5L1BRARY OF CONGRESS. I ^M -^■?-/"- \ # # I UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. ! x^i.^'iy-i^^^ C^ ui/ / u i / J Cfi 5 POEMS: BY UNA. / ;■ iAmo . ^: ' (y^-^ . • > ♦ > » CINCINNATI: S. a. COBB, BOOK PRINTER, TIMES BUILDING. 1863. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, i" - ' " -t By the Authoress, V' w^ -is^ .-,^*>^~ In the Office of the Clerk of the District Court for the Southern District of Ohio. xs-z i-^ TO THE Most Reverend J. B. Purcell, ARCHBISHOP OF CINCINNATI, AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF THE aEVERENCE, ESTEEM AND GRATITUDE OP The Authoress. k^. CONTENTS Mother , 7 Come Back Again 10 Ruins 12 Ecce Homo . 14 Erin 's Lost and Dead 17 Snow 20 Dream-Life 21 The Flight into Egypt 24 The Olden Time 30 To an Ivy-Leaf 32 A Mother's Plaint 34 Burial of Isabella of Castile 37 Long Ago 41 Washington's Farewell to his Army 43 The Forests of the West 46 A Voice from Exile 48 Saint Agnes 51 After the Storm 55 Past and Present 58 The Exile's Return , 60 Via Crucis 63 Old Songs ... 66 The Sea of Galilee 67 My Native Land , 69 The Haunted Room 71 R.D.Williams 74 War 76 The Canonization 79 The Old Home 82 Our Flag 84 Flowers 87 ■Erin 88 Beneath the Stars 92 The Lady's Leap 95 To Ma Mere's Jonquille . 98 The Exile's Dream 100 Spring 103 Help of Christians 106 To the Memory of Thomas Davis 108 Alone Forever 110 Work is Worship 112 Bernardo del Carpio 114 Our Mourning Motherland 120 Twilight 124 CONTENTS. VI Summer Showers 126 The Patriot's Vow 128 Water-Lilies 130 Heroism 131 Lament of the Moorish Maiden 134 The Little Chair 135 May 137. The Departed 139 Lough Neagh 141 Gethsemane 144 To a Sister of Mercy 146 Saint Martin's 148 Falling Leaves . 150 Angels 151 Saint Patrick's Day 152 The Twilight of the Year 154 To Mrs. Sadlier . 156 On the Shore 158 Childhood Friends 160 The Silent Hiver 162 The Old Year 163 Across the Sea 165 The Cherokee 167 The Nativity 170 My Mother's Song 172 The Picket 174 Discord our Nation's Curse 176 Wrecks 179 The Songs of Home 181 Sister Agnes 183 The Beautiful Land ! 186 The Bird from Paradise 188 The Fireside at Home 194 Magdalen 196 Death 197 Poland 199 The Wave of Time 201 The Enchanted Cave 203 To Lizzie 205 The Dead Hero 207 The Passing Days '209 To an Aged Friend 211 Rest 213 A Hundred Years From Now 215 POEMS. MOTHER. Mother ! it is a charmed word, endowed with magic power To soothe the sad and troubled soul in many a gloomy hour ; It sweeps the spirit's chords like songs of angels heard in dreams ; It opes the fountains of the heart, as Spring un- locks the streams. No voice like hers whose lullaby was o'er our cradle sung, Can soothe the heart by sorrow's stem, cold hand too rudely wrung ; No hand like hers whose gentle touch in childhood banished pain, Can fold the downy wings of sleep above the throb- bing brain. 8 MOTHER. The world-worn spirit, wildly tossed by fortune's treacherous gale, Sees, in the storm, the friends on whom its hopes were anchored fail ; And, seeking rest, as to the ark turned the wave- weary dove, From smiling masks and hollow hearts turns to a mother's love. And, pausing o'er the cruel scorn of faithless friends to grieve. Cries, ** Mother ! mother! yours the heart that never could deceive ! Oh, but to lay this aching head, childlike, upon your breast. And, sobbing out my griefs, once more sink in your arms to rest ! " The outlaw, bold and hard of heart, with dark and sin-stained soul, O'er which the fiercely surging waves of passion madly roll. Though he the great All-Father's love and mercy fails to see, Can ne'er forget the childish prayer lisped at his mother's knee. While struggling on with weary feet to reach the cloudless land. Though wrong, deceit, and dark distrust around us ever stand, MOTHER. 9 Thoughts of a mother's love lift up the head in anguish bowed, And shine out through life's darkest woes like sun- shine from a cloud. Her prayers, though long the mute, cold lips have lain beneath the sod, Will ever seem like guiding stars to lead us home to God ; They follow us through joy and woe, — they reach o'er land and wave ; The first beside the cradle breathed, the last be- side the grave. Compared with hers, all other love is like an April day, That folds its smiles and frowns at last in cold, gray mists away. As boundless as the universe, — pure as the heaven above, — Enduring as eternity, — such is a Mother's Love ! 10 GOME BACK AGAIN. COME BACK AGAIN. Sad words are breatlied in this world of ours, That cloud its sunshine and blight its flowers, — Words of deep anguish and wild farewell, That strike the heart like a funeral knell ; But, oh, most mournful of all the words That wring a wail from the heart-harp's chords Is that low murmur breathed forth in vain For some lost treasure : Come back again ! The youth alone on the path of life, Braving its danger and toil and strife, Though fame and fortune may wait his call, Still feels a shade o'er his spirit fall ; To vanished scenes oft his thoughts will roam, — The dear old nooks round his childhood's home, The friends he loved, haunt his heart and brain, And bid him cry : Oh, come back again ! The flattered beauty whose lightest word By fawning minions with smiles is heard. Knows well those smiles veil cold hearts below. Like wintry sunbeams on mounts of snow, COME BACK AGAIX. 11 And, sighing, turns to her early youth, When all the world wore the light of truth ; And, as her tears fall like autumn rain. Cries : Happy childhood, come back again ! Stern manhood, too, when life's noon is past, A lingering look oft will backward cast To his glad boyhood, its hopes and fears, To his young manhood's more clouded years, To those he loved ere his heart grew cold. And left true friends for the sake of gold ; Wealth brings nat joy, and he cries in vain : Friends of my youth, oh, come back again ! See, robed in splendor, the stately dame Who gave her hand for a noble name ; She pines surrounded by pomp and glare ; Her heart is not, and can ne'er be there, — A vanished form through her dreams will glide, A heart she crushed in her cruel pride. And sorrow wrings forth that cry of pain : Oh, glad, free girlhood, come back again ! The wretch whose heart is bowed down by crime, Whose locks are whitened before their time. E'en he can think of a long-ago, When his young soul was as mountain snow, — And memory pictures the old roof-tree Where oft he bent at his mother's knee ; 12 RUINS. He cries : Alas ! were her prayers in vain ; Pure heart of childhood, come hack again ! Oh, far more lovely in childhood's houi*s Are the green fields and sweet wildwood flowers, Than all the glory that meets onr gaze Or gilds onr pathway in after days. The guileless vision to childhood given Tints all it sees with the hues of heaven, And when they vanish, that cry of pain Bursts from the soul : Oh, come back again ! The human heart is a restless thing. Forever roaming on Fancy's wing. Or turning hack to the days gone by. That memory holds to its longing eye ; And, let the present be e'er so bright. The past is veiled in a misty light That makes it brighter, and still in vain The heart must cry : Oh, come back again ! K U I N S . Rising from the earth's green bosom, Scattered over every land. Proud mementos of the glory Of departed ages stand : RUINS. 13 Kuins of strong feudal castles, That have braved war's fiercest rage, Bow their heads like stern old warriors, Battle-scarred and crushed with age. Ruins, too, of grand old temples. Round whose shrines in ancient days Priest and warrior, king and peasant Bent the knee in prayer and praise ; Sanctified by saintly worship, They should stand though others fall ; But the hand of the destroyer. Time, is sweeping over all. Sad it is to gaze upon them, — Castle, cloister, shrine, and dome, — And to think that earth's glories Must at last to ruin come ; That with wrecks the passing ages All the universe must fill ; But each day we see around us Ruins grander, sadder still, — Fallen columns, crumbling arches In the temple of the soul, That should stand in primal beauty While unnumbered ages roll ; Glorious souls, for bliss created, Turning from their heavenward way, From a Father's love and mercy. Bow them down to gods of clay. 14 ECCE HOMO. Wrecks of minds whose soaring pinions Ne'er should toncli eartli's dust and mold, Bending from tlie gates of glory Down to worship gods of gold. Mournful as it is to witness Shrine and palace crumbling low, Wrecks of God's fair human temples Are the saddest earth can show. But as round each moldering palace Close the sheltering ivy creeps, So the vine of prayer, upreaching. Still from utter ruin keeps The soul's temple, till its fragments By our tears be cleansed from stain, When the Architect almighty Shall rebuild them all again. ECCE HOMO. ' EccE Homo ! " Rome's proud ruler O'er Judea's fallen land Thus addressed the Jewish rabble. Pointing with his sceptred hand Where the Saviour, meek and lowly, Calm and uncomplaining stood, ECCE HOMO. 15 While the mob, by fury blinded, Loudly clamored for his blood. Ecce Homo ! At the pillar, Scourged by Pilate's stern command, Those He loved and blessed and toiled for, Void of pity, round Him stand ; No complaining sound escapes Him, Neither murmurs, groans, nor sighs, But a world of bitter anguish Looks from His forgiving eyes. Ecce Homo ! Eobed in purjDle, By His blood more deeply dyed ; Crowned with thorns, a reed His sceptre. While the cruel Jews deride ; Bound and blindfold, thus they smite Him, In mock-homage bending low, Saying, **Tell us. King of Israel, Who is he that struck the blow ? " Ecce Homo ! Mark how mildly Bears He threat and scoff and blow. While the tears of Israel's daughters For His wrongs in torrents flow ; See the crimson drops outgushing O'er His sacred temples fall, While the crowd, untouched by pity, For His death more loudly call. 16 ECCE HOMO. Ecce Homo ! Aye, behold Him, See His look of silent woe. As the past and fntm-e ages Out before His vision go, As He sees what countless numbers Cast aside the cross and crown, — Sees His life-blood, shed to save them. Trod by pride and passion down. Ecce Homo ! We behold Him Bruised and bleeding, faint and lone. Chosen friends and loved disciples In the hour of trial gone ; Through thy streets, O fated Zion, Fiercer shouts of vengeance ring. Lord of all, by all forsaken, Earth disowns and slays her King. Ecce Homo ! Lord of glory. We behold Thee scorned, reviled; May thy sadly mournful story Make us humble, patient, mild ; Bind our hearts to Thee forever. That we may earth's pomps lay down. And at last in endless glory See Thee wear Thy thornless crown. # ERIN'S LOST AND BEAD. 1*^ ERIN'S LOST AND DEAD Oh, sad, sad art thou, Erin, my loved, my native land ; A plaintive voice is breathing aronnd tliy wave- washed strand : Thy ancient glories faded, thy children from thee fled. Oh, many hearts are mourning thy loved, thy lost and dead. Where are the many loved ones who braved the bounding wave. Beyond the stormy ocean to find a home or grave ? Some sleep beneath the billows, and many a young, bright head Is bowed in bitter weeping for Erin's lost and dead. A wreath of gloom the ivy is weaving, day by day, Above her ancient altars and round her ruins gray; % 18 Erin's lost and dead, Unscared the wild birds nestle where festal boards were spread, And flit among the silent balls of Erin's noble dead. "Where are the prond, the noble, who trod her verdant plains. Bold hearts that never rested beneath oppression's chains ? Where'er the war-cry '^Freedom" was raised, they nobly bled, — The stainless soul of honor marked Erin's valiant dead. Gaunt famine crushed down thousands upon the sacred sod Where golden plenty flourished beneath the smile of God ; A hard and cruel step-dame deprived the poor of bread. And drained the very life-blood of Erin's lost and dead. Like Nipbe, she mourneth her fallen household band. Her arm too weak to shield them, or stay the slayer's hand ; A fearful weight of sorrow has bowed her queenly head. And tears rain down in silence above her loved and dead. Erin's lost and dead. 19 Oh, mournful motlier, Erin ! thy heart is grieving sore To see thy children scattered on many a foreign shore ! But countless sainted heros, who for thy weal have hied, Still slumher in thy hosom : they are not lost, though dead ! Not lost, — for from their ashes a flame shall yet arise To light the march of Freedom along our western skies, And call the wandering exile to rest his weary head Where bloom unfading laurels o'er Erin's glorious dead. May Time, that bringeth changes, as seasons roll away, Eestore again to Erin the light of Freedom's day ! But, oh ! the beams of Freedom, on vale and mountain shed. Can ne'er bring back to Erin her loved, her lost, and dead. 20 SNOW. sisrow. Slowly and softly it fluttereth down, Veiling tlie earth's sombre mantle of brown ; Ligbtly it drifteth in eddying whirls, Crowning each bough with a chaplet of pearls. Soft as the down of an angel's white wing. Bright as the bloom of the hawthorn in spring. Pure and untainted, its flakes touch the sod, — Pearl blossoms blown from the garden of God. Far are the folds of its white mantle spread. Softening the sound of the tempest-king's tread ; Hamlet and homestead in pure beauty glow. Wrapped in the soft, fleecy robe of the snow. On the dark brow of the sable-robed pine. Clusters of jewels, its brilliant wreaths shine ; Hill-top and valley in quiet sleep lie Folded in drapery woven on high. DREAM-LIFE. 21 Heaven-born snow-flakes, the pure soul, like thee, Flits through the world, but from earth-stains is free, Brightens and blesses where'er it may go, — Beautifies earth like the soft, falling snow. Gently from heaven, its birthplace, it comes, Folds its white pinions around earthly homes, Seems for a moment to sleep in the sod, Thence on the sunbeams of love soars to God. DREAM-LIFE. How the human heart keeps striving, Planning, toiling and contriving, Grasping at the glowing visions O'er which Fancy's pinions wave ; Whether joys or woes surround us, Still our thoughts will stray beyond us, For we are a race of dreamers From the cradle to the grave. When with buoyant step glad childhood Gaily roams through vale and wildwood. Scenes still brighter seem to 'wait him Where his coming youth appears, 22 DREAM-LIFE. For tlie rosy glow of distance And the force of Time's resistance Blend, and weave bright robes of beauty To array the future years. ? Youth arrives, — and still he glances Onward, onward, for he fancies That his hand will soon be potent As the magic lamp of old ; And he builds an airy palace, In which pleasure's glowing chalice May be freely quaffed when manhood Has the scroll of life unrolled. But at last youth's lordly castle Vanishes, with serf and vassal ; To the sterner eye of manhood Life presents a darker page ; All youth's rosy hopes have faded ; On life's journey, tired and jaded, Still he hopefully looks forward To the calm repose of age. Now the snows of age descending On his brow, foretell the ending Of life's trials, joys and sorrows. And in vain he seeks for rest ; To the years no more returning DREAM-LIFE. 23 He looks back witli wistful yearning, Tlien hope guides his vision upward To the mansions of the blest. Thus in dreams we wander ever, Living in the present never, But with longing eye still looking To the future or the past, Till our heart-strings chill and shiver As the waves of death's cold river Put an end to all our dreaming. And the real comes at last. Were our lightest wishes granted. All for which our hearts e'er panted. We would still sigh after something, Discontented with our lot ; Still we fancy it but seeming When we are what weVe been dreaming. And unceasingly endeavor To become what we are not. Let us strive to grasp the real While we picture the ideal. And the while the brain is dreaming Toil with strong, untiring hand ; Vain are all our dreams of beauty. If we shrink from life's stern duty, — For the thoughts that bring not action Are but letters traced on sand. 24 THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. FOUNDED ON AN OLD TRADITION. With outspread, dusky pinions the night had hov- ered down. And silence calmly brooded above the sleeping town, And in that quiet hamlet, where all seemed hush- ed rest, The infant Saviour slumbered upon his mother's breast. Soon Joseph heard the summons that bade them take their flight Across Judea's mountains, wrapped in the veil of night ; And Mary, quickly rising, sped on her dreary path. To shield her priceless Treasure from Herod's tyrant wrath. The way was lone and silent, save when the night- wind's sigh 'Mong the pale, whispering olives in a low wail went by ; THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 25 All living things seemed resting in that still mid- night hour When a lost world's Eedeemer fled from his crea- ture's power. The exiles soon saw fading from view their native land ; At last their weary footsteps pressed Egypt's burn- ing sand ; The fiery sun above them his fiercest rays poured down, And evening brought no shelter from midnight's gloomy frown. Sometimes a lonely palm-tree on the wild desert's breast Offered the weary pilgrims a shaded spot of rest ; And when fierce thirst assailed them, perchance a bitter pool Yielded its brackish waters, their parching lips to cool. 'Tis said that on this journey, in a wild, gloomy den, The hiding-place of robbers, of reckless, outlawed men, One night they found a shelter, and rude lips kindly gave The wanderers a welcome into the bandits' cave. 26 THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. The chieftain's wife gazed kindly upon the Holy Child, And viewed the fair young Mother with pitying glance and mild, — Surely some dire misfortune had driven forth from home These frail and helpless pilgrims o'er the wide world to roam. A large tear slowly gathered in' that wild woman's eye ; Her own loved babe was resting in quiet slumber nigh ; Ah, well might bitter sorrow on her sad face ap- pear — Foul leprosy had tainted the form to her so dear. Soon Mary asked for water, and reverently arose To bathe the Holy Infant, then hushed Him to re- pose ; And to the mourning woman His young face seemed ■ so bright She fancied they were angels who lodged with her that night. A strange hope thrilled her bosom. She took her stricken one And washed him in the water where Mary bathed her Son, THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 27 When, lo ! with joy she saw hiin freed from dis- ease and pain — The water touched by Jesus had cleansed her child from stain. Years passed: the child to boyhood, the boy to man- hood grew, And, though he loved his mother, he joined the rob- ber crew • Again for him she sorrows, and as her sad tears flow She thinks upon the pilgrims she sheltered long ago . Wild, reckless, fierce and daring, the youthful rob- ber's hand Wrought many a deed of terror upon the desert sand ; Though in his heart some feeling of good had lin- gered still. It lay all crushed and buried by a dense weight of ill. The noonday sun is gilding the hills of Palestine, And, bathed in golden radiance, the temple's white walls shine : Jerusalem, what meaneth that fierce, tumultuous yell Resounding through thy arches like shout of fiends from hell ? 28 THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. Alas ! those execrations that through thy streets now ring Proclaim that hlind Judea denies and slays her King ; And He, the long-expected, who came to set her free, On Calvary hangs extended npon the crimson tree. Earth to her King has given a cruel, thorny crown, And o'er His aching forehead the warm, bright drops roll down ; Fierce, brutal men stand round Him, all purpled by His gore, — Each drop enough to ransom a thousand worlds and more. As thus our blessed Saviour in agony and pain Pours out His life-blood freely to cleanse our souls from stain. Forgetful of His sufferings, he turns a pitying eye Upon the wretched robbers who with Him are to die. One answers with reviling, and scorns His pitying word ; The other looks more kindly upon our suffering Lord, And then his thoughts turn sadly back to his wasted years. His sinless, happy childhood, his mother's prayers and tears. THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 29 But in the form beside him, the pallid, blood-stained face. The limbs all bruised and mangled, no human eye could trace The fair, sweet babe, so radiant with beauty's rosy glow, Who journeyed through the desert so many years ago. He sees the blows and insults ; the fiendish howls and jeers Of the bloodthirsty rabble are ringing in his ears ; He hears the sweet forgiveness our dying Lord be- stows. And feels that none but Jesus could bless such cruel foes. He prays that stainless Victim his soul from sin to free : '* When Thou art in Thy kingdom, Lord, remem- ber me ; '' Then sees His glance of mercy, and hears His pale lips say, ^' My son, thou shalt be with me in Paradise to- day.