On, on, a moving bridge they made
Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade;
Young and old, women and men ;
Many long-forgot, but remembered then.

And first there came a bitter laughter;
And a sound of tears a moment after;
And then a music so lofty and gay,
That every morning, day by day,
I strive to recall it if I may.

LOVELY MARY DONNELLY.

Oн, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best!

If fifty girls were round you I'd hardly see the

rest.

Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will,

Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,

How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock.

Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower,

Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up,

Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup,

Her hair 's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine;

It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before;

No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor;

But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh but she was gay!

She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,

The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet;

The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised,

But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung,

Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue;

But you've as many sweethearts as you 'd count on both your hands,

And for myself there 's not a thumb or little finger stands.

O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty 's my distress,

It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less.

The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low;

But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!

SERENADE.

Оn, hearing sleep, and sleeping hear,
The while we dare to call thee dear,
So may thy dreams be good, although
The loving power thou canst not know!
As music parts the silence, lo!
Through heaven the stars begin to peep,
To comfort us that darkling pine
Because those fairer lights of thine
Have set into the Sea of Sleep.
Yet closed still thine eyelids keep;
And may our voices through the sphere
Of Dreamland yet more softly rise
Than up these shadowy rural dells,
Where bashful Echo sleeping dwells,
And touch thy spirit to as soft replies.
Let peace from gentle guardian skies,
Till watches of the dark be worn,
Surround thy bed-a joyous morn
Make all the chamber rosy bright!
Good-night-From far-off fields is borne
The drowsy Echo's faint "Good-night,"-
Good-night! Good-night!

THE DIRTY OLD MAN.

A LAY OF LEADENHALL.

In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man; Soap, towels, or brushes, were not in his plan. For forty long years, as the neighbors declared, His house never once had been cleaned or repaired.

dust,

The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust, Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof; 'T was a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof.

There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man
Lives busy and dirty as ever he can;
With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,
For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no dis-
grace.

From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,

His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt;
The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding-
Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and
breeding.

Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair, Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare;

And have afterward said, though the dirt was so frightful,

The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful.

Up-stairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom,

To peep at the door of the wonderful room Such stories are told about, none of them true! The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through.

That room-forty years since, folk settled and decked it.

The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected.

The handsome young host he is gallant and gay, For his love and her friends will be with him

to-day.

With solid and dainty the table is dressed,
The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom

their best;

Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will

appear,

For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear.

Full forty years since, turned the key in that door.

street,

One terrible blot in a ledger so neat;

The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse, And the rest of the mansion a thousand times

worse.

roar.

The guest, for whose joyance that table was spread,

May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead.

609

II.

An afternoon of April, no sun appears on high, But a moist and yellow lustre fills the deepness of the sky:

And through the castle-gateway, left empty and forlorn,

Along the leafless avenue an honored bier is borne.

They stop. The long line closes up like some gigantic worm ;

A shape is standing in the path, a wan and ghost-like form,

Which gazes fixedly; nor moves, nor utters any sound;

Then, like a statue built of snow, sinks down upon the ground.

And though her clothes are ragged, and though her feet are bare,

And though all wild and tangled falls her heavy silk-brown hair;

Though from her eyes the brightness, from her cheeks the bloom is fled,

They know their Lady Alice, the darling of the dead.

With silence, in her own old room the fainting form they lay,

Where all things stand unaltered since the night she fled away:

But who-but who shall bring to life her father from the clay?

But who shall give her back again her heart of a former day?

Wilt thou come before the signs of winterDays that shred the bough with trembling fingers,

Nights that weep and wail?

Art thou Love indeed, or art thou Death,
O Unknown Beloved One?

NANNY'S SAILOR-LAD.

Now fare-you-well! my bonny ship,
For I am for the shore.

The wave may flow, the breeze may blow,
They'll carry me no more.

And all as I came walking And singing up the sand, I met a pretty maiden,

I took her by the hand.

But still she would not raise her head,
A word she would not speak,
And tears were on her eyelids,
Dripping down her cheek.

Now grieve you for your father?
Or husband might it be?
Or is it for a sweetheart
That's roving on the sea?

It is not for my father,

I have no husband dear, But oh! I had a sailor-lad And he is lost, I fear.

Three long years

I am grieving for his sake,

And when the stormy wind blows loud, I lie all night awake.

I caught her in my arms,

And she lifted up her eyes, I kissed her ten times over In the midst of her surprise.

Cheer up, cheer up, my Nanny,
And speak again to me;
O dry your tears, my darling,
For I'll go no more to sea.

I have a love, a true true love,
And I have golden store,

The wave may flow, the breeze may blow,
They'll carry me no more!

DEATH DEPOSED.

DEATH stately came to a young man, and said, "If thou wert dead,

What matter?" The young man replied,
"See my young bride,

Whose life were all one blackness if I died.
My land requires me; and the world's self, too,
Methinks, would miss some things that I can do."

Then Death in scorn this only said, "Be dead."

WHERE mountains round a lonely dale
Our cottage-roof enclose,
Come night or morn, the hissing pail
With yellow cream o'erflows;
And roused at break of day from sleep,
And cheerly trudging hither-
A sycthe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the grass together.

The fog drawn up the mountain-side
And scattered flake by flake,
The chasm of blue above grows wide,
And richer blue the lake;
Gay sunlights o'er the hillocks creep,
And join for golden weather-
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the dale together.

DOWN ON THE SHORE.