58

STREAMLETS.

Thus, may the peasant's master,

Take a lesson from the flood,
When he tramps his princedom faster
Than is for the people's good.

Let him know there's One awaits him,

Ay, already at his door:

The pride-slayer-the Almighty

The avenger of the poor!

THOMAS DAVIS.

STREAMLETS.

JHROUGH the mossy sods and stones,
Stream and streamlet hurry down,
A rushing throng! A sound of song
Beneath the vault of heaven is blown !
Sweet notes of love, the speaking tones

Of this bright day, sent down to say
That Paradise on earth is known,
Resound around, beneath, above;

All we hope, and all we love,

Finds a voice in this blithe strain,
Which wakens hill, and wood, and rill,
And vibrates far o'er field and vale,

And which echo, like the tale

Of old times, repeats again.

SHELLEY, from GOETHE

T is a sight the heart to thrill

With many a thought of early years;

It is a sight the eye to fill

With long-unused, delicious tears;

It is a sight to look upon

With sighs for life's long, erring road;

To send us to a Father's throne,

And lift our stubborn hearts to God!

Once more she bends-that gentle mother-
The guileless lips' devotions o'er;
Once more, thy little arm, my brother,
Entwines my neck, as heretofore;
Once more, as when our prayers ascended
At morn and eve, a mingled strain,
Two young pure hearts together blended---

Ah, ne'er to be so pure again.

The world's cold clouds have dimmed that morrow,

Yet, gazing on this lovely scene,

Who would not turn from present sorrow,
To muse on peace that once had been?

They pray, untouched by care or ill,

With brows as calm as summer even;
Their eyes' clear depths retaining still
Some radiance from their native heaven.

They pray-upon those parted lips

Truth's simple spirit sits alone;

The world hath cast no dim eclipse

Betwixt them and their Maker's throne: