OUR NATIVE LAND.
Our Native Land! Our Native Land!
Long may old Erin's vales be green;
May plenty smile on every hand,
Be want and woe unseen!
Oh! let us join with heart and hand
To raise the song—Our Native Land!
Our Native Land! Our Native Land!
May countless blessings on her smile
May dove-eyed Peace her lily-wand
Wave o'er pure Emerald Isle—
Her sons, united brethren, stand,
To raise the song—Our Native Land!
Our Native Land! Our Native Land!
Let patriot voices join the song,
And swell the chorus high and grand,
Till every breeze shall bear it on.
O'er flowery mead and wave-kissed strand
Loud let it ring—Our Native Land!
Our Native Land! Our Native Land!
Let Erin's sense the notes prolong,
Together joined-a mighty band
United by one common song.
'Tis Honour's right-her just command
Then let us love Our Native Land!
TO THE SEA.
Oh! rolling waves, while ye sing around me,
My poises beat to your fitful tune,
And higher thoughts in my breast awaken,
But the spell must vanish too soon, too soon.
Here while I lie let your echoes linger,
And rest awhile on this lute of mine;
And though I play with an erring finger,
The sounds shall charm if they're caught from thine.
And my song shall be rich in melody,
Learned from thy singing, oh' tuneful Sea!
Sadly sigh while the clouds loom o'er thee,
Dark and grey in yon stormy sky;
Foaming billows, your angry wailing
Fills my soul like a hopeless cry!
Heaving breast with your great heart throbbing
Ocean pulses that wildly thrill;
Wandering waves in such cadence breaking,
Rolling, rolling, and never still.
Oh! that my soul, like thine, were free,
Eager and restless, oh! beautiful Sea!
The clouds disperse, and like glory breaking
In fancy's eyes o'er a poet's dream,
Clad in the sunlight the waters glisten,
And dazzling bright in the radiance gleam.
Far and wide o'er the scene of grandeur
My glad eyes wander, my heart beats high;
Lost in a maze of light and wonder,
I faint in a dream of ecstasy;
And the spirit of beauty thou seem'st to me
In that flood of glory, oh! changing Sea!
Yet best I love when the mystic gloaming
Grows dim, and the crimson sunset dies;
For I dream that your mighty tones are changing,
And in psalms of praise through the shadows rise.
Oh! Nature's organ! Methinks thy numbers
Keep time with the songs of Cherubim,
While through hidden caves come the echoes swelling
Their chorus grand to the ocean hymn;
And my soul, adorning, ascends with thee,
In deep thanksgiving, oh! wondrous Sea!
A FAREWELL SONG.
Oh! sometimes when our hearts are gay,
And Pleasure round us smiles,
Too soon the hours may pass away
That rosy Mirth beguiles;
And we may feel a tinge of pain
Amid the festal cheer,
And pause to ask, "When, when again,
Shall all be gathered here?"
But ah! the future's dusky veil
Hides coming years from view;
And still our yearning eyes must fail
To pierce its darkness through.
But Memory can hold the past
That we have loved so well;
And, like a halo round it cast,
Affection's light may dwell.
And thus, my friends, though call'd away
To join another scene,
My thoughts shall often backward stray
To all that once has been.
And bygone hours shall come again—
The cherished times and dear.
And bring the moments in their train
When I was with you here.
And as sweet flowers, tho' sere and dead,
Can by their fragrance bring
Remembrance of the days long fled
Again on Memory's wing.
So many a kindly smile I'll mourn
With deep and fond regret;
For though I never may return,
I never can forget.
SOLITUDE.
"Solitude delighteth well to feed on many thoughts;
There, as thou sittest peaceful, communing with Fancy,
The precious poetry of life shall gild its leaden cares"
—TUPPER
Come, Solitude! best soother of my mind—
The sole companion of my happiest hours;
The spell, all potent, of thy gentle powers
Here in this lovely spot, I come to find.
Below yon mountains, in the sunset beams,
Lough Neagh's glassy waters widely spread;
And through the distance, like a shining thread,
The "Silver Bann" along the valley gleams.
Lough Neagh! often in the evening light
I've watched the golden sunset kiss thy breast,
Then, as it died on many a wavelet's crest,
Homeward, unwilling, turned, with fond "Goodnight."
The bare trees in the planting moan and sigh;
I've watched their leaves from buds, till they had grown
To vernal beauty. Withered now and strewn
Upon the walks, all sere and dead they lie.
And in the Spring, when the young leaves came first,
Here, often in my lone imaginings,
What golden dreams I knew of glorious things;
Visions my willing mind too fondly nurse.
Visions that, like the leaves, to beauty grew,
Gladdening my heart thro' sunny summer hours;
Clad in bright garlands, woven from Fancy's bowers
Radiant with Hope's fair light of mellow hue.
And are they withered too? All those swept dreams
That I had hoped in future years to see
Around me bloom, in living, grand reality;
No longer far-off things, or misty, meteor gleams.
Some like these leaves, have fallen by the way,
Never again in spring to wake to birth;
While some are mine e'en now, whose priceless worth
Shall bloom and ripen, knowing no decay!
Round me the shadows deepen; and I see
My dead dreams in a phantom band draw near.
And dim Æolian strains fall on my ear,
like some wild mystic requiem's fitful melody!
Oh! Solitude! thou canst alone restore
The buried bygone, till the haunted isles
Of memory's chambers shine in moonlight smiles
Shadows of sunlight from the days of yore.
