Bear it on tenderly,

Slowly and mournfully!

O God! how it struggled, to burst the vile chain
That fettered thee, Erin,-but struggled in vain!
How humble to God! to the Saxon what scorn!

To thy friends true and loving, thy foes proud and stern!
How strong, like a barrier of angels it stood,

Crying "Justice !" we struggle for justice, not blood!"
And in Christ's holy name chided back the mad throngs
Who, indignant, were thirsting for blood for their wrongs.

Bear it on tenderly,

Slowly and mournfully !

From Erin's sad sunset to Italy's light,

Where the sunshine of glory hath sprung from the night,
Where the golden-eyed spirit of Freedom's new birth,
Aroused by a voice which thrills o'er the earth,
Will with the fair angels keep vigils around thee,
Rejoicing that, freed from the fetters that bound thee,
Released from its anguish, its watchings, its weeping,
It rests far above where its ashes are sleeping.

Yes; bear it on tenderly,

Slowly and mournfully!

From Lough Foyle's dark waters to Shannon's broad wave,
To the rough Munster coast which the ocean tides lave,
Comes a sad note of wailing; it swells like the sea,

It sounds from the hilltops, it shrieks o'er the lea!

O Erin! O Erin! what crime hast thou done

That the light should be blotted away from thy sun,
Thy faith be downtrodden, thy blessings all flee,
And thy sons and thy daughters be martyred with thee?

Bear it on tenderly,

Slowly and mournfully!

Where sleep the apostles, where martyred saints rest,
Lay it tenderly down near the shrines of the blest;
For the spirit that lit up its casket of clay
Hath gone with the lustre of faith round its way,
Appealing before the tribunal of Heaven,

O Erin! for thee that thy chains my be riven,

And the day hasten on when the Saxon shall wonder,
And flee from the wrath of its answering thunder.

XXIV. THE BATTLE OF FONTENOY.

THOMAS DAVIS.

THRICE, at the heights 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 dispersed.

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 eventide.
Six thousand English veterns 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,
Betwext the word and Eontenoy, as through a furnace blast,
Through rampart, trench and palisade, and bullets showering fast;
And, on the open plain above, they rose, and kept their course,
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force.
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks--
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks !
More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush around,

As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground;

Bomb-shell and grape, and round-shot tore, still ou they marched and fired— Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur retired.

66

Push on, my household cavalry!" King Louis madly cried;

To death they rush, but rude their shock-not unavenged they died.

On through the camp the column trod-King Louis turns his rein:
"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain ;"

And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,--
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh vehement and true?

"Lord Clare," he says "you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes!
The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes!

How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay,

The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day—

The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry,

Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting cry,
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown--
Each looks as if revenge for all was staked on him alone.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy nor ever yet elsewhere

Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were.

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,

"Fix bayonets! Charge?" Like a mountain storm rush on these fiery bands! Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,

Yet must'ring all the strength they have, they make a gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind-
Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks the men behind!
One volley crushes from their line, when through the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza!

66

Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sassanach !"

Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang,

Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang;

Bright was their steel-'tis bloody now; their guns are filled with gore ;
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore;
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled-

The green hillside is matted close with dying and with dead.

Across the plain, and far away, passed on that hideous wrack,

While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like Eagles in the sun,

With bloody plumes the Irish stand-the field is fought and won!

I.-SOLILOQUY OF KING RICHARD III.

SHAKESPEARE.

IVE me another horse-bind up my wounds—
Have mercy, Jesu !-soft: I did but dream.
O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight.
Cold, fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
What do I fear? Myself! there's none else by.
Richard loves Richard: that is, I am I.

Is there a murderer here? No: yes, I am-
Then fly.
What! From myself? Great reason: why?
Lest I revenge. What? Myself on myself?
I love myself. Wherefore? For any good
That. I myself have done unto myself?
Oh, no alas! I rather hate myself,
For hateful deeds committed by myself.

I am a villian : yet I lie: I am not.

Fool, of thyself speak well-fool, do not flatter-
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues;
And every tongue brings in a several tale;
And every tale condemns me for a villian.
Perjury, perjury in highest degree,

Murder, stern murder in the direst degree,
All several sins, all used in each degree,
Throng to the bar, crying all, Guilty! guilty!
I shall despair. There is no creature loves me,
And, if I die, no soul will pity me;

Nay; wherefore should they; since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself?—

Methought the souls of all that I had murdered
Came to my tent, and every one did threat
To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard.

II.-CARDINAL WOLSEY'S FAREWELL TO POWER.

SHAKESPEARE

AREWELL, a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; And,-when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening,-nips his root, And then he falls as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye;

I feel my heart new opened: O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hings on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have ;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

III. SPEECH OF MARULLUS TO THE ROMAN MOB.

SHAKESPEARE.

Vehement expression-loud-quick.

