Chapter 7

She stops, for, lo! in the chamber still, Loud barking of hounds and harsh accents fill The quiet and dreamy air; Swearing at menials--with lowering brow, Earl Rathmore, entering her presence now, Turns on her an angry stare.

A shudder runs through her--what does it tell? A look in her eyes that not there should dwell-- She hates him--his wedded wife! Surely angels grieve in their bliss above To see, where there should be perfect love, Disunion--unholy strife.

With an oath he mutters "Still moping, eh! From hour to hour and day to-day; Not for this from thy lowly state-- Enticed by the beauty I'm weary of now, And smiles that have fled from thy sullen brow-- I made thee a Rathmore's mate."

With no word from her lips she to him replies, But the shadow deepens within her eyes, And she smiles in cold disdain; Yet her snowy eyelids haughty droop, And the calm, that disdains to his will to stoop, Mask an aching heart and brain.

With a muttered curse, in still harsher tone, He passes out, and thus leaves her alone In her rich and gilded gloom Ah, no wretched wife through the whole broad land Is as weary of life as that lady grand As she sits in that splendid room.

If a daughter's soft arms should ever twine, Lady Rathmore, round that white neck of thine, Teach her not to barter all The guileless love of her innocent youth, Her premised vows and maidenly truth, For another Rathmore Hall.

THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE ARNO.

'Tis no wild and wond'rous legend, but a simple pious tale Of a gentle shepherd maiden, dwelling in Italian vale, Near where Arno's glittering waters like the sunbeams flash and play As they mirror back the vineyards through which they take their way.

She was in the rosy dawning of girlhood fair and bright, And, like morning's smiles and blushes, was she lovely to the sight; Soft cheeks like sea-shells tinted and radiant hazel eyes; But on changing earthly lover were not lavished smiles or sighs.

Still, that gentle heart was swelling with a love unbounded, true, Such as worldly breast, earth harden'd, passion-wearied, never knew; And each day she sought the chapel of Our Lady in the dell, There to seek an hour's communing with the Friend she loved so well.

Often, too, she brought a garland of wild flowers, fragrant, fair, Which she culled whilst onward leading her flock with patient care; The diamond dew-drops clinging to every petal sweet,-- For the mystic Rose of Heaven was it not a tribute meet?

The white statue of the Virgin boasted neither crown nor gem; On its head she placed her chaplet instead of diadem, Murm'ring, "O, my gentle Mother, would that it were in my power To give Thee pearl or diamond instead of simple flower!"

But for earth she was too winsome, that fair child of faith and love, One of those whom God culls early for His gardens bright above; And the hand of sickness touched her till she faded day by day, And to Our Lady's chapel she came no more to pray.

One evening, in the valley, after journeying many a mile, Two pious men in holy garb lay down to rest a while, And in sleep to both a vision of most wond'rous beauty came, Such as only visit souls which burn with heav'nly love's pure flame.

Amid clouds of golden brightness they saw to earth float down A band of fair young virgins, wearing each a glittering crown; And surpassing them in beauty, as the day outshines the night, Was high Heaven's regal Mistress--Our Lady, fair and bright.

Then the pious brothers knew at once that she was on her way To see a dying maiden, and her love through life repay; And when, from slumber waking, they told their vision true, They said: "Let us go visit this child of Mary, too!"

High instinct lent by Heaven guided on their feet aright, And in silence grave they journeyed till a cottage came in sight; 'Neath its humble porch they entered, with bow'd and reverent head, And found themselves in presence of the peaceful, holy dead.

Oh! most fair the sight! No maiden with bridal wreath on brow Ever looked one half so lovely as the one they gazed on now; As a lily, fair and spotless, bright and pure each feature shone, Bearing impress of that Heaven to which Mary's child had gone.

THE TWO BIRTH NIGHTS.

Bright glittering lights are gleaming in yonder mansion proud, And within its walls are gathered a gemmed and jewelled crowd; Robes of airy gauze and satin, diamonds and rubies bright, Rich festoons of glowing flowers--truly 'tis a wondrous sight.

