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New Zealand Tablet, Volume XIII, Issue 12, 10 July 1885, Page 5

ST. JOHN'S EVE.

The following poem, never before published (says the Pilot), was written by the late Oharles J. Kickham, while the poet and novelist was confined in Woking Convict Prison in England;' , He hid received a letter from Ireland, and this poem was the imprisoned patriot's tender answer. "Do you remember that St. John's Eve three years ago,, when we walked round by Ballycullen to see the bonfires ?,,"-— Letter from home. Yes, Gertrude, I remember well , ', , That St. John's Eve three years ago, Whea while the slanting sunbeam's fell Across the mountain all aglow, Upon the lonely bridge we turned* : * To watch the roseate, msßet hue, > Till faint, and fainter still, it burned, As if 'twere quenched by the falling dew ! Then up the sloping hill we clomb, „.. . AWd backward 16oked, with pensivfe eyesj • ! ; Along the vale— our own sweet home, ' ■' '• , The dearest spot beneath the skies. Dear for the golden hours that were, When life's glad morn all radiant shone, Fondly dear for loved ones there ; ' W ■ And dearer still for loved ones gone. \ ' ' The sun, slides down behind the hill ; . The shadows deepen while we gaze ; The cbapel, the Old Stone, the mill, Are hidden in the twilight haze. The wayside shepherd on the height Waits our approach, nor seems to heed ' ' His vagrant flock throng out of sight ■ < V Adown the winding road they speed. ... Deep was he in Gaelic lore, And loved to talk of days gone by ; (A saddening theme those days of yore ;) And still he'd turn, with sparkling eye; ' ' From Druid rites and. Christian fane, From champion bold and monarch grand, To tell of fray and foray, when Els sires were princes in the land. When to the Well-mile bridge we came, You pointed where the moon-beams white Silvered the stream. When lo 1 a flame — A wavy flame of ruddy lightLeaped np the farm-yard fence above, And, while his children's shout rang high, His cows the farmer slowly drove Across the blaze : he knew not why. Soon round the vale — above, below, And high upon the bine hill's brows,— The bonfires shine with steady glow, Or blink through screening orchard boughs. And now in my lone dismal cell, While I that starry scene recall, The fields, the hills, the sheltered dell, I close my eyes and see them all 1 My dear-loved land, must it be mine 1 No more— except in dreams — to see t Yet think not, friends, that I repine At my sad fate — if sad it be ; Think not the captive weakly pines ; That from his soul all joy hath flown, Oh, no ! the " solemn starlight " shines As brightly as it ever shone. And though I've had my share of pain, ; And sunken is my cheek and pale, Yet, Gertrude, were it ours again, On St. John's Eve, in Compsey vale, While loitering by the Anner's stream To view the mountain's purpled dome— > ■ Waiting to see the bonfires gleam All round our quiet hill clasped home— We'd talk of bygone blissful hours— . A.nd oh 1 what blissful hours I've known. It was a world of smiles and flowers, ; That little home- world of our own, And happy thought each heart would fill What else but happy could we be 1 While Hope stood smiling on the hill, And in the valley Memory. O. J. K. Woking Convict Prison, Nov., 1865,

Writers in the London Zaneet c&li attention to the 1 great' Value of hot water applications to the head in eases of fainting or syncope. They also say that a prompt use of it, applied to the forehead with, cloths, will very often avert such attacks. ,»»»***