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And now before the open door

The warrior priest had ordered so-
The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar
Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,
Its long reverberating blow,

So loud and clear, it seemed the ear
Of dusty death must wake and hear.

And there the startling drum and fife
Fired the living with fiercer life;
While overhead, with wild increase,
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,

The great bell swung as ne'er before.
It seemed as it would never cease;
And every word its ardor flung
From off its jubilant iron tongue
Was, "War! WAR! WAR!”

"Who dares ?"-this was the patriot's cry,
As striding from the desk he came—
“Come out with me, in Freedom's name,

For her to live, for her to die?"
A hundred hands flung up reply,

A hundred voices answered, "I!"

THE FISHERMAN'S SONG.

[This spirited lyrie appeared anonymously in an old Irish magazine.] AWAY-away o'er the feathery crest

Of the beautiful blue are we :

For our toil-lot lies on its boiling breast,

And our wealth's in the glorious sea:

And we've hymned in the grasp of the fiercest night,

To the god of the sons of toil,

As we cleft the wave by its own white light,

And away with its scaly spoil

Then oh for the long and the strong oar-sweep
We have given, and will again;

For when children's weal lies in the deep,
Oh! their fathers must be men.

And we'll think, as the blast grows loud and long,
That we hear our offspring's cries-

And we'll think, as the surge grows tall and strong,
Of the tears in their mothers' eyes:

And we'll reel through the clutch of the shivering green,
For the warm, warm clasp at home-

For the soothing smile of each heart's own queen,

And her arms, like the flying foam.

Then oh for the long and strong oar-sweep

We have given, and will again;

For when children's weal lies in the deep,
Oh! their fathers must be men.

Do we yearn for the land when tossed on this?
Let it ring to the proud one's tread :
Far worse than the waters and winds may hiss
Where the poor man gleans his bread.
If the adder-tongue of the upstart knave
Can bleed what it may not bend,

"T were better to battle the wildest wave,
That the spirit of storms could send,

Than be singing farewell to the bold oar-sweep
We have given, and will again;

If our souls should bow to the savage deep
Oh! they'll never to savage men.

And if death, at times, through a foamy cloud,
On the brown-browed boatman glares,
He can pay him his glance with a soul as proud
As the form of a mortal bears;

And oh 't were glorious, sure, to die,

In our toils for some on shore,

With a hopeful eye fixed calm on the sky,
And a hand on the broken oar.

Then oh, for a long, strong, steady sweep;
Hold to it-hurrah-dash on:

If our babes must fast till we rob the deep,
'Tis time that we had begun.

"LOOK NOT UPON THE WINE WHEN IT IS RED." WILLIS.

Look not upon the wine when it

Is red within the cup;

Stay not for pleasure when she fills

Her tempting beaker up;

Though clear its depths, and rich its glow,

A spell of madness lurks below.

They say 't is pleasant on the lip,

And merry on the brain;

They say it stirs the sluggish blood,
And dulls the tooth of pain:
Ay, but within its gloomy deeps
A stinging serpent unseen sleeps.

Its rosy lights will turn to fire,
Its coolness change to thirst;
And by its mirth within the brim
A sleepless worm is nursed.
There's not a bubble at the brim
That does not carry food to him.

Then dash the burning cup aside
And spill its purple wine;
Take not its madness to thy lips—
Let not its curse be thine.

'Tis red and rich, but grief and woe
Are hid those rosy depths below.

ICARUS; OR, THE PERIL OF BORROWED PLUMES. SAXE.

THERE lived and flourished long ago, in famous Athenstown, One Dædalus, a carpenter of genius and renown;

('Twas he who with an auger taught mechanics how to bore— An art which the philosophers monopolized before.)

His only son was Icarus, a most precocious lad,-
The pride of Mrs. Dædalus, the image of his dad;

And while he yet was in his teens such progress he had made,
He'd got above his father's size, and much above his trade.

Now Dædalus, the carpenter, had made a pair of wings, Contrived of wood and feathers and a cunning set of springs, By means of which the wearer could ascend to any height, And sail about among the clouds as easy as a kite!

"Oh, father," said young Icarus, "how I should like to fly!
And go like you where all is blue along the upper sky;
How very charming it would be above the moon to climb,
And scamper through the Zodiac, and have a high old time!

"Oh, would n't it be jolly, though,-to stop at all the inns;
To take a luncheon at 'The Crab,' and tipple at 'The Twins ;'
And, just for fun and fancy, while careering through the air,
To kiss the Virgin, tease the Ram, and bait the biggest Bear?

"Oh, father, please to let me go!" was still the urchin's cry; "I'll be extremely careful, sir, and won't go very high; Oh, if this little pleasure-trip you only will allow,

I promise to be back again in time to fetch the cow!"

"You're rather young," said Dædalus, "to tempt the upper air; But take the wings, and mind your eye with very special care; And keep at least a thousand miles below the nearest star— Young lads, when out upon a lark, are apt to go too far!"

He took the wings-that foolish boy-without the least dismay,
(His father stuck 'em on with wax), and so he soared away;
Up-up he rises, like a bird, and not a moment stops
Until he's fairly out of sight, beyond the mountain-tops!

And still he flies-away-away; it seems the merest fun;
No marvel he is getting bold, and aiming at the sun;
No marvel he forgets his sire; it is n't very odd
That one so far above the earth should think himself a god!

Already, in his silly pride, he's gone too far aloft;
The heat begins to scorch his wings; the wax is waxing soft;
Down-down he goes! Alas! next day poor Icarus was found
Afloat upon the Ægean sea, extremely damp and drowned!

The moral of this mournful tale is plain enough to all :-
Don't get above your proper sphere, or you may chance to fall;
Remember, too, that borrowed plumes are most uncertain things;
And never try to scale the sky with other people's wings!

YE MAY DRINK, IF YE LIST.-PEASE.

YE may drink, if ye list,

The red sparkling wine,

From beakers that gleam

With the gems of the vine;

Ye may quaff, if ye will,

When the foam bends the brim,

From a flagon or goblet,

Till your eye shall grow dim;

But I've sworn on the altar,

And my soul is now free,
Nor beaker, nor flagon,

Nor goblet for me.

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