But now he stood, chained and alone; The plume, the helm, the charger gone; He bent beneath the headsman's stroke A wild shout from the numbers broke, THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND. D. F. M'CARTHY. THE pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand By the lakes and rushing rivers, through the valleys of our land! In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime. These gray old pillar temples-these conquerors of time! Beside these gray old pillars, how perishing and weak The Roman's arch of triumph, and the temple of the Greek, And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed Gothic spires: All are gone, one by one, but the temples of our sires! THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND.. 147 The column, with its capital, is level with the dust, And the proud halls of the mighty, and the calm homes of the just; For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower, Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of the mower! But the grass grows again when, in majesty and mirth, On the wing of the Spring comes the Goddess of the Earth; But for man, in this world, no spring-tide e'er returns To the labours of his hands or the ashes of his urns! How many different rites have these gray old temples known! To the mind, what dreams are written in these chronicles of stone! What terror, and what error! what gleams of love and truth, Have flashed from these walls since the world was in its youth! Here blazed the sacred fire, and, when the sun was gone, As a star from afar to the traveller it shone; And the warm blood of the victim have these gray old temples drunk, And the death-song of the Druid, and the matin of the monk. Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine, And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from the shrine, And the mitre shining brighter with its diamonds than the east, nd the crosier of the pontiff, and the vestments of the priest ! Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper bell, Where the fugitive found shelter, became the hermit's cell; And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and good, For, the cross o'er the moss of the pointed summit stood! There may it stand for ever, while this symbol doth impart To the mind one glorious vision, or one good throb to the heart: While the breast needeth rest may these gray old temples last, Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past! VALENTINE TO A LITTLE GIRL. CARDINAL NEWMAN. LITTLE maiden, dost thou pino Go and ask, my little child, For it comes of lineage high, DEATH OFDE BOUNE. Noble blood,-and nobler still, In the quarrel of his Lord. Who before and for them bled, Yes! there is a plenty there, In Jerusalem above, Whom to scrve, and whom to love 149 DEATH OF DE BOUNE. SIR W. SCOTT. OH! gay, yet fearful to behold, Flashing with steel, and rough with gold, And who, that saw that monarch ride, Though light and wandering was his glance, The Bruce, my liege; I know him well." He spurred his steed, he couched his lance, As motionless as rocks that bide The Bruce stood fast. Each breast beat high, |