Slow and unmounted will I roam, with wearied foot, alone, Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold? LIII.—THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.-Lady Dufferin, I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side, On a bright May morning, long ago, when first you were my bride. The corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on your lip, Mary, and the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary, the day is bright as then, But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath warm on my cheek; And I still keep listening for the words, you never more may speak! 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary-I see the spire from here; But the graveyard lies between, Mary, and my step might break your rest; For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, for the poor make no new friends; Yours was the brave good heart, Mary, that still kept hoping on, was gone: There was comfort ever on your lip, and the kind look on your brow; I bless you for the same, Mary, though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for that patient smile, when your heart was like to break, When the hunger-pain was gnawing there, and you hid it for my sake! I bless you for the pleasant word, when your heart was sad and sore, Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, where grief can sting no more. I'm bidding you a long farewell, my Mary, kind and true, But I'll not forget you, darling, in the land I'm going to: They say there's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there; But I'll not forget Old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair! And often in those grand old woods, I'll sit and shut my eyes, LIV.-LORD WILLIAM.-Southey. No eye beheld when William plunged young Edmund in the stream; The ancient house af Erlingford stood in a fair domain ; But never could Lord William dare to gaze on Severn's stream; Slow went the passing hours, yet swift the months appeared to roll; For, well had conscience calender'd young Edmund's dying day. In vain Lord William sought the feast, in vain he quaffed the bowl, With cold and death-like feelings seemed to thrill his shuddering frame. Reluctant, now, as night came on, his lonely couch he pressed; ་་ I bade thee with a father's love my orphan Edmund guard Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge! now take thy due reward!" Then William leaped into the boat, his terror was so sore; "Thou shalt have half my gold!" he cried. "Haste!-haste to yonder shore!" The boatman plied the oar; the boat went light along the stream ;— Sudden Lord William heard a cry, like Edmund's drowning scream! The boatman paused: "Methought I heard a child's distressful cry!” "'Twas but the howling wind of night," Lord William made reply; "Haste !-haste!-ply swift and strong the oar! haste!-haste across the stream!" Again Lord William heard a cry, like Edmund's drowning scream! "I heard a child's distressful voice," the boatman said again. 66 Nay, hasten on!—the night is dark-and we should search in vain!" To stretch the powerless arms in vain, in vain for help to scream!" The boatman plied the oar-the boat approached his resting-place- save!" The child stretched forth its little hands-to grasp the hand he gave, Then William shrieked; the hand he touched was cold, and damp, and dead! He felt young Edmund in his arms! a heavier weight than lead! "Oh, mercy! help!" Lord William cried, "the waters o'er me flow!" "No-to a child's expiring cries no mercy didst thou show!" The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk, beneath the avenging stream, he shrieked-no human ear heard William's drowning scream. He rose, LV.-CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.-Mrs. Hemans. Where a King lay stately on his bier, in the church of Fontévraud; And light, as the noon's broad light, was flung on the settled face of On the settled face of Death, a strong and ruddy glare, Though dimmed at times by censers' breath, yet it fell still brightest there, As if each deeply-furrowed trace of earthly years to show: Alas! that sceptred mortal's race had surely closed in woe! The marble floor was swept by many a long dark stole, As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, sang Mass for the parted soul: And solemn were the strains they poured in the stillness of the night, With the Cross above, and the crown, and sword,-and the silent King in sight. There was heard a heavy clang, as of steel-girt men the tread; And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang, with a sounding thrill of dread. And the holy chant was hushed awhile, as, by the torches' flame, A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle, with a mail-clad Leader came. He came with haughty look, a dark glance high and clear; But his prond heart 'neath his breast-plate shook, when he stood beside the bier. He stood there still, with drooping brow, and clasped hands o'er it raised For his Father lay before him low-it was Coeur de Lion gazed. And silently he strove with the workings of his breast; But there's more in late repented love, than steel may keep suppressed. And his tears brake forth at last like rain-men held their breath in awe, For his face was seen by his warrior-train, and he recked not that they saw. He looked upon the dead! and sorrow seemed to lie, A weight of sorrow, even as lead, pale on the fast-shut eye. 66 Hear me! but hear me!-Father, Chief, my King! I must be heard!— Hushed, hushed?-how is it that I call, and that thou answerest not? When was it thus ?-Woe, woe, for all the love my soul forgot! "Thy silver hairs I see, so still, so sadly bright! And, Father, Father! but for me, they had not been so white! bore thee down, high heart! at last no longer couldst thou strive— "Oh! for one moment of the past, to kneel, and say, 'Forgive!' "Thou that my boyhood's guide didst take fond joy to be !The times I've sported at thy side, and climbed thy parent knee! And now, before the blessed shrine, my Sire, I see thee lie,—— How will that sad still face of thine, look on me till I die!" LVI.—THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE.-Macaulay. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now, let there be the merry sound of music and of dance. Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh, pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, For cold, and stiff, and still, are they who wrought thy walls annoy. F Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, The king is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Down all our line, a deafening shout, "Long live our lord the King." "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray— Press where you see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; Now, Heaven be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain. Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne ! That Antwerp monks may sing a Mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. |