FROM THE LAND OF THE GATv Wy THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES im- ERRATA. Allan and Bessie— Fage 33, verse 4, 1st line, for "jessamine" read "jasmine." page 35, verse 8 (part II.), -Ith line, for " only" read " favorite." BUna Afan's Bride— Fage 44, verse 3, 3rd line, for " these" read " thee." Maclise's Last Painting— V&ga 53, last verse, ,3rd line, for "spake" read "spealvs." In Afemoriam — Page 53, " In Memoriinn" should be " In Memoriam." An Old Song — Page 76, verse 6, 1st line, for " wringing " read " bringing, ' and in page 81, verse 2, Gth line, for " wing " read " wring." On K. ireeping — Page 96, " on R. weeping" should be " on K. weeping." Vx Victis — Page 98, " Vac Victis" should be " Vib Victis." >4» /raroca^iore - Page 106, last verse, 2nd line for "I'll lay down my head," should be " I'll lay my head down." Muses" Defence — Page 122, verse 2, 2nd line, for " looks" read " look ;" page 124, verse 11, for " binds" read " bind." Devil's HoHdatj —Page 125, verse 9, 4th line, for "heart" read "hearth." No Irish Need Apply — Page 167, ver.?e 4, 2nd line, the word " faith" is left out after " patient." Approaeh of Summer — Page 1-58, verse 13, 4th line, for "birthplace" read " birthright." LAYS from the Land of the GAEL. ©©©2)©©9©©©©©©©^ rV W f^ ]||^Sjj^11rHpiM!Mp^ j^^ ,<^ if^ .'"^ ^*^ '^ i*"^ ^'^*' '^'^ ^, ' W' w w V w: W' w t^i from t^t EantJ of tfjel anna louisa AUTHOR OF ** Western LpriC0." ® 4-©4-©-P©,-I- ,£-, ©^©'fto'f'i^"' ;£; +©+©''I'^..'f ^ ©'I'©-!'©^'©, _ '^©'^©•^©'^ © M'Caw, Stevenson & Orr, Linenhall Works. LonBon : GEORGE BELL & SONS. York Street, Covent Garden. Dublin : M. H. GILL & SON. 50, Upper SackvlUe Street. (KHinburgf) : JOHN MENZIES Si CO., Hanover Street. BELFAST: M'Caw, Stevenson & Orr, Printers. The Linenhall Works. ?K I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER. 96C The Author desires to acknowledge her indebtedness to the Rev. Canon MacIlwaine and Sir Samuel Ferguson ; to the former for his valuable advice and assistance in bringing this volume through the press ; and to the latter for his kind- ness in permitting the vignette which appears on the title-page to be so employed. ^\t mww^'-^ *^ Part I.— LAYS. Madre Natura ... ... .. ... ... ... i The River Moy ... ... ... ... ... 3 Leah ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 5 The Star and the Lover ... ... ... ... 6 All Moonshine ... ... ... ... ... ... 8 My Mother ... ... ... ... ... 10 Sea-Side Memories ... ... ... ... ... 12 Deaf and Dumb ... ... ... ... ... 13 Clarence Mangan ... ... ... ... ... 15 Titiens ... ... ... ... . ... 17 A Picture on the Wall ... ... ... ... ... 18 The Faded Gown ... ... ... ... 19 The Cromlech — Grace and Dermut ... ... ... 20 Funeral of Lord Mayo ... ... ... ... 22 Charles Lever ... ... . . ... ... ... 24 Mary's Story .. .. ... ... ... 25 Ballinglen ... ... ... ... ... 28 By the Sea .. ... ... ... ... ... 29 Lines on hearing a woman singing "Write me a Letter from Home," at midnight, in a street in Dublin ... ... 31 Withered Flowers ... ... ... ... ... 32 A Poet's Visit ... ... ... ... ... 32 Mu.sing ... .. ... ... ... 34 Geoffry .. ... ... ... ... ... 36 To the same ... ... ... ... ... 37 Walking to Church ... ... ... ... ... 39 Richard Cce.u: de Lion ... ... ... ... 41 viii Contents. Evening Thoughts ... ... ... ... ... 44 Twilight hours ... ... ... ... ... 44 Happy or Wise ... ... ... ... ... ... 46 Love and the Maiden ... ... ... ... 47 Thirty Years ago ... ... ... ... ... 48 Enough ... ... ... ... ... ... 50 My Picture Gallery ... ... ... ... ... 52 Dreaming ... ... ... ... ... ... 54 King and Slave ... ... .. ... ... ... 56 Cushla Machree ... ... ... ... ... 57 Gra Gal Asthore ... ... ... ... ... 59 In the "bad times" ... ... ... ... ... 62 My Dennot ... ... ... ... ... ... 63 A Little Flirt ... ... ... ... ... 64 Harold and Edith ... ... ... ... ... 65 A Day too Late ... ... ... ... ... 67 To Mary ... ... ... ... ... ... 69 The Old Year's Warning ... ... ... ... 70 The Oriel Window ... ... ... ... ... 72 Dame Europa's School ... ... ... ... 75 Part IL— SONNETS. Miscellaneous. The Happiness of Song ... ... ... ... ... Si The Muse returned ... ... ... ... ... 82 A Saddened Life ... ... ... ... ... 82 The Violet and the Maiden ... ... ... ... 83 The Song-bird Captive ... ... ... ... ... 83 The Rifled Flower ... ... ... ... ... 84 Memoiy's Dream ... ... ... ... ... 84 My Lady-love ... ... ... ... ... 85 The World's Scorn ... ... ... ... ... 85 Brother's Love ... ... ... ... ... 86 Contents. ix The Nest watched ... .. ... ... ... 86 A Painter's Studio ... ... ... ... ... 87 The Gift Ring ... ... .. ... ... ... 87 The Gem transfen^ed ... ... ... ... 88 Banished Envy .. ... ... ... ... ... 88 The Stranded Wreck .;. ... ... ... 89 Love's Sunset ... ... ... ... ... ... 89 Love Sovereign ... ... .. ... ... 90 Love's Magic ... ... ... ... ... ... 90 Forgiven ... ... ... .. ... ... 91 The Portrait ... ... ... ... ... .. 91 Friendly Words ... ... ... .. ... 92 Beatrice Cenci ... ... ... ... ... ... 92 Gratitude .. ... ... ... ... ... 93 Ingratitude ... ... ... .. ... 93 Vanquished Envy ... ... ... ... ... 94 The Look Eloquent ... ... ... ... ... 94 A Dream of Flowers... ... ... ... ... 95 The Three Sisters ... ... ... ... ... 95 My Muse ... ... ... ... ... .. 96 My Grave ... ... ... ... ... ... 96 Faust and Marguerite at the Church Door ... ... 97 Sacred. Gethsemane and Calvary ... ... ... . . ... 98 Easter ... ... ... ... ... ... 99 The Man of Sorrows ... ... ... ... ... 99 " Come unto Me " .. ... ... ... ... 100 "Maiden, Arise !" ... ... ... ... ... 100 Life is a School ... ... ... ... ... loi T.^ve ... ... ... ... ... . . .. roi Penitence ... ... ... ... ... ... 102 The Teaching of Defeat ... ... ... .. 102 Striving for the better part ... ... ... ... 103 The Poor Man's Offering .. . . ... ... . ro3 True Love's Liberality ... ... ... . 104 X Contents. Light in Darkness ... .. ... .. ... 104 Begone, Unbelief ... ... ... ... ... 105 Sunrise and Prayer ... ... ... ... ... 105 Content in Silence ... ... .. ... ... 106 " Here I buried Rachel" .. . ... ... ... ... 106 Benoni ... ... ... ... ... ... 107 Part III.— SACRED POEMS. The Four Mountains ... ... ill A Prayer ... ... ... ... ... ... 113 Consolations ... ... ... ... ... ... 114 Elijah on the Mount... ... ... ... ... 117 The Captive in Babylon ... ... ... ... ... 119 The Real Life ... ... ... ... .. 120 Communion Sunday ... ... ... ... ... 121 The Garden ... ... ... ... ... 122 The Prodigal ... ... ... . . . . ... 123 The Promises of God ... ... ... ... 124 Here and There — Now and Then ... ... ... ... 125 A Remembrance ... ... .. ... ... 128 First Loved ... ... ... ... ... ... 129 The Work of Sorrow ... ... ... ... 1 30 The Well of Samaria ... ... ... ... ... 132 A Light over the River ... ... ... ... 133 The Bane and Antidote .. ... ... ... .. 134 The Antidote ... ... ... ... ... 136 The Happy Life ... ... ... ... ... 137 Last Words ... ... ... ... ... 138 Wild Flowers ... ... ... ... ... ... 141 " Behold ! I stand at the door and knock " ... ... 142 " Out of the deeps have I cried unto Thee," ... ... 144 " I will never leave thee nor forsake thee " ... ... 145 Seen and Unseen ... ... ... ... ... 147 Sympathy ... ... ... ... ... ... 148 " She hath done what she could " ... ... ... ... 150 ^3^- In my formed' days of bliss Her divine skill taught me this, That from everything I saw I coidd some invention draw ; And raise Pleasure to her height Thro' the meanest object's sight, By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rusteling, By a daisy, whose leaves spread, Shut when Titan goes to bed ; Or a shady bush or tree. She could more infuse in me Than all Nature's beauties can, To some other wiser man. The strange music of the waves, Beating in their hollow caves, This black den which weeds emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss. The rude portals that give sight More to terror than delight, This my chamber of neglect. Walled about with disrespect. From all these in this dtdl air, A fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight. George Wither. " And blest are they who sleep; and we that know While in a spot like this, we breathe and walk, That all beneath us, by the wings are covered Of motherly humanity, outspread And gathering all within their tender shade, Though loth and slow to come." " The Excursion." — Wordsworth. MADRE NATURA. i^pNH, Nature! prodigal of bounties ever; '^ Thou silent recompenser, we can see A reflex of the great and gracious Giver Of all things beautiful and good, in thee ; Seeking no payment, freely dost thou give Thy sunshine, and thy dews to all who live. Dear, patient mother, putting on in kindness, Year after year, for us her richest dress ; She heedeth not our coldness nor our blindness — Her comfort is to give, her joy to bless. She decks with rarest gems the dreariest plain, And only weeps when she has decked in vain. The daisies in the meadows are her voices, Alas ! they speak too oft to listless ears ; Their whispers deafened by the world's rude noises. Their brightness sullied by the world's salt tears : Their timid faces greet us day by day, Yet pass we on, unheeding what they say. How oft at evening, by some clear stream lying, We flung them to its current hurrying by ; Say, did we hear their pitiful dumb crying, As forth we cast them on the waves, to die? Ah I heedless ! and their kindred yet will bloom With beautiful forgiveness on our tomb. A Lays from the Land of the Gael. Oh, mighty mother ! How men hide their faces, And creep for shelter to thy quiet breast ! Great heart 1 which all a universe embraces, And gives to mortal man his only rest ; Then bids thy ministers make haste to shed The mantle of thy beauty o'er his bed. There does the cushat light at even, cooing ; And there the earliest violets love to spring ; There the bee hums, his homeward flight pursuing. Bearing the fragrant spoil beneath his wing : There, in the twilight hour, the nightingale Wakes all the echoes with her plaintive tale. There never word unkind confusion causes ; No terrors can assault these peaceful dreams- Only to slake his thirst the wild deer pauses By yon stray wanderer from her sister streams, That loves to steal by this forgotten place, Where friend and foe lie locked in one embrace. Oh, throbbing heads that find here restful pillows. Oh, weary hearts, that ne'er can suffer more ! Afar I hear the thunder of life's billows. But ye sleep on, unheedful of their roar. Well might we envy you, thus resting here. With nought but God and heaven your quiet near. Sleep on, ye lovers, never to be parted ; Sleep, calmly sleep, and take your longed-for rest ; Sleep your unbroken sleep, ye faithful hearted, Rocked on the cradle of this loving breast : Sleep on ; no cruel hands your rest durst break. No voice of enemy your slumber wake. Sleep, little baby, on thy mother's bosom, Her twining arms shall never more unclose ; Gathered as soon as budded, tender blossom. Fearing nor summer heat nor winter snows. Ne'er trembling shalt thou wake in wild affright. Thy mother sleeps beside thee all the night. The River Moy. Sheltered by solemn mountains, watch'd for ever, By the pale stars which cluster, as if they Would whisper of this household " Nought can sever. This family of God that here doth stay." Oh ! quiet churchyard on this lone hill side, Thou hast the rude strings of my harp untied. THE RIVER MOY. yfVENTLE river swiftly rushing ^^ In a current deep and free : With thy broad calm bosom flushing 'Neath heaven's rosy canopy ; Thou hast wakened in my breast Thoughts that like thee will not rest. Art thou not a solemn preacher To this busy bustling town ? Art thou not a mighty teacher, As thou hurriest swiftly down, To thine home in yon blue wave ? So men hurry to the grave. Onward, onward, all unheeding Those who pass thee lightly by ; Fast upon thy mission speeding. As thy murmur seems to cry, " Sons of earth, ye rush as fast To an eternity more vast." Onward still, 'neath sun and shadow, Onward, still 'neath cloud and beam On by tower and town and meadow, Still thou goest, gliding stream : Singing as thou sweep'st along Unto each thy changeful song. A 2 Lays from the Land of the Gael. O'er thee childhood's laugh is ringing On the stilly morning air ; O'er thee love its spell is flinging When the moonbeam shineth fair ; And some young unsullied heart Seeks to speak with thee apart. To that heart, O talking river, Thy low murmur seems to say, " Love like hers will last for ever — Love like mine knows no decay." Ah ! fond whisperer that tone Full of promise was thine own. See another o'er thee bending, Mark his gloomy eye and brow ; Say what message art thou sending To this lonely listener now. Solemn, as the words of fate, Conies thy voice, " Too late, too late." " Ah, too late ! " with plaintive sobbing. Still is moaned thy sad refrain ; Till the sick heart swelling, throbbing, Madden'd by earth's gnawing pain, Fain would glide away with thee, Into heaven's eternity. By thee youth and age are going, By thee poverty and wealth ; Hearts with love or hate o'erflowing, Sickness, pale, and rosy health. Bounding pulse, or spirit broken, And to each some truths are spoken. Meetings, partings, laughter, sighing. Blessings, cursings, hope and fear. Living now, to-morrow dying. Would men but thy voices hear ; Solemn river, thou wouldst give Lessons unto all who live ! Leah. Fare-thee-well, oh ! lovely river ; Thou hast whispered unto me Of a stream that faileth never, That hath higher springs than thee When thy channel runneth dry May I walk that river by. LEAH. "And in the morning, lo ! it was Leah." ^HE wakened first, and thro' her veiling hair ^^ Gazed on the face that fraud had given her, And felt with a fierce throb of keen despair, She — even she — was his joy's murderer : And with what horror wild — or cold surprise — Her wakened lord should meet her wedded eyes. She looked again, and thought upon a cheek Pallid with weeping in their father's tent ; Yet she was fair — the beauty he did seek — Let it bereaved Rachel now lament : Were Love and Beauty both to be her share. And Leah wretched, as she was not fair? How often by the sheep-fold on the hill Had she in their mute love been crucified ; — Was cold neglect to be her portion still. And he clasp Rachel as his wedded bride ? Ah, no ! and yet her throbbing hands she prest, As tho' to still its crying, on her breast. He loved her not ! What tho' his form was hers- His soul was Rachel's. Hark ! her hungry ear Strains now to catch his whisper as he stirs ; What words are these her aching senses hear ? They her unhallowed triumph fierce reprove — " Rachel — my bride — my wife — my only love." Lays from the Land of the Gael. And in the pillows deep she hides her face, While to his startled ear quick sobbings come : Why shrinks she so, why start from his embrace ; He paused a moment in amazement dumb, Then drew her to him with a fond surprise, And meets — alas for both ! — pale Leah's eyes. THE STAR AND THE LOVER. /1r\NE star is left, one pale gold star, ^^ It trembles ere it dies, And from behind yon mountain bar Flashes of glory rise : The King of Day is up — to scare This watcher from the skies. It deepens now — that golden glow — It flushes all the East ; Hide thee, sweet star, He bids thee go — It is thy Lord's behest : See, see — He comes — a King indeed, In kingly glories drest. He comes ! the glitter of his train Spreads over all his wake. And forth from every wild-wood glade, From every dewy brake, Spring the glad birds exultantly, And tuneful welcomes make. Art gone, pale star ? I see thee not, I scan the cloud-piled floor ; Thy meek face meets no more my own — Too soon thy reign was o'er. Dost weep thy banishment ? Methinks I read thy starry lore. The Star and the Lover. Say, did'st thou love th' inconstant earth ? Did'st shed on her thy Hght, As still and beautiful she lay 'Neath thine enraptur'd sight? What dreams were thine, when brooding o'er Her face, the live-long night ? She smiled, and answered back again Each sparkling glance of thine, And now she sees thee go, unmoved, Thou must her breast resign, For the great Lord of her and thee Ariseth now to shine. And she, false-hearted, turns to gaze With sweetest looks on him ; While thou, in loneliness and pain, Art waning yet more dim ; As tho' in the last throes of death Thy sad eyes 'gan to swim. O lady false ! O ! lady fair, Th' inconstant earth art thou. Who, all unheeding my despair, Turnest, with flushing brow To meet the lordly lover, come Before thy shrine to bow. And I. like yonder dying star, Must fade and pass away ; Yet may I watch thee from afar, When night gives place to day. He may be Lord of light and thee But nought can quench my ray. And tho' I may not press my lips To that fair cheek of thine, Tho' lost for ever is the love — The love that ne'er was mine — Yet tender light from mem'ry's star Must still upon thee shine. 8 Lays from the Land of the Gael. ALL MOONSHINE. 'IprOW varied are the scenes, pale moon, .*7 On which thy light is shed; Thou shinest on the bride's blest face, And on the sheeted dead. With the lone mother thou dost watch Beside the couch of pain ; Thou hearest mutterings, low and deep, Of some distracted brain. Thou listenest to the lover's vows In every age and clime ; The same old story, ever new, And heard time after time. Oh ! upon many a troubled face Has fallen thy holy beams : Thou stealest to the sick man's room, To light his ghastly dreams. To lift the darkness from his soul, To cheer him with thy ray. And banish by thine influence His gloomy thoughts away. Upon the lonely cottage roof Thy beams as softly fall As on the palace of a king. Or noble's princely hall. Thy light is on the placid lake, And on the foaming sea ; As well the wild flow'r dost thou deck. As the tall forest tree. All Moonshine. Thou in the mansions of the great Lightest some stately room, Flashing on eyes, like thine own stars, And cheeks of rosy bloom. Gleaming on gems from India's mine. On pearls from Afric's strand, That glitter on an ivory neck, Or on a snow-white hand. And in the lonely prison cell, Where, writhing in despair, One tosses on his iron bed, Sweet moon, thou shinest there. Thou on the bloody battle-field Watchest the sleepers pale ; The gaping wounds and glazing eyes. And crushed and broken mail. Where the dread jackal, scenting blood, Stalks grimly from his lair ; And vultures, with their sable wings, Blacken the reeking air. When 'neath the fury of the gale, The ship reels to and fro, Now on the crested billow's top. Now in the deep below. Thy light gleams on the riven sail, And on the slippery deck. As with a groan the good ship yields, And lies at last a wreck. While buried in the soft sea sand The drowned seamen lie — Unmoved upon thy starry throne. Thou lookest from on high. 10 Lays from the Land of the Gael. Oh ! many a deed of blood and crime Thy watching eye hath seen, To many a dread and guilty thing Sole witness hast thou been. Yes, varied are the scenes, pale moon. On which thy beams have shone, Since first God hung thee in the sky, Thousands of years agone. MY MOTHER. fYYl Y mother — the years passing by vi' •■ Have dimmed the soft light of thine eye, And thy dark locks are changed into grey ; But to us — in thy pensive worn face, There's a beauty, a charm, and a grace, That belongs not to summer's bright day. My mother — for ever that name Our deepest affection must claim, Thy tenderness could we forget ! Thy meekness when trouble opprest. When grief was too often thy guest — And sore was thy pathway beset. Nay chide me not, now, let me speak. There are furrows deep worn on thy cheek By tears that in secret were shed, For those whom thy bosom hath borne — For some who may never return, From the dark silent house of the dead. My Mother. ii For him who sends never a word To the hearts that by hopes still are stirred, 'Tis years since his bark went to sea ; Poor wanderer, tho' all should forget, The mother's love waits for thee yet, And bends an unwearying knee. At home, by the Shannon's blue wave, The sunbeams slant over a grave, The angels their watch by it keeping ; Ah ! mother — thy grief who might know. When they told thee thy boy was laid low ! Yet bethink thee our God heard thy weeping. There's another lone spot by the sea, Where the forms of two fair children be. The three are together in glory ; God took them while life was yet new, E're the world's hand had brushed off the dew, To teach them eternity's story. 