There's not a breeze that passes
But it seems to bring to me
Some tender, looked-for tidings,
Some message, love, from thee.

There's not a bird that singeth
From wall or bush or tree,
From roof of vine-wreathed balcony
But singeth, love, of thee.

There's not a flower that blossoms,
But your kindly, pensive face,
With loving eyes and heart love
On its painted leaves I trace.

There's not a stream that murmurs
Through wood or grassy lea,
Down mountain side or hollow
But will murmur, love, of thee.

O FAIR with broom and woodbine,
And rowan and wild rose,
Is the Land of Hope Deferred
Where the shamrock grows;
And thither did I stray
In the long-gone day,
And I gave my heart away
To sweet Ireland.

Dead Songsters of her household
Have loved her and adored,
And their love was like a flame,
And their song was like a sword;
But an alien bard to-day,
All world-worn and gray,
Has sung his heart away
To sweet Ireland.

1. The Student

As I once in Salamanca,
(Whilst the nightingales o'erhead
Sweetly in the trees were singing),
Eagerly in Homer read:

How, arrayed in rich apparel,
Helen to the rampart went,
Shewing to the Trojan senate
Grace with bloom so sweetly blent,

That distinctly this and that one
Muttered in his hoary beard:
" Sooth, she comes of race immortal,

Introduction.

Since the very God of Numbers
Pallid grew with love's unrest,
Since the laurel round his temples
Token gives of love unblest,

Who can wonder, that but seldom
Shineth out a star benign
O'er the fate of mortal minstrels
Circled with the wreath divine?

That their looks are sad and earnest,
Mournful oft their music's strain;
That of bliss they sing but little,

I said a thoughtless word one day,
A loved one heard and went away;
I cried: " Forgive me, I was blind;
I would not wound or be unkind. "
I waited long, but all in vain,
To win my loved one back again.
Too late, alas! to weep and pray,
Death came; my loved one passed away.
Then, what a bitter fate was mine!
No language could my grief define;
Ah! deep regret could not unsay
The thoughtless word I spoke that day.

Oh, fierce is the heat,
And weary is the street,
And all day long
It is work, work, work!
But farewell work
For love and a song,
When twilight's come
And the heart turns home.
Oh, the nest for the bird,
And the hive for the bee,
And home, home, home
For my dearies and me!

Oh, care flies far
From the twilight star;
And the long, kind night
It is love, love, love!
And warm breathes love,
Breathes low, breathes light,
O'er the small, kissed faces
In their pillowed places.

We were as if new-born — so brightly-dyed
On us the light of love's soft morning beamed.
How, Laura! glowed thy lips! thy features gleamed!
How flashed thine eyes! how swelled thy heart's full tide!
Me, too, what founts of love revivified!
With higher thoughts my restless bosom teemed,
So that my wonted sleep I needless deemed;
A briefer waking dream its place supplied.
Yes, love is higher life in common things;
Such were the tokens of its living fires
Which now I seek, in thee or me, in vain;
Laura! for thee and me my sorrow springs,

I LOVE not wildly — as a rule —
The Poets of the Moony School.
But how heroic — to subsist
Exclusively on moon and mist!

He dwelt with the bright gods of elder time,
On earth and in their cloudy haunts above.
He loved them: and in recompense sublime,
The gods, alas! gave him their fatal love.

A STAR looked down from heaven and loved a flower
Grown in Earth's garden — loved it for an hour.
Let eyes that trace his orbit in the Spheres
Refuse not, to a ruin'd rosebud, tears.