Thou mourner for departed dreams! On earth there is no rest When grief hath troubled the pure streams Of memory in thy breast! - Helen Blackwood, Baroness Dufferin and Claneboye

It has thine own dear playful look—
Thy smile! thy sun-bright hair!
Thy brow—so like a holy book
With sweet thoughts written there!
The full, soft lids, half-raised above
Those blue and dreamy eyes,
Within whose gaze of trusting love
No fear—no falsehood lies!
Like lonely lakes of Heaven's pure rain
Reflecting only Heaven again.

I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary—kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm going to.
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there;
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,—
The poor make no new friends;—
But, oh! they love the better still
The few our Father sends