 
 A hope on the records of glory to shine. 
 Does not Wellington reign .' Had not Emmet 
 to parish .' 
 The laurel is England's, the cypress is thine I 
 
 But weep not, poor Erin ; though Emmet is 
 
 wanting, [brave ; 
 
 His spirit still lives in the hearts of thy 
 
 There are bosoms behind as devotedly p>anting 
 
 For the breath of the free or the boon of 
 
 the grave. 
 
 .\nd hope tells my heart that a day will be 
 given 
 When the chain shall be loosed and their 
 sorrows redressed ; 
 When thou shalt go forth in the pride of thy 
 eve... 
 As free as the zephyr that sports on thy 
 breast. 
 
 Oh. then shall thy harp, which has slumbered 
 
 Feel the pulse of fair Freedom, that erst 
 
 made it thrill ; 
 Then the bard shall awake it in accents of 
 
 gladness. 
 And sweep its wild chords on thy ever-green 
 
 hill. 
 
 And oh, when the last scene of nature is 
 closing. 
 When this spirit of mine shall burst forth 
 and be free. 
 How calm could I rest, on thy bosom reposing. 
 Thou home of my fathers. Green Isle of the 
 Sea! 
 
 JOHN HUGHES. 
 
THE OLD LAND. 
 
 399 
 
 OH ! IRELAND, MY COUNTRY. 
 Oh ! Ireland, my countrj', the hour 
 
 Of thy pride and thy splendor hath pass'd ; 
 And the chain that was spurned in the mo- 
 ment of pow'r, 
 Hangs heav)' around thee at last. 
 There are marks in the fate of each clime ; 
 There are turns in the fortunes of men ; 
 But the changes of realms, or the chances of 
 time, 
 Can never restore thee again. 
 
 Thou art chain'd to the wheel of the foe. 
 
 By links which the world shall not sever ; 
 With thy tyrant, thro' storm and thro' calm 
 thou Shalt go. 
 
 And thy sentence is bondage forever. 
 Thou art doom'd for the thankless to toil ; 
 
 Thou art left for the proud to disdain ; 
 And the blood of thy sons and the wealth of 
 thy soil 
 
 Shall be wasted, and wasted in vain. 
 
 Thy riches with taunts shall be taken. 
 
 "Thy valor with coldness repaid ; 
 And of millions who see thee thus sunk and 
 forsaken, 
 
 Not one shall stand forth in thine aid. 
 In the nations thy place is left void ; 
 
 Thou art lost in the list of the free ; 
 Even realms by the plague or the earthquake 
 destroy 'd 
 
 May revive — but no hope is for thee. 
 
 THOMA.S FURLONG. 
 
 OUR OWN LAND. 
 Though lands may be, beyond the sea, 
 More blest than thee, our Island mother, 
 'Tis thine alone our hearts to own. 
 Which ne'er have flown, or loved another. 
 Where'er we stray, though bleak the way. 
 Or dark the day is round us closing. 
 We sadly turn, with hearts that burn. 
 To be upon thy breast reposing. 
 
 Our own land, our own land. 
 The bold, the brave and old land ; 
 On earth there's not a greener spot, 
 Nor brighter than our own land. 
 
 They laud the Rhine in song divine, 
 And pledge in wine the rolling river ; 
 And hymn its praise in glorious lays, 
 Which, like its waves, roll on forever. 
 
 But can the Rhine in beauty shine, 
 Can stream or tide that ever ran on, 
 Compare with thee, bright rolling Lee, 
 Or match the graceful bounding Shannon ? 
 Our own lar.d, our own land. 
 The bold, the brave and old land ; 
 On earth there's not a greener spot, 
 Nor brighter than our own land. 
 
 The streams that run, kissed by the sun. 
 Past rath and dun, by vale and highland, 
 In beauty glide, outspreading wide. 
 And grace with pride our grand old island. 
 Amid the foam she stands alone. 
 The loveliest one that gems the ocean, 
 And hearts are found the wide world round 
 Who bend to her with true devotion. 
 Our own land, our own land. 
 The bold, the brave and old land ; 
 On eaith there's not a greener spot. 
 Nor brighter than our own land. 
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS. 
 
 THE OLD LAND. 
 Ah, kindly and sweet, we must love thee per- 
 force I 
 The disloyal, the coward alone would not 
 love thee : 
 Ah, mother of heroes ! strong mother ! soft 
 nurse ! 
 We are thine while the large clouds swim 
 onward above thee. 
 By thy hills ever blue that draw heaven so near; 
 By thy cliffs, by thy lakes, by thine ocean- 
 lulled highlands ; 
 And more — by thy records disastrous and dear. 
 The shrines on thy headlands, the cells in 
 thine islands ! 
 Ah, well sings the thrush by Li.xnau and 
 Traigh-li ! 
 Ah, well breaks the wave upon Umbhall and 
 Bandon ! 
 Thy breeze o'er the upland blows clement and 
 free. 
 And o'er fields, once his own, which the hind 
 must abandon. 
 A caitiff the noble who draws from thy plains 
 His all, yet reveres not the source of his 
 greatness ; 
 A clown and a serf, 'mid his boundless domains 
 His spirit consumes in the prison of his 
 straightness ! 
 
400 
 
 POEMS OF PATKIOTJSM. 
 
 Through the cloud of its pathos thy face is 
 more fair: 
 In old time thou wen sun-clad: the gold 
 robe thou worest ! i 
 
 To thee the heart turns as the deer to her lair. I 
 Ere she dies — her first bed in the gloom of 
 the forest. | 
 
 Our glory, our sorrow, our mother! Thy God 
 In thy worst dereliction forsook but to prove ; 
 thee : — ' 
 
 Blind, blind as the blind worm ; cold, cold as 
 the clod, 
 Who, seeing thee, see not. — possess but not | 
 love thee ! 
 
 AfUREY 1 . UE VERE. 
 
 OUR FAITH-OUR FATHERLAND. 
 Ireland, that sittest by the shores of Time — 
 
 Watching the nations' sunrise — on thy lij>s 
 Hovers the gospel of a faith sublime. 
 
 Conserved through blight and blast and foul 
 eclipse. 
 Great, glorious mother 1 when the awful night 
 
 Brooded o'er Europe with portentous ills. 
 Thy brow was lifted to the morning light — 
 
 Thy lamp was shining on eternal hills. 
 
 Forth rang the clarion voice, and at its cal. 
 
 The bhnded peoples gathered to thy feet; 
 From the remotest East to savage Gaul 
 
 The tramp of pilgrims thro' the midnight 
 beat. 
 And they beheld thee crowned upon the sea — 
 
 A perfect Paradise of perfect bloom— 
 The Pharos of the West, whose brilliancy 
 
 Blazed like a star amid the ocean gloom. 
 
 Then close beside the spectral pillar-tower 
 
 The holy shrines were builded unto God ; 
 Thy soul expanded into fruit and flower, 
 
 Inheritance of peace blessed each abode , 
 And from the morning watches till the sun 
 
 Sank in Hy Brasil, firing the vast dome. 
 Up swelled the myriad-voiced, sweet orison 
 
 From the green altar burning on the foam. 
 
 There was a clash of weapons in the air — 
 Ruin of peace and seasonable good ; 
 
 And. flanked by gallant natures, everywhere 
 The green flag staggered over fields of blood. 
 
 The Norman steed was stabled in thy fanes. 
 
 The Norman bugles rang upon the heath ; j 
 Thy children bared their hearts and spurned ' 
 their chains, 
 And sealed their glorious constancy in i 
 death. 
 
 Yes, Liberty was lost — her cause betrayed — 
 j Stabbed in Christ's presence by unholy 
 ' hands : 
 
 Through the gray ages the remorseless blade 
 Hewed down the bravest of thy valiant 
 I bands. 
 
 But where the Cross was lifted, at the sign j 
 
 The baffled multitudes resistless rose. | 
 
 Swept the long war-plains in unbroken line, ' 
 
 And dealt the debt of vengeance on thy foes. 
 
 O holy faith — God's best inheritance ! 
 
 Bulwarked by thee, our Mother need not 
 fear; 
 O'Donnell loved thee when his eagle glance 
 Was muffled in death's blinding atmos- 
 phere ; 
 And the great chieftain of Blackwater heard 
 Thy voice, when, broken with the ills of 
 years. 
 In mighty Rome he broke his conquered 
 sword. 
 And clasped thy Cross in penitence and 
 tears. 
 
 ■Our Faith— Our Fatherland!" Our God— 
 Our Race ! 
 If rise — as rise we must — erect and free, 
 That battle-cry must pierce the fighting-space 
 From shore to utmost shore — from sea to 
 sea. 
 When the vile power that gripes us shall be 
 smote. 
 Wherever havoc rolls and blood is spilt. 
 That cry must thunder from the cannon's 
 throat — 
 The Cross must glitter on the falchion's hilt. 
 
 Ireland, bright Motherland, where'er the day 
 
 Sinks or uproars around this reeling earth. 
 Thy children multiply, or, dying gray. 
 
 Breathe thy dear name beside a foreign 
 hearth. 
 In Babylon no willow bears their lyres; 
 
 'Tis theirs to toil, to sweat, to civilize, — 
 To guard the flames of consecrated fires. 
 
 And wait the omens looming through the 
 skies. 
 
.XOr DEAD. 
 
 401 
 
 And wheresoe'er the empire's morning drum 
 
 Beats through the sunrise, million hearts 
 awake 
 To call thee Mother — Inspiration — Home — 
 
 All holy names that sanctity can take. 
 Lean 'gainst the Cross, and keep thy torch 
 alight; 
 
 The past behind is drear and desolate, 
 But thine eyes keep a revelation bright — 
 
 The golden future destined for thy fate. 
 
 JOHN F. o'DONNELL. 
 
 SONGS OF OUR LAND. 
 Songs of our land, ye are with us forever ; 
 The power and the splendor of thrones pass 
 away, 
 But yours is the might of some far flowing 
 river, 
 Through summer's bright roses or autumn's 
 decay. 
 Ye treasure each voice of the swift passing ages. 
 And truth, which time writeth on leaves or 
 on sand ; 
 Ye bring us the bright thoughts of poets and 
 sages. 
 And keep them among us, old songs of our 
 land. 
 
 The bards may go down to the place of their 
 slumbers. 
 The lyre of the charmer be hushed in the 
 grave. 
 But far in the future the power of their num- 
 bers 
 Shall kindle the hearts of our faithful and 
 brave. 
 It will waken an echo in souls deep and lonely, 
 Like voices of reeds by the summer breeze 
 fanned ; 
 It will call up a spirit of freedom, when only 
 Her breathings are heard in the songs of 
 our land. 
 
 For they keep a record of those, the true- 
 hearted. 
 Who fell with the cause they had vowed to 
 maintain; 
 They show us bright shadows of glory departed. 
 Of the love that grew cold, and the hope 
 that was vain ; 
 The page may be lost and the pen long for- 
 saken. 
 
 And weeds may grow wild o'er the brave 
 
 heart and hand ; 
 But ye are still left when all else hath been 
 
 taken. 
 Like streams in the desert, sweet songs of 
 
 our land. 
 
 Songs of our land, ye have followed the 
 stranger. 
 With power over ocean and desert afar; 
 Ye have gone with our wanderers through 
 distance and danger, 
 And gladdened their path like a home- 
 guiding star ; 
 With the breath of our mountains in summers 
 ong vanished, 
 And visions that passed like a wave from 
 our strand. 
 With hope for their country and joy from her 
 banished. 
 Ye come to us ever, sweet songs of our land. 
 
 The spring-time may come with the song of 
 her glory, 
 To bid the green heart of the forest rejoice ; 
 But the pine of the mountain, though blasted 
 and hoary. 
 And rock in the desert, can send forth a 
 voice. 
 It is thus in their triumph for deep desola- 
 tions. 
 While ocean waves roll or the mountains 
 shall stand. 
 Still hearts that are bravest and best of the 
 nations, 
 Shall glory and live in the songs of our 
 land. 
 
 FRANCES BROWN. 
 
 NOT DEAD. 
 Not death, nor sleep, nor yet the hectic flush- 
 ing 
 Of one whose hours are closing with the 
 day, — 
 Not the cold pallor, the reluctant eyelids. 
 The hair, once golden, dashed with ashen 
 gray. 
 Are thine, dear Island ; but the calm suspen- 
 sion, [drawn, 
 From the deep, vital fount of suffering 
 Of passion, progress, effort, and achievement. 
 Thro' the night agony that moves toward 
 dawn. 
 
402 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 How have they painted thee? A haggard 
 beauty. 
 
 One pearly elbow o'er a rent harp cast. 
 Eyes tear-d iff used with multitudes of sorrows, 
 
 And hair blown backward by the shrieking 
 blast. 
 The hills encircle thee, the sea's before thee ; 
 
 And on the yeasty billows' shaking rim. 
 Sole hope of thine, and of thy generations. 
 
 One melancholy star shines low and dim. 
 
 I have beheld thee, O transcendant vision ! 
 
 A greater glor)' rounded thy estate. 
 Thine were not then the weeds of woman's 
 sorrow, 
 Nor the quenched lamp outside the thrice- 
 barred gate : 
 The Summer kindled in thy radiant tresses. 
 The passion-flowers were heaped upon thy 
 lap. 
 Thy left hand held the shield, thy right the 
 sabre. 
 And on thy temples sat the Phrygian Cap. 
 
 A lovely majesty, a form immortal ! 
 
 Grace in thy silence, music in thy step ! 
 The ever vernal youth beneath thine eyelids, 
 Fresh blood and beauty on thy high-curved 
 lip. 
 The clear, chill air grew golden to thy move- 
 ment, 
 The columned aisles of oaks bowed to thine 
 head. 
 And, maiden as thou art. the fiinten moun- 
 tains 
 Shook, as a god had moved them, to thy 
 tread. 
 
 Ah, the wild background ! for there loomed 
 behind thee 
 
 The spectral shadow of the land that was— 
 Heaped ruin, chaos piled on tumbled chaos. 
 
 The giant fragments of a beaten cause ; 
 But not thy raiise — the cause of thine oppressor 
 
 His temples' depths lay baking in the sun. 
 The owls were harvesting within his prisons; 
 
 For thou hadst conquered, and his race was 
 run. 
 
 The painful vigil, the sublime persistence- 
 Prayers, tears, and sufferings — had wrought 
 their end ; 
 Thou stoodst a victor crowned among the 
 nations. 
 Angel of Peace, but armed to defend. 
 
 The banner of our Race flew on the oceans. 
 No more the trampled ensign of the Past ; 
 
 Dense legions poured along the swollen high- 
 ways. 
 Or where the cities rose erect and vast. 
 
 And from the People's hearts one thunderous 
 pasan 
 Gathered and rolled along the skirts of 
 night: 
 " Praise to our God, whose arm hath slain 
 oppression. 
 And given the battle to dishonored Right." 
 O waiting Ireland, 'twas thy shining future ! 
 What recks it that thy past was foul and red. 
 When, on the calm and fullness of faiition. 
 Heaven shall proclaim to Earth : — Thou art 
 not dead .' 
 
 JOHN F. O'DONNELL. 
 
 POST-MORTEM. 
 Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my countn'I 
 
 Shall mine eyes behold thy glory ? i 
 
 Or shall the darkness close around them, ere 
 the sun -blaze 
 Break at last ufwn thy story .' 
 
 When the nations ope for thee their queenly 
 circle. 
 As a sweet, new sister hail thee. 
 Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and 
 silence. 
 That have known but to bewail thee .-' 
 
 Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy 
 
 praises. 
 
 When all men their tribute bring thee.' 
 
 Shall the mouth be clay, that sang thee in thy 
 
 squalor. 
 
 When all poets' mouths shall sing thee.^ 
 
 .\h ! the harpings and the salvos and the 
 shoutings 
 Of thy e.viled sons returning! 
 I should hear, though dead and mouldered, 
 and the grave-damps 
 Should not chill my bosom's burning. 
 
 .Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should 
 hear them 
 'Mid the shamrocks and the mosses, 
 .■\nd my heart should toss within the shroud 
 and quiver. 
 As a captive dreamer tosses. 
 
A/]- GKAVE. 
 
 403 
 
 I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round 
 Giant-sinews I should borrow, [me, 
 
 Crying, " O my brothers, I have also loved her. 
 In her lowliness and sorrow. 
 
 " Let me join with you the jubilant procession, 
 Let me chant with you her story ; [rocks, 
 
 Then contented I shall go back to the sham- 
 Now mine eyes have seen her glory." 
 
 FAXNY PARNELL. 
 
 THE INTERCESSION. 
 lUsUr, A. D, 1 64 1. 
 
 Iriel, the priest, arose and said, 
 
 " The just cause never shall gain by wrong ! 
 The ill cause battens on blood ill shed ; 
 
 'Tis Virtue only makes justice strong. 
 
 " I have hidden the Saxon's wife and child 
 Beneath the altar ; behind the porch ; 
 
 O'er them that believe not these hands have 
 piled 
 The stoles and vestments of Holy Church ! 
 
 " I have hid three men in a hollow oak ; 
 
 I have hid three maids in an ocean cave :" 
 As though he were lord of the thunder stroke. 
 
 The old priest lifted his hand — to save. 
 
 But the people loved not the words he spake ; 
 And their face was changed, for their heart 
 was sore : 
 They answered not, but their brows grew 
 black. 
 And the hoarse halls roar'd like a torrent's 
 roar 
 
 " Has the stranger robbed you of house and 
 land ? 
 In battle meet him and smite him down ! 
 Has he sharpen'd the dagger.' Lift ye the 
 brand ! 
 Has he trapped your princes.' Set free the 
 clown ! 
 
 " Has the' stranger his country and knight- 
 hood shamed ? 
 Though he 'scape God's vengeance, so shall 
 not ye ! 
 His own God chastens. Be never named 
 With the Mullaghmast slaughter. Be just 
 and free !" 
 
 But the people received not the words he 
 
 spake, [sore ; 
 
 For the wrong on their heart had made it 
 
 1 And their brows grew black like the stormy 
 
 rack. 
 
 And the hoarse hall roar'd like the wave- 
 
 wash'd shore. 
 
 Then Iriel the priest put forth a curse ; 
 
 And horror crept o'er them from vein to 
 vein, — 
 A curse upon man and a curse upon horse, 
 
 As forth they rode to the battle plain. 
 
 And there never came to them luck nor grace, 
 No saint in the battle-field helped them 
 more. 
 
 Till O'Neill, who hated the warfare base. 
 Had landed at Doe on Tyrconnell shore. 
 
 True Knight, true Christian, true Prince was 
 he! 
 
 He lived for Erin ; for Erin died ; [ free. 
 Had Charles proved true and the faith set 
 
 O'Neill had triumphed at Charles' side. 
 
 AUBREY T. DE VERE. 
 
 MY GRAVE, 
 Shall they bury me in the deep. 
 Where wind-forgetting waters sleep.' 
 Shall they dig a grave for me 
 Lender the green-wood tree .' 
 Or on the wild heath. 
 Where the wilder breath 
 Of the storm doth blow ? 
 O, no ! O, no ! 
 
 Shall they bury me in the Palace tombs. 
 Or under the shade of Cathedral domes? 
 Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore ; 
 Yet not there — nor in Greece, though I love 
 
 it more. 
 In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find .' 
 Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing 
 
 wind .' 
 Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound. 
 Where coflSnless thousands lie under the 
 
 ground? 
 Just as they fall they are buried so — 
 O, no! O, no! 
 
 No ! on an Irish green hill-side. 
 
 On an opening lawn — but not too wide! 
 
404 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 For I love the drip of the wetted trees— 
 I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze, 
 To freshen the turf — put no tombstone there. 
 But green sods deck'd with daisies fair, 
 Nor sods too deep ; but so that the dew. 
 The matted grass-roots may trickle through. 
 Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind, 
 '• Heser\'ed his country, and loved his kind " — 
 
 O ! 'twere merry unto the grave to go. 
 If one were sure to be buried so. 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
 Woe and pain, pain and woe. 
 Are my lot, night and noon. 
 To see your bright face clouded so. 
 
 Like to the mournful moon. 
 But yet will I rear your throne 
 
 Again in golden sheen ; 
 'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone. 
 My Dark Rosalecn ! 
 My own Rosaleen ! 
 'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 
 'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone. 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 DARK ROSALEEN. 
 O! my Dark Rosaleen. 
 
 Do not sigh, do not weep, 
 The priests are on the ocean green. 
 
 They march along the deep. 
 There's wine from the royal Pope 
 
 Upon the ocean green. 
 And Spanish ales shall give you hope, 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 My own Rosaleen ! — 
 Shall glad your heart and give you hope. 
 Shall give you health, and help, and hope. 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 Over hills, and through dales. 
 
 Have I roamed for your sake , 
 All yesterday I sailed with sails 
 
 On river and on lake. 
 The Erne, at its highest flood, 
 
 I dashed across unseen. 
 For there was lightning in my blood, 
 My Dark Rosaleen! 
 My own Rosaleen ! 
 Oh! there was lightning in my blood. 
 Red lightning lightened through my blood. 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 All day long, in unrest. 
 
 To and fro, do I move. 
 The very soul within my breast 
 
 Is wasted for you, lo\ e ! 
 The heart in my bosom faints 
 To think of you, my Queen, 
 My life of life, my saint of saints. 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 My own Rosaleen! 
 To hear your sweet and sad complaints, 
 My life, my love, my saint of saints. 
 My Dark Rosaleen' 
 
 Over dews, over sands. 
 
 Will I fly, for your weal : 
 ■your holy delicate white hands 
 
 Shall girdle me with steel. 
 At home in your emerald bowers. 
 From morning's dawn till e'en, 
 You'll pray for me. my flower of flowers. 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 My fond Rosaleen ! 
 You'll think of me through daylight's hours. 
 My virgin flower, my flower of flowers. 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 1 could scale the blue air, 
 
 I could plough the high hills. 
 Oh. I could kneel all night in prayer. 
 
 To heal your many ills ! 
 And one beamy smile from you 
 Would float like light between 
 My toils and me, my own, my true. 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 My fond Rosaleen ! 
 Would give me life and soul anew, 
 A second life, a soul anew. 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 Oh ! the Erne shall run red 
 
 With redundance of blood. 
 The earth shall rock beneath our tread. 
 
 And flames wrap hill and wood. 
 And gun-peal and slogan cry 
 Wake many a glen serene. 
 Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die. 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 My own Rosaleen ! 
 The judgment hour must first be nigh. 
 Ere you can fade, ere you can die. 
 My Dark Rosaleen I 
 
 JAMKS CLARENCE MANGAN, 
 />-(>«/ the Irish Elisahethan Era. 
 
Sr. COLUMBA AND THE STORK. 
 
 405 
 
 REMONSTRANCE. 
 Bless the dear old verdant land. 
 
 Brother, wert thou born of it ? 
 As thy shadow life doth stand, 
 Twining round its rosy band, 
 Did an Irish mother's hand 
 
 Guide thee in the morn of it? 
 Did thy father's soft command 
 
 Teach thee hate or scorn of it ? 
 
 Thou who tread'st its fertile breast. 
 Dost thou feel a glow for it ? 
 
 Thou, of all its charms possess'd 
 
 Living on its first and best, 
 
 Art thou but a thankless guest. 
 Or a traitor foe for it ? 
 
 If thou lovest, where the test 
 
 Would'st thou strike a blow for it ? 
 
 Has the past no goading sting 
 That can make thee rouse for it ? 
 
 Does thy land's reviving spring. 
 
 Full of buds and blossoming, 
 
 Fail to make thy cold heart cling. 
 Breathing lover's vows for it? 
 
 With the circling ocean's ring 
 Thou wert made a spouse for it ! 
 
 Hast thou kept, as thou should'st keep. 
 
 Thy affection warm for it ? 
 Letting no cold feeling creep. 
 Like the ice breath, o'er the deep. 
 Freezing to a stony sleep 
 
 Hopes the heart would form for it — 
 Glories that like rambows weep 
 
 Through the darkening storm for it? 
 
 What we seek is Nature's right- 
 Freedom and the aids of it ;— 
 Freedom for the mind's strong flight. 
 Seeking glorious shapes star-bright 
 Through the world's intensest night, 
 
 AVhen the sunshine fades of it ! 
 Truth is one, and so is light. 
 Yet how many shades of it ! 
 
 A mirror every heart doth wear, 
 
 For heavenly shapes to shine in it ; 
 If dim the glass or dark the air. 
 That Truth, the beautiful and fair, 
 God's glorious image, shines not there, 
 
 Or shines with naught divine in it: 
 A sightless lion in its lair. 
 
 The darkened soul must pine in it ! 
 
 Son of this old, down-trodden land, 
 
 Then aid us in the fight for it ; 
 We seek to make it great and grand, 
 Its shipless bays, its naked strand, 
 By canvas-swelling breezes fanned. 
 
 Oh ! what a glorious sight for it ! 
 The past expiring like a brand. 
 
 In morning's rosy light for it! 
 
 Think that this dear old land is thine. 
 
 And thou a traitor slave of it ; 
 Think how the Switzer leads his kine. 
 When pale the evening star doth shine, 
 His song has home in every line, 
 
 Freedom in every stave of it ! 
 Think how the German loves his Rhine, 
 
 And worships every wave of it ! 
 
 Our own dear land is bright as theirs. 
 But, oh ! our hearts are cold for it ; 
 
 Awake ! we are not slaves, but heirs; 
 
 Our fatherland requires our cares. 
 
 Our work with man, with God our prayers. 
 Spurn blood-stained Judas-gold for it, 
 
 Let us do all that honor dares — 
 Be earnest, faithful, bold for it ! 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
 
 ST. COLUMBA AND THE STORK. 
 
 The tempest broke over the Isle of lona, 
 
 The seas, roaring, rose in the lightning's 
 
 wild glare : [battle. 
 
 Cloud rushing on cloud, like dark foemen in 
 
 Awoke with their clamor the hush of the air. 
 
 Who walks on the sands, like a monarch un- 
 
 sceptred ? 
 
 The folds of his raiment are heavy with rain ; 
 
 The hood, backward blown from the white 
 
 streaming tresses. 
 
 Reveals the grand face in its pallor and pain 
 
 He turns to the south, he folds tight in his 
 mantle 
 The sinewy arms on his broad heaving chest ; 
 The wonderful eyes in their lustre dilated. 
 The lips in their grey-bearded shadows, com- 
 press'd. 
 
 What recks he of clouds o'er the heavens 
 careering? [scape faints? 
 
 Of seas tossing wild where the dim land- 
 Columba, the exile, is gazing on Erin. [Saints ! 
 
 The saint looks afar on the Isle of the 
 
4o6 
 
 POEMS OF rATRlOTlSM. 
 
 In vain the sharp lightnings strike red on his i Ah ! then the great heart of the patriot mas- 
 eye-balls, tered 
 In vain the vast torrents descend on his The soul of the saint in Columba's old 
 head — breast— 
 
 While the brave Celtic heart thro" yon green He stooped to the sands, caught the bird to 
 
 island wanders. 
 The flesh that enshrines it, is dull as the 
 dead. 
 
 He sees the sweet valleys, the rills fair as silver. 
 
 The cattle a-field, and the hawthorn in 
 
 bloom ; [Ulster, 
 
 The blue pleasant skies bending over old 
 Cluain-iraird, a haven of light and perfume. 
 
 And all the pure mem'ries of boyhood and 
 manhood, 
 And all the dear dreams of the far away years 
 
 his bosom, 
 And cradled it there, like a babe in its rest. 
 
 " Lie close in the arms that enfold thee," he 
 whispered. 
 While his eyes swam with tears, and his 
 chest rose and fell 
 With the smothering sobs : — " in the breast ui 
 Columba. 
 He'll bear thee secure to his own little cell. 
 
 •' And there his scant n)eal shall be thine ; his 
 fond fingers 
 
 Sweep back o'er his spirit, like pinions of | Anointing, shall heal the red wound in thy 
 angels. I ''■'east : 
 
 The gold of whose garments is darkened And soon thro" the sunshine. O creature of 
 
 with tears. 
 
 Yea, darkened with tears of the bitterest sor- 
 row. 
 Great drops, as of blood, wrung from peni- 
 tent eyes — 
 The plains of Westmeath, red and reeking 
 with slaughter, 
 From the mists of the past gory phantoms, 
 arise. 
 
 Once more at monk Manuel's feet he is 
 kneeling. 
 Once more the dread sentence falls solemn 
 and stern : 
 " Thy sin has been great ; greater still be thy 
 penance. 
 — Leave Erin this niglit, ncivr more to 
 return!" 
 
 " O God ! " cries the saint. " 'tis Thy will that 1 
 worship, 
 Lord Christ I make this sacrifice ever more 
 sweet I — " 
 
 Heaven ! 
 
 He'll watch thee take wing for the groves of 
 the west. 
 
 " Across the dark waters his grey eyes shall 
 track thee. 
 But ne'er shall his form follow thine to the 
 shore ; 
 For ///OK canst go back to our dear native Erin — 
 But Columba. the exile, returns never- 
 more ! " 
 
 ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 
 
 SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 ' Trust not for frrcdom to the Franks, 
 They have a King who buys and sells ; 
 In native swords and native ranks 
 Your only hope of freedom dwells." 
 
 O would that Ireland's sons would take 
 
 This glorious lesson once to heart ; 
 .And from the sleep of bondage wake, 
 
 — And lo! thro' the tempest, wind-batter'd And on the road to freedom start! 
 
 and bleeding. O would at last they Icarn'd to know. 
 
 A stork, like a snow drift, falls faint at his If they would bid the foe defiance, 
 
 feet ! If they would strike a winning blow. 
 
 Their hope and shield is Self-reliance ! 
 A speck on the ether — a feather out-wafted 
 
 From Erin's dear coast, it had breasted the In years gone by our fathers tried 
 
 storm , "To break the chain that binds our land, 
 
 Unseen and yet seen in the dream of the seer — The foe that now assails — defied, 
 
 Itsbloodon his feet trickled ruddy and warm. And nobly bared the gleaming brand. 
 
Rut though they braver were than we, 
 And then the foe was less defiant, 
 
 Their struggles ended wretchedly. 
 
 And why ? — they were not Self-reliant. 
 
 Oh, God ! it pains my soul to hear 
 
 That still there live in that green land 
 Degenerate sons who quake with fear 
 
 To see their brothers grasp the brand ; 
 Who'd rather crawl in servile dust 
 
 Than rise and bid the foe defiance,— 
 Who think it sin her chains to burst. 
 
 And sneer and jeer at Self-reliance. 
 
 But onward, sons of Innisfail ! 
 
 The bright and glorious goal is nearing ; 
 On mountain top and down the vale. 
 
 Behold hope's rays at last appearing. 
 Let cowards mock, let cravens fear ; 
 
 We'll use for Freedom each appliance ; — 
 The dawn is here, the skies grow clear. 
 
 If in your heart be Self-reliance ! 
 
 JAMES T. GALLAGHER. 
 
 HOPELESS. 
 
 and the 
 
 Hopeless ! The fields are fair 
 
 flowers begin to blow. 
 The birds are learning the songs they lost in 
 
 the nights of the frost and snow ; 
 Don't you see the trees, when they hear the 
 
 breeze rushing on in the front of Spring, 
 Have buds to show, to be leaves, you know, 
 
 where the thrushes will love to sing.' 
 And here, at our feet, is the leaf of leaves that 
 
 our Saint in the days of old 
 Set for a sign that our land is God's, nor made 
 
 to be bought and sold ! 
 And look, old mother ! God's own blue isles 
 
 are thronging the skies in crowds. 
 Growing and growing from hour to hour in 
 
 face of the angry clouds ! 
 
 Hopeless ! Who cares if a son or two you 
 
 suckled should come to shame ! 
 We're better now that our house is clear of 
 j the dumb and the blind and lame! 
 
 ' The thirty pieces are quick to go, but hurrah 
 for your curse, that stays 
 Fierce as fate in their tracks for aye to tor- 
 ture their nights and days ! 
 
 :le^^. 407 
 
 And so God help your traitor sons. But look 
 
 to your children here 
 Who would drain the blood of their hearts in 
 
 drops for the love of you, mother dear — 
 Who will live to laugh many days with you 
 
 till their sweet dead brothers call, 
 Or, if you must die, will die with you, to 
 
 answer to God for all ! 
 Hopeless' Hurrah for the Irish race, that 
 
 holds in its conquering hands 
 The nations' strength and the nations' fate 
 
 and the fatness of all the lands ! 
 O seas, you worship us well. I know, with the 
 
 wonder of all your waves ! 
 
 shores, you are safe and sacred now with 
 
 the glory of Irish graves ! 
 And all the echoes have heard your name — 
 
 will hear it, mother dear. 
 Chanted by poets through all the earth with 
 
 the strength of a charging cheer ! 
 And the lands are bright with the fiery light 
 
 that shoots from your soldiers' scars ; 
 Hopeless ! Hurrah for the Southern Cross ! 
 
 Hurrah for the Stripes and Stars ! 
 Hopeless! Ah, do you remember the days 
 
 when your body, all gashed and tore. 
 Lay like death through the ghastly night when 
 
 Owen* could strike no more ; 
 Hell let loose to trample you down. Heaven 
 
 all blank and bare 
 As its face was found, till the stars stood out 
 
 to brighten its blackness there ? 
 But God was living— (He lives to-day) — had 
 
 pity on all your pain. 
 Sending you sons who were known for kings 
 
 by right of the kingly brain ; 
 By right of the kingly presence too; by right 
 
 of the kingly deeds — 
 The great grim valor whose eyes are dr)' while 
 
 the heart in its bosom bleeds ! 
 Hopeless! Will this be the end of all.' Is God 
 
 to be brought to shame .'' 
 He proved you long, is proving you still, in 
 
 the red-hot furnace flame. 
 Do you think, old mother, it's all for naught 
 
 that the gold to the furnace goes ? 
 That the iron (which holds the steel, yoa 
 
 know) is under the sledge's blows .' 
 Does the path of the desert lead no more to 
 
 1 the pleasant Promised Land ? 
 
 Is our God, like Bel, asleep, do you think ? or 
 shortened his Holy hand .' 
 
4o8 
 
 /'OiCAfS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 We wait, you know, for our thunder, long: 
 we wait (or our lightning leaps ; 
 
 But it comes at last — hurrah ! hurrah ! — from 
 the Lord that never sleeps. 
 
 Rise up, old mother ! No grave for you till the 
 
 seas give up their dead : 
 We kiss the tears from your cheeks to-day, 
 
 with our hands on your holy head ! 
 Perhaps our restless feet would range if your 
 
 checks were fresh and fair. 
 But cursed be our hearts if we fail you now, 
 
 when the furrows are deepening there ! 
 We ask no more than your right to-day in the 
 
 face of the nations all — 
 We call no God but the Justice-God, on whom 
 
 the nations call ! 
 But the fields are white and the reapers few, 
 
 and our sickles are here at hand — 
 Hopeless I we'll crown you a queen as yet, 
 
 and lady of all the land ! 
 
 J. J. Ml-RPHV, 
 
 And fancy brought old scenes of home into 
 j each welling eye, 
 
 1 And through each breast f)our'd many a 
 I thought that filled it like a sigh ! 
 
 I 'Twas then — 'twas then, all warm with love, 
 j they knelt them down to pray 
 I For Irish homes and kith and kin — poor 
 exiles, far away I 
 
 THE IRISH EXILES. 
 When round the festive Christmas board, or 
 
 by the Christmas hearth. 
 That glorious mingled draught is poured — 
 
 wine, melody and mirth ! 
 When friends long absent tell, low-toned, 
 
 their joys and sorrows o'er. 
 And hand grasps hand, and eyelids fill, and 
 
 lips meet lips once more— 
 O in that hour 'twere kindly done, some 
 
 woman's voice would say: 
 " Forget not those who 're sad to-night — poor 
 
 exiles far away I" 
 
 Alas, for them ! this morning's sun saw many 
 
 a moist eye pour 
 Its gushing love, with longings vain, the waste 
 
 Atlantic o'er. 
 And when he turned his lion-eye this ev'ning 
 
 from the west. 
 The Indian shores were lined with those who 
 
 watched his couched crest. 
 But not to share his glor)-, then, or gladden 
 
 in his ray, [exiles far away I 
 
 They bent their gaze upon his path — those 
 
 It was — oh ! how the heart will cheat I because 
 
 they thought, beyond 
 His glowing couch lay that Green Isle of 
 
 which their hearts were fond ; 
 
 And then the mother bless 'd her son, the lover 
 
 bless 'd the maid. 
 And then the soldier was a child, and wept 
 
 the while he prayed ; 
 And then the student's pallid cheek flushed 
 
 red as summer rose. 
 And patriot souls forgot their grief to weep 
 
 for Erm's woes; 
 .\nd oh ! but then warm vows were breathed, 
 
 that come what might or may. 
 They'd right the suffering isle they loved — 
 
 those exiles, far away! 
 
 .■\nd some there were around the board, like 
 
 loving brothers met. 
 The few and fond and joyous hearts that 
 
 never can forget ; 
 They pledged : " "The girls we left at home, 
 
 God bless them 1" and they gave 
 " The memory of our absent friends, the 
 
 tender and the brave!" 
 Then up, erect, with nine times nine — hip — 
 
 hip — hip — hurrah ! 
 Drank : " Erin slant/ia gal go bragh /" those 
 
 exiles far away. 
 
 Then, oh ! to hear the sweet old strains of 
 
 Irish music rise. 
 Like gushing memories of home, beneath far 
 j foreign skies ; 
 
 Beneath the spreading calabash, beneath the 
 
 trellised vine. 
 The bright Italian myrtle bower, or dark 
 
 Canadian pine— 
 Oh I don't those old familiar tones — so sad. 
 
 and now so gay — [faraway! 
 
 I Speak out your ver)'— very hearts — poor exiles 
 
 But, Heavens ! how many sleep afar, all heed- 
 j less of these strains, 
 
 I Tired wanderers ! who sought repose through 
 ' Europe's battle plains — 
 
 ' In strong, fierce, headlong fight they fell — as 
 j ships go down in storms — 
 
 They fell— and human whirlwinds swept 
 across their shattered forms! 
 
THE EXILES REQUEST. 
 
 409 
 
 No shroud, but glory, wrapped them 'round ; 
 
 nor prt-yer nor tear had they — 
 Save the wandering winds and the heavy 
 
 clouds — poor exiles, far away ! 
 
 And might the singer claim a sigh, he, too, 
 could tell how tost 
 
 Upon the stranger's dreary shore his heart's 
 best hopes were lost ; 
 
 How he, too, pined to hear the tones of friend- 
 ship greet his ear. 
 
 And pined to walk the river side, to youthful 
 musing dear. 
 
 And pined with yearning silent love among 
 his own to stay — 
 
 Alas ! it is so sad to be an exile far away! 
 
 Then, O ! when 'round the Christmas board, 
 
 or by the Christmas hearth. 
 That glorious mingled draught is poured — 
 
 wine, melody and mirth ! 
 When friends long absent tell, low-toned, 
 
 their joys and sorrows o'er, 
 And hand grasps hand, and eyelids fill, and lips 
 
 meet lips once more — 
 In that bright hour, perhaps — perhaps, some 
 
 woman's voice would say — 
 " Think — think on those who weep to-night, 
 
 poor exiles, far away !" 
 
 MARTIN Rl'DERMOTT. 
 
 IN EXILE. 
 
 " Where dwelleth the mother that bore you ?" 
 
 they questioned of us driven forth 
 From the shores of the island market that 
 
 lieth away to the North: 
 And we answered. " She dwelleth seaward, in 
 
 the midst of a shrouded sun. 
 And the days of her joy are over, and the 
 
 night of her travail begun," 
 
 And they said, " Is she fair, that mother who 
 
 dwells in the seaward home .' " 
 And we answered, " Her face is whiter than 
 
 the storm-drifts of bloodless foam. 
 And her eyes than the night are deeper, her 
 
 brows are set and drawn. 
 And she looks in vain for a token to tell of 
 
 the distant dawn." 
 " Hath she, then, gifts for her children, that 
 
 homeward ye turn your eyes. 
 Or gold or raiment, or freedom, or wisdom to 
 
 render wise- 
 
 Or song to sing you, or healing, or kisses to 
 
 soothe to sleep — 
 Or bread for your lips when ye hunger, or 
 
 shelter when night winds sweep.' " 
 
 " No love songs hath she to soothe us, the 
 kiss of her lips is cold, 
 
 Nor hath she bread for the hungry, nor wis- 
 dom, nor grapes, nor gold. 
 
 Nor freedom for them that follow, nor heal- 
 ing for them that bleed. 
 
 Nor any roof to shelter our heads in the night 
 of need. 
 
 " Ye know not, O ye who questioned ! — (for 
 
 how should ye know who dwell 
 In the land of your birth ?) — of oin- homeland, 
 
 of the mother of whom we tell ; 
 But all we who once beheld her. naught heed 
 
 we the flush of the South — 
 No lips for our lips have sweetness who have 
 
 touched her sunless mouth. 
 
 " Lo ! the gifts of her hands are fourfold ; she 
 
 sets in our hearts a flame 
 Till the crown of our life's desire is a share of 
 
 our mother's shame ; 
 And then shegiveth famine to the lips that cry 
 
 for bread, 
 And she giveth tears to the living, and a grave 
 
 to her children's dead." 
 
 And they that questioned made answer: "And 
 
 what, O ye sons ! is her name .' " 
 (Ah, how shall we breathe it. O mother ! slave 
 
 mother ! our glory and shame ?) 
 And we cried, " In the night it is hidden, but 
 
 when her redemption is won 
 The name of her ancient glory shall be 
 
 written upon the sun." 
 
 UNA ASHWORTH TAYLOR. 
 
 THE EXILE'S REQUEST. 
 O. Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off 
 
 lands a sign, [once mine ; 
 
 Let it be some token still of the green old land 
 A shell from the shores of Ireland wouM be 
 
 dearer far to me, [art of Italie. 
 
 Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the 
 
 For I was born in Ireland — I glorj' in the 
 
 name — [fame ! 
 
 I weep forall her sorrows, I remember well her 
 
410 
 
 POEMS OF PATKIOTISM. 
 
 And still my heart must hope that I may yet 
 
 repose at rest, 
 On the Holy Zion of mv youth, in the Israel 
 
 of the West. ' 
 
 Her beauteous face is furrowed with sorrow ".s 
 
 streaming rains. 
 Her lovely limbs are mangled with slavery's 
 
 ancient chains. 
 Yet. Pilgrim, pass not over with heedless heart 
 
 or eye, [to die. \ 
 
 The Island of the gifted, and of men who knew 
 
 Like the crater of a fire-mount, all without is 
 
 bleak and bare, 
 But the rigor of its lips still show what fire and 
 
 force was there. 
 Even now in the heaving craters, far from the 
 
 gazer's ken, [foes again. 
 
 The fiery steel is forging that will crush her 
 
 Then, Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off 
 
 lands a sign. 
 Let it be some token still of the green old land 
 
 once mine : 
 A shell from the shores of Ireland would be 
 
 dearer far to me. 
 Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the 
 rt of Italic. 
 
 THOMAS DARCY A^GEE. 
 
 THE EXILE. 
 spring's sweet odors from the meadow 
 
 Fling their fragrance far and wide, 
 And the tall trees cast the shadow 
 Of the winter's gloom aside ; 
 But for mc no spring is bearing 
 Gladness to my heart despairing ; 
 Comes no more with soothing power 
 
 Kindly voice, or friendly hand. 
 
 Song of home, or breath of flower. 
 
 From my own dear native land. 
 
 High in Heaven, circling nightly, 
 
 Moon and stars shine overhead ; 
 Mighty rivers rush on brightly 
 To the ocean's distant bed ; 
 But for me, in sorrow pining. 
 Star and stream in vain are shining. 
 Foreign skies are drear above me. 
 
 By a foreign shore 1 stand. 
 Thinking of the friends that love me. 
 In my own dear far-off land. 
 
 LADY WILDE. 
 
 THE EXILE TO HIS SON. 
 On a shelving clitf by the restless sea. 
 
 An exile sat at the close of day. 
 In the great broad land of the brave and free. 
 
 Where starry flags in the breezes play : 
 And sad he seemed, and old and weak, 
 ' Though scarce past life's meridian day; 
 I The shade of death was on his cheek. 
 
 His brow was ridged, his locks were gray. 
 
 Low at his feet reclined a boy — 
 
 A blue-eyed boy, with golden hair ; 
 The exile's pride and only joy, 
 
 .\nd wise was he. and brave as fair. 
 He gazed into his father's face, 
 
 .And mutely dntnk each word he said; 
 Like wind-swept cloudlet's shadow-chase, 
 
 L'nconscious flushes came and fled. 
 
 •■ 'Tis thirty years." the old man cried, 
 
 •• -Ay. thirty wear)' years this day. 
 Since, leaning o'er the big ship's side, 
 
 I watched loved Erin fade away. 
 Oh. didn't she then look bright and grand. 
 
 Dressed in the flowery- robes of May ! 
 The bridegroom. Ocean, with his hand, 
 
 Laving her feet in milky spray. 
 
 ■• You wonder that I weep, my boy. 
 
 But sure you never saw that land : 
 Ah I you know not the wealth of joy 
 
 I buried ere I left its strand 
 You'll never know the cherished dreams 
 
 1 nursed alone beside that sea, 
 When moonlight beams seemed sabre-gleams. 
 
 And Ocean's voice spoke Liberty. 
 
 " My boy. come swear by yonder star 
 
 That litte has seen my suffering land — 
 By all the wrongs that were and are. 
 
 .•Vnd all my country's martyred band- 
 By all the torture and the pain 
 
 The tyrant caused that land and me ; 
 You'll ever give your strength and brain 
 
 To Erin, till she's ransomed, free !" 
 
 The wind was still, the ocean spoke 
 j In murmured whispers on the shore ; 
 I The sea-birds scarce an echo woke, 
 
 The crag-tossed streamlet ceased its roar. 
 I Up stood the youth before his sire. 
 
 The moon gleamed on his flushing brow. 
 I His blue eyes flashed with patriot fire, 
 I As slow he spoke his father's vow. 
 
THE EXILES DREAM. 
 
 Up sprang the old man from his seat, 
 
 And round the youth his arms he flung : 
 " Ma bouchal bawn. ne'er may defeat" — 
 
 No other word ere spake his tongue ; 
 His arms relaxed — a gasp— a moan ! 
 
 In vain the youth raised up his head ; 
 " Oh, father, leave me not alone !" — 
 
 In vain he cried — his sire was dead. 
 
 JAMES T. GALLAGHER. 
 
 THE EXILE'S DREAM. 
 I will go to holy Ireland, 
 
 The land of Saint and Sage, 
 Where the pulse of boyhood is leaping 
 
 In the shrunken form of age; 
 Where the shadow of giant hopes 
 
 For evermore is cast. 
 And the wraiths of mighty chieftains 
 
 Are looming through the past. 
 
 From the cold land of the Stranger 
 
 I will take my joyous flight. 
 To sit by my slumbering country. 
 
 And watch her through the night ; 
 When Spring is in the sky, 
 
 And the flowers are on the land, 
 I will go to ancient Ireland, 
 
 Of the open heart and hand. 
 
 I will go where the Galtees 
 
 Are rising bare and high. 
 With their haggard foreheads fronting 
 
 The scowl of the clouded sky ; 
 I will gaze adown on the valleys, 
 
 And bless the teemmg sod. 
 And commune with the mountains — 
 
 " The almoners of God." 
 
 I will list to the murmurous song 
 
 Which is rising from the river. 
 That flows crooning to the Ocean 
 
 For ever and for ever. 
 When the May-month is come. 
 
 When the year is fresh and young, 
 I will go to the home of my fathers — 
 
 The land of sword and song. 
 
 I will go where Killarney 
 
 Is sleeping in peaceful rest. 
 Unmoved, save when a falling leaf 
 
 Ripples its placid breast ; 
 Where the branches of oak and arbutus 
 
 Are weaving a pleasant screen. 
 And the sunshine breaks in diamonds 
 
 Through its tracery of green ; 
 
 Where the mists, like fantastic spectres, 
 
 For ever rise and fall, 
 And the rainbow of the Covenant 
 
 Is spanning the mountains tall. 
 When the wind blows from the West 
 
 Across the deep Sea, 
 I will sail to my Innisfail — 
 
 To the Isle of Destiny. 
 
 1 will go to beautiful Wicklow, 
 I The hunted outlaw's rest, 
 [ Which the tread of rebel and rapparee 
 I In many a struggle prest ; 
 I will go to the lonely graveyard. 
 
 Near the pleasant fields of Kildare, 
 And pray for my chief and my hero. 
 Young Tone, who is sleeping there. 
 
 I will go to the gloomy Thomas street. 
 
 Where gallant Robert died. 
 And to the grim St. Michan's, 
 
 Where "the Brothers " lie side by side ; 
 I will go to where the heroes 
 
 Of the ancient Celts are laid. 
 And chant a Miserere 
 
 For the souls of the mighty Dead. 
 
 I will seize my pilgrim staff. 
 
 And cheerily wander forth 
 From the smiling face of the South 
 
 To the black frown of the North ; 
 And in some hour of twilight 
 
 I will mount the tall Slieve-Bloom, 
 And weave me a picture-vision 
 
 In the evening's pleasant gloom. 
 
 I will call up the buried leaders 
 
 Of the ancient Celtic race. 
 And gaze with a filial fondness 
 
 On each sternly-noble face — 
 The masters of the mind. 
 
 And the chieftains of the steel, 
 Young Carolan and Grattan, 
 
 The M'Caura and O'Neill. 
 
 I will learn from their voices. 
 
 With a student's love and pride, 
 To live as they lived. 
 
 And to die as they died. 
 O'a ! I will sail from the West, 
 
 And never more will part 
 From the ancient home of my people — 
 
 The land of the loving heart. 
 I JOSEPH HRE.NAN. 
 
412 
 
 POEMS OF PATKIOTISM 
 
 A LAY SERMON. 
 Ireland, mother of grief and glory. 
 
 Ireland, daughter of sorrow and song. 
 Weep no more o'er thy long, sad story. 
 
 Mourn not over the ancient wrong ; 
 Tears and sighing and sore complaining 
 
 Bring no balm to the hurt that bleeds : 
 Turn thine eyes : they are weak with straining 
 
 Back where the dead dim past recedes. 
 
 Turn thy gaze from the haunted darkness 
 
 Shrouding the graves of the vanished years, 
 There lie cerements, and dust, and starkncss 
 
 Ashes and urns and mouldering biers; 
 Strength comes never of drear repining. 
 
 Hearts may cherish, but souls must strive ; 
 Not in the mists, but where suns are shining. 
 
 Flowers and fruits of the earth best thrive. 
 
 Great are the names that gild thy pages. 
 
 Bright the fame of thy faithful sons: 
 Down through the sinuous vales of ages 
 
 Grandly the stream of thy glorj' runs ; 
 But, O mother of ancient splendor. 
 
 Nought of this can avail thee now ; 
 The mightiest dead no aid can render 
 
 To trampled bosom or tortured brow I 
 
 All that is past is past forever, 
 
 Buried and lost in a soundless sea; 
 Gaze not there, but with firm endeavor 
 
 Fix thine eyes on what yet may be I 
 Turn from the west, where night still lingers. 
 
 Slumbrous, shadowy, weirdly gray ; 
 Look to the east, where golden fingers 
 
 Open the amethyst gates of day ! 
 
 Over each peak and pfomontor)' 
 
 Swiftly the wakening splendor flies. 
 Till rounded summit and headland hoarj' 
 
 Gleam with the new morn's roseate dyes ! 
 For thee, O Erin, long bowed in sorrow. 
 
 Thus hope and promise their radiance pour ; 
 Lift up thy face to the dawning morrow. 
 
 And mourn and weep in the gloom no more ! 
 
 Faithful still are thy children to thee. 
 
 Resolute, brave in the love they bear; 
 Eager to serve as when fame first knew thee. 
 
 Crowned as a Queen, and blithe and fair. 
 Whether where Shannon and Suirare flowing 
 
 Or toiling afar under stranger skies. 
 Warmly for thee are their hearts still glowing. 
 
 Proudly for thee does each fond thought rise! 
 
 Winds are winging the songs they're singing. 
 
 Seas are swelling each hopeful stram ; 
 Winds and waves unto thee are bringing 
 
 Sounds that echo one strong refrain : — 
 Turn from the past where shrouds are lying. 
 
 And shades are gathered in dumb array. 
 Arise from travail and tears and sighing. 
 
 And set thy face to the beaming day ! 
 
 DANIEL CONNOLLY. 
 
 THE FAITHLESS SHEPHERDS. 
 Dead I— dead ! Ye are dead while ye live ; 
 
 Ye've a name that ye live, — but are dead ; 
 Neither counsel nor love did ye give. 
 
 And your lips never uttered a word 
 While swift ruin downward sped. 
 
 And the plague raged on undisturbed. 
 Not a throb of true life in your veins 
 
 Not a pulse in your passionless heart. 
 Not a thought in the dull, cold brains. 
 
 Of how ye should bear your part 
 When summoned the strife to brave. 
 For our country, with Death and the grave. 
 
 Ye have gold for the follies of fashion. 
 
 And gold for its tinsel glare. 
 But none for the wild, sobbing passion 
 
 Wrung from the lips of despair- 
 False Shepherds and Guides are ye. 
 
 For the heart in each bosom is cold 
 As the ice in a frozen sea ; 
 
 And your trappings of velvet and gold 
 Lie heavy and close as a pall. 
 When the steps of the bearers fall 
 On a grave, with measured tread ; 
 For ve seem to live, — but are dead. 
 
 Ye are dead ! — ye are dead ! stone by stone 
 
 The temple is crumbling down ; 
 
 It will fall with a crash of doom. 
 
 For the night deepens dark in its gloom. 
 
 But ye look on with vacant stare 
 Like men lying still in the tomb. 
 
 Stand forth ! face the sun. if ye dare. 
 With your cold eyes unwet by a tear. 
 
 For your country, laid low on your bier. 
 And say — have ye stretched forth a hand 
 To raise up our desolate Land? 
 
 She dies, — but ye flourish and grow 
 In the midst of the deadly maze : 
 
DRAGONS' TEETH. 
 
 Like the palm springing heavenward ? — No ! 
 
 But Uke weeds in the churchyard fed 
 By the vapors of death below, 
 
 Breathing round you a poisonous haze. 
 Go ! — go ! True life is not so, — 
 
 For decay lies beneath your tread. 
 And the staff in your hand is a reed, 
 Too weak for your country's need ; 
 
 For ye seem to live, — but are dead. 
 
 Ye are dead ! — Ye are dead ! Fling the clay 
 
 On the noble names, noble no more ; 
 Leave the sword in the sheath to rust ; 
 Let the banners be trailed in the dust ; 
 And the memory perish away 
 
 Of the dead, who are dead evermore ; 
 Blot them out from the book writ in gold. 
 
 Noble neither in deed nor in soul. 
 
 Are ye worthy to stand in the roll 
 Of the glorified heroes of old .' 
 
 Has Ireland need of such sons .' 
 
 Floating down with a silken sail 
 On the crimson tide of her life, that runs 
 
 With a mournful, ceaseless wail. 
 
 Like rain pouring down from the eaves. 
 And ye laugh when the strangers deride 
 
 Her trials, the saddest and sorest, 
 And plunge the sword deep in her side ; 
 
 And no kindly heart sighs or grieves 
 For her branches, all bare as a forest 
 
 When the autumn wind scatters the leaves. 
 
 Laugh low with your perfumed breath. 
 For the air is heavy with death. 
 But ye hear not the gliding feet 
 
 Of the Future, that stands at your door ; 
 For the roses lie heavy and sweet. 
 
 And too thick on your marble floor. 
 And your dead soul is dead to his call. 
 
 And your eyes are heaxjy with wine ; 
 Ye see not the letters of flame. 
 
 Traced by a hand divine, — 
 The writing of God on the wall, — 
 "Ye are weighed and found wanting!" — Oh, 
 shame! 
 
 Your life is a gilded lie ; 
 And the wide world that doom has read. 
 
 With a shudder and chill of dread ; 
 For the judgment of God is nigh, 
 And the universe echoes the cry, — 
 
 Ye've a name that ye live — but are dead ! 
 
 LADY VVILDP:. 
 
 DRAGONS' TEETH. 
 Oh ! where are you going with corpse-lights 
 glowing. 
 Here where the ravenous were-wolf moans.' 
 And what are you sowing — carelessly strew- 
 ing— 
 Down in the valley of dead men's bones? 
 Woman in scarlet and purple and gold. 
 Beautiful, witch-like Delilah of old. 
 
 Bright with the phosphor of death. 
 Blighting the lands with her breath, 
 Swiftly she's strowing, swiftly she's sowing, 
 In the valley of ghouls beneath. 
 The Dragons' teeth. 
 
 Oh ! well do we know you, and rich store we 
 owe you. 
 Woman of Babylon, robed in red ! 
 Rich store we owe you, and strange grain 
 we'll sow you. 
 Bake for your hunger your own bitter bread. 
 Empress we've seen as the whole world's 
 
 bride, 
 Filled to the throat with carnage and pride. 
 Cruel as Scylla and fair. 
 Slaying the strong with despair, — 
 Fain would we show you the great crops we'll 
 sow you. 
 In the valley of ghouls beneath — 
 Of Dragons' teeth. 
 
 Oh ! never once o'er you, and never before 
 you, 
 Never behind you your eyes shall look ; 
 Princes and merchants are here that adore 
 you. 
 Warning nor prayer at the last you shall 
 brook ; 
 Woman that's drunken with agony's wine. 
 Woman that's blinded with glamour and 
 shine. 
 Never to front or to rear 
 Glancing with rue or fear- 
 Doom is before you, omnipotence o'er you, 
 While you sow 'mid the ghouls beneath 
 The Dragons' teeth. 
 
 The great crop is growing, the white skenes 
 are glowing. 
 The aumb armies gather with fleet steps 
 behind ; 
 The fool that will know not shall perish 
 unknowing ; 
 The e3'es that will see not shall ever be 
 blind. 
 
4'4 
 
 Woman of Babylon, call, oh call '. 
 Cry for lackey, and lover, and thrall ! 
 
 Far off they shall sUnd with jeers ; 
 
 Never again in the years 
 Shall we see you going, with red hands sowing 
 
 In the valley of ghouls beneath— 
 The Dragons' teeth. 
 
 FANNY PAKXKLL. 
 
 OURSELVES ALONE. 
 The work that should to-day be wrought. 
 
 Defer not till to-morrow ; 
 The help that should within be sought. 
 
 Scorn from without to borrow ; 
 Old maxims these, yet stout and true : 
 
 They speak in trumpet tone 
 To do at once what is to do. 
 
 And trust ourselves alone. 
 
 Too long have Irish hearts been schooled 
 
 In patient hope to bide. 
 By dreams of English justice fooled. 
 
 And English tongues that lied ; 
 That hour of weak delusion's past, 
 
 The empty dream is flown ; 
 Our hope and strength, we find at last. 
 
 Is in ourselves alone. 
 
 Ay ! bitter hate, or cold neglect. 
 
 Or lukewarm love at best. 
 Is all we've found or can expect. 
 
 We Aliens of the West. 
 No friend, beyond our own green shoi 
 
 Can Erin truly own ; 
 Yet stronger is her trust, therefore. 
 
 In her brave sons alone. 
 
 Remember when our lot was worse, — 
 
 Sunk, trampled in the dust, 
 'Twas long our weakness and our curse 
 
 In stranger aid to trust ; 
 And if. at length, we proudly trod 
 
 On bigot laws o'erthrown. 
 Who won that struggle? Under God, 
 
 Ourselves — ourselves alone 1 
 
 Oh, let its memory be enshrined 
 
 In Ireland's heart forever; 
 It proves a banded people's mind 
 
 Must win in just endeavor ; 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 It shows how wicked to despair. 
 How weak to idly groan ; — 
 
 If ills at others' hands you bear. 
 The cure is in your own. 
 
 The " foolish word impossible." 
 
 At once, for aye, disdain ; 
 No power can bar a people's will 
 
 A people's right to gain. 
 Be bold, united, (irmly set 
 
 Nor flinch in word or tone, — 
 We'll be a glorious nation yet. 
 
 Redeemed, erect, alone! 
 
 JOHN 
 
 HOW HAVE YE LABORED ? 
 
 As starlight on the sleeping earth 
 My early thoughts came to my soul 
 That mourned in bitterness and dol 
 
 Of truth and trust the fearful dearth. 
 
 I thought of all my early dreams — 
 The young hearts marshalled for the fight. 
 When Right would march o'er brutal Might, 
 And men, in beauty's harness diglit, 
 
 Quaff flashing draughts of Spartan streams. 
 
 When blackened walls shall cease to pain 
 
 The gaze of Christian manhood's eye; 
 When forms once swept by sleet and rain 
 By blazing hearths might sit again, 
 And smile at tempests warring by. 
 
 And freemen stand on hill and rock, 
 No master but the Lord above. 
 And banners long in darkness hid 
 Shine like a blazing pyramid. 
 And brethren learn their hearts to lock 
 In the strong clasp of angel love. 
 
 All unfulfilled. The earth is dark 
 
 As ever with the lust of wrong ; 
 Christ's children wander pale and stark 
 
 .\mid the red assassin throng. 
 
 And some ask madly, " Where is God ?" 
 With boiling veins and streaming eyes. 
 They blame His justice-dealing rod ; 
 They hear no calm voice from the skies: 
 ■ How have ye labored, men of earth. 
 To win regenerating birth ?" 
 
OUR VOW. 
 
 And others whine, with slavish bow, 
 " The crowning day will shortly come - 
 Till then we sit in martyrdom ; 
 Once we had dreams — we spurn them now.' 
 ■' How have ye labored ? martyrs, tell," 
 Rings out the ceaseless voiceful bell; 
 
 And I, too, in my frenzy held 
 
 Reproachful thoughts, that all my dreams 
 Had faded like the four bright streams 
 Which once in beauteous Eden welled, 
 How have you labored, minstrel, say! 
 To raise your visions from the clay? 
 
 " How have ye labored ?" This is all, 
 
 O teachers of our fallen land ! 
 To free the stricken one from thrall 
 
 Have ye obeyed the Lord's command 
 As erst the faithless-hearted Saul, 
 
 Or walked with David and his band ? 
 
 Ah me ! my heart is full of dole, 
 The myriads pass with faces white, 
 
 I hear a still voice in my soul : 
 
 •' Ye did not labor well and true, 
 As the appointed men should do 
 
 Who lead the strife of truth and right." 
 
 JOHN KEEGAN CASEY. 
 
 OUR COURSE. 
 
 We looked for guidance to the blind ! 
 
 We sued for counsel to the dumb 1 
 Fling the vain fancy to the wind — 
 
 Their hour is past and oiiis is come ! 
 They gave, in that propitious hour. 
 
 Nor kindly look nor gracious tone ; 
 But heaven has not denied us power 
 
 To do their duty, and our own. 
 
 And is it true that tyrants throw 
 
 Their shafts among us steeped in gall } 
 And every arrow, swift or slow. 
 
 Points foremost still, ascent or fall .' 
 Still sure to wound us, though the aim 
 
 Seems ta'en remotely, or amiss .' 
 And men with spirits feel no shame 
 
 To brook so dark a doom as this } 
 
 Alas ! the noble of the land 
 
 Are like our long-deserted halls; 
 
 No living voices, clear and grand. 
 Respond when foe or freedom calls ; 
 
 4^5 
 
 But ever and anon descends 
 
 Low moaning, when the tempest rolls, — 
 A tone that desolation lends 
 
 Some crevice of their ruined souls ! 
 
 So be it,— yet shall we prolong [need ? 
 
 Our prayers, when deeds would serve our 
 Or wait for woes, the swift and strong 
 
 Can ward by strength or 'scape by speed.' 
 The vilest of the vile of earth, 
 
 Were nobler than our proud array. 
 If, suffering bondage from our birth. 
 
 We will not burst it when we may ! 
 
 And has the bondage not been borne 
 
 Till all our softer nature fled — 
 Till tyranny's dark tide had worn 
 
 Down to the stubborn rock its bed .' 
 But if the current, cold and deep. 
 
 That channel through all time retain, 
 At worst, by heaven ! it shall not sweep 
 
 Unrtijffled o'er our hearts again ! 
 
 JOHN D. FRASER. 
 
 OUR vow. 
 They may pluck the green bays from thy brow. 
 
 Thy laurels in twain they may tear. [bow 
 Till thy beautiful head to the dust thou must 
 
 'Neath the weight of a ghastly despair; 
 
 They may jibe thee and jeer thee, astor, 
 As they jibed thee and jeered thee for years; 
 
 They may pamper their veins with thy sancti- 
 fied gore ; 
 And laugh at thy sorrowing tears; 
 
 They may scourge, they may plunder and slay 
 
 All over thy emerald strand ; 
 They may scatter, as weeds of the ocean, away 
 
 The sinew and bone of the land ; 
 
 They may tread on thy once radiant crown ; 
 
 They may people each tall mountain's base, 
 Each hillock and hamlet, each city and town, 
 
 With the clans of their conquermg race ; 
 
 They may strew the fair fields with thy dead, 
 
 Mid the smoke of their myriad guns ; 
 But the chains that they forge and the red 
 blood they shed 
 Shall never make serfs of thy sons. 
 
4i6 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 We vowed in the sunshine of youth, 
 We vow when our bright youth is past, 
 
 That the instincts of freedom, the lessons of 
 Shall live in our souls to the last;— [truth. 
 
 That we 11 march "neath the flag as of old. 
 With the faith and the trust of the brave, 
 
 Tho' the creed we believe and the pathway we 
 But lead to the dungeon or grave ! [hold 
 
 Yet we vow but the centuried vow — 
 
 The vow of our thousands of dead : [brow. 
 
 To replace the green bays on thy sorrowing 
 And its crown on thy beautiful head ! 
 
 EUGENE DAVIS. 
 
 CUl BONO' 
 
 If all the wrath of England ran 
 
 To fill the land with ruin-fires. 
 If all her bloodiest hounds began 
 
 To tear us as they tore our sires : 
 If every cabin felt the flame. 
 
 And all the fields were waste and red. 
 Till silence o'er our highways came — 
 
 Such silence as will bless the dead ; 
 
 If blood were spilled in thunder-showers 
 
 Where'er the hunted came to bay. 
 And all the grass and all the flowers 
 
 Were stained and sickened day by day : 
 If once again the maidens cried 
 
 To all the hills to hide their heads. 
 And babes and mothers side by side 
 
 Lay butchered in their bloody beds: 
 
 If all the love that lit the land 
 
 When priests knew well how hunger kills. 
 Flashed out again when, bruised and banned. 
 
 The priests were with us on the hills : 
 If in the lonely mountain cave 
 
 We heard how Jude and Macchabee 
 Cried God's great curse to smite the slave 
 
 Who e'er forgot God made him free : 
 
 If all the tears our fathers shed 
 
 Came back to us, and all the groans ; 
 And wives and sons and daughters dead 
 
 Lay, with no priest to bless their bones: 
 All. all were vain to quench the fires 
 
 That burn within our veins to-day; 
 So help us. God, that helped our sires, 
 
 We cannot give the land away ! 
 
 J. J, .MURPHV. 
 
 BIDE YOUR TIME. 
 
 Bide your time : the morn is breaking. 
 Bright with freedom's blessed ray; 
 
 Millions, from their trance awaking. 
 Soon shall stand in firm array. 
 
 Man shall fetter man no longer- 
 Liberty shall march sublime : 
 
 Every moment makes you stronger- 
 Firm, unshrinking, bide your time ! 
 
 Bide your time : one false step taken 
 
 Perils all you yet have done : 
 Undismayed — erect— unshaken, 
 
 Watch and wait, and all is won. 
 Tis not by a rash endeavor 
 
 Men or states to greatness climb : — 
 Would you win your rights forever — 
 
 Calm and thoughtful, bide your time ! 
 
 Bide your time : your worst transgression 
 Were to strike, and strike in vain ; 
 
 He whose arm would smite oppression. 
 Must not need to smite again. 
 
 Danger makes the brave man steady. 
 Rashness is the coward's crime ; 
 
 Be for freedom's battle ready- 
 When it comes — but bide your time ! 
 
 MICHAEL J. BARRY. 
 
 JUSTICE. 
 
 Spirit of awe. enthroned in the thunderous 
 
 heart of the night, 
 Spirit of terrible eyes, with the blaze of Mount 
 
 Sinai alight. 
 Looking thro" endless fogs of blood, thro' 
 
 quenchless vapors of tears. 
 That creep and coil and climb from the 
 
 hideous stream of the years ; 
 
 Spirit with pallid blood-tipped hands, hung 
 
 limp and loose at thy side. 
 Seeming too feeble for aught save a cloud or 
 
 a feather to guide : — 
 Hands that are strong as God's— drooping 
 
 listless 'mid rapine and wrong! 
 Is it we that are foolish and blind ? or thou 
 
 that stayest too long ? 
 
 Lo ! the spectre of Murder flings her challenge 
 
 right up in thy face. 
 And the hooves of the Men of Peace have 
 
 trodden thy holiest place, 
 
LE REVEILLE. 
 
 417 
 
 And the Champion of Freedom sets, with a 
 threat and a curse and a blow. 
 
 His heel on the struggling slave, and thinks, 
 — •' Aha ! God shall never know !" 
 
 Have we made us a fetich of stone, in a shrine 
 too far away 
 
 For the stormiest prayer to reach, that a 
 trampled soul can pray? 
 
 Is our Justice a grinning fiend, or only a deaf- 
 mute born ? 
 
 And our Christ — our beautiful Christ ! — will 
 he pass the leper in scorn ? 
 
 From the crater of night shoots out a great 
 white arm like a bar. 
 
 From the crater of night flames out a won- 
 drous Face like a star ; 
 
 Yet a moment and all is black, while the 
 thunder moans and swells. 
 
 Till it shapes to a voice at last, like the crash 
 of a million bells. 
 
 And it says. " O ye craven hearts, the immor- 
 tal times are yours ; 
 
 Blessed is he that labors, thrice blessed is he 
 that endures ; 
 
 Wait ! for your waiting is God-like, yet work, 
 for no true work is vain ; 
 
 And your martyrdom's rack shall seem but a 
 moment's dream of pain." 
 
 Then a sword flashed over the gulf, and we 
 
 veiled our faces in dust ; 
 "We have murmured and sinned," we cried. 
 
 " in Thy sight, O God, that art just ; 
 For we know when the day shall come, Thy 
 
 arm is not shortened yet. 
 And the robber shall pay at last the outermost 
 
 farthing of debt." 
 
 FANNY PARNELL. 
 
 " For ages three without laws ye shall flee as 
 
 beasts in the forest; 
 For an age and a half age faith shall bring 
 
 not peace, but a sword ; 
 Then laws shall rend you, like eagles sharp- 
 
 fanged, of your scourges the sorest ; 
 When these three woes are past, look up, for 
 
 your hope is restored. 
 
 " The times of your woe shall be twice the 
 
 time of your foregone glory ; 
 But fourfold at last shall be the grain on your 
 
 granary floor." 
 The seas in vapor shall fleet, and in ashes the 
 
 mountains hoary: 
 Let God do that which He wills. Let His 
 
 servants endure and adore ! 
 
 AUBREY T. DE VERE. 
 
 LE REVEILLE. 
 
 It was the lark — not the nightingale — 
 
 Poured forth her notes of warning ; 
 Upwards she flew from the sun-lit vale. 
 
 Awoke by the light of the morning. 
 The day, the day is bright ! 
 The night 
 
 Hath fled that in darkness bound ye ; 
 Fling ye the myrtle of love aside. 
 And grasp the sword whate'er may betide— 
 
 For the Foemen are gathering round ye ! 
 
 It was the lark — not the nightingale- 
 Arouse ye from apathy's slumber! 
 
 Few and dull do your watchfires pale. 
 But they soon shall the stars outnumber. 
 Awake, awake to life ! 
 The strife 
 For God and your right advances ; 
 
 Leave the white arms of weeping beauty. 
 
 The van of the battle's your post of duty. 
 Where glitter the Foeman's lances! 
 
 THE THREE WOES. 
 That angel whose charge is Eire sang thus, 
 
 o'er the dark isle winging ; 
 By a virgin his song was heard at a tempest's 
 
 ruinous close : 
 " Three golden ages God gave while your 
 
 tender green blade was springing ; 
 Faith's earliest harvest is reaped. To-day God 
 
 sends you three woes. 
 
 It was the lark — not the nightingale — 
 
 The gate of the morning uncloses : 
 She sings of the thundering cannon's hail — 
 
 She sings of the battle's roses; 
 On the warrior's breast 
 They rest— 
 
 The crimson roses that free the world ! 
 Up. then, in Liberty's cause ye are sent — 
 Let the wide heavens be but one warrior's tent, 
 
 When the banner of Freedom's unfurled. 
 
4i8 
 
 POEAfS OF PATKTOTISM. 
 
 It was the lark — not the nightingale — 
 Leave, then, O youth, thy dreaming! 
 As dashes the torrent adown the vale. 
 O'er all barriers wildly streaming. 
 So of thy young heart's blood. 
 The flood 
 Pour down on thy thirsty land : 
 And Liberty's cause, that would else have 
 
 died. 
 Will bloom afresh from that crimson tide ; 
 So pledge ye your heart and hand. 
 
 It was the lark — not the nightingale — 
 
 Who chanted a Nation's rise ; 
 Borne on the wings of the morning gale. 
 It peals through the azure skies. 
 Liberty's torch is bright ! 
 The light 
 May mock our tyrants' scorning. 
 For millions of hearts will be kindled ere noon ; 
 And the freedom we dream'd of in darkness, 
 full soon 
 We'll achieve in the light of the morning ! 
 
 LADY WILUE. 
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 Hark. hark, that chime 1 the frosts are o'er I 
 
 With the birds force on the spring: 
 Thus. Ireland, sang thy bards of yore : 
 
 O younger bards, 'tis time to sing! 
 Your countr)''s smile, that with the past 
 
 Lay dead so long — that vanished smile, 
 Evoke it from the dark, and cast 
 
 Its light around a tearful isle. 
 
 Like severed locks that keep their light 
 
 When all the stately form is dust. 
 A nation's songs preserve from blight 
 
 A nation's name, their sacred trust. 
 Temple and pyramid eterne 
 
 May memorize her deeds of power ; 
 But only from the songs we learn 
 
 How throbbed her life-blood, hour by hour. 
 
 Well might the Muse at times forsake 
 
 Her Grecian hill, and sit where swerve 
 In lines like those of Hebe's neck. 
 
 That wood-girt bay. yon meadow's curve, 
 Watching the primrose clusters throw 
 
 Their wan light o'er that ivied cave. 
 And airs by myrtles odorcd blow 
 
 The apple-blossom on the wave I 
 
 Thrice blessed the strain that, when the May 
 [ Woos thus the young leaf from the bud. 
 When robins, thrushlike, shake the spray. 
 ! And deef>ening purples tinge the flood. 
 Kindles new worlds of love and truth, 
 ^ This world's lost Eden, still new-born, 
 In breast of Irish maid or youth, 
 
 Reading beneath the Irish thorn ! 
 I 
 
 ' That lures from overheated strife 
 i Blinded ambition's tool ; that o'er 
 The fields of unsabbatic life 
 
 The church bells of the past can pour; 
 Around the old oak lightning-scarred 
 
 Can raise the virgin woods that rang 
 When, throned 'mid listening kerns, the bard 
 Of Oisin and of Patrick sang. 
 
 Saturn ian years return ! Erelong 
 
 Peace, justice-built, the Isle shall cheer: 
 Even now old sounds of ancient wrong 
 
 At distance roll, and come not near: 
 Past is the iron age, — the .storms 
 
 That lashed the worn clifT. shock on shock: 
 The bird, in tempest cradled, warms 
 
 At last her wings upon the rock. 
 
 I How many a bard may lurk even now, 
 
 Ireland, among thy noble poor! 
 To Truth their genius let them vow. 
 And scorn the Siren's tinsel lure ; 
 I Faithful to illustrate God's word 
 
 On Nature writ ; or re-revealing 
 Thro' Nature. Christian lore transferred 
 
 faith to sight by songs heart-healing. 
 
 Thrice blessed the strain that brings to one 
 
 Who weeps by some Australian rill 
 A worn-out life far oflf begun. 
 
 His country's countenance beauteous still 
 • That 'mid Canadian wilds, or where 
 
 Rich-feathered birds are void of song. 
 Wafts back, 'mid gusts of Irish air. 
 
 Old wood-notes loved and lost so long I 
 
 I Fair land ! the skill was thine of old 
 
 Upon the illumined scroll to trace. 
 In heavenly blazon, blue or gold. 
 
 The martyr's f>alm, the angel's face ; 
 One day on every Muse's page 
 
 Be thine a saintly light to fling. 
 And bathe the world's declining age 
 
 Once more in its baptismal spring. 
 
""'•'^i/.i'amaraniii^''-^' 
 
 
WHAT SHALL H'E WEEP FOR? 
 
 419 
 
 Man sows. A Hand divine must reap ; 
 
 The toil wins most that wins not praise ; 
 Stones buried in oblivion deep 
 
 May help the destined pile to raise, 
 Foundations fix for pier or arch ; 
 
 Above that spirit-bridge's span 
 To Faith's inviolate home may march 
 
 In God's good time enfranchised man. 
 
 AUBREY T. DE VERE. 
 
 WHAT SHALL WE WEEP FOR? 
 
 ers."— y^re-;«/rt/f. 
 
 Shall we weep for thee, O my mother, — shall 
 we weep for the martyred land, — 
 
 For the queen that is prone in ashes, struck 
 down by a robber's hand ? 
 
 Shall we weep for the fair green banner, 
 drowned deep in a sea of tears — 
 
 For the golden harp that is broken, and dumb 
 with the rust of years ? 
 
 Shall we weep for the children banished, or 
 for those crushed down to the brute, — 
 
 Crushed out of the semblance of human, 
 while Justice sits blind and mute? 
 
 For the peasant that died in torment^, — for 
 
 the hero that battling fell. 
 For the martyr that slowly rotted in the 
 
 voiceless dungeon cell } 
 
 For the famine, the filth, and fever, the lash 
 
 and the pitchcap, and sword. 
 For the homeless, cofiinless corpses, flung out 
 
 on their native sward ? 
 
 For the strong man that crept from prison, 
 old, helpless, and blind, to die. 
 
 For the soldier that bled for England, 'neath 
 many a hostile sky, — 
 
 Whom England, delighting to honor, gifts of 
 
 chains and a dungeon ga\ e, 
 Till his brave heart broke with its anguish, 
 
 and he staggered from cell to grave ? 
 
 Shall we weep for these, O my brothers .' — my 
 brothers in pain and in love, — 
 
 For these who liave suffered and perished, 
 and shine as the stars above? 
 
 Lo ! yonder, like white hot beacons, they light 
 
 up the path we should tread ; 
 Pure flames on the heavenly watch-towers, — 
 
 shall we weep for those happy dead ? 
 
 Nay, not for mother or children, nor for 
 
 centuries' woes we'll weep, 
 But w^e'll weep for the vengeance coming, 
 
 that waits, but shall never sleep. 
 
 Let us weep for the hand that's bloody with 
 
 many an innocent life; 
 Let us weep for those who have trampled the 
 
 defenceless down in the strife ; 
 
 For the heart the Lord hath hardened, with 
 triumph, and spoil, and crown. 
 
 For the robber whose plundered kingdoms 
 never see the sun go down ; 
 
 For the Scarlet Woman that's drunken with 
 the blood and tears of her slaves. 
 
 Who goes forth to slay with a psalm-tune, 
 and builds her churches on graves ; 
 
 For her sons who rush out to murder, and 
 return with plunder and prayer. 
 
 Lifting up to the gentle Saviour the red hands 
 that never spare ; 
 
 For these, and the doom that is on them, the 
 
 spectre ghastly and gray. 
 Looming far in the haunted future, where 
 
 Nemesis waits her prey — 
 
 Let us weep, let us weep, my brothers ! We 
 
 have heard but a whisper fall. 
 But we know the voice of the tempest, be it 
 
 ever so still and small. 
 
 To their God of Cant and Slaughter they 
 shall cry in their hour of need. 
 
 But the true God shall rise and break them as 
 pne that breaketh a reed. 
 
 Weep not for the wronged, but the wronger, — 
 the despot whom God hath cursed, — 
 
 Holding off awhile till the floodgates of His 
 gathering wrath have burst, 
 
 For the wronged, a moment's anguish — for 
 the wronger, damnation deep, — 
 
 He that soweth the wind shall surely for 
 harvest the whirlwind reap. 
 
 FANNY PARNELL, 
 
420 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 THE ROSEMARY CROWN. 
 Waiting in sorrow and mourning — 
 
 Waiting through gloomiest night, 
 Clad in the robe of the cypress — 
 
 Craving for beauty and light; 
 Centuries lifted the nations. 
 
 And hurled wrong's pinnacles down — 
 Yet still holy Ireland is waiting. 
 
 And wearing the Rosemary Crown. 
 
 Oh, the fullness of joy in the hoping. 
 
 The rich light which fancy had dreamed. 
 When once, for the lapse of a moment. 
 
 The sunlight of Liberty streamed. 
 How we planted the flag on our towers. 
 
 And waved it o'er mountain and town : 
 But, alas! still the cypress was blooming — 
 
 Alas ! for the Rosemary Crown. 
 
 And lonely, and lonely, and lonely, 
 
 A watcher still sat by the sea. 
 With face as the white marble pallid. 
 
 And eyes gazing mournfully ; 
 With hands lifted up in appealing 
 
 That God would His mercy send down. 
 Anc" "he leaves of the laurel be shining, 
 
 Wnere rested the Rosemary Crown. 
 
 We gave her the song of the j>oet. 
 
 We gave her the work of the brain. 
 Cast the glory of heaven around her. 
 
 Yet still all our work was inane. 
 "She is dead." said the scoff of the stranger, 
 
 A laugh for the cynic and clown ; 
 Ah ! little he knew the wild passion 
 
 Long hid in the Rosemary Crown. 
 
 Now, the love and the hope of a world, 
 
 Dear Mother! thy children have brought: 
 The hard-handed strength of the soldier. 
 
 The blade of the mind full of thought. 
 The earnestness martyrs have taught us. 
 
 The strength of their glorious renown — 
 To the graves of the dead shall be borne 
 
 The leaves of the Rosemar)' Crown. 
 
 Weep not! 'tis the hour of the dawning — 
 
 Weep not ! we are ready to save — 
 Nor reck of a newer heart broken. 
 
 Nor reck of another fresh grave. [time. 
 
 O'er the graves we have marched in the past 
 
 Still praying the dew to fall down. 
 Till the leaves of the bay shine as fairly- - 
 
 As darkly the Rosemarj' Crown. 
 
 JOHN KEEGAN CASEY. 
 
 AFTER AUGHRIM. 
 Do you remember long ago, 
 ' Kathaleen ! 
 
 When your lover whispered low, 
 ■' Shall I stay or shall I go. 
 
 Kathaleen.^" 
 And you answered proudly, "Go 
 .\nd join King James and strike a blu 
 
 For the Green." 
 
 Maxirone .' your hair is white as snow, 
 
 Kathaleen ! 
 Your heart is sad and full of woe — 
 Do you repent you bade him g'~ 
 
 Kathaleen ? 
 And through your tears you answer. 
 Better die with Sarsfield so 
 Than live a slave, without a blow 
 
 For the Green." 
 
 AKTHLR GERALD GEOGHEGAN. 
 
 No! 
 
 SEED TIME AND HARVEST. 
 
 In due time we shall reap, if we faint not. "—Gal. vi. 
 
 Guard we the holy Faith 
 With love as strong as death ; 
 
 Many the tears it cost us. — 
 
 Cherished the friends it lost us — 
 
 Oh, by the heavy Past, 
 
 Hold we the Old Faith fast : 
 
 So shall we win at last 
 The crown of our toils and scaith. 
 
 The ploughshare was sharp and red — 
 Graves 'neath our footsteps spread — 
 The seed-time was long and dreary. 
 The sowers weeping and weary ; 
 Chilling the sudden snows. 
 Bitter the piercing woes 
 That saddened the souls of those 
 j Who planted the Future's bread. 
 
 I They passed over many lands, 
 1 Still, as with fated hands. 
 
 Toiling in fruitless patience, 
 I Outcasts among the nations. 
 ' While round them the glad earth teemed. 
 
 No har\*est for them e'er gleamed. 
 
 And idle their labor seemed 
 I As sowing the desert sands. 
 
 But a light o'er the ocean afar 
 
 Comes, bright as Aurora's car. 
 
 And in its radiance glancing 
 
 Troop upon troop advancing. 
 
 1 
 
SUiX-BL'IiST. 
 
 421 
 
 Chanting a beautiful strain, 
 Laden with golden grain. 
 The fruit of the tearful rain 
 That fell 'neath our wormwood Star. 
 
 Before them a Presence grand. 
 
 Of aspect benign and bland, 
 
 Saith " These are your great departed. 
 The patient and faithful hearted, 
 
 Who add to thy crown of glory 
 
 The lustre of their story; 
 
 And I, who ever watch o'er ye. 
 Your Patron for ever more, 
 Bid peace on your emerald shore ; 
 So while our Lord ye adore 
 
 Shall ye hence possess your Land ! 
 
 OI.TVIA KNIGHT CONNOLLY. 
 
 THE PENAL DAYS. 
 O! weep those days, the penal days. 
 
 When Ireland hopelessly complained ! 
 O I weep those days, the penal daj-s. 
 When godless persecution reigned ! 
 When year by year. 
 For serf and peer. 
 Fresh cruelties were made by law. 
 And, filled with hate. 
 Our senate sate 
 To weld anew each fetter's flaw. 
 O ! weep those days, those penal days — 
 Their mem'ry still on Ireland weighs. 
 
 They bribed the flock, they bribed the son. 
 
 To sell the priest and rob the sire ; 
 Their dogs were taught alike to run 
 Upon the scent of wolf and friar. 
 Among the poor. 
 Or on the moor, 
 Were hid the pious and the true — 
 While traitor knave. 
 And recreant slave, 
 Had riches, rank, and retinue ; 
 And, exiled in those penal days, 
 
 Our banners over Europe blaze. 
 A stranger held the land and tower 
 
 Of many a noble fugitive ; 
 No Popish lord had lordly power. 
 The peasant scarce had leave to live ; 
 Above his head 
 A ruined shed. 
 No tenure but a tyrant's will — 
 Forbid to plead. 
 Forbid to read, 
 
 Disarm'd, disfranchis'd, imbecile — 
 What wonder if our step betrays 
 The freedman, born in penal days ? 
 
 They're gone, they're gone, those penal days! 
 
 All creeds are equal in our isle ; 
 Then grant, O Lord, thy plenteous grace, 
 Our ancient feuds to reconcile. 
 Let all atone 
 For blood and groan. 
 For dark revenge and open wrong ; 
 Let all unite 
 For Ireland's right. 
 And drown our grief in Freedom's song; 
 Till time shall veil in twilight haze, 
 The memory of those Penal days. 
 
 THOMAS D.A.VIS. 
 
 SUN-BURST. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh! hear you the sound of shouting far over 
 
 the eastern waves? 
 The voice of a people calling, "Come help us, 
 
 for we are slaves.'" 
 And see you the banners flying, the sinister 
 
 glow of steel. 
 As the hordes of the tyrant gather, and the 
 plains beneath them reel.' 
 
 Why do the valleys of Erin ring with the 
 
 sound of a name. 
 Once it were treason to utter? Why are her 
 
 hilltops aflame? 
 Has the long slumber been broken? Have 
 
 the dead spoken at last? 
 i Sending the slogan of battle far on the wild 
 
 sweeping blast' 
 
 Ah, but the years are returning! Time is the 
 
 Tighter of all ; 
 He will repay for the slaughter; his voice will 
 
 answer the call, 
 That loud through the echoing ages, the ages 
 
 of hatred has told 
 How the hand of the slayer has reddened, his 
 
 heart in its anger grown cold. 
 
 II. 
 What have we done that is criminal? Why 
 
 are we holden in cliains? 
 Where is the blot on our scutcheon? Where 
 
 on our record the stains? 
 
422 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 Have we not stood forourbrothers, when, like Then when the brightness of mornins; shone 
 
 a fierce crimson rain, through the swift fading must. 
 
 Over and over our bodies surged the red blood Loud rose the sound of our progress, song in 
 
 of our slain ? our valleys made tryst. 
 
 Who, when our graves grew in number, who Say we arc hard in our anger, say that our 
 
 when our hearthstones were bare. hands have grown red ; 
 
 Came with the burden of plenty, strong- Have we not watched in the darkness, watched 
 
 limbed, and loyal, and fair.' by our murdered dead. 
 
 Was it the nation that held us? She who Watched in the land that bore us, the land 
 
 grew rich with our s|X)il ? j that is ours by right. 
 
 Rich from our courage in battle, rich from Telling our sorrow in whispers, and fearing 
 
 our daring in toil.' the dawn of light? 
 
 No! In her halls she was feasting. What 
 
 though we starved at her door? 
 We, who had beaten her foeman back from 
 
 her wave-beaten shore ; 
 We had no grain from her threshing; we had 
 
 no wine from her press; 
 Only the scorn of her silence, while the store 
 
 in our hovels grew less. 
 
 Ours is the ptatient waiting, and ours is the 
 
 garnered wrong ; 
 We have seen the bright days darken, and the 
 
 years grow cold and long ; 
 We have worked when hands were weary, but 
 
 we never reaped the gain ; 
 They have gathered the wheat and comfort, 
 
 and left us the chaff and pain. 
 
 Far over wide leagues of ocean came the | Yet we envy not their riches, let them keep 
 
 white sails of the ships, their heavy gold. 
 
 Hearing the bread that would help us, the : And leave us our ancient birthright, the 
 
 wine that was sweet to our lips ; i freedom we won of old. 
 
 What have we then to be glad for, what have i When the dawning flashed in splendor on the 
 
 we then to repay, ' lines of level spears. 
 
 To her who listened unheeding, holding her And we charged the Danish foemen, while the 
 
 shut hands away? i air grew loud with cheers. 
 
 Nothing but hate do we owe her, nothing \ The days of our waiting are numbered, the 
 
 but battle and wrath ; , time of our serving past; 
 
 She who has grown on our hunger, the serpent You can hear the braying of trumpets, the roll 
 
 that rose in our path ; of drums on the blast ; 
 
 That filled our valleys with wailing, and stole And now when the war clouds gather, we will 
 
 the strength of our lives, stand as oft we have stood. 
 
 And left in our desolate dwellings the tears ! When we held the front of the battle and the 
 
 and moaning of wives. earth was red with blood. 
 
 Look at the years in their passing; what ; Oh ! men who have seen the sunburst, the 
 
 have they given the world ? radiant coming of morn. 
 
 Hope for the gladness of nations; thought at j Surge over the purple mountains, and shine 
 
 all tyranny hurled ; 1 on your bending corn ; 
 
 Freedom for men held in bondage; deeds , By the love that is your triumph, by the blood 
 
 that were kindly and just; that made you free, 
 
 Only one land was forgotten, one banner still I Send us back a shout of greeting, acioss the 
 
 trails in the dust. wide reaches of sea. 
 
 Nothing have we to be glad for; once we had ; Now when the foe is marching, and the great 
 glory and pride, | guns grimly frown. 
 
 Holding the beacon of promise, sending our And the heavy wrath of the tempest on our 
 call far and wide ; | worn land bears down. 
 
THE FAMINE OF 1880. 
 
 423 
 
 When the lurid light of the bale-fires is gleam- j O miracle of miracles! O wondrous cause of 
 
 ing in the sky, 
 Out through the growing darkr 
 you our passionate cry. 
 
 III. 
 
 Why are the fetters clanking? and why do 
 
 the bright swords shine? 
 Is there coming another harvest of blood that 
 
 is red as wine ? 
 Yes. up through the heights of purple you 
 
 can hear the cry, wind-blown, 
 Of a nation, loudly calling to be brought unto 
 
 its own. 
 
 wonder! 
 send ; Proclaim the story to mankind with trumpet 
 of the thunder! 
 A fertile, generous, joyous land, forbid to feed 
 [ its people 
 
 By laws enacted 'neath the shade of con- 
 secrated steeple ! 
 Starvation made by statute — famine a legal 
 
 code 
 For subjects of a Government with an 
 
 " established " God ! 
 Look not into their genial soil for hunger's 
 helpless cause — [laws 
 
 j The Irish people famish — to obey their English 
 
 .■\h, but the years are returning, and the dead ^^ey plow and plant, they sow and reap, they 
 
 will not lie still 
 
 weave and spin all day. 
 
 You can see their garments trailing far along ^j^e English fleet is at their whar%'es to bear 
 
 each windy hill ; j^ ^U ^^,a.v ' 
 
 And the air is full of moaning, and the earth i ^j^^j^ fathers' land the alien owns ; the land- 
 
 salt with tears. 
 
 lords own their labor; 
 
 And the hate that is strong in battle is the ^ j^gj^. mortgaged lives have been foreclosed 
 
 bitter hate of years. 
 
 The high waves surge on the headlands, tne 
 
 wild winds sweep through the land. 
 And the murmurs of strife are rising : who 
 
 now will idle stand ? 
 For the tyrants have banded together, they 
 
 will strike again and again. 
 And the struggle is that of Freedom, the j 
 
 strong, sweet Freedom of men. j 
 
 THOMAS S. COLLIER. [ 
 
 THE FAMINE OF 1880. 
 
 Serenely on the ocean sits an island in the 
 
 sheen 
 Of silver skies and purple hills and pastures 
 
 ever green. j 
 
 The corn is waving gladsomely, the white 
 
 flocks bleat with glee ; 
 And tawny herds shake silken sides in valley, ] 
 
 glen, and lea; j 
 
 Fish frolic in the rivers, birds carol in the trees. 
 White sails gleam in the harbors, ships throng ' The morning mist has disappeared — the vision 
 
 to glut their English neighbor! 
 Their rulers, oh, are noble! See yonder 
 
 mincing Earl! 
 His sire went forth to Ireland a thieving 
 
 English churl, 
 He pulled from out the shallows the King's 
 
 ship's entangled flukes, — 
 His sovereign dubbed him on the shore the 
 
 first of Irish dukes ! 
 
 Behold the lovely vista within yon Irish dale ! 
 The rosy dawn is blushing behind her hazy 
 
 veil; 
 The brooklet prattles on the sward, the linnet's 
 
 early notes 
 Are answered from the foliage by countless 
 
 tuneful throats; 
 The zephyrs tease the tassels of the nodding, 
 
 drowsy grain 
 That soon will be awakened to be tossed into 
 
 the wain ; — 
 Now o'er the luscious landscape the sun's 
 
 broad rays are broke. 
 And from the cottage chimneys ascends the 
 
 cheery smoke ! 
 
 her busy quays : — 
 It was not thence that groan came forth 
 again it swells on high 
 
 is still clearer, — 
 What terror-stricken band is that whose feet 
 hurrying nearer ? 
 
 In Ireland'sbread and meat enough— not /^^r.s I God of justice! God of mercy! They are 
 
 famine cry." 
 
 weeping, they are shrieking! 
 
1 
 
 424 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 There is frenzy on their faces, and some with 
 
 wounds are reeking! 
 The bailiff horde behind them in cruel fury 
 
 comes, 
 For the smoke we saw ascending was the 
 
 burning of their homes 1 
 
 So this is Irish famine and this is English law, 
 And this the saddest sight on earth that 
 
 Sorrow ever saw I 
 Nature's heart is touched with pity, Nature's 
 
 eyes with tears are filled, 
 While the people die of hunger in the fields 
 
 that they have tilled I 
 From the pastures low the cattle, " For the 
 
 stranger is our flesh " ; 
 Moans the wind unto the har\'est: "For the 
 
 stranger you must thresh "; 
 And the sheep bleat sadly seaward from green 
 
 gorges in the rocks : 
 " The stranger wears our wool, and the stranger 
 
 eats our flocks " ; 
 And the horses paw in fur)' as they neigh from 
 
 out the manger, 
 " Oh. we would fight for Ireland — but our 
 
 backs are for the stranger ! " 
 
 In this band of homeless outcasts limps a 
 
 cripple whose deep scars 
 Tell of service as a soldier, perhaps m foreign 
 
 wars ; 
 An arm is gone ; he totters ; in vouth his hair 
 
 is white , 
 Is it hunger makes you tremble who shrank 
 
 not in the fight? 
 The coat he wears is tattered — why, the color! 
 
 yes, 'tis blue I 
 Were you ever in America? pale friend, oh, 
 
 tell me true ! 
 The ashen lips grow livid, the face becomes 
 
 less wan — 
 "Ay, was I," proudly answers he, "I fought 
 
 with Sheridan ! 
 
 " Before the war was over, here my aged 
 
 father died ; 
 The only daughter, fair and young, lies buried 
 
 at his side ; 
 The dear old mother lingered still. — to shelter 
 
 her from harm 
 I came across the water, and worked the little 
 
 'Twas taken from us yesterday — " "And she?" 
 " She died last night — 
 
 Of hunger, hunger — oh, great God ! that son 
 
 should see such sight ! 
 In battle I ne'er trembled— in the whirr of 
 
 shot and shell 
 I rushed with demon recklessness within the 
 
 living hell ! 
 To-day I shake with palsy, unmanned by 
 
 hunger's pangs: 
 I feel about my breaking heart a slimy 
 
 creature's fangs ; 
 And all are gone who loved me, the last one 
 
 of my kin ; — 
 Patrick drove the serpents out to let English 
 
 reptiles in ! " 
 
 Lo, here a mother hurries, in her fleshless 
 
 arms a child. 
 Her limbs begin to fail her, her face is white 
 
 and wild ; 
 Full twenty miles she walked to-day to reach a 
 
 poor-house door. 
 And keep the feeble flickering light in eyes 
 
 that ope no more ! 
 Dead the babe upon her bosom ! Oh, 
 
 mother's mighty sorrow. 
 Bewail in vain your journey's length ! Bewail 
 
 your awful morrow ! 
 " Dear turf," she faintly murmurs, " take the 
 
 life I could not save! 
 Oh, land that dare not give her bread, give 
 . my sweet child a grave ! " 
 
 She falls — she dies — but not until her voice 
 
 has stirred the tombs : 
 "Victoria, with my milkless breasts, I curse 
 
 your English wombs! " 
 
 Philanthropist and missioner lives on St. 
 
 George's Channel — 
 Sends Bibles — lo the Pope of Rome, and to 
 
 the tropics — flannel ! 
 Prays godly prayers iox fort-ign sin before her 
 
 holy altar. 
 The while her hands twist at her back for 
 
 Ireland's neck a halter! 
 In foriign lands protects the weak, with 
 
 treaties— or with cannon ! 
 And turns the dagger in the heart of her 
 
 sister on the Shannon ! 
 I So generous to her foreign foes they praise 
 ' her to the sky— 
 
 And leaves her Irish subjects one privilege — 
 
 to die! 
 , Come, nations of both continents, behold a 
 I Land of Graves ! 
 
THE MEN OF TO-DAY. 
 
 425 
 
 Come, Russia, with Siberia! France, bring 
 your galley slaves ! 
 
 Come, leering Turk, with dripping knife, re- 
 freshed in Christian gore 
 
 Bashi-bazouk, hold up your head ! Be ye 
 ashamed no more : 
 
 O empires of a humane world ! hold this 
 Christian nation. 
 
 That makes her people paupers and grants 
 them then — starvation ! 
 
 MARGARET F. SULLIVAN. 
 
 OUR RECORD. 
 Who casts a slur on Irish worth, a stain on 
 
 Irish fame, 
 Who dreads to own his Irish blood or wear his 
 
 Irish name. 
 Who scorns the warmth of Irish hearts, the 
 
 clasp of Irish hands .'' 
 Let us but raise the veil to-night and shame 
 
 him where he stands. 
 
 The Irish fame ! It rests enshrined within 
 its own proud light. 
 
 Wherever sword or tongue or pen has fash- 
 ioned deeds of -might, 
 
 From battle charge of Fontenoy to Grattan's 
 thunder tone. 
 
 It holds its storied past on high unstoried and 
 alone. 
 
 The Irish blood ! Its crimson tide has watered 
 
 hill and plain 
 Wherever there were wrongs to crush, or 
 
 freemen's rights to gain ; 
 No dastard thought, no coward fear, has held 
 
 it tamely by 
 When there were noble deeds to do, or noble 
 
 deaths to die ! 
 
 The Irish heart! The Irish heart! God keep 
 it fair and free. 
 
 The fullness of its kindly thought, its wealth 
 of honest glee, 
 
 Its generous strength, its ardent faith, its un- 
 complaining trust. 
 
 Though every worshipped idol freaks and 
 crumbles into dust. 
 
 And Irish hands ? — ay, lift them up ; em- 
 browned by honest toil, 
 
 The champions of our western world, the 
 guardians of the soil ; 
 
 When flashed their battle-swords aloft, a 
 waiting world might see 
 
 What Irish hands could do and dare to keep 
 a nation free. 
 
 They bore our starry flag above through 
 
 bastion, gate, and wall. 
 They stood before the foremost rank, the 
 
 bravest of them all ; 
 .\nA when before the cannon's mouth they 
 
 held the foe at bay, 
 O never could old Ireland's heart beat prouder 
 
 than that day. 
 
 So when a craven fain would hide the birth- 
 mark of his race, 
 
 Or slightly speak of Erin's sons before their 
 children's face, 
 
 Breathe no weak word of scorn or shame, but 
 crush him where he stands. 
 
 With Irish worth and Irish fame as won by 
 Irish hands. 
 
 IMARV K. BLAK.E. 
 
 THE MEN OF TO-DAY. 
 There are some in our land who are ever 
 despairing. 
 Whose minds trace no glory except in the 
 past. 
 Whose eyes flash no fire and whose souls know 
 no daring. 
 Who tell us the Saxon has triumphed at last ; 
 But, ah ! these are few — we have those who 
 are stronger. 
 Who unto these cravens give answer and 
 say : 
 To right our loved nation — to baffle her 
 wronger — 
 We've men as of old in dear Ireland to day. 
 
 They would have us believe that men stalwart 
 as Brian. 
 As brave as those soldiers who drove out the 
 Dane, 
 As bold as Red Hugh, who had heart like a 
 lion. 
 Shall never be seen in our island again ; 
 They say that the valor of Conn has departed, 
 That prostrate and weak in the dust we must 
 stay; 
 But our answer is — No ! for men staunch and 
 stout-heaited 
 As ever have lived are in Ireland to-day. 
 
426 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 1 
 
 These creatures despondent deny we inherit 
 The strong iron nerve of Fitzgerald and 
 Tone; 
 And Emmet's pure manhood and Grattan's 
 proud spirit 
 They say from our countrj' for ever have 
 flown. 
 They libel their kinsmen while thus they are 
 whining ; 
 For us, we believe, let them shrink as they 
 may. 
 That courage lives on and that virtue is shining 
 As brightly as ever in Ireland to-day. 
 
 Yes, men with the strength and the faith of 
 past ages 
 Are here with us now marching towards 
 the same end ; 
 We've scholars and statesmen and soldiers and 
 sages. 
 With spirits no tyrant can conquer or bend : 
 And ever till Ireland has worsted the spoilers, 
 Till falls on her white brow blest Liberty's 
 ray, 
 Her cause will be championed by hosts of such 
 toilers [to-day. 
 
 As those who bear onward her banner 
 
 DANIEL CRILLV. 
 
 THE IRISHMAN. 
 The savage loves his native shore. 
 
 Though rude the soil and chill the air- 
 Then well may Erin's sons adore 
 
 Their isle which nature formed so fair 
 What flood reflects a shore so sweet 
 
 As Shannon great or pastoral Bann ? 
 Or who a friend or foe can meet 
 
 So generous as an Irishman .' 
 
 His hand is rash, his heart is warm 
 
 But honesty is still his guide ; 
 None more repents a deed of harm, 
 
 And none forgives with nobler pride ; 
 He may be duped, but won't be dared — 
 
 More fit to practice than to plan ; 
 He dearly earns his poor reward. 
 
 And spends it like an Irishman. 
 
 If strange or poor, for you he'll pay, 
 I And guide to where you safe may be ; 
 
 If you're his guest, while e'er you stay, 
 His cottage holds a jubilee. 
 
 His inmost soul he will unlock. 
 And if he may your secrets scan. 
 
 Your confidence he scorns to mock. 
 For faithful is an Irishman. 
 
 Ry honor bound in woe or weal, 
 
 Whate'er she bids he dares to do; 
 Try him with bribes — they won't prevail ; 
 
 Prove him in fire — you'll find him true. 
 He seeks not safety, let his post 
 
 Be where it ought in danger's van ; 
 And if the field of fame be lost. 
 
 It won't be by an Irishman. 
 
 Erin, loved land, from age to age, 
 
 Be thou more great, more famed and free ; 
 May peace be thine, or shouldst thou wage 
 
 Defensive war — cheap victor)'. 
 May plenty bloom in evcrj' field. 
 
 Which gentle breezes softly fan. 
 And cheerful smiles serenely gild 
 
 The home of every Irishman. 
 
 JAMES ORR. 
 
 OUR OWN AGAIN. 
 Let the coward shrink aside. 
 
 We'll have our own again ; 
 Let the brawling slave deride. 
 
 Here's for our own again ; 
 Let the tyrant bribe and lie, 
 
 March, threaten, fortify. 
 Loose his lawyer and his spy. 
 
 Yet we'll have our own again. 
 Let him soothe in silken tone. 
 
 Scold from a foreign throne ; 
 Let him come with bugles blown. 
 
 We shall have our own again. 
 Let us to our purpose bide. 
 
 We'll have our own again ; 
 Let the game be fairly tried. 
 
 We'll have our own again. 
 
 Send the cr)' throughout the land, 
 
 " Who's for our own again }" 
 Summon all men to our band. — 
 
 Why not our own again ? 
 Rich, and poor, and old, and young. 
 
 Sharp sword and fier)' tongue. 
 Soul and sinew firmly strung. 
 
 All tft get our own again. 
 Brothers thrive by brotherhood — 
 
 Trees in a stormy wood^ 
 
0. BLAME NOT THE BAUD. 427 
 
 Riches come from Nationhood ; 
 
 Might have bent a proud bow to the 
 
 Sha'n't we have our own again ? 
 
 warrior's dart ; 
 
 Munster's woe is Ulster's bane ! 
 
 And the lip which now breathes but the song 
 
 Jcnn for our own again ; 
 
 of desire. 
 
 Tyrants rob as well as reign — 
 
 Might have pour'd the full tide of the 
 
 We'll have our own again. 
 
 patriot's heart ! 
 
 Oft our fathers' hearts it stirred, 
 
 But, alas, for his country! her pride is gone by. 
 
 " Rise for our own again ! " 
 
 And that spirit is broken which never 
 
 Often passed the signal word, 
 
 would bend ; 
 
 " Strike for our own again !" 
 
 O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh. 
 
 Rudely, rashly, and untaught. 
 
 For 'tis treason to love her. and death to 
 
 Uprose they, ere they ought. 
 
 defend ! 
 
 Failing, though they nobly fought. 
 
 Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to 
 
 Dying for their own again. 
 
 betray ; 
 
 Mind will rule and muscle yield 
 
 Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame 
 
 In senate, ship and field,— 
 
 not their sires. 
 
 When we've skill our strength to wield. 
 
 And the torch that would light them thro' 
 
 Let us take our own again. 
 
 dignity's way, 
 
 By the slave his chain is wrought. 
 
 Must be caught from the pile where their 
 
 '• Strive for our own again ; 
 
 country expires! 
 
 Thunder is less strong than thought — 
 
 
 We'll have our own again ! 
 
 Then blame not the Bard, if, in pleasure's 
 
 
 soft dream, 
 
 Calm as granite to our foes. 
 
 He should try to forget what he never can 
 
 Stand for our own again ; 
 
 heal! 
 
 Till his wrath to madness grows, 
 
 Oh ! give but a hope — let a vista but gleam 
 
 Firm for our own again : 
 
 Thro' the gloom of his countr}', and mark 
 
 Bravely hope and wisely wait. 
 
 how he'll feel ! 
 
 Toil, join, and educate; 
 
 That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay 
 
 Man is master of his fate, — 
 
 down 
 
 We'll enjoy our own again. 
 
 Ev'ry passion it nurs'd, ev'ry bliss it ador'd ; 
 
 With a keen constrained thirst — 
 
 While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his 
 
 Powder's calm ere it burst — 
 
 crown. 
 
 Making ready for the worst, 
 
 Like the wreath of Harmodius, should 
 
 So we'll get our own again. 
 
 cover his sword. 
 
 Let us to our purpose bide. 
 
 
 We'll have our own again ; 
 
 But, tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade 
 
 God is on the righteous side — 
 
 away. 
 
 We'll have our own again ! 
 
 Thy name, loved Erin ! shall live in his 
 
 THOMAS DAVI:-;. 
 
 songs ; 
 
 
 Not e'en in the hour when his heart is most 
 
 
 gay. 
 
 
 Will he lose the remembrance of thee and 
 
 0, BLAME NOT THE BARD. 
 
 thy wrongs ! 
 
 0, blame not the Bard if he fly to the bowers. 
 
 The stranger shall hear thy lament on his 
 
 Where pleasure lies carelessly smiling at 
 
 plains ; 
 
 fame; 
 
 The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the 
 
 He was born for much more, and, in happier 
 
 deep. 
 
 hours. 
 
 Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy 
 
 His soul might have burn'd with a holier 
 
 chains. 
 
 flame. 
 
 Shall pause at the song of their captive. 
 
 The string that now languishes loose o'er the 
 
 and weep ! 
 
 lyre. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
428 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 THE IRISH MINSTREL. 
 I hear cold voices saying, that she. my queen, 
 
 is dead, 
 And those sad chords may nevermore their 
 
 tones of music shed ; 
 That I, who wildly loved her. must weep in 
 
 mute despair — 
 Ah! they Icnow not how true love will cling. 
 
 though blight and death be there ! 
 
 I have no joy or triumph to swell my minstrel 
 
 lay. 
 I have no hope to cheer me on the dark and 
 
 lonely way ; 
 But in this feeble soul there's still a might 
 
 they dream not of. 
 While living springs are in my breast of deep 
 
 unswerving Love ! 
 
 Yes, pale one. in thy sorrow — yes, wrong"d one, 
 in thy pain. 
 
 This heart has still a beat for thee— this trem- 
 bling hand a strain ; 
 
 They cannot steal the golden stores the past 
 has left to me — 
 
 Or make me shrink with broken faith. asthore 
 machree, from thee ! 
 
 O! hear — my darling, hear me! — 'tis no cold 
 
 pulse meets thine own, 
 Its burning throbs would warm to life, an' 
 
 thou wcrt changed to stone : 
 I'll call the color to thy cheek, the light into 
 
 thine eye — 
 I know at least if thou art dead my love can 
 
 luiier die ! 
 
 'Twould make the air around thee warm with 
 
 breath of living flame. 
 In life or death, or joy or woe. 'twill cling to 
 
 thee the same — 
 No — never in the gladdest hour, when thou 
 
 wert proud and strong. 
 Was deeper worship pour'd than now in this 
 
 low mourning song. 
 
 1 knelt before you long ago, when a crown 
 
 was on your brow, 
 I lov'd you then with fervent love — I love 
 
 you firmer now ; 
 And that which makes the ivy green around 
 
 the mould'ring tree — 
 Will make my voice all tuneful still, asthore 
 
 machree. for thee ! 
 
 EVA MARY KKLLV. 
 
 THE MINSTREL BOY. 
 The Minstrel Hoy to the war is gone. 
 
 In the ranks of death you'll find him. 
 His father's sword he has girded on. 
 
 And his wild harp slung behind him. 
 ■' Land of Song ! " said the warrior-bard. 
 
 " Tho" all the world betrays thee. 
 One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, 
 
 One faithful harp shall praise thee I " 
 
 The Minstrel fell !— but the foeman's chain 
 
 Could not bring that proud soul under ; 
 The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again, 
 
 For he tore its chords asunder ; 
 And said, " No chains shall sully thee. 
 
 Thou soul of love and bravery ! 
 Thy songs were made for the pure and free, 
 
 They shall never sound in slavery." 
 
 IHO.MAb MOORE. 
 
 ' DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY, 
 
 , Dear harp of my countrj', in darkness I 
 found thee. 
 The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee 
 long. 
 When proudly, my own Island Harp! I un- 
 bound thee. 
 And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, 
 and song ; 
 j The warm lay of love and the light note of 
 gladness 
 Havewaken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; 
 But so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of 
 sadness. 
 That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee 
 still. 
 
 Dear harp of my country! farewell to thy 
 numbers. 
 The 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. 
 
 Has throbb'd at our lay.'twasthy glory alone; 
 I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over. 
 And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy 
 I own. 
 
 I THOMAS MOORE. 
 
ERIN'S FLAG. 
 
 429 
 
 ERIN'S FLAG. 
 
 Unroll Erin's flag ! fling its folds to the breeze ! 
 Let it float o'er the land, let it flash o'er the 
 
 seas; 
 Lift it out of the dust — let it wave as of 
 
 yore. 
 When the chiefs with their clans stood around 
 
 it and swore 
 That never — no ! — never, while God gave them 
 
 life. 
 And they had an arm and a sword for the 
 
 strife, 
 That never — no ! — never, that Banner would 
 
 yield 
 As long as the heart of a Celt was its shield ; 
 While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to 
 
 wield. 
 And his last drop of blood was unshed on the 
 
 field. 
 
 Lift it up ! wave it high! 'tis as bright as of 
 
 old! 
 Not a stain on its Green, not a blot on its 
 
 Gold, 
 Though the woes and the wrongs of three 
 
 hundred long years 
 Have drenched Erin's sunburst with blood and 
 
 with tears; 
 Though the clouds of oppression enshroud it 
 
 in gloom, 
 And around it the thunders of tyranny boom. 
 Look aloft ! look aloft ! lo, the clouds drifting 
 
 by! 
 There's a gleam through the gloom, there's a 
 
 light in the sky. 
 'Tis the sunburst resplendent ! far-flashing on 
 
 high! 
 Erin's dark night is waning, her daj'-dawn is 
 
 nigh! 
 
 Lift it up! lift it up! the old banner of 
 
 green ! 
 The blood of its sons has but brightened its 
 
 sheen ! 
 What though the tyrant has trampled it down ? 
 Are its folds not emblazoned with deeds of 
 
 What though for ages it droops in the dust ? 
 ] Shall it droop thus for ever ? No ! no ! God is 
 
 just ! 
 I Take it up ! take it up from the tyrant's foul 
 I tread, 
 
 Let him tear the green flag ! we will snatch 
 its last shred. 
 
 And beneath it we'll bleed as our forefathers 
 
 bled. 
 And we'll vow by the dust in the graves of 
 
 our dead, 
 And we'll swear by the blood which the Briton 
 
 has shed, 
 And we'll vow by the wrecks which through 
 
 Erin he spread. 
 And we'll swear by the thousands who, 
 
 famished, unfed, 
 Died down in the ditches — wild howling for 
 
 bread. 
 And we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits 
 
 have fled, 
 And we'll swear by the bones in each coflSnless 
 
 bed. 
 That we'll battle the Briton through danger 
 
 and dread — 
 That we'll cling to the cause which we glory 
 
 to wed, 
 Till the gleam of our steel and the shock of 
 
 our lead 
 Shall prove to our foe that we meant what we 
 
 said — 
 That we'll lift up the Green and tear down the 
 
 Red. 
 
 Lift up the Green Flag ! oh ! it wants to go 
 
 home; 
 Full long h.-is its lot been to wander and 
 
 roam ; 
 It has followed the fate of its sons o'er the 
 
 world. 
 But its folds, like their hopes, are not faded 
 
 nor furled ; 
 Like a weary-winged bird, to the east and the 
 
 west. 
 It has flitted and fled — but it never shall 
 
 rest. 
 Till pluming its pinions, it sweeps o'er the 
 
 main. 
 And speeds to the shores of its old home 
 
 again, 
 Where its fetterless folds, o'er each mountain 
 
 and plain. 
 Shall wave with a glory that never shall wane. 
 
 Take it up — take it up ! bear it back from 
 
 afar — 
 That banner must blaze 'mid the lightnings of 
 
 war; 
 Lay your hands on its folds, lift your gaze to 
 
 the sky 
 And swear that you'll bear it triumphant or 
 
 die I 
 
4oO 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 And shout to the clans scattered far o'er the ! 
 
 earth, I 
 
 To join in iht- march to the land of their , 
 
 birth; 
 And wherever the exiles, 'neath Heaven's 
 i broad dome, 
 
 Have been fated to suffer, to sorrow and roam. 
 They'll bound on the sea, and away o'er the j 
 
 foam. 
 They'll sail to the music of " Home, Sweet 
 
 Home I" 
 
 ABRA"M .1. KVAX. 
 
 THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED. 
 
 THE GREEN AND THE GOLD. 
 In the soft, blooming vales of our countrj'. 
 
 Two colors shine brightest of all. 
 O'er mountain, and moorland, and meadow. 
 
 On cottage and old castle wall ; 
 They shine in the gay summer garden, 
 And glint in the depths of the wold. 
 And they gleam on the banner of Ireland, 
 Our colors, the Green and the Gold ! 
 
 Then hurrah for the Green and the Gold ! 
 By the fresh winds of Freedom outrolled, 
 As they shine on the brave Irish banner. 
 Our colors, the Green and the Gold I 
 
 In the days of Fomorian and Fenian, 
 
 These colors flashed bright in the ray; 
 And their gleam kept the fierce Roman eagles 
 
 In Rome-conquered Britain at bay; 
 When Conn fought his hundred red battles, 
 
 And the lightning struck Daithi of old. 
 As he bore through Helvetia's wild gorges 
 Our colors, the Green and the Gold. 
 
 Then hurrah for the Green and the Gold I 
 May they flourish for ages untold. 
 May they blaze in the vanguard of freedom. 
 Our colors, the Green and the Gold I 
 
 In these dark days of doom and disaster, 
 
 Is it dead, the old love for our land? 
 Are our bosoms less brave than our fathers'. 
 
 Comes the sword-hilt less deft to our hand ? 
 No 1 we've proved us the wide world over 
 
 Wherever war's surges have rolled. 
 And we'll raise once again in Old Ireland 
 Our colors, the Green and the Gold I 
 
 Then hurrah for the Green and the Gold I 
 And hurrah for the valiant and bold 
 Who will raise them supreme in Old Ireland, 
 Our colors, the Green and the Gold 1 ; 
 
 ROBERT DWVER JOYCE. 
 
 Full often when our fathers saw the Red above 
 
 the Green. 
 They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, 
 
 pike, and skian. 
 And over many a noble town, and many a 
 
 field of dead. 
 They proudly set the Irish Green above the 
 
 English Red. 
 
 But, in the end, throughout the land, the 
 
 shameful sight was seen — 
 The English Red in triumph high above the 
 
 Irish Green ; 
 But well they died, in breach and field, who, 
 
 as their spirits fled. 
 Still saw the Green maintain its place above 
 
 the English Red. 
 
 And they who saw, in after times, the Red 
 
 above the Green, 
 Were withered as the grass that dies beneath 
 
 a forest screen ; 
 Vet often by this healthy hope their sinking 
 
 hearts were fed, 
 That, n some day to come, the Green should 
 
 flutter o'er the Red. 
 
 Sure 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and 
 
 Wolfe Tone sunk serene — 
 Because they could not bear to leave the Red 
 
 above the Green ; 
 KnA 'twas for this that Owen fought, and 
 
 Sarsfield nobly bled — 
 Because their eyes were hot to see the Green 
 
 above the Red. 
 
 So, when the strife began again, our darling 
 
 Irish Green 
 Was down upon the earth, while high the 
 
 English Red was seen ; 
 Yet still we held our learless course, for some-. 
 
 thing in us said. 
 " Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green 
 
 above the Red." 
 
 And 'tis for this we think and toil, and 
 
 knowledge strive to glean, 
 That we may pull the English Red below the 
 
 Irish Green, 
 .And leave our sons sweet liberty, and smiling 
 
 plenty spread 
 ."Vbove the land once dark with blood — the 
 
 Green above the Red ! 
 
UP FOR THE GREEX. 
 
 431 
 
 The jealous English tyrant now has banned 
 
 the Irish Green, 
 And forced us to conceal it like a something 
 
 foul and mean ; 
 But yet, by heavens! he'll sooner raise his 
 
 victims from the dead 
 Than force our hearts to leave the Green and 
 
 cotton to the Red. 
 
 We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and 
 
 blesses those who lean 
 On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly 
 
 king or queen ; 
 And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our 
 
 blood to shed 
 Once and forevermore to raise the Green 
 
 above the Red ! 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
 THE GREEN FLAG. 
 The Green Flag — the Green Flag ! oh. would 
 
 that it flew 
 As proudly in the Old Land as 'tis flying m 
 
 the New ! 
 For West and South give honored place 
 
 unto its radiant sheen. 
 And our exiles build their homes beneath the 
 
 banner of the Green ! 
 Oh, the South loves the Green, for the sum- 
 mer's shining there. 
 While here the winter, dim and cold, is dark 
 
 as our despair. 
 And the numbing snow-drifts cover every 
 
 path where once was seen 
 The pride and promise of the spring, — the 
 
 glor)' of the Green. 
 
 Once gallant hands upheld the flag, and hearts 
 
 were throbbing high 
 With fier)' love that deemed it joy for that 
 
 dear cause to die; 
 Now strangers mock its drooping folds, and 
 
 scorning pass it by. 
 While round it swells no battle -song, but 
 
 slavery's feeble sigh. 
 Oh, the West loves the Green, for her sun is 
 
 high and fair. 
 And her silver stars shine brightly down 
 
 through Freedom's azure air ; 
 But here no ray of sun or star yet lights the 
 
 dreary scene. 
 And night-clouds hide our joy and pride — 
 
 the beauty of the Green. 
 
 Alas, alas for Eire I — oh, the friends are faint 
 
 and few 
 That still guard round the emblem of her 
 
 spirit bright and true ; 
 Yet day by day some shrink away, or turn 
 
 their hearts and eyes 
 To where the Green is waving free beneath 
 
 the Southern skies ; 
 But sure as God renews again the glory of the 
 
 year, 
 Our winter yet shall pass away — the summer 
 
 shall be here ! 
 'Neath gloom and snow revives the glow in 
 
 Eire's breast, I ween. 
 And faithful lovers yet shall twine fresh gar- 
 lands of the Green ! 
 
 ULIVIA KNIGHT CONNOLLY. 
 
 UP FOR THE GREEN. 
 
 ..-/ Song of the United Iris/iiiien. 
 
 'Tis the green — oh ! the green is the color of 
 
 the true. 
 And we'll back it 'gainst the orange, and we'll 
 
 raise it o'er the blue I 
 For the color of our Fatherland alone should 
 
 here be seen — 
 'Tis the color of the martyred dead — our own 
 immortal green. 
 Then up for the green, boys, and up for 
 
 the green ; 
 Oh ! 'tis down in the dust, and a shame 
 
 to be seen ; 
 But we've hands, — oh ! we've hands, boys, 
 
 full strong enough, I ween. 
 To rescue and to raise again our own im- 
 mortal green ! 
 
 They may say they have power it is vain to 
 
 oppose — 
 That 'tis better to obey and live, than surely 
 
 die as foes; 
 But we scorn all their threats, boys, whatever 
 
 they may mean ; 
 For we trust the God above us, and we dearly 
 love the green. 
 So, we'll up for the green, and we'll up for 
 
 the green ! 
 O ! to die is far better than be curst as we 
 
 have been ; 
 And we've hearts I — O, we've hearts, boys, 
 
 full true enough, I ween. 
 To rescue and to raise again our own im- 
 mortal green ! 
 
432 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 They may swear, as they often did, our wretch- 
 edness to cure ; 
 But well never trust John Bull again, nor let 
 
 his lies allure. 
 No, we won't — no. we won't, Bull, nor now 
 
 nor evermore I 
 For we've hopes on the ocean, and we've trust 
 on the shore. 
 Then up for the green, boys, and up for 
 
 the g^een I 
 Shout it back to the Sassanach, " We'll 
 
 never sell the green ! " 
 For our Tone is coming back, and with 
 
 men enough, I ween. 
 To rescue and avenge us and our own 
 immortal green. 
 
 DENNV LANE. 
 
 THE WEARING OF THE GREEN, 
 O brothers dear, and did you hear the news 
 
 that's goin' round? 
 The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish 
 
 ground ; 
 No more St. Patrick's day we'll keep, its color 
 
 can't be seen. 
 For there's a bloody law agcn the wearing of 
 
 the green. 
 O, I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me 
 
 by the hand, 
 And he says. How's poor old Ireland, and how- 
 does she stand ? 
 She's the most distressful country that ever 
 
 yet was seen, 
 They're hanging men and women for the 
 
 wearing of the green. 
 
 Then since the color we must wear is England's 
 
 cruel red. 
 Old Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood 
 
 that they have shed. 
 You may take the shamrock from your hat, 
 
 and cast it on the sod. 
 It will take root and flourish still, though 
 
 under foot 'tis trod. 
 When the law can stop the blades of grass 
 
 from growing as they grow. 
 And when the leaves in summer-time their 
 
 verdure dare not show, 
 Then 1 will change the color that I wear in 
 
 my caubeen. 
 But till that day, please God, I'll slick to 
 
 wearing of the green. 
 
 And if at last her color should be torn from 
 
 Ireland's heart. 
 Her sons with shame and sorrow from the 
 
 dear old land will part. 
 I've heard whispers of a country that lies far 
 
 beyond the sea. 
 Where the rich and poor stand equal in the 
 
 light of freedom's day. 
 O Erin ! must we leave you, driven by the 
 
 tyrant's hand.' 
 Must we seek a mother's blessing from a 
 
 strange but happier land.' 
 Where the cruel cross of England's thraldom 
 
 never shall be seen. 
 But where, please God I well live and die. 
 
 still wearing of the green. 
 
 DION BUUCICAULT. 
 
 .THE WEARING OF THE GREEN. 
 One blessing on my native isle, one curse upon 
 
 her foes I 
 While yet her skies above me smile, her breeze 
 
 around me blows: 
 Now. never more my cheek be wet ; nor sigh, 
 
 nor altered mien 
 Tell the dark tyrant I regret the Wearing of 
 
 the Green. 
 
 Sweet land ! my parents loved you well : they 
 sleep within your breast; 
 
 With theirs — for love no words can tell — my 
 bones must never rest ; 
 
 And lonely must my true love stray, that was 
 our village queen. 
 
 When I am banished far away for the Wear- 
 ing of the Green. 
 
 But. Mar)', dry that bitter tear, 'twould break 
 
 my heart to see ; 
 And sweetly sleep, my parents dear, that 
 
 cannot weep for me. 
 I'll think not of my distant tomb, nor seas 
 
 rolled wide between. 
 But watch the hour, that yet will come, for 
 
 the Wearing of the Green. 
 
 Oh I I care not for the thistle, and I care not 
 
 for the rose. 
 For when the cold winds whistle, neither down 
 
 nor crimson shows; 
 But. like hope to him that's friendless, where 
 
 no gaudy flower is seen. 
 By our graves, with love that's endless, waves 
 
 our own true-hearted Green. 
 
THE GERALDINES. 
 
 433 
 
 Oh ! sure God's world was wide enough, and ' When from their full and genial hearts an 
 
 And 
 
 plentiful for all ! 
 lined cabins were no stuff to build a 
 
 lordly hall ! 
 They might have let the poor man live, yet all 
 
 as lordly been ; 
 But heaven its own good time will give for 
 
 the Wearing of the Green. 
 
 HENRV GRATTAN CURRAN. 
 
 THE GERALDINES. 
 The Geraldines — the Geraldines; — 'tis full a 
 
 thousand years 
 Since, 'mid the Tuscan vineyards, bright 
 
 flashed their battle-spears ; 
 When Capet seized the crown of France, their 
 
 iron shields were known, 
 And their sabre-dint struck terror on the 
 
 flanks of the Garonne ; 
 Across the downs of Hastings they spurred 
 
 hard by William's side. 
 And the grey sands of Palestine with Moslem 
 
 blood they dyed ; — 
 But never then, nor thence, till now, has 
 
 falsehood or disgrace 
 Been seen to soil Fitzgerald's plume, or mantle 
 
 in his face. 
 
 The Geraldines — the Geraldines 1 — 'tis true in 
 
 Strongbow's van, 
 By lawless force, as conquerors, their Irish 
 
 reign began ; 
 And, oh ! through many a dark campaign they 
 
 proved their prowess stern. 
 In Leinster's plains, and Munster's vales, on 
 
 king, and chief, and kerne ; 
 But noble was the cheer within the halls so 
 
 rudely won, 
 And gen'rous was the steel-gloved hand that 
 
 had such slaughter done ; 
 How gay their laugh, how proud their mien, 
 
 you'd ask no herald's sign — 
 Among a thousand you had known the 
 
 princely Gerald ine 
 
 These Geraldines — these Geraldines! — not 
 
 long our air they breath'd ; 
 Not long they fed on venison, in Irish water 
 
 seethed ; 
 Not often had their children been by Irish 
 
 mothers nursed. 
 
 Irish feeling burst ! 
 The English monarchs strove in vain, by law, 
 
 and force, and bribe. 
 To win from Irish thoughts and ways this 
 
 " more than Irish " tribe ; 
 For still they clung to fosterage, to brehon, 
 
 cloak, and bard ; 
 What king dare say to Geraldine: "Your 
 
 Irish wife discard "? 
 
 Ye Geraldines — ^ye Geraldines! — how royally 
 
 ye reigned 
 O'er Desmond broad, and rich Kildare, and 
 
 English arts disdained ; 
 Your sword made knights, your banner waved, 
 
 free was your bugle call 
 By Glyn's green slopes, and Dingle's tide, 
 
 from Barrow's banks to Youglial. 
 What gorgeous shrines, what brehon lore, 
 
 what minstrel feats there were 
 In and around Maynooth's grey keep, and 
 
 palace-filled Adare ! 
 But not for rite or feast ye stay'd, when friend 
 
 or kin were press'd ; 
 And foemen fled, when " Croin abo " bespoke 
 
 your lance in rest. 
 
 Ye Geraldines — yc Geraldines ! — since Silken 
 
 Thomas flung 
 King Henry's sword on council board, the 
 
 English thanes among, 
 Ye never ceased to battle brave against the 
 
 English sway. 
 Though ax and brand and treachery your 
 
 proudest cut away. 
 Of Desmond's blood, through woman's veins 
 
 passed on th' exhausted tide ; 
 His title lives — a Saxon churl usurps the lion's 
 
 hide; 
 And, though Kildare tower haughtily, there's 
 
 ruin at the root. 
 Else why, since Edward fell to earth, had such 
 
 a tree no fruit.' 
 
 True Geraldine! brave Geraldine! — as tor- 
 rents mould the earth. 
 
 You channelled deep old Ireland's heart by 
 constancy and worth ; 
 
 When Ginckle 'leaguered Limerick, the Irish 
 soldiers gazed 
 
 To see if in the setting sun dead Desmond's 
 banner blazed ! 
 
 And still it is the peasant's hope upon the 
 Curragh's mere. 
 
434 
 
 rCE^fS OF PATK/OT/SM. 
 
 " They live, who'll see ten thousand men with ! Beside these grey old pillars, how perishing 
 
 good Lord Edward here " i and weak 
 
 So let them dream till brighter days, when. The Roman's arch of triumph, and the tem{>le 
 
 not by Edward's shade. 
 
 of the Greek ; 
 
 But by some leader true as he. their lines shall .\n6 the gold domes of Byzantium, and the 
 
 be arrayed ! 
 
 These Geraldines— these Geraldinesl — rain 
 
 wears away the rock. 
 And time may wear away the tribe that stood 
 
 the battle's shock 
 
 pointed Gothic spires.- 
 All are gone, one by one. but the temples of 
 our sires 
 
 The column, with its capital, is level with the 
 dust. 
 
 Tj . u-i ' • I f. „f „n .i,„. I ■'^nd the proud halls of the mighty and the 
 
 But ever, sure, while one is left of all that [ '^ , , , , . 
 
 calm homes of the just ; 
 
 For the proudest works of man, as certainly, 
 
 honored race, 
 In front of Ireland's chivalry is that Fitzger- 
 ald's place. 
 
 but slower, 
 the grass 
 mower I 
 
 And. though the last were dead and gone, ^"^^ ^'^^ ^'"^ &^«^f ''^ ^^e sharp scythe of the 
 1 /T ij J ^ mower! 
 
 how many a field and town, ■■. . .... 
 
 From Thomas Court to Abbcyfeale. would i '^"' ^''"^ ^'^^^_, 8^°** ^*'" *''«" '" '"^J^^y 
 
 ' and mirth. 
 
 On the wing of the Spring comes the Goddess 
 of the Earth ; 
 shone as did the '^"^ ^""^ '"*" '" ^^^^ world no spring-tide e'er 
 returns 
 
 To the labors of his hands or the ashes of his 
 urns! 
 
 cherish their renown ! 
 And men would say of valor's rise 
 
 power's decline, 
 " ' Twill never soar, it 
 
 Geraldine." 
 
 The Geraldines — the Geraldines ! — and are 
 
 there any fears 
 Within the sons ot conquerors for full a thou- 
 sand years ? 
 Can treason spring from out a soil bedewed 
 
 with martyr's blood ? 
 Or has that grown a purling brook, which 
 
 long rushed down a flood ? — 
 By Desmond swept with sword and fire, — by 
 
 clan and keep laid low, — 
 By Silken Thomas and his kin, — by Sainted 
 
 Edward,— No ! 
 The forms of centuries rise up, and in the 
 
 Irish line 
 
 COMMAXK THi:iK SOX lOTAKE IHE PDSl THAT 
 
 Firs THE Geraldine! 
 
 Thomas Davis. 
 
 THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND. 
 
 The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously 
 
 they stand 
 By the lakes and rushing rivers, through the And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the 
 
 Two favorites hath Time — the pyramids of 
 
 Nile, 
 And the old mj-stic temples of] our own dear 
 
 isle; 
 As the breeze o'er the seas, where the halcyon 
 
 has its nest. 
 Thus time o'er Egj'pt's tombs and the temples 
 
 of the West ! 
 The names of their founders have vanished 
 
 in the gloom, 
 Like the dry branch in the fire or the body 
 
 in the tomb ; 
 But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they 
 
 cast — 
 These temples of forgotten gods — these relics 
 
 of the past ! 
 
 .\round these walls ha\e wandered the Briton 
 
 and the Dane— 
 The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of 
 
 Spain — 
 Phoenician and Milesian, and the plundering 
 
 Norman Peers — 
 
 valleys of 
 
 chiefs of later vears! 
 
 In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their How many different rites have these grey old 
 
 heads sublime. 
 
 temples known.' 
 
 These grey old pillar temples — these con- To the mind what dreams are written in these 
 
 querors of time! 
 
 chronicles of stone I 
 
THE CELTS. 
 
 435 
 
 What terror and what error, what gleams of Cromah, their Day-God and their Thunderer, 
 love and truth. Made morning and eclipse ; 
 
 Ha\e flashed from these walls since the world ; Bride was their Queen of Song, and unto her 
 was in its youth ? They prayed with fire-touched lips. 
 
 He e blazed the sacred fire, and when the sun 
 
 was gone. 
 As a star from afar to the traveller it shone ; 
 And the warm blood of the victim ha\-e these 
 
 grey old temples drunk. 
 And the death-song of the Druid and the 
 
 matin of the Monk. 
 Here was placed the holy chalice that held 
 
 the sacred wine, 
 .\nd the gold cross from the altar, and the 
 
 relics from the shrine. 
 And the mitre shining brighter with its 
 
 diamonds than the East. 
 And the crozier of the Pontiff, and the \'est- 
 
 ments of the Priest ! 
 
 Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the 
 
 vesper bell. — 
 Wliere the fugitive found shelter became the 
 
 hermit's cell ; 
 And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent 
 
 and good. 
 For the Cross o'er the moss of the pointed 
 
 summit stood. 
 There may it stand forever, while this symbol 
 
 doth impart 
 To the mind one glorious vision or one proud 
 
 throb to the heart ; 
 While the breast needeth rest, may these grey 
 
 old temples last. 
 Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of 
 
 the past I 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE liCCARTHV. 
 
 THE CELTS. 
 Long, long ago, beyond the misty space 
 
 Of twice a thousand years, 
 In Erin old there dwelt a mighty race. 
 
 Taller than Roman spears ; 
 Like oaks and towers they had a giant grace. 
 
 Were fleet as deers ; [place. 
 
 With winds and waves they made their 'biding 
 
 These western shepherd seers. 
 
 Their ocean God was Man-a-man-McLir. 
 
 Whose angry lips. 
 In their white foam, full often would inter 
 
 Whole fleets of ships; 
 
 Great were their deeds, their passions and their 
 sports ; 
 
 With clay and stone [forts 
 
 They piled on strath and shore those mystic 
 
 Not yet o'erthrown ; [courts. 
 
 On cairn-crowned hills they held their council 
 
 While youths alone 
 With giant dogs, explored the elk resorts, 
 
 And brought them down. 
 
 Of these was Fin, the father of the Bard, 
 
 Whose ancient song 
 Over the clamor of all change is heard, 
 
 Sweet-voic'd and strong. 
 Fin once o'ertook Granu, the golden-hair d. 
 
 The fleet and young; 
 From her the lovely, and from him the fcur'd, 
 
 The primal poet sprung. 
 
 Ossian ! two thousand years of m ist and change 
 
 Surround thy name — 
 Thy Finian heroes now no longer range 
 
 The hills of fame. 
 The very name of Fin and Gaul sound strange. 
 
 Yet thine the same — 
 By miscalled lake and desecrated grange — 
 
 Remains, and shall remain ! 
 
 The Druid's altar and the Druid's creed 
 We scarce can trace. 
 
 There is not left an undisputed deed 
 Of all your race. 
 
 Save your majestic song, which hath their 
 speed 
 And strength and grace ; 
 
 In that sole song they live and love, and 
 bleed- 
 It bears them on thro' space. 
 
 O. inspir'd giant! shall we e'er behold. 
 
 In our own time. 
 One fit to speak your spirit on the wold, 
 
 Or seize your rhyme? 
 One pupil of the past, as mighty soul'd 
 
 As in the prime. 
 Were the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold — 
 
 They, of your song sublime ! 
 
 THOMAS D'aRCY MCGEK. 
 
POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 LAMENT FOR BANBA. 
 *>, my land ! O, my love ! 
 What a woe, and how deep. 
 Is thy death to my long mourning soul! 
 God alone, God above, 
 
 Can awake thee from sleep, 
 Can release thee from bondage and dole I 
 Alas, alas, and alas. 
 For the once proud f)coplc of Banba ! 
 
 As a tree in its prime. 
 
 Which the axe layeth low, 
 Didst thou fall, O, unfortunate land ! 
 Not by Time, nor thy crime, 
 Came the shock and the blow. 
 They were given by a false felon hand ! 
 Alas, alas, and alas. 
 For the once proud people of Banba 1 
 
 O. my grief of all griefs 
 Is to see how thy throne 
 Is usurped, whilst thyself art in thrall! 
 Other lands have their chiefs. 
 Have their kings, thou alone 
 Art a wife, yet a widow withal ! 
 Alas, alas, and alas. 
 
 For the once proud people of Banba ! 
 
 The high house of O'Neill 
 Is gone down to the dust. 
 The O'Brien is clanless and banned ; 
 And the steel, the red steel. 
 May no more be the trust 
 Of the Faithful and Brave in the land ! 
 Alas. alas, and alas, 
 
 For the once proud people of Banba I 
 
 True, alas ! Wrong and wrath 
 Were of old all too rife ; 
 Deeds were done which no good man admires ; 
 And perchance Heaven hath 
 Chastened us for the strife 
 And the blood-shedding ways of our sires. 
 Alas. alas, and alas. 
 For the once proud people of Banba ! 
 
 But no more ! This our doom. 
 While our hearts are yet warm, 
 Let us not over-weakly deplore; 
 For the hour may soon loom 
 When the Lord's mighty hand 
 Shall be raised for our rescue once more : 
 
 And our grief shall be turned into joy 
 For the still proud people of Banba. 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 From the Irish. 
 
 THE CELTIC TONGUE. 
 'Tis fading, oh, 'tis fading ! like leaves upon 
 
 the trees! 
 In murmuring tone 'tis dying, like the wail 
 
 upon the breeze ! 
 'Tis swiftly disappearing, as footprints on the 
 
 shore 
 Where the Barrow, and the Erne, and Loch 
 
 Swilly's waters roar — 
 Where the parting sunbeam kisses Loch 
 
 Corrib in the West. 
 And Ocean, like a mother, clasps the Shannon 
 
 to her breast, 
 The language of old Erin, of her history and 
 
 name — 
 Of her monarchs and her heroes — her glory 
 
 and her fame — 
 The sacred shrine where rested, thro' sunshine 
 
 and thro' gloom. 
 The spirit of her martyrs, as their bodies in 
 
 the tomb. 
 The time-wrought shell, where murmur'd, 
 
 'mid centuries of wrong. 
 The secret voice of Freedom in annal and in 
 
 song — [last. 
 
 Is slowly, surely sinking, into silent death at 
 To live but in the memories of those who 
 
 lo\'e the Past. 
 
 Ah ! magic Tongue, that round us wove its 
 
 spells so soft and dear! 
 .•\h ! pleasant Tongue, whose murmurs were 
 
 as music to the ear! 
 Ah ! glorious Tongue, whose accents could 
 
 each Celtic heart enthrall ! 
 Ah ! rushing Tongue, that sounded like the 
 
 swollen torrent's fall ! 
 The Tongue, that in the Senate was lightning 
 
 flashing bright, — 
 Whose echo in the battle was the thunder in 
 
 its might ! 
 That Tongue, which once in chieftain's hall 
 
 poured loud the minstrel lay. 
 As chieftain, serf, or minstrel old is silent there 
 
 to-day! 
 That Tongue whose shout dismayed the foe 
 
 at Kong and Mullaghmast, 
 Like those who nobly perished there is num- 
 bered with the Past! 
 
 The Celtic Tongue is passing, and we stand 
 
 coldly by 
 Without a pang within the heart, a tear withm 
 
 the eye — 
 
THE DIRGE OF ATHUNREE. 
 
 437 
 
 Without one pulse for Freedom stirred, one 
 
 effort made to save 
 The Language of our Fathers from dark 
 
 obhvion's grave! 
 O, Erin ! vain your efforts — your prayers for 
 
 Freedom's crown, 
 Whilst offered in the language of the foe 
 
 that clove it down ; 
 Be sure that tyrants ever, with an art from 
 
 darkness sprung. 
 Would make the conquered nation slaves 
 
 alike in limb and tongue ; 
 Russia's great Czar ne'er stood secure o'er 
 
 Poland's shatter'd frame. 
 Until he trampled from her heart the tongue 
 
 that bore her name. 
 O, Irishmen, be Irish still ! stand for the dear 
 
 old tongue 
 Which as ivy to a ruin, to your native land 
 
 has clung! 
 O, snatch this relic from the wreck! the only 
 
 and the last, 
 And cherish in your heart of hearts, the 
 
 language of the Past ! 
 
 MICHAEL MULLIN. 
 
 THE MONKS OF ERIN. 
 The Irish monks, the Irish monks, their 
 
 names are treasured still 
 In many a foreign valley, on many a foreign 
 
 hill. 
 Their preaching, prayers, and fasting are still 
 
 the peasants' themes 
 Around the coast of Cornwall, and along old 
 
 Flanders' streams ; 
 Their lives austere and holy, and the wonders 
 
 of their hands. 
 Still nourish faith and sanctity through fair 
 
 Italia's lands, 
 The cross they bore in triumph still bright as 
 
 ever shines 
 Above the domes of Austria, among the Tus- 
 can vines. 
 
 Quaint Mechlin's noblest temple to an Irish 
 
 monk is raised, 
 In every home in Mechlin St. Rumold's name 
 
 is praised ; 
 Virgilius, the gifted, in his glorious Saltzburgh 
 
 tomb, 
 Is honored by the silent prayer and by the 
 
 cannon's boom; 
 
 Old hymns are sung to Fridolin in the islands 
 of the Rhine, 
 
 And the relics of Besancjon's saint sleep in a 
 silver shrine; 
 
 The voice that roused Crusaders by the Tagus, 
 Rhone and Po, 
 
 Seems ringing still o'er Malachy at the con- 
 vent of Clairvaux. 
 
 The Irish monks, the Irish monks, their spirit 
 
 still survives 
 In the stainless Church of Ireland, and in her 
 
 priesthood lives. 
 Their spirit still doth linger round Holy Cross 
 
 and Kells— 
 Oh, Ireland's monks can know no death while 
 
 gush our holy wells. 
 High Cashel's fane is standing, and though 
 
 in the spoiler's hand, 
 Like the captive ark of Judah, 'tis a blessing 
 
 to our land, 
 For proudly it reminds us of the palmy days 
 
 of yore, 
 When kings were monks and monks were 
 
 kings, upon our Irish shore. 
 
 WILLIAM p. TREACY. 
 
 THE DIRGE OF ATHUNREE. 
 Athunree ! Athunree ! * 
 Erin's heart, it broke on thee! 
 Ne'er till then in all its woe 
 Did that heart its hope forego. 
 Save a little child — but one — 
 The last regal race is gone, 
 Roderick died again on thee 
 
 Athunree ! 
 
 Athunree ! Athunree ! 
 A hundred years and forty-three 
 Winter-winged and black as night. 
 O'er the land had tracked their flight ; 
 In Clonmacnoise from earthy bed 
 Roderick raised once more his head ;— 
 Fedlini flood-like rushed to thee, 
 Athunree ! 
 
 Athunree! Athunree! 
 The light that struggled sank on thee ! 
 Ne'er since Cathal the red-handed, 
 Such a host till then was banded. 
 
 * Athenry-- 
 ed over that . 
 the divisions 
 
 orman power at last triumph- 
 lad long been enfeebled by 
 f O'Connor. 
 
438 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 Long-haired Kerne and Galloglass 
 Met the Norman face to face ; 
 The saffron standard floated far 
 O'er the on-rolling wave of war; 
 Bards the onset sang oer thee, 
 Athunree. 
 
 Athunrec! Athunree! 
 The poison tree took root on thee ! 
 What might naked breasts avail 
 'Gainst sharp spear and steel-ribbed mail ? 
 Of our Princes twenty-nine. 
 Bulwarks fair of Connor's line. 
 Of our clansmen thousands ten. 
 Slept on thy red ridges. Then — 
 Then the night caflie down on thee, 
 Athunree ! 
 
 Athunree! Athunree! 
 Strangely shone that moon on thee ! 
 Like the lamp of them that tread 
 Staggering o'er the heaps of dead. 
 Seeking that they fear to see. 
 O that widows' wailing sore ! 
 On it rang to Oranmore ; 
 Died, they say, among the piles 
 That make holy Arran's isles ; 
 It was Erin wept on thee, 
 Athunree ! 
 
 Athunree! Athunree! 
 The heart of Erin burst on thee! 
 Since that hour some unseen hand 
 On her forehead stamps the brand . 
 Her children ate that hour the fruit 
 That slays manhood at the root ; 
 Our warriors are not what they were ; 
 Our maids no more are blithe and fair ; 
 Truth and honor died on thee, 
 Athunree ! 
 
 Athunree ! Athunree ! 
 Never harvest waves o'er thee! 
 Never sweetly breathing kine 
 Pant o'er golden meads of thine! 
 Barren be thou as a tomb ; 
 May the night-bird haunt thy gloom. 
 And the wailer from the sea. 
 Athunree ! 
 
 Athunree ! Athunree ! 
 All my heart is sore fo thee : 
 It was Erin died on thoo. 
 Athunree ! 
 
 AUUREV T. DE VERE. 
 
 CAHAL MOR OF THE WINE-RED HAND. 
 I walked entranced 
 
 Through a land of Morn ; 
 Tlie sun. with wondrous excess of light. 
 Shone down and glanced 
 Over seas of corn. 
 And lustrous gardens left and right. 
 Even in the clime 
 Of resplendent Spain 
 Beams no such sun upon such a land; 
 But it was the time, 
 'Twas in the reign. 
 Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. 
 
 Anon stood nigh 
 By my side a man 
 Of princely aspect and port sublime. 
 Him queried I ; 
 
 "Oil. my lord and khan. 
 What clime is this and what golden time?" 
 When he : " The clime 
 Is a clime to praise. 
 The clime is Erin's, the green and bland ; 
 And it is the time. 
 These be the days. 
 Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-Red Hand." 
 
 Then I saw thrones. 
 And circling fires, 
 .\nd a dome 'rose near me as by a sjiell. 
 Whence flowed the tones 
 Of silver lyres. 
 And many voices in wreathed swell ; 
 And their thrilling chime 
 Fell on mine ears 
 As the heavenly-hymn of an angel band— 
 •• It is now the time. 
 These be the years. 
 Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. " 
 
 1 sought the hall. 
 And, behold! — a change: 
 From light to darkness, from joy to woe 
 King, nobles, all, 
 
 Looked aghast and strange ; 
 Tlic minstrel-group sate in dumbest show! 
 Had some great crime 
 Wrought this dread amaze. 
 This terror ? None seemed to understand ! 
 Twas then the time. 
 We were in the days. 
 Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. 
 
THE SHAM VAN VOCHT. 
 
 I again walked forth ; 
 But lo ! the sky 
 Showed fleckt with blood, and an alien si 
 Glared from the north. 
 And there stood on high, 
 Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton! 
 It was by the stream 
 Of the castled Maine, 
 One Autumn eve, in the Teuton's land. 
 That I dreamed this dream 
 Of the time and reign 
 Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand ! 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 FREEDOM. 
 Most glorious Freedom, from the heavens, oh. 
 
 hear! 
 The prostrate world in bitter anguish groans, — 
 Hurl o'er our hills thy fetter-breaking spear, — 
 Speak with the loudest stormy trumpet- 
 tones, — 
 Dash the earth's tyrants from their gory 
 
 thrones ! 
 Hark to the mighty music of her wings. 
 Rushing in .thunder from the starry zones; 
 On broken bonds she treads, and crownless 
 
 kings. 
 And o'er the new-born world a dazzling glory 
 flings. 
 
 Oh ! //loii hast been my muse. From thy bright 
 
 eyes. 
 Freedom, I drew the minstrel's lonely lore — 
 For thee, my wing first dared the poet's skies, 
 And since in dreams 1 wooed thee first of yore. 
 Each hour my soul would clasp thee more and 
 
 more ; 
 With clearer worship now 1 bend the knee. 
 Queen of my love ! thy cloudy shrine before ; 
 Abhorring chains, and panting to be free, 
 My kindling soul invokes immortal liberty. 
 
 Arise. Columbia ! bright in all the stars ! 
 Hail to young Freedom's constellated flag! 
 As the past have been, ever be thy wars, 
 Ju.'st and successful ! O'er thine eagle's crag 
 Ne'er shall an alien pirate's " motley rag" 
 Flutter triumphant. From thy chainless shore 
 The old-world harlot.red and murderous hag — 
 The nightmare of the sea — returns no more ; 
 Or, thunder-blasted, flies as she hath fled 
 before. 
 
 439 
 
 See yonder human devil stand alone, [flame. 
 Grasping with desperate hand, 'mid circling 
 The crackling fragments of her blazingthrone ; 
 While hatred, terror, baflied rage, and shame. 
 Distort her features and convulse her frame ! 
 Her snake eyes glitter, and her white lips 
 
 foam — 
 Traitress! erewhile earth trembled at thy 
 
 name. 
 But now thy blood-sapped cannon-bristling 
 
 home 
 Around thee falls in ruins, crashing dome on 
 
 dome. 
 
 Thus may all tyrants perish ! But thy throne, 
 Aventine goddess! child of the Most High ! 
 Like a huge rock in stormy seas alone. 
 Fixed as the basis of thy native sky, 
 Shall see them, at thy feet, unpitied die. 
 And then shall be, O daughter of the Lord, 
 From ransomed" nations jubilant a cry 
 Of joy and triumph to thy saving sword. 
 And thou shalt be thenceforth eternally 
 adored. 
 
 RICH \V.Xi DALTON WILLIAMS. 
 
 THE SHAN VAN VOCHT.* 
 O. the French are on the sea, 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht; 
 The French are on the sea, 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 O, the French are in the Bay, 
 They'll be here without delay, 
 And the Orange will decay. 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 O. the French are in the Bay. 
 They'll be here by break of day, 
 And the Orange will decay. 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 
 And where will they have their camp; 
 
 -Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
 Where will they have their camp.' 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 On the Curragh of Kildare. 
 The boys they will be there. 
 With their pikes in good repair, 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 To the Curragh of Kildare. 
 The boys they will repair. 
 And Lord Edward will be there, 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht 
 
440 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 Tlii-n what will the yeomen do? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht; 
 What ■u-i// the yeomen do ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 What s/ii>i//(/ \.\\c yeomen do, 
 But throw off the red and blue, 
 And swear that they'll be true 
 To the Shan Van Vocht? 
 What s/iimM the yeomen do, 
 But throw off the red and tlue. 
 And swear that they'll be true 
 To the Shan Van Vocht? 
 
 And what color will they wear? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
 What color will they wear? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 What color should be seen 
 Where our fathers' homes have been. 
 But their own immortal Green? 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 What color should be seen 
 Where our fathers' homes have been. 
 But their own immortal (irccn ? 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 
 And will Ireland then be free? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
 Will Ireland then be free? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 Yes! Ireland shall be free 
 From the centre to the sea. 
 Then hurrah for Liberty ! 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 ■V'es ! Ireland shall be free. 
 From the centre to the sea. 
 Then hurrah for Liberty I 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 
 AXONV.MCIIS. 
 
 THE FELONS OF OUR LAND, 
 Fill up once more, we'll drink a toast 
 
 To comrades far away— 
 No nation upon earth can boast 
 
 Of braver hearts than they. 
 And though they sleep in dungeons deep. 
 
 Or flee, outlawed and banned. 
 We love them yet, we can't forgci 
 
 The felons of our land ! 
 
 I And, brothers. ?ay, shall wc to-day 
 llnmoved, like cowards, stand. 
 Whilst traitors shame, and foes r'cfame 
 The felons of our land ? 
 
 Some in the convict's dreary cell 
 
 Have found a living tomb. 
 And some unseen, unfriended, fell 
 
 Within the dungeon's gloom ! 
 Yet. what care we. although it be 
 
 Trod by a ruffian band — 
 God bless the clay where rest lo-d;;y 
 
 The felons of our land I 
 
 Let cowards sneer and tyrants frown. 
 
 Oh, little do we care— 
 A felon's cap's the noblest crown 
 
 Am Irish head can wear! 
 .And ever)' Gael in Innisfail 
 (Who scorns the serf's vile brand). 
 I From Lee to Boyne. would gladly join 
 j The felons of our land I 
 
 AKTHUk M. KDRRE-SltR. 
 
 In boyhood's bloom and manhood';; 
 
 Foredoomed by alien laws. 
 Some on the scaffold proudly died 
 
 For holy Ireland's cause. 
 
 I)ride, 
 
 TOAST-SONG. 
 The dauntless soul of Ireland, 
 
 Through centuries of woe. 
 Has never shrunk for one brief hour 
 From combat with the foe; 
 And still unawed 
 By force or fraud 
 It cleaves unto the right : — 
 The dauntless soul of Ireland, 
 Come, toast with me to-night. 
 
 The fearless heart of Ireland 
 
 Has never lost its hope. 
 Or throbbed in terror as it braved 
 The dungeon, axe, or rope ; 
 And stout and hold 
 Now as of old. 
 It beats in Freedom's fight ; — 
 The fearless heart of Ireland. 
 Come, toast with me to-night. 
 
 The willing hands of Ireland 
 
 Upheld the nation's flag. 
 When Libeuy's bright sunlight gleamed 
 On ever)' mountain crag. 
 
 And clenched this hou:'. 
 With passion-power 
 They still have strength to smite ; — 
 The willing hands of Ireland. 
 Come, toast with me to-night. 
 
THE PEOPLE'S CHIEF. 
 
 441 
 
 The deathless cause of Ireland 
 Has lived through many ills, 
 And dauntless souls, and fearless hearts, 
 Strong hands and stubborn wills, 
 Are linked to-day 
 To force their way, 
 Through gloom to Freedom's light: — 
 The deathless cause of Ireland, 
 Come, drink with me to-night. 
 
 DANIEL CRILLY. 
 
 OUR OWN GREEN ISLE. 
 Come, chime a song with me for our own green 
 
 isle. 
 For bright and fairto see is ourown green isle ; 
 And down from times of old, 
 As the ages on have rolled. 
 There were true hearts brave and bold in our 
 own green isle. 
 
 To many lands a light was our own green isle. 
 For learning's lamp shone bright in our own 
 green isle ; 
 And filled with godlike powers, 
 Saint and sage went from the bowers 
 And the abbeys and the towers of our own 
 green isle. 
 
 And when despoiling foes sought our own 
 
 green isle. 
 Our fathers brave arose in our own green isle ; 
 On valley, hill and plain. 
 Fought and bled and fought again, 
 For they'd brook no foreign chain in our own 
 green isle. 
 
 And when unholy might, in our own green isle. 
 Trampled justice, truth and right in our own 
 green isle. 
 Still quick to do and dare 
 Were the gallant sons she bare. 
 For they never knew despair in our own green 
 isle. 
 
 Then let us all be true to our own green isle, 
 Bear our parts as men should do for our own 
 green isle. 
 
 And ours the bliss shall be 
 
 In the coming years to see 
 Peace, joy and liberty in our own green isle. 
 
 TIMOTHY D. SULLIVAN. 
 
 THE PEOPLE'S CHIEF. 
 Come forth, come forth, O Man of Men ! to 
 
 the cry of the gathering nations. 
 We watch on the tow'r, we watch on the hill, 
 
 pouring our invocations — 
 Our souls are sick of sounds and shades, that 
 
 mark our shame and grief. 
 We hurl the Dagons from their seats, and call 
 
 the lawful Chief! 
 
 Come forth, come forth, O Man of Men ! to 
 
 the frenzy of our imploring. 
 The winged despair that no man can bear, up 
 
 to the Heavens soaring — 
 Come ! Faith and Hope, and love and trust, 
 
 upon their centre rock. 
 The wailing Millions summon thee amid the 
 
 earthquake shock ! 
 
 We've kept the weary watch of years, with a 
 
 wild and heart-wrung yearning. 
 But the star of the Advent we sought in vain, 
 
 calmly and purely burning ; 
 False meteors flash'd across the sky, and 
 
 falsely led us on ; 
 The parting of the strife is come — the spell is 
 
 o'er and gone ! 
 
 The storms of enfranchised passions rise as 
 
 the voice of the eagle's screaming, 
 And we scatter now to the earth's four winds 
 
 the memor)' of our dreaming ; 
 The clouds but veil the lightning's bolt — 
 
 Sibylline murmurs ring 
 In hollow tones from out the depths — the 
 
 People seek their King ! 
 
 Come forth, come forth. Anointed One ! nor 
 blazon nor honors bearing — 
 
 No "ancient line" be thy seal or sign, the 
 crown of Humanity wearing — 
 
 Spring out as lucent fountains spring exult- 
 ing from the ground — 
 
 Arise, as Adam rose from God, with strength 
 and knowledge crown'd ! 
 
 The leader of the world's wide host guiding 
 
 our aspirations. 
 Wear thou the seamless garb of Truth sitting 
 
 among the nations ! 
 Thy foot is on the empty forms arouud in 
 
 shivers cast — 
 We crush ye with the scorn of scorn, exuviae 
 
 of the past ! 
 
442 
 
 POEAfS OF PATRIOrrSM. 
 
 The Future's closed gates are now on their 
 
 ponderous hinges jarring, 
 And there comes a sound as of winds and 
 
 waves each with the other warring: 
 And forward bends the iist'ning world, as to 
 
 their eager ken 
 From out that dark and mystic land appears 
 
 the Man of Men I j 
 
 KVA MAKY KKLLY. 
 
 QUERIES. 
 Oh. tell me are the skies as blue 
 
 In Ireland as of yore.' 
 Do valleys wear that verdant hue 
 
 They once so proudly wore .' 
 Do zephyrs o'er her meadows sigh .' 
 
 Can pilgrims' eyes see still 
 The fern leaves on the mountain high. 
 And heather on the hill.' 
 
 Do rivers run, thro' forests dun. 
 Or by each castle hold. 
 Now slow, now fleet, with cadence sweet, 
 .^s in the days of old ? 
 
 Tell me if yet round towers stand 
 
 In silence, to proclaim 
 The glory of an ancient land — 
 
 The splendor of her fame .' 
 Can men still see the rath so grec:i. 
 
 The abbey, lorn and lone, 
 The holy well, in glen serene. 
 And quaint Druidic stone.' 
 The castle-eaves, where ivy leave;? 
 Sob — crooning in the blast. 
 O'er bright hopes fled, brave chieftains dead. 
 -And relics of the past.' 
 
 Oh, tell me are the maids as fair 
 
 As in the long ago; 
 With laughing eyes, and raven hair. 
 
 To set one's heart aglow .' 
 -Say. have they still the modest grace. 
 
 And blushes like the dawn.' 
 
 The beauty of the classic face .' 
 
 The meekness of the fawn ? 
 
 And are they true, dear land, to you. 
 As they who scorned the frown. 
 And ruthless swords, of Saxon hordes. 
 By Limerick's 'leaguered town .' 
 
 Oh, tell me if the grand old names 
 
 Have magic power still 
 To kindle freedom's sacred flames. 
 
 Like Baal-fires on the hill : 
 
 The saintly Laurence, brave Red Hugh. 
 
 O'Neill, of famed Tyrone. 
 .\nd Sarsficld bold, and Emmet true — 
 Fitzgerald and Wolfe Tone, 
 And all who died, in manly pride. 
 On scaffold or in fray, 
 To save the isle from Saxon wile, 
 O.- shatter -Saxon sway' 
 
 Oh, tell me if the night be done, 
 .\nd daylight's on the strand.' 
 And if a summer's lustrous sun 
 
 Shines on a risen land.' 
 Have voices from each hill and glen 
 
 Taught men to do and dare — 
 The path to tread — the goal to win — 
 The glorious crown to wear .' 
 
 If so — may soon a cloudless noon 
 Our aspirations hail. 
 And men acclaim in Freedom's name. 
 The triumph of the Gael I 
 
 KUOEXK DAVIS. 
 
 THE YOUNG ENTHUSIAST. 
 Tho' young that heart, tho' free each thought, 
 
 Tho' free and wild each feeling; 
 And tho' with fire each dream be fraught 
 
 Across those bright eyes stealing — 
 
 That heart is true, those thoughts are bold ; 
 
 And bold each feeling sweepeth; 
 The.-e lies not there a bosom cold, 
 
 A pulse that faintly sleepeth. 
 
 His dreams are idle dreams, ye say. 
 
 The dreams of fairy story ; — 
 Those dreams will burn in might some day 
 
 And flood his path with glory ! 
 
 Thou old dull vassal I fling thy sneer 
 
 Upon that young heart coldly. 
 And laugh at deeds thy heart may fear. 
 
 Yet he will venture boldly. 
 
 Ay, fling thy sneer, while dull and slow 
 Thy withered blood is creeping ; 
 
 That heart will beat, that spirit glow. 
 When thy tame pulse is sleeping. 
 
 Ay, laugh when o'er his country's ills 
 
 With manly eye he weep>eth : 
 Laugh, when his brave heart throbs and 
 thrills. 
 
 And thy cold bosom sleepeth. 
 
THE MEN OF OUR ISLAXD. 
 
 443 
 
 Laugh, when he vows in Heaven's sight, 
 
 Never to flinch or faker ; — 
 To toil and fight for a nation's right. 
 
 And guard old Freedom's altar. 
 
 Ay, laugh, when on the fiery wing 
 
 Of hero thought ascending. 
 To fame's bold cliff, with eagle spring. 
 
 That young bright mind is tending. 
 
 He'll gain that cliff, he'll reach that throne, 
 The throne where genius shineth, 
 
 When 'round and thro' thy nameless stone. 
 The green weed thickly twineth. 
 
 THOMAS FR.WCIS .MEAGHER. 
 
 THE MEN OF OUR ISLAND. 
 The men of our Island ! what think ye of 
 them .' 
 Does the blood of their ancestry beat in 
 their veins? 
 Does Freedom their prowess deny or con- 
 demn.' 
 Or has Cowardice fastened one link of their 
 chains } 
 
 The men of our Island ! the fearless and brave. 
 Whose banner the proudest flashed out mid 
 the proud. 
 Whose sword, ever drawn to unfetter the 
 slave, 
 Flashed out on the foe like the bolt from 
 the cloud — 
 
 Who dares to impugn them — their valor — 
 their worth. 
 Descending, unlessened. through proud 
 generations : 
 In the days of her freedom the light of the j 
 earth — ] 
 
 In the days of her bondage the Moral of 
 Nations ! 
 
 In the love-bow'rs where Nature and Beauty 
 
 are one. 
 In the Senate where Eloquence mastery 
 
 wields. 
 At the board where the hours in festivity 
 
 In the wars that are loud with the clashing j 
 of shields — ! 
 
 In the homes where the virtues spring sa- 
 credly forth. 
 Like the waters that gush from the holy 
 Zem-Zem ; 
 In all — they are first mid the spirits of earth I 
 Now ! the men of our Island I what think 
 ye of them ? 
 
 Though their own mountain breezes embrace 
 them no more. 
 And the vallies that cradled the dreams of 
 their youth, 
 The sweet spells of Memory only restore. 
 They love them with deeper and holier truth. 
 
 The " coelum non animam mutant" which 
 tells 
 The dominant feeling, triumphant o'er time. 
 Now — now in their bosoms more glowingly 
 dwells 
 Than when Liberty walked on those moun- 
 tains sublime. 
 
 They know not, who've seen not their own 
 native hills. 
 In the distance of waters forever retire, 
 The pulse in the heart of the Exile that fills 
 Its innermost shrine with unquenchable 
 fire. 
 Through this land, in each section, their pa- 
 triot pray'rs 
 For their loved native Island in harmony 
 rise ; 
 And where is the pulse more electric than 
 
 theirs 
 When Hope flashes out from her darkness of 
 skies ? 
 
 From the deserts of Ind and the shores of 
 Kathay. 
 To the faither Atlantic, they worship her 
 name ; 
 While time, every minute, in passing away. 
 But gathers fresh incense to hallow the 
 flame. 
 
 Then, hurrah, for the men of our Isle and her 
 worth ! 
 Soon — soon must the stricken of centuries 
 be. 
 With heralds of Freedom like them through 
 the earth. 
 Mid the nations around her, "great, glo- 
 rious, and free !" 
 I JUH.V AUGUSTUS SHEA, 
 
444 
 
 POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 
 
 ADDRESS TO A PATRIOT.* 
 Hail, youthful tribune of an ancient race ! 
 
 Hail, living martyr of a sacred cause ! [face 
 Unchained, unscathed, thou standest face to 
 With Britain's power and Draconian laws! 
 A world thy forum, and thy nation now 
 Stands in the fulgence of the immortal 
 wreath 
 Which aye shall bourgeon brightly on thy brow, 
 To hear thy mandate with abated breath : 
 Whether her hopws shall bloom again, or 
 wither in inglorious death. 
 
 Blast not her hope of freedom ! nor eclipse 
 
 The beacon light of many a stormy sea ! 
 Nor silence, by the fiat of thy lips, 
 
 Hearts sorely tried, yet panting to be free ; 
 But with a patriot hero's hopeful hand. 
 
 Prophetic ken, and tongue of living fire. 
 Call back a soul into that withering land; 
 
 Bid, once again, her drooping sons aspire. 
 
 Freedom, though stricken low, at each 
 rebound still mounts the higher. 
 
 Her cause, immortal as the verdant hills 
 That first unto thy soul its vision spoke ; 
 I Nor purer are the sunlit crystal rills [woke. 
 Which in thy heart the songs of freedom 
 The mountains speak in thunder tones to 
 heaven, 
 And fling their tides in fertilizing flow ; 
 So thou, to whom the mountain voice is given, 
 Should'st tell unto the world her living woe. 
 And pour revivifying streams down on the 
 parched hearts below. 
 
 Nations have changed ; and causes, too, have 
 changed 
 Since last you stood before a list'ning world; 
 And from the path of Right are some 
 estranged. 
 Whilst on theflagthey nowdisplay unfurled 
 Are strange devices. M ill ions, too, have flown 
 To worship freedom in thisgen'rous clime ; 
 Some seek the shelter of their tyrant's throne. 
 Or follow any God, in any land, save Free- 
 dom's in their own. 
 
 Still, Hope is Freedom's voice, the sword her 
 pen [write 
 
 The stainless tables where she deigns to 
 Her lessons are the hearts of fearless men. 
 
 Whenever and wherever they unite, 
 
 las Francis Meagher in 
 
 They form in heaven's sight a sacred band. 
 Such as is sung, the pride of ancient Greece, 
 
 Her robes the trophies of a rescued land. 
 Her mural crown the happy homes won by 
 a glorious peace. 
 
 Be these thy aim : be Wisdom's cautious voice 
 j Forever on thy tongue and in thine ears ; 
 1 Nor bid in vain thy countr)''s heart rejoice 
 I While earth is moistened by her exiles' tears ; 
 Be native hearts and native truth thy hope I 
 
 Oh. guard with jealous care thy sacred trust. 
 And pitying heaven a certain path will ope, 
 .\ path as glorious as her cause is just. 
 To lead a land redeemed to mourn above 
 her hero's sacred dust. 
 
 JOHN BOYLE. 
 
 " STAMPING OUT." 
 Ay. stamp away ! Can you stamp it out — 
 
 This quenchless fire of a nation's freedom.' 
 Your feet are broad and your legs are stout. 
 
 But stouter for this you'll need 'em ! 
 You have stamped away for six hundred years. 
 
 But again and again the Old Cause rallies. 
 Pikes gleam in the hands of our mountaineers. 
 
 And with scythes come the men from our 
 valleys ; 
 The steel-clad Norman as he roams. 
 
 Is faced by our naked gallowglasses. 
 We lost the plains and our pleasant homes. 
 
 But we held the hills and passes! 
 .And still the beltane fires at night. 
 
 If not a man were left to feed 'era — 
 By widows' hands piled high and bright. 
 
 Flashed far the flame of Freedom ! 
 
 Ay. .stamp away! Can you stamp it out. 
 
 Or how have your brutal arts been baffled.' 
 You have wielded the power of rope and knot, 
 
 Fire, dungeon, sword and scaffold. 
 But still, as from each martyr's hand 
 
 The Fiery Cross fell down in fighting, 
 A thousand sprang to seize the brand. 
 
 Our beltane fires relighting! 
 And once again through Irish nights. 
 
 O'er every dark hill redly streaming, 
 And numerous as the heavenly lights 
 
 Our rebel fires were gleaming! 
 And though again might fail that flame, 
 
 Quenched in the blood of its devoted. 
 Fresh chieftains 'rose, fresh clansmen came. 
 
 And again the Old Flag floated ! 
 
TO AMERICA. 
 
 445 
 
 That fire will burn, that flag will float, 
 
 By virtue nursed, by Valor tended — 
 Till with one fierce clutch upon your throat 
 
 Your Moloch reign is ended ! 
 It may be now, or it may be then. 
 
 That the hour will come we have hoped for 
 ages— 
 But, failing and failing, we try again, 
 
 And again the conflict rages. 
 Our hate though hot is a patient hate. 
 
 Deadly and patient to catch you tripping — 
 Your years are many, your crimes are great, 
 
 And the sceptre is from you slipping. 
 But stamp away with your brutal hoof. 
 
 While the fires to scorch you are upward 
 cleaving. 
 For, with bloody shuttles, the warp and woof 
 
 Of your shroud the Fates are weaving ! 
 
 CHARLES G. HALPINE. 
 
 THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 
 Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? 
 
 Who blushes at the name } 
 When cowards mock the patriot's fate. 
 
 Who hangs his head for shame ? 
 He's all a knave, or half a slave. 
 
 Who slights his country thus ; 
 But a true man, like you, man, 
 
 Will fill your glass with us. 
 
 We drink the memory of the brave. 
 
 The faithful and the few — 
 Some lie far oflf beyond the wave — 
 
 Some sleep in Ireland, too ; 
 All — all are gone — but still lives on 
 
 The fame of those who died — 
 All true men, like you, men, 
 
 Remember them with pride. 
 
 Some on the shores of distant lands 
 
 Their weary hearts have laid, 
 And by the stranger's heedless hands 
 
 Their lonely graves were made ; 
 But, though their clay be far away 
 
 Beyond the Atlantic foam — 
 In true men, like you, men. 
 
 Their spirit's still at home. 
 
 The dust of some is Irish earth. 
 
 Among their own they rest : 
 And the same land that gave them birth 
 
 Has caught them to her breast ; 
 
 And we will pray that from their clay 
 
 Full many a race may start. 
 Of true men, like you, men. 
 
 To act as brave a part. 
 
 They rose in dark and evil days 
 
 To right their native land ; 
 They kindled here a living blaze 
 
 That nothing shall withstand. 
 Alas ! that Might can vanquish Right — 
 
 They fell and pass'd away ; 
 But true men, like you, men. 
 
 Are plenty here to-day. 
 
 Then here's their memory — may it be 
 
 For us a guiding light, 
 To cheer our strife for liberty. 
 
 And teach us to unite. 
 Through good and ill, be Ireland's still. 
 
 Though sad as theirs your fate ; 
 And true men be you, men. 
 
 Like those of Ninety-Eight. 
 
 JOHN KELLS INGRA.M. 
 
