The Irish standard., 1894-09-08

|. Hearts that are pure and hearts that are vile,
And the guide lamp of hope burns out.
There's leaf turned down in the book of years
The page of regretted things.
And over it's lines the sobbing sigh,
Glance eyes that are wet aud eyes that are dry,
And jealous hands hide it, they know not why,
For tits blotted and blistered with tears.
There's blackened urn on broken shaft
Holding ashes of shattered gods,
Andbearts that are bitter and hearts that for
get,
And memories dead-dreams living yet,
And stray CLEANS from suns forever set,
Come and weep where of old they laughed.
There's a court that is held in the temple of
The court OF the hidden pain;
And we that are meek and we that are proud.
Drop our voices and whisper, lest speaking
aloud s
Our tones should draw thither curious crowd,
Judge as, Thou, who art Ruler above
Miss O'Brien rarely fell into one fault
often committed by our young poetesses:
that of making their poems very long
Sweetness long drawn OUT In fact,
she even went to the other extreme and
wrote number of charming little bits
which one would wish she had drawn out
little longer. One of the latter, al
though not written on q very cheerful
subject, will be Of interest. Here it is:
Infelicity
And 90 we find it all thro' Life,
In joy or sorrow, peace or strife,
1t seems decreed by Fate #|
| That If love leaves q heart once won.
Before there sinks another SUN
That hearts the home Of hate.
| The writings are not all in this latter
tone, however, for her own life has known
nothing Of infelicity and care. She is
more like herself in "'Neath the Glory
Vines" and MY Heart and T." for they
are full OF that vivacity and happy vein
which are such prominent component
Iparts of her own. character. Her reflect
I've poems are OF rather q religious turn
and betray the steady bent Of her mind
in that direction. One OF her best pro.
ductions of this class is perhaps" II
has something in it that. reminds one
of Father Ryan's style.
Perhaps.
i Perhaps, beyond that blns mount far away,
There lies vale whore man has never trod;
Where sunbeams play at hide and seek" al
day,
And feathered songsters carol praise to God
Where silvery brooks DER pebbly beds soft glide
And Groom aslumber song to sweet wild few ri
Which nod and now float sleeping on the tide.
Now we'd to shake their fragrance thro' lon
hours.
Perhaps, beyond the ken Of man, there waits
A. vale OF rest where strife to peace gives way
Where soul meets soul, and JOY each hear
elates,
81 And night meier comes to shade eternal day.
, Perhaps" said T. voice within me cries,
:. Thou Didymusp my wayward doubtin
chides,
almost see the veil that hidden lies,
n And thus my heart content. believes and bide
{ Miss O'Brien published but one Ion
8 prose work. 1t was a novel, entitled
: Judith" and was written before she We
!, 18 years of age. Her genius must. hav
: been marvellously precocious, for To
| work has mature stamp about it ths
: is rarely acquired without long years
. literary apprenticeship. In the wor
) she not only shows q thorough know
0 edge Of Biblical history, but seems to ;
8 conversant with the people Of the Hol
Land, with their customs and habits an
t with the general topography OF th
8 country. Life In Rome is vivldly pl
! tured ID the work and the entire novel
remarkable for It's strength and fnisl
o not the less 60 when one remembers th'
L it is the production OF q young girl, witt
d out aid from any source.
J. In Miss Margaret E. O'Brien swe
d soneeter is lost to the sunny Southlan
d and to the world Of literature. She h'
J chosen wisely, however; for her lyr
# which heretofore has but won the q
plause of men, is now atuned to Il
d praise of God, and she lays her gifts, b
v talents and ner brains developed to
v remarkable degree, at the altar Of III
il who was their Creator and their Give
: | 49,.