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MRS. R. W. 
 
 Copyright, 1884. 
 

 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The Authoress earnestly hopes that this little volume will be 
 found in every respect to conform to the expectations of her nu- 
 merous friends and patrons. In this edition .the poems hav 
 been carefully revised, and explanatory notes appended to those 
 which required special signification. Owing to limitation of 
 space much had to be omitted^ and the most rare retained. I 
 wish to acknowledge my great indebtedness to my son, Aloysius 
 A. Odium, for suggestions and assistance during the preparation 
 of this little book. 
 
 Brooklyn, February 26, 1884. 
 
 
iisriDEiix: 
 
 PAGE, 
 
 The Dying Wish of President Garfield, - - - - 3 
 
 The Widow's Prayer, - . ... 4 
 
 The False Heir ; Or, The Housekeeper's Secret, - 5-27 
 
 The Death of J*ames A. Garfield, - - - 28-2& 
 
 The Death of Peter Cooper , - - . . 30 
 
 The Death of William Henry Johnson, - - 31-32 
 
 Lecture on Immortality of the Soul, - - - 33-48 
 
 Tribulations of the Authoress, - - - 49-64 
 
 Death of Father Burke, - - - . . 65-66 
 
 Death of Father McDonald, - . . . gy 
 
 Death of Father Curran, - . . . gg 
 
 Death of Father McAleer, - - . . . gj^ 
 
 Death of Father Thornton, - . . . ' 7()_7i' 
 
 Death of Father Deman, .... 72; 
 
 Rev. Ambrose liyan, - - . . . 73 
 
 Famine in our Father Land, - . . . 74-75 
 
 The Land of Our Birth, .... 76-77 
 
 Erin's Brave Sons, - - . . . 78-79 
 
 John L. Sullivan, ----- 82 
 
 Death of Rt. Hon. Chas. W. F. Bury, - - . 81-80 
 
 Death of Robert Gunning, - - - . 83-84 
 
 Death of Hon. John Morrissey, - - - 85-86 
 
 Centennial, ..---. 87 
 
 The Marriage of George Fincke to Miss Annie Brennan, 88 
 
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PREFACE. 
 
 In presenting my poems to the public, I have en- 
 deavored to conform with their taste and desire, while 
 the themes I have written upon are familiar subjects. 
 During a few preceding years I have written obituary 
 poems upon the death of distinguished individuals, leaving 
 it with the public to determine whether they were deserv- 
 ing of countenance or not. In every instance, I am grateful 
 to acknowledge, they received their warmest approbation. 
 Finally, I concluded to gather together my poems in book 
 form, being assured by many patrons that they will merit 
 similar respect. 
 
 The poems are presented with all the garniture of gram- 
 matical and rhetorical touches of which I am capable. One 
 of the most eminent British poets observes that no poetry is 
 faultless ; but sweet as the lilies of the valley is the fragrance 
 of poetry. I have written some verses entitled **The 
 Tribulutions" of the authoress in poetry, in which are 
 depicted as partially as possible my sorrows and afflictions. 
 There is also added a short story, which it is hoped, will 
 be found interesting. Shortly after I became a widow, I 
 strove by every means in my power to support my two 
 
The Widow's Prayer. 
 
 THE WIDOW'S PRAYER. 
 
 Oh I Thou who did descend from heaven, 
 
 And o'er the earth an outcast driven, 
 
 Whose sacred soul did'st feel and know 
 
 The full extent of human woe : 
 
 God as thou art, Thyself didst weep, 
 
 O'er Lazarus' grave for Mary's grief — 
 
 Forgive the tears I shed this day, 
 
 For him whom thou has called away. 
 
 Oh ! darling, together we yet will be. 
 
 And the beautiful face of God we'll see : 
 
 The smile of the Saviour will o'er us play, 
 
 And gladden our souls with its sunny ray. 
 
 We'll sing with the angels, — join iu their band. 
 
 And mix with seraphim that forever will stand 
 
 Near the throne of the Great One, the Mighty, the Ju&t> 
 
 And our joy will be great, as in God was our trust. 
 
The False Heir ; or, the Housekeeper's Secret. 
 
 BY MRS RICHARD W. ODLUM. 
 
 ituated on the beautiful banks of the river 
 Shannon, are some very picturesque towns, 
 with mountains always green, and valleys 
 within whose fields flowers are to be found, lovely 
 in their wildness, magnificent in their beauty. The 
 
 Erimrose and daisy, the cowslip and shamrock, 
 loom harmoniously side by side. Trees luxuriant 
 in foilage and massive in grandeur. Yet over all 
 this loveliness hovers a mournful shade, rendered 
 perhaps more melancholy by the sad music of the 
 trees as the wind murmurs through their branches. 
 Any unprejudiced traveler well versed in the 
 history of Ireland's wrongs and afflictions, while 
 resting within the shade of a valley just described 
 must be filled with sadness and regret that a 
 country upon whom nature has bestowed such be- 
 wildering beauties, so lavish in decoration of 
 mountain and scenery, should suffer such untold 
 misery, privation and wrong. But there is a 
 destiny that links itself with nations as with in- 
 dividuals. 
 
 Upon the close of a calm, sunny day in June, that 
 month of flowers, three travelers, evidently Eng- 
 lish, registered their names at the most aristocratic 
 hotel in the romatic town of Tullamore. Two of 
 the party consisted of a lady and a gentleman, 
 both advanced in the autumn of life. They were 
 accompanied by a youth of some fourteen sum- 
 
The False Heir ; 
 
 mers. Being strangers no one knew aught of their 
 antecedents; but the lady being of a lively dispo- 
 sition and possessed of great powers of ingratia- 
 tion, soon became a general favorite with many 
 families of distinction. Her husband, a lawyer of 
 great talent and tact, acquired considerable popu- 
 larity. They leased a house for twenty-one years, 
 fitted it up in oriental splendor, and returned every 
 invitation on a magnificent scale. The youth 
 grew to manhood respected and admired by those 
 of his own age. His twenty-first birth-day was 
 celebrated with great pomp and splendor. Noth- 
 ing could exceed the liberality of the banquet. 
 Tables groaned beneath the load of costly gla/SS 
 and dazling silver. All the youth and beauty^ of 
 the town and vicinity seemed to be gathered in 
 this vast assemblage. The light of morning com- 
 ing through the windows, gave notice that it was 
 time to depart. The band announcing their de~ 
 parture by playing home sweet home. 
 
 For many days nothing was spoken of save th^ 
 ball and banquet. Many similar ones were given 
 in return, but none so brilliant as that which was 
 given by the Fitzgibbons'. 
 
 Just as the last month of summer was drawing 
 to a close, and the bright rays of the sun which 
 seemed to love to glitter among the hills and linger 
 around the remaining flowers, that looked as. if 
 they regretted the approach of autumn, there 
 came to our town another acquistion to society — 
 a widow lady and her niece. They also were 
 strangers, whose antecedents were unknown. 
 They leased a cottage, lived retired for some time, 
 with simplicity intermingled with elegance. The 
 young lady arrayed in her style of dress, attracted 
 the attention of the young ladies in the neighbor- 
 hood. Her aunt was also a charming woman. 
 
or, The Housekeeper's Secret. 
 
 Among the many who called upon the widow and 
 her niece, was lawyer Fitzgibbons'and lady, who 
 gave them a most pressing invitation, which was 
 warmly accepted. The step-son soon became a 
 warm admirer of Miss Bonmon. He was her 
 escort to every entertainment. Such decided pre- 
 ference and privilege thus afforded by the young 
 lady, flattered the vain young heart of Charles 
 Alfred, and during the winter which followed the 
 coming of the widow and her niece it was one 
 continued scene of gayety and frivolity ; in the 
 whirl of that enchantment he proposed, and was 
 accepted. 
 
 Again there came a repetition of the previous re- 
 velry, grand ball and banquet. Dress makers and 
 tailors were overwhelmed with orders; invitations 
 were issued and every preparation was making 
 for the approaching marriage. 
 
 Alas! in this sad bright world, our joys are 
 overshadowed by our woes. 
 
 In the midst of all this anticipation came a 
 withering blight. 
 
 The town clock had tolled the hour of ten. 
 Lawyer Fitzgibbons had retired for the night, 
 Charles remained in the sitting room, reading to 
 his mother, when suddenly both were startled by 
 the loud ringing of the bell, and before they could 
 regain composure two strangers were ushered in 
 by the servant. Charles rose up and inquired to 
 whom was he indebted for this most extraordinary 
 visit. One of the strangers, a tall magnificent 
 looking fellow, whose very look and movement 
 described the gentleman and scholar, replied in a 
 rich manly voice : 
 
 ''I am Charles Alfred Herbert, only son of the 
 late Charles Alfred Herbert, of Herbert Hall, 
 come at the eleventh hour to dlaim my lawful in- 
 
10 The False Heir; 
 
 heritance, of which I have been so unjustly de- 
 prived." He paused as if waiting to see what ef- 
 fect his words had upon the young man, who 
 heard another call himself by his name, and claim 
 to be the only son of the man whom he considered 
 to be his father, became dumbfounded, and looked 
 as if he knew not what to answer. Poor fellow, 
 he measured all hearts by his own. He had no 
 knowledge whatever of the schemes and intrigues 
 of a deep, designing woman. He remained silent, 
 the stranger spoke again: 
 
 "That woman, said he, pointing to Mrs. Fitz- 
 gibbons, can, if she choose, explain what you seem 
 to be ignorant of." 
 
 The insulting tones of the stranger's voice, 
 the scornful curl of the lip, aroused the young man 
 like magic. 
 
 "Sir," said he, in a voice which plainly told he 
 was perfect master of his temper, "I have the 
 honor to call that lady my mother, and by what 
 right do you come at this unreasonable hour of 
 the night to insult a lady in her own house." 
 
 The stranger cast upon young Charles a search- 
 ing glance as if he deemed he was pleading in- 
 nocence to the knowledge of the crime. But when 
 he heard him address his mother in beseeching 
 tones to unravel the mystery, he felt convinced 
 that the young man was earnest in his protesta- 
 tions. 
 
 "Well," said the stranger, casting a look of in- 
 describable defiance upon the unfortunate woman, 
 who seemed to be stricken with consternation as 
 to become totally devoid of speech. Then in a 
 voice of emotion he told a harrowing tale of woe 
 and wrong practiced upon him, from his infancy 
 which rendered his very childhood joyless. "My 
 father was the owner of considerable property. 
 
or, The Housekeeper's Secret. 11 
 
 both personal and real estate. Upon the death 
 of my mother he engaged that woman, pointing to 
 Mrs. Fitzgibbon's, in the capacity of housekeeper. 
 By her wiles and powers or fascination she suc- 
 ceeded in alluring my father into a marriage ; 
 but no sooner did she become Mistress of Herbert 
 Hall, than she showed her authority in discharg- 
 ing servants who had grown gray from service to 
 my father. Altogether such a change came over 
 Herbert Hall, that time honored friends became 
 strangers. When I was only two years old she 
 put me out to nurse ; her next step was to tell 
 my father that I was dead; the nurse corroborated 
 this false statement. The body was sent home at 
 once. There was no difficulty in accomplishing 
 the plot. One of the nurse's own children had 
 died, and being of my age, and possessing the 
 game color of hair, therefore, when my father 
 gazed upon the little dead face in the coffin, h^ 
 concluded that he had taken a final leave of his. 
 son. But the shrouded form in the coffin was not 
 that of Charles Herbert, for here he stands a liv- 
 ing man." 
 
 *'Now, Lawyer, produce the documents." And 
 that personage with an air of importance drew 
 from his pocket a parchment fastened carefully 
 together with red tape, and opening its folds, read 
 aloud the dying declaration and confession of 
 Clara Desmond : * ^Feeling that I have not long^ 
 to live and being anxious to make all the repara- 
 tion in my pow-er, I wish to make known the fol- 
 lowing facts: That Alfred Herbert is not my 
 son, nor the son of my husband. He is the son of 
 Charles Alfred Herbert, ol Herbert Hall, the law- 
 ful heir to his father's estates." 
 
 The lawyer paused as if waiting to see what ef- 
 fect it had upon Mrs. Fitzgibbons. 
 
12 The False Heir 
 
 The stranger exclaimed in a voice of authority, 
 ''lawyer, read on." 
 
 "He was sent to me when only two years old, 
 by the housekeeper who lived with his father. I 
 was poor and readily accepted the bribe. I was 
 always pained whenever I looked at the child, 
 and knew that he was a stranger beneath my roof; 
 an exile from the parental home; and I wept often 
 in the dead of night for my participation in so 
 dark a deed as consenting to keep a young nest- 
 ling from the home of the old bird. I sought a 
 private interview with the housekesper ; told her 
 of my reluctance to keep the child, now grown to 
 boyhood. She laughed at my remorse, but I iti- 
 sisted upon her paying for his education; and it 
 was only upon that condition that I consented to 
 keep him. I often told her that I could never 
 leave this world in peace with a stain of so deep a 
 dye on my soul. She was, therefore, delighted 
 when I told her he had a desire for the sea. By 
 -all means she said let him go. The boy Went to 
 «ea when he was fourteen years old, with Captain 
 Orabtree. When storms were raging at sea, I 
 prayed that heaven might spare the poor boy. He 
 was born on the sea, and 1 feared that the sea 
 might be his grave. But, now, after a long lapse 
 •of years, he has returned so opportunely as to lift 
 from my conscience a burden which preyed so 
 heavily, that my poor soul never enjoyed one single 
 ray of happiness. But the hour and time has 
 come, and here in the presence of this lawyer, 
 and these good men, who so kindly stand around 
 my bed, to bear witness of the facts which I now 
 state, that the son of the houskeeper, Mrs. "Walter 
 Reynolds, is pushed upon the world as Charles Al- 
 fred Herbert, which he is not. The lawful Charles 
 Alfred Herbert stands here by my side, and I beg 
 
or, The Housekeeper's Secret. 13^ 
 
 of you to look with respectful sympathy upon the 
 young man, in whose veins you can trace patrician 
 blood, who has been so long and so cruely deprived 
 of the claim upon the home of his father and of 
 his position in society. If I did not know that 
 God's greatest attribute is mercy, I should fear 
 that my crime was to great to be forgiven. For 
 what greater crime could I commit than to de- 
 press the widow and wrong the orphan. " 
 
 The lawyer then read the names of the wit- 
 nesses, folded up his parchment, placed it in his 
 pocket, and looked at his companion as if waiting 
 further orders. 
 
 *'Tis now far advanced in the night" said young 
 Herbert, *'and it is the hour when the human pas- 
 sions run wildly in the unhappy, and I shall leave 
 you, madam, turning and facing Mrs. Reynolds, 
 to the companionship of your own thoughts, which 
 I deem will be a most unwelcome reflection:^ 
 Then drawing himself up with great dignity, and 
 bowing coldly, he left the house. 
 
 Lawyer Fitzgibbons, who had retired into his 
 
 grivate office which led from the sitting room, 
 eard all, and made his appearance, leaning 
 a,gainst the door as if for support, and his face 
 pale as the sheeted dead. 
 
 **Madam, said he, in a deep voice, I have always 
 known that a cloud of mystery hung over you, 
 and for years I have endeavored to penetrate 
 through it. But I understand 'all now. The 
 crimes and intrigues of your life are exhibited for 
 observation. Picture if you can the sufferings you 
 made the innocent endure. Whether you can sur- 
 vive the shame of this night I do not know. But 
 this I do, that you and I are no longer one. The 
 revelations of to night have built a wall of separa- 
 tion between vou and I forever. Oh! if vou have 
 
14 The False Heir 
 
 a spark of Christian fire in your soul, make re- 
 paration." 
 
 Then turning to the young man, who stood 
 with folded arms looking so woe-beyone and 
 wretched that lawyer Fitzgibbons was moved 
 ^th pity, "Charles, said he, from my soul I pity 
 you, and would I could alleviate your anguish. 
 My days are like the latter harvest, your's are yet 
 in the spring. My partnership with the world 
 will soon be dissolved ; but you, poor, youth, full 
 of hope and ambition, in the bright sunshine of 
 your life to be crushed to earth by such an 
 avalanche of sorrow." 
 
 Then facing his wife who stood like a statue, 
 neither moving or speaking, and pointing his 
 finger in an attitude of scorn, said, in a voice 
 scarcely audible : 
 
 ''You drove a helpless babe from the home of 
 its forefathers, and your actions have driven your 
 Own son and husband from their home ; and you, 
 yourself, will have no home again to call your 
 own. Oh! for worlds, I would not witness your 
 closing account with time ! The retrospect of 
 your past life must fill your soul with horror and 
 remorse ! I leave here to-morrow, and upon me 
 your eyes will never rest again." 
 
 He then returned into his office, closed the door, 
 and all through the night could distinctly be heard 
 the footsteps of the lawyer, pacing up and down, 
 which evidently betrayed the tumult within. 
 
 Mrs. Fitzgibbons still remained in the same 
 immovable position, and perhaps might have re- 
 mained so till morning, but the word mother, 
 pronounced in a low, sad voice, effectively aroused 
 her to consciousness. She looked wildly around, 
 and seeing Charles approaching, advanced to 
 nieet him, but would have fallen to the floor had 
 
or, The Housekeeper's Secret. 15 
 
 he not ran and caught her. He rang the bell and 
 her own maid assisted in carrying the unhappy 
 woman to her room. After some time she recover- 
 ed sufficiently to be able to converse. She held 
 out her hand to Charles, who, seated by her beside, 
 looked the very picture of despair and misery. 
 Their eyes met and both burst into such a flood of 
 tears that only ceased when both were exhausted. 
 
 Charles was the first to speak, trying to control 
 his grief, and assume a composure he did not pos- 
 sess. He answered his mother kindly and affec- 
 tionately, stood by her all that night bathing her 
 temples, which seemed to burn like coals of fire. 
 
 Coming towards morning, over the stormy 
 tempest of their sorrow there came a calm, and 
 both rested for some hours. 
 
 At nine o'clock, Charles visited lawyer Fitzgib- 
 bons' office and found him busily employed and 
 preparing to leave. 
 
 ''Don't be to premature in your actions, said the 
 young man, as he grasped the lawyer by the hand, 
 the house is yours, and the furniture is your per- 
 sonal property. No claim can be made upon it by 
 anyone. 'Tis only on myself comes the claim, and 
 I will resign all right and title when upon proper 
 examination I find the statement made last night 
 can be substantiated. " 
 
 "What do you propose to do, asked Lawyer 
 Fitzgibbons ?" 
 
 The young man drew a heavy sigh and replied: 
 
 * 'The best I can. I am young and strong; the 
 world owes me a living, and, with ambition, I 
 hope to maintain my mother and myself." 
 
 "Its an awful contemplation, Charles." And they 
 embraced each other and wept as only broken 
 hearts know how. 
 
16 The False Heir; 
 
 *'When I married your mother, she was a beauti- 
 ful woman. You were but a child. We lived 
 peacefully together, you were always obedient 
 and affectionate, and I loved you with a father's 
 love. Is it not hard to be separated and under such 
 humiliating circumstances^ The grasp of poverty 
 would not shame, but the reproach of a blasted 
 name will crush me to earth. Only think of it, 
 we, who held a high position in society, to be flung 
 down, sneered at and jeered at by all classes, high 
 and low, beggar and nobleman, I tell you it is 
 killing me. I am not animated by any spirit of 
 egotism, nor is it egotism to seek the good opinion 
 of mankind, for without the respect of the com- 
 munity in which we live, it is very disagreeable 
 if not impossible to keep afloat. My desire is to 
 get away from here before the affair is noised 
 abroad." 
 
