Part 1 — Miscellaneous Poems.

The night brings forth the morn-- Of the cloud is lightning born; From out the darkest earth the brightest roses grow. Bright sparks from black flints fly, And from out a leaden sky Comes the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow. The wondering air grows mute, As her pearly parachute Cometh slowly down from heaven, softly floating to and fro; And the earth emits no sound, As lightly on the ground Leaps the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow. At the contact of her tread, The mountain's festal head, As with chaplets of white roses, seems to glow; And its furrowed cheek grows white With a feeling of delight, At the presence of the Spirit of the Snow. As she wendeth to the vale, The longing fields grow pale-- The tiny streams that vein them cease to flow; And the river stays its tide With wonder and with pride, To gaze upon the Spirit of the Snow. But little doth she deem The love of field or stream-- She is frolicsome and lightsome as the roe; She is here and she is there, On the earth or in the air, Ever changing, floats the Spirit of the Snow. Now a daring climber, she Mounts the tallest forest tree-- Out along the giddy branches doth she go; And her tassels, silver-white, Down swinging through the night, Mark the pillow of the Spirit of the Snow. Now she climbs the mighty mast, When the sailor boy at last Dreams of home in his hammock down below There she watches in his stead Till the morning sun shines red, Then evanishes the Spirit of the Snow. Or crowning with white fire. The minster's topmost spire With a glory such as sainted foreheads show; She teaches fanes are given Thus to lift the heart to heaven, There to melt like the Spirit of the Snow. Now above the loaded wain, Now beneath the thundering train, Doth she hear the sweet bells tinkle and the snorting engine blow; Now she flutters on the breeze, Till the branches of the trees Catch the tossed and tangled tresses of the Spirit of the Snow. Now an infant's balmy breath Gives the spirit seeming death, When adown her pallid features fair Decay's damp dew-drops flow; Now again her strong assault Can make an army halt, And trench itself in terror 'gainst the Spirit of the Snow. At times with gentle power, In visiting some bower, She scarce will hide the holly's red, the blackness of the sloe; But, ah! her awful might, When down some Alpine height The hapless hamlet sinks before the Spirit of the Snow. On a feather she floats down The turbid rivers brown, Down to meet the drifting navies of the winter-freighted floe; Then swift o'er the azure walls Of the awful waterfalls, Where Niagara leaps roaring, glides the Spirit of the Snow. With her flag of truce unfurled, She makes peace o'er all the world-- Makes bloody battle cease awhile, and war's unpitying woe; Till, its hollow womb within, The deep dark-mouthed culverin Encloses, like a cradled child, the Spirit of the Snow. She uses in her need The fleetly-flying steed-- Now tries the rapid reindeer's strength, and now the camel slow; Or, ere defiled by earth, Unto her place of birth, Returns upon the eagle's wing the Spirit of the Snow. Oft with pallid figure bowed, Like the Banshee in her shroud, Doth the moon her spectral shadow o'er some silent gravestone throw; Then moans the fitful wail, And the wanderer grows pale, Till at morning fades the phantom of the Spirit of the Snow. In her ermine cloak of state She sitteth at the gate Of some winter-prisoned princess in her palace by the Po; Who dares not to come forth Till back unto the North Flies the beautiful besieger--the Spirit of the Snow. In her spotless linen hood, Like the other sisterhood, She braves the open cloister when the psalm sounds sweet and low; When some sister's bier doth pass From the minster and the Mass, Soon to sink into the earth, like the Spirit of the Snow. But at times so full of joy, She will play with girl and boy, Fly from out their tingling fingers, like white fireballs on the foe; She will burst in feathery flakes, And the ruin that she makes Will but wake the crackling laughter of the Spirit of the Snow. Or in furry mantle drest, She will fondle on her breast The embryo buds awaiting the near Spring's mysterious throe; So fondly that the first Of the blossoms that outburst Will be called the beauteous daughter of the Spirit of the Snow. Ah! would that we were sure Of hearts so warmly pure, In all the winter weather that this lesser life must know; That when shines the Sun of Love From the warmer realm above, In its light we may dissolve, like the Spirit of the Snow.

My native Bay, for many a year I've lov'd thee with a trembling fear, Lest thou, though dear and very dear, And beauteous as a vision, Shouldst have some rival far away, Some matchless wonder of a bay, Whose sparkling waters ever play 'Neath azure skies elysian. 'Tis Love, methought, blind Love that pours The rippling magic round these shores, For whatsoever Love adores Becomes what Love desireth: 'Tis ignorance of aught beside That throws enchantment o'er the tide, And makes my heart respond with pride To what mine eye admireth, And thus, unto our mutual loss, Whene'er I paced the sloping moss Of green Killiney, or across The intervening waters, Up Howth's brown sides my feet would wend, To see thy sinuous bosom bend, Or view thine outstretch'd arms extend To clasp thine islet daughters; Then would this spectre of my fear Beside me stand--How calm and clear Slept underneath, the green waves, near The tide-worn rocks' recesses; Or when they woke, and leapt from land, Like startled sea-nymphs, hand-in-hand, Seeking the southern silver strand With floating emerald tresses: It lay o'er all, a moral mist, Even on the hills, when evening kissed The granite peaks to amethyst, I felt its fatal shadow: It darkened o'er the brightest rills, It lowered upon the sunniest hills, And hid the wingèd song that fills The moorland and the meadow. But now that I have been to view All even Nature's self can do, And from Gaeta's arch of blue Borne many a fond memento; And from each fair and famous scene, Where Beauty is, and Power hath been, Along the golden shores between Misenum and Sorrento: I can look proudly in thy face, Fair daughter of a hardier race, And feel thy winning well-known grace, Without my old misgiving; And as I kneel upon thy strand, And kiss thy once unvalued hand, Proclaim earth holds no lovelier land, Where life is worth the living.