 TO AMERICA. 
 America ! adopted land 
 
 Of thousands from my native isle, 
 'Tis thine by Freedom's sons to stand, 
 
 And bid the ocean-pilgrims smile; 
 They who have sought her day by day. 
 Far from their native homes away. 
 Far from the graves of worthy sires. 
 Far from their sacred altar-fires. 
 And far from those endearing ties 
 In which half life's elysium lies. 
 For they have bled and still would bleed, 
 
 Ere of thy banner proud unfurled 
 One stripe should fade, one star recede. 
 
 Before a thunder-mailed world. 
 And they can dare the field, how well, 
 How willingly, thy wars can tell. 
 Let but the veriest mountaineer 
 
 That roams upon Hibernia's hills 
 The sacred name of Freedom hear. 
 
 Oh ! how his heart with rapture thrills ! 
 
 America ! need I portray 
 
 The fervent, unconditioned love 
 With which they battled in that day 
 When England's banner first above 
 Thy homes in fury was flung out.' 
 Or tell with what a joyous shout 
 They rushed into thy battle then, 
 A living hurricane of men ? 
 
] 
 
 446 
 
 POEMS OF FAKIOTIS.\f. 
 
 Shall I. though humble, call upon 
 Thy Heaven-commissioned Washington, 
 Whose fortunes in their darkest night 
 They followed in the doubtful fight ? 
 No — step of ii\ine shall not invade 
 The home of his departed shade ; 
 But of the living I shall seek, 
 
 Who, counseled by awarding Fame, 
 In monumental marble speak 
 
 The glory of Montgomer>''s name; 
 And see, again, where close beside 
 Standeth that obelisk of pride 
 To Ireland's Cicero, who gave 
 
 His exiled genius to the state. 
 And sank into his honored grave. 
 
 Pre-eminent among the great; 
 While Justice 'mid her sacred walls. 
 Upon the shade of Emmet calls. 
 From whose inspire.^ lips the sjx'll 
 Of eloquence convincing fell : — 
 Yes I there are living round us still 
 Of whom these works declare the will. 
 Who twined the wreaths of grateful fame 
 For Emmet's and Montgomer)''s name. 
 
 And shall the island of their birth, 
 
 'Gainst slavery leagued, a slave remain 
 Or, 'mid the nations of the earth. 
 
 Uprising from the oppressor's chain, 
 Resume her place ? It is with thee 
 To say how long these things shall be. 
 Yes, yes, to thee and to thy race, 
 
 America, I urge my plea ; 
 Thy land is Freedom's dwelling-place. 
 
 And such may it forever be : 
 
 She tells her tale of woes to thee. — 
 To whom can she look up for aid 
 
 If not to the victorious free, 
 Whom Freedom her vicegerents made .' 
 All thou canst do is but thy part 
 
 Of Freedom's delegated trust. 
 To cheer the nations who would start 
 
 To life, and lift them from the dust, 
 Be friendly to her friends, and fond. 
 For so 'tis written in the bond. 
 We ask not men, we ask not arms. 
 Nor fleets to thunder war's alarms. — 
 Nothing to weaken ev'n one tie 
 
 Which Commerce weaxes across the sea; 
 We ask thee but to breathe the sigh. 
 
 The generous word of sympathy, — 
 To give the heart without the hand, 
 .\iid vindicate my native land. 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 The name a Patriot builds upon his age, 
 Based on enduring deeds, with honor crowned. 
 Towering o'er Parties blind and bigot rage. 
 .And frowning on the deathful wars they wage. 
 And teaching earth, to its remotest bound. 
 Greatness sublime — philosophy profound — 
 Who would not, spurning every lesser aim, 
 .\spirc to immortality like this — 
 To link his memory with his country's fame. 
 High as her hope^tcrnal as her name, 
 .\ beacon o'er the perilous abyss 
 Where perish glories Earth may not reclaim .' 
 Such is the name that meets the circling su:i. 
 The universal Perfect — Washington. 
 
 JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA. 
 
 J'roiii " i7,i/i/,ir/." 
 
 JOHN AUGUSrU.S SHKA. 
 
 THE CONQUERED BANNER. 
 Furl that Banner, for 'tis wear)'. 
 Round its staff 'lis drooping drear)-; 
 
 Furl it. fold it. it is best ; 
 For there's not a man to wave it, 
 .And there's not a sword to save it. 
 And there's not one left to lave il 
 In the blood which heroes gave it; 
 And its foes now scorn and brave it; 
 
 Furl it. hide it, let it rest! 
 
 Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; 
 Broken is its staff and shattered ; 
 And the valiant hosts are scattered 
 
 Over whom it floated high. 
 Oh ! 'tis hard for us to fold it ; 
 Hard to think there's none to hold it; 
 Hard that those who once unrolled it 
 
 Now must furl it with a sigh. 
 
 Furl that Banner! furl it sadly ! 
 Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 
 .And ten thousands, wildly, madly. 
 
 Swore it should forever wave : 
 Swore that foeman's sword should never 
 Hearts like theirs entwined dissever. 
 Till that flag should float forever 
 
 O'er their freedom or their grave ! 
 
 Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, 
 Aud the hearts that proudly clasped it. 
 
 Cold and dead are lying low; 
 And that Banner — it is trailing! 
 While around it sounds the wailing 
 
 Of its people in their woe. 
 
BUXKEK HILL CENTEX XL4L ODE. 
 
 447 
 
 For, though conquered, they adore it! 
 Love the cold, dead hands that bore it! 
 Weep for those who fell before it ! 
 Pardon those who trailed and tore it! 
 But, oh ! wildly they deplore it. 
 
 Now who furl and fold it so ! 
 
 Furl that Banner ! True, 'tis gon,'. 
 Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory. 
 And 'twill live in song and storj'. 
 
 Though its folds are in the dust : 
 For its fame on brightest pages. 
 Penned by poets and by sages. 
 Shall go sounding down the ages. 
 
 Furl its folds though now we must. 
 
 Furl that Banner ! softly, slowly I 
 Ti-eat it gently, — it is holy. 
 
 For it droops above the dead ! 
 Touch it not — unfold it never. 
 Let it droop there, furled forever. 
 
 For its people's hopes are dead! 
 
 ABKAM J. RYAN. 
 
 HAIL, BRIGHTEST BANNER. 
 Hail, brightest banner that floats on the gale ! 
 Flag of the country of Washington, hail ! 
 Red are thy stripes as the blood of the brave. 
 Bright are thy stars as the sun on the wave. 
 Wrapt in thy folds are the hopes of the free, 
 Banner of Washington, blessings on thee ! 
 
 Mountain tops mingle the sky with their snow; 
 Prairies lie smiling in sunshine below ; 
 Rivers as broad as the sea in their pride 
 Border thine empires, but do not divide ; 
 Niagara's voice far out-anthems the sea; 
 Land of sublimity ! blessings on thee ! 
 
 Hope of the world ! on thy mission sublime, 
 When thou didst burst on the pathway of 
 
 Time, 
 Millions from darkness and bondage awoke ; 
 Music was born when liberty spoke ; 
 Millions to come yet shall join in the glee : 
 Land of the pilgrim's hope ? blessings on thee ! 
 
 Empires shall perish and monarchies fail ; 
 Kingdoms and thrones in thy glory grow pale ! 
 Thou shalt live on, and thy people shall own 
 Loyalty's sweet, where each heart is thy 
 
 throne. 
 Union and freedom thine heritage be ; 
 Countrj'of Washington ! blessings on thee !" 
 
 WILLIAM K. KUKINSUN. 
 
 BUNKER HILL CENTENNIAL ODE. 
 
 Heroes of Greek renown ! 
 Ye who with floods of Persian gore. 
 Purpled Cychreia's sounding shore I 
 Strong wielders of the Dorian spear ! 
 And ye, dear children of the dear, 
 
 The holy violet crown. 
 Ye live to-day. Distance and time 
 Vanish before our longing eyes. 
 And fresh in their eternal lives 
 
 The Demigods arise. 
 
 Fierce breed of iron Rome ! 
 Ye whose relentless eagle's wings 
 Are shadowing subjugated kings. 
 With death and black destruction fraught 
 To every hateful tyrant brought 
 
 His own cursed legion home. 
 Smile sternly now ; a free-born race 
 Here draw your proudest maxims in. 
 And eagerly in ampler space 
 
 A mightier Rome begin. 
 
 Savage, yet dauntless crew ! 
 Who broke with grim, unflinching zeal. 
 The mighty Spaniard's heart of steel ; 
 When ye, with patriotic hands 
 Bursting the dikes that keep your lands. 
 
 Let death and freedom through, — 
 Arise in glory ! Angrj' floods 
 And haughty bigots all are tame. 
 But ye, like liberating Gods, 
 
 Have everlasting fame. 
 
 And ye, rock-nurtured men ! 
 Suliote or Swiss, — whose crags defied 
 Burgundian power and Turkish pride ' 
 Whose deeds, so dear to freemen, still 
 Make every alp a holy hill, 
 
 A shrine each Suliote glen ! 
 Rejoice to-day ! No little bands 
 Face here th' exulting despot's horde ; 
 But Freedom sways with mighty hands 
 
 Her ocean-sweeping sword. 
 
 Chiefs of our own blest land. 
 To whom turned long oppressed mankind 
 A sacred refuge here to find ! 
 Of every race the pride and boast. 
 From wild Atlantic's stormy coast 
 
 To far Pacific's strand. 
 Millions on millions here maintain 
 Your generous aims with steady will. 
 And make our vast imperial reign 
 
 The world's asylum still! 
 
 GEORGE SENXOTT- 
 
44S 
 
 POEMS OF PATKIOTISM. 
 
 SONG OF THE IRISH AMERICAN SOLDIER. 
 A southern sky above my head, 
 
 A southern wave before me; 
 The dew)' ground my welcome bed. 
 
 And the night-cloud gathering o'er me. 
 Our tented host around me spread. 
 
 Vet the scalding tear-drops blind me, 
 As memory dwells on days long fled 
 
 And the friends I left behind me. 
 
 I love this noble western land. 
 
 Her hills, her vales, her mountains, 
 Her cloudless skies, her rivers grand. 
 
 Deep woods and sparkling fountains ; 
 I love her great historic fame, 
 
 'Twas that which first inclined me 
 To draw the sword for her proud name. 
 
 And the land I left behind me. 
 
 For. fighting in Columbia's cause. 
 
 1 fight for home and sire-land. 
 For the welcome kind, the equal laws 
 
 She gave our kin from Ireland. 
 Her flag is ours, her glor)', too. 
 
 For does not all remind us 
 That she has been both leal and true 
 
 To the land we left behind us.' 
 
 When driven from our island-home j 
 
 Ry famine and oppression, i 
 
 We found, beyond the ocean's foam. 
 
 Wealth -honors, for pxDssession , 
 Wc found no harsh, restrictive laws 
 
 In misery to bind us, 
 And we'll cherish aye Columbia's cause 
 
 For the land we left behind us. 
 
 For, north and south, and east and west 
 
 We see but one dominion. 
 Where peace uprears her halcyon crest 
 
 Above the eagle's pinion. 
 As it has been in the glorious past. 
 
 So may the future find it, 
 
 And if love keep not our Union fast. 
 Then a clasp of steel shall bind it ! 
 
 MARY A. SADLIF.R. 
 
 A FAREWELL TO AMERICA. 
 Farewell ! my more tlian Fatherland ! 
 
 Home of my heart and friends, adieu I 
 Lingering beside some foreign strand. 
 
 How oft shall I remember you I 
 
 How often o'er the waters blue 
 Send back a sigh to those I leave, 
 
 The loving and beloved few 
 Who grieve for me -for whom I grieve I 
 
 We part I —no matter how we part ; 
 
 There are some thoughts we utter not, 
 I Deep treasured in our inmost heart. 
 
 Never revealed, and ne'er forgot! 
 
 Why murmur at the common lot.^ 
 We parti— I speak not of the pain.— 
 
 But when shall I each lovely spot 
 .\nd each loved face behold again.' 
 
 It must be months, it may be j'ears — 
 It may— but no :— I will not fill 
 
 Fond hearts with gloom, fond eyes with tears, 
 I ■■ Curious to shape uncertain ill." 
 ! Though humble, few, and far, — yet, still 
 
 Those hearts and eyes are ever dear ; 
 1 Theirs is the love no time can chill, 
 ; The truth no chance or change can sear! 
 
 All I have seen, and all I see. 
 Only endears them more and more ; 
 
 Friends cool, hopes fade, and moments flee. 
 Affection lives when all is o'er' 
 ! Farewell, my more than native shore ! 
 
 I do not seek or hope to find. 
 Roam where I will, what I deplore 
 
 To leave with them anr". thee liehind ! 
 
 RILHARU HENRY WII.UK. 
 
PART VIII. 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 Then rose the clang, the shout, the cry 
 
 Of war from inward fosse and outward pale, 
 And fast again the arrowy showers did fly — 
 
 From twanging bows thick as the rattling hail 
 From thundering cloud and lightning-litten sky, 
 
 And shields were split, and riven breast and mail 
 (;ave forth the souls of heroes, till the night 
 
 Lowered o'er the woods, and still the clamorous fight 
 
 Raged round the castle with redoubled roar, 
 
 Through all the long and lonesome hours of dark. 
 
 As roll Moyle's wallowing billows on the shore 
 
 Mixed with the mariners' cries ; and still their mark 
 
 The axe and red glaive made of steaming gore 
 On many a hern's front, until the lark 
 
 Sang his thin song from heavenly meadows sweet. 
 
 Bright with the radiance of dawn's rosy feet. 
 
 ROBERl' DWYEK Jl-)YCE. 
 
POEMS OF HEROISM, 
 
 A BALLAD OF ATHLONE. 
 Does any man dream that a Gael can fear? 
 
 Of a thousand deeds let him learn but one ! 
 The Shannon swept onward, broad and clear, 
 
 Between the Leaguers and worn Athlone. 
 
 " Breakdown the bridge!"— Six warriors rushed 
 Through storm of shot and storm of shell ; 
 
 With late, but certain victory flushed, 
 The grim Dutch gunners eyed them well. 
 
 They wrenched at the planks 'mid a hail of 
 fire: 
 
 They fell in death, their work half done; 
 The bridge stood fast, and nigh and nigher , 
 
 The foe swarmed darkly, densely on. 
 
 " O who for Erin will strike a stroke ? [roar ?" 
 Who hurl yon planks where the waters 
 
 Six warriors forth from their comrades broke. 
 And flung them upon the bridge once more. 
 
 Again at the rocking planks they dashed ; 
 
 And four dropped dead, and two remained : 
 The huge beams groaned, and the arch down- 
 crashed ; 
 
 Two stalwart swimmers the margin gained. 
 
 St. Ruth in his stirrups stood up and cried, 
 " I have seen no deed like that in France!" 
 
 With a toss of his head Sarsfield replied, 
 " They had luck, the dogs ! 'Twas a merry 
 chance!" 
 
 O many a year upon Shannon's side 
 
 They sang upon moor and sang upon heath 
 
 Of the twain that breasted that raging tide. 
 And the ten that shook bloody hands with 
 death ! aubrey t. de vere. 
 
 THE PLACE TO DIE. 
 How little recks it where men die 
 
 When once the moment's past 
 In which the dim and glazing eye 
 
 Has looked on earth its last ; 
 Whether beneath the sculptured urn 
 
 The coffined form shall rest. 
 Or. in its nakedness, return 
 
 Back to its mother's breast. 
 
 Death is a common friend or foe. 
 
 As different men may hold. 
 And at its summons each must go. 
 
 The timid and the bold ; 
 But when the spirit, free and warm. 
 
 Deserts it, as it must. 
 What matter where the lifeless form 
 
 Dissolves again to dust .' 
 
 The soldier falls 'mid corses piled 
 
 Upon the battle-plain. 
 Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild 
 
 Above the gory slain : 
 But though his corse be grim to see. 
 
 Hoof-trampled on the sod, — 
 What recks it when the spirit free 
 
 Has soared aloft to God .' 
 
 The coward's dying eye may close 
 
 Upon his downy bed. 
 And softest hands his limbs compose. 
 
 Or garments o'er him spread ; 
 But ye who shun the bloody fray 
 
 Where fall the mangled brave ! 
 Go strip his coffin-lid away. 
 
 And see him in his grave ! 
 
452 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 Twere sweet indeed to close our eyes 
 
 With those we cherish near. 
 And, wafted upward by their siglis, 
 
 Soar to some cahiier sphere ; 
 Hut whether on the scaffold high, 
 
 Or in the battle's van. 
 The fittest place where man can die 
 
 Is where he dies for man. 
 
 MICHAEL J. IIAKRV. 
 
 Tall are the towers of O'Kennedy, 
 
 Broad are the lands of Mac Caura, 
 ' Desmond feeds five hundred men a day. 
 Vet, here's to O'Brien of Arra I 
 Up from the Castle of Drumineer, 
 I Down from the top of Camailte, 
 
 I Clansmen and kinsmen are coming here. 
 To give him a cead milU failte. 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
 O'BRIEN OF ARRA. 
 Tall are the towers of O'Kennedy. 
 
 Broad are the lands of Mac Caura, 
 Desmond feeds five hundred men a day 
 Yet here's to O'Brien of Arra ! 
 Up from the Castle of Drumineer. 
 Down from the lop of Camailte, 
 Clansmen and kinsmen are coming here. 
 To give him the cead mille faille. 
 
 See you the mountain looks huge at eve — 
 
 So is our chieftain in battle ; 
 Welcome he has for the fugitive. 
 Usquebaugh, fighting, and cattle. 
 Up from the Castle of Drumineer, 
 Down from the top of Camailte, 
 Gossip and ally are coming here. 
 To give him the cead mille faille. 
 
 Horses the valleys are tramping on. 
 
 Sleek from the Sassenach manger ; 
 Creaghts the hills are encamping on. 
 Empty the lawns of the stranger ; 
 Up from the Castle of Drumineer, 
 Down from the top of Camailte, 
 Kern and bonaght are coming here. 
 To give him the cead mille failte. 
 
 He has black silver from Killaloe — 
 Ryan and Carroll are neighbors — 
 Neagh submits with a.fiiililiu, 
 Butler is meant for our sabres. 
 Up from the Castle of Drumineer, 
 Down from the top of Camailte, 
 Ryan and Carroll are coming here. 
 To give him the cead mille failte. 
 
 'Tis scarce a week since through Ossory 
 
 Chased he the Baron of Durrow, 
 Forced him five rivers to cross, or he 
 
 Had died by the sword of Red Murrough, 
 Up from the Castle of Drumineer, 
 Down from the lop of Camailte, 
 All the O'Briens are coming here. 
 To give him the cead mille failte. 
 
 CROSSING THE BLACKWATER. 
 We stood so steady. 
 
 All under fire; 
 We stood so steady. 
 Our long spears ready 
 
 To vent our ire, — 
 To dash on the Saxon, 
 Our mortal foe. 
 And lay him low 
 
 In the bloody mire, 
 
 'Twas by Blackwater 
 When snows were white, 
 
 'Twas by Blackwater, 
 
 Our foes for the slaughter 
 Stood full in sight ; 
 
 But we were ready 
 
 With our long spears. 
 
 And we had no fears 
 But we'd win the fight. 
 
 Their bullets came whistling 
 
 Upon our rank. 
 Their bullets came wnistling. 
 Their spears were bristling 
 
 On the other bank ; 
 Yet we stood steady, 
 And each good blade. 
 Ere morn did fade. 
 
 At their life-blood drank. 
 
 " Hurrah for Freedom!" 
 
 Came from our van : 
 '• Hurrah for Freedom I 
 Our swords — we'll feed 'em 
 
 As best we can, — 
 With vengeance we'll feed 'em! 
 Then down we crashed, 
 Through the wild ford dashed, 
 
 .And the fray began! 
 
 Horses to horses, 
 And man to man, — 
 
NO, MY LORD.' 
 
 453 
 
 O'er dying horses, 
 And blood and corses, 
 
 O'Sullivan. 
 Our general, thundered. 
 And we were not slack 
 To slay at his back 
 
 Till the fight began. 
 
 O how we scattered 
 
 The foemen then, — 
 Slaughtered and scattered, 
 And chased and shattered, 
 
 By shore and glen ! — 
 To the wall of Mayallo 
 Few fled that day, — 
 Will they bar our way 
 
 When we come again ? 
 
 Our dead freres we buried, — 
 
 They were but few, — 
 Our dead freres we buried 
 Where the dark waves hurried, 
 
 And flashed and flew : 
 O sweet be their slumber 
 Who thus have died 
 In the battle's tide, 
 
 Inisfail, for you ! 
 
 ROBERT DWVER JOYCE. 
 
 NO, MY LORD ! " 
 O Leixlip bridge in the morning 
 
 Is a pleasant place to be ; 
 The salmon-leap in the dawning 
 
 Is a pleasant sight to see, [growth. 
 
 When the fresh grass waves in its greenest 
 And the sun comes up o'er the Hill of Howth 
 In summer majesty. 
 
 But naught recks he of the beauty 
 
 Of scene so passing fair: 
 Other and sterner the duty 
 
 Of him who paces there ; — 
 Nicholas Dempsey, the yeoman. 
 
 Sentinels Leixlip road, 
 And his gray eye seeks a foeman. 
 
 For rebels are abroad. 
 
 But save the morning song of the bird. 
 Or the far-off low from the browsing herd. 
 Or the word of command from the old king 
 
 crow, 
 Passed from the van to the rearward row. 
 As the black troop winged o'er the watchers 
 
 below ; — 
 
 Save bark of the waking dog answering bark, 
 
 Or the dying song of the soaring lark. 
 
 Or the fitful rustle of green-eared corn. 
 
 No sound broke the calm of the summer morn. 
 
 Wearily Nicholas Dempsey changed 
 From shoulder to shoulder his gun. 
 
 And wearily his gray eye ranged 
 
 From sun to earth, from earth to sun. 
 
 But what is the sound that now falls on his ear, 
 
 And swells with each moment more near and 
 more clear.' 
 
 'Tis but a flock of bleating sheep, 
 'Tis but a drover behind ; 
 
 Round the bend in the road they sweep, 
 
 .■\nd the dust in the drover's coat lies deep 
 As he breasts the rising wind. 
 
 Nicholas Dempsey turned on his heel. 
 
 With a long-drawn weary sigh. 
 And turned again in a lazy wheel 
 
 As the drover passed him by. 
 '■ God save you, friend !" the drover said, 
 
 " Can I pasture my weary sheep.'" [fled.' 
 But why has the hue from the yeoman's cheek 
 As though he were placed face to face with 
 
 the dead .' 
 And why does the blood now rush back so red. 
 
 And his hand to his sword-hilt leap .' 
 
 Calmly stands the drover, 
 
 Waiting his reply ; 
 No fear you may discover 
 In that undaunted eye. 
 The yeoman stands in a waking dream. 
 And far away doth his spirit seem ; 
 Slowly his thoughts come back again. 
 As half in fear and half in pain 
 Strange feelings stirred his rugged heart. 
 
 And he sheathed again his sword, 
 
 And he felt a tear to his eyelids start 
 
 As he answered, "No, my lord !" 
 
 Lord Edward Fitzgerald passed on his way 
 
 Behind his flocks of sheep, 
 And Nicholas Dempsey all that day 
 
 His weary watch did keep. 
 For Ireland's cause Lord Edward bled. 
 Not as he hoped when his flock he led 
 
 That morn o'er the emerald sward. 
 Yet oft ere from his prison bed 
 
 To heaven his spirit soared. 
 He thought of that brave yeoman 
 Who answered his young foeman, 
 '■ No, my lord !" 
 
 .\NONYMOUS. 
 
454 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 THE FAITHFUL NORMAN. 
 
 Praise to the valiant and faithful foe ! 
 Give us noble foes, not the friend who lies ! 
 We dread the drugged cup. not the open blow ; 
 We dread the old hate in the new disguise. 
 To Ossory's King they had pledged their 
 
 word; 
 He stood in their camp, and their pledge they 
 
 broke ; 
 Then Maurice, the Norman, upraised his 
 
 sword ; 
 The cross on the hilt he kissed and spoke : 
 
 " So long as this sword or this arm hath might, 
 I swear by the cross which is lord of all, 
 By the faith and honor of noble and knight. 
 Who touches yon Prince, by this hand shall 
 
 fall!" 
 Side by side through the throng they passed ; 
 And Eire gave praise to the just and true. 
 Brave foe ! Wrongs past truth heals at last ; 
 There is room in the great heart of Eire for 
 you 
 
 AUBREY T. DE VERE. 
 
 ARTHUR M^COY. 
 While the snow-fiakes of winter are falling 
 
 On mountain, and housetop, and tree. 
 Come olden weird voices recalling 
 
 The homes of Hy-Faly to me ; 
 The ramble by river and wild wood. 
 
 The legends of mountain and glen. 
 When the magical mirror of childhood 
 
 Made heroes and giants of men. 
 
 Then I had my dreamings ideal. 
 
 My prophets and heroes sublime. 
 Yet I found one — true, living, and real — 
 
 Surpass all the fictions of time : 
 Whose voice thrilled my heart to its centre. 
 
 Whose form tranced my soul and my eye ; 
 A temple no treason could enter; — 
 
 My hero was .Arthur M 'Coy. 
 
 For Arthur M'Coy was no bragger. 
 
 No bibber, nor blustering clown, 
 'Fore the club of an alehouse to swagger. 
 
 Or drag his coat-tail through the town ; 
 But a veteran, stern and steady. 
 
 Who felt for his land and her ills ; 
 In the hour of her need ever ready 
 
 To shoulder a pike for the hills. 
 
 As the strong mountain tower spreads its 
 
 Dark, shadowy, silent, and tall, [arms. 
 
 In our tithe-raids and midnight alarms, 
 
 H is bosom gave refuge to all — 
 If a mind, clear, and calm, and expanded 
 
 A soul ever soaring and high, 
 'Mid a host — gave a right to command it 
 
 A hero was Arthur M'Coy. 
 
 While he knelt, with a Christian demeanor. 
 
 To his priest, or his Maker alone. 
 He scorned the vile slave, or retainer, 
 
 That crouched 'round the castle, or throne; 
 The Tudor— The Guelph, The Pretender, 
 
 Were tyrants, alike, branch and stem ; 
 But who'd free our fair land, and defend her. 
 
 A nation, were monarchs to him. 
 
 And this faith in good works he attested. 
 
 When Tone linked the true hearts, and 
 'Every billow of danger he breasted — [brave, 
 
 His sword-flash, the crest of its wave ; 
 A standard he captured in Gorey. 
 
 A sword-cut and ball through the thigh 
 Were among the mementoes of glor^' 
 
 Recorded of Arthur M'Cov. 
 
 Long the quest of the law and its beagles. 
 
 His covert the cave and the tree ; 
 Tho' his home was the home of the eagles. 
 
 His soul was the soul of the free. 
 No toil, no defeat could enslave it. 
 
 Nor franchise, nor " Amnesty Kill " — 
 No lord, but the Maker who gave it. 
 
 Could curb the high pride of his will. 
 
 With the gloom of defeat ever laden— 
 
 Seldom seen at the hurling or dance. 
 Where thro' blushes, the eye of the maiden 
 
 Looks out for her lover's advance ; 
 And whenever he stood to behold it. 
 
 A curl of the lip or a sigh. 
 Was the silent reproach that unfolded 
 
 The feelings of Arthur M'Coy. 
 
 For it told him of freedom o'ershaded — 
 
 That the iron had entered their veins — 
 When beauty bears manhood degraded, 
 
 And manhood's contented in chains. 
 Yet he loved that fair race as a martyr. 
 
 And if his own death could recall 
 The blessings of liberty's charter. 
 
 His bosom had bled for them all. 
 
THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK. 
 
 455 
 
 And he died for his love — I remember, 
 
 On a mound by the Shannon's blue wave, 
 One dark snowy eve in December, 
 
 I knelt at the patriot's grave. 
 The aged were all heavy-hearted — 
 
 No cheek in the churchyard was dry ; 
 The sun of our hills had departed — 
 
 God rest you, old Arthur M'Coy ! 
 
 JOHN BOYLE. 
 
 THE RIDE TO ARBOE. 
 He came down the glen in the morning. 
 
 As tlie sunbeams shone fair on the tide. 
 With his green rebel banner above him.. 
 
 And a hundred brave men by his side. 
 He stopped not for greeting or parley. 
 
 But over the hills rode away, 
 Nor halted his band till at noontide 
 
 Before him Lough Neagh's waters lay. 
 
 Ho ! Rory, give rein to your charger, 
 
 Spur hard over mountain and ford. 
 And pause not for river or ravine. 
 
 And let each true man grasp his sword ; 
 For Lucas, the Saxon marauder, 
 
 Your darkest and deadliest foe, 
 Has gone with a squadron of spearmen 
 
 To ravage and foray Arboe 
 
 Away o'er the hills of Badawney, 
 
 Thro' the green woods of fair Moneymore, 
 Where the summit of tall Dunnavara 
 
 Frowns down upon Tulla's green shore. 
 One sweep round the hills of Ardara, 
 
 Where the waters of Annalee flow. 
 And with sabre and banner uplifted, 
 
 They dash into burning Arboe. 
 
 Lefore them the dark smoke uprises. 
 
 For Lucas has plundered the town. 
 And afar in the distance is streaming 
 
 The red crimsoned flag of the Crown ; 
 And the spears of Clan-London are flashing. 
 
 They glisten and gleam in the sun. 
 And a smile lights the face of their leader. 
 
 Well pleased at the deed he has done. 
 
 " Steady ! wheel right into column. 
 
 Look well to the grasp of each hand ; 
 Charge 1 down on the Sa.xon marauders, 
 
 And strike for the flag of your land !" 
 Hurrah ! with a roar like a torrent 
 
 That rolls down from dark Knock-a-voe 
 They sweep through the red burning village 
 
 And burst on the ranks of the foe. 
 
 There's clashing of cuirass and sabre. 
 
 And splintered is many a spear. 
 And the voice of the Rapparee Captain 
 
 Is ringing out fearless and clear : 
 " Smite down the fierce robbers of Cromwell, 
 
 And death and revenge for Arboe ! 
 Strike deep to their false-hearted bosoms, 
 
 Till their black blood in rivulets flows. 
 
 " They spared not the helpless and feeble, — 
 
 Strike home for the wrongs of the dead ! 
 Tliey slaughtered the babe and the mother, — ■ 
 
 Revenge for the red blood they shed ! 
 T/tey trampled the shrines of our fathers, — 
 
 Upon them with sabre and skean ! 
 Dash down on the Saxon marauders. 
 
 And charge home for God and the Green !" 
 
 Full oft have the woods of Tyrowen 
 
 With cry of the gallowglass rang. 
 When down on the red ranks of Cromwell 
 
 With hatred and fury they sprang ; 
 But never, in breach or in battle. 
 
 In onset, in foray or raid, — 
 Oh, ne'er saw the hills of Tyrowen 
 
 Such charge as the Rapparees made. 
 
 They pierced thro' the heart of the column. 
 
 They trampled the foe in their blood. 
 They swept thro' the ranks with their sabres, 
 
 With the might of a merciless flood. 
 Till, beaten, and shattered, and bleeding. 
 
 To earth fall the ranks of the foe. 
 And their leader, defeated and flying. 
 
 Is chased through the streets of Arboe. 
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS. 
 From '■'Rory the Rapparee." 
 
 THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK. 
 
 He grasped the ponderous hammer, he could 
 not stand it more. 
 
 To hear the bomb-shells bursting, and thun- 
 dering battle's roar ; 
 
 He said, " The breach they're mounting, the 
 Dutchman's murdering crew — 
 
 I'll try my hammer on their heads, and see 
 what that can do ! 
 
 " Now. swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that 
 
 iron well ; 
 'Tis Sarsfield's horse that wants the shoes, so 
 
 mind not shot or shell : " — 
 
456 
 
 J'OE.US OF HEROISM. 
 
 " Ah sure." cried both. " the horse can wan. 
 
 for Sarsfield's on the wall, \ 
 
 And where you go we'll follow, with you to 
 
 stand or fall I " j 
 
 The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed 
 into the street. 
 
 His 'prentice boys behind him, the ruthless 
 foe to meet ; — 
 
 High on the breach of Limerick with daunt- 
 less hearts they stood. 
 
 Where bomb-shells burst, and shot fell thick, 
 and redly ran the blood. 
 
 " Now look you, brown - haired Moran, and 
 
 mark you, swarthy Ned, 
 This day we'll prove the thickness of many a 
 
 Dutchman's head ! 
 Hurrah I upon their bloody path they're 
 
 mounting gallantly ; 
 And now the first that tops the breach, leave 
 
 him to this and me." 
 
 The first that gained the rampart, he was a 
 captain brave, — 
 
 A captain of the grenadiers, with blood- 
 stained dirk and glaive ; [vain I 
 
 He pointed and he parried, but it was all in 
 
 For fast through skull and helmet the ham- 
 mer found his brain ! 
 
 The next that topped the rampart, he was a 
 
 colonel bold ; 
 Bright, through the dust of battle, his helmet 
 
 flashed with gold — 
 "Gold is no match for iron," the doughty 
 
 blacksmith said. 
 And with that ponderous hammer he cracked 
 
 his foeman's head. 
 
 '• Hurrah for gallant Limerick ! " black Ned 
 
 and Moran cried, 
 As on the Dutchmen's leaden heads their 
 
 hammers well they plied ; 
 A bomb-shell burst between them — one fell 
 
 without a groan. 
 One leaped into the lurid air, and down the 
 
 breach was thrown. 
 
 " Brave smith ! brave smith ! " cried Sarsfield. 
 
 "beware the treacherous mine ! 
 Brave smith! brave smith! fall backward, or 
 
 surely death is thine ! " 
 The smith sprang up the rampart and leaped 
 
 the blood-stained wall. 
 
 As high into the shuddering air went foe- 
 men, breach and all ! 
 
 Up, like a red volcano, they thundered wild 
 and high, — 
 
 Spear, gun. and shattered standard, and foe- 
 men through the sky; 
 
 And dark and bloody was the shower that 
 round the blacksmith fell ; — 
 
 He thought up)on his 'prentice boys. — they 
 were avenged well. 
 
 On foemen and defenders a silence gathered 
 
 down ; 
 'Twas broken by a triumph shout that shook 
 
 the ancient town. 
 As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged 
 
 and slew, 
 And taught King William and his men what 
 
 Irish hearts could do. 
 
 Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto 
 
 the river's side ; 
 He hammered on the foe's pontoon to sink it 
 
 in the tide ; 
 The timber it was tough and strong, it took 
 
 no crack or strain ; 
 " J/aTnwf.' 'twon't break !" the blacksmith 
 
 roared, " I'll trj' their heads again I" 
 
 He rushed upon the flying ranks ; his hammer 
 
 ne'er was slack. 
 For in thro' blood and bone it crashed, thro' 
 
 helmet and thro' jack ; [pontoon. 
 
 He's ta'en a Holland captain beside the red 
 And "Wait you here," he boldly cries ; " I'll 
 
 send you back full soon ! 
 
 " Dost see this gorj' hammer? It cracked 
 
 some skulls to-day. 
 And yours 'twill crack if you don't stand and 
 
 list to what I say : — 
 Here ! take it to your cursed King, and tell 
 
 him softly too, 
 'Twould be acquainted with /ii's skull if he 
 
 were here, not you!" 
 
 The blacksmith sought his smithy and blew 
 
 his bellows strong ; 
 He shod the steed of Sarsfield. but o'er it 
 
 sang no song ; 
 " Ochone: my boys are dead !" he cried ; their 
 
 loss I'll long deplore. 
 But comfort's in my heart, their graves are red 
 
 with foreign gore." 
 
 ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 
 
ROJ^y or THE HILLS. 
 
 457 
 
 O'DONNELL ABOO! 
 Proudly the note of the trumpet is sounding, 
 
 Loudly the war cries arise on the gale, 
 Fleetly the steed by Lough Suilig is bounding, 
 To join the thick squadrons in Saimear's 
 green vale. 
 On, every mountaineer. 
 Strangers to flight and fear ; 
 Rush to the standa.'d of dauntless Red 
 Hugh: 
 Bonnought and Gallowglass 
 Throng from each mountain pass ! 
 On for old Erin — G'Donnell aboo! 
 
 Princely O'Neill to our aid is advancing. 
 
 With many a chieftain and warrior-clan ; 
 A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are 
 prancing, 
 'Neath borderers brave from the banks of 
 the Bann ; 
 Many a heart shall quail 
 Under its coat of mail ; 
 Deeply the merciless tyrant shall rue. 
 When on his ear shall ring, 
 Borne on the breeze's wing, 
 Tyrconnell's dread war-cry — O'Donnell 
 aboo! 
 
 Wildly o'er Desmond the war wolf is howling. 
 
 Fearless the eagle sweeps over the plain. 
 The fox in the streets of the city is prowling. 
 All — all who would scare them are banished 
 or slain ! 
 Grasp, every stalwart hand. 
 Hackbut and battle-brand — [due ; 
 Pay them all back the deep debt so long 
 Norris and Clifford well 
 Can of Tir-Conaill tell- 
 Onward to glory — O'Donnell aboo ! 
 
 Sacred the cause that Clan-Conaill's defend- 
 ing— 
 The altars we kneel at and homes of our 
 sires ; 
 Ruthless the ruin the foe is extending — 
 Midnight is red with the plunderer's fires ! 
 On with O'Donnell, then. 
 Fight the old fight again. 
 Sons of Tir-Conaill all valiant and true ! 
 Make the false Saxon feel 
 Erin's avenging steel ! 
 Strike for your country ! O'Donnell aboo ! 
 
 M. J. MCCANN. 
 
 RORY OF THE HILLS. 
 " That rake up near the rafters, 
 
 Why leave it there so long,' 
 The handle, of the best of ash, 
 
 Is smooth, and straight, and strong ; 
 And, mother, will you tell me. 
 
 Why did my father frown. 
 When to make the hay in summer time 
 
 I climbed to take it down ? " 
 She looked into her husband's eyes, 
 
 While her own with light did fill ; 
 " You'll shortly know the reason, boy! " 
 
 Said Rory of the Hill. 
 
 The midnight moon is lighting up 
 
 The slopes of Sliev-na-mon — 
 Whose foot affrights the startled hares 
 
 So long before the dawn ? 
 He stopped just where the Anner's stream 
 
 Winds up the woods anear. 
 Then whistled low, and looked around 
 
 To see the coast was clear. 
 .A. sheeling door flew open — 
 
 In he stepped with right good will — 
 " God save all here, and bless your work," 
 
 Said Rory of the Hill. 
 
 Right hearty was the welcome 
 
 That greeted him, I ween, 
 For years gone by he fully proved 
 
 How well he loved the Green ; 
 And there was one among them 
 
 Who grasped him by the hand — 
 One who, through all that weary time, 
 
 Roamed on a foreign strand — 
 He brought them news from gallant friends 
 
 That m.ade their heart-strings thrill ; 
 •• My sowl ! I never doubted them ! " 
 
 Said Rory of the Hill. 
 
 They sat around the humble board 
 
 Till dawning of the day. 
 And yet not song or shout I heard — 
 
 No revellers were they : 
 Some brows flushed red with gladness, 
 
 While some were grimly pale ; 
 But pale or red, from out those eyes 
 
 Flashed souls that never quail ! 
 " And sing us now about the vow, 
 
 They swore for to fulfill—" 
 '• Ye'll read it yet in history," 
 
 Said Rory of the Hill, 
 
 Next day the ashen handle. 
 
 He took down from where it hung. 
 
458 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISAf. 
 
 The toothed rake, full scornfully, 
 
 Into the fire he flung, 
 .'\nd in its stead a shining tlade 
 
 Is gleaming once again, 
 (Oh ! for a hundred thousand of 
 
 Such weapons and such men 
 Right soldierly he wielded it. 
 
 And (L;f)'ng through his drill— 
 "Attention" — "charge"- "front point" — 
 " advance !" 
 
 Cried Rory of the Hill. 
 
 She looked at him with woman's pride. 
 
 With pride and woman's fears ; 
 She flew to him, she clung to him. 
 
 And dried away her tears ; 
 He feels her pulse beat truly. 
 
 While her arms around him twine — 
 " Now God be praised for your stout heart. 
 
 Brave little wife of mine." 
 He swung his first-born in the air, 
 
 While joy his heart did fiU- 
 " You'll be a Freeman yet. my boy," 
 
 Said Rory of the Hill. 
 
 Oh ! knowledge is a wondrous power, 
 
 And stronger than the wind ; 
 And thrones shall fall and despots bow 
 
 Before the might of mind ; 
 The poet and the orator 
 
 The heart of man can sway, 
 And would to the kind Heavens 
 
 That Wolfe Tone were here to-day! 
 Yet trust mc. friends, dear Ireland's strength, 
 
 Her truest strength, is still. 
 The rough-and-ready roving boys. 
 
 Like Rory of the Hill. 
 
 CHARLES J. KICKHAM. 
 
 THE RISING OF THE MOON. 
 " Oh ! tlicn tell me. Shawn O'Ferrall, 
 
 Tell me why you hu^rry so ?" 
 " Hush, ma bouchal. hush and listen," 
 
 And his cheeks were all a-glow. 
 " 1 bear ordhers from the captain. 
 
 Get you ready quick and soon. 
 For the pikes must be together 
 
 At the risin' of the moon." 
 
 " Oh I then tell me. Shawn O'Ferrall. 
 
 Where the gatherin' is to be ?" 
 • 1 n the ould spot by the river. 
 Right well known to you and me. 
 
 One word more — for signal token 
 Whistle up the marchin' tune. 
 
 With your pike ufjon your shoulder. 
 By the risin' of the moon. " 
 
 Out from many a mudwall cabin 
 
 Eyes were watching thro' that night. 
 Many a manly chest was throbbing 
 
 For the blessed warning light. 
 Murmurs passed along the valleys 
 
 Like the banshee's lonely croon. 
 And a thousand blades were flashing 
 
 At the risin' of the moon. 
 
 There beside the singing river 
 
 That dark mass of men was seen. 
 Far above the shining weapons 
 
 Hung their own beloved green. 
 " Death to ev'ry foe and traitor ! 
 
 Forward ! strike the marchin' tune. 
 And hurrah, my boys, for freedom ! 
 
 'Tis the risin" of the moon. " 
 
 Well they fought for poo." old Ireland, 
 
 And full bitter was their fate 
 (Oh ! what glorious pride and sorrow 
 
 Fill the name of Ninety-Eight). 
 Yet. thank God. e'en still are beating 
 
 Hearts in manhood's burning noon, 
 Who would follow in their footsteps 
 
 At the risin' of the moon ! 
 
 JOHN KEEGAN CASEY. 
 
 THE O'KAVANAGH.* 
 The Saxons had met. and the banquet was 
 
 spread. 
 And the wine in fleet circles the jubilee led : 
 And the banners that hung round the festal 
 
 that night. 
 Seemed brighter by far than when lifted in 
 
 fight. 
 
 In came the O'Kavanagh. fair as the morn. 
 When earth to new beauty and vigor is born ; 
 They shrank from his glance like the waves 
 I from the prow. 
 
 For Nature's nobility sat on his brow. 
 
 .\ttended alone by his vassal and bard ; 
 
 No trumpet to herald, no clansmen to guard. 
 
 King of l.cinster at the bcKinnini; of the fifth century. 
 
DE COURCrS PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 459 
 
 He came not attended by steed or by steel : 
 No danger he knew, for no fear did he feel. 
 
 In eye and on lip his high confidence smiled — 
 So proud, yet so knightly — so gallant, yet mild ; 
 He moved like a God through the light of that 
 
 hall, 
 And a smile, full of courtliness, proffered to 
 
 " Come pledge us, Lord Chieftain ! come 
 pledge us !" they cried ; 
 
 Unsuspectingly free to the pledge he replied ; 
 
 And this was the peace-branch O'Kavanagh 
 bore — 
 
 "The friendships to come, not the feuds that 
 are o'er." 
 
 But, minstrel ! why cometh a change o'er thy 
 
 theme .' 
 Why sing of red battle — what dream dost thou 
 
 dream .' 
 Ha ! " Treason " 's the cry. and " Revenge " is 
 
 the call ! 
 As the swords of the Saxon surrounded the 
 
 hall. 
 
 A kingdom for Angelo's mind ! to portray 
 Green Erin's undaunted Avenger, that day ; 
 The far-flashing sword, and the death-darting 
 
 eye. 
 Like some comet commissioned with wrath 
 
 from the sky. 
 
 Through the ranks of the Saxon he hewed his 
 
 red way — 
 Through lances, and sabres, and hostile array ; 
 And, mounting his charger, he left them to 
 
 tell 
 The tale of that feast and its bloody farewell ! 
 
 And now on the Saxons his clansmen advance. 
 With a shout from each heart, and a soul in 
 
 each lance. 
 He rushed, like a storm, o'erthe night-covered 
 
 heath, 
 And swept through their ranks, like the angel 
 
 of death. 
 
 Then hurrah ! for thy glory, young Chieftain, 
 hurrah ! 
 
 O! had wesuchlightning-souled heroes to-day, 
 I Again would our Sunburst expand in the gale, 
 j And Freedom exult o, er green Innisfail. 
 
 JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA. 
 
 DE COURCY'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 " I'm weary of your elegies, yourkeenings and 
 
 complaints. 
 We've heard no strain this blessed night but 
 
 histories of saints ; 
 Sing us some deed of daring — of the living or 
 
 the dead !" 
 So Earl Gerald, in Maynooth, to the Bard 
 
 Neelan said. 
 
 Answered the Bard Neelan — " O Earl, I will 
 
 obey ; 
 And I will show you that you have no cause 
 
 for what you say ; 
 A warrior may be valiant, and love holiness 
 
 also. 
 As did the Norman Courcy, in this country 
 
 long ago." 
 
 Few men could match De Courcy. on saddle 
 
 or on sward. 
 The ponderous mace he valued more than any 
 
 Spanish sword ; 
 On many a field of slaughter scores of men lay 
 
 smashed and stark, 
 And the victors as they saw them said — " Lo! 
 
 John De Courcy 's mark !" 
 
 De Lacy was his deadly foe, through envy of 
 his fame ; 
 
 He laid foul ambush for his life, and stigma- 
 tized his name ; 
 
 But the gallant John De Courcy kept still his 
 mace at hand. 
 
 And rode, unfearing feint or force, across his 
 rival's land. 
 
 He'd made a vow, for some past sins, a pil- 
 grimage to pay. 
 
 At Patrick's tomb, and there to bide a fort- 
 night and a day ; 
 
 And now amid the cloisters the disarmed 
 giant walks. 
 
 And with the brown beads in his hand, from 
 cross to cross he stalks. 
 
 News came to Hugo Lacy of the penance of 
 
 the Knight, 
 And he rose and sent his murderers from 
 
 Durrogh forth by night ; 
 Ascoreof mighty Methian men, proof guarded 
 
 for the strife. 
 And he has sworn them, man by man, to take 
 
 De Courcy 's life. 
 
46o 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 'Twas twilight in Downpatrick town, the 
 
 pilgrim in the porch 
 Sat. faint with fasting and with prayer, before 
 
 the darkened church ; 
 When suddenly he heard a sound upon the 
 
 stony street — 
 A sound, familiar to his ears, of battle horses' 
 
 feet. 
 
 He stepped forth to a hillock where an oaken 
 cross it stood. 
 
 And looking forth, he leaned upon the monu- 
 mental wood. 
 
 "Tishe! 'tis he I" the foremost cried — "'tis 
 well you came to shrive. 
 
 For another sun, De Courcy, you shall never 
 see alive ! " 
 
 Then roused the softened heart within the 
 
 pilgrim's sober weeds — 
 He t'.iought upon his high renown, and all his 
 
 knightly deeds. 
 He felt the spirit swell within his undefended 
 
 breast. 
 And his courage rose the faster that his sins 
 
 had been confest. 
 
 "I am no dog to perish thus! no deer to 
 
 couch at bay ! 
 Assassins ! 'ware the life you seek, and stand 
 
 not in my way ! " 
 He plucked the tall cross from the root, and 
 
 waving it around. 
 He dashed the master murderer stark lifeless 
 
 to the ground. 
 
 As rowon row they pressed within the deadly 
 
 ring he made. 
 Twelve of the score in their own gore within 
 
 his reach he laid ; 
 The rest i i panic terror ran to horse and fled 
 
 away, 
 .•\iid left the knight, De Courcy, at the bloody 
 
 cross to pray. 
 
 •■ And now," quoth Neelan to the Earl, "I did 
 
 your will obey ; 
 Have I not shown you had no cause for what 
 
 I heard you say?" 
 " Faitli, Neelan," answered Gerald, " your holy 
 
 man. Sir John, 
 Z>/</bear his cross right manfully, so much we 
 
 have to own." 
 
 IHOMAS D'ARCY M^GEE. 
 
 THE LEAP FOR LIFE. 
 
 I An Episode in I he Career of Marshal Mac- 
 mahon. 
 
 In Algeria, with Bugeaud, 
 
 Harassed by a crafty foe, [one ; 
 
 Were the French, in eighteen hundred thirty- 
 Swarthy Arabs prowled about 
 I Camp and outpost and redoubt. 
 
 Crouching here, and crawling there. 
 
 Lurking, gliding everywhere. 
 Tiger-hearted, under stars and under sun ; 
 
 Seeking by some stealthy chance 
 I Vengeance on the troops of France — 
 
 Vengeance fierce and fell, to sate 
 
 Savage rage and savage hate 
 
 For the deeds of desolation harshly done. 
 
 On a rugged plateau. 
 Forty miles from headquarters of Marshal 
 
 Bugeaud, 
 Lay an outpost, besieged by the merciless foe. 
 Day by day close and closer the Arab lines drew 
 Round the hard-beset French. 
 
 To dash out and flash through. 
 Like a wind-driven flame, they would dare, 
 
 though a host 
 Hot from Hades stood there. But abandon 
 
 the post ? 
 Nay, they dare not do that ; they were sol- 
 diers of France, 
 And dishonor should stain neither sabre nor 
 
 lance ; 
 They could bravely meet death, though like 
 
 Hydra it came, 
 Horror-headed and dire, but no shadow of 
 
 shame 
 For a trust left to perish when danger drew 
 
 nigh. 
 Should e'er dim the flag waving free to the sky. 
 But soon came a terror more dread to the soul 
 Then war's wild thunder-crash when its battle 
 
 clouds roll. 
 And the heavens are shrouded from light, 
 
 while a glare, [air ! 
 
 .As of hell, breaks in hot. lurid streams on the 
 
 It was Famine, grim-visaged and gaunt. 
 To the camp most appalling of foes — 
 Slow to strike, slow to kill, but full sure 
 .\s the swift headsman's deadliest blows. 
 O'er the ramparts it sullenly strode. 
 Gliding darkly by tent and by wall. 
 Spreading awe wheresoever it went. 
 And the gloom of dismay over all; 
 
THE LEAP FOR LIFE. 
 
 461 
 
 Blighting valor that ne'er in war's red front 
 
 had quailed, 
 Blanching cheeks that no tempest of strife 
 
 e'er had paled. 
 
 Then a council was held, and the commandant 
 
 said 
 Direst peril was near : they must summon 
 
 swift aid 
 From the Marshal, or all would be lost ere the 
 
 sun 
 Of to-morrow went down in the west, Was 
 
 there one 
 Who, to save the command and the honor of 
 
 France, 
 Would ride forth with despatches ? He ceased, 
 
 and a glance 
 At the bronzed faces near showed that spirits 
 
 to dare 
 Any desperate deed under heaven were there. 
 But the first to arise and respond was a 
 
 youth 
 Whose brow bore nature's signet of courage 
 
 and truth. 
 In whose eye valor shone calm and clear as a 
 
 star 
 When the winds are at rest, and the clouds 
 
 fade afar. 
 Who was he that stood forth with such reso- 
 lute air .' 
 Young Lieutenant MacMahon, bold, free, 
 
 dcbonaire. 
 Never knight looked more gallant with shield 
 
 and with spear, 
 Never war-nurtured chieftain less conscious 
 
 of fear. 
 In his mien was the heroic flash of the Gaul, 
 With the .fire of the Celt giving grandeur to 
 
 all; 
 And he said, head erect, face with ardor aglow, 
 "I will ride with despatches to Marshal 
 
 Bugeaud !" 
 
 It is night, and a stillness profound 
 Folds the camp ; Arabs stealthily creep 
 Here and there in the moonlight beyond. 
 With ears eagerly bent for a sound 
 From the garrison, watchful and weak: 
 O'er the tents welcome night breezes 
 
 sweep. 
 Bringing balm unto brow and to cheek 
 Of men scorched by a pitiless sun 
 To a hue almost swarthy and deep 
 As the hue of the foe they would shun. 
 
 Stretching dimly afar. 
 Between slopes that are lugged and bare, 
 Half obscure under moonbeam and star, 
 Half revealed in the soft, misty air, 
 Runs a rude, broken way that will lead 
 Gallant rider and sure-footed steed 
 Westward forth to the camp of Bugeaud, 
 Forty miles over high land and low ; 
 But the steed must be trusty and fleet. 
 And the bridle-hand steady and keen 
 That shall guide him by rock and ravine. 
 Where each stride of the galloping feet 
 Must span dangers that slumber unseen ; 
 And beyond, scarce a league to the west. 
 Yawns a treacherous chasm.dark and deep. 
 Where death lurks like a serpent asleep. 
 And the rider must ride at his best. 
 And his steed take the terrible leap 
 Like a winged creature cleaving the air. 
 Else a grim, ghastly corpse shall be there. 
 With perchance a steed stark on its breast; 
 And the moon shall look down with a stare 
 Where they lie in perpetual rest. 
 
 Now the silence is broken by neigh and by 
 
 champ 
 And the clatter of hoofs, and away from the 
 
 camp 
 Rides MacMahon, as gallant, as light, and as 
 
 free 
 As a bridegroom who goes to his marriage 
 
 may be. 
 With prance and with gallop and gay caracole 
 His swift steed bounds along, as if spurning 
 
 control ; 
 But the bridle-hand guides him unerring and 
 
 true. 
 And each stroke of the hoofs is thew answer- 
 ing thew. 
 Through the moonlight they go, fading slowly 
 
 from sight. 
 Till both rider and steed sink away in the 
 
 night. 
 But they go not unheard, and they speed not 
 
 unseen ; 
 Dark eyes furtively watch, flashing fiercely 
 
 and keen 
 From dim ambush around ; then like spectres 
 
 arise 
 White-robed figures that follow : the rider 
 
 descries 
 Them on slope and in hollow, and knows they 
 
 pursue. 
 But he fears not their craft or the deeds they 
 
 mav do. 
 
462 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 For his brave steed is eager and strong, and | Then with eyes fixed before, and brow bent 
 
 the pace to the wind. 
 
 Growing faster and faster each stride of the And one thought of the foe and his comrades 
 
 Now the slopes right and left seem alive with And alow, earnest prayer that all heaven must 
 
 the foe heed. 
 
 Gliding ghost-like along, but still stealthy and He slacks bridle, plies spur, and gives head to 
 
 low, his steed. 
 
 As wild creatures that crouch in a jungle; With a bound it responds, ears set back. 
 
 they think 
 
 nostrils wide. 
 
 To entrap him when back from the terrible And the rush of a thunder-bred storm 
 
 Of the chasm he returns, for his steed cannot Now the brink! now the leap! they are'over ! 
 
 leap 
 
 Hurrah! 
 
 The dread gulf, and the rider will halt when Horse and rider are safe, and dash wildly away 
 
 Its steep 
 Ragged walls ope before him, with death lying \ 
 
 deep 
 In the darkness below: they will seize him, 
 
 and take 
 From his heart, by fell torture of fagot and ' 
 
 stake, i 
 
 Evcrj' secret it holds ; then his life blood | 
 
 may flow. 
 But he never shall ride to the camp of 
 
 Bugeaud. , 
 
 Still unflinching and free through the moon- 
 light he goes, 
 And each pulse with the hot flush of eagerness 
 
 glows. j 
 
 Now a glance at the path where his gallant ' 
 
 steed flies. 
 Now a gleam at the weird, spectral forms that 
 
 arise 
 On the dim, rugged slopes, then still onward 
 
 and on. 
 Till he nears the abyss, and its gaping jaws 
 
 yawn 
 On his sight ; but the rider well knows it is 
 
 there. 
 And his speed is soon cautiously checked to 
 
 Not a slip, not a flinch, swift and sure as the 
 
 flight 
 Of an eagle in mid-air, they sweep through 
 
 the night, 
 While the baffled foe glare in bewildered 
 
 amaze 
 At the fast -flying prey speeding far from 
 
 their gaze ; 
 And the soft stars grow dim in the dawn's 
 
 early glow 
 When McMahon rides into the camp of 
 
 Bugeaud. 
 
 DAXIKL CONNOLLY. 
 
 MACMAHON'S DEFIANCE. 
 
 Sceiu : Council Chaiiilvi; Dublin Castle. Time : 
 
 1641. 
 
 By Heaven, that hateful name is false ! no 
 
 •' traitor's " soul have I — 
 Not mine to blush for " craven crimes " — not 
 
 mine " the dread to die :" 
 And, though a captive here I stand within 
 
 these Dublin towers, 
 I swear we fight for king and right — a holy 
 
 cause is ours : 
 
 prepare Even here I fling your tauntings back — I fling 
 
 For the desperate leap; he must now put to them in your face 
 
 P'^oof Dark picture. Parsons, of your heart — a tell- 
 
 The true mettle beneath, for the slip of a hoof, tale of your race. 
 
 Or a swerve on the brink, will dash both into Lords— justices ! misnamed— my tongue your 
 
 perfidy shall brand. 
 Betrayers of your prince's cause, and robbers 
 
 of the land ! 
 I dare your worst! — your rope, your block no 
 
 terrors have for me. 
 For the hour that saw these hands enchained, 
 that hour saw Ireland free ! 
 
 doom, 
 Where the sad stars shall watch over a cavern- 
 ous tomb. 
 
 Girth and bridle and stirrup arc felt, to be 
 
 sure 
 That no flaw shall bring peril — and all is secure; | 
 
TYRRELLS PASS. 
 
 46; 
 
 Ay, bear me hence ! — what boots it now if I 
 
 should live or die? 
 Thank God ! the long-sought hour is come — 
 
 our banners kiss the sky ! 
 Albeit a worthless tool is broke — tis hallowed 
 
 in the deed ! 
 Thank God that Ireland's cause is safe — that 
 
 I for Ireland bleed ! 
 Ay, bear me to the bloody block — nor need 
 
 ye waste your light, 
 For Ulster, all ablaze, my lords, shall be our 
 
 torch to-night ; 
 Each Saxon tower that frowned upon our 
 
 country's plundered fanes 
 Shall light its felon lord, ere dawn, to dastard 
 
 flight or chains ; 
 Shall guide the steps of gathering clans, whose 
 
 watchwords rend the sky — 
 O God ! it is a happy death on such a night to 
 
 die ! 
 
 Clan-Connal's outlawed sons rush down o'er 
 
 cliff and rugged rock — 
 Than Erna s flood at Assaroe,more fierce and 
 
 dread their shock ; 
 As storm-clouds driven o'er Summer's sky, 
 
 Maguire's shattered clan 
 Shall sweep from Erna's hundred isles, and 
 
 clutch their own again ; 
 A thunderbolt that cleaves the heavens, with 
 
 scathing levin bright, 
 Clan-Nial's gathering masses burst o'er tower 
 
 and town to-night ; 
 O Hanlon builds his eyrie strong in Tandera- 
 
 gee's old town; 
 O'Reilly raises Brefni's kernes; Magennis 
 
 musters Down ; 
 And though not mine the glorious task my 
 
 rightful clan to lead, 
 Clan-Mahon shall not want a chief to teach it 
 
 how to bleed ! 
 
 Ha ! wherefore shakes that craven hand — Lord 
 
 Justice Parsons, say ? 
 Why stare so stark, my Lord Borlase ? — why 
 
 grow so pale, I pray ? 
 Methought you deemed it holy work to fleece 
 
 "the Philistine;" 
 That in "God's name " you taxed belief in 
 
 many a goodly fine ; 
 Then wherefore all these rueful looks? — " the 
 
 Lord's work ye have done!" 
 Advance the lights ! Ha ! vampire lords, your 
 
 evil race is run. 
 
 Ye traitors to a trusting prince ! ye robbers of 
 
 his realm ! 
 Small wonder that the ship's adrift, with 
 
 pirates at the helm ! 
 Hark ! heard 'st that shout that rang without ? 
 
 Ye ministers of ill, 
 Haste, sate ye with your latest crime while 
 
 yet you've time to kill ! 
 
 I dare your worst, you Saxon knaves ! then 
 wherefore do you pause ? 
 
 My blood shall rouse the Southern clans, 
 though prostrate in our cause ! 
 
 For as the resurrection flower, though with- 
 ered many a year, 
 
 Blooms fresh and bright and fair again when 
 watered with a tear. 
 
 So, nurtured in the willing wave of a martyr's 
 ruddy tide. 
 
 Our sons shall say — The Nation lived wh"-i 
 Hugh MacMahon died ! 
 
 JAxMES N. MCKANE. 
 
 TYRRELL'S PASS.* 
 
 The Baron bold of Trimbleston hath gone in 
 
 proud array. 
 To drive afar from fair Westmeath the Irish 
 
 kerns away. 
 And there is mounting brisk of steeds and 
 
 donning shirts of mail. 
 And spurring hard to MuUingar 'niong Riders 
 
 of the Pale. 
 
 For, flocking round his banner there, from 
 
 east to west there came. 
 Full many knights and gentlemen of English 
 
 blood and name. 
 All prompt to hate the Irish race, all spoilers 
 
 of the land. 
 And mustered soon a thousand spears that 
 
 Baron in his band. 
 
 For trooping in rode Nettervilles and D' Altons 
 
 not a few, 
 And thick as reeds pranced Nugent's spears, 
 
 a fierce and godless crew ; 
 And Nagle's pennon flutters fair, and, pricking 
 
 o'er the plain, 
 Dashed Tuite of Sonna's mail-clad men, and 
 
 Dillon's from Glen-Shane. 
 
 * The battle of Tyrrell's Pass, in Westmeath, was fought 
 
(J POEAfS OF HEROISM. 
 
 A goodly feast the Baron gave in Nagle's Then rose a shout throughout the hall, that 
 
 ancient hall. "lade the rafters ring. 
 
 And to his board he summons there his chiefs And stirr'd o'erhead the banners there, like 
 
 and captains all ; aspen leaves in spring ; 
 
 And round the red wine circles fast, with noisy And vows were made, and wine-cups quaft. 
 
 boast and brag with proud and bitter scorn. 
 
 How they would hunt the Irish kerns like any To hunt to death Fctullahs clans upon the 
 
 Cratloe stag. coming morn. 
 
 But "mid their glee a horseman spurrd all jhese tidings unto Tyrrell came, upon that 
 
 breathless to the gale. selfsame day. 
 
 And from the warder there he craved to see ^vhere. camped amid the hazel boughs, he at 
 
 Lord Barnwell straight; Lough Ennel lay. 
 
 And when he stept the castle hall, then cried .. ^^^^j ^j^^y ^j,, ^^^^ ^^ ^- ^g cried—" why. 
 
 the Baron. ' Ho ! ,e^ (hem if they will ; 
 
 You are De Petifs body-squire, why stops your ^^^ ^^^ ^g.„ ^^.^^^ ^^^^ greenwood craft, to 
 
 master so ?" ^ catch us. ere they kill." 
 
 " Sir Piers De Petit ne'er held back," that 
 
 wounded man replied. 
 " When friend or foeman called him on. or 
 
 there was need to ride : 
 But vainly now you lack him here. for. on the 
 
 bloody sod. 
 The nobk' knight lies stark and stiff— his soul 
 
 is with his God. 
 
 " For yesterday, in passing through FertuUah's 
 
 wooded glen. 
 Fierce Tyrrell met my master's band, and slew 
 
 the good knight then ; 
 And wounded sore with axe and skian. I barely 
 
 'scaped with life. 
 To bear to you the dismal news, and warn you 
 
 of the strife. 
 
 • MacGeoghegans flag is on the hills! 
 O'Reilly's up at Fore ! 
 
 And all the chiefs have flown to arms, from 
 I Allen to Donore. 
 
 I And as I rode by Granard's moat, right plainly 
 ] might 1 see 
 
 j O'Ferall's clans were sweeping down fromdis- 
 1 tant Annalec." 
 
 And hot next morn the horsemen came. 
 
 Young Barnwell at their head ; 
 But when they reached the calm lake banks. 
 
 behold ! their prey was fled I 
 And loud they cursed, as wheeling round they 
 
 left that tranquil shore. 
 And sought the wood of Garraclune. and 
 
 searched it o'er and o'er. 
 
 And down the slopes, and o'er the fields, and 
 
 up the steeps they strain. 
 And through Moylanna's trackless bog. where 
 
 many steeds remain. 
 Till wearied all at set of sun, they halt in 
 
 sorry plight. 
 And on the heath, beside his steed, each 
 
 horseman passed the night. 
 
 Next morn, while yet the white mists lay. all 
 
 brooding on the hill, 
 Bold Tyrrell to his comrade spake, a friend in 
 
 every ill— 
 •• O'Conor, take ye ten score men, and speed 
 
 ye to the dell. 
 Where winds the path to Kinnegad— you know 
 
 that io^lu-r well. 
 
 Then started up young Barnwell there, all hot 
 
 with Spanish wine— 
 •• Revenge." he cries. • for Pelit's death, and 
 j be that labor mine ; 
 
 For. by the blessed rood I swear, when 1 Wat 
 
 Tyrrell see, 
 I'll hunt to death the rebel hold, and hang 
 I him on a tree !" 
 
 '• .\nd couch ye close amid the heath, and 
 
 blades of waving fern. 
 So glint of steel, o.- glimpse of man, no Saxon 
 
 may discern. 
 Until ye hear my bugle blown, and up. 
 
 O'Conor. then. 
 .\nd bid the drums strike Tyrrell's march, 
 
 and charge ye with your men. " 
 
TV/i/iELL-S PASS. 
 
 465 
 
 " Now, by his soul who sleeps at Cong," From front to flank the Irish charge in battle 
 
 0"Conor proud replied, order all, 
 
 " It grieves me sore before those dogs, to have While pent like sheep in shepherd's fold t-he 
 
 my head to hide ; j Saxon riders fall ; 
 
 But lest, perchance, in scorn they might go : Their lances long are little use, their numbers 
 
 brag it thro' the Pale, 
 I'll do my best that few shall live to carry 
 round the tale." 
 
 The mist roll'd off, and " Gallants, up!" young 
 
 Barnwell loudly cries, 
 " By Bective's shrine, from off the hill, the 
 
 rebel traitor flies; 
 Now mount ye all. fair gentlemen — lay bridle 
 
 loose on mane. 
 And spur your steeds with rowels sharp — we'll 
 
 catch him on the plain." 
 
 Then bounded to their saddles quick a thous- 
 and eager men. 
 
 And on they rushed in hot pursuit to Darra's 
 wooded glen. 
 
 But gallants bold, though fair ye ride, here 
 slacken speed ye may — 
 
 The chase is o'er! — the hunt is up! — the 
 quarry stands at bay ! 
 
 For halted on a gentle slope, bold Tyrrell 
 
 placed his band. 
 And promptly stept he to the front, his banner 
 
 in his hand. 
 And plunged it deep within the earth, all 
 
 plainly in their view. 
 And waved aloft his trusty sword, and loud 
 
 his bugle blew. 
 
 Saint Colman ! 'twas a fearful sight, while 
 
 drum and trumpet played. 
 To see the bound from out the brake that 
 
 fierce O'Conor made. 
 As waving high his sword in air he smote the 
 
 flaunting crest 
 Of proud Sir Hugh De Geneville, and clove 
 
 him to the chest ! 
 
 "On, comrades, on!" young Barnwell cries, 
 
 " and spur j'e to the plain, 
 Where we may best our lances use !" That 
 
 counsel is in vain. 
 For down swept Tyrrell's gallant band, with 
 
 shout and wild halloo, 
 And a hundred steeds are niasterless since 
 
 first his bugle blew ! 
 
 block the way. 
 And mad with pain their plunging steeds adQ 
 terror to the fray ! 
 
 And of the haughty host that rode that 
 
 morning through the dell, 
 But one has 'scaped with life and limb his 
 
 comrades' fate to tell ; 
 The rest all in their harness died, amid the 
 
 thickets there. 
 Yet fighting to the latest gasp, like foxes in a 
 
 snare ! 
 
 The Baron bold of Trimbleston has fled in 
 
 sore dismay. 
 Like beaten hound at dead of night from 
 
 Mullingar away, 
 While wild from Boyne to Brusna's banks 
 
 there spreads a voice of wail, 
 Mavronc! the sky that night was red with 
 
 burnings in the Pale! 
 
 ! And late next day to Dublin town the dismal 
 [ tidings came. 
 
 And Kevin's-Port and Watergate are lit with 
 
 beacons twain, 
 And scouts spur out, and on the walls there 
 
 stands a fearful crowd. 
 While high o'er all Saint Mary's bell tolls out 
 alarums loud ! 
 
 But far away beyond the Pale, from Dunluce 
 
 to Dunboy, 
 From ever)' Irish hall and rath there bursts a 
 
 shout of joy, 
 As eager Asklas hurry past o'er mountain, 
 
 moor, and glen, 
 And tell in each the battle won by Tyrrell and 
 
 his men. 
 
 Bold Walter sleeps in Spanish earth; long 
 
 years have passed away — 
 Yet Tyrrell's-pass is called that spot, ay, to 
 
 this very day. 
 And still is told as marvel strange, how from 
 
 his swollen hand. 
 When ceased the fight the blacksmith filed 
 
 O'Conor's trusty brand ! 
 
 ARTHUR G. GEOGHEGAN. 
 
466 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 SOUTH MUNSTER CLANS MARCHING TO; 
 
 BATTLE.-A.D. 1690. 
 Hark, the distant hum ! 
 The clans of stormy Desmond come 
 From their rugged glens and s;ivage hills ;— 
 How their warriors' laughter the bosom thrills 1 
 Their hearts are dauntless, and careless and 
 
 light.— 
 Their plumes are brave, and their spears are 
 bright ; j 
 
 Each Crahadore's lip has the careless play 
 And the joyous smile of a festal day ; [glow. \ 
 But that lip will clench, and that eye will 
 When he meets, when he meets his Saxon foe. 
 
 I 
 As the banded squadrons pass, ' 
 
 'Tis glorious to see their banners wave. i 
 
 With sunbeams sparkling on spear and glaive. 
 On horseman's helm and on steel cuirass. j 
 'Tis glorious to see by stream and glen, | 
 
 Old Desmond's mountaineers again 
 Draw from its scabbard the rusting brand. 
 In the thrilling cause of fatherland ! 
 Grimly crave, with a warrior joy. 
 Vengeance for Smerwick and bloody Dunboy. ', 
 
 i 
 From Muskerry mountains and Carbery hills. ' 
 MacCarthies have rushed like their highland 
 
 rills ; 
 MacSwinies, O'Learies. O'Riordans came. 
 When the signal flew on wings of flame ; 
 O'Driscolls are there, from their crag-bound 
 
 shore ; 
 And O'Mahonies, men of the woods and moor. 
 Many a Duhallow battle-axe bright— 
 For Clan-Awly, Clan-Keeffe, and Clan-Callag- 
 
 han, all 
 Have answered the princely MacDonogh's 
 
 call. 
 When that chieftain summoned his bands of 
 
 might ; 
 And many a clan with the Norman name — 
 Like leaves of their forests Fitzgeralds came. 
 Barrys. and Barrets. Sapeul, Condhune, 
 From Broad Imokilly, and Kilnatalloon — 
 From Orrery's valleys, and Avonmore's banks. 
 In hundreds have mustered their stately ranks. 
 
 On. on. our march must know no pause, 
 Till the wolf-dog's game is in his jaws; 
 On— with clear heart and footing sure, 
 For our path lies by mountain and shaking 
 
 moor. 
 The river is broad, but who'd wait for a ford. 
 
 And the cause of Ki^h Seamus in need of his 
 Up, up, with the wild hurra I [sword .' 
 
 We fight for the right, and Kigh Seamus go 
 bragh .' * 
 
 Though they file along, in their loose array. 
 Like a driving cloud on a summer's day. 
 So brilliant, so gallant, and gay. 
 Many a light-limbed mount lineer [tear, 
 
 Dashed from his dark eye the soul-sprung 
 As he parted from maid, or from matron dear. 
 Many a reckless Crahadore 
 Bent o'er the maid he might clasp no more. 
 On leafy Imokilly s shore. 
 Von gallowglass has left his bride 
 By steep Slieve Logher's heathy side. 
 Rent was his manly heart with sorrow 
 As she smoothed his long black hair. 
 Pressed his bronzed cheek and forehead fair. 
 And blessed him for the bloody morrow. 
 But the griefs of the parting moment pass 
 From the breast of kern and gallowglass. 
 When the clairseach rings, and the baraboo. 
 When he hears the chieftains war halloo. 
 When he sees the war-horse champ the rein. 
 And toss aloft his flowing mane. 
 Blithely he marches by town and tower. 
 Gone are the thoughts of the parting hour, 
 Blithely he raises the shrill hurra. 
 A'^/t Seamus, A'/g/i Si-amiis.go bragh. 
 
 O. H. SUPPLE. 
 
 MUNSTER WAR-SONG-TIME, 1190. 
 Can the depths of the ocean alTord you not 
 
 graves, 
 That you come thus to perish afar o'er the 
 
 waves ! 
 To redden and swell the wild torrents that 
 
 flow. 
 Through the valley of vengeance, the dark 
 
 Aharlow ? 
 
 The clangor of conflict o'erburdens the breeze, 
 From the stormy Slieve Bloom to the stately 
 
 Galtees ; 
 Your caverns and torrents are purple with gore, 
 Slievenamon, Glencoloc. and sublime Galty- 
 
 more ! 
 
 The Sun-burst that slumbered, embalmed in 
 our tears. 
 
 Tipperary! shall wave o'er thy tall moun- 
 taineers! 
 
 •King J« 
 
 I for ever. 
 
i^^^^AoT/za^ CZd^iitH^zc' .^^ 
 
FONTENO V. 
 
 467 
 
 And the dark hill shall bristle with sabre and 
 
 spear. 
 While one tyrant remains to forge manacles 
 
 here. 
 
 The riderless war-steed careers o'er the plain, 
 With a shaft in his flank and a blood-dripping 
 
 mane. 
 His gallant breast labors, and glares his wild 
 
 eyes ; 
 He plunges in torture — falls — shivers — and 
 
 Let the trumpets ring triumph ! the tyrant is 
 
 slain. 
 He reels o'er his charger, deep pierced through 
 
 the brain ; 
 And his myriads are flying like leaves on the 
 
 gale, 
 But, who shall escape from our hills with the 
 
 tale? 
 
 For the arrows of vengeance are show'ring Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English 
 
 like rain, 1 column failed. 
 
 And choke the strong rivers with islands of ^.nd, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine the 
 
 sl^i"' Dutch in vain assailed ; 
 
 By the soul of Heremon ! our warriors may 
 
 smile. 
 To remember the march of the foe through 
 
 our isle ; 
 Their banners and harness were costly and 
 
 gay, 
 And proudly they flash'd in the summer sun's 
 
 ray. 
 
 The hilts of their falchions were crusted with 
 
 gold. 
 And the gems of their helmets were bright 
 
 to behold. 
 By Saint Bride of Kildare ! but they moved 
 
 in fair show — 
 To gorge the young eagles of dark Aharlow ! 
 RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 
 
 FONTENOY. 
 
 Till thy waves, lordly Shannon, all crimsonly 
 
 flow, 
 Like the billows of hell with the blood of the 
 
 foe. 
 
 Ay! the foemen are flying, but vainly they 
 
 fly- 
 Revenge, with the fleetness of lightning, can 
 
 vie ; 
 And the septs of the mountains spring up 
 
 from each rock. 
 And rush down the ravines like wolves on the 
 
 flock. 
 
 And who shall pass over the stormy Slieve 
 Bloom, 
 
 To tell the pale Saxon of tyranny's doom, 
 
 When, like tigers from ambush, our fierce 
 mountaineers 
 
 Leap along from the crags with their death- 
 dealing spears.' 
 
 They came with high boasting to bind us as 
 slaves. 
 
 But the glen and the torrent have yawned for 
 their graves — 
 
 From the gloomy Ardfinnan to wild Temple- 
 more — 
 
 From the Suir to the Shannon — is red with 
 their gore. 
 
 For town and slope were filled with fort and 
 
 flanking battery. 
 And well they swept the English ranks, and 
 
 Dutch auxiliary. 
 As vainly through De Berri's wood, the British 
 
 soldiers burst. 
 The French artillery drove them back, dimin- 
 ished and dispersed ; 
 The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with 
 
 anxious eye. 
 And ordered up his last reserve, his latest 
 
 chance to try. 
 On Fontenoy — on Fontenoy, how fast his 
 
 generals ride! 
 And mustering come his chosen troops, like 
 
 clouds at eventide. 
 
 Six thousand English veterans in stately 
 
 column tread. 
 Their cannon blaze in front and flank. Lord 
 
 Hay is at their head ; 
 Steady they step adown the slope — steady they 
 
 climb the hill; 
 Steady they load — steady they fire, moving 
 
 right onward still, 
 Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a 
 
 furnace blast. 
 Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and 
 
 bullets showering fast ; 
 
468 
 
 POEMS OF HEJiO/SM. 
 
 And on the open plain above they rose and 
 
 kept their course. 
 With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked 
 
 at hostile force : 
 Past Fontenoy— past Fontenoy, while thinner 
 
 grow their ranks — 
 They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through 
 
 Holland's ocean banks. j 
 
 More idly than the summer flies, French j 
 
 tirailleurs rush round : 
 As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons I 
 
 strew the ground ; 
 Bomb-shell, and grape, and round shot tore; 
 
 still on they marched and fired— , 
 
 Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur 
 
 retired, ^ 
 
 "Push on. my household cavalry!" King 
 
 Louis madly cried : 
 To death they rush, but rude their shock — 
 
 not unavenged they died. 
 On through the camp the column trod— King 
 
 Louis turns his rein : 
 ■• Not yet, my liege." Saxe interposed, "the 
 
 Irish troops remain!" 
 And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a 
 
 Waterloo, 
 Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehe- 
 ment, and true. 
 
 " Lord Clare," he says, " you have your wish ; 
 
 there are your Saxon foes !" 
 The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously 
 
 he goes ! 
 How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're 
 
 wont to be so gay, 
 The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their 
 
 hearts to-day — 
 The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 
 
 'twas writ could Ary, 
 Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, 
 
 their women's parting crj', 
 Their priesthood hunted down like wolves. 
 
 their country overthrown, 
 Each looks, as if revenge for all were staked 
 
 on him alone. 
 On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet else- 
 where. 
 Rushed on to fight a nobler band than those 
 
 proud exiles were. 
 
 O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, 
 
 he commands, 
 "Fix bay'nets" — "charge," — like mountain 
 
 storm, rush on those fierj' bands! 
 
 Thin is the English column now, and faint 
 
 their volleys grow. 
 Yet, must'ringall the strength they have, thr 
 
 make a gallant show. 
 They dress their ranks upon the hill to fai < 
 
 that battle wind — 
 Their bayonets the breakers' foam ; like rock- 
 
 the men behind! 
 One volley crashes from their line, when, 
 
 through the surging smoke. 
 With empty guns clutched in their hands, thf 
 
 headlong Irish broke. 
 On Fontenoy. on Fontenoy. hark to that fieri ■ 
 
 huzza ! 
 " Revenge ! remember Limerick ! dash down 
 
 the Sassenagh !" 
 
 Like lions leaping at a fold when mad with 
 
 hunger's pang. 
 Right up against the English line the Irish 
 
 exiles sprang; 
 Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their 
 
 guns are filled with gore ; 
 Through shattered ranks, and severed files, 
 
 and trampled flags they tore ; 
 The English strove with desperate strength, 
 
 paused, rallied, staggered, fled — 
 The green hill side is matted close with 
 
 dying and with dead ; 
 Across the plain and far away passed on that 
 
 hideous wrack. 
 While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon 
 
 their track. 
 On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the 
 
 sun. 
 With bloody plumes the Irish stand, — the 
 
 field is fought and won ! 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
 THE BRIGADE AT FONTENOY. 
 By our camp-fires rose a murmur 
 
 At the dawning of the day. 
 And the sound of many footsteps 
 
 Spoke the advent of the fray ; 
 And as we took our places. 
 
 Few and stern were our words. 
 While some were tightening horse-girths 
 
 And some were girding swords. 
 
 The trumpet blast has sounded 
 
 Our footmen to array. 
 The willing steed has bounded 
 
 Impatient for the fray. 
 
THE SWORD OF FONTENOY. 469 
 
 The green flag is unfolded, 
 
 0, thrice blessed the hour that witnessed 
 
 While rose the cry of joy, 
 
 The Briton turn to flee 
 
 " Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner 
 
 From the chivalry of Erin, 
 
 This day at Fontenoy !" 
 
 And France's " fleiir de lis." 
 
 We looked upon that banner. 
 
 As we lay beside our camp fires, 
 
 And the memory arose 
 
 When the sun had passed away, 
 
 Of our homes and perished kindred, 
 
 And thought upon our brethren. 
 
 Where the Lee or Shannon flows; 
 
 Who had perished in the fray— 
 
 We looked upon that banner. 
 
 We prayed to God to grant us. 
 
 And we swore to God on high. 
 
 And then we'd die with joy. 
 
 To smite to-day the Saxon's might— 
 
 One day upon our own dear land 
 
 To conquer or to die. 
 
 Like this at Fontenoy, 
 
 Loud swells the charging trumpet. 
 
 BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 
 
 'Tis a voice from our own land- 
 
 
 God of battles — God of vengeance. 
 
 
 Guide to-day the patriot's brand ; 
 
 
 There are stains to wash away, 
 
 THE SWORD OF FONTENOY. 
 
 There are memories to destroy, 
 
 The aged Count de Macmahon 
 Was at the old chateau 
 
 In the best blood of the Briton 
 
 To-day at Fontenoy, 
 
 The founder of his race had won 
 
 Plunge deep the f^ery rowels 
 
 A century ago ; 
 
 In a thousand reeking flanks- 
 Down, chivalry of Ireland, 
 
 Knowing the summons had been sent 
 
 That all men must obey. 
 
 Down on the British ranks — 
 
 In calm and Christianly content 
 
 Now shall their serried columns 
 
 He on his death bed lay. 
 
 Beneath our sabres reel— [horse. 
 Through their ranks, then, with the war- 
 
 
 His brother's sons stood by him then 
 
 Through their bosoms with the steel. 
 
 Three images of truth ; 
 
 Two of them were already men. 
 
 With one shout for good King Louis, 
 
 The third was still a youth. 
 
 And the fair land of the vine. 
 
 In tears they stood there by his side, 
 
 Like the wrathful Alpine tempest, 
 
 In tears, but mute as stone. 
 
 We swept upon their line- 
 
 For from the day their father died 
 
 Then rang along the battle-field 
 
 He loved them as his own. 
 
 Triumphant our hurrah, 
 
 
 And we smote them down, still cheering 
 
 Then spoke the Count, in accents low 
 
 Erin, slanthagalgo bragli." * 
 
 And weak : " Away with grief ; 
 
 
 Much you must learn before 1 go. 
 
 As prized as is the blessing 
 
 And now my time is brief. 
 
 From an aged father's lip — 
 
 Your father, it need not be told. 
 
 As welcome as the haven 
 
 Was peer amongst his peers ; 
 
 To the tempest-driven ship — 
 
 He died as die the bravest, old 
 
 As dear as to the lover 
 
 In honor, not in years. 
 
 The smile of gentle maid — 
 
 
 Is this day of long-sought vengeance 
 
 "A Frenchman, tho' his name and blood 
 
 To the swords of the brigade. 
 
 Their origin proclaimed, — 
 
 
 The Iris/i name, that while he stood 
 
 See their shattered forces flying, 
 
 In life no falsehood shamed. 
 
 A broken, routed line — 
 
 A soldier, with the soldier's creed, — 
 
 See England, what brave laurels 
 
 Aid and relief to bring 
 
 For your brow to-day we twine. 
 
 His country first, whoever bleed. 
 
 * Ireland, the bright toast forever. 
 
 And after her, his king. 
 
470 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 " No matter who Lutetia throned, 
 
 The pupp>et of an hour, 
 His heart's allegiance always owned 
 
 France as the regnant power. 
 Hefore the heights of La Rothior 
 
 He fell in the advance, 
 A soldier of the Empire, for 
 
 The Empire then was France. 
 
 '• Long had he been from home away 
 
 When his brave death occurred. 
 Leaving two sons. — Ah! fatal day. 
 
 He never saw the third. 
 For when the sad news came, his wife. 
 
 An angel of true love. 
 Gave for his being life for life. 
 
 And sought her home above. 
 
 " Had he but known the truth, this will 
 
 Would never have been made : 
 Unfatherly, unjust, yet still 
 
 His wish must be obeyed. 
 The injury was undesigned : 
 
 Through ignorance 'twas done ; — 
 Surely fraternal love will find 
 
 Some way the ill to shun." 
 
 The will was read. The eldest son 
 
 Their home was to receive ; 
 And for his share the youngest one 
 
 The wealth that he might leave. 
 And that was all. The two sons stood 
 
 With eyes bent on the ground ; 
 They'll speak I — the old Count hoped they 
 
 But there was not a sound. [would. 
 
 And then he turned, as if ashamed. 
 
 And with a kind of fear. 
 To Patrick, — so the youth was named. 
 
 Such tale who had to hear. 
 But there he saw so proud a head 
 
 It made his heart rejoice. 
 And to the landless youth he said. 
 
 In clear and ringing voice : — 
 
 '■ I have a heritage for thee. 
 
 That beggars house and hoard. 
 If thou art of our blood ; bring me 
 
 Yon old. time-rusted sword. 
 That glorious weapon look upon 
 
 With veneration, boy. 
 Thy grandsire's grandsire bore it on 
 
 The field of Fontenoy, 
 
 •• Where English, Dutch and Austrian 
 
 From dawn till set of sun 
 Contended against Frenchmen, 
 
 All unaided, all alone I 
 No, not alone I what was it, then. 
 
 The tide of battle stayed .' 
 A handful of brave Irishmen. 
 
 The famous Green Brigade. 
 
 " Exiled for loving their old land. 
 
 Their faith and landless king. 
 Stern retribution nerved each hand 
 
 To deadly reckoning. 
 That battered piece of sturdy steel 
 
 In mean and sordid eyes. 
 And hearts that no emotion feel. 
 
 Would be a sorrj' prize. 
 
 " .\ thing of profitless renown 
 
 To such 'twould only be. 
 In some neglected corner thrown, — 
 
 I give it, boy, to thee I 
 Take it and keep its record bright. 
 
 That thy grandchildren may 
 In aftertime to theirs recite 
 
 The story of to-day !" 
 
 Silent the youth stood for a space. 
 
 Oppressed by feeling great ; 
 Then, lifting up his glowing face. 
 
 With joy and hope elate. 
 He said, as on the blade he wept, 
 
 " Go, wealth, and home, and land I 
 This precious treasure I accept 
 
 From thy more precious hand. 
 
 " His name and sword are all I have. 
 
 Ambition to retain : 
 And Heaven so aid me as I strive 
 
 To guard them both from stain I" 
 The old Count smiled ; in loving grasp 
 
 Their hands were joined a while. 
 Till death released the feeble clasp. 
 
 But spared the pa.ting smile. 
 
 Sad only for that loss the youth 
 
 Turns from his father's land ; 
 His fortune, faith and hope and truth. 
 
 And that time-rusted brand. 
 Honor's bright pathway he selects, 
 
 Like hero of romance : 
 And now that homeless boy directs 
 
 The destiny of France. 
 
 JOHN liROUGHAM. 
 
OLIVER'S ADVICE. 
 
 THE BOYNE WATER.* 
 
 July the first, of a morning clear, one thousand 
 six hundred and ninety. 
 
 King William did his men prepare, -of thous- 
 ands he had thirty ; 
 
 To fight King James and all his foes, encamped 
 on the Boyne Water; 
 
 He little feared, though two to one, their 
 multitudes to scatter. 
 
 King William called his oflScers, saying, 
 
 " Gentlemen, mind your station. 
 And let your valor here be shown before this 
 
 Irish nation. 
 My brazen walls let no man break, and your 
 
 subtle foes you'll scatter; 
 Be sure you show them good English play, as 
 
 you go over the water." 
 
 Both horse and foot they marched on, intend- 
 
 mg them to batter. 
 But the brave Duke Schomberg he was shot 
 
 as he crossed over the water, 
 When that King William he observed the 
 
 brave Duke Schomberg falling. 
 He reined his horse, with a heavy heart, on the 
 
 Enniskilleners calling; 
 
 ■' What will you do for me, brave boys — see 
 
 yonder men retreating? 
 Our enemies encourag'd are, and English 
 
 drums are beating; " 
 He says, " My boys, feel no dismay at the 
 
 losing of one commander. 
 For God shall be our king this day, and I'll be 
 
 general under." 
 
 Within four yards of our fore-front, before a 
 
 shot was fired. 
 A sudden snuff they got that day, which little 
 
 they desired; 
 For horse and man fell to the ground, and 
 
 some hung in their saddle ; 
 Others turn'd up their forked ends, which we 
 
 call coup di' ladh-. 
 
 Prince Eugene's regiment was the next, on 
 
 our right hand advanced, 
 Into a field of standing wheat, where Irish 
 
 horses pranced — 
 
 * These fragments of the original Boyne Water ballad are 
 preserved in the "Ballad Poetry of Ireland" by Charles Gavan 
 Duffy, who considers them more racy and spirited than any 
 of more modern production. 
 
 471 
 
 But the brandy ran so in their heads, their 
 
 senses all did scatter. 
 They little thought to leave their bones that 
 
 day at the Boyne Water. 
 
 Now, praise God, all true Protestants, and 
 heaven's and earth's Creator, 
 
 For the deliverance that he sent our enemies 
 to scatter. 
 
 The Church's foes will pine away, like churlish- 
 hearted Nabal, 
 
 For our deliverer came this day like the great 
 Zorobabel. 
 
 So praise God, all true Protestants, and I will 
 
 say no further. 
 But had the Papists gain'd the day,there would 
 
 have been open murder. 
 Although Kmg James and many more were 
 
 ne'er that way inclined. 
 It was not in their power to stop what the 
 j rabble they designed. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 OLIVER'S ADVICE. 
 
 AN ORANCE H.M.I.AI). 
 
 The night is gathering gloomily, the day is 
 
 closing fast — 
 The tempest flaps his raven wings in loud and 
 
 angry blast ; 
 The thunder clouds are driving athwart the 
 
 lurid sky — 
 But "put your trust in God, my boys, and 
 
 keep your powder dry." * 
 
 There luas a day when loyalty was hail'd with 
 
 honor due, 
 Our banner the protection wav'd to all the 
 
 good and true — 
 And gallant hearts beneath its folds were 
 
 link'd in honor's tie. 
 We put our trust in God, my boys, and kept 
 
 our powder dry. 
 
 When Treason bar'd her bloody arm, and 
 
 madden'd round the land. 
 For King, and laws, and order fair, we drew the 
 
 ready brand ; 
 
 * A phrase popularly ascribed to Cromwell. ' This ballad de- 
 serves a place in these pages only as an illustration of the in- 
 tensely fanatical spirit actuating the Orange element in the 
 past, and not wholly absent in the present. 
 
472 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 Our gathering spell was William's name — our 
 
 word was, " Do or die," 
 And still we put our trust in God. and kept 
 
 our powder dr)-. 
 
 But n 
 
 In His protecting aid confide, and every foe 
 
 defy- 
 Then put your trust in God, my boys, and 
 
 keep your powder dry. 
 
 ow. alas ! a wondrous change has come Already see the star of hope emits its orient 
 
 the nation o'er. blaze. 
 
 And worth and gallant services remembcr'd The cheering beacon of relief, it glimmers 
 
 are no more ; l thro' the haze. 
 
 And, crush d beneath oppression's weight, in It tells of betterdays to come, it tells of succor 
 
 chains of grief we lie- | n'gh. 
 
 But put your trust in God, my boys, and keep Then put your trust in God, my boys, and 
 
 your powder dr>'. keep your powder dry. 
 
 Forth starts the spawn of Treason, the 'scapd i See. see along the hills of Down its rising 
 
 of Ninety-eight. I glories spread. 
 
 To bask in courtly favor, and seize the helm But brightest beams its radiance from 
 
 of state Donard's lofty head. 
 
 E'en tluy whose hands are reeking yet with \ Clanbrassils vales are kindling wide, and 
 
 murder's crimson dye ; "^ I " Roden " is the cr>'— 
 
 But put your trust in God. my bovs, and keep ] Then put your trust in God. my boys, and 
 
 your powder dry. ' keep your powder dr)'. 
 
 They come, whose deeds incarnadin'd the Then cheer, ye hearts of loyalty, nor sink in 
 
 Slaney's silver wave— dark despair. 
 
 They come, who to llie foreign foe the hail of Our banner shall again unfold its glories to 
 
 welcome gave ; ^he air. 
 
 He comes, the open rebel fierce— he comes, The storm that raves the wildest, the soonest 
 
 the Jesuit sly ; i passes by ; 
 
 But put your trust in God, my boys, and keep Then put your trust in God. my boys, and 
 
 your powder dry. ' keep your powder dr>'. 
 
 They come, whose counsels wrapp'd the land 
 
 in foul rebellious flame. 
 Their hearts unchastencd by remorse, their 
 
 cheeks unting'd by shame. 
 Be still, be still, indignant heart— be tearless, 
 
 too, each eye, 
 And put your trust in God. my boys, and keep 
 
 your powder dry. 
 
 The Pow'r that led his chosen, by pillar'd 
 
 cloud and flame, 
 Through parted sea and desert waste, that 
 
 Pow'r is still the same. 
 He fails not -He. the loyal hearts that lirm 
 
 on him rely - j 
 
 So put your tnist in God. my boys, and keep 
 
 your powder dr)-. , 
 
 The Pow'r that ner\'d the stalwart arms of | 
 
 Gideon's chosen few. 
 The Pow'r that led great William. Hoyne's , 
 
 reddening torrent thro', — [ 
 
 For "happy homes." for "altars free," we 
 
 grasp the ready sword. 
 For freedom, truth, and for our God's un- 
 
 mutilaied word. 
 These, these the war-cr^' of our march, our 
 
 hope the Lord on high; 
 Then put your trust in God, my boys, and 
 
 keep your powder dry. 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKER. 
 
 KING AILILL'S DEATH.* 
 I know who won the peace of God — 
 
 The old King K\\\\\ of the Bann. 
 Who fought beyond the Irish sea 
 
 All day against a Connaught clan. 
 
 The King was routed. In the flight 
 He muttered to his charioteer. 
 
 " Look back ; the slaughter, is it red .' 
 The slayers, are they drawing near?" 
 
SHAr.'A"S HEAD. 
 
 473 
 
 The man looked back. The west wind blew 
 Dead clansmen's hair against his face. 
 
 He heard the war shout of his foes, 
 The death cry of his ruined race. 
 
 The foes came darting from the height 
 Like pine trees down a swollen fall. 
 
 Like heaps of hay in flood, his clan 
 Swept on or sank — he saw it all, 
 
 And spake, " The slaughter is full red, 
 But we may still be saved by flight." 
 
 Then groaned the King. " No sin of theirs 
 Falls on my people here to-night. 
 
 " No sin of theirs, but sin of mine. 
 
 For 1 was worst of evil kings. 
 Unrighteous, wrathful, hurling down 
 
 To death or shame all weaker things. 
 
 " Draw rein, and turn the chariot round. 
 
 My face against the foemen bend. 
 When I am seen and slain, mayhap 
 
 The slaughter of my tribe will end." 
 
 They d rew, and turned. Down came the foe. 
 
 The King fell cloven on the sod ; 
 The slaughter then was stayed, and so 
 
 King Ailill won the peace of God. 
 
 WHITLEY STC)KE.S, 
 Earlv Middle Irish ^ Book of Lausler. 
 
 SHAUN'S HEAD. 
 
 Scene : — Before Dublin Castle, Night — a clansman 
 of S/uuin 0" Neill discovers his chief's head on a pole. 
 
 God's wrath upon the Saxon ; may they never 
 
 know the pride 
 Of dying on the battle-field, their broken 
 
 spear beside ; 
 When victory gilds the gory shroud of every 
 
 fallen brave. 
 Or death no tales of conquered clans can 
 
 whisper to his grave. 
 May every light from cross of Christ that saves 
 
 the heart of man. 
 Be hid in clouds of blood before it reach the 
 
 Saxon clan ; 
 For sure, oh, God, and You know all } whose 
 
 thought for all sufficed. 
 To expiate these Saxon sins, they'd want 
 
 another Christ. 
 
 Is it thus, oh, Shaun, the haughty ! Shaun, 
 
 the valiant, that we meet ? 
 Have my eyes been lit by Heaven but to guide 
 
 me to defeat .' 
 Have I no chief, or you no clan, to give us 
 
 both defense.' 
 Or must L too, be statued here with thy cold 
 
 eloquence .' 
 Thy ghastly head grins scorn upon old 
 
 Dublin's Castle tower. 
 Thy shaggy hair is wind-tossed, and thy brow 
 
 seems rough with power ; 
 Thy wrathful lips, like sentinels, by foulest 
 
 treachery stung, 
 Look rage upon the world of wrong, but chain 
 
 thy fiery tongue. 
 
 That tongue whose Ulster accent woke the 
 
 ghost of Columbkill, 
 Whose warrior words fenced 'round with 
 
 spears the oaks of Derry Hill ; 
 Whose reckless tones gave life and death to 
 
 vassals and to knaves, 
 And hunted hordes of Saxons into holy Irish 
 
 graves. 
 The Scotch marauders whitened when his 
 
 war-cry met their ears, 
 And the death-bird, like a vengeance, poised 
 
 above his stormy cheers; 
 Ay, Shaun, across the thundering sea, out- 
 chanting it, your tongue. 
 Flung wild un-Saxon war-whoopings the 
 
 Saxon Court among. 
 
 Just think, O Shaun ! the same moon shines 
 
 on LifTey as on Foyle, 
 And lights the ruthless knaves on both, our 
 
 kinsmen to despoil; 
 And you the hope, voice, battle-ax, the shield 
 
 of us and ours, 
 A murdered, trunkless, blinding sight above 
 
 these Dublin towers. 
 Thy face is paler than the moon, my heart is 
 
 paler still — 
 il/c heart.' I had no heart— '/tiym yours! to 
 
 keep or kill, 
 And you kept it safe for Ireland, chief — your 
 
 life, your soul, your pride — 
 Butthey sought it in thy bosom, Shaun — with 
 
 proud O'Neill it died. 
 You were turbulent and haughty, proud and 
 
 keen as Spanish steel; 
 But who had right of these, if not our Ulster's 
 
 chief— O'Neill.' 
 
474 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 Who reared aloft the " Bloody Hand " until it And here she sate alone, boys, and, looking 
 
 paled the sun. from the hill. 
 
 And shed such glory on Tyrone, as chief had Vowed the Maiden on her throne, boys, 
 
 never done? should be a Maiden still. 
 
 He was "turbulent" with traitors— he was _ . . 
 
 ■■ haughty •• with the foe- '''■°'" A"^"-"" ""^'"g °^'"' '" ''""''"^ "'f^'-y- 
 
 He was "cruel, "say ye Saxons! Ah! he dealt , ''T'' , ^, uJ"^"' 
 
 ye blow for blow ' -^ plumed and belted lover came to the Ferry 
 
 He was "rough "and "wild," and whos not She summoned to defend her our sires-a 
 
 wild to sec his hearthstone razed? i , beardless race— 
 
 He was "merciless as fire "-ah, ye kindled They shouted no surrender! and slammed it 
 
 him-he blazed! _ . i" his face. 
 
 He was "proud!" yes. proud of birthright, and Then, in a qu.ct tone. boys, they told h.m 
 
 because he flung away ^ 'twas the.rw.U 
 
 Your Saxon stars of princedome, as the rock ; That the Ma.den on her throne, boys, should 
 
 does mocking spray. 
 
 He was wild, insane for vengeance — ay ! and 
 
 preached it till Tyrone 
 Was ruddy, ready, wild. too. with " Red 
 
 Hands" to clutch their own. 
 
 be a Maiden still. 
 
 Next, crushing all before him, a kingly wooer 
 
 came. 
 (The royal banner o'er him blushed crimson 
 
 deep for shame) ; 
 He showed the Pope's commission, nor 
 " The Scots are on the border. Shaun !" — ye , dreamed to be refused ; 
 
 saints, he makes no breath— She pitied his condition, but begged to stand 
 
 I remember when that crj' would wake him excused. 
 
 up almost from death : I !„ short, the fact is known, boys, she chased 
 
 Art truly dead and cold ? O. chief! art thou j him from the hill. 
 
 to Ulster lost ? j For the Maiden on her throne, boys, would 
 
 "Dost hear — //oj/ //^ar.? By Randolph led, the be a Maiden still. 
 
 troops the Foyle have crossed !" i 
 
 He's truly dead ! he must be dead ! nor is his ' On our brave sires descending, 'twas then the 
 
 ghost about — ! tempest broke. 
 
 And yet no tomb could hold his spirit tame to i Their peaceful dwellings rending, 'mid blood 
 
 such a shout ! and flame and smoke ; 
 
 The pale face droopeth northward — ah ! his ' That hallowed graveyard yonder swells with 
 
 soul must loom up there, the slaughtered dead. — 
 
 By old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns. Lough I Oh ! brothers, pause and ponder it was for us 
 
 Foyle, or Bann the fair ! they bled; 
 
 I'll speed me Ulster-wards, your ghost must i And while their gift we own. boys. — the fane 
 
 wander there, proud Shaun, 1 that tops the hill. — 
 
 In search of some O'Neill through whom to O, the Maiden on her throne, boys, shall be a 
 throb its hate again. I Maiden still. 
 
 JOHN SAVAGE. 
 
 I Nor wily tongue shall move us. nor tyrant arm 
 
 I affright. 
 
 I We'll look to one above us, who ne'er forsook 
 THE MAIDEN CITY. ] the right; 
 
 Where Foyle his swelling waters rolls north- Who will, may crouch and tender the birth- 
 ward to the main, 1 right of the free, [me ! 
 Here, Queen of Erin's daughters, fair Derrj- But. brothers, no surrender, no compromise for 
 fixed her reign ; We want no barrier stone, boys, no gates to 
 A holy temple crowned her, and commerce guard the hill, 
 
 graced her street. Yet the Maiden on her throne, boys, shall be 
 
 A rampart wall was round her, the river at a Maiden still. 
 
 her feet; i charlotte Elizabeth. 
 
THE NAMING OF CUCHULLIN. 
 
 475 
 
 THE NAMING OF CUCHULLIN. 
 
 [Author's no te ;— One of the stories introductory to the 
 7rt/«, and, of them all, the most dramatic. The name Cu- 
 Ckullain signifies the Hound of Cullan. Ca, in this mean- 
 ing, is a common element of Celtic proper names. Whether 
 the armorer of Slieve GuIIan was another Wayland Smith may 
 amuse the ethnological inquirer. He will at least live in there- 
 nowa of his chain>hound as long as Celtic literature endures.] 
 
 Conor. 
 Setanta, if bird-nesting in the woods [not 
 And ball-feats on the play-ground please thee 
 More than discourse of warrior and of sage, 
 And sight of warrior weapons in the forge, 
 I offer an indulgence. For we go — 
 Myself, my step-sire Fergus, and my Bard — 
 To visit Cullan, the illustrious smith 
 Of Quelgne. Come thou also if thou wilt. 
 
 Setanta. 
 Ask me not, good oh Conor, yet to leave 
 The play-green ; for the ball feats just begun 
 Are those which most delight my playmate 
 
 youths. 
 And they entreat me to defend the goal; 
 But let me follow ; for, the chariot tracks 
 Are easy to discern ; and much I long 
 To hear discourse of warrior and of sage, 
 
 ; And see the nest that hatches deaths of men, 
 
 i The tongs a-flash, and Cullan's welding blow. 
 
 i Conor. 
 
 Too late the hour ; too difficult the way. 
 Set forward, drivers ; give our steeds the goad. 
 
 1 Cullan. 
 Great King of Emain, welcome. Welcome, 
 
 I thou, 
 
 j Fergus, illustrious step-sire of the King ; 
 And, Seer and Poet, Cathbad, welcome too. 
 Behold the tables set, the feast prepared ; 
 Sit. But, before I cast my chain-hound loose, 
 Give me assurance that ye all be in. 
 For, night descends; and perilous the wild; 
 And other watchman none of house or herds. 
 Here, in this solitude remote from men. 
 Own I, but one hound onl)'. Once his chain 
 Is loosened, and he makes three bounds at 
 
 large 
 Before my door-posts, after fall of night. 
 There lives not man nor company of men 
 Less than a cohort, shall, within my close 
 Set foot of trespass, short of life or limb. 
 
 Conor. 
 Yea ; all are in. Let loose, and sit secure. 
 Good are thy viands. Smith, and strong thine 
 
 ale ; — 
 Hark, the hound growling. 
 
 Cullan. 
 
 Wild dogs are abroad. 
 
 Fergus. 
 Not ruddier the fire that laps a sword 
 Steeled for a king, oh Cullan, than thy wine. 
 Hark, the hound baying. 
 
 Cullan. 
 
 Wolves, belike, are near. 
 Cathbad. 
 Not cheerfuller the ruddy forge's light 
 To wayfarer benighted, nor the glow 
 Of wine and viands to a hungry man, 
 Than look of welcome passed from host to 
 
 guest. 
 Hark, the hound yelling. 
 
 Cullan. 
 
 Friends, arise and arm ! 
 Some enemy intrudes ! Tush! 'tis a boy. 
 
 Setanta. 
 Setanta here, the son of Suailtam. 
 
 Conor. 
 Setanta, whom I deemed on Emain green 
 Engaged in ball-play, on our track, indeed ! 
 
 Setanta. 
 Not difficult the task to find, oh King. 
 But difficult indeed to follow home. 
 Cullan, 'tis evil welcome for a guest 
 This unwarned onset of a savage beast. 
 Which, but that 'gainst the stone-posts of thy 
 
 gate 
 I three times threw him, leaping at my throat. 
 And, at the third throw, on the stone-edge, 
 
 slew. 
 Had brought on thee the shame indelible 
 Of bidden guest, at his host's threshold, torn. 
 
 Conor. 
 Yea, he was bidden: it was I myself 
 Said, as I passed him with the youths at play, 
 This morning, Come thou also if thou wilt. 
 But little thought I, — when he said the youths 
 Desired his presence still to hold the goal. 
 Yet asked to follow ! for he said he longed 
 To hear discourse of warrior and of sage. 
 And see the nest that hatches deaths of men. 
 The tongsa-flash.and Cullan's welding blow; — ■ 
 That such a playful, young, untutored boy 
 Would come on this adventure of a man. 
 
 Cullan. 
 I knew not he was bidden; and I asked. 
 Ere I cast loose, if all the train were in. 
 But, since thy word has made the boy my 
 
 guest,— 
 Boy, for his sake who bade thee to my board. 
 
476 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 I give thee welcome ; for thine own sake, no. j 
 For thou hast slain my servant and mj' friend. 
 The hound 1 loved, that fierce, intractable 
 To all men else, was ever mild to me. 
 He knew me ; and he knew my uttered words, 
 All my commandments, as a man might know : 
 More than a man, he knew my looks and 
 
 tones — 
 And turns of gesture, and discerned my mind. 
 Unspoken, if in grief or if in joy. 
 He was my pride, my strength, my company. 
 For I am childless; and that hand of thine 
 Has left an old man lonely in the world. i 
 
 Setanta. 
 Since, Cullan, by mischance I've slain thy 
 
 hound. 
 So much thy grief compassion stirs in me. 
 Hear me pronounce a sentence on myself. 
 If of his seed there liveth but a whelp — 
 In Uladh. I will rear him till he grow 
 To such ability as had his sire 
 For knowing, honoring and serving thee. 
 Meantime, but give a javelin in my hand. 
 And a, good buckler, and there never went 
 About thy bounds, from daylight-gone till 
 
 dawn 
 Hound watchfuller, or of a keener fang 
 Against intruder, than myself shall be. 
 
 CULI,AN. 
 
 A sentence, a just sentence. 
 
 Conor. 
 
 Not myself 
 Hath made award more righteous. Be it so. 
 Wherefore, what hinders that we give him now 
 His hero-name, no more Setanta called. 
 But now CuchuUin, chain-hound of the Smith ? 
 
 Sf.iania. 
 Setanta. I, the son of Suiiiltam. 
 No other name assume I, or desire. 
 
 Cathbad. 
 Take, son of Suailtam, the offered name. 
 
 Setanta. 
 Setanta, I. Setanta let it be. 
 
 Conor. 
 Mark Cathbad. 
 
 Fergus. 
 
 Cathbad. 
 
 Tis his seer-fit. 
 
 I hear pcrf>etual voices 
 Proclaim to land and fame 
 
 The name Cuchui-lin! 
 Hound of the smith, thy boyish vow 
 Devotes thy manhood even now 
 
 To vigilance, fidelity and toil : 
 Tis not alone the wolf-fang-bare to snatch. 
 Not the marauder from the lifted latch 
 
 Alone, thy coming footfall makes recoil. 
 The nobler service thine to chase afar 
 Seditious tumult and intestine war^ 
 Envy, and unfraternal hate. 
 From all the households of the state : 
 To hunt, untiring, down 
 The vices of the lewd-luxurious town. 
 
 And all the brood 
 
 Of Wrong and Rapine, ruthlessly pursued. 
 Forth from the kingdom's bounds exter- 
 minate. 
 
 Thine the out-watch, when, down the darken- 
 ing skies. 
 
 The coming thunder of invasion rolls ; 
 When doubts and faint replies 
 
 Dissolve in dread the shaken People's souls: 
 And Panic waits, behind her bolted gate, 
 The unseen stroke ot Fate. 
 
 Unbolt! Come forth! I hear 
 
 His footsteps drawing near, 
 
 Who smites the proud ones, who the poor de- 
 livers : 
 
 I hear his v/heels hurl through the dashing 
 rivers ; 
 
 They fill the narrowing glen ; 
 
 They shake the quaking causeways of the fen; 
 
 They roll upon the moor; 
 
 1 hear them at the door: — 
 
 Lauds to the helpful gods, the Hero-givers, 
 
 Here stands he. man of men ! 
 
 Great are the words he speaks : [nations. 
 
 They move through hearts of kindreds and of 
 
 At each clear sentence, the unseemly pallor 
 
 Of fear's precipitate imaginations 
 
 Avoids the bearded cheeks. 
 
 And to their wonted stations 
 
 On every face 
 
 Return the generous, manly-mantling color 
 
 And reassuring grace 
 
 Of fi.\ed obedience, discipline, and patience. 
 
 Heroic courage and protecting valor. 
 
 To my ears 
 There comes a clamor from the rising years 
 The tumult of a torrent passion-swollen. 
 Rolled hitherward ; and, 'mid its mingling The old true-blooded race shall not be left 
 noises. Of captaincy bereft ; 
 
CUTHULLIN'S HEROES. 
 
 477 
 
 No, not altho' the ire of angry heaven 
 
 Grow hot against it, even. 
 
 For Gods in heaven there are 
 
 Who punish not alone the omitted prayer. 
 
 Who punish not alone the slighted sacrifice. 
 
 Humanity itself, at deadly price. 
 
 Has gained admission to the juster skies. 
 
 And vindicates on man man's inhumanities. 
 
 See how the strong ones languish 
 
 And groan in woman-anguish. 
 
 Who in the ardor of their sports inhuman 
 
 Heard not the piteous pleadingsof the woman. 
 
 Conor. 
 Ah me, the fatal foot-race ! Macha's pangs 
 Do yet torment us. 
 
 Fergus. 
 
 Evil was the deed. 
 Happy was I who did not witness it. 
 And happy you, I absent. 
 
 Cathead. 
 
 On their benches, 
 Even in the height and glory of the revel, 
 Struck prone, they writhe : 
 Who now will man the trenches? 
 Who, on the country's borders, 
 Confront the outland sworders, [scythe 
 
 King, priest, and lord, a swathe before the 
 Of plague, laid level ? 
 He, — he, — no looker-on 
 At heaven-abhorred impieties is he. 
 The pure, the stainless son 
 Of Dectire, 
 
 The wise, the war-like, the triumphant one 
 Who holds your forest passes and your fords 
 Against the alien hordes. 
 Till from beneath heaven's slow-uplifted 
 
 scourge 
 The chastened kings emerge. 
 And, grappling once again to manly swords. 
 Roll the invader hosts 
 Forever from your coasts. 
 
 Great is the land and splendid : 
 
 The borders of the country are extended: 
 
 The extern tribes look up with wondering awe 
 
 And own the central law. 
 
 Fair show the fields and fair the friendly faces 
 
 Of men in all their places. 
 
 With song and chosen story. 
 
 With game and dance, with revelry and races. 
 
 Life glides on joyous wing— 
 
 The tales they tell of love, and war, and glory. 
 
 Tales that the soft bright daughters of the land 
 
 Delight to understand. 
 
 The songs they sing 
 
 To harps of double string. 
 
 To gitterns and new reeds. 
 
 Are of the glorious deeds 
 
 Of young Cuchullin in the Quelgnian foray. 
 
 Take, son of Suailtam, the offered name. 
 For at that name the mightiest of the men 
 Of Erin and of Alba shall turn pale . 
 And of that name, the mouths of all the men 
 Of Erin and of Alba shall be full. 
 
 Setanta. 
 Yea, then ; if that be so— Cuchullin here ! 
 
 SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
 
 CUTHULLIN'S HEROES. 
 CuthuUin sat by Tura's wall, by the tree of 
 the rustling sound. 
 His spear leaned against the rock. 
 His shield lay on the grass by his side. 
 Amid his thoughts of mighty Cairbar, a hero 
 
 slain by the chief in war. 
 The scout of ocean comes, Moran the son of 
 Fithil. 
 
 "Arise," said the youth, " Cuthullin, arise! 
 I see the ships of the north! 
 Many, chief of men, are the foe ; 
 Many the heroes of the sea-borne Swaran !" 
 
 " Moran !" replied the blue-eyed chief, " thou 
 ever tremblest, son of Fithil ! 
 
 Thy fears have increased the foe ! 
 
 It is Fingal, king of deserts, with aid to green 
 Erin of streams!" 
 
 " I beheld their chief," says Moran, "tall as a 
 
 glittering rock. 
 His spear is a blasted pine. 
 His shield the rising moon. 
 He sat on the shore, like a cloud of mist on 
 
 the silent hill. 
 ' Many, chief of heroes," I said, • many are our 
 
 hands of war. 
 Well art thou named the mighty man : but 
 
 many mighty men are seen from Tura's 
 
 windy walls.' 
 
 " He spoke, like a wave on a rock: — ' Who 
 in this land appears like me ? 
 Heroes stand not in my presence ; they fall to 
 
 earth from my hand. 
 Who can meet Swaran in fight.' 
 
478 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 Who but Fir.gal, King of Selma of storms ? 
 
 Once we wrestled on Malmor : our feet over- 
 turned the woods. 
 
 Rocks fell from their place ; rivulets, changing 
 their course, fled murmuring from our 
 side. 
 
 Three days we renewed the strife. 
 
 Heroes stood at a distance and trembled. 
 
 On the fourth. Fingal says, the King of the 
 ocean fell, but Swaran says he stood. 
 
 Let dark CuthuUin yield to him that is strong 
 as the storms of his land ! ' " 
 
 " No !" replied the blue-eyed chief, " I yield 
 not to mortal man ! 
 Dark CuthuUin shall be great or dead. 
 Go, son of Fithil. take my spear. 
 Strike the sounding shield of Semo. 
 It hangs on Tura's rustling gate. 
 The sound of peace is not in its voice. 
 My heroes shall hear and obey !" 
 
 He went ; he struck the bossy shield. 
 The hills, the rocks reply. 
 The sound spreads along the wood ; deer start 
 
 by the lake of roes. 
 Curach leaps from the sounding rock, and 
 
 Connal of the bloody spear. 
 Crugal's breast of snow beats high. 
 The son of Favi leaves the dark-brown hind. 
 " It is the shield of war," said Ronnart ; " the 
 
 spear of CuthuUin," said Lugar. 
 Son of the sea, put on thy arms! 
 Calmar. lift thy sounding steel ! 
 Puno, dreadful hero, arise 
 Cairbar, from thy red tree of Cromla ! 
 Bend thy knee. O Eth ; descend from the 
 
 streams of Lena! 
 Caolt, stretch thy side as thou movest along 
 
 the whistling heath of Mora ; 
 Th side that is white as the foam of the 
 
 troubled sea, when the dark winds pour 
 
 it on the rocky Cuthon ! 
 
 Now I behold the chiefs, in the pride of 
 
 their former deeds. 
 Their souls are kindled at the battles of old, at 
 
 the actions of other times. 
 Their eyes are flames of fire. 
 They roll in scare of the foes of the land. 
 Their mighty hands are on their swords. 
 Lightning pours from their sides of steel. 
 They come like streams from the mountains ; 
 
 each rushes roaring from the hill. 
 
 ght are the chiefs of battle in the armor of 
 
 their fathers. 
 Gloomy and dark, their heroes follow, like the 
 
 gathering of the rainy clouds behind 
 
 the red meteors of heaven. 
 The sounds of crashing arms ascend. 
 The gray dogs howl between. 
 Unequal bursts the song of battle. 
 Rocking Cromla echoes round. 
 On Lenas dusky heath they stand, like mist 
 
 that shades the hills of autumn, when 
 
 broken and dark it settles high and lifts 
 
 its head to heaven. 
 
 •• Hail !" said CuthuUin. " sons ot the narrow 
 
 vales! hail, hunters of the deer! 
 Another sport is drawing near; it is like the 
 
 rolling of that wave on the coast. 
 Or shall we fight, ye sons of war, or yield 
 
 green Erin to Lochlin.' 
 Connal, speak, thou first of men, thou breaker 
 
 of the shields! 
 Thou hast often fought with Lochlin ; wilt 
 
 thou lift thy father's spear.'" 
 
 "CuthuUin," calm the chief replied, "the 
 
 spear of Connal is keen. 
 It delights to shine in battle, to mix with the 
 
 blood of thousands. 
 But though my hand is bent on fight, my heart 
 
 is for the peace of Erin. 
 Behold, thou first in Cormac's war, the sable 
 
 fleet of Swaran. 
 His masts are many on our coasts, like reeds 
 
 on the lake of Lego. 
 His shipsare forests clothed with mists, when 
 
 the trees yield by turns to the squally 
 
 wind. 
 Many are his chiefs in battle. 
 Connal is for peace. 
 Fingal would shun his arm. the first of mortal 
 
 men; 
 Fingal who scatters the mighty, as stormy 
 
 winds the echoing Cona. and night set- 
 tles with all her clouds on the hill !" 
 
 "Fly. thou man of peace!" said Colmar; 
 
 " fly," said the son of Matha. 
 "Go, Connal, to thy silent hills, where the 
 
 spear never brightens in war! 
 Pursue the dark-brown deer of Cromla ; stop 
 
 with thine arrows the bounding roes of 
 
 Lena. 
 
SHEMUS O'BRIEN. 
 
 479 
 
 But, blue-eyed son of Semo, Cuthullin, ruler 
 
 of the field, scatter thou the sons of 
 
 Lochlin ! roar through the ranks of 
 
 their pride ! 
 Let no vessel of the kingdom of snow bound 
 
 on the dark-rolling waves of Inistore. 
 Rise, ye dark winds of Erin, rise ! 
 Roar, whirlwinds of Lara of hinds ! 
 Amid the tempest let me die, torn, in a cloud. 
 
 by angry ghosts of men. 
 Amid the tempest let Calmar die, if ever chase 
 
 was sport to him, so much as the battle 
 
 of shields!" 
 
 "Calmar," Connal slow replied, "I never 
 
 fled, young son of Matha ! 
 I was swift with my friends in fight ; but small 
 
 is the fame of Connal ! 
 The battle was won in my presence ; the 
 
 valiant overcame. 
 But, son of Semo, hear my voice ; regard the 
 
 ancient throne of Cormac. 
 Give wealth and half the land for peace, till 
 
 Fingal shall arrive on our coast. 
 Or, if war be thy choice, I lift the sword and 
 
 spear. 
 My joy shall be in the midst of thousands ; my 
 
 soul shall alighten through the gloom 
 
 of the fight." 
 
 " To me." Cuthullin replies, " pleasant is 
 
 the noise of arms' 
 Pleasant as the thunder of heaven before the 
 
 shower of spring! 
 But gather all the shining tribes, that I may 
 
 view the sons of war! 
 Let them pass along the heath, bright as the 
 
 sunshine before a storm, when the west 
 
 wind collects the clouds, and Morven 
 
 echoes over all her oaks ! 
 But where are my friends in battle ? the sup- 
 porters of my arms in danger? 
 Where art thou, white-bosomed Cathba.' 
 Where is that cloud in war, Duchomar? 
 Hast thou left me, O Fergus, in the day of 
 
 the storm ? 
 Fergus, first in our joy at the feast ! 
 Son of Rossa. arm of death ! comest thou 
 
 like a roe from Malmor .' like a hart 
 
 from thy echoing hills ? 
 Hail, thou son of Rossa ! what shades the soul 
 
 of war.' 
 
 As roll a thousand waves to the rocks, so 
 Swaran's host came on. 
 
 As meets a rock a thousand waves, so Erin 
 
 met Swaran of spears. 
 Death raises all his voices around, and mixes 
 
 with the sounds of shields. 
 Each hero is a pillar of darkness ; the sword 
 
 a beam of fire in his hand. 
 The field echoes from wing to wing, as a hun 
 
 dred hammers that rise by turns on the 
 
 red son of the furnace. 
 Who are these on Lena's heath, these so 
 
 gloomy and dark .' 
 Who are these like two clouds, and their 
 
 swords like lightning above them' 
 The little hills are troubled around ; the rocks 
 
 tremble with all their moss. 
 Who is it but Ocean's sons and the car-borne 
 
 chief of Erin .' 
 Many are the anxious eyes of their friends, as 
 
 they see them dim on the heath. 
 But night conceals the chiefs in clouds and 
 
 ends the dreadful fight. 
 
 'Fin ml : 
 
 SHEMUS O'BRIEN. 
 I. 
 Jist after the war, in the year 'Ninety-eight, 
 As soon as the Boys wor all scattered an' bate, 
 'Twas the custom, whenever a peasant was got. 
 To hang him by trial — barrin' such as was shot. 
 There was trial by jury goin' on by daylight, 
 An' the martial-law hangin' the lavings by 
 
 night. 
 It's them was the hard times for honest gos- 
 soons — 
 If they missed in the judges they'd meet the 
 
 dragoons; 
 An ' whether the sojers or judges gave sentence, 
 The divila much time they allowed for repent- 
 ance. 
 An' many a fine Boy was then on his keepin'. 
 With small share of restin', or sittin', or sleep- 
 
 An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned for 
 
 to sell it, 
 A prey for the bloodhound — a mark for the 
 
 bullet — 
 Unsheltered by night and unrested by day, 
 With the heath for their liarrack, revenge for 
 
 their pay ; 
 An' the bravest an' honestest Boy of thim all 
 Was Shemus O'Brien, from the town of Glin- 
 
 gall. 
 
48o 
 
 His limbs wor well set, an' his body was light. 
 An" the keen-fanged hound had not teeth 
 
 half as white ; 
 But his face was as pale as the face of the dead, 
 An' his cheek never warmed with the blush of 
 
 the red ; 
 But for all that, he wasn't an ugly young boy. 
 For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his 
 
 eye — 
 So droll an' so wicked, so dark an" so bright. 
 Like a fire-flash that crosses the depth of the 
 
 night. 
 An' he was the best mower that ever has been. 
 An' the elegantest hurler that ever was seen ; 
 An' for lightness of foot sure there was not his 
 
 f)eer. 
 For, begorra, he'd almost outrun the red deer ; 
 An' his dancin' was such that the men used to 
 
 stare. 
 An' the women turn crazy, he did it so quare; 
 An' faith the whole world gave in to him there! 
 An' its he was the Boy that was hard to be 
 
 caught. 
 An' it's often he ran, an' it's often he fought. 
 An' it's many's the one can remember right 
 
 well 
 The quare things he did ; an' it's oft I heerd 
 
 tell 
 How he frightened the magistrates in Cahir- 
 
 bally. 
 An' escaped through the sojers in Aherloe 
 
 valley, 
 An' leathered the yeomen, himself agin four, 
 An' stretched out the strongest on old Galti- 
 
 more. 
 
 But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild 
 deer must rest. 
 
 An' treachery prey on the blood of the best ; 
 
 After many a brave action of power and pride. 
 
 An' many a hard night on the mountain's 
 bleak side, 
 
 An' a thousand great dangers an' toils over- 
 past. 
 
 In the darkness of night he was taken at last. 
 
 Now, Shemus, look back on the beautiful 
 moon, 
 
 Fo." the door of the prison must close on you 
 soon : 
 
 An' take your last look at her dim lovely light. 
 
 That falls on the mountain and valley this 
 night; 
 
 One look at the village, one look at the flood. 
 
 An' one at the sheltering, far distant wood. 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill. 
 Ah' farewell to the friends that will think of 
 
 you still ; 
 Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake. 
 An' farewell to the girl that would die for your 
 
 sake. 
 .\t\' twelve sojers brought him to Mar>'- 
 
 borough jail. 
 An' the turnkey rcsaved him,refusin' all bail ; 
 The fleet limbs wor chained, an' the strong 
 
 hands wor bound. 
 An' he laid down his length on the cowld 
 
 prison ground ; 
 An' the dreams of his childhood came over 
 
 him there 
 As gentle an' soft as the sweet sumpier air; 
 An' happy remimbrances crowdin' on ever. 
 As fast as the foam-flakes dhrift down on the 
 
 river, 
 Bringin' fresh to his heart merry days long 
 
 gone by. 
 Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his 
 
 eye. 
 But the tears didn't fall, for the pride of his 
 
 heart 
 Would not sutTor one drop down his pale 
 
 cheek to start ; 
 An' he sprung to his feet in his dark prison 
 
 cave. 
 An' he swore with a fierceness that misery- 
 gave. 
 By the hopes of the good an' the cause of the 
 
 brave. 
 That when he was mouldering in the cowld 
 
 grave. 
 His inimies never should have it to boast 
 His scorn of their vengeance one moment 
 
 was lost. 
 His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should 
 
 be dhry. 
 For undaunted he lived, and undaunted he'd 
 
 die. 
 
 II. 
 Well, as soon as a few weeks wor over an' 
 
 gone. 
 The terrible day of the trial came on ; 
 There was such a great crowd, there was 
 
 scarce room to stand. 
 An' sojers on guard, an' dragoons sword in 
 
 . hand ; 
 An' the court-house so full that the people 
 
 were bothered. 
 An' attorneys and criers on the point of bcin" 
 
 smothered : 
 
SHEMUS aBRIEN. 
 
 481 
 
 An' counsellors almost gave over for dead, 
 An' the jury sittin' up in the box over-head ; 
 An' the judge settled out so determined an' 
 
 big. 
 With the gown on his back, an' an elegant 
 
 wig; 
 An' silence was called, an' the minit 'twas 
 
 said. 
 The court was as still as the heart of the dead. 
 An' they heard but the opening of one prison 
 
 lock. 
 An' Shenius O'Brien kem into the dock. — 
 For one moment he turned his eyes round on 
 
 the throng, 
 An' then looked on the bars, so firm and so 
 
 strong ; 
 An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a 
 
 friend, 
 A chance to escape nor a word to defend ; 
 An' he folded his arms as he stood there 
 
 alone. 
 As calm and as cold as a statue of stone. 
 An' they read a big writin,' a yard long at 
 
 laste. 
 An' Shemus didn't see it, nor mind it a taste. 
 An' the judge took a big pinch of snuff, an' he 
 
 says : 
 "Are you guilty or not, Jim (J'Brien, if you 
 
 plase.'" 
 An' all held their breath in the silence of 
 
 dread. 
 An' Shemus O'Brien made answer an' said : 
 
 " My lord, if you ask me if in my life-time 
 I thought any treason, or did any crime. 
 That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone 
 
 here. 
 The hot blush of shame or the coldness of 
 
 fear, 
 Though I stood by the grave to receive my 
 
 death-blow. 
 Before God an' the world I would answer you 
 
 No! 
 But if you would ask me, as I think it like. 
 If in the rebellion I carried a pike. 
 An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to 
 
 the close. 
 An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest 
 
 foes, 
 I answer you. Yes. an' I tell you again, 
 Tho' I stand here to perish, it's my glory that 
 
 then 
 In her cause I was willin' my veins should 
 
 run dry, 
 
 An' now for her sake I am ready to die." 
 Then the silence was great, an' the jury smiled 
 
 bright. 
 An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made 
 
 light. 
 By my sowl. it's himself was the crabbed ould 
 
 chap ! 
 In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap. 
 Then Shemus' mother, in the crowd standin' 
 
 by. 
 
 Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry : 
 " O, judge, darlin', don't — O, don't say the 
 
 word ! 
 The crathur is young, O have mercy my lord ! 
 He was foolish, he didn't know what he was 
 
 doin'; 
 You don't know him, my lord — O, don't give 
 
 him to ruin ! 
 He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest- 
 
 hearted. 
 Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted. 
 Judge, mavournceii, forgive him, forgive him, 
 
 my lord. 
 An' God will forgive you — O don't say the 
 
 word !" 
 
 That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken. 
 When he saw he was not quite forgot or 
 
 forsaken ; 
 An' down his pale cheeks, at the words of his 
 
 mother. 
 The big tears worrunnin'one afther the other ; 
 An' two or three times he endeavored to spake. 
 But the sthrong manly voice used to falther 
 
 and break ; 
 But at last by the strength of his high moun- 
 
 tin' pride. 
 He conquered an' mastered his grief's swellin' 
 
 tide; 
 " An'," said he, " mother, darlin,' don't break 
 
 your poor heart. 
 For, sooner or later, the dearest must part; 
 An' God knows it's betther than wandherin' 
 
 in fear 
 On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the 
 
 wild deer. 
 To lie in the grave, where the head, heart and 
 
 breast. 
 From thought, labor, and sorrow, forever 
 
 shall rest. 
 Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more. 
 Don't make me seem broken in this, my last 
 
 hour; [raven. 
 
 For I wish, when my head's lying under the 
 
482 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 No thrue man can say that I died like a 
 
 craven !" 
 Then towards the judge Shemus bent down 
 
 his head. 
 An' that minute the solemn death-sentence 
 
 was said. 
 
 The mornin'was bright, an' the mists rose on 
 
 high. 
 An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky- 
 But why are the men standin' idle so late? 
 An' why do the crowd gather fast in the street ? 
 What come they to talk of ?— what come they 
 
 to see ? 
 An' why does the long rope hang from the 
 
 cross-tree ? 
 O Shemus O'Brien, pray fervent an' fast ! 
 May the saints take your soul, for this day is 
 
 your last. 
 Pray fast an' pray strong, for the moment is 
 
 nigh. 
 When strong, proud an' great as you are you 
 
 must die! — 
 At last they threw open the big prison gate. 
 An' out came the sheriffs an' sojers in state ; 
 An' a cart in the middle, an' Shemus was in it, 
 Not paler, but prouder than ever that minit; 
 An' as soon as the people saw Shemus O'Brien. 
 Wid prayin' and blessin'. an' all the girls cryin'. 
 A wild wailin' sound kern on all by degrees. 
 Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowm' 
 
 through trees! 
 On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone. 
 An' the car an' the sojers go steadily on. 
 An' at every side swellin' around of the cart. 
 A wild sorrowful sound that would open your 
 
 heart. 
 Now under the gallows the car takes its stand. 
 An' the hangman get.s up with a rope in his 
 
 hand. 
 \\\ the priest having blest him gets down on 
 
 the ground ; 
 An' Shemus O'Brien throws one look around. 
 Then the hangman drew near, and the people 
 
 grew still. 
 Young faces turn sickly, an' warm hearts turn 
 
 chill ; 
 An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made 
 
 bare, 
 For the gripe of the life-stranglin' cords to 
 
 prepare ; 
 And the good priest has left him, havin' said 
 
 his last prayer. 
 
 But the good priest did more— for his hands 
 
 he unbound. 
 An' with one darin, spring Jim has leaped on 
 
 the ground! 
 Bang! bang! go the carbines, an' clash go 
 
 the sabres ; 
 He's down ! he's alive ! now attend to him, 
 
 neighbors! 
 By one shout from the people the heavens are 
 
 shaken — 
 One shout that the dead of the world might 
 
 awaken. 
 Your swords they may glitter, your carbines 
 
 go bang. 
 But if you want hangin' 'tis yourselves you 
 
 must hang ! 
 To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe glin. 
 An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him 
 
 agin. 
 The sojers ran this way. the sheriffs ran that. 
 An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat: 
 KW the sheriffs wor both of them punished 
 
 severely. 
 An' fined like the divil, because Jim done 
 
 them fairly. 
 A week after that, without firin' a cannon, 
 A sharp Yankee schooner sailed out of the 
 
 Shannon ; 
 The captain left word he was goin' to Cork — 
 But the divil a bit — he was bound for New- 
 York. 
 
 JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE F.Wr 
 
 THE SACK OF MAGDEBURGH.* 
 When the breach was open laid, bold we 
 
 mounted to the attack ; 
 Five times the assault was made, five times 
 
 were we beaten back. 
 Many a gallant comrade fell in the desperate 
 
 mMe there ; 
 Sped their spirits ill or well, know I not nor 
 
 do I care. 
 
 But the fifth time up we strode, o'er the dying 
 
 and the dead ; 
 Hot the western sunbeam glowed, sinking in 
 
 a blaze of red ; 
 Redder in the gory way our deep-plashing 
 
 footsteps sank. 
 As the cry of " Slay. slay, slay !" echoed fierce 
 
 from rank to rank. 
 
 In i6]i 
 
 the Thirty Years' > 
 
THE GASCON UDRISCOL. 
 
 And we slew, and slew, and slew — slew them 
 
 with unpitying sword, 
 Negligently could we do the commanding of 
 
 the Lord ? 
 Fled the coward, fought the brave — wailed 
 
 the mother, wept the child, 
 But not one escaped the glaive, man who 
 
 frowned or babe who smiled. 
 
 There were thrice ten thousand men when 
 
 the morning sun arose ; 
 Lived not thrice three hundred when sunk 
 
 that sun at evening close. 
 Then we spread the wasting flame, fanned to 
 
 fury by the wind ; 
 Of the city but the name — nothmg more is 
 
 left behind ! 
 
 Hall and palace, dome and tower, lowly shed 
 
 and soaring spire. 
 Fell in that victorious hour, which consigned 
 
 the town to fire. 
 All that rose at craftsman's call to its pristine 
 
 dust had gone. 
 For, inside the shattered wall, left we never 
 
 stone on stone ; — 
 
 For it burnt not till it gave all it had to yield 
 of spoil ; 
 
 Should not brave soldados have some reward- 
 ing for their toil ? 
 
 What the villain sons of trade had amassed 
 by years of care. 
 
 Prostrate at our bidding laid, by one moment 
 won, was there. 
 
 Then, within the burning town, 'mid the 
 
 steaming heaps of dead. 
 Cheered by sounds of hostile moan, we the 
 
 joyous banquet spread ; 
 Laughing loud and quaffing long, with our 
 
 glorious labors o'er. 
 To the sky our jocund song told the city was 
 
 no morel william maginn. 
 
 THE MINE OF TORTONA. 
 Cannon from the ramparts flashing 
 
 Round besieged Tortona rang. 
 And the stormers forward dashing. 
 
 Up the crackling ladders sprang. 
 " Hark, Carew !" the Marshal crieth, 
 
 " Yonder hell-pit must be ours 
 Ere the flag of Naples flieth 
 
 O'er Tortona's vanquished towers. 
 
 48 3 
 
 " Ever first in toil and danger, 
 
 Breach and charge and storm, is seen 
 Thy gay ensign, gallant stranger, 
 
 Erin's plume of floral green. 
 I know thee brave — yon desp'rate station 
 
 Rests upon a hostile mine ; 
 Noblest of a noble nation ! 
 
 Honor's post or death is thine." 
 
 At his chieftain's praises blushing. 
 
 Proudly smiled the young Carew, 
 And with eager ardor rushing. 
 
 Up the masked volcano flew. 
 Death's around, above, and under. 
 
 Batteries from the trenches ring. 
 Cannons from the ramparts thunder. 
 
 Shot and shell around him sing. 
 
 •• Comrades ! still our scanty ration 
 
 Yields another cup of wine ; 
 Let us pour a last libation. 
 
 Merry home I to thee and thine. 
 Erin ! land of song and beauty. 
 
 Welcome every fate shall be, 
 If the most appalling duty 
 
 Add one wreath of fame to thee. 
 
 " Here we drink to those who, falling 
 
 Clasped in battle's red embrace. 
 Nobly sleep 'mid trumpets calling 
 
 ' Victory ' o'er their resting place." 
 So peal out the clarions loudly. 
 
 Cease the bursting shell and gun. 
 And the hero, smiling proudly. 
 
 Sheathes his sword — Tortona's won I 
 
 RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 
 
 THE GASCON O'DRISCOL. 
 In old O'Driscol's pedigree, 
 
 'Mong lords of ports and galleys, 
 ' The Gascon " whence.' and who was he 
 First bore the surname ? tell us. 
 Not difficult the task 
 To answer what vou ask. 
 
 The merchants from the Biscay sea 
 
 To ports of Munster sailing. 
 With wines of Spain and Gascony 
 Supplied carouse unfailing 
 To guests of open door. 
 Of old, at Baltimore. 
 
484 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 Till when against one festal day 
 
 . O'Driscol stocked his cellars. 
 
 He found not but of gold to pay 
 
 1 n part the greedy dealers ; 
 
 And, for the surplusage ; 
 
 Gave this good son in pledge. 
 
 They bore the boy to fair Bayonne, 
 
 Where vines on hills were growing ; 
 And, when the days of grace were gone. 
 And still the debt was owing. 
 The careful merchant's heart 
 Grew hard with angry smart. 
 
 " The wine I sold the Irish knave 
 
 Is spent in waste and surfeit ; 
 The pledge for payment that he gave 
 Remains, a sorry forfeit : — 
 Bring forth the hostage boy 
 And set him on employ." 
 
 " Now, youth, lay by the lettered page, 
 
 Leave Spanish pipe and tabor 
 
 To happier co-mates of thy age. 
 
 And put thy hands to labor. 
 
 Ten ridged rows of the vine 
 
 To dress and till be thine." 
 
 From solar-chamber came the lad ; 
 
 In sooth a comely creature 
 As e'er made eye of mother glad 
 In well-shaped limb and feature. 
 As 'mid the vines he stepp'd. 
 His cheek burned, and he wept. 
 
 "The grief that wrings this pungent tear 
 
 Springs not from pride or anger ; 
 Let be the hoe my hunting-spear. 
 The pruning knife my hanger; 
 The work ye will I'll do, 
 But deem my kinsmen true. 
 
 " Be sure in some unknown resort 
 
 Their messengers have tarried ; 
 
 Some head-wind held their ship in port. 
 
 Some tribute-ship miscarried ; 
 
 Else never would they leave 
 
 Their pledge without reprieve. 
 
 " I've seen when, round the banquet board, 
 
 :"rom stintless-circling beaker— 
 To all the Name our butlers pour'd 
 The ruby royal liquor. 
 
 And every face was bright 
 With mirth and life's delight. 
 
 '• And. as the warming wine exhaled 
 
 The shows of outward fashion. 
 Their very hearts I've seen unveil'd 
 In gay and frank elation ; 
 And not a breast but grew 
 More trusty, more seen through. 
 
 " These vineyards grew the grape that gave 
 
 My soul that fond assurance ; 
 
 And if for them 1 play the slave, 
 
 I grudge not the endurance. 
 
 Nor stronger mandate want 
 
 To tend the truthful plant." 
 
 The seniors of the sunny land 
 
 Beheld him daily toiling — 
 (Old times they were of instincts bland 
 The pagan heart assoiling — ) 
 And this their frequent speech 
 And counsel, each with each : — 
 
 " A patient boy, with gentle grace 
 
 He bears his yoke of trouble; 
 Serenely grave the ample face. 
 The gesture large and noble, 
 Erect, or stooping low. 
 Along the staky row. 
 
 " Where'er he moves, the sen-ing train 
 
 Accord him their obeisance ; 
 The ver\' vintagers refrain 
 Their rude jests in his presence ; 
 And — what is strange, indeed — 
 His vines their vines exceed. 
 
 •'The tendrils twine, the leaves expand. 
 
 The purpling bunches cluster 
 To pulpier growth beneath his hand. 
 As tho' 'twere form'd to foster. 
 By act of mere caress. 
 Life, wealth and joyousness. 
 
 " It seems as if a darkling sense 
 In root and stem were native : 
 As if an answering influence 
 And virtue vegetative 
 (Anointed Kings own such) 
 Went outward from his touch. 
 
 •' Behold, his nation's sages say 
 
 A righteous King's intendancc 
 Is seen in fishy-teeming bay 
 
 And corn-field's stooked abundance. 
 In udder-weighted cows 
 And nut-bent hazel boughs. 
 
THE REVELRY OF THE DYING. 
 
 485 
 
 " These Scots apart in ocean set 
 
 Since first from Shinar turning, 
 Preserve the simple wisdom yet 
 Of mankind's early morning 
 While God with Adam's race 
 Still communed, face to face. 
 
 " Not in the written word alone 
 
 He woos and warns the creature ; 
 His will is still in wonders shown 
 Through manifesting Nature ; 
 And Nature here makes plain 
 This youth was born to reign. 
 
 " 111 were it for a merchant s gains. 
 
 To leave, at toil appointed 
 For horny-handled village swains, 
 God's designate anointed: 
 But good for him and us 
 The act magnanimous. 
 
 " Blest are the friends of lawful kings 
 
 To righteous rule consenting: 
 
 Secure the blessings that he brings 
 
 By clemency preventing ; 
 
 And granting full release. 
 
 Return him home in peace. 
 
 " And, ere your topsails take the wind. 
 
 Stow ye within his vessel 
 
 A pipe the richest search may find 
 
 In cellars of the Castle ; 
 
 Of perfume finer yet 
 
 Than rose and violet. 
 
 " Then, when, at home, his km shall pour 
 
 The welcoming libation. 
 Such rapture-pitch their souls shall soar 
 Of sweet exhilaration, 
 As Bacchus on his pard 
 With moist eye might regard. 
 
 They stowed the ship ; he stepp'd onboard 
 
 In seemly wise attended ; 
 But this was still his parting word 
 When farewells all were ended : 
 " Be sure my father yet 
 Will satisfy the debt." 
 
 And, ever as from the harbor mouth 
 
 They northward went careering. 
 They passed to windward, steering south, 
 O'Driscol's galley bearing. 
 From Baltimore the gold 
 Of ransom safe in hold. 
 
 S.'VMUEL FERGUSON. 
 
 THE REVELRY OF THE DYING.* 
 We meet 'neath the sounding rafter, 
 
 And the walls around are bare ; 
 As they shout to our peals of laughter 
 
 It seems that the dead are there. 
 But stand to your glasses, steady ! 
 
 We drink to our comrades' eyes,— 
 Quaff a glass to the dead already ; 
 
 And hurrah ! for the next that dies. 
 
 Not here are the goblets flowing ; 
 
 Not here is the vintage sweet ; 
 'Tis cold, as our hearts are growing, 
 
 And dark as the doom we meet. 
 But stand to your glasses, steady ! 
 
 And soon shall our pulses rise, — 
 A cup to the dead already ; 
 
 Hurrah ! for the next that dies. 
 
 Not a sigh for the lot that darkles ; 
 
 Not a tear for the friends that sink ; 
 We'll fall 'midst the wine-cup's sparkles, 
 
 As mute as the wine we drink. 
 So stand to your glasses, steady ! 
 
 'Tis this that the respite buys ; 
 One cup to the dead already ; 
 
 Hurrah ! for the next that dies. 
 
 Time was when we frowned at others; 
 
 We thought we were wiser then. 
 Ha — ha ! let them think of their mothers 
 
 Who hope to see them again. 
 So stand to your glasses, steady ! 
 
 The thoughtless are here the wise ; 
 A cup to the dead already ; 
 
 Hurrah! for the next that dies. 
 
 There's many a hand that's shaking ; 
 
 There's many a cheek that's sunk; 
 But soon, tho' our hearts are breaking. 
 
 They'll burn with the wine we've drunk. 
 So stand to your glasses steady ! 
 
 'Tis here the revival lies ; 
 A cup to the dead already ; 
 
 Hurrah! for the next that dies. 
 
 There's a mist on the glass congealing ; 
 
 'Tis the hurricane's fiery breath- 
 And thus does the warmth of feeling 
 
 Turn to ice in the grasp of death. 
 
 * Nothing conclusive is known about the authorship of this 
 remarkable poem. It is, however, generally attnbuted to an 
 Irish officer in the English service in India. The poem is 
 understood to have been written while a pestilence was raging 
 where the author's regiment was stationed. 
 
486 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 Ho ! stand to your glasses, steady ! 
 
 For a moment the vapor flies ; 
 A cup to the dead already ; 
 
 Hurrah ! for the next that dic-s. 
 
 Who dreads to the dust returning? 
 
 Who shrinks from the sable shore. 
 Where tl>e high and haughty yearning 
 
 Of the soul shall sing no more? 
 Ho! stand to your glasses steady ' 
 
 The world is a world of lies; 
 A cup to the dead already ; 
 
 Hurrah! for the next that dies. 
 
 Cut of! from the land that bore us. 
 
 Betrayed by the land we find. 
 Where the brightest have gone before U! 
 
 And the dullest remain behind. 
 Stand !— stand to your glasses, steady ! 
 
 'Tis all we ha\e left to prize ; 
 A cup to the dead already; 
 
 And hurrah! for the next that dies. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 " Thou mayest quench thy thirst securely, for 
 thou shall not die before 
 
 I Thou hast drunk that cup of water — this 
 reprieve is thine — no more!" 
 
 yuick the satrap tiasnen the goblet down to 
 
 earth with ready hand. 
 And the liquid sank forever, lost amid the 
 
 burning sand. 
 
 ; "Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the 
 
 water of that cup 
 ' I have drained ; then bid thy servants that 
 j spilled water gather up!" 
 
 I For a moment stood the Caliph as by doubtful 
 ■ 1 passions stirred— 
 
 Then exclaimed : " Forever sacred must 
 remain a monarch's word. 
 
 , ■' Bring another cup, and straightway to the 
 I noble Persian give : 
 
 ' Drink, I said before, and perish, — now I bid 
 thee drink and live !" 
 
 RICHAKU CHKNKVIX TKEN'CH. 
 
 HARMOSAN. 
 Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian 
 
 throne was done. 
 And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning 
 
 victory won. 
 
 Harmosan. the last and boldest the mvader 
 
 to defy, 
 Captive, overborne by numbers, they were 
 
 bringing forth to die. 
 
 Then exclaimed that noble captive : " Lo. 1 
 
 perish in my thirst ; 
 Give me but one drink of water, and let then 
 
 arrive the worst!" 
 
 In his hand he took the goblet: but a while 
 
 the draut;ht forbore, 
 Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the foemen 
 
 to explore. 
 
 Well might then have paused the bravest,— 
 for, around him, angr)' foes 
 
 With a hedge of naked weapons did the lonely 
 man enclose. 
 
 " But what fearest thou ? " cried the Caliph, 
 " is it, friend, a secret blow? 
 
 Fear it not! our gallant Moslems no such 
 treacherous dealing know. 
 
 LEON I DAS. 
 Shout for the mighty men 
 
 Who died along this shore. 
 Who died within this mountain's glen! 
 For never nobler chieftain's head 
 Was laid on hero's crimson bed. 
 
 Nor ever prouder gore 
 Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day 
 Upon thy strand. Thermopyla; ! 
 
 Shout for the mighty men 
 
 Who on the Persian tents. 
 
 Like lions from their midnight den 
 
 Bounding on the slumbering deer. 
 
 Rushed — a storm of sword and spear ; 
 Like the roused elements 
 
 Let loose from an immortal h.md, 
 
 To chasten or to crush a land I 
 
 But there are none to hear,— 
 
 Greece is a hopeless slave. 
 
 Leonidas, no hand is near 
 
 To lift thy fiery falchion now; 
 
 No warrior makes the warrior's vow 
 Upon thy sea-washed grave. 
 
 The voice that should be raised by men 
 
 Must now be given by wave and glen. 
 
THE CID'S PEXXOX. 
 
 48/ 
 
 And it is given! — ^thc surge. 
 
 The tree, the rock, the sand 
 On freedom's kneeling spirit urge 
 In sounds that speak but to the free. 
 The memory of thine and thee ! 
 The vision of thy band 
 Still gleams within the glorious dell 
 Where their gore hallowed as it fell. 
 
 And is thy grandeur done .' 
 
 Mother of men like these ! 
 
 Has not thy outcry gone 
 
 Where justice has an ear to hear ? — 
 
 Be holy ! God shall guide thy spear, 
 Till in thy crimsoned seas 
 
 Are plunged the chain and scimitar. 
 
 Greece shall be a new-born star ! 
 
 GEORGE CROLY. 
 
 THE CID'S PENNON. 
 
 Bivarand his three hundred knights. Hidal- 
 gos brave of Spain, 
 
 Look down from Alcozero's heights upon the 
 battle-plain ; 
 
 The turban'd Moslems press and throng 
 around on ever)' side. 
 
 Like a river of steel that rolls along in the 
 might of its wintry tide. 
 
 The steeds they neigh, the banners play! 
 
 flasheth the polished steel ! 
 The scimetar is bared for war! the gongs 
 
 and trumpets peal ! 
 The Moslem gazeth on the lower with a wild 
 
 and fearful glare ; — 
 The Christians dare not face that power, nor 
 
 brave the thousands there. 
 
 'Twasthen. Minaya thus addressed th' Hidal- 
 gos, leal and brave. — 
 
 " Fear not ! The banners have been blest 
 that o'er your helmets wave ; 
 
 From Leon, many a weary mile, the Cid your 
 host hath led ; 
 
 On yonder plain let slaughter pile her heaps 
 of Moslem dead ! 
 
 " The caged lion turns and tears the foes that 
 
 wound him sore — • 
 Fear ye to face the Moslem spears with the 
 
 brave El Campeador ? 
 Burst from your prison. Leonese ! Rend everj' 
 
 bolt and bar! 
 Let your proud pennon flout the breeze ! Our 
 
 leader's De Bivar ! " 
 
 Then doffed the Cid his casque, and said, 
 
 " Minaya. brave thy word ! 
 Ere falleth even's russet shade we'll scatter 
 
 yonder horde! 
 Castile should never blush to have warriors 
 
 brave as thou ; — 
 Sons who'd as gladly hail the grave as laureis 
 
 on their brow ! 
 
 " Forth ! show the Moslem on yon plains, 
 
 whose crescent brightly gleams. 
 The blood that thro' Castilian veins doth flow 
 
 in burning streams. — 
 Show them in battle's bright career, 'tis honor 
 \ leads ye on ; 
 
 I That honor, still, shall deck your bier, your 
 fathers wooed and won \ 
 
 " Show them your fathers feared not death, 
 and their sons are now as brave ; 
 
 Show them that triumph's holy breath yet 
 flutters o'er their grave ! 
 
 Tis not the part of Spanish knight, till con- 
 quest come, to die ; — 
 
 Till with crimson wing she fan the fight, like 
 eagle from on high!" 
 
 He said, and to the doughty Knight. Bermu- 
 j dez. true and bold, 
 
 I He gave in charge his pennon bright ; the 
 1 lion marked its fold. 
 
 •' Hidalgo ! clasp it to thine heart, whether 
 
 thou fight or flee ; — 
 Be it sooner rent by Moslem dart than ever 
 torn from thee ! "' 
 
 '• Brave Cid ! " the mailed warrior said. " thy 
 
 streamer now is mine ! 
 In triumph o'er each Moor shall tread the 
 
 lion's dauntless sign, — 
 This lion. Cid ! by heaven. I swear ! as Pedro 
 
 wears a sword, 
 Shall make, this day, his bloody lair amid yon 
 
 turban'd horde!" 
 
 He seized the flag; and, like the light of 
 
 morn o'er hill and vale. 
 Headlong spurred on the Spanish knight. — 
 
 the shafts they sped like hail. — 
 "Come on. Hidalgos, everyone! your lion 
 
 tramps the breeze ! 
 We'll have, by heav'n ! ere set of sun, ten 
 
 Moors for a Leonese ! " 
 
 EDWARD MATURIX. 
 
1 
 
 488 
 
 POEAfS OF HEROISM. 
 
 WAITING FOR WASHINGTON. 
 
 On Broadway, Evacuation Day, 1783. 
 
 To the rattle of drums 
 
 He conies, he comes ! 
 With our heroes stepping in marching time. 
 
 How the bay'nets flash 
 
 And the cymbals crash. 
 While St. Paul's is ringing a thunderous chime. 
 
 My whole soul hums 
 
 To the rolling drums 
 And my pulse goes fast as the fifers blow. 
 
 Now would that its beat 
 
 Could quicken their feet. 
 Neighbors, the column seems tired and slow. 
 
 Not a redcoat's seen 
 
 On the Bowling Green, 
 And the flag's torn down that we all abhor ; 
 
 And Washington comes 
 
 To the rattle of drums ; 
 It is worth the waiting through all the war. 
 
 Now, surely, they lag. 
 
 Lord ! Our battle-flag ! 
 See it streaming out as they move again ! 
 
 Let our shouts and cheers 
 
 Reach the redcoats' ears ; [men. 
 
 They'll know we're welcoming Washington's 
 
 Now quick is the pace. 
 
 Wc shall see his face. 
 And know in its joy that, indeed, we're free. 
 
 To light it up so 
 
 As we'd have it glow 
 There's not enough sunshine on land or sea. 
 
 God bless him ! He comes. 
 
 Now rattle, brave drums ; 
 See him there as man never was seen before ! 
 
 He rides calm amid all. 
 
 Though the heavens fall. 
 We know that no tvrant shall rule us more I 
 
 1883. 
 And the drummers shall drum 
 
 .\nd the fifers blow 
 And the crowd shall hum 
 
 .And the bonfires glow 
 And joy from the heart in a torrent come 
 
 As it came a hundred years ago. 
 
 JOSEPH 1. C. CLARKE. 
 
 SERGEANT MOLLY.* 
 The snows were melted from Valley Forge ; 
 ■ The blood was drunk by the sodden clay. 
 And. counting the score against King George. 
 They sharpened their swords for Monmouth 
 day. 
 
 Hut the devil may take the caitiff Lee I 
 In the front of battle his courage quailed. 
 
 And the lions leaping to victor)' [failed. 
 
 Fell back when their leader's hare-heart 
 
 Till the Chieftain came with his face aflame. 
 And an angr)' hand on a ready hilt. 
 
 Halting the mob with a taunt of shame. 
 And a hot. fierce curse on the traitor's guilt. 
 
 So we see him now in his god-like wrath 
 
 Firing the souls of meaner clay. 
 Standing athwart the victor's path. 
 
 And turning the tide of Monmouth day. 
 
 And once again when the battle's won. 
 
 And the beaten foe in ignoble flight. 
 He calls for the soldier who served the gun 
 
 In Wayne's brigade on the bloody right. 
 
 Howthe soldiers cheer, in their comrade pride! 
 
 As a woman steps from the cannoneers. 
 And her mantling blushes fail to hide 
 
 The smoke of battle and stain of tears. 
 
 She is only a soldier's Irish wife; 
 
 But yesterday, when the fight went hard. 
 The hot heart's blood of her soldier's life 
 
 Made a pool by his gun on Monmouth sward. 
 
 And the captain turned away his head.- 
 "Take out of the battle the idle gun : 
 
 There's no one to serve it now." he said . 
 But a white-faced woman cried, " Ves. 
 there's one." 
 
 And all day long, through the fire and smoke. 
 
 And the din of battle and bullet's hum. 
 The battery's thund'rous voice outspoke. 
 
 And Pitcher's cannon was never dumb. 
 
 Powder-stained is the brown hand yet. 
 
 As the Chieftain holds it and speaks his 
 thanks. 
 And '• Sergeant Molly." by his brevet. 
 Goes proudly back to the cheering ranks. 
 JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 
 
 who served her husband's 
 
 • The famous " Moll Pitcher, 
 ;un at the battle of Monmouth, 
 omplimcnted by Washin^^ton wi 
 
 h a commission as sergeant. 
 
MOYLA.V AT MONMOUTH. 
 
 489 
 
 CHARONDAS. 
 He lifted his forehead, and stood at his height, 
 
 And gathered the cloak round his noble age, 
 This man, the law-giver, Charondas the Greel<; 
 And loudjthe Euboeans called to him ; " Speak, 
 
 We listen and learn, O Sage !" 
 
 " In peace shall ye come where the people be," 
 
 Spake the lofty figure, with flashing eyes : 
 " But whoso comes armed to the public hall 
 Shall suffer his death before us all." 
 And the hearers believed him wise. 
 
 The years sped quick and the years dragged 
 slow ; 
 
 In council oft was the throng arrayed, 
 But never the statued chamber saw 
 The gleam of a weapon ; for, loving the law, 
 
 The Greeks from their hearts obeyed. 
 
 War's challenge knocked at the city gates; 
 
 Students flocked to the front, grown bold ; 
 The strong men. girded, faced up to the north : 
 The women wept to the gods ; and forth 
 
 Went the brave of the days of old. 
 
 Peace winged her flight to the city gates ; 
 
 Young men and strong, they followed fast. 
 Back to the breast of their fair, free land : 
 Charondas, afar on the foreign strand. 
 
 Remained at his post the last. 
 
 Their leader he. in war as in word. 
 
 The fire of youth for his life-long lease. 
 The strength of Mars in the arm that stood 
 Seven hot decades upheld for good 
 
 In the turbulent courts of Greece 
 
 The fight is finished, the council meets. 
 
 Who is the tardy comer without. 
 In cuirass and shield, and with clanking sword. 
 Who strides up the aisles without a word, 
 
 Rousing that awe-struck shout ? 
 
 The tardy comer home from the field — 
 
 Great gods ! the first to forget and belie 
 The law he honored, the law he formed : 
 " Charondas — stand ! you enter armed," 
 With a shudder the hundreds cry. 
 
 The men who loved him on every side. 
 The men he led to the victor's gain. 
 He paused a moment, the fearless Greek, 
 A sudden glow on his ashen cheek, 
 A sudden thought in his brain. 
 
 •' I seal the law with my soul and might 
 I do not break it," Charondas said. 
 
 He raised his blade, and plunged to the hilt. 
 
 Ah ! vain their rush, for in glory and guilt. 
 He lay on the marble, dead. 
 
 LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 
 
 MOYLAN AT MONMOUTH. 
 Our banners blaze on Monmouth plain, 
 
 Our steeds all harnessed be ; 
 And as they feel the curbing rein. 
 
 They struggle to be free. 
 Steady ! not yet the hour for fight ; 
 Wait till the foemen come in sight, 
 With girth and saddle girded tight. 
 Then burst upon them, left and right, 
 
 Like billows of the sea ! 
 
 Hark ! to the rolling of his drums, 
 
 H is vanguards coming near ; 
 O'er yonder height stern Clinton comes. 
 
 With many a musketeer; 
 And Moncton's ringing bugle-swell 
 To Moylan's willing troopers tells 
 That hard and fast thro' dale and dell 
 His mustering troops appear. 
 
 See ! with a rush they gain the glen ; 
 
 How fast their horsemen fly! 
 Now ! forward on their columns, men, 
 
 And spur and sabre ply ! 
 Hurrah ! dash on ! Their lines of red 
 Shall writhe beneath our troopers' tread, 
 And on the field, in heaps of dead. 
 
 Their trampled ranks shall lie ! 
 
 The woods resound the answering shout 
 
 That rises from, our ranks ; 
 We burst, as burst the waters out 
 
 From Mississippi's banks. 
 Upon their lines with ringing blade 
 Our fierce and furious charge is made. 
 Till backward, bleeding and dismayed. 
 Rolls Clinton's grenadier brigade, 
 
 Hard pressed from front to flank. 
 
 Down from the rough and rugged height 
 
 Fierce Moncton's column comes; 
 Forward ! with Moylan on the right, 
 
 And charge upon his g^ns ! 
 Hurrah ! 'tis done ; with blade and ball 
 Upon his foremost ranks we fall. 
 Till, torn and shattered, one and all 
 Are trampled in the fight. 
 
490 
 
 rOEAfS OF HEROISM. 
 
 So perish all whose servile swords 
 
 I'phold a despot s sway ; 
 So perish all who kings and lo.ds 
 
 With slavish souls obey. 
 The glorious flag of Washington, 
 May its bright folds still greet the sun 
 When kings and tyrants every one 
 
 From earth have passed away I 
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS. 
 
 THE FIGHT AT LEXINGTON. 
 Tugged the patient, panting horses, as the 
 
 coulter keen and thorough. 
 By the careful farmer guided, cut the deep 
 
 and even furrow : 
 Soon the mellow mould in ridges, straightly 
 ; pointing as an arrow, 
 
 1 Lay to wait the bitter vexing of the fierce, 
 I remorseless harrow — 
 
 , Lay impatient for the seeding, for the growing 
 
 and the reaping, 
 I All the richer and the readier for the quiet 
 winter-sleeping. 
 
 At his loom the pallid weaver, with his feet 
 
 upon the treadles, 
 Watched the threads alternate rising, with the 
 I lifting of the hcddles— 
 
 Not admiring thai, so swiftly, at his eager 
 I fingers' urging, 
 
 I Flew the bobbin-loaded shuttle, 'twixt the 
 
 filaments diverging; 
 j Only labor dull and cheerless in the work 
 before him seeing. 
 As the warp and woof uniting brought the 
 figures into being. 
 
 Roared the fire before the bellows; glowed 
 the forge "s dazzling crater; 
 
 Rang the hammers on the anvil, both the 
 lesser and the greater ; 
 
 Fell the sparks around the smithy, keeping 
 rhythm to the clamor. 
 
 To the ponderous blows and clanging of each 
 unrelenting hammer. 
 
 While the diamonds of labor, from the curse of 
 Adam borrowed, 
 
 Glittered in a crown of honor on each iron- 
 beater's forehead. 
 
 Through the airtherecame a whisper, deepen- 
 ing quickly into thunder. 
 
 How the deed was done that morning that 
 ] would rend the realm asunder; 
 
 How^ at Lexington the Briton mingled cause- 
 less crime with folly, 
 
 .And a king endangered empire by an ill-con- 
 sidered volley. 
 
 Then each heart beat quick for vengeance, i..s 
 the anger-stirring stor)- 
 
 Told of brethren and of neighbors lying corses 
 stiff and gor)'. 
 
 Stops the plough and sleeps the shuttle, stills 
 I the blacksmith's noisy hammer. 
 
 Come the farmer, smith, and weaver, with a 
 ! wrath too deep for clamor ; 
 
 But their fiercely purposed doing every glance 
 
 they give avouches, 
 .•Vs they handle rusty firelocks, powder-horns, 
 
 and bullet-pouches ; 
 As they hurrj' from the workshops, from the 
 
 fields, and from the forges, 
 Venting curses deep and bitter on the latest 
 
 of the Georges, 
 
 Matrons gather at the portals — some with 
 
 children round them grouping, 
 Some are filled with exultation, some are sad 
 
 of soul and drooping — 
 Gazing at our hasty levies as they march 
 
 unskilled but steady. 
 Or prepare their long-kept firelocks, for the 
 ! combat making ready — 
 
 Mingling smiles with tears, and praying for 
 
 our men and those who lead them. 
 That the gracious Lord of battles to a triumph 
 
 sure may speed them. 
 
 1 was but a beardless stripling on that chilly 
 April morning, 
 , When the church-bells backward ringing, to 
 1 the minute-men gave warning; 
 
 But I seized my father's weapons — he was 
 dead who one time bore them — 
 I And I swore to use them stoutly, or to never- 
 more restore them ; 
 Bade farewell to sister, mother, and to one 
 
 than either dearer. 
 Then departed as the firing told of red-coals 
 drawing nearer. 
 
 On the Britons came from Concord — 'twas a 
 
 name of mocking omen ; 
 Concord nevermore existed 'twixt our people 
 , and the foemen — 
 
THE FIGHT AT LEXINGTON. 
 
 491 
 
 On they came in haste from Concord, where 
 
 a few had stood to tight them, 
 Where they failed to conquer Buttrick, who 
 
 had stormed the bridge despite them ; 
 On they came, the tools of tyrants, 'mid a 
 
 people who abhorred them ; 
 They had done their master's bidding, and we 
 
 purposed to reward them. 
 
 We, at Merriam's Corner posted, heard the 
 fifing and the drumming. 
 
 In the distance creeping onward, which pre- 
 pared us for their coming ; 
 
 Soon we saw the lines of scarlet, their ad- 
 vance to music timing. 
 
 When our captain quickly bade us pick our 
 flints and freshen priming. 
 
 Then our little band of freemen, couched in 
 silent ambush lying. 
 
 Watched the forces, full eight hundred, as 
 they came with colors flying. 
 
 'Twas a goodly sight to see them ; but we 
 heeded not its splendor. 
 
 For we felt their martial bearing hate within 
 our hearts engender, 
 
 Kindling fires within our spirits, though our 
 eyes a moment watered. 
 
 As we thought on Moore and Hadley, and 
 their brave companions slaughtered ; 
 
 And we swore to deadly vengeance for the 
 fallen to devote them. 
 
 And our rage grew hotter, hotter, as our well- 
 aimed bullets smote them. 
 
 Then in overpowering numbers, charging 
 
 bayonet, came their flankers; 
 We were driven as the ships are, by a tempest, 
 
 from their anchors. 
 But we loaded while retreating, and regaining 
 
 other shelter, 
 Saw their proudest on the highway in their 
 
 life-blood fall and welter, 
 Saw them fall or dead or wounded, at our fire 
 
 so quick and deadly, 
 While the dusty road was moistened with the 
 
 torrent running redly. 
 
 From behind the mounds and fences poured 
 
 the bullets thickly, fastly ; 
 From ravines and clumps of coppice leaped 
 
 destruction grim and gliastly ; 
 All around our leaguers hurried, coming 
 
 hither, going thither. 
 
 Yet when charged on by their forces, disap- 
 pearing, none knew whither; 
 
 Buzzed around the hornets ever, newer swarms 
 each moment springing. 
 
 Breaking, rising, and returning, yet continu- 
 ally stinging. 
 
 When to Hardy's Hill their weary, waxing- 
 
 fainter footsteps brought them. 
 There again the stout Provincials brought 
 
 the wolves to bay and fought them ; 
 And though often backward beaten, still 
 
 returned the foe to follow, 
 Making forts of every hill-top and redoubts 
 
 of every hollow. 
 Hunters came from every farm house, joining 
 
 eagerly to chase them — 
 They had boasted far too often that we would 
 
 not dare to face them. 
 
 How they staggered, how they trembled, how 
 
 they panted at pursuing. 
 How they hurried broken columns that had 
 
 marched to their undoing; 
 How their stout commander, wounded, urged 
 
 along his frightened forces. 
 That had marked their fearful progress by 
 
 their comrades' bloody corses; 
 How they rallied, how they faltered, how in 
 
 vain returned our firing. 
 While we hung upon their footsteps with a 
 
 zealousness untiring. 
 
 With nine hundred came Lord Percy, sent by 
 
 startled Gage to meet them, 
 And he scoffed at those who suffered such a 
 
 horde of boors to beat them ; 
 But his scorn was changed to anger, when on 
 
 front and flank were falling, 
 From the fences, walls, and roadside, drifts of 
 
 leaden hail appalling; 
 And his picked and chosen soldiers, who had 
 
 never shrunk in battle, 
 Hurried quicker in their panic when they 
 
 heard the firelocks rattle. 
 
 Tell it not in Gath, Lord Percy, never Ascalon 
 let hear it. 
 
 That you fled from those you taunted as de- 
 void of force and spirit ; 
 
 That the blacksmith, weaver, farmer, leaving 
 forging, weaving, tillage. 
 
 Fully paid with coin of bullets base marauders 
 for their pill.ige ; 
 
492 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 They, you said, would fly in terror, Britons 
 and their bayonets shunning : 
 
 But the loudest of the boasters proved the 
 foremost in the running. 
 
 Then round Prospect Hill they hurried, where 
 we followed and assailed them ; 
 
 They had stout and tireless muscles, or their 
 limbs had surely failed them. 
 
 Stood abashed the bitter Tories, as the women 
 loudly wondered 
 
 That a crowd of scurxy rebels chased to hold 
 eleven hundred — 
 
 Chased to hold eleven hundred, grenadiers 
 both light and hea\y. 
 
 Leading Percy, of the Border, on a chase sur- 
 passing Chevy, 
 
 Into Boston marched their forces, musket- 
 barrels brightly gleaming. 
 
 Colors flying, sabres flashing, drums were 
 beating, fifes were screaming. 
 
 Not a word about their journey ; from the 
 General to the drummer. 
 
 Did you ask about their doings, than a statue 
 each was dumber; 
 
 But the wounded in their litters, lying pallid, 
 weak, and gory. 
 
 With a language clear and certain, told the 
 sanguinary story. 
 
 'Twas a dark and bloody lesson : it was bloody 
 
 work to teach it ; 
 But when sits on high Oppression, soaring 
 
 fire alone can reach it. 
 Though but raw and rude Provincials, we 
 
 were freemen, and contending 
 For the rights our fathers gave us, and a 
 
 countr)' worth defending ; 
 And when foul invaders threaten wrong to 
 
 hearthstone and to altar. 
 Shame were on the freeman's manhood should 
 
 he either fail or falter. 
 
 On the day the fight that followed, neighbor 
 
 met and talked with neighbor: 
 First the few who fell they buried, then 
 
 returned to daily labor. 
 Glowed the fire within the forges, ran the 
 
 ploughsliare down the furrow. 
 Clicked the bobbin-loaded shuttle, — both our 
 
 fight and toil were thorough ; 
 If we labored in the battle, or the shop, or 
 
 forge, or fallow. 
 
 ! Still there came an honest purpose, casting 
 I round our deeds a halo. 
 
 ' The' they strove again, those minions of Ger- 
 maine and North and Gower, 
 
 I They could never make the weakest of our 
 band before them cower ; 
 Neither England's bribes nor soldiers, force of 
 
 I arms nor titles splendid, 
 
 I Could deprive of what our fathers left as rights 
 to be defended. 
 
 ' And the flame from Concord spreading. 
 
 I kindled kindred conflagrations, 
 
 I Till the Colonies I'nited took their place 
 
 I among the nations. 
 
 THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 
 
 JACK, THE REGULAR. 
 In the Bergen winter night, when the hickory 
 
 fire is roaring. 
 Flickering streams of ruddy light on the folk 
 
 before it pouring; 
 When the apples pass around, and the cider 
 
 passes after. 
 And the well-worn jest is crowned by the 
 
 hearers' hearty laughter ; 
 When the cat is purring there, and the dog 
 
 beside her dozing. 
 And within his easy-chair sits the grandsire, 
 
 old. reposing — 
 Then they tell the story true to the children 
 
 hushed and eager, 
 How the two Van Valens slew, on a time, the 
 
 Tory leaguer. 
 
 Jack, the Regular. 
 
 Near a hundred years ago. when the maddest 
 
 of the Georges 
 Sent his troops to scatter woe on our hills and 
 
 in our gorges, 
 Less we hated, less we feared, those he sent 
 
 here to invade us — 
 Than the neighbors with us reared who 
 
 opposed us or betrayed us ; 
 And amid those loyal knaves who rejoiced in 
 
 our disasters. 
 As became the willing slaves of the worst of 
 
 royal masters. 
 Stood John Berry, and he said that a regular 
 
 commission 
 Set him at his comrades' head ; so we called 
 
 him. in derision. 
 
 " Jack, the Regular." 
 
JACK, THE REGULAR. 
 
 49i 
 
 When he heard it—" Let them fling ! Let the 
 
 traitors malce them merry 
 With the fact my gracious king deigns to 
 
 make me Captain Berr\'. 
 I will scourge them for the sneer, for the 
 
 venom that they carry ; 
 I will shake their hearts with fear, as the land 
 
 around I harry ; 
 They shall find the midnight raid waking 
 
 them from fitful slumbers ; 
 They shall find the ball and blade daily thin- 
 ning out their numbers ; 
 Barn in ashes, castle slain, hearth on which 
 
 there glows no ember, 
 Neatless plough and horseless wain — thus the 
 
 rebels shall remember 
 
 Jack, the Regular." 
 
 Well he kept his promise then, with a fierce, 
 
 relentless daring. 
 Fire to roof-trees, death to men, through the 
 
 Bergen valleys bearing. 
 In the midnight deep and dark came his ven- 
 geance darker, deeper — 
 At the watch-dog's sudden bark woke in 
 
 terror every sleeper ; 
 Till at length the farmers brown, wasting time 
 
 no more on tillage. 
 Swore these ruffians of the crown, fiends of 
 
 murder, fire, and pillage, 
 Should be chased by every path to the dens 
 
 where they had banded. 
 And no prayers should soften wrath when 
 
 they caught the bloody-handed 
 Jack, the Regular. 
 
 One by one they slew his men : still the chief 
 
 their chase evaded ; 
 He had vanished from their ken, by the fiend 
 
 or fortune aided — 
 Either fled to Paulus Hoek, where the Briton 
 
 yet commanded. 
 Or his stamping-ground forsook, waiting till 
 
 the hunt disbanded. 
 So they stopped pursuit at length, and re- 
 turned to toil securely — 
 It was useless wasting strength on a purpose 
 
 baffled surely ; 
 But the two Van Valens swore in a patriotic 
 
 rapture 
 They would never give it o'er till they'd 
 
 either kill or capture 
 
 Jack, the Regular. 
 
