By the green banks of Shannon, I wooed thee, dear Mary,
When the sweet birds were singing in summer's gay pride;
From those green banks I turn now, heart-broken and dreary,
As the sun sets, to weep o'er the grave of my bride.
While the sweet birds around me are singing,
Summer like winter is cheerless to me;
I heed not if snow falls, or flow'rets are springing,
For my heart's light is darkened-my Cushlo-mo-chree!
Oh! bright shone the morning when first as my bride, love,
Thy foot like a sunbeam my threshold cross'd o'er;
And blest on our hearth fell that soft eventide, love,
When first on my bosom thy heart lay, Asthore!
Restlessly now, on my lone pillow turning,
Wear the night-watches, still thinking on thee,
And darker than night breaks the light of the morning,
For my aching eyes find thee not, Cushlo-mo-chree!
Oh, my loved one! my lost one! say, why didst thou leave me
To linger on earth with my heart in the grave?
Oh, would thy cold arms, love, might ope to receive me
To my rest 'neath the dark boughs that over thee wave!
Still from our once happy dwelling I roam, love,
Evermore seeking, my own bride, for thee;
Oh, Mary! wherever thou art is my home, love,
And I'll soon lie beside thee, my Cushlo-mo-chree!
JOHN FRANCIS WALLER, LL.D.
* "Cushlo-mo-chree"-Pulse of my heart.
UPON the forest-side in Grasmere Vale
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name;
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
His bodily frame had been, from youth to age,
Of an unusual strength; his mind was keen,
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.
So lived he till his eightieth year was past.
His days had not been past in singleness:
His Helpmate was a comely matron, old-
Though younger than himself full twenty years.
She was a woman of a stirring life,
Whose heart was in her house.
The Pair had but one inmate in their house,
An only child who had been born to them
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began
To deem that he was old,-in shepherd's phrase,
With one foot in the grave. This only son,
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,
The one of an inestimable worth,
Made all their household.
Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,
Which in our ancient uncouth country style
Did with a huge projection overbrow
Large space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim, the Housewife hung a lamp.
There by the light of this old lamp they sat,
Father and son, while late into the night
The Housewife plied her own peculiar work.
This light was famous in its neighbourhood,
For, as it chanced,
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,
And from this constant light, so regular
And so far seen, the house itself, by all
Who dwelt within the limits of the Vale,
Both old and young, was named the Evening Star.
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart
This son of his old age was yet more dear-
To the thoughts
Of the old man his only son was now
The dearest object that he knew on earth.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him.
And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up
A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek
Two steady roses that were five years old,
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut
With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped
With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff,
And gave it to the boy; wherewith equipped
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;
And, to his office prematurely called,
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