En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Widow Of Glencoe

Do not lift him from the bracken,
Leave him lying where he fell-
Better bier ye cannot fashion:
None beseems him half so well
As the bare and broken heather,
And the hard and trampled sod,
Whence his angry soul ascended
To the judgment-seat of God!
Winding-sheet we cannot give him-
Seek no mantle for the dead,
Save the cold and spotless covering
Showered from heaven upon his head.
Leave his broadsword, as we found it,
Bent and broken with the blow,
That, before he died, avenged him
On the foremost of the foe.
Leave the blood upon his bosom-
Wash not off that sacred stain:
Let it stiffen on the tartan,
Let his wounds unclosed remain,
Till the day when he shall show them
At the throne of God on high,
When the murderer and the murdered
Meet before their Judge's eye!

Nay-ye should not weep, my children!
Leave it to the faint and weak;
Sobs are but a woman's weapon-
Tears befit a maiden's cheek.
Weep not, children of Macdonald!
Weep not thou, his orphan heir-
Not in shame, but stainless honour,
Lies thy slaughtered father there.
Weep not-but when years are over,
And thine arm is strong and sure,
And thy foot is swift and steady
On the mountain and the muir-
Let thy heart be hard as iron,
And thy wrath as fierce as fire,
Till the hour when vengeance cometh
For the race that slew thy sire;
Till in deep and dark Glenlyon
Rise a louder shriek of woe
Than at midnight, from their eyrie,
Scared the eagles of Glencoe;
Louder than the screams that mingled
With the howling of the blast,
When the murderer's steel was clashing,
And the fires were rising fast;
When thy noble father bounded
To the rescue of his men,
And the slogan of our kindred
Pealed throughout the startled glen;
When the herd of frantic women
Stumbled through the midnight snow,
With their fathers' houses blazing,
And their dearest dead below.
Oh, the horror of the tempest,
As the flashing drift was blown,
Crimsoned with the conflagration,
And the roofs went thundering down!
Oh, the prayers-the prayers and curses
That together winged their flight
From the maddened hearts of many
Through that long and woeful night!
Till the fires began to dwindle,
And the shots grew faint and few,
And we heard the foeman's challenge
Only in a far halloo;
Till the silence once more settled
O'er the gorges of the glen,
Broken only by the Cona
Plunging through its naked den.
Slowly from the mountain-summit
Was the drifting veil withdrawn,
And the ghastly valley glimmered
In the gray December dawn.
Better had the morning never
Dawned upon our dark despair!
Black amidst the common whiteness
Rose the spectral ruins there:
But the sight of these was nothing
More than wrings the wild dove's breast,
When she searches for her offspring
Round the relics of her nest.
For in many a spot the tartan
Peered above the wintry heap,
Marking where a dead Macdonald
Lay within his frozen sleep.
Tremblingly we scooped the covering
From each kindred victim's head,
And the living lips were burning
On the cold ones of the dead.
And I left them with their dearest-
Dearest charge had everyone-
Left the maiden with her lover,
Left the mother with her son.
I alone of all was mateless-
Far more wretched I than they,
For the snow would not discover
Where my lord and husband lay.
But I wandered up the valley
Till I found him lying low,
With the gash upon his bosom,
And the frown upon his brow-
Till I found him lying murdered
Where he wooed me long ago.
Woman's weakness shall not shame me;
Why should I have tears to shed?
Could I rain them down like water,
O my hero, on thy head,
Could the cry of lamentation
Wake thee from thy silent sleep,
Could it set thy heart a-throbbing,
It were mine to wail and weep.
But I will not waste my sorrow,
Lest the Campbell women say
That the daughters of Clanranald
Are as weak and frail as they.
I had wept thee hadst thou fallen,
Like our fathers, on thy shield,
When a host of English foemen
Camped upon a Scottish field;
I had mourned thee hadst thou perished
With the foremost of his name,
When the valiant and the noble
Died around the dauntless Græme.
But I will not wrong thee, husband!
With my unavailing cries,
Whilst thy cold and mangled body,
Stricken by the traitor, lies;
Whilst he counts the gold and glory
That this hideous night has won,
And his heart is big with triumph
At the murder he has done.
Other eyes than mine shall glisten,
Other hearts be rent in twain,
Ere the heathbells on thy hillock
Wither in the autumn rain.
Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest,
And I'll veil my weary head,
Praying for a place beside thee,
Dearer than my bridal-bed:
And I'll give thee tears, my husband,
If the tears remain to me,
When the widows of the foemen
Cry the coronach for thee.

