Haste for to-morrow's sun will see
The hateful spell renewed for me;
Nor can I from that home depart,
Till life shall leave my withering heart
Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,
Stirr'd by the breath of summer breeze,
And fairy songs of sweetest note,
Around us gently float.
THINK NO MORE ON ME.
AND must we part? Then fare thee well ;
But he that wails it-he can tell
How dear thou wert, how dear thou art,
And ever must be to this heart;
But now 'tis vain-it cannot be;
Farewell! and think no more on me.
Oh yes! this heart would sooner break,
Than one unholy thought awake;
I'd sooner slumber into clay
Than cloud thy spirit's beauteous ray;
Go, free as air-as angel free-
And, lady, think no more on me.
Oh! did we meet when brighter star
Sent its fair promise from afar,
I then might hope to call thee mine;
The minstrel's heart and harp were thine;
But now 'tis past-it cannot be ;
Farewell! and think no more on me.
Or do !-but let it be the hour
When Mercy's all-atoning power
From His high throne of glory hears
Of souls like thine, the prayers, the tears.
Then, whilst you bend the suppliant knee,
Then-then, O lady! think on me.
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN.
WHY ARE YOU WANDERING HERE?
'WHY are you wandering here, I pray ?'
An old man asked a maid one day.
'Looking for poppies, so bright and red,
Father,' said she, 'I'm hither led.'
'Fie! fie' she heard him cry,
'Poppies, 'tis known to all who rove,
Grow in the field, and not in the grove→
Grow in the field, and not in the grove.
'Tell me again,' the old man said,
'Why are you loitering here, fair maid ?'
"The nightingale's song, so sweet and clear,
Father,' said she, 'I come to hear.'
'Fie! fie!' she heard him cry,
'Nightingales all, so people say,
Warble by night, and not by day-
Warble by night, and not by day.'
The sage looked grave, the maiden shy,
When Lubin jumped o er the stile hard by;
The sage looked graver, the maid more glum,
Lubin he twiddled his finger and thumb.
THE GREEN LEAVES ALL TURN YELLOW.
'Fie! fie!' the old man's cry;
'Poppies like these, I own, are rare,
And of such nightingales' songs beware-
And of such nightingales' songs beware.'
THE GREEN LEAVES ALL TURN YELLOW.
A SAGE once to a maiden sung,
While summer leaves were growing;
Experience dwelt upon his tongue,
With love her heart was glowing:
'The summer bloom will fade away,
And will no more be seen;
These flowers, that look so fresh and gay,
Will not be ever green-
For the green leaves all turn yellow.
"'Tis thus with the delights of love,
The youthful heart beguiling;
Believe me, you will find them prove
As transient-though as smiling:
Not long they flourish, ere they fade;
As sadly I have seen;
Yes, like the summer flowers, fair maid,
Oh! none are ever green
For the green leaves all turn yellow.'
I WAS THE BOY FOR BEWITCHING THEM.
I WAS the boy for bewitching them,
Whether good-humour'd or coy;
All cried when I was beseeching them,
'Do what you will with me, joy.'
'Daughters, be cautious and steady,'
Mothers would cry out for fear;
'Won't you take care now of Teddy-
Och! he's the divil, my dear.'
For I was the boy for bewitching them,
Whether good-humour'd or coy;
All cried when I was beseeching them,
'Do what you will with me, joy.
From every quarter I gather'd them,
Very few rivals had I;
If I found any I leathered* them,
And that made them look mighty shy.
Pat Mooney, my Shelah once meeting,
I twigg'd him beginning his clack;
Says he, 'At my heart I've a beating :'
Says I, 'Then have one at your back.'
For I was the boy, etc.
Many a lass that would fly away
When other wooers but spoke,
Once if I looked her a die-away,
There was an end of the joke.
Beauties, no matter how cruel,
Hundreds of lads though they'd crost,
When I came nigh to them, jewel,
They melted like mud in the frost.
For I was the boy, etc.
MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. 265
MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.
My life is like the summer rose,
That opens to the morning sky;
But ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground-to die.
Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept the waste to see—
But none shall weep a tear for me!
My life is like the autumn leaf,
That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
Its hold is frail-its date is brief,
Restless-and soon to pass away!
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree will mourn its shade,
The winds bewail the leafless tree,
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
My life is like the prints which feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand;
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
All trace will vanish from the sand;
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore loud moans the sea,
But none, alas! shall mourn for me.
RICHARD HENRY WILDE.
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