IN MY HEART.

Lake is calling to lakeWith a ripply, musical sound,As though half afraid to awakeThe storm from his sleep profound.

The hem of their garments is gayWith gardens that look to the south;And the smile of the dawn of to-dayHas touched them on bosom and mouth.

The rivers have gladly embraced,And carry the joy of the lakes,Past mountain and island and waste,To where the sea’s laughter outbreaks.

And sea and lake and mountain,And man and beast and bird—Our happy Land’s life fountain—By one great voice are stirred.Bells chime out merrily,Trumpets call cheerily,Cannons boom lustily,Greet the glad day!Rose-wreath and fleur-de-lys,Shamrock and thistle beJoined to the maple treeNow and for aye!

Let the shout of our joy to-day be borne through the pulse of the sea,To the grand old lands of our fathers,—a token of loyalest love;And may the winds bring back sweet words, O our Land, to thee—As, in the far old time, the peace-leaf came with the dove.

And long, long ages hence, when the Land that we love so wellHas clasped us all (as a mother clasps her babe) to her motherly bosom,Those who shall walk on the dust of us, with pride in their Land shall tell,Holding the fruit in their grateful hands, of the birth of to-day, the blossom.

In my heart are many chambers through which I wander free;Some are furnished, some are empty, some are sombre, some are light;Some are open to all comers, and of some I keep the key,And I enter in the stillness of the night.

But there’s one I never enter,—it is closed to even me!Only once its door was opened, and it shut for evermore;And though sounds of many voices gather round it, like the sea,It is silent, ever silent, as the shore.

In that chamber, long ago, my love’s casket was concealed,And the jewel that it sheltered I knew only one could win;And my soul foreboded sorrow, should that jewel be revealed,And I almost hoped that none might enter in.

Yet day and night I lingered by that fatal chamber door,Till—she came at last, my darling one, of all the earth my own;And she entered—and she vanished with my jewel, which she wore;And the door was closed—and I was left alone.

She gave me back no jewel, but the spirit of her eyesShone with tenderness a moment, as she closed that chamber door,And the memory of that moment is all I have to prize,—Butthat, at least, is mine for evermore.

Was she conscious, when she took it, that the jewel was my love?Did she think it but a bauble, she might wear or toss aside?I know not, I accuse not, but I hope that it may proveA blessing, though she spurn it in her pride.

“Why comes he not? why comes he not,My brave and noble son?Why comes he not with his warlike men,And the trophies his sword has won?How slowly roll his chariot wheels!How weary is the day!Pride of thy mother’s lonely heart,Why dost thou still delay?He comes not yet! will he never comeTo gladden these heavy eyes,That have watched and watched from morn till eve,And again till the sun did rise?Shall I greet no more his look of joy,Nor hear his manly voice?Why comes he not with the spoils of war,And the damsels of his choice?”Years rushed along in their ceaseless course,But Sisera came no more,With his mighty men and his captive maids,As he oft had come before.A woman’s hand had done the deedThat laid a hero low;—A woman’s heart had felt the griefThat childless mothers know.

He comes not yet! will he never comeTo gladden these heavy eyes,That have watched and watched from morn till eve,And again till the sun did rise?Shall I greet no more his look of joy,Nor hear his manly voice?Why comes he not with the spoils of war,And the damsels of his choice?”

Years rushed along in their ceaseless course,But Sisera came no more,With his mighty men and his captive maids,As he oft had come before.A woman’s hand had done the deedThat laid a hero low;—A woman’s heart had felt the griefThat childless mothers know.

Ex mediis viridem surgentem ut lœta columbaUndis aspexit, post tempora tristia, terram,Et levibus volitans folia alis carpsit olivæ,Pacifera et rediit, libertatemque futuramNavali inclusis in carcere significavit;Sic terram, lœtis, super œquora vasta, ColumbusInsequitur, ventis astrisque faventibus, alis;Inventam et terram placidis consevit olivis.Aevorum super æquora parva columba ColumbumInscia persequitur cum vaticinantibus alis!Omina nomina sunt et Verbo facta reguntur,Prœteritum nectitque futuro Aeterna Catena.

Summer is dead. Shall we weep or laugh,As we gaze on the dead queen’s epitaphWhich Autumn has written in letters of gold:“She was bright and beautiful, blithe and young,And through grove and meadow she gaily sung,As with careless footsteps she danced alongTo the grave, where she now lies cold?”

Shall we weep that her beauty from earth has gone?Shall we weep for the friends that with her have flown?Shall we weep for those that with her have died?For the man that has perished in manhood’s pride?For the maiden that never can be a bride?For the hearts that are left alone?