Oh! Solitude! come often for my guest!
Still, when I meet thee in sequestered glade,
I feel thy presence lasting peace has made;
Of life's sweet things, I hold thee first and best!
WITH A WHITE ROSE.
Long ago, in ages olden,
When our world was new;
When old Time was young and golden,
When men's hearts were true;
Fairer flowers than now are growing
Blossom'd everywhere—
Beauty to the earth bestowing,
Sweetness to the air!
Well men loved them, fondly dreaming
They were not of earth;
In their glorious beauty seeming
Of a higher birth.
And in those Elysian bowers,
In the days of old,
Speaking all their thoughts in flowers,
Thus their love they told:—
One alone, of purest whiteness,
Of them all was queen;
Sweeter than their hues of brightness
Was its snowy sheen.
If this flower as pledge were given
By true hearts in love,
Though on earth by sad doubts driven,
Yet their life above
Would be one in joy unending,
Undivided there,
Soul with soul in glory blending
In that kingdom fair.
This the legend I have told thee
Of the flower I send.
Oh, may its sweet leaves unfold thee
Hope, with such an end!
"THE EXILE'S REVERIE."
It is sweet to dream of the vanished times, in this changing
land of ours,
When we touch the hidden spring of thought, with the wand of
mystic powers,
That Remembrance yields to our yearning hearts, that are
lonely left, and pine
For the loves once ours, till shadowy forms come round us,
and flit and shine.
Through the gloom that wraps the earth-tired soul, that
drifts on life's sea apart,
Missing the clasp of a kindred hand, or thrill of heart to
heart.
Alone! alone! on the wide, wide world, where hope can console
no more;
Alone! alone! on the friendless waste, strange, on a stranger
shore.
Oft times when the gloaming gathers round, and the night wind
moans on the hill
Like a ghostly voice from the buried dead, when all around is
still,
In the midnight darkness and silence, I call through the mist
and maze,
To the sunny joys of the glad, bright dream, of the golden,
bygone days.
Then the poem of the wakened long-ago, to the music of memory
flows,
Now filled as with bridal gladness, now wailing out dirge-
like woes;
Through sunshine and summer glories, through brightness and
fragrant blooms,
Through howling storms, 'neath winter skies, through weeping
and murky glooms.
And then, when the weird strain ceases, and the fitful music
is done,
The pictures I love to gaze on, rise slowly, one by one
Through the mist of the past slow coming, they give to our
eyes once more,
What Death has stolen from me, and Death can alone restore.
Again, as in early childhood, I feel the fond caress
Of my mother's lips, or I hear the tones of my father's voice
that bless
His child in its gleeful gambols; Oh! happy and peaceful
hours!
Ye come in visions of golden noons, and sunshine, and shady
bowers!
And the low-breathed prayer when the sunset glow'd crimson in
the West,
And the sweet "Good-night," and the tender kiss, ere I sank
to tranquil rest;
Mother! that prayer still haunts me, adown the dreary years,
And the earnest tones of thy gentle voice, can steep my soul
in tears.
My brothers! faithful hearted! strong in your love, and true;
Oh! breaking heart, do you mock me? Can they have
perished too?
In their morning time, when they shared my dreams of a Crown
and a Life-fight won,
Thank God, it was their's so early, when my fight had but
begun!
Oh, darling, best-beloved! keen now is the aching smart,
As when Death's chill touch on our clasped hands fell, when
he breathed the hard word "part,"
Only for earth's short span, my sweet, for love can never
die,
And the spirit bond but strengthens, as Time's wild waves
sweep bye.
Mine! by the vows soft-whispered, where hand in hand we
strayed
In twilight hours, through summer lanes, or roamed in the
lonely glade;
But the dream in its glory perished, and earth's brightest
hope was fled,
And light from my life was faded, when they laid thee with
the dead!
Elsie! my bright-haired sister! tender blossom and pure!
You drooped in that last storm's fury, too fragile its might
to endure;
And then I left the home-nest when my last sweet dove had
flown,
And sought to forget, amid stranger scenes, the sorrows my
soul had known.
It's thus the shadowy phantoms come back from the spirit-
shore,
When I cry in my lonely anguish for the joys now mine no
more.
I thrill with a passion'd yearning for the fuller life to be,
When my tired soul faints in wonder, lost in earth's
mystery!
CHURCH ISLAND, COUNTY DERRY.
"Oh, search with mother-love the gifts
Our land can boast;
Fair Erna's isles—Neagh's wooded slopes—
Green Antrim's coast."—MACCARTHY.
In peerless beauty, flushing, glowing,
O'er broad Lutigh Neagh's breast,
The sunset banner hovers, throwing
Its glory over the West.
And varied banks of glen and wood,
That smile round Neagh's smiling flood,
In this sweet hour seem fitting theme
For Poet's song or artist's dream.
Round the horizon, sternly frowning,
The mountains like a barrier rise,
The purple range, Slieve Gallion crowning,
Towers grimly to the western skies.
Northward Losgh Beg's bright waters play
Round the Church Isle, where, lone and grey.
The ruined pile with ivied walls
To present days the past recalls.
On many a grave the sunset gleams,
Where calmly rest the sleeping dead—
Tired mortals, done with mortal dreams
In other life, whetted they have fled.
E'en now they live! Oh! if tonight
One soul might earthward take its flight,
In awful tones methinks t'would say—
"Prepare for death, oh child of clay!"
