For well I remember the festal days For genius and beauty-rays of God- Well! well! I have learned rude lessons since then I have scanned the motives and ways of men, Of the great heart-treasure of hope and trust Remains, in that down-trod temple's dust, I have seen too oft the domino torn And the mask from the face of men, To have aught save a smile of tranquil scorn The day is dark as the night with woes, And my dreams are of battles lost, No more, no more! on the dreary shore With the early dead is my lonely bed-- I fade away to the home of clay, With not one dream fulfilled : EEN-HEDER-ST. KEVIN AND KATHLEEN. 227 My wreathless brow in the dust I bow, My heart and harp are stilled. Oh, would I might rest, when my soul departs, Where the crystals gleam in the caves about, And the Victor Sea, with a thunder-shout, RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. ST. KEVIN AND KATHLEEN. COME, Kathleen, pure and soft as dew, 'Mid everlasting hills around, I bless thee, Kathleen, o'er and o'er, For all the joy thy smiles have brought me, And mysteries of loving lore Thy very presence oft hath taught me. For beauty innocent as thine- And calms the spirit's wildest storm. Take shape, like angels round me wheeling. To thee I owe the purest flow'rs Of song that o'er my pathway burst, And holy thought, at midnight hours, From thine unconscious beauty nurst. There is no stain on flowers like these, That from my heart to thine are springing; And thoughts of thee are like the breeze, When bells for midnight mass are ringing. Without thy knowledge from thee beams Some gentle and refining light, That fills my heart with childhood's dreams, And I grow purer in thy sight. Thou art no Queen-no hero I— But thou'rt the fairest Christian maid To whom the worship of a sigh, By Christian bard was ever paid. And this I am-Sire-God above, Who made my soul of that rich flame, All adoration, song, and love, That from thine own great Spirit came! ST. KEVIN AND KATHLEEN. I've bower'd thee in a lonely shrine My bosom's convent-garden, sweet— And clasp'd thee with a girdle golden O'er all my dream-world Saint and Queen. I've starr'd thy hands with Irish gems, And sought to wreathe thy rich brown hair, The oakwood's dewy diadems, And won the sacred shamrocks there. Oh, would that thou couldst read my heart, My spirit's inmost crypt reveal'd! One lovely vision sleeping lies; See! over yonder mountains, crack'd 229. |