poem by William Edmondstoune Aytoun
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The Negro Father's Lamentation Over the Body of His Infant Son

Thou'rt dead, my boy!—my son!—my only child!—
And yet I may not shed one tear for thee,
Nor hanging o'er thy bier in anguish wild,
Upbraid the hand that bore thee far from me:
I cannot wish that thou hadst lived to share
Thy father's fate—his woes—and his despair!

I loved thee—oh! I need not say how well!
Thou wert my all of hopes or bliss on earth!
Yet I will not repine that thou dost dwell
In happiness, with her who gave thee birth,
While I, like yon dark rock of naked stone,
Must bear the storms that round me beat, alone.

'T is well! Thou wilt not share those storms with me,
That is my all of comfort in this hour—
I weep not, though I would have died for thee!
Ay, more than died— that sacrifice were poor—
I would have spurn'd the hand that set me free,
And clasp'd my chain, and lived a slave, for thee.

My boy! my darling boy! farewell, farewell!
Thou ne'er shalt feel the pangs that rend me now,
For still my heart with agony will swell,
To think, that never more upon my brow,
Thy little lips with fondness shall be prest,
As when I oft have clasp'd thee to my breast.

Yes! fare thee well! thy fond caress no more
Shall soothe the tortured throbbing of my heart,
As it full oft has done, when tyrant power
Has trampled me to earth, and round me prest
The chain of slavery, till my swelling heart
Has madden'd into frenzy with the smart.

Yet even then, though thou couldst calm my soul,
With thy soft lisping voice and childish glee,
While clasping thee, sad thoughts would o'er me roll,
Of what must be thy future destiny,
Till my hot tears have wet thy little face,
And thou hast wonder'd at my wild embrace.

But thou art dead!—it ne'er will be thy fate
To tremble at a cruel tyrant's frowns—
To bend in servile toil, to feed his state,
To feel the lash, and hear him mock thy groans.
Then fare thee well!—thy father will not weep,
Or wish to wake thee from thy peaceful sleep.

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Tribute To The Memory Of The Same Dog

LIE here, without a record of thy worth,
Beneath a covering of the common earth!
It is not from unwillingness to praise,
Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise;
More thou deserv'st; but 'this' man gives to man,
Brother to brother, 'this' is all we can.
Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear
Shall find thee through all changes of the year:
This Oak points out thy grave; the silent tree
Will gladly stand a monument of thee.
We grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past;
And willingly have laid thee here at last:
For thou hadst lived till everything that cheers
In thee had yielded to the weight of years;
Extreme old age had wasted thee away,
And left thee but a glimmering of the day;
Thy ears were deaf, and feeble were thy knees,--
I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze,
Too weak to stand against its sportive breath,
And ready for the gentlest stroke of death.
It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed;
Both man and woman wept when thou wert dead;
Not only for a thousand thoughts that were,
Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share;
But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee,
Found scarcely anywhere in like degree!
For love, that comes wherever life and sense
Are given by God, in thee was most intense;
A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind,
A tender sympathy, which did thee bind
Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind:
Yea, for thy fellow-brutes in thee we saw
A soul of love, love's intellectual law:--
Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame;
Our tears from passion and from reason came,
And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name!

poem by William Wordsworth
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The Forsaken

The dead are in their silent graves,
And the dew is cold above,
And the living weep and sigh,
Over dust that once was love.
Once I only wept the dead,
But now the living cause my pain:
How couldst thou steal me from my tears,
To leave me to my tears again?
My Mother rests beneath the sod,—
Her rest is calm and very deep:
I wish'd that she could see our loves,—
But now I gladden in her sleep.
Last night unbound my raven locks,
The morning saw them turned to gray,
Once they were black and well beloved,
But thou art changed,—and so are they!
The useless lock I gave thee once,
To gaze upon and think of me,
Was ta'en with smiles,—but this was torn
In sorrow that I send to thee!

poem by Thomas Hood
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When He Who Adores Thee

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd?
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine;
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine.
Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

poem by Thomas Moore
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When We Two Parted

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

poem by Byron (1808)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Fall of Usher

An elegy on Edgar Allan Poe

"Thou wert the Morning Star among the living,
Ere thy fair light had fled;
But, having died, thou art like Hesperus giving
New splendor to the dead." - Plato's Aster.

