Victoria's sheltering mantle is over India spread;

Who dare to touch the garment's hem, look out for men in

red;

Look out for gun and tumbrel acrash through mound and

hedge,

For shot and steel and Sheffield shear,

Steel, point and edge.

The fires are banked; in port and road the seaman-heart swells large;

The horses from the Irish fields are champing for the charge; Stand back! keep off! the changing cheek of Peace has lost

its smile,

And grave her eyes, and grave

her

prayer

To Heaven the while.

"Maker, Preserver of mankind, and Saviour that Thou art, Assuage the rage of wrathful men; abate their haughty

heart;

Or, if not so Thy holy will, suppress the idle sigh,

And God Sabaoth be the name

We know thee by."

DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY.

ENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY, who is distinguished

DE

in general literature as well as an Irish national poet, was born in Dublin in 1820. His father was a tradesman, but of ancient family, and his descent has been traced to the MacCauras, or MacCarthaighs, kings of Desmond or Southwestern Munster. McCarthy was educated at Trinity College, and studied for the bar. On the establishment of "The Nation," he joined the staff of poetical contributors, and wrote national ballads in the political vein of Davis, Duffy, and McGee. In 1846 he was called to the bar, but, owing to diffidence and hesitation in speech, he has practised but little, and devoted himself almost entirely to literature, His first work, a compilation of Irish ballads, with an introduction and some original contributions, was published in 1846; and in 1850 he published "Poems, Ballads, and Lyrics," containing translations from nearly all the modern languages of Europe, as well as original poems. When the Irish Catholic University was established, in 1857, under the presidency of Father Newman, McCarthy was appointed Professor of Poetry, and contributed largely to the Atlantis, the University periodical. His studies have been directed. much toward Spanish literature, and he has translated a number of Calderon's dramas into English assonanté verse. His later poetical publications have been "Underglimpses, and other Poems," and "The Bell Founder." In 1871 a

yearly pension of one hundred pounds was bestowed upon him for his literary services. His latest productions have been Centenary Odes to O'Connell and Moore, delivered at the celebrations in Dublin in 1875 and 1879. On the latter occasion he was crowned by the Lord Mayor Barrington with a laurel wreath as the "Poet Laureate of Ireland," a sufficiently ridiculous ceremony, for which, however, he was not responsible.

Mr. McCarthy's national poetry is rather didactic than historical or dialectic, with a few exceptions, such as the very spirited ballad of "The Foray of Con O'Donnell," in which the portrait of the ancient Irish wolf-dog is very admirable; and he has also some graphic descriptions of national scenery. He has a fondness for intricate and what may be termed assonanté metres, which are sometimes remarkably successful, as in "Waiting for the May."

WAITING FOR THE MAY.

АH! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May,-
Waiting for the pleasant rambles,
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles,
With the woodbine alternating,

Scent the dewy way.

Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,

Longing for the May,

Longing to escape from study

To the fair young face and ruddy,

And the thousand charms belonging

To the summer's day.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May.

Ah! my

heart is sore with sighing,

Sighing for the May,

Sighing for their sure returning,
When the summer beams are burning,

Hopes and flowers that dead or dying
All the winter lay.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing,
Throbbing for the May,-

Throbbing for the seaside billows,
Or the water-wooing willows,

Where in laughter and in sobbing

Glide the streams away.

Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing,
Throbbing for the May.

Waiting, sad, dejected, weary,

Waiting for the May.

Spring goes by with wasted warnings, — Moonlit evenings, sun-bright mornings, Summer comes, yet dark and dreary Life still ebbs away.

Man is ever weary, weary,

Waiting for the May.

IRELAND, 1847.

"They are dying! they are dying! where the golden corn is growing; They are dying! they are dying! where the crowded herds are lowing; They are gasping for existence, where the streams of life are flowing; And they perish of the plague, where the breeze of health is blowing."

GOD of justice! God of power!

Do we dream? Can it be,
In this land, in this hour,

With the blossom on the tree,
In the gladsome month of May,
When the young lambs play,
When Nature looks around

On her waking children now,
The seed within the ground,
The bud upon the bough?

Is it right, is it fair,
That we perish of despair
In this land, on this soil,

Where our destiny is set,

Which we cultured with our toil,
And watered with our sweat?

We have ploughed, we have sown,
But the crop was not our own;
We have reaped, but harpy hands
Swept the harvest from our lands;
We were perishing for food,
When lo! in pitying mood,
Our kindly rulers gave
The fat fluid of the slave,
While our corn filled the manger
Of the war-horse of the stranger.