LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 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, Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone. There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow; I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile I'm bidding you a long farewell, 69 70 A CHRISTMAS HYMN. They say there's bread and work for all. And often in those grand old woods To the place where Mary lies; And the springing corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. MRS. BLACKWOOD. (Lady Dufferin.) A CHRISTMAS HYMN. It was the calm and silent night! Seven hundred years and fifty-three And now was queen of land and sea. Held undisturbed their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago! A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 'Twas in the calm and silent night! The senator of haughty Rome Impatient urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home. Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight, Within that province far away Fallen through a half shut stable door How keen the stars! his only thought: O strange indifference!-low and high The world was listening-unawares. One that shall thrill the world forever! 71 72 THE POET'S CHRISTMAS. To that still moment, none would heed, It is the calm and solemn night! A thousand bells ring out, and throw The darkness-charmed and holy now! The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, ALFRED DOMMETT. THE POET'S CHRISTMAS. COLD Christmas eve! the muffled waits In many a happy curtained brain Dreams of to-morrow weave their spells, Till daylight, laughing at each pane, THE POET'S CHRISTMAS. Blithe Christmas morn! such lusty cheer, Flush Winter's frozen stalk, And fill the heart with throbs of Spring, For seraphs in the holly sing, Yet silence sits within my room, To touch the stern and Horeb-heart, Until beneath the sacred rod The springs of pity start. They say the season bears a charm To make the snowy bosom warm, The uplifting of a mouldered pall, 73 |