And in the shade we saw the face
Of our dear infant sleeping near,
And thou wert by to smile and hear,
And speak with innate truth and grace.
There through the pleasant noontide hours
My task of echoed song I sung;
Turning the golden southern tongue
Into the iron ore of ours!
’Twas the great Spanish master’s pride,
The story of the hero proved;
’Twas how the Moorish princess loved,
And how the firm Fernando died.
O happiest season ever seen,
O day, indeed the happiest day;
Join with me, love, and with me say—
Sweet summer time and scene.
One picture more before I close
Fond Memory’s fast dissolving views;
One picture more before I lose
The radiant outlines as they rose.
’Tis evening, and we leave the porch,
And for the hundredth time admire
The rhododendron’s cones of fire
Rise round the tree, like torch o’er torch.
And for the hundredth time point out
Each favourite blossom and perfume—
If the white lilac still doth bloom,
Or the pink hawthorn fadeth out:
And by the laurell’d wall, and o’er
The fields of young green corn we’ve gone;
And by the outer gate, and on
To our dear friend’s oft-trodden door.
And there in cheerful talk we stay,
Till deepening twilight warns us home;
Then once again we backward roam
Calmly and slow the well-known way—
And linger for the expected view—
Day’s dying gleam upon the hill;
Or listen for the whip-poor-will,
Or the too seldom shy cuckoo.
At home the historic page we glean,
And muse, and hope, and praise, and pray—
Join with me, love, as then, and say—
Sweet summer time and scene!
111. Mount Pelier, in the county of Dublin, overlooking Rathfarnham, and more remotely Dundrum. To a brief residence near the latter village the “Recollections” rendered in this poem are to be referred.
112. Calderon’s “El Principe Constante,” translated in the earlier volumes of the author’s Calderon. London, 1853.
113. I do not know the bird to which I have given this Indian name. It, however, imitated its note quite distinctly.
The moon of my soul is dark, Dolores,
Dead and dark in my breast it lies,
For I miss the heaven of thy smile, Dolores,
And the light of thy brown bright eyes.
The rose of my heart is gone, Dolores,
Bud or blossom in vain I seek;
For I miss the breath of thy lip, Dolores,
And the blush of thy pearl-pale cheek.
The pulse of my heart is still, Dolores,
Still and chill is its glowing tide;
For I miss the beating of thine, Dolores,
In the vacant space by my side.