VI. THE MAY QUEEN. XI. 493 I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the So now I think my time is near; I trust it is. death-watch beatI know There came a sweeter token when the night The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. and morning meet; But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go tohand in mine, day; And Effie on the other side, and I will tell But Effie, you must comfort her when I am the sign. VII. past away. XII. All in the wild March-morning I heard the And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There's many worthier than I would make him happy yet. If I had lived-I cannot tell-I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. VIII. For lying broad awake, I thought of you and I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer XIII. O look! the sun begins to rise! the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. With all my strength I prayed for both-and And there I move no longer now, and there so I felt resigned, his light may shine And up the valley came a swell of music on Wild flowers in the valley for other hands the wind. than mine. I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere my bed; this day is done And then did something speak to me-I know The voice that now is speaking may be be But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home, Had it lived long, I do not know Whether it, too, might have done so THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE As Sylvio did-his gifts might be DEATH OF HER FAWN. THE wanton troopers, riding by, Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive, It cannot die so. Keeps register of every thing; With this; and, very well content, Perhaps as false, or more, than he. With sweetest milk, and sugar, first It waxed more white and sweet than they. I blushed to see its foot more soft It is a wondrous thing how fleet I have a garden of my own- And all the spring-time of the year Have sought it oft, where it should lie ; It like a bank of lilies laid. O help! O help! I see it faint, LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. The holy frankincense doth flow; Melt in such amber tears as these. I in a golden vial will Now my sweet Fawn is vanished to With milk-white lambs, and ermins pure. Will but bespeak thy grave, and die. First my unhappy statue shall That I shall weep though I be stone; ANDREW MARVELL. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side The place is little changed, Mary; And the corn is green again; 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near The church where we were wed, Mary; I see the spire from here. But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, 495 And my step might break your rest— For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary For the poor make no new friends; Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow- I thank you for the patient smile I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and soreO! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more! I'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary-kind and true! But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm goin' to; They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always thereBut I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair! And often in those grand old woods Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. LADY DUFFERIN THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. "Drowned! Drowned!"-HAMLET. ONE more unfortunate, Take her up tenderly, Look at her garments Touch her not scornfully! Make no deep scrutiny Still, for all slips of hers- Loop up her tresses Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Alas! for the rarity Sisterly, brotherly, Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, From window and casement, The bleak wind of March In she plunged boldly- Take her up tenderly— Ere her limbs, frigidly, Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity. Perishing gloomily, Cross her hands humbly, Owning her weakness, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour! THOMAS HOOD. THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG. SLEEP!- The ghostly winds are blowing! No moon abroad-no star is glowing; The river is deep, and the tide is flowing To the land where you and I are going! We are going afar, Beyond moon or star, THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. WITH fingers weary and worn, Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work—work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's O! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! "Work-work-work Till the brain begins to swim! Work--work-work Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seamTill over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! "O, Men, with sisters dear! O, Men, with mothers and wives! To the land where the sinless angels are! It is not linen you're wearing out, I lost my heart to your heartless sire, But now we'll go Where the waters flow, But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt— Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a Shirt! "But why do I talk of DeathThat phantom of grisly bone? And make us a bed where none shall I hardly fear his terrible shape, know. The world is cruel-the world is untrue; Our foes are many, our friends are few; No work, no bread, however we sue! What is there left for me to do, But fly-fly From the cruel sky, It seems so like my own It seems so like my own Because of the fasts I keep; O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap! "Work-work-work! My labor never flags; And hide in the deepest deeps-and die! And what are its wages? A bed of straw 497 |