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! Hark! the wild blast that rudely sweeps along Thus to the conscious heart their wrongs they tell, 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, A stronger, truer, shall assume its place, And now, I bless them all!-for they are dear to me, There may be greener hills and bluer skies, Now, dallying on through meadows green, so slow, Fit stream is this to flow through fairy-land, His echoes waken.-These are still the streams Lovely with roseate bower, and shelly grot, Europe may boast her castellated halls, With their wild romance, witching and sublime, Quinsniket and Montaup, though rude they be, Even when oblivion's dark tide shall flow O'er Europe's sculptured fanes-and they shall go, And even now, Rhode Island, though I stray Yet are they cherished. Every shrub that grows, Is a blest shrine where the true heart will lay * 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, No wind breathed through the forest, that could stir So delicate and spirit-like, it seemed The soul of music breathed, without a voice. The clustering lilies bloomed upon their breast, The wild bee, hovering on voluptuous wing, The rich vermilion of the tanager, Or summer red-bird, flashed amid the green, 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- Of rudimental music, breathing low, *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. |