First loved, last loved, best loved of all I've loved! Ethna, my boyhood's dream, my manhood's light, Pure angel spirit, in whose light I've moved, Full many a year, along life's darksome night! Thou wert my star, serenely shining bright Beyond youth's passing clouds and mists obscure Thou wert the power that kept my spirit white, My soul unsoiled, my heart untouched and pure. Thine was the light from heaven that ever must endure. Purest, and best, and brightest, no mishap, No chance, or change can break our mutual ties; My heart lies spread before thee like a map, Here roll the tides, and there the mountains rise; Here dangers frown and there hope's streamlet flies, And golden promontories cleave the main: And I have looked into thy lustrous eyes, And saw the thought thou couldst not all restrain, A sweet, soft, sympathetic pity for my pain! Dearest, and best, I dedicate to thee, From this hour forth, my hopes, my dreams, my cares, All that I am, and all I e'er may be, Youth's clustering locks, and age's thin white hairs; Thou by my side, fair vision, unawares-- Sweet saint--shalt guard me as with angel's wings; To thee shall rise the morning's hopeful prayers, The evening hymns, the thoughts that midnight brings, The worship that like fire out of the warm heart springs. Thou wilt be with me through the struggling day, Thou wilt be with me through the pensive night, Thou wilt be with me, though far, far away Some sad mischance may snatch you from my sight, In grief, in pain, in gladness, in delight, In every thought thy form shall bear a part, In every dream thy memory shall unite, Bride of my soul! and partner of my heart! Till from the dreadful bow flieth the fatal dart! Am I deceived? and do I pine and faint For worth that only dwells in heaven above, And if thou'rt not the Ethna that I paint, Then thou art not the Ethna that I love; If thou art not as gentle as the dove, And good as thou art beautiful, the tooth Of venomed serpent will not deadlier prove Than that dark revelation; but in sooth, Ethna, I wrong thee, dearest, for thy name is TRUTH.

A beauteous summer-home had I As e'er a bard set eyes on-- A glorious sweep of sea and sky, Near hills and far horizon. Like Naples was the lovely bay, The lovely hill like Rio-- And there I lived for many a day In Campo de Estío. It seemed as if the magic scene No human skill had planted; The trees remained for ever green, As if they were enchanted: And so I said to Sweetest-eyes, My dear, I think that we owe To fairy hands this paradise Of Campo de Estío. How swiftly flew the hours away! I read and rhymed and revelled; In interchange of work and play, I built, and drained, and levelled; "The Pope," so "happy," days gone by (Unlike our ninth Pope Pio), Was far less happy then than I In Campo de Estío. For children grew in that sweet place, As in the grape wine gathers-- Their mother's eyes in each bright face, In each light heart, their father's: Their father, who by some was thought A literary leo, Ne'er dreamed he'd be so soon forgot In Campo de Estío. But so it was:--Of hope bereft, A year had scarce gone over, Since he that sweetest place had left, And gone--we'll say--to Dover, When letters came where he had flown. Returned him from the "P. O.," On which was writ, O Heavens! "NOT KNOWN IN CAMPO DE ESTIO!" "Not known" where he had lived so long, A "cintra" home created, Where scarce a shrub that now is strong But had its place debated; Where scarce a flower that now is shown, But shows his care: O Dio! And now to be described, "Not known In Campo de Estío." That pillar from the Causeway brought-- This fern from Connemara-- That pine so long and widely sought-- This Cedrus deodara-- That bust (if Shakespeare's doth survive, And busts had brains and brio), Might keep his name at least alive In Campo de Estío. When Homer went from place to place, The glorious siege reciting (Of course I presuppose the case Of reading and of writing), I've little doubt the Bard divine His letters got from Scio, Inscribed "Not known," Ah! me, like mine From Campo de Estío. The poet, howsoe'er inspired, Must brave neglect and danger; When Philip Massinger expired, The death-list said "a stranger!" A stranger! yes, on earth, but let The poet sing laus Deo!-- Heaven's glorious summer waits him yet-- God's "Campo de Estío."

Had I a wish--'twere this, that heaven would make My heart as strong to imitate as love, That half its weakness it could leave, and take Some spirit's strength, by which to soar above, A lordly eagle mated with a dove. Strong-will and warm affection, these be mine; Without the one no dreams has fancy wove, Without the other soon these dreams decline, Weak children of the heart, which fade away and pine! Strong have I been in love, if not in will; Affections crowd and people all the past, And now, even now, they come and haunt me still, Even from the graves where once my hopes were cast. But not with spectral features--all aghast-- Come they to fright me; no, with smiles and tears, And winding arms, and breasts that beat as fast As once they beat in boyhood's opening years, Come the departed shades, whose steps my rapt soul hears. Youth has passed by, its first warm flush is o'er, And now, 'tis nearly noon; yet unsubdued My heart still kneels and worships, as of yore, Those twin-fair shapes, the Beautiful and Good! Valley and mountain, sky and stream, and wood, And that fair miracle, the human face, And human nature in its sunniest mood, Freed from the shade of all things low and base,-- These in my heart still hold their old accustom'd place. 'Tis not with pride, but gratitude, I tell How beats my heart with all its youthful glow, How one kind act doth make my bosom swell, And down my cheeks the sweet, warm, glad tears flow. Enough of self, enough of me you know, Kind reader, but if thou wouldst further wend, With me, this wilderness of weak words thro', Let me depict, before the journey end, One whom methinks thou'lt love, my brother and my friend. Ah! wondrous is the lot of him who stands A Christian Priest, with a Christian fane, And binds with pure and consecrated hands, Round earth and heaven, a festal, flower chain; Even as between the blue arch and the main, A circling western ring of golden light Weds the two worlds, or as the sunny rain Of April makes the cloud and clay unite, Thus links the Priest of God the dark world and the bright. All are not priests, yet priestly duties may And should be all men's: as a common sight We view the brightness of a summer's day, And think 'tis but its duty to be bright; But should a genial beam of warming light Suddenly break from out a wintry sky, With gratitude we own a new delight, Quick beats the heart and brighter beams the eye, And as a boon we hail the splendour from on high. 'Tis so with men, with those of them at least Whose hearts by icy doubts are chill'd and torn; They think the virtues of a Christian Priest Something professional, put on and worn Even as the vestments of a Sabbath morn: But should a friend or act or teach as he, Then is the mind of all its doubting shorn, The unexpected goodness that they see Takes root, and bears its fruit, as uncoerced and free! One I have known, and haply yet I know, A youth by baser passions undefiled, Lit by the light of genius and the glow Which real feeling leaves where once it smiled; Firm as a man, yet tender as a child; Armed at all points by fantasy and thought, To face the true or soar amid the wild; By love and labour, as a good man ought, Ready to pay the price by which dear truth is bought! 'Tis not with cold advice or stern rebuke, With formal precept, or wit face demure, But with the unconscious eloquence of look, Where shines the heart so loving and so pure: 'Tis these, with constant goodness, that allure All hearts to love and imitate his worth. Beside him weaker natures feel secure, Even as the flower beside the oak peeps forth, Safe, though the rain descends, and blows the biting North! Such is my friend, and such I fain would be, Mild, thoughtful, modest, faithful, loving, gay, Correct, not cold, nor uncontroll'd though free, But proof to all the lures that round us play, Even as the sun, that on his azure way Moveth with steady pace and lofty mien, Though blushing clouds, like syrens, woo his stay, Higher and higher through the pure serene, Till comes the calm of eve and wraps him from the scene.

