yim A = =^ 1 A = ^ f — — ^ 1 m = 33 1 6 ^ / = -^— -JD 3 = 9 = m 2 = v,%: T- 't If^i*^ 1 \ 'I'^r^^ Wl^:^ *"'*~^,'5 iiH^. .«,J— — .--ANljlh. Fin OLA* THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES NEVER FORSAKE THE SHIP, AND OTHER POEMS BY ( i F I N O L A. DUBLIN : PUBLISHED BY MAC GLASHEN AND GILL, SACKVILLE STREET, 1874. CORK : PRINTED BY FRANCIS GUY, 70, PATRICK STREET. TO THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND, OF ALL CREEDS AND CLASSES, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDlCA'l ED BY F/7V0 LA. " And oh, it were a gallant deed To show before mankind, How every race, and every creed Might be by love combined — Might be combined, yet not forget The fountain whence they rose, As filled by many a rivulet The stately Shannon flows." — Thomas Davis. f R E F A C E. The impassioned poems of "Finola" are not the frothy ravings of a spasmodic heart, weary of home-life, panting for stage effect ; nor yet the diseased perturbations of a nervous system, in tightened bodice, and hot-house air. They are the outpourings of a heart akin to nature — reared in her solitudes, beside her basaltic columns, her shamrock lawns, and her arbutus groves. The " Silk of the Kine" has lowed to that heart, and, with appealing eye, won it to high resolve. The crumbling seat of learning on every lovely isle, and glorious headland, have e\"oked the reverence of that heart ; the embattled walls — its courage and calm defiance. Its democracy it has learned from Christianity — to level upward its sacred aim. To sound a trump of Hope, a harp of Rapture, would be, in a well- ordered state, its loved employ ; but, looking from its cradle-bed vi. PREFACE. on an unrecognized nation, and a famine-stricken people ; on a rotting roof-tree, and glassless window; on a "bar-brigade," and a homeless people — the tnimp of Hope breaks into a blast of horror or defiance, and the rapture of the harp into a piteous appeal for organization, attention, and instruction. Much better would it have accorded with such a heart to have intoned a message of love and peace to all men, but when clean hands lift up the silver cornet of the Lord, 'tis not for mercenary hire : 'tis then the thunder of offended Justice that peals in the impassioned strains of its servant, and the tears of Hea'S'en's own heart that wail in the murmurs of its swelling lyre. The Irish ready wit, the harmless banter, the wild joke, the irrepressible fun, are not unknown to that heart ; but \v\\\\ the pen and the lyre she moves only as Heaven inspires, whose voice, in this, would seem to say — Erin shall not now be the laughter-mover of the world : she has a sworn duty to fulfil. "Remember Me!" Yes! dear shadow of our land, we will PREFACE. vii. remember thee ! As it behoves children of a great parent, in- heritors of a brilliant fame, aspirers after an unrotten state — where the barren wastes shall blossom, and the very trees upon the hill-side clap their hands for joy ! And now, having said so much, introducing "Finola" — if she, to any Irish heart, need an introduction — I retire ; assured in my very heart that this, her first legacy to Erin, will be fruitful of emotion, hope, and faith — the best wealth which can be showered upon the head of any state. RALPH VARIAN. Bridal Morn Anniversary, Thursday, 2'jth May, 1874. ; O N T E N T S, Never Forsake the Ship Rosaleen Coming Home from Mass The Ship will Sail To-morrow To the Author of " Imiisfail" The Perfected Blossom . Christmas Eve at Sea Speak Gently of the dead Lord Byron . Under the Bridge Laborare est Orare . Una's Jewels Only a Factory Child Watch and Wait A Poet's Thanksgiving The Convict's Flower Proudly we Stand in the People' The Two Invitations In the Workhouse The Boat Wreck Under the Orchard Trees The Artificial Flower Maker There's a Stoi-m far out at Sea The Stag Hunt . The American Letter The Pilgrim at the Well A Home The Angel's Message I have loved Thee Evangeline Worship A Tale of the Past Agnes The Burial of the Flower In Memoriam Lewie (iordon Kinmont Willie K PAGE I 4 7 lO 13 15 16 18 21 23 26 29 32 35 37 40 43 45 47 49 53 54 58 ■61 63 67 69 72 76 78 80 82 87 89 91 92 95 Little you reck of the warring strife, The passionate conflict that knows no rest, Yearning to succour a Land oppressed. " Be there a thousand — I am one ; or, if our strength Have but one hundred left, — Sylla is braved by me ; If only ten continue— I will be the tenth ; And^ if but one remain — I, then, that one will be." Victor Hugo. f1^ Nevei\ forsake the ^hip. E^ EVER forsake the ship ! The keel drives on through the heavy sea, Like a plough-share cleaving the furrowed lea, Tossing aloft bright AVTeaths of spray — Feathery buds of the ocean's May ; Coronals white as the stainless snow, Shine in the wake of the vessel's prow : Oh ! never were blossoms so pure and fair As the vapoury jewels glistening there. Never desert the ship ! The land lies yonder through cloud and foam — Ever steer on for our distant home : Though the tightened cordage snap in twain, And the creaking timbers shiver and strain ; POEMS. Though the sluggish sails may droop and fall, Like the heavy folds of a funeral pall — The breeze will awaken, the wind uprise, And the brave barque speed under sunny skies. Never forsake the ship ! Hope may wither and courage fail, If faith sustains us no need to quail ; Oh, blinded vision — oh, darkened sight, Pierce through the gloom of the shrouding night Though the longed-for haven be hid from view. Believe that a home awaiteth you : Mariners ! pause not to idly deplore The rugged path to that promised shore. Never give up the ship ! By the sunken rocks and the shelving strand Guide her still on with a firm brave hand, Steering away for the chainless sea. Her sails all set and her flag flung free — So let us wrestle for freedom or life Where the hurricane wages a generous strife, No hidden reef, like a treacherous foe, Lying in ambush to strike a blow. Never desert the ship ! Even though perils be brooding near, Turn not aside with the recreant's fear ; /VF F/XOLA. 3 No one can tell when the heavens may lower, And the fierce storm burst in its terrible power, And the lash of the sea, like a slave-driver's whip. Fall with its wrath on the beautiful ship. — Set her to rights, men, and keep her afloat, Nor slink in your dread to the life-saving boat. Never forsake the ship ! The mast may be shattered, the white sails be rent, And the tapering spars, hke a reed, may be bent ; Yet, cling to the barque, though her timbers may yawn, And the rudder you steered by be parted and gone. The fast-holding anchor be wrenched from the chain. And her beams from the stem to the stern rent in twain : Flinch not, brave comrades, but terror dispel. Though her strong oaken ribs be crushed in like a shell. Never desert the ship ! Heed not the crash that has sundered the deck, Remember your oaths, men, and stand by the w^eck ; The keel's lying upmost, the mainmast below. And the sea-weeds dank tangles are wreathed round the prow — • Gird up your souls, there is glory in death ! Who would not strive for the martyr's pale wreath ? With brow still undaunted, and firmly set lip. Let a wild cheer ring out, and go down with the ship ! B 2 POEMS . ii ROSALEEN. OSALEEN listened, struck dumb with scorn : <^ Only a flash of the downcast eye, Only the gust of a stifled sigh, A tremulous flutter of pulsing heart, A clench of the hand and a sudden start — Told how the blow was borne. Listened in silence — too proud for speech r Fast fell the torrent of arrogant hate. The senseless clamour of tongues irate, Questioning, doubting that cherished faith Kept, like a gem, without spot or scaith — Daring her truth to impeach ! Turning aside from the buffeting word — No answering taunt her lips essayed, Though the pallid brow wore a deeper shade, When stung by their cruel ribald cant — She shrank, like the leaves of the "sensitive plant" By careless fingers stirred. BY FTNOLA. ^ Bravely she held in her grasp the rein, Though the swelling throat and the brimming eye, And the pale lip struggled for mastery : Standing erect in her stately pride, Entrenched by the foes she so oft defied — By her glance was falsehood slain ! Many had sought to defile her name (For Rosaleen strayed from the narrow groove Where circumspect custom must ever move) : Little they dreamed of the quenchless power Hid in the heart of the folded flower — Of each deathless hope and aim. Wounded by slander, by wrath deep stung. The smouldering embers of passionate ire Flashed and quivered with sudden fire ; Wan was the lamp, as a lily's cup, Till the light of the prisoned flame leaped up, Like a burning cloven tongue. Woe to the power that had lit the ray. That kindled the flash of the lightning eye, And aroused the spirit of mutiny : Noting each stroke of the throbbing heart. The firm-clenched hand, and the fitful start. They quailed in their mute dismay. rOEMS: Like the silvery peal of a clarion's note The words rang out, soft, clear, and low, Yet deep as the sound of a torrent's flow : Oft had they heard that voice before, But the altered tone her accents wore "With remorse the slanderers smote. " Guilty or not ? let the world decide — For screening the lamb, untimely shorn, And tending the bird from its warm nest torn ; For shielding the fragile drooping flower From the heavy charge of the thunder shower I am ready to be tried ! " Dare you asperse my maiden fame Because that I differ from lying wrong, And side with the weak, and repulse the strong? Though I may fail to avert the blow. Pitying love can I still bestow, Heedless of praise or blame. " Little you reck of the warring strife. The passionate conflict that knows no rest, Yearning to succour a land oppressed — Is it not womanly, holy, and pure ? Dearer the faith that you bid me abjure Than the perilous gift of life !" BY FINOLA. Rosaleen paused — for the storm was o'er : Fronting the foe, with a dauntless eye, She stood in her conqu'ring majesty; Pale was the lamp, as a cup of snow, The fierce flame ebbed, and the fitful glow Kindled and flashed no more. Coming Home from M.ass. ^OMiNG home from Mass ! What thoughts those ^ simple words call forth. As here I sit the live-long day, beside my cottage hearth ; The treasured gems from memory's mine, like gold sands in the stream. Through the warm current of my tears, but brighter, fairer seem : ^ I see no ruin on the green— the chapel still stands there. The village chimes are ringing through the clear and frosty air ; 8 POEMS: And mark yon group of peasant girls — God bless them — as they pass ; No fairer sight could meet your gaze — they're coming home from Mass ! The autumn leaves that fall around are faded, seared, and dead, Unlike the flowers on mem'ry's waste, whose bloom has never fled ; The very embers on my hearth with burning radiance glow. Their kindly glances seem to light the forms loved long ago ; The streamlet through the feathery fern speeds, singing on its way, Amid the foam-girt islets — fitting homes for sprite and fay. I used to think ('twas childhood's dream) how happy I should be As queen of one sweet fairy isle, unconquered, proud, and free ! I longed to share the wild bird's sway, whose moss- built palace stood. Like a citadel of feudal chief, above the mimic flood ; To gather from the rainbow sward the sweetest flowers that grow, BY FINOLA. 