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ize their wrongs. And there are many independent powers that cannot look with indifference upon any effort on the part of England to rivet again the worn and breaking chain of her power. Ireland has but to strike, and she is free.

And she will strike. Next to food, the Irish peasant has come to regard fire-arms as the greatest blessing. A writer in the Prospective Review says: "I was recently in the shop of a London gunsmith, and asked him what was the chief market for certain small pistols. He replied, that, shocking as it might seem, they were used by Irish gentlemen to protect their guns, while out shooting; for, without them, as soon as the guns were discharged, they were liable to be attacked by a man with a bludgeon, in order to wrest away the gun."

There is a terrible lesson to England in this restless, incessant seeking of the Irish peasantry after a gun. And what we would have the Irishmen of the United States do is, to take an immediate step to gratify this very reasonable love of their brethren for a gun. They will find thousands of patriot-Americans to join them in this good work. It is the only work that will reach the heart of England in earnest. England is a goodly Christian land, that is, dead and gone to every other kind of moral suasion but that of a gun. My hand trembles when I write this terrible truth. War is indeed a horrible remedy. And sooner than go out to a war for what is called "conquest," or even for what is oftentimes most vaguely termed a "nation's honor," I would consent to die in a felon's cell. But for Liberty, for the sacred rights and blessings of home, for such a cause as Ireland's now is, I would fight, though it were over the bleeding corse of my wife and babes. Rather let me die with defiance on my brow, in the midst of the blood and horror of battle than perish by the slow shame of famine, brought upon me by the hands of tyrants.

Some fighting, then, is the first and only hope of Ireland. Her independence gained, she is safe enough from famine. She has land enough to feed herself, and give a great annual charity to the shriveled starvlings of the Isle of Britain besides. Let the Irish government-the Irish Republic-without disturbing the vested rights in any actually improved land, take to itself the 7,250,000 imperial acres of idle, unimproved lands, and distribute them to the working peasantry for inalienable homesteads. Of these now idle acres there are seven millions capable of the highest cultivation; which would give each peasant not less than three Irish acres of good rich land. Many other enactments a wise legislation might put in operation immediately, which would put Ireland in the way of becoming one of the most prosperous and happy countries in Europe.

The time has come to strike for this. Let the friends of freedom, the friends of Ireland in America organize immediately into an American Irish League, throughout the country, pledging themselves to do all they lawfully can for the freedom of Ireland. Let them not be intimidated by the cautionary threats of that portion of the American press which is still English, nor by the "doubts and difficulties" continually harped upon by the slimed creatures of the British aristocracy, who still remain here, diseased ulcerous blotches upon American soil. Let Americans

understand that the freedom of Ireland would also be, in time, the freedom of our own country from English manners and English tendencies, that are already weighing us down under a growing aristocracy of wealth, and a consequent rapid degradation of the poor. Let the civilized world understand that the only hope of the triumph of universal freedom is the final crippling of the British government, and driving it off of every other rood of God's earth into an imprisonment for life in its own little island. The freedom of Ireland is the first, and a great step towards this most desirable end.

Americans and Irishmen, who love freedom, strike now! Organize thoroughly, so that you may know your numbers. You can easily enough command a fund of a million of dollars. And whatever you wish to send to Ireland you can send, without embroiling the American government, without even using the "American ports and waters" in any way that government could object to: since American politicians will object to the "government" taking any part in the great work of freedom that strives to regenerate Europe. Let the "government-people" go on with their petty quarrels, making still more petty Presidents, feeing themselves also with good eight dollars a day,-let them go on their own way. And then let those of the "sovereign-people" who wish to do a little work for freedom, go their way too.

If the Patriots in America think it best, they may first help Canada to, what she pants for again, her freedom. It is easily done. Twenty thousand or fifty thousand unarmed and peaceable men have an undoubted right to emigrate to Canada. They have a good right enough to go and take a look of the great Niagara falls. And there are lakes and rivers, and plenty of under-ground railroads to convey to the same romantic spot, at about the same time, plenty of provisions, &c. &c. &c. Canada free, would give some excellent land and waters to communicate direct with Ireland.

But I will not enlarge upon the many ways in which American Irishmen may aid their suffering brethren at home. First organize, and discuss the ways and means afterwards. Irishmen, the time has come to write the epitaph of Robert Emmet-to revenge the insult offered to mankind in the wrongs of the Patriot Mitchell.