Sweet sister spirits, ye whose starlight tresses Stream on the night-winds as ye float along, Missioned with hope to man--and with caresses To slumbering babes--refreshment to the strong-- And grace the sensuous soul that it's arrayed in: As the light burden of melodious song Weighs down a poet's words;--as an o'erladen Lily doth bend beneath its own pure snow; Or with its joy, the free heart of a maiden:-- Thus, I behold your outstretched pinions grow Heavy with all the priceless gifts and graces God through thy ministration doth bestow. Do ye not plant the rose on youthful faces? And rob the heavens of stars for Beauty's eyes? Do ye not fold within love's pure embraces All that Omnipotence doth yet devise For human bliss, or rapture superhuman-- Heaven upon earth, and earth still in the skies? Do ye not sow the fruitful heart of woman With tenderest charities and faith sincere, To feed man's sterile soul and to illumine His duller eyes, that else might settle here, With the bright promise of a purer region-- A starlight beacon to a starry sphere? Are they not all thy children, that bright legion-- Of aspirations, and all hopeful sighs That in the solemn train of grave Religion Strew heavenly flowers before man's longing eyes, And make him feel, as o'er life's sea he wendeth, The far-off odorous airs of Paradise?-- Like to the breeze some flowery island sendeth Unto the seaman, ere its bowers are seen, Which tells him soon his weary wandering endeth-- Soon shall he rest, in bosky shades of green, By daisied meadows prankt with dewy flowers, With ever-running rivulets between. These are thy tasks, my sisters--these the powers God in his goodness gives into thy hands:-- 'Tis from thy fingers fall the diamond showers Of budding Spring, and o'er the expectant lands June's odorous purple and rich Autumn's gold: And even when needful Winter wide expands His fallow wings, and winds blow sharp and cold From the harsh east, 'tis thine, o'er all the plain, The leafless woodlands and the unsheltered wold, Gently to drop the flakes of feathery rain-- Heaven's warmest down--around the slumbering seeds, And o'er the roots the frost-blanched counterpane. What though man's careless eye but little heeds Even the effects, much less the remoter cause, Still, in the doing of beneficent deeds-- By God and his Vicegerent Nature's laws-- Ever a compensating joy is found. Think ye the rain-drop heedeth if it draws Rankness as well as Beauty from the ground? Or that the sullen wind will deign to wake Only Æolian melodies of sound-- And not the stormy screams that make men quake Thus do ye act, my sisters; thus ye do Your cheerful duty for the doing's sake-- Not unrewarded surely--not when you See the successful issue of your charms, Bringing the absent back again to view-- Giving the loved one to the lover's arms-- Smoothing the grassy couch in weary age-- Hushing in death's great calm a world's alarms. I, I alone upon the earth's vast stage Am doomed to act an unrequited part-- I, the unseen preceptress of the sage-- I, whose ideal form doth win the heart Of all whom God's vocation hath assigned To wear the sacred vesture of high Art-- To pass along the electric sparks of mind From age to age, from race to race, until The expanding truth encircles all mankind. What without me were all the poet's skill?-- Dead, sensuous form without the quickening soul. What without me the instinctive aim of will?-- A useless magnet pointing to no pole. What the fine ear and the creative hand? Most potent spirits free from man's control. I, THE IDEAL, by the poet stand When all his soul o'erflows with holy fire, When currents of the beautiful and grand Run glittering down along each burning wire Until the heart of the great world doth feel The electric shock of his God-kindled lyre:-- Then rolls the thunderous music peal on peal, Or in the breathless after-pause, a strain Simpler and sweeter through the hush doth steal-- Like to the pattering drops of summer rain Or rustling grass, when fragrance fills the air And all the groves are vocal once again: Whatever form, whatever shape I bear, The Spirit of high Impulse, and the Soul Of all conceptions beautiful and rare, Am I; who now swift spurning all control, On rapid wings--the Ariel of the Muse-- Dart from the dazzling centre to the pole; Now in the magic mimicry of hues Such as surround God's golden throne, descend In Titian's skies the boundaries to confuse Betwixt earth's heaven and heaven's own heaven to blend In Raphael's forms the human and divine, Where spirit dawns, and matter seems to end. Again on wings of melody, so fine They mock the sight, but fall upon the ear Like tuneful rose-leaves at the day's decline-- And with the music of a happier sphere Entrance some master of melodious sound, Till startled men the hymns of angels hear. Happy for me when, in the vacant round Of barren ages, one great steadfast soul Faithful to me and to his art is found. But, ah! my sisters, with my grief condole; Join in my sorrows and respond my sighs; And let your sobs the funeral dirges toll; Weep those who falter in the great emprise-- Who, turning off upon some poor pretence, Some worthless guerdon or some paltry prize, Down from the airy zenith through the immense Sink to the low expedients of an hour, And barter soul for all the slough of sense,-- Just when the mind had reached its regal power, And fancy's wing its perfect plume unfurl'd,-- Just when the bud of promise in the flower Of all completeness opened on the world-- When the pure fire that heaven itself outflung Back to its native empyrean curled, Like vocal incense from a censer swung:-- Ah, me! to be subdued when all seemed won-- That I should fly when I would fain have clung. Yet so it is,--our radiant course is run;-- Here we must part, the deathless lay unsung, And, more than all, the deathless deed undone.

