But to me it was laden with sighs and tears,
    And the faded hopes of by-gone years. 
    Many a vision, long buried deep,
    Was waked again from its dreamless sleep. 
    Thoughts whose light was dim before,
    Lived in their pristine truth once more. 
    Well might its form with my fancies weave,
    For in youth it seemed with me to joy,
    And in woe with me to grieve. 
    Oft have I knelt in the cool moonlight,
    Where it wreathed the lattice pane,
    ’Till I felt that He who formed the flower
    Would hear my prayer again. 
    Then, welcome sweet thing, in this stranger land,
    May it smile upon thy birth,
    Light fall the rain on thy lovely head,
    And genial be the earth;
    And blest be the power that gave to thee,
    All lowly as thou art,
    The gift unknown to prouder things,
    To soothe and teach the heart.

Next day we proceeded on our journey, and, preferring the coolness of the deck to the heated atmosphere of the cabin, seated ourselves there to enjoy the quiet beauty of the night.  The full glory of a September’s moon was beaming bright in the clear rich blue of heaven; the stars were glittering in the water’s depths, and ever and anon the fire flies flashed like diamonds through the dark foliage on the shore—­the light fair breeze scarce stirred the ripples on the stream—­when, from one of the white dwellings on the beach in whose casement a light was yet burning, came a low, sad strain of sorrow.  I had heard that sound once before, and knew now it was the wail of Irish grief.  Strange that mournful dirge of Erin sounded in that distant land.  Grace knew the language of her country, and ere the “keen” had died upon the breeze, she translated thus

    THE SONG OF THE IRISH MOURNER.

    Light of the widow’s heart! art thou then dead? 
    And is then thy spirit from earth ever fled? 
    And shall we, then, see thee and hear thee no more,
    All radiant in beauty and life as before?

    My own blue-eyed darling, Oh, why didst thou die,
    Ere the tear-drop of sorrow had dimmed thy bright eye,
    Ere thy cheek’s blooming hue felt one touch of decay,
    Or thy long golden ringlets were mingled with grey?

    Why, star of our path-way, why didst thou depart? 
    Why leave us to weep for the pulse of the heart? 
    Oh, darkened for ever is life’s sunny hour,
    When robbed of its brightest and loveliest flower!

    Around thy low bier sacred incense is flinging,
    And soft on the air are the silver bells ringing;
    For the peace of thy soul is the holy mass said,
    And on thy fair forehead the blessed cross laid.

    Soft, soft be thy slumbers, our lady receive thee,
    And shining in glory for ever thy soul be;
    To the climes of the blessed, my own grama-chree,
    May blessings attend thee, sweet cushla ma-chree.