And in an instant wing'd her flight Authoress of "Historical Ballads." THE PRIEST'S GRAVE AT BALACLAVA. IN MEMORY OF THE REV. J. J. WHEBLE, ONE OF THE THERE'S a grave by steep Corunna's shore, He was buried there with martial pride, But the shores of Balaclava hold "Tis of one who sought not glory's meed, Yet 'mong the nobles of the land, And wealth was his, and honour'd lot; 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 wand'ring sheep, with loving force, To pastures green, by waters still, Where day and night death stalk'd around, 'Mid the battle's rage, and famine dire, As the prophet stern, 'mid fiery plague, Of a charm more wond'rous, more divine, To the blessed Saviour on the cross, 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, Till the plague's cold poison-touch he felt, "Fain would I see my brothers dear, But when the morning twilight brake, "I may not live to see again My own dear English shore; Lift me on land to die for home "Nor he with whom I dwelt in love, I His dying frame was borne to land, And when the murky twilight came, And there he sleeps, while round him rage His body by the wild sea-shore, 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. |