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It falls!-there is a shriek of lamentation
From the weeping crowd around :-

They're still'd!-the noblest hearts within the nation-
The noblest heads lie bleeding on the ground!...

-Years have pass'd since that fatal scene of dying,
Yet, life-like, to this day,

In their coffins, still those sever'd heads are lying,
Kept by angels from decay.

Oh! they preach to us, those still and pallid features-
Those pale lips yet implore us, from their graves,
To strive for our birthright, as God's creatures,
Or die, if we can but live as slaves!

XXII.-THE IRISH WIFE.-Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee.

491

I WOULD not give my Irish wife for all the dames of the Saxon land-
I would not give my Irish wife for the Queen of France's hand:
For she to me is dearer than castles strong, or lands, or life-
An outlaw, but I'm near her!-to love, till death, my Irish wife!

Oh! what would be this home of mine-a ruin'd, hermit-haunted placeBut for the light that nightly shines upon its walls from Kathleen's face?

What comfort in a mine of gold-what pleasure in a royal life,—

If the heart within lay dead and cold—if I could not wed my Irish wife? I knew the law forbade the banns-I knew my king abhorred her raceWho never bent before their clans, must bow before their ladies' grace. Take all my forfeited domain; I cannot wage, with kinsmen, strife; Take knightly gear and noble name,—but I will keep my Irish wife!

My Irish wife has clear blue eyes-my heaven by day, my stars by night

And twin-like truth and fondness lie within her swelling bosom white.
My Irish wife has golden hair-Apollo's harp had once such strings-
Apollo's self might pause to hear her bird-like carol when she sings!
I would not give my Irish wife for all the dames of the Saxon land—
I would not give my Irish wife for the Queen of France's hand!
For she to me is dearer than castles strong, or lands, or life—
In death, I would be near her, and rise-beside my Irish wife!

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I HEARD the dogs howl in the moonlight night,
And I went to the window to see the sight;

-All the dead that ever I knew

Going one by one, and two by two!

On they passed, and on they passed;
Townsfellows all, from first to last;
Born in the moonlight of the lane,
And quenched in the heavy shadow again!

Schoolmates, marching as when we played
At soldiers once-but now more staid:
Those were the strangest sights to me
Who were drowned, I knew, in the awful sea!
Straight and handsome folk; bent and weak too;
And some that I loved, and gasped to speak to;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed;
And some that I had not known were dead!
A long, long crowd-where each seemed lonely,
And yet of them all there was one, one only,
That raised a head or looked my way;
She lingered a moment, but might not stay!
How long since I saw that fair pale face!
Ah, Mother dear! might I only place
My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest!
On, on, a moving bridge they made

Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,
Young and old, women and men;

Many long-forgot, but remember'd then!

And first, there came a bitter laughter;
And a sound of tears, a moment after;
And then,...a music so lofty and gay,
That every morning, day by day,

I strive to recall it, if I may !

XXIV. THE LAST MEETING OF EVANGELINE AND GABRIEL.

W. H. Longfellow.

IN that delightful land, which is washed by the Delaware's waters,
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle,
Stands, on the banks of its beautiful stream, the city he founded,
Where all men are equal, and all are brothers and sisters.
There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,
Finding, among the children of Penn, a home and a country.
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image,
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him,
Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence.
Into her thoughts of him, Time entered not, for it was not.
Over him years had no power; he was not changed but transfigured:
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent:
Patience, and abnegation of self, and devotion to others-
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her!
So was her love diffused; but, like to some odorous spices,
Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma.
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.
Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting
Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city,
Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight.

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city:

Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor;

The poor crept to die in the alms-house, home for the homeless.
Thither, by night and by day, came the faithful Sister of Mercy.
Sweet on the summer air was the odour of flowers in the garden;
And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them,
That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty.
Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered,

Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed; for her presence
Fell on their hearts like the ray of the sun on the walls of a prison;
And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it for ever.
Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night time;
Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers.

Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,
Still she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a shudder

Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowers dropped from her fingers!

Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish,
That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.
On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man ;
Long, and thin, and gray, were the locks that shaded his temples;
But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment
Seemed to assume once more the form of its earlier manhood;-
So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying.-
Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever,
As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals,
That the Angel of Death might see the sign and pass over.
Then, through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
Heard he that cry of pain, and, through the hush that succeeded,
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,
"Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence.

Then he beheld, in a dream, once more, the home of his childhood;
Green, Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,

Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline arose in his vision.
Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,
Vanished the vision away-but Evangeline knelt by his bedside!
Vainly he strove to whisper her name; for the accents, unuttered,
Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have
spoken.

Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,
Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.

Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness,

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.

All was ended now-the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow;

All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing;
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee!"

Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.

In the heart of the city, they lie unknown and unnoticed:
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for ever;
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy ;

Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labours;
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey.

XXV.-BARBARA FRIETCHIE.-J. G: Whittier.

Ur, from the meadows rich with corn, clear in the cool September morn, the clustered spires of Frederick stand, green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep,-apple and peachtree fruited deep,-fair as a garden of the Lord to the eyes of the famished rebel horde; on that pleasant morn of the early fall when Lee marched over the mountain-wall,-over the mountains winding down, horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars, forty flags with their crimson bars, flapped in the morning wind: the sun of noon looked down, and saw not one!-Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, bowed with her fourscore years and ten; bravest of all in Frederick town, she took up the flag the men hauled down: in her attic-window the staff she set, to show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat, left and right, he glanced; the old flag met his sight. "Halt!"-the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "Fire!"-out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash; it rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; she leaned far out on the window-sill, and shook it forth with a royal will. 'Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, but spare your country's flag!" she said.

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A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, over the face of the leader came; the nobler nature within him stirred to life at that woman's deed and word: “Who touches a hair of yon gray head dies like a dog! March on!" he said.-All day long through Frederick-street sounded the tread of marching feet: all day long that free flag toss'd over the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell on the loyal winds that loved it well; and, through the hill-gaps, sunset-light shone over it with a warm "good-night!"

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, and the rebel rides on his raids no more! Honour to her!-and let a tear fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier! Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, flag of Freedom and Union, wave! Peace, and order, and beauty, draw round thy symbol of light and law; and ever the stars above look down on thy stars below, in Frederick town!

XXVI.—A ROMANCE OF THE FRENCH CAMP.-Robert Browning. You know, we French stormed Ratisbon, a mile or so away: On a little mound, Napoleon stood on our storming day;

With neck outthrust you fancy how!-legs wide, arms lock'd behind, As if to balance the prone brow, oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused,-"My plans that soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army-leader, Lannes, waver at yonder wall."-
Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew a Rider, bound on bound
Full galloping; nor bridle drew, until he reached the mound.
Then off there flung, in smiling joy, and held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a Boy ;-you hardly could suspect-
(So tight he kept his lips compressed, scarce any blood came through)
You looked twice ere you saw his breast was all but shot in two.
"Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace we've got you Ratisbon !
The Marshal's in the market-place, and you'll be there anon

To see your flag-bird flap his vans, where I, to heart's desire,
Perched him!" The Chief's eye flashed; his plans soared up again like
fire!

The Chief's eye flashed; but presently softened itself-as sheathes
A film the mother eagle's eye, when her bruised eaglet breathes:
"You're wounded ?" 66

he said: "I'm killed, Sire!" dead!

Nay," (his soldier's pride touched to the quick)

And, his Chief beside, smiling the Boy fell

XXVII.- -MEASURING THE BABY.-Anonymous.

WE measured the riotous baby against the cottage-wall;
A lily grew at the threshold, and the baby was just as tall:
And the wee pink fists of the baby were never a moment still;
Snatching at shine and shadow, that danced at the lattice-sill.

His eyes were as wide as blue-bells-his mouth like a flower unblown; Two bare little feet, like funny white mice, peeped out from his snowy gown;

And we thought, with a thrill of rapture, that yet had a touch of pain, When June rolls around with her roses, we'll measure the baby again. —Ah me! in a darkened chamber, from the sunshine shut away, Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, we measured the baby to-day; And the little bare feet that were dimpled, and sweet as a budding rose, Lay side by side together, in the hush of a long repose.

Up from the dainty pillow, white as the risen dawn,

The fair little face lay smiling, with the light of heaven thereon;

And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves dropped from a rose, lay still, Never to catch at the sunshine, that crept to the shrouded sill!

We measured the sleeping baby with ribbons white as snow,

For the shining rosewood coffin that waited him below;

And out of the darkened chamber we went, with a childless moan!— To the height of the sinless Angels our little one had grown!

XXVIII.—THE CURFEW BELL.-Anonymous.

THE summer sun was slowly setting o'er the mountains far away,
Filling all the land with beauty, at the close of one sad day.
In its rays were slowly walking an aged man and maiden fair;
He, with deeply wrinkled forehead; she, with bright and floating hair;

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