9 And twine them in a matchless wreath to crown my childish brow. But dearer fancies soon were mine : I still a queen would reign — My heritage, one leal brave heart, I loved, nor loved in vain, The tell-tale blush, the stolen kiss, the whispered word — alas ! That happy time is gone when we came, hand in hand, from Mass. Old scenes again come thronging back, as billows Tore the storm. Casting, like sea-weed on the strand, some dear re- membered form, A ringlet from a fair young brow, a bright eye flashing free — These are the rescued relics flung from mem'ry's fearful sea. Once more I lead the village dance — sought, loved, caressed by all ; The shamrock scarcely bends its stalk beneath my light foot-fall. But, hush ! a whisper in my ear :— " The moments swiftly pass. Your promise, Norah, don't forget when coming home from Mass !" lo POEMS : I see the soggartJis kindly smile, I hear the blessing given, Which shone around my daily path, a beacon-light to Heaven ; He takes iny trembling hand in his : the blush on cheek and brow Reveals the secret of my heart — disguise were idle now. For me no ruin haunts the green, no pastor's grave is there. The pealing of the village chimes, in fancy, still I hear; Fresh flowers are strewn before my steps, all cheering ^s I pass. Upon the bridal morn, when we were coming home from Mass ! The jShip will sail To-morrow. ^HE ship will sail to-morrow : all is o'er — -^ The struggling hope, prolonged from day to day, Died Hke a summer sunset : never more Shall joy for us arise with golden ray. The last sad hour draws near — oh, God, the last ! Would that the midnight of despair were past. BY FINOLA. II Parted for ever ! mournful dirge be still ; Hushed be the heart's wild wailing — 'tis in vain To combat fate with firm and stubborn will, Or seek from shattered chords to strike one strain. Stem the hot rain of tears, be mute the cry Wrung from the spirit's depths of agony. The world looks coldly on : it cannot guage The measure of our anguish : what were words — Brief, weak, and trite — our sufferings to assuage, To blunt the grief piercing like two-edged swords ? The eye may scan the surface — can it know Aught of the storm that rages far below ? The ship will sail to-morrow : skies are fair. Fresh is the breeze, set westward towards the sea ; The surplus of our race the land can spare : Thin out the rank growth — sapling, shoot, and tree ; Weed from the o'er-stocked garden, leaf and root, And trample down the refuse under foot. It matters not the (juivering fibres bleed — • Life's current ebbs, who cares to staunch the wound? Passing upon the other side, none heed The victim's cry, by pain and suffering bound. Oh, earnest truth ! — the heart alone can feel The bitter pang that words can ne'er reveal. 12 POEMS: To-morrow ! and the numbered hours steal on : I scarce can speak for these fast-falHng tears : I thought the tumult of despair was gone, For what have / to do with hopes or fears ? A lonely waif, tossed on the desert shore, The storms of life can buffet me no more. Is all prepared ? take down the linnet's cage. And twine around the bars fresh dewy leaves. The feathery fern, and sprigs of thyme and sage And trailing woodbine from the cottage eaves. Poor Mary's bird ! her dying gift to me ; I'll tend it day and night upon the sea. Have you forgotten (I must whisper low) The green sod from our mother's holy grave ? Never o'er us shall Ireland's daisies grow — Our resting-place may be beneath the wave. There wrap it up, my heart grows faint with pain, I must not look upon that sight again ! Here is the rose tree from our garden plot, The pallid primrose from the shady brake. The violet, and the blue forget-me-not, And our own shamrock, loved for Ireland's sake Another soil must nourish leaf and stem. The skies of home can never shine for them. 13 BY FINOLA. Oh, that these weary eyes might but behold The far-off ghmmer of the coming morn ; And the dark future for this heart unfold The fate that to our country shall be born : My grateful song of joy should never cease — " Lord, let thy servant now depart in peace." The ship will sail to-morrow ! all is o'er : The hope, prolonged from torturing day to day. Died like a summer sunset : never more Shall joy for us arise with golden ray. The last sad hour draws near — oh, God, the last \ Soon shall the midnight of despair be past. To THE Author^ of " |nnisfail." • EET offering for the bard — a nation's love, r A nation's tribute nobly sought and won. Oh, poet-laureate of our island home, We thank thee : not with hollow word and speech, Nor studied phrase, nor courtly eloquence. The throbbing heart that leaps to hear thy strain. The quickened pulse, the quivering tearful eye, Proclaim a people's silent gratitude. We knew not, recked not, of the buried wealth That lay around. The river glided on Singing the mournful burden of its song : 14 POEMS: Unseen the glistening sands of burnished gold ; The mine's dark bosom, rich in shining ore, Retained its hidden splendour. Not for us Our country's buried glory : not for us The countless stars upon her midnight sky ! From the wrecked argosy one loving hand Gleaned the neglected spoil : the parted wave Was bravely cleft ; the surge of time gave forth The garnered wealth of ages. Oh, fearless diver ! winning nobly back From the dark waste of years that priceless gem, A nation's heritage — her spotless fame ! Ah, little did we reck that 'neath the spray. The blinding mist, the storm-rent billow's crest, So fair a pearl was hid. We little recked, Until thy hand unveiled our country's sky. That many a star, undimmed, was burning still. Oh, dearly prized in winter's joyless hours, The glowing flowers of June ! With loving toil The wreath was twined : we noted but the thorns Till thou revealedst the roses to our view. Aubrey de Vere : far better than rare gem, Or gleaming pearl, or golden-freighted stream (That softly glides in whispered cadence by), Or priceless ore, or summer's glowing flowers — The gift for which thy country thanks thee well ! BY FINOLA. 15 The Perfected Blossom. ^HE pendant flower-stem bent beneath its freight Of fragile blossoms — delicate and white The waxen petals, swathed in softest green — Of equal beauty, each fair bud revealed The promise of rich growth : no tainting blight Stained the pure petals breaking into bloom. It seemed a ruthless act to strip the spray, A graceless deed to rob the snowy group Of all, save one frail blossom — light and warmth, The genial sunshine of a cloudless sky, Ripened to radiant loveliness that gem. So from this heart all lesser loves I tear — One shall attain full stature, rounded, pure, A perfect growth nurtured beneath the warmtJi Of sunny glances : fervent melting rays Shall woo the blossom till it burst in bloom. My flower I the priceless jewel of true love, Oh place it in thy heart as in a shrine : No cankering blight shall taint the snowy leaves Stirred by the breath of passion — bear it still, A deathless trophy, earth's most perfect gift, The love that knows no shadow of decay ! r6 POEMS. Christmas Eve at Sea. HAVE no home to-night : the ghmmering morn Will fling its lustre o'er the fierce wild sea ; Dark is the sky, darker this heart forlorn. The Christmas dawn can bring no joy for me — Nought save unspoken agony and grief, And burning tears that fail tp give relief Alone, aye, all alone, I j^ace the deck, Listening the music of the beating wave, Far thundering o'er the desolated track, The storm's glad pcean, jubilant and brave ; Louder the billow's song, the surge's sweep, The grand old Christmas carol of the deep. I have no friends, nor home — oh, bitter plaint. The crushed 4ieart's eerie-cry — shall God forsake The sorrow-stricken exile, sad and faint ? Can the wave's chime no answering echo wake ? Hark to the tidings ! spirit, though forlorn, Rejoice, for unto us a Child is born. BY FINOLA. I'j Poor doubting heart, the self-same midnight sky- That spread o'er Judah's hills is lit for thee ; The blessed star, hung like a lamp on high, Flings its white radiance o'er the devious sea : Shall it not guide the lamb back to the fold, That light that cheered the holy men of old ? I lift mine eyes, despite these blinding tears. And o'er the cold blank waters gaze in vain ; Not even love can see through long dead years The "holy candle" shining from the pane — Yit^.^ years ! and yet unchanged the ivy's sheen That decks the village chapel on the green ! Still the wild ocean anthem falls and swells, Stifling the sounds fast throbbing through mybrain,. The blythesome carol of the merry bells For the lost exile ne'er to chime again. Wrestling with anguish, what can it avail, A spent breeze cannot fill the lagging sail. Another league from land : vain baseless toil Counting the weary distance o'er and o'er. Forging fresh links of misery, to coil Around a heart where hope can dream no more. Hath the broad earth no home to-night for me, — Woe for this Christmas eve upon tlie sea ! 