Ah! summer time, sweet summer scene, When all the golden days, Linked hand-in-hand, like moonlit fays, Danced o'er the deepening green. When, from the top of Pelier[111] down We saw the sun descend, With smiles that blessings seemed to send To our near native town. And when we saw him rise again High o'er the hills at morn-- God's glorious prophet daily born To preach good will to men-- Good-will and peace to all between The gates of night and day-- Join with me, love, and with me say-- Sweet summer time and scene. Sweet summer time, true age of gold, When hand-in-hand we went Slow by the quickening shrubs, intent To see the buds unfold: To trace new wild flowers in the grass, New blossoms on the bough, And see the water-lilies now Rise o'er the liquid glass. When from the fond and folding gale The scented briar I pulled, Or for thy kindred bosom culled The lily of the vale;-- Thou without whom were dark the green, The golden turned to gray, Join with me, love, and with me say-- Sweet summer time and scene. Sweet summer time, delight's brief reign, Thou hast one memory still, Dearer than ever tree or hill Yet stretched along life's plain. Stranger than all the wond'rous whole, Flowers, fields, and sunset skies-- To see within our infant's eyes The awakening of the soul. To see their dear bright depths first stirred By the far breath of thought, To feel our trembling hearts o'erfraught With rapture when we heard Her first clear laugh, which might have been A cherub's laugh at play-- Ah! love, thou canst but join and say-- Sweet summer time and scene. Sweet summer time, sweet summer days, One day I must recall; One day the brightest of them all, Must mark with special praise. 'Twas when at length in genial showers The spring attained its close; And June with many a myriad rose Incarnadined the bowers: Led by the bright and sun-warm air, We left our indoor nooks; Thou with my paper and my books, And I thy garden chair; Crossed the broad, level garden-walks, With countless roses lined; And where the apple still inclined Its blossoms o'er the box, Near to the lilacs round the pond, In its stone ring hard by We took our seats, where save the sky, And the few forest trees beyond The garden wall, we nothing saw, But flowers and blossoms, and we heard Nought but the whirring of some bird, Or the rooks' distant, clamorous caw. And in the shade we saw the face Of our dear infant sleeping near, And thou wert by to smile and hear, And speak with innate truth and grace. There through the pleasant noontide hours My task of echoed song I sung; Turning the golden southern tongue Into the iron ore of ours! 'Twas the great Spanish master's pride, The story of the hero proved; 'Twas how the Moorish princess loved, And how the firm Fernando died.[112] O happiest season ever seen, O day, indeed the happiest day; Join with me, love, and with me say-- Sweet summer time and scene. One picture more before I close Fond Memory's fast dissolving views; One picture more before I lose The radiant outlines as they rose. 'Tis evening, and we leave the porch, And for the hundredth time admire The rhododendron's cones of fire Rise round the tree, like torch o'er torch. And for the hundredth time point out Each favourite blossom and perfume-- If the white lilac still doth bloom, Or the pink hawthorn fadeth out: And by the laurell'd wall, and o'er The fields of young green corn we've gone; And by the outer gate, and on To our dear friend's oft-trodden door. And there in cheerful talk we stay, Till deepening twilight warns us home; Then once again we backward roam Calmly and slow the well-known way-- And linger for the expected view-- Day's dying gleam upon the hill; Or listen for the whip-poor-will,[113] Or the too seldom shy cuckoo. At home the historic page we glean, And muse, and hope, and praise, and pray-- Join with me, love, as then, and say-- Sweet summer time and scene!

The moon of my soul is dark, Dolores, Dead and dark in my breast it lies, For I miss the heaven of thy smile, Dolores, And the light of thy brown bright eyes. The rose of my heart is gone, Dolores, Bud or blossom in vain I seek; For I miss the breath of thy lip, Dolores, And the blush of thy pearl-pale cheek. The pulse of my heart is still, Dolores, Still and chill is its glowing tide; For I miss the beating of thine, Dolores, In the vacant space by my side. But the moon shall revisit my soul, Dolores, And the rose shall refresh my heart, When I meet thee again in heaven, Dolores, Never again to part.

"Whither art thou gone, fair Una? Una fair, the moon is gleaming; Fear no mortal eye, fair Una, For the very flowers are dreaming. And the twinkling stars are closing Up their weary watching glances, Warders on heaven's walls reposing, While the glittering foe advances. "Una dear, my heart is throbbing, Full of throbbings without number; Come! the tired-out streams are sobbing Like to children ere they slumber; And the longing trees inclining, Seek the earth's too distant bosom; Sad fate! that keeps from intertwining The earthly and the aerial blossom. "Una dear, I've roamed the mountain, Round the furze and o'er the heather; Una, dear, I've sought the fountain Where we rested oft together; Ah! the mountain now looks dreary, Dead and dark where no life liveth; Ah! the fountain, to the weary, Now, no more refreshment giveth. "Una, darling, dearest daughter Beauty ever gave to Fancy, Spirit of the silver water, Nymph of Nature's necromancy! Fair enchantress, fond magician, Is thine every spell-word spoken? Hast thou closed thy fairy mission? Is thy potent wand then broken? "Una dearest, deign to hear me, Fly no more my prayer resisting!" Then a trembling voice came near me, Like a maiden to the trysting, Like a maiden's feet approaching Where the lover doth attend her; Half-forgiving, half-reproaching, Came that voice so shy and tender. "Must I blame thee, must I chide thee, Change to scorn the love I bore thee? And the fondest heart beside thee, And the truest eyes before thee. And the kindest hands to press thee, And the instinctive sense to guide thee, And the purest lips to bless thee, What, O dreamer! is denied thee? "Hast thou not the full fruition, Hast thou not the full enjoyance Of thy young heart's fond ambition, Free from every feared annoyance Thou hast sighed for truth and beauty, Hast thou failed, then, in thy wooing? Dreamed of some ideal duty, Is there nought that waits thy doing?-- "Is the world less bright or beauteous, That dear eyes behold it with thee? Is the work of life less duteous, That thou art helped to do it, prithee? Is the near rapture non-existent, Because thou dreamest an ideal? And canst thou for a glimmering distant Forget the blessings of the real? "Down on thy knees, O doubting dreamer! Down! and repent thy heart's misprision." Scarce had I knelt in tears and tremor, When the scales fell from off my vision. There stood my human guardian angel, Given me by God's benign foreseeing, While from her lips came life's evangel, "Live! that each day complete thy being!"

