To Miss Felicia Wren,
Who advertised for a husband, and gave a very flattering account of her own charms and accomplishments.
-Boyle Gazette, June, 183-.
Wilt thou come with me to my father's hall,
By the side of our own sweet river,
Where neither fete nor courtly ball
Shall await thy presence ever?
Wilt thou leave the haunts of pleasure and glee,
And revelry's wild commotion,
To come to that lonely cot with me,
In the fervour of love's devotion.
Oh, with beauty's rose-blush come to me,
Each thought of my soul entrancing;
I'll gather the dew-drops of morn for thee
By the beam from thy bright eye glancing.
I will love thee dearly, as round thee play
Thy own sweet smiles of beauty,
And at thy shrine alone will pay
My young heart's warmest duty.
I ask not gold; I lack not pelf-
That bane of the world that made it;
I only sigh for thy "living self,"
In the loveliness thou'st array'd it.
Maid of the heart as pure as dove,
Scorn not my lowly proffer;
I'll give thee a poet's fondest love,
It is all I have to offer.
I do not promise thee gems to wear,
On a silken couch reclining;
But thou shalt weave thy light-brown hair
With a garland of Nature's twining.
And we will walk in the clear calm eve
'Mid the breathings of mountain roses; There through the summer's sun we'll live, Where health with peace reposes.
When, oh when would you wish to die,—
At dead of night, 'neath a starry sky;
The screech-owl's cry your funeral note,
Awaking the spirits around that float?
Oh, not at night; for the gurgling stream
Awakens the days of childhood's dream,
And silence echoes each deep-drawn sigh,-
Nay, that were too gloomy an hour to die.
At what time, then, would you wish to die,-
When the morning beam chaseth off the sky
The dark night clouds, and the lark's clear song
Is borne on the Eastern breeze along?
Oh, not in the morn; for feelings then
Of a longing for life come back again,
And fresh are thoughts the heart fain approves
Of our early days and our youthful loves.
Then when, oh when would you wish to die,-
At noon, when the scorching sun's on high,
And the panting roebuck seeks the shade,
To rest from its heat in the verdant glade?
The noon is too merry an hour by far;
For Phoebus then in his mighty car
Bids the flowers put on their brightest gear;
He warms the earth, and outstrips the deer.
Then when, oh when would you wish to die,-
When the sultry noon hath long passed by,
And the nightingale in each leafy grove
To its fond mate sings its tales of love?
Oh yes, when the zephyrs around me play,
And the toil of nature is worn away,
When the flowers are closing, the sun gone by,-
Oh, this is the sweetest hour to die!
When the moss-rose sinks its drooping head
In the Autumn eve on a scentless bed,-
When the lapwing, arrayed in its gilt-green crest,
And the stockdoves fly to their lofty nest:
"Tis then, for the breezes secm to sigh
Through the quivering leaflets a long "Good bye!"
When the bright sun weeps in the blood-red West,
Oh, 'tis then I would take my eternal rest.
Suggested on reading a copy of Verses, entitled
THE HOUR TO DIE,"
Which appeared in the LEINSTER EXPRESS in July, 1837.
Oh, would you know when I'd wish to die,—
Whether at night, or when the sky
Glows red with the morning's crimson beams,
Or when sunset gilds the mountain streams?
Oh, I reck not whether by winter's moon,
Or the dazzling glare of summer's noon ;
'Tis when JEHOVAH would will that I
Should yield my spirit, I'd wish to die.
And would you know where I'd wish to die;
Or in verdant dale, or on mountain high,-
Where the Avon's silvery billows glide,
Or the Ister rolls his gloomy tide;
In sooty shieling or painted dome,
'Neath clay-built hovel or Doric dome?
'Tis where my Creator would will that I
Should breathe my last, I would wish to die.
Or would you know how I'd wish to die:
On the gory plain would I like to lie
In Freedom's cause, or sink to sleep
Beneath the white waves of the foaming deep;
Should chance or disease arrest my prime,
Or would I fall by the stroke of time?
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