Thou battl'd not 'gainst hosts of hell,
With words alone, convincing, warm;
Thy deeds were like the fatal shell,
That bursts amid the battle's storm.
The temple now, which stately stands
A lasting monument, shall tell
Of lib'ral hearts, and willing hands,
Urg'd on by thee to labor well.
O father, friend, well see no more!
Thy fight is done, and it was long;
But thou hast reach'd another shore,
And singeth now a blessed song.
The snows shall come upon the hills,
The valleys, too, with white be spread,
The birds shall whistle by the rills,
The flowers shall their fragrance shed.
The spring shall come to deck the earth,
In garb of vernal loveliness;
And sorrow shall abound, and mirth
Betimes shall cheer our deep distress.
The seasons shall perform their rounds,
And vegetation bloom and fade,
But thou wilt heed nor sights nor sounds,
For thou to rest for aye art laid.
* * * * *
ST. PATRICK'S DAY.
The chilly days of March are here,
The raw, cold winds are blowing;
All nature now, is bleak and drear,
But piercing winds and frosts are going.
But frosts nor snows, nor biting blast,
Can chill the warmth within each heart,
When comes around the day at last,
To sainted mem'ry set apart.