The wind which stirred the tasseled corn Came creeping through the casement wide, And softly kissed the babe new born That nestled at its mother's side.
That mother spoke in tones that thrilled: "My firstborn's cradled in my arm, Upon my breast his cry is stilled, And here he lies so dear, so warm."
To her had come a generous share Of worldly honors and of fame, Of hours replete with gladness rare, But no one hour seemed just the same.
As that which came when, white and spent With pain of travail great, she lay, Thrilled through with rapture and content, And love and pride, that August day.
The fairest picture of the past— Life's tenderest page till all is done— A glad young mother holding fast God's wondrous gift—her little son.
ST. PATRICK'S DAY.
There's an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea, Here's to the Saint that blessed it! And here's to the billows wild and free That for centuries have caressed it!
Here's to the day when the men that roam Send longing eyes o'er the water! Here's to the land that still spells home To each loyal son and daughter!
Here's to old Ireland—fair, I ween, With the blue skies stretched above her! Here's to her shamrock warm and green, And here's to the hearts that love her!