Oh, time-worn walls! full many a word
Ye echoed in the Sabbath calm;
Love, warning, blessing, oft ye heard,
And solemn prayer, and chanted psalm;
And funeral dirge, as wild and high'
Rose on the gale the caione-cry,
Borne far and wide, o'er fern and brake,
As passed the cortege o'er the lake.
And legends of the days gone by
Tell that if, when a funeral train
Passed there, dark clouds swept over the sky,
And howled the wind and sobbed the rain,
Such storm was still an omen blest,
And told the spirit's happy rest.
If all were calm—then woe the dead!
Sad rose their wailing, weird and dread!
And that before a chieftain's death,
On moonless nights, by lightning shown,
How oft they saw the water-wraith,
And heard the weeping banshee's groan.
How many a barque, at midnight toss'd
And in the angry waters lost,
In the gray dawn-light seemed to glide
In phantom-beauty o'er the tide.
But ah! the past and all its lore
Is fading from our hearts away,
And memories of the times of yore
Are all forgotten in to day!
And now, 'tis but by peasants old
These cherished legends can be told;
For Erin's harp is mute and still,
Its mystic notes no heart can thrill!
Once minstrel hearts awoke its strain,
And swept its chords with master-hand;
But who can wake these lays again
In songs of love and fatherland?
Oh! when again shall such as they
Wake passion'd song and warrior's lay?
Till Erin's vales once more resound
With harp-notes long in silence bound!
LIVINGSTONE.
At last thou art resting; thy life-work is ended—
Thy life-work so nobly and faithfully done;
And thy name, with the names of the mightiest blended,
Shall be honored and loved as the ages roll on!
Far away in the wilds, as thy life-scene closed slowly,
How thy soul must have pined for one home-voice to cheer;
But the God, ever kind, of the high and the lowly,
With blessings and strength to thy spirit was near!
How sweet to thy tired soul that glorious light breaking
In beauty untold o'er the land of the blest,
As thou heard'st, in the hour of that wond'rous awaking—
"Well done, faithful servant, now enter thy rest!"
Great Britain's Columbus—her son and our glory!
Her true hearts with love shall beat high at thy name;
Thou shalt stand 'mong the first in our country's proud
story,
And be graven with fire on the Temple of Fame!
Oh! that some minstrel soul, from the days long departed
Would awake, a meet requiem o'er thee to sing—
And tell of thy brave deeds—the high, lion-hearted—
Till the listening nations their homage would bring!
A DREAM AT SUNRISE.
Sapphire and rosy brightness in the East;
Fresh, light-winged zephyrs o'er the hilltops stray
And through the valleys roam, through glens and woods
Waking the leaves and flowers to morning life,
Seeming to tell to all—"The sun is near!"
Slow—brightening now, the rose-light deeper grown
The sapphire flames in wondrous golden maze,
And, all unrivalled, the great King of Day,
In dazzling glory, mounts his regal throne!
To me a vision down the sunbeams came,
When wrapt in wonder by the beauty-spell,
My soul, entranced, afar from earth did soar,
Unshackled, free, and drank the grandeur of the hour
Brightest and fairest hour of all the day,
When new life thrills the veins as when of old
The morning stars their high thanksgivings raised,
And all the sons of God did shout for joy!
Wondering, I cried, "Oh, Earth is very fair!
I cannot see the shadow of man's fall
On aught around me—sin has left no trace:
Oh! for a bower in such a scene as this,
Where Love and Beauty, blessed by Peace, might dwell!"
Then round me, on the light wind softly borne,
I heard the numbers of an unseen harp,
And turning, saw an angel near me stand.
He sang of earthly love, and the soft tones
Of his sweet harp were like Aeolian strains
Far breathing o'er some blissful Eden world!
And as I listened, all my holiest dreams
Of harmony, ideal, grand, and high,
Seem'd discord. Then methought I saw,
Upon the morning hills, a bower arise.
Bright flowers of wondrous hues around it bloomed,
All, all of beauty that the heart could dream
Was there; and, lov'lier far than all,
A sweet-eyed maiden, twining rose-wreaths fair!
Dark clouds arose and dimmed the glowing sky;
The lightnings flashed, and fearful thunder pealed;
And, as they shook the bower, I hid mine eyes,
Fearing to see the beauteous visions fade.
The fierce storm ceased. I raised mine eyes again,
And saw the wreck of what was once so fair;
The flowers had perished, and the maiden wept—
Then all the picture melted into air!
"This shows," the angel said, "what sin has done;
Death and decay must fall on earthly things.
See that you read God's mighty Teacher right—
The Book of Nature wide before you spread.
'Twas given for man to look on, love, and learn;
But men have eyes, and will not read its lore—
Ears, and the God-sent teachings will not hear!
Earth's glories and her brightness all must fade;
Yet, while they linger, still they say, 'Prepare.'"
"LINES ON VISITING EARLY SCENES."
Oh! well-known scenes of childhood's days,
Again ye meet my longing eyes;
And still, as memory backward strays,
A thousand tender visions rise;
Of days when youth's all potent powers
Could trace in light the coming hours,
Of dreams that withered with the flowers
That round my pathway sprung!
When fond Belief, unchill'd by Time,
Built airy castles, high and grand;
When fickle Fancy's dreams sublime
Made Earth appear a fairyland!
Yon school-house seems the same to day—
Each well-remembered turn and way
Are there—yet, ah! how far away
Are childhood's hours from me!
