Never before, since you called me your own,
Were you, I, and Nature, so proudly alone-
Cushlamachree, 'tis blessed to be
All the long summer eve talking to thee.
Dear are the green banks we wander upon-
Dear is our own river, glancing along-
Dearer the trust that as tranquil will be,
The tides of the future for you and for me;
Dearest the thought, that, come weal or come woe,
Through storm or through sunshine together they'll flow-
Cushlamacree, 'tis blessed to be
All the long summer eve thinking of thee.
Yon bark o'er the waters how swiftly it glides---
My thoughts cannot guess to what haven it rides;
As little I know what the future brings near,
But our bark is the same and I harbour no fear;
Whatever our fortunes, our hearts will be true-
Wherever the stream flows 'twill bear me with you-
Cushlamachree, 'tis blessed to be
Summer and winter time clinging to thee.
BY THOMAS DAVIS, M.R.I.A.
"TWAS dying they thought her,
And kindly they brought her
To the banks of Blackwater,
Where her forefathers lie;
'Twas the place of her childhood,
And they hoped that its wild wood,
And air soft and mild would
Soothe her spirit to die.
But she met on its border
A lad who adored her-
No rich man, nor lord, or
A coward, or slave;
But one who had worn
A green coat, and borne
A pike from Slieve Mourne,
With the patriots brave.
Oh! the banks of the stream are
Than emeralds greener;
And how should they wean her
From loving the earth?
While the song-birds so sweet,
And the waves at their feet,
And each young pair they meet,
Are all flushing with mirth.
And she listed his talk,
And he shared in her walk-
And how could she baulk
One so gallant and true?
But why tell the rest?
Her love she confest,
And sunk on his breast,
Like the even tide dew.
Ah! now her cheek glows
With the tint of the rose,
And her healthful blood flows,
Just as fresh as the stream;
And her eye flashes bright,
And her footstep is light,
And sickness and blight
Fled away like a dream.
And soon by his side
She kneels a sweet bride,
In maidenly pride
And maidenly fears;
And their children were fair,
And their home knew no care,
Save that all homesteads were
Not as happy as theirs.
ALONE-I am alone, Ellen, this weary wintry even,
Lorn, as the solitary star, bewildered in the heaven:
All nature's thickly shrouded in a winding-sheet of snow,
And the embers on my cheerless hearth, like hope, are wearing
low.
There's sorrow in my soul, Ellen; and if I do not weep,
It is because the burning brand hath entered far too deep;
And if I do not murmur at fate's severe decree,
It is that my own hand hath helped to mould my destiny.
Beloved of my life's morning! beyond blue ocean's foam
My thoughts fly to thy native isle, and well-remembered home;
They hover o'er thy lattice, like bees o'er honey flowers,
To wile her forth again, who there hath watched for me long
hours.
But Fancy-the unkind one!-cares nothing for my will-
I bid her bring me joy, and she returns with sadness still;
For thy summer look of gladness, in maiden mildness worn,
She gives the melancholy smile of one long used to mourn.
And when I'd fain to near thee, where oft in bliss we met,
She leads me where I pressed thy cheek with tears of parting wet.
The world that is around me, or that which is within,
Contains no gem of happiness for such as I to win.
I know it, and I feel it now,-O! would that I had known
And felt it thus, before I call'd thy loving heart my own!
What were all that I have borne, or yet may bear, to me,
Had the storm that smote me in its wrath, left thy young blossom
free?
I dreamt I'd come again, Ellen, with riches, power, and fame-
But two of these I've ceased to seek, and the last is but a name;
A name bestowed at random by the ignorant and loud,
And seldom rightly won or worn, till its owner's in his shroud.
In the country of the stranger my lasting lot is cast,
And the features of the future are as gloomy as the past;-
To-morrow, and to-morrow, the gaudy sun may shine-
He'll sooner warm the marble cold, than this heavy heart of mine.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, the breeze across the sea
To thy land's shores may waft the ship-it bloweth not for me. The lonely bird at eventide in thy bower may sing his fillMy foot shall never break again the quiet of his hill!
BY JOHN FRANCIS WALLER, LL.D.
By the green banks of Shannon I wooed thee, dear Mary,
When the sweet birds were singing in summer's gay pride,
From those green banks I turn now, heart-broken and dreary,
As the sun sets to weep o'er the grave of my bride.
Idly the sweet birds around me are singing;
Summer, like winter, is cheerless to me;
I heed not if snow falls, or flow'rets are springing,
For my heart's-light is darkened-my Cushla-mo-chree!
Oh! bright shone the morning when first as my bride, love,
Thy foot, like a sunbeam, my threshold cross'd o'er,
And blest on our hearth fell that soft eventide, love,
When first on my bosom thy heart lay, asthore!
Restlessly now, on my lone pillow turning,
Wear the night-watches, still thinking on thee;
And darker than night, breaks the light of the morning,
For my aching eyes find thee not, Cushla-mo-chree!
Oh, my loved one! my lost one! say, why didst thou leave me
To linger on earth with my heart in the grave!
Oh! would thy cold arms, love, might ope to receive me
To my rest 'neath the dark boughs that over thee wave.
Still from our once happy dwelling I roam, love,
Evermore seeking, my own bride, for thee;
Ah, Mary! wherever thou art is my home, love,
And I'll soon lie beside thee, my Cushla-mo-chree!
I WOULD THAT I WERE DEAD.
No more to bless my soul shall rise
The joys of bye-gone years;
No more my unstrung harp replies
To worldly hopes or fears.
In mirkest night is lost the star,
Whose light my pathway led;
I am lonely, very lonely,
Oh! I would that I were dead.
No more along thy banks, sweet Foyle,
My evening path shall lie;
No more my Mary's love-lit face
Shall meet my longing eye.
All that could cheer my wayward soul,
Like sunset tints hath fled;
I am lonely, very lonely,
Oh! I would that I were dead.
Ah! when the pleasant Spring-time came,
Like bride bedecked with flowers,
How blest, adown the hawthorn lane,
We passed the twilight hours.
My Mary, Heaven had called you then,
Its light was round you shed;
I am lonely, very lonely,
Oh! I would that I were dead.
Even then your words of love would blend,
With hopes of freedom's day;
And whisper thus-"No woman's love
In slavish hearts should stay."
The while the wild rose in your hair,
Scarce matched your cheek's pure
I am lonely, very lonely
Oh! I would that I were dead.
Oh! that my stubborn heart should live
That dreadful moment through,
When those bleak robes I raised, to give
One parting kiss to you;
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