She held me up her little child, I kissed it o'er and o'er ; Her husband! oh! to have mated her to such a soulless clod; Dull head, cold heart-his cherished gold his idol and his god He saw her droop from day to day, he heard her silent cry, Yet missed no colour from her cheek, no radiance from her eye. He saw, yet did not see her life was made for better things; He chained the wild bird to a perch, and clipped its once free wings; He blighted by neglect's cold frost that young impulsive heart, And heeded not the tears that oft from hidden founts would start. Oh shame! to make a household drudge of that rich gifted soul, And all her aspirations high to deaden and control, To hug the moloch of his heart, to kneel a prostrate slave, To the fearful thing that even then was digging deep her grave. Years passed, at length her spirit broke its chains and soared away; Her heart awoke, her wild harp poured in words its thrilling lay, And she who 'mid a toilsome life of labour panted long of Song. Her pen was fire, and forth there rushed her nature's lambent flame; Gold was the guerdon of her toil, and then-Oh sin! Oh shame! Mary's Story. 27 He schemed to sell her soul for greed-to barter even her brain Nothing to him her glorious gift-'twas but a road to gain. He spurred the steed, and would not see that silently and fast The lamp of life was fading out, the goal was reached at last; He gave no respite to her toil, no charm to bid hope stay, Till with each paen of her heart a string was torn away. O Mary! when they led me in to see your dear dead face, O Mary! when I saw you laid down in this quiet place, 'Twas joy, not grief, that thrilled my heart, that dimmed with tears these eyes, For I knew your freed soul had escaped to the freedom of the skies. She withered in her glorious prime; and now my tale is told: He went back to his idols foul, he hugged his blood-stained gold; But oft at evening's hour I come, and sit beside this grave, To mourn the life I saw decay, but was too weak to save. Born for a brighter, happier lot, born for a better fate, Quench not the soul, guard faithfully the bright God-given thing; Bind no rude fetters on its feet, no shackles on its wing : Nourish with Love's celestial food that soul's immortal fire, And touch with reverent hand the strings of such a tuneful lyre. BALLINGLEN, CO. MAYO. O those who read aright, what wondrous things Fair scene, by thee I'd linger! let me stand, And Poësy, lend thou thy 'witching pen, And with thy glowing colours gild the scene; Recall to me this beauty-haunted glen, And one sweet spot, the fairest there I ween. A spot whereon to lie 'mid sunny noon, And dream away the silver-footed hours; Listening the fountain's never-failing tune, Breathing the balmy breaths of scented flowers. A spot where fairies might disport themselves, Is it a dream, or see I now the elves Before me, to their revels blithely pass? Here, with my favourite Shakespeare I'd recline, Here, where some tasteful hand has form'd this nook ; Fair women-faces then, with eyes divine, Will light for me the pages of my book. Here will sweet Juliet share awhile with me, Her world wept woe, her sad ill-fated choice And thro' yon bow'ry screen perchance I'll see Young Romeo steal, and hear his whispered voice. By the Sea. Miranda will draw nigh, and Rosalind, And she of whom sweet memories endure, I'll carve her name deep on this mossy rind, "The gentle Lady married to the Moor." With other shapes, brave heroes, noble kings, 29 J BY THE SEA. STAND and look into thine eyes, I see the soul within them rise, I hear the sad song of the sea, I tread with thee the snowy strand, I gaze across the heaving main, With many a longing, wild and vain ; Oh! friend thou knowest what none may know, The lamp of hope burned in my soul; How beautiful the scene, how bright, Leave me not ever, O my friend ! The bond that binds us shall be broken, I will not meet thy pitying eyes. Yet will I hope that otherwhere, |