All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call,

It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was

over all;

The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,

And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

For, lying broad awake, I thought of you and Effie dear;

I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resigned,

And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed; And then did something speak to me, I know not what was said;

For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,

And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them, it's mine";

And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.

And once again it came, and close beside the window

bars;

Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among

the stars.

So now I think my time is near; I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to

go.

And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day;

But Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away.

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;

There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet.

If I had lived

his wife;

I cannot tell I might have been

But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

O, look! the sun begins to rise! the heavens are in a

glow;

He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I

know.

And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine,

Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done

The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the

sun,

Forever and forever with those just souls and true, And what is life, that we should moan? why make

we such ado?

Forever and forever, all in a blessed home,

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come,To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

TO-MORROW

BY ALFRED TENNYSON

Her that yer Honor was spakin' to? Whin, yer Honor? last year

Standin' here by the bridge, whin last yer Honor was

here;

An', yer Honor, ye gev her the top o' the mornin'; To-morra," says she.

What did they call her, yer Honor? They call'd her Molly Magee.

An' yer Honor's the thrue ould blood that always manes to be kind,

But there's rason in all things, yer Honor, for Molly was out o' her mind.

Shure, an' meself remimbers wan night comin' down be the sthrame,

An' it seems to me now like a bit o' yistherday in a dhrame

Here where yer Honor seen her there was but a slip of a moon,

But I hard thim - Molly Magee wid her batchelor,

"You've been takin' a dhrop o' the crathur," and Danny says, "Troth, an' I been

Dhrinkin' yer health wid Shamus O'Shea at Katty's shebeen; *

But I must be lavin' ye soon.' ." "Ochone, are ye goin'

away?"

"Goin' to cut the Sassenach whate," he says,

over

the say "An' whin will ye meet me agin?" An' I hard him,

"Molly asthore,

"I'll meet ye agin to-morra," says he, "be the chapeldoor."

"And whin' are ye goin' to lave me?" "Oh, Monday mornin'," says he;

"An' shure, thin, ye'll meet me to-morra?" " Tomorra, to-morra, machree!”

Thin Molly's ould mother, yer Honor, that had no likin' for Dan,

Call'd from her cabin an' tould her to come away from

the man;

An' Molly Magee kem flyin' acrass me, as light as a

lark,

An' Dan stood there for a minute, an' thin wint into

the dark.

But wirrah! the storm that night the tundher, and

rain that fell,

An' the sthrames runnin' down at the back o' the glin 'ud 'a' dhrownded hell.

* Grog-shop.

But airth was at pace nixt mornin', an' hivin in its glory smiled,

As the Holy Mother o' Glory that smiles at her sleepin'

child

Ethen she stept an the chapel-green, an' she turn'd herself roun',

Wid a diamond dhrop in her eye, for Danny was not to be foun';

An' many's the time that I watch'd her at mass, lettin' down the tear,

For the divil a Danny was there, yer Honor, for forty year.

Och, Molly Magee, wid the red o' the rose an' the white o' the May,

An' yer hair as black as the night, an' yer eyes as bright as the day!

Achora, yer laste little whishper was sweet as the lilt of a bird!

Acushla, ye set me heart batin' to music wid ivery word!

An' sorra the queen wid her sceptre in sich an illigant

han',

An' the fall o' yer foot in the dance was as light as snow an the lan'.

An' the sun kem out of a cloud whiniver ye walkt in the shtreet,

An' Shamus O'Shea was yer shadda, an' laid himself undher yer feet;