LETTER FROM HOME," AT MIDNIGHT, IN A STREET

IN DUBLIN.

LAINTIVE voice, untimely swelling,

Thro' the solemn, quiet night,

Öld, forgotten stories telling,
Filling me with strange delight;
What a picture hast thou bidden
Rise before my aching sight!

On a doorstep sits a woman,
All her shivering bosom bare,
And a face most sadly human,
Hid 'neath screen of falling hair;
Slowly, softly she is crooning
To the midnight her despair.

"Write a letter"-thus she singeth-
"Write a letter unto me,"

While her mem'ry backward wingeth
To the home she ne'er shall see;
Lonely singer, homeless singer,
May the good God pity thee!

Take thee home at last in mercy,
Where thy wandering shall be o'er,
To the house where welcome waits thee,
Not, as now, with cold closed door,
Where, adoring, thou shalt banquet,
Never knowing hunger more.

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,
Or nestle in a bosom fair,

Seek we in vain to find a trace

Of all the loveliness once there;
Yet, oh! tho' spoil'd and crush'd they be,
Yet keep them for their beauty fled,

Nor cast them forth thus carelessly
To mingle with the common dead.

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,
And unawares departed,
But left behind a living flame

Within the loving-hearted.

C

A Poet's Visit.

Dull eyes that could not see aright
As common clay esteemed them,
And unabash'd approached the light,
Nor worshipped as beseemed them.

But some there were who veiled their brows,
And spake not for deep gladness,
Till the celestial voice might rouse
Their souls to happy madness.

So in our day when Poets come,
In guise of man or woman,
The faithful welcome to their home,
The Heavenly with the Human.

No common earth henceforth it seems
By their stray feet passed over,
But shrines to waken blissful dreams,
And tender thoughts discover.

Oh! Poet friend, no bays have I,
And yet I fain would crown thee;
I bless the place thou hast pass'd by,
And bless the home hath known thee.

And still thy gentle eyes shall shine
From out the gloom surrounding,
To light this darken'd soul of mine,
And set this sad heart bounding.

33

MUSING.

WHEN I am gone, will any tears be shed?
Will any come to look upon my grave,

And moan for one who slumbers with the dead,
Above whose dreamless sleep long grasses wave?
Will they talk tenderly of all my sins,

And say that true repentance, pardon wins?

Will there be dearth of wailing when these eyes
Are closing up for ever from the light?

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
Kneeling in tearful sadness by my bed,
Yet no, the struggle might my peace remove—
Shall hope abide though reason may have fled?
Will not one wait me on the silent shore,
Whose face on earth I never may see more?

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
Why here the cheek is stained with bitter tears;
There is no weeping in the better land,

No agonizing doubts, no maddening fears,

No shame, no death, my spirit pants and burns,
Till all this untold mystery it learns.

35

Yet, must I leave them? Should God call me first,
How could I leave my loved ones, whose fond eyes,
Such tender dreamings in my soul have nurst?
O'er all the byegone past my fancy flies,

I see them round the fireside's ruddy glow,
I hear their blended voices soft and low.

My hand thro' shining tresses once more strays,
That make a glory round each fair young brow;
Anon, a sunny smile like daybreak plays

Around each rosy mouth, while laughter low
And sweet as fairy music fills the room :

What is fate weaving for them in her loom?

The youngest born are they, those three bright girls,
So full of hope and beauty; must those eyes,
Be dimmed by sorrow's rain-cloud, those soft curls
Be streaked with silver? Deeply-heaved sad sighs
Rive all those gentle bosoms, till at last
Over the silent river they have past?

To live is but to suffer. Hope's bright wings
Just wave awhile to lure the traveller on;
To some fond dream the heart in secret clings;
And when at length the long sought prize is won,
The nipping frosts of fate untimely shed
Our rose's brightest petals on its bed;

Or disappointment, with its baleful breath,
Gives to the fountain pure its bitter taste;
Or, o'er the happy threshold stalks pale death,
And changes all our Eden to a waste;