 ''When are those fellows coming again?" inquir- 
 ed the lawyer, sharply. While he was yet speak- 
 ing the bell rang. Both men looked at each other 
 for a moment. 
 
 ''Now," said Charles, "for another act," and 
 quitted the room. 
 
 In the hall he met the servant, who announced 
 the arrival of the strangers. 
 
 He entered the reception room, bowed coldly 
 and politely. Turning to the lawyer, he said, 
 "here is my card, which will inform you where 
 the location of my office is situated, and, if upon 
 investigation, your claim proves valid, I shall 
 resign claim and title to the estate." 
 
 The mournful appearance of Charles, and the 
 melancholy tones of his voice, elicited the warmer 
 sympathy of the stranger's noble nature. 
 
 Upon the departure of the strangers, the young 
 man retired to the room of his mother, where he 
 
or, The Housekeeper's Secret. 17 
 
 remained for some time, concerning plans which 
 he thought would be conducive to her happiness 
 under the circumstances. 
 
 "Charles," said the unhappy woman, '*seek the 
 governor, as Lawyer Fitzgibbons was wont to be 
 called, tell him to remain and take charge of his 
 affairs. I will proceed to Dublin, and remain there 
 till joined by you." 
 
 Charles done as directed, but did not inform the 
 lawyer that the intentions were those of his mother. 
 
 ' 'No, "he replied, ' 'before the rising of to-morrow's 
 sun I will be far away from here. Call an auction, 
 sell everything, and "dispose of the profits to your 
 own advantage." 
 
 Charles remained silent, he knew it was useless 
 to attempt to shake him in his determination. 
 
 Charles again besought his mother to arrange 
 her affairs, as it was" the intention of the governor 
 to dispose of the household effects by auction. 
 
 "I am willing," she replied. But oh ! who could 
 picture the inward agony of that grief -stricken 
 woman, so suddenly deprived of her luxurious 
 home, — disgraced in the eyes of those whose 
 esteem she sought. — going out into the cold world 
 in the winter of life. Oh ! it was a fearful retribu- 
 tion, — and the unhappy creature knew it, and felt 
 it. She thought within herself it was easy to go 
 among strangers, who knew naught of her crime 
 and its consequence. She could conceal herself 
 among strangers, but from her own conscience 
 where could she hide. From memory and remorse 
 she could not fly; the bitter thought was ever forc- 
 ing itself upon her, what she was and what she 
 might have been, had her career been honorable. 
 
 "Mother," said Charles, "retire into your dressing 
 room, while the porter takes away your baggage." 
 
 Poor youth, he struggled to suppress his intense 
 grief. 
 
18 The False Heir; 
 
 The train bore away that night two broken 
 hearts; one in the person of Lawyer Fitzgibbons, 
 who was overcome with confusion when he 
 thought of the plight of the woman he loved. In 
 another part of the train sat the deserted wife, 
 bowed down by remorse and reflection. Neither 
 knew of the other's presence till the train 
 reached the depot. She was therefore thoroughly 
 astounded when she perceived Fitzgibbons. 
 They looked at each other and the desolate woman 
 would have faMen on the platform had the con- 
 ductor not supported her, such was the effect pro- 
 duced by the estrayed look of her husband. 
 
 When the auction v/as announced the friends 
 and acquaintances of the family were astounded. 
 Reports of every description were abroad. But 
 the true state of affairs was not known for months 
 afterward. Some were sincere in their sorrow, 
 others raised their shoulders, blinked their 
 eyes, and remarked, such is life. Meanwhile 
 the furniture was disposed of, and the house, which 
 was only leased, was returned to the owner, and 
 the name of Fitzgibbons was buried in oblivion. 
 
 Upon her arrival in Dublin she obtained apart- 
 ments in a quiet and respectable locality. The 
 house was built in a very peculiar manner, each 
 of the three families having a private exitrance. 
 It was an awful change to poor Charles, brought 
 up in the very lap of luxury, residing in a man- 
 sion, servants in livery, no desire but was an- 
 ticipated, now limited to five rooms, thrown upon 
 his own resources, all his day dreams blighted, 
 every bright hope his young heart conceived and 
 cherished now crushed. What wonder the world 
 held out no more bright charms to him. 
 
 "Mother," said he, upon leaving the house one 
 day, ''do not permit your thoughts to dwell upon 
 the past, for no tears will obliterate the evil which 
 
or, The Housekeeper's Secret. 19 
 
 is done. For the future have no fear, though the 
 world forsake and despise you, I never shall;" 
 and he folded her to his bosom. 
 
 The hand trembles and the heart of the writer 
 throbs, for she knew poor Charles well. They 
 were children together, and mourns she thus should 
 have to record his melancholy end. 
 
 Poor fellow, it was the last time he embraced his 
 mother. Upon going to his office in Talbot street, 
 he met a young man whom he had not seen during 
 two years. This acquaintance had known him in 
 liis days of splendor, and was acquainted with the 
 sad change in his circumstances, but being too 
 feeling and humane, he concealed from him the 
 knowledge of his reverses. 
 
 "Charles," said he, "I am going to take a bath. 
 Will you come?" 
 
 "Certainly," said he. 
 
 It was a fatal bath. Poor Charles went out too 
 far,- was rescued with difficulty, and borne home, 
 followed by a crowd — not of friends— but of 
 strangers. 
 
 The loud ringing of the bell summoned his 
 mother to the door. Alas ! the sight that met her 
 gaze. One agonizing scream, and the poor woman 
 become unconscious. 
 
 Upon the return of reason she found herself sur- 
 rounded by kind and feeling-hearted women who 
 spoke to her in soothing strains and tenderly ad- 
 ministered all through the night to poor Charles' 
 wants. One widow lady and her niece were assid- 
 ious in their attentions. They offered their ser- 
 vices to Mrs. Fitzgibbons, saying, she must take 
 rest; and the worn out mother gladly accepted the 
 offer. 
 
 On the fourth night of the accident, she sat by 
 the beside of poor Charles. Poor fellow, he ravea, 
 and called the names of his associates. 
 
20 The False Heir 
 
 '^Polly ,dear/' he would cry, "why don't you come 
 to me; you know my heart has long been given to 
 you?" 
 
 She starts upon hearing her name; she recogniz- 
 ing the voice, and knew it was that of Charlie, 
 who had changed his name when he arrived in 
 Dublin, and assumed that of John Moore, of Moore 
 Hall. 
 
 The poor girl reverted in thought to the happy 
 gone by days, when all was hope and joy between 
 them. Tears flowed from her eyes and her bosom 
 heaved with emotion as she looked upon the 
 wreck of the once splendid young man, with whom 
 she so often promenaded the festive halls, now 
 lying upon a bed of sickness, forsaken by the gay 
 butterflies which fluttered around him in his 
 days of prosperity. 
 
 All through the long sad watches of that nighty 
 naught could be heard save the sighs of the weep- 
 ing girl, and the moans of the dying man. 
 
 Oh! ye who have watched and prayed beside the 
 couch of the loved one, and knew all earthly 
 hope was at end, that your love and sorrow avail 
 nothing, can you imagine the inward grief of that 
 poor girl ? 
 
 Peering through the lattice, came the rising sun^ 
 as if trying by its bright rays to cheer and console. 
 
 "Mother," said Charles, "will you come and 
 bathe by brow ?" 
 
 Polly rose quickly, and in a second was by his 
 side. He was in one of his intervals of reason,, 
 and he knew the fairy form of her whom he loved. 
 
 "O, my Polly," he cried, "is this you?" and 
 the poor feverish hand was stretched out to her. 
 "Have you come? 'Tis like your own sweet self 
 to stand by me in this sad hour. A dreary place 
 for such a merry heart as yours." 
 
or, The Housekeeper's Secret. 21 
 
 Polly, as she was familiarly called, took both 
 Ms hands in hers. She strove to speak, but could 
 not ; emotion choked her utterance. 
 
 ''One trouble, darling," said he, ''never comes 
 a^lone. I suppose you know all. 'Tis consolation 
 to know that I have one friend left in you. My 
 young life is prematurely cut off, and my early 
 death is no loss to any one save my poor distract- 
 ed mother. Oh ! what will become of her? What 
 shall be her fate?" 
 
 Upon the conclusion of this sentence Mrs. Fitz- 
 gibbons came into the room, and approaching the 
 bedside, met the wistful look of poor Charles. She 
 k:new from one glance the last leaf of the book 
 would be closed ere the setting of another sun. 
 Her mental agony was therefore intense. He 
 was her dial round which her thoughts revolved. 
 Por him she sacrificed principle and conscience. 
 Now he was to be taken from her, and the only link 
 which bound her to earth would be severed, — for- 
 saken as she was by friends and by those whom 
 she had really served in their hour of adversity. 
 
 Everything that could be done for him proved 
 unavailing. The fiat went forth, and the soul of 
 Charles stood before his God. 
 
 Again the poor mother was cast upon the world. 
 But this time she had no one to lean upon. She 
 took the name of Digman, accepted any position 
 she could obtain, and went down so low as to become 
 a barmaid; and when she became incapable of 
 performing any physical labor she actually des- 
 cended to beggary, and stationed herself at Bray, 
 a watering place some few miles from Dublin. 
 
 What a fitting retribution and reads an awful 
 lesson to the heart. Here is a woman who once 
 rolled in opulence and enjoyed all the happiness 
 attached to wealth and desire; who moved in the 
 first circles of society, now hurled from her high 
 
22 The False Heir ; 
 
 position, and separated frora associates who- 
 esteemed her acquaintance an honor. 
 
 The writer of this narrative knew Mrs. Fitzgib- 
 bons when a girl, and well she remembers the- 
 joke played upon her by some young people, wha 
 lived near the Fitzgibbons' mansion, and felt 
 keenly the neglect shown them by her, because- 
 their means permitted them not to share the same 
 sphere with her. Many of them were persons, 
 who once stood high in society, but reverses and 
 the vicissitudes of fortune cast them down. But 
 Mrs. Fitzgibbons had very little sympathy for 
 such people, though she knew they were superior 
 to her in refinement and culture. 
 
 But to return to the joke. When the festivity^ 
 held in honor of Charles' twenty-first birthdays 
 was at its height, several gentlemen arrived, pre- 
 sented their cards, and were admitted. Mrs. 
 Fitzgibbons hastened to her husband and demand- 
 ed why he should extend invitations without con- 
 sulting her? "Who are they?" he inquired. They 
 were pointed out to him. He was annoyed, and 
 declared he sent no invitations to them. 
 
 Among the unwelcomed guests, was one Dun- 
 lap, the overseer of the chimney sweepers. His 
 hands were inclosed in white kids, which fitted 
 them so tightly as to prevent them from budging. 
 
 Mr. Dunlap was requested to show his card. 
 
 After some difficulty he succeeded in getting rid 
 of the gloves, which lay in fragments on the floor. 
 
 The discomfiture of Mr. Dunlap was ludicrous:, 
 when he looked at his swolen, red hands. 
 
 "I would not," said he, greatly excited, "confine 
 my hands again in such a straight jacket for all 
 the flareup's that even the Lord Mayor could give." 
 Then, after a pause he handed Fitzgibbons a soiled 
 sheet of note paper. "This," said he, "is my in- 
 vitation." 
 
or, The Housekeepers Secret. 23 
 
 The pompous lawyer would not so much as 
 touch it. But exclaimed, ''I do not know you, 
 sir! Did not invite you, sir! I knowfnothing of 
 you, sir! Waiter, show these men to the door." 
 
 Dunlap appeared to be greatly hurt and annoy- 
 ed. Turning to the Lawyer, who stood with fold- 
 ed arms, and regarding him with a look of scorn, 
 said. "1 may not be as rich as you, but my ante- 
 cedents are just as respectable. And the day 
 may yet come, when your arrogant pride will be 
 humbled." 
 
 How little the host and hostess of that grand 
 assemblage deemed that ere many months this 
 prediction would be fulfilled. 
 
 The reader will remember that Charles was 
 reading to his mother, when the loud ringing of 
 the bell and the entrance of the strangers disturb- 
 ed them. The morning papers gave an account 
 of a shipwreck on the coast of Florida. Among 
 the few that were saved, was one young man 
 who was found lashed to a plank. He was 
 conveyed to the house of a humane planter, who 
 cared for him like the Good Samaritan. His 
 daughter, a lovely girl of eighteen, nursed him 
 with a sister's devotion. Within a few weeks 
 he was restored to perfect health. He then con- 
 sidered it time to seek his native land. When 
 he informed the young girl of his resolve, he per- 
 ceived a cloud pass over the face of the lovely 
 girl, and encouraged by it he declared that he 
 was leaving his heart behind. 
 
 ''Can you tell me," said he, in a playful tone, 
 ''who has got it?" 
 
 "I have it, "said she, giving him one of her mis- 
 chievous looks, "and I'll keep it, but in return I 
 will give you mine." 
 
 Her frank and innocent acknowledgement of 
 her love moved the young man to tears. He took 
 
24 The False Heir 
 
 her hand and conveyed it to his heart. ''Every 
 throb of this," said he "beats for thee." 
 
 The young girl layed her head upon his shoulder 
 and wept. 
 
 So absorbed were they that]they did not perceive 
 the entrance of the old man. 
 
 "Ah," said he, "it is as I expected." 
 
 "Father," said Olive, for that was her name, 
 "Charles is going to leave us." 
 
 The old man started violently. 
 
 "What!" said he, " so soon. It is I trust not for 
 long." 
 
 "I thank you from my soul," replied the rescued 
 sailor, "for your kind care and hospitality; but 
 above all for the good opinion you entertain of 
 me, — a mere stranger. And I trust you will never 
 regret the hour you beheld my shipwrecked form." 
 
 "From what I have seen of-- you, young [man, I 
 am convinced that your heart is truthful, and 
 your nature honorable." 
 
 "Olive, child of my heart, come here, and tell 
 me if you love this sailor boy ?" 
 
 The young girl blushed and hesitated. 
 
 "Silence gives consent," said he. "Give him 
 your hand, and I'll know that you accept him." 
 
 She gave him her hand, and the youth pressed 
 it to his lips. 
 
 The old man bowed his head and wept. 
 
 "Don't stay too long. My days are almost 
 numbered. I will soon be gathered into the 
 grainer; and I will meet death cheerfully, when I 
 know that the child of my heart has a protecting 
 arm to shield and defend her " 
 
 "I will protect her till death !" the sailor answer- 
 ed. "Silver and gold I have none; but I am young 
 and strong, and willing to merit from the world 
 the living it owes me." 
 
01% The housekeeper's Secret. 25 
 
 ''I did not ask," said the old man, "aught that 
 you possess of the world's goods. I do not seek 
 riches, — I have enough for both. All I require is 
 an honorable heart, and that I feel convinced you 
 possess. I give you my child, and with her a 
 father's blessing." 
 
 The next morning he took the train and was 
 soon far away from the girl of his love. 
 
 I will labor for her he mused, and the aim of my 
 life, shall be her happiness. I only regret that I 
 have no wealth to offer. Oh ! young man, little 
 you know of the inheritance which awaits you, 
 That under the humble roof in which you were 
 raised, a scene will occur that will surprise and 
 astound you. 
 
 The birds were singing their sweetest notes 
 — nature appeared lovely in her summer garb. 
 
 He reached the home of his mother, who lay 
 upon the point of death. When she heard his 
 voice, she exclaimed: " Oh ! has he come?" and she 
 seemed to derive new strength and vigor. " Now, 
 I will die happy." 
 
 The young man entered the sick room, and 
 quickly advanced to the beside. 
 
 ''What is the matter, my dear mother?" he anx- 
 iously inquired. 
 
 "I am ill, Charles; Oh ! so ill." 
 
 ''You are ill, my dear mother, but you will soon 
 recover, now that I am home." 
 
 While he was speaking, the door opened, and a 
 venerable form entered. 
 
 "Father," said the sick woman, "how opportune- 
 ly everything appears to act. Here is the young 
 man, the heir of whom I spoke." 
 
 The clergyman extended his hand, [saying, "it 
 seems as though the sea had given you back in 
 order that this poor woman might have the op- 
 portunity of repairing the wrong she has done 
 
26 The False Seir ; 
 
 you. Go quickly to the residence of the magis- 
 trate, Mr. Odel, and from thence to Lawyer Byron 
 and tell them I am here, and waiting for them." 
 
 The young man hastened to obey, wondering 
 what it all meant; but he was not destined to re- 
 main long in the dark. He listened with awe and 
 emotion to the disclosures of her, whom from his 
 infancy he called mother; and deemed so upright 
 and good. For though she consented to make 
 him the victim of an odious plot, she treated him 
 kindly, and by her tenderness and affection won 
 his love and esteem. 
 
 When the lawyer requested her to sign her sig- 
 nature, Charles gently enabled her to sign it. 
 
 "Father," she exclaimed, "il am now done with 
 the world, and I feel thankful to you, and those 
 gentlemen who are here to bear witness to my 
 statement which will restore to the orphan his 
 birthright and privileges." 
 
 The magistrate, together with the priest and 
 lawyer, immediately withdrew after signing the 
 document. 
 
 "Charles, "she slowly asked, "do you forgive me?" 
 
 "From my soul," he solemnly replied, "I freely 
 forgive you ;" and the words fell like angels songs 
 on the ears of the dying woman. 
 
 Charles laid the liiortal remains of Mrs, Rey- 
 nolds in the grave of her mother. 
 
 In a few weeks he found the Fitzgibbon resi- 
 dence, accompanied by the lawyer, who drew up 
 the statement of Mrs. Reynolds. 
 
 The reader is aware of what followed. 
 
 When his business transactions had been ac- 
 complished, upon the sunny South he turned his 
 thoughts, and felt grateful to that Great Power 
 who rules over the destinies of men, that there 
 was one being left whom he knew loved him; but 
 for her, his life would be lonely and desolate. 
 
or, The housekeeper^ s Secret. 27 
 
 When he arrived in Florida, he went at once to 
 the home of his betrothed, and was received with 
 a welcome he knew was sincere. 
 
 "So you have come to take away my Olive,'^ 
 said the old planter, and tears checked all further 
 utterance. 
 
 Charles laid his hand on the old man's shoulder 
 and said, " I shall not deprive you of the society of 
 your beloved child. It is June now, and you 
 must come and spend the summer with Olive and 
 I, and we will spend the winter with you." 
 
 ''O, yes, father," said the delighted girl, ''you 
 will come with us ?" 
 
 The old man smiled assent to the arrangements- 
 of the young people. Charles in the meantime 
 concealed from Olive and her father the fact that 
 he was heir to a vast domain. They knew he 
 possessed an honest heart, a kind disposition, and 
 well trained ambition. To them such rare ac- 
 quirements were sufficient recommendation. How 
 great was their astonishment, when a carriage 
 drawn by four horses met them at the depot. A 
 procession of tenants headed by a band of music, 
 which escorted them to Herbert Hall; the ser- 
 vants gathered round the entrance, and when 
 Herbert alighted to assist his bride from the car- 
 riage, a murmur of admiration came from them. 
 When Olive entered the superb drawing room, 
 she was amazed to behold a bevy of ladies and 
 gentlemen, who formed a surprise party to wel- 
 come their arrival. Charles was equally astonish- 
 ed, for most of them were strangers to him; [but 
 they introduced themselves to him, and his fair 
 bride from the sunny South. 
 
