White as a seagull, she swept the long passage. Thunder our thanks to her! Cheer from the banks Mayflower! Foremost and best of our ships! MY NATIVE LAND T chanced to me upon a time to sail IT Across the Southern ocean to and fro; Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone, And when we found one, for 'tis soon to find And then again we yearned, and ceased to smile. } And so it was from isle to isle we passed, Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips; And when all that was tasted, then at last We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips. I learned from this there is no Southern land 'Neath foreign skies, their love flies home again With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay! And thus with me it was, the yearning turned From laden airs of cinnamon away, And stretched far westward, while the full heart burned. My first dear love, all dearer for the grief! If first to no man else, thou'rt first to me. Is deepest yet, the mother's breast and smiles; Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed Is my poor land, the Niobé of isles. TH UNSPOKEN WORDS HE kindly words that rise within the heart And thrill it with their sympathetic tone, But die ere spoken, fail to play their part And claim a merit that is not their own. The kindly word unspoken is a sin A sin that wraps itself in purest guise, And tells the heart that, doubting, looks within, That not in speech, but thought, the virtue lies. But 'tis not so: another heart may thirst For that kind word, as Hagar in the wildPoor banished Hagar-prayed a well might burst From out the sand, to save her parching child. And loving eyes that cannot see the mind Will watch the expected movement of the lip: Ah! can ye let its cutting silence wind Around that heart and scathe it like a whip? Unspoken words like treasures in the mine Are valueless until we give them birth. Like unfound gold their hidden beauties shine Which God has made to bless and gild the earth. How sad 'twould be to see a master's hand Strike glorious notes upon a voiceless lute — But oh what pain when at God's own command A heart-string thrills with kindness, but is mute! Then hide it not, the music of the soul, Dear sympathy expressed with kindly voice, But let it like a shining river roll To deserts dry-to hearts that would rejoice. Oh! let the symphony of kindly words Sound for the poor, the friendless, and the weak, And He will bless you. He who struck these chords Will strike another when in turn you seek. MARY ANNE O'REILLY A LULLABY Mo cheann ban beag, lie still and rest,1 I'll pillow thee here on my breast, Mo mhuirnin ceann ban beag.' Hush O, Hush O, Hush O, my love, Mo cheann ban beag, thy lids of snow, Hush O, Hush O, Hush O, my love, Mo chean ban beag, thy golden hair 1 Pronounced-Mo chan bawn beg, literally, Little white head. 2 Pronounced-Mavourneen kawn bawn beg, literally, My darling little white or fair head. Hush O, Hush O, Hush O, my love, My cheann ban beag, thy sleeping face, Hush O, Hush O, Hush O, my love,* Mo cheann ban beag, 'tis bliss to be Hush O, Hush O, Hush O, my love, HUSH SONG Written to an old Irish air found in C. Villiers Stanford's collection. R EST asthoreen, down the boreen Come the cows a mooing low, |