IV

His was a policy like fate

That shapes to-day for future hours; The sov'reign foresight his to draw From crude events their settled law, To learn the soul, and turn the weight Of human passions into powers.

V

His was the mathematic might

That moulds results from men and things-
The eye that pierces at a glance,
The will that wields all circumstance,

The star-like soul of force and light,
That moves etern on tireless wings.

VI

Keen as some star's magnetic rays,
His judgment subtle and sublime

Unlocked the wards of every brain,
Till, clothed in gathered might amain,
Scorning the inferior Destinies,

He burst the palace gates of Time.

VII

Bright, swift, resistless as the sun,

He scorned the track of traversed sky; Though throned in empery supreme, Still held the mighty past a dream, Self-emulative, storming on

To vaster fields of Victory.

VIII

Thus upward ever, storm and shade
Flew past, but till he reached the goal
He paused not; on one height intent,
But from the clouds of blind event,
That severed to his gaze, re-made
The wings of his triumphant soul.

TO A SKULL

SILENT as thou, whose inner life is gone,
Let me essay thy meaning if I can,
Thou ghostly, ghastly moral carved in bone,
Old Nature's quiet mockery of man.

I place thee in the light; the orient gold
Falls on thy crown, and strikes each uncouth line;
Strange shape! the earth has ruins manifold,
But none with meaning terrible as thine.

For here beneath this bleak and sterile dome
Did hatred rage, and silent sorrow mourn
A little world, an infinite spirit's home,

A heaven or hell abandoned and forlorn.

Here thought on thought arose, like star on star,
And love, deemed deathless, habited ; and now
An empty mausoleum, vainer far

Than Cheops' mountain pyramid, art thou.

Once on that forehead, radiant as the day,
Imagination flamed in trancéd mood :
Once on thy fleshy mask, now fallen away,
Rippled the pulses of a bridegroom's blood;

And laughter wrinkled up those orbs with fun,
And sorrow furrowed channels as you prayed-
Well, now no mark is left on thee but one,

The careless stroke of some old sexton's spade.

Lost are thy footprints; changeful as the air

Is the brown disc of earth whereon we move ; The bright sun looks for them in vain. Ah, where is now thy life of action, thought, and love?

Where are thy hopes, affections, toil, and gain?

Lost in the void of all-surrounding death.

And does this pound of lime alone remain

To tell of all thy passion, pride, and faith?

'Where is the soul?' we cry--and swift the sound

Dies in the morning depth of voiceless light; 'The structure where?' Oh, bend unto the ground, And ask the worm that crawls the mould at night.

The brown leaf rots upon the Autumn breeze,
The empty shell is washed upon the shore,
The bubble glitters on the morning seas,
And bursting in the vast is seen no more.

Like mist thy life has melted on the air,
And what thy nature, history, or name,
No sorcery now of science or of prayer

Can make the voiceless infinite proclaim.

Dumb are the heavens; sphere controlling sphere Chariot the void through their allotted span ;

And man acts out his little drama here

As though the only Deity were man.

Cold Fate, who sways creation's boundless tides,
Instinct with masterdom's eternal breath,

Sits in the void invisible, and guides
The huge machinery of life and death,

Now strewing seeds of fresh immortal bands
Through drifts of universes deepening down ;
Now moulding forth with giant spectral hands
The fire of suns colossal for his crown ;

Too prescient for feeling, still enfolds

The stars in death and life, in night and day, And, clothed in equanimity, beholds

A blossom wither or a world decay;

Sleepless, eternal, labouring without pause,
Still girds with life his infinite abode,
And moulds from matter by developed laws
With equal ease the insect or the God!

Poor human skull, perchance some mighty race,
The giant birth of never-ceasing change,
Winging the world, may pause awhile to trace
Thy shell in some re-orient Alpine range;

Perchance the fire of some angelic brow
May glow above thy ruin in the sun,
And higher shapes reflect, as we do now
Upon the structure of the Mastodon.

LADY DUFFERIN

DAUGHTER of Thomas Sheridan and granddaughter of R. B. Sheridan the dramatist. She was born in 1807, and married first the Hon. Pryce Blackwood, who became Earl of Dufferin ; but just before her death, which occurred on June 13, 1867, married her second husband, the Earl of Gifford. The present Marquis of Dufferin is her son. She has written some of the most beautiful and touching of Irish songs and ballads.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side,

On a bright May mornin', long ago,
When first you were my bride :
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high-
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the lovelight in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary;
The day is bright as then ;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again;

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands nearThe church where we were wed, Mary;

I see the spire from here.

But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your restFor I've laid you, darling! down to sleep With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends :
But, oh they love the better still,
The few our Father sends !
And you were all I had, Mary-
My blessin' and my pride!
There's nothin' left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary
That still kept hoping on

When the trust in God had left my soul
And my arm's young strength was go.
There was comfort even on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow—
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there
And you hid it for my sake;

I bless you for the pleasant word

When your heart was sad and sore-Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,

Where grief can't reach you more!