And in an instant wing'd her flight
To Elysian groves of Love and Light,
Amid the holy skies.

Authoress of "Historical Ballads."

THE PRIEST'S GRAVE AT BALACLAVA.

IN MEMORY OF THE REV. J. J. WHEBLE, ONE OF THE
CRIMEAN CHAPLAINS.

THERE'S a grave by steep Corunna's shore,
Of one who lives in story;

He was buried there with martial pride,
And "left," with all his "glory."

But the shores of Balaclava hold
A humbler grave, more lowly;

"Tis of one who sought not glory's meed,
But a lot more meek, more holy.

Yet 'mong the nobles of the land,
Was his place in stately hall,

And wealth was his, and honour'd lot;
But he heard a loving call.

And wealth, and pride, and honour-all

He laid at Jesus' feet,

And the bright world left, his Lord to serve With prayer and labours meet.

112

AUTHORESS OF

66

HISTORICAL BALLADS."

His Lord's dear flock he tended well,
The tender lambs he fed ;

The wand'ring sheep, with loving force,
Back to the fold he led.

To pastures green, by waters still,
He show'd the peaceful path,-
But a sterner call he heard, to scenes
Of horror, strife, and death;

Where day and night death stalk'd around,
In grim and fearful guise,

'Mid the battle's rage, and famine dire,
And plague, with greedy eyes.

As the prophet stern, 'mid fiery plague,
Did the wond'rous image hold,
To heal the death-struck with its sight,
So Jesus' priest hath told

Of a charm more wond'rous, more divine,
And still he points on high,

To the blessed Saviour on the cross,
And there bids sinners fly.

On the battle-field, in dying ear,

He whispers Jesus' name;

'Mid the camp's rude din, in warning voice, He utters still the same.

'Mid the plague was still the bravest he,
Where the pest-struck victim lay;
And 'mid weakness, cold, and hunger still,
On toil'd he, night and day.

Till the plague's cold poison-touch he felt,
And he knew it was for death;
Then he said, "Oh, fain on English land
"Would I render up my breath.

"Fain would I see my brothers dear,
And my own loved English home."
Then they laid him in a home-bound bark,
When evening shades were come.

But when the morning twilight brake,
And the ship her sails did spread,
He felt death's shadows o'er him pass ;-
"My friends," he meekly said,

"I

may not live to see again

My own dear English shore;

Lift me on land to die for home
I never may see more.

"Nor he with whom I dwelt in love,
My heart's own friend so dear;
Far from them all I die-but blest,
For Jesus still is near!"

I

His dying frame was borne to land,
Through the cold wintry blast,
To couch so rude, 'neath humble tent,
And there he breathed his last.

And when the murky twilight came,
While the cold rain fast down fell,
His grave they dug, and wept the while,
For they loved the good priest well.

And there he sleeps, while round him rage
Strife's din and war's alarms—

His body by the wild sea-shore,
But his soul in Jesus' arms.

Rev. Charles Meehan.

BOYHOOD'S YEARS.

AH! why should I recall them—the gay, the joyous years,

Ere hope was cross'd or pleasure dimm'd by sorrow and by tears?

Or why should mem'ry love to trace youth's glad and

sunlit way,

When those who made its charms so sweet, are gather'd to decay.

The summer's sun shall come again, to brighten hill and bower

The teeming earth its fragrance bring beneath the balmy shower;

But all in vain will mem'ry strive, in vain we shed our tears

They're gone away and can't return, the friends of boyhood's years!

Ah! why then wake my sorrow, and bid me now count o'er

The vanish'd friends so dearly prized, the days to

come no more

The happy days of infancy, when no guile our bosoms

knew,

Nor reck'd we of the pleasures that with each moment

flew ?

'Tis all in vain to weep for them-the past a dream appears;

And where are they—the loved, the young, the friends of boyhood's years?

Go seek them in the cold churchyard-they long have stol'n to rest;

But do not weep, for their young cheeks by woe were ne'er oppress'd:

Life's sun for them in splendour set-no cloud came o'er the ray

That lit them from this gloomy world upon their

joyous way.