 Music and dancing formed the programme of 
 the evening. Morning came and with it the con- 
 clusion of my story. 
 
38 Death of Jas, A. Garfield. 
 
 WRITTEN UPON THE DKATll OF 
 THE LAMENTED 
 
 JAMES A. GARFIELD. 
 
 LATE PRESIDENT OF THE INITED STATES. 
 
 Our Country is smitten and plunged into grief; 
 
 The eagle is weeping o'er the death of the chief; 
 
 Our banner half-mast seems sadly to Nvavo. 
 
 And all our surroundings wear Iho uIdoui of the grave. 
 
 His hand on the helm and earnestly woiking. 
 Unconscious that danger was secretly lurking, 
 Stood GarticUl. the chosen, true to the nation. 
 That placed him in power, adorning his station. 
 
 When lo! he was felled by a dastardly hand; 
 
 Yet how Christian his conduct^ how gallant and grand, 
 
 The true soldier is never more noble or brave, 
 
 Than facing the danger which leads to the grave. 
 
 Had the wound been received from the foe on the field, 
 How willing his life for his country he'd yield; 
 But shot by a coward, a deep wily knave, 
 Too base to become the serf of a slave. 
 
 The brow of the nation blushed in its shame, 
 That aught could be found to tarnish the name 
 Of its glorious Republic, born not to die, 
 Though slaughtered the eagle, the tlag rent on high. 
 
Death of Jos. A. Gar field. V.^ 
 
 No cannoDg were hxxjming, no drums beat alarm, 
 No war bugle sounded, calling to arms; 
 The gword of Columbia repoeed in its feheath. 
 Entwined round the nation hung the green olive wreath. 
 
 Like the soldier he was, he feared not hie post. 
 Never shrinking from danger, no matter what coast. 
 No gunfchine, no etorm could induce him to gwerve 
 From the catifre he had sworn to honor and serve. 
 
 The nation was smiling in its joy and content. 
 
 Its smiles and its hopes are broken and rent — 
 
 He was gloriously stf-eritjg, and the compass and chart, 
 
 Were his own noble nature, his great honest heart. 
 
 From the day he first leaned on the executive chair. 
 The people absorbed all his thought and his care; 
 
 Not a murmur he lisped in his torture and pain. 
 For his country he mourned he thus should be slain. 
 
 Though the nation's bereaved, it is not in despair. 
 For its interest other rulers will labor and care ; 
 But no hope for the poor stricken wife in the morrow , 
 Alas! the future wiU yield no balm to her sorrow. 
 
30 Death of Peter Cooper. 
 
 WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF 
 THE LAMENTED 
 
 Slowly move the funeral pall; 
 Gently let the cold earth fall; 
 Lower him where the sun will shine — 
 'Round his grave the ivy twine. 
 
 Within the narrow gloomy vault, 
 Oh! let not his grave be wrought; 
 Place him 'mid the light and air — 
 Give all a chance his grave to care. 
 
 And when returns each cheering spring, 
 To his grave sweet flowers we'll bring; 
 The placid moon, with its pensive light 
 Shall flood his grave in the watches of night. 
 
 For while o'er his grave the poor are weeping, 
 The fruit of his heart his soul is reaping; 
 To Heaven he's gone, forever to share 
 The glory he won by the poor man's prayer. 
 
 He was no Divas in purple clothing, 
 Living to feast the poor man loathing, 
 He was no proud worshipper of pelf, 
 He lived for others not for self. 
 
 His benevolent hand was open for all, 
 And quickly extended to philantropy's call ; 
 He did not wait to part with his gold 
 Till death was near and his heart grew cold. 
 
 His life was good — and wondrously great, 
 From boyhood up to manhood late, 
 That every nation knows his fame — 
 Every household loves his name. 
 
 Above his grave they need not raise 
 Agranite shaft his life to praise ; 
 A monument great he's left behind 
 Which long will aid and bless mankind. 
 
Death of Rev. Wm. Rarvey Johnson. 31 
 
 WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF 
 THE LAMENTED 
 
 REV. WILLIAM HARVEY JOHNSON. 
 
 The Rev. William Harvey Johnson was one of the most prominent minist- 
 ers of Brooklyn, and though he is dead, his fame is known with the good works 
 he performed in life. Many a desolate home he cheered. Benevolence 
 and love of the poor were his most conspicuous virtues; he was never content 
 save when distributing his charity. He sowed the seeds of love, and they grew 
 up and choked the weeds of contention. No matter how forlorn and despised 
 the sinner was. No matter how hardened and abandonee the transgressor 
 might be, it had no weight on him what sort of creature it was, whether 
 "he be a pagan or an infidel, he sought and nourished him into new life and 
 Tigor. When this good man died, they gathered round his bier and paid 
 homage to his memory; and well they might, for was he not to them a guardian 
 spirit ever shielding them from sin and sorrow. He is a remarkable good man 
 who devotes his leisure in relieving the wants of the poor. And such a man was 
 William Harvey Johnson. 
 
 Why assembled on the stoop 
 Such a sorrowful weeping group? 
 Why peals the organ low and sad? 
 In mourning, why so many clad? 
 
 In plaintive tones, why tolls the bell? 
 Oh! misery, the tale we tell : 
 B'neath that dark and sombre lid 
 Forever from our view is hid 
 
 A man whose worth conspicuous shone; 
 Whose kindness all hearts had won ; 
 Who saved the poor from deep despair; 
 Whose wants were all his thoughts and care. 
 
32 Death of Rev. Wm. Sarvey Johnson. 
 
 Who did not deem it brought him low 
 To list to their sad tale of woe ; 
 Who did not think his time misspent 
 To follow whither the erring went. 
 
 Regardless of their creed or race, 
 Win them back from crime to grace ; 
 Despised, rejected, he sought the more 
 As seeks the ocean bird the shore. 
 
 But, alas! he's gone, and our hearts are hushed 
 In the silence of grief, for the life that's^crushed ; 
 His labors and teachings are past away; 
 The fruit will be known the final day. 
 
 Oh ! the desolate homes that he has cheered 
 The hearts he gladdened whom want had seared ; 
 In his own loved home a lustre he shed 
 Still shining on, though the star is fled. 
 
 
 
A. LBaXXJREJ 
 
 UPON THE 
 
 IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL 
 
 HE subject I am. to entertain you with this 
 evening is one of the most important that 
 ^an possibly engage the attention of man's 
 mind. I mean immortality. Is it not a beautiful 
 theme ? Thoroughly exercising all the reasoning 
 powers man possesses. 
 
 By the teachings of Holy Writ, man may look 
 into the wonderful mysteries of God with reveren- 
 tial awe, and submit his reason to the obedience 
 of faith. 
 
 We read in the second chapter of Genesis, that 
 ^' God formed man from the dust of the earth, and 
 breathed into his nostrils the breath of life." 
 "Let us make man," said the Almighty, "like 
 unto ourselves." 
 
 Now, my dear friends, this certainly shows that 
 the three persons of the blessed Trinity must have 
 held solemn commune. Remember man, thou 
 art but dust, and unto dust thou shalt' return. 
 What shall return to dust ? Which ? the body 
 or the soul ? It evidently cannot be the soul, for 
 that is not conceived of dust. It is the body 
 which must return to the earth, for that is com- 
 posed of the clay of the earth. Man then is com- 
 posed of two portions, a body and a soul. The 
 
34 The Immortality of the Soul. 
 
 body, therefore, after death, is committed to 
 earth, but the soul stands before the bar of God 
 for judgment, to render there an account of the 
 sins committed while in the flesh. Before the 
 soul left the body man was the reflected likeness 
 of God, eternal in its duration as the heavens it- 
 self. Yes, the soul will live on during the long: 
 ages of eternity, either supremely happy or de- 
 plorably wretched. We must remember that it 
 is in our power to save or destroy it. Let the 
 position of man be ever so noble or exalted, he 
 will not be shielded from the arrow of death. Men 
 may be drove on by a foolhardy arrogance, as 
 was the case with Voltaire. He was a bright and 
 brilliant youth, studying for the pulpit at the pro- 
 paganda. One day a celebrated phrenologist 
 observing the remarkable appearance of the youth, 
 placed his hand upon his head, exclaiming, ^^you 
 will one day be the standard bearer of infidelity." 
 How truly the prophecy was fullfilled. All 
 Europe was shocked by his denial of an Almighty. 
 Like all other promulgators of an infidel creed, he 
 had his friends and admirers, who fully identified 
 themselves with his blasphemy. It is impossible 
 to mention the exact number of souls he was the 
 means of bringing to destruction. He lectured in 
 language so eloquent and flowery that he suc- 
 ceeded in enticing a considerable portion of the 
 5^outh of Italy to his feet. But how long did his 
 blasphemy continue? Time, which puts an end to 
 all earthly things, cut him short in his wicked 
 career. 
 
 Dr. Young, of England, also gives us a thrilling 
 description of another infidel, whose name was 
 Altomont. Dr. Young, who was a clergyman of 
 the established church, paid him a pastoral visit. 
 When he entered the room, the infidel cried out, 
 
The Immortality of the Soul. 35 
 
 *'you and the physician have come to late. You 
 both aim at miracles — you would raise the dead." 
 The doctor proposed prayer. "Oh! pray you who 
 can, I never prayed nor need I now, yet nothing 
 but an Almighty could inflict what I feel." The 
 Dr. was about to congratulate him upon acknowl- 
 edging the first prime article of faith, when the 
 infidel suddenly exclaimed: "Hold! hold! that is 
 the rock upon which I split. I denied his name." 
 He remained silent as long as sudden darts of pain 
 would permit, until the clock struck, then with 
 vehemence he exclaimed: "O, time! time! it 
 is only but meet and just that thou should 
 strike thy murderer to the heart! O, thou 
 blasphemed, yet indulgent God, hell itself is a 
 retreat if it hides me from thy fury!" And ere the 
 sun — which it is hoped had seen few like him — 
 arose, the young, gay, noble and ingenious Alt- 
 omont expired. 
 
 Is it not audacious that man should doubt the 
 power that created him. Let him only look 
 abroad upon the beauties of nature and there see 
 the scenes that are displayed by the workmanship 
 of an incomprehensible God, who is perfect in 
 knowledge, and mighty in power. 
 
 How can the infidel look upon the starry 
 heavens, with all their bright and glowing lum- 
 inaries? And when he sees the fields dressed in 
 their summer garb, with all their varied flowers, 
 so decidedly beautiful as to defy the pencil of the 
 most accomplished artists. Again, let him go to 
 the sea coast, and cast his eye over the unmeasur- 
 ed deep. Let him take a view of the trackless 
 ocean, when troubled by the storm that wages 
 war on its waters. Surely his own reason ought 
 to convince him that nothing save the Supreme 
 Being could present to the eye of man such mag- 
 
36 The Immortaliiy of the Soul, 
 
 nificent developments. Wonderful indeed are 
 the mysterious works of God; and none more over- 
 whelming grand than the creation of our own 
 being. 
 
 ''Let us make man," said the Almighty, and 
 man came forth, one of the noblest works of his 
 creation. And so overcome was the Royal pro- 
 phet that he exclaimed O, Lord ! we are fearfully 
 and wonderfully made! Endowed with such 
 splendid gifts from God, will, memory and under- 
 standing, that by a right use of all those powers, 
 the soul is capable of maintaining her likeness 
 unto God, fair and pleasing in his sight. 
 
 To a contemplative mind, the conception of the 
 soul must form a beautiful and awful subject for 
 reflection. And it would require the talent of an 
 angel to give a lecture upon a subject so grand 
 and expansive in its nature. And, indeed, I 
 should apologize for attempting to do so; but the 
 relation of the soul and body has ever been niy 
 wonder and admiration. The body also is won- 
 derful in its construction, so many arteries and 
 veins all working so systematically, that a slight 
 mishap overthrows the entire uniformity of the 
 action of the body. It is surprising, taking into 
 consideration how easy it is to injure the machin- 
 ery of tiie body. Sudden deaths would be of more 
 frequent occurrence, were it not for the shielding 
 arm of tlie Great Architect himself, who perpet- 
 ually delights in protecting him from harm and 
 accident. And though perfect the body, without 
 the soul is powerless; nevertheless the body has 
 some influence on the soul; hence this internal- 
 warfare between the body and the soul, as if each 
 were striving for the ascendency. If the body 
 wins the victory, then sin takes place. This was 
 the case of Eve; she took the fruit because it 
 
The Immortality of the Soul. 37 
 
 pleased her gaze, and she hankered for it. Im- 
 mediately were taken from her, all her purity and 
 beauty, thus causing her posterity to be over- 
 whelmed with sorrow unutterable. 
 
 Oh! what a beautiful sight in the eyes of God 
 must have been the soul of Adam before destroy- 
 ing sin wrote his guilty name upon it, and stamp- 
 ed upon his body that beautiful shrine, the seal of 
 death. No sooner did he partake of the forbidden 
 fruit than sin took possession of his soul, in- 
 nocence there upon departed from his soul forever, 
 shame took its place. Hence his confusion in the 
 presence of God; for shame and sin are insepara- 
 ble companions. Oh! if Adam had not fallen, 
 how different would be our lot. 
 
 But the soul has yet a powerful anchor to rest 
 upon the merits of the Kedeemer; he knew the 
 priceless value of the soul, consequently he died 
 to restore its former grandeur and inheritance, 
 the kingdom of heaven. Yes to restore the glori- 
 ous possession of heaven to fallen man. The 
 meek Mesiah left the bosom of his father's glory 
 and if man possessed no soul, why would he veil 
 his omnipotence and take upon him our fallen 
 humanity. 
 
 As far back, even before the coming of the Re- 
 deemer, there was one among the heathen philoso- 
 phers called Socrates, he was appointed by the 
 people of Athens to teach the youth their duty to 
 the gods, Socrates conceived the idea that there 
 could be but one God; he openly declared his con- 
 viction; such a declaration in those days was con- 
 sidered worthy of death. He was, therefore, con- 
 demned to drink the juice of the hemlock, a poison- 
 ous weed, in atonement for his. lofty con- 
 ception. And I know you must be all 
 aware of that magnificent soliloquy of 
 
38 The Immortality of the Soul. 
 
 Cato, a Roman Senator, in the days of paganism 
 itself. He applauds Plato for his reasoning 
 powers on the immortality of the soul, and ex- 
 presses his admiration in language few can imi- 
 tate, and none can excel. 
 
 I hope it will be observed, that I am far from 
 discrying that noble faculty, reason, when exerted 
 in her proper sphere and acting in deferential sub- 
 jection to the revealed will of God. While she 
 exercises her power within those appointed limits 
 she is unspeakable servicable, and cannot be too 
 industriously cultivated. But when she sets her- 
 self up in proud contradiction to the sacred oracles. 
 When all arrogant and self sufficient she says to 
 the Sacred Scriptures, I have no need of thee, 
 then I am bold to maintain that she is a glow- 
 worm, a snare. Poor human nature with all its 
 weaknesses should not dare to set up her opinion 
 against the infallible judgment of God ; that 
 God, whose power is unlimitable. How is it feasi- 
 ble to suppose that man, who cannot comprehend 
 himself, who is incapable of knowing his own 
 heart, whose judgment and opinion are so prone 
 to error, how can he, from the very nature of 
 his weakness, pretend to fathom the immense, 
 the wonderful, the inscrutable works of God? That 
 God, who manifests his power in so many differ- 
 ent ways, who, as the Scripture informs, holds 
 the ends of the earth in the hollow of his hand; 
 whose mighty sceptre is wielded over the entire 
 universe. That universe which is so astounding 
 in its construction, so completely beautiful in for- 
 mation, so delightful to the eye in the magnitude 
 of its conception, that the very infidel has to de- 
 clare, there is something singularly captivating 
 in the scanery of nature. But above all the works 
 of God. stands preeminently conspicuous the im- 
 
The Ivimortality of the Soul. 39 
 
 mortal soul of man; the soul that informs and 
 honors our clay; the soul that teaches us to think, 
 that enables us to choose, that qualifies us to relish 
 rational pleasure and breathe sublime desires; the 
 soul that is endowed with such noble qualities. 
 The glorious capacity of being pained or blessed 
 forever. The soul surpasses in worth whatever 
 of material. the fancy can imagine. Before one 
 such intellectual being all the treasures and all 
 the magnificence of intelligent nature becomes 
 poor and contemptible ; for this omnipotence has 
 planed and worked through every age to con- 
 vince the soul the fundamental laws of nature 
 have been controlled, and the most amazing mira- 
 cles have astounded all the ends of the earth. To 
 instruct the soul the wisdom of heaven has been 
 transfused into the Sacred Page; to sanctify the 
 soul the Almighty Comforter takes the wings of a 
 dove, and with a sweet transforming influence 
 broods on the human heart. Oh! to redeem the 
 soul from hell, the heavens of heavens has 
 been bowed down, and God himself came to dwell 
 on earth. Oh! of what vast importance did God 
 consider man. How much he valued the immor- 
 tal he created. For the soul even of fallen nian 
 possesses unquestionable greatness and dignity, 
 majestic though in ruins. The humblest indivi- 
 dual that stands upon God's footstool possesses 
 superior dignity in his own person. And is it any 
 wonder it should be, when his image and likeness 
 is made like unto God. Oh! if man could remem- 
 ber his own loftiness, and the mighty purpose for 
 which he was created, how different would be his 
 course through life, if the recollection could dwell 
 UDon his mind, that his soul was to live forever? 
 Yes, live as long as God himself; that the grand 
 appearance of nature upon which man loves to 
 
40 The Immortality of the Soul. 
 
 look shall wither and decay like the dead leaves 
 in Autumn. Even the very sun that now rqlls 
 in triumph round the world, and distributes gayety 
 from his radiant eye; yes, the sun will be 
 shrouded, and over a wrecked universe rise no 
 more. The hand of time will lay waste all that 
 is transcendingly magnificent in nature. But 
 over man, exalted man, time will have no power; 
 his soul will live on over a ruined world, and the 
 final period of things. When one potent word of 
 God will consign a world to desolation, the soul 
 in the plenitude of its own immortality will 
 triumphantly exist. As the soul of man is predes- 
 tined to live forever, is it not unaccountably 
 strange that man should neglect and forget that 
 the longest life appears short when about to close. 
 
 My friends, 1 hope you will not think that I am 
 going to give a sermon. I should not attempt, nor 
 should I dare usurp a calling which belongs not 
 to woman. But I claim the privilege of moraliz- 
 ing. The very na^ture of my subject is moral; a 
 lecture on the mighty works of God, as they are 
 displayed throughout the world, must and should 
 command universal attention, and indeed lan- 
 guage is inadequate to describe God's goodness 
 in the creation of the world. For instance, let 
 us contemplate the seasons as they roll in succes- 
 sion after each other: 
 
 Winter comes with all its fierce,terrific grandeur, 
 and yet enchanting from its very wildness* 
 What a chaste appearance does the earth present 
 when covered over with one vast sheet of snow? 
 It seems as if nature was arrayed in her bridal 
 robes, of such exquisite beauty and purity, as to 
 call forth the admiration and wonder of the be- 
 holder. And let us also admire the indescribable 
 goodness of the great Author of nature; those 
 
The Immortality of the Soul, 41 
 
 very mantels of snow afford protection and nutri- 
 tion to the earth over which they are spread, and 
 therefore goes to show what anxious care God 
 takes in the welfare of what will benefit, and how 
 solicitous he is to promote the comfort of man. 
 