'W'ould'st thou keep them, my mother, to know The bitter tales learned here below, When a beautiful home was before them ? Ah, no ! they are safer above, In the arms of a heavenly love. No rude billows there can break o'er them. And we, who are left thee — oh fain Would we chase from thy life every pain, Would we strew all thy pathway with flowers ; From the broad skies that over us bend, May our Maker, Protector, and Friend, Add His love everlasting to ours. 12 Lays from the Land of the Gael. SEA-SIDE MEMORIES. 3 STOOD upon the wild sea beach, and watched the billows play Like living creatures, joyously, while oft their hissing spray Fell like a dew upon my brow ; and as I, musing stood, Like ocean's waves came surging in of memories a flood : Old times, old scenes, old faces came that come in dreams to me, And voices I no more may hear, were murmuring with the sea. Voices I loved, that now are changed, or silent in the grave. Spake as they spoke in life's young day, with every dashing wave ; And one, whose tender cadence could my heart with rapture thrill, Seemed, with its sweet familiar tones, my listening ear to fill. Giving me back the joy, the glow, the happiness of old, That once seemed boundless as the sea whose waters towards me rolled ; Giving me back the ecstasy that nought but love can give, The scattered dust regathering, bidding it breathe and live. "And cease," I cried, "Thy restless song, thou melancholy sea. For thou hast opened by thy moan the graves of memory : Called from the chambers of the heart, as from a silent tomb, A train of vanished forms ; and lo ! at thy command they come. The hopes, the longings, and the dreams of happy hours gone by, When not a single cloud obscured the glory of life's sky — Yes, joys long shrouded, cold and dead, thou hast recalled again, Making my eyes — unused to weep — drop tears like summer rain — Salt tears, that only sear my cheek, yet cannot ease my heart. Invoked by thy sad murmuring, from heavy eyelids start. The loveliness of long ago floods all my soul once more — I've lived a lifetime, standing lone, upon this wild sea shore 1" Deaf and Dumb. 13 DEAF AND DUMB. ^VVjHAT is it flushes thy soft cheek, my child? *^ What thought is swelling in thine heaving breast ? Alas ! the prison'd bird, with struggles wild, May beat against the bars, stricken, represt, Make its sad moan ; but never, never more In the free air of heaven its wing shall soar. So thou, all caged and pantmg, feel'st within The thousand promptings of our human kind, But never on this earth the goal shalt win, Nor burst the chain around thy being twined. Deaf to all sounds of mourning or of mirth, Alone thou art upon the wide, wide earth. Doomed to unbroken silence, on thine ear No tender words of love may softly fall ; But through thy weary round, from year to year. Thou walkest as beneath some dark'ning pall. Fair, bright-haired boy, how blighted — sad thy state ! How lonely art thou, child ! how desolate ! By thee, at summer morn, the gladsome song, The tuneful chanting of the warbling birds, Shall ne'er be heard the leafy woods among ; And sweeter far than this, the loving words Of fond affection pouring from some heart. Kindred to thine, ne'er tell how dear thou art. Perchance a mother's kiss is on thy brow, But ah ! her sweet " My Son " thou can'st not hear, Adown her channel'd cheek salt drops may flow, It is for thee, my boy, she sheds that tear — Yet in her mute caress is love not spoken ? And well thy warm heart knows the silent token. 14 Lays from the Land of the Gael. Thou can'st not hear the murm'ring of the rills, Thou can'st not hear the thunder of the sea, Its pealing anthem ne'er thy spirit fills With a glad burst of voiceless ecstasy. Stern silence winds round thee her double chain, And all that chorus grand for thee is vain. The music of the earth, the air, the sky, The sounds whereby earth's hymn of praise is given ; Pass thee unheeded, all unvalued, by, And yet mayhap the melodies of heaven Are sometime granted to thy spirit's ear, While songs thou hear'st, that none save thee may hear. There is a strange, sad brightness in thine eye. As if an unseen angel talked with thee Of that celestial world — where by, and bye, In God's good time we trust thy home shall be. There, there, the deaf shall hear, the dumb shall sing Eternal hallelujahs to Heaven's King. Clarence Mangan. 15 CLARENCE MANGAN. (Written on seeing Burton's Picture in the National Gallery, taken after Death.) "Tell it, my harp, when my bones lie whitening In the last home of youth and eld — That there was once one whose veins ran light'ning, No eye beheld ! Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble. Deep in men's bosoms let him dwell, He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble. Here or in Hell ! " T/ie Nameless One. — J. Clarence Mangan. 3 GIVE thee tears, I give thee tears, 'Tis all I have to give, Thy soul, perchance, my mourning hears, Where thou at last dost live ; Here, on a sea of storm and strife, Thy life was but a death in life. Oh, God ! it maddens me to think Of all thy wretched fate, The cup once offered thee to drink, Starving at plenty's gate. The want, the tyranny, the wrong, That wrung thy spirit into song. I kneel before thee, as before Some pallid, martyr'd saint, And muse thy chequer'd story o'er, With anguish'd heart and faint ; To think of all the sorrow prest Into one fated human breast. l6 Lays fvoni the Land of the Gael. Deceit, and treachery, and pain, And hollow-eyed despair, And poverty's remorseless chain, Condemned wert thou to bear ; Yet o'er earth's din didst thou not hear, Immortal harpings in thine ear ? Yes, lofty soul, in prison pent, Behind those prison bars, A glorious liberty was lent. And converse with the stars, For gazing on thy pale dead face, A strange, mysterious joy I trace. They've set that face upon the wall, Among their honoured dead, And on it living light doth fall, The light by genius shed ; Living a poor, despised thing. Death's icy hand has crowned thee king. " The Nameless One " — Oh, never let, Such thought as this be thine, For Irish hands shall ne'er forget Garlands for thee to twine. Deep be the sin and dark the shame Of those who honour not thy name. Farewell ! if on that mystic coast, Where shadowy martyrs be, My voice can reach thy mournful ghost, Accept this strain from me ; Know that thy face in Death's repose Tells to my soul thy soul's deep woes. Titiens. 17 TITIENS. (On seeing her Picture after Death). yfYRAND soul! that from thine height look'st down ^*-^ Calmly on those below ; Never shall I to thee be known, Yet I thy greatness know, And here unto thy flow'r-piled shrine I bring this humble wreath of mine. Crown'd Queen thou art. Twice crown'd a Queen E'en now by Death's cold hand, For ever shall thy name be green Throughout our English land ; And lovingly thy form we lay To sleep in thy calm grave to-day. Thy spirit, where ? In what blest place Now rings thy glorious voice ? Re-echoes it thro' boundless space, Bidding whole worlds rejoice, While we, who loved thine every tone, Would selfish keep thee still our own ? Alas ! no power Time's laws defy. Time's hest must all obey ; Death passes not the great heart by To strike at meaner prey ; But greedily his rude arm flings Around our best, our noblest things. Not only for thy lofty part. Not for thy well-won crown, We mourn thee. 'Twas the woman's heart That made thee all our own ; Thy songs within our souls we keep, But thy lost goodness bids us weep. B i8 Lays from the Land of the Gael. A PICTURE ON THE WALL. (T^OWN thro' my narrow casement ^^ The moon shines soft and white, Fhnging across my chamber floor A flickering path of light ; And with a tenderer lustre To me it seems to fall On the face that's seen but in my sleep — Her picture on the wall. It adds to the winning softness Of the loving, gentle smile, It lights again the hazel eyes Wherein there dwelt no guile. It robes in a richer garment The form I loved so well, It fills my heart with grief and love That I may never tell. On a night like this, when moonbeams play On her picture on the wall, The past, with its sweetness and its pain, My heart can well recall. The tear-drop glistens in mine eye As I watch those holy beams ; The hopes of youth come back again — Its longings and its dreams. I live my early life once more. With heart and hope elate, Ready to strive with every foe, To conquer every fate. The Faded Gown. ig I wonder, in her distant home, Thinks she of days gone by, And ever o'er the vanished past Heaves a regretful sigh ? Does the wild, sweet dream of our early love Ever chase her sleep away ? To that loved spot I have ne'er forgot Do her footsteps ever stray ? Of the sweet, wild thoughts in both our hearts We never breathed a word ; Yet trembled she when I stood nigh. Like a poor captured bird. And I know — but alas, 'tis now too late — She would freely have given up all To share my lot : now I have nought But her picture on the wall ! THE FADED GOWN. QJES, I know 'tis faded, and worn, and old, j^ Yet a spell is hidden in every fold, And it wakes in my bosom a pensive sigh. With the memories brought of days gone by. Oh, many a time has his hand smoothed down, The shining folds of this faded gown ; And often I've flown with gladsome feet To don it in haste, his eye to meet. B 2 20 Lays from the Land of the Gael. Then glanced in the mirror with cheeks aglow, While my fond heart whispered — " He'll praise me so !' Ah ! happy hours — that too soon went by, My dress is faded — and so am I ! The freshness and glory of life have fled, The love is over — the hope is dead ! But I hide it away, for I cannot bear, What his touch once hallowed again to wear. I would not that meaner things should press Too rudely against that once praised dress ; But I steal to my chamber at times, to gaze On this mute, sad relic of happier days. For tho' 'tis faded, and worn, and old. Yet a spell is hidden in every fold. THE CROMLECH.— GRACE AND DERMOT. AN IRISH LEGEND. /I^RINCESS of Tara's house was she, YP And many a suitor bent the knee, And many a chief of ancient name, Aspired her royal hand to claim ; And many a wand'ring minstrel's tongue The praises of her beauty sung ; And many a youthful heart she fired, And many a lofty deed inspired ; But one dark curl of Dermot's hair Was dearer than the boldest there. And one smile from his manly face Illumined earth, for Lady Grace. The Cromlech. — Grace and Dermot. 21 Unmoved, she saw the train go by, If Dermot's crest caught not her eye ; The wine was tasteless at the board, Save Dermot's hand the goblet pour'd ; The song fell on a listless ear If Dermot's voice she did not hear, And Dermot's was the only word That all her heart's wild pulses stirr'd. Long had she striven with maiden zeal. This strange sweet gladness to conceal ; Long had she struggled with this pain, Long had she school'd her heart in vain ; The mutual glance, the frecjuent sigh, The ready blush, the averted eye, The wish to hide but plain revealed What each from other had concealed. Till vanquished pride, her towers o'erthrown. The useless spear and shield threw down ; Love, mightier than pomp or pride. The frowns of fate and kin defied. And Dermot, hated of her race. Won to his arms the Lady Grace. Dread was the hour and dark the night. When the young lovers took their flight ; Yet rusty bolt, and creaking stair, No hindrance gave unto the pair. For love had bidden both be mute At sound of lover's flying foot. So, silently, the ponderous bar Withdrew, and flung the gates ajar, And silently the sullen chain Dropped back into its place again ; Safely the slippery moat they pass'd. And now tis o'er, they're free at last. " Where shall I shelter this dear head ? " 22 Lays from the Land of the Gael. Thus Dermot to the lady said, " No castled keep, alas ! have I, To which with thee, my love, I'd fly, No followers to guard thy feet, Oh ! whither shall I bear thee, sweet." The lady sank upon the heath. With paling cheek, and failing breath, " My Dermot," then at last she sigh'd, " In yon dark tomb with thee I'll hide, The grave itself, tho' cold and dread, Is welcome shared with thee." She said, " I have no fears while thou art nigh, E'en in its charnel house to lie." And so like hunted birds they rest. None dared their sacred peace molest, For angels guard on every side. The place where love and death abide ; There, safe 'neath love's dear shield they lay. Till the muir-cock proclaimed the day. FUNERAL OF LORD MAYO. (Viceroy of India). Assassinated 8th February, 1872 ; buried in Dublin. ^LOW through our crowded capital passes a mourning ^i' throng, We should have bidden thee welcome, with voice of harp and song ; Now we but grant thee such farewell, as to crowned king might belong. Thou wert the stateliest scion of the great De Burgho's line, Ne'er glowed a loftier spirit, nor kindlier heart than thine, Noble by birth and lineage, and the grace of God Divine. Funeral of Lord Mayo. 23 Thy rule, the rule of mercy — thy cause, the cause of right, Thou hast left thy land a memory with deeds of virtue white, With diamond writ on her records, thine honour'd name burns bright. Others have conquered countries, but thou didst conquer men, Thy sword was the voice of kindness, thy spear the gifted pen ; Weep India, thy friend and lover, who will show thee his like again? There were some who dared to doubt thee, yet who came to see at last. That to hands both wise and gentle an Empire's rule had past ; ( jreat son of Erin ! all honour that men could give, thou hast. Were there no clouds portentous in the watching heavens that day? Was there no voice uplifted, that deadly stroke to stay ? Woe to the wretch who smote thee, his name be curst alway. Dead ! yet methinks such dying were nobler than other's life, But, alas ! for the orphan children, and alas ! for the widowed wife ; The blood of a father and husband crimsoned that fatal knife. And, alas ! for the land bereaved, which to-day awe-stricken stands, The brows of our swart cheek'd sister are bound with funeral bands ! And tho' oceans roll between us, one sorrow links our hands. 24 Lays from the Land of the Gael. * CHARLES LEVER. (Died at Trieste, of heart disease). "/V^OW cracks a kindly heart" — its labours o'er — \*^ Now sets a star that never more may rise ; Hushed is the genial voice we hear no more, And quenched the light for ever in those eyes ; Thine Erin weeps thee with a plaintive moan — Alas ! too soon for her thy work is done. Sore she bewails thee with a mother's tears, But lately were her funeral weeds put on For him, the noblest man among his peers, And now she mourns another honoured son ; Doubly bereaved, with downcast face she stands, Burke's sword and Lever's pencil in her hands. A household friend wert thou, whose genial mirth Bade care, with all its sable train, depart ; Welcome alike to all — at board or hearth Laughter awaking in the saddest heart ; Solace of heavy hours — alas ! that we No more thy genial smile may kindling see ! Under Trieste's soft skies thy form reposes ; 'Tis meet that thou should'st lie 'mid scenes so fair, But England strews thy bed with June's blush roses. And Ireland's shamrock clusters fondly there; No matter where thy bones, thy soul must be At home with us, who loved thee o'er the sea. All that is mortal mingles with the dust, But what is deathless none to dust may give ; Weapons were thine no time can ever rust. And in our happiest memories these shall live : Perchance, not all too soon thy doom was spoken, For, ah !* the mainspring of thy life was broken. * See Dedication to his Wife of "Lord Kilgobbin" — his last Work. Mary's Story. 25 When she who still inspired thy ready pen, Who watched thy well-earned fame with loving pride, Passed to the world of spirits — o'er thee then Death's shadows fell, then ebbed thy heart's full tide, But trust we now that on that silent coast, Never to part, have met the loved and lost. MARY'S STORY, TOLD BY HER FRIEND ESTHER. eOME here and sit beside this grave, beneath its covering stone A flower lies withered. Oh ! it was a fair, though blighted one ; My childhood's play-fellow and friend in bygone happy years, Whose name engraven here I dew with unavailing tears. And wouldst thou know her history, that dear departed friend ? Look on me, child, and hear her life from dawning to the end. A trusting heart — a loving heart beneath us mouldering lies : Ay, weep ! her grave may drink those tears, her dust demands those sighs. She wedded in her early youth, and on her bridal day I saw her go with hopeful trust forth on life's shadowy way ; Round her there seemed an atmosphere of sunshine and of light. And her radiant eyes were all aglow with visions passing bright. A year fled by, and I, her friend, to Mary's dwelling went To see again my bright-eyed love, to share in her content ; I hastened to the opening door her outstretched arms to meet — But one year gone, and yet her brow was printed by its feet. 26 Lays from the Laud of the Gael. She held me up her little child, I kissed it o'er and o'er ; But my Mary did not seem to me the Mary known of yore ; There was a shadow on her path— I marked it even then- Alas ! that human lives are marred by deeds of faithless men. Her husband ! oh ! to have mated her to such a soulless clod; Dull head, cold heart — his cherished gold his idol and his god- He saw her droop from day to day, he heard her silent cry, Yet missed no colour from her cheek, no radiance from her eye. He saw, yet did not see her life was made for better things ; He chained the wild bird to a perch, and clipped its once free wings ; He blighted by neglect's cold frost that young impulsive heart. And heeded not the tears that oft from hidden founts would start. Oh shame ! to make a household drudge of that rich gifted soul. And all her aspirations high to deaden and control, To hug the moloch of his heart, to kneel a prostrate slave. To the fearful thing that even then was digging deep her grave. Years passed, at length her spirit broke its chains and soared away ; Her heart awoke, her wild harp poured in words its thrilling lay, And she who 'mid a toilsome life of labour panted long Was hailed by Genius as its child — was crowned a Queen of Song. Her pen was fire, and forth there rushed her nature's lambent flame ; Gold was the guerdon of her toil, and then — Oh sin ! Oh shame ! — Mary's Story. 