The impatient zeal of faithful love
Hath forced us from our bed;
But doubly blest repose will prove,
After our service said!

How dim, how still this slumbering, wood! And, O, how sweetly rise

From clouded boughs, and herbs bedewed, Their odors to the skies!

Sweet, as that mood of mystery,

When thoughts that hide their hues Reveal their presence only by

The sweetness they diffuse.

But, hark! o'er all the mountain's verge
The night wind sweeps along;
O, haste and tune its echoing surge
To a prelusive song!

A song of thanks and laud to Him
Who makes our labor cease,

Who feeds with love the midnight dim,
And hearts devout with peace!

THOM

THOMAS IRWIN.

HOMAS CAULFIELD IRWIN is a native of Ulster, but has resided for the greater part of his life in Dublin, where he has supported himself by literary and journalistic labors. His poetry has been contributed to "Duffy's Hibernian Magazine," and other periodicals published in Dublin, and he has issued three small volumes: "Versicles," published in 1856; "Poems," in 1866; and "Irish Poems and Legends," in 1868.

None of Mr. Irwin's poems are beyond the magazine length, and the greater part are inspired by literary studies rather than by direct communion with men or nature. He has a fine vein of description, with much power of the imagination, and a concise and often highly finished style. His national poems are chiefly ballads on historical subjects, but some of his briefer lyrics give an original and effective interpretation of Irish life.

THE POTATO-DIGGER'S SONG.

COME, Connal, acushla, turn the day,
And show the lumpers the light, gossoon!

For we must toil this autumn day,

With Heaven's help, till rise of the moon.

Our corn is stacked, our hay secure,

Thank God! and nothing, my boy, remains

But to pile the potatoes safe on the flure,
Before the coming November rains.

The peasant's mine is his harvest still;
So now, my lads, let's work with a will;
Work hand and foot,

Work spade and hand,

Work spade and hand

Through the crumbly mould.

The blessed fruit

That grows at the root
Is the real gold

Of Ireland.

Och, I wish that Maurice and Mary dear
Were singing beside us this soft day!
Of course they're far better off than here;

But whether they 're happier who can say?
I've heard when it's morn with us, 't is night
With them on the far Australian shore;
Well, Heaven be about them with visions bright,
And send them childer and money galore.
With us there's many a mouth to fill,

And so, my boy, let's work with a will;-
Work hand and foot,

Work spade and hand,

Work spade and hand

Through the brown, dry mould.

The blessed fruit

That grows at the root

Is the real gold

Of Ireland.

Ah, then, Paddy O'Reardan, you thundering Turk, Is it coorting you are in the blessed noon?

Come over here, Katty, and mind your work,

Or I'll see if your mother can't change your tune;
Well youth will be youth, as you know, Mike,
Sixteen and twenty for each were meant ;
But, Pat, in the name of the fairies, avic,
Defer your proposals till after Lent;

And as love in this country lives mostly still
On potatoes, dig, boy, dig with a will;-
Work hand and foot,

Work spade and hand,

Work spade and hand

Through the harvest mould.

The blessed fruit

That grows at the root
Is the real gold

Of Ireland.

Down the bridle road the neighbors ride,

Through the light ash shade, by the wheaten sheaves, And the children sing on the mountain side,

In the sweet blue smoke of the burning leaves;

As the great sun sets in glory furled,

Faith it's grand to think as I watch his face,

If he never sets on the English world,

He never, lad, sets on the Irish race.

In the West, in the South, new Irelands still

Grow up in his light;

come, work with a will;

Work hand and foot,

Work spade and hand,

Work spade and hand

Through the native mould;

The blessed fruit

That grows at the root

Is the real gold

Of Ireland.

But look! - the round moon, yellow as corn,
Comes up from the sea in the deep blue calm;
It scarcely seems a day since morn;

Well, the heel of the evening to you, ma'am !
God bless the moon! for many a night,
As I restless lay on a troubled bed,

When rent was due, her quieting light
Has flattered with dreams my poor old head.
the basket remains to fill. ·

But see,

Come, girls, be alive; - boys, dig with a will;

Work hand and foot,

Work spade and hand,

Work spade and hand

Through the moonlit mould;

The blessed fruit

That grows at the root

Is the real gold

Of Ireland.

THE EMIGRANT'S VOYAGE.

EVENING.

THE white sails are filled, and the wind from the shore Blows sad from the hills we shall visit no more;

And our ship slowly moves o'er the ocean at rest, From the land of our hearts, in the light of the West.

Though few are the friends on the land's sinking rim, Yet our eyes, straining into the sunset, grow dim; We are leaving forever the walks where we strayed, And the graves where the dust of our dearest is laid.