 Spring comes next with all her smiles and tears, 
 with all her buds and blossoms, with hopes to 
 cheer and exhilerate the heart of man, and urge 
 him on to works of labor. 
 
 Closely following comes summer with all her 
 birds and songs, with all her fruits and flowers, to 
 gladden and delight the soul of weary man. How 
 generous and benevolent is the great God of na- 
 ture in all his gifts to man? Spread out before 
 him in the most lavishing manner is all that is 
 beauteous and magnificent to look upon. Flowers, 
 whose perfume and loveliness fascinate the 
 senses and take captive the heart. 
 
 Fall approaches, with her sad and mournful ap- 
 pearance, as if regreting that summer, with all 
 her gay delights, has passed away. Dressed in a 
 brown garb she appears cold and comfortless, and 
 her melancholy voice is heard sighing among the 
 trees and flowers that a little while before basked 
 in the sunshine of a summer's sun. How visible 
 does that gloomy season of the year recall to our 
 minds that our own lives are also on the wane; 
 the flowers and fruits that have passed away are 
 emblematic of our own destiny. We, too, will 
 drop, one by one, and vanish from the earth. 
 Jesus, prepare us for its approach, defend us when 
 it comes. 
 
 So you see, my friends, the awful wickedness to 
 doubt for a moment, or to call into question the 
 existence of that God, whose will sustains the 
 face of nature; that God who has not left himself 
 without a witness, the mark of whose footsteps. 
 
43 The Immortality of the SouL 
 
 are evident throughout the globe; the touch of 
 whose fingers are distinguishable upon every crea- 
 ture. All the revolving worlds above, all the 
 living atoms below, together with all the beings 
 that intervene between those wide extremes, are 
 vouchers for an ever present Deity. The thunder 
 that rolls over our heads, the lightning that flashes 
 with the swiftness of thought, the roar of the 
 mighty waters which compose the cataract are 
 sufficient proof that there reigns over all aiSupreme, 
 Almighty power, who often sends forth the bolt 
 of thunder, and the rushing of the tempest, as if 
 to remind man of his deplorable weakness, and 
 absolute dependence upon Him. 
 
 Is not history, both sacred and profane, full of 
 records where an angry God has sent forth upon 
 the world the destructive elements of fire and 
 water as a judgment upon man for his forgetful- 
 ness and crimes? Let us glance back to the days 
 of pagan Rome, when the cities of Pompei and 
 Herculaneum were steeped in crimes, too filthy to 
 mention. They believed not in God, but that be- 
 lief did not save them; and so sudden was the des- 
 truction that overwhelmed those unfortunate 
 cities that the inhabitants were taken wholly un- 
 awares. The chisel was in the sculptor's hand, 
 the painter was at his canvass, the poet in the 
 highest hour of inspiration, when the hidden fire 
 within the volcano of Mount Vesuvius was lit up 
 by the breath of an angry God, and the magnifi- 
 cent cities of Pompei and Herculaneum were buried 
 beneath the ashes and lava that swept down upon 
 them; when that God, whom they despised and 
 would not know, sends forth his angry agents to 
 anihilate and destroy them, and make manifest 
 that he reigns, and has all power. Every king- 
 dom and principality has its prefect. Without 
 
The Immortality of the Soul. 43 
 
 those established rules, there would be no system 
 of regulation, no happiness for man. And shall 
 nature have no ruler? is the sea, the sky, the 
 
 freen woods and valleys to be left to themselves? 
 'reposterous the idea! We then might expect to 
 see the sun dislodged from his sphere run lawless 
 through the firmament. What prouder consola- 
 tion to the erring sinner than the existence of God 
 and the advocacy of a Redeemer, who will reward 
 his faith, fidelity and love. How deeply to be 
 pitied is the condition of the infidel, notwithstand- 
 ing the applause of his admirers. 
 
 I hold there cannot be a more convincing proof 
 of the immortality of the soul than the feelings of 
 our own heart. Is there not always a restless 
 feeling of unhappiness, though surrounded on 
 every side by the smiles of fortune, and enjoying 
 all the pleasure which a life of wealth can confer? 
 J^evertheless, though full possessors of all that the 
 world admires and esteems, there's a void, in 
 vacancy, a longing of the soul that the enjoy- 
 ments of the world will never satisfy. The very 
 yearnings of the soul, its very inspirations and as- 
 pirations, grasping and seeking for something 
 ^Ise to its happiness, all which tells the soul that 
 nnan was made by God, and will never rest happy 
 till it rests with God The greatest worshipper of 
 the world has always to acknowledge that there 
 is no permanency of its joys, no felicity in its pat- 
 ronage. Oh! this sad bright world of ours, how 
 much is lost' by those who worship at its shrine ! 
 What will be the surprise of the infidel when the 
 sound of the last trumpet shall vibrate through 
 the four corners of the earth, and summon the 
 dead from their long sleep of the grave? when the 
 crucified of Nazareth, the Eternal Son of the 
 Eternal Father appears in all the majesty of his 
 radient glory. 
 
44 
 
 Tribulations of the Authoress 
 
 Oh ! was it destiny, or was it fate, 
 Whicli cheerless made the life of Kate ? 
 Or, did it please dame fortune's suit 
 To joyless rend my very youth ? 
 
 But it seemed as if I were iron-bound, 
 For naught could bring me to the ground ; 
 My enduring power seemed to double 
 With every care and every trouble, " 
 
 Yet, I was not devoid of feeling, 
 Cold in heart, nor given to sneering. 
 1 was not made of such bad stuff, 
 Nor did I easily take huff. 
 
 Sensative in age and youth, 
 Feeling my sorrows keen, acute, 
 Though wronged by many, and treated ill, 
 I was the same admantine still. 
 
 And when my husband bought a farm, 
 Having in view to shield from harm 
 His little children from city life, 
 Where bad example is so rife. 
 
 Ah, the reader will never know the toil 
 Performed by me upon that soil ; 
 Yet I never murmured , but labored still 
 Through summer's heat and winter's chill. 
 
tribulations of the Authoress. 45 
 
 Until the farm became a knot 
 Of flowers, of fruits, a lovely spot ; 
 Fields of wheat, of corn and rye, 
 Which I preserved in a barn dry. 
 
 Fowls of every size and breed, 
 Taking from my hand their feed ; 
 A cow so gentle and so tame 
 That to my call in evening came. 
 
 One evening in the month of May, 
 The time for sowing the seed of hay, 
 My husband kept at the house within, 
 Looking pale, cold and thin. 
 
 What can ail you, Richard, dear ? 
 By your looks you are ill I fear. 
 He rose a moment, then stood still, 
 And o'er him came an awful chill. 
 
 He went to bed — O, who could think 
 That he so soon would fail and sink. 
 Next morning he was weak and sick — 
 Could hardly walk without a stick. 
 
 He that was so powerful and strong. 
 You'd deem his years would be quite long; 
 Alas! those who seem so strongly made 
 Are o'ft the first to soonest fade. 
 
 The doctor came, and merely told 
 'Twas only a slight and trifling cold — 
 Those trifling colds warm hearts have chilled. 
 And numerous grave yards they have filled. 
 
 And so it was in Richard's case — 
 A trifling cold made pale his face. 
 That once was so healthy to look upon, 
 Now dejected, pale and wan. 
 
46 Tribulations of the Authoress. 
 
 That noble form, so tall, and straight, 
 Began to bend beneath the weight 
 Of sickness, sorrow, pain and grief, 
 To feel and know how soon and brief 
 
 Would be his days— and that his wife 
 Alone would have to bear the strife 
 Of a cold, unfeeling, heartless world. 
 On which, alas ! she must be hurled. 
 
 Farewell, my darling, a long farewell, 
 If in heaven my spirit dwell, 
 For the little ones and you'll I pray, 
 And God Avill hear what I shall say. 
 
 Then came the icy-hand of death — 
 Shorter, shorter grew his breath — 
 And it was pitiful to see 
 The little children on their knee 
 
 Calling in their childish cry, 
 
 O, papa ! papa ! do not die ! ^ 
 
 O'er that sad scene I'll draw a vail, 
 
 And hide from the world their bitter waiL 
 
 The bell bad nearly ceased to toll, 
 And the mourning carriage cease to roll, 
 When I made up my mind to school 
 My grief, and keep it under rule. 
 
 The time came on to mow the hay — 
 And while my children were at play. 
 At early morn I rose from bed, 
 The hay I mowed on the grass to spread. 
 
 It quickly dried, and I labored then 
 To place it near the horse's pen. 
 But found it hard the cart to load. 
 And guide the horse on a stumpy road. 
 
Tribulations of the Authoress. 47 
 
 Rapidly rolled bright summer away — 
 Autumn came in robes of gray ; 
 Out the potatoes I had to plow, 
 Just as well as I knew how. 
 
 Then I brought to the mill my wheat, 
 But the miller wanted half the weight ; 
 Forsooth, he deemed he was kind 
 Even at that my corn to grind. 
 
 Then I gathered my little crop — 
 Wood for the winter I had to chop ; 
 Being nearer South 'twas not so cold, 
 And neither wood or coal was sold. 
 
 Some months before my Richard died 
 Cords of wood he cut and dried — 
 Out on an open field they lay — 
 In dead of night were stole away. 
 
 Ah, I should feel indeed content 
 If that from me was all that went; 
 A neighbor came, with intentions meek,. 
 Madam, with you I wish to speak. 
 
 I come myself, rather than send , 
 To know if. you would kindly lend 
 The harness of your buggy, light, 
 Which I'll return e're close of night. 
 
 They were silver mounted, and I thought bad 
 To leud them — but I felt so sad — 
 My husband on his death bed lay. 
 So I let the harness go away. 
 
 Four weeks were nearly at an end, 
 
 He did not come, nor did he send ; 
 
 At last he came with the same soft tongue, 
 
 And announced, in his stable my harness hung — 
 
48 Tribulations of the Authoress. 
 
 And, madam, I am filled with grief 
 To have to tell : a lawless theif, 
 Under cover of night, stole in, 
 And carried away all things within. 
 
 For what from me were taken I do not fret, 
 'Tis the loss of your harness that I regret. 
 I replied, through my tears, your'e a farmer, strong 
 Why should you the widow and orphan wrong ? 
 
 Five dollars were all he gave to me, 
 Though they were valued at fifty-three. 
 The money I took, though I was sure 
 That he was lying; but I was poor. 
 
 Scarcely had three weeks rolled by — 
 One night the wind had blown high. 
 And ere the sun showed his orient crown 
 His house and stables were burned down. 
 
 1 had a heifer, she was two years old — 
 I was in debt, and she had to be sold ; 
 A farmer knew I was in a fix — 
 All he gave me was, dollars, six. 
 
 Then a Jerseyite came, and proposed a plan — 
 I deemed he looked like an honest man; 
 JMadam, I'll plant your land on share, 
 Depend on it, you'll find me square. 
 
 Of my farming utensils I gave him the use— 
 I gave him the seed — he gave me abuse ; 
 Took care of the part he called his own, 
 But mine he left with weeds o'ergrown. 
 
 My farming tools were good, any many— 
 When he got through 1 had not any. 
 My share of the crop was very small, 
 It was only better than nothing a' all. 
 
Tribulations of the Authoress. 49 
 
 Next, 1 hired a farming man ; 
 He said they called him working Dan ; 
 But Dan in the woods all day would lurk, 
 And then pretend he was at work. 
 
 1 toiled in sunshine, and in rain 
 My farm to keep, but all in vain. 
 Nothing seemed to be doing well, 
 For taxes, I had my cow to sell. 
 
 I felt 'twas useless to longer strive; 
 I knew the bee must leave the hive. 
 So I closed the windows , barred the door, 
 My heart at leaving was sad and sore. 
 
 1 took my little children by the hand, 
 And left forever my homo and land; 
 Off to New York I made my way, 
 Arriving on a dark and desolate day. 
 
 Over my soul hung a heavy gloom, — 
 1 envied the dead asleep in the tomb; 
 So lonely 1 felt when ushered in. 
 To a friendess, cold and pitiless Inn. 
 
 But my innocent children danced with joy— 
 From chair to chair ran my little boy ; 
 The rooms were large, the curtains lace, 
 They made them veils to cover their face. 
 
 From the hotel rang the breakfast bell— 
 I was seized with a dismal spell ; 
 The waiter showed me a bill of fare, 
 When I shook my head, O, didn't he stare. 
 
 Then I sought a friend whom I did not see 
 For years, and a friend she proved to me ; 
 We were girls together, I found her the same, 
 Changed in nothing, save in name. 
 
50 Tribulations of the Authoress. 
 
 Her husband, too, was also kind, * 
 It seemed as if both combined 
 By every means to soothe my grief 
 And bring my troubled soul relief. 
 
 Before them, all my plans I laid, 
 
 And they approved of all I made. 
 
 By lecturing, I strove some funds to raise 
 
 But feared I'd fail to merit praise. 
 
 He gave me comfort, he gave me hope; 
 Lightened the weight of my heavy yoke. 
 On your courage saiil he much depends — 
 I'll sell the tickets among my friends. 
 
 The night came on, and with trembling heart 
 I gave the lecture, and through each part 
 Cheer after cheer, rose loud and high — 
 With effort I kept my poor eyes dry. 
 
 I never dreamed of such success; 
 
 A boon indeed in my distress. 
 
 Over the river next I went 
 
 To Williamsburgh, and therce I spent 
 
 Sometime in seeking as before 
 A kindly friend to open his door. 
 Not long indeed had I to wait; 
 Soon was opened to me a gate. 
 
 A pilot an the Houston ferry, f 
 Who kindred dear himself did bury, 
 Deeply feeling for my distress, 
 Raised a lecture with great success. 
 
 Both him and wife spared no pains. 
 Neither sought they praise or gains; 
 Their many friends my tickets bought— 
 Fifty dollars to me they brought. 
 *A. B. Gallagher. tRichard Richards. 
 
Tribulations of the Authoress. 51 
 
 Was not that a sum indeed? 
 For little children in such need; 
 Other friends sold tickets too, 
 But comparative were but few. 
 
 In trouble. Oh! how soon we learn 
 Who feels for us the most concern ; 
 When pity in the heart doth dwell 
 Deeds, not words, will always tell, 
 
 I lectured by night and worked by day; 
 Done all that in my power lay ; 
 For doing such, was called a fool, 
 Told there was an orphan school 
 
 Where children of their kind and class, 
 In comfort their young da^^s could pass; 
 Such words brought tears from my very soul, 
 And sorrow which defied control. 
 
 Upon ray heart my hand I laid 
 To still its throbbing, while I said. 
 My children, while I live, shall share 
 A mother's love, a mother's care ! 
 
 1 knew for them God would care, 
 Even as he fed the birds of the air. 
 Their guardian angels kindly spread 
 Their wings of love , and they got bread. 
 
 One morning a letter came to me, 
 It was from friends far o'er the sea, 
 Saying they deemed it were wise 
 Again to seek my native skies. 
 
 So then I wrote some poems of taste, 
 Which were printed in good haste ; 
 They made quite a pretty little book. 
 Well deserving a careful look. 
 
52 Tribulations of the Authoress. 
 
 And with the funds the books did yield, 
 Homeward I went, to my native fields; 
 Time I found new changes wrought, 
 I could not find the friends I sought. 
 
 Down in the earth long had they slept, 
 I sought their graves, and o'er them wept : 
 Friends were left whom I forgot. 
 Because I knew they loved me not. 
 
 Alas ! that I should have to say, 
 My dearest friends had passed away ; 
 And those that were left behind, 
 To me, indeed, were not so kind. 
 
 But one cousin was left, with her I stayed, 
 With whom in youth, I often strayed 
 Up mountain slope, down valley stream. 
 Echoing back our own wild scream. 
 
 Her name was Mrs. Peggy Roween, 
 Kind and loving she did screen 
 And shelter me beneath her roof; 
 Of her love, was not that proof. 
 
 No matter what was said or done. 
 She'd say in earnest, not in fun , 
 On her prosperity may not shine, 
 I'm her friend and she is mine. 
 
 I went to the lawyer, told my tale, 
 
 He shook his head, 'twas no avail ; 
 
 He examined the will, could find no flaw, 
 
 And bonafide stands good in law. 
 
 Oh! hope, thou art a beacon light 
 That oft deceives the mariner's sight; 
 Upon the deep unmeasured sea, 
 A beacon false thou were to me. 
 
Tribulations of the Authoress. 53 
 
 Some said it was a silly act — 
 I knowing it was a sterling fact 
 That his father had years before 
 Against him cruely closed his door. 
 
 Ah ! he never was a wayward youth — 
 I state naught save only truth ; 
 His father's council would not scoff, 
 Why then in the will was he cast off? 
 
 It was because his creed he changed, 
 That his father's love became estranged, 
 And forth upon the world was cast 
 A filial son — but it is past. 
 
 Both long are sleeping within the grave, 
 And between each tomb rolls the ocean wave ; 
 The father sleeps 'neath the shamrock's spray. 
 But the son is laid in the stranger's clay. 
 
 When I found the law against me went, 
 I deemed it wisdom to seek content; 
 I reasoned with myself, and said 
 Peace to the ashes of the dead. 
 
 I now must write in another style. 
 The reader may laugh, but I cannot smile; 
 Friends I thought would come to greet 
 Were the very ones I did not meet. 
 
 1 called on a friend, he was profuse in good wishes, 
 But he locked in his closet, his wine and his dishes; 
 He was full of kind pity, and began to compare 
 The past with the present, so I rose from my chair. 
 
 My heart being full, and I so opprest, 
 He ceased his comparison at my earnest request ; 
 He bowed and he scraped, was mighty polite. 
 And jumped with delight when I got out of sight. 
 
54 Tribulations of the Authoress. 
 
 Next I called on a lady of very large size, 
 She played the fox, with tears in her eyes, 
 Mrs. Odium, my darling, please name the day 
 You'll come to my table to dinner, 1 pray. 
 
 The day come off for the very big feed, 
 But the kind lady was off to her farm field; 
 'Twas not by design; she went to see friends 
 And during my stay, made ample amends. 
 
 I called at a cottage; 'twas pretty and neat 
 The owner, my cousin, beat a retreat; 
 He flew from the parlor, to the garden fled, 
 Forgot in the hurry to cover his head. 
 
 But what grieved me most, when I'd pass a door 
 Which would open to me in days of yore, 
 And gladly would my company seek, 
 Deem it an honor if I should speak. 
 
 But death made times with me reverse, 
 They neither wished or sought converse. 
 One Dr. would always pass me by. 
 And on the ground would turn his eye. 
 
 I had a brother whom I dearly loved. 
 And although, alas! away I roved 
 Far from him and my native sill 
 A sister's love is with him still. 
 
 Hj was noble, generous and kind 
 His lofty heart refused to find 
 What others could discern so plain 
 The doctor's friendship was but a feign. 
 