Shall we laugh as we stand at earth’s palace-door,With the faded crown that poor Summer wore,And placing it on her sister’s brow,Forget the face that once smiled beneathThat faded crown, and the flowery breathThat parted those lips now cold in death?For Autumn is monarch now.

Summer is dead. Shall we laugh or weep?Is she really dead or only asleepWith her sleeping garments on?She only sleeps, and in meadow and groveAgain in gay dances her steps shall move;But shall she come back with the friends we love?God knows, and His will be done.

Torn by some careless handFrom thy mother’s breast,Where gentle breezes fann’dThy little leaves to rest,Here dost thou lie, forsaken,No more shalt thou awaken,To gladden with thy beauty the wanderer opprest!No more at early morn,When the lark’s gay song,Through grove and meadow borne,Calls his merry mates along,Shall thy tiny arms, outspreading,Their grateful odour shedding,Give silent, speaking welcome to Nature’s joyous throng!Peaceful and calm thy sleep!Thy life’s race run,Thou hadst no cause to weep,No duty left undone!Sweet little withered blossom,How many a blighted bosomWould fain repose as softly beneath a summer’s sun!How many a child of care,Won by thy power,Might raise his voice in prayer,Taught by thee, little flower!Ah! surely thou wast given,A gracious boon from heaven,To throw its charm on sinful earth for one short blissful hour!Farewell! I may not stay;Thy frail, drooping formHeeds not the sun’s fierce ray,Nor winter’s frowning storm!Like thee, kind hearts have perish’dBy those that should have cherish’d,And held the shield of friendship to shelter them from harm.Like thee, I soon must fade,And ’neath the skyLifeless and cold be laid!But though I claim no sigh,Though no fond heart may miss meWhen death’s pale lips shall kiss me,If my short life be pure as thine, I need not fear to die.

No more at early morn,When the lark’s gay song,Through grove and meadow borne,Calls his merry mates along,Shall thy tiny arms, outspreading,Their grateful odour shedding,Give silent, speaking welcome to Nature’s joyous throng!

Peaceful and calm thy sleep!Thy life’s race run,Thou hadst no cause to weep,No duty left undone!Sweet little withered blossom,How many a blighted bosomWould fain repose as softly beneath a summer’s sun!

How many a child of care,Won by thy power,Might raise his voice in prayer,Taught by thee, little flower!Ah! surely thou wast given,A gracious boon from heaven,To throw its charm on sinful earth for one short blissful hour!

Farewell! I may not stay;Thy frail, drooping formHeeds not the sun’s fierce ray,Nor winter’s frowning storm!Like thee, kind hearts have perish’dBy those that should have cherish’d,And held the shield of friendship to shelter them from harm.

Like thee, I soon must fade,And ’neath the skyLifeless and cold be laid!But though I claim no sigh,Though no fond heart may miss meWhen death’s pale lips shall kiss me,If my short life be pure as thine, I need not fear to die.

May, 1857.

He stands alone upon the deck,A prince without a peer,He hears the cannon’s farewell boom,The loud and loyal cheer—A prayer from true New England hearts,Honest and brave and free,That God would guide Old England’s heirSafe o’er the stormy sea.He sees the sad, regretful gazeThat marks him as he goes,And prays that God may never makeSuch trusty friends his foes,But that, as brothers in the causeOf Liberty and Right,Under the sacred flag of TruthThey ever may unite.

He stands alone upon the deck,Son of the noblest QueenThat ever placed a royal crownUpon a brow serene.For her sake did we welcome him,Who owns an empire’s love;But now we bless him for his own,—God bless him from above!He stands alone, a boy in years,A “mighty one” by birth,Crowned with a love that far excelsThe brightest crowns of earth;Nor thinks he of the pomp and powerThat wait his glad return,But thoughts of manly tendernessDeep in his bosom burn.

He stands alone upon the deck,Though thousands gaze on him,He sees them not, for fond regretHas made his blue eyes dim;His boyish lip is quivering,And flushed his boyish cheek,And his tearful eye speaks more, by far,Than words could ever speak.God grant that he may ever beAs good a prince as now,Nor ever may true virtue’s crownBe lifted from his brow!God bless him for his mother’s sake,God bless him for his own,As thus he stands upon the deck,’Mid thousands all alone!

Roses of England of every hue,Your heads were lately bowed with the dewOf sorrow for one that was good and true,Through the length and breadth of your Island-garden,Missing a hand that had cared for you!He sleeps in your midst, O Roses,The Roses he loved and knew,And blest was your sorrow, Roses,You gave unto worth its due!

