LETTER FROM HOME," AT MIDNIGHT, IN A STREET IN DUBLIN. LAINTIVE voice, untimely swelling, Thro' the solemn, quiet night, Öld, forgotten stories telling, On a doorstep sits a woman, "Write a letter"-thus she singeth- While her mem'ry backward wingeth Take thee home at last in mercy, WITHERED FLOWERS. 'H! do not slight those withered flowers, Or cast them coldly thus away, They blossomed once in sunny bowers, None were more fragrant, fresh, and gay; But now, with all their beauty past, With all their morning freshness fled, Forth by a careless hand they're cast To mingle with the common dead. No more a gay parterre they grace, Seek we in vain to find a trace Of all the loveliness once there; Nor cast them forth thus carelessly A POET'S VISIT. "Some have entertained angels unawares.' OF F old, when angels walked this earth, With meek-eyed brows and lowly, Men knew not of their lofty birth, Save by their converse holy. All unawares the strangers came, Within the loving-hearted. C A Poet's Visit. Dull eyes that could not see aright But some there were who veiled their brows, So in our day when Poets come, No common earth henceforth it seems Oh! Poet friend, no bays have I, And still thy gentle eyes shall shine 33 MUSING. WHEN I am gone, will any tears be shed? And moan for one who slumbers with the dead, And say that true repentance, pardon wins? Will there be dearth of wailing when these eyes Will any breast receive my latest sighs, And soothe with whispered words my soul's affright? Who will be with me in that awful hour, When o'er my head Death's dark clouds grimly lower? Will all the faces that now brightly glow Upon the canvass of my fancy be Far, far away, when fitfully and slow, This breath comes faintly, panting to be free? Will angels' eyes from out the darkness shine, To pour one ray of rapture into mine? Oh! I would wish to die with those I love Will he not spring to meet me as of old— Does not God give us back the lost in Heaven, Will not his spirit-arms my form enfold, E'en when this earthly bond is snapt and riven? Oh! when the Eternal Day bursts on my soul, Past, present, future, I will know the whole! Musing. Yes, I will know the whole, will understand No agonizing doubts, no maddening fears, No shame, no death, my spirit pants and burns, 35 Yet, must I leave them? Should God call me first, I see them round the fireside's ruddy glow, My hand thro' shining tresses once more strays, Around each rosy mouth, while laughter low What is fate weaving for them in her loom? The youngest born are they, those three bright girls, To live is but to suffer. Hope's bright wings Or disappointment, with its baleful breath, |