And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,
In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein.
And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;
The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned,
And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,
A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.
Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "It might have been."
Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!
God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;
And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!
THE groves of Blarney, they look so charming,
Down by the purlings of sweet silent brooks,
All decked by posies that spontaneous grow there,
Planted in order in the rocky nooks.
"Tis there the daisy, and the sweet carnation,
The blooming pink, and the rose so fair;
Likewise the lily, and the daffodilly -
All flowers that scent the sweet open air.
"Tis Lady Jeffers owns this plantation;
Like Alexander, or like Helen fair,
There's no commander in all the nation,
For regulation can with her compare.
Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder
Could ever plunder her place of strength;
But Oliver Cromwell, her he did pommell,
And made a breach in her battlement.
There is a cave where no daylight enters,
But bats and badgers are for ever bred;
And mossed by nature makes it completer
Than a coach-and-six, or a downy-bed.
'Tis there the lake is well stored with fishes,
And comely eels in the verdant mud;
Besides the leeches, and groves of beeches,
Standing in order to guard the flood.
1 A burlesque upon a song, "Castle Hyde," long since forgotten.
There gravel walks are for recreation,
And meditation in sweet solitude.
'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or
The gentle plover, in the afternoon;
And if a lady would be so engaging
As for to walk in those shady groves,
"Tis there the courtier might soon transport her Into some fort, or the "sweet rock-close."
There are statues gracing this noble place in —
All heathen gods, and nymphs so fair;
Bold Neptune, Caesar, and Nebuchadnezzar,
All standing naked in the open air!
There is a boat on the lake to float on,
And lots of beauties which I can't entwine;
But were I a preacher, or a classic teacher,
In every feature I'd make 'em shine!
There is a stone there, that whoever kisses,
Oh! he never misses to grow eloquent.
"Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber,
Or become a member of parliament:
A clever spouter he'll sure turn out, or
An out-and-outer, "to be let alone,"
Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him;
Sure he's a pilgrim from the Blarney stone!
LINES PRINTED UNDER THE ENGRAVED PORTRAIT OF MILTON,
IN TONSON'S FOLIO EDITION OF THE "PARADISE LOST," 1688.
THREE poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first, in loftiness of thought surpassed;
The next, in majesty; in both the last.
The force of Nature could no farther go;
To make a third, she joined the former two.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory!
FAIR stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
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