"Thou art gone to the grave!" but thy spirit is shining,
And singing afar in the Realms of the Blest ;
While the living are left by thy cold grave reclining,
And mourning for thee while they long for thy rest---
Left mourning for thee while they long for thy rest!

"Thou art gone to the grave!" thou art gone where thy slumber
No more shall be broken by sorrow or pain---
Soon to rise with that host which no mortal can number,
To lie down no more in that Valley again!
No more to lie down in that Valley again!

"Thou art gone to the grave!" there is none can restore thee,
Or bring thee again from that Silent Abode !
But the Conqueror of Death went to dwell there before thee,
And He has prepared thee the way to thy God!
Prepared thee the way to thy Beautiful God !

"Thou art gone to the grave!" thou art silently sleeping
A sleep which no sorrow shall ever molest;
And, in longing for which, my poor heart now is keeping
This silent lament in its grave in my breast!
Like Shelley for Keats, in its grave in my breast!

"Thou art gone to the grave!" let the dark Weeping Willow
Bend over thy grave where thy beauty was laid!
While thy form, thus reclined on the earth for its pillow,
Shall live in the Spring-flowers which bloom at thy head---
To feed the young Butterflies born at thy head.

"Thou art gone to the grave!" where the Violets are springing,
And feeding upon thee above the damp sod,
Now thy Pandemos mourns, while thy spirit is singing,
And drinking delight from the Fountains of God ---
With thine Ullalume lost from the Fountains of God.

poem by Thomas Holley Chivers
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Menaphon: Sephesta's Song to her Child

-
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
-
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
-
Mother's wag, pretty boy,
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Father's sorrow, father's joy;
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When thy father first did see
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Such a boy by him and me,
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He was glad, I was woe,
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Fortune changed made him so,
-
When he left his pretty boy
-

Last his sorrow, first his joy.

-

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
-

When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
-

Streaming tears that never stint,
-

Like pearl-drops from a flint,
-

Fell by course from his eyes,
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That one another's place supplies;
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Thus he griev'd in every part,
-

Tears of blood fell from his heart,
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When he left his pretty boy,
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Father's sorrow, father's joy.

-

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
-

When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
-

The wanton smil'd, father wept,
-

Mother cried, baby leapt;
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More he crow'd, more he cried,
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Nature could not sorrow hide:
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He must go, he must kiss
-

Child and mother, baby bless,
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For he left his pretty boy,
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Father's sorrow, father's joy.
-

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
-

When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

poem by Robert Greene
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Weep Not, My Wanton

WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
Mother's wag, pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe:
Fortune changèd made him so,
When he left his pretty boy,
Last his sorrow, first his joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
Streaming tears that never stint,
Like pearl drops from a flint,
Fell by course from his eyes,
That one another's place supplies:
Thus he grieved in every part,Tears of blood fell from his heart,
When he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
The wanton smiled, father wept;
Mother cried, baby lept;
More he crowed, more we cried;
Nature could not sorrow hide.
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bliss;
For he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

poem by Robert Greene
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Death’s Chill Between

Chide not; let me breathe a little,
For I shall not mourn him long;
Though the life-cord was so brittle,
The love-cord was very strong.
I would wake a little space
Till I find a sleeping-place.

You can go,—I shall not weep;
You can go unto your rest.
My heart-ache is all too deep,
And too sore my throbbing breast.
Can sobs be, or angry tears,
Where are neither hopes nor fears?

Though with you I am alone
And must be so everywhere,
I will make no useless moan,—
None shall say 'She could not bear:'
While life lasts I will be strong,—
But I shall not struggle long.