- Where like God's smile so lately the glorious sun- beams shone. All now is gloom and horror ; earth seems to rock and moan. 30 THE OLDEN TIME. And startled Nature trembles and veils her eyes in dread, And wrapped in robes of mourning weeps her Crea- tor dead. Soon from the side of Jesus, pierced by a cruel spear. Flow precious drops of healing upon the robber near, And the repentant sinner cleansed by that crimson wave Is little leprous Dimas of the wild robbers' cave. THE OLDEN TIME The dear old days of the long-ago, Their memory haunts us yet, Like fragments of some sweet old song That the heart can not forget ; Their hours rolled by in haiTaony, Like a silvery vesper chime : Bright pictures graved on the heart's broad page Are the days of the olden time. THE OLDEN TIME. 81 As sadly out on the evening bell The knell of a dead day rings, • Some high resolve may strive to call From the heart-harp's quivering strings A stanza of our grand life -hymn In a strain of power sublime, But the notes are drowned in the tears that fall At the thought of the olden time. The friends we loved in the olden time. Although, severed far and wide By Fortune's gales, our life-boats drift Over Time's resistless tide, Seem near us still as some joyous laugh Rings out like a silvery chime ; For the hearts were light and the laughter gay That we loved in the olden time. When the pain and pleasure, stoim and strife And glory of earth are o'er, When the requiem of a dead world rings On the far eternal shore. In the anthem grand of a higher life May we join in strians sublime With the friends who made the hours so bright In the happy olden time. 32 TO AN IVY-LEAF, TO AN IVY-LEAF, BROUGHT FROM THE RUINS OF SHANE's CASTLE. Oh, treasured leaf, though faded now thy green and glossy hue, Thou bringest up a distant land once more before my view ; Thou bearest me in spirit back across the ocean's foam, To see once more, with fond delight, the dear old scenes of home. I bore thee in thy beauty from thy breezy home away ; Lilie pearls upon thy satin cheek the glittering dew-drops lay ; For ages round a ruined pile thy parent vine had clung, And many a summer 'mongst its leaves the birds their matins sung. That stately ruin, grand and old — I seem to see it now, The long grass waving o'er the seams that mark its hoary brow. TO AN IVY-LEAF. 83 While through the thin and scattered tufts morn's rosy sunbeams play, Like childhood's fingers wandering 'mong a grand- sire's locks of gray. Around its walls once more I hear the wild waves sob and moan, Chanting a solemn requiem o'er power and glory gone; And see the ivy's circling arms its crumbling towers entwine, As if to veil the mournfulness of grandeur in de- cline. Oh ! faded leaf, I prize thee yet, though beautiful no more ; Thy kindred tendrils freshly wave upon my native shore ; They wrap in Nature's drapery her fallen shrines and fanes, As if they loved each stately wreck of splendor that remains. Though snows have wreathed the mountain's brow, and summer breezes fanned. Since thou hast met the morning's smile that gilds my native land. Thou bringest thoughts of days and scenes I never can forget; For this, O pallid ivy-leaf, I dearly love thee yet. 34 A MOTHER^S PLAINT. A MOTHER^S PLAINT. The starry banner waved aloft, the drums were beating, loud, And down the street with martial tread there came a stalwart crowd ; I gazed upon that banner's folds in anguish fierce and wild. For it must brave the battle's storm, borne by my only child. To say good-bye my Willie soon came bounding to my side. And as he saw the bitter tears I vainly strove to hide. He murmured, " Oh, it grieves my heart to give my mother pain ! ' ' My boy ! my boy ! I never heard his happy voice again. Then came reports of blood and death, of battles lost and won. And Fame upon her hero-list soon placed my dar- ling son; A mother's plaestt. S5 And letters from my Willie came like messengers of liglit, — Their cheering words were sunbeams sent to make my lone days bright. One woeful day a sombre box was brought unto our door, And on its gloomy lid was traced the name of Willie Moore, And with it came a messenger the bitter tale to tell How 'neath the folds of Freedom's flag my Willie fought and fell. And there he lay, my only one ; as peaceful seemed his rest As when in his sweet childhood hours he slum- bered on my breast ; The scathing tempest -blast of death from which we vainly flee, Crushed the young sapling in its strength and spared the withered tree. My boy, it seemed that sleep, not death, had closed his clear blue eye, I could not feel that life had fled, I had not seen him die ; I saw no scar, no mark of pain disturbed the placid face; A curl fell o'er his brow and hid the fatal bullet's trace. 86 A mother's plaint. But when I heard the cold, damp earth upon his coffin fall, Around my startled heart was flung the gloom of sorrow's pall : The dull sound of the falling clods his footfalls seemed to be, Eeechoed from the threshold of the dim eternity. My home is lone and cheerless now, my heart is sadder still, — The void within a mother's heart this world has naught to fill. O'er some the surging waves of woe with fiercer fury roll, The grief of others strites the heart, a mother's wrings the soul. Alas ! before the crimson scourge that blights our land is o'er, How many a mother's heart will bleed, but mine can bleed no more. It rests within my Willie's grave, and when its throbbings cease, I hope to meet him in a land of everlasting peace. BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 37 BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE. A SOB of miglity anguish shakes The grieving nation's hreast, As, bowed in bitter woe, she mourns Her noblest heart at rest ; Well may she weep — her tearful eyes Can ne'er behold again The guardian genius of her homes, The morning-star of Spain. A cloud has fallen on Castile, Her high hopes have gone down, For Death has bowed the noblest head That ever wore a crown ; In lordly hall and lowly hut Griefs heart- wrung fountains flow. And over all the land is heard One long, deep wail of woe. Stilled is the high, unselfish heart. The great and gifted mind That with a woman's gentleness A hero's power combined ; 3S BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE. Stern warriors bow their heads in grief, For oft that still, slight form With hope and courage nerved their hearts Amid the battle's storm. Cold is the open, generous hand Of her who freely gave Her jewels rare to trace a path Across the trackless wave, — She in whose name the flag of Spain Beside the cross unfurled Its silken folds — the first to wave 0*er the new western world. No glittering pomp of royal state, No proud and vain display. Accompanies that noble form To its cold house of clay. For she whose grandly regal soul Has to its Maker fled, Was self-denying in her life. And still would be though dead. As slow the sad procession goes In silence through the land, The poor pour forth their prayers and tears For her whose kindly hand Was ever open in their need ; For she in life had been To Spain a guardian- spirit bright, A mother and a queen. BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 89 O'er Andalusia's fair green vales The tempest's black wings sweep, And wildly beat on her who lies In death's cold, dreamless sleep ; The mountain-torrents, thundering down. Go seething o'er the plain, Where the mad waters hissing roll Around that funeral train. No sunbeam cheers their path by day, No star by night appears, — It seems that Nature's saddened eyes Are blinded by her tears, For over all the land is flung A pall of darkest gloom, While she who was its life and light Is carried to the tomb. At last Alhambra's crimson towers 'Gainst the gray sky are seen ; Where, throned 'mid dark green orange groves, Granada sits a queen, And she whose fortitude and faith. Whose hope and courage high Regained it from the Moslem foe, Comes in its dust to lie. The dark-plumed cavaliers move on With solemn pace and slow, And as through the old Moorish gates All mournfully they go, 40 BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE. They think of how they entered them In triumph years before ; Alas ! that she they followed then Should lead them nevermore ! High o'er the ancient Moslem towers The gleaming cross is seen ; Sadly the marble halls beneath Receive their crownless Queen ; The solemn requiem is sung, And in the cloister's shade, With incense, prayer and taper's gleam, The royal dust is laid. Religion mourns her brightest gem, Her shield, forever gone ; Spain weeps her strength, her star of hope, Her purest spirit flown ; All Christendom laments for her Now to the grave consigned. Who gave her every thought and deed To God and to her kind. Cold are the glittering tears that fall For perishing renown. Save when the good as well as great Unto the dust go down ; And 'midst the crowned and sceptred dead The eye will seek in vain One loved so well, so truly mourned. As Isabel of Spain. LONG AGO. 41 LONG AGO. Oh, days of life's glad spring-time, How quickly ye glide by, How soon dark clouds sweep over Your morning's rosy sky ; Bright waves of Time's broad river, Too swiftly do ye flow With ceaseless motion ever Down to the long ago. And do our days drift idly Like sunbeams o'er tbe tide, Leaving no trace behind tbem Upon Time's ocean wide ? Or are tbey richly freighted. As from our sight they flow, With treasures for the future. Won from the long ago ? Or, as they melt in foam-wreaths To ebb and flow no more, Where golden sands are gleaming On the eternal shore, 42 LONG AGO. Must their last breatli be wearied With sighs of bitter woe For bright hopes dead and buried Down in the long ago ? Alas ! bright days, too early- Goes down your noonday sun ; The night of death enshrouds us Before our work is done ; And many a path is thorny Where roses now might blow, Had we not idly wasted The days of long ago. Like scentless, withered flowers Upon a streamlet cast, Do aimless lives drift downward And sink into the past ; They leave no vacant places, For them no tear-drops flow, — They pass unknown, forgotten, Down to the long ago. Then, as our days are passing, And we are passing too. Let earth's vain joys hide never That bright land from our view Where from the bounteous Giver All happiness shall flow, And grief and death come never As in the long ago. WASHINGTON S FAREWELL TO HIS ARMY. 43 WASHINGTON'S FAREWELL TO HIS ARMY. The Chieftain gazed with moistened eyes upon the veteran band Who with him braved the battle's storm for God and native land ; At last the parting hour had come — from prairie, mount, and sea, The glad shout burst from countless hearts : '' Our land — our land is free ! " Then up from every altar rose a hymn of praise to God, Who nerved the patriot hearts and arms to free their native sod ; The stormy strife of grief and gloom, of blood and death, was o'er, — The heroes who survived its wrath might seek their homes once more. With bared heads bowed, and swelling hearts, Ihey gathered round their Chief; The parting day to them was one of mingled joy and grief ; 44 WASHINaTON S FAREWELL TO HIS ARMY. They thought of all his love and care, his patience sorely tried, Of how he shared their wants and woes, and with them death defied. They looked back to that fearful night when 'mid the storm he stood Beside the icy Delaware, to guide them o'er its flood, — Back to red fields where, thick as leaves upon an Autumn day, The tawny savage warriors and British foemen lay. They thought of many a cheerless camp where lay the sick and dead, Where oft that stately form was bent o'er many a sufferer's bed ; Well had he won the deathless love of all that patriot band — Their friend and guide, their nation's hope, the saviour of their land. He, too, saw all they had endured to break their country's chains — Their naked footprints stamped in blood on Jersey's frozen plains, The gloomy huts at Valley Forge, where winter's icy breath Froze many a brave heart's crimson flow, chained many an aim in death. Washington's farewell to his army. 45 And, looking on their war-thinned ranks, lie sighed for those who fell ; It stirred the depths of his great heart to say the word *' Farewell;" He saw strong men, who, facing death, had never thought of fear. Dash from their scarred and sun-browned cheeks the quickly gushing tear. He stood in the receding boat, his noble brow laid bare. And the wild fingers of the breeze tossing his silv'ry hair. While to his trusty followers, the sternly tried and true. Whose sad eyes watched him from the shore, he waved a last adieu. Earth shows no laureled conqueror so truly great as he Who laid the sword and power aside when once his land was free, — Who calmly sought his quiet home when Freedom's fight was won. While with one voice the Nation cried : ** God bless our Washington ! '* 46 THE FORESTS OF THE WEST, THE FOKESTS OF THE WEST. How sublimely rise the forests Of tlie noble Western land, Wearing leafy crowns of verdure, Twined by the Almighty hand ; See them rear their hoary foreheads. Toss their huge arms in the blast. Like grim seers that rise to tell us Of the deeds of ages past, 'Neath their boughs the aged warriors Gathered round the council fire, Oft their shadowy aisles were lighted By the captive's funeral pyre ; Free as air the wild red hunter Roamed beneath their leafy shade, While they echoed the low laughter Of the graceful Indian maid. But the wildwood tribes have vanished. Slowly, sadly, one by one, Turning from the pale-faced strangers Toward the setting of the sun ; THE FORESTS OF THE WEST. 47 Still tlie forests rise defiant Of the tempest-laden years, Like a host of giant warriors Resting on their battle spears. Here the monarch oaks of ages Seem the tempest's wrath to scorn, Emblems of the patriot heroes Of our country's natal morn ; For the arms and hearts whose prowess Britaiit's slavish fetters broke, Were as sturdy and unyielding As the giant forest oak. Here, midst tempest, toil and danger, Was young Freedom's spirit nursed. Till the splendor of her glory O'er the wondering nations burst ; Roaming o'er the world a stranger, Here she found a place of rest, — Brave hands reared her lofty temple Mid the forests of the West. Though the hands that built that temple Now are folded in the grave. Freedom lives, and still is worshipped Where the forest-monarchs wave * 48 A VOICE FROM EXILE. Still the brave, free, cliainless spirit That aroused that patriot band, Animates the vigorous toilers Of the noble Western land. Grand old woods, sublime and solemn. Proudly spurning time's decay. Watchers of the toils and triumphs Of our country's early day. May your broad, green aisles forever Be by Freedom's children trod, And your soil be ever sacred Unto Liberty and God. A VOICE FROM EXILE. The god of day, whose blazing eye The earth' with glory fills, Has rolled his golden chariot down Behind the western hills ; Like hope's bright ray has passed away The holy vesper light ; Alone and in a stranger land. My heart is sad to-night. A VOICE FROM EXILE. 49 The broken links of mem'ry now Are bound into a chain Whose golden windings draw my heart Across the Western main, Back to my own blue native hills. By ocean's breezes fanned — Back to my childhood's home and thee, My worshipped native land. The spectres of the dead years rise. And, in their misty track, From ocean waves and scattered graves My loved ones, too, come back ; Our homestead's ancient walls once more Resound with song and mirth — But strangers gather now at eve Eound our once happy hearth. Though dwelling in a distant land — The fair land of the free — Each breeze that sweeps thy mountains bears A dirge -like wail to me ; How can thy children's hearts be glad On Freedom's smiling plains, While thou art groaning, Motherland, Beneath thy load of chains ? The bitter wrongs that bow thy head And tinge thy cheek with shame, 6# A VOICE FROM EXILE. . Are graven on thy children's hearts In lines of quenchless flame. On other nations' battle-fields Thy life-blood gushes free : Is there no resurrection, then, From living death for thee ? Oh, hapless mother of a race Of helots, born in chains That rankle in the heart, and freeze Life's current in the veins, Up ! — cast the shackles from thy limbs- In power majestic rise. Unfettered as proud Freedom's bird. Whose dark wing cleaves the skies ! Thy voice is heard, but heeded not ; Why stoop thy rights to crave ? Does Liberty her smiles bestow On w^eak or coward slave ? The voices of thy martyred dead Rise from the blood-stained sod ; They bid thee bow the knee no more Save to the throne of God. Now Tyranny, on crumbling throne, In abject terror quakes. And Revolution's mighty hand The earth's foundation shakes ; SAEPrt AGNES. 51 No nation tamely bows th6 neck Or bends the conquered knee — Why shouldst thou crawl ? Thy fitting place Is 'mongst the brave and free ! The clarion voice of Liberty Rings over land and main — 'Wake, Erin, 'wake ! and never sleep In slavery again ! Oh, while thou'rt trampled in the dust, Deprived of Freedom's light, A fettered slave, the exile's heart May well be sad to-night. SAINT AGNES. The morning's rosy fingers Unbar the gates of day, And bid the light-winged hours Speed swiftly on their way ; The breath of coming blossoms Floats on the wind's light wing It is the opening glory Of fair Italia's Spring; 52 SAINT AGNES. Thougli Rome sits robed in beauty. And sunshine gilds ber domes, A fearful tempest rages Around ber beartbs and bomes. Witbin tbe crowded Forum A sligbt and cbildisb form, Witb fearless beart, serenely Awaits tbe coming storm ; Tbe gazing crowd sbe sees not, Nor beeds tbe judge^s frown ; Her 'raptured eye can only Bebold tbe martyr's crown. And see tbe glorious victims Wbose steps bave gone before. And traced in blood a patbway To tbe eternal sbore. Tbe guileless grace of cbildbood Yet lingers on ber brow ; Unbound ber glossy tresses In sunny wavelets flow, Sbrouding tbe frail, sligbt figure. As witb a golden veil. And witb a balo framing Tbe face so calm and pale ; Tbe crowd look on in silence. And seem to bold tbeir breath To see tbe fair child-martyr Stand face to face witb death. SAINT AGNES. 53 The judge on the young victim Looks down with pitying eye : " It grieves us, Lady Agnes, To sentence thee to die ; . Forsake this Christ who leaves thee To such a dreadful doom, And bow in adoration Before the gods of Rome ; One single act of worship, And we will loose thy bands, And give thee life and freedom With all thy wealth and lands." "One only Lord and Saviour I know and worship now ; To blind and senseless idols My soul can never bow. To Thee, O blessed Jesus, Who canst redeem and save, Who oped the gates of glory. And triumphed o'er the grave, — To Thee my life I offer. In steadfast faith I come ; Accept my humble tribute, And call Thy servant home." With clear eyes raised to Heaven, She kneels in silent prayer ; She hears the songs of angels Resounding -through, the. air, j|4 SAMT AGNES. And sees the heavenly city, Whose gold gates open stand. Revealing to her vision The glorions martyr band That she is soon to follow, While radiant spirits come Down from the gates of glory To bear her safely home. . Upon the blood-stained marble She meekly bows her head ; To her the spot is holy — There countless saints have bled ; She thinks how Jesus suffered, Mocked, scourged, and crucified ; How, loving and forgiving, Blessing His foes. He died ; To die for Him is heaven. No terror can she feel : A moment more, above her Bright gleams the flashing steel. One quick, convulsive quiver — The golden head lies low. And o'er the snowy raiment The crimson life-drops flow ; A lamb upon the altar. Untouched by sinful stain. Such seems the gentle victim. Her deatb i^ npt in vain ; AFTER THE STORM. 