Chapter IV

Ponder life's teachings; con each of them well;
Man, made in God's image, should earth be a hell?

Where were the justice if earth were our all!
Where, if life's limits were girt of the pall!

God of the fatherless! heard'st Thou that cry!
Wail of the orphan-soul piercing the sky.

Yes! Thou didst hear it; that bitter cold night
When the ground was crisp with its coat of white.

Thou sentest Thy angels to bear him away
From his storm-beaten garb of fragile clay.

Tired-out, aching limbs! weary frozen feet!
Ceaseless, toilsome toil! rest--Ah sweet! how sweet!

No mourner knelt down by that lowly bed;
No kindly hand pillowed that dying head.

Nought, save the starlights of loftier space
Beamed tenderly over that still, pale face.

What matter! the billows may rage and foam,
The heaven-bound soul will reach its home.

What matter! the sorrows of earth are o'er;
He hath landed safe on love's native shore.

Where glory-lit mansions resound with joy;
For the mother who lost, hath found her boy.

And glad Hallelujahs bright seraphim sing;
For the once hired boy is a crownèd king.

LAURELS.

Wreaths for the warrior brave!
He conquered in the fight,
Bright day chased sable night,
Wave banners! proudly wave!

Laurels for statesman bold!
Men wake from callous sleep,
As tones, in pathos deep,
A people's wrongs unfold.

Sweet flowers with poesy chime;--
Gay-deck those poet lays
Which incense care-worn ways,
Raise souls to heights sublime.

Rare flowers of spotless hue
For heralds of the cross,
Who fear nor shame nor loss,
But type the Christ-life true.

Richest of nature's gems
Within His courts we bring;
Ours, and all nature's King;
King of heaven's diadems.

Chaplets for brow of toil!
Rough hands, but heart all rich,
Who fitly fills his niche
On God's life-giving soil.

Flowers for the suffering throng!
Oh meek! long-during band!

High in the painless land
Sad plaint will rise to song.

White-wreathe we infant tombs!
Where breathes no chilling blast,
Where skies ne'er over cast,
Hope's full fruition blooms.

Be-crown the aged heads
With sprays of evergreen!
Earth waneth, heaven serene
Undying lustre sheds.

Bright-fringe, Oh fragrant flowers!
Life's ever-changeful day;
Till shadow's flit for aye,
In amaranthine bowers.

ST. PATRICK'S DAY.

The standard of Erin! unfurl it on high!
To greet the bright day which her children hold dear;
Gay joy-bells of gladness ring out to the sky!
Ring out for the Patron, the Saint, and the Seer.

Whose blessed advent woke from the dole of the grave
The nation long shrouded in paganish gloom;
As with tidings of Him who suffered to save,
He pointed to life beyond death and the tomb.

This day the exile retraceth wide ocean,
To rest for a space in his far native land;

Whilst minstrel-soul, tunèd to deepest devotion,
Doth chime in the music which beats on that strand.

Though tuneless the harp that rich melody poured
On the whispering zephyrs which fan thy clear streams,
And voiceless the halls where thy orators soared,
In fancy full flushed with ne'er realized dreams.

Though silence reigns drear o'er Killarney's sweet lakes,
And dark cloudlets brood over loved Arranmore;
Though wave of Loch Neagh in murmuring breaks
And dashes in foam on a desolate shore,

Yet, Erin! thy glory, long prisoned in night,
Will rise to shine forth in effulgence again;
And Hope's rich fruition will bask in the light
Of splendor illuming each mountain and plain.

Thy shamrock may droop by thy clear sparkling fountains,
It bloometh anew o'er this far western wave;
The spirit which rose[Note] 'mid the wild Kerry mountains
Yet lives in the soul of thy loyal and brave.

Not by untoward plots, or feats of the sword,
Shall thy stainless honor and truth be maintained;
By purpose of right, and with help of the Lord
Shall the fondest wish of thy leal hearts be gained.

Then mourn not the ages of sorrow and wrong,
But aye keep thy future of blessing in view;
Sad weeping shall merge into triumph's glad song;--
To God, to thy sires, and to Erin prove true.

TO THE POET.