Listen, listen! Everywhere
A low voice is calling me,
And a step is on the stair,
And one comes ye do not see,
Listen, listen! Evermore
A dim hand knocks at the door.

Hear me; he is come again,—
My own dearest is come back.
Bring him in from the cold rain;
Bring wine, and let nothing lack.
Thou and I will rest together,
Love, until the sunny weather.

I will shelter thee from harm,—
Hide thee from all heaviness.
Come to me, and keep thee warm
By my side in quietness.
I will lull thee to thy sleep
With sweet songs:—we will not weep.

Who hath talked of weeping?—Yet
There is something at my heart,
Gnawing, I would fain forget,
And an aching and a smart.
—Ah! my mother, 'tis in vain,
For he is not come again.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Oenone

On the holy mount of Ida,
Where the pine and cypress grow,
Sate a young and lovely woman,
Weeping ever, weeping low.
Drearily throughout the forest
Did the winds of autumn blow,
And the clouds above were flying,
And Scamander rolled below.

'Faithless Paris! cruel Paris!'
Thus the poor deserted spake-
'Wherefore thus so strangely leave me?
Why thy loving bride forsake?
Why no tender word at parting?
Why no kiss, no farewell take?
Would that I could but forget thee-
Would this throbbing heart might break!

'Is my face no longer blooming?
Are my eyes no longer bright?
Ah! my tears have made them dimmer,
And my cheeks are pale and white.
I have wept since early morning,
I will weep the livelong night;
Now I long for sullen darkness,
As I once have longed for light.

'Paris! canst thou then be cruel?
Fair, and young, and brave thou art-
Can it be that in thy bosom
Lies so cold, so hard a heart?
Children were we bred together-
She who bore me suckled thee;
I have been thine old companion,
When thou hadst no more but me.

'I have watched thee in thy slumbers,
When the shadow of a dream
Passed across thy smiling features,
Like the ripple of a stream;
And so sweetly were the visions
Pictured there with lively grace,
That I half could read their import
By the changes on thy face.

'When I sang of Ariadne,
Sang the old and mournful tale,
How her faithless lover, Theseus,
Left her to lament and wail;
Then thine eyes would fill and glisten,
Her complaint could soften thee:
Thou hast wept for Ariadne-
Theseus' self might weep for me!

'Thou may'st find another maiden
With a fairer face than mine-
With a gayer voice, and sweeter,
And a spirit liker thine:
For if e'er my beauty bound thee,
Lost and broken is the spell;
But thou canst not find another
That will love thee half so well.

'O thou hollow ship that bearest
Paris o'er the faithless deep,
Wouldst thou leave him on some island,
Where alone the waters weep?
Where no human foot is moulded
In the wet and yellow sand-
Leave him there, thou hollow vessel!
Leave him on that lonely land!

'Then his heart will surely soften,
When his foolish hopes decay,
And his older love rekindle,
As the new one dies away.
Visionary hills will haunt him,
Rising from the glassy sea,
And his thoughts will wander homewards
Unto Ida and to me.

'O! that like a little swallow
I could reach that lonely spot!
All his errors would be pardoned,
All the weary past forgot.
Never should he wander from me-
Never should he more depart,
For these arms would be his prison,
And his home would be my heart.'

Thus lamented fair Oenone,
Weeping ever, weeping low,
On the holy mount of Ida,
Where the pine and cypress grow.
In the self-same hour Cassandra
Shrieked her prophecy of woe,
And into the Spartan dwelling
Did the faithless Paris go.

poem by William Edmondstoune Aytoun
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The Sultana's Remonstrance

IT suits thee well to weep,
As thou lookest on the fair land,
Whose sceptre thou hast held
With less than woman's hand.

On yon bright city gaze,
With its white and marble halls,
The glory of its lofty towers,
The strength of its proud walls.

And look to yonder palace,
With its garden of the rose,
With its groves and silver fountains,
Fit for a king's repose.

There is weeping in that city,
And a cry of woe and shame,
There's a whisper of dishonour,
And that whisper is thy name.

And the stranger's feast is spread,
But it is no feast of thine;
In thine own halls accursed lips
Drain the forbidden wine.

And aged men are in the streets,
Who mourn their length of days,
And young knights stand with folded arms,
And eyes they dare not raise.