27 He schemed to sell her soul for greed — to barter even her brain — Nothing to him her glorious gift — 'twas but a road to gain. He spurred the steed, and would not see that silently and fast The lamp of life was fading out, the goal was reached at last ; He gave no respite to her toil, no charm to bid hope stay, Till with each paen of her heart a string was torn away. O Mary ! when they led me in to see your dear dead face, O Mary ! when I saw you laid down in this quiet place, 'Twas joy, not grief, that thrilled my heart, that dimmed with tears these eyes. For I knew your freed soul had escaped to the freedom of the skies. She withered in her glorious prime ; and now my tale is told : He went back to his idols foul, he hugged his blood-stained gold ; But oft at evening's hour I come, and sit beside this grave. To mourn the life I saw decay, but was too weak to save. Born for a brighter, happier lot, born for a better fate. Let him who guards a life like this pause ere it be too late; Cherish the flower all tenderly, with human love and care, Then blossoms lasting to all time its grateful stem will bear. Quench not the soul, guard faithfully the bright God-given thing ; Bind no rude fetters on its feet, no shackles on its wing : Nourish with Love's celestial food that soul's immortal fire. And touch with reverent hand the strings of such a tuneful lyre. 28 Lays from the Land of the Gael. BALLINGLEN, CO. MAYO. 7^0 those who read aright, what wondrous things ^ Dame Nature by her voiceless lesson teaches, The bird that from the brake its carol sings, Reveals the glorious creed its warbling preaches. Fair scene, by thee I'd linger ! let me stand. And con thy charmed pages o'er and o'er ; Come hither, Fancy, wave thy wizard wand, And teach me how to read earth's fairy lore. And Poesy, lend thou thy 'witching pen, And with thy glowing colours gild the scene ; Recall to me this beauty-haunted glen, And one sweet spot, the fairest there I ween. A spot whereon to lie 'mid sunny noon. And dream away the silver-footed hours ; Listening the fountain's never-failing tune, Breathing the balmy breaths of scented flowers. A spot where fairies might disport themselves. Tripping it lightly o'er the velvet grass ; Is it a dream, or see I now the elves Before me, to their revels blithely pass ? Here, with my favourite Shakespeare I'd recline. Here, where some tasteful hand has form'd this nook ; Fair women-faces then, with eyes divine. Will light for me the pages of my book. Here will sweet Juliet share awhile with me, Her world wept woe, her sad ill-fated choice— And thro' yon bow'ry screen perchance I'll see Young Romeo steal, and hear his whispered voice. By the Sea. 29 Miranda will draw nigh, and Rosalind, And she of whom sweet memories endure, I'll carve her name deep on this mossy rind, " The gentle Lady married to the Moor." With other shapes, brave heroes, noble kings, The stainless warrior, and the belted knight ; Hark how the bubbling fount its anthem sings, Mixed with the voice of squire and lady bright. BY THE SEA. 3 ST AND and look into thine eyes, I see the soul within them rise, I hear the sad song of the sea, • I hear its voices calling me ; I yearn with yearning that is pain For what can never be again ; Then, as the wearied bird home flies, I turn for comfort to those eyes. I tread with thee the snowy strand. Still clasping close thy gentle hand. The very shells upon the shore Remind me of what now is o'er ; For bright and tinted ev'n as they, My hopes were in that vanished day, To which my fancy ever flies. Until I meet thy pitying eyes. I gaze across the heaving main, With many a longing, wild and vain ; Oh ! friend thou knowest what none may know, Thou'st watched with me, when faint and low 30 Lays from the Land of the Gael. The lamp of hope burned in my soul ; Thou saw'st the billows o'er me roll, Yet never, never in those eyes Did aught but love and pity rise. How beautiful the scene, how bright, See how yon bird with pinions white Glides thro' the midst of foam and spray, Calmly upon its trackless way. How the waves whisper on the strand. Soft as the clasping of thine hand, How calm are yonder Summer skies, And cloudless as thy gentle eyes. Leave me not ever, O my friend ! Thou knowest this fleeting life must end Like yonder wave, which, as I spoke, Upon its rocky barrier broke. The bond that binds us shall be broken, Ah ! then, when the last words are spoken. And in the dust my body lies, I will not meet thy pitying eyes. Yet will I hope that otherwhere, By sea more calm, 'neath sky more fair, Where all the tumult and the strife, And the vain fleeting things of life, Shall have passed by from us for ever, I'll meet with thee, no more to sever, And where the daylight never dies, My gaze shall meet thy gentle eyes. Lines. 31 LINES a ON HEARING A WOMAN SINGING WRITE ME A LETTER FROM HOME," AT MIDNIGHT, IN A STREET IN DUBLIN. npSLAINTIVE voice, untimely swelling, \^ Thro' the solemn, quiet night, Old, forgotten stories telling, Filling me with strange delight ; What a picture hast thou bidden Rise before my aching sight ! On a doorstep sits a woman, All her shivering bosom bare, And a face most sadly human, Hid 'neath screen of falling hair ; Slowly, softly she is crooning To the midnight her despair. " Write a letter" — thus she singeth — " Write a letter unto me," While her mem'ry backward wingeth To the home she ne'er shall see ; Lonely singer, homeless singer, May the good God pity thee ! Take thee home at last in mercy, Where thy wandering shall be o'er, To the house where welcome waits thee, Not, as now, with cold closed door, Where, adoring, thou shalt ban(]uet. Never knowing hunger more. 32 Lays from the Land of the Gael. WITHERED FLOWERS. Oji'H ! do not slight those withered flowers, \ZJ Or cast theiii coldly thus away, They blossomed once in sunny bowers, None were more fragrant, fresh, and gay ; But now, with all their beauty past. With all their morning freshness fled, Forth by a careless hand they're cast To mingle with the common dead. No more a gay parterre they grace. Or nestle in a bosom fair. Seek we in vain to find a trace Of all the loveliness once there ; Yet, oh ! tho' spoil'd and crush'd they be, Yet keep them for their beauty fled, Nor cast them forth thus carelessly To mingle with the common dead. A POET'S VISIT. " Some have entertained angels unawares." A^F old, when angels walked this earth, ^^ With meek-eyed brows and lowly, Men knew not of their lofty birth. Save by their converse holy. All unawares the strangers came, And unawares departed, But left behind a living flame Within the loving-hearted. A Poefs Visit. ^^ Dull eyes that could not see aright As common clay esteemed them, And unabash'd approached the light, Nor worshipped as beseemed them. But some there were who veiled their brows, And spake not for deep gladness, Till the celestial voice might rouse Their souls to happy madness. So in our day when Poets come. In guise of man or woman. The faithful welcome to their home. The Heavenly with the Human. No common earth henceforth it seems By their stray feet passed over. But shrines to waken blissful dreams, And tender thoughts discover. Oh ! Poet friend, no bays have I, And yet I fain would crown thee ; I bless the place thou hast pass'd by, And bless the home hath known thee. And still thy gentle eyes shall shine From out the gloom surrounding. To light this darken'd soul of mine, And set this sad heart bounding. 34 Lays from the Land of the Gael. MUSING. 9f2[l'HEN I am gone, will any tears be shed? ^^-^^ Will any come to look upon my grave, And moan for one who slumbers with the dead, Above whose dreamless sleep long grasses wave ? Will they talk tenderly of all my sins, And say that true repentance, pardon wms ? Will there be dearth of wailing when these eyes Are closing up for ever from the light ? Will any breast receive my latest sighs. And soothe with whispered words my soul's affright ? Who will be with me in that awful hour. When o'er my head Death's dark clouds grimly lower ? Will all the faces that now brightly glow Upon the canvass of my fancy be Far, far away, when fitfully and slow. This breath comes faintly, panting to be free ? Will angels' eyes from out the darkness shine, To pour one ray of rapture into mine ? Oh ! I would wish to die with those I love Kneeling in tearful sadness by my bed. Yet no, the struggle might my peace remove — Shall hope abide though reason may have fled ? Will not one wait me on the silent shore. Whose face on earth I never may see more ? Will he not spring to meet me as of old — Does not God give us back the lost in Heaven, Will not his spirit-arms my form enfold, E'en when this earthly bond is snapt and riven ? Oh ! when the Eternal Day bursts on my soul, Past, present, future, I will know the whole ! Musing. 35 Yes, I will know the whole, will understand Why here the cheek is stained with bitter tears ; There is no weeping in the better land, No agonizing doubts, no maddening fears, No shame, no death, my spirit pants and burns. Till all this untold mystery it learns. Yet, must I leave them ? vShould God call me first. How could I leave my loved ones, whose fond eyes. Such tender dreamings in my soul have nurst ? O'er all the byegone past my fancy flies, I see them round the fireside's ruddy glow, I hear their blended voices soft and low. My hand thro' shining tresses once more strays. That make a glory round each fair young brow ; Anon, a sunny smile like daybreak plays Around each rosy mouth, while laughter low And sweet as fairy music fills the room : What is fate weaving for them in her loom ? The youngest born are they, those three bright girls, So full of hope and beauty ; must those eyes. Be dimmed by sorrow's rain-cloud, those soft curls Be streaked with silver ? Deeply-heaved sad sighs Rive all those gentle bosoms, till at last Over the silent river they have past ? To live is but to suffer. Hope's bright wings Just wave awhile to lure the traveller on ; To some fond dream the heart in secret clings ; And when at length the long sought prize is won. The nipping frosts of fate untimely shed Our rose's brightest petals on its bed ; Or disappointment, with its baleful breath. Gives to the fountain pure its bitter taste ; Or, o'er the happy threshold stalks pale death. And changes all our Eden to a waste ; C 2 36 Lays from the Land of the Gael. Then groanings none may utter wring the heart, Then tears of blood from sorrowing eyeUds start. And yet we durst not murmur — our's to learn The lesson life will teach us howsoe'er We cry out in our blindness — Justice stern Decrees the curse primeval which we bear : Our father sinned, we sin, and suffer sore, Ay, and must suffer until Time is o'er ! Oh, to learn patience ! oh, to humbly lay Our burden, where to lay it is most meet, E'en tho' thro' blinding tears look up and pray- The rest that follows pain is, oh ! so sweet ; And after this world's turmoil, we shall gain, The world above, where pleasures banish pain. G E O F F R Y , AGED 5 YEARS. BOOK on me, child ! thy face is very fair, As though a God had late been breathing there; Thy silken twining curls how soft they flow O'er cheeks of rose and childhood's happy brow. Oh ! is there aught 'neath yonder cloudless skies So purely radiant as thy bright young eyes ! Kiss me, my boy — that frank, confiding kiss Has unto me more than thou know'st of bliss ; 'Tis very purity —it breathes to me Of that fair land where children-angels be. Again, my little child, my fair-haired boy. Thou art to me like to some fancied joy My dreams have known — I pass thy threshold o'er, And thou and I may meet on earth no more. To the Same. 37 Geoffry ! the name befits thee — it belongs To the old, glorious days when minstrels' songs Moved hearts in honour's cause — to do or die — That grand old time, the age of chivalry. And be thou, child, tho' later thou art born, Like to the knights of old, who wrong did scorn, Who healed the wounded, succoured the distrest, And in their lordly halls made worth a guest. Though changed the scene, yet is man still the same, And may thy life befit thy noble name ; Be thou a warrior stainless in the fight — Victor or vanquished, boy, do thou the right. TO THE SAME, ON COMPLETING HIS lOTH YEAR. rrTIl^^ grieve because our children leave behind them, ^*^^ With their bright looks, their gay unpractis'd ways, Yet when they're older grown, our glad hearts find them With something still to love and still to praise. Then we rejoice, and cry, 'tis but the changing Of the young plant that to a tree springs up ; Nature, with mystic art, her plans arranging, Will leave no acorn shrouded in the cup. Thus from thy childhood hastening I behold thee, Stretching like eaglet young, thy callow wings ; May visions of thy child-home fond enfold thee When thou hast put away all childish things. May holy thoughts of father and of mother Shine out as lights across thy mem'ry's plain ; God sends us after-loves, but, ah ! none other Shall ever love thee, child, like these again. 38 Lays from the Land of the Gael. May the fond kisses now thy smooth brow seaUng Be talismans to guard thee in the strife ! May odorous airs for evermore be stealing Out of the Past, perfuming all thy life ! We mark the flower while Summer airs are blowing, We see its beauty, yet pass heedless by ; 'Tis when from us its tender smiles are going We turn to breathe a long, regretful sigh. So when of late I saw thy father twining, With happy smile, his shielding arm round thee. My hungry soul awoke with anguish'd pining For one dear face I never more may see. Child, thou hast now no tears, no fever'd longing, No hopeless yearnings, hast not learn'd to fret At the world's trials, which too soon come thronging O'er every threshold — thou must feel them yet. It is the curse primeval, but keep stainless The fearless spirit sitting in thine eyes ; I would not have thy life, my boy, all painless : It is through pain that men must heavenward rise. But I would have thee pure and self-contained. Wise, loving, patient, thy dear Father's son. Strong in thyself, by inward strength sustained. Winning an honoured name, as He has won. Walking to Church. 39 WALKING TO CHURCH. tHEY walked to the church together, The young man and the maid, Staying their footsteps a moment Beneath the elm tree's shade. Bright in a cloudless heaven, Glovv'd there the summer sun ; It was early yet, in the belfry The bells had but just begun. And when all their places had taken, In the quiet house of prayer. And the bells had ceas'd their ringing, They still were lingering there. As a mist of gold, her tresses On her snowy bosom fell, Half veiling the face, now glowing Like the pink of an ocean shell ; Her happy heart fast quivering, With a thousand blissful sighs, And a world of love and rapture, In the upturned trusting eyes. He spoke of a future brighter Than the heaven over head ; He strewed with fadeless flow'rets The path her feet should tread. He built her a fairy palace — He wedded her there a bride. Thus talking, they entered the portals Of the old church side by side. 40 Lays from the Land of the Gael. And knelt they there together, But oftener would he look At the happy face beside him, Than at their opened book. He heard not the psalm repeated, For the music his spirit made ; But silently, timid, trembling, To the Holy One s/ie pray'd. She thanked Him for this best blessing, And kneeling humbly there, Her soul went out on the pinions Of that earnest, simple pray'r. But alas ! for our dreams of promise, And alas ! for our summer prime. The fairest flower in the garden Will wither 'neath frost and rime. He sits with a fair-faced woman, In the city far away, But not with the meek-eyed maiden He wooed and won that day. He hears not the ringing organ. He heeds not the solemn prayer. He is looking back o'er life's desert. With a gloomy, mournful stare. He heeds not the wife beside him. In thought he stands once more, In a quiet village church-yard, 'Neath the elm-tree as of yore. The face and the form of beauty, Again rise to his view ; He feels the touch of her garments. As they kneel in that old, old pew. Richard Coeuv de Lion. 41 While she, in a trance as sadd'ning, Thro' a mist of hidden tears, Feels round her again the perfume, The sweetness of other years. She sees a hand on the prayer book. She touches it with her own. Her heart leaps up within her At a fond familiar tone. She trembles again like an aspen, With her new-born hope and bliss ; Ah ! life's sunny dream of morning, Hast thou melted away to this ? So with a sigh she wakens To her loneliness and pain. While the tear that her dream had banish'd, Flows silently down again. RICHARD CCEUR DE LION. "O, Richard ! O, my King !" 3b^ING RICHARD sat by his prison grate, *^ His head bowed on his knee. While in thought he travelled back again To his home beyond the sea. Afar he heard the sullen splash Of Danube's crested wave, And wondered if he by its sandy shores Should find a captive's grave. 42 Lays from the Land of the Gael. Without he heard the neighing steed, The warder's bUthesome call, And he thought of the happy hours once known In his own deserted hall. Of the days when he feasted his barons brave. As they grouped round his kingly board, While the torches' light shone on armour bright, And the ruddy wine was pour'd. Again he has mounted his gallant steed, And whistled his favourite hound To follow the deer, with horn and spear, Far over the hunting ground. Now with plumed crest and steel-clad breast. His good sword in his hand, His banner unrolled, with his warriors bold, He fights in the Holy Land. 'Neath his lady's bower in the twilight hour He sings the old romance, Or in toumay gay he is bearing away The ring on his quivering lance. Now his kingly brow he bends full low To the greetings of the crowd. And in fancy's ear he seems to hear Their plaudits long and loud. Though uncrowned and alone, his kingdom gone, Close fettered by many a chain, He felt he could win both crown and throne By his good broadsword again. Richard Cceur de Lion. 43 Then the swarthy cheek of the Hon King Was stained by many a tear ; Oh, but for one hour of his vanished power — Must he die a captive here ? He brushed aside from his eye of pride The tear that sparkled there; " They cannot forget, they will seek me yet, Shall the Lion Heart despair?" Now for Christ's sweet sake doth he sleep or wake, What is it his soul doth hear ? With the blood's warm flow flushed his haughty brow With joy that was almost fear. 'Twas some faithful hand from his own dear land That swept the lyre's full chords — Throbs heart and brain as he hears again The old familiar words. 'Twas a strain that oft in his own good hall He had bidden his minstrels play ; It was one he had loved, but had not heard For many a weary day. Then his harp he took and boldly struck The strings so silent long, And loud and clear to the waiting ear Came the captive monarch's song. 'Twas enough — the faithful Blondel knew That voice ere it ceased to sing — " Oh, Sire, thou art near, have I found thee here ? "O, Richard! O, my King!" 44 l^<^ys fyoni the Land of the Gael. EVENING THOUGHTS IN A CITY. 3 LOVE this quiet hour — so solemn sweet, When the night steaHng on with noiseless feet Draws, as with mother's hand, the curtain down. And veils in tender gloom this busy town. I love the brooding mystery of that sky, Where in the azure deep pale star-flowers lie ; O, gracious gloom ! O, tenderness divine ! Pour thy soft twilight o'er this soul of mine. Breathe on my troubled heart thou quiet eve, Bid it not hope too much, nor too much grieve ; Let it lie trustfully within my breast, And, like this dying day, at length find rest. TWILIGHT HOURS. WEET were the hours when we wandered At twilight by the sea. And her soft eyes turned half shyly, Half tenderly on me. When by friendly darkness shielded Her timid hand sought mine. And I drank from her stolen glances Deep draughts of Life's best wine. Those moments, oh ! those moments Too soon they fleeted by. When our souls in one were blended As the sea blends with the sky. Twilight Hours. 45 When with gentle eyes turned earthward, And drooping head bent low, She strove to hide the blushes That on her cheek would glow. The holy calm of evening Was round us everywhere. As the thousand sweets of Summer Were borne on the balmy air. And earth, and air, and ocean To our tuneful hearts kept time, And through us thrill'd their music With soft melodious chime. No boding fear of the Future, No memory of the Past Their dark and baleful shadows Across our pathway cast. Ours was the golden Present, With all its glorious dower ; Ours was the dewy freshness Of the soul's just opening flower. Ours was the bliss, the rapture That new-born feeling brings ; We heard the songs of angels, We felt their rusding wings. Life may have many a pleasure, But few so pure may be. As those fleeting moments sent us In the twilight by the sea. 46 Lays from the Land of the Gael. HAPPY OR WISE. 3 WATCH ED them as they sat apart, Their hearts withm their eyes, Too hopeful to have any fears, Too happy to be wise. I knew it was the old, old tale While gazing on the pair — Each for the other any fate Or any woe would dare. I saw the radiant light of joy Gild each unclouded brow ; I saw upon their quivering lips Their young love's whispered vow. I turned, as an unbidden tear Had started to my eyes; I felt 'twas better far to be Happy like them than wise. Love and the Maiden. 