Some were sick with the surfeiture of pleasure, Some were bowed beneath a care-encumbered breast; But they all trod in turn Life's stately measure, And all paused betimes to wonder, "Is there Rest? Look, O man! to the limitless Hereafter, When thy Sense shall be lifted from its dust, T GEORGE PETRIE (1789-1866) PEARL OF THE WHITE BREAST From the Irish HERE'S a colleen fair as May, For a year and for a day I've sought by every way-Her heart to gain. There's no art of tongue or eye, Fond youths with maidens try, But I've tried with ceaseless sigh-Yet tried in vain. If to France or far-off Spain, She'd cross the watery main, To see her face again—The sea I'd brave. That mine she may not be, May the Son of Mary me-in mercy save! O thou blooming milk-white dove, Do not ever thus reprove-My constancy. There are maidens would be mine, With wealth in hand and kine, If my heart would but incline-To turn from thee. But a kiss, with welcome bland, And a touch of thy dear hand, Are all that I demand,--Wouldst thou not spurn; For if not mine, dear girl, O Snowy-breasted Pearl! May I never from the Fair-With life return! REV. J. PIERPONT ODE Air," Paddy's Land" the Emerald Isle, where our kindred are dwelling, And where the remains of our forefathers sleep, Our eyes turn to-day with the tears in them swelling ;But why are we sad, who this festival keep? We weep not for ourselves;-for our fathers, our mothers, Whom we ne'er shall see more; for our sisters, our brothers, Whom we hope to see yet; O yes, and for others We may not name aloud,-'tis for these that we weep. Poor Ireland! how long shall thy hardly earn'd treasures Be wrung from thy hand, that a priesthood may gorge, Who, year after year, are abroad on their pleasures, Or swelling the train of a William or George! 'Tis not so with thy sons on this side of the Ocean; Here we open our hands from the grateful emotion We feel to our priests, for their zeal and devotion. In removing our sins and the fetters they forge. At evening the blue eyes of many a maiden In Erin are lifted to look at the star, That is hung in the west; and the night wind is laden With sighs for the loved one beneath it afar. Girls of the green isle, O do not deplore us! In our visions ye're swimming, like angels, before us, And the Being whose shield of protection is o'er us, Hath not made the deep an impassable bar. Though absent, the fount of our faith is not frozen, While we live, of its upwelling waters we'll draw, For the maids that we love, for the land that we've chosen, Where freedom is nursed at the bosom of law. "Land of the free! for the shelter thou'st given To those whom the storm of oppression has driven From their homes, may a blessing be on thee from Heaven." Say the sons and the daughters of Erin go bragh. GEORGE NUGENT REYNOLDS MY (1770-1802) KATHLEEN O'MORE Y love, still I think that I see her once more, My Kathleen O'More! Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue, So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen, She milked the dun cow that ne'er offered to stir ; So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, She sat at the door one cold afternoon, To hear the wind blow and to gaze on the moon Cold was the night-breeze that sighed round her bower; It chilled my poor Kathleen; she drooped from that hour And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kath leen, My Kathleen O'More! |