There is blood upon the threshold At the glad sound of that footstep, -Thou wert brought me back all silent Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son! Silent and dark! I thought to see thy children I shall go to sit beside thee, Thy kindred's graves among; I shall hear the tall grass whisper— Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling ou; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son! And I too shall find slumber Silent and dark! With my lost one, in the earth; -Let none light up the ashes Again on our hearth! Let the roof go down!-let silence Where my boy lay cold, and heard not Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Silent and dark! FAR AWAY.* FAR away!-my home is far away, Where the blue sea laves a mountain shore; In the woods I hear my brothers play, 'Midst the flowers my sister sings once more. Far away! Far away! my dreams are far away, When at midnight, stars and shadows reign; "Gentle child," my mother seems to say, "Follow me where home shall smile again!" Far away! Far away! my hope is far away, Where love's voice young gladness may restore; * This, and the five following songs, have been set to music of great merit, by J. Zeugheer Herrmann, and H. F. C., and are published in a set by Mr Power, who has given permission for the appearance of the words in this volume. -O thou dove! now soaring through the day, THE LYRE AND FLOWER. A LYRE its plaintive sweetness pour'd -Oh, child of song! Bear hence to heaven thy fire! What hopest thou from the reckless throng; A flower its leaves and odours cast Waste not thy precious dower! Not like that flower! SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST. SISTER! since I met thee last, O'er thy brow a change hath past, In the softness of thine eyes, Deep and still a shadow lies; From thy voice there thrills a tone, Never to thy childhood known; Through thy soul a storm hath moved, -Gentle sister, thou hast loved! Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught Tell me not the tale, my flower! On bosom my pour that shower! Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted; Tell me not of young hopes blasted; Wring not forth one burning word, Let thy heart no more be stirr'd! Home alone can give thee rest. -Weep, sweet sister, on my breast! THE LONELY BIRD. FROM a ruin thou art singing, By thy summer music stirr'd; Thy song flows richly swelling, Though the castle echoes catch no tone Of human step or word, Though the fires be quench'd and the feasting done, Oh! lonely, lonely bird! How can that flood of gladness Rush through thy fiery lay, From the haunted place of sadness, From the bosom of decay? While dirge-notes in the breeze's moan, Through the ivy garlands heard, Come blent with thy rejoicing tone, Oh! lonely, lonely bird! There's many a heart, wild singer, Like thy forsaken tower, |