There is not one whose blood was not
As the waves of ocean free,--
Their fathers died for thy fathers,
They would have died for thee.

Weep not, 'tis mine to weep,
That ever thou wert born,
Alas, that all a mother's love
Is lost in a queen's scorn!

Yet weep, thou less than woman, weep,
Those tears become thine eye,--
It suits thee well to weep the land
For which thou daredst not die.*

poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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To Mary

If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.
But when I speak—thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene—
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there—I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!

poem by Charles Wolfe
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Hymn after Receiving Holy Communion

I HAVE Thee now, O Jesu,
Enshrined within my soul,
In all Thy love and fulness,
With power to make me whole.
Though cold and so unworthy,
5
Though weak and stained with sin,
I opened to Thee, Jesu,
And Thou hast entered in.
I have Thee now, O Jesu!
And oh, the thrill divine
10
To feel that Thou art in me,
To know that Thou art mine!
I have Thee, too, O Jesu,
As pledge of future bliss;
But faith is lost in wonder
15
At rapture more than this.
I have Thee now, O Jesu!
Purge all my dross away,
Light up my inmost being
With Thy full flood of day;
20
Do Thou, O Lord, shine through me
In all my words and ways,
Till others catch Thy glory,
And join in endless praise.
I have Thee now, O Jesu!
25
Oh, never more depart!
Grant that no fresh offences
Shall drive Thee from my heart;
Till down the long dark valley,
The path which Thou hast trod,
30
There dawns in cloudless splendour
The vision of my God.
Amen.

poem by Frederick George Scott
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John Mitchel

I.
DEAD, with his harness on him:
Rigid and cold and white,
Marking the place of the vanguard
Still in the ancient fight.

The climber dead on the hill-side,
Before the height is won:
The workman dead on the building,
Before the work is done!

O, for a tongue to utter
The words that should be said—
Of his worth that was silver, living,
That is gold and jasper, dead!

Dead—but the death was fitting:
His life, to the latest breath,
Was poured like wax on the chart of right,
And is sealed by the stamp of Death!

Dead—but the end was fitting:
First in the ranks he led;
And he marks the height of his nation's gain,
As he lies in his harness—dead!

II.
Weep for him, Ireland—mother lonely;
Weep for the son w'ho died for thee.
Wayward he was, but he loved thee only,
Loyal and fearless as son could be.
Weep for him, Ireland—sorrowing nation
Faithful to all who are true to thee:
Never a son in thy desolation
Had holier love for thy cause than he.

Sons of the Old Land, mark the story—
Mother and son in the final test:
Weeping she sits in her darkened glory,
Holding her dead to her stricken breast.
Only the dead on her knees are lying—
Ah, poor mother beneath the cross!
Strength is won by the constant trying,
Crowns are gemmed by the tears of loss!

Sons of the Old Land, mark the story—
Mother and son to each other true:
She called, and he answered, old and hoary,
And gave her his life as a man should do.
She may weep—but for us no weeping:
Tears are vain till the work is done;
Tears for her—but for us the keeping
Our hearts as true as her faithful son.

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Slave-Mother's Farewell

May God have mercy on thee, son, for man's stern heart hath none!
My gentle boy, my beautiful, my loved and only one!
I would the bitter tears that steep thy young and grief-doom'd head,
Were springing from a broken heart, that mourn'd thee with the dead.

And yet how often have I watch'd above thine infant sleep,
With love whose gushing tenderness strove vainly not to weep,
When starting through my timid heart, the thought that thou couldst die,
Shot, even amidst a mother's bliss, a pang of agony.

My boy! my boy! Oh cling not thus around me in thy grief,
Thy mother's arm, thy mother's love, can yield thee no relief;
The tiger's bloody jaw hath not a gripe more fierce and fell
Than that which tears thee from my arms—thou who wert loved so well!

How may I live bereft of thee? Thy smile was all that flung
A ray of gladness ‘midst the gloom, forever round me hung:
How may a mother's heart endure to think upon thy fate,
Thou doom'd to misery and chains!—so young and desolate!