 Poor law guardian was my brother then, 
 He lived in opulence and when 
 A man is rich his power is strong 
 He took that Dr. , led him along, 
 
Tribulations of the Authoress. bb 
 
 Brought him before the guardian's all, 
 Proposed that he should get a call 
 As physician, in the house attend 
 My brothers voice was his best friend. 
 
 The reader, perhaps, will think that he 
 Would ever after grateful be; 
 But such was not the Doctor's heart, 
 Ingratitude was his leading part. 
 
 My brother took a handsome bride; 
 He danced attendance at her side, 
 Constantly dined in my brother's house 
 Loved good living, wine and grouse. 
 
 Chickens I used to love and rear— 
 The Dr. had the greatest share; 
 He came to the farm with gun and shot, 
 Put in for his dinner, cold or hot. 
 
 When I sailed from the States, alas, behind 
 Was left my daughter, and friends were kind 
 Enough to say it was mdeed, a deep design 
 To leave behind that child of mine. 
 
 What wicked minds to thus ccmceive 
 A tender mother her child would leave 
 Out on the world's treacherous wave. 
 No friendly hand to guide or save. 
 
 Ah! the truth requires no varnished tale— 
 At three the steamer had to sail; 
 At twelve, she went friends to see, 
 Baying back she'd quickly be. 
 
 Up and down I wildly paced, 
 Thinking she yet might win the race; 
 But alas, my child was not in sight 
 When the craft of the ocean had taken flight. 
 
56 Tribulations of the Authoress. 
 
 No painter's brush, no poet's pen 
 
 Can e're describe what I felt then, 
 
 Like the heaving waves my troubled breast 
 
 All through the voyage knew no rest. 
 
 One friend indeed I must confess 
 Imposed on me, he did profess — 
 Such friendship that I did believe 
 He was far to noble to thus deceive. 
 
 Don't give way to such distress, 
 Fond friends, Eliza will possess; 
 Feel no anxiety or alarm, 
 111 protect her from all harm. 
 
 But promises like icicles easily are broke; 
 Forgotten in a moment after they are spoke, 
 Another ocean steamer sails a week from to-day, 
 The Nevada, and I'll send her safe away. 
 
 The journey was irksome, and when I reached 
 
 the shore, 
 I lodged near the harbor for a week and more 
 Awaiting the Nevada, relying on this friend, 
 Tnat in the ocean steamer my daughter he would 
 
 send. 
 
 Oh! weary, weary watching for what cometh not, 
 
 Alas, from early childhood has been my fated lot. 
 
 The coming of the steamer I waited with anxious 
 gaze 
 
 From dawn of early morning till twilight's pur- 
 ple haze. 
 
 T heard the seamen hailing, I saw she was in 
 
 sight 
 No language can portray my joy and my delight, 
 But the joy that hope hath given was followed 
 
 by despair 
 
 I boarded the vessel, alas! my daughter was not 
 there. 
 
Tribulations of the Authoress. 57 
 
 All hopes defeated, for human nature 'twas too 
 much, 
 
 And down among the machinery I made a fear- 
 ful rush; 
 
 The bitter disappointment filled my soul with 
 grief intense, 
 
 My actions were not guided by reason or by sense. 
 
 The engineer stood on the ladder, grasped me by 
 
 the gown, 
 Just time enough to save me, for I was going 
 
 heedless down, 
 He felt for my great sorrow, and sympathized 
 
 with me — 
 He had an only daughter, and she was lost at sea. 
 
 I wrote from my cousin's, an answer quickly had, 
 The tidings were distressing, yet they made me 
 
 glad; 
 I was stricken down with terror, imagined I 
 
 would hear 
 Some evil hath befallen the child to me so dear. 
 
 When I received her letter, my anxiety was re 
 
 lieved, 
 Yet for leaving the States, my heart in secret 
 
 grieved, 
 I felt so disappointed, and oh 1 so deeply pained, 
 That from my long journey I had nothing gained. 
 
 No complaining in her letter, yet I knew she 
 
 could not say, 
 She found one sterling friend all the time I was 
 
 away; 
 I bring my visit to an end for 1 fancy that the 
 
 wail 
 Of my darling left behind comes with the ocean 
 
 She was only a girl who from delicacy was spent. 
 Too tall for her years, had out-grown her strength ; 
 Yet those who offered succor while I was o'er 
 
 the wave 
 Considered she should be thankful though no 
 
 idle hours gave. 
 
58 Tribulations of the Authoress. 
 
 Goldsmith, in his writings, declares friendship 
 
 but a name. 
 So it was with Mary, she found it just the same; 
 I trembled when I saw her, she looked so sad 
 
 and frail, 
 Even as the blossom is smitten by the gale. 
 
 Oh! would to fate that I'd forget, the remem' 
 
 brance gives me pain. 
 But repining availeth nothing and 'tis useless to 
 
 complain ; 
 Then I sought a living again, began to toil 
 My brain was successful, but how I did recoil. 
 
 I'd write upon a subject to everyone well known, 
 Whose every word and line most truly were my 
 
 own; 
 Some would take the poem, remarking it was 
 
 well; 
 Desiring, would I please the name of the author 
 
 tell? 
 
 I replying yes, the author's present, here, 
 While harshly would greet a loud laugh on my 
 
 ear; 
 What, you to write a poem so beautiful as that? 
 Indeed, you can't deceive me, you are lying Mrs. 
 
 Pat. 
 
 Some would blink, and exclaim, write me but a 
 line, 
 
 And I'll give for your pains cents twenty-nine; 
 
 Sometimes I would write and ofttimes did de- 
 cline 
 
 Accordingly as felt this weary heart of mine. 
 
 Now I deemed it wisdom to give my brain rest, 
 And so for other labor I went off in quest; 
 Could I find ladies, real ladies I would nurse, 
 But of all my evils indeed that was the worse. * 
 ♦Don't mention it. 
 
Tribulations of the Authoress. 59 
 
 Those I found poor, were very, very proud, 
 Assuming high airs and saying I spoke loud ; 
 Then I would speak in tones low and few 
 How do you suppose Madam, I can hear you? 
 
 'Twas vain for me to strive and please, 
 For some would delight to give no ease; 
 They thought it right my pride to bend, 
 And make me know I had no friend. 
 
 I met some hearts so small and narrow. 
 That should I eat enough they'd really harrow 
 Up my feelings by hints outthrowu. 
 How very fat you late have grown. 
 
 Some would say, I can't tell why 
 Mrs. Odium, you charge so high ; 
 By you it should not be forgot 
 Nurse number one indeed you are not. 
 
 When I'd meet with a temper decidedly quick 
 That nature was genial, no claim to be sick, 
 But the face that wore smiles at nothing 'tall 
 Oh, the tongue of that woman was bitter as gall. 
 
 But there's misery in every sphere of life, 
 Though with some affliction is more rife — 
 We all may feel happy for a while 
 But, alas I it is only an April smile. 
 
 My darling daughter, Mary, the only one I ever 
 had, 
 
 Whose happy smile would cheer me whenever I 
 grew sad, 
 
 She was all my comfort, my hope and my de- 
 light, 
 
 But she is gone, the darling, forever from my 
 sight. 
 
60 Tribulations of the Authoress. 
 
 In early fall, one evening, September '83, 
 She apparently was well and full of playful glee ; 
 Said I was her baby and danced me on her knee — 
 Next morning she was ailing but kept from tell- 
 ing me. 
 
 I sent for the Dr. , he seemed to take it light, 
 But deemed it more serious as onward came the 
 
 night ; 
 Of me ever thoughtful she strove her pain to 
 
 hide, 
 But 1 knew from that hour I was to lose my 
 
 pride. 
 
 She could not lie down, but pillowed in a chair^ 
 And none but a mother may tell of my despair, 
 'Twas hard to hide my anguish for I was stricken 
 
 wild. 
 To realize how soon I'd lose my darling child. 
 
 Tenderly and carefully I watched her day and 
 
 night, 
 Mourning for the flower fading from my sight; 
 Oh 1 the agony of watching all I had on earth, 
 In whom my hopes were entered even from her 
 
 birth. 
 
 Four weeks of anxious vigil was drawing to an 
 
 end, 
 'Twere lonely in that house, for I had not a living 
 
 friend. 
 Save another widow lady * who sincerely felt 
 
 for me, 
 Kind and tender hearted; generous too was she. 
 
 She lost her only daughter, went through the 
 
 same ordeal, 
 So her own aflBicted heart knew how for me to 
 
 feel; 
 Benevolent, considerate in action and in 
 
 thought. 
 Indulging many a fancy, and dainties to her 
 
 brought. . 
 ♦Mrs. Turner, 173 N. Third St., Brooklyn, E, D. 
 
Tribulations of the Authoress. 61 
 
 But death was fast approaching — on came the dy- 
 ing scene; 
 
 "When appeared the King of Terror, thank God 
 she was serene ; 
 
 No medicine was availing my darling child to 
 save — 
 
 Between the hours of seven and eight her soul to 
 God she gave. 
 
 • 
 
 Oh, you that are mothers, and stood by the dy- 
 ing bed 
 
 Of the loving and the loved you know the tears I 
 shed, 
 
 I knelt beside my darling, watching her last breath; 
 
 Mine, the only hands that closed her eyes in 
 death. 
 
 I strove to control my sorrow and prayed to be 
 
 resigned, 
 But my constrained feelings refused to be 
 
 confined; 
 When I gazed upon my daughter, and saw she 
 
 was dead, 
 A congestive chill came o'er me, and I was born 
 
 to bed. 
 
 I saught no undertaker, my intention was to stay 
 Alone with my dead child, till all had gone away ; 
 Prostrate by sorrow, and powerless to think, 
 Reason indeed, was tottering upon the fatal brink. 
 
 In that supreme hour of desolation, and of grief, 
 A sterling friend stood by me to soothe and give 
 
 relief; 
 The pilot's wife was there straight forward went 
 
 to act, 
 Bringing into action her usual powerful tact. 
 
 She sought the undertaker, at midnight, without 
 
 fear, 
 Accompanied by another, who in trouble was 
 
 ever near ; 
 And when the burial was over and all to their 
 
 home had went, 
 The pilot's wife was feeling for the heart she 
 
 knew was rent. 
 
62 Tribulations of the Authoress. 
 
 Oh, could we lift the curtain, through the future 
 
 peer, 
 And see what awaits us in each coming year. 
 How we would stand aghast, cry out in despair. 
 Oh, Such misery as that no human heart could 
 
 bear. 
 
 Yet jpauch of our sorrow for each other we create, 
 And truthful in this record is whjit I now relate: 
 Twelve days wittin the grave my Mary only slept, 
 "When the landlord,* inquired if I supposed he kept 
 
 A charitable institution for Tom, Dick and Harry; 
 If I did not pay his rent, there I should not tarry; 
 Have I not always paid you? I asked, through my 
 
 tears; 
 One month is all that I am in arrears. 
 
 Three times he came before I an answer gave, 
 I asked were he a man, he retorted like a knave; 
 I'm not a woman, and to reproach began, 
 I'll dispossess you madam, and down the stairs 
 he ran. 
 
 According to justice, to rent he had no claim, 
 The skylight was minus three panes in the frame. 
 And when the clouds gathered and the rain be- 
 gan to pour. 
 It lodged like a swamp before my daughter's door. 
 
 I went to the house, reported to his wife, 
 
 I feared the damp produced might shorten her life ; 
 
 The answer I received when she came to the 
 
 door; 
 I never heered such a fuss about a sekgerl afcore. 
 
 1 told her, the Dr. all damp air had forbid ; 
 
 She replied, with a brougue, hes an Ould fool if 
 
 he did; 
 Her cruel words disturbed me; how much I then 
 
 would give, 
 That my own sweet Mary in her house did never 
 
 live. 
 
 I now close this record of tribulations great, 
 And may they be the last I shall ever state. 
 *Mr. Nolan. 
 
63 
 
 WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE LAMENTED 
 
 REV. JOHN A. TREANOR. 
 
 Pastor of the St. Lawrence's Church. 
 
 Bright rose the morning sun on high; 
 The very leaves heaved not a sigh — 
 The heavens, in one blue cloud airayed. 
 Smiled on the Pastor as he prayed. 
 
 In gentle tones like rivulets flow, 
 Uplifted hands and head bowed low. 
 The flock that lo my charge you gave--^ 
 In mercy, O, my Saviour, save ! 
 
 He left the altar, the hours flew — 
 Only God and his angel guardian knew 
 That never again his voice he'd raise 
 Within that church in pra3^er or praise. 
 
 Urged by motives pure and best 
 The zealous father sought the West, 
 Not for earthly weal or pleasure, 
 Nor any craven thought of treasure. 
 
 Save only what he might obtain 
 For the churche's benefit and gain ; 
 The church was all he loved or sought. 
 For her alone he lived and wrought. 
 
 And thus, with holy purpose bent, 
 Onward with kind friends he went; 
 And wild scenes, in their wildness grand 
 Delighted the hearts of that traveling band. 
 
 They reached and left the Yosemite vale, 
 Refreshed and charmed by autumn gale; 
 But alas ! there's mixed some dark alloy 
 With every human hope and j03^ 
 
64 Death of Rev. John A. Treanor. 
 
 The horses fled, the driver fell; 
 Alas! what followed we know too well; 
 Pale as the foam that lights the sea, 
 They found the father beside the tree. 
 
 Ah! who can know, or who can tell 
 The grief which on that party fell, 
 When he, the loved priest, passed away 
 Ere the rising sou of another day. 
 
 Nor can words describe the grief, dismay, 
 Of the stricken flock on that sad day 
 When tidings came like a rushing tide 
 In the far off West, the father died. 
 
 Homeward they brought the honored dead, 
 Wrapt in his robes in his cofllu bed, 
 He, who from their midst had went, 
 Buoyant in his hope and strength. 
 
 Ah! but there's waiting for him in the kingdom 
 
 above. 
 To be placed on his brow by an angel of love, 
 Of flowers celestial, a garland so bright, 
 Equal only to saints' in radiance and light. 
 
The Death of Rev. Father Burke, O, P, 65 
 
 WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE LAMENTED 
 
 REV. FATHER BURKE, 0. P. 
 
 Erin, Mavoiirneen, when yonr harp peals a time, 
 'Tis only to weep o'er thy blight and thy ruin; 
 To sad notes alone your harp you will string, 
 While forever in anguish your songs you will sing. 
 
 But for some of your sorrow thy sons are to blame, 
 The children you loye oft bring you to shame; 
 But, thanks to the fates, their numbers are few, 
 Ten may be false while thousands are true. 
 
 If a dark spot appears on our banner of green, 
 A similar stain other nations have seen; 
 'Midst the friends of Christ's bosom one gave away, 
 No nation so righteous but some will betray. 
 
 In vain your foes may seek to deride; 
 Your daughters are virtuous, your sons are your pride; 
 They've adorned the Church , the Senate and State — 
 The palm must be given in spite of all hate. 
 
 No soldiers more brave than thy sons on the field, 
 In honor and valor to none will they yield ; 
 They fought for all nations, by land and by wave, 
 Their blood for the cause they cheerfully gave. 
 
 There's no peace for thy bosom, while the trail and hiss 
 Of the serpent's around thee you'll never know bliss; 
 For centuries you've suffered his slime and his wiles. 
 And till you have crushed him you never can smile. 
 
 Oh! how soon you would conquer and gain every right. 
 If your sons would join hands— as one man unite; 
 Then Erin, Mavourneen , no longer you'd wait, 
 For the trumpet of freedom fo sound at your gate. 
 
 But again you are stricken, and doubly made sad. 
 In the robes of dark mourning, alas! you are clad; 
 Thy son, Father Burke, the gifted divine, 
 Ei-in, Mavourneen, no longer is thine. 
 
66 The Death of Rev. Father Burke, 0. P. 
 
 His green native hills will see him no more; 
 His counsel and lectures, alas! are all o'er; 
 His beauty of language, full of pathos and love, 
 Ambitious for nothing, save to lead souls above. 
 
 A true priest, devoted in soul and in mind; 
 A heart full of pity, gentle and kind; 
 In his holy retreat what tears he has shed 
 O'er the sins of his people, the living and dead. 
 
 0, he loved and was loved; none was more dear; 
 No more will he labor their crushed hopes to cheer; 
 His eloquent voice forever is still; 
 The hearts of his hearers no more will he thrill. 
 
 The seholar, the patriot, the dominican pure, 
 If he dwells not in heaven, of what are we sure? 
 That holy recluse, so meek to the yoke. 
 If he is found wanting, O, where is our hope? 
 
The Death of Rev, John R. McDonald, 67 
 
 WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE LAMENTED 
 
 REV. JOHN R. MCDONALD, 
 
 Ascending angels, faster, faster, 
 Bearing on their wings our pastor. 
 Serapliinis tune their harps and sing, 
 While nearer to God his soul the}' bring. 
 
 The earnest priest fulfilled his duty; 
 Now he's robed in glorious beauty, 
 His canticles with angels blending. 
 And his joys will know no ending. 
 
 The working priest, Christ's faithful servant, 
 Humble, pious, meek and fervent — 
 Floats now in robes of dazzling whiteness, 
 Crowned with gems of starry brightness. 
 
 Happy spirits, to whom he taught 
 
 The saving faith, and heavenward brought;. 
 
 Souls he rescued and led over, 
 
 To Jesus, now, around him hover. 
 
 'Mid summer's lightning and winter's storm, 
 How oft was seen his fragile form; 
 Unmindful of the chilling rain. 
 Could he for Christ, one soul obtain. 
 
 Every kindred tie he broke; 
 Jesus was all his love and hope, 
 Wrecked in health, oppressed with care 
 Of the cross he had his share. 
 
 All the fond heart can admire, 
 
 All the soul could e'er desire ; 
 
 Forever God to him has given; 
 
 He reignes a saint in the centre of heaven. 
 
68 The Death of Rev. Father Curran. 
 
 WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE LAMENTED 
 
 REV. FATHER CURRAN, 
 
 PASTOR ST. ANDREW'S CHURCH. 
 
 Mournfully rings Saint Andrew's bell, 
 Proclaiming our own dear Pastor's knell, 
 Warning the flock, on valley, on hill, 
 Tiie voice of the shepherd forever is still. 
 
 Placid and calm-looking at rest. 
 Pleased even in death that on his breast, 
 His hands could fold, his fingers entwine. 
 The sacred chalice, the cup divine. 
 
 Priest in heart, in soul and mind ; 
 Reserved, humane, and kind ; 
 Only happy when dispensing, 
 Like his Master, every blessing. 
 
 Stern, perhaps, in outward form, 
 Bill the fearless heart vibrated warm; 
 Children ever seemed to share 
 His undivided love and care. 
 
 His life was one long day of toil, 
 For Church, for people, and for all ; 
 Loving the poor to cheer and help, 
 Never bestowing one thought on self. 
 
 His charities will never be told 
 By friend or member of his fold ; 
 Angels watching from above, 
 Only saw his deeds of love. 
 
Death of the Rev, Father Michael McAlecr. 60 
 
 WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE 
 
 REV. FATHER MICHAEL McALEER. 
 
 PASTOR OF ST. COLUMBIA'S CHURCH. 
 
 In the fullness of sorrow the good people kneel, 
 While the tones of the chanters in soft cadence steal, 
 AVhen the strains of sad music fill the poor troubled soul, 
 Oh! who is gifted with power to control. 
 
