FOR him the Spring Distils her dew, and from the silken gem With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. AKENSIDE. CUSHLO-MO-CHREE.* By the green banks of Shannon, I wooed thee, dear Mary, 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, 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, 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. 典 "Cushlo-mo-chree"-Pulse of my heart. UPON the forest-side in Grasmere Vale |