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 That even from grief a passing joy we borrow, 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 ness, 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 ness, And all the golden glories of the East? Perpetual blooms his bower of summer roses, No winter comes to turn his green leaves sere, And as not only by the Calton Mountain, Is Scotland's bard remembered and revered, His glorious name is heard on every tongue, That guards the portals of his native town, down, But wheresoe'er the exiled race hath drifted, By what far sea, what mighty stream beside, And Moore proclaimed its glory and its pride. MARTIN HAVERTY. [Martin Haverty was born in Galway, in the study of Irish history and antiquities by November, 1809. He studied in France; the labours of Petrie, Todd, O'Donovan, made the acquaintance of Campbell the poet, O'Curry, Gilbert, Wilde, Ferguson, Reeves, in Algiers, in 1834; wrote Letters from Rome Meehan, O'Callaghan, and others, many of in 1840; Wanderings in Spain in 1843; An whom have since passed away, and the friendAccount of the Aran Isles, when the ethno-ship of all of whom our author was fortunate logical section of the British Association enough to enjoy. visited Ireland in 1857; and undertook the task of writing the History of Ireland at a time when an extraordinary impulse was given to 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 correspondent to the Daily News, in succession to Daniel Owen Madden; and for a great many years was on the editorial staff of the Dublin Freeman's Journal. In 1864 he was appointed assistant librarian of the King's Inns Library, Dublin, an office which he continues to hold. 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.] the house of Sir Patrick Barnwell, who was married to another of his sisters, and who lived about seven miles from Dublin. Thither the earl followed her. He was courteously received by Sir Patrick, and seems to have had many friends among the English. One of these, a gentleman named William Warren, 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 THE ELOPEMENT OF HUGH O'NEILL. to come and unite them in marriage the same 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 'I 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. 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.] CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 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.] A VESPER HYMN. The evening bells of Sabbath fill 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! Thy Godhood-whence all glory flows- The sons of a rebellious race! Whose sole appointed means of grace Our wayward footsteps wander wide, And, journeying through a pathless maze, We turn to our neglected Guide! Lead back, oh Lord! thy wandering sheep--- And unto Thine our lives to mould! Thou art our only stay and holdThrough 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! NOT A STAR FROM THE FLAG SHALL FADE. Och a rare ould flag was the flag we bore, It had sthripes in plenty, an' shtars galore— An' we swore by the shamrock that never a shtar Ay, this was the oath, I tell you thrue, Blue. The fight it grows thick, an' our boys they fall, But to yield it we never dhream. '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, 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 So, to conclude my song aright, For fear I'd tire your patience, Amid the constellations. Till Mars grows jealous raally, But, faith, he fears the Irish knack Of handling the shillaly. ADIEU. Oh, heed him not, if rhymer prate 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. 74 JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNELL 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 press— having 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 exist ence. He also wrote in the Lamp;-a novel, I 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 Fashioned a hieroglyph upon the floor, Moving-a crepitating music slow- Whose ivory hilt sustained a cirque of towers, On Vishnu's shrine at harvest full moon laid. room Wavered, retreated, trembled, and was lost Just as she glided by the cypress chair; And, over bust and shoulders, cool and fair, editor of the Tablet. His verses were always In what far past-in what abysm of time, Have I beheld that self-same look before? WHERE? A minute gone. She lingered here, and then Passed, with face backward turned, through yonder door; The free fold of her garments' damask grain 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 stream. Have I forgotten-is this flash of light, Which makes the brain and pulse together start, Worlds, where I mayhap have left a heart- Who shall unriddle it? Return, sweet wife, Lest, in the hour when night is on the wane, |