Time and care and gold were lavished that it might be, every way, The success of all the season--brilliant fashionable gay. 'Tis the birth night of the heiress of this splendor wealth and state, The sole child, the only darling, of a household of the great.

Now the strains of the fast _galop_ on the perfumed air arise, Rosy cheeks are turning carmine, brighter grow the brightest eyes, As the whirling crowds of dancers pass again and yet again-- Girls coquettish, silly women, vapid and unmeaning men.

'Tis a scene to fill the thoughtful with a silent, vague dismay, And from its unholy magic we are fain to steal away; Out here in the quiet moonlight we may pause awhile and rest, Whilst the solemn stars of heaven bring back peace unto our breast.

Soft! who is the fair young being--she who nightly joins us now, In a robe of airy lightness, and with jewels on her brow, Fair as the most fair ideal dreaming poet e'er inspired, Or as lover, charmed by beauty, ever worshipped and admired.

Strange! what means that look so weary, that long-drawn and painful sigh; And that gaze, intense and yearning, fixed upon the starlit sky? Is she not the child of fortune, fortune's pet and darling bright, Yes, the beauteous, courted heiress--heroine of the gala night?

From the crowds of ardent lovers, who would beset her way, Sickened by their whispered flatt'ries, she has coldly turned away; And, as now the thrilling music falls upon her wearied ear, She cannot resist a shudder, caused by mingled hate and fear.

"This is pleasure, then," she murmurs; _this_ is what the world calls bliss, Oh! for objects less unworthy, for a holier life than this! I am weary of its folly. O, Great Father, grant my boon: "From its sinful, silken meshes, I pray Thee, free me soon!"

Did He answer? Now another year has passed with rapid flight,-- O'er the crowded, silent city broods the spirit of the night; In the sick wards of the convent, fever-stricken, gasping, lies, One with death's damps on his brow, and its film o'er his eyes.

There beside him kneels a _Sister_, in coarse dusky robe and veil, And with gentle care she moistens those poor lips so dry and pale; Now she whispers hope and courage, now she tells of Heaven bright-- Thus it is the gentle heiress celebrates her next birth-night.

Not a trace of weary languor rests upon that ivory brow, No vague sigh of restless yearning e'er escapes her bosom now; Yet more fair and happy looks she, in that simple garb I ween, Than when, robed in lace and jewels, she was called a ballroom's queen.

THE YOUNG GREEK ODALISQUE.

'Mid silken cushions, richly wrought, a young Greek girl reclined, And fairer form the harem's walls had ne'er before enshrined; 'Mid all the young and lovely ones who round her clustered there, With glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, she shone supremely fair.

'Tis true that orbs as dark as hers in melting softness shone, And lips whose coral hue might vie in brightness with her own; And forms as light as ever might in Moslem's heaven be found, So full of beauty's witching grace, were lightly hovering round.

Yet, oh, how paled their brilliant charms before that beauteous one Who, 'mid their gay mirth, silent sat, from all apart--alone, Outshining all, not by the spells of lovely face or form, But by the soul that shone through all, her peerless, priceless charm.

But, say, what were the visions sweet that filled that gentle heart? Surely to Azof, her liege lord, was given the greatest part,-- To him who prized her smiles beyond the power his sceptre gave, And, mighty sultan though he was, to her was as a slave.

No, not of crowned heads thought she then, of hall or gilded dome, But of fair Greece, that classic land, her loved, her early home. She yearns to see again its skies, proud temples, woodland flowers, Less bright, but dearer far, than those that bloom in harem bowers.

She glanced upon the jewels rich that gemmed her shining hair, And wreathed her sculptured, snowy arms, her neck and brow so fair. Their lustre softened not the pangs that filled that lonely hour, More happy was she when her braids were decked with simple flower.

But, Azof, did not thought of him some passing joy impart; Did not the memory of his love bring gladness to her heart? Alas, that long and heavy sigh, the glitt'ring tear that fell From 'neath her dark and drooping lids, told more than words could tell.

Awhile she weeps, and then a change steals o'er her mournful dream, Her gloomy thoughts are chased away, and all things brighter seem, A timid and yet blissful smile lights up her beauteous brow, Her soft cheek crimsons, but, oh' not of Azof thinks she now.