47 LOVE AND THE MAIDEN. MAIDEN, 3 DOUBT, I fear, O Love, To let thee in ; Thou might'st a tyrant prove If entrance thou did'st win. LOVE. Fear me not, gentle maid, None do I harm ; Oh ! why, then, be afraid, Let me thy fears disarm. MAIDEN. Nay, but I still must fear, Thou cruel Love ; If thou but draw too near A tyrant may'st thou prove. LOVE. Sweet, wilt thou drive me forth ? If I depart Blasts from the icy North Shall freeze thine heart. MAIDEN. Ah, Love, thou may'st me bless In other guise ; Come thou in Friendship's dress, With Love's own eyes. 48 Lays from the. Land of the Gael. THIRTY YEARvS AGO. A^PEN the shutters wide, my child, ^^ I cannot sleep to-night, I love to see the soft snow shine With mild and silvery light. Sit here, and I will tell you How thirty years ago I watched from this very window The lovely stainless snow. The moon was shining brightly, Just as to-night she shines, And I was looking wistful Down that long walk of pines. I waited for my lover, Ah ! child, my hair is gray; But the past lives in my memory, As tho' 'twere yesterday. I waited for my lover, Ah ! child, the past was bright; And calm as is the shining Of yon soft moon to-night. Why was it taken from me ? For one year quickly fled ; Why have I lingered thirty years Of loneliness instead ? All, all comes up before me, The bye-gone happiness ; The bounding heart all quivering With its great joy's excess. Thirty Years Ago. 49 I see him riding swiftly Upon his favourite steed, I hear him urge with cheering word The brave beast to its speed. Swift, swift as winged arrow, Across the sward he flies; Ah ! now he's lying motionless, The light fades from my eyes. I knelt beside him on the earth, I raised his drooping head, I pushed aside the tangled curls, And yet no tear I shed. They tried to take him from me, But all that awful night His head lay on my bosom, Until the morning light. He heard me as I breathed his name, He knew me as I prest Sad death-cold kisses on his face, '* Dear God, thou knowest best. Could I but take you Avith me. Oh ! blest had been His will ; But thus to die, and leave you," He sigh'd — then all was still. Some would have died beneath it, God gave me strength to bear, A woe-struck woman all my life, Few could my sorrow share. But with the coming morning I see the sky look bright ! Child, do not look so mournful, One day there will be light. D 50 Lays from the Land of the Gael. Now draw the curtains softly, For I would sleep awhile, But e'er you leave me dearest. Come, let me see you smile. Good-night, kind heart, dear daughter, For child you've been to me ; He is but gone before me To where I soon shall be. Nay, do not linger near me, I like to be alone, I like to lie thus thinking Of all the faces gone. They cheer my silent chamber With tender radiance bright, With them I'm never lonely, Good-night, dear chijd, good-night. When in the cheerful daylight I stood beside her bed, Lo ! she had crossed the river, All cold she lay and dead. ENOUGH. ^r\H ! I have come from distant climes ^^ To claim thee as my own, To ask thee to redeem the pledge Which once from thee I won. Enough. 51 Say, canst thou leave thine own fair land To cheer my forest home ? Say, wilt thou with the wanderer To trackless regions roam ? Can this fair form, on which a breath Has hardly dared to blow, Endure the summer's scorching heat, The winter's frost and snow ? I cannot give thee silken robes. Nor jewels for thine hair, For hard and needy is the lot I ask thee now to share. A strong right arm, a willing heart. Where thou dost reign alone. And love that shall be thine till death. Are all the wealth I own. And canst thou doubt a woman's faith, Her tenderness, her truth ? In weal or woe I cling to thee, The lover of my youth. Tender although this form and weak. Still love and hope are strong, Think not I prize the empty joys That here around me throng. No palace could be half so dear As woodland shed with thee : Take me then, take me to thine home. Where'er that home may be. D 2 52 Lays from the Land of the Gael. MY PICTURE GALLERY. eHERE is a chamber in my heart With pleasant pictures hung, And thro' it oft I love to go, When the vesper bell hath rung, And safe within their downy beds Nestle the pure and young. I love to go at eventide, When 'mid the dark'ning room One last bright ray of ling'ring light Comes stealing thro' the gloom, Like hope, one moment flashing forth Across the brink of doom. Of all the faces glowing there. None fairer smiles than thine : I think of thee as draining draughts Of fresh'ning, cheering wine ; I think of thee, and feel I've touched Upon a golden mine. Thy hand hath opened hidden springs, And loosed the tide of feeling, Across my soul a breath of flowers From verdant meads is stealing, 'Tis joy to me to see bright eyes A brighter soul revealing. One glance from thy thought-breathing face, My fancy prisoner made, I saw thy spirit's graces far Thy beauty's grace outweighed ; I saw the gleams from Heaven's own sky That o'er thy features played. My Picture Gallery. 53 I hear thy praise, and lo ! the tears From happy fountains start, Oh ! do not chide these wayside flowers That blossom in my heart, I cannot choose but sing to thee, So dear to me thou art. 'Tis not thy face that most I prize, Though it is passing fair, 'Tis not thy witching woman's ways, E'en these cannot compare With the bright sparkle from the soul I see upspringing there. Thou spak'st, and on a troubled breast There fell a wondrous balm : Methought I heard some spirit speak Soft, soothing words of calm, That thrilled me like the dying notes Of some cathedral psalm. I know full well thy life is filled With voiceless harmony, A daisy hidden in the grass Is God's own voice to thee, The print of His almighty hand Thou canst upon it see. The bleating of a little lamb. The cooing of a dove, Can raise thy soul from things of earth To Him who dwells above : They are the objects of His care. The tokens of His love. He feeds the ravens when they cry. He clothes with grass the field, Yet not to common eyes has He In common things revealed The wonders of His matchless skill, The power He well doth wield. 54 Lays from the Land of the Gael. Ever shall I remember thee, Where'er on earth I go, The sweet, strange charm of sympathy Dost thou not feel and know ? Blessbd are they who bid warm tears From grateful hearts o'erflow. This world, alas ! is full of pain, But oh ! 'tis passing sweet. Wending along its dusty ways, A kindred soul to meet : Methinks 'tis like the mossy turf To weary, way-worn feet. 'Tis like the dew to thirsty flower, We breathe a purer air. We shake from off our bending necks The shackles of despair ; Thus, e'en through all its weary way, This world may still seem fair. DREAMING. QIONDER, a little boat lies asleep, {^ Like a babe on its mother's breast, The rippling waves around it keep A musical soft unrest ; While many a fold of azure and gold Curtains the glowing west. Into the ocean dips the sun. The daylight dies away ; O'er the purple hill tops one by one Steal the evening shadows gray. As alone I stand on the shell-strewn strand To list what the waters say. Dreaming. ■ 55 The magic of this all magical hour Is over my spirit now, And dreams of the past again have power To flush my cheek and brow ; And I stoop to hear in my listening ear A voice that murmurs low. There are eyes that seek in the gathering night, An answering light in mine. Oh ! Love in those wells of thy tender soul I see the spirit shine ; Fill up, fill up, to the brim the cup, I pledge thee in Love's best wine. Alone with Heaven and our hearts' deep love, We are silent, thou and I, Let me see thy face, my trembling dove. Let me look, ere the moon pass by ; Art thou not mine, by this mystic sign ! Nay, strive not from me to fly. Sweet eyes, sweet eyes, do ye fail and fade. Sweet lips, do ye melt away. Oh ! Love, of this I am still afraid Thou wilt never a moment stay ; Though I hear not the beat of thy parting feet Yet I clasp but to lose thee alway. 56 Lays from the Land of the Gael. KING AND SLAVE. ITTE came not nigh — he feared his heart ^ Would look forth from his yearning eyes ; But Love interprets every art, And Innocence is brave and wise. She stepped from off her golden throne, She took in her's his shrinking hand ; She spake — " Great Love hath made us one- I crown thee King of all my land." He gazed upon her glowing face, Then sank upon a willing knee, " I bless thee. Lady, for thy grace. And own thee Queen of Love and me." She led him to her chair of state, Then bended low that chair beside, " In this, this, only am I great, That thou hast ta'en me for thy bride." He raised her, trembling, to his breast, Then spake in accents sweet and grave, " As King to others I'm confessed. But oh ! to thee, my love, a slave." Ciishla Machree ! 57 CUSHLA MACHREE ! Oh ! but the world is cold, When we grow tired and old, Would I slept 'neath the mould — Cushla Machree ! Once I had day dreams bright, Oh ! in the sun's warm light, Who fears the darksome night — Cushla Machree ! Once his heart beat for me. True as a heart might be, Where his like could I see ? — Cushla Machree ! Kisses were mine of old, Tales in my ear were told. Fond arms would me enfold — Cushla Machree ! Once in these weary eyes. Where now small beauty lies. Strange gleams of joy could rise — Cushla Machree ! Once this now sunken cheek. Fond lips could eager seek, Blushes my bliss could speak — Cushla Machree ! Once at his coming feet. Wildly this heart could beat, Flying forth his to meet — Cushla Machree ! 58 Lays from the Land of the Gael. Once at his whispers low, Tears of deep joy could flow, Now all uncheer'd I go — Cushla Machree ! Whom did my coming glad ? My parting, whom made sad ? Oh ! for the power I had — Cushla Machree ! Once my least whisper made Peace in his heart, he said, Happy if near I stay'd — Cushla Machree ! Loveless, unloved am I, Waking nor smile nor sigh, Passing unheeded by — Cushla Machree ! Never again mine ear, Waiting '"twixt hope and fear, Shall the old story hear — Cushla Machree ! Never my voice shall bring Balm to life's sorrowing, Soothing misfortune's sting — Cushla Machree ! All now is lost and sped. Blushes and smiles have fled, Rapture and hope are dead — Cushla Machree ! Gra Gal Asthore ! 59 What had I said or done, That underneath the sun, Cheerless I'm left, and lone — Cushla Machree ! Others I see pass by, Their's is no faded eye, Their's is no wasting sigh — Cushla Machree ! Fulness of peace they've found. Nurse they no hidden wound, Love wraps them ever round — Cushla Machree ! Oh ! I had faithful been, Loving as they, I ween. Had I him changeless seen — Cushla Machree ! Worthy love's bliss to bear, Worthy love's crown to wear. Worthy love's throne to share — Cushla Machree ! GRA GAL ASTHORE ! 3 LOST you when our love was young, Gra Gal Asthore ! Your praises were on every tongue, Gra Gal Asthore ! The flower you were of maids among, Gra Gal Asthore ! 6o Lays front the Land of the Gael. You mind the pathway up the hill, Gra Gal Asthore ! There I can hear you singing still, Gra Gal Asthore ! You'd sing there yet, had you your will, Gra Gal Asthore ! But little song was left in you, Gra Gal Asthore I They killed your heart, so warm and true, Gra Gal Asthore ! Misfortune still their path pursue, Gra Gal Asthore ! They told you I had faithless grown, Gra Gal Asthore ! That far to foreign land I'd gone, Gra Gal Asthore ! Too well their evil work was done, Gra Gal Asthore ! They killed your heart, my love, my pride, Gra Gal Asthore ! They forced you to a traitor's side, Gra Gal Asthore ! Oh ! well their victim's chains they tied, Gra Gal Asthore ! And they are safe — they need not fear, Gra Gal Asthore ! I'll never come your pathway near, Gra Gal Asthore ! But oh ! my name, to you to clear, Gra Gal Asthore ! Gra Gal Asthore ! 6i Yet never from my lips you'll know, Gra Gal Asthore ! Who worked our ruin here below, Gra Gal Asthore ! Why should I make your tears to flow ? Gra Gal Asthore ! Your babe upon your breast can bring Gra Gal Asthore ! Joy in the midst of sorrowing, Gra Gal Asthore ! Would I new shadows o'er you fling ? Gra Gal Asthore ! Oh : sometimes, when they say you're sad, Gra Gal Asthore ! God pardon me ! my heart is glad, Gra Gal Asthore ! You're thinking of the joy we had, Gra Gal Asthore ! Oh ! He is just : the day will be, Gra Gal Asthore ! When all made clear 'tween you and me, Gra Gal Asthore ! Our lives' destroyer you will see, Gra Gal Asthore ! 62 Lays from the Land of the Gael. IN THE *' BAD TIMES." " ryyi AURICE asthore, it's the night that's cowld, l^'^ The wind is whistlin' thro' the dure; But gramachree, your hand I'll hould — And see — the childres on the flure : Shure, if God laves me thim and you, I'll not complain at what He'll do. " Asthore, I know your heart is sick Wid waitin' for what stays so long, But when He likes, He comforts quick, And harvest time '11 see you sthrong : Och, shure He's good, avick machree, He hasn't taken you from me. " See, I'm as willin' as the day— There's the two colleens and the boys — Asthore, you're heeding what I say ? — Whisht, whisht, allannahs, whisht your noise Maurice mavoumeen, turn your head, And spake to me — I'm full o' dread. " Is it the pain, asthore machree"? She bent her o'er the squalid bed, Then shrieking, sank on failing knee, To meet the cold stare of the dead For suddenly the doom was spoken, All silently, a tired heart broken. My Dermot. 63 (ttC MY DERMOT. f Y Dermot, lave me, But don't desave me, Wid flatterin' words, that can't come thrue, I'm not so consated. As to think it's fated, That a poor little colleen is to match wid you. Shure my heart's love is given To you and to Heaven, Och, wirrasthrue, you've the biggest part ; But, Love, don't mind me, The salt tears may blind me, But they'll never know I've a breakin' heart. Don't you come near me, Or thry to cheer me, I'll bear it betther if I'm let alone ; Shure God may send healin' For this sore, sore feelin', And His angels pity me when you are gone. Asthore, you're sighln'. But you're not replyin', We were born for this throuble — both me and you ; What ! you coudn't lave me, And you'll not desave me, Och, Holy Mother — Is it thrue? Is it thrue? 64 Lays from the Land of the Gael. A LITTLE FLIRT. yifLIRTING, laughing, chattering Polly, 2S Artful, saucy little jade, Tho' it sounds like utter folly. Yet of you I'm half afraid. There you go, your ringlets flying, And your rosy lips apart, Smihng now, and now half sighing. Wounding both in head and heart. Stop awhile, you tyrant tiny, Don't jerk thus your dress away. Let me stroke these tresses shiny. While you hear what I've to say. You are cruel — come, no pouting— And don't care what pain you give; Yes, the fact there is no doubting. You were made but to deceive. Late I saw you with poor Harry, Whispering slyly 'neath the blind ; Ay, that shaft did not miscarry, And you think I — never mind. Then with handsome Ned you're walking, Botanizing — by the way — Or with sober Fred you're talking Politics, perhaps, you'll say. Go, you laughing chattering darling ; Go, I must your sins forget ; Do not mind an old maid's snarling, Flirting is your forte, my pet. Harold and Edith. 65 HAROLD AND EDITH. (From " Harold, the Last of the Saxon Kings.") /I^ASSION and pain were on his brow, \p His mien was sad, his speech was low, While firm resolve had left its trace In the pale features of her face. '* I come to tell thee all is o'er, Edith can never claim thee more, Duty forbids that I should be Aught save a memory to thee." " Hush ! hush ! be still, thou faithful heart, Never will Harold from thee part ; Thee I have loved from earliest youth, Dare I dishonour thus my truth ? No power on earth can us divide, E'er yon moon wanes thou art my bride ; What meddling fool durst say me nay ? Oh ! turn not from my arms away." Slowly her eyes to his she raised, And tenderly upon him gazed : " Harold, my own loved one," she said, " To thee I must be as the dead, " Another bride they bid thee take, " Nay, shrink not, lest my heart should break. " Tis for our own dear country's sake, " Not to a woman I resign " All the dear hopes that once were mine : " Thou weddest England, she shall be " More than thine Edith unto thee." 66 Lays from the Land of the- Gael. " Edith, for both our sakes forbear, " How can'st thou thus my heart-strings tear ? " Thy look my very blood can freeze, " How can'st thou utter words like these ? " Nay, by yon heaven our heads above, " Ne'er will I render up my love : " No, let another fill their throne, " And let another wear their crown, " Harold will never traitor be " To her he loved from infancy," " Nay, Harold, nay, it must be so, " See ! I can leave thee, I can go, " Tho' all I on the earth hold dear, " Life of my life, I thus leave here. " Yet think not that I love thee less, " No ! while I live these lips will bless, " Will pray for thee ; and oh ! in heaven " The guerdon surely will be given. " 'Tis for our Isle the tie is broke, " To shield her from the Norman yoke : " No Earl within this fated land " Able as thee to wield command. " All eyes are turned on thee to save " Our country from the churl and knave. " Oh ! when the cloister walls divide " Our fates, this heart will swell with pride " To hear thee named our England's lord : " And when thou girdest on thy sword, " When, too, thy brow a crown doth wear, " Think that thine Edith placed it there. " Edith and England ! — pause no more, " Harold, beloved, the dream is o'er, " Go, wed proud Aldyth ! she will bring " Vassals and thanes to England's King. " Think not of me ! the traitor host " Are on our shore — our country's lost ! " Now let me give thee one embrace ; " All, all is o'er, till face to face A Day too Late. 67 " We meet in that bright world above, " Where nought can come between our love : " Farewell ! my blessing on thee rest." Wildly he clasped her to his breast, Essayed to speak, essayed in vain. One smothered sob revealed his pain. Her folded hands she softly laid In silent blessing on his head. Kissed his pale lips, without a groan, Then turned — and Harold was alone ! A DAY TOO LATE ! n(r DAY too late ! with pallid cheek y^y He stood the bier beside. Of her who ere the moon had waned, Was to have been his bride. He stood, and from the quiet face, He drew aside the pall ; Hot blinding tears were in his eyes, Though they refused to fall. Clasp't in her thin cold marble hands, A still-seal'd letter lay. It came just as to better worlds. Her spirit passed away. And now with its unbroken seal, They laid it on her breast, As though without it in the grave vShe might not fitly rest. E 2 68 Lciys from the Land of the Gael. But who shall paint the agony Of him who hung above Her senseless clay who once to him Had given her changeless love ! Thoughtless, he lingered on the road, While worn with grief and care : She drooped and withered 'neath the load Of waiting and despair. A wounded spirit who can brook, We sink not 'neath life's ills, But disappointment's canker-worm The fairest flow'ret kills. Oh ! but to meet her gaze once more, Once more to hear her speak, To see the rose of life and love Bloom on that clay-cold cheek. To hear her say before she passed Up to her native heaven. That she had loved him to the last, And that he was forgiven. In vam, in vain, kiss after kiss On the white brow he pressed ; In vain he called her each fond name, And her chill hand caressed. He dropped the sheet, and faltering, Passed silent down the stair, But all his early hopes, his love. Were left behind him there. To Mary. 69 TO MARY. e HERE'S silence in the house, Mary, And darkness on the hearth, There's no one now to welcome me In the spot that gave me birth ; And long before these budding flowers Have blossomed on the tree. Your voice I shall not hear, Mary, Your face I may not see. Oh ! do you mind the time, Mary, I first came courting you, Lambs in the fold, steeds in the stall. And in the barn corn too ; But now I look with maddened eyes Upon the dreary place : Oh ! better for us both, my girl. You never saw my face. Say, have I sometime dreamed, Mary, Or have I somewhere read. The poor man has no right to love, Or any right to wed ; Ah : poverty's a curse, my girl, Of deepest, darkest hue, For wide the space, and deep the gulf. It makes 'twixt me and you. Once I had lands and gold, Mary, Once 1 had flocks and kine. Yes, love, I know why round my neck, Your dear arms you entwine : You loved me for myself, my girl. And prize me none the less, In poverty and gloom, Mary, In anguish and distress. 