Within the letter's rustling fold I find once more a glad surprise-- A little tiny cup of gold-- Two little lovely violet eyes; A cup of gold with emeralds set, Once filled with wine from happier spheres; Two little eyes so lately wet With spring's delicious dewy tears. Oh! little eyes that wept and laughed, Now bright with smiles, with tears now dim, Oh! little cup that once was quaffed By fay-queens fluttering round thy rim. I press each silken fringe's fold, Sweet little eyes once more ye shine; I kiss thy lip, oh, cup of gold, And find thee full of Memory's wine. Within their violet depths I gaze, And see as in the camera's gloom, The island with its belt of bays, Its chieftained heights all capped with broom, Which as the living lens it fills, Now seems a giant charmed to sleep-- Now a broad shield embossed with hills Upon the bosom of the deep. When will the slumbering giant wake? When will the shield defend and guard? Ah, me! prophetic gleams forsake The once rapt eyes of seer or bard. Enough, if shunning Samson's fate, It doth not all its vigour yield; Enough, if plenteous peace, though late, May rest beneath the sheltering shield. I see the long and lone defiles Of Keimaneigh's bold rocks uphurled, I see the golden fruited isles That gem the queen-lakes of the world; I see--a gladder sight to me-- By soft Shangânah's silver strand, The breaking of a sapphire sea Upon the golden-fretted sand. Swiftly the tunnel's rock-hewn pass, Swiftly the fiery train runs through; Oh! what a glittering sheet of glass! Oh! what enchantment meets my view! With eyes insatiate I pursue, Till Bray's bright headland bounds the scene. 'Tis Baiæ, by a softer blue! Gäeta, by a gladder green! By tasseled groves, o'er meadows fair, I'm carried in my blissful dream, To where--a monarch in the air-- The pointed mountain reigns supreme; There in a spot remote and wild, I see once more the rustic seat, Where Carrigoona, like a child, Sits at the mightier mountain's feet. There by the gentler mountain's slope, That happiest year of many a year, That first swift year of love and hope, With her then dear and ever dear, I sat upon the rustic seat, The seat an aged bay-tree crowns, And saw outspreading from our feet The golden glory of the Downs. The furze-crowned heights, the glorious glen, The white-walled chapel glistening near, The house of God, the homes of men, The fragrant hay, the ripening ear; There where there seemed nor sin nor crime, There in God's sweet and wholesome air-- Strange book to read at such a time-- We read of Vanity's false Fair. We read the painful pages through, Perceived the skill, admired the art, Felt them if true, not wholly true, A truer truth was in our heart. Save fear and love of One, hath proved The sage how vain is all below; And one was there who feared and loved, And one who loved that she was so. The vision spreads, the memories grow, Fair phantoms crowd the more I gaze, Oh! cup of gold, with wine o'erflow, I'll drink to those departed days: And when I drain the golden cup To them, to those I ne'er can see, With wine of hope I'll fill it up, And drink to days that yet may be. I've drunk the future and the past, Now for a draught of warmer wine-- One draught, the sweetest and the last, Lady, I'll drink to thee and thine. These flowers that to my breast I fold, Into my very heart have grown; To thee I'll drain the cup of gold, And think the violet eyes thine own.

In deep dejection, but with affection, I often think of those pleasant times, In the days of Fraser, ere I touched a razor, How I read and revell'd in thy racy rhymes; When in wine and wassail, we to thee were vassal, Of Watergrass-hill, O renowned P.P.! May the bells of Shandon Toll blithe and bland on The pleasant waters of thy memory! Full many a ditty, both wise and witty, In this social city have I heard since then (With the glass before me, how the dream comes o'er me, Of those Attic suppers, and those vanished men). But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken, Or hath left a token of such joy in me As "The Bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee." The songs melodious, which--a new Harmodius-- "Young Ireland" wreathed round its rebel sword, With their deep vibrations and aspirations, Fling a glorious madness o'er the festive board! But to me seems sweeter, with a tone completer, The melodious metre that we owe to thee-- Of the bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. There's a grave that rises o'er thy sward, Devizes, Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar, And a white stone flashes over Goldsmith's ashes In quiet cloisters by Temple Bar; So where'er thou sleepest, with a love that's deepest, Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee, While the Bells of Shandon Shall sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

Those Shandon bells, those Shandon bells! Whose deep, sad tone now sobs, now swells-- Who comes to seek this hallowed ground, And sleep within their sacred sound? 'Tis one who heard these chimes when young, And who in age their praises sung, Within whose breast their music made A dream of home where'er he strayed. And, oh! if bells have power to-day To drive all evil things away, Let doubt be dumb, and envy cease-- And round his grave reign holy peace. True love doth love in turn beget, And now these bells repay the debt; Whene'er they sound, their music tells Of him who sang sweet Shandon bells!

To give the blossom and the fruit The soft warm air that wraps them round, Oh! think how long the toilsome root Must live and labour 'neath the ground. To send the river on its way, With ever deepening strength and force, Oh! think how long 'twas let to play, A happy streamlet, near its source.

I'll heed no more the poet's lay-- His false-fond song shall charm no more-- My heart henceforth shall but adore The real, not the misnamed May. Too long I've knelt, and vainly hung My offerings round an empty name; O May! thou canst not be the same As once thou wert when Earth was young. Thou canst not be the same to-day-- The poet's dream--the lover's joy:-- The floral heaven of girl and boy Were heaven no more, if thou wert May. If thou wert May, then May is cold, And, oh! how changed from what she has been-- Then barren boughs are bright with green, And leaden skies are glad with gold. And the dark clouds that veiled thy moon Were silvery-threaded tissues bright, Looping the locks of amber light That float but on the airs of June. O June! thou art the real May; Thy name is soft and sweet as hers But rich blood thy bosom stirs, Her marble cheek cannot display. She cometh like a haughty girl, So conscious of her beauty's power, She now will wear nor gem nor flower Upon her pallid breast of pearl. And her green silken summer dress, So simply flower'd in white and gold, She scorns to let our eyes behold, But hides through very wilfulness: Hides it 'neath ermined robes, which she Hath borrowed from some wintry quean, Instead of dancing on the green-- A village maiden fair and free. Oh! we have spoiled her with our praise, And made her froward, false, and vain; So that her cold blue eyes disdain To smile as in the earlier days. Let her beware--the world full soon Like me shall tearless turn away, And woo, instead of thine, O May! The brown, bright, joyous eyes of June. O June! forgive the long delay, My heart's deceptive dream is o'er-- Where I believe I will adore, Nor worship June, yet kneel to May.

