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When we, as we rush to the strangling fight, | And stop her bloody lips, she takes no heed
Send home to our true-loves a long “Good-night," How one clear word would draw an avalanche
Thou canst hie thee where love is sold,

Of living sons around her, to succeed
And buy thy pleasure with paltry gold.

The vanished generations. Can she count A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

These oil-eaters, with large, live, mobile mouths

Agape for macaroni, in the amount When lance and bullet come whistling by,

Of consecrated heroes of her south's And death in a thousand shapes draws nigh, Bright rosary? The pitcher at the fount, Thou canst sit at thy cards, and kill

The gift of gods, being broken, she much loathes King, queen, and knave with thy spadille.

To let the ground-leaves of the place confer A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

A natural bowl. So henceforth she would seem

| No nation, but the poet's pensioner, If on the red field our bell should toll, Then welcome be death to the patriot's soul.

With alms from every land of song and dream,

While aye her pipers sadly pipe of her, Thy pampered flesh shall quake at its doom,

Until their proper breaths, in that extreme And crawl in silk to a hopeless tomb.

Of sighing, split the reed on which they played ! A pitiful exit thine shall be;

No German maid shall weep for thee,
No German song shall they sing for thee,
No German goblets shall ring for thee.
Forth in the van,

Man for man,
Swing the battle-sword who can!

Kurser. Translation of Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with

Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and rest

less spark.


Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in

race ; “LESS wretched if less fair.” Perhaps a truth Is so far plain in this, -- that Italy,

Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face. Long trammelled with the purple of her youth

III. Against her age's ripe activity,

Never was lady on earth more true as woman and Sits still upon her tombs, without death's ruth,

wife, But also without life's brave energy.

Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in “Now tell us what is Italy ?" men ask :

manners and life. And others answer, “ Virgil, Cicero,

Catullus, Cæsar.” What beside ? to task The memory closer, “Why, Boccaccio,

She stood in the early morning, and said to her Dante, Petrarca," -- and if still the flask ..

I maidens, “ Bring Appears to yield its wine by drops too slow,—

That silken robe made ready to wear at the court "Angelo, Raffael, Pergolese," -- all

of the king. Whose strong hearts beat through stone, or

v. charged again

“Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear The paints with fire of souls electrical,

of the mote, Or broke up heaven for music. What more then ? Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the Why, then, no more. The chaplet's last beads small at the throat. fall

VI. In naming the last saintship within ken,

"Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to And, after that, none prayeth in the land.

fasten the sleeves, Alas, this Italy has too long swept

Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of Heroic ashes up for hour-glass sand ;

snow from the caves." Of her own past, impassioned nympholept !

Consenting to be nailed here by the hand To the very bay-tree under which she stepped Gorgeous she entered the sunlight which gathA queen of old, and plucked a leafy branch.

ered her up in a flame, And, licensing the world too long indeed While, straight in her open carriage, she to the To use her broad phylacteries to stanch

hospital came.

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VIII. In she went at the door, and gazing, from end to On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried end,

off by a ball : “Many and low are the pallets, but cach is the Kneeling, .. "O more than my brother ! how place of a friend."

shall I thank thee for all ?


XIX. Up she passed through the wards, and stood at “Each of the heroes around us has fought for a young man's bed :

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.

wrong not thine.


“Art thou a Lombard, my brother ? Happy art Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be disthou !" she cried,

possessed. And smiled like Italy on him : he dreamed in But blessed are those among nations who dare her face and died.

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 :

where pined He was a grave, hard man, whose years by dun- One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope geons were reckoned.

out of mind.

XXII, Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at life were sorer.

the name, “ Art thou a Romagnole ?" Her eyes drove light. But two great crystal tears were all that faltered nings before her.

and came.

XXIII. XIII. Austrian and priest had joined to double and

Only a tear for Venice ? — she turned as in pas

s ion and loss. tighten the cord

And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as it Able to bind thee, O strong one, -- free by the

she were kissing the cross. stroke of a sword.


Faint with that strain of heart, she moved on “Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life be grave for the rest of us, using the ne

t hen to another, overcast

Stern and strong in his death. “And dost thou To ripen our wine of the present (too new) in

suffer, my brother ?glooms of the past."

XXV. Down she stepred to a pallet where lay a face

Holding his hands in hers :-"Out of the Piedlike a girl's,

mont lion Young, and pathetic with dying, – a deep black

Cometh the sweetness of freedom ! sweetest to hole in the curls.

live or to die on."





“ Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest Holding his cold rough hands, -"Well, O, well thou, dreaming in pain,

have ye done Thy mother stand in the piazza. searching the In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be list of the slain ?"

noble alone."

XXVII. . XVII. Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks

Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her

feet with a spring, with her hands :

“That was a Piedmontese ! and this is the Court “Blessed is she who has borne thee, although of the King." she should weep as she stands."


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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 OLD.

sleeps ;

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, LET Erin remember the days of old,

Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. Ere her faithless sons betrayed her ;

THOMAS MOORE. When Malachi wore the collar of gold

Which he won from her proud invader ;
When her kings with standard of green unfurled
Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger,

Ere the emerald gem of the western world
Was set in the crown of a stranger.

O, THE French are on the say!

Says the Shan Van Vocht; On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,

The French are on the say, When the clear cold eve 's declining,

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; He secs the round towers of other days

O, the French are in the bay ! In the wave beneath him shining !

They 'll be here without delay, Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,

And the Orange will decay, Catch a glimpse of the days that are over,

Says the Shan Van Vocht. Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time

0, the French are in the bay! For the long-faded glories they cover !