But, O Roses, smile again,He for whom you weepLeft his spirit among menWhen he fell asleep,—Left his spirit and his name,Left his pure, unspotted fame,One who lives them all can claim.Smile on him, O Roses!He whose head reposesIn a sacred spot of your Island-garden,Left him to you, good, brave and true,To cherish and guard you, Roses!

And now to you he bringsA treasure to keep and love,From the north-land home of the old sea kings,—A beautiful Danish Dove!I heard proud Ocean’s waves,England’s and Denmark’s slaves,Tell it in all the cavesThat peep through the wall of your Island-garden!Then welcome her sweetly, Roses,She shall nestle among you soon,And shall be to the loved of him whom you lovedIn sorrow a priceless boon!

Winds that sport with the sea,Go east, west, south and north,And from every Rose of the English treeThat remembers its English birthCarry from far and wideA gentle message of loveTo the lone Rose-queen and her garden’s pride,And his beautiful Danish Dove.

O gentle little comerIn wintry days,Far more than songs of summerI love thy lays.They come when flowers are sweetest,And leaves are green;But thou thy song repeatestIn sterner scene.

In joyous days are manyThe friends we find;In dark ones scarcely any,To soothe the mind.But friends in hours of sorrowFar more we prizeThan those that go to-morrowIf storms arise.

The clouds are blushing, the sun is gone,He has been kissing them, every one,Except the shy ones, that kept away,And tearfully watched his parting ray;But they love him no lessFor their bashfulness;The truest of lovers are not the most gay.The sun is gone, and the blushing cloudsAre growing dimmer, as Night enshroudsSky, sea and land in her sombre pall—The sexton at old Earth’s funeral,When her race is run,And her work is done,And her children are weaned from her, one and all.The Man of the Moon has lit his lamp,And is now commencing his airy tramp,To see how the stars, those merry elvesThat wink as he passes, behave themselves.With steady paceHe is running his race,Holding his lamp with a dignified grace.The sun is rising behind the hill,And I am waiting and watching still—Waiting and watching, as night goes by,What queer little scenes take place in the sky,When the silence is deepAnd men are asleep,And none are awake but the stars and I!

The sun is gone, and the blushing cloudsAre growing dimmer, as Night enshroudsSky, sea and land in her sombre pall—The sexton at old Earth’s funeral,When her race is run,And her work is done,And her children are weaned from her, one and all.

The Man of the Moon has lit his lamp,And is now commencing his airy tramp,To see how the stars, those merry elvesThat wink as he passes, behave themselves.With steady paceHe is running his race,Holding his lamp with a dignified grace.

The sun is rising behind the hill,And I am waiting and watching still—Waiting and watching, as night goes by,What queer little scenes take place in the sky,When the silence is deepAnd men are asleep,And none are awake but the stars and I!

May, 1859.

.... Quis prodere tanta relatu.... possit?—Claudian.

.... Quis prodere tanta relatu.... possit?

—Claudian.

There is a voice that never stirs the lips,—Felt, but not heard; that vibrates through the soul,—A solemn music; but no human speechCan give that music to the ambient air.The noblest poem poet ever wrote;The brightest picture artist ever drew;The loftiest music lyrist ever sung;The gentlest accents woman ever spoke,—Are paraphrases of a felt original,That lip, or pen, or pencil, cannot showUnto the seeing eye or listening ear.The thoughts we utter are but half themselves.The poet knows this well. The artist knowsHis hands bear not the burden of his thoughtsUpon the canvas. The musician knowsHis soul must ever perish on his lips.Even the eye,—“the window of the soul,”—Though it may shed a light a little way,Gives but a glimpse of that which burns within.The sweet, unconscious tenderness of flowers;The boundless awe of star-encircled night;The tear that trickles down an old man’s cheek;Ocean’s loud pulse, that makes our own beat high;The vocal throb of a great multitude;The pause when we have heard and said “Farewell,”And feel the pressure of a hand that’s gone;The thought that we have wronged our truest friend,When he is sleeping in the arms of Death;The silent, fathomless anguish that engulfsHim who has found the precious power to love,And sees that all he loves is torn from him;His dying moments who is void of hope;Jezebel; Nero; Judas; any oneOf all the hideous things that crawled through lifeIn human form;—what mortal could expressAll that he feels in one or all of these,Giving the very image of his thought?Life, Death, Hell, Judgment, Resurrection,God—Who can express their meaning? Who can boundAwe that is infinite in finite words?Thus much of us must ever be concealed—Spite of the high ambition to be bornOf what is noblest in us,—till His breathWho woke the morning stars to sing their song,Awakes our souls to fuller utterance.

