KNOW ye in ages past that tower
By human hands built strong and high?
Arch over arch, with magic power,
Rose proudly each successive hour,
To reach the happy sky.
It rose till human pride was crushed-
Quick came the unexpected change ;
A moment every tone was hushed,
And then again they freely gushed,
But sounded wild and strange.
Quick, loud, and clear, each voice was heard,
Calling for lime, and stone, and wood,
All uttered words-but not one word,
More than the carol of a bird,
Their fellows understood.
Is there no Babel but that one,
The storied tower of other days ?—
Where, round the giant pile of stone,
Pausing they stood—their labour done,
To listen in amaze.
Fair springs the tower of hope and fame,
When all our life is fairy land;
Till scarcely knowing what to blame,
Our fellows cease to feel the same-
We cease to understand.
Then when they coldly smile to hear
The burning dreams of earlier days;
The rapid fall from hope to fear,
When eyes whose every glance was dear,
Seem changing as they gaze:
Then, when we feel 'twere vain to speak
Of fervent hopes-aspirings high-
Of thoughts for which all words are weak—
Of wild far dreams, wherein we seek
Knowledge of earth and sky :
Of communings with nature's God,
When impulse deep the soul hath moved— Of tears which sink within the sod, Where, mingling with the valley clod, Lies something we have loved.
Then cometh ours; and better theirs—
Of stranger tongues together brought,
Than that in which we all have shares,
A Babel in a world of cares-
Of feeling and of thought!
THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May mornin', long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high—
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek;
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more will speak.
'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near-
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest—
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.
I'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make no new friends,
But, oh! they love the better still
The few our Father sends !
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessin' and my pride!
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your browI bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.
I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it for my sake:
I bless you for the pleasant word
When your heart was sad and soreOh, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more!
I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm going to;
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there—
But I'll not forget Old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!
And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit and close my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side,
And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.
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