Perchance of some gallant Greek she knew in life's young hour, Some childish love as guileless as her love for bird or flower, But which, looked back on through the mist of absence or of time, Seemed sad and sweet as are the words--of some old childish rhyme.

Could he, her royal lover, now but look into her heart, And read its depths, how sharp the pang that knowledge would impart, But no, secure in certain bliss, he deems her all his own, And prides himself that girlish heart loves him and him alone.

The sadness which might have awaked suspicion or mistrust, Was of the spells she swayed him by, the dearest and the first,-- He deemed it but the token of a timid gentle heart, That ever kept from needless show or noisy mirth apart.

He knew not that the voice which now sang but some mournful lay Breathed once the soul of joyousness, was gayest of the gay, That the soft laugh whose magic power his very heart strings stirred, Though now so rare, in girlhood's home had oftentimes been heard!

Th' averted head, the timid look the half unwilling ear, With which she met his vows of love, he deemed but girlish fear, Nor ever dreamed that she whom all considered as thrice blessed, Whose life was like a summer day loved, honored and caressed;

Who held, a captive to her charms, a most accomplished knight And monarch brave that ever yet had bowed to woman's might Was but a poor and joyless slave, compelled to wear a smile And act a part for which she loathed her wretched self the while.

But, like some fair exotic brought unto a foreign strand, She lost her bloom and pined to see once more her native land, And only when from earthly scenes death summoned her to part A blissful smile played round her lips, and peace was in her heart.

LYRICAL POEMS.

THE EMIGRANT'S ADDRESS TO AMERICA.

All hail to thee, noble and generous Land! With thy prairies boundless and wide, Thy mountains that tower like sentinels grand, Thy lakes and thy rivers of pride!

Thy forests that hide in their dim haunted shades New flowers of loveliness rare-- Thy fairy like dells and thy bright golden glades, Thy warm skies as Italy's fair.

Here Plenty has lovingly smiled on the soil, And 'neath her sweet, merciful reign The brave and long suff'ring children of toil Need labor no longer in vain.

I ask of thee shelter from lawless harm, Food--raiment--and promise thee now, In return, the toil of a stalwart arm, And the sweat of an honest brow.

But think not, I pray, that this heart is bereft Of fond recollections of home; That I e'er can forget the dear land I have left In the new one to which I have come.

Oh no! far away in my own sunny isle Is a spot my affection worth, And though dear are the scenes that around me now smile, More dear is the place of my birth!

There hedges of hawthorn scent the sweet air, And, thick as the stars of the night, The daisy and primrose, with flow'rets as fair, Gem that soil of soft verdurous light.

And there points the spire of my own village church, That long has braved time's iron power, With its bright glitt'ring cross and ivy wreathed porch-- Sure refuge in sorrow's dark hour!

Whilst memory lasts think not e'er from this breast Can pass the fond thoughts of my home: No! I ne'er can forget the land I have left In the new one to which I have come!

FAR WEST EMIGRANT.

I.

Mine eye is weary of the plains Of verdure vast and wide That stretch around me--lovely, calm, From morn till even-tide; And I recall with aching heart My childhood's village home; Its cottage roofs and garden plots, Its brooks of silver foam.

II.

True glowing verdure smiles around, And this rich virgin soil Gives stores of wealth in quick return For hours of careless toil; But oh! the reaper's joyous song Ne'er mounts to Heaven's dome, For unknown is the mirth and joy Of the merry "Harvest Home."

III.

The solemn trackless woods are fair, And bright their summer dress; But their still hush--their whisprings vague, My heart seem to oppress; And 'neath their shadow could I sit, And think the livelong day On my country's fields and hedges green, Gemmed with sweet hawthorn spray.

IV.

The graceful vines and strange bright flow'rs, I meet in every spot, I'd give up for a daisy meek, A blue forget-me-not; And from the brilliant birds I turn, Warbling the trees among; I know them not--and breathe a sigh For lark or linnet's song.

V.

