As if the late and early were but one A height, a broken grange, a grove, a flower

Had murmurs 'Lost and gone and lost and gone!'

A breath, a whisper-some divine farewell

Desolate sweetness

far and far away What had he loved, what had he lost, the boy?

I know not and I speak of what has been. And more, my son! for more than once when I

Sat all alone, revolving in myself The word that is the symbol of myself,

Shines bin sulpetive

The key to that weird casket, which for thee

But holds a skull, is neither thine nor mine,

But in the hand of what is more than

- for Hunger hath the Evil eye

To vex the noon with fiery gems, or fold Thy presence in the silk of sumptuous looms;

Nor roll thy viands on a luscious tongue, Nor drown thyself with flies in honied wine;

Nor thou be rageful, like a handled bee, And lose thy life by usage of thy sting;

II.

Ah, clasp me in your arms, sister, ah, fold me to your breast!

Ah, let me weep my fill once more, and cry myself to rest!

To rest? to rest and wake no more were better rest for me,

Than to waken every morning to that face I loathe to see:

III.

harm, Nor make a snail's horn shrink for wan

calm you lay,

The night was calm, the morn is calm, and like another day;

But I could wish yon moaning sea would rise and burst the shore,

And such a whirlwind blow these woods, as never blew before.

IV.

For, one by one, the stars went down across the gleaming pane,

And project after project rose, and all of them were vain;

The blackthorn-blossom fades and falls and leaves the bitter sloe, The hope I catch at vanishes and youth is turn'd to woe.

V.

Come, speak a little comfort! all night I pray'd with tears,

And yet no comfort came to me, and now the morn appears,

When he will tear me from your side, who bought me for his slave: This father pays his debt with me, and weds me to my grave.

VI.

What father, this or mine, was he, who, on that summer day

When I had fall'n from off the crag we clamber'd up in play, Found, fear'd me dead, and groan'd, and took and kiss'd me, and again He kiss'd me; and I loved him then; he was my father then.

TOMORROW.

I.

HER, that yer Honour was spakin' to? Whin, yer Honour? last year Standin' here by the bridge, when last yer Honour was here?

An' yer Honour ye gev her the top of the

mornin', 'Tomorra,' says she.

What did they call her, yer Honour? They call'd her Molly Magee. An' yer Honour's the thrue ould blood that always manes to be kind, But there's rason in all things, yer Honour, for Molly was out of her mind.

II.

Shure, an' meself remimbers wan night comin' down be the sthrame, An' it seems to me now like a bit of yisther-day in a dhrame Here where yer Honour seen her - there was but a slip of a moon, - Molly Magee wid her bachelor, Danny O'Roon You've been takin' a dhrop o' the crathur,' an' Danny says, 'Troth, an' I been

But I hard thim

-

Dhrinkin' yer health wid Shamus O'Shea at Katty's shebeen; 1

But I must be lavin' ye soon.' 'Ochone are ye goin' away?'

-

Goin' to cut the Sassenach whate,' he says, 'over the say'. 'An' whin will ye meet me agin?' an' I hard him, 'Molly asthore,

I'll meet you agin tomorra,' says he, 'be the chapel-door.'

An' whin are ye goin' to lave me?' 'O' Monday mornin',' says he; An' shure thin ye'll meet me tomorra?' "Tomorra, tomorra, Machree! Thin Molly's ould mother, yer Honour, that had no likin' for Dan, Call'd from her cabin an' tould her to

come away from the man,

An' Molly Magee kem flyin' acrass me, as light as a lark,

An' Dan stood there for a minute, an' thin wint into the dark.

1 Grog-shop.

Och, Molly Magee, wid the red o' the rose an' the white o' the May,

An' yer hair as black as the night, an' yer eyes as bright as the day! Achora, yer laste little whishper was sweet as the lilt of a bird! Acushla, ye set me heart batin' to music wid ivery word!

An' sorra the Queen wid her sceptre in sich an illigant han',

An' the fall of yer foot in the dance was as light as snow an the lan',

An' the sun kem out of a cloud whiniver ye walkt in the shtreet,

An' Shamus O'Shea was yer shadda, an' laid himself undher yer feet, An' I loved ye meself wid a heart and a half, me darlin', and he

'Ud 'a shot his own sowl dead for a kiss of ye, Molly Magee.