The place is little changed, Mary, The day's as bright as then; The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again, But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your warm breath on my cheek, And I still keep listening for the words You never more may speak. 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, The village church stands near,-- The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest, Where I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; But, oh, they love the better The few our Father sends. And you were all I had, Mary, My blessing and my pride; There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. 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 less fair. SONG LORD HOUGHTON I wander'd by the brook-side, I wander'd by the mill,-- I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still; There was no burr of grasshopper, Nor chirp of any bird; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm-tree, I watch'd the long, long shade, And as it grew still longer I did not feel afraid; For I listen'd for a footfall, I listen'd for a word,-- But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not,--no, he came not; The night came on alone; The little stars sat one by one Each on his golden throne; The evening air pass'd by my cheek, The leaves above were stirr'd,-- But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast silent tears were flowing, When some one stood behind; A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer, nearer; We did not speak a word,-- For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. THE LONG-AGO On that deep-retiring shore Frequent pearls of beauty lie, Where the passion-waves of yore Fiercely beat and mounted high: Sorrows that are sorrows still Lose the bitter taste of woe; Nothing's altogether ill In the griefs of Long-ago. Tombs where lonely love repines, Ghastly tenements of tears, Wear the look of happy shrines Through the golden mist of years Death, to those who trust in good, Vindicates his hardest blow; Oh! we would not, if we could, Wake the sleep of Long-ago!