TO MICHAEL WRAYTON ESQ.

On the receipt of his most friendly and sympathetic letter.

Thanks for thy letter, honoured friend,
Thanks for thy kindly words,
That in the ear of Fancy blend,
Like trills of earliest birds.

Those words have waked, with magic power,
The past to life again;
The memories of a vanishing hour
Are roving through my brain.

I see again thy Emerald Isle,
As when I saw it first –
Ere from my lips had fled the smile,
For fate had done her worst.

I hear the murmuring waves that splash
Along it’s pebbled shore;
I hear the distant surges dash,
The breakers sullen roar.

I seek with unreluctant feet,
Thy home – of angels blest –
To find the old, warm welcome greet
Anew the stranger guest.

Once more beneath thy roof I stand –
And with a secret pain
I clasp within my own the hand,
Of one beloved in vain.

Nor hers alone – the cordial grass
Of other hands I feel;
The frank, the hearty, manly clasp
Of friendship true as steel.

I seek the music rooms retreat,
With joyous smiles alight –
Where mirth and melody made sweet,
The fleeting hours of night.

Fair Aggie’s snowy fingers glide
The ivory keys along;
Her gentle sisters at her side
Impel the tide of song.

A tidal wave harmonious, such
As life with rapture fills,
While, ‘neath thy music-loving touch,
Thy speaking violin thrills.

I join the circle seated round
Thy hospitable board.
And quaff the cup (in gloom profound)
By fairest hands outpoured.

In pensive mood I tread the path
That skirts the ocean wave,
And watch their billows in their wrath
Amid the breakers rave.

The wild rose and the eglantine
Are blooming round my way;
The beach-pea’s clinging tendrils twine,
Among the shingle gray.

I mark the harbour beacon rear,
Its outline ‘gainst the west,
And many a fond remembrance dear,
Comes thronging to my breast.

The fair guest-chamber, where at night
I mused sweet fancies o’er,
Wild dreams of love – illusions bright -
Invites to rest once more.

The tokens rare of taste and care,
My roving eyes engage -
A vase of blossoms here and there
The missal’s gold clasped page.

The mellowed glory – soft and dim,
Steals slow along the walls;
On pictured saint and seraphim,
The silvery moonbeams fall.

It touches with a tender light
The Virgin’s face – and now,
It wreaths with circling halo bright,
The dying Saviour’s brow.

Oh golden days! Oh blissful hours!
I call ye back at will;
Ah, happy scenes! Ah peaceful bowers!
Ye bloom in memory still.

Enough! The magic spell I break -
The sweet illusion’s chain -
And with a saddened heart, I take
Life’s burdens up again.

Ed note: My sister Joyce obtained a copy of this poem from Carole-Anne Holmes-Lauder of St. John, New Brunswick in the summer of 2000. Carole-Anne's Aunt Marjorie copied this from the original that was with Eve Irons. We do not know where the original is located nor whom the author is. There seems to be a similarity to the Wrayton song. Comments are welcome.

This ed note written Dec 2000.