70 Lays from the Land of the Gael. Yet better days may dawn for us, I've proved you good and true, And as you've been to me, Mary, I will be so to you ; There's morning after night, Mary, There's sunshine after rain. And we who weep together now, May meet with smiles again. THE OLD YEAR'S WARNING! 5AREWELL, a long farewell, thou sad old year ! Thy reign is over now, thy day is done; Lay thyself calmly down upon thy bier, We've watched the setting of thy latest sun. What art thou hiding in thy winding sheet ? What art thou drawing in thy sable train ? " A host of hopes and dreams once, oh ! so sweet. And hearts that have been seared by fire and pain. Here, a long list of broken vows I hold, Embittered lives and ne'er-forgotten wrong ; Remorse, regret, a store of blood-bought gold, Yet fairer things to the old year belon^ ig- Some precious records I have here writ down Of holy prayers and meek forgiving love. Of faith that rose supreme when hope had flown, Records of hearts whose guerdon is above. And I can tell of patience most divine. Of noble courage and of hopeful trust, Of deeds that brighter than your jewels shine, Altho' the hearts that prompted them are dust. The Old Year's Warning ! 71 Of deeds that angels ceased their songs to praise, Deeds that shall last when time will be no more ; That far o'er earth and sin men's spirits raise Till, on the wings of faith, to Heaven they soar. I came in empty, I return not so, The young and lovely in my arms I bear ; Look here, these faces are all pale with woe, Yet once they showed like yours, serene and fair. Here are long tresses glossy as your own, And here are others whiter than the snoAv That once were gold, but like to silver grown. Since I came in, a king, one year ago. This mantle has been stained by tears of blood That fell in torrents from ten thousand eyes ; To many a home I came with summons rude, Heavy my pathway with a world of sighs. But hark ! the warning note, my rival waits, In all the glory of his power and youth, I hear his summons sounding at your gates, Which yet may bring you tears and woe and ruth. You mock the grey beard, with his hoary hair, His wrinkled face, all ready for the tomb ; His mighty train of grief, and sin, and care. His whisper'd warning and his brow of gloom. Ye look with longing for the blooming boy Who comes into your homes with song and mirth ; Fools, fools, why seek ye here for endless joy — Are ye not mortal, and your joys of earth ?" 72 Lays from the Land of the Gael. So spake the old year yesternight, as we Grouped round the hearth, and talked of bygone years; Some with the hearts of youth from sorrow free, And some with eyes all dimmed by silent tears. Laughter and sighs commingling, while our fingers Played with the old king's robe, or touched his hand He passed away, but in each bosom lingers His dying words, so solemn-sweet, so grand. And we remember how he came to greet us, Bright-eyed, and hopeful, but a year ago ; And now his fair haired boy springs forth to meet us, While we lay down the dead beneath the snow. Old year, around thy grave thus kneeling lowly. Sad wreaths of faded flowers we softly lay ; God grant another year find us more holy. More fitted for the future, come what may ! THE ORIEL WINDOW. A^H ! this old western window, ^^ Thro' which the sunbeams flow Like a river of gold, over roses That blossom and blush below. Oh ! this old western window That looks on the wild wide sea. And the shingly sand of the beaches, Is a sacred place to me. The Oriel Window. 73 It was here, in my happy childhood, Ere I learned to pause and fear, I came with the green wood's glories, The firstlings of the year. And plaited full many a garland, A sunny head to deck. And twined them with loving fingers Around a white bending neck. It was here in my youth's first fancy I wove the web of rhyme, And pored o'er the scrolls and legends Of a by-gone age and time. Here I spake with knights and ladies, And walked in the train of kings. And drank from a golden flagon The water of fairy springs. Here I roamed thro' fields of fancy In quest of a glorious name. Plucking a wreath of laurel From the very hand of Fame. It was here, when I grew to manhood, With a man's heart in my breast, I drank deep draughts of the chalice From choicest fruits that's prest. Here I held in my hand a jewel, With which crowns cannot compare, And my wealth was a woman's fondness, My glory, her beauty rare. She was mine — even now I clasp her — At least her spirit came. And her brown hair mixed with the vine leaves I'hat wave round the window frame. 74 Lays from the Land of the Gael. Her breath, like the breath of roses, Blew softly o'er my cheek, And sweet as the song of wild birds I heard her loved voice speak. Ah ! she's gone — even now I saw her In a robe of glory drest, Peeping out in her girlish beauty, Like some bird from its leafy nest. Her long hair swayed in the breezes. Her arms were stretched to me, Her neck looked white as the moon beams. Or foam-flakes on the sea. Hist ! keep silent, lest you frighten her, She knows I am not alone ; (tO back to your angel-kindred Till the mid-night hour — my own. Oh ! then, when they deem me sleeping, And the bats through the darkness flit, I'll rise and part the vine leaves, And here by the window sit. She will come, as e'en now 1 saw her, Tho' her step you could not hear, I will feel her kiss on my forehead. And know her standing near. She will tell me stories of heaven, Of the stars that over us shine. She will whisper she's lonely waiting Till her arms round my neck shall twine. For tho' God to His heaven recalled her. Life's darkness leaving to me, Still she meets me here by the window That looks o'er the wild wide sea. " Dame Europa''s School.'" 75 You think that I rave and babble, You shake your head and smile, Nay, nay ! though I'm sick and weary, Go ! leave me for a while. Ah ! would that some hand would open My prison, and set me free. To roam with her thro' the darkness, Out over the wild wide sea. "DAME EUROPA'S SCHOOL." VERSIFIED. ^'HE good Dame had some business ^^ In town one market day. And left her boys together To spend an hour at play. Alick, and George, and Joseph, Louis, John, and Will, With other little fellows Who were to be quite still. Bluff John she made the monitor, A sturdy wight was he, The best at bat and football, And all were in high glee. But scarcely round the corner Had Dame Europa gone. When Will and long-nosed Louis Black, ugly looks put on 76 Lays from the Land of the Gael. About a top and whipcord, Or some such petty thing, Small pebbles make great mountains, Small words great quarrels bring. Louis struck William sharply, Will flew at Louis then, And soon they closed in combat, Just like to older men. And far across the playground The bleeding Louis flew ; While Will kicked down his arbour, And tramped his flowers, too. As John with sticking plaister Was mending Louis' nose, Which now was bleeding freely From wrathful William's blows, Upon the scene of action The Dame herself appeared. And cried — " You naughty fellows, It is just as I feared." " Pray, John, what were you doing To let these children fight, Why, bless me, look at Louis, Good gracious ! Avhat a sight." " Dame " began then with blushing, Stout, sturdy John to say, " You know that I am neutral. The boys were but at play. " 'Twas Louis first began it, For I was standing by, Then William snatched his cricket bat. And hit him in the eye." " Dame Europa's School.'' 77 " Yes, sir, I know the story, 'Tis very old indeed ; But you should have interfered, John, When Louis came to bleed. " And do you call it playing To smash his toys up thus ? Small George would have done better. And spared me all this fuss." " I think 1 must dismiss you." But here unto a man, To plead for John, the small boys With one accord began. They said when they got damaged By blow from bat or ball, That John was always ready To answer to their call, ^Vith bandages and water, And sometimes sugar plums, The Dame awhile reflected, And twirled about her thumbs. Then said—" Now, John, I'll pardon, But just for this one time," So ended all the rumpus. And ended is my rhyme. SONNETS, / thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young : And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair: A nd a voice said in mastery, while I strove, '^ Guess now who holds thee?'' — "'Death," I said. But, there The silver answer rang — " Not Death, but Elizahetii Barrett Browning. SONNETS. Miscellaneous. THE HAPPINESS OF SONG. T^HOU dost esteem me happy that I sing, ^ And so I am, but yet not often glad, For joys there are which make the spirit sad, Yet like the nightingale, who 'ncath her wing Bears the sharp torture of a thorn conceal'd, And for the wound doth richer music yield, So in my song I do forget pain's sting. And happier than the chirpers of the field, Who know no yearnings, and to whom belong Neither the blessedness nor bane of song, I often to dull ears my treasure fling, And care not if but few amid the throng Find in the halting notes some tender thing To melt a heart perchance the world had steel'd. 82 Sonnets. THE MUSE RETURNED. T^HOU hast returned — oh, beautiful, I hold thee, ^ I see thy tender eyes, that search out mine; How blest am I who thus can close enfold thee. And feel thy clinging arms around me twine; Now Fortune do thy worst, I'll not repine. My sun — my star — doth on me brightly shine. Making a palace of my chamber poor, While angels wait without my humble door, Bearing tall beakers of celestial wine, Press'd from the fruitage of some heav'nly vine. Come Winter if thou wilt — I can endure The bitterest chafings of thine anger rude; Against thy fiercest blasts I stand secure — An eternal Summer blossoms in my blood. A SADDENED LIFE. ^TTER life was saddened in its early morn — ^5/ A yawning chasm appeared where late had been A landscape fair, with fields and valleys green — She would have grasped a rose, but met its thorn. Tis often so in this world's fickle scene, But, bowing down her head, she met Life's scorn, And, lo ! from the rent sides of the abyss Budded strange blossoms, not of earth I wis; And she pass'd forth — the purer for her pain — Out of the furnace where her feet had trod With one whose shape was like the Son of God. Where'er she went Love followed in her train. And meek-eyed Patience with her seem'd to rest 'Till round her men arose, and called her blest. Miscellaneous 83 THE VIOLET AND THE MAIDEN. (From Goethe). CyS VIOLET bloom'd, half buried in the grass, \23' A maiden o'er the meadows singing came, So fair — the flow'rs hung down their heads for shame. The violet her espied, and wept — " Alas ! I am not beautiful. The rose doth lie In her dear bosom blest." The maid pass'd by Unwitting of the flow'ret's piteous case, And as she onward went with blithesome tread Crushed the sweet violet in its mossy bed, Who round her breath'd one od'rous dying sigh, Then softly moaned, ere yet her spirit fled — " Not vainly have I lived, and happy die. For I have seen her face, and sweet is death Thus pouring out for her, my latest breath." THE SONG-BIRD CAPTIVE. ^WEET bird, there is such sadness in thy song C^ Thou thrill'st my heart with tend'rest sympathy. And such mute meaning in thy wistful eye A thousand images before me throng. Perchance thou mournest now a rifled nest, Or weep'st in secret for thine absent mate, Who pineth in the wild woods desolate. What thorn of memory tortures thus thy breast ? Speak, shall I set thee free? Alas! alas! Freedom could give no pleasure to thee now ; Life ne'er can be to thee what once it was. Ah ! when as strangers to old homes we go We shudder, and are pierced with sudden pain, Then hie us back to loneliness again. F 2 84 Sonnets. THE RIFLED FLOWER. 3 MARKED it bud upon its parent stem — I saw it day by day still fairer grow — I watched it when the evening sun was low, And when the pearls of morn each leaf did gem. I watered it with careful, tender hand, And from all dangers fenc'd it fondly round, In its sweet breath strange happiness I found, With airs from Heav'n its opening charms were fann'd, But, lo ! I came one morn, and found it dead — Dead on the earth beneath its rifled tree. I wept — its ruined beauty there to see. The miry clay befouling its fair head; Some careless spoiler's hand in wanton pride Had pluck'd my flow'r — then cast the gem aside. MEMORY'S DREAM. 3F I remember me of things gone by, Of vanish'd comforts and of pleasures dead, Of what for evermore from life has fled, I fain would turn me to the wall and die, If death brought but forgetfulness and rest. Yet when from out the garden of the past Some perfume stealeth, and this hunger vast Is soothed and quieted within my breast. Then I bethink me I am not so poor As those who have no precious memories Of golden days and blossom laden trees, Tho' in their meaner joys they stand secure. And all enamour'd of my pleasant pain I turn me with a smile to dream again. Miscellaneous. 85 MY LADY LOVE. ^TIQY Love, I have no words my Love to paint, *?^ And yet the golden meshes of her hair Did not entangle me, and brows as fair Methinks I've seen. She is no perfect saint — A thing in real life I find most rare; Yet here I kneel, and to the world declare. If mortal thing be free from mortal taint, 'Tis she — the lady of my love. The air Seems purer for her presence, and the light Of a most loving spirit breaketh through Eyes that for me hold all of Heaven's blue. My day she maketh by her coming bright, And when she goes, and I am left alone, All suns, and moons, and stars are with her gone. THE WORLD'S SCORN. JIQY glory, and my gladness, and my shame, ^rP For I have borne for thee the cold world's sneer. And the world's cruel laughter, till the tear Was wrung forth which disdained their blame. True joys, I know, their dull souls cannot claim. Yet have I writhed when driven to come near Their half-suppressed pity oft to hear. And shivered as they whispering breathed my name. " Let her go by, she is distraught," they said, With such a mock uplifting of the eye My own has flash'd a passionate reply; And with such ominous shaking of the head That oft the silence of my soul is broken. And bitter, chiding words, contemptuous spoken. 86 Sonnets. BROTHER'S LOVE. TJ^HEY had been more than brothers, but there came ^ Betwixt them a cold shadow — I beheld it grow Dark and more dark, with tears I tell thee so, For both I loved, and neither could I blame. At last one sought me out, and said — " I go To distant lands. I cannot bear the slow Consuming of his love. One boon I claim — If /le e'er needeth kindness, to him show." A pray'r for fitting speech from my heart rose, And I besought him but to speak one word Unto his ancient friend. A great pulse stirred Thro' all his frame — " Ye love, and yet are foes." He wept at this, and ere the sun had set I saw their hands in full forgiveness met. THE NEST WATCHED. 3 CAME upon a nest the other day ; The younglings slept within— a happy brood ; The mother had gone forth to bring them food, And as I waited on a bending spray She lighted with her load, but soon away Swift flew, impatient of my presence there. I — cruel — paused, and watched her anxious mood. And well her plaintive piping understood; Then pitying her patience, and despair, And love, for what beneath her breast was bred, I backward stepped, and in her joy had share, As to the objects of her fond heart's care, With a low cry of gladness, echoing through My inmost soul, the faithful creature flew. Miscellaneous. 87 A PAINTER'S STUDIO. CL ACRED to all the Muses is the place ^ I enter with hush'd voice and rev'rent tread, As tho' with fairy wreaths the floor were spread, And gazing round on many a perfect face, Which here, being dumb, yet speaketh, there is shed O'er soul and sense a joy enraptured. And I do homage to the artist's grace, While happy thoughts, no rude hand may erase, Are written on my heart, that when afar My feet may wander on their toilsome way This hour will shine out like some hidden star. Which, when we need it most, doth lend its ray. And guided by this beacon I once more Shall cross with rev'rent foot this threshold o'er. THE GIFT RING. rtr GOLDEN ring is mine, with jewels set, V^ Three priceless gems, to me most dear, and fair And daily on my hand this ring I wear, For when amid Life's fever and its fret, Its hourly trial, its undying care, I look on this my ring. Then unaware My crosses and my cares I quite forget. While one by one my jewels I compare — Charlotte, and Edith, and grave Harriett, My daughters, dow'ried with their mother's face, And sharing each some portion of her grace. Then with sweet tears I feel my eyes grow wet, And, oh ! what tender thoughts and yearnings cling Around these jewels in my golden ring. 88 Sonnets. THE GEM TRANSFERRED. ®ROPS from Life's circlet one, its fairest gem, But only to be gathered up and worn Close to a husband's heart upon this morn Which crovvns her brow with bridal diadem; And, tho' but natural, I oft shall mourn Her that no more, mine own, shall home return ; Yet knowing Love doth from her garment's hem, E'en to her flow'r-crown'd brow enwrap her round, I rest content, and consecrate with prayers My precious gift, with hopes akin to fears That no rude thorn her gentle breast may wound, But Time bring only blessing — thro' long years Over her path the Angels, Love and Trust, May still be hovering, when I am dust. BANISHED ENVY. ^TTf^HEN I bethink me of the pour'd out blisses *''*** Which render rich some life more fortunate. When my sick fancy counts its sum of kisses, And all the joyance of its happy state, Wild jealous tears I weep, in bitterest passion, And cut my soul with envy's venom'd knives. Hating meanwhile the sunshine in such Hves. Yet afterward, beguiled to gentler fashion, Remorse — herself awakening — bids me go And penitential ashes soft strew over The hideous gulf, my madness did uncover. And blushing that such shame I e'er could know, I pray that never, never from its sleep This cursed thing may wake to bid me weep. Miscellaneous. 89 THE STRANDED WRECK. fORGOTTEN by thy fellows ! liest thou here Half buried in the sand, th' advancing tide Shall never bear thee to the ocean wide ; Daily it creeps with awed whispers near, As tho' it mourned thy loneliness and pride, Often its fiercest billows thou'st defied ; But gliding home, without a thought of fear, A sudden shoal betrayed to ruin drear. Life hath its quicksands, as the water hath ; How oft we weather tempests out at sea. But sailing into port, with canvass free, Some sunken danger wrecks our prosp'rous path : Then like yon stranded vessel, down we lie Upon the sands of life, alone, to die. LOVE'S SUNSET. ^HE sun has set, but still his parting rays ^ Illume with fading glories all the sky, So 'tis with me and my lost youth gone by — So 'tis with me and my past happy days. Love can still draw me with his conqu'ring eye, Thrills all my being to his whisper'd praise. Droops all my soul beneath his ling'ring gaze. Answers my o'ercharg'd heart, each wishful sigh. Yet, oh ! the sun has set, never for me, Shall his new risen radiance light the scene ; Hope has resign'd her throne to memory, And life's " To be " has chang'd to its " Has been /" Yet Heaven is merciful, I dream of thee, And in the world of sleep thy face I see. 90 Sonnets. LOVE SOVEREIGN. 