Still, still the same—the cherished scene,
That ever thro' the varying years,
Deep-graven on my heart has been,
In morns of joy—in nights of tears.
And oft in darksome times of pain,
When hope seem'd dead, and comfort vain,
Ye shone upon life's desert plain
A friendly light, and true.
And often when the tide of care
Beat strong against my fragile bark—
When stormy doubt loom'd everywhere,
With nought to light the gloomy dark—
The faith I knew in early days,
Ere yet I trod the world's hard ways,
Led gently through the 'wildering maze,
And whispered words of peace!
Sweet peace, amid the din and strife
And holy thoughts and calm repose;
The promise of a better life—
The joy that from believing flows!
As when amid these scenes I'd stray,
And dream through all the golden day
Of coming years, in bright array,
Till earth would seem a heaven!
The Hand that led Youth's steps aright,
The Love that blessed its careless hours—
Shall they not strengthen for the fight,
Then wreathe the Victor's brow with flowers?
Yes! and ere from these scenes I go,
I've learned what all must come to know—
Earth's wisdom is but empty show—
"The child shall teach the man!"
IDOL WORSHIP.
Idol worship in these later ages,
When the light of learning shines so clear,
Golden sayings graved on million pages—
Wisdom's voices sounding far and near.
Idol worship, subtle and deceiving,
Lives mis-spent and talents thrown away;
Grim remorse, and after years of grieving—
Skeletons that haunt us night and day.
Idols have we manifold in number—
Idols worshipped both in age and youth;
Visions that beguile life's fitful slumber,
Soul-destroying, blinding us to truth.
All unreal dreams that fade and perish,
Painted idols, rich in gilded shrines—
Airy phantoms that we blindly cherish,
Clad in borrowed tints from Fancy's mines.
All the shining, glittering, worthless splendour—
All the brilliance of the earthly toy
That we deck with careful hands and tender,
Is not gold, but dross and foul alloy.
Earth-born idols, lovely but in seeming,
Flitting round us in the moonlight hours
On Love's holy shrine we place them dreaming,
"Though all else may leave us, this is ours!"
Oh! like meteor-flashings gleaming only
Through the far-off vapours, dense and dark,
Disappearing, leaves, misled and lonely
'Mid the angry waves, the storm-beat bark.
So our earthly idols, vain, deceiving,
Come with promise fair for future years;
Fill us with false hopes, forsake us, leaving
Nought but memory's torture, gloom and tears.
Oh! may we, their many tempting scorning
From earth's sceptres lift our yearning sigh
To fadeless flowers the heavenly hills adorning
That shall be ours when we have gained the high.
Not the joy whose end is gloom and sadness—
Withering flowers that deck the earthly sod
Patience hath her crown—eternal gladness—
By the living "hid with Christ in God."
IN WINTER DAYS.
Spring, and Summer-time, and Autumn
Now are flown-
Dreamy noontides—mellow sunsets—
Balmy twilights—all are gone!
Hope's bright visions, carmine-tinted,
Where are they?
Dreams that mocked us in the sunlight
Now in Winter pass'd away.
Joy shall reign when Spring returning
Wakes the flowers
That the tender Earth has guarded
Safely thro' the Winter hours;
But the sad winds round me sighing
Seem to sing
She hath treasures in her bosom
That she cannot yield in Spring!
And I weep in yearning sadness,
Worse than vain,
For the vanished joys that Summer
Ne'er can bring to me again!
PARTED.
Slow lingering months with swifter pace move on—
Let this dark winter of my life be past;
This cloud athwart the sky of summer thrown—
Whose gloom and darkness on my heart is cast.
Parted—Death's deep, dark river rolls between;
Those talks and rambled when the day was done
And now among the things that once have been,
And I am left in sadness here alone!
Parted! Oh, me, he is for ever gone!
How hopeless now the sunset's golden ray;
How far off seem those joys we both have known,
How cheerless look the paths we used to stray!
Just when the autumn days grew short and chill,
When all its sunny hours seemed past and o'er,
And moaning winds swept wildly o'er the hill,
Like some sere leaf he fell, to rise no more.
The spring shall come, and leaves grow green again,
And vernal beauty to the earth return;
Sunshine and flowers shall deck the hill and plane,
And birds awake with song to greet the morn.
But he has flown far from our wintry sphere,
Where fadeless summer glads the spring-bright clime;
Not where the tempest clouds spread grief and fear,
But safely moored beyond the waves of time!
Mine is the weeping—his the blissful change;
Mine is the waiting—his the sighed-for peace;
Mine through these dreary, lingering years to range,
until I find a land where partings cease.
RETROSPECTIVE.
I'm free from the city's noises now,
And the city cares that bound me;
I chase their shadows off my brow,
'Mid the rural scenes around me.
And alone in the shadowy evening light,
In the deepening gloom and sadness,
I roam the paths of past delight
Of youth's wild dream of gladness.
I see the panorama vast
That to these eyes is giving
The joyous scenes of that dead past
Still in my bosom living.
I call those thoughts and memories back
That stern-faced Toil has banished,
And wander o'er the beaten track
Of happy days long vanished.
The friends of youth for whom I sigh—
The true and tender-hearted;
The happiness of days gone by,
The pleasures long departed:
I see them all again to-night,
They seem to come and linger
Like pictures traced in truest light
By Memory's artist finger.
Those happy times, to me how dear!