But useless now those vain regrets! My course must finish here; In dreams alone I now can see Again my home so dear, Or those fond loving friends who clung Weeping unto my breast; And bade "God speed me" when I left, To seek the far, far West.

A WELCOME TO THE MONTH OF MARY.

Oh! gladly do we welcome thee, Fair pleasant month of May; Month which we've eager longed to see, Through many a wintry day: And now with countless budding flowers, With sunshine bright and clear-- To gild the quickly fleeting hours-- At length, sweet month, thou'rt here!

But, yet, we do not welcome thee Because thy genial breath Hath power our sleeping land to free From winter's clasp of death; Nor yet because fair flowers are springing Beneath thy genial ray; And thousand happy birds are singing All welcome to thee, May!

No, higher, nobler cause have we These bright days to rejoice-- 'Twas God ordained that thou should'st be The loved month of our choice: It is because thou hast been given To honor her alone, The ever gentle Queen of Heaven-- The mother of God's son.

The blossoms that we joyous cull By bank or silver stream; The fragrant hawthorn boughs we pull, Most sacred too, we deem: For not amid our tresses we Their op'ning buds will twine, But garlands fair we'll weave with care For Mary's lowly shrine.

And when the twilight shades descend On earth, so hushed and still, And the lone night bird's soft notes blend With breeze from glade and hill, We seek her shrine with loving heart, And, humbly kneeling there, We linger long, loth to depart From that sweet place of prayer!

Oh! who can tell with what gifts rare Our Mother will repay Their love who honor thus with care Her own sweet month of May! A grace for every flower they've brought Or 'Ave, they have said; And ev'ry pious, holy thought Shall be by her repaid!

NATURE'S MUSIC.

Of many gifts bestowed on earth To cheer a lonely hour, Oh is there one of equal worth With music's magic power? 'Twill charm each angry thought to rest, 'Twill gloomy care dispel, And ever we its power can test,-- All nature breathes its spell.

There's music in the sighing tone Of the soft, southern breeze That whispers thro' the flowers lone, And bends the stately trees, And--in the mighty ocean's chime, The crested breakers roar, The wild waves, ceaseless surge sublime, Breaking upon the shore.

There's music in the bulbul's note, Warbling its vesper lay In some fair spot, from man remote, Where wind and flowers play; But, oh! beyond the sweetest strain Of bird, or wave, or grove Is that soother of our hours of pain-- The voice of those we love.

When sorrow weigheth down the heart The night birds sweetest lay-- The harp's most wild and thrilling art-- Care cannot chase away; But let affection's voice be heard, New springs of life 'twill ope,-- One word--one little loving word-- Will bring relief and hope.

MAUDE.

A BALLAD OF THE OLDEN TIME.

Around the castle turrets fiercely moaned the autumn blast, And within the old lords daughter seemed dying, dying fast; While o'er her couch in frenzied grief the stricken father bent, And in deep sobs and stifled moans his anguish wild found vent.

"Oh cheer thee up, my daughter dear, my Maude, he softly said, As tremblingly he strove to raise that young and drooping head; 'I'll deck thee out in jewels rare in robes of silken sheen, Till thou shalt be as rich and gay as any crowned queen."

"Ah, never, never!" sighed the girl, and her pale cheek paler grew, While marble brow and chill white hands were bathed in icy dew; "Look in my face--there thou wilt read such hopes are folly all, No garment shall I wear again, save shroud and funeral pall."

"My Maude thou'rt wilful! Far away in lands beyond the sea Are sunny climes, where winter ne'er doth wither flower or tree; And there thou'lt journey with me, till I see thee smile once more, And thy fair cheek wear the rose's hue as in the days of yore."

"Ah, no roses shall I gather beneath a summer sky, Not for me such dreams, dear father, my end is drawing nigh; One voyage is before me, 'tis no use to grieve or moan, But that dark, fearful journey must I travel all alone."

"My precious child! last of my race! why wilt thou grieve me so? Why add by such sad words unto thy grey haired father's woe? Live--live, my pearl! my stricken dove! earth's joys shall all be thine; Whate'er thy wish or will through life, it also shall be mine."