9f2T|HEN to my trembling mouth thy mouth was prest, ^*^^ In our first kiss of passion and of pain, Arrows of living lightning pierced my brain, While rapture well nigh madness thrilled my breast, For Love had come an uninvited guest For evermore its tenant to remain. Oh, sorrow, and oh, joy — oh, bliss, oh, bane ! I did obey thy sovereign behest. Thou mightiest monarch, and have worn thy chain. Tho' poor, yet rich — tho' curst, yet deeply blest, And now bereft of all, I still am fain To worship thee, my peace and my unrest, And here I stand, a suppliant at thy door, For I must love thee, Love, for evermore. LOVE'S MAGIC. ^TNEAR lady and dear love, I fain would bring thee ^Sfi/ Some offring worthy of thy beauty bright; Alas ! how poor a ditty can I sing thee, 'Tis but a candle by the sun's full light, 'Tis but the babbling of a meadow-brook Beside the thunder of the swelling sea To that which happier lovers bring to thee. Yet deign thee, lady, on my heart to look. There's music there if thou wilt choose the measure, Love can draw sweetness from the dullest chord ; One look from thee, one pitiful soft word. And men shall marvel at its mystic pleasure. Alas ! what care I other hearts to thrill If thine, that's all to me, be marble still. Miscellaneous. 91 FORGIVEN. " And clasp a sudden hand in mine."— Tennjfson. 3F the impossible could ever be, And in the waste of life thy faithful hand Should suddenly clasp mine, and all the grand Full radiance of thy presence shine on me, Say, should I, as of old, close to thee cling. In happy confidence, and lay my head Upon that tender heart, where oft 'twas laid ? Or rather should I kneel, while thou didst fling The mantle of forgiveness me to cover ; For Death doth teach what Life can never show. And now I feel thy goodness. Oh ! my Lover, And to thine arms, with halting steps I go : Ah ! dost thou raise me, dear, and do I rest This weary heart of mine on thy true breast ? THE PORTRAIT. -liroW rich am 1 who am possessed of this, ^ The pictured semblance of thy heav'nly face ; For tho' the painter's art did somewhat miss To give thy beauty's every winning grace. Yet I am blest, who, gazing here, can trace Of thy sweet mind th' unspoken loveliness. How like it is ! I could that cheek caress, And smoothe those wanton tresses to their place. Thou speakest, sure. Thy tender lips apart. And those twin fountains of pure light — thine eyes — Are breathing forth the deep thoughts of thine heart, Where, all unseen, thy richest treasure lies. Heaven guard and guide and bless thee, dear, my love, And lead thee thro' this world to worlds above. 92 Sonnets. FRIENDLY WORDS. A^H ! friend, whose tender words drop gently down, ^^ As dews of evening upon wayside flowers, 'Tis men like thee redeem this world of ours. And now I feel in stature to have grown, While my awaken'd soul puts forth her powers New harness'd for the battle. Thou hast shewn Me, erewhile fainting, that not all alone I fight life's combat, that th' Eternal dowers Our eternal spirits with such essence fine, That howsoe'er we walk thro' this world's mire, He keeps alight within his holy fire. This is our heritage — e'en mine and thine — Shall a king's son the portion eat of swine ? Not so, the feast is set, God calls us higher. BEATRICE CENCI. [From a Painting by Guido]. ^TTf^HY gazest thou so mournfully in my face? ^•"^^^ I cannot give thee help, thou beauteous thing. Poor dove with rifled nest, and broken wing, In this wide earth for thee no resting place. But that dark house to which our sick souls cling, The grave ! which brings man's best imagining Sweet quiet, endless calm. Kind Death's embrace Was welcome to thee, fairest of thy race ; And oh ! most wretched, pierced by sorrow's sting, So foully murdererd ! May great Heaven's King Requite thee for thy piteous evil case, And o'er thy every wrong His pardon fling. Nay, look not on me, or my heart will break, I cannot help thee girl, nor vengeance take. Miscellmieous. 93 GRATITUDE. 2||^NSKILL'D am I in flattery's pleasing lore, ^^ Such arts, I feel, are all despised by thee, Yet when I muse thy gentle kindness o'er My grateful heart could well a flatterer be. The weary traveller hails the tiniest spot Of flow'r-deck'd verdure on his lonely way, And as he journeys on from day to day The memor}' of its beauty, unforgot, Brightens the pathway, tho' through deserts dread. So thou a dull monotony dost grace With the refreshing kindness of thy face, Where well thy kindlier spirit may be read. Scorn not the Muse, for tho' her song be poor She fain would honour thee, of that be sure. INGRATITUDE. 3NGRATITUDE, base offspring of deceit. How oft it wrings the trusting heart with pain. And checks its gen'rous impulse, in disdain. That aught but falsehood it will ever meet, Binding the frankest spirit by a chain. From which it strives to free itself in vain : For gall is in the cup trust made so sweet, And the wrong'd nature, once belief is slain, With cold suspicion doubts the truest faith, Deeming it, too, will wither and decay (Like the short sunshine of a winter's day). To die for ever 'neath misfortune's breath. O, wisest man ! thou speakest words of sooth, Calling this sharper than a serpent's tooth. 94 Sonnets. VANQUISHED ENVY. r/ '^OGS bay the moon. Yet holds she on her way ***^ Thro' the high heav'n with unmov'd majesty. So in our walk thro' life we sometime see A great soul passing on from day to day, Heedless of all the howlings round its head As of the vipers crush'd beneath its tread. Calmly it moves, holding a world at bay. Till from its life serene such hght is shed, That all false baying tongues will cease to make Their hideous noises, and foul vipers creep Back to their loathsome dens and sullen sleep. While on the upright soul its course doth take, And for the transient gloom is lovelier seen, As brighter from her clouds breaks forth night's Queen. THE LOOK ELOQUENT. 3 NEED no pictured likeness of thy face, 'Tis graven deep within this heart of mine; Yet gladly read I over, line by line, This volume eloquent ; where manly grace And woman's sweetness tenderly combine ; Where from a lofty brow high truth doth shine, And patient courage time may not erase. Oh ! may thy son's sons yet thine image bear. And may thy lofty spirit light their brows, When that the sleep e'en Love may not arouse, Has sealed thine own with calm that angels wear, So that men gazing on their faces fair May turn and bless the babes in glad surprise To see 'neath childhoods' brows such earnest eyes Miscellaneous. 95 A DREAM OF FLOWERS. 3 DREAMED last night a nosegay of spring flowers Was put into my bosom, snowdrops fair, And fragrant violets seemed blooming there ; Children of light, and life, and golden hours Of fitful sunshine, beautiful as rare. I did not see the hand which thus had laid, Its tender off'ring close beside my heart, Yet knew they were of Paradise a part, And kissed the precious things, nor felt afraid. Oh ! that the watcher from the gloom might start, Who near my pillow sometime kind had stay'd ! Alas ! when I awakened, with a moan. Angel and flowrets back to Heaven had gone, Ah ! shall I never know who for me pray'd. THE THREE SISTERS. [From Michael Angelo's Painting]. 9p7TJEIRD mystic sisters, now some life is done, ^^"^^ And the wide open'd shears will cut the thread While Youth or Beauty joins the silent dead. See Clotho pauses, who the distaff spun, To glare upon her sister, in whose eyes The cruel light of her dark purpose lies. Oh ! not by looks appealing art thou won, Relentless fate thine office is begun, And the pale watcher who with earnest guise, Stretches the thread upon her pitying hands, While for a moment's grace her sad face cries In mute obedience to thy mandate stands. But vain the prayer — and so, the shining shears. Cuts hour by hour some thread thro' endless years. 96 Sonnets. MY MUSE. eOME back to me, my Muse, did I affright thee With my harsh plaining or my chafing rude ? Forgive, forgive, my base ingratitude. For in thy meanest smile I do delight me. And my soul longs for the ambrosial food For which thy vot'ries evermore have sued. See here, a fitting stanza, I'll indite thee Till even thou shalt cry, " Behold, 'tis good." Oh, Muse of mine, I love thee — tho' I chide thee, I trust thee perfectly, nor fear to show To thee my follies, and the weeds that grow Amid the flow'rets, where I fain would hide thee. Thou knowest I love thee — oh, my dainty Muse, 'Tis not the sleekest lover who best woos. MY GRAVE. fl^^lHEN I am dead will any gentle hand ^•"^^ Draw back the veil ? Will any pitying eyes Drop very human tears ? or breast breathe sighs Of sorrow and compassion ? taking stand Near a lone mound by murm'ring breezes fann'd. Even my quiet grave. To think that I, Who 'neath the turf in mould'ring ashes lie, Held once dread Poesy's most awful wand, And that the glorious gift brought misery. Pain, and distemper'd longings thro' dull years Of hope deferred, and fruitless falling tears, And weeping, shall they cry, " Ah, me ! ah, me ! How has this brain oft reeled, this breast oft bled?" Sweet stranger, mourn the living, not the dead. Miscellaneous. gy FAUST AND MARGUERITE AT THE CHURCH DOOR. [From the painting by T. A. Jones, President Hibernian Academy.] JIQOST hapless lovers. Standing here to-day, ^^ And gazing on your pictured faces fair, Remembering her doom and his despair, A grief I cannot stem, must have its way. Oh ! what an innocent soul thy brows declare, Thou fairest, fondest, dearest Marguerite, I could kneel down and kiss thy garments. Sweet, And dew with my salt tears thy braided hair ; Who Nature's holiest law did but obey, Nor dream that such rare joy could lead astray, And whelm ye both in ruin. Unaware, As yet of all the anguish thou must bear. Leave me this mem'r}' of thee I implore. And hnger thus for ever by this door. SONNETS. Sacred. GETHSEMANE AND CALVARY. PJ^RT thou sore wounded ? Think of that dread place V^ Where Christ went forth to shame and death alone; Where of His chosen few there stayed not one, And e'en the Father hid in wrath His face. Hear, in the silence of thine heart, that groan, The saddest earth hath heard, whose tone Of agony re-echoed through all space, Till listening angels wept before the throne. List to that broken spirit's piteous quest — " Eloi ! Eloi ! Lama ! Sabacthani ! " My God ! My God ! Hast Thou forsaken me ? Think 'twas for thee this arrow pierced His breast. And let the outcry of the Christ's despair Teach thee thy little hurt with smiles to bear. Sacred. gg EASTER. ^T^-^KE thou that sleepest, for thine Head is risen, **^^ To-day He broke the fetters of the tomb, To-day His dawning flooded all the gloom, And tinted with its glory earth's dark prison. Wake ! sleep no more in bondage to Hell's chain ; Wake ! and cast off the face-cloth from thy face, With Him, the Great Redeemer of our race, Who seek Him in the tomb, must seek in vain. Go, weeping saint, thy Master is not here, Seek not the living Lord among the dead — Oh ! Thou our glorified anointed Head, Our flesh astonish'd sees thine empty bier. Our spirit breaketh forth in gladsome cries — If we be dead with Christ, with Him we'll rise. THE MAN OF vSORROWS. ^T'TfT^^EN weary of the burden Time has brought, ^*'^*^ And sick of all beneath the hateful sun, The cup of life seems but with trial fraught, The web of life by none but furies spun. When looking backward, there is nothing seen, But a long blotted roll, all tears and shame ; When hope grows sick, love burns with feeble flame, And broken are the reeds whereon we'd lean. In this dark moment of supremest pain Draw near thou Man of Sorrows, chase the gloom ! Gild with thy pity e'en this living tomb, Teach me 'tis only cowards who complain. Man's weakness crieth out, God's strength drinks up, E'en to the very dregs, life's bitterest cup. G 2 100 Sonnets. COME UNTO ME! ^ItaERCY is with Thee, that thou may'st be feared, ^7^ And rest and joy, and comfort are with Thee. Hark ! to those whispered words, " Come unto Me !' Ah, Lord ! when sick at heart Thy throne I neared, How soon beneath Thy smile the dark grew bright, x\nd as I lowly sank on humble knee. Behold, I saw the shadows backward flee, And I rose up rejoicing in the light, Strong in Thy strength, my Saviour, who hadst known All earthly sorrow, nor hadst shrunk to drain The cup of more than mortal wrong and pain. That I, the path to comfort might be shown ; Closing in shameful death thine heavenly eyes. That I with Thee to endless joys might rise. "MAIDEN ARISE "QIE do profane with your unhallow'd tread, (^ The sacred chamber, and the house of death,'' Thus Jesus to the hired mourners saith. And drove them forth ; then only with the dead A waiting few in rev'rent silence stay'd, Peter, and James, and John, who yet should see Their Master's glory, and His agony; With them the sire and mother of the maid. Then o'er the quiet form He bent Him low, " Maiden arise ! " — and at that pow'rful word, Lo ! the still'd heart, and chained pulses stirr'd, While o'er the clay-cold cheek stole life's warm glow. Ah, Christ ! when by dead hopes we pale and fear Thy sweet " Be not afraid," may we, too, hear. Sacred. loi LIFE IS A SCHOOL. rt IFE is a school in which we all must learn ^ From day to day the lessons of God's will, Sometime the eager spirit must be still, Sometime it would rebel at justice stern. Anon, it deems, the lesson is too hard. And o'er its weary stumbling fain would weep, Or, tired out by its dulness, fall asleep. Sometime the patient toiler meets reward, Again he sees his labour was in vain, And that his fellow, who no toil had borne. But trifled o'er his task, the crown has worn, While he in silence must smile down his pain. But still, no matter how we men deceive, Justice to all, one day, the Judge will give. LOVE. A\H, Love ! thou mightiest monarch, ruling all ^^ Above, below, with universal sway, Turning our dross to gold, our night to day, New vot'ries at thy shrine for ever fall. In peasant's cot and noble's princely hall. Men must the magic of thy law obey. Nor art, nor skill, thy conq'ring course can stay ; For as the hidden spring, with murmurs small, Unnoticed thro' the grasses steals along. Then gathering strength by tribute waters fed Will onward march with bold resistless tread, Shaking a world with its tumultuous song, So, sweeping down all barriers in its pride. Love gains the haven for which erst it sighed. 102 Sonnets. PENITENCE. 3 CANNOT meet Thine eyes, I did Thee wrong, I dare not touch Thine hand, mine pierced Thy heart, Thy voice can bid the conscious torrents start O'er all my cheek, and round me comes a throng Of grinning fiends, each with knotted thong To lash my naked shame; No scholar's art, Nor voice of lute, nor cunning siren song. Can drown th' accusing whispers. They belong To the Eternal — and, like Him, shall live Till I, who bear their torments, cease to be ; Yet, if remorseful tears my soul could free From its dread load, if sorrow could me shrive, If penitence could aught atonement make, Thou wouldst forgive my sin for Jesu's sake. THE TEACHING OF DEFEAT. yAA^ILURE is not defeat, lift up thine head, ^ Pale disappointment oft, methinks, begets That gentle child — Content — the sick heart frets At the repeated knottings in life's thread, When Fate- — stern usurer — demands the debts Which must be paid, tho' tears of blood are shed. Rough is the pathway where some feet are led. Pitfalls there are therein, and snaring nets. While sorrow's tempest, piping shrill and loud, Makes e'en more terrible the desert drear. But God once led his people by a cloud. And when the pursuing host did draw them near. Out of the gloom, His gracious voice was heard. And, smiling o'er the waste, hope's lovely form appeared. Sacred. 103 STRIVING FOR THE BETTER PART. 3F we do right, out of our present pain Will spring the formed purpose of some deed Which healeth up the wound, tho' now it bleed Red drops, like thunder-show'r on parched plain, And we shall learn that suffering is not vain. Then shall the twilight calmness of the heart Fall on our spirits, and the guilty start Of joy unhallow'd shall no more restrain Our striving for the better, holier part Which lies before us all. If we but choose The good, tho' unlovely, and the ill refuse — Then shall our path be freed from demon art. And walking in the light, our longing eyes Shall greet one morn the hills of Paradise. THE POOR MAN'S OFFERING. Tf'TfTHEN that a poor man from his portion takes ^^"^^ And of his little, hath a little given ; 'Tis said th' Almighty's laughter then awakes, Till ring the arches of the Courts of Heaven. Remember this, ye needy ones that falter. Because your simple offering is too poor, Blush not, nor sigh, your freely open'd door Is now transfigured to a holy altar. Your little is more blest than rich man's store, Because ye give out of a heart of love, For Him who Poverty's worst deeps did prove. Ye weep — and why — that ye can give no more. Weep not ! rejoice ! for ye have pow'r to waken. That mighty joy by which e'en Heaven is shaken. 104 Sonnets. TRUE LOVE'S LIBERALITY. eHAT is not love which giveth grudgingly The tribute of its trust ; in this we bring Dishonour on the thing beloved, and fling Round it a ragged garment where should be The gold and purple raiment of a king. Love worth the name, from doubting still is free, And homage pays with a most willing knee. Bestowing royally, it doth receive Most princely recompense, for well we know That trust begetteth trust, as streams' o'erflow Rush backward to their sources (this believe), And thirsty plains before them verdurous grow ; For when to seek their banks we have a mind. Ten thousand wakening flowers they leave behind. LIGHT IN DARKNESS. A^H ! many a mile my weary feet have trod, ^^ And many a sigh my weary heart has sigh'd. Till, doubting even Thee, O Lord, my God, I failed to see Thy life-blood's weUing tide. The world goes by me in its pomp and pride, And I — I cannot bear earth's weary load, Ah ! loving Saviour, wherefore hast thou died? So, moaning to myself, I oft have cried. When smarting sore beneath life's cruel wrong, , And only the dull echoes made reply, Or if man spake, 'twas but in scorn to cry, " Darken the cage, the fuller flows the song." O, God ! Thou knowest all, pour in thy light, And turn to day the blackness of this night. Sacred. 105 BEGONE, UNBELIEF! ©OWN, dogging fiend, why dost thou haunt me so ? Why interpose between me and my Lord ? Rouse thee, weak heart, and smite him with Christ's sword ! O, Christ ! my only hope. Thy voice I know : Speak to my soul some pitiful soft word, Till thro' the desert of my life shall flow The River of Thy Peace. When long ago A woman kneeled, and her sad heart outpoured, Full compensation for her hidden woe. Did not her name, soft breath'd by Thee, afford ? Call me, O, Christ ! and I shall not be slow. Take all my love, 'tis Thine, a worthless hoard, And let me, drawing near Thee, Master sweet, Dew with repentant tears Thy blessed feet. SUNRISE AND PRAYER. y|VOOD-MORROW to thee, O ! thou king of day ! ^»^ Welcome glad beams that thro' my lattice steal ; Fain would my wakened soul in rev'rence kneel, To bless thee, mighty monarch, on thy way. Who flinging by thy shadowy mantle grey. Can bid the universe thy power feel. Printing each leaf and bud with golden seal. Lighting the secret haunt of nymph and fay ; On mountain old, and valley cool and deep. O, Life ! O, Nature ! O, Eternal One ! Who far above all worlds Thy state dost keep, Thou Fount and Father of yon glorious sun, To Thee, to Thee in reverence would I fall, Thou King and Lord, and Maker of them all. io6 Sonnets. m. CONTENT IN SILENCE. HAT matters it, if silent and alone, Thou dost pursue, perchance, a dreary round? The greatest workers still are noiseless found : Full silently the sun ascends his throne. And the queen-moon walks forth amid the sky ; * How silently the deep stream glideth by, Tis but the shallow brook that maketh sound. The flowers, God's smiles, bloom ever silently — Be thou content to lill thy silent place If He so wills it. In the after years Thy voice may ring throughout the echoing spheres. And thou stand forth with radiance in thy face, The conflict o'er, the hard fought battle won, 'Mid an assembled world to hear thy Lord's " Well done." "HERE I BURIED RACHEL." pj^ND here I buried Rachel, here I laid v^lV The one love of my life to her repose ; Here I beheld those sweetest eyelids close, Those eyes whose smiling years of serving paid. Oh ! love, a thousand years I could have stay'd, But here I laid thee, and tho' many snows This hair have whitened since, my spirit goes Back even now unto the palm tree's shade, 'Neath which we sat together, thou and I, And all my senses swim, and comes again The vanish'd scene, the flocks upon the plain, The beauty of the earth, the air, the sky, And Leah, with her cold smile draws not near To chide thee from mine arms to yon cold bier. "The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb." — Sir W. Raleigh. Sacred. 