1 8 POEMS: Speak Gently of the Dead. i^ PEAK gently ! one resentful word may cause remorse ^ for years — A heartless act, a thoughtless speech, can bring but bitter tears ; 'Tis better far to shun the past, than seek, with impious aim, To raise the darker side to view, with all its guilt and shame. The moon's fair face is oft times veiled from our deep searching gaze, We only note the gloomy pall that shrouds her gentle rays ; And thus, with ruthless will, we scan each cloud that meets our view, A kinder glance will soon discern the brightness shin- ing through. Oh : mockery of the true heart's wealth, to prize each cherished token, With every show of lingering love, whilst cruel words are spoken ; BY FIN OLA. 19 To touch with gentle hand each gift, yet feign a deep regret For fancied wrongs a generous mind would struggle to forget : Perhaps a boon of little worth, a gem, or broken flower, May bring the sad remembrance back of many a vanished hour; Oh, whilst ye mourn, with softened grief, the countless treasures fled, And wear the gem, and bind the flower, speak gently of the dead ! Ye who have basked beneath the rays of fortune's dazzling light, Can scarce discern the feeble gleams that cheer the sufferer's night : The diamond wears a pallid hue within the hidden mine, The sunbeams call the brightness forth that seemed too faint to shine. And thus, adversity may dim those spirits born of Heaven, But ye should mercifully judge, to whom so much is given : c 2 20 POEMS: They may have wandered from the path, by want and misery led — Affliction hath a bHghting power — speak gently of the dead ! It may be that ye have endured a studied slight or wrong, Forgive, forget— doth just revenge to such as you belong ? The slanderous tongue is mute, the hand that smote is pulseless now ; Speak gently, for the grave-damp stains the pale and lifeless brow. But, if the past will bring again each cruel word and look. With all the countless injuries, so hard for man to brook, The fierce retort, the scornful jest at which true hearts have bled — Then, chiefly then^ remember to speak gently of the dead ! BY FINOLA. 21 Lord jByron. "The true story of Lord Byron's life."— Mrs. Beecher Stowe. jjTp^ORBEAR ! nor drag the stagnant pool, the dark ^ deposit of the past, Not beldame's charm, nor witches' spell, the buried record forth may cast ; Accursed foot that dares profane the hallowed grave with wanton tread, To snatch the cerement from the corpse, and steal a march upon the dead ! Oh, worthless and ignoble deed, selling the very soul for gold. And hollow fame now sunk to scorn — who heeds the tale by treachery told — The dire detraction, baseless lie, the traffic of the false and mean. The sordid infamy that seeks to pander to a taste obscene. llie startled nations, stunned and pale, are waiting still with listening breath, But soon avenging tongues shall speak, and many a sword leap from its sheath — 2 2 POEMS: Of what avail thy pigmy shield the onslaught of con- tempt to spurn, Each shaft that leaves the bended bow to thy cold bosom shall return. Oh, burning shame ! the loathsome asp to spue on him its venomed slime, To stain the lofty pedestal that stood unsulHed through all time ; Where is the love that doubteth not, the charity that thinks no ill, The generous plea for one who strove man's noblest being to fulfil ? Aye, drag once more the sleeping pool — the world looks on with eager eyes : Bring all to light — the fair and foul from dense oblivion must arise ; Call forth each hidden grief, disclose the anguished sorrow nobly borne. The generous tears for others' woes — for dastard slaves the abject scorn ! The records of a life too brief — each high resolve and gentle deed, The yearning impulse that impelled to aid the suffering in their need ; BY FINOLA. 23 'One land — ah, wherefore is she mute ? — one land shall speak with words of dread : 'Greece shall defend her patriot's fame, and stand between you and the dead ! Undei^ the Bridge. ,^HE midnic-ht chimes ran^ out : the startled air •^ Was freighted with the peals from spire and tower, Till the spent echoes died within their lair. Softly the dew slept in each folded flower, The wild bird brooded on her summer nest. And worn sad eyes were closed in blissful rest. Darkly the river surged upon its way, Turbid and rank and grim — a venomed snake Gliding with stealthy tread — the foul murk spray Flecking with slime each object in its wake. Like charnel lights, the lamps' dull glare came back, Reflected from the waters' loathsome track. 24 POEMS. O'er many a fair young head the stream swept on, Mid golden locks the ghastly tangles wreathed ; The conflict o'er, the weary guerdon won — By hidden graves the waters foamed and seethed. Rich laden argosies sailed to and fro, Unheeded slept the buried wrecks below ! Darkly the waters flowed with sullen swoop Through the blank arches, hurrying feet o'er head, And grating wheels the ponderous fabric shook ; Beneath reigned silence, drear and dumb and dead. An ebbless tide, like some ill-omened bird, Swept mid the darkness, though no sound was heard. I said the darkling river poured its flood Through the dim arches — one was bare and dry, A ghastly grotto by the wave withstood, A dismal vault black as the blinded sky : Gaunt, spectral, shorn of even the pale lamp's glare, And yet the pulse of life was throbbing there ! A pallid child stretched on the naked stones, Begrimmed and fouled — the bleeding blistered feet Shivered with pain, and low half-sobbing moans Broke from the dreamer m his strange retreat. Poor blossom ! sin and blight with baleful power Robbed of his heritage the human flower. BY FIN OLA. 25 Mid misty hills, deep glens, the river rose, Pure, sweet, and chill, reflecting from the stream The golden sunset at the day's soft close. The fern's green plumage, and the Mayflowers gleam ; Catching no fouler blot, no darker stain, Than the cloud's shadow, and the falling rain. Unsullied fount from whence the waters sprung, Pure source that gave the blighted spirit life ; If foul corruption and drear misery clung To the two wanderers tainted in earth's strife — Both from their birthplace come forth undefiled, The cold dank river and God's stricken child ! A cry rings forth — is there not one to save, To cleanse the tarnished jewel in God's crown ? It matters not the blind insensate wave. With its unburied dead, still hurries on. Oh, for a helping hand to aid the wreck, A beacon-hght to win the lost waif back ! 26 POEMS: LaBOI\AI^ est pi\AJ\E. Tj^j. ocKiNG Heaven with supplications, chanted ritual, -^k^ muttered prayer, Offering feeble invocations, contrite tears of mute despair — Call you this the spirit's worship, and a homage meet and true. This the noblest, holiest duty, God and man require of you ? What avail your jubilates, plaintive sigh, and fond appeal. Deep and fervent aspirations, and the rapt enthusiast's zeal? Can they raise your abject brother, can they rive the bonds in twain. Rend the hated shroud of error, and that brother's rights regain ? Deem not that no purpose calls you, that no mission waits for you : Up men ! diligently seeking what your hands shall find to do — BY FINOLA. 27 Strive to bear the lamp of knowledge where earth's outcasts darkly dwell, From the scared and blinded vision every gathering cloud dispel. When the shattered wreck drifts past you — human waif so tempest tost — Think, oh think, what priceless jewels may have been for ever lost. Floating, drifting wildly onwards, mid the rock and stormy wave — Oh, remember God will judge you if no hand is stretched to save ! Laborare est orare ! struggling ever for the right, Bearing one another's burthens, pressing nearer to the light — This a worship unrestricted by the forms of class or creed. This a doctrine, pure and simple, that the feeblest mind can read. Loving toil and earnest labour consecrate our common shrine ; Pass not by, thy brother fainteth, freely pour the oil and wine — 2 8 POEMS: This the mission that awaits you, this the work you have to do : Laborare est orare, to that mission still be true. Zealous thought, and stern endeavour — these our wea- pons keen and bright. From the bended bow the arrow speedeth on its wingless flight ; Not one word shall fall unheeded, from each seed some fruit must spring ; Send thy message, no one knoweth where the dove may fold her wing. Art thou not thy brother's keeper? toil brave heart, strong, willing hand ; Raise that loved yet erring brother, free that brow from slavery's brand : Fold the palms when labour endeth, sing the hymn; when victory's won ; Offer up your jubilates, when the glorious work is done ! by fin ola. 29 Una's Jewels. )ROUDLY she sat in her regal state, 'neath the quaint JTi- ^^ old hawthorn tree, Blythe as the bird that sang o'erhead, happy, and wild, and free ; An elfin queen on a mossy throne, mid a wealth of fairest flowers That her tiny hand had gathered from the rifled \vood- land bowers. The rippling waves of light and shade through the shifting branches rolled. Till the clustering curls of chestnut brown in the sun- beams turned to gold ; And never on pictured saint reposed a brighter, holier glow Than the radiance of the halo that entwined that baby brow ! A snow-shower from the weird old tree 1 — with a burst of childish mirth She watched the hawthorn blossoms fall in silence to the earth — 30 POEMS: The breeze, that softly rose and fell, sang a merry- roundelay. And she deemed the spoil of scattered flowers a freight of silvery spray ! The violet stars that decked her brow, and the down- cast violet eye. Seemed kindred jewels, darkly blue as the cloudless summer sky ; And the warm rich hue on cheek and lip shone bright as a flashing gem, Or the coral-tinted petals of the wild rose diadem. A daisy perling on her breast, a daisy chain, and zone. And a chatelaine of fox-glove bells that a fairy queen might o^vn — She had piled a gilded barricade of May flowers from the stream, Nor wandering fay, nor charmed sprite, could mar her blissful dream. Oh, priceless Avealth, a heart to love the common things of earth. To find in the wild flower's folded cup a prize of rarest worth ; BY FINOLA. 31 A Father's hand hath scattered wide true love-gifts for us all — Alas, they coldly turn aside for whom those blessings fall. How passing rich that infant heart, her wealth she deemed untold, The yellow blossoms on the broom seemed stars of burning gold ; The daisied mead was strewn with pearls, no casket could disclose, A gem so pure as the diamond dew that quivered on the rose. Weaving her glowing coronals, her baby song sang she, The breeze chimed in, the laughing stream, and the bird on the old thorn tree ; She lifted her radiant eyes to Heaven, and the spirit of the child Gave forth its incense with the flowers — an offering undefiled ! 32 POEMS: Only a Factory Child. fNLY a factory child. From her daily toil set free, To bask for a few brief hours Iti the light of liberty. A child with the brow of age, Decrepit, and sad, and worn ; A waif from the city's streets, Unfriended and forlorn. Oh, what were life and hope To one who had no part With the stream that ebbed and flowed Through the city's crowded heart ? She had dreamed of azure skies. Of the song of breeze and bird — But the whirl of the factory wheels Was the only song she heard. She had dreamed of the far-off sea. The wild waves murmuring strain — The crash of the spectral wheels Still throbbing through her brain. BY FINOLA. 