"Oh! Heaven is where no secret dread "Where every sever'd wreath is bound- 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, I stood in the silence of lonely thought, 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, Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb, 267 Mine, with its inborn mysterious things Thine, in its reckless and joyous way, Like an embodied breeze at play! Child of the sunlight!-thou wing'd and free! Thou art not lonely, though born to roam, Thou hast no longings that pine for home; In thy brief being no strife of mind, And she, that voiceless below me slept, Yet, ere I turn'd from that silent place, Thou that dost image the freed soul's birth, THE WISH. COME to me, when my soul Hath but a few dim hours to linger here; 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! 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; 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— Which breathed the soul of prayer, deep, fervent, high, 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, But let the barriers of the sea give way, 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 Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear, |