NANUNTENOO.

A LEGEND OF THE NARRAGANSETTS.

BY FANNY GREEN.

PROEM.

LAND of my Fathers! Home of Liberty!
My heart o'erflows with ardent love for thee;
And as thy own free winds awake my lyre,
The chords are rife with patriotic fire!

Hark! the wild blast that rudely sweeps along
Disturbs the listening strings with mournful song-
A spirit breathes from every unknown grave
Sad memories of the long-neglected brave-
Wild strains of mourning from the green earth flow,
For all the mighty ones who sleep below!

Thus to the conscious heart their wrongs they tell,
And through the echoing air their dirge-like numbers swell!
"The proudest Sachem of our hills and streams
Hath passed away like his own morning dreams!
The white man's benefactor sleeps unsung,
And o'er his grave no verdant wreath is hung.
The chief, whose monarch sway was o'er yon hills,
Some waste-grown nook, unsung, unhonored fills.
No children's tears, no monumental urns,

Tell where the sacred dust to dust returns;

No pilgrim's prayer the holy spot hath blessed,

Save where some wanderer from the far south-west

Drops a few heavy tears upon the spot,

By a strange instinct ever unforgot,

Even though the stranger's plowshare may have rent

The illustrious dead away from his last tenement!

"Then wake the lyre-though harsh the strain may be— Arouse the living chords of sympathy,

For the great nations that have passed away,
Like morning mist before the rising day-
Pour forth the dirge, relume the funeral pyre!
Let feeling memories brighten with the fire!
Let the light shine o'er darkness and the grave,
And from the gulf of mute oblivion, save
The memory of all those mighty ones-
New England's hapless, alienated sons!
Sing!and embalm with more than Egypt's art,
Memories that should be dear to every generous heart!"
Manes of the dead!-your just reproaches stay,
For trembling-fearing-hoping-I obey!
My hand is laid upon the ancient strings-
And if it wake untutored echoings,

A stronger, truer, shall assume its place,
And chant the mournful stories of a fallen race!

And now,
Rhode Island, my own native State-
How warm a throb will thy dear name create!
I bless thy limestone cliffs, thy pleasant isles-
Thy rock-girt shores, and all thy forest wiles-
Thy pastures green-thy venerable trees,
That feel thy freedom in each stirring breeze-
Thy generous, quiet, hospitable sons-
Thy daughters fair, and lisping little ones-

I bless them all!-for they are dear to me,
And dear to all thy children they should be-
To every heart that feels, with virtuous pride,
Its country dearer than all lands beside-
And truly turns, wherever it may roam,
Back to the fadeless cynosure of HOME!

There may be greener hills and bluer skies,
And rivers that in loftier mountains rise;
But none to me are half so dear as thine-
Nor viny hills of France-nor Alps-nor Rhine-
Mochassuck in his wild meanderings,
Floweth as if his waters went on wings,
So noiselessly he goeth on his way-
Oft looking back, as coveting to stay-

Now, dallying on through meadows green, so slow,
That, like a lover, he seems loath to go-
Now, winding-lingering-oft to turn again-
As rivers felt the sympathies of men.

Fit stream is this to flow through fairy-land,
With sylph-like dancers on the moon-lit strand;
And Snowteeconet† dashing o'er the rocks,
As if he gloried in the thunder-shocks

His echoes waken.-These are still the streams
That flow amid the scenery of my dreams;
And these, whate'er, where'er may be my lot,
Will be most fondly cherished-last forgot.
Then comes the strong intensity of pride,
Swelling our own dark Narragansett's tide;
No lovelier islands does the wide earth know
Than the green earth-gems where his waters flow.
Our fair Aquidneck‡ in her vestal charms,
He cherisheth in his paternal arms;

Lovely with roseate bower, and shelly grot,
Fairer with time grew all the enchanting spot,
Till strangers from the orient came, and found
Another Eden in the hallowed ground.

Europe may boast her castellated halls,
Her ivied ruins, and her mouldering walls-
Ours are the sainted hill-the storied rock-
Defying ruin ever-while they mock,

With their wild romance, witching and sublime,
The indurating foot of churlish Time!