33 A shifting grain of sand Tossed on the stormy beach, From the human sea too low For human love to reach. A child— with wasted form, Distorted and shnmken limb, Wearing no trace of youth's glad prime, Fleshless, and gaunt, and grim. Ever and ever the wheels Spin round with a demon's speed, As she thinks of the winding stream That flows through the sunny mead. Where the snow-white lilies shine. And the moonbeams softly fall. She sees but the rift of sky Half hid by the factory wall. Oh ! respite fondly sought, Oh ! blessed, bright reprieve ; The victim on the rack Some solace may receive. A few brief joyous hours Away from the dismal street ; 34 POEMS: Through the shadowy lane she hastes With childhood's willing feet. Gazing on tree and flower, She marvels if this can be The holy land of Heaven, . \Vhere the captive is set free ! Hark ! 'tis the sky-lark's note — And the glistening eyes wax dim ; To her the wild bird's chant Sounds like an angel's hymn. Only a factory child, Abject, and poor, and mean ; With the eye of faith she sees What we have never seen — ' That wrecked and lonely waif, Tossed on the stormy beach. Can hear the perfect melody Our ears can never reach. Oh ! sage, Avho read'st the stars, Till the waning moon turns pale. Learn of a child to rend From nature's face the veil. BY FINOLA. 35 Watch and Wait. "X^I^^ATCH and wait, the tide is flowing, ^c5 Speak not now of past defeat : Soon the rush of struggling waters On the shore will chafe and beat. Nought can stay the onward progress, Nor retard the march of fate ; Baffled oft, degraded never, Still with patience watch and wait. All have heard the olden story — Bootless to recall each wrong ; Ah, we know our joys soon vanished. And the night of grief is long, That with sinking hearts, and weary. We have watched from day to day, Whilst the billows rolling onwards Only burst in showers of spray. I know another ancient fable : One stood calmly on the strand. Whilst the snowy-crested waters Broke upon the silvery sand ; D 3 36 POEMS: Lingered on, though spent and weary, Cahiily waitmg day by day, But the mournful waste of waters Only burst in shattered spray. Many a passer-by derided, Jeered, reviled with scoffing tongue, Taunted with insulting laughter, Mocked the hope to which he clung. Not for them the higher wisdom. Battling bravely with defeat. Their blinded eyes could scan no farther Than the waves that washed his feet. Darkly loomed the restless ocean. With its wealth of buried gold ; Every ripple on its bosom Over sunken treasures rolled, Sweeping on o'er coral islands Gleaming pearl and rainbow gem ; But the deep sea's cruel waters Void and lonely shone for them ! One by one the climbing billows Flung their freight upon the shore, Pallid shells and tinted pebbles From the ocean's hoarded store ; B V FINOLA. Worthless dross of scanty value, Mossy seaweed, tangles brown, Drift-wood from the foundered vessels, On the slippery beach were strewn. Watch and wait — the future neareth, Chafe not over past defeat ; The tide of time, that rolleth onward, Bears its treasures to your feet : Unexplored that mystic ocean, With its hidden mine of gold — - Hope and patience may discover What the next wave may unfold ! 37 A. Poet's Thanksgiving. THANK Thee, Father ! with a child's deep love For all thy gifts to me, Daily^and hourly crowding round my path. Fulfilling Thy decree. Deem me not thankless, if the heart seems cold — That heart with fervour fill — In Iceland's frozen clime the boiling spring Leaps upward at Thy will. 38 POEMS: I bless Thee for the deep blue summer skies, The sunset's gleaming gold ; The azure-tinted clouds spreading afar, Like banners, fold on fold : The lightning-freighted masses trailing low, Dark as a funeral pall ; The pale clear twilight dying in the west — I thank Thee, Lord, for all ! I hear the soft chime of the mountain rill, The skylark's matin song ; The far-off murmur of the homeward bee, The heathery moors among ; The music of the incense-laden breeze That rings the lily's bell, Swaying the fern's green " sunburst" to and fro Deep in the shady dell. A dew-drop on the fairy-haunted thorn, A sere leaf rippling by ; The glinting of the harvest moon that lights The sombre autumn sky j The river gliding, like a path of gems, The lonely way-side flower ; The ivy-wreath that drapes the storied arch And mouldering ruined tower. BY FINOLA. 3r> Have I not loved them, as a poet loves, Until the eyes ran o'er, And the full heart, weighed down with sudden joy. Felt it could hold no more ? Have I not loved them ? Father ! not in vain The gorgeous feast was spread ; At bounteous nature's glorious jubilee The lowliest may be fed. For me those sands that glisten in the stream May wear a golden hue ; The sapphire gleams amid the nestling leaves. And not the violet blue : The hawthorn bough is starred with lavish pearls — A diamond wreath and zone Would pale beside the rich and priceless wealth A poet's heart can own. For me the rainbow's dazzling portal seems A grand triumphal arch, And proudly to the tempest's trumpet call The unseen victors march : The wild wave's whispered cadence, murmured low. The booming of the sea, Reveal the wondrous tale — so often told- Of God's infinity ! 40 POEMS : Better to cling to childhood's simple faith, To legends dim and old, To deem the May-flower by the sunny stream A sentinel of gold ! Let the dear story of the aspen's leaf The listener's heart enthral^ Oh, better to believe with childlike trust Than not believe at all ! Father ! no ruthless hand, no tyrant power. Can wrest one gift away. Nor quench the glory of the coming morn — Ending in perfect day ! I thank thee for the chiming mountain rill. The flowers that gem the sod, The sunset sky, the skylark's song — for all I thank Thee, oh, my God ! The Convict's Flower. "There is an old, old legend of a little pale blue flower, which, it is said, blooms only on the graves of convicts." ^HO may tell their life's lost story, and their deeds !^ of guilt proclaim ? Urn, nor cross, nor sculptured column, bears one record of a name 3 BY FINOLA. 41 Long forgotten, they are sleeping in the felon's ghastly- graves— What to them the idle sorrow that their hapless memory craves ? Who may tell the dark temptations ere their footsteps turned astray, With no light to guide them onward, with no hand to point the way ? Ye who call their sentence justice — ah, 'tis easy to condemn — Boasting vainly of your virtue — have you e'er been tried like them ? Long forgotten, none to mourn them, spurned in life, reviled in death ; None to guard their outlawed memory, none to shield from slander's breath ; Yet one pure and sinless token decks their lowly graves of shame. Though no urn nor stately column bears the record of a name. Lonely flower, what hand hath reared thee ? — silent guardian of the dead. Softly gleam thy pale blue petals on the convict's narrow bed : 42 POEMS : Who may tell thy life's brief story — stem, and bud, and fragile spray ? Who hath tended, lived, and watched thy leaves un- folding day by day ? It may be — God alone can tell us — that the mouldering hearts beneath Still retained some trace of beauty, only now revealed in death ; And the pale flower watching o'er them, with its leaves of softest blue, May be some lost virtue springing from the hearts once warm and true ! Words of scorn too harshly spoken may have struck some quivering nerve — The good and evil of man's nature ev'n the lightest touch may swerve : Skilful fingers wake rich music, careless hands but jar the string ; From the chords of human passion let no tone of discord ring. Love, that met with bitter hatred, chilled like flowers beneath the frost ; Faith, and hope, and gentlest mercy, all like scattered riches lost : BY FINOLA. 43 Ye who seek for sunken treasures on the ocean's stormy track, Leave the gold and costly jewels, strive to raise the h II man wreck ! Not in vain this sweet flower springeth from th' un- consecrated sod, Silent record of the lost ones, planted by the hand of God ; Guard the sleepers, drooping blossom, shield them though the sky may lower — Better far than sculptured column is the lonely con- vict's flower ! Proudly we stand in the People's Ranks. f Proudly we stand in the people's ranks, to war '^ with the people's wrong — Though not always the race be to the swift, the battle to the strong ; We dare to preach forth the branded creed of equal rights to all— On the evil and just will the fruitful rain and the cheering sunbeams fall. 44 POEMS: Our weapons — true thought and fearless speech— with these we will overthrow Each low device and base pretence, each aim of the crafty foe ; We laugh at their hollow sophistry, their station, rank, and caste. Their senseless barricade of words our arms will soon lay waste. 'Tis idle to prate of rank and class — nay, urge not the shallow plea — Remember who sat in the fisherman's boat on Gallilee's purple sea ! Rend the tyrant chains that custom forged, and recant the impious creed That a separate law for rich and poor by God's wisdom was decreed. Remember who sat at the publican's feast ! — was there peer or noble there ? What jewelled garter, or diamond star, did those guests, so honoured, wear ? Ah, men, arise from delusion's sleep, fling off the coils that bind The free-born soul's exalted strength, the heaven- endowed mind, BY FINOLA. 45 And proudly stand in the people's ranks, to war with fraud and wrong : Oh, pass not by — ye have stood apart, ye have held aloof too long ; Fear not to utter the glorious faith of equal rights to all: On the evil and just will the fruitful rain and the cheering sunbeams fall. yHE Two Invitations. SHE hears the music of the Christmas bells, And gladness fills the wildly throbbing heart : The festal hour is near, and, draped in robes Of snowy sheen, whose gorgeous shifting folds Are starred with many a gem, she turns aside, A smile of rapture on her glowing lip. Fair is that mirrored form — the auburn hair Shot with rich gleams of gold, the pale pure brow Decked with a coronal of radiant flowers. Again the bells ring out, again she smiles On the white mirrored form that meets her gaze : She sees them all — the laughing lip, the eye That longs to flash back looks of burning love, To speak the silent language of the heart. 46 POEMS: Will he not deem her fair, the chosen one ? For him the wreath was twined, the snowy robe Starred with rich gems — for him the Christmas bells Ring their glad summons through the wintry air. Cold is the fireless hearth, the restless glare Of the dull rush-light falls in checkered shades On the grim garret wall, the sunken floor, The pallet bed, where the worn sufferer rests. She hears the solemn bells, and stills her heart To listen to their chimes — oh, what to her Are pain and suffering now — oh, what to her Cold, hunger, and the world's unpitying scorn? Before to-morrow's dawn a fairer robe Than ever graced earth's festal scenes will clothe Her wasted limbs — a crown, more peerless far Than glittering'gold or gems of fabled price, Will deck the brow, damp with the dews of death. Is she forsaken in that garret home, Is there no voice to pierce the ghastly gloom, To bid her welcome to the festal scene ? Ring out, oh, blessed bells, ring out with joy ! Well may the faded lip with rapture smile, The dim eye glow with gratitude and love — A Monarch's guest, she goeth home to spend Her Christmas night amid the host of Heaven ! BY FINOLA. 