Loved , wedded, and caressed,
Although her children died
She still seemed doubly blest,
Her helpmate at her side
More dear than all the rest!

But sorrow did not kill
The thought of those so dear,
Who all her feelings fill,
As though still with her here
To play about her still.

Her little children's fate
She never could recall,
Yet lived she desolate,
For she had lost them all,—
And then she lost her mate.

When came that hour of woe
And all she loved was gone,
Not sorrow's keenest blow
Left her fond heart alone;

O Nora, amber-coolun,
It robs me of my rest
That my head should be forbidden
To lie upon your breast!
It robs me of my rest, Love,
And it breaks my heart and brain;
And oh! that I could bear my dear
Across the raging main!

Oh, valentine and sweetheart!
Be true to what you swore
When you promised me you'd marry me
Without a farthing's store;
Oh, we'd walk the dew together,
And light our steps should be;
And Nora, amber-coolun,
I'd kiss you daintily.

Hard by the holm
Lives this white love of mine;

What ails thee, O thou Sea,
That thus with mad endeavour
Thou heavest thy waves on the lonely shore,
And beatest thy banks for ever?

Ah! so my weary heart
Throbs with a restless yearning,
For the golden light of the faded days,
And the joys that have no returning.

What means, O tossing Sea,
That wild and awful wailing,
Like the prayer for pity from some lost soul
Which is ever unavailing?

Oh, even so my heart
Doth wail, and pine, and languish,
For a love that can satisfy the soul,
And a peace that can still its anguish.

Man's heart is for himself a volume writ
In cipher, having no true key to it;
And other hearts discourse on every side
Language, to which no lips have e'er replied.

According to our measure and extent,
Despite long exile in these regions dim,
We must from God compute our soul's descent,
Seeing the soul on Him alone is bent,
And must in that degree partake of Him.

Above the palace of the cæsars blow
Poppies and buttercups, and rise cool trees:
The palms and pines and slender cypresses.
What pomps and passions buried under these,
Long time agone, such a great while ago!

My true love still is all that's fair,
She is flower and blossom blowing free,
For all her silence lying there
She sings a spirit song to me.

New lovers seek her in her bower,
The rain, the dew, the flying wind,
And tempt her out to be a flower,
Which throws a shadow on my mind.

To thee, Columbia! favored clime,
From Erin comes a bitter cry;
Oh! must she still with hunger pine,
Her famished sons by thousands die?

O gracious Heaven! who can portray
Those scenes of wretchedness and woe?
The heart grows faint, and turns away,
While tears for suffering Erin flow.

Convulsive to her throbbing breast
The mother clasps her starving child,
And heavily by want oppressed
Thy aid implores with anguish wild.

Canst thou those generous hearts forget,
That warmly beat and fought for thee?

Hail , Cytherea! whom the favour'd earth
Of Cyprus claims, exulting in thy birth.—
Bright queen! adorn'd with every winning grace,
The smile enchanting and the blooming face.
Goddess! o'er Cyprus' fragrant groves who reign,
And Salamis' high-cultivated plain;
O with thy breath inspire my humble lays,
So shall I sing in sweetest verse thy praise.

The quiet clouds, the quiet air,
The calm that haunts us everywhere
In these broad fields, where sunlight sees
Our homely cattle at their ease;
The woods, whose leaves of golden brown
Glide noiseless, as they flutter down;
The full, smooth river, seldom stirr'd
Save from within, that flows unheard
In irresistible advance;
And, over all this fair expanse,
The steadfast hills, that silently
Stand up against a silent sky:
Are these the things for you and me
To look upon, or care to see,
Amid the tumult of a war?
Yes; for they teach us what we are,