194

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

“ Is it where the feather-palm trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or midst the green islands of glittering sea,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?”
- Not there, not there, my child !”

“ Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ?-
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand,--
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ?"
“ Not there, not there, my child!"

“ Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-
Sorrow and death may not enter there ;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
--It is there, it is there, my child !"

DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow,
And dash'd it out. There was a tint of rose
On cheek and lip;-he touched the veins with ice,
And the rose faded, ---forth from those blue eyes.

There spake a wishful tenderness,-a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which Innocence
Above can wear.

--With ruthless haste he bound
The silken fringes of their curtaining lids.

For ever, there had been a murturing sound
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,

TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND.

195

Charming her even to tears.—The spoiler set
His seal of silence.--But there beamed a smile

So fix'd and holy from that marble brow,-
Death gazed and left it there ;-he dared not steal
The signet-ring of Heaven.

TO THE MEMORY OF A FIREND AND

RELATIVE.

“ Blessed are the pure in heart, forthey shall see God."

We miss thy voice while early flowers are blowing,

And the first dush of blossom clothes each bough,
And the spring sunshine round our home is glowing,

Soft as thy smile—thou wouldst be with us now!
With us !--we wrong thee by the earthly thought

Could our food gaze but follow where thou art,
Well might the glories of this world seem nought

To the one promise given the pure in heart.
Yet wert thou blest e'en herem-oh! ever blest

In thine own sunny thoughts and tranquil faith;
The silent joy that still o'erflowed thy breast,

Needed but guarding from all change, by death.
So is it sealed to peace !-on thy clear brow

Never was care one fteeting shade to cast,
And thy calm days in the brightness were to flow,

A boly stream, untroubled to the last !
Farewell! thy life hath left surviving love

A wealth of records and sweet · feelings given,'
From sorrow's heart the faintness to remove,

By whispers breathing • less of earth than heaven.'

196

THE WAKENING.

Thus rests thy spirit still on those with whom

Thy step the paths of joyous duty trod,
Bidding them make an altar of thy tomb,

Where chastened thought may offer praise to God!

THE WAKENING.

«While day arises, that sweet hour of prime."

How
many

thousands are awakening now !
Some to the songs of the forest bough,
To the rustling leaves at the lattice fane,
To the shining fall of the latter rain.

And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee,
As they break into spray on the tall ship's side,
That holds through the tumult her path of pride.

And some-oh! well may their hearts rejoice,
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice ;
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone.

And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath,
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath,
And the sudden roar of the hostile

gun,
Which tells that a field must e'er night be won.

a

And some in the gloomy convict cell,
To the dull deep

note of the warning bell,
As it heavily calls them forth to die,
While the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky.

And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
And some to the sounds from the city borne ;
And some to the rolling of torrent floods,
Far 'midst old mountains, and solemn woods.

THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.

197

So are we roused on this chequer'd earth,
Each unto life hath a daily birth,
Tho' fearful or joyful, though sad or sweet,
Be the voices which first our upspringing meet.

But ONE must the sound be, and One the call,
Which from the dust shall awake us all!
One tho' to sever'd and distant dooms-
How shall the sleepers arise from their tombs ?

THE GRAVE OF A POETESS. *

“Ne me plaignez pas--si vous sayiez combien de peines ce tombeaux m'a epargnees!”

I STOOD beside thy lonely grave;

Spring odours breathed around,
And music in the river-wave

Pass'd with a lulling sound.

All happy things that love the sun

In the bright air glanced by,
And a glad murmur seemed to run

Through the soft azure sky.

Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough

That fringed the ruins near ;
Young voices were abroad-but thou

Their sweetness couldst not hear.

« Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one of many in the church-yard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey, that have been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shade over it. It is the very spot for the grave of a poetess."

Tales by the O'Hara family. 198

THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.

And mournful grew my heart for thee

Thou in whose woman's mind
The ray that brightens earth and sea,

The light of song was shrined.

Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low,

With a dread curtain drawn
Between thee and the golden glow

Of this world's vernal dawn !

Parted from all the song and bloom

Thou wouldst have loved so well,
To thee the sunshine round thy tomb

Was but a broken spell.

The bird, the insect on the wing,

In their bright reckless play,
Might feel the flush and light of Spring,

And thou wert passed away!

-But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought

O'er my vain sadness came;
Th' immortal spirit woke and wrought

ling frame.

Within my

Surely on lovelier things, I said,

Thou must have looked ere now, Than all that round our pathway shed

Odours and hues below!

The shadows of the tomb are here,

Yet beautiful is Earth !
What seest thou then where no dim fear,

No haunting dream hath birth?