O guard ye well the land where I dwell,
Lest the future times the tale I tell,
When slow expires in smoldering fires
The goodly heritage of your sires,

How Freedom's light rose clear and bright
O'er Fair Columbia's beacon height,

Till ye quenched the flame in a starless night.

Then will I tear from your pennon fair

The stars ye have set in triumph there:
My olive branch on the blast I'll launch,

The fluttering stripes from the flag-staff wrench
And away I'll flee, for I scorn to see
A craven race in the land of the free!

XIX.-ERIN'S FLAG.

FATHER RYAN.

INROLL Erin's flag! fling its folds to the breeze!

Let it float o'er the land, let it wave o'er the seas; Lift it out of the dust-let it wave as of yore,

When its chiefs with their clans stood around it and swore
That never, no, never, while God gave them life,
And they had an arm and a sword for the strife,
That never, no, never, that banner would yield,
As long as the heart of a Celt was its shield ;-
While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield,
And his last drop of blood was unshed on the field!

Lift it up! wave it high !-'tis as bright as of old ;
Not a stain on its green, not a blot on its gold,
Though the woes and the wrongs of three hundred long years
Have drenched Erin's Sunburst with blood and with tears;
Though the clouds of oppression enshroud it in gloom

And around it the thunders of tyranny boom.

Look aloft! look aloft! lo! the cloud's drifting by,

There's a gleam through the gloom, there's a light in the sky,
'Tis the Sunburst resplendent-far, flashing on high;
Erin's dark night is waning, her day-dawn is nigh.

Lift it up! lift it up! the old Banner of Green ;
The blood of its sons has but brightened its sheen.
What though the tyrant has trampled it down,
Are its folds not emblazoned with deeds of renown?
What though for ages it droops in the dust,
Shall it droop thus forever? No! no! God is just!
Take it up! take it up from the tyrant's foul tread,
Lest he tear the Green Flag, we will snatch its last shred,
And beneath it we'll bleed as our forefathers bled,
And we'll vow by the dust in the graves of our dead,ˆ
And we'll swear by the blood that the Briton has shed,
And we'll vow by the wrecks which through Erin he spread,
And we'll swear by the thousands who famished, unfed,
Died down in the ditches-while howling for bread ;

And we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits have fled,
And we'll swear by the bones in each coffinless bed
That we'll battle the Briton through danger and dread ;
That we'll cling to the cause which we glory to wed
Till the gleam of our steel and the shock of our lead
Shall prove to the foe that we meant what we said—
That we lift up the Green, and we'll tear down the Red.

Lift up the Green Flag! oh! it wants to go home;
Full long has its lot been to wander and roam :
It has followed the fate of its sons o'er the world,
But its folds, like their hopes, are not faded nor furled ;
Like a weary-winged bird, to the East and the West

It has flitted and fled, but it never shall rest,

Till, pluming its pinions, it sweeps o'er the main,

And speeds to the shore of its old home again,

Where its fetterless folds o'er each mountain and plain
Shall wave with a glory that never shall wane.

Take it up! take it up! bear it back from afar!
That banner must blaze 'mid the lightning of war;
Lay your hands on its fold, lift your eyes to the sky,
And swear that you'll bear it triumphant or die;
And shout to the clans scattered far o'er the earth,
To join in the march to the land of their birth;
And wherever the Exiles, 'neath heaven's broad dome,
Have been fated to suffer, to sorrow and roam,
They'll bound on the sea, and away o'er the foam
They'll sail to the music of "Home, sweet Home,"

XX.-ADDRESS TO INDEPENDENCE.

SMOLLET.

THY spirit, Independence, let me share; lord of the lion heart and eagle eye! thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, nor heed the storm that howls along the sky. Thou, guardian genius, thou didst teach my youth pomp and her tinsel livery to despise; my lips, by thee chastised to early truth, ne'er paid that homage

which the heart denis.

Those sculptured halls my feet shall never tread, where varnished Vice and Vanity, combined to dazzle and seduce, their banners spread, and forge vile shackles for the free-born mind: where Insolence his wrinkled front uprears, and all the flowers of spurious fancy blow and Title his ill-woven chaplet wears-full often wreathed around the miscreant's brow: wherever-dimpling Falsehood, pert and vain, presents her cup of stale profession's froth; and pale Disease, with all his bloated train, torments the sons of gluttony and sloth. In Fortune's ear behold the minion ride, with either India's glittering spoils oppressed: so moves the sumpter-mule, in harnessed pride, that bears the treasure which he cannot taste. For him let venal bards disgrace the bay, and hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string; her sentual snares let faithless Pleasure lay, and all her jingling bells fantastic Folly ring;-disquiet, doubt, and dread shall intervene; and Nature, still to all her feelings just, in vegeance hang a damp on every scene, shook from the baneful pinions of Disgust.

