Once more, through God's high will and grace, Of Hours that each its task fulfils, Heart-healing Spring resumes its place;-- The valley throngs and scales the hills, In vain. From earth's deep heart o'ercharged, The exulting life runs o'er in flowers;-- The slave unfed is unenlarged: In darkness sleep a nation's powers. Who knows not Spring? Who doubts, when blows Her breath, that Spring is come indeed? The swallow doubts not; nor the rose That stirs, but wakes not, nor the weed. I feel her near, but see her not, For those with pain-uplifted eyes Fall back repulsed; and vapours blot The vision of the earth and skies. I see her not; I feel her near, As, charioted in mildest airs, She sails through yon empyreal sphere, And in her arms and bosom bears That urn of flowers and lustral dews, Whose sacred balm, o'er all things shed, Revives the weak, the old renews, And crowns with votive wreaths the dead. Once more the cuckoo's call I hear; I know, in many a glen profound, The earliest violets of the year Rise up like water from the ground. The thorn I know once more is white; And, far down many a forest dale, The anemones in dubious light Are trembling like a bridal veil. By streams released that singing flow From craggy shelf through sylvan glades, The pale narcissus, well I know, Smiles hour by hour on greener shades. The honeyed cowslip tufts once more The golden slopes;--with gradual ray The primrose stars the rock, and o'er The wood-path strews its milky way. --From ruined huts and holes come forth Old men, and look upon the sky! The Power Divine is on the earth:-- Give thanks to God before ye die! And ye, O children worn and weak, Who care no more with flowers to play, Lean on the grass your cold, thin cheek, And those slight hands, and whispering, say, "Stern Mother of a race unblest-- In promise kindly, cold in deed; Take back, O Earth, into thy breast, The children whom thou wilt not feed." IRELAND--1849. AUTUMNAL DIRGE. Then die, thou Year--thy work is done: The work ill done is done at last. Far off, beyond that sinking sun, Which sets in blood, I hear the blast That sings thy dirge, and says--"Ascend, And answer make amid thy peers, (Since all things here must have an end,) Thou latest of the famine years!" I join that voice. No joy have I In all thy purple and thy gold, Nor in the nine-fold harmony From forest on to forest rolled: Nor in that stormy western fire, Which burns on ocean's gloomy bed, And hurls, as from a funeral pyre, A glare that strikes the mountain's head;