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me,

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

ever.

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,

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, I too shall be gone; —

Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing ! but my name shall be spoken

Land of my forefathers, Erin go bragh ! When Erin awakes and her fetters are broken.

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Some minstrel will come, in the summer eve's 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,
Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of ocean,
Or planta wild wreath, from the banks of that river,
O'er the heart and the harp that are sleeping for-

IRELAND.
J. J. CALLANAN.

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 ! repairing

God of justice ! God of power ! To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

Do we dream? Can it be, But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,

In this land, at this hour, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,

With the blossom on the tree, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,

In the gladsome month of May, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

When the young lambs play,

When Nature looks around
Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger ;
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,

Where our destiny is set, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

Which we cultured with our toil, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh !

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 !

Of the war-horse of the stranger !

their graves.

DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.

1847.

THE IRISH FAMINE.

God of mercy! must this last ?

Where they watch their flocks increase,
Is this land preordained,

And store the snowy fleece
For the present and the past

Till they send it to their masters to be woven
And the future, to be chained, -

o'er the waves ;
To be ravaged, to be drained,

Where, having sent their meat
To be robbed, to be spoiled,

For the foreigner to eat,
To be hushed, to be whipt,

Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into
Its soaring pinions clipt,
And its every effort foiled ?

'T is for this they are dying where the golden Do our numbers multiply

corn is growing, But to perish and to die?

'T is for this they are dying where the crowded Is this all our destiny below,

herds are lowing, That our bodies, as they rot,

'T is for this they are dying where the streams May fertilize the spot

of life are flowing, Where the harvests of the strangergrow? And they perish of the plague where the breeze

of health is blowing !
If this be, indeerd, our fate,

Far, far better now, though late,
That we seek some other land and try some

other zone ;
The coldest, bleakest shore

GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN,

MOTHER.
Will surely yield us more
Than the storehouse of the stranger that we dare
not call our own.

GIVE me three grains of corn, mother,

Only three grains of corn ;
Kindly brothers of the West,

It will keep the little life I have
Who from Liberty's full breast

Till the coming of the morn. Have fed us, who are orphans beneath a step-dame's I am dying of hunger and cold, mother. – frown,

Dying of hunger and cold ;
Behold our happy state,

And half the agony of such a death,
And weep your wretched fate

My lips have never told.
That you share not in the splendors of our empire
and our crown!

It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother,

A wolf that is fierce for blood ;
Kindly brothers of the East,

All the livelong day, and the night beside,
Thou great tiara'd priest,

Gnawing for lack of food.
Thou sanctified Rienzi of Romeand of the earth,– I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother,
Or thou who bear'st control

And the sight was heaven to see ;
Over golden Istambol,

I awoke with an eager, famishing lip,
Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in But you had no bread for me.
our dearth,

How could I look to you, mother,
Turn here your wondering eyes,

How could I look to you,
Call your wisest of the wise,

For bread to give to your starving boy, Your muftis and your ministers, your men of When you were starving too ? deepest lore;

For I read the famine in your cheek,
Let the sagest of your sages

And in your eyes so wild,
Ope our island's mystic pages,

And I felt it in your bony hand, And explain unto your highness the wonders of As you laid it on your child. our shore.

The Queen has lands and gold, mother, —
A fruitful, teeming soil,

The Queen has lands and gold,
Where the patient peasants toil

While you are forced to your empty breast Beneath the summer's sun and the watery winter A skeleton babe to hold, sky;

A babe that is dying of want, mother,
Where they tend the golden grain

As I am dying now,
Till it bends upon the plain,

With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,
Then reapit for the stranger, and turn aside to die. And famine upon its brow.

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,

The great men and the high,
For the suffering sons of Erin's isle,

Whether they live or die ?

Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore !

No more shall freedom smile ? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ?

Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave

'T is folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

SIR WILLIAM JONES.

CARACTACUS.

There is many a brave heart here, mother,

Dying of want and cold,
While only across the Channel, mother,

Are many that roll in gold ;
There are rich and proud men there, mother,

With wondrous wealth to view, And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night

Would give life to me and you.

Come nearer to my side, mother,

Come nearer to my side,
And hold me fondly, as you held

My father when he died ;
Quick, for I cannot see you, mother,

My breath is almost gone ; Mother! dear mother ! ere I die,

Give me three grains of corn.

BEFORE proud Rome's imperial throne

In mind's unconquered mood, 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,

That day in triumph led,
Unbound his head, unbent his knee,
Undimmed his eye, his aspect free.

MISS EDWARDS.

WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE ?

What constitutes a state ? Not high-raised battlement or labored mound,

Thick wall or moated gate; Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned ;

Not bays and broad-armed ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;

Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to

pride.

No:- men, high-minded men,
With powers as far above dull brutes endued

In forest, brake, or den,
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude,

Men who their duties know,
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare main-

tain,

Prevent the long-aimed blow, . And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain ;

These constitute a state ;
And sovereign law, that state's collected will,

O'er thrones and globes elate
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill.

