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Now descending low and sweet

To our feet,

Till the odours of the grass
With the light notes, as they pass,
Blend and meet.

All that Erin's memory guards

In her heart

Deeds of heroes, songs of bards,
Have their part.

Brian's glories re-appear,
Fionualla's song we hear,
Tara's walls resound again,
With a more inspired strain,
Rival rivers meet and join,
Stately Shannon blends with Boyne,
While, on high, the storm-winds cease,
Heralding the arch of peace.

Glory to Moore, eternal be the glory

That here we crown and consecrate to-day, Glory to Moore, for he has sung our story

In strains whose sweetness ne'er can pass away.

Glory to Moore, for he has sighed our sorrow In such a wail of melody divine,

That even from grief a passing joy we borrow, And linger long o'er each lamenting line.

Glory to Moore, that in his songs of gladness

Which neither change nor time can e'er destroy, Though mingled oft with some faint sigh of sad


He sings his country's rapture and its joy. What wit like his flings out electric flashes

That make the numbers sparkle as they runWit that revives dull history's Dead-sea ashes, And makes the ripe fruit glisten in the sun?

What fancy full of loveliness and lightness

Has spread like his as at some dazzling feast, The fruits and flowers, the beauty and the bright


And all the golden glories of the East?


[Martin Haverty was born in Galway, in November, 1809. He studied in France; made the acquaintance of Campbell the poet, in Algiers, in 1834; wrote Letters from Rome in 1840; Wanderings in Spain in 1843; An Account of the Aran Isles, when the ethnological section of the British Association visited Ireland in 1857; and undertook the task of writing the History of Ireland at a time when an extraordinary impulse was given to

Perpetual blooms his bower of summer roses,

No winter comes to turn his green leaves sere, Beside his song-stream where the swan reposes The bulbul sings as by the Bendemeer.

But back returning from his flight with Peris, Above his native fields he sings his best, Like to the lark whose rapture never wearies, When poised in air he singeth o'er his nest.

And so we rank him with the great departed, The kings of song who rule us from their urns, The souls inspired, the natures noble hearted, And place him proudly by the side of Burns.

And as not only by the Calton Mountain,

Is Scotland's bard remembered and revered, But wheresoe'er, like some o'erflowing fountain Its hardy race a prosperous path has cleared, There, 'mid the roar of newly-rising cities,

His glorious name is heard on every tongue, There, to the music of immortal ditties,

His lays of love, his patriot songs are sung.

So not alone beside that Bay of beauty

That guards the portals of his native town, Where, like two watchful sentinels on duty, Howth and Killiney from their heights look down,―

But wheresoe'er the exiled race hath drifted,

By what far sea, what mighty stream beside, There shall to-day the poet's name be lifted,

And Moore proclaimed its glory and its pride. There shall his name be held in fond memento,

There shall his songs resound for evermore, Whether beside the golden Sacramento,

Or where Niagara's thunder shakes the shore;For all that's bright indeed must fade and perish,

And all that's sweet when sweetest not endure, Before the world shall cease to love and cherish The wit and song, the name and fame of MOORE.


the study of Irish history and antiquities by the labours of Petrie, Todd, O'Donovan, O'Curry, Gilbert, Wilde, Ferguson, Reeves, Meehan, O'Callaghan, and others, many of whom have since passed away, and the friendship of all of whom our author was fortunate enough to enjoy.

During a great part of his life he was connected with the daily press; succeeded Charles Mackay in 1845 as assistant editor of the

Morning Chronicle; was subsequently Irish | the house of Sir Patrick Barnwell, who was correspondent to the Daily News, in succession married to another of his sisters, and who to Daniel Owen Madden; and for a great lived about seven miles from Dublin. Thither many years was on the editorial staff of the the earl followed her. He was courteously Dublin Freeman's Journal. In 1864 he was received by Sir Patrick, and seems to have appointed assistant librarian of the King's had many friends among the English. One Inns Library, Dublin, an office which he con- of these, a gentleman named William Warren, tinues to hold. acted as his confidant; and at a party at Barnwell's house the earl engaged the rest of the company in conversation while Warren rode off with the lady behind him, accompanied by two servants, and carried her safely to the residence of a friend at Drumcondra, near Dublin. Here O'Neill soon followed, and the Protestant Bishop of Meath, Thomas Jones, a Lancashire man, was easily induced to come and unite them in marriage the same evening. This elopement and marriage, which took place on the 3d of August, 1591, were made the subject of violent accusations against O'Neill. Sir Henry Bagnal was furious. 'I cannot but accurse myselfe and fortune,' he wrote to the lord-treasurer, 'that my bloude, which in my father and myselfe hath often been spilled in repressinge this rebellious race, should nowe be mingled with so traiterous a stocke and kindred.' He charged the earl with having another wife living; but this point was cleared up, as O'Neill showed that this lady, who was his first wife, the daughter of Sir Brian MacFelim O'Neill, had been divorced previous to his marriage with the daughter of O'Donnell. Altogether, the government would appear to have viewed the conduct of O'Neill in this matter rather leniently; but Bagnal was henceforth his most implacable foe, and the circumstance was not without its influence on succeeding events.

[It is added, in a note, that the lady whose romantic marriage is here mentioned died in 1596, some years before the last scene of deadly strife between her brother and her husband.]

Mr. Haverty's History of Ireland, from which we quote, deserves the credit of being, as a rule, impartial—a eulogy, as we know, not too often deserved by Irish histories. The style is unambitious, clear, and terse.]


We have already made some mention of the marshal, Sir Henry Bagnal. This man hated the Irish with a rancour which bad men are known to feel towards those whom they have mortally injured. He had shed a great deal of their blood, obtained a great deal of their lands, and was the sworn enemy of the whole race. Sir Henry had a sister who was young and exceedingly beautiful. The wife of the Earl of Tyrone, daughter of Sir Hugh MacManus O'Donnell, had died, and the heart of the Irish chieftain was captivated by the beautiful English girl. His love was reciprocated, and he became in due form a suitor for her hand, but all his efforts to gain her brother's consent to their marriage were in vain. The story, indeed, is one which might seem to have been borrowed from some old romance, if we did not find it circumstantially detailed in the matter-of-fact documents of the State Paper Office. The Irish prince and the English maiden mutually plighted their vows, and O'Neill presented to the lady a gold chain worth £100; but the inexorable Sir Henry removed his sister from Newry to


BORN 1829 - DIED 1868.

[Charles Graham Halpine was born in Old- | polis in search of literary work. Having becastle, Meath, in 1829. His father, the Rev. come associated with the Young Ireland moveNicholas J. Halpine, was an active journalist, ment, he found that the United States would being for a time editor of the Dublin Evening be a more congenial, and under the circumMail. Young Halpine graduated in Trinity stances perhaps a safer abode. He there obCollege, and then went to the English metro-tained abundant employment, and was a wel

come contributor on most of the leading journals. He wrote for a time on the Boston Post, then became editor of a short-lived periodical entitled the Carpet Bag; and, in New York, contributed to the three leading journals—the Herald, the Times, and the Tribune.

When the civil war broke out he identified himself heart and soul with the Northern cause. Joining the army as lieutenant in the famous 69th Regiment, under Colonel Corcoran, he was promoted to be adjutant-general on the staff of General David Hunter, and afterwards of Major-general Halleck. He drew up the order by which the former commander enrolled the first regiment of negro soldiers, and was in consequence included in a proclamation of outlawry by the Southern authorities, which directed the immediate execution of his general and himself in case of capture. He retired, owing to ill health, from the army, and received due acknowledgment of his services by being raised by successive steps to the rank of brigadiergeneral. Halpine also took an active part in politics as one of the leaders of the Democratic party, and he honourably distinguished himself by his efforts to purge that body of the corruptions which had been fostered by Tammany Hall. His death was sudden and sad. A sufferer from sleeplessness, he had been for some time in the habit of taking soporifics, and he died on the night of August 3, 1868, from an overdose of chloroform.

The greater part of Halpine's poems appeared in the ephemeral pages of journalism, and were written for the hour. The verses by which he became best known were those written under the nom de plume of "Private Miles O'Reilly." A collected edition of his principal poems has been published in a handsome volume by Messrs. Harper Brothers, New York, under the editorship of Mr. R. B. Roosevelt.]


The evening bells of Sabbath fill

The dusky silence of the night,
And through our gathering gloom distil
Sweet sparkles of immortal light;

Such hours of peace as these requite
The labours of the weary week;

When thus, with souls refreshed and bright, Forgiveness of our sins we seek !