Farewell! farewell!—They tear thee hence!—and yet my heart beats on;
How can it bear the weight of life, when thou art from me gone?
Mine own! mine own! Yet cruel hands have barter'd thee for gold,
And torn thee, with a ruthless grasp, forever from my hold!

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I Leave Thee for Awhile

I leave thee for awhile, my love, I leave thee with a sigh;
The fountain spring within my soul is playing in mine eye;
I do not blush to own the tear,--let, let it touch my cheek,
And what my lip has failed to tell, that drop perchance may speak.
Mavourneen! when again I seek my green isle in the West,
Oh, promise thou wilt share my lot, and set this heart at rest.

I leave thee for awhile, my love; but every hour will be
Uncheered and lonely till the one that brings me back to thee.
I go to make my riches more; but where is man to find
A vein of gold so rich and pure as that I leave behind?
Mavourneen! though my home might be the fairest earth possessed,
Till thou wouldst share and make it warm, this heart would know no rest.

I leave thee for awhile, my love; my cheek is cold and white,
But ah, I see a promise stand within thy glance of light;
When next I seek old, Erin's shore, thy step will bless it too,
And then the grass will seem more green, the sky will have more blue.
Mavourneen! first and dearest loved, there's sunshine in my breast,
For thou wilt share my future lot, and set this heart at rest.

poem by Eliza Cook
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The Dedication

The Son of the living GOD, and the sacred
Virgin Mary.

I.
MY God ! Thou that didst die for me,
These Thy death's fruits I offer Thee ;
Death that to me was life and light,
But dark and deep pangs to Thy sight.
Some drops of Thy all-quick'ning blood
Fell on my heart ; those made it bud,
And put forth thus, though, Lord, before
The ground was curs'd, and void of store.
Indeed I had some here to hire
Which long resisted Thy desire,
That ston'd Thy servants, and did move
To have Thee murder'd for Thy love ;
But, Lord, I have expell'd them, and so bent,
Beg Thou wouldst take Thy tenant's rent.

II.
Dear Lord, 'tis finished ! and now he
That copied it, presents it Thee.
'Twas thine first, and to Thee returns,
From Thee it shin'd, though here it burns.
If the Sun rise on rocks, is't right
To call it their inherent light ?
No, nor can I say, this is mine,
For, dearest Jesus, 'tis all Thine ;
As Thy clothes, when Thou with clothes wert clad,
Both light from Thee, and virtue had ;
And now,as then, within this place
Thou to poor rags dost still give grace.
This is the earnest Thy love sheds,
The candle shining on some heads,
Till at Thy charges they shall be
Cloth'd all with immortality.

III.
My dear Redeemer, the world's light,
And life too, and my heart's delight !
For all Thy mercies and Thy truth,
Show'd to me in my sinful youth,
For my sad failings and my wild
Murmurings at Thee, when most mild ;
For all my secret faults, and each
Frequent relapse and wilful breach,
For all designs meant against Thee
And ev'ry publish'd vanity,
Which Thou divinely hast forgiven,
While Thy blood wash'd me white as heaven ;
I nothing have to give to Thee,
But this Thy own gift, given to me.
Refuse it not ; for now Thy token
Can tell Thee where a heart is broken.

REVEL. CAP. I. VER. 5, 6, 7.

Unto him that loved us, and washed us from our
sins in His own blood.
And hath made us kings and priests unto God and
His Father ; to Him be glory and dominion, for ever
and ever. Amen.
Behold He cometh with clouds, and every eye shall
see Him, and they also which pierced Him ; and all
kindreds of the earth shall wail because of Him : even
so, Amen.

poem by Henry Vaughan
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Shepherd Divine, Our Wants Relieve

Shepherd divine, our wants relieve,
In this our evil day;
To all Thy tempted followers give
The power to trust and pray.

Long as our fiery trials last,
Long as the cross we bear,
O let our souls on Thee be cast,
In never-ceasing prayer.

Thy Holy Spirit's praying grace
Give us in faith to claim;
To wrestle till we see Thy face,
And know Thy hidden name.

Till Thou the Father's love impart,
Till Thou Thyself bestow,
Be this the cry of every heart, -
I will not let Thee go.