Well loved, yet lost for ever;
Those forms that I can fancy near,
Can they return? Ah, never!
Grim Time's dark shadow of decay
Falls on our hopes when brightest;
A cloud may dim our sky of May
When happy hearts beat lightest.
When golden sunbeams softly fall
In light on shrub and flower,
E'en then a storm to blight them all
May in the distance lour!
But still when evening's shadowy light
Steals round in gloom and sadness,
I'll feel a thrill of old delight,
Of youth's wild dream of gladness!
DUNLUCE.
In concert grand the tuneful waves
Break wildly on the foam-girt shore,
And through a thousand secret caves
The shrill wind-voices loudly roar.
Now are the harps of the Ocean waking,
'Mid the howling winds and the billows breaking!
The mermaid leaves her ocean home
To sing her love-songs, soft and tender;
The moonlight gilds the breaker's foam,
And bathes the sea in silvery splendour;
And the splashing spray on the White Rocks falling
Sounds like lonely voices of Ocean calling.
Oh, lone Dunluce! looking o'er the sea,
With tower and keep so grim and hoary,
Do the waves' wild revels recall to thee
The days of your long-departed glory—
When the wan, weird moonlight is round thee streaming,
With the stars' pale light on your gray walls beaming?
Oh, stern old relic of bygone ages!
Oh, stout old scorner of Time's rude hand!
Your name shall live in our history's pages
While a poet sings in our native land;
And your fame shall be heard in old Erin's story
When we tell of the days of her vanished glory.
Ah! many a tale not in history's keeping,
Of lordly chieftain and lady fair,
in the gloom of Oblivion now are sleeping,
And can never be told in the twilight there;
Who repose unremembered in graves unknown,
Where the storms of past ages have o'er them blown.
I can almost fancy the winds are singing
Those stories forgotten by all but thee,
And the rolling waves in their turn are bringing
Back mem'ries of olden chivalry;
Wild minstrels around thee in darkness stealing
The scenes of the long ago revealing
I hear in the distance their harp-notes swelling
In a dirge-like wail o'er the moaning sea,
And I think that their mournful strains are telling
A thousand tales of the past to me.
The echoing caves to their songs replying,
As each fitful sound on the gale is dying.
Wild minstrels of Nature, whose poet-fire
Rings out through her solitudes, wild and grand.
Let your spirit rest on my feeble lyre,
And I'll chain it there with a willing hand.
And when Night hangs her myriad star-lamps shine
Let me blend her notes with your wondrous chord.
THOUGHTS AT EVENTIDE.
"I hold it true, with one who sings
To one clear lute of divers tunes.
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things."—TENNYSON
Lo! the sunset fire is burning in the roseate sky of evening
Where grand in dying glory sinks the god of day to rest
And wide o'er the dewy meadows lie the golden lights and
shadows,
Like gleams that come to cheer us from the regions the
blest!
Slow the fiery orb is sinking down below the purple
mountains;
Still the splendour of his radiance lingers round us for a
while;
And the peaceful country bowers, and the stately run towers,
Are rejoicing in the beauty of the glad, refulgent smiles.
From the trees and from the meadows the bird-song wild and
tender,
In sweet and mingled chorus, like vesper songs, arise
With the evening zephyrs blending, on their airy wings
ascending,
Like anthems of thanksgiving they are ringing thro' the
skies.
The children's happy voices from the village playground
stealing,
With the cadence of their laughter, come floating through
the air;
And the face of Nature smiling, every thought of care
beguiling,
Soothes my restless soul to musing in the twilight calm and
fair,—
Keeps my soul in peaceful musing, 'mid the tranquil summer
gloaming,
When the cares of day are ended, and its labours all are
done;
When the Dove of Peace is stealing o'er the valleys, bringing
healing
On her white wings to the weary, with the rest that they
have won.
Here let me sit and ponder on life's long and varied story,
On the things that are, and have been, and the times that
are to be;
Of the past and of the present, of the darksome days and
pleasant,
And the future years, still hidden, that are kept in store
for me.
But, the past—should I deplore it? All my longing can't
restore it;
Still it lies beyond my reaching, to come back to me no
more;
It is right to keep and cherish, or to let its memory perish,
Like a dream to be forgotten, when the hours of sleep are
o'er?
Like a dream to be forgotten, like a phantom, a delusion
That but lured away our moments with its subtle, witching
powers,
Till it sinks our souls in sadness with the dreams of
gladness,
And the thoughts of vanished pleasures that can ne'er again
be ours.
Let me cease this idle longing for the days that have
departed,
It is worse than useless wishing for a light grown dim and
dead:
For joy so lovely seeming, when we clasp them in our
dreaming,
And know we must awaken and remember all is fled.
Let past failures be our beacon through the breakers spread
around us,
To show where danger meets us on life's rough and troubled
main—
Where earth's joys like billows meeting, on the rock's care
are beating,
And we see them dashed and shattered where they can not
rise again.
Let me wake, and cease repining; let me learn life's sternest
lesson—
Joys when born of earth are earthy, and must therefore fade
and die;
Let me feel new knowledge glowing, on my opening eye
bestowing
The experience that will lead me to a fairer, by-and-by.
'Tis our past has made our present, so our present makes our
future,
Let us work, and cease of wishing—let us do, not
dream through life;
Ever mindful, never straying, with our earnest hearts still
praying
For the guerdon of the worker, and the winner in the
strife.
LIFE.
