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DEIRDRE'S FAREWELL TO ALBA.

ANONYMOUS (FROM THE GAELIC).

Deirdré, wife of Naise, the son of Usna, returning with her husband to Emania in Erin, laments for Alba (Scotland), her adopted country. Both the original and the translation are anonymous. The poem is exceptionally beautiful.

Alas! and alas, my sorrow!

The pain that hath no relief, Alas! for the dreadful morrow

To dawn on our day of grief!-

Oh land in the orient glowing,

The last of thy smiles hath shone

On us, for Fate's wind is blowing,

And the wave of our doom speeds on,

And a blight from the westward cometh, and the bloom of our life is gone!

Oh land of the morn-bright mountains
With the purple moors at their feet,
Of the clear leaf-mirroring fountains
And rivers of water sweet;
Of the fragrant wood-bowers twining,
And the cataract's sounding roar,
Of the lakes in their splendor shining,

With the pine-woods whispering o'er,

Ah! naught but my lord, my lover, could lure me from thy green shore!

Sweet is it in Daro's valley

To list to the falling rill,

To the breeze in the woodland alley,

And the goshawk's note from the hill;
To the light-winged swallow pursuing
His mate with a joyous cry,

To the cuckoo's voice and the cooing
Of doves in the pine-tops high,

And the throstle's song in the thicket, and the lark's from the morning sky.

Under the summer arbor

By the fresh sea-breezes fanned, Where the waters of Drayno's harbor

Sing over the silver sand, Happy from morn till even

We've watched the sea-birds play, And the ocean meeting the heaven,

In the distance far away,

And the gleam of the white-sailed galleys, and the

flash of the sunlit spray!

In Masan the green, the blooming,

How happy our days did pass ;

Many its flowers perfuming

And studding like gems the grass:
There the foxglove purpled the hollow,
And the iris flaunted its gold,

And the flower that waits for the swallow,
Its dainty bloom to unfold,

With the hyacinth blue and the primrose, laughed in the breezy wold.

In Eta of sunny weather,

'Neath our happy home-porch hid, On venison sweet from the heather And flesh of the mountain kid,

On game from the forest cover

And fish from the crystal stream,

We feasted till eve was over,

And the moon with her silver gleam Soared o'er the dusky pine-woods out from the realm of dream.

O land of the East! O Giver

Of freedom from sore distress!
O land where no cloud came ever
To darken our happiness!

O home of pleasure and promise
And peace unto mine and me,

When I see thy shores fade from us,

I sigh in my misery,

And send my voice o'er the waters crying, farewell to thee!

THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.

BY JOHN GAMBOLD, A BISHOP AMONG THE MORAVIAN BRETHREN, WHO DIED IN 1771.

So many years I've seen the sun,

And called these eyes and hauds my own,

A thousand little acts I've done,

And childhood have and manhood known;

Oh what is life ?-and this dull round
To tread, why was a spirit bound?

So many airy draughts and lines,

And warm excursions of the mind, Have filled my soul with great designs, While practice grovelled far behind; Oh what is thought?-and where withdraw The glories which my fancy saw?

So many tender joys and woes

Have on my quivering soul had power; Plain life with heightening passions rose, The boast or burden of their hour:

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THE SONG OF THE FORGE.

ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19TH CENTURY).

Clang, clang! the massive anvils ring;
Clang, clang! a hundred hammers swing;
Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky,
The mighty blows still multiply,-
Clang, clang!

Say, brothers of the dusky brow,

What are your strong arms forging now?

Clang, clang!-we forge the coulter now,-
The coulter of the kindly plough.

Sweet Mary, mother, bless our toil!
May its broad furrow still unbind
To genial rains, to sun and wind,
The most benignant soil!

Clang, clang!—our coulter's course shall be On many a sweet and sheltered lea,

By many a streamlet's silver tide; Amid the song of morning birds, Amid the low of sauntering herds, Amid soft breezes, which do stray Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, Along the green hill's side.

When regal Autumn's bounteous hand
With wide-spread glory clothes the land,-
When to the valleys, from the brow
Of each resplendent slope, is rolled
A ruddy sea of living gold,--

We bless, we bless the plough.

Clang, clang!—again, my mates, what glows
Beneath the hammer's potent blows?
Clink, clank!-we forge the giant chain
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain

'Mid stormy winds and adverse tides:
Secured by this, the good ship braves
The rocky roadstead, and the waves
Which thunder on her sides.

