THE DEPARTED....

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81

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THE DYING ADVICE OF THE PURITAN MOTHER TO HER ONLY SON..

THE SLAVES OF AMBITION..

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A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JAMES DONAHUE..

LINES ON THE DEATH OF ELOISE COOK, AGED TWO YEARS..

LINES ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY SON..

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A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD.

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WHEN FREEDOM AN EXILE FROM FOREIGN LANDS CAME.

KOSSUTH, THE HUNGARIAN..

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BY THE WARM PURPLE STREAM THAT PLAYS IN THE HEART.

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IMPRESSIONS OF JAMAICA, AND OF KINGSTON IN PARTICULAR..

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SPEECH OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE CENTENARY CELEBRATION OF THE BIRTHDAY

POEMS.

Eugenia:

A TALE OF THE OLDEN TIME.

H, would that I were dead!" said Eugenia, with a sigh.

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'Why wish that you were dead?" asked a stranger passing by;

"Such longings are more fitting for an old man such as I.” But she deigned him no reply, save, "I only wish to die.”

Have the gnawings of remorse or the pangs of self-disgrace
Rudely torn and all untimely the two roses from her face?
Can it be that on her name there's a little moral speck,
Or before a heartless world does she stand a human wreck?

Basely has she been dishonored by some vile seducer's art,
And within her bosom beats there still a warm but broken heart?
Is it that the light of reason, like some fugitive, has fled,

And has left her all bewildered, that she wishes she were dead?

Is it thus the sad and weary would so freely part with breath?
Is it thus the wretched maniac seeks to find relief in death?
No, 'tis not that shattered reason from her empire has been

driven,

For she seems like one whose golden hopes are anchored fast in heaven.

Why, O hypocrite self-righteous! thus away from suffering start?
Is not conscience seared and torpid in the chamber of your heart?
Let the even hand of justice pluck out all that's foul within,
Ere

you dare to judge and sentence a poor erring child of sin.

Where is Pity-melting Pity—is her fountain frozen up?
And has Mercy left Despair to give dark Guilt her bitter cup?
Go! thou whining casuist, go! mock not poor misfortune's tale,
But let Charity-Love's sister-cover frailty with her veil.

"Oh, would that I were dead!" said Eugenia, young and fair, While she wildly clasped her hands amid her rich and golden

hair;

"Oh, would that I were dead!" said she o'er and o'er again, As if conscience stung her soul, and a fever fired her brain.

She had passed the porter's lodge, by the massive iron gate, Which a proud escutcheon bore of a race renowned and great; Up the avenue she'd wandered, up the old oak-shaded road, Which through fragrant groves went winding to her ancestral abode.

'Neath a gnarled umbrageous tree, upon a rude-framed rustic seat, There Eugenia, pale and wayworn, sat to rest her wearied feet; All around the lambs were frisking, while the woodland sweetly rang

With the songs the feathered minstrels in joyous chorus sang.

On the spot where she was sitting she had often sat before,
When her young heart beat with gladness, in the sunny days of

yore:

Then the future was all cloudless, and her bosom free from pain; Now a thousand recollections rushed across her reeling brain.

She was very near her birth-place, for, through intervening bowers,

One could see the stately mansion, with its turrets and its

towers:

On the windows played the sunbeams, all so beautifully bright, Like the glory of enchantment flashing back its dazzling light.

Through the foliage gleamed the lattice, where the honey-suckle grew,

And around the old green ivy its embracing tendrils threw;

And in shadow through the casement, where in innocence she

slept,

Where she knelt at her devotions, and her holy vigils kept.

On the lawn begemmed with daisies, by a fountain gushing clear, Where chestnuts wave their leafy plumes, browsed a herd of timid deer;