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THE LIVING LOST.

Nor to the world's cold pity show
The tears that scald the cheek,
Wrung from their eyelids by the shame
And guilt of those they shrink to name,
Whom once they loved with cheerful will,
And love, though fallen and branded, still.

Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead:

Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve;
And reverenced are the tears ye shed,

And honored ye who grieve.
The praise of those who sleep in earth,
The pleasant memory of their worth,
The hope to meet when life is past,
Shall heal the tortured mind at last.

But ye, who for the living lost

That agony in secret bear,
Who shall with soothing words accost
The strength of your despair?
Grief for your sake is scorn for them
Whom ye lament and all condemn ;
And o'er the world of spirits lies
A gloom from which ye turn your eyes.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side,

On a bright May morning long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springing fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

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 will 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 graveyard 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.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends;
But O, they love the better still

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 good, brave 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, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit 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:
O, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you 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.

A CHRISTMAS HYMN.

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 the little stile

Where we sat side by side,

And the springing corn, and the bright May morn,

When first you were my bride.

MRS. BLACKWOOD, (Lady Dufferin.)

A CHRISTMAS HYMN.

Ir was the calm and silent night!

Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might,

And now was queen of land and sea. No sound was heard of clashing wars: Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain; Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars,

Held undisturbed their ancient reign,

In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago!

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