 The father they loved is gone down to the tomb; 
 Their hearts like the Church are enveloped with gloom; 
 Attached to his people by length of long years, 
 What marvel his tomb was moistened with tears. 
 
 When pestilence raged, and death at the brink 
 Of the homes of his people, O, say did he shrink 
 From his duty as priest? Ah! no, he went forth 
 Like a true valiant soldier defending the fort. 
 
 The solace of age and a guide of youth, 
 
 His mission was radiant in its harvest of truth; 
 
 Like the cedar that lives through the winter's keen blast, 
 
 In our memory his teachings and councils shall last. 
 
 The chapels he built, they flourish and stand. 
 As a beacon to many in the southern land ; 
 And the schools and societies loudly proclaim 
 The zeal of his labors, the power of his name. 
 
 Like a shepherd protecting his flock from the cold, * 
 O'er the shoulders of youth he delighted to fold 
 The banner of temperance, for he knew 'twas a pearl 
 If worn by the young, would shield them from peril. 
 
 The meetings of youth, as a rainbow in sight. 
 Filled his heart, like the shepherd, with hope and delight ; 
 And the mind of the good man was only at rest, 
 When extending his hand to the poor and oppressed. 
 
 But the harvest is come when his years, like the sheaves. 
 Are ripe unto gathering with the fall of the leaves; 
 Like the sun going down 'midst a halo of light, 
 Full of years and of merit, he's gone from our sight. 
 
TO The Death of Rev. Father Thornton, 
 
 WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE 
 
 REV. FATHERTHORNTON. 
 
 Father Thornton was an assistant pastor at St. Mary's Catholic Church ia 
 Troy, N. Y., where he performed his duties as priest faithfully and unflinch- 
 ingly. Nothing could be more refreshing than to hear him speak of God, and 
 the happiness he has prepared for those who love him; he taught the young and 
 warned the old; nearly all the youth of the parish were prepared for Holy 
 Communion and confirmation by him. He was warmly appreciated by his 
 people, who gave ample proof of their unbounded love and esteem for him, but 
 a priest must obey duty's call, and so it occured with Father Thornton. After 
 taking an affectionate leave of his people he departed for the field assigned 
 him by the Bishop, where he distinguished himself for his zeal in the salvation 
 of souls. When this good priest had done all the good he could on earth he 
 was called to receive his reward. Having requested his remains to be brought 
 to Troy the people of the city i)repared to honor them. They formed in solemn 
 procession headed by their parish priest Father Ileffenmyre and a band of 
 music to the depot where they received his mortal remains with respect and 
 honor. They laid him in state in the very church where in life he performed 
 eo much good; after being viewed by many hundreds, he was intered in Saint 
 ^Joseph's Cemetery, Troy N. Y. 
 
 In sileuce and sadness they bore bim along, 
 
 'Mid tbe prayers of tbe people, the priest's sacred song; 
 
 Uncovered beads and in grief lowly bent, 
 
 Up tbe aisle of tbe cburcb they wenl. 
 
 Advancing witb slow and solemn tread. 
 Bearing tbe reverend sainted dead ; 
 All was silent, save tbe funeral knell, 
 Tbe sullen drum and tbe mournful bell. 
 
 Expo.*ed to view, in bis vestments elad, 
 Lay all tbat remained of bim wbo bad 
 In life witbin tbose self same walls 
 Made known his sacred Saviour's laws. 
 
 Now in tbe slumber of death reposed, 
 And bis sacred mission forever closed ; 
 Yet be will never share tbe common lot 
 By tbe loving and loved to be forgot. 
 
The Death of Rev, Father Thornton. 71 
 
 The sancity his life revealed, 
 On our frail souls lies firmly sealed ; 
 And all the grief and woe displayed, 
 Is not too much for him who prayed. 
 
 So often with the dying kneeling, 
 ShowiDg for their pangs such feeling, 
 Kind heaven's mercy mild imploriDg, 
 With such looks of love adoring. 
 
 Around his couch they vigils kept; 
 All through the night prayed and wept 
 For him their tender friend and guide, 
 Who in dark hours stood by their side. 
 
 .A — ♦ < ^ » ■ ♦ — «♦( 
 
72 The Death of Rev. Father Deman; S. J. 
 
 REY. FATHER DEMAN S. J. 
 
 He stood in our midst with a soul of fire, 
 All unction and zeal, with the mighty desire 
 To lead to the Saviour the lost and forlorn, 
 So long from their Maker and happiness torn. 
 
 And he won to the Siviour the lost and depraved. 
 As he earnestly wished and he constantly prayed; 
 A smile like a sunbeam illumined his face, 
 Portraying the soul in its fullness of grace. 
 
 His lectures were simple — j'et they brought tears, 
 His sermons were forcible— rousing the fears; 
 He depicted in colors so vivid and plain, 
 The beauty of heaven— hell's torturing pain. 
 
 His eloquence shown like the sun through a shower — 
 He thundered the truth, and there was his power; 
 Like a hearld before him proceeds his great name. 
 And he merits the lustre attached to his fame. 
 
 It was joy to behold his unearthlj' delight, 
 So many advancing embracing the right; 
 He felt a foretaste of that glorious reward 
 Awaitia.o: his soul at the final record. 
 
Rev. Ambrose Ryan, the Poet Priest, 73 
 
 REV. AMBROSE RYAN, THE POET PRIEST. 
 
 Reverend Father, farewell, farewell, 
 Loug in our memory will you (iwell; 
 You ne'er can know how much we grieve, 
 Now that you are about to leave. 
 
 From early dawn of God's pure ligl.t, 
 You strive with more than mortal might 
 To bring the lost to heaven's bright shore, 
 And you speak as we never heard before. 
 
 It seemed as we stood beneath the porch 
 That a saint was preaching within the church; 
 By your preaching to heaven our minds were led, 
 And earthly thoughts from our bosoms fled. 
 
 We watched your every move and look 
 As you spoke to us from the sacred book; 
 And we thought of the mighty power above 
 That fills your soul with such wondrous love. 
 
 Your voice like the flutter of angel's wing, 
 The hardened sinner to God will bring — 
 As your silvery tones would float along 
 The aisle of St. Mary's, the music of song. 
 
 You made us smile, you made us weep ; 
 You taught us God's law to keep. 
 May heaven's protecting power defend 
 Your useful life, most reverend friend. 
 
74 Famine in our Father land. 
 
 FAMINE IN OUR FATHERLAND, 
 
 -^ 
 
 Ah ! there's tears in onr laughter, woe in our smile 
 As our thoughts wouder back to our own loved Isle, 
 Where we danced on the green, in the fullness of youth. 
 To the strains of the violin, the harp and the flute, 
 
 Little we cared or thought of the morrow ; 
 Too happ}-^ to dream or fear any sorrow, 
 We fancied our joy forever would last ; 
 
 The harp is neglected; in Tara 'tis mute; 
 Hushed are the notes of the violin and tiute; 
 Shrouded in mourning is our banner of green; 
 Its splendor and glory no longer are seen. 
 
 The flowers are not fragrant; their beauty not bright; 
 The waters have liidd( n the shamrock from sight; 
 Faintly is heard the soft hum of tlfe bees; 
 Sad is the song of the lark in the trees. 
 
 O'er the hopes of the farmer came withering blight — * 
 No rainbow, no sunshine, to warm or to light; 
 Surging up like the sea, cold billows of rain, 
 Destruction to harvest, to crops and to grain. 
 
 Mothers bewailing, like Rachel of old; 
 No hope will console for sorrows untold. 
 "Bread! give me bread! " the children's last cry, 
 Mothers sink down with their starved ones to die. 
 
 Whence is this sorrow and whence is this woe? 
 Why is poor Ireland so humble and low? 
 Is England forever her proud scepter to wield? 
 And Ireland no power to avenge or to shield? 
 
 Oh! home of our fathers, loved Erin machree, 
 Will you ever be happy? will you ever be free? 
 Shall that country for whom the brave Emmet died , 
 Ever gaze on his tombstone, emblazoned, inscribed? 
 * Owing to the flood. 
 
Famine in our Fatherland. 75 
 
 Up from each mountain, valley and dale, 
 In shrill tones are echoed the Irish sad wail ; 
 Gaunt figures are stalking, once happy and proud 
 And starvation is rapidly weaving their shroud. 
 
 But hark ! is heard a mighty voice , 
 Which tells the stricken to rejoice; 
 Outstretched to the poor of that trodden land 
 Is America's noble, generous hand. 
 
 Oh! United States, great, grand, and high. 
 May your honored flag forever fly; 
 And stripes and stars in power shine clear. 
 For friends to love and foes to fear. 
 
76 The Land of our Birth. 
 
 THE LAND OF OUR BIRTH. 
 
 ITS WRONGS AND ITS USES. 
 
 Forgive us, Ligli lieaveu, if in aDger we frowa 
 Upon the form of the stranger who has trodden us down. 
 
 —Odium. 
 
 Forget you, fail Erin, let none say we do, 
 
 For our hopes and our thoughts are forever on you; 
 
 In woe and in sorrow, in joy and in weal, 
 
 Your wrongs and your suiferings, poor Ireland, we feel. 
 
 Though the waves of the ocean roll wildly between, 
 Our hearts are not severed from our emerald green; 
 The hills aud the valleys where we rambled and played. 
 The church that in childhood we first knelt and prayed. 
 
 The stiles we climbed to reach the spring; 
 The grove where we lingered to hear the lark sing; 
 The haggarts with its stacks of corn and hay, 
 Where we hid from each other in frolic and play. 
 
 The trees we searched to rob the bird's nest. 
 Sparing naught save the eggs of the little red-breast; 
 In memory each scene is pictured so clear, 
 That often we fancy we still are near. 
 
 We remember the day when with hearts sad and sore. 
 We stood for the last time at our cabin door, 
 Consoling our mother, who hung round our neck, 
 Whose heart from that hour was merely a wreck. 
 
 In our own little cabins built by our sires. 
 The hearth brightened up by the cheerful turf fires; 
 With song and with story we passed the gay night, 
 And arose with the lark at dawn of light. 
 
 Then away to the fields so blithesome to stray, 
 Aud gather the mushrooms that grew by the way; 
 On passed our childhood, and then came our youth. 
 We labored and toiled, but reaped little fruit. 
 
The Land of our Birth. 77 
 
 Oh! ye landlords so ruthless, in our homes we could dwell, 
 But to keep you in splendoi- our produce we must sell 
 The gains of our labor by you must be spent ; 
 Yet why should we murmur, without chains be content. 
 
 No reward for improvements, industry, or toil, 
 Indignant, discouraged, we depart from the soil; 
 We are driven from the laud our forefathers tilled. 
 And our homes and our thresholds with strangers are filled, 
 
 On the graves of our fathers the stranger will trod. 
 His dark footsteps will wither the green on our sod; 
 No cowslip, no daisy, will grow where he'll tread; 
 To him is not sacred the tombs of our dead ! 
 
 Oh ! why should we suffer so long and so deep ; 
 We are warriors, not children, and why should we sleep; 
 Let us cast off our shackles, like men let us stand, 
 And , if need be , die for our own native land. 
 
 Let the lovers of Ireland the Land League uphold. 
 And no man so base as to be bought or sold ; 
 Cling proudly to Parnell, so dauntless and wise. 
 For through him the bright sun of freedem shall rise. 
 
78 Erin's Brave Son. 
 
 ERIN'S BRAVE SON 
 
 The black flag met the rising sun; 
 Watchers saw the deed was done; 
 No occasion for Binns' to wear a mask, 
 Twas fun for him, and a pleasing task. 
 
 Justice, like friendship, pretends the same- 
 Crimes are committed in botli their name; 
 On the sword of justice lies many a stain, 
 And forever those blood-marks will remain. 
 
 Fresh blood-stains on the sword's broad face, 
 Which no hand of time can e'er efface — 
 All Ireland's friends who seek her right. 
 Become victims to that sword's great might. 
 
 To death that sword lias never gave 
 
 A man more gallant or more brave; 
 
 Like Emmet, the gallows brought no shame, 
 
 Only honor to the martyr's name. 
 
 When O'Donnell spoke to traitor Carey, 
 'Twas to wile away the hours dreary: 
 And when he with the traitor drank, 
 Knew not aught of Carey's rank. 
 
 But when he saw before him stood 
 The informer, upon whose head was blood — 
 Blood of the youth that he ensnared, 
 And, Judas-like, for gold betrayed; 
 
 The soldier could not brook one hour, 
 And the viper Carey, surnamed power. 
 Full to the brim with rum and spite, 
 Boldly opened the fatal fight. 
 
Erin's Brave Son. 79 
 
 One arm was all the soldier had — 
 The informer knew it and was glad; 
 But no blood was on that head or hand: 
 It brought no shame on his native land. 
 
 They fought, and the traitor ignobly fell; 
 The blood of his victims his dying knell; 
 His own life the soldier knew was gone — 
 He felt that England would judge him wrong. 
 
 He placed no value on life or fame, 
 
 And cared not for censure, praise, or blame; 
 
 The traitor raised his guilty hand, 
 
 And valor swept him off the laud. 
 
80 John L. Sullivan. 
 
 JOHN L. SULLIVAN. 
 
 CHAMPION OF THE WORLD. 
 
 From East and West, from parts unknown, 
 They came to wrest his wreatli, long worn; 
 Great men of science, strengtii and feat. 
 Could not pluck one laurel from his wreath. 
 
 Like America's noble champion great, 
 He seeks no battle through pride or hate; 
 A wide world champion, but no idle boast, 
 And the great are proud to drink his toast. 
 
 He fought many who in the art was trained, 
 And his victories friends and foes proclaimed : 
 The ring is like the lion's den — 
 None dared beard him there or then. 
 
 His many friends he'll not delay : 
 To him the conflict is only play ; 
 When they suppose it's but begun — 
 The battle's ceased, the champion's won. 
 
 If by single combat he could obtain 
 Ireland's freedom how soon he'd gain — 
 One blow with his Sampson hand. 
 And triumph would bless that trodden land. 
 
Rt. Hon, Chas. W. F. Bury, 81 
 
 WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE LAMENTED 
 
 RT. HON, CHAS. W. R BURY, 
 
 EARL OF CHARLVILLE. 
 
 Great the grief that day in town — 
 Each heart in sorrow sefmed bowed down; 
 On every brow a look of pain: 
 On every face a tearful stain. 
 
 Every soul with grief was filled : 
 Sorrow every heart has chilled; 
 To and fro the crowds went by — 
 Each echoed back the others sigh. 
 
 The little children stood amazed — 
 In awe and wonder silent gazed ; 
 To their father's knee they closely crept, 
 And cried because that others wept. 
 
 Ah! it was no mockery of woe — 
 Keenly each one felt the blow; 
 So young, and O, so void of pride: 
 Alas! from life so soon to glide. 
 
 Noble minds, they can't control 
 The great grand yearnings of the soul, 
 As they draw near the close of life, 
 Their fond desire becomes more ripe. 
 
 Moses never reached the land 
 Promised, although close at hand; 
 For deeds of merit the Earl sighed — 
 He came to power, and then he died. 
 
 On mighty record might have stood, 
 Noble acts of worth and good ; 
 His future so much promise gave: 
 But, alas I o'er all has closed — the grave. 
 
 Oh! it is sad to know and think 
 
 That e'en in life with death we link; 
 
 And the hopeless struggle maintained each day, 
 
 To keep the worms from their prey. 
 
Rt. Hon. Chas. W. F. Bury. 
 
 In all the beauty of manhood's prime, 
 The young Earl sought a foreign clime: 
 To seek a prize not bought by wealth, 
 That priceless gift, the boon of health. 
 
 But all in vain, death's icy chill 
 Stole o'er the youth, and soon was still 
 A kindl}^ heart that loved to shade 
 And foster all who sought its aid. 
 
 If the parting of the soul from earth 
 Took place in the laud that gave him birth, 
 With kindred friends in the hour of death, 
 To kneel and watch the parting breath. 
 
 But one loving heart and hand was near 
 To whisper hope and quell the fear 
 Of the quivering soul about to fleet. 
 And stand before the judgment seat. 
 
 Swift as the wings of the eagle spread, 
 Came flying the tidings — he is dead; 
 A wail rose up in C' t and glen — 
 A wail that's heard to-duy, as then. 
 
 Stricken with grief the Countess sought 
 The shore of Columbia, and homeward brought 
 The poor dead j'outh, in his shroud of serge. 
 While the murmuring sea sung his funeral dirge. 
 
 Oh! what anguish rent the heart 
 Of the Countess, who acted a mother's pait 
 The child, for whom her anxious praj-er 
 Was all through life for God to care. 
 
 Now snatched away in youthful bloom, 
 Shut up in the dark, cold, silent tomb, 
 Just as he came to man's estate. 
 Accomplished, humble, yet still great. 
 
 Oh! there is grief too sacred for public view — 
 We draw the veil o'er the last adieu; 
 The heart cf the world is cold and deep. 
 But respect is due to the mourner's grief. 
 
 Let us rejoice that still the same 
 
 Affection lives for the honored name 
 
 Of Bury. May the heiress long enjo}' her claim, 
 
 And the Countess, beloved, her earned fame. 
 
The Death of Robert Gunning. 83 
 
 WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE LAMENTED 
 
 ^!^- 
 
 LATE OF CHARLEVILLE ESTATE TULLaMOER, 
 COUNTY KINGS, IRELAND. 
 
 Lone widows are wailing, poor orphans complaining, 
 
 Their young hearts are breaking, for death has o'ertaken 
 
 The only friend left, and they're truly bereft; 
 
 They know to their sorrow the friend of the morrow 
 
 Is gone down to the dust, and for raiment and crust 
 
 They may plead for in vain, and if they obtain 
 
 It will be with a sneer, and a mock at the tear ; 
 
 They may sing their sad ditty, but they'll miss his soft pity. 
 
 He sought not their creed before he relieved : 
 For the poor that was crushed his sympathy gushed ; 
 He cared not for might when conscious of right — 
 His dealings were just, in his word there was trust; 
 But now he's departed, and he's left broken-hearted 
 The poor that he cheered, whose praj^ers he revered. 
 Ah ! he'll dry no more eyes, he'll hear no more sighs — 
 He's gone down to the grave, in vain they may crave. 
 
 No tongue can express the grief and distress, 
 
 The anguish and fears, of those who for years 
 
 Lived in happy content, in peace paid their rent. 
 
 His sway was so mild, he won father and child ; 
 
 Yet they feared, for they knew to his post he was true. 
 
 He endured from the vicious, but sought their good wishes; 
 
 He spoke a kind word, their better nature was stirred ; 
 
 They came to his feet, he went forth to meet. 
 
84 The Death of Robert Gunning. 
 
 He gave them his hand, they went back to their land, 
 Worked with good will till barn and sill 
 Were stored with the fruit they gathered like Ruth. 
 Foes became friends, and made ample amends; 
 Search might be made, but the peace that prevailed 
 Can never be told; but the heart which is clay 
 Exulted in glee such contentment to see; 
 Though he held fast the rein, he never gave pain. 
 