There is a voice that never stirs the lips,—Felt, but not heard; that vibrates through the soul,—A solemn music; but no human speechCan give that music to the ambient air.

The noblest poem poet ever wrote;The brightest picture artist ever drew;The loftiest music lyrist ever sung;The gentlest accents woman ever spoke,—Are paraphrases of a felt original,That lip, or pen, or pencil, cannot showUnto the seeing eye or listening ear.The thoughts we utter are but half themselves.The poet knows this well. The artist knowsHis hands bear not the burden of his thoughtsUpon the canvas. The musician knowsHis soul must ever perish on his lips.Even the eye,—“the window of the soul,”—Though it may shed a light a little way,Gives but a glimpse of that which burns within.

The sweet, unconscious tenderness of flowers;The boundless awe of star-encircled night;The tear that trickles down an old man’s cheek;Ocean’s loud pulse, that makes our own beat high;The vocal throb of a great multitude;The pause when we have heard and said “Farewell,”And feel the pressure of a hand that’s gone;The thought that we have wronged our truest friend,When he is sleeping in the arms of Death;The silent, fathomless anguish that engulfsHim who has found the precious power to love,And sees that all he loves is torn from him;His dying moments who is void of hope;Jezebel; Nero; Judas; any oneOf all the hideous things that crawled through lifeIn human form;—what mortal could expressAll that he feels in one or all of these,Giving the very image of his thought?

Life, Death, Hell, Judgment, Resurrection,God—Who can express their meaning? Who can boundAwe that is infinite in finite words?

Thus much of us must ever be concealed—Spite of the high ambition to be bornOf what is noblest in us,—till His breathWho woke the morning stars to sing their song,Awakes our souls to fuller utterance.

Rejoice ye tribes of Israel, the Lord was on your side,Your fierce and daring enemies have fallen in their pride.In vain the heathen strove against Jehovah’s awful word,For Ammon’s proud, presumptuous sons have perished by the sword.

From Aroer to Minnith and to Abel’s fertile plainOf twenty noble cities the “mighty men” are slain;Rejoice, thou son of Gilead, the Lord hath heard thy vow,—Thy foes are crushed, thy father’s sons before thy presence bow.

It is an hour of triumph to the warrior and his band,An hour of stern rejoicing to all the chosen land,When the conqueror of Ammon, the valiant of his race,Beholds once more, with well-earned joy, his long-lost native place.

But who is this advancing with gay attendant crowd?O Jephthah! dost remember now the vow that thou hast vowed?Why is thy face so ghastly pale? why sinks thy noble head?Thy daughter’s blood must now atone for all that thou hast shed!

Honour and pomp and victory are all forgotten now,And clouds of darkest anguish sweep across the father’s brow.He speaks—his words are words of death: he orders—is obeyed—And lonely mountains mourn the fate of Israel’s queenly maid.

Rejoice, ye tribes of Israel, the Lord was on your side,Your fierce presumptuous enemies have fallen in their pride?But, Jephthah, thou art childless now, lift up thy voice and weep!No sound of wailing can disturb thy daughter’s dreamless sleep!

May, 1858.

I’ve seen the Ocean try to kiss the Moon,Till the wild effort of his hopeless loveTortured him into madness, and the roarFrom his great throat was terrible to hear;And his vast bosom heaved such awful sighsAs made Earth tremble to her very bones,And all her children cling to her for fear.And I have watched and seen a gentle changeCome over him, till, like a child, he lay,That, disappointed, cries herself asleep,And on her sorrow angels paint a dreamSo happy that her face is one sweet smile.So have I seen the love-tost Ocean smileAfter his fury, till I almost hopedThat the gay Moon would never tempt him more.But ever his heart throbs at her approach,And he awakes in all the strength of love,And frets himself to madness, watching her.And when, as I have sometimes seen, the Sun,His mighty rival, struts before his eyesWith her he loves, and warmly looks on her,Oh! how his heart is torn with jealousy!Oh! how he froths and foams and moans and raves,Till all his energy is lost in sleep,From which his love will rouse him soon again!So did I learn the Ocean’s tale of love,Watching him, day by day, for many years,Hearing him often murmur in his sleepSuch sweet, sad murmurs, that I pitied him;And, like Electra, sat beside his bedTill all the madness of his love awoke.O Ocean! thou art like the human heart,Which craves forever what it cannot have,And, though a little it forget its strifeOf longing, only wakes to long againFor that which is no more accessibleThan is the Moon to thee! Yet, shouldst thou lieDull, sluggish, motionless, thy very lifeWould grow corrupt, and from the stagnant massAll things abominable would creep forthTo soil with slimy poison the fair Earth;And that alone which moves thee to thy heartCan keep thee pure and bright and beautiful!So, by the anguish of a hopeless love,—So, by the madness born of mental pain,—So, by the endless strife of joy and fear,—So, by all sufferings, tortures, agonies,—So, by the powers that shake it to its depths,—So, by the very loss of what it seeks,—The heart is purified, and that which seemsIts death gives it a fresher, truer life.

