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128 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Sentimentalizing like Rousseau, Oh ! I had a grand Byronian soul Twenty golden years ago !
Tick-tick, tick-tick !—not a sound save Time's,
And the wind-gust as it drives the rain — Tortured torturer of reluctant rhymes,
Go to bed and rest thine aching brain ! Sleep ! no more the dupe of hopes or schemes;
Soon thou sleepest where the thistles blow — Curious anticlimax to thy dreams
Twenty golden years ago ! |
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WRITTEN IN A NUNNERY CHAPEL'
ME hither from moonlight A voice ever calls,
Where pale pillars cluster And organ tones roll — Nor sunlight nor moonlight E'er silver these walls; Lives here other lustre, The Light of the Soul.
Here budded and blossomed, Here faded and died, Like brief-blooming roses. Earth's purest of pure ! Now ever embosomed In bliss they abide —
Oh, may, when life closes, My meed be as sure ! |
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1From O'Donoghue's " Life of Mangan." |
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