English

Alas, a veiled and silent Comer
Has dimmed the stars and hid the sun!
Gone is the glory of the summer,
And life is done.

Oh, life is done, for hope is banished,
What joy can be for you in store,
When the one face you loved has vanished
For evermore?

Nay, lonely mother, love is stronger
Than any tyranny of death;
Does faithful love survive no longer

Cherish thy muse! for life hath little more,
Save what we hold in common with the herd:
Oh, blessing of these woods! to walk unstirred
By clash of commerce and the city's roar!
What finds the scholar in those flaming walls
But wearied people, hurrying to and fro,
Most with too high, and many without aim,
Crowded in vans or sweltering in huge halls
To hear loud emptiness or see the show?
Were this a life to — scape the Muses — blame?
Rather than such would I the Pareæ ask,
Folding mine arms, to stretch me on the floor

The bright sun sinks
beyond the western ridge,
The white moon rises
behind the eastern range.
Afar, afar
a myriad miles it flashes,
Immeasurably vast
its light amidst the sky
A wind comes
and enters the bedroom door,
So in the night
pillow and mat are cold.
The air seems different —
I awake to the season's change
I cannot go to sleep
and know the night's eternity,
I wish to speak
but there is no friend to talk to
Raising my cup
I challenge my lonely shadow

Her fertile wit and facile mirth
Doubly betray her Irish birth,
And still there lingers in her smile
The sunlight of the Sister Isle.

And though March cometh clad in snow,
She quickens faith and courage so,
That when we see her face we sing,
To-morrow will be surely Spring.

FOR AN ALMS CHEST MADE OF CAMPHOR-WOOD

This fragrant box that breathes of India's balms
Hath one more fragrance,—for it asketh alms;
But though 't is sweet and blessed to receive,
You know who said, “It is more blest to give:”
Give, then, receive his blessing; and for me
Thy silent boon sufficient blessing be!

If Ceylon's isle, that bears the bleeding trees,
With any perfume load the orient breeze;
If Heber's Muse, by Ceylon as he sailed,
A pleasant odor from the shore inhaled,—

'Tis not yet dawn; from troubled sleep
And strange bewildering dreams I rise;
Here at the casement will I keep
Still vigils with the sea and skies:
I know not why, a tender sadness
Broods o'er my spirit at this hour;
Perchance the dawn may bring me gladness,
And give my soul fresh hope and power.

Yon ocean, stretching far away,
Blends in the darkness with the sky,
Hither its low, dull murmurs stray,
Now hoarsely swell, now sink and die:
That restless sea is heaving ever,
Kissed by the breeze or tempest tost,

This is the reckless thing I do,
Simply because her eyes are blue,
As are the summer skies above her; —
Merely because her eyes are blue,
This is the foolish thing I do,
I love, love, love her.

We seven kind souls, by friendly chance,
Together hold our way:
All with one impulse we advance,
Or with one will we stay.

Far — far away each well-loved home,
Our absence may regret;
But since awhile we needs must roam,
We joy that we are met.

These gliding days have seen us climb
The mountain's lofty side,
And from the top, all grey with time,
Gain prospects rich and wide.

The valley sweet, the wandering stream,
Green woods and arching skies,

Brush not the floor where my lady hath trod,
Lest one light sign of her foot you mar;
For where she hath walked, in the Spring, on the sod,
There, I have noticed, most violets are.

Touch not her work, nor her book, nor a thing
That her exquisite finger hath only pressed;
But fan the dust off with a plume that the wing
Of a ring-dove let fall, on his way to his nest.

I think the sun stops, if a moment she stand,
In the morn, sometimes, at her father's door;
And the brook where she may have dipt her hand

I think you still can hear me as I sing,
And so, dear friend, as keepsake and adieu,
This song, which God has given me, I bring
And offer you.

Death his scythe is swinging,
Thro' the corn and clover,
Death is softly singing,
" Summer-time is over. "

Oh, thou stealthy comer,
Thou art here too soon,
It is early summer,
It is only June.

God is still bestowing
Summer sun and rain,
On a blossom growing,
Hidden in the grain.