65 The warm, bright currents gushing From her heart's ebbing tide Baptize a thousand Christians Where she for Christ has died. Oh, Christ, how great, how mighty That deathless faith must be That strengthens tender childhood To cast down life for Thee ! Oh, beautiful child-martyr, Among the blest on high. When our weak spirits waver, Look down with pitying eye. And pray we may inherit Thy earnest love and faith. And walk through life as blameless As thou didst walk to death. AFTER THE STORM. The storm is past, and gloriously Shines out the setting sun. To give the earth a parting smile Before the day is don.e ; 56 AFTER THE STORM. And in the calm blue eastern heaven The fleecy clouds drift free, Like pearl-barks with gold-tinted sails Upon a sapphire sea. As over field and forest fall The day's departing beams, Lighting with gold the waving boughs, And crimsoning the streams, Across the yellow harvest-fields The trees long shadows fling, Like plumes that Evening's hand has plucked From out Night's sable wing. The haze of twilight gathers round In shadowy silence pale, Shedding a softer beauty o'er The scene it seems to veil. And, one by one, night's starry lamps Swing out in the blue dome — Bright tapers lit by angel hands To guide lost wanderers home. God's little, feathered worshippers Have sung their vesper hymn. And silence walks with viewless tread 'Mid evening's shadows dim ; The soft, light breeze upon its wings Bears heavenly peace and rest, — - AFTER THE STORM. 57 Its whispering tones sweet echoes seem From mansions of the blest. Lord, with what loveliness Thy hand Has decked this world of ours — Its waving woods, clear, singing streams. And myriad-tinted flowers, Its ever-changing seas and skies. Proclaim Thy boundless love, And faintly picture to our thoughts The glorious world above. Oh, when the fitful storms that cloud Life's changing sky are past. And the pale twilight shades of death Our evening have o'ercast, O Sun of Justice, Lord of all, May Thy ne'er-fading ray Shed o'er the parting spirit's view The light of endless day. 58 PAST AND PRESENT. PAST AND PEESENT Our hearts go back to the ages fled. As we read some old-time story, And we wish the vanished years would rise, With their hard- won crowns of glory ; That each laureled head, From its lowly bed. In its genius, might and power. From the dust might spring. O'er our days to fling The light of its glorious dower. Do we pause to think that the hero's way Was one of strife and slaughter ? That the rubicon round many a throne Was blood, instead of water ? If we emulate The departed great. Let them be saints and sages. Not those who dyed In life's red tide The shrouds of buried ages. PAST AND PRESENT. 59 Of old the sceptre, dyed in blood, Instead of gold seemed coral. And victors trod on quivering hearts To grasp the lofty laurel. Shall we backward turn And weakly mourn For the days of strife and terror, When the arm of might Was the judge of right. And truth itself seemed error? Fame tells us now of the glorious deeds Of warrior, chief and peasant : If the past has had its great and good. Then why should not the present ? The same great God On sea and sod With boundless love reigns o'er us ; Our hopes and fears Are like to theirs Who trod life's path before us. Let us sigh no more for the days renowned In olden song and story. While the present holds before our eyes Bright wreaths of fadeless glory ; Who acts his part With an earnest heart Upon life's varied stages, 60 THE exile's return. Gilds his own days Witli a light whose rays Shall shine on the future ages. THE EXILE'S RETURN.^ He comes from the far-off' golden clime, Over oceans broad and deep. In the storied land he loved so well To rest in his long, last sleep ; — That land whose ruins sublimely tell Of a grand, though long-past age — A land whose lap holds the sacred dust Of Hero and Saint and Sage. He comes to rest in the dust at last Where our loved O'Connell sleeps ; Where sadly o'er Emmet's nameless grave The Genius of Erin weeps ; Where fadeless shamrocks their tear-gemmed leaves Over Tone and Davis twine; Where Freedom slumbers in gory shroud With the martyred Geraldine. *The remains of the exiled patriot, T. B. McManus, who died in California, were conveyed across two oceans to rest in his native land. THE exile's return. 61 And Erin rises, majestic still, Througli ages of wrong and grief; Her heart leaps out o'er the waves to meet Her glorious patriot chief ; But tears the words of her welcome drown, Alas, for her son so brave ! For his years of suffering, toil and love She can only bestow a grave. With more than a mother's love she folds Her child to her aching breast, Where, wrapped in the grave's cold majesty, Her patriot-martyrs rest Perhaps in her hour of bitter need They may burst Death's icy chain, As rose the Cid with his ghostly band To strike for the rights of Spain. A deafening cheer of triumph bursts From the nation's inmost soul, As the bright folds of the Green old Flag To her 'raptured gaze unroll ; Her dead son bears it from lands afar — O'er his clay-cold brow it waves ; The blaze of its Sunburst melts the chains From the limbs of groaning slaves. The Spirit of Freedom soars abroad On the morning's rosy wing, 62 THE exile's return. The thrilling notes of her trumpet-voice Over vale and mountain ring, And tyrants cower in dread to see The soul of a mighty land Go forth in homage to one whom they With the doom of exile banned. Who dares to say that a land like this With a light heart wears her chains ? While the sacred fire of Liberty On her altar-stone remains ? While her heroes' graves are holy shrines Where she reverent bows the knee? While she gathers home her exiles' dust From the lands beyond the sea ? In the holy soil of thy native land Sleep on, true heart and brave ; Long, long shall a grateful people's tears Be showered upon thy grave, And ever dear to the nation's heart Shall be that hallowed mound. Till the startled universe awakes At the final trumpet's sound. .;.•- .. -^y. VIA CRUCIS. 63 VIA CRUCIS. Oh, Jerusalem, thou city Of tlie Prophet- Saints of old, How thy sight by sin is clouded, And thy heart grown hard and cold ; O'er thee frown the heavens in anger, Startled Nature holds her breath, As thou leadest the Lord of glory Out to torture and to death. Hark ! what hideous yells of triumph Through the streets are echoed loud ; See the bound and bleeding Captive Hurried onward by the crowd ; Grave and noble is His aspect, Calm and mild His patient eye — Of what crime can He be guilty That they drag Him forth to die ? Where He steps, the stony pavement Blushes crimson, with His blood ; Paint and weak He staggers onward. Bowed beneath the heavy wood ; 64 VIA CRUCIS. See ! His tottering footsteps falter ; See ! He falls, too weak to rise ; While around Him like a tempest Sweep the rabble's vengeful cries. Vile hands force Him up, and closer Press the thorns upon His head, (He who healed their sick and dying, And to life restored their dead;) Bruised and gasping, almost blinded By His blood, they drag Him still 'Neath Jerusalem's proud arches, Up the steep and rugged hill. Blessed Saviour, though around Thee There were few to mourn Thy woes, Few who dared Thy steps to follow 'Mid Thy fierce and cruel foes, Walking in Thy painful pathway, Sharing all Thy pangs, was one — Mary, Thy sad mother, weeping For her loved and onlv Son. Saddest of all mourning mothers. May we feel thy bitter woe ; May our sinful hearts no longer Cause our Saviour's blood to flow ; Pray that we like thee may ever Love and serve thy holy Son, VIA CRUCIS. 65 And behold Him in His gloiy When our pilgrimage is done. Dearest Lord, when our weak footsteps From the path of right would stray. Shrinking from the painful trials That beset life's rugged way, May the memory of Thy sufferings On the road to Calvary's hill Guard our hearts against temptation, Give us strength to do Thy will. Teach us, Lord, that earthly pleasures Are at best but gilded dross, That the only way to glory Is the pathway of the Cross : Holy, sanctified forever Be the road that Thou hast trod. Hallowed by Thy blood-stained footprints, Our Redeemer and our God. 66 OLD SONGS. OLD SONGS. Soothing as to the parched lips of the flowers The gentle fall of heaven's pitying tears, Are to the heart, in sad and lonely hours, The old, familiar songs of by-gone years. How solemnly up through Time's moss-grown arches. That span the dim aisles of the misty past. Swell those old songs, like grand funereal marches Chanted above dead years too bright to last. The strains we oft have heard in hours of gladness. Though carelessly from stranger lips they flow. Oft bear us o'er the gulf of years and sadness Back to the sunny days of long ago. They bring us back to winter nights when cheer- ful The firelight glowed on an unbroken band ; With thoughts of these our eyes grow dim and tearful -rr- Some pilgrims still, some in the spirit-land. THE SEA OF GALILEE. 67 Not always do their notes bring thoughts of sor- row, Though they a broken household band recall ; We hope, upon the bright, eternal morrow. To meet our loved ones where no tears shall fall. The din of toil and strife, the city's noises. Where sweeps life's eddying current evermore. Are for a time forgot : we hear the voices Of loved ones dwelling on the eternal shore. Though life may be to us a desert dreary. That Desolation sweeps with tireless hand. Old songs of home are to the heart, when weary. As sweet founts gushing from the barren sand. THE SEA OF GALILEE. Oh, dark blue waters of Galilee, In the ages long ago. When the blessed Savioui' came from heaven And walked among men below. How oft He trod on the breezy sod That fringes thy sounding shore, Whose waves for Israel's fallen race Sob mournfully evermore. 68 THE SEA OF GALILEE. When the trembling fishers paled with fear, As the night closed drear and dark, And shrieked to Him as the billows leaped Around their storm-tossed bark, The clouded brow of the heavens grew calm As it heard the Master's word. And the angry waves cowered down in awe At the mandate of their Lord. The scathing breath of a fearful storm Is sweeping our country's breast ; Each wave of strife from the fount of life Has borrowed a crimson crest ; Oh, many a noble hero -life Will that fearful tempest drown. And many a wrecked and broken heart In its angry waves go down. Oh, Thou whose feet have firmly trod On Gralilee's ancient sea, Beneath whose glance the waves go down, And the tempest's black wings flee. Look down on the stormy souls of men, Who struggle against Thy will ; Stretch out Thy hand o'er this sea of strife, And say to its waves, '' Be still." 1861. MY NATIVE LAND. 69 MY NATIVE LAND. I LOVE thee, oh, my native land ! Love is a word too weak The boundless worship to express That words but faintly speak ; Thou art an idol at whose shrine My soul must bend the knee ; Life were but death without the hope Of brighter days for thee. Thou 'rt beautiful, my native land ! Up from thy flowery sod Fair Nature lifts a smiling face To meet the smile of God; Thy giant mountains robed in blue, Thy vales in deathless green. Bathed in thy tears are fairer still. Our beauteous captive queen. Oh, land of hero, saint and sage. So sad and yet so fair. Thy limbs are bound with heavy chains. Thy heart is crushed with care ; 70 MY NATIVE LAND. And yet, the more thou'rt made to groan Beneatli the tyrant's hand, The stronger grows my love for thee, My worshipped native land. Although thy bitter wrongs increase With every passing year. Thy sorrows to thy children's hearts But make thee still more dear ; Though forced far from thy shore to stray, On many a distant strand. From every heart the prayer leaps out : '' God bless the old Green Land ! " Oh, land of beauty, land of song, God's blessing on thee rest ; May Freedom's sun soon light thy shore, Fair Island of the West ; Soon 'midst the nations of the earth May'st thou a nation stand, With chainless limbs and laureled brow, My land — my native land. THE HAUNTED ROOM. 71 THE HAUNTED ROOM. Weary at last of roaming, Back o'er tlie ocean's foam My footsteps slowly turning, I sought my dear old home ; Alas ! the well loved faces That made its walls so dear, Had lain in the green churchyard For many a long, long year. But though no kindred welcome Would meet me at the door. Nor glad words greet my coming As in the days of yore, Though changed, almost deserted. My heart still longed to see The one spot in the wide world That yet was home to me. 'Twas winter, and at even Beside the hearth-fire's blaze I sat and pondered sadly Upon the by -gone days ; 72 THE HAUNTED ROOM. I loved that dear oldcliainber — Naught there seemed new or strange, For careful hands had guarded And kept it free from change. I saw the fitful gleaming Of the red fire-light fall In pallid, ghostly shadows Upon the dusky wall, And busy Fancy pictured, Grouped in the gathering gloom, The forms of the departed In that old haunted room. My father, by the fireside, In his quaint, easy chair Sat musing, and my mother. In her old place, was there. Her pale, calm features wearing The glad, bright smile of joy With which she used to welcome And greet her wandering boy. There, too, was little Alice, Whose clear, blue, wondering eyes Cast on me, when I teazed her. Sad looks of pained surprise ; I seemed to hear her singing Some ballad, low and sweet, THE HAUNTED ROOM. 73 As long ago when seated Beside our mother's feet. My loved ones were around me As in the days of yore ; Long years of life had vanished — I was a hoy once more ; ^ Joy ! joy ! " I cried, when slowly They faded in the gloom, And left me sitting lonely In that dim, haunted room. That gray, old ghostly chamber Will ever haunted be, Although the welcome spirits No eye hut mine may see ; I seek its friendly shadows When bowed in grief and pain. And find my lost and loved ones Restored to me again. 74 R. D. a^t:lliams. R. D. WILLIAMS. IN MEMORIAM. Another glorious star has fled from Erin's cloud- ed sky ; Another minstrel voice has joined the angel choirs on high ; Oh, heavy are our hearts to-day, and sadly do we weep Our country's noble patriot-bard, who sleeps his long, last sleep. We weep for thee, gifted one, too early called away ; The night of death too soon closed o'er thy bright meridian day ; Thy unstrung lyre is silent now ; thy proud, high heart is stilled ; Thy cherished dream — a land redeemed — is yet to be fulfilled. 'Twas thine to wake old Erin's harp, to sweep its breathing strings With touch as soft as the light breath of passing angel wings. R. D. WILLIAMS. 75 To bid it breathe of joy or love, or sigh low songs of woe. Or sing in strains of triumph high the deeds of long ago. Thy magic numbers thrill our souls, their notes are Erin's own — The murmurs of her summer streams, her torrents' thunder tones ; And if at last thy clay-cold brow no laurel wi'eath may shade, Thou'st left a glorious wreath of song that time can never fade. Alas ! alas ! our motherland, too oft thou 'rt doomed to mourn The bright links of thy household band, gone never to return ; And now thy tears will flow afresh : another son is gone, Whose arm was foremost in thy fight, whose heart was all thy own. The best and bravest of our land too early all de- part, For patriot fire lights ruined hopes that soon con- sume the heart ; 76 WAR. But round them still our heart-strings twine, though they have passed away, As round our country's ruined shrines the ivy clings to-day. Brave hero -heart, true child of song, calm he thy dreamless rest. And sweet as if thy last cold couch were on our country's hreast ; This last sad parting brings to her but bitterness and pain ; For thee 't is joy, for thou art gone where souls ne'er wear a chain. WAK. He comes, the Destroyer, with rapid tread ; The clang of his armor might rouse the dead From their slumbers calm and deep. As he rushes over the hallowed graves O'er which the laurel yet freshty waves, Where a Nation's heroes sleep. He sweeps o'er the earth, and his lightning breath Scorches up Nature's fair face ; beneath The weight of his iron heel WAR. 77 Proud cities and temples to earth are trod, And he changes the crystal streams to hlood With his bristling beard of steel. He stalks over Ocean's tranquil breast, And the bird-like ships, that so lately pressed The wave with their wings of snow, Quiver in rage, and with angry flash Their battle -thunders in fury dash, To shatter each pinioned foe. Oh, woe to the land unto which he comes ! There is bitter wailing in lonely homes For the loved and the brave laid low ; Dark Sorrow and Ruin mark his path, As his grim attendants, Disease and Death, Drape nations in weeds of woe. He tears from the mother her noble boy, The staff of her years, her hope and joy ; He leaves the forsaken wife To wQep o'er her babes in her lonely home, Where the loved one never again may come To brighten her dreary life. He rushes on in his dreadful rage, Unmoved by the sorrows of youth or age, Till his fearful task is o'er ; 78 WAR. Till liis crimson harvest of mangled sheaves In the boundless storehouse of Death he leaves On the dim, eternal shore. And they who have roused the monster's wrath — Will they bravely stand in his fiery path, In the heat of the awful strife ? Will they draw the poison from sorrow's dart ? Will they gladden the mourner's bleeding heart? Will they bring back the dead to life ? All honor give to the patriot brave, The victor's crown or the hero's grave, Who battles in Freedom's cause ; But deathless shame to the wretch whose hand Would sink in ruin his native land To hide from her outraged laws. Almighty Father, whose bounteous hand Is stretched in mercy o'er wave and land. The crimson avenger stay ; Raise Thou our land from this blood and strife To a higher, holier, purer life. That shall flourish till Time's decay. THE CANONIZATION. 79 THE CANONIZATION. [The canonization of the Japanese Martyrs, in 1862.] Lone motlier of dead empires/* throned Upon the ancient hills That rise o'er Tiber's yellow flood, What joy thy bosom thrills ? What strains of triumph proudly swell, And fill the listening air, While thousands on thy breast bow down To God in praise and prayer ? Dost sing some brilliant victory won. As in the days of old. When here the mighty Caesars sat. In robes of glittering gold ? No — like themselves, like all of earth, Their power has passed away ; But fadeless is the triumph thou Dost celebrate to-day. Thou singest the glorious victory Won by that martyr-band. Who for the blessed Saviour's sake Died in a pagan land ; 80 THE CANONIZATION. Keen torture was to them but joy. And life but little loss, Since they the signal honor won Of dying on the cross. O holy martyr- souls, like Him Who on Mount Calvary died, Breathing forgiveness from the cross While ye were crucified, And telling those poor, blinded ones Of Jesus' boundless love. Who died for all, that all might live In bliss with Him above, — Through heaven* s blue curtains do ye gaze With deeper joy to-day, As thousands from all Christendom Their humble homage pay ? As o'er the great Apostle's tomb Your names are numbered down With those who bear the victor's palm And wear the martvr's crown ? Blest souls, where ye in far Japan Your life-blood freely poured, O'er pagan temples yet shall rise The altars of the Lord ; He said who wrote His new command Upon the world's great page, THE CANONIZATION. 81 His Clinrcli should spread o'er every land, And live througli every ageo bark of Peter, stancli and strong. On Time's tempestuous sea Thou 'st braved the gales of many an age — There is no wreck for thee ; When to the pirate's evil eye Thy hope seems nearly gone. The crimson waves of martyrs' blood Surge round and bear thee on. Thy day of power has not gone by, deathless Church of God, Though, like thy Founder, thou hast felt The scourge of Pilate's rod ; Thou 'rt changeless as the sun that bathes In gold each glittering dome That gems the fair, majestic brow Of proud, imperial Rome. Cross of Christ ! in joy or woe Our hearts must cling to thee : Oh, could our dim, earth-clouded eyes The boundless future see. Our keenest pangs would seem but slight, And life itself no loss, If we might win a fadeless crown By dying on the cross. 