47 In the Workhouse. fPEN wide the latticed window : has the spring ^ already come ? I had scarcely hoped such rapture on my weary journey home ; Pleasant 'tis to meet old faces, and to feel old friends are near — Bend a little lower— tell me, did you say that spring was here ? Sings the red-breast on the elm tree — I have heard that song before. When the twilight shadows darkened, standing by my cabin door ; Wider fling the lattice open, raise my head that I may see The snow-drop shining on the green sward, and the bird upon the tree. Do not smile with cruel pity, I am not so changed and weak. Every pulse is bravely beating, though the tears are on ray cheek ; 48 POEMS: If the sight of bird and blossom this poor stricken heart can move, Blame me not, but, oh, remember I have little left to love ! Still the old and thread-bare fable — cease that hollow lying cant, Tell me not that food and shelter can supply my every want ; Stifling in this pauper dungeon, guarded by that pon- derous wall. Housed, like jaded, worn-out cattle, each can claim his ghastly stall. Could the past be but forgotten, even I might cease to crave Aught beyond this workhouse palace, and the pauper's nameless grave : Hark ! upon the roof descending, falls like lead the plashing rain — Am I dreaming ? 'tis the tolling of the bell that strikes my brain. Hark ! I hear the children's voices, not the voices of the dead. O'er their graves the leaves of autumn in their crimson glow were shed ; BY FINOLA. 49 You never saw my gentle Ellen — God be thanked, she was set free, And the gloomy prison portals only opened wide for me. Tor myself, it matters little, I have endless sorrows borne, But to think the parish raiment by my darling should be worn ; Better die of knawing hunger, lacking even daily bread, Than the lips I loved so dearly by cold charity be fed. Close the window, night is falling, the robin's evening song is o'er. Blotted out the sunset shadows dancing on the glaring floor : Bend your head down to the pillow — did you tell me spring was come ? I am cold and very weary, and I long to hasten home. The jBoAT Wreck. fHE wind has sunk — 'twas a pitiless night — "^ Thank God that the morn is come ; What news ? oh, tell me, and tell me true, Have the fishermen's boats come home ? 50 POEMS: I have wept and watched through the long drear hours. With a trembhng ghastly fear, Longing to know the awful truth ; Longing, yet dreading to hear. " You say they have all returned ? who cares For the hurricane's deadly crash, Let the wild Avinds rave, and the thunder boom, And the blinding lightning flash : The sea, like a baffled fiend, may fling Aloft its scattered spray ; We can mock its power when the fishermen's craft Is anchored in the bay ! " Hark ! 'tis a footstep — no, 'tis gone, And my heart beats loud and wild ; But the pitiless blast has died away, The ocean has spared my child — The last lamb of the stricken fold. Sole star of my darkening sky. My only son — my golden haired, The light of the Avidow's eye. " Why does he tarry ? the slow hours fade, And he so fleet of limb ? Oh, none can row with so trusty a hand. Or trim a sail with him : BY FINOLA. 51 When the drowning shrieks Avere heard along The ocean's pathless track, He was the first to stem the wave, The last to leave the wreck ! *' When I hear the whispering waters break Upon the shingly strand, I sometimes think 'tis a far-off voice From another, better land. Husband and first-born, both went down, Gorged by the hungry sea ; Yet, Heaven be praised, one joy remains — My son is left to me ! " When the dying day burned in the west, The,seven good boats set sail, With a chosen band of stalwart men Who had weathered many a gale ; But the bravest, truest, best of all Was Brian, the widow's son — And you say that the fleet have all returned ?" " Aye, woman, all save one ! " Save one ? Oh, God ! where is the boat That followed in the wake ?" " Rent in twain on the bristling crags Where the boiling billow^s break." o E 2 52 POEMS: " And the crew ?" " All lost from stem to stern Nay, woman, ask no more — When the buried dead arise, the sea Will yield its hidden store." " Again I hear the whispering waves Break gently on the strand, Another voice — another from The far-off spirit land : Husband and children, all, all gone, Gorged by the hungry sea ; The ocean holds my buried dead, And none are left to me. " The wind has sunk — 'twas a fearful night. But the cold pale morn is come ; I cannot tell — but I think he said That six of the fleet came home — Where is the boat that followed last. Where is my boy— my son ? Oh, God ! Thou knowest the awful truth, They have all returned save one !" BY FINOLA. 53 yNDEi\_ THE Orchard Tree. T?rf NDER the orchard trees unseen, alone ^ She sadly lingers — shadows undefined, Hopes, doubts, and fears-, uncertainty, suspense, By turns blot out the sunshine from her soul. Fair is the scene — it bears no charm for her : She sees no beauty in the glowing flowers That cluster round her feet ; no radiance dwells Within the fox-glove's bells ; no sweetness fills The violet's purple gem ; the robin sings Its witching song in vain ; the soul untuned Discerns no melody in nature's voice. Under the sheltering trees, 7iot iioiv alone. She lingers fondly — thoughts strange, undefined, Joy, faith, heart-peace, and happiness, Like summer sunshine, flood her wakened soul. Fair is the scene — to her how passing fair ! What magic beauty decks the starry flowers That cluster at her feet : the fairy bells, Trembling upon the breeze Hke eastern gems. Ring forth triumphant tones ; the violet's leaf Unfolds a wealth of sweetness ; amethysts Gleam where so late the purple clover bloomed ; 54 POEMS: Soft breezes ripple 'mid the leafy boughs, And shell-like petals deck the lustrous liead Bowed 'neath a very agony of joy ! Hark to that witching music — how her heart Beats time to the soft measure, lip and eye Lit with a smile of triumph : never yet Did tropic bird, with wings of azure sheen, Carol so sweet a strain ! Under the shadowy trees, with arms entwined, And true hand locked in hand they linger still ; For them sweet nature holds a jubilee, And spreads a banquet for love-sated hearts ! The Af^ificial Flowei^ Makei^ j^EAviLV roll the cheerless hours in their incessant flight, Bringing no morn of happiness, but night, still endless night ; With sorrow, want, and wretchedness, no hope, no change for me, Till God, in mercy, sends to set the toil-worn captive free. BY FINOLA. 55 Little they think of the weary slave who twines the festal wreath — Each garland these wasted fingers weave but brings me nearer death ; Yet I love to look on the rainbow hues, as I fashion the gem-like flowers, In their meek beauty live again the blossoms of child- hood's hours. The wreaths that my infant hands once wove, when my trembling footsteps trod In search of those dear loved treasures, which I then deemed gifts from God ! There is not a bud nor a leaf I form but seems to my aching gaze Like the faded flowers o'er whose early death I wept in other days. These glittering bands of roses, how gracefully they wave, Yet lovelier far the blossoms that decked my mother's grave ! When the gentle petals closing on the cross lay down to die, I fed them with my heart's best tears in speechless misery. 56 POEMS: See'st thou these starry violets ? — my httle sister's eyes Could boast a deeper azure than their blue resplendent dyes ; And that white and radiant lily, outrivalling the snow, Is not more beautiful and pure than her unclouded brow. They said that my own cheek wore a blush, deep as the rose-bud's heart. That never to glowing lip did health a brighter hue impart ; But now I fear to lift my eyes, to gaze on the face that gleams From the broken mirror on my wall, so sorrowful it seems. So sorroAvful and sad it seems, my heart nigh breaks to see The image of our own God defaced by want and poverty ; The pallid cheek, and the hollow eye, and the brow so dark with pain, I think that each glance will be my last, yet still look up again. BY FINOLA. 57 When my pale hands garland the " orange flowers" in many a circling wreath, I sigh to tliink that the bridal crown is fanned by the breath of death ; I would not that my falling tears should sully one trembling spray, So I try to cheer me for the task, and brush my tears away. I try to wear on my altered lip the semblance of a smile, And I sing some olden melody the dreary time to while ; Ye know not how sad and lone it is to toil in this darkened room, Whilst the shadows gleam like spectres in the dim and ghastly gloom. Ye know not how sad and lone it is to labour with tortured brain. Until the bent and weary limbs are quivering with pain ; To see the produce of your toil, chaplet, and wreath, and band. At the word of fashion coldly spumed, as the work of an Irish hand ! 58 POEMS: So I pine in hopeless misery, no solace need I crave, No help for the wretched captive, no help for the Irish slave ! When pity, love, and tenderness return to the hearts of men, Then may I hope for mercy — but never until then. There's a jStorm far out at jSea. ^here's a storm far out at sea — Where the light-house lamp burns bright. Through the long cold hopeless night ; And the vengeful waves leap out With a fierce exultant shout j Like a falling meteor's gleam The fitful flashes stream, Till the buried gems below Shine out in the fiery glow. There's a fierce storm out at sea — Pale faces peer in vain From the lighted cabin pane ; BY FINOLA. 59 The blinding snow sweeps on, Earth, ocean — all are gone : I hear the boatman's oar, As he makes for the sheltering shore — Hark ! 'tis but the savage sea Laughing in cruel mockery. It blows a fresh'ning gale — The life-boat on the beach The drowning ship may reach : Come, launch the gallant craft, And man her fore and aft ; The light in the cabin pane Will guide us back again. Hark ! 'tis the signal gun — away, Our brothers perish whilst we stay. There's a wild storm on the land — Alas, no saving light Gleams 'mid our dreary night : The winds may chafe and rave. No hand is stretched to save ; Fell anarchy and hate Have left us desolate — The minute gun may boom in vain. No answer meets the sad refrain. 