He had a winning softness when he would;
Yet sometimes he was like the shower that sheds
Apparent wrath while it produces good:
And bends young buds to bid them raise their heads,
That with more profit they may hail the sun;
And some were even by his harshness won,
Because they knew 'twas kindly meant, and kept
But as a spell to waken those who slept.
Greatly he trod the earth, and men would bow,
The high and lowly, with respect to him;
Though many a furrow deeply marked his brow,
Though his once penetrating eye was dim,
And though the weight of age had bent the form
Which for twice forty years had stood the storm
That, bearing many a goodly one to earth,
Had left him—as if conscious of his worth.
He was the friend of all who knew him—all—
A kindly fountain, with perpetual flow;
And well he knew, and much he loved, to call
The feelings forth, that give a brighter glow
To things of earth; he felt the poet's fire:
Albeit his fingers never touch'd the lyre;
His was true inspiration, for his mind
Had ranged from God to nature, unconfined.
But, must we say that he no longer lives?
And, as the painter when his sketch he views—
Outlined from Nature—pauses, ere he gives
The last touch of his pencil, lest he lose
The character of what he copies;—here
We feel how bare our picture must appear,
Wanting the finish that to all should tell
How, having lived in honour, he died well.
AILEEN MAVOURNEEN.
He tells me he loves me, and can I believe,
The heart he has won, he can wish to deceive?
For ever and always, his sweet words to me,
Are Aileen, mavourneen, a cuishla machree!
Last night, when we parted, his gentle good bye,
A thousand times said, and each time with a sigh,
And still the same sweet words he whisper'd to me,
Are Aileen, mavourneen, a cuishla machree.
The friend of my childhood, the hope of my youth,
Whose heart is all pure, and whose words are all truth,
Oh! sweet are the sweet words he whispers to me,
My Aileen, mavourneen, a cuishla machree.
Oh! when will the day come, the dear happy day,
That a maiden may hear all a lover can say,
And he speaks out the words he now whispers to me,
My Aileen, mavourneen, a cuishla machree!
THE MOTHER TRIED.
"Oh! blessed be my baby boy!"
Thus spake a mother to her child,
And kiss'd him with excess of joy,
Then look'd into his face and smiled.
But, as the mother breathed his name—
The fervent prayer was scarcely said—
Convulsions shook the fragile frame,
The mother's only babe was dead.
Yet still her faith in Him she kept—
In Him who turned to grief her joy;
And still she murmur'd as she wept,
"Oh! blessed is my baby boy!"
WORDS FROM THE IRISH.
Oh! have you seen my Norah Fay?
She's left me all the sad long day,
Alone to sing a weary lay!
Go thene my avourneen slane ariste.
You'll know her by her raven hair,
Her dark blue eye, her forehead fair,
Her step and laugh that banish care;
Go thene my avourneen slane ariste.
In form you may her semblance find,
But none like her of womankind,
If you can see her heart and mind;
Go thene my avourneen slane ariste.
Oh! bring me to my Norah Fay,
For hours are days when she's away
The sun looks dark and sweet birds say,
Go thene my avourneen slane ariste.
