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(Born at Kames Castle, Isle of Bute, July 20, 1806; son of Edward Sterling, editor of the London Times; was for a short time on the editorial staff of the Athenæum, afterwards a curate, but soon gave his attention to literary studies and pursuits. Among his works are Arthur Coningsby (1833), The Onyx Ring (1856), Minor Poems (1839), The Election (1841), and Strafford, a drama (1843). Died at Ventnor, Isle of Wight, Sept. 18, 1844.] ON A BEAUTIFUL DAY.

The ship's white sail glides onward far

away, O UNSEEN Spirit! now a calm divine Unhaunted by a dream of storm or Comes forth from thee, rejoicing

strife. earth and air ! Trees, hills, and houses, all distinctly shine,

THE SPICE-TREE. And thy great ocean slumbers everywhere.

The Spice-Tree lives in the garden

green; The mountain ridge against the purple Beside it the fountain flows; sky

And a fair bird sits the boughs beStands clear and strong, with dark

tween, ened rocks and dells,

And sings his melodious woes. And cloudless brightness opens wide

and high A home aerial, where thy presence

No greener garden e'er was known

Within the bounds of an earthly king; dwells.

No lovelier skies have ever shone

Than those that illumine its constant The chime of bells remote, the mur

Spring muring sea, The song of birds in whispering copse

That coil-bound stem has branches and wood,

three; The distant voice of children's thought

On each a thousand blossoms grow; less glee,

And, old as ught of time can be, And maiden's song, are all one voice

The root stands fast in the rocks below, of good. Amid the leaves' green mass a sunny In the spicy shade ne'er seems to tire play

The fount that builds a silvery dome; Of flash and shadow stirs like inward And flakes of purple and ruby fire

Gush out, and sparkle amid the foam.


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1807-1867. (Helen SELINA SHERIDAN, sister of Caroline Norton and granddaughter of Richard Brins, ley Sheridan, born in 1807; became, in 1825, wife of Hon. Price Blackwood, afterwards Lord Dufferin. Her husband died in 1841, and in 1862 she married the Earl of Gifford. She died June 23, 1867: Her son, the present Earl of Dufferin, is widely known as an accomplished statesman and author. Lady Dufferin was the author of many popular songs and ballads, of which The Irish Emigrant's Lament is the best known.]

And the red was on your lip, Mary, LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMI

And the love-light in your eye.
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

The place is little changed, Mary;
Where we sat side by side

The day is bright as then; On a bright May mornin' long ago,

The lark's loud song is in my ear, When first you were my bride;

And the corn is green again; The corn was springin' fresh and green, But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,

And the lark sang loud and high; And your breath, warm on my cheek; I thank you for the patient smile

When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger-pain was gnawin'

And you hid it for my sake;
I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and sore, 0, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,

Where grief can't reach you more !

And I still keep list'nin' for the words

You nevermore will speak. 'Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary;

I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,

And my step might break your rest,
For I've laid you, darling, down to

sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends; But, O, they love the better still

The few our Father sends! And you were all I had, Mary,

My blessin' and my pride:
There's nothing left to care for now,

Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,

That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was

There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow, I bless you, Mary, for that same,

Though you cannot hear me now.

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,

My Mary, — kind and true !
But I'll not forget you, darling,

In the land I'm goin' to;
They say there's bread and work for

And the sun shines always there,
But I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair !

And often in those grand old woods

I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again

To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile

Where we sat side by side,
And the springin' corn, and the bright

May morn,
When first you were my bride.


1808–1877. [DAUGHTER of Thomas Sheridan, born in 1808; at the age of nineteen married the Hon. George C. Norton. In 1829 published the Sorrows of Rosalie; the following year achieved her success as a poetess by the production of the Undying One, which the Quarterly Review declared to be worthy of Lord Byron. Subsequent works in prose and poetry obtained a large circulation; her most quoted poem is Bingen on the Rhine. Died June 15, 1877.]

LOVE NOT. LOVE not, love not, ye hapless sons of Love not, love not! The thing you clay!

love may die Hope's gayest wreaths are made of May perish from the gay and gladearthly flowers

some earth; Things that are made to fade and fall The silent stars, the blue and smiling away,

sky, When they have blossomed but a Beam on its grave as once upon its few short hours.


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How mournful seems, in broken dreams,
The memory of the day,

When icy Death hath sealed the breath
Of some dear form of clay.

NONE remember thee! thou whose

heart When pale, unmoved, the face we Poured love on all around; loved,

Thy name no anguish can impartThe face we thought so fair,

'Tis a forgotten sound. And the hand lies cold, whose fervent Thy old companions pass me by hold

With a cold bright smile, and a vacant Once charmed away despair.


And none remember thee Oh, what could heal the grief we feel

Save me! For hopes that come no more, Had we ne'er heard the Scripture None remember thee! thou wert not word,

Beauteous as some things are; “Not lost, but gone before."

My glory beamed upon thy lot,

My pale and quiet star! Oh sadly yet with vain regret

Like a winter bud that too soon hath The widowed heart must yearn;

burst, And mothers weep their babes asleep Thy cheek was fading from the first In the sunlight's vain return.

And none remember thee

Save me! The brother's heart shall rue to part From the one through childhood None remember thee! they could spy known;

Nought when they gazed on thee, And the orphan's tears lament for But thy soul's deep love in thy quiet years

eye A friend and father gone.

It hath passed from their memory.

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In the days of old, when the spring THE BRAVE OLD OAK.

with gold A SONG to the oak, the brave old oak,

Had brightened his branches gray, Who hath ruled in the greenwood Through the grass at his feet crept long;

maidens sweet, Here's health and renown to his broad

To gather the dew of May.

And on that day to the rebeck gay green crown, And his fifty arms so strong.

They frolicked with lovesome swains; There's fear in his frown when the sun

They are gone, they are dead, in the

churchyard laid, goes down, And the fire in the west fades out;

But the tree it still remains. And he showeth his might on a wild

Then here's, etc. midnight, When the storms through his He saw the rare times when the Christbranches shout.

mas chimes Then here's to the oak, the brave Were a merry sound to hear, old oak,

When the squire's wide hall and the Who stands in his pride alone;

cottage small And still flourish he, a hale green Were filled with good English cheer. tree,

Now gold hath the sway we all obey," When a hundred years are gone! And a ruthless king is he;

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