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 listening for the words you never more may speak!

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church stands

near,

The church where we were wed, Mary-I see the spire from

here:

But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, and my step might break your rest;

For 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 far, the few Our Father sends! And you were all I had, Mary, my blessing and my pride:There's nothing left to care for now, since my poor Mary

died!

Yours was the brave good heart, Mary, that still kept hoping

on,

When the trust in God had left my soul, and my arm's young strength was gone:

There was comfort ever on your lip, and the kind look on your brow;

I bless you for the same, Mary, though you cannot hear me now!

I thank you for the patient smile, when your heart was like to break,

When the hunger-pain was gnawing 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 sting

no more.

I'm bidding you a long farewell, my Mary, kind and true, But I'll not forget you, darling, in the land I'm going to: They say there's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there;

But I'll not forget Old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair!

And often, in those grand old woods, I'll sit and shut my

eyes,

And my heart will travel back again to the place where Mary lies;

And I'll think I see that little stile where we sat side by

side,

And the springing corn, and the bright May morn, when first you were my bride!

LADY DUFFERIN.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine!—thy own sweet smile I see!
The same, that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails; else, how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim

To quench it) here shines on me still the same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
Oh welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who biddest me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that race renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-Ah, that maternal smile! it answers--Yes.

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such ?--It was. Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown-May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more!

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived.
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went;
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor:
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou mightest know me safe, and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit, or confectionery plum!

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:
All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
-Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere ;

Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers--
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile)—

Could those few pleasant days again appear

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might―

But no !-what here we call our life is such-
So little to be loved, and thou so much--
That I should ill requite thee, to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile;
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below;
While airs, impregnated with incense, play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay--
So thou--with sails how swift!-hast reached the shore,
"Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar."
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life, long since, has anchored at thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed-
Me howling winds drive devious, tempest-tossed,
Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some currents thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course,
But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth:
But higher far my proud pretensions rise—
The son of parents passed into the skies.

And now, farewell-Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.