Quinsniket and Montaup, though rude they be,
May live enshrined in living poesy,

Even when oblivion's dark tide shall flow

O'er Europe's sculptured fanes-and they shall go,
With all their wealth of story and of fame,
Down to the voiceless depths without a name !

And even now, Rhode Island, though I stray
From old familiar images away,

Yet are they cherished. Every shrub that grows,
From the rough alder to the wilding rose,
And every strong old tree, that darkly waves
O'er the still places of forgotten graves-
And every rock, and cliff, and mossy dell,
Where the wild winds the voice of echo swell,

Is a blest shrine where the true heart will lay
A gift of love that passeth not away-
Again I bless thy hospitable strand,
Beloved Rhode Island, my own native land.

* A small but beautiful stream in Smithfield, R. I. The name signifies, literally, crooked. †The old Indian name of the Pawtucket river.

The island of Rhode Island. This spot was called by the early travellers the Eden of America. The first is the name of a rock which is said to have afforded shelter to Sketacomet, or King Philip, when he returned from his unsuccessful embassy to the Nipnet Indians. It still retains the name he gave it, which signifies Rock-House. It is situated in a very picturesque spot in Smithfield, R. I. Montaup was the true Indian name of Mount Hope, Bristol, R. I., and the most considerable height in the State. It was the paternal and royal residence of King Philip; and, as seen from the bay, with all its old associations clustering around it, is one of the loveliest and most interesting objects in the world.

CANTO I.

Stillness of summer noontide over hill,

And deep embowering wood, and rock, and stream,
Spread forth her downy pinions, scattering sleep
Upon the drooping eyelids of the air.

No wind breathed through the forest, that could stir
The lightest foliage. If a rustling sound
Escaped the trees, it might be nestling bird-
Or else the polished* leaves were turning back
To their own natural places, whence the wind
Of the last hour had flung them. From afar
Came the deep roar of waters, yet subdued
To a melodious murmur, like the chant
Of naiads, ere they take their noontide rest.
A tremulous motion stirred the aspen leaves,
And from their shivering stems an utterance came,

So delicate and spirit-like, it seemed

The soul of music breathed, without a voice.
The anemonet bent low her drooping head,
Mourning the absence of her truant love,
Till the soft languor closed her sleepy eye,
To dream of zephyrs from the fragrant south,
Coming to wake her with renewed life.
The eglantine breathed perfume; and the rose
Cherished her reddening buds, that drank the light,
Fair as the vermil on the cheek of hope.
Where'er in sheltered nook, or quiet dell,
The waters, like enamored lovers, found
A thousand sweet excuses for delay,

The clustering lilies bloomed upon their breast,
Love-tokens from the naiads, when they came
To trifle with the deep, impassioned waves.

The wild bee, hovering on voluptuous wing,
Scarce murmured to the blossom, drawing thence
Slumber with honey; then in the purpling cup,
As if oppressed with sweetness, sank to sleep.
The wood-dove tenderly caressed his mate-
Each looked within the other's drowsy eyes,
Till outward objects melted into dreams.

The rich vermilion of the tanager,

Or summer red-bird, flashed amid the green,
Like rubies set in richest emerald.

On some tall maple sat the oriole,

In black and orange, by his pendant nest,

To cheer his brooding mate with whispered songs;

While high amid the loftiest hickory,

Perched the loquacious jay, his turquoise crest

Low drooping, as he plumed his shining coat,

Rich with the changeful blue of Nazareth.

And higher yet, amid a towering pine,

Stood the fierce hawk-half-slumbering-half-awake-
His keen eye flickering in his dark unrest,
As if he sought for plunder in his dreams.
The scaly snake crawled lazily abroad,
To revel in the sunshine; and the hare
Stole from her leafy couch, with ears erect
Against the soft air-current; then she crept,
With a light velvet foot-fall, through the ferns.
The squirrel stayed his gambols; and the songs
Which late through all the forest arches rang,
Were graduated to a harmony

Of rudimental music, breathing low,
Making the soft wind richer-as the notes

*Light acts healthily on the upper surface of leaves, hurtfully on the under; and if by any accidental circumstance, as a strong wind, they become displaced, they seem to make a voluntary effort to restore themselves to their true position.

The wind-flower of the poets is said to droop, and close its petals, when the wind is low, and to revive with the renovated breath of nature.

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