5 82 THE OLD HOME. THE OLD HOME. Far o'er the blue ^vaves, in a sweet, sheltered val- ley, Where desolate monntains, wild, gloomy and grand, Wrapped in their blue mantles, mist-hooded and silent. To ward off the tempest like sentinels stand, — Close nestled, like bird, in its thick, leafy covert. The gray, time-stained walls of our homestead are seen ; The sycamores shade its thatched roof, and the ivy Has draped its quaint gables in garlands of green. The fishennan's sail on the lough's heaving bosom Is seen through the dark, waving boughs of the trees. While up from the meadows the breath of sweet blossoms Is borne on the wandering wing of the breeze. THE OLD HOME. 83 Oh, there by the way- side the blackbirds and thrushes Pour forth their glad anthems to welcome the spring ; The hawthorn's pale blossoms are gleaming like snow-wreaths, Just drifted from heaven by an angel's white wing. There soft sighs the breeze 'mong the low, waving heather, Whose pui-ple bells brighten the brown of the moor ; The daisy lifts meekly her sweet, dewy eyelids. And primrose -stars gleam round our low cottage door. When winter lays bare the gTeen hedges, the robin Forsakes his bleak thorn for the ivy's dark leaves ; The crickets sing merrily round the wide chimney, While swallows are twittering beneath the warm eaves. By the turfs ruddy blaze, round the broad hearth, are gathered Light hearts and glad faces, when evening has come ; While story and song, and the gay laugh of child- hood. Chime in with the sound of the wheel's busy hum. 84 OUR FLAG. Oh, rose-tinted hours of childhood, how quickly Your glittering pinions for flight are unfurled ; How quickly do shadows creep into the sunshine That Fancy's gold wand scatters over the world. Earth on her broad bosom has many an Eden Of beauty, but few do I see, as I roam. More fair than that glowing on Memory's canvas. And none half so dear as my loved island-home. OUK FLAG. Fair banner of a mighty land, Thy starry rays sublime Burst forth like Freedom's beacon-lights Upon the shore o£, time, And long with clear and steady blaze Have kept their cloudless way. Unmindful of the changing years. And fearless of decay. Thy radiant folds waved proudly where, 'Mid war's terrific flood, Our infant Nation sprang to life. Baptized in heroes' blood ; OUR FLAG. 85 Where sturdy arms and patriot hearts Cast off tlie galling band Of despot power, that serpent-like Coiled round this favored land. Thy stars have gleamed o'er war's red tide ; 'Mid smoke and cannons' roar Thy crimson stripes were dyed anew In many a brave heart's gore. While* guarding, as a sacred trust From the Almighty hand. The cradle of young Liberty, Rocked 'mid our forests grand. And now, though clouds are gathering- Above thy glorious blue. And some bright stars, with fading ray, Are sinking from our view. To wander in a trackless maze Of fearful storm and night. The tempest will but serve to make The others shine more bright. The Nation's mighty heart is stirred As with a sudden pain ; Her bravest and her best go forth To shield her flag from stain, — To see its stars, bright as of yore, Shine over field and flood. 86 OUR FLAG. Or quench their light on Freedom's tomb In the last freeman's blood. When History's muse essays with tears, In some succeeding age, To wash the fratricidal blood From off the crimson page That stains the annals of our land, Above her brow shall wave The star-gemmed banner — then, as now, Flag of the free and brave. Oh, soon may peace, on angel-wings. Be wafted to our shore ; Then all our stars, with purer light. And brighter than before. One glorious constellation yet In harmony shall shine, Encircled by the Orion-band That brother-love must twine. Great Ruler of the Universe, Before Thy throne we pray, Bestow on us that holy peace Earth can not take away. Long may our beauteous banner wave, — Long may our fair land be The refuge of the wanderer. The homestead of the free. 1861. FLOWERS. 87 FLOWERS. Heaven's pale, pure stars from the ether blue Look down with their twinkling ejes. And earth's star-flowers of every hue, With their beautiful eyelids bathed in dew. Look up to the evening skies, — Look up to the floating lilies fair In the calm blue lake above. And their censers, swung by the evening air, Sweet incense blend with day's vesper prayer As it floats to the Throne of Love. We fancy that earth's green vales were first By wandering angels trod, And where'er they stepped from the greensward burst Bright buds of beauty, by dewdrops nursed, And warmed by the smile of God. And mortal dw^ellers on earth below May walk like the angels there, 88 ERIN. And beneath their footsteps, where'er they go, Bright flowers of mercy and hope may blow, And sweeten life's desert air. While here around ns, like angel smiles. Earth's beautiful blossoms lie. May we tend and scatter sweet buds of love And hope and truth, for the fields above, Where flowers ne'er fade or die. V ERIN. She sits, a crownless, captive queen. Beside the heaving main ; Around her brow a cypress-wreath, And on her limbs a chain ; And as the sorrow -laden years Drag wearily along, The mighty ocean sobs to hear Her melancholy song. She strikes the harp with trembling hand, And, as she sadly sings. Her tears like gems are glittering Among the wailing strings ; ERIN. 89 The quivering chords that yet remain Can only tell of woe ; Those breathing strains of triumph high Were broken long ago. Down through the vistas of the past She sees, with tearful gaze. The glorious light that Freedom shed Around those vanished days When Art and Science, nursling yet, To Britons rude unknown, Were fostered by her generous hand, And sheltered by her throne. When Learning and Eeligion roamed, Twin pilgrims, hand in hand. By War's dread fury forced to flee From many a mourning land. They in her arms a refuge sought. And gorgeous shrine and dome Sprang up to give the weary ones A shelter and a home. Then in her radiant loveliness She stood serenely fair ; No sorrow bowed her sunny brow. Her heart was free from care ; By royal bards her praise was sung In grand and lofty strain ; 90 ERIN. Her hosts were miglity on the land, Her ships upon the main. But soon a fearful tempest swept Her cloudless morning o'er — The Sea Kings with their savage hordes Came from their frozen shore ; They came to plunder and to slay, And fierce and deadly strife Did Erin wage through many an age For liherty and life. At last she saw her sunny plains From the invaders free ; The spoilers from her shores were hurled Into the yawning sea ; Each shrine and hall from ruin rose More fair than it had been, And laurels wreathed the radiant brow Of Ocean's peerless Queen. Then ages upon ages fled On golden wings away ; A flood of splendor Genius shed O'er that unclouded day ; Her sages bore to many lands Their stores of precious lore. While pilgrims from far nations sought For wisdom on h^r shore. ERIN. 91 The wily Saxon came at last To curse lier sacred soil ; His artful snares were round her thrown In many a serpent coil ; One base and traitor-hearted son Was found her foes to aid, Like him who in Gethsemane His Lord and Friend betrayed. Then Erin's robe of green was dyed In many a hero's blood ; Unconquered still, where fell the last Another bravely stood. And though whole centuries of wrong And tyranny have passed Since then, each year has found her still Unconquered as the last. Her language a forbidden sound, Her ancient faith a crime, Her children hunted o'er the seas To many a foreign clime, Her very name a word of scorn — Yet all can not destroy The chainless soul that, unsubdued, Burns in her kindling eye. In weary bondage now she sits. Forsaken and alone ; 92 BENEATH THE STARS. Her hoary locks and tattered robe By wild winds rudely blown ; But tbough the night be dark and drear, And hoarse the tempest raves, A glorious light forever gleams Around her heroes' graves. Her star of hope shines brightly yet. And never shall grow dim ; Her song of sorrow soon shall change To a triumphal hymn ; From tyranny's dead ashes yet She, phoenix-like, shall soar. In the full blaze of Freedom's light To dwell forevermore. BENEATH THE STARS. In the holy hush of even. When the day has gone to rest. And her cares and doubts and trials Sleep like babes upon her breast. When no busy strife or bustle The sweet, dreamlike quiet mars. Oh, what fancies flit before us As we sit beneath the stars. BENEATH THE STAKS. 95 Starry jewels blaze and glitter In tlie night's imperial crown, Like tlie clear, pure eyes of angels Looking coldly, calmly down ; And the flask of pearly portals, And the gleam of golden bars, Pass before us in our musing As we gaze upon the stars. Ok, kad we tke mystic vision Of Ckaldea's seers of eld, Wko in tke blue scroll above tkem Tke great fate of worlds bekeld, Wkat commotions and wkat ckanges, Wkat fierce triumpks, toils and wars, Migkt we read in silver letters On tke tablet of tke stars. Wken tke soft, blue sky of even Seems an inland lake at rest, Witk tke gleaming, snow-wkite lilies Sleeping on its peaceful breast. Oft tke busy band of Fancy Puskes back tke golden bars, Till we seem to see tke glory Of tke world beyond tke stars. Tken tke fleecy cloudlets, floating In tke moonbeams' pearly rays. 94 BENEATH THE STARS. Seem like wings of wandering angels, Slowly sailing through the haze ; Or like straying peris, drifting In their light, aerial cars From their paradise of beauty In the world beyond the stars. Starry lamps seem watchfires lighted By some loved, departed hand, To allure our wandering footsteps To the distant spirit-land. So that, looking through the dimness That the earthly vision mars. We may bow in adoration Before Him who made the stars. When at last life's toils are over. And we fold our hands in rest. As day folds her rosy pinions In the chambers of the West, — When its mortal bands no longer The freed spirit's flight debars, May we rise to dwell forever In the world beyond the stars. THE lady's leap. 95 THE LADY'S LEAP. A LEGEND. 'T WAS in the golden era past, Of wiiicli our minstrels sing, When Erin liad no tyrant lords, And owned no foreign king — The long-past ages that yet shed A flood of fadeless glory Upon the clonded pages of Her dark and blood-stained story, A stately castle reared its towers Beside Killarney's waters, And there a beauteous lady dwelt, The star of Erin's daughters. With heart as stainless as the snow, And voice like falling fountains. And step as fleet as the wild roe Upon her native mountains ; The sunlight of her ancient halls, The proud and great caressed her ; With generous heart and lavish hand, The poor and needy blessed her ; 96 THE lady's leap. But all in vain to win lier love Had prince and chieftain striven — As easy 'twere to win a star From the blue fields of heaven. A point juts out beneath the trees, Whose giant branches meet, And there the lady strayed one morn, May's first sweet smile to greet ; Soon strains of witching harmony Came floating o'er the tide. And earthward, on his foaming steed. She saw the Lake King ride ; And as she heard his white steed's hoofs Upon the pebbles ring. Bowed every tree its leafy brow To greet its native king. His helmet, crowned with snowy plumes. The spirit- chieftain raised. And low before the lady bent. Who in mute wonder gazed. ** Lady, I dwell where blazing gems Light ocean's deepest caves ; My courtiers wait in halls of light, Beneath the crystal waves ; When seven May mornings shall have passed. If thou to me art true, Queen of my palace thou shalt be, Beneath the waters blue." THE lady's leap. 97 - Six Mays, with hawtliorii blossoms crowned, And robed in beauty, passed; The lady to her love was true — The seventh came at last ; She wept at leaving home and friends, To see them nevermore, Then turned to meet the Water King, Who waited near the shore ; Her white hand waved a last farewell, — Down from the rocky steep She sprang, and- ever since that spot Is called ^' The Lady's Leap." Soft strains of wild, sweet music woke The echoes on the shore, — The lady with the chieftain fled. None ever saw them more ; But when the bright May morning dawns O'er hill and vale and glen. And wakes to life all beauteous things To gladden earth again. Strains of enchanting melody Come floating o'er the tide. As on the morn the Water King Bore oiF his beauteous bride. 5* 98 TO MA meke's jonquille. TO MA MERE'S JONQUILLE.^ Pale child of the spring-time, thy golden stars gleam Away in a far, sunny land. And, warmed by the breath ^of that sweet south- ern clime. In fragrance and beauty expand ; Then what dost thou here, where the cold north- ern blast On fierce, icy pinions sweeps by ? Why brave the wild air of our chill wintry clime, Fair child of a sunnier sky ? Oh, sweet little blossom, out here in the storm, 'T is love makes the starry eyes shine ; To gladden the heart of a friend, thou didst leave The land of the olive and vine ; Nursed there by her care, thou hast followed her here. To bloom 'neath her fostering hand ; Inhaling thy fragrance, she '11 fancy she breathes The air of her loved native land. ''•' A little flower sent to Sister Stanislaus, of Saint Martin's, from her convent in France. TO MA mere's jonquille. 99 The vine -mantled bill -sides of beautiful France May never again meet lier view ; But here, little flower, in the wilds of the West, She'll see them reflected in you. And often perchance, as she looks on your leaves, Her heart shall revisit again The home of her childhood, the friends of her youth, The land of the sword and the pen. Then offer thy incense with glad, grateful heart. Thy guardian's kind care to repay ; And here, in the shade of the cloister, recall Her dear convent-home far away. Long, long may'st thou bloom ere the angels shall bear Her off to the bright world on high. To walk with the blest in the gardens of God Where blossoms ne'er wither or die. 100 THE exile's dream, THE EXILE'S DREAM. My lieart forever fondly turns to thee, my native land, And oft again in happy dreams upon thy shore I stand ; I sit beneath the hawthorn boughs, upon the daisied sod, ^ Or roam the old, familiar paths my childish foot- steps trod. I see the hoary towers that rise to tell thee of thy youth. The lakes that rest upon thy breast, clear as the light of truth ; The splendid wrecks of lordly halls, that tell of glory gone, Thy holy graves, where heroes sleep, while slaves must still live on. Thy beauty, oh, my native land, can never pass away : Fair as thou wert when great and free, thou art in chains to-day ! THE exile's dream. 101 But 't is a beauty, oh ! so sad ! it makes the tears to start — Sad as the smile that wreathes the lips when Death has chilled the heart. But once, my native land, I dreamed a glorious dream of thee, That thou once more wert throned a Queen upon the subject sea; In stern defiance proudly rose thy towers and castles tall, While, fanned by Freedom, floated out the Green Flag over all. The thunder- shout of victory that rose from hill and glen, Might make thy old, heroic dead leap back to life again ; As Liberty's grand pasan rose above the ocean's roar. By millions 't was reechoed back from many a far-off shore. No more the pallid brow of woe bent over famine graves, No longer freights of human hearts were borne across the waves ; No more was felt the crushing weight of foreign tvrant's hand. 102 THE exile's dream. But happy hearts and cheerful homes smiled over all the land. . Then 'mid the nations Erin sat, a nation blest and free. Her Sunburst floated, as of yore, afar o'er land and sea, And peace and plenty, hand in hand, her hills and valleys trod, For man no longer dared to curse a land so blessed by God. Alas ! my land, H was but a dream, for thou art still a slave — The cherished dream of countless hearts now pulse- less in the grave ; But Hope still on the altar lives, and like electric fire It leaps from patriot soul to soul, and never can expire. Yet, Erin, by the martyred dead that on thy bosom lie. And by thy noble living hearts, whose hopes can never die, — By the darkness of the present, by the glory of the past, 1 feel that blessed vision must be realized at last. SPRING. 103 SPRING. Again the fairy foot of Spring Comes tripping o'er the lea ; Young blossoms ope their dewy eyes, Her smiling face to see ; The streamlets gush in rippling play, The woods with music ring. And smiling Nature seems to say : '' Oh, welcome, joyous Spring ! " The broad folds of her emerald robe O'er hill and vale are spread, And at her touch the violet lifts From earth its drooping head ; The soft peach-blossom tints her cheek. Her brow the myrtle wreathes. And where steps the hyacinth Its fragrant odor breathes. When Morning from her eastern couch Comes forth on rosy wings. The blue-bird 'mong the locust boughs Her joyous matin sings ; 104 SPRING. The robin flits from brancli to branch, And carols loud and clear, And all things round us seem to say : '* Bright Spring, glad Spring, is here ! " As bursts of liquid melody Gush forth from bower and grove, In gratitude to Nature's God For all His care and love. We, too, should with the joyous birds Our grateful voices raise. And make the duties of each day An anthem in His praise. Yes, Spring is here — with joy we hail Her sunny face once more — Fair herald of the Summer's bloom. And of the Autumn's store ; And as the buds in beauty burst, Touched by her magic wand, The heart seems, too, with joyous hope And gladness to expand. The sleeping earth in beauty wakes Where'er her footsteps fall ; And Nature's myriad voices blend In music, at her call ; And as the opening buds exhale Their fragrance from the sod, SPRING. 105 The lieart its grateful incense sends Up to the throne of God. Dear God, who made this world so fair. What mortal e'er can tell The glories of that cloudless land Where saints and angels dwell ? Oh, may the fleeting loveliness That here on earth we see, Forever bid our wandering thoughts Ascend to heaven and Thee. Oh, glorious Spring, thy breezes waft The light wings of the soul From earth to where o'er golden sands Life-giving waters roll. Where seraph -choirs their happy songs In bowers of beauty sing, And fadeless flowers wreathe the brow Of a perpetual Spring. 6 106 HELP OF CHKISTIAKS. HELP OF CHKISTIANS. Oh ! Mary, Help of Christians called. Queen of tlie shining courts above, Thy children lift their hearts to thee, And trust in thy maternal love ; For thou wilt never turn away From those who for thy succor pray. Oh, mournful Mother, who didst stand Beside the Cross on Calvary's hill, "When our dear Lord for sinners died. And Nature's heart in awe stood still, Dark days of sorrow didst thou see, — Therefore in grief we turn to thee. When dangers " gather round our way. And angry tempests o'er us frown. When all the world seems dark and drear. Do thou with pitying eyes look down, And be a star to light the gloom. And guide our wandering footsteps home. HELP OF CHRISTIANS. 107 * Oh, Mother of our thorn-crowned King, A mother's love we claim from thee ; Thou wert bequeathed to us by Him, Our Mother and our Help to be ; Then, Help of Christians, hear our prayer, And guard the children of thy care. Though crowned in triumph by thy Son, Queen of the realms of endless light. And listening to the happy songs Of ransomed souls and seraphs bright. Yet thou art not too high to know And sympathize with human woe. Oh, pray for us to thy dear Son, When waves of sorrow o'er us roll ; When dark temptations gather round, Sustain and aid the fainting soul ; And as we drift o'er death's dark tide, Oh, Help of Christians, be our guide. 108 TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS DAVlS. TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS DAVIS. Oh, pure and glorious patriot soul, In Erin's sacred mold Thy great and generous hero -heart Is resting calm and cold ; But still thy chainless spirit breathes In every passing gale That fans the brows of slaves that bow In mourning Innisfail. Though empires crumble into dust, As age on age rolls by, The memory of a life like thine Can never fade or die ; Thy grand soul in its mighty grasp The universe could span, Its daily worship — boundless love For crushed and fallen man. Like moimtain torrents, bold and free, Thy numbers leap along ; TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS DAVIS. 