Life is a day. In its morning bright
We frolic and scamper, free and light.
'Tis a happy path that we have to run,
The way is pleasant when new-begun.
The sky of our youth is clear and blue,
With no clouds to impede our raptured view;
There's a prize to win in its golden hours—
Let us work with zeal, and that prize is ours.
There's a laurel crown for the victor's brow,
And a time to win it—that time is now!
Now, when our hearts are young and gay,
Ere the light of our morning fades away.
It is hard to work 'neath the noon-day sun,
But the rest shall be sweet when the work is done;
It is hard to struggle and fight alone,
But the prize we win shall be all our own.
The noontide fades, and the evening grey
Overtakes us soon on our weary way;
But our day of working will soon be o'er,
And the rest is nearer us than before.
Life is a night, to watch and pray
For the coming dawn of a brighter day;
But our lamps are trimmed—we have nought to fear,
The darkness is fleeting—the dawn is near.
And now we see through a darkened glass
The shadowy scenes of the future pass;
But then, in a morn of unclouded light,
It shall break in glory upon our sight.
The Master shall come when the night is o'er,
And bid us to work and watch no more;
He shall tell His servants their work is done,
And bestow the crown they have nobly won!
A SUMMER SONG.
The summer flowers in regal bloom
Make field and garden fair,
Their fragrance in the dreamy noon
Perfumes the balmy air;
The river murmurs through the vale
Upon its sea-bound way,
And o'er the pleasant hill and dale
The birds sing blythe and gay,—
And river, flowers, and birds to me
Are ever bringing thoughts of Thee!
The woods at eve are cool and lone;
And when I linger there,
There's something in the wind's soft moan
That whispers Thou art near.
My thoughts by Fancy's chains are bound
As by a magic spell,
And strange, sweet visions wrap me round
While in the lonely dell,—
And rustling leaves and murmuring streams
To me are bringing sweetest dreams.
The sunset saddens in the West,
The stars peep through the skies;
The weary day is hush'd to rest
By gentlest zephyr sighs;
The wavelets break upon the shore.
The moon shines o'er the sea,
The sandy beech I wander o'er
Alone to dream of Thee,—
And stars, and sky, and moonlit sea,
All, all are bringing thoughts of Thee!
EVENING.
Red shines the sunset in the evening sky,
And paints the cloud-ranks in rich crimson glow,
Till every varying tint in rival splendour burns,
And earth and ocean catch the gleam, and smile
In new-born glory for a time, and then,
As the enraptured gaze absorbs the scene,
It fades, and, growing dim and dimmer, dies.
It is a glimpse from worlds unseen—a light from the
Invisible,
Foreshadowing things the brighter yet to be.
A soft wind-whisper wanders thro' the boughs,
And wakes a thousand harps in forest lands,
That all the sultry day were hushed, till now,
When the fair twilight spreads her dreamy spell:
They wake to melody so softly sweet that one might think
An angel's wing had stirr'd the varied leaves.
And swept the woodlands with ethereal song.
Now the great sea, with all its restless waves,
Seems calmer grown, as forth the stars appear,
And smile upon us from the silent skies,
Where nightly, looking down the azure depths,
Like guardian angels o'er a sinning world,
In their grand, silent eloquence, they show
The marvels of their great Creator's power.
This is the time when dreams will come, and bring
Days which have fled, and we would fain recall.
A shadow thrown across the moonlit walk—
A breeze that, sighing, lifts the woodbine leaves, and strays
In through the open lattice, may restore
The scenes that long in memory have slept.
Ah, me! stern Time can take out youth away—
Whiten our hair and mark our brows with age;
But Memory, kind Memory, that holds the past,
He cannot claim. Remembrance still is ours,
And we may grasp her magic wand and touch
The secret spring that hides our bygone years.
The murmur of a brook that flowing glides
Between its violet banks, can call a sigh
From that far time when we could roam at eve.
To hear the birds that sang the sunset down,
With wild, glad vesper-songs by Nature taught.
The earnest face and tender eyes, that beamed
With a whole world of deep, undying love,
Rises again before my tear-dimm'd sight.
Then came a time when, with slow steps, and voices low and
sad,
They laid her down to rest. Then life grew dark,
And all that I had left on earth to love
Was but a grave, beneath the churchyard trees,
Where I could sit for dreary hours and weep.
Years fly apace. The wildest grief grows calm—
As storm-clouds lowering in the noonday sky,
Seem darkest when they hang above our heads—
So we most feel the stroke of sorrow when it falls;
But Hope draws near, and, pointing to the Future, whispers-
"Wait:"
Yes, wait awhile; and for a few short years
Struggle, and fight, and bear the burden well.
The sun that sank below the purple hills,
Leaving the earth to darkness and to night,
Shall bring new glory to the morning sky.
Death's night of gloom shall have its morn of bliss,
And we shall find within the golden gates
Our flowers that withered, in eternal bloom!
TO "W. C. T."
Oh, sad one, who wails for thy love that is slighted
Left lone and forsaken, all joy fled away;
Thy day-dream of beauty o'ershadowed and blighted,
Thy sky once so rosy now clouded and gray.
Thine idol was earthly, and earth-like must perish;
The casket was doubtlessly faultless and fair;
But 'tis only the soul-gem the poet can cherish,
And blend with, his dreamings in gladness or care.
The glory that shone like the East in the morning
On the radiant ideal was sweet to behold;
But, alas! 'twas thy fancy had wrought its adorning,
And without it the real is worthless and cold.
