NONE REMEMBER THEE, SAVE ME!
None remember thee! they could spy
Nought when they gazed on thee,
But thy soul's deep love in thy quiet eye-
It hath passed from their memory.
The gifts of genius were not thine,
Proudly before the world to shine--
And none remember thee,
None remember thee now thou'rt gone!
Or they could not choose but weep,
When they thought of thee, my gentle one,
In thy long and lonely sleep.
Fain would I murmur thy name, and tell
How fondly together we used to dwell—
But none remember thee,
SONG OF THE PEASANT WIFE.
COME, Patrick, clear up the storms on your brow;
You were kind to me once-will you frown on me now?
Shall the storm settle here, when from heaven it departs,
And the cold from without find its way to our hearts ?
No, Patrick, no! sure the wintriest weather,
Is easily borne when we bear it together.
Though the rain's dropping through from the roof to the floor,
And the wind whistles free where there once was a door,
Can the rain, or the snow, or the storm wash away
All the warm vows we made in our love's early day?
No, Patrick, no! sure the dark stormy weather
Is easily borne, if we bear it together.
When you stole out to woo me when labour was done,
And the day that was closing to us seemed begun,
Did we care if the sunset was bright on the flowers,
Or if we crept out amid darkness and showers?
No, Patrick! we talked, while we braved the wild weather,
Of all we could bear, if we bore it together.
Soon, soon, will these dark dreary days be gone by,
And our hearts be lit up with a beam from the sky!
Oh, let not our spirits, embittered with pain,
Be dead to the sunshine that came to us then!
Heart in heart, hand in hand, let us welcome the weather, And, sunshine or storm, we will bear it together.
THE DYING GIRL.
FROM a Munster vale they brought her,
From the pure and balmy air,
An Ormond peasant's daughter,
With blue eyes and golden hair.
They brought her to the city,
And she faded slowly there,
Consumption has no pity
For blue eyes and golden hair.
When I saw her first reclining
Her lips were mov'd in pray❜r,
And the setting sun was shining
On her loosen'd golden hair.
When our kindly glances met her,
Deadly brilliant was her eye,
And she said that she was better,
While we knew that she must die.
She speaks of Munster valleys,
The pattern, dance, and fair,
And her thin hand feebly dallies
With her scattered golden hair.
When silently we listened
To her breath with quiet care,
Her eyes with wonder glisten'd—
And she asked us, what was there?
The poor thing smiled to ask it,
And her pretty mouth laid bare,
Like gems within a casket,
A string of pearlets rare.
We said that we were trying
By the gushing of her blood
And the time she took in sighing,
To know if she were good.
Well, she smil'd and chatted gaily,
Though we saw in mute despair
The hectic brighten daily,
And the death-dew on her hair.
And oft her wasted fingers
Beating time upon the bed,
O'er some old tune she lingers,
And she bows her golden head.
At length the harp is broken,
And the spirit in its strings
As the last decree is spoken
To its source exulting springs.
Descending swiftly from the skies,
Her guardian angel came;
He struck God's lightning from her eyes,
And bore Him back the flame.
Before the sun had risen
Through the lark-loved morning air,
Her young soul left its prison,
Undefiled by sin or care.
I stood beside the couch in tears
Where pale and calm she slept,
And though I've gaz'd on death for years,
I blush not that I wept.
I check'd with effort pity's sighs
And left the matron there,
To close the curtains of her eyes,
And bind her golden hair.
RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS.
My Kathleen dearest! in truth or seeming
No brighter vision ere blessed mine eyes
Than she for whom, in Elysian dreaming,
Thy tranced lover too fondly sighs.
Oh, Kathleen fairest! if elfin splendour
Hath ever broken my heart's repose,
'Twas in the darkness, ere purely tender,
Thy smile, like moonlight o'er ocean, rose.
Since first I met thee thou knowest thine are
This passion-music, and each pulse's thrill— The flowers seem brighter, the stars diviner, And God and Nature more glorious still. I see around me new fountains gushing— More jewels spangle the robes of night; Strange harps resounding-fresh roses blushing— Young worlds emerging in purer light.
No more thy song-bird in clouds shall hover-
Oh, give him shelter upon thy breast,
And bid him swiftly, his long flight over,
From heav'n drop into that love-built nest! Like fairy flow'rets is Love thou fearest,
At once that springeth like mine from earth'Tis Friendship's ivy grows slowly, dearest,
But Love and Lightning have instant birth. The mirthful fancy and artful gesture
Hair black as tempest, and swan-like breast,
More graceful folded in simple vesture
Than proudest bosoms in diamonds drest—
Nor these, the varied and rare possession
Love gave to conquer, are thine alone;
But, oh! there crowns thee divine expression,
As saints a halo, that's all thine own.
Thou art as poets, in olden story,
Have pictur'd woman before the fall
Her angel beauty's divinest glory
The pure soul shining, like God, through all.
But vainly, humblest of leaflets springing,
I sing the queenliest flower of love:
Thus soars the skylark, presumptuous singing
The orient morning enthroned above.
Yet hear, propitious, belovèd maiden,
The minstrel's passion is pure as strong,
Though nature fated, his heart, love-laden,
Must break, or utter its woes in song.
Farewell! if never my soul may cherish
The dreams that bade me to love aspire,
By Mem'ry's altar! thou shalt not perish,
First Irish pearl of my Irish lyre !
RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS.
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