There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill, I leave my warm heart with you, though my back I'm forced to turn, No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall, Then they may sit, and have their joke, and set their pipes to burn; The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide, Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar; From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen strand, Farewell, Coolmore, ― Bundoran! and your summer crowds that run Farewell to every white cascade, from the harbor to Belleek, The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow; The Lough that winds through islands, under Turaw Mountain green; The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-long summer day, Oh! never shall I see again the days that I have seen, A thousand chances are to one I never may return, Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne! Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt, Search through the streets, and down the Mall, and out to Portnasun, I hope that man and woman kind will do the same by me, For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea; My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turn, To think of Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne! Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbors meet, And the fiddle says to boys and girls, "Get up and shake your feet; And tender ditties sweetly sung, to pass the twilight hour; The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn; If ever I'm a moneyed man, I mean, please God, to cast 'My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were passed, Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray; New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away, Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide; And, if the Lord allows me, I surely will return To my native Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne. ROSA MULHOLLAND. [Miss Rosa Mulholland was born at Belfast, and is the daughter of Dr. Joseph S. Mulholland of that city. After her father's death she spent several years in a mountainous part of the west of Ireland, and the picturesque scenery and primitive people by whom she was surrounded doubtless did a good deal towards developing literary longings. Miss Mulholland has written " Dunmara," 'Eldergowan," "The Little Flower Seekers," ," "Prince and Saviour," "The First Christmas for our Dear Little Ones," "Puck and Blossom," " Five Little Farmers," "Vagrant Verses," and a large number of short stories and poems in All the Year Round and other magazines.] FAILURE. THE Lord, who fashioned my hands for working, Set me a task, and it is not done; I tried and tried since the early morning, And now to westward sinketh the sun! Noble the task that was kindly given Never, as days and years went by. Others around me, cheerfully toiling, Showed me their work as they passed away: Filled were their hands to overflowing, Proud were their hearts, and glad and gay. Laden with harvest spoils they entered In at the golden gate of their rest; Laid their sheaves at the feet of the Master, Found their places among the blest. Happy be they who strove to help me, Failing ever in spite of their aid! Fain would their love have borne me onward, But I was unready and sore afraid. Now I know my task will never be finished, And when the Master calleth my name The Voice will find me still at my labor, Weeping beside it in weary shame. With empty hands I shall rise to meet Him, And, when He looks for the fruits of years, Nothing have I to lay before Him Yet when He calls I fain would hastenMine eyes are dim and their light is gone; And I am as weary as though I carried A burthen of beautiful work well done. I will fold my empty hands on my bosom, Meekly thus in the shape of His Cross; And the Lord who made them frail and feeble Maybe will pity their strife and loss. SISTER MARY OF THE LOVE OF GOD. THIS is the convent where they tend the sick, Comfort the dying, make the ailing strong; |