6o POEMS: There's a rough gale on the land — Rancour and envious scorn Render our homes forlorn. What are the storms that sweep The bosom of the deep, To the pitiless blasts that rend True loving friend from friend ? Better the billows' threatening roar Than the raging tempest on the shore ! There's a fierce storm on the land — Oh, foot that trod the wave, Thou that alone can'st save, Haste to our foundering barque, Haste, for the skies grow dark : When the maddening storms beat high, Oh, list to our struggling cry ; Bend the wild tempest to Thy will, And speak the blessed words, " Be still !" BY FIN OLA. 6 1 The jStag Hunt. j^NWARD, rushing wildly forth, ^^ With feet that seem to spurn the earth. Over mountain, rock, and crag, Swiftly flies the hunted stag ! Through the glen and haunted brake. Where a thousand echoes wake ; Sweeping o'er the new-mown meadow, Noiseless as a creeping shadow : On, with every sinew straining, (Now the fearful pass 'tis gaining) And the beagles madly follow Through the lonely mountain hollow. One brief pause, one glance behind. Away, then, fleeter than the wind ; With heaving breast, and swelling vein. And limbs that could not brook a chain ! The rushing stream is gained, 'tis passed — A moment, and the hounds have crossed ! A moment yet — oh ! fleeter still The wild deer climbs the rugged hill ; With dauntless front one look is cast Upon the foes that follow fast — Away again : it seems to breast The clouds that screen the eagle's nest ! 62 POEMS: Each chasm, gorge, and cleft, it clears — • But, hark ! the foremost beagle nears ; A crash, an onward sweep, a bound, The spreading antlers touch the ground. One effort more, though hope seems gone. The forest child still hurries on To Avin the paltry boon of life — 'Tis scarcely worth so dread a strife ! But yet the wearied limbs disdain The pressure of the servile chain : One effort more — the quivering flank Lies on the ground all cold and dank ! With curdling blood, and glazing eye, The wounded stag is left to die ! The ha?id had missed that struck the blow, An erring fijiger p^dled the botv ! There's strength in every limb, though chill, The pulse of life is throbbing still. Again the proud heart boundeth free. With hopes of coming liberty ; And visions of the future rise To chase the clouds from those soft eyes. Oh ! for a chance of freedom yet, Before the aiitinmfs sun hath set, The nmddening race to run again ; Perhaps the " stricken deer" might gain ! By FINOLA. 65 The American Lettei\. ^HEY waited in silent deep suspense, Till the old man broke the seal ; Each quivering lip and brow told more Than words could e'er reveal. He broke the seal with a trembling hand, Whilst the crowd still onward pressed, And those who were nearest could hear the sobs That burst from his aged breast. He strove to speak, but no sound arose. Save the low wail of despair ; He looked once more on the opened page, But hope was murdered there. And, oh ! it was piteous to see the head — White as the ceanabhaiis snow — Crushed to the earth with the heavy grief, And the broken heart's wild woe ! But the fearful storm of his soul passed by. As a gust o'er the forest oak ; And, wrestling with his agony, The old man slowly spoke — 64 POEMS: " Father, she pined Hke a wounded bird, Growing fainter day by day ; But her closing eyes still fondly turned To the old land far aAvay. "To her own loved home 'neath the fairy thorn, On the green hill's gentle brow — They say that the hearth is quenched and cold, And the roof-tree lying low. " She used to sing in the star-lit eve — Oh, father, f/iaf song you know, That rose each night in our golden tongue, In the old time, long ago. " We may not tell, for what hand could write Of the anguish, deep and strong, That came, like the sweep of the tempest's might, With the tones of our sister's song. " We may not tell how we strove to hide From our Nora's dying gaze The grief that our darling strove to soothe With those wild heart-breaking lays. " Yet still she pined, like a stricken bird, And we thought it strange to see BY FINOLA. 65 " The cheek grows pale that had never changed In the days of poverty. " And the foot, so Hght in the lone bohreen, Fell heavy, and faint, and slow ; For, oh, there's no weight that will crush you down Like the heart oppressed with woe ! " In her new-made grave she is sleeping now — Oh, father, asthore ! weep on; It will ease your heart, though it can't recall The darling that's dead and gone. " Send us, to strew o'er her gentle breast, The flowers that she loved so well : Father- ! the shamrock, you'll not forget, That grows in the hawthorn dell ! " Oh, wliat to her were the grand old woods, And the flowers c^dazzling sheen ? Better one spray from the rowan tree That shadows the village green ! " Though the forest boughs were of purest gold, And every leaf a gem. Dearer the bud on our wld rose tree. Now mouldering on the stem ! 65 POEMS: " Father, the empty dream is gone — Oh, God ! for the bitter waking — This foreign home is no home for us While the desolate heart is breaking. '' Home ? with the grief that eats out life, Like a worm at the apple's core ; No joy for us until we forget The days that are past and o'er. "What care we for these glowing skies. And the prairie rolling wide ? We know where the moonbeams slumber now— Afar on a green hill side. " Tell us how prospers the ancient land — Are her days of plenty come ? Oh, many a heart is yearning here For tidings from our home. " Hurrah for the eve when we'll meet once more By our own hearth's cheering glow, And gently speak, as one speaks of the dead. Of the old time long ago. *' Hurrah !" — but the old man's voice grew faint : What to him was gladness now ? BY FINOLA. He only thought of the foreign grave Where the child of his love lay low. He folded tlie letter and turned away : And his purpose no one knew, Till he bent his steps to the hawthorn dell Wiere the symbol shamrocks grew. 67 <2=- "G Jhe j^ILGRIM AT THE WeLL. ^OWLY she kneeled by the sainted well, The dew of night o'er her dark hair fell ; She lifted her face to the midnight skies, Not a star appeared to those sightless eyes : Not a ray of hope to her heart was given. Yet, she meekly bowed to the will of Heaven ; And the mother gazed on her darling child, As she kneeled in that lone and dreary wild. Again she strove o'er her brow to fling The sparkling foam of the holy spring, Again she cast on the starry skies The flashing gleam of those sightless eyes ; With a bursting heart then turned aside The burning tear of despair to hide. F 2 (58 POEMS: In silence they roamed on their weary way, Till their cabin dwelling before them lay ; Glad voices of joy on the breeze are borne, The mother and child to their home return ; The light step of childhood comes bounding by, And a welcome shines from each laughing eye — " We have piled fresh wood on our cabin hearth, See, Morna I see how the red blaze leaps forth ; Sister, there's light in thy gleaming eyes. No darkening cloud on their splendour lies." The cheerful glow on her pale face fell, She saw not the forms she loved so well ; And the blind girl wept o'er her hapless lot, As she turned away from that treasured spot. " I have sought, 'mid our Httle garden bowers, For the greenest leaves and the fairest flowers. And a pale and shadowy wreath I wove To twine round the cage of your captive dove ; On its dazzhng wing doth a violet rest. And a rose-leaf gleams from its snowy breast : Look, Morna, look on its proud bright eye, It glows in the light of the morning sky !" But Morna saw not the gentle bird, Her head was bowed, and her heart was stirred ; The cloud of despair on her spirit pressed Like a heavy shower on a young flower's breast ! BY FIN OLA. 69 Her head was bowed diat they might not trace The darkened gloom of her altered face ; But a fearful vision came o'er them now, As she pressed her lips to each spotless brow. In vain, in vain did the bright fire blaze, Ne'er could it meet her darkened gaze. She heard the coo of her gentle dove, But saw not the wreath they had round it wove ; She knew that the eyes she loved were near, For her cheek was wet with an infant's tear ! And she lieard the burst of the heavy sigh, As they wept in their bitter agony — But the bhnd girl smiled, for a light from Heaven In that tiying hour to her heart was given ! ^ J^o ME. ^OOK upon this household picture — has the limner ■s=^ painted true. Are the lights too warmly blended, are the shades too deep in hue ? Untaught hands record the vision little skilled in artist's lore. Wayward fancy's magic pencil paints from memory's choicest store. yo POEMS: 1 can see thy southern dwelHng, 'mid the flowers we love so well, Fondly twines each drooping blossom, opening bud and trembling bell ; Clustering round thy cottage windows starry gems like rubies gleam, Brighter than the golden splendour of the sunset's parting beam. I can see the tall trees swaying in thin garb of freshest green, Softly fall the flitting shadows on the flowers of dazzling sheen — Hark ! the south winds^aerial music wakes each quiver- ing leaf and spray, Like a burst of childish laughter rings the breeze's minstrelsy. Who can fetter fancy's pinion ? thought is strong, and -wild, and free — • I can tell where spring the violets 'neath the fairy haunted tree — Where the fern's green banner waveth, nature's "sun- burst" still unrolled. Many a pensive primrose bloometh witli its leaves of palest gold ! BY FIN OLA. 71 Hearest thou not yon wild bird warbling in the soft arbutus grove ? Listen to the liquid music, to the artless song of love ; As the murmur of a brooklet, gushes forth the glad- dening lay — Songster, taught of God and nature, sing thy welcome to the May. Listen — from the dim old forest grander melodies arise. Like a trumpet's stormy music pealing proudly to the skies ; Never yet did holier anthem greet us in the sacred fane,^ Than the bird's soft melting carol, and the' wind's triumphant strain ! Like a shower of shivered diamonds glancing 'mid the bending trees, Onward floats the grand old river with its storied memories — Onward by the shadowy woodland, by the rath, the keep, and tower, Dim memorials of past greatness, records of a prouder hour. 72 POEMS: Onward, like a path of silver, by the ruined abbey wall, By the cabin's shattered root-tree (none are left to mourn its fall) ; By the shamrock-spangled meadow, where the glisten- ing May-flowers shine — Seem they not like jewelled treasures from the fairy's golden mine. Look upon this household picture — has the limner painted true, Are the lights too warmly blended, and the shades too deep in hue ? Untaught hands record the vision, little skilled in artist's lore, Wayward fancy's magic pencil paints from memory's choicest store ! The y^tNGEL's M.ESSAGE. " There is a beautiful belief in the East, that flowers form the alphabet of angels, by which they communicate their thoughts to man." ^^Y the lone way side bending, by fairy rath and ©^ stream. The fairest jewels of the earth in pictured beauty gleam ; BY FINOLA. 