The Morning herald., 1876-05-05
THE POETESS "UNA.' .

In the death of Mrs. Mary A. Ford, tne
gifted poetess "Una," wife of Augustine
Ferd, brother of the editor Of the Irish
World, gem has fallen from the crown Of
our Irish contemporary genius and voice
dear to every lover of sweet song, forever
stilled. All of Una's poems are full OF
harmony and instinct with life and beauty.
Her poems are more than the mechanicism
Of mere versifer. They spring from
the poetic fountain, and are mused and
nursed and clothed in the poetic mood.
There is deep and poetic thought in
everything she wrote. Many of her verses
are living memories of Ireland crowned
with the wreathed green Of national pride
and patriotism. In all her songs there
runs deep religious under-current Of
thought. In all Of her productions flashes
forth divine idea, which, while it serves
as lamp to the feet in our ,journeying
through this lower world, pierces clouds
above us, and, at times, gives us glimpses
into that upper and unseen world whittier
we are all tending
As poet, Mrs. Ford stood in the front
ranks of the bards of this generation. She
possessed grace, culture and simplicity
with tender y feeling, whose depths went
down to the very wsll-spring of the human
heart, combined with a Judith like hero
ism which often rose to the sublime. All
her poems are possessed Of a high order
of literary merit, and many Of them of
great artistic beauty and finish, yet it was
ever manifest that she wrote not for mere
literary pre-eminence, but that her desire
was to convey in every line a lesson of
usefulness, to cause the thoughtless 10
think, and generate in the mind and soul
noble and lofty aspirations. That life
should not be mere passive existence,
that men should not vegetate and pass
away, leaving the world no better for their
being, is one of the wholesome thoughts
underlying nearly all Of her poems. OF
this class is the annexed noble, deep and
thoughtful poem, "Work is Worship"
the very title of which is indeed poem
within itself.
WORK IS WORSHIP.
Toiling brothers, are you weary
Struggling meath lifes bitter weight?
Dream not idlen ess Is honor,
Envy not the proud and great;
Noble Is your humble lot;
Work Is worship. scorn it not
Sigh not for the gilded glory
That the crown or sceptre brings;
Ifye rule the fields of labor
Ye are God-created kings;
Oft regal heart may rest
Meath a coarse and tattered vest.
Though the worldly great may scorn you,
Ye are men-what more are they?s
Have they not the same Creator?
Are they made of finer clay?
'Iis by noble deeds alone
That noble soul Is known.
Let the voice of prayer and labor
Blend In one harmonious chime;
Useful works are glorious anthems,
Toll is prayer the most sublime.
Though ye suffer scorn and pain,
Think not that ye livein vain.
Think of Him, the "Meek and Lowly,"
When in weariness ye groan;
How He lived and tOled and suffered,
Poor, unhonored and unknown
be- the universal Lord,
Worshipped by both deed and word,
Honored be the earnest worker,
Bless the rough, toil-hardened hand,
While the glorious hymn of labor
Upward floats from wave to land.
Toilers, noble IL your lot;
Work Is worship, scorn it not.
FELTON, SEMINARY.
We have received an Introductory circu
lar,of the FELTON, Seminary, at FELTON,, X er