THE ABSENTEE!

I.

There is a fair and blooming Isle,
Set in the Western Sea;

And lovelier still her fields would smile
But for the Absentee!

II.

A poisonous weed that name has prov'd
In her sad history ;

The blight can never be remov'd
While there's-an Absentee !

III.

Not fierce Simoom from Afric's sand,
Nor Java's upas tree,
Spread desolation o'er the land
Like-Ireland's Absentee!

IV.

The guardian saint of Erin's shore
Drove venom'd things away;
I wish he'd lay his scourging power
Upon the Absentee!

V.

And force him, if he's not inclin'd,
A resident to be;

To leave at least his rents behind,
While he's-an Absentee!

VI.

Look on yon old baronial hall!
No signs of life you'll see ;

Its grass-grown courts and crumbling wall
Denote-the Absentee !

VII.

Each glance some ling'ring thought recals
Of past prosperity;

But now the lonely spider crawls
Where dwelt-the Absentee!

VIII.

The hardy peasant tills the soil-
No friendly lord knows he ;
No kind employer cheers his toil-
He serves an Absentee!

IX.

The harvest-home, the yearly feast,
The Christmas revelry;

These are but visions of the past,
Gone with the Absentee!

X.

A stranger in his name is sent—
No welcome guest is he;

He comes to squeeze the tardy rent,
To feed the Absentee !

XI.

Why seeks his lord a foreign strand,
And strange society?
Or why desert his father-land,
To live-an Absentee?

XII.

The skies may be less bright at home,
But hearts are warm and free;
Why leaves he these, abroad to roam,
A careless-Absentee ?

XIII.

Thinks he to fill his wasting purse
By false economy?
What's bad before he 'll render worse,
Ill-judging Absentee !

XIV.

Perchance the ruthless bailiffs swarm,
To seize their destin'd prey;
'Twere manlier far to face the storm
Than fly-an Absentee!

XV.

Does proud ambition swell his heart,
Ör senseless vanity?

Oh, let him bid the fiends depart,
Ere he's an Absentee!

XVI.

He seeks some haughty foreign court!
They stare, and ask, "Who's he?"
Then whisper round, in mocking sport,
"An Irish Absentee!”

XVII.

While he has gold they cringe and bow
With sleek servility;

He'll feel, when cash is running low,
He's but-an Absentee!

XVIII.

Where, through all Europe's ample space,
Dwells now security?
Where can he find a resting-place,
This roving Absentee?

XIX.

He flies to fierce, volcanic France,
And dreams of mirth and glee;
The tocsin wakes him from his trance,
A startled-Absentee!

THE RINGS AN ELEGY.

BY WILLIAM FORSYTH.

"TUBAL.—I saw one who had a ring from her for a monkey.

"SHYLOCK.-Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal. It was my torquoise. I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor, and I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys."-Merchant of Venice.

How sadly beautiful the long last sleep,

And brow unwrinkled of the early-taken,

Wet with the first-shed tears of those who weep,
Still, like as if the sleeper would awaken!
There Peace and Beauty marvel at each other,
And cast a feeble light across our woe,
Before the shadows of the night-time gather
To cloud the sunset glory of her brow.

Awake! awake!-thou beautiful, awake!

Still on thy lip the last sweet smile doth lie;
And wilt thou not, for Love's most holy sake,
Lift up the cloudy curtain of thine eye.
Those founts of living bliss again disclose,

And bring the blush of animation back?
Ah, no!-what hand shall heal yon faded rose,
Or bid thy soul retrace its heavenward track?

Yet see, the very roses are not withered

That did adorn her radiant brow to-day,
Although, alas! the blossom has been gathered
From her fair cheek, more beautiful than they.
More beautiful! This morn we saw her glide
So angel-like by bush and leafy bowers,
She seemed the spirit of the summer-tide,

Surprised, at her sweet task of making flowers.

Oh, weep not that 'twas in a festive moment
That thy beloved one's gentle spirit fled!
And what although, attired in richest raiment,
Thus all lowly lies the lovely dead?

For oh! it was no worldly vanity,

But that she loved so well all lovely things,

And oh it was no worldly vanity

That clothed her snowy hand with golden rings.

Each circlet was to her some tender token

Of love and friendship, ever deep and dear-
All sweet and silent pledges still unbroken,
Though, alas! the loved lie lowly here.
And though they spoke of vanity alone

To those who knew not of their gentler part,

The golden gift upon her finger shone,

The spirit-gift was treasured in her heart.

Ah, no! ah, no! They were not vanities

More than those fading flowers-these rings of gold;

For they were like the sweet humanities

That symbolised the wondrous faiths of old,

In which the heart found many an emblem fair
Of lofty truths to meet its wild emotions,
And everything in water, earth, or air,

Grew sacred in its fanciful devotions;
For beauty is beloved in every form,

Or combination where it meets the eye; And where's the eye that sees no sacred charm In simple things through Love's idolatry?

So here, within this golden crypt lies hidden

The sacred hair that graced an honoured head,
O'er which the tear has oft-times flowed unbidden,
And Memory hath its halo round it shed;
And see the bond of true love cherished early,

And blessed in sunny hope-the simple tie
To him whose lone heart now doth weep so sorely,
That no sweet tear can cool his fevered eye.

Oh, happy, happy days and tender hours!

When love was young and life in its bright morning, When sunny skies shone o'er a path of flowers,

And some new joy disclosed at every turning—

Oh, through her spirit shone a purer ray,

Than e'er could light the vanities of earth; And though she seemed the gayest of the gay, There was no folly mingling in her mirth.

But she is gone-this morn, so beautiful,

As like a sunbeam she did come and go, Throwing a pleasant light upon us all.

Now dims the fine gold on her fingers now,
The songs of gladness from her lips were falling,

Like music that doth haunt some dream of bliss,
Or songs of childhood, happy time! recalling
Many an hour of bygone happiness.

She sang, and we with throbbing hearts did listen,
And gazed in silent rapture as she sung;

And every eye unconsciously did glisten

With tearful tribute to her angel tongue;

She sang, and oh! the ancient Theban wall

That rose to music's most entrancing measure,

Ne'er heard such tones of marvellous beauty fall

As those that filled our souls with speechless pleasure.

She sang her accents trembling, swelling, dying,
A simple lay, but with such wondrous fire,

It seemed as if the spirit, heavenward flying,
Had heard the seraphims' eternal lyre-
Had heard and drank, with such a rapturous heart,
The glory of that high celestial strain,

With such a longing for an angel's part,

As earthly love might never still again.

Ah, me! and as she sang, the word half spoken
Was hushed amidst that memorable lay:
Her spirit passed as the harp-strings are broken,
Before its last sweet tones had died away.