73 A mirrored rainbow seems to light the sward on hill and fell, And gems of radiant loveliness glow from each hidden dell. The holy wells are garlanded with flowers of rarest sheen, O'er storied arch and ruined pile wave chaplets fresh and green ; The ivy drapery curtaineth the mouldering keep and tower As lovingly as if the wreaths twined round a sylvan bower. What wondrous love each bud reveals — each chalice brimmed with dew : Oh, solemn flowers ! earth's wisest ones had need to learn of you ; The winds that sway the .fern's light plume some weird-like tale may tell, And angel-thoughts peal softly from the hyacinth's pure bell. Deep in the emerald meadows rich traceries of gold. Blending with snow-white blossoms, their secret wealth unfold ; 74 POEMS : And, gently, with her perfumed breath the violet waves us back To search amid the heaped-up leaves that strew the forest's track. What magic words are written with the tendrils of the vine, The leaves o'er which the sunbeams play some charmed lore enshrine ; The "hly of the valley's" pearls that tremble on the spray, So soft and pure, would well beseem an angel's rosary ! Oh ! not in vain we lingering pause, to scan with wondering eyes The mystic characters engraved on gems of varied dyes ; No need to seek in ponderous tome, nor ask of seer or sage, A key to con the simple truths on nature's glorious page. Fling wide the factory doors, and bid the children cease from toil. The chains of earth were never forged around young hearts to coil ; BY FIN OLA. ' 75 Unbar the prison gates, and let the hapless captives come — For them, for us, the flowers have brought a message from our home ! Look where they cluster round our path — wan toilers : come away. The rippling breeze is showering down rich blossoms of the May, The fox-gloves belfry softly rings a welcome faint and clear. But at the pealing of those chimes no elfin tribes appear. By the lone way-side bending, by fairy rath and stream, The angel's pictured characters like costly jewels gleani ; Each leaf that trembles in the breeze, each flower that gems the sod, Will teach the heart, though crushed and worn, to love and worship God ! 76 POEMS: J HAVE Loved thee. (Ff-ojn the Irish.) G. ^jT? HAVE loved thee, dear and fond one, ^ ^Vith a pure unchanging love ; Teach, oh, teach me thou canst only How that tenderness to prove. Let me soothe thine hours of sadness. When the world seems false and cold, And thy heart is weary — I can Bring thee rarer wealth than gold. Here, on this fond breast reclining, I shall kiss away each tear ; Whilst a true heart throbs beside thee, What hast thou, beloved, to fear ? Worn with toil, come, rest thee, darling — Gaze upon me with those eyes ; Looks of deepest love shall greet thee. Smiles as soft as April skies. BY FINOLA. If the hand of sickness smite thee, Who will tend with gentler care, And, forgetting her own sorrows. Only ask thy griefs to share ? Who will feel such exultation When each tongue proclaims thy praise, And the favoured child of genius Basks in fortune's cloudless blaze ? Summer's roses twine around us, Summer's sunshine glints above ; Life seems nought but flowers and brightness. -~Joy, and extacy, and love. If the drooping garlands wither. And the sunbeams fade away — • Not for us the scattered blossoms, Not for us the darkening day. I have loved thee, and thee only, With a pure unchanging love — - Even a" life-time were too fleeting All my tenderness to prove ! 77 7 8 ' POEMS: « Evangeline. ^HE stood in the jessamine-wreathed porch — the '^ ringing laugh was stilled, A speechless dread and sudden awe her infant spirit filled ; The dewy eyes were raised to Heaven, with child- hood's trusting love, As she thought of that wondrous story — the descent of the Holy Dove ! She stood in the flower-enwreathed porch, 'mid blos- soms bright and fair, A spray of the wild "forget-me-not" half hid in the sunny hair ; And ever she gazed with childhood's faith afar through the pathless track, "With the folded Bible in her hands, waiting to give it back. A purple cloud, begirt with gold, uprose in tlie glowing west. Spreading out cumbrous fold on fold, like a banner's gorgeous crest ; BY FINOLA. 79 But the radiant splendour died away, the gUttering flag was furled, And the darkened shades of the solemn night came down on the silent world. She thought of the city's sapphire walls, of the burning sea of glass. As she gazed on the feathery wreaths of clouds piled up in a snowy mass ; Of the shining gates of orient pearl, and almost hoped to see The harpers harping, and to hear their songs of victory. They had told her the Bible was God's own book, and. she deemed it a bitter wrong That the precious treasure lent by Him should be retained so long ; And ever she Avaited with patient hope, till the sad- dened face grew pale. To think that the story heard so oft should proA-e but an idle tale. Oh, that some angel, sent by God, a message of love would bring : Hark ! 'tis only the rustling sound of a bird on liome- ward \ving. 8o POEMS: Surely from aU the host of Heaven a white-robed saint might come, Cleaving the space amid the stars, to take the Bible home ! Waiting for God, she lingered still, while the shadows of evening fell. And ever she held in her baby-hand the Book that she loved so well ; Though the violet eyes were dimmed with tears, and the saddened face grew pale. She knew that the story heard so oft could not be an idle tale. ORSHIP. ^OME, the summer morn is dawning, brothers, sisters, •-'^ come away, Holy hands have reared the temple — we must worship there to-day : The wild bird sings a joyous welcome — list yon carol loved so well, To your ears, poor weary toilers, sounding like a sabbath bell. BY Fh\OLA. 8 1 From the factory, from the workshop, from the crowded garret come, Gaze, with eyes and hearts o'erflowing, on the picture of your home — » Your far-off home — deem not we mock you with a hope too fair and bright ; Through the shadows that surround you softly gleams the morning's light. • From the dark and reeking cellar, haste, the summer day's begun. Many a sight and sound shall greet you ere the setting of the sun : True enjoyment is true worship, gratitude the heart's bes,t prayer — 'Mid the haunts of deepest beauty, humbly kneel, for God is there. Gaze upon this gorgeous temple, on this consecrated shrine. Decked with nature's choicest treasures, fashioned by a hand divine ; No fretted roof, or painted window, meets the dim and toil-worn eye. But the rainbow's dazzling glory, and the deep blue summer's sky. 82 POEMS: See the lil/s ivory petals brimming o'er with midnight dew, Never did the sculptor's chisel mould a font of fairer hue; • Look upon the showy chalice quivering on the slender stem, Seems it like a pearl just fallen from a royal diadem. Here we worship, lowly kneeling on the flower-ena- melled sod. Banned nor barred the portal leading to this temple of our God ; 'Mid the haunts of deepest beauty, faith forbids us to despair — True enjoyment is true worship, gratitude the heart's best prayer ! A. Tale of the Past. ^HE sees the sunset melt from heaven, «^ The shadowy twilight fall, The pale cold moon come sailing up To whiten the castle wall. BY FIXOLA. 83 The pale, cold moon come sailing up, Like a far-off ship at sea, Drifting, amid the island clouds, One star upon the lea. The belfry tower looms ©verhead — She listens with baited breath ! Hark to the warning peal that breaks A silence deep as death. Hark ! — but the changing tones are mute, The evening breeze sweeps on ; The bells will ring a louder peal Before to-morrow's dawn. Th'e bells will ring a louder peal As the priests, with hood and stole, Chant a sad miserere For the convict's passing soul. The headsman's stroke falls swift and true, The axe is bright and keen — The noblest blood in all the land Will dim its glittering sheen. She stands by the prison's grisly walls, Footsore and all forlorn ; G 2 84 POEMS: A cry breaks from her parted lips As she thinks of the coming morn. An eerie cry, Hke the tortured wail Of an arrow-stricken deer, And the bursting heart with anguish throbs As the fearful end draws near. Oh, cold and pale the weird-like moon. As she moves in solemn state ; But colder the white uplifted face That leans by the prison gate. Blinded and stunned by despair's fell blow, She heeds not the passing hour, Till the fitRil chimes ring out again From the castle's belfry tower. Then the slumbering strength of a maddened soul Came back like the tide's full flow — With the deathless might of a woman's love She would parry the fatal blow. On the iron-girded door she knocked, With a firm untrembling hand ; Her voice had a strange unwonted tone, As she uttered her stern demand. BY FINOLA. 85 Bright gold was offered — the gold was scorned, Rare gems — but 'twas in vain ; Not the diamond's blaze, nor the ruby's glow, Could sever the captive's chain. Her eyes flashed out with a sudden glare — She would bide there until morn ; The way was long, tlie night was chill — She was desolate and forlorn. From her hands each dazzling ring she took, From her bosom a perling rare — The sparkling jewels glimmered bright In the flickering lamp's faint glare. Fain would she part with that peerless hoard For only one fleeting hour With her lord, who was doomed to die at morn . In the castle's fatal tower. A mufiied footstep nears his cell — Oh, moment of radiant bliss : Little she cares for the diamond's blaze As her lips receive his kiss. Oh, for the sad long gaze of love That met her pitying eye, As together they watch through the window bars For morning in the sky. 86 POEMS: Oh, for the waiHng cry that pierced The dismal gloom of night : One parting kiss — one clasp — ere dawns That morning's hateful light. Stealthily from the dungeon cell A muffled step glides on, The gate swings wide on its creaking hinge, But the fugitive is gone. The headsman whets the gleaming axe, His brawny arms are bare ; He hears the clang of the passing bell Resound through the misty air. He hears the tramp of the funeral train, The onward tread to death — Oh, never did conqueror prouder march To win the victor's wreath. By the murderer's block the martyr stands, While the mass is faindy sung ; And a hurried prayer for the passing soul Ascends from every tongue. A crimson glow on the pale cheek burned, The eye flashed proud and free : — BY FIN OLA. 87 " Little ye thought on the eagle's perch A timid dove to see ! " Little ye dreamed that a woman's love Could rend the tyrant's chain : / dare to die for my fatherland, If a victim must be slain. "I scorn your threats, your baffled-ire— Go, search for your ransomed prey : The noblest blood in all the land Will not be shed to-day !" Proudly she passed through the fortress gate, With a stately step and slow ; TKe'dauntless might of a woman's love Had parried the fatal blow. Agnes. ^His is the picture : do you think it like? ^^ She sits beneath the lamp-light's tempered glow Does not the semblance of the sweet face strike ? — Here are the dewy eyes, the pale pure brow, The meek appealing gaze, more sad than tears, Moving our hearts with untold trembling fears. 