They'll be here by break of day,
THOMAS MOORE ("Irish Melodies ").

And the Orange will decay,

Says the Shan Van Vocht.



THE harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise

Now feel that pulse no more !

And where will they have their camp?

Says the Shan Van Vocht;
Where will they have their camp ?

Says the Shan Van Vocht;
On the Currach of Kildare,
The boys they will be there
With their pikes in good repair,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

To the Currach of Kildare
The boys they will repair,
And Lord Edward will be there,

Says the Shan Van Vocht.


Then what will the yeomen do?

GOUGAUNE BARRA. Says the Shan Van Vocht;

(The Lake of Gougaune Barra, i. e. the hollow, or recess of What will the yeomen do?

St. Finn Bar, in the rugged territory of Ibh-Laoghaire (the Says the Shan Van Vocht;

O'Learys' country), in the west end of the county of Cork, is the What should the yeomen do,

parent of the river Lee. Its waters embrace a small but verdant

island of about half an acre in extent, which approaches its eastBut throw off the red and blue,

crn shore. The lake, as its name implies, is situate in a deep And swear that they 'll be true

hollow, surrounded on every side (save the east, where its sug er.

abundant waters are discharged) by vast and almost perpendicular To the Shan Van Vocht ?

inountains, whose dark inverted shadows are gloomily reflected in What should the yeomen do,

its still waters beneath.] But throw of the red and blue,

THERE is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra, And swear that they'll be true

Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow; To the Shan Van Vocht?

In deep-valleyed Desmond - a thousand wild

fountains And what color will they wear ?

Come down to that lake from their home in the Says the Shan Van Vocht;

mountains. What color will they wear ?

There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken

willow Says the Shan Van Vocht; What color should be seen,

Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow; Where our fathers' homes have been,

As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning, But our own immortal green?

It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning. Says the Shan Van Vocht.

And its zone of dark hills, – 0, to see them all What color should be seen,

Where our fathers' homes have been,

When the tempest flings out its red banner of
But our own immortal green?
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

And the waters rush down, mid the thunder's

deep rattle, And will Ireland then be free ?

Likeclans from their hills at the voice of the battle; Says the Shan Van Vocht;

And brightly the fire-crested billowsare gleaming, Will Ireland then be free ?

And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming! Says the Shan Van Vocht;

(o, where is the dwelling, in valley or highland, Yes! Ireland shall be free,

So meet for a bard as this lone little island ? From the centre to the sea ; Then hurrah for liberty!

How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara, Says the Shan Van Vocht.

And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera, Yes! Ireland shall be free,

Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home From the centre to the sea;

by the ocean, Then hurrah for libcrty!

And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion, Says the Shan Van Vocht. .

And thought of thy bards, when assembling to

gether, In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy


They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and AS BY THE SHORE AT BREAK OF DAY. slaughter,

And waked their last song by the rush of thy water. As by the shore, at break of day, A vanquished chief expiring lay,

High sons of the lyre, O, how proud was the Upon the sands, with broken sword,

feeling, He traced his farewell to the free;

| To think while alone through that solitude steal. And there the last unfinished word

ing, He dying wrote, was “Liberty!"

Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number,

I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber, At night a sea-bird shrieked the knell

And mingled once more with the voice of those Of him who thus for freedom fell ;

fountains The words he wrote, ere evening came,

The songs even Echo forgot on her mountains ; Were covered by the sounding sca;

And gleaned each gray legend that darkly was So pass away the cause and name

sleeping Of him who dies for liberty !

Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty

were creeping!



Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit / Where is my cabin door, fast by the wildwood ?
The fire of thy harp and the wing of thy spirit, Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall ?
With the wrongs which like thee to our country Where is the mother that looked on my childhood ?
have bound me,

| 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,

Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? Still, still in those wilds might young Liberty rally, Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without And send her strong shout over mountain and measure, valley,

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. The star of the west might yet rise in its glory, And the land that was darkest be brightest in story. / Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw,

Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!
I too shall be gone;- but my name shall be spoken

Land of my forefathers, Erin go bragh !
When Erin awakes and her fetters are broken.
Some minstrel will come, in the summer eve's

| Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,

Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! • gleaming,

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with When Freedom's young light on his spirit is

devotion, beaming,

Erin mavourneen, Erin go bragh! And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,

THOMAS CAMPBELL. Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of ocean, Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that river, O'er the heart and the harp that are sleeping for

IRELAND. ever.


They are dying ! they are dying ! where the

golden corn is growing ;

They are dying! they are dying! where the EXILE OF ERIN.

crowded herds are lowing ;

They are gasping for existence where the streams THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,

of life are flowing, 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!
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,

Do we dream ? Can it be,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,

In this land, at this hour,

With the blossom on the tree,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

In the gladsome month of May,

When the young lambs play, Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger;

When Nature looks around The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,

On her waking children now,

The seed within the ground, But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

The bud upon the bough? A home and a country remain not to me.

Is it right, is it fair, Never again in the green sunny bowers

That we perish of despair Where my forefathers lived shall I spend the

In this land, on this soil, sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

Where our destiny is set, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh !

Which we cultured with our toil,

And watered with our sweat ? Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,

We have ploughed, we have sown, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ;

But the crop was not our own ; But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken,

We have reaped, but harpy hands And sigh for the friends who can meet me no Swept the harvest from our lands; more!

We were perishing for food, O cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

When lo ! in pitying mood, In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase Our kindly rulers gave me ?

The fat fluid of the slave, Never again shall my brothers embrace me?

While our corn filled the manger They died to defend me, or live to deplore! I Of the war-horse of the stranger !

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