109 Cold, cold must be the Irish heart That thrills not at thy song ; And truthfully did Erin read In every glowing word The hand that held that breathing pen For her would wield the sword. Pure patriot-fire, like vestal flame, Burned in thy dauntless eye ; Thy noble brow bespoke a soul Whose aims were pure and high ; Alas, that o'er that brow so soon The cypress bough should wave ! Oh ! bitter tears did Erin shed Above thy early grave. Among her worshipped heroes thou Shalt ever foremost stand ; When Freedom's glorious sun shall blaze Above our rescued land, She '11 pause amid her triumph, o'er Thy blighted hopes to sigh ; While her eternal mountains stand, Thy memory shall not die. Though now thy heart of fire is cold. Thy glorious spirit flown. Unnumbered souls have caught the flame That burned within thv own ; 110 ALONE FOREVER. Soon up throngh heaven's grand aisles thou *lt liear A shout of triumph ring, When Erin bows to God alone, And owns no other King. ALONE FOREVER. A MOTHER stands, with breaking heart, And eyes that quench the light, Upon the shore where stood her boy, Now sailing out of sight ; The wild waves seem to mock her woe. And say she'll see him never ; From her wrung heart bursts forth the cry Alone — alone forever ! A sad-faced mourner bends above A cherished idol's grave ; Her agonizing prayers and tears All powerless were to save ; The dull sound of each falling clod Her heart-strings seems to sever, And grief wrings forth the hopeless wail: Alone — alone forever ! ALONE FOREVER. Ill An orphan lays liis liomeless head Upon the churchyard mold, Where father, mother, sisters sleep, With pulseless hearts and cold ; In this wide world the lips so loved Shall smile upon him never, And, clasping the cold earth, he sobs : Alone — alone forever ! The outcast, sick of sin and woe, ^ Along the busy street May look in vain, with wistful eye, Some kindly face to meet ; Mailed in self -justice, pity-proof. Proud Virtue spurns her ever. And from the foot of Mercy's throne Would hurl her down forever. Friendship and love were idle words In this brief, changing life, Did they not span the gulf 'twixt heaven And earth's stern toil and strife. Were their bright links not knit too strong For Fate's rude hand to sever. Was there no land where loved ones meet To part no more forever. Sad soul, that o'er life's weary way Still gropeth darkly on, 112 WORK IS WORSHIP. Paint not ! soon on thy tear-dimmed gaze An endless day shall dawn ; The bands of clay that bind thee here Death's angel soon will sever, And in the glorious world beyond None cry — Alone forever ! WORK IS WORSHIP. Toiling brothers, bowed and weary. Struggling 'neath life's bitter weight. Think not idleness is honor, Envy not the proud and great ; Noble is your humble lot ; Work is worship : scorn it not. Sigh not for the gilded glory That the crown or sceptre brings ; If ye rule the fields of labor, Ye are God-created Kings ; Many a kingly heart may rest 'Neath a coarse and tattered vest. Though the Avoiidly great may scorn you, Ye are men — what more are they ? WORK IS WORSHIP. 113 Have they not the same Creator ? Are they made of finer clay? 'T is by noble deeds alone That a noble soul is known. Let the voice of prayer and labor Blend in one harmonious chime ; Useful works are glorious anthems, Toil is prayer the most sublime. Though ye suffer scorn and pain, Think not that ye live in vain. Think of Him, the '^meek and lowly,*' When in weariness ye groan ; How He lived and toiled and suffered, Poor, unhonored and unknown ; He, the universal Lord, Worshipped by both deed and word. Honored be the earnest worker. Blessed the rough, toil-hardened hand, While the glorious hymn of labor Heavenward floats from wave and land. Toilers, noble is your lot ; Work is worship: scorn it not. 114 BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.* At last the foe was vanquished, The warrior turned his rein, To place his hard-won laurels Upon the brow of Spain. But soon a fearful story Of wrong aroused his ire ; His soul was wrung with anguish, His heart seemed changed to fire. Swift sped his fleet war- charger Till at the palace door, And soon his clanging sabre Rang on the marble floor. ♦ This renowned Champion of the Ninth Century was the son of the Count Saldana, who had secretly married the sister of Alfonso, King of Austurias. The angry King doomed the Count to life-long imprieon- ment, and brought up the young Bernardo as his own son. The Cham- pion at last, on his victorious return from battle, learns who his real father is, and demands his release. BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 115 The king, who 'mongst his nobles Discussed the victory won, Half rose to meet the hero * Known as his warrior son. Bernardo waved him backward With gesture of command, And cried, *' king, I can not In friendship touch thy hand. ** I call thee sire no longer — Ah, why did I not see That thy cold heart had never A father's love for me. •* On many a field of battle I for thy rights have stood. And, while with my brave legions For thee I shed my blood, — "My own true, noble father In thy cold dungeon lay : If blood you ask, mine surely Has washed his fault away.*' Then spoke the crafty monarch. In accents soft and bland : ** Bernardo, thou art honored As champion of our land. 116 BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. ''The voice of Spain, in triumpli, Recounts thy vict'ries won ; 'Twere sad to keep a father From such a noble son. **Give up, then, as a ransom, Thy castle strong to me ; My royal word I pledge thee. Thy father thou shalt see/' *^ Take all I own, my sovereign, But break my father's chains ; Wealth, power, renown, are worthless While captive he remains. *' My father, oh ! what anguish Must have been his for years, While stories of my conquests Were ringing in his ears. " How base he must have pictured The son who bled for thee, Whose arm was never lifted To set his father free. *' Oh, haste, to ope his dungeon. That I may hear his voice, And, after years of sorrow. Bid him at last rejoice.'* BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 117 Time passed, and still in fetters The Count Saldana lay ; The wily king his promise Renewed from day to day. At last he said, '' Bernardo, Behold where o'er the plain Thy father rides, a free man, 'Mid yonder glittering train.'* Borne on their arrowy coursers, Whose hoofs scarce touched the ground, They reached the spot where slowly The long procession wound. Low hent the youthful warrior, His father's hand to clasp, But, icy-cold and pulseless. It fell from out his grasp. With nameless dread he shuddered, And quick the vizor raised. And on the stony visage In breathless horror gazed. The silv'ry locks encirled A brow as cold as stone ; The mute lips ne'er would greet him — His father's soul had flown. 118 BERNAKDO DEL CARPIO. He bent his throbbing forehead Upon his nerveless hand, His burning tears fast falling, Like rain, upon the sand. Stern warriors viewed with sorrow A woe so wild and deep. Amazed to see the bravest Of Spain's proud chieftains weep. '*My father, oh, my father! My life's fond hope has fled ; I came with joy to meet thee ; I see thee cold and dead ! " Come back, O soul that prison Again can never hold, And learn how that heart loved thee That seemed so base and cold. *' Alas ! too late I see thee ; In vain, in vain I call — A Heavenly King has broken At last thy spirit's thrall ! " Then, turning to Alfonso, He cried, ''Base monarch, say. Why hast thou brought me hither To greet this lifeless clay ? BERNAEDO DEL CARPIO. 119 ** Where is tlie brave young noble Thou didst in prison fling, Because he loved and wedded The sister of a king ? '* Where is the soul that kindled That form with God's warm breath ? My all was never bartered For this cold guest of Death ! '*A king whose soul is perjured Should cease to wear the crown ; The false and cruel-hearted Should fling the sceptre down ! '' The monarch paled in anger. And shouted to his train To seize the sword that often Turned war's red tide for Spain. The cavaliers stood silent, Awed by their hero's grief. Their dauntless hearts divided Between their king and chief. And soon they heard, defiant, The champion's proud tones ring : ** Bernardo's sword no longer Is subject to a king. 120 OUR MOURNING MOTHERLAND. *' And though thou hast by falsehood Won Carpio's castle strong, I still have the free mountains, The right to war with wrong. *' False-hearted king, remember, Long as this arm is free, I wage a ceaseless warfare Against thy cause and thee ! '' OUR MOURNING MOTHERLAND With heavy heart sad Erin, Beside the rolling main. Like Niobe, sits mourning Above her children slain ; She sees them fall around her, As by the moaning blast The russet leaves of Autumn To earth's cold breast are cast. She saw the yellow harvest Rise o'er the smiling land — The bursting sheaves were gathered By careful reaper's hand. OUR MOURNING MOTHERLAND. 121 Not to reward the toilers There golden plenty waves — To them our land can only- Give chains and famine graves. Strong arms that find no labor, Now weak and nerveless fall — Arms that might wield a sahre To break the Nation's thrall ; Far better to die striving In Freedom's holy cause, Than perish, unresisting. By cruel, blood-stained laws. The infant's cheek, once rosy, Is sunken, cold and pale ; .^/ In vain the stricken mother To hush its piteous wail Essays vvith song to soothe it — The drear, death-burdened air Gives forth but hopeless moanings Of anguish and despair. The merry laugh of childhood Eiags round the hearth no more ; The aged tell no stories Of deeds and days of yore ; In hopeless desolation All sit while Death's cold hand 6^ 122 OUR MouRNEsra motherland. His sable pall is folding Around that hapless land. Great Lord of power and glory, How long shall such things be ? How long shall tyrants trample The hearts that would be free ? In life-blood quench the sunlight That gilds our glorious sky ? Rend from defenceless bodies The souls they can not buy ? How long shall we list coldly Our dying brothers' moan? Yes, brothers, though their faces Perhaps we ne'er have known ; Our motherland is praying Her children o'er the main To aid her in her sorrow — Let not her prayers be vain. Divide your scanty earnings, Give from your hoarded gold ; As Joseph saved his people In Egypt's land of old. Save ye your suffering kindred — Stretch forth a helping hand To shield from utter ruin Our faxiiine-stricken land. OUR MOURNING MOTHERLAND. 123 Hope for a glorious dawning Beyond this niglit of gloom, For Justice dwells in heaven, And yet to earth shall come ; Soon Freedom's voice shall silence Our mourning Nation's wail — Though Might awhile be master. Right shall at last prevail. When strong right hands of freemen In characters sublime Shall write the doom of tyrants Upon the wall of time, *T were needless, haughty Britain, Thy crafty seers to call ; The words of light thus written Shall then be read by all. Base Babylon of nations. How great thy fall shall be ; Intolerant in power, How few shall mourn for thee ; While o'er thy crumbling ruins The raven flaps its wing, A paean rescued Erin Above thy grave shall sing. 1862. 124 TWILIGHT. TWILIGHT. Upon his crimson-curtained couch, Far in the glowing west, His long and weary journey o'er, The day-king sank to rest. While Nature, careful mother, home Bade all her weary children come, To slumber on her breast. The clouds that to the sunset dyes Their fleecy folds unrolled. Lay piled across the western skies Like snow-drifts tinged with gold. While heaven's broad fields of hazy blue Displayed a blush of amber hue In every azure fold. Sweet as a dream of childhood days The twilight hours glide by. Till night has trimmed her silver lamps And hung them in the sky. And Luna, on her throne afar. With many a bright attendant star, Smiles calmly from on high. TWILIGHT. 125 twilight hours, fading days ! Upon your viewless wings What fancies float, like zephyrs, by ; What memories do ye bring Up from the dim aisles of the past, Like ocean shells that, landward cast, Still of their caverns sing. Loved voices silent long ago Float on the breathing air ; Long-buried faces smile again In living beauty fair ; Old songs of home, old friends that smile, Shut out the present for a while. And banish grief and care. Still to the heart must twilight be The dearest hour of all ; Soft as the sweep of angel wings Its shades around us fall ; It lulls the soul, when tempest-tossed, With memories of the loved and lost, And breathes of rest to all. As calmly o'er life's twilight hour May death's dark shadow come ; May many a radiant star of hope Shine through the gathering gloom, Like lamps by angel-hands at even 126 SUMMER SHOWERS. Held o'er the battlements of heaven To light lost wanderers home. Oh, Father, may the clouds of sin That dim our heavenward way In penitential tears dissolve ; May life's last sunset ray Reveal beyond the shores of time The glories of a changeless clime Of never-ending day. SUMMER SHOWERS. The sun- scorched earth seems shrinking From the dense, heated air ; The trees are lifting upward Their arais as if in prayer ; In sickly languor drooping Are all the beauteous flowers, In silent supplication For sweet, refreshing showers. The rustlings of the corn-leaves In silvery whispers pass ; In quiet waves of verdure Lies the soft meadow grass ; SUMMER SHOWERS. 127 All nature seems to slumber In weariness and pain, Waiting to be awakened By the soft summer rain. God bears tbis mute appealing, And, in His boundless love, He turns tbe crystal cbannels Of tbe brigbt streams above, And over field and forest Tbe gleaming raindrops glance, Wbile to tbe wind's low music Tbeir twinkling footsteps dance. And as in pearly clusters Descend tbe falling sbowers, Like tears of pitying angels, • Upon tbe tbirsty flowers, So does God's tender mercy Fall like refresbing rain. To bid tbe fainting spirit Eise, live and bope again. Ob, universal Fatber, Beneatb wbose bounteous band Eartb spreads ber robe of beauty. And buds and flowers expand, Wbo arcbes eartb and ocean Witb tbe clear beaven o'er, 128 THE patriot's vow. And strews the stars like diamonds Upon its azure floor,— If in Thy love Thou sendest The gentle rain, to fall On leaf and bud and blossom, Whose mute lips to Thee call, How much more wilt Thou succor Thy human flowers, placed here To gather strength and beauty For a sublimer sphere. THE PATRIOT'S VOW. O'er mountains blue, and green-robed hills, Belted by countless silver rills. Whose low-voiced, murmuring music fills The pure, health-breathing air, Where, fringed with groves, green valleys lie, Arched by an ever- changing sky. The patriot looks with reverent eye On land so sad and fair. Her towers and halls to ruin gone — Proud relics of the ages flown — THE patriot's VOW. 129 The ivy drapes each molclering stone, To shroud its sad decay ; Her mighty chieftains, brave and bold. Who mildly ruled in days of old, Have slumbered long beneath the mold, And tyrants now hold sway. *'Alas, my land!" the patriot cries, *' When wilt thou from the dust arise ? Thy sad complaints may rend the skies, But ne'er thy fetters break ; Thy hope must be in deeds — not words; The keenest logic lies in swords ; Thou canst not loose, then cut the cords That bind thee to the stake. '^A stern voice rings from rocks and waves, Prom ruined homes and heroes' graves : * God never made our land for slaves Her children's limbs for chains ! ' Brave hearts, strong arms are thine, green land ; And vowed to right thy wrongs we stand — To never rest while despot's hand Defiles thy hallowed plains. *' Here, kneeling on this sacred sod, By feet of patriot-martyrs trod. Our trust in right and Freedom's God, We swear we shall be free ! 7 i 30 WATER-LILIES. As freemen on our native plains We'll firmly stand while life remains, Nor wear a foreign tyrant's chains. Nor bend a conquered knee ! " WATER-LILIES. ]?ALE babes of the billow, your pure faces raising Up from the dark wave to the sunlight above, jjike glorified souls from their earth-prisons spring- ing, To bathe their freed wings in the light of God's love, — Hocked on the smooth stream like a babe in its cradle, It seems, while upon its calm bosom ye rest. As if a broad flake from the blue sky of midnight Had fallen to earth with the stars on its breast. As pure may our souls float o'er life's troubled waters, As stainless arise from the dust of the grave. To bathe in the crystalline river eternal That from God's great love draws its life-giving wave. HEROISM. 131 HEKOISM. The age of heroes is not dead, Nor numbered with the past ; Each day calls forth some daring deed More brilliant than the last ; Each day some noble sacrifice Made in a glorious cause Bids earth to her foundations shake With thunders of applause. The hero stands, a demi-god, 'Mid the admiring crowd That sounds the trumpet of his fame In plaudits long and loud ; Their praise is music to his ears — Yet had he toiled the same, And failure, not success, been his, How would he bear their blame ? And though unmoved where passion rolls A fiercely flaming flood Of strife across a nation's breast That must be quenched in blood, 132 HEROISM. Though fearless 'mid the tempest's rag^ And foremost in the strife, The hero of an hour may be The coward of a life. But more heroic is the soul That acts its humble part, And makes its quiet dwelling-place In woman's faithful heart ; That praise or blame, or coward fear Of what the world will say. Can never for a moment lure From its appointed way. For whether by the household hearth Or in the convent cell, Or 'mid the haunts where pale disease And sad-browed sorrow dwell, Her trials, struggles, cares and woes She bravely bears alone ; Her life is full of hero-deeds To the great world unknown. Though many a dreary path she strews With flowers of mercy sweet. Oft in her own sharp thorns are thrown That pierce her weary feet ; Yet patient, uncomplaining still, She toils as seasons roll, HEROISM. 133 Wearing perhaps a careless smile To liide a martyr- soul. As sweetly in some quiet dell Tlie violet, newly blown, Breathes fragrance on tlie passer-by, Itself unseen, unknown, Distilling balm for otters' woes, She spends her quiet days. Content to see her noblest works Win blame instead of praise. The world may have no meed of praise, No laurel-wreath to give To those who daily walk with death That others yet may live, Who stanch the blood that laureled brows Have caused in streams to flow, But angels twine unfading crowns For those uncrowned below. The hero true, forgetting self. Will ready ever stand To live, to suffer, or to die For God or native land ; But while you give him honor due, Pass not unheeding by Her whose brave soul endures and lives Where he could only die. 134 LAMENT OF THE MOORISH MAIDEN. LAMENT OF THE MOORISH MAIDEN. Oh, beauteous Granada, how fallen art thou! The Crescent's light shineth no more on thy brow ; Thy palaces echo the tread of the foe ; Granada, Granada, thy glory lies low ! Oh, where are thy warriors, the true and the tried, Who passed from thy portals in chivalrous pride ? Their lances are broken, they sleep in their gore, Their trumpets shall ring through Granada no more. Oh, fairest of cities, thou queen of our pride. Weep, weep for the heroes who for thee have died ; Down through the green vega the Xenil runs red, And Darro is choked with the heaps of the dead. Though softly the breath of the myrtle floats by, Its perfume is heavy with many a sigh ; The spirit of song has abandoned thy bowers, And crimsoned with gore are thy loveliest flowers. Though cool, gushing fountains still leap in thy halls. Their spray like a shower of heavy tears falls, THE LITTLE CHAIR. 135 And if a glad note through thy orange groves rings, Alas ! it is only the nightingale sings. Oh, home of my kindred, thy power is flown, Thy monarch an exile,, and ruined thy throne ; Thy strength and thy heauty no longer are ours, The Cross glitters high o'er Alhambra's proud towers. Granada, though fallen, how dear to my heart ; In vain from thy bowers I strive to depart ; With thee will I linger, and when life is past, Eepose with my sires in thy bosom at last. THE LITTLE CHAIR. The house seems bright and cheerful As any home can be ; I hear clear, ringing laughter. Glad bursts of childish glee ; Why does the silent mother A look of sadness wear ? Ah, in a shaded corner She sees a little chair. 136 THE LITTLE CHAIR. There sat her blue-eyed Willie, One year ago to day — Oh, with what earnest pleading She prayed that he might stay ; For, though she knew God called him, She wished not yet to spare Her youngest, brightest darling To fill an angel's chair. His sweet young voice is silent. She sees his smile no more, Nor hears his tiny footsteps' Light patter on the floor, The dimpled hands no longer Are lifted up in prayer. Lisped in sweet, childish accents, Beside his little chair. Though other children gambol All joyous at her side, Her sad eye vainly seeketh The little one that died ; Oh, bitterly she mourns him, And oft, when none are there, Her hot tears fall in silence Upon his little chair. Oh, there is many a household Where joy and sorrow meet — MAY. 137 Homes where one link is wanting Tlie circle to complete, And slionld you ask what shadow Of sorrow resteth there, Some loving hand will sadly Point to an empty chair. What heart is there that mourns not Some loved one gone hefore. To meet the waiting angels Upon the spirit shore ? Since here there must be partings. Oh, let it be our prayer That in our home eternal We'll mourn no empty chair. MAY Again with joy we greet thee, flow^er-crowned, sunny May ; We've listened for thy footsteps through many a dreary day ; Now wrapped in robes of beauty thou 'st burst upon our view. Thy emerald sandals spangled with pearls of purest dew. 138 MAY. From out tlie future's bosom thou 'st sprung on radiant wings ; The varied voice of Nature to tliee an anthem sings ; The green aisles of the forest peal forth the glad- some strain, And rivers bear it onward rejoicing to the main. Thy lap is filled with blossoms — the brightest buds that blow ; Sweet smiles and fond caresses on them thou dost bestow, Awaking them with sunbeams, and nursing them with showers, For ''Israel's spotless Lily," the glorious queen of flowers. Thou art the month of Mary, O mild and genial May ; The blossoms thou dost scatter along thy sunny way Breathe out in dewy garlands, that loving hands entwine, Their short, sweet lives of beauty before our Mother's shrine. gentle Queen of Heaven, from thy bright throne above Forever wafting downward sweet messages of love THE DEPARTED. 189 To thy poor, wandering children, look kindly, we entreat, Upon the simple offerings we lay before thy feet. And as their incense rises around thy starry throne, Thy voice in prayer lift upward for ns unto thy Son, That in our hearts fair flowers of grace may bloom each day, More bright than buds that blossom upon the brow of May. THE DEPARTED. How fondly does the heart recall The friends of vanished years. The peaceful dead, who calmly rest. Unmoved by hopes or fears ; Visions of light and love, they come Into the heart, like dreams of home, And melt the soul to tears. Their voices often on our ears In silvery cadence fall, 140 THE DEPARTED. Like some sweet song, almost forgot,. That we would fain recall ; When Memory sweeps the heart-harp's chords, Echoes of long forgotten words Breathe round us at her call. Like whispers of a summer breeze That on its airy wings From hill and lea, from grove and vale, The balm of blossoms brings, They come to us in silent hours. Like strains that in celestial bowers Some wandering seraph sings. The faces of our loved and dead Arise before our gaze ; The smiles that tinged with light the clouds Of long departed days, Oft in our loneliness come back, To light us o'er life's darkened track With hope's celestial rays. Oh, faces shrouded from our view, Oh, voices silent long. We would not call you back to earth For sweetest smile or song — Here time or doubt may friends estrange, In heaven the heart can never change Or chill at fancied wrong. LOUGH NEAGH. 141 To US ye are as beacon lights Upon the heavenly shore ; While o'er life's changing sea we drift, And hear its breakers roar, With outstretched aims ye bid us come, And smile a joyous welcome home Where parting is no more. LOUGH NEAGH. Pair lake, I've stood upon thy shore In Erin's glorious spring. When o'er thy azure bosom swept The sea-gull's snowy wing. When, folded over earth's broad breast. From the bright wave below An emerald mantle stretched, with fringe Of hawthorns' fragrant snow. Thy placid bosom shows no sign Of ages long gone by — It but reflects the varied hues Of Erin's changeful sky ; 142 LOUGH NEAGH. No footprints of the buried race In tlie green vale below, Who lived, loved, died, and left no trace. Thy tranquil waters show. No sunken towers to greet my sight Thy glassy mirror gave. Save where Shane's Castle stood alone Reflected in the wave. Its towers, like hoary sages, raise Their heads, with ruin gray. To tell us of a grand old race Forever passed away. That brave old valiant race who long The Saxon power withstood — To keep proud Freedom's ark afloat They freely shed their blood ; Now o'er their hallowed dust is heard The despot's clanking chain — Their moss-grown tombs, their ruined halls. Are all that now remain. Not all ! In Erin's heart of hearts Their memory still will live, Kept fragrant by the purest tears A mother's love can give ; And on her history's brightest page Their deeds, their high renown, LOUGH NEAGH. 143 Shall shine — our country's northern lights, When tower and hall go down. The waters break in heavy sobs Against the castle's wall, Like spirits of the olden time Come back to weep its fall ; But sobs are Erin's household words — Since tyrants trod her strand She 's shed a flood of tears and blood Might deluge all the land. Fair lake, while gazing on thy breast And on my country's woe, I've ^almost wished that far above Her mountains thou wouldst flow ; Better that Lethe's wave o'er her And all her woes should roll, Did not the heavenly light of hope Shine on her tortured soul. The iron hand that long has held Our nation in the dust, So often wet with martyrs' blood, At last must turn to rust ; One vigorous blow its strength must crush, — Once crushed, 't will rise no more To blight the bloom on Erin's cheek, Or curse Lough Neagh's green shore. 144 GETHSEMANE, GETHSEMANE. Night above Judea's mountains folds her mantle like a pall ; Soft the shadows of her pinions over hill and val- ley fall ; Sad Gethsemane, above thee seems a darker shad- ow thrown, Where the Saviour kneeleth lowly in His agony alone. Blessed Lord, what bitter anguish in that dread- ful hour was Thine, When the powers of earth and heaven seemed against Thee to combine. When the angel, bending o'er Thee, held the flam- ing chalice down. And revealed the fearful torture of the Cross and thorny crown. By Thy chosen ones forsaken in that dark and bitter hour. When a surging sea of sorrow swept Thy soul with fearful power — OETHSEMANE. 145 They, unmindful of Tliy angnisli, slept while foes came rushing on, Leaving Thee to brave the fury of Thy enemies alone. Oh, Gethsemane, mute witness of the agony of God, Consecrated by His sorrow, ever holy be thy sod; Mercy in His heart with Justice striving, there the victory won. As He cried, *' Oh, Heavenly Father, not my will, but Thine, be done." While on earth we 're doomed to wander, every human soul must know Some dark hour of desolation, some Gethsemane of woe, — Moments when the fainting spirit in its weariness will groan. Weakly shrinking from the trials that it fears to meet alone. But when waves of sorrow o'er us like the ocean billows roll. Bitter tears will wash the earth-stains from the white wings of the soul ; Lord, though weak and weary-hearted, from our woes we try to flee. Let us drink Thy bitter chalice, if it make us more like Thee. 7* 146 TO A SISTER OF MERCY. Often from Thy patli we wander, agonizing Son of God; We would walk to heaven on roses, while on thorns Thy feet have trod, — Teach our hearts that it is only by the Cross the Crown is won ; In our darkest hours of sorrow let us say, '* Thy will be done !" TO A SISTER OF MERCY. Dear friend, my thoughts oft wander, My heart oft turns to thee ; I hear thy words of kindness, Thy friendly face I see. The shining links are brittle That worldly ties entwine ; How much more true and lasting Is friendship such as thine. Oft in the gloomy prison Where sin and sorrow dwell Thy name is breathed with blessings In many a dreary cell ; Oft o'er the lowly threshold Where wretchedness abides. TO A SISTER OF MERCY. 147 Bearer of timely succor. Thy noiseless footstep glides. May blessings gild thy pathway While walking, day by day, With strong, unwearying patience, Where Mercy leads the way, * Performing deeds of kindness, And speaking words of cheer, a^To soothe the stricken-hearted, And dry the mourner's tear. Oh, noble is thy mission — Then be thy labor blessed ; Long be it thine to succor The needy and distressed — To guide the weak and erring, Watch by the sufferer's bed. To soothe and bless the dying. And pray beside the dead. May angel-fingers gather Thy deeds of mercy done, And twine them into garlands To lay before the Throne ; And, when life's toils are over, Mayst thou its cares lay down To wear in endless glory A never-fading crown. 148 SAINT martin's. SAINT MARTIN'S. [The Ursiiline Academy, Brown County, Ohio.] Sweet, liappy spot, where holy peace forever Like a pure spirit sits with folded wings, Where Virtue's radiant, ever-blooming flowers Are watered by Religion's crystal springs, Thou seemest in thy calm and quiet beauty From earth's wild strifes and sins and sorrows free ; Thou sittest throned amid thy broad green wood- lands — A sunny island in an emerald sea. Apart from all the gay world's gilded pleasures. Brave, patient spirits in thy walls abide. Walking in toil and prayer and self-denial The lowly pathway of the Crucified ; And many a young heart, nurtured by their kind- ness, Will think of them and thee when distant far, And look back to thy altar-lamp's pale shining. As once the shepherds looked to Bethlehem's star. SAINT martin's. 149 Some of my brightest, happiest days have glided In thy still shades, like streams of sunshine, by ; And to my heart thou wilt be linked forever By memories that can not fade or die ; The great and true and noble hearts thou boldest, The precious lessons and the words of cheer, Of gentleness and hope and patient kindness, Heard in thy walls, will make thee ever dear. In the dim years that yet, perchance, await me, When mingling with the great world's toil and strife, I '11 look back to the time when first I saw thee, As to the dawning of a better life. God's blessing rest on thine and thee forever, Fair dwelling-place of purity and truth ; And mayst thou be, as now, in after ages. The home of virtue and the guide of youth. 150 FALLING LEAVES. FALLING LEAVES. They 're slowly drifting downward, Witli low and whispering sound, In hues of fleeting beauty Painting the russet ground. What sombre shadows Fancy Into our life-web weaves, As autumn winds are w^ailing Among the falling leaves. Out in the sighing forest They rustle 'neath our tread. Like the half- smothered echoes Of voices from the dead; Or like some wandering spirit That, sad and restless, grieves O'er all its bright days wasted, Moan the sad autumn leaves. Like them our lives are changing. Like them we too must fade. When pass our few brief seasons Of sunshine and of shade ; ANGELS. 151 And thougli perhaps our passing Some Kome or heart bereaves, We 're soon no more remembered Than withered autumn leaves. Oh, moaning leaves of autumn, As sad were earthly life, Was there no glorious future, Undimmed by grief and strife, Where heart-strings are unbroken. And no sad spirit grieves, — Where are no faded flowers Or withered autumn leaves. ANGELS. They hover around us on pinions of light. Dispersing the shadows of sorrow's dark night ; They watch o'er our welfare from cradle to grave* And calm the wild tempests of life's troubled wave. Some, radiant in beauty, descend from the skies, Whose glory would dazzle our earth-clouded eyes ; Some, robed in coarse raiment, and prisoned in clay. Are journeying with us on life's rugged way. 152 SAINT Patrick's day. They bear to the sufferer the balm of relief; They weep o'er our sins, and console us in grief ; From clay-cumbered dwellings those pure spirits shine, As diamonds flash out through the gloom of the mine. Our earth-angels kneel in the chamber of death, And mingle their prayers with the faint, parting breath, While heavenly spirits receive the last groan. And bear the freed soul to the foot of the throne. While humbly adoring our Father above^ Who sends us those guardians of mercy and love, To watch o'er us ever, though shrouded from view, We thank Him for sending us earth-angels too. SAINT PATRICK'S DAY. Away to the mist-shrouded tombs of the ages Have centuries rolled on the billows of Time, Since Patrick first shed o'er our beautiful island The light of Religion, serene and sublime ; SAINT Patrick's day. 153 And since, though the whirlwinds of fierce per- secution -In fury around her unceasingly war, That pure light has been to our land through the temjDest As is to the tossed bark a clear guiding-star. Oh, proudly, indeed, may the children of Erin, Though scattered far from her on many a shore. All honor this day of the glorious apostle Who taught them the Father of all to adore ; No martyr's blood crimsoned the sod in his path- way — He planted the Gross, and that emblem divine Has ever been honored by chieftain and peasant. And round it the shamrock forever shall twine. And proudly and joyously Erin looks over The blue waves that carried her loved ones away ; She sees, though far distant, they still fondly love her, And hopefully looks for a happier day — A day when her children shall shake off the vipers That soil the bright folds of her mantle of green, And laurels entwine with the dew-spangled sham- rocks That wreathe the fair brow of our loved Ocean Queen. 8 154 THE TWILIGHT OF THE YEAR. Oh, welcome, thrice welcome the morning whose dawning The exile's heart bears to his loved native land. That joins the brave hands and true hearts of our people — A noble, imited and patriot band ; Though darkly the storm-clouds may lower around her, The hopes of our Nation will never decay While her children, though scattered o'er ocean and mountain. Assemble to honor Saint Patrick's day. THE TWILIGHT OF THE YEAR. The twilight of the year has come, And Autumn's ruddy cheek Is raised to meet the icy kiss Of Winter, stern and bleak ; The flowers that, bright as angel smiles, Beamed round us, disappear. And coldly, sadly closes in The twilight of the year. Out in the solemn, shaded aisles Of forests dark and dim, THE TWILIGHT OF THE YEAR. 155 In moiirnfiil cadence Nature chants The year's sad vesper-hymn ; Her organ is the moaning wind, — Its notes so wild and drear, Sighed through the falling leaves, proclaim The twilight of the year. In strains of grand, wild harmony Her pealing anthem rolls ; Like voices from the silent dead It thrills our listening souls ; It whispers of departed ones That memory still holds dear, Who in thy shadows fell asleep, Sad twilight of the year. Oh, moaning wind of Autumn, now Thy voice with mournful wail Sweeps many a dreary hill and plain Where camp-fires glimmer pale, Like waning stars seen through the gloom — Where those our hearts hold dear Are thinking of us as they watch This twilight of the year. Ahove the gory fields of strife Where fell the true and brave, Thy sad voice chants a requiem O'er many a hero's grave ; 156 TO MRS. SADLIER. But not yet o'er a Nation's tomb, Nor Freedom's gory bier, Is wrapped tby shroud of withered leaves, Pale twilight of the year. May He who paints the Autumn leaves, And bids them fade and fall, Whose bounteous hand is ever held In mercy over all, Send heaven-born peace, on angel wings. Our hearts and homes to cheer. And smile away the strife that clouds This twilight of the year. 1862. TO MKS. SADLIER, [On reading her splendid historical tale, " The Confederate Chieftains."] Oh, thou whose genius-gifted pen Is as a potent, magic wand Whose touch awakes to life and power The buried heroes of our land. My heart goes out in love to thee. While poring o'er the breathing page Where grandly live and sternly strive The chieftains of a vanished age. TO MRS. SADLIER. 157 Our great and glorious dead, who sleep In heroes' or in martyrs' graves, Thou bringest back to tell their sons How much they loathed the name of slaves, How their proud eagle-spirits scorned To stoop from Freedom's lofty height. And reared a wall of dauntless hearts Against Oppression's banded might. Their grandly mournful story thrills Our hearts with mingled grief and pride. And who shall dare, because they failed, To say in vain they strove and died ? None, — for the land that gave them birth, That holds their ashes on her breast, Eemembering their noble deeds. In chains can never, never rest. 'Tis given to thy hand to ope The secret chambers of the heart. To bid it bound with joy or mirth, Or cause grief's hidden founts to start ; Oh, cold must be the breast in which Thy words awake no genial glow, And hard the eye that does not weep The Nation's idol — Owen Eoe. From the bright radiance thou hast flung Around the struggles of the Past, 158 ON THE SHORE. The Present grasps a ray of hope Upon the Future's path to east ; Oh, may Grod ever shield and bless The great, true heart and gifted hand That twine such deathless wreaths to lay Upon the shrine of Fatherland ! ON THE SHORE. Oh, ocean, old ocean, majestic and grand, Thy hoary beard sweeps the brown feet of the land, And stern is thy voice in its roar; Thy waves in their fury leap madly on high. To war with the tempest that frowns in the sky, Then sink with a wail on the shore. We watch the proud ship as across thy broad breast It beareth far from us the friends we love best, Perhaps to behold them no more ; The deep, sullen voice of thy waves, as they roll, Sweeps like a wild wail of despair o'er the soul As lonely we stand on the shore. ON THE SHORE. 159 Oh, sadly we think on the cold ocean graves Of those who have left us to cross the wild waves, And sank 'mid the fierce tempest's roar, But sadder it is to see loved ones from sight Fade slowly and sadly away in the night Of death, while we weep on the shore. Oh, dreary is life when all trustingly we Send high hopes adrift over life's changeful sea, That shoreward return nevermore ; And sadly we read in the world's chilling frown That out in the tempest our hopes have gone down, While we have kept watch on the shore. Our choicest heart-treasures are, day after day. On Time's restless ocean all floating away. The waves of oblivion sweep o'er ; And so too must we, when our life-work is done, Go down, while the waters roll peacefully on. Forgotten by those on the shore. Oh, when the brief day of our earth-life is past, And time, like a shadow, slips from us at last. From earth may our freed spirits soar, With white wings unstained by their fetters of clay. And, borne on Eternity's billows away. Find rest on a happier shore. 160 CHILDHOOD FRIENDS. CHILDHOOD FRIENDS. Brightly the pure, guileless friendsliips of ctild- hoocl Gleam out like gems on tlie brow of the Past ; To us the dear haunts in valley and wildwood Seem fairy isles on life's broad ocean cast. There in life's morning we wandered together, Up with the lark, in the young, rosy hours, Brushing with light feet the dew from the heather, Chasing the buttertlies over the flowers. Now, like the leaves that the autumn winds scatter Over the brown earth, we 're drifting apart, Dreading the voices that slander or flatter — Doubt chases childhood's sweet trust from the heart. Some at the death-angel's call have departed O'er the dark wave to the beautiful shore ; Some, with their life-load of cares weary-hearted, Wait the pale boatman to ferry them o'er. CHILDHOOD FRIENDS. 161 One, young and brave, in tlie wild Western ocean Sleeps his last sleep 'neath tlie blue, heaving waves ; Cradled to rest by the billows' soft motion, — Sweet be his dreams in the pearl -spangled caves. Where o'er low grave-stones the ivy is creeping, Where, dark-robed mourners, the yew branches wave. One 'neath the turf of the valley lies sleeping, — Last spring's svv'eet snowdrops bloomed over her grave. Some are to-day in the red field of danger, Some in the old homes on valley or hill ; One, though alone in the land of the stranger. Thinks of child -friendships, and treasures them still. On the fair shore of the kingdom eternal Like little children all dwellers shall be ; Earth-withered hearts in its groves shall grow vernal. Doubt and distrust like the tempest shall flee. 162 THE SILENT RIVER. THE SILENT RIVER. Oh, dark and sullen wave of Time, Forever onward flowing, Like seaweed on thy breast we drift, Nor lieed where thou art going ; Like bubbles on a summer stream Our lives glide onward ever. And float at last down to the past Upon the silent river. Though dark clouds gather round our way, We must not stop to sorrow ; The sun that hides his face to-day May brightly shine to-morrow ; And should he not, life's storm and cloud Will vanish soon forever. And peace and rest be found at last Beyond Time's rapid river. The gilded toys that now we prize, Like Autumn leaves will scatter. And from our sight will fade at last Like sunshine from the water : THE OLD YEAR. 163 But steadfast faith and noble deeds Will sliine around us ever, Like guiding- stars, to lead us home Across the silent river. No gilded bubbles must we chase. No dreams of fleeting pleasure, But steadily bear down life's stream A freight of fadeless treasure ; And when upon its twilight waves Life's last faint sunbeams quiver, Launched on Eternity's broad sea, We'll leave that silent river. THE OLD YEAK. With noiseless step he is gliding down To the vaults of the silent past, 'Mid the dust and mildew that Time has strewn O'er his kindred, to sleep at last. Though his eye is bright, and few silvery hairs Yet gleam on his drooping head. If we have not wasted his priceless gifts, Need we weep o'er his dying bed ? 