And the poet's high soul ever craves for that beauty
That must be arrayed in the white robe of Truth;
The Love, Heaven-born, that walks hand-clasped with Duty,
That thro' life's changing years keeps the heart in its
youth.
Then shall Truth at the shrine of the False linger pining
No! Nature rebels, and Hope whispers, Arise!
There are regions unknown in the glad sunlight shining—
In the paths of thy calling where happiness lies!
Oh, linger not weeping, in gloom and in sadness,
The days that are coming thy healing shall bring;
And a love, brighter far, horn of Truth and of Gladness,
Shall Phoenix-like up from the dead ashes spring!
SUMMER LONGINGS.
There's a sound of woe in the forest lands,
A wailing sigh in the wild wind's breath;
The woods are waving their naked hands
As they mourn fair Summer's death.
Through the leafless groves in the twilight hours
Come gusts of music that sink and swell,
And I cry, "Come back, with your light and flowers,
Fair Queen of the year that I love so well!"
Come back to gladden the earth again,
For the woods are grim in their winter woe,
There's a dreary look on the lonely plain,
And the hills and mountains are crowned with snow.
And I fancy I hear from the distant hills
A blast of wind sweeping o'er the lea,
From the gray old hawthorns and foam-clad rills,
To tell a word of their woe to me.
Oh, Summer so lovely, lost and dead,
I miss your sunshine and balmy hours,
And blissful calms, when the noontide shed
Its dreamy radiance on fields and flowers!
I miss your bird-songs that called me up
To welcome the blush of the golden morn,
When the dew-pearls gleamed in the harebell's cup,
And the lark soared high o'er the fields of corn.
I miss the hush of the quiet eves,
When the gloaming stole through the silent wood,
And the low-toned zephyrs that stirred the leaves
Were like elfin harps in the solitude.
Oh! Spring, return with your tender buds,
And thousand splendours to deck the earth;
Come back and reign in the grand old woods,
And Winter shall fly at your welcome birth.
Come back, and wide o'er the hills and vales,
The birds your welcome in glee shall sing;
And their songs shall float on the gentle gales
Till the earth in gladness and joy shall ring!
MY TREASURES.
Yes, I have treasures—not of gold or silver,
Yet they are hoarded with a miser's care;
Cherished and loved more tenderly and fondly
Than purest gems, or jewels rich and rare.
Only a scrap of paper, old and faded,
Only some withered rose-leaves, sere and dry;
And one long tress of hair, all bright and golden,
Dear relics of the happy days gone by.
Well I remember that long, dreamy summer,
With all its sunshine and its cloudless days;
The pleasant rambles through the lanes at even,
When earth was glowing in the sunset rays.
And when the Autumn, in his mellow splendour,
Clothed field and forest in autumnal dyes,
'Twas sweet to wander in the still, weird twilight,
And watch the moon ascend the eastern skies.
Oh! blissful hours! ah, vows so softly spoken,
Ye held a subtle witchery for me;
I dreamed a heart of love and trust unbroken
Was mine—and mine alone—through time to be.
Alas! not mine that blossom that I cherished,
And hoped would bloom through all the coming years;
Death's chill hand fell upon it, and it perished,
And left with me but memory and tears!
Oh, woods! though Autumn left you bare and leafless,
Spring has returned, and brought you life and mirth;
But the dead dream of youth's bright golden morning
Of love and beauty, can it wake to birth?
It cannot be; the times that have departed,
The days of gladness, can return no more;
And I am lonely left and broken-hearted,
Like some sad exile on a foreign shore,—
Who, gazing backwards, through the years can picture
A time when love and friendship were his own;
Then turning to the present, lone and cheerless,
Finds all his happiness in life is gone.
So, now, life's evening shadows, grim and dreary,
In deepest gloom, are round my pathway shed;
The beams of hope are growing dim and weary,
And all that once was bright is cold and dead!
Oh, long-lost love! the gloomy years are fleeting,
Through life's dark dream they ever hurry fast;
Great waves upon the brink of Time they're meeting,
And, mingling, rush to form the shadowy Past!
THE GIFTED.
Say, are the gifted born the sons of woe—
The favoured ones on whom kind Heaven hath smiled,
And dowered so richly with its priceless store;
The lords of earth, the monarchs of the soil—
Men who are bless'd with minds that angels have:
Are these to bear the jibe of vulgar tongues,
To feel the taunts fell Envy madly hurls,
Or brook the scorn gaunt Jealousy may show?
To them such things are but the angry blast
That mars the bosom of the placid lake,
Which smiles in dimpling ripples at its wrath!
They have their "world of flower, and song, and gem,"
The land of beauty where the poet dwells—
His green Parnassus where the muses reign:
Not hidden nor unseen; oh! look abroad,
And tell me if thine eye no beauty sees.
The solemn grandeur of the Autumn woods,
Bright-crimsoned with the dying Summer's blood;
The mountains in their hoary splendour drest,
The valleys with their fields of golden grain,
The glens deep hidden, where a thousand flowers
In modest beauty shun the noontide glare;
The wild-birds' song, the murmur of the streams
That through their heathery banks of fragrance glide.
All these are theirs—their solace, their delight;
Each with its charm of mystic beauty fraught;
The gleams that pierce the clouds of common life,
And let the light of Heaven's own sunshine in!
They have their dreams in twilight's shadowy hour,
When they can strike their golden lyre, and feel
The holy joy the poet calls his own.