 Long they hunted through the wood, long 
 
 they slept upon the hill-side ; 
 In the forest sought their food, drank when 
 I thirsty at the rill-side ; 
 
 j No exposure counted hard — theirs was hunt- 
 j ing border-fashion ; 
 
 They grew bearded like the pard, and their 
 
 chase became a passion. 
 Even friends esteemed them mad, said their 
 
 minds were out of balance. 
 Mourned the cruel fate and sad fallen on the 
 
 poor Van Valens. 
 But they answered to it all, " Only wait our 
 
 loud view-holloa 
 When the prey shall to us fall ; for to death 
 we mean to follow 
 
 Jack, the Regular." 
 
 Hunted they from Tenaulie to the shore 
 
 where Hudson presses 
 On the base of trap-rocks high ; through 
 
 Moonachie's damp recesses; 
 Down as far as Bergen Hill ; by the Ramapo 
 
 and Drochy, 
 Overprock and Pellum Kill — meadows flat 
 
 and hill-tops rocky — 
 Till at last the brothers stood where the road 
 
 from New Barbadoes 
 At the English Neighborhood slants towards 
 
 the Palisadoes : 
 Still to find the prey they sought leave no 
 
 sign for hunter eager ; 
 Followed steady, not yet caught was the 
 
 skulking fox-like leaguer. 
 Jack, the Regular. 
 
 Who are they who yonder creep by those 
 
 bleak rocks in the distance. 
 Like the figures born in sleep, called by slum- 
 ber to existence ? 
 Tories, doubtless, from below, from the Hoek 
 
 sent out for spying, 
 " No ! the foremost is our foe — he so long 
 
 before us flying. 
 Now he spies us! See him start! wave his 
 
 kerchief like a banner. 
 Lay his left hand on his heart in a proud 
 
 insulting manner. 
 Well he knows that distant spot, past our ball 
 
 — his low scorn flinging — 
 If you cannot feel the shot, you shall hear the 
 
 firelocks ringing, 
 
 Jack, the Regular! 
 
n 
 
 494 
 
 Ah! he falls! An ambuscade! 'Twas impos- 
 sible to strike him. 
 
 Are there Tories in the glade ? Such a trick 
 is very like him. 
 
 See? his comrade by him kneels, turning him 
 in terror over. 
 
 Then takes nimbly to his heels. Have they 
 really slain the rover ? 
 
 It is worth some risk to know ; so, with fire- 
 locks poised and ready, 
 
 Up the sloping hill they go, with a quick look- 
 out and steady. 
 
 Dead! The random shot had struck, to the 
 heart, and pierced the Tory — 
 
 Vengeance seconded by luck ! Lies there cold 
 and stiff and gory- 
 Jack, the Regular. 
 
 " Jack, the Regular, is dead. Honor to the 
 
 man who slew him !" 
 So the Bergen farmers said as they crowded 
 
 round to view him. 
 For the wretch that lay there slain had with 
 
 wickedness unbending 
 To their roofs brought fierj' rain, to their kins- 
 folk woful ending. 
 Not a mother but had prcst in a sudden pang 
 
 of fearing 
 Sobbing darlings to her breast when his name 
 
 had smote her hearing ; 
 Not a wife that did not feel terror when the 
 
 words were uttered ; 
 Not a man but chilled to steel when the hated 
 
 sounds were muttered, — 
 
 "Jack, the Regular." 
 
 Bloody in his work was he, in hispurpwse iron- 
 hearted ; 
 
 Gentle pity could not be when the pitiless 
 had parted ; 
 
 So the corse in wagon thrown, with no decent 
 cover o'er it — 
 
 Jeers its funeral rites alone — into Hackensack 
 they bore it. 
 
 'Mid the clanging of the bells in the old Dutch 
 church's steeple. 
 
 And the hooting and the yells of the glad- 
 dened, maddened people. 
 
 Some they rode and some they ran by the 
 wagon where it rumbled. 
 
 Scoffing at the lifeless man, all elate that 
 Death had humbled 
 
 Jack, the Regular. 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 Thus within the winter night, when the hick- 
 ory fire is roaring. 
 Flickering streams of ruddy light on the folk 
 
 before it pouring; 
 When the apples pass around, and the cider 
 
 follows after. 
 And the well-worn jest is crowned by the 
 
 hearers' hearty laughter; 
 When the cat is purring there, and the dog 
 
 beside her dozing. 
 And within his easy-chair sits the grandsire 
 
 old, reposing — 
 Then they tell the story true to the children 
 
 hushed and eager. 
 How the bold Van Valen slew, on a time, the 
 
 Tory leaguer. 
 
 Jack, the Regular. 
 
 THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 
 
 AT FREDERICKSBURG.-DEC. 13, 1862. 
 God send us peace, and keep red strife away ; 
 But should it come, God send us men and 
 steel ! 
 The land is dead that dare not face the day 
 When foreign danger threats the common 
 weal. 
 
 Defenders strong are they that homes defend; 
 
 From ready arms the spoiler keeps afar. 
 Well blest the country that has sons to lend 
 
 From trades of peace to learn the trade of 
 war. 
 
 Thrice blest the nation that has every son 
 j A soldier, ready for the warning sound ; 
 I Who marches homeward when the fight is 
 j done, 
 
 ! To swing the hammer and to till the ground. 
 
 ] Call back that morning, with its lurid light, 
 j When through our land the awful war-bell 
 I tolled . 
 
 ( When lips were mute, and women's faces 
 
 white 
 As the pale cloud that out from Sumter 
 
 rolled. 
 
 Call back that morn: an instant all were 
 
 dumb. 
 
 As if the shot had struck the Nation's life ; 
 
 Then cleared the smoke, and rolled the calling 
 
 drum, [strife. 
 
 And men streamed in to meet tne coming 
 
AT FREDERICKSBURG, DEC. 
 
 13, 1862. 
 
 They closed the ledger and they stilled the 
 
 loom, 
 
 The plough left rusting in the prairie farm ; 
 
 They saw but " Union " in the gathering 
 
 gloom ; 
 
 The tearless women helped the men to arm; 
 
 Brigades from town — each village sent its 
 band : 
 
 German and Irish — every race and faith ; 
 There was no question then of native land. 
 
 But, love the Flag and follow it to death. 
 
 No need to tell their tale : through every age 
 The splendid story shall be sung and said ; 
 
 But let me draw one picture from the page, — 
 For words of song embalm the hero dead. 
 
 The smooth hill is bare, and the cannons are 
 planted, 
 Like Gorgon fates shading its terrible brow; 
 The word has been passed that the stormers 
 are wanted. 
 And Burnside's battalions are mustering 
 now. 
 The armies stand by to behold the dread 
 meeting; 
 The work must be done by a desperate few; 
 The black-mouthed guns on the height give 
 them greeting, — 
 From gun-mouth to plain every grass blade 
 in view. 
 Strong earthworks are there, and the rifles 
 behind them 
 Are Georgia militia, — an Irish brigade — 
 Their caps have green badges, as if to remind 
 them 
 Of all the brave record their country has 
 made. 
 The stormers go forward — the Federals cheer 
 them ; 
 They breast the smooth hillside— the black 
 mouths are dumb ; 
 The riflemen lie in the works till they near 
 them. 
 And cover the stormers as upward they 
 come. 
 Was ever a death-march so grand and so 
 solemn.' 
 At last, the dark summit with flame is en- 
 lined ; 
 The great guns belch doom on the sacrificed 
 column 
 
 495 
 
 The armies are hushed — there is no cause for 
 cheering : 
 The fall of brave men to brave men is a 
 pain. 
 Again come the stormers I and as they are 
 nearing 
 The flame -sheeted rifle - lines, reel back 
 again. 
 And so till full noon come the Federal 
 masses — 
 Flung back from the height, as the cliff 
 flings a wave; 
 Brigade on brigade to the death-struggle 
 passes. 
 No wavering rank till it steps on the grave. 
 Then comes a brief lull, and the smoke-pall 
 is lifted. 
 The green of the hillside no longer is seen; 
 The dead soldiers lie as the seaweed is drifted. 
 The earthworks still held by the badges of 
 green. 
 Have they quailed.' is the word. No: again 
 they are forming — 
 Again comes a column to death and defeat? 
 What is it in these who shall now do the 
 storming 
 That makes every Georgian spring to his 
 feet .' 
 
 " O God ! what a pity !" they cry in their 
 cover. 
 As rifles are readied and bayonets made 
 tight; 
 " 'Tis Meagher and his fellows ! their caps have 
 green clover : 
 'Tis Greek to Greek now for the rest of the 
 fight !" 
 Twelve hundred the column, their rent flag 
 before them, 
 With Meagher at their head, they have 
 dashed at the hill ! 
 Their foemen are proud of the countr)' that 
 bore them ; 
 But Irish in love, they are enemies still. 
 Out rings the fierce word, " Let them ha\e 
 it !" the rifles 
 Are emptied point-blank in the hearts of 
 the foe : 
 It is green against green, but a principle 
 stifles 
 The Irishman's love in the Georgian's blow. 
 The column has reeled, but it is not defeated; 
 
 That reels from the height, leaving hun- In front of the guns they re-form and 
 dreds behind. attack : 
 
496 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 Six times they have done it, and six times 
 retreated ; 
 Twelve liundred they came, and two hun- 
 dred go back. 
 Two hundred go baclc with the chivalrous 
 story ; 
 The wild day is closed in the night's solemn 
 shroud : 
 A thousand lie dead, but their death was a 
 glory 
 That calls not for tears — the Green Badges 
 are proud I 
 
 Bright honor be theirs who for honor were 
 fearless. 
 Who charged for their flag to the grim can- 
 non's mouth ; 
 And honor to them who were true, though 
 not tearless^ 
 Who bravely that day kept the cause of the 
 South. 
 The quarrel is done : God avert such another : 
 The lesson it brought we should evermore 
 heed: 
 Who loveth the flag is a man and a brother. 
 No matter what birth or what race or what 
 creed. 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 GOING AND COMING, 
 Forward I 
 " On to the front I " the order ran, 
 
 •' On to the front the foe to meet : " 
 They shouldered their muskets, boy and man. 
 
 And marched away thro" the city street. 
 Banners flying and drum-beat proud 
 
 Marshalled them on thro' the noisy way, 
 But many a heart in the waiting crowd 
 
 Was faint and sick with its fear that day. 
 
 Forward ! 
 " On to the front ! " — 'twas a fearful call 
 
 With Death before to beckon them on ; 
 Who would be first on the field to fall .' 
 
 Who would be left when the rest were gone } 
 Was this the last time, full and free. 
 
 To hear the pulse of the city roll. 
 Before they gasped in their agony 
 
 With the last deep throb of the parting soul .' 
 
 Forward ! 
 On to the front! From peace and life, 
 
 From wife and child with their clinging 
 hands. 
 
 To the shock and crash of the fearful strife. 
 To the unknown grave in the Southern 
 lands. 
 Yet firm as the beat of their martial feet. 
 And strong with a freeman's strength of 
 soul, 
 They marched away thro" the crowded street. 
 With quiver of trumpet and drum's loud 
 roll. 
 
 Forward ! 
 
 Home I 
 With silken folds of the banner torn 
 
 In gaps.with the sunlight streaming through. 
 The bayonets gleam from the muskets worn, 
 
 .And stain and dust on the army blue ; 
 Back from the battle-fields far away 
 
 Their medals of bronze on cheek and brow. 
 They came thro' the city streets to-day, — 
 
 Our Legion of Honor we call them now. 
 
 Home! 
 When the word went down to that hell of war. 
 
 And the fetid walls where the prisoners slept, 
 God I what a shout rang near and far. 
 
 And up to the listening heavens swept ! 
 Eyes that were dr>' mid the groans of death. 
 
 Hearts unawed by the bullet and sword. 
 Grew dim and soft with the whispered breath. 
 
 And melted in tears at the well-known 
 word. 
 
 Home! 
 Many had reached it long ago. 
 
 Not the place that our hearts had planned, — 
 The fireside rest that their feet should know. 
 Who came to us back from the direful 
 land. — 
 But a sweeter rest — which never shall cease — 
 Than the deepest depth of our love could 
 give. 
 Where God himself is the light of Peace, 
 And the ransomed soldiers of freedom live. 
 
 Home ! 
 Whether on earth or whether in heaven. 
 Where lips may touch or prayers arise. 
 Honor and praise to their names be given 
 
 L'nder the sun or above the skies. 
 Till the jubilant air shall rise and swell flight' 
 With strong, full shouts of the heart's de- 
 Welcome with clangor of cannon and bell 
 The bronze-brown heroes of field and fight. 
 Home ! 
 MARY E. BLAKE. 
 
THE COLOR-BEAKEK. 
 
 497 
 
 THE CHARGE BY THE FORD. 
 
 Eighty and nine with their captain, 
 
 Rode on the enemy's track, 
 Rode in the gray of the morning — 
 
 Nine of the ninety came back. 
 
 Slow rose the mist from the river, 
 Lighter each moment the way ; 
 
 Careless and tearless and fearless, 
 Galloped they on to the fray. 
 
 Singing in tune, how the scabbard 
 Loud on the stirrup-irons rang, 
 
 Clinked as the men rose in saddle. 
 Fell as they sank with a clang. 
 
 What is it moves by the river. 
 
 Faded and weary and weak ? 
 Gray-backs — a cross on their banner — 
 
 Yonder the foe whom they seek. 
 
 Silence ! They see not, they hear not, 
 Tarrying there by the marge ; 
 
 Forward ! Draw sabre ! Trot ! Gallop ! 
 Charge like a hurricane ! Charge ! 
 
 Ah ! 'twas a man-trap infernal ; 
 
 Fire like the deep pit of hell ! 
 Volley on volley to meet them, 
 
 Mixed with the gray rebels' yell. 
 
 Ninety had ridden to battle. 
 
 Tracing the enemy's track ; 
 Ninety had ridden to battle. 
 
 Nine of the ninety came back. 
 
 Honor the nine of the ninety. 
 
 Honor the heroes who came 
 Scatheless from nine hundred muskets. 
 
 Safe from the lead-bearing fiame. 
 
 Eighty and one of the troopers 
 Lie on the field of the slain — 
 
 Lie on the red field of honor : 
 Honor the nine who remain. 
 
 Cold are the dead there, and gory. 
 
 There where their life-blood was spilt ; 
 
 Back come the living, each sabre 
 Red from the point to the hilt. 
 
 Give them three cheers and a tiger! 
 
 Let the flags wave as they come ! 
 Give them the blare of the trumpet! 
 
 Give them the roll of the drum ! 
 
 THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 
 
 REVEILLE. 
 The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse ! 
 The dewshinesbrightonthe chestnut boughs. 
 And the sleeping mist on the river lies. 
 Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes. 
 
 Awake ! Awake ! Awake ! 
 
 O'er field, and wood, and brake. 
 
 With glories newly born 
 
 Comes on the blushing morn — 
 Awake ! Awake ! 
 
 You have dreamed of your homes and friends 
 
 all night, 
 You have basked in your sweetheart's smiles 
 
 so bright ; 
 Come, part with them all for a while again, — 
 Be lovers in dreams : when awake, be men ! 
 Turn out ! Turn out ! Turn out ! 
 You have dreamed full long, I know. 
 Turn out ! Turn out ! Turn out ! 
 The east is all aglow. — 
 
 Turn out ! Turn out ! 
 
 From every valley and hill there come 
 The clamoring voices of fife and drum ; 
 And out in the fresh, cool morning air 
 The soldiers are swarming everywhere. 
 
 Fall in ! Fall in ! Fall in ! 
 
 Every man in his place. 
 
 Fall in ! Fall in ! Fall in ! 
 
 Each with a cheerful face. — 
 Fall in ! Fall in ! 
 
 MICHAEL O'CONNOR. 
 
 THE COLOR-BEARER. 
 "Be true, my son," an old man said, 
 
 " Though all the world be craven ; 
 Tho' death would make thy heart its bed. 
 
 To fear be not enslaven. 
 Where danger calls, be foremost in ; 
 
 In failure last to cover ; 
 With blood like thine alone we'll win. 
 
 By sparing of it — never ! 
 
 " Father, fear not ! " the soldier cried, 
 
 " Though seas our two hearts sever; 
 No tears but of a father's pride 
 
 Shalt thou for me shed ever : 
 But pray that God may give me strength 
 
 To greet my death-call loudly. 
 And stark upon the ground, full length, 
 
 Front upward, I'll lie proudly." 
 
498 
 
 /'OEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 The battle woke with eye of flame. 
 
 And shook its smoke-locks hoary. 
 And spake for all a deathless name 
 
 That sought its embrace gory. 
 Ah I many a man marched well that morn. 
 
 Whose feet were stiff that even ; 
 And many a home was left forlorn, 
 
 And nianv a fond heart riven. 
 
 The soldier fell upon that day. 
 
 His countr)''s banner bearing; 
 Where duty called, where danger lay. 
 
 There was his spirit daring ; 
 And as he fell the flag he kept. — 
 
 Kept as if still he bore it; 
 And clutched so tight, the foemen wept. 
 
 As from his grasp they tore it. 
 
 JOHN I'.'MRICK BROWN. 
 
 RIDING TO BATTLE. 
 Before the cock began to crow 
 
 We took our morning meal, 
 And by the torch's trembling glow 
 
 We girt ourselves in steel ; 
 While wintry thoughts around us fell 
 
 Like blossom showers in June, 
 For weal or woe we bade farewell 
 
 At setting of the moon. 
 
 As from the castle-court we rode 
 
 And down the village street, 
 The dawning day his coming showed. 
 
 The larks rose up to greet ; 
 A swell of sorrow's sprayless wave 
 
 A sad, foreboding pang. 
 Marked every stride our chargers gave. 
 
 And every weapon's clang. 
 
 But morn grows bright ; the scented wind 
 
 Folds back across the hills 
 The curtains of the mist untwined 
 
 From meadows veined with rills. 
 Past maid and churl in sad amaze 
 
 We hold our stern advance. 
 Till sheaves of light with greeting rays 
 
 Illumine ever)' lance. 
 
 How all our spirits feel the charm ! 
 
 Hopes quicken one by one ; 
 Dead joys in every heart rise warm 
 
 Touched by the wizard sun ; 
 Our leader turns with smiling face 
 
 And vails his flowing crest 
 To kiss the sign of lady's grace 
 
 That's bound about his breast. 
 
 No kerchief in my helmet shines. 
 
 No silken sleeve or glove ; 
 I watch our long advancing lines. 
 
 Our banner folds above — 
 Whate'er may come. I cannot care. 
 
 I wait without a sigh ; 
 My past it roundeth full and fair. 
 
 If I this day should die I 
 
 THE MANY NAMELESS. 
 Let others sing in glowing verse the men who 
 
 gathered laurel. 
 Upon the fields where North and South oft 
 
 met in deadly quarrel — 
 
 The deeds which will a glory shed upon the 
 
 page historic. 
 Or gleam from dainty blue and gold, or hide 
 
 in tomes plethoric — 
 
 The names that in the coming years will 
 
 second be to no man's. 
 But on Fame's scroll shine for the peers of 
 
 any Greek's or Roman's ; 
 
 That like a clarion blast will rouse some future 
 
 Tell or Brutus, 
 And, when we lose our faith in man. stand 
 
 forward to confute us. 
 
 But we will sing the nameless host unknown 
 
 in song or stor)'. 
 Half hidden in the dazzling light of aggregated 
 
 glory— 
 
 The men whose deeds have made their chiefs 
 
 renowned to all futurity. 
 While they loom dimly through the haze of 
 I luminous obscurity. — 
 
 The common herd — the rank and file, the 
 
 anonymous immortals 
 Who ope, but never enter through. Fame's 
 
 glorious golden portals ; 
 
 Who mined and trenched and marched and 
 toiled with ardor unabated. 
 
 And swept across the battlefields like whirl- 
 winds incarnated ; 
 
 Whose grand impersonal renown adds to their 
 
 countr)''s glory. 
 But gives them not one line in song, and not 
 
 one page in story. 
 
THE THREE KXIGHTS. 
 
 499 
 
 Others may sing the glorious chiefs, whose 
 
 names will live forever, 
 The tyjjes of lofty faith, brave deeds, and 
 
 noble high endeavor — 
 
 Who showed to a degenerate age what true 
 
 men lay a stress on. 
 Revived man's waning faith and gave the 
 
 world a needed lesson — 
 
 Made our utilitarian age outshine the age 
 
 heroic. 
 And softened with a Christian grace the 
 
 virtues of the stoic — 
 
 A good and gracious task is theirs, a noble 
 
 and a blameless, 
 Bnt while they praise the glorious few, we'll 
 
 laud the many nameless ! 
 
 .MARY MULLALV. 
 
 A BORDER KNIGHT. 
 Farewell to roofs that cluster brown below 
 The lichen-dappled cliff ! Blow on me. blow. 
 Strong gales that dash the cedar and the pine; 
 No more be thought of cradled softness mine! 
 For I have wandered wliere the beardless dwell. 
 Found truth and falsehood, loved perhaps too 
 
 well ; 
 And now, enamored of thy golden morn, 
 Land of lost youth, unreckoning mortal scorn, 
 I come to thee ; henceforth my strength is 
 
 thine. 
 And, by the smile that meets me, thou art 
 
 Fear? when I saw the forest's quivering green 
 
 Cut by the keen blue lightning, or have been 
 
 Inch-near the coiling snake, or felt the whirr 
 
 Of bullets pass me, it was with a stir 
 
 In every vein, a glory of the soul 
 
 Worth all the joys that languid lives control. 
 
 Flame-burdened clouds that freak the western 
 
 skies 
 With spires of shifting splendor ; stars that 
 
 On mountains glassed in crystal, leaf and 
 
 tree. 
 Be now my kindred ; of like fates are we ! 
 My love's cheek flushes when the dawn-rose 
 
 beams 
 On virgin snow, her laughter is in streams. 
 I hear her footfall when the russet cones 
 
 Drop from the spruce bough, pattering over 
 
 stones. 
 Not loving men, nor hating ; from my door 
 May want go filled, to think of me no more. 
 
 Ha ! storms are rising on the great land seas ; 
 I go to face them, but my heart is peace. 
 
 MARION MUIR. 
 
 THE KNIGHT'S PLEDGE. 
 The tedious night at length hath pass'd; 
 To horse ! to horse ! we'll ride as fast 
 
 As ever bird did fly. 
 Ha ! but the morning air is chill ; 
 Frau Wirthin, one last goblet fill. 
 
 We'll drain it ere we die ! 
 
 Thou youthful grass, why look'st so green.' 
 Soon dyed in blood of mine, I ween. 
 
 With damask rose thou'lt vie. 
 The goblet here! with sword in hand 
 I pledge thee first, my Fatherland, 
 
 Oh ! blessed for thee to die I 
 
 Again our mailed hands raise the cup: 
 Freedom, to thee we drink it up. 
 
 Low may that coward lie 
 Who fails to pledge, with heart and hand. 
 The freedom of our glorious Land — 
 
 Her Freedom, ere we die ! 
 
 Our wives — but, ah ! the glass is clear. 
 The cannon thunders — grasp the spear, 
 
 We'll pledge them in a sigh. 
 Now, on the Foe like thunder crash ! 
 We'll scathe them as a lightning flash. 
 
 And conquer, though we die! 
 
 LAUY WILDE. 
 
 THE THREE KNIGHTS. 
 Sir Tristram was a gallant knight. 
 
 So handsome, brave and strong — 
 His prowess in the battle-field 
 
 Was told in many a song ; 
 And whensoe'er he rode abroad. 
 
 In armor glistening bright, 
 A dagger hung by his left side, 
 
 A goblet by his right ; 
 And if questioned why he carried them, 
 
 Sir Tristram answered so — 
 '■ Tlie cup's for the friend who aids me, 
 
 The dasia:er for the foe !" 
 
500 
 
 Sir Hildebrandt was quite as strong. 
 
 As handsome, and as bold, 
 With many a score of vassals, 
 
 And many a purse of gold. 
 Sir Hildebrandt a splendid hall 
 
 In his castle old did keep. 
 But 'neath this hall a dungeon lay. 
 
 Dark, loathsome, damp and deep : 
 And he said, if asked by any 
 
 To what did all this tend — 
 " The one is for my enemy. 
 
 The other for my friend !" 
 
 Sir Gilbert he was quite as brave, 
 
 As strong and handsome too. 
 Unbeaten in the tournament. 
 
 And equalled but by few. 
 Nor steel, nor dungeon was there near 
 
 When he sat in his hall. 
 For the good right hand of friendship 
 
 He held out to one and all ; 
 And he said, if asked his reason — 
 
 '• I make it e'er my end 
 To change each enemy of mine 
 
 Into an ardent friend !" 
 
 ARTHUR M. FORKK.STER. 
 
 POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 CAVALIER'S SWORD SONG. 
 Come, kiss my gallant sword 
 
 And sprinkle it with wine ; 
 This night it won its lord 
 
 A joy and hope divine ! 
 
 Oft in these gloomy days 
 That cloud our stormy isle. 
 
 It earned a leader's praise. 
 To-night, a woman's smile. 
 
 Behind its point, secure. 
 
 Oft life and honor lay — 
 To-night it guarded pure 
 
 A richer prize than they. 
 
 Once did the steadfast blade 
 A monarch's bulwark prove — 
 
 To-night the steel was swayed 
 In loyalty to love. 
 
 With myrtle and the rose 
 Entwine it for the stroke ; 
 
 In them it brighter glows 
 
 Than decked with bay or oak ! 
 
 JOSEPH O'CONXOR. 
 
 THE WRECK OFF MIZEN-HEAD. 
 "O, who could lie a-snoring, 
 
 Or who carousing be. 
 While such a storm is roaring 
 
 And raving o'er the sea .' 
 A ship to death is drifting. 
 Faint hands in prayer uplifting. 
 With hearts in anguish failing, 
 The wives and mothers, wailing, 
 
 Look out from cliff and lea ; 
 And beacon-fires arc glowing. 
 And, fierce and fiercer growing, 
 The sleety blasts are blowing 
 
 O'er rock and roof and tree, 
 Come out from giddy dances. 
 And songs and vain romances, 
 And idle dreams and trances, 
 
 And man the boat with me." 
 
 So Guy the ever daring. 
 
 One fierce September night. 
 While beacon-fires were flaring 
 
 Along the Mizen's height, — 
 As I, from pastimes shrinking. 
 Of Rose's scorn was thinking,^ 
 Cried, all at once upspringing 
 'Mid dance and mirth and singing 
 
 And games and laughters light; 
 And Hugh the eager-hearted, 
 Out to the portal darted. 
 And Wolfe and Wilfred started 
 
 .And Donald. Ralph, and I ; 
 And. prayers and sweet imploring 
 From maiden lips ignoring, 
 With spirits wildly soaring 
 
 We faced the seas and sky. 
 
 As down the beach descending 
 
 We drave the quivering boat, 
 A gleam of moonlight rending 
 
 The darkness, showed afloat 
 The laboring vessel, shattered. 
 With tackle rent and tattered, 
 Amid the tempest heaving. 
 Her course to ruin cleaving ; 
 
 Then fast the turf we smote. 
 And, boldly toward her steering. 
 Still by our courage cheering. 
 The deadly breakers clearing. 
 
 We strained across the tide : 
 And on. 'mid lightnings gleaming- 
 The winds about us screaming. 
 The rain in rivers streaming. 
 
 We struggled to her side. 
 
THE GLEN OF THE HORSE. 50I 
 
 The vessel still to seaward 
 
 And when the last was landed. 
 
 Came drifting down the bay, 
 
 And homeward faint and cold 
 
 And, steering in to leeward 
 
 We turned, how, eager-handed. 
 
 In surf and rain and spray, 
 
 (Guy leading as of old). 
 
 Athwart her sides we floated • 
 
 High on their shoulders proudly 
 
 And there on deck we noted. 
 
 They set me, cheering loudly. 
 
 With faces outward gazing. 
 
 And bore me on declaring 
 
 Their piteous hands upraising, 
 
 The triumph of my daring ;- 
 
 As all forlorn they lay. 
 
 And how my love I told 
 
 A helpless band together 
 
 That eve amid the gloaming 
 
 Like birds in wintry weather 
 
 To Rose as we were roaming 
 
 With feather pressed to feather 
 
 Where Aughrim stream was foaming. 
 
 Close huddled from the blast ; 
 
 And how she smiled and sighed. 
 
 A moment weirdly flashing. 
 
 And, 'mid the sunset's splendor. 
 
 We saw them, 'mid the lashing 
 
 Laying her white hand slender. 
 
 Of billows wildly dashing 
 
 In mine in love's surrender. 
 
 O'er bulwark, deck and mast. 
 
 My prayer no more denied. 
 
 
 GEORGE F. ARMSTRONG 
 
 Four times we all but touched her. 
 
 
 Foui times adrift were flung. 
 
 
 The fifth I sprang and clutched her. 
 
 THE GLEN OF THE HORSE. 
 
 And leech-like there I clung; 
 
 " Vender's the cleft in the Mountain, their 
 
 And thus to Guy's enclasping. 
 
 'Glen of the Horse,' 
 
 With one arm tightly grasping. 
 
 Lonely, with bulwarks of granite to left and 
 
 to right. 
 Lifted above its great boulders, its bracken 
 
 and gorse 
 
 Those famished forms I lowered, 
 
 Till, well-nigh overpowered, 
 
 I trembled where I hung. 
 
 Then Guy and Wilfred, straining. 
 
 Hiding the rillet that gurgles in giddy delight. 
 
 New strength from victory gaining 
 Drew down the last remaining. 
 
 Hurrying down to the valley of gray Glenma- 
 lure. 
 
 Till all were safely stowed ; 
 
 What is the legend that haunts it, of wizard 
 
 or sprite. 
 Mortal or devil or angel or dragon impure .' 
 
 And shoreward with our treasure. 
 
 All pain transformed to pleasure, 
 
 With oars in mirthful measure 
 
 
 At break of dawn we rowed. 
 
 " This. I have reason to know it, — none 
 
 
 living so well. 
 
 Ay, well do I remember, 
 
 I am a part of the story that blackens the glen. 
 
 The morning stormy bright 
 
 Ever the name of it rings in mine ear like a 
 
 That dawn of wild September, 
 
 knell ; [men. 
 
 As through the breakers white 
 
 Ever its memory darkens my path among 
 
 We rowed the brave boat laden 
 
 
 With man and babe and maiden, 
 
 •• It was an evening in summer in red ' Ninety- 
 
 While o'er the sandy spaces, 
 
 eight,' 
 
 The dawn-beams on their faces. 
 
 When, as we climbed from the Valley, my 
 
 Looked out with straining sight 
 
 troopers and I, 
 
 The crowd that there had waited. 
 
 Up by the mule-path, and drew in the breezes. 
 
 Each heart with anguish freighted. 
 
 elate, 
 
 As slow the storm abated 
 
 Reaching the Pass of Imahl and the moor- 
 
 Along the Brittas strand ; 
 
 lands on high. 
 
 And how they cheered us, rending 
 
 Suddenly rose from a guUey the torrents had 
 
 The wind, as slow ascending. 
 
 torn 
 
 Beneath our burdens bending. 
 
 Wide in the heather, a horseman in Rebel's 
 
 We waded to the land. 
 
 array. 
 
POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 50J 
 
 Leapt with his steed from the cover he lay in 
 
 forlorn. 
 Sprang like a hare when it starts at a loud 
 
 • harkaway !' 
 Turned for a moment to scan us, then, striking 
 
 his spurs, 
 Deep in the sides of his chestnut, away to the 
 
 height. 
 Out toward the brown Lugnaquilla, through 
 
 bracken and furze, 
 Rode for his life o'er the moors in the face of 
 
 the night. 
 
 " ' Follow !' I shouted. ' That horseman, by 
 
 Heaven, is a prize ! 
 Thoroughbred chestnut he rides, and he rides 
 
 like a king. 
 Follow him, men, — follow me ; for as fast as 
 
 he flies. 
 Surely my bay is a bird of as rapid a wing. 
 
 " Up and then out o'er the mountain I leaped 
 
 as he led. 
 Looked not behind or to left or to right as I 
 
 flew. 
 Watching the flanks of his steed, and the 
 
 plumes o'er his head 
 Glancing away toward the moon as she rose 
 
 in the blue. 
 Now on the sward and the heather, and now 
 
 at a dash 
 Clearing a torrent, or plunging hock-deep in 
 
 the peat. 
 Now in the wet mountain mosses with splash 
 
 upon splash. 
 Now on the gorse and the gravel with gallop- 
 ing feet. 
 Struggling, we rode such a ride as a madman 
 
 might dare. 
 Mad.' 1 was mad that 1 followed, not he that 
 
 he fled ; 
 Flying from death was my quarrj'. made 
 
 strong with despair : 
 Wild with the joy of the chase was my soul 
 
 as I sped. 
 
 '"Where will he lead me.' I thought, 'to what 
 
 pit or what pool ? — 
 Let him lead on to hell-gates. I will follow 
 
 him still — 
 Now that I'm well on his track, shall 1 turn 
 
 like a fool ? 
 Never a man of my name had a tameable will.' 
 Proud of its old Norman blood was the heart 
 
 that I bore. 
 
 Proud of my race that had battled six cen- 
 turies through. 
 
 Beating the kern from the land we had con- 
 quered of yore. — 
 
 What ! shall the Keltic knave baffle me.' Slay, 
 as we slew. 
 
 Slay me he may if he can, but not force me 
 to yield. 
 
 On, little mare, to the down ; never livelier 
 chase ; 
 
 On, gallant bay ; ever first thou hast been in 
 the field. 
 
 First over water and wall and the first in the 
 race; 
 
 On till we run him to earth or he runs us to 
 death I ' 
 
 " So to my hunter I murmured. She heard 
 
 me and sprang 
 Up from the hollow we strove in, and over 
 
 the heath 
 Bounded with pride ever swifter, and audible 
 
 clang. 
 Striking the masses of granite that broke from 
 
 the clod ; 
 Forward still fleeter, and close at the heels of 
 
 our prey : 
 Nearer and nearer with thunder of hoofs on 
 
 the sod. 
 Scattering the russet-brown peat-dust about 
 
 us like spray. 
 
 •■ Foam from my bay with the foam of his 
 chestnut flew by.— 
 
 'Yield, in the King's name!' my lips all but 
 muttered, so nigh 
 
 Snorted the nose of my horse to the knave's 
 saddle-bow — 
 
 When all at once from the holster his pistol 
 he snatched. 
 
 Turned, and let fly at my forehead, but, aim- 
 ing too low. 
 
 Close by my neck whizzed his bullet — and 
 left me unscratched. 
 
 ■■ Loud then I laughed at the rebel, as anger 
 and pain 
 
 Flashed in the gleam of his teeth, as he gal- 
 loped away. 
 
 Spurring more fiercely the sides of his chest- 
 nut. Again 
 
 Out of my reach he had swept, and 1 urged 
 on my bay. 
 
THE GLEN OF THE HORSE. 
 
 503 
 
 " Then in a moment he doubled. With face 
 
 to the vale. 
 Downward he swerved with a start as if 
 
 driven with a goad, 
 Headlong he galloped, I after him, hard on 
 
 the trail — 
 Ay, but I knew what he saw not, that, right 
 
 in his road. 
 Dim in the twilight, yon precipice, sudden 
 
 and sheer. 
 Broke o'er the glen, with Death staring up 
 
 from the gap ! 
 • Let him go forward ' (I laughed) ' in his 
 
 frantic career ; 
 Out on the verge of the crags he is caught in 
 
 a trap ; 
 There he must rein in his steed, he must 
 
 turn on his track ; 
 There he must lie in my grip, or for liberty 
 
 fight,' 
 Then for the first time I thought of my men 
 
 and looked back ; 
 Saw them behind in the moor coming on 
 
 with the night. 
 
 " ' If he resists now,' I said, ' we shall fight all 
 
 alone ; 
 Dexterous, doubtless he'll prove, and of sinew 
 
 and bone 
 Tough, quick of eye and of wrist, by no dan- 
 ger dismayed ; 
 Short will the duel be, surely, with pistol or 
 
 blade- 
 Nay, but he's nearing the verge. . , . Will he 
 
 fail to discern 
 The abyss? Will he rein not his steed till it 
 
 yawns at his feet.'' 
 Nearer and neare •. ' The nearer the sharper 
 
 the turn ; 
 Now in a trice he recoils at the chasm, and 
 
 we meet.' 
 
 " Close in his wake I was bounding. 'Great 
 
 God, is he blind.'' 
 Right in his way the great precipice plunged 
 
 like a wall. 
 
 See the wild phookah of Erin that haunts the 
 
 hill-sides. 
 Galloping wildly forever, a phantom of doom ? ' 
 
 " Up from my heart came a cry with a catching 
 
 of breath — 
 ' Stay ! — though I love not thy cause, I would 
 
 save if I might 
 Foe more detested than thou from so ghastly 
 
 a death,'— 
 ■Vainly I cried ; Man and horse like a flash 
 
 from my sight. 
 Out o'er the edge of the crag with a wild leap 
 
 in air 
 Sprang, — and a sickness came o'er me, as, 
 
 tightening the rein. 
 Blankly I stared at the valley, and murmured 
 
 a prayer 
 For the wretch I had hunted to death, and 
 
 had hunted in vain. 
 
 " Mournfully, silently, down from the summit 
 I crept. 
 
 Round by the slopes of the mountain, as over 
 me sailed. 
 
 Dull in the mist, the faint moon, and the valley- 
 wind swept 
 
 Coldly my forehead, and round me the wild 
 plover wailed. 
 
 " Huddled beside his dead charger, bruised, 
 
 broken and dead. 
 There 'mid the green beds of bracken, his 
 
 face to the sky. 
 Pale with death's pallor, more pale for the 
 
 moon overhead. 
 There I beheld in his blood the poor fugitive 
 
 lie. 
 
 " Laying a pitying hand on the heart that was 
 
 still. 
 Gently a picture I drew from the bosom laid 
 
 bare. 
 Lifted it up in the moon from the dusk of 
 
 the hill. 
 
 Out there in front there was naught but the Gazed for a moment, and started. — • So young 
 
 gulf and the wind ! 
 
 and I 
 
 Giddy and hoirible seemed it, — a sight to | Florence. — thy face on his bosom. Alas! was 
 
 appal ! 
 
 
 the youth, 
 
 ' What, has he lost his command of the 
 
 )rute 
 
 Florence, thy lover, thine. Cousin, — thine, 
 
 that he strides? 
 
 
 slain, and through me?' 
 
 Nay. do I see but a spectre that flies i 
 
 nthe 
 
 Then all at once on my spirit out broke the 
 
 gloom. 
 
 
 whole truth. 
 
,Q^ POEMS OF HEROISM. 
 
 " Bending above the dead man once again, I Stretch I my hands to the worlds by Thy 
 
 beheld wisdom sustained. 
 
 Dimly the face of the friend 1 had known long Here, face to face with the awe of Thy being 
 
 ago. — revealed. 
 
 Randal, the bold young enthusiast, madly im- Here, with the gulf of deep horror around me 
 
 pelled. rent wide. 
 
 Breaking away from his kindred, to strike a Kneeling. I cry to thee. God, who with pur- 
 wild blow pose concealed 
 Thus for the race that his fathers had swayed Mad'st me. and light in my need to Thy foot- 
 
 with the sword — steps denied. 
 
 Randal, the elegant talker, the graceful, the 
 
 brave, " ' Thou who hast girdled our lives with the 
 
 Randal, the chivalrous ever in act and in | river of Death, 
 
 word, I Save us, O God. from this horror of horrors, 
 
 Randal, poor Florence's chosen, brought thus that men 
 
 to his grave! Die by the hands of their brothers! O, deep 
 
 in its sheath 
 ■• Down on my knees in the heather I knelt at q^^ ^^^^ g^-ord that divideth us; back to 
 
 his side, their den 
 
 Felt all the rapture of living fade out in eclipse, Drive thou the furies that rend us; expunge 
 Claspt the dead hand that in life had been , ^„(j ei^ace, 
 
 proudly denied. Father, the frenzies that shatter our Isle in 
 Bent o'er his face in loud sobbing, and kissed their sway. 
 
 the cold lips. | Vengeance, the f)assions of p)arty, the rancors 
 
 Then, as men hunt for excuses to justify q( race. 
 
 wo"g Angers that madden and darken, and hates 
 
 Even when conscience is sorest, and deepest i ^^^^ betray!" 
 
 their guilt. 
 Idly I sang to my conscience the hypocrite's ., Long o'er the dead in mine agony cried I to 
 
 song.- I God. 
 
 ' Surely m doing my ,////»' this blood 1 have jhere by the body still kneeling they found 
 
 spilt. 
 
 " ' Duty. ay. Duty 1 what crimes have been 
 
 wrought in thy name ! 
 Was It my passion for Duty alone that in- 
 
 gpirgj 5 '• Never that evening of blood shall be swept 
 
 How much of prejudice, hatred, a hunger for from "'X s'ght 
 
 (^f^g Never that chase of the brave human heart in 
 
 How much the thirst for mere blood by the ^he gloom ; 
 
 brute's heart desired? Never the vision in front of the beautiful 
 
 me that night; 
 There with our sword-blades we hewed out 
 his grave in the sod. — 
 
 Randal, my friend of old days, if thy spirit 
 
 could bend 
 Out of the cold azure heaven and see me this 
 
 hour, 
 Could'st thou have love to forgive the deep 
 
 wrong of thy friend. 
 Done not in virtue, but ignorance ? — O Sovran 
 
 Power, 
 God of the worlds, who hast made us. and 
 
 knowest full well 
 Us. and the forces that fret us "hyself hast 
 
 ordained. 
 Here in thy lonely waste places of mountain 
 
 and dell. 
 
 form. 
 Swaying in strong airy motions away to its 
 
 doom; 
 Neverthe face in the bracken, the bosom still 
 
 warm 
 Bearing that picture, — ah God ! — o'er the 
 
 heart that was still : 
 Never the gloom of the Vale in the silent 
 
 night-air. 
 As again, with face bent o'er the saddle, I 
 
 climbed the dark hill. 
 Sick with the anguish of Cain in my lonely 
 
 despair! " 
 
 GEORGE F. ARMSTRONG. 
 
PART IX, 
 
 POEMS OF LABOR. 
 
 There is no remedy for time misspent, 
 No healing for the waste of idleness, 
 Whose very languor is a punishment 
 Heavier than active souls can feel or guess. 
 O hours of indolence and discontent. 
 Not now to be redeemed ! ye sting not less 
 Because I know this span of life was lent 
 For lofty duties, not for selfishness ; — 
 Not to be whiled away in aimless dreams, 
 But to improve ourselves, and serve mankind, 
 Life and its choicest facuUies were given, 
 Man should be ever better than he seems, 
 And shape his acts, and discipHne his mind. 
 To walk adorning earth, with hope of heaven. 
 
 AUBREY DE VERE. 
 
POEMS OF LABOR, 
 
 SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER. 
 I found a fellow-worker when I thought I 
 
 toiled alone : 
 My toil was fashioning thought and sound, and 
 
 his was hewing stone ; 
 I worked in the palace of my brain, he in the 
 
 common street, 
 And it seemed his toil was great and hard, 
 
 while mine was great and sweet. 
 
 I said, O fellow-worker, yea, for I am a worker 
 too. 
 
 The heart nigh fails me many a day, but how 
 is it with you .' 
 
 For while I toil great tears of joy will some- 
 times fill my eyes. 
 
 And when I form my perfect work it lives and 
 never dies. 
 
 I carve the marble of pure thought until the 
 
 thought takes form. 
 Until it gleams before my soul and makes the 
 
 world grow warm ; 
 Until there comes the glorious voice and words 
 
 that seem divine. 
 And the music reaches all men's hearts and 
 
 draws them into mine. 
 
 And yet for days it seems my heart shall 
 
 blossom never more, 
 And the burden of my loneliness lies on me 
 
 very sore : 
 Therefore, O hewer of the stones that pave 
 
 base human ways. 
 How canst thou bear the years till death, made 
 
 of such thankless days.' 
 
 Then he replied : Ere sunrise, when the pale 
 
 lips of the day 
 Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at warmth 
 
 of the first ray, 
 A great thought rose within me, how, while 
 
 men asleep had lain. 
 The thousand labors of the world had grown 
 
 up once again. 
 
 The sun grew on the world, and on my soul 
 
 the thought grew too, 
 A great appalling sun, to light my soul the 
 
 long day through. 
 I felt the world's whole burden for a moment, 
 
 then began 
 With man's gigantic strength to do the labor 
 
 of one man. 
 
 I went forth hastily, and lo ! I met a hundred 
 
 men. 
 The worker with the chisel and the worker 
 
 with the pen — 
 The restless toilers after good, who sow and 
 
 never reap. 
 And one who maketh music for their souls 
 
 that may not sleep. 
 
 Each passed me with a dauntless look, and 
 
 my undaunted eyes 
 Were almost softened as they passed with tears 
 
 that strove to rise 
 At sight of all those labors, and because that 
 
 every one. 
 Ay, the greatest, would be greater if my little 
 
 were undone. 
 
5o8 
 
 POEMS OF LABOK. 
 
 They passed nic, having faith in me, and in 
 
 our several ways 
 Together we began to-day as we had other 
 
 days : 
 I felt their mighty hands at work, and as tlic 
 
 day wore through. 
 Perhaps they felt that even I was helping 
 
 somewhat too. 
 
 Perhaps they felt, as with those hands they 
 
 lifted mightily 
 The burden once more laid upon the world 
 
 so hcavilj', 
 That while they nobly held it as each man 
 
 can do and bear. 
 It did not wholly fall my side as though no 
 
 man were there. 
 
 And so we toil together many a day from 
 
 morn till night. 
 I in thelowerdepthsof life, they on the lovely 
 
 height ; 
 For though the common stones are mine. 
 
 and they have lofty cares, 
 Their work begins where this leaves off, and 
 
 mine is part of theirs. 
 
 And 'tis not wholly mine or theirs I think of 
 
 through the day, 
 But the great eternal thing we make together, 
 
 I and they ; 
 For in the sunset I behold a city that Man 
 
 owns. 
 Made fair with all their nobler toil, built of 
 
 my common stones. 
 
 Then noonward. as the task grows light, with 
 
 all the labor done. 
 The single thought of all the day becomes a 
 
 joyous one ; 
 For rising in my heart at last, where it hath 
 
 lain so long. 
 It thrills up seeking for a voice, and grows 
 
 almost a song. 
 
 But when the evening comes, indeed, the 
 
 words have taken wing, 
 The thought sings in me still, but 1 am all 
 
 too tired to sing: , 
 
 Therefore, O you, my friend, who ser\'e the 
 
 world with minstrelsy. 
 Among our fellow-workers' songs, make that I 
 
 one song for me. 
 
 ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. | 
 
 WORK-SONG. 
 Who murmurs that his heart is sick 
 
 With toil from day to day. 
 That brows are wrinkled ere their time. 
 
 .And locks of youth are gray.' 
 'Twas not in such a craven mood 
 
 Our fathers won the lands. 
 But by the might of toiling brain, 
 The stroke of resolute hands ; 
 For hard work is strength, boy ; 
 
 And, whether in house or field, 
 Ho I for the men that mind and arm 
 In righteous labor wield I 
 
 If trouble clings about thy path, 
 
 Ere yet thy days are old ; 
 If dear friends sink in death, and leave 
 
 Thy world all void and cold ; 
 Wilt thou lie down in aimless woe 
 
 And waste thy life away? 
 Nay. grieving's but a sluggish game 
 
 That coward spirits play ; 
 
 But hard work is strength, boy. 
 And when the stout heart bleeds, 
 
 There's ne'er a balm that heals it 
 Like the doing of great deeds. 
 
 Ah !— lovest thou a bonnie lass? 
 
 Then, scorn to dream and sigh, 
 For true love's fruits are noble acts. 
 
 And fruitless love must die; 
 And if thy fervency be spurned. 
 
 Go, set to work again. — 
 Twill help to quench the burning woe. 
 
 To ease the bitter pain ; 
 
 For hard work is strength, boy, 
 Whatever the fiend may say. 
 
 And after storm and cloud and rain 
 Comes up the cheerier day. 
 
 And is a true, true wife thine own.' — 
 
 Let never a murmur rise 
 To draw one doubt across her brow. 
 
 Or a tear into her eyes; 
 And if thy children round her knees 
 
 Look up and cry for bread, 
 O kiss their fears away, and turn 
 
 And work with hand and head ; 
 
 For hard work is strength, boy. 
 And with the setting sun. 
 
 Come dearer peace and sweeter rest 
 The more of it that's done. 
 
FOR THE PEOPLE. 
 
 509 
 
 And if thou have nor child, nor wife, 
 
 Nor bosom friend, what then ? 
 Toil on with might thro' day, thro' night, 
 
 To help thy fellow men ; 
 And though thou earn but little thanks. 
 
 Forbear to fret and pine ; 
 There's One that drank of deadlier woes. 
 
 And holds thee dear for thine ; 
 
 And hard work is strength, boy, 
 And love is the end of life, — 
 
 Music that fires the blood of the brave 
 In the midst of battle and strife. 
 
 And when thy power is dead and gone. 
 
 Lay down thy head to rest. 
 And the great God will stretch His hands. 
 
 And draw thee to His breast: 
 Nay, talk no more of sickening heart. 
 
 Gray hairs or wrinkled brow. 
 Up, up, and gird thy loins for toil: 
 
 There's good to do enow ; 
 
 And hard work is strength, boy, 
 And life's a rapture still 
 
 That loses not its joj'ousness 
 To the men of unwavering will. 
 
 GEORGE F. ARMSTRONG. 
 
 FOR THE PEOPLE. 
 We are the hewers and delvers who toil for 
 
 another's gain. 
 The common clods and the rabble, stunted of 
 
 brow and brain. 
 What do we want, the gleaners, of the harvest 
 
 we have reaped .' 
 What do we want, the neuters, of the honey 
 
 we have heaped .' 
 
 We want the drones to be driven away from 
 
 our golden hoard ; 
 We want to share in the harvest ; we want to 
 
 sit at the bo^rd ; 
 We want what sword or suffrage has never 
 
 yet won for man, — 
 The fruits of his toil, God-promised, when the 
 
 curse of toil began. 
 
 Ye have tried the sword and sceptre, the cross 
 and the sacred word, 
 
 In all the years, and the kingdom is not yet 
 here of the Lord. 
 
 Is it useless, all our waiting? Are they fruit- 
 less, all our prayers? 
 
 Has the wheat, while men were sleeping, been 
 oversowed with tares ? 
 
 What gain is it to the people that a God laid 
 
 down his life. 
 If, twenty centuries after, his world be a world 
 
 of strife ? 
 If the serried ranks be facing each other with 
 
 ruthless eyes 
 And steel in their hands, what profits a 
 
 Saviour's sacrifice ? 
 
 Ye have tried and failed to rule us; in vain to 
 
 direct have tried ; 
 Not wholly the fault of the ruler ; not utterly 
 
 blind the guide ; 
 Mayhap there needs not a ruler ; mayhap we 
 
 can find the way. 
 At least ye have ruled to ruin ; at least ye 
 
 have led astray. 
 
 What matter if king or consul or president 
 
 holds the rein. 
 If crime and poverty ever be links in the 
 
 bondsman's chain? 
 What careth the burden-bearer that Liberty 
 
 packed his load. 
 If Hunger presseth behind him with a sharp 
 
 and ready goad ? 
 
 There's a serf whose chains are of paper; 
 
 there's a king with a parchment crown ; 
 There are robber knights and brigands in 
 
 factory, field and town. 
 But the vassal pays his tribute to a lord of wage 
 
 and rent ; 
 And the baron's toll is Shylock's, with a flesh- 
 
 and-blood per cent. 
 
 The seamstress bends to her labor all night in 
 
 a narrow room ; 
 The child, defrauded of childhood, tip-toes all 
 
 day at the loom ; 
 The soul must starve ; for the body can barely 
 
 on husks be fed ; 
 And the loaded dice of a gambler settle the 
 
 price of bread. 
 
 Ye have shorn and bound the Samson and 
 
 robbed him of learning's light; 
 But his sluggish brain is moving; his sinews 
 
 have all their might. 
 Look well to your gates of Gaza, your privilege, 
 
 pride and caste ! 
 The Giant is blind, and thinking, and his locks 
 
 are growing fast. 
 
 JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 
 
5 JO 
 
 POEMS OF LABOR. 
 
 THE BETTER DAY. 
 Worn and wearj' workers— ho! 
 
 Toil is pain, if so you say ; 
 But to those who singing go 
 
 To their labors day by day. 
 Toil is duty, growth and gain — 
 Never wasted, never vain. 
 Worker by the hot highway. 
 In the blinding blaze of day; — 
 Delver in the deep, dark mine. 
 Where no rays of sunlight shine;— 
 Patient pent-up man-machine. 
 At the loom and shuttle seen, 
 Weaving in with nicest art 
 Throbbings of your own poor heart. 
 Til! the subtle textures seem 
 With your ver)' life to gleam ; — 
 Stitcher by the cradle's side. 
 Where thy fondest hopes abide. 
 Working with a heart of might 
 All the day and half the night. 
 Sometimes till the east grows red 
 With the dawning, for thy bread, 
 Though thou art of feeble limb, 
 And thine eyes are pained and dim 
 Sending oflf with ever>' piece 
 Which thy weary hands release 
 Portions of thy life wrought in 
 With the garment white and thin. 
 Hard the task, but work away : 
 Yet shall dawn the Better Day. 
 
 Faith is might, my brothers. Ho! 
 
 Weary workers everj-where. 
 For the New Age. rounding to 
 
 Like a planet, now prepare : 
 Not by revel, not by rust. 
 Not by scorning yet your crust. — 
 Not by idle dreams of wealth 
 Won by luck, or got by stealth, 
 Not by flattering hopes of case : 
 Better, braver things than these, 
 As its first beams on you fall. 
 Asks the New Age of you all. 
 Workers, you are brothers born- 
 Treat the title not with scorn — 
 Workers ! born or where or when. 
 Better — ye are fellow-men I 
 Workers I (so 'tis felt at length) — 
 You have got the gift of strength ; 
 Yours the gift of numbers, too- 
 Then what } To yourselves be true.' 
 Work with will, and work away. 
 Doubting not the Better Day! 
 
 Each to each a brother 1>< 
 Steadfast in your sympath) . 
 All to all be fellow-men — 
 You will lack but little then. 
 ■' We were made for Labor ?" True ; 
 So was Labor made for you. 
 You are Labor's — Labor yours ; 
 This your common weal secures. 
 Labor has been Money's long. 
 And in this has been the wrong ; 
 Let it hence be yours, and you 
 Labor's. Then, with duty due. 
 And with muscles well combined 
 With your energies of mind. 
 Workers, ye shall masters be 
 In the halls of Industry ! 
 Heart and hope I The night with- 
 drawn. 
 How the coming morn shall dawn I 
 Work, my brothers — work away 
 Doubting not the Better Day ! 
 
 Wll.LlA.M I>. GALLAGHER. 
 
 THE SOVEREIGN PEOPLE, 
 The men who moil in forge and shop, and the 
 
 men who till the soil. 
 Have sworn to enforce that highest law — that 
 they shall eat who toil ! 
 The rule of the feudal despot's dead 
 In the world's new onward swing; 
 The rule of the People must come instead. 
 With the Sovereign People King! 
 Pampered idlers ! list to the words of the new 
 
 evangel's laws — 
 That man has no right to live who can't for 
 living show ample cause! 
 Away with the past. 
 With its kings and caste — 
 The People must be supreme ; 
 Muscle and brain 
 Henceforth must reign — 
 Hurra for the new regime ! 
 
 Look, ye lords, with affrighted eyes, at the 
 
 toilers' stern array ; 
 And hark to the hurricane voice of Change, 
 proclaiming the world's new day ! 
 As rotten boughs you go down in the gale 
 
 With the fungus of feudal years; 
 For the future will have but the tree that's 
 hale 
 Where the sturdy bud appears ! 
 
THE POTATO DIGGER- S SONG. 
 
 'Tis nature's law that the worthless drift be 
 
 swept away by the tide ; 
 King, prince and lord are a worthless load, 
 and must by that law abide ! 
 No parliament act 
 Can alter a fact, 
 Or the march of mankind stay ; 
 It shrivels to dust 
 At the People's inmt — 
 Hurra for the People's Day ! 
 
 What fools to think that a parchment scroll 
 
 can give and take at will 
 What men through ages have fought to win, 
 or the throbbings of Liberty still ! 
 Has a drop of ink on a flimsy scroll 
 More power than a people's blood? 
 Can a knot of ribbon resist the roll 
 Of Freedom's surging flood? 
 Ah, this is the world's renewal age, and the 
 
 earth is young again. 
 For it feels the shock of Liberty that thrills 
 through the frames of men ! 
 Be the despot lord 
 But a thing abhorr'd. 
 And shivered his blood-built tower : 
 Merit's the guage 
 In the coming age- 
 Hurra for the People's power ! 
 
 The earth was made, with the fruits thereof, 
 
 for man in his free career! 
 Though tyrants have mocked at that primal 
 law, its day of fulfillment's here \ 
 Their thrones were built upon human 
 hearts ! 
 Their feet crushed the necks of men ; 
 But their day is past and their power de- 
 parts 
 To never curse earth again ! 
 In the light of knowledge men read their 
 rights, and knowledge gives nerve 
 to act — 
 To act with a free and intrepid soul, to turn 
 a hope to fact ! 
 Crowned despots quake ! 
 The world's awake 
 In this brighter and broader day ; 
 The worker must rule 
 In the world's new school — 
 Hurra for the People's sway! 
 
 PATRICK SARSFIELD CASSIDY. 
 
 THE POTATO-DIGGER'S SONG. 
 Come, Connal, actishla, turn the clay. 
 
 And show the lumpers the light, gossoon ! 
 For we must toil this autumn day, 
 
 With heaven's help, till the rise of the moon. 
 Our corn is stacked, the hay secure. 
 
 Thank God ! and nothing, my boy, remains. 
 But to pile the potatoes safe on the flure. 
 
 Before the coming November rains. 
 The peasant's mine is his harvest still; 
 So now, my lads, let's work with a will ; — 
 Work hand and foot, 
 Work spade and hand 
 Through the crumbly mould. 
 The blessed fruit 
 That grows at the root 
 Is the real gold of Ireland. 
 
 Och, I wish that Maurice and Mary dear 
 
 Were singing beside us this soft day! 
 Of course they're far better off than here. 
 
 But whether they're happier who can say ? 
 I've heard when it's morn with us, 'tis night 
 With them on the far Australian shore ;— 
 Well, Heaven be about them with visions 
 bright. 
 And send them childer and gold galore. 
 With us there's many a mouth to fill. 
 And so. my boy, let's work with a will ; — 
 Work hand and foot. 
 Work spade and hand 
 
 Thro' the brown, dry mould. 
 The blessed fruit 
 That grows at the root 
 Is the real gold of Ireland. 
 
 .'^h, Paddy O'Reardon, you thundering Turk, 
 
 Is it coortin' you are in the blessed noon ? 
 
 Come over here, Katty. and mind your work. 
 
 Or I'll see if your mother can't change you.- 
 
 tune. 
 
 Well, youth will be youth, as you know, Mick, 
 
 -Sixteen and twenty for each were meant ; — 
 
 But, Pat, in the name of the fairies, avic. 
 
 Defer your proposal till after Lent ; 
 And as love on this island lives mostly still 
 On potatoes — dig, boy, dig with a will ; — 
 Work hand and foot. 
 Work spade and hand. 
 Through the harvest moulo 
 The blessed fruit 
 That grows at the root 
 Is the real gold of Ireland 
 
POEMS OF LABOR. 
 
 Down the bridle-road the neighbors ride. 
 Through the light ash-shade by the wheaten 
 sheaves ; 
 And the childer sing on the mounuin side, 
 In the sweet blue smoke of the burning 
 leaves, 
 As the great sun sets, in glory furled, [face — 
 Faith, it's grand to think as I watch his 
 If he never sets on the English World, 
 He never, lad, sets on the Irish Race. 
 In the West, in the South, New Irelands still 
 Grow up in his light — come, work with a will ; — 
 Work hand and foot. 
 Work sf>ade and hand. 
 Through the native mould ; 
 The blessed fruit 
 That grows at the root 
 Is the real gold of Ireland ! 
 
 But look ! the round moon, yellow as corn. 
 
 Comes up from the sea, in the deep blue 
 It scarcely seems a day since morn ; [calm ; 
 Well— the heel of the evening to you, mam ! 
 God bless the moon ! for many a night. 
 As I restless lay on a troubled bed — 
 When rent was due — her quieting light 
 
 Has flattered with dreams my poor old head. ' 
 
 But see — the baskets remain to fill ! j 
 
 Come, girls, be alive — boys, dig with a will ; — 
 
 Work hand and foot, 1 
 
 Work spade and hand. 
 
 Through the moonlit mould ; , 
 
 The blessed fruit 
 That grows at the root. 
 Is the real gold of Ireland ! 
 THO.MAS C. IRWIN. 
 
 Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage. 
 All from dust receive their birth. 
 
 Barn and mill and wine-vat's treasures. 
 
 Earthly goods for earthly lives. 
 These are nature's ancient pleasures. 
 
 These her child from her derives. 
 What the dream but vain rebelling. 
 
 If from earth we sought to flee.' 
 'Tis our stored and ample dwelling, 
 
 'Tis from it the skies we see. 
 
 Wind and frost, and hour and season. 
 
 Land and water, sun and shade. 
 Work with these as bids thy reason. 
 
 For they work thy toil to aid. 
 Sow thy seed and reap in gladness ! 
 
 Man himself is all a seed ; 
 Hope and hardship, joy and sadness. 
 
 Slow the plant to ripeness lead. 
 
 JOHN STERI.IM 
 
 THE HUSBANDMAN. 
 Earth, of man the bounteous mother. 
 
 Feeds him still with corn and wine; 
 He who best would aid a brother. 
 
 Shares with him these gifts divine. 
 Many a jxjwer within her bosom 
 
 Noiseless, hidden, works beneath ; 
 Hence are seed and leaf and blossom. 
 
 Golden ear and clustered wreath. 
 
 These to swell with strength and beauty, 
 
 Is the royal task of man ; 
 Man's a king, his throne is duty. 
 
 Since his work on earth began. 
 Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage. 
 
 These, like man, are fruits of earth ; 
 
 THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 
 Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged — 'tis 
 
 at a white heat now : 
 The bellows ceased, the flames decreased — 
 
 tho' on the forge's brow 
 The little flames still fitfully play through the 
 
 sable mound, 
 .\i\A fitfully you still may see the grim smiths 
 
 ranking round. 
 All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands 
 
 only bare — 
 Some rest upon their sledges here, some work 
 
 the windlass there. 
 The windlass strains the tackle chains, the 
 
 black mound heaves below. 
 And red and deep a hundred veins burst out 
 
 at every throe : 
 It rises, roars, rends all outright — O, Vulcan, 
 
 what a glow ! 
 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright — the 
 
 high sun shines not so! 
 
 The high sun sees not on the earth such fier>' 
 
 fearful show ; 
 The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the 
 
 ruddy lurid row 
 Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men 
 
 before the foe, 
 As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the 
 
 sailing monster, slow [grow. 
 
 Sinks on the anvil : — all about the faces fiery 
 
a^i^ 
 
 ^^^^j^^'^-^^^-^ 
 
THE FORGING OF THE AXCHOK. 
 
 513 
 
 far from love and home ; 
 hissing And sobbing sweethearts, in a row. wail o'er 
 the ocean's foam. 
 
 ■• Hurrah !" they shout, " leap out — leap out ; " When, weighing slow, at eve they go, — far, 
 bang, bang tlie sledges go 
 
 Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are 
 high and low — 
 
 A hailing fount of fire is struck at everj' 
 squashing blow. 
 
 The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rat- 
 tling cinders strow 
 
 The ground around : at every bound the 
 sweltering fountains flow, 
 
 .And thick and loud the swinking crowd at i 
 every stroke pant, " ho 
 
 Leap out, leap out. my masters ; leap out and 
 
 lay on load ! 
 Let's forge a goodly anchor— a bower thick 
 
 and 
 
 In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down 
 
 at last ; 
 A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from 
 
 cat was cast. 
 O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou 
 
 hadst life like me. 
 What pleasure would thy toils reward beneath 
 
 the deep green sea ! 
 O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such 
 
 sights as thou ? 
 The hoary monster's palaces 1 Methinks what 
 
 joy 'twere now 
 
 For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow. I "^^ S° P'"'"^ plunging down amid the 
 J bode assembly of the whales. 
 
 And I see the good ship riding, all in a peril- ^"^ ^^^' ^^^ churned sea round me boil 
 ous road— , beneath their scourging tails ! 
 
 The low reef roaring on her lee-the roll of Then deep in tangled woods to fight the fierce 
 
 ocean pour'd. 
 From stem to stern, sea after 
 
 the main- 
 mast by the board ; 
 The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the 
 stove at the chains I 
 
 sea unicorn, 
 " ! And send him foiled and bellowing back, for 
 all his ivory horn I 
 To leave the subtle sword-fish of bony blade 
 forlorn ; 
 
 But courage still, brave mariners-the bower ^nd for the ghastly grinning shark, to leave 
 
 yet remams. 
 
 his jaws to scorn ; 
 
 And notaninchto flinch hedeigns.save when Xo leap down on the kraken's back, where 
 
 ye pitch sky high ; 
 
 mid Norwegian isles 
 
 Then moves his head, as tho' he said. " Fear He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shal- 
 
 nothing — here am I 
 
 Swing in your strokes in order. let foot and 
 
 hand keep time ; 
 Your blows make music sweeter far than any 
 
 steeple's chime. 
 But while you sling your sledges, sing — and 
 
 let the burden be. 
 The anchor is the anvil king, and royal crafts- 
 
 Strike in, strike in — the sparks begin to dull 
 
 their rustling red : 
 Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work 
 
 will soon "oe sped. 
 Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery O broad-armed Fisher of the deep, whose 
 
 lowed miles ; 
 
 'Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, ofi 
 he rolls ; 
 
 Meanwhile to swing a-bufifeting the far aston- 
 ished shoals 
 
 Of his black browsing ocean-calves ; or, haply, 
 in a cove, 
 
 Shell-strown. and consecrate of old to some 
 Undine's love. 
 
 To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or. hard 
 by icy lands. 
 
 To wrestle with the sea-serpent upon ceru- 
 lean sands. 
 
 rich array. 
 
 sport can equal thine.' 
 
 a hammock at the roaring bows, on an The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that 
 
 oozy couch of clay ; 
 
 tugs thy cable 
 
 Our anchor soon must change the lay of And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory 
 
 merrj' craftsmen here. 
 
 day by day. 
 
 For the yo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and Through sable sea and breaker while, the 
 
 the singing seaman's cheer; 
 
 giant game to play- 
 
/'OEMS OF LABOK. 
 
 5»4 
 
 But, shamer of our little sports, forgive the 
 
 name I gave — 
 A fisher's joy is to destroy— thine office is to 
 
 save. 
 O lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou 
 
 but understand 
 Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who 
 
 that dripping band. 
 Slow swaying on the heaving wave, that round 
 
 about thee bend. 
 With sound like breakers in a dream blessing 
 
 their ancient friend — 
 O. couldst thou know what heroes glide with 
 
 larger steps round thee. 
 Thine iron side would swell with pride ; 
 
 thou'dst leap within the sea! 
 
 (live honor to their memories who left the 
 
 pleasant strand. 
 To shed their blood so freely for the love of 
 
 Fatherland — 
 Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy 
 
 churchyard grave. 
 So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing 
 
 wave ; 
 O, though our anchor may not be all I have 
 
 fondly sung. 
 Honor him for their memory whose bones he 
 
 goes among ! 
 
 •SAMUKL FERGUSON. 
 
 THE IRISH REAPERS' SONG. 
 
 A glorious morning, hot and still: 
 
 There's not a cloud, and scarce a sound. 
 
 Except where yonder from the mound 
 
 Drums the wheel of the white-washed mill. 
 
 How strong the great sun showers his rays 
 
 Upon this corn they've turned to gold ! 
 If it could hear us sing its praise 
 As once the people did of old. 
 Its ears would better like the tune — 
 
 Chiefly if young Rose yonder sung — 
 Than any breeze of morn or noon 
 
 That ever moved its stems among ; 
 Tor there's no music like the voice 
 Of a colleen that's glad, my boys ; 
 And we have reason just to drop 
 Upon our knees for this fine crop. 
 Bend in the heat. 
 Close to the feet 
 Cut down the wheat 
 We sowed in spring. 
 
 And lay it bound 
 Light on the ground. 
 While lads around 
 And colleens sing! 
 
 Hurrah ! my friends, you've done your best ; 
 Half the field cut with half the day! 
 Let us be gay ; all work is play 
 When it brings profit. Now for a rest, 
 .\nd drink beside the streamlet blue. 
 How pleasantly the thrushes sing : 
 And see, from town the sparrows, too. 
 Have come to join our har\estinj; : 
 How close the whistling swallows fly — 
 
 Not one of them that has not come 
 I'p from the far hot southern sky. 
 
 Perhaps from Greece or holy Rome : 
 If from America they flew, 
 I'd like them more, 'twixt me and you : 
 For they'd have seen our friends, ochone I 
 Well, the sun sees them, and the moon : 
 But, up! and beat. 
 My boys, complete, 
 This field of wheat 
 We sowed in spring; 
 ^ And lay it bound 
 
 Light on the ground 
 While lads around 
 And colleens sing! 
 
 , Yon sun which sinks the hills behind 
 
 A finer han-est never saw: 
 I The wheat will feed us and the straw 
 Will shield us from the winter's wind. 
 And now, the last thrush leaves the tree. 
 
 Our cottage turf smoke rises blue 
 Up to the sickle moon, as we 
 
 Plod homeward in the heavy dew. 
 No other Race can work so much 
 On little, as we can, they say ; 
 I And, would we had to reap as rich 
 A field all night, as this to-day. 
 But now for a dance, and then to rest 
 
 After a taste of true poteen. 
 To drink a health to friends in the West, 
 And to old Ireland's Isle of green! 
 For all the heat. 
 Our work was sweet ; 
 Now with our feet 
 
 The floor shall ring : 
 .^nd friend with friend 
 Their songs shall blend. 
 To happy end 
 Our harvesting ! 
 
 THOMAS C. IRWIN. 
 
THE TEN A NT- A T- WILL. 
 
 515 
 
 THE RIGHTS OF MAN. 
 
 Though he was born to till the soil 
 
 Or ply the busy trade, 
 To pamper tyrants by his toil 
 
 The poor man ne'er was made ; 
 That wondrous flame, the soul, 's the same 
 
 In poor or noble clay. 
 And the self-same laws will try its cause 
 On the final Judgment Day, 
 Then here's the son of poverty, 
 
 Who bravely fills his can, 
 And drink with me to liberty. 
 
 And the God-made rights of man. 
 
 The reckless despot on his throne, 
 
 Who gave him right to sway .' 
 To make the suffering millions groan 
 
 In bondage day by day.' 
 Is he a god that with his rod 
 
 Can fill unnumbered graves.' 
 No! Blood and bone, he still must own. 
 He's mortal like his slaves! 
 Then here's the son of poverty. 
 
 Who fearless fills his can, 
 To pledge with me bright liberty. 
 And the God-made rights of man. 
 
 When delved great Adam's progeny 
 
 j\nd our primal mothers span. 
 There was no difference of degree 
 
 E'er seen 'twixt man and man ; 
 But the human might, ambition's flight, 
 
 Have set up tyrants' rule. 
 A lesson stern the nations learn 
 In hard misfortune's school. 
 So here's the son of poverty, 
 
 Who stoutly fills his can. 
 And works with me for liberty. 
 And the God-made rights of man. 
 
 There never was a law divine 
 
 To make the poor bow down 
 To mortal man, whate'er his line, 
 
 However bright his crown ; 
 The poor man's blood is warm and good. 
 
 And red as his who reigns. 
 And why should he bend neck or knee — 
 Bow silent down in chains .' 
 So here's the son of poverty 
 Who fills a brimming can. 
 And prays with me for liberty. 
 And the God-made rights of man. 
 
 On many a plain with fiie and steel. 
 
 The poor man's cause was tried. 
 And many a deed of noble zeal 
 That great cause sanctified ; 
 For that good cause, for righteous laws. 
 
 Arise, prepare, and be 
 Brave patriots all, to stand or fall. 
 Soldiers of Liberty. 
 
 And here's the son of poverty. 
 
 Who clinks with mine his can — 
 Who'll strike with me for liberty. 
 And the God-made rights of man. 
 
 ROBERT UWYER JOYCE. 
 
 THE TENANT-AT-WILL. 
 To-night my fire is faint and low, 
 Outside it rains, and the chill winds blow ; 
 The rain falls loud on the sodden ground, 
 And the stream runs by with a mournful 
 
 sound. 
 
 A dark shape stands on my cabin floor. 
 Its finger points to the lowly door. 
 Summer and winter, in gloom or light. 
 It frowns before me, by day and night. 
 
 I go to toil on my little farm — 
 
 It follows on. with its outstretched arm! 
 
 In vain I labor, I curse, or pray — 
 
 It stands and bids me, "Away! Away ! " 
 
 Tis the landlord's Notice— that thingof fear. 
 Renewed, sustained, thro' the live-long year. 
 Chilling my life blood hour by hour 
 With the blighting threat of a deadly power! 
 
 When morning brightens the eastern skies 
 From a troubled sleep unrefresh'd I rise, 
 j And I know not whether when evening falls 
 I may dare to enter these humble walls. 
 
 And when at night I lie down to rest 
 With a boding fear is my heart oppress'd ; 
 For the next knock struck on my cabin door 
 May be struck to tell 'tis my home no more. 
 
 I dig and plough, but I never know 
 If my hands shall gather the crop I sow. 
 And the crop 1 gather, though good it be. 
 Brings never plenty or peace to me. 
 
 I pour my sweat on the soil like rain, 
 I coin my blood— for another's gain : 
 The more I add to the land's rich bloom. 
 The nearer bring I my threaten'd doom. 
 
5i6 
 
 POEMS OF LABOR. 
 
 My little son, now to boyhood grown. 
 Has a little garden he calls his own ; 
 He has planted saplings and wild flowrs there. 
 And he says 'tis safe in his father's care. 
 
 My darling knows not how many a start 
 His prattlings send to his father's heart. 
 Nor knows the pang that he wakes the while 
 His mother lists with a sadden'd smile. 
 
 My poor pale wife .' even now 1 hear 
 The landlord's name in her murmur'd pray'r, 
 And I hear her say in her high appeal, 
 "May the Saviour soften his heart of steel I " 
 
 Pray, Mary darling! pray on, asthore! 
 My heart is crushed, /can pray no more 
 A fire lights up in my tortured brain. 
 And the world around takes a ruddy stam. 
 
 Pray, Mary darling! pray on, machree! 
 
 For your own dear self and my children three. 
 
 My soul is wrapped in a crimson glare, 
 
 I must walk abroad — Let who will Beware! 
 
 THE TINTAMARRE.* 
 
 " Not' Maitre. this is the Tintamarre 
 
 Of the village of Carmcray." 
 So spoke a sunburnt campagnani 
 By the Beauron's winding way. 
 From hand to hand, from voice to voice. 
 
 Five hundred years, men say. 
 It has summoned the wear)' to rejoice 
 At the death of the worker's day : 
 Ha-ro-o! 
 Gilles, Jacquol. 
 Diett panioint au ion Comte Thibaut ! 
 Ha-ro-o .' 
 Martlie, Margol. 
 Dieu panioint au bon Comte Tliibaut, 
 Au tout bon Comte tie IHois .' 
 
 At the first sweet sound of the Vesper bell 
 The har\'ester drops the hay ; 
 
 * According to a tradition Count Thibaut (of Blois), taking 
 pity on the lot of those who toiled in the fields, fixed the hour 
 for beginning and ending the day's work. Every evening when 
 (he bell of the tower had rung, one could hear the workmen 
 nearest to the tower warning their fellow-toilers either by 
 shouts or by the sound nf their picks and spades, which 
 they struck against one another. This was the Tintamarre. 
 and during the confused hum could be heard the grateful 
 shouts, " God pardon the good Count of Blois '"—jlfonuil. 
 
 And leaving the last tree where it fell. 
 
 The wood-cutter turns away. 
 Then he thinks how his fathers' fathers toiled 
 
 From dawn to dusk of day; 
 And he crosses his tools in the Tintamarre. 
 And he bares his brow to pray: 
 Ha-ro-o! 
 Marc, Michau. 
 Dieu pardoint au bon Comte TItibaut .' 
 Ha-ro-o! 
 Jean, Jeannot ! 
 Dieu pardoint au bon Comte Thibaut, 
 Au tout bon Comte de Blois! 
 
 The hurrying ploughman stops half way 
 
 In the furrow turned for grain ; 
 Alone, he doubles the roundelay, 
 
 And with whetstone strikes his wain; 
 The ditcher, clearing his dusty throat. 
 
 Sends on the same refrain. 
 Till the wandering goat-herd, note for note. 
 Gives the Haro back again : 
 Ha-ro-o ! 
 Luc, Arnaud. 
 Dieu pardoint au bon Comte Thibaut ! 
 Ha-ro-o! 
 Jules, Guillot. 
 Dieu pardoint au bon Comte Thibaut, 
 Au tout bon Comte de Blois ! 
 
 Still the miller reckons his empty sacks. 
 
 As he stays in the mill alone ; 
 Still the miserly farmers bend their backs. 
 
 For the harvest is all their own. 
 And — ha! ha! ha! " It would grieve a Turk," 
 
 The wiseacres sighing say, 
 "That the precious daylight God gave for 
 work. 
 Men and women should dance away. 
 Ha-ro-o ! 
 Jacques, Kenaud. 
 Dieu pardoint au bon Comte Thibaut ! 
 Ha-ro-o ! 
 Jeanne, Babeau, 
 Dieu pardoint au bon Comte Thibaut, 
 Au tout bon Comte de Blois ! 
 
 Now the fiddler's time of toil begins, 
 Yet he too gives thanks to Heaven ; 
 
 For, old and blind, he hardly wins 
 The scanty bread of seven. 
 
 And clattering after his dancing feet 
 Come the village children all. 
 
SLEDGE AND PEN. 
 
 517 
 
 As they mimic the sounds of the Tintamarre, 
 And echo the elders' call : 
 Ha-ro-o! 
 Gillcs, Jacquot. 
 Dieu pardoint au boit Comte Thibaut! 
 Ha-ro-o ' 
 Marihc, Margot. 
 Dieu pardoint an ton Comte Thibaut, 
 Au tout ban Comte de Blois! 
 l'envoi. 
 Still, thegrandsiressay, does the good Comte 's 
 Haunt forest and champ and clos, [soul 
 
 Still he claims his lordship on every bole, 
 And from every furrow thus takes his toll : 
 " Dieu pardoint au honComte Thibaut ! 
 Dieu pardoint au Comte de Blois !" 
 
 JULIA M. o'RYAN. 
 
 IN THE NIGHT TIME, 
 
 An Artisan's Garret. 
 Tink, chink ; 'tis the rain on the roof, 
 
 The dull, monotonous rain ; [cry 
 
 And there comes from the corner a querulous 
 
 The cry of a creature in pain. 
 Oh ! child of my heart, hush that terrible wail, 
 
 k creeps through my marrow and brain ; 
 The barns overflow with the wealth of the year, 
 
 Yet the robbers deny thee a grain. [soul. 
 Lord, matched with this torture of body and 
 
 1 count swiftest death but a trifle ; 
 'Twere better than starve to fall under the hail, 
 
 Or be clubbed by the butt of the rifle. 
 
 Tin/;, chink ; 'tis the rain on the roof. 
 
 And my wife murmurs quick in her dreams; 
 Is she walking once more where we met and 
 we wed 
 
 In that dear land of meadows and streams? 
 Ah, perish the fancy, the selfish deceit — 
 
 How she haggles and hucksters for more ! 
 She is pawning her cloak for a morsel of bread. 
 
 For the little ones stretched on the floor. 
 Preach patience to Death ! O, All-seeing God, 
 
 From my lips take this bitterest chalice. 
 Better fester and rot in the hold of the hulks — 
 
 Better swing like a thief from the gallows ! 
 
 Tink, chink ; 'tis the rain on the roof. 
 And the wind in the shivering street ; 
 
 Ah, well for the wind and the rain they care not 
 For the morrow and something to eat. 
 
 No ghastly beseechings of hunger-blanched 
 
 Sound mournfully wild in their ears, 
 Whilst mine is the grief frozen solid and cold. 
 
 And alien to merciful tears. 
 " Lie still, trade is dull ; all the markets are 
 crammed ; 
 
 Little good in this meaningless clamor. 
 The furnace is empty, the rust eats its way 
 
 Through chisel and anvil and hammer." 
 
 Tink, chink; 'tis the rain on the roof; 
 
 Another day breaks in the skies ; [head 
 Its light will look down through the rent over- 
 
 On haggard and ravenous eyes. 
 A spark in the fireplace — a crackle — a gleam. 
 
 And my wife crouches down in despair 
 To warm her thin hands at a morsel of fire — 
 
 The back of our very last chair. 
 Rocking and groaning — O woman, may God 
 
 Send rest to the pangs of this sorrow ; 
 There's nothing to sell, there's nothing to 
 pawn. 
 
 And the poor are too poor to borrow ! 
 
 CHARLES J. KICKHAM. 
 
 SLEDuE AND PEN. 
 
 The breezy dawn has scarcely called the sky- 
 lark from its nest. 
 
 The thrush caged in the village street is ruf- 
 fling from his rest. 
 
 When Ironsides, my neighbor, opens wide his 
 smithy door, [roar ; 
 
 And, eager for his labor, sets his furnace in a 
 
 For he's a child of nature, and he burns no 
 midnight oil 
 
 The sun, he knows, was hung in heaven to 
 
 light men to their toil. 
 
 Clang, cling, falls his sledge. 
 
 Creak his bellows go; 
 
 Clang, ding, falls his sledge. 
 
 Bright his irons glow. 
 
 Ho! Ho! there's health in heavy toil; there's 
 bread in every blow. 
 
 In early morn, throughout the day, until the 
 
 sun's decline. 
 I hear the anvil ring its tune, I see his furnace 
 
 shine ; 
 No sullen toiler is he; when his mid-day meal 
 
 is o'er. 
 His wife brings forth his little boy and sits 
 
 outside the door. 
 And tunes a lilting lullaby to the anvil's 
 
 pleasant din. 
 
5i8 
 
 And the song that soothes her baby nerves the 
 steady arm within. 
 Clang, chng, falls the sledge. 
 
 Sweet her voice and low ; 
 Clang, cling, falls the sledge. 
 Creak the bellows go. 
 Till baby drops a slumbering to the sound of 
 voice and blow. 
 
 Thrice happy are you, neighbor mine, with 
 
 all your toilsome ways. 
 Your nights of well-won slumber and your 
 
 bright bread-winning days ; 
 Your busy arm, your easy mind, your happy 
 
 lack of lore. 
 Are nobler boast than heritage of land or 
 
 golden store ; 
 Ah, could you know that I who watch you 
 
 work with heavy eye. 
 Who list the music of your voice and see 
 
 your red sparks fly. 
 Oft wonder if amidst your toil it enters in 
 
 your ken 
 That all your iron sledge's load is lighter than 
 
 a pen. 
 Clang, cling, swmg your sledge. 
 
 In your furnace glow ; 
 Clang, cling, swing your sledge. 
 
 Busy to and fro. 
 How happy would my days be were my lot to 
 
 labor so. 
 
 The sweat upon your manly brow is covenant 
 
 with God, 
 You ache your heart for no man's bread, your 
 
 brain at no man's nod, 
 And only Mother Nature holds the sovereign 
 
 control 
 O'er the fine feelings of your heart and 
 
 passions of your soul. 
 You cannot know what lis to be the property I 
 
 of all, I 
 
 To own no self, to know no rest, obey each ' 
 
 heedless call ; 
 To smile in grief, to weep in joy, a thought- j 
 
 machine 'mong men, 
 To have for staflf on life's rough road naught 
 
 but the fagging pen. 
 Clang, cling, swings your sledge. 
 
 Creak your bellows go ; 
 Clang, cling, rings your sledge, 
 
 Bright the iron's glow. 
 Well, every life must have its lot, there's weal [ 
 
 for every woe. 
 
 THO.MA.S S. CLEARV. 
 
 POEMS OF LABOR. 
 
 THE COBBLER. 
 In cellar close and drear and dark. 
 
 Beneath the door-sill low 
 I see the cobbler's busy hands, 
 
 I see his steady blow. 
 His form is bent upon his last. 
 His lamp hangs on the wall. 
 And in and out he whips his ends. 
 And plies his busy awl. 
 Tip-tap, from sun to sun ; 
 Tip-tap, the night's begun. 
 And he has work that must be done- 
 Tip- tap. 
 
 His apron's spread across his breast. 
 
 Of leathern texture strong ; 
 His arms are bare, his sleeves roll.d up ; 
 
 His feet brace tight the thong 
 That binds the last between his knees ; 
 
 His pull is swift and long: 
 And now the peg he hammers m, 
 
 And hums a little song. 
 Tip-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 
 
 For evening chat, a crony plods 
 
 Adown the creaking stair; 
 He naively cracks a rustic joke. 
 
 And forward draws his chair; 
 At wit the cobbler tries his skill. 
 
 The friendly jest to floor ; 
 In sounding words he makes retort! 
 
 And both in chorus roar. 
 Tif)-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 
 
 The current news is next discussed,— 
 
 What men have said or done : 
 And how they erred in this or that. 
 
 And where they honor won; - 
 (The best and fairest he will be 
 
 Of whom it can be said : 
 He worked to give a fellow man 
 
 A way to earn his bread.) 
 Tip-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 
 
 With elbows placed upon his knees. 
 
 And finger raised to show 
 The nice deductions of his mind, 
 
 The cobbler's reasons flow ; 
 And then he pegs and pegs away : 
 
 He knows the minutes speed; 
 His work's behind the promised time 
 
 And he has mouths to feed. 
 Tip-tap, from sun to sun. etc. 
 
GOD HELP THE POOR! 
 
 519 
 
 Now sound befogs the lines of sense, 
 And, full of wisdom's pride, 
 
 On reason's back he rolls a weight 
 That reason will not ride ; 
 
 But down in all the dust she lies- 
 Dust of an empty head, — 
 
 And kicks her heels against his tongue. 
 Till his kind face is red. 
 
 Tip-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 
 
 Then, fumbling through his kit, he finds 
 
 That solace to his care, — 
 That balm between two cronies dear, — 
 
 The pipe, which both may share. 
 The smoke now curls above his head. 
 
 From smacks both loud and full, 
 Till with his thumb the shank he wipes. 
 
 Saying, " Jim, now take a pull !" 
 Tip-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 
 
 He nods with pleasure to the wall 
 
 Where mended boots are hung. 
 He points to those that great men own. 
 
 Whose fame has long been sung ; 
 To vamp the boot that honor wears 
 
 Is fame enough for him ; 
 Content is he to labor on 
 
 Until his eyes grow dim. 
 Tip-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 
 
 Despise him not, yc rich and vain, 
 
 He has a father's care ; — 
 His boys and girls to clothe and feed ; 
 
 A wife his bread to share. 
 Beneath his rough and homely garb, 
 
 A manly heart and true 
 Beats warm with all a father's love. 
 
 And all that love may do. 
 Tip-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 
 
 The pride of wealth is not for him. 
 
 Still less the pride of fame; 
 They are the thieves that rob the heart 
 
 To gain an empty name. 
 With sky above and earth beneath. 
 
 His Eden floats between ; 
 And life is bliss when power and state 
 
 Are not with envy seen. 
 
 Tip-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 
 
 Some day, ere yet the sun is up. 
 
 Or ere the sun goes down. 
 The crape will hang upon his door. 
 
 Unnoticed bv the town ; 
 
 Like shadows will his patrons pass. 
 
 And turn their gaze away ; 
 For friendship dies between in sighs 
 When friends return to clay. 
 Tip-tap, from sun to sun ; 
 Tip-tap, the night's begun. 
 And there is work that must be done. 
 Tip-tap. 
 
 HUGH F. MCDERMOTT. 
 
 GOD HELP THE POOR I 
 The summer days are past and gone, 
 And dreary winter cometh on. 
 
 Stealthy and sure. 
 God help the poor, infirm and old — 
 So ill prepared to meet the cold ! 
 
 God help the poor ! 
 
 The sky is dull and overcast. 
 
 And hoarsely moans the sullen blast 
 
 O'er hill and moor; 
 The drifting sleet, and drizzling rain. 
 Beat drearily on the window pane — 
 
 God help the poor! 
 
 God help the weary, shrinking feet, 
 That trudge along the miry street, 
 
 From door to door ; 
 The hesitating forms that stand. 
 And knock with nervous, timid hand — 
 
 God help the poor ! 
 
 God help the poor, compelled to hear 
 The -ude repulse, the heartless sneer ; 
 
 They must endure 
 The taunting speech, and scornful eye. 
 That seem to mock their misery; 
 
 God help the poor ' 
 
 God help each wretched, shivering form, 
 That nightly from the pelting storm. 
 
 In nook obscure, 
 Is fain to lay the aching head, 
 j The cold damp earth their only bed ; 
 
 God help the poor ! 
 
 God pity them ; for here below 
 Hard is their portion — want and woe ; 
 And sorrows more 
 \ Than tongue could tell, or pen could write. 
 Torment them still, by day and night. 
 And dog their steps with cruel spite ; 
 God help the poor ! 
 
 ELLEN FORRESTER. 
 
520 
 
 l-ULMi, Uf 
 
 THE TOILERS. 
 What wonder is it if rebellious ire 
 Oft-time rolls up in breasts of toiling men. 
 Whose life is labor-burdened ever, when. 
 With eyes a moment raised from tasks of hire. 
 They see proud privilege, in pomp's attire. 
 Flaunt arrogantly o'er the world, and then 
 Recline in easeful indolence again. 
 While still they delve in mine and plod in mire? 
 O haughty ones, whose lips have but a sneer 
 For God's poor children, bound in chains of 
 
 need. 
 Not theirs the blighting blame if, suffering long 
 In silence, they at length alarm the sphere 
 With ominous murmur and with direful deed. 
 For even earth's crawling things revolt at 
 
 wrong. DANIEL DESMOND. 
 
 THE VOICE OF LABOR. 
 A Chant of the Repeal Meetings. 1*13. 
 
 Ye who despoil the sons of toil, saw ye this 
 sight to-day. 
 
 When stalwart trade in long brigade, beyond 
 a king's array. 
 
 Marched in the blessed light of heaven, be- 
 neath the open sky. 
 
 Strong in the might of sacred righi. that 
 none dare ask them why. 
 
 These are the slaves, the needy knaves, ye 
 spit upon with scorn— 
 
 The spawn of earth, of nameless birth, and 
 basely bred as born ; 
 
 Yet know, ye soft and silken lords, were we 
 the thing ye say. 
 
 Your broad domains, your coffered gains, 
 your lives were ours to-day I 
 
 Measure that rank, from flank to flank; 'tis 
 fifty thousand strong : 
 
 And mark you here, in front and rear, bri- 
 gades as deep and long ; 
 
 And know that never blade of foe, or Arran's 
 deadly breeze, 
 
 Tried by assay of storm or fray, more daunt- 
 less hearts than these ; 
 
 The sinewy smith, little he recks of his own 
 child — the sword ; 
 
 The men of gear, think you they fear their 
 handiwork — a Lord? 
 
 And undismayed, yon sons of trade might see 
 the battle's front. 
 
 Who bravely bors. nor bowed before, the 
 deadlier face of want. 
 
 What lack we here of show or form that lures 
 
 your slaves to death ? 
 Not serried bands, nor sinewy hands, nor 
 
 music's martial breath ; 
 And if we broke the bitter yoke our suppliant 
 
 race endure. 
 No robbers we — but chivalry — the army of 
 
 the poor. 
 Shame on ye now. ye lordly crew, that do 
 
 your betters wrong- 
 We are no base and braggart mob. but merci- 
 ful and strong. 
 Your henchmen vain, your vassal train, would 
 
 fly our first defiance ; 
 In us — in our strong, tranquil breasts — abides 
 
 your sole reliance. 
 
 Ay! keep them all. castle and hall — coffers 
 and costly jewels — 
 
 Keep your vile gain, and in its train the pas- 
 sions that it fuels. 
 
 We envy not your lordly lot — its bloom or its 
 decayance : 
 
 But ye ha7ie that we claim as ours— our right 
 in long abeyance; 
 
 Leisure to live, leisure to love, leisure to taste 
 our freedom — 
 
 01 sulf'ring poor. OI patient poor, how bit- 
 terly you need them ! 
 
 •• Ever to moil, ever to toil," that is your 
 social charter. 
 
 And city slave or peasant serf, the toiler is 
 its martyr. 
 
 Where Frank and Tuscan shed their sweat 
 
 the goodly crop is theirs— 
 I f Norway's toil make rich the soil, she eats 
 
 the fruit she rears — 
 O'er Maine's green sward there rules no lord. 
 
 saving the Lord on high ; 
 But we are slaves in our own land — proud 
 
 masters, tell us why? 
 The German burgher and his men. brother 
 
 with brothers live. 
 While toil must wait without your gate what 
 
 gracious crusts you give. 
 Long in your sight, for our own right, we've 
 
 bent, and still we bend ; — 
 Why did we bow? why do we now.' — proud 
 
 masters, this must end. 
 
 Perish the past — a generous land is this fair 
 
 land of ours, 
 .\nd enmity may no man see between its 
 
 Towns and Towers. 
 
THE WORKERS. 
 
 52f 
 
 Come, join our bands — here take our hands — 
 now shame on him that lingers, 
 
 Merchant or Peer, you have no fear from 
 labor's blistered fingers. 
 
 Come, join at last — perish the past — its trait- 
 ors, its seceders — 
 
 Proud names and old, frank hearts and bold, 
 come join and be our Leaders ; 
 
 But know, ye lords, that be your swords with 
 us or with our wronger. 
 
 Heaven be our guide, for we shall bide this 
 lot of shame no longer ! 
 
 CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 
 
 SONS OF LABOR. 
 Lift thy head, thou child of labor; toiling 
 
 craftsman, be of cheer. 
 Time is weaving star-bright garlands for thy 
 
 day of crowning near. 
 
 For thy labor stout and man-like, glorious 
 meed shall yet be thine. 
 
 When the world shall hail you noble, of an 
 earth-subduing line. 
 
 What were seed without the sower to his 
 
 mission ever true.' 
 What were harvests, if the reaper left them 
 
 standing as they grew? 
 
 Wheresoe'er the toiler worketh, if he work 
 
 with faith and love, 
 God himself smiles down approval from the 
 
 halls of bliss above ; 
 
 Stands beside the village Vulcan, aids him in 
 
 his every blow ; 
 Kling and klang, with ring incessant, while 
 
 the iron is a-glow ; 
 
 Throws the shuttle of the weaver, guides the 
 
 sailor o'er the wave. 
 Whispers " Onward ! " to the strong man. 
 
 whispers " Courage ! " to the slave. 
 
 Toil is treasure, toil is freedom, while it tasks 
 
 the strength alway. 
 Soul-ennobling, still it worketh for the 
 
 brighter, better day. 
 
 For the tender wives that love you. toil, my 
 
 brothers, still toil on. 
 For the loving babes that bless you, still the 
 
 worker's vesture don. 
 
 Wo to those in lordly places sunk in lethargy 
 
 supine. 
 With their feastings and their revels, with 
 
 their music and their wine. 
 
 In the balance weighed and wanting, deemed 
 as worthless as the dust. 
 
 As their life was never living, but betrayal of 
 God's trust 
 
 Comes the day of rich reprisal, comes the 
 
 day of vengeance due. 
 As they laid on load with scourges, we will 
 
 play with scourges too. 
 
 WILLIAM p. MULCHINOCK. 
 
 THE WORKERS. 
 Ours is the earnest strife. 
 
 Who write and think. 
 And press the grapes of life 
 
 That you may drink. 
 We lay our dearest treasure 
 
 Before your feet. 
 Nor pause the gift to measure. 
 
 So it be sweet. 
 
 When we the work have wrought. 
 
 And gained the goal 
 And wrung the glowing thought 
 
 From burning soul. 
 To you the key is given 
 
 That we have won ; 
 No need how hearts be riven. 
 
 So it be done. 
 
 Our cheeks are pale and wan, — 
 
 Yours flushed with health ; 
 And still we struggle on, 
 
 But not for wealth. 
 That you may read and learn. 
 
 And gain in mind. — 
 For this we toil, nor turn 
 
 To look behind. 
 
 And if we dream at all. 
 
 Or dare to trust. 
 The boon is very small : 
 
 That our poor dust 
 (When weary brain is calm. 
 
 And peace is met.) 
 The friends we gave the palm 
 
 Shall not forget. 
 
 DANIEL O'COXNELL. 
 
POEMS Of LABOJi. 
 
 THE TRUMPET SMITH. 
 Day after day, blow hot. blow cold. 
 
 At his bench close by the window sill, 
 Steadily works the Trumpet Smith. 
 
 Steadily still ; 
 
 Fitting the valves of a silver horn 
 
 That coils like a snake round his naked arm. 
 And the valves to the touch of his ready hand 
 
 \Vork like a charm. — 
 
 Blow. Trumpet Smith : ring out one blast, 
 One trumpet blast I pause to hear I 
 
 But never a note from the bugle-horn 
 Falls on my ear.— 
 
 Never a .sound of radiant music 
 That might bring a tear or a smile ; 
 
 The clink of the hammer I hear; 1 hear 
 The shriek of the file. 
 
 Unto his lips he lifts his pipe, 
 
 And blows through his lips an azure cloud , 
 But never blows he on the bugle-horn. 
 
 Or soft or loud. — 
 
 Unto his lips he lifts anon 
 
 The rude-fashioned jug of tawny beer. 
 But never the dumb vexatious horn 
 
 1 long to hear. 
 
 .And when, some night, in the Music-hall, 
 The great Herr This, or Signor That. 
 
 From the silver horn a solo breathes, 
 Now sharp, now flat. 
 
 Gloved hands in ecstacy will beat. 
 
 Lorgnettes on the lucky wight will bear. 
 
 But never a word of the Trumpet Smith, 
 Nor thought, nor care. 
 
 Bright eyes to the player's clang will flash ; 
 
 Soft eyes to his whispered notes grow dim. 
 But never, "Who forged yon wizard horn ' 
 
 Tell me of him! " 
 
 " Sic vos noH xiobis" 
 
 Sang the Roman bard of old ; 
 Forge on in the heat, O Trumpet Smith I 
 
 Forge on in the cold I 
 
 CHARLES DAWSiiN SHAM\ 
 
 IN THE CITY. 
 Beside the smithy window 
 
 A thrush sings all day long. 
 All in the murky city, 
 
 .\ carolling greenwood song! 
 And ever, as 1 come nigh it. 
 
 My spirit is tilled with glee, 
 .\nd ever, as I go by it. 
 My heart gro\-s sad in me. 
 While ringingly the hammer, 
 
 Ringingly within. 
 Maketh a merry clamor 
 And a busy din. 
 
 Therein, the Ever-worker 
 Is seen from early day. 
 With the glow of forge and iron 
 
 Upon his locks of gray. 
 Therein, the ancient workman 
 Works ever and aye, so lone ; 
 And none have heard his laughter — 
 To no man he makes moan. 
 While ringingly the hammer, 
 
 Ringingly within, 
 Maketh a merry clamor 
 And a busy din. 
 
 Two friends he hath— two only — 
 Good hammer and sweet bird ; 
 O sorrowful eyes ! you tell not 
 
 Who may have been the third. 
 Or whether the thrush is singing 
 
 Of summers that bore no gloom 
 Or whether it promiseth. sweetly. 
 .■\ green bough o'er a tomb. 
 
 When stilled shall lie the hammer, 
 
 Silent all within. 
 Hushed the weary clamor 
 And the noisy din. 
 
 UtOKGE SIGERSON. 
 
PART X. 
 
 POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 Reason, Folly, anJ Keauty, they say, 
 Went on a party of pleasure one day : 
 
 Folly played around the maid, 
 The bell of his cap rang merrily out ; 
 
 While Reason took to his sermon book — 
 Oh ! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt. 
 
 Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage, 
 Turned for a moment to Reason's dull page. 
 
 Till Folly said, "Look here, sweet maid." 
 The sight of his cap brought her back to herself ; 
 
 While Reason read his leaves of lead. 
 With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf. 
 
 Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap — 
 Had he that on, he her heart might entrap. — 
 
 " There it is." quoth Folly, "old quiz !" 
 But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore 
 That Beauty now liked him still less than before ; 
 
 While Folly took old Reason's book, 
 And twisted the leaves to a cap of such ton. 
 
 That Beauty vowed (though not aloud) 
 She liked him still better in that than his own. 
 
 Thomas M(.jure. 
 
POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 FAN FITZGERL. 
 Wirra, wirra ! Ologone ! 
 Can't ye lave a lad alone, 
 Till he's proved there's no tradition left of any 
 other girl — 
 Not even Trojan Helen, 
 In beauty all excellin' — 
 Who's been up to half the divilment of Fan 
 Fitzgerl ? 
 
 Wid her brows of silky black. 
 Arched above for the attack, 
 Her eyes that dart such azure death on poor 
 admirin' man ; 
 Masther Cupid, point your arrows, 
 From this out, agin' the sparrows. 
 For you're bested at Love's archery by young 
 Miss Fan. 
 
 See what showers of goolden thread 
 Lift and fall upon her head, 
 The likes of such a trammel net at say was 
 never spread ; 
 For whin accurately reckoned, 
 Twas computed that each second 
 Of her curls has cot a Kerryman, and kilt him 
 dead. 
 
 Now mintion, if you will, 
 Brandon Mount and Hungry Hill, 
 Or Magillicuddy's Reeks, renowned for crip- 
 plin' all they can ; 
 Still the country side confisses 
 None of all its precipices 
 Cause a quarter of the carnage of the nose of 
 Fan. 
 
 But your shatthered hearts suppose 
 Safely steered apast her nose. 
 She's a current and a reef beyant to wreck 
 them rovin' ships. 
 My maning it is simple, 
 For that current is her dimple, 
 And the cruel reef 'twill coax ye's to her coral 
 lips. 
 
 I might inform ye further 
 Of her bosom's snowy miirther. 
 And an ankle ambuscadin' through her 
 gown's delightful whirl. 
 But what need, when all the village 
 Has forsook its paceful tillage. 
 And flown to war and pillage, all for Fan 
 Fitzgerl. 
 
 Alfred Percival Graves. 
 
 KITTY OF COLERAINE.* 
 As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping 
 With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Cole- 
 raine. 
 When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher 
 down tumbled. 
 And all the sweet butter-milk watered the 
 plain. 
 " Oh ! what shall I do now ? 'twas looking at 
 you, now : [again ; 
 
 Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet 
 'Twas the pride of my dairy ! O, Barney 
 M'Cleary, [raine !" 
 
 You're sent as a plague to the girls of Cole- 
 
 t' Ascribed to Edward Lysaght. 
 
526 
 
 POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 I sat down beside her, and gently did chide 
 her. 
 That such a misfortune should give her such 
 pain : 
 A kiss then I gave her. and, ere I did leave her. 
 She vowed for such pleasure shed break it 
 again. 
 Twas hay-making season — I can't tell the 
 reason— [plain ; 
 
 Misfortunes will never come single, 'tis 
 For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster 
 The divil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. 
 
 SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. 
 Show me a sight — 
 Bates for delight [at it. 
 
 An ould Irish wheel, wid a young Irish girl 
 
 Oh, no I nothin' you'll show 
 Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. 
 
 Look at her there- 
 Night in her hair, [out on us ! 
 
 The blue ray of day from her eye laughing 
 Faix, an' a foot, 
 Perfect of cut, 
 
 Pccpin' to put an end to all doubt in us 
 
 That there's a sight 
 
 Rates for delight [at it. 
 
 An ould Irish wheel, wid a young Irish girl 
 
 Oh, no ! nothin' you'll show 
 Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. 
 
 How the lamb's wool 
 
 Turns coorse an' dull [of her: 
 By them soft, beautiful, weeshy. white hands 
 
 Down goes her heel. 
 
 Roun' goes the reel, 
 Purrin' wid pleasure to take the commands of 
 her. 
 
 Then show me a sight 
 Bates for delight I it. 
 
 An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at 
 
 Oh. no! nothin' you'll show 
 Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. 
 
 Talk of three Kates. 
 
 Sated on sates. [for me ; 
 
 Spinnin' and shearin' away till they've done 
 
 You may want three 
 
 For your massacree. 
 Hut one fate for me, boys, and only the one 
 for me : 
 
 An' isn't that fate 
 
 Pictured complate — [at it ? 
 
 An ould Irish wheel, wid a young Irish girl 
 
 Oh, no ! nothin' you'll show 
 Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. 
 
 ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 
 
 MARY DRAPER. 
 Don't talk to me of London dames. 
 Nor rave about your foreign flames. 
 That never lived, except in dhrames, 
 
 Nor shone, except on paper. 
 I'll sing you 'bout a girl 1 knew. 
 Who lived in Ballywhackmacrew, 
 And, let me tell you, mighty few 
 
 Could aiqual Mary Draper. 
 
 Her cheeks were red, her eyes were blue. 
 Her hair was brown, of deepest hue. 
 Her foot was small and neat to view. 
 
 Her waist was slight and taper; 
 Her voice was music to your ear, 
 A lovely brogue, so rich and clear. — 
 Oh, the like I ne'er again shall hear 
 
 As from sweet Mary Draper. 
 
 She'd ride a wall, she'd drive a team. 
 
 Or with a fly she'd whip a stream. 
 
 Or maybe sing you " Rosseau's Dream," 
 
 For nothing could escape her; 
 I've seen her, too — upon my word, — 
 At sixty yards bring down her bird. — 
 Oh, she charmed all the Forty-third, 
 
 Did lovely Mary Draper I 
 
 And at the spring assizes ball. 
 The junior bar would, one and all. 
 For all her favorite dances call. 
 
 And Harry Deane would caper ; 
 Lord Clare would then forget his lore ; 
 King's counsel, voting law a bore. 
 Were proud to figure on the floor 
 
 For love of Mary Draper. 
 
 The parson, priest, sub-sheriff too. 
 Were all her slaves, and so would you 
 If you had only but one view 
 
 Of such a face or shape, or 
 Her pretty ankles— but. otitone! 
 It's only west of old Athlonc 
 Such girls were found, and nowthcy're gone- 
 
 So here's to Mary Draper. 
 
 CHAKLKb J. LEVER. 
 
DERMOT AND NORA. 
 
 527 
 
 THE OULD PLAID SHAWL. 
 Not far from old Kinvara, in the merry month 
 
 of May, 
 When birds were singing cheerily, there came 
 
 across my way. 
 As if from out the sky above an angel 
 
 chanced to fall, 
 A little Irish cailiii in an ould plaid shawl. 
 
 She tripped along right joyously, a basket on 
 
 her arm ; 
 And, oh! her face, and, oh! her grace, the 
 
 soul of saint would charm ; 
 Her brown hair rippled o'er her brow, but 
 
 greatest charm of all 
 Was her modest blue eyes beaming 'neath 
 
 her ould plaid shawl. 
 
 I courteously saluted her — " God save you, 
 
 miss," says I ; 
 " God save you, kindly, sir," said she, and 
 
 shyly passed me by ; 
 Off went my heart along with her a captive 
 
 in her thrall, 
 Imprisoned in the corner of her ould plaid 
 
 shawl. 
 
 Enchanted with her beauty rare, I gazed in 
 
 pure delight. 
 Till round an angle of the road she vanished 
 
 from my sight ; [recall. 
 
 But ever since I sighing say. as I that scene 
 " The grace of God about you and your ould 
 
 plaid shawl." 
 
 I've heard of highway robbers that with 
 
 pistols and with knives 
 Make trembling travelers yield them up their 
 
 money or their lives. 
 But think of me that handed out my heart 
 
 and head and all 
 To a simple .little cailin in an ould plaid shawl ! 
 
 Oh ! graceful the mantillas that the signorinas 
 
 wear. 
 And tasteful are the bonnets of Parisian 
 
 ladies fair. 
 But never cloak, or hood, or robe, in palace. 
 
 bow'r, or hall. 
 Clad half such witching beauty as that ould 
 
 plaid shawl. 
 
 Oh ! some men sigh for riches, and some men 
 
 live for fame. 
 And some on history's pages hope to win a 
 
 glorious name : 
 
 My aims are not ambitious, and my wishes 
 
 are but small — 
 You might wrap them all together in an ould 
 
 plaid shawl. 
 
 I'll seek her all through Galway, and I'll seek 
 
 her all through Clare, 
 I'll search for tales or tidings of my traveller 
 
 everywhere. 
 For peace of mind I'll never find until my 
 
 own I call 
 That little Irish cailin in her ould plaid shawl. 
 
 FRANCIS A. FAHV. 
 
 DERMOT AND NORA. 
 ' The night is fresh and calm, love. 
 The birds are in their bowers ; 
 And the holy light 
 Of the moon falls bright 
 On the beautiful sleepin' flowers. 
 Sweet Nora, are you wakin' .' 
 Ah ! don't you hear me spakin'.' 
 My heart is well nigh breakin' 
 
 For the love of you, Nora dear. 
 
 Ah! why don't you spake, mavronc? 
 
 Sure I think you're made of stone. 
 
 Just like Venus of old — 
 
 All so white and so cold. 
 
 But no morsel of flesh or bone. 
 
 You know the vow you made, love — 
 You know we fixed the day ; 
 And here I'm now 
 To claim that vow. 
 And carry my bride away. 
 So, Nora, don't be stayin' 
 For weepin' or for prayin' — 
 There's danger in delayin', — 
 
 Sure maybe I'd change my mind ; 
 For you know I'm a bit of a rake. 
 And a trifle might tempt me to break, 
 Faix, but for your blue eye 
 I've a notion to trj' 
 What sort of ould maid you'd make." 
 
 Ah ! Dermot, win me not, love, 
 
 To be your bride to-night; 
 
 How could I bear 
 
 A mother's tear, 
 
 A father's scorn and slight.' 
 
 So, Dermot, cease your suin' — 
 
 Don't work your Nora's ruin ; 
 
 'Twould be my sore undoin' 
 
528 
 
 If you're found at my window, dear." 
 Ah ! for shame with your foolish alarms! 
 Just drop into your Dermot's arms ; — 
 Don't mind lookin' at all 
 For your cloak or your shawl— 
 They were made but to smother your 
 charms." 
 
 And now a dark cloud rising 
 Across the moon is cast.— 
 The lattice opes, 
 .And anxious hopes 
 Make Dermot's heart beat fast : 
 And soon a form entrancing, — 
 With arms and fair neck glancing,- 
 Half shrinking, half advancing. 
 Steps light on the lattice sill : 
 When— a terrible arm in the air 
 Clutched the head of the lover all bare. 
 And a voice, with a scotf. 
 Cried, as Dermot made off, — 
 ■Won't you lave us a lock of your hair.' " 
 
 JOHN FR.ANCIS WALLER. 
 
 POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 KITTY MACLURE. 
 Of the beauties of old. 
 Heathen poets have told ; 
 But I, on the faith of a Christian, more pure. 
 Abjure all the lays 
 
 Of their classical days [lure. 
 
 For my own Irish beauty— sweet Kitty Mac- 
 Cleopatra, the gypsy- 
 Ariadne, the tipsy— 
 Tho' bumpered by Bacchus in nectar so pure, 
 I Were less worthy a toast 
 
 I Than the beauty I boast ; 
 
 I So, in bright Mountain Dew, here's to Kitty 
 
 This world below here 
 
 Is but darksome and drear ; 
 So I set about finding for darkness a cure, 
 
 And I got the sweet knowledge 
 
 From Cupid's own college — [lure. 
 'Twas light from the eyes of sweet Kitty Mac- 
 
 If all the dark pages 
 
 Of all the dark ages 
 Were bound in one volume, you might be 
 secure 
 
 To illumine them quite. 
 
 With the mirth-giving light 
 That beams from the eyes of sweet Kitty 
 Maclure! 
 
 As Cupid, one day. 
 
 Hide-and-seek went to play. 
 He knew where to hide himself, sly and secure ; 
 
 So, away the rogue dashes 
 
 To hide 'mid the lashes 
 That fringe the bright eyes of sweet Kitty 
 Maclure. 
 
 She thought 'twas a fly 
 
 Had got into her eye. 
 So she winked — for the tickling she could not 
 endure ; 
 
 But love would not fly 
 
 At her winking so sly. 
 And still lurks in the eye of sweet Kitty Mac- 
 lure. 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 Maclure ! 
 
 Fair Helen of Greece 
 
 And the Roman Lucrece. 
 Compared with my swan were but geese. I 
 am sure. 
 
 What poet could speak 
 
 Of a beauty antique. 
 Compared with my young one— sweet Kitty 
 Maclure ? 
 
 O, my sweet Kitty, 
 
 So pretty, so witty. 
 To melt you to pity what flames I endure ! 
 
 While I sigh forth your name. 
 
 It increases my flame, 
 Till I'm turned into cinders for Kitty Maclure ! 
 
 MOLLY CAREW. 
 Och hone! and what will I do? 
 
 Sure my love is all crost 
 
 Like a bud in the frost. 
 And there's no use at all in my going to bed. 
 For 'tis dhrames, and not sleep, that comes 
 into my head ; 
 
 And 'tis all about you. 
 
 My sweet Molly Carew — 
 And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame ! 
 
 You're complater than nature 
 
 In every feature; 
 
 The snow can't compare 
 
 With your forehead so fair, |eye 
 
 And I rather would see just one blink of your 
 Than the prettiest star that shines out of the 
 
 And by this and by that, [sky. 
 
 For the matter o' that. 
 You're more distant by far than that same. 
 
 Och hone I weirasthru! 
 
 I'm alone in this world without you. 
 
RORY a MORE. 
 
 529 
 
 Och hone ! but why should I spake 
 Of your forehead and eyes. 
 When your nose it defies [rhyme, 
 Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in 
 Tho' there's one Burke, he says, that would 
 call it snublime ; 
 And then for your cheek. 
 Troth 'twould take him a week. 
 Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather ; 
 Then your lips ! O, machree, 
 
 In their beautiful glow. 
 They a pattern might be 
 
 For the cherries to grow. [know, 
 'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we 
 For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago. 
 But at this time o' day. 
 'Pon my conscience I'll say. 
 Such cherries might tempt a man's father! 
 Och hone, weirasthru ! 
 I'm alone in this world without you. 
 
 Och hone I by the man in the moon. 
 You taze me all ways 
 That a woman can plaze. 
 For you dance twice as high with that thief 
 
 Pat Magee. 
 As when you take shareof a jig. dear, with me. 
 Tho' the piper I bate. 
 For fear the owld chate 
 Wouldn't play you your favorite tune. 
 And when you're at Mass, 
 My devotion you crass. 
 For 'tis thinking of you. 
 I am, Molly Carew. 
 While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep. 
 That I can't at your sweet purty face get a 
 peep; 
 O, lave ofif that bonnet. 
 Or else I'll lave on it 
 The loss of my wandering sowl ; 
 
 Och hone ! weirasthru ! 
 O :h hone ! like an owl. 
 
 Day is night, dear, to me. without you ! 
 
 Och hone ! don't provoke me to do it ; 
 For there's girls by the score 
 That loves me — and more. 
 A.nd you'd look very quare if some morning 
 you'd meet [street ; 
 
 My wedding all marching in pride down the 
 Troth, you'd open your ej'es. 
 And you'd die with surprise 
 To think 'twasn't you was come to it ; 
 And faith, Kitty Naile 
 And her cow. I go bail, 
 
 Would jump if I'd say, 
 " Katty Naile, name the day." 
 And tho' you're fair and fresh as a morning 
 
 in May, 
 While she's short and dark like a cowld 
 winter's day ; 
 Yet if you don't repent 
 Before Easter, when Lent 
 Is over. I'll marry for spite, 
 
 Och hone ! weirasthru ! 
 
 And when I die for you. 
 
 My ghost will haunt you every night. 
 
 .SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 RORY O'MORE. 
 Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen 
 
 Bawn, 
 He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the 
 
 dawn : 
 He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to 
 
 please. 
 And he thought the best way to do that was 
 
 to tease 
 "Now, Rorj', be aisy," sweet Kathleen would 
 
 cry, 
 (Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye,) 
 "With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what 
 
 I'm about; 
 Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak 
 
 inside out." 
 "Oh! jewel," says Ror)'. "that same is the 
 
 way 
 You've thrated my heart for this many a day ; 
 And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be 
 
 sure ? 
 For 'tis all for good luck." saj's bold Rory 
 
 O'More. 
 
 " Indeed, then." says Kathleen, "don't think 
 
 of the like. 
 For I half gave a promise to sootherin' 
 
 Mike: 
 The ground that I walk on he loves. I'll be 
 
 bound." 
 "Faith," says Rorj', "I'd rather love you than 
 
 the ground." 
 " Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go ; 
 Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hatin' you 
 
 so!" 
 "Oh," says Rory, "that same I'm delighted 
 
 to hear. 
 For drames always go by conthrairies, my 
 
 dear; 
 
53" 
 
 POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 Oh! jewel, keep dramin' that same til! you j 
 
 die. 
 And bright mornin' will give dirty night the 
 
 black lie ! 
 And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be 
 
 sure ? 
 Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rorj' 
 
 OMore. i 
 
 " Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased | 
 
 me enough. 
 Sure I've thrash 'd foryoursake Dinny Grimes 
 
 and Jim Duff; ! 
 
 And I've made myself, drinkin' your health, 
 
 quite a baste. 
 So I think after that, I may talk to the priest." 
 Then Rory the rogue, stole his arm round 
 
 her neck. 
 So soft and so white, without freckle or 
 
 speck. 
 And he looked in her eyes that were beaming 
 
 with light. 
 And he kissed her sweet lips; — don't you 
 
 think he was right? 
 " Now, Rory, leave off, sir ; you'll hug me no 
 
 more. 
 That's eight times to-day you have kiss'd nie 
 
 before." 
 '• Then here goes another," says he, " to make 
 
 For there's luck in odd numbers." says Rory 
 O'More. 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 Rose, herself, was taken bad. 
 
 The fayver worse each day was growin': 
 "Lanty dear," says she, " 'tis sad. 
 
 To th' other world I'm surely goin' ; 
 You cant survive my loss, I know. 
 
 Nor long remain in Tipperary. 
 Won't you follow me.' won't you follow me?" 
 
 " Faith I won't," says Lanty Leary I 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 LANTY LEARY. 
 
 Lanty is in love, you see. 
 
 With lovely, lively Rosie Carey, 
 But her father can't agree 
 
 To give the girl to Lanty Leary. 
 " Up to fun, away we'll run," 
 
 Says she, •' my father's so conthrairy ; 
 Won't you follow me.' won't you follow me.' 
 
 " Faith, I will," says Lanty Leary I 
 
 But her father died one day 
 
 (I hear 'twas not by dhrinkin' wather) ; 
 House, and land, and cash, they say. 
 
 He left by will to Rose, his daughther ; 
 House, and land, and cash to seize. 
 
 Away she cut so light and air\' : 
 " Won't you follow me ? won't you follow me .' 
 
 •■ Faith 1 will I " says Lanty Leary. 
 
 THE LOVER'S COMPLAINT. 
 O I don't be bcguilin' my heart with your 
 wilin'. 
 You've tried that same thrick far too often 
 before. 
 .And by this blessed minnit an' day that is in it, 
 I'll take right good care that you'll try it no 
 more ! 
 You thought that so slyly you walked with 
 O'Reilly. 
 By man and by mortal unheard and unseen. 
 While your hand he kept squeezin'. and you 
 looked so pleasin'. 
 Last Saturday night in your fathor's boreen. 
 
 His thricks and his schaniin' has set you a 
 dhramin'; 
 That any one blessed with their eyesight 
 may see. 
 You're not the same crature you once wor by 
 nature. 
 And they that are thraitors won't do. faith, 
 for me I 
 Tho' it is most distressin' to think that a 
 blessin' [scene. 
 
 Was just about fallin' down plump on the 
 When a cunning culloger.as black as an ogre. 
 Upsets all your hopes in a dirty boreen. 
 
 And 'tis most ungrateful, unkind, and un- 
 faithful, 
 When you verj' well know how 1 gave the 
 go-by [treasure. 
 
 Both to pride and to pleasure, temptation and 
 To dress all my looks by the light of your 
 eye. ley — 
 
 O ! 'tis Marj' Mullally. that lives in the val- 
 'Tis she that would say how ill-used I have 
 been. 
 And she's not the deludher to smile and to 
 soother. 
 And then walk away to her father's boreen. 
 
WIDOW MACHREE. 
 
 531 
 
 I'll send you your garter, for now I'm a martyr, 
 And keepsakes and jims are the least of 
 my care, 
 So when things are exchangin', since you took 
 to rangin' 
 I'll trouble you, too, for the lock of my hair. 
 I know by its shakin', my heart is a-breakin'. 
 You'll make me a corpse when I'd make 
 you a queen, 
 But as sure as I'm livin', it's you I'll be givin' 
 A terrible fright when I haunt the boreen ! 
 Anonymous. 
 
 THE WIDOW MALONE. 
 Did you hear of the Widow Malone, 
 
 Ochone ! 
 Who lived in the town of Athlone .' 
 
 Ochone ! 
 Oh, she melted the hearts 
 Of the swains in them parts. 
 So lovely the Widow Malone, 
 
 Ochone ! 
 So lovely the Widow Malone. 
 
 Of lovers she had a full score, 
 
 Or more. 
 And fortunes they all had galore. 
 
 In store; 
 From the minister down 
 To the clerk of the crown. 
 All were courting the Widow Malone, 
 
 Ochone ! 
 All were courting the Widow Malone. 
 
 But so modest was Mistress Malone, 
 
 'Twas known. 
 That no one could see her alone, 
 
 Ochone ! 
 Let them ogle and sigh. 
 They could ne'er catch her eye. 
 So bashful the Widow Malone, 
 
 Ochone ! 
 So bashful the Widow Malone. 
 
 'Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare — 
 
 How quare ! 
 It's little for blushing they care 
 
 Down there. 
 Put his arm 'round her waist — 
 Gave ten kisses at laste — 
 " Oh," says he, " you're my Molly Malone, 
 
 My own I 
 Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone." 
 
 And the widow they all thought so shy. 
 
 My eye I 
 Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh. 
 
 For why .' 
 But, " Lucius," says she, 
 " Since you've now made so free. 
 You may marry your Mary Malone, 
 
 Ochone I 
 You may marry your Mary Malone." 
 
 There's a moral contained in my song, 
 
 Not wrong. 
 And one comfort it's not very long. 
 
 But strong — 
 If for widows you die. 
 Learn to kiss, not to sigh. 
 For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, 
 
 Ochone ! 
 Oh, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone. 
 
 CHARLF..S J. LEVER. 
 
 WIDOW MACHREE. 
 Widow Machree, it's no wonder you frown, 
 
 Och hone ! Widow Machree ; 
 Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty 
 black gown, 
 Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
 How altered your air. 
 With that close cap you wear — 
 'Tis destroyin' your hair. 
 
 Which should be flowin' free: 
 Be no longer a churl 
 Of its black silken curl, 
 
 Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
 
 Widow Machree, now the summer is come, 
 
 Och hone ! Widow Machree ; 
 When everything smiles, should a beauty look 
 glum.? 
 Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
 See the birds go in pairs. 
 And the rabbits and hares — 
 Why, even the bears 
 
 Now in couples agree ; 
 And the mute little fish, 
 Though they can't spake, they wish, 
 Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
 
 Widow Machree, and when winter comes in, 
 Och hone ! Widow Machree ; 
 
 To be pokin' the fire all alone is a sin, 
 Och hone I Widow Machree. 
 
532 
 
 POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 Sure the shovel and tongs 
 To each other belongs, 
 And the kettle sings songs 
 
 Full of family glee ; 
 While alone with your cup. 
 Like a hermit you sup. 
 
 Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
 
 And how do you know, with the comforts I've 
 towld, 
 Och hone ! Widow Machree, 
 But you're keepin' some poor fellow out in the 
 cowld, 
 Och hone I Widow Machree. 
 With such sins on your head, 
 Sure your pyeace would be fled. 
 Could you sleep in your bed. 
 ' Without thinkin' to see 
 
 1 Some ghost or some sprite. 
 
 That would wake you each night. 
 Crj^ing, " Och hone ! Widow Machree." 
 
 Then take myadvice.darlin' Widow Machree. 
 
 Och hone ! Widow Machree ; 
 And with myadvice. faith I wish you'd take me, 
 Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
 I You'd have me to desire, 
 
 I Then to stir up the fire, 
 
 And sure hope is no liar 
 
 In whisperin' to me 
 That the ghosts would depart 
 I When you'd me near your heart, 
 
 Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 1 
 
 WIDOWOLOGY PHILOSOPHIZED. 
 Oh ! none of your boarding-school misses. 
 Your sweet, timid creatures for me, 
 \ Who rave about Cupid and blisses. 
 i Yet know not what either may be. 
 j I don't feel at all sentimental. 
 Nor care I for Byron a rap — 
 But give me a jolly and gentle 
 Young widow, in weeds and a cap. 
 
 To her I would ofTer my duty, 
 ' For, in truth, all belief it exceeds — 
 How vastly the blossom of beauty 
 
 Is heightened by peeping from " weeds.' 
 She is armed cap-a-pie for the struggle, 
 
 To her cap I a captive belong ; 
 And the wink of her magical ogle 
 
 Is a challenge to courtship and song. 
 
 The tremors of girlhood are over. 
 
 Love's blossom has ripened to fruit ; 
 And her • first love " asleep under clover. 
 
 Is the soil where my passion takes root. 
 "Tis pleasant to know •• the departed 
 
 Was tenderly cared to the last." 
 And that she will not die broken-hearted 
 
 If I should pop off just as fast. 
 
 Her temper is never so restive — 
 
 Her duty she knows^ -and a shape 
 Is never so sweetly suggestive 
 
 As when it is muffled in crape. 
 The maid wears one ring when she marries. 
 
 In proof she all others discards. 
 While the widow-wife wiselier carries 
 
 .\ pair of these marital guards. 
 So none of your boarding-school misses. 
 
 Your sweet, timid creatures for me. 
 Who rave about Cupid and blisses. 
 
 Yet know not what either may be. 
 1 don't feel at all sentimental, 
 
 Nor care I for Byron a rap — 
 But give me a jolly and gentle 
 
 Young widow, in weeds and a cap. 
 
 CH.\RLi;.S G. HALPINE. 
 
 TRUTH IN PARENTHESIS. 
 I love — oh. more than words can tell 
 
 (Your ninety thousand golden shiners) ; 
 You draw me by a nameless spell 
 
 (As California draws the miners) ; 
 You are so rich in beauty's dower 
 
 (And rich in several ways beside it). 
 Had I your hand within my power 
 
 (Across a banker's draft to guide it). 
 No care my future life could dim 
 (My tailor, too — what joy to him I). 
 
 Oh. should you change your name for mine 
 
 (I've given my name — on bills — to twenty). 
 Existence were a dream divine 
 
 (At least so long as cash was plenty); 
 Our home should be a sylvan grot 
 
 (Bath, billiard, smoking-room, and larder), 
 And there, forgetting and forgot 
 
 (My present need. I'd live the harder). 
 Our days should pass in fresh delights 
 (Lethargic days, but roaring nights). 
 
 Oh say, my young, my fawn-like girl 
 (She's old enough to be my mother). 
 
 Let •• Yes " o'erleap those gates of pearl 
 (My laughter it is hard to smother) ; 
 
ORATOR PUFF. 
 
 533 
 
 Let lips that Love hath formed for joy 
 (For joy if they her purse resign me) 
 
 Long hesitate ere they destroy 
 
 (And to a debtor's jail consign me) 
 
 The heart that beats but to adore 
 
 (Yourself the less, your fortune more). 
 
 Consent — consent, my priceless love, 
 
 (Her price precise is ninety thousand) ; 
 I swear by all around, above 
 
 (Her purse-strings now, I feel, are loosened), 
 I have not loved you for your wealth 
 
 (Nor loved at all, as I'm a sinner) ; 
 Oh bliss! you yield ; one kiss by stealth ! 
 
 (I'm sick — that kiss has spoiled my dinner); 
 Now early name the blissful day 
 (My duns grow clamorous for their pay). 
 
 CHARLES G. HALPINE. 
 
 THE V-A-S-E. 
 From the madding crowd they stand apart. 
 The maidens four and the Work of Art ; 
 
 And none might tell from sight alone 
 In which had Culture ripest grown — 
 
 The Gotham Million lair to see. 
 The Philadelphia Pedigree, 
 
 The Boston Mind of azure hue, 
 
 Or the soulful soul from Kalamazoo — 
 
 For all loved Art in a seemly way. 
 With an earnest soul and a capital A. 
 
 Long they worshipped ; but no one broke 
 The sacred stillness, until up spoke 
 
 The Western one from the nameless place. 
 Who, blushing said : " What a lovely vase." 
 
 Over three faces a sad smile flew. 
 
 And they edged away from Kalamazoo. 
 
 But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred 
 To crush the stranger with one small word. 
 
 Deftly hiding reproof in praise. 
 
 She cries : " 'Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze I 
 
 But brief her unworthy triumph when 
 The lofty one from the house of Penn, 
 
 With the consciousness of two grandpapas. 
 Exclaims ; " It is quite a lovely vahs I " 
 
 And glances round with an anxious thrill, 
 Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill. 
 
 But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee 
 And gently murmurs: "Oh, pardon me ! 
 
 I did not catch your remark, because 
 
 I was so entranced with that charming vaws ! 
 
 Dies en't prcegelida 
 Sinistra qtium Bostonia. 
 
 JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 
 
 ORATOR PUFF. 
 Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice. 
 The one squeaking thus, and the other 
 down sol 
 In each sentence he uttered he gave you your 
 choice, 
 For one was B alt, and the rest G below. 
 
 Oh! oh! Orator Puff! 
 One voice for one orator's surely enough. 
 
 But he still talked away spite of coughs and 
 
 ot frowns. 
 So distracting all ears with his ups and his 
 
 downs 
 That a wag once, on hearing the orator say, 
 " My voice is for war," asked him, " Which of 
 them, pray.'" 
 
 O'h ! oh. Orator Puff ! 
 One voice for one orator's surely enough. 
 
 Reeling homeward one evening top-heavy 
 with gin. 
 And rehearsing his speech on the weight of 
 the crown. 
 He tripped near a sawpit, and tumbled right in, 
 " Sinking fund," the last word as his noddle 
 came down. 
 
 Oh ! oh ! Orator Puff ! 
 One voice for one orator's surely enough. 
 
 " Help ! help!" he exclaimed in his he and s'ne 
 
 tones, 
 " Help me out! help me out! — I have broken 
 
 my bones !" 
 "Help you out.'" said a Paddy who passed, 
 
 " what a bother ! 
 Why, there's two of you there, can't you help 
 
 one another.'" 
 
 Oh! oh! Orator Puff! 
 One voice for one orator's surely enough. 
 
 THIJMAS MOOKE. 
 
j4 
 
 HOW TO ASK AND HAVE. 
 " Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother. 
 
 Sweet Mar>'," says I 
 "Oh. don't talk to my mother," says Mary, 
 
 Beginning to cry: 
 " For my mother says men are decaivers. 
 
 And never, I know, will consent; 
 She says girls in a hurry who marry. 
 
 At leisure repent." 
 
 "Then, suppose I should talk to your father. 
 
 Sweet Mar)-," says 1 ; 
 "Oh, don't talk to my father, " says Mary, 
 
 Beginning to cry: 
 " For my father he loves me so dearly. 
 
 He'll never consent I should go ; — 
 If you talk to my father," says Mary, 
 
 He'll surely say ' No.' " 
 
 " Then how shall I get you. my jewel. 
 
 Sweet Mary .' " says I ; 
 " If your father and mother's so cruel. 
 
 Most surely 111 die!" 
 " Oh, never say die. dear, " says Mary ; 
 
 A way now to save you I see : 
 Since my parents are both so conthrairy. 
 
 You'd belter ask me." 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 MY FIDDLE. 
 My fiddle?— Well. I kind o' keep her handy, 
 
 don't you know! 
 Though I aint so much inclined to tromp the 
 strings and switch the bow [dry, 
 As I was before the timber of my elbows got so 
 And my fingers was more limber-like and 
 caperish and sprj* ; 
 Yet I can plonk and plunk and plink, 
 
 And tune her up and play. 
 And jest lean back and laugh and wink 
 At ev'ry rainy day ! 
 
 My playin's only middlin' — tunes I picked up 
 
 when a boy— 
 The kind-o'sort-o' fiddlin. that the folks calls 
 
 •' cordaroy ;" 
 " The Old Fat Gal. " and " Rye-straw, " and 
 
 " My Sailyor's on the Sea," 
 Is the old cowtillions 1 " saw " when the 
 ch'ice is left to me ; 
 And so I plunk and plonk and plink. 
 
 And rosum-up my bow, 
 And play the tunes that makes you think 
 The devil's in your toe ! 
 
 I was alius a romancin', do-less boy, to tell 
 
 the truth, 
 A-fiddlin' and a-dancin', and a wastin' of my 
 
 youth, 
 And a-actin' and a-cuttin'-up all sorts o' silly 
 pranks [thanks! 
 
 That wasn't worth a button of anybody's 
 But they tell me, when I ust to plink 
 
 And plonk and plunk and play. 
 My music seemed to have the kink 
 O' drivin' cares away I 
 
 That's how this here old fiddle's won my 
 
 heart's indurin' love! 
 From the strings acrost her middle to the 
 
 schreechin' keys above — 
 From her "apern," over bridge, and to the 
 
 ribbon round her throat. 
 She's a wooin,' cooin' pigeon, singin' ' 
 me " ev'r)' note ! 
 And so I pat her neck and plink 
 Her strings with lovin' hands, 
 And. list'nin' clos't, I sometimes think 
 She kind o' understands. 
 
 JA.MES WmiCDMB RILEV. 
 
 Love 
 
 A CANARY AT THE FARM. 
 Folks has been to town, and Sahry 
 Fetched her home a pet canary; — 
 And of all of the blame", contrary, 
 
 .Agger\atin' things alive ! , 
 I love music — that's. 1 love it 
 When it's free— and plenty of it, — 
 But I kind o' git above it 
 
 .\t a dollar-eighty-five ! 
 
 It's just as I'm a-sayin'. 
 The idy, now, o' lay in' 
 Out yer money, and a payin' 
 
 For a wilier-cage and bird. 
 When the medder-larks is wingin" 
 Round you, and the woods a-ringin' 
 With the beautifullest singin' 
 
 That a mortal ever heard ! 
 
 Sahry s sot, tho', — so I tell her 
 
 He's a purty little feller. 
 
 With his wings o' creamy-yeller, 
 
 ,^nd eyes keen as a cat ; 
 And the twitter o' the critter 
 Seems to absolutely glitter ! 
 Guess I'll have to go and git her 
 
 A better cage 'n that ! 
 
 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 
 
FATHER O'FLYNN. 
 
 535 
 
 THE MAN FOR GALWAY. 
 To drink a toast, a proctor roast. 
 Or bailiff, as the case is. 
 To kiss your wife, or take your life 
 At ten or fifteen paces ; 
 To keep game-cocks, to hunt the fox. 
 To drink in punch the Solway, 
 With debts galore, but, fun far more — 
 O ! that's the man for Galway. 
 
 With debts galore, etc. 
 
 The king of Oude is mighty proud, 
 And so were wonct the Caysars, 
 Butould Giles Eyre would make them stare, 
 Av he had them with the " Blazers." 
 To the devil I fling Ould Runjeet Sing- 
 He's only a prince in a small way, 
 And knows nothingat all of a six-foot wall — 
 O ! he'd never do for Galway. 
 With debts galore, etc. 
 
 Ye think the Blakes are no great shakes ; 
 They're all his blood relations ; 
 And the Bodkins sneeze at the grim Chinese 
 For they come from the Phenaycians : 
 So fill to the brim, and here's to him 
 Who'd drink in punch the Solway ; 
 With debts galore, but fun far m.ore — 
 O ! that's the man for Galway. 
 With debts galore, etc. 
 
 CHARLES J. LEVER. 
 
 THE GALWAY MARE. 
 In the course of my wand'rings, from Cong to 
 
 Kanturk — 
 And a man of his honor is Jeremy Burke — 
 I've seen many horses, but none, I declare. 
 Could compate wid Jack RafTerly's fox-hunt- 
 in' mare. 
 She was black as the sut. 
 From the head to the fut. 
 And as nate in her shapes as a royal Princess : 
 Twinty miles in the hour was her lowest horse- 
 power — 
 'Twould desthroy her intirely to go at a less ! 
 
 No Arabian charger that's bred in the South 
 Had so silky a coat or obaydient a mouth ; 
 And her speed was so swift, man alive ! I'd go 
 
 bail 
 She'd slipclane away from the Holyhead mail. 
 
 Her asiest saunther 
 
 Was quick as a canther. 
 
 Her gallop resimbled a lightnin' express : 
 Twinty miles in the hour was her lowest horse- 
 power — 
 'Twould desthroy her intirely to go at a less! 
 
 There was never a fence so conthrairy or cruel 
 But she would contrive to surmount it, the 
 
 jewel ! 
 And Jack on her back, widout gettin' a toss. 
 Glared ditches, no matter how crabbed or 
 cross. 
 An iligant shtepper, 
 A wondherful lepper — 
 Don't talk of Bucephalus or of Black Bess :— 
 Twinty miles in the hour was her lowest horse- 
 power — 
 'Twould desthroy her intirely to go at a less ! 
 
 They wereclifted,* the two of them. Jack and 
 the mare, 
 
 Returnin'one night from the Blackwater fair; 
 
 Bad 'cess to that road ! in the worst place of all 
 
 There isn't a sign or a taste of a wall. 
 Sure the Barony's grief 
 Was beyant all belief — 
 
 'Twas the loss of the mare caused the greater 
 disthress: 
 
 Twinty miles in the hour was her lowest horse- 
 power — 
 
 'Twould desthroy her intirely to go at a less ! 
 
 ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 
 
 FATHER O'FLYNN. 
 Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety. 
 Far renowned for larnin' and piety, 
 Still I'd advance you, without impropriety. 
 Father O'Flynn is the flower o' them all. 
 Here's a health to you. Father O'Flynn, 
 Slainthe, and slainthe, and slainthe again, 
 Powerfullest preacher, 
 And tindherest teacher. 
 And kindliest creature in old Donegal. 
 
 Talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, 
 Far renowned for Greek and Latinity, 
 Gad and the divils and all at Divinity, [all. 
 Father O'Flynn would make hares o' them 
 Come, I venture to give you my word 
 Never the likes of his logic was heard. 
 Down from mythology. 
 Into thayology. 
 Troth, and conchology, if he'd the call. 
 
5^36 
 
 Father OTIynn. you've the wonderful way 
 
 with you, 
 All the ould sinners are wishful to pray with 
 
 you. 
 All the young childer are wild for to play with 
 you. 
 You've such a way with you. Father, avick ! 
 Still for all you're so gentle a soul, 
 Gad, you've your flock in the grandest 
 control ; 
 
 Checking the crazy ones. 
 Coaxing unaisy ones. 
 Lifting the lazy ones on with the stick. 
 
 And though quite avoiding all foolish frivolity, 
 Still at all seasons of innocent jollity. 
 Where is the play-boy can claim an equality 
 At comicality. Father, with you ? 
 
 Once the bishop looked grave at your 
 
 jest. 
 Till this remark set him off with the rest: 
 " Is it leave gaiety 
 All to the laity ? 
 Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too? " 
 
 ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 
 
 POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 NEVER SAY DIE. 
 
 Why such a row? What ails you now, de- 
 sponding Stoneybatter man ? 
 
 You'll jump from off a bridge, indeed ? God 
 bless us, what's the matter, man ? 
 
 If she disdain your amorous pain, for militarj' 
 Pat. her man, 
 
 Because he's very tall and slim, and you're a 
 shorter, fatter man. 
 
 Speak out the truth, and tell the youth you're 
 quite resolved to shatter, man. 
 
 To smithereens all rivals, whether parrot, 
 poodle, cat, or man — 
 
 For love makes all things bellicose — or mon- 
 key, dandy, rat. or man. 
 
 So thrash the sergeant, if you can. then boldly 
 up and at her. man. 
 
 If you surmise you'll win by sighs, we never 
 met a flatter man — 
 
 In fact, by dad, you're ravin' mad, as ever was 
 a hatter, man. 
 
 Then try a little romping, till hercapand wig 
 you tatter, man. 
 
 And laud her pa, and praise her ma, espe- 
 cially the latter, man. 
 
 Soft-sawderize her shape and size, and every 
 feature flatter, man. 
 
 And oft you'll be asked in to tea. and soft. 
 
 familiar chatter, man. 
 The barking curs, his jmgling spurs, and rat- 
 tling sabre's clatter, man, 
 i Shall sound in vain, tho' sleet and rain upon 
 I his shako patter, man. 
 I While you within enjoy the din, before a 
 
 smoking platter, man — 
 That's better tried than suicide, so, courage ! 
 Stoneybatter man. 
 
 RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 
 
 THREE TROUT A DAY. 
 You may think it looks quare. but in troth 
 
 it's no lie. 
 You may fish in that lough till the water runs 
 
 dr>'. 
 .An' ketch your three trout a day.aisy an' free. 
 But the divil a wan more you will ketch but 
 
 the three. 
 
 The raison is this, as the ould people say. 
 Saint Columbkille reg'lar came here for to 
 
 pray. 
 An' a man used to come, much again' the 
 
 saint's wish. 
 An' plowter for hours in the water for fish. 
 
 An' many a time he wud come onawares. 
 When the saint was a-countin' his beads at 
 
 his prayers ; 
 \n' bother him so with his nonsense and talk. 
 Till the saint in a rage wud 'a tould him to 
 
 " walk." 
 
 Then he'd into the water, an' there he wud 
 
 stay, 
 A-plowterin' an' singin' an' whistlin' away. 
 An' wi' fishin' an' singin'. the saint was so 
 
 crossed. 
 That many a good pattr an' <?<■<■ he lost. 
 
 So the saint was so vexed that he thocht on a 
 
 plan 
 Of how he'd get redd av this bothersome man ; 
 For afore he'd be bate, he'd reduce the supply 
 Av the fish or— what's worse— make the well 
 
 become dry. 
 
 For he knew that the haythen— whose name 
 
 was M'Gurk. 
 .\n' who wasn't a Christian no more nor a 
 
 Turk— 
 
THE GROVES OF BLARNEY. 
 
 537 
 
 Wud bother him less if he scarcened the trout, 
 So, says Columb, " The divil a much more 
 he'll get out." 
 
 So next day when M'Gurk came along at his 
 
 aise 
 With his ass an' his creels, sor, as proud as 
 
 you plase. 
 For to hould all his fish in — the saint says, 
 
 says he. 
 " Shure you won't need a couple av creels for 
 
 the three.'" 
 
 "What three.'" says M'Gurk. " Well," says 
 
 Columb, says he — 
 •■The three trout you'll ketch, for you'll only 
 
 ketch three. 
 An' mind when you've got them you're foolish 
 
 to stay. 
 For the sorra a wan more you will ketch for 
 
 the day !" 
 
 Well, M'Gurk didn't mind, and he soon 
 
 polished out 
 Three beauties — the purtiest, darlin' big 
 
 trout ; 
 An' he laughed at the saint, an' says he. •' If 
 
 ye wait 
 I'll hook ye wan more for your bre'kquest to 
 
 Well, he whistled an' sung, an' he fished all the 
 
 day. 
 But the trout all went by in a curious way ; 
 Says St. Columb, " Go home now, it's gettin' 
 
 too late, 
 'Stead av baitin' the fish, it's yourself that is 
 
 bate. 
 
 "You're hungry, no doubt, an' it sarves you 
 
 quite right ; 
 You've been stan'in' all day without gettin' a 
 
 bite ; 
 An' when next time to visit the trout you'll 
 
 incline, 
 They'll all know that you're there without 
 
 droppin' a line." 
 
 Well, M'Gurk. sor, was mad ; but feth not to 
 
 be done; 
 He went home, an' next mornin' rose up wi' 
 
 the sun ; 
 An' off to the lough with his rod an' his line. 
 An' ketched his three trout by a quarter to 
 
 nine. 
 
 But although he began with the song av the 
 
 lark. 
 An' wandered and waded till long after dark. 
 Till the divil a line or a stym he could see. 
 When his day's work was done he had only 
 
 tuk three. 
 
 An' that was his luck iv'ry day that he came; 
 Try this bait or that bait, 'twas always the 
 
 same, 
 Barrin' now an' again the saint gave him bad 
 
 scran 
 For divarshin, an' let him hook two, or jist 
 
 So, after awhile, sor, says he, wan fine day, 
 " By the hokey, I'll fish no more here — it 
 
 won't pay." 
 So he nivir went back, and some boul' people 
 
 blame 
 Saint Columb for keepin' the charm on the 
 
 But in troth, it's the case, sor, I'm tellin' no lie. 
 You may fish in that lough till the water runs 
 
 dry. 
 An' ketch your three trout a-dayaisy and free 
 But the Divil a wan more you will catch but 
 
 the three. 
 
 DAVID HKPBURN. 
 
 THE GROVES OF BLARNEY. 
 The groves of Blarney, they are so charming, 
 
 All by the purling of sweet silent streams ; 
 
 Being banked by posies that spontaneous 
 
 grow there. 
 
 Planted in order by the sweet rock close. 
 
 'Tis there's the daisy and the sweet carnation. 
 
 The blooming pink and the rose so fair; 
 The daffydowndilly, besides the lily, — 
 Flowers that scent the sweet, fragrant air. 
 Och. Ullagoane 
 
 'Tis Lady Jeft'ers that owns this station. 
 
 Like Alexander or Queen Helen fair ; 
 There's no commander throughout the nation 
 
 For emulation can with her compare. 
 She has castles round her that no nine- 
 pounder 
 
 Could dare to plunder her place of strength; 
 But Oliver Cromwell he did her pummel, 
 
 And made a breach in her battlement. 
 Och, Ullagoane. 
 
538 
 
 POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 There's gravel walks there for speculation. 
 
 And conversation in sweet solitude ; 
 'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or 
 
 The gentle plover, in the afternoon ; 
 And if a young lady should be so engaging 
 
 As to walk alone in those shady bowers, 
 Tis there her courtier he may transport her 
 
 Into some dark fort or under ground. 
 Och, Ullagoane. 
 
 Tis there's the cave where no daylight enters. 
 
 But bats and badgers are for ever bred ; 
 Being mossed by nature, that makes it sweeter 
 
 Than a coach and six, or a feather bed. 
 'Tis there's the lake that is stored with 
 perches, 
 And comely eels in the verdant mud ; 
 • Besides the leeches, and groves of beeches. 
 All standing in order for to guard the flood. 
 Och, Ullagoane, 
 
 Tis there's the kitchen hangs many a flitch 
 
 With the maids a stitching upon the suir; 
 The head and biske, the beer and whiskey. 
 
 Would make you frisky if you were there. 
 Tis there you'd see Peg Murphy's daughter 
 
 A washing praties foment the door. 
 With Roger Cleary, and Father Healy. 
 
 All blood relations to Lord Donoughmore. 
 Och, Ullagoane. 
 
 There's statues gracing this noble place in, 
 
 All heathen goddesses and nymphs so fair, — 
 Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Nicodemus, 
 
 All standing naked in the open air. 
 So now to finish this brief narration, 
 
 Which my poor geni' could not entwine; 
 But were 1 Homer or Nebuchadnezzar, 
 
 'Tis in every feature I'd make it shine. 
 Och, Ullagoane. 
 
 RICHARD A. MILLIKEN". 
 
 And in winter, with bacon and eggs. 
 
 And a place at the turf-fire tmskin', 
 ] Sip my punch as I'm toastin' my legs, — 
 
 Oh ! the divil a more I'd be askin'. 
 For I havn't a jaynius for work, 
 
 It was never a gift of the Bradys, — 
 But I'd make a most illigant Turk, 
 
 For I'm fond of tobacco and ladies. 
 
 I CHARLES J. LEVER. 
 
 IT'S LITTLE FOR GLORY I CARE. 
 It's little for glory 1 care. 
 
 Sure ambition is only a fable ; 
 I'd as soon be myself as Lord Mayor, 
 
 Wid lashins of drink on the table. 
 I like to lie down in the sun. 
 
 And drame when my faytures is scorchin', 
 That when I'm too ould for more fun. 
 
 Why, I'll marry a wife wid a fortune. 
 
 BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHIN'. 
 
 Bad luck to this marchin', 
 
 Pipe-clayin'and starchin'; [French! 
 How neat one must be to be kilt by the 
 
 I'm sick of paradin'. 
 
 Through wet and cowld wadin'. 
 Or standin' all night to be shot in a trench 
 
 To the tune of a fife 
 
 They dispose of your life. 
 You surrender your soul to some illigant lilt; 
 
 Now I like " Garryowen " 
 
 When I hear it at home. 
 But it's not half so sweet when you're goin' 
 to be kilt. 
 
 Then, though up late and early, 
 
 Our pay comes so rarely, 
 The divil a farthin' we've ever to sp)are; 
 
 They say some disaster 
 
 Befell the paymaster ; [not there. 
 On my conscience I think that the money's 
 
 And, just think, what a blunder. 
 
 They won't let us plunder, ['tis clear; 
 While the convents invite us to rob them. 
 
 Though there isn't a village 
 
 But cries : '• Come and pillage !" 
 Yet we lave all the mutton behind for 
 Monseer. 
 
 Like a sailor that's nigh land, 
 
 I long for that Island 
 Where even the kisses we stale if we plase; 
 
 Where it is no disgrace 
 
 If you don't wash your lace, [aise. 
 And you've nothing to do but to stand at your 
 
 With no sergeant to abuse us, 
 
 We fight to amuse us, [baboon ; 
 
 Sure it's better beat Christians than kick a 
 
 How I'd dance like a fairy 
 
 To see old Dunleary, 
 And think twice ere I'd leave it to be a 
 dragoon ! 
 
 CHARLES J. LEVER. 
 
THE MONKS OF THE SCREW. 
 
 539 
 
 LITANY FOR DONERAILE. 
 
 Alas ! how dismal is my tale ! — 
 
 I lost my watch in Doneraile ; 
 I My Dublin watch, my chain and seal, 
 [ Pilfered at once in Doneraile. 
 
 May fire and brimstone never fail 
 1 To fall in showers on Doneraile ; 
 ! May all the leading fiends assail 
 i The thieving town of Doneraile ; 
 
 May beef or mutton, lamb or veal 
 
 Be never found in Doneraile ; 
 
 But garlic soup and scurvy kail 
 
 Be still the food of Doneraile ; 
 
 And forward as the creeping snail 
 
 Th' industry be of Doneraile ; 
 
 May Heaven a chosen curse entail 
 
 On rigid, rotten Doneraile ; 
 
 May sun and moon for ever fail 
 
 To beam their lights in Doneraile ; 
 
 May every pestilential gale 
 
 Blast that cursed spot called Doneraile ; 
 
 May no sweet cuckoo, thrush, or quail. 
 
 Be ever heard in Doneraile ; 
 
 May patriots, kings, and commonweal. 
 
 Despise and harass Doneraile ; 
 
 May every Post, Gazette, and Mail, 
 
 Sad tidings bring of Doneraile ; 
 
 May loudest thunders ring a peal 
 
 To blind and deafen Doneraile ; 
 
 May vengeance fall at head and tail. 
 
 From north to south, at Doneraile ; 
 
 May profit light, and tardy sale. 
 
 Still damp the trade of Doneraile ; 
 
 May Fame resound a dismal tale, 
 
 Whene'er she lights on Doneraile ; 
 
 May Egypt's plagues at once prevail. 
 
 To thin the knaves of Doneraile ; 
 
 May frost and snow, and sleet and hail. 
 
 Benumb each joint in Doneraile; 
 
 May wolves and bloodhounds trace and trail 
 
 The cursed crew of Doneraile ; 
 
 May Oscar, with his fiery flail. 
 
 To atoms thresh all Doneraile ; 
 
 May every mischief, fresh and stale. 
 
 Abide, henceforth, in Doneraile ; 
 
 May all, from Belfast to Kinsale, 
 
 Scoff, curse, and damn you, Doneraile; 
 
 May neither flour nor oaten meal 
 
 Be found or known in Doneraile ; 
 
 May want and woe each joy curtail 
 
 That e'er was known in Doneraile ; 
 
 May no one coffin want a nail 
 
 That wraps a rogue in Doneraile ; 
 
 May all the thieves that rob and steal, 
 
 The gallows meet in Doneraile ; 
 May all the sons of Granaweal 
 Blush at the thieves of Doneraile ; 
 May mischief, big as Norway whale, 
 O'erwhelm the knaves of Doneraile ; 
 May curses, wholesale and retail. 
 Pour with full force on Doneraile ; 
 May every transport wont to sail 
 A convict bring from Doneraile ; 
 May every churn and milking-pail 
 Fall dry to staves in Doneraile ; 
 May cold and hunger still congeal 
 The stagnant blood of Doneraile ; 
 May every chosen ill prevail 
 O'er all the imps of Doneraile ; 
 May no one wish or prayer avail 
 To soothe the woes of Doneraile ; 
 May th' Inquisition straight impale 
 The rapparees of Doneraile ; 
 May Charon's boat triumphant sail. 
 Completely manned, from Doneraile ; 
 Oh ! may the couplets never fail 
 To find a curse for Doneraile ; 
 And may grim Pluto's inner gaol 
 Forever groan with Doneraile. 
 
 PATRICK O' KELLY. 
 
 THE MONKS OF THE SCREW.* 
 When St. Patrick this order established. 
 
 He called as " The Monks of the Screw." 
 Good rules he revealed to our Abbot, 
 
 To guide us in what we should do. 
 But first he replenished our fountain 
 
 With liquor the best in the sky, 
 And pledged on the faith of his saintship 
 
 That the fountain should never run dry. 
 
 Each year when your octaves approach. 
 
 In full chapter convened let me find j'ou ; 
 And when to the convent you come. 
 
 Leave your favorite temptation behind you. 
 And be not a glass in your convent 
 
 Unless on a festival found ; 
 And this rule to enforce, I ordain it 
 
 A festival all the year round. 
 
 My brethren, be chaste — till you're tempted ; 
 
 While sober be grave and discreet ; 
 And humble your bodies with fasting 
 
 As oft as you've nothing to eat. 
 
54u_ 
 
 Yet in honor of fasting one lean face 
 
 Among you I'd always require: 
 If the Abbot should please he may wear it. 
 
 If not, let it romc to the Prior. 
 
 Come, let each take his chalice, my brethren. 
 
 And with due devotion prepare. 
 With hands and with voices uplifted. 
 
 Our hymn to conclude with a prayer 
 May this chapter oft joyously meet, 
 
 And this gladsome libation renew 
 To the Saint, and the Founder, and Abbot, 
 
 And Prior, and Monks of the Screw. 
 
 POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 J(.H> 
 
 l-HILHOr CURRAN. 
 
 THE MAID OF CLOGHROE.* 
 As I roved out at Faha one morning. 
 
 Where Adrum's tall groves were in view. 
 When Sol's lucid beams were adorning. 
 
 And the meadows were spangled with dew; 
 Reflecting, in deep contemplation, 
 
 On the state of my country kept low, 
 I perceived a fair juvenile female 
 
 On the side of the hill of Cloghroe. 
 
 Her form resembled fair Venus, 
 
 That amorous Cyprian queen ; 
 She's the charming young sapling of Erin, 
 
 As she gracefully trips on the green ; 
 She's tall, and her form is graceful. 
 
 Her features are killing also; 
 She'sacharming, accomplished young maiden, 
 
 This beautiful dame of Cloghroe. 
 
 Fair Juno, Minerva, or Helen. 
 
 Could not vie with this juvenile dame ; 
 Hibernian swains are bewailing. 
 
 And anxious to know her dear name. 
 She's tender, she's tall, and she's stately. 
 
 Her complexion much whiter than snow ; 
 She outrivals all maidens completely. 
 
 This lovely young maid of Cloghroe. 
 
 At Coachfort. at Dripsey, and Blarney, 
 
 This lovely young maid is admired; 
 The bucks, at the Lakes of Killarney, 
 
 With the fame of her beauty are fired. 
 Her image, I think, is before me. 
 
 And present wherever I go; 
 Sweet, charming young maid, I adore thee. 
 
 Thou beautiful nymph of Cloghroe. 
 
 Now. aid me. ye country grammarians ! 
 
 Your learned assistance 1 claim 
 To know the bright name of this fair one^ 
 
 This charming young damsel of fame. 
 Two mutes and a liquid united. 
 
 Ingeniously placed in a row, 
 Spell part of the name of this phoenli 
 
 The beautiful maid of Cloghroe. 
 
 \ diphthong and three semivowels 
 
 Will give us this cynosure's name — 
 This charming Hibernian beauty. 
 
 This lovely, this virtuous young dame. 
 Had Jupiter heard of this fair one. 
 
 He'd descend from Olympus. I know. 
 To solicit this juvenile phoenix — 
 
 This beautiful maid of Cloghroe. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 ST. PATRICK AND CAESAR. 
 When Caesar, by conquests unsated. 
 
 On Erin's soft slopes set his eye. 
 His troops he debarked, and. elated. 
 
 Strolled forth to a wake as a spy. 
 That brawny barbarian, the Briton. 
 
 In Britain he'd beaten anew. 
 Then furbished fresh fetters to fit on 
 
 The free-men of Brian Boru. 
 
 He little knew then we were Romans. 
 
 Established ere Rome had been built; 
 So he looked on our island as no man's. 
 
 Not caring how many he kilt. 
 But first, and before he gave battle. 
 
 He'd heard of the wake, as I've towld. 
 So, cutting himself an oak wattle, 
 j Sneaked out in the hoighth of the cowld. 
 
 Disgui.sed in a pair of "cord " britches. 
 
 Frieze coat, sturdy brogues, and caubeen. 
 He scrambled through hedges and ditches, 
 I To where the wake lights could be seen. 
 He set out quite fearless and hearty. 
 
 Arrived somewhat soon in the night, 
 .•\nd skrewdged himself m ere the party 
 
 Was yet quite prepared for a fight. 
 
 ] 
 
 ' He laughed, the big thief, and grew frisky, 
 
 \nA drank with a mighty good will. 
 1 (He'd never before tasted whisky. 
 
 Or even heerd tell of a " still "J. 
 
IN BUCKIN-HAM P ALICE. 
 
 541 
 
 King Brian Boru sat and eyed him. 
 
 So also did huge Fin-ma-Cool, 
 And a third, in a cloak, with, beside him, 
 
 A crozier propped up by a stool. 
 
 rhey all seemed to relish the liquor, 
 
 (No exciseman near it had been) ; 
 The quicker they tippled, the quicker 
 
 They puffed at the fragrant dudheen. 
 To Csesar the pipe was extended 
 
 By him with the crozier and cloak. 
 But Caesar refused, and, offended. 
 
 Said, " Cities must blaze when I smoke." 
 
 "O, cities? " says 'tother, quite civil ; 
 
 " You'll want a big pipe for that same ; — 
 I know ye" — "If so you're the divil," > 
 
 Says Caesar, "so tell me my name." 
 " Your name and your fame," says the other, 
 
 " Might both be much safer at home, — 
 The bogs of green Erin would smother 
 
 Such haythens as Cssar of Rome." 
 
 Then Caesar jumped up in a hurry. 
 
 And turned for to run to the door, — 
 All laughed, for he found, in his flurry, 
 
 His feet fixed like wax to the floor. 
 "Who are you.' what ails me? " he muttered, 
 
 " Why, why, should I tremble and faint. 
 And quake at the words you have uttered ? 
 
 I fly neither Satan nor Saint ! 
 
 " What are you ? your glances appal me ! " 
 
 The other replied with a smile, 
 " Saint Patrick, my countrymen call me. 
 
 The guardian of Erin's green Isle. 
 You've ?/t'«/'(/and vidi'd, not vici'd, — 
 
 Embark in your fleet, and when there, 
 I'll send you, if you're not too nice-eyed. 
 
 Such live stock as Erin can spare." 
 
 Poor Caesar fell down right afore him. 
 
 And grovelled his length as he lay ; 
 Then knelt to the Saint to adore him. 
 
 But Fin-ma-Cool dragged him away. 
 He rose, seemed desirous to linger. 
 
 So Brian Boru bade him " Go ! " 
 Saint Patrick he lifted his finger, 
 
 \nd Fin-ma-Cool lifted his toe. 
 
 He shot from the spot like a rocket, 
 For Fin-ma-Cool kicked with a will ; 
 
 His men on the beach felt the shock, it 
 Electrified valley and hill. 
 
 He fell with a thud on the sod, he 
 Was " telescoped " in, but they rose. 
 
 First pulling him out of his body. 
 And secondly out of his clothes. 
 
 Away Caesar sailed, sore and weary, 
 
 From Brian Boru and his rule, ["skeary," 
 From the Saint who had made him feel 
 
 And the big toe of big Fin-ma-Cool. 
 Away o'er the billowy Biscay. 
 
 Sea-sickened, soul-saddened, he sped, 
 Convulsed with a craving for whisky. 
 
 And braved by his bullies for bread. 
 
 JOHN CRAWFORD WILSON. 
 From '-A New Od; to St. Patrick." 
 
 IN BUCKIN'HAM PALICE. 
 I was clanin' the windies 
 In Buckingham Palice, 
 An' I thought o' the shindies 
 O' Russians and Allies, 
 Whin into the room, wid a browfull of gloom. 
 An' a bottle of goold — it was filled with per- 
 fume- 
 Held up to her nose — pop ! past m e she goes — 
 The queen ! an' I thrembled in undher me 
 
 toes. 
 But she didn't perceive I was undher the eave. 
 So I thought I'd just watch her awhile, ere I'd 
 
 leave. 
 For it struck me as odd that her queenship 
 should grieve. 
 She flopped in a chair 
 Which the flunky put there. 
 An' she " pished " an' she " pshawed " wid a 
 
 wanderin' air. 
 That was half of it anger an' half was despair; 
 An' the great Koh-i-noor, that was fixed on 
 
 her brow, 
 Wid the rubies set round it. flashed blood-like 
 
 enow ; 
 An' over her soul, in that dark hour of dole, 
 The red hand of Care dhrove his merciless 
 
 plow, 
 While she thought of her sins an' the big 
 
 Russian row; 
 An' the gem on her brow grew too hot to 
 
 retain it 
 Whin she tliought of the millions she'd butch- 
 ered to gain it ; 
 An', through the thick mist that was chokin' 
 her eye. 
 
POEMS OF COMEIi\ 
 
 542 
 
 The ghost of her famine-killed sisther went 
 
 by. 
 In Ireland 'twas famine— in India 'twas 
 
 slaughlher. 
 An' every where, every where blood ran like 
 
 wather. 
 
 Well, still, while I looked— shure I thought I 
 
 was booked 
 To that place where there's nothin" but kan- 
 garoos cooked. 
 For an old man came in — he was ugly as sin. 
 Wid the dismalest grin round his fat double 
 
 chin ; 
 An' he tucked up his coat-tails an' backed to 
 
 the fire. 
 An' he looked at the queen half in pity, half 
 
 ire ; 
 An' she rocked in her chair, an' she tapped 
 
 wid her toes 
 On the carpet of velvet that blushed like a rose, 
 An' she didn't seem plaised with the double- 
 chinned man. 
 But he talked quite familiar, and thus his 
 words ran . 
 " Good-day. my Queen Vic, 
 Have you sutTered a thrick? 
 For you're lookin' by no means good-nay- 
 chured or slick. 
 Now tell me what's wrong," sez he ; 
 " Don't keep me long." sez he, 
 '■ For I'm dhry. an' I think 
 That I'd much like a dhrink. 
 " Take your time, my ould brick," sez she ; 
 " Don't be so quick," sez she ; 
 " An' I'll make a clane breast, for my throubles 
 
 is thick," sez she ; 
 " I ordhered the pick of my sojers to lick, 
 Bate, wallop, an" kick that ould thievin' rogue 
 
 Nick; 
 I thought he'd cut stick whin he heard the 
 
 first click 
 Of my bombs, an' my rifles, an' other such 
 
 thrifles ; 
 But he didn't do it, an' I'm like to rue it. 
 An' God knowsat all how I'll ever get through 
 
 " Shure to fear I began 
 That they'd ax my ould man — 
 He's field-marshal, they say," sez she, 
 •• An' I know he's dhrawn pay," sez she, 
 " This many a day," sez she. 
 An' he made a new hat from the skin of a cat, 
 
 An' I've heerd. an", indeed, even Punch owns 
 
 to that. 
 That the hat bids defiance to milithary science 
 To pass or to peer it. or even come near it. 
 In the way of a shed," sez she, " for a sojer's 
 head, " sez she : 
 " But he's tendher an' weakly," sez she, 
 •• An' of late somewhat sickly," sez she, 
 " Wid a bad rhumatiz," sez she, 
 " In that sword-arm of his, " sez she. 
 •' He tuk ill the first night that we heerd of 
 
 the fight : 
 An', since Inkermann," sez she, " no mortal 
 
 can," sez she, 
 " Describe what he feels from his head to his 
 
 heels : 
 He's shiv'rin an' shakin', an' his bones they 
 
 are achin". 
 An' he's thremblin' an' sore to his very heart's 
 
 core. 
 An' he 'sworn out intirely, an' worried, what's 
 more. 
 He's a soldier thrue." sez she, 
 " An' at Chopham Review," sez she, 
 " I seen him to do," sez she, 
 " Things to make you look blue," sez she, 
 " An' he's ravin' quite, by day and by night. 
 To be into the fight, as is proper an' right ; 
 An' he swears that he'd kill," sez she — 
 " If it worn't for the accident that he happens 
 
 to be ill," sez she— 
 "Ould Mentschikoff an' the Prince Pop-em- 
 
 off, 
 Liprandi, an' Luders, an' Count Orloff ; 
 But he says he can't think of it until he cures 
 
 his cough. 
 Och! his pains is cruel; he's as wake as 
 
 wather gruel ; 
 An' should any wan hint — in speeches or 
 print— [sez she. 
 
 That the man who does quarthcrly dhraw," 
 •• In accordions wid milithary law," sez she, 
 •• The highest pay 
 Should take part in the fray, 
 Och I he'd faint away 
 From the blessed light of day! 
 Me poor Albert ud fall, rowled up in a ball. 
 An' I know widows' caps don't become me at 
 all." 
 
 " Well, now, Mrs. Vic."— 
 
 An' his eye had a thrick 
 As cunnin' an' knowin' as a cat's that is goin", 
 When the cook's asleep, wid the softest creep, 
 
'^ 
 
 r/. 
 
 ^ j^'//^A-^ ^ -'- 
 
AN IMITATION OF SCOTT. 
 
 543 
 
 To lick fresh butther— " if you'll let me, I'll 
 utther 
 
 Some good advice," sez he, "an' think over 
 it twice," sez he. 
 " Go an' make your ould man," sez he, 
 "Just as soon as he can," sez he, 
 " Cure the rheumatiz," sez he, 
 " In that sword-arm of his," sez he, 
 " Or he'd betther resign," sez he, 
 " His uniform fine," sez he, 
 " An' fall out o' the line," sez he. 
 
 " Och ! but. thin, the pay.' " sez she, 
 " It 'ud go asthray," sez she, [sez she. 
 
 " An' that's not at all afther Albert's way," 
 " Resign that too," sez he, 
 " For, betune me an' you," sez he, 
 " Whin the people see," sez he, 
 " (Betune you an' me)." sez he, [partial 
 
 " Their gallant field-marshal to rheumatiz 
 Whin colors are flyin', an' thousands are dyin' 
 For a shillin' a day round Sevastopol's Bay, 
 They'll begin to compare the sick gentleman's 
 
 pay 
 Wid the throoper's who dashed through the 
 
 thick of the fray, 
 Where bulletswerewhizzin' an' sabres did play 
 On casque an' cuirass, an' the min fell like grass. 
 While the field-marshal — Balaam-like — sat 
 
 on his ass. 
 An' prayed for the foes he was bound to oppose 
 From thetopof his head to the root of his toes. 
 Let him give up his place wid whateverof grace 
 Can be possibly lint to so dirty a case. 
 Or the very ould wimin will spit in his face. 
 An' the childher, God bless 'em! throw dirt 
 
 at his grace. 
 Inniskillin's an' Grays, Irish Lancers an' 
 
 Bays- 
 Whatever poor wreck of them's left in these 
 
 days — 
 The men, not of rank, who dhrove spurs in 
 
 the flank 
 Of their chargers, an' dashed up the cannon- 
 plowed bank. 
 While the grape an' cross-fire mowed them 
 
 down rank by rank ; 
 Never haltin', though reelin', but formin' an' 
 
 wheelin' 
 Again and again, wid diminishin' min. 
 While the pulks of the Cossackry crowded the 
 
 glin. 
 No end to their labors, — no rest for their 
 
 sabres — 
 
 Blood-spatthered, they could not be known 
 
 by their neighbors. 
 An' still by sheer steel, strength of hand, heart, 
 
 an' heel. 
 Though shatthered, disordhered, invincible 
 
 still. 
 Through a long line of fire, through a laygion 
 
 of foes — 
 Grimly forced to retire — the Light Cavalry 
 
 goes. 
 They've left, an' what thin.'— just three- 
 fourths of their min 
 To fat the next harvest in Inkerman's glin; 
 But the colors they bore, though bedabbled 
 
 wid gore. 
 Still wave o'er the rimnant returnin' once 
 
 more. 
 What a sight there will be should they ever 
 
 come back, 
 An' the field-marshal — partial to a timely 
 
 attack 
 Of the rheumatic fayver — should fall in their 
 
 thrack !" 
 
 What more there was said, 
 
 Shure, no more nor the dead 
 
 Do I know, for I chanced to lane forward my 
 
 head. 
 An' the queen gave a scrame, and the man 
 
 gave a start. 
 An' I thought it was best for meself to depart. 
 
 CHARLES G. HALPINE. 
 Deptcly C/azier's Room, Buckin' ham Police, 
 London, December ^tli, 1S54. 
 
 AN IMITATION OF SCOTT. 
 The hounds in the kennel are yelling loud, 
 
 The hawks are boune for flight; 
 For the sun hath burst from his eastern shroud. 
 And the sky is clear, without a cloud, 
 
 And the steed for the chase is dight: 
 The merry huntsmen, up in the morn. 
 Crack the long whip, and wind the horn. 
 
 Lord Timothy rubbed his eyes, and rose 
 When he heard the merry crew ; 
 
 He scarce took space to don his clothes. 
 And his night-cap quick he threw 
 
 Back on the pillow, and down the staic 
 
 Disdaining brush or comb for hair. 
 With lightning speed he flew ; 
 
 And in the twinkling of a fan. 
 
544 
 
 With frock and cap the gallant man. 
 Caparisoned all spick and span. 
 
 Was with the waiting crew. 
 Sir Abraham rode his bonny gray ; 
 
 Sir Anthony his black ; 
 Lord Hector has mounted his sprightly bay ; 
 Lord Tom, Lord Jack, and all are away ; 
 Curvet, and demivolte. and neigh. 
 Mark out their bold and brisk array. 
 With buckskins bright and bonnets gay. 
 
 And bugles at each back. 
 
 They had hardly ridden a mile, a mile. 
 A mile but barely ten. 
 
 And each after each they leaped a stile. 
 
 When their hearts went pit-a-pat the while. 
 To see a troop of armed men, 
 I A troop of gallant men at drill. 
 t With well soap'd locks and s'iffen'd frill ; 
 
 Each in his grasp held spear or sword. 
 
 Ready to murder at a word. 
 I And ghastly was each warrior's smile 
 I Beneath his barred aventayle ; 
 I Buff belts were girt around each waist, 
 I Steel cuisses round each thigh were braced ; 
 I Around each knee were brazen buckles. 
 I And iron greaves to save their knuckles; 
 ( High o'er each tin-bright helmet shone 
 ! The casque and dancing morion. 
 I Which reached to where the tailor sets 
 ; On shoulder woolen epaulets ; 
 I Their blades were of Toledo steel. 
 ; Ferrara or Damascus real ; 
 
 Yea, human eye did never see. 
 Through all the days of chivalry, 
 I Men more bedight from head to heel. etc. 
 
 I Lady Alice she sits in the turret tower. 
 
 I A-combing her raven hair; 
 
 I The clock hath tolled the vesper hour, 
 
 I Already the shades of evening lower 
 To veil the landscape fair. 
 To the jetty fringe of her piercing eye 
 
 She raised her opera-glass. 
 For she was anxious to espy 
 
 If her worthy knight should pass. 
 •' Lo! yonder he comes. " she sighed and said. 
 Then with a rueful shake of head,— 
 •' Shall I my husband ne'er discover.' — 
 'Tis but the white cow eating clover!" 
 She looked again. " Sure yon is he 
 
 I That gallops so fast along the lea ! 
 
 j Alas, 'tis only a chestnut tree ! 
 
 I Standing as still as still can be 1 1 ! 
 
 POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 Come hither, come hither, my little foot pa^i 
 
 And dance, my anguish to assuage • 
 
 And be it jig. or waltz, or reel. 
 
 I care not. so it doth conceal 
 
 The ghosts that of a thousand dyes 
 
 Float evermore before mine eyes; 
 
 And \. to make thee foot it gay. 
 
 With nimble finger, by my fay. 
 
 Upon the tambourine will play !" etc. 
 
 WILLIAM MAGINN. 
 
 AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG.* 
 Brocades and damasks, and tabbies, and 
 gauzes. 
 Are. by Robert Ballantine. lately brought 
 over. 
 With forty things more:— now hear what the 
 law says. 
 Whoe'er will not wear them is not the 
 King's lover. 
 Though a printer and Dean 
 Seditiously mean 
 Our true Irish hearts from old England to 
 
 wean ; 
 But we'll buy English silks for our wives and 
 
 our daughters 
 In spite of his Deanship and Journeyman 
 Waters. 
 
 In England the dead in woolen are clad. 
 The Dean and his printer then let us cr\ 
 fie on ; 
 To be clothed like a carcass would make a 
 Teague mad. 
 Since a living dog better is than a dead lioa 
 Our wives they grow sullen 
 At wearing of woollen. 
 And all we poor shopkeepers must our horns 
 
 pull in. 
 Then we'll buy English silks for our wivesand 
 
 our daughters. 
 In spite of his Deanship and Journeyman 
 Waters. 
 
 Whoever our trading with England would 
 
 hinder. 
 To inflame both the nations do plainly 
 
 conspire. 
 Because Irish linen will soon turn to tinder. 
 
 • This ballad alludes to Swift's " Proposal tor the ui 
 Irish Manufactures." for which Waters, the printer, was \ 
 ecuted with great violence.— 5(-o//. 
 
A SAILOK'S VAJiN. 
 
 545 
 
 '■ Oh, and if the quadrant has lost a hand. 
 
 And the sextant falls so low. 
 It's our bodies and bones to Davy Jones 
 
 This night are bound to go ! 
 
 And wool it isgreasy, and quickly takes fire. 
 
 Therefore, I assure ye. 
 
 Our noble grand jury. 
 
 When they saw the Dean's book, they were | 
 
 in a great fury ; 
 They would buy English silk for their wives ; " Oh, fly aloft to the garboard strake ! 
 
 and their daughters, i And reef the spanker boom ; 
 
 In spite of his Deanship and Journeyman ; Bend a studding sail on the niartingal 
 Waters. ' To give her weather room. 
 
 This wicked rogue Waters, who always is sin- 
 ning, 
 And before coram nobis so oft has been 
 called, 
 Henceforward shall print neither pamphlets 
 nor linen — 
 And if swearing can do't, shall be swing- 
 ingly maul'd ; 
 
 And as for the Dean, 
 You know whom I mean. 
 If the printer will peach him, he'll scarce come 
 
 off clean. 
 Then we'll buy English silks for our wives and 
 
 our daughters. 
 In spite of his Deanship and Journeyman 
 Waters. 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 "O boatswain, down in the for'ard hold. 
 What water do you find.'" 
 
 " Four foot and a half by the royal gaff. 
 And rather more behind." 
 
 " O sailors, collar your marline spikes 
 And each belaying pin ; 
 
 Come, stir your stumps, and spike the pumps. 
 Or more will be coming in !" 
 
 They stirred their stumps, they spiked the 
 pumps. 
 
 They spliced the mizzen brace; 
 Aloft and alow they worked, but oh ! 
 
 The water gained apace. 
 
 They bored a hole above the keel 
 To let the water out ; 
 
 But. strange to say, to their dismay, 
 The water in did spout. 
 
 Then up spoke the cook of our gallant ship, 
 And he was a lubber brave : 
 
 " I have several wives in various ports. 
 And my life I orter save." 
 
 Then up spoke the Captain of Marines 
 
 Who dearly loved his prog : 
 ■• It's awful to die, and it's worse to be dry. 
 
 And I move we pipes to grog." 
 j 
 'Twas Captain Porgie on the deck. Oh, then 'twas the noble second mate 
 
 To his mate in the mizzen hatch. | What filled them all with awe: 
 
 While the boatswain bold, in the forward hold, The second mate, as bad men hate, 
 'vVas wmding his larboard watch. : And cruel skippers jaw. 
 
 •■ Oh, how does our good ship head to-night .' j He took the anchor on his back 
 How heads our gallant craft .'" i And leaped into the main ; 
 
 '■ Oh, she heads to the E. S. W. by N., i Through foam and spray he clove his way, 
 
 .\nd the binnacle lies abaft I" And sunk and rose again ! 
 
 " Oh, what does the quadrant indicate, ; Through foam and spray, a league away 
 
 And how does the sextant stand .'' The anchor stout he bore ; 
 
 " Oh, the sextant's down to the freezing point, i Till safe at last, he made it fast 
 And the quadrant's lost a han '. 1" | And warped the ship ashore. 
 
 A SAILOR'S YARN. 
 This is the tale that was told to me, 
 By a battered and shattered son of the sea- 
 To me and my messmate, Silas Green, 
 When I was a guileless 5roung marine : — 
 
 Twas the good ship Gyascutus, 
 
 .\1I m the China seas. 
 With the wind a-lee and the capstan free 
 
 To catch the summer breeze. 
 
546 
 
 /'OE-UM OF COMEDY. 
 
 'Tain't much of a job to talk about. 
 
 But a ticklish thing to see, 
 And sulh'in to do, if 1 say it, too, 
 
 For that second mate was me ! 
 
 Such was the tale that was told to me 
 By that modest and truthful son of the sea. 
 And I envy the life of a second mate. 
 Though captains curse him and sailors hate. 
 For he ain't like some of the swabs I've seen. 
 As would go and lie to a poor marine. 
 
 JAMKS JEFFREY ROCHE. 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 T/ii- liaril apostrophizeth a Skclfloii. 
 Old friend, I rattle your lank phalanges. 
 
 Forget my lapses of heart and pen ; 
 May some one duck me in Nile or Ganges 
 
 If e'er I wander from you again. 
 Before you judge me, dear Phos., remember 
 
 You once had feeling as well as I ; 
 And man. like nature, ere wise December 
 
 Must glow and ripen in fierce July. 
 In youthful summer, with visions glorious, 
 
 Through flow'ry valleys we dance along. 
 And dream that ever, as now, victorious. 
 
 The soul shall triumph in love and song. 
 The shadows gather; the autumn's sober — 
 
 V.^X adumbration is o'er us cast : 
 .And love and glory in chill October 
 
 Like dead leaves wither in sorrow's blast. 
 But while I sadly all this am thinking, 
 
 I twig a wrinkle '.if)onyour phiz; [ing. 
 
 IVhy. blessmc ! hang me ! man, don't be wink- 
 
 And stopyour grinning, you toothless quiz ! 
 They reared me badly. I'll make my offspring 
 
 (That's when I get them, of course, I mean) 
 From Homer, Euclid, Moliere and Gough 
 spring— 
 
 Thev only dye one absurdly green. 
 Ami Snccreth at Terpsichore. 
 But makes them. Jingo! unrivalled dancers; 
 
 I lost the fairest of maidens once. 
 Because I knew not those blasted " Lancers," 
 
 And waltzing always affects my sconce. 
 Alas! if •' ihux tfiiips" might yet redeem her. 
 
 By all that's dizzy, I dare not trj-. 
 Because 'twould fracture, I'm sure, my J cm sir. 
 
 And let off fireworks from either eye ; 
 And I'm so dismal at rout and revel. 
 
 So ver>' gloomy at screech and ball. 
 My hugest wonder is why the devil 
 
 They e\er ask me to go at all. 
 
 That folk should wildly, in latest fashions. 
 
 From Belle AssembUe or else Album, 
 Thus write and gyrate, of human passions 
 
 To me seemed ever by far most rum. 
 Through waltz and polka to trampand wriggle. 
 
 For sober student is fearful doom — 
 
 To fall, while round you they grin and giggle — 
 
 Tripped, dodged, and badgered about the 
 
 .\s I'm a poet, it is my duty [room. 
 
 To smoke until I become sublime [beauty) 
 
 (Whene'er my harp-string is touched for 
 
 The best of fibrine and salts of lime ; 
 .And so, defying the highest prices, 
 
 I pop a lancet and puff cigars, 
 (Through twist in common the Muse suffices,) 
 
 Until, like Horace. " 1 touch the stars." 
 To " cap the climax " of botheration, [(liar)— 
 Being "strictly moral," I played the lyre 
 I raved of "scorching infuriation." 
 
 And Hecla-zEtna-Vesuvian ire. 
 The calculus, I calculated. 
 
 Was very likely her heart to win, 
 " Ethereally." if " sublimated " [and thin. 
 
 With steam and " fluxions " through thick 
 I said—" Dear maid, you resemble vastly 
 
 A lighthouse decking some mountain brow. 
 Round which the billows in ' orgies ghastly ' 
 
 Kick up an everlasting row." 
 With stars I stuffed my speech, and with Mick 
 
 Scott, the wizard, all in a breath— 
 I plunged in labyrinths logarithmic. 
 
 And rode poor Newton almost to death. 
 .\nd when I asked her for life to take me. 
 
 And she, dear creature, my wa)'sand means, 
 I said the Iron Archduke would make me 
 
 Assistant-surgeon to the Horse Marines; 
 And how affected to see me— very !— 
 
 Was that dear kinsman, the Iron Duke, 
 Who gave me, weeping, ttncttira fcrri, 
 
 A sword, and fastened it with a hook. 
 I mystified her on conic sections. 
 
 "Fog-horns." and diving, and battlements, 
 " Lay pontiffs." brandy, and Clare elections, 
 I And " gorgeous ethic experiments." 
 (Finale.) 
 We'll drop the subject— 1 hate long stories, 
 j Onions, spiders, and " nice " young men — 
 1 I hate the English, both Whigs and Tories — 
 i Suffice, we never shall meet again. 
 And so, old fellow, another Winter 
 
 We'll work together in prose and rhyme. 
 Unless a scalpel, or awkward splinter. 
 Or fever, floor me before my time. 
 
 RICH.\Kl) UALTON WILLIAMS. 
 
THE LOGICIAXS REFUTED. 
 
 547 
 
 MALBROUCK. 
 Malbrouck, the prince of commanders, 
 Is gone to the war in Flanders; 
 His fame is like Alexander's; 
 
 But when will he come home ? 
 Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or 
 Perhaps he may come at Easter, 
 Egad ! he'd better make haste, or 
 
 We fear he may never come. 
 
 For Trinity Feast is over 
 
 And has brought no news from Dover; 
 
 And Easter is past, moreover ; 
 
 And Malbrouck stil! delays. 
 Milady in her watch-tower 
 Spends many a pensive hour. 
 Not well knowing why or how her 
 
 Dear lord from England stays. 
 
 While sitting quite forlorn in 
 That tower she spies returning 
 A page clad in deep mourning. 
 
 With fainting steps and slow. 
 " O page, prithee come faster ; 
 What news do you bring of your master: 
 I fear there is some disaster. 
 
 Your looks are so full of woe." 
 
 " The news I bring, fair lady," 
 With sorrowful accents said he, 
 '• Is one )'ou are not ready 
 
 So soon, alas ! to hear ; 
 But since to speak I'm hurried," 
 Added this page, quite flurried. 
 " Malbrouck is dead and buried !" 
 
 (And here he shed a tear.) 
 
 " He's dead, he's dead as a herring ! 
 
 For I beheld his ' berri 
 
 ng. 
 
 And four officers transferring 
 
 His corpse away from the field. 
 One officer carried his sabre. 
 And he carried it not without labor. 
 Much envying his next neighbor. 
 Who only bore a shield. 
 
 " The third was a helmet bearer — 
 That helmet which on its wearer 
 Filled all who saw with terror. 
 
 And covered a hero's brains. 
 Now, having got so far, I 
 Find that (by the. Lord Harry !) 
 The fourth's left with nothing to carry. 
 
 So there the thing remains." 
 
 FRAN'CLS S. MAHONV. 
 
 THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 
 In Imitation of Dean Si.'ift. 
 Logicians have but ill-defined 
 As rational the human mind ; 
 Reason, they say, belongs to man. 
 But let them prove it if they can. 
 Wise Aristotle and Simiglesius, 
 By ratiocinations specious. 
 Have strove to prove v^ith great precision. 
 With definition and division. 
 Homo est ratione preditum ; 
 But for my soul I cannot credit 'em. 
 And must in spite of them maintain, 
 That man and all his ways are vain ; 
 And that this boasted lord of nature 
 Is both a weak and erring creature. 
 That instinct is a surer guide. 
 Than reason, boasting mortal's pride ; 
 And that brute beasts are far before 'em, 
 Deits es anima brutorum. 
 Whoever knew an honest brute 
 At law his neighbor prosecute. 
 Bring action for assault and battery 
 Or friend beguile with lies and flattery.' 
 O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd. 
 No politics disturb the mind ; 
 They eat their meals, and take their sport. 
 Nor know who's in or out at court ; 
 They never to the levee go 
 To treat as dearest friend, a foe ; 
 They never importune his Grace, 
 Nor ever cringe to men in place ; 
 Nor undertake a dirty job, 
 Nor draw the quill to write for Bob ; 
 Fraught with invective they ne'er go 
 To folks at Pater-Noster Row : 
 No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters. 
 No pickpockets, or poetasters. 
 Are known to honest quadrupeds. 
 No single brute his fellows leads. 
 Brutes never meet in bloody fray. 
 Nor cut each other's throats for pay. 
 Of beasts it. is confessed, the ape 
 Comes nearest us in human shape. 
 I Like man he imitates each fashion. 
 And malice is his ruling passion ; 
 But both in malice and grimaces, 
 A courtier any ape surpasses. 
 Behold him humbly cringing wait 
 L'pon the minister of state ; 
 View him soon after to inferiors 
 Aping the conduct of superiors : 
 He promises with equal air, 
 .\nd to perform takes equal care. 
 
548 
 
 POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 He in his turn finds imitators. 
 At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters. 
 Their masters' manners still contract, 
 And footmen, lords and dukes can act. 
 Thus at the court both great and small 
 Behave alike, for all ape all. 
 
 OLIVER OOLUSMITH 
 
 A MEDICAL STUDENT'S LETTER. 
 
 '• If you'd go fi»r to think for to dare for to try for to beat mc 
 
 al lyrics. 
 Man would fall down with the laughing, and woman go off 
 
 in hysterics." 
 
 In vain alchemic hieroglyphs to charm me 
 now. whereas I hum 1 
 
 Love-songs all day. and look as pale as oxide j 
 of potassium. 
 
 Oh! did I own. far, far away, some spicy and 
 tobaccoed isle, 
 
 I'd smoke and sigh the livelong day, and I 
 curse the salts of kakodyU, 
 
 With sulphtireUeii hydrogen, ammonia, and i 
 katium. 
 
 And sit most sentimentally in bufTo. and 
 Haynes Bailey hum. 
 
 I cause among the Burschen all considerable 
 merriment. 
 
 By swallowing the alcohol intended for exper- 
 iment ; 
 
 .And from the grave professors, too, incur 
 enormous odium. 
 
 For once, instead of tea, I filled their pot with 
 salt of sodium ; 
 
 The world guffaws, not without cause, to see 
 me quite dejected thus — i 
 
 My languages forgotten, and my sciences ■ 
 neglected thus. i 
 
 The old may scold, the young give tongue. 
 fall flat the fat. and laugh the lean. 
 
 To see me spill \\\e. glyceryl, and fill my pipe | 
 with naphthaline. 
 
 Contract four flexors, lovely Frau, and take 
 me to your pectorals^ 
 
 A doctor skilled to kill or cure and readily 
 detect your ills. 
 
 Oh ! think of what a treasure in pertussis or 
 sciatica. 
 
 In catalepsy, mullygrubs. or fades hypocratica. 
 
 Beware, my fair, or hear me swear, by Ahri- 
 man, that if you're stiff. 
 
 Your acid frown shall, slap bang down, preci- 
 pitate me o'er a cliff. 
 
 Farewell, then, dear companions, and fare- 
 well, cen<e deorum. 
 
 Where we Ulk'd lie rebus omnibus, with nota 
 
 variorum. 
 But always perorated with a scientific jorum. 
 We supped on theobromine, and perhaps at 
 
 times we quaffed a late 
 Crucible of alcohol disputing of a naphthalate. 
 Till our noses glowed like cinnabar, and many 
 
 a yellow rum bum. 
 Per, hot and cold, flowed on like gold, or io- 
 dine of plumbum ; 
 Retorts sublime, we slaked our lime, until the 
 
 morning star. boys. 
 Beheld us fall, with beakers all. and roll among 
 
 the carboys. 
 But now a very absent man. I've scarcely got 
 
 a word to say. 
 Or, if to show my teeth at all, 'tis something 
 
 most absurd to say ; 
 And even at the opera, among the gods and 
 
 top-row lights, 
 I ruminate on behemoths and chew the cud 
 
 on coprolites. 
 And shall I in suspension hang, to glorify 
 
 thee, eh .' Nay, 
 Nor in the meerschaum plunge by way of bol- 
 
 neum arena'. 
 We arc not isomorphous in our souls, tnou 
 
 fair deceiver. 
 And I to coquetry's retort decline to play 
 
 receiver ; 
 Nor would my heart amalgamate to that of a 
 
 divinity 
 Who could not cling to mine with more than 
 
 chemical affinity. 
 No, fuse me in a furnace blast ! I'll sing that 
 
 Celtic air first. 
 •• Go to the d— 1 and shake yourself," to banish 
 
 my despair first. 
 For what's a queen in diamonds, with her 
 
 coronation garb on. [carbon f 
 
 But calcium and phosphorus, hwmatosine and 
 I'll take unto mc crucibles and capsules, tubes 
 
 and funnels. 
 .And pour down mine a;sophagus rich German 
 
 wine in runnels; 
 And though my frozen Fraulein like to Aph- 
 rodite wore a form. 
 'Twill act upon my occiput like ether or like 
 
 chloroform ; 
 And ever on my optics shall the vision of that 
 
 maiden jar. 
 Erewhile that thrilled me with a shock more 
 
 powerful than a Leyden jar. 
 
 RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 
 
1 
 
 A THRENODY. 545 
 
 A LETTER TO SWIFT. 
 
 A man come now from Ouilca says 
 
 You will excuse me, I suppose, 
 
 ■' Thc/ve* stolen the locks from all your keys ;" 
 
 For sending rhyme instead of prose ; 
 Because hot weather makes me lazy, 
 
 But what must fret and vex me more, 
 
 He says, " They stole the keys before." 
 
 To write in metre is more easy. 
 
 " They've stolen the knives from all the forks, 
 
 
 And half the cows from half the sturks." 
 
 
 Nay more, the fellow swears and vows. 
 
 While you are trudging London town, 
 
 " They've stolen the sturks from half the 
 
 I'm strolling Dublin up and down ; 
 
 cows ; " 
 
 While you converse with lords and dukes. 
 
 With many more accounts of woe : 
 
 have their betters here— my books : 
 
 Yet, though the devil be there I'll go. 
 
 Fixed in an elbow-chair at ease. 
 
 'Twixt you and me, the reason's clear — 
 
 I choose companions as I please. 
 
 Because I've more vexation here. 
 
 I'd rather have ore single shelf 
 
 THOMAS .SHERIDAN. 
 
 Than all my friends, e.xcept yourself; 
 For after all that can be said. 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 Our best acquaintance are the dead. 
 
 A THRENODY. 
 
 While you're in raptures with Faustina, 
 
 " The Akhoojid of Swat is Dead''— 
 What, what, what. 
 
 I'm charmed at home with your Sheelina; 
 
 While you are starving there in state. 
 
 What's the news from Swat .' 
 
 I'm cramming here with butcher's meat. 
 
 Sad news, bad news, 
 
 You say, when with those lords you dine. 
 
 Cometh by the cable led 
 Thro' the Indian Ocean's bed. 
 
 They treat you with the best of wine- 
 
 Burgundy, Cyprus and Tokay, — 
 
 Thro' the Persian Gulf, the Red 
 
 Why so can we as well as they. 
 
 Sea and the Med- 
 
 No reason, then, my dear good Dean, 
 
 iterranean — he's dead. 
 
 But you should travel home again. 
 
 The Akhoond is dead ! 
 
 What tho' you mayn't in Ireland hope 
 
 
 To find such folk as Gay and Pope. 
 
 For the Akhoond I mourn. 
 
 If you with rhymers here would share 
 
 Who wouldn't.' 
 
 But half the wit that you can spare. 
 
 He strove to disregard the message stern, 
 
 I'd lay twelve eggs that in twelve days 
 
 But he Akhoond 't. 
 
 You'd make a dozen Popes and Gays. 
 
 
 
 Dead, dead, dead! 
 
 
 (Sorrow, Swats !) 
 
 Our weather's good, our skies are clear ; 
 
 Swats wha hae wi Akhoond bled, 
 
 We've every joy, if you were here ; 
 
 Swats wham he hath often led 
 
 So lofty and so bright a sky 
 
 Onward to a gory bed. 
 
 Was never seen by Ireland's eye ! 
 
 Or to victory, 
 
 I think it fit to let you know 
 
 As the case might be— 
 
 This week I shall to Ouilca go, 
 
 Sorrow, Swats ! 
 
 To see, alas, my withered trees ! 
 
 Tears shed. 
 
 To see what all the country' sees : 
 
 Shed tears like water. 
 
 My stunted quicks, my famished beeves, 
 
 Your great Akhoond is dead ! 
 
 My servants such a pack of thieves ; 
 
 That's Swat's the matter ! 
 
 My shattered firs, my blasted oaks, 
 
 
 My house in common to all folks; 
 
 Mourn, City of Swat, 
 
 No cabbage for a single snail ; 
 
 Your great Akhoond is not. 
 
 My turnips, carrots, parsnips fail ; 
 
 But laid 'mid worms to rot — 
 
 My no green peas, ray few green sprouts ; 
 
 His mortal part alone— his soul was caught 
 
 My mother alwaj's in the pouts ; 
 
 (Because he was a good Akhoond !) 
 
 My horses rid, or gone astray. 
 
 LTp to the bosom of Mahound. 
 
 My fish all stolen, or run away ; 
 
 Tho earthly walls his frame surround 
 
 My mutton lean, my pullets old. 
 
 (Forever hallowed be the ground !) 
 
 My poultry starved, the corn all sold. 
 
 * Th.-y is the grand thief of the p.irt of Ireland referred to 
 
550 
 
 POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 And skeptics mock the lowly mound. 
 
 And says " He's now of no Akhoond/' 
 His soul is in the skies— 
 
 The azure skies that bend above hi": loved me- 
 tro|K)lis of Swat. ' 
 He sees with larger, other eyes, 
 Athwart all earthly mysteries — 
 
 He knows what's Swat. 
 
 Let Swat bury the great Akhoond 
 
 With a noise of mourning and lamentation! 
 Let Swat bury the great Akhoond 
 With the noise of the mourning of the 
 Swattish nation ! 
 Fallen is at length 
 Its tower of strength, 
 Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned; 
 Dead lies the great Akhoond I 
 The great Akhoond of Swat 
 Is not 1 
 
 GKOKGE T. l.ANIGAN. 
 
 The moral of this tale is proper. 
 Applied to Wood's adulterate copper: 
 Which as he scattered, we, like dolts. 
 Mistook at first for thunderbolts. 
 Before the Drapier shot a letter, 
 (Nor Jove himself could do it better). 
 Which lighting on the impostor's crown. 
 Like real thunder knock'd him down. 
 
 JO.S'ATHAN swii 
 
 ON WOOD THE IRONMONGER. 
 Salmoneus, as the Grecian tale is, 
 Was a mad copf)ersmith of Elis: 
 Up at his forge by morning peep. 
 No creature in the lane could sleep ; 
 Among a crew of roystering fellows 
 Would sit whole evenings at the ale-house; 
 His wife and children wanted bread. 
 While he went always drunk to bed. 
 This vaporing scab must needs devise 
 To ape the thunder of the skies : 
 With brass two fiery steeds he shod, 
 To make a clattering as they trod, 
 Of polish'd brass his flaming car 
 Like lightning dazzled from afar; 
 
 Then furious he begins his march. 
 Drives rattling o'er a brazen arch ; 
 With squibs and crackers arm'd to throw 
 Among the trembling crowd below. 
 All ran to prayers, both priests and laity. 
 To pacify this angry deity ; 
 When Jove, in pity to the town. 
 With real thunder knock'd him down. 
 Then what a huge delight were all in 
 To see the wicked varlet sprawling; 
 They search'd his pockets on the place, 
 And found his copper all was base ; 
 They laugh'd at such an Irish blunder. 
 To take the noise of brass for thunder. 
 
 EPITAPH ON FATHER PROUT. 
 Sweet upland ! where, like hermit old, in peace 
 sojourned 
 
 This priest devout. 
 Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep 
 inurned 
 
 The bones of Prout ! 
 Nor deck with monumental shrine, orta(>cring 
 column. 
 
 His place of rest. 
 Whose soul, above earth's homage, meek, yet 
 solemn, 
 
 Sits 'mid the blest. 
 Much was he prized, much loved ; his stern 
 rebuke 
 
 O'erawed sheep-stealers ; 
 And rogues feared more the good man's single 
 look 
 
 Than forty peelers. 
 He's gone, and discord soon. I ween, will visit 
 
 The land with quarrels; 
 And the foul demon vex with stills illicit 
 
 The village morals. 
 No fatal chance could happen more to cross 
 
 The public wishes ; 
 And all the neighborhood deplore his loss. 
 
 Except the fishes ; 
 For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled 
 herring 
 
 Preferred to gammon , 
 Grim death has broke his angling rod ; his 
 " herring " 
 
 Delights the salmon. 
 No more can he hook up carp, eel or trout. 
 For fasting pittance, — 
 .•\rts which St. Peter loved, whose gates to 
 Prout 
 
 Gave prompt admittance. 
 Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keep 
 
 His sainted dust ; 
 The bad man's death it well becomes to 
 weep, — 
 
 Not so the just. 
 
 FRANCIS S. MAHONY. 
 
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 
 
 50 
 
 BERANGER'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 Paris! gorgeous abode of the gay! Paris! 
 haunt of despair ! 
 There befell on thy bosom one day an occur- 
 rence most weighty, 
 At the house of a tailor, my grandfather, under 
 whose care 
 I was nursed, in the year of our Lord seven- 
 teen hundred and eighty. 
 By no token, 'tis true, did my cradle announce 
 a young Horace, 
 And the omens were such as might well lead 
 astray the unwary ; 
 But with utter amazement one morning my 
 grandfather Maurice, 
 Saw his grandchild reclining asleep in the 
 arms of a fairy ! 
 And this fairy so handsome 
 Assumed an appearance so striking. 
 And for me seemed to take such a liking. 
 That he knew not what gift he should ofTer 
 the dame for i 
 
 Had he previously studied thy " Legends," O 
 rare Crofty Croker,* 
 He'd have learnt how to act from thy pages 
 ('tis there that the charm is !) 
 But my guardian's first impulse was rather to 
 look for the poker, 
 To rescue his beautiful boy from her hand 
 7'/ ef ar/itis. 
 \ et he paused in his plan and adopted a 
 milder suggestion, 
 For her attitude calm and unterrified made 
 him respect her. 
 So bethought it was best to be civil, and fairly 
 to question, 
 Concerning my prospects in life, the benevo- 
 lent spectre. 
 And the fairy, prophetical. 
 Read my destiny's book m a minute. 
 With all the particulars in it; 
 And its outline she drew with exactitude most 
 geometrical. 
 
 •• His career shall be mingled with pleasure, 
 tho' checkered with pain. 
 And some bright sunny hours shall succeed 
 o a rigorous winter : 
 See him first a gar^on at a hostelry — then, 
 with disdain 
 See him spurn that vile craft and apprentice 
 himself to a printer. 
 
 of the " Fairy Legends 
 
 As a poor university clerk view him next at 
 his desk; 
 Mark that flash ! — he will have a most nar- 
 row escape from the lightning: — 
 But behold after sundry adventures, some 
 bold, some grotesque, 
 The horizon clears up, and his prospects 
 appear to be bright'ning." 
 And the fairy, caressing 
 The infant, foretold that ere long 
 He would warble unrivalled in song ; 
 All France in the homage which Paris had 
 paid acquiescing. 
 
 " Yes, the muse has adopted the boy ! On his 
 brow see the laurel ! 
 In his hand 'tis Anacreon's cup ! — with the 
 Greek he has drank it. 
 Mark the high-minded tone of his songs, and 
 their exquisite moral. 
 Giving joy to the cottage, and height'ning 
 the blaze of the banquet. 
 Now the future grows dark ! — see the spectacle 
 France has become ! 
 Mid the wreck of his country, the poet, 
 undaunted and proud, 
 To the public complain*, shall give utterance : 
 slaves may be dumb, 
 But he'll ring in the hearing of tyrants 
 defiance aloud !" 
 And the fair)' addressing 
 My grandfather, somewhat astonished, 
 j So mildly my guardian admonished. 
 
 That he wept while he vanislied away with a 
 smile and a blessing. 
 
 FKANCLS S. MAHONY. 
 Adapted from Bcrangc: 
 
 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 
 Good people all, of every sort, 
 
 Give ear unto my song. 
 And if you find it wondrous short. 
 
 It cannot hold you long. 
 
 In Islington there was a man. 
 Of whom the world might say. 
 
 That still a godly race he ran. 
 Whene'er he went to pray. 
 
 .\ kind and gentle heart he had. 
 
 To comfort friends and foes ; 
 The naked every day he clad, 
 
 When he put on his clothes. 
 
552 
 
 POEAf6 OF COMEDY. 
 
 And in that town a d<^ was found. 
 
 As many dogs there be, 
 Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound. 
 
 And curs of low degree. 
 
 But now her wealth and finery fled. 
 
 Her hangers on cut short all ; 
 The doctors found, when she was dead, 
 
 Her last disorder mortal. 
 
 This dog and man at first were friends ! 
 
 But when a pique began. 
 The dog. to gain some private ends. 
 
 Went mad, and bit the man. 
 
 Around from all the neighboring streets 
 The wondering neighbors ran. 
 
 And swore the dog had lost his wiis. 
 To bite so good a man. 
 
 The wound it seemed both sore and sad 
 
 To every Christian eye ; 
 And while they swore the dog was mad. 
 
 They swore the man would die. 
 
 But soon a wonder came to light. 
 That show'd the rogues they lied. 
 
 The man recovered of the bite. 
 The dog it was that died. 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Let us lament in sorrow sore. 
 For Kent Street well may say. 
 
 That had she liv"d a twelvemonth more- 
 She had not died to-day. 
 
 OLIVKR UOLDSMITH. 
 
 ELEGY ON MRS. MARY BLAIZE 
 Good people all. with one accord. 
 
 Lament for Madam Blaize, 
 Who never wanted a good word — 
 
 From those who spoke her praise, 
 
 The needy seldom passd her door. 
 And always found her kind ; 
 
 She freely lent to all the poor,- 
 Who left a pledge behind. 
 
 She strove the neighborhood to please. 
 With manners wondrous winning, 
 
 And never follow'd wicked ways, — 
 Unless when she was sinning. 
 
 .\t church, in silks and satins new. 
 With hoop of monstrous size ; 
 
 She never slumber'd in her pew,- 
 lUit when she shut her eyes. 
 
 Her lo\e was sought, I do aver. 
 By twenty beaux and more; 
 
 The king himself has follow"d her.— 
 When she has walk'd before. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT. 
 
 The time is not remote when I 
 Must, in the course of nature, die ; 
 When. 1 foresee, my special friends 
 Will try to find their private ends. 
 And. though 'tis hardly understocxl 
 Which way my death can do them good. 
 Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak: 
 •' See how the Dean begins to break I 
 Poor gentleman, he droops apace I 
 You fairly find it in his face. 
 That old vertigo in his head 
 Will never leave him till he's dead. 
 Besides, his memory decays ; 
 He recollects not what he says : 
 He cannot call his friends to mind : 
 Forgets the place where last he dined ; 
 Plies you with stories o'er and o'er — 
 He told them fifty times before. 
 How does he fancy we can sit 
 To hear his out-of-fashion wit.' 
 But he takes up with younger folks. 
 Who for his wine will bear his jokes. 
 Faith I he must make his stories shorter. 
 Or change his comrades once a quaiter ; 
 In half the time he talks them round 
 There must another set be found. 
 For poetry he's past his prime; 
 He takes an hour to find a rhyme. 
 His fire is out, his wit decayed. 
 His fancy sunk, his muse a jade. 
 I'd have him throw away his pen. 
 But there's no talking to some men.' 
 
 And then their tenderness appears 
 
 By adding largely to my years; 
 
 " He's older than he would be reckoned, 
 
 And well remembers Charles the Second. 
 
 He hardly drinks a port of wine. 
 
 And that, I doubt, is no good si^;ii. 
 
 His stomach, loo. begins to fail ; 
 
ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT. 
 
 553 
 
 Last year we thought him strong and hale, 
 
 But now he's quite another thing ; 
 
 I wish he may hold out till spring." 
 
 They hug themselves and reason thus: 
 
 •• It is not yet so bad with us I" 
 
 In such a case they talk in tropes, 
 
 And by their fears express their hopes. 
 
 Some great misfortune to portend. 
 
 No enemy can match a friend. 
 
 With all the kindness they profess, 
 
 The merit of a lucky guess 
 
 (When daily how-d'ye's come of course. 
 
 And servants answer, "Worse and worse I") 
 
 Would please them better than to tell 
 
 That "God be praised, the Dean is well." 
 
 Then he who prophesied the best 
 
 Approves his foresight to the rest : 
 
 " You know I always feared the worst, 
 
 And often told you so at first." 
 
 He'd rather choose that I should die 
 
 Than his prediction prove a lie. 
 
 Not one foretells I shall recover. 
 
 But all agree to give me over. 
 
 Yet should some neighbor feel a pain 
 
 lust in the parts where I complain. 
 
 How many a message would he send ! 
 
 With hearty prayers that I should mend! 
 
 Enquire what regimen I kept. 
 
 What gave me ease, and how I slept. 
 
 And more lament when I was dead. 
 
 Than all the snivellers round my bed. 
 
 My good companions, never fear ; 
 
 For though you may mistake a year, 
 
 Tho' your prognostics run too fast. 
 
 They must be verified at last. 
 
 Behold the fatal day arrive ! 
 " How is the Dean ?" " He's just alive." 
 Now the departing prayer is read ; 
 " He hardly breathes." "The Dean is dead !' 
 Before the passing bell begun 
 The news through half the town is run, 
 " Oh ! may we all for death prepare. 
 What has he left.' and who's his heir? " 
 " I know no more than what the news is ; 
 Tis all bequeathed to public uses." 
 " To public uses! There's a whim ! 
 What had the public done for him ? 
 Mere envy, avarice and pride! 
 He gave it all — but first he died. 
 And had the Dean in all the nation 
 No worthy friend, no poor relation? 
 So ready to do strangers good. 
 Forgetting his own flesh and blood!" 
 
 Suppose me dead, and then suppose 
 A club assembled at the Rose, 
 Where, from discourse of this and that, 
 I grow the subject of their chat ; 
 And while they toss my name about. 
 With favor some, and some without. 
 One quite indifferent in the cause 
 My character impartial draws : 
 " The Dean, if we believe report. 
 Was never ill-received at court. 
 As for his works in verse and prose, 
 I own myself no judge of those. 
 Nor can I tell wliat critics thought 'em; 
 But this I know, all people bought 'em. 
 As with a moral view design 'd 
 To cure the vices of mankind. 
 His vein, ironically grave, 
 Expos'd the fool and lash'd the knave. 
 To steal a hint was never known. 
 But what he writ was all his own. 
 He never thought an honor done him 
 Because a duke was proud to own him ; 
 Would rather slip aside and choose 
 To talk with wits in dirty shoes; 
 Despised the fool with stars and garters 
 So often seen caressing Chartres. 
 He never courted men in station ; 
 No persons held in admiration ; 
 Of no man's greatness was afraid. 
 Because he sought for no man's aid. 
 Though trusted long in great affairs. 
 He gave himself no haughty airs ; 
 Without regarding private ends. 
 Spent all his credit for his friends. 
 And only chose the wise and good, — 
 No flatterers, no allies in blood ; 
 But succor'd virtue in distress. 
 And seldom fail'd of good success, 
 As numbers in their hearts must own. 
 Who but for him would be unknown. 
 With princes kept a due decorum. 
 But never stoou in awe before 'em. 
 He follow'd David's lesson just, — 
 In princes never put your trust ; 
 And would you make him truly sour. 
 Provoke hini with a slave in power. 
 The Irish Senate if you named. 
 With what impatience he declaim'd! 
 ' Fair Liberty' was all his cry. 
 For her he stood prepared to die , 
 For her he boldly stood alone ; 
 For her he oft exposed his own. 
 Two kingdoms, just .s faction led, 
 
554 
 
 POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 Had set a price upon his head ; 
 
 But not a traitor could bo found 
 
 Could sell him for six hundred pound.* 
 
 Had he but spared his tongue and pen. 
 
 He might have rose like other men ; 
 
 But power was never in his thought. 
 
 And wealth he valued not a groat. 
 
 Ingratitude he often found. 
 
 .\nd pitied those who meant the wound ; 
 
 But kept the tenor of his mind, 
 
 To merit well of human kind; 
 
 Nor made a sacrifice of those 
 
 Who still were true to please his foes. 
 
 He labored many a fruitful hour 
 
 To reconcile his friends in fKJwer; 
 
 Saw mischief by a faction brewing. 
 
 While they pursued each other's ruin ; 
 
 But finding vain was all his care. 
 
 He left the court in mere despair. 
 
 " Perhaps I may allow the Dean 
 
 Had too much satire in his vein. 
 
 And seemed determined not to star\e it. 
 
 Because no age could more deserve it. 
 
 Yet malice never was his aim. 
 
 He lashed the vice, but spared the name ; 
 
 No individual could resent 
 
 Where thousands equally were meant. 
 
 His satire p>oints at no defect 
 
 But what all mortals may correct; 
 
 For he abhorred that senseless tribe 
 
 Who call it humor when they gibe; 
 
 He spared a hump or crooked nose 
 
 Whose owners set not up for beaux. 
 
 True genuine dullness moved his pity, 
 
 Unless it offered to be witty. 
 
 Those who their ignorance confessed 
 
 He ne'er offended with a jest ; 
 
 But laughed to hear an idiot quote 
 
 Averse from Horace learned by rote. 
 
 He knew a hundred pleasing stories. 
 
 With all the turns of Whigs and Tories 
 
 Was cheerful to his dying day. 
 
 And friends would let him have his way. 
 
 He gave the little wealth he had 
 
 To build a house for fools and mad ; 
 
 And proved by one satiric touch 
 
 No nation needed it so much. 
 
 That kingdom he has left his debtor: 
 
 1 wish It soon may have a better." 
 
 JONAIHAN -swin. 
 
 • Referring lo n-Wiirils of £,yM each offered in KD>;land ar 
 Ireland for the discovery uf the author of two bitter attacks t 
 the Go%*crnment. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF STIFFENBACH. 
 
 One day the Baron Stiffenbach among his 
 fathers slept. 
 
 And his relict o'er his ashes like a water-god- 
 dess wept. 
 
 Till her apparatus lachrymal required so many 
 •• goes '■ 
 
 From certain flasks, that soon there came a 
 ruby on her nose. 
 
 The Dowager of Stiffenbach was fair enough 
 
 to view. 
 And, having her dead husband's wealth, could 
 
 touch the rhino too; 
 But yet. of all the neighb'ring nobs, not one 
 
 would e'er propose. 
 Because she wore a ruby, a large ruby on her 
 
 At this the jewelled baroness was very much 
 
 annoyed. 
 But rival baronesses her perplexity enjoyed, 
 For the ruby was a by-word and a triumph to 
 
 her foes. 
 Who, spinster, wife, and widow, all exulted at 
 
 her nose. 
 
 The Baroness of Stiffenbach now called the 
 
 doctors in. 
 And freely ga\-e for drugs and shrugs great 
 
 quantities of " tin." 
 At length they said 'twas surgeon's work, then 
 
 gravely all arose. 
 And left her, as they found her, with the ruby 
 
 on her nose. 
 
 Now came the surgeons. First they voted all 
 the doctors fools, [of tools; 
 
 Then drew from curious armories a multitude 
 
 That they were armed to fight a bear a stran- 
 ger would suppose. 
 
 And not to dig a ruby from a baroness's nose. 
 
 But now among the surgeons vital difference 
 we find, [cut behind ; 
 
 For some proposed to cut befor. and some to 
 
 And soon, in scalpelomachy, they well-nigh 
 came to blows. 
 
 For the baroness's ruby — the ruby on her nose. 
 
 At length came forward one. by lot elected 
 
 from the rest. 
 But, alas ! the eager brotherhood too closely 
 
 round him pressed. 
 
LARRY O'BRANIGAN'S LETTERS. 
 
 555 
 
 For they stood upon the corns of the opera- Which their docthors (who pocket, like fun, 
 
 tor's toes. | the pound starlins). 
 
 Who. leaping, with the ruby, also sliced away Have brought into fashion to plase the owld 
 the nose. darlins. 
 
 Div'l a boy in all Bath, though /say it. could 
 
 carry 
 The grannies up hill half so handy as Larr\' ; 
 That very day the baroness capriciously ex- i And the higher they liv'd, like owld crows, in 
 
 They stitched it on immediately, yet — a'/y 
 has not transpired 
 
 pired ; 
 
 the air, 
 
 Thus died that lovely lady, by a judgment, 1 The more /was wanted to lug them up there. 
 
 some suppose. 
 For havmg led the baron, in his lifetime, by ; But luck has two handles, dear Judy, they say, 
 
 the nose. And mine has both handles put on the wrong 
 
 way. 
 They made her grave three fathoms deep, by [ For. pondherin'. one morn, on adrame I'd just 
 
 Rhine's embattled tide, 
 And bowed her gently downwards by her 
 
 darling Stiffy's side ; 
 But her restless spirit wanders still, and oft, 
 
 at evening's close. 
 She haunts the castle ramparts, with her finger 
 
 on her nose. 
 
 Grim reader, let us blubber o'er the melan- 
 choly fate 
 
 Of the quondam Baron Stiffy's non-teetotal- 
 izing mate ; 
 
 And for the future solemnly, if possible, pro- 
 pose 
 
 To shun the weird elixirs that bring rubies on 
 the nose. 
 
 RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 
 
 had 
 Of yourself and the babbies, at Mullinafad, 
 Och, there came o'er my sinses so plasin' a 
 
 flutther. 
 That I spilt an owld Countess right clane in 
 
 the gutther. 
 Muff, feathers and all ! — the descint was most 
 
 awful, 
 And — what wasstill worse, faith — 1 knew 'twas 
 
 unlawful : 
 For, though, with mere women, no very great 
 
 evil, 
 T' upset an owld Countess in Bath is the divil ! 
 So, liftin' the chair with herself safe upon it, 
 ( For nothin' about her was /{•///. but her bonnet). 
 Without even mentionin' " By your lave, 
 
 ma'am." 
 I tuk to my heels and — here, Judy, 1 am 1 
 
 What's the name of this town I can't say very 
 
 well, 
 But your heart sure will jump when j'ou hear 
 what befell 
 By mail-coach conveyance, for want of a \ Your own beautiful Larry, the very first day, 
 
 betther. (And aSunday it was, shinin' out mighty gay,) 
 
 To tell you what luck in this world I have had i When his brogues to this city of luck found 
 
 LARRY O'BRANIGAN'S LETTERS. 
 
 FIRST LETIKR. 
 
 Dear Judy. I send you this bit of a letther 
 
 1 left the sweet cabin at Mullinafad. 
 
 their way. 
 
 How I came to this England, o'er say and o'er Bein' hungry. God help me, and happenin' to 
 
 lands. stop. 
 
 And what cruel hard walkin' I've had on my Just to dine on the shmell of a pasthry-cook's 
 
 hands, shop. 
 
 Is, at this present writin', too tadious to spake, \ I saw, in the window, a large printed paper. 
 So I'll mintion it all in a postscript, next week ; j And read there a name, och I that made my 
 Only starv'd I was, surely, as thin as a latl 
 Till I cami 
 
 Bath, 
 i luck 
 
 male'; 
 By dhraggin' owld ladies all day through the 
 
 heart caper- 
 to an up-and-down place they call Though printed it was in some quare ABC, 
 That might bother a schoolmasther, let alone 
 Where, as luck was, I manag'd to make a , w,'. 
 
 male's mate. st.ect — By got, you'd have laughed. J udy, could you've 
 
556 
 
 POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 it ' And lads more cuniint never yet left iheLiffey, 
 
 When Murthagh — or Morthimer, as he"s nmo 
 
 chrishen'd, 
 
 then a | His name bein' convarted. at laist, if ht isn't — 
 
 Lookin' sly at mc (faith, 'twas divartin' to see) 
 
 " Of coorsn.yoa'rc a Protestant. Larry." says 
 
 he. 
 
 As, doubtin'. 1 cried, "why it ts.'- 
 
 isn't." 
 But it was, afther all — for. by spellin' quite slow 
 First I made out " Rev. Morti 
 
 great " O " ; 
 And, at last, by hard readin' and rackin" my 
 
 skull again. 
 Out it came, nate as imported. " O'Mulligan '" Upon which says myself, wid a wink just as 
 
 Up I jumped, like a skylark, my jewl. at that 
 
 name, — 
 Div'l a doubt on my mind, but it miis/ be the 
 
 same. 
 " Masther Murthagh, himself," says I, " all the 
 
 world over I 
 
 My own fosther brother — by jinks. I'm in What Murthagh could 
 
 shiy. 
 • 1st a Protestant ?— O yes. 1 am, sir." says 1 . 
 And there the chat ended, and div'l a more 
 
 word 
 Controvarsial between us has since then oc- 
 
 curr'd. 
 
 t?. and. m troth. 
 
 clover. 
 
 Judy dear, 
 
 Though lAen; in the playbill, he figures so What / myself meant, doesn't seem mighty 
 
 grand 
 
 clear ; 
 
 One wet nurse it was brought us both up by I But the thruth is. though still for the Owld 
 
 hand. 
 And he'll not let me shtarve in the inci 
 land !" 
 
 ■s 1 
 
 Well, to make a long histhorj' short, niver 
 
 doubt 
 But I managed, in no time, to find the lad out ; 
 And the joy of the meetin' bethuxt him and 
 
 me. 
 Such a pair of owld cumrogues — was charmin' 
 
 to see. 
 Nor is Murthagh less plas'd with th' evint 
 
 than 1 am. 
 As he just then was wantin' a Valley-de-sham ; 
 And, for dressin a gintleman, one way or 
 
 t'other. 
 Your nate Irish lad is beyant every other 
 
 Light a stickler, 
 just then too shtar\'d to be over par- 
 [ tic'lar : — 
 
 And. God knows, between us. a comic'ler pair 
 ' Of twin Protestants couldn't be seen any 
 
 where. 
 I Next Tuesday (as towld in the playbills I min- 
 tion'd. 
 Address'd to the loyal and godly intintion'd,) 
 His riverence, my masther, comes forward to 
 
 prache, — 
 Myself doesn't know whether sarmon or 
 
 spache. 
 But it's all one to him. he's a dead hand at 
 
 aich; 
 Like us, Paddies, in ginral. whose skill in 
 orations 
 
 „ , , ./ ■^ ,. „< ,K„ Ouite bothers the blarney of all other nations. 
 
 But now, Judy, comes the quare part of the ~ , . , , , • . • n- • u .• • 
 
 ■' ■' -11- jj J whisht I— there s his Rivirence shoutin 
 
 And in throth, it's the only drawback on my 
 
 place. 
 "Twas Murthagh's ill luck to be cross'd, as 
 
 you know. I 
 
 With an awkward mishfortune some short 
 
 out •■ Larry." 
 And sorra a word more will this shmall paper 
 
 carr)' ; 
 So. here, Judy, ends my short bit of aletther. 
 Which, faix, I'd have made a much biggerand 
 
 betther. 
 
 , ime as, . . But div'l a one Post-office hole in this town 
 That s to say. he turn d Protestant — why, 1 , _. .. 
 
 can t lam ; 
 But. of coorse. he knew best, an' it's not my 
 consarn. 
 
 Fit to swallow a dacent siz'd billy-dux down. 
 
 SECt)N[) LETTER. 
 
 All I know is, we both were good Cath'lics. at As it was but lasht week that I sint you a let- 
 nurse, ther. 
 And myself am so still— nayther betther nor j You'll wondher, dear Judy, what this is 
 
 ' about; 
 
 worse. 
 
 Well, our barj^ain was all right and tight in 
 jilTv. 
 
 And. throth. it's a letther myself would like 
 betther. 
 
LARRY 0-BRANIGAN-S LETTERS. 
 
 557 
 
 Could I manage to lave the contints of it 
 For sure, if it makes even tne onaisy, [out ; 
 Who takes things quiet, 'twill dhrivej'fw crazy. 
 O, Judy, that riverind Murthagh, bad scran to 
 
 him ! 
 That e'er I should come to've been sarvint 
 
 man to him. 
 Or so far damane the O'Branigan blood, 
 And my Aunts, the Diluvians (whom not ev'n 
 
 the Flood 
 Was able to wash away clane from the earth) 
 As to sarve one whose name, of mere yesther- 
 
 day's birth. 
 Can no more to a great O, ii-forc it, purtend, 
 Than mine can to wear a great O at its i-iu{. 
 
 But that's now all over — lasht night I gev 
 
 warnin'. 
 And, masth'r as he is, will discharge him this 
 
 mornin'. 
 The thief of the world ! — but it's no use bal- 
 
 raggin' ;— 
 All I know is, I'd fifty times rather bedraggin' 
 Owld ladies up hill to the ind of my days. 
 Than with Murthagh to rowl in a chaise, at 
 
 my aise, 
 And be forc'd to discind through the same 
 
 dirty ways. 
 Arrah, sure, if I'd heerd where he last show'd 
 
 his phiz, 
 I'd have known what a quare sort of monsther 
 
 he is; 
 For, by gor, 'twas at Exether Change, sure 
 
 enough, 
 That himself and his other wild Irish show'd 
 
 off; 
 And it's pity, so 'tis, that they hadn't got no 
 
 Who knew the wild crathurs to act as their 
 
 showman — 
 Sayin', " Ladies and Gintlemen, plaze to take 
 
 notice, 
 '• How shlim and how shleek this black 
 
 animal's coat is ; 
 " All by raison, we're towld, that the nathur 
 
 o' the baste 
 "Is to change its coat oiu\- in its lifetime, at 
 
 lasie ; 
 " And such objiks, in our counthry, not bein' 
 
 " To differ on this point so much with the 
 
 Larn'd, 
 " Who call it a •Morthiincr: whereas the 
 
 craythur 
 " Is plainly a 'Murthagh,' by name and by 
 
 nathur." 
 
 But, throth, I've no laisure just now, Judy 
 
 dear, 
 For any thing, barrin' our own doins here, 
 And the cursin' and damnin' and thund'rin', 
 
 like mad. 
 We Papists, God help us, from Murthagh 
 
 have had. 
 He says we're all murtherers — div'l a bit less — 
 And that even our priests, when we go to 
 
 confess, 
 Give us lessons in murth'rin'. and wish us 
 
 success! 
 When ax'd how he daar'd, by tongue or by 
 
 pen, 
 To belie, in this way, seven millions of men. 
 Faith, he said 'twas all towld him by Docthor 
 
 Den! 
 " And who the div'l's he? " was the question 
 
 that flew 
 From Chrishtian toChrishtian — but notasowl 
 
 knew, 
 While on went Murthagh, in iligant style, 
 Blasphamin' us Cath'lics all the while. 
 As a pack of desaivers, parjurers, villians, 
 All the whole kit of th' aforesaid millions, — 
 Yourself, dear Judy, as well as the rest, 
 And the innocent craythur that's at your 
 
 breast, 
 All rogues together, in word and deed, 
 Owld Den our instructor and Sin our creed ! 
 
 When ax'd for his proofs again and again, 
 Div'l an answer he'd give but Docthor Den. 
 Couldn't he call into coort some Uvi7i men .' 
 " No, thank you," he'd stick to Docthor Den — 
 An owld gintleman dead a century or two. 
 Who all about us, live Cath'lics. knew ; 
 And of coorse was more handy, to call in a 
 
 hurry, 
 Than Docthor MacHale or Docthor Murray! 
 
 But, throth, it's no case to be jokin' upon, 
 Though myself, from bad habits, is luaktn it 
 
 one. 
 Even/tw, had you witness'd his grand climac- 
 
 therics. 
 In regard of its ««;«(•— why, in throth, I'm I Which actially threw one owld maid in hys- 
 
 common ones, 
 
 I "Are bought up. -as this was. by way of Fine 
 Nomenons. 
 
 consarn'd 
 
55« 
 
 POEMS OF COMEDY. 
 
 O:. och ! had you hcerd such a purty remark 
 
 as his. 
 That Papists are only " Humanity's carcasses, 
 •' Ris'n " — but, by dad, I'm afeard 1 can't give 
 
 it ye— 
 I •' Ris'n from the sepulchre of — inactivity; 
 •■ And, like owld corpses, dug up fromantikity, 
 ■• Wand'rin" about in all sorts of inikity 1 1 " 
 Even you, Judy, true as you are to the Owld 
 
 Light, 
 Would have laugh 'd. out and out, at this 
 
 iligant flight 
 Of that figure of speech call'd the Blathenini- 
 
 skite. 
 As for me, thougli a funny thought now and 
 
 then came to mo. 
 Rage got the betther at last— and small blame ! 
 
 to me! I 
 
 So, slapping my thigh, " by the Powers of 
 
 Delf," 
 Says I bowldly, '• I'll make a noration myself." 
 And with that i;p I jumps — but, my darlint, the 
 
 minit 
 I cock'd up my head, div'l a sinse remain'd in 
 
 it. 
 Though. saHcil. I could have got beautiful on. 
 When I tuk to my legs, faith, the gab was all 
 
 gone :— 
 Which was odd, for us, Pats, who, whate'er 
 
 we've a hand in. 
 At laste in our legs show a shtrong undher- 
 
 standin'. 
 
 Howsumdever. detarmin'd the chaps should 
 pursaive 
 
 What I thought of their doin's. before I tuk 
 lave. 
 
 " In regard of all that." says I — there I stop- 
 ped short — 
 
 Not a word more would come, though 1 
 shtruggled hard for't. 
 
 So, schnappin' my fingers at what's called the 
 Chair. 
 
 And the ould Lord (or Lady, I b'licve) that 
 sat there — 
 
 '• In regard of all that," says I bowldly again, I 
 ■• T' ould Nick I pitch Mortimer, and Docthor I 
 
 Den ; '• . ' 
 
 Upon which the whole company cried out ' 
 
 "Amen!" 
 And myself was in hopes 'twas to what / had 
 
 said, , 
 
 But. by gor. no such thing — they were ncjt so j 
 
 well bred ; 
 For 'twas all to a prayer Murthagh just had l 
 
 read out. i 
 
 By way of fit finish to job so devout : 
 That 1%—a/l/ii-r well damnin' one-half the I 
 
 community. 
 To pray God to keep all in pace an' in unity. 
 
 This is all I can shtuff in this letter, though 
 
 plinty I 
 
 Of news, faith. I've got to fill more — if 'twas | 
 
 twinty. ' 
 
 But I'll add. on the oiilsu/f. a line, should I j 
 
 need it. | 
 
 Writin' " Private " upon it, that no one may 
 
 read it. 
 To tell you how Mortimer (as the Saints chrish- 
 
 ten him) 
 Bears the big shame of his sarvint's dismisshin' 
 
 him. 
 
 {Private Outside.) 
 Jist come from his riv'rence — the job is all 
 
 done — 
 By the p>owers. I've discharg'd him as sure as 
 
 a gun! 
 An' now. Judy dear, what on earth I'm to do 
 With myself an' my appetite. — both good as 
 
 new — 
 Without even a single traneen in my pocket. 
 Let alone agooddacent pound starlin' to stock 
 
 it, 
 Is a mysht'r>' I lave to the One that's above. 
 Who takes care of us. dissolute sowls, whin 
 
 hard dhrove! 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 Prom " T/u- Pii,h',s in P upland." 
 
PART XI. 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 
 
 Waileth a woman, " Oh, my God '" 
 Wind-driven waves, with no hearts that ache, 
 Why do your passionate pulses throb ? 
 No lips that speak — have ye souls that sob ? 
 We carry the cross — ye wear the crest ; 
 We have our God — and ye your shore, 
 Whither ye rush in the storms to rest ; 
 We have the havens of holy prayer. 
 And we have a hope — have ye despair ? 
 For, storm-rocked waves, ye break evermore, 
 Adown the shores and along the years. 
 In the whitest foam of the saddest tears ; 
 -And we, as ye, oh ! waves, gray waves ! 
 Drift over a sea more deep and wide. 
 For we have sorrow and we have death. 
 And ye have only the tempest's breath ; 
 But we have Ciod when heart oppressed, 
 As a calm and beautiful shore of rest. 
 
 AbRAM J. Ryan 
 
POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW, 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN OF TEARS. 
 If you go over desert and mountain, 
 I'ar into the country of sorrow. 
 To-day and to-night and to-morrow. 
 
 And maybe for months and for years. 
 You shall come, with a heart that is bursting 
 For trouble and toiling and thirsting, 
 You shall certainly come to the fountain 
 
 At length, — to the Fountain of Tears, 
 
 Very peaceful the place is, and solely 
 For piteous lamenting and sighing. 
 And those who come living or dying 
 
 Alike from their hopes and their fears ; 
 Full. of cypress-like shadows the place is. 
 And statues that cover their faces ; 
 But out of the gloom springs the holy 
 
 And beautiful Fountain of Tears. 
 
 And it flows and it flows with a motion 
 So gentle and lonely and listless, 
 And murmurs a tune .so resistless 
 
 To him who hath suffered and hears — 
 You shall surely — without a word spoken. 
 Kneel downthereand knowyour heart broken, 
 .\nd yield to the long curb'd emotion 
 
 That day by the Fountain of Tears. 
 
 For it grows and it grows, as the' leaping 
 I'p higher the more one is thinking; 
 And ever its tunes go on sinking 
 
 More poignantly into the ears : 
 Yea, so blessed and good seems that fountain. 
 Reached after dry desert and mountain. 
 You shall fall down at length in your weeping 
 
 .And bathe your sad face in the tears. 
 
 Then, alas, while you lie there a season, 
 .\nd sob between living and dying. 
 And give up the land you were trying 
 To find 'mid your hopes and your fears, — 
 
 O the world shall come up and pass o'er you ; 
 Strong men shall n(jt stay to care for you. 
 Nor wonder indeed for what reason 
 I Your way should seem harder than theirs. 
 
 r>ut perhaps while you lie, never lifting 
 Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses. 
 Nor caring to raise your wet tresses 
 
 And look how the cold world appears, — 
 O perhaps the mere silences round you — 
 .All things in that place grief hath found you, 
 ■^'ca, e'en to the clouds o'er j'ou drifting, 
 
 -Mav soothe you somewhat thro' your tears. 
 
 You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes 
 Your face, as tho' some one had kissed you ; 
 Or think at least some one who missed you 
 
 Hath sent you a thought, — if that cheers; 
 ; (^r a bird's little song, faint and broken, 
 Mav pass for a tender word spoken : 
 Knough while around you there rushes 
 
 That life-drowning torrent of tears. 
 
 And the tears shall flow faster and faster. 
 
 Brim over and baffle resistance, 
 
 .And roll down bleared roads to each distance 
 
 Of past desolation and years : 
 Till they cover the place of each sorrow. 
 And leave you no past and no morrow : 
 For what man is able to master 
 j And stem the great Fountain of Tears .■^ 
 
 But the floods of the tears meet and gather; 
 ! The sound of them all grows like thunder: 
 O into what bosom, I wonder. 
 
 Is poured the whole sorrow of years 'f 
 For Eternity only seems keeping 
 .Account of the great human weeping: 
 May (iod, then, the Maker and Father — 
 May He find a place for the tear.s. 
 
 I .\RJHUR O'SHAUdHN'KS.SV, 
 
562 
 
 rOEAfS OF LOSS AXD SO /{HO IV. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE POOR. 
 Was ever sorrow like to our sorrow ? 
 
 O ! God above ! 
 Will our night never change into a morrow 
 
 Of joy and love ? 
 A deadly gloom is on us. waking, sleeping. 
 
 Like the darkness at noontide, 
 That fell upon the pallid Mother, weeping 
 
 By the Crucified. 
 
 Before us die our brothers of starvation ; 
 
 Around are cries of famine and despair I 
 Where is hope for us. or comfort, or salva- 
 
 Where — O! where.' [tion — 
 
 If the angels ever hearken, downward bend- 
 
 They are weeping, we are sure, [ing. 
 
 At the litanies of human groans ascending 
 
 I"rom the crush 'd hearts of the poor. 
 
 When the human rests in love upon the 
 
 All grief is light ; [human. 
 
 But who bends one kind glance to illumine 
 
 Our life-long night? 
 The air around is ringing with their laughter — 
 
 God has only made the rich to smile ; 
 But we — in our rags, and want, and woe — we 
 follow after, 
 
 Weeping the while. 
 
 And the laughter seems but uttered to deride 
 
 When, O ! when [us. 
 
 Will fall the frozen barriers that divide us 
 
 From other men ? 
 Will ignorance for ever thus enslave us. 
 
 Will misery for ever lay us low? 
 All are eager with their insults ; but to save us 
 
 None, none, we know. 
 
 We never knew a childhood's mirth and glad- 
 ness, [brave ; 
 
 Nor the proud heart of youth free and 
 O, a deathlike dream of wretchedness and sad- 
 
 Is life's weary journey to the grave, [ness 
 Day by day we lower sink and lower. 
 
 Till the godlike soul within 
 Falls crushed beneath the fearful demon |X)wer 
 
 Of poverty and sin. 
 
 So we toil on, on with fever burning 
 
 In heart and brain. 
 So we toil on, on through bitter scorning. 
 
 Want. woe. and pain. 
 We dare not raise our eyes to the blue Heaven 
 
 Or the toil must cease — [given 
 
 We dare not breathe the fresh air God has 
 
 One hour in peace. 
 
 We must toil, tho" the light of life is burning, 
 
 O, how dim ! 
 We must toil on our sick-beds, feebly turning 
 
 Our eyes to Him, 
 Who alone can hear the j>ale lip faintly saying, 
 
 With scarce-moved breath. [ing. 
 
 While the paler hands uplifted, and the pray- 
 
 ■• God grant us Death I " 
 
 I.AUV WILUE. 
 
 THEY NEVER TELL WHY. 
 Go down where the wavelets are kissing the 
 
 shore. 
 And ask of them why do they sigh ? 
 The poets have asked them a thousand times 
 
 o'er. 
 But they're kissing the shore as they kissed it 
 
 before. 
 And they're sighing to-day and they'll sigh 
 
 evermore. 
 Ask them what ails them : they will not reply. 
 But they'll sigh on forever and never tell why! 
 Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? 
 The waves will not answer you ; neither shall \. 
 
 Go stand on the beach of the blue boundless 
 deep. 
 When the night-stars are gleaming on high. 
 And hear how the billows are moaning in 
 
 sleep. 
 On the low-lying strand by the surge-beaten 
 
 steep ; 
 They're moaning forever wherever they sweep. 
 Ask them what ails them : they never reply ; 
 i They moan, and so sadly, but will not tell why ! 
 I Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
 The waves will not answer you ; neither shall L 
 
 Go list to the breeze at the waning of day. 
 When it passes and murmurs " Good-bye " — 
 
 The dear little breeze — how it wishes to stay 
 
 Where the flowers are in bloom, where the 
 I singing birds play ; 
 
 J How it sighs when it flies on its wearisome 
 
 Ask it what ails it ; it will not reply ; [way. 
 I Its voice is a sad one. it never told why. 
 I Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
 
 The breeze will notansweryou : neither shall I. 
 
 Go watch the wild blasts, as they spring from 
 
 their lair. 
 When the shout of the storm rends the sky; 
 They rush o'er the earth, and they rkle 
 
 through the air. 
 
THE DEATH OF LILY. 
 
 563 
 
 And they blight with their breath all the 
 lovely and fair, [of despair." 
 
 And they groan like the ghosts in the "land 
 
 Ask them what ails them : they never reply ; 
 
 Their voices are mournful, they will not tell 
 why. 
 
 Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
 
 The blasts will not answer you ; neither shall I 
 
 Go stand on the rivulet's lily-fringed side. 
 
 Or list where the rivers rush by ; [hide, 
 The streamlets which forest trees shadow and 
 And the rivers that roll in their oceanward 
 
 tide. 
 Are moaning forever wherever they glide ; 
 Ask them what ails them : they will not reply. 
 On — sad-voiced — they flow, but they never tell 
 
 why. 
 Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
 Earth's streams will not answer you ; neither 
 
 shall I. 
 
 Go list to the voices of earth, air and sea. 
 
 And the voices that sound in the sky ; 
 Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me 
 There's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in 
 
 each ke\'. 
 And thousands of sighs swell their grand 
 
 melody. 
 Ask them what ails them : they will not reply ; 
 They sigh, sigh forever, but never tell why. 
 Why does your poetry sound like a sigh.' 
 Their lips will not answer you ; neither shall I. 
 
 ABRAiM J. KVAN. 
 
 NEPENTHE. 
 Come Sorrow, smooth my brow and kiss my 
 
 lips. 
 And lay thy gentle hand upon my heart. 
 And on my bosom pillow thy sweet head : 
 For in thy silent face and loving eyes 
 I trace the memories of long-fled years. 
 Aye, thou art kind as thou art beautiful ! 
 And never joy in its supremest hour. 
 Gave aught of happiness as dear as thee ; 
 For thou, the winsome shadow of my hope, 
 The sweet ideal of the vanished years. 
 Art still an image of the loved and lost. 
 Even tho' on evening wings the Real hath fled. 
 Yea, Sorrow. I will kiss thy pensive mouth. 
 And call thee steadfast friend, and love thee 
 
 well. 
 For thou wert constant when all else were 
 
 false ! 
 
 But lo! the while my eyes with blinding tears 
 Are wet, I see thy sable raiment fall, 
 And in my arms I have unconscious clasped 
 The smiling, white-winged angel of the Lord! 
 
 ROWLAND li. MAHANV. 
 
 SHE DIED IN BEAUTY. 
 She died in beauty! like a rose 
 
 Blown from its parent stem ; 
 She died in beauty! like a pearl 
 
 Dropped from some diadem. 
 
 She died in beauty ! like a lay 
 
 Along a moonlit lake ; 
 She died in beauty! like the song 
 
 Of birds amid the brake. 
 
 She died in beauty! like the snow 
 
 On flowers dissolved away ; 
 She died in beauty! like a star 
 
 Lost on the brow of day. 
 
 She lives in glory ! like night's gems 
 
 Set round the silver moon ; 
 She lives in glory ! like the sun 
 
 Amid the blue of June. 
 
 chari.es doyne sillery. 
 
 THE DEATH OF LILY. 
 They called her" Lily." Lilian was her name. 
 But from her birth she seemed so waxen white. 
 So fairy slight, so gentle and so pure, 
 That to her father's mind she ever brought 
 The image of that pale and fragile flower ; 
 And so he called her " Lily." 'Twas a term 
 In which endearment, tenderness, and hope 
 Were all wreathed up ; the hope too often 
 
 crossed 
 By jealous fears, when some untoward breath 
 Too roughly bent to earth the sickly flower, 
 Leaving it drooping on its yielding stem. 
 And there she lay at last — almost in Heaven— 
 Of time and of eternity a part — 
 A dying, living link, uniting those 
 Who live to die— and die to ever live ! 
 
 He sat beside her bed, and in his hands 
 Buried his streaming eyes. His soul rebelled: 
 " She had no right to die — to rive his heart ; 
 Rob him and it of all life's tenderest ties." 
 He felt as he could say : " Lily, lie there 
 Forever dying; but, oh ! never die 
 
564 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS AND SOAAVIV. 
 
 Till I die too." He thought not of his wife. 
 She was his other self: she was himself; 
 But Lily was their cherished life of life— 
 Of each and both a part,— so grafted on. 
 That, if removed, they must become once more 
 Two bodies with two souls,— no longer one. 
 Their living link destroyed ;— not loving less. 
 But singly loving ; — twixt their hearts a gulf 
 Unbridged by Lily's lo\e :— a love so pure. 
 That not a taint of selfishness was near: 
 All this he felt, and on the future looked 
 As on a desolation. 
 
 Lily spoke — 
 Or whispered rather — but a thunder peal 
 Would less affect him than her sinking tones : 
 " Raise me, dear father ; take me to your 
 
 breast — j 
 
 Your broad kind breast, so full of love for me — | 
 Twill rest me on my road— 'tis half-way 
 
 Home I " 
 
 And then he rose, and round her wasted form 
 His brawny arms, before whose mighty 
 
 strength 
 The massive anvil quivered, as his hands 
 Swung high the ponderous sledge — or in 
 
 whose gripe [dued,— 
 
 The fiery steed stood conquered and sub- 
 Closed, as the breath of Heaven, or God's 
 
 own love. 
 So lightly, softly, gently, hemmed they in 
 The little dying child. Then there he sat. 
 Her face upon his breast, and on his knee 
 Her tearless mother's head : for all her tears 
 ■Were inly wept, dropping like molten lead 
 Upon her breaking heart. Far in the west 
 Long waves of crimson clouds stretched o'er 
 
 the hills; 
 And thro" those clouds, as in a sea of blood. 
 The sun sank slowly down. Ere his last ray 
 Glanced upward from the earth, the father felt 
 His Lily lift her head — celestial light 
 Beamed from her eyes, as for the last embrace 
 She to her mother turned, and then to him : 
 "They beckon me," she said. " 1 come 1 1 
 
 come.'" 
 Around his neck she twined her faded arms. 
 Rising obedient to her heavenly call ; 
 Again he pressed her lips, but in the kiss 
 Her soul enfranchised, bounded from its 
 
 thrall; 
 Its crumbling fetters dropped upon liis heart, 
 The angel was at Home ! 
 
 JOHN CRAWFORD WILSON. 
 Frum " //omiT.'" 
 
 ANOTHER JUNE. 
 
 Last June, in my lone garden, a lovely rose- 
 tree grew. 
 
 Rich in God's gracious giving of sunshine and 
 of dew ; 
 
 Rich with a wealth of roses, fragrant and 
 glowing red. 
 
 • 1 ween there are none fairer in all the 
 world," I said. 
 
 E'en as I spake, a spirit came to my humble 
 
 door; 
 I trembled, gazing on him : — oft had he come 
 
 before. 
 •Give me the roses, maiden ; " his voice was 
 
 calm and sweet — 
 ■ Give me these cherished blossoms ere 
 
 comcth noontide heat." 
 
 "Nay, wouldst thou claim the roses? I've 
 
 given all the rest ; 
 Whate'er thou would'st I gave thee, the rarest 
 
 and the best ; 
 Leave me these last sweet blossoms, my lonely 
 
 life to cheer — 
 Leave them, 1 pray thee, leave them ; to me 
 
 they've grown so dear." 
 
 Murmured the spirit sadly, "O maiden, need 
 
 I tell 
 Who bids me claim the roses .=— thou knowest 
 
 all too well ; 
 Yet keep the flowers thou lovest, that 1 in 
 
 vain implore." 
 Then the sweet spirit vanished, and came to 
 
 me no more. 
 
 Ah, me I my red, red roses : they bloomed full 
 
 many a day ; 
 At last the summer waned and died, and then 
 
 they passed away ; 
 Yet my heart sang within me, " Grieve not, for 
 
 thou wilt soon 
 See thy red roses budding when comes 
 
 another Uine." 
 
 Another June! alas! alas! Behold, sweet 
 
 June is here, 
 But June nath brought no roses my lonely 
 
 life to cheer; 
 Never a bud nor leaflet to glad mine eyes 
 
 again:— 
 My fair rose-tree is withered — only the thorns 
 
 remain. 
 
 KATHERINE E. CONWAY. 
 
THE YOUNGER FLORUS. 
 
 565 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 Oh. ye virginal white rose-buds, all dewy, 
 sweet and tender, 
 Swaying on your frail, frail stems, though 
 ne'er a breeze doth blow, 
 I love ye for that fairer bud that perished "mid 
 the splendor 
 Of the song and sun and fragrance two 
 summer-tides ago ! 
 
 I called her oft our rosebud — no flow'ret's 
 name seemed meeter 
 For the pure and joyful promise of her 
 lovely girlish grace : 
 But past my art to picture — than all my dream- 
 ing sweeter, 
 The glorious, wondrous spirit-light upon 
 her fair young face. 
 
 Oh. the baleful fever-breath our fragile 
 blossom blighting! 
 Oh, the bitter chalice to our darling's young 
 lips pressed ! 
 Oh. the fitful gleams of false, false hope, a 
 while our darkness lighting ! 
 Oh. the days and nights of agony and woful 
 wild unrest ! 
 
 But the Lord Himself was with her to pity her 
 and love her: 
 Earthly lover shared not her maiden heart 
 with Him. 
 And the gentle Virgin Mother and the angels j 
 bent above her. ] 
 
 And their glory round her brightened as 
 the lights of time grew dim ! 
 
 My friend, my chosen sister — child and woman 
 strangely blended — | 
 
 Did thy spirit go out gladly, leaving blessing 
 as it fled? 
 For all its living loveliness thy face in death 
 transcended, 
 Purer than the snowy blossoms o'er thy 
 virgin-vesture spread. 
 
 Oh, heart that loved me loyally, that prized 
 my poor endeavor, 
 I id I love thee purely, truly, I would be glad 
 for thee ! 
 But oh, my life without thee ! Lord of the 
 bright forever, 
 Forgive my 'plaint who knowest what my 
 darling was to me ! 
 
 KATHERINE E. CONWAY. 
 
 AT THE SHIP'S SIDE- 
 Sing not so merrily, O little bird! 
 
 My heart is sad to-day ; 
 Sing not so loudly of thy happy loves.- 
 
 My love has gone away. 
 
 Laugh not so blithely, dancing ocean waves ! 
 
 I ne'er shall smile again ; 
 Break not in tender kisses on your strand, — 
 
 Love's kisses bring but pain. 
 
 Beam not so brightly, O thou pitiless sun ! 
 
 My life has set in clouds ; [skies,- - 
 
 Cast not such golden floods o'er earth and 
 
 Black night my spirit shrouds. 
 
 Bloom not with mocking beauty, O ye flowers ! 
 
 He called me fair as you ; 
 But beauty cannot bring a lost love back. 
 
 Or make a false vow true. 
 
 O bird ! O waves ! O sun ! O flowers ! I know 
 
 ■^e would not be so gay. 
 Could ye but look one moment in my heart. 
 
 And see it break to-day. 
 
 FANNY PARNELL. 
 
 THE YOUNGER FLORUS. 
 Child of the lotos lily. 
 Child of the dreams of old and holy Nile, 
 Lover of slumberous days and stilly. 
 
 Giver of rest, [smile. 
 
 Cradled to sleep beneath the veiled Isidean 
 
 Lift once more thy brow divine! 
 
 Leaning from thy crystal shrine. 
 Hear thou my quest! 
 
 Child of the hidden glory, [One, 
 
 Child of the still inscrutable and shrouded 
 Child of the flood and desert hoary, — 
 Child of the earth's immortal throes ! 
 Rise ere the drowsy kisses of the wakening sun 
 Gild once more thy mitred hair. 
 Rise and hearken to my prayer, 
 Healer of woes! 
 
 Ever the mystic finger [speech. 
 
 Laid on the lips that were not made for 
 Tells how the ancient gods yet linger. 
 
 Wrapped in deep peace, — [reach. 
 
 Wrapped in a silence that no poet's voice can 
 Safe from cynic's sneer and glance. 
 
 Lulled in charmed and poppied trance. 
 Till time shall cease. 
 
r: 
 
 66 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 
 
 Heart-shapcn fruit they brought thee. 
 Dumb sentry of the torture-chambers of the 
 heart! [thee, 
 
 Laden with blood-red fruit they sought 
 Singing no sad or joyous song; 
 Tongue-shapen leaves they brought in token 
 of thy art, 
 Hiding with unruffled face 
 Fear and sorrow's eaten trace. 
 Patient and strong! 
 
 God of the long-enduring, 
 God of the suffering and the silent soul. 
 With thy lore all anguish curing. 
 Hear thou my quest I 
 While the calm mother-tides that lap thee 
 onward roll, 
 Teach me with sealed lips to wait 
 Worst or best of changeless fate, — 
 Ever at rest . 
 
 FANNY I'ARNELI.. 
 
 Gone is the old-time peace and love ! 
 Gone is the bloom of the shimmering meadows, 
 
 Music of birds as they sweep and fall.— 
 All the great world is dim with shadow. 
 
 Because no longer mine eyes can see [me.— 
 
 The eyes that made summer and life for 
 And that is all. 
 
 .MARY Y„ HLAkl 
 
 A DEAD SUMMER. 
 What lacks the summer .- 
 
 Not roses blowing. 
 Nor tall white lilies with fragrance rife. 
 Nor green things gay with the bliss of grow- 
 ing. 
 Nor glad things drunk with the wine of 
 life,^ 
 Nor flushing of clouds in blue skies shining. 
 
 Nor soft winds murmur to rise and fall, 
 Nor birds for singing, nor vines for twining. — 
 Three little buds 1 miss, no more, [door, — 
 That blossomed last year at my garden 
 And that is all. 
 
 What lacks the summer? 
 
 Not waves a-quiver 
 
 With arrows of light from the hand of dawn. 
 Nordroopingof boughs by the dimpling river. 
 
 Nor nodding of grass on the windy lawn. 
 Nor tides upswept upon silver beaches. 
 
 Nor rustle of leaves on tree-tops tall. 
 Nor dapple of shade in woodland reaches, — 
 
 Life pulses, gladly on vale and hill, 
 
 Hut three little hearts that I love are still, — 
 And that is all. 
 
 What lacks the summer ? 
 
 O light and savor. 
 And message of healing the world above ! 
 Gone is the old-time strength and flavor. 
 
 LOSSES. 
 Upon the white sea-sand 
 There sat a pilgrim band. 
 Telling the losses that their lives had known; 
 While evening waned away 
 From breezy cliff and bay, [moan. 
 
 And the strong tides went out with weary- 
 One spake with quivering lip 
 Of a fair-freighted ship, [down ; 
 
 With all his household to the deep gone 
 I But one had wilder woe — 
 
 \ For a fair face, long ago 
 
 Lost in the darker depths of a great town. 
 
 There were who mourned their youth 
 
 With a most loving ruth. 
 For its brave hopes and memories ever green; 
 
 And one upon the west 
 
 Turned an eye that would not rest. 
 For far-ofl[ hills whereon its joy had been. 
 
 Some talked of vanished gold. 
 
 Some of proud honors told, [no more; 
 Some spake of friends that were their trust 
 ! And one of a green grave 
 
 Beside a foreign wave. 
 That made him sit so lonely on the shore. 
 
 But when their tales were done. 
 
 There spake among them one, 
 A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free : 
 
 "Sad losses have ye met, 
 
 But mine is heavier yet. 
 For a believing heart hath gone from me." 
 
 '• Alas I " these pilgrims said. 
 
 •• For the living and the dead — 
 For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross, 
 ' For the wrecks of land and sea ; 
 
 But, however it came to thee. 
 Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss." 
 
 FRANCK-S BROWN. 
 
FOREVERMORE. 567 
 
 A SONG OF CONTRAST. 
 
 When the comrades, dear and true. 
 
 Growing green on the liill-top, breaking bloom 
 
 on the lea ; 
 Wake of song in the willow, rise of sun on the 
 
 Closer, warmer, fonder grew. 
 
 In the hour of friendship's proof. 
 
 When the false ones stood aloof. 
 
 And their friendship was but show, 
 
 Over the fair young grasses, falling of tiny 
 
 In the long, long ago. 
 
 feet,— 
 
 
 Wee hands folding the flowers, rosy, and 
 
 Do not sing that song again ; 
 
 flower-sweet : 
 
 I have lived my years in vain, 
 
 Lost in her eyes the blue-bells ; caught in her 
 
 And my hair is thin and gray, 
 
 rippled hair 
 
 And I'm passing fast away. 
 
 Glint of the early sun-light, gilding the soft 
 
 On the dark and downward streams 
 
 spring air.— 
 
 I'm a wreck of idle dreams. 
 
 Grow, green, on the hill top. break, O bloom, 
 
 And it puts me on the rack 
 
 on the lea ! 
 
 At the weary looking back; 
 
 Waken, O song and sunsnine,— bless the dear 
 
 At the ebb and at the flow 
 
 God for me ! 
 
 In the long, long ago. 
 
 Growing gloom on the mountain, deep'ning 
 
 Do not sing that iOiig again. 
 
 dark in the vale ; 
 
 It distracts my weary brain. 
 
 Blackness folding the breakers, white in the 
 
 Ah ! too well, alas, I know 
 
 coming gale; 
 
 It is time for me to go. 
 
 Bright bloom paled to a phantom, wrapt in 
 
 And to leave to younger eyes 
 
 an icy veil, — 
 
 The mild mystery of the skies. 
 
 Rough winds tossing the willow, bird-song 
 
 And this mighty world I tread. 
 
 hushed to a wail : 
 
 And the grander age ahead : — 
 
 Wailing for days departed, wailing for one who 
 
 There's a mist upon the river. 
 
 lies 
 
 And there's bleakness on the shore ; 
 
 With wee hands folded meekly, under the 
 
 And in dreams I pass forever. 
 
 leaden skies. 
 
 While sad music wafts me o'er. 
 
 Grow, gloom, on the mountain ! deepen, O 
 
 HUGH F, McDER.MOTT. 
 
 dark, in the vale \ 
 
 
 Beat against the black heavens, O winds of 
 the wild sea gale ! 
 
 
 
 MINNIE GILMORE. 
 
 FOREVERMORE. 
 
 
 I had a little sprite whose name was hope : 
 
 
 It sang glad songs into my eager ear ; 
 
 IN THE LONG, LONG AGO. 
 
 But when most loved its notes died all away. 
 
 Do not sing that song again. 
 
 And now its songs are stilled forevermore — 
 
 For it fills my heart with pain ; 
 
 Forevermore. 
 
 I am bending to the blast. 
 
 
 And it tells me of the past, 
 
 I heard a voice, born of my human love. 
 
 Of the years of long ago, 
 
 Speak to my human weakness words of joy ; 
 
 When my days were young and fair; 
 
 Each was as sweet as sounds of dulcimer. 
 
 And my heart as light as air ; 
 
 But all are silent now forevermore— 
 
 When one feeling filled the breast, 
 
 Forevermore. 
 
 And one image gave it rest. 
 
 
 In the long, long ago. 
 
 I held within my own a little hand. 
 
 
 White as the moon, and it became as cold ; 
 
 Do not sing that song again ; 
 
 I pressed it to my lips in agony; 
 
 There's a tear in its refrain. 
 
 'Twas then withdrawn — withdrawn forever- 
 
 It brings sadly back the time 
 
 more ,- 
 
 When my manhood felt its prime ; 
 
 Forevermore. 
 
5bS 
 
 rOKAI^y 
 
 AND SOJfA'OH. 
 
 I've worn a faded lily on my breast. 
 These many days, these many weary days ; 
 But now, by unseen fingers touched, it falls. 
 It falls away, and falls forevermorc — 
 Forevermore. 
 
 I held a beautiful and precious gem 
 Against my beating heart for many a year ; 
 But while most cherished it hath turned to 
 And here 1 lay it down forevermore — [dust, 
 Forevermore. 
 
 WILLIAM D. GALLAGHKK. 
 
 THE DYING MOTHER'S LAMENT. 
 " O God. it is a dreadful night. — how fierce the 
 
 dark winds blow! 
 It howls like mourning Banshee, its breathings 
 
 speak of woe ; 
 'Twill rouse my slumbering orphans — blow 
 
 gently. O wild blast ! 
 My wearied hungry darlings are hushed in 
 
 peace at last. 
 
 '• And how the cold rain tumbles down in tor- 
 rents from the skies ! 
 
 Down, down, upon our stiffened limbs, into my 
 children's eyes: — 
 
 O God of Heaven ! stop your hand until the 
 dawn of day. 
 
 And out upon the weary world again we'll take 
 our way. 
 
 " But, ah ! my prayers are worthless — O I 
 
 louder roars the blast. 
 And darker frown the pitchy clouds, the rain ; 
 
 falls still more fast ; j 
 
 O God ! if you be merciful, have mercy now. 
 
 I pray- 
 O God ! forgive my wicked words — 1 know not 
 
 what 1 say 1 
 
 •■ To see my ghastly babies — my babes so meek 
 
 and fair — 
 To see them huddled in that ditch, like wild 
 
 beasts in their lair : 
 Like wild beasts ! No ! the vixen cubs that 
 
 sport on yonder hill. I 
 
 Lie warm this hour. and. I'll engage, of food ' 
 
 they've had their fill. | 
 
 " O blessed Queen of Mercy ! look down from 
 that black sky — j 
 
 You've felt a mother's misery — then hear a | 
 mother's cr>' ! j 
 
 I mourn not my own wretchedness, but let my 
 
 children rest, 
 O watch and guard them this wild night, and 
 
 then I shall be blest !" 
 
 I Thus prayed the wanderer, but in vain ! — in 
 
 vain her mournful cry! 
 God did not hush that piercing wind, nor 
 
 brighten that dark sky 
 But when the ghastly winter's dawn its sickly 
 
 radiance shed, 
 ; The mother and her wretched babes lay stiff- 
 i ened, grim, and dead ! 
 
 JOHN KEEGAN. 
 
 IF I HAD THOUGHT. 
 If I had thought thou couldst have died, 
 
 I might not weep for thee ; 
 But I forgot, when b)- thy side, 
 
 That thou couldst mortal be ; 
 It never through my mind had jjast 
 
 The time would e'er be o'er. 
 And I on thee should look my last. 
 
 And thou shouldst smile no more. 
 
 And still upon that face I look. 
 
 And think 'twill smile again ; 
 And still the thought I will not brook 
 
 That I must look in vain. 
 But. when I speak, thou dost not say 
 
 What thou ne'er left'st unsaid. 
 .■\nd now 1 feel, as well I may. 
 
 Sweet Mary ! thou art dead. 
 
 If thou would "st stay e'en as thou art. 
 
 All cold and all serene. 
 1 still might press thy silent heart, 
 
 .•\nd where thy smiles have been ! 
 While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have. 
 
 Thou seemest still mine own. 
 Hut there 1 lay thee in thy grave 
 
 .-\iid I am now alone ! 
 
 1 (io not think, where'er thou art. 
 
 Thou hast forgotten me ; 
 And I. perhaps, may soothe this heart 
 
 In thinking too of thee; 
 Yet there was round thee such a dawn 
 
 Of light ne'er seen before. 
 As fancy never could have drawn. 
 
 And never can restore. 
 
 CHARLES WOLFE. 
 
A LAST LULLABY. 
 
 569 
 
 MAIDEN, PRAY FOR ME. 
 Silent, remote, this liamlet seems — 
 
 How iiushied tlie breeze ! tlie eve liow calm I 
 Liglit through my dying cliamber beams, 
 
 But hope comes not, nor healing balm. 
 Kind villagers, God bless your shed! 
 
 Hark I 'tis for prayer, the evening bell — 
 Oh, stay ! and near my dying bed. 
 
 Maiden, for me your rosary tell. 
 
 When leaves shall strew the waterfall 
 
 In the sad close of autumn drear. 
 Say " The sick youth is freed from all 
 
 The pangs and wo he suffered here." 
 So may ye speak of him that's gone ; 
 
 But when your belfry tolls my knell. 
 Pray for the soul of that lost one — 
 
 Maiden, for me your rosary tell I 
 
 Oh ! pity her in sable robe 
 
 Who to my grassy grave will come. 
 Nor seek a hidden wound to probe — 
 
 She was my love : point out my tomb. 
 Tell her my life would have been hers — 
 
 'Twas but a day! — God's will ! — 'tis well : 
 But weep with her, kind villagers ! — 
 
 Maiden, for me your rosary tell ! 
 
 FRANCIS S. MAHONV. 
 From the French of Millcvoye. 
 
 SIDE BY SIDE. 
 
 The grass is green above his grave. 
 
 But while it blossoms, I decline ; 
 Another crop will never wave 
 
 Between the heart I loved and mine. 
 My people gave me, when he died, 
 Their pledge to lay me by his side. 
 
 He loved me, and I loved him too, 
 They knew my plight to him was given. 
 
 And when I saw his wounds, they knew 
 The death pang thro' my heart was driven. 
 
 I read my sentence in the gore 
 
 That streaked his white limbs, flowing o'er. 
 
 Why did he love me.' Strong and tall. 
 And wise as well as brave was he. 
 
 And I so young and slight and small. 
 Sat like a child upon his knee. 
 
 And still he kissed my mouth and eyes 
 
 And filled my ears with happy sighs. 
 
 I know he died amidst the foes 
 That rule and wreck his native land. 
 
 That numbers fell beneath the blows 
 He dealt them with his brawny hand ; 
 
 But he, the foremost in the fray, 
 
 Could not escape that bloody day. 
 
 I know the Saxon's women pale 
 
 Will hear his name with wild affright. 
 
 And long shall foemen tell the tale 
 Of how he thunder'd thro' the fight, 
 
 And what a crowd of bayonets drank 
 
 His precious life-blood ere he sank ; — 
 
 That dear red blood that ever made 
 His cheeks as hot as ruddy flame. 
 
 That in his throbbing temples played 
 And quivered on thro' all his frame. 
 
 And thrilled my heart, I know not how, 
 
 But life is cold without it now. 
 
 I do not blame him that he gave 
 His life to Ireland's stronger claim ; 
 
 I asked him not to live a slave 
 
 When that dread day of battle came : 
 
 But while we wept he knew that I 
 
 Would share his fate, to live or die. 
 
 And now his grave is soft and green, 
 But o'er the narrow chamber soon 
 
 Will fresh red earth again be seen. 
 And women raise another croon ; 
 
 For all the weepers when he died 
 
 Declared they'd lay me by his side. 
 
 TIMOTHY II. SULLIVAN. 
 
 A LAST LULLABY. 
 Kiss the sweet eyes to closing; 
 
 Smooth out the tangled hair ; 
 Fold her hands on her bosom. 
 
 As though she were at prayer. 
 Under the tender grasses 
 
 Lay her down in the sod ; 
 So fareth the empty casket— 
 
 The jewel is with God ! 
 
 Life is the day of labor, 
 
 Death is the night of rest ; 
 The Father saw she was tired. 
 
 And took her to His breast. 
 Folded her round with darkness. 
 
 Cradled her in the sky, 
 And angels soothe her to slumber. 
 
 Chanting a lullaby. 
 
570 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS AND SOUROH'. 
 
 Sweetly, O my own darling, 
 
 Sweetly and safely sleep ! 
 Never for thee the waking, 
 
 Waking to work and weep. 
 Free from the world's hard bondage. 
 
 Free from its wrong and rack — 
 O babe, though my arms are empty, 
 
 I would not have thee back ! 
 
 A kiss on the bright ringlets. 
 
 Sunning the brow so meek ; 
 A kiss on the still lashes, 
 
 Shading the dainty cheek ; 
 Over the red mouth, paling — 
 
 Over the heart so sweet — 
 .\ kiss on the tiny lingers ; 
 
 A kiss on the wee feet! 
 
 So, it is ended ; ended I 
 
 One long look on her face- 
 Now, friend, clasp down the cover. 
 
 And lay the sod in place. 
 This is the empty casket ; 
 
 The jewel is with God. 
 But, oh, to lie with my baby. 
 
 Under the churchyard sod ! 
 
 I LOVE LIES A-DYING. 
 
 Come in gently, and speak low. 
 
 Love lies a-dying ; 
 By his death-bed, standing so. 
 
 Hush, hush your crying. 
 
 Once his eyes were full of light. 
 Who now lies a-dying ; 
 [ Round about him falls the night, 
 
 I Hush, hush your crj'ing. 
 
 Ghostly winds begin to blow. 
 
 Love lies a-dying; 
 Hark where distant waters flow, 
 
 Hush, hush your crying. 
 
 From a Land of Lost Delight — 
 Now he lies a-dying — 
 
 Visions come to haunt his sight. 
 Hush, hush your crj-ing. 
 
 From a land he used to know- 
 Love lies a-dying — 
 I Ghosts of dead songs come and go, 
 
 I Hush, hush your crying. 
 
 Perished hopes like lilies white. 
 
 Now he lies a-dying. 
 Leave beside him, in death's night. 
 
 Hush, hush your cr)-ing, 
 
 Round about him, to and fro. 
 
 Now he lies a-dying. 
 Phantom feet move soft and slow. 
 
 Hush, hush your crying. 
 
 Sharply once did sorrow bite, 
 
 O Love lies a-dying ! 
 Tears and blood sprang warm and bright. 
 
 Hush, hush your crj-ing. 
 
 Pain is done now, strength is low, 
 
 Love lies a-dying ; 
 Let him gently languish so. 
 
 Hush, hush your crying. 
 
 HUlLll' UOURKK .MARSTON. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 Hath any loved you well down there. 
 
 Summer or winter through ? 
 Down there, have you found any fair 
 
 Laid in the grave with you ? 
 Is death's long kiss a richer kiss 
 
 Than mine was wont to be.^ 
 Or have you gone to some far bliss. 
 
 And quite forgotten me.' 
 
 What soft enamoring of sleep 
 
 Hath you in some soft way ? 
 What charmed death holdeth you with deep 
 
 Strange lure by night and day.' 
 A little space below the grass. 
 
 Out of the sun and shade. 
 But worlds away from me, alas ! 
 
 Down there where you are laid I 
 
 My bright hair's waved and wasted gold. 
 
 What is it now to thee 
 Whether the rose-red life I hold. 
 
 Or white death holdeth me.' 
 Down there you love the grave's own green. 
 
 And evermore you rave 
 Of some sweet seraph you have seen 
 
 Or dreamed of m the grave. 
 
 There you shall lie as you have lain. 
 
 Though in the world above 
 Another live your lif j again. 
 
 Loving again your love ; 
 
SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 
 
 5/1 
 
 Is it not sweet beneath the palm ? 
 
 Is not the warm day rife 
 With some long mystic golden calm, 
 
 Better than love or life ? 
 
 The broad quaint odorous leaves, like hands 
 
 Weaving the fair day through, 
 Weave sleep no burnished bird withstands. 
 
 While death weaves sleep for you ; 
 And many a strange rich breathing sound 
 
 Ravishes morn and noon, 
 And in that place you must have found 
 
 Death a delicious swoon. 
 
 Hold me no longer for a word 
 
 I used to say or sing : 
 Ah ! long ago you must have heard 
 
 So many a sweeter thing: 
 For rich earth must have reached your heart 
 
 And turned the faith *o flowers ; 
 And warm wind stolen, part by part. 
 
 Your soul through faithless hours. 
 
 And many a soft seed must have won 
 
 Soil of some yielding thought. 
 To bring a bloom up to the sun 
 
 That else had ne'er been brought ; 
 And doubtless many a passionate hue 
 
 Hath made that place more fair. 
 Making some passionate part of you 
 
 Faithless to me down there. 
 
 ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 
 
 SPOKEN IN ANGER. 
 'Twas but a little word in anger spoken. 
 While proud eyes flashed through bitter 
 burning tears ; 
 But oh. I felt that fatal word had broken 
 The cord of love that bound our hearts for 
 years. 
 Thy tortured face, that long wild look of 
 sorrow, 
 Like some pale ghost, must haunt me while 
 I live : 
 And yet, how bright, how full of joy the 
 morrow, [give !' 
 
 Had I but breathed one simple word — " For- 
 
 I did not hear thy tender voice appealing, 
 Nor marked thy anguish when I cried," De- 
 part !" 
 
 Too blind to see thy pitying glance, revealing 
 The generous promptings of thy noble heart. 
 
 How could I know that faithful heart was 
 yearning. 
 Though crushed and wounded to its inmost 
 core, 
 To take me back, like weary bird returning 
 In fear and trembling, when the storm is 
 
 " Remember, love, that it may be forever ; 
 
 To see my face no more by night or day. 
 
 Be calm, rash heart, think well before we 
 
 sever ; 
 
 Recall the angry word, and bid me stay." 
 
 Dead silence fell; the song-birds hushed their 
 
 singing. 
 "Enough." I proudly cried ; "I choose my 
 
 fate." 
 While ever through my maddened brain kept 
 ringing 
 The death-knell of my love — too late, too 
 late ! 
 
 " Forgive, forgive !" I wailed, the wild tears 
 streaming. 
 As, 'mid the moaning trees, I stood alone; 
 " Love, let thy kisses wake me from my dream- 
 ing!" [gone. 
 Thy pleading voice, thy tortured face, was 
 That angry word, I may recall it never ; 
 
 For o'er thy narrow grave rank weeds have 
 grown. 
 " Remember, love, that it may be forever." 
 Ah, words prophetic ! love, had I but known! 
 
 My locks are gray, my eyes are dim with weep- 
 ing, 
 
 The face once loved by thee, no longer fair ; 
 Beneath the daisies thou art calmly sleeping : 
 
 There a lone woman often kneels in prayer. 
 Ah. sweetheart mine, thou art so lowly lying. 
 
 Thou canst not hear the tearful voice above 
 That with the night wind evermore is sighing, 
 
 " I spoke in anger ! oh, forgive me, love !" 
 
 FANNY FORRESTER. 
 
 SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND, 
 She is far from the land where her young 
 Hero sleeps, 
 And lovers are around her sighing ; 
 But coldly she turns from their gaze, and 
 weeps. 
 For her heart in his grave is lying! 
 
5/2 
 
 J'vEMS OF LOSS AX J) SOA'A'l)!!' 
 
 She sings the wild songs of her dear native 
 plains, 
 Ever>' note which he lovd awaking.— 
 Ah! little they think, who delight in her 
 strains. 
 How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking! 
 
 He had liv'd for his love, for his countrj- he 
 
 died. 
 
 They were all that to life had entwind him. 
 
 Nor soon shall the tears of his country be i 
 
 dried, i 
 
 Nor long will his love stay behind him I 
 
 Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams 
 rest. 
 When they promise a glorious morrow : | 
 They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from 
 the west. 
 From her own loved Island of sorrow. 
 
 •rHO.M.\S NKJUKE. 
 
 LA VIA DOLOROSA. 
 I wander here, I wander there. 
 
 Through the desert of life all wearily; 
 No joy on earth for the pilgrim soul, — 
 On, on for ever, drearily ; 
 O'er the mountain height. 
 In the tempest night. 
 Through the mist and the gloom 
 We press on to the tomb, 
 While the death-like pall of a midnight sky 
 Hangs over past and futurity. 
 
 And the echo of wandering feet I hear. 
 And human voices and hearts are near; 
 But lonely, lonely each one goeth. 
 On his dark path, and little knoweth 
 Of love, kind words, or sympathy. 
 Oh ! fain would I lay me down and die' 
 For the upward glance of a tearful eye 
 Is all I have known of humanity. 
 
 Yet must I on, tho' darker and drearer. 
 And lonelier ever the pathway seems. 
 And spectral shadows of death draw nearer. 
 And rare and faint are the sun-light gleams; 
 An unseen powei impelleth us on,— 
 No pause, no rest for the weary one,— 
 Till we reach the shore of that fathomless sea ' 
 Where Time pourelh down to eternity. 1 
 
 LADY WILDE. 
 
 LADY GORMLEY. 
 She wanders wildly through the night. 
 
 Unhappy I-ady Gormley ! 
 And hides her head at morning light, 
 
 Unhappy Lady Gormley! 
 No home has she, no kindly kin. 
 But darkness reigneth all within. 
 For sorrow is the child of sin 
 
 With hapless Lady Gormley. 
 
 What time she sat on Tara's throne ! 
 
 Unhappy Lady Gormley! 
 Bright jewels sparkled on her zone. 
 
 Unhappy Lady Gormley! 
 But her fair seeming could not hide 
 The wayward will, the heart of pride, 
 The wit still ready to deride 
 
 Of scornful Lady Gormley. 
 
 The daughter of a kingly race 
 
 Was lovely Lady Gormley ; 
 A monarch's bride, the first in place, 
 
 Was noble Lady Gormley ; 
 The fairest hand she had, the skill 
 The lute to touch, the harp to thrill. 
 Melting and moving men at will. 
 The peerless Lady Gormley, 
 
 Nor was it courtly art to call 
 
 The splendid Lady Gormley 
 The first of minstrels in the hall. — 
 
 All-gifted Lady Gormley ! 
 
 Song flowed out from her snowy throat 
 
 .\s from the thrush, and everj' note 
 
 Taught men to dream and bards to dote 
 
 On lovely Lady Gormley. 
 
 But armed as is the honey-bee 
 
 Was fickle Lady Gormley; 
 
 And hollow as the alder-tree 
 
 Was smiling Lady Gormley. 
 
 And cold and haughty as the swan 
 
 That, glancing sideward, sailelh on ; 
 
 That loves the moon and hates the dawn. 
 Was heartless Lady Gormley. 
 
 God's poor had never known her 
 
 The lofty Lady Gormley ; 
 She had no smile for nun or frere. 
 The worldly Lady Gormley ; 
 She fed her heart on human praise. 
 Forgot her soul in prosp'rous days. 
 Was studious but how to amaze — 
 The haughty Lady Gormley", 
 
THE WHITE LADY. 
 
 573 
 
 At last she fell from her great height. 
 
 Unhappy Lady Gormley ! 
 Her lord had perished in the fight. 
 
 Unhappy Lady Gormley ! 
 And now she has nor house nor home, 
 Destined from rath to rath to roam. 
 Too proud to make amend or moan. 
 
 Unhappy Lady Gormley ! 
 
 Behold her on her lonely way. 
 
 The wretched Lady Gormley, 
 And mark the moral of my lay — 
 
 The lay of Lady Gormley I [friend. 
 When Fortune smiles, make God your 
 On His love more than man's depend. 
 So may you never in the end 
 
 Share woe with Lady Gormley! 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCV M<^GEE. 
 
 THE WHITE LADY. 
 Once more the Phantom Coimtess. attired 
 
 white, appears. 
 With mourning and with wailing, with tr 
 
 mors and with tears. 
 Once more appears a-gliding forth from . Else would I warn from night to morn, else 
 
 And at whiles along the corridors is heard her 
 
 thrilling cry — 
 " Awake, awake, my kindred ! — The Time of 
 
 Times is nigh! 
 
 " Awake, awake, my kindred ! O. saw ye what 
 
 I see. 
 Sleep never more would seal your eyes, this 
 
 side Eternity ! 
 Through the hundred-vaulted cavern-crypts, 
 
 where I and mine abide. 
 Boom the thunders of the rising storm, the 
 
 surgings of the tide — 
 You note them not ; you blindly face the hosts 
 
 of Hate and Fate ! 
 Alas ! Your eyes will open soon — too soon, 
 
 yet all too late ! 
 
 ■' Oh God ! Oh God ! the coming hour arouses 
 
 e'en the Dead ; 
 Yet the Living thus can slumber on. like 
 
 things of stone or lead. 
 The dry bones rattle in their shrouds, but you. 
 
 you make no sign ! 
 I dare not hope to pierce your soul by those 
 
 weak words of mine. 
 
 pictures and from walls. 
 In Prussia's gorgeous palaces and old baronial 
 
 halls— 
 And the guards that pace the ramparts and 
 
 the terrace-walks by night 
 Are stricken with a speechlessness and swoon- 
 ing at the sight. 
 
 cry. 'Oh, Kings, be just! 
 
 Be just, if bold ! Loose where you may ! Bind 
 
 only where you must .' 
 
 What bodes this resurrection upon our 
 
 stage ? 
 Comes she perchance to warn and wake a 
 
 ghostless. godless age? 
 Announces she the death of Kings and Kay- 
 
 sers as of yore — _ [no more ? 
 
 A funeral and a crowning. — a pageant, and 
 I know not — but men whisper through the 
 
 land from South to North. 
 That a deeper grief, a wider woe. to-day has 
 
 called her forth. 
 
 She nightly weeps — they say so' — o'er the 
 beds of Young and Old. 
 
 O'er the infant's crimson cradle. — o'er the 
 couch of silk and gold 
 
 ■' I. sinful one, in Orlamund I slew my children 
 
 fair: 
 Thence evermore, till time be o'er, my dole 
 I and my despair, 
 
 ng I Of that one crime in olden time was born my 
 
 endless woe : [to and fro. 
 
 For that one crime I wander now in darkness 
 Think /<• of me, and what I dree, you whom 
 
 no law controls. 
 Who slay your people's holiest hopes, their 
 
 liberties, their souls! 
 
 "Enough! I must not say G'tw/ night, or bid 
 
 the doomed farewf/// 
 Down to my own dark home I go — mv 
 
 Hades' dungeon cell. 
 Above my head lie brightly spread the flowers 
 
 that Summer gives. 
 Free waters flow, fresh breezes blow, all nature 
 
 laughs and lives; 
 For hours she stands, with clasped hands. \ But where you tread the flowers drop dead. 
 
 lamenting by the side 
 
 the grass grows pale and sere. 
 
 Of the sleeping Prince and Princess— of the And round you floats in clotted waves Hell's 
 Landgrave and his bride ; | lurid atmosphere! " 
 
5/4 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS AND SOK/iOH^: 
 
 She lifts on high her pallid arms — she rises II. 
 
 from the ^oar. An afternoon of April : no sun appears 
 
 Turns round and round without a sound, then hijjh, 
 
 passes through the door. 
 Hut through the open trellises the warder 
 
 often sees 
 Her moonpale draper)' floating down the long 
 
 dim galleries; 
 And the guards that pace the ramparts and 
 
 the terrace-walks by night. 
 Are stricken with a speechlessness and swoon- They stop. The long line closes up like 
 
 ing at the sight. 
 
 JAMK.S CLARENCE MANGAN 
 AdapUil from J'reiligralh. 
 
 Rut a moist and yellow lustre fills the dei| 
 
 ness of the sky : 
 .And through the castle gateway, left emp 
 
 and forlorn. 
 Among the leafless avenues an honored bii 
 
 is borne. 
 
 LADY ALICE. 
 
 Now what doth Lady Alice so late on the tur- 
 ret stair, 
 
 Without a lamp to light her, but the diamond 
 in her hair; 
 
 When ever\- arching passage overflows with 
 shallow gloom. 
 
 And dreams float through the castle, into 
 every silent room.^ 
 
 She trembles at her footsteps, although they 
 
 fall so light ; 
 Through the turret loopholes she sees the 
 
 wild midnight ; 
 Broken vapors streaming across the stormv 
 
 sky; 
 Down the empty corridors the blast doth moan 
 
 She steals along a gallen,'. she pauses by a 
 
 door; 
 And fast her tears are dropping down upon 
 
 the oaken floor; 
 And thrice she seems retur;iing, but thrice 
 
 she turns again : — 
 Now heavy lie the cloud of sleep on that old 
 
 father's brain. 
 
 gigantic worm ; 
 A shape is standing in the (>ath, a wan an 
 
 ghost-like form, [any soum: 
 
 Which gazes fixedly; nor moves, nor utt« ; 
 Then, like a statue built of snow, sinks dou i 
 
 upon the ground. 
 
 And though her clothes are ragged, an' 
 
 though her feet are bare, 
 And though all wild and tangled falls her 
 
 heavy silk-brown hair; 
 Though from her eyes the brightness, from 
 
 her cheeks the bloom is fled. 
 They know their I^dy Alice, the darling of 
 
 the dead. 
 
 With silence, in her own old room the fainting 
 
 form they lay. 
 Where all things stand unalter'd since the 
 
 night she fled away : 
 But who — but who shall bring to life her 
 
 father from the clay ? 
 But who shall give her back again her heart of 
 
 a former day .' 
 
 WILLIAM Al.LlNOHA.M. 
 
 THE KNIGHTS REMORSE. 
 
 . ; TaU- of Offaly and L.-ix." 
 
 A gallant knight at ease reclined and sipped 
 
 the beaded wine. 
 Bright fancies floating through his mind, to 
 music's strains divine. 
 
 Sweet lyrics of the camp and chase, and of his 
 bosom's queen. 
 Oh, well it were that iu-.<er shouldst thou A lovely maid of noble race, he parted ycster 
 
 waken from thy sleep 1 e'en. 
 
 For wherefore should they waken, who waken I 
 
 but to weep ? .Anon, those pleasant themes took wing ; some 
 
 No more, no more beside thy bed doth Peace memory of the past 
 
 a vigil keep, .\rose and checked the trembling string— all 
 But Woe— a lion that awaits thy rousing for i other thoughts o'ercast. 
 
 its leap. I • King's and Queea's Counlies. 
 
O.VL]- aOA/E KEUCS. 
 
 It cooled his ardent spirit's fire, and glory's 
 
 martial strain : 
 His hca.t more true than lay of lyre, gave 
 
 forth this fond refrain : 
 
 •' My lady-love is fair to view, her brow is like 
 
 the snow, 
 Her thought is pure as summer dew, her voice 
 
 soft music's fiow. 
 And though her sire is high in power, and 
 
 prompt at honor's call. 
 Her virtue is the priceless dower that holds 
 
 my heart in thrall. 
 
 " And yet. for all her matchless charms, my 
 
 levity of tongue 
 Has filled her breast with false alarms — her 
 
 gentle spirit wrung ; 
 I feigned a tale of love for one more bcuu ful 
 
 than she. 
 And in my folly dwelt upon the love she bore 
 
 for me. 
 
 " I saw the start of wounded pride her lips for- 
 bore to speak. 
 
 The crimson flush that rose and dyed her 
 marble brow and cheek. 
 
 I marked them well, and marveled how her 
 spirit served her need, 
 
 As bending low her noble brow, she simply 
 said: ' Indeed I' 
 
 •• But well I know those heartless words, at 
 
 heedless random thrown. 
 Have pierced her bosom's tend'rest chords— I 
 
 feel it by mine own. 
 And by my pledge of 105'al love, and knightly 
 
 honor too, 
 I must unwind this web I wove, its evil work 
 
 undo ! 
 
 " Before the rounded moon goes down must 
 
 I her presence gain, 
 I would not give, for Roderick's crown, 
 
 another night of pain ; 
 Kildara is as sure and fleet as falcon on the 
 
 wing, 
 Nor shall he rest till at her feet this erring 
 
 heart I fling.'" 
 
 Out swept that steed through Ardagh's mead, 
 by frowning Dunamace, 
 
 Dunore, and passed with meteor speed the 
 fertile vales of Leix,* 
 
 With foaming flank and frenzied eye and 
 
 lightning in his bound. 
 And crossed, while yet the moon stood high, 
 ■ twelve Irish leagues of ground, 
 
 But as he sped through Rynagh's hills, strange 
 
 fears the knight assail. 
 Why seem both vale and tower so still, their 
 
 wonted lights so pale ? 
 With throbbing brow and heart aflame he 
 
 gamed the bannered hall. 
 And there beheld that noble dame beneath 
 
 the snow white pall ! 
 
 They laid her where her fathers lie, within a 
 
 sylvan dell, 
 Where Brosna's waters wander by the shrine 
 
 of All Saints' Well ; 
 A sacred spot, by holy seers and good St. 
 
 Kieran blessed. 
 And to this day, through all the years, by 
 
 pilgrim footsteps pressed. 
 
 There raised that knight a house to God. 
 
 beside her silent grave, 
 And all the wealth by time bestowed to deck 
 
 that shrine he gave ; 
 And there, 'tis told, he breathed his last, his 
 
 heart by sorrow riven. 
 But who can tell what sighs were passed 
 
 between that heart and heaven ! 
 
 JOHN BOYLE. 
 
 Pronounced Lace. 
 
 ONLY SOME RELICS. 
 A ring she wore — a jewel that ] 
 The maiden beauty of her breast ; 
 A glove our happy hands once drew 
 From her small fingers veined with blue ; 
 A ribbon that around her throat 
 Loved in the dallying winds to float ; 
 A golden clasp, that once had known 
 The silken pressure of her zone; 
 A little slipper with blue rosette. 
 In which her fairy foot was set ; 
 And one brown tress, through happy years 
 Shading the shell-films of her ears — 
 These, and an ivorytype's dull stain. 
 Are all of our dear one that now remain ; 
 All the dear relics that are left 
 Of her by whose loss our hearts are cleft ; 
 Leaving the world a dim, dead space 
 Of cares and duties with little grace — 
 A dull, dead level of weary years, 
 In which no blossoming joy appears ; 
 
576 
 
 POEMS Ol- I.OS. 
 
 No gill with teeth like the rows of corn 
 When you strip the ear as the summer is born ; 
 And tresses of changing gold and brown 
 Over shoulders of ivory shaken down ; 
 And lips in whose arched and crimson bow 
 All the flushing balms of the tropics glow ; 
 And over whose dimpled cheeks, like light 
 And shade over meadows, the thoughts take 
 
 flight; 
 Winged by her innocent, dancing eyes. 
 With coyness and coquetry, smiles and sighs. 
 Her voice was the hum of a summer wind 
 When it breathes through a lattice with 
 
 roses twined ; 
 Her soul was as pure, as unsullied and white. 
 As the chanting seraphs in robes of light ; 
 And the kindness that dwelt in her heart. I 
 
 deem. [stray gleam. 
 
 Of the heaven she now dwells in was some 
 Oh. loved and lost ! our soul's adored ! 
 Our dove with silver wings — our bird ! 
 Beauty embodied, and joy, and peace, [cease. 
 Whose breath had a charm bidding sorrow 
 Best gift that heaven to bless us gave, 
 We cast this chaplet on thy grave. 
 
 CHARLES G. HALPINE. 
 
 Wild roses promising increase. 
 
 Low beds of green, white-flowering moss. 
 
 And over each a simple cross, 
 A name, and — "May she rest in peace !" 
 
 Of all who, tranquil here a space. 
 Await in faith the second birth. 
 Not one had pressed her hand on earth. 
 
 Not one had gazed upon her face. 
 
 But, oh I if eyes undimmed by sin [blue, 
 
 Could pierce through heaven's unfathom'd 
 We'd see those loved ones that we knew 
 
 Welcome the little stranger in ! 
 
 Maternal, sister-like they come. 
 Their wills but echo now God's will. 
 Yet with sweet human interest still 
 
 They "ask a thousand things of home !' 
 
 Now all is o'er ; we turn away 
 
 To face life's daily toil again 
 
 For yet a little while, and then 
 Our turn shall come to rest as they. 
 
 A CONVENT ELEGY. 
 I. 
 The young birds trill their sweetest tune; 
 Like acolyte, the fresh'ning breeze 
 Shakes incense from the hawthorn-trees — 
 A beauteous, tardy May in June. 
 
 But listen to the sound that swells ! 
 A sound befitting ill the scene — 
 That solemn dirge for what has been. 
 
 The slow, sad swing of funeral bells. 
 
 From out the open convent door. 
 
 With crossand chant and murmured prayer. 
 
 She comes into the sunny air. 
 Conies forth, to enter in no more. 
 
 And through the lawn, beneath the shade. 
 
 And down the garden slopes we pass. 
 
 Across the daisy-fretted grass. 
 To where Ood's human seeds are laid. 
 
 The " prodigal laburnum " there 
 
 Strews its rich treasures on the way. 
 Urging the f)asser-by to pay 
 
 The golden largess of a prayer. 
 
 Born on the soil Columba trod. 
 
 Like him — the saint she loved the best- 
 This gentle dove forsook her nest, 
 
 Her home, her native land for God. 
 
 Reversing the decree severe 
 lona's saint so meekly bore, 
 Self-e.\iled he on Scotland's shore. 
 
 And she a willing exile here. 
 
 L'nsparingly God's hand bereaves. 
 
 She gave H im much^He asked for all : 
 .AH human ties, however small. 
 
 E'en the sweet bonds Religion weaves. 
 
 So. far from all old friends, she slept. 
 Strange hands upheld her dying head, 
 .\nd strangers prayed around her bed, 
 
 .■\nd strangers by her grave have wept. 
 
 Strangers, yet sisters — many days 
 Were needed not to make them love 
 This gentle little dark-eyed dove. 
 
 With all her gracious winning ways. 
 
 Pious in simple, earnest style, 
 .\ heart the slightest kindness stirred 
 In death itself the cheerful word. 
 
 And, when that failed, the radiant smile. 
 
ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR. 
 
 577 
 
 What wonder that her Lord, o'ercome 
 By such meek resignation, sent 
 To call her from her banishment 
 
 And take her quickly to her home .' 
 
 And now she rests where o'er her clay. 
 
 Upon the fitful breezes borne, 
 
 The Angelas at early morn. 
 The vesper-bell at close of day. 
 
 Shall sound their sweet accustomed peals 
 From the old convent on the hill, 
 Where life's quick pendulum beats still. 
 
 While Time with noiseless footstep steals. 
 
 And children's voices at their play. 
 And often in the summer time 
 The Rosary's familiar chime. 
 
 Into God's garden plot may stray. 
 
 Oh ! echoing thy latest breath. 
 We pray thee, little sister dear. 
 Remember us who linger here 
 
 Now, and when comes the hour of death ! 
 
 MARY STANISLAUS MCCARTHY. 
 
 ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR. 
 He muses— not in scorn or mirth — ■ 
 
 And fondly clasps one raven tress ; 
 Still flames the spirit vision through 
 Those deep-browed eyes of angry blue 
 Too mighty for the mean of earth — 
 
 Too clear for critic happiness. 
 
 Now hums the past its ceaseless song. 
 And thro' the chambers of his brain 
 
 The tender light of parted days. 
 
 Bright cordial smiles — old winning ways. 
 
 Remembered tones unheeded long, 
 Rise from the silent years again ; 
 
 Till, slowly deepens o'er his face 
 A mournful light, rare and divine, 
 
 Like Death's last smile, as silently. 
 
 And with a sad simplicity. 
 
 His aged hand essays to trace 
 
 That relic with one trembling line. 
 
 " Only a woman's hair." No more. 
 The golden dreams of pride are gone. 
 
 And nought remains but this poor prize. 
 Instinct with anguished memories; 
 Life's tree is leafless now, and roar 
 The bleak winds through its skeleton. 
 
 The dusk cathedral glooms the while, 
 
 The bells toll in the upper air ; 
 And silvering down the mouldered walls. 
 The winter moonlight coldly falls 
 Through one old window in the aisle 
 
 On one memorial tablet there. 
 
 Ah. what were fame's great trumpet breath. 
 
 The proud applause of mightiest men. 
 The storm, the struggle, and the crown. 
 The world that darkened in his frown.' — 
 The love that he had scorned to death 
 Were dearer than an empire then ! 
 
 O wisdom, manhood, where were ye. 
 
 Thus in caprice of power to move .' — 
 To play with hearts whose truth ye tried, 
 To watch, poor puppet of your pride. 
 How long sweet, earnest constancy 
 Would live with unrequited love. 
 
 Alone, long, dreary years alone. 
 
 His days went down the darkened sky, 
 
 Racked with the heart's revenging war : 
 
 A Saturn on his icy star, — 
 
 God-like upon a ruined throne. 
 Friendless in his supremacy ; 
 
 Till last by that great brow there came 
 Some angel pitying his distress. 
 
 And tamed the soul that burned within. 
 
 Sin-like revenging upon sin. 
 
 And quenched that hell of clearest flame 
 In ashes of forgetfulness. 
 
 His spirit lives within his page : — 
 
 Dissective subtlety of glance; 
 Keen truth, to make the merriest mourn ; 
 Fierce wit, that brightens but to burn. 
 Are there ; and cold ironic rage, 
 
 With'ring a world it views askance. 
 
 What though among our warrior band 
 
 An alien patriot he be. 
 Whose combat clang for Ireland's right. 
 In reason half, if half in spite.' 
 Still shall we hang his mighty brand 
 
 In freedom's sombre armory , 
 
578 
 
 And when we pace along the shrine 
 Thai coldly closed on his despair. 
 
 View, from his anguished life apart. 
 
 The passioned tremble of the heart 
 
 That ripples in the little line 
 •• Only a woman's hair," 
 
 THOMAS C. IRWIN, 
 J-'rom a I'otm on Swi/I. 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS AND SOJtIiOH\ 
 
 That fast expires, glimmering, cold and pale ! 
 Ah, cruel I — see her lover's noble form 
 Beside them, lying in a pool of blood. 
 The golden-hilted poniard in his heart — 
 The jewelled poniard which the poor lorn girl 
 Had fastened, trembling, to her brother's side. 
 Taking her farewell kiss! And now, behold. 
 She draws it from the dead man's silent heart, 
 How sadly and how calmly I and her eyes, 
 i See how they gaze upon the glittering steel. 
 In tearless, vacant stupor ! But an arm 
 Enfolds her ; and with gentle force her form 
 Is drawn away, and passively she yields, 
 I As in a frightful nightmare, when the will 
 ' Is powerless, and we cannot strive or cry. 
 For — lo, the sacred loveliness of grief I — 
 The mother, at that piteous cry, had left 
 Her fallen son, forgetting her own woes. 
 With woman's noblest instinct ministering 
 To sorrow not her own ; and from the field 
 
 AMONG THE SLAIN. 
 And the battle raged. 
 And far away amid the purple glens 
 The noise of onset murmured, like the roll 
 Of a long wave that thunders on the shore. 
 Heaving and falling, till it slowly ebbs, 
 And softly ripples o'er the golden sands. 
 But when the sun rose from the eastern sea. 
 The Saxon victors proudly rode away. 
 Leaving the mighty plain with slaughter The stricken creatures wandered, wailing low 
 
 strewn. 
 Armor and men and horses on the soil 
 
 In awful ruin heaped ; and hour by hour 
 The wailing women came ; and hour by hour 
 The wounded warriors died ; and they that 
 
 lived 
 Unscathed by the fierce combat, bore away 
 The dead and dying from the mournful field. 
 Till the sun dipped behind the western hills. 
 And twilight slowly deepened into gloom. 
 
 In that deep anguish only known to God. 
 
 KDMUNl) J. AKMSTRUNG. 
 'GUnJa/i>iij,'A; a Slory of ll'icHo-.v." 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE. 
 
 The joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide, 
 The fresh wind is singing along the sea-side; 
 The maids are assembling with garlands of 
 
 Behold her wandering, like a midnight ghost, ... .■ ' . .,- ■ ,, ., 
 
 . . , , ■ ,,T. , J , And harp-strmgs are tremblmg m all the gay 
 
 Amid the corpses ! Wherefore does she turn h ■ 
 
 The pmewood torch to ever)' pallid face, [ 
 
 Shuddering, and murmuring. "Thanks be ' gwell, swell thegay measure ! roll, trumpet and 
 
 splendor they 
 
 unto God 
 They are not here I " And why that frenzied 
 shriek 
 
 drum ! 
 
 'Mid greetings of pleasure 
 
 come ! 
 
 That makes the night air quiver, and the blood j^^ chancel is ready, the portal stands wide 
 
 Of yon poor watcher o'er her fallen son p^^ the lord and the ladv. the bridegroom 
 
 Run trebly cold ? .•Mas, and woe is me I ^^^ bride. 
 
 How pale they glare, those faces of the dead. [ 
 
 Around the fair-haired Eilleen 1 There he lies, What years, ere the latter, of earthly delight 
 
 The father who had blest her ere he went. The future shall scatter o'er them in its flight ! 
 
 His white locks stained with gore ; and by his What blissful caresses shall Fortune bestow. 
 
 side Ere those dark-flowing tresses fall white as 
 
 His valiant sons, how pallid, stiff and cold ! I the snow ! 
 
 And lo. that youngest, fairest of them all. j 
 
 His sister's smile upon his rigid lips. Before the high altar young Maud stands 
 
 .And on that moveless breast— behold it there. ' array d ; 
 
 The locket with the braid of golden hair, With accents that falter her promise is made — 
 
 His sister'sgift in parting. stained and bruised. From father and mother for ever to part, 
 And. in the dim light of the fallen torch j For him and no other to treasure her heart. 
 
THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE. 
 
 The words are repeated, the bridal is done, 
 The rite is completed — the two, they are one : 
 The vow, it is spoken all pure from the heart. 
 That must not be broken till life shall depart. 
 
 Hark I 'mid the gay clangor that compass'd 
 
 their car. 
 Loud accents in anger come mingling afar ! 
 The foe's on the border, his weapons resound 
 Where the lines in disorder unguarded are 
 
 found. 
 
 As wakes the good shepherd, the watchful 
 
 and bold, 
 When the ounce or the leopard is seen in the 
 
 fold. 
 So rises already the chief in his mail, 
 While the new-married lady looks fainting 
 
 and pale. 
 
 " Son, husband, and brother, arise to the strife. 
 
 For the sister and mother, for children and 
 wife ! 
 
 O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and 
 plain. 
 
 Up, true men, and follow ! let dastards re- 
 main I" 
 
 Farrah ! to the battle ! they form into line — 
 The shields, how they rattle ! the spears, how 
 they shine ! [rue — 
 
 Soon, soon shall the foeman his treachery 
 On. burgher and yeoman, to die or to do ! 
 
 The eve is declining in lone Malahide. 
 
 The maidens are twining gay wreaths for the 
 
 bride ; 
 She marks them unheeding — her heart is afar. 
 Where the clansmen are bleeding for her in 
 
 the war. 
 
 Hark ! loud from the mountain 'tis Victory's 
 cry ! [sky ! 
 
 O'er woodland and fountain it rings to the 
 The foe has retreated ! he flies to the shore ; 
 The spoiler's defeated — the combat is o'er ! 
 
 With foreheads unruffled the conquerors 
 
 come — 
 But why have they muffled the lance and the 
 
 drum ? 
 What form do they carry aloft on his shield ? 
 And where does he tarry, the lord of the 
 
 field? 
 
 579 
 
 Ve saw him at morning, how gallant and gay! 
 In bridal adorning the star of the day : 
 Now weep for the lover — his triumph is sped. 
 His hope it is over ! the chieftain is dead ! 
 
 But O for the maiden who mourns for that 
 chief. 
 
 With heart overladen and rending with grief! 
 
 She sinks on the meadow in one morning- 
 tide, 
 
 A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride ! 
 
 Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole ! 
 Your comfort is rending the depths of her 
 
 soul. 
 True — true, 'twas a story for ages of pride 
 He died in his glory — but, O, he has died! 
 
 The war-cloak she raises all mournfully now, — 
 And steadfastly gazes upon the cold brow. 
 That glance may for ever unaltered remain. 
 But the Bridegroom will never return it again. 
 
 The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide, 
 The death-wail is rolling along the sea-side ; 
 The crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from 
 
 the green. 
 For the sun has departed that brighten'd the 
 
 scene ! 
 
 Ev'n yet in that valley, though years have 
 
 roU'd by. 
 When through the wild sally the sea-breezes 
 
 sigh, 
 The peasant, with sorrow, beholds in the 
 
 shade 
 The tomb where the morrow saw Hussey 
 d. 
 
 How scant was the warning, how briefly re- 
 veal 'd. 
 
 Before on that morning death's chalice was 
 fiU'd! 
 
 The hero who drunk it there moulders in 
 gloom. 
 
 And the form of Maud Plunket weeps over 
 his tomb. 
 
 The stranger who wanders along the lone vale 
 Still sighs while he ponders on that heavy 
 
 tale: 
 " Thus passes each pleasure that earth can 
 
 supply — 
 Thus joy has its measure — we live but to die!" 
 
 GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
58o 
 
 THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 
 The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's 
 
 hundred isles, 
 The summer sun is gleaming still through 
 
 Gabriel's rough defiles — 
 Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a 
 
 moulting bird, 
 And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide 
 
 is heard ; 
 The hookers lie upon the beach ; the children 
 
 cease their play ; 
 The gossips leave the little inn ; the house- 
 holds kneel to pray— 
 And full of love, and peace, and rest — its daily 
 
 labor o'er — 
 Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of 
 
 Baltimore. 
 
 A deeper rest, a starry trance has come with 
 
 midnight there ; 
 No sound, except that throbbing wave, in 
 
 earth, or sea, or air. 
 The massive capes and ruined towers seem 
 
 conscious of the calm ; 
 The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breath- 
 ing hea\')' balm. 
 So still the night, these two long barks, 'round 
 
 Dunashad that glide. 
 Must trust their oars — methinks not few — 
 
 against the ebbing tide — 
 Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must 
 
 urge them to the shore — 
 They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs i 
 
 in Baltimore ! 
 
 All — all asleep within each roof along that ' 
 
 rocky street. \ 
 
 And these must be the lover's friends, with 
 
 gently gliding feet — ' 
 
 A stifled gasp — a dreamy noise I " The roof 
 
 is in a flame !" 
 From out their beds, and to their doors, rush 
 
 maid, and sire, and dame — 
 And meet, upon the threshold stone, the 
 
 gleaming sabre's fall. 
 And o'er each black and bearded face the 
 
 white or crimson shawl — 
 The yell of ".Mlah!" breaks above the pray'r, 
 
 and shriek, and roar — 
 Oh, blessed God ! the Algerine is lord of 
 
 Baltimore ! 
 
 Then flung the youth his naked hand against 
 the shearing sword ; | 
 
 /'oj:a/s of loss and sorrow. 
 
 Then sprung the mother on the brand with 
 
 which her son was gor'd : 
 Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his 
 
 grand-babes clutching wild ; 
 Then fled the maiden, moaning fast, and 
 
 nestled with the child ; 
 But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed 
 
 with splashing heel. 
 While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps 
 
 his Syrian steel — | 
 
 Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and 
 
 misers yield their store. 
 There's one hearth well avenged in the sack 
 
 of Baltimore ! 
 
 Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the 
 
 birds begin to sing — 
 They see not now the milking maids — deserted 
 
 is the spring 1 
 Midsummer day — this gallant rides from dis- 
 tant Bandon town — 
 These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, 
 
 that skiff from Affadown ; 
 They only found the smoking walls, with 
 
 neighbors' blood besprent. 
 And on the strewed and trampled beach 
 
 awhile they wildly went — 
 Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cleir. 
 
 and saw five leagues before 
 The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged 
 
 Baltimore. 
 
 Oh I some must tug the galley's oar, and some 
 
 must tend the steed — 
 This boy will bear a Schcik's chibouk, and 
 
 that a Bey's jerrecd. 
 Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous 
 
 Dardanelles ; 
 And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy 
 
 dells. 
 The maid that Bandon gallant sought is 
 
 chosen for the Dey — 
 She's safe — she's dead — she stabbed him in 
 
 the midst of his Serai ; 
 And, when to die a death of fire, that noble 
 
 maid they bore. 
 She only smiled — O'DriscoU's child — she 
 
 thought of Baltimore. 
 
 'Tis two long years since sunk the town 
 beneath that bloody band, 
 
 .And all around its trampled hearths a larger 
 concourse stand. 
 
 Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling 
 wretch is seen — 
 
THE BURNING OF KILCOLEMAN. 
 
 581 
 
 'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan^ — he who steered 
 
 the Algerine ! 
 He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a 
 
 passing prayer. 
 For he had slain the kith and kin of many a 
 
 hundred there — 
 Some muttered of M'Morrogh, who had 
 
 brought the Norman o'er — 
 Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in 
 
 Baltimore. 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
 THE BURNING OF KILCOLEMAN.* 
 No sound of life was coming 
 
 From glen or tree or brake, 
 Save the bittern's hollow booming 
 
 Up from the reedy lake ; 
 The golden light of sunset 
 
 Was swallowed in the deep. 
 And the night came down with a sullen frown 
 
 On Houra's craggy steep. 
 
 And Houra's hills are soundless : 
 
 Bm, harki that trumpet blast! 
 It fills that forest boundless. 
 
 Rings round the summit vast; 
 'Tis answered by another 
 
 From the crest of Corrin Mor, 
 And hark again, the pipe's wild strain 
 
 By Bregoge's caverned shore ! 
 
 O sweet at hush of even 
 
 The trumpet's golden thrill. 
 Grand 'neath the starry heaven 
 
 The pibroch wild and shrill ! 
 Yet all were pale with terror. 
 
 The fearful and the bold. 
 Who heard its tone that twilight hour 
 
 In the Poet's frowning hold. 
 
 Well might their hearts be beating. 
 
 For up the mountain pass. 
 By lake and river meeting. 
 
 Came kern and galloglass. 
 Breathing vengeance deadly 
 
 Under the forest tree. 
 To the wizard man who cast the ban 
 
 On the minstrels bold and free ! 
 
 * Kilcoleman Castle, in Cork, ttas for a time the res 
 of the English poet Spenser, whose harshness towar 
 Irish pi-ople brought about the occurrence narrated 
 
 They gave no word of warning. 
 
 Round still they came, and on. 
 Door, wall, and rampart scorning, — 
 
 They knew not he was gone ! — 
 Gone fast and far that even. 
 
 All secret as the wind. 
 His treasures all in that castle tall, 
 
 And his infant son behind! 
 
 All still that castle hoarest, — 
 
 Their pipes and horns were still. 
 While gazed they through the forest 
 
 Up glen and northern hill; 
 Till from the Brehon circle 
 
 On Corrin's crest of stone, 
 A sheet of fire like an Indian pyre 
 
 Up to the clouds was thrown. 
 
 Then with a mighty blazing 
 
 They answered — to the sky ; 
 It dazzled their own gazing. 
 
 So bright it rolled, and high; 
 The Castle of the Poet. 
 
 The man of endless fame, 
 Soon hid its head in a mantle red 
 
 Of fierce and rushing flame. 
 
 Out burst the vassals, praying 
 
 For mercy as they sped ; — 
 ■■Where was their master staying.' 
 
 Where was the Poet fled .' " 
 But hark ! that thrilling screaming. 
 
 Over the crackling din ! — 
 'Tis the Poet's child in its terror wild. 
 
 The blazing tower within ! 
 
 There was a warlike giant 
 
 Amid the listening throng; 
 He looked with face defiant 
 
 On the flames so wild and strong; 
 Then rushed into the castle. 
 
 And up the rocky stair, 
 But alas ! alas ! he could not pass 
 
 To the burning infant there ! 
 
 The wall was tottering under. 
 
 And the flame was whirring round, 
 The wall went down in thunder 
 
 And dashed him to the ground ; 
 Up in the burning chamber 
 
 Forever died that scream ; 
 And the fire sprang out with a wilder shout, 
 
 And a fiercer, ghastlier gleam ! 
 
582 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS A.\D SOJi/iOH'. 
 
 It glared o'er hill and hollow. 
 
 Up many a rocky bar, 
 From ancient KilnamuUa 
 
 To Darras Peak alar ; 
 Then it heaved into the darkness 
 
 With a final roar amain, 
 And sank in gloom with a whirring boom. 
 
 And all was dark again ! 
 
 Away sped the galloglasses 
 
 And kerns, all still amain. 
 Through Houra's lonely passes. 
 
 Wild, fierce, and reckless men. 
 But such the Saxon made them. 
 
 Poor sons of war and woe ; [knife 
 
 So they venged their strife with flame and 
 
 On his head long, long ago. 
 
 RUliEKl DW^ER JOYCE. 
 
 THE FISHERMEN OF WEXFORD. 
 
 There is an old tradition sacred held in Wex- 
 ford town, 
 
 That says: "Upon St. Martin's eve no net 
 shall be let down ; 
 
 No fishermen of Wexford shall, upon that holy 
 day. 
 
 Set sail or cast a line within the scope of Wex- 
 ford Bay." 
 
 The tongue that framed the order, or the 
 time, no one can tell ; 
 
 And no one ever questioned, but the people 
 kept it well. 
 
 And never in man's memory was fisher known 
 to leave 
 
 The little town of Wexford on the good St. 
 Martin's Eve. 
 
 Alas ! alas for Wexford ! once upon that holy 
 
 day 
 Came a wondrous shoal of herring to the 
 
 waters of the Ray. 
 The fishers and their families stood out upon 
 
 the beach. 
 And all day watched with wistful eyes the 
 
 wealth they might not reach. 
 Such shoal was never seen before, and keen 
 
 regrets went round — 
 Alas! alas for Wexford. Hark I what is that 
 
 grating sound ? 
 The boats' keels on the shingle! Mothers! 
 
 wives ! ye well may grieve, — 
 The fishermen of Wexford mean to sail on 
 
 Martin's Eve. 
 
 •* Oh. stay ye !" cried the women wild. " Sui) ! 
 cried the men white-haired ; 
 
 " .\nd dare ye not to do this thing your fathers 
 never dared. 
 
 No man can thrive who tempts the Lord!" 
 '• Away I" they cried : " the Lord 
 
 Ne'er sent a shoal of fish but as a fisherman's 
 reward." 
 
 And scoflingly they said. "To-night our nets 
 sljall sweep the Bay. 
 
 And take the Saint who guards it, should he 
 come across our way !" 
 
 The keels have touched the water, and the 
 crews are in each boat ; 
 
 And on St. Martin's eve the Wexford fishers 
 are afloat I 
 
 The moon is shining coldly on the sea and on 
 the land. 
 
 On dark faces in the fishing-fleet and pale 
 ones on the strand. 
 
 As seaward go the daring boats, and heaven- 
 ward the cries 
 
 Of kneeling wives and mothers with uplifted 
 hands and eyes. 
 
 •' O Holy Virgin ! be their guard I " the weep- 
 ing women cried ; 
 
 The old men. sad and silent, watched the 
 boats cleave through the tide. 
 
 As past the farthest headland, past the light- 
 house, in a line 
 
 The fishing-fleet went seaward through the 
 phosphor-lighted brine. 
 
 Oh, pray, ye wives and mothers ! All your 
 
 prayers they sorely need 
 To sa\'e them from the wrath they've roused 
 
 by their rebellious greed. 
 Oh! white-haired men and little babes, and 
 
 weeping sweethearts, pray 
 To God to spare the fishermen to-night in 
 
 Wexford Bay! 
 
 The boats have reached good offing, and. as 
 out the nets are thrown. 
 
 The hearts ashore are chilled to hear the 
 soughing sea-wind's moan . 
 
 Like to a human heart that loved, and hoped 
 for some return. 
 
 To find at last but hatred, so the sea-wind 
 seemed to mourn. 
 
 But ah ! the Wexford fishermen ! their nets 
 did scarcely sink 
 
 One inch below the foam, when lo ! the dar- 
 ing boatmen shrmk 
 
THE LOST STEAMSHIP. 
 
 5S3 
 
 With sudden awe and whitened Hps and glar- 
 ing eyes agape, 
 
 For breast-high, threatening, from the sea 
 uprose a Human Shape! 
 
 Beyond them — in the moonlight — hand up- 
 raised and awful mien. 
 Waving back and pointing landwards, breast 
 
 high in the sea 'twas seen. 
 Thrice it waved and thrice it pointed, — then, 
 
 with clenched hand upraised. 
 The awful shape went down before the fishers 
 
 as they gazed ! 
 Gleaming whitely through the water, fathoms 
 
 deep they saw its frown, — 
 They saw its white hand clenched above it, — 
 
 sinking slowly down ! 
 And then there was a rushing 'neath the 
 
 boats, and every soul 
 Was thrilled with greed : they knew it was 
 
 the seaward-going shoal ! 
 
 Defying the dread warning, every face was 
 
 sternly set, 
 And wildly did they ply the oar. and wildly 
 
 haul the net. 
 But two boats' crews obeyed the sign. — God- 
 fearing men were they, — 
 They cut their lines, and left their nets, and 
 
 homeward sped away ; 
 But darkly rising sternwards did God's wrath 
 
 in tempest sweep. 
 And they, of all the fishermen, that night 
 
 escaped the deep. 
 Oh, wives and mothers, sweethearts, sires ! 
 
 well might ye mourn next day. 
 For seventy fishers' corpses strewed the shores 
 
 of Wexford Bay ! 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 THE LOST STEAMSHIP. 
 " Ho, there! Fisherman, hold your hand. 
 
 Tell me what is that far away. — 
 There, where over the isle of sand 
 
 Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray.' 
 See ! it rocks with a ghastly life. 
 
 Rising and rolling through clouds of spray. 
 Right in the midst of the breakers' strife, — 
 
 Tell me what is it. Fisherman, pray? " 
 
 " That, 
 
 sir, was a steamer stout 
 
 As ever paddled around Cape Race ; 
 
 And many's the wild and stormy bout [place; His face was white as the boiling tide 
 
 She had with the winds, in that selfsame And she was clinging about his neck 
 
 But her time was come ; and at ten o'clock 
 Last night she struck on that lonesome shore; 
 
 And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock, 
 And at dawn this morning she was no more." 
 
 " Come, as you seem to know, good man. 
 
 The terrible fate of this gallant ship. 
 Tell me about her all that you can ; 
 
 And here's my flask to moisten your lip. 
 Tell me how many she had aboard, — 
 
 Wives, and husbands, and lovers true. — 
 How did it fare with her human hoard .' 
 
 Lost she many, or lost she few?" 
 
 " Master, I may not drink of your flask. 
 
 Already too moist I feel my lip ; 
 But I'm ready to do what else you ask. 
 
 And spin you my yarn about the ship : 
 'Twas ten o'clock, as I said, last night, 
 
 When she struck the breakers and went 
 ashore ; 
 And scarce had broken the morning's light 
 
 Than she sank in twelve feet of water or 
 
 •• But long ere this they knew her doom. 
 
 And the captain called all hands to prayer ; 
 And solemnly over the ocean's boom 
 
 Their orisons wailed on the troublous air. 
 And round about the vessel there rose 
 
 Tall plumes of spray as white as snow. 
 Like angels in their ascension clothes, 
 
 Waiting for those who prayed below. 
 
 " So these three hundred people clung 
 
 As well as they could to spar and rope ; 
 With a word of prayer upon every tongue. 
 
 Nor on any face a glimmer of hope. 
 But there was no blubbering weak and wild. 
 
 Of tearful faces I saw but one, 
 A rough old salt, who cried like a child. 
 
 And not for himself, but the captain's son, 
 
 " The captain stood on the quarter-deck. 
 
 Firm, but pale, with trumpet in hand ; 
 Sometimes he looked at the breaking wreck, | 
 
 Sometimes he sadly looked to land. | 
 
 And often he smiled to cheer the crew — • ; 
 
 But, Lord ! the smile was terrible grim — 
 Till over the quarter a huge sea flew ; 
 
 And that was the last they saw of him. 
 
 I saw one young fellow with his bride. 
 Standing amidships upon the wreck ; 
 
POEMS OF LOSS AXD SOKKOV, 
 
 5S4 
 
 And 1 saw them try to say good-bye. 
 
 But neither could hear the other speak; 
 So they floated away through the sea to die — 
 
 Shoulder to shoulder and cheek to cheek. 
 
 '• And there was a child, but eight at best, 
 
 Who went his way in a sea she shipped ; 
 All the while holding upon his breast 
 
 A little red parrot whose wings were clipped. 
 And as the boy and the bird went by, 
 
 Swinging away on a tall wave's crest, [cry. 
 They were gripped by a man. with a drowning 
 
 And together the three went down to rest. 
 
 '■ And so the crew went one by one, 
 
 Some with gladness and few with fear; 
 Cold and hardship such work had done [near. 
 
 That few seemed frightened when death was 
 Thus every soul on board went down — 
 
 Sailor and passenger, little and great ; 
 The last that sank was a man of my town. 
 
 A capital swimmer — the second mate." 
 
 " Now, lonely fisherman, who are you 
 
 That say you saw this terrible wreck.' 
 How do 1 know what you say is true. 
 
 When every mortal was swept from the deck ? 
 Where were you in that hour of death .' 
 
 How did you learn what you relate ? " 
 His answer came in an under breath,— 
 
 "Master, I was the second mate I" 
 
 FITZ JAMES O'UKIEX. 
 
 DUBLIN BAY. 
 He sail'd away in a gallant bark, 
 
 Roy Neill and his fair young bride ; 
 He had ventur'd all in that bounding ark 
 
 That danced o'er the silver tide. 
 But his heart was young and his spirit light. 
 
 And he dashed the tear away, 
 As he watched the shore recede from sight 
 
 Of his own sweet Dublin Bay. 
 
 Three days they sail'd. and a storm arose. 
 
 And the lightning swept the deep. 
 And the thunder-crash broke the short repose, 
 
 Of the weary sea-boy's sleep. 
 Roy Neill, he clasped his weeping bride. 
 
 And he kiss'd her tears away, 
 •• O love, 'twas a fatal hour," she cried, 
 
 •• When we left sweet Dublin Bay." 
 
 On the crowded deck of the doomed ship 
 Some stood in their mute despair ; 
 
 .\nd some more calm, with a holy lip. 
 
 Sought the God of the storm in prayer. 
 • She has struck on the rock !" the 
 cried. 
 
 In the breath of iheir wild dismay ; [bride. 
 And the ship went down, and the fair young 
 
 That sailed from Dublin Bay. 
 
 JULIA CRAWFORD. 
 
 LOST, LOST ARMADA I 
 One by one men die on shore. 
 
 Falling as the brown leaves fall ; 
 Daily some one doth deplore 
 
 A sleeper in a sable pall. 
 Slowly single coffins pass 
 To cold crj'pts beneath the grass; 
 But on sea— oh. misery I 
 Death is frantic — death is free ; 
 So they found who sailed «ith thee. 
 Lost, lost Armada ! 
 
 What an Oriental show 
 
 Thine was on the Biscayan tide ; 
 Well might Philip's bosom glow 
 
 When his power you glorified : — 
 Indian wealth and Flemish skill, 
 Spanish pride and Roman will 
 Borne on ever)' carvel's prow ; 
 Where are all your splendors now ? 
 Fallen like gems from Philip's brow, 
 Lost, lost Armada ! 
 
 Water-demons beat the deep — 
 
 Lir, the sea-god, waked in rage — 
 Sped his couriers forth from sleep- 
 None his anger durst assuage; 
 Then the god-demented seas 
 Whitened round the Hebrides: 
 On Albyn's rocks, on Erin's sands; 
 Banshees wrung their briny hands. 
 Keening for your perished bands. 
 Lost, lost Armada ! 
 
 Fifteen hundred men of Spain 
 Sunk in sight of Knocknarea ; 
 
 Twice a thousand strove in vain 
 To reach your harbors. Tyrawley ! 
 
 Oh I they have not even a grave ! 
 
 In the land they came to save ; 
 
 Only penitent ocean moans 
 
 O'er their white, far-drifting bones 
 
 Blending with it Erin's groans. 
 Lost, lost Armada ! 
 
 TIIO.MAS U'ARCY McGEE. 
 
THE THREE CAN NETS. 
 
 585 
 
 THE WRECK OF THE AIDEEN. 
 Is it cure me, docther, darlin' ? an ould boy of 
 
 siventy-four. 
 Afther soakin'off Berehaven three and thirty 
 
 hour and more, 
 Wid no other navigation underneath me but 
 
 an oar. 
 
 God incrase ye. but it's only half myself is 
 
 livin' still. 
 An' there's mountin' slow but surely to my 
 
 heart the dyin' chill ; 
 God incrase ye foryour goodness, but I'm past 
 
 all mortial skill. 
 
 But ye'U surely let them lift me, won't you, 
 docther, from below? 
 
 Ye'll let them lift me surely — very soft and 
 ver)' slow — 
 
 To see my ould ship, Aideen, wanst agin be- 
 fore I go } 
 
 Lay my head upon your shoulder; thank ye 
 
 kindly, docther. dear. 
 Take me now; God bless ye. cap'n ! now 
 
 together I sorra fear ! 
 Have no dread that ye'll distress me — now. 
 
 agin, ochone ! I see her. 
 
 Ologone ! my Aideen's Aideen, christened by 
 
 her laughin' lips, 
 ■Wid a sprinkle from her finger as ye started 
 
 from the slips. 
 Thirty years ago come Shrovetide, like a swan 
 
 among the ships. 
 
 And we both were constant to ye till the 
 
 bitther. bitther day. 
 Whin the typhus took my darlin,' and she 
 
 pined and pined away, 
 Till yourself's the only sweetheart that was 
 
 left me on the say. 
 
 So through fair and foul we'd travel, you and 
 
 I thin, usen't we.' 
 The same ould coorse from Galway Bay by 
 
 Limerick and Tralee. 
 Till this storm it shook me overboard, and 
 
 murthered you, machree. 
 
 But now, agra,the unruly wind has flown into 
 
 the west. 
 And the silver moon is shinin' soft upon the 
 
 ocean's breast, [our rest. 
 
 Like Aideen's smilin' spirit come to call us to 
 
 Still the sight is growin' darker, and I cannot 
 
 rightly hear ; 
 The say's too cold for one so old ; O, save me, 
 
 cap'n, dear ! 
 Now it's growin' bright and warm again, and 
 
 Aideen, Aideen's here! 
 
 ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 
 Now that the wind is tamed and broken, 
 
 And day gleams over the lea. 
 
 Row, row, for the one you love 
 
 Was out on the raging sea : 
 
 Row, row. row, 
 
 Sturdy and brave o'er the treacherous wave, 
 
 Hope like a beacon before. 
 
 Row. sailor, row, 
 Out to the sea from the shore ! 
 
 O. the oar that was once so merry, 
 
 O. but the mournful oar ! 
 Row, row ; God steady your arm 
 To the dark and desolate shore : 
 
 Row, row, row. [head 
 
 With your own love dead, and her wet gold 
 Laid there at rest on your knee. 
 Row, sailor, row. 
 Back to the shore from the sea ! 
 
 LOUISE LMOGEN GUINEY. 
 
 THE THREE GANNETS. 
 On a wrinkled rock, in a distant sea. 
 
 Three white gannets sat in the sun ; [fine. 
 They shook the brine from their feathers so 
 
 And lazily, one by one, 
 They sunnily slept— while the tempest crept. 
 
 In a painted boat, on a distant sea. 
 
 Three fowlers sailed merrily on. 
 And each took aim. as he came near the game. 
 
 And the gannets fell, one by one. 
 And fluttered and died — while the tempest 
 sighed. 
 
 Then a cloud came over the distant sea. 
 
 A darkness came over the sun, 
 And a storm-wind smote on the painted boat, 
 
 And the fowlers sank, one by one, 
 Down, down with their craft — while the tem- 
 pest laughed. 
 
 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 
 
586 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS AND SOU HO IV. 
 
 FAREWELL. The sacred soil our fathers owned, the gr 
 
 Oh. Gramachree! the sun of spring is bright i'«" ^o'd oar dead.' 
 
 upon thy soil. 
 
 Must all the ties of happy years be roughly 
 
 The corn is springing in the fields where we 
 
 no more may toil, 
 The chestnut boughs are covered thick with 
 
 budding cone and leaf ; 
 But oh I the fairer thou dost seem, the darker 
 
 is our grief. 
 For we, who would have shed our blood for 
 
 love of thy dear shore. I 
 
 Are looking sadly on the scenes we shall fa^'e^e'l ' the wind blows fresh and strong 
 
 rent at last. 
 
 And Fortune on a foreign shore her hapless 
 victims cast? 
 
 Oh I muSl the sharp and bitter pangs of rest- 
 less memory 
 
 Be all that, in the years to come, our hearts 
 shall hold of thee .' 
 
 behold no more. 
 
 We turn to hill, and vale, and wood, with dim 
 
 and lingering gaze ; 
 We see the golden West o'erspread with 
 
 evening's crimson haze. 
 The garden hedgerows shining white with 
 
 flakes of hawthorn flow'rs. 
 The homes where we have lived and loved, 
 
 through all life's bygone hours ; 
 We hear the carol of the lark, high in the 
 
 clear blue sky. [by. 
 
 And the ripple of the river as it swiftly glideth 
 
 The summer days shall flush the earth with 
 
 rich and glowing bloom. 
 The full-leaved boughs athwart the grass shall 
 
 cast their waving gloom. 
 The lilies, resting on their leaves, shall heave j And never more Fll see you— O, never, ast/iore 
 
 upon the stream, | 
 
 And the wild heather on the hills with purple | 
 
 blossoms gleam. 
 
 another dawn shall see 
 The ocean heaving round our ship, the broad 
 
 sails swelling free. 
 Wealth may be ours in days to come, but 
 
 wealth can have no pow'r 
 To make us careless of the pangs of this last 
 
 parting hour. 
 May peace and blessing. Gramachree. be with 
 
 thy verdant shore '. 
 And He who rules the wjnd and waves be with 
 
 thee evermore I 
 
 A. M. MiNsri:k. 
 
 THE LAST REQUEST. 
 You're goin' away, alaniia, over the stormy 
 
 macliree 
 
 I'm sick with sorrow — sorrow as 
 black as night ; 
 
 And on the air shall ring the laugh of chil- ; Mabouc'tal goes to-morrow, by the blessed 
 
 drenat their play. 
 But dark and cold our hearths shall be — and 
 we far, far away. 
 
 mornin's light. 
 
 O, once I thought, alaiina. you'd bear me to 
 I the grave. 
 
 Oh : many a day, for ever gone, we'\e stood % »^''e side of your angel sisters, before you'd 
 
 where now we stand, cross the wave ; 
 
 Our breasts high heaving with the pride wo Down to the green old churchyard, where the 
 
 felt in our own land. 
 And watching through the swaying boughs 
 
 the curling smoke arise 
 From roofs that sheltered tender hearts and 
 
 soft and loving eyes. 
 But now our homes are desolate, and ruin 
 
 spreads her pall 
 .Alike upon the peasant's cot and on the 
 
 master's hall. 
 
 trees' dark shadows fall- 
 But now, lulioria .' you're goin', you'll not be 
 there at all. 
 
 Oh. Erin ! Erin ! must 
 longer tread 
 
 The strangers' hands must lay me down to my 
 
 last silent sleep. 
 And. Shemus, you'll not know it beyond the 
 
 rolHn' deep. 
 O. liluc-lin! dheeliit'.' avouriu-fii. why do you 
 
 go away, 
 we go? — must we no Till you'll see the poor old mother stretched 
 
 in the churchyard clay ? 
 
CAOCH THE PIPER. 
 
 587 
 
 My heart is breakiii', alanna, but I mustn't 
 
 tell you so. 
 For I see by your dark, dark sorrow, that your 
 
 own poor heart is low. 
 I thought I'd bear it better, to cheer you on 
 
 your way ; 
 But, achorra! achorra.' you're goin'. and I'll 
 
 soon be in the clay ' 
 
 God's blessin' be with you. Shenius ! Sure. 
 
 you'll come back again. 
 When your curls of brown are snowy, to rest 
 
 with your mother then, 
 Down in the green old churchyard, where the 
 
 trees' dark shadows fall — 
 Asthorach! in the strangers' land you couldn't 
 
 sleep at all. 
 
 WILLIAM KENEALLY. 
 
 CAOCH* THE PIPER. 
 One winter's day, long, long ago. 
 
 When I was a little fellow. 
 A piper wandered to our door, 
 
 Gray-headed, blind, and yellow : 
 And, oh ' how glad was my young heart. 
 
 Though earth and sky looked dreary. 
 To see the stranger and his dog — 
 
 Poor Pinch, and Caoch O'Leary. 
 
 And when he stowed away his bag, 
 
 Crossed-barred with green and yellow, 
 I thought and said. In Ireland's ground 
 
 There's not so fine a fellow. 
 And Fineen Burke, and Shaun Magee. 
 
 And Eily, Kate, and Marj', 
 Rushed in, with panting haste, to see 
 
 And welcome Caoch O'Leary. 
 
 Oh! God be with those happy times ! 
 
 Oh ! God be with my childhood I 
 When I, bare-headed, roamed all day — 
 
 Bird-nesting in the wild-wood. 
 I'll not forget those sunny hours, 
 
 However years may vary ; 
 I'll not forget my early friends. 
 
 Nor honest Caoch O'Learj'. 
 
 Poor Caoch, and Pinch, slept well that night. 
 
 And in the morning early 
 He called me up to hear him play 
 
 "The Wind that Shakes the Barley; " 
 
 Pronounced Kay-uch ; meaning blind. 
 
 And then he stroked my flaxen hair. 
 And cried, " God mark my deary ! " 
 
 And how I wept when he said, " Farewell, 
 And think of Caoch O'Leary I " 
 
 And seasons came and went, and still 
 
 Old Caoch was not forgotten. 
 Although we thought him dead and gone, 
 
 And in the cold grave rotten ; 
 And often, when I walked and talked 
 
 With Eily, Kate, and Mary, 
 We thought of childhood's rosy hours. 
 
 And prayed for Caoch O'Leary. 
 
 Well — twenty summers had gone past. 
 
 And June's red sun was sinking. 
 When I, a man, sat by my door 
 
 Of twenty sad things thinking. 
 A little dog came up the way, 
 
 His gait was slow and weary, 
 And at his tail a lame man limped — 
 
 'Twas Pinch and Caoch O'Leary! 
 
 Old Caoch, but, oh ! how woe-begone ! 
 
 His form is bowed and bending. 
 His fleshless hands are stifT and wan. 
 
 Ay — Time is even blending 
 The colors on his thread-bare bag — 
 
 And Pinch is twice as hairy 
 And thin-spare as when first I saw 
 
 Himself and Caoch O'Leary. 
 
 " God's blessing here ! " the wanderer cried, 
 
 " Far, far be hate's black viper ! 
 Does any body here about. 
 
 Remember Caoch the Piper .^ " 
 With swelling heart I grasped his hand ; 
 
 The old man murmured " Deary! 
 Are you the silk)'-headed child 
 
 That loved poor Caoch O'Leary? " 
 
 "Yes, yes," I said; the wanderer wept 
 
 As if his heart was breaking — 
 "And where, a vliic tnachrec," he sobbed, 
 
 " Is all the merry-making 
 I found here twenty years ago.' " — 
 
 " My tale," I sighed, " might weary, 
 Enough to say — there's none but me 
 
 To welcome Caoch O'Leary." 
 
 " Vo. Vo, Vo ! " the old man cried. 
 And wrung his hands in sorrow, 
 
 " Pray lead me in, asthore mac/iree. 
 And I'll go home to-morrow. 
 
588 
 
 My peace is made— I'll calmly leave 
 This world so cold and drearj', 
 
 And you shall keep my pipes and dog, 
 And pray for Caoch O'Leary." 
 
 With Pinch. I watched his bed that night, 
 
 Next day, his wish was granted ; 
 He died — and Father James was brought, 
 
 And the Requiem Mass was chanted. 
 The neighbors came ; we dug his grave 
 
 Near Eily. Kate and Mary. 
 And there he sleeps his last sweet sleep — 
 
 God rest you, Caoch O'Leary ! 
 
 JOHN KEF.GAN. 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 
 
 THE BLACK 'FORTY-SIX. 
 Out away across the river. 
 
 Where the purple mountains meet. 
 There's as green a wood as iver. 
 
 Fenced you from the flamin' heat. 
 And opposite, up the mountain. 
 
 Seven ancient cells ye'll see. 
 And. below, a holy fountain 
 
 Sheltered by a sacred tree ; 
 While between, across the tillage. 
 
 Two boreens full up wid broom 
 Draw ye down into a village 
 
 All in ruin on the coom ; 
 
 For the most heart-brakin' story 
 
 Of the fearful famine year 
 On the silent wreck before ye 
 
 You may read charactered clear. 
 Yous are young, too young for ever 
 
 To rec'llect the bitter blight. 
 How it crep" across the River 
 
 Unbeknownst beneath the night; 
 Till we woke up in the mornin'. 
 
 And beheld our country's curse 
 Wave abroad its heavy warnin'. 
 
 Like the white plumes of a hearse. 
 
 To our gardens, heavy-hearted. 
 
 In that dreadful summer's dawn. 
 Young and ould away we started 
 
 Wid the basket and the slan. 
 But the heart within the bosom 
 
 Gave one leap of awful dread 
 At each darlin' pratee blossom. 
 
 White and purple, lyin' dead, 
 Down we dug, but only scattered 
 
 Poisoned spuds along the slope ; 
 Though each ridge in vain it flattered 
 
 Our poor hearts' revivin' hope- 
 
 But the desperate toil we'd double 
 
 On into the evenin' shades ; 
 Till the earth to share our trouble 
 
 Shook beneath our groanin' spades 
 Till a mist across the meadows 
 
 From the graveyard rose and sprearl 
 And 'twas rumored ghostly shadows. 
 
 Phantoms of our fathers dead. 
 Moved among us, wildly sharin' 
 
 In the women's sobs and sighs. 
 And our stony, still despairin'. 
 
 Till night covered up the skies. 
 
 Thin we knew for bitter certain 
 
 That the vinom-breathin' cloud 
 Closin' still its cruel curtain. 
 
 Surely yet would be our shroud. 
 And the fearful sights did folly. 
 
 Och! no voice could rightly tell. 
 But that constant, melancholy 
 
 Murmur of the passin' bell ; 
 Till to toll it none among us 
 
 Strong enough at last was found, 
 And a silence overhung us 
 
 AwfuUer nor any sound. 
 
 ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 
 
 EVICTED. 
 It was not much of a place, you say. [it ; 
 
 And we needn't be breakin' our hearts about 
 That's true ; it was poor enough ever)' way. 
 
 But what are we goin' to do without it? 
 Sure, it was the only home we had. [us : — 
 
 And the home of the poor old people before 
 Ah. sir. but the heart must be dark and bad 
 
 That takes what the whole world can't 
 restore us I 
 
 When times were better, and 1 was young. 
 
 Before the famine and dreadful fever. 
 It's many a merry old song was sung 
 
 Within those walls that are gone forever; 
 An' 'tis many a frolicsome hour we spent. 
 
 Strong bomhals and lollt'ens all glad together. 
 Beside the hearth where a true content 
 
 Made pleasant the wildest wintry weather. 
 
 It was there our simple marriage feast 
 
 Was spread, and the kindly jest passed 
 
 lightly. 
 
 With the neighbors round, and the blessed 
 
 priest. [brightly ; 
 
 And the smiles of friendship beamin 
 
THE POOR MAN'S DARLING. 
 
 589 
 
 And 'twas there our first poor darlin' died, 
 (Hush, Mary a/anna/i, don't be cryin'. 
 
 Sure Heaven is just, and the best are tried !) — 
 There, where the rafters now are lyin'. 
 
 When lords and ladies, the great and high, 
 
 Were wastin' riches in mirth and riot, 
 And men and women were left to die 
 
 For food, not havin' wherewith to buy it. 
 Then gaunt-faced hunger was often there. 
 
 And sickness, sorrow, and sore denial — 
 The pain that follows the steps of care. 
 
 And many a bitter and darksome trial ! 
 
 But still, thro' all that was drear and sad. 
 
 Some comfort ever remained to cheer us — 
 A roof to shelter the achin' head. 
 
 And the darlin' childhei always near us ! 
 But now, ah now, with the childher gone 
 
 To lands where the old may be forsaken. 
 And the home a ruin of thatch and stone. 
 
 Is it strange that our hearts are almost 
 breakin' 
 
 God pity the poor ! it s many a load 
 
 Fate bids them carry, tho' weak and weary. 
 Along a rugged and cheerless road 
 
 That fades in a future dim and dreary ! 
 And Heaven have mercy on the great, 
 
 When splendor, station, and wealth and 
 power, 
 All darkly vanish, and, soon or late. 
 
 At the dreadful Judgment Seat they cower. 
 
 DANIEL CONNOLLY. 
 
 WILLIE'S MOTHER. 
 An' so yer moment has come for sailin', 
 
 A bitther moment, oh, Willie dear! 
 But Where's the use of yer mother's wailin' 
 
 There's nothin', darlin', to howld ye here 
 There's little labor that's worth the doin'. 
 
 An' happy are they can rise an' go. — 
 The poor ould counthry has gone to ruin ; 
 
 But, och, it's hard, man, to lave her so ! 
 
 But time is passin' — oh, Willie — Willie ! — 
 
 An' I, dear help me, what ccm I say? 
 Ough ! you'll be kind to that weepin' lily. 
 
 That's lavin' all for yerself th' day ! 
 An' whether, jewel, ye sweat an' swelther. 
 
 Or march a prince thro' yer marvle halls, 
 Ye wont forget, man, the poor ould shelther. 
 
 An' her that rocked ye within its walls ! 
 
 From that big brow, then, my yellow yarlin', 
 
 One curlin' sunbame to faste my eye ; [lin'. 
 And when they've waked me, my Willie, dar- 
 
 ril take it with me to where I'll lie — 
 To where I'll lie ! But for that last lyin', 
 
 Tho' God's sthrong angels should come an' 
 Who'd kiss the cowld lips of her a-dyin' [care. 
 
 Like him, achora, who can't be there } 
 
 Don't kill yer mother with axin' pardon — 
 
 Is't you, my snow-flake— my spotless child ! 
 Ough, cowld wide worl'. yer his pratie garden, 
 
 Who never grieved me with gloom or guile 1 
 One kiss — the last one ! Ah, God, mavourneen, 
 
 How like this moment the face that's gone ! 
 Yer father's, dear, at yer every turnin' — 
 
 Yer father's eyes an' yer father's han' ! 
 
 A moment, Willie! I'm feelin' wakely. 
 
 I'll lane a thrifle upon yer arm ; 
 God help them, dear, that be ould an sickly. 
 
 They need the han' that's both thrue an' 
 warm ! 
 For what yer own was the Lord reward ye. 
 
 An' be yer keeper both night an' day. 
 May all the angels in heaven guard ye ! 
 
 Now. lave me, jewel! — away — away ! 
 
 FRANCIS DAVIS. 
 
 THE POOR MAN'S DARLING. 
 Why did you leave me. asthore maclirce .' 
 You were life and light, you were all to me ; 
 Oh, our hearts are sad, and our cot is lone. 
 For we miss your face by the old hearthstone. 
 
 The patch of groun that we've still the pride 
 
 Is but a patch, dear, when all is done ; [in. 
 
 And the cowld bare walls that yer father died 
 Can barely aqual the wants of one. 
 
 'Tis true that Jemmie, yer slavin' brother. 
 Has still a home there, however low; [ther. 
 
 But when he shares with your poor ould mo- 
 God knows there's little to come or go. 
 
 We cannot laugh, for we do not hear 
 Your merry laugh, love, so soft and clear ; 
 We never dance, as we danced of yore. 
 When your little feet beat the cabin floor. 
 
 But we gather round the fire at night, 
 And the white walls gleam in the ruddy light ; 
 There we see your cloak and your little chair — 
 But oh, my darling, you are not there ! 
 
590 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 
 
 Your prayer-book is faded, old and brown- 
 Here and there, as you left them, the leavt 
 
 turned down ; 
 And oh. my darlint;. I even trace 
 Your linger-marks in some well-worn place. 
 
 Then each faded leaf I fondly kiss ; 
 
 Oh. no relic of old is so dear as this ! 
 
 And I weep, my darling, when none are near, 
 
 O'er the little fingers that rested here. 
 
 My gentle Eily. you came to me 
 
 In the cold, dark hour of adversity ; 
 
 We were very poor, but a jewel rare [there. 
 
 Shone on our hearth, love, when you were 
 
 Dearer you grew to our hearts each day — 
 Every cold, harsh thought, love, you smiled 
 
 away ; 
 And each want in our love we soon forgot, 
 For you brought content to our humble cot. 
 
 Light was my heart as I toiled away ; 
 For I thought of you as 1 tossed the hay ; 
 And the fairest blossoms that round me grew. 
 My own little darling, I kept for you. 
 
 Blithely I sang when my toil was o'er. 
 As I sauntered on to our cabin door; 
 For I saw in the shade of the old ash-tree 
 Your smiling face looking out for me. 
 
 Ah, me I how your sweet blue eyes would shine 
 As I climbed the hill with your hand in mine ; 
 But you talked so wise that you made me start. 
 And clasp you close to my trembling heart. 
 
 The golden .Autumn glided past. 
 And the dreaded Winter came on at last; 
 While smaller each day grew our little store, 
 Till the last had gone and we had no more. 
 
 Hunger, my darling, is hard to hear ; 
 Still, without murmur, you bore your share ; 
 Like a patient spirit you hovered near. 
 In want and sorrow our hearts to cheer. 
 
 Katey and Mary would cry for bread. 
 
 But you laughed and danced, love, and sang 
 
 instead 
 Oh. dear little heart! you were kind and 
 
 brave ; 
 You knew there was none, so you did not 
 
 crave. 
 
 You sang when your voice was faint and 
 
 weak. 
 When the bloom had flown from your fair 
 
 round cheek ; 
 In your tiny breast gnawed the hungry pain. 
 But your lips, my darling, would not com- 
 1 plain. 
 
 Oh, 'twas sweet to feel your soft arms twine, 
 ' And your warm young face pressing close to 
 
 mine. 
 " .Are you hungry, love .' " I would whisper low ; 
 But you shook your head, and you answered 
 • No.' 
 
 My darling! I saw you fade away 
 Like the last soft glance of the closing day ; 
 .As the dying note of some magic strain 
 That charms the heart, then is hushed again. 
 
 The shadows of death, love, dimmed your 
 
 eyes'; 
 As the dark clouds passed o'er the sunny 
 
 skies; 
 And the drooping lids o'er those sweet eyes 
 
 fell. 
 At the last soft stroke of the vesper bell. 
 
 A little sigh — it was all 1 heard — 
 Like the fluttering wing of a captive bird ; 
 And a sobbing voice from behind the bed. 
 Saying: " Father, father, is Eily dead.'" 
 
 .\NUNV.MOUS. 
 
 THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S LAMENT. 
 I 
 
 I'm sittin' on the stile. Mar\'. 
 Where we sat side by side 
 On a bright May mornin' long ago. 
 
 When first you were my bride : 
 The corn was springin' fresh and green, 
 
 .And the lark sang loud and high — 
 And the red was on your lip. Mary, 
 I And the love-light in your eye. 
 
 The place is little changed. Mary. 
 I The day is bright as then, 
 The lark's loud song is in my ear, 
 
 And the corn is green again ; 
 Rut I miss the soft clasp of your hand. 
 
 .And your breath, warm on my cheek. 
 And 1 still keep list'nin' for the words 
 I You never more will sfX-'ak. 
 
591 
 
 'Tis but a step down yonder lane. 
 
 And the little church stands near. 
 The church where we were wed, Mary, 
 
 I see the spire from here. 
 But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, 
 
 And my step might break your rest — 
 For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep 
 
 With your baby on your breast. 
 
 I'm very lonely now, Mary. 
 
 For the poor make no new friends. 
 But O ! they love the better still. 
 
 The few our Father sends ! 
 And you were all / had, Marj'. 
 
 My blessin' and my pride ; 
 There's nothing left to care for now. 
 
 Since my poor Mary died. 
 
 Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 
 
 That still kept hoping on. 
 When the trust in God had left my soul. 
 
 And my arm's young strength was gone ; 
 There was comfort ever on your lip. 
 
 And the kind look on your brow — 
 I bless you. Mary, for that same. 
 
 Though you cannot hear me now. 
 
 I thank you for the patient smile 
 
 When your heart was fit to break, 
 When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, 
 
 And you hid it for ///y sake I 
 I bless you for the pleasant word. 
 
 When your heart was sad and sore — 
 O ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 
 
 Where grief can't reach you more ! 
 
 I'm biddin' you a long farewell. 
 
 My Mary — kind and true ! 
 But I'll not forget _)•()«. darling! 
 
 In the land I'm goin' to ; 
 They say there's bread and work for all. 
 
 And the sun shines always there — 
 But I'll not forget old Ireland, 
 
 Were it fifty times as fair ! 
 
 And often in those grand old woods 
 
 I'll sit, and shut my eyes. 
 And my heart will travel back again 
 
 To the place where Mary lies ; 
 And I'll think I see the little stile 
 
 Where we sat side by side : [morn. 
 
 And the springin' corn, and the bright May 
 
 When first you were my bride. 
 
 LADY DUFFERIN. 
 
 PEGGY. 
 
 An' so poor Peggy isdead amost, an' shegoin' 
 
 on eighty-one. 
 The light of heaven to her poor sowl. an' all 
 
 that is dead an' gone ! 
 
 An if she doesn't see glory bright, God pity 
 
 the likes of me. 
 For she seemed like one that lived in thought 
 
 with a saintly company. 
 
 Her voice it was always mild and low. it was 
 loudest when she'd pray. 
 
 An' she never put the weighty word on the 
 one that went astray. 
 
 She'd share the bit an' the sup she'd get. an' 
 often she made me weep 
 
 For my poor sowl when I hear her sayin' her 
 prayers an' she fast asleep. 
 
 But many's the cross came on her since the 
 day she was made a bride. 
 
 An' little we thought that pleasant morn she'd 
 beg before she died. 
 
 For she had a share of money in bank, an' he 
 had the snug warm place, 
 
 A likely boiiclial oge he was, an' 'twas she had 
 the purty face. 
 
 Sure, very well I remember her when I was a 
 
 small colleen. 
 There wasn't a lighter heart or step to dance 
 
 a jig on the green. 
 
 But. mavronc. the years brought trouble an' 
 
 death, sweet praises be to God. 
 Her man an' her childher one by one were 
 hidden beneath the sod. 
 
 An' then the land was taken away, for her 
 hope an' help was gone. 
 
 To see her quenchin' her own firelight would 
 move the heart of a stone. 
 
 You'd never hear a grumble from her, she'd 
 spin, an' she'd knit the sock ; 
 
 She always tried to help herself, for she came 
 of a decent stock. 
 
 An' the neighbors then were kind to her as 
 she went from door to door. 
 
 They used to think a saint came in when she 
 stood on the kitchen floor. 
 
59- 
 
 t'uKMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 
 
 You'd never hear sad words from her, she'd j 
 neither lament nor moan, i 
 
 ■ The Lord He is always good," she'd say. 
 ■■ an' He only took His own." , 
 
 Soon she'll stand by the Lord hei^elf on the 
 shores of eternity, | 
 
 An' if she doesn't see glory bright, God pity 
 the likes of me. 
 
 ATTIE O'BRIEN. 
 
 IN GRIEFS UNREST. 
 Sad summer days, your lingering footsteps 
 creep 
 With languorous pauses through low-breath- 
 ing woods. 
 That wave and beckon into solitudes 
 Of golden silences where soft airs sleep. 
 
 Sad summer nighu, your lovely skies are pale 
 From the dead heart of the impassioned 
 
 noon ; 
 L^ft to the colder glory of the moon. | 
 
 In your blue deserts low winds seem to wail. , 
 
 Sad summer streams, that struggle to the sea, ' 
 
 With faint complaining when your course is | 
 
 stayed ] 
 
 By rock or reed, your strong desire delayed 
 
 To lose yourselves in deep immensity. 
 
