Sorrow, my friend, I owe my soul to you. And if my life with any glory end Of tenderness for others, and the words are true, Said, honoring, when I’m dead,-- Sorrow, to you, the mellow praise, the funeral wreath, are due. And yet, my friend, When love and joy are strong, Your terrible visage from my sight I rend With glances to blue heaven. Hovering along, By mine your shadow led, “Away!” I shriek, “nor dare to work my new-sprung mercies wrong!” Still, you are near: Who can your care withstand? When deep eternity shall look most clear, Sending bright waves to kiss the trembling land, My joy shall disappear,-- A flaming torch thrown to the golden sea by your pale hand. THE CLOCK’S SONG BY ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP Eileen of four, Eileen of smiles; Eileen of five, Eileen of tears; Eileen of ten, of fifteen years, Eileen of youth And woman’s wiles; Eileen of twenty, In love’s land, Eileen all tender In her bliss, Untouched by sorrow’s treacherous kiss, And the sly weapons in life’s hand,-- Eileen aroused to share all fate, Eileen a wife, Pale, beautiful, Eileen most grave and dutiful, Mourning her dreams in queenly state. Eileen! Eileen!... IRELAND BY EDMUND LEAMY (Senior) I loved a love--a royal love-- In the golden long ago; And she was fair as fair could be. The foam upon the broken sea, The sheen of sun, or moon, or star, The sparkle from the diamond spar, Not half so rare and radiant are As my own love--my royal love-- In the golden long ago. And she had stately palace halls-- In the golden long ago; And warriors, men of stainless swords, Were seated at her festive boards, Fierce champions of her lightest words, While hymned the bard the chieftain’s praise, And sang their deed of battle days, To cheer my love, my royal love, In the golden long ago. She wore a stately diadem-- In the golden long ago; Wrought by a cunning craftsman’s hand, And fashioned from a battle brand, Full fit for the queen of a soldier land; Her sceptre was a sabre keen, Her robe a robe of radiant green, My queenly love, my royal love, In the golden long ago. Alas for my love, my royal love, Of the golden long ago! For gone are all her warrior bands, And rusted are her battle brands, And broken her sabre bright and keen, And torn her robe of radiant green, A slave where she was a stainless queen, My own love, my royal love, Of the golden long ago.