poets, although not a sharer in the political movement, was Francis Davis, a weaver of Belfast, who wrote his poems while working at his trade. They have an Oriental redundancy of expression, but great vigor and rhetorical strength. They have been published in a volume with the nom de plume of "The Belfast Man."

John Frazer, who signed his poems "J. de Jean," was born in Birr, King's County, in 1809, and followed through life the trade of a cabinet-maker. He died in Dublin, in 1849. A volume of his poems was published after his death.

John Keegan was born in a small village in Queen's County, in 1809, and in early life was a schoolmaster. Later he was a journalist and magazine writer in Dublin, where he died, in 1849. He was a student and collector of the fairy lore of the people, and published some interesting articles relating to it. In his poems he represented peasant life more thoroughly than most of his associates.

One of the most earnest and voluminous of the poetical writers of the Nation was "Speranza," the nom de plume of Jane Francesca Elgee, a native of Wexford and a daughter of Archdeacon Elgee of the Established Church. She was a very ardent nationalist, in spite of the contrary affiliations of her family and social circle. In 1851 she married Mr. William R. Wilde, a physician of Dublin, who was afterward knighted for his services as superintendent of the census, and who has contributed both to the literature of science and the archæological history of Ireland. Lady Wilde's poems have been collected in a volume, and comprise some translations and pieces on general subjects, as well as her contributions to the Nation.

Several of the most striking of the poems published in the Nation were anonymous, or over a nom de plume, and have never been publicly acknowledged. Among these are two of the finest and most spirited of the patriotic appeals, "The Memory of '98," and "Dear Land."

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.

THOMAS DAVIS.

Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up round a castle of O'Driscoll's, and after his ruin was colonized by the English. On the 20th of June, 1631, the crews of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, too young, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken up at sea for the purpose. Two years afterward he was convicted and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered this blow. Author's note.

THE summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles, The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough

defiles.

Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird;
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard.
The hookers lie upon the beach, the children cease their

play,

The gossips leave the little inn, the households kneel to pray; And full of love and peace and rest, its daily labor o'er, Upon that cosey creek there lay the town of Baltimore.

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there; No sound except that throbbing wave in earth, or sea, or air. The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the

calm;

The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. So still the night, those two long barques round Dunashad

that glide

Must trust their oars, methinks not few, against the ebbing

tide;

O, some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore !

They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore.

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, And these must be the lover's friends with gently gliding feet.

A stifled gasp, a dreamy noise! "The roof is in a flame!" From out their beds and to their doors rush maid and sire

and dame,

And meet upon the threshold stone the gleaming sabre's

fall,

And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson

shawl.

The yell of "Allah!" breaks above the prayer and shriek and

roar,

O, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore !

Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing

sword;

Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored;

Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grandbabes clutching wild;

Then fled the maiden, moaning faint, and nestled with the

child.

But see yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing

heel,

While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps the Syrian's

steel;

Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their

store,

There's one hearth well avengéd in the sack of Baltimore!

Midsummer morn in woodland nigh the birds began to sing, They see not now the milking-maids, deserted is the spring! Midsummer day this gallant rides from distant Bandon's

town,

These hookers cross from stormy Skull, this skiff from Affadown:

They only found the smoking walls with neighbors' blood

besprent,

And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly

went,

Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and saw, five leagues before,

The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.

O, some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the

steed;

This boy shall bear a Sheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's

jerreed;

O, some are for the arsenals by beauteous Dardanelles,

And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells.

The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey: she's dead, she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai!

She's safe,

And whan to die a death of fire that noble maid they bore, She only smiled, - O'Driscoll's child, she thought of Balti

more.

'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody

band,

And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse

stand,

Where high upon a gallows-tree a yelling wretch is seen,'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan, he who steered the Algerine!

He fell amid a sullen shout with scarce a passing prayer,
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there.
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought the Norman

o'er,

Some cursed him with Iscariot that day in Baltimore.

FONTENOY.

THOMAS DAVIS.

THRICE at the huts of Fontenoy the English column failed, And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain

assailed;

For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery,
And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly through De Barri's wood the British soldiers burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dis-
persed.

The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try;
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops like clouds at even-
tide.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their

head:

Steady they step adown the slope, steady they climb the hill;

Steady they load, steady they fire, moving right onward

still;

Betwixt the road and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast, Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering

fast;