Nature I'll court in her sequestered haunts, by mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell; where the poised lark his evening ditty chants, and health, and peace, and contemplation dwell. There Study shall with Solitude recline, and Friendship pledge me to his fellow-swains; and Toil and Temperance sedately twine the slender cord that fluttering life sustains; and fearless Poverty shall guard the door; and Taste unspoiled the frugal table spread; and Industry supply the humble store; and Sleep, unbribed, his dews refreshing shed: whitemantled Innocence, ethereal sprite, shall chase far off the goblins of the night; and Independence o'er the day preside :-propitious power! my patron and my pride.

XXI.—THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

ANONYMOUS.

WHO fears to speak of Ninety-eight! The dust of some is Irish earth;

Who blushes at the name?

When cowards mock the patriot's fate?
Who hangs his head for shame?
He's all a knave or half a slave,
Who slights his country thus;
But a true man, like you, man,

Will fill your glass with us.

Among their own they rest;

And the same land that gave them birth
Has caught them to her breast
And we will pray that from their clay
Full many a race may start
Of true men, like you, men,

To act as brave a part.

They 'rose in dark and evil days

To right their native land;
They kindled here a living blaze
That nothing shall withstand.
Alas! that Might can vanquish Right-
They fell and passed away:
But true men, like you, men

Are plenty here to-day.

Then here's their memory—may it be
For us a guiding light,

To cheer our strife for liberty,

And teach us to unite.

Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,
Though sad as their's your fate;
And true men, like you, men,
Like those of Ninety-eight!

XXII.—THE BROTHERS (HENRY AND JOHN SHEARS).—

T

A SCENE FROM '98.

LADY WILDE.

IS midnight; falls the lamplight, dull and sickly,

On a pale and anxious crowd,—

Through the Court, and round the Judges,-thronging thickly,
With prayers they dare not speak aloud.

Two youths,-two noble youths,—stand prisoners at the bar—
You can see them through the gloom-

In the bride of life and manhood's beauty there they are,
Awaiting their death-doom!

All eyes an earnest watch on them are keeping,

Some, sobbing, turn away;

And the strongest men can hardly see for weeping,

So noble and so loved were they! Their hands are lock'd together,

those young

As before the Judge they stand—

Brothers

They feel not the great grief that moves the others;
For they die for Fatherland!

They are pale,-but it is not fear that whitens

On each proud high brow;

For the triumph of the Martyr's glory brightens

Around them, even now.

They sought to free their land from thrall of stranger—
Was that treason?-Let them die!

But their blood will cry to heaven-the Avenger
Yet will hearken from on high!

Before them, shrinking, cowering, scarcely human,
The base informer bends;

Who, Judas-like, could sell the blood of true men,
While he clasp'd their hands as friends.

Ay! could fondle the young children of his victim—
Break bread with his young wife,—

At the moment that, for gold, his perjured dictum
Sold the husband's and the father's life!

There is silence in the midnight-eyes are keeping
Troubled watch till forth the Jury come;
There is silence in the midnight-eyes are weeping-
"Guilty!" is the fatal, uttered doom.

For a moment, o'er the Brothers' noble faces,
Came a shadow, sad to see;

Then, silently they rose up in their places,

And embraced each other fervently!

Oh! the rudest heart might tremble at such sorrow,

The rudest cheek might blanch at such a scene:

Twice the Judge essay'd to speak the word, "To morrow,"
Twice faltered, as a woman he had been

"To-morrow!"-Fain the elder would have spoken,
Pray'd for respite, though it is not Death he fears;
But thoughts of home and wife his heart have broken,
And his words are stopped by tears!

But the younger-oh, he spake out bold and clearly:
"I have no ties of children or of wife;

Let me die-but spare the brother, who more dearly
Is lov'd by me than life!"

Pale martyrs, ye may cease! your days are numbered!
Next noon, your sun of life goes down!

One day, between the sentence and the scaffold ;
One day, between the torture and the crown!

-A hymn of joy is rising from creation;
Bright the azure of the glorious summer sky;
But human hearts weep sore in lamentation,
For the Brothers are led forth to die!

Ay! guard them with your cannon and your lances !
So of old came martyrs to the stake:

Ay! guard them!-See the people's flashing glances,
For those noble Two are dying for their sake!

Yet none spring forth their bonds to sever :
Ah! methinks, had I been there,

I'd have dared a thousand deaths, ere ever
The sword should touch their hair!

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!

XXIII.-O'CONNELL'S HEART.

A. H. DORSEY.

The last words of this great and extraordinary man were, "My body to Ireland, my heart to Rome, and my soul to God."

B

EAR it on tenderly,

Slowly and mournfully!

That heart of a nation which pulsates no more,

The fount that gushed ever with Freedom's high lore.

Through years over Erin it brooded and wept,

It watched while she slumbered, and prayed when she slept,
And the Saxon raged on that their chains had not crushed
The faith of a nation whose harp they had hushed.

Bear it on tenderly,

Slowly and mournfully!

It was broken at last when the famine plague's glaive
And the spade turned the shamrock in grave after grave;
When the angels of God turned weeping away
From the want-stricken earth and its famishing clay,
And the wail of the dying arose from the sod--
The dying, those martyrs to faith and their God—
Came like the wild knell of his hope's fairest day,
Is it strange that its life-tide ebbed quickly away?