MAUREEN.

The cottage is here as of old I remember,

The pathway is worn as it always hath been;

On the turf-piled hearth there still lives a bright ember;—

But where is Maureen?

The same pleasant prospect still lieth before me,

The river—the mountain—the valley of green,

And Heaven itself (a bright blessing!) is o'er me;—

But where is Maureen?

Lost! Lost!—Like a dream that hath come and departed,

(Ah, why are the loved and the lost ever seen!)

She has fallen—hath flown, with a lover false-hearted;—

So, mourn for Maureen.

And she who so loved her is slain—(the poor mother!)

Struck dead in a day by a shadow unseen,

And the home we once loved is the home of another,

And lost is Maureen.

Sweet Shannon, a moment by thee let me ponder,

A moment look back at the things that have been,

Then, away to the world where the ruin'd ones wander,

To seek for Maureen.

Pale peasant—perhaps, 'neath the frown of high Heaven,

She roams the dark deserts of sorrow unseen,

Unpitied—unknown; but I—I shall know even

The ghost of Maureen.