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DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.
THE IRISH FAMINE.
God of merey ! must this last ?
Where they watch their flocks increase,
And store the snowy fleece
Till they send it to their masters to be woven
o'er the waves ;
Where, having sent their meat
For the foreigner to eat,
Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into
their graves. And its every effort foiled ?
'T is for this they are dying where the golden Do our numbers multiply
corn is growing, But to perish and to die?
'T is for this they are dying where the crowded Is this all our destiny below,
herds are lowing, That our bodies, as they rot,
"T is for this they are dying where the streams May fertilize the spot
of life are flowing, Where the harvestsof the stranger grow? And they perish of the plague where the breeze
of health is blowing !
Far, far better now, though late,
other zone ;
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.
Dying of hunger and cold ;
And half the agony of such a death
My lips have never told.
It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother,
A wolf that is fierce for blood ;
All the livelong day, and the night besiile,
Gnawing for lack of food.
And the sight was heaven to see ;
I awoke with an eager, famishing lip,
How could I look to you, mother,
How could I look to you,
For bread to give to your starving boy, Your muftis and your ministers, your men of When you were starving too ? deepest lore;
For I read the famine in your cheek,
And in your eyes so wild,
And I felt it in your bony hand, And explain unto your highness the wonders of As you laid it on your child. our shore.
The Queen has lands and gold, mother,
The Queen has lands and gold,
While you are forced to your empty breast
A babe that is dying of want, mother,
As I am dying now,
With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,
What has poor Ireland done, mother,
What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve,
Perishing, one by one?
The great men and the high,
Whether they live or die ?
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore !
No more shall freedoin smile? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ?
Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave
”T is folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave.
SIR WILLIAM JONES.
There is many a brave heart here, mother,
Dying of want and cold,
Are many that roll in gold ;
With wondrous wealth to view, And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night
Would give life to me and you.
Come nearer to my side, mother,
Come nearer to my side,
My father when he died ;
My breath is almost gone ; Mother! dear mother ! ere I die,
Give me three grains of corn.
BEFORE proud Rome's imperial throne
In mind's unconquered mood, As if the triumph were his own,
The dauntless captive stood.
With slow and stately tread,
That day in triumph led,
WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE?
WHAT constitutes a state ? Not high-raised battlement or labored mound,
Thick wall or moated gate ; Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned ;
Not bays and broad-armed ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ;
Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to
No:- men, high-minded men,
In forest, brake, or den,
Men who their duties know,
Prevent the long-aimed blow,
These constitute a state ;
O'er thrones and globes elate
Smit by her sacred frown,
And e’en the all-dazzling crown
Such was this heaven-loved isle,
A free and fearless glance he cast
On temple, arch, and tower,
Of Rome's victorious power ;
Where slaves might prostrate fall,
In Cæsar's palace hall ; Claiming, with kindled brow and cheek, The liberty e'en there to speak. Nor could Rome's haughty lord withstand
The claim that look preferred, But motioned with uplifted hand
The suppliant shonld be heard,
From Claudius on his throne
At his imperial throne ;
And master of the world,
In triumph now is furled,
God said, I am tired of kings,
Think ye ! made this ball
My angel, - his name is Freedom, –
Lo! I uncover the land
I show Columbia, of the rocks
will divide my goods ;
I will have never a noble,
Go, cut down trees in the forest,
Call the people together,
And here in a pine state-house
Lo, now! if these poor men
And ye shall suceor men;
He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FA- And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain
That hellish foes confederate for his harm
Can wind around him, but he casts it off
With as much ease as Samson his green withes. On a stern and rock-bound coast,
He looks abroad into the varied field And the woods against a stormy sky
Of nature ; and though poor, perhaps, compared Their giant branches tossed ;
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Calls the delightful scenery all his own. And the heavy night hung dark
His are the mountains, and the valley his,
And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy
But who, with filial confidence inspired,
Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye,
Like kindred drops been mingled into one. And smiling say, “My Father made them all !" Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; Are they not his by a peculiar right,
And, worse than all, and most to be deplored And by an emphasis of interest his,
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Whose eyes they fill with tears of holy joy, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind with stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love Weeps, when she sees inflicted on a beast. That planned and built, and still upholds, a world Then what is man? And what man, sering this, So clothed with beauty for rebellious man: And having human feelings, does not blush, Yes, ye may fill your garners, ye that reap And hang his head, to think himself a man! The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good I would not have a slave to till my ground, In senseless riot ; but ye will not find
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, In feast, or in the chase, in song or dance, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth A liberty like his, who, unimpeached
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong,
No; dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
I had much rather be myself the slave,
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on liim. Of no mean city, planned or e'er the hills We have no slaves at home. — Then why alıroal? Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave With all his roaring multitude of waves. That parts us are emancipate and looseil. His freedom is the same in every state ; Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lungs And no condition of this changeful life,
Receive our air, that moment they are free; So manifold in cares, whose every day
They touch our country, and their shackles fall. Bring its own evil with it, makes it less. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, Nor penury can cripple or confine ;
And let it circulate through every vein No nook so narrow but he spreads them there Of all your empire; that, where Britain's power With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. His body bound ; but knows not what a range
WILLIAM COWPER. His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain ; And that to bind him is a vain attempt, Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells.
BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.
MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coz ning of
the Lord : He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes
of wrath are stored ;
ble swift sword.
O for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred
circling camps ; They have builded him an altar in the evening
dews and damps ;
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnishesl rows
of steel : “As ye deal with my contemners, so with you
my grace shall deal ;
with his heel,