Has she not walkt on the way that she chose at the gates of youth, Bright in the graces of holiness, grand in the splendours of truth? Bearing the hopes of the sowing, the gladness of those who reap; Smiling with those who are smiling, weeping with those who weep; Graciously grave, serenely bright, with a wisdom large and mild, A man's clear judgment, a woman's love, and the faith of a little child. Her heart is the little ones' nest, grown tired of the ball and the race, They come to be rested because of the love in her beau tiful face; One silent clasp of her hand most deeply has comforted Women and men too, whose eyes have wept for the false or the dead. And many a heart that bleeds for its sin, and yet could not bare The throb of its shuddering nerves to a cold, analytical stare, Lying lone on the wayside of life, she, tenderly bending above, Doth soothe with the unguent of mercy, and cheer with the strong wine of love. Was there ever a pitiful cry in the depths of her gracious soul For the wifehood's joy denied, and the motherhood's aureole ? Can her thought go back to a time when her patient footsteps trod Among the grieving thorns, alone with sorrow and God? However it be, on her face is the look of sweet content That comes when the music of life of love and duty is blent; And peace is hers that is more than the joy of morning prime, And light that is greater than day, has come at her evening time. PADDY. "WILLIAM O'GRADY, bachelor, and Mary Lee, spinsther." So His Riverence call'd us in the church, it's just five year ago. Three times the banns was put up for us, but,* the day that follow'd the third, I meets my Mary an' says 'Let us each give back the other their word.' She knew why I spoke out then to her; it was growin' for manny a day Afore at last it lep' into speech, as we stood amoong the hay, Down in the half-mown meddas: the sun was gone to rest, An' the corncrake was crakin' an' croakin',-I knew where she had her nest. It wasn't a sharp, quick quarrel iv ours, to blaze up sthrong an' die out; It wasn't doubtin' each other we was, we niver had had a doubt; *The u all through as in put. But a thing that had smowldher'd an' smowldher'd until I'd made up my mind at last, The loove* I'd been buildin' my future on must just be a thing o' the past. "Mary," says I, "there's a word, a name, that coomes between us two, A name that slips like a bit iv a sting from that purty mouth iv you; Ah, my child! I know it well, so where's the good iv a fuss? Say good-bye, an' let it all be as it never had been for us. Ye never would call me Paddy as ye do, if ye didn't despise Somethin' about me or in me; an' it doesn't seem right in my eyes A girl should look down in anny way on the man she's goin' to wed That's enough; ye know how the' say, soonest mendud where laste is said. Ye're betther nor me a hoondherd times, but only betther becos Ye're a woman—the sweetest woman on earth, the dearest that ever was An' not becos iv yer English blood, for, were ye a man, it's thrue, I'd look ye sthraight in the face an' say, 'I'm as good, every bit, as you.' * As in look. What right had ye, Mary, I axe, to have that look in your face, an' spake O' my counthry in words ye shouldn't ha' us'd, not for my sake, but right' sake; Ring out yer scornful Paddy! as if my Irish blood was a taint The Lord 'ud have to burn out o' me afore he could make me a saint? Counthry! what good's in a counthry? Why this, I take it, indeed God made us all wan flesh an' blood-that's thrue, but God decreed Father an' mother, an' family o' brothers an' sisthers then, An' next the clan, and next, I think, the country was made for men. An' I loove my father an' moother well, an' broothers an' sisthers too, An' loove my people, an' loove my land, like a loyal man and thrue. Maybe it's proud ye're thinkin' me? I think there's some things, dear, God manes us all to be proud about, an' I think I've wan iv 'um here. I don't deserve to be despis'd; I'd be wrongin' God if I said That becos he made me an Irishman, I ought to hang down my head. |