We read the painful pages through,
  Perceived the skill, admired the art,
Felt them if true, not wholly true,
  A truer truth was in our heart. 
Save fear and love of One, hath proved
  The sage how vain is all below;
And one was there who feared and loved,
  And one who loved that she was so.

The vision spreads, the memories grow,
  Fair phantoms crowd the more I gaze,
Oh! cup of gold, with wine o’erflow,
  I’ll drink to those departed days: 
And when I drain the golden cup
  To them, to those I ne’er can see,
With wine of hope I’ll fill it up,
  And drink to days that yet may be.

I’ve drunk the future and the past,
  Now for a draught of warmer wine—­
One draught, the sweetest and the last,
  Lady, I’ll drink to thee and thine. 
These flowers that to my breast I fold,
  Into my very heart have grown;
To thee I’ll drain the cup of gold,
  And think the violet eyes thine own.

Boulogne, March, 1865.

TO THE MEMORY OF FATHER PROUT.

In deep dejection, but with affection,
  I often think of those pleasant times,
In the days of Fraser, ere I touched a razor,
  How I read and revell’d in thy racy rhymes;
When in wine and wassail, we to thee were vassal,
  Of Watergrass-hill, O renowned P.P.! 
        May the bells of Shandon
        Toll blithe and bland on
  The pleasant waters of thy memory!

Full many a ditty, both wise and witty,
  In this social city have I heard since then
(With the glass before me, how the dream comes o’er me,
  Of those Attic suppers, and those vanished men). 
But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken,
  Or hath left a token of such joy in me
        As “The Bells of Shandon
        That sound so grand on
  The pleasant waters of the river Lee.”

The songs melodious, which—­a new Harmodius—­
  “Young Ireland” wreathed round its rebel sword,
With their deep vibrations and aspirations,
  Fling a glorious madness o’er the festive board! 
But to me seems sweeter, with a tone completer,
  The melodious metre that we owe to thee—­
        Of the bells of Shandon
        That sound so grand on
  The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

There’s a grave that rises o’er thy sward, Devizes,
  Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar,
And a white stone flashes over Goldsmith’s ashes
  In quiet cloisters by Temple Bar;
So where’er thou sleepest, with a love that’s deepest,
  Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee,
        While the Bells of Shandon
        Shall sound so grand on
  The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

THOSE SHANDON BELLS.

[The remains of the Rev. Francis Mahony were laid in the family burial-place in St. Anne Shandon Churchyard, the “Bells,” which he has rendered famous, tolling the knell of the poet, who sang of their sweet chimes.]