286

THE DREAMER.

But where the incessant din

Of iron hands and roar of brazen throats
Join their unmingling notes,

While the long Summer-day is pouring in,
Till day is gone and darkness doth begin;
Dream I-as in the corner where I lie

On wintry nights, just covered from the sky;
Such is my fate, and barren though it seem,
Yet, thou blind, soulless scorner, yet I dream.

And yet I dream

Dream, were man more just, I might have been
How strong, how fair, how kindly and serene,
Glowing of heart and glorious of mien.
The conscious crown to nature's blissful scene
Is just and equal brotherhood, to glean
With all mankind exhaustless pleasure keen;
Such is my dream.

And yet I dream

I, the despised of fortune, lift mine eye,
Bright with the lustre of integrity,
In unappealing wretchedness on high,
And the last rage of destiny defy;
Resolved, alone to live-alone to die,
Nor swell the tide of human misery.

And yet I dream—

Dream of a sleep where dreams no more shall come,

My last, my first, my only welcome home.

Rest, unbeheld since life's beginning stage,
Sole remnant of my glorious heritage,
Unalienable, I shall find thee yet,
And in thy soft embrace the past forget.
Thus do I dream.

THE MINSTREL BOY.

THE FALLEN WIFE.-PHILLIPS.

287

ELL might she lament over her fallen fortunes! well might

WELL

she mourn over the memory of days when the sun of heaven seemed to rise but for her happiness! well might she recall the home she had endeared, the children she had nursed, the hapless husband, of whose life she was the pulse! But one short week before, this earth could not reveal a lovelier vision:--virtue blessed, affection followed, beauty beamed on her: the light of every eye, the charm of every heart, she moved along in cloudless chastity, cheered by the song of love, and circled by the splendors she created! Behold her now, the loathsome refuse of an adulterous bed; festering in the very infection of her crime; the scoff and scorn of their unmanly, merciless, inhuman author! But thus it ever is with the votaries of guilt; the birth of their crime is the death of their enjoyment; and the wretch who flings his offering on its altar falls an immediate victim to the flame of his devotion. I am glad it is so; it is a wise, retributive dispensation; it bears the stamp of a preventive Providence. I rejoice it is so, in the present instance, first, because this premature infliction must insure repentance in the wretched sufferer: and next, because, as this adulterous fiend has rather acted on the suggestions of his nature than his shape, by rebelling against the finest impulse of man, he has made himself an outlaw from the sympathies of humanity. Why should he expect that charity from you, which he would not spare even to the misfortunes he had inflicted? For the honor of the form in which he is disguised, I am willing to hope he was so blinded by his vice that he did not see the full extent of those misfortunes. If he had feelings capable of being touched, it is not to the faded victim of her own weakness and of his wickedness that I would direct them. There is something in her crime which affrights charity from its commiseration.

THE MINSTREL BOY.-THOMAS MOORE.

HE minstrel boy to the war is gone;

THE

In the ranks of Death you'll find him.

His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.

288

ABOUT HUSBANDS.

"Land of song," said the warrior-bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee."

The minstrel fell: but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under.
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder,
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery;

Thy songs were made for the pure and the free;
They never shall sound in slavery."

ABOUT HUSBANDS.-J. G. SAXE.

OHNSON was right. I don't agree to all

JOH

The solemn dogmas of that rough old stager;
But very much approve what one might call
The minor morals of the "Ursa Major."

Johnson was right. Although some men adore
Wisdom in women, and with learning cram her,
There isn't one in ten but thinks far more

Of his own grub than of his spouse's grammar.

I know it is the greatest shame in life;

But who among us (save, perhaps ourself),
Returning hungry home but asks his wife.

What beef-not books-she has upon the shelf?

Though Greek and Latin be the lady's boast,
They're little valued by her loving mate.
The kind of tongue that husbands relish most,
Is modern, boiled, and served upon a plate.

Or if, as fond ambition may command,

Some home-made verse the happy matron show him, What mortal spouse but from her dainty hand

Would sooner see a pudding than a poem ?

THE "HOLLY AND IVY" GIRL.

Young lady-deep in love with Tom or Harry-
'Tis sad to tell you such a tale as this;
But here's the moral of it :-Don't you marry,
Or, marrying, take your lover as he is,

A very man, with something of a brute
(Unless he prove a sentimental hoddy),
With passions strong and appetite to boot-
A thirsty soul within a hungry body.

A very man, not one of nature's clods

With human feeling, whether saint or sinner;
Endowed, perhaps, with genius from the gods,
But apt to take his temper from his dinner

289

THE "HOLLY AND IVY" GIRL.-J. KEEGAN.

COM

YOME, buy my nice, fresh ivy, and my holly-sprigs so green;
I have the finest branches that ever yet were seen.

Come, buy from me, good Christians, and let me home, I pray,
And I'll wish you Merry Christmas Times, and a Happy New-

Year's Day.'

6

"Ah! won't you take my ivy ?-the loveliest ever seen!

Ah! won't you have my holly-boughs?—all you who love the green!

Do!-take a little bunch of each, and on my knees I'll pray
That God may bless your Christmas, and be with you New-Year's

Day.

"This wind is black and bitter, and the hailstones do not spare My shivering form, my bleeding feet, and stiff, entangled hair; Then, when the skies are pitiless, be merciful, I say—

So Heaven will light your Christmas and the coming New-Year's Day."

'Twas thus a dying maiden sung, whilst the cold hail rattled

down,

And fierce winds whistled mournfully o'er Dublin's dreary

town ;-

290

THE LAKE of the dISMAL SWAMP.

One stiff hand clutched her ivy-sprigs and holly-boughs so fair,
With the other she kept brushing the hail-drops from her hair.

So grim and statue-like she seemed, 'twas evident that Death
Was lurking in her footsteps-whilst her hot, impeded breath
Too plainly told her early doom-though the burden of her lay
Was still of life, and Christmas joys, and a Happy New-Year's
Day.

'Twas in that broad, bleak Thomas-street I heard the wanderer

sing;

I stood a moment in the mire, beyond the ragged ring;—
My heart felt cold and lonely, and my thoughts were far away,
Where I was, many a Christmas-tide and Happy New-Year's Day.
I dreamed of wanderings in the woods amongst the holly green;
I dreamed of my own native cot, and porch with ivy screen;
I dreamed of lights forever dimm'd-of hopes that can't return-
And dropped a tear on Christmas fires that never more can burn.

The ghostlike singer still sung on, but no one came to buy;
The hurrying crowd passed to and fro, but did not heed her cry;
She uttered one low, piercing moan-then cast her boughs away-—
And smiling, cried-"I'll rest with God before the New-Year's

Day!'

وو

*

*

*

*

On New-Year's Day I said my prayers above a new-made grave,
Dug decently in sacred soil, by Liffey's murmuring wave;
The minstrel maid from earth to heaven has winged her happy

way,

And now enjoys, with sister saints, an endless New-Year's Day.

THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.-THOMAS Moore.

"THEY made her a grave too cold and damp

For a soul so warm and true;

And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where, all night long, by a firefly lamp,

She paddles her white canoe.