And I felt it in your bony hand, The queen has lands and gold, mother, While you are forced to your empty breast A skeleton babe to hold, 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? Do the men of England care not, mother, The great men and the high, Whether they live or die? 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; There are rich and proud men there, mother, With wondrous wealth to view, And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night, Come nearer to my side, mother, My father when he died; Quick, for I cannot see you, mother; Give me three grains of corn. Mrs. A. M. Edmond. CXCIII. TELL'S APOSTROPHE TO LIBERTY. ONCE NCE more I breathe the mountain air; once more I tread my own free hills! My lofty soul Throws all its fetters off; in its proud flight, "Tis like the new-fledged eaglet, whose strong wing Soars to the sun it long has gazed upon With eye undazzled. O! ye mighty race That stand like frowning giants, fixed to guard My own proud land; why did ye not hurl down The thundering avalanche, when at your feet The base usurper stood? A touch, a breath, Nay, even the breath of prayer, ere now, has brought Destruction on the hunter's head; and yet The tyrant passed in safety. Where slept thy thunderbolts? God of heaven! O LIBERTY! Thou choicest gift of Heaven, and wanting which Thy native home? Must the feet of slaves Even as the smile of Heaven can pierce the depths So thy sweet influence still is seen amid These beetling cliffs. Some hearts still beat for thee,. And bow alone to Heaven; thy spirit lives, Ay, and shall live, when even the very name Of tyrant is forgot. Lo! while I gaze Upon the mist that wreathes yon mountain's brow, A crown of glory on his hoary head; O! is not this a presage of the dawn Of freedom o'er the world? Hear me, then, bright And beaming Heaven! while kneeling thus, I vow O! with what pride I used To walk these hills, and look up to my God Its very storms! Yes, I have sat and eyed Ye know the jutting cliff, round which a track And I have thought of other lands, whose storms BLOW ON! THIS IS THE LAND OF LIBERTY! J. S. Knowles. CXCIV. WILLIAM TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. YE crags and peaks: I'm with you once again ! I hold to you the hands ye first beheld, To show they still are free. Methinks I hear And bid your tenant welcome to his home Again! O sacred forms, how proud you look! How huge you are! how mighty, and how free! Ye are the things that tower, that shine, whose smile Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty, -- With all my voice! — I hold my hands to you, Scaling yonder peak, I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow Of measuring the ample range beneath And round about; absorbed, he heeded not The death that threatened him. I could not shoot! J. S. Knowles. O' CXCV. THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. 'ER a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, Where, in his last, strong agony, a dying warrior lay,— The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent. "They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er, That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no more; They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, Their own liege lord and master born, that I ha! ha! must die. "And what is death? I've dared him cft, before the Paynim spear; Think he's entered at my gate ye has come to seek me here? I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging hot I'll try his might, I'll brave his power! - defy and fear him not! "Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin; An hundred hands were busy then; the banquet forth was spread, Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers poured, On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board; While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state, Armed cap-à-pie, stern Rudiger, with gilded falchion, sat. "Fill every beaker up, my men! pour forth the cheering wine! There's life and strength in every drop, thanksgiving to the vine! Are ye all there, my vassals true? mine eyes are waxing dim. Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim! "Ye're there, but yet I see you not! - forth draw each trusty sword, And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board! I hear it faintly! - louder yet! What clogs my heavy breath? Up, all! — and shout for Rudiger, 'Defiance unto death!'" |