In St. Sophia the Turkman gets, And loud in air, calls men to prayer, From the tapering summit of tall minarets. Such empty phantom, I freely grant them, But there's an anthem more dear to It's the bells of Shandon, The pleasant waters of the river JOHN STERLING. 1806-1844. [BORN at Kames Castle, Isle of Bute, July 20, 1806; son of Edward Sterling, editor of the London Times; was for a short time on the editorial staff of the Athenæum, afterwards a curate, but soon gave his attention to literary studies and pursuits. Among his works are Arthur Coningsby (1833), The Onyx Ring (1856), Minor Poems (1839), The Election (1841), and Straf ford, a drama (1843). Died at Ventnor, Isle of Wight, Sept. 18, 1844.] [HELEN SELINA SHERIDAN, sister of Caroline Norton and granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, born in 1807; became, in 1825, wife of Hon. Price Blackwood, afterwards Lord Dufferin. Her husband died in 1841, and in 1862 she married the Earl of Gifford. She died June 23, 1867. Her son, the present Earl of Dufferin, is widely known as an accomplished statesman and author. Lady Dufferin was the author of many popular songs and ballads, of which The Irish Emigrant's Lament is the best known.] LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMI GRANT. I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side And the red was on your lip, Mary, The place is little changed, Mary; [DAUGHTER of Thomas Sheridan, born in 1808; at the age of nineteen married the Hon. George C. Norton. In 1829 published the Sorrows of Rosalie; the following year achieved her success as a poetess by the production of the Undying One, which the Quarterly Review de clared to be worthy of Lord Byron. Subsequent works in prose and poetry obtained a large circulation; her most quoted poem is Bingen on the Rhine. Died June 15, 1877.] LOVE NOT. Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay! Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers Things that are made to fade and fall away, When they have blossomed but a few short hours. Love not, love not! The thing you love may die May perish from the gay and gladsome earth; The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, Beam on its grave as once upon its birth. A SONG to the oak, the brave old oak, Who hath ruled in the greenwood long; Here's health and renown to his broad green crown, And his fifty arms so strong. There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down, And the fire in the west fades out; And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, When the storms through his branches shout. Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak, Who stands in his pride alone; And still flourish he, a hale green tree, When a hundred years are gone! In the days of old, when the spring with gold Had brightened his branches gray, Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet, To gather the dew of May. And on that day to the rebeck gay They frolicked with lovesome swains; They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid, But the tree it still remains. He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes Were a merry sound to hear, When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small Were filled with good English cheer. Now gold hath the sway we all obey, And a ruthless king is he; |