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Song of the Sea.
A MOTHER'S DIRGE.
And art thou gone to thy cheerless home,
My own, my lovely boy ?
No more her earthly joy ?
Was washed by the ocean surge,
Should sing thy funeral dirge.
I looked upon my blooming boy,
my heart was filled with pride, To think on the ocean dark and deep
How dauntless he would ride.
Would be still for him alone ;
For my first, my only son.
His stroke was strong in the billow's surf,
And his pull at the sturdy oar, And his heart beat high for his own lov’d land,
When he leaped on its em'rald shore, But that heart is chilled, and that arm is white
The ocean caves among ; IIis-shroud is the wave of the dark green sea,
And a Mother's wail his song,
The Friendly Grecting Of Earl Mulgrave, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and James
MI‘Dermot, Esq., vulgarly called the Prince of Coolavin.
They met upon the Curlieu top,
A gay and joyous throng,
In which they laboured long,
Of gladness as they pass’d,
In natal pride at last.
They spoke upon the Curlieu top,
No ire, no threat, no ban,-
The monarch, or the man ?
As brother met with brother;
Not wrath toward one another.
They stood upon the Curlieu top,
Which once his reign o'erspread ;
Long numbered with the dead.
Of ages past before them,
One for the land that bore them!
They parted on the Curlieu top,
That high and mighty twain,A prince unsceptered, and a king
Beneath a monarch's reign.
Which he must ever win ;
To rocky Coolavin.
On seeing a Bust
OF THE LATE
DR. ELRINGTON, BISHOP OF FERNS,
At Kilscoran Glebe, County Wexford.
“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 weep
ing; They grieve for the lot which thy kindness could
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 alouıl 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
-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,
Nay, even to outvie thee in pureness of mind; May we earn like thee the reward of our duty
A kingdom and crown in Eternity find.