LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 159

But, oh! they love the better still

The few our Father sends !
And you were all I had, Mary, -
My blessin' and my pride:
There's nothing left to care for now,

Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

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 bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there,
hid it for my sake;

And you

I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and sore, Oh! 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 there,

But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side,

And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,
When first you were my bride.

Lady Dufferin.

WE

THE DEATH-BED.

E watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers

To eke her living out.

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

EVELYN HOPE.

For when the morn came, dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed, — she had

Another morn than ours.

Thomas Hood.

B

EVELYN HOPE.

EAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead,-
Sit and watch by her side an hour.

That is her book-shelf, this her bed ;

She plucked that piece of geranium flower,
Beginning to die, too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think,
The shutters are shut, no light may pass,
Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died!

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name,
It was not her time to love: beside,
Her life had many a hope and aim,

Duties enough and little cares;

And now was quiet, now astir,
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,
And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?
What! your soul was pure and true;
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire, and dew, -

K

161

And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told?

We were fellow-mortals,

No, indeed! for God above

naught beside?

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love,

I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet,

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few, — Much is to learn and much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come- at last it will

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say,
In the lower earth, in the years long still,
That body and soul so pure and gay?
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,

And

your

mouth of

your own geranium's red, And what would do with me, in fine,

you

In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,
Given up myself so many times,

Gained me the gains of various men,

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me,
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue? let us see!

A BRIDAL DIRGE.

163

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while;

My heart seemed full as it could hold,

There was space and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So hush, -I will give you this leaf to keep,

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. There, that is our secret! go to sleep;

You will wake, and remember, and understand.

Robert Browning.

W

A BRIDAL DIRGE.

EAVE no more the marriage-chain!
All unmated is the lover;

Death has ta'en the place of Pain;
Love doth call on Love in vain :
Life and years of hope are over!

No more want of marriage-bell!

No more need of bridal favor!
Where is she to wear them well?
You beside the lover tell!

Gone,

with all the love he gave her!

Paler than the stone she lies;

Colder than the winter's morning!

Wherefore did she thus despise

(She with pity in her eyes)

Mother's care and lover's warning?