It brought me back my own sweet Nore,
The castle and the mill,

Until my eyes could see no more
The moon behind the hill.

It brought me back a mother's love,
Until, in accents wild,

I prayed her from her home above
To guard her lonely child;

It brought me one across the wave,
To live in memory still

It brought me back my Kathleen's grave,
The moon behind the hill.

WILLIAM KENNEDY

(Living)

THE POET'S HEART

HOU know'st it not, love, when light looks are
around thee,

TH

When music awakens its liveliest tone,

When pleasure in chains of enchantment hath bound

thee,

Thou know'st not how truly this heart is thine own. It is not while all are about thee in gladness,

While shining in light from thy young spirit's
shrine,

But in moments devoted to silence and sadness,
That thou'lt e'er know the value of feelings like
mine.

Should grief touch thy cheek, or misfortune o'ertake thee,

How soon would thy mates of the summer decay!
They first of the whole fickle flock to forsake thee,
Who flattered thee most when thy bosom was gay.
What though I seem cold while their incense is
burning,

In the depths of my soul I have cherished a flame
To cheer the loved one should the night time of

mourning

E'er send its far shadows to darken her name.

Then leave the gay crowd-though my cottage is lonely,

Gay halls without hearts are far lonelier still; Then say thou'lt be mine, Mary, always and only, And I'll be thy shelter whate'er be thine ill. As the fond mother clings to her fair little blossom The closer when blight hath appeared on its bloom, So thou Love the dearer shall be to this bosom ; The deeper thy sorrow, the darker thy doom.

JAMES KENNEY
(1780-1849)

WHY ARE YOU WANDERING HERE?

WHY are you wandering here, I pray?

WH An old man asked a maid one day.

Looking for poppies, so bright and red,
Father, said she, I'm hither led.
Fie! fie! she heard him cry,
Poppies, 'tis known to all who rove,
Grow in the field, and not in the grove.
Grow in the field and not in the grove.

Tell me again, the old man said,
Why are you loitering here, fair maid?
The nightingale's song, so sweet and clear,
Father, said she, I come to hear.
Fie! fie! she heard him cry,
Nightingales all, so people say,
Warble by night, and not by day—
Warble by night and not by day.

looked grave,

the maiden shy,
The sage
When Lubin jumped o'er the stile hard by;
The sage looked graver, the maid more glum,
Lubin he twiddled his finger and thumb.
Fie! fie! the old man's cry;

Poppies like these, I own, are rare,
And of such nightingales' songs beware-
And of such nightingales' songs beware.

N the garden of my youth

IN

Where the flowers' pale perfumes swayed, Passion called me and I went

Fearfully yet undismayed.

In the garden left my dreams

Of a life that might have grown Silently to interweave

With the spirit world alone.

Why should I thus meekly yield

At the first sound of a voice;

At the beckoning of a finger

Rush like one without a choice?

Could the heart that nursed reared

All my youth's pale bloom of dreams,

Also bear this flaring foliage

With its blossoms' fiery gleams?

Surely not a chance desire

Lent my feet the will to go; But a deeper thinking, sinking To the soul of things below: