THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

But thy sounds were sweeter
Than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly.

O! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow;

While on tower and kiosk O

In Saint Sophia

The Turkman gets,

And loud in air

Calls men to prayer

From the tapering summit
Of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there's an anthem

More dear to me:
'Tis the bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

Rev. FRANCIS MAHONY. (Father Prout.)

THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE.

TEARS, idle tears! I know not what they mean: Tears, from the depth of some divine despair, Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail
That brings our friends up from the under-world;
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge :
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah! sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square:
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret:
O Death in Life! the days that are no more.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

PHILIP, MY KING.

"Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of sovereignty."

Look at me, with thy large brown eyes,

Philip, my King!

For round thee the purple shadow lies

Of babyhood's regal dignities.

Lay on my neck thy tiny hand,

With Love's invisible sceptre laden;

I am thine Esther, to command,

Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden,
Philip, my King!

O, the day when thou goest a-wooing,
Philip, my King!

When those beautiful lips are suing,

And, some gentle heart's bars undoing,
Thou dost enter, Love-crowned, and there
Sittest all glorified! — Rule kindly,
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair;

For we that loveah! we love so blindly,
Philip, my King!

I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow,
Philip, my King!

Ay! there lies the spirit, all sleeping now,
That may rise like a giant, and make men bow

IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED.

As to one God-throned amidst his peers.

My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer
Let me behold thee in coming years!

Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,
Philip, my King!

A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day,
Philip, my King!

Thou too must tread, as we tread, a way
Thorny, and bitter, and cold, and gray;
Rebels within thee, and foes without,

Will snatch at thy crown. But go on, glorious: Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout,

As thou sit'st at the feet of God victorious,

66 Philip, the King!"

DINAH MARIA MULOCH.

IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED.

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be.

It never through my mind had past
That time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more.

IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED.

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook
That I must look in vain.

But when I speak, thou dost not say

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;

But there I lay thee in thy grave,

And I am now alone.

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee;

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore.

Rev. CHARLES WOLFE.