EVENING ODE,

ADAPTED TO THE PSYCHOLOGICAL AND POETICAL TASTE OF THE AGE.

HARK! 'tis the meditative hour

When the soul feels in all their power

Its aspirations heavenward rise

Drawing it gently toward the skies.
And high angelic colloquies.

Welcome! sweet hour of rest and calm,
That bring'st the wounded spirit balm,
That, mild as thine own pensive star,
Stillest the breast's intestine war,
And bidd'st the passions cease to jar.

Let nó unhallowed thought intrude
Upón my evening solitude,

When faith and hope with taper bright
Scattering the darkness of the night
Shed áll around extatic light,

Pointing to realms of bliss above,

Régions of innocence and love,

Where néver breast shall heave a sigh,

Where never tear shall dim the eye,

Where none are born and none shall die;:

Where spirits, that here lived in pain
Dragging their sordid earthly chain,
Ín-entering at the narrow door
Shall bathe in bliss for evermore
Upón a safe and stormless shore.

DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY (IRELAND), Febr. 9, 1855.

SATURDAY clothed in plain drúgget
And with cáre and hárd work wórn out,
Happened once to meét her idle
Sister Súnday in her sátins: -

"I'm so glad to meet you, sister,"
Saturday in húmble tóne said,
"Fór I knów you 're ténderhearted
Ánd will lend a hand to help me.

"Fróm before daylight this morning
I've been washing up and scrúbbing,
Brúshing, dusting, réguláting,
Till I've not a bóne but 's áching.

"Cóme, do pút your hand to, sister;
Éxercise you knów is wholesome
Ánd a sovereign cúre for énnui

And you 're looking dúll and languid."

"Nóthing would so múch delight me,"
Answered Sunday with a símper,
"Ás in any way t'oblige you,
Ór your heavy burden lighten;

"Bút I need not tell you, sister, Hów I make 't a point of conscience Tó live álways like a lády

Ánd with nó work soil my fingers.

"And even wére I, which I am not, Óf myself inclined to lábor,

God's commandment is explicit:

'My seventh child shall dó no lábor'."

"God's seventh child! why, thát 's myself," said

Sáturday laying down her rúbber;

"Whát a foól I 've been to wórk so!

Bút in future I'll be wiser.

"Hów came yoú so lóng to insist on 't 'Twas the first child wás exémpted, Ánd make your six younger sisters Work, to keep you like a lády?

"Nów you 've lét by chánce the truth out, Ít 's the seventh child is exémpted

--

Take the scrubber; ón your knees down;
Í 'll dress fine and pray and idle."

"You had once your túrn," said Sunday, "The seventh child once wás exémpted,

ás

And I worked just as you nów do,
Í and your five élder sisters;

"Bút you grew so proúd and saúcy

Heaven or eárth could nót endúre it,
Ánd your birthright was taken from you
And bestówed upón your bétters."

"I remember wéll the robbery.
And the liés to justify it;

And how, nót t' expose the family,
Í put up with 't and said nothing.

"I remember toó, my sisters,
When they advised me to keep quiet,
Próphesied you 'd soón grow proúder,
Saúcier får than ever I was.

"Lét her have it,' óne and áll cried; 'Privilége was éver ódious;

Lét her have it, máke the most of it; Cóme, dear Sáturday, with ús work.'

“Ĺ obeyed; you took my title;
Called yourself God's Holy Sabbath,
Dréssed in sátin, prayed and idled,
Ánd grew évery day more saúcy,

"Móre hardhearted, vain and selfish,. Móre intolerant, súpercílious,

Hypocrítical, overbearing,

Céremónious and religious,

"Till at last the whole world hátes you,

Fears you no less than despises,

Cálls you in plain térms impóstor,
Foúl usurper óf my birthright."

"Véry fine talk fór my lády
Dówagér Profáni Prócul;

Why! it's not my likeness, sister,
Bút your own you have been drawing;

"Faithful from your mémory drawing, Ás you were while you reigned mistress Ánd your flátterers lów before you

Bówed and kissed the hém of your garment.

"Who was 't thén was óverbearing?

Who was 't thén was súpercilious?

Who was 't then was vaín and sélfish,
Céremónious and religious?

"Ánd if nów you 're something wiser,
Sómething more discreét and módest,
Léss encroaching, sánctimónious,
Phárisáical and exclusive,

"I'm to thank for 't, whó have taught you That 'twasn't you your flátterers cáred for, Bút to have something to flátter,

Ány idol tó bow down to."

Súch the Billingsgáte the sisters

Flúng and réflung át each other;
Which aimed bést and hit the hardest,
Júdge, for I can't, patient reáder.

DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY (IRELAND), Dec. 25, 1854.