I love to press the open hand
That's hard with daily toil,
Because it owns the honest heart
That flattery ne'er can spoil.
I love a dear old country voice,
Though rough and harsh it rings,
Because it only speaks the thought
That from the feeling springs.
I love the open, manly heart,
That ne'er to falsehood leans,
And prize indeed the honest tongue
That speaks but what it means.
I love a dear old country house,
Its sweet, but humble fare;
But most I love it for the true
And hearty welcome there;
The love of home that ne'er deserts
Our good old Saxon race,-
And all those good old country ways
That fashion can't efface.
ALICE GRAY.
[Mrs. P. MILLARD.]
She's all my fancy painted her-
She's lovely, she's divine!
But her heart it is another's
She never can be mine;
Oh! few have loved as I have loved
My love cannot decay;
Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking
For the love of Alice Gray!
Her dark brown hair is braided
O'er a brow of spotless white;
Her soft blue eye now languishes,
Now sparkles with delight;
The hair is braided not for me,
The eye is turn'd away;
Yet my heart, my heart is breaking,
For the love of Alice Gray!
I've sunk beneath the summer's sun,
And shiver'd in the blast;
But now my pilgrimage is done,
The weary conflict's past;
When laid within my peaceful grave,
May pity haply say,
Oh! his heart, his heart was broken
For the love of Alice Gray!
To the west! to the west! to the land of the free,
Where mighty Missouri rolls down to the sea,
Where a man is a man, if he's willing to toil,
And the humblest may gather the fruits of the soil;
Where children are blessings, and he who hath most
Has aid for his fortune and riches to boast;
Where the young may exult and the aged may rest,-
Away, far away, to the land of the west!
To the west! to the west! to the land of the free, Where mighty Missouri rolls down to the sea,
Where the young may exult and the aged may rest, Away, far away, to the land of the west!
To the west! to the west! where the rivers that flow Run thousands of miles, spreading out as they go; Where the green waving forests shall echo our call, As wide as old England, and free to us all;
Where the prairies, like seas where the billows have roll'd,
Are broad as the kingdoms and empires of old;
And the lakes are like oceans, in storm or in rest,
Away, far away, to the land of the west!
To the west! to the west! there is wealth to be won,
The forest to clear is the work to be done;
We'll try it, we'll do it, and never despair,
While there's light in the sunshine or breath in the air.
The bold independence that labour shall buy
Shall strengthen our hands and forbid us to sigh;
Away, far away, let us hope for the best,
And build up a home in the land of the west!
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.*
[Music by J. BLOCKLEY.
Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashion'd country seat;
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,
"For ever! never! never! for ever!"
Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands;
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs "Alas!"
With sorrowful voice, to all who pass,
"For ever! never! never! for ever!"
There, groups of merry children play'd,
There, youths and dreaming maidens stray'd;
O precious hours! O golden prime!
And affluence of love and time!
Even as a miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told
"For ever! never! never! for ever!"
* "L'eternité est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et rcdit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux : Toujours! Jamais! Jamais! Toujours!"-Jacques Bridaine.
From that chamber, cloth'd in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There in that silent room below
The dead lay in his shroud of snow;
And in the hush that follow'd the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair,
"For ever! never! never! for ever!"
Never here, for ever there!
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time, shall disappear;
For ever there, but never here!
The horologe of eternity,
Sayeth this incessantly,
"For ever! never! never! for ever!"
So, my Kathleen, you're going to leave me
All alone by myself in this place;
But I'm sure you will never deceive me,
O, no, if there's truth in that face.
Though England's a beautiful city,
Full of illigant boys, O what then,
You wouldn't forget your poor Terence!
You'll come back to ould Ireland again.
Oh, those English deceivers by nature,
Though maybe you'd think them sincere:
They'll say you're a sweet charming creature,
But don't you believe them, my dear.
O, Kathleen, agrah! don't be minding
The flattering speeches they'd make;
But tell them a poor lad in Ireland
Is breaking his heart for your sake.
It's folly to keep you from going,
Though, faith, it's a mighty hard case;
For, Kathleen, you know there's no knowing
When next I shall see your swate face.
And when you come back to me, Kathleen,
None the better will I be off then;
You'll be speaking such beautiful English,
Sure I won't know my Kathleen again.
Aye now, where's the need of this hurry!
Don't flusther me so in this way;
I forgot, 'twixt the grief and the flurry,
Every word I was maning to say.
Now just wait a minute, I bid ye;
Can I talk if you bother me so ?-
Oh, Kathleen, my blessings go wid ye,
Every inch of the way that you go.
WHY CHIME THE BELLS SO MERRILY?
Why chime the bells so merrily?
Why seem ye all so gay?
Is it because the New Year's come,
And the old has passed away?
Oh! can ye look upon the past,
And feel no sorrow now,
That thus ye sing so joyously,
And smiles light every brow?
Oh! if ye can, be blithe and gay,
The song troll gaily on,
And the burden be the New Year's come,
And the Old Year's gone.
The old man gazes on the mirth,
He smiles not like the rest;
He sits in silence by the hearth,
And seems with grief oppressed:
He sees not in the merry throng
The child that was his pride;
He listens for her joyous song,
She is not by his side!
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