VIII. In she went at the door, and gazing, from end to end, "Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place of a friend." IX. Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a young man's bed: XVIII. On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball: Kneeling, . . "O more than my brother! how shall I thank thee for all? XIX. "Each of the heroes around us has fought for his land and line, Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a of his head. X. "Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy art thou!" she cried, And smiled like Italy on him: he dreamed in her face and died. XI. wrong not thine. XX. Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dis possessed. But blessed are those among nations who dare to be strong for the rest!" XXI. Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch second: XV. Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the name, But two great crystal tears were all that faltered and came. XXIII. Only a tear for Venice? sion and loss, she turned as in pas And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if she were kissing the cross. XXIV. Faint with that strain of heart, she moved on then to another, Stern and strong in his death. "And dost thou suffer, my brother?" XXV. Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face Holding his hands in hers: :- "Out of the Pied Cometh the sweetness of freedom! sweetest to live or to die on." XXVI. Holding his cold rough hands, have ye done "Well, O, well In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble alone." XXVII. Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet with a spring, "That was a Piedmontese ! and this is the Court of the King." ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING But the night dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he Then what will the yeomen do? Says the Shan Van Vocht; What will the yeomen do? Says the Shan Van Vocht; What should the yeomen do, But throw off the red and blue, And swear that they 'll be true To the Shan Van Vocht? What should the yeomen do, But throw off the red and blue, And swear that they'll be true To the Shan Van Vocht? And what color will they wear? Says the Shan Van Vocht; Says the Shan Van Vocht. And will Ireland then be free? Says the Shan Van Vocht; Says the Shan Van Vocht. ANONYMOUS. AS BY THE SHORE AT BREAK OF DAY. As by the shore, at break of day, He traced his farewell to the free; And there the last unfinished word He dying wrote, was "Liberty!" At night a sea-bird shrieked the knell THOMAS MOORE. GOUGAUNE BARRA. [The Lake of Gougaune Barra, I. e. the hollow, or recess of St. Finn Bar, in the rugged territory of Ibh-Laoghaire (the O'Learys' country), in the west end of the county of Cork, is the parent of the river Lee. Its waters embrace a small but verdant island of about half an acre in extent, which approaches its eastern shore. The lake, as its name implies, is situate in a deep hollow, surrounded on every side (save the east, where its su et abundant waters are discharged) by vast and almost perpendicular nountains, whose dark inverted shadows are gloomily reflected in its still waters beneath.] THERE is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra, Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow; In deep-valleyed Desmond - a thousand wild fountains Come down to that lake from their home in the mountains. There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow; As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning, It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning. And its zone of dark hills, - O, to see them all brightening, When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning, And the waters rush down, mid the thunder's deep rattle, Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle; And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming, And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming! O, where is the dwelling, in valley or highland, So meet for a bard as this lone little island? How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara, And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera, Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean, And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion, And thought of thy bards, when assembling together, In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit | Where is my cabin door, fast by the wildwood? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around O my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, me, Still, still in those wilds might young Liberty rally, And send her strong shout over mountain and valley, The star of the west might yet rise in its glory, And the land that was darkest be brightest in story. The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; And they perish of the plague where the breeze For his country he sighed, when at twilight of health is blowing! God of justice! God of power! With the blossom on the tree, On her waking children now, The bud upon the bough? Where our destiny is set, Of the war-horse of the stranger! God of mercy! must this last? Is this land preordained, And the future, to be chained, - Is this all our destiny below, May fertilize the spot Where they watch their flocks increase, Till they send it to their masters to be woven Where, having sent their meat For the foreigner to eat, Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into their graves. 'Tis for this they are dying where the golden corn is growing, 'Tis for this they are dying where the crowded herds are lowing, 'Tis for this they are dying where the streams of life are flowing, Where the harvests of the stranger grow? And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing! If this be, indeed, our fate, Far, far better now, though late, That we seek some other land and try some other zone; The coldest, bleakest shore Than the storehouse of the stranger that we dare Kindly brothers of the West, Who from Liberty's full breast Have fed us, who are orphans beneath a step-dame's frown, Behold our happy state, And weep your wretched fate That you share not in the splendors of our empire and our crown! Kindly brothers of the East, Thou great tiara'd priest, - 1847. DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY. GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER. THE IRISH FAMINE. GIVE me three grains of corn, mother, - It will keep the little life I have Till the coming of the morn. I am dying of hunger and cold, mother. - And half the agony of such a death. My lips have never told. It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother,- All the livelong day, and the night beside, Thou sanctified Rienzi of Rome and of the earth, I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother, Or thou who bear'st control Over golden Istambol, Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in our dearth, Turn here your wondering eyes, Your muftis and your ministers, your men of Let the sagest of your sages Ope our island's mystic pages, And explain unto your highness the wonders of our shore. A fruitful, teeming soil, Where the patient peasants toil Beneath the summer's sun and the watery winter sky; Where they tend the golden grain Then reap it for the stranger, and turn aside to die. And the sight was heaven to see; I awoke with an eager, famishing lip, How could I look to you, mother, And in your eyes so wild, And I felt it in your bony hand, The Queen has lands and gold, mother, — While you are forced to your empty breast A babe that is dying of want, mother, With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, |