On his requesting me to write him two Poems;
One on his Canary, the Other on my going to Bombay
A Y , so it is in every brain —
Extremes of thought and wish are blended;
And something which awakens pain,
By something gay is oft attended.
The great events that chequer life,
May be to trifles nearest neighbours;
An opera's fate — a nation's strife —
But best to prove it, read the papers.

What is a trifle? 'Tis a thing

Ay, shout and rave, thou cruel sea,
In triumph o'er that fated deck,
Grown holy by another grave —
Thou hast the captain of the wreck.

No prayer was said, no lesson read,
O'er him; the soldier of the sea:
And yet for him, through all the land,
A thousand thoughts to-night shall be.

And many an eye shall dim with tears,
And many a cheek be flushed with pride;
And men shall say, There died a man,

BY STEWARDSON .

A Y , screen thy favourite dove, fair child,
Ay, screen it if you may, —
Yet I misdoubt thy trembling hand
Will scare the hawk away.

That dove will die, that child will weep, —
Is this their destime?
Ever amid the sweets of life
Some evil thing must be.

Ay, moralise, — is it not thus
We've mourn'd our hope and love?
Ah! there are tears for every eye,

AT YOUGHAL, COUNTY CORK

“A Y , not at home, then, didst thou say?
 —And, prithee, hath he gone to court?”
“Nay; he hath sailed but yesterday,
 With Edmund Spenser, from this port.

“This Spenser, folk do say, hath writ
 Twelve cantos, called ‘The Faërie Queene.’
To seek for one to publish it,
 They go—on a long voyage, I ween.”

Ah me! I came so far to see
 This ruffed and plumëd cavalier,—
He whom romance and history,
 Alike, to all the world make dear.

And I had some strange things to tell

Ay me, ay me, I sigh to see the scythe afield.
Down goeth the grass, soon wrought to withered hay;
Ay me alas, ay me alas, that beauty needs must yield
And princes pass, as grass doth fade away.

Ay me, ay me, that life cannot have lasting leave,
Nor gold take hold of everlasting joy:
Ay me alas, ay me alas, that Time hath talents to receive,
And yet no time can make a sure stay.

Ay me, ay me, that wit cannot have wished choice,
Nor wish can win that will desires to see:
Ay me alas, ay me alas, that mirth can promise no rejoice,

Ay me, alas! the beautiful bright hair
That shed reflected gold
O'er the green growths on either side the way:
Ay me! the lovely look, open and fair,
Which my heart's core doth hold
With all else of that best remembered day;
Ay me! the face made gay
With joy that Love confers;
Ay me! that smile of hers
Where whiteness as of snow was visible
Among the roses at all seasons red!
Ay me! and was this well,
O Death, to let me live when she is dead?

Ay me! the calm, erect, dignified walk;
Ay me! the sweet salute,—

Ay , let it rest! And give us peace
'T is but another blot
On Freedom's fustian flag, and gold
Will gild the unclean spot.

Yes, fold the hands, and bear the wrong
As Christians over-meek,
And wipe away the bloody stain,
And turn the other cheek.

What boots the loss of freemen's blood
Beside imperilled gold?
Is honor more than merchandise?
And cannot pride be sold?

Let Cuba groan, let patriots fall;
Americans may die;
Our flag may droop in foul disgrace,
But " Peace! " be still our cry.

Ay, his mother was a mad one
And his father was a bad one:
The two begot this sad one.

Alas for the single boot
The Sad Boy pulled out of the rank green pond,
Fishing for happiness
On the gloomy advice
Of a professional lover of small boys.

Pity the lucky Sad Boy
With but a single happy boot
And an extra foot
With no boot for it.

This was how the terrible hopping began
That wore the Sad Boy down
To a single foot
And started the great fright in the province
Where the Sad Boy became half of himself.

Aweary am I of living in town and village —
And oh, to be camped alone in a desert region,
Revived by the scent of lavender when I hunger
And scooping into my palm, if I thirst, well-water!
Meseemeth, the days are dromedaries lean and jaded
That bear on their backs humanity traveling onward;
They shrink not in dread from any portentous nightmare,
Nor quail at the noise of shouting and rush of panic,
But journey along forever with those they carry,
Until at the last they kneel by the dug-out houses.

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love!

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse,