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DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.

1847

THE IRISH FAMINE.

God of merey ! must this last ?

Where they watch their flocks increase,
Is this land preordained,

And store the snowy fleece
For the present and the past

Till they send it to their masters to be woven
And the future, to be chained,

o'er the waves ;
To be ravaged, to be drained,

Where, having sent their meat
To be robbed, to be spoiled,

For the foreigner to eat,
To be hushed, to be whipt,

Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into
Its soaring pinions clipt,

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 !
If this be, indeerl, our fate,

Far, far better now, though late,
That we seek some other land and try some

other zone ;
The coldest, bleakest shore

GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN,

MOTHER.
Will surely yield us more
Than the storehouse of the stranger that we dare
not call our own.

Give me three grains of corn, mother,

Only three grains of corn ;
Kindly brothers of the West,

It will keep the little life I have
Who from Liberty's full breast

Till the coming of the morn.
Have fed us, who are orphans beneath a step-dame's I am dying of hunger and cold, mother
frown,

Dying of hunger and cold ;
Behold our happy state,

And half the agony of such a death
And weep your wretched fate

My lips have never told.
That you share not in the splendors of our empire
and our crown!

It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother,

A wolf that is fierce for blood ;
Kindly brothers of the East, –

All the livelong day, and the night besiile,
Thou great tiara'd priest,

Gnawing for lack of food.
Thou sanctified Rienzi of Rome and of the earth, - I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother,
Or thou who bear'st control

And the sight was heaven to see ;
Over golden Istambol,

I awoke with an eager, famishing lip,
Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in But you had no bread for me.
our dearth,

How could I look to you, mother,
Turn here your wondering eyes,

How could I look to you,
Call your wisest of the wise,

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,
Let the sagest of your sages

And in your eyes so wild,
Ope our island's mystic pages,

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,
A fruitful, teeming soil,

The Queen has lands and gold,
Where the patient peasants toil

While you are forced to your empty breast
Beneath the summer's sun and the watery winter A skeleton babe to hold,
sky;

A babe that is dying of want, mother,
Where they tend the golden grain

As I am dying now,
Till it bends upon the plain,

With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,
Then reapit for the stranger, and turn aside to die. And famine upon its brow.

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What has poor Ireland done, mother,

What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve,

Perishing, one by one?
Do the men of England care not, mother,

The great men and the high,
For the suffering sons of Erin's isle,

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.

CARACTACUS.

There is many a brave heart here, mother,

Dying of want and cold,
While only across the Channel, mother,

Are many that roll in gold ;
The re are rich and proud men there, mother,

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,
And hold me fondly, as you held

My father when he died ;
Quick, for I cannot see you, mother,

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.
None, to have seen his freeborn air,
Had fancied him a captive there.
Though through the crowded streets of Rome,

With slow and stately tread,
Far from his own loved island home,

That day in triumph led,
Unbound his head, unbent his knee,
Undimmed his eye, his aspect free.

MISS EDWARDS.

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

pride.

No:- men, high-minded men,
With powers as far above dull brutes endued

In forest, brake, or den,
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude,

Men who their duties know,
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare main-

tain,

Prevent the long-aimed blow,
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain

These constitute a state ;
And sovereign law, that state's collected will,

O'er thrones and globes elate
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill.

Smit by her sacred frown,
The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks ;

And e’en the all-dazzling crown
Hides his faint rays, and at her billing shrinks ;

Such was this heaven-loved isle,

A free and fearless glance he cast

On temple, arch, and tower,
By which the long procession passed

Of Rome's victorious power ;
And somewhat of a scornful smile
Upcurled his haughty lip the while.
And now he stood, with brow serene,

Where slaves might prostrate fall,
Bearing a Briton's manly mien

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,
If he indeed a suppliant were
Whose glance demanded audience there.
Deep stillness fell on all the crowd,

From Claudius on his throne
Down to the meanest slave that bowed

At his imperial throne ;
Silent his fellow-captive's grief
As fearless spoke the Island Chief.
“Think not, thou eagle Lord of Rome,

And master of the world,
Though victory's banner o'er thy dome

In triumph now is furled,
I would address thee as thy slave,
But as the bold should greet the brave !

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God said, I am tired of kings,
I suffer them no more ;
Up to my ear the morning brings
The outrage of the poor.

Think ye ! made this ball
A field of havoc and war,
Where tyrants great and tyrants small
Might harry the weak and poor !

My angel, - his name is Freedom, –
Choose him to be your king;
He shall cut pathways east and west,
And fend you with his wing.

Lo! I uncover the land
Which I hid of old time in the West,
As the sculptor uncovers the statue
When he has wrought his best ;

I show Columbia, of the rocks
Which dip their foot in the seas,
And soar to the air-borne flocks
Of clouds, and the boreal fleece.

will divide my goods ;
Call in the wretch and slave :
None shall rule but the humble,
And none but Toil shall have.

I will have never a noble,
No lineage counted great ;
Fishers and choppers and ploughmen
Shall constitute a state.

Go, cut down trees in the forest,
And trim the straightest boughs ;
Cut down trees in the forest,
And build me a wooden house.

Call the people together,
The young men and the sires,
The digger in the harvest-field,
Hireling, and him that hires ;

And here in a pine state-house
They shall choose men to rule
In every needful faculty,
In church and state and school.

Lo, now! if these poor men
Can govern the land and sea,
And make just laws below the sun,
As planets faithful be.

And ye shall suceor men;
'T is nobleness to serve ;
Help them who cannot help again :
Beware from right to swerve.

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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
THERS IN NEW ENGLAND.

Can wind around him, but he casts it off
The breaking waves dashed high

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,
The hills and waters o'er,

And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy
When a band of exiles moored their bark With a propriety that none can feel,
On the wild New England shore.

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
Appropriates nature as his Father's work, Just estimation prized above all prive,
And has a richer use of yours than you.

I had much rather be myself the slave,
He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth

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.

WILLIAM COWPER.

SLAVERY.

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 ;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terri-

ble swift sword.
His truth is marching on.

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O for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumor of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war,
Might never reach me more! My ear is pained,
My soul is sick, with every day's report
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart;
It does not feel for man ; the natural bond
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax,
That falls asunder at the touch of fire.
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not colored like his own, and, having power
To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
Lands intersected by a narrow frith
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed
Make enemies of nations, who had else

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 can read his righteous sentence by the dim and

flaring lamps.
His day is marching on.

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 ;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent

with his heel,
Since God is marching on."

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