THE STORM. ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. (By permission of the Publishers.) THE tempest rages wild and high, Through the black night and driving rain, To live upon the stormy main ; Miserere Domine. The thunders roar, the lightnings glare, A cry goes up of great despair,- The stormy voices of the main, Miserere Domine. Warm curtained was the little bed, “The storm will wake the child," they said :— Miserere Domine. Cowering among his pillows white 66 He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright, The morning shone all clear and gay, Gloria tibi Domine. LAMENT OF THE RIVER. 371 LAMENT OF THE RIVER. ROSA MULHOLLAND. MOURNS the river: I came down from the mountain, Leaping through the winds, and shouting The rocks stood against me, and we wrestled, I carolled as I went, and the woodlands The flowers on the bank heard me singing, And the buds that had been red and sweet Grew redder and sweeter as they listened, And their golden hearts began to beat. The cities through their din heard me passing, The trees hung their garlands up above me, But I laughed as I left them in the sunshine: Ah me! for my pride upon the mountain, Where my crest floated glorious in the sunshine, And the clouds showered strength into my veins. Alas! for the blushing little blossoms, And the grasses with their long golden drifts, For the shadows of the forest in the noontide, And the full-handed cities with their gifts. I have mingled my waters with the ocean, I sing, but the echo of my mourning That are sobbing 'neath the thunders of the main. Oh, well for the dewdrop on the gowan, Oh, well for the pool upon the height, Where the kids gather thirsty in the noontide, And stars watch through all the summer night. There is no home-returning for the waters To the mountain, whence they came glad and free; There is no happy ditty for the singer That has sung in the chorus of the sea. SWEET AND SAD-A PRISON SERMON. THOMAS DAVIS. 'TIS sweet to climb the mountain's crest, Keep watch between you and the stars; SWEET AND LAD-A PRISON SERMON. And sad to find your footstep stayed But 'twere better be A prisoner for ever, To do, or to endeavour; A martyr or confessor, To alien or oppressor. 373 "Tis sweet to rule an ample realm, While dotards rule, unrecognised; And sad your little ones to see But 'twere better pine In rags and gnawing hunger, Your elder and your younger; Better lie in pain, And rise in pain to-morrow, Than o'er millions reign, While those millions sorrow. 'Tis sweet to own a quiet hearth, Like sea-bird in the ceaseless strife- Your resting-place a foreign shore: But 'twere better live, Like ship caught by Lofoden, Than your spirit give To be by chains corroden; Best of all to yield Your latest breath, when lying On a victor field, With the green flag flying! Human joy and human sorrow, Is the patriot's prison, Oftenest from his ashes." ODE TO THE DAFFODIL. AUBREY DE VERE. O LOVE-STAR of the unbeloved March, When, cold and shrill, Forth flows beneath a low, dim-lighted arch The wind that beats sharp crag and barren hill, And keeps unfilm'd the lately torpid rill! A week or e'er Thou com'st thy soul is round us everywhere; |