There 's a bell in Moscow; While on tower and kiosk O In St. Sophia The Turkman gets, And loud in air Calls men to prayer, From the tapering summit Of tall minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant them; But there 's an anthem More dear to me,-- 'T is the bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. [Decoration] [Decoration] GERALD MASSEY. 1828. _SONG._ All glorious as the Rainbow's birth, She came in Spring-tide's golden hours; When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth, And May was crowned with buds and flowers! The mounting devil at my heart Clomb faintlier as my life did win The charmèd heaven, she wrought apart, To wake its slumbering Angel in! With radiant mien she trod serene, And passed me smiling by! O! who that looked could chance but love? Not I, sweet soul, not I. The dewy eyelids of the Dawn Ne'er oped such heaven as hers can show: It seemed her dear eyes might have shone As jewels in some starry brow. Her face flashed glory like a shrine, Or lily-bell with sunburst bright; Where came and went love-thoughts divine, As low winds walk the leaves in light: She wore her beauty with the grace Of Summer's star-clad sky; O! who that looked could help but love? Not I, sweet soul, not I. Her budding breasts like fragrant fruit Of love were ripening to be pressed: Her voice, that shook my heart's red root, Yet might not break a babe's soft rest! More liquid than the running brooks, More vernal than the voice of Spring, When Nightingales are in their nooks, And all the leafy thickets ring. The love she coyly hid at heart Was shyly conscious in her eye; O! who that looked could help but love? Not I, sweet soul, not I. [Decoration] [Decoration] ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 1844-1881. _A LOVE SYMPHONY._ Along the garden ways just now I heard the flowers speak; The white rose told me of your brow, The red rose of your cheek; The lily of your bended head, The bindweed of your hair: Each looked its loveliest and said You were more fair. I went into the wood anon, And heard the wild birds sing, How sweet you were; they warbled on, Piped, trilled the self-same thing. Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause, The burden did repeat, And still began again because You were more sweet. And then I went down to the sea, And heard it murmuring too, Part of an ancient mystery, All made of me and you. How many a thousand years ago I loved, and you were sweet-- Longer I could not stay, and so I fled back to your feet. _I MADE ANOTHER GARDEN._