Smit by her sacred frown,
The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks ;

And e'en the all-dazzling crown
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks ;

Such was this heaven-loved isle,

A free and fearless glance he cast

On temple, arch, and tower,
By which the long procession passed

Of Rome's victorious power ;
And somewhat of a scornful smile
Upcurled his haughty lip the while.
And now he stood, with brow serene,

Where slaves might prostrate fall,
Bearing a Briton's manly mien

In Cæsar's palace hall ; Claiming, with kindled brow and cheek, T'he liberty e'en there to speak. Nor could Rome's haughty lord withstand

The claim that look preferred, But motioned with uplifted hand

The suppliant should be heard, If he indeed a suppliant were Whose glance demanded audience there.

Deep stillness fell on all the crowd,

From Claudius on his throne Down to the meanest slave that bowed

At his imperial throne; Silent his fellow-captive's grief As fearless spoke the Island Chief. “Think not, thou eagle Lord of Rome,

And master of the world, Though victory's banner o'er thy dome

In triumph now is furled, I would address thee as thy slave, But as the bold should greet the brave !

“I might perchance, could I have deigned,

To hold a vassal's throne,
E'en now in Britain's isle have reigned

A king in name alone,
Yet holding, as thy meek ally,
A monarch's mimic pageantry.

God said, I am tired of kings,
I suffer them no more ;
Up to my ear the morning brings
The outrage of the poor.

Think ye I made this ball
A field of havoc and war,
Where tyrants great and tyrants small
Might harry the weak and poor?
My angel, — his name is Freedom, -
Choose him to be your king;
He shall cut pathways east and west,
And fend you with his wing.

“ Then through Rome's crowded streets to-day

I might have rode with thee,
Not in a captive's base array,

But fetterless and free,
If freedom he could hope to find,
Whose bondage is of heart and mind.
“But canst thou marvel that, freeborn,

With heart and soul unquelled,
Throne, crown, and sceptre I should scorn,

By thy permission held ?
Or that I should retain my right
Till wrested by a conqueror's might?
“Rome, with her palaces and towers,

By us unwished, unreft,
Her homely huts and woodland bowers

To Britain might have left ;
Worthless to you their wealth must be,
But dear to us, for they were free!

Lo ! I uncover the land
Which I hid of old time in the West,
As the sculptor uncovers the statue
When he has wrought his best ;
I show Columbia, of the rocks
Which dip their foot in the pas,
And soar to the air-borne flocks
Of clouds, and the boreal fleece.
I will divide my goods ;
Call in the wretch and slave :
None shall rule but the humble,
And none but Toil shall have.

“I might have bowed before, but where

Had been thy triumph now? To my resolve no yoke to bear

Thou ow'st thy laurelled brow; Inglorious victory had been thine, And more inglorious bondage mine.

I will have never a noble,
No lineage counted great ;
Fishers and choppers and ploughmen
Shall constitute a state.

Go, cut down trees in the forest,
And trim the straightest boughs ;
Cut down trees in the forest,
And build me a wooden house.

“Now I have spoken, do thy will ;

Be life or death my lot,
Since Britain's throne no more I fill,

To me it matters not.
My fame is clear ; but on my fate
Thy glory or thy shame must wait.”
He ceased ; from all around upsprung

A murmur of applause,
For well had truth and freedom's tongue

Maintained their holy cause. Their conqueror was their captive then, He bade the slave be free again.

Call the people together,
The young men and the sires,
The digger in the harvest-field,
Hireling, and him that hires ;
And here in a pine state-house
They shall choose men to rule
In every needful faculty,
In church and state and school.

BERNARD BARTON.

BOSTON HYMN.

READ IN MUSIC HALL, JANUARY 1, 1863.

Lo, now ! if these poor men
Can govern the land and sea,
And make just laws below the sun,
As planets faithful be.
And ye shall succor men ;
'T is nobleness to serve ;
Help them who cannot help again :
Beware from right to swerve.

The word of the Lord by night
To the watching Pilgrims came,
As they sat by the seaside,
And filled their hearts with flame.

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He is the freeman whom the truth makes free,

There's not a chain THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FA- And all are slaves beside.

That hellish foes confederate for his harm
THERS IN NEW ENGLAND.

Can wind around him, but he casts it off
The breaking waves dashed high

With as much ease as Samson his green withes. On a stern and rock-bound coast,

He looks abroad into the varied field And the woods against a stormy sky

Of nature ; and though poor, perhaps, compared Their giant branches tossed ;

With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,

Calls the delightful scenery all his own. And the heavy night hung dark

His are the mountains, and the valley his,
The hills and waters o'er,

And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy
When a band of exiles moored their bark With a propriety that none can feel,
On the wild New England shore.

But who, with filial confidence inspired,

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