Oft with pallid figure bowed, Like the Banshee in her shroud, Doth the moon her spectral shadow o'er some silent gravestone throw; Then moans the fitful wail, And the wanderer grows pale, Till at morning fades the phantom of the Spirit of the Snow.

In her ermine cloak of state She sitteth at the gate Of some winter-prisoned princess in her palace by the Po; Who dares not to come forth Till back unto the North Flies the beautiful besieger--the Spirit of the Snow.

In her spotless linen hood, Like the other sisterhood, She braves the open cloister when the psalm sounds sweet and low; When some sister's bier doth pa.s.s From the minster and the Ma.s.s, Soon to sink into the earth, like the Spirit of the Snow.

But at times so full of joy, She will play with girl and boy, Fly from out their tingling fingers, like white fireb.a.l.l.s on the foe; She will burst in feathery flakes, And the ruin that she makes Will but wake the crackling laughter of the Spirit of the Snow.

Or in furry mantle drest, She will fondle on her breast The embryo buds awaiting the near Spring's mysterious throe; So fondly that the first Of the blossoms that outburst Will be called the beauteous daughter of the Spirit of the Snow.

Ah! would that we were sure Of hearts so warmly pure, In all the winter weather that this lesser life must know; That when shines the Sun of Love From the warmer realm above, In its light we may dissolve, like the Spirit of the Snow.

TO THE BAY OF DUBLIN.

My native Bay, for many a year I've lov'd thee with a trembling fear, Lest thou, though dear and very dear, And beauteous as a vision, Shouldst have some rival far away, Some matchless wonder of a bay, Whose sparkling waters ever play 'Neath azure skies elysian.

'Tis Love, methought, blind Love that pours The rippling magic round these sh.o.r.es, For whatsoever Love adores Becomes what Love desireth: 'Tis ignorance of aught beside That throws enchantment o'er the tide, And makes my heart respond with pride To what mine eye admireth,

And thus, unto our mutual loss, Whene'er I paced the sloping moss Of green Killiney, or across The intervening waters, Up Howth's brown sides my feet would wend, To see thy sinuous bosom bend, Or view thine outstretch'd arms extend To clasp thine islet daughters;

Then would this spectre of my fear Beside me stand--How calm and clear Slept underneath, the green waves, near The tide-worn rocks' recesses; Or when they woke, and leapt from land, Like startled sea-nymphs, hand-in-hand, Seeking the southern silver strand With floating emerald tresses:

It lay o'er all, a moral mist, Even on the hills, when evening kissed The granite peaks to amethyst, I felt its fatal shadow: It darkened o'er the brightest rills, It lowered upon the sunniest hills, And hid the wing'ed song that fills The moorland and the meadow.

But now that I have been to view All even Nature's self can do, And from Gaeta's arch of blue Borne many a fond memento; And from each fair and famous scene, Where Beauty is, and Power hath been, Along the golden sh.o.r.es between Misenum and Sorrento:

I can look proudly in thy face, Fair daughter of a hardier race, And feel thy winning well-known grace, Without my old misgiving; And as I kneel upon thy strand, And kiss thy once unvalued hand, Proclaim earth holds no lovelier land, Where life is worth the living.

TO ETHNA.

First loved, last loved, best loved of all I've loved!

Ethna, my boyhood's dream, my manhood's light, Pure angel spirit, in whose light I've moved, Full many a year, along life's darksome night!

Thou wert my star, serenely shining bright Beyond youth's pa.s.sing clouds and mists obscure Thou wert the power that kept my spirit white, My soul unsoiled, my heart untouched and pure.

Thine was the light from heaven that ever must endure.

Purest, and best, and brightest, no mishap, No chance, or change can break our mutual ties; My heart lies spread before thee like a map, Here roll the tides, and there the mountains rise; Here dangers frown and there hope's streamlet flies, And golden promontories cleave the main: And I have looked into thy l.u.s.trous eyes, And saw the thought thou couldst not all restrain, A sweet, soft, sympathetic pity for my pain!

Dearest, and best, I dedicate to thee, From this hour forth, my hopes, my dreams, my cares, All that I am, and all I e'er may be, Youth's cl.u.s.tering locks, and age's thin white hairs; Thou by my side, fair vision, unawares-- Sweet saint--shalt guard me as with angel's wings; To thee shall rise the morning's hopeful prayers, The evening hymns, the thoughts that midnight brings, The worship that like fire out of the warm heart springs.

Thou wilt be with me through the struggling day, Thou wilt be with me through the pensive night, Thou wilt be with me, though far, far away Some sad mischance may s.n.a.t.c.h you from my sight, In grief, in pain, in gladness, in delight, In every thought thy form shall bear a part, In every dream thy memory shall unite, Bride of my soul! and partner of my heart!

Till from the dreadful bow flieth the fatal dart!

Am I deceived? and do I pine and faint For worth that only dwells in heaven above, And if thou'rt not the Ethna that I paint, Then thou art not the Ethna that I love; If thou art not as gentle as the dove, And good as thou art beautiful, the tooth Of venomed serpent will not deadlier prove Than that dark revelation; but in sooth, Ethna, I wrong thee, dearest, for thy name is TRUTH.

