THE HOUR OF DEATH
LEAVES have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breatn, And stars to set,— but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!'
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth; Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer; But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.
The banquet hath its hour
Its feverish hour
of mirth and song and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears, but all are thine.
Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee, but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set, - but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
We know when moons shall wane,
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain But who shall teach us when to look for thee?
Is it when spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
Thou art where billows foam;
Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home; And the world calls us forth
Thou art where friend ineets friend,
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY
O WALY, waly up the bank,
And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burn side, Where I and my love wont to gae. I leaned my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bowed, and syne it brak, Sae my true love did lightly me! O waly, waly, but love be bonnie, A little time while it is new; But when 't is auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades away like the morning dew.
But had I wist, before I kissed,
That love had been sae ill to win, I'd locked my heart in a case of gold, And pinned it with a siller pin.
O wherefore should I busk my head, Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? For my true love has me forsook,
And says he 'll never love me mair.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree ? O gentle death, when wilt thou come ? For of my life I am wearie.
'T is not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemency;
'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love's heart grown cauld to me.
THE MITHERLESS BAIRN
WHEN a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'? 'T is the poor doited loonie - the mitherless bairn! The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed; Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn!
Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o❜ his birth, Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth; Recording in heaven the blessings they earn Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!
O, speak him na harshly — he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile; In their dark hour o❜ anguish the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow, for the mitherless bairn !
SHE wanders in the April woods, That glisten with the fallen shower; She leans her face against the buds,
She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. She feels the ferment of the hour: She broodeth when the ringdove broods; The sun and flying clouds have power Upon her cheek and changing moods. She cannot think she is alone,
As o'er her senses warmly steal Floods of unrest she fears to own. And almost dreads to feel.
Along the summer woodlands wide Anew she roams, no more alone; The joy she fear'd is at her side, Spring's blushing secret now is known. The primrose and its mates have flown, The thrush's ringing note hath died; But glancing eye and glowing tone Fall on her from her god, her guide. She knows not, asks not, what the goal, She only feels she moves toward bliss, And yields her pure unquestioning soul To touch and fondling kiss.
And still she haunts those woodland ways, Though all fond fancy finds there now To mind of spring or summer days, Are sodden trunk and songless bough.
The past sits widow'd on her brow, Homeward she wends with wintry gaze, To walls that house a hollow vow,
To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze: Watches the clammy twilight wane, With grief too fix'd for woe or tear; And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, Envies the dying year.
THE VOICE OF THE POOR
[IN THE IRISH FAMINE OF '47]
WAS ever sorrow like to our sorrow,
Will our night never change into a morrow Of joy and love?
A deadly gloom is on us, waking, sleeping, Like the darkness at noontide
That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping By the Crucified.
Before us die our brothers of starvation; Around us cries of famine and despair; Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salvation Where, O where ?
If the angels ever hearken, downward bending, They are weeping, we are sure,
At the litanies of human groans ascending From the crushed hearts of the poor.
When the human rest in love upon the human, All grief is light;
But who bends one kind glance to illumine
The air around is ringing with their laughter –
God has only made the rich to smile;
But we in rags and want and woe Weeping the while.
We never knew a childhood's mirth and gladness, Nor the proud heart of youth, free and brave; A deathlike dream of wretchedness and sadness Is our life's journey to the grave;
Day by day we lower sink and lower,
Till the God-like soul within
Falls crushed beneath the fearful demon power Of poverty and sin.
We must toil, though the light of life is burning, Oh, how dim!
We must toil on our sick bed, feebly turning Our eyes to Him
Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly saying, With scarce moved breath,
While the paler hands uplifted are, and praying, "Lord, grant us death!"
LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago, When first you were my bride; The corn was springin' 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 place is little changed, Mary- The day is 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 breath, warm on my cheek; And I still keep list'nin' for the words You nevermore will speak.
'T is but a step down yonder lane, And the little 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 – For 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 blessin' and my pride; There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone :
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