And the soft breeze that sings among the boughs
In numbers like the famed Æolian harp
Seems blending with its tones, till earthly cares
Melt, as beneath the syren's spell, and die!
Thus lightly o'er the waves his bark goes on,
Hope for a beacon shining bright above.
While firmly at the helm stands fair Content
To steer him safely till he reach the shore.
And then, when Death's grim portals open wide,
And he has reached the Land he dreamed and sung,
Oh! bliss to wander o'er the streets of gold,
His harp-notes mingling with the choirs of Heaven!
His hopes all realized, "faith lost in sight"—
His life a poem which God Himself hath read!
MORNING.
The gladsome Morning looked across the hills,
Clad in his richly tinted robes; the opal dawn,
Faint blushing in the East, grew clear and brighter,
Till the resplendent sunrise decked the sky.
It shone upon the woods—the birds awoke
To chant their welcome to the god of day.
It shone upon the meadows, and the flowers
Ope'd their eyes, where the bright dew-tears glistened
As they had wept thro' the long hours of night,
Heedless of how the star-beams smiled and played;
And the pale, tender moon, with pitying ray,
Looked down upon their lowly, drooping heads,
Now lifted gladly to the morning light,
Till the warm sunshine kissed their tears away.
And clouds of fragrance from their beds arose,
That amorous zephyrs, as they wandered by,
Wafted, like sweetest incense, to the sky!
It shone upon the rivers, as they flowed
Through fertile meadow-lands, so rich in loveliness;
Sweet streams, that, rippling on in restful song,
Took up a tone more joyous in that hour;
And whispering leaves, and birds that, far and near,
From grove and hedgerow, warbling clear and sweet
In blending music, trembled in the air—
Like matin hymns, that on Creation's wings
Were upwards borne to the Creator's Throne!
ANOTHER YEAR.
Another year has well nigh passed,
With all its smiles and tears,
And joys and sorrows that are cast
In Time's great stream, whose waters vast
Roll to the ocean of the Past,
Bearing our hopes and fears,
Where 'neath its waves they mingle fast
With all our vanished years.
Another year! a span of Time,
That tells of lifework done;
A book, some pages dark with crime—
Some grand, and holy, and sublime;
A trumpet, telling every clime
Of battles lost and won:
A knell of woe—a joy-bell's chime,
Hope dead, and bliss begun!
Another year! In Spring's sweet hours
What blissful thoughts we knew!
What hopes, that came with opening flowers,
What visions, nurse in spring-wreathed bowers,
When Fancy lent her magic powers
To trace in brilliant hue
Castles of air, and dream-built towers
Too soon to fade from view!
Another year! and I can trace
Footprints o'er Summer's way,
But turn to find a vacant place,
Where once I met a cherished face,
And well-loved form of youth and grace,
Now pass'd from earth away—
This year the goal of one bright race,
The close of one fair day.
Autumn is dead. The year is old,
The dull November days are chill;
The bare woods dreary to behold;
The northern blast blows keen and cold,
Far sighing over waste and world,
O'er wintry vale and hill;
And in its moan are requiems told
For true hearts dead and still!
So must it be. Each passing year
Still bears some joy away;
Some darling treasure, held too dear,
In trembling bliss, in hope and fear,
Which we would fancy safe and near,
Departs, and seems to say—
"We have no lasting city here,
Earth's life is but a day!"
But Christmas, coming round again,
Shall bring his wonted cheer;
And Pleasure, in his jovial train,
With rosy mirth and glee shall reign,
To chase these thoughts of gloom and pain
That haunt the dying year;
And grief-parched lips the cup shall drain
Of "Peace and good-will here!"
WITH A SHAMROCK.
Here, in these triple leaves, oh! read from me,
What I, for thee, have dreamed their mystic spell,
Faith, Hope and Love, joined hand in hand, I see,
And this the message that they seem to tell:—
Love, for the present, and the time to he,
Faith, that its might and truth can never die;
Hope, that beyond the future clouds and mystery
Points to a smiling scene, and cloudless sky.
"WAITING FOR THE MAY,"
"Ah! my heart is weary waiting, waiting for the May!"
Old thoughts come back from the old time,
Where, at even, the sunset light
Gilds wood and world, ere the glory dies,
And darkness gathers along the skies
And the world is left in night.
Old songs float round in the gloaming,
Sweet fragments that come and go;
They are echoes, I know, from the olden times,
Holy, as music vesper chimes,
In the days of "Long Ago!"
And faces shine in the firelight;
And laughter rings through the rooms;
And memories of bygone springtime eves
Come back to my lone heart that aches and grieves
In the chill of life's winter glooms,
Then, the May of love that I longed-for
Was hid in the future haze;
I dreamed it a land of joy unknown,
Where bliss and beauty would be my own
Through the length of life's fair days.
So in hope for the May I waited
As gay as the joyous hours
That sped so fast, on their lightsome wings
Thro' flowers, and sunlight, and glorious things
That lived in youth's fairy bowers;
But the hopes I nursed in that springtime—
Ah! me, but those times were bright!
Are withered now, and no fruit I see,
Though the blossoms were fair on every tree
In the glow of their promise-light!
Yet, when by the grave where I buried
Those hopes, I stand and weep,
I hear Faith say, as the storm-winds blow,—
"If in patience, and sorrow, and tears ye sow,
The guerdon of joy ye shall reap!"