 Oh! had he been sick, his death not so quick, 
 The shock would be less, fond friends could caress, 
 Would soothe and assuage, till closed the last page ; 
 But death gave no token, his farewell was unspoken. 
 He's gone down to the tomb, and enveloped in gloom 
 The home he embellished, the friends whom he cherished) 
 But there's a blank in the life of daughters and wife, 
 For who can control, or attempt to console 
 
 Such terrible grief, so poignant and deep. 
 
 Oh! may he inherit and receive the full merit 
 
 Of the good he extended to the poor and unfriended ; 
 
 He's gone down to the dust, may he reign with the just. 
 
 
 
Death of the Hon. John Morrisey, 85 
 
 WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE LAMENTED 
 
 ■HON. JOHN MORRISEY. 
 
 3^ 
 
 Oh ! he is dead. Oh ! is he gone — 
 The friend we loved so well and long? 
 Has cruel death forever grasped 
 The hand we oft in friendship clasped? 
 
 That generous heart, so brave, so strong, 
 Which wept o'er deeds of wayward wrong. 
 And sought to blot from memory's page 
 The thoughtless follies of early ago. 
 
 Oh! ye who would a shade o'ercast. 
 Glance o'er the years of thine own past: 
 And ere you hold his faults to view, 
 Draw forth to light thine errors too. 
 
 No reproach can blast his fame; 
 His friends are legion, and his name 
 Is sacred held, as something near — 
 To every heart, as something dear. 
 
 In all his freaks, both wild and bold. 
 Can he be charged with having sold 
 Honor, principle, or faith, 
 For any prize, from friend or state. 
 
 The world's smiles he never souglit — 
 Its friendship he has never bought; 
 He heeded not its praise or blame: 
 Frowns and smiles were all the same. 
 
 For all that man could give or take, 
 He would not principle forsake ; 
 He would not an apostate bend. 
 To win a monarch for his friend, 
 
Death of the Hon. John Morrisey. 
 
 His noble heart could never hold 
 Or treasure up his hard-won gold ; 
 With him it was a holy pride 
 To bring the poor man to his side. 
 
 He never sought their clime or creed, 
 But freely gave where there was need ; 
 The widow, or the orphan child, 
 In vain to him has never cried. 
 
 And those orphans' prayers and widows' sighs 
 Went up like incense to the skies; 
 Drew down such blessings from above. 
 As filled his soul with hope and love. 
 
 The faithful wife that formed his pride, 
 Like a beacon was ever by his side; 
 In all his anguish she was nigh. 
 To wipe the tear and soothe the sigh. 
 
 Oh ! the twofold grief of the childless wife — 
 Her swollen heart must weary of life; 
 lu the depth of the grave sleeps her only son, 
 Cut down ere the years of his life begun. 
 
 Grand the requiem that was sung: 
 Prayers went up from every tongue ; 
 Oh! may he now, with golden wing. 
 Forever with the angels sing. 
 
Centennial. 87 
 
 One hundred years are dead and buried 
 Since the republic in its cradle lay; 
 
 O'er troubled waters has she been ferried, 
 Since ushered in her natal day. 
 
 But now in giant strength she stands, 
 And proudly spreads her eagle wing; 
 
 From tyrant rule she cleared the land. 
 And now in peace her trophy sing. 
 
 Armed only with their zeal and gun, 
 Her gallant sons have nobly fought; 
 
 Their glorious victory freedom won, 
 And liberty their blood has bought. 
 
 O, great republic, thy mighty spread 
 From South to North, from gulf to lake— 
 
 Thy enemies are filled with dread. 
 Lest from their realm thy power take. 
 
 One hundred years is all thy rage, 
 Yet nations have thy power felt; 
 
 In arts and science thou art sage, 
 And virtue's aided by thy wealth. 
 
 May union bind both firm and long 
 A land that God with gifts has blest; 
 
 May North and South in love grow strong, 
 And ne'er again their peace molest. 
 
 May each centennial year roll by, 
 And find thy loyal sons still true; 
 
 In triumph may thy banner fly, 
 Unfading in red, white and blue. 
 
88 The Marriage of Prof. George Zincke. 
 
 OF PROF GEORGE ZINCKE OF NEW YORK, TO MISS ANNIE ^ 
 BRENNAN OF TROY. 
 
 St. Mary's bell rings loud and clear, 
 The bridal party's drawing near : 
 Within the church a mellow light — 
 Neither of day nor still of night; 
 
 But like the pensive, placid moon, 
 While soaring in her summer noon, 
 The church seemed like a garden bower — 
 The gentle bride the fairest flower. 
 
 The virgin's statue stood ablaze, 
 Her altar all a flowery maze; 
 The priests in sacred garments wait, 
 With all around intense and great. 
 
 Invited friends and strangers too 
 Advanced, the solemn rites to view, 
 A comel}' youthful band are seen 
 To usher in the bridal queen, 
 
 feo sweetly modest, and 0, so pale- 
 Like some pure lily of the vale; 
 Then issues music's grandest peals. 
 And the fair bride in meekness kneels. 
 
 The sainted pastor turns to pray, 
 All bending down to hear him say: 
 "Wilt thou protect and guard through life 
 The maid thou seek'st to be thy wife?" 
 
 O'er the brides face a mantel glows — 
 A blush like that of the beauteous rose; 
 The bridegroom in his manly pride, 
 Draws closer to his fair young bride. 
 
 Both the marriage vow declare — 
 The priest pronounce the nuptial prayer; 
 Two loving hearts are thus made one 
 Until the heavenly goal is won. 
 
 Then does the espousal mass begin. 
 
 And heavenward pra^-ers their passage wing; 
 
 And every voice is heard to say : 
 
 "God's blessing on the wedding day,'' 
 
The Tragedy of Josie Langmaid. 89 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF 
 
 The foUowin^^ poem was composed upon the occasion of the tragic death 
 of Josie Langmaid, a yoa- g anl love'y girl who resided A^ith her parents in Con- 
 cord, New Hampshire. Trie school Josie was attending was situated some dis- 
 tance from home, and was reached by a path wLlch led through the woods. 
 She was highly accomplished, and her beauty was rare. One bright morning 
 Josie started for school as u^ual, little dreaming of the terrible fate which 
 awaited her. The raurdeier stood concealed behind a large tree, and jumped 
 upon his victim with the ferocity of a fiend. The scholars wondered what 
 could have detained their playmate, as she rarely absented herself from school. 
 Meanwhile the parents of the girl were in a frenzy of grief, and the wildest ex- 
 citement prevailed everywhere. Du.'cript-ons of the missing girl were sent to 
 all the surrounding cities; detectives wtre put on the case, and no stone was 
 left unturned to discover the cause of her disappearance. It was the common 
 belief that the girl was murdered by some ruffian, who secreted the body some- 
 where iu the woods. This theory proved correct. A party of men suddenly 
 found the object of their search. The body was horribly mani^led and dis- 
 membered, and her head was wrapped up in her cloak. It is exulting to know 
 in this instance at least that the wretch who committed the fiendish crime was 
 c 11 turcd, tried ard Lurg 
 
 Oh! bring thy help, inspiring muse, 
 And into this worn soul infuse 
 Thy softest pathos, that I may tell 
 What truth and iunocence befel — 
 For I have seen through space of time 
 Full many a deep excess of crime. 
 
 But never in the course of fate, 
 
 So sad as what I now must state; 
 
 A fair, sweet maid in youthful prime. 
 
 Doomed by the wicked hand of crime — 
 
 Just as her years began to bloom. 
 
 Consigned by murder to the tomb. 
 
 The school at early dawn she sought, 
 U!ic:>aS'3io us that each step was fraught 
 With danger to her fair young life. 
 Or that even then the glittering knife 
 Lay in the murderer's breast conceakid, 
 Soon to drip her blood congealed. 
 
00 The Tragedy of Josie Langmaid. 
 
 What language could thus portray 
 The horror of that dread alTray ; 
 The maideu struggling all alone 
 For life and fame, until had flown, 
 Like the rush of waters, her life's blood, 
 And martyred sunk in the crimson flood. 
 
 Oh! what a demon must have throbbed 
 In the villian's heart, who thus had robbi'd 
 Of life, a maid whose d^iys serene, 
 Flowed on like sununei's placid stream; 
 A maid whom all iiad learned to love — 
 Whose heart was gentle as the dove. 
 
 Long, long the demon throbb( d within 
 A wretch who fared on blood and sin ; 
 Who could destroy and blight the flower 
 Just blooming from iis natal bower; 
 The joyful pride of the parent stem — 
 Of all its flowers the brightest gem. 
 
 TTJL^LAMOER. 
 
 -.- ^1^ -^ 
 
 Tallamore, the native town of the authoress, is a quaint and picturesque 
 little town, and contains many handsome buildinp?, of which the Protestant 
 Church, on Hop Hill, and the Catholic Church are the most iirominent. The 
 Catholic Church is a noble structure, and the Protestant Church, being built 
 upon an eminence, affords a masniticent view of all the surrounding country. 
 Beneath the church are vaults which contain the ashes of numerous Earls and 
 Countesses of Charlcville. The Court House and j iil are large and commo- 
 dious. The private houses of the gentry are bu'it of stone, while the rooms 
 are lofty; only one family reside in each house. There arc a great number of 
 stores under the management of wealthy shopkeepers, such us Goodbody and 
 Eagan. The inhabitants are ihritty and assiduous. Every month fairs are 
 held, which continue tor two days, one day being for cattle and the other for 
 farming produce, and every Tuesday is a market day. Along the roads lead- 
 ing to the market may be seen donkey-horses, all loaded with wheat, oats, bar- 
 ley and poultry of every description. Lively scenes occur on those days, made 
 more so by the presence of the farmers' daughters, some of whom are singu- 
 larly beautiful. The excitement of buying and selling, the loud voices of the 
 men, the laughing of the young people— then suddenly and simultaneously is 
 heard a distant bell; this bell produces an entirely different effect than a 
 stranger would imagine. Instantly- every head is uncovered, hands are folded; 
 for both the buyer and the seller know "it is the bell of the Angeles Domine, 
 and that beautiful salutation is silently recited. When the bell ceases busi- 
 ness is resumed, and the apparent happiness that prevails would strike the 
 stranger as something singular, when so much misery is claimed to exist there. 
 It should be remembered that the Irish are a very bright and joyous people, 
 and when brought together at markets and fairs, or other places, they seem to 
 
Tullamoer. 91 
 
 forget their misery and sorrow. They laugh and joke, it is true, but behind 
 all this reflection reigns supreme. In the evening they return home, cipher 
 out the proceeds of the day, and find that, notwithstanding all they sold, they 
 have not enough to pay the agent, so all their labor and produce goes to sup- 
 port the titled lords, who demand exorbitant rents. When one peers into the 
 little cabin he can scarcely imagine the singular position of things; he can 
 hardly imagine that this is the family who plunged into such hilarity at the 
 fair. The son and the daughter, seeing the impossibility of their poor father 
 making all ends meet, resolve to migrate to the States or Australia. They an- 
 nounce their intention as cheerfully as their breaking hearts will permit. Oh! 
 it is this announcement that throws their gray-haired mother and wrecked 
 father into grief inconsolable. After many lamentations they depart. Their 
 aged parents are aware that it is the only alternative. Oh! ye land wretches of 
 Ireland, how many hearts have you broken? how many parental ties have you 
 severed? how many hearthstones have you made desolate? how many mothers 
 have you abandoned tc die in their cabins? and where are the daughters that 
 would smooth the dying pillow? Ah! you drove them away, far away among 
 strangers. Oh! think of the families you dispossessed from the homes of their 
 ancestors, and the sires and matrons you have consigned to premature graves. 
 
 Tullamoer, my native town, 
 I love thee still— I cannot frown* 
 If others do upon the ptace — 
 The home of my ancestral race. 
 
 I cannot hide the falling tear. 
 As memory brings the scenes so dear 
 Where happy childhood's years rolled by 
 Without a tear, without a sigh. 
 
 There's not a shrub, a hill or dale, 
 A street a garden, mount or vale — 
 There's not a river, stream or rill 
 But rests unchanged in memory still. 
 
 As bush and rose, and tree and flower, 
 Eawrap me with enchanting power; 
 The road that leads to the hop hill. 
 Where oft strayed when all was still. 
 
 At eve, to gaze upon a scene. 
 So truly grand that once when seen, 
 From memory ne'er shall pass away — 
 Unfaded till life's latest day. 
 
 A tower above the chapel looms. 
 And down beneath are vaulted tombs, 
 Where lords and earls of Charville's race, 
 Long, long, have found their resting place. 
 
D2 Tullamoer. 
 
 The wild lone woods, they called Glenuad, 
 Where roamed at will lord Egau mad — 
 Who styled himself that titled name — 
 For no one knew from whence he came. 
 
 And the beautiful bridge of Muckle, too, 
 With its water pure as mountain dew; 
 And the waving groves beside the well, 
 Where Saint O'Harra left his spell. 
 
 The Charville road, whereon I strayed, 
 And gathered cowslips 'neath the shade; 
 The grand old woods, so wild and bleak, 
 And the settled calmness of the lake. 
 
 The thrush, the robin and the lark, 
 Whose notes resound through grove and park; 
 The linnet's song — so soft, so clear — 
 My fancy letitls me still to hear. 
 
 My father's house, within the square. 
 Where passed my youth without a care; 
 The church where first I learned to say — 
 "My God, O teach me how to pray." 
 
 All, all, before my mind I keep: 
 And is it strange that I should weep 
 For those who trained my tender years. 
 And shared my childish hopes and fears? 
 
 Oh ! how I yearn again to see 
 All that is left of friends to me; 
 And leave awhile this foreign shore, 
 For one fond glance of Tullamoer. 
 
 -le- 
 
 
 •^l^ 
 
 7^ 
 
The Laundry Girls. 93 
 
 THE LAUNDRY GIRLS. 
 
 (S-^2 .^, ►B^ 
 
 Ah! many a young and lovely girl, 
 Arrayed in humble, plain apparel, 
 Beside the laundry table stands, 
 With faultless though distended hands. 
 
 Toiling, toiling all day long, 
 Cheering their labors with merry song; 
 They have charms in their lowly dress 
 Which haughty dame can ne'er possess. 
 
 Some are blonde, with beautiful eye, 
 Blue as the vault of the azure sky ; 
 Others of a soft black hue. 
 Liquid and bright as the pearly dew. 
 
 Had fate cast their lot in a wealthier sphere. 
 Their grace would embellish the home of a peer; 
 With art never needed their charms to reveal— 
 No beauty so touching as that which is real. 
 
 Their s is a life of labor and toil— 
 They meet it undaunted and never recoil ; 
 Still firm in their task, like soldiers at arms, 
 Their patient endurance enhances their charms. 
 
 Oh! say, ye emplo3^ers, so hauty and stern. 
 Through arrogant pride you can never discern 
 How honest, how upright are those you employ- 
 Such blessings of conscience you seldom enjoy. 
 
 Why in your pride do you think you're superior, 
 And fancy the maidens so much your inferior? 
 You depend on their labor, not your own will, 
 For the wealth you possess— the position you fill 
 
 And they in their turn are indebted to you. 
 So let one to the other be thankful and true; 
 The employed and employers must mutually de- 
 pend, 
 And both are advanced by the title of friend. 
 
94 On the Irish Girls in America. 
 
 ON THE IRISH GIRLS IN AMERICA. 
 
 Oh! do not think because they left 
 Their native home, that the're bereft 
 Of feeling, sentiment or taste, 
 Or that their heart is a barren waste, — 
 
 Devoid of virtue, grace and sense. 
 No; in their soul, deep down — intense — 
 Is love of virtue and of creed ; 
 Alas! that it should be decreed 
 
 By destiny or fortune's freak. 
 That Erin's daughters must e'er seek 
 A home upon the strangers' soil, 
 And doomed to never-ending toil. 
 
 Yet no one sorrows for their doom, 
 The blight that's cast upon their bloom : 
 No sympathy to them is given, 
 Though far from all they cherished driven. 
 
 And doomed affection's chain to break, 
 All they loved on earth forsake — 
 O'er the boundless sea to roam, 
 To Qnd at length a dubious home. 
 
 In quest of that so long denied. 
 
 For centuries has Erin sighed 
 
 For liberty, and no respond ; 
 
 What marvel then they should despond? 
 
 And seek, like weary doves, to rest 
 Where freedom has her banner blest ; 
 . Hoist out in colors free and bold, 
 Protecting all within its fold. 
 
 Yet the Irish heart will never yield 
 Its love for home, though grand thy shield, 
 United States— they crave for more- 
 Crave for their banished, native shore. 
 
On the Death of Miss Bridget Mac Gratlt. 95 
 
 To other lands they may repair, 
 But Ireland shares their love and prayer; 
 Still weeping, cruel bondage taints 
 Their own beloved Isle of Saints. 
 
 Is matters not what land is trod, 
 They'll bring their faith and trust in God; 
 They care not what they lose or gain, 
 Their faith in Christ they'll still maintain. 
 
 WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF 
 
 MISS BRIDGET MAC GRATH, 
 
 Arrayed for the grave like a bride for the groom. 
 Beloved and lamented, she was borue to the tomb. 
 Stricken down like a bud in life's cairly spring, 
 Ere the flower to the blossom fresh beauties could bring. 
 
 How sad to reflect the loved must away, 
 The tenderly cared for are the first to decay; 
 Our love and our sorrow alas have no power. 
 To shield or to save in the last fatal hour. 
 
 Oh I the anguish of watching the last parting breath, 
 Of the dear and the loved one now sleeping in death; 
 While so soon the cold grave will close o'er a form. 
 In whose bosom once beat a heart true and warm. 
 
 Sad grief of the mother who watched from her birth. 
 When the pale wasted form was comnjitted to earth! 
 With lily in hand and a crown for the brow, 
 That's adornt'd, it is hoped, with a brighter one now. 
 
 A cross made of flowers lay on her pure breast, 
 Let us hope with the blessed this day she is at rest; 
 May the crown and the lily, the cross and the vine, 
 Be exchanged by the angels for ones more divine. 
 
06 The Rose. Etc. 
 
 THE K.OSE. 
 
 Reflecting back tlie moon's bright beam 
 Is yonder placid little stream, 
 And close beside in sweet repose, 
 1 found this little beauteous rose. 
 
 Other flowers too were there, 
 
 Just as lovely and as fair; 
 
 Yet this sweet rose wore a modest look, 
 
 Beside the gentle runuing l)rook. 
 
 THE DYING GIRL-i849. 
 
 -7- — -E3- — -^ . 
 
 Lay me beside my mother,* 
 
 Pillow me on her breast, 
 That she who oft hath sheltered me, 
 
 May once more shield my rest. 
 I would not die away from home. 
 
 And have a stranger's hand 
 To make my grave, my last sad couch. 
 
 In a distant unloved land. 
 
 Lay me beside my mother. 
 
 In her cold and silent tomb, 
 And let the flowers I planted there 
 
 Above me wave their bloom. 
 Their chalices of sparkling dew 
 
 Shall consecrate the spot. 
 Where she is resting silently 
 
 Who soon must be forgot. 
 
 Lay me beside my mother, 
 
 Together we have known 
 The lovely structure hope had reared. 
 
 Too sadl}' overthroAvn. 
 Together we have bent in grief, 
 
 Together both did wefepT 
 Lay me beside my mothtr, then, 
 
 'J'ogether let us sleep. 
 