 Sad summer sounds of wooing birds that 
 mourn 
 With intermittent sweetness for their mate. 
 And nightingales that sing disconsolate. 
 Bruising their tender breasts against the 
 thorn. 
 
 Ah. saddest days to those in grief's unrest. 
 Whose souls have shut above an aching 
 
 wound. 
 Who feel no warmth from light that falls 
 around. 
 But fain would lie within the earth's cold 
 breast. 
 
 Better that rushing winds and beating rain. 
 And the red lightning leaping from the 
 
 cloud. 
 Should play above the head by sorrow bowed 
 Than summer's sun which comes to them in 
 vain. 
 
 ATllE O'BRIEN. 
 
 THE DYING GIRU 
 From a Munster vale they brought her. 
 
 From the pure and balmy air. 
 An Ormond peasant's daughter. 
 
 With blue eyes and golden hair. 
 They brought her to the city. 
 
 And she faded slowly there. 
 Consumption has no pity 
 
 For blue eyes and golden hair. 
 
 When I saw her first reclining. 
 
 Her lips were moved in prayer. 
 And the setting sun was shining 
 
 On her loosened golden hair. 
 When our kindly glances met her. 
 
 Deadly brilliant was her eye. 
 And she said that she was better. 
 
 While we knew that she must die. 
 
 She speaks of Munster valleys. 
 
 The patron, dance and fair. 
 And her fhin hand feebly dallies 
 
 With her scattered golden hair. 
 When silently we listened 
 
 To her breath with quiet care. 
 Her eyes with wonder glistened. 
 
 And she asked us what was there. 
 
 The poor thing smiled to ask it. 
 
 And her pretty mouth laid bare, 
 Like gems within a casket. 
 
 A string of pearlets rare. 
 We said that we w^ere tr)-ing 
 
 By the gushing of her blood. 
 And the time she took in sighing. 
 
 To know if she were good. 
 
 Well, she smiled and chatted gayly, 
 
 Tho' we saw in mute despair 
 The hectic brighten daily. 
 
 And the death-dew on her hair. 
 And oft with wasted fingers 
 
 Beating time upon the bed. 
 O'er some old tune she lingers. 
 
 And bows her golden head. 
 
 At length the harp is broken. 
 
 And the spirit in its strings. 
 As the last decree isspoken. 
 
 To its source exultant springs. 
 Descending swiftly from the skies. 
 
 Her guardian angel came ; 
 He struck God's lightning from her eyes. 
 
 And bore Him back the flame. 
 
THE DEATH OF EILY. 
 
 593 
 
 Before the sun had risen 
 
 Thro' the lark-loved morning air, 
 Her young soul left its prison, 
 
 Undefiled by sin or care. 
 I stood beside the couch in tears, 
 
 Where pale and calm she slept, 
 And tho' I've gazed on death for years, 
 
 I blush not that I wept. 
 I checked with effort pity's sighs, 
 
 And left the matron there, 
 To close the curtains of her eyes. 
 
 And bind her golden hair. 
 
 RICHARIl D.\I,Tl_)N WILLIAMS. 
 
 THE IRISH COTTIER'S DEATH.* 
 The blameless Cottier, wha his youth had 
 
 pass'd 
 In temperance, and felt few pains when auld 
 The prey o' pleurisy lies low at last, 
 And aft his thoughts are by delirum thrall'd ; 
 Yet while he raves he prays in words weel 
 
 wal'd. 
 An' mutters thro' his sleep o' truth an' right ; 
 An' after pondering deep, the weans are tauld 
 The readiest way he thinks they justly might 
 Support themsel's thro' life when he shall 
 
 sink in night. 
 
 Rang'd roun' the hearth, whaur he presides 
 
 nae mair, 
 Th'inquirin nybers mourn their sufferin' frien'; 
 An' now an' then divert awa their care 
 15y tellin' tales to please some glaiket wean, 
 Wha's e'e soon fills whan tauld about the pain 
 Its sire endures, an' what his loss wad be; 
 An' much they say. but a', alas ! in vain, [see 
 To soothe the mither. wha ha'f pleas'd could 
 Her partner eased by death, though for his 
 
 life she'd dee. 
 
 An' while they're provin' that his end is sure. 
 By strange ill omens — to assuage his smart 
 The minister comes in, wha to the poor 
 Without a fee performs the doctor's part ; 
 An' while wi' hope he soothes the sufferer's 
 An gies a cheap safe recipe, they try [heart, 
 To quat braid Scotch, a task that foils their 
 
 art; 
 For while they join his converse, vain tho' shy 
 They monie a'lang learn'd word misca' an' 
 
 misapply. 
 
 An' lo ! the sick man's dyin' words to tend, 
 Th' alarm'd auld circle gather roun' an" weep: 
 Deceiv'd by hope, they thought till now he'd 
 
 mend. 
 But he thought lang in death's embrace to 
 
 sleep. 
 " Let ithers will," he says, " a golden heap, 
 I can but lea' my blessin' an' advice. — 
 Shield your poor mither, an' her counsel keep; 
 An' you, my senior sons, that ay were wise. 
 Do for my late-born babes, an' train them for 
 
 the skies. 
 
 " Be honest an' obligin' ; if ye thrive. 
 
 Be meek ; an" firm when crasses come your 
 
 road ; 
 Should rude men wrang ye, to forgi'e them 
 
 strive. 
 An' gratefu' be for benefits bestowed : [load. 
 Scorn nae poor man wha bears oppression's 
 Nor meanly cringe for favors frae the proud ; — 
 Inae short sentence, serve baith man an' Gud ; 
 Sae when your clay lies mould'rin in a shroud. 
 Your saul shall soar to heaven, an' care na 
 
 mair becloud." 
 
 His strength here fail'd, but still affection's e'e 
 Spak on, — a moment motionless he lay; 
 Bade peace be wi' them, turned his head awee. 
 An' passed through death's dark vale without 
 
 dismay. 
 The speechless widow watch'd the stifi'nin' 
 
 clay. 
 An' shed some nat'ral tears — rack'd, j'et re- 
 sign 'd ; 
 To loud laments the orphan group gied way 
 An' mourn'd, unfelt, the wants and wrangs 
 
 they'd find. 
 Flung friendless on the warl, that's seldom 
 unco kind. 
 
 J.\MES ORR. 
 
 THE DEATH OF EILY. 
 "Maura, the child is dead, our Eily bhan. 
 
 Last night I saw the angels at the door ; 
 And Eily saw them too : her cheeks grew 
 white. 
 And when they passed, alas ! herlife waso'er. 
 My lanna vo^lit ! she had the deep blue eyes ; 
 As blue and deep as our own Munster skies ! 
 The chestnut hair, the line of Cathail's face ; 
 Well, God be praised ! she's at the throne of 
 grace. 
 
594 
 
 rO£M^ OF LOSS AND SOKKOH'. 
 
 O wild Blackwater. rolling to the sea ^ | THE HOLLY-AND-IVY GIRL. 
 
 With you, our Eily nevermore will stray! "Come, buy my nice, fresh ivy, and my hoi 
 To her pale brow, your kisses waft, arooii .' sprigs so green. 
 
 Pure as the winds that round your islets | have the finest branches that ever yet w. 
 play ; • seen : 
 
 Stay with us. memories of old. to-night ; Come, buy from me, good Christians, anrl 
 O Ireland, darling, ever in our sight! n,^ home, I pray. 
 
 Be with us now, and like some Gaelic song, ^^^^j jn ^lish you merr>' Christmas, and 
 Thrill heart and soul that we may grow more hn^^y New Years Day ! 
 
 .Ah! 
 
 Uo! 
 
 Once there was joy, wife, in our cottage home. 
 
 And blessed angels round our pathway trod ; 
 And Eily came, a rose from Heaven sent,— 
 
 A bridal gift to us from Heaven's God ! 
 But soon the darkness and the clouds came 
 
 where 
 Before all was so verj' bright and fair! 
 And then we left for ever Araglen, 
 To toil for bread, dear wife, mong stranger •• Th 
 men. 
 
 Ah! won't you take my i\y ?— the lovcli' 
 ever seen ? 
 wont you have my holly boughs? .... 
 
 you who love the Green ! 
 -lake a little bunch of each, and on my 
 knees I'll pray. 
 That God may bless your Christmas, and be 
 with you New Year's Day. 
 
 nd is black and bitter, and the hail- 
 , stones do not spare 
 My shivering form, my bleeding feel, and stirt, 
 
 entangled hair ; 
 Then, when the skies are pitiless, be merciful, 
 
 1 say.- 
 So Heaven will light your Christmas and the 
 coming New Year's Day." 
 
 'Twas thus a dying maiden sung, while the 
 
 cold hail rallied down, 
 And fierce winds whistled mournfully o'er 
 
 Dublin's dreary town : 
 One stiff hand clutched her ivy sprigs and 
 
 holly boughs so fair. 
 
 With the other she kept brushing the hail- 
 ADAM LUX. \ drops fiom her hair. 
 
 When Charlotte Corday journeyed towards 
 
 the dead So grim and statue-like she seemed, twas 
 
 For slaying him she deemed her country's foe, evident that Death 
 
 Thro' all the angry crowd that walched her go Was lurking in her foolsteps-wh.le her hot. 
 To that ill place, by frequent blood stained red, impeded breath 
 
 One man who looked his last on that fair Too plainly told her early doom— ihougn the 
 l,j.afj burden of her lay 
 
 still of life and Christmas joys, and a 
 Happy New Year's Day. 
 
 They're kindly people, tho' they are not ours. 
 
 They gave us welcome when our hope was 
 fled:— 
 Light up the candles, Maura, we're alone ! 
 
 None with us, darling, but our dear one dead. 
 And see she wears a gentle Heavenly smile! 
 Our child has left us only for awhile ; 
 She is not dead, she's only gone before— 
 A rose upon the breast of God, aston- .'" — 
 
 CHAKLKS 1'. IJ'lCINDR. 
 
 Unshamed as yet by any headsman's blow. 
 Fell all the currents of his being flow 
 The quicker for the girl whose life was shed. 
 Seeing and loving, to like end he came— 
 Lived but to p.-aise her dead, and p.-aising 
 
 died 
 The self-same death of not inglorious shame. 
 O Adam Lux, thus seeking thy soul's bride 
 Across the stretch of that ensanguined tide. 
 High with love's martyrs let me write thy name. 
 
 JUSTIN H. .MCCARTHY. 
 
 Twas in that broad, bleak Thomas street, I 
 
 heard the wanderer sing, 
 I stood a moment in the mire, beyond the 
 
 ragged ring— 
 My heart fell cold and lonely, and my thoughts 
 
 were far away. 
 Where I was many a Christmas-tide and 
 
 Happy New Years Day. 
 
SEXTE.\'CED TO DEATH. 
 
 595 
 
 I dreamed of wandering in the woods among 
 
 the holly green : 
 I dreamed of my own native cot and porch 
 
 with ivy screen ; 
 I dreamed of lights forever dimm'd — of hopes 
 
 that can't return — 
 And dropped a tear on Christmas fires that 
 
 never more can burn. 
 
 The ghost-like singer still sung on, but no 
 
 one came to buy ; 
 Tlie liurrjang crowd passed to and fro, but 
 
 did not heed her cry; 
 She uttered one low, piercing moan — then 
 
 cast her boughs away — 
 And smiling, cried — "ril rest with God before 
 
 the New Year's Day ! " 
 
 On New Year's Day I said my prayers above 
 a new-made grave. 
 
 Dug decently in sacred soil, by Liffey's mur- 
 muring wave ; 
 
 The minstrel maid from earth to heaven has 
 winged her happy way. 
 
 And now enjoys, with sister saints, an endless 
 New Year's Day. 
 
 JOHN KEEGAN. 
 
 THE DARK GIRL AT THE HOLY WELL.* 
 " Mother, is that the passing bell ? 
 
 Or yet the midnight chime.-' 
 Or rush of angels' golden wings .' 
 
 Or is it near //w time — 
 The time when God, they say. comes down 
 
 This weary world upon. 
 With holy Mary at His right. 
 
 And at His left St. John? 
 
 " I'm dumb ! my heart forgets to throb ; 
 
 My blood forgets to run ; 
 But vain my sighs — in vain I sob — 
 
 God's will must still be done. 
 I hear but tone of warning bell. 
 
 For holy priest or nun ; 
 On Earth, God's face I'll never see ! 
 
 Nor Mary I nor St. John ! 
 
 ■• Mother ! my hopes are gone again ; 
 
 My heart is black as ever ; — 
 Mother! I say, look forth once more. 
 
 And see can you discover 
 
 God's glory in the crimson clouds — 
 
 See does He ride upon 
 That perfumed breeze — or do you see. 
 
 The 'Virgin, or St. John ! 
 
 " Ah, no! ah, no ! Well, God of Peace. 
 
 Grant me thy blessing still ; 
 O, make me patient with my doom. 
 
 And happy at Thy will ; 
 And guide my footsteps so on earth. 
 
 That, when I'm dead and gone, 
 My eyes may catch thy shining light. 
 
 With Mary and St. John. 
 
 " Yet, mother, could I see thy smile. 
 
 Before we part below — 
 Or watch the silver moon and stars 
 
 Where Slaney's ripples flow ; 
 
 ! could I see the sweet sun shine 
 My native hills upon, 
 
 1 'd never love my God the less, 
 
 Nor Mary, nor St. John ! 
 
 " But no, ah no ! it cannot be ; 
 Yet, mother ! do not mourn — 
 
 Come, kneel again, and pray to God, 
 In peace, let us return ; 
 
 The Dark Girl's doom must aye be mine- 
 But Heaven will light me on. 
 
 Until I find my way to God, 
 And Mary, and St. John !" 
 
 JOHX KEEGAN. 
 
 at certain times the Redeemer, 
 ; fountain. 
 
 SENTENCED TO DEATH. 
 With the Sign of the Cross on my forehead, 
 
 as I kneel on this cowld dungeon flotr. 
 As I kneel at your feet, reverend father, with 
 
 no one but God to the fore ; 
 With my heart opened out for your readin', an' 
 
 no hope or thought of relase 
 From the death that at day-break to-morrow 
 
 is starin' me sthraight in the face, 
 I have tould you the faults of my boyhood — 
 
 the follies an' sins of my youth — 
 An' now of this crime of my manhood I'll 
 
 spake with the same open thruth. 
 
 You see. sir, the land was our people's for 
 
 ninety good years, an' their toil 
 What first was a bare bit of mountain brought 
 
 mto good wheat-bearin' soil ; 
 'Twas their hands raised the walls of the cabin, 
 
 where our childher worborn an' bred, 
 
J'OEMS OF LOSS AND SOJiJiOH'. 
 
 596 
 
 Where our weddins an' christcnins wor meny, 
 
 where we waked and keened over our dead ; 
 We wor honest an' fair to the landlord — we 
 
 paid him the rent to the day— 
 An' it wasn't our fault if our hard sweat he 
 
 squandered an' wasted away 
 In the cards, an' the dice, an' the racecoorse, 
 
 an' often in deeper disgrace. 
 That no tongue could relate without bringin' 
 
 a blush to an honest man's face. 
 
 But the day come at last that they worked for, 
 when the castles, the mansions, the lands. 
 
 They should hould but in thrust for the peo- 
 ple, to their shame passed away from their 
 hands. 
 
 An' our place, sir, too. wint to auction — by 
 many the acres were sought. 
 
 An' what cared the sthranger that purchased, 
 who made 'em the good soil he bought .' 
 
 The ould folks wor gone — thank God for it — 
 
 where throuble or care can't purshue, 
 But the wife an' the childher — O Father in 
 
 Heaven I — what was 1 to do ? 
 Still 1 thought. I'll go spake to the new man 
 
 — I'll tell him of me an' of mine ; 
 The thrifle that IVe put together I'll place in 
 
 his hand for a fine: 
 The estate is worth six times his money, and 
 
 maybe his heart isn't cowld ; 
 But the scoundhrel that bought " the thief's 
 
 pen'orth " was worse than the pauper that 
 
 sowld. 
 
 I chased him to house an' to office, wherever 
 
 I thought he'd be met, 
 I ofTered him all he'd put on it — but no, 'twas 
 
 the land he should get ; 
 I prayed as men only to God pray — my prayer 
 
 was spurned and denied, 
 An' what mattered howy/w/ my poor right was, 
 
 when he had the /au' at his side? 
 I was young, an' l)ut few years was married to 
 
 one with a voice like a bird- 
 When she sang the ould songsof our counthry, 
 
 every feeling within me was stirred. 
 Oh! I see her this minnit before me, with a 
 
 foot wouldn't bend a croiu-en. 
 Her laughin' lips lifted to kiss me— my darlin', 
 
 my bright-eyed Eileen I 
 'Twas often with pride that I watched her, her 
 
 soft arms fouldin' our boy. 
 Until he chased the smile from her red lip, an' 
 
 silenced the song of her joy. 
 
 Whisht, father, have patience a minnit ; let iik 
 
 wipe the big tears from my brow, — 
 Whisht, father. I'll thr)- not to curse him ; bin 
 
 I tell you. don't prache to me now. 
 Excitin' myself? Yes, I know it; but t' 
 
 story is now nearly done ; 
 An', father, your own breast is heavin' — I - 
 
 the tears down from you run. 
 Well, he threatened— he coaxed — he ejecii 
 
 for we tried hard to cling to the place 
 That was mine — yes, far more than 'twas his, 
 
 sir ; I tould him so up to his face ; 
 But the little I had melted from me in makin' 
 
 a fight for my own. 
 An' a beggar, with three helpless childher, out 
 
 on the wide world I was thrown. 
 And Eileen would soon have another — 
 
 another that never dhrew breath — 
 The neighbors wor good to us always — but 
 
 what could they do agen death ? 
 For my wife an' my infant before me lay dead, 
 
 an' by him they wor kilt. 
 As sure as I'm kneelin' before you, to own •, 
 
 my share of the guilt. 
 I laughed all consolin' to scorn, I didn't nii 
 
 much what I said. 
 With Eileen a corpse in a barn, on a bundle 
 
 sthraw for a bed ; 
 But the blood in my veins boiled to madness 
 
 — do they think that a man is a log ? 
 I thrackcd him once more — 'twas the last 
 
 time — and shot him that night like a 
 
 dog. 
 
 Yes. / did it; / shot him; but. father, 1^ • 
 
 thim who make laws for the land 
 Look to it, whin they come to judgment. : 
 
 the blood that lies red on my hand. 
 If I dhrew the piece, 'twas they primed it, that 
 
 left him stretched cowld on the sod ; 
 An' from their bar. where I got my sintincc. 
 
 I appeal to the bar of my God 
 F'or the justice I never got from them, for tht 
 
 right in their hands that's unknown. 
 Still, at last, sir — I'll say it — I'm sorrj- I took 
 
 the law into my own — 
 That 1 stole out that night in the darkm ~ 
 
 while mad with my grief and despair. 
 And dhruv the black sowl from his bo i 
 
 without givin' him time for a prayer. 
 
 Well, 'tis tould, sir ; you have the whole sto; \ 
 God forgive him and me for our sins ; 
 
 My life now is indin' — but. father, the young 
 ones, for them life begins ; 
 
THE FOUR TRAVELERS. 
 
 597 
 
 You'll look to poor Eileen's young orphans? 
 
 God bless you. And now I'm at paice, 
 An' resigned to the death that to-morrow is 
 
 starin' me sthraight in the face. 
 
 KATHERINE MURPHY. 
 
 THE LOST WIFE. 
 Lone, by my solitary hearth, 
 
 Whence peace hath fled. 
 And home-like joys, and innocent mirth 
 
 Are banished ; 
 Silent and sad, I linger to recall 
 
 The memory of all 
 In thee, dear partner of my cares, I lost. 
 Cares, shared with thee, more sweet than joys 
 the world can boast. 
 
 My home — why did I say my home ? 
 
 Now have I none, [come, 
 
 Unless thou from the grave again could'st 
 
 Beloved one ! 
 My home was in thy trusting heart, 
 
 Where'er thou wert ; 
 My happy home in thy confiding breast. 
 Where my worn spirit refuge found and rest. 
 
 My joy, my solace, and my pride 
 
 I found thee still. 
 Whatever change our fortunes might betide 
 
 Of good or ill ; 
 Worthier I was life's blessing to receive 
 
 While thou didst live ; 
 All that I had of good in others' sight. 
 Reflected shone thy virtue's borrowed light. 
 
 The lute unstrung — the meals in silence ate 
 
 We wont to share ; 
 The widowed bed — the chamber desolate. 
 
 Thou art not there, 
 The tear at parting, and the greeting kiss. 
 
 Who would not miss.' 
 Endearments fond, and solaced hours, and all 
 Th' important trivial things men comfort call. 
 
 Oh ! mayest thou, if permitted, from above 
 
 The starry sphere. 
 Encompass me with ever-during love. 
 
 As thou didst here : 
 Still be my guardian spirit, lest I be 
 
 Unworthy thee ; 
 Still, as on earth, thy grace celestial give. 
 So gttide my life as thou ivoiildst /lave me live. 
 JOHN FISHER MURRAY. 
 
 I know not if thou wast most fair 
 
 And best of womankind ; 
 Or whether earth yet beareth fruit more rare 
 
 Of heart and mind ; 
 To me, I know, thou wert the fairest. 
 
 Kindest, dearest, 
 That heaven to man in mercy ever gave, 
 And mo.'e than man from heaven deserved to 
 have. 
 
 Never from thee, sweet wife. 
 
 Came word or look awry, 
 Nor peacock pride, nor sullen fit, nor strife 
 
 For mastery : 
 Calm and controlled thy spirit was, and sure 
 
 So to endure: [will 
 
 My friend, protectress, guide, whose gentle 
 Compelled my good, withholding from me ill. 
 
 No art of selfishness And they were brave by flood and fell. 
 
 Thy generous nature knew: And they were blithe in hall ; 
 
 Thy life all love, the power to bless thy bliss, But he that led the stranger's life 
 Constant and true, Was blithest of them all. 
 
 Content, if to thy lot the world should bring 
 
 Enduring suffering; Some said the grief of his youth had passed. 
 
 Unhappy, if permitted but to share ! Some said his love grew cold, 
 
 Part of my griefs, wouldst both our burdens \ But nought I know if this were so, 
 dear. For the tale was never told. 
 
 THE FOUR TRAVELERS. 
 Four travelers sat one winter night 
 
 At my father's board so free ; [land, 
 
 And he asked them why they had left their 
 
 And why they had crossed the sea ! 
 
 One said for bread, and one for gold, 
 
 And one for a cause of strife ; 
 And one he came for a lost love's sake, 
 
 To lead a stranger's life. 
 
 They dwelt among our hamlets long. 
 They learned each mountain way ; 
 
 They shared our sports in the woodland green. 
 And by the crags so gray. 
 
598 
 
 /•c)/:.l/i O/-- LOSS A.\D SOKKOU: 
 
 His mates they found both home and friends. 
 
 Their heads and tiearts to rest ; 
 He Siiw their flocks and fields increase. 
 
 But we loved him still the be*it. 
 
 Now he that came to seek for bread 
 
 Is lord of my fathers land. 
 And he that fle<1 so far frctm strife. 
 
 Hath a gvxxlly household Ixind ; 
 
 .\nd he that sought the gold alone 
 
 Hath wedded my sister fair. 
 .\nd the txiksare green and the naslurvs wide 
 
 l>i- their pleasant homesteads there. 
 
 But when they meet by the winter fire. 
 
 Or beneath the bright wixxlbine. 
 Their talk is yet of a whelming stream. 
 
 And a brax-e life giwn for mine : 
 
 For a grax^e by our mountain river side 
 
 Grows green this many a year. 
 Where the flower of the four sleeps e\-ertnore. 
 
 And 1 am a stranger here. 
 
 FRANCES BROWX. 
 
 A CAOINL 
 Hone, gone from me and from the earth, and 
 
 fa'>m the Summer sky. 
 .\nd all the bright, wild hope and love that 
 
 swelled st» proud and high : 
 .\nd all this heart had stored for thee within 
 
 its endless det'p — 
 With me — with mc. O I never more thoult 
 
 smile, or joy. or weep! 
 
 There are gold nails on your coffin ; there are 
 snowy plumes above ; 
 
 To the sad winds I have scattered the treu- 
 
 ures of my soul 
 The sorrow that no tongue could speak, or 
 
 mortal ^wwer contnil— 
 And wept the weary night and day until my 
 
 heart was s<.>rc. 
 .And ever)- germ of fx-aceand joy was withen-il 
 
 at its core. 
 
 In \-ain. in vain, this yearning cry— this d_... 
 
 and deep despair I 
 I droop alone and trembling here, and thou 
 
 art lying /^.r,-. 
 But though thy smile upon the earth I never 
 
 more may see. 
 .And thou wilt never come to me— yet. I may 
 
 fly to thee ! 
 
 I ne\-er stood within your home — 1 do not 
 bear your name- - 
 
 Life parted' us for many a day. but l^ath now 
 seals my claim ; 
 
 In darkness, silence, and decay, and here at 
 last alone, 
 
 Youre but more truly bound to ine— my dar- 
 ling, and my own ! 
 
 KVA MARY KtU-Y. 
 
 THE NAMELESS ONE. 
 Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river 
 
 That sweeps along to the mighty sea ; 
 God will inspire me while I deliver 
 My soul of thee I 
 
 Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whit - 
 ning 
 .\mid the last homes of vouth and eld. 
 They pour their pomp and honors there, but j^at there was once one whose \-eins ran 
 
 I this woe and lo\-e — ! 
 
 The hopeless woe. the longing love, that turn 
 
 fn.im earth away. 
 .\nd pray for refuge and 
 
 silent clav '■ 
 
 lightning 
 
 Which no eye beheld. 
 
 lunue within the Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour. 
 How shone for him, through his griefs and 
 , gloom. 
 
 Come, wild deer of the mountain-side! come, j No star of all heaven sends to light our 
 
 sweet bird of the plain ! I Path to the tomb I 
 
 To cheer the cold and trembling heart that | 
 
 beats for you in vain ! Roll on, my song, and to after ages 
 
 () ! a>me. from »\>e. and cold, and gloom, to Tell how, disdaining all earth can give. 
 
 her thats warm and true. He would have taught men from wisdoni < 
 
 And has no hope or thmb for aught within pages 
 
 this world but vou ! The way to live 
 
■^"f-'i'yss-wmupns esrt 2^ 
 
LOUIS Flh'TEENTH. 
 
 599 
 
 And tell how, trampled, derided, hated, | LOUIS FIFTEENTH. 
 
 And worn by weakness, disease and wrong, ! jj,g [^j^g ^.j^j^ j^n j^g kingly train 
 He fled for shelter to God, who mated | pj^^j j^f^ l^is Pompadour behind. 
 
 His soul with song— I ^^^ f^^th he rode in Senarfs wood 
 
 I The royal beasts of chase to find. 
 With song which alway, sublime or vapid, | jhat day by chance the Monarch mused. 
 
 Flowed like a rill in the morning beam, | And turning suddenly away. 
 
 Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid— He struck alone into a path 
 
 A mountain stream. That far from crowds and courtiers lay. 
 
 Tell how this Nameless, condemned for years 
 long 
 To herd with demons from hell beneath. 
 Saw things that made him, with groans and 
 tears, long 
 
 For even death. 
 
 Go on to tell how, with genius wasted. 
 
 Betrayed in Friendship, befooled in love. 
 With spirit shipwrecked and young hopes 
 blasted. 
 
 He strove, still strove. 
 
 Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others. 
 And some whose hands should have wrought 
 for him, 
 (If children live not for sires and mothers). 
 His mind grew dim ; 
 
 And he fell far through that pit abysmal. 
 
 The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, 
 And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal 
 Stock of returns ; 
 
 But yet redeemed it in days of darkness. 
 
 And shapes and signs of the final wrath. 
 When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness. 
 Stood on his path ! 
 
 And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, 
 
 And wantand sickness and houseless nights. 
 He bides in calmness the final morrow. 
 That no ray lights I 
 
 And lives he still, then? Yes!— old and hoary 
 
 At thirty-nine, from despair and woe. 
 He lives, enduring what future story 
 Will never know. 
 
 Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble. 
 
 Deep in your bosoms I There let him dwell ; 
 He, too, had pity for souls in trouble. 
 Here and in hell ! 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 He saw the pale green shadows play 
 
 Upon the brown untrodden earth; 
 He saw the birds around him flit 
 
 As if he were of peasant birth ; 
 He saw the trees that know no king 
 
 But him who bears a woodland axe ; 
 He thought not. but he looked about 
 
 Like one who still in thinking lacks. 
 
 Then close to him a footstep fell. 
 
 And glad of human sound was he, 
 For truth to say he found himself 
 
 But melancholy companie ; 
 But that which he would ne'er have guessed. 
 
 Before him now most plainly came ; 
 The man upon his weary back 
 
 .\ coffin bore of rudest frame. 
 
 " Why, who art thou ? " exclaimed the king, 
 
 " And what is that I see thee bear.'" 
 ■■ I. am a laborer in the wood. 
 
 And 'tis a coffin for Pierre. 
 Close by the royal hunting lodge 
 
 You may have often seen him toil ; 
 But he will never work again, 
 
 And I for him must dig the soil." 
 
 The laborer ne'er had seen the king. 
 
 And this he thought was but a man. 
 Who made at first a moment's pause, 
 
 And then anew his talk began; 
 " I think I do remember now, — 
 
 He had a dark and glancing eye, 
 ."Xnd I have seen his sturdy arm 
 
 With wondrous strokes the pickaxe ply. 
 
 " Pray tell me. friend, what accident 
 
 Can thus have killed our good Pierre Y' 
 " Ol nothing more than usual, sir. 
 
 He died of living upon air. 
 'Twas hunger killed the poor good man. 
 
 Who long on empty hopes relied ; 
 He could not pay gabelle and tax. 
 
 And feed his children, so he died." 
 
600 
 
 rOEMS OF LOSS AND SOJiKOli . 
 
 The man stopped short, and then went on— 
 
 • It is. you know, a common story, 
 Our children's food is eaten up 
 
 By courtiers, mistresses, and glory." 
 The king looked hard upon the man. 
 
 And afterwards the coffin eyed. 
 Then spurred to ask of Pompadour, 
 
 How came it that the peasants died? 
 
 JOHN STERLING. 
 
 THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 
 Word was brought to the Danish king 
 
 (Hurry !j 
 That the love of his heart lay suffering. 
 And pined for the comfort his voice would 
 bring ; 
 (Oh ! ride as if you were flying!) 
 Better he loves each golden curl 
 On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
 Than his richest crowns of ruby and pearl : 
 And his rose of the isles is dying ! 
 
 Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; 
 (Hurry!) 
 Each one mounting a gallant steed 
 Which he kept for battle and days of need. 
 
 (Oh I ride as if you were flying !) 
 Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; 
 Worn-out chargers staggered and sank ; 
 Bridles were slackened and girths were burst : 
 But ride as tlicy would, the king rode first, 
 For his rose of the isles lay dying! 
 
 His nobles are beaten, one by one ; 
 (Hurry!) 
 They have fainted and faltered, and home- 
 ward gone ; 
 His little fair page now follows alone. 
 
 For strength and for courage trying! 
 The king looked back at that faithful child ; 
 Wan was the face that answering smiled, [din. 
 They passed the drawbridge with clattering 
 Then he dropped, and only the king rode in 
 
 Where his rose of the isles lay dying ! 
 
 The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ; 
 
 (Silence!) 
 No answer came ; but faint and forlorn 
 An echo returned on the cold gray morn. 
 
 Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
 The castle portal stood grimly wide ; [ride ; 
 None welcomed the king from that weary 
 
 For dead, in the ligiu oi inc (lawnini; oay. 
 The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay. 
 Who hady earned for his voice while dying! 
 
 The panting steed, with a drooping crest. 
 
 Stood weary. 
 The king returned from her chamber of n - 
 The thick sobs choking in his breas ; 
 
 And. that dumb companion eyeing, [chi . 
 The tears gushed forth which he strove ici 
 He bowed his head on his charger's neck : 
 "O steed, that every nerve did'st strain, 
 Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain 
 
 To the halls where my love lay dying!" 
 
 CAROLINE E. NORTON. 
 
 GAME LAWS. 
 As through the crunching underwood the wild 
 
 boar madly came. 
 With lashing tail and gleaming tusks, stiH 
 
 mane and eyes of flame. 
 
 Through golden crops, through tangled copse, 
 he fiercely plunging tore ; 
 
 All seemed but withered fibres to the lage- 
 exptanding boar. 
 
 Through leafy screen and through ravine, 
 through lane and plain the brute 
 
 Makes head, and in the cotter's field at last 
 eludes pursuit. 
 
 •' Ho ! Hans, be quick ; take in the child :— 
 bring out my trusty gun." 
 
 Hans fled and came — the cotter fired ; — tin- 
 wild boar's race was run. 
 
 But woe ! alas, what came to pass : the forest- 
 ranger saw 
 
 The deed, and shot the cotter down — to make 
 him •• keep the law." 
 
 Herr Graff and staff feast, laugh, and quaflt 
 that night with beakcis red ; 
 
 The cotter's home is desolate — its head, its 
 heart lies dead. 
 
 'Tis royal sport for kingand court to hunt the 
 
 grizzly boar. 
 But woe unto the f)oor man who dare hunt 
 
 him from his door ! 
 
 JOHN SAVAGE. 
 
OXE SUMMER NIGHT. 
 
 60 1 
 
 PRESENTIMENT. 
 Off with the young and brave, 
 
 He went to the war elate ; • 
 He saw her kerchief wave 
 
 In the distance at the gate. 
 
 Ever)' night she slept 
 
 Only to dream him dead, 
 Till the boding o'er her crept 
 
 That they should never wed. 
 
 Her heart with sullen fears 
 Was burdened night and day. 
 
 But after wear\' years 
 The war-cloud passed away. 
 
 Home he came from the foe 
 
 On victory's tidal wave, 
 To see the daisies blow 
 
 Upon her new-made grave. 
 
 K. K. MUNKITTRICK. 
 
 SLAIN IN THE FOREFRONT. 
 He is down in the battle. 
 
 The foremost to fall. 
 The loved of our host 
 
 "Whom / loved more than all. 
 The golden-brown hair 
 
 In the battle-dust lies ; 
 The black silken lashes 
 
 Droop o'er the great eyes : 
 To the full fringed lips 
 
 Clings a smile ; like a streak 
 Of sunset the life-tint 
 
 Still rests on his cheek. 
 
 " His life is not wasted " 
 
 God calleth to me : 
 " The battle rolls onward : 
 
 His spirit is free. 
 For the freer life fought he. 
 
 Fought well, and has won 
 What the battle host strove for 
 
 That still shall strive on. 
 Come thou from the rearward. 
 
 Step forth to his place ; 
 Lift off the stout armor, 
 
 The helmet unlace. 
 Make fast the stained corslet 
 
 Around thine own breast, 
 About thine own temples 
 
 Bind morion and crest ; 
 
 Upraise the fallen buckler. 
 
 Take thou the red sword — 
 The dead hand that grasps it 
 
 Will yield at thy word ; 
 And sigh not, and grieve not. 
 
 Nor turn left or right, 
 But, strong and undaunted. 
 
 Move on to the fight." 
 
 I've ta'en helm and buckler 
 
 Of him my soul loved, 
 Put on the whole armor 
 
 The brave one has proved ; 
 Stept out to the forefront 
 
 And stand as he stood 
 When arrayed for the contest 
 
 He spilt his warm blood. 
 And his soul with my soul 
 
 In the long eager strife 
 Shall nerve arm and hand 
 
 With a life more than life ; 
 With a force not mine only. 
 
 As blow follows blow. 
 Every stroke of his good sword 
 
 Shall fall on the foe ; 
 And the might of his great hear 
 
 With mine shall be blent. 
 Till the last power is ebbed. 
 
 And all energy spent. 
 And I drift through the gloor 
 
 Firm of hope, high of cheer, 
 To the land where he roameth, 
 
 My soul's pioneer. 
 
 GEORGE F. ARMSTRONG. 
 
 ONE SUMMER NIGHT. 
 There is mist in the winding hollows 
 
 That fade on the straining sight. 
 And dimly the darting swallows 
 
 Dip into the gathering night. 
 The hills loom silent and solemn : 
 
 The stream makes a drowsy rhyme. 
 That lulls like an echoing volume 
 
 Of song from a far-off time. 
 
 And here in the moonlight sitting- 
 
 I ponder an old tale o'er. 
 And here in the twilight flitting 
 
 Are faces that smile no more. 
 There's one that is fair and tender. 
 
 And one that is frank and brave, 
 And one with a darkling splendor. 
 
 And beyond, in the gloom, a grave. 
 
6o2 
 
 OF LOSS AND SOJtfiOW. 
 
 Down a shaded pathway lonely 
 
 Two forms in the stillness move, 
 And the listening maples only 
 
 Hear the whispered sweets of love ; 
 A kiss, and the maiden slowly 
 
 Returns to her cottage door, 
 With a peace that is pure and holy 
 
 Upon lips that shall laugh no more. 
 
 Where the road dips low by the river. 
 
 In a hollow of gleam and shade. 
 And the silvered tree-tops quiver. 
 
 By the wandering night-wind sway'd. 
 Fierce eyes from an ambush glisten 
 
 With a murderous, vengeful glare ; 
 Keen ears in the stillness listen 
 
 For a step that will soon be there. 
 
 He comes, with his heart still singing 
 
 The runes of a passionate love ; 
 A bound, as a tiger's, springing 
 
 From a vantage point above ; 
 A glint, as of white steel gleaming, 
 
 A shriek in the startled night. 
 And low where the moon is beaming. 
 
 He lies in the sad, pale light. 
 
 Lo ! the mists float high o"cr the hollows. 
 
 No breath stirs the drowsy leaves. 
 That droop in the moon, and the swallows 
 
 Have flown to their nests in the eaves. 
 Thus the mists and the moonlight floated 
 
 That night when a brave youth died 
 In the copse, and a dark face gloated 
 
 With a vengeful glare by his side, 
 
 DANIEL CONNOLLY. 
 
 BALLADE DE MARGUERITE. 
 I am weary of lying within the chase 
 When the knights are meeting in market-place. 
 
 Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town 
 Lest the hoo\es of the war-horse tread thee 
 down. 
 
 But I would not go where the squires ride. 
 1 would only walk by my Lady's side. 
 
 Alack ! and alack ! thou art over bold. 
 A forester's son may not eat off gold. 
 
 Will she love me the less that my Father is seen. 
 Each Martinmas day in a doublet green ? 
 
 [ Perchance she is sewing at tapestric. 
 I Spindle and loom are not meet for the 
 
 .\h, if she is working the arras bright 
 
 I might ravel the threads by the fire-liglit. 
 
 Perchance she is hunting of the deer. 
 How could you follow o'er hill and nieer.- 
 
 Ah, if she is riding with the court, 
 j I might run beside her and wind the morte. 
 
 Perchance she is kneeling in S, Denys. 
 ; iOn her soul may our Lady have gramercy ' 
 
 .Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle, 
 
 I might swing the censer and ring the bell. 
 
 Come in, my son, for you look sae pale. 
 The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale. 
 
 But who are these knights in bright array? 
 Is it a pageant the rich folks play? 
 
 'Tis the King of England from over sea. 
 Who has come unto visit our fair countrie. 
 
 But why does the curfew toll sae low 
 And why do the mourners walk a-row ? 
 
 O 'tis Hugh of Amiens my sister's son 
 Who is lying stark, for his day is done. 
 
 Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear. 
 
 It is no strong man who lies on the bier. 
 
 'tis old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall, 
 
 1 knew she would die at the autumn fall. 
 
 Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown haii. 
 Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair. 
 
 O 'tis none of our kith and none of our kin, 
 (Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin ! ) 
 
 But I hear the boy's voice chanting sweet, 
 " Elle est morte, la Marguerite." 
 
 I Come in, my son. and lie on the bed, 
 I And let the dead folk bury their dead. 
 j 
 
 j O mother, you know I loved her true : 
 O mother, hath one grave room for two ? 
 
 OSCAR Wll.llK. 
 
CIVILE BELLUM. 
 
 60 ■ 
 
 "GOOD-HEARTED." 
 The young lord betrayed an orphan maid, 
 The young lord, soft-natured and easy. 
 The man was "good-hearted," the neighbors 
 
 said. 
 Flung meat to his dogs, to the poor flung 
 bread. [bled ; 
 
 His father stood laughing, while Drogheda 
 He hated a conscience uneasy. 
 
 A widow met him. dark trees o'erhead, 
 Her child and the man just parted. 
 
 When home she walked, her knife it was red, 
 
 Swiftly she walked and muttered and said. 
 
 " The blood rushed fast from a fount full fed." 
 Ay, the young lord was right good-hearted. 
 
 When morning wan its first beams shed, 
 
 It fell on a corpse yet wanner. 
 The great-hearted dogs the young lord had fed 
 Watched one at the feet and one at the head. 
 But their mouths with a blood pool hard by 
 were red. — 
 
 They loved in the j'oung lord's manner. 
 
 AUBREY T. DE VERE. 
 
 The lilies quiver their shining heads. 
 Their pale lips full of a sad surprise ; 
 And the lizard darts thro' the glistening fern, 
 And the squirrel rustles the branches hoar\'; 
 Strange birds fly out. with a crj-. to burn 
 Their wings in the sunset glory, 
 While the shadows pass 
 O'er the quiet face on the dewy grass. 
 
 God pity the bride who waits at home, 
 With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes, 
 Dreaming the sweet old dream of love. 
 While the lover is walking in Paradise ! 
 God strengthen her heart as the days go by, 
 And the long, drear nights of her vigils follow. 
 Nor bird, nor moon, nor whispering wind 
 May breathe the tale of the hollow I 
 
 Alas 1 alas I 
 The secret is safe with the woodland grass. 
 
 ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 
 
 MISSING. 
 In the cool sweet hush of a wooded nook. 
 Where the May-buds sprinkle the green old 
 
 ground. 
 And winds and buds, and the limpid brook. 
 Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound. 
 Who lies so still in the plushy moss. 
 With pale cheek press'd to a breezy pillow, 
 Couch'd where the light and the shadows cross 
 Thro' the flickering fringe of the willow? 
 
 Who lies, alas ! 
 So still, so chill, in the whispering grass? 
 
 A soldier, clad in the Zouave dress, 
 A bright-haired man. with his lips apart. 
 One hand thrown up o'er his frank dead face. 
 And the other clutching his pulseless heart. 
 Lies there in the shadows cool and dim. 
 His musket brush 'd by a trailing bough ; 
 A careless grace in each quiet limb. 
 And a wound on his manly brow: 
 
 .\ wound, alas I [grass. 
 
 Whence the warm blood drips on the pleasant 
 
 The violets peer from their dusky beds, 
 With a tearful dew in their great pure eyes ; 
 
 CIVILE BELLUM. 
 ■• Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot. 
 
 Right at the heart of yon prowling vedette. 
 Ring me a ball in the glittering spot 
 
 That shines on his breast like an amulet." 
 
 " Ay, Captain, here's just for a fine-drawn bead. 
 There's music around when my barrel's in 
 tune." 
 Crack went the rifle : the messenger sped. 
 And dead from his horse fell the ringing 
 dragoon. 
 
 " Now, Rifleman, steal through the bushes and 
 snatch 
 From yon victim some trinket to handsel 
 first blood ; 
 A button, a loop, or that luminous patch 
 That gleams in the moon like a diamond 
 stud." 
 
 "Oh I Captain! I staggered and sunk in my 
 
 track [vedette. 
 
 When I gazed on the face of the fallen 
 
 For he looked so like you as he lay on his back 
 
 That my heart rose upon me and masters me 
 
 yet. 
 
 " But I snatched ofif the trinket, this locket of 
 gold ; [way, 
 
 An inch from the centre my lead broke its 
 Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, 
 
 Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." 
 
6o4 
 
 J'OEMS OF LOSS AND SOUKOIV 
 
 " Ha, Rifleman, fling me the locket,— 'tis she, 
 My brother's young bride ; and the fallen 
 dragoon 
 Was her husband :— Hush, soldier! 'twas 
 Heaven's decree : 
 We must bury him there by the light of the 
 moon. 
 
 " But hark I the far bugles their warnings unite: 
 War is a virtue ; weakness a sin ; [night — 
 
 There's lurking and loping around us to- 
 Load again, Rifleman ; keep your hand in !" 
 
 CHARLES DAWSUN SHANLV. 
 
 THE DOG OF THE THREE DAYS. 
 With gentle tread, with uncovered head. 
 
 Pass by the Louvre gate. 
 Where buried lie the " Men of July." 
 And flowers are flung by the passers-by. 
 
 And the dog howls desolate. 
 
 That dog had fought in the fierce onslaught. 
 
 Had rushed with his master on : 
 And both fought well ; but the master fell — 
 
 And behold the sur\'iving one ! 
 
 By his lifeless clay.— shaggy and gray. 
 
 His fellow warrior stood. 
 Nor moved beyond, but mingled fond. 
 
 Big tears with his master's blood. 
 
 Vigil he keeps by those jgreen heaps 
 
 That tell where heroes be ; 
 No passer-by can attract his eye, 
 
 For he knows it is not he! 
 
 At the dawn, when dew wets the garlands new 
 That are hung in this place of mourning. 
 
 He will start to meet the coming feet 
 Of him whom he dreamt returning. 
 
 On the grave's wood-cross, when the chaplets 
 toss. 
 By the blasts of midnight shaken. 
 How he howleth !— hark ! from that dwelling 
 dark 
 The slain he would fain awaken. 
 
 When the snow comes fast on the chilly blast. 
 
 Blanching the bleak churchyard. 
 With limbs outspread, on the dismal bed 
 
 Of his liege he still keeps guard. 
 
 Jft in the night with main and might 
 
 He strives to raise the stone. 
 Short respite takes — " If master wakes, 
 He'll call me " — then sleeps on. 
 
 Of bayonet blades, of barricades 
 
 And guns, he dreameth most; 
 Starts from his dream, and then would seem 
 
 To eye a bleeding ghost. 
 
 He'll linger there in sad despair. 
 
 And die on his master's grave. 
 His name.' 'Tis known to the dead alone — 
 
 He's the dog of the nameless brave I 
 
 Give a tear to the dead, and give some bread 
 
 To the dog of the Louvre gate ! 
 Where buried lie the men of July, 
 And flowers are flung by the passers-by, 
 
 And the dog howls desolate. 
 
 FRANCI.S S. .MAHONV. 
 J-roiii l/if French of Dtinvi^iie. 
 
 I 
 
 THE TIME OF THE BARMECIDES. 
 My eyes are filmed, my beard Is gray, 
 
 1 am bowed with the weight of years ; 
 I would I were stretched in my bed of clay. 
 
 With my long-lost youth's compeers! [woe. 
 For back to the past, tho' the thought brings 
 
 My memory ever glides 
 To the old— old time, long — long ago. 
 
 The time of the Barmecides. 
 To the old— old time, long — long ago. 
 
 The time of the Barmecides. 
 
 Then youth was mine, and a fierce wild will. 
 
 And an iron arm in war. 
 And a fleet foot high upon Ishkar's hill, 
 I When the watch-lights glimmered afar , 
 And a barb as fiery as any 1 know 
 j That Khoord or Beddaween rides. 
 Ere my friends lay low, long— long ago. 
 
 In the time of the Barmecides. 
 Ere my friends lay low. long — long ago, 
 
 In the time of the Barmecides. 
 
 One golden goblet illumed my board. 
 
 One silver dish was there ; 
 .'\t hand my tried Karamanian sword 
 
 Lay always bright and bare ; 
 , For those were the days when the angry blow 
 
 Supplanted the word that chides. 
 
]VAIL AND WARNING OF THE THREE KHALENDEEKS. 
 
 605 
 
 When hearts could glow, long — long ago. 
 
 In the time of the Barmecides. 
 When hearts could glow, long — long ago. 
 
 In the time of the Barmecides. 
 
 Through city and desert my mates and I 
 
 Were free to rove and roam. 
 Our diapered canopy the deep of the sky. 
 
 Or the roof of the palace-dome — 
 Oh, ours was that vivid life to and fro 
 
 Which only sloth derides — 
 Men spent life so. long — long ago. 
 
 In the time of the Barmecides, 
 Men spent life so, long — long ago, 
 
 In the time of the Barmecides ! 
 
 I see rich Bagdad once again. 
 
 With its turrets of Moorish mould. 
 And the Khalif's twice five hundred men 
 
 Whose binishes flamed with gold ; 
 I call up many a gorgeous show 
 
 Which the pall of oblivion hides- 
 All passed like snow, long — long ago, 
 
 With the time of the Barmecides ; 
 All passed like snow, long — long ago. 
 
 With the time of the Barmecides! 
 
 But mine eye is dim, and my beard is gray. 
 
 And I bend with the weight of years. — 
 May I soon go down to the House of Clay 
 
 Where slumber my youth's compeers ! 
 For with them and the past, tho' the thought 
 
 My memory ever abides, [wakes woe. 
 
 And I mourn for the time gone long ago. 
 
 For the time of the Barmecides ! 
 I mourn for the time gone long ago, 
 
 For the time of the Barmecides ! 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 Ascribed to the Arabic. 
 
 WAIL AND WARNING OF THE THREE 
 KHALENDEERS. 
 La'laha, il Allah!* 
 Here we meet, we three, at length, 
 
 Amrah, Osman, Perizad : 
 Shorn of all our grace and strength. 
 
 Poor, and old, and very sad ! 
 We have lived, but live no more ; 
 
 Life has lost its gloss for us. 
 Since the days we spent of yore 
 Boating down the Bosphorus. 
 La' laha, li Allah ! 
 
 ' God alone 1 
 
 The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 
 Old Time brought home no loss for us. 
 We felt full of health and heart 
 Upon the foamy Bosphorus ! 
 
 La' laha. il Allah ! 
 Days indeed! A shepherd's tent 
 
 Served us then for house and fold ; 
 All to whom we gave or lent. 
 
 Paid us back a thousand fold. 
 Troublous years, by myriads wailed. 
 
 Rarely had a cross for us, 
 Never when we gayly sailed. 
 
 Singing down the Bosphorus. 
 La' laha, il Allah ! 
 
 The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 
 
 There never came a cross for us. 
 While we daily, gayly sailed. 
 
 Adown the meadowy Bosphorus. 
 
 La' laha, il Allah ! 
 Blithe as birds we flew along. 
 
 Laughed and quaffed and stared about; 
 Wine and roses, mirth and song. 
 
 Were what most we cared about. 
 Fame we left for quacks to seek. 
 
 Gold was dust and dross for us. 
 While we lived from week to week. 
 
 Boating down the Bosphorus 
 La' laha, il Allah ! 
 
 The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 
 
 And gold was dust and dross for us. 
 While we lived from week to week, 
 
 A-boating down the Bosphorus. 
 
 La' laha, il Allah ! 
 Friends we were, and would have shared 
 
 Purses, had we twenty full. 
 If we spent, or if we spared. 
 
 Still our funds were plentiful. 
 Save the hours we past apart 
 
 Time brought home no loss for us ; 
 We felt full of hope and heart 
 
 While we clove the Bosphorus. 
 La' laha, il Allah ! 
 
 The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 
 
 Life has lost its gloss for us, 
 Since the days we spent of yore 
 
 Upon the pleasant Bosphorus ! 
 
 La' laha, il Allah ! 
 Ah ! — for youth's delirious hours 
 
 Man pays well in after days, 
 Whenquench'd hopes and palsied powers 
 
 Mock his love-and-laughter days. 
 
6o6 
 
 POEMS OF L066 AND SOUKOIV. 
 
 Thorns and thistles on our path 
 Took the place of moss for us, 
 
 Till false fortune's tempest wrath 
 Drove us from the Bosphorus. 
 
 La' laha. il Allah \ 
 The Hosphorus, the F^osphorus I 
 
 How gallantly, as night comes down, u|.. 
 
 the Syrian seas. 
 The ■• Hel-Marie" all canvas crowds to catch 
 
 the springing breeze I 
 A prosperous course be hers I ^ the spears 
 
 above her poop that gleam 
 
 WliL-n thorns took place of moss for us. Have flashed ere now. like stars, I trow, on 
 
 Gone was all I Our hearts were graves 
 Deep, deeper than the Bosphorus I 
 
 La' laha, il Allah! 
 Gone is all ! In one abyss 
 
 Lie Health, Youth, and Merriment ! 
 All we've learned amounts to this — 
 
 Life's a sad experiment. 
 What it is we trebly feel 
 
 Pondering what it was for us. 
 When our shallop's bounding keel 
 
 Clove the joyous Bosphorus. 
 La' laha, il Allah ! 
 
 The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus! 
 
 We wail for what life was for us 
 When our shallop's bounding keel 
 
 Clove the joyous Bosphorus ! 
 
 La' laha, il Allah .' 
 Pleasure tempts, yet man has none 
 
 Save himself t' accuse if her 
 Temptings prove, when all is done, 
 
 Lures hung out by Lucifer. 
 Guard your fire in youth, O friends! 
 
 Manhood's is but phosphorus. 
 And bad luck attends and ends 
 Boatings down the Bosphorus. 
 
 La' laha. il Allah I 
 The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus! 
 Youth's fire soon wanes to phosphorus. 
 And slight luck or grace attends 
 Your boaters down the Bosphorus I 
 AsaibeJ U> ih: An,hi,\ 
 
 J.\MES I LAREXCE MANGAN. 
 
 Siloa's solemn stream. 
 
 Precious the freight that proud bark bears — 
 
 -the ransom and the spoil 
 Reaped from Mahound's blaspheming crew 
 
 on many a field of toil ; 
 Large lustrous cups, Kathay's bright robes, the 
 
 diamond's living rays, — 
 Carpets from Tyre, whose costly fire for kings 
 
 alone should blaze. 
 
 And worth them all, that Fairest One. whose 
 
 ' tresses' sunny twine. 
 Far down unroll'd, outshames the gold of 
 
 tawny India's mine; 
 When storm 'd the Cross round Gazas fosse, 
 
 all bright but faithless, she 
 Fled from her Emir-spouse, De Vere's light 
 
 paramour to be. 
 
 And now, when sultrj'day is done, her languid 
 
 brow to cool. 
 Soft couch'd upon the curtain'd deck reclines 
 
 the Beautiful ; 
 Voluptuous in repose as She who. 'mid the 
 
 .'Egean Isles. 
 Rose radiant from the frowning deep she 
 
 dazzled into smiles. 
 
 THE FLIGHT TO CYPRUS. 
 De Vere has loosed from Ascalon — Judea's 
 
 holy gale 
 Fresh with the spikenard's evening scent, is 
 
 rustling in his sail : 
 A victor he to Normandy ploughs homeward 
 
 through the brine ; 
 Herald and harp shall laud him long fordeeds 
 
 in Palestine. 
 
 Fast by that lady's pillow sits the passionate 
 
 De Vere 
 Now dimming with his doting kiss the glory 
 
 of her hair ; 
 Or watching till their sleepy lids her eyes' blue 
 
 langour veil — 
 Of murmuring on her lips of rose fond love's 
 
 untiring tale. 
 
 Yet restless all is her repose, no solace can she 
 
 find; 
 The press of canvas overhead hoarse groaning 
 
 in the wind — 
 The cordage-strain — the whistling shrouds 
 
 De Vere's devoted words — 
 All things, or soft or sullen, now disturb her 
 
 spirit's chords. 
 
THE FLIGHT TO CYPRUS. 
 
 60: 
 
 "In vain thy love would lull my ear, thou 
 
 flattering knight, for whom 
 I faithless fled my lord and land! — methinks 
 
 that, through the gloom. 
 Some fearsome Genii's mighty wings are 
 
 ' shadowing my soul. 
 Black as the clouds and waters now that 
 
 round about us roll." 
 
 " Ah, cheer thee, sweet — 'tis but the rude and 
 
 restless billows' heaving. 
 That frets thy frame of tenderest mould with 
 
 weariness and grieving ; 
 'Twill vanish soon: when mounts the moon 
 
 at midnight from the sea. 
 
 O Queen of Quiet — thou who wijinst our 
 adoration still. 
 
 As when a wondering world bow'd down on 
 thine Ephesian hill ! 
 
 Stainless thyself, impart thy calm and purify- 
 ing grace, 
 
 To her, the stain'd one, watching thee with 
 her resplendent face.' 
 
 The breeze has dropp'd — the soundless sails 
 
 are flagging one by one ; 
 While in his cabin still De Vere the parchment 
 
 pores upon ; 
 Sudden a shriek — a broken groan, his ear have 
 
 smitten — hark ! 
 
 Sweet Cyprus, with its rosy rocks high shining i That laughing yell ! — sure fiends from hell are 
 
 on our lee, 
 
 " Shall see us anchor'd — if the truth our 
 
 Moorish pilot tell. 
 Who, since we weigh'd, has steer'd for us so 
 
 steadily and well. 
 E'en now I go to track below our bearings by 
 
 the chart ; — 
 With freight like thee can I be free from wist- 
 
 fulness of heart.'" 
 
 De Vere is gone. His silent crew, from all 
 the decks above. 
 
 Descend, lest even a murmur mar the slum- 
 bers of his Love ; 
 
 Yon aged Moor, who, soectre-like, still at the 
 rudder stands. 
 
 Yon stripling, station'd at the prow, are all 
 the watching hands. 
 
 hailing to the bark! 
 
 He gains the deck— the spot where last 
 
 idolatrous he stood. 
 Is cross'd by some dark horrid thing — a narrow 
 
 creeping flood ; 
 Great Heaven forbid !— but where's the heart 
 
 from whence it gush'd .' — for now 
 The decks contain no form but that stone-stiff 
 
 beside the prow. 
 
 Stone-stiff — half life, half death — it stands 
 
 with hideous terror dumb. 
 And bristling hair, and striving still for words 
 
 that will not come : 
 Speak thou — speak thou, who from the prow 
 
 kept watch along the water. 
 And kill thy lord with one dread word of 
 
 Gaza's glorious daughter I 
 
 Pavilion-screen'd, from her soft couch how 
 
 oft that lady bright 
 Raised like an evening star her head, and To 
 
 look'd upon the night. 
 
 Praying the tardy 
 
 the shadows di 
 
 to rise— and through | Sky-musing the 
 
 He told at last, that as he turn'd, what time 
 the breeze had died. 
 
 his mates — far at the stern, the lady 
 he espied. 
 
 nd bv the helm, with eves 
 
 coal-blazi ng — Him, 
 
 Encountering but that spectral form beside ^ The Evil One, in semblance of their Moorish 
 
 the rudder grim. 
 
 pilot grim. 
 
 The moon at last! — blood-red and round, she i Who stole to her before that bov could > 
 
 wheeleth up the wave, 
 
 himself for grace. 
 
 Soaring and whitening like a soul ascending His turban doff'd, then touch'd her arm, and 
 
 from the grave 
 Then riseth too the Beauty-brow'd, and qu 
 
 with gentlest motion 
 Her tent's festoons. — two rival Moons at once j Pi 
 
 upon the ocean ! 
 
 stared her in the face — 
 That furnace-stare ! — her scorch'd head 
 dropp'd — a flash — at once she fell 
 at his feet, who instantly sprang with 
 her down to hell ! 
 
6o.S 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 
 
 Where olive-groves their shadows fling from 
 Cyprus' musky shore. 
 
 The " Bel-Marie " high stranded lies, to plough 
 the waves no more : [aisles. I ween. 
 
 And day by day, far, far away, in Rouen's 
 
 Down-broken, like that stately bark, a mourn- 
 ful monk is seen. 
 
 UAKIHOLU.MKW SIMMONS. 
 
 KING CORMAC'S CROWN. 
 Prince Cormac sheathed his sharpest sword 
 
 In the breast of his brother's son ; 
 And his nobles hailed him as Riagh and Lord 
 
 When the treacherous deed was done ; 
 And they bore him then to his palace, near 
 
 Where Banns deep waters wind, — 
 O Ulster! didst thou see and hear. 
 
 Or wert thou deaf and blind ? 
 
 And Cormac sate at the feast that night 
 
 In .Antrim's royal hall, 
 Witli his vassal Tiernachs and men of might. 
 
 .And iron chieftains all ; 
 " And where is the kingly diadem .' " he cried, 
 
 ■• Ye have destined for this head .' " 
 When the oaken door swung suddenly wide. 
 
 And lo ! a sight of dread : 
 
 A bier with coffin and sable pall. 
 
 And bearers in mournful attire. 
 Moved slowly up the spacious hall. 
 
 While hushed was laugh and lyre ! 
 And the murderer shook in his royal chair. 
 
 While he tried to grasp his spear ; 
 But the curse of crime had stricken him there 
 
 And he looked a statue of fear ! 
 
 And the bearers lifted the coffin lid. 
 
 And a corpse, with a gor)- wound 
 In its naked breast, stood up amid 
 
 The death-pale revellers round ; 
 And a crown of blood-cemented clay 
 
 In its hands it seemed to bear. 
 And It spake, — " O King, enjoy thy sway ! 
 
 This diadem thou shalt wear I " 
 
 A silence deeper than the grave's 
 
 Now thrills the throng with dread ; 
 And the broken murmurs of Banna's waves 
 
 Seem voices of the dead I 
 It was far In the wane of the emerald spring, 
 
 .And a bright May morning poured 
 Its rays through the hall ; but the Irish King 
 
 Sate dead at his banquet board ! 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 DEIRDRE'S FAREWELL TO ALBA* 
 
 [Dcirdre, wife of Naisi. ihc «>n o( I iim. rciurnias wilh her 
 husband lo Emana, in Erin, laments for Alba, (.Scotland) her 
 adopted country.] 
 
 Alas ! and alas, my sorrow ! 
 
 The pain that hath no relief. 
 Alas! for the dreadful morrow 
 
 To dawn on our day of grief — 
 Oh. land In the orient glowing, 
 
 The last of thy smiles hath shone 
 On us, for Fate's wind is blowing, 
 
 .And the wave of our doom speeds on. 
 And a blight from the westward comcth, 
 and the bloom of our life is gone! 
 
 Oh, land of the sunbright mountains. 
 
 With the purple moors at their feet. 
 Of the clear lile-niirroring fountains, 
 
 .And rivers of water sweet ; 
 Of the fragrant wcK>d-bowers twining, 
 
 .And the cataract's sounding roar, 
 'Of the lakes in their splendor shining. 
 
 And the pine-woods whispering o'er. — 
 .Ah ! naught but my lord, my lover, could 
 lure me from thy green shore I 
 
 Sweet Is It in Daro's valley 
 
 To list to the falling rill. 
 To the breeze in the woodland alley. 
 
 And the goshawk's note from the hill ! 
 To the llght-wlnged swallow pursuing 
 
 His mate with a joyous cry. 
 To the cuckoo's voice and the cooing 
 
 Of doves in the pine-tops high. 
 And the throstle's song In the thicket, and 
 the larks from the morning sky. 
 
 Under the summer arbor. 
 
 By the fresh sea-breezes fanned. 
 Where the waters of Drayno's harbor 
 
 Sing over the silver sand. 
 Happy from morn till even 
 
 We've watched the sea-birds play. 
 And the ocean meeting the heaven, 
 
 In the distance far away. 
 And the gleam of the white-sailed galleys, 
 and the flash of the sunlit spray! 
 
 In Masan the green, the blooming. 
 
 How happy our days did pass; 
 Many Its flowers perfuming 
 
 And studding like gems the grass; 
 There the foxglove purpled the hollow. 
 
 And the iris flaunted Its gold. 
 
THE EXILES LAMENT. 
 
 609 
 
 And the flowei- that waits for the swallow, For there are ways of killing men 
 
 Its dainty bloom to unfold, I Beside the sword, the axe, the rope — 
 
 With the hyacinth blue and the primrose. Great hearts will break when lost to hope, 
 
 laughed in the breezy wold. And yet no blood be seen. 
 
 in Eta of sunny weather. 
 
 'Neath our happy home-porch hid. 
 On venison sweet from the heather. 
 
 And flesh of the mountain kid. 
 Or game from the forest cover, 
 
 And fish from the crystal stream 
 We feasted till eve was over. 
 
 And the moon with her silver gleam 
 Soared o'er the dusky pine-woods out from 
 the realm of dream. 
 
 O land of the East ! O giver 
 
 Of freedom from sore distress! 
 O land where no cloud came ever 
 
 To darken our happiness ! 
 O home of pleasure and promise 
 
 And peace unto mine and me, 
 When I see thy shore fade from us, 
 
 I sigh in my misery. 
 And send my voice o'er the waters, crj'ing 
 
 farewell to thee. 
 Translation. ANONYMOUS. 
 
 AN EXILE'S GRAVE. 
 He sleeps, and o'er his humble grave 
 No gilded trophy meets the view. 
 And yet the man beneath was true. 
 Just, resolute, and brave. 
 
 He paid his folly's farthest debt — 
 Inurn it with his mortal parti 
 His qualities of mind and heart 
 Will long survive him yet. 
 
 Oh, friends, it is a bitter thing 
 To die alone in a wide land. 
 Without a friend, without a hand. 
 Or hope, or help to bring. 
 
 To know our bones may never rest 
 In the green valleys of our youth — 
 To feel that many a foul untruth 
 Our memory may molest. 
 
 He bared against a vengeful foe 
 The- steel to freedom consecrate. 
 And died, the victim of a hate 
 
 That spares nor high nor low. 
 
 In simplest guise, and borne by some 
 Who knew his worth — his will to bless — 
 He presses, as our noblest press. 
 The couch of martrydom. 
 
 Peace to his soul ! — Let him who ne'er 
 Hath felt the long-protracted pains. 
 The life in death of prison-chains. 
 Speak lowly and beware. 
 
 Let him who ne'er was gagged, and torn 
 From home and kindred far away — 
 Who hath not steeped from day to day 
 His bread in tears of scorn. 
 
 Let him be mute, or meekly pray. 
 Thus kneeling on the grassy sod — 
 " Thy sore temptations, known to God, 
 Have washed thy sins away." 
 
 CHARLES G. HALPINE. 
 
 THE EXILE'S LAMENT. 
 Oh, my heart is with old times ! 
 My friends have passed like marriage chimes; 
 And joy now breathes but from the rhymes 
 
 Of minstrels that I loved when young ; 
 And in old songs that of a night. 
 By hearth or summer evening light. 
 My dear companions sung. 
 The few that last 
 From the pale past 
 Are silent, cold and gray ; 
 Youth has fled — cares of existence 
 Dim its rainbows in the distance : 
 
 'Mid falling tears the world they tread, 
 With age and weakness wearied. 
 And souls that turn but to the Dead — 
 Ah, welladay ! 
 
 Yon moon has never changed 
 Since o'er the far-off fields I ranged. 
 Ere time grew dark or hearts estranged 
 
 In life's disastrous fight. 
 By windows then at eventide. 
 My love and I sat side by side, 
 Amid the windy light; 
 
 The moon clouds past. 
 And she at last 
 Is vanished far away; 
 
6io 
 
 J'OKM.-^ ('/• 
 
 Now my heart with memory passes 
 By her dear grave chanting masses ; 
 
 Reading her loved books, and talking 
 With her as alone I'm walking — 
 Ah, welladay I 
 
 Tis a night of New Year's Day 
 
 The clanging chimes have ceased to play, 
 
 And the stars look pale and gray 
 
 O'er the strange town where I dwell: 
 There are laughters in the street. 
 Where the light young neighbors meet, 
 And the aged their stories tell : 
 But there's One 
 With me alone. 
 Who from Heaven came this day 
 To search the earth for me. 
 By the grave that's o'er the sea, 
 By the old house on the lea — 
 Ah, welladay 1 
 
 THOMAS C. IRWIN. 
 
 WEEP NOT FOR HIM THAT DIETH 
 Weep not for him that dieth. 
 
 I'or he sleeps, and is at rest ; 
 And the couch whereon he lieth 
 
 Is the grave's green quiet breast 
 But weep for him who pineth 
 
 On a far land's hateful shore. 
 Who wearily declineth 
 
 Where ye see his face no more 
 
 Weep not for him that dieth. 
 
 For friends are round his bed. 
 And many a young lip sigheth 
 
 When they name the early dead ; 
 But weep for him that livelh 
 
 Where none will know or care. 
 When the groan his faint heart giveth 
 
 Is the last sigh of despair. 
 
 Weep not for him that dieth. 
 
 For his struggling soul is free, 
 And the world from which it flieth 
 
 Is a world of misery ; 
 Hut weep for him that weareth 
 
 The captive's galling chain ; 
 To the agony ///• bearcth. 
 
 Death were but little pain. 
 
 Weep not for him that dieth. 
 For he has ceased from tears. 
 
 And a voice to his replielh 
 Which he hath not heard for years ; 
 
 But weep for him who wcepeth 
 On that cold land's cruel shore, — 
 
 Blest, blest is he that sleepeth,— 
 Weep for the dead no more ! 
 
 CAROLINE E. NORTON. 
 
 WAITING FOR THE DAWN. 
 
 I said, ".Mama is going home 
 
 To God's home in the bright blue sky: 
 She wants her little ones to come 
 
 And kiss her — and then say goodbye. " 
 
 The children, wondering what I meant. 
 
 Looked up — my eyes were far away : 
 They put their hands in mine, and went 
 I To where their dying mother lay. 
 
 ['Their rosy lips gave, each in turn. 
 
 Warm kisses to the cold while brow: 
 I saw her eyes light up and yearn — 
 I see them lit and yearning now. 
 
 The children went away to bed. 
 And on each pillow snowy white 
 
 A ruddy cheek — a curly head 
 Nestled in slumber all the night. 
 
 And I was in the room of death 
 Alone — alone — the long hours through : 
 
 I watched the gently failing breath 
 Grow faint and faint as falling dew. 
 
 At length there came a change — a chill 
 That drew a shiver from the earth, 
 
 A shiver of wind — then all was still.- 
 I waited for the daylight's birth. 
 
 A ghastly glimmer of the dawn. 
 
 Sadder than darkness, filled the roon — 
 
 The veil was lifted, not withdrawn ; 
 1 saw enough to see the gloom. 
 
 I took in mine the wasted hand. 
 And sank upon my knees in prayer. 
 
 The while with dreamy eyes I scanned 
 The large blue veins that wandered there. 
 
 Till something seemed to whisper, " Rise" — 
 
 1 rose in haste, and bending o'er 
 I The pillow, sought the sweet blue eyes 
 ; Where life's warm sparkle played no more. 
 
THE DEAD MOTHER. 
 
 Yet love shone through them — Love that 
 
 Intensity when force is spent ; 
 Infinite in its very chains. 
 
 And in its dumbness eloquent. 
 
 For never is the sun so bright 
 As then when evening clouds eclipse. 
 
 Nor Love so fair as when her light 
 Burns thro' the veil of soeechless lips. 
 
 speechless lips, I saw you move 
 
 To make a kiss, but Death forbade ; 
 You told your agony of love, 
 
 .Although the kiss was never made 
 
 For unperceived, Death's shadowy mist 
 Came lightly gliding in between 
 
 Our yearning souls, and as I kissed 
 The lies, I touched the icy screen. 
 
 And in that touch a chilling wave 
 
 Of wintry breath, that crept and stole 
 
 Like nightwind moaning o'er a grave. 
 Curdled the stillness of mv soul. 
 
 1 dared not name or shape in thought 
 The sickening doubt, the formless dread ; 
 
 Half aimlessly I rose and sought 
 The window-pane — the skv was dead. 
 
 Clouds hung against it, wan and dim 
 .'\nd lifeless as my darling's cheek ; 
 
 But just along the eastern rim 
 There ran a faintly golden streak. 
 
 EUMOND G. A. H(_)LMES. 
 
 THE DEAD MOTHER. 
 I had been buried a month and a year, 
 The clods on my coffin were heavy and 
 
 brown. 
 The wreaths at my headstone were withered 
 
 and sere, 
 No feet came now from the little town ; 
 I was forgotten, six months or more. 
 And a new bride walked on my husband's 
 
 floor. 
 
 Below the dew and the grass-blades lying. 
 
 On All Souls' Night, when the moon is cold, 
 I heard the sound of my children crying. 
 
 And my hands relaxed from their quiet 
 fold; 
 
 gams Through mould and death-damp it pierced 
 my heart, 
 And I woke in the dark with a sudden start. 
 
 I I cast the coffin-lid off my face, 
 I From mouth and eyelids I thrust the clay. 
 And I stood upright from the sleepers' place, 
 And down through the graveyard I took 
 my way ; [snow, 
 
 I The frost on the rank grass shimmered like 
 And the ghostly graves stood white in a row. 
 
 As I went down through the little town 
 
 The kindly neighbors seemed sore afeard, 
 For Leuchin plucked at the cross in her gown, 
 I And Hans said, " Jesu," under his beard, 
 .\nd many a lonely wayfarer 
 Crossed himself, with a muttered prayer, 
 
 I I signed the holy sign on my brows 
 
 I And kissed the crucifix hid in my shroud ; 
 
 ."Vs I reached the door of my husband's house 
 1 The children's clamor rose wild and loud, 
 
 .And swiftly I came to the upper floor. 
 
 .And ope'd, in the moonlight, the nursery door. 
 
 No lamp or fire in the icy room, 
 
 It was cold, as cold as my bed in the sod ; 
 My two boys fought in that ghostly gloom 
 
 For a mouldy crust that a mouse had 
 gnawed : 
 ■' Oh, mother, mother ! " my Gretchen said, 
 •■ We have been hungry since you were dead." 
 
 But what had come to my tender one, 
 My babe of little more than a year ? 
 
 Her limbs were cold as my breast of stone. 
 But I hushed her weeping with — " Mother 
 is here ; " — 
 
 My children gathered about my knees. 
 
 And held with soft fingers my draperies. 
 
 T/uy did not fear me, my babies sweet : 
 I lit the fire in the cheerless stove, 
 
 .A.nd washed their faces, and hands, and feet, 
 .And combed the golden fleeces I love, 
 
 .And brought them food, and drink, and light, 
 
 .And tucked them in with a last " good-night." 
 
 I Then softly, softly, I took my way, 
 j Noiselessly over the creaking stair. 
 
 Till I came to the room where their father lay, 
 And dreamed of his new love's yellow hair ; 
 
 And I bent and whispered low in his ear, 
 I " Our babies were cold and hungry, dear." 
 
6l2 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROH'. 
 
 Thus he awoke with a sob at his heart, 
 For he thought of me in the churchyard 
 mould. 
 
 And we came together — we, far apart — [cold ; 
 Where our children lay in the moonlight 
 
 And lie kissed their faces, and wept and said. 
 
 ■• Oh. dead love, rest in your quiet bed. 
 
 '■ To-morrow shall these be warm and glad. 
 
 With food and clothing, and light and wine. 
 And brave toy-soldiers for each wee lad, 
 
 And Gretchen shall nurse a dolly so line — 
 But, baby, baby, what shall we do. 
 For only the mother can comfort you?" 
 
 I heard the break in his voice, and went — 
 Twould soon be cock-crow, the dawn was 
 near — 
 
 And I laid me down with a full content 
 That all was well with my children dear ; 
 
 And my baby came in a month or less. 
 
 She was far too young to be motherless. 
 
 KATHARINE TYNAN. 
 
 THE NUN ON THE BATTLE FIELD. 
 
 An Incident of the Franco-German War. 
 
 Dead on the corpse-strewn battle plain 
 
 Where war's dread work is done. 
 She lies, amid the heaps of slain. 
 
 The pure and holy Nun : 
 She saw the stricken soldier fall. 
 
 And. ere the strife was o'er. 
 She rushed, unheeding blade or ball. 
 
 To staunch his flowing gore ; 
 To gently raise his drooping head. 
 
 To cool his lips of flame. 
 To whisper, ere his spirit fled. 
 
 The Saviour's Holy name. 
 And on from one to one to pass 
 
 'Midst those who. living yet. 
 Lay groaning on the crimsoned grass 
 
 Their streaming blood had wet ; 
 With saintly love and tenderness 
 
 Their suffering hearts to aid, 
 Whate'er the color of the dress 
 
 Thro' which their wounds were made. 
 And — in whatever form of speech 
 
 They prayed to God above — 
 Unto their dying lips to reach 
 
 The emblem of His love. 
 But ah, the battle's thundering swell 
 
 Had rolled not far away. 
 And still the murderous missiles fell 
 
 Where dead and dying lay ; 
 
 Bullets, ill sped, came whistling by. 
 
 Huge shot tore up the ground. 
 And shells, like meteors from on high, 
 
 Spread fresh destruction round. 
 She flinched not while they hurtled past. 
 
 Nor turned her head aside. 
 But when her death-wound came at last 
 
 She blest her God. and died. 
 
 TIMOTHY U. SULLIVAN. 
 
 BEYOND THE RIVER. 
 Weep no more about my bed ; 
 Weep no more, be comforted. 
 That which pale and cold you see, 
 Once was mine, but is not me: 
 Kiss no more that thing of clay. 
 
 That as garment once I wore ; 
 Foul, I fling it far away. 
 
 That it soil my soul no more, — 
 That no more it close me in 
 With its bands of grief and sin. 
 
 Weep no more about my bed ; 
 Weep no more, be comforted. 
 That which you to earth convey. 
 Weeping, wailing on the way. 
 Is as but an empty shell, 
 
 As a cage whence bird is flown ; 
 As a hut where one did dwell. 
 
 Ever full of pain and moan ; 
 As a mask that mocks and jeers 
 'Fore a face all filled with tears. 
 
 Weep no more about my bed. 
 
 Weep no more, be comforted. 
 
 Now at last I live in truth. 
 
 Now I feel unfading youth. 
 
 Now the world's dark ways are clear. 
 
 Now the weary wonder dies. 
 Now your little doubts appear 
 
 Mists that fail to vail the skies : — 
 Now your knowledge, skill and strength, 
 Childish toys appear at length. 
 
 Weep no more about my bed ; 
 Weep no more, be comforted. 
 He you weep you may not see. 
 But he stands beside your knee ; 
 He who loved you loves you still. 
 
 Loves you with a treble power. 
 Loves you with a mightier will. 
 
 Growing, growing, every hour. 
 He you clasped m arms of clay 
 Tends you closely day by day. 
 
DIRGE SONG. 
 
 Weep no more about my bed 
 Weep no more, be comforted. 
 Where I am ye soon will come ; 
 This, this only is our home. 
 I am only gone before. 
 
 Just a little moment's space. 
 Soon upon this painless shore 
 
 Vou shall see me face to face ; 
 Then we'll smile and wonder why 
 You should weep that I should die. 
 
 CHARLES ANDERSON READ. 
 
 DIRGE. 
 Strew flowers on her bier ; 
 The fairest flower here 
 
 Lies withered, of them all ; 
 Ere opening, it could yield 
 The sweets that lay concealed. 
 
 Within its calyx held in patient thrall. 
 
 A bud by rude winds broke, — 
 At fortune's cruel stroke 
 
 She shivered first, then sighed 
 At the unkind assault ; 
 Then pitying the fault. 
 
 She closed her eyes, and cast her pain aside. 
 
 So bring, though all their bloom 
 And delicate perfume 
 
 By her unheeded be. 
 The flowers she loved so well, 
 And let them, silent, tell 
 
 In Death's cold shade, of Immortality. 
 
 The fragrant mignonette. 
 The blue-eyed violet. 
 
 White roses, heliotrope. 
 The lily of the vale, 
 The snow-drop, pure and pale, [Hope. 
 
 Tuberoses, and the flower that speaks of 
 
 And humblest of them all. 
 With blood-tipped coronal. 
 
 The gold-eyed daisy bring ; 
 To every flower that grew 
 Her heart's fond faith was true ; [cling. 
 
 Then meet it is that round her now they 
 
 Here where upon her breast 
 Folded, her pale hands rest. 
 
 Place lilies, white and pure ; 
 The thoughts were pure as they 
 That, dove-like, brooding lay 
 
 Above the hopes that nestled there secure. 
 
 And on that placid brow 
 Whose light is veiled now. 
 
 Shall rest the immortelle ; 
 Wreathed with the flower of Thought, 
 And pale moss-rose buds, fraught [sleep well. 
 
 With sweetness: — with such friends she shall 
 
 So: all is done. Compose 
 Her limbs in still repose 
 
 Nor toil nor breaks, nor strife ; 
 Then yield her to the clay. 
 And in her coffin lay [her life. 
 
 The hopes, frail flowers, that clustered round 
 
 MARY .f. SERRANO. 
 
 DIRGE SONG. 
 
 Like the oak of the vale was thy strength and 
 thy height, [flight ; 
 
 Thy foot like the erne of the mountain in 
 Thy arm was the tempest of Loda's fierce 
 breath, [death ! 
 
 Thy blade, like the blue mist of Lego, was 
 Alas ! how soon the thin cold cloud 
 The hero's bloody limbs must shroud ? 
 I see thy father full of days, 
 For thy return behold him gaze, 
 The hand that rests upon the spear 
 Trembles in feebleness and fear; — 
 He shudders, and his bald gray brow 
 Is shaking, like the aspen bough ; 
 He gazes till his dim eyes fail 
 With gazing on the fancied sail. 
 Anxious he looks, — what sudden streak 
 Flits like a sunbeam o'er his cheek .' 
 " Joy, joy, my child, it is the bark 
 That bounds on yonder billow-dark. " 
 His child looks forth with straining eye. 
 And sees — the light cloud sailing by! 
 His gray head shakes ; how sad, how weak 
 That sigh ! how sorrowful that cheek ! 
 His bride from her slumbers will waken and 
 
 weep, 
 But when shall the hero arouse him from 
 
 sleep ? 
 The yell of the staghound, the clash of the 
 
 spear. 
 May ring o'er his tomb — but the dead cannot 
 
 hear ! 
 Once he wielded the sword, once he cheered 
 
 to the hound. 
 But his pleasures are past, and his slumber is 
 sound : 
 
6i4 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS A.\I) SOJih'OH: 
 
 Await not his coming, ye sons of the chase ; Wild, wildly that wail ringeth back on the 
 
 Day dawns, but it nerves not the dead for 
 
 the race ! 
 Await not his coming, ye sons of the sijcar, 
 
 From that lone place of tombs, .ts if spirits 
 were there ; 
 
 plore ; 
 
 They weep for the tearless, whose sorrows arc 
 o'er. 
 
 JAMES WlLl 
 
 The war-song ye sing— but the dead will not O'er the silent, the still and the cold they de- 
 hear ! 
 
 Oh ! blessing be with him who sleeps in the 
 
 grave. 
 The leader of Lochlin. the young and the 
 
 brave ! 
 On earth didst thou scatter the strength of 
 
 our foes ; 
 Then blessings be thine in thy cloud of 
 
 repose 
 Like the oak of the vale was thy strength and 
 
 thy might. 
 Thy foot like the erne of the mountain in 
 
 flight 
 
 ACROSS THE GULF.* 
 
 If i< 
 
 ICC bill <«nr hour from t»ff ihe starry sh.-' 
 y soul were stilled, for thou couliist tell me 
 [than all lore." 
 lancholy world doth know,— things deeper 
 
 The hunger of m 
 Than all this me 
 
 So thou art safe, my own. 
 From all earth's evil, weariness, and pain; 
 From the sad spirit and the tired brain ; 
 
 Thy arm was the tempest of Loda's fierce, F^^-" ^^e fair dreams that bring such drear 
 
 breath, I awakmg. 
 
 Thy blade, like the blue mist of Lego, was \ Thy heart will rest while living hearts are 
 
 death. breaking. 
 
 JOHN ANSTER. 
 From the Irish. Yet do I mourn for thee. 
 
 I try to look beyond the clinging clay. 
 
 To where, 'tis said, freed spirits soar to Day; 
 A bright world peopled by celestial things. 
 
 THE BURIAL. 
 
 A faint breeze is playing with flowers on the With star-crowned brows and snowy, rushing 
 
 The blue vault of summer is silent and still ; I 
 And the vale with the wild bloom of nature is | 
 
 wings. 
 
 No comfort do I find — 
 Tis thee I want, thy human voice and eyes. 
 
 But the far hillsare breathing a sorrowful lay. No wise bright angel leaning from the skies; 
 
 I But my own love who held me on his breast. 
 As winds on the Clairseac/i'ssoiA chords when In love's fair morn, caressing and caressed. 
 
 they stream. 
 As the voice of the dead on the mourner's 
 
 dark dream ! 
 
 O kindest, gentlest soul. 
 Was that low grave beyond the prairie sea. 
 
 Far away, far away, from gray distance it All that the western world could give to thee? 
 
 breaks, [wakes. And I. — I left thee there to die alone 1— 
 
 First known to the breast by the sadness it When will that shadow from my soul be 
 
 I thrown .' 
 
 Now lower, now louder, now longer it mourns. 
 Now faintly it falls, and now fitful returns; 
 
 Now the same path I tread. 
 
 Now near, and now nearer, it swells on the And hear thro" silent nights the steps of 
 ear. i 
 
 Death, 
 Timed by the sinking pulse and laboring 
 breath. 
 With slow steps, sad burthen, and wild-uttered And know how dark to thee it must have 
 
 The wild iiliilita. the death-song is near! 
 
 i-ail. 
 
 [vale ; 
 
 been. 
 
 Maid, matron and cotter wind up from the ' That hopeless, homeless, friendless closing 
 
 And loud lamentations salute the gray hill. 
 
 Where their fathers are sleeping, the silent j 
 
 and still. I 
 
 vho died alone in Denver, 
 
A/A/^y OF CLORAH. 
 
 Pity me and forgive, — 
 And if in all those starrj' realms above. 
 There is a place where human hearts still 
 
 love. 
 Come to me, speak to me, give me but a sign 
 That thou art living, and that thou art mine. 
 
 Then would I welcome Death ; 
 Life has been harsh ; of all the gifts of Fate, 
 Thy love was best, and that I learned too 
 
 late, j 
 
 But learned it well at last, and now would 
 
 give 
 All I have had and hoped for, couldst thou live. 
 
 Never an answer comes 
 Across the soundless space from thee to me, 
 And yet, and yet, I know that I shall see 
 Thy face, and hear thy voice, and clasp thy 
 
 hand. 
 Upon the threshold of that unknown land. 
 
 MARY OF CLORAH. 
 In the dewy April weather. 
 When the tufts were on the heather. 
 
 And the feathery larch was green, 
 Mary, like the young Aurora, 
 Shone amid the woods of Clorah ; 
 
 Pride was in her stately mien. 
 
 O her laugh was like the runnel 
 Bubbling in its pebbly channel 
 
 Mid the glistening moss and fern ; 
 But it hushed the stock-dove sighing, 
 And it set the cuckoo flying. 
 
 And it scared the lonely hern. 
 
 She was all alone, sweet Mary, 
 Tripping like a winsome fairj' 
 
 Through the woods at break of morn. 
 Laughing to herself, and singing 
 Rustic snatches that went ringing 
 
 Through the glens like laughs of scorn. 
 
 When a year had fled, the weather 
 Was as fair, as fresh the heather. 
 
 And the feathery larch as green ; 
 But no pride was left in Mary, 
 And the laughing, winsome fairy 
 
 Was no more what she had been. 
 
 O'er her little babe her laughter 
 Burst in fits, but sighs came after; 
 
 Thro' her mirth was breathed a sigh. 
 Now she kissed her infant wildly. 
 Now she looked upon it mildly 
 
 Thro' the tears that dimmed her eye. 
 
 Then she murmured: " Baby mine 
 Would my soul were calm as thine ! 
 
 Sleep, my darling little boy ; 
 Sleep, the winds about thee moaning; 
 
 1 Sleep, nor heed thy mother groaning; 
 
 i Sleep, my own, my only joy. 
 
 " Ah, niethinks thine eyes of blue 
 Are more loving, deep, and true, 
 
 Closed beneath those silken lashes. 
 Than the smiling eyes that hold 
 My spirit with their glances bold ; — 
 
 Tempest-gleams and lightning flashes. 
 
 " Would that I had never strayed. 
 Wayward, in the greenwood shade, 
 
 Singing at the break of morn ! 
 Those dear eyes had never dazed me, 
 Those sweet words had never mazed me,— 
 
 Would I never had been born ! 
 
 "Then I saw him as a dream, 
 Standing by the brawling stream. 
 
 And I felt a sudden shiver 
 Seize me as I gazed on him, — 
 He was fishing by the brim 
 
 Of the roaring mountain river. 
 
 " Then he turned, and took the breath 
 From my breast that shook beneath 
 
 Those steadfast eyes ; he smiled and then 
 I was bold, and broke the spell. 
 And passed on proudly. . . . well, ah ! well 
 
 I learned to love that smile again ! 
 
 " Ah, me I miier broke the spell I — 
 My love is more than 1 can tell ; 
 
 It burns, it scorches .... yet I know 
 This should not be: my babe, I wrong 
 Thy father, but I am not strong — 
 
 Worn weaker by this hidden woe. 
 
 •• I never broke my marriage vows ; 
 Thy father is my wedded spouse ; 
 
 And if my heart be with another, 
 God knows I've striven, howe'er in vain, 
 Though baffled by the blissful pain, 
 
 I've striven this wrongful love to smother. 
 
6i6 
 
 J'OKMS OJ-- LOSS AND SORROW. 
 
 •■ Thy sweet eyes open, baby mine : 
 And from their depths of violet shine 
 
 Such lustres pure of trustful love, 
 I am rebuked. 1 dare not dwell 
 In fancy on the baleful spell 
 
 That turns me false to thee, sweet dove 1 
 
 She broke in weeping : " Woe is me ! 
 They said you died in Italy 
 
 My mother almost starved " — then, wild 
 With love, and the keen agony 
 Of duty, sobbing bitterly. 
 
 Fled moaning, "O my child I my child 
 
 •■ Well I love thee, little child. 
 Soothing with thy glances mild 
 
 All my trouble. Thou wilt be 
 My help, my angel ; thou wilt make 
 Thy father kind for thy sweet sake, 
 
 And charm away his cruelty." 
 
 Laughing lightly, lightly sighing 
 O'er the babe all calmly lying 
 
 In her arms, she showered kisses 
 On its tender mouth and brows ; 
 And she felt a lover's vows 
 
 Were not worth a mother's blisses. 
 
 Then a step within a wood 
 Stilled the beating of her blood. 
 
 And she clasped her infant tight: 
 In a dark tempestuous mood. 
 The man she loved before her stood, 
 
 And her face and lips grew white. 
 
 Long stood he there in silent woe ; 
 .\nd when the sun was dipping low 
 
 Behind the larches of the glen. 
 He knelt and wept, then pa.ssed away 
 I'orever. Never from that day 
 
 He lingered in those woods again. 
 
 EDMtJND J. AR.MSTRONG. 
 
 SHANE DYMAS' DAUGHTER- 
 It was the eve of holy St. Bride, 
 
 The Abbey bells were ringing. 
 And the meek-eyed nuns at eventide 
 
 The vesper hymns were singing. 
 Alone, by the well of good St. Bride. 
 
 A novice fair was kneeling! 
 And there seem'd not o'er her soul to glide 
 
 One shade of earthly feeling. 
 
 A man of noble gait was he, 
 As fair a lord as you might see ; 
 
 And his frown became him well 
 When she rose and turned away, 
 And took the homeward path that lay 
 
 .\niong the wild flowers of the dell. 
 
 He strode on. with passion pale. 
 And her limbs began to fail 
 
 When he touched her trembling arm. 
 Then she uttered a low cr\' ; 
 But he, •• Have comfort ; it is I; 
 
 Mary, I never meant you harm. 
 
 •• I loved you with all truth ; my love 
 Is registered in Heaven above ; 
 
 I would have made you wife, I swore. 
 And I have never broken vow, — 
 Ha ! there's a sadness on your brow ; — 
 
 I never saw that gloom before. 
 
 "Ah me I you loved me, then ? O why 
 Did you not trust me ? I would die 
 
 To save those saddened eyes from tears. 
 Your doubts have made a young man old ; 
 Such love as mine may not be told. 
 
 Nor will it fade with lapse of years." 
 
 For ne'er did that clear and sainted well 
 
 Reflect, from its crystal water, 
 A form more fair than the shadow that fell 
 
 From O'Niall's lovely daughter. 
 Her eye was bright as the blue concave. 
 
 And beaming with devotion; 
 Her bosom fair as the foam on the wave 
 
 Of Erin's rolling ocean. 
 
 Yet O ! forgive her that starting tear; 
 
 From home and kindred riven. 
 Fair Kathleen, many a long, long year. 
 
 Must be the Bride of Heaven. 
 Her beads were told, and the moonlight shone 
 
 Sweetly on Callan Water, 
 When her path was cross'd by a holy nun : — 
 
 •■ Benedicite, fair daughter ! " 
 
 Fair Kathleen started — well did she know — 
 
 O what will not love discover I 
 Her country's scourge, and her father's foe, — ' 
 
 'Twas the voice of her Saxon lover. 
 '• Raymond !"— " Oh hush, my Kathleen dear. 
 
 My path's beset with danger ; 
 But cast not, love, those looks of fear 
 
 Upon thy dark-hair'd stranger. 
 
MAIRE NI MILLEOIN. 
 
 617 
 
 " My red roan steed's in yon Culdee grove, 
 
 My bark is out at sea, love ; 
 My boat is moored in the ocean cove ; 
 
 Then haste away with me, love ! 
 My father has sworn my hand shall be 
 
 To Sydney's daughter given ; 
 And thine, to-morrow, will offer thee 
 
 A sacrifice to heaven. 
 
 " But away, my love, away with me 1 
 
 The breeze to the west is blowing; 
 And thither, across the dark-blue sea, 
 
 Are England's bravest going, [bowers 
 
 To a land where the breeze from the orange 
 
 Comes over the exile's sorrow. 
 Like the light-wing'd dreams of his early hours 
 
 Or his hope of a happier morrow. 
 
 " And there, in some valley's loneliness. 
 
 By wood and mountain shaded. 
 We'll live in the light of wedded bliss. 
 
 Till the lamp of life be faded. 
 Then thither with me, my Kathleen, fly ! 
 
 The storms of life we'll weather. 
 Till in bliss beneath the western sky. 
 
 We live, love, die together ! " — 
 
 " Die, Saxon, now I" At that fiend-like yell 
 
 An hundred swords are gleaming: [well, 
 Down the bubbling stream, from the tainted 
 
 His heart's best blood is streaming. 
 In vain does he doff the hood so white, 
 
 And vain his falchion flashing ; [bright 
 
 Five murderous brands thro' his corselet 
 
 Within his heart are clashing. 
 
 His last groan echoing through the grove, 
 
 His life blood on the water. 
 He dies, — thy first and thy only love, 
 
 O'Niall's hapless daughter I [snow ! 
 
 Vain, vain, was the shield of that breast of 
 
 In vain that eye beseech'd them ; [blow. 
 Thro' his Kathleen's heart, the murderous 
 
 Too deadly aimed, has reach 'd him. 
 
 The spirit fled with the red, red blood 
 
 Fast gushing from her bosom ; 
 The blast of death has blighted the bud 
 
 Of Erin's loveliest blossom ! 
 'Tis morn ; in the deepest doubt and dread 
 
 The gloomy hours are rolling ; 
 No sound save the requiem for the dead. 
 
 Or knell of the death-bell tolling. 
 
 'Tis dead of night ; not a sound is heard, 
 
 Save from the night-wind sighing ; 
 Or the mournful moan of the midnight bird. 
 
 To yon pale planet crying. 
 Who names the name of his murder'd child ? 
 
 What spears to the moon are glancing.' 
 'Tis the vengeful cry of Shane Dymas wild, 
 
 His bonnacht-men advancing. 
 
 Saw ye that cloud o'er the moonlight cast, 
 
 Fire from its blackness breaking.' 
 Heard ye that cry on the midnight blast 
 
 The voice of terror shrieking.' 
 'Tis the fire from Ardsaillach's willow'd height. 
 
 Tower and temple falling; 
 'Tis the groan of death, and the cry of fright, 
 
 From monks for mercy calling ! 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 MAIRE NI MILLEOIN. 
 " Will you come where golden furze I mow. 
 
 Mo Maire ni Milleoin?" 
 " To bind for you I'd gladly go. 
 
 My Bliss on Earth, mine own. 
 To chapel, too, I would repair. 
 Though not to aid my soul in prayer, 
 But just to gaze with rapture where 
 
 You stand, 1110 biichal baun." 
 
 " Will you rove the garden glades with me, 
 
 O Flower of Maids, alone .' " 
 " What wondrous scenes therein to see. 
 
 My Bliss on Earth, mine own .' " 
 " The apples from green boughs to strike. 
 To watch the trout leap from the lake, 
 And caress a pretty caileii like 
 
 Mo Maire ni Milleoin." 
 
 " Will you seek with me the dim church aisle, 
 
 O Maire ni Milleoin?" 
 " What pleasant scenes to see the while. 
 
 My Bliss on Earth, mine own .' " 
 ■' We'd list the chanting voice and prayer 
 Of foreign pastor preaching there, 
 O, we'd finish the marriage with my fair 
 
 White Flower of Maids alone." 
 
 She sought the dim church aisle with me, 
 
 My Bliss on Earth, most fair ! 
 She sought the dim church aisle with me, 
 
 O grief ! O burning care ! 
 
6i8 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 
 
 I plunged my glittering, keen-edged blade 
 In the bosom of that loving maid. 
 Till gushed her heart's blood, warm and red, 
 Down on the cold ground there. 
 
 •• Alas I what deed is this you do.' 
 
 My Bliss on Earth, mostore! 
 What woful deed is this you do, 
 
 O youth whom I adore .' 
 Ah. spare our child and me. my love. 
 And the seven lands of earth I'll rove 
 Ere cause of grief to you 1 prove 
 
 For ever — ever more I " 
 
 I bore her to the mountain peak. 
 
 The Flower of Maids, so lone, 
 I bore her to the mountain bleak. 
 
 My thousand woes, mo vroiie ! 
 I cast my cota round her there. 
 And. 'mid the murky mists of air, 
 I fled with bleeding feet and bare 
 
 From Maire ni Milleoin. 
 
 GKORGE SlGEk.^DN. 
 From the Irish. 
 
 MAIRGREAD NI CHEALLEADH-^' 
 At the dance in the village 
 
 Thy white foot was fleetest; 
 Thy voice mid the concert 
 
 Of maidens was sweetest ; 
 The swell of thy white breast 
 
 Made rich lovers follow; 
 And thy raven hair bound them. 
 
 My Mairgread ni Chealleadh. 
 
 Thy neck was, lost maid ! 
 
 Than the ceanaban whiter; 
 And the glow of thy cheek 
 
 Than the monadan brighter; 
 But Death's chain hath bound thee. 
 
 Thine eye's glazed and hollow 
 That shone like a sun-burst. 
 
 Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh 
 
 No more shall mine ear drink 
 
 Thy melody swelling; 
 Nor thy beamy eye brighten 
 
 The outlaw's dark dwelling ; 
 Or thy soft heaving bosom 
 
 My destiny hallow. 
 When thine arms twine around me. 
 
 Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. 
 
 The moss couch 1 brought thee 
 
 To-day from the mountain 
 Has drank the last drop 
 
 Of thy young heart's red fountain, 
 For this good skian l>eside me 
 
 Struck deep and rung hollow 
 In thy bosom of treason. 
 
 Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. 
 
 With strings of rich pearls 
 
 Thy white neck was laden. 
 And thy fingers with spoils 
 
 Of the Sassenach maiden 
 Such rich silks enrob'd not 
 
 The proud dames of Mallow — 
 Such pure gold they wore not 
 
 As Mairgread ni Chealleadh. 
 
 Alas ! that my loved one 
 
 Her outlaw would injure — 
 A las I that he e'er proved 
 
 Her treason's avenger 1 
 That this right hand should make the 
 
 \ bed cold and hollow. 
 When in Death's sleep it laid thee. 
 
 Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh ! 
 
 And while to this lone cave 
 
 My deep grief I'm venting 
 The Saxons keen bandog 
 
 My footsteps is scenting! 
 But true men await me 
 
 .\far in Duhallow.— 
 Farewell, cave of slaughter. 
 
 And Mairgread ni Chealleadh! 
 
 KIiW.\Rl) WALSH. 
 « the Irish. 
 
 * Founded on Ihc Cork tnidilic 
 outlaw, who killed his beautiful 
 (Mairgr^d ni Chealleadh), for 
 the English soldiers. 
 
 Daniel O'Keefe^ an 
 Margaret Kelly | 
 > betray him lu 
 
 THE WEXFORD MASSACRE.* 
 They knelt around the Cross divine. 
 
 The matron and the maid — 
 They bowed before redemption's sign 
 
 And fervently they prayed— 
 Three hundred fair and helpless ones. 
 
 Whose crime was this alone — 
 Their valiant husbands, sires, and sons. 
 
 Had battled for their own. 
 
 Had battled bravely, but in vain— 
 
 The Sa.xon won the fight. 
 And Irish corses strewed the plain 
 
 Where Valor slept with Right. 
 
 > In the City of Wexford, 1569. 
 
KATHLEEN BAN ADAIR. 
 
 619 
 
 And now that Man of demon guilt, 
 
 To fated Wexford flew— 
 The red blood reeking on his hilt. 
 
 Of hearts to Erin true ! 
 
 He found them there — the young, the old— 
 
 The maiden and the wife ; 
 Their guardian Brave in death were cold. 
 
 Who dared for ilieiii the strife. 
 They prayed for mercy — God on high ! 
 
 Before thy cross they prayed. 
 And ruthless Cromwell bade them die 
 
 To glut the Saxon blade! 
 
 Three hundred fell — the stifled prayer 
 
 Was quenched in woman's blood; 
 Nor youth nor age could move to spare 
 
 From slaughter's crimson flood. 
 But nations keep a stern account 
 
 Of deeds that tyrants do ; 
 And guiltless blood to Heaven will mount, 
 
 And Heaven avenge it too ! 
 
 MICHAEL J. BARRY. 
 
 KATHLEEN BAN ADAIR. 
 
 The battle blood of Antrim had not dried on 
 freedom's shroud, 
 
 And the rosy ray of morning was but strug- 
 gling thro' the cloud ; 
 
 When, with lightning foot and deathly cheek, 
 and wildly waving hair. 
 
 O'er grass and dew, scarce breathing, flew 
 young Kathleen ban Adair. 
 
 Behind, her native Antrim in a reeking ruin 
 lies ; [waters rise ; 
 
 Before her, like a silvery path, Kell's sleeping 
 
 And many a pointed shrub has pierc'd those 
 feet so white and bare. 
 
 But, oh ! thy heart is deeper rent, young Kath- 
 leen ban Adair. 
 
 And Kathleen's heart but one week since was 
 like a harvest morn ; 
 
 When hope and joy are kneeling 'round the 
 sheaf of yellow corn ; 
 
 But Where's the bloom then made her cheek 
 so ripe, so richly fair? 
 
 Thy stricken heart hath fed on it. young Kath- 
 leen ban .'\dair. 
 
 And now she gains a thicket, where tlie sloe 
 
 and hazel rise ; 
 But why those shrieking whispers, like a rusV 
 
 of worded sighs? 
 
 Ah ! low and lonely bleeding lies a wounded 
 
 patriot there. 
 And ever)' pang of his is thine, young Kathleen 
 
 ban Adair. 
 
 "I see them, oh! I see them, in a fearful red 
 array ; 
 
 The yeomen, love ! the yeomen come — ah, 
 Heaven ! away — away ! 
 
 I know — I know they mean to track my lion 
 to his lair; 
 
 Ah ! save thy life — ah ! save it for thy Kath- 
 leen ban Adair." 
 
 " May Heaven shield thee. Kathleen I when 
 my soul has gone to rest ; 
 
 May comfort rear her temple in thy pure and 
 faithful breast ; 
 
 But to fly them— oh ! to fly them, like a bleed- 
 ing, hunted hare ; 
 
 No I not to purchase Heaven, with my Kath- 
 leen ban Adair. 
 
 " I loved. I love thee. Kathleen, in my bosom's 
 warmest core 
 
 And Erin, injured Erin, oh ! I loved thee even 
 more ; 
 
 And death, I feared him little when I drove 
 him through their square. 
 
 Nor now. though eating at my heart, my Kath- 
 leen ban Adair." 
 
 With feeble hand his blade he grasp'd, yet 
 
 dark with spoilers' blood ; 
 And then, as though with dying bound, once 
 
 more erect he stood ; 
 But scarcely had he kissed the cheek, so pale, 
 
 so purely fair, 
 When flash'd their bayonets round him and 
 
 his Kathleen ban Adair ; 
 
 Then up arose his trembling, yet his dreaded 
 hero's hand. 
 
 And up arose, in struggling sounds, his cheers 
 for motherland ; 
 
 A thrust — a rush — their foremost falls ; but, 
 ah ! good God ! see there — 
 
 Thy lover's quivering at thy feet, young Kath- 
 leen ban Adair! 
 
 But. Heavens! men, what recked he then 
 your heartless taunts and blows. 
 
 When from his lacerated heart ten dripping 
 bayonets rose ? 
 
620 
 
 POEMS OF LOSS AND SO/iJtOH'. 
 
 And. maiden, thou with frantic hands, what 
 boots it kneeling there? 
 
 The winds heed not thy yellow locks, young 
 Kathleen ban Adair. 
 
 Oh ! what were tears, or shrieks, or swoons, 
 
 but shadows of the rest 
 When torn was frantic Kathleen from the 
 
 slaughtered hero's breast ? 
 And hardly had his last-heaved sigh grown 
 
 cold upon the air. 
 When, oh ! of all but life they robbd young 
 
 Kathleen ban Adair '. 
 
 But whither nowshall Kathleen fly .'—already ! 
 is she gone ; 
 
 Thy water. Kells, is tempting fair, and thither 1 
 speeds she on ; I 
 
 A moment on its blooming banks she kneels I 
 in hurried prayer— ^ | 
 
 Now in lU wave she finds a grave, poor Kath- 
 leen ban Adair I 
 
 FRANCIS DAVIS. 
 
 THE ORANGEMAN'S WIFE. 
 
 I wander by the limpid shore. 
 When fields and flowr'ets bloom ; 
 
 But, oh ! my heart is sad and sore — 
 My soul is sunk in gloom- 
 All day I cry ohone ! ohone ! 
 I weep from night till morn — 
 
 I wish that I were dead and gone. 
 Or never had been born. 
 
 My father dwelt beside Tyrone. 
 
 And with him children five ; 
 But I to Charlemont had gone. 
 
 At ser\'ice there to live. 
 O brothers fond ! O sister dear ! 
 
 How ill 1 paid your love ! 
 O father '. father I how I fear 
 
 To meet thy soul above ! 
 
 My mother left us long ago. 
 
 A lovely corpse was she ; 
 But we had longer days of woe 
 
 In this sad world to lie. 
 My weary days will soon be done, 
 
 I pine in grief forlorn ; 
 I wish that I were dead and gone. 
 
 Or never had been born. 
 
 It was the year of Ninety-eight, 
 
 The wreckers came about ; 
 They burned my fathers stack of wheat. 
 
 And drove my brothers out; 
 They forced my sister to their lust — 
 
 God grant my father rest ! 
 For the captain of the wreckers thrust 
 
 A bayonet through his breast. 
 
 It was a dreadful, dreadful year ; 
 
 And I was blindly led. 
 In love, and loneliness, and fear, 
 
 A /oj'a/ man to wed ; 
 And still my heart is his alone. 
 
 It breaks, but cannot turn : 
 I wish that I were dead and gone. 
 
 Or never had been born. 
 
 Next year we lived in quiet love. 
 
 And kissed our infant boy; 
 And peace had spread her wings above 
 
 Our dwelling at the Moy 
 And then my wayworn brothers came 
 
 To share our peace and rest 
 And poor lost Rose, to hide her shame 
 
 And sorrow in my breast. 
 
 They came.but soon they turned and fled— 
 
 Preserve my soul, O God 
 It was my husband's hand, they said. 
 
 That shed my father's blood. 
 All day I crj' ochone! ochonel 
 
 I weep from night till morn ; 
 And O. that I were dead and gone. 
 
 Or never had been born I 
 
 '•CARROLL MALOXE." 
 
PART XII. 
 
 MEMORIAL POEMS. 
 
 Give me again my harp of yew — 
 
 In consecrated soil 'twas grown; 
 Shut out the day-star from my view, 
 
 And leave me with the night alone! 
 The children of this modern land 
 
 May deem our ancient custom vain; 
 But aye responsive to my hand 
 
 The harp must pour the funeral strain. 
 
 It was of old a sacred rite, 
 
 A debt of honor freely paid 
 To champions fallen in the fight. 
 
 And scholars known in peaceful shade. 
 Alas ! that rite should now be claimed, 
 
 O world, for one we least can spare; 
 Whose name by us was never named 
 
 Without its meed of praise or prayer. 
 
 THOMAS D'aRCY MCGEE. 
 
MEMORIAL POEMS, 
 
 SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT? 
 Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who 
 first gave 
 To our countrv' a name, is withdrawn from 
 all eyes ? 
 Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the 
 grave, 
 Where the first — where the last of her 
 Patriots lies? * 
 
 No — faint though the death-song may fall from 
 his lips, 
 Though his Harp, like his soul, mav with 
 shadows be crost. 
 Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's 
 eclipse. 
 And proclaim to the world what a star hath 
 been lost ; — 
 
 ■What a union of all the affections and powers 
 
 By which life is exalted, embellish 'd, refined. 
 
 Was embraced in that spirit — whose centre 
 
 was ours. 
 
 While its mighty circumference circled 
 
 mankind ! 
 
 O, who that loves Erin, or who that can see. 
 Through the v.aste of her annals, that epoch 
 sublime- 
 Like a pyramid raised in the desert — where he 
 And his glor)' stand out to the eyes of all 
 time. 
 
 That one lucid interval, snatch'd from the 
 gloom 
 And the madness of ages, when fill'd with 
 his soul, 
 A nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her 
 doom. 
 And for owe sacred instant touch'd Liberty's 
 
 goal ? 
 
 ■"• Grallan. 
 
 Who, that ever hath heard him — hath drank 
 at the source 
 Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own. 
 In whose high-thoughted daring the fire and , 
 the force. 
 And the yet untamed spring of her spirit 
 are shown ? 
 
 An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave 
 Wander'd free and triumphant, with 
 thoughts that shone through. 
 As clear as the brook's " stone of lustre," and 
 gave. 
 With the flash of the gem, its solidity too. 
 
 Who that ever approach'd him, when free from 
 the crowd, 
 In a home full of love, he delighted to tread 
 'Mong the trees which a nation had giv'n, and 
 which bow'd, 
 As if each brought a new civic crown for his 
 head — 
 
 Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit 
 of life 
 But at distance observed him — through 
 glory, through blame. 
 In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of 
 strife. 
 Whether shining or clouded, still high and 
 the same ? — 
 
 O no, not a heart, that e'er knew him, but 
 mourns 
 Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory 
 is shrined — 
 O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong 
 the urns 
 Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of man- 
 kind! 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
624 
 
 MEMORIAL POEMS. 
 
 GRATTAN. 
 God works iliro' man, not hills or snows! 
 
 In man. not men, is the godlike power ; 
 The man, Gods potentate, God foreknows ; 
 
 He sends him strength at the destined hour. 
 His spirit he breathes into one deep heart: 
 His cloud he bids from one life depart: 
 A Saint ! — and a race is to God re-born ! 
 A Man I — one man makes a nation's morn I 
 
 A man, and the blind land by slow degrees 
 Gains sight! A man, and the deaf land 
 hears! 
 A man, and the dumb land like wakening seas 
 
 Thunders low dirges in proud, dull ears! 
 One man, and the People, a three days' corse. 
 Stands up, and the grave-bands fall off per- 
 force ; 
 One man, and the nation in height a span. 
 To the measure ascends of the perfect man. 
 
 I Thus wept unto God the land of Eire ; 
 
 Yet there rose no man, and her hope was 
 dead : 
 In the ashes she sat of a burned-out fire. 
 
 And sackcloth was over her queenly head. 
 
 But a man in her latter days arose ; 
 
 A deliverer stepped from the camp of her 
 
 foes; 
 
 i He spake ; the great and the proud gave way. 
 
 And the dawn began which shall end in day ! 
 
 AUEikF.V 7. UE VERB. 
 
 OH ! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. 
 O ! breathe not his name— let it sleep in the 
 
 shade. 
 Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are 
 
 laid! 
 Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we 
 
 shed, 
 As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er 
 
 his head ! 
 
 But the night-dew that falls, tho' in silence it 
 
 weeps. 
 Shall brighten with verdure the grave where 
 
 he sleeps ; 
 .■\nd the tear that we shed, tho' in secret it 
 
 rolls. 
 Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD 
 BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 Yes. grief will have way — but the fast-falling 
 tear 
 Shall be mingled with deep execration on 
 those 
 Who could bask in that spirit's meridian 
 career. 
 And leave it thus lonely and dark at its 
 close : 
 Whose vanity flew round him only while fed 
 By the odor his fame in its Summor-time 
 gave; 
 Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the 
 dead. 
 Like the ghoul of the East, comes to feed 
 at his grave. 
 
 Oh, it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hol- 
 low 
 And spirits so mean in the great and high 
 born ; 
 To think what a long line of titles may fol- 
 low 
 The relics of him who died friendless and 
 lorn ! 
 
 How proud they can press to the funeral 
 array 
 Of one whom they shunned in his sickness 
 and sorrow ; 
 How the bailiffs may seize his last blanket to- 
 day 
 Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to- 
 morrow. 
 
 And thou. too. whose life, a sick epicures 
 dream,* 
 Incoherent and gross, even grosser had 
 passed. 
 Were it not for that cordial and soui-givmg 
 beam 
 Which his friendship and wit o er thy noth- 
 ingness cast,— 
 
 No, not for the wealth of the land that sup- 
 plies thee 
 With millions to heap upon Fopperj-'s 
 shrine ; — 
 No, not for the riches of all who despise 
 thee. 
 Though this would make Europe's whole 
 opulence mine. 
 
 ' The Prince of Wales, afterward George the Fourth 
 
 J 
 
THE BURIAL CF SIR JOHN MOORE. 
 
 625 
 
 Would I suffer what — even in the heart that In the woods of the North the/e are insects 
 
 thou hast, that prey 
 
 All mean as it is — must have consciously On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh , 
 
 burned. O genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they, 
 
 When the pittance which shame had wrung First feed on thy brains and then leave thee 
 
 from thee at last. 1 to die. 
 
 And which found all his wants at an end, jhoma.s moore. 
 was returned. • 
 
 •• Was this then the fate," future ages will say. 
 When some names shall live but in history's 
 curse ; 
 When Truth will be heard, and those lords of 
 a day 
 Be forgotten as fools, or remembered as 
 worse — 
 
 •' Was tins then the fate of that high-gifted 
 man — 1 
 
 The pride of the palace, the bow'r, and the 
 hall— 
 The orator — dramatist — minstrel — who ran 
 Through each mode of the lyre, and was 
 master of all ! 
 
 "Whose mind was an essence, compounded 
 with art 
 From the finest and best of all other men's 
 pow'rs ; 
 Who ruled like a wizard the world of the 
 heart. 
 And could call up its sunshine or bring- 
 down its show'rs ; 
 
 " Whose humor, as gay as the fire-fly's light, 
 
 Play'd round every subject, and shone as it 
 
 played ; 
 
 Whose wit, in the combat as gentle as bright. 
 
 Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its 
 
 blade ; 
 
 "Whose eloquence — bright'ning whatever it 
 tried, 
 Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the 
 grave — 
 Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide 
 As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave." 
 
 Yes — such was the man, and so wretched his 
 
 fate ; [grieve. 
 
 And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to 
 
 V/ho waste their morn's dew in the beams of 
 
 the great. 
 
 And expect 'twill return to refresh them at 
 
 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
 
 As his corse to the rampart we hurried; 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot. 
 
 O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly at dead of night. 
 The sods with our bayonets turning, 
 
 By the struggling moonl>eam's misty light. 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclos'd his breast. 
 
 Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 
 
 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said, 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 
 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the 
 dead. 
 And we bitterly thought of the 1 
 
 We thought as we hollow 'd his narrow bed. 
 And smooth'd down his lonely pillow. 
 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er 
 his head. 
 And we far away on the billow ! 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. 
 And o'er liis cold ashes upbraid him. 
 
 But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
 In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done, 
 When the clock struck the hour for retiring : 
 
 And we heard the distant and random gun 
 That the foe was sullenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down. 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory'; 
 
 We carved not a line, we raised not a stone 
 But we left him alone with his glory ! 
 
 CHARLES WOLFE. 
 
620 
 
 MEMORUL rOEMS. 
 
 THE BIRTH-NIGHT. I 
 
 Moore Cfntennial in Boston, 1879. 
 Strike a jubilant chord. O Earth, for the birth 
 ol the Poet ! 
 Welcome his conquering feel with harmony 
 vibrant and strong ; 
 Arch of the smiling sky, and blue sea-ripple 
 below It, 
 Welcome his conquering feet, who comes 
 in the glory of song. 
 
 Flush of the incoming day, and glowing of 
 sunset splendor. 
 Silent feet of the night treading her 
 shining ways. 
 Crooning of summer winds in lullaby dreamy 
 and tender. 
 Welcome the birth of the jioct with paeans 
 of triumph and praise. 
 
 For he is the breath of thy soul, the pulse of 
 the heart of thy being. 
 He is the voice of thy voice which speaks 
 from the leaf and sod. 
 Falling as healing and balm on spirit and 
 eyes unseeing. 
 And changing their darkness to light, like 
 the touch of the chrism of God. 
 
 O windswept harp of Innisfail, 
 
 Wake from thy sleep to-night. 
 Not faint with sorrow's lingering wail. 
 
 But glad with life's delight ! 
 For he who gave thy notes to fame 
 
 And love and joy of yore, 
 Brings the fair glory of his name 
 
 To wreathe thy strings once more. 
 
 His glory! Ay! The statesman's hand 
 
 May fail with failing breath, orand. 
 
 The thoughts which nerved the patriot's 
 
 Go down with him in death ; 
 But he whose song divine can thrill 
 
 A nation's depths, shall last 
 Tlirough every phase of doubt or ill. 
 
 Immortal as her past. 
 
 Thou soul of love ! Thou heart of fire ! 
 
 That flamed for Erin's sake ; 
 Whose light bade each fond hope aspire. 
 
 Whose warmth kept life awake,— 
 If. at thy name, the thought which starts 
 
 Finds voice in faltering phrase, 
 Tis that we hold thee in our hearts 
 
 Too deep for idle praise. 
 
 But while across Avoca's vale 
 
 The shades of fancy rest. 
 While the last roses fade and pali 
 
 .-\bove the summer's breast, — 
 While valor lives, or young love thrills 
 
 The changeful moods of men, 
 The charm which ail thy music fills 
 
 Shall live and breathe again. 
 
 And we, who of the whole broad earth 
 
 Can never quite forget 
 That race and creed and common birth 
 
 Have brought thee nearer yet.— [known, 
 Thus hail thee whom their souls have 
 
 Thus hold thy memory shrined. 
 Thy spirit for thy land alone, 
 
 "Thy fame for all mankind ! 
 
 MAKY E. BLAKE. 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS-HIS LIFE, HIS DEATH, 
 HIS WORK. 
 
 I walked thro' Ballinderry in the springtime. 
 
 When the bud was on the tree ; 
 .\nd 1 said, in every fresh-ploughed field 
 beholding 
 The sowers striding free. 
 Scattering broadcast forth the corn in golden 
 plenty. 
 On the quick seed-clasping soil. 
 Even such, this day, among the fresh-stirred 
 hearts of Erin. 
 Thomas Davis, is thy toil ! 
 
 I I sat by Ballyshannon in the summer. 
 
 And saw the salmon leap ; 
 And 1 said as I beheld the gallant creatures 
 
 Spring glittering from the deep. 
 Thro' the spray and thro' the prone heaps 
 striving onward 
 To the calm, clear streams above. 
 I So seekest thou thy native founts of freedom. 
 
 Thomas Davis, 
 ' In thy brightness of strength and love ' 
 
 I stood on Derrybawn in the autumn, 
 ! .\nd I heard the eagle call. [tion 
 
 With a clangorous cry of wrath and lamenta- 
 That tilled the wild mountain hall [eyrie. 
 O'er the bare deserted place of his plundered 
 
 .And I said, as he screamed and soared. 
 So callest thou, thou wrathiul-soaring Thomas 
 Davis. 
 For a nation's rights restored ! 
 
TOM MOORE. 
 
 627 
 
 And, alas 1 to think but now and thou art lying. 
 
 Dear Davis, dead at thy mother's knee ; 
 And I, no mother near, on my own sick bed. 
 
 That (ace on earth shall never see. [ing, 
 I may lie and try to feel that I'm not dream- 
 
 I may lie and try to say " Thy will be done." 
 But a hundred such as I will never comfort 
 Erin 
 
 For the loss of her noble son! 
 
 Young husbandman of Erin's faithful seed- 
 time. 
 In the fresh track of danger's plough ! 
 Who will walk the heavy, toilsome, perilous 
 furrow. 
 Girt with freedom's seed sheets now.' 
 Who will banish with the wholesome crop of 
 knowledge 
 The flaunting weed and the bitter thorn. 
 Now that thou thyself art but a seed for hope- 
 ful planting 
 Against the resurrection morn } 
 
 Young salmon of the flood-tide of freedom 
 
 That swells round Erin's shore, [torrent 
 Thou wilt leap against their loud oppressive 
 
 Of hate and bigotry no more ! [instinct. 
 Drawn downward by their prone material 
 
 Let them thunder on their rocks and foam ; 
 Thou hast leaped, aspiring soul, to founts 
 beyond the raging, 
 
 vVhere troubled waters never come ! 
 
 But I grieve not, eagle of the empty eyrie. 
 
 That thy wrathful cry is still. 
 And that the songs alone of peaceful mourners 
 
 Are heard to-day on Erin's hill ; 
 Better far if brothers' war be destined for us, 
 
 (God avert that horrid day, I pray I) 
 That ere our hands be stained with slaughter 
 fratricidal 
 
 Thy warm heart should be cold in clay ! 
 
 But my trust is strong in God, who made us 
 
 brothers. 
 
 That he will not suffer those right hands 
 
 Which thou hast joined in holier rites than 
 
 wedlock. 
 
 To draw opposing brands. [vocal 
 
 Oh, many a tuneful tongue that thou mad'st 
 
 Would lie cold and silent then ; 
 And songless long once more should often- 
 widowed Erin 
 Mourn the loss of her brave young men 
 
 Oh, brave young men, my love, my pride, my 
 
 'Tis on you my hopes are set, [promise. 
 
 In manliness, in kindliness, in justice. 
 
 To make Erin a nation yet. 
 Self-respecting, self-relying, self-advancing. 
 
 In union or in severance free and strong. 
 And if God grant this, then, under God, to 
 Thomas Davis 
 
 Let the greater praise belong. 
 
 SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
 
 TOM MOORE. 
 A Centennial Ode. 1879. 
 Weave a crown for the bard of the evergreen 
 oak! 
 Who, when Innisfallen lay captive in gyves, 
 Seized the harp of his land and such melodies 
 woke 
 That each of their measures immortal 
 survives ; 
 Twenty lustrums have fled since the minstrel 
 first came 
 With music to lighten his motherland's 
 wrongs. 
 Yet the lapse of the years has but hallowed 
 his fame. 
 The passage of time only mellowed his 
 songs. 
 
 Like to children who lift pearly shells from 
 the shore 
 To listen to tidings from far-away mains, 
 So we take up his harp that is voiceless no 
 more, 
 And wait for the songs which we know it 
 retains : 
 And we marvel what sweetness, oh, minstrel, 
 was thine, 
 What power of enchantment, what magic of 
 word. 
 For the echoes we catch of thy music divine 
 Surpass all the strains that our ears ever 
 heard. 
 
 And we biame not the bard if, when struggles 
 were void. 
 He lost for the moment remembrance of 
 pain, 
 While he sang of the past till men's hearts 
 overjoyed. 
 Forgot in its glories the weight of their 
 chain ; 
 
628 
 
 MEMORIAL POEMS. 
 
 In the deluge of blood which his forefathers 
 shed 
 Was written their love for the freedom of 
 man. 
 And the bard who sang paeans of praise for 
 the dead 
 Continued the struggle those heroes began. 
 
 Like the murmurs of breezes in spice-scented 
 groves, 
 Like purling of brooklets through odorous 
 plains. 
 Are the songs of this harp when they whisper 
 their loves 
 In words which re-echo the passionate 
 strains: 
 But the strings which vibrate to a lover's 
 complaint 
 Can answer the sweep of a patriot's hand; 
 And the voice which love renders submis- 
 sively faint 
 Can thrill with the tones of a leader's 
 command. 
 
 Though. Devizes, thy willows weep over the 
 dust 
 Of him unto whom all this homage belongs ; 
 It is only his ashes you hold in your trust, 
 His spirit survives in the rhythm of his 
 songs ; 
 And as long as the language his poems 
 enrich. 
 As long as the land that he loved may 
 endure, 
 Will the voice of her people decree the first 
 niche [Moore. 
 
 In the temole of song to the minstrel, Tom 
 
 WILLIAM 1). KELLY. 
 
 Above that pulseless heart, once warm 
 j With many a high and grand desire. 
 That mouldering brain, in calm or storir 
 Once radiant with celestial fire. 
 
 It may not be — it may not be ! 
 I No sign shall rise those relics o'er — 
 ! The river wild, the restless sea. 
 I Will hide and hold them evermore. 
 I We can but pray, in faith's fond light, 
 I God rest his soul, the true and brave. 
 
 Whose mortal part went down that night. 
 Beneath Missouri's turbid wave! 
 
 TIMOTHY U. SULLIVAN 
 
 I THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. 
 
 Ah. would to God his grave had been 
 I On mountain side, in glen, or plain. 
 I Beneath the turf kept soft and green 
 I By wind and sunshine, dew and rain ; 
 '■ That men and maids, in after years, 
 I Might come where slept the true and brave, 
 I And plant, and wet with flooding tears. 
 The Irish shamrock on his grave ; 
 
 That warriors, poets, patriots, there 
 Might often come to muse and pray. 
 
 Within the genius-haunted air, 
 
 Above that mound of honored clav — 
 
 CLARENCE MANoAN. 
 
 *' Ofl, with tears. I've groaned tci God for pity, 
 Oft gone wandering till my way grew dim, — 
 
 Oft sang unto Him a prayerful ditty,— 
 
 Oft all lonely in this throngful city, 
 Raised my soul to Him ! 
 
 And from path to path His mercy tracked me. 
 From many a peril snatched He me; 
 
 When false friends pursued, betrayed, attacked 
 
 When gloom overdarked. and sickness racked m 
 He was by to save and free." 
 
 Yes! happy friend, the cross was thine; 'tis 
 
 o'er a sea of tears 
 Predestined souls must ever sail, to reach 
 
 their native spheres ; 
 May Christ, the Crowned of Calvar)'. who died 
 
 upon a tree. 
 Bequeath His tearful chalice and the bitter 
 
 cross to me ! 
 
 The darken'd land is desolate — a wilderness 
 
 of graves ! 
 Our purest hearts are prison-bound, our exiles 
 
 on the waves ; 
 Gaunt Famine stalks the blasted plains — the 
 
 pestilential air 
 O'erhangs the gasp of breaking hearts, or 
 
 stillness of despair. 
 
 The ebbing blood of Ireland is shed by foreign 
 
 streams. 
 Where our kinsmen wake lamenting when 
 
 they see her in their dreams ; 
 O I happy are the peaceful dead ! — 'tis not for 
 
 thee we weep. 
 Whose troubled spirit restsat length in calmly 
 
 laurelled sleep. 
 
M/TCHEL—\i7i. 
 
 629 
 
 No chains are on thy folded hands, no tears 
 
 bedim thine eyes, 
 But round thee bloom celestial flowers in ever 
 
 tranquil skies ; 
 While o'er our dreams thy mystic songs, faint, 
 
 sad, and solemn, flow, 
 Like light that left the distant stars ten 
 
 thousand years ago. 
 
 If any shade of earthliness bedimmed thy 
 spirit's wings, 
 
 Well cleansed thou art in sorrow's ever-salu- 
 tary springs ; 
 
 And even bitter suffering, and still more bit- 
 ter sin. 
 
 Shall only make a soul like thine more beauti- 
 ful within. 
 
 For every wound that humbles, if it do not 
 
 all destroy. 
 Shall nerve the heart for nobler deeds, and 
 
 fit for purer joy ; 
 As the demigod of fable-land, as olden legends 
 
 say, 
 Rose up more strong and valorous each time 
 
 he touched the clay. 
 
 Tears deck the spul with virtues, as soft rains 
 the flowery sod. 
 
 And the inward eyes are purified for clearer 
 dreams of God : 
 
 'Tis sorrow's hand the temple-gates of holi- 
 ness unbars; 
 
 By day we only see the earth, 'tis night re- 
 veals the stars. 
 
 Alas! alas! the minstrel's fate!— his life is 
 
 short and drear, 
 And if he win a wreath at last, 'tis but to 
 
 shade a bier ; 
 His harp is fed with wasted life— to tears its 
 
 numbers flow — 
 And strung with chords of broken hearts is 
 
 Dreamland's splendid woe ! 
 
 O Father of the harmonies eternally that 
 
 roll 
 Life, light and love to trillioned sons, receive 
 
 the Poet's soul ! 
 And bear him in Thy bosom from this vale of 
 
 tears and storms, 
 To swell the sphere-hymns thundered from 
 
 the rushing starry swarms. 
 
 Sleep, happy friend ! The cross was thine: 'tis 
 
 o'er a sea of tears 
 Predestined souls must ever sail to reach their 
 
 native spheres. 
 May Christ, the Crowned of Calvary, who died 
 
 upon a tree. 
 Vouchsafe His tearful chalice and the bitter 
 
 cross to me. 
 
 RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 
 From a ' •Lament for Clarence Mangan." 
 
 MITCHEL-1875. 
 On the kind bosom of his own loved land. 
 
 After long years of passionate unrest. 
 In far-off climes, by strange Australian strand, 
 
 Or 'm id the tumults of the strong, free West ; 
 After long years of bold, unceasing strife 
 
 For one dear thing — his country's liberty, 
 The dream and purpose of his stainless life — 
 
 He sank in peaceful slumber, and was free. 
 
 Free! He was ever free! Though fetters bound. 
 
 And power threatened from a frowning 
 throne ; 
 Tho' dungeons closed upon him, and the sound 
 
 Of gyves went with him to the farthest 
 zone, — 
 Yet his proud soul no thraldom ever knew ; 
 
 The eagle, soaring in the summer sky. 
 Was not more free, lord of the boundless blue. 
 
 Than he in hard and stern captivity ! 
 
 The metal of his mind was truest steel, 
 
 Tempered in honor's incandescent flame; 
 flis heart pure gold, whereon the glowing seal 
 
 And stamp of Truth shone evermore the 
 same : 
 Kingly he was in all that should beconje 
 
 A monarch ruling for the right alone ; 
 No high, proud spirit of imperial Rome 
 
 Was bolder, loftier, statelier than his own. 
 
 O, Erin, Mecca of his faithful love, 
 
 O sad. fair land, whereto he ever turned. 
 From northern shores, where wintr\' tempests 
 strove. 
 Or southern glades, where tropic splendors 
 burned. 
 Homeward to thee at length in age he went, 
 
 Eager to lead once more the gallant fight, 
 A time-worn chief, with manhood's vigor 
 spent, 
 But ardent still, and dauntless for the right ! 
 
630 
 
 MEMORIAL POEMS. 
 
 Homeward to lift the dear old flag once more 
 And fold it round and round his glowing 
 heart ; 
 To speak brave words, and speak them o'er 
 and o'er. 
 Though each should draw from foes a fatal 
 dart;— 
 Homeward to thee, O land he loved so well. 
 
 To die for thee, if death could serve or save : 
 Loyal and staunch and brave what'er befell. 
 And proud to take thy last sad gift— a grave ! 
 
 And this thou gavest, Erin, this at last — 
 
 B\it first a noble garland thou did'st make, 
 And fondly set upon him ere he passed 
 
 Forever hence, a martyr for thy sake — 
 A garland twined of honor's brightest bays. 
 
 Woven by hands that never shrank in strife, | 
 Then witnessed in the closing of his days I 
 
 The perfect rounding of a peerless life ! ' 
 
 Peace to his soul I — great soul that ne'er could 
 brook 
 One fawning thought or sycophantic word ; 
 Heroic soul, that loftily forsook 
 All ways save those where Truth's clear 
 voice was heard — 
 Peace and sweet rest ! Where Ulster airs are 
 bland. 
 Calmly he slumbers now with kindred dust. 
 Leaving to thee, O mourning Motherland, 
 His life's grand lesson as a sacred trust ! 
 
 Immortal names adorn thy patriot scroll, 
 
 O sad-eyed land of suffering and song. 
 And splendor gilds the honorable roll 
 
 Of sons who sought to save thee from the 
 strong ; 
 But none e'er lived and died for thee alone 
 
 That loved thee, served thee, strove for thee 
 alway. 
 With heart more true, or soul of statelier tone. 
 
 Than he who sleeps by Newry's shades to- 
 
 day. 
 
 IIAXIKI. CCJXXOLLY. 
 
 O'CONNELL, 
 
 Into the senate swept the mighty chief. 
 Like sonic great ocean wave across the bar 
 Of intercepting rock, whose jagged reef 
 But frets the victor whom it cannot mar. 1 
 
 Into the Senate his triumphal car j 
 
 Rushed like a conqueror's thro' the broken 
 
 gates 
 Of some fallen city, whose defenders are 
 Powerful no longer to resist their fates. 
 But yield at last to him, whom wondering 
 
 Fame awaits. 
 
 And as " sweet foreigfti Spencer " might have 
 
 sung. 
 Yoked to the car, two winged steeds were 
 
 seen. 
 With eyes of fire, and flashing hoofs outflung, 
 As if Apollo's coursers they had been. 
 These were quick Thought and Eloquence. I 
 
 ween. 
 Bounding together with impetuous speed. 
 While overhead there waved a flag of green, 
 Which seemed to urge still more each flying 
 
 steed. 
 Until they reached the goal the hero had 
 
 decreed. 
 
 There at his feet a captive wretch lay bound. 
 Hideous, deformed, of baleful countenance. 
 Whom, as his blood-shot eyeballs glared 
 
 around, 
 As if to kill with their malignant glance, 
 I knew to be the fiend Intolerance. 
 But now no longer had he power to slay. 
 For Freedom touched him with Ithuriel's 
 His horrid form revealing by its ray, [lance. 
 And showed how foul a fiend the world could 
 
 once obey. 
 
 Then followed after him a numerous train 
 Each bearing trophies of the field he won : 
 Some the white wand, and some the civic 
 In golden letters glist'ning in the sun ; [chain. 
 Some — for the reign of justice had begun-- 
 The ermine robes that soon would be the prize 
 Of spotless lives that all pollution shun. 
 And some in mitred pomp, with upturned eyes 
 And grateful hearts invoked a blessing from 
 the skies. 
 
 ■ 875. 
 If in the rising hopes of recent years 
 A mighty sound reverberates in our ears. 
 And myriad voices in one cry unite. 
 For restoration of a ravished right. 
 'Tis the great echo of that thunder-blast 
 On Tara pealed, or mightier Mullaghmast. 
 If art and letters are more widely spread. 
 A Nile o'erflowing from its fertile bed. 
 Spreading the rich alluvium whence are given 
 
DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
 
 631 
 
 Harvests for earth and amaranth flowers for 
 
 heaven ; 
 If Science still, in not unholy walls, [halls. 
 Sets its high chair, and dares unchartered 
 And still ascending, ever heavenward soars, 
 While capped Exclusion slowly opes its doors. 
 It is his breath that speeds the spreading tide, 
 It is his hand the long-locked door throws 
 
 wide. 
 Where'er we turn, the same effect we find. — 
 OConnell's voice still speaks his country's 
 
 mind. 
 Therefore we gather to his birthday feast, 
 Prelate and peer, the people and the priest ; 
 Therefore we come, in one united band, 
 To hail in him the hero of the land. 
 To bless his memory, and with loud acclaim 
 To all the winds, on all the wings of fame. 
 Waft to the listening world the great O'Con- 
 
 nell's name. 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
 From "O'Conm-ll Ccnlcnnml Ode, 1S75." 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF FATHER PROUT. 
 In deep dejection, but with afiEection, 
 
 I often think of those pleasant times ; 
 In the days of " Frazer," ere I touched a razor. 
 How I read and revelled in thy racy rhymes; 
 When in wine and wassail, we to thee were 
 vassal. 
 Of •• Water-grass Hill," O renowned " P. P." 
 May the bells of Shandon 
 Toll blithe and bland on 
 The pleasant waters of thy memory ! 
 
 Full manya ditty, both wise and witty, 
 
 In this social city have I heard since then — 
 (With the glass before me, how the dreams 
 come o'er me, 
 Of those Attic suppers and those vanished 
 men !) 
 But no song hath woken, whether sung or 
 spoken. 
 Or hath left a token of such joy in me. 
 As " the bells of Shandon 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee." 
 
 The songs melodious, which — a new Harmo- 
 dius — 
 " Young Ireland" wreathed round its rebel 
 sword, 
 
 With their deep vibrations and aspirations. 
 Fling a glorious madness o'er the festive 
 board ! 
 But to me seems sweeter, with a tone com- 
 pleter. 
 The melodious metre that we owe to thee — 
 Of the bells of Shandon 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
 There's a grave that rises on thy sward, 
 Devizes, 
 Where Moore lies sleeping from his land 
 afar; 
 And a white stone flashes o'er Goldsmith's 
 ashes 
 In the quiet cloisters by Temple Bar ; 
 So where'er thou sleepest. with a love that's 
 deepest. 
 Shall thy land remember thy sweet song 
 and thee, 
 While the bells of Shandon 
 Shall sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
 Nevermore your heart will weary, 
 Waiting for the May, 
 Nevermore, sweet Celtic singer. 
 March and April, when they linger. 
 Will appear as dark and dreary 
 
 As they did that day, 
 
 When your sighing heart was wearj'. 
 
 Waiting for the May. 
 
 Peace attend your soul that slumbers 
 While awakes the May I 
 In our eyes the tear-drops glisten. 
 In the meadows as we listen 
 For the sweetness of your numbers 
 Which have passed away — 
 W^ith your gentle soul that slumbers 
 While awakes the May. 
 
 Nay ! we wrong you who, when living. 
 
 Waited for the May ; 
 
 When we say your spirit slumbers. 
 
 Since the echoes of its numbers. 
 
 Without shadow of misgiving. 
 
 In this world delay; 
 
 And we wrong you who, when living. 
 
 Waited for the May. 
 
6X2 
 
 Mh.MUAJ.ll. /(ihM: 
 
 Til the buttercups and daisies 
 In the meads of May. 
 Kvcry breeze that lightly |)asses 
 Where these spring amid the grasses, 
 Of your virtues and your praises 
 
 Sings a tuneful lay ; 
 To the buttercups and daisies 
 In the meads of May. 
 
 In the sobbing of the ocean. 
 
 All this month of May : 
 We shall hear your verse undying 
 Where the hardy seamew. flying 
 In its swift and graceful motion. 
 
 Seeks the lower bay ; 
 In the sobbing of the ocean, 
 
 All this month of May. 
 
 Could we only be translated 
 
 Where you are this May ; 
 Could we see the fields elysian 
 Which have opened on your vision. 
 We would know your heart that waited 
 
 Was content to-day : 
 Could we only be translated 
 
 Where you are this May. 
 
 Nevermore there will you weary. 
 Waiting for the May ; 
 Nevermore, sweet Irish singer, 
 March and April, when they linger. 
 Will appear as dark and dreary 
 
 As they did the day. 
 
 When your sighing heart grew weary. 
 
 Waiting for the May. 
 
 WILLIAM 1). KKLLV. 
 
 True have ye writ, ye fond and leal. 
 And, if the lines would stand so long. 
 ! Until the archangel's trumpet f)eal 
 
 Should wake the silent son of song. 
 Broad on his breast he still might wear 
 The praises ye have planted there ! 
 
 Let it be told to old and young. 
 At home, abroad, at fire, at fair. 
 
 Let it be written, spoken, sung. 
 Let it be sculptured, pictured fair. 
 
 How the young braves stood, weeping, round 
 
 Their exiled poet's ransom d mound ! 
 
 How lowly knelt, and humbly pray'd 
 The lion-hearted brother band 
 
 Around the monument they made 
 For him who sang the Fatherland ! — 
 
 A scene of scenes, where glory's shed 
 
 Both on the living and the dead ! 
 
 Sing on, ye gifted ! never yet 
 Has such a spirit sung in vain ; 
 
 No change can teach us to forget 
 The burden of that deathless strain ; 
 
 Be true, like him, and to your graves 
 
 Time yet shall lead his youthful braves ! 
 
 THOM.iVS t)'.\RCV M^GEE 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S GRAVE, 
 I love this quiet Temple nook. 
 This ancient haunt of wren and rook. 
 Thick writ with legends like a book. 
 
 GOD BLESS THE BRAVE 1 
 God bless the brave ! the brave alone 
 
 Were worthy to have done the deed ; 
 A soldier's hand has raised the stone, 
 
 Another traced the lines men read. 
 Another set the guardian rail 
 Above thy minstrel— In isfail !* 
 
 A thousan4 years ago— ah ! then 
 Had such a harp in Erin ceased. 
 
 His cairn had met the eyes of men, 
 By every passing hand increas'd. 
 
 God bless the brave! not yet the race 
 
 Could coldly pass his resting-place. 
 
 • < <n the crciliini of a marble slab at the grave of Richard 
 l>altiMi Williams, near New Hrleans, by Companies C and K 
 of the Eighth New Hain|>!shire Voluntcere, during the war for 
 
 Dark-circled in the town it lies, 
 ; Above it loom the misty skies. 
 Outside the songs of commerce rise. 
 
 Ten paces from the battling stre 
 Lurks the old-fashioned, quaint retreat, 
 .\ land of murmurs loud and sweet. 
 
 Afar the yellow river gleams. 
 Within there is a sound of streams. 
 An island lulled in dreams it seems. 
 
 There, open to the sun and rain. 
 There, alien unto tears and pain. 
 There, whilst the seasons wax or wane. 
 
 Rich-hearted Goldsmith takes his rest, 
 I Earth's silent, unobtrusive guest, 
 1 Between the sunrise and the West. 
 
ROBERT EMMET. 
 
 633 
 
 Great gable roofs rise all around, 
 Their tops in clouds of vapor drowned ; 
 Vast shadows floor the level ground. 
 
 A fountain sings, and, when it stops, 
 Bell-like from out a privet copse 
 The robin's benediction drops. 
 
 Bravely he sleeps, and never knows 
 When Spring comes flying o'er the snows 
 When Summer wears her palm and rose. 
 
 The ages change : unconscious, he, 
 Divorced from this reality, 
 Lives in fair immortality. 
 
 His genius, ripe and secular. 
 To us is no cloud-brooding star: 
 God knoweth how it flames afar — 
 
 How, risen above this misty state, 
 Moved by an impulse swift and straight, 
 It burns at heaven's magnific gate. 
 
 Ah ! dear, dear poet, lord of heart. 
 Master and mystery of art. 
 In thee the Graces were apart. 
 
 Couched in a cell of vulgar clay 
 Thy soul's irradiant beauty lay, 
 A sepulchre from day to day. 
 
 But ever in thy noblest theme, 
 Ever in thy heart's sweetest dream, 
 Ireland and Auburn were thy theme. 
 
 The two were one ; and she who 
 Gathering weeds, where lilies glassed 
 Their faces, and the whirlpools massed 
 
 Their currents, was a subtle thought 
 Of Ireland cursed and overwrought, 
 Of Ireland cursed and wrongly sought. 
 
 Others, indeed, have sung a strain 
 Of terror, passion, peace, or pain ; 
 They've passed away — thy songs remain. 
 
 Here in this quiet Sabbath light. 
 Whilst the sad trees are gold and bright, 
 I stand, no priest, no Sybarite, 
 
 Beside thy grave, thy lonely urn. 
 
 Whilst all the trees, that flame and burn, 
 
 Despondent o'er thine ashes mourn. 
 
 JOHN F. o'DONNELL. 
 
 ROBERT EMMET. 
 
 In the darkness of defeat. 
 
 In the midnight of despair, 
 Ireland, struggling to her feet, 
 
 Gasped for Freedom's light and air. 
 Dead the tires of 'Ninety-eight, 
 
 In her best blood's torrents quench'd, 
 And within the nation's gate 
 
 Firmer was the foe entrench'd. — 
 One more eft'ort, fierce and brave, 
 For Liberty, had failed to save. 
 
 Drugged with misery, weak with pain. 
 
 The remnant of her rights they stole ; 
 And, sinking 'neath oppression's strain. 
 
 They hold her captive and in dole. 
 O who will burst her dungeon's door? 
 
 Brutal tyrants hold the key : — 
 Who will lift her from the floor? 
 
 Who will set the captive free .' — 
 Be savior of a land so fair ? — • 
 Emmet answers, " I will dare !" 
 
 Glorious Emmet I from thy soul 
 
 The God of Justice strikes the spark 
 That lights a people to the goal 
 
 Of Freedom, through Egyptian dark; — 
 Gives thy brave arm, tho' young, the power 
 
 To lift a prostrate nation up. 
 Revive her in extremest hour. 
 
 Hold to her lips the strengthening cup ! 
 Vice-regent of the God of Right, 
 Let thy young arm the despot smite ! 
 
 The beauty of thy youthful face. 
 
 The quenchless courage of thine eyes. 
 Are but the faint reflected grace 
 
 Of soul anointed from the skies. 
 Surcharged with swift celestial fire 
 
 To give a dymg nation life. 
 And consecrate the brave desire 
 
 To never cease the glorious strife 
 
 Till tyrants shrink from Freedom's sun, 
 And the martyr's mission's won. 
 
 Thy monument, — ten million hearts. 
 
 All warm and throbbing like thine own ! 
 To dolts and despots leave the arts 
 
 Of memory-marking brass and stone ; 
 Deep branded is thy epitaph 
 
 Across thy country's mind and soul, — 
 The sun illuminates but half 
 
 The world — thy fame surrounds the whole ! 
 And on our roll of martyrs prized, 
 Emmet, thou art the canonized ! 
 
634 
 
 MEMORIAL POEMS. 
 
 Emmet, k-l the minstrel's song 
 
 Croon no nerveless dirge for thee; 
 Like thy courage, be it strong. 
 
 Like thy fearless spirit, free — 
 Strong to lift a drooping land. 
 
 Thrill it with Promethean fire ; 
 Scorn — lliy scorn — should blast the hand 
 
 That dared to strike a dismal lyre ! 
 No weak regrets for soul like thine 
 Shall e'er be moaned by muse of mine. 
 
 England's flag is Ireland's pall. — 
 
 Brothers, from the bending skies 
 Emmet watches for its fall, 
 
 In its place the Harp to rise! 
 Brothers, give his spirit joy! 
 
 Swear we on his natal day. 
 Feuds, dissensions to destroy, — 
 
 Shade of Emmet, lead the way! 
 Here we swear to God and thee, 
 Emmet, Ireland shall be free! 
 
 PATRICK SAKSFIELI) CASSIDY. 
 
 WENDELL PHILLIPS. 
 What sliall we mourn .■" For the prostrate tree 
 
 that sheltered the young green wood ? 
 For the fallen cliff that fronted the sea, and 
 
 guarded the fields from the flood? 
 For the eagle that died in the tempest, afar 
 
 from its eyrie's brood ? 
 
 Nay, not for these shall we weep ; for the sil- 
 ver cord must be worn. 
 
 And the golden fillet shrink back at last, and 
 the dust to its earth return : 
 
 And tears are never for those who die with 
 their face to the duty done ; 
 
 But we mourn for the fledgelings left on the 
 waste, and the fields where the wild 
 waves run. 
 
 From the midst of the flock he defended, the 
 
 brave one has gone to his rest ; 
 And the tears of the poor he befriended their 
 
 wealth of affliction attest. 
 From the midst of the people is stricken a 
 
 symbol they daily saw. 
 Set over against the law books, of a Higher 
 
 than Human Law ; 
 For his life was a ceaseless protest, and his 
 
 \'oice was a prophet's cry 
 To be true to the Truth and faithful, though 
 
 the world were arrayed for the Lie. 
 
 ; From the hearing of those who hated, a 
 j threatening voice has past; 
 
 But the lives of those who believe and die are 
 not blown like a leaf on the blast. 
 
 A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman 
 j that hewed to the light, 
 
 j Who dared to be traitor to Union when Union 
 I was traitor to right ! 
 
 I" Fanatic !" the insects hissed, ti' he taught 
 
 them to understand 
 "j That the highest crime may be written in the 
 
 highest law of the land. 
 ! ■' Disturber" and " Dreamer " the Philistines 
 
 cried when he preached an ideal creed, 
 I Till they learned that the men who have 
 i changed the world with the world have 
 
 disagreed ; 
 That the remnant is right, when the masses 
 I are led like sheep to the pen ; 
 
 j For the instinct of equity slumbers till roused 
 
 by instinctive men. 
 
 I It is not enough to win rights from a king and 
 write them down in a book; 
 
 New men, new lights; and the fathers' code 
 the sons may never brook. 
 
 What is liberty now were license then ; their 
 freedom our yoke would be ; 
 
 And each new decade must have new men to 
 determine its liberty. 
 
 Mankind is a marching army, with a broaden- 
 ing front the while : 
 
 Shall it crowd its bulk on the farm-paths, or 
 clear to the outward file? 
 
 Its pioneers are the dreamers who heed neither 
 tongue nor pen 
 
 Of the human spideis whose silk is wove from 
 the lives of toiling men. 
 
 Come, brothers, here to the burial I But weep 
 
 not. rather rejoice. 
 For his fearless life and his fearless death ; for 
 
 his true, unequalled voice. 
 Like a silver trumpet sounding the note of 
 
 human right ; 
 For his brave heart always ready to enter the 
 
 weak ones' fight ; 
 For his soul unmoved by the mob's wild shout 
 
 or the social sneer's disgrace ; 
 For his freeborn spirit that drew no line 
 
 between class or creed or race. 
 
 Come, workers ; here was a teacher, and the 
 lesson he taught was good : 
 
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 
 
 635 
 
 There are no classes or races, but one human 
 
 brotherhood ; 
 There are no creeds to be outlawed, no colors 
 
 of skin debarred ; 
 Mankind is one in its rights and wrongs — one 
 
 right, one hope, one guard. 
 By his life he taught, by his death we learn 
 
 the great reformer's creed : 
 The right to be free, and the hope to be just, 
 
 and the guard against selfish greed. 
 And richest of all are the unseen wreaths on 
 
 his coffin lid laid down 
 By the toil-stained hands of workmen — their 
 
 sob, their kiss and their crown. 
 
 JOHN BOVLE o'REILLV. 
 
 THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 
 The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 
 
 The soldier's last tattoo ! 
 No more on life's parade shall meet 
 
 That brave and fallen few. 
 On Fame's eternal camping ground 
 
 Their silent tents are spread, 
 And Glory guards with solemn round 
 
 The bivouac of the dead. 
 
 No rumor of the foe's advance 
 
 Now swells upon the wind ; 
 No troubled thought at midnight haunts. 
 
 Of loved ones left behind ; 
 No vision of the morrow's strife 
 
 The warrior's dream alarms. 
 No braying horn, no screaming fife 
 
 At dawn shall call to arms. 
 
 Their shivered swords are red with rust ; 
 
 Their plumed heads are bowed ; 
 Their haughty banner, trailed in dust. 
 
 Is now their martial shroud — 
 And plenteous funeral tears have washed 
 
 The red stains from each brow, 
 And the proud forms, in battle gashed, 
 
 Are free from anguish now. 
 
 The neighing steed, the flashing blade. 
 
 The bugle's stirring blast. 
 The charge, the dreadful cannonade. 
 
 The din and shout, are past. 
 Nor war's wild notes, r.or glory's peal. 
 
 Shall thrill with fierce delight 
 Those breasts that nevermore may feel 
 
 The rapture of the fight. 
 
 Like the fierce northern hurricane 
 
 That sweeps his great plateau, 
 Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 
 
 Come down the serried foe. 
 Who heard the thunder of the fray 
 
 Break o'er the field beneath, 
 Know well the watchword of that day 
 
 Was " Victory or death I" 
 
 Full many a Norther's breath has swept 
 
 O'er Angostura's plain. 
 And long the pitying sky has wept 
 
 Above its moulder'd slain. 
 The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 
 
 Or shepherd's pensive lay. 
 Alone now wakes each solemn height 
 
 That frowned o'er that dread fray. 
 
 Sons of the dark and bloody ground ! 
 
 Ye must not slumber there ; 
 Where stranger steps and tongues resound 
 
 Along the heedless air ; 
 Your own proud land's heroic soil 
 
 Shall be 3'our fitter grave ; 
 She claims from war its richest spoil — 
 
 The ashes of her brave. 
 
 Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 
 
 Far from the gory field ; 
 Borne to a Spartan's mother's breast. 
 
 On many a bloody shield. 
 The sunshine of their native sky 
 
 Smiles sadly on them here. 
 And kindred hearts and eyes watch by 
 
 The hero's sepulchre. 
 
 Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! 
 
 Dear is the blood you gave — 
 No impious footsteps here shall tread 
 
 The herbage of your grave ; 
 Nor shall your glory be forgot 
 
 While Fame her record keeps. 
 Or Honor points the hallowed spot 
 
 Where Valor proudly sleeps. 
 
 Yon marble minster's voiceful stone, 
 
 In deathless song shall tell. 
 When many a vanished year hath flown. 
 
 The story how you fell ; 
 Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight. 
 
 Nor Time's remorseless doom. 
 Can dim one ray of holy light 
 
 That gilds your glorious tomb. 
 
 THEODORE O'HARA. 
 
636 
 
 MEMORIAL. POEMS. 
 
 VIVE VALEQUE. 
 
 O saddest of all the sea's daughters, lerne. 
 dear mother isle. 
 
 Take home to thy sweet still waters thy son 
 whom we lend thee awhile ; 
 
 Twenty years has he poured out his song, 
 epic echoes heard in our street, 
 
 Twenty years have the sick been made strong 
 as they heard the sound of his feet ; 
 
 For few there be in his lands whom Apollo 
 deigns to choose. 
 
 On whose head to lay both hands of medicine- 
 gift and the muse. 
 
 Double-grieved because double-gifted, now 
 take him and make strong again 
 
 The heart long-winnowed and sifted on the 
 threshing-floor of pain. 
 
 Saving others, he saved not himself, like a 
 ship-master strong and brave. 
 
 Whose men leave the surge-beaten shelf, 
 while he alone sinks in the wave. 
 
 The child in the night cries " Mother!" and 
 the mother straight brings peace ; 
 
 lerne, be kind to our brother; speak thou, 
 and his plague shall cease. 
 
 Thou gavest him once as revealer song- 
 breath and the starrj' scroll. 
 
 Give him now as the heart's best healer life- 
 breath and balms for the soul. 
 
 O saddest of all the sad islands, green girt by 
 thy mother the sea. 
 
 Fold warm, and feed with thy silence, the 
 child whom we send to thee. 
 
 O saddest of all the sea's daughters, lerne, 
 
 sweet mother isle, 
 Say, how canst thou heal at thy waters the 
 
 son whom we lend thee awhile.' 
 When the gathering cries implore thee to 
 
 help and to heal thy kind, 
 When the dying are strewn before thee, thy 
 
 living ones crouch behind ; 
 When about thee thy perishing children cling, 
 
 crjing, " Thou only art fair ! 
 We have seen through Life's maze bewilder- 
 ing how the earth-gods never spare ;" 
 And the wolves, blood-ripe with slaughter, 
 
 gnar at thee with fangs of steel ; 
 Thou, Niobe-land of the water, hast many 
 
 children to heal. 
 Yet heal //////, lerne, dear mother, thy days 
 
 with his days shall increase ; 
 At the song of this Delphic brother, nigh half 
 
 of thy pangs shall cease. 
 
 I Nor art thou, sweet friend, in a far land,^4U 
 
 places are near on the globe, — 
 Our greeting wear for thy garland, our love 
 
 for thy festival robe. 
 While we keep through glory and gloom two 
 
 altar-candles for thee, 
 ' Thy " Blanid " of deathless doom, and thy 
 
 dead but undying "Deirdre." 
 And may He who builds in His patience the 
 
 houses which death reveals. 
 Round whom the fair constellations are dust 
 
 from His chariot wheels; 
 Who showers His coin without scorning, each 
 
 day as He issues it bright. 
 The sun as His gold in the morning, the stars 
 
 as His silver at night. 
 The love which feedeth the sparrow and 
 
 watcheth the little leaf. 
 Which guideth the death-laden arrow and 
 I counteth each grain of grief. 
 
 j Change thy life-chant from its minor, and 
 I spread thy spirit serene. 
 
 As gold before the refiner whose face is r< - 
 fleeted therein. 
 
 HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 
 From a poem written after the departure of Dr. 
 Robert Duyer Joyce from Boston for Ireland. 
 
 A DIRGE.* 
 Toll. bell. 
 
 With solemn knell, 
 For him who fell 
 
 In the galloping fight! 
 Trumpets, ring 
 To the dirge we sing 
 In our hearts that cling 
 
 Round the spirit so bright ! 
 
 Roll, drum. 
 
 As the vaulted tomb 
 
 For his early doom, 
 
 Is gaping drearily ! 
 Cold and dead. 
 In his stony bed 
 
 Lay him, who lately sang so cheerily I 
 
 Hush, hush ! 
 
 The memories rush 
 
 With impetuous gush 
 
 On heart and head : 
 Speak low, — 
 None of us know 
 Half we forego 
 
 In the gallant dead. 
 
 ncmory of Kitz-JamcsO'BricD. 
 
ON A'A/SnVC A MONUMENT TO THE IK/SH LEG/ON. 
 
 637 
 
 Plant flowers. 
 
 Not where April showers, 
 
 But tears, like ours. 
 
 Shall make them bloom, — 
 And their breath impart 
 To each kindred heart 
 In the crypt of which 
 
 Is the poet's tomb! 
 
 CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. 
 
 THE OLD PIONEER. 
 A Dirge for Daniel Boone. 
 A dirge for the brave old pioneer, 
 
 Knight-errant of the wood ! 
 Calmly beneath the green sod here 
 
 He rests from field and flood ; 
 The war-whoop and the panther's screams 
 
 No more his soul shall rouse. 
 For well the aged hunter dreams 
 
 Beside his good old spouse. 
 
 A dirge for the brave old pioneer ; 
 
 Hushed now his rifle's peal ; 
 The dews of many a vanished year 
 
 Are on his rusted steel ; 
 His horn and pouch lie mouldering 
 
 Upon the cabin floor ; 
 The elk rests by the salted spring. 
 
 Nor flees the fierce wild boar. 
 
 A dirge for the brave old pioneer — 
 
 Old Druid of the West ! 
 His offering was the fleet wild deer. 
 
 His shrine the mountain's crest ; 
 Within his wild-wood temple's space 
 
 An Empire's towers nod. 
 Where erst, alone of all his race. 
 
 He knelt to Nature's God. 
 
 A dirge for the brave old pioneer — 
 
 Columbus of the land ! 
 Who guided freedom's proud career 
 
 Beyond the conquered strand. 
 And gave her pilgrim sons a home 
 
 No monarch's step profanes. 
 Free as the chainless winds that roam 
 
 Upon its boundless plains. 
 
 A dirge for the brave old pioneer ! 
 
 The muffled drums resound ; — 
 A warrior is sleeping here 
 
 Beneath his battle-ground , 
 
 For not alone with beasts of prey 
 The bloody strife he waged ; — 
 
 Foremost where'er the deadly fray 
 Of savage combat raged ! 
 
 A dirge for the brave old pioneer, 
 
 A dirge for his old spouse, — 
 For her who blest his forest cheer. 
 
 And kept his birchen house. 
 Now soundly by her chieftain may 
 
 The brave old dame sleep on ; 
 The red man's step is far away. 
 
 The wolf's dread howl is gone. 
 
 A dirge for the brave old pioneer — 
 
 His pilgrimage is done ; 
 He hunts no more the grizzly bear 
 
 About the setting sun ; 
 Weary at last of chase and life 
 
 He laid him here to rest. 
 Nor recks he now what sport or strife 
 
 Would tempt him further West. 
 
 A dirge for the brave old pioneer. 
 
 The patriarch of his tribe ! 
 He sleeps — no pompous pile marks where— 
 
 No lines his deeds describe. 
 They raised no stone above him here, 
 
 Nor carved his deathless name ; — 
 An Empire is his sepulchre. 
 
 His epitaph is Fame. 
 
 THEODORE O'HARA. 
 
 I ON RAISING A MONUMENT TO THE IRISH 
 
 LEGION. 
 To raise a column o'er the dead. 
 
 To strew with flowers the graves of those 
 Who long ago, in storms of lead, 
 And where the bolts of battle sped. 
 
 Beside us faced our Southern foes ; 
 To honor these — the unshriven, unhearsed — 
 
 To-day we sad sur\'ivors come. 
 With colors draped, and arms reversed. 
 And all our souls in gloom immersed, 
 j With silent fife and muftled drum. 
 
 In mournful guise our banners wave, 
 
 Black clouds above the " sun-burst " lower ; 
 
 We mourn the true, the young, the brave, 
 I Who for this land that shelter gave. 
 
 Drew swords in peril's deadliest hour — 
 
6;S 
 
 MEMORIAL POEMS. 
 
 For Irish soldiers, fighting here 
 
 As when Lord Clare was bid advance, 
 And Cumberland beheld with fear 
 The old green banner swinging clear 
 To shield the broken lines of France. 
 
 We mourn them ; not because they died 
 
 In battle, for our destined race. 
 In every field of warlike pride. 
 From Limerick's wall to India's tide. 
 
 Have borne our flag to foremost place , 
 As if each sought the soldier's trade. 
 
 While some dim hope within him glows. 
 Before he dies, in line arrayed. 
 To see the old green flag displayed 
 
 For final fight with Ireland's foes. 
 
 For such a race the soldier's death 
 
 Seems not a cruel death to die. 
 Around their names a laurel wreath, 
 A wild cheer as the parting breath. 
 
 On which their spirits mount the sky; 
 Oh, had their hope been only won — 
 
 On Irish soil their final fight. 
 And had they seen, ere sinking down. 
 Our Emerald torn from England's crown, 
 
 Each dead face would have flashed with light! 
 
 But vain are words to check the tide 
 
 Of widowed grief and orphaned woe ; 
 Again we see them by our side. 
 As full of youth, and strength, and pride 
 They first went forth to meet the foe! 
 Their kindling eyes, their steps elate. 
 ] Their grief at parting hid in mirth ; 
 
 Against our foes no spark of hate — 
 No wish but to preser\-e the state 
 That welcomes all the oppressed of earth. 
 
 Not a new Ireland to invoke — 
 
 To guard the flag was all they sought ; 
 Not to make others feel the yoke 
 Of Poland, fell the shot and stroke 
 
 Of those who in the Legion fought ; 
 Upon our great flag's azure field 
 
 To hold unharmed each starr)' gem — 
 This cause, on many a bloody field. 
 Thinned out by death, they would not yield 
 
 It was the world's last hope to them. 
 
 O ye, the small surviving band, 
 
 O Irish race, wherever spread. 
 With wailing voice and wringing hand. 
 And the wild kaoine of the old dear land, 
 
 Think of her Legion's countless dead I 
 
 Struck out of life by ball or blade. 
 Or torn in fragments by the shell. 
 
 With briefest prayer by brother made, 
 , And rudely in their blankets laid. 
 
 Now sleep the brave who fought so well. 
 
 Their widows — tell not them of pride. 
 
 No laurel checks the orphan's tear; 
 They only feel the world is wide, 
 .And dark and hard — nor help nor guide — 
 
 No husband's arm, no father near; 
 But at their woe our fields were won, 
 
 .And pious pity for their loss 
 In streams of generous aid should run. 
 To help them say " Thy will be done." 
 
 As bent in grief they kiss the cross. 
 
 Then for the soldiers and their chief 
 
 Let all combine a shaft to raise — 
 The double type of pride and grief. 
 With many a sculpture and relief 
 
 To tell their tale to after days; 
 And here will shine — our proudest boast 
 
 While one of Irish blood survives — 
 Sacred to that unfaltering host 
 Of soldiers from a distant coast. 
 
 Who for the Union gave their lives. 
 
 " Welcomed they were with generous hand; 
 
 And to that welcome nobly true. 
 When war's red tocsin filled the land. 
 With sinewy arm and swinging brand. 
 
 Those exiles to the rescue flew; 
 Their fealty to the land they gave. 
 
 And for the Union, daring death. 
 Foremost among the foremost brave. 
 They welcomed victor)' and the grave 
 I In the same sigh of parting breath." 
 
 Thus be their modest history penned. 
 
 But not with this our love must cease; 
 Let prayers from pious hearts ascend, 
 .And o'er their ashes let us blend 
 
 All feuds and factions into f)eace ; 
 Oh, men of Ireland ! here unite 
 
 .Around the graves of those we love, 
 .And from their homes of endless light. 
 The Legion's dead will bless the sight. 
 
 And rain down anthems from above. 
 
 Here to this shrine by reverence led, 
 Let love her sacred lessons teach ; 
 Shoulder to shoulder rise the dead, 
 From many a trench with battle red 
 I .And thus I hear their ghostly speech : 
 
THE PRIEST OF PERTH. 
 
 639 
 
 " Oh for the old earth, and our sake. 
 Renounce all feuds, engendering fear. 
 
 And Ireland from her trance shall wake. 
 
 Striving once more her chains to break. 
 When all her sons are brothers here." 
 
 I see our Meagher's plume of green 
 
 Approving nod to hear the words. 
 And Corcoran's wraith applauds the scene. 
 And bold Mat. Murphy smiles, I ween — 
 
 All three with hands on ghostly swords — 
 Oh, for their sake, whose names of light 
 
 Flash out like beacons from dark shores— 
 Men of the old race ! in your might, 
 All factions quelled, again unite — 
 
 With you the Green Flag sinks or soars ! 
 
 CHARLES G. HALPINE. 
 
 DECORATION DAY. 
 Where the iron gateway arches 
 
 O'er the dwellings of the dead : 
 In the meadows, where the larches 
 
 Wave their foliage overhead ; 
 Close beside the flowing rivers, 
 
 In the valley's peaceful rest. 
 Where the golden sunlight quivers 
 
 On the water's heaving breast, 
 Where the vernal blossoms cumber 
 
 River bank and meadow sward, 
 Rest our heroes in the slumber 
 
 Of their glory and reward. 
 
 Where the brazen cannon's thunder 
 
 Pealed across the smoky plain 
 Till the air seemed rent asunder 
 
 As the echoes rang again : 
 On the hillsides where the ridges 
 
 Of the redoubts linger yet. 
 By the rivers where the bridges 
 
 Bristled with the bayonet. 
 Lie the laurels and the roses 
 
 On the mounded graves to tell 
 Where each warrior reposes 
 
 'Neath the spot whereon he fell. 
 
 Who shall desecrate these grasses, 
 
 Who antagonize this love. 
 Who disturb the requiem masses 
 
 Which the zephyrs sing above } 
 May his right hand fail and wither. 
 
 May his tongue envenomed rot. 
 Who would bring his hatred hither 
 
 Where love consecrates this spot ! 
 
 Be their blood a brand forever 
 On the demagogues who strive 
 
 To recall their hates, or sever 
 The affections that survive ! 
 
 Bring them flowers! for tender actions 
 
 Have more force than angry words ; 
 Kindness cools the wrath of factions 
 
 Love will dull the sharpest swords ■ 
 Give the Blue the wreath of roses, 
 
 Yield the laurel to the Gray. 
 While our tenderness discloses 
 
 That our hate has passed away. 
 Leave them here ! their fame is common, 
 
 Be their tokens rose or rue. 
 Till the angel's trump shall summon 
 
 From their slumbers Gray and Blue. 
 
 WILLIA.M D. KELLY. 
 
 THE PRIEST OF PERTH 
 We who sat at his cheerful hearth 
 Know the wisdom rare, of priceless worth, 
 He bears away from the face of earth ; 
 Peace to the soul of the Priest of Perth !* 
 
 Dead ! and the sun of life so high ! 
 Dead ! with no cloud in all his sky ! 
 Dead ! and it seemed but yesterday 
 When happy and hopeful he sailed away. 
 As Priest and Celt, to his double home. 
 For Westport ba^^ and Eternal Rome ; 
 
 Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! 
 
 God rest the soul of the Priest of Perth ! 
 
 Yet there was a sign in his gracious sky. 
 Up where the Cross he lifted high 
 Glow'd in the morn and evening light. 
 Kissed by the reverent moon at night— 
 Glow'd through the vista'd northern pines, — 
 " That's Perth, where the Cross so brightly 
 Many will say, as many have said, [shines," 
 Bearing true tribute to the dead, — 
 
 Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! 
 
 Rest to the soul of the Priest of Perth : 
 
 And there was the home he loved to make 
 
 So dear, for friend and kinsman's sake ; 
 
 Oh, many a day, and many a year 
 
 Will come for his mourners far and near 
 
 But never a friend more true or dear. 
 
 Many a wreath of Canadian snow 
 
 Will hide the gardens and gates we know. 
 
640 
 
 MEMOKIAL POEMS. 
 
 And many a spring will deck again 
 
 His trees in all their leafy glory, 
 But none shall ever bring back for men 
 
 The smile, the song, the sinless story ; 
 The holy zeal that still presided. 
 Which none encountered and derided; 
 That yielded not one fast or feast, 
 One right or rubric of the priest; — 
 
 Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! 
 
 Peace to the soul of the Priest of Perth I 
 
 A golden Priest, of the olden school, 
 Fearless and prompt to lead and rule ; 
 Freed of every taint of pride. 
 But ready, aye ready to chide or guide ; 
 Tenderly binding the bruised heart. 
 Sparing no sin in its penal smart; 
 His will was as the granite rock 
 To the prowler menacing his flock ; 
 But never lichen or wild flower grew 
 On rocky ground more fair to view ; 
 Laying the outlines deep and broad 
 Of an infant church, he daily trod 
 His path in the visible sight of God ; — 
 
 Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! 
 
 Peace to the soul of the Priest of Perth 1 
 
 O Saints of God ; ye who await 
 Your beloved by the beautiful gate ! 
 Ye Saints who people his native shore — 
 Beloved Saint John, whose name he bore — 
 And ye, Apostles ! unto whom 
 He pray'd, a pilgrim, by your tomb. — 
 And thou I O Queen of Heaven and earth. 
 Receive — receive — the Priest of Perth ! 
 
 THOMAS U'ARCY M<-GEE, 
 
 NAPOLEON'S GRAVE. 
 F'aint and sad was the moonbeam's smile, 
 
 Sullen the moan of the dying wave; 
 Hoarse the wind in St. Helen's isle. 
 
 As I stood by the side of Napoleon's grave. 
 
 And is it here that the hero lies, [dread .' 
 
 Whose name has shaken the earth with 
 
 And is this all that the earth supplies — 
 A stone his pillow — the turf his bed I 
 
 Is such the moral of human life ? 
 
 Are these the limits of glory's reign.' 
 Have oceans of blood, and an age of strife. 
 
 And a thousand battles been all in vain } 
 
 Is nothing left of his victories now 
 Hut legions broken — a sword in rust — 
 
 .\ crown that cumbers a dotard's brow — 
 A name and a requiem — dust to dust .' 
 
 Of all the chieftains whose thrones he reared. 
 Was there none that kindness or faith could 
 bind .' 
 
 Of all the monarchs whose crowns he spared. 
 Had none one spark of the Roman mind .' 
 
 Did Prussia cast no repentant glance .' 
 Did Austria shed no remorseful tear. 
 
 When England's truth, and thine honor, 
 
 France, [here? 
 
 And thy friendship. Russia, were blasted 
 
 No holy leagues, like the heathen heaven, 
 Ungodlike shrunk from the giant's shock; 
 
 And glorious Titan, the unforgiven, [rock. 
 Was doomed to his vulture, and chains, and 
 
 And who were the gods that decreed thy 
 doom .' 
 
 A German Caesar, — a Prussian sage — 
 .\ dandy prince of a counting-room, — 
 
 And a Russian Greek of earth's darkest age. 
 
 Men called thee despot, and called thee true ; 
 But the laurel was earned that bound thy 
 brow ; 
 I Of all who wore it, alas! how few 
 I Were freer from treason and guilt than thou ! 
 
 ; Shame to thee, Gaul, and thy faithless horde !_ 
 Where was the oath which thy soldiers 
 swore ? 
 Fraud still lurks in the gown, but the sword 
 Was never so false to its trust before. 
 
 Where was thy veteran's boast that day, 
 •' The Old Guard dies, but it never yields.'" 
 
 O ! for one heart like the brave Dessaix, 
 One phalanx like those of thine early fields ! 
 
 But no, no, no! — it was Freedom's charm 
 Gave them the courage of more than men ; 
 
 You broke the spell that twice nerved each arm. 
 Though you were invincible only then. 
 
 Yet St. Jean was a deep, not a deadly blow ; 
 
 One struggle, and France all her fault n- 
 pairs, — 
 But the wild Fayette, and the stern Carnot 
 
 Are dupes, and ruin thy fate and theirs; 
 
 RICHAKU HENKV WILDE. 
 
MARQUETTE. 
 
 641 
 
 NAPOLEON'S TOMB. 
 Hark ! o'er the waves distinctly swell 
 Twelve slow vibrations of a bell ; 
 And out upon the silent ear 
 At once ring boldly sharp and clear, 
 With shock more startling than if thunder 
 Had split the slumbering earth asunder, 
 The iron sounds of crow and bar; — 
 
 Ye scarce may know from whence they come, 
 Whether from Island or from Star, 
 
 Both lie so hush'd and dumb ! 
 On, swift and deep, those echoes sweep, 
 Shaking long-buried Kings from sleep. 
 Up, up ! ye sceptred jailers — ho ! 
 
