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; Yes! Ireland shall be free, 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 BARR [The Lake of Gougaune Barra, i. e. the 1 St. Finn Bar, in the rugged territory of I O'Learys' country), in the west end of the cou parent of the river Lee. Its waters embrace a island of about half an acre in extent, which a ern shore. The lake, as its name implies, is hollow, surrounded on every side (save the ea abundant waters are discharged) by vast and al Inountains, whose dark inverted shadows are g its still waters beneath.] THERE is a green island in lone Go Where Allua of songs rushes forth In deep-valleyed Desmond a t fountains Come down to that lake from the mountains. There grows the wild ash, and a willow Looks chidingly down on the mirth As, like some gay child, that sad mo It lightly laughs back to the laugh o And its zone of dark hills, — 0, brightening, When the tempest flings out its lightning, And the waters rush down, mid deep rattle, Like clans from their hills at the voice And brightly the fire-crested billows And wildly from Mullagh the eagles a O, where is the dwelling, in valley So meet for a bard as this lone littl How oft when the summer sun rest And lit the dark heath on the hills Have I sought thee, sweet spot, fr by the ocean, And trod all thy wilds with a minstr And thought of thy bards, when a gether, In the cleft of thy rocks, or the heather; They fled from the Saxon's dark slaughter, And waked their last song by the rush High sons of the lyre, O, how pr feeling, To think while alone through that s ing, Though loftier minstrels green Erin I only awoke your wild harp from i And mingled once more with the v fountains The songs even Echo forgot on her And gleaned each gray legend that sleeping Where the mist and the rain o'er t were creeping! Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit The fire of thy harp and the wing of thy spirit, With the wrongs which like thee to our country have bound me, | Where is my cabin door, fast by the wildwood? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? 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 repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger; sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh! Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! O cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me, or live to deplore! 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, To be ravaged, to be drained, Is this all our destiny below, That our bodies, as they rot, 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, 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. And half the agony of such a death 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, What has poor Ireland done, mother, What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve, Perishing, one by one? Do the men of England care not, mother, For the suffering sons of Erin's isle, There is many a brave heart here, mother, Dying of want and cold, While only across the Channel, mother, There are rich and proud men there, mother, And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night Come nearer to my side, mother, My father when he died; My breath is almost gone; MISS EDWARDS. WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE? WHAT Constitutes a state? Not high-raised battlement or labored mound, Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned; No:-men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude, But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, Prevent the long-aimed blow, And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain; And sovereign law, that state's collected will, The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks; Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks; Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'T is folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave. SIR WILLIAM JONES. CARACTACUS. BEFORE proud Rome's imperial throne As if the triumph were his own, The dauntless captive stood. None, to have seen his freeborn air, Had fancied him a captive there. Though through the crowded streets of Rome, With slow and stately tread, Far from his own loved island home, A free and fearless glance he cast And now he stood, with brow serene, Claiming, with kindled brow and cheek, Nor could Rome's haughty lord withstand The claim that look preferred, But motioned with uplifted hand The suppliant should be heard, — Deep stillness fell on all the crowd, "Think not, thou eagle Lord of Rome, I would address thee as thy slave, |