[Footnote A:  Ireland my darling, Ireland forever!]

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

AFTER DEATH.

  Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? 
   Shall mine eyes behold thy glory? 
  Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the
   sun-blaze breaks at last upon thy story? 
  When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle,
   as a sweet new sister hail thee,

  Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and
    silence, that have known but to bewail thee? 
  Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises,
    when all men their tribute bring thee? 
  Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy
    squalor, when all poets’ mouths shall sing thee?

  Ah, the harpings and the salvos and the shoutings
    of thy exiled sons returning! 
  I should hear, though dead and mouldered, and
    the grave-damps should not chill my bosom’s burning.

  Ah, the tramp of feet victorious!  I should hear
    them ’mid the shamrocks and the mosses,
  And my heart should toss within the shroud and
    quiver as a captive dreamer tosses.

  I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me,
    giant sinews I should borrow—­
  Crying, “O my brothers, I have also loved her in
    her loneliness and sorrow.

  “Let me join with you the jubilant procession;
    let me chant with you her story;
  Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks,
    now mine eyes have seen her glory!”

FRANCES ISABEL PARNELL.

* * * * *

CANADA NOT LAST.

AT VENICE.

  Lo Venice, gay with color, lights and song,
    Calls from St. Mark’s with ancient voice and strange: 
  I am the Witch of Cities! glide along
    My silver streets that never wear by change
  Of years:  forget the years, and pain, and wrong,
  And ever sorrow reigning men among. 
    Know I can soothe thee, please and marry thee
  To my illusions.  Old and siren strong,
    I smile immortal, while the mortals flee
    Who whiten on to death in wooing me.

AT FLORENCE.

  Say, what more fair by Arno’s bridged gleam
    Than Florence, viewed from San Miniato’s slope
  At eventide, when west along the stream
    The last of day reflects a silver hope!—­
  Lo, all else softened in the twilight beam:—­
  The city’s mass blent in one hazy cream,
    The brown Dome ’midst it, and the Lily tower,
  And stern Old Tower more near, and hills that seem
    Afar, like clouds to fade, and hills of power
    On this side greenly dark with cypress, vine and bower.

AT ROME.