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Denis Florence MacCarthy
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 63 pages of information about Poems.

When, dimly[A] seen, in robes of white,
  A mournful train along the grove
Shall bear the lamp of sacred light,
  To deck the turf of those they love,—­

Then shall the wood-dove quit its bow’r,
  And seek the spot were she is laid;
Its wild and mournful notes shall pour
  A requiem to her hallow’d shade.

And Friendship oft shall raise the veil
  Time shall have drawn o’er pleasures past,
And Fancy shall repeat the tale
  Of happy hours, too sweet to last!

But when she mourns o’er Mira’s bier,
  And when the fond illusion ends,
Oh! then shall fall the genuine tear
  That drops for dear departed friends!

[Footnote A:  Mr. Hodges, in his Travels in India, page 28, mentions, that between Banglepoor and Mobgheir, it is the custom of the women of the family to attend the tombs of their friends after sun-set; and observes, “it is both affecting and curious to see them proceeding in groups, carrying lamps in their hands, which they place at the head of the tomb.”]

LINES

TO MISS C.

On her leaving the Country.

Since Friendship soon must bid a fond adieu,
And, parting, wish your charms she never knew,
Dear Laura hear one genuine thought express’d,
Warm from the heart, and to the heart address’d:—­
Much do I wish you all your soul holds dear,
To sooth and sweeten ev’ry trouble here;
But heav’n has yielded such an ample store,
You cannot ask, nor can I wish you, more;
Bless’d with a sister’s love, whose gentle mind,
Still pure tho’ polish’d, virtuous and refin’d,
Will aid your tend’rer years and innocence
Beneath the shelter of her riper sense. 
Charm’d with the bright example may you move,
And, loving, richly copy what you love. 
Adieu! and blame not if an artless pray’r
Should, self-directed, ask one moment’s care:—­
When years and absence shall their shade extend,
Reflect who sighs adieu, and call him—­friend.

LINES

TO A ROBIN.

Written during a severe Winter.

Why, trembling, silent, wand’rer! why,
From me and Pity do you fly? 
Your little heart against your plumes
Beats hard—­ah! dreary are these glooms! 
Famine has chok’d the note of joy
That charm’d the roving shepherd-boy. 
Why, wand’rer, do you look so shy? 
And why, when I approach you, fly? 
The crumbs which at your feet I strew
Are only meant to nourish you;
They are not thrown with base decoy,
To rob you of one hour of joy. 
Come, follow to my silent mill,
That stands beneath yon snow-clad hill;
There will I house your trembling form,
There shall your shiv’ring breast be warm: 
And, when your little heart grows strong,
I’ll ask you for your simple song;
And, when you will not tarry more,

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