And when you sing those songs again, For gayer hearts and brighter eyes, And thinking upon “now” as “_then_,” Memories of other days arise, Believe that none more dearly prize The strains your lips so sweetly pour, Than he who asked ’neath other skies, “Sing me the songs I love once more.” IN MEMORIAM. He is dead! and what words can we say that will tell half the sorrow we know; He is murdered! and mutters for vengeance are mingled with wailings of woe; He is gone! and the voice that thrilled thousands, like music, forever is hushed; He lies bleeding! and with him the heart of the nation lies bleeding and crushed! Ah! yes, he is gone! The pure stars that lighted him home to his rest, Saw his blood as he lay there, a martyr, his hand to a motionless breast; And the wings of the angels that quivered a moment before with his words, Flashed again--“He is dead,” and the souls of the waking were pierced as with swords. Hardly strange doth it seem that the Springtime refuseth this morn to be gay, And covers her eyes with a veil, and putteth her garlands away, For she feels that the heart of a prophet of man and of nature is still, And she hideth her flowers in her bosom and cannot be gay, if she will! O Canada, weep, ’twas for thee that he spoke the last words of his life! Weep, Erin, his blood has been shed in the healing of wounds of thy strife! Weep, Scotia, no son of thy soil held thy mountains and valleys more dear! Weep, England, thy brave, honest eyes never glistened with worthier tear! He was true to himself, to his faith, to the lands of his birth and his choice; He was true, when, a boy, he obeyed, as he deemed it, a patriot voice; He was true, as a man, to the light gained by years, spite of slanderous breath; He was true, as the champion of peace, amid foes, under ban, _unto death_! “Had he faults?” men will ask. Who is faultless? How many there are who redeem Not the faults that they have by one virtue to make them a shield of esteem, But lie evermore all content in their grave of misdoing; but he Sent a light through his life that makes glorious for ever the name of MCGEE. APRIL 7th, 1868. KILLYNOOGAN. I. Killynoogan,--hallowed name,-- Though thou’rt little known to fame, My heart’s homage thou dost claim. II. Though to stranger ears thou be But a word of mystery, Meaning deep thou hast for me. III. All thy quaint old masonry Now before my eyes I see, As, of old, it used to be. IV. Ah! too well I can recall Every stone in every wall,-- In my heart I count them all. V.