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,
My blessing 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. 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
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawing there
And you hid it for my sake;
I bless you for the pleasant word
When your heart was sad and sore;
O, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

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.

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A CHRISTMAS HYMN.

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 as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again

To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side,

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
Had Rome been growing up to might,

And now was queen of land and sea.
No sound was heard of clashing wars:
Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain;
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars,

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,
Centuries ago?

Within that province far away
Went plodding home a weary boor;
A streak of light before him lay,

Fallen through a half shut stable door
Across his path. He passed; for naught
Told what was going on within.

How keen the stars! his only thought:
The air, how calm, and cold, and thin!
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago.

O strange indifference!-low and high
Drowsed over common joys and cares;
The earth was still, but knew not why;

The world was listening-unawares.
How calm a moment may precede

One that shall thrill the world forever!

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THE POET'S CHRISTMAS.

To that still moment, none would heed,
Man's doom was linked no more to sever,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!

It is the calm and solemn night!

A thousand bells ring out, and throw
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite

The darkness-charmed and holy now!
The night that erst no name had worn,
To it a happy name is given;
For in that stable lay, new-born,

The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!

ALFRED DOMMETT.

THE POET'S CHRISTMAS.

COLD Christmas eve! the muffled waits
Are chiming in the frozen street;
Round pauper courts and princely gates
The music lingers sweet.

In many a happy curtained brain

Dreams of to-morrow weave their spells,

Till daylight, laughing at each pane,
Comes with a burst of bells.

THE POET'S CHRISTMAS.

Blithe Christmas morn! such lusty cheer,
Such kindly greeting, friendly talk,
Might make the roses of the year

Flush Winter's frozen stalk,

And fill the heart with throbs of Spring,
And stir the soul with golden dreams;

For seraphs in the holly sing,
Joy in the yule-fire gleams.

Yet silence sits within my room,
And coldness lies upon my hearth,
Though 'tis an hour when ice of gloom
Should feel the thaws of mirth.
They say a spirit walks abroad

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 melt the icicle of ill,

To make the snowy bosom warm,
And blunt the wintry chill.
The world is merry with its wine,
Its smoking meats, its smiling friends;
It has its pleasures-I have mine;
So Heaven shall make amends:

The uplifting of a mouldered pall,
The embers of a cold desire,
The phantom shadows on my wall,
The faces in the fire:

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