changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
The corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
Your breath warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'ning for the words
You never more may speak.

[Illustration: Full-page Plate]

'T is but a step down yonder lane,
The little Church stands near--
The Church where we were wed, Mary,--
I see the spire from here;
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,--
My step might break your rest,--
Where you, my darling, lie asleep
With your baby on your breast.

I 'm very lonely now, Mary,--
The poor make no new friends;--
But, oh! they love the better still
The few our Father sends.
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessing and my pride;
There 's nothing left to care for now
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,
When trust in God had left my soul,
And half my strength was gone.
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow.
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you can't hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break;
When the hunger pain was gnawing there
You hid it for my sake.
I bless you for the pleasant word
When your heart was sad and sore.
Oh! I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I 'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary--kind and true!
But I 'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I 'm going to.
They say there 's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there;
But I 'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair.

And when amid those grand old woods
I sit and shut my eyes,
My heart will travel back again
To where my Mary lies;
I 'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat, side by side,--
And the springing corn and bright May morn,
When first you were my bride.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

MICHAEL FIELD.

_WINDS TO-DAY ARE LARGE AND FREE._

Winds to-day are large and free,
Winds to-day are westerly;
From the land they seem to blow
Whence the sap begins to flow
And the dimpled light to spread,
From the country of the dead.

Ah, it is a wild, sweet land
Where the coming May is planned,
Where such influences throb
As our frosts can