THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine,

While at a glibe rate

Brass tongues would vibrate;

But all their music

Spoke naught like thine.

For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling

Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells tolling
Old Adrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets

Of Notre Dame ;

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 love - ah! 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.