O for the pure chains that have bound me,
Warm from thy red lips circling round me!
O in my soul, as the light above me,
Queen of the pure hearts! do I love thee!

THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS
(1814-1845)

A CHRISTMAS SCENE, OR LOVE IN THE COUNTRY

I

HE hill blast comes howling through leaf-rifted

trees

That late were as harp-strings to each gentle

breeze;

The strangers and cousins and every one flown,
While we sit happy-hearted-together alone.

II

Some are off to the mountain, and some to the fair, The snow is on their cheek, on mine your black hair; Papa with his farming is busy to-day,

And mamma's too good-natured to ramble this way.

III

The girls are gone are they not? into town,

To fetch bows and bonnets, perchance a beau, down; Ah! tell them, dear Kate, 'tis not fair to coquette — Though you, you bold lassie, are fond of it yet!

IV

You're not do you say? Just remember last night, You gave Harry a rose, and you dubbed him your knight;

Poor lad! if he loved you-but no, darling! no, You're too thoughtful and good to fret any one so.

V

The painters are raving of light and of shade,
And Harry, the poet, of lake, and of glade;

While the light of your eye and your soft wavy form
Suit a proser like me, by the hearth bright and warm.

VI

'The snow on those hills is uncommonly grand,

But you know, Kate, it's not half so white as your hand,

And say what you will of the gray Christmas sky,
Still I slightly prefer my dark girl's gray eye.

VII

Be quiet, and sing me "The Bonny Cuckoo,"
For it bids us the summer and winter love through;
And then I'll read out an old ballad that shows
How Tyranny perished, and Liberty rose.

VIII

My Kate! I'm so happy your voice whispers soft, And your cheek flushed wilder from kissing so oft, For town or for country, for mountains or farms, What care I? My darling's entwined in my arms.

A NATION ONCE AGAIN

HEN boyhood's fire was in my blood,
I read of ancient freemen,

WE

For Greece and Rome who bravely stood,

Three Hundred men and Three men.'

And then I prayed I yet might see

Our fetters rent in twain,

And Ireland, long a province, be
A Nation once again.

And, from that time, through wildest woe
That hope has shone, a far light;
Nor could love's brightest summer glow
Outshine that solemn starlight:

It seemed to watch above my head
In forum, field, and fane;
Its angel voice sang round my bed,
"A Nation once again."

It whispered, too, that "freedom's ark
And service high and holy,
Would be profaned by feelings dark,
And passions vain or lowly:

For freedom comes from God's right hand,
And needs a godly train;

And righteous men must make our land

A Nation once again."

1 The Three Hundred Greeks who died at Thermopylæ, and the Three Romans who kept the Sublician Bridge.-Davis.

So, as I grew from boy to man,
I bent me to that bidding
My spirit of each selfish plan
And cruel passion ridding;
For, thus I hoped some day to aid
Oh! can such hope be vain?
When my dear country shall be made
A Nation once again.

Τ

A PLEA FOR LOVE

HE summer brook flows in the bed,

The winter torrent tore asunder; The skylark's gentle wings are spread Where walk the lightning and the thunder; And thus you'll find the sternest soul

The gayest tenderness concealing, And minds that seem to mock control, Are ordered by some fairy feeling.

Then, maiden! start not from the hand
That's hardened by the swaying sabre
The pulse beneath may be as bland

As evening after day of labour:

--

And, maiden ! Start not from the brow
That thought has knit, and passion darkened

In twilight hours, 'neath forest bough,

The tenderest tales are often hearkened.