164 THE OLD YEAR. Shall we weakly mourn over vanished days, Like a child o'er a broken toy, And with folded hands let the Present pass On its pinions of lightning by ? 'Mid winter's snows we may search in vain For the summer's sun-kissed flowers ; The Past and Future but phantoms are, The Present alone is ours. Though in life's battle to-day we stand With strong hearts, firm and brave. The blue-eyed violets may next year shed Their dew-tears o'er our graves. Then let us toil while day's white robe Is tinged by a glowing sun, That, when life's evening shadows fall, We can say our work is done ; — That shadowy spectres of wasted years In memory ne'er may rise To clog the soul's earth-weary wings. As it struggling homeward flies. While the old year closes his weary eye, And sinks on his cloud -draped bier. As we hear his knell on the midnight bell. We'll welcome the bright new year. ACROSS THE SEA. 165 ACEOSS THE SEA. Across tlie sea is a fair green isle, Where Nature weareth. lier sweetest smile, Where giant mountains raise proudly higli Their hoary heads to the clouded sky. Where fairy islets like emeralds sleep In lakes of crystal, pure, calm and deep ; The dearest spot upon earth to me Is that green island across the sea. There grand old ruins rise sadly lone, Footprints of ages of glory gone. Ere foreign tyrants defiled the sod Where countless altars were raised to God ; Ere discord severed the golden band That wisdom twined round our happy land,- Oh, to have seen thee when blest and free. My own green island across the sea ! Oh, to have lived in those ages past That yet a glory around thee cast. When king and peasant knelt at one shrine. And golden plenty and power were thine ; 166 ACROSS THE SEA. Ere war and famine, of foreign birth, With martyrs' graves filled thy holy earth. And forced thy children to fly from thee, My own green island across the sea. Though blood-stained ages of grief and gloom Have strove to build thee a living tomb, Still Freedom shouts from thy heroes* graves : ** Better die freemen than live as slaves ! " And brave hearts bound as they hear the words That must be echoed with clash of swords, And exiles sigh as they think of thee : ** God bless the green isle across the sea ! " Upon thy shore and in foreign lands Brave hero-hearts, and strong, willing hands, Wait but the moment to rise in might For thee and Liberty, God and Right. Thy night of sorrow is nearly past. And Freedom's sun from the clouds at last In dazzling splendor shall burst on thee. My own green island across the sea. THE CHEROKEE. 167 THE CHEROKEE. He stood on a cliff that overlooked the green valley Where lately the homes of his kindred were seen, And mournfully gazed on the smoke-hlackened ruins That told where the Cherokee lodges had been. The blue-mantled hills raised their foreheads to welcome The morn, as she crowned them with circlets of gold. And 'mid the thick groves of the blooming mag- nolias Their beautiful rivers still oceanward rolled. The fleet-footed deer through the free forest bounded. The thickets still echoed the mocking-bird's strain, Pure cascades of crystal leaped down from the mountains. And garlands of flowers still wreathed the green plain. But upward no more curled the smoke from the wigwams ; All still as the grave lay the valley below ; 168 THE CHEROKEE. The voices of warrior, of matron and maiden, Were quenched in their life-blood, or silenced in woe. Fierce glowed the brown cheek of the dusky- skinned warrior, And anguish looked out from his dark, mourn- ful eye, As sadly he murmured, *' Oh, graves of our kin- dred, Oh, home of our Nation, from thee must we fly ? ** The beautiful country the Manitou gave us, With vine-mantled hill-sides, and forests of flowers. Our land of green plains and of clear, gushing rivers — Alas ! that it can not forever be ours. *' In flying canoes o'er the great ocean water The pale-faces came from the far sunrise lands. With words like the song of the wren in the spring- time. With smiles on their false lips and death in their hands. *' Though fair were their faces, black hearts lay beneath them ; Their greedy eyes longed for our hunting-grounds wide, THE CHEROKEE. 169 And vainly they strove witli false words to be- guile lis Away from the spot where our forefathers died. ** Close, close clung the hearts of thy children around thee, Our rock-girdled Eden, our beautiful land ; It seemed the great Manitou sat on thy mountains, And poured down his blessings with bountiful hand. *'The graves of our kindred, the homes of our children, The dear haunts of youth, were bright links in the chain That bound us to thee, and our loved and departed With mute lips seemed striving to bid us remain. ** Then calmly our warriors told the pale strangers They wished by the graves of their fathers to stay. That there they might sleep, and their children beside them. When called to the far land of spirits away. '' Wild shrieked our gray cliffs as they heard the loud thunder The pale-faces hurled 'midst our warriors brave. 8* 170 THE NATIVITY. And now in tlie wreck of our once liappy home- steads Braves, maidens and children lie heaped in one grave. *' Too weak to avenge thee, I leave thee in sorrow, Dear spot, ere the plough of the stranger I see Uprooting the graves of thy people, and crushing The bones of the heroes who perished for thee. *' Farewell, oh, farewell, beloved land of our people, Our arrows are broken, our warriors slain ; The sad eyes that gaze on thy beauty and sorrow Can never return to behold thee again." THE NATIVITY. Night walks abroad on Judah's hills, And spreads her sable mantle wide. While out to deck her dusky brow The stars with silvery footsteps glide ; It is the time so long foretold By Israel's prophet-saints of old. ^ The shepherds, watching o'er their flocks Upoii the plains of Palestine, THE NATIVITY. 171 Behold with awe a dazzling blaze Of heavenly light around them shine, And hear with joy the angel's voice Bidding a ransomed world rejoice. Downward from heaven's pearly gates In myriads holy spirits throng ; '* Glory to God, and peace to men," The burden of their joyous song ; While by the star the shepherds led. Arrive at Bethlehem's lowly shed. And, lo ! the King of Glory there In a rude manger shivering lies — A little, helpless babe, with tears Already in His infant eyes ; Oh, earth, could thy bright homes afford No fitter shelter for thy Lord? There the Messiah, looked for long, Disowned, forsaken by His own. Begins to feel the world's cold scorn, And for its countless crimes atone ; His thoughtful eyes already see The thorny crown, the crimson tree. The youthful mother lowly kneels In humble adoration there, 172 MY mother's song. Beside lier Saviour and lier Son, — How blest His lowly lot to share, On earth His childish, steps to guide, And dwell in heaven by His side. Sweet mother, be our guiding-star ; Lead thou our hearts to Jesus' feet ; For us may the angelic choirs Their glorious anthem soon repeat ; Reecho, earth, their song of peace, Let sin and strife and sorrow cease ! Oh, holy Babe of Bethlehem, Whose sway is owned on every shore, Guide in Thy ways our wandering feet. Rule Thou our hearts forevermore. That, when from their clay fetters free, Our ransomed souls may soar to Thee. MY MOTHER'S SONG. This quiet Autumn evening, out through the gather- ing gloom My thoughts are fondly turning to thee, my dear old home ; MY mother's sonci. 173 And through the misty distance the years seem sad and long- Since 'neath thy roof in chiklhood I heard my mother's song. A sweet old simple hallad, whose notes were soft and low — Still o'er my heart its echoes in soothing numbers flow, Though in the grave's dark chambers the lips are silent long That by the hearth at even oft sang my mother's song. Oh, mother ! though long parted, the memory of thy love Illumes life's darkest shadows, and points to light above ; It nerves me in my trials to suffer and be strong, — The sunny days of childhood come back with thy old song. On the sad soul, in hours of weariness and pain. Its notes fall, as on flowers falls the soft summer rain ; And when temptation beckons into the path of wrong, In tones of gentle warning I hear my mother's song. 1 1 74 THE PICKET. That dear old song must ever find echo in my heart Till by Death's icy fingers its chords are snapped apart ; ^ One strain would still be wanting the angel-choirs among, If there the voice was silent that sang my mother's song. THE PICKET.* The night is dark and cheerless, the wintry blast blows chill Across the sluggish river, and o'er the dreary hill And out from camp the soldier on picket guard must go. Alone, while others slumber, to stand in cold and snow. With muffled step, in silence, night's solemn noon goes by ; Her myriad stars gaze coldly upon him from on high, And far o'er vale and mountain his thoughts un- bidden roam To old, familiar faces, and loving hearts at home. <* In the winter of 1862 several soldiers on picket guard in the Army of the Potomac were found at their posts frozen to death. THE PICKET. 175 He sees his aged mother, her sad face marked witli care, While lovingly his sisters for him some gift pre- pare ; He hears them speak of Charlie, and for his safety pray. And knows their hearts are with him, though he is far away. But fiercer still around him the tempest's wild wings blow, The frosty air cuts keener than weapon of the foe ; He feels his life-hlood freezing, his heart grow?^ cold and still. Out in the silent midnight upon the lonely hill. At last, when dawns the morning, by the '^ relief is found Still at his post the soldier, stretched lifeless c the ground, A smile his pale lips parting — as peaceful seem his rest As is an infant's slumber upon its mother's breaii But where the dark Ohio rolls slowly on its wi^ Within a cheerless homestead are heavy hearts t day — A lonely widowed mother sits bowed in bitter w Mourning her boy, her Charlie, who perished in t snow. 176 DISCORD OUR nation's CURSE. DISCOED OUK NATION'S CURSE. Again the voice of Erin comes In sorrow o'er the main, Telling a tale of want and woe, Of bitterness and pain, — How long, Lord, shall Imman hearts Thus in the dust be trod ? How long shall men bow down like slaves, And fear a tyrant's nod ? Too long ye 've crawled with fettered limbs, 'T is time for ye to rise When Erin's voice of anguish seems To pierce the listening skies ; Too long ye S^e hoped for time to break Or loose your heavy chains ; That hope has faded out, and now But one resource remains. God for our country and the right ! We know our cause is just ; Then for that country's sake unite, And put in Him your trust. DISCORD OUR nation's CURSE. 177 No more like cravens tamely croucli, But let your tyrants feel Tliat when they give you iron laws, You *11 pay them back with steel. Let ancient feuds and petty strifes Like midnight gloom depart ; Discord or hate can never dwell In a true patriot's heart ; The really great and noble soul Thinks not of self alone — True to himself, the patriot makes His country's wrongs his own. Our land lies crushed and desolate Beneath the power of might. Because her sons, though brave and true, For her will not unite ; And though with anguish deep and strong They brood upon her woes. With all their sorrow for her wrongs. They are themselves her foes. Oh, must we see our own loved land. The country of our birth, Year after year a suppliant 'mong The nations of the earth ? And feel, although our bitter wrongs To tyranny we trace, 9 ' 178 DISCORD OUR nation's CURSE. That discord is the heaviest curse That rests upon our race ? Oh, brothers, friends, no more apart Like foes or strangers stand ; Join in a noble brotherhood To raise our trampled land. No longer let the shameful taunt Upon our race be thrown : *^ Ye fight the stranger's battles well. But can not fight your own." Cement the bonds of union now. And time new strength will bring ; 'Tis by degrees the acorn grows To be the forest king ; Prepare the way by patient toil. And if, when great and strong, Ye seek a fitting time to strike. Ye shall not want it long. Hope not that time will loose the chains Around our nation cast — By force they bound her, and by force They must be burst at last ; And if ye would have Freedom bless Our Island of the West, 'Tis on the rock of unity Her temple walls must rest. WRECKS. 179 WKECKS. The grand old monarcli, Ocean, a mighty sceptre wields ; Proud ships, with, treasure laden, sweep o'er his trackless fields ; In playful scorn he bears them upon his crested waves. Or hurls them down in anger into his gloomy caves. He rises up in wonder when fierce the wild winds blow. With pealing voice of thunder, and hoary locks of snow ; His awful brow deep furrowed with stern and angry frown, As wrathfully he lashes the rocks that gird him round. Around his feet lie scattered, on dreary rocks and sands, The power his arm hath shattered, the wealth of many lands ; 180 WRECKS. Wrecks of life, strength and beauty, whose dirge the sea-breeze moans, ^Mong shattered spars and timbers lie heaped their bleaching bones. But life's rough, storm-tossed ocean has sadder wrecks to show — Proud hearts whose deep devotion is wasted all below. Who, chained to earthly treasures, forget to look above. Forget the Hand that guards them in mercy and in k>ve. Oh, when our weak earth-idols are shattered by our side. Or from our deep soul-worship turn off with scorn or pride, Alas for the heart's ruin ! an age of toil and tears Were powerless to restore us the wreck of wasted years. The wrecks of fallen empires, of worldly pomp and pride. Gleam through the sluggish waters of Time's resist- less tide — Sad monuments of grandeur and wasted power, they show That earthly bliss is fleeting, and all is wreck below. THE SONGS OF HOME. 181 Oh, land of the immortal ! where grief or change ne'er come, Ope wide thy golden portals, and guide lost wan- derers home, Where fadeless flowers are blooming in fields by angels trod. And white -robed legions singing around the throne of God. THE SOXGS OF HOME. Come, sister, sit by my weary couch As the day's bright cheek 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 past will 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, 182 THE SONGS OF HOME. As over the lonely heart-strings creep The strains of a song of home. The ancient forests, in changing robes, And the guardian mountains grand. That tower in haughty majesty O'er the breast of our native land. The sunny valleys, the lake's green shore, Where we often used to roam, All rise in beauty before me now. As I list to the songs 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. The chilling grasp of death's icy hand Is closing around my heart. And here alone in a stranger land In sorrow we 're doomed to part ; Far from the graves where our kindred sleep They'll hollow my lonely tomb, Yet my heart goes back to the dear old days-^ Oh, sing me a song of home. SISTER AGNES. 188 When lifers pale lamjD has at last gone out, And its 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 Prom well loved voices that long ago Sang the dear old songs of home. SISTER AGNES. There is a home where oft is missed A frank and joyous smile, A fair young face undimmed by care, A heart untouched by guile, And thoughtful eyes that seemed to see Into the future far. As through the midnight darkness looks The clear eye of a star. To that young heart sweet Mercy spoke From heaven's bright portals high, And in their weariness she heard Earth's suffering children cry, 184 SISTER AGNES. And, bidding friends and liome farewell, She cast life's pleasures down To follow tlie meek, lowly One Who wore the thorny crown. Far from the loving hearts at home. Far from her native land. In patient cheerfnlness she toiled With brave, untiring hand. And many a sin- stained soul looked up To her in hope and love, And by her saintly life was led To think on heaven above. The weary sufferer, tossing wild Upon the couch of pain. With aching limbs, and throbbing heart. And fever-heated brain. Would listen for her soothing voice, And grateful glances cast Upon her calm and pitying face, And bless her as she passed. She fell beneath the fearful scourge Whose pestilential breath Sweeps o'er the sunny Southern land As with the wings of death ; Where friends from friends in terror fled, Her fearless step had come, SISTER AGNES. 185 And 'mid the dying and the dead The angels called her home. Her hands are folded from their works Of mercy and of love — One saint the less on earth helow, One angel more ahove ; Sad tears bedew the lowly grave Where, peacefully and calm, Far from her native land, she sleeps, Where waves the Southern palm. Young martyr at sweet Mercy's shrine. In thy pure spirit's worth We see that Eden's loveliness Has not all fled from earth. While, day hy day, life's thorny paths Are yet by angels trod. Whose pure lives win our stubborn souls To follow them to God. 186 THE BEAUTIFUL LAND. THE BEAUTIFUL LAND. Beyond the dark river, whose sullen waves Are carrying evermore Their freights of beauty and hope and love Away from this mortal shore, Stretch flower-crowned valleys green and fair, Where glorious mansions stand, Whose gold gates open to welcome all Who come to that beautiful land. Oh, there no storm-king's scowling brow E'er saddens the eye of noon. But lilies wave and roses blow On the breast of an endless June ; While through bright bowers of fadeless l:loom Blow breezes soft and bland. Breathing immortal youth on all Who come to that beautiful land. A flood of glory whose waves of light Our earth-dimmed sight would drown, Flows there from the brow that here below Was pierced with a thorny crown ; THE BEAUTIFUL LAND. 187 Witli victor's crowns on their radiant brows, And palms in their stainless hands, Stand round Him those who through tears and blood Have passed to that beautiful land. There too are dwelling our worshipped ones Who walk upon earth no more ; As we strive through griefs dark veil to see The light of that distant shore. We catch a gleam of their snowy robes, As they glide o'er the crystal strand, And beckon us over death's silent sea Away to that beautiful land. Soon shall we pass from earth away On that dark, unebbing tide, Alone with the boatman cold and pale, In quest of the farther side ; But, oh, what joy on the shore to feel The clasp of a friendly hand That cold distrust can never estrange Or chill in that beautiful land ! i 88 THE BIRD FROM PARADISE, THE BIRD FEOM PARADISE. A LEGEND. By a forest of tlie Eliineland, Many a hundred years ago, Dwelt a band of lioly brothers, In an abbey dark and low ; Hardened were their hands by labor, For from dawn to set of sun Busily they toiled, and scarcely Deemed with day their duty done. ] tugged was the soil, and sterile — Fern and thistle, heath and thorn, Must by patience be uprooted Ere it bore the yellow corn ; Even that was often carried To the peasant's humble shed, While the acorns of the forest Served the holy monks for bread. In that quiet, busy household There was one beloved of all — Cheerful, patient, self-denying. Ever thoughtful Brother Paul ; THE BIRD FROM PARADISE. 189 Living not for self, but others, All Ids tliouglits to God were given. And the beaut ons world around bim Only raised bis beart to beaven. Gazing on tbe broad blue beavens, Waving woods, and flowery sod, Reading tbe grand book of Nature, Written by tbe band of God, Oft be prayed tbe great All- Father In His bounty to bestow One brief gleam of heaven's glory On His servant here below. Thus he prayed one glorious evening In the golden summer time, Leaning on bis spade to listen To the distant abbey chime ; Seated on his blazing chariot, Slowly westward Day had rolled, While bis wand, lil^e that of Midas, Tinged the forest boughs with gold. Musing on the varied beauties Spread beneath that summer sky, Suddenly a newer glory Burst upon bis wondering eye : A bright bird of radiant plumage. As if bathed in morning's light. 