Oh! help us, Jesus, to conform

Our spirits, thoughts, and lives to thine! Beyond this earthly strife and storm,

Oh! make Thy star of Love to shine!
When we are sinking in the brine
Of doubt and care-oh come, that we,

As Peter did, may safe resign
Our sinking helplessness to thee!

Thy Godhood-whence all glory flows-
Thou didst not scruple to abase,
To rescue from undying woes

The sons of a rebellious race! Who can, unmoved, unweeping, trace Thy meek obedience to His will,

Whose sole appointed means of grace Thou didst, even to the Cross, fulfil!

Our wayward footsteps wander wide,
Pursuing Joy's delusive rays;
And, in our hours of health and pride,
Too oft from Thee our spirit strays;
But soon descend the darker days,
When youth and strength their lustre hide,

And, journeying through a pathless maze, We turn to our neglected Guide!

Lead back, oh Lord! thy wandering sheep-

Oh, guide us gently to thy fold! Instruct us all Thy laws to keep,

And unto Thine our lives to mould! For we are weak, and faith grows cold— Nor ever sleep the Tempter's powers;

Thou art our only stay and hold— Through Thee alone can heaven be ours!

A darker shade, a denser gloom

Descends on all the folded flowers, While, silent as the voiceless tomb,

Above them roll the midnight hours: To-morrow's dawn, and their perfume Again will fill their glowing bowers

Lord, after death so bid us bloom, Where no frost chills, no tempest lowers!


Och! a rare ould flag was the flag we bore, 'Twas a bully ould flag, an' nice;

It had sthripes in plenty, an' shtars galore'Twas the broth of a purty device.

Faix, we carried it South, an' we carried it far, An' around it our bivouacs made;

An' we swore by the shamrock that never a shtar
From its azure field should fade.

Ay, this was the oath, I tell you thrue,
That was sworn in the souls of our Boys in

The fight it grows thick, an' our boys they fall,
An' the shells like a banshee scream;
An' the flag-it is torn by many a ball,

But to yield it we never dhream.
Though pierced by bullets, yet still it bears
All the shtars in its tatthered field,
An' again the brigade, like to one man swears,
Not a shtar from the flag we yield!"


'Twas the deep, hot oath, I tell you thrue, That lay close to the hearts of our Boys in Blue.

Shure, the fight it was won, afther many a year,
But two-thirds of the boys who bore
That flag from their wives and sweethearts dear
Returned to their homes no more.

They died by the bullet-disease had power,
An' to death they were rudely tossed;
But the thought came warm in their dying hour,
"Not a shtar from the flag is lost!"

Then they said their pathers and aves

An', like Irishmen, died-did our Boys in

But now they tell us some shtars are gone,
Torn out by the rebel gale;

That the shtars we fought for, the states we won,
Are still out of the Union's pale.

May their sowls in the dioul's hot kitchen glow Who sing such a lyin' shtrain;

By the dead in their graves, it shall not be soThey shall have what they died to gain!

All the shtars in our flag shall still shine

through The grass growing soft o'er our Dead in Blue !



O'Ryan was a man of might

Whin Ireland was a nation, But poachin' was his heart's delight And constant occupation. He had an ould militia gun,

And sartin sure his aim was; He gave the keepers many a run, And wouldn't mind the game laws.

St. Pathrick wanst was passin' by
O'Ryan's little houldin',

And, as the saint felt wake and dhry,
He thought he'd enther bould in.


"O'Ryan," says the saint, "avick! To praich at Thurles I'm goin', So let me have a rasher quick, And a dhrop of Innishowen."

No rasher will I cook for you

While betther is to spare, sir,
But here's a jug of mountain dew,

And there's a rattlin' hare, sir."
St. Pathrick he looked mighty sweet,

And says he, "Good luck attind you, And, when you're in your winding-sheet, It's up to heaven I'll sind you."

O'Ryan gave his pipe a whiff-
"Them tidin's is transportin',
But may I ax your saintship if

There's any kind of sportin'?"
St. Pathrick said, "A Lion's there,

Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer""Bedad," says Mick, "the huntin's rare; St. Pathrick, I'm your man, sir."

So, to conclude my song aright,

For fear I'd tire your patience,
You'll see O'Ryan any night
Amid the constellations.
And Venus follows in his track

Till Mars grows jealous raally, But, faith, he fears the Irish knack Of handling the shillaly.