Summer is a glorious season Warm, and bright, and pleasant; But the Past is not a reason To despise the Present. So while health can climb the mountain, And the log lights up the hall, There are sunny days in Winter, after all! Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us, Maiden-like in charms; Summer, too, with all her promise, Perished in our arms. But the memory of the vanished, Whom our hearts recall, Maketh sunny days in Winter, after all! True, there's scarce a flower that bloometh, All the best are dead; But the wall-flower still perfumeth Yonder garden-bed. And the arbutus pearl-blossom'd Hangs its coral ball-- There are sunny days in Winter, after all! Summer trees are pretty,--very, And love them well: But this holly's glistening berry, None of those excel. While the fir can warm the landscape, And the ivy clothes the wall, There are sunny days in Winter, after all! Sunny hours in every season Wait the innocent-- Those who taste with love and reason What their God hath sent. Those who neither soar too highly, Nor too lowly fall, Feel the sunny days of Winter, after all! Then, although our darling treasures Vanish from the heart; Then, although our once-loved pleasures One by one depart; Though the tomb looms in the distance, And the mourning pall, There is sunshine, and no Winter, after all!

O Kathleen, my darling, I've dreamt such a dream, 'Tis as hopeful and bright as the summer's first beam: I dreamt that the World, like yourself, darling dear, Had presented a son to the happy New Year! Like yourself, too, the poor mother suffered awhile, But like yours was the joy, at her baby's first smile, When the tender nurse, Nature, quick hastened to fling Her sun-mantle round, as she fondled THE SPRING. O Kathleen, 'twas strange how the elements all, With their friendly regards, condescended to call: The rough rains of winter like summer-dews fell, And the North-wind said, zephyr-like: "Is the World well?" And the streams ran quick-sparkling to tell o'er the earth God's goodness to man in this mystical birth; For a Son of this World, and an heir to the King Who rules over man, is this beautiful Spring! O Kathleen, methought, when the bright babe was born, More lovely than morning appeared the bright morn; The birds sang more sweetly, the grass greener grew, And with buds and with blossoms the old trees looked new; And methought when the Priest of the Universe came-- The Sun--in his vestments of glory and flame, He was seen, the warm raindrops of April to fling On the brow of the babe, and baptise him The Spring! O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! what treasures are piled In the mines of the past for this wonderful Child! The lore of the sages, the lays of the bards, Like a primer, the eye of this infant regards; All the dearly-bought knowledge that cost life and limb, Without price, without peril, is offered to him; And the blithe bee of Progress concealeth its sting, As it offers its sweets to the beautiful Spring! O Kathleen, they tell us of wonderful things, Of speed that surpasseth the fairy's fleet wings; How the lands of the world in communion are brought, And the slow march of speech is as rapid as thought. Think, think what an heir-loom the great world will be With this wonderful wire 'neath the earth and the sea; When the snows and the sunshine together shall bring All the wealth of the world to the feet of The Spring. Oh! Kathleen, but think of the birth-gifts of love, That THE MASTER who lives in the GREAT HOUSE above Prepares for the poor child that's born on His land-- Dear God! they're the sweet flowers that fall from Thy hand-- The crocus, the primrose, the violet given Awhile, to make earth the reflection of heaven; The brightness and lightness that round the world wing Are thine, and are ours too, through thee, happy Spring! O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! that dream is gone by, And I wake once again, but, thank God! thou art by; And the land that we love looks as bright in the beam, Just as if my sweet dream was not all out a dream, The spring-tide of Nature its blessing imparts, Let the spring-tide of Hope send its pulse through our hearts; Let us feel 'tis a mother, to whose breast we cling, And a brother we hail, when we welcome the Spring.

The Sun called a beautiful Beam, that was playing At the door of his golden-wall'd palace on high; And he bade him be off, without any delaying, To a fast-fleeting Cloud on the verge of the sky: "You will give him this letter," said roguish Apollo (While a sly little twinkle contracted his eye), With my royal regards; and be sure that you follow Whatsoever his Highness may send in reply." The Beam heard the order, but being no novice, Took it coolly, of course--nor in this was he wrong-- But was forced (being a clerk in Apollo's post-office) To declare (what a bounce!) that he wouldn't be long; So he went home and dress'd--gave his beard an elision-- Put his scarlet coat on, nicely edged with gold lace; And thus being equipped, with a postman's precision, He prepared to set out on his nebulous race. Off he posted at last, but just outside the portals He lit on earth's high-soaring bird in the dark; So he tarried a little, like many frail mortals, Who, when sent on an errand, first go on a lark; But he broke from the bird--reach'd the cloud in a minute-- Gave the letter and all, as Apollo ordained; But the Sun's correspondent, on looking within it, Found, "Send the fool farther," was all it contained. The Cloud, who was up to all mystification, Quite a humorist, saw the intent of the Sun; And was ever too airy--though lofty his station-- To spoil the least taste of the prospect of fun; So he hemm'd, and he haw'd--took a roll of pure vapour, Which the light from the beam made as bright as could be, (Like a sheet of the whitest cream golden-edg'd paper), And wrote a few words, superscribed, "To the Sea." "My dear Beam," or "dear Ray" (t'was thus coolly he hailed him), "Pray take down to Neptune this letter from me, For the person you seek--though I lately regaled him-- Now tries a new airing, and dwells by the sea." So our Mercury hastened away through the ether, The bright face of Thetis to gladden and greet; And he plunged in the water a few feet beneath her, Just to get a sly peep at her beautiful feet. To Neptune the letter was brought for inspection-- But the god, though a deep one, was still rather green; So he took a few moments of steady reflection, Ere he wholly made out what the missive could mean: But the date (it was "April the first") came to save it From all fear of mistake; so he took pen in hand, And, transcribing the cruel entreaty, he gave it To our travel-tired friend, and said, "Bring it to Land." To Land went the Sunbeam, which scarcely received it, When it sent it, post-haste, back again to the sea; The Sea's hypocritical calmness deceived it, And sent it once more to the Land on the lea;-- From the Land to the Lake--from the Lakes to the Fountains-- From the Fountains and Streams to the Hills' azure crest, 'Till, at last, a tall Peak on the top of the mountains, Sent it back to the Cloud in the now golden west. He saw the whole trick by the way he was greeted By the Sun's laughing face, which all purple appears; Then, amused, yet annoyed at the way he was treated, He first laughed at the joke, and then burst into tears. It is thus that this day of mistakes and surprises, When fools write on foolscap, and wear it the while, This gay saturnalia for ever arises 'Mid the showers and the sunshine, the tear and the smile.

