LADY DUFFERIN.

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bowed his head;

meet,

Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet,

While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll,

And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul?

That heavenly music! what is it I hear? The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my ear!

And see soft unfolding those portals of gold,

The King all arrayed in his beauty behold! O, give me, O, give me the wings of a dove! Let me hasten my flight to those mansions above:

Ay! 't is now that my soul on swift pinions would soar,

And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore.

LADY DUFFERIN.

[1807-1867.]

THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side

On a bright May morning long ago,
When first you were my bride.

The corn was springing fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The day 's as bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again.
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your warm breath on my cheek,
And I still keep listening for the words
You nevermore may speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
The village church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary;
I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 、
And my step might break your rest,
Where I've laid you, darling, down to
sleep,

With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make no new friends;
But, O, they love the better still
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessing and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary kind and true,
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm going to.
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there;
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times less fair.

Gave signal sweet in that old hall
Of hands across and down the middle,
Hers was the subtlest spell by far

Of all that sets young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And when she danced-O Heaven, her dancing!

Dark was her hair; her hand was white;
Her voice was exquisitely tender;
Her eyes were full of liquid light;
I never saw a waist so slender;
Her every look, her every smile,

Shot right and left a score of arrows:
I thought 't was Venus from her isle,
I wondered where she 'd left her
rows.

spar

She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach,

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading: She botanized; I envied each

Young blossom in her boudoir fading: She warbled Handel; it was grand, She made the Catalani jealous: She touched the organ; I could stand For hours and hours and blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home,
Well filled with all an album's glo-
ries,-

Paintings of butterflies and Rome,
Patterns for trimming, Persian stories,
Soft songs
to Julia's cockatoo,

Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter,
And autographs of Prince Leboo,
And recipes for elder water.

And she was flattered, worshipped, bored; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted;

Her poodle dog-was quite adored;

Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laughed, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolished; She frowned, and every look was sad, As if the opera were demolished.

She smiled on many just for fun,

I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one

Her heart had thought of for a minute: I knew it, for she told me so,

In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand, and O, How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was like most other loves,
A little glow, a little shiver;
A rosebud and a pair of gloves,

And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir,

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair,

The usual vows, and then we parted.

We parted, months and years rolled by;
We met again four summers after.
Our parting was all sob and sigh,
Our meeting was all mirth and laughter:
For in my heart's most secret cell

There had been many other lodgers, And she was not the ball-room belle, But only Mrs. Something-Rogers.