drear;
It seems as though the autumn blast
Had left its impress there.
As memory, backward, wends its way,
Unfolding to my gaze
Those joyful hours of “Auld Lang Syne,”
Those lights of by-gone days.
I’m musing on the past, when I
In childhood’s thoughtless play,
Reveled in gladness, joy and mirth,
Nor deemed one saddening ray
Should ever cloud my gladsome heart,
Or cause deep sorrow’s moan—
Ne’er dreaming of the time, alas!
When I’d be quite alone.
I’ve listened to the morning’s song
Of nature’s feathered gems,
Long ere Aurora’s roseate hue
Illumined Orient’s realms,
And as their carols wafted high
On balmy zephyrs borne,
’Tis then I muse, and sadly feel,
That I am quite alone.
I’ve never heard the ocean’s roar,
Or felt its quivering thrill;
Nor, on stern Neptune’s bosom been,
When all was calm and still—
But o’er my heart, at times, there are
Such stormy billows borne,
That then I sadly, truly feel,
That I am quite alone.
Song to Erin
Oh! Erin my country, my ancestor’s home!
Impelled by my wants, I, from thee, had to roam;
And now my heart yearneth, sore longeth for thee
My dear native Ireland, my “gem of the sea.”
Oh! Erin my country, thou land of the brave!
Who’ll rescue from tyr’ny, who’ll ransom and save?
Thy despots so strong, are still wielding their power,
To bind thee in slavery both now and forever.
Speak! speak! who will rescue our Emerald Isle?
Now bowed by the oppressor in servitude vile!
Her sons are all scattered, her daughters are gone,
And she is left desolate, forlorn and alone.
I’ll sigh for thee Erin, when spring winds doth fan,
With musical breathings, this far distant land;
’Twill remind me of youth’s happy days on thy shore—
Of days, mournful thought, I shall never see more.
I’ll weep for thee Erin, as the blue waters surge,
Shall re-echo my wailing, shall chant the sad dirge;
Of Ireland in slavery, once land of the free;
Of Ireland, my country, my “gem of the sea.”
The Valentine
Lady with thine eyes of beauty
Rivaling cerulean flowers,
Where the love-beams seem to linger,
Throughout youth’s bright, sunny hours.
With thy smile of witching sweetness
Like the magnet’s mystic art,
Charming oft enchanting oft’ner,
Drawing to thee every heart.
But, fair lady, I’ll no longer
Linger thus o’er nature’s mould,
’Tis thy spirit’s beauty charms me,
More than mines of Peru’s gold.
Like an exile who hath wandered
Far from kindred and from home,
Pants and longs once more to greet them,
Never more on earth to roam;—
Like the tempest-tossed, the weary,
Who of earth ne’er had their part,
Fain would land their stricken spirits
Where heart answers unto heart;—
So this bosom when overflowing
With some latent, deadly grief,
Loves to revel in the music
Of thy voice to find relief.
And when joys do hover ’round me,
Weaving chaplets rich and bright,
I’d away from pleasures turn me
To my beautiful “Starlight.”
Lady! could I seal thy future,
All of bliss and love ’twould be;
And when time with us is ended,
Spend eternity with thee.
Lines to Florence
I am sitting sad and lonely
Where I’ve often sat before,
And I am musing, fondly musing
Of my Florence who pass’d o’er.
Pass’d into the realms supernal,
Far ’bove cloud-lands lofty height;
Yonder ’mid the fields Elysian,
Dwells my “Flor” ’mong saints of light.
’Twas when autumn leaves were falling,
’Twas when harvest days had come,
That, King Death, the mighty reaper,
Came to take my darling home.
When the winds were softly sighing,
Zephyrs breathing low and deep,
Lulled to rest by such sweet music,
My bright treasure fell asleep.
Closely clasped to mother’s bosom
On the well-nigh bursting breast,
Lay the early stricken floweret,
Lay the heart so near its rest.
And those little eyes upturning,
Brimful with their wealth of love,
Mutely, though with earnest language,
Said, I’m hastening up above.
Well, ere long, they said my darling
Had this earth exchanged for heaven—
She had upward spread her pinions,
Leaving hearts with anguish riven.
Yes; the autumn’s wind so plaintive,
With its music soft and deep,
Woo’d my birdie from my bosom,
And she sweetly fell asleep.
But when time with me is over,
When my fleeting years have passed,
Oh! I trust once more to greet her,
And this parting be the last;
So, till then I wait expectant—
I, the Master’s time doth “bide”—
But to me the hour is precious,
That my little Florence died.
“By the Waters of Babylon”
By the Rivers of Babylon we mournfully bent,
With “harps on the willows” and vesture all rent,
For burdened by sorrow and saddened by pain,
We felt that we no more could strike them again.
This, this is a strange land, we will not then sing
One song of our Zion, the home of our King,
No rather let right hand its cunning forget,
Than we to our loved home as recreants act.
O! City of God, though as captives we go,
Jerusalem’s weal we’ll never forego,
O! soon may the exiles of Israel return,
To sing Zion’s songs in their own holy land.
The Pen
Mightier than the sword thou art,
Thou can’st pierce like venomed dart,
Time and space count naught with thee,
Leagues of land or leagues of sea.
Thou can’st waves of passion calm,
Griefs assuage like Gilead’s balm,
Bring sweet pleasure to the eye,
Give sweet gladness for the sigh.
When thy little point is prest,
Oft it wounds some gentle breast,
Filling chalice to the brim,
Darkening life with sorrows grim.
Learnéd sage in days gone by,
Scanned thee with prophetic eye,
Said to myriads then unborn
Thou would’st rule on many a throne.
Swords may stab with savage ire,
Glistening out like rays of fire,
They can ne’er thy power attain,
O’er the sea or o’er the main.
Mightier than the sword art thou,
Lo! on many a regal brow
Furrows which thy point has wrought,
Troubles which thy work has brought.
Mightier than the sword art thou,
List! a maid records her vow,
That so long as life shall last,
Ne’er a doubt shall love o’ercast.
Naught of bliss or naught of woe,
But thou can’st on man bestow,
With thy tiny pointed prow,
Mightier than the sword art thou.
Passing of the Old Year
Ah! the year is slowly dying,
And the wind in tree-top sighing,
Chant his requiem.
Thick and fast the leaves are falling,
High in