88 POEMS: Soft music mingled with the fragrant air, Rich with the spoils of summer — bud and spray, And leaves of brightest sheen were scattered there — Gleaming like jewels in the mellow ray : The solemn chords our listening spirits stirred, But more than earthly melodies she heard ! Oh, could it be that other strains chimed in, Blending with our imperfect harmonies ? The golden harp, tones of the cherubin, And song of triumph from the starry skies — We saw the glowing lip with joy grow pale, The rapturous eyes that pierced beyond the veil ! We did not know God's angel's were so near- God's pitying angels, with white wings outspread ; She trembled not, for love had cast out fear, As the strong pinions drooped above her head. The lamb that shivered in the wintry blast Held the blest summons to the fold at last ! On the wild wave no sounds our ears could reach, Tossing amid the ocean, far from home ; Oh, not for us the shore, the welcome beach. Only the smiken reef, and blinding foam : But Agnes heard the shallop touch the strand, The ripple break upon the silver sand ! B V FINOLA. 89 Oh, erring judgment ! blindly did we mourn That summer's gifts for her would never shine ; For this we bid the weary feet return, The glad enfranchised soul in bondage pine. Nor purple skies, nor wild bird's biythesome strain, Nor radiant flowers could forge anew the chain ! This is her picture ! these the dove-like eyes Subdued and soft, beneath the lamp-light's glow ; All, all of her that we were wont to prize — Oh, gaze once more upon the pale pure brow, The fond imploring glance, more sad than tears. That stirred our hearts with untold trembling fears. The Burial of the Flowei^ ^ HE knew the flower must die — the pale pure rose *^ So gently tended by those infant hands : Oh, if her love could but restore its bloom, Reclaim the withering petals from decay. Impart fresh vigour to the blighted stem. 'Twas her sole treasure, and the child's glad heart Pulsed with true rapture as the perfect mass Of gleaming whiteness met her ravished eye. 90 POEMS : Yet day by day the taint yet deeper grew, The burnished leaves drooped sadly from the stalk, And the rich odour of the doomed flower Waxed faint and chill. 'Twas hard; aye, passing hard, to thus resign The heart's sole idol, never more to feast Her eager eyes on that imperial flower ; To know that love nor skill could yet avail To bring back life to the pale shrivelled spray. She knew the flower was dead — that ne'er again The stricken leaves should wear a silvery tint. Or yield the odour of their incense breath. Pondering beside the cold remains, she thought " Can such rare beauty be for ever lost. Must the sere leaves but moulder into dust, And the pure essence of the rose's heart Melt like a tone of music in the air ? What if another flower, more lovely still, From the wan petals should up springing bloom !" Gathering the scattered leaves with loving care, She scooped a little grave and laid them do\vn, With fitting reverence covering o'er the sward, And sprinkling many a bud of rainbow hue On the white rose's lonely resting place. Oh, could we but resign with childlike faith Our hearts best idols ; could we but discard Pale fear, and cold mistrust, and carping doubt, BY FIN OLA. 91 And human reason's weak and treacherous aid. Could we but lay our treasures in the dust, Beheving that a flower of fairer growth From the cold relics should up springing bloom ! Tn M.emoi\iam. (on the death of a child's canary.) ^f^EAD in the flush of summer — still and cold, ^^ Beneath the deep-hued purple sky of June — The sweet song hushed, the clear eye closed in sleep, And fragile wing furled like a flower at eve. BeUeve that He who marks the sparrow's fall With gentle hand untied the silver cord, And quenched the life so delicate and pure. The story of our infant days reversed — The weird old tale of babies in the wood. With robin redbreasts for their funeral train : But now the bird lies dead, and childhood weeps Above the empty cage ; and loving hands Fold the dear favourite in its tiny grave, Building a monument of fragrant flowers — A cenotaph of summer's richest gems ! 92 FORMS: Lewie Gordon. "Oh, send Lewie Gordon hame !" "^^o arms, to arms, and we'll meet the foe ^ Afar on Culloden's hill. Whilst our hands can wield the stout claymore There is hope for Scotland still. " Let the clansmen march in their serried ranks, And strike the final blow ; Though many a combat has been lost, We'll try a braver throw. " I hear the pibroch's rallying march Resound through the rocky glen, And the measured tramp of the mountain band Who will fight for our cause like men. " The eagle's plumes are waving free, And the pennon streams on high ; Oh, shriller sounds the pibroch's notes As we haste to victory. " Come on, for Lewie Gordon calls. And never a man shall say That coward loon, or craven churl, Has led your hosts to-day ! BY FINOLA. " On — for the hated southern hordes Through yon dark defile have passed ; Their trumpet peals, from crag to crag Rings out the echoing blast. " Though hea^•en were scarcely wide enough Their ranks to canopy, And they stood as thick as blades of grass, Our's will the triumph be ! " Come on, my trusty warriors, haste — To strike the final blow : The God of battles nerve each arm Against our country's foe." The blow was struck, the field was lost ! — A band of gallant men Swore by the holy cross to try The conflict once again, " When the harvest moon liglits up the sky Will Lewie Gordon come, To lead the patriot band once more— To strike for God and home." With bended knee, and folded hands, And pale brow raised to Heaven, 93 94 POEMS : He vowed that only by his sword Should Scotland's chains be riven. The harvest moon has passed the full, And days and weeks have flown ; Another moon is in the sky, And the conflict. not begun. And ever as the days go by. Strong men turn pale with dread, And pallid lips will trembling ask — " Has Lewie Gordon fled ? " Has Lewie Gordon played us false ? He promised back to come And lead out Scotland's chivalry To strike for God and home." Oh, faithless hearts, trust on — events Are vainly shaped by man ; The Great Creator perfects all, Despite our erring plan. The hope deferred may not be lost, The vow too rashly spoken May be redeemed another time — The oath may not be broken. BY FINOLA. Mankind must bend to circumstance, Though thought and will be free ; No mortal power can change the laws That mould our destiny. Another harvest moon may shine On the fields of ripening grain, E'er Lewie Gordon come again Another moon may wane. 95 KiNMONT Willie. ' The rescue of Kinmont Willie from Carlisle Castle by the bold Buccleuch was a daring exploit. Queen Elizabeth demanded of him how he had dared to undertake an enterprise so desperate and presumptuous? 'What is it,' replied the* undaunted chieftain, ' that a man dare not do f Elizabeth, struck with his boldness, turned to a lord in waiting, and said, ' With ten thousand such men our brother of Scotland might shake the firmest throne in Europe.'" fh I cold and mirk fell the winter's night On Carlisle's castle towers, As the warders paced their dreary rounds Through the silent mournful hours. They heard the rain, and they heard the storm, And the clash of the stinging hail, As it smote on the ancient dungeon keep Like the stroke of the threshing flail. 96 POEMS. And faster fell the drifting rain, And louder roared the blast, Yet never a gleam of moon nor stars From the ebon sky was cast. In his prison cell, 'neath the castle towers, Brave Kinmont Willie lay — The chase was o'er, and the hunted stag The victors held at bay. He heard the hurricane's onward sweep, And a merry laugh laughed he — " By the holy-rood, 'tis a fearful night. To quit this hostelrie !" He heard the warder's distant step Resound through the corridor — " I'll give them a chase," said the rebel bold When the prison clock chimes four !" " Let them weave their tangled web of fraud. If the meshes were wrought with gold There's never a castle in Cumberland Could Kinmont WilHe hold !" Hark ! there's a step on the turret stair, The metal door s^\^ngs wide — BY FIKOLA. 97 " Oh : welcome, welcome, my henchmen true," Brave Kinraont Willie cried. "I'll up and away with you my men : Small thanks for their courtesie Who lodged me in these goodly walls, With such winsome companie. " I'll up and away, my trusty men, But the reckoning I will pay, With compound interest on the debt. When we meet some other day." They have reached the second door — 'tis passed With a swift and stealthy stride ; They hurry on till the fifth and last On its hinges swingeth wide. With a ladder of rope the outlaws three O'er the casde postern sprang ; And faster fell the drenching rain, And louder the tempest rang. Away, and away, through the cold mirk night. Three leagues tliey have travelled o'er. As the slumbering warder at his post Hears the prison clock strike four ! 98 POEMS. They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him on land and sea ; But Kinmont Willie led them a dance That they danced right ruefullie ! Two thousand marks of the red, red gold, And a pardon free to all Who help to bring the caitiff back To Carlisle's castle wall. In vain they threaten, in vain they bribe — Who cares for their worthless gold — There's never a prison in Cumberland Could Kinmont Willie hold ! They may seek him east, they may seek him west. But Willie sailed over the sea ; He'll pay them back with interest yet For their goodly courtesie ! This book is DUE on the last dale stamped below. 10M-1 1-50 (2355 470 REMINBTON RAND I N C . 20 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FAClUTy AA 000 367 390 2 PR 5703 VU02n