Oh, heed him not, if rhymer prate
Of parted love and endless woe;
True love would scorn to babble so,
And grief is inarticulate,

Or with a hoarse and broken flow It rushes, murmuring, to its fateThat ocean which, or soon or late,

Receives the wreck of all we know,
Or be it love, or be it hate.

Oh, heed him not. The spirit bowed
With grief sincere was ne'er so loud.

But if to say in simple praise

That I will ne'er forget you, friends, Though at the earth's remotest ends I pass my long unsolaced days;

That, when the evening shade descends, And high and bright the fagots blaze, My faithful heart your forms shall raise, While memory the curtain rends That time would drop o'er earlier daysIf this content you, 'tis sincere, Though vouched by neither oath nor tear.




BORN 1837-DIED 1874.


[John Francis O'Donnell was born in Limerick in 1837. He was but fourteen years of age when he began to write verses, the vehicle for the offspring of his boyish pen being the Kilkenny Journal. After he had held some engagements on the provincial Irish presshaving been among other things sub-editor of the Tipperary Examiner—he drifted to London; and, in 1860, we find him editing an Irish weekly called the Universal News. In 1861 he returned for a short time to Dublin, to fill a vacancy in the Nation. He was once again in London in the following year. It would be impossible to enumerate all the periodicals to which he contributed both prose and verse. He had a very ready and an extremely versatile pen. Among Irish journals he was a frequent contributor to the Nation and to the Irish People during its short existHe also wrote in the Lamp;-a novel, entitled Agents and Evictions, originally appeared in that journal, and a lengthy poem well worthy of notice, entitled "The Christian Martyr." He wrote in the Boston Pilot and the Dublin Review; and for a while he was editor of the Tablet. His verses were always In what far past-in what abysm of time, welcome to Charles Dickens, who was a helpful admirer of the poet; and a large number of his poems were published in Chambers's Journal. In 1871 he published Memories of the Irish Franciscans-a volume | of verse suggested by the well-known and able work of the Rev. C. P. Meehan on the Franciscans. After years of literary drudgery, Mr. O'Donnell received an official appointment through the assistance of Lord O'Hagan; but he enjoyed his fortune for only a few months, and died in the May of 1874. He is buried in the Roman Catholic portion of Kensal Green Cemetery, London. It is a subject of great regret that his poems lie scattered over numberless periodicals, and under various noms de plume.]

Have I beheld that self-same look before?
There was no difference of hour or clime:

A garment made a figure on a floor,
Which straightened sweeping towards a corridor.
Rare trifles were around me, curtains blew,

And worked their restless phantasms on a ceil;
A sidelong bird across a casement flew,
Upon the table glittered graven steel,
And a low voice thrilled me with soft appeal.
All things were there, as all things are, to-day,

But where? I half remember, as a dream,
Such accidents, in epochs, long grown gray—
Such glory, but with ever-narrowing beam,
From which I'm severed by some shoreless


A minute gone. She lingered here, and then Passed, with face backward turned, through yonder door;

The free fold of her garments' damask grain

Fashioned a hieroglyph upon the floor,
Then straightened, as it reached the corridor.

Down the long passages, I heard her feet

Moving a crepitating music slow-
And next her voice, an echo exquisite,
But modulated in its tender flow-

A harp through which the evening breezes blow.
Upon the table, there were books and flowers,

And Indian trifles; a Mahratta blade

Whose ivory hilt sustained a cirque of towers,
Wedded by the inexplicable braid

On Vishnu's shrine at harvest full moon laid.
The curtains shook; a scarlet glamour crossed

The stained wood and the white walls of the


Wavered, retreated, trembled, and was lost
Between the statue's plinth, the console's gloom,
And yon tall urn of yellow blossomed broom.
I see her face look backward at me yet,

Just as she glided by the cypress chair;
Her happy eyes with happy tears are wet,

And, over bust and shoulders, cool and fair,
Stream the black coils of her abundant hair.

Have I forgotten-is this flash of light,

Which makes the brain and pulse together start,
Some ray reflected from the infinite

Worlds, where I mayhap have left a heart-
The Infinite of which I am a part?

Who shall unriddle it? Return, sweet wife,

And with thy presence sanctify this pain;
Cling to my side, O faithful help of life!

Lest, in the hour when night is on the wane,
The destinies divide us two again.

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