Suunyside Disaster. 97 
 
 SUNNYSIDE DISASTER 
 
 The steamer Sunnyside was one of the regular boats plying between New 
 York and Troy. Late in the Fall of 1875 she left Troy for New York. It was 
 to have been her last trip for the season, but fate decreed that It should be the 
 last trip she would ever make. The night was intensely dark, and down the 
 river came floating huge cakes of ice, which finally knocked a large hole in the 
 vessel . Strange to say, there was not that presence of mind among the crew 
 there ought to have been. They endeavored to keep out the water by closing 
 the aperture with a blanket. Of course such futile efforts proved unavailing. 
 The night was bitter cold. The colored stewardess, together with a number of 
 other colored stewards, perished . One poor old lady was ultimately frozen to 
 death. Mismanagement and carelessness is, alas, of too frequent occurrence. 
 Many are hurried into untimely graves whose death was violent, and whose 
 sufferings were agonizing to behold, by the sheer negligence and recklessness 
 of railroad oflacials and their employees. Among the victims of this fatal dis- 
 aster was an Irish girl named Bridget Donohue, who worked in a laundry kept 
 by a Mrs. Mac in Third street. Troy, New York. There seemed to have been 
 some fatality attending the fate of this poor-girl. She was in the midst of her 
 work when an acquaintance informed her that the Sunnyside would that night 
 make the final trip of the season. Now, Bridget wanted to go to New York, for 
 that was her home during the winter months, and being a poor girl, she could 
 not afford to go by any other route. Conversing with the writer one day, who 
 knew her well, she alluded in tender strains to her mother and the happy scenes 
 of her childhood, where all had been hope and joy. 
 
 On the midnight air are bells, 
 Fiercely ringing, which clearly tells, 
 Sorrow on the river dark, 
 Calamity to some frail barque. 
 
 Hark, the bells are drowned by cries, 
 Prayers from some ascend the skies ; 
 Others rushing to and fro, 
 Wildly screaming as they go. 
 
 Help! O pitying heaven, send! 
 Prayers and tears together blend; 
 Ah! wicked hearts by death are cowed, 
 Knees are bent and heads are bowed 
 
 In prayer, that never prayed before. 
 And if saved, would pray uo more; 
 For Satan reigns in those our days, 
 He's called a fool, the man who prays. 
 
 Oh! human skill how vain and light. 
 As you appeared to them that night ; • 
 Who deemed the Sunnyside could sway 
 Gigantic through the ice bound spray. 
 
98 Sunny side Disaster. 
 
 Wbat horror must their souls have seized 
 When conviction told them their doom was sealed? 
 That their favorite steamer no more would float, 
 No power of man could save the boat. 
 
 But who is she that stands alone, 
 And never utters sigh or moan ; 
 Despair had dried the last wild tear. 
 She seemed to neither hope nor fear. 
 
 Yet though she seemed so fixed and mute. 
 Her thoughts were busy as scenes of youth — 
 Of home and its endearing ties. 
 Rose like a vision before her eyes. 
 
 One thought swiftly chased the other; 
 Her parting with her tender mother, 
 To seek a home beyond the wave, 
 And only find a watery grave. 
 
 Thus that Bridget who felt no shame, 
 Because she bore that Irish name, 
 Went back in thoughts sublime and grand, - 
 To the loving and loved in her native land. 
 
 TO MRS. KELLEY. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF CAPT, JAS. K , SOUTH BOSTON. 
 
 I cannot, I know, dear friend declare. 
 The grief, the sorrow, and despair, 
 That o'er thee like a torrent rushed, 
 All hope and joy forever ciushed. 
 
 Thy lightness of heart forever was fled, 
 When you stood by the side of his dying bed ; 
 And knew that death with its sable wing, 
 For months was hovering, waiting for him. 
 
 Six children stood round thee, and one so youngs 
 No word fell yet from her infant tongue; 
 Three unconscious of woe in their childish play. 
 As their tender father was borne away. 
 
To Mrs. Kelley. 9D 
 
 Ah! neither fortune, length of time, 
 Prosperity, nor change of clime, . ; 
 
 Can in thy heart his memory shade, 
 Or heal the grief his death has made. 
 
 Thy social life was one bright dream, 
 Of happiness that knew no beam; 
 But across thy dream a shade appeared, 
 And all thy future life hath seared. 
 
 As father had he been less true, 
 As husband not so fond of you. 
 Less keen perchance thy bitter loss. 
 More bearable thy heavy cross. 
 
 Yet do not mourn as one who hath 
 No hope, for heaven still gilds thy path; 
 Bright morning with its rosy light 
 Shall crown the long and stormy night. 
 
 And what if death, so dread, so grim, 
 Had come on the wings of a storm for him, 
 Far, far away, on the raging billow. 
 And the friendless waves his dying pillow. 
 
 Ah ! then twofold thy grief indeed, 
 Hope in vain your thoughts might strive to lead 
 Away, yet ever before your mind would sail 
 The doomed ship in the midnight gale. 
 
 THE LITTLE SISTERS OF THE POOR. 
 
 ■ They lay on their shoulders a hard heavy task; 
 To a sensitive nature 'tis galling to ask 
 The wealthy to give from their riches a share. 
 To the needy the Sisters have under their care. 
 
 They come to the door with a sweet, gentle look. 
 You can read from their faces as if from a book, 
 The painful condition of the aged infirm. 
 And need no recital the truth to confirm. 
 
100 The Eiver Mystery. 
 
 Then give to the Sisters, O jo\i who hav e means. 
 Encourage and cheer in their labor and pain«; 
 Kind wishes and prayers they'll bestow in return — 
 Rest assured 'tis not wise their petitions to scorn. 
 
 Remember, you pompous, so proud of your purser 
 That riches are often productive of curses; 
 Forget not that death, with its merciless sickle, 
 Is equal to fortune, capricious and fickle. 
 
 THE RIVER MYSTERY. 
 ■ <> "^-^ — f>— 
 
 She arose in the morning a bright happy maid : 
 Beneath the cold waters at midnight was laid. 
 How she came thither, or how it was wrought. 
 No one can tell, and yet it is thought 
 
 Some hidden sorrow, some hidden care, 
 Spread o'er her soul the dark cloud of despair — 
 Preyed on her mind 'till reason had fled, 
 And hence to the river insanity led. 
 
 Ah! little they know who speak in that way 
 The worth of the heart that is mouldering to clay! 
 Or little they deem that soul and the shrine 
 Were both alike free from the shadow of crime! 
 
 No sting of conscience had she to endure, 
 
 Her innocent heart was guileless and pure; 
 
 The world had no charm her soul to decoy, 
 
 What cause had she then her young life to destroy? 
 
 She had but one love — she had but one smile, 
 For the home of her youth — for her own sunny Isle : 
 She had but one hope, and that was to be 
 Again with her mother far over the sea. 
 
 For this she had toiled, her hard earnings to save. 
 And it all went to purchase a dark bloody grave. 
 Ah! her poor anxious mother by this time is told 
 The face of her child she will never behold. 
 
Newfield. 101 
 
 NEWFIELD, 
 
 Gloucester County, N. J. 
 
 -r- :E3* -^ 
 
 Who lives and knows not Newfield's fatfie? 
 
 There's magic in the very name ! 
 
 Hung down with numerous vines and bowers^ 
 
 Luscious fruits and fragrant flowers. 
 
 Its verdant plains and fruitful soil, 
 
 With plenty crown the tillers' toil, 
 
 And vegetables rich and rare 
 
 Reward the thrifty farmers' care. 
 
 When brought to market, quickly sold. 
 
 With profits sure and full tenfold. 
 
 How many men of city life. 
 
 Disgusted with its cares and strife, 
 
 Sick of the noisy, bustling street, 
 
 Here find a happy, still retreat? 
 
 And now the heart is gay and glad 
 
 That heretofore was sick and sad ; 
 
 Remote contentment now their lot 
 
 Within that ever beauteous spot. 
 
 Not long ago wood and sky 
 
 Were all that met the gazer's eye— 
 
 A gloomy solitude and wild, 
 
 Wilderness on every side; 
 
 But now the inhabitant can see 
 
 His happy homestead on the lea, 
 
 A healthy spot, with air so pure, 
 
 The sick man conries and finds his cure. 
 
 But I forgot, one fact to mention, 
 
 Which should indeed demand attention ; 
 
 No license there for whiskey shops — 
 
 Although there's fields of rye and hops; 
 
 A man of energy and strength 
 
 With little means might be content. 
 
102 3{ary Forgathy. 
 
 MARY FOGARTHY 
 
 The following poem was written upon the occasion of the tragic death of. 
 a young and interesting girl named Mary Fogarthy,.and worked as a domestic . 
 in the family of a Mr. Robinson, who resided in Second street, Troy, N. Y. 
 Mary always complained of the fate that drove her from her native land, and 
 frequently expressed a wish to depart thereto. The girl was virtuous, and 
 affectionately esteemed by all who knew her. She remained in the employ of 
 Mr. Robinson until a neat bank account had been secured, and then made prep- 
 aration to leave America and spend the remainder of her days with her mother. 
 But, alas! fate had decreed that tbe poor girl should see the green shores of 
 her native land no more, and she suddenly disappeared. Her .disappearance 
 caused much anxiety among her friends, for she had neglected to take leave of 
 them, and they were convinced that unless some evil had befallen her she would 
 have done so. The excitement was, therefore, intense when, eleven days atter- 
 ward, her lifeless body was found floating in the Hudson River. Many theories 
 were advanced as to the cause which led to her death. Some were of the opin- 
 ion that she had ample cause to destroy her life; but these suppositions and 
 many others were proven false. The friends of the dead girl gave her honor- 
 -able burial. 
 
 Forgotten, forgotten, the poor helpless maid, 
 Sleeping down in the grave cruel murder had made; 
 Her death and its horrors passed like a cloud, 
 Remembered no more by the sorrowing crowd, 
 
 Who wept in their sorrow, strong men as they were, 
 For they knew in her death foul murder had share; 
 The women wept loud in their frenzy of grief, 
 Alas for the world, their sorrow was brief. 
 
 Her death never thought of, her name never spolten — 
 Ah! there's one heart that remembers — one heart that is 
 
 broken — 
 The mother who prayed the Saviour to still 
 The storm on the ocean as once was "his will. 
 
 Oh! Son of the Mighty, in glory above, 
 Restore me, restore me the child of my love; 
 That like Simon of old, in peace I depart, 
 When I fold to my bosom the child of my heart. 
 
 The prayer of the mother Went out on the wild — 
 Perhaps at that hour they were murdering her child! 
 We cannot dive into the mysteries of Him 
 Who permits those dark deeds, yet wills not- the sin. 
 
The Maniac, : ■ 103 
 
 Had she lived in a mansion, and wealthy and great, 
 They had vied with each other to sift out her fate; 
 But poor and neglected — a creature so tender, 
 Who in the world would care to defend her? 
 
 Oh! Thou from whose vision no crime is concealed, 
 Show mercy, her Maker! and be it revealed. 
 By thy vengeance and power in the progress of time. 
 On the head of the fiend who committed the crime. 
 
 Let us cherish the hope, time is not long. 
 When the world shall resound who committed the wrong. 
 To that poor friendless maiden, so pure and so kind, 
 So true to the shamrock her heart left behind. 
 
 Thou Saviour in heaven who heard her last sigh. 
 Peered through the thick darkness and saw the maid die, 
 Permit her pure soul triumphant to gain 
 A place with the virgins who follow thy train. 
 
 Like St. Paul, she fought the good strife — 
 Glung to her honor and yielded her life. • 
 From the pillar ©f heaven, O Saviour, take down, 
 And place on her brow the virgin's bright crown. 
 
 THE MANIAC. 
 
 FOUNDED ON FACT. 
 
 The maniac is foanded on fact. She was a near neighbor of the writer,. 
 who admired her for the many good qualities she possessed. But unfortunate- 
 ly, the poor woman was not happy in her social life; the cause of this unhappi- 
 ness did not lie with her, however, for she was cheerful, of a happy disposition 
 and obliging, and extremely benevolent. The wish of her heart was to. love 
 and be loved, Her,religion was'Millerite, and the queer doctrines of that sect 
 may be said to have had something to do with dethroning her mind. Her hus- 
 band was an old tyrant, and might easily have been her father, for he was 
 certainly old enough. He was irate and quarrelsome; he crushed the hilarity 
 of ber young heart, and discouraged the generous impulses of a warm and con- 
 fiding nature. The poor creature would do her utmost to conceal from stran- 
 fers the real cause of her despondency, but found it useless, for he would not 
 esitate to attack her in the presence of a stranger. The poor thing would re- 
 flect upon the most absurd imaginations', and continued in this unhappy state 
 until finally her mind gave away, and she became dangerously insane. One of 
 her first acts was to attempt the life of her children with an axe. The poor lit- 
 tle things were fearfully wounded, but finally recovered. She also tried to kill 
 iier husband, who had her confined in a lunatic asylum. 
 
104 The 3faniac. 
 
 The robins gallieied in a throng 
 
 And sweetly sang their matin song; 
 
 The flowers shed forth their fragrant hale. 
 
 And spread tlieir leaves to the morning gale — 
 
 Hung their stems with a weary looji, 
 
 Sighed for the waters within the brook. 
 
 All nature seemed to rejoice in May, 
 
 That month when flowers and birds are gay, 
 
 And in the woods their notes abound 
 
 In jubilee that all around 
 
 The fields and rocky coves resound, 
 
 Of those sweet birds whose warbling shrill 
 
 The aching heart with raptures fill ; 
 
 When lo! the enchanting scene was chauged- 
 
 The shriek of one, with mind deranged, 
 
 Came bounding on the summer breeze 
 
 From out the rustling willow trees. 
 
 A wail that fancy hears, yet still, 
 
 Kesounding through each dale and hill, 
 
 Bringing men from vale and brook. 
 
 Oh! the sight that met their look: 
 
 One little girl in her gore. 
 
 Another bleeding by the door, 
 
 A baby shrieking on the ground, 
 
 Blood on everything around. 
 
 While gazing on that scene of blood, 
 
 The insane mother calmly stood. 
 
 Holding with a firm grasp 
 
 Within her hand the blood-stained axe. 
 
 Wishing, as if to keep it still, 
 
 Again to wield it to her will; 
 
 Looking as if she strove to trace 
 
 A foe in every stranger's face. 
 
 But strong men now around her stand, 
 
 Tiie axe is taken from her hand; 
 
 Women bathe her burning brain. 
 
 Speak to her in soothing strain ; 
 
 With kindly looks they bathe her head. 
 
 And watch incessant around her bed; 
 
 Whenlo! departs the vacant stare, 
 
 And from the eyes the unearthly glare; 
 
 Keturning reason shows to light 
 
 Her bleeding children in her sight, 
 
 And copious tears begin to flow, 
 
 When meets her gaze the fearful blow 
 
 Upon the cheek of that sweet babe, 
 
 Whom 8he would now die to save. 
 
To... 105 
 
 To_._ 
 
 Do you think it is wrong or deem it a sin, 
 For the heart to weep till the eyes grow dim, 
 And wish in its grief the soul were fled, 
 That the body might rest with the cherished dead. 
 
 Or is it wrong, in deep despair, 
 To wish I were dead and sheltered where 
 The loved of my soul is taking his rest, 
 And the strangers' clay above his breast. 
 
 Oh ! would he took his last repose, 
 In his own Green Isle, where meandering flows 
 The Shannon in all its beauty wild, 
 Gracefully bounding to ocean's tide. 
 
 Farewell, my love — a long farewell, 
 If in heaven your spirit dwell ; 
 All my sorrow is known to you — 
 Farewell, my love — a long adieu. 
 
 THE RESURRECTION 
 
 (^vs .^. ►tr^'crh '^' ^^ 
 
 Oh! brightly shine, thou cheering sun, 
 The deed of blood and guilt is done; 
 The holy and the beautiful. 
 The innocent and the dutiful. 
 Died beneath a load of pain. 
 Eternal joys for us to gain. 
 
 Yes, the Son of God has died, 
 
 By those he loved denounced— reviled ; 
 
 Died a death so dark, so dread, 
 
 As roused to life the veiy dead! 
 
 Astounded stood the lake of hell, 
 
 Astonished angels trembling fell. 
 
106 Temperance. 
 
 Oh! wkat a sight for nature's eje, 
 To see the Lord of majesty; 
 The good, Supreme, the truly just, 
 Who thrilled with life our honored dust, 
 Cast forth beneath a with'ring ban, 
 Slain by the arm of impious man. 
 
 Well might the sun refuse its light, 
 And yield its reign to darkest night; 
 Well might the funeral pall be spread 
 O'er heaven, and its Maker, dead, 
 Well might all nature pant for breath. 
 With Thee, its Author, bowed in death. 
 
 And by Thy blood, O crucified! 
 Did'st vanquish sin with death allied. 
 And all the infernal powers o'ercome, 
 The ponderous rock that closed thy tomb. 
 Dispersed in many a sparkling gem, 
 To crown each saintly diadem. 
 
 TEOivdllPEK/ JLl^'O E 
 
 Ah! rather hold the burning brand 
 
 Than that dire cup within thy hand ; 
 
 Oh! no indeed, those lips of thine 
 
 Should never touch the tempting wine; 
 
 Not to friend or even to foe. 
 
 Extend the bitter cup of woe. 
 
 That cup that's wrung from orphans' eyes, 
 
 The tears, and widow's burning sighs; 
 
 A cup that's brought, Oh! mark it well, 
 
 Full many a soul to deepest hell ; 
 
 And brought deep want and sad disgrace, 
 
 On many a noble, honored race: 
 
 That's filled the land with countless graves, 
 
 As plunged beneath the whelming waves. 
 
Ireland, Etc. lOT 
 
 IK;H]LA.3Sri>. 
 
 Ah! well we remember, although it is years, 
 Since we left you, poor Ireland, in sorrowful tears; 
 But the grief of that hour is fresh in our mind, 
 And we weep with regret for the friends left behind. 
 
 Yet the friends we have parted remember us still ; 
 They send us their blessing, we send them good will; 
 And we cherish the hope, though vain it may seem, 
 Triumphant will yet be our own banner of green. 
 
 Oh! let us pray, that quick be the hour. 
 The enemies of Ireland will be humbled in power; 
 And the green flag of Erin unfurled shall be, 
 Respected and honored by land and by sea. 
 
 Far dearer to Ireland than England's proud rose, 
 More near to our soul than the thistle that grows, 
 'Neath the smiles of a queen who delights to protect, 
 While our own little shamrock is dying of neglect. 
 
 Ireland, my country, you'll yet break the chain 
 That fetters your freedom — and when you regain 
 That freedom you lost by the traitor's foul deed, 
 Never blush for your shamrock, country or creed. 
 
 TO JL P^K/IElvriD. 
 
 There's a smile on thy lip, a joy in thine eye, 
 That tells in the years now o'er thee gone by; 
 You felt all the pleasure that life can bestow. 
 Depression of spirits you never can know. 
 
 There's a note in thy voice, it strikes on my ear. 
 As the voice of a friend, and I look is he near; 
 Then thy form as a stranger comes full to ray view. 
 And I weep for that friend as my eye rests on you. 
 
 And seek you his kindred, that friend was a brother, 
 With the love that in childhood is shown by a mother; 
 But he sicken'd and withered and soon passed away, 
 And all that remained of my brother was clay. 
 
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