107 BENONI. fiLON of my sorrow, O ! late given to me, ^w With the last drops of my fast failing heart Yet, O ! my babe, Benoni, tho" thou art, Come rest a moment on thy mother's knee, And for thy sake I will not grieve to go. Child of my love, and must it, must it be, Thine and thy brother's face no more to see, A mother's blessed joy no more to know, Benoni, unto me, and to thy sire. O, faithful husband ! all is over now. The Mighty One absolveth here thy vow, And grants my soul her passionate desire ; How did I vex thee in the days gone by, Now He hath given me children, and I die. A WREATH. ^^ . '/ A withered garland of deserved praise, Of praise deserved unto Thee I give ; I give to Thee who know est all my ways, My crooked winding ways, wherein I live. Wherein I die, not live ; for life is straight, Straight as a line, and ever tends to Thee. To Thee, who art more far above deceit. Than deceit seems above simplicity ; Give me simplicity that I may live. So live and like, that I may know Thy ways. Know them and practise them : then shall I give For this poor wreath, give Thee a crown of praise. George Herbert. SACRED POEMS. THE FOUR MOUNTAINS. ARARAT. /f\ MOUNT of hope ! where rested our fathers long ago, ^^ And knelt, 'mid tears of gladness, to watch the golden bow Which o'er the clouded heaven its glittering radiance flung, To me, O hoary mountain, thou speak'st with angel tongue. An altar was thy rude peak, where sacrifice was poured Of prayer and praise ascending, well-pleasing to the Lord ; Upon thy slopes and hillocks the sons of heaven have trod : Old mount, thou standest ever — a monument to God. SINAI. A\ MOUNT of awful grandeur ! O mount of smoke and ^-^ gloom ! mount, whence spake Jehovah man's blessing and man's doom ! Down thro' the vanished ages mine eyes can see thee now, With strange mysterious beauty upon thy cloud-capp'd brow : 1 hear the trumpet ringing — I see the dark smoke rise, I feel the firm earth tremble beneath the lurid skies. Into His holy temple the Lord of Hosts has passed ; I hear His awful footsteps rush by upon the blast ! 112 Sacred Poems. OLIVES. A\ MOUNT of vernal beauty, where our Redeemer wept, ^^ As He o'er lov'd Jerusalem His lonely vigil kept ; From every leafy covert, from every shelter'd grot, I hear the solemn whisper — " I would, but ye would not." His foot has prest these valleys, His presence has been here; Imagination pictures the Holy One as near. His robe has brushed the dewdrops from off yon leafy spray: Didst thou not hear His footsteps pass up the rocky way ? CALVARY. a[XUT oh, thou blessed mountain ! all other mounts \^ above ! Where wondering thousands witnessed the might of Heavenly Love : With bow'd and veiled forehead, with humbly rev'rent knee, O mountain, sweet and holy, I venture nigh to thee. O mountain, writ all over with one beloved name ! O mount, that flushest ever this cheek with pain and shame ! mount, by which ascending — like Jacob's ladder — I Catch glimpses of the glory that shall be by-and-bye. 1 hold my breath, O mountain, I dare not come thee near. As " Why hast thou forsaken me ?" pierces my spirit's ear : The wrathful sun is veiUng in sullen gloom his light ; The trembling earth is yielding up her dead in sore affright ; The verdant turf is dripping with drops of sweat and gore — But hark ! the " It is finished ! " proclaims the conflict's o'er. Mount of my Saviour's anguish — yet of His victory. Sacred art thou for ever, O blood-stain'd Calvary ! A Prayer. 113 A PRAYER. IJTOLD Thou me up, my God, my footsteps slip, ^y I have no strength at all apart from Thee, For sin doth woo me with her flattering lip, And folly's minions beckon unto me ; And the world's noises strive with fearful din, Where Thou alone, my God, shouldst enter in. Oh I for the peace to worldliness unknown, — Oh ! for the joy all earthly joys above. Leave me not here, my Christ, to walk alone, But strengthen and support me by Thy love ; Oh ! bide Thou near me e'en a little space. And let my tired eyes see Thy blessed face. Come in, and sup with me, the place is poor. But Thou within a poorer once wert laid ; Come in, my Christ, I will shut-to the door, And talk with Thee, and will not be afraid. Let me kneel down Thy sacred feet beside, And in thy raiment's skirts my bent brows hide. Nay — leave me not — stay with me yet awhile, Tarry a little longer, O my Lord ! There is a world of comfort in Thy smile, Thy presence can to me such peace afford, I kneel before Thee and confess my guilt, For Thou canst make me clean — and, oh ! Thou wilt. *> Be Thou not weary of me, gracious lend A willing ear unto my earnest cry — My one true Lover, my unchanging Friend, I fear no evil when I feel Thee nigh. Thou knowest the world is cold, well dost Thou know How scant the love men spare us here below. H 114 Sacred Poems. What need we of their love when owoiing Thine, 'Tis when of them forsaken and bereft Thou comest to soothe with pity most Divine The heart that, emptied of all joy, they left ; Ay — broken tho' it be, and worthless quite — That heart Thou holdest as Thy chief delight. O wonderful forbearance ! — wondrous grace ! To take us back, world-wearied tho' we be ; With pitying tears our earth-stains to efface, And make us — sinful — most complete in Thee, To cover o'er our vileness by the dress Wrought out and woven by Thy righteousness. Amazed, and stammering, we yet repeat Thy blessed Name — Thou Calmer of our fears, Sore longing for that hour when we shall meet Thee face to face, through the eternal years ; Then as we cast our crowns before Thy throne, Shall we not know Thee, Lord, as we are known ? "(g CONSOLATIONS. " Be the day weary, or be the day long, At length it ringeth to evensong." — German Hymn. E the day weary, or be the day long. At length it ringeth to evensong." Fierce and cutting the icy blast. There will come a lull in the storm at last. Gloomy and dark the night may be. Still a twinkling star through the mist we see. Consolations. 115 Wide and wild spreads the ocean round, Some rock for the faithful foot is found. Trackless and dreary is the waste — The water of life we yet may taste. Fiercely blazes the noon-day sun — Rest waits 'neath the palms when the day is done. Lips lose their smiles — eyes grow cold — Faces we loved lie under the mould ; We shall find those faces, to lose them never, When we, too, pass o'er the silent river. Our hearts are tired in the battle of life, Worn with the struggle, spent in the strife. Blessed be God — there remains a rest — No head too lowly for Jesu's breast. " Be the day weary, or be the day long. At length it ringeth to evensong." Art thou worn and tempted, struggling hard, No one to cheer thee, none to reward ? Art thou walking alone, with no one nigh To whisper a word of sympathy ? Didst thou trust and find that trust was vain ? Is thy heart oft aching with secret pain ? No life so blest, but some shattered string Vibrates at times like a living thing. II 2 Ii6 Sacred Poems. Sorrow must knock at every gate ; There are hours when we musi feel desolate. Hast thou stretch'd thine arms out into the night, And mourn'd for a lov'd and lost delight ? Hast thou missed at thy hearth some cherish'd face ? Hast thou pined in vain for a fond embrace ? Hast thou wakened to find a bright dream fled, And the life that gave it gone with the dead ? Has the wine-cup changed to a draught of gall ? And into the chalice do salt tears fall ? Brother or sister, thy lot is mine ; Let us trust and hope, but never repine ; " For be the day weary, or be the day long, At length it ringeth to evensong." Oh, God ! I cannot Thy ways understand, Still fain would I feel Thy guiding hand. Oh, Christ! I would love Thee — Thee and none other: Be Thou my Saviour — my Friend — my Brother. Cast down the idols in this fond heart ; Shew me and teach me the better part. Though cumber'd and crush'd 'neath this body of death. Breathe in my nostrils the living breath. And when the turmoil of life is past, Oh 1 give Thou me perfect peace at last. Elijah on the Mount. 117 Then little I'll reck for tears once shed, When I see how gently my Saviour led. How each pang of mine pierced His kind heart thro' ! What yearnings and strivings for me He knew ! Ah ! then, my Christ, I will understand — Then shall I see and feel Thy hand. And when Thy loving face I see, I, too, shall be holy and pure like Thee. Oh ! joy to think that at eventide In my Father's house my feet shall bide. " For be the day weary, or be the day long, At length it ringeth to evensong." ELIJAH ON THE MOUNT. ^TTE stood on Sinai's misty top, ^5/ And felt the storm rush by ; He heard afar the thunder peal From crag to crag reply. He saw the tall trees, frightcn'd, toss Their branches high in air ; But still the prophet stood unmoved — Jehovah was not there. It ceased, and a fierce roll was heard. As when two armies meet ; The rocks were rent, and the firm earth Heaved, trembling 'neath his feet. ii8 Sacred Poems. And still he gazed upon the scene, Nor grew his cheek more pale — God was not in the earthquake's shock, Nor in the rushing gale. 'Twas o'er — but now the forked light Was darting to and fro ; Above, around, he saw its flash, He felt its lurid glow. Afar he saw the scathed pines Blaze like a funeral pyre — Yet still he bent no rev'rent knee, God was not in the fire. At length there came a still small voice, Like music stealing by — Then did Elijah veil his face, He knew that God was nigh. We shrink not at the lightning's flash, Or the dread thunder-roll, But conscience is the still small voice That smites the sinner's soul. The Captive in Babylon. 119- THE CAPTIVE IN BABYLON. " We wept when we remembered Zion." 'irrOW oft has my dull soul awoke M^ And called me, but in vain, To fling aside life's bitter yoke And spurn its galling chain ; But in a prison-house confined, I, for my cruel captors, grind. Oh ! heavily the dreary years Drag on with lagging tread. And I still moisten with my tears Their Babylonish bread, While strangers sit in Salem's halls. And dust is on her ruined walls. Our glory is a vanquish'd dream, Our greatness past away ; Oh, Israel ! shall none redeem Thy children, long their prey ? No more a man, but craven slave. What house befits me but the grave ? Oh ! lovely land, no more our own. How long shall we bewail Thy rifled hearths ? thy vacant throne ? I feel my cheek grow pale At the dread thought, the while my hand Seeks even here to grasp my brand. Ah ! once within their felon blood Its glittering steel to dye ! Ay ! one against a multitude 'Neath God's eternal sky ; Then gladly would I yield this breath. No more a slave, but free in Death. 120 Sacred Poems. THE REAL LIFE. " He liveth best who loveth best." >IYO forth, the path of duty ^^ Is free for all to tread, True kindness is true beauty From loving faces shed ; Go forth, be ever ready The joys of life to share, With brethren poor and needy Around us everywhere. A gen'rous spirit knoweth What niggard souls ne'er know, The least that it bestoweth Redoubled back will flow : More blest is he who giveth Than he who doth receive, The heart that this believeth No fortune can bereave. The kindly word soft spoken A sadden 'd life may cheer, Revive a spirit broken, May dry a falling tear. Earth is the time for sowing. The harvest is above, Hearken ! 'tis worth the knowing. The life of lives is — Love. Then let us still be ready The joys of life to share, With brethren poor and needy Around us everywhere. Communion Sunday. 121 COMMUNION SUNDAY. 3NT0 the church, my hiding place, My willing feet would run ; There I can meet Thee face to face, Saviour and God in one. There can I hear — there can I see — All that Thy Love hath won for me. Down from the groin'd and high-arch'd roof Descends a holy balm ; Sin-healing, vain to stand aloof, Nor share its peaceful calm ; Thy Presence, Lord, is every^vhere — I know thee, my Deliv'rer, near. I gaze into those gracious eyes That wept o'er all my sin ; My heart with ardent warmth replies To Thy sweet — Enter in. The board is spread — the bread, the wine — Pledge of Thy sacrifice divine. On all the hush'd and holy place A rev'rent gladness falls ; The glory of a radiant face Illumes the grey old walls. Lord, bid depart I pray from me All other thoughts, save thoughts of Thee. 122 S acred Poems. THE GARDEN. /np\UT off thy shoes from off thy feet, yp For this is holy ground, And yet no wondrous burning bush FHngs its red glow around ; But here is cast a mightier spell, Here, a more awful thing Is done before a wondering heaven, By earth's Almighty King. Apart from his last faithful few, Twas here the Saviour stood, And wiped from off his burning brow Red drops of sweat and blood. Here, kneeling on this damp, cold earth, In agony he prayed. While near an angel pitying hung To lend the sufferer aid. Oh ! holy, awful, wondrous spot. Where the Almighty knelt As very man, and the dread frown Of His own Father felt. Oh ! awful, yet most blessed spot. Sacred to prayerful eyes. Watered by Jesus' blood and tears, And perfumed by His sighs. The Prodigal. 123 "ts THE PRODIGAL. eLIMBING the rugged mountains, That his own sin hath made, Bearing the heavy burden He on himself hath laid. With all his substance wasted, With all his beauty stained, He Cometh to the bosom That he so deep hath pained. Naked, footsore, an-hunger'd, He wanders back once more, And lo ! his Father waiteth To meet him at the door. In agony of weeping, Bow'd at that Father's feet, He cries, " I am unworthy. Oh ! for thy house unmeet. Most deeply I have sinned, 'Gainst Heaven and 'gainst thee ; To be thy son unworthy, Let me thy hireling be." But hark ! what words of mercy, Are these the lost one hears ; " My child, have I not sought thee Still carefully with tears. " Bring forth the richest garments. My signet ring put on ; Let joy resound and gladness O'er this, my long lost son. 124 Sacred Poems. '* Haste ! throughout all our dwelling, Let mirth and music sound, He that was dead now liveth, He that was lost is found ! " Here was no harsh upbraiding, Here no unpitying face, But tenderly he claspeth The fall'n in his embrace. Oh ! Father, Thou art waiting, Thy cry is " Come to Me !" Not worthy to be hirelings, Let us thy children be THE PROMISES OF GOD. "The promises of God are in Him, Yea ; and in Him, Amen, forever." /Cj Because, oh, blessed word ! Yi& first loved ?ne ; Because His pity pardoned my behaviour, Because His love is deeper than the sea. — Because He first loved us. " Because He first loved us." I had no dreaming That such a love was seeking after mine ; And I pursued, O fool ! a specious seeming. While Thou wert saying, "All I have is Thine." — Because He first loved us. " Because He first loved us." When I was turning My weary eyes for comfort here and there ; That heart of thine was o'er me fondly yearning, And so, I loved at last at Thy dear prayer. — Because He first loved us. 1 130 Sacred Poems. I loved at last —I knew Thine hand upon me, I felt a mighty drawing, strange and sweet, I saw the beauty of the life that won me, And I kneeled down to kiss Thy sacred feet.- Because He first loved us. My Lord, 'tis not my love, Thy Word assures me, Not my poor longing that has bridged the sea ; Thy love eternal — this it is secures me, And nought can sever that true love from me. — Because He first loved us. THE WORK OF SORROW. "A life of joy is for the most part thin and shallow. Few heroisms can be manufactured out of gladness, but sorrow is the making of saints." — Fal/er. /rraORTAL man oppress'd by sadness, ^T^ Hush thy pitiful complaints. High thoughts take no root in gladness, It is sorrow maketh saints. Lives of thoughtlessness and pleasure, Lives untouched by pain or woe, Drink of God with scanty measure. And not half His fulness know. Oft in Minster lowly kneeling, I have seen strange beauty shed, By a wandering sunbeam stealing Thro' the casement overhead; The Work of Sorroiv. 131 And the chasten'd light soft bending, With the rev'rent quiet there, Seemed a message Heaven was sending, Downward, in response to prayer. So thro' lives opprest and weary, Gleams of radiance sometimes shine, Lighting up the prospect dreary. With a beauty most divine ; Deeper, holier, more tender, Tho' it beams thro' sorrow's veil. Making e'en the noontide splendour Of the risen day seem pale. While beneath its shining holy, Tender graces spring to life ; Patience, gentle-eyed and lowly, Arming men for daily strife. Peace, the shadowy reflection Of the higher peace above, Joy that leaveth no dejection, Pity, fairest-born of love. These, the offspring of the spirit. These, the noblest gifts of God, This unfathom'd bliss to inherit, Who'd not kiss the chastening rod ? Therefore, heart oppres'd by sadness. Hush thy pitiful complaints, High thoughts take no root in gladness. It is sorrow maketh saints. I 2 132 Sacred Poems. THE WELL OF SAMARIA. " He sat by the well, and He was weary." ^f'TflEARY sat He by the well, ^^■^^ Ere the shades of even fell ; Yet benignantly He smiled. Speaking low in accents mild That into her soul might sink, " Woman, give to me to drink." Proud, she gazed upon His face, Daughter she of hostile race, "Art not thou," she cold began, "Jew, and I Samaritan ; And what dealing can there be, Stranger, betwixt thee and me ? " Then the gentle Saviour sighed In His Spirit, and replied. While His yearning eyes He bent, On the Heaven's blue firmament. As tho' seeking from that place Pity for a stubborn race, " If thou knewest," soft he said, •' Who of thee a drink has pray'd. Thou would'st ask of Him, and He Living water would give thee ; Which upspringing in thy soul, Would its hidden wound make whole." Thus He spake, the while there flowed Thro' His words the voice of God, Spake again, until at last At His feet all pride was cast ; And she whispered humbly, " Give, Lord, this water, that I live ! " A Light over the River.. 133 So, to us most gracious Lord, Speak Thou Thine Ahiiighty Word, Till our stubborn hearts are riven By the Majesty of Heaven ; And low bow'd at mercy's feet, Sinner and Redeemer meet. A LIGHT OVER THE RIVER. "irrERE o'er the river I behold, 1%/ A faint light flicker thro' the gloom ; So shine the Heavenly gates of gold, Seen thro' the shadows of the tomb. And now the light grows yet more dim. The mists yet dark, and darker grow, It may be that my eyelids swim With tears that will unbidden flow ; Or, it may be the day has waned. To make the darkness yet more drear ; So, when the Hills of Peace are gained, To wakened eyes will earth appear. It may be when, with larger sense And wider vision, I look down, The light of God's intelligence Shall teach me all before unknown. It may be that like yonder ray. Which, but intensifies the night ; He grants me now in this dim day, Those little gleamings of His light. 134 Sacred Poems. Faint, yet enough to show how deep, The waves of Death beneath us roll, Those waves o'er which this soul would leap, This fearing, doubting, yearning soul. Faint beam, yet canst thou show how far, The radiance of His Love can shine ; How firm and fixed, and changeless are His purpose and His will Divine. Shine, kindly glimmer thro' the gloom. My beacon thro' this lonesome night ; Shine, star of God, and re-illume A soul that longeth for the light. THE BANE AND ANTIDOTE. 