Where are old empire's sinews snapp'd and gone?
Where is the Persian? Mede? Assyrian?

Where are the kings of Egypt? Babylon?

Where are the dead?

Where are the mighty ones of Greece? Where be The men of Sparta and Thermopylæ ?

The conquering Macedonian, where is he?

Where are the dead?

THE CHARGE OF THE SIX HUNDRED.

HALF a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death,

Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade !"

Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade !"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd!'
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wonder'd:

Plunged in the battery smoke,

Right through the line they broke:

Cossack and Russian

Reel'd from the sabre-stroke

Shatter'd and sunder'd.

Then they rode back, but not

Not the six hundred.

TENNYSON.

GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF Corn.

GIVE me three grains of corn, mother,
Only three grains of corn,

It will keep the little life I have,
Till the coming of the morn.

I am dying of hunger and cold, mother,
Dying of hunger and cold,

And half the agony of such a death
My lips have never told.

THE LEAVES.

THE leaves are dropping, dropping,
And I watch them as they go;
Now whirling, floating, stopping,
With a look of noiseless woe.
Yes, I watch them in their falling,
As they tremble from the stem,
With a stillness so appalling-

And my heart goes down with them!

Yes, I see them floating round me

'Mid the beating of the rain,

Like the hopes that still have bound me,
To the fading past again.

They are floating through the stillness,
They are given to the storm-

And they tremble off like phantoms
Of a joy that has no form.

A. S. STEPHENS,

He is gone on the mountain, he is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain, when our need was the sorest,
The fount, reappearing, from the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering, to Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper wails manhood in glory :

The autumn winds rushing waft the leaves that are serest,
But our flower was in flushing when blighting was nearest
Fleet foot on the correi, sage counsel in cumber,

Red hand in the foray, how sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and forever

THE FIRST CRUSADERS BEFORE JERUSALEM.

SCOTT.

"JERUSALEM! Jerusalem!" The blessed goal was won:
On Siloe's brook and Sion's mount, as stream'd the setting sun,
Uplighted in his mellow'd glow, far o'er Judea's plain,
Slow winding toward the holy walls, appear'd a banner'd

train.

Forgot were want, disease, and death, by that impassion'd

throng,

The weary leapt, the sad rejoiced, the wounded knight grew

strong;

One glance at holy Calvary outguerdon'd every pang,

And loud from thrice ten thousand tongues the glad hosannas

rang.

But yet-and at that galling thought, each brow was bent in

gloom

The cursed badge of Mahomet sway'd o'er the Saviour's tomb:

Then from unnumber'd sheaths at once, the beaming blades upstream'd,

Vow'd scabbardless till waved the cross above that tomb

redeem'd.

But suddenly a holy awe the vengeful clamor still'd,

As sinks the storm before His breath, whose word its rising

will'd;

For conscience whisper'd, the same soil where they so proudly.

stood,

The Son of Man had trod abased, and wash'd with tears and

blood.

Then dropp'd the squire his master's shield, the serf dash'd down his bow,

And, side by side with priest and peer, bent reverently and

low,

While sunk at once each pennon'd spear, plumed helm and flashing glaive,

Like some wide waste of reeds bow'd down by Nilus' swollen

wave.

LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF OWEN ROE O'NEILL.

THOUGH it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words, "From Derry against Cromwell he march'd to measure swords; But the weapon of the Saxon, met him on his way,

And he died at Lough Oughter, upon St. Leonard's day !"

Wail, wail ye for the mighty one! wail, wail ye for the dead! Quench the hearth and hold the breath-with ashes strew the head.

How tenderly we loved him! how deeply we deplore!
But to think-but to think, we shall never see him more!

Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall,
Sure we never won a battle-'twas Owen won them all.
Had he lived-had he lived-our dear country had been free
But he's dead-but he's dead-and 'tis slaves we'll ever be.

Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride!

Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died! Weep the Victor of Benburb-weep him, young man and old :Weep for him, ye women-your Beautiful lies cold!

We thought you would not die-we were sure you would not go,

And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blowSheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the skyOh! why did you leave us, Owen? Why did you die?

Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your eye.
Oh! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die?
Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high;
But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Owen !—why did you die?

THOMAS DAVIS.

THE WEXFORD MASSACRE.

THEY knelt around the Cross divine,
The matron and the maid-
They bow'd before redemption's sign
And fervently they pray'd-
Three hundred fair and helpless ones,
Whose crime was this alone-
Their valiant husbands, sires, and sons,
Had battled for their own.

Had battled bravely, but in vain-
The Saxon won the fight;
And Irish corses strew'd the plain
Where Valor slept with Right.
And now that man of demon guilt
To fated Wexford flew-
The red blood reeking on his hilt,
Of hearts to Erin true!

He found them there the young, the old-
The maiden and the wife;

Their guardians brave, in death were cold,
Who dared for them the strife-
They pray'd for mercy. God on high !
Before Thy cross they pray'd,

And ruthless Cromwell bade them die
To glut the Saxon blade.

Three hundred fell-the stifled prayer
Was quench'd in woman's blood;
Nor youth nor age could move to spare
From slaughter's crimson flood.