 Your granite heaped his head in vain ; 
 The ver)' grave gives back your foe. 
 
 Dead Caesar wakes again ! 
 
 The Nations with a voice as dread 
 
 As that which, once in Bethany, 
 Burst to the regions of the dead 
 
 And set the Loved-one free. 
 Have cried, " Come forth ! " and lo ! again. 
 To smite the hearts and eyes of men 
 With the old awe he once instill'd 
 By many an unforgotten field. 
 Napoleon's look shall startle day ; — 
 
 That look that, where its anger fell, 
 Scorch'd empires from the earth away 
 
 As with the blasts of hell ! 
 Up, from the dust, ye sleepers, ho ! 
 
 By the blue Danube's stately wave — 
 From Berlin's towers — from Moscow's snow, 
 
 And Windsor's gorgeous grave ! 
 
 Now 'mid the torch's solemn glare. 
 And bended knee and muttered prayer. 
 Within that green sepulchral glen 
 Uncover'd groups of warrior men 
 Breathless perform the high behest 
 
 Of winning back, in priceless trust. 
 For the regenerated West, 
 
 Your victim's mighty dust. 
 Hark ! how they burst your cramps and rings — 
 Ha, ha ! ye banded, bafHed kings ! 
 Stout men ! delve on with axe and bar, 
 Ye're watched from yonder restless star: 
 Hew the tough masonry away — 
 
 Bid the tomb's ponderous portals fly ! 
 And firm your sounding levers sway. 
 
 And loud your clanking hammers ply ! 
 
 'Tis morn — the marble floor is cleft. 
 And slight and short the labor left. 
 'Tis noon — they wind the windlass now 
 
 To heave the granite from his brow : 
 Back to each gazer's waiting heart 
 The life-blood leaps with anxious start — 
 Down Bertrand's cheek the tear-drop steals- 
 Low in the dust Las Casas kneels ; 
 (O ! tried and trusted — still, as long 
 
 As the true heart's fidelity 
 Shall form the theme of harp and song. 
 
 High bards shall sing of ye !) 
 One moment — and thy beams, O sun ! 
 The bier of him shall look upon. 
 Who, save the Heaven-expell'd alone. 
 Dared envy thee thy blazing throne ; 
 Who haply oft, with gaze intent. 
 
 And sick from victorj''s vulgar war. 
 Panted to sweep the firmament. 
 
 And dash thee from thy car. 
 And cursed the clay that still confined 
 His narrow conquests to mankind, 
 
 BARTHOLOMEW SIMMONS. 
 
 From "The Disinta-mcnl of Napoleon." 
 
 MARQUETTE, 
 At old Laon, beside a mountain stream. 
 In far, fair France, he dreamt his youthful 
 
 dream : 
 Slender his form, and pale his beauteous face. 
 His high-souled honor spoke a noble race. 
 Young genius sparkles in those starry eyes. 
 And deep devotion in their dark depths lies; 
 How fair is all, how sweet the world appears. 
 And bright the promise of the coming years. 
 
 Oh great, grand soul! e'en in life's festive 
 
 hours 
 To list the Master's voice 'mid pleasure's 
 
 bowers ; 
 To see His beauty in awakening day 
 And view His mercy in the moon's sweet ray; 
 To feel His power and vastness on the deep. 
 And His dread wrath when fierce tornadoes 
 
 sweep; 
 Thy fresh young virgin heart He sought to gain. 
 Early He knocked, nor did He knock in vain. 
 
 But thine own France — the fair land of the 
 
 vine — 
 Whose ev'ry glory swells that heart of thine— 
 Shall ne'er be witness to thy deeds afar 
 Which dim the lustre of those feats of war 
 In which her Christian knights bore Moslem 
 
 down, [town. 
 
 And rode triumphant through each crescent 
 
642 MEMOKIAL POEAIii. 
 
 Oh, pale, pure priest ! from far beyond the 1 While the lone mariner o'er waters dark. 
 
 wave. 
 The pitying angels beckon thee to save ; 
 For there, amid a smiling paradise 
 Of flowers and fruits and streams and sunlit 
 
 skies. 
 The swarthy Indian broods in darkness lone. 
 And demons rear their undisputed throne ; 
 And while the virgin vales in beauty sleep 
 The guardian spirits of the wild-woods weep. 
 
 When the fierce tempest crowds his trembling 
 I bark. 
 
 The same invokes, as guardian of those lakes. 
 Nor dreads the danger that the wild wind 
 wakes. 
 
 Tlicy dig him a grave in the wild, wet sand. 
 On the banks of the lonely river. 
 And lay him to rest. 
 With a cross on his breast. 
 Far, far away from his own sunny land ; 
 While the night dews fall and the sad winds 
 sigh. 
 
 Sure they will bear thee safely oer the foam. 
 
 And sooth thy heart mid starlight dreams of 
 home : 
 
 There the grand epic of thy life's young story \ A"<1 "«"« but the angels and two are nigl 
 
 Shall woo the muse and crown thy name in 
 glory. [Youth, 
 
 Nor Spaniard sought the fabled Fount of 
 
 Nor \finstrel Knight e'er sanghislady'struth. 
 
 Nor hungry Miser, in his greed for gold, ' 
 
 Nor dreamy Alchemist, in days of old. 
 
 E'er sought the prize on which his soul was set 
 
 With half thine eager heart, oh, brave Mar- 
 quette 
 
 'Mid wild Canadian woods and snowy wastes 
 
 But his faithful braves will not let him sleep 
 So far from his own loved mission ; 
 And in decked canoe 
 When soft winds woo. 
 They bear him away 
 'Mid blossoms of May 
 To Point St. Ignace, while they pray and 
 
 weep. 
 But tho' centuries pass, yet the wild winds 
 rave 
 
 He taught him barb'rous tongues and savage Round the unlettered stone of Marquette's 
 
 tastes ; 
 In lone canoe along those stormy lakes 
 He bears the cross, and their wild echo wakes 
 With Christian song, which, oft more swift 
 
 than speech. 
 Can the rude children of the forest reach. 
 His memory greets us wheresoe'er we go. 
 'Mid Summer flowers or Winter's frozen snow ! 
 
 PATRICK CRONIN. 
 anniversary po/m. 
 
 What recks he of the perils round his path 
 From beast and flood and wood and savage 
 
 wrath } 
 What matters that his scanty food alone 
 Is oft but moss plucked from the wild-wood 
 
 stone.' 
 Jesu is near, the Virgin guards his sleep. 
 And sweet his slumbers o'er the billows deep ; 
 He has his cross, his breviar)' and beads. 
 These be his weapons — he no others needs. 
 
 Oh, brave young Christian herald 
 Comes thy '■'right story as a guiding star ; 
 Neglectful centuries could not hide thy fame. 
 Nor dim the lustre of thy glorious name — 
 That name the Red Man knows, and his swart 
 
 face 
 Reveres the angel of his vanished race. 
 
 OBSEQUIES OF DAVID THE PAINTER. 
 The pass is barred ! " Fall back I" cries the 
 
 guard ; " cross not the French frontier," 
 As with solemn tread, of the exiled dead the 
 
 funeral drew near. 
 For the sentinelle hath noticed well what no 
 
 plume, no pall can hide. 
 That yon hearse contains the sad remains of 
 
 a banished regicide ! 
 •■ But pity take, for his glor)''s sake," said his 
 
 children to the guard ; 
 •' Let his noble art plead on his part, — let a 
 
 grave be his reward ! 
 France knew his name in her hour of fame, 
 
 nor the aid of hi.s pencil scorned ; 
 from afar Let his passport be the memory of the 
 
 triumphs he adorned !" 
 
 That corpse can't pass! 'tis my duty, alas I" 
 said the frontier sentinelle — 
 
 Hut pity take for liis country's sake, and his 
 clay do not repel 
 
From its kindred earth, from the land of his 
 
 birth !" cried the mourners in their turn, 
 '• Oh ! give to France the inheritance of her 
 
 painter's funeral urn : 
 His pencil traced on the Alpine waste of the 
 
 pathless Mont Bernard, 
 Napoleon's course on the snow-white horse — 
 
 let ^.grave be his reward ! 
 For he loved this land — ay, his dying hand to 
 
 paint her fame he'd lend her : 
 Let his passport be the memory of his native 
 
 country's splendor !" 
 
 " You cannot pass," said the guard, " alas ! 
 
 (for tears bedimmed his eyes). 
 Though France may count to pass that mount 
 
 a glorious enterprise " — 
 " Then pity take, for fair Freedom's sake !" 
 
 cried the mourners once again : 
 " Her favorite was Leonidas, with his band of 
 
 Spartan men ; 
 Did not his art to them impart life's breath, 
 
 that France might see 
 What a patriot few in the gap could do at 
 
 old Thermopylae? 
 Oft by that sight for the coming fight was the 
 
 youthful bosom fired : 
 Let his passport be the memory of the valor 
 
 he inspired !" 
 
 "Ye cannot pass" — "Soldier, alas! a dismal 
 
 boon we crave — 
 Say, is there not some lonely spot where his 
 
 friends may dig a grave? 
 Oh ! pity take, for that hero's sake whom he 
 
 gloried to portray 
 With a crown and palm at Notre Dame on his 
 
 coronation day ; 
 Amid that band the withered hand of an aged 
 
 pontiff rose, 
 And a blessing shed on the conqueror's head, 
 
 forgiving his own woes : — 
 He drew that scene, nor dreamt, I ween, that 
 
 yet a little while, 
 And the hero's doom would be a tomb far off 
 
 in a lonely isle!" 
 
 " I am charged, alas! not to let you pass," said 
 
 the sorrowing sentinelle ; 
 " His destiny must also be a foreign grave " — 
 
 " 'Tis well ! — 
 Hard is our fate to supplicate for his bones a 
 
 place of rest. 
 And to bear away his banished clay from the 
 
 land he loved the best. 
 
 NE. 643 
 
 But let us hence ! — Sad recompense for the 
 
 lustre that he cast. 
 Blending the rays of modern days with the 
 
 glories of the past ! 
 Our sons will read with shame this deed, 
 
 unless my mind doth err, 
 And a future age make pilgrimage to the 
 
 painter's sepulchre I" 
 
 FRANCIS S. MAHONY. 
 Front tk<: Ft'i:nch of Bemngcr. 
 
 KANE. 
 Died \6tli February, 1857. 
 Aloft, upon an old basaltic crag. 
 Which, scalped by keen winds that defend 
 
 the Pole, 
 Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll 
 Around the secret of the mystic zone, 
 A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag 
 
 Flutters alone : 
 And underneath, upon the lifeless front 
 Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced ! 
 Fit type of him. who. famishing and gaunt. 
 
 But with a rocky purpose in his soul, 
 Breasted the gathering snows. 
 Clung to the drifting fioes. 
 By want beleaguered, and by winter chased. 
 Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen 
 waste. 
 
 Not many months ago we greeted him. 
 
 Crowned with the icy honors of the North. 
 
 Across the land his hard-won fame went forth. 
 
 And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb 
 by limb. 
 
 His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim 
 
 Burst from its decorous quiet as he came. 
 
 Hot southern lips, with eloquence aflame, 
 
 Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim, 
 
 Proffered its horny hand. The large-lunged 
 West 
 From out its giant breast [main, 
 
 Yelled its frank welcome. And from main to 
 Jubilant to the sky. 
 Thundered the mighty cry, 
 
 HONOR TO KANE! 
 
 In vain, in vain, beneath his feet we flung 
 The reddening roses ! All in vain we poured 
 The golden wine, and round the shining board 
 Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung 
 With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast ! 
 
MEMORIAL POEMS. 
 
 644 
 
 Scarce ilie buds willed and the voices ceased 
 Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes. 
 Bright as auroral fires in southern skies. 
 Faded and faded : and the brave young heart 
 That the relentless arctic winds had robbed 
 Of all its vital heat, in that long quest. 
 For the lost Captain, now within his breast 
 
 More and more faintly throbbed. 
 His was the victory ; but as his grasp 
 Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp. 
 
 Death launched a whistling dart ; 
 And ere the thunders of applause were done. 
 His bright eyes closed forever on the sun ! 
 Too late, too late, the splendid prize he won 
 In the Olympian race of science and of art I 
 
 Like to some shattered berg that, pale and 
 
 lone, 
 Drifts from the white north to a tropic zone. 
 
 And in the burning day 
 
 Wastes peak by peak away 
 
 Till on some rosy even 
 It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he 
 Tranquilly floated to a southern sea. 
 
 And melted into heaven ! 
 He needs no tears, who lived a noble life ! 
 We will not weep for him who died so well ; 
 But we will gather round the hearth, and tell 
 
 The story of his strife ; 
 
 Such homage suits him well; 
 Better than funeral pomp, or passing bell I 
 
 What tale of peril and self-sacrifice ! 
 Prisoned amid the fastnesses of ice. 
 With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow ! 
 Night lengthening into months; the ravenous 
 
 floe 
 Crunching the massive ships, as the white 
 
 bear 
 Crunches his prey; the insufficient share 
 
 Of loathsome food ; 
 The lethargy of famine; the despair 
 Urging to labor ner\'elessly pursued ; 
 Toil done with skinny arms and faces hued 
 Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind 
 Glimmered the fading embers of a mind I 
 
 That awful hour, when through the prostrate 
 
 band 
 Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand 
 Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew. 
 The whispers of rebellion, faint and few 
 At first, but deepening till they grew [throng 
 lull) black thoughts of murder; such the 
 Of horrors bound the hero. High the song 
 
 Should be that hymns the noble part he 
 
 played 
 Sinking himself, yet ministering aic 
 To all around him. By a mighty will 
 Living defiant of the wants that kill, [fate; 
 Because his death would seal his comrades" 
 Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill 
 
 Those Polar waters, dark and desolate ; 
 
 Equal to every trial, every fate 
 He stands until the Spring, tardy with relief. 
 
 Unlocks the icy gate, [more. 
 
 And the pale prisoners tread the world once 
 To the steepcliff of Greenland's pastoral shore 
 
 Bearing their dying chief. 
 
 Time was when he should win his spurs of 
 
 gold 
 From royal hands, who wooed the knightly 
 
 state. 
 The knell of old formalities is tolled, [crate. 
 And the world's knights are now self-conse- 
 No gfrander episode doth chivalry hold 
 In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, 
 Than that lone vigil of unceasing f>ain. 
 Faithfully kept, thro' hunger and thro' cold. 
 By the good Christian Knight, elisha kane! 
 
 FITZ-JA.MES O'BRIEN. 
 
 DEATH OF AN ARCTIC HERO. 
 At last an orange band, 
 Set in a dawn of ashen gray. 
 To things that winter in that dreadful land 
 Told like a prophet of the sun at hand ; 
 And tlie light flickered, like an angel's sword, 
 This way and that, athwart the dark fiord ; 
 And strangely colored fires 
 Played round magnificent cathedral spires. 
 
 Gladly by w-inter of the glacier built 
 With fretted shafts, by summer glory tipped, 
 And darkness was unruffled and was ripped 
 
 Like crape from heaven's jewelled hilt. 
 O. those grand depths on depths that look 
 
 like Fate. 
 Awfully calm and uncompassionate ; [say. 
 Those nights that arc but clasps, or rather 
 Bridges of silver flung from day to day ; 
 That vault which deepens up. and endeth 
 
 never. 
 That sea of starlit sky. 
 Broadening and brightening to infinity. 
 Where nothing trembles, suiters, weeps for- 
 
THE WAKE OF WILLIAM ORR. 
 
 645 
 
 But still the ships were fast in the ice-field, 
 And while the midnight Arctic sun out- 
 wheeled, 
 Thicker and thiclcer did Death's shadows fall 
 On the calm forehead of the Admiral. 
 
 Oh, Admiral ! thou hadst a shrine 
 
 Of silver, not from any earthly mine. 
 
 Of silver ice divine — 
 A sacrament, but not of bread and wine, [skies 
 You had the Book, the stars, in whose broad 
 Are truths, and silences, and mysteries — 
 The love, which whoso loveth, never dies. 
 
 Brave hearts ! he cannot stay : 
 Only at home ye will be sure to say [found — 
 How he hath wrought, and sought, and 
 
 Found what ? 
 The bourne whence traveller returneth not ? 
 Ah, no ! 'tis only that his spirit high 
 Hath gone upon a new discover)\ 
 A marvellous passage on a sea unbounded. 
 
 Blown by God's gentle breath ; 
 But that the white sail of his soul hath rounded 
 
 The promontory Death I 
 
 How shall we bury him ? 
 Where shall we leave the old man lying.' 
 With music in the distance dying — dying, — 
 
 Among the arches of the Abbey grand and 
 dim, 
 
 There if we might we would bury him ; 
 And comrades of the sea should bear the pall ; 
 And the great organ should let rise and fall 
 The requiem of Mozart, the Dead March in 
 Then silence all! [Saul — 
 
 And yet far grandlier will we bury him. 
 Strike the ship-bell slowly — slowly — slowly ! 
 
 Sailors, trail the colors half-mast high ; 
 Leave him in the face of God most holy, 
 
 Underneath the vault of Arctic sky. 
 Let the long, long darkness wrap him round. 
 By the long sunlight be his forehead crowned. 
 For cathedral panes ablaze with stories. 
 
 For tapers in the nave and choir. 
 Give him lights auroral, — give him glories. 
 
 Mingled of the rose and of the fire. 
 Let the wild winds, like chief mourners, walk. 
 Let the stars burn o'er his catafalque. 
 Hush ! for the breeze, and the white fogs 
 swathing sweep, 
 
 I cannot hear the simple service read. 
 
 Was it " earth to earth," the captain said. 
 Or "we commit his body to the deep. 
 
 Till seas give uo their dead '^ " 
 
 WILLIAM .ALEXANDER. 
 
 THE WAKE OF WILLIAM ORR.* 
 Here our murdered brother lies; 
 Wake him not with women's cries: 
 Mourn the way that manhood ought ; 
 Sit in silent trance of thought. 
 
 Write his merits on your mind ; 
 Morals pure and manners kind ; 
 In his head as on a hill, 
 Virtue plac'd her citadel. 
 
 God of Peace, and God of Love, 
 Let it not thy vengeance move. 
 Let it not thy lightnings draw ; — 
 A nation guillotin'd by law! 
 
 Hapless nation ; rent and torn. 
 Thou wert early taught to mourn, 
 Warfare of si.x hundred years! 
 Epochs marked with blood and tears I 
 
 Hunted thro' thy native grounds, 
 Or flung reiuard X.O human hounds; 
 Each one pull'd and tore his share, 
 Heedless of thy deep despair. 
 
 Hapless Nation — hapless Land, 
 Heap of uncementing sand ! 
 Crumbled by a foreign weight ; 
 And by worse, domestic hate. 
 
 God of mercy ! God of peace ! 
 Make the mad confusion cease ; 
 O'er the mental chaos move. 
 Through it SPEAK the light of love. 
 
 Monstrous and unhappy sight ! 
 Brothers' blood will not unite : 
 Holy oil and holy water. 
 Mix, and fill the world with slaughter. 
 
 Who is she with aspect wild .' 
 The widow'd mother with her child, 
 Child new stirring in the womb ! 
 Husband waiting for the tomb ! 
 
 .\ngel of this sacred place. 
 Calm her soul and whisper peace, 
 Cord, or axe, orguillotin, 
 Make the sentence — not the sin. 
 
 Here we watch our brother's sleep; 
 Watch with us, but do not weep; 
 Watch with us thro' dead of night, 
 But e.xpect the morning light. 
 
646 
 
 Mli.MORIAL POEMS. 
 
 Conquer fortune— persevere ! 
 Lo ! it breaks, the morning clear ! 
 The cheerful cocK. awakes the skies, 
 The day is come — arise I arise ! 
 
 WILLIAM DRENNAN. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS FOR SARSFIELD- 
 Over the crest of the Keeper Mountains, 
 
 Mellowly rose the har\'est moon, 
 Lighting the face of the languid valley 
 
 That lay as if sunk in a slumbrous swoon : 
 Lightly rustled the wood's dark banners. 
 
 Balmily breathed the gentle gale.— 
 Adding its charm to the dreamy splendor 
 
 Of an Autumn night in a Munstervale. 
 
 But what are those strange, swift-gliding 
 figures — 
 
 Of earth or elfland, women or men — 
 Hurrying out of the woodland shadow 
 
 Hastening into the hollow glen ? 
 They follow no new. uncertain pathway — 
 
 Whither or wherefore do they pass ? [them. 
 Ah ! cursed code that has ground them, grinds 
 
 They're hurrying on to the Midnight Mass! 
 
 There's a silent crypt in the glen's recesses. 
 
 An Irish catacomb lone and drear. 
 Where the angrj- howl of the Saxon bandog 
 
 Never may break on the pray'r-filled air. 
 The mass to-night on its rude rock altar 
 
 Is to be said for a soldier's rest. 
 Who carried a sword in the wars for Ireland, 
 
 And died far, far from her loving breast. 
 
 Two sentries stand by the secret portal 
 
 Opening into the sacred cave : [spoken : 
 As each form approaches the words are 
 
 •• God and Saint Patrick bless the brave ! " 
 The door swings back on its noiseless hinges. 
 
 The pilgrim enters the lowly pile. 
 Where the rough-hewn rock is the only altar 
 
 And stalactites hang, 'twixt nave and aisle. 
 
 But souls are there of a saintly grandeur. 
 
 Spirits that never to mortal bowed. 
 Women as fair as Abraham's Sarah, 
 
 Men of whom Sparta might be proud ! 
 In spite of the brand, the axe, the gibbet, 
 
 The tyrant's hate and the tyrant's laws. 
 They cling like death to those priceless 
 jewels — [cause ! 
 
 Their fathers' faith and their country's 
 
 Oh, for a Rembrandt's magic pencil ! 
 
 Oh I for a Homer's golden tongue. 
 To paint that throng in the dim light risitiL 
 
 To hear the words of the Gospel sung I 
 Here the maid and the comely matron. 
 
 There the chief and the stalwart kern ; 
 These with reverent eyes uplifted. 
 
 Those with lineaments pale and stern! 
 
 And so they follow with voiceless fervor 
 
 The celebrant on thro' the sacred rite, 
 Till the acolyte's last response is spoken, 
 
 And the priest stands mute in the all«u 
 light. 
 A moment over the dark veiled chalice 
 
 In reverie deep he bows his head. 
 And as turns he 'round to greet his people 
 
 Solemn his voice and slow his tread: 
 
 " Over our land a pall has fallen — 
 
 Black on the island's breast it lies, 
 Shutting out heaven's divine effulgence. 
 
 Quenching the stars in hope's soft skies! 
 The chivalrous chief, the soldier leader. 
 
 On whose valorous arm our land did lean. 
 Is lost to us and to ours forever— [green. 
 
 The flagstaff's hewn from our banner of 
 
 "O, but to think of that heart heroic. 
 
 Filled with the tenderest thoughts of home. 
 And that yearned to shed its red tide for 
 Ireland ' 
 
 Mouldering now 'neath the Flemish loam, 
 O, God of our ancient race and nation 
 
 List to a suffering people's cry. — 
 Give to the soul of our lost Lord Lucan* 
 
 Rest in Thy realms beyond the sky." 
 
 A silence solemn, sepulchral, mystic. 
 
 Over the throng-filled grotto spread : 
 Anon the women in lines dark muffled [head. 
 
 Streamed out with the good priest at their 
 When up in the silent sombre chancel, 
 
 A figure arose like a mountain pine. 
 And thus: " If our land's lost Sarsfield's sabre. 
 
 Brothers, she still has yours and mine ! 
 No rust must sully their glorious brightness 
 
 Till Ireland conquers her own again !" 
 And back there came, like an Alpine tempest. 
 
 One wild, one resolute, fierce Amen ! 
 
 JOHN LOCKE, 
 
 • A territorial title of General Patrick Sarsfield, who was 
 killed while commanditlK the Irish Brigade in the ser>-ice of 
 France at the battle of Landen, July 39th, 1693. 
 
LAMENT FOR KING IVOR. 
 
 647 
 
 LAMENT FOR OWEN ROE O'NEILL. 
 Time — 1649. Scene — Ormond's Camp, County j 
 Waterforti. \ 
 
 "Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Owen | 
 
 Roe O'Neill !" | 
 
 •' Yes they slew with poison him they feared , 
 
 to meet with steel." 
 •■ May God wither up their hearts ! May their [ 
 
 blood cease to flow ! ! 
 
 May they walk in living death, who poisoned 
 
 Owen Roe ! 
 
 '■ Though it break my heart to hear, say again 
 
 the bitter words." 
 " From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched 
 
 to measure swords ; [way, j 
 
 But the weapon of the Saxon met him on his ; 
 And he died at Clough-Oughter, upon St. 
 
 Leonard's Day." 
 
 "Wail, wail ye for The Mighty One! Wail, 
 
 wail ye for the Dead ; 
 Quench the heart, and hold the breath — with 
 
 ashes strew the head. 
 How tenderly we loved him ! How deeply we 
 
 deplore ! 
 Holy Saviour ! but to think we shall never see 
 
 him more. 
 
 " Sagest in the council was he, — kindest in 
 
 the hall. 
 Sure we never won a battle — 'twas Owen won 
 
 them all. 
 Had he lived — had he lived — our dear country 
 
 had been free ; 
 But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves 
 
 we'll ever be ! 
 
 "O'FarrellandClanrickard, Preston and Red 
 
 Hugh, 
 Audley and MacMahon — ye are valiant, wise, 
 
 and true ; 
 But — what, what are ye all to our darling who 
 
 is gone ? 
 The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's 
 
 corner stone ! 
 
 ■• Wail, wail him through the Island ! Weep, 
 weep for our pride \ 
 
 Would that on the battle-field our gallant 
 chief had died! 
 
 Weep the Victor of Benburb — weep him, 
 young man and old ; 
 
 Weep, weep for him, ye women — your Beauti- 
 ful lies cold ! 
 
 " We thought you would not die— we were 
 sure you would not go, 
 
 And leave us in our utmost need to Crom- 
 well's cruel blow — 
 
 Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow 
 shuts out the sky — [you die ? 
 
 O! why did you leave us, Owen.' Why did 
 
 "Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! 
 
 bright was your eye. 
 O! why did you leave us, Owen? why did 
 
 you die.' 
 Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with 
 
 God on high ; 
 But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Owen ! 
 
 — why did you die? ' 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
 LAMENT FOR KING IVOR. 
 
 Place : the southwest coast of Ireland. 
 Time.- the middle cf the ninth centuiy. 
 A utho7- : the hereditary bard of a Kerry clan. 
 Cause of making : to lament his King slain in battle with 
 Danish vikings. 
 
 Thou golden Sunshine of the day of peace ! 
 
 Thou livid Lightning of the night of war! 
 
 Hearing the thunder of thy battle-car 
 Who could endure to meet thee in the press! 
 
 Who dared to see thine eyes aflame in fight. 
 Thou Stormer through the whistling storm 
 
 of darts? 
 Pourer of panic into heroes' hearts ! [light ! 
 
 Our Hope, our Strength, our Glory, our De- 
 
 Thy soul is striding down the perilous road. 
 
 And see, the ghosts of Heathen whom thy 
 spear 
 
 Laid low, arise and follow in their fear 
 Him who is braver than their bravest god. 
 
 Why is thy soul surrounded by no more 
 Of thine adoring clansmen? "You had been 
 Full worthy," wouldst thou answer, hadst 
 thou seen 
 The charge that drove the pirates from our 
 shore. 
 
 But thou wast lying prone upon the sand. 
 Death-wounded, blind with blood, and gasp- 
 ing : " Go, 
 Two swords are somewhat ; join the rest; I 
 know 
 Another charge will beat them from the land." 
 
648 
 
 MI:.\H>Kl.l: 
 
 So when the slaughter of the Danes was done 
 We found Ihce dead— a-state with sunken 
 
 eyes 
 At those red surges, and bewailed by cries 
 
 Of sea-gulls sailing from the fallen sun. 
 
 We kissed thee, one by one, lamenting sore : 
 
 Men's tears have washed the blood-slain 
 
 from thy brow : [thou : 
 
 Thy spear and sword and our dear love hast 
 
 We have thy name and fame for evermore. 
 
 So sang the warriors to their clouded Star. 
 King Ivor, as they heapt his cairn on high, 
 A landmark to the sailor sailing by, 
 
 A warning to the spoiler from afar. 
 
 WHITLKV SroKKS. 
 
 Long may the curse 
 
 Cii his people pursue them; 
 Scully, that sold him. 
 
 And soldier that slew him! 
 One glimpse of heaven's light 
 
 May they see never I 
 May the hearthstone of hell 
 
 Be their best bed for ever! 
 
 In the hole which the vile hands 
 
 Of soldiers had made thee, 
 Unhonor'd, unshrouded. 
 
 And headless they laid thee; 
 No sigh to regret thee. 
 
 No eye to rain o'er thee, 
 No dirge to lament thee. 
 
 No friend to deplore thee! 
 
 DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEARE. 
 The sun on Ivera 
 
 No longer shines brightly. 
 The voice of her music 
 
 No longer is sprightly ; 
 No more to her maidens 
 
 The light lance is dear. 
 Since the death of our darling 
 
 O'SuUivan Beare 
 
 Scully ! thou false one. 
 
 You basely betrayed him, 
 In his strong hour of need. 
 
 When thv right hand should aid him. 
 He fed thee— he clad thee — 
 
 You had all could delight thee 
 You left him — you sold him— 
 
 May heaven requite thee I 
 
 Scully ! may all kinds 
 
 Of evil attend thee I 
 On thy dark road of life 
 
 May no kind one befriend thee ! 
 May fevers long burn thee. 
 
 And agues long freeze thee ! 
 May the strong hand of God 
 
 In his red anger seize thee ! 
 
 Had he died calmly. 
 
 1 would not deplore him ; 
 Or if the wild strife 
 
 Of the sea-war closed o'er him ; 
 But with ropes round his white limbs 
 
 Through ocean to trail him. 
 Like a fish after slaughter — 
 
 'Tis therefore I wail him. 
 
 Dear head of my darling, 
 
 How gory and pale 
 These aged eyes see thee. 
 
 High spiked on their gaol! 
 That cheek in the summer sun 
 
 Ne'er shall grow warm; 
 Nor that eye e'er catch light 
 
 By the flash of the storm. 
 
 A curse, blessed ocean. 
 
 Is on thy green water. 
 From the haven of Cork, 
 
 To Ivera of slaughter: 
 Since thy billows were dyed 
 
 With the red wounds of fear. 
 Of Muiertach Oge, 
 
 Our O'Sullivan Beare : 
 
 JAMES J. CALL.': 
 From thi Irish. 
 
 IRELAND'S DEAD IN ROME. 
 
 Tombs in Ihe Church of Monlorio, on the Jan- 
 
 icttium. 
 
 [Hfic jacent O'Nealivs, Baro dc Pvntrannon, MaRni 
 HuKimis Filivsct O'Donncll, Comes De Tyrconnil, qvi con- 
 tra hu^reticos in Hibernia muhos anno5ccrter\-nl.— M.D.C. 
 Vlll.] 
 
 All natural things in balance lie. 
 .■\djustment fair of earth and sky. 
 .\nd their belongings. Thunders bring 
 The red life from the heart of spring ; 
 Thence summer, and the golden wain 
 
 That comes with harvest, when each field. 
 Crimsoned with weeds, like fiery rain. 
 
 Flames like a newly forged shield. 
 I All things come true in some dim sense. 
 
THE DEATH OF ST. COLUMBA. 
 
 649 
 
 Held good by absolute Providence. 
 
 Inquire not: Here you sleep at last- 
 Sleeping, it may be face to face. 
 Right glorious leaders of our race, 
 
 Of faith profound, of purpose vast. 
 
 Around, above this glittering dome, 
 Soars the majestic bulk of Rome ; 
 This marble pave, this double cell 
 Enshrines you, and contents you well. 
 Better it were the twain should lie 
 
 On some wild bluff of Donegal, 
 The sea below in mutiny. 
 
 The terrible Heaven over all. 
 God wills and willed it shall not be. 
 Here is no rave of wind or sea. 
 Peace, incense, and the vesper psalm ; 
 
 The sob, the penitential groan ; 
 
 The lurid light, the dripping stone — 
 The earth's eternity of calm. 
 
 Sleep on, stern souls, 'twere wrong to shake 
 
 Your ashes, — bid the dead awake 
 
 To bitter welcome. Ireland lies 
 
 Under the heels of enemies. 
 
 So has she lain since that cursed day 
 
 That saw your good ship fly the Land , 
 Since Ulster's proud and strong array 
 
 Dwindled to fragments, band by band, 
 And you two wept in leaving her, 
 (Chased thro' the seas by Chichester), 
 Still buoyed with hopes to find abroad 
 
 Aid to prostrate our ancient foe. 
 
 And to lay wall and rampart low. 
 And hear the saints in Heaven applaud. 
 
 It came not, and in regal Rome 
 Died the O'Donnell, sick for home; 
 Not all the pomp the city boasts 
 Consoled him for his native coasts. 
 Here Art's sublimed ; but Nature there 
 
 His heart, his passions satisfied ; 
 The forest depth, the delicate air. 
 
 "Were with his inmost soul allied. 
 So hoping, doubting went the days, 
 And tired at heart of time's delays. 
 He closed his eyes in Christ our Lord. 
 
 No truer man had nobler birth, 
 
 No braver soldier trod the earth, 
 "With pitying or destroying sword ! 
 
 And thou, O'Neill. Lord of Revolt, 
 Battle's impetuous thunderbolt ; 
 Cliff-flinger, at whose name of might 
 The bronzed cheeks of the Pale turned white, 
 
 Dost thou lie here? And Ireland bleeds 
 
 Her virgin life through every pore ! 
 Great chief in unexampled deeds, 
 
 We need thy smiting arm once more. 
 Rest, rest! the glory of thy life 
 Shines like tradition on the strife 
 Which Ireland wages hour by hour, 
 Patient, yet daring for the best, 
 And growing up, as worlds attest. 
 To freedom, majesty and power. 
 
 JOHN F. o'donnell. 
 
 THE DEATH OF ST COLUMBA. 
 The last faint glimmer of sunset gold 
 
 Hath sunk in the western wave ; 
 Over the isle the night-winds blow. 
 Tenderly sighing, moaning low. 
 
 Like mourners o'er a grave. 
 
 'Tis only meet that his life should close 
 Where he watched and toiled so well ; 
 How is he keeping this last, sad night, 
 That the taper burns so late, so bright 
 In his sternly simple cell? 
 
 A scribe sits there with parchment scroll — 
 
 '■ Now haste thee, my son, and write ! 
 Take thou no rest till the death-rest fall. 
 And watch thou, too, for the Master's call. 
 That Cometh so oft at night." 
 
 The monk wrote on. with eager hand. 
 
 No other sound was there ; 
 For the grief in his soul might find no breath 
 In the presence of work — in the presence of 
 death. 
 
 Till the bell should sound for prayer. 
 
 " I would thou hadst closed the golden psalm 
 
 With the close of this passing life ; [well — 
 
 But these words are meet for my last fare- 
 
 They will call the next brother like matin bell 
 
 To pray for the holy strife." 
 
 The words that looked from the speaking 
 page. 
 That had touched so deep a chord 
 In the old man's heart, would thine eyes, too, 
 
 see ? 
 They were, "Come, ye children, hearken to me, 
 I will teach you the fear of the Lord " 
 
650 
 
 MKMOKIAL I'OEMS 
 
 •Tis the midnight bell! I will enter in 
 
 Where my children kneel, once more :" 
 And there followed one, with torch a-light. 
 To guide his way through the gusty night 
 To the lowly entrance-door. 
 
 Alone he passed that portal dark. 
 
 For the storm had quenched the lights . 
 And there, as he knelt on the ground to pray. 
 His soul with the midnight soared away 
 
 To its home on the holy heights. 
 
 They found him there, the smile of God 
 Gleamed calm on his saintly face; 
 
 And when the deep hush of their pain was o'er. 
 
 And they bare him out through the lowly door. 
 A sweet anthem filled the place. 
 
 They laid him low for his quiet sleep 
 By the Church's western bound — 
 
 And few were there that had loved him best ! 
 
 For the storm beat wild ; and of all the rest 
 No boat could cross the Sound. 
 
 The days grew calm, and they bore him back 
 
 To the land of his earliest love ; 
 .^nd a coffin was laid in his own green Isle. 
 For her balmy tears, and her proud, sweet 
 
 For her saint in the rest above. [smile. 
 
 ALESSIE BOND FAUSSKl T. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF KING CORMAC 
 "Croni Cruach and his sub-gods twelve." 
 
 Said Cormac. " are but carven treene : 
 The axe that made them, haft or helve. 
 
 Had worthier of our worship been. 
 
 ■■ But He who made the tree to grow. 
 
 .\nd hid in earth the iron-stone. 
 .\nd made the man, with mind to know 
 
 The axe's use, is God alone." 
 
 .Anon to priests of Crom was brought. 
 Where, girded in their sen'ice dread, 
 
 They ministered on red Moy Slaught, 
 Word of the words King Cormac said. 
 
 They loosed their curse against the king ; 
 
 They cursed him in his flesh and bones; 
 And daily in their mystic ring 
 
 They turned the maledictive stones. 
 
 Till, where at meat the monarch sate, 
 
 Amid the revel and the wine. 
 He choked upon the food he ate. 
 
 At Sletty, southward of the Boyne. 
 
 High vaunted then the priestly throng. 
 
 And far and wide they noised abroad. 
 With trump and loud liturgic song. 
 
 The praise of their avenging god. 
 
 But ere the voice was wholly spent 
 That priest and prince should still obey. 
 
 To awed attendants o'er him bent 
 
 Great Cormac gathered breath to say — 
 
 '• Spread not the beds of Brugh for me 
 When restless death-bed's use is done ; 
 
 But bury me in Rossnaree. 
 And face me to the rising sun. 
 
 " For all the kings who lie in Brugh 
 
 Put trust in gods of wood and stone 
 i And 'twas at Ross that first 1 knew 
 I One Unseen, who is God alone. 
 
 " His glory lightens from the East; 
 
 His message soon shall reach our shore ; 
 And idol-god and cursing priest 
 
 Shall plague us from Moy Slaught no more." 
 
 Dead Cormac on his bier they laid. 
 
 ■• He reigned a king for forty years. 
 
 And shame it were," his captains said, 
 
 • He lay not with his royal peers. 
 
 " His grandsire. Hundred-battle, sleeps 
 Serene in Brugh ; and. all around. 
 
 Dead kings in stone sepulchral-keeps 
 Protect the sacred burial ground. 
 
 '• What though a dying man should rave 
 Of changes o'er the eastern sea 'i 
 
 In Brugh of Boyne shall be his grave. 
 And not in noteless Rossnaree." 
 
 Then northward forth they bore the bier, 
 And down from Sletty side they drew 
 
 With horseman and with charioteer 
 To c-oss the fords of Boyne to Brugh. 
 
 There came a breath of finer air 
 That touchd the Boyne with ruffling 
 ings. 
 I It stirr'd him in his sedgy lair 
 
 And in his mossy moorland springs. 
 
 And as the burial train came down 
 With dirge and savage dolorous shows. 
 
 Across their pathway, broad and brown 
 The deep, full-hearted river rose ; 
 
THE DEATH OF KING LEURY. 
 
 6=; I 
 
 From bank to bank through all his fords, 
 'Neath blackening squalls he swell'd and 
 boil'd ; 
 
 And thrice the wondering Gentile lords 
 Essay 'd to cross, and thrice recoil 'd. 
 
 Then forth stepp'd gray-hair 'd warriors four: 
 They said, " Through angrier floods than 
 these, 
 
 Oi\ link'd shields once our king we bore 
 From Dread-Spear and the hosts of Deece. 
 
 "And long as loyal will holds good. 
 And limbs respond with helpful thews 
 
 Nor flood, nor fiend within the flood. 
 Shall bar him of his burial dues. " 
 
 With slanted necks they stoop'd to lift ; 
 
 They heaved him up to neck and chin ; 
 And, pair and pair, with footsteps swift, 
 
 Lock'd arm and shoulder, bore him in. 
 
 'Twas brave to see them leave the shore ; 
 
 To mark the deep'ning surges rise, 
 And fall subdued in foam before 
 
 The tension of their striding thighs. 
 
 'Twas brave, when now a spear-cast out, 
 Breast-high the battling surges ran ; 
 
 For weight was great, and limbs were stout, 
 And loyal man put trust in man. 
 
 But ere they reached the middle deep, 
 Nor steadying weight of clay they bore, 
 
 Nor strain of sinewy limbs could keep 
 Their feet beneath the swerving four. 
 
 And now they slide, and now they swim. 
 And now, amid the blackening squall. 
 
 Gray locks afloat, with clutchings grim, 
 They plunge around the floating pall. 
 
 While, as a youth with practised spear. 
 
 Through justling crowds bears off the ring, 
 
 Boyne from their shoulders caught the bier 
 And proudly bore away the king. 
 
 At morning on the grassy marge 
 Of Rossnaree, the corpse was found. 
 
 And shepherds at their early charge 
 Entombed it in the peaceful ground. 
 
 A tranquil spot ! a hopeful sound 
 
 Comes from the ever-youthful stream, 
 
 And still on daisied mead and mound 
 The dawn delays with tenderer beam. 
 
 Round Cormac Spring renews her buds: 
 In march perpetual by his side 
 
 Down come the earth-fresh April floods. 
 And up the sea-fresh salmon glide ; 
 
 And Life and Time rejoicing run 
 From age to age their wonted way ; 
 
 But still he waits the risen sun. 
 For still 'tis only dawning day. 
 
 SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
 
 THE DEATH OF KING LEURY. 
 In Clogher once King Leury reigned, 
 
 Cruelle hee was and sterne ; 
 From MuUagh-rath oft went hee forth 
 
 To spoyle, to slaye, to burne. 
 
 And nought his spyrite fierce could lame. 
 
 Save ye mystick voice alone 
 From Kerman Kelstack's bloudie shryne 
 
 Where stoode ye Golden Stone. 
 
 One morne hee hade assembled alle 
 
 His galloglasses trewe. 
 To hold a greate and merrie huntynge 
 
 Ye woodes of ye Closach throughe. 
 
 Theye alle hade gathered in ye bawne 
 
 To wage ye sylvanne warre. 
 When, lo ! a hoarie aged manne 
 
 Stoode there theyre sporte to marre. 
 
 In sackclothe coarse hee was attyred 
 
 Erin's greate Saynte was hee, 
 And from hys gj-rdle there hong doune 
 
 Both crosse and rosarie. 
 
 I Then up hee spake to that haughtic kynge, 
 •' Repent for ye sinnes thou'st donnc ; 
 Worshipeye trewe Almightie Godde, 
 And Chryste, ye Virginn's sonne !" 
 
 A wrathfule manne was ye kynge that daie 
 When hee herde what ye olde manne sayd ; 
 
 Hys eyes they flashed like ye levin-fyre, 
 Hys hand on hys swerde hee layde. 
 
 " But no," hee cryed, " 'twere shame that I 
 Should shedde ye caytiffe's bloud ;" 
 
 And hee laughed, and sayde, " We'll have a 
 chase, " 
 And thryce hee whystled k)ude. 
 
652 
 
 MEMORIAL POEMS. 
 
 Then round hym thronged hys fierce wolf- 
 Bran, Luath. Buscar. Ban ; [dogges. 
 
 And louder hee laughed, and cheered ihem on 
 That hoarie reverend nianne. 
 
 But soon ye kynge hys aspect changed 
 When ye Saynte sayde scornfuUie, 
 
 '• That deth thou hast for niee prepared 
 Thou surclie now shalt die." 
 
 Then, wondrous, at ye Saynte 's comniande 
 
 Ye dogges forgettc their lorde, 
 And baye at hym that nurtured them 
 
 And feddc them at hys boarde. 
 
 And fiercelie now they rushe on hym. 
 
 And grapple at hys throate — 
 Tho' never hee hadde in baltell quayled. 
 
 With feare hys herte is smote. 
 
 And onward past ye gazing thronge 
 
 Hee franticlie did tlie. 
 And pale and ghastlie was hys cheeke 
 
 And frenzied was hys eye. 
 
 On, on hee dashed, o'er hille and dale. 
 
 Ye baying dogges before ; 
 And now Knockmanyes height is passed. 
 
 And now he gaines Cormore. 
 
 But still ye sleuth-hounds on hys tracke 
 
 Come howling kcene bchinde, 
 And still when hee slacked hys frantickspeedc. 
 
 Their crj'e rose on ye winde. 
 
 On, on hee stretched, hyslyppes were parched. 
 
 And hee breathed heavilie, 
 And on hys haggard forehedde stood 
 
 Bigge droppes of agonie. 
 
 Stoopinge. hys deer-hyde brouges he loosed. 
 
 As hee strayncd agaynsle ye hille, 
 " Esker-na-brouge " iliey call ye place. 
 
 In memorie of it stille. 
 
 Now. Leur)-. now thy strength exerte. 
 
 And everie muscle plye. 
 O couldst thou reach thy huniynge-lodge 
 
 Of distant Donogh-an-Igh I 
 
 Alas, thou ne'ere shalt reacho thy halle.— 
 
 In vain ye feaste is spredde. 
 To-night ye Seanachie shall mournc 
 
 Hvs chiefe and master deadi-. 
 
 Ye openynge packe gain grounde apace. 
 
 And now, o'erspent with toyle. 
 Ye ill-starred kynge they overtake 
 
 In bloude-stained Tul-na-foil. 
 
 But who shall telle hys frantick mun 
 
 .■\nd crie of agonie. 
 When Luath foremoste gripped hys throate 
 
 .•Vnd broughte hym to hys knee } 
 
 Deepe in hys quiv'rjng flankes they fixe ; 
 
 Hys lyfe-bloude now flows faste ; 
 Ye fearfulle chase at length is o'er. — 
 
 Hee shrieking breathes hys laste. 
 
 In Kill-na-heery now he sleeps — 
 
 Hys is a low lie grave — 
 May Heaven in mercie from such ende 
 
 Eche errj'nge synner save I 
 
 ANO.NV.MUUS. 
 
 LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE 
 AND TYRCONNELL 
 
 [This is ao Elcify on ihe death of the Princes of Tyrone 
 nd Tyrconneil, whu, having (led with others from Ireland in 
 the year 1607, and afterwards dyinK at Rome, were interred un 
 cler's Hill in one grave. "I he original poem is the pro- 
 on of u'Donnells bard, Uwcn Koe Mac an Bhaird, or 
 Ward, who accompanied the family in their exile, and is ad- 
 dressed to Nuala, O'Dunnell's sister, who was also one of 
 fugitives.] 
 
 O woman of the Piercing Wail, 
 
 Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay, 
 With sigh and groan, 
 Would God thou wert among the Gael ! 
 Thou wouldst not then, from day to day. 
 Weep thus alone. 
 'Twere long before, around a grave 
 In green Tirconnell, one could find 
 This loneliness; 
 Near where Beann-Hoirche's banners wave. 
 Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined 
 Companionless. 
 
 Beside the wave, in Donegal, 
 In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore, 
 Or Killilee, 
 Or where the sunny waters fall. 
 At Assaroe, near Erna's shore, 
 This could not be. 
 On Derry's plains, in rich Drumclieff. 
 
 Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned 
 In olden years. 
 No day could pass but woman's grief 
 Would rain uihui the burial ground 
 I- rcsli floods of tears ! 
 
LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND TYRCONNELL. 653 
 
 Oh, no — from Shannon, Boyne and Suir. 
 From high Dunluce's castle walls. 
 From Lissadill, 
 Would flock alike both rich and poor; 
 One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls 
 To Tara's hill ; 
 And some would come from Barrow-side, 
 And many a maid would leave her home 
 
 On Leitrim's plains. 
 And by melodious Banna's tide. 
 
 And by the Mourne and Erne, to come 
 And swell thy strains I 
 
 Oh, horses' hoofs would trample down 
 The Mount whereon the martyr-saint 
 Was crucified ; 
 From glen and hill, from plain and town, 
 One loud lament, one thrilling plaint. 
 Would echo wide. 
 There would not soon be found, I ween, 
 One foot of ground among those bands 
 For museful thought, 
 So many shriekers of the keen 
 
 Would cry aloud, and clap their hands. 
 All woe-distraught ! 
 
 Two princes of the line of Conn 
 Sleep in their cells of clay beside 
 O'Donnell Roe ; 
 Three royal youths, alas ! are gone. 
 Who lived for Erin's weal, but died 
 For Erin's woe ! 
 Ah ! could the men of Ireland read 
 The names these noteless burial stones 
 Display to view. 
 Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed, 
 Their tears gush forth again, their groans 
 Resound anew ! 
 
 The youths whose relics moulder here 
 
 Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince and 
 Of Aileach's lands ; [Lord 
 
 Thy noble brothers, justly dear, 
 "Thy nephew, long to be deplored 
 By Ulster's bands. 
 Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time 
 Could domicile Decay or house 
 Decrepitude ! 
 They passed from Earthere Manhood's prime. 
 Ere years had power to dim their brows 
 Or chill their blood. 
 
 And who can marvel o'er thy grief, 
 Or who can blame thy flowing tears. 
 That knows their source.' 
 
 O'Donnell, Dunnasavas chief. 
 Cut ofl amid his vernal years, 
 Lies here a corse 
 Beside his brother Cathbar, whom 
 Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns 
 In deep despair — 
 For valor, truth, and comely bloom. 
 For all that greatens and adorns, 
 A peerless pair. 
 
 Oh, had these twain, and he, the third. 
 The Lord of Mourne. O'Niall's son, 
 Their mate in death — 
 A prince in look, in deed and word — 
 Had these three heroes yielded on 
 The field their breath, 
 Oh, had they fallen on Criffan's plain, 
 There would not be a town or clan 
 From shore to sea. 
 But would with shrieks bewail the Slain, 
 Or chant aloud the exulting rann 
 Of jubilee ! 
 
 When high the shout of battle rose. 
 
 On fields where freedom's torch still burned 
 Through Erin's gloom. 
 If one, if barely one of those 
 Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned 
 The hero's doom ! 
 If at Athboy, where hosts of brave 
 Ulidian horsemen sank beneath 
 The shock of spears. 
 Young Hugh O'Niell had found a grave 
 Long must the north have wept his death 
 With heart-wrung tears ! 
 
 If on the day of Ballachmyre 
 The Lord of Mourne had met, thus young, 
 A warrior's fate. 
 In vain would such as thou desire 
 To mourn, alone, the champion sprung 
 From Niall the Great! 
 No marvel this — for all the Dead, 
 Heaped on the field, pile over pile. 
 At Mullach-brack, 
 Were scarce an eric for his head. 
 
 If Death had stayed his footsteps while 
 On victory's track ! 
 
 If on the Day of Hostages 
 
 The fruit had from the parent bough 
 
 Been rudely torn 
 
 In sight of Munster's bands — Mac-Nee's — 
 
 Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow 
 
 Could ill have borne. 
 
654 
 
 MEMORIAL POEMS. 
 
 If on the day of Ballock-boy 
 
 No Northern Chief would soon arise 
 
 Some arm had laid, by foul surprise. 
 
 So sage to guide, so strong to shield, 
 
 The chieftain low. 
 
 So swift to save. 
 
 Even our victorious shouts of joy 
 
 Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hul 
 
 Would soon give place to rueful cries 
 
 Had met the death he oft had dealt 
 
 And groans of woe ! 
 
 Among the foe ; 
 
 
 But. had our Roderick fallen loo, 
 
 If on the day the Saxon host 
 
 .Ml Erin must, alas ! have fell 
 
 Were forced to fly— a day so great 
 
 The deadly blow! 
 
 For Ashanee— 
 
 
 The chief had been untimely lost. 
 
 What do I say ? Ah, woe is me! 
 
 Our conquering troops would moderate 
 
 Already we bewail in vain 
 
 Their mirthful glee. 
 
 The fatal fall ! 
 
 There would not lack on Lifford's day. 
 
 .^nd Erin, once the Great and Free. 
 
 From Gal way, from the glens of Boyle, 
 
 Now vainly mourns her breakless chain, 
 
 From Limerick's towers, 
 
 And iron thrall ! 
 
 A marshalled file, a long array. 
 
 Then, daughter of O'Donnell, dry 
 
 Of mourners to bedew the soil 
 
 Thine overflowing eyes, and turn 
 
 With tears in showers ! 
 
 Thy heart aside. 
 
 
 For Adam's race is born to die. 
 
 If on the day a sterner fate 
 
 And sternly the sepulchral urn 
 
 Compelled his flight from Athenrec, 
 
 Mocks human pride ! 
 
 His blood had flowed. 
 
 
 What numbers all disconsolate 
 
 Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne. 
 
 Would come unasked, and share with thee 
 
 Nor place thy trust in arm of clay. 
 
 Affliction's load! 
 
 But on thy knees 
 
 If Derr)''s crimson field had seen 
 
 Uplift thy soul to God alone. 
 
 His life-blood offered up. though 'twere 
 
 For all things go their destined way 
 
 On Victory's shrine, 
 
 As He decrees. 
 
 A thousand cries would swell the keen. 
 
 Embrace the faithful Crucifix. 
 
 A thousand voices of despair 
 
 And seek the path of pain and prayer 
 
 Would echo thine! 
 
 Thy Saviour trod ; 
 
 
 Nor let thy spirit intermix 
 
 O. had the fierce Dalcassian swarm 
 
 With earthly hope and worldly care 
 
 That bloody night on Fergus' banks 
 
 Its groans to God ! 
 
 But slain our chief. 
 
 
 When rose his camp in wild alarm- 
 
 And Thou, Oh mighty Lord ! whose ways 
 
 How would the triumph of his ranks 
 
 Are far above our feeble minds 
 
 Be dashed with grief ! 
 
 To understand. 
 
 How would the troops of Murback mourn 
 
 Sustain us in these doleful days. 
 
 If on the Curlew Mountains' day. 
 
 And render light the chain that binds 
 
 Which England rued. 
 
 Our fallen land ! 
 
 Some Saxon hand had left them lorn, 
 
 Look down upon our drearj- state. 
 
 By shedding there, amid the fray. 
 
 And through the ages that may still 
 
 Their prince's blood ! 
 
 Roll sadly on. 
 
 
 Watch thou o'er hapless Erin s fate. 
 
 Red would have been our warriors' eyes 
 
 And shield at least from darker ill 
 
 Had Roderick found on Sligo's field 
 
 The blood of Conn ! 
 
 A gory grave, 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
PART XIII. 
 
 MORAL AND RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 Religion, she that stands subhme 
 
 Upon the rocl< that crowns our globe, 
 
 Her feet on all the spoils of time, 
 With light eternal on her robe ; 
 
 She, daughter of the orb she guides, 
 On Truth's broad sun may root a gaze 
 
 That deepens, onward as she rides, 
 And shrinks not from the fontal blaze : 
 
 But they, her daughter arts, must hide 
 Within the cleft, content to see 
 
 Dim skirts of glory waving wide, 
 And steps of parting Deity. 
 
 'Tis theirs to watch the vision break 
 In types of nature's frown or smile, 
 
 The legend rise from out the lake. 
 The relic consecrate the isle. 
 
 'Tis theirs to adumbrate and suggest ; 
 
 To point tow'rd founts of buried lore ; 
 Leaving, in reverence, unexpressed 
 
 W'liat Man must know not, yet adore. 
 
 For where her court true Wisdom keeps, 
 'Mid loftier handmaids, one their stands 
 
 Dark as the midnight's starry deeps, 
 
 .\ slave, gem-crowned, from Nubia's strands. 
 
 O thou whose light is in thy heart, 
 
 Love-taught submission ! without thee 
 
 Science may soar awhile ; but Art 
 Drifts barren o'er a shoreless sea. 
 
 AUBRKY T. DE VERE. 
 
MORAL AND RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 SONG OF TRUST. 
 
 O living God! 
 
 Alone am I on the mountain : 
 
 Alas for him who evil works ! 
 
 O royal Sun. prosper my path. 
 
 That which he thinks not of comes to him. 
 
 And then I shall have nothing to fear. 
 
 That which he hopes vanishes out of his 
 
 Were I guarded by six thousand, 
 
 hand! 
 
 Though they might defend my skin. 
 
 
 Yet when the hour of death is fi.xed. 
 
 There is no Sn-od that can tell our fate. 
 
 Were I guarded by six thousand. 
 
 Nor bird upon the branch, 
 
 In no fortress could I be safe. 
 
 Nor trunk of gnarled oak ; 
 
 
 Better is he in whom we trust, 
 
 Even in a church the wicked are slain, 
 Even inan isle amidst a lake; 
 
 The King who has made us all. 
 Who will not leave me to-night without 
 refuge. 
 
 But God's elect are safe 
 
 Even in the front of battle. 
 
 
 No man can kill me before my day, 
 Even had we closed in combat; 
 
 I adore not the voice of birds, 
 
 Nor chance, nor the love of a son or a wife — 
 
 And no man can save my life 
 When the hour of death has come. 
 
 My Druid is Christ, the Son of God, 
 The Son of Mary, the Great Abbot, 
 
 
 The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. 
 
 My life ! 
 
 My lands are with the King of Kings, 
 
 My Order at Kells and at Moone. 
 
 As God pleases let it be: 
 
 
 Naught can be taken from it. 
 
 ST. COLUMBKILLE. 
 
 Naught can be added to it ; 
 
 
 The lot which God has given 
 
 
 Ere a man dies must be "lived out. 
 
 ST. PATRICK'S HYMN BEFORE TARA. 
 
 He who seeks more, were he a prince, 
 
 [This is a free but strong translation of the Hymn com- 
 
 Shall not a mite obtain. 
 
 posed by St. Patrick on Easter Saturday, A. D. 433, on his 
 
 
 way froin Slane to the royal palace of Laoghaire, at Tara, 
 
 
 I'he original Latin is in Dr. Petrie's very learned work, " The 
 
 A guard ! 
 
 History and Antiquities of Tara Hill."] 
 
 A guard may guide him on his way, 
 
 At Tara, to-day, in this awful hour 
 
 But can they, can they guard 
 
 I call on the Holy Trinity ! 
 
 Against the touch of death ? 
 
 Glory to him who reigneth in power. 
 
 Forget thy poverty awhile ; 
 
 The God of the Elements. Father, and Son, 
 
 Let us think of the world's hospitality, 
 
 And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One, 
 
 The Son of Mary will prosper thee, 
 
 The ever-existing Divinity! 
 
 And every guest will have his share. 
 
 
 
 At Tara. to-day. I call on the Lord. 
 
 Many a time what is spent 
 
 On Christ, the Omnipotent Word, 
 
 Returns to the bounteous hand, 
 
 Who came to redeem from Death and Sin 
 
 And that which is kept back 
 
 Our fallen race ; 
 
 Not the less has passed away. 
 
 And I put and I place 
 
6s8 
 
 MOKAL A\D KEUGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 The virtue that lieth and liveth in 
 
 His Incarnation lowly. 
 
 His Baptism pure and holy. 
 His life of toil, and tears, and affliction. 
 His dolorous Death, his Crucifixion, 
 His burial sacred, and sad. and lone. 
 
 His Resurrection to life again. 
 His glorious Ascension to Heavens high 
 And. lastly, his future dread [Throne ; 
 
 And terrible coming to judge all men — 
 Both the Living and the Dead. 
 
 At Tara. to-day. 1 put and I place 
 
 The virtue that dwells in the Seraphim's love. 
 
 And the virtue and grace 
 
 That are in the obedience. 
 And unshaken allegiance 
 Of all the archangels and angels above 
 And in the hope of the Resurrection 
 To everlasting reward and election, 
 And in the prayers of the Fathers of old. 
 And in the truths the Prophets foretold. 
 And in the AfKJStles' manifold preachings. 
 And in the Confessors' faith and teachings. 
 And in the purity ever dwelling 
 
 Within the immaculate Virgin's breast. 
 And in the actions bright and excelling 
 
 Of all trood men, the just and the blest. — 
 
 At Tara, to-day. in this fateful hour. 
 
 I place all Heaven, with its power; 
 
 And the sun. vOith its brightness ; 
 
 And the snow, with its wliiteness; 
 
 And the fire, with all the strength it hath ; 
 
 And the lightning, with its rapid wrath ; 
 
 And the winds, with their swiftness along 
 
 And the sea, with its deepness ; [their path ; 
 I And the rocks, with their steepness ; 
 i And the earth, with its starkness, — 
 ! All these I place. 
 
 I With God Almighty's help and grace. 
 
 Between myself and the Power of Darkness. 
 
 At Tara, to-day. 
 I May God be my stay! 
 
 May the strength of God now nerve me ! 
 ' May the power of God preserve me I 
 May God the Almighty be near me ! 
 
 May God the Almighty espy me ! 
 May God the Almighty hear me ! 
 
 May God give me eloquent speech ! 
 May the arm of God protect me I 
 May the wisdom of God direct me ! 
 May God give me power to teach and to 
 preach I 
 
 May the shield of God defend me I 
 May the host of (iod attend me. 
 
 And ward me. 
 
 And guard me. 
 Against the wiles of demons and devils. 
 .\gainst the temptations of vices and evils. 
 Against the bad passions and wrathful will 
 Of the reckless mind and the wicked heart. 
 Against every man who designs me ill. 
 Whether leagued with others or plotting af>art! 
 
 In this hour of hours, 
 
 I place all those powers 
 Between myself and every foe. 
 Who threatens my body and soul 
 With danger or dole. 
 To protect me against the evils that flow 
 From lying soothsayers' iucantations. 
 From the gloomy laws of the Gentile nations. 
 From Heresy's hateful innovations. 
 From Idolatry's rites and invocations. 
 
 Be those my defenders. 
 My guards against every ban— 
 And spell of smiths, and Druids, and women ; 
 In fine, against every knowledge that renders 
 
 The light Heaven sends us dim in 
 
 The spirit and soul of Man ! 
 
 May Christ, I pray. 
 
 Protect me to-day 
 
 Against poison and fire. 
 
 Against drowning and wounding : 
 
 That so, in His grace abounding, 
 
 I may earn the Preacher's hire! 
 
 Christ, as a light, 
 
 Illumine and guide me ! 
 Christ, as a shield, o'ershadow and cover me! 
 Christ be under me ! Christ be over me ! 
 
 Christ be beside me 
 
 On left hand and right ! 
 Christ be before me. behind me, about me! 
 Christ this day be within and without me I 
 
 Christ, the lowly and meek, 
 
 Christ, the All-Powcrful, be 
 In the heart of each to whom I speak. 
 In the mouth of each who speaks to me ! 
 In all who draw near me. 
 Or see me or hear me ! 
 
 At Tara to-day. in this awful hour. 
 
 I call on the Holy Trinity ! 
 Glory to Him who reigneth in power. 
 The God of the Elements, Father and Son, 
 
LORICA S. PATRICII. 
 
 6.sq 
 
 And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One, 
 
 The ever-existing Divinity ! 
 Salvation dwells with the Lord, 
 With Christ, the Omnipotent Word. 
 From generation to generation 
 Grant us, O Lord, thy grace and salvation I 
 
 JAMES CLAREXCE MANGAN. 
 
 LORICA S. PATRICIL* 
 I bind to myself to-day. 
 The strong power of an invocation of the 
 
 Trinity, 
 The faith of the Trinity in Unity, 
 The Creator of the elements. 
 
 I bind to myself to-day. 
 
 The power of the Incarnation of Christ, with 
 
 that of his Baptism, [Burial, 
 
 The power of the Crucifi.xion, with that of his 
 The power of the Resurrection, with the 
 
 Ascension, [Judgment. 
 
 The power of the coming to the Sentence of 
 
 I bind to myself to-day, 
 
 The power of the love of Seraphim, 
 
 In the obedience of Angels, 
 
 In the hope of Resurrection unto reward, 
 
 In the prayers of the noble Fathers, 
 
 In the predictions of the Prophets, 
 
 In the preaching of Apostles, 
 
 In the faith of Confessors, 
 
 In the purity of Holy Virgins, 
 
 In the acts of Righteous Men. 
 
 I bind to myself to-day. 
 The power of Heaven, 
 The light of the Sun, 
 The whiteness of Snow, 
 The force of Fire, 
 The Hashing of Lightning, 
 The velocity of Wind. 
 The depth of the Sea, 
 The stability of the Earth, 
 The hardness of Rocks. 
 
 I bind to myself to-day. 
 The Power of God to guide me, 
 The Might of God to uphold me. 
 The Wisdom of God to teach me, 
 
 * This rendering of the "Lorica of St. Patrick,'" by tl 
 learned Dr. Todd, is considered more literal than the precedii 
 one by Mangan, although it lacks the rhythmical sweep ai 
 harmony of the latter 's splendid composition. 
 
 The Eye of God to watcli over me, 
 \ The Ear of God to hear me, 
 The Word of God to give me speech, 
 The Hand of God to protect me, 
 The Way of God to prevent me, 
 The Shield of God to shelter me, 
 The Host of God to defend me 
 Against the snares of demons. 
 -Against the temptations of vices. 
 Against the lusts of nature. 
 Against every man who meditates injury to me 
 Whether far or near. 
 With few or with many. 
 
 I have set around me all these powers. 
 Against every hostile savage power, 
 Directed against my body and my soul, 
 Against the incantations of false prophets. 
 Against the black laws of heathenism, 
 Against the false laws of heresy, 
 .^gainst the deceits of idolatry, 
 Against the spells of women, and smiths, and 
 
 Druids, 
 Against all knowledge which blinds the soul 
 
 of man. 
 
 Christ protect me to-day. 
 Against poison, against burning. 
 Against drowning, against wounding. 
 That I may receive abundant reward. 
 
 Christ with me, Christ before me, 
 Christ behind me, Christ within me, 
 Christ beneath me, Christ above me, 
 Christ at my right, Christ at my left, 
 Christ in the fort, Christ in the chariot-seat, 
 Christ in the heart of every man who thinks 
 
 of me, 
 Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks 
 
 to me, 
 Christ in every eye that sees me, 
 Christ in every ear that hears me, 
 
 I bind to myself to-day 
 
 The strong power of an invocation of the 
 
 Trinity, 
 The faith of the Trinity in Unity, 
 The Creator of the elements. 
 
 Domini est salus, 
 Domi7ii est salus, 
 Christ i est salus, 
 Salus tua Doininesit sempernobiscum. 
 
 JAMES HENTHORN TODD. 
 
MORAL AND REUGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 DE NATIVITATE DOMINI. 
 From the far rising of llic sun 
 To where his utmost course is run. 
 Sing we the Christ, of Virgin born. 
 With kingly praise His name adorn. 
 
 Though from Eternity His sway. 
 Our flesh He made His mean array; 
 Redeeming, thus, from endless death, 
 The race that owed to Him its breath. 
 
 The spotless Virgin's favored womb 
 Of Grace Divine becomes the home; 
 And wonders, passing human thought. 
 Unknown and secret, there arc wrought. 
 
 The mother's thankful arms enfold 
 The Babe whom Gabriel had foretold ; 
 Whom, though unborn, with prophet's eye. I 
 The Baptist John could yet descry. 
 
 In mangcr-shed, amidst the kine. 
 All lowly lies the Babe Divine ; 
 Milk from a mother's breast is given 
 To Him who feeds the birds of heaven. 
 
 The heavenly choir their anthem raise — 
 .■\ngels unite their Lord to praise ; 
 While to the shepherds of the field 
 The God Incarnate is revealed. 
 
 Thou, hostile Herod, whence those fears.' 
 Is it — that Christ on earth appears .' 
 As though He grasped at earthly things. 
 Who rules o'er all, the King of Kings! 
 
 The Eastern Magi, from afar, 
 
 Eager pursue the guiding star; 
 
 Led by its beam, true light they seek. 
 
 And own their God with offerings meek. 
 
 The matron crowd beholds, aghast, 
 To earth its infant offspring cast; 
 Thus, through the tyrant's rage, doth rise 
 To Christ a spotless sacrifice. 
 
 Where flows the river's cleansing flood 
 The Lamb of God all meekly stood, 
 By His obedience to atone 
 For our transgressions — not His own. 
 
 His wondrous acts for Christ have won 
 His name— the Eternal Father's Son ; 
 Before His glance disease hath fle<l. 
 To life come forth th' awakened dead. 
 
 The water owns a power Divine. 
 And, conscious, blushes into wine ; 
 Its verj' nature changed, displays 
 The power Divine that it obeys. 
 
 Lo I the centurion comes to crave 
 Recovery for his dying slave ; 
 Such faith can pitying answer claim. 
 And quench e'en fever's scorching flame. 
 
 See Peter walk the swelling wave. 
 His Lord's right hand outstretched to sa\' 
 The path which nature's law denies. 
 To trusting faith still open lies. 
 
 Four days within the noisome grave 
 Lay Lazarus. — He comes to save. 
 Rent by His word are death's strong chain- 
 As life and light its prey regains. 
 
 Deep crimson stains, a noxious flood. 
 Pollute the garment dyed with blood, 
 A pleading suppliant draws nigh. 
 And straight the flowing stream is drj-. 
 
 A sufferer, palsied in each limb, 
 Pours forth his earnest prayer to Him; 
 No pause ensues, no long delay — 
 Instant he bears his couch away. 
 
 Now hath the traitor basely sold 
 His Master, for the bargained gold ; 
 The kiss of peace he dares impart. 
 While treason lurks within his heart. 
 
 Vainly the Just, the Holy pleads, 
 His back beneath the dread scourge bleeds ; 
 Nailed to the Cross, on either hand. 
 The vilest of the robber band. 
 
 The Sabbath dawns, and to the tomb 
 With unguents rare, fond women come ; 
 To whom the angel voice is sped, 
 '• Seek not the living 'midst the dead ! " 
 
 Now raise we all the joyous strain. 
 With sweet, triumphant, fond refrain . 
 The Christ hath conquered ! Death and Hell 
 Redemption's mighty victory swell! 
 
 Quenched is the dragon's fiery zeal. 
 Crushed is the Lion 'neath His heel ; 
 To Heaven ascending. Thou hast trod 
 The path of glory. Son of God. 
 
 .SKlifl.lUS.* 
 
A/-.4.YS EIGHT ELEMENTS. 
 
 66 1 
 
 IN TE CHRISTE. 
 Thou who all men dost relieve, 
 Christ in Thee I do believe. 
 Come unto my aid, O Lord, 
 While I labor for Thy word. 
 
 Hasten to my help, I pray. 
 
 Bear my burthen every day 
 
 Of all mankind the maker Thou, 
 
 Before Thy throne, our Judge, we bow. 
 
 O Lord of lords and King of kings ! 
 To Thee all nature homage brings ; 
 The angels all alone in state. 
 In the celestial city wait; 
 
 O God of gods, eternal Light, 
 O Lord most high, most sweet, most bright 
 O God of patience, past all thought ; 
 O God, Thou teacher of the taught ; 
 
 O God, who hast made all that was, 
 Of past and present Thou the cause ; 
 O Father, for Thy Son's dear sake. 
 Prepare the way that I shall take, 
 And let Thy Holy Spirit guide 
 My soul through all my wandering wide ! 
 
 Christ, lover of the virgin choir, 
 Christ, man's Redeemer from hell-fire, 
 Christ, fount of wisdom, pure and clear. 
 Christ, in whose word we hope and fear, 
 
 Christ, breastplate in the hour of fight, 
 Christ, who hast made the world and light, 
 Christ, of the dead the living life, 
 Christ of the living, strength in strife, 
 
 Christ, crowner of each conquering soul. 
 Who count'st it in the martyrs' roll, 
 Christ, Saviour of the world so wide, 
 Christ on the Cross at Passion-tide, 
 
 Christ into depths of hell descends, 
 Christ into heaven above ascends! 
 Be glory to the Father given. 
 Exalted in the highest heaven . 
 
 All honor to the Only Son. 
 With God the Father ever One. 
 And to the Spirit Holiest, blest. 
 Be equal power and praise addrest ; 
 So be it until time is past. 
 And while Eternity shall last. 
 
 MARY F. CUSACK. 
 Translation from St. Columba. 
 
 MAN'S EIGHT ELEMENTS. 
 Thus sang the sages of the Gael 
 
 A thousand years ago well-nigh : 
 " Hearken how the Lord on high [wail. 
 
 Wrought man. to breathe and laugh and 
 To hunt and war, to plough and sail. 
 
 To love and teach, to pray and die !" 
 
 Then said the sages of the Gael : 
 
 " Of parcels eight was Adam built. 
 
 The first was earth, the second sea ; 
 
 The third and fourth were sun and cloud. 
 
 The fifth was wind, the sixth was stone. 
 
 The seventh was the Holy Ghost, 
 
 The last was light which lighteth God." 
 
 Then sang the sages of the Gael : 
 
 " Man's body first was built of earth 
 
 To lodge a living soul from birth. 
 
 And earthward home again to go 
 
 When Time and Death have spoken so. 
 
 Then of the sea his blood was dight 
 
 To bound in love and flow in fight. 
 
 Next, of the sun, to see the skies. 
 
 His face was framed with shining eyes. 
 
 From hurrying hosts of cloud was wrought 
 
 His roaming, rapid, changeful thought. 
 
 Then of the wind was made his breath 
 
 To come and go from birth to death, 
 
 And then of earth-sustaining stone 
 
 Was built his flesh-upholding bone. 
 
 The Holy Ghost, like soaring flame, 
 
 The substance of his soul became. 
 
 Of Light which lighteth God was made 
 
 Man's conscience, so that unafraid 
 
 His soul through haunts of night and sin 
 
 May pass and keep all clean within. 
 
 " Now, if the earthiness redound. 
 He lags through life a slothful hound ; 
 But, if it be the sea that sways, 
 In wild unrest he wastes his days; 
 When'er the sun is sovran, there 
 The heart is light, the face is fair. 
 If clouds prevail, he lives in dreams, 
 A deedless life of gloom and gleams. 
 And when the wind has won command 
 His word is harder than his hand. 
 If stone bear rule, he masters men. 
 And ruthless is their ransom then. 
 The Holy Ghost, if He prevail, 
 Man lives, exempt from lasting bale, 
 And gazing with the eyes of God, 
 Of all he sees at home, abroad. 
 
662 
 
 MORAL AND REUGIOL^ rut.M.s. 
 
 Discerns the inmost heart and then 
 Reveals it to his fellow-men. 
 And they are truer, gentler, more 
 Heroic than they were before. 
 But he on whom the Light Divine 
 Is lavished bears the sacred sign, 
 And men draw nigh in field or mart 
 To hear the wisdom of his heart. 
 For he is calm and clear of face. 
 And unperplexcd he runs his race, 
 Becaube his mind is always bent 
 On Right, regardless of event. 
 
 Of each of those eight things decreed. 
 To make and mold the human breed 
 Let more or less in man and man 
 Be set as God has framed his plan. 
 But still there is a ninth in store 
 (God grant it now and evermore !) 
 Our Freedom, wanting which, we read. 
 
 The bulk of earth, the strength of stone; 
 The bounding life o' the sea, the speed 
 
 Of clouds, the splendor of the sun. 
 The never-flagging flight of wind. 
 
 The fer\'or of the Holy Ghost, 
 
 The Light before the angels' host. 
 Though all be in our frame combined. 
 Grow tainted, yea, of no avail." 
 So sang the sages of the Gael. 
 
 WHIILEV STOKES. 
 From the Early Irish. 
 
 THE CHRIST. 
 He is out as of old in the city, 
 
 He is walking abroad in the street; 
 He tendeth the poor in His pity. 
 
 The leper that crawls to your feet. 
 The halt, and the maim, and the maddened ; 
 
 He feedeth the hungry with bread ; 
 He cheereth the heart that is saddened, 
 
 The dying, the loved of the dead ; 
 He restoreth the child to its mother; 
 
 He giveth the wayfarer rest- 
 It is He, it is Christ, and none other. 
 
 Yea, Christ by the love in His breast. 
 
 He craveth for virtue and beauty : 
 
 He clcaveth to good from His youth; 
 To witness of truth is a duty. 
 
 Yea, a triumph to die for the truth ; 
 He toileth from dawn-time till even 
 
 That light may be given to men. 
 That earth be uplifted to heaven. 
 
 And sin driven down to his den ; 
 
 He calleth the meanest his brother. 
 He draggeth the tyrant in dole — 
 
 It is He, It is Christ, and none other. 
 Yea, Christ by the might of His soul. 
 
 For holiest freedom He yearneth, 
 
 Made blest by the law that is good ; 
 For justice, clear-eyed, that disccrneth. 
 
 Not blindfold in shedding of blood. — 
 Firm-handed to hold, and fair-sighted 
 
 To watch as the balances sway ; 
 And for Him is the black heaven lighted 
 
 With streaks of perpetual day : 
 .And for Him is the world-life a prison. 
 
 By death to be cloven ap>art — 
 It is He, it is Christ re-arisen. 
 
 Yea, Christ by the hope in His heart. 
 
 His face to the night He uplifteth. 
 
 He searcheth the sUrs and the sun. 
 For the secrets they hold : and He sifteth 
 
 The sands where the gold rivers run.— 
 The rivers of knowledge, of wonder. 
 
 That roll to the infinite deeps; 
 Hid treasure He draweth from under 
 
 The caves of the hill where it sleeps, 
 .And the waifs of old time that are lying 
 
 Where the earth of dead centuries lies — 
 It is He, it is Christ the undying. 
 
 Yea, Christ by the thirst in His eyes. 
 
 He trampleth the seas in His pleasure ; 
 
 He soweth the desert with flowers ; 
 He dareth to try and to measure 
 
 His power with invisible powers; 
 He burneth the idols with fire ; 
 
 From the courts of the temples of God 
 He scourgeth the seller and buyer. 
 
 He driveth them forth with a rod ; 
 And His sword He hath sheathed, in His 
 craving 
 
 For love in the turbulent lands- 
 It is He. it is Christ the all-saving. 
 
 Yea. Christ by the strength of His hands. 
 
 From the cloud-folded ultimate regions, 
 1 East and west over measureless seas, 
 I Come thronging the myriad legions 
 
 Of the good, of the wise, at His knees 
 I Bowing down, and from hands heaxA'-ladcn 
 
 For gifts pouring pearl and fine gold ; 
 Yea, the youth high of heart, and the maiden 
 Pure-eyed, and the rulers of old. 
 
THE MORNING'S HINGES. 
 
 663 
 
 All the just and the great. God-appointed, 
 Come thronging with reverent pace — 
 
 It is He, it is Christ the Anointed, 
 Yea, Christ by Gods light in His face. 
 
 Ere the world was rolled forth into spaces 
 
 Of light, into regions of day. 
 Ere the waters ran over dry places. 
 
 And the grasses sprang green from the clay. 
 His rest was of old with the Highest, 
 
 He abode with the Infinite King, 
 He was King from the first, and the nighest 
 
 To God, and we praise Him, and sing. 
 Lifting hands to the throne of His splendor. 
 
 Sing aloud in our joy, " It is Thou ! 
 It is Thou, O Christ, our defender. 
 
 Our King by the crowns on Thy brow ! 
 
 GEORGE F. ARMSTRONG. 
 From " lestts Honiiiitiin Salvaloi:'^ 
 
 A VESPER HYMN. 
 The evening bells of Sabbath fill 
 
 The dusky silence of the night. 
 And through our gathering gloom distil 
 
 Sweet sparkles of immortal light ; 
 
 Such hours of peace as these requite 
 The labors of the wear^- week ; 
 
 When thus, with souls refreshed and bright. 
 Forgiveness of our sins we seek. 
 
 Oh ! help us, Jesus, to conform 
 
 Our spirits, thoughts and lives to thine ! 
 Beyond this earthly strife and storm. 
 
 Oh, make Thy star of Love to shine ! 
 
 When we are sinking in the brine 
 Of doubt and care — oh come, that we, 
 
 As Peter did, may safe resign 
 Our sinking helplessness to thee! 
 
 Thy Godhood — whence all glory flows — 
 
 Thou didst not scruple to abase, 
 To rescue from undying woes 
 
 The sons of a rebellious race ! 
 
 Who can, unmoved, unweeping, trace 
 Thy meek obedience to His will. 
 
 Whose sole appointed means of grace 
 Thou didst, even to the cross, fulfill ! 
 
 Our wayward footsteps wander wide. 
 
 Pursuing joy's delusive rays ; 
 And in our hours of health and pride, 
 
 Too oft from Thee our spirit strays ; 
 
 But soon descend the darker days. 
 When youth and strength their lustre hide. 
 
 And, journeying through a pathless maze, 
 We turn to our neglected guide ! 
 
 Lead back, oh Lord ! thy wandering sheep — 
 
 Oh, guide us gently to thy fold ! 
 Instruct us all Thy laws to keep. 
 
 And unto Thine our lives to mould ! 
 
 For we are weak, and faith grows cold — 
 Nor ever sleep the Tempter's powers ; 
 
 Thou art our only stay and hold — 
 Through Thee alone can heaven be ours! 
 
 A darker shade, a denser gloom 
 Descends on all the folded flowers. 
 
 While, silent as the voiceless tomb. 
 Above them roll the midnight hours : 
 To-morrow's dawn, and their perfume 
 
 Again will fill their glowing bowers — 
 Lord, after death so bid us bloom, 
 
 Where no frost chills, no tempest lowers! 
 
 CHARLES G. HALPINE. 
 
 THE MORNING'S HINGES. 
 Where the Morning's Hinges turn. 
 Where the fires of sunset burn, 
 Where the Pole its burden weighty 
 Whirls around the starry hall ; 
 Beings, wheresoe'er ye are. 
 Ether, vapor, comet, star. 
 There art Thou, Lord God Almighty, 
 Thou that mad'st and keep'st them all. 
 
 Where, on earth, battalioned foes 
 
 In the deadly combat close ; 
 
 Where the plagues have made their stations, 
 
 Dropped from Heaven's distempered air; 
 
 Where, within the human breast. 
 
 Rising hints of thought suggest 
 
 Sin's insane hallucinations. 
 
 Dread One, Thou art also there. 
 
 O most Mighty, O most High, 
 Past Thought's compass, what am I 
 That should dare Thy comprehending 
 In this narrow, shallow brain? 
 Yea, but Thou hast given a Soul 
 Well capacious of the whole. 
 And a Conscience ever tending 
 Right-ward, surely not in vain. 
 
664 
 
 MORAL A.\D RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 Yea, I'd hinder, if I could. 
 Wrath and pain and spilling blood ; 
 I would tell the cannon loaded 
 '• Fire not '. " and the sabre stay 
 Mid-cut: but the matter brute 
 Owns its own law absolute ; 
 And the grains will be exploded. 
 And the driven iron slay. 
 
 Deaf the nitre, deaf the steel: 
 And. if I the Man appeal. 
 Answer Soldier and Commander, 
 •• We. blind engines, even as these. 
 Do but execute His plan, 
 Working since the world began. 
 Towards some consummation grander 
 Than your little mind can seize." 
 
 What, does all. then, end in this. 
 That amid a world amiss. 
 Man must ever be but parcel- 
 Imperfection? and the soul 
 Ever thus in poise between 
 Things contrarient, rest, a mean 
 Averaged of the universal 
 Good and ill that makes the whole ? 
 
 No. a something cries within ; 
 No ; 1 am not of your kin. 
 Broods of evil 1 all the forces 
 Of my nature anwer No I 
 Though the world be overspread 
 With the riddle still unread 
 Of your being, of your sources. 
 This with sense supreme I know : 
 
 That behoves me, and I can. 
 Work within the inner man 
 Such a weeding, such a cleansing 
 Of this moss-grown home-plot here, 
 As shall make its herbage meet 
 For the soles of angels' feet, 
 And its blooms for aye dispensing 
 Light of Heaven's own atmosphere. 
 
 " Yea, what thou hast last advanced. 
 Creature, verily thou canst." 
 (Hark, the Master!) "Up. Bestir thee; 
 And. that thou may'st find the way. 
 Things inscrutable laid by. 
 Be content to know that I. 
 Hoping, longing, waiting for thee. 
 Stand beside thee ever)' day.' 
 
 Lord, and is it Thou, indeed. 
 Takest pity on my need. 
 Who nor symbol show, nor token 
 Vouching aught of right in me.' 
 ■■ I. dear soul." the Master said. 
 "Come to some through broken bread. 
 Come to some through message sjwken ; 
 Come in pure, free grace to thee." 
 
 S.\MUEL KKRGU.SON. 
 
 STABAT MATER DOLOROSA. 
 Stood the mournful Mother weeping. 
 By the Cross her vigil keeping. 
 
 While her Jesus hung thereon ; 
 Through her heart, in sorrow moaning. 
 With Him grieving, for Him groaning. — 
 
 Thro' that heart the sword hath gone. 
 
 Oh ! how sad and sore distressed 
 Was she — the for-ever blessed 
 
 Mother of the Undetiled ! 
 She who wept, and mourned and trembled. 
 When she saw such pains assembled 
 
 Round about the Holy Child. 
 
 Who that sees Christ's Mother bending 
 'Neath His load of sorrows, rending 
 
 Her sad soul in woe so deep; 
 Who that sees that pious Mother 
 With Him weeping, could do other 
 
 Than, himself afflicted, weep? 
 
 For the sins of each offender. 
 Sinless Soul, and Body tender. 
 
 Sees she "neath the cruel rod : 
 Sees her own sweet Son. her only. 
 Dying, desolate, and lonely. 
 
 Pouring out His Soul to God. 
 
 Jesu ! Fount of Love I Thee loving. 
 And my soul Thy sorrow moving. 
 
 Make me watch and weep with Thee : 
 As my God and Christ Thee knowing. 
 Let my loving heart be glowing 
 
 With a Holy Sympathy. 
 
 Holy Father! let affliction 
 For Thy dear Son's crucifixion 
 
 Pierce my heart ; and grant this prayer. 
 That while He for me is wounded. 
 With mdignities surrounded, 
 
 I His cup of grief may share. 
 
SURSVM COR DA. 
 
 66 = 
 
 Make me truly weep, and never 
 From the Crucified me sever, 
 
 Long as I on earth remain ; 
 By the Cross of Jesus keeping 
 With His Mother watch of weeping. 
 
 Sharing with her pain for pain. 
 
 God of Saints ! Thou King most holy ! 
 Comforter of spirits lowly ! 
 
 Fill me with my Saviour's grief ; 
 That His death devoutly bearing, 
 And His bitter passion sharing, 
 
 I may bring Him some relief. 
 
 Make me with His stripes be stricken. 
 With the Cross my spirit quicken. 
 
 For the love of Christ. I pray. 
 That with love inflamed, attended, 
 I by love may be defended 
 
 In the awful Judgment Day. 
 
 By the Cross for ever guarded. 
 
 And, through Christ's dear dying, warded 
 
 By the Grace that never dies ; 
 When my mortal body, dying. 
 In the quiet grave is lying. 
 Take my soul to Paradise ; 
 To adore 
 Thee, my God I for evermore. 
 
 Amen. 
 
 J. S. B. MOXSELL. 
 
 SURSUM CORDA. 
 Cease, cease thy sighs, O weary heart! 
 
 Cease, cease those sad'ning sighs, — 
 What though these lone autumnal eves 
 Bring mournful winds, and faded leaves. 
 And kindly nature silent grieves. 
 
 O'er summer blooms and dyes : 
 The fresh young flowers again shall blow. 
 And soft winds whisper sweet and low 
 To murmuring waters, as they flow. 
 
 Reflecting azure skies. 
 
 Forget thy wrongs, much injured heart. 
 
 Forget full many a wrong — 
 Thine is the story often told. 
 Of broken tnjst, of friends grown cold. 
 And eyes long rayless 'neath the mould. 
 
 That sparkled at thy song ; 
 But warmer friends may yet be thine. 
 Fresh hopes may glow, new stars may shine. 
 Thou yet mayst quaff that unfound wine 
 
 Thy soul hast craved so long. 
 
 Dream, dream no more deluded heart; 
 
 Awake, and dream no more ! — 
 All silent now thy youthful lute ; 
 But wither'd flowers, loved voices mute. 
 Are all that's left thee, as the fruit 
 
 Of houis forever o'er; 
 But Death will come, or soon, or late. 
 Then brighter visions may await 
 Thine entrance through his darksome gate. 
 
 Beyond life's mortal shore. 
 
 Poor restless heart ! were this but so. 
 
 Ah ! could I only know — 
 Then winds might wail, and leaflets fall, 
 Friends may deceive and vows recall. 
 And youthful fancies vanish all, — 
 
 I 'd grieve not should they go : 
 For then, dear Lord I this weary breast. 
 Would be at home, among thy blest, 
 And find at last long sighed-for rest. 
 
 To know no more of woe. 
 
 P.ATRICK CRONIN'. 
 
 SURSUM CORDA. 
 
 Weary hearts I wearj- hearts ! by the cares of. 
 life oppressed, 
 
 Ye are wand'ring in the shadows, ye are sigh- 
 ing for a rest ; 
 
 There is darkness in the heavens, and the 
 earth is bleak below. 
 
 And the joys we taste to-day may to-morrow 
 turn to woe. 
 Wear)' hearts, God is rest ! 
 
 Lonely hearts 1 lonely hearts I this is but a 
 
 land of grief ; 
 Ye are pining for repose, ye are longing for 
 
 relief ; 
 What the earth has never given, kneel and 
 
 ask of God above. 
 And your grief shall turn to gladness, if you 
 
 lean upon His love. 
 Lonely hearts. God is Love ! 
 
 Restless hearts ! restless hearts I ye are toiling 
 
 night and day; 
 And the flowers of life, all withered, leave 
 
 but thorns along your way ; 
 Ye are waiting, ye are waiting, till your toil- 
 
 ings all shall cease. 
 And your ev'ry restless beating is a sad, sad 
 
 prayer for peace. 
 Restless hearts. God is Peace ! 
 
666 
 
 MOA'.U. AXD KEUG/OCS POKMS. 
 
 Breaking hearts ! broken hearts ! ye are des- 
 olate and lone, 
 
 And low voices from the past o'er your pres- 
 ent ruins moan! 
 
 In the sweetest of your pleasures there was 
 bitterest alloy, 
 
 And a starless night hath followed on the 
 sunset of your joy. 
 Broken hearts, God is Joy ! 
 
 Homeless hearts! homeless hearts! through 
 the drear)', dreary years, 
 
 Ye are lonely, lonely wandrers and your way 
 is wet with tears ; 
 
 In bright or blighted places, wheresoever ye 
 may roam, 
 
 Ye look away from earth-land, and ye mur- 
 mur •• Where is home ? " 
 Homeless hearts, God is Home. 
 
 ABR.\M J. KV.^N. 
 
 OUT OF THE DEPTHS. 
 Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! 
 The cry went up from a sea ; — 
 The waves were wild with an awful wrath. 
 Not a light shone down on the lone ship's path; 
 The clouds hung low : — 
 Lost I Lost ! Lost ! 
 Rose wild from the hearts of the tempest- 
 
 Lost! Lost! Lost! 
 The cry floated over the waves. 
 Far over the pitiless waves ; 
 It smote on the dark and it rended the clouds; 
 The billows below them were weaving white 
 shrouds. 
 Out of the foam of the surge. 
 And the wind voices chanted a dirge : 
 Lost! Lost! Lost! 
 Wailed wilder the lips of the tempest-tossed. 
 
 Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! 
 Not the sign of a hope was nigh. 
 In the sea, the air, or the sky; 
 And the lifted faces were wan and white; 
 There was nothing without them but storm 
 and night. 
 And nothing within but fear; 
 But far to a Father's ear. 
 Lost! Lost! Lost! 
 Floated the wail of the tempest-tossed. 
 
 Lost! Lost! Lost! 
 Out of the depths of the sea. 
 Out of the night and the sea ; 
 .\nd the waves and the winds of the storm 
 
 were hushed. 
 And the sky with the gleams of the stars were 
 flushed :— 
 Saved ! Saved ! Saved ! 
 And a calm and a joyous cry 
 Floated up through the starr)- sky. 
 In the dark, in the storm — "Our Father" is 
 nigh. 
 
 ABRAM J. RYAN. 
 
 A DIRGE. 
 
 " Earth to earth, and dust to dust! " 
 Here the evil and the just. 
 Here the youthful and the old. 
 Here the fearful and the bold ; 
 Here the matron and the maid 
 In one silent bed are laid : 
 Here the warrior and the king. 
 Side by side, lie withering : 
 Glorj', but a broken bust : 
 '• Earth to earth, and dust to dust ! " 
 
 Age on age shall roll along 
 O'er this pale and mighty throng; 
 Those that wept them, those that weep. 
 All shall with the sleepers sleep ; 
 Prince and peasant, lord and slave. 
 Moving onward, wave or. wave. 
 Till they reach the sullen shore. 
 Where their murmurings are o'er. 
 Here the spade, and sceptre, rust : 
 " Earth to earth, and dust to dust ! " 
 
 But, a day is coming fast. 
 Earth, thy mightiest and thy last 
 All shall see the Judgment-Sign, 
 On the clouds the Cross shall shine ; 
 Angel-myriads on the wing; 
 Earth upgazing on its King; 
 Heaven revealed to mortal sight. 
 Earth enshrined in living light; 
 Kingdom of the ransomed Just! 
 •' Earth to earth, and dust to dust ! " 
 
 Then shall dawn immortal day; 
 Death and Sin no more have sway; 
 Then shall in the Desert rise 
 Fruits of more than Paradise ; 
 Earth by angel-feet be trod. 
 
AT DAYBREAK. 
 
 667 
 
 One great garden of her God : 
 Earth no more a vale of tears, 
 Satan chained a thousand years. 
 Now in hope of Him wc trust — 
 " Earth to earth, and dust to dust ! " 
 
 ' GEORGE CRULV. 
 
 SONG OF THE MYSTIC, 
 I walk down the Valley of Silence — 
 
 Down the dim, voiceless valley alone ! 
 And I hear not the fall of a footstep 
 
 Around me, save God's and my own ; 
 And the hush of my heart is as holy 
 
 As hovers where angels have flown ! 
 
 Long ago was I weary of voices 
 Whose music my heart could not win ; 
 
 Long ago I was weary of noises 
 
 That fretted my soul with their din ; 
 
 Long ago was I weary of places 
 
 Where I met but the human and — sin. 
 
 I walked in the world with the worldly ; 
 
 1 craved what the world never gave ; 
 And I said : "In the world each ideal 
 
 That shines like a staron life's wave 
 Is wrecked on the shores of the real, 
 
 And sleeps like a dream in a grave." 
 
 And still did I pine for the perfect. 
 
 And still found the false with the true ; 
 
 I sought 'mid the human for heaven, 
 But caught a mere glimpse of its blue ; 
 
 And I wept when the clouds of the mortal 
 Veiled even that glimpse from my view. 
 
 And I toiled on, heart-tired of the human ; 
 
 And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men ; 
 Till I knelt long ago at an altar 
 
 And heard a voice call me: since then 
 I have walked down the Valley of Silence 
 
 That lies far beyond mortal ken. 
 
 Do you ask what I found in the valley ? 
 
 'Tis my trysting-place with the Divine. 
 And I fell at the feet of the Holy, 
 
 And above me a voice said, " Be Mine," 
 And there rose from the depths of my spirit 
 
 An echo — " My heart shall be Thine." 
 
 Do you ask how I live in the valley .' 
 
 I weep, and I dream, and I pray. 
 But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops 
 
 That fall on the roses in May ; 
 And my prayer, like a perfume from censers, 
 Ascendeth to God night and day. 
 
 In the hush of the Valley of Silence 
 I dream all the songs that I sing. 
 
 And the music floats down the dim valley, 
 Till each finds a word for a wing. 
 
 That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, 
 A message of peace they may bring. 
 
 But far on the deep there are billows 
 That never shall break on the beach ; 
 
 And I have heard songs in the silence 
 That never shall float into speech ; 
 
 And I have had dreams in the valley 
 Too lofty for language to reach. 
 
 And I have seen thoughts in the valley — 
 Ah me ! how my spirit was stirred ; — 
 
 And they wear holy veils on their faces 
 Their footsteps can scarcely be heard ; 
 
 They pass through the valley like virgins 
 Too pure for the touch of a word. 
 
 Do you ask me the place of the valley. 
 Ye hearts that are harrowed by care .!* 
 
 It lieth afar between mountains. 
 And God and his angels are there ; 
 
 And one is the dark mount of sorrow. 
 And one the bright mountain of prayer ! 
 
 ARR.A.M J. RYAN. 
 
 AT DAYBREAK. 
 ■■ Return ! return ! the night is bleak and lone; 
 
 Return, return! 
 
 No star in heaven doth burn : 
 One single flickering taper dares the gloom, 
 A ghost-like dying o'er a tomb. 
 
 Come back ! come back ! 
 
 My soul with storm is black : 
 Thou art the flame that feeds my waning lamp ; 
 My brow with deadly fogs is damp ; 
 My heart's core grows to stone ; 
 Dumb darkness only listens to my moan. 
 
 " Return ! return ! my torch is well-nigh 
 quenched ; 
 
 Return ! return ! 
 
 All things for Thee I spurn ! 
 All love is cold beside Thy wondrous love. 
 Oh ! gentler than the brooding dove ! 
 
 Softer than balm. 
 
 Fairer than rose or palm ! 
 
668 
 
 MOKAL .L\l> KEUuJOrs POF.AfS. 
 
 Sweeter than wine and honeycomb and myrrh I 
 Alas ! for Thee I held no lure ; 
 From the weak grasp that clenched 
 Thy kingly hands the purple robes are 
 wrenched. 
 
 Return! return I without the desert lies; 
 
 The lone wind sobs 
 
 Where earth no longer throbs 
 With noisy anguish; but, in stupor bound, 
 Rests, pain-numbed, till the morn comes round; 
 
 All hideous things 
 
 That the weird night-tide brings. 
 The vampire and the warlock and the ghoul 
 Steal up from fen and ditch and pool, 
 And wailing spirits rise. 
 Storming in vain the lost, imper\'ious skies. 
 
 " Return ! return ! Ah, foolish lips, be hushed I 
 
 He will not hear ; 
 
 On Him no mortal fear 
 Shall ever lay a chill, profaning hand. 
 To the dark threshold chained I stand ; 
 
 My sick torch gleams 
 
 One moment as in dreams 
 Then dies, and in the distance falls the last 
 Faint footstep of the Love that passed. 
 While yet with new birth flushed, 
 Out of my joyless life and left it crushed. 
 
 " Return ! return ! Not so ; but would He call. 
 
 But whisper back, 
 
 ' Come ! tho' the night be black ; 
 Come ! tho' the spectre and the were-wolf wait ! 
 Come ! yearning heart, ere yet too late,' 
 
 With what glad haste 
 
 Through endless swamp and waste. 
 Though with tear-blinded eyes my soul should 
 
 seek 
 Him I have loved with love too weak 
 To hold Him here in thrall. [fall. 
 
 Ye strong as Death, that knows no change or 
 
 " I will arise ! I will no longer crj' 
 
 ' Return ! return !' 
 
 My droughty heart-strings burn ; [vain 
 Like some caged bird that beats its wings in 
 Against the bars and sinks, self-slam, 
 
 1 struggle here. 
 
 Nor see, so blind my fear. 
 The open door by which His bright feet fled. 
 Shall 1 not follow where He led t 
 Shall 1 in darkness lie. 
 Content with idle weeping till I die?" 
 
 I sought Him — ah ! how long I never knew— 
 
 O'er rugged steeps. 
 
 Thro' dim and dreadful deeps ; 
 Mid frozen Winter gales, that mocked and 
 
 howled ; 
 'Mid noisome things, that crawled and 
 prowled ; 
 
 But when the night 
 
 Down-dropped in headlong flight. 
 Died in the white-hot, blazing arms of day. 
 Around me blushed the face of May, 
 And there, 'mid bloom and dew, 
 I found Him where the valley lilies grew. 
 
 F.\NNV I'AKNELL. 
 
 IN TROUBLE AND IN GRIEF. 
 In trouble and in grief. O God, 
 
 Thy smile hath cheered my way; 
 And joy hath budded from each thorn 
 
 That round my footsteps lay. 
 
 The hours of piain have yielded good. 
 Which prosperous days refused ; 
 
 As herbs, though scentless when entire- 
 Perfume the air when bruised. 
 
 The oak strikes deeper, as its boughs 
 By furious blasts are driven 
 
 So life's vicissitudes the more 
 
 Have fixed my heart in heaven. 
 
 .'\ll-gracious Lord I whate'er my lot 
 
 At other times may be. 
 I'll welcome still the heaviest grief 
 
 That brings me near to Thee, 
 
 RICHARD T. POPE. 
 
 AGNUS DEI. 
 Agnus Dei ! when the heart is weary 
 
 With its load of sin : 
 When all without is black and dreary, 
 
 And hope is faint within. 
 Faith looks up to Thee to bear 
 All that load of sin and care ; 
 Thou canst give the soul repose 
 From its guilt and from its woes. 
 
 Agnus Dei ! when that hour is near me, 
 
 Terrible to all, 
 By Thy love for sinners hear me 
 
 When to Thee I call ; 
 
PKO VIDEXCE. 
 
 669 
 
 Through the darkness of that night 
 Be my comfort and my light. 
 From the victory of the grave 
 Thou canst rescue, Thou canst save. 
 
 Agnus Dei! when my trembling spirit 
 
 In that ireful day 
 Waits the judgment, let Thy merit 
 
 Plead for me, I pray. 
 On Thy sacrifice most holy 
 Rest I my redemption solely. 
 Thy precious blood my great salvation — 
 Thy death my life — Thy Cross my exaltation. 
 
 JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. 
 
 HYMN OF A HERMIT, 
 Eternal Mind! Creation's Light and Lord! 
 Thou trainest man to love Thy perfect will. 
 By love to know Thy truth's obscurest word 
 And so his years with hallowed life to fill ; } 
 To own in all things round Thy law's accord. 
 Which bids all hope be strong to vanquish ill ; 
 Illumined thus by Thy diffusive ray, [day. 
 The darkened world and soul are bright with 
 
 In storm, and flood, and all decays of time. 
 In hunger, plagues, and man-devouring war ; 
 In all the boundless tracts of inward crime, — 
 In selfish hates, and lusts that deepliest mar. 
 In lazy dreams that clog each task sublime. 
 In voiceless doubts of truth's unsetting star ; 
 In all — Thy spirit will not cease to brood 
 With vital strength, unfolding all to good. 
 
 The headlong cataract and tempest's roar. 
 The rage of seas, and earthquake's hoarse dis- 
 may. 
 The crush of empire, sapped by tears and gore, 
 And shrieks of hearts their own corruption's 
 
 prey; 
 All sounds of death enforce Thy righteous 
 
 lore. 
 In smoothest flow Thy being's truth obey. 
 And, heard in ears from passion's witchery 
 
 free. 
 One endless music make — a hymn to Thee ! 
 
 But most, O God ! the inward eyes of thought 
 Discern Thy laws in all that works within ; 
 The conscious will, by hard experience taught, 
 Divines Thy mercy shown by hate of sin ; 
 And hearts whose peace by shame and grief 
 was bought, 
 
 Thy blessings praise, that first in wo begin ; 
 For still on earthly pain's tormented ground 
 Thy love's immortal flowers and fruits abound. 
 
 Fair sight it is, and medicinal for man. 
 To see Thy guidance lead the human breast ; 
 In life's unopened germs behold Thy plan. 
 Till 'mid the ripened soul it stand confest ; 
 From impulse too minute for us to scan, 
 Awakening sense with love and purpose blest ; 
 And through confusion, error, trial, grief, 
 Maturing reason, conscience, calm belief. 
 
 This to have known, my soul, be thankful 
 
 This clear ideal form of endless good, [thou ! 
 
 Which casts around the adoring learner's brow 
 
 The ray that marks man's holiest brotherhood ; 
 
 Thus e'en from guilt's deep curse and slavish 
 vow. 
 
 And dreams whereby the light was long with- 
 stood. 
 
 Thee, Lord! whose mind is rule supreme to 
 all, 
 
 Unveiled we see, and hail thy wisdom's call. 
 
 JOHN STERLING. 
 
 PROVIDENCE. 
 When late on life's departed years 
 
 The scenes and seasons past — 
 Their hopes and joys — their cares and fears, 
 
 A lingering glance I cast ; 
 And mark how oft hopes fondly nursed 
 
 Have dealt affliction's blow — 
 How oft from sorrow's cloud hath burst 
 
 A pure and heavenly glow ! 
 
 How oft a moment changed the scene, 
 
 When keenest grew distress. 
 How disappointment oft hath been 
 
 The path to joyfulness ; 
 Methinks I see Heaven's hand impart 
 
 The expedient good to all — 
 In time depress the o'er-worldly heart 
 
 And raise up hearts that fall. 
 
 I gazed on Time's long page ; the same 
 
 All guiding spirit still 
 Through all o'er-ruled with changeless aim— 
 
 The turns of good and ill ; 
 One hand, with unseen touch, combined 
 
 The parts of mercy's plan. 
 Links of the eternal chain designed 
 
 For benefit to man. 
 
 JAMES WILLS. 
 
670 
 
 ASPIRATIONS FOR DEATH. 
 O soul, held prisoner out of reach 
 Of God's great glor>- in this gloom 
 Of life, as in a living tomb ; 
 
 God, whose mercy I beseech. 
 When will my spirit rend the chain 
 Of this dark prison-house of pain. 
 
 Where weeping, pining, faint I lie, 
 And die. because I cannot die. 
 
 How vain this only life I know ! 
 
 This bitter cup from poisoned springs. 
 
 These soiled and broken spirit-wings. 
 Stained with my sins and dark with woe ; 
 These fetters bound upon my feet. 
 That fain would run their Lord to greet, 
 
 And from my soul goes up the cr)-, 
 
 I die because I cannot die. 
 
 Here all is weak and poor and frail — 
 Even when my life with Thine is blest 
 In Thy most Holy sacrament, 
 
 1 long for death to lift the veil ; 
 
 And if the death-psalm, low and faint. 
 Is chanted for some dying saint 
 
 My prayer goes upward with a sigh, — 
 
 1 die, because I cannot die. 
 
 Death brings alone the soul's release 
 
 From all this wear)', worldly strife ; 
 
 For life is death, and death is life, 
 And through the grave we pass to peace ; 
 O mournful exile of our years. 
 This life begun and closed in tears! 
 
 In death I hope, to death I fly. 
 
 And die. because I cannot die. 
 
 My life is slain with sorrow's sword. 
 
 And still I know it is my sin 
 
 That leaves me this low world within ; 
 Yet, dead lips cannot praise Thee, Lord— 
 Oh ! to breathe forth my soul's desire. 
 My burning love, with lips of fire! 
 
 Until that moment draweth nigh, 
 
 I die, because I cannot die. 
 
 To stand within the Golden Gate. 
 Bathed in the effluent light and love 
 Wherein the sphered systems move ; 
 
 To see the circling angels wait 
 
 Around the great white Throne of Him, 
 
 The Lord of all the Seraphim, 
 
 blessed life beyond the sky ! — 
 
 1 die, because I cannot die. 
 
 MORAL ASD REUGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 My life. O God, 1 give to Thee : 
 My life— 'tis all I have to give. 
 And, losing it, begin to live 
 
 The life of immortality. 
 
 Are we not bound here unto death— 
 
 His bond-slaves, as the Spirit saith ? 
 
 give me freedom, life on high I — 
 
 1 die. because 1 cannot die. 
 
 Life shrouds us with its gloomy pall ; 
 Yet still through blinding mists I see 
 Heaven's holy light stream down on me. 
 
 God. my God, on Thee I call. 
 That soon before Thy face divine. 
 For ever near Thee, wholly Thine, 
 
 My soul may utter forth the cry — 
 
 1 live, and never more shall die ! 
 
 LAUV WILD I 
 From the Spanish of Sttiita Teresa. 
 
 \ LIFE'S LAST HOUR. 
 
 ' Shall I live till I am old. 
 
 Till my heart is dull and cold.' 
 I Shall I with progressive wear, 
 I All life's ills reluctant bear ; 
 
 See no tender eye watch o'er me, 
 ' All I loved in death before me.' 
 
 Shall I die with years in prime, 
 j Unfulfilled the Psalmist's time? 
 
 Shall I leave this sunshine soon, 
 In the midst of manhood's noon— 
 Friendship, feasting, music o'er, 
 
 I All I cherished seen no more.' 
 Shall I feel a pang— a chill— 
 
 I Brain on fire— a rapid rill 
 From cloven heart- a stifled breath- 
 Tell me, ye wise, will this be death .' 
 Tell me, what I long to know. 
 Presage of the fatal blow? 
 
 Alas! ye cannot tell the hour. 
 
 The way, the work of death's dark power ; 
 
 Then, let me bow beneath the sway 
 
 Of Him whom earth and Heaven obey. 
 
 Ask Him. my soul, to seek and save, 
 : And thus, unfearing. meet the grave. 
 ' Jesu. Lord ! be present Thou 
 
 When Death's cold dews surround my brow; 
 
 Let promised rod and staff be there. 
 I And faith and hope, and love and prayer ; 
 
 Visit my soul with glad surprise. 
 I And glad with heaven my longing eyes. 
 
 THU.MAS DREW. 
 
EVENING HYMN. 
 
 671 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 I saw an angel in the night, 
 And my soul spake and stopped her flight, — 
 
 Spirit sheen ! O heavenly Thing ! 
 What air is fanned by your bright wing? 
 What lovely zone beheld your birth 
 
 Of shining sun, or star, or earth ? 
 
 Where goest thou— to what radiant sphere ? 
 
 Or why with mortals linger here ? 
 
 ANGEL. 
 
 In the light of the primal Morn, 
 
 When the warfare of sin began. 
 In Eden's bowers I was born 
 
 To dwell with the soul of man ; 
 A spark of the splendor of God, 
 
 I entered the darksome den 
 Of the doubting soul, and I grew and grew 
 Fairer and brighter the ages through. 
 Till alight from my light filled the eyes of men. 
 And their hearts grew calm, and they saw the 
 rod 
 Of Justice, of Doom, 
 O'er their tribes and their nations wave abroad 
 With the blossoms of Mercy abloom ! 
 
 1 showed them God's mar\'els here. 
 
 And the myriads called me Faith ; 
 I slew the dragon of Fear, 
 
 And I bridged the bourne of Death ; 
 I opened the soul's dull eyes, 
 
 And showed her the things beyond ; - 
 I guided her feet o'er the narrow way 
 That leads to the land of eternal day. 
 O'er the desert of Doubt, o'er the lake of 
 
 Despond, 
 O'er the mountains of woe, through the curses 
 and sighs 
 And the pangs of Despair. 
 Till she saw in the fulness of Joy but the skies 
 Of her God-promised home shining there! 
 
 I walked on the Deluge wide. 
 
 I guided the wandering Ark. 
 I sat by the Saviour's side 
 
 When the days were heavy and dark. 
 I bide in the peasant's cot, 
 
 As in temples and halls of kings ; 
 I hear the last breath that the Martyr draws 
 On the cross and the wheel for his sacred 
 
 cause ; 
 I strengthen the soul 'gainst the thousand 
 
 Of the world and the flesh, till the earth 
 seems not, 
 
 And her yearning eyes 
 Look far away from this darksome spot. 
 
 Where the Islands of heaven arise ! 
 
 A golden glory round her shone 
 
 That dazed mine eyes, and she was gone ! — 
 
 I said, O troubled soul of mine, 
 
 Have faith in God, and Heaven is thine ! 
 
 ROBERT DVVVER JOYCE. 
 
 EVENING HYMN. 
 The sunset wanes: now gather again from 
 task and play. 
 The day-long busy children around the 
 mother's knee ; 
 And we again. Blest Mother, draw round thy 
 shrine to pray. 
 In words that first were cadenced by angel 
 voice to thee, — 
 
 Ave Maria ! 
 
 Now twilight pale is fading, and softly o'er 
 the sea 
 The stars, in clustering glory, steal forth 
 with trembling blaze ; 
 So o'er the soul in silence rise gentle thoughts 
 of thee. 
 Whose Virgin-Mother graces outcount the 
 starry rays, — 
 
 Gratia plena ! 
 
 Now night's weird shapes and phantoms troop 
 
 forth in shapes of fright ; 
 Abroad— sin, death, and peril brood through 
 
 the darkling air : 
 Oh ! ask thy Son to guard us ; thy prayer he 
 
 will not slight. 
 From crib to cross the sharer of all thy mother 
 
 care, — 
 
 Dominus tecum ! 
 
 Our life is but a shadow, a night of troubled 
 dreams. — 
 Its visioned woes all fleeting like cloud- 
 racks swift away ; 
 Pray, Mother, for thy children, till break the 
 morning beams. 
 Till dawn the dazzling splendors of our 
 eternal day. 
 
 Ora pro nobis ! 
 Ri. J. A. m<-caffer/y. 
 
672 
 
 MOA'AL A.\D RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE STRING OF THE ROSARY. 
 Arbutus came, from out the moist earth peep- 
 ing. 
 And then a violet and a Bethlehem star, 
 And when a daisy smiled which had been 
 sleeping 
 Down in the pines, where sheltered corners 
 are. 
 The fields were hidden m a soft green cover 
 And our whole world was Lady April's lover. 
 
 The lilacs burst and filled the air with incense. 
 Then roses crowded in the way of June, 
 
 Beauties well guarded by their thorns and 
 leaves dense. 
 Ruddy in daylight, pale 'neath harvest moon ; 
 
 From purest white to deepest crimson ranging. 
 
 In loveliness from bud to blossom changing. 
 
 Then maples in the autumn I And the a^ter 
 
 I saw last year, its petals ruby red. 
 Gold-hearted, aromatic ; fast and faster 
 
 The year sf>ed onward to the years that fled ; 
 But gorgeous were the banners borne before 
 
 him; 
 The clouds took purple vestments to adore 
 him. 
 
 The last sad days were not so sad in passing; 
 The barns were full, and, hiding here and 
 there, 
 A late flower bloomed : and to the eastward 
 massing 
 Against the wind, the cedar hedges were 
 Green all the year, and greener in the winter; 
 Them ocean gales could neither bend nor 
 splinter. 
 
 These have their meaning : ever)' month and 
 season 
 Speaks to the Christian heart a tale of love ; 
 We, knowing this, in each may find a reason 
 For tender thoughts for the dear Lord 
 above. 
 Red roses say " His Sacred Heart remember!" ' 
 " Eternal life " cry hedges in December. | 
 
 Poor is the man who sees but earthly flowers. 
 Hears only earthly voices in the trees, 
 
 .'Xnd finds no symbols in the starlit hours, ' 
 
 Though his great wealth be blazoned over ' 
 seas; 
 
 Poor ! if he in the cloud sees only vapor. 
 
 And in the sun a larger, useful taper. 
 
 Fair silver lines the cloud of sternest duty, 
 There is a glow on all our week-day deeds ; 
 
 Through all the year there runs a string of 
 
 beauty [beads. 
 
 Like the bright chain that holds our rosary 
 
 Life is not hard, seen thro' the Resurrection ; 
 
 Nature, read rightly, helps us to j)erfection. 
 
 .MAURICE F. EG AN. 
 
 SONG OF THE SERAPHIM. 
 Up where the King of Glory sits. 
 
 Here where His people have their homes, 
 Never the wing of a shadow flits. 
 
 Never the wail of a sorrow comes: [thesun. 
 But the glimmer of stars, and the gleam of 
 
 And the light that streams from the high 
 white Throne, 
 Shine while the heavenly anthems run. 
 
 Where angels the words of love intone. 
 
 Out of the mists and above the din. 
 
 Here, where the King of Glorv' reigns. 
 Never a shadow enters in. 
 
 Never a troubled voice complains: 
 But angels sing the song of the Lamb, 
 
 Whereat the trail of the Serpent ends; 
 And the voice of the high-enthroned " I AM " 
 
 A hope for man thro' the ages sends. 
 
 Up where the King of Glory sits, 
 
 Out of the mist and above the din, 
 Never the wing of a shadow flits. 
 
 Never a sorrow enters in : 
 But light and love, and prayer and praise. 
 
 And charity that all invites, 
 Make up the measureless, endless days. 
 
 The days of Heaven that know no nights. 
 WILLIA.M I). GALLAGHER. 
 
 A TIRED HEART. 
 Dear Lord I if one should some dav come to 
 
 Thee, 
 Weary exceedingly, and poor, and worn. 
 With bleeding feet, sore pierced of many a 
 
 thorn, 
 And lips athirst. and eyes too tired to see. 
 And, falling down before Thy face, should 
 
 say. 
 Lord, my day counts but as an idle day. 
 My hands have garnered fruit of no fair tree, 
 
PRAYER FOR CALM. 
 
 Empty am I of stores of oil and corn, 
 
 Broken am I and utterly forlorn, 
 
 Yet in thy vine)'ard hast thou room for me?" 
 
 Wouldst turn thy face away ? 
 Nay, thou wouldst lift thy lost sheep tenderly. 
 
 "Lord ! Thou art pale, as one that travaileth, 
 And Thy wounds bleed where feet and hands 
 
 were riven ; 
 Thou hast lain all these years in balms of 
 
 Heaven 
 Since Thou wast broken in the arms of 
 
 Death, 
 And these have healed not." "Child, be 
 
 comforted. 
 I trod the wine-press where thy feet have 
 
 bled. 
 Yea, on the Cross I cried with mighty breath, 
 Thirsting for thee, whose love was elsewhere 
 
 given ; 
 I. God, have followed thee from dawn to 
 
 even. 
 With yearning heart, by many a moor and 
 
 heath. 
 My sheep that wandered ! 
 Now on My breast. Mine arm its head be- 
 neath. " 
 
 " Then if this stricken one cried out to Thee, 
 ' Now mine eyes see that Thou art passing 
 
 fair. 
 And thy face, marred of men, beyond com- 
 pare,' 
 And so should fall to weeping bitterly. 
 With ' Lord ! I longed for other love than 
 
 Thine, 
 And my feet followed earthly lovers fine. 
 Turning from where Thy face entreated me; 
 Now these grow cold and wander otherwhere. 
 And L heart empty, poor, and very bare. 
 Loved of no lover, turn at last to thee ' — 
 
 Wouldst stretch Thine hand divine 
 And stroke the bowed head very pityingly?" 
 
 " Shall not My love suffice through thy great 
 
 pain?" 
 " Ah, Lord ! all night, without a lighted house. 
 While some within held revel and carouse. 
 My lost heart wandered in the wind and rain. 
 And moaned unheard amid the tempest's 
 
 din." 
 •' Peace, peace ! Jf one had sped to let thee 
 
 Perchance this hour were lost for that hour's 
 
 ^Jl 
 
 Wouldst thou have sought Me then with thy 
 
 new vows ? 
 Ah, child, I too, with bleeding feet and brows. 
 Knocked all the night at a heart's door in 
 
 And saw the dawn begin ; 
 On My gold head the dews have left a stain. 
 
 KATHARINE TYNAN. 
 
 OLD AGE. 
 When age, with soft and secret wand. 
 
 Hath touched and changed the locks to 
 What diadem could mortal hand [snow, 
 
 So precious and so fair bestow? 
 
 If then religion's sacred rays 
 
 Beam on these hoary locks of thine. 
 
 What crown, that gems and gold emblaze, 
 Can with such holy radiance shine? 
 
 They form a glory round the head. 
 To charm the reverent gaze of youth ; 
 
 A lustre o'er their steps to shed. 
 
 And guide them up the hill of truth. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis a wreath of heavenly light. 
 Fair emblem of the crown divine. 
 
 That cherubs pure and seraphs bright 
 Around the brows of saints entwine. 
 
 WILLIAM H. DkUMMOXD. 
 
 PRAYER FOR CALM. 
 When the disciples saw each surging hill 
 Of waters threaten that frail bark, aboard 
 Of which, rude -pillowed, lay their sleeping 
 
 Lord, 
 They roused Him, with affrighted prayers; — 
 
 and still, 
 He, only He, can calm the mind at will; 
 His sovereign Word alone with power reprove 
 Ambition's lumult, the unrest of love, [still. 
 And to the heart's wild waves say. Peace, be 
 If to ourselves, then, Christ now sleeping 
 
 seem. 
 If, in our hearts we feel those billows rave. 
 Let us, too, start to prayer from panic's dream. 
 And from a risen Saviour mercy crave : 
 Thy voice, O Lord, can still give calm 
 
 supreme — 
 Without Thee we are lost — but thou canst 
 
 save. 
 
 WILLIAII R. HAMILTON. 
 
674 
 
 WHO IS THE FOE? 
 Who is the foe. tny spirit tell, 
 Or what the power of earth or hell. 
 That shall my steadfast bosom move 
 To quit my dear Redeemer's love ? 
 Shall tribulation s gloomy train. 
 Or sad distress, or grindinj; pain. 
 Or persecution breathing blood. 
 Or peril by the land or flood. 
 Or famine howling at my board. 
 Or tyrant armed with fire and sword ? 
 Not these, nor worse, my soul appal. 
 Thro' Christ I triumph o'er them all 
 And in my secret soul I feel. 
 Not danger, want, nor fire, nor steel ; 
 Not all the torments death arrays. 
 Not all the glories life displays. 
 Not empires, diadems, and thrones. 
 Nor angels' joys, nor hell's deep groans : 
 Not all the present hour reveals. 
 Not all futurity conceals. 
 Nor height sublime, nor depth profound. 
 Nor aught in <ill creation's round. 
 Shall e'er my steadfast bosom move 
 To quit my dear Redeemer's love. 
 
 WILLIAM H. DRUM.MD.NIJ. 
 
 STELLA MATUTINA. 
 1. 
 Shine out. O Star, and sing the praise 
 
 Of that unrisen Sun whose glow 
 Thus feeds thee with thine earlier rays. — 
 The secret of thy song we know. 
 
 Thou sing'st that Sun of Righteousness. 
 
 Sole light of this benighted globe. 
 Whose beams, from Him reflected, dress 
 
 His Mother in her shining robe. 
 
 Pale Lily, pearled around with dew. 
 
 Lift high that heaven-illumined vase. 
 And sing the glories ever new 
 
 Of her, God's chalice, " full of grace." 
 
 Cerulean Ocean, fringed with white, 
 That wear'st her colors evermore, 
 
 ?n all thy pureness, all thy might, 
 
 Resf)und her name from shore to shore. 
 
 Her name, and His. that, like thy rim 
 Of light the dusky lands around. 
 
 Still girds Creation's shadow dim 
 With Incarnation's shining bound. 
 
 MOKAL AXD KELIGIOUS I'OEMS. 
 
 Transfigured Earth, disguised loo long ! 
 
 It falls — that Pagan mask of sense ! 
 Burst forth, dumb worlds, at last, in song 
 
 Of Spiritual Intelligence ! 
 
 I "' 
 
 The night thro' yonder cloudy cleft. 
 
 With many a lingering last regard. 
 Withdraws— but slowly — and hath left 
 Her mantle on the dewy sward. 
 
 The lawns with silver dews are strewn ■ 
 
 The winds lie hushed in cave and tree : 
 j Nor stirs a flower, save one alone 
 
 That bends beneath the earliest bee. 
 
 Peace over all the garden broods; 
 ' Pathetic sweets the thicket throng; 
 Like breath the \-apor o'er the woods 
 Ascends — d'm words without a song : 
 
 Or hangs, a shining, fleece-like mass 
 O'er half yon lake that winds afar. 
 .Among the forests still as glass. 
 I The mirror of the Morning Star. 
 
 Which, half-way wandering from the sky, 
 j Amid the crimson dawn delays, 
 I And (large and less alternately) 
 I Bends down a lustrous, tearful gaze. 
 
 Mother and home of spirits blest ! 
 
 Bright gate of Heaven and Golden Bower, 
 Thy best of blessings, love and rest. 
 
 Depart not till on earth thou shower! 
 
 AUllKKV T. DE VKRE. 
 
 NEW ^EAR. 
 Light of the stars and worlds unknown. 
 In whom all light and life abound ! 
 Descending from Thy glorious throne 
 The sun has made his yearly round. 
 Thou Ruler of all change and time. 
 Again we hail the same bright sun. 
 Rayed in Thy Majesty sublime. 
 Another annual course to run. 
 
 "Tis God Omnipotent that reigns; 
 Let earth the shout of gladness raise! 
 Ye isles afar, join in the strains. 
 And praise Him in your holy days. 
 For Thou, from everlasting. Lord! 
 To everlasting art the same ; 
 No shade of change is in Thy Word ; 
 The One eternal is Thy name. 
 
A PRAYER. 
 
 Ancient of days! when day and night 
 Shall cease to measure out Thy love ; 
 When time no more his lamp shall light 
 At the eternal fount above ; — 
 May every soul, that came from Thee, 
 In Jesus rise to Thee again ; 
 Thy praise be sung eternally. 
 By every rank and tribe of men ! 
 
 DAVID WHVTE. 
 
 CHRISTMAS HYMN. 
 While shepherds watched theirfiocks by night 
 
 All seated on the ground. 
 The angel of the Lord came down. 
 
 And glory shone around. 
 " Fear not," said he (for mighty dread 
 
 Had seized their troubled mind); 
 " Glad tidings of great joy I bring 
 
 To you and all mankind. 
 
 "To you, in David's town, this day 
 
 Is born of David's line 
 The Saviour, who is Christ the Lord ; 
 
 And this shall be the sign : 
 The heavenly Babe you there shall find 
 
 To human view displayed. 
 All meanly wrapt in swathing bands, 
 
 And in a manger laid." 
 
 Thus spake the Seraph ; and forthwith 
 
 Appeared a shining throng 
 Of angels, praising God, and thus 
 
 Addressed their joyful song. 
 ■■ All glory be to God on high. 
 
 And to the earth be peace ; 
 Good-will henceforth from heaven to men 
 
 Begin, and never cease ! " 
 
 NAHUiM TATE. 
 
 A PRAYER OF DOUBT. 
 The mystery of life, O Lord, do Thou disclose : 
 Why riches, honor, happiness to those 
 Who love Thee not are given without stint : 
 While they who pray for only Faith, remain 
 
 like flint : 
 Lord, I believe ; help thou my unbelief. 
 
 Some feet are consecrate, O Lord, from birth 
 
 to thee ; 
 Mine have wandered, reckless and uncertainly: 
 Show me the path — how sharp its thorny wall — 
 O ! take my hand or I shall faint and fall : 
 Lord, I believe ; help Thou my unbelief. 
 
 675 
 
 The souls that love Thee, Lord, Thy sweet- 
 ness know ; 
 
 My soul is cold as mountain capped with 
 snow : [divine : 
 
 Touch Thou its crest with ray of warmth 
 
 Lo"! with Thy glory doth the mountain shine ! 
 Lord, I believe ; help Thou my unbelief. 
 
 Some hearts Thou fiUest, Lord, with radiant 
 hope : 
 
 My eastern windows rarely, dimly ope : 
 
 Glance Thou this way : the curtains are with- 
 drawn — 
 
 My house is burnished with Thine eyelids' 
 dawn ! 
 Lord, I believe ; help Thou my unbelief. 
 
 MARGARET F. SULLIVAN. 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 Give me, O Lord, a heart of grace, 
 A voice of joy, a shining face, 
 That I may show, where'er I turn. 
 Thy love within my soul doth burn ! 
 
 Though life be sweet and joy be dear, 
 Be in my mind a quiet fear; 
 A patient love of pain and care, 
 An enmity to dark despair ; 
 
 A tenderness for all that stray. 
 With strength to help them on the way ; 
 A cheerfulness, a heavenly mirth. 
 Brightening my steps along the earth ; 
 
 A calm expectancy of death. 
 Who bloweth out our human breath ; 
 Who one day cometh in Thy name. 
 And putteth out our mortal flame ! 
 
 Press Thou Thy thorns upon my head. 
 For I would bleed as Thou hast bled ; 
 'Tis meet that I should wounded be 
 By that which sorely wounded Thee ! 
 
 I ask, and shrink, yet shrink, and ask ■ 
 I know Thou wilt not set a task 
 Too hard for hands that Thou hast made, 
 Too hard for hands that Thou canst aid. 
 
 So let me dwell all peacefully. 
 Content to live, content to die. 
 Rejoicing now. rejoicing then. 
 Rejoicing evermgre. Amen. 
 
 ROSA MULHOLLAND. 
 
MORAL AND REUGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 MARY STUARTS LAST PRAYER. 
 A lonely mourner kneels in prayer before the 
 
 Virgin's fane. 
 With white hands crossed for Jesu's sake, so 
 
 her prayer may not be vain ; 
 Wan is her cheek, and very pale,— her voice 
 
 is low and faint. 
 And tears are in her eyes the while she makes 
 
 her humble plaint. 
 
 little could you deem from her, her sad and 
 
 lowly mien, 
 That she was once the Bride of France, and 
 still was Scotland's Queen ! 
 
 "O, Mary Mother! — Mary Mother! be my 
 
 help and stay ! 
 Be with me still, as thou hast been, and 
 
 strengthen me to-day ! 
 For many a time, with heavy heart, all weary 
 
 of its grief, 
 
 1 solace sought in thy blest thought, and ever 
 
 found relief: 
 For thou, too, werta Queen on earth, and men 
 
 were harsh to thee, — 
 And cruel things and rude they said, as they 
 
 have said of me ! 
 
 " O, gentlemen of Scotland ! O, Cavaliers of 
 
 France ! 
 How each and all had grasped his sword, and 
 
 seized his angry lance, [bride. 
 
 If ladye love, or sister dear, or nearer, dearer 
 Had been, like me, your friendless Liege, 
 
 insulted and belied ! 
 But these are sinful thoughts and sad, — I 
 
 should not mind me now 
 Of faith forsworn, or broken pledge, or false 
 
 or fruitless vow ! 
 
 " But rather pray, sweet Mary, my sins maybe 
 
 forgiven. 
 And less severe than on the earth my judges 
 
 prove in heaven ! 
 For stern and solemn men have said, God's 
 
 vengeance will be shown, 
 And fearful will the penance be on the sins 
 
 which I have done ! 
 And yet albeit my sins be great. O Mary, 
 
 Mary dear, 
 Nor to Knox nor to false Moray the Judge 
 
 will then give ear! 
 
 '• Yes. it was wrong and thoughtless, when 
 
 first 1 came from France. [dance 
 
 To lead couranle or minuet, or lightsr, gayer 
 
 Yes, it was wrong and thoughtless to while 
 
 whole hours away 
 In dark and gloomy Holyrood with some 
 
 Italian lay; 
 Dark men would scowl their hate at me, and 
 
 I have heard them tell 
 How the just Lord God of Israel had stricken 
 
 Jezebel ! 
 
 "But thou, dear Mary! — Mary mine! hast 
 ever looked the same. 
 
 With pleasant mien, and smile serene, on her 
 who bore thy name. [not see 
 
 O grant that when anon I go to death, I may 
 
 Nor axe, nor block, nor headsman, but Thee 
 and only Thee ! 
 
 Then 'twill be told in coming times, how 
 Mary gave her grace 
 
 To die as Stuart, Guise, should die. of Charle- 
 magne's fearless race ! " 
 
 r.. S. SMYTH E. 
 
 BROODING SPIRIT. 
 O Brooding Spirit of Wisdom and of Love, 
 Whose mighty wings even nowo'ershadow me. 
 Absorb me in Thine own immensity. 
 And raise me far my finite self above ! 
 Purge vanity away, and the weak care 
 That name or fame of me may widely spread 
 And the deep wish keep burning in their stead. 
 Thy blissful influence afar to bear. 
 Or see it borne ! Let no desire of ease, 
 No lack of courage, faith, or love, delay [way. 
 Mine own steps on that high thought-paven 
 In which my soul her clear commission sees; 
 Yet with an equal joy let me behold 
 Thy chariot o'er that way by others rolled ! 
 
 WILLIAM R. HAMILTON. 
 
 ADVENT. 
 Morning cometh. wanes the night. 
 
 Dawns the day that endeth never ; 
 Gird your loins, ye sons of light. 
 Darkness fades and flees forever : 
 
 In the East His sign appears. 
 Crown of all the coming years. 
 
 Through the skies a voice is heard, 
 
 Trumpet-iongued. more deep than thunder; 
 'Tis Jehovah's mighty word. 
 . Kindreds, nations, hear and wonder . 
 Spread the tidings far and wide. 
 Triumphs now the Crucified. 
 
CHK/STAIAS. 
 
 Fair as early morning-beams, 
 
 O'er the countless dew-drops shining, 
 Wake the saints from peaceful dreams. 
 Slumber and the grave resigning : 
 
 Glad they rise, their Lord to meet. 
 Follow to the judgment-seat. 
 
 Deep the awe, the fear, the joy, 
 
 Now the Son of Man surrounding — 
 Highest Angel-hosts employ 
 
 All their powers His name resounding — 
 
 Christ they praise, with one accord — 
 Christ the Saviour, Christ the Lord ! 
 
 Oh ! when round the Throne we stand 
 
 On that glorious Advent-morning, 
 Gazing on Thy brow. Thy hand. 
 
 Clothed with radiance, raised in warning, 
 Jesu ! may Thy smile of love 
 Our Eternal gladness prove. 
 
 WILLIAM M^ILWAINE. 
 
 EASTER. 
 What sound is that which wakes the gladsome 
 morn? 
 Exultant strain from Judah's hill-tops ring- 
 ing ? 
 Ecstatic notes from joy ecstatic born, 
 
 A ransomed world — a ransomed world is 
 singing; 
 For in sublimest love 
 Christ came from thrones above ; 
 And He, to heal our mortal sin. 
 Received Death's wound His heart within. 
 
 Yet victor rose from hell. 
 And Death is dead, and Life is Lord ! 
 Hail, hail to the immortal Word ! 
 
 Let earth's proud paeans swell. 
 
 Rejoice ! Rejoice ! 
 For burst is hell's dread prison. 
 
 Rejoice ! Rejoice ! 
 Swell your triumphant voice, — 
 The Christ, the Christ is risen ! 
 
 What gleam is that whereat the round world 
 thrills. 
 His glorious triumphal car adorning.' [hills, 
 Lo ! where his steeds have spurned the Orient 
 Breaks showered light on dun-rolled clouds 
 of morning! 
 Now He who walked the earth 
 In guise of lowliest birth 
 
 Is crowned the royal King of Kings, 
 For Whom the spacious heaven rings ; 
 
 And they of low degree 
 With joy of joy His coming greet 
 Who hurls the mighty from their seat. 
 
 And bids the slave be free. 
 Rejoice ! Rejoice ! 
 
 For burst is Death's dark prison. 
 Rejoice ! Rejoice ! 
 
 Swell your triumphant voice, 
 
 For Christ our Lord is risen ! 
 
 Christ God! for Thee the sun-browed Nations 
 wait. 
 Who hail Thy name and own Thy name for 
 ever ! — 
 O Thou who flungest wide the sapphire gate 
 Of that new world where Life and Love 
 part never! 
 Thine awful power appals 
 And splendor dread enthrals r 
 Yet from the glory of Thy face 
 There gleams an all-redeeming grace 
 That lightens woe's dark fen. 
 And 'neath Thy sway divinely mild. 
 Glads Earth and Heaven, and Chaos wild. 
 And Eden blooms again. 
 
 Rejoice ! Rejoice! 
 For burst is Sin's foul prison ; 
 
 Rejoice ! Rejoice ! 
 Swell the triumphant voice 
 That Christ our God is risen ! 
 
 ROWLAND B. MAHANV. 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Lift high your notes. 
 Ye bright adoring throng 
 Who nearest stand 
 To God's right hand 
 Engaged in ardent song. 
 Pour out to-day, along your utmost line, 
 The richest measures of the art divine. 
 Through all your deeps let peal the lofty 
 
 hymn — 
 The Christ is born to-day in Bethlehem. 
 
 And ye who roam 
 Amongst the spacious plains 
 
 In His employ. 
 
 Who is your joy. 
 Take up the inspiring strains. 
 
678 
 
 MORAL Ai\D HELIOIOUS POEMS. 
 
 And. while all heaven in silent wonder stands, 
 Clap, clap in unison, your myriad hands. 
 And to the sympathetic crowds proclaim — 
 The Christ is born to-day in Eiethlehem. 
 
 Earth, earth take up 
 The full harmonious lay. 
 In hut and hall. 
 Let great and small. 
 Be one with heaven to-day. 
 No gladder news has thrilled the air before— 
 Hear it, ye lost ones, and be lost no more ; 
 Awake to hope, ye sons of sin and shame. 
 The Christ is born to-day in Bethlehem. 
 
 To-day. to-day, 
 Brothers, rejoice, to-day 
 The clouds have fled. 
 The sun has shed 
 On every heart his ray. 
 Hail. Prince of Peace ! hail. Uncreated Light 1 
 We give Thee welcome. King of Truth and 
 
 Right ! 
 Our hearts are glad to hear the loud acclaim— 
 The Christ is born to-day in Bethlehem. 
 
 WILLIAM COWAN. 
 
 THE HOPE OF THE SAINT. 
 City! brighter than the sun, 
 
 Than the silver moon more fair , 
 Height, by saints and martyrs won, 
 
 Climbed through want, and woe, and care- 
 Oft, methinks, I see thy gates. 
 
 Each a pearl of purest ray ; 
 Hear the jubilee which waits 
 
 Those who walk thy golden way ; 
 View thy walls, as crj'stal clear. 
 
 Built with gem and precious stone ; 
 Bring thy vision'd glories near. 
 
 Catch the radiance of thy throne ; 
 Pause to hear the central psalm 
 
 Rising round the fount of love. 
 Where the white robe and the palm 
 
 Grace that host, all hosts above. 
 And should earth come gliding in. 
 
 Such brief moments' bliss to blight — 
 Strong temptation, dream of sin. 
 
 Cloud of sorrow, shade of night- 
 Still thy brightness o'er me shed 
 
 Draws to heaven the silent prayer— 
 Oh I the paths of peace to tread ! 
 
 Least and lowest — only there ! 
 
 WILLIAM MdLWAINK. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 Merrily the minster bells 
 
 Peal upon the morn 
 Cheerily their music tells 
 
 "Christ to-day is born." 
 'Tis the tale the angels told 
 To the shepherds in the fold. 
 Chanting heavenly melodies. 
 While God's glory filled the skies. 
 
 Let us chant that hymn sublime 
 
 That erst the angels sung, 
 Let every race and every clime, 
 
 .\nd every heart and tongue. 
 Wake a world-wide song of praise, 
 As the joyful strain they raise. 
 Earth proclaim and heaven reply 
 •• Glory be to God on High ! " 
 
 Not myrrh, nor frankincense, nor gold. 
 
 The oflferings we bring. 
 As royal Magians gave of old 
 
 To Child and God and King. 
 We give not part, we give the whole ; 
 We give our spirit, body, soul ; 
 We love, and worship, and obey. 
 The infant God-King born to-day 
 
 Minster bells, peal merrily 
 
 On this festal morn — 
 "Glory be to God on High ! 
 
 Christ to-day is born ."" 
 So sang the Church in ages past. 
 So shall she sing while time shall last, 
 Her hymn on earth, while warring, given, 
 Her hymn triumphant yet in heaven ! 
 
 JOHN FRANCIS WALLKk. 
 
 THE NATIVITY. 
 Uplift the voice of melody, your choicest 
 
 numbers bring. 
 Of grace divine the song shall be, and mercy's 
 
 flowing spring; 
 We'll celebrate the mighty love of Him, who. 
 
 throned on high. 
 Descended from that throne above, to suflfer 
 
 and to die. 
 
 Uplift the voice of melody, to hail the glorious 
 morn, 
 
 That saw in Bethl'em's manger lie the won- 
 drous Virgin-born ; 
 
EASTER VOICES. 
 
 6/9 
 
 We'll follow in the shining train of that 
 seraphic band, 
 
 Whose voices bore, in choral strain, the tid- 
 ings thro' the land. 
 
 Uplift the voice of melody, " to us a Son is 
 
 given "— 
 Shout " peace, good-will " and victory, the 
 
 bonds of sin are riven ; 
 He comes " the Sun of Righteousness," with 
 
 healing in His wings — 
 He comes, a ransom 'd world to bless, and reign 
 
 the King of kings. 
 
 Uplift the voice of melody, " Hosanna to the 
 
 Lord " — 
 Let earth, let ocean, and let sky take up the 
 
 joyous word. 
 And hail with us the glorious day that gave 
 
 the Saviour birth. 
 To Him united homage pa)' — Emmanuel — 
 
 God on earth ! 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKKl. 
 
 CHRIST IS BORN. 
 
 Christ is born, go tell the story. 
 Tell the nations of His birth ; 
 
 Tell them that the Lord of Glory 
 
 Comes from heaven to dwell on earth ; 
 
 Let the tidings 
 Fill the world with sacred mirth. 
 
 See, He lies in yonder manger: 
 " Prince of Life," His title is, 
 
 'Midst His own, and yet a stranger. 
 All things seen and unseen His ; 
 
 Yet neglected : 
 Wonder, O ye heavens, at this. 
 
 See fulfill'd prophetic vision, 
 
 " Unto us a child is born ; " 
 Though an object of derision. 
 
 Though the theme of human scorn : 
 Yet His people 
 Hail His birth, and cease to mourn. 
 
 Hail, Emmanuel, child of promise, 
 ' Lord of all " in humble guise ; 
 Long detain'd ,and absent from us. 
 Come at length to bless our eyes : 
 
 Hail, Emmanuel ! 
 God the Saviour, only Wise! 
 
 TH(JMAS KELLY. 
 
 ON THE MOUNTAIN'S TOP. 
 On the mountain's top appearing, 
 
 Lo! the sacred herald stands. 
 Welcome news to Zion bearing, 
 Zion long in hostile hands ; 
 Mourning captive ! 
 God himself will loose thy bands. 
 
 Has thy night been long and mournful .' 
 Have thy friends unfaithful proved.' 
 
 Have thy foes been proud and scornful. 
 By thy sighs and tears unmoved } 
 
 Cease thy mourning, 
 Zion still is well beloved. 
 
 God, thy God, will now restore thee 
 He himself appears thy friend; 
 
 All thy foes shall flee before thee. 
 Here their boasts and triumphs end. 
 
 Great deliverance 
 Zion's King vouchsafes to send. 
 
 Enemies no more shall trouble. 
 All thy wrongs shall be redress 'd ; 
 
 For thy shame thou shalt have double, 
 In thy Maker's favor bless 'd ; 
 
 All thy conflicts 
 End in everlasting rest. 
 
 THOMAS KELLY. 
 
 EASTER VOICES. 
 Ere yet the gloom of night had been 
 By morn's first glory chased away, 
 Weeping, stood Mary Magdalene 
 
 Beside the grave, where Jesus lay. 
 " Why weepest thou ? be not afraid ; 
 
 Why is thy faint heart bowed with fear.' 
 Behold the place where He was laid : 
 He is not here! " 
 
 •' Hear ye not still His voice, which saith : 
 ' To Death they must deliver Me.' 
 
 But I shall burst the bonds of Death, 
 And rise again, and live for thee ! ' 
 
 From thy sad heart Doubt's shadows chase ! 
 For all hath been, as He hath said : 
 
 ' The Lord is risen ; lo ! the place 
 Where He was laid : ' " 
 
 O Easter Voices, holy, sweet ! 
 
 O bright and hallowed Easter Ray, 
 That glittered at the head and feet 
 
 Of where my Saviour's body lay ! 
 
68o 
 
 AtOJi.-lL .l.\/> KEI.h.luUS J'OKM.s 
 
 In faith, this morn. Thy Light I see, 
 
 And. gazing on Thy glory, sing: 
 "O grave, where is thy victory? 
 
 Where. Death, thy sting?" 
 
 Ere break of day my Lord arose : 
 O Day-spring of my soul is He ! 
 
 O. what is Night or Death to those. 
 Dear Easter Light, who trust in Thee ? 
 
 O. should one doubt my soul imprison. 
 Or any shade of earth be near. 
 
 Speak. Easter Voices : " He is risen : 
 He is not here ! " 
 
 Thou art not here. From realms above. 
 
 Look down, nor let our spirits fail ! 
 Grant us Thy peace, and to Thy Love. 
 
 Rabboni, bid our spirits hail! 
 Calm Thou our faint heart "s transient strife : 
 
 O. bid our spirits cease from fear. 
 And turn to Thee, for that true Life 
 Which is not here ! 
 
 SAMTKL K. COWAN. 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 J'or Gooif- Friday. 
 , The hands of the King are soft and fair. 
 I They never knew labor's stain. 
 The hands of the Robber redly wear 
 I The bloody brand of Cain. 
 But the hands of the Man arc hard and scarred 
 With the scars of toil and pain. 
 
 The slaves of Pilate have washed his hands 
 
 As white as a king's may be. 
 Barabbas with wrists unfettered stands ; 
 
 For the world has made him free. 
 But Thy palms, toil-worn, by nails are torn. 
 
 O Christ, on Calvary ! 
 
 JAMl->; JKFFRF.V ROCHF.. 
 
 HEARTS OF OURS. 
 Who that a watcher doth remain 
 Beside a couch of mortal pain. 
 Deems he can ever smile again ? 
 
 Or who that weeps beside a bier 
 Counts he has any more to fear 
 From the world's flatteries, false and leer? 
 
 And yet anon and he doth start 
 At the light toys in which his heart 
 Can now already claim its part. 
 
 O hearts of ours ! so weak and poor. 
 That nothing there can long endure ; 
 And so their hurts find shameful cure — 
 
 While every sadder, wiser thought. 
 Each holier aim which sorrow brought, 
 Fadws quite away and comes to naught. 
 
 O Thou, who dost our weakness know. 
 Watch for us. that the strong hours so 
 Not wean us from our wholesome wo. 
 
 Grant Thou that we may long 
 
 The wliol 
 
 memories of jjain. 
 
 Nor wisli to lose them soon agai 
 
 RICHAKD CHKNKVIX 
 
 UNISON. 
 Out from that darker line that marks the 
 Land, 
 Into the vast mid-ocean runs the song. 
 Shouting its praises to the Universe 
 In measures loud and long. 
 
 With deep resounding through the salty main 
 The swift-sent message of an iron throat 
 
 Reaches the monster of the nether-sea 
 In hoarse prolonged note. 
 
 Across the stormy petrel's swaying path 
 From polished decks the music in delight 
 
 Rushes, and. like the beating wings of birds. 
 Takes outward, upward flight. 
 
 Unto the Earth, its hills, its plains, its dales, 
 Gladness has come because the Christ is 
 born. 
 
 Concordant murmurs ever flowing out 
 Welcome the Christmas Morn ! 
 
 The Morn that brings a promise everj' year 
 From seraphs watching near the Bethlehem 
 shrine 
 
 Or Fold, we call a Manger, but a Court 
 Whose Courtiers are divine ; 
 
 The heart of Erin rings in all its bells. 
 
 England and Scotland, as in early days. 
 Give to the Heavenly Prince of Orient birth 
 
 Honor in words of praise. 
 
 In gold and white, and scarlet as the flowers 
 Investured are. as kings of ancient Rome, 
 
 The inner walls of each Italian fane 
 From lintel unto dome 
 
THE KfNGDOM OF GOD. 
 
 681 
 
 Show the fair garb of holiday attire, 
 
 With many a gleaming light that shines afar. 
 
 In semblance of that jewel of the skies 
 We name the Shepherd's Star. 
 
 From storied Rhineland's castle-bordered 
 slopes. 
 
 From stately spires of Switzer-Alpine vales. 
 Broad surging hymnal greetings floating out 
 
 Are borne on frosty gales. 
 
 Through Spain and Portugal, and France and 
 Greece. 
 In this our Land, from shore to fartherest 
 shore, 
 Stirreth a sound of sweetness and of joy 
 To Him whom we adore. 
 
 The bugler's silvery calling from the Fort 
 Winds far across the prairie's untouched 
 snow, 
 
 Startling among the shallow reefed bluffs 
 The sad-eyed, timid roe. 
 
 As o'er Pacific's angr\', heaving tide 
 
 The gun proclaims the dawn unto the 
 West, 
 
 So breaks the sweeter blast of bugle sounds 
 The cold Sierra's rest. 
 
 ESiMERALDA BOYLE. 
 
 ONE CORPUS CHRISTI. 
 " Flowers ? Are they for a bride .' " he .said. 
 And wondered if that graceful head. 
 Now bent to catch the soft perfume. 
 Was soon to wear their tender bloom ; 
 But when she raised her modest eyes. 
 And answered him in half surprise, 
 " No, they are for our Lord," he smiled. 
 And thought: " This is indeed a child." 
 
 " Give me the loveliest," she said, 
 " Delicate white and rosy red, 
 And heliotrope and mignonette, 
 All that you know and I forget ; 
 And heap these crimson roses, so. — 
 Yes. they are costly, that I know ; 
 But what can be too fair and sweet 
 To strew beneath His sacred feet.^ " 
 
 The light was fading, broken flowers 
 Lay scattered thro' the aisles in showers. 
 
 For all their fragrant wealth that day 
 Had marked the Master's glorious way ; 
 And now. before the altar-rail, 
 A girl knelt, motionless and pale. 
 
 A line of sunlight touched her hair. 
 
 Her slender hands were clasped in prayer ; 
 
 In silent bliss the moments passed. 
 
 For she had lingered to the last. 
 
 Unconscious, in that holy spot. 
 
 Of eyes that watched, and wearied not. 
 
 " How beautiful " — the whispered thought. 
 All human, all of earth, she caught ; 
 And reading what that thought expressed 
 By the one kej'-note in her breast, — 
 Uplifting her adoring head, 
 " Is He not beautiful?" she said. 
 
 A thrill of awe, a flush of shame, 
 
 He knelt and named the Saviour's name, — 
 
 Softly she glided from the place. 
 
 He never looked upon her face : — 
 
 Low bent to earth his suppliant head, 
 
 "O Lord, make me a child," he said. 
 
 .MARY E. MANNIX. 
 
 THE KINGDOM OF GOD. 
 I say to thee, do thou repeat. 
 To the first man thou mayest meet 
 In lane, highway, or open street — 
 
 That he. and we, and all men, move 
 
 Under a canopy of love. 
 
 As broad as the blue sky above : 
 
 That doubt and trouble, fear and pain, 
 And anguish, all are shadows vain ; 
 That death itself shall not remain. 
 
 That weary deserts we may tread, 
 A dreary labyrinth may thread. 
 Thro' dark ways underground be led : 
 
 Yet if we will one Guide obey, 
 
 The dreariest path, the darkest way, 
 
 Shall issue out in heavenly day. 
 
 And we. on divers shores now cast. 
 Shall meet, our perilous voyage past. 
 All in our Father's house at last. 
 
 And ere thou leave him. say thou this 
 Yet one word more: — they only miss 
 The winning of that final bliss 
 
68: 
 
 MORAL AXD KELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 Who will not count it that true Love, 
 Blessing, not cursing, rules above, 
 And that in it we live and move. 
 
 And one thing further make him know- 
 That to believe these things are so. 
 This firm faith never to forego. 
 
 Despite of all which seems at strife : 
 With blessing, all with curses rife.— 
 That this is blessing, this is life. 
 
 RItHARU CHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 
 And I rejoice to think that in my breast 
 There's not a thought or wish but long ago 
 Was known, my Saviour and my Judge, to 
 t Thee. 
 
 Before Thy hand in secret fashioned me. 
 Therefore. I pray Thee, search and try my 
 And lead me in the everlasting way. [heart. 
 And cleanse me from my sin against the day 
 When 1 shall see Thee, Saviour, as thou art. 
 
 ' JOSEPH J. MlRl'HV. 
 
 ON THE RIVIERA. , 
 
 Under an aged olive, by the sea. I 
 
 A charcoal fire, and fish thereon, and bread— 
 For there a fisher crew their meal had spread — 
 I saw ; and as I saw. to Galilee [where said . 
 My thoughts were borne, and to the beach 
 The Saviour to the Apostle, Laai'sI Thou Me? 
 I could not speak like Peter, but. instead. 
 I felt mine eyes with silent tears grow dim. 
 To think how weak and faint my love to Him. 
 
 Yet I have ser\'ed Him for a length of years ; 
 1 would not hide one secret from His sight; 
 And still I have not done with doubts and 
 
 fears ; 
 My path is but a darkness crossed with light, 
 And Heaven most like a clouded heaven 
 
 appears ; 
 His joy by flashes only have 1 gained. 
 His constant peace I never have attained. 
 
 And so it was with Peter and the rest. 
 They knew that He who died was raised again. 
 But knew not of the blessings they possessed. 
 And spread the net once more, their food to 
 
 gain, 
 And all the night they spread the net in vain ; 
 But when the morning glowed upon the lake. 
 The Saviour stood upon the shore, and spake. 
 
 And unto me He spake, that summer day. 
 Under the olives, on Liguria's shore. 
 And though I made no answer. He will stay. | 
 He stands beside me when 1 cannot pray, I 
 He follows me and finds me when 1 stray, 
 .'\nd leads me back to bless Him and adore. | 
 
 The pure in heart shall see Thee and be blest. 
 But am I pure ? I know not ; but I know- 
 It is Thy will, my God. to make me so. 
 And in that knowledge I can safely rest ; 1 
 
 WHEN MY LOVE IS FAILING. 
 When my love is failing. 
 Sin and earth prevailing. 
 
 Oh, Lord, remember me! 
 When my faith is weakest, 
 When the strayed Thou seekest. 
 
 Oh, then remember me ! 
 When my foes endeavor 
 From my Lord to sever 
 This frail heart for ever. 
 
 Still I'll cling to Thee ; 
 Let me never leave Thee. 
 Ne'er disturb or grieve Thee, 
 
 Oh I still remember me ! 
 
 When, in hours of sighing. 
 Earth's bright joys are flying. 
 
 Then, Lord, remember me; 
 In the tomb when laying 
 Best lov'd forms decaying. 
 
 Oh, Lord, remember me 
 When my heart benighted. 
 Sees each fond hope blighted, 
 When the joys that lighted 
 
 All life's pathway flee; 
 Let Thy smile to gladness 
 Turn my tears of sadness. 
 
 Then, Lord, remember me! 
 
 When life's hours are closing. 
 On Thy love reposing. 
 
 Oh. Lord, remember me I 
 E'en in death's dark river 
 Thou canst save for ever. 
 
 Then, Lord, remember me ; 
 When from heaven descending. 
 All Thy saints attending 
 Rocks and mountains rending. 
 
 Earth her Lord shall see ; 
 When Thy throne Thou gainest. 
 And in glorv reignest. 
 
 Then. Lord, remember me! 
 
 I.SA.\C ASHE. 
 
A/]- FATHER'S HOUSE. 
 
 683 
 
 THOU ART, GOD. 
 Thou art, O God, the life and light 
 
 Of all this wondrous world we see ; 
 Its glow by day, its smile by night. 
 
 Are but reflections caught from Thee. 
 Where'er we turn, thy glories shine. 
 And all things fair and bright are Thine ! 
 
 When Day, with farewell beam, delays 
 Among the opening clouds of Even, 
 
 And we can almost think we gaze 
 Through golden vistas into Heaven — 
 
 Those hues, that make the sun's decline 
 
 So soft, so radiant. Lord ! are Thine. 
 
 When Night, with wings of starry gloom, 
 O'ershadows all the earth and skies. 
 
 Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume 
 Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes — 
 
 That sacred gloom, those fires divine. 
 
 So grand, so countless. Lord! are Thine. 
 
 When youthful Spring around us breathes. 
 Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; 
 
 And every flower the Summer wreathes 
 Is born beneath that kindling eye. 
 
 Where'er we turn, thy glories shine. 
 
 And all things fair and bright are Thine. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 COME, YE DISCONSOLATE. 
 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 charms for ach i ng hearts /^f? can re veal , 
 Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings 
 us — 
 " Earth has no sorrow that God cannot 
 heal." 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 THIS WORLD IS ALL. 
 This world is all a fleeting show, 
 
 For man's illusion given ; 
 The smiles of joy, the tears of woe. 
 Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — 
 
 There's nothing true but Heaven ! 
 
 And false the light on Glory's plume, 
 
 As fading hues of Even ; 
 And Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom. 
 Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb — 
 
 There's nothing bright but Heaven ! 
 
 Poor wanderers of a stormy day. 
 
 From wave to wave we're driven, 
 
 And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray 
 
 Serve but to light the troubled way — 
 
 There's nothing calm but heaven. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 MY FATHER'S HOUSE. 
 
 Thou hast pitied my heart's great needing. 
 Thou hast stooped to my low estate. 
 
 And opened unto my pleading 
 The long-sealed beautiful gate. 
 
 Thro' the wilds of gloom and sadness 
 Thou hast been my spirit and guard. 
 
 Into the light and gladness 
 Of the courts of Thy house, O Lord. 
 
 Why should I fear or falter 
 
 Under a roof so blest } 
 Here, near Thy holy Altar, 
 
 Surely Thy child may rest. 
 
 Here in Thy house it endeth. 
 
 My quest that was so vain. 
 For the spirit of peace descendeth, 
 
 Stilling the olden pain. 
 
 In Thy house, my Father, never 
 
 Is grief that burns and stings, 
 Nor the anguish of lost endeavor. 
 
 Nor the shadow that chills and clings. 
 
 For Thy love makes rest of labor. 
 And gain of the bitterest loss. 
 
 And the glory and joy of Thabor, 
 In the shade of the drearest Cross. 
 
 KATHEKINE E. CONWAY. 
 
684 
 
 MOKAL AND KELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 BELOW AND ABOVE. 
 Down below, the wild November whistling 
 Through the beech's dome of burning red. 
 And the Autumn sprinkling penitential 
 Dust and ashes on the chestnut's head. 
 
 Down below, a pall of airy purple, 
 Darkly hanging from the mountain side, 
 And the sunset from his eyebrow staring 
 O'er the long roll of the leaden tide. 
 
 Up above, the tree with leaf unfading 
 By the everlasting river's brink. 
 And the sea of glass, beyond whose margin 
 Never yet the sun was known to sink. 
 
 Down below, the white wings of the sea-bird, 
 Dash'd across the furrows dark with mould. 
 Flitting with the memories of our childhood 
 Through the trees now waxen pale and old. 
 
 Down below, imaginations quivering 
 j Through our human spirits like the wind, 
 ^ Thoughts that toss like leaves about the 
 woodland, 
 
 Hopes like sea-birds flash'd across the mind. 
 
 Up above, the host no man can number. 
 In white robes, a palm in ever)^ hand ; 
 Each some work sublime forever working. 
 In the spacious tracts of that great land. 
 
 Up above, the thoughts that know not anguish. 
 Tender care, sweet love for us below. 
 Noble pity free from anxious terror. 
 Larger love without a touch of woe. 
 
 Down below, a sad mysterious music. 
 Wailing thro' the woods and on the shore, 
 Hurthened with a grand, majestic secret 
 That keeps sweeping from us evermore. 
 
 Up above, a music that entwineth 
 With eternal threads of golden sound. 
 The great poem of this strange existence. 
 All whose wondrous meaning has been found. 
 
 Down below, the church to whose poor window 
 Glory by the autumnal trees is len 
 And a knot of worshippers in mourning, 
 Missing some one at the Sacrament. 
 
 Up above, the burst of Hallelujah, 
 And (without the sacramental mist 
 
 Wrapt around us like a sunlit halo) 
 The great vision of the face of Christ. 
 
 I Down below, cold sunlight on the tombstones. 
 j And the green wet turf with faded flowers ; 
 
 Winter roses, once like young hopes burning. 
 
 Now beneath the ivy dripped with showers. 
 
 And the new made grave within the church- 
 ! yard, 
 
 I And the white cap on that young face pale. 
 I .And the watcher, ever as it dusketh. 
 
 Rocking to and fro with that long wail. 
 
 Up above, a crowned and happy spirit. 
 Like an infant in the eternal years, 
 ( Who shall grow in love and life forever, 
 Order'd in his place among his peers. 
 
 O, the sobbing of the winds of Autumn, 
 j .\nA the sunset streak of stormy gold, [yard. 
 And the poor heart, thinking in the church- 
 ■ Night is coming, and the grave is cold." 
 
 O. the pale, and plash 'd, and sodden roses, 
 .And the desolate heart that grave above, 
 .And the white cap shaking as it darkens 
 Round that shrine of memory and love. 
 
 O, the rest for ever and the rapture. 
 And the hand that wipes the tears away; 
 And the golden homes beyond the sunset. 
 And the hope that watches o'er the clay ! 
 
 WILLl.A.M ALEXANDER. 
 
 THE PATRIARCHAL TIME. 
 O world ! thou hoary monster, whose old age 
 Is gray in guilt! How purer and more fair 
 The freshness of thins infancy to share! 
 The primal records of the holy page 
 Tell how, amid thy morn, the Form of God 
 
 Lighted the valleys of our vernal earth 
 
 A parent, with the children of His birth— 
 And smiled to dark the sunshine, as He trod ! 
 Tending their flocks among the quiet hills 
 .And shadowed waters of their orient clime. 
 The men of majesty, in early time. 
 Bore heaven upon their brow I Alas ! it chills 
 The soul to mark the God-given spirit's 
 
 course. 
 Beam of the Eternal Sun, dissevered from its 
 
 source ! 
 
 WILLIA.\I ARCHER BUTLER. 
 
A PSALM OF HOPE. 
 
 685 
 
 A PSALM OF HOPE. 
 What mean they standing aloof, the people 
 who watch us and weep, 
 Tearing the hair in sorrow, and wailing and 
 beating their breast? 
 Is it aught if the stream roll wide, is it aught 
 if the waters leap. 
 Swollen by snows, by the storm lashed white 
 without pity or rest ? 
 Have we not crossed many worse in our march 
 O God ! as we follow 
 Leader or lord who has led for a time and 
 has fallen asleep. 
 Seeking to see Thee and feel Thee anear, go- 
 ing forth by the hollow 
 White glens cut aloft in the hills, by the 
 sands of the shore of the deep? 
 
 Would they bid us halt in our path ? Would 
 they turn and go back in the night. 
 And abide with the beasts of the fields, and 
 herd in the dens of the rocks? 
 Nay. for our hearts are strong to the end, and 
 we fear no might 
 Of waters, or loud storm blowing, or horror 
 of thunder-shocks. 
 We will on through the night and the storm, 
 we will march to the bountiful land. 
 We scoft at the lightning's glare, we laugh 
 at the torrent's roar, 
 As we plunge in the hurrying tide, and beat 
 with a buffeting hand 
 Foam and eddying flood, and stem to the 
 further shore. 
 
 For. ever thou drawest us on in the track of 
 invisible feet. 
 Through the crisp white mountain snows, 
 through the pathless desert ways. 
 By the grisly wastes of wood, by the blossom- 
 ing gardens sweet. 
 By the dry sea-wolds of sand, by the cur\'es 
 of the tideless bays. 
 High over the spears of crag a-drip with the 
 sunset's blood. 
 By the shores of the desolate lakes that 
 slumber in tracts of death. 
 'Mid the flakes of splintering rock where the 
 great snow-cataracts flood. 
 In the fume of the watery flats, in the sul- 
 phurous crater's breath. 
 
 Through sorrowful spaces and sweet we march 
 
 with resolute heart. [roll by : 
 
 Nearer and nearer to Thee as ever the years 
 
 And more and more as we move in the wan- 
 dering paths outstart 
 Signs that quicken the pulse, that brighten 
 the fainting eye: 
 Forlo. in the tremulous flowers we have found 
 a shadow of Thee 
 In the purpled banners of day that flutter 
 about the west. 
 In the droves of the flaming clouds blown 
 nor'ward over the sea. 
 In the hues of the shining plumes, in the 
 gloss of the leopard's breast. 
 
 We have wrung from the clenched crags the 
 tale of Thy deeds of old, 
 We have heard the hurrying spheres in 
 music whisper praise, 
 And the leaves of Thy love have prattled, the 
 birds of Thy love have told 
 And the streams that flash, and the deer 
 that leaps, and the lamb that plays. 
 And we grow with the vision's growth, with 
 the dawn of Thy love and power, 
 Clearer of eye, and keener of ear, and 
 stronger of soul : 
 And pain is lightlier borne, and lighter the 
 driving shower. 
 As we push through storm and suns, and 
 strain to the utmost goal. 
 
 And sometimes, fair in sight, will flash in a 
 tide of light 
 A symbol of peace to be, a promise of power 
 to attain ; 
 For sometimes while we pause on a moun- 
 tain's lonely height 
 Out of the stretching seas, behold, without 
 shadow or stain, [of gold, 
 
 A thousand marble spires, a cluster of domes 
 Will arise and fire our blood ; on a land of 
 loveliest dyes. 
 Bowery plots and streams, and mountains, 
 fold on fold. 
 In the sheen of the moon or sun, breaks 
 sudden under the skies ■ 
 
 Or a rushing music sings from far through the 
 waves and trees ; [anear. 
 
 Or odor of mystic boundless gardens floats 
 Yea, we are strong in trust, we are strong in 
 the faith that sees, 
 And the love that yearns and clings, and 
 the hope that conquereth fear ; 
 And dear, though rough, is the march, and 
 sweet is the sound of our feet 
 
686 
 
 MOKAL AXD REUOIOCS POEMS. 
 
 the 
 
 Treading in time together, and gay 
 voices blent. 
 As wc sing in the lonely ways, and a mirthful 
 
 measure beat. 
 Brethren marching foot to foot ever on \ 
 one intent. 
 
 ith 
 
 Oh, 'tis good to live and strain, and pain but 
 turns to mirth. 
 And we hail the worst with smiling lips as 
 we march along to Thee : 
 For doing the deeds of men. we taste of the 
 blisses of earth. 
 We attain to the ampler life, we grow as the 
 angels free ; 
 And ever Thou drawest us on. and ever we 
 follow sure, 
 And Thou waitest our coming, we know, 
 afar in invisible lands, 
 I n the crowd of the spirits of light, in the realms 
 that ever endure. 
 To enroll us. born of Thee, at the last in the 
 deathless bands. 
 To clothe us anew with strength and the fer- 
 vor that shall not die. 
 For the glorious deeds of gods, for the do- 
 ing of works untold. 
 So soon as the years have run their span. O 
 God Most High. 
 And the season of man is spent, and the 
 cloud into daikness rolled. 
 
 GEORGE K. ARMSTRONG. 
 
 ON THE HEIGHT. 
 A dream of heat and labor. 
 
 Of climbing and holding one's breath. 
 Up steep, black rocks in the desert : — 
 
 The desert was grim as death. 
 
 Desperate toil that clihibing. 
 Never daring a downward eye ; 
 
 Beneath, a precipice deadly. 
 Above, the strong blue sky. 
 
 And when I reached the summit, 
 Where the air and sun were sweet, 
 
 A pool of living water 
 
 Lay in the rock at my feet. 
 
 And a man. dusk-faced, white-turbaned. 
 
 Said. •• Traveler, this is the spring 
 That the prophet Elijah drank from 
 
 When he fled from the wrath of the King.' 
 
 I think the dream has a moral ; 
 
 Only the feet that have trod 
 Rude rock and wearj-ing desert 
 
 Come at last to the waters of God. 
 
 GEORGE T. LANIGAN. 
 
 HYMN FOR MORNING. 
 
 Sec. the star that leads the day. 
 Rising, shoots a golden ray. 
 To make the shades of darkness go 
 From heaven above and earth below; 
 And warn us early with the sight. 
 To leave the beds of silent night ; 
 From a heart sincere, and sound 
 From its very deepest ground. 
 Send devotion up on high. 
 Wing'd with heat to reach the sky. 
 See. the time for sleep has run, 
 
 Rise before, or with the sun ; 
 
 Lift the hands, and humbly pray 
 The Fountain of eternal day ; 
 That as the light serenely fair 
 
 Illustrates all the tracts of air. 
 The sacred Spirit so may rest. 
 
 With quickening beams, upon thy breast. 
 
 And kindly cleanse it all within 
 
 From darker blemishes of sin ; 
 
 And shine with grace until we view 
 
 The realm it gilds with glorj' too. 
 
 See. the day that dawns in air 
 
 Brings along its toil and care; 
 
 From the lap of night it springs. 
 
 With heaps of business on its wings; 
 
 Prepare to meet them in a mind 
 
 That bows submissively resigned ; 
 
 That would to works appointed fall. 
 
 That knows that God has ordered all. 
 
 And whether, with a small repast. 
 
 We break the sober morning fast ; 
 
 Or in our thoughts and houses lay 
 
 The future methods of the day ; 
 
 Or early walk abroad to meet 
 
 Our business with industrious feet ; 
 
 Whate'er we think, whate'er we do. 
 
 His glor)' still be kept in view. 
 
 O. giver of eternal bliss. 
 
 Heavenly Father, grant me this; 
 
 Grant it all, as well as me, 
 
 .AH whose hearts are fixed on Thee ; 
 
 Who revere Thy Son above. 
 
 Who Thy sacred Spirit love. 
 
 THO.MAS PARNELL. 
 
THE HEAVENLY FATHERLAND. 
 
 687 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 I have ere now been half inclined 
 
 To wish the present life were all ; 
 
 That death upon the soul might fall. 
 And darkness overwhelm the mind ; 
 
 Not that I envied then the beast 
 Which never thinks of good or ill. 
 And only cares to eat his fill 
 
 At mighty Nature's bounteous feast; 
 
 But that our motives might be pure, 
 And free our choice, and clear our way, 
 The law of conscience to obey, 
 
 Whether to act or to endure ; 
 
 To fight with sin, without regard 
 To conquests in the battle won ; 
 To say at last, " My work is done : 
 
 I die. and seek for no reward." 
 
 And yet I know 'tis better far 
 
 That faith should look beyond the grave 
 On Him who died the world to save. 
 
 And rose to be the polar star, 
 
 For ever, of our hope and love ; 
 
 "To guide us on, through death and night. 
 To realms of deathless life and light, 
 
 To mansions of the blest above. 
 
 1 know 'tis well to trust the Power 
 Who makes the buried seeds to bloom. 
 That He will raise me from the tomb. 
 
 As summer's breath awakes a flower; 
 
 To take a child upon my knee. 
 
 Or lay what was my friend in dust, 
 And feel a reverential trust 
 
 That He who made them both to be — 
 
 Who gives us death as well as birth, 
 And maketh children grow to men — 
 Will give us other life again. 
 
 More blessed than the life on earth. 
 
 JOSEPH J. MURPHY. 
 
 In the tinkling of the vesper bells. 
 I Listen, listen, and come, young and old ; 
 
 Enter the antique shrine ; behold 
 
 How slantingly the stain'd rays pour 
 
 Their hues on the tessellated floor ; 
 
 The footfall's sound 
 
 Thro' the pillar'd aisle runs round and round ; 
 
 The sainted figures as you pass 
 
 Seem to smile from the tinted glass; 
 
 The worshippers are upon bended knees. 
 ! Heed not these ; 
 
 While the penitential prayer 
 
 Swells full of sorrow on the air ; 
 
 The solemn aisles of the temple thrill 
 
 Till the words of absolution fall 
 
 Like the dew of heaven, to still 
 I The restless hearts of all. 
 
 Hark ! the chant hovers and floats 
 
 Over the pealing organ-notes ; 
 
 Lip to the choir of seraphim 
 j Rise the cadences of that holy hymn, 
 i The Soul, an athlete 
 I From the arena's dust and heat. 
 
 Now drinks the cup of strength and youth. 
 
 Drawn from the fount of the Word of Truth, 
 
 Resting at Jesus' feet. 
 
 The world shut out, the heart keeps tryst 
 
 Alone and long with the Saviour Christ, 
 
 LIntil the words of blessing shed 
 
 Seal the grace to heart and head. 
 
 In sooth, an image of joy divine 
 
 Kx. evensong is thine. 
 
 If thou prayest thus at the day's decline. 
 
 K. W. BUCKLEY. 
 
 EVENSONG. 
 On Summer eves, 
 
 When the spirit of music awakes in the leaves, 
 Whispering low sweet tones ; 
 When the stars look down on the quiet scene, 
 As happy as if they were angels' thrones ; 
 No sound, I ween. 
 Steeps the soul in a calm so holy 
 As that now gay, now melancholy. 
 Which dwells and swells 
 
 THE HEAVENLY FATHERLAND. 
 Within a vast cathedral pile the benediction 
 
 hymn was pealing. 
 Beside me in the crowded aisle a group of 
 
 emigrants were kneeling ; 
 Their homely raiment shedding round the 
 
 briny odor of the ocean. 
 They bent their foreheads to the ground, the 
 
 rough hands clasp'd in rapt devotion : 
 And staff and bundle cast aside, were watered 
 
 with the tend 'rest tears. 
 As soft the old familiar hym n was wafted to 
 
 the exiles' ears. 
 I heard them sob— I saw them lift their stream- 
 1 ing eyes to that bless 'd dome ; 
 
 Strange voices in a foreign land were carolling 
 
 the hvmn of home; 
 
688 
 
 MORAL AXD RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 And backward o'er the dangerous seas in Loathing our very life, with its pitiful daily 
 
 Fancy's ships once more they floated. 
 
 need: 
 
 The music of the billows heard that swelled ] Learning in pain and weakness that labor is 
 
 on Erin's coast devoted : 
 
 doom indeed. 
 
 And trod once more the chapel-green, and ^^^ jj,is the meed of the struggle :— tent and 
 
 pluck 'd the shamrocks from the sward. 
 
 raiment and bread : 
 
 And knelt again with dearest kin before the q fg^ j^e " Requiescant. " and the sleep of the 
 
 altar of the Lord 
 
 :lioir : 
 
 Out 
 
 Oh ! sweetly sang the hidden 
 
 vitam sine termino, 
 Xobis done! in patria," the simple strain was 
 
 clear and low ; 
 
 And. like a dream in troubled sleep, before 
 them rose the vanish "d scene. 
 
 (Alas I how bitter are the tears that keep the 
 graves of mem'ry green I) 
 
 No busy ploughman in the field, no laughing 
 
 children at the gate ; 
 The cabin walls in ruin laid ; the mortgaged 
 
 farm, the lost estate ; 
 
 The gray-hair'd Soggarth bow'd in pain above 
 
 the pallet of the dying. 
 The precious dead (by sorrow slain), beneath 
 
 the turf and shamrocks lying — 
 
 Almighty Father! if there were no blest abid- 
 ing place with Thee 
 
 How could the hapless exile bear the burden 
 of his misery I 
 
 If, through the rain-drops of his tears, he saw 
 
 no bow of promise shining. 
 How could the cloud of sorrow, touched by 
 
 hope, reveal its silver lining? 
 