190 THE BIRD FROM PARADISE. Seated on a bough, beside bim, Dazzled bis bewildered sigbt. Soon as from tbe abbey turret Ceased tbe Angelus to ring, Tbe strange bird of dazzling beauty On its bougb began to sing. •Brotber Paul, entranced, stood listening ; Glorious strains be oft bad beard, But none like tbe clear, melodious Music of tbe stranger bird. Sucb a grand, barmonious torrent Of sweet sounds bad never rang Over eartb since wandering angels By tbe streams of Eden sang ; Nature held ber breatb to listen, Husbed tbe breeze tbe bougbs among, Bade tbe murmuring brook be silent, Wbile sbe beard tbat wondrous song. Soon tbe beauteous songster flitted Tbrougb tbe woods from tree to tree, And tbe monk, encbanted, followed. Drinking in its melody, Cautious lest tbe dead leaves round bim By bis footsteps migbt be stirred, Dreading lest bis very breatbing Sbould disturb tbe stranger bird. THE BIRD FROM PARADI.SE. 191 Onward, onward, through the forest, Did the glorious songster fly. Till at last its pinions rested On an oak tree towering high ; There the monk, with soul enraptured, Cast himself upon the ground. While sweet song, in liquid gushes, Thrilled the listening air around. And his soul, entranced with pleasure. Listening to that glorious strain, Sat with folded wings that never Wished to visit earth again. But at last the vision faded. Ceased the music's magic spell. And he heard the silvery chiming Of the distant abhey bell. Starting up, he gazed around him. In the holy vesper light, But the songster's splendid pinions Flashed no longer on his sight ; Then he turned his footsteps homeward, Sighing that the witching lay=, Which had thrilled with joy hi8 being. Should so soon have passed away. But new wonders met his vision, — For where he had left at morn 192 THE BIRD FROM PARADISE. Broad green woods, and thorns and brambles, Now lay fields of golden corn ; And the white walls of a village. With its gleaming spires in view. Stood where late the wildwood blossoms Drank the fragrant morning dew. Wearily he sought the abbey, But its rude walls too were gone ; In its place a stately mansion Reared its towers of polished stone ; At its gates he stood bewildered, Looking round in pained surprise. Fearing that some evil spirit Cast a glamor o'er his eyes. The familiar, kindly visage Of the porter was not there ; A strange monk the portal opened. Viewing him with curious air ; All the brothers there were strangers,— Not a face that he had known Met his view : it seemed his brethren With their antique walls had fiown Brother Paul, dismayed, looked round him. ''Unknown brothers, speak,'' cried he, *' Whence have come these wondrous changes And strange faces that I see ? THE BIRD FROM PARADISE. 193 Lead me to the Abbot Anselm, Wbom I left at matin bour; Over bim the demon* s magic Surely can have bad no power.'' Wby tbose looks of blank amazement ? Can be credit wbat be bears ? '' Brotber, boly Fatber Anselm Has been dead four bundred years ! " Tben was rent tbe veil of ages Prom before bis startled eyes — He bad listened to tbe singing Of tbe bird from Paradise. ''Great All-Patber/' cried be, sinking On bis knees, '' tben Tbou bast given To Tby servant wbat be prayed for — Here on eartb a glimpse of beaven ; How encbanting was tbat music Wbicb made rolling ages seem But a few brief, sunny moments, But a transient, blissful dream. ** Now, indeed, my days are ended. And my longing soul would fain Leave its clay, tbat it may listen To tbat blessed song again. To tbe eye but once permitted 9^ Heaven's glories to heboid , 194 THE FIRESIDE AT HOME. Earth, however bright and lovely, Seems a desert dark and cold." Lord, we thank Thee that Thy mercy Holds the blue veil of the sky Over earth. Thy dazzling splendor To shut out from mortal eye ; Could our pilgrim gaze but dimly Half Thy deathless glory see. Life would be a dreary burden. And content from earth would flee. THE FIKESIDE AT HOME. When, tossed on the billows of life's dreary ocean, We drift o'er the waters afar. And vainly look up to tbe storm-clouds above us To catch the pale beam of a star, — When sorrow's dark veil, like the wing of the tempest. Overshadows our path as we roam, One heart- cheering beacon shines out through the darkness — The glow of the fireside at home. THE FIRESIDE AT HOME. 195 Oft back to tlie light of the dear days departed Does meiQory 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 mountain Had folded her mantle of gloom, Loved faces, so dear that their smiles were our sun- shine. Encircled the fireside at home. 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 present, To think of the loved and the dead. The light wing of Fancy with fairy touch brushes The dust from the doors of the tomb. And once more unites us — the dead and the scat- tered. Around the bright fireside at home. Oh, when the dim twilight of death is approaching, Our wearisome journey near done. 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 light of Thy love and Thy mercy May guide us at last to our home. 196 MAGDALEN. MAGDALEN. Lo ! Israel's erring dangliter, lowly kneeling At Jesus' feet, with heart repentant bowed, Her beauteous eyes upraised in mute appealing, Amid the scandalized, self-righteous crowd. The haughty Pharisees look on in horror, — A dreadful sacrilege it seems to them To see this fallen child of sin and error Approach a Prophet of Jerusalem. Unmindful of the scowling brows around her, Her tears fall on the Saviour's feet like rain ; Their crystal torrents burst the links that bound her A captive, fettered by sin's heavy chain. The glossy waves of her once jewelled tresses To wipe His sacred feet far down unroll ; His calm, mild glance of sweet forgiveness blesses And sheds a balm upon her sin-sick soul. DEATH. 197 From countless sins that barred the way to heaven The Saviour's lips have uttered her release, — Because she has much loved, much is forgiven ; She hears the blest words, '''Daughter, go in peace." Cold, worldly heart, walled in by pride unbending, If thou wouldst listen to those accents sweet. Thou, from thy vain self-righteousness descending. Must, like Magdalen, kneel at Jesus' feet. DEATH. He is marching over our mourning land, — The withering touch of his icy hand Leaves blight and ruin, none may withstand The glare of his ghastly eye. He tears the robes from the moanina: trees. His breath is felt in each wailing breeze, With raven pinions he sweeps the seas, Where the tempest's arrows fly. He casts a gloom o'er the autumn days ; His skeleton fingers weave a haze 198 DEATH. To dim the light of the golden rays That gleam o'er the earth's cold breast. «■ He is seen where war's red lightnings tlash, . Where roll its thunders with fearful crash, Where steeds rear madly, and sabres clash. Where brave hearts sink to rest. He clogs the sentinel's weary feet, While pitiless storms around him beat, As he shivering w^alks throiigh snow and sleet On the mountains drear and lone. He sits by the camp-fire's fitful light. Where strong men sink 'neath the fever-blight, And sick hearts yearn for the welcome sight Of far-off friends and home. O'er marsh and mountain and hill and stream His eyes on the moving columns gleam. With a glance as cold as the moon's pale beam On a heap of drifted snow. Some halt by the way at his fearful call, And the fading leaves are their funeral pall. As tliey drop with a sound like the damp mold's fall On a coffin dark and low. POLAND. 199 But not unmourned is their dreamless sleep ; A grateful Nation shall o'er them weep, And ever fresh in her memory keep The deeds of her heroes hrave. Where'er they perish, on sea or shore. By pale disease, or where cannons roar, As sacred altars forevermore She '11 honor her soldiers' graves. 1861. POLAND. Oh, Poland, once more is thy proud soul awakened, Once more through thy valleys war's shrill trum- pet rings ; The free, martial spirit that time can not conquer. Leaps forth from the graves of thy old warrior- kings. Again the true sons of brave sires have arisen To sever thy fetters or perish for thee ; The lash of the despot, the torture and prison. At last have aroused them to die or be free. 200 POLAND. From Cracow's gray tombs, Avhere the bones )f the mighty Are crumbling in silence to dust and decay, The voice of the past speaks of long-faded glory, And thrills the defenders of Poland to-day. Prom Warsaw's red field, where the spiri.s of heroes Went out in their life-blood, in darkness and gloom. The war-cry that bursts forth for Poland and Free- dom, Might bid Kosciusko come back from the tomb. From castle and cottage the patriots gather To meet the oppressor in war's fearful stiife. To strike once again for the rights of their nation. For homes and for altars, for freedom and life. Arise, Sobieski ! awake from th}' slumber, Or send back thy spirit to lead, as of yore. The conquering arms of thy country, and crown her With victory's laurels — a nation once more. Oh, birth-place of martyrs to God and to Freedom, The souls of the heroes who died for thy right Are surely imploring the Sovereign of armiej To smile on thy efforts in Liberty's fight. THE WAVE OF TIME. 201 I love thee, O Poland, thou ancient of nations. Twin sister of Erin in suffering and faith ; Like her, through long ages of fierce persecution. The Cross thou hast clung to in suffering and death. God bless thee, thou land long oppressed, yet un- conquered ! May Freedom soon smile on thy sanctified sod ; No more may the dust of thy martyrs and heroes By foot of invader or tyrant be trod. THE WAVE OF TIME. The tide of time rolls swiftly by, But ne'er flows back again. And though for vanished days we sigh, Our grieving is in vain ; The matin of the rising day, The silvery evening chime. The sounds we love, all float away Upon the wave of time. Of what avail are earthly joys. Or worldly honors vain — 10 302 THE WAVE OF TIME. The pleasure whicli true peace destroys, And leavetli naught but pain ? Life here is but a pilgrimage Unto a fairer clime, Where all past sorrows buried are Beneath the wave of time. May we while here on earth aspire To reach the brighter world, Where night's dark banner o'er the day Will never be unfurled. Where angel hands sweep golden harps, And seraph-songs sublime Gush in glad strains of silvery sound Beyond the wave of time. Oh, may we fix our hearts upon The joys that ne'er decay, Nor heed the fading things of earth. That soon must pass away ; The fleeting joys that here we prize Will with ourselves decline. And soon, forgotten, we shall sink Beneath the wave of time. THE ENCHANTED CAVE. 203 THE ENCHANTED CAVE. Amid the bleak, heath- covered hills of the West, Oft swept by the wild ocean-blast. That seems, as it shrieks round the peasant's rude shed, A cry o'er the graves of the past, The cottagers tell, in the long winter nights. The tale of a slumber-chained band, Who rest in their armor, awaiting the call To strike off the chains of their land. For ages they 've slept, while their country has groaned. Bowed down by the weight of her woes. But still is unuttered the magical word Whose spell is to break their repose ; Though heroes have struggled and martyrs have bled. Still Erin must suffer and weep. Until, from the depths of that wild rocky cave, These warriors are roused from their sleep. The peasant's dark eyes often flash with delight To hear that quaint legend of yore, 204 THE ENCHANTED CAVE. And fondly he hopes for the time when that word Will peal o'er his ocean-girt shore ; For when from the heart of the nation it bursts, Each hillside and valley and glen Will leap into life, like that magical cave, With myriads of steel-girded men. Where'er in the wide world that call shall be heard, O'er prairie and forest and wave. If there the true heart of a Celt can be found, There too is a magical cave, Where, from the dull sleep of inaction, shall rise Stern warriors, trusty and strong. To strike for their country, and pour out their blood To wash off the stains of her wrong. That watchword is ''Freedom," — Oh, once let it ring Out o'er the blue waves of the sea, From people united to conquer or die. And soon shall our country be free. Her fetters shall burst with a crash at the sound ; The strength of her tyrants shall fail ; Then, henceforth let ''Union and Liberty" be The cry of the sons of the Gael. TO LIZZIE. 205 TO LIZZIE. God bless thee, Lizzie, darling. Where'er thy footsteps roam ; May angels guard thy pathway, And fill with light thy home ; May time, that changeth all things, As gently pass o'er thee As skims the white gull's pinions Across the sleeping sea. May true, unchanging friendship Make bright thy passing hours ; Forever may thy pathway Be strewn with fairest flowers ; God shield thy young heart ever From sin and care and woe. And make thy earthly dwelling A Paradise below. Should e'er a shade of sorrow Across thy sunshine glide, Mayst thou forget it, thinking Upon the Crucified; 206 TO LIZZIE. Remembering, should ever Hope's rosy light grow dim, That sufferings borne with patience But make us more like Him. Life is so brief and changing That at the last 't will seem As if our earthly journey Were but a fleeting dream, — And, oh, may it be ever A happy dream to thee, And in the land of angels May thy awaking be. Though on the world's broad ocean Our life-barks drift apart. Thy mem'ry will be ever Shrined fondly in my heart. Once more, dear friend, God bless thee ! Mayst thou on earth be blest. And angel pinions waft thee At last to endless rest. THE DEAD HERO. 201 THE DEAD HERO. Dead, do they tell us ! or are we but dreaming ? Surely those terrible words are not true ! Surely our noble and fearless-souled chieftain Can not forever have passed from our view ! Yes, he has gone with his life-work uniSnished, — Grone from the true hearts that loved him so well ; As the bright sun of his fame was but rising, 'Neath the proud banner of Freedom he fell, Never again shall he flash forth amongst us Words like the lightning, clear, brilliant and strong, Nerving the hearts of the listening thousands Sternly to strive Vainst oppression and wrong. Never again, where the battle is raging, Shall he the Green Flag wave proudly on high, Rallying round it the brave sons of Erin, 'Neath the old Sunburst to conquer or die. 208 THE DEAD HERO. Oh, what high hopes and what bright dreams of glory Fondly we twined round that spirit so brave ! Dark to our eyes seems the future of Erin, Since he is wrapped in the gloom of the grave. Erin, thy sad eyes, like stars in the distance, Look o'er the sea through the mist of their tears ; Still round thy brow is the dark cypress twining, Closer it grows with the vanishing years. True hearts that strove for thy weal are departing, Palling like leaves when the autumn winds moan ; Scarce are the tears for the loss of one hero Dried on thy cheek, ere another is gone. Dear to thy heai^t was the love and devotion Of this brave exile who suffered for thee ; And in the ranks of thy great hero -martyrs Proudly thou 'It place him when chainless and free. God-gifted spirit, though with us no longer. From the bright home of the blessed above Earthward we know thou wilt often turn fondly. Back to the sad martyr-land of thy love. When the great day of our land's resurrection Dawns, o'er her armies thy spirit shall glow THE PASSING DAYS. 209 And the grand soul of hero in heaven Lead on to conquest the heroes below. Soldier and martyr, thy conflicts are over, Angels shall waft thee to regions of light, And from thy grave will the watchwords ring ever : Erin and Liberty ! God and the Right ! THE PAvSSING DAYS. How swift and noiseless, on viewless pinions, The sunny hours of life flit past ; The priceless moments drift by as idly As falling leaves in the autumn blast. We turn aside from life's toils and duties To mourn the hours forever gone ; We let the present glide 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. 210 THE PASSING DAYS. He from whose breath leaps 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. And make each day, as He bids it come, 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. TO AN AGED FRIEND, 211 TO AN AGED FRIEND. Oh, aged friend, beloved in early days, Deep in my heart thy memory lingers yet. Thy dear face follows me through life's rough ways. Thy love and kindness I can ne'er forget ; And should this broad, bright world to me become A dreary waste, a dark and stormy sea. One beacon -light will cheer me through the gloom : My strong, unchanging love and faith in thee. Dear friend, each furrow traced by Time's rude plow Upon thy loved and venerable face. Sketched by the faithful hand of Memory now. For me invests it with a reverent grace. And makes it lovelier, because more dear. Than beauty's rounded cheek with rosy glow, And youth's soft curls to me will ne'er appear More beautiful than thy smooth locks of snow. What pleasure it was by thy side to sit In summer evenings, 'neath the whispering leaves, And watch with thee the wheeling swallows flit Into their sheltered nests beneath the eaves, 212 TO AN AGED FRIEND. Or breathe my troubles in tby kindly ear, Or tell my joys and fancies vain and wild, For thou wert not too great and wise to hear The little woes and pleasures of a child. How oft I 've leaned my head upon thy knee. When seated by the hearth-fire's ruddy light, To hear the tales so sweetly told by thee, Of gentle fairy, or of wandering sprite ; Ah, those were happy days, — but all too fast They vanished, giving place to darker years. And now they seem, when glancing to the past. Like sunny islands in a sea of tears. O faithful heart, O true, unchanging friend, God's blessings fall around thee every day, And may Be in His love sweet angels send. Who for thy aged feet will smooth life's way, And kindly, gently, lead thee by the hand. As. thou hast* led me oft in days gone by. Till, in^their gladdest strains, a seraph-band Shall sing thy welcome to thy home on high. REST. 213 REST. Wearily, wearily the slow, dull hours ' With leaden feet are plodding on their way ; Drearily, drearily, through gloom and showers, Sinks into rest the tired and drowsy day. Gloomily, gloomily the dark clouds gather Their inky folds across the sky's gray breast ; The world seems weary, and my spirit. Father, Is weary, too, and cries to Thee for rest. Sullenly, sullenly the waves are breaking In heavy splashes on the sounding shore ; Earnestly, earnestly my heart is making A search for rest, but finds it nevermore. Pleadingly, pleadingly to Thee it turneth, As to the ark returned the weary dove ; Longingly, longingly my spirit yearneth To find a peaceful haven in Thy love. Rest — give me rest, O Father, in Thy kindness, Not from life's toils and duties, but from all 214 EEST. The doubts and fears and woful spirit-blindness Tbat veil Thy face, and hold my soul in thrall. Oh, life is bright and beautiful, but ever Some ghostly shadow o'er my path will come, Reminding me that real rest is never Found out of Thee, the heart's true hope and home. Cheerfully, cheerfully the world is smiling, E'en while it makes the soul a mock and jest. And with its vain, false pleasures is beguiling The eoul from Thee, its only peace and rest. Trustingly, trustingly before Thy altar I lay my load of weariness and pain ; Soon some weak fancy bids my spirit falter. Some vain thought summons it to earth again. Mournfully, mournfully, but, oh, how vainly This ever-fleeing phantom I pursue ; It slips from my weak grasp, thus showing plainly That, 'mid all changes. Thou alone art true. Hopefully, hopefully at last I gather My faults and follies for Thine eye to see ; Give toils and trials if Thou wilt, O Father, But let my soul find endless rest in Thee. A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 215 A HUNDKED 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 bravely 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 every thing alive ? Broad fields, uncultured and unclaimed, are waiting for the plow Of progress, that should make them bloom a hun- dred years from now. Why should we toil so earnestly in life's short, narrow span, On golden stairs to climb so high above our brother man ? 216 A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. Why blindly at an eartUy • 'sfirme.- 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 . f^m^ ;„ 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, 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. Thou before whose sleepless eyes the past and future stand An open page, like babes we cling to Tty pro- tecting hand; •_:.■"' Change, sorrow, death, are naught to us if we may safely bow Beneath the shadow of Thy throne a hundred years from now'.'* f 41 i Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 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