THE EMIGRANT'S REVERIE.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume II, Issue 78, 24 October 1874, Page 13

THE EMIGRANT'S REVERIE.

Cojie, heap up the logs on the hearth-stonej and shiit out the wintry blast ; To-night, in our snug little shanty, I'll tell you some tales of the past. And while the wind howls on the prairies, and drives the white snow to the door, I'll visit in fancy the Old Land, and stand on her Emerald shore. 'Twill lift up a load from my heart ; and calm all my longings awliile, To live o'er the scenes of the past, and speak of that beautiful isle. 'Twill cheer me to fill your young bosoms with love for the suffering land — To make you feel pwmd of old Erin, and ever her foeinen withstand. The Old Land! — The Old Land! I love her though nought of her form can be seen — Though thousands of miles of the prairies and billowy seas intervene — Though want and affliction surround her, and tyranny tramples her down, And leaves her oppressed and dejected — deprived of her sceptre and crown. Not thine is the fault, dearest Mother ! thy children are leaving thy breast, To seek o'er the billowy ocean a home in this land of the West. Poor Queen ! there are hearts that still love thee, and hands that would strike for thy fame, Though traitors still fawn to the tyrants, and sycophants blush at thy name. Sweet love of our Faith and our Country ! — forever unfading they last, Like ivy-leaves twining together round desolate wrecks of the past — Round abbeys whose gables have fallen — round castles whose turrets are gone — Round towers that stand up majestic, in valleys deserted alone — Bound ruins of churches whose steeples oft echoed the voice of the bell, But tottered and crumbled in tempests, and rang their own funera knell, And mingled their dust with the valleys, — an emblem of patriots brave, Who fall on the breast of their country, and find in its bosom a gravel God's blessing be ever xipon thee, my beautiful isle far away ! May tempest ne'er shadow thy beauty, may time never bring thee decay ! But ever be noble, though fallen, and ever be lovely, though lone — If, Mothers of So:\>> '\s, yet smiling midst tears for her sons who are gone! Oh, tyrants can never destroy thee ! Oh, sorrows can never deface The hope that has lived through the ages and gladdened the suffering race ; Nor exile and happiness banish remembrance of days that have fled. No, no : by the past and its sorrows ! Ah ! no, by the graves of the dead!