THE BELLS OF SHANDON. But thy sounds were sweeter Pealing solemnly. O! the bells of Shandon Of the river Lee. There's a bell in Moscow; While on tower and kiosk O In Saint Sophia The Turkman gets, And loud in air Calls men to prayer From the tapering summit Such empty phantom More dear to me: The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. Rev. FRANCIS MAHONY. (Father Prout.) THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. TEARS, idle tears! I know not what they mean: Tears, from the depth of some divine despair, Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail Ah! sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The casement slowly grows a glimmering square: Dear as remembered kisses after death, ALFRED TENNYSON. PHILIP, MY KING. "Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of sovereignty." Look at me, with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my King! For round thee the purple shadow lies Of babyhood's regal dignities. Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, With Love's invisible sceptre laden; I am thine Esther, to command, Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, O, the day when thou goest a-wooing, When those beautiful lips are suing, And, some gentle heart's bars undoing, For we that loveah! we love so blindly, I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, Ay! there lies the spirit, all sleeping now, IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED. As to one God-throned amidst his peers. My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, Thou too must tread, as we tread, a way Will snatch at thy crown. But go on, glorious: Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout, As thou sit'st at the feet of God victorious, 66 Philip, the King!" DINAH MARIA MULOCH. IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED. IF I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be. It never through my mind had past IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED. And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook But when I speak, thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been. But there I lay thee in thy grave, And I am now alone. I do not think, where'er thou art, And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart Yet there was round thee such a dawn As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore. Rev. CHARLES WOLFE. |