Though the rain's dropping through, from the roof to
And the wind whistles free where there once was a
Can the rain or the snow, or the storm wash away
All the warm vows we made in our love's early day?
No, Patrick, no! sure the dark stormy weather
Is easily borne if we bear it together.
Soon, soon, will these dark dreary days be gone by,
And our hearts be lit up with a beam from the sky!
Oh, let not our spirits, embitter'd with pain,
Be dead to the sunshine that came to us then!
Heart in heart, hand in hand, let us welcome the weather,
And sunshine or storm, we will bear it together. Hon. Mrs. Norton.
Он, come! thou sadly pleasing power-
Companion of the twilight hour
Come, with thy sable garments flowing,
Thy tearful smile, all brightly glowing-
Come, with thy light and noiseless tread
As one belonging to the dead!
Come, with thy bright, yet pensive eye,
Grant me thine aid, sweet Memory!
She comes, and pictures all again,-
The wood-fringed lake-the rugged plain-
The mountain flower-the valley's smile,
And lovely Inis fallen's isle;
The rushing waters roaring by,
Our ringing laugh-our raptured sigh-
The waveless sea-the varied shore-
The dancing boat-the measured oar;
The lofty bugle's rousing cry,
The awaken'd mountain's deep reply.
Silence resuming then her reign,
In awful power o'er hill and plain
She paints, and her unclouded dyes
Can never fade in feeling's eyes.
AH! little ranting Johnny!
For ever blithe and bonny,
And singing "nonny, nonny,"
With hat just thrown upon ye;
Or whistling like the thrushes
With voice in silver gushes;
Or twisting random posies
With daisies, weeds, and roses;
And strutting in and out so,
Or dancing all about so,
With cock-up nose so lightsome,
And sidelong eyes so brightsome,
And cheeks as ripe as apples,
And head as rough as Dapple's,
And mouth that smiles so truly,
Heaven seems t' have made it newly,
It breaks into such sweetness,
With merry tipp'd completeness
One cannot turn a minute,
But mischief-there, you're in it!
A getting at my books, John,
With mighty bustling looks, John,
Or poking at the roses,
In midst of which your nose is;
Or climbing on a table,
No matter how unstable ;
And turning up your quaint eye
And half-shut teeth, with "Mayn't I?"
Or else you're off at play, John,
Just as you'd be all day, John,
With hat or not, as happens,
And there you dance and clap hands,
Or on the grass go rolling,
Or plucking flowers, or bowling,
And getting me expenses
With losing balls o'er fences.
Or, as the constant trade is,-
Are fondled by the ladies
With "What a young rogue this is!"
Reforming him with kisses;
Till suddenly you cry out,
As if you had an eye out,
So desperately tearful,
The sound is really fearful;
When lo! directly after,
It bubbles into laughter.
But see the sun shines brightly;
Come, put your hat on rightly,
And we'll among the bushes,
And hear your friends, the thrushes,
And see what flowers the weather
Has render'd fit to gather;
And when we home must jog, you
Shall ride my back, you rogue, you;
Your hat adorned with fine leaves,
Horse chestnut, oak, and vine leaves;
And so, with green o'erhead, John,
Shall whistle home to bed, John.
LEAFLESS are the trees; their purple branches
Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral,
Rising silent
In the Red Sea of the Winter sunset.
At the window winks the flickering firelight;
Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer,
Social watch-fires
Answering one another through the darkness.
By the fireside there are old men seated,
Seeing ruined cities in the ashes,
Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them.
By the fireside there are youthful dreamers,
Building castles fair, with stately stairways,
Asking blindly
Of the Future what it cannot give them.
By the fireside there are peace and comfort,
Wives and children, with fair thoughtful faces,
Waiting, watching
For a well-known footstep in the passage.
Each man's chimney is his Golden Milestone;
Is the central point from which he measures
Every distance
Through the gateways of the world around him.
In his farthest wanderings still he sees it;
Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind, As he heard them
When he sat with those who were but are not.
Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion,
Nor the march of the encroaching city,
From the hearth of his ancestral homestead.
We may build more splendid habitations,
Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures, But we cannot
Buy with gold the old associations!
RURAL HAPPINESS.
Оn, blest beyond compare are they,
Who hold their calm contented way
Where cots, 'mid fields and gardens green,
Mark some lone hamlet's peaceful scene!
Thrice blest, if heaven withal bestow
A heart their happiness to know!
What though for them no portals proud
Pour forth at morn a courtier crowd:
For them no midnight dances shine,
Nor Gallia sends her sparkling wine;
Yet theirs, repose secured from strife,
And theirs the calm and guileless life;
For them the social blackbird sings;
For them the purple harebell springs;
White flocks for them with bleatings fill
The bending lawn or coppiced hill;
While, waving o'er some cavern'd bank,
Beset with snow-white lilies dank,
The beech his roots fantastic wreathes,
And fresh and cool the west wind breathes;
Around the modest virtues dwell,
Nor scorn the peasant's humble cell.
Contented age; laborious youth;
Parental honour; nuptial truth
And, fairest daughters of the sky,
Meek Faith and tender Charity,
If yet on earth their footsteps be,
Linger, O rural Peace, with thee!
THE LABOURER'S WELCOME TO HOME.
RAINY and rough sets the day,
There's a heart beating for somebody ;
I must be up and away,-
Somebody's anxious for somebody.
Thrice hath she been to the gate,-
Thrice hath she listen'd for somebody;
Midst the night, stormy and late,
Somebody's waiting for somebody.
There'll be a comforting fire,
There'll be a welcome for somebody;
One, in her neatest attire,
Will look to the table for somebody.
Though the stars fled from the west,
There is a star yet for somebody,
Lighting the home he loves best,-
Warming the bosom of somebody.
COLD was the night-wind, drifting fast the snow fell;
Dark was the pathway, shelterless and naked,
When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey,
Weary and way sore.
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