And when, as I have sometimes seen, the Sun,His mighty rival, struts before his eyesWith her he loves, and warmly looks on her,Oh! how his heart is torn with jealousy!Oh! how he froths and foams and moans and raves,Till all his energy is lost in sleep,From which his love will rouse him soon again!

So did I learn the Ocean’s tale of love,Watching him, day by day, for many years,Hearing him often murmur in his sleepSuch sweet, sad murmurs, that I pitied him;And, like Electra, sat beside his bedTill all the madness of his love awoke.

O Ocean! thou art like the human heart,Which craves forever what it cannot have,And, though a little it forget its strifeOf longing, only wakes to long againFor that which is no more accessibleThan is the Moon to thee! Yet, shouldst thou lieDull, sluggish, motionless, thy very lifeWould grow corrupt, and from the stagnant massAll things abominable would creep forthTo soil with slimy poison the fair Earth;And that alone which moves thee to thy heartCan keep thee pure and bright and beautiful!

So, by the anguish of a hopeless love,—So, by the madness born of mental pain,—So, by the endless strife of joy and fear,—So, by all sufferings, tortures, agonies,—So, by the powers that shake it to its depths,—So, by the very loss of what it seeks,—The heart is purified, and that which seemsIts death gives it a fresher, truer life.

“We passed Lochleven, and saw the Castle on the Lake from which poor Queen Mary escaped.”—The Queen’s Journal.

Sweet words of pity! Oh! if thou could’st rise,Fair Queen, from out the darkness of the tomb,And their old beauty light again thine eyes,And thy persuasive lips no more be dumb,—If thou, in all thy charms, should’st thus appear,How thy full heart would throb! With what surpriseAnd rapture thou would’t watch thy gentle peer,By sad Lochleven, as, with tender sighs,She mourned thy fate,—“Poor Mary wandered here.”

This vengeance Time hath brought thee; and thy foe,Should she, too, rise with envy in her breast,Would see thee throned with mercy in the bestAnd purest heart that ever beat belowThe purple of a Queen; whose veins are warmWith that same blood that gave the beauteous glowTo thine own cheeks. In her still lives the charm,For which, in spite of all, men worshipped thee,—Refined by honour, truth and purity.

A group of merry children played;The smiling sun to watch them stayed;A cloud came by with deadly shade;“Unus abest.”

Bright faces glow ’mid dance and game;Hush! some one named a well-known name;But dance and song go on the same;“Unus abest.”

A father joins his children’s mirth;A mother mourns an awful dearth;“Ashes to ashes, earth to earth;”“Unus abest.”

One sits before a lonely fire,Watching the flame’s unsteady spireWasting with suicidal ire;“Unus abest.”

Thus, day by day, in house or street,We miss some form we used to meet;Some human heart has ceased to beat;“Unus abest.”

The years pass on; our hair is grey;A few years more we’ll pass away,Each leaving to his friends to say“Unus abest.”

Then let us live that, when the callOf the Great Trumpet wakes us all,These words from God’s high throne may fall:“Nullus abest.”

Long, my Father, have I wanderedFrom the home I loved of old,—All Thy tender mercies squandered,All Thy loving-kindness sold.

I have sinned against Thy goodness,Mocked Thy sorrow, scorned Thy love;Treated all Thy care with rudeness,’Gainst Thy gentle Spirit strove.

Far from Thy free, bounteous table,I have fed on husks of sin;Wayward, thankless, and unstable,Father, wilt Thou take me in?

Take me, oh! in mercy take me,To Thy blessed home again,And let no enticement shake me,—Satan’s wiles nor wicked men.

I am sinful, doubting, fearing—Thou canst banish all alarm;I am weak, and blind, and erring—Thou canst shield from every harm.

Look upon me, crushed and broken,Humble, contrite, at Thy feet.Dost Thou know me? Hast Thou spoken?“Hast Thou come Thy child to meet!”

Lost and found! Once dead, now living!Once an outcast, now a son!Once despairing, now believing,—I my Father’s house have won.

Ballyshannon, 1855.

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