On this I ponder
Where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder,
Sweet Cork, of thee,-
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.
I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in
Cathedral shrine,
While at a glib rate
Brass tongues would vibrate;
But all their music
Spoke naught like thine.
For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of the belfry, knelling
Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.
I 've heard bells tolling
"Old Adrian's Mole " in,
Their thunder rolling
From the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets
Of Notre Dame;
But the sounds were sweeter
Than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber,
Pealing solemnly;-
O, the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.
There's a bell in Moscow,
While on tower and kiosk O
In St. Sophia
The Turkman gets,
And loud in air
Calls men to prayer,
From the tapering summit
Of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there is an anthem
More dear to me,-
'Tis the bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.
FRANCIS MAHONY (FATHER PROUT).
SONG OF THE FORGE
CLANG, clang! the massive anvils ring;
Clang, clang! a hundred hammers swing;
Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky,
The mighty blows still multiply,-
Clang, clang!
Say, brothers of the dusky brow,
What are your strong arms forging now?
we forge the coulter now,—
The coulter of the kindly plough.
Sweet Mary, mother, bless our toil !
May its broad furrow still unbind
To genial rains, to sun and wind,
The most benignant soil!
Clang, clang! our coulter's course shall be
On many a sweet and sheltered lea,
By many a streamlet's silver tide;
Amid the song of morning birds,
Amid the low of sauntering herds,
Amid soft breezes, which do stray
Through woodbine hedges and sweet May,
Along the green hillside.
When regal Autumn's bounteous hand
With wide-spread glory clothes the land,-
When to the valleys, from the brow
Of each resplendent slope, is rolled
A ruddy sea of living gold,—
We bless, we bless the plough.
Clang, clang!-again, my mates, what glows
Beneath the hammer's potent blows?
Clink, clank! — we forge the giant chain
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain
'Mid stormy winds and adverse tides:
Secured by this, the good ship braves
The rocky roadstead, and the waves
Which thunder on her sides.
Anxious no more the merchant sees
The mist drive dark before the breeze,
The storm-cloud on the hill;
Calmly he rests,-though far away,
In boisterous climes, his vessel lay,
Reliant on our skill.
Say on what sands these links shall sleep;
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep?
By Afric's pestilential shore?
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar,—
By many a palmy western isle,
Basking in Spring's perpetual smile?
By stormy Labrador?
Say, shall they feel the vessel reel,
When to the battery's deadly peal
The crashing broadside makes reply;
Or else, as at the glorious Nile,
Hold grappling ships, that strive the while
For death or victory?
Hurrah! Cling, clang!
Dark brothers of the forge, beneath
The iron tempest of your blows,
The furnace's red breath?
Clang, clang!-a burning torrent, clear
And brilliant, of bright sparks, is poured
Around and up in the dusky air,
As our hammers forge the Sword.
The Sword! a name of dread; yet when
Upon the freeman's thigh 't is bound,-
While for his altar and his hearth,
While for the land that gave him birth,
The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound,―
How sacred is it then!
Whenever for the truth and right
It flashes in the van of fight,—
Whether in some wild mountain pass,
As that where fell Leonidas;
Or on some sterile plain and stern,
A Marston or a Bannockburn;
Or amid crags and bursting rills,
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills;
Or as, when sank the Armada's pride,
It gleams above the stormy tide,—
Still, still, when 'er the battle word
Is Liberty, when men do stand
For justice and their native land,
Then Heaven bless the Sword.
NAKED on parent's knees, a new-born child,
Weeping thou sat'st when all around thee smiled:
So live, that, sinking to thy last long sleep,
Thou then mayst smile while all around thee weep.
SIR WILLIAM JONES.
APPLE BLOSSOMS
I SIT beneath the apple-tree,
I see nor sky nor sun;
I only know the apple-buds
Are opening one by one.
You asked me once a little thing -
A lecture or a song
To hear with you; and yet I thought
To find my whole life long
Too short to bear the happiness
That bounded through the day,
That made the look of apple blooms,
And you and me and May!
For long between us there had hung
The mist of love's young doubt;
Sweet, shy, uncertain, all the world
Of trust and May burst out.
I wore the flowers in my hair,
Their color on my dress;
Dear love! whenever apples bloom
In heaven, do they bless
Your heart with memories so small,
So strong, so cruel, glad?
If ever apples bloom in heaven,
I wonder are you sad?
Heart! yield up thy fruitless quest,
Beneath the apple tree;
Youth comes but once, love only once,
And May but once to thee!
ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD.
PICTURES OF MEMORY
AMONG the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;
Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant ledge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip,
It seemeth to me the best.
I once had a little brother,
With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep:
Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the Autumn eves,
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.
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