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For they that earliest taste life's holiest feast

Must early fast, lest, grown too bold,

they dare Of them that follow after seize the


Then, though my pulse's beat forever


If where I slumbered thou shouldst

chance to pass Though grave-bound, I thy presence

should discern. HeeJless of coffin-lid and tangled


Upward to kiss thy feet my lips

would yearn; And did one spark of love thy heart


With the old rapture I should call thy


What would life keep for me if

thou shouldst go? Beloved, give me answer; for my


Is pledged unto thy service, and my heart

Apart from thee nor joy nor grace

doth know. No arid desert, no wide waste of


Looks drearier to exiled ones who start

On their forced journey than, shouldst thou depart.

This fair green earth to my dead hope would show.

And like a drowning man who struggling clings

With stiffened fingers to the rope that saves.

Thrown out to meet his deep need from the land.

So to thy thought I hold when sorrow's wings

Darken the sky, and 'mid the bitterest waves

Of fate am succored by thy friendly hand.


What lies beyond the far horizon's rim?

Ah! could our ship but reach and anchor there.

What wondrous scenes, what visions bright and fair

Would meet the eyes that gazed across the brim!

But though we crowd the canvass on and trim

Our barque with skill, the proud waves seem to bear

No nearer to that goal, and everywhere

Stretches an endless circle wide and dim.

So we do dream, treading the narrow path

Of life, between the bounds of day

and night, To-morrow turns this page so often


But when to-morrow cometh, lo! it hath

The limits of to-day, and in its light

Still lit.s tar off the unknown heaven beyond.

We sail the centre of a ceaseless round,

Forever circled by the horizon's rim: And fondly deem that from that faroff brim

Some sign will rise or some glad tidings sound.

But no word comes, nor aught to break the bound

Of sea and sky all day with distance dim.

And vanished quite when darkness,

chill and grim. About the deep her sable shroud has wound.

So on the seas of life and time we drift,

Within the circling limits of our fate.

Expectant ever of some solving breath.

But no sound comes, no pitying hand doth lift

The veil nor faith nor love can penetrate,

And to our dusk succeeds the dark of death.

Robert U. Johnson,


Here Is the water-shed of all the year,

Where "by a thought's space, thoughts do start anear

That fare most widely forth: some to the mouth

Of Arctic rivers, some to the mellow South.

The gaunt and wrinkled orchard

shivers 'neath The blast, like Lear upon the English


And mossy boughs blow wild that, undistressed,

Another spring shall hide the cheerful nest.

All things are nearer from this chilly

crown. — The solitude, the white and huddliug


And next the russet fields, of harvest shorn,

Shines the new wheat that freshens all the morn.

From out the bursting milkweed,

dry and gray. The silken argosies are launched


To mount the gust, or drift from hill to hill

And plant new colonies by road and rill.

Ah, wife of mine, whose clinging

hand I hold, Shrink you before the new, or at

the old 1

And those far eyes that hold the silence fast — Look they upon the Future, or the . Past 0

Robert Dwyer Joyce.


Kilcolemav Casti.k, an ancient and very picturesque ruin, once the residence of Spenser, hes on the shore of a small lake, about two miles to the west of Done raile, in the county of Cork, it belonged once to the Earls of Desmond, and was burned by their followers' in 159*. Spenser, who was hated by the Irish inconsequence of his stringeut advices to the English about the management of the refractory chiefs and minstrels, narrowly escaped with his life, and an infant child of his, unfortunately left behind, was burnt to death in the names.

No sound of life was coming

From glen or tree or brake,
Save the bittern's hollow booming

Up from the reedy lake;
The golden light of sunset

Was swallowed in the deep, And the night came down with a sullen frown,

On Houra's craggy steep.

And Houra's hills are soundless:

But hark, that trumpet blast! It fills the forest boundless,

Kings round the summits vast; 'Tis answered by another

From the crest of Corrin Mor, And hark again the pipe's wild strain

By Bregoge's caverned shore!

Oh, sweet at hush of even

The trumpet's golden thrill; Grand 'neath the starry heaven

The pibroch wild and shrill; Yet all were pale with terror,

The fearful and the bold. Who heard its tone that twilight lone

In the poet's frowning hold \

Well might their hearts be beating;

For up the mountain pass, By lake and river meeting

Come kern and galloglass. Breathing of vengeance deadly,

Under the forest tree. To the wizard. man who had cast the ban

On the minstrels bold and free!

They gave no word of warning,

Round still they came, and on, Door, wall, and ramparts scorning,

They knew not he was gone!
Gone fast and far that even,

All secret as the wind,
His treasures all in that castle tall,

And his infant son behind!

All still that castle hoarest;

Their pipes and horns were still, While gazed they through the forest,

Up glen and northern hill;
Till from the Brehon circle,

On Corrin's crest of stone,
A sheet of fire like an Indian pyre

Up to the clouds was thrown.

Then, with a mighty blazing,

They answered — to the sky; It dazzled their own gazing,

So bright it rolled and high; The castle of the poet —

The man of endless fame — Soon hid its head in a mantle red

Of fierce and rushing Mame.

Out burst the vassals, praying

For mercy as they sped, "Where was their master staying,

Where was the poet fied?" But hark! that thrilling screaming,

Over the crackling din,— 'Tis the poet's child in its terrorwild,

The blazing tower within!

There was a warlike giant

Amid the listening throng; He looked with face defiant

On the flames so wild and strong; Then rushed into the castle,

And up the rocky stair.
But alas, alas! he could not pass

To the burning infant there!

