Lays from the West | Page 5

word is known as care;?Sweet rays of light that used to be?Seem hovering in the twilight air!
The hedges and the fields of green,?The lanes, the flowers, the wild bird's trill,?The trees, seen down the water's sheen.?The cattle lowing o'er the hill!
Your well-drawn school-life picture, too,?My school-time morn recalls again;?'Tis like an old tune, sweet and true,?That mingles pleasing notes with pain.
The fields, the schools, the village way,?The quaint, old-fashioned, country rhyme,?All come, like mystic glows that stray?Across the yellowing fields of Time.
The English lanes have lovely flowers,?And moss, and ferns, and birds that sing,?But Erin--green Erin--still is ours.?And to her name our fond hearts cling.
Each land we visit claims some grace--?Some special charm it calls its own;?Yet patriot souls must love the place?Which childhood's happy memories crown.
LOVE.
When first from Eden's blissful bowers,?Man roamed o'er earth in exile driven,?Kind Heaven, to cheer his lonely hours,?A source of joy to him hath given.
'Tis Love, that lights our darkest days,?'Tis Love, that cheers our keenest woe,?'Tis Love, whose soul inspiring rays,?Gilds all our lives with heaven-lent glow.
Ambition leads us for a while?To follow many a meteor light--?Whose flickering beams our souls beguile,?And lure us on to hopeless night.
And Fame may sound her clarion voice--?Wealth bring his hoards from every clime,?But Age shall come, and earth's frail joys?Must own the sway of sovereign Time.
But Love, as flying years go past,?Shall glow with holier, tenderer beam,?And shine, our guiding star at last?Till our dull hearts shall catch a gleam.
And when our life on earth is o'er?And we from all our toil shall rest,?The beams of Love will light that shore?Where Love has ransomed all the Blest!
A BIRTHDAY ANNIVERSARY.
"Tis sweet, when year by year we lose?Friends out of sight, in faith to muse?How grows in Paradise our store!"--KEBLE.
His Birthday! but to-night there is no gladness,?As in the bright old days forever flown;?And in my heart one aching thought of sadness?Seems ever whispering, Alone! Alone!
The darkness gathers round, and, wan and olden,?The worn day paler grows, and dies away,?And all life's light and brightness now seem folden?Beneath the twilight's dusky mantle gray.
The old church tower, amid the shadows looming,?Stands grim and sombre in the dying light;?The trees with leafless branches shiver, moaning,?As the sad winds sigh softly through the night.
Weird looks the ruined church, where ivy creeping?Decks the old walls fast mouldering in decay;?And peace rests o'er the graves in whose calm keeping,?In quiet safety, sleeps the treasured clay.
Here in this corner, where his grave is lying,?The fir trees throw deep shade, and soft and low,?When summer eve or winter day is dying,?The winds seem ever sighing songs of woe!
Oh! cherished spot! beloved beyond all measure,?Your holy peace that brings a balm so blest!?When turning from the world, in grief or pleasure,?I seek your calm, and hunger for your rest!
How feeble, then, seem all the ties that bound me?To this world's ways, that held such charms for me?And heaven-born dreams and holy thoughts surround me?Until from earth's vain things my soul is free!
Then do I feel this wound of Mercy's giving?Draws all my hopes from earth to holier love.?An e'en while here, sin-stained and lonely living,?My heart is with my treasure fixed above!
Still, looking upward to the Heavenly Mansion,?Where he abides--where we shall meet him there--?Where soul with soul shall blend in the expansion?Of that world's higher life, immortal, fair!
That land of beauty, where the Lamb in glory?Gathers His own to perfect bliss and peace,?Where all the ransomed sing Redemption's story?In joys celestial that can never cease.
Thrice happy lot was thine, oh, blessed spirit!?So early called from this dark vale of woe--?From chequered scenes of warfare--to inherit?That perfect love that God's own favoured know.
Then could we wish thee back to dwell with mortals?And bear those storms that toss Time's troubled sea??No! from that home beyond the pearly portals?Thou canst not come, but we will go to thee!
IN MEMORIAM
OF
R. A. WILSON, ESQ.,
EDITOR OF THE BELFAST MORNING NEWS.
Fair vales of Ulster! in the noontide smiling,?Blue Northern mountains, frowning to the sky;?Rivers that flow along, with song beguiling?The summer day your beauties, too, must die!
Know ye no requiem? Ah! streamlets borrow?Your tones from tearful voices! Mountains blue,?O'er your high heads let heavy clouds of sorrow?Tell that ye mourn the death of Patriot true.
Erin! green Erin! let your great heart feel it!?Bid all your sons and daughters, fair and brave,?By dropping tears and mourning faces tell it,?As they place laurels on a new-made grave!
Lowly he lies to day? Death's deep, calm slumber?Has claimed another of our cherished ones;?As he, the talented, ranks with the number?Of Erin's lost, best-loved--her gifted sons!
"Barney Maglone" is dead! Let the winds sighing?On their fleet wings, bear far the wail of woe?To every land. Let them in wild, sad crying?Tell out to all the sorrow that we know.
Our Poet, and not all Westminster's glory?Could ever give him