Where foams the white torrent, and rushes the rill, Down the murmuring slopes of the echoing hill-- Where the eagle looks out from his cloud-crested crags, And the caverns resound with the panting of stags-- Where the brow of the mountain is purple with heath, And the mighty Atlantic rolls proudly beneath, With the foam of its waves like the snowy fenane--[114] Oh! that is the region of wild Darrynane! Oh! fair are the islets of tranquil Glengariff, And wild are the sacred recesses of Scariff, And beauty, and wildness, and grandeur commingle By Bantry's broad bosom, and wave-wasted Dingle; But wild as the wildest, and fair as the fairest, And lit by a lustre that thou alone wearest-- And dear to the eye and the free heart of man Are the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane! And who is the Chief of this lordly domain? Does a slave hold the land where a monarch might reign? Oh! no, by St. Finbar,[115] nor cowards, nor slaves, Could live in the sound of these free, dashing waves! A chieftain, the greatest the world has e'er known-- Laurel his coronet--true hearts his throne-- Knowledge his sceptre--a Nation his clan-- O'Connell, the chieftain of proud Darrynane! A thousand bright streams on the mountains awake, Whose waters unite in O'Donoghue's lake-- Streams of Glanflesk and the dark Gishadine Filling the heart of that valley divine! Then rushing in one mighty artery down To the limitless ocean by murmuring Lowne--[116] Thus Nature unfolds in her mystical plan A type of the Chieftain of wild Darrynane! In him every pulse of our bosoms unite-- Our hatred of wrong and our worship of right-- The hopes that we cherish, the ills we deplore, All centre within his heart's innermost core, Which, gathered in one mighty current, are flung To the ends of the earth from his thunder-toned tongue! Till the Indian looks up, and the valiant Afghan Draws his sword at the echo from far Darrynane! But here he is only the friend and the father, Who from children's sweet lips truest wisdom can gather, And seeks from the large heart of Nature to borrow Rest for the present and strength for the morrow! Oh! who that e'er saw him with children about him And heard his soft tones of affection could doubt him? My life on the truth of the heart of that man That throbs like the Chieftain's of wild Darrynane! Oh! wild Darrynane, on thy ocean-washed shore, Shall the glad song of mariners echo once more? Shall the merchants, and minstrels, and maidens of Spain, Once again in their swift ships come over the main? Shall the soft lute be heard, and the gay youths of France Lead our blue-eyed young maidens again to the dance? Graceful and shy as thy fawns, Killenane,[117] Are the mind-moulded maidens of far Darrynane! Dear land of the south, as my mind wandered o'er All the joys I have felt by thy magical shore, From those lakes of enchantment by oak-clad Glená To the mountainous passes of bold Iveragh! Like birds which are lured to a haven of rest, By those rocks far away on the ocean's bright breast--[118] Thus my thoughts loved to linger, as memory ran O'er the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane!

O postman! speed thy tardy gait-- Go quicker round from door to door; For thee I watch, for thee I wait, Like many a weary wanderer more. Thou brightest news of bale and bliss-- Some life begun, some life well o'er. He stops--he rings!--O heaven! what's this?-- A shamrock from the Irish shore! Dear emblem of my native land, By fresh fond words kept fresh and green; The pressure of an unfelt hand-- The kisses of a lip unseen; A throb from my dead mother's heart-- My father's smile revived once more-- Oh, youth! oh, love! oh, hope thou art, Sweet shamrock from the Irish shore! Enchanter, with thy wand of power, Thou mak'st the past be present still: The emerald lawn--the lime-leaved bower-- The circling shore--the sunlit hill; The grass, in winter's wintriest hours, By dewy daisies dimpled o'er, Half hiding, 'neath their trembling flowers, The shamrock of the Irish shore! And thus, where'er my footsteps strayed, By queenly Florence, kingly Rome-- By Padua's long and lone arcade-- By Ischia's fires and Adria's foam-- By Spezzia's fatal waves that kissed My poet sailing calmly o'er; By all, by each, I mourned and missed The shamrock of the Irish shore! I saw the palm-tree stand aloof, Irresolute 'twixt the sand and sea: I saw upon the trellised roof Outspread the wine that was to be; A giant-flowered and glorious tree I saw the tall magnolia soar; But there, even there, I longed for thee, Poor shamrock of the Irish shore! Now on the ramparts of Boulogne, As lately by the lonely Rance, At evening as I watch the sun, I look! I dream! Can this be France Not Albion's cliffs, how near they be, He seems to love to linger o'er; But gilds, by a remoter sea, The shamrock on the Irish shore! I'm with him in that wholesome clime-- That fruitful soil, that verdurous sod-- Where hearts unstained by vulgar crime Have still a simple faith in God: Hearts that in pleasure and in pain, The more they're trod rebound the more, Like thee, when wet with heaven's own rain, O shamrock of the Irish shore! Memorial of my native land, True emblem of my land and race-- Thy small and tender leaves expand But only in thy native place. Thou needest for thyself and seed Soft dews around, kind sunshine o'er; Transplanted thou'rt the merest weed, O shamrock of the Irish shore. Here on the tawny fields of France, Or in the rank, red English clay, Thou showest a stronger form perchance; A bolder front thou mayest display, More able to resist the scythe That cut so keen, so sharp before; But then thou art no more the blithe Bright shamrock of the Irish shore! Ah, me! to think--thy scorns, thy slights, Thy trampled tears, thy nameless grave On Fredericksburg's ensanguined heights, Or by Potomac's purpled wave! Ah, me! to think that power malign Thus turns thy sweet green sap to gore, And what calm rapture might be thine, Sweet shamrock of the Irish shore! Struggling, and yet for strife unmeet, True type of trustful love thou art; Thou liest the whole year at my feet, To live but one day at my heart. One day of festal pride to lie Upon the loved one's heart--what more? Upon the loved one's heart to die, O shamrock of the Irish shore! And shall I not return thy love? And shalt thou not, as thou shouldst, be Placed on thy son's proud heart above The red rose or the fleur-de-lis? Yes, from these heights the waters beat, I vow to press thy cheek once more, And lie for ever at thy feet, O shamrock of the Irish shore!

By many a soft Ligurian bay The myrtles glisten green and bright, Gleam with their flowers of snow by day, And glow with fire-flies through the night, And yet, despite the cold and heat, Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. There is an island in the West, Where living myrtles bloom and blow, Hearts where the fire-fly Love my rest Within a paradise of snow-- Which yet, despite the cold and heat, Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. Deep in that gentle breast of thine-- Like fire and snow within the pearl-- Let purity and love combine, O warm, pure-hearted Irish girl! And in the cold and in the heat Be ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. Thy bosom bears as pure a snow As e'er Italia's bowers can boast, And though no fire-fly lends its glow-- As on the soft Ligurian coast-- 'Tis warmed by an internal heat Which ever keeps it pure and sweet. The fire-flies fade on misty eves-- The inner fires alone endure; Like rain that wets the leaves, Thy very sorrows keep thee pure-- They temper a too ardent heat-- And keep thee ever pure and sweet.

"Oh! come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water; Oh! come with me, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, Who, prattling climb thy agéd knees, and call thy daughter--mother. "Oh come, and leave this land of death--this isle of desolation-- This speck upon the sunbright face of God's sublime creation, Since now o'er all our fatal stars the most malign hath risen, When Labour seeks the poorhouse, and Innocence the prison. "'Tis true, o'er all the sun-brown fields the husky wheat is bending; 'Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a better time is sending; 'Tis true the island's aged face looks happier and younger, But in the best of days we've known the sickness and the hunger. "When health breathed out in every breeze, too oft we've known the fever-- Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of the bereaver: Too well remember many a time the mournful task that brought him, When freshness fanned the summer air, and cooled the glow of autumn. "But then the trial, though severe, still testified our patience, We bowed with mingled hope and fear to God's wise dispensations; We felt the gloomiest time was both a promise and a warning, Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the morning. "But now through all the black expanse no hopeful morning breaketh-- No bird of promise in our hearts the gladsome song awaketh; No far-off gleams of good light up the hills of expectation-- Nought but the gloom that might precede the world's annihilation. "So, mother, turn thy agéd feet, and let our children lead 'em Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty and to freedom; Forgetting nought of all the past, yet all the past forgiving; Come, let us leave the dying land, and fly unto the living. "They tell us, they who read and think of Ireland's ancient story, How once its emerald flag flung out a sunburst's fleeting glory Oh! if that sun will pierce no more the dark clouds that efface it, Fly where the rising stars of heaven commingle to replace it. "So come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water; Oh! come with us, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, Who, prattling, climb thy agéd knees, and call thy daughter--mother." "Ah! go, my children, go away--obey this inspiration; Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation; Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant prairies; Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's. "But though I feel how sharp the pang from thee and thine to sever, To look upon these darling ones the last time and for ever; Yet in this sad and dark old land, by desolation haunted, My heart has struck its roots too deep ever to be transplanted. "A thousand fibres still have life, although the trunk is dying, They twine around the yet green grave where thy father's bones are lying; Ah! from that sad and sweet embrace no soil on earth can loose 'em, Though golden harvests gleam on its breast, and golden sands its bosom. "Others are twined around the stone, where ivy-blossoms smother The crumbling lines that trace your names, my father and my mother; God's blessing be upon their souls--God grant, my old heart prayeth, Their names be written in the Book whose writing ne'er decayeth. "Alas! my prayers would never warm within those great cold buildings, Those grand cathedral churches with their marbles and their gildings; Far fitter than the proudest dome that would hang in splendour o'er me, Is the simple chapel's white-washed wall, where my people knelt before me. "No doubt it is a glorious land to which you now are going, Like that which God bestowed of old, with milk and honey flowing; But where are the blessed saints of God, whose lives of his law remind me, Like Patrick, Brigid, and Columkille, in the land I'd leave behind me? "So leave me here, my children, with my old ways and old notions; Leave me here in peace, with my memories and devotions; Leave me in sight of your father's grave, and as the heavens allied us, Let not, since we were joined in life, even the grave divide us. "There's not a week but I can hear how you prosper better and better, For the mighty fire-ships o'er the sea will bring the expected letter; And if I need aught for my simple wants, my food or my winter firing, You will gladly spare from your growing store a little for my requiring. "Remember with a pitying love the hapless land that bore you; At every festal season be its gentle form before you; When the Christmas candle is lighted, and the holly and ivy glisten, Let your eye look back for a vanished face--for a voice that is silent, listen! "So go, my children, go away--obey this inspiration; Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation; Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant prairies; Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's."

The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain-- Welcome, welcome, it cometh again; It cometh with green to gladden the plain, And to wake the sweets in the winding lane. The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, It fills the flowers to their tiniest vein, Till they rise from the sod whereon they had lain-- Ah, me! ah, me! like an army slain. The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, Each drop is a link of a diamond chain That unites the earth with its sin and its stain To the radiant realm where God doth reign. The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, Each drop is a tear not shed in vain, Which the angels weep for the golden grain All trodden to death on the gory plain; For Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, Will waken the golden seeds again! But, ah! what power will revive the slain, Stark lying death over fair Lorraine? 'Twere better far, O beautiful Rain, That you swelled the torrent and flooded the main; And that Winter, with all his spectral train, Alone lay camped on the icy plain. For then, O Rain, O beautiful Rain, The snow-flag of peace were unfurl'd again; And the truce would be rung in each loud refrain Of the blast replacing the bugle's strain. Then welcome, welcome, beautiful Rain, Thou bringest flowers to the parched-up plain; Oh! for many a frenzied heart and brain, Bring peace and love to the world again!