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Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit | Where is my cabin door, fast by the wildwood ?
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
Erin mavourneen, Erin go bragh !
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
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 !
DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.
THE IRISH FAMINE.
God of mercy! must this last ?
Where they watch their flocks increase,
And store the snowy fleece
Till they send it to their masters to be woven
o'er the waves ;
Where, having sent their meat
For the foreigner to eat,
Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into
'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 !
Far, far better now, though late,
other zone ;
GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN,
GIVE me three grains of corn, mother,
Only three grains of corn ;
It will keep the little life I have
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 ;
And half the agony of such a death,
My lips have never told.
It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother,
A wolf that is fierce for blood ;
All the livelong day, and the night beside,
Gnawing for lack of food.
And the sight was heaven to see ;
I awoke with an eager, famishing lip,
How could I look to you, mother,
How could I look to you,
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,
And in your eyes so wild,
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, —
The Queen has lands and gold,
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,
As I am dying now,
With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,
What has poor Ireland done, mother,
What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve,
Perishing, one by one ?
The great men and the high,
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.
There is many a brave heart here, mother,
Dying of want and cold,
Are many that roll in gold ;
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,
My father when he died ;
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.
With slow and stately tread,
That day in triumph led,
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
No:- men, high-minded men,
In forest, brake, or den,
Men who their duties know,
Prevent the long-aimed blow, . And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain ;
These constitute a state ;
O'er thrones and globes elate
Smit by her sacred frown,
And e'en the all-dazzling crown
Such was this heaven-loved isle,
A free and fearless glance he cast
On temple, arch, and tower,
Of Rome's victorious power ;
Where slaves might prostrate fall,
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,
A king in name alone,
God said, I am tired of kings,
Think ye I made this ball
“ Then through Rome's crowded streets to-day
I might have rode with thee,
But fetterless and free,
With heart and soul unquelled,
By thy permission held ?
By us unwished, unreft,
To Britain might have left ;
Lo ! I uncover the land
“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,
Go, cut down trees in the forest,
“Now I have spoken, do thy will ;
Be life or death my lot,
To me it matters not.
A murmur of applause,
Maintained their holy cause. Their conqueror was their captive then, He bade the slave be free again.
Call the people together,
READ IN MUSIC HALL, JANUARY 1, 1863.
Lo, now ! if these poor men
The word of the Lord by night
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
Can wind around him, but he casts it off
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,
And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy
But who, with filial confidence inspired,