Too oft, I shall win nothing of the sky
But my unfilled desire, and thy desert
Can take it and still lack. Oh, might I stay
At the shut gates of heaven! that so I meet
Each issuing fate, and cling about his feet,
And melt the dreadful purpose
of his eye,

And not one power pass unimpleaded by

Whose bolt might be for thee! Aye, love is sweet
In shine or shade! But love hath jealousy,
That knowing but so little thinks so much!
And I am jealous of thee even with such
A fatal knowledge. For I wot too well
In the set season that I cannot tell
Death will be near thee.

All innocence from time.

This thought doth deflour
I dare not say

"Not now," but for the instant cull the hour,
And for the hour reap all the doubtful day,
And for the day the year: and so, forlorn,
From morn till night, from startled night till morn,
Like a blind slave I bear thine heavy ill

Till thy time comes to take it: come when 'twill,

The broken slave will bend beneath it still.

A

William Allingham.

THE MESSENGER.

MESSENGER, that stood beside my bed, In words of clear and cruel import said, (And yet methought the tone was less unkind), "I bring thee pain of body and of mind."

"Each gift of each must pay a toll to me; Nor flight, nor force, nor suit can set thee free; Until my. .brother come, I say not when: Affliction is my name, unloved of

men.'

I swooned, then bursting up in talk deranged,
Shattered to tears; while he stood by unchanged,
I held my peace, my heart with courage burned,
And to his cold touch one faint sigh returned.

Undreamt-of wings he lifted, "For a while
I vanish. Never be afraid to smile
Lest I waylay thee: curse me not; nay, love;
That I may bring thee tidings from above."

And often since, by day or night, descends

The face obdurate; now almost a friend's.
O! quite to Faith; but Frailty's lips not dare
The word. To both this angel taught a prayer.

"Lord God, thy servant, wounded and bereft,
Feels Thee upon his right hand and his left:
Hath joy in grief, and still by losing gains ;—
All this is gone, yet all myself remains !"

O

LOVELY MARY DONNELLY.

(TO AN IRISH TUNE.)

H, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best!

If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest. Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock.

Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a shower, Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its

power.

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up, Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china

cup,

Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine; It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before;
No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor
But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay!
She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete
The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet;
The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much

praised,

But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she

raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung,
Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my

tongue;

But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands,

And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.

If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright,

And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

O might we live together in a lofty palace hall,

Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!
O might we live together in a cottage mean and small;
With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!

O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress.
It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less.
The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and

low;

But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!

THE COLD WEDDING.

UT three days gone

BUT

Her hand was won

By suitor finely skilled to woo;

And now come we

In pomp to see

The Church's ceremonials due.

The Bride in white

Is clad aright,

Within, her carriage closely hid;

No blush to veil

For too, too pale

The cheek beneath each downcast lid.

White favours rest

On every breast;

And yet methinks we seem not gay.

The church is cold,

The priest is old,—

But who will give the bride away?

Now, delver, stand,

With spade in hand,

All mutely to discharge thy trust
Priest's words sound forth;

They're "Earth to earth,

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

The groom is Death;

He has no breath;

(The wedding peals, how slow they swing!)

With icy grip

He soon will clip

Her finger with a wormy ring.

A match most fair.

This silent pair,

Now to each other given forever,

Were lovers long,

Were plighted strong

In oaths and bonds that could not sever.