"NOT KNOWN."

On receiving through the Post-Office a Returned Letter from an old residence, marked on the envelope, "Not Known."

A beauteous summer-home had I As e'er a bard set eyes on-- A glorious sweep of sea and sky, Near hills and far horizon.

Like Naples was the lovely bay, The lovely hill like Rio-- And there I lived for many a day In Campo de Estio.

It seemed as if the magic scene No human skill had planted; The trees remained for ever green, As if they were enchanted: And so I said to Sweetest-eyes, My dear, I think that we owe To fairy hands this paradise Of Campo de Estio.

How swiftly flew the hours away!

I read and rhymed and revelled; In interchange of work and play, I built, and drained, and levelled; "The Pope," so "happy," days gone by (Unlike our ninth Pope Pio), Was far less happy then than I In Campo de Estio.

For children grew in that sweet place, As in the grape wine gathers-- Their mother's eyes in each bright face, In each light heart, their father's: Their father, who by some was thought A literary 'leo,'

Ne'er dreamed he'd be so soon forgot In Campo de Estio.

But so it was:--Of hope bereft, A year had scarce gone over, Since he that sweetest place had left, And gone--we'll say--to Dover, When letters came where he had flown.

Returned him from the "P. O.,"

On which was writ, O Heavens! "NOT KNOWN IN CAMPO DE ESTIO!"

"Not known" where he had lived so long, A "cintra" home created, Where scarce a shrub that now is strong But had its place debated; Where scarce a flower that now is shown, But shows his care: O Dio!

And now to be described, "Not known In Campo de Estio."

That pillar from the Causeway brought-- This fern from Connemara-- That pine so long and widely sought-- This Cedrus deodara-- That bust (if Shakespeare's doth survive, And busts had brains and 'brio'), Might keep his name at least alive In Campo de Estio.

When Homer went from place to place, The glorious siege reciting (Of course I presuppose the case Of reading and of writing), I've little doubt the Bard divine His letters got from Scio, Inscribed "Not known," Ah! me, like mine From Campo de Estio.

The poet, howsoe'er inspired, Must brave neglect and danger; When Philip Ma.s.singer expired, The death-list said "a stranger!"

A stranger! yes, on earth, but let The poet sing 'laus Deo'!-- Heaven's glorious summer waits him yet-- G.o.d's "Campo de Estio."

THE LAY MISSIONER.

Had I a wish--'twere this, that heaven would make My heart as strong to imitate as love, That half its weakness it could leave, and take Some spirit's strength, by which to soar above, A lordly eagle mated with a dove.

Strong-will and warm affection, these be mine; Without the one no dreams has fancy wove, Without the other soon these dreams decline, Weak children of the heart, which fade away and pine!

Strong have I been in love, if not in will; Affections crowd and people all the past, And now, even now, they come and haunt me still, Even from the graves where once my hopes were cast.

But not with spectral features--all aghast-- Come they to fright me; no, with smiles and tears, And winding arms, and b.r.e.a.s.t.s that beat as fast As once they beat in boyhood's opening years, Come the departed shades, whose steps my rapt soul hears.

Youth has pa.s.sed by, its first warm flush is o'er, And now, 'tis nearly noon; yet unsubdued My heart still kneels and worships, as of yore, Those twin-fair shapes, the Beautiful and Good!

Valley and mountain, sky and stream, and wood, And that fair miracle, the human face, And human nature in its sunniest mood, Freed from the shade of all things low and base,-- These in my heart still hold their old accustom'd place.

'Tis not with pride, but grat.i.tude, I tell How beats my heart with all its youthful glow, How one kind act doth make my bosom swell, And down my cheeks the sweet, warm, glad tears flow.

Enough of self, enough of me you know, Kind reader, but if thou wouldst further wend, With me, this wilderness of weak words thro', Let me depict, before the journey end, One whom methinks thou'lt love, my brother and my friend.

Ah! wondrous is the lot of him who stands A Christian Priest, with a Christian fane, And binds with pure and consecrated hands, Round earth and heaven, a festal, flower chain; Even as between the blue arch and the main, A circling western ring of golden light Weds the two worlds, or as the sunny rain Of April makes the cloud and clay unite, Thus links the Priest of G.o.d the dark world and the bright.

All are not priests, yet priestly duties may And should be all men's: as a common sight We view the brightness of a summer's day, And think 'tis but its duty to be bright; But should a genial beam of warming light Suddenly break from out a wintry sky, With grat.i.tude we own a new delight, Quick beats the heart and brighter beams the eye, And as a boon we hail the splendour from on high.

'Tis so with men, with those of them at least Whose hearts by icy doubts are chill'd and torn; They think the virtues of a Christian Priest Something professional, put on and worn Even as the vestments of a Sabbath morn: But should a friend or act or teach as he, Then is the mind of all its doubting shorn, The unexpected goodness that they see Takes root, and bears its fruit, as uncoerced and free!