The wall was tottering under,

And the flame was whirring round,

The wall went down in thunder.
And dashed him to the ground;

Up in the burning chamber
Forever died that scream.

And the fire sprang out with a wilder shout

And a fiercer, ghastlier gleam!

It glared o'er hill and hollow,

Up many a rocky bar,
From ancient Kilnamulla

To Darra's Peak Mar;
Then it heaved into the darkness

With a final roar amain, And sank in gloom with a whirring boom,

And all was dark again!

Away sped the galloglasses

And kerns, all still again, Through lloura's lonely passes,

Wild, fierce, and reckless men. But such the Saxon made them,

Poor sons of war and woe; So they venged their strife with flame and knife

On his head long, long ago!


In purple robes old Sliavnamon Towers monarch of the mountains,

The first to catch the smiles of dawn, With all his woods and fountains;

His streams dance down by tower and town.

But none since time began her, Met mortal sight so pure and bright As w inding, wandering Anner.

In hillside's gleam or woodland's gloom.

O'er fairy height and hollow. Upon her banks gay flowers bloom,

Where'er her course I follow. And halls of pride hang o'er her tide,

And gleaming bridges span her, As laughing gay, she winds away, The gentle, murmuring Anner.

There gallant men. for freedom born, With friendly grasp will meet you; There lovely maids, as bright as morn,

With sunny smiles will greet you: And there they strove to raise above,

The Red. Green Ireland's banner. There yet its fold they'll see unrolled

Upon the banks of Anner.

'Tis there we'll stand, with bosoms proud,

True soldiers of our slreland, When freedom's wind blows strong and loud, And floats the flag of Ireland. Let tyrants quake, and doubly shake,

Each traitor and trepanner, When once we raise our camp-fire's blaze

Upon the banks of Anncr.

Oh, God be with the good old days, The days so light and airy,

When to blithe friends I sang my lays In gallant Tipperary!

When fair maids' sighs and witching eyes

Made my young heart the planner Of castles rare, built in the air, Upon the banks of Auner.

The morning sun may fail to show
His light the earth illuming;

Old Sliavnamon to blush and glow
In autumn's purple blooming;

And shamrocks green no more be seen,

And breezes cease to fan her, Ere I forget the friends I met Upon the banks of Anner!

Charles De Kay.


Who will tell me the secret, the cause For the life in her swift-flying hands?

How weaves she the shuttle with never a pause. With keys of the octave for strands?

Have they eyes, those soft fingers of her

That they kiss in the darkness the keys.

As in darkness the poets aver Lovers' lips will find lips by degrees 1

Ay, marvels they are in their shadowy dance,

But who is the god that has given them soul? When leanred they the spell other souls to entrance, When the heart, other hearts to control?

'Twas the noise of the waves at the prow,

The musical lapse on the beaches, Twas the surf in the night when the land-breezes blow. The song of the tide in the reaches:

She has drawn their sweet influence home

To a soul not yet clear but profound,

Where it blows like the Persian seafoam into pearls, Into pearls of melodious sound.

Henry King.


Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed,
Never to be disquieted!
My last good night! Thou wilt not

Till I thy fate shall overtake;
Till age, or grief, or sickness must
Marry my body to that dust
It so much loves, and fills the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.

Stay for me there! I will not fail
To meet thee in the hollow vale.
And think not much of my delay:
I am already on the way,
And follow thee with ail the speed
Desire can make, or sorrow heed.
Each minute is a short degree.
And every hour a step towards thee.

At night when I betake to rest.
Next morn I rise nearer my nest
Of life, almost by eight hours' sail,
Than w hen sleep breathed his drowsy

Thus from the sun my vessel steers And my day's compass downward bears;

Nor labor 1 to stem the tide Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

'Tis time, with shame and grief I yield,

Thou like the van first tak'st the field,

And gotten hast the victory,
In thus adventuring to die
Before me, whose more years might

A just precedence in the grave.
But hark! my pulse, like a soft

Beats my approach, tells thee I come;
And slow howe'er my marches be,
I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on,
And wait my dissolution
With hope and comfort. Dear, for-

The crime, — I am content to live
Divided, with but half a heart,
Till we shall meet and never part.

Rose Hawthorne' s

[From Closing Chords.] THE STRIVING s HOPE. When I shall go

Into the narrow house that leaves No room for wringing of the hands and hair,

And feel the pressing of the walls

which bear The heavy sod upon my heart, that


As the weird earth rolls on —
Then I shall know
What is the power of destiny. But

Still while my life, however sad, be mine,

I war with memory, striving to divine

Phantom to-morrows, to outrun the past:

For yet the tears of final, absolute ill

And ruinous knowledge of my fate I shun.

Even as the frail, instinctive weed Tries, through unending shade, to

reach at last A shining, mellowing, rapture-givlug


So in the deed of breathing joy's

warm breath, Fain to succeed,

I, too, in colorless longings, Ivope till death.

Henry W. Longfellow.

PRESIDENT GARFIELD. "E Tennl dal martirio a questa pace."

These words the poet heard in Paradise,

Uttered by one who, bravely dying here,

In the true faith, was living in that sphere

Where the celestial Cross of sacrifice

Spread its protecting arms athwart the skies' And, set thereon, like jewels crystal clear,

The souls magnanimous, that knew not fear, Flashed their effulgence on his dazzled eyes.

Ah, me! how dark the discipline of pain.

Were not the suffering followed by

the sense Of infinite rest and infinite release!

This is our consolation; and again A great soul cries to us in our suspense:

"I came from martyrdom unto this peace!"

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