Chapter 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?

It may be pleasure's roseate dreams
Possess thy wayward heart,
Its gilded gauds for better things
Leaving alas! no part;
Ah! cast away the gems and flowers
That bind thy thoughtless brow,
Where will their gleam or brightness be
In a few short years from now?

The good thou may'st on earth have done,
Love to a brother shown--
Pardon to foe--alms unto need--
Kind word or gentle tone;
The treasures thus laid up in Heav'n
By the good on earth done now,
These will alone remain to thee,
In a few short years from now.

TO THE SOLDIERS OF PIUS NINTH.

Warriors true, 'tis no false glory
For which now you peril life,--
For no worthless aim unholy,
Do ye plunge into the strife;
No unstable, fleeting vision
Bright before your gaze hath shone,
No day dream of wild ambition,
Now your footsteps urges on:

But a cause both great and glorious,
Worthy of a Christian's might,
One which yet shall be victorious,--
'Tis the cause of God and right:
Men! by aim more pure and holy
Say, could soldiers be enticed?
Strike for truth and conscience solely,
Strike for Pius and for Christ.

Even like the brave Crusaders--
Heroes true and tried of old,
You would check the rash invaders
Of all that we sacred hold.
And though hosts your steps beleaguer,
Full of might and martial pride;
For the conflict be you eager--
God Himself will be your guide!

Soldiers of the Cross, remember
In the cause you fight for now,
'Tis not earthly wreaths you gather
To adorn the dauntless brow;
But the laurels bright--unfading,
Never from you to be riven--
Which will yet your brows be shading
In the shining courts of Heaven.

COME, TELL ME SOME OLDEN STORY.