English

On the Eclipse of the Moon of October 1865

One little noise of life remain'd—I heard
The train pause in the distance, then rush by,
Brawling and hushing, like some busy fly
That murmurs and then settles; nothing stirr'd
Beside. The shadow of our travelling earth
Hung on the silver moon, which mutely went
Through that grand process, without token sent,
Or any sign to call a gazer forth,
Had I not chanced to see; dumb was the vault
Of heaven, and dumb the fields—no zephyr swept
The forest walks, or through the coppice crept;
Nor other sound the stillness did assault,

The Sister's Gift

Within his breast the gift he placed,
That guide of youth and age,
A gentle sister's name was traced
Upon its blessed page.

On to the strife the soldier press'd,
With inmost spirit stirr'd,
For 'mid the scenes of joy and rest,
His martial vow was heard.

The rattling hail went sweeping by,
Upon a field of gore,
Stern death was out, careering high,
'Mid havoc's deafening roar.

The youthful hero still advanced,
With heart of Spartan mould,
The standard to the breeze that danced

Fall of Jerusalem

Oh , weep not, Jerusalem's daughters,
For Him who is toiling along,
He drinketh of agony's waters,
But the Cross is preceding the song.

But weep that the Roman invader
Shall march to your city of pride,
And when in the dust he has laid her,
Your deep-seated anguish deride.

And weep that the child of your bosom,
By parents so fondly adored,
Shall perish an innocent blossom,
A prey to the conqueror's sword.

The curse is upon thee, my nation,
The sword from its scabbard shall leap,

To my Lucasia

Let dull Philosophers enquire no more
In nature's womb, nor causes strive t'explore,
By what strange harmony and course of things
Each body to the whole a tribute brings;
What secret Unions neighbouring agents make,
And of each other how they doe partake
These are but low experiments; but he
That nature's harmony entire would see,
Must search agreeing soules, sit down and view
How sweet the mixture is! how full! how true!
By what soft touches spirits greet and kiss,
And in each other can compleat their bliss:

Ye Gentlemen of England

Ye gentlemen of England
That live at home at ease,
Ah! little do ye think upon
The dangers of the seas.
Give ear unto the mariners,
And they will plainly show
All the cares and the fears
When the stormy winds do blow.
When the stormy winds do blow.

If enemies oppose us
When England is at war
With any foreign nation,
We fear not wound or scar;
Our roaring guns shall teach 'em
Our valour for to know,
Whilst they reel on the keel,
And the stormy winds do blow.
And the stormy winds do blow.

The Banner

Nor of silk or cloth of gold
Is it made, our banner fair
On a wild and awful night,
When the tempest filled the air,

Roared the ancient spinning-wheel;
By it, pale Necessity,
In a cellar corner damp,
By a candle dim to see,

Spun the gray threads for our flag,
Wove them firm, with care and pains,
Dyed them with the last red drops
From her own exhausted veins.

Every fresh and bleeding wound,
Every grief and every woe,
From the dungeons underground,
From the black abyss below;

Ould Kilkinny

I'm sick o' New York City an' the roarin' o' the thrains
That rowl above the blessèd roofs an' undernaith the dhrains;
Wid dust an' smoke an' divilmint I'm moidhered head an' brains,
An' I thinkin' o' the skies of ould Kilkinny!

Bad luck to Owen Morahan that sint the passage-note
'Tis he's the cause, the omadhaun, I ever tuk the boat;
'Tis he's the cause I'm weepin' here, a dhrayman on a float,
When I should be savin' hay in ould Kilkinny!

The sorra bit o' grassy field from morn till night I see,

The Dying Child to Her Blind Father

Dear father, I hear a whisper,
It tells me that I must go,
And my heart returns her answer
In throbbings so faint and low.

I'm sorry to leave you, father,
I know you will miss me so,
And the world for you will gather
A gloomier shade of woe.

You will miss me, dearest father,
When the violets wake from sleep,
And timidly from their hedges
The early snow-drops peep.

I shall not be here to gather
The flowers by stream and dell,
The bright and beautiful flowers,
Dear Father, you love so well.

Lines to Miles O'Reiley

You've heard no doubt of Irish bulls,
And how they blunder, thick and fast;
But of all the queer and foolish things,
O'Reiley, you have said the last.

You say we brought the rebs supplies,
And gave them aid amid the fight,
And if you must be ruled by rebs,
Instead of black you want them white.

You blame us that we did not rise,
And pluck war from a fiery brand,
When Little Mac said if we did,
He'd put us down with iron hand.

And when we sought to join your ranks,
And battle with you, side by side,

The Vale of Song

The Duke, far in the forest,
Sat 'neath an oaktree's shade;
Whilst near him, gathering berries,
A maiden singing strayed.
The fresh and fragrant berries
She to the graybeard bore;
Her dulcet tones around him
Still floated evermore.

Then spake he—“Gentle maiden,
At thy sweet voices sound,
Of huntsman's toil a-weary,
My spirit peace hath found.
The strawberries thou bringest
Are fresh and cool, y-wis;
But sing again—thou soothest
My soul with dreams of bliss.