WHEREFORE HEREFORE rejoice? That Cæsar comes in triumph? What conquests brings he home? what tributaries follow him to Rome, to grace, in captive bonds, his chariot wheels? You blocks! you stones! you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts? you cruel men of Rome !—-Knew you not Pompey ? Many a time and oft have you climbed up to walls and battlements, to towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops, your infants in your arms; and there have sat the livelong day, with patient expectation, to see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot but appear, have you not made a universal shout, that Tiber trembled underneath her banks, to hear the replication of your sounds made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire ? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way that comes in triumph over Pompey's Blood? Begone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, pray to the gods to intermit the plagues that needs must light on this ingratitude!

COME

IV. KING JOHN INSTIGATING HUBERT.

SHAKESPEARE.

SOME hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert, we owe thee much; within this wall of flesh there is a soul counts thee her creditor, and with advantage means to pay thy love; and, my good friend, thy voluntary oath lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,—but I will fit it with some better time. By heaven, Hubert, I am almost ashamed to say what good respect I have of thee. Thou hast no cause to thank me, Hubert, yet : but thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow, yet it shall come for me to do thee good. I had a thing to say, but let it go: the sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, attended with the pleasures of the world, is all too wanton, and too full of gawds, so give me audience :--if the midnight bell did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth sound "One" unto the drowsy race of night: if this same were a church-yard where we stand, and thou possessed with a thousand wrongs; or if that surly spirit, melancholy, had baked thy blood, and made it heavy, thick; (which, else, raas trickling up and down the veins, making that idiot, Laughter, keep men's eyes, and strain their cheeks to idle merriment, a passion hateful to my purposes ;) or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, hear me without thine ears, and make reply without a tongue, using conceit alone, without eyes, ears, and harmful sounds of words; then, in despite of broad-eyed watchful day, I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts: but ah, I will not-yet I love thee well; and by my troth, I think thou lov'st me well. Do not I know, thou dost? Good Hubert-Hubert-Hubert- throw thine eye on yon young boy: I'll tell thee what, my friend, he is a very serpent in my way; and, wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread, he lies before me: dost thou understand me? Thou art his keeper, Death !-A grave !-Enough. I could be merry now: Hubert, I love thee; well, I'll not say what I intend for thee: Remember!

VI-PRINCE ARTHUR TO HUBERT.

SHAKESPEARE.

Go

-OOD morrow, Hubert! You are sad to day. Methinks, nobody should be sad but I yet I remember, when I was in France, young gentlemen would be as sad as night, only for wantonness. By my christendom, so I were out of prison, and kept sheep, I should be as merry as the day is long ; and so I would be here, but that I doubt my uncle practises more harm to me: he is afraid of me, and I of him. Is it my fault that I am Geoffrey's son? No, indeed, is't not: and I would to Heaven, I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day: in sooth, I would you were a little sick, that I might sit all night and watch with you: I warrant, I love you more than you do me.

Oh, me, this paper! Gentle Hubert! What? must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes? Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my hankerchief about your brows (the best I had, a princess wrought it me,) and I did never ask it you again: and with my hand at midnight held your head; and like the watchful minutes to the hour, still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time: saying, What lack you? and Where lies your grief? or, What good love may I perform for you? Many a poor man's son would have lain still, and ne'er have spoke a loving word to you; but you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, and call it cunning; do so if you will: if Heaven be pleased that you must use me ill, why, then you must.—Will you put out mine eyes? These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, so much as frown on you?—You have sworn to do it? and with hot irons must you burn them out? Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it! the iron of itself, though red-hot heated, approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, and quench his fiery indignation, even in the matter of mine innocence. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron? Oh, if an angel should have come to me, and told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believed no tongue but Hubert's.

O save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out, even with the fierce looks of these bloody men . . . For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away, and I will sit as quite as a lamb; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, nor look upon the iron angrily; thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, whatever torment you do put me to.— Now, they are gone. Is there no remedy? O heaven that there were but a mote in yours, a grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, any annoyance in that precious sense! then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, your vile intent must needs seem horrible. O Hubert, do you bid me hold my tongue? Alas, the utterance of a brace of tongues must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes: let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert! Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out out my tongue, so I may keep mine eyes; O, spare mine eyes; though to no use, but still to look on you !-Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold, and would not harm me. If you revive it, you will make it blush, and glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert . . . . O, now you look like Hubert! all this while you were disguised. O Heaven!-I thank you, Hubert.

VI. THE BISHOP OF CARLISLE IN DEFENCE OF THE KING.
FROM "KING RICHARD THE SECOND."-SHAKESPEARE.

Wo

ORST in this royal presence may I speak, yet best beseeming me to speak the truth. I would that any in this noble presence were enough noble to be upright judge of noble Richard; then true nobleness would teach him forbearance from so foul a wrong. What subject can give sentence on a king? And