Anxious no more, the merchant sees
The mist drive dark before the breeze,
The storm-cloud on the hill ;
Calmly he rests,-though far away,
In boisterous climes, his vessel lay,-
Reliant on our skill.

Say on what sands these links shall sleep, Fathoms beneath the solemn deep?

By Afric's pestilential shore?

By many an iceberg, lone and hoar,By many a palmy western isle, Basking in spring's perpetual smile? By stormy Labrador?

Say, shall they feel the vessel reel,
When to the battery's deadly peal

The crashing broadside makes reply;
Or else, as at the glorious Nile,
Hold grappling ships, that strive the while
For death or victory?

Hurrah!-cling, clang!-once more, what glows,
Dark brothers of the forge, beneath
The iron tempest of your blows,

The furnace's red breath?

Clang, clang!-a burning torrent, clear And brilliant, of bright sparks, is poured Around and up in the dusky air,

As our hammers forge the Sword.

The Sword!-a name of dread; yet when
Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound,-
While for his altar and his hearth,
While for the land that gave him birth,

The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound,How sacred is it then!

Whenever for the truth and right
It flashes in the van of fight,-
Whether in some wild mountain pass,

As that where fell Leonidas;
Or on some sterile plain and stern,
A Marston or a Bannockburn;
Or amid crags and bursting rills,
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills;
Or as, when sank the Armada's pride,
It gleams above the stormy tide,—

Still, still, whene'er the battle word
Is Liberty, when men do stand
For justice and their native land,—
Then Heaven bless the Sword!

SUNRISE COMES TO-MORROW. ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19TH CENTURY). True it is that clouds and mist

Blot the clear, blue weather; True that lips that once have kissed Come no more together:

True that when we would do good,

Evil often follows;

True that green leaves quit the wood,
Summers lose their swallows;
True that we must live alone,

Dwell with pale dejections;
True that we must often moan

Over crushed affections;

True that man his queen awaits-
True that, sad and lonely,
Woman, through her prison-gates,
Sees her tyrant only:

True, the rich despise the poor,

And the poor desire

Food still from the rich man's door,

Fuel from his fire;

True that, in this age of ours,

There are none to guide us—
Gone the grand primeval powers!
Selfish aims divide us:

True the plaint; but, if more true,
I would not deplore it;

If an Eden fade from view,
Time may yet restore it.

Evil comes, and evil goes,

But it moves me never;
For the good, the good, it grows,

Buds and blossoms ever.

Winter still succeeds to Spring,

But fresh springs are coming;
Other birds are on the wing,
Other bees are humming.

I have loved with right good-will,
Mourned my hopes departed,
Dreamed my golden dream-and still
Am not broken-hearted.
Problems are there hard to solve,

And the weak may try them—
May review them and revolve,
While the strong pass by them.
Sages prove that God is not;

But I still adore him,
See the shadow in each spot

That he casts before him.

What if cherished creeds must fade?
Faith will never leave us;
God preserves what God has made,

Nor can Truth deceive us.

Let in light the holy light!

Brothers, fear it never;

Darkness smiles, and wrong grows right: Let in light forever!

Let in light! When this shall be
Safe and pleasant duty,
Men in common things shall see
Goodness, truth, and beauty;
And as noble Plato sings-

Hear it, lords and ladies!-
We shall love and praise the things
That are down in Hades.

Glad am I, and glad will be;

For my heart rejoices
When sweet looks and lips I see,
When I hear sweet voices.

I will hope, and work, and love,
Singing to the hours,

While the stars are bright above,
And below, the flowers:-
Apple-blossoms on the trees,
Gold-cups in the meadows,
Branches waving in the breeze,

On the grass their shadows:-
Blackbirds whistling in the wood,

Cuckoos shouting o'er us;

Clouds, with white or crimson hood, Pacing right before us:

Who, in such a world as this,

Could not heal his sorrow? Welcome this sweet sunset bliss-Sunrise comes to-morrow!

WHERE ARE YE?

ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19TH CENTURY).

Where are ye with whom in life I started,
Dear companions of my golden days?
Ye are dead, estranged from me, or parted;
Flown, like morning clouds, a thousand ways.

Where art thou, in youth my friend and brother-
Yea, in soul my friend and brother still?
Heaven received thee, and on earth no other
Can the void in my lorn bosom fill.

Where is she whose looks were love and gladness-
Love and gladness I no longer see?

She is gone, and since that hour of sadness
Nature seems her sepulchre to me.

Where am I? Life's current faintly flowing, Brings the welcome warning of release; Struck with death!-ah! whither am I going? All is well-my spirit parts in peace!

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