What is it in these who shall now do the storming That makes every Georgian spring to his feet? "O God! what a pity!" they cry in their cover, As rifles are readied and bayonets made tight; ""Tis Meagher and his fellows! their caps have green clover; "T is Greek to Greek now for the rest of the fight! Twelve hundred the column, their rent flag before them, With Meagher at their head, they have dashed at the hill! Their foemen are proud of the country that bore them; But, Irish in love, they are enemies still.

Out rings the fierce word, "Let them have it!" The rifles
Are emptied point-blank in the hearts of the foe:
It is green against green; but a principle stifles
The Irishman's love in the Georgian's blow.
The column has reeled, but it is not defeated;

In front of the guns they re-form and attack;
Six times they have done it and six times retreated;
Twelve hundred they came and two hundred go back.
Two hundred go back with the chivalrous story;

The wild day is closed in the night's solemn shroud;
A thousand lie dead, but their death was a glory

That calls not for tears-the Green Badges are proud! Bright honor be theirs who for honor were fearless, Who charged for their flag to the grim cannon's mouth; And honor to them who were true, though not tearless,Who bravely that day kept the cause of the South. The quarrel is done-God avert such another;

The lesson it brought we should evermore heed:

Who loveth the Flag is a man and a brother,

No matter what birth or what race or what creed.

UNSPOKEN WORDS.

The kindly words that rise within the heart
And thrill it with their sympathetic tone,
But die ere spoken, fail to play their part
And claim a merit that is not their own.
The kindly word unspoken is a sin—
A sin that wraps itself in purest guise,
And tells the heart that, doubting, looks within,
That not in speech, but thought, the virtue lies.

But 't is not so: another heart may thirst
For that kind word, as Hagar in the wild-

Poor banished Hagar-prayed a well might burst
From out the sand, to save her parching child.
And loving eyes that cannot see the mind
Will watch the expected movement of the lip:
Ah! can ye let its cutting silence wind.
Around that heart and scathe it like a whip?

Unspoken words like treasures in the mine
Are valueless until we give them birth.

Like unfound gold their hidden beauties shine
Which God has made to bless and gild the earth.
How sad 't would be to see a master's hand
Strike glorious notes upon a voiceless lute—
But oh! what pain when at God's own command
A heart-string thrills with kindness, but is mute!

Then hide it not, the music of the soul,

Dear sympathy expressed with kindly voice,
But let it like a shining river roll

To deserts dry-to hearts that would rejoice.

Oh! let the symphony of kindly words

Sound for the poor, the friendless, and the weak,

And He will bless you. He who struck these chords Will strike another when in turn you seek.

MAYFLOWER.

Thunder our thanks to her-guns, hearts, and lips!

Cheer from the ranks to her,

Shout from the banks to her

Mayflower! Foremost and best of our ships.

Mayflower! Twice in the national story

Thy dear name in letters of gold-
Woven in texture that never grows old-

Winning a home and winning glory!
Sailing the years to us, welcomed for aye;
Cherished for centuries, dearest to-day.
Every heart throbs for her, every flag dips-
Mayflower! First and last, best of our ships.

White as a seagull, she swept the long passage.
True as the homing-bird flies with its message.

Love her? O, richer than silk every sail of her.

Trust her? More precious than gold every nail of her.
Write we down faithfully every man's part in her;

Greet we all gratefully every true heart in her.
More than a name to us, sailing the fleetest,
Symbol of that which is purest and sweetest:
More than a keel to us, steering the straightest,
Emblem of that which is freest and greatest:
More than a dove-bosomed sail to the windward,
Flame passing on while the night-clouds fly hindward.
Kiss every plank of her! None shall take rank of her;
Frontward or weatherward, none can eclipse.

Thunder our thanks to her! Cheer from the banks to her! Mayflower! Foremost and best of our ships!

A SAVAGE.

Dixon, a Choctaw, twenty years of age,
Had killed a miner in a Leadville brawl;

Tried and condemned, the rough-beards curb their rage,
And watch him stride in freedom from the hall.

"Return on Friday, to be shot to death!"

So ran the sentence,-it was Monday night.
The dead man's comrades drew a well-pleased breath;
Then all night long the gambling-dens were bright.

The days sped slowly; but the Friday came,
And flocked the miners to the shooting-grounds;

They chose six riflemen of deadly aim,

And with low voices sat and lounged around.

"He will not come." "He 's not a fool." "The men Who set the savage free must face the blame."

A Choctaw brave smiled bitterly, and then

Smiled proudly, with raised head, as Dixon came.

Silent and stern, a woman at his heels,

He motions to the brave, who stays her tread.
Next minute flame the guns, the woman reels
And drops without a moan: Dixon is dead.

FROM WENDELL PHILLIPS.'

What shall we mourn? For the prostrate tree that sheltered the young green wood?

For the fallen cliff that fronted the sea, and guarded the fields from the flood?

For the eagle that died in the tempest, afar from its eyrie's brood?

Nay, not for these shall we weep; for the silver cord must be worn,

And the golden fillet shrink back at last, and the dust to its earth return;

And tears are never for those who die with their face to the duty done;

But we mourn for the fledglings left on the waste, and the fields where the wild waves run.

From the midst of the flock he defended, the brave one has gone to his rest;

And the tears of the poor he befriended their wealth of affliction attest.

From the midst of the people is stricken a symbol they daily

saw,

Set over against the law books, of a Higher than human Law:

For his life was a ceaseless protest, and his voice was a prophet's cry

To be true to the Truth and faithful, though the world were arrayed for the Lie.

From the hearing of those who hated, a threatening voice was past;

But the lives of those who believe and die are not blown like a leaf on the blast.

A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman that hewed toward

the light,

Who dared to be traitor to Union when Union was traitor to

Right!

ANDREW ORR.

(1822

ANDREW ORR is another of those Irish writers who has endeared himself to his people by a single poem. The Sunny South is Glowing' was originally published in The Nation; it has been reprinted in nearly all newspapers of the world, and it occurs also in nearly all of the Irish anthologies.

He was born on March 15, 1822, at Derrydorough near Coleraine, County Derry. He was apprenticed to the trade of linen bleaching, in which he was employed until he went to Australia about 1850. He contributed several poems to the Irish newspapers from an early age, and after his arrival in Victoria, Australia, he wrote for The Melbourne Leader and other newspapers of that country. After spending some few years in the gold fields of Victoria, he left them and started a local weekly, which, however, had but a short life. He was subsequently engaged on the Ballarat Star.

IN EXILE: AUSTRALIA.

The sunny South is glowing in the glow of Southern glory, And the Southern Cross is waving o'er the freest of the free; Yet in vain, in vain my weary heart would try to hide the story

That evermore 't is wandering back, dear native land, to thee:

The heathy hills of Malazan, the Bann's translucent waters,

Glenleary's shades of hazel, and Agivy's winding streams, And Kathleen of the raven locks, the flower of Erinn's daughters

Lost heaven of wildering beauty! thou art mine at least in dreams.

Oh! the green land, the old land,

Far dearer than the gold land,

With all its landscape glory and unchanging Summer skies; Let others seek their pleasures

In the chase of golden treasures,

Be mine a dream of Erinn and the light of Kathleen's eyes.

Sweet scenes may group around me, hill and dale, lagoon and wildwood,

And eyes as bright and cloudless as the azure skies above; But strange the face of nature—not the happy haunts of child

hood,

And cold the glance of beauty-not the smile of early love;