Fast coursed the diamond tear drops down that fair, though faded, cheek, And she whispered, but so softly, one scarce could hear her speak: "Ah! father, half those loving cares when summer bright was here Would have kept thy daughter with thee for many a happy year.

"But, ah! thy heart was marble then, and to thy direst foe, More stern, relentless anger thou couldst not, father, show. What was my crime? The one I loved, not rich but nobly born, Was loyal, true, on whom no man e'er looked with glance of scorn.

"He wooed me fairly, father dear, but thou did'st often swear Thou'dst rather see me in my grave than bride to Hengist's heir. Reckless, despairing, he embarked upon the stormy main, To seek an end to grief and care, nor sought he long in vain.

"Calm and untroubled sleeps he now beneath the salt sea brine, And I rejoice to think how soon that sweet sleep shall be mine!" No answer made the father but a low and grief-struck moan; And silence reigned again throughout that chamber sad and lone.

Sudden the girl starts wildly, with bright and kindling eye, Her cheek assumes a crimson tint like hue of sunset sky, "Father! that voice, that rapid step, ah, me! they are well-known, Hengist who comes from ocean's deeps to claim me for his own!"

Say, does she rave? No. See yon form, with proud and gallant brow, Bending above her, whisp'ring low, fond word and tender vow: "Maude, my own love! no spectral form, no phantom's at thy side, But thy girlhood's lover, now returned to claim thee as his bride."

The story runs that love and youth o'er death the victory won, And again did Maude, a happy wife, play 'neath the summer sun, While the old lord, grateful to the Power that Hengist's life had spared, Henceforth in all his children's bliss, hopes, sorrows, fully shared.

REJOICINGS AFTER THE BATTLE OF INKERMAN.*

[* Won by the "Allies" during the Crimean war though with great losses in killed and wounded.]

Rejoice! the fearful day is o'er For the victors and the slain; Our cannon proclaim from shore to shore, The Allies have won again! Let our joy bells ring out music clear, The gayest they've ever pealed; Let bonfires flames the dark night cheer, We are masters of the field

But list! dost hear that mournful wail 'Bove the joyous revelry? Rising from hillside and lowly vale,-- Say, what can its meaning be? From Erin's sunny emerald shore It trembles upon the gale, And rises with the torrent's roar From the birth place of the Gael.

Fair Albion, too, in every spot Of thy land of promise wide Is heard that dirge for the mournful lot Of thy soldier sons--thy pride. Them shall no bugle at dawn of day Arouse from their quiet sleep, Them shall no charger with shrill neigh Bear off to the hillside steep.

'Mid the dead and dying stretched unknown On Crimea's blood stained earth, Lie the household gods of many a home, The lights of many a hearth: While, vainly woman's weeping voice Calls on each well loved one-- The tender wife on her girlhoods choice, The fond mother on her son.

And not only from the peasant's cot Comes that mournful, dirge like cry, 'Tis heard--unto all a common lot-- Where dwell the great and high; And tears fall fast for the last lost child Of many a noble race, Who has perished in that struggle wild, And left none to fill his place.

Yet if above our laurels bright Falls many a bitter tear, Still, still, may we find a gleam of light, Our stricken hearts to cheer; They have fallen in the country's cause That their youth and manhood nursed, They have fallen true to honor's laws, In a sacred strife and just.

A FEW SHORT YEARS FROM NOW.

Say, art thou angry? words unkind Have fallen upon thine ear, Thy spirit hath been wounded too By mocking jest or sneer, But mind it not--relax at once Thine o'ercast and troubled brow-- What will be taunt or jest to thee In a few short years from now?

Or, perhaps thou mayst be pining Beneath some bitter grief, From whose pangs in vain thou seekest Or respite or relief; Fret not 'neath Heav'n's chastening rod But submissive to it bow; Thy griefs will all be hushed to rest In a few short years from now.

Art toiling for some worldly aim, Or for some golden prize, Devoting to that glitt'ring goal Thy thoughts, thy smiles, thy sighs? Ah! rest thee from the idle chase, With no bliss can it endow; Of fame or gold, what will be thine In a few short years from now?