 I>ardoned dead ! 
 
 O the visions that torture and tempt us (how 
 shall the heart withstand) — 
 
 The fountains, the groves, the grottos of the 
 Godless Lotus-land ? 
 
 O the soft, entreating voices, making the 
 
 tired heart leap. 
 "Come over to us, ye toilers, and we will sing 
 
 ye to sleep." 
 
 A fatal sleep, we trow I but \vc are sad unto 
 
 death. 
 And the Lotus flower summons us with its 
 
 sweet and baneful breath. 
 
 We look to our fellow toilers — what help, 
 
 what comfort there.' 
 They're bowed by the self-same burden, beset 
 
 by the self-same care. 
 
 Falleth the ashen twilight— meet close for 
 
 the dreary day . 
 Hark to the chimes from the church-tower ! 
 
 — but we are too tired to pray. 
 
 Ah, God. who lovest Thy creatures, sinful and 
 poor and weak. 
 But angels soothe him as they sing of endless ' Hear'st prayer in the tired heart's throbbing. 
 
 days and joys to come. 
 In Faith's eternal Fatherland, the cxili 
 universal Home ! 
 
 ELE.\N()R (_■. UONNEl.LV. 
 
 LOTUS AND LILY. 
 Sometimes a dark hour cometh for us who 
 
 are bound to bear 
 The burden of lowly labor, the fetters of lowly 
 
 An hour when the heart grows sick of the 
 workday's weary round. 
 
 Loathing each oft-seen sight, loathing each 
 oft-heard sound ! — 
 
 tho' the lips are too tired to speak.' 
 
 Is this Thy answer? Is this the herald of Thy 
 
 p>eace ? 
 For the Lotus withers before him, the songs 
 
 of the Sirens cease. 
 
 And the palm-trees and the grottos, fountains 
 
 and streamlets bright. 
 Waver and change as he cometh, then fade 
 
 from our weary sight. 
 
 He is worn with care and labor ; he is garbed 
 
 in lowliest guise. 
 But we know the firm, sweet mouth, and the 
 
 brave, brave, patient eyes ; 
 
THORNS AND ROSES. 
 
 689 
 
 And we know the shining lilies — no blooms 
 
 of mortal birth — 
 And we know thee, blessed Joseph, in the 
 
 guise that was thine on earth. 
 
 Thy hands are hardened with toil, but they 
 have toiled for Him. 
 
 Upon whose bidding waited legions of Sera- 
 phim. 
 
 Thy hands have trained to labor the hands of 
 
 Him who made thee. 
 Whose strength upbore thy weakness when 
 
 thy awful trust dismayed thee. 
 
 O lift thy hands in appealing for us who, 
 
 unwilling bear [care. 
 
 The burden of God's beloved, lowly labor and 
 
 O pity our fruitless tears to-night, and our 
 
 hearts too tired for prayer. 
 
 kathp:rinf, e. conw.w. 
 
 THE TWO-FOLD MAY. 
 Thy merry welcome, rosy May, 
 
 The wild birds all are sweetly singing. 
 And every village heart to-day 
 
 Is joyous where thy flowers are springing. 
 
 Oh ! where hast thou been all the year? 
 
 Day-dreaming in thy home of roses.' 
 Or swelling youthful hearts anear 
 
 To breathe the sigh that love discloses? 
 
 Full brightly gleams thy robe of green. 
 
 And soft thy young cheek freshly glowing ; 
 
 Tlte wild flowers all proclaim thee Queen 
 And crown thy golden tresses flowing. 
 
 Oh ! make thy home no more afar ; 
 
 We'll wreathe thee here a fairy fountain, 
 And light it with the evening star. 
 
 When twilight steals adovvn the mountain. 
 
 Remain, the lonely home to cheer — 
 
 Remain, the glooniful path to brighten — 
 
 Remain to dry the mourner's tear. 
 And many a weary heart to lighten. 
 
 Ah! sweetest May, whose pleasures bring 
 My wandering thoughts to hours long 
 perished ; 
 
 Where, oh ! where is my lost Spring— 
 The friends I loved, the hopes I cherished ? 
 
 Alas! they come not in the breeze, 
 With merry laugh or blowing roses ; 
 
 Nor in the flow'ring orchard tiees. 
 Where mute at eve the bird reposes. 
 
 Another May, then, shall I 
 
 Another purer, rarer maiden ; 
 My spring-time hopes, ah I she'll renew. 
 
 And soothe this heart with sorrow laden. 
 
 Her songs breathe not the purple wine — 
 Her roses bloom to wither never — 
 
 Her joy, her love are not like thine. 
 Which please awhile, then pain forever. 
 
 To yonder dome of starry blue. 
 
 Where sweetly dwells this Queen of Ocean, 
 Shall hence arise my song anew. 
 
 Shall hence ascend my soul's devotion. 
 
 And She this restless heart of clay 
 Will sweetly soothe beyond all other ; 
 
 And She shall be my fadeless May — 
 Ma.ry,Jesu's Virgin Mother ! 
 
 PAl'RICK CRONIN. 
 
 THORNS AND ROSES. 
 She walked 'mid roses everywhere. 
 
 Her soul was languid with their breath ; 
 The faint rich airs that feebly throbbed 
 
 Were sick to most delicious death. 
 
 Thro' heavy lids she caught the sheen 
 
 Of alcoves lit with rubied glow. 
 Of dusky glades thick gemmed and flecked 
 
 With budding gold and flowering snow. 
 
 For there the amber rose of youth 
 Called down aurora for its guest, 
 
 And there the damask rose of love 
 Laid bare the fever of its breast. 
 
 And there the wild dog-rose of hope 
 Smiled ever on 'mid sun and shower. 
 
 And there the white rose, passion-blanched. 
 Peeped out from many a secret bower. 
 
 And there, in close green draperies veiled. 
 
 The moss-rose blushed with virgin shame ; 
 And there the musk-rose of delight 
 
 Breathed forth its heart of white hot flame. 
 
 And as she loitered, bound with spells, 
 
 A blossom here, a leaflet there. 
 She plucked with trembling, lusting hands. 
 
 And wreathed them in her spangled hair, 
 
690 
 
 Till sudden, in a rush of fear. 
 
 She hailed, dazed with pain, new-horn. 
 And dumb with awe loo jjreal for Lr\', 
 
 Fell every rose become a thorn. 
 
 On careless brow and golden tress. 
 
 The trickling blood-drops left a stain. 
 And swift, tierce shafts of agony 
 
 Shot through and through her reeling brain 
 
 Down sunk on unaccustomed knees, 
 She wept, she writhed. — and last — she 
 prayed, 
 
 " Help. God I ah help my short sweet youth. 
 Scarce budding, doomed in tears to fade! 
 
 " Help. I,ord I no pain was e'er like mine! " 
 Then stirred the forest's s(>mbre wings. 
 
 And strange cool winds came wandering by. 
 And far-off sounds of healing springs. 
 
 A silver glon," smote the shade. 
 
 And pierced the curtains of her eyes. 
 And lo ! before her shone the face 
 
 Of One more fair than halcyon skies. 
 
 " Wouldst thou," — a voice fell soft and sad, 
 
 " Wear only roses on thy head. 
 When I. thy King, for thee have worn 
 
 The sharpest thorns of earth instead ? " 
 
 She looked, she saw the gouts of l.lood. 
 
 She saw the cruel crown of scorn ; [wear 
 "Dear Christ! " she sobbed, "grant I may 
 
 Till death, what Thou for me ha.st worn." 
 
 Nay. 'twas no dream — as yet she knelt. 
 
 His smile with radiance flushed the gloom. 
 And on her brow, for every thorn. 
 
 She felt a rose of Sharon bloom. 
 
 MOK.IL AM) Klil.IGIOVS /'OEMS. 
 
 His ways are secret, like the hidden seed : 
 Hut lo ! in perfect flower and ripened car. 
 
 We k now H is ways are ways of Love indeed ! 
 It was His smile that gave the sunshine birth, 
 
 The shadow was the brooding of His wing; 
 .And lo! from sun and shade, the teeming 
 earth, 
 
 Ripened by Him for man's rich harvesting ! 
 
 He came on earth, and sowed the seeds 0/ 
 
 Faith : ears ; 
 
 Blind were our eyes and deaf our ingrate 
 
 In love. He sowed them in the grave of Death, 
 
 And watered them with His compassionate 
 
 tears. 
 
 Spring in our hearts, seeds of immortal Youth ! 
 
 Burst into flower. O seeds that cannot die ! 
 
 Open the wide-leaved blossoms of your truth, 
 
 God-planted seeds of Immortality ! 
 Death cannot crush you with his cruel foot : 
 But. sheltered by the shadow of His wing. 
 The seed shall pass to flower, the flower to 
 ' fruil. [ing! 
 
 ' RilK'ncd by Death for God's grand harvest- 
 
 SAMIKL K. COWAN. 
 
 BEYOND THE SNOW. 
 Hare boughs ; athwart each suppliant arm 
 
 The sun's pale stare at pale November; 
 No autumn's amorous breath to warm 
 
 His last red leaf's expiring ember ; 
 House after house, a glimmering street ; 
 .\ herald grain of coming sleet : 
 The struggling dayfire's lessening glow; 
 Hour when light ghost-winds wailing go. 
 
 When men least hope and most remember. 
 Before the snow, before the snow. 
 
 Now once agam. in bask and bower. 
 The roses swell, the roses burn. 
 
 And she walks on, with singing heart. 
 To tell how thorns to roses turn. 
 
 KANNV par: 
 
 HARVEST-TIME. 
 The seeds of spring have passed to summer 
 flowers : 
 The flowers of summer into autumn fruit : 
 Heavily hang the golden-freighted bowers; 
 The meads bend low beneath Love's ling- 
 ering foot. 
 The Loril is Love; and lo ! His foot is here: 
 
 .\ village cot ; eyes fiery blue. 
 
 Blithe voice beneath the roof's high rafter, 
 Ripe cheek, crisp curls of chestnut hue. 
 
 Quick heart that leaps to love and laughter : 
 That feeds on all, from star to sod. 
 .•\nd. loving all things, lives in God : 
 Light feet borne daily to and fro 
 On some sweet errand none may know. 
 
 Swift sped with hopes like wings to waft her 
 Along the snow, along the snow 
 
 \ midnight room : the smother'd speech 
 Of those that watch with tear-stained faces 
 
 The helpless love-look bent by each 
 Who stoops, but speaks not, and embraces 
 
Love braving Death with that last cry, 
 " She is mine, she is mine ; she shall not die !'' 
 Then homeward steps returning slow 
 To the great tear's unworded woe, 
 And many darkened dwelling-places 
 
 Across the snow, across the snow. 
 
 A hollow grave ; and gathered there [not ; 
 
 Strong breaking hearts that bear and break 
 Round the closed eyes and lifeless hair 
 
 Life's few that follow and forsake not • 
 Tears, the drink-offering to the dead. 
 The bruised heart's grape-wine softly shed ; 
 Long downward looks ; they will not go, 
 They fain would sleep with her below 
 
 In dreamless rest, with those that wake not 
 Beneath the snow, beneath the snow. 
 
 A green plot sweet with shade and sound, 
 A white porch and a name engraven, 
 
 Where Death unveiled as Love sits crowned 
 In garden-lawns with lilies paven; 
 
 And she, a daughter of that land, 
 
 A silent rose in her right hand. 
 
 And in her left a scroll where glow 
 
 Mysteries of might which man shall know 
 In Love's warm-shadowed leafy haven 
 
 Beyond the snow, beyond the snow. 
 
 HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 
 
 NIGHT AFTER HARVEST. 
 Hushed are the songs of the reapers. 
 
 And the sheaves of grain are bound ; 
 And soft as the dews of twilight 
 
 Falls silence, deep, profound, — 
 
 An odorous, dewy silence 
 
 That haunts the whispering leaves. 
 Like a spirit of the moist shadows ; 
 
 And beyond the gathered sheaves. 
 
 Like a white-faced Nun, in Heaven 
 Kneels the vestal moon of June, 
 
 But the mist above the harvest 
 Kneels whiter than the moon. 
 
 What are ye, ye mystic vapors 
 
 That gleam beyond so fair.' 
 Are ye tents where the Master campeth, 
 
 Watching for man with care .' 
 
 Ah, whiter than the moonbeams 
 At night are His tents unfurled. 
 
 As He walks through the dewy stubble. 
 Guarding the silent world. 
 
 KE. 691 
 
 Yea, where man reaps in day-time 
 
 His white feet walk at night, 
 And the slighted straws He gleaneth, 
 
 That waste shall cease, and blight. 
 
 CHARLES J. O'MALLEV. 
 
 FAILURE. 
 
 The Lord. Who fashioned my hands for work- 
 Set me a task, and it is not done ; [ing, 
 
 I tried and tried since the early morning. 
 And now to westward sinketh the sun ! 
 
 Noble the task that was kindly given 
 To one so little and weak as I — 
 
 Somehow my strength could never grasp it. 
 Never, as days and years went by. 
 
 Others around me cheerfully toiling. 
 
 Showed me their work as they passed away ; 
 
 Filled were their hands to overflowing. 
 Proud were their hearts and glad and gay. 
 
 Laden with harvest spoils they entered 
 In at the golden gate of their rest ; 
 
 Laid their sheaves at the feet of the Master, 
 Found their places among the blest. 
 
 Happy be they who strove to help me 
 Failing ever in spite of their aid ! 
 
 Fain would their love have borne me onward 
 But I was unready and sore afraid. 
 
 Now I know my task will never be finished, 
 And when the Master calleth my name. 
 
 The Voice will find me still at my labor. 
 Weeping beside it in weary shame. 
 
 With empty hands I shall rise to meet Him. 
 
 And, when He looks for the fruits of years. 
 Nothing have I to lay before Him 
 
 But broken efforts and bitter tears. 
 
 Yet when He calls I fain would hasten — 
 Mine eyes are dim and their light is gone; 
 
 And I am as weary as though I carried 
 A burthen of beautiful work well done. 
 
 I will fold my empty hands on my bosom, 
 Meekly thus in the shape of His Cross ; 
 
 And the Lord Who made them so frail and 
 feeble 
 Maybe will pity their strife and loss. 
 
 ROSA MULHOLLAND. 
 
692 
 
 MORAL AND RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 HARVEST HYMN. 
 All bounteous Lord of han-est. 
 
 Beneath whose gracious hand 
 A thousand hills, rejoicing. 
 
 Spread blessings o'er our land : 
 The rlouds above drop fatness. 
 
 The valleys sing below. 
 While wave the sheaves, bright golden. 
 
 The streams in gladness flow. 
 
 All praise to Thee. Creator '. 
 
 Thy tender love and pow'r 
 Still clothe the grass with verdure. 
 
 With fairest hues the flowr. 
 All praise to Thee, Prcser\'cr! 
 
 Thy ceaseless guardian care 
 Spreads wide its shade and shelter 
 
 O'er earth, and sea, and air. 
 From Thee the dew descended, 
 
 From Thee the gentle rain. 
 Thine was the sun that ripcn'd 
 
 Each bending field of grain : 
 Thou crownest with thy gladness 
 
 This joyous Autumn-tide ; 
 While peace and smiling plenty 
 
 O'er all our homes preside. 
 
 Praise for our labor ended. 
 
 For barn and storehouse fill'd ! 
 Praise for the ripe fruits gather'd 
 
 From fields that labor till'd ! 
 And when Time's course is over, 
 
 Life's day of travail past. 
 May we be safely garner'd 
 
 With Christ's full sheaves at last ! 
 
 WILLI A.M MCILWAIN 
 
 INDICATIONS. 
 To the soul that looks abroad 
 
 Through unbiassed heart and senses. 
 All is wonder, all is God, 
 
 Settled facts and inferences ; 
 Wondrous in what stands revealed 
 
 To the eye of human reason — 
 Premises to truths concealed 
 
 In the endless diapason. 
 
 Should the Spirit droop in doubt. 
 
 When its ken no farther reaches. 
 While the speaking world without. 
 
 An infinite wisdom preaches.' 
 Why pursue effect and cause 
 
 In the fossils and the stratums? 
 For, who gives the atoms laws 
 
 Is a Power beyond the atoms. 
 
 Were the sun ne'er veiled from view; 
 
 Earth ne'er into shadow bidden. 
 Who'd believe, in yonder blue : 
 
 Hosts of trailing stars lay hidden? 
 Were our senses less alloyed ; 
 
 Or our souls more sublimated, 
 Might we not in every void 
 
 See His wonders still repeated. 
 
 And. until He deems it meet. 
 
 I To withdraw the veil that sunders. 
 
 1 In the sward, beneath our feci. 
 
 i Have we not exhaustless wonders ! 
 
 I Myriad bells of chaliced flowers 
 
 I Offering up their heart's libations ; 
 
 I Myriad warblers in the bowers 
 
 \ Hymninc; forth their soul-sensations; 
 
 Winds that sweep the mountain heads. 
 And in wintry vesture wreathe them, 
 Wand'ring down the valley-btds, 
 j Spreading summer bloom beneath them ; 
 
 I Rivers hung in icy chains. 
 ! In the furrows of the mountains 
 
 Touched to life are golden veins — 
 Nature's everlasting fountains. 
 
 Waves there are of sacred song. 
 Pulsing ever through creation. 
 Even amid the worldly throng. 
 Seeking true articulation ; 
 j Every throb, if understood. 
 
 On some healing mission drifted. 
 Pregnant with celestial food. 
 j In the hearts to God uplifted. 
 
 ] There is science, weak and vain. 
 
 Reason rash and self-deceiving ; 
 Here runs nature's wondrous chain. 
 
 Link on link to Him that's weaving. 
 Telling souls that pine afar. 
 
 They may. even within an hour. 
 Tread on high from star to star. 
 
 As on earth from flower to flower ! 
 
 Wondrous texture ! — warp and woof — 
 
 Still His praise thro" night and day sings; 
 Prophets scanned the starrj' roof I 
 
 Could they count His earthly blessings! 
 Thou who guidest earth and sun 1 
 
 Thou of power beyond exploring I 
 Let me when life's course is run. 
 
 Die believing and adoring. 
 
 JOHN BOYLE. 
 
THE PENITENT. 693 
 
 LIGHT AND SHADE. 
 
 Then I answered to my spirit. 
 
 I would fain enjoy the sunshine, 
 
 •' If my Master wore the gloom 
 
 Yet the shadow ever falls. 
 
 Ere He won the glory, may 1 
 
 Something dark within, without me. 
 
 Humbly then His part assume: 
 
 Casts it on my prison walls ; 
 
 Still through light and shade press onward, 
 
 Then I questioned with ray spirit. 
 
 With a soul serene and tender, 
 
 • Wherefore is thy day so dim. 
 
 Till the golden bells of heaven 
 
 When God's light is all around thee. 
 
 Ring me in to cloudless splendor. 
 
 And its source is all in Him .' " 
 
 K. .S. BROOKE. 
 
 And my spirit niaketh answer. 
 
 WE WILL PRAISE THEE, 
 
 " Yes. God's light is all on earth. 
 Like a river brimming over 
 From the fountain of its birth ; 
 
 Great Jehovah ! we will praise Thee, 
 Earth and heaven Thy will obey ; 
 
 Spite of all man's aberrations. 
 
 Scathe and sorrow, shame and strife. 
 
 Suns and systems move obedient 
 To thy universal sway. 
 
 Like a sunlit sea it ripples 
 Ever up the shores of life." 
 
 Deep and awful are thy counsels. 
 High and glorious is Thy throne ; 
 
 
 Reigning o'er Thy vast dominion, 
 
 
 Thou art God, and Thou alone. 
 
 Then I answered to my spirit. 
 
 
 ••If God's light indeed be so. 
 
 In Thy wondrous condescension. 
 
 Like a fountain in its fullness, 
 
 Thou hast stooped to raise our race ; 
 
 Like a sea-tide in its flow ! 
 
 Thou hast given to us a Saviour 
 
 Then the fault is mine, inherent 
 
 Full of goodness and of grace. 
 
 In this dark and heavy clay, 
 
 By His blood we are forgiven, 
 
 Kneaded up throughout my nature. 
 
 By His intercession free, 
 
 Barring thus the light of day ; 
 
 By His life we rise to glory, 
 
 
 There to reign eternally. 
 
 Yet the glory, unattainted. 
 
 
 Rests on all that round us lies. 
 
 God of Power— we bow before Thee ; 
 
 On the lily's silver chalice. 
 
 God of Wisdom — Thee we praise ; 
 
 On the rosebud's crimson dyes. 
 
 God of Love— so kind and tender. 
 
 On the green and flashing billow 
 
 We would praise Thee all our days. 
 
 Bursting all in balls of light, 
 
 Praise to Thee— our Loving Father ; 
 
 On the thousand diamond dewdrops 
 
 Praise to Thee — Redeeming Son; 
 
 Weeping for the parted night." 
 
 Praise to Thee— Almighty Spirit ; 
 
 
 Praise to Thee -Thou Holy One. 
 
 Then resumed my spirit, - Surely 
 
 lOHX WHITE. 
 
 These things have their shadows too ; 
 
 
 
 Time will dim the lily's lustre. 
 
 THE PENITENT. 
 
 Turn to dust the rosebud's hue ; 
 
 
 Underneath the bright green billow 
 Blanch the million bones of men ; 
 
 Within a dark monastic cell 
 
 A monk's pale corpse was calmly laid. 
 
 Come and seek the dew at noon-day. 
 
 Peace on his lips was seen to dwell. 
 
 Will you find its sparkle then ? 
 
 And light above the forehead played. 
 
 
 Upon the stone beneath his hand 
 
 " Yet God's light is still around us. 
 
 Was found a small and written scroll, 
 
 Shining on with temper'd ray, 
 
 And he whose eye the record scanned 
 
 Through the many mists and sorrows 
 
 From this dim part must guess the whole : 
 
 That obscure His people's way. 
 
 
 And, bethink vou how the Saviour 
 
 " There comes a thought at dead of night. 
 
 Walked in shadow all His years- 
 
 And bids the shapes of sleep begone. 
 
 Was He not • with grief acquainted Y 
 
 A thought that's more than thought, a sight 
 
 Was He not a ■ man of tears .' ' " 
 
 On which the sun has never shone. 
 
694 
 
 MORAL AND RELIOIOUS POEMS. 
 
 " A pale, stern face, and sterner far 
 
 Because it is a woman's face; 
 It gleams a waning, worn-out star. 
 
 That once was bright with morning grace. 
 
 •' An icy vision, calm and cold. 
 
 The sprite of vanished hours it seems; 
 It brings to me the times of old. 
 
 That look like, but that arc not. dreams. 
 
 '• It brings back sorrows long gone by. 
 
 And folly stained, not washed, with tears: 
 Years fall away like leaves and die, — 
 
 And life's bare bony stem appears. 
 
 •• Dark face ! Thou art not all a shade 
 
 That fancy bids beside me be ; 
 That blood, that once in {>assion played 
 
 Thro' my young veins, beat high for thee. 
 
 " Now changed and withered all I My sighs 
 Round thee have breathed a sicklier air, 
 
 And sad before my saddening eyes 
 Thou showest the hues of my despair. 
 
 " Still, prayers are strong, and God is good ; 
 
 Man is not made for endless ill. 
 Dear sprite! my soul's tormented mood 
 
 Was yet a hope thou canst not kill. 
 
 •■ Repentance clothes in grass and flowers 
 The grave in which the past is laid : 
 
 And close to faith's old minster towers. 
 The cross lights up the ghostly shade. 
 
 •■ Around its foot the shapes oi tear. 
 
 Whose eyes my weaker heart appall. 
 As sister suppliants thrill the ear 
 
 With cries that loud for mercy call. 
 
 '• Thou, God. wilt hear! Thy pangs are meartt 
 
 To heal the spirit, not destroy ; 
 And fiends from hell for vengeance sent. 
 
 When thou commandest. work for joy." 
 
 Jt)HN SIERLING. 
 
 THE INNER LIFE. 
 Master, they argued fast concerning Thee, 
 Proved what Thou art, denied what Thou art 
 
 not. 
 Till brows were on the fret and eyes grew hot 
 And lip and chin were thrust out eagerly ; 
 Then thro' the temple-door I slipfted to free 
 
 My soul from secret ache in solitude, 
 
 And sought this brook ; and, by the brookside 
 
 stood [me. 
 
 The world's Liglit. and the Light and Life of 
 It is enough, O Master! Speak no word, 
 The stream speaks, and the endurance of the 
 
 sky 
 Outpasses speech : I seek not to discern 
 Even what smiles for me Thy lips have stirred ; 
 Only in Thy hand still let my hand lie, 
 .\nd let the musing soul within me burn. 
 
 KDWARI) DOWDEN. 
 
 PURE IS THE DEWY GEM. 
 Pure is the dewy gem that sleeps 
 
 Within the rose's fragrant bed. 
 And dear the heart-warm drop that steeps 
 
 The turf where all we loved is laid : 
 But far more pure, more dear than they. 
 The tear that washes guilt away. 
 
 Sweet is the morning's balmy breath 
 Along the valley's flowery side. 
 
 And lovely, on the moonlit heath. 
 The lute's soft tone complaining wide ; 
 
 But still more lovely, sweeter still. 
 
 The sigh that wails a life of ill. 
 
 Bright is the morning's roseate- gleam 
 Upon the mountains of the East, 
 
 And soft the moonlight's silver^' beam 
 Above the billow's placid rest ; 
 
 But, O. what ray ere shone from heaven 
 
 Like God's first smile on a soul forgiven ! 
 
 IAMK.S J. CALLANAN. 
 
 MEETING THE DEAD. 
 
 When thou dost meet the dead. 
 
 Pass with uncovered head. 
 The Conqueror of Kings is on the road ; 
 
 .And one day we all must 
 
 Bow down unto the dust 
 Before this mighty Messenger of God. 
 
 He is no enemy 
 
 To injure thine or thee. 
 But a good friend in God's great mercy sent 
 
 To open the last door 
 
 That doth to life restore. 
 The pardoned to take back from punishment. 
 
FROM SORROW'S DEPTHS. 
 
 695 
 
 Had we still kept the road 
 
 We walked on once with God. 
 Death liad no call to come amongst us here ; 
 
 Life then had ever been 
 
 One long unfolding scene 
 Of joy — ^without a trouble or a tear. 
 
 But when the fatal Fall 
 
 Had so defaced us all 
 That God's fair image passed away from men. 
 
 Then come to us Death must. 
 
 To crush us back to dust. 
 That God might make us like himself again. 
 
 He knows how wear)- we 
 
 Of ruined life would be ; 
 The wild heart beating at its prison bars. 
 
 Even in their decay. 
 
 Still strong enough to stay 
 Its upward flight to worlds beyond the stars. 
 
 Therefore He did us send 
 
 Death as a kindly friend. 
 The cage to open, let the bird go free ; 
 
 Outside of the Pearl-gate 
 
 In Paradise to wait. 
 Until its body shall repaired be. 
 
 And that, in its repair. 
 
 It perfectly might wear 
 The fashion in which first it had been made, 
 
 The Maker, to re-make. 
 
 Upon Himself did take 
 His once fair image, now so sin-decay 'd : 
 
 Then unto Death His brow 
 
 The Lord of Life did bow, [away ; 
 
 That He might take from Death its sting 
 
 And from the Grave that He 
 
 Might take its victory, 
 Bruis'd head and broken heart did in it lay. 
 
 That, what the First Man spoiled, 
 
 The Second might, unsoil'd 
 And pure and perfect, from the dust revive ; 
 
 That, as in Adam all. 
 
 Died through the fatal Fall. 
 So m the Christ might all be made alive. 
 
 Then, when thou meet'st the dead. 
 
 Pass with uncovered head, [rest 
 
 And breathe a prayer, that the dear soul at 
 
 May, in the holy place. 
 
 Grow on in every grace 
 Here left imperfect, even in the best. 
 
 And that — not death — but Sleep. 
 
 Death's Christian name, may keep 
 That worn-out body safe in sacred ground ; 
 
 Until the morning when 
 
 Jesus shall come again. 
 And all His jewels shall by Him be found: 
 
 Until that morning break. 
 
 Until the sleepers wake, 
 And rise to meet their Saviour in the air; 
 
 Until His sacred trust 
 
 Death render from the dust [fair. 
 
 To Christ, in Christ re-fashioned fresh and 
 
 Then will Death wearied lie 
 
 Down at Christ's feet and die. 
 That Life alone infinity may fill; 
 
 The ver)' life of Death 
 
 On to its parting breath 
 Only to know, and do the Father's will. 
 
 J. S. B. .MONSELL. 
 
 FROM SORROW'S DEPTHS. 
 From sorrow's depths to Thee I cry. 
 
 O Thou, who knowcst my inmost fear; 
 Th' unuttered prayer, the half-breathed sigh. 
 
 Now let it reach Thy pitying ear. 
 
 Unworthy as I am, from Thee 
 
 My soul with hope shall mercy claim. 
 
 For Thou hast made me — Thou canst see. 
 With mercy, crimes which man would blame. 
 
 If Thou should 'st mark with eye severe 
 Thy children's fault's, ah ! who could stand.' 
 
 Ah ! who with boldness could appear, 
 Or bless his God's creating hand.' 
 
 Despair might then, with impious voice. 
 Mock the vatn tears of penitence, 
 
 Ar.d curse existence — not his choice — 
 Sad boon of free Omnipotence. 
 
 But mercy ever dwells with Thee. 
 
 Still to forgiveness Thou art prone ! 
 That all with fearful hearts may flee. 
 
 And find their refuge near Thy Throne. 
 
 On Thee; with humble confidence. 
 
 My suffering soul for peace shall wait, 
 Thy love shall comfort speak, and hence 
 
 Thy word my hopes shall animate. 
 
696 
 
 The languid sufferer. dfx>nied to weep. 
 
 While painful nights their course delay. 
 Hopeless of sweet, refreshing sleep. 
 
 Not more desires the mornine ray. 
 
 Than this f>oor, harassed, troubled soul 
 Hath watched for inly-whispered peace. 
 
 Till mercy shall its fears control 
 And hiiJ its anxious sorrows cease. 
 
 And still at mercy's sacred seat. 
 
 Let all Thy children. Lord, lie found : 
 For love is there, and at Thy feet 
 
 Consoling hopes and joys are found. 
 
 MARV TIGHE. 
 
 TRUST. 
 With strength of righteous purpose in-lhj 
 
 heart. 
 What cause to fear for consequence of deed ? 
 God guideth then, not we ; nor do we need 
 To care for aught but that we play our part. 
 Most simple trust is often highest art 
 The issue we would fly may be a seed 
 Ordained by God to bear our souls a meed 
 Of peace that no self-judging could impart. 
 " All things work good for him who trusteth 
 
 God :■• 
 
 Doth God not love us with a longing love 
 To make us happy, and hath He not sight 
 From end to end of our short earthly road ? — 
 This Lord! I hold, aye knmu — that Thou 
 
 would St move 
 The world to lead one trusting soul aright. 
 
 EUWAKU HARUINO. 
 
 MORAL A.\D KELIGIOU^ POEMS. 
 
 THE PRODIGALS. 
 
 Clasp hands awhile and" pray I 
 
 What is it we would say ? 
 The aching of our hearts what words can case : 
 
 World-worn of soul and sere. 
 
 What wind has blown us here. 
 Tossing these many days on stormy seas? 
 
 Come, let us beat the breast 1 
 Where shall our souls find rest. 
 Unhappy toilers of the land and sea? 
 Haggard, and gaunt, and brown. 
 We wander up and down — 
 
 All clad in garments white 
 
 We stole forth in the night. 
 Plying His house wherein we knew no fear — 
 
 Poor beggars, wan and worn. 
 
 Of raiment soiled and torn. [dear? 
 
 Who now would know us as His children 
 
 Father, we loved Thee not I 
 
 I'ngrateful, we forgot 
 Thy wordsof love and life. Thy fostering hand ; 
 
 But though no words will come, 
 
 And quivering lips are dumb. 
 Wilt Thou not surely know and understand? 
 
 Blind fools to blind desires. 
 
 Misled by wandering fires, [sweet: 
 
 , We held ourselves from nothing that was 
 I To Thee we gave no thought. 
 
 We counted Thee as nought; [feet. 
 All dark and wicked ways have known our 
 
 Out of these evil ways. 
 
 Out of these empty days, 
 What now remaineth worthy to be kept? 
 
 From us the morn has past, 
 
 The noontide fled as fast. I 
 
 And night fell darkly on us as we slept. 
 
 The joys that were so vain, 
 
 The pleasures that were pain 
 Pass, nor is left us the poor gift of tears. 
 
 Lol we confess our sin — 
 
 That we have dwelt therein ! — 
 Wilt Thou receive us after all these years? 
 
 Our weakness is our own. 
 
 Our strength from Thee alone. 
 Oh I help us, that we faint not in the way! 
 
 Loose not the avenging sword. 
 
 Nor send Thou forth. O Lord I 
 The arrows of Thy justice, strong to slay! 
 
 Turn not from us Thy face ! 
 
 Our guilt deserves no grace ; 
 But show Thy mercy rather than Thy power; i 
 
 Close not on us the gate — 1 
 
 Let it not be too late. ' 
 
 Though thus we turn at the eleventh hgur. 
 
 We have gone here and there. 
 And fallen in every snare. 
 In perilous places have our lives been cast; 
 Sad heart and empty hand. 
 All desolate we stand- 
 
 Where shall we hide, or whither shall we fiee? Rut Thou. O Father! lead 
 
 at last. 
 
THE RAINBOW OF HOPE. 
 
 69; 
 
 May we not call Thee thus, 
 
 Who gave so much for us. 
 For whom Thy well-beloved lived and died? 
 
 Our sins are black as night ; 
 
 We wither in Thy sight — 
 Have mercy for His sake, the Crucified. 
 
 O Merciful and Just ! 
 
 In Thee we humbly trust. 
 And low we bend beneath Thy chastening 
 rod. 
 
 The while, in hope and fear. 
 
 Up from these dwellings drear j 
 
 Rises our cry, " Be pitiful. O God ! " 
 
 ARTHUR O'KEEFE. 
 
 When the soul, in adoration. 
 
 Prostrate lies before the throne, 
 Words may never, never utter 
 
 What the spirit breathes alone; 
 Other ear may never listen. 
 
 Other eye may never see ; 
 What the twilight silence covers. 
 
 Lies between thv God and thee I 
 
 JULI.5 
 
 M. KIRCHHOFFER. 
 
 THE RAINBOW OF HOPE. 
 It is hope that creates the aurora of bliss. 
 
 On the hills of futurity gleaming, [this, 
 
 To attract weary man thro' a bleak world like 
 
 Where happiness lives but in seeming; 
 
 SILENCE. 
 Who hath not felt the sacred hours 
 
 Of stillness and of calm. 
 When silence is more musical 
 
 Than noblest chant or psalm ; 
 When words are like the rippling wave 
 
 That dies upon the shore. 
 While the great ocean-depth of soul 
 
 Lies voiceless evermore: 
 
 When a spirit loved and loving 
 
 Hath run out its mortal race. 
 And the soul in radiance rising 
 
 Drops its mantle on the face. 
 When a gleam of heaven's glory 
 
 On the marble brow is seen. 
 All is solemn hush and silence. 
 
 Where the voice of God hath been : 
 
 When the gentle moon arising 
 
 From the dark mysterious sea. 
 Shedding o'er its troubled waters 
 
 Rays of peace and purity — 
 Casts a path of silver glory. 
 
 That trembles in the wind. 
 As though an angel-host had passed. 
 
 And left their track behind : 
 
 When the full-toned organ swelling, 
 
 Poureth forth its music tide. 
 Sweeping past the clustered pillars, 
 
 Down along the minster wide 
 Thrilling the raptured listener 
 
 With a sudden rush of song, — 
 Then the spirit, crushed with beauty. 
 
 Sinks in silence, deep and long: 
 
 I For when Man was expelled from llie garden 
 i of love. 
 
 While happiness saw and forsook him. 
 And innocence fled to the angels above, 
 
 Hope pitied the pilgrim and took him. 
 
 The sharp-piercing thorn and the thistle are 
 
 spread 
 j Where the outcast of Eden reposes ; 
 
 But hope makes the pillow so soft to his head 
 I That he slumbers, and dreams but of roses. 
 
 He awakens to woe, but she wipes off the 
 tears 
 
 That are sadly, though silently stealing. 
 And points to a day, thro' the vista of years. 
 
 The Holy and Just One revealing. 
 
 When the rainbow appeared, dove-eyed mercy 
 was there 
 
 To soften each hue that arrayed it ; 
 'Twas a beacon of joy in a land of despair, 
 
 And Hope was the angel that made it. 
 
 Man wistfully gazed, and his grief-stricken 
 j heart 
 
 I Was soothed into such resignation, 
 j The tear that had gathered forgot to depart, 
 I For Joy was infused through creation. 
 
 And hence while fond hope leads us on through 
 life's way. 
 
 Though still disappointed with sorrow 
 We sweeten our cup of affliction to-day 
 
 With the bliss we reserve for to-morrow. 
 
 JOHN HUGHES. 
 
MOKAI. .l.V/> A'£U<J/OL-S J'OEM^i. 
 
 MARY MAGDALEN. \ 
 
 To the hall of that feast came the sinful and 
 
 fair. 
 She heard in the city that Jesus was there ; 
 She marked not the splendor that blazed on 
 
 their board. 
 But silently knelt at the feet of tiie Lord. 
 
 The hair from her forehead, so sad and so I 
 
 meek. 
 Hung dark o'er the blushes that burned on her j 
 
 cheek : I 
 
 .And so still and so lowly she bent in her shame. 
 1 1 seemed as her spirit had flown from its frame. 
 
 The frown and the murmur went round • 
 
 through them all. | 
 
 1 hat one so unhallowed should tread in that 
 
 hall , 
 And some said the poor would be objects rpore 
 
 meet 
 For the wealth of the perfumes she showered 
 
 on His feet. 
 
 She marked but her Saviour, she spoke but in 
 
 sighs, 
 She dared not look up to the heaven of His 
 
 eyes; 
 y\nd the hot tears gushed forth at each heave 
 
 of her breast, 
 .As her lips to His sandal were throbbingly 
 
 pressed. 
 
 On the cloud after tempests, as shineth the 
 bow. 
 
 In the glance of the sunbeam, as melteth the 
 snow. 
 
 He looked on that lost one — her sins were for- 
 given. 
 
 And Mar)- went forth in the beauty of Heaven. 
 
 JAMKS J. CALLANAN. 
 
 THE GARDEN SEPULCHRE. 
 Into a garden, at the dawn of day. 
 I hastened. Tlowers bright with dewy bloom 
 Were round me. All within was fresh and gay. 
 When suddenly I came ufKjn a tomb. 
 
 And, shuddering, turned away. 
 " Must man be ever minded of his doom, 
 
 E'en in his hours of mirth ? 
 Garden, thou art a fitting type of earth 
 
 Whose flowers hide decay — 
 Farewell to thee, farewell ! " 
 
 But in the evening some mysterious spell 
 Drew me unto that garden-tomb again. 
 
 Just ere the sun had set. 
 I found a great stone rolled against the door; 
 The sepulchre was empty now no more. 
 A little group of mourners, too. I met. 
 
 As they dej)arted 
 
 Broken-hearted : 
 While such a scent of spices filled the air 
 That much I maaxlled who was sleeping there. 
 
 Just then I found 
 A superscription fallen on the ground : 
 
 .And read, with deep surprise, 
 The name and royal title of a king. — 
 " A monarch " buried in such lowly guise! 
 
 But all surmise 
 
 To me was vain. 
 Startled by flutter of a wild bird's wing. 
 
 Which, in the awful solemnnoss around. 
 Seemed a mysterious and ghostly thing, 
 
 I lifted up mine eyes. 
 
 And lo! their glance fell on 
 A man unaged, but of most reverend mien ; 
 A face more mournful I had never seen. 
 
 I ventured to draw near^ 
 " Sir," I implored, " who is the sleeper here ? " 
 The superscription in his hand I placed ; 
 With awe 1 watched him while the words he 
 
 traced. 
 " It is their King, whom they have crucified," 
 With grief and indignation he replied. 
 Then, adding gently that his name was John, 
 On a low root all overgrown with moss 
 He made me rest beside him while he told 
 The wondrous story of Christ's life on earth. 
 From the great glories of His bi/th 
 Unto the latest anguish of the Cross, 
 To which He had been sold. 
 
 He talked until the moonbeams fell 
 Around us. When in a pause 
 I watched a muffled mourner sadly creep 
 L'p thro' the olives. "See! onecomestoweep," 
 I murmured softly. " Yea, and he hath cause," 
 He answered. And a bitter wailing cry 
 
 Upon the air arose ; 
 
 " .Alas ! and did I on this day deny 
 
 My Lord about to die, — 
 To Thee more cruel even than Thy foes? " 
 
 John sadly told me then, " I now must hasten 
 To comfort her whom God doth sorely chasten, 
 To whom this day Christ gave me as a son 
 His mother: 
 
THE UN FOUND. 
 
 But how shall I replace the Holy One ? " 
 I cried, " One moment stay; 
 
 Methinks this shepherd of the sheep, 
 Whom death did obey. 
 
 Is far too great for death to keep. 
 
 Thou hast three resurrections seen 
 Where Christ hath been. 
 
 And with the morn thou shall behold another 
 
 Greater than that of Lazarus, Mary's brother." 
 
 ANNA KLIZABETH HAMILTON. 
 
 BLEST BE THAT STRAIN. 
 Oh ! if the atheist's words be true. — 
 
 If those we seek to save. 
 Sink, and in sinking from our view. 
 
 Are lost bey.jnd the grave ! — 
 If life thus closed, how dark and drear 
 Would this bewildered earth appear, — 
 
 Scarce worth the dust it gave : 
 A tract of black, sepulchral gloom. 
 One yawning, ever-opening tomb. 
 
 Blest be that strain of high belief. 
 More heaven-like, more sublime. 
 Which says that souls that part in grief, 
 
 Part only for a time! — 
 That far beyond this speck of pain. 
 Far o'er the gloomy grave's domain. 
 
 There spreads a brighter clime. 
 Where — care, and toil, and trouble o'er — 
 Friends meet, and meeting weep no more. 
 
 THOMAS FURLONG. 
 
 THE PASSING BELL. 
 With measured pause and long drawn wail. 
 The minster bell swings on the gale. 
 And saddens the vale with its solemn toll — 
 That passeth away like a passing soul — 
 Pulse after pulse still diminishing on. 
 Till another rings forth for the dead and gone. 
 
 The minute-sound of that mourning bell 
 
 Is the lord's of the valley — the rich man's 
 
 knell; 
 While it swells on his lawns and his wood- 
 lands bright. 
 He breathes not, hears not, nor sees the 
 
 light ; 
 On the couch of his ease he lies stifTand wan — 
 In the midst of his pomp he is dead and gone. 
 
 699 
 
 The pride has passed from his haughty brow — 
 Where are his plans and high projects now.' 
 Another lord in his state is crowned, 
 To level his castles with the ground ! 
 Respect and terror pass reckless on — 
 His frowns and favors are dead and gone. 
 
 Had he wisdom, and wealth, and fame. 
 Mortal tongue shall forget his name ; 
 Other hands shall disperse his store — 
 Earthly dream shall he dream no more, 
 His chair is vacant — his way lies on — 
 To the formless cells of the dead and gone. 
 
 Passing bell that dost sadly fling 
 
 The wailing wave on the air of spring. 
 
 There is no voice in thy long wild moan, 
 
 To tell where the parted soul is flown, 
 
 To what far mansion it travels on. 
 
 While thou tollest thus for the dead and gone. 
 
 Yet, bell of death, on the living air 
 
 Thy notes come bound from the house of 
 
 prayer — 
 They speak of the valley of darkness trod. 
 On a path once walked by the Son of God, 
 Whose word of promise inviteth on. 
 Through the gate unclosed for the dead and 
 
 gone. 
 
 JAMES WILLS. 
 
 THE UNFOUND. 
 When youth and youthful dreams are fair, 
 
 And lovely blooms the tender cheek ; 
 When softly waves the sunny hair. 
 
 And eyes tell more than words can speak ; 
 Why does the young heart restless sigh. 
 And pine beneath its native sky? 
 And wish for other years to come. 
 And long to other climes to roam? 
 
 But when those riper j'ears appear. 
 
 All blooming, like the golden grain ; 
 When loving hearts and friends are near. 
 
 To chase afar each brooding pain ; — 
 Ah, still why heaves the lonely breast. 
 Sighing for future years of rest. 
 In hope that joys may meet it yet 
 In the calm eve of life's sunset?— 
 
 Yet when that eve falls softly down. 
 That turns to mist the eagle eye. 
 
 And frosted grow those tresses brown. 
 And youthful fancies droop and die, — 
 
MOKAL A.\D JiEUGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 Why pensive grows the withered check ? 
 Why would the sad heart fondly speak 
 Of youth, and joys, and friends that once 
 Were dear in life's first innocence? 
 
 I Ah, Lord I 'tis that the soul still craves 
 
 I Some unfound pleasure earth ne'er gives ; 
 
 It dreams and seeks, then sickens, raves 
 O'er the fair phantom, and thus lives : 
 
 At rosy morn 'tis found at noon ; 
 
 At noon 'twill smile with evening's moon. 
 j Till, cheated thus at every stage. 
 
 The sad heart pines from youth to age. 
 
 Earth's treasures, youth and beauty, fade ; 
 Even love's young dream but cheats a while; 
 
 Beyond life's sea is the fadeless glade. 
 ' Our Aiden home, where angels smile. 
 ; .■\h I when we reach that deathless shore. 
 
 Nor change, nor care can touch us more : — 
 I There to the ravished heart appears 
 
 The unfound joy of earthly years. 
 
 ! PAIRICK. CKOMN. 
 
 I ----- 
 
 ; INGRATITUDE. 
 
 ' That old. old story, known without the learn- 
 
 By souls on earth to-day :- [ing. 
 
 ! Ten lepers cleansed, and only one returning. 
 
 To Christ his thanks to pay. 
 
 God snowers upon us all His choicest blessing. 
 
 We only crave for more ; 
 As though a perfect right wc were possessmg 
 
 To goods from Heaven's store ! 
 
 Oh, would we dare do thus at any portal 
 
 Even of friend most true? 
 Then unto God. eternal and immortal. 
 
 Why is it thus wc do? 
 
 Methinks that, glancing back o'er years 
 Of youth or hoary age. [dei)arte<|. 
 
 Of joyful hours or hours spent heavy-hearted. 
 On Life's deep-written page 
 
 Will glow hereafter in the vault of Heaven. 
 
 Like stars — some great, some small ; 
 The graces, oft unheeded. God has given 
 
 In Love to one and all. 
 
 An>^ still the Saviour cries in voice of yearnmg. 
 I Thrilling with love divine, 
 
 I ■' Ten did I cleanse, one only is returning — 
 Where are the other nine? " 
 
 .MARG.\KtT t. JDRDAN. 
 
 A PENITENT. 
 Years, long years have passed and perished 
 
 since I last this pathway trod, 
 Since I humbly knelt in prayer within the 
 I earthly house of God 
 
 Years I've spent in fruitless worship at how 
 
 many an empty shrine! — 
 Knowledge, power, fame, love, riches — these 
 
 the things I deemed divine. 
 Come I now all faint and weary to this olden 
 
 fane again ; 
 Not alone, for ever with me moveth memor\''s 
 
 shadowy train. 
 Haunting me daily and nightly — even in the 
 • house of prayer 
 
 They come with nie to the altar — they kneel 
 
 beside me there. 
 Seen through the floating incense — heard 
 
 thro' the organ's tone. 
 Come back dear faces and voices from days 
 
 that are dead and gone. 
 
 •' Gloria in Excelsis" rings thro' the arching 
 
 dome. 
 Like the song of exulting angels bearing ran- 
 somed spirits home. 
 Once how my heart leaped upward with that 
 
 triumphant strain : 
 IMow, alas ! it sinks back to earth with but a 
 
 crj- of pain. 
 .As I think of the days I have wasted — of the 
 
 good that 1 have not done 
 Of the evil I turned not away from ; of the 
 
 follies I would not shun ; 
 Of the idle dreams that I nurtured ; of the 
 
 days and nights I have passed 
 Prayerlcss. faithless, godless. — wean,- and sick 
 
 at the last I 
 
 for the care-free heart of my youtn — O for 
 
 the innocent years 
 When my soul was unsoiled by passion and 
 
 my eyes undimmed by tears. 
 When in the convent garden, walking amid 
 
 the flowers, 
 
 1 dreamed fair dreams of the future thro' the 
 
 long sunny hours. [tide. 
 
 Or in the convent chapel, kneeling at even- 
 1 saw with the eyes of the spirit, forms of the 
 
 glorified ; 
 When the mild Madonna smiled on me. thro' 
 
 clouds of incense dim, 
 And the breath of the roses blended with the 
 
 tones of the Vesper hymn. 
 
SA/XT BRIGID. 
 
 701 
 
 " Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus," lo I every head 
 is bowed, 
 
 While the grand prayers of the Fatliers go up 
 from the kneeling crowd. 
 
 What do we here, O sinful heart, let us leave 
 this sacred scene. 
 
 Let us go out to the world again, — we are un- 
 clean, unclean. 
 
 Let us take up the faded roses, let us drink 
 of the vapid wine, - 
 
 Still set on high the human love, — we ha\c 
 trampled the Divine ! 
 
 Hark! like an answer from Heaven, biddin.; 
 
 despair to cease 
 One sweet voice breathes through the silent 
 
 air. — "Lamb of God, give us peace." 
 Give peace unto me, O Merciful One. I knock 
 
 at thy temple gat 
 Answer me not in those saddest words. "Too 
 
 late, lost soul, too late." 
 Dark is the sky above me, — lonely the path I 
 
 tread 
 Cold are the hearts of the living, silent the 
 
 lips of the dead 
 In the ways of sin I have wandered long, and 
 
 the night is falling fast. 
 Wilt thou take the wreck of a wasted life— wilt 
 
 Thou bear me home at last } 
 
 ANNA T. WILSON. 
 
 THE BURDEN OF THE DAY. 
 Oh ! when we face some trying hour before us. 
 
 And feel the press of care on everj' side ; 
 Behold the sky of life storm-clouded o'er us. 
 
 And hear the rolling, rumbling, ebblesstide 
 
 Of wearing daily toil that never ceases. 
 Dulling the soul with its monotony ; — 
 
 When hope dies out, and gloom of heart in- 
 creases — [Thee, 
 Oh! then, dear Lord, if we would cr>' to 
 
 .\nd (toiling still at some appointed labor) 
 In spirit rest upon Thy Sacred Heart, 
 
 Lo ! Calvary, Thou wouldst change for us to 
 Tabor 
 And of our burdens bear the hea\'y part. 
 
 But no ; in every petty tribulation 
 The soul unceasingly complains and frets ; 
 
 In peace learns how to wrestle with tempta- 
 tion, [gets. 
 And when it comes, the lesson learned for- 
 
 Why this lament : "We've no time for devo- 
 tion .' " 
 With pure intention work becomes a prayer ; 
 Each trying thought worth more than sweet 
 emotion. 
 Each weary step a shining heavenward stair ! 
 
 MAKGARKT E. JORDAN. 
 
 SAINT BRIGID. 
 'Mid dewy pastures girdled with blue air, 
 
 Where ruddy kine the limpid waters drink. 
 
 Thro' violet-purpled woods of green Kildare, 
 
 Neath rainbow skies, by tinkling rivulet's 
 
 brink, 
 
 O Brigid, young, thy tender, snow-white feet 
 
 In days of old on breezy morns and eves 
 Wandered thro' labyrinths of sun and shade, 
 Thy face so innocent-sweet 
 Shining with love that neither joys nor 
 grieves 
 Save as the angels, meek and holy maid ! 
 
 With white fire in thy hand that burned no 
 man 
 But cleansed and v%rarmed where'er its ray 
 might fall. 
 Nor ever wasted low nor needed fan. 
 
 Thou walk'dst at eve among the oak-trees 
 tall. 
 There thou didst chant thy vespers while each 
 star 
 Grew brighter listening through the leafy 
 screen. 
 Then ceased the song-bird all his love-notes 
 soft. 
 
 His music near or far. 
 Hushing his passion 'mid the sombre green 
 To let thy peaceful whispers float aloft. 
 
 And still from heavenly choirs thou steal'st 
 by night 
 To tell sweet Aves in the woods unseen. 
 To tend the shrine-lamps with thy flambeau 
 white 
 And set thy tender footprints in the green. 
 Thus sing our birds with holy note and pure 
 
 As tho' the loves of angels were their theme ; 
 
 Thus burn to throbbing flame our sacred fires 
 
 With heats that still endure ; 
 
 Thence hath our daffodil its golden gleam. 
 
 From thy dear mindfulness that never tires ! 
 
 ROSA MULHOLLAND. 
 
■J02 
 
 MOKAL AXn RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 SAINT ACNES. 
 With modest courage, eyes undimmed by 
 
 tears. 
 She stood before the tyrant in his might. 
 Her martyr-soul prepared for that high flight 
 Which soars above all earthly craven fears; 
 A fair child crowned with thirteen golden 
 
 years. 
 Her rapt gaze fixed as on the vision bright 
 Of her Love's glory breaking on her sight. 
 She heeded not the soldiers' savage jeers; 
 She heard the Bridegroom's mystic whisper- 
 ing. 
 So sad. so sweet, as if from Calvary's height. 
 And Calvary's shadow touched her soul's 
 
 bright wing 
 And in her virgin wreath she longed to twine 
 The crimson passion-flower with lilies white. 
 And shining roses, for her spouse Divine. 
 
 HELENA CALLANAN. 
 
 It 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF ST. AGNES, 
 i but a simple picture, just above my table 
 
 rcstmg, — 
 Child-like face upturned in longing to the 
 promise of the skies. 
 With a something like to sadness the sweet 
 lips and forehead cresting, 
 .■\nd a look of heaven dwelling in the beauti- 
 ful dark eyes ; — [story, 
 1 1 is but a simple picture, yet it tells a hallowed 
 Brighter, purer for the record sin's revolving 
 cycles show. 
 Speaking to my thoughts — all human, -with 
 
 its own unshadowed glory. 
 Of a heart that loved and suffered fifteen 
 hundred years ago. 
 
 Not as we love, blindly stretching forth our 
 hands in weak endeavor 
 To hold fast what God has branded with the 
 brittle stamp of clay ; [forever 
 
 .Not as we, unwilling, suffer, moaningchildishly 
 The defeat of an ambition born and buried 
 in a day ; 
 But as they love whom His brightness has 
 encompassed with its shining. 
 Who have waited through the noontide in 
 the shadow of the Cross, 
 Sharing in His crucifixion, with prophetic gift 
 divining 
 In earth's short-lived compensations 
 Heaven's irreparable loss. 
 
 Daughter of a race of heroes, stranger to the 
 touch of sorrow. 
 Free as snow-flakes in their falling from the 
 tainted breath of sin, 
 Her young life had reached its fullness, each 
 (lay promise of the morrow. 
 If the golden gates of Heaven had not 
 yearned to take her in ;— 
 If the dove had not descended where the 
 haughty eagle flaunted 
 Its black wings above the threshold of her 
 proud patrician home. 
 Those pale lips had neverspoken, clear, defiant 
 and undaunted, 
 Their own doom of death and torture in the 
 halls of pagan Rome. 
 
 "Tear that white robe from her shoulders!" 
 
 Tyrant mandates know not pity ; — 
 Droops she, clothed in her own blushes — could 
 
 there garments be more fair ? 
 Lol downfallen from its fast'nings, before all 
 
 that mighty City. 
 .She stands mantled and enshrouded in the 
 
 glory of her hair I 
 Then, as swift beneath the sword-flash streams 
 
 the life-blood gently gushing. 
 The red current over-flowing bathes her 
 
 whiteness in its sea, — 
 .Maidens, cease your lender weeping, all your 
 
 anguished sobs be hushing, 
 Pain is but a dream forever, and the martyr's 
 
 soul is free ! 
 
 Fifteen hundred years have followed one by 
 one in sad procession. 
 Since the sun set over Tiber on that bar- 
 barous holiday; 
 Fifteen h'-ndred waves of passage in the tide 
 of retrogression 
 Flowing to the shore eternal from the world 
 it wears away ! 
 Creatures of our own poor moulding, seeking 
 ever an ideal. 
 Weaving all a soul's best promise into oull 
 and senseless rhymes. 
 Could our thoughts but seek the treasure, 
 might our hands but clasp the real. 
 What were death, or pain, or torture, fifteen 
 hundred thousand times .' 
 
 O thou beautiful St. .Agnes ! when my heart 
 grows sick or wean,-. 
 Tiring of the toil and struggle, throbbmg at 
 the touch of pain, 
 
THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 
 
 There is never hour so hopeless, there is never 
 day so dreary. 
 But the face upturned to Heaven can enliven 
 it again. 
 For mine eyes are not so blinded that they 
 cannot see the shining 
 Of illimitable brightness in the pathway of 
 the Cross, 
 And my soul is not so narrow that its faith is 
 past divining 
 In earth's short-lived compensations 
 Heaven's irreparable loss. 
 
 MARY F.. M.WNIX. 
 
 THE TESTAMENT OF ST. ARBOGAST. 
 St. Arbogast, the bishop, lay 
 
 On his bed of death in Strasburg Palace, 
 And, just at the dawn of his dying day. 
 
 Into his own hands took the chalice; 
 And, praying devoutly, he received 
 
 The blessed Host, and thus address 'd 
 His chapter who around him grieved. 
 
 And sobbing, heard his last request. 
 
 Quoth he ; — " The sinful man you see 
 
 Was born beyond the western sea. 
 
 In Ireland, whence, ordain'd, he came, 
 
 In Alsace, to preach in Jesus' name. 
 
 There, in my cell in Hagueneau, 
 
 Many unto the One I drew ; 
 
 There fared King Dagobert one day. 
 
 With all his forestrie array. 
 
 Chasing out wolves and beasts unclean, 
 
 As I did errors from God's domain ; 
 
 The king approached our cell, and he 
 
 Esteem'd our assiduity: 
 
 And, when the bless'd St. Amand died. 
 
 He called us to his seat and sighed. 
 
 And charged us watch and ward to keep 
 
 In Strasburg o'er our Master's sheep. 
 
 ' Mitre of gold we never sought 
 
 Cope of silver to us was nought — 
 
 Jewel'd crook and painted book 
 
 We disregarded, but, perforce, took. 
 
 Ah ! oft in Strasburg's cathedral 
 
 We sighed for one rude cell so small. 
 
 And often from the bishop's throne j 
 
 To the forest's depths we would have flown. 
 
 But that on» duty to Him who made us 
 
 His shepherd in this see, forbade us. I 
 
 " And now "—St. Arbogast spoke slow 
 But words were firm, tho' voice was low — j 
 
 "God doth require His servant hence. 
 And our hope is His omnipotence. 
 But bury me not, dear brethren, with 
 The pomp of torches or music, sith 
 Such idle and unholy slate 
 Should ne'er on a Christian bishop wait ;- 
 Leave cope of silver and painted book 
 Mitre of gold and jewel'd crook 
 Apart in the vestry's darkest nook ; 
 But in Mount Michael bury mc. 
 Beneath the felon's penal tree- 
 So Christ our Lord lay at Calvary. 
 This do, as ye my blessing prize. 
 And God keep you pure and wise I " 
 These were the words, they were the last. 
 Of the blessed Bishop Arbogast. 
 
 THOM.XS L)'.\RCV M'GEE. 
 
 THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 
 She once was a lady of honor and wealth. 
 Bright glow'd on her features the roses of 
 
 health ; 
 Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold. 
 And her motion shook perfume from every 
 
 fold; 
 Joy revell'd around her — love shone at her 
 
 side. 
 And gay was her smile as the glance of a 
 
 bride ; 
 And light was her step in the mirth-sounding 
 
 hall. 
 When she heard of the daughters of Vincent 
 
 de Paul. 
 
 She felt, in her spirit, the summons of grace. 
 That call'd her to live for the suffering race ; 
 And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of 
 
 home. 
 Rose quickly like Mary, and answered, " I 
 
 come." 
 She put from her person the trappings of pride, 
 And pass'd from her home with the joy of a 
 
 bride. 
 Nor wept at the threshold as onward she 
 
 moved, 
 For her heart was on fire in the cause it 
 
 approved. 
 
 Lost ever to fashion — to vanity lost. 
 
 That beauty that once was the song and the 
 
 toast. 
 No more in the ball room that figure we meet. 
 But gliding at dusk to the wretch s retreat. 
 
704 
 
 MORAL AXD RELIC IOCS rOEMS. 
 
 Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name, 
 For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ; 
 Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth. 
 For she barters (or heaven the glory of earth. 
 
 Those feet, that to music could gracefully 
 
 move. 
 Now bear her alone on the mission of love; 
 Those hands that once dangled the perfume 
 
 and gem 
 Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them ; 
 That voice that once echod the song of the 
 
 vain. 
 Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain ; 
 And the hair that was shining with diamond 
 
 and pearl. 
 Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl. 
 
 Her down-bed — a pallet : hertrinkets — ahead : 
 Her lustre— one taper that serves her to read ; 
 Her sculpture— the crucifix nail'd by her bed ; 
 Her paintings — one print of the thorn-crowned 
 
 head ; 
 Hir cushion — the pavement that wearies her 
 
 knees: 
 Her music— the psalm, or the sigh of disease : 
 The delicate lady lives mortified there, 
 .And the feast is forsaken for fasting and 
 
 prayer. 
 
 Vet not to the ser\ice of heart and of mind 
 .Are the cares of that heaven minded virgin, 
 
 confined. I 
 
 Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions of [ 
 
 grief I 
 
 .She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief; 
 She strengthens the weary, she comforts the | 
 
 weak, 
 .And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick ; 
 Where want and affliction on mortals attend. 
 The Sister of Charity tlure is a friend. i 
 
 Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his 
 
 breath. 
 Like an angel she moves 'mid the vajxjr of 
 
 death ; 
 Where rings the loud musket and flashes the 
 
 sword . 
 fnfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord, i 
 How sweetly she bends o'er each plague- 1 
 
 tainted face 
 With looks that are lighted with holiest grace ; 
 How kindly she dresses each sutTering limb, i 
 For she sees in the wounded the iniageof Him. 
 
 Behold her. ye worldly ! behold her, ye vain ! 
 Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and 
 
 pain ; [your days. 
 
 Who yield up to pleasure your nights and 
 F'orgetful of ser\icc. forgetful of praise. 
 Ye lazy philosophers — self-seeking men. — 
 Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen. 
 How stands in the balance your eloquence 
 
 weighed (maid ? 
 
 With the life and the deeds of that high-born 
 
 GKKALU GKIFFI.N. 
 
 THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 
 Sister of Charity, gentle and dutiful. 
 
 Loving as seraphim, tender and mild. 
 In humbleness strong and in purity beautiful. 
 
 In spirit heroic, in manners a child. 
 Ever thy love like an angel reposes 
 
 With hovering wings o'er the sufferer here. 
 
 Till the arrows of death are half hidden in 
 
 OSes. [bier. 
 
 And hope-sf>eaking prophecy smiles on the 
 
 When life, like a vapor, is slowly retiring. 
 
 As clouds in the dawning to heaven uprollcd. 
 Thy prayer, like a herald, precedes him expir- 
 ing. 
 And the cross on thy bosom his last looks 
 behold : [listens. 
 
 And O ! as the Spouse to thy words of love 
 What hundredfold blessings descend on 
 thee then I — 
 Thus the flower-absorbed dew in the bright 
 iris glistens. 
 And returns to the lilies more richly again. 
 
 Sister of Charity, child of the Holiest, 
 
 O. for thy living soul, ardent as pure, — 
 Mother of orphans and friend of the lowliest, — 
 
 Stay of the wretched, the guilty, the poor-- 
 The embrace of the Godhead so plainly enfolds 
 thee. 
 
 Sanctity's halo so shrines thee around. 
 Daring the eye that unshrinking beholds thee. 
 
 Nor droops in thy presence abashed to the 
 ground. 
 
 Dim is the fire of the sunniest blushes. 
 
 Burning the breast of the maidenly rose. 
 To the exquisite bloom that thy jiale beauty 
 flushes. 
 When the incense ascends and thesanctuar]^ 
 glows. 
 
THE SISTER OF MERCY. 
 
 705 
 
 And the music, that seems heaven's language, 
 is pealing — 
 Adoration has bowed him in silence and 
 sighs, 
 And man, intermingled with angels, is feel- 
 ing 
 The passionless rapture that conies from the 
 skies. 
 
 O, that the heart whose unspeakable treas- , 
 ure 
 Of love hath been wasted so vainly on clay. 
 Like thine, unallured by the phantom of pleas- 
 ure. 
 Could rend every earthly affection away. 
 And yet, in thy presence, the billows subsid- 
 ing. 
 Obey the strong effort of reason and will. 
 And my soul, in her pristine tranquillity glid- 
 ing. 
 Is calm as when God bade the ocean be 
 still. 
 
 Thy soothing, how gentle ! thy pity, how 
 tender! 
 Choir music thy voice is — thy steps angol 
 grace. 
 And thy union with Ueity shrines in a splen- 
 dor 
 Subdued, but unearthly, thy spiritual face. 
 When the frail chains are broken a captive 
 that bound thee. 
 Afar from thy home in the prison of clay. 
 Bride of the Lamb, and earth's shadows around 
 thee 
 Disperse in the blaze of eternity's day, — 
 
 Still mindful as now of the sufferer's story. 
 Arresting the thunders of wrath ere they 
 roll. 
 Intervene as a cloud between us and His 
 glor)'. 
 And shield from His lightnings the shudder- 
 ing soul ! 
 As mild as the moonbeam in autumn descend- 
 ing. 
 That lightning, extinguished by mercy, shall 
 fall. 
 While He hears, with the wail of the penitent 
 blending. 
 Thy prayer, holy daughter of Vincent de 
 Paul. 
 
 RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY. 
 We live in our lonely cells. 
 
 We live in our cloisters grey. 
 And the warning chime of the convent bells 
 
 Tolls our silent life away. 
 The loud world's busy hum 
 
 Murmuring evermore, 
 Breaks on our dim old walls, 
 
 As waves break on the shore. 
 Like the voices we used to hear 
 
 Long ago in childhood's prime. 
 Are the ties of a long dead world. 
 
 The thoughts of a long past time. 
 
 They tell of life's sparkling sea, 
 
 Of its dancing billows where 
 The voyager's laugh rings merrily, 
 
 From a heart as light as air. 
 But they tell not of the storms 
 
 That swell its angry waves. 
 The sunken rocks, the hideous forms 
 
 That lie in the ocean caves ; 
 The wrecks that toss in the gale. 
 
 The lost that are buried beneath. 
 The struggle, the gasp, the drowning wail, 
 That follow so oft the sunbright sail 
 
 O'er the pitiless realms of death. 
 
 They number us with the dead. 
 
 With our hearts so cold and dry; 
 For us the sky is a roof of lead. 
 
 And earth is like the sky. 
 But the sinless soul hath wings to soar 
 
 Above these prison bars 
 To a glorious home of its own, 
 
 Beyond the golden stars. 
 The light of this seeming, dying life, 
 
 Faded out from the eye of clay. 
 Glows in the franchised spirit, 
 
 Never to feel or fear decay. 
 
 They speak of a mother's delight, 
 
 They tell of wedded bliss. 
 They paint a world so warm and bright, 
 
 And say that world is this. 
 But the true world we sometimes see, — 
 
 Life in its house of withering bones, 
 Life on its couch of agony. 
 
 As it heaves and weeps and groans; 
 The father's broken heart. 
 
 The mother's about to break. 
 The crushing blow, the stinging smart, 
 O wedded love, we've seen what thou art, 
 
 And not what dreamers make ! 
 
MOKAI. AXD MEUGJOVS POEMS. 
 
 We inv ■■ oar kMely odK 
 
 W« in« !■ oar doisuts giejr. 
 
 And sweet as Ute cfaiae of the coovem beOs The tboniT cron. the dnugfat of gaU. the 
 
 G&des oar hie with God a«^. ruffian jeers of ribald bands^ 
 
 la tke roar of a naddeaed vorUL Tbe sliame. the agonr. the deatli ! ah. me. the 
 
 la tnttlJMg passioas' thrflL jnears bare rolled and rolled. 
 
 Marthas work and Marr's pare .\od stiB in this most awful type, onsel&n 
 
 Our eadiesB ponioa s^ love, thy {ate behold \ 
 
 Cooid toa bat a —o tn t share These it will teO. and oh '. perchance, a softer 
 
 Tbe blisB. hke that above tbooght 'twill whisper too — 
 
 Of a life of sSeat prarer. Father, focgice. forgive even tbein. for ah ' 
 
 A life of a or tia g kwy : — ther know not what ther do. 
 
 Bat ah! I faint, mine eyes grow dim. my lea~: 
 
 Tbe ^o(T of earth woidd see^ ci life is well nigfa o'er — 
 
 Bbcfc as the tr odden leal Oh ! let me wear the little cross that ooce _ 
 
 Faise as tbe dncaa of a dream. bappr cfaUd 1 wore !" 
 
 As the Sasfa of tbe %fataiag brief : 
 
 AH Bosx pass away. Tlie ^^j^iss ,3S seex: some kindly heart, thit 
 
 And wKher. and die. and ro« ; heard the captive's dring prayer. 
 
 Bi« tbe love of God abides and barm Left at the gate the little cross, smooth-lolde-; 
 
 In tbe heart that deserts him not round with kmi% care ; 
 
 TacM leave as here u> pcax. Coarse hands, and coU tbe saocd fold with 
 
 Thea leaie as here to loic : scorn and careless lai^inor broke. 
 
 Our pnntxwa be that yOB may rise And foaad. enshrined in soowr aeecc. a littl- 
 
 With OS to God above: ooss of Ireh oak. 
 
 "TMCK xrxKAT. ' - Ho! ho r they cried. - what embfems thfe ? 
 
 what popish charm is this we see r 
 
 Some talisman, perchance it is. to set the Iris.h 
 
 THE C05VICT A5D THE CROSS. rebel freer 
 
 Oh >t ^ ir«ar -je . "> -os the litife And so it is. ahhoogfa ye mock; beyood your 
 
 r « tbil occe I w JT^ *»*»• **?«°^ r^ t»^ 
 
 V. - - i hisrpr bov^ I roamed aktae the '^''^ ^^^ "^ *^ enfranchised forth beyond 
 
 -...- -!!«r:«,.i»«. the san, bevood the stars ; 
 
 \^t -^ : c^-ti the stream ^ide by. that ^<^ thoagh ye kepc it from his bands, with: 
 
 atjoijed Eo leave so sweet a bad. _ »»» *»«Mb1 heart he bore 
 
 Aiao 
 
 1.0 ^be dszaat stiaad : •"•PPT <*** he wore. 
 
 E-r^~ -^'T-- I Tmwed. oooe weal, coan woe. if 
 
 ^=vr% hope sfaoold ever ^eam A cane be on sack hrarrlrw rales, aad sfaaice 
 Tzj^ Tr .- i Terdnre here at home m^ht to them who sod 
 
 ^CT-r^- from that aov wasted scream. Coold bring to life such i 
 Tn^z I ■K-':yt take my b ei Mble part— tlat I the wonns of twaddk aad of tape. 
 
 _i rak woald share. Scoorgc. if ye wiD. the hooest backs of tho^ 
 .t.-Vicbcartlaspired. the patriae , who scorn your lash and ye. 
 
 .>i do aad'dare. Dot torture not tbe sool with tbM^. aad lea-, t 
 sine eyes grow dim iathiak- the iaMortal spirit free ! 
 
 .n^-Ai^it days of yore— From Toboisk's mines, from Ethmp's ptaiiu. 
 Ofe! let I 
 
 O 
 Twa tcfl wtt aMxe thaa mother'! 
 teQ BK of a love diviae 
 
THE GJLEAT BAY. jOJ 
 
 Sol Tours to judge the price Jess -B-orxli. doi Yes, tiD the dar s decline : iar noi iHH tbea 
 
 yours to scan the countkrss stoic: These soovy garments shaJl be dofled. Jtai 
 
 Of grace and hope the ct'-is^ can give, ibe bands. 
 
 cross a Christian ch Jri .net wore ! Tfaroegfa lanes and hamlfTS and ifaea \iomt 
 
 TberTl ^ifiy marcli. ^ritii 
 
 Less ear but hatroier tian their voan. T^ 
 THE GREAT DAY. * ' 
 
 A week, one brief -a-eek onlr. and the dav O Ti 
 
 Of Firsa C-ommanion shiilj have daw-ned. But nov 'tis eaiiri 
 
 Dear chiid. A ; 
 
 Thr Saviour cometh '. Oh '. prepare the war : Eager to done amoc^ the chmcincaid-boi^r ; 
 He onh- -Bants a pure heart undefiled. 'yrHA. anBX, 
 
 Banish from ihiae each thoug-hi untofrard and 
 
 Arid srroir rDore like to Him, this heareiilT Thus the prooessoo grthcK oo lis coorae.. 
 
 G aesi- And in fair coder gains the ticap^ gate. 
 
 More holr. and more hiiinaie,and mofremUd; Ti'ilierE Faiher Jofaa TBb pride leriews ^-: 
 So win he cozne -srith joy into thr breast, lonoe. 
 
 Lavish his ireiis-jres there, and STreetfr r=lrr- Chiding the few who ev^n now came laie. 
 
 ins rest. '^As cc-t -.r.ev vr'Z:. ':. _ vr \ c.^ >..r -' -. ■_ v^'-. 
 Tbr- 
 
 Anotber week ! Bnt ninch is saaH lo do — An ; 
 
 In tnm the riildrer ^■. -.he i-i^ii -.■riesis s^e Xot ". - - ." ■ 
 
 i- : r.i". i.-.r^-i ,; 'wide. The prarer of snich as these the great G 
 
 "n'hiri •-:■— -.ne S_ ^ lax and heaisand heeds. 
 
 Xo bean is pure enou^i ^v.i -..u^ gjcai feast. 
 
 Yet Christ would share it with as ere He died. And now the be3fiT"5 fancied. A fenal thrZ 
 
 And his Hearts yearnings never since have C": deeper expectation; lor ai las 
 
 ceased"; The vesny-door opes wide aiid wider stHl. 
 
 And now He comes to these, his dearest 1° "^^ ^ white the serreis fcmer pass, 
 
 thoE^ his least. Each - "r";? t- -fi -f- -Jh --^:e-j t^ -sr-hj;:: r.i?; 
 Ac. - - ".----- 
 
 Tbei* are rich, vivid rioments in Efc's dav — !>-, 
 Chie5v:-.__-i _- ^ ..::r:r: 
 
 Of sir :-i^:.-r^^ r- 
 More perie«lT thar. . 
 From its least trace 
 Sees in dear laorcini f-O" tr.: 
 jonsan. 
 
 The sam shin^ bri£ - 
 
 How many hearts i.- ^ 
 
 For all the dieses t= 
 
 Borrow a brighter gjcTr ^ ?- - :-:.m Thine- 
 
 'VThrite months of sunshine woald th^ maids The >ias begins. They kneei. and e'en t- 1 
 
 resijrr priesi 
 
 |'WhaIInar:t-^ ^ ' Kneels where he's wont to ssand. and sniies 
 
 To be sseccr; his bneast 
 
 From dren: ^ - At 7>4/3r Conmeor ; and when they've ceased. 
 
 AD sonshiDe brii.--. i.5 -:-sr ;r.:; .-^ :rs: l .'n^- He speaks out slowly, soiemnlyihe lea. 
 
 : not stav. 
 
 A l-j-.r.. 
 
 "eatieri- 
 
 
 - jsaven 
 
 
 
 The 
 
 1 shriven 
 
 Ha - 
 
 -TT done- 
 
 In r.-.. . 
 
 u-OTPTT3nn- 
 
 Each - :-..r 
 
 
 Far see. tb 
 
 
 inti F2t- 
 
 ^racw 
 
 Wh 
 
 -7-ine; 
 
 Thr 
 
 ^ nhie 
 
 Anz -. 
 
 O Firea r.-iiinniirnraTrr-a ^ p i a\, yajrt, 3'oiiir be;- 
 
7o8 
 
 MOKAL .l.XV REUGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 For lime is passing, and the moment nears 
 
 For which so many prayers have been 
 addressed — 
 
 So many longing sighs and heart-wrung 
 tears.— 
 
 Pray now with tears to Him who falling tear- 
 drop hears. 
 
 The Gospel o'er, the servers seat them round 
 Upon the altar-steps : the rest sit too ; 
 And nought is heard save the impressive sound 
 Of many silent hearts. " My children, you 
 Who are my joy and pride, my treasure true—" 
 So doth the Bishop his discourse begin. 
 Which I have sought in vain to preach anew. 
 For (more than words) his tones, looks, ges- 
 tures win 
 Their way to innocent hearts, undimmed by 
 care or sin. 
 
 " Happy, my children, happy, happy y« I 
 The Lord is with you. He who said of old 
 Suffer the little ones to come to Me, 
 The tender, snow-white lambkins of my fold — 
 He cometh now within your breasts to hold 
 Sweet converse, and his gracious gifts to 
 
 shower. 
 Ah ! not by man's tongue can the tale be told 
 Of all the works of grace, and love, and power 
 That He, the hidden God, works in Commun- 
 ion-hour. 
 
 "List to his prayer: ' Afy child, give iiu- thy 
 
 heart ' ' 
 From this entreaty turn not cold away. 
 But beg Him of his bounty to impart 
 All gifts and graces c f this blessed day. 
 And seal your hearts as all his own for aye. 
 So when the years, many or few, have fled. 
 Through which God willeth you on earth to 
 
 stay. 
 He who shall month by month your souls have 
 
 fed 
 Will at the last come thus to bless your dying 
 
 bed. 
 
 '• Oh ! in the days or years 'twixt now and 
 
 then 
 May God be with you all, my children dear ! 
 May you grow up good women and good men. 
 If God should spare you long to labor here. 
 May you live happy in his love and fear! 
 Most precious earnest of tliat love is given 
 To you this morn. Pray! for the moment's 
 
 For which to fit your spirits ye have striven— 
 He comes into your hearts whose smile is 
 heaven of heaven. 
 
 " Pray, then, my dear ones! Bow each heart 
 
 and head 
 Before the awful Deity that deigns 
 To stoop so low our wretched souls to wed. 
 On high, in glory, love, and light He reigns; 
 Yet on our altars hidden He remains. 
 To come into our hearts. V'our hearts to-day 
 Will first receive Him. Children, still tak< 
 To welcome Him as sweetly as ye may : [pains 
 Pray on, then, in your hearts ; pray, dearest 
 
 children, pray! " 
 
 The solemn rites proceed. The sanctus bell 
 Is followed by the double chime that bends 
 Each head in worship. Wrong it were to tell. 
 I In such rude rhyme, of Him who now descends 
 "Mid these his dearest and most cherished 
 
 friends — 
 The young, the poor, the simple. Let us pra\ 
 That these fresh hear 'or ours may mak( 
 
 amends. 
 And that our icy chill may melt away [Day ' 
 In these warm memories of First Communion 
 
 .MATTHEW RUSSKLL. 
 From -The Irish Children s Hrsl Communion.''' 
 
 MOSES ON PISGAH. 
 With bold and tireless footsteps 
 
 By precipice and scar. 
 He climbed the steep Abarim, 
 
 And Nebo's range afar, — 
 Till the gray crest of Pisgah 
 
 The grand old Prophet bore : 
 His heart as warm, as strong his arm, 
 
 As a hundred years before. 
 
 His eagle-eye as piercing 
 
 As when, in youthful days. 
 O'er the strange old lore of Egypt 
 
 It burned with ardent blaze : 
 And to that eye of lightning 
 
 God showed the promised land. 
 In all its worth, from South to North — 
 
 From East to the utmost strand. 
 
 Lebanon's goodly mountain 
 The Old Man joyed to view, 
 
 And Bashan, with its oak-wreath'd crowi 
 And Carmel's fading blue ; 
 
THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 
 
 709 
 
 And Gilead. and Tabor, 
 
 And Olivet's fair green ; 
 And Zion's hill, with rapture's thrill. 
 
 And Calvary, were seen. 
 
 All pleasant were the valleys 
 
 O'er which his vision rolled ; 
 Achor, with all its lowing herds. 
 
 And Sharon's verdant fold: 
 Jezree! showed its vineyards; 
 
 Jehoshaphat its stream ; 
 And Eschol's vale, and Shaveh's dale. 
 
 Looked like a Prophet's dream. 
 
 The land of brooks and fountains 
 
 Lay 'neath the Seer's glance ; 
 He saw the Arnon gambol ; 
 
 He saw the Jabbok dance ; 
 The ancient river Kishon 
 
 Swept on in wrathful force ; 
 And the Kidron mild, like a playing child. 
 
 Laughed in its flowery course ; 
 
 The Dead Sea and Gennesaret, 
 
 Like gems on a stately King, 
 Were joined on Canaan's royal robe 
 
 By Jordan's pearly string ; 
 And the mantle green of the beauteous Queen 
 
 With many a jewel beamed : 
 For the distant rills amongst the hills 
 
 Like threads of silver seemed. 
 
 Oh, who can tell the rapture 
 
 That fired the Prophet's breast. 
 As, afar, he saw where the Oath was sworn 
 
 To his forefathers blest I 
 Old Mamre's plam and Sichem ; 
 
 Bethel, by angels trod ; 
 And Gerar, too, where the promise true 
 
 Was ratified by God. 
 
 But, alas '. the princely quarry. 
 
 Which death pursued so long, 
 Upon the brow of Nebo 
 
 Is struck by the archer strong ! 
 The eagle-eye grows strangely dim. 
 
 The beauteous landscape's fled ; 
 And a funeral band of angels stand 
 
 Around the kingly dead ! 
 
 He must not cross the Jordan, 
 
 Nor dwell in the goodly land ; 
 But a better country welcomes him 
 
 To the glorious Prophet-band : 
 
 Not cedar trees, but trees of life 
 
 For ever flourish here ; 
 Not Jordan's rush, but rivers gush 
 
 With living waters clear. 
 
 Thus oft the God of Moses 
 
 With sorrow bows the head ; 
 For which He gems a crown of life 
 
 To crown the faithful dead. 
 Thus oft refuses earthly bliss, 
 
 While higher bliss is given ; 
 Denies us health, denies us wealth, 
 
 But bids us enter heaven. 
 
 THOMAS MCCULLAGH. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 
 By Nebo's lonely mountain, 
 
 On this side Jordan's wave, 
 In a vale, in the land of Moab, 
 
 There lies a lonely grave ; 
 And no man knows that sepulchre. 
 
 And no man saw it e'er ; 
 For the angels of God upturned the sod. 
 
 And laid the dead man there. 
 
 That was the grandest funeral 
 
 That ever passed on earth ; 
 But no man heard the trampling. 
 
 Or saw the train go forth.— 
 Noiselessly, as the daylight 
 
 Comes back when night is done. 
 And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 
 
 Grows into the great sun. 
 
 Noiselessly, as the springtime 
 
 Her crown of verdure weaves, 
 And all the trees on all the hills 
 
 Open their thousand leaves ; 
 So, without sound of music. 
 
 Or voice of them that wept. 
 Silently down from the mountain's crown 
 
 The great procession swept. 
 
 Perchance the bald old eagle. 
 
 On gray Beth Peor's height, 
 Out of his lonely eyrie 
 
 Looked on the wondrous sight ; 
 Perchance the lion stalking. 
 
 Still shuns that hallowed spot. 
 For beast and bird have seen and heard. 
 
 That which man knoweth not. 
 
710 
 
 MORAL A.XD RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 But when the warrior dieth, 
 
 His comrades in the war, 
 With arms reversed and muffled drum, 
 
 Follow his funeral car; 
 They show the banners taken, 
 
 They tell his battles won. 
 And after him lead his masterlessmiid. 
 
 While peals the minute gun. 
 
 Amid the noblest of the land, 
 
 W'e lay the sage to rest, 
 And give the bard an honor'd place 
 
 With costly marble drest. 
 In the great minster transept 
 
 Where lights like glories fall, 
 And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings 
 
 Along the emblazon 'd wall. 
 
 This was the truest warrior 
 
 That ever buckled sword ; 
 This the most gifted poet 
 
 That ever breathed a word. 
 And never earth's philosopher 
 
 Traced with his golden pen 
 On the deathless page truths half so sage 
 
 As he wrote down for men. 
 
 And had he not high honor. 
 
 The hillside for a pall. 
 To lie in state, while angels wait 
 
 With stars for tapjers tall. 
 And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, 
 
 Over his bier to wave. 
 And God's own hand in that lonely land 
 
 To lay him in the grave. 
 
 In that strange grave without a name. 
 
 Whence his uncoflfin'd clay 
 Shall break again. O wondrous thought! 
 
 Before the Judgment day; 
 And stand with glory wrapt around 
 
 On the hills he never trod. 
 And speak of the strife that won our life, 
 
 With the incarnate Son of God. 
 
 O lonely grave in Moab's land ! 
 
 O dark Beth Peors hill ! 
 Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 
 
 And teach them to be still. 
 God hath his mysteries of grace. 
 
 Ways that we cannot tell. 
 He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep 
 
 Of him He loved so well. 
 
 ( F.LII. KRANCE.S AI.KXAXDKK. 
 
 THE FOUR MOUNTAINS. 
 
 ARARAT. 
 
 O mount of hope! where rested our fathers 
 
 long ago. 
 And knelt, 'mid tears of gladness, to watch the 
 
 , golden bow 
 
 Which o'er the clouded heaven its glittering 
 
 radiance flung. 
 To me, O hoary mountain, thou speak'st with 
 
 angel tongue. 
 .■\n altar was thy rude peak, where sacrifice 
 
 was poured 
 Of prayer and praise ascending, well pleasing 
 
 to the Lord ; 
 Upon thy slopes and hillocks the sons of 
 
 heaven have trod : 
 Old mount, thou standest ever a monument 
 
 to God I 
 
 O mount of awful grandeur! O mount of 
 smoke and gloom I 
 
 mount, whence spake Jehovah man's bless- 
 
 ing and man's doom ! 
 Down thro' the vanished ages mine eyes can 
 I sec thee now. 
 
 With strange mysterious beauty upon thy 
 cloud-capp'd brow : 
 
 1 hear the trumpet ringing— 1 see the dark 
 
 smoke rise, 
 [ I feel the firm earth tremble beneath the lurid 
 I skies. 
 
 Into His holy temple the Lord of Hosts has 
 
 passed ; 
 I hear His awful footsteps rush by upon the 
 blast ! 
 
 mount of vernal beauty, where our Re- 
 
 deemer wept. 
 As He o'er lov'd Jerusalem His lonely vigil 
 
 kept: 
 From every leafy covert, from every shelter'd 
 
 grot, 
 
 1 hear the solemn whisper — "I would, but ye 
 
 would not." 
 His foot has prcst these valleys. His presence 
 
 has been here ; 
 Imagination pictures the Holy One as near. 
 His robe has brushed the dewdrops from oflE 
 
 yon leafy spray : 
 Didst thou not hear His footsteps pass up 
 
 the rocky way .' 
 
KING ED IV I. X. 
 
 7^^ 
 
 CALVARY. 
 
 But Oh, thou blessed mountain ! all other 
 
 mounts above! 
 Where wondering thousands witnessed the 
 
 might of Heavenly Love: 
 With bow'd and veiled forehead, with humbly 
 
 rev'rent knee. 
 O mountain, sweet and holy, I venture nigh 
 
 to thee. 
 O mountain, writ all over with one beloved 
 
 name! 
 O mount, that flushest ever this cheek with 
 
 pain and shame ! 
 
 mount, by which ascending — like Jacob's 
 
 ladder— I 
 Catch glimpses of the glory that shall be by- 
 and-bye. 
 
 1 hold my breath, O mountain, I dare not come 
 
 thee near. 
 As "Why hast Thou forsaken me.'" pierces 
 
 my spirit's ear : 
 The wrathful sun is veiling in sullen gloom 
 
 his light ; 
 The trembling earth is yielding up her dead 
 
 in sore affright ; 
 The verdant turf is dripping with drops of 
 
 sweat and gore — 
 But hark ! the " It is finished ! " proclaims the 
 
 conflict o'er. 
 Mount of my Saviour's anguish — yet of His 
 
 victory. 
 Sacred art thou for ever, O blood-stain 'd Cal- 
 
 x-ar)- ! 
 
 AXXA LOUISA HILDEPRAND. 
 
 PAUL AT ATHENS. 
 
 Greece ! hear that joyful sound ! 
 A stranger's voice upon thy sacred hill. 
 Whose tones shall bid the slumbering nations 
 
 Wake with convulsive thrill, [round 
 Athenians! gather there ; he brings you words 
 Brighter than all your boasted lore affords. 
 
 He brings you news of One 
 Above Olympian Jove : One in whose light 
 Your gods shall fade like stars before the sun. 
 
 On your bewildered night 
 The Unknown God of whom you darkly dream. 
 In all his burning radiance shall beam. 
 
 Behold, he bids you rise [shrine ; 
 
 From your dark worship round that idol 
 He points to him who reared your starry skies, 
 
 And bade your Phoebus shine. 
 Lift up your souls from where in dust ye bow : 
 That God of gods commands your homage 
 
 But, brighter tidings still ! 
 He tells of one whose precious blood was spilt 
 In lavish streams upon Judea's hill, 
 
 A ransom for your guilt ; [chain ; 
 Who triumphed o'er the grave, and broke its 
 Who conquered Death and Hell, and rose 
 again. 
 
 Sages of Greece ! come near ; 
 Spirits of daring thought and giant mould. 
 Ye questioners of Time and Nature, hear 
 
 Mysteries before untold ! 
 Immortal life revealed ! light for which ye 
 Have tasked in vain your proud philosophy. 
 
 Searchers for some First Cause 
 Through doubt and darkness,— lo ! he points 
 to One, [pause. 
 
 Where all your vaunted reason lost must 
 
 Too vast to think upon : 
 That was from everlasting : — that shall be 
 To everlasting still, eternally ! 
 
 ANXA C. L. BOTTA. 
 
 KING EDWIN. 
 High sate King Edwin in his hall. 
 Around him ranged his wise men all ; 
 Queen Ethelberga by his side 
 Was pleading for the Crucified. 
 Then thus the King :— " Ho, Sages, say. 
 Shall we Paulinus hear to-day; 
 Shall we our olden gods forsake. 
 And Christ our only Master make; 
 Speak, shall we at this council-board 
 Vow fealty to Christ as Lord .' " 
 
 Coifi, chief of priests, the snows 
 Of decades on his head, uprose 
 And spake :— " O King, weigh well what now 
 Is preached to us ; for, I avow 
 Those gods whom I have served so long 
 Have proven false, and wrought me wrong ; 
 Others, who served them less, I own. 
 Are nearer to thy heart and throne. 
 If the new doctrines are more just. 
 In them let us repose our trust." 
 
MORAL AND RELIGIOUS POE.\f.^ 
 
 Another rose, of honor'd name. 
 And spake approving of the same ; — 
 " The present life of man. O King. 
 Seems like a bird upon the wing; 
 A sparrow flitting through the room 
 Wherein you sup in winter's gloom. 
 Statesmen and capuins feasting there 
 In the huge log-fire s ruddy glare. 
 When storms of snow abroad prevail. 
 In flies the bird to shun the gale 
 By one door, and then out again 
 By the other; whilst he did remain 
 Fair weather had he. safe and warm ; 
 But soon he passed into the storm 
 Once more, and vanished from our sight 
 Into the dark and wintry night. 
 Such is the soul in life. I trow. 
 Its whence and whither none can know. 
 If. therefore, this new doctrine hold 
 More certain knowledge, leave the old." 
 
 Thus wisely sjjake the wise ; and. when 
 The words seemed pleasant to all men, 
 Paulinus — by the King's command — 
 Preached to the nobles of the land ; 
 And kindled in all hearts the flame 
 Of holy zeal for Christ's dear name. 
 
 R. W. liUCKLEV. 
 
 THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT. 
 There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows 
 
 weary 
 Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary — 
 
 What may that Desert be.' 
 Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys 
 that come - [home. 
 
 Are lost, like that daylight, for 'tis not their 
 
 There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint 
 eyes I 
 
 The water he pants for but sparkles and flies — 
 Who may that Pilgrim be.' 
 
 'Tis Man. hapless Man, through this life 
 tempted on. 
 
 By fair shining hopes.that in shining are gone. 
 
 There is a bright Fountain, through that Des- 
 ert stealing 
 To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing — | 
 
 What may that Fountain be .' 
 'Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ! 
 
 ground. 
 By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found. 
 
 I There is a fair Spirit, whose wand hath tl. 
 
 spell 
 To pointwhere those waters in secrecydwell 
 
 Who may that Spirit be.' 
 'Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learn'd , 
 
 that, where'er 
 Her wand bends to worship, the Truth must i 
 be there I 
 
 THO.MAS .MO'JRK. 
 
 THE TRIAL OF THE GODS. 
 
 [" On a regular division of the [Knmanl Scnatr . Jupiter was 
 ondcmned and deeraded by the sense of a \ct\ larse nuiior> 
 
 Never nobler was the Senate. 
 
 Never grander the debate : 
 Rome's old gods are on their trial 
 
 By the judges of the State I 
 Torn by warring creeds, the Fathers 
 
 I'rge to-day the question home — 
 " Whether Jupiter or Jesus 
 
 Shall be God henceforth in Rome ? " 
 
 Lo. the scene ! In Jove's own temple, 
 
 As of old. the Fathers meet; 
 Through the porch, to hear the speeches. 
 
 Press the people from the street. 
 Pontiffs, rich with purple vesture. 
 
 Pass from senate chair to chair ; 
 Learned augurs, still as statues — 
 
 Voiceless statues, too — are there ; 
 Vestal virgins, white with terror. 
 
 Mutely asking — what has come ? 
 What new light shall turn to darkness 
 
 Vesta's holy fire in Rome ? 
 
 Answer. Quindecemvirs I Surely. 
 
 Of this wondrous Nazarene 
 Ye must know, who keep the secrets 
 
 Of the prophet Sibylline.' 
 Nay, no word I Here stand the Flamens: 
 
 Have ye read the omens, priests.' 
 Slain the victims, white and sable. 
 
 Scanned the entrails of the beasts.' 
 
 Priest of Pallas, see ! the people 
 
 Ask for oracles to-day : 
 Silent I Priests of Mars and Venus.' 
 
 Lo. they turn, dumb-lipped, away I 
 Priest of Jove? Flamen dialis! 
 
 Here in Jove's own temple meet 
 In debate the Roman Senate. 
 
 And Jove's priest with timid feet 
 
THE ABBOTT OF INNISFALLEN. 7,3 
 
 Stands beyond the altar railing ! 
 
 Low kneeled the Abbot Cormac, 
 
 Gods, I feel ye from above ! 
 
 When the day was waxing red ; 
 
 In the shadow of Jove's altar, 
 
 And for his sins' forgiveness 
 
 Men defy the might of Jove ! 
 
 A solemn prayer he said. 
 
 Treason riots in the temple 
 At the sacrilege profound : 
 
 Low kneeled the holy Abbot, 
 
 When the dawn was waxing clear; 
 
 Virgins mocked, and augurs banished, 
 And divinities discrowned. 
 
 And he prayed with loving-kindness 
 
 For his convent-brethren dear. 
 
 Hush ! Old Rome herself appeareth. 
 
 
 Pleading for the ancient faith : 
 Urging all her by-gone glory — 
 
 Low kneeled the blessed Abbot, 
 
 When the dawn was waxing bright; 
 
 That to change the old were death. 
 Rudely answered the patricians. 
 
 And he prayed a great prayer for Ireland — • 
 
 He prayed with all his might. 
 
 Scoffing at the time-worn snare : 
 Twice a thousand years of sacrifice 
 
 Have melted into air ; 
 Twice a thousand years of worship 
 
 Have bittei-ly sufficed 
 
 Low kneeled the good old Father, 
 While the sun began to dart; 
 
 He praj'ed a prayer for all mankind — 
 He prayed it from his heart. 
 
 To prove there is no Jupiter 1 — 
 
 II. 
 
 The Senate votes for Christ ! 
 
 The Abbot of Innisfallen 
 
 
 Arose upon his feet ; 
 He heard a small bird singing, 
 
 Not aimless is the story, 
 The moral not remote : 
 
 And 0, but it sung sweet! 
 
 For still the gods are questioned. 
 
 He heard a white bird singing well 
 
 And still the Senates vote. 
 
 Within a holly-tree ; 
 A song so sweet and happy 
 
 Men sacrifice to Venus ; 
 
 To Mars are victims led ; 
 
 Never before heard he. 
 
 And Mercury is honored still ; 
 
 
 And Bacchus is not dead ; — 
 
 It sung upon a hazel. 
 
 But these are minor deities 
 
 It sung upon a thorn ; 
 
 That cling to human sight : 
 
 He had never heard such music 
 
 Our twilight they — but Right and Wrong 
 
 Since the hour that he was born. 
 
 Are clear as day and night. 
 
 
 We know the truth ; but falsehood 
 
 It sung upon a sycamore. 
 
 With our lives is so inwove — 
 
 It sung upon a briar; 
 
 Our Senates vote down Jesus 
 
 To follow the song and hearken 
 
 As old Rome degraded Jove ! 
 
 The Abbot could never tire. 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'RF.ILLY. 
 
 Till at last he well bethought him. 
 
 
 He might no longer stay ; 
 
 
 So he blessed the little white singing-bird. 
 
 THE ABBOT OF INNISFALLEN. 
 
 And gladly went his way. 
 
 The Abbot of Innisfallen 
 
 III. 
 But when he came to his Abbey walls, 
 
 Awoke ere dawn of day; 
 
 He found a wondrous change: 
 
 Under the dewy green leaves 
 
 He saw no friendly faces there, 
 
 He went him forth to pray. 
 
 For every face was strange. 
 
 The lake around his island 
 
 The strange men spoke unto him, 
 
 Lay smooth and dark and deep; 
 
 And he heard from all and each 
 
 And, wrapt in a misty stillness. 
 
 The foreign tongue of the Sassenach — 
 
 The mountains were all asleep. 
 
 Not wholesome Irish speech. 
 
7'4 
 
 MOJiAL AW KEUoIOUS POEMS. 
 
 Then the oldest Monk came forward, 
 
 In Irish tongue spake he : 
 ■ Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress. 
 
 And who hath given it to thee ? " 
 
 • I wear the holy Augustine's dress. 
 
 And Cormac is my name: 
 The Abbot of this good Abbey 
 
 By the grace of God I am. 
 
 •' I went forth to pray at the break of day ; 
 
 And. when my prayers were said. 
 I hearkened awhile to a little bird. 
 
 That sung above my head. ' 
 
 The Monks to him made answer, 
 "Two hundred years are gone o'er 
 
 Since our .^bbot Cormac went thro' the gate. 
 And never was heard of more. 
 
 " Matthias now is our .Abbot. 
 
 And twenty have passed away : 
 The stranger is lord of Ireland ; 
 
 We live in an evil day." 
 
 " Now give me absolution. 
 
 For my time is come." said he ; 
 ; And they gave him absolution 
 ' As speedily as might be. 
 
 Then close outside the window. 
 The sweetest song they heard. 
 j That ever yet since the world began 
 Was uttered by any bird. 
 
 The Monks looked out and saw the bird ; 
 
 Its feathers were snowy-white ; 
 And quickly came unto it 
 
 Another bird as bright. 
 
 ■ Those two birds they sang together, 
 I And the two their white wings spread 
 They flew aloft and they vanished, — 
 But the good old man was dead. 
 
 They buried his blessed body 
 
 Where lake and greensward meet ; 
 I A car\'en cross above his head, 
 t And a holly-bush at his feet ; 
 
 Where spreads the beautiful water 
 
 To gay or cloudy skies. 
 And the purple peaks of Killarney 
 
 From ancient woods arise. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGH.\M. 
 
 THE CROSS OF MONTEREY. 
 Good Junipero the Padre,* 
 
 When 'twas dying of the day. 
 Sat beneath the dark tall pine-trees 
 
 By the Cross of Monterey, 
 Listening as the simple red men 
 
 Of their joys and sorrows told. 
 And their stories of the Missions, 
 
 And their legends quaint and old. 
 
 And they told him when Portala 
 
 Rested by the crescent bay. 
 Little dreaming he was gazing 
 
 On the wished-for Monterey, 
 That this cross on shore he planted. 
 
 And the ground about it blessed. 
 And then he and his companion,; 
 
 Journeyed northward on their quest. 
 
 And the Indians told the Padre 
 
 That Portala's cross at night. 
 Gleaming with a wondrous splendor. 
 
 Than the noon-sun was more bright; 
 And its mighty arms extended 
 
 East and westward. O so far ! 
 And its topmost point seemed resting 
 
 Northward on the polar star. 
 
 And they told, when fear had \'anished. 
 
 How they gathered all around. 
 And their spears and arrows buried. 
 
 In the consecrated ground ; 
 And they brought most fragrant blossoms. 
 
 And rare ocean shells in strings. 
 And they hung upon the cross-arms 
 
 All their choicest offerings. 
 
 And the Padre told the Indians- 
 
 '• Ah, if rightly understood. 
 What you tell me of the cross here 
 
 Has a meaning deep and good ; 
 For that light is emblematic 
 
 That the time is near at hand 
 When the laith of Christ the Saviour 
 
 Will illumine all the land. 
 
 "To the Cross cling. O my children! 
 
 In the storm and in the night. 
 When you wander, lost and weary. 
 
 It will be a guiding light : 
 Cling to it. and cares and sorrows 
 
 Very soon will all have passed. 
 And the palm and crown of glory 
 
 Will be given you at last." 
 
 Pioneer of the Catholic Missii ns of California. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MAS^. 
 
 Good Junipero the Padre 
 
 Thus unto the red men told 
 Of the symbol of salvation, 
 
 And its meaning deep and old. 
 Sitting by the crescent bay-side. 
 
 When 'twas dying of the day. 
 At the foot of dark tall pine-trees 
 
 By the Cross of Monterey. 
 
 RICHARD E. WHl 
 
 715 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 Of the Mission Church, San Carlos, 
 
 Builded by Carmelo's bay. 
 There remains an ivied ruin 
 
 That is crumbling fast away. 
 In its tower the owls find shelter. 
 
 In its sanctuary grow 
 Rankest weeds above the earth-mounds. 
 
 And the dead find rest below. 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 With mirthful shout, with music, dance, and 
 
 game. 
 The youths throng round the ruddy Beal-fire's 
 
 ray; 
 The antique usage bears the mind away 
 To ages when that sacrifice of flame 
 Was Eire's homage to the God of Day. 
 Yet through the gloom and mist of centuries 
 
 gray 
 Methinks this relic of the Pagan past 
 Would scarce have lived, did not its flame 
 
 reveal 
 A mystic truth to Christian fervor dear — 
 How when the Sun of Righteousness drew 
 
 near. 
 An earth-born witness rose, with glowing zeal, 
 To image forth His glory and His love — 
 To point the true believer's path above — 
 And how Christ came, the fire of love on earth 
 
 to cast. 
 
 And is not flame to heavenly things akin } 
 Like prayer that mutely from the soul ascends 
 Before God's throne, it ever upward tends ; 
 And even as Love divine o'ercometh sin. 
 All earthly things itsheat consumes or bends; 
 Radiant as Hope, and strong as Faith, that 
 
 lends 
 Its torch to gu'.de us through life's gloomy 
 
 maze. 
 Would all might learn thy love, thou emblem 
 
 grand ! 
 That we, as children of the holy Light, 
 So heavenward lived, — so imaged truth and 
 
 right ; 
 And, as the peasant bears a glowing brand 
 To bless his home from this new fire divine, 
 Should we prepare within our hearts a shrine 
 Where God's pure love might burn with still 
 
 increasing blaze. 
 
 OLIVIA KNIGHT CONNOLLY. 
 
 Still, by peasants at Carmelo, 
 
 Tales are told and songs are sung 
 Of Junipero, the Padre, 
 
 In the sweet Castilian tongue 
 Telling how each year he rises 
 
 From his grave the mass to say, 
 In the midnight, mid the ruins, 
 
 On the eve of Carlos' day. 
 
 And they tell, when aged and feeble. 
 
 Feeling that his end was nigh. 
 To the Mission of San Carlos 
 
 Padre Serra came to die ; 
 And he lay upon a litter 
 
 That Franciscan friars bore. 
 And he bade them rest a moment 
 
 At the cloister's open door. 
 
 Then he gazed upon the landscape 
 
 That in beauty lay unrolled 
 And he blessed the land as Francis 
 
 Blessed Assisi's town of old ; 
 And he spoke: "A hundred masses 
 
 I will sing, if still life's guest, 
 That the blessing I have given 
 
 On the land may ever rest." 
 
 Ere a mass was celebrated 
 
 Good Junipero had died. 
 And they laid him in the chancel. 
 
 On the altar's Gospel side. 
 But each year the Padre rises 
 
 From his grave the mass to say. 
 In the midnight, mid the ruins. 
 
 On the eve of Carlos' day. 
 
 Then the sad souls long years buried. 
 
 From their lowly graves arise. 
 And as if doom's trump had sounded. 
 
 Each assumes his mortal guise ; 
 And they come from San Juan's Mission, 
 
 From St. Francis' by the bay, 
 From the Mission San Diego, 
 
 And the Mission San Jose. 
 
710 
 
 MORAL AND RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 With their gaudy-painted banners. 
 
 And their flambeaux burning bright, 
 In a lone procession come they 
 
 Tlirough the darkness and the night, 
 Singing liynins and swinging censers, 
 
 Dead folks" ghosts — they onward pass 
 To tlie ivy-covered ruins. 
 
 To be present at the mass. 
 
 And the grandsire, and the grandame, 
 
 And their children march along. 
 And they know not one another 
 
 In that weird, unearthly throng. 
 And the youth and gentle maiden, 
 
 They who loved in days of yore, 
 Walk together now as strangers. 
 
 For the dead love never more. 
 
 In the church now all arc gathered. 
 
 And not long have they to wilit ; 
 From his grave the Padre rises. 
 
 Midnight mass to celebrate. 
 First he blesses all assembled. 
 
 Soldiers, Indians, acolytes ; 
 Then he bends before the altar. 
 
 And begins the mystic rites. 
 
 When the Padre sings the sanctus 
 
 And the host is raised on high. 
 Then the bells up in the belfr>'. 
 
 Swung by spirits, make reply ; 
 And the drums roll and the soldiers 
 
 In the air a volley fire. 
 While O Saliilaris rises 
 
 Grandly from the phantom choir. 
 
 " Ite, iiiisa est." is spoken 
 
 At the dawning of the day. 
 And the pageant strangely passes 
 
 From the ruins sere and gray ; 
 And Junipero the Padre 
 
 Lying down, resumes his sleep. 
 And the tar-weeds rank and noisome. 
 
 O'er his grave luxuriant creep. 
 
 And the lights upon the altar 
 
 And the torches cease to burn. 
 And the vestments and the banners 
 
 Into dust and ashes turn ; 
 And the ghostly congregation 
 
 Cross themselves and one by one. 
 Into thin air swiftly vanish. 
 
 And the midnight mass is done. 
 
 RICHAKU E. WHITE. 
 
 THE LOST CHURCH. 
 
 I In yonder dim and pathless wood 
 
 I Strange sounds are heard at twilight hour, 
 
 ! And peals of solemn music swell 
 
 As from some minstrel's lofty tower. 
 From age to age those sounds are heard. 
 
 Borne on the breeze at twilight hour ; 
 From age to age no foot hath found 
 A pathway to the minster's tower 1 
 
 Late, wandering in that ancient wood. 
 
 As onward through the gloom I trod. 
 From all the woes and wrongs of earth 
 
 My soul ascended to its God. 
 When lo! in the hushed wilderness, 
 
 I heard, far off, that solemn bell : 
 Still heavenward as my spirit soared. 
 
 Wider and sweeter rang the knell. 
 
 While thus in holy musings rapt. 
 
 My mind from outward sense withdrawn, 
 Some power had caught me from the earth. 
 
 And far into the heavens upborne, — 
 Methought a hundred years had passed 
 
 In mystic visions as I lay. 
 When suddenly the parting clouds 
 
 Seemed opening wide and far away. 
 
 No mid-day sun its glory shed. 
 
 The stars were shrouded from my sight 
 And lo I majestic o'er my head, 
 
 A minster shone in solemn light. 
 High through the lurid heavens it seemed 
 
 Aloft in cloudy wings to rise. 
 Till all its pointed turrets gleamed 
 
 Far flaming through the vaulted skies! 
 
 The bell with full resounding peal 
 
 Rang booming thro' the rocking tower: 
 No hand had stirred its iron tongue. 
 
 Slow-swaying to the storm-wind's power. 
 My bosom beating like a bark 
 
 Dashed by the surging ocean's foam, 
 I trod, with faltering, fearful joy 
 
 The mazes of the mighty dome. 
 
 A soft light through the oriel streamed. 
 
 Like summer moonlight's golden gloom, 
 Far through the dusky arches gleamed. 
 
 And filled with glory all the room. 
 Pale sculptures of the sainted dead 
 
 Seemed waking from their icy thrall. 
 And many a glor\'-circled head 
 
 Smiled sadly from the storied wall. 
 
THE CHILD AND THE ELDERS. 
 
 717 
 
 Low at the altar's foot I knelt, 
 
 Transfixed with awe. and dumb with dread, 
 For blazoned on the vaulted roof 
 
 Were heaven's fiercest glories spread. 
 Yet when I raised my eyes once more, 
 
 The vaulted roof itself was gone ; 
 Wide open was heaven's lofty door, 
 
 And every cloudy veil withdrawn ! 
 
 What visions burst upon my soul. 
 
 What joys unutterable there 
 In waves on waves forever roll. 
 
 Like music through the pulseless air,^ 
 These never mortal tongue may tell ; 
 
 Let him who fain would prove their power. 
 Pause when he hears that solemn knell 
 
 Float on the breeze at twilight hour. 
 
 SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 Frotii the Gcimoii of Vhhiiui. 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE ELDERS. 
 Softly fell the touch of twilight on Judea's 
 
 silent hills ; 
 Slowly crept the peace of moonlight o'er 
 
 Judea's trembling rills. 
 
 In the temple's court conversing, seven elders 
 
 sat apart ; 
 Seven grand and hoary sages, wise of head 
 
 and pure of heart. 
 
 "What is rest.?" said Rabbi Judah, he of 
 
 stern and steadfast gaze, 
 " Answer, ye whose toils have burthened 
 
 through the march of many days." 
 
 " To have gained," said Rabbi Ezra, "decent 
 
 wealth and goodly store 
 Without sin, by honest labor — nothing less 
 
 and nothing more." 
 
 "To have found," said Rabbi Joseph; meek- 
 ness in his gentle eyes, 
 
 " A foretaste of heaven's sweetness in home's 
 blessed paradise." 
 
 "To have wealth, and power, and glory 
 crowned and brightened by the pride 
 
 Of uprising children's children," Rabbi Ben- 
 jamin replied. 
 
 " To have won the praise of nations, to have 
 
 worn the crown of fame," 
 Rabbi Solomon responded, loyal to his kingly 
 
 name. 
 
 " To sit throned, the lord of millions, first and 
 
 noblest in the land," 
 Answered haughty Rabbi Asher, youngest of 
 
 the reverend band. 
 
 " All in vain." said Rabbi Jarus. " if not faith 
 
 and hope have traced 
 In the soul Mosaic precepts, by sin's contact 
 
 unefTaced." 
 
 Then uprose wise Rabbi Judah, tallest, gravest 
 
 of them all ; 
 " From the heights of fame and honor even 
 
 valiant souls may fall ; 
 
 " Love may fail us; Virtue's sapling grow a dry 
 
 and thorny rod. 
 If we bear not in ourbosomsthe unselfish love 
 
 of God." 
 
 In the outer court sat playing a sad-featured, 
 
 fair-haired child ; 
 His young eyes seemed wells of sorrow — they 
 
 were godlike when he smiled. 
 
 One by one he dropped the lilies, softly plucked 
 
 with childish hand; 
 One by one he viewed the sages of that grave 
 
 and hoary band. 
 
 Step by step he neared them closer, till, en- 
 circled by the seven. 
 
 Thus he said, in tones untrembling, with a 
 smile that seemed of Heaven : 
 
 " Nay, nay. fathers ! Only he, within the meas- 
 ure of whose breast 
 
 Dwells the human love with God-love, can 
 have found life's truest rest; 
 
 " For where one is not, the other must grow 
 stagnant at its spring. 
 
 Changing good deeds into phantoms — an un- 
 meaning, soulless thing. 
 
 " Whoso holds this precept truly owns a jewel 
 
 brighter far 
 Than the joys of home and children — than 
 
 wealth, fame, and glory are. 
 
 " Fairer than old age thrice-honored, far above 
 tradition's law. 
 
 Pure as any radiant vision ever ancient pro- 
 phet saw. 
 
7«8 
 
 MORAL AND RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 "Only he. within the measure— faith appor- 
 tioned — of whose breast 
 
 Throbs this brother-love with God-love knows 
 the depth of perfect rest." 
 
 Wondering, gazed they at each other. " Praised 
 
 be Israel evermore : 
 He has spoken words of wisdom no man ever 
 spake before ! " 
 
 " Hold !" cries the angry Governor, 
 
 " This impious jargon cease. 
 Adore the gods whom all adore, 
 
 And live thy life in peace. 
 Adore or die !" " Or die ?'" she saith 
 "Choose sterner threat than this ; 
 Faintly stole the sounds of evening through p^^ death is but the golden gate 
 
 the massive outer door ; 
 Whitely lay the peace of moonlight on the 
 Temple's marble floor. 
 
 Calmly passing from their presence to the 
 fountain's rippling song. 
 
 Stopped he to uplift the lilies strewn the scat- 
 tered sprays among. 
 
 " Who died the death of shame. " she cries. 
 
 '• To save the souls He made. 
 And for our ransom on the tree 
 
 His last red life-drops pai1 1 
 Be glor)' to the one true tiod. 
 
 One God in Persons Three ! 
 Be glory to the Eternal Son, 
 
 Jesus, who died for me !" 
 
 To radiant home of bli; 
 
 Where the elders lingered, silent since he 
 
 spake, the Undefiled — 
 Where the Wisdom of the ages sat amid the 
 
 flowers, a child ! 
 
 MARY E. MANNIX. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF ST. DOROTHY. 
 Constantius fills the imperial throne — 
 
 Father of Constantine : 
 He, too, of mildness not unmeet 
 
 To found the Christian line. 
 But Diocletian's code at times 
 
 Yet wreaks its bloody will. 
 As waves will toss and foam and fret 
 
 After the storm is still. 
 
 Before the ruthless Governor 
 
 Of Cappadocia stands 
 The high-born maiden Dorothy, 
 
 Serene, with folded hands. 
 Her brow is fair, her cheek is red. 
 
 Her laugh breaks low and clear ; 
 And young she is and innocent — 
 
 And wherefore stands she here .> 
 
 But here are only smiles for her, 
 
 And counsels kindly meant. 
 " Blanch not, fair maiden," smirks the judge ; 
 
 " Thou art but hither sent 
 To check those foolish, slanderous tales 
 
 Which link thy honored name 
 With his— the Wretch of Galilee— 
 
 Who died the death of shame." 
 
 " That garden fair, whose .-Vutumn fruits 
 
 'Mid flowers of Springtime gleam ; 
 Nor blight nor tempest dares to break 
 
 The rose's Summer dream, 
 .^hl might I fade from this dark earth. 
 
 Melt quite away, and flee 
 To Him, my Lover and my Lord, 
 
 Jesus, who died for me I " 
 
 The young Theophilus o'erhears 
 
 The martyr's raptured sighs, 
 And with a not ungracious scorn, 
 
 •• O Dorothy," he cries, 
 ■■ If flowers and rosy fruits are there 
 
 In this rude season found. 
 Send me a few I " "I will," she saith. 
 
 The snow was on the ground ! 
 
 The girl hath braved the tyrant's rage ; 
 
 .■Ml tortures, threats, are vain. 
 Now butchers eager press, their steel 
 
 In virgin blood to stain ; 
 While at the last before her kneels 
 
 Yon beauteous smiling child, 
 \ basket in his tiny hands. 
 
 With fruits and flow'rets piled. 
 
 •■ Take these unto Theophilus! 
 
 Say Dorothy hath cried 
 To Heaven for mercy on his soul 
 
 Ere with glad heart she died. 
 Tell him I go, and he shall come 
 
 Where flowers and fruits abound 
 Of softer sheen, of sunnier tint." — 
 
 The snow was on the ground I 
 
-,ERTKUDE OF SAXONY. 
 
 ■19 
 
 The snow shone white o'er all the ground, 
 
 Save where the ruby gush 
 From that young fearless Christian heart 
 
 Forced pagan earth to blush. 
 So Dorothy is throned on high. 
 
 Close, close to Christ, her Spouse ; 
 And by her side Theophilus. 
 
 With laurel round his brows. 
 
 M.VITHEW RUSSELL. 
 
 GERTRUDE OF SAXONY. 
 A cloudy pillar before Israel went. 
 An angel kept Tobias in the way, 
 A star led up the Magians to the tent, 
 Wherein new-born the Child of Glory lay. 
 Therefore the wayfarers will always say : — 
 Praise be to Him who guides his servants' feet, 
 Who keeps them that no evil will assay [beat. 
 To do them harm — when storm or hot rays 
 A refuge from the storm, a shadow from the 
 heat. 
 
 On Saxon soil her journey had begun, 
 A gentle pilgrim on a holy quest. 
 Nor will she that long journey's end have won 
 Until Alsatian soil her feet have prest ; 
 This maiden there would be a convent's guest. 
 Whereof the glor\' far and wide is told, 
 And there she would take up her lasting rest ; 
 For there, while love of many has grown cold. 
 The earnest discipline of ancient times they 
 hold. 
 
 And others in her company there were, — 
 An ancient kinsman, and — intent on gain — 
 Some merchants with them the same way did 
 
 fare; 
 Till once when night o'ertook them on the 
 
 plain, 
 No shelterwon, the merchants then were fain 
 Re-seek their lodging lately left behind : 
 The holy pilgrims might not so restrain 
 Their eager steps, but trusted well to find. 
 Ere night was fully come, some shelter to 
 
 their mind. 
 
 But sooner than they looked for, thickest 
 night 
 
 Fell, — and they gazed around them, if per- 
 chance 
 
 The lowliest cottage might appear in sight. 
 
 For now return they could not, nor advance : 
 
 When of a sudden, on that plain's expanse, 
 A palace of surpassing beauty rare 
 Seemed to stand up before them at a glance ; 
 Then gladly did they thitherward repair, 
 Hoping to find due rest and needful succor 
 there. 
 
 And being there arrived, they marvelled much, 
 For doors and windows open wide they found. 
 And all without doors and within was such. 
 With such perfection of fresh beauty crowned. 
 As though in that day's space from out the 
 
 ground 
 New-risen. Entering in they wondering saw 
 How all things for life's use did there abound, 
 But inmate none appearing, they for awe 
 And secret fear well-nigh were tempted to 
 
 withdraw. 
 
 But wlien they for a season waited had. 
 Behold ! a Matron of majestic air. 
 Of regal port, in regal garments clad. 
 Entered alone — who, when they would declare, 
 With reverence meet, what need had brought 
 
 them there 
 At such untimely hour, smiling replied 
 That she already was of all aware ; 
 And added she was pleased and satisfied 
 That they to be her guests that night had 
 
 turned aside. 
 
 And ere the meal she spread for them was 
 
 done. 
 Upon a sudden One there entered there. 
 Whose countenance with marvellous beauty 
 
 shone. 
 More than the sons of men divinely fair. 
 And all whose presence did the likeness wear 
 Of angel more than man : he too, with bland. 
 Mild words saluted them, and gracious air; 
 Sweet comfort, solemn awe, went hand in 
 
 hand, [grims stand. 
 
 While in his presence did the wondering pil- 
 
 Then turning to the Matron, as a son 
 Might to a mother speak familiarly ; 
 He spake to her — they only heard the tone, 
 Not listening, out of reverent courtesy : 
 And then with smile of large benignity 
 Saluting them again, he left the place. 
 And was not more seen by them — only she. 
 That Matron, stayed and talked with them a 
 
 space, 
 Whose words were full of sweetness and of 
 
 heavenly grace. 
 
720 
 
 MORAL A.\D K ELI G 10 US POEMS. 
 
 And then she showed them chambers for their Though but to guard them from one night's 
 rest. cold air, — 
 
 And had no ministries of love disdained : 
 And 'twas their thought, if some have una- 
 ware 
 Angels for guests received, with love un- 
 feigned. 
 That they had been by more than angels 
 enteruiined. 
 
 KICHAKI) LHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 
 And did not that tired maiden then forget 
 To take, and lead apart, her wear)' guest. 
 And pointing where a ready couch was set. 
 So with her own hands spread the coverlet 
 Above her, bidding her till morning rose 
 That she should render unto sleep his debt. 
 And sufler him her weary lids to close. 
 Then, with a blessing given, she left them to 
 repose. 
 
 The morning come, she bade them rise anon. 
 For now their fellow-travellers were in sight. 
 Journeying that way, and would be quickly 
 
 gone- 
 The merchaniswhom they quitted yesternight. 
 Refreshed they rose to meet the early light. 
 And to rejoin their company prepared : 
 But first due thanks they tendered, as was 
 
 right ; 
 To her who had for them so amply cared : 
 And with those thankful hearts forth on their 
 
 way they fared. 
 
 So set they forward from that stately hall. 
 And now had journeyed for a little space, 
 When musing much, and wondering much at 
 
 all [their face. 
 
 Which had befallen them there, they turned 
 Its fair proportions once again to trace. 
 When lo ! with newer awe their hearts were 
 
 filled : 
 For it had wholly \anished from its place. 
 Like some cloud-palace that the strong winds 
 
 build, [willed. 
 
 Which to unmake again they presently have 
 
 While this new admiration them did seize. 
 They saw some nobles of the land that way 
 Come riding: straightway they inquired of 
 
 these 
 If they had never seen, nor yet heard say, 
 Of some great dome that in that quarter lay. 
 But these to them made answer constantly, 
 How they had ridden past by night and day. 
 But that such stately hall might nowhere be, — 
 Only the level plain, such as they now might 
 
 Thereat from them did thankful utterance 
 break [care 
 
 And with one voice they praised His tender 
 Who had upreared a palace for their sake. 
 And of that pomp and cost did nothing spare. 
 
 THE FIRST REDBREAST. 
 
 A Ug,;uiof Good I-rUay. 
 A quaint and childish stor)', often told. 
 And worth, perchance, the telling, for it steals 
 Through rustic Christendom ; and boyhood, 
 
 bold 
 And almost pitiless in pastime, feels 
 The lesson its simplicity conceals ; 
 Hence kind Tradition, to protect from wrong 
 1 A gentle tribe of choristers, appeals 
 ! To this ancestral sacredness, so long 
 In grateful memor>' shrined, and now in 
 grateful song. 
 
 One Friday's noon, a snowy-breasted bird 
 Was flying in the darkness o'er a steep 
 Nigh to Judea's Capital, where stirred 
 The rabble's murmur sullenly and deep. 
 Far had it sailed since sunrise, and the sweep 
 Of its brown wing grew languid, and it longed 
 To rest awhile on some green bough, and peep 
 Around the mass that on the hill-side thronged 
 As if to learn whereto such pageant stern 
 belonged. 
 
 The robin whitebreast spied a Cross of wood 
 That lifted o'er the din its goni' freight; 
 Beneath, the sorrow-stricken Mother stood. 
 And silent wailed her Child's less cruel fate. 
 ' But lest she mourn all lone and desolate. 
 Has reason whispered to that fluttering breast, 
 Whom, Whom, on Whom those fiends their 
 
 fury sate .' 
 Mark how it throbs with pity, nor can rest. 
 Till it has freed its Lord, or tried its little best. 
 
 And see, with tiny beak it fiercely flies. 
 To wrench the nails that bind the Captive fast. 
 Ah I vain, all vain those eager panting cries. 
 That quivering agony ! It sinks at last. 
 Foiled in the generous strife and glares aghast 
 
THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS. 
 
 721 
 
 To see the thorn-crowned Head droop faint 
 
 and low, 
 Mute the pale lips, the gracious brow o'er- 
 
 cast ; 
 While from the shattered palms the red drops 
 
 flow. 
 Staining the pious bird's smooth breast of 
 
 speckless snow. 
 
 That snow thus ruddied fixed the tinge of all 
 The after-race of robins : and 'tis said, 
 Heaven's fondest care doth on the robin fall, 
 In memory of that scene on Calvary sped. 
 Hence, urchins rude, in quest of plunder led 
 To prowl round hedges, never dare to touch 
 The wee white-speckled eggs or mossy bed 
 Of " God's own bird." So from the spoiler's 
 
 clutch 
 Would you, God's child, be free .' Ah ! feel for 
 
 Jesus much. 
 
 MAI IHKW RUS.SELL. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS. 
 Trinity bells, with their hollow lungs. 
 Their vibrant lips and their brazen tongues, 
 Over the roofs of the city pour 
 Their Easter music with joyous roar, 
 Till the soaring notes to the sun are rolled. 
 As he swings along in his path of gold. 
 
 " Dearest papa," says my boy to me. 
 As he merrily climbs on his mother's knee, 
 " Why are these eggs that you see me hold 
 Colored so finely with blue and gold ? 
 And what is the wonderful bird that lays 
 Such beautiful eggs upon Easter days.'" 
 
 Tenderly shine the April skies. 
 
 Like laughter and tears in my child's blue eyes. 
 
 And every face in the street is gay_ 
 
 Why cloud this j'oungster's by saying nay ? 
 
 So I cudgel my brains for the tale he begs. 
 
 And tell him this story of Easter eggs: — 
 
 You have heard, my boy, of the Man who 
 
 diL-d. 
 Crowned with keen thorns and crucified ; 
 And how Joseph the wealthy — whom God 
 
 reward ! — 
 Cared for the corse of his martyred Lord, 
 And piously tombed it within the rock. 
 And closed the gate with a mighty block. 
 
 Now close by the tomb a fair tree grew. 
 With pendulous leaves, and blossoms of blue ; 
 And deep in the green tree's shadowy breast 
 A beautiful singing bird sat on her nest. 
 Which was bordered with mosses like mala- 
 chite. 
 And held four eggs of an ivory white. 
 
 Now when the bird from her dim recess 
 Beheld the Lord in his burial dress, 
 And looked on the heavenly face so pale. 
 And the dear hands pierced with the cruel 
 
 nail. 
 Her heart nigh broke with a sudden pang, 
 And out of the depths of her sorrow she sang. 
 
 All night long till the moon was up 
 She sat and sang in her moss-wreathed cup, 
 A song of sorrow as wild and shrill 
 As the homeless wind when it roams the hill, 
 So full of tears, so loud and long. 
 That the grief of the world seemed turned to 
 song. 
 
 But soon there came thro' the weeping night 
 A glittering angel clothed in white ; 
 And he rolled the stone from the tomb away. 
 Where the Lord of the earth and the heavens 
 
 lay; 
 And Christ arose in the cavern's gloom. 
 And in living lustre came from the tomb. 
 
 Now the bird that sat in the heart of the tree 
 Beheld this celestial mystery. 
 And its heart was filled with a sweet delight, 
 And it poured a song on the throbbing night ; 
 Notes climbing notes, till higher, higher, 
 They shot to heaven like spears of fire. 
 
 When the glittering, white-robed angel heard 
 The sorrowing song of the grieving bird. 
 And, after, the jubilant paean of mirth 
 That hailed Christ risen again on earth. 
 He said, " Sweet bird, be forever blest 
 Thyself, thy eggs, and thy moss-wreathed 
 nest!" 
 
 And ever, my child, since that blessed night, 
 When death bowed down to the Lord of light, 
 The eggs of that sweet bird change their hue. 
 And burn with red and gold and blue 
 Reminding mankind in their simple way 
 Of the holy marvel of Easter day. 
 
 FIT2-J.\.MES O'BRIEN. 
 
•22 
 
 MORAL AND RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 HUBERT THE HUNTER. 
 Lord Hubert lived, long years ago, 
 
 In good King Pepin's reign. 
 The lightest heart and heaviest hand 
 
 In all broad Aquitain. 
 
 He loved his home, he loved his king, 
 
 He loved a winsome face. 
 He loved right well his noble self. 
 
 But better loved the chase. 
 
 The foremost in the kingly joust. 
 
 The first in hunting train ; 
 The bravest brand in all the land 
 
 Was crossed with his in vain. 
 
 Small favorites with Hubert bold 
 Were bookish clerk and priest; 
 
 And sore he chafed when sport was barred 
 By frequent fast and feast. 
 
 "Twas in the blessed Lenten time. 
 
 The holiest week of all ; 
 The silence of the Day of Woe 
 
 Fell like a funeral pall. 
 
 No joy-bell rang, no light was there. 
 Nor sight nor sound of mirth • 
 
 The sadness of the Sacrifice 
 Was on the mourning earth. 
 
 By holy men in penJince garb 
 The shrouded cross was borne, 
 
 When o'er the hill rang loud and shrill 
 A merry bugle-horn. 
 
 The baying of a hound boomed out 
 
 Along the distant road ; 
 With bow and spear and hunting gear 
 
 Lord Hubert reckless strode. 
 
 With mock obeisance spake the knight : — 
 
 •• Good father, ban me not. 
 Nor saint nor Pharisee am I, 
 
 But sinful man, God wot. 
 
 " But deeds of grace may wash out sin, — 
 
 1 pledge a hunter's word. 
 The fattest buck in gloomy Hartz 
 
 This night shall grace thy board." 
 
 Then answered mild the holy man : 
 
 " Forbear the awful crime 
 Of him who sheddeth sinless blood 
 
 In holy Easter time. 
 
 ■• An erring servant of the Lord 
 Nor ban nor curse may say. 
 
 But may the gentle Christ forgive 
 Thy foul affront, I pray." 
 
 The town is passed ; the forest deep 
 
 Is cold and still and gray ; 
 So silent, you might deem the brutes 
 
 Revered the sacred day. 
 
 Now deeper, deeper grows the wood, 
 And darker grows the gloom; 
 
 And colder chills assault the heart. 
 Like breezes from the tomb. 
 
 The broken twig hangs motionless. 
 
 The budding leaf is still ; 
 The sunless winter of the North 
 
 Is not more dark and chill. 
 
 Lord Hubert bore the stoutest heart 
 
 In all broad Aquitain, 
 Yet, but for very shame, had wished 
 
 Him fairly home again. 
 
 So deadly calm the awful wood, 
 
 The winding of his horn 
 Was lost in space, nor echo e'en 
 
 Was backward to him borne. 
 
 " Good faith !" he cried, "the holy man 
 Shall venison lack to-day ;" 
 
 When lo ! before his startled gaze 
 A quarry stood at bay. 
 
 Stout Hubert drew a deadly shaft. 
 His aim was true and keen. 
 
 And fairer mark a hunter's skill 
 Has seldom found, 1 ween. 
 
 He drew the arrow to the head. 
 His aim was keen and true ; 
 
 Then sudden fell the bow and shaft. 
 And fell stout Hubert, too. 
 
 For, 'mid the branching antlers there. 
 
 Upon a forehead white 
 The symbol of the gentle Christ 
 
 Was marked in dazzling light. 
 
 At holy cross on beastly front 
 The huntsman pressed the sod. 
 
 And heard, like him of Israel. 
 The accents of a God. 
 
O MARY. QUEEN OF MERCY. 
 
 The joy-bells rang in Easter morn, 
 
 The good folk held the feast, 
 And watched the conscious rising sun 
 
 Dance gladly in the East. 
 
 Lord Hubert knelt in humbled heart 
 And prayed for grace to teach 
 
 The lesson taught by Heaven to him 
 Through brute's inspired speech: — 
 
 That gentle sport in season meet 
 
 Awakes not Heaven's wrath : 
 But wo the wretch for sinless life 
 
 Who no compassion hath ! 
 
 That bird and beast are in his care, 
 
 Whose lives are but a span. 
 And he that wastes offendeth God, 
 
 Who gave the breath to man. 
 
 And honest sportsmen evermore 
 
 Are merciful indeed ; 
 For good Saint Hubert blesseth him 
 
 Who heeds his gentle creed. 
 
 JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 
 
 "0 MARY, QUEEN OF MERCY!" 
 There lived a knight long years ago. 
 
 Proud, carnal, vain, devotionless ; 
 Of God above, or hell below. 
 
 He took no thought, but undisma\'ed. 
 
 Pursued his course of wickedness. 
 
 His heart was rock, he never prayed 
 
 To be forgiven for all his treasons ; 
 
 He only said, at certain seasons, 
 
 '■O Mar)', Queen of Mercy!" 
 
 Years rolled, and found him still the same. 
 Still draining pleasure's poison-bowl ; 
 
 Yet felt he now and then some shame, 
 The torment of the Undying Worm 
 At whiles awoke his trembling soul : 
 And then, though powerless to reform, 
 Would he, in hope to appease that sternest 
 Avenger, cry, and more in earnest, 
 " O Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " 
 
 At last youth's riotous time was gone, 
 And loathing now came after Sin. 
 
 With locks yet brown he felt as one 
 Grown gray at heart; and oft. with tears, 
 He tried, but all in vain, to win 
 From the dark desert of his years 
 
 One flower of hope ; yet, morn and e'ening, 
 He still cried, but with deeper meaning, 
 " O Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " 
 
 A happier mind, a holier mood, 
 A purer spirit, ruled him now ; 
 
 No more in thrall to flesh and blood, 
 He took a pilgrim-staff in hand, 
 And, under a religious vow. 
 Travailed his way to Pommerland. 
 There entered he an humble cloister. 
 Exclaiming, while his eyes grew moister. 
 "O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 
 
 Here, shorn and cowled, he laid his cares 
 Aside, and wrought for God alone. 
 
 Albeit he sang no choral prayers. 
 Nor matin hymn nor laud could learn, 
 He mortified his flesh to stone ; 
 For him no penance was too stern ; 
 And often prayed he on his lonely 
 Cell-couch at night, but still said only, 
 •' O Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " 
 
 And thus he lived long, long; and, when 
 God's angels called him, thus he died. 
 
 Confession made he none to men, 
 Yet, when they anointed him with oil. 
 He seemed already glorified. 
 His penances, his tears, his toil. 
 Were past ; and now, with passionate sighing. 
 Praise thus broke from his lips while dying, 
 ■• O Mary, Queen of Mercy! " 
 
 They buried him with mass and song 
 Aneath a little knoll so green ; 
 
 But, lo ! a wonder-sight !— Ere long 
 Rose, blooming, from that verdant mound. 
 The fairest lily ever seen ; 
 And, on its petal-edges round, 
 Relieving their translucent whiteness, 
 Did shine these words in gokl-hued brightness, 
 " O Mary, Queen of Mercy !" 
 
 And, would God's angel give thee power, 
 Thou, dearest reader, mightst behold 
 
 The fibres of this holy flower 
 Upspringing from the dead man's heart 
 In tremulous threads of light and gold ; 
 Then wouldst thou choose the better part ! 
 And thenceforth flee Sin's foul suggestions,- 
 Thy sole response to mocking questions, 
 •• O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 From the German of Simrock. 
 
-24 MORAL A.XD RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 MORNING AND EVENING. 
 
 II. 
 
 , 
 
 In the evening of thy day, 
 
 In the morning of thy days. 
 
 When thy step is slow and weak ; 
 
 When thy youth is glad and strong; 
 
 When thy locks are silver-gray, 
 
 When thine eye hath glancing rays. 
 
 And thy tongue must feebly speak ; 
 
 And thy light step leaps along; 
 
 When thine eyes can scarce discern 
 
 When thy cheek is red with health. 
 
 Faces most familiar— dear ;— 
 
 And thy locks are glossy bright; 
 
 And thy deaf ears vainly turn 
 
 When in poverty or wealth 
 
 Where the song resoundeth clear ; 
 
 Thou can'st equally delight; 
 
 When thou creepest to the fire. 
 
 Holding in thy heart a store 
 
 Warming thy poor withered form. 
 
 Of fresh hope to bear thee on. 
 
 And the stretch of thy desire 
 
 (Waves all rolling to the shore, 
 
 Is safe shelter from the storm ; 
 
 Glittering in the rising sun !) 
 
 When thy years are garnered up 
 
 When a circle of home-friends. 
 
 In the har\est of the past. 
 
 Yet unbroken, hems thee round. 
 
 And the dregs of life's low cup 
 
 And each voice its welcome sends 
 
 Are brief days that cannot last; 
 
 With a sweet familiar sound ; 
 
 When thy home-friends, one by one. 
 
 When the future, yet untried. 
 
 Have departed to their rest. 
 
 Seems all promise and all joy : 
 
 Thou, the last leaf, fluttering on 
 
 Love rewarded.— want supplied — 
 
 Boughs no more in verdure drest ; 
 
 Happiness without alloy ;— 
 
 When — the summons heard at length,— 
 
 Then, though brilliant be thy morn. 
 
 Death's strange shadows round thee close, - 
 
 Cloudless and serene thy sky. 
 
 In thy weakness shall be strength. 
 
 From the day when thou wert born 
 
 In thy weariness repose. 
 
 Look to that when thou must die. 
 
 If thou didst remember still 
 
 Many a cloud of sin and strife 
 
 Thy Creator in thy youth. 
 
 Must obscure the distant heaven. 
 
 Doing all His gracious will. 
 
 Ere thou yieldest up thy life 
 
 Walking by the light of truth. 
 
 To the God by whom 'twas given ! 
 
 Fear not then to lose thy way 
 
 Therefore in the morning light, 
 
 When the evening gloom hath come. — 
 
 In the sultr\- noontide glow. 
 
 God, whom thou didst serve all day. 
 
 Vea, till evening dew doth fall. 
 
 Bids His angels guide thee home 1 
 
 Pray to Him through joy and woe! 
 
 CAKOLl.NE E. NUKTOX. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
INDEX OF BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Alexander, Cecil Frances 729 
 
 Alexander, William (Rev.) 729 
 
 AUingham, William 729 
 
 Anster, John 730 
 
 Armstrong, Edmund John 730 : 
 
 Armstrong, tieorge Francis 730 
 
 Banim, John 731 
 
 Barry, Michael Joseph 731 
 
 Berkeley, George (Rev.) 731 
 
 Blake, Mary E 73i 
 
 Botta, Anne C. L 73i 
 
 Boyle, John 73= 
 
 Brenan, Joseph 732 
 
 Bronte, Charlotte 733 
 
 Bronte. Emily 733 
 
 Brougham, John 733 
 
 Brown, Frances 733 
 
 Brown, John Patrick 734 
 
 Butler, Wilham Archer (Rev. ) 734 
 
 Callanan, James J 734 
 
 Carleton, William 734 
 
 Carpenter, Henry B. (Rev.) 735 
 
 Casey, John Keegan 735 
 
 Cherry, Andrew 735 
 
 Clarke, Joseph I. C 735 
 
 Collier, Thomas S 735 
 
 Collins, William 735 
 
 Connolly, Daniel 73C> 
 
 Connolly, Olivia Knight 73^1 
 
 Conway, Katherine Eleanor 736 
 
 Cowan, Samuel K 73^ 
 
 Croker, Thomas Crofton 737 
 
 Croly, George (Rev.) 737 
 
 Cronin, Patrick (Rev.) 737 
 
 Davis, Francis 738 
 
 Davis, Thomas Osborne 738 
 
 Dermody, Thomas 739 
 
 De Vere, Aubrey (Sir) 739 
 
 De Vere, Aubrey Thomas 739 
 
 De Vere, Mary Ainge 739 
 
 Donnelly, Eleanor C 739 
 
 Dowden, Edward 740 
 
 Dowling, Richard 740 
 
 Downing, Ellen 740 
 
 Drennan, William 74c 
 
 Drummond, William H 741 
 
 Dufferin, Lady 741 
 
 Duffy, Charles Gavan 741 
 
 Egan, Maurice Francis 741 
 
 English, Thomas Dunn 742 
 
 Farrell, Joseph (Rev.) 742 
 
 Ferguson, Samuel (Sir) 743 
 
 Forrester, Arthur M 743 
 
 Forrester, Ellen 743 
 
 Forrester, Fanny 743 
 
 Eraser, John De Jean 744 
 
 Furlong, Thomas 744 
 
 Gallagher, William Davis 744 
 
 Geoghegan, Arthur Gerald 744 
 
 Geoghegan, William 744 
 
 Gilmore, Minnie 744 
 
 Goldsmith, Oliver 745 
 
 Graves, Alfred Percival. 745 
 
 Gray, Jane L 745 
 
 Griffin, Gerald 746 
 
 Guiney, Louise Imogen 746 
 
 Darley, George 737 ] Halpine, Charles Graham 746 
 
 Davis, Eugene 737 ' Harding, Edward 747 
 
INDEX OF lilOGKAl'HV 
 
 Holmes, Edmond G. A . . . 747 ] 
 
 Hughes, John (Most Rev.) 747 
 
 Ingram, John Kelts 747' 
 
 Irwin, Thomas Caulfield 748 
 
 Joyce, Robert Dwyer 74^ 
 
 Keegan, James (Rev.) 74*' 
 
 Keegan. John 748 | 
 
 Kelly, Eva Mary ... 749 
 
 Kelly. William I). (Rev.) 749 
 
 Kenny, James 749 
 
 Keppel, Caroline (Lady) 749 
 
 Kickham, Charles J 750 
 
 Knowles. James Sheridan 75" 
 
 Lanigan, George T 750 
 
 Leckey, William E. H 75" 
 
 Le Fanu, Joseph Sheridan 751 1 
 
 Lever, Charles James * . . . 751 
 
 Locke, John 751 
 
 Lover, Samuel 751 
 
 Lysaght, Edward 752 
 
 Maginn, William 752 
 
 Mahany, Rowland B 752 
 
 Mahony, Francis S. (Rev.) 752 
 
 Mangan, James Clarence 753 
 
 Mannix, Mary E 754 
 
 Marston, I'hilip Bourke 754 
 
 Maturin, Edward 754 
 
 Meagher, Thomas Francis 754 
 
 Milliken, Richard Alfred 755 
 
 Moore, Thomas 755 
 
 Muir, Marion 755 
 
 Mulholland, Rosa 756 
 
 MuUaly, Mary 756 
 
 Munkittrick, Richard K 756 
 
 Murphy, Katherine 756 
 
 McCarthy, Denis Florence 756 
 
 McCarthy, Justin Huntly 757 
 
 McClure, William J. (Rev.) 757 
 
 McDermott, Hugh Farrar. 757 
 
 McGee, Thomas D'Arcy 75S , 
 
 Mcllwaine, William (Rev.) 758 | 
 
 McMullin, Mary A 758 
 
 Norton, Caroline Elizabeth 759 
 
 Ogle, George 759 j 
 
 Orr, James 759 
 
 O'Brien, Attic 759 ' 
 
 O'Brien, Fitz-Jatiies 759 
 
 O'Conncll, Daniel 7'k) 
 
 O'Connor, Joseph 7O0 
 
 O'Connor. Michael 760 
 
 O'Donnell, John Francis 761 
 
 O'Hagan, John 761 
 
 O'Hara, Theodore 7f.T 
 
 O'Reilly, John Boyle 7'i 
 
 O'Ryan, Francis V - 
 
 O'Ryan. Julia M 7' 
 
 O'Shaughnessy, Arthur 7'' , 
 
 Ossian 763 
 
 rarnell, Fanny 763 
 
 ramell, Thomas (Rev.) 764 
 
 Read, Cliarles Anderson 764 
 
 Riley, James Whitcomb 764 
 
 Roche, James Jeffrey 765 
 
 Russell, Matthew (Rev.) 765 
 
 Ryan Abram J. (Rev.) 765 
 
 Ryan, Carroll 766 
 
 Ryves, Elizabeth ... 766 
 
 Sadlier, Mary A 766 
 
 Savage, John 7*16 
 
 Sedulius 766 
 
 Serrano, Mary J 767 
 
 Shanly. Charles Dawson 767 
 
 Shea, John Augustus 767 
 
 Sheridan, Richard Brinsley 767 
 
 Sheridan, Thomas 768 
 
 Sigerson, George 768 1 
 
 Simmons, Bartholomew 768 1 
 
 Sterling, John 768 
 
 Stokes, Whitley 769 
 
 Sullivan, Margaret F 769 
 
 Sullivan, Timothy D 769 
 
 Swift, Jonathan 769 
 
 Tayli-ir, Una Ashworth 770 j 
 
 Tighe, Mary 77° ] 
 
 Todhunter, John 770 | 
 
 Trench, Richard Chenevix (Most Rev.) 770 I 
 
 Tynan, Katharine 770 
 
 Waller, John Francis 771 
 
 Walsh, Edward 7: ■ 
 
 White, Richard E 771 
 
 Whitman, Sarah Helen 771 
 
 Wilde, Lady 772 
 
 Wilde, Oscar 772 
 
 Wilde, Richard Henry 772 
 
 Williams, Richard Dalton 773 
 
 Wilson, John Crawford 773 
 
 Wolfe. Charles (Rev.) 773 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 Alexander, Cecil Frances. 
 
 Cecil Fnuices Alexander is tlie wile of 
 Dr. WHliara Alexander, Bishop of Derry 
 and Raplioe. Before her marriage to Dr. 
 Alexander she was Miss Cecil Frances Hum- 
 phreys. Her poems, chiefly on moral and 
 religious themes, are verj' numerous, and 
 have made her name familiar in Ireland 
 and England. The best known among them 
 is the "Burial of Moses," which has been in- 
 corporated in various collections. An 
 estimate of her success in the special field 
 she has chosen may be formed from the fact 
 tliat over forty editions of her moral songs, 
 hymns for children, etc., have been pub- 
 lished. She was married to Dr. Alexander 
 in 1849. 
 
 Alexander, William (Right Rev.). 
 
 Bishop Alexander was born in Londonderr3' 
 in April, 1834. He was ordained in the Epis- 
 copal Churcli in 1847, and in 1867 he was 
 appointed Bishop of Derry and Raphoe. In 
 his earlier years he wrote a number of 
 poems, chieflv religious, which gained him 
 a good sliare of literary reputation. They 
 not only gav e much promise, but ])ossessed 
 positive merit. A collection of them that 
 was published several years ago has passed 
 out of print. He is a frequent contributor 
 of prose tq ecclesiastical literature, and as a 
 pulpit ora|Cor he has long enjoyed a reputa- 
 tation foi marked brilliancy and power. If 
 his poems were upon other than religious 
 themes, they probably would be more 
 widely known. 
 
 Allingham, William. 
 
 Tiie picturesque town of Ballyshannon, on. 
 the Erne, and in the County of Donegal, is 
 the native place of William Allingiiam, who 
 was born in 1838. His father was a man of 
 some local repute as a banker, and the son 
 received a good education, but no profes- 
 sional training. Going to London in his 
 early years he found employment suited 
 to his tastes, and a considerable part of his 
 life has been passed there. It may be said 
 that his first practical encouragement in 
 literature came from Charles Dickens, who 
 received and welcomed him in the pages of 
 "Household Words." An appointment in 
 the customs service, which he held until 
 1873, when he resigned it to suiceod Mr. 
 Froude as editor of "Eraser's JMagazine," 
 kept him above the necessity of writing 
 merely for bread. Since 1864 he has 
 been in receipt of a pension for literary 
 service. He retired from his editorial posi- 
 tion some time after the return of Mr. 
 Froude from his unsatisfactory lecture 
 tour in America, but did not abandon liter- 
 ary work. Mr. Allingham has published 
 three or four vohimes, and each has been 
 well received. The subjects are taken 
 chiefly from Irish peasant life. A long- 
 poem, entitled " Lawrence Bloomfield in 
 Ireland," which ran through several num- 
 bers of " Eraser's," is a narrative of obser- 
 vation that reveals close and sympathetic 
 study of the condition of the people. 
 Another long poem, " The Music-Master," 
 the scene of which is also laid in Ireland, 
 shows his talent in a higher and more 
 
 L^ 
 
730 
 
 niOGKA I'HIL A A SO TKS. 
 
 artistic vein. Altlioii.£:h not or (lie national 
 school of Iiisli poets, lie has written in a 
 purely Irish spiiit. His minor poems are 
 niurked by a simplicity, in the thought it- 
 self as well as the expivssion, for v/luch 
 natui-alncss is the best descriptive tenii. He 
 depicts Ininible life and rustic scenes in 
 colors which make the pictures easily 
 recognized by all who know the Vealilies of 
 an IrLsh villajre or country-side. That he is 
 a true poet is fully attested by the appi-ecia- 
 tion he has gaine<1 when; Irish themes, even 
 without political beariiii,'s, ai-i- not regunled 
 with fuvoi-. 
 
 AXSTKH, JOHX. 
 
 The most noteworthy work of John Anster, 
 LL.D., is an admirable translation of 
 Goethe's " Faust." His original- poems, 
 however, show a fair degree of merit Dr. 
 Anster w.os born at Charleville, Cork, in 
 1793. In 1810 he entered Trinity College, 
 Dublin, where he took the full scliohistic 
 coui-se, and obtained his degree. In 1824 he 
 was called to the Irish bar, and in 1841 he 
 w;is placed on the civil list, with a pension 
 in recognition of his literary services. Dur- 
 ing his active yeai-s he was a valued con- 
 tributor to '• Bhu-kwood's," the Dublin 
 •■University Magiizine," and the "North 
 British Review." He died in Dublin in 
 1S67. 
 
 Armstrong, Kdmixd .1. 
 
 Dying before he had nuuhed his twenty- 
 third birthday, Edmund John Ariristrong 
 left literary effects of remarkable quality 
 and variety for a life so brief ;us his. As 
 placed before the public some time after his 
 death by his brother, Professor George F. 
 Armstrong, they comprise a large volume 
 of poems, a volume of essays and sketches, 
 and most of the material constituting his 
 "Life and Lettei-s," which his brother 
 edited. He was born in Dublin in July, 
 1841, and in 1859 he entered Trinity College, 
 where liis winning character and exceptional 
 talents soon made him a favorite among his 
 fellow-students. An injuiy to one of his 
 lungs brought on an illness which caused 
 his death in February, 1865. He was not 
 yet twenty-one yeai-s old when his principal 
 poem, the "Prisoner of Mount Saint 
 
 Michael," a spirited tale in blank vei-se, w^i- 
 written. He also wrote in the same form, 
 "Avoca: an Idyllic Poem," "The Dui^gle : 
 a Story of Wicklow," and "Glendalough : a 
 Story of Wicklow." His mastery of blank 
 verse, which tries the most experienced 
 writers, was vei-y remarkable in one so 
 young. His short poems in the conven- 
 tional forms are marked by tenderness and 
 an easy gr.icc of movement, and all his 
 verse contains not only gi'eat promise, but 
 much notable fulfillment. One of the most 
 interesting papei-s among his essays is an 
 extended study of Eklgar A. Poe. 
 
 ARMSTROMi, (iKORUK pR.WflS. 
 
 The quality of his work entitles George 
 Francis Armstrong to exceptional distinc- 
 tion in the company of authors. His poems, 
 both lyriciU and dramatic, have cei-tain 
 si>ecial characteristics which show the work- 
 ing of a vigorous and original mind. Mr. 
 Armstrong was born in the county of Dub- 
 lin, May 5, 1845. He was educated at 
 Trinity College, and at the ;ige of nineteen 
 he gained the highest honore for English 
 veree. At twenty-one he received the gold 
 medal for coni|>ositiou from the Historical 
 Society ; at twenty -two he was awarded a 
 gold medal for es.says by the Philosophical 
 Society ; at twenty-six he was appointed 
 Profes-sor of History and English Literature 
 in the Queen's College, Cork, and a few 
 years ago he was elected a Fellow of the 
 Royal Uni vol's! ty of Ireland. His most am- 
 bitious work is a di-ainatic trilogy entitled 
 the "Ti-agedy of Israel," the parts being 
 respectively named, "King Saul," "King 
 David" and "King Solomon." This pi-o- 
 duction has received the hifhest praise from 
 the best literary authorities A long poem 
 in blank vei'se, entitled " Tgono," and i-e- 
 markable for dramatic vigir and intense 
 passion, has also been warmly commended. 
 A later volume, "A Garland fi-oin Greece,"' 
 the fruit of some travels in that countiy 
 and Turkey, contains lines >qual to the 
 most spirited of Byron's tribiit- s to Hellenic 
 prowess and glory, ami also som > descriptive 
 poems of rare beauty. In 187' Mr. Arm- 
 strong published the "Life, Letters and 
 Essays," and al.so a complete edition of thi- 
 poems, of his brother, Edmund J. Arm- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 731 
 
 strong. The poem, "Slain in tlie Fore- 
 front," bears strong indications of tiaving 
 been inspired by his brother's death. Hi.s 
 latest volume, "Stories of Wicklow," pub- 
 lished in 1886, consists of poems whicli relate 
 wholly to the picturesque part of Ireland 
 named in the title. Mr. Armstrong-'s verse 
 shows poetical power of a very hig'h order, 
 and both skill and scholarsliip in its execu- 
 tion. As one of Ireland's men of letters, he 
 has gained an eminent place. The absence 
 of political verse from his productions ])artly 
 accounts for his not being more widely 
 known in a national sense. 
 
 Banim, John. 
 
 " Soggarth Aroon" is the only metrical ef- 
 fort of John Banim's that has stood the lest 
 of time. His other pieces, with the excep- 
 tion of the pretty love-lyric, "Ailleen," do 
 not entitle him to recognition as a poet. As 
 a writer of fiction lie was undoubtedly a man 
 of superior talent. In conjunction with his 
 brother, Michael, he wrote a number of 
 spirited tales of Irish life, which enjoyed 
 great popularity in their time, and gained 
 him a place in the company of successful 
 authors. Like Griffin, Banim essayed dra- 
 matic work at the beginning of his literary 
 life. He wrote the drama of "Damon and 
 Pythias" in his twenty-fourth year, and had 
 the gratification of seeing it gain a brilliant 
 success on the London stage, with sucli 
 eminent actors as Macready and Charles 
 Kemble in the title parts. He was born in 
 Kilkenny in 1798, and his deatli took place 
 in .August, 1843, after a protracted and most 
 painful illness. 
 
 Barry, Michael Joseph. 
 
 Tlie name of Jlicliael J. Barry was familiar 
 to the last generation in Ireland. Mr. 
 Barry wrote a number of poems, and also 
 prepai'ed a collection of ballads, etc., whicli 
 was published in Dublin, in 1845, under the 
 title of "The Songs of Ireland." In that 
 little book he made an effort, more earnest 
 than convincing, to show that George Nu- 
 gent Reynolds, not Thomas Campbell, wrote 
 "The Exile of Erin." Some lines from one 
 of his own poems, " Tlie Place to Die," are 
 often quoted. Inquiries concerning him 
 have only elicited the statement that he is 
 still living, somewhere on the Continent. 
 
 Berkeley, Gborc+k (Right Rkv.). 
 
 Bishop Berkeley, author of the poem in 
 which occurs the oft-quoted line, 
 
 " Westward the course of empire takes its way," 
 was born at Kilcrin, county Kilkenny, in 
 March, 1684. He died in January, 1753. 
 With the approval of Swift, he formed a 
 plan of establishing a college at the Bermu- 
 das, for the purpose of training pastors for 
 the colonial churches and missionaries for 
 the Indians, and it was in anticipation of 
 the results of the scheme, which was not 
 carried out, tliat he wrote the celebrated 
 
 LAKE, Mary E. 
 Mrs. Blake, whose poetical talent has re- 
 ceived wide recognition, was born in Duu- 
 garvan, County Waterford, Ireland. Leav- 
 ing her native place in early childhood, she 
 has since lived in Massachusetts, chiefly in 
 Boston, where she has gained much esteem 
 in both social and literary circles. In 1865 
 she was married to Dr. J. G. Blake, a lead- 
 ing physician of that city. Like many otliei- 
 Irish-American writers, Mrs. Blake pre- 
 sented her first verses to the public through 
 the columns of the Boston " Pilot." The 
 first collection of her poems appeared in 
 1883, and was received with much favor. 
 The high appreciation in which her talent 
 is held was notably attested by the request 
 of the civic authorities of Boston that she 
 should contribute a poem to the memo- 
 rial services in honor of Wendell Phillips. 
 In complying with that request, Mrs. Blake 
 produced an elegiac poem of rare power 
 and beauty. Among her prose woi-ks ai'e 
 a volume of sketches of a trip to California, 
 entitled "On the Wing," and published in 
 1883, and a series of interesting papers called 
 "Rambling Talks," contributed to the Bos- 
 ton "Journal " over the initials of "M. E. B.,'' 
 and running through several years. Her 
 prose as well as her poems shows Mrs. 
 Biake as a possessor of the true literaiy 
 gift. She is especially happy in writin.g 
 what may be called the poetry of child- 
 hood. 
 
 Botta, Axxe C. L. 
 
 Mrs. Anne Charlotte Lynch Botta was born 
 at Bennington, Vermont. Her father, whose 
 name was Lynch, wiis a native of Dublm. 
 
732 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 At the ajje of sixteea he joined the patriotic 
 movement led liy Loixl Edward Fitzjrerald. 
 Falling- into tlif liunds of llie English, he 
 becanie a fellow piisoner with Thomas 
 Addis Emmet, Dr. McNevin, and other dis- 
 tinguished men who then soiifjht their 
 oonntry's freedom. After serving four 
 veal's in prison, he was banishcil for life, 
 and eame to America with Emmet and 
 McNevin. He married a daiijrhter of 
 Colonel (iraj', of the Connecticut line in 
 the Revolutionary army, and he died in 
 Cuba a few yeai-s later. His daughter, 
 Anne Charlotte Lynch, was educated at 
 Albany, N. Y. During her school-days slie 
 wrote sevei"al poems of nmch promise, 
 which was fulfilled as her mind became 
 matui-ed. A volume of her poems, with 
 fine illustrations by various artists, was pub- 
 lished in 1848, and a revised edition, with 
 some new poems, appeared in 1881. Her 
 most important work, however, is a " Hand- 
 book of Univei-sjil Literature." which was 
 published in 1860. This is held in high es- 
 teem as a refei-ence and text-book. In 1855 
 j she was married to Professor Vincenzo 
 
 I Botta, of New York, a gentleman distin- 
 
 j guished for learning and culture. She had 
 
 then been a resident of New York a few 
 yeai-s, and her home wius noted as a place 
 fretpiented by the brightest spirits of the 
 literary and artistic world. In this respect 
 it closely resembled the French salon. Her 
 receptions were contmued after her mar- 
 riage, and have not yet wholly ceased. In 
 later yeare Mi's. Bottiv has given attention to 
 sculpture rather than literature, and her 
 modelling lias elicited much praise. Both 
 her poems and her prose show deep feeling 
 and sound reflection. 
 
 BOTLK, JoiiX. 
 
 Manly thought and a womanly gentleness 
 marked the poetical as well as the per- 
 sonal character of John Boyle, of whom 
 a groat deal more niiglil be said liere 
 than the present purpose requires. Mr. 
 Boyle was born near the town of Banagher, 
 Kings County, Ireland, about 1822. He 
 arrived in New York in 1842, and he i-esided 
 there continuouslv to the time of his death 
 — January 7, 1885. Before leaving Ireland 
 he received a good education, which was 
 enlarged by assiduous study and long cxpe- 
 
 Brkxax, Joseph. 
 
 The single poem, ''Come tome, Doai-est," 
 would be sufficient to mark Joseph Brenan 
 as a poet of superior rank. He wrote many 
 other excellent |)oems, however, but his 
 productions are not available in collective 
 form, and only a few civn now be obtained. 
 5Ir. Brenan was born in Cork, November 
 ITtli, 18'.28. He began his literary work in 
 early ycare, and was a contributor to the 
 national pi-es.s in Dublin, wliither he i-e- 
 moved in 1848, at the age of twenty. En- 
 tering heartily into the '• Young Ii-eland " 
 movement, he had the distinction of being 
 one of the many patriots who have made 
 acquaintance with Kilmainham prison for 
 devotion to their country. Soon after 
 his release he left Ireland for New York, 
 where lie arrived in the autumn of 1849, 
 and at once turned to journalism, which en- 
 gaged his t:ilents the greater part of the 
 few yeare he was destined j-et to live. He 
 found time, nevertheless, to write several 
 
 rieiice as a teacher in New York. When 
 his death occurred he w.ts at the head of 
 one of the most flourishing public schools of 
 the city. Mr. Boyle was through life a dili- 
 gent student of the liistory of his country 
 and an ardent sympathizer with her people 
 in their various efl'orts to place her in a bet- 
 ter position before the world. His literarj- 
 t;Lstes took form at an early age, and he was 
 for many years a writer of spirited and 
 melodious veree, the greater part of which 
 appeared anonymously, as it was not in his j 
 nature to attract attention to himself. All 
 his literary work was done in such leisure 
 hours as could be spared from his profes- 
 sional duties. In 187G he published an inter- 
 esting historical work. •' The Battle Fields 
 of Ireland," astudy of the Willianiite wars, 
 which was well received. Had his duties 
 as a teacher been less exacting, he would 
 doubtle-ss have done much more in litera- 
 ture, as by taste and talent he was well 
 lltted for the jirofcssion of lettci-s. He wrote 
 with remarkable fluency, and w;xs especially 
 happy in the melodious turn of his vei'se. 
 As to his personal chai-acter, it may be said 
 that he was one of the most gentle, modest 
 and lovable of men, the very soul of honor 
 in all things, and sensitively faithful to 
 every obligation of life. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 733 
 
 poems and contribute some articJes to the 
 magazines. In August, 1851, he married 
 Miss Mary Savage, a sister of his friend, 
 John Savage, and he removed tlie same 
 j'ear to New Orleans, to fill an engagement 
 on the "Delta" newspaper. An attack 
 of yellow fever brought on a temporary 
 blindness, an affliction wliicli led to the 
 production of one of his best poems. He 
 returned to New York tor a short time, but 
 soon resumed his newspaper work in New 
 Orleans, and remained there till his death, 
 which took place May 27, 1857. For some 
 of his poems in this volume the Editor 
 is indebted to Mr. Savage, who intended 
 publishing all his poems togetlier several 
 years ago, but was prevented by their un- 
 fortunate destruction by fire. There is 
 much reason to regret that the Ij'rical re- 
 mains of so true and gentle a poet as Joseph 
 Brenan are not available in their entirety. 
 
 Broxte;, Chabi/Otte axd Emily. 
 
 The gifted sisters, Charlotte and Emily 
 Bronte, are associated wholly with the lit- 
 erature of England. Inasmuch, however, 
 as their father, the Rev. Patrick Bronte, 
 was not only an Irishman by birth, but, so 
 far as is known, also by lineage, there is as 
 good reason to introduce the sisters here as 
 some other writers who, although not of 
 Irish nativity, were or are at least partly of 
 Irish extraction. Their mother, Maria 
 Brauwell, was an English woman, of repu- 
 table family. Their jioetiy does not reveal 
 any special gift for verse-uiaking, but it ob- 
 tained some recognition when first placed 
 before the public, and a certain interest is 
 imparted to it by their great success as 
 novelists. Its general tone is one of weari- 
 ness, and it all has a strong personal bear- 
 ing. Charlotte was born at Thornton, Eng- 
 land, in 1816, and died in 1855. Emily was 
 born in 1818 and died in 1848. 
 
 Brougham, Johij. 
 
 Few men have been more beloved by their 
 fellows than genial, witty, generous, whole- 
 souled John Brougham, comedian, dra- 
 matist, story-writer and poet. Brougham 
 was born in Dublin in 1810, and his death 
 occurred in New York in 1880. In 1830 he 
 began tlie theatrical career which was for 
 
 nearly half a century one of the brightest 
 in the annals of the stage. After an appren- 
 ticeship to his favorite art in Dublin and 
 London, he came to the United States in 
 1843, and the New World was thenceforward 
 his home, although between that pei'iod 
 and his death he made a few professional 
 visits to the Old. His flftj' years at tlie 
 footlights were an unbroken round of joy- 
 ousness to the public, although the closing 
 scenes, when age and illness had overtaken 
 him, were sad and dismal to himself. In the 
 coarse of his career he tried several experi- 
 ments as a manager, but did not succeed 
 with any. It was as a member of tlie 
 famous old-time Wallack company that he 
 became universally poinihu- in New York, 
 though he Ikl.I ]h .-vioiisly gained much 
 favor in the tln/utLu iiKiiiai;i'd by tlie come- 
 dian William E. Burton. Besides his 
 numerous plays, he wrote some books and 
 several short and charming stories, and he 
 edited for a while a bright weekly paper of 
 the humorous sort called the "Lantern."' 
 His pen was always busy, and always used 
 for good purposes — to instruct, enliven and 
 elevate. He was otherwise too busy to 
 write many poems, but the few produced 
 by him show that he could have done much 
 under the tutelage of the Muses had his 
 other occupations permitted him to court 
 their favor. His humor, whether on the 
 stage or among his friends, was irrepressi- 
 ble and inexhaustible, and his ))resence in 
 any company was like a flood of sunshine 
 in the freshness of morning. At a dinner 
 given him at the Astor House in 1869, a 
 poem was read bj' Mr. William Winter, in 
 which some of his most winning' character- 
 istics were thus glanced at : 
 
 He walks the world tor three-score years, 
 
 In trouble, as in triumph, gay ; 
 He wakes our laughter, wins our tears, 
 
 And lightly charms our cares away. 
 
 lu him conjoined once more we view 
 High powers to conquer and command, - 
 
 The heart to feel, the hand to do,— 
 The Irish heart, The Irish hand ! 
 
 Brown, Frances. 
 
 Stranorlar, in the county of Donegal, was 
 tlie native place of Jliss Frances Brown, 
 whose entire literary work was done under 
 the sad andgreat disadvantage of blindness, 
 caused by an attack of small-pox in her 
 
734 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 childhocHl. At an eurly ajfe, nevertlieless, 
 by having' otlicre read to her, she acquired 
 an extensive knowledjfe of books and an- 
 thoi-s, and when but a little past girlhood 
 she entered the ranks of the latter heisi'lf. 
 Her first printed pro<liictions appeared in the 
 ]x>pidar '• Irish Penny Journal." Slie s<jon 
 after obtained admission to the London 
 "Athenannn," and subsequently to other 
 En.^lish publiaitions. In 1848, she took up 
 her residence in England, where the re- 
 mainder of her life wius passed. She be- 
 came well known in the literary world and 
 her pen found steady employment. Her 
 lirst volume of poems was published before 
 her departure from Ireland, and the second, 
 "Lyric and Miscellaneous Poems,"' during 
 an interval that she spent in Scotland be- 
 fore settlinj; in London. Fiction being more 
 lucrative than poetry. Miss Brown turned 
 her mind to novel-writing soon after her 
 arrival in England, and in that dejiartment 
 of litei-ature she gained much success. 
 Among the novels written by her are " Mj' 
 Share in the World," an autobiographical 
 work; "The Castleford Case," " The Hid- 
 den Sin," "The Neighboi's of Kilniaclone," 
 " The House of De Valdez," and " 1776," an 
 American tale. Miss Brown was born in 
 January, 1816, and died in August, 1879. 
 
 feasor of Moral Philosophy, and subse- 
 quently a pastor in the diocese of Raphoe. 
 He wrote much on philosophical subjects, 
 and he also produced sonje very meritori- 
 ous poems, chiefly on religious themes. 
 His best poeticsil efloi-ts, however, were in- 
 spired by nature, of which he was an intel- 
 ligent and sympathetic student. 
 
 Rowx, John Patrick. 
 John Patrick Brown is of Irish parentage, 
 and was born in Philadelphia, Pa., in 1839. 
 For a number of years past he has lived in 
 Boston, following the law as a profession, 
 and occasionally exercising an unusually 
 fine literary talent. His poems arc not 
 numerous, but their quality justifies a re- 
 gret that his pen has not been more freely 
 used on the lines of metre and melody. 
 The poem on the " Wedding " of the Juni- 
 ata and Suscpiehanna is an exceedingly line 
 production, and the same may be said of 
 the piece entitled " Givet." 
 
 BlTl.KK, WiLUAM A. (Rev.). 
 
 Aniouj;- Irish writei's not so widely known 
 as they deserve may be named the Rev. 
 AVilliani Archer Butler, an Episcopal cler- 
 .gyman, who was born near Clonmel, Tip- 
 perary, in 1814, and died in 1847. He was a 
 Scholar of Trinity College, Dublin, a Pro- 
 
 Cali,axax, Jamks J. 
 
 This writer, a native of Cork, was born in 
 1795, He was educated for the priesthood, 
 but flnding that his inclinations were not 
 towartl a clerical life, he became a tutor 
 instead. After some >-icissitudes he was en- 
 gaged as an assistant in the school of Dr. 
 William Maginn, in Cork, and through the 
 influence of his employer, who soon discov- 
 ered his litei-ary talent, he became a con 
 tributorto " Blackwood's" and other mag; > 
 zincs. JIany of his poems are translation^ 
 fiom the Irish, but he also wrote original 
 vei-se of nuich merit. His most ambitious 
 poem, "The Recluse of Inchidony," written 
 in the manner of Byron, whom he greatly 
 admired, has some good stanza.s, but tli' 
 best of his productions is '• Gougane Ban-.i. 
 which so competent an authority as Alh- 
 bone calls "the most perfect, jjcrhaps, of 
 all Irish minor poems, in the melody of its 
 rhythm, the flow of its language, and the 
 weird foi-ce of its expressions,'' He died 
 comparatively young — viz., at the age of 
 thirty -four. 
 
 Carlktox, William. 
 
 The prelidc authorof " Traits and Stories of 
 the Irish Peasantry," and innumerable nov- 
 els depicting the manners, customs and 
 general detail of the daily life of the people, 
 with their needs, pleasui-cs, passions and as- 
 pirations, made no endeavor to gain recog- 
 nition as a poet. His weird ballad of "The 
 Churchyard Bride," based on a familiar 
 Irish tradition, is his only effort of note 
 ill that direction. William Carleton was 
 born in the County Tyrone, in 1794, of 
 parents in poor circumsUinces, who suc- 
 ceeded, however, in giving him a fair edu- 
 cation. He was intended for the Church, 
 but his inclinations did not favor that pur- 
 pose; and the force of circumstances, it may 
 be said, drove him to literature, which 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 proved to be the calling tor which lie was 
 especially fitted. His lii-st book did not ap- 
 pear until he was thirty-six years old. When 
 nearlj' all his work had been done, and age 
 was coming upon him. his friends procured 
 him a pension of £200 per annum. He died 
 in 1869, after an illness that was both long 
 and painful. It was almost wholly as a 
 novelist that lie gained a place in the liter- 
 aiy ranks. 
 
 Carpenter, Henrt Bernard (Rev.). 
 Among the Irish-American members of the 
 literary guild in Boston, is the Rev. Henry 
 Bernard Carpenter, who was born in Ireland 
 in 1840, and has resided in Boston several 
 years. As preacher, lecturer and poet he is 
 I'avorably known. A volume of his poems 
 published in 1887 was w^ell received. His 
 verse is mainlj' philosophical, but not at all 
 deficient in what is called human interest. 
 
 Casey, John Keegan. 
 
 As a poet of the Fenian period, John Kee- 
 gan Casey, who was best known as " Leo," 
 gainetl a special and somewhat enviable 
 reputation. His Ij-rics and ballads, all at- 
 tuned to the popular chord, were familiar 
 in every neighborhood in which the Fenian 
 spirit prevailed, and had a strong influence 
 in keeping it active and aggressive. For 
 his personal connection with Fenianism he 
 suffered a dreary imprisonment of eight 
 months, that undoubtedly hastened his 
 death. He was born near MuUingar, County 
 Westmeath, August 22, 1846 ; his imprison- 
 ment occurred in 186T, and he died March 
 17, 1870. So great was his popularity that 
 as many as 50,000 people are said to have 
 attended his funeral. 
 
 Cherry, Andrew. 
 
 A native of Limerick; born in 1762; died 
 in 1813. At the age of seventeen he became 
 a strolling player, and his caresr thence- 
 forward was connected witli the stage. He 
 wrote a number of plays wliich were popu- 
 lar in their day, and several songs which 
 also enjoyed favor. His latter j'ears were 
 spent in England, where he succeeded as an 
 actor, and also became known as a llie- 
 atrical manager. 
 
 Clarke, Joseph I. C. 
 
 Joseph I. C. Clarke is a native of Ireland, 
 but has been a resident of New York a num- 
 ber of j-eare, engaged in the active duties 
 of a journalist. He was attached to the 
 New York "Herald" a considerable time, 
 and at present he is the managing editor of 
 the "Morning Journal." As busy journal- 
 ists cannot devote much time to the muses, 
 Mr. Clarke's poetical efforts are not as nu- 
 merous as they doubtless would be if he 
 were moi'e free to follow his inclinations in 
 that direction. 
 
 Collier, Thomas S. 
 
 Thomas S. Collier, who has gained a place 
 in the ranks of American poets, is but re- 
 motely of Irish lineage, the first emigrant 
 among his progenitors having left Ireland 
 for France shortly after the battle of the 
 Boyne. From France he came to Virginia, 
 where the American growth of the familj' 
 began. The subject of this note has in his 
 veins the blood of Ireland, France, England, 
 and the old Knickerbockers of New York. 
 He was born in New York City, November 
 4, 1842. In his fourteenth year he went to 
 sea, and finding a sea-faring life suited to 
 his taste, he entered the U. S. Navy in 1857, 
 remaining in it till October, 1883, when he 
 was retired, because of disability resulting 
 from injuries received in the line of duty. 
 He served in the navy through the war 
 with the South, and both before and after 
 the war he made cruises to nearly all parts 
 the wo\-ld. Mr. Collier has done a great 
 deal of good literary work, contributing 
 poems, stories and general articles to the 
 "Atlantic" and the "Century" magazines 
 and other standard publications. The first 
 of his poems to obtain popularity was 
 "Cleopatra Dying." His spirited poem 
 "Sun-burst," is is warm and vigorous a 
 protest against English rule in Ireland as it 
 could well be even if the author were of 
 Irish birth. It and other poems relating to 
 Ireland show true sympathy with tlie land 
 of his ancestors. 
 
