"Oh! Heaven is where no secret dread
May haunt love's meeting hour,
Where from the past no gloom is shed
O'er the heart's chosen bower:

"Where every sever'd wreath is bound-
Where none have heard the knell
That smites the heart with that deep sound-
Farewell-beloved, farewell!"

WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB,

NEAR WOODSTOCK, IN THE COUNTY OF KILKENNY.1

"Yes! hide beneath the mouldering heap,

The undelighting, slighted thing;

There in the cold earth, buried deep,

In silence let it wait the Spring."

MRS. TIGHE'S Poem on the Lily.

I STOOD where the lip of song lay low,
Where the dust had gather'd on Beauty's brow;
Where stillness hung on the heart of Love,
And a marble weeper kept watch above.

I stood in the silence of lonely thought,
Of deep affections that inly wrought,
Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fear-
They knew themselves exiled spirits here!

1 See the "Grave of a Poetess," in the "Records of Woman," on the same subject, and written several years previously to visiting the scene.

WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB.

Then didst thou pass me in radiance by,
Child of the sunbeam, bright butterfly!
Thou that dost bear, on thy fairy wings,
No burden of mortal sufferings.

Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb,
Over a bright world of joy and bloom;
And strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine,
The all that sever'd thy life and mine.

267

Mine, with its inborn mysterious things
Of love and grief, its unfathom'd springs;
And quick thoughts wandering o'er earth and sky,
With voices to question eternity!

Thine, in its reckless and joyous way,

Like an embodied breeze at play!

Child of the sunlight!-thou wing'd and free!
One moment, one moment, I envied thee!

Thou art not lonely, though born to roam,

Thou hast no longings that pine for home;
Thou seek'st not the haunts of the bee and bird,
To fly from the sickness of hope deferr'd:

In thy brief being no strife of mind,
No boundless passion, is deeply shrined;
While I, as I gazed on thy swift flight by,
One hour of my soul seem'd infinity!

And she, that voiceless below me slept,
Flow'd not her song from a heart that wept?
-O Love and Song! though of Heaven your powers,
Dark is your fate in this world of ours.

Yet, ere I turn'd from that silent place,
Or ceased from watching thy sunny race,
Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings,
Didst waft me visions of brighter things!

Thou that dost image the freed soul's birth,
And its flight away o'er the mists of earth,
Oh! fitly thy path is through flowers that rise
Round the dark chamber where Genius lies!

THE WISH.

COME to me, when my soul

Hath but a few dim hours to linger here;
When earthly chains are as a shrivell❜d scroll,
Oh! let me feel thy presence! be but near.

That I may look once more

Into thine eyes, which never changed for me; That I may speak to thee of that bright shore, Where, with our treasure, we have longed to be.

Thou friend of many days!

Of sadness and of joy, of home and hearth!
Will not thy spirit aid me then to raise
The trembling pinions of my hope from earth?

By every solemn thought

Which on our hearts hath sunk in days gone by,

From the deep voices of the mountains caught, Or all th' adoring silence of the sky;

EPITAPH.

By every lofty theme

269

Whereon, in low-toned reverence we have spoken; By our communion in each fervent dream

That sought from realms beyond the grave a token;

And by our tears for those

Whose loss hath touch'd our world with hues of death;

And by the hopes that with their dust repose, As flowers await the south-wind's vernal breath:

Come to me in that day

The one-the sever'd from all days-O friend! Even then, if human thought may then have sway, My soul with thine shall yet rejoice to blend.

Nor then, nor there alone:

I ask my heart if all indeed must die;
All that of holiest feelings it hath known?
And my heart's voice replies-Eternity!

EPITAPH.

FAREWELL, beloved and mourn'd! we miss awhile Thy tender gentleness of voice and smile,

And that bless'd gift of Heaven, to cheer us lent—
That thrilling touch, divinely eloquent,

Which breathed the soul of prayer, deep, fervent, high,
Through thy rich strains of sacred harmony;
Yet from those very memories there is born
A soft light, pointing to celestial morn.
Oh! bid it guide us where thy footsteps trode,
To meet at last "the pure in heart" with God!

PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF FIESCO,

AS TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER, BY COLONEL D'AGUILAR, AND PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, DUBLIN, DECEMBER 1832.

Too long apart, a bright but sever'd band,
The mighty minstrels of the Rhine's fair land,
Majestic strains, but not for us, had sung,-
Moulding to melody a stranger tongue.
Brave hearts leap'd proudly to their words of power,
As a true sword bounds forth in battle's hour;
Fair eyes rain'd homage o'er the impassion'd lays,
In loving tears, more eloquent than praise;
While we, far distant, knew not, dream'd not aught
Of the high marvels by that magic wrought.

But let the barriers of the sea give way,
When mind sweeps onward with a conqueror's sway!
And let the Rhine divide high souls no more
From mingling on its old heroic shore,

Which, e'en like ours, brave deeds through many

an age

Have made the Poet's own free heritage!

To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone
Of the far minstrelsy at last be known;

Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear,
Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here.
And if by one, more used on march and heath
To the shrill bugle than the muse's breath,
With a warm heart the offering hath been brought,
And in a trusting loyalty of thought