The cattle lowing o'er the hill!

Your well-drawn school-life picture, too,
My school-time morn recalls again;
'Tis like an old tune, sweet and true,
That mingles pleasing notes with pain.

The fields, the schools, the village way,
The quaint, old-fashioned, country rhyme,
All come, like mystic glows that stray
Across the yellowing fields of Time.

The English lanes have lovely flowers,
And moss, and ferns, and birds that sing,
But Erin--green Erin--still is ours.
And to her name our fond hearts cling.

Each land we visit claims some grace--
Some special charm it calls its own;
Yet patriot souls must love the place
Which childhood's happy memories crown.




LOVE.


When first from Eden's blissful bowers,
Man roamed o'er earth in exile driven,