to her genial soil, and to the dear ones left behind, will five us strength to bear and brave the worst; and, until then, this pain, and regret, and sorrow, we will still look back and pray for her and for them with the true, unwavering love only known to Exiles.
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Farewell.
Farewell! Oh how hard and how sad 'tis to speak
That last word of parting—forever to break
The fond ties and affection that cling round the heart
From home and from friends and from country to part.
'Though it grieves to remember, 'tis vain to regret.
The sad word must be spoken, and memory's spell
Now steals o'er me sadly. Farewell! Oh farewell!
Farewell to thy green hills, thy valleys and plains,
My poor blighted country! In exile and chains
Are the sons doomed to linger. Of God who didst bring
Thy children to Zion from Egypt's proud king,
We implore Thy great mercy! Oh stretch forth Thy hand,
And guide back her sons to their poor blighted land.
Never more thy fair face am I destined to see;
E'en the savage loves home, but 'tis crime to love thee.
God bless thee, dear Erin, my loved one, my own,
Oh! how hard 'tis these tendrils to break that have grown
Round my heart. But 'tis over, and memory's spell
Now stears o'er me sadly. Farewell! Oh, Farewell!
"Hougoumont," Oct 12th, 1867
Prison Thoughts.
Whilst to and fro my prison cell I trace
The drear elliptical course with constant feet,
Thought spurns restraint, and, eager to embrace
Loved friends and scenes, speeds far on pinions float?.
Between the bars the golden sunbeams stray,
And whisper stories of the world outside
And joyous sparrows twitter all the day,
as if my prison sorrows to deride.
Back in the past! I am a child,
Kneeling at mother's side in reverent prayer
Before God's awful throne. In accents mild
She prays the Lord her boy to make his care.
To guide his steps, from sin to keep him free,
Then teaches me the Sacred Page to read,
That I must bow to His all-wise decree,
And always praise, and pray in hour of need.
In childhood's cloudy hour, who soothed my woes,
And kissed off my cheek each falling tear,
And lulled me to her breast in sweet repose:
best friend of earthly mould,—my mother dear.
In far Arcadia lies her sacred dust,
her sainted spirit dwells in zealness of light,
Whilst I—my only hope that God is just,
A living death must suffer in the night.
Methinks I breath the hallowed atmosphere,
Around that grave, and gain new strength therefrom:
My heart her cenotaph contains—writ there,
Thy will, O God! be done, Thy Kingdom come!"
Millbank, July, 1867
