Song of the Sea. A MOTHER'S DIRGE. And art thou gone to thy cheerless home, My own, my lovely boy? And is thy mother's eye to see No more her earthly joy? I little thought when thy gilded prow I looked upon my blooming boy, And my heart was filled with pride, Would be still for him alone; I little dreamed of an early grave His stroke was strong in the billow's surf, And his heart beat high for his own lov'd land, But that heart is chilled, and that arm is white The ocean caves among; His shroud is the wave of the dark green sea, And a Mother's wail his song, The Friendly Greeting Of Earl Mulgrave, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and James M‘Dermot, Esq., vulgarly called the Prince of Coolavin. They met upon the Curlieu top, A gay and joyous throng, That smiled thro' sadness and thro' tears, In which they laboured long, Each eye bespoke its feeling Of gladness as they pass'd, To see their only native prince They spoke upon the Curlieu top,- No ire, no threat, no ban, Then say who shone most brilliant there; The monarch, or the man? Their words were open, calm, an1 kind, They stood upon the Curlieu top, One cheer for freedom rent the air One for the land that bore them! They parted on the Curlieu top, The one bears home a nation's praise, And one a people's unioned pride On seeing a Bust OF THE LATE DR. ELRINGTON, BISHOP OF FERNS, "Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his." Religion looked bright, for a saint was translated, Tho' Learning was sad, and her votaries sighed, Generosity mourned o'er her offerings abated, And Science, too, wept when her Elrington died. Not a tear may we shed, for we know thou art sleeping The sleep that must break in a heavenly sphere; 'Tis enough that the orphan and widow are weeping; They grieve for the lot which thy kindness could cheer. How oft, when this world and its vice coming o'er us, Have led our weak hearts into vanity's snare, Hath thy voice called aloud to the haven before us, And thine arm pointed up to the treasury there? 'Tis gloomy to think thou hast left us behind thee, Thy works to admire and thy loss to deplore; Yet 'tis joyous to know that in heaven we shall find thee, And earth, with its troubles, shall taint us no more. Farewell!-all is peace when the righteous are dy ing ;— 'Tis horror when guilt enters into the tomb. Let no monument shrine thee; the mighty are sighing; Their tears shall on memory freshen thy doom. May we seek to be like thee in heart's holy beauty, |