And I may not forsake her yet

To die upon the Brosna's Banks.

Yet idle as those visions seem,

They were a strange and faithful guide, When heaven itself had scarce a gleam To light my darken'd life beside; And if from grosser guilt escaped

I feel no dying dread, the thanks Are due unto the Power that shaped My visions on the Brosna's Banks.

And love, I feel, will come at last,
Albeit too late to comfort me;
And fetters from the land be cast,

Though I may not survive to see.
If then the gifted, good, and brave,
Admit me to their glorious ranks,
My memory may, tho' not my grave,
Be green upon the Brosna's Banks.

C

SONG FOR JULY 12TH, 1843

Air-" Boyne Water"

OME! pledge again thy heart and hand-
One grasp that ne'er shall sever;

Our watchword be-" Our native land!"

Our motto "Love forever!"

And let the Orange lily be

Thy badge, my patriot-brother-
The everlasting Green for me;
And we for one another.

Behold how green the gallant stem
On which the flower is blowing;
How in one heavenly breeze and beam
Both flower and stem are glowing.
The same good soil, sustaining both,
Makes both united flourish;

But cannot give the Orange growth,
And cease the green to nourish.

Yea, more

-the hand that plucks the flow'r Will vainly strive to cherish;

The stem blooms on-but in that hour
The flower begins to perish.
Regard them, then, of equal worth
While lasts their genial weather;
The time's at hand when into earth
The two shall sink together.

Ev'n thus be, in our country's cause,

Our party feelings blended; Till lasting peace, from equal laws,

On both shall have descended.

Till then the Orange lily be

Thy badge, my patriot-brotherThe everlasting Green for me;

And we for one another.

A

ALICE FURLONG
(1875-)

THE DREAMER

WIND that dies on the meadows lush, Trembling stars in the breathless hush! The maiden's sleeping face doth bloom A sad, white lily in the gloom.

Along the limpid horizon borne
The first gold breathing of the morn!
A lovely dawn of dreams doth creep
Athwart the darkness of her sleep.

In the dim shadow of the eaves
A quiet stir of lifted leaves !
As in the old, beloved days,

She wandereth by happy ways.

With half-awakened twitterings,

The young birds preen their folded wings!
She giveth a forget-me-not

To him who long ago forgot.

Athwart the meadowy, dewy-sweet,
A wind comes wandering on light feet!
For her the wind is from the south,

His kiss is kind upon her mouth.

In the bird's house of emerald
The sun is weaving webs of gold!
He never coldly went apart!

She never broke her passionate heart!

Pipeth clear from the orchard close

A thrush in the bowers of white and rose !
She waketh praying: "God is good,
With visions for my solitude."

For full delight of birds and flowers
The long day spins its golden hours.
She serves the household destinies ;
The dream is happy in her eyes.

T

THE TREES

HESE be God's fair high palaces,

Walled with fine leafen trellises,

Interstarred with the warm and luminous

azure;

Sunlights run laughing through,

And rains and honey-dew

Scatter pale pearls at every green embrasure.

The tangled twist and twine

Of his soaring staircases have mosses fine

For emerald pavement, and each leafy chamber
Is atmosphered with amber.

Athwart the mellow air

The twinkling threads of gossamer

Shimmer and shine

In many a rainbow line.