 Collins, William. 
 
 Strabane, County Tyrone, is the birth-place 
 of William Collins, author of numerous 
 spirited ballads, and also a prolific writer of 
 prose. Jlr. Collins came to America at an 
 
736 
 
 HIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 early age, served in one of the Western [ 
 armies during the war witli tlie Sontli, and 
 has since resided chiefly in New York, when- 
 his pen has been steadily engaged. His 
 I»iblications, besides u volume of poems, 
 ;ire, " The Wild Geese," a histoncal ro- 
 iiumce, and •Dalui-adia, a Talc of the Days 
 of King Milcho." His poems deal largely 
 with individual heroism in Ireland's long 
 resistance to oppression. 
 
 )XXOI,LY, D.A^XIKL. 
 
 This note istaken from the " Household Li- ; 
 hi-ary of Catholic Poets": — "Daniel Con-! 
 nolly was born in Belleek, County Fer- \ 
 niunagh, Ireland, in 1836. At the age of 
 (ifteen years he came to the United States, 
 and he has since been a resident of New- 
 York. His firet newspaper work was done 
 (lining the war for the Union, when' he fur- 
 nished the New York ' Dally News," then 
 a leading morning paper, with correspon- 
 dence from Washington and Virginia. 
 After the war he became associate editor of 
 the • Metropolitan Record,' which had been 
 established several j'ears before as a Cath- 
 oli<' paper, by Mr. John Mullaly, with the 
 saiKtion of Archbi.shop Hughes. In 1872 he 
 gave up joiu-nalisni as a regular calling, to 
 engage in business, but did not abandon it 
 wholly. His poems, written at leisure 
 times, would make a goodly volume, but 
 Ihev have not been collected." 
 
 health was feeble, and his wife was soon left 
 a widow. In an inti-oduction to acoUectlon 
 of her i>oems, published in Dublin, Charles 
 Gavan Duffy sjK'aks of Mrs. Connollyascon- 
 ductinga school " near Warwick, on the fa- 
 mou-s Darling Downs, where she resides and 
 6nds happiness in her duties and studios." 
 " In this distant land," he adds, '• she is still 
 serving her first mistres.s, the Dark Rosalei'n 
 of the poet ; laboring, if not for her country, 
 at least for her i-acv, who are largely reprc. 
 sented in the population." 
 
 CoxxoLLY, Olivia Kxiuht. 
 
 Under the name of " Thoma.sino." a writer I 
 whose poems attracted much notice ap- 
 peared In the Dublin "' Nation " some time 
 after the death of Thomas Davis. The new j 
 lontributor was then Miss Olivia Knight, i 
 daughter of a |>rofesslonal man at Ca-stlebar, I 
 whose death had left his family destitute, j 
 When Miss Knight began writing she was 
 supporting her mother and hei-self by teach- 
 ing. She afterward became employed at 
 varied literary tiisks in Dublin. In 1860 she 
 saiknl foi' Australia, at the suggestion of the 
 Bishop of Brisbane, to aid him in carrying 
 out an important scheme of education. 
 Among her fellow pas.sengers was Mr. Hope 
 Connolly, a young journalist, who a-sked 
 her to become his wife as soon as he should 
 gsiiu a footing in the colony. They were 
 niarri«.'il a few years later, but Mr. Connolly's 
 
 COXWAY, Katherixk Bleaxor. 
 
 Among modest writei-s of true merit may 
 be named Ml-ss Katherine Eleanor Conway, 
 who has been an industrious worker with thi» 
 pen for several years. Miss Conway was 
 born in Rochester, N. Y., September 6. 18.W, 
 of Irish Catholic parents. She was educated 
 in Catholic schools in Roche.ster and Buffalo 
 until 1868, when, at the age of fifteen, her 
 literary occupation began. In 1875 .she be- 
 gan editing a Catholic monthly in Roches- 
 ter, and continued it five years, contributing 
 to other Catholic publications in spare in- 
 tervals, and also serving as teacher of rhet- 
 oric in a convent school. In 1878 she be- 
 came attached to the " Catholic Union and 
 Times, " of Buffalo, edited by the Rev. Pat- 
 rick Cronin, and remained there another 
 five years, when, owing to failing health, 
 she retired and went to Boston for rest. In 
 Boston she was invited to a position on the 
 "Pilot," which she accepted, and still holds, 
 exercising her bright talent in a waj' that 
 must be agreeable to all readers of that 
 paper. In 1881 Miss Conway published a 
 vohmie of poems entitled '" On the Sunrise 
 Slope," and she has since written many 
 other poems which have added to her rep- 
 utation. In conjunction with Clara Erskine 
 Clement she prepared for publication 
 " Christian Symbols," a valuable book of 
 instruction upon Sacred and Legendary art, 
 and under the name of " Mercedes," she 
 has written a good deal of fiction, of the 
 moral sort, that has been well received. 
 
 COWAX, Samitkl R. 
 
 One of the most prolific of the younger 
 Irish |ioets is Samuel K. Cowan, a native <>l 
 Lisburn. County Antrim, born August i:<. 
 1850. Fom- volumes of his poems have 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 in 
 
 boea published, and lie is the author of over 
 one hundred songs, which have been set to 
 nuisic by various composers, and gained 
 much popularity. Mr. Cowan was educated 
 at Trinitj' College, where he received the 
 degree of M. A. He follows literature as a 
 profession, and his work has made him well 
 known in Ireland anil England. Its merit 
 fully entitles him to representation in a col- 
 lection of this character. An Irish clergy- 
 man, writing of him to the Editor, says he 
 has already gained much success, and is 
 "destined to vellect credit on himself and 
 Ireland." 
 
 Ckoker, Thomas Croftox. 
 
 Thomas Crofton Croker, who was born in 
 Cork, in 1798, performed a great deal of 
 valuable work as an antiquarian. Among 
 his works are " Researches in the South of 
 Ireland;" "Fairy Legends and Traditions 
 of the South of Ireland; " " Legends of the 
 Lakes;" "Historical Songs of Ireland;" 
 "Popular Songs of Ireland," and several 
 tales which are now no longer read. He 
 was an accomplished artist as well as poet, 
 and a friend of Maclise, Maginn and Father 
 Prout. His original poems are good, but 
 not remarkable. He held an official position 
 for many years before his death, which oc- 
 curred in 1854. 
 
 Croly, George (Rev). 
 
 A versatile and industrious writer; born in 
 Dublin, 1?80; died in London, 1860; author 
 of numerous works in prose and verse which 
 attracted much attention m their time. 
 Although educated for the Church, and tak- 
 ing orders in early life. Dr. Croly did not 
 actually assume clerical functions until 
 1835, when the greater part of his literary 
 work had been done. He then became 
 rector of an Episcopal Church in England, 
 and he subsequently became one of the 
 most popular of pulpit orators. His versa- 
 tility is indicated by the fact that he ob- 
 tained distinction as a journalist, a poet, a 
 novelist, a historian, a dramatist and a 
 clergyman. Among his works are " Sala- 
 thiel, a Story of the Past, the Present and 
 the Future," " Tales of the Great St. Ber- 
 nard;" "Sebastian, a Spanish Tale;" the 
 " Political Life of the Right Hon. Edmund 
 
 Burke; " " Character of Curran's Eloquence 
 and Politics," "Poetical Works," " Beauties 
 of English Poets," and "Cataline," a trag- 
 edy. 
 
 Cronin, Patrick (Rev.). 
 
 Priest, poet and journalist are combined in 
 the Rev. Patrick Cronin, who was born near 
 the village of Adare, County Cork, Ireland, 
 in March, 1837. He came to the United 
 States in 1850, and made his classical studies 
 in St. Louis University, and his tlieological 
 studies at St. Vincent's Seminary, Cape 
 Girardeau, Mo. He was ordained in 1863, 
 and for some years thereafter he was en- 
 gaged on the city and suburban missions of 
 the archdiocese of St. Louis. Since 1874 he 
 has edited the Buffalo (N. Y.) "Catholic 
 Union and Times." Passionately devoted 
 to the land of his birth. Father Cronin has 
 been active and zealous in every American 
 movement promotive of its best interests. 
 He enjo3's a merited reputation as an orator, 
 and he possesses the poetic gift in a high 
 degree, but the duties of priest and jour- 
 nalist have prevented its full cultivation. 
 His graphic poem read at the Marquette 
 Monument Association in 1879 was much 
 admired and widelj' reproduced. 
 
 Darley, George. 
 
 Although the name of George Darley is now 
 known only to the students of literature, it 
 was a familiar one in the early part of the 
 present century. Darley was born in Dub- 
 lin in 1785, but the greater part of his life 
 was passed in London, where he died- in 
 1846. His chief poetical works were "Syl- 
 via, or the May Queen," and "Errors of 
 Ecstasie and Other Poems." He also wrote 
 "Thomas a Becket," a tragedy, " Ethel- 
 stan," a dramatic chronicle, and various 
 educational works. One of the selections 
 here given, " The Fairy Cavalcade," shows 
 a delicate and picturesque fancy, and pleas- 
 ing felicity of expression. 
 
 Davis, Eugene. 
 
 Clonakilty, County Cork, is the native place 
 of Eugene Davis, who was born March 33, 
 1857. He studied for the priesthood in Dub- 
 lin, in Belgium, and in Paris, but discover- 
 I ing that his inclinations were not toward a 
 
;8 
 
 Bli 'OA'.t I'HIL A L XO TES. 
 
 cleriful lire, he adopted joiirniilisni insteiid. 
 Ho has been connected with the Continen- 
 tiil. the Irish, and the AniPiiran pi-ess, and il 
 may be said that for a man of his yejirs lie 
 lias written a great deal and written well. 
 In Marc-h, 1885, he was expflled from Paris, 
 with the ex-Fenian chieftain, James Ste- 
 phens, at the re«iiiest of the British Anibas- I 
 sador. Lord Lyons, and he then took up his 
 ivsidenoe in Lansimne, Switzerland. A ool- 
 lection of his |)oems has been made, under 
 the title of "Irish Lays and Lyrics, and 
 Other Poi'ms." 
 
 Davis, Fkami.s. 
 
 Cork's large brotherhood of poets ini'ludes 
 Francis Davis, who introduced himself in 
 literatui-e as the " Belfast Man." He was 
 born in Ballincollig, Cork, Starch 7, 1810, 
 but in early manhood he settled in Belfast, 
 where he learned the trade of a weaver. 
 Many of his poems were written while he 
 worked at the loom, but he also wrote sev- 
 eral while traveling through England and 
 Scotland. "Having made a reputation by 
 his pen he became the editor of a Belfast 
 newspaper, subsequently engaging in gen- 
 eral literary work, and becoming a contri- 
 butor to various magazines and journals. 
 His poems are numerous, and have appeared 
 in three successive volumes. Many are in- 
 tensely patriotic, and othere show a sturdy 
 pei-sonal independence characteristic of the 
 writer. " Caste and Creed," for instance, 
 might have been written by Burns. Mr. 
 Davis was elected successively- to the posi- 
 tions of Librarian in the People's Institute, 
 Belfast, and Assistant Registrar in the 
 Queen's College in the same place. He died 
 in September, 1885. 
 
 Davis, Thomas Osbouxk. 
 
 The Beranger of Ireland, as Thomas O.sborne 
 
 Davis might well be called, w;is born in 
 
 JIallow, Coik, in 1814. Though Irish of 
 
 j the Irish in spirit, he did not belong to the 
 
 I Irish branch of the great Celtic family, his 
 
 1 father being a native of Wales. The poet- 
 
 I jjatiiot dieil in 1845, leaving a name en- 
 
 1 deared to all his countrymen by high 
 
 national service and the exirrciseof splendid 
 
 I talents for the most ennobling of ends. 
 
 I From boyhood he Wius a diligent student of 
 
 I Irish history,and when, at the age of t-wenty- 1 
 
 six yeam, he enteretl earnestly upon the 
 brilliant literary career that was .so soon to 
 end, his mind wa-s stored with knowledge to 
 a degree not often equalled even in the 
 ca.se of men of advanced age, as assiduous 
 as he, and favored with twice his length of 
 years for study. It might almost he said 
 that there was nothing in the history of 
 Ireland which he did not know. Prior to 
 1842, when the Dublin "Xation " was estab- 
 lished iis the organ of a pi-onounced national 
 party, the existence of his marvellous tal- 
 ent for reaching the hearts of the people 
 through the medium of vei-se had not been 
 suspected even by himself. He became a 
 member of the '• Xation ' staff, and wrote 
 some of the boldest and most valuable of 
 the vigorous articles whic-h gave its columns 
 a character never befoi-e known in Irish 
 joiu'nalism. His real work, however, was 
 yet to be done. The hitherto unsuspected 
 poetical talent soon made itself manifest, 
 and the fount being once opened, the 
 flow from it was incessant. Poem after 
 poem almost flashed from his pen. He 
 needed but to fix his mind a moment on the 
 theme and the impetuous thought rushed 
 at once into form in lines of pure melody 
 and surpassing vigor. A better illustration 
 of the adage that poets are born, not made, 
 has never been known than appeared in the 
 almost instantaneous ascent of Davis to a 
 place of honor on the Mountof the Muse.s. 
 His whole soul wits in his work, and the 
 patriotic fervor of his nature burned in 
 the lines he wrote. His premature death 
 was a sad loss to his country and its liteiii- 
 ture. Had he been spared to continue the 
 labor for which he was so nobly qualified, 
 even a more brilliant name than the one he 
 bequeathed would have been placed on the 
 roll of Ireland's poets. Writing of him in 
 his work entitled "Young Ireland," Charles 
 Gavan Duify, j)iobably the most intimate 
 of his friends, says :—" Judging of him 
 now, a generation after his death, when 
 yeare and conmmnion with the world have 
 tempered the exaggerations of youthful 
 friendship, I I'an confidently say that I have 
 not known a man so nobly gifted as Thomas 
 Davis Now that the trans- 
 actions of that day have fallen into their 
 natural pers|)ectlve, now that we know 
 what luus perished and what survives of its 
 conflicting opinions, we luay plainly see. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 739 
 
 tliat imperfectly as we knew him, the Irish 
 race — the grown men of 1844 — in the high- 
 est (Hapason of their passions, were repre- 
 sented and embodied in Thomas Davis bet- 
 ter than in any man then living."' 
 
 Dermody, Thomas. 
 
 This eri'atic and uneven writer was born 
 at Ennis, Ireland, in 1775. He possessed 
 extraordinary talent, of which, however, 
 owing to reckless habits, he made but 
 little use. In precocity he somewhat re- 
 sembled the English prodigy, Chatterton. 
 At the age of ten he had accumulated a 
 considerable amount of literary work, but, 
 unfortunately, he had at the same age con- 
 tracted the appetite that led to his early 
 death. He wrote with a singular fluency 
 and sometimes with remarkable power, but 
 it can hardly be said that anything he pro- 
 duced possessed an enduring value. He 
 died in England in 1803, leaving a large 
 quantity of verse, which was subsequently 
 collected and published in book form. 
 
 De Verb, Aubrey (Sir). 
 
 The editor of the "Cabinet of Irish Liter- 
 ature" says of Sir Aubrey De Vere that he 
 was perhaps " best known and loved among 
 the people as a good landlord, who resided 
 on his estate and found pleasure in doing 
 his duty to his tenants and dependants." 
 The work by which he is best known in 
 literature is his histoi'ical drama of "Mary 
 Tudor." The merit of his poems and son- 
 nets has, however, received wide recogni- 
 tion. Amoug his productions of the latter 
 kind are some of the best in the language. 
 He enjoyed an intimate friendship with the 
 poet Wordsworth, to whose example may 
 be attributed — in part, at least — his fond- 
 ness for the sonnet form of verse. He was 
 born at Curragh Chase, Limerick, August 
 28, 1788 ; and, his life having been passed 
 there, he died peacefully in the same place, 
 July 38, 1846. His poetical talent was in- 
 herited and worthily employed by his son, 
 whose career is next outlined. 
 
 De Vere, Aubrey Thomas. 
 
 Aubrey T. De Vere, third son of Sir Aubrey 
 De Vere, was also born at Curragh Chase, 
 the old family residence. Like so many 
 
 other contributors to the poetical treasures 
 of Ireland, he was educated at Trinity Col- 
 lege, where his course was mai-kefl by assi- 
 duous study. He manifested literary tastes 
 from the beginning, and was a close student 
 of religious works. Nearly all his poems 
 show a devotional spirit, and many are en- 
 tirely religious in character. They are 
 elevated in motive and artistic in finish, 
 and maybe desci-ibed as belonging to poetry 
 of the higher class. He published a long 
 poem entitled " The Waldenses, or the Fall 
 of Lora," in 1843 ; "The Search after Pro- 
 serpine,"' in the following year ; " Poems, 
 Miscellaneous and Sacred," in 1856 ; " May 
 Carols," a volume of beautiful hymns to 
 the Virgin, in 1857; " The Sisters Inisfail 
 and Other Poems" in 1861; "Irish Odes 
 and Other Poems" in 1869; "The Legends 
 of St. Patrick" in 1873, and a dramatic 
 poem, "Alexander the Great," in 1874. 
 Had he been an English instead of an Irish 
 poet, there is no doubt that Aubrey De 
 Vere would be more widely read. Several 
 of his Irish poems are of the epic order. 
 Wliile not revealing any special force, they 
 are excellent examples of careful literary 
 work. His style i& scholarly rather than 
 popular, but his claim to the rank of a true 
 poet cannot be called in question. He was 
 born in 1814 and he died in 1883. 
 
 De Vere, Mary Ainge. 
 
 Concerning the personality of this gifted 
 and admirable writer, it is sufficient to say 
 that she is of Irish parentage, and a native 
 and resident of Brooklyn, N. Y. She has 
 been for some years a contributor of poems 
 to the leading magazines, and her name is 
 already entered among those of favorite 
 American poets. That she should also be 
 placed in the company of Irish-American 
 poets is manifestly proper. Her poems 
 possess the excellent qualities of natural- 
 ness, simplicity and melody. The favor 
 with which they have been received, and 
 which is attested by their wide republica- 
 tion, is obviouslv well deserved. 
 
 Donnelly, Eleanor C. 
 
 Miss Eleanor C. Donnelly is a native and 
 resident ot Pliiladelphia, Pa. She is of Irish 
 parentage and was born in 1848. Literature 
 is to her a regular and enjoyable occupation. 
 
:40 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL XOTES. 
 
 She has been known tor many yeare as a 
 prolific and accomplished writer. Much of 
 her poetry is i-eli(fious in character and of 
 high rank in point of merit. She has pub- 
 lished several volumes of poems, and all 
 have been well received. Catholic legends 
 and the lessons of faith are her favorite 
 themes. She writes with much facility and 
 always in an elevated spirit. The author of 
 a iiei-sonal sketch in a recent Catholic peri- 
 odical says of her : " Born of the blessed 
 Irish race, she has inherited its gifts and 
 gi'aces in a s|)ecia! manner. Her faith and 
 her people are the whole of her life : and 
 her people are all lovinj souls who know 
 her God. Personally, Miss Donnelly is a 
 very womanly presence. She luis soft, 
 brown hair, Irish eyes, and an expressive, 
 mobile mouth, which suits lier pleasant 
 voice and glad, gentle manner. She talks 
 well and easily, very easily, and with that 
 command of words her writings prove ! " It 
 may be added that she is a sister of the Hon. 
 Ignatius Donnelly, of Minnesota. 
 
 nard," brought him into notice immediately 
 aft<'r its api)earance, in 1879. Before going 
 to London he was connected with the Dublin 
 " Nation." and he was also for a short time 
 the editor of the comic periodical, " Zozi- 
 mus." His efforts in verse are graceful, 
 but not numerous. 
 
 DOWDEX, EDWAKD. 
 
 This accomplished essayist and pieasmg 
 poet was born in Cork in 1843, and educated 
 at Trinity College, wliere he subsequently 
 became Professor of English Literature. 
 He is best known by his elaborate studies of 
 Shakspeare, which have taken a place 
 among the standard classics of Shakspeurian 
 literature. Mr. Dowden's poems, all short, 
 and chiefly sonnets, may be described as of 
 the artistic order. They arc marked by a 
 neatness of finish suggestive of highly pol- 
 ished gems. While full of a delicate beauty, 
 however, they contain much fine thought, 
 and show not a little spiritual elevation. 
 Like much that comes from the new school 
 of poetry, they are suggestive rather than 
 expressive, and need some study in order 
 that their merit may be fully perceived. 
 
 Dowxixu, Ellen. 
 
 ' 'Mary of tlie Nation," was a term of aCTection 
 in li-cland at the time when the "Nation" 
 was the poetical voice of the country. The 
 writer designated by it was Miss EUlen 
 Downing, who used the nom de jilume. of 
 " Mary," and became widely known under 
 it. She was a Munster lady, of gentle char- 
 acter and ai-dent patriotism, who gfave 
 heart and soul to the Young Ireland cause. 
 Her |>oems are marked by fervor, graphic 
 power, and a winning sweetness. A ten- 
 der and satl story told of her is touchingly 
 echoed by her poem " Were I but His own 
 Wife." It is said that she became deeply 
 attached to one of the most gifted of the 
 Young Ireland leaders, and hoped to be his 
 wife. He was obliged to leave the counti'v, 
 the vows he had made were forgotten, and 
 the dreams of the sweet singer were dis- 
 pelled. She subsequently bec;vme a reli- 
 geuse in Cork, under the name of Sister 
 Mary Alphonsus, but after a few yeare she 
 passed quietly to the gi-ave. 
 
 DowLixG, Richard. 
 
 It is chiefly as a novelist that Richard Dow- 
 ling has made a literary name. He was 
 born in Clonmel, Ireland, in 1846, but for 
 several years past he has lived in London, 
 where his pen is constantly employed. His 
 best known novel, "The Mvsterv of Kin- 
 
 Drennan, William. 
 
 The most notable poem written by Dr. 
 Drennan is the one entitled "Erin." The 
 author was an ardent patriot, of the period 
 of the United Irishmen, greatly esteemed for 
 brilliant talents and sterling character. The 
 term " Emerald Isle," was fii-st applied to 
 Ireland by him. Alluding toil many yeai-s 
 later he said : "From the frequent use of 
 the term since that time, I fondly hope it 
 will gradually become associated with the 
 name of my country, as descriptive of the 
 primal beautj- and inestimable worth of 
 Ireland." The poet's hope has been fully 
 realized. He was born in Belfast, in 1754, 
 his father being a minister of the Presby- 
 terian Church, and he died in the same city 
 in 1820. A small voliune of his poems was 
 l)ublished in isi.'i. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 741 
 
 Drum:jond, William H. (Rev.). 
 
 Au eminent scliolai- and distinguished Con- 
 gregational clergyman ; born at Larne, An- 
 trim, in 1778 ; died in Dublin. 1865 ; wrote 
 several liistorical and imaginative poems, 
 numerous essays and some valuable biogra- 
 phies, and publislied interesting transla- 
 tions from the Irish under the title of "An- 
 cient Irish Minstrelsy." Through all his 
 long life his inclinations were stiongly 
 patriotic. 
 
 DrFFKRiN, Lady. 
 
 Helen Selina Sheridan (Lady Dnfferin), one 
 of the three daughters of Thomas Sheri- 
 dan, son of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 
 was born in 1807. Her sisters were the 
 Hon. Mi-s. Norton and the Duchess of Som- 
 erset. At the age of eighteen she became 
 the wife of Mr. Blackwood, afterward Lord 
 Dufferin, and in 1836 her only son, the pres- 
 ent Earl of Dufferin, diplomatist and author, 
 was born. Her poems are not numerous, 
 but one, at least, " The Irish Emigrant's 
 Lament," is unsurpassed for simplicity and 
 tenderness. Her song "Katey's Letter," 
 and the answer, " Sweet Kilkenny Town," 
 have the same quality, coupled with a strain 
 of humor that is distinctively Irish. After 
 remaining a widow twenty-one years, lier 
 first husband having died in 1841, Lady 
 Dufferin married the Earl of Gifford a short 
 time before his death. Her own death oc- 
 curred Jane 13, 1867. 
 
 Duffy, Charles Gavax (Sir). 
 
 The national literature and the political 
 progress of Ireland owe much to Charles 
 Gavan Duffy. It was mainly under his 
 guidance, as chief editor of the "Nation," 
 which, in conjunction with Thomas Davis 
 and John B. Dillon, he founded in 1843, 
 that the splendid politico-literary campaign 
 precedingthe " Forty-eight" movement was 
 conducted. Born in Monaghan in 1816, he 
 carried to Dublin, whitlier he went as a 
 lad, to become connected with the " Morn- 
 ing Register," much of the energy and de- 
 liberation for whicli men of the North of 
 Ireland have been distinguished. Under 
 his direction the '■ Nation" attracted nearly 
 all the spirited literary talent of the coun- 
 try, and became a greater moral power in 
 
 political affairs than Ii-eland had before 
 known. Among the writers thus drawn to- 
 gether and combined in a single force were 
 Davis, McGee, Mangan, Williams, McCar- 
 tliy, " Speranza," and many others aglow 
 with patriotic fervor. The "Nation's" 
 sturdy nationalism incurred, as might be 
 expected, the displeasure of the Govern- 
 ment, and in 1844 its editor had the honor 
 of being tried with O'Connell for fomenting 
 disloyalty. In 1848 the paper was forcibly 
 suppressed, and Mr. Duffy was subjected 
 to four successive trials, each resulting in 
 a failure to convict. After these failures 
 he revived the " Nation" and continued as 
 its editor a few yeai-s, when, becoming some- 
 wliat dislieartened in the national cause, he 
 retired from the post he had tilled with signal 
 ability, and emigrated to Australia. His 
 rapid political rise in tliat country, whei'e 
 he held the position of Speaker of the Leg- 
 islative Assembly, and also that of Prime 
 Minister, simply demonstrated his remarka- 
 ble intellectual force. In 1873 he accepted 
 the distinction of knighthood, which he 
 had previously dechned. A few years later 
 he returned to Eurojie, and he has since oc- 
 cupied his time with the production of au 
 instructive work entitled "Young Ireland," 
 and some interesting personal reminis- 
 cences of that brilliant period. All his 
 poems were written in his earlier years. 
 He then gave evidence of the possession of 
 promising poetical talent, but it is on his 
 prose writings and his political activity that 
 his reputation will rest. 
 
 Egan, Maurice Francis. 
 
 Tliere is no better evidence of merit tlian its 
 geneial recognition, and this has been given 
 in a large degree to the work of one of the 
 younger Irish-American writers, Maurice 
 Francis Egan, at the present time editor of 
 the New York " Freeman's Journal." Mr. 
 Egan was born in Philadelphia, Pa., May 
 34, 1853. He received his education at La 
 Salle College, in that city, and afterwards 
 taught at the well-known Georgetown Col- 
 lege, Washington, D.C. Being of Irish 
 Catholic parentage, it is natural that his in- 
 clinations and sympathies are somewhat 
 positively in accord with those of the race 
 to which he belongs, and the religion in 
 which he was reared. His first publication 
 
742 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 in book-form was a modest volume of npat 
 and f^raceful poems, to which the newspaper 
 press ^ave a cordial greeting;. Thes(? have 
 since been reprinted in London, and their 
 reception there has also been friendly and 
 appivciative. Before becoming- known as 
 an author, Mr. Egan wrote a number of 
 short stories, which appeared in the niagti- 
 zines, and these, with .some of more recent 
 pi-oduction, have latisly been put together in 
 a book, under tlie title of "The r..ife Around 
 Us." They reveal a t;ilent for story-telling 
 which has also been as widely recognized. 
 A thiitl publication is a small volume of 
 thoughtful studies on the 'Theatre and 
 Christian Parents," in which the projter uses 
 of the stage are brightly and intelligently 
 discussed. Mr. Egan is a man of thought as 
 well of artistic accomplishment. ^ The work 
 he has already done promises well for his 
 future, and it i,s reasonably certain that his 
 name will stand among those of American 
 authors who reflect credit on their country. 
 But while thoroughly American, he is always 
 mindful of his origin, and grateful that the 
 blood in liis veins is both Irish and Catholic. 
 
 English, Thomas Dunn. 
 
 Although Dr. Thomas Dunn English is less 
 an Irish- American than an American of Irish 
 descent, he is not only fairly, but well enti- 
 tled to a place in a book of this character. 
 His father was of Irish lineage, being de- 
 scended from an Irish settler who made a 
 home in New Jersey nearly a century before 
 the American Revolution, and his mother 
 w,^s of Irish birth. He himself married an 
 Irish-American wife, and he has always 
 taken an active interest in Irish affairs, and 
 shown a sincere sympathy with the Irish 
 people. The family name was originally 
 Angelos, from which it became "Angli- 
 cized " to its ijresent form. It went to Ire- 
 land with the Nornuin sottlei-s, of whom it 
 is said that they became more Irish than the 
 Irish themselves. Dr. English was born in 
 Philadelphia, Pa., June 39. 1819. In 1839, 
 he was graduated from tiie Univei'sity of 
 Pennsylvania with the degree of Doctor of 
 Medicme. In 1843 he was cjiUed to the bar, 
 but his inclinations being toward literature, 
 he ma*le no effort lo advance in the legal 
 profession. He did, however, follow medi- 
 cine, and he has been a practicing physician 
 
 many yeare. On July 4th, 1876, the great 
 American Centenary, he was honored with 
 the degi'ee of Doctor of Laws by the vener- 
 able William and Mary College, of Virginia. 
 His literary work, commenc-ed in boyhood, 
 has extended over a period of half acentuiy. 
 Forty j'ears ago he was editor of a |>aper 
 called the "Irish Citizen," and published 
 in New York. He has written |X)ems, 
 novels, tales, plays, etc., innumerable, be- 
 sides a number of oontrovei-sial |>amphlet» 
 and essays. His lli-st metrical success 
 was the ballad "Ben Bolt," printed in the 
 New York " Mirror" in 1843. No less than 
 eight ail's wei-e composed for " Ben Bolt," 
 which gained great popularity and became 
 a folk-song on both sides of the Atlantic 
 The author never thought as much of it, 
 however, as the public. In a note to the 
 present Editor, he says : " An unlucky thing, 
 somehow. They named a Western steam- 
 boat and an Eastern sailing-ship after it. 
 The steamer was blown up and I ho ship went 
 down." Among his best known productions 
 is a series of American historical ballads, 
 which have appeared from time to time in 
 various periodicals. These, with others, 
 forming a complete battle-ballad history of 
 the United States from the Colonial period 
 down, have lately been published in collec- 
 tive form. All his battle poems are strong, 
 ringing and picturesque, j'et they do not 
 show the author at his best. Such [loems 
 as "Kallimais" and "Akeratos"are supe- 
 rior to them when judged by literary mle. 
 " Akeratos " will be found in this volume. 
 Dr. English has resided in New Jersey over 
 twenty yeai-s. He has taken an active part 
 in public alTairs, and served two terms in 
 the Legislature of that State. 
 
 Farrki,!-. Joseph (Rkv.). 
 
 Dying at the ;vge of forty-four years, the 
 Rev. Joseph Farrell left behind him some 
 excellent litei-ary work, chiefly in prose. 
 A collection of delightfully written medita- 
 tive ess;iys by him, under the title of "Lec- 
 tures of a certain Professor," was published 
 in London, and received much favorable 
 notice. He also wrote a number of i)oems, 
 .some |X)ssessing very distinct merit, but most 
 of them are scattered through the pivges of 
 periodiciils. He was born at Maryboraugh, 
 Queen's County, in 1841, educated at Car- 
 
niOGRAPHlCAL NOTES. 
 
 743 
 
 low ami Maynootli, ami ordained a priest 
 in 1865. His death in the eai-ly part of 18S5 
 was deeply regretted by a larg'e number of 
 friends, who held his character and talents 
 in high esteem. 
 
 Fkrgusox, Samuel (Sir). 
 
 Sir Samuel Ferg-uson, one of the most vig- 
 orous and picturesque of modern poets, was 
 born m Belfast in 1810, and educated in 
 Trinity College, Dublin. Having prepared 
 liiniself for the bar, he was adiuitted thereto 
 in 1838, and he followed the legal profession 
 fill 1867. when he i-etired to accept the office 
 of Deputy Keeper of the Records of Ire- 
 land. In 1879 he received the distinction of 
 knighthood, in i-ecognition of his literary 
 and professional merit. It may be said of 
 Samuel Ferguson that he was the contem- 
 porary of all the Irish poets of the century. 
 He began writing while Moore was still 
 cliai'ming the world with his unrivalled 
 melody, and he continued it down to the 
 time wlien the distinction just named was 
 conferred upon him. He wrote with a free, 
 strong hand, a heart tlioiduulily in sympa- 
 thy with his country, ami a mind .splendidly 
 stored with the riches of her ancient litera- 
 ture. His service to the literature of Ire- 
 land is of the liighest value. He pursued 
 his studies of the old Irisli volumes in the 
 company of such scholars as LordO'Hagan, 
 John O'Donovan, Eugene Ciu'ry and George 
 Petrie, and fi-om the stores of material — 
 historical and tradition.il — then acquired, 
 his fine constructive faculty created some of 
 the noblest of modern poems. His " Lays 
 of the Western Gael," his epics -'Deirdre," 
 "Conary" and "Congal,'" and his numerous 
 ballads and lyrics, all throbbing with action 
 and glowing- with color, comprise a special 
 and invaluable contribution to the litera- 
 ture of the century. His tiunslations from 
 the Irish bards are said by Irish scholars to 
 be marked by a faithfulness that makes 
 them almost absolutely literal, and his 
 epics, all vigorous and well sustained, are 
 conceived in the spirit of the far-oil time in 
 which their scenes are laid. Strength is tlie 
 obvious characteristic of his verse, but the 
 words are always well chosen, tlie rythm 
 sonorous and free, and the thought direct 
 and clear. All his poems may be searclied 
 in vain for anj' sign of mere convention- 
 
 ality. "The Forging of the Anchor " was 
 the first of his productions to attract notice 
 outside of his own country. Fifty years 
 after its original appearance it was repub- 
 lished in London as a single book, where- 
 upon a critic of that town, "recognized"' 
 Samuel Ferguson as a writer of considera- 
 ble promise, and was kind enough to say 
 tliat he probably would make liis mark in 
 time. The poet was then past his seven- 
 tieth year, and had made his mark doubtless 
 before the critic was born. But it is an old 
 story that English critics do not trouble 
 themselves to know much about Irish au- 
 thors. When Ireland again has a recog- 
 nized national literature, much credit will 
 be due to Samuel Fei'guson for preparing- 
 tlie way for it. He died in Dublin, Au- 
 gust 10, 1886. 
 
 FORRKSTER, ElLEX. 
 
 Mrs. Ellen Forrester was born at Anvalla, 
 County Monahan, Ireland, in 1831. Many 
 of her years were passed in Manchester, 
 England, and her death occurred there in 
 1883. Mrs. Forrester's poems gained much 
 favor in her native country, and also among 
 the Irish people in England, as well as those 
 in America, chiefly through an unaflected 
 simplicity that appeals directly to the pop- 
 ular heart and understanding. This char- 
 acteristic is especially marked in "The 
 Widow's Message to her Son," a poem 
 widely reprinted on both sides of the Atlan- 
 tic. Nearly all her themes are taken from 
 what is called eveiy-day life, and their treat- 
 ment shows a warm and earnest sympathy 
 with the poor and lowly, to wlioni no other 
 life is known. Being kept close to these by 
 her own necessities, she shared their feel- 
 ings, and her verse was often the voice of 
 both their sorrows and their desires Mrs. 
 Forrester left two children, a son and a 
 daughter, who have inherited her literary 
 gift. Her son, Arthur M. Forrester, was 
 born at Ballytrain, County Monaghan, in 
 1850. He became an active contributor to 
 the Irish national press, and also to news- 
 papers in England. At the present time he 
 is attached to the "Irish Worhl " in New 
 York. His sister, Fanny Forrester, was 
 born in Manchester, in 1853, and still lives 
 in England. Although her poems are not 
 so well-known as those of her mother, she 
 
744 
 
 has writtni a coiisidei'ulili.' nunibei-, and 
 some have receiveil theconipliiiK-iit of \teing 
 repioduceil in vai-ious i>lacos. A volume 
 pubhshetl by Mi-s. Forrester some time be- 
 fore her death coiitiiiiiiMl lierown |>ocnis and 
 several by her son and daughter. 
 
 HIOGHAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 Fraser, John 1)k Jkax. 
 
 Born in Birr, Kings County, in 1809 ; died 
 in 1849. Jlost of his poems appeared over 
 the name of J. de Jean. He was by trade a 
 cabinet-niaUer, whence arose the appella- 
 tion he received of the " Poet of the Work- 
 shop." His verees, nevertheless, relate 
 mainly to scenery and political subjects. A 
 collection of his works, entitled "Poems for 
 the People," was published in Dublin sever- 
 al yeai-s ago. His place among the minor 
 poets of Ireland is creditable. ■ 
 
 FlRLOXG, Thoma.s. 
 
 A native of Wexfoi-d county ; born in 1794 ; 
 died in 1837. He obtained a fair education 
 solely by his own efforts, acquired a knowl- 
 edge of the Irish language, and made a 
 good translation of the poems of Carolan. 
 He w;is a friend of O'Connell and an active 
 worker in the Emancipation movement. 
 Among othei's whose friendship was useful 
 to him were Thomas Moore and Lady Mor- 
 gan. His best literary work appears in Ids 
 translations. 
 
 (talla»hkr, AVilliam 1). 
 
 Philadelphia, Pa., is the native place of 
 William Davis Gallagher, whose father, 
 Bernard Gallagher, took part in the insur- 
 rection of '9S, and emigrated to America 
 soon after its failure. Mr. Gallagher was 
 born in 1808. After his fathers death, and 
 while still a boy, he removed with his 
 mother to Cincinnati, where he foiuid em- 
 ployment in theoflice of the fii'st newspaper 
 published in that city. He learned the 
 trade of a printer, and later became a writer 
 upon miscellaneous subjects, and a con- 
 tributor to various literary papers, maga- 
 zines and reviews. During the war between 
 the North and South, he held some impor- 
 tant |>ositions of trust under the Federal 
 Government. His poems relate chiefly to 
 the West, which was almost an unknown 
 country when he settled upon the Ohio. A 
 
 colle<!tion of them was published in Cincin- 
 nati in 1881, under the title of '•Miami 
 AVoods and other Poems." His literary 
 work is extensive and all carefully done. 
 
 (iKOGHEGAX, ArTHI H GkKAI.1). 
 
 It has not often hap|M>ned that an author's 
 personality remained unknown to the gen- 
 eral public for fully a generation after his 
 work had received wide recognition. This 
 has, however, been the case with Arthm- 
 Gerald Geoghegan, author of "The Monks 
 of Kilcrea," and anumber of spirited histo- 
 rical ballads. Most of the first generation 
 of i-eadei-s of his poems had passed away be- 
 fore his name as the author became publicly 
 known. His principal poem, the one ju-l 
 named, constructed on a plan sinular U> 
 that subsequently adopted by Longfellow 
 for his "Tales of a Wayside Inn." had been 
 translated and extensivelj' read on the Con- 
 tinent long before his identity was revealed. 
 Mr. Geoghegan was born in Dublin early in 
 the century, and the greater part of his lit- 
 erary work was done in that city. For a 
 number of yeai-s past, however, his home 
 has been in London, where his pen has not 
 been by any means idle. Even in his a<l- 
 vanced yeare it finds exercise in the field 
 that was his favorite in early life. It may as 
 well be said in this place as elsewhere, that 
 Mary (Jeoghegan, a few of whose poems 
 appear in this book, is his daughter. She 
 evidently inherits no small part of her fa- 
 ther's excellent talent. 
 
 Geoghk&ax, William. 
 
 William Geoghegan wius born at B.illyma- 
 hon, county Longfoitl, Irelanil. in 1844, and 
 has been a i-esidentof New York since 1861. 
 As .1 contributor of prose and vei-se to vari- 
 ous Irish- American publications he is well 
 and favorably known. His poems are 
 mainly retrospective and find their motive 
 chiefly in pastoral and domestic tliemes. 
 Being engaged in business, he luis but little 
 time for literary occupation. 
 
 OlLMORK, MiXNIK. 
 
 Minnie Gilmore is a daughter of the well- 
 known musician, Patrick Sai-sfield Gilmore, 
 and a native of Boston, Ma.ss. Her fii-st 
 communings with the Muse appeared in the 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 745 
 
 coUimns of the Boston "Pilot." Hevpoenis 
 possess a warmth of coloi-ing and a rythmic 
 freedom wliich please the sense and show 
 talent for tlie expression of bright thought 
 in clear and picturesque verse. A volume 
 of them published in 1886 was well received 
 by the press. As Miss Gilmore is still 
 young, it maj' be assumed that the literary 
 work she has already done is but a begin- 
 ning. 
 
 Goldsmith, Oliver. 
 
 There is but little need of giving here even 
 tlio briefest sketch of Oliver Goldsmith, who 
 has been the subject of essay, lecture and 
 biography imtil everything that could be 
 said about him is exhausted. A son of the 
 Rev. Charles Goldsmith, a minister of the 
 Established Church, he was born at Pallas, 
 or Pallasmore, County Longford, in 1728, 
 and he died in London in 1774. The diffi- 
 culties attending his education have been 
 pleasantly described by himself and others. 
 He contrived, however, to get through Dub- 
 lin University, and he set out soon after for 
 the Continent, with almost empty pockets, 
 but a light heart and a .serene confidence in 
 all things turning out for the best. He had 
 an idea of teaching English in Holland, but 
 when lie arrived there and found that he 
 could not make Jiimself understood, it 
 dawned upon him that he should first have 
 learned the language of the people he was 
 to teach. His life in London, prior to tlie 
 discovery of his genius bj' Dr. Samuel John- 
 son, who was thenceforward his life-long 
 friend, was that of a drudge, who often suf- 
 fered for lack of food. He was employed 
 chiefly as a litei'ary hack, and the pay that 
 his work commanded was e.Kceedingly 
 small. When Johnson came to his relief he 
 was a prisoner under the ej-e of the woman 
 from whom he had hired lodgings, because 
 he was unable to pay for them. Although, 
 mainly by the aid of Johnson, he soon 
 emerged from poverty, he frequently re- 
 lapsed into embarrassment ; for he had no 
 knack of saving monej', and all the sums he 
 received for poems, plays, essays or histori- 
 cal works slipped from his fingers at once, 
 -so that he was often in debt when he should 
 have been in comfort. John.son's epitaph 
 describes him as "Poet, Naturalist and His- 
 torian, who left scarcely any kind of writing 
 
 vmtouched, and touched nothing that lie did 
 not adorn." The monument bearing this 
 inscription, and more to the same purpose, 
 stands in Westminster Abbey. No poet has 
 left a dearer memory than simple, gentle, 
 always amiable Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 Graves, Alfred Pkrcival. 
 
 Alfred Percival Graves belongs to the 
 younger class of Irish poets, and while, in 
 the treatment of his favorite themes, he is 
 essentially racy of the soil, his style is more 
 modern than that of most other poets who 
 have found inspiration at the same source. 
 He is a son of the Episcopal Bishop of Lim- 
 erick, and was born in Dubhn, in 1846. Al- 
 though much of his writing has been done 
 in England, it shows that the Ii-ish impres- 
 sions which he took thither have not been 
 effaced by the change from the mountains 
 of Wicklow and Kerry to the streets of Lon- 
 don. He is especially happy as a writer of 
 peasant songs, which are at once graceful, 
 melodious and simple. Though lacking the 
 brisk humor of Lever, his songs have a deli- 
 cate playfulness of their own that has 
 gained them much popularity. They are 
 quaint, merry and musical, and almost sing 
 themselves. That he can also write in the 
 pathetic vein is shown by the touching spirit 
 of "The Black Forty-six," "The Wreck of 
 the Aideen," and others among his more se- 
 rious poems. He has published two vol- 
 umes, "Songs of Killarney," and "Irish 
 Songs and Ballads," and the titles as well as 
 the contents of his books show that he is 
 quite willing to be known as an Irish poet. 
 Outside of literature, his occupation is that 
 of an Inspector of Schools. 
 
 Gray, Ja>"e L. 
 
 In the "Female Poets of America," edited 
 by Mr. Griswold, Mrs. Jane L. Gray is de- 
 ■ scribed as " a daughter of William Lewers, 
 Esquire, of Castle Clancy, in the north of 
 Ireland," She was born in 1800, and was 
 educated in a Moravian Seminary, near Bel- 
 fast. At an eai-ly age she was married to 
 the Rev. John Gray, with whom she emi- 
 grated to America, and settled at Easton, 
 Pa., where Dr. Gray became well known as 
 the pastor of a Presbyterian Church. The 
 poems of Mi-s. Gray are chiefly of a religious 
 
746 
 
 lilOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 clmi-aotfr. She wrote wlmlly from 
 experience ami devotional feeliiiy:. 
 
 rRIFKIX. liKRALD. 
 The hrief life of Gei-.iKl Ciiiffln, jioet, novel- 
 ist and dramatist, was one of bright promise 
 and notable performance. He was born in I 
 Limerick in 1803, and his death occurred in i 
 the Monastery of the Christian Brothers in , 
 Cork, in 1840. Having been intended foi- 
 the medical profession, he received a good 
 education, which proved valuable in the lit-; 
 er.iry pursuits he adopted while yet hardly 
 out of boyhood. His tiret ambilious effort, 
 made at the age of nineteen, was a drama, 
 entitled " Aguii-e." In the following year he 
 wrote the play of "Gisippus," which obtain- 
 ed much success in London, and drew atten-, 
 tion to the remarkable talent of -the youthful 
 author. Dramatic literature, however, was 
 not so much to his taste as fiction and po- 
 etry, and its field was soon abandoned. At 
 the age of twenty-live, the best A his works, 
 the admirable story of "The Collegians," 
 from which Mr. Boucicault, many years 
 later, adapted his |K>pular drama of " The 
 Colleen Bawn,"' was produced. Thenceforth 
 for a few yeai-s, till failing health and some 
 keen disap|>ointments discouraged him in 
 the struggle of life, he was one of the most 
 prolilic writers of his time. Both prose and 
 vei-se came rapidly from his pen, and he 
 gave promise of gaining a place among au- 
 thore of the highest distinction. Notwith- 
 standing both talent and industry, however, 
 he found it dirticult to earn suflicient money 
 for decent maintenance. His experience 
 with iniblishers was often unsatisfactory, 
 and he complained much of unjust treats 
 ment, doubtless not without reason. Be- 
 loming weary of his work and of the world 
 at the age of thirty-five, and finding that 
 his health had suffered from the strain of 
 almost incessant mental effort, he entered 
 the Order of Christian Brothei-s in 1838, sad 
 in spirit and feeble in body, and with less 
 than two years of life still remaining to him. 
 The most popular of his poems, " The Sister 
 of Charity," w;is suggested by one of his 
 sistei-s becoming a rcUgeusiewX, an early age. 
 Purity of thought is a leiuling quality of 
 both his fiction and his vei-se. His nature 
 was shy and sensitive, and deeply tinged 
 with religious feeling. | 
 
 (illXKY, LOIISK LmOGKX. 
 
 The quick ivcognition given by the literary 
 pi-ess to the little volume of poems entitled 
 "Songs at the Start," published by Miss 
 Ouiney in May, 1S84, was an unusual trib- 
 ute to so young a writer. Miss Guiney was 
 born in Boston, JIass., in January, 1861. 
 Her father, General Patrick Guiney. wiis a 
 native of Parkstown, County Tipperar)', anil 
 a gallant soldier in the war between the 
 North and South. Her poetical inclina- 
 tions began to manifest themselves in child- 
 hood, and her talent was well developed be- 
 foi-e the age at which mariy writei's liegin. 
 Her lii-st published verees appeared anony- 
 mously in the Boston " Pilot," but their 
 mei'it soon caused sufficient inquiry about 
 the writer to bring her into notice. It was 
 only a few years later that she was honored 
 by being invited to write the memorial poem 
 for the public .services in commemoration 
 of General Grant in her native city. Poetry 
 is not, however, her only litei-ary pursuit. 
 She has written much bright and agreeable 
 prose, which shows tiusle, judgment and in- 
 telligent insight. Her father's family was 
 originally Fi-ench, but in Ireland it became 
 most thoroughly Irish. 
 
 Halpixe, Charlks Graham. 
 
 What can be said here about Charles G. Hal- 
 pine must necessarily be imperfect as a 
 sketch of his work and character. The genial 
 poet, soldier and journalist w;is born near 
 Old-castle, in the County of Mcath, in 1829. 
 He was a son of the Rev. Nicholas J. Halpine, 
 an Episco]xil clergyman of marked ability, 
 and for many years editor of the Dublin 
 " Evening Mail," and his first lilei-arj' work 
 was in the form of contributions to the 
 Irish press He soon removed to London, 
 where it was continued, and then to the 
 United States, where his fame was to be 
 made. His regular entnince into journal- 
 ism took place in Boston, and in the course 
 of his newspaper career he was connected 
 with the Boston " Post," New York 
 "Times," " Herald," "Tribune," "Leader," 
 (of which he was for some time the editor), 
 and the " Citizen," which he established. 
 His humorous poems fii-st attracted notice 
 during the civil war, but he had written in 
 the same vein some yeai's before, and quite 
 as well as after he had become known as 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 747 
 
 " Miles O'Reill.v." At the beginning ot the 
 wai- he joined the well-known Sixty-Ninth 
 New York Regiment, with tlie I'ank of heu- 
 tenant, and his advance in miUtary knowl- 
 edge was so rapid that In a short time he re- 
 ceived an appointment as adjutant-general 
 on the staff ot General David Hunter. It was 
 while serving in that capacity that he intro- 
 duced "Private Miles O'Reilly " to the public, 
 and so cleverly was the character sustained 
 that for a considerable time the poetical and 
 humorous private was supposed to he a real 
 personage. During the latter part of tlie 
 war he was on the staff of General John A. 
 Dix, in New York city. Wishing to do 
 something toward cleansing New York pol- 
 itics he established the "Citizen " as an inde- 
 pendent weekly paper, some time after tlie 
 war. and his work in its columns, following 
 the general good will he had gained by the 
 Miles O'Reilly lyrics, made him so popular 
 that when he became a candidate for the 
 office of Register he was elected by an over- 
 whelming majority. One of his best poems, 
 that addressed to the Irish Legion, was 
 written in the last week of his life and was 
 the last work of his pen. Among his senti- 
 mental poems, of which there are many, 
 some of very sweet and simple tenderness, 
 the most charming is " Janette's Hair," a 
 song with music and exquisite beauty in 
 each line. He died ftt the age of thirty- 
 nine, from an accidental over-use of chloro- 
 form, in the fullness of his mental power, 
 and with the path to greater distinction 
 open before him. Shortly after his death 
 his poems were collected by his friend, Mr. 
 Robert B. Roosevelt, and published by Har- 
 per & Brothers. From this collection the 
 selections in this volume are made, by per- 
 mission of the publishers. 
 
 HARDIJ.G, Edward. 
 
 Edwai-d Harding was born in Dublin, in 
 1849. He removed to Cork, and at the 
 present time he is a Justice of the Peace at 
 Westview, in that county. Although his 
 poems do not belong to the ambitious class, 
 they are graceful and pleasing, and have 
 been received with a good deal ot favor 
 
 Holmes, Edmund G. A. 
 
 Few of the younger poets have done bet- 
 ter work than Edmund Gore Alexandei 
 
 Holmes, who was born near Athlone, Coun- 
 ty Westmeath, July 17, 1850. His father, 
 Robert Holmes, was widel.y known in West- 
 meath, and his mother belonged to the old 
 familj' named Henn, of the County Clare — 
 one of whom, Jonathan Henn, defended 
 O'Connell in his famous trial. Mr. Holmes 
 has published two volumes ot poems in 
 London, and although a stranger to the re- 
 viewers, his productions have been well 
 received. It may indeed be said that tliey 
 have met with an unusual meed of praise in 
 high literai-y quartei-s. He appeai-s to liave 
 a special talent for what is sometimes called 
 landscape poetry. He is at ease with na 
 ture, and he not onlj' paints her moods, but 
 Interprets her mysteries with graceful and 
 sj'mpathetic skill. His descriptive poems 
 are rich in coloring and beautifully pictur- 
 esque. Most of his years have been passed 
 in England, and for some time past he has 
 held the position of an Inspector of Schools 
 in that country. 
 
 Hughes, John (Most Rev.). 
 
 New York's famous fii-st Archbishop, the 
 Most Rev. John Hughes, was born at An- 
 naloghan, County Tyrone, Irelanil, June 24, 
 1797. During his college days at Enimits- 
 burg, Md., he wrote a number of poems, 
 which appeared in a newspaper called the 
 "Centinel," published at Chambersbui-g, 
 Pa. The author's identity was concealed 
 under the pseudonym of " Leauder.'' In 
 view of his subsequent great carec;r as a 
 Churchman, it is somewhat singular that 
 only one of his poems was of a religious 
 character. The two given in this collection 
 are presented chiefly as evidence of his prom- 
 ise in verse-making in his early years. Arch- 
 bishop Hughes died in New York, January 
 3, 1864. 
 
 Ingram, John Kells. 
 
 Not many Irish national poems have gained 
 more popularity' than " The Memory of the 
 Dead." Although ori-inally published 
 anonymously, it is known to have been 
 written by John Kells Ingram, for some 
 years past a professor in Trinity College, 
 Dublin. Mr. Ingi-am was born about 1830, 
 and is, we believe, a native of the Irish cap- 
 ital. It is said that in late years he has not 
 
■4S 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 dcsiiwl to claim the poem, but he certainl 
 has no good reason to disown it 
 
 iRwix, Thomas Caitlkikld. 
 
 Tliomxs Caulfielil Irwin is tlie author of 
 four volumes of jjoems, a larg-e number of 
 tajps and sketches, and instructive essays on 
 numerous subjects. His style is chaste and 
 scholarly, and his talents have been indus- 
 triously exercised for good pui-|>oses. He 
 was born at Warrensport, County Down, 
 May 4, 1823. his father, Thomas Irwin, being 
 a physician of repute. He i-eceived a su- 
 perior education, including a thorough 
 knowledge of the cla-ssic-s and acquaintance 
 with several continental languages, and 
 was thus well prepared for the literary 
 career upon which he entered at an early age. 
 By his industry with the ppn he had made 
 a rei)Utation before reaching his thirtieth 
 year. He w.is a contributor to the " Na- 
 tion " in the time of Davis and Mangan, anil 
 also, for many years, to the " Dublin Uni- 
 vereity Magazine."' Owing to the complete- 
 ness of his education, his knowledge has a 
 wide range, and there are but few subjects 
 on which he has not written with interest 
 anil intelligence. Although not belonging 
 to the National school, in the sense in which 
 it would be said that Davis and nearly all 
 the young Ireland writei-s belonged to it, 
 ilr. Irwin is widely esteemed as a poet of 
 high merit, his poems showing a pleasing 
 blending of gentleness, pathos, kindly phil- 
 ospliy and amiable humor. Probably the 
 most popular of his poems is the " Potato 
 Digger's Song," but this, although very hap- 
 py in its phrasing throughout, is, in literary 
 quality, below the averag'e of his work. 
 
 in Ireland. Dr. Joyce mode many tours in 
 various parts of the country, and it was 
 during that period that his mind absorbed 
 the store of history, tradition and legend 
 which qualified him so well for his subse- 
 quent poetical work. His first book of 
 poems appeared in 18«1, under the title of 
 "Ballads. Romances, Songs." In 18(!8 he 
 published "Legends of the Ware in Ire- 
 land ;" in 1871 " Iri.sh Fireside Tales," and 
 in 1873 " Ballads of Irish Chivalry." Before 
 the apjiearance of "Deii-dre," in 1875, his 
 reputation as a poet was chiefly local, but 
 that admii-able poem attracted so much at- 
 tention .-md was so warmly praised by the 
 press that his merit obtained quick recog- 
 nition on both sides of the Atlantic. It is 
 unquestionably one of the fresjicst and most 
 di-amatic epics of modern times. It is 
 founded on the old romance of "The Fate 
 of the Children of Usna," which inspired 
 a fine poem with the same title by Sam- 
 uel Fei-guson. "Blanid," which appeared 
 in 1879, was also well received, but did not 
 excite quite so much interest as " Dierdre." 
 One of its charms is a profusion of exquisite 
 lyrics, so full of melody that each seems to 
 make music for itself. Soon after the pub- 
 lication of " Blanid," Dr. Joyce's health be- 
 gan to fail, and in 1883, only a few months 
 before his death, he sailed for Ireland, in the 
 hope that rest and his native air would 
 make him well again. This, however, was 
 not to be. A poet of positive worth was 
 lost by his death, which occurred in Dublin. 
 He was a man of ardent patriotism, gener- 
 ous character and sterling friendship. He 
 giiined high pei-sonal esteem in Boston, 
 and his professional standing was of the 
 best 
 
 Joyce. Robert Dwtkr. 
 
 The author of the excellent epic "poems, 
 " Deirdre" and " Blanid," and of many 
 spirited lyrics. Dr. Robert Dwyer Joyce, 
 was born in Limerick in 1830. After pass- 
 ing some yeare in the service of the Com- 
 missioners of National Ekiucation, he became 
 a student at the Queen's College, Cork, in 
 1857, and in 1865 he gra<Iuated with high 
 honors, and received the degree of M.D. 
 He emigitited to the United SUites the fol- 
 lowing year, and settled in Boston, where 
 he soon established a lucrative medical 
 practice. While in the educational service 
 
 Kkkoan, James (Rev.). 
 
 The Rev. James Keegan, at the present 
 time attached to St. Malachi's Chuiih, St. 
 Louis, Mo., was born in the parish of Cloon, 
 County Leitrim, Ireland, in January, 1860. 
 He was educated in Carlow College, and or- 
 dained a priest in May, 1883. Nearly all 
 the poems he li;is written are on Irish 
 themes. 
 
 Keegan, John. 
 
 In the varied peasant-poetry of Ireland there 
 is none more true in spirit and form than 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE^. 
 
 749 
 
 tliatof John Keegan, whose productions are 
 niai'ked by a simpUoity tliat touches the 
 chords of nature at once. This writer was 
 born on the Nore, Queen's County, in 1809, 
 and he died in 1849. The only education lie 
 received was obtained in that peasant's col- 
 lege of the old times, the " liedge school." 
 With more favorable opportunities and a 
 longer life, he would undoubtedly have left 
 a brighter name. His best known poem, 
 " Caoch the Piper," has enjoyed almost as 
 much popularity, both in Ireland and Amer- 
 ica, as Banim's "Soggartli Aroon." 
 
 Kelly, Eva Mary. 
 
 Something has already been said about 
 " Mary, of the Nation." Her sister in song, 
 " Eva," who wrote at the same time, and 
 through the same medium, was then Eva 
 Mar^' Kelly, " daughter of a Gal way gentle- 
 man," as A, M. Sullivan describes her. She 
 subsequently became the wife of Kevin 
 Izod O'Dolierty, who was banished from Ire- 
 land to Australia for his part in the Forty- 
 eight movement. The best known of her 
 poems, if not actually the best in quality, 
 " Tipperarj%" has been credited to more 
 than one other writer, as often happens 
 when a poem is published anonymously. 
 The time of her birth cannot be given here, 
 but as she was only a girl when she began 
 writing '■ seditious " poetry, it may be as- 
 simied to have been about 1830. Her pen 
 does not appear to have continued its excel- 
 lent work after her marriage. She recently 
 revisited Ireland, with her husband, and 
 was warmly welcomed in remembrance of 
 old times. 
 
 Kelly, William D. (Rev.). 
 
 The Rev. William D. Kelly is of Irish birth, 
 but has been a resident of the United States 
 since his childhood. He was born in Dun- 
 dalk, County Louth, in 1846, and his first 
 American home was in Quincy, Mass. Re- 
 moving thence to Boston, lie studied in the 
 public schools of that city, and also in the 
 Boston Latin Scliool. He then went to 
 Holy Cross College at Worcester, where he 
 received the degree of A.B., and next to the 
 Grand Seminary in Montreal, Canada, 
 where he was ordained a priest in January, 
 1870. After serving on the Mission in Bos- 
 
 ton and Taunton, Mass., and fulfilling for 
 some time the duties of Rector of St. Peter 
 and Paul's Cathedral, In Providence, R. I., 
 lie obtained a leave of absence from his 
 bishop, and has since resided In Boston. A 
 natural inclination toward literary work has 
 led him to an extensive connection with the 
 Irish-American and Catholic press. He has 
 written many poems, several of which have 
 gained the distinction of being widely 
 copied. 
 
 Kenxy, James. 
 
 A native of Ireland ; boru 1780, died 1849 ; 
 lived chiefly in London, where he was for 
 some years a clerk in a banking-house ; 
 published a volume of poems, written in a 
 light and pleasant vein, and was the author 
 of several successful farces and plays, two 
 of which, "Raising the Wind," and "Sweet- 
 hearts and Wives," once enjoyed a good 
 deal of popularity. 
 
 Keppel, Lady Caroline. 
 
 A word is due in explanation of the intro- 
 duction of this lady, who was not Irish in 
 any sense, into the company here brought 
 together, and it may be given in a state- 
 ment of the origin of the favorite old song 
 "Robin Adair." This song is not Scotch, 
 as many persons suppose it to be. It was 
 written in England, and tlie air is the old 
 Irish air of "Eileen Aroon." Its hero, 
 Robin Adair, was a young Irishman of good 
 family, who was educated in Dublin and 
 became a surgeon. About 1760 he set out 
 for London, and he there met the lady who 
 subsequently wrote the song — Lady Caro- 
 line Keppel, a daughter of the Earl of Al- 
 bemarle. A warm attachment grew up be- 
 tween them, but the difference in their sta- 
 tion caused the lady's parents to object to a 
 marriage. They separated, and it was 
 after the separation that Lady Keppel, 
 who had learned the air of " Eileen Aroon " 
 from Adair, wrote the song since known as 
 " Robin Adair." Becoming alarmed by the 
 rapid failure of her health, her parents fi- 
 nally consented to lier marriage to Adair ; 
 but her disease liad gone too far for cure, 
 and a few years after lijr marriage took 
 place she died. Adair became surgeon to 
 George III., and was knighted, but though 
 he lived to the a.ge of seventy j-ears his 
 
750 
 
 HIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 heart i-oinained true to his bride, and he 
 Avore nioiii-iiinfif for lier to tlie last. During 
 thi'ir short married hfc, threi! suns were 
 horn, the htst of whom. Sir Robert Achiir, 
 dii'd in 180.'). In liotli air and subject, at 
 least, " Robin Adair " is an Irish song, and 
 tliero is no warrant whatever for crediting 
 it to Scotland. 
 
 KiCKHAM, ChARLKS JAMKS. 
 
 Tlie two special jioets of the Fenian period 
 wej-e John Keegan Casey, already noticed, 
 and Charles James Kickhani. Mr. Kick- 
 ham was born in Midlinahone, Tipperary. 
 in 1«5. He died in Dublin m August. 1882. 
 His strong national instincts led him into 
 the Fenian movement soon after its be- 
 ginning, and for his part in it he was sen- 
 tenced in 1865 to fourteen yeai-s' imprison- 
 ment. He was conOned at Pcnton\ille, 
 Portland, and Woking, till 1869, when his re- 
 le;i.se w;is ordered, and he returned to Ire- 
 land. His poems are not numerous, but 
 all are fresh and vigorous, and one—" Rory 
 of the Hills," written in familiar ballad 
 style— gained great i)opularity among sym- 
 pathlzei's with his political tendencies. He 
 was an active contributor to the Irish na- 
 tional pre&s, chiefly on topics calculated to 
 arouse pati-iotic feeling, and among his 
 efforts in fiction were two stories, "Sally 
 Cavanagh ; or Untenanted Graves," and 
 "Knocknagow, or the Homes of Tipper- 
 ai-j'," which possessed suflicient merit to 
 place him in the ranks of successful au- 
 thors. 
 
 Great," "The Hunchback." "TJieWife. . 
 Tale of Mantua," " The Love Chose. ' " The 
 Rose of Arnigon," and the spirited tragedy 
 of ■' Virginius." In his early ycni-s he pub- 
 lished a small volume of poems called 
 "Fugitive Pieces," and .after his with- 
 drawal fi-om the stage he wrote two novels, 
 " Fortescue" and "fieorge I.ovell." 
 
 Knowlks, Jamks Shkkidan. 
 
 In the city of Cork, on the 12lh of May. 
 1781, James Sheridan Knowles, a second 
 cousin of Richard Briusley Sheridan, was 
 born. At the age of fourteen years he had 
 produced an opera, a tragedy, and a drama. 
 At twenty-four ho became an actor, and he 
 followed that profession about twentj'- 
 eighl yeai-s, retiring from it to enter into 
 religious studies, and Ihially becoming a 
 Baptist preacher in Scotland, where he 
 died in 1863. As a dramatist his rank was 
 nearly as high as that of Sheridan, although 
 the style in which he wrote is now consid- 
 ered somewhat stilted and artilicial. His 
 plays include " Brian lioroihnie," "Caius 
 Gracchus." ••William Tell," Alfred the 
 
 Laxioax. (tKORGK T. 
 
 Geoige T. Lanigan was personally one of 
 the must popular, and professionally one of 
 the most accomplished, of Americ:in jour- 
 nalists. He was of Irish parentage, born at 
 .St. Charles River, Canada, in December, 
 184."), and educated at Montreal. In the 
 coin-se of his career lie held responsible po- 
 sitions on the newspaper press of Xlontreal, 
 Chicago, St. Louis, New York and Pliihi- 
 delphia. He was also for some time the 
 chief editorof the Rochester iN.Y.) •'Post 
 E.xpi^ess." It was while on the staff of the 
 New York " World," that his best work was 
 done. For a period of nine yeare, his adiri- 
 rable talents were in const.int exereise in 
 the various departments of that newspaper, 
 and he became widely known as one of the 
 most graceful and vei-satile writei-s on the 
 American press. He was the author of a 
 series of singularly clever papere called 
 " American Fable-s," which gained much 
 jiopiilaiity, and were subsiKpiently pub- 
 lished in book form, under the title of "Out 
 of the AVorld." He also wrote a number of 
 bright and amusing poems, dealing chiefly 
 with matters of the moment, which re- 
 vealed an excellent talent for vei^se-mak- 
 ing. His more serious pieces, however, 
 were written at a later period. He became 
 connected with the Philadelphia "Record "' 
 in 1885, and he died in that city, Febi-uary 
 5, 1886. 
 
 Leckky. William K. H. 
 
 William Edward Hartpole Leckey, the dis- 
 tinguished historian, was born near Dub- 
 lin, in 1338, and received his education in 
 Trinity College, where he graduated in 
 1859. It is unnecessary to speak here of 
 the excellent work he has perfornie<l. The 
 single poem presented over his name in 
 this collection shows that ho can write g^ood 
 vei'se as well as masterly prose. 
 
niOGKAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 751 
 
 Le Faxu, Joseph Sheridax. 
 
 Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu cUiimod kindred 
 with the Sheridan family, his mother, who 
 married the Rev. Thomas Le Fanu, being- 
 a niece of Ricliard Brinsley Sheridan. He 
 was born in Dublin, August 38, 1814, and 
 his death occurred tliere in February, 1873. 
 He began writing at an earlj' age, and a 
 large part of his work was done for the 
 Dublin •' University Magazine," of which he 
 was the owner a few years before his death. 
 His writing was chiefly in the line of fic- 
 tion, and some of his novels gained much 
 popularity. His only metrical productions 
 of any note are the narrative ballads, " She- 
 mus O'Brien" and " Pliadrig Crohore." 
 With the exception of Davis' " Fontenoy," 
 there probably is not another Irish ballad 
 of action that has been received with greater 
 favor than " Shemus O'Brien." 
 
 Lever, Charles James. 
 
 Ireland's most successful novelist, Charles 
 James Lever, was born in Dublin, August 
 31, 1806. His father, James Lever, was an 
 Englishman, and his mother, Julia Cliand- 
 ler, was a descendant of an old Cromwel- 
 lian family in Irelandy It can hardly be 
 said, therefore, that l>e inherited any Irisli 
 characteristics, yet, as one of his biogra- 
 phers observes, he proved himself "a true 
 Irishman ; proud, courageous, high-mind- 
 ed ; a faithful husband, a devoted father, 
 an affectionate friend, and a passionate 
 lover of liis country and countrymen.'' He 
 was educated at Trinity College, and in 
 1831 he began practicing as a physician. 
 His professional activity during the epidemic 
 of cholera that prevailed in Ireland the fol- 
 lowing year gave him a good deal of dis- 
 tinction. He soon afterward entered the 
 English diplomatic service, and remained 
 in it, with occasional intervals, till his 
 death, which occui-red June 1, 1873. Lever 
 made no attempt to be a poet, but the songs 
 he introduced into his Irisli stories are 
 thoroughly racy, and could liave been 
 written only by a man born on Irish soil. 
 
 Locke, John. 
 
 At the age of twenty j-ears, John Locke, 
 who was born in Ireland in 1847, found 
 himself a prisoner for alleged complicity in 
 
 the attempted Fenian insurrection of 1867. 
 Shortly after Ids release from prison, he 
 left Ireland and settled in New "Voi'k, where 
 he has since been engaged in jom'nalisni. 
 He has written several short tales as well 
 as numerous poems. One of the latter, 
 "Morning on the Irish Coast." has been 
 widely reprinted, sometimes under the title 
 " Top 'o the Morning." This poem and the 
 " Midnight Mass for Sarsfield," are good e.\- 
 amples of free and picturesque expression. 
 
 Lover, Samuel. 
 
 As Moore was Ireland's most gifted poet of 
 sentiment, so Lover lanks as her chief lyri- 
 cal exponent of humor. His song-s are 
 known the world over, and must be long re- 
 membered in other lands as well as his own. 
 He was born in Dublin in 1797. At the age 
 of twenty he was becoming known as an ar- 
 tist, and for several succeeding years he de- 
 pended chiefly upon portrait painting tor 
 support. In 1837 he settled in London, and 
 began to exhibit in the Royal Academy, 
 where his works attracted much favorable 
 notice. But when he began painting in 
 Dublin he also began writing, and thence- 
 forward, until failing eye-sight obliged him 
 to give up work as an artist, pen and brush 
 kept pace with each other. He wrote alto- 
 gether some 300 lyrical pieces, nearly all 
 songs of love, pathos and humor. The first 
 of his songs to excite interest in the author 
 was "Rory O'Moore," which was written at 
 the suggestion of Lady Morgan. In 1833 he 
 published the "Legends and Stories of Ire- 
 land," his novel, " Rory O'Moore, A Na- 
 tional Romance," appeared later ; " Hand3' 
 Andy" was produced in 1843. and "Treas- 
 ure Trove " in 1844. His works for the stage 
 were the "Olympic Picnic," written for 
 Madame Vestris : the " White Horse of the 
 Peppers;" the "Happy Man;" an adaptation 
 of " Rory O'Moore " for Tyrone Power ; the 
 "Sentinel of the Alma," "Macarthy More," 
 and an operetta called the " Greek Boy." 
 In 1844 he planned a musical and literary 
 entertainment called "Irish Evenings," in 
 which he appeared in London and Dublin, 
 and subsequently in the chief American cit- 
 ies, with marked success. In 18.56, a pen- 
 sion was granted to him " in recognition of 
 his services to literature and art." A few 
 years later his health began to fail, and in 
 
BIOOKAI'HICA I. .\0 TE.s. 
 
 1868 lie (lied in tlie island of Jersey, whither 
 li« liiul gone sonic lime before under medi- 
 cal advice. He whs married twice, llrst to 
 Miss Ueri-el, in Dublin, in 1827, and nt-.xt to 
 Miss Wandley, in Eiifrland, in 1832. Iivland 
 has had few more iirolillc writei-s than Sam- 
 uel Lover, and none who (gained more i>oi>- 
 ularity in his own country and elsewhere. 
 A " Life of Lover, with Selections fram Un- 
 published I'apei's," apiwured in London in 
 187-1 . 
 
 Lysa<*iit, Kdwaku. 
 
 A native of Clare ; born in 1763, and died 
 in 1810 ; a man of much vei'satility, and 
 equally popular as barrister, wit and soni^- 
 writer. He took an active part in the Vol- 
 unteer movement of 'Eighty -two, and at a 
 later period he opposed with vigor and elo- 
 ([lUMice the stejis which led to the act of 
 Union. One of his songs, the "Sprig of 
 .Shillelah," was long a favorite, but is now 
 valueless except a-s an echo of the time 
 when it was written. 
 
 Maqinn, William. 
 
 With the splendid talents which he pos- 
 sessed, Dr. Maginn might well have en- 
 riched in some degree the poetical literature 
 of Ireland. Very few, however, of liis 
 Irish poems are .serious in purpose, or 
 worthy of the author's power. His best 
 metrical work was a translation of pai-ts of 
 the Odyssy and the Iliad, which appeared 
 under the name of " Homeric Ballads." It 
 was as the author of innumerable witty and 
 amusing sketches, essays and travesties 
 that his chief success was gained. Dr. Ma- 
 ginn was born in Cork, in 1794. He was 
 the son of a school ma.ster, and he himself 
 followed that calling a few yeai'S. In 1817 
 In- became a conti-ibutor to " Bliickwood," 
 and bis career thenceforward wjis wholly 
 literary. In 1830 he withdrew from ' Black- 
 wood " and established "Fra.ser's" ius a 
 rival magazine, and the experiment proved 
 prosperous and profitable. Many of his 
 jiroductions, especially upon Irish themes, 
 appeared under the name of Morgan O'Do- 
 herly. Prior to his death, which occurred in 
 1841, the "Homeric Ballads" and selec- 
 tions from his miscellaneous writings were 
 published in book form. Several yeai-s 
 later his relics were lovingly gathered by 
 
 Dr. Robert Shelton McKenzie, and publislie<l 
 in New York. It must always be i-egrette<l 
 that Iri.sh poetrj- givined so little from tal- 
 ent.s so brilliant ius those of Dr. Maginn. 
 
 Mahaxy. RowLAxn B. 
 
 Born in Buffalo, N.Y., in September, 1864 ; 
 son of Kean Mahaiiy, artist, of the Dunloi- 
 (Kerry) family of that name ; graduuteil 
 with lii'st honors from the Buffalo high 
 school at the age of si.xteen ; wits teacher in 
 a cUus,sical school the following year ; then 
 entered Hobart College, where he remained 
 two yeai'S, and next became a full course 
 student at Harvard Univei-sity Mr. Ma- 
 hany's poems have been received with 
 marked favor. As the productions of so 
 young a writer, tliey give unusually bright 
 promise. 
 
 Mahoxy, FuAXfis Sylvkstkr (Rkv.). 
 (ienial and versatile " Father Prout," wa.s 
 born in Cork in 1804. His remarkable 
 classical knowledge was acquired during 
 the completion of his education in a Jesuit 
 college at Amiens. He studied theology in 
 Paris and also in Rome, and took ordei-s in 
 the Eternal City. Having served as a priest 
 in Switzerland and for a short time in Ire- 
 land, he became uttiiched in a clerical ca- 
 pacity to the Bavarian Legation in London, 
 and it was then that he made acquaintance 
 in the literary circle of which he soon be- 
 came a brilliant member. In 1834 he wa.s 
 a frejpient contributor to Fi-aser's Magazine, 
 and the humor and originality of his 
 '• Prout Papere " attracted general notice, 
 which continued a.s the papei-s proceeded. 
 A favorite practice with him was to turn 
 current poems into Latin or Greek, print 
 the original and the translation side by side, 
 anil then contend with much gravity that 
 the original poem was a plagiarism. This 
 was done with such show of learning and 
 authority that many were puzzled and some 
 almost pei-suaded by his quizzical misrep- 
 resentations. Moore was his chief victim 
 in this peculiar sport, but other poets also 
 received attention of the Siuue kind. About 
 the time he entered the literary circle as a 
 regular member, Mahony cea-sed the exer- 
 cise of clerical functions, but at no time on 
 to liis death would he tolerate any mention 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 '53 
 
 ot religious matters, oi' any allusion to liis 
 churcii, lliiit was not stiictly respectful. 
 In 1846 lie went to Rome as correspondent 
 of the London " Daily News," and remained 
 there in that capacity for several years. He 
 subsequently took up his residence in Paris 
 as correspondent of tlie London " Globe." 
 In 1864 he laid his pen aside, retired to a 
 monastery in Paris, and remained there till 
 his deatli, which occurred on the 18th of 
 May, 1866. "The Bells ot Shandon " is 
 his best-known production, but " The 
 Mistletoe," which is believed to be whollj' 
 his own, has much more merit as a poem. 
 A word concerning the real Father Prout 
 may be added. " I have seen him, spoken 
 with him, dined with him," says Dr. Robert 
 Shelton McKenzie, in his "Bits of Blarney." 
 " The Father Prout, however, ot real life 
 was vei'y different from him of the Prout 
 Papers. He was parish -priest of Water- 
 grass-hill, midway between the city of 
 Cork and the town of Fermoy. Prout was 
 one of the old priests who, when it was 
 penal for a Catholic to exist in Ireland, 
 picked up the elements of education how he 
 could, completed it at a foreign university, 
 and came back to Ireland a priest, to ad- 
 minister the consolations of religion to the 
 peasantry of his native land. . . . He 
 had an unconquerable spirit ot good humor, 
 and it was utterly impossible for any one to 
 to be in his company for ten minutes with- 
 out feeling and basking in the sunshine of 
 his buoyant, genial good nature." 
 
 Mangan, James Clabexce. 
 
 That James Clarence Mangan was a poet 
 l)re-eminent gifts is quite as true as that lie 
 was a man ot most unfortunate life. Born j 
 in Dublin in 1803, he died in the same place 
 in 1849. He received but little education, 
 as the circumstances of his parents were 
 such as to force upon him early in life the 
 necessity of providing lor himself. This lie 
 succeeded in doing for several years by act- 
 ing as copyist to a lawyer, who paid him 
 small wages, but in wliose office he found 
 time tor a good deal of reading, which served 
 to quality him for the literary work in which 
 he was to engage at a later pei'iod. He was 
 subsequently employed in the library of the 
 Dublin University, and it was tliere that he 
 acquired, by dint of study in spare luiurs, 
 
 the familiarity with general literature which 
 his poetical labors reveal. His first pro- 
 ductions appeared in the " Penny Journal," 
 which many young writers of the time found 
 a convenient medium of introduction to the 
 public, but as his name became better known 
 he found easy access to the Dublin "Uni- 
 versity Magazine," the " Nation," which at- 
 tracted the best talent of the country, and 
 subsequently the " United Irishman," con- 
 ducted by John Mitchel, who held him in 
 high esteem, and whose pen traced a graphic 
 and appreciative sketch of his dismal life to 
 preface a volume of his poems published in 
 New York in 1859. His knowledge of lan- 
 guages was extensive, yet it does not appear 
 to have included anything like full familiar- 
 ity with the language of his own countiy. 
 His translations from the Irish are generally 
 believed to be simply a re-setting of prose 
 renderings furnished to him by leading Irish 
 scholars. He had more knowledge of German 
 than of any other tongue except English, and 
 he was, as his numerous translations show, a 
 student and a lover of the Gei'iiian poets. 
 His poems, ascribed to the Arabic, Ottoman, 
 etc., are believed to be wholly his own, e.x- 
 cept in mere suggestions which came in his 
 way in the course of his reading. He un- 
 doubtedly possessed the spark of genius, 
 but it was often obscured. His neglect of 
 himself, through weaknesses which excited 
 pity rather than blame, prevented the ac- 
 complishment of much that he was qualified 
 by nature to do. His place among poets is 
 as difficult to define as that of Edgar A. 
 Poe, with whom, both spiritually and ma- 
 terially, it may be said that he had much in 
 common. Had his gifts been well balanced, 
 he would doubtless have done great work. 
 His life was one of distress and almost of 
 despair, and its ending was not, perhaps, 
 its most dismal part, although he died ob- 
 scurely in a Dublin hospital. There is a 
 weird foreshadowing of it in his poem, 
 "The Saw-Mill," in which he hears "the 
 song of the tree that the saw sawed 
 through." In its plaintive song the tree 
 seems to say : 
 
 " In a few days more, most lonely one, 
 Shall I, as a nan-ow ark, veil 
 Thine eyes from the glare of the world and the sun 
 'Mong the urns in yonder dark vale - 
 
 In the cold and dun 
 Beeesses of yonder dark vale. 
 
754 
 
 HIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 ' For thin, (frieve not : Thou Icnowrst what thunkH 
 Tlie weary -soulwl auil int^k owe 
 To ileath "—I awoke, and heard four plaiiku 
 Fall down with a luuldenln); echo— 
 I heard /iiur plnnk» 
 Fall doum with a hotlow echo ! 
 
 Manmx, Mary E. 
 
 Jlrs. Miiry E. Mannix is of Irisli parentage 
 ami American birth. She Wius born in New 
 York fily, in 1846, but the greater part of 
 lier life has been passed in Cincinnati, Oliio, 
 wliitlier her parents removed in her child- 
 hood. Her father's name was Walsh, and 
 before her marriage her literary work was 
 done over the initials, "M. E. W." She 
 has been for several years the wife of Sir. 
 John B. Mannix, a member of the Cincin- 
 nati Bivr. Mrs. Mannix has written a num- 
 ber of very choice poems, and also many 
 admirable studies and sket(;hes in prose. 
 All her productions show taste, reflection 
 and refinement. 
 
 Marstox, Philip Bourkk. 
 
 A note received from tliis gentle and most 
 pathetic poet a short time before his death, 
 said : " I am quite eligible for your scheme, 
 being Irish on my mother's side." Concern- 
 ing this Irish mother, one of the poet's bi- 
 ographers, Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton, 
 writes : " When he was scarcely twenty, liis 
 mother died. To liim this was such a loss 
 as even a son who can see for himself can 
 scarcely estimate. This mother to this son 
 had been not only a motlier— she had been 
 liis companion and his eyes, I have seen 
 the many books in which she wrote out his 
 early compositions, in her graceful, beauti- 
 ful hand ; and she wius not alone scribe, but 
 also critic, for she was a most accomplished 
 woman." His father, Dr. Westland Mars- 
 ton, dramatist and poet, is of an old English 
 faiuily. Philip Bourke Marston was born in 
 London, August 13, 1850. His beauty as a 
 child wiis remarkable. It inspired the ex- 
 quisite little poem, " Phili|>, mj- King," one 
 of the purest gems of song — by his god- 
 mother, Miss Mulocli. An injury to one of 
 his eyes, when he wius thi'ee yeare old, grad- 
 ually brought on blindness, and from about 
 his twentieth year he lived in total darkness. 
 Nearly all his poems breathe the most 
 plaintive sorrow ; for grief walked with him 
 through life. Soon after the death of his 
 
 mother, he lost in the same way rus uit<-iiii<'d 
 bride. A sister who l<Hik his mother's place 
 lus a companion was next taken away. In 
 the following year lie was bereaved again 
 by the death of another sister, the wife of 
 his close friend and brother poet, Arthur 
 0'Shaugline.s.Hy. Two years later, O'Shaugh- 
 nes.sy himself died, and the blind singer 
 found himself almost alone, in hopeless 
 darkness. Some leaders of his poems say 
 they are too s;ul, but the sadness of his life 
 was much greater. He knew little but sor- 
 row from the beginning, but he bore it well, 
 and made but little complaint. He pub- 
 lished three books of poems — "Song-Tlde," 
 " All in-All, "and "Wind-Voices. • Hisdeath 
 occurred in London, Febniarv 14, 1887. 
 
 MATtiRix, Edward. 
 
 Edward Matiirin, who held a prominent 
 place in New York liteniry circles for many 
 years, was a son of the Rev. Charles P. 
 Matui'in, of Dublin, eminent as a novelist 
 and dramatist, and best known as the au- 
 thor of the tragedy of '•Bertram." Like 
 his father, he w;\s educated at Trinity Col- 
 lege, in his native city. Reaching New 
 York in earlj* life he began a literary ca- 
 reer that continued till his death, which 
 occurred in 1882. He was then in his sixty- 
 ninth year. Mr. Maturin was a man of 
 striking appearance, with a soldierly air 
 that always drew attention, and was some- 
 what suggestive of one of the ditshing 
 Spanish Cavaliers celebrated in his spirited 
 Spanish lyrics. His .soholai'ship wiis ex- 
 tensive and thorough, and the writing of 
 verse was to liiiu only a recreation in the 
 course of more serious work. It may be 
 made known here, for the fii-st time pub- 
 licly, that an important part of the re\n- 
 sion of the New Testament, i;arried through 
 a few years since by English and Ameri- 
 can churchmen, was entrusted to him. A 
 oilcction of his poems, under the title of 
 ' Maturin's Lyrics" — about one half being 
 on Spani.sh and the other on Irish themes — 
 was published in 1850. 
 
 Mkaghkr, Thomas Fraxcis. 
 
 Even a woi-d about the ptitriot, orator and 
 soldier. General Thomas Francis Meagher, 
 is almost superfluous. He w;is born in 
 Walerford, in 1833. For his part in the ris- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 755 
 
 ing of 1848, lie was sentenced to death, but 
 subsequently transi)oi'ted to Tasmania. In 
 1852 he escaped and came to America. In 
 1861 he joined tlie Union army as a Captain 
 in tlie famous Sixty-ninth New York Regi- 
 ment. A few montlis later he raised the Irish 
 Brigade in New York, and was commissioned 
 a Brigadier-General. At the battle of Fred- 
 ericksburg he received a wound which inca- 
 pacitated him for further active service. 
 After the close of the wnr he was appointed 
 Governor of Montana. On the night of July 
 1, 1807, he fell from a steamer on the Mis- 
 sissippi river, and was drowned. His body 
 was not 7'ocovered. 
 
 MiLLiKEX, Richard A. 
 
 " The Groves of Blarney " is tlie only com- 
 position by which Richard Alfred Milliken 
 is remembered, although he wrote a few 
 other things of some merit. The circum- 
 stances under which the song was written 
 are worth mentioning. Wliile visiting a 
 lady in the country, ililliken heai'd a wan- 
 dering ballad-singer vaunt the praises of his 
 hostess, after the pretentious manner of his 
 class. He was bantered to produce the 
 equal of the g'randiloquent verses, and the 
 result was the composition that has pre- 
 served his name. It is chiefly as an amusing 
 parody of the incongruous hedge-poet style 
 that the stanzas have any value. In passing 
 through tlie hands of many printere they 
 have undergone numerous textual varia- 
 tions ; but the version given here, with the 
 comical refrain, "Ocli, Ullagone!" is most 
 near the original. Milliken was born in Cork 
 in 1767, became a barrister, and died in 1815. 
 
 MooRK, Thomas. 
 
 The period that gave Ireland her most re- 
 nowned statesman, Henry Grattan, and her 
 most illustrious patriot, Robert Emmet, also 
 produced her greatest poet, Thomas Moore. 
 It was her period of national resurrection. 
 Moore was born in Dublin, May 28, 1779— 
 three years before England's concession of 
 independence to the Irish Parliament. Dur- 
 ing his education in Trinity College his 
 talent for verse making was frequently mani- 
 fested, and several of his minor poems were 
 then written. In 1797 his interest "became 
 fixed upon the old Irish melodies, which had 
 
 been rescued from tbreutoned oblivion by 
 Mr. Bunting in a work published the pre- 
 vious year. His intimacy with Emmet in 
 college infused into that interest a strong- 
 national spirit, and to it was largely due the 
 wainith and ardor with which, through the 
 medium of the most exquisite song, he es- 
 poused his country's cause. When, in 1803, 
 he received an appointment to a post in 
 Bermuda, he had already gained distinction 
 as a poet, although it was not till ten years 
 later, when his "Irish Melodies" began to 
 apjiear, that his true merit found recognition 
 and appreciation. It was then seen that 
 Ireland had fouad a new voice in the world, 
 and one to which all the world listened. 
 The "melodies" rose instantaneously to 
 imiversal favor, and the echoes of their un- 
 equalled strains were borne around the 
 globe. The spirit of Irish nationality, which, 
 if thought of at all, was supposed to be dead 
 and past resuirection, was revived and re- 
 stored, and appealing to the heart of all 
 mankind. ToquoteMr. Alfred M. Williams, 
 in his interesting' " Poets and Poetry of Ire- 
 laud ; " — " The song.s expressed as had never 
 before been done in the English language an 
 Irish and national feeling and patriotism, 
 celebrated the beauties of Irish scenei-y, and 
 paid tribute in a distinct manner, although 
 names were not mentioned, to patriots like 
 Emmet, who had suffered for treason accord- 
 ing to the English law. Its history was 
 illuminated and its beautiful legends pre- 
 sented in the most attractive form ! " There 
 has been a reudiiicss to censure Moore for 
 the tone of some ol lii> American poems, 
 but it should bc> icmeiiil"-ied that he was 
 but little more than a youth when they were 
 written — shoi'tly after his appointment to 
 the post in Bermuda — and also that the con- 
 dition of many things in America was very 
 different at that time from what it has since 
 become. During- the latter part of his life 
 he resided almost entirely in England. His 
 death took place there — at Sloperton Cot- 
 tage, near Devizes — February 25, 1852. 
 
 MuiR, Mariox. 
 
 Although bearing a Scotch name, Miss 
 Marion Muir is partly of Irish lineage, her 
 mother, whose maiden name was Adelia 
 Cole, having- bein born in Dublin. Her 
 father, the Hon. Wni. Train Muir, a native 
 
o6 
 
 lilOGRArHICAL XOTES. 
 
 of Scotland, was favorably known on the I 
 bench of Colorado. Miss >Iuir wa-s bom in 
 Cliimjjo, but has lived in Colorado since her 
 childhood. She lias written both verse and ' 
 prose with much spirit, and the merit of her | 
 productions has been widely recognized. ] 
 
 nod and for some time after, she wrote ex 
 tensively, and always with a clear purposi- 
 but for .some time pa.st her \^^•n ha-srestiil 
 in " inglorious ciLse," to the repret of tho--. 
 who know what it is capable of doing when 
 employed. 
 
 MuLHOLLAxn, Rosa. 
 
 Of the thousiinds who have been charmed 
 by the stories of Miss Rosa Mulholland. 
 ])robably but few are familiar with her ex- 
 quisite work as a poet. Nevertheless it was 
 in the domain of poetry that her (Iret suc- 
 cess was gained. Miss Mulholland is a na- 
 tive of Belfa.st, and a daughter of a physi- 
 cian of that city. She has been for several 
 yeai-s an industrious contributor of both 
 tales and poems to the English periodicals, 
 and also to some in Ireland. One of the 
 first pel-sons to recognize her talent was 
 Charles Dickens, who invited her into 
 the service of his magazine, " All the Year 
 Round," while she had yet to make a 
 name. Miss Mulholland resides alternately 
 in London and Dublin, and is one of the 
 busiest of the many busy writei-s of the 
 day. Her ])Ooms were published in collec- 
 tive form in 1886. Her stories, which have 
 been extensively read on both sides of the 
 Atlantic, include " Hesters History," " The 
 Wicked Woods of Toberevil," " Eldei- 
 gowan," " Dunmara," " Hetty Gray," " The 
 Late Miss Hollingford," " Marcella Grace," 
 and "The Wild Birds of Killeevy." It 
 maj- not be out of place here to say that 
 Miss Mulholland is a sister-in-law of Sir 
 Charles Russell, who was Attorney General 
 for England under the Gladstone Govern- 
 ment that retired in 188C. 
 
 MlLl-AIA, Maky. 
 
 Miss Mary JIulUily is also a native of Bel- 
 fast, but has been for a number of years a 
 resident of New York. Her literarj- talents 
 have been exercised in a quiet way.and with- 
 out anj' desire on her part to attract notice. 
 She has written several interesting tales 
 marked by slrengUi, brightness and sympa- 
 thy , and her pen has also done some excel lent 
 newspaper work. Both her tales and poems 
 have, in most cases, ajtpeared without any 
 other indication of their authorship than 
 the initials, "M. M." During the war pe- 
 
 IXKITTRlrK, Rl< HARD K. 
 ••All the family on my fathers side -.w 
 Irish and it seems to me I belong thei- 
 myself," writes Mr. Munkittrick. who-' 
 neat vei^ses, esich a cameo in words, ha\ ■ 
 gained him recognition as one of the risiii-- 
 poets of the time. His father is u native ol 
 Aitlec, Ireland, and his mother is Amen 
 can, but he himself was born in Mauchi- 
 ter, England, Maix-h 5, 1853. He has l>eii 
 eng-aged in literai-y work about ten yeai-, 
 and during the past five years he has Ix-.i; 
 editorially connected with the well-knovM' 
 New York publication, "Puck." His jweiii- 
 have appeared in the leading magazin<-. 
 and have attracted notice by an artist I. 
 neatness that is never attained except li> 
 true talent. 
 
 Murphy, Katharine. 
 
 •'Bridgid" was the nam de plume ot Miss 
 Katharine Murphy, a native of the city of 
 Cork, by whose death, in the early pjirt of 
 1885, a poet of much power was removed 
 from the ranks of Irish writera. Although her 
 assumed name had been familiar for some 
 yeai-s, it was onlj- a short time before her 
 death that her real name became known in 
 connection with her work. '•Bridgid " w;i> 
 widely read in Ireland, while Katharine Mm 
 pliy lived a quiet and almost secluded I if. 
 in lier native city. The best known of Ikt 
 poems, " Sentenced to Death," possesses 
 great dramatic power, and has been ex 
 tensively reprinted. Poetry wiis not, how 
 ever, her only literarj' occupation. Sh. 
 wrote a number of tales, some being In- 
 torical in character, which won consideral)li' 
 success. Although all her work was not 
 carefully done, the material in a great deal 
 of it is of superior quality. 
 
 McCarthy, Dkxis Florkxck. 
 
 Boi^n in 1817, and beginning to write at 
 age of seventeen, Denis Florence 5IcCar' 
 
BtOGRAPHICAL NOTEi 
 
 757 
 
 had already gained some distinction when 
 tlie spirited poets directly associated with 
 the "Young Ireland " period came upon the 
 stage. His work is varied, comprehensive 
 and valuable. In 1846 he edited the "Poets 
 and Dramatists of Ireland," and the " Book 
 of Irish Ballads," and in 1850 the first collec- 
 tion of his own poems appeared, under the 
 title of "Ballads, Poems and Lyrics." In 
 1853 he began translating the plays of the 
 Spanish dramatist, Calderon, and this work 
 he continued at intervals for twenty years. 
 Concerning it the poet Longfellow wrote 
 to tlie translator in 1857: "You are doing 
 this work admirably, and 'seem to gain 
 new strength and sweetness as you go on. 
 It seems as if Calderon himself were behind 
 you wliispering and suggesting. And what 
 better work could you do in your bright 
 hours or in your dark hours than just this, 
 which seems to have been put providentially 
 into your hands." In 1857 a second collec- 
 tion of Mr. McCarthy's poems was published, 
 bearing the title, "Under-Glimpses and 
 other Poems," and in the same year he also 
 published the "Bell-Founder and other 
 Poems." A work entitled "Shelley's Early 
 Lite," wliichreceivedmuch critical attention, 
 and showed careful research and study, 
 appeared in 1873. His later poetical work 
 consisted chiefly of noble centenary odes in 
 honor of O'Connell (1875) and Moore (1879.) 
 Either of his longer poems— " Ferdiah," 
 " The Voya,ge of St. Brendan," " The Bell 
 Founder," and tlie " Foray of Con O'Don- 
 nell" — contains sufficient merit to entitle 
 him to a place of honor among poets. 
 Nature, patriotism and the affections in- 
 spired his shorter poems in almost equal 
 degrees. Tlie "Bridal of the Year" and the 
 "Progress of the Rose " are as fine examples 
 of the poetry of flowers as English verse 
 contains. Mr. McCarthy was educated for 
 the law, but literature proved his choice, 
 and he followed it over forty years. Nearly 
 all his life was passed in the place of his 
 birth, Dublin, where he died April 7, 1882. 
 A volume containing all his poems, and 
 edited by his son, John McCarthy, was 
 published in Dublin in 1884 Alluding to 
 tlie gentleness of the poet's character, his 
 son says : — "His nature was most sensitive, 
 but though it was his lot to suffer many 
 sorrows, I never heard a complaint or an 
 unkind word from his lips." 
 
 McCarthy, Justin H. 
 
 Although still in the early years of man- 
 hood, Justin Huntly McCarthy, son of the 
 historian and novelist, Justin McCarthy, 
 has already made a creditable literary 
 name. He was educated chiefly by liis 
 father, which accounts in some degree foi- 
 the form of his literaiy tastes ; and like liis 
 father, he is imbued with strong Irisli 
 national sentiments. At the present time 
 both father and son are members of Par- 
 liament, sitting with the Home Rule party. 
 Mr. McCarthy's publications thus far are 
 "Serapion and other Poems," "Four Years 
 under Gladstone," and several interesting 
 studies of Irish history. He is also the au- 
 thor of a play, "Tlie Candidate," which 
 gained a marked success in London. Pos- 
 sessing both talent and industrj", he is in a 
 fair waj' to make a reputation as brilliant 
 as that of his father. 
 
 McClure, William J. (Rev.). 
 
 The Rev. William James McClure is of Irish 
 parentage, and was born in Dobb's Ferry, 
 on the Hudson, New York, in 1843. Before 
 enterin.g the priesthood he passed a few 
 years in commercial pursuits in New York. 
 His preparation for a clerical life was made 
 in Canada, and his ordination took place 
 there in 1877. His first appointment after 
 taking orders was in St. Stephen's Church, 
 New York, and at the present time he has a 
 pastoral charge at RhineclifT on the Hud- 
 son. He published a small volume of poems 
 before his studies for the priesthood began. 
 
 McDermott, Hu&h Farrar. 
 
 Hugh Farrar McDermott was born at New- 
 townbutlei', County Fermanagh, Ireland, 
 August 16, 1833. Being intended for the 
 law, he received a good general education, 
 subsequently improved by classical studies. 
 He arrived at Boston, Mass., in 1849, but 
 instead of turning toward tlie bar for em- 
 ployment, he sought it in journalism, 
 which was more congenial and in which 
 he has since been steadily engaged. In 
 addition to having done a great deal of 
 newspaper work, Mr. McDermott has writ- 
 ten a number of poems, which have been 
 well received. Several of these have been 
 collected in a volume entitled " The Blind 
 
758 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 Canarj'," which has reached a second edi- 
 tion. He hivs been connected with various ] 
 Now Yorlc newspapers, and has contrlhuted 
 extensively to tlie lit^'-ary press. At the [ 
 present time he is tlie editor of the "Jersey , 
 City Herald." The poems here presented i 
 under his name show nuich tenderness of 
 thoiifrlit and a gentle felicity of expi-ession. j 
 
 MtfJEK. Thomas DArcy. 
 
 Carlingfoiil, in the county of Louth, Ire- 
 land, was the native place of Thomas 
 D'Arcy McGee, a man of the most vigorous 
 and versatile intellectual force. He was 
 born April 13, 1825. and in 1813. having 
 then acquired an excellent education, he 
 emi.yrrated to the United States. At the 
 age of nineteen he was engaged editorial- 
 ly on the Boston " Pilot," where his marked 
 abihties found congenial exercise. Re- 
 turning to Ireland a few yeai-s later, he 
 became one of tlie most valued of the many 
 brilliant contributoi-s to the columns of the 
 " Nation," and took an active jiart in the 
 impetuous Yoimg Ireland niovement. On 
 the failure of that movement he again 
 sought American shores, and in October, 
 18-18. he arrived in Philadelphia. Proceed- 
 in.i;- at once to New York he established 
 the same month the " New York Nation," 
 but a controverey with Archbishop Hughes 
 proved serious to the fortunes of the pa]>er, 
 and in 1850, Mr. McGee removed to Boston 
 and began the publication of the "Ameri- 
 can Celt." This w;is afterward tfansferred 
 to BufTalo. and thence to New York, but, 
 although popular for a while, it did not 
 prosper as the editor had expected. Dis 
 posing of his interest in it in 185 T, he re- 
 moved to Montreal and established the 
 "New Era." He then entered into Cami- 
 dian politics, and in the course of a few- 
 years he becanie a popular and influential 
 leader among his countrymen. In 18C5 he 
 again visited Ii-eland, and later he went to 
 Paris as Commissioner from the Canadian 
 Government to the Fi'ench Industrial Expo- 
 sition. He had alreiuly held the office of 
 Minister of Agricultm-e, and when the Do- 
 minion of Canada was organized he was 
 elected a member of the new Parliament. 
 Ill Ottawa, on the 7lh of April, 1868, he 
 \v:is killed by an as.s:issin, whose motive is 
 bi'lievcd to have been politiciil. Mr. Mc- 1 
 
 Gee had incurred much enmity by strongly 
 condemning the Fenians. His poems, 
 which fill a volume of 600 pages, display a 
 lofty and rich imagination, and the most 
 ardent devotion to his native countrj'. 
 Among other works produced by him, all 
 strong, fresh and scholarly, ai-e a " Catli- 
 olic History of North America," '• Irish Set- 
 tles in America," "O'Connell and his 
 Friends," "'The Irish Writei's of the Seven- 
 teenth Centun-," the " Life of Bishop Ma- 
 ginn," " Attempts to Establish the Protes- 
 tant Reformation in Ireland." :mil •• A Vny- 
 ularHistorv of Ii-eland." 
 
 McIlwaixe. William (Rkv.). 
 
 A valuable collection of devotional poetr>-, 
 entitled " Lyra Hibernica Sacni." and bear- 
 ing the name of the Rev. William Mcll- 
 waine, D. D., Incumbent of St. Geoi-ge's 
 Chui-ch, Belfast, and Canon of St. Patrick's, 
 Dublin, as editor, was published in Belfast 
 in 18T9. In collecting the poems, hymns, 
 etc.. contained in this volume. Dr. Mcll- 
 waine iierfornied an important service. The 
 book is the onlj' one of its special kind extant , 
 and the editor says in his preface that his 
 object in compiling it was a national one. 
 Taking tlie "Lyra Anghcana" and the 
 "Lyra Germanica" as models, he undertook 
 to make jin Irish collection of like character 
 that would bear favorable comparison with 
 these. The purpose was a worthy one, and 
 Dr. Mcll waine accomplished it in acreditable 
 manner. While most of the writer's repre- 
 sented in his book are of various Protestant 
 denominations. Catholic authoi-s also appear 
 in it. and an effort evidently was made to 
 avoid imparting to it a sectarian spirit. 
 Many of the writere ai-o unknown in other 
 litei-arj- fields, but all have done well in this 
 one. and the editor himself may be named 
 among those who have done best. 
 
 McMiLLiN, Mary A. 
 
 This lady, who wrote over the name of 
 " Una," and published a vohuueof poems in 
 Cincinnati in 1863, wiis born in one of the 
 Northern counties of Ii-eland, but nearlj- all 
 her life was passed in America. She was 
 for some yeai-s a resident in St. Martin's 
 Convent, Brown County, Ohio, but subse 
 quently she became the wife of Mr. Angus- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 ■59 
 
 tine Ford and cliangeil hec rpsidence to 
 Brooklyn, N. Y., where slie died a few 
 years ago. A lady of literai-y note who 
 knew lier well describes her as " a true 
 poetess and admirable 
 
 NORTOJf, Oarolixe E. 
 
 A sad story is that of Caroline Elizabeth 
 Norton, one of the three gifted grand-daugh- 
 ters of Richard Brinsley Slieridan. She was 
 born in England in 1808, but a considerable 
 jiart of lier life was passed in Ireland. At 
 the age of twenty-two she became the wife 
 ui the Hon. George Chappel Norton, a man 
 of mean character and disagreeable habits, 
 wlio caused her many sorrows and much 
 mortification. Being without means of 
 support, he importuned her to procure him 
 puiployment from Lord Melbourne, upon 
 whom she had some strong family claims. 
 The employment was obtained, and several 
 years later, the ungrateful husband brouglit 
 an action for divorce, accompanied by a 
 claim against Lord Melbourne lor £10,000 
 damages. The jury, however, found a ver- 
 dict against him without leaving their box. 
 Before the be.ginning of the Melbourne 
 trouble, Mrs. Norton contributed largely to 
 her husband's suppoi-t, wholly from her lit- 
 erary earnings. He died in 1869, and in the 
 spring of 1877, a few months before her own 
 death, and when it was known that the end 
 of her own life was near, Mrs. Norton was 
 married to Sir AVilliam Stirling' Maxwell, 
 whom she had known for many years. This 
 marriage attracted much attention, on ac- 
 count of her advanced age, and the certainty 
 that she had but a short time to live. Mrs. 
 Norton's first book, the '• Sorrows of Rosa- 
 lie." was published in 1839. In the follow- 
 ing year she published a poetical version of 
 the legend of the Wandering Jew, under 
 the title of "The Undying One,"" which re- 
 ceived much critical notice. In 1836 ap- 
 peared "A Voice from the Factories,'" 
 and in 1840 her most ambitious poem " The 
 Dream," in which much of her own unhappy 
 experience was narrated, was published. 
 Two other long poems from her jjen are "The 
 Child of the Island,"" and " Tlie Lady of La 
 Garaye,'" both marked by line fancy and 
 artistic finish. She wrote besides "The 
 Jlartyr," a tra,gedy ; three novels, "Stuart 
 
 of Dunleath,' " Lost and Saved," and " Old 
 Sir Douglas,"' and a number of sketches and 
 
 Ogle, George. 
 
 Several sentimental songs, of a kind now 
 out of vogue, were written by the Hon. 
 George Ogle, a native of We.\ford, who 
 represented that county, and subsequently 
 the City of Dublin, in the Irish Parliament. 
 He was born in 1739 and died in 1814. The 
 mostpopularof his songs, " Molly Asthore," 
 is believed to have been addressed to Miss 
 Jloore, whom he afterwards irarried. 
 
 Ork, James. 
 
 The only poem bj- James Orr that gained 
 popularity, although he wrote many, is 
 " The Irishman."' Orr was born near Car- 
 rickfergus, in 1770. He became one of the 
 United Irishmen and took part in the insvu-- 
 rection of '98. For this he was imprisoned, 
 but released after some time, on condition 
 tliat he should leave the country. He emi- 
 grated to America, but returned to Ireland 
 a few j'ears later, and died there in 1816. 
 
 O'Brien, Attie. 
 
 Born near Ennis, County Clare, June 24, 
 1840 ; died April 5, 1883. It was the mis- 
 fortune of Attie O'Brien (or Frances Mar- 
 cella O'Brien, her real and full name, al- 
 though she preferred the other and used it 
 in all her literai-y work)to be an invalid the 
 greater part of her days. She contributed 
 to the Dublin "Nation," the "Irish Monthly"' 
 and also some of the English periodicals. 
 Her poems show deep feeling, and are 
 marked by spiritual devotion and resigna- 
 tion. Had her health not been so poor, the 
 productions of her pen woidd probably have 
 been more varied and vigorous. 
 
 O'Brien, Fitz-James. 
 
 Ireland has produced few more versatile 
 men of letters than Fitz-Janies O'Brien, 
 who w^as born in the county of Limerick, 
 about 1828. His family being in good cir- 
 cumstances, he was educated at Dublin 
 University, where he gained a full share of 
 honors. Soon after leaving college he went 
 to London, where he remained a few years, 
 
roo 
 
 hjouKaj'HIcal ao tks. 
 
 engaged in such literary work as he could 
 find to do. In ia")2 he arrived in New Yorli. 
 with introductory lettoi-s. and hi a short 
 time lie became favonibly known as a con- 
 Iriliutor to litei-ary paiicrs and the magu- 
 ZMies, although at the beg'inning he had to 
 coiitonil with many difficulties, as is the 
 case with all who work with the pen. He 
 wrote tales and poems with etpial felicity, 
 sonic of the former being characterized by 
 an ingenuity and originality almost enti- 
 tling them to rank with the weiid and cu- 
 rious inventions of Edgar A. Poe. The 
 quality of his poems may be judged by the 
 examples in this volume. In 1861, soon af- 
 ter the outbreak of the Civil War, he joined 
 the Seventh Regiment, New York National 
 Guard, and went into service with it at 
 Wa'slihigton. He subsequently received an 
 appointment on the statT of General Lan- 
 dei-, commanding in Virginia, and in a skir- 
 mish on the 26th of February, 1862, he re- 
 ceived a wound from which he died at Cum- 
 berland, Va., on the 6tli of April, in his 
 thirty-fouith year. His bodj- was brought 
 to New York and buried in Greenwood 
 Cemetery. His friend. William Winter, 
 who collected and published a volume of 
 his works some yeare after his death, .says 
 of him : — " There was such a bi-eezy audac- 
 ity in his genius that, thinking of him after 
 all these yeai-s, I feel a thrillof barbaric joy, 
 as if youth itself were come back. He was 
 like a giant oak, responsive to the midnight 
 gale, and exulting in its rage. He was like 
 the ocean swept by the tempest, that an- 
 swere with clarion tumidt and savage de- 
 light He did not approach 
 
 literature with timid deprecation, but he 
 fronted his work royally, and he performed 
 it. He spoke his mind, and. he neither val- 
 ued life nor feared death." It w;us at one 
 time said that the title of Baron of Inchi- 
 quin belonged to O'Brien, but that proved to 
 be a jest started among his jocose literary 
 friends, and enjoyed by him in the spirit in 
 which it originated. 
 
 a few months later he proceeded to Cat i 
 fornia, where he has since resided, cliiefl\ 
 in San Francisco. He is engaged in join 
 nalism and general literary work, and li' 
 has also [lublished a volume of interesting 
 poems. His father. Charles O'Connell. w;. 
 a relative and intimate friend of the faniou 
 Liberator. 
 
 O'COX.NOR, JOSKPII. 
 
 A graceful delicacy, apparent alike in tli. 
 sentiment and the form of his vei-se, niarK- 
 the poems of Joseph O'Connor. Mr. O'Coi i 
 nor was born in Montgomery county, Ni-\^ 
 York. December 17, 1841, of parents wh. 
 had emigrated fi-om Clonmel. Ireland. H. 
 was prepared foi' college at the Rocliest> i 
 (N.Y.) high school, and he went ■ thence t- 
 the Rochester Univcmty, where he gradu- 
 ated in 1863. It was intended that ho 
 should follow the law, but after being duly 
 prepared for that pi-ofession and admitted 
 to the bai\ he turned to journalism instead, 
 and at an age when many journalists are 
 still in the lower ranks, he was entriLsted 
 with editorial responsibilities. He has been 
 editor of the Rochester "Democrat," tli' 
 Indiana]X)lis "Sentinel" and the Buffal i 
 " Courier," and he was on the staff of tli.' 
 New York " World " in its best literar,\ 
 daj's. At the present time he is the editm 
 of the Rochester " Post-Expres.s." Edito- 
 rial duties have necessarily interfered with 
 the exercise of his purely literary tjiste;-. 
 but the few poems under his name in thi~ 
 volume show a degree of artistic execution 
 which indicates that poetry ha-s been a loser 
 by the author's absorption in jimrnalisni. 
 
 O'COXNKLL, DAXIEL. 
 
 Among literaiy workei-s on the Pacific 
 coast is Daniel O'Connell, a native of Lis- 
 canor. County Clare ; born in 1848. After 
 extensive travel in Europe and Asia, Mr. 
 O'Connell arrived in New York in 1867, and 
 
 O'Connor, Michaku 
 
 The poems of Michael O'Connor, brother of 
 the preceding, would doubtless be more 
 numerous had his life been le.ss brief. He 
 was born at East Chester, Westchester 
 county, N.Y., June 18, 1837, and he died in 
 Virginia, December 38, 1862, a few months 
 after entering the military service as a 
 sergeant in the 140lh regiment of New 
 York Vojunteei's. He was ti-ained to ;i 
 trade, but his inclinations tended strangle 
 toward literature, and in his leisure hour- 
 he wrote several poems which showed 
 much promise. An appreciative study 
 
 IJ 
 
BWGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 his literary work was i)iiblislio(l some years 
 since by Mr. Rossiter Johnson. His poem, 
 " My Beau," was widely copied in the war- 
 time, and considered one of the best pieces 
 tlicn written. 
 
 O'DoNXKLL, John Francis. 
 
 There is reason to regret that no collection 
 ot the poems of John Francis 0"Donnell 
 has been made. They are scattered 
 through various publications, in Ireland, 
 England and America, and as many 
 wore publislied without the author's 
 name, tlie identification of all his work 
 in tiiis line would be difficult. He began 
 writing at the age of fourteen years, in 
 his native town — Kilkenny, wliere he was 
 born in 1837 — and his pen continued actively 
 employed, chiefly in London, till his deatli, 
 which occurred in May, 1874. He wrote in 
 tlie "Nation," the " Irish People," the " Tip- 
 perary Examiner," the "Dublin Review," 
 " Chambers' Journal," and tlie London 
 "Tablet," of which he was for a wliile the 
 editor ; and also in the Boston "Pilot" and 
 some other American publications. He 
 used various ncmis deplume, but the one best 
 known was " Caviarre." Of the merit of 
 his poems there can be no question. " Lim- 
 erick Town " and ' ' Ireland's Dead in Rome " 
 are excellent examples of different kinds of 
 work. His deatli took place in London 
 and he is buried at Kensal green. 
 
 O'Hagan, Joh.x. 
 
 In liis early years John O'Hagan. better 
 known in recent times as Justice O'Hagan, 
 was an entliusiastic nationalist. He contrib- 
 uted a number of spirited poems to the " Na- 
 tion," mostly under tlie name of " Sliab Cui- 
 linn." His "Dear Land" and "Ourselves 
 Alone" were among the most popular lyrics 
 ot tiie 'Forty-eight period. He was born in 
 Newry, County Down, in 1822, his fatlier be- 
 ing a leading merchant ot that place. The 
 chief part of liis life, however, has been 
 passed in Dublin. As legal head of the Irish 
 Land Commission, he has become widely 
 known. He is an M. A. of Trinity College, 
 and "Judge of the Supreme Court of Judi- 
 cature in Ireland." A translation of the 
 " Song of RolantI" is perhaps his most finish- 
 ed literai-y performance. 
 
 O'Hara, Thkodork. 
 
 America's foremost elegiac poet, Col. Theo- 
 odore O'Hara, was born at Danville, Ken- 
 tucky, February 11, 1830. His father, Kf an 
 O'Hara, was an Irish political exile, and a 
 man of varied learning, and his mother, 
 Helen Hardie, was an accomplished woman, 
 of English descent. His education was liii- 
 islied at St. Joseph's Academy, Bardstown, 
 Ky., where he won the first honors of the 
 classical course. After an honorable con- 
 nection with the press in Louisville, he 
 entered the military service, with the rank 
 of captain, in 1846, on tiie breaking out ot 
 the war witli Mexico, and during its prog- 
 ress lie gained special distinction by gal- 
 lant conduct. He was subsequently with 
 Lopsz in Cuba and later with Walker in 
 Nicaragua. Heatterward filled editorial po- 
 sitions on the Moliile (Ala.) "Register" and 
 the Frankfort (Ky.) "Yeoman." At the be- 
 ginning' of the struggle between the States 
 he espoused the Soutliern cause, and in 
 the course of the conflict he gained addition- 
 al military distinction on tlio staflf of Gen. 
 John C. Breckenridge, and also on that of 
 Gen. Albert Sydney Johnston, who fell in 
 his arms on receiving his death-wound at 
 the battle of Sliiloh. After the war he en- 
 gaged in business in Columbus, Ga., and 
 later he retired to a i>lantation in Ala- 
 bama, where he died June 6, 1867. The 
 poem bj' which he is best known, as beau- 
 tiful an elegiac poem as was ever written, 
 and which has become standard under the 
 title of "The Bivouac ot the Dead," al- 
 though it was originally named "Ken- 
 tucky's Dead," was read by him at the ded- 
 ication of a monument to the Kentucky 
 soldiers who fell in Mexico, at Frankfort, in 
 1847. In 1873 the Legislature of Kentucky 
 provided for the removal of his remains to 
 the State Cemetery at Frankfort. Colonel 
 O'Hara wrote many poems besides the two 
 in this volume, but they have not been 
 collected, and all efforts to obtain them 
 have proved unavaihng. A number of them 
 were gathered up after his death, with the 
 intention of publishing them in book form 
 but in some way they became mislaid and 
 lust, and no trace of tlieiu can now be found. 
 
 O'Rkilly, Johx Boyle. 
 
 No other Irisli-American poet has gamed so 
 liigh a place as John Boyle O'Reilly, journal- 
 
r62 
 
 /.7( H.K.irHlL. //. .\ ( U I:. 
 
 ist ami novelist, as. well as iiuthor of many 
 poems of miicli |)ower and striking origi- 
 nality. Mr. O'Reilly was born at Dowlli 
 Ciuslle, in the county of M.^utli. June 28, 
 1844 IIo was well grouiid.Ml in jinutical 
 education by liis father, William David 
 O'Reilly, a successful teacher and accom- 
 plished scholar. While yet a youth his mind 
 turned toward literature and tlio technical 
 work of journalism. He learned type-setting 
 in the office of a Drogheda newspaper, the 
 "Ai-gus." and going thence to England 
 he found employment as a stenographer. 
 Returnmg to Ireland when the Fenian 
 movement became active— after the c'lose of 
 the Ameiican war — he enlistcMl in a cavalrj* 
 regiment, the Tenth Hussars, for the pur- 
 pose of learning the trade of a soldier. In- 
 evitable discovery of his national proclivities 
 soon followed ; he was arrested on a charge 
 of high treason, and at the age of twenty- 
 one he had the honor of being sentenced to 
 twenty yeaiV imprisonment for serving his 
 native country. In November, 1SC7, he 
 was placed on board a convict ship, with 
 sixty-two other |K>litical victims, and sent 
 to West Australia, where he arrived in 
 January, 1868. His escape from Australia 
 about a year later was an adventurous ej)!- 
 sode. After passing through many dan- 
 gei-sand hardships whileawuitingthe ac^tual 
 means of escape, he was finally taken on 
 board an American ship, the " Gazelle," of 
 New Bedford, whose captain, David R. Gif- 
 ford, aided him then and thereafter with 
 hearty good will. The sidisequent cruise 
 of the "Gazelle " gave Mr. O'Reilly six 
 months' experience of a whaler's life, and 
 that experience, with more that followed, 
 furnished liiui with themes and tcchuicnl 
 si'a-knowledge for some of his most elfee- 
 tive poems, notably •' The Amber Whale'" 
 and -The Last o't the Narwhale." He 
 linally landed at Philadelphia in November, 
 1809. made a bricjf slay in that place, and 
 then proceeded to New York, whence, in 
 the following year he went to Boston and 
 obtained employment on the "Pilot," of 
 which in a short time he became the editor. 
 In conjunction with Archbishop Williams 
 he pui-cha-sed the "Pilot" in 1870, and he 
 has since conduclcHl it with civdit to liini- 
 .self and usefulness to his lountrymeii. The 
 current of Mr. O'Reilly's poetical thought 
 is broad and strong. His Irish poems 
 
 breathe a tme Irish spirit, ardent, patri- 
 otic, pathetic, yet in none is there the 
 1 slightest echo of any other poet. All his 
 work in this direction is distinctively his 
 I own. His Australian |>iH>ma, "The King 
 I of the Vasse," " The Dukite Snake," and 
 olliei-s, depict what his own eyes have seen, 
 ivs well its show the imaginative fore*, in 
 the same manner iis the sea-poems already 
 cited; while his American |)oenis reveal the 
 warmest sympathy with the life, ideas, 
 work, pride and purpose of the people 
 among whom he has made his home. His 
 first Vfdunie, "Songs of the Southern Sea-s," 
 was published in 1873. In 1878, he iitib- 
 lishecl "Songs, Legends and Ifcdlads," and 
 in 1881 a third volume of poems, "The 
 Statues in the Block." Between the sec- 
 ond and third came the novel of " Moon- 
 dyne," containing much descriptive infor- 
 mation about Aiisti-.ilia, and presenting 
 striking pictures of colonial life. His lat- 
 est book of poems "In Bohemia," appeared 
 in 1880. 
 
 OR VAX, FuAxcis. 
 
 Francis O'Ryan was born near Cork city, 
 a.id has been a resident of New York about 
 thirty yeai-s. His occupation is that of a 
 teacher, and he has been professionally 
 connected with such educational institutions 
 lus Seton Hall College, New Jeisey, and the 
 College of St. Francis Xavier, New Yoik. 
 For sevei-.il yeai-s past he has been engaged 
 as a teacher of di-awing in the New York 
 public schools. His literary work is varied, 
 and includes poems, short stories and |>lay.s. 
 He has also made a translation of Juve- 
 nal's satires, and written a metrical ro- 
 mance founded oil one of the earlier inva- 
 sions of Poland. 
 
 D'RvA.v, Jll.lA M. 
 
 Miss Julia M. O'Ryan is a native of Cork 
 city. All her litei-aiy work has been done 
 in Ireland. She has contributed some ex- 
 cellent poems to the "Catholic World." of 
 New York, and also to the " Irish Monthly." 
 of Dublin, and her pen has likewise graced 
 some of the English magazines. Her 
 themes are well selected, and thec|uality of 
 her vei-se reveals talent that is both vigor- 
 ous and vei-saliie. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 76,^ 
 
 O'Shaughnessy. Arthur. 
 
 An exquisite mingling of patlios and melody 
 is the most obvious quality of the poems of 
 Arthiu- O'Shauglinessy, whose brief life 
 was rich in promise and far from deficient 
 in results. Of their especial kind thei'e are 
 no more beautiful poems extant than his 
 " Fountain of Tears," " Supreme Siinmier" 
 and "Song of a Fellow Worker." Arthur 
 O'Sliaughnessy was born in England, in 
 1846. On his father's side, as his name 
 plainly shows, he was oflrisli extraction. 
 In that order he belonged to the Galway 
 branch of the O'Sliaughnessy family, which 
 has many divisions. His mother, a woman 
 of refined character, wiis of English birtli 
 and descent. He began wi-iting shortly 
 after tlie introduction of the Rosetti style 
 of verse-making, and his own style was in- 
 fluenced by it, though it cannot be said 
 that lie was in any true sense an imitator. 
 His first volume, "An Epic of Women, and 
 Othei' Poems," drew attention to him as a 
 wi-iter from whom some fresh and good 
 work might be expected. From that time 
 until his death, which occurred in January, 
 1881, his name was constantly before the 
 public in England, and always welcomed. 
 A volume that appeared in 1874, under the 
 title of " Music and Moonlight,"' contained 
 some of his more mature and notable pieces, 
 and its roception was all that he could de- 
 sire. He was a frequent contributor to the 
 higher class of periodicals, in France as 
 well as in England, and manj' French writ- 
 ers, including Victor Hugo, wei'e counted 
 among his friends. In 18T3, he married a 
 sister of the path.elic blind poet, Philip 
 Bourke Marston. Her deatli in 1879 so 
 darkened his life tliat he afterward saw 
 nothing except with eyes of sadness. His 
 own death two j-ears later drew from Mars- 
 ton a tender elegiac poem from which we 
 quote : 
 
 " Fii-st come of us, to leave the first thou wert, - 
 To fall from out the ranks of us who saiiK. 
 How clear along the ranks thy full note rang 
 With individual sweetness, lyric art : 
 Thou, who hadst felt John's spiritual stress, 
 What time he tarried in the wilderness." 
 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 The extract from one of the Ossian poems 
 is given merely as a specimen. No change 
 whatever is made in it except to substitute 
 
 lines for paragraplis, thus giving it the form 
 of ver.se. It is quite needless Iiere even to 
 touch upon the vexed question of the gen- 
 uineness of the poems attributed to Ossian, 
 or that other question, whether he belonged 
 to Scotland or Ireland. He is supposed to 
 have lived in the third Century, but it was 
 not till the latter part of the I'ighteentli 
 that the remarkable productions published 
 as his were made known to the modern 
 world b3' James MacPhei-son, a Scotchman, 
 who declared at the time of their publica- 
 tion, and maintained in subsequent contro- 
 versy, that he had found the originals in 
 Gaelic, partly in oral form and jiartly in 
 manuscript, among the peasantry of the 
 His'hlands. 
 
 Parxell, Faxxy 
 
 The name of Fanny Parnell deserves a high 
 and lasting place among the most beloved 
 of Ireland's gifted daughters. Her sweet- 
 ness of character, her ardent i)atriotism and 
 her impassioned poetry, full of deep pathos 
 and throbbing with lofty aspirations, won 
 for her the most affectionate esteem, and 
 should make her memory a treasure in 
 every Irish heart. A nobler nature than 
 that of Fanny Parnell has rarely been 
 known even among the most famous of 
 women. Only those who had opportuni- 
 ties to observe it by personal acquaintance 
 with her could know its true value. This 
 privilege the Editor of this book enjoyed 
 during the period of her literary activity, 
 and his chief regret in writing of her now 
 is that he cannot put into words a proper 
 measure of her worth, both as a woman 
 and a poet. That she was a true poet, born 
 to sing, and endowed with the best attri- 
 butes of the children of song, it is needless 
 to say. The proof of her gifts was her suc- 
 cess in touching and stirring the hearts 
 of the people. The great pity is that a life 
 so full of promise was so brief. She died 
 while the flower of her genius was not yet 
 fully opened — died too, in the spi-ing-time 
 lather than the summer of her womanhood. 
 Her place in the company of poets i.5 beside 
 that other rare singer of inspiring national 
 songs. Lady Wilde. Some of her poems i-e- 
 call the noblest of " Speranza's " soul-stir- 
 ring stanzas, written almoft a generation 
 before. Indeed Fannv Parnell seemed to 
 
764 
 
 BIOGKAPHICAL NOTEi>. 
 
 be tlie onlainpd successor of Lmly Wilde ] 
 ill Saving' ineloilioiis voice to Ww national 
 ]iassions anil aspirations of the Irish fM'o- ■ 
 |ili'. But while the spirited poems of Lady , 
 Willie were written in Ireland, those of I 
 Sliss Parnell were inspired and produced in 
 America. Although born and educated in 
 Ireland, those of her yeai-s which may be 
 i-:illed mature wei-e passed at the American 
 liome of her family — the old i-esidence of 
 her grandfather Commodore Stewart, at 
 Bordeutown, N. J., or in New York Any 
 further reference to so famous a family 
 in this place is quite unnecessary. The 
 name of Parnell is certainlj' one that will 
 ni'ver sink to an obscm-e place in Irish his- 
 tory. It wiis conspicuous on the i)age of 
 patriotism in the dark days of the Union, 
 and in these later yeai-s it has challenged 
 and held the attention of the world. Miss 
 Parnell was hoi-n at beautiful Avondale, 
 County AVii-klow, and wius about eig-ht 
 ycai-s younger than her distinguished bro- 
 ther. "Charles Stewart Parnell. At the 
 time of her death, which occurred at Bor- 
 deutown, July 20, 1882, her age was about 
 twenly-seven yeai-s. Her funeral, which 
 called forth extraordinary public demon- 
 strations of sorrow, took place, it may be 
 said, ill three great cities— New York, Phil- 
 adelphia and Boston— and her remains were 
 placed in the tomb of the Tudor family in 
 the beautiful Mount Auburn Cemetery 
 near Cambridge, Mass. The Tudor family, 
 it may be added, is the American source of 
 her mother's origin, one of its daughlei-s 
 having become the wife of Commodore 
 Stewart, Mi's. Parnell's father. 
 
 Pakxki-1., Thomas (Rev.). 
 
 Among the earlier membei-s of the Parnell 
 family in Ii-eland, was the Rev. Thomas 
 Parnell, .\rchdeacon of Clogher, who be- 
 longed to the period of Swift, Pope and 
 Gay. He was born in Dublin in 1679 and 
 he died in England in 1718. Although his 
 poHtical rank is not of the highest, yet some 
 of his poems have stood the test of time. 
 Goldsmith, who wrote his life, very briefly, 
 sjM'aks warmly of his talents, and describes 
 liim as " a studious and correct observer of 
 antiquity," who "set himself to consider na- 
 ture with the lights it lent him, and found 
 lliat the more aid he borrowed from the one. 
 
 the more delightfully he resembled the 
 
 other He has considered the 
 
 language of poetry as the language of life, 
 and conveys the warmest thoughts in the 
 simplest expre.>vsion." An epitaph written 
 by Goldsmith runs thus : 
 
 "This tomb, insmbpd tOKfOtle Panifll'ii noun-. 
 
 Ma.v spealt our Kratituile, but not lii» ronir. 
 
 What heart but feels his swt-oily mnral lay, 
 
 That leadK to truth through itlfanurp's flowery way ? 
 
 Celestial themes confessed hid liinefiil aiil : 
 
 And heaven, that leut him f^nius. was rvpaid. 
 
 Needless to him the tributes we bestow. 
 
 The transitorj- l)ri-alli of fame Jjeli>w ; 
 
 More lastinK rapture fnnn his works aliall rise. 
 
 While converts thank Iheir poet in the skies." 
 
 Rkad, Charles Axdkr.sox. 
 
 Born near Sligo. 1841 ; died in 1878; author 
 of several novels and tales and some credit- 
 able poems. His most ambitious work was 
 the " Cabinet of Irish Litei-ature," of which 
 thi-ee volumes were completed at the time 
 of his death. His biographer in the fourth 
 and final volume says of him : — " With 
 all the enthusiastic admiration of his coun- 
 try, its iieople, and its literature, which is 
 characteristic of Irishmen, he regaitled this 
 work as one which ought to have appeareil 
 long ago ; he believed that it would prove 
 of the deepest interest to his countrynien, 
 enabling them to realize the long roll of 
 poets, oi-atoi-s, and prose writei's. which was 
 their heritage, and he took it up rever- 
 ently." 
 
 Rii.KY. .Iamks Whitco.mb. 
 
 Ill the case of James Whitcondi Riley, as in 
 that of one or two other writci'S represented 
 in this book, it is to be said that claims of 
 Irish lineage are somewhat slender. But 
 they ai'e not by any means without basis. 
 Mr. Riley's name shows a clear Irish tr.u-e 
 on the paternal side, at all events. He is 
 himself distinctively American, but partly 
 of Irish oiigin. His father, Reuben A. 
 Riley, was a grandson of James Riley, 
 who was brought hither from Ireland as a 
 boy. The poet's mother was a Southern 
 ladj- of French descent, and daughter of a 
 minister, the Rev. John Marine. James 
 Whitcomb Riley was born at Greenfield, 
 Indiana, October 18, 1853. The first of his 
 jjoems to attract attention were those in 
 which the peculiar idiom commonly called 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 765 
 
 the "Hoosiei-" was so liappily rendered. 
 These poems also contain veins of humoi- 
 thoi-oughly characteristic of the people 
 among' whom the author was born and 
 reared. Both in spirit and form they are 
 wholly unlike any other Aniorican dialect 
 poems. Afriendof the author writes: "How- 
 ever composite the elements in the blood 
 of Mr. Riley, the quickness and brilliancy 
 of his wit and the quaintness of his humor, 
 are eminently Irish rh;ir;u(oi'i-lics." A 
 little volume of his dial.', t ] ms was pub- 
 lished in Indianapolis in is.^:; luuU.i- the 
 title of '"Tlie Old Swiinniin Hole, ' and 
 'Leven More Poems." He has also written 
 a number of poems in what may be called 
 conventional English, all of which have 
 been well received and widely reprinted. 
 In addition to his literary talent, Jlr. Rilej- 
 possesses tlie qualities of an effective public 
 reader, a clever musician, and an intuitive 
 artist. 
 
 RocHK, James Jkb'frey. 
 
 James Jeffrey Roche is a native of Queens 
 county, Ireland, and was born in 1847. He 
 reached American shores in boyhood, and 
 was educated at St. Dunstan's College, 
 Prmce Edwards Island. His maiden effort 
 in journalism was made as editor of a col- 
 lege paper, which, like many of its kind, 
 died verj' young. Finding that opportuni- 
 ties for advancement were not very brilliant 
 in Prince Edward's Island, he set out for 
 Boston, where he engaged in commercial 
 pursuits, but still kept his pen in practice 
 by writing sprightly verse and prose for the 
 literary press. He finally gave up com- 
 mei'ce and became editorially attached to 
 the " Pilot," to which he had previously 
 been a frequent contributor. His poems 
 show brightness and vivacity, and a pleasant 
 turn of humor where the theme invites 
 treatment in that vein. 
 
 Russell, Matthew (Rkv.). 
 
 As editor of the ' ' Irish Monthly " magazine 
 published in Dublin, the Rev. Matthew Rus- 
 sell, S. J., has shown hmiself an active and 
 sympathetic friend of Irish literature, to 
 which his own pen has made some valuable 
 contributions, both in verse and prose. He 
 has iKiblished three books of poems, one 
 
 being entitled " Erin : Verses Irish and 
 Catholic," another "Emanuel : Euchai'istic 
 Verses," and the third "Madonna: Verses 
 on Our Lady and the Saints." Father Rus- 
 sell was born in Newry, County Armagh, 
 in 1834. He was prepared for the priest- 
 hood at Maynooth College, but he subse- 
 sequently passed some years in study in 
 England and France. It is but little to say 
 of his talents that tliey are much above the 
 average order, but it may also be said that 
 marked intellectual power has been con- 
 spicuous in his family. The late Very Rev. 
 Charles W. Russell, D.D., President of May- 
 nooth College, was his uncle, and the well- 
 known barrister, the Hon. Charles Russell, 
 is his brother. His poems are chiefly on 
 religious themes, but he has also written 
 many secular pieces, and all show reflec- 
 tion, feeling and a felicitous command of 
 simple and appropriate words. His work 
 as editor of the "Irish Monthly" is among 
 the best of its kind that has been done. 
 
 Ryax, Abra.m J. (Rev.). 
 
 The supremacy of the Rev. Abram J. Ryan 
 as the poet of the " Lost Cause," is beyond 
 question. " The Conquered Banner " alone 
 would place him first among those who 
 gave poetic voice to the spirit of the South 
 in the great contest with the North. The 
 exquisite pathos of this poem coujd come 
 only from a heart imbued with the purest 
 poetic feeling. But it is not the only poem 
 conceived in pi-ofound devotion to the short 
 lived Confederacy which shows the depth 
 of the author's sympathy with the cause 
 that died at Appomattox. The same in- 
 tense but subdued passion pervades " Sen- 
 tinel Songs," "The Sword of Robert Lee," 
 " The Prayer of the South" and "In Mera- 
 oriam," a most tender and almost tearful 
 poem written on the death of his brother, 
 Daniel J. Ryan, who fell on the Confeder- 
 ate side. To say that Father Ryan was be- 
 loved by the people of the South is to ex- 
 press but feebly their deep affection for 
 him. No poet of the North, singing the 
 songs of the great war, touched the hearts 
 of his compatriots as he did. His religious 
 and reflective poems are also remarkable for 
 their power to stir the depths of emotion. 
 It has been said that he is too sad, but no one 
 can fail to see and feel that liis pathos at 
 
766 
 
 BlOGKAl'HICAL NOTES 
 
 least is profouml and tnw. In a brief pref- 
 :ice to 11 collm'tion of his poems published 
 in 1883, lie says he " never dreamed of 
 taking even the lowest plat'c in the mnk of 
 aiitlioi-s." •' His feet know more of the 
 humble steps that lead up to the Altar and 
 its Mysteries than of the steps that lead up 
 to Parnassus and the home of the Muses. 
 And souls were always more to him than 
 songs." Father Ryan was of Irish parent- 
 age and was bom in Vii-ginia in 1840. He 
 was an editor as well as priest and poet, 
 and as a lecturer he was heaixl in the prin- 
 cipal American cities. He was educated at [ 
 St. Vincent's College, Cape Giranleau, Mis- j 
 souri, and after his ordination he was located 
 for some years at Knoxville, Tennessee. 
 Going thence to Mobile, Alabama, his home j 
 was in that city till a short time before his 
 death, which occurred in Louisville, Ky., 
 April 32, 188(i. i 
 
 Montreal, Canada. Mi-s. Sad tier has writ 
 ten a large number of Irish and Catholi' 
 stories, no less than fifty and odd volunx - 
 having pa.«scd from her |)en, and her nani- 
 is one of the foremost in Irish-Ameri<'ai 
 literature. Her poems are not sonumerou- 
 as they probably would be if her time wei. 
 not so much absorbed by other branches <>i 
 literary work. 
 
 Ryax, Carroll. 
 
 Carroll Ryan is of Irish parentage and was 
 born in Toronto, Canada, in 1839. From 
 18.->4 to 1867 he led a mUitary life, partly of 
 the roving kind, but in the latter year he 
 exchanged the sword for the pen, and he 
 has since had an extensive connection, 
 chiefly editorial, with the Canadian press. 
 He has published two books of poems and 
 also an interesting work on the Canadian 
 Northwest. 
 
 Ryves, Elizabeth 
 
 Little is known of the early life of this 
 writer, except that she was born in Ireland, 
 of good family, about the middle of the 
 eighteenth century. Most of her litei-ary 
 work was done in London, where she died in ; 
 1779. She wrote novels, plays and poems, ] 
 but did not gain much success, and her ] 
 death was due to poverty ; — in truth, by de- i 
 pending on her pen, she invited slarvati 
 and it came. 
 
 wife 
 
 Sadlikr, Mary A. 
 
 Mary Anne Madden, who became tli 
 of Mr. James Sadlier, a New York pub- 
 li-sher, and, has since been known as a most 
 prolific and interesting writer, was born in 
 Cootehill, C'ounty Cavan, Ireland, in 1830. 
 She came to America in 1844, was married 
 to Mr. Sadlier in 1846, and is now living in 
 
 Savauk, John". 
 
 John Savage was born in Dublin, December 
 13, 1838. Before completing his twentieth 
 year he had played an active part as a iw- 
 olutionist (in the Forty-eight movemeni j 
 and gained distinction its a contributor ti> 
 the Irish national press. Arriving in New 
 York while still under twenty, he found 
 employment :is a proof-reader in the oITrh 
 of the "Tribune," then an ardent friend of 
 the Irish cause. Aft-.T about a year at that 
 occupation, he began to write for the lead- 
 ing reviews and other publications, and b.\' 
 a combination of energy and liteniry talent 
 he soon made himself favorably known. 
 His first book, "Lays of Fatherland," pub 
 published in 1850, was well received. In 
 1858 he produced a ti-agic play entitled 
 " Sybil," which atti-actetl much attention 
 and gained a lai-ge share of success. From 
 1857 to 18()1 he was engagetl in journalism 
 in Washington, as chief writer on the 
 "States" newspaper. At the beginning of 
 the war with the South he warmly espoused 
 the Union side, and aided it with some 
 spirited patriotic lyrics. In 1803 a collec- 
 tion of his j>oems appeared under the title 
 of "Faith and Fancy," and a more com- 
 plete collection entitled " Poems — Lyrical, 
 Dramatic and Romantic," was published in 
 1870. Among his prose works are ""98 and 
 '48." "Fenian Hei-oes and Martyrs" and 
 "Living Representative Men." Most of 
 the text of the interesting work known as 
 " Picturesque Ireland" was also written by 
 him, and the article on Ireland in the revised 
 edition of the American Cyclo|iedia is like- 
 wise from his pen. In 1879 he i-eceived the 
 distinction of L.L.D. from St. John's Col- 
 lege, Forilham, N. Y. 
 
 SEDULIf.s. 
 
 Concerning this writer, the Rev. Williaa 
 Mcllwaine, translator of the poem 
 
 De 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 767 
 
 Nativitate Domini," says in liis " Lyra Hi- 
 bernica Saci-a :" — " That Ireland may justly 
 claim as her own this illustiious theologian 
 and poet there can be little donbt, the 
 epithet 'Scotus Hibernensis' beina: given 
 to him in the anr-ient manuscripts and 
 earliest printed editions of his works. He 
 flourished in the middle of the fifth cen- 
 tury, and was a voluminous prose writer, 
 as well as an accomplished poet. It may 
 be remarked that this author should be 
 carefully distinguished from another of the 
 same name, with whom our countryman is 
 sometimes confounded." 
 
 Serrano, Mary .1. 
 
 Mrs. Mary J. Serrano, whose maiden name 
 was Mary J. Christie, was born in Castle- 
 bar, County Slayo, Ireland, and has been a 
 resident of New York since 1849. Her lit- 
 erary work has been almost wholly in the 
 domain of verse, for which she possesses a 
 happy aptitude. A strong religious feeling 
 pervades all that she has written. A col- 
 lection of hei' pieces, under the title, " Des- 
 tiny, and other Poems," was published in 
 1883, and received favoi-able notice from the 
 press. Mrs. Serrano is a lady of many 
 social graces, and much esteeiiied for do- 
 mestic virtues. 
 
 Shauly, Charles Dawson. 
 
 This graceful Irish-American writer was 
 born in Dublin, in March, 1811. His educa- 
 tion was finished iu Trinity College, where 
 he took the degree of Bachelor of Arts. In 
 1836 his fathci-, a member of the Irish bar, 
 emigrated with his family to Canada, 
 where Charles held an appointment in the 
 civil service till 1857. He then removed to 
 New York, which offered a wider field for 
 the gratification and exercise of his literary 
 tastes and talents. The circle of writers of 
 whicli he became a member included Fitz- 
 James O'Brien, William Winter, George 
 Arnold and others whose pens were 
 equally graceful in eitiier verse or prose. 
 He was only an occasional writer of poetry, 
 but the poems he did write were quickly 
 recognized as bearing the stamp of more 
 than ordinary merit. He possessed artistic 
 talent of a high order, and it was in art 
 criticism, and the writing- of essays and 
 sketches in which his ai'tistic instinct had 
 
 free play, that his pen was chiefly employed. 
 He also bore editorial responsibilities, hav- 
 ing been successively the editor of "Vanity 
 Fair," "Mrs. Grundy" and "Punchinello," 
 neither of which, however, succeeded in 
 gaining a firm footing. When departing 
 for Florida, in shattered health, and not 
 expecting to recover, he requested his 
 friend. William Winter, to consider himself 
 his literaiy executor, in the event of his 
 death, which occurred in April, 18715. " Ev- 
 erything I have written," he said, " I leave 
 to you, if you will take it, and perhaps it 
 may be of some little use." In an obituary 
 sketch of him in the New York " Tribune," 
 Mr. Winter said : — " Nobility of character, 
 integrity of conduct, fidelity to duty, cheer- 
 ful submission to fate, sweetness of temper- 
 ament and modesty of bearing, are rarer 
 and richer virtues than intellectual bril- 
 liancy, and they were all combined in him. 
 He was a kindly, quiet, thoughtful man, 
 who worked hard, accomplished much, did 
 all the good he could find to do, and never 
 spoke of himself or his labors."' Mr. Shan- 
 ly's best known poems are "Civile Bellum," 
 the "Walker of the Snow," and the " Brier- 
 wood Pipe." 
 
 Shea, Johx Augustus. 
 
 A native of Cork city ; born in 1803 ; died iu 
 New York in 1845. He followed business 
 pursuits in his earlier years, but varied 
 them with literary occupation. Going to 
 London in 1826, he became acquainted with 
 literary men of note, and published a ro- 
 mance entitled "Rudekki," which was well 
 received. In 1837 he arrived in America, 
 and he soon after obtained employment at 
 West Point, on the Hudson, where he re- 
 sumed his literary work. He subsequently 
 became connected with the " Clironicle " in 
 Philadelphia, the "National Intelligencer" 
 and the " Telegraph" in Washington, D.C., 
 and the " Tribune," in New York. He had 
 many literary friends and was recognized as 
 a writer of much merit. Some time after his 
 death his poems were collected and pub- 
 lished by his son, Judge George Shea, of 
 New York, 
 
 Sheridax, Richard Brinsley. 
 
 Very little will suffice here concerning a 
 man so famous as Richard Brinsley Sheri- 
 
768 
 
 RrOGRAPHICAL XOTES. 
 
 liaii, dramatist, orator and statesniiin. He 
 was bom in Dublin in 1851. and lie died in 
 London, July 7, 1816, and was buried in 
 Wc'slniinstor Abbey. His education bcf^iin 
 in Dublin but wa.s finisbed in Engrland, 
 wliitlier his parents removed during his 
 boyhood. At the age of twenty-two yeai'S 
 he married Mi.ss Linley, an aeconipllshed 
 vocalist, on whose account he took part in 
 two duels. Dropping the law, for which he 
 had been ]ii-epared, he applied himself to 
 literary work, and in the secotid year after 
 his mnrria.sjre his fii-st play " The Rivals," 
 was produced. His next effort was a farce 
 called '• St. Patrick's Day." which wa-s fol- 
 lowed by a comic opeiti, the "Duenna." 
 After that eatue " A Trip to Scarborous:h ."' 
 then the brilliant ''School for Samdal," the 
 fini'st comedy in the English language, and 
 linallj' the " Critic." He entered Parlia- 
 ment ill 1780, and two years later he was 
 Under Secretary of Stiite. The most nota- 
 l)le event in his public career was his me- 
 morable siicoch on the impeachment of 
 Warren Hastings. It is chiefl.v by his work 
 a-s a dramatist ttiat his name survives. He 
 was not in any laige sense a poet, and the 
 few pieces of verse written by him were 
 only incidentiil to his plays. 
 
 modern tricks of rhyme. The strongly 
 di-amatic poem. "Maire ni Milloon," is an 
 exc"ellent example of the author's directness 
 and sim|ilicity. Dr. Sigerson hiLs also writ- 
 ten some good original poetns. He is a man 
 of learning and industry, a Fellow of the 
 Royal Univei'sity of Ireland, and Profi-.ssor- 
 in a Catholic Institution in Dublin. Most 
 of his translations have appeared in a vol- 
 ume entitled " The Poetn- of Miinster." 
 
 Shkhiuan, Thomas (Rkv.). 
 
 ,\s an intimate friend of Swift, as wit, cler- 
 gyman and musician in one, and as the 
 gi-andfather of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 
 the Rev. Thoma.s Sheridan deserves a word 
 of lomembraiH^e. He was a man of note in 
 his day, thougli at the present time his name 
 is not often heard or seen. Scott speaks of 
 him as ' highly respectable for learning, 
 and uiK'oiiiiiion talent for the education of 
 .voutli." and adds that he wa.s distinguished 
 for •' a simplicity of charat^ter which ill suit- 
 ed with his worldly interest." Dr. Sheridan 
 wxs born in 1684, and died in 1738. 
 
 SiMMOXS, Baktholomkw. 
 
 A native of Kilworlh, in the county of 
 Cork ; died in 1*50. Shortly after he begun 
 writing he obtained employment in one of 
 the government departments in London, and 
 retained it till his death. Some of his best 
 productions appeared in " Blackwood's," to 
 which he was a fivquent contributor. Al- 
 though not a poet of the national s<'liool. he 
 was highly esteemed in Ireland for the in- 
 trinsic merit of his work. He wrote with 
 power and even a degree of grandeur upon 
 historical themes, and in de.scribing scen- 
 ery, especially in his native county, his pen 
 was graphic and felicitous. In some coUei- 
 tions of poems which contain examples of 
 his work, his nationality is concealed. 
 
 SlOKllSO.N, fiKORGE. 
 
 Some of the best translations from the early 
 Irish poets liave been made by Dr. George 
 Sigerson, a native of Strabane, County Ty- 
 rone, and at present residing in Dublin. 
 They have the special merit of being laith- 
 ful in both form and spirit, and devoid of 
 any attempt to '' improve" the original by 
 
 Sterlixg, John. 
 
 Although not a native of Ireland, John 
 Sterling, a poet ol superior talent, was of 
 Irish parentjige, and therefore deserves a 
 place in this work. His father, Eilwaril 
 Sterling, once editor of the London 
 " Times," was a native of Limerick, and 
 his grandfather was Clerk of the Irish House 
 of Commons. The poet was born in the 
 Island of Bute. Scotland, in 1806. He took 
 ordei's in the English Church in 1834, and 
 wa.s for a short time a curate in Sussex, 
 Eii.gland. His natural bent being towaixl 
 independence of thought, he withdrew from 
 active connection with the Chui-ch, and gavi- 
 his time to liteiiiture and travel. His writ- 
 ing's, and espe<'ially his poems, were re- 
 ceived with great favor in the best critical 
 circles. He dieil at the age of thirty-eight, 
 and he found appreciative biographei-s in 
 both .Vrchdeacon Hare ami Thomas Car- 
 lyle. As a man of lettei's, he piined a place 
 of special honor for his yeai's. 
 
BrOGRAI'HICAL NOTES. 
 
 r69 
 
 Stokes, Whitley. 
 
 In response to an inquiry about Professor 
 Wliitley Stokes, tlie late Sir Samuel Fer- ' 
 guson wrote to the Editor : " Dr. Whitley 
 Stokes is a man quite illustrious in the 
 world of learning. He is one of the leading 
 authorities in Celtic and old Irish philology 
 in all the universities of Europe. He resides 
 in London, having retired from his office of 
 Member of the Legislative Council of India. 
 He is the author of many works in the field 
 of old Irish learning, which are of the ut- 
 most value to this country." To this may be 
 added that Professor Stokes is a son of the I 
 late Dr. William Stokes, an eminent physi- 
 cian of Dublin, and at one time President 
 of the Eoyal Irish Academy, and a grand- 
 son of Whitley Stokes, also of Dublin, who 
 died in 1845, and is noticed in Allibone's Dic- 
 tionarj' of English Literature, as "of Dub- 
 lin University, Barrister-at-law, and Assist- 
 ant Secretary to the Government of India." 
 His poems are chiefly translations, but they 
 are evidently tho work of a skillful hanil. 
 
 Sullivan, Margaret. 
 
 This vigorous writer, who has .strongly im- 
 pressed herself upon Irish-American litera- 
 ture, is a daughter of James Buchanan, a 
 cloth manufacturer in Ulster, who died 
 while she was an infant. Highly educated 
 at the Convent of the Sacred Heart in De- 
 troit, Mich., and also by private tuition, she 
 became assistant principal of a grammar 
 school at the age of seventeen, but resigned 
 the position to accept a place on the edito- 
 rial staff of the Chicago " Times." Writing 
 with remarkable force and intelligence upon 
 the many topics which come before a daily 
 newspaper for discussion, her articles in the 
 "Times" attracted special attention. She 
 also wrote extensively on musical and lit- 
 erary subjects, and became \videly known 
 as a thorough journalist. By this labor and 
 as one of the staff engaged on the supple- 
 mentary volumes of the American edition ot 
 the Encyclopedia Britannica, as a frequent 
 contributor to leading magazines and Cath- 
 olic publications, and as the author of a 
 valuable work entitled " Ireland of To-day," 
 she has made an enduring literary reputa- 
 tion. In 1874 she was married to Alexander 
 Sullivan, a successful member of the Chi- 
 cago Bar, and an active worker in tho Ii-isli 
 national movement in AnuM-ica. 
 
 Sullivan, Timothy D. 
 
 When a poet's songs are taken up by the 
 people, there is evidence at once that they 
 are attuned to the right chord. The lyrics 
 of Timothy Daniel Sullivan are more widely 
 known in Ireland than those of any othei' 
 poet of his time. Tliey are mostly upon na- 
 tional themes, and are written in a simple 
 and melodious style, yet possessing marked 
 literary merit, and from the first they have 
 been quick to reach tho popular heart. Mr. 
 Sullivan has, however, written several po- 
 ems of a more ambitious order, and these 
 have also obtained due recognition. He 
 is a native of Bantry, County Coi-k, and was 
 born in 1827. When the development of his 
 poetical talent began, he was attracted to 
 the " Nation," as so many others had been; 
 and when his brother, Alexander M. Sulli- 
 van, became the "Nations" editor, after 
 the retirement of Charles Gavan Duffy, the 
 poet joined him upon that joui-nal as a mem- 
 ber of the staff. Owing to failing health, 
 A. M. Sullivan was obliged to resign the 
 editorship in 1876, and it was then taken by 
 T. D. Sullivan, by whom it is still lield. 
 Besides being a poet of much merit, he is a 
 strong political writer and a speaker of con- 
 siderable force. In 1880 he was elected to 
 Parliament from Westmeath, and he has 
 taken an active and useful pai-t in tlie de- 
 bates upon Irish questions. He had the 
 honor of being tried as one of the " travere- 
 ers " in the abortive prosecution of Mr. 
 Parnell and his associate " suspects," and 
 one of Ills lyrics, " JIurty Hynes," was in- 
 troduced at llie trial to sliowthe heinousness 
 of his "disloyalty." In- 1885, Mr. Sullivan 
 received the additional honor of beingelected 
 Lord Mayor of Dublin, and the honor was 
 repeated the following year. As poet, jour- 
 nalist, and man ot affairs, he is highly es- 
 teemed by his countrymen. 
 
 Swift, Jonathan. 
 
 Jonathan Swift, the famous Dean, was born 
 in Dublin, November 30, 1657, and his death 
 occurred October 19, 1745. His education 
 was commenced in Kilkenny, continued 
 at Trinity College, Dublin, and finished at 
 Oxford University, England. In 1695 he 
 took orders in the Episcopal Church, and in 
 1 713 he was appointed Dean of St. Patrick's, 
 Dublin. His mind, however, ran much 
 
770 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 more on public than on religious affairs, and | 
 liis celebrity rests almost wholly upon his 
 boUl and original political satires. To him j 
 may be ascribed the inti-oduction of agita- 
 tion as a national force in Ireland. He hated 
 and de.spised the methods of English rule in 
 his native country, and he denounced them 
 with unsparing invective and an aggressive I 
 luuMor that bordered on tlie sardonic. Al- 
 though he wrote trenchant verse almost ;ls 
 readily as the most masterly prose, it can- 1 
 not be said that as a poet he gained a place j 
 of any special note. He was a rhetorical i 
 wai-rior i-ather than a singer of songs. 
 
 Taylou, Uxa Ashwortu. 
 
 The name of Una Ashworth Taylor appears 
 occasionally in the Irish national press. Her 
 poems sliovv warm patriotic feeling and 
 a pleasing ease of expression. The I'act 
 that she writes in an interesting way on 
 themes that have been almost exhausted, 
 in a literary sense, is evidence that she i>os- 
 .sesses good talent. The poem "In Exile" 
 is much better than the average of its kind. 
 
 TiGHK, Mary. 
 
 It was of Mrs. Mary Tighe, daughter of the 
 Rev. W. Blachford, that Moore wrote, 
 '■ If souls could always Uwell above. 
 Thou iieVr hadst left that splieie : 
 Or could we keep the souls we love. 
 We ne'er had lost thee here." 
 
 She was born in Dublin in 1773, and died in 
 1810. Her poems ai'e marked by purity ol 
 sentiment and great delicacy of feeling. 
 The principal one is a long poem entitleii i 
 " Psyclie, or the Legend of Lovg." and is j 
 founded on tlie fable of the loves of Cupid 
 and Psyche. It was regai'ded in its time as 
 a highly meritorious production. Mrs. He- 
 nians" beautiful lines on "The Grave of a 
 Poetess " are a tribute to the memory of 
 this gifted woman. 
 
 TODHUNTKK, JOHX. 
 
 Although tlie name of Dr. John Todhunter 
 is not widely known, he has written some 
 poems of considerable merit. His publica- 
 tions include "Laurellaand Other Poems," 
 '■ Forest Songs," and some interesting dra- 
 matic poems. Dr. Todliunter was born in 
 Dublin in 1839 and educated at Trinity Col- 
 lege, where he took the degree of M.D. He 
 
 pi-acticed medicine in Dublin for some years, 
 but has latterly devoted himself wholly to 
 literature, in which his talents entitle him 
 to a creditable place. 
 
 Trkxch, UuiiAiU) Chkxkvix(MostRkv.). 
 If Iiish birth and Iiish parentage make a man 
 an Irishman, Archbishop Richai-d Chenevix 
 Trench comes very distinctly into that clas- 
 sllication, although he is sometimes credited 
 to England. He was born in Dublin, Sep- 
 tember 9, 1807, his father being Richai-d 
 Trench, and his mother a grand-daughter 
 »)f Dr. Chenevix, once Bishop of AVaterford. 
 It is therefore very clear that Ireland, not 
 England, is entitled to claim him. His edu- 
 cation, however, was i-eceived in England, 
 and before his promotion to the archbisliop- 
 rlc of Dublin, lie had filled ecclesiastical posi- 
 tions tliere, including that of Dean of West- 
 minster, to wliich he succeeded on the re- 
 tirement of his friend, Dr. Wilberforce. Ills 
 appointment as Archbi-shop of Dublin was 
 made in 1864, and after holding that high 
 ollice twenty years, he retired from it in 
 1884, on account of infirmities resulting from 
 advanced age. Dr. Trench was a prolifii' 
 writer in both prose and verse, and the qual- 
 ity of his work is high. He published sev- 
 eral volumes of poems, mostly moral and 
 religious in character, and also a valuable 
 and highly interesting book entitled "The 
 Study of Words," besides various learne<l 
 e.ssays on philological subjects. Half a 
 century ago he Wiis declared by English re- 
 views to be "among the foremost of our 
 young poets," and some of the poems writ- 
 ten by him at that time still find their way 
 into newspaper cornei-s. He died March 
 28, 1886. 
 
 Tyxax, Kathauixe. 
 
 A place of nmch credit among Ireland's 
 younger writers has been gained by Jliss 
 Katharine Tynan, who has been in the lit- 
 erary world only a few yeai-s. Miss Tynan 
 Is a native of Dublin, and was born in 1861. 
 Her name is already well known in Ireland, 
 and lier merit is warmly appreciated. It 
 has also been recognized in England by 
 many pei-sons of literary judgment, includ- 
 ing Cardinal Manning, her first vohiinc 
 published in London, under the title of 
 " Louise de la Valliere and other Poems," 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 771 
 
 having attracted a good sliare ol' aUeiiUon, 
 and been generously commended. From 
 both the Enghsli and Irish press it received 
 a cordial welcome. Miss Tynan writes 
 witli feeling and ardor upon Irish themes, 
 and witli a deep spiritual devotion upon 
 those of a religious character. Slie has 
 contributed extensively to periodicals anil 
 semi-literary papers in Ireland, England 
 and America, and many of her poems have 
 been widely reprinted. Her second book 
 of poems, entitled " Shamrocks," was pub- 
 lished in 1SS6. 
 
 Waller, John Francis. 
 
 When this note is written. Dr. John Waller 
 who was born in Limerick in 1810, is still 
 engaged in literary work. At the age of 
 itwenty-three, after passing through Trinity 
 College, he was admitted to the bar, and in 
 1853 he received tlie degree of L. L. B. and 
 L. L. D. Many of his poems first appeared 
 in the " Dublin University Magazine," of 
 which he was editor for some years after 
 the retirement of Charles Lever. He used 
 for some time the nom de2>luine of " Jona- 
 athan Flake Slingsby," and it was under 
 that name that he became known as the 
 author of various popular songs and lyrics. 
 A collection of his poems, under the title of 
 the "Slingsby Papers," was published in 
 1853, and in 1856 appeared a more ambitious 
 work, the " Dead Bridal." The playful hu- 
 mor of his versatile pen is happily illus- 
 trated in the " Spinning Wheel Song" and 
 " Kitty Neil." He has, however, written a 
 number of serious poems of 
 
 Walsh, Edward. 
 
 The poems of Edward Walsh, even those 
 relating to the affections, show especially 
 an intense national sympathy. Tlieir au- 
 thor was born in Londondeny, in 1809, his 
 parents, liowever, being natives of Cork. 
 On reaching manhood he became a scliool- 
 master, and his active life was spent in 
 that calling, although he was for a while 
 sub-editor of the " Dublin Monitor," a posi- 
 tion obtained for him by Charles Gavan 
 Duffy. He was a good Irish scholar, and 
 when his death occurred (in 1850) he had 
 completed two volumes of translations from 
 the old Irish poets. 
 
 White, Richard Edward. 
 
 Richard E. White was born in Dublin in 
 1843. He came to the United States in 1865, 
 lived a few years in New York, and went 
 thence to San Francisco, where he lias since 
 resided. Although engaged in business, he 
 has been an industrious contributor of botli 
 prose and verse to newspapers and the 
 jjeriodical press. In 1882 he published a 
 small volume of poems entitled " The Cross 
 of Monterey," in which the legends of the 
 early missions of the Pacific Coast are ad- 
 mirably rendered. The leading poems are 
 suffused with the mellow atmosphere of 
 the time to which they relate, and have 
 been commended for their value in preserv- 
 ing interesting traditions which the practi- 
 cal spirit of tlie present day is likely to 
 overlook. 
 
 Whitman, Sarah Helen. 
 
 Althougli Mrs. AVhitman was of American 
 lineage for several generations, the pride 
 she took in her Irish descent, and her deep 
 interest in all things relating to her gene- 
 alogy, seem to be a sufficient reason for 
 her introduction into the company a.ssem- 
 bled in this collection. She was a daughter 
 of the third and last Nicholas Power, of 
 Rhode Island, whose grandfatlier, also 
 Nicholas Power, accompanied Roger Wil- 
 liams in his banishment, and assisted him 
 in establisliing a government based upon 
 the principle of absolute freedom of con- 
 science. The Powers of Rhode Island traced 
 their descent from Nicholas Le Poer (of the 
 old Norman family so conspicuous in Irish 
 
 , annals), whose Castle of Don Isle was de- 
 stroyed by Cromwell. One of Mrs. Whit- 
 
 ] man's poems narrates tlie heroic defence of 
 
 ' ■ Don Isle by a lady of the family. The in- 
 cident is historical and full of chivalric in- 
 terest. Tiie Le Poers were deeply involved 
 in the troubles of 1641, and Cromwell pur- 
 sued tliem with a special and relentless ani- 
 mosity. Mrs. Whitman diligently collected 
 everything relating to the family, and 
 plumed herself not a little, although mod- 
 estly, upon her connection with it. She 
 was born in Providence, R. I., in 1813, and 
 she died in the same place in 1878. She 
 was married at an early age to John Win- 
 slow Whitman, a descendant of Edward 
 
 I Winslow, the first Governor of Plymouth. 
 
7/2 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 Her poetical talents wei-e of an exceptionally 
 flne quality, and she was not loiip in win- 
 ning recog'nition as one of tlie foremost fe- 
 male poets of America. Among lier prose 
 woiks is a life of Edgar Allen Poe, whose 
 genius and frailties she understood, and to 
 whose memory shedid sympathetic justice. | 
 In the composition of some of her poems, es- 
 pecially those of a legendai-y kind, she was 
 aided by her sister, Miss Anna M. Power, ] 
 who also possessed tine literary talents. I 
 
 WiUJE, Ladt. ' 
 
 No more spirited national songs than those ' 
 of " Speianza" have ever been written by a 
 woman. When they began to appear in the 
 "Nation," the author was Miss Jane Fran- 
 cesca Elgee, daughter of an Episcopal rector 
 in Wexfoid. On the paternal side, her fam- 
 ily is of Itahan origin. In 1851, Miss Elgee 
 became the wife of Dr. William R. Wilde, 
 of Dublin, whose eminence as an oculist 
 subsequently gained him the distinction of 
 Knighthood. It was ;is "Speranza" that 
 she was popularlj- known for many years 
 after her literary activity began, but in the ■ 
 social world, where her brilliant gifts have 
 won her nuich esteem, she is Lady Wilde. 
 Her national poetry throughout is a marvel 
 of passionate energy, and has done a full 
 share in sustaining and guiding the fervent 
 spirit of the people. She has, however, 
 written extensively, and quite as strongly, 
 in prose. It was as a prose writer that she 
 lii'st appeared in the "Nation." Speaking 
 of lierin his work, " New Ireland," Mr. A. 
 M. Sullivan says: "In 1848 she was the 
 Madame Uoland of the Irisli Gironde. When 
 the struggle was over, and Gavan Duffy 
 was on trial for high treason, among the ar- 
 ticles read against him was one from the , 
 suppressed number of the ' Nation,' entitled 
 ' Jacta Alea Est.' It was without exam- 
 ple as a i-evolutionary appeal. Exquisitely 
 bi-autiful as a piece of writing, it glowed 
 with liery invective. It was in fact a prose 
 poem, a wild war-song, in which Ireland was 
 called upon that day, in the face of earth 
 and heaven, to invoke the ultima ratio of 
 oppressed nations. The Attorney-General 
 read the article amid breathless silence. At 
 its close there was a murmur of emotion in 
 the densely' crowded court, when suddenly 
 a cry fronj the ladies' gallery startled every- 
 
 one. ' I am the culprit, if crime it be, «a» 
 spoken in a woman's voice. It was the 
 queenly voice of 'Spei-anza.' The article 
 was from her pen." A volume of La<ly 
 Wilde's poems was published in Dublin in 
 1805. She has also published many transla- 
 tions from Continental works, one being a 
 remarkable German novel, entitled " The 
 Fii-st Temptation." Her latest and proba- 
 bly most enduring work is an interesting 
 and valuable collection of "Ancient Le- 
 gends, Mystic Charms, and Sujiei-stitions of 
 Ireland," published in England and the 
 United States in 1887. 
 
 WiLDK, Oscar. 
 
 The poems of Oscar Wilde have received a 
 large share of attention. Although belong- 
 ing in tlie main to the peculiar school cred- 
 ited to Swinburne, they possess distinct 
 merits of their own and show capacity in 
 the author for true poetical work. Few 
 better poonis of its kind have been written 
 than the one entitled " Ave Impei-itrix." 
 But the possession of poetical talent would 
 seem to be the natural gift of the son of 
 " Speranza," although it is not often that 
 the genius of parents reappeare in their 
 children. Oscar Wilde was born in Dublin, 
 and educated there and at Oxford, En; laud. 
 The award tor the prize poem was won by 
 him at Oxford when hegr;iduated. He has 
 written some plays as well as the poems 
 which first brought his name before the 
 public, and as a lecturer he has met with 
 fair success. He has also had the distinc- 
 tion, such as it may be, of being made the 
 central figure in one of the burlesque opera- 
 plays written by Mr. Gilbert and fitted with 
 music by Arthur Sullivan — namely, "Pa- 
 tience." 
 
 Wilde, Richard Hexry. 
 
 In Griswold's " Poets and Poetry of Ameri- 
 ca," Richard Henry Wilde is recorded as of 
 American birth. Tliis, however, is an error, 
 as Wilde was born in Dublin, in 1789. He was 
 brouglit to the United States in childhood 
 by liis parents, who settled in Baltimore. 
 After his father's death, young Wilde was 
 taken to Augusta, Georgia, by his mother, 
 and in that place he prepared himself for 
 the bar, solely by study at home in spare 
 
BIOGKAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 hours. So well did lie stoi-e liis uiiiid willi i 
 legal knowledge that he eventually became 
 Attorney-General of the State. He also 
 entered politics, and was three times elected 
 to Congress. He studied and mastered sev- 
 eral languages, and translated some of th(- 
 French, German and Italian poets. His 
 original poems show much beauty of 
 thought, and artistic skill in versification. 
 After a visit to Europe in 1835, he removed 
 from Georgia to New Orleans, where ho 
 died in 184T. 
 
 Williams, Richard Dai/ion. 
 
 Among the many "Poets of the Nation," 
 none wrote with a truer touch than Richard 
 Dalton Williams. He was born in Dublin, 
 about the j-ear 1822, and he died at Tliibo- 
 deau.K, Louisiana, July 5, 1863. While still 
 at Carlow College, in Tipperaiy, he began 
 his contributions to the "Nation," and ho 
 rapidly won a place in the good company of 
 Davis, Mangan, Duffy, and tlie other bril- 
 liant writers of their time. Some of his un- 
 published poems are dated in 1837 and 1838, 
 showing that he began writing while a boy. 
 He was educated to be a physician, and 
 his humorous poems have all the dash, fun 
 and drollery for which the Irish medical 
 student is not the least distinguished. Go- 
 ing heartily into tbe Young Ireland move- 
 ment, he became one of its most active lit- 
 erary workers, and when John Mitchel was 
 struck down by tlie Government, and his 
 paper suppressed, Williams and Kevin Izod 
 O'Doherty set up another paper of the same 
 kind, which they callsd "The Irish Trib- 
 une." They also were arrested for inciting 
 insurrection. Williams was defended by 
 Samuel Ferguson, who was even then a poet 
 of much distinction, and the Government 
 failed to obtain a conviction. When the 
 Young Ireland movement went down, he 
 obtained a medical diploma in Scotland, 
 practiced awhile in Dublin, chiefly in Ste- 
 vens' Hospital, and in the summer of 1851 he 
 set out for the United States. Going to the 
 South, partly on account of his liealUi, he 
 obtained a position as Professor of Belles 
 Lettres in Siiring- Hill College, at Mobile. In 
 1856 he went to New Orleans, where he mar- 
 ried a Miss Connolly, and he remained there 
 some years, practicing as a physician and 
 also continuing his literai-y work. He sub- 
 
 sequently removed to Baton Rouge, and 
 thence to Thibodeaux, where he was living 
 at the begiiming of the war between the 
 States. Some of his best poems were written 
 during his residence in America. A sliort 
 time after his death, his grave at Thibodeau.x 
 was discovered by the Captain of an Irish 
 Company in a New Hampshire Regiment. 
 Measures were at once taken to place a mon- 
 ument over the spot, and in a few weeks a 
 simple mai-ble shiift marked the resting- 
 place of the poet. The incident was well 
 celebrated by a brother poet, Thom.as Darcy 
 McGee, in the lines, " God Bless the Brave !" 
 The inscription on the monument i-eads : — 
 
 Sacred to the Memoi-.v of 
 
 Richard Dalton Williams, 
 
 The Irish I'atiiot aid Poet, 
 
 Who died July 5, ISO-,'. Aged 40 years. 
 
 This Stone was erected by his countrymen serving in 
 
 Companies C and K, 8th Regt., N. H. Volunteers, 
 
 As a slight testimonial of their esteem 
 
 For his unsullied Patriotism and his exalted Devotion 
 
 To the Cause of Irish Freedom. 
 
 Wilson, Johx Crawford. 
 
 John Crawford Wilson was born in Mal- 
 low, County Cork, in 1825. Tlie greater 
 part of his lite has been passed in London, 
 where he has followed literary pursuits and 
 become favorably known. Among his poeti- 
 cal works are "The Village Pearl," "Lost 
 and Found" and "Flights to Fairyland." 
 He has written successfully for the stage, 
 and he is also the author of a series of clever 
 sketches and tales, collected under the title 
 of "Jonathan Oldacre, or Leaves from the 
 Diary of a Commercial Traveller." His 
 principal poems are long, and the short 
 ones hardly do justice to his talents, which 
 have been chiefly exercised in depicting the 
 pathetic and tender side of luimanity. 
 
 WoLFB, Charles (Rev.). 
 
 The author of the "Burial of Sir John 
 Moore," which gained him more distinction 
 tlian many poets have won by years of labor, 
 was born in Dublin in 1791. His family 
 was of good standing, and he was related 
 to the brilliant patriot, Theobald Wolfe 
 Tone. While a college youtli of eighteen 
 he composed a Latin poem which received 
 a good deal of praise, and in later years he 
 wrote a few minor pieces of a passable kind. 
 
774 
 
 BIOGKAFHICAL NOTES. 
 
 but the poem flret mentioned was the only 
 one or positive merit that he produced. He 
 passed (liroiig'h two schools in England, and 
 afterward through Trinity College, Dublin, 
 aii<l in 1817 he was ordained a curate of the i 
 Establisiied Church and assigned to Don- 
 oughniore, in the diocese of Armagh. His i 
 lot was not happily ca-st, for he was obliged I 
 to lodge in a miserable hoase with an old . 
 soldier and his family as his only associates, 
 and without either seclusion or comfort. It ! 
 was while thus situated that he wrote the 
 jioem since linked with his name. His 
 health soon failed, consumption set in. In- 
 removed to Cork in the hope of obtaining 
 relief, and he died at the Cove of Cork 
 (now Queenstown), in 1821. His grave in 
 the chin-ch yard of Clonmel parish, near 
 Cork, is sadly neglected. After a visit to it 
 a few yeai-s since with one of her children. 
 Iho gifted American poetess, Mi-s. 8. M. B. , 
 Piatt, wrote the following lines: 
 
 Where graves were many, we looked for one. | 
 
 Oh, the Irish rose wa-s red, I 
 
 And the dark stones saddened the setting sun ' 
 With the names of the earlj- dead. 
 
 of him 
 
 .^ 
 
 ^'y'*, 
 
 Then a child who, somehow, liad beard 
 
 In the land we love so well, 
 Kept lifting the grass till the dew wai dim 
 
 In the churchyard of Clonmel. 
 
 But the sexton came. " Can you tell us where 
 Charles Wolfe is buried > " "I can. 
 
 See, Hiat is his grave in the comer there- 
 Aye, be was the clever man. 
 
 If God had spare<l him ! It's many that come 
 To l>e asking for him," said lie ; 
 
 But the boy kept whispering, " Not a .Inuii 
 Was heard,"— in the dusk to me. 
 
 Then the gray man tore a vine from the wall 
 
 Of the roofles-s church where lie lay. 
 And the leaves that the withering year let fall, 
 
 He swept with the ivy away ; 
 And, as we read on the rock the words 
 
 That, writ in the moss, we found, 
 Right over his bosom a shower of binis 
 
 In music fell to the ground. 
 
 — Young poet, I wonder did you care. 
 
 Did it move you in your rest 
 To hear that child iu his golden liair. 
 
 From the mighty woods of the West, 
 Repeating your verse of his own sweet will 
 
 To the sound of the twilight iiell. 
 Years after your tieating heart was si-ll 
 
 Til the ehurcliyard of Clonmel J 
 
 H '451 85 <| 
 

 
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