Passing ever, early, late,
No fond footsteps seek my gate,
But down the winding road they wend
To some other journey's end.

Yet, — I would not have them wait
Here within my guarded gate,
Certain footsteps I shall know,
And for them I listen low!

A GENRE PICTURE .

I.

" O Love is like the roses,
And every rose shall fall,
For sure as summer closes
They perish one and all.
Then love, while leaves are on the tree,
And birds sing in the bowers:
When winter comes, too late 'twill be
To pluck the happy flowers."

It is a maiden singing,
An ancient girl, in sooth;
The dizzy room is ringing
With her shrill song of youth;

FRAGMENT .

But now the first faint flickering ray
Fell from the cold east far away,
The birds awoke and twitter'd, hover'd,
The dim leaves sparkled in the dew —
Earth slowly her dark head uncover'd
And held her blind face up the blue,
Till the fresh consecration came
In yellow beams of orient flame,
Touching her, and she breathed full blest
With lilies heaving on her breast.
Seas sparkled, dark capes glimmer'd green,
As Dawn crept on from scene to scene,
Lifting each curtain of the night
With fingers flashing starry-white.

OLD STYLE .

As thro' the Town of Vanity I trod,
I heard one calling in the name of God,
And turning I beheld a wan-eyed wight,
Clad in a garment that had once been bright,
Who, while a few pale children gathered round,
Did plant his faded Peepshow on the ground.
Trembling the children peep'd; and lingering nigh,
E'en thus I heard the ragged Showman cry: —

I.

Now first your eye will here descry
How all the world begun:
The earth green-dight, the ocean bright,
The moon, the stars, the sun.
All yet is dark; but you will mark,

You saw the vision in the face of clay,
And fixed it through the magic of a hand
Obedient unto the will's command,
In forms impervious to Time's decay:
Historian of bloods that interplay
Confusedly within a cryptic land,
You've chiseled, and your work of art shall stand
To gem the archives of a better day.

Alone, far from the touch of kindred mind,
You've mounted with a grim, determined zeal,
Despite environment austere, unkind,
Or frozen-fingers clenched to your appeal,
You've held the ardor of your first ideal,

AN IRISH FIDDLE TUNE .

 To the wake of O'Connor
  What boy wouldn't go?
 To do him that honour
  Went lofty and low.
 Two nights was the waking,
 Till day began breaking,
 And frolics past spaking,
  To please him, were done;
 For himself in the middle,
 With stick and with fiddle,
Stretch'd out at his ease, was the King of the Fun.

With a dimity curtain overhead,
And the corpse-lights shining round his bed,
Holding his fiddle and stick, and drest
Top to toe in his Sunday best,

Far from the seried ranks you sway,
Firm in your own believing
In that frail brotherhood, who stray
Sore anguishing, sore grieving.
Such hands as yours, adown the years
Enchain a faith unbroken,
They stay the dreary waste of tears,
And lift to Hope a token!

Strange to a sensing motherhood,
Loved as a toy — not understood,
Child of a dusky father, bold;
Frail little captive, exiled, cold.

Oft when the brooding planets sleep,
You through their drowsy empires creep,
Flinging your arms through their empty space,
Seeking the breast of an unknown face.

Grandly isolate as the god of day —
Blazing an orbit through the dank and gloom
Of misty morning, far and fair you loom,
Flooding the dimness with your golden ray, —
Cheering the mantled on the thorn-set way,
Teaching of Faith and Hope o'er the tomb,
Where both, though buried, spring to newer bloom —
Strengthened and sweet from the mound of decay.

Soft! strains of Sanctus we lift on the air,
Ere Nunc Dimittus at last shall be sung,
Sing we our Sanctus to fitly declare
Blessings that well up from hearts sorely wrung.

Within the temple of our heart
Your sacred memory dwells apart,
Where ceaselessly a censor swings
Alight with fragrant offerings;
Nor time, nor tide, nor circumstance
Can dim this grand remembrance,
And all the blood of Afric hue
Beats in one mighty tide — for you!