| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
||
|
|
||
|
'TIS GONE, AND FOREVER.
'Tls gone, and forever the light we saw breaking,
Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead—. When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking,
Looked upward, and blest the pure ray, ere It fled. 'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of Its burning But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning. That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth Is returning.
And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee-! For high was thy hope, when those glories were dasting
Around thee through all the gross clouds of the world, When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting.
At once like a sunburst her banner unfurled! Oh, never shall earth see a moment so splendid!— Then—then—had one hymn of deliverance blended The tongues of all nations—how sweet had ascended
The first note of Liberty, Erin, from thee! But shame on those tyrants who envied the blessing!
And shame on the light race unworthy its good, Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies caressing
The young hope of Freedom, baptized It In blood! Then vanished forever that fair, sunny vision, Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision, Shall long be remembered, pure, bright, and elysian
As first it arose, my lost Erin, on thee! |
||
|
|
||
|
'TIS SWEET TO THINK.
"Tis sweet to think that, where'er we rove,
We are sure to find something blissful and dear, And that when we're far from the lips we love,
We've hut to make love to the lips we are near! The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling,
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone. But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
It can twine in itself, and make closely its own. Then oh, what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be sure to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near! 'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise.
To make light of the rest, If the rose isn't there; \ And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,
'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,
They are both of them bright, but they're changeable, too, And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,
It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue. Then oh, what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be sure to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near! |
||
|
|
||
|
THE WIDOW'S MESSAGE.
"Remember, Dennis, all I bade you say;
Tell him we're well and happy, thank the Lord, But of our troubles, since he went away, You'll mind, avick, and never say a word;
Of cares and troubles, sure, we've all our share, The finest summer isn't always fair. "Tell him the spotted heifer calved in May:
She died, poor thing; but that you needn't mind; Nor how the constant rain destroyed the hay: But tell him God to us was ever kind,
And when the fever spread the country o'er, His mercy kept the 'sickness' from our door. |
||
|
|
||
|
I |
||