English

By Nebo's lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;
But no man built that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er;
For the angels of God upturned the sod,
And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
Yet no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth:

Noiselessly as the daylight
Comes when the night is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek
Grows into the great sun;

By Memory inspired,
And love of country fired,
The deeds of men I love to dwell upon:
And the patriotic glow
Of my spirits must bestow
A tribute to O'Connell that is gone, boys—gone:
Here's a memory to the friends that are gone!

In October Ninety-seven—
May his soul find rest in Heaven—
William Orr to execution was led on:
The jury, drunk, agreed
That Irish was his creed:
For perjury and threats drove them on, boys—on:

BY LOSS in play men oft forget
The duty they do owe
To Him that did bestow the same,
And thousand millions mo.
I loathe to see them swear and stare,
When they the main have lost;
Forgetting all the byes that were
With God and Holy Ghost.
By “wounds” and “nails” they think to win,
But truly it is not so:
For all their frets and fumes in sin
They moneyless must go.
There is no wight that used it more
Than he that wrote this verse;
Who crieth Peccavi, now therefore
His oaths his heart doth pierce.

By every ebb of the river-side
My heart to God hath daily cried;
By every shining shingle-bar
I found the pathway of a star;
By every dizzy mountain-height
He touches me for cleaner sight,
As Moses' face hath shined to see
His intimate divinity;
Through desert sands I stumbling pass
To death's cool plot of friendly grass,
Knowing each painful step I trod
Hath brought me daily home to God.

By death's favor
Here lies the engraver
And now I think o't
Where lies he not?
If the archangel look but where he lies
He ne'er will get translated to the skies.

By day my timid passions stand
—Like begging children at your gate,
Each with a mute, appealing hand
—To ask a dole of Fate;
But when night comes, released from doubt,
—Like merry minstrels they appear,
The stars ring out their hopeful shout,
—Beloved, can you hear?

They dare not sing to you by day
—Their all-desirous song, or take
The world with their adventurous lay
—For your enchanted sake.
But when the night-wind wakes and thrills
—The shadows that the night unbars,

By day Golgotha sleeps, but when night comes
The army rallies to the beating drums;
Columns are formed and banners wave
O'er armies summoned from the grave.

The wheat field waves with reddened grain
And the wounded wail and writhe in pain.
The hard-held Bloody Angle drips anew
And Pickett charges with a ghostly crew.

While where the road to the village turns
Stands the tall shadow of old John Burns!

By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling;
It lives in the mountain, what moss and the sedges
Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges;
Through brakes of the cedar and sycamore bowers
Struggles the light that is love to the flowers.
And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.

The silver-voiced bell-birds, the darlings of day-time,
They sing in September their songs of the May-time.

Cellist,
easy on that bow
Not too much weeping
Remember that the soul
is easily agitated
and has a terror of shapelessness
It will venture out
but only to a doe's eye.

Let the sound out
inner misterioso
but from a distance
like the forest at night.

And do not forget
the pause between.
That is the sweetest
and has the nature of infinity.

By and by
God caught his eye.