'O MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE' O mother of a mighty race, Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! And taunts of scorn they join thy name. For on thy cheeks the glow is spread Is bright as thine own sunny sky. Aye, let them rail-those haughty ones, Its life between thee and the foe. They know not, in their hate and pride, Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen; What cordial welcomes greet the guest And where the ocean-border foams. IO 20 30 There's freedom at thy gates, and rest For the starved labourer toil and bread. O fair young mother! on thy brow Drop strength and riches at thy feet. Thine eye, with every coming hour, Would brand thy name with words of scorn, Upon their lips the taunt shall die. 40 48 THE LAND OF DREAMS A MIGHTY realm is the Land of Dreams, But over its shadowy border flow Sweet rays from the world of endless morn, And the nearer mountains catch the glow, And flowers in the nearer fields are born. The souls of the happy dead repair, 9 From their bowers of light, to that bordering land, And walk in the fainter glory there, With the souls of the living hand in hand. One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere, Far off from those hills that shine with day, To dimmer mountains and darker vales. There lie the chambers of guilty delight, Dear maid, in thy girlhood's opening flower, Thine eyes are closed, and over thy brow Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams, Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet! So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams, 20 30 40 THE BURIAL OF LOVE Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day, With calm sad brows and raven hair, Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblown, Close softly, fondly, while ye weep, And make his grave where violets hide, Of cloudless skies and summer sing. Place near him, as ye lay him low, His waggish eyes in sport he wound. But we shall mourn him long, and miss The patter of his little feet, Sweet frowns and stammer'd phrases sweet; And graver looks, serene and high, Shall ache and ache-and tears will start. The bow, the band shall fall to dust, ΤΟ 20 30 Not thus his nobler part shall dwell, But he whom now we hide from men Shall break these clods, a form of light. Highest and nearest God's right hand. 40 'THE MAY-SUN SHEDS AN AMBER LIGHT' THE May-sun sheds an amber light On new-leaved woods and lawns between ; But she who, with a smile more bright, Welcomed and watched the springing green, Is in her grave, Low in her grave. The fair white blossoms of the wood Low in her grave. Upon the woodland's morning airs The small birds' mingled notes are flung; But she, whose voice, more sweet than theirs, Once bade me listen, while they sung, Is in her grave, Low in her grave. That music of the early year Brings tears of anguish to my eyes; My heart aches when the flowers appear; For then I think of her who lies Within her grave, Low in her grave. ΤΟ 80 |