7^0 bear with harsh insulting words, ^ To hang the head, to hide The starting tear that gushes forth In spite of all our pride ; To feel the heart indignant swell At tyrannizing power. To see the strong oppress the weak. As one might crush a flower ; To bear a thousand petty wrongs, A thousand painful slights. To drag thro' dreary, hopeless days, And cheerless, restless nights ; The Bane and Antidote. 135 To writhe beneath a cruel wound, Yet stifle down the pain ; Conscious to hear, 'mid wreathing flowers. The clanking of a chain ; To feel the iron of its links, To totter 'neath the weight, At times to cry with bitter plaints. My burden is too great ! My burden is too great for me, 'Tis more than I can bear, — Yet lie all pow'rless as the bird Within the fowler's snare. To see that every door is shut. That all escape is gone, That nought is left us but to bear. To bear and to live on ; To hide a festering sore within. To which Time brings no cure. To learn the duty of this life. Is only to endure ! Oh ! many a mourner walks this earth. And none his grief may know, God pity those who wear a smile To hide the wound below! 136 Sacred Poems. THE ANTIDOTE. "A little while." " rt[ LITTLE WHILE," when with entreating lips V^ Unto their Master the disciples spake, That from their dreary path His blessed light He might not take ; The pitying Saviour, gazing on each face, Beams in His love a gentle tender smile. Then breathed into their hearts the holy words, " A little while." " A little while, then shall these tears be dried, It is expedient now that we shall part, And yet ye mourn, and Avell I know that grief Fills every heart. " But mourn not, for I leave you but to send Another Comforter to fill my place, Till all is o'er, and in a little while Ye see my face. " I go unto the Father, the' ye weep, Your sorrow shall be turn'd to endless joy, A little while in Heaven ye shall forget This world's annoy." So be it still ! Oh ! when our path is rough. Sweet Christ ! look on us with Thy pitying smile. And say as to Thy weeping saints of old, " A little while." The Happy Life. 137 THE HAPPY LIFE. /yvOR wealth, nor rank, nor pomp I prize, \*y I only worship soul-lit eyes In honest faces ; A generous spirit has for me A patent to nobility In highest places. I crouch not at the rich man's gate, For I can keep a higher state In mine own breast ; I follow not the multitude, For 1 can eat of purer food, With better zest. I tremble not at Fortune's frown, To her indifferent have I grown, False, fickle jade ! She favours those who need her not, But those whose homage can't be bought She leaves unpaid. No wakeful pillow do I fear, For in the silence songs I hear Of tenderest tone ; I comfort take in company, But yet I never dread to be Left all alone. For faces round my chair I see. And lofty voices speak with me, The immortal dead ; Hero, philosopher, and sage. The glories of a vanish'd age. Though from earth fled. 138 Sacred Poems. For me the poet tunes his lyre — His Ups touched by celestial fire, High thoughts he sings, Which only breathed to me alone Can raise me to a higher throne Than that of kings. Oh ! blessed state is this of mine, Oh ! foohsh heart, why ever pine. Why be afraid ? Out of the Treasury of Heaven The gold refined to thee is given, Full and umveigh'd. LAST WORDS. [Died at sea, on his passage home from India, Lieutenant H. R. T., aged 29 years]. ■UrOW still the sea, how beautiful ! the sails cling to the /^ mast, All, all is quiet but my heart, it's beating loud and fast ; I think by the great Captain the last command is given. And I must buckle on my sword to scale the walls of Heaven. Lift me a little higher, love, I think my hour is come, I'll never see their faces within my own old home ; Unto the path we all must tread, in silence and alone, A shadowy hand is beckoning me, and I must straight be gone Ah, me ! I thought to pass away in the land that gave me birth— I thought to sleep my last long sleep within my mother- earth ; But yet it does not matter much where we may meet Death's King, And blessed be the Holy Book ! it takes away the sting. Last Words. 139 Around me is the ocean, above me is the sky, Weep not so bitterly, my own, I do not fear to die, I only grieve to leave you, but mourn not thus for me — Tranquil the heart that on Him leans as yon unruffled sea. Turn me a little westward — oh, what a glorious sight To see the red sun sink in waves all roseate and bright ; I feel upon my forehead the tender south wind play — At home, in dear old Ireland, they watch for me to-day. At home, in dear old Ireland, they watch this sinking sun. But, ah ! they know not that on earth my race is well nigh run, Or that the sun which now they see gilding the western wave Will shine, e'er many hours are past, down on their soldier's grave. Oh ! tell my mother not to mourn too bitterly for me, But say that I will wait in Heaven her face again to see ; Tell her that I went calmly and bravely to my rest — Though sore the parting, may she feel that God knew what was best. And say to my sweet sister, whom you have never seen. That in my dying hour I longed upon her breast to lean, But that in this last battle I do not stand alone, For I am leaning on a breast as faithful as her own. They'll welcome you, my own poor love, for they are good and kind — They, too, have learned what 'tis to be to God's blest will resign'd ; They'll take you to their loving hearts — ah, me ! they'll feel for you — Ah ! they have drained this bitter cup, for they are widows too. 140 Sacred Poems. Tell to my brothers both — oh ! tell that in my dying hour The memory of their love unchang'd comes back with living power, And as I die thus far away, it pains me sore that I May not be laid by their dear hands where my forefathers lie. I must not talk of these sad things, or my heart's peace will shake — They'll welcome you, my own poor love, they'll love you for my sake ; Yes, for their own dead brother's sake they'll love the babes and you, For they were ever good and kind, affectionate and true. When I am dead and gone, my love, and sleep beneath the sea, Teach these two helpless little ones to love and think of me, And tell them that the bitterest pang that rent their father's heart Was thus to gaze on their dear eyes, and feel that we must part. Hold them a little closer, love, my Bessie and my boy — God shield you with His tenderest care from sorrow and annoy ; Kiss me again, sweet innocents — now, dearest, let them go. And put your hand in mine, my wife — dear God, must it be so ? Oh ! say to my poor mother, love, that oft I pray'd to see Her gentle face once more on earth, but that it might not be. Tell her she must not think that I am altogether dead, For I leave to her my children to love her in my stead. Still there's another sister, the youngest of the band. Would I might see her once again, or press her tender hand, Long years have passed since last I stroked the tresses of her hair, And they tell me she's a woman now — a woman tall and fair. Wild Flowers. 141 She was the pet of all the house in the old bygone time — Ah, me ! I think I hear her now chanting some nurs'ry rhyme ; I see her smiling face peep in at the old parlour door — I see her like a sunbeam dart across the chamber floor. In the old church — our Father's church — I see her take her place, The while a holy rev'rence gleams across her upturn'd face; May blessings rest upon her head, and may she never know What 'tis to drain down to the dregs the bitter cup of woe. And now farewell, my own dear love — oh, you have been to me The truest and the tenderest that ever friend might be ; Since first I won you to my side how blest has been my life, Sweet comforter, consoler, guide were you, my own true wife. God bless you for your patient care and your devoted love — God comfort you in all your woe until we meet above ; Now press one kiss upon my mouth, the last, dear heart, the last- Come Death, I do not fear thee now — thy bitterness is past. WILD FLOWERS. /V^OT alone for garden-flowers was the golden Summer Vi*' made. There are soft-eyed blossoms blowing in many a leafy glade, There are wild-wood roses blushing the dusty path beside, Tinted with hues as lovely, as the cultured parterre's pride. There are violets scattering fragrance, and lifting loving eyes, To the stars, their far-off kindred, in the deeps of twilight skies ; Pale primroses are gemming the sward beneath our feet — Oh ! everywhere some beauty in God's world we may meet. 142 Sacred Poems. The flaunting tulip may unfold her petals to the sun, The queen-rose wear the coronal her loveliness has won ; The lily in her snowy robe lift up her stately head, Yet I love the humble daisy that trembles at my tread. The sun shines just as warmly, the dews as softly fall, On the cowslip in the meadow, on the bramble by the wall ; No flower God's finger fashioned, shall dare despised be, The wild vine lends new beauty to the tallest forest tree. Yes, each flower has its duty, and all are in their place. The same Heaven bendeth o'er them with silent brooding face — The same fond bosom nurses their germs her turf beneath — The same clay covers over their withered forms in death. Christian ! whate'er thy station, learn thou a lesson here. If born to grace a palace, or stray o'er moorland drear ; Be it thine to scatter fragrance, thy soul in sweets to shed, On the mountain, in the hedgerow, as in sheltered garden bed. " BEHOLD! I STAND AT THE DOOR AND KNOCK." T^HERE is a Monarch knocking at the gate, ^ While in the midnight gloom His voice we hear ; " Behold ! I stand without the door, and wait. My locks are wet with dew, the day is near, Rise from your beds of sloth, and cast away The chains that bind you ; see ! the East is grey. " Behold ! I Stand at the Door and Knock " 143 Open the door to me, and let me in, I come to bless your hearts, to bless your home ; I come to cleanse your spirits stained with sin, To cleanse them whiter than the salt sea's foam. Behold ! to earth I come from Heaven above My message Peace, from Hi}n whose name is Love. If ye but do My will, and hear My voice. In your soul's temple shall be My abode ; O'er you with singing shall this heart rejoice ; Behold in Me a Saviour and a (}od ; My Father, too, will be a guest with Me, Open the door, while yet the path is free. For there will come a day when all shall hear My voice in thunder, pealing o'er each grave, Woe, if it brings but terror to the ear. For then I come in judgment, not to save ; Then to the rocks and mountains shall they flee In vain, in vain, for none can hide from Me." 'Mid midnight dreams, low, solemn, soft, and clear, We hear His pleadings on the silence break, And when creation's close shall smite the ear. When earth's foundations firm shall reel and shake. That voice shall sound above the whirlwind's din — " Behold ! 'tis I, who once said, ' Let Me in. ) » Oh ! let us open now, that on the day When the last trump shall summon forth the dead. We may with shouts of joy triumphant say, While others hide themselves with shame and dread, " 'Tis He, the Merciful, the Mighty One, Our God, our Saviour, on the great white throne." 144 Sacred Poems. " OUT OF THE DEEPS HAVE I CRIED UNTO THEE." .^EARFUL for the coming morrow, ^ Trembling through the present day, To Thee, Lord of Life and Glory, Humbly would I kneel and pray ; Let Thy Presence chase the shadows From my toilsome path away. All these trials and temptations Give me grace to live above. Thou hast power, O my Redeemer ! Every sorrow to remove ; Well I know that Thou dost love me With an everlasting love. What ! tho' thorns are in the pillow WTiere I lay my aching head, Yet, ev'n here, a bounteous table In the wilderness is spread : And the soul that truly hungereth Thou wilt feed with living bread. If the path at times be weary, If the failing feet oft bleed. Thou wilt lay no cross upon me That Thou dost not see I need ; Who would shrink when thro' the furnace God's own hand His child shall lead. Jesus, ever grant Thy guidance, Show me still the better part. Lighten, Lord, my darken'd vision, Melt the hardness from my heart : Saviour, Lover, Friend, Protector, Let me know Thee as Thou art. " Out of the Deeps have I Cried unto Thee.'' 145 On the brink of Time's wide ocean Let me oft in fancy stand, And across the heaving billows See afar that better land, Where my risen Lord is seated 'Mid th' adoring spirit band. Lord of Life and Light and Glory Keep me ever at Thy side ; Earth and Hell ! why should I fear them When Jehovah is my guide ? Thro' the clouds the day is breaking, Soon the Bridegroom claims His bride. Turn mine eyes from joys that vanish, Charming only to deceive. To the glory that awaits me. Such as heart may not conceive, Pledged to those who trust in Jesus, And in His great name believe. " I WILL NEVER LEAVE THEE NOR FORSAKE THEE." A\H, my soul ! at this deep fountain ^^ Come thy burning thirst to slake ; I will never, never leave thee, I will never thee forsake. Let the world's wild billows foaming Rise around as mountains high ; Let the night be long and dreary. Faint the star beams in the sky ; K 146 Sacred Poems. Let all Earth to her foundations Tremble, and for terror shake, I will never, never leave thee, I will never thee forsake. I My solemn oath have plighted, I have pledged to thee My word, I, the unchangeable Jehovah, I, the everlasting Lord ; I, thy Saviour, Friend, Redeemer, I, who died thy chains to break, I will never, never leave thee, I will never thee forsake. Yea, let human friendships fail us ; Yea, let human loves deceive ; When we by our lonely hearthstones O'er defeated dreamings grieve, Still may we amidst our sadness Comfort in the promise take — He will never, never leave thee, He will never thee forsake. Gracious Saviour ! this is blessing ; Oh, my Father ! this is joy ; This is sunshine without shadow, This is peace without alloy. This is better far than gladness, Better this than store of wealth, Better this than earthly comforts, More than life itself or health. E'en when Earth to her foundations Trembles and her pillars shake, Thou wilt never, never leave me. Thou wilt never me forsake. Seen and Unseen. 147 SEEN AND UNSEEN. While we look, not at the things that are seen, but the things that are not seen." /yvOT at the things that are seen — the fleeting, the wasting; Vi*' Not at the things that are seen — the fickle, the cold ; Not at the things that are seen. The things everlasting Mine eyes thro' the mists of their weeping still yearn to behold — Not at the things that are seen. Not at the things that are seen — the fading, the dying ; Not at the things that are seen — the weary, the sad ; Not at the turmoil of earth — its groans and its sighing ; Not at its music that ceaseth my heart would be glad — Not at the things that are seen. Not at the things that are seen — the joy that is fleeting ; The false hope that leadeth us onward, perchance to a tomb; The love, that was only a farewell when kindliest greeting ; The fair flower concealing a canker, to blight all its bloom — Not at the things that are seen. 'to'" Oh ! for the rapture eternal, the rest without ending ; Oh ! for the beauty, the sunlight that never decays ; Oh ! for the peace, on the spirit all dove-like descending; Oh ! to behold the Eternal, the Ancient of Days — Not at the things that are seen. Not at the things that are seen — the fleeting, the wasting ; Not at the things that are seen — the fickle, the cold ; Not at the things that are seen. The things everlasting Mme eyes thro' the mists of their weeping still yearn to behold — Not at the things that are seen. 148 Sacred Poems. SYMPATHY. ' Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep." /frSH, marvel not ! some hearts can find ^^ True comfort in a greeting kind ; And marvel not, some think it sweet The warm clasp of a hand to meet. Perchance such were bereft of fate, And tho' in crowds, are desolate ; Perchance they mourn some lost flow'r's bloom, Or face long shrouded in the tomb : Or Love, which never, never more Can thrill them to the heart's deep core ; Perchance some dear pursuit has been The ignus fatuiis of life's scene. Perchance by night they watch the skies To see some promised star arise, But tho' a thousand lights appear. Its dawning never draweth near. 'O Yet patiently they waiting stand Till guided by the unseen hand, Which in the mists of earth was lost. Over the river they have crost. And laying down earth's weary load. Waked in the sunshine of their God ; Long conflict with a world so rude Might teach such natures hardihood. But yet too fondly still they pine For Love along their path to shine ; And fruitless tho' the search may be. Still seek the Fount of Sympathy. Sympathy. 149 And tho' its spring oft failed before, Will stoop to drink at it once more. What tho' a pitying word be all That on their waiting ears may fall ; They, by their own deep want imbued, Will deem it cause for gratitude ; It waked, mayhap, the slumbering past, Too beautiful and bright to last. For tho' the paths before us lie, Back to the bygone Past we fly, And gladly turn from voices near The voices of the Lost to hear. Perhaps it stirred the failing breath Of Hope that languished unto Death. Such hearts strange contradictions know. No medium theirs of joy or woe. Still fated to be fondly loved, Or coldly, cruelly reproved ; Now in a very heaven of joy. Now overwhelm'd with Life's annoy. Ready o'er trifling ills to grieve, Or in each phantom joy believe, And all unskill'd by cold deceit, Not, till too late, detect the cheat. Oh ! would that such their hearts could steel, And learn unmoved life's shocks to feel. For tho' a generous thought exprest Wakes deepest gladness in such breast, And tho' a kindly word can bring Warm tears from out their hidden spring, A cruel or unlooked-for slight Can fill the eyes with flashing light ; 150 Sacred Poems . And bathe, as in a fiery sea, Soul, spirit, sense, in agony. Oh, human heart ! strange instrument, In which so many tones are blent ; The key to all our smiles and sighs, Our passport to the upper skies, Or else the terror and the weight To lower us to ruin's gate. "SHE HATH DONE WHAT SHE COULD." ^HE hath done what she could ! " O praise eternal Thro' ages enduring, undimmed by Time ; O Flower ! by the breath of God made vernal Thro' the world's long winters of frost and rime — " She hath done what she could." How slow, alas ! are our nerveless fingers Fair flowers to gather around us spread, With each act that seems best imperfection lingers. Ah ! to dry up the tears that our brethren shed — Have we done what we could ? Have we done what we could ? Appalled, affrighted At work appointed left all undone ; At proffered love, untasted, slighted, At the joy passed by we might have won — Have we done what we could ? Yet when we fail, though struggling, trying. Crimsoned each cheek with shame and dread, This thought may soothe our saddest sighing. How of old the loving Christ hath said — " She hath done what she could." L'ENVOL Muse ! I have sought thee when my heart was sad, Drooping and bowed 'neath sorrow's blinding powW, Like willow, when the heavy-falling show'r Bends low its autumn-tinted branches, clad With Nature's mellow hue. I've sought thee glad, 1^-.^ And fotmd thee, in the leafy time of spring, Flowers 'neath our feet, blithe song-birds carolling O'erhead, as we our joyous converse had. Take these few leaflets, gathered in the grove. Where, rapt beyond Earth's cankering cares, we strayed ; These flowrets on whose petals erst young Love Breathed smiling, in his Iris garb arrayed. While Joy and Hope circled, around, above ; Poor offering though it be, accept it, Heaven- born Maid ! Anon, m "le^i^- UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-32m-8, "57(0868084)444 uc SOUTHERN REGIONAL UBfVjRY FACIUTV -EE. Hi IdebrPnd - 4790 Lays from the fi246_J land of the AA 000 370 337 8 Gael PR 4790 H246 1 *1 iifi^lii^feig^;f^£i%£££:%;^:^f^::^£$s^£:^^