I will not let Thee go, unless
Thou tell Thy name to me;
With all Thy great salvation bless,
And say, - I died for thee.

Then let me, on the mountain-top,
Behold Thine open face,
Till faith in sight is swallowed up,
And prayer in endless praise.

poem by Augustus Montague Toplady
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Love’s Likenings

He.
To what, love, shall I liken thee?
Thou, methinks, shalt firstly be
A blue flower with nodding bells
In the hollow of a tree.
When the wind blows wantonly,
Thou shalt ever shake thy head
At the idle tale he tells.
But at evening from the clover,
When the world is all abed,
And the noisy day is over,
And the birds have gone to rest,
In the darkness will I hover
Till thou bid me come to thee,
Till I creep into thy nest,
I thy long--expected lover,
I thy sweet, thy honey bee.
To what, love, shall I liken thee?
Tell me, love, what wouldst thou be?

She.
I would be a white cloud lying
In the bosom of the sky,
And at noon, when Earth is sighing
For the sun my fleeces hide,
I would bask in his bright eye,
Till he drew me up on high,
Till be took me for his bride.
Thou shalt be my sun to me.

Love, but I would be a well
In the sands of Araby,
So thyself wert a gazelle
Which must either drink or die.
Bend above me, love, and lo!
In my waters thou shalt spy
All that my heart cares to show,
Thy own face against the sky.

He.
To what more shall I liken thee?
Thou, my love, shalt lastly be
A clear silver--tonguèd brook
Running downwards to the Sea,
And the reeds shall seek to stay thee
Under every shaded nook,
And the pebbles shall waylay thee,
With their bald heads to dismay thee,
Till thy pretty face grows white,
Half in anger, half in fright.
See, thy troubles are forgot
In the still pool suddenly,
And a smile has found thee out,
Taking shape of thy delight,
Laughing, weeping, onward ever
Till thou join thyself to me,
For my love shall be the river.
Thou and I shall run together
Ever till we meet the Sea.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Invocation To Misery

I.
Come, be happy!—sit near me,
Shadow-vested Misery:
Coy, unwilling, silent bride,
Mourning in thy robe of pride,
Desolation—deified!

II.
Come, be happy!—sit near me:
Sad as I may seem to thee,
I am happier far than thou,
Lady, whose imperial brow
Is endiademed with woe.

III.
Misery! we have known each other,
Like a sister and a brother
Living in the same lone home,
Many years—we must live some
Hours or ages yet to come.

IV.
’Tis an evil lot, and yet
Let us make the best of it;
If love can live when pleasure dies,
We two will love, till in our eyes
This heart’s Hell seem Paradise.

V.
Come, be happy!—lie thee down
On the fresh grass newly mown,
Where the Grasshopper doth sing
Merrily—one joyous thing
In a world of sorrowing!

VI.
There our tent shall be the willow,
And mine arm shall be thy pillow;
Sounds and odours, sorrowful
Because they once were sweet, shall lull
Us to slumber, deep and dull.

VII.
Ha! thy frozen pulses flutter
With a love thou darest not utter.
Thou art murmuring—thou art weeping—
Is thine icy bosom leaping
While my burning heart lies sleeping?

VIII.
Kiss me;—oh! thy lips are cold:
Round my neck thine arms enfold—
They are soft, but chill and dead;
And thy tears upon my head
Burn like points of frozen lead.

IX.
Hasten to the bridal bed—
Underneath the grave ’tis spread:
In darkness may our love be hid,
Oblivion be our coverlid—
We may rest, and none forbid.

X.
Clasp me till our hearts be grown
Like two shadows into one;
Till this dreadful transport may
Like a vapour fade away,
In the sleep that lasts alway.

XI.
We may dream, in that long sleep,
That we are not those who weep;
E’en as Pleasure dreams of thee,
Life-deserting Misery,
Thou mayst dream of her with me.

XII.
Let us laugh, and make our mirth,
At the shadows of the earth,
As dogs bay the moonlight clouds,
Which, like spectres wrapped in shrouds,
Pass o’er night in multitudes.

XIII.
All the wide world, beside us,
Show like multitudinous
Puppets passing from a scene;
What but mockery can they mean,
Where I am—where thou hast been?

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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