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plenty, the children to whom she has given birth-bas trained those children up in the arts that contribute most to the security, the joy, the dignity of life-has taught them to depend upon themselves, and for their fortune to be thankful to no officious stranger

—and, though a blood-red cloud is breaking over one of her brightest lakes, whatever plague it may portend, be assured of this—the cap of foreign despotism will never again gleam in the market-place of Altorff!

Shame upon you! Norway—with her scanty population, scarce a million strong-has kept her flag upon the Cattegat-has reared a race of gallant sailors to guard her frozen soil-year after year has nursed upon that soil a harvest to which the Swede can lay no claim-has saved her ancient laws—and to the spirit of her frank and hardy sons commits the freedom which she rescued from the allied swords, when they hacked her crown at Frederickstadt!

Shame upon you! Greece—“ whom Goth, nor Turk, nor Time hath spared not”-has flung the crescent from the Acropolis-has crowned a king in Athens whom she calls her own--has taught you that a nation should never die—that not for an idle pageant has the blood of heroes flowed—that not to vex a schoolboy's brain, nor smoulder in a heap of learned dust, has the fire of heaven issued from the tribune's tongue!

Shame upon you! Holland—with the ocean as her foe—from the swamp in which you would have sunk your graves, has bid the palace, and the warehouse costlier than the palace, rear their ponderous shapes above the waves that battle at their base—has outstripped the merchant of the Rialto-has threatened England in the Thames—has swept the channel with her broom—and, though for a day she reeled before the bayonets of Dumouriez, she sprang to her feet again and struck the tri-color from her dykes !

And you—you, who are eight millions strong-you, who boast at every meeting that this island is the finest which the sun looks down upon-you, who have no threatening sea to stem, 110 avalanche to dread-you, who say that you could shield along your coast a thousand sail, and be the princes of a mighty commerceyou, who by the magic of an honest hand, beneath each summer sky, might cull a plenteous harvest from your soil, and with the 232


sickle strike away the scythe of death—you, who have no vulgar history to read-you, who can trace, from field to field, the evidences of civilization older than the Conquest—the relics of a religion far more ancient than the Gospel-you, who have thus been blessed, thus been gifted, thus been prompted to what is wise and generous and great—you will make no effort—you will whine, and beg, and skulk, in sores and rags, upon this favored land-you will congregate in drowsy councils, and then, when the very earth is loosening beneath your feet, you will bid a prosperous voyage to your last grain of corn-you will be beggared by the million-you will perish by the thousand, and the finest island which the sun looks down upon, amid the jeers and hootings of the world, will blacken into a plague-spot, a wilderness, a sepulchre.

AN’ shure, I was tould to come in to yer honor,
A To see would ye write a few words to my Pat;
He's gone for a soger, is Mister O'Connor,

Wid a stripe on his arm, and a band on his hat.
An' what 'ill ye tell him? it aught to be aisy

For the likes of yer honor to spake with the pen,
Say I am well, and that mavourneen Daisy,

(The baby, yer honor,) is better again.
For when he wint off, so sick was the child, sir,

She niver held up her blue eyes to his face; .
And when I'd be cryin' he'd look but the wilder,.

And ax “would I wish for the country's disgrace."

So he left her in danger, and me sorely greeting,

And followed the flag wid an Irishman's joy;
And it's often I drame of the big drums a beating,

And a bullet gone straight to the heart of my boy.

- An’ say will he send me a bit of his money,

For the rint and the doctor's bill, due in a week,
An'—shure there's a tear on your eyelashes, honey,
· I' faith, I've no right with such freedom to speak.



I'm over-much trifling—I'll not give ye trouble

I'll find some one willin'-oh, what can it be? What's that in the newspaper folded up double ?

Yer honor, don't hide it, but read it to me.

Dead ! Patrick O'Connor! O God, it's some other

• Shot dead ! shure 'tis a week scarce gone by--
Dead! dead ! why the kiss on the cheek of his mother,

It hasn't had time yet, yer honor, to dry.
Don't tell me—it's not him-0 God, am I crazy ? :

Shot dead oh for love of sweet heaven say no,
And what in the world will I do wid poor Daisy ?

O how will I live? and where will I go?

This room is so dark—I'm not seein' yer honor ;

I think I'll go home. And a sob, hard and dry, Rose up from the bosom of Mary O'Connor,

But never a tear-drop welled up to her eye.



NYIVE me another horse,-bind up my wounds !
U Have mercy, Jesu !-Soft; I did but dream.
O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
The lights burn blue.-It is now dead midnight.
Cold, fearful drops stand on my-trembling flesh.
What do I fear? myself? there's none else by :
Richard loves Richard ; that is, I am I.
Is there a murderer here ? No;-yes; I am:
Then fly,—what, from myself? Great reason : why?
Lest I revenge. What? Myself on myself?
I love myself. Wberefore ? for any good,
That I myself have done unto myself?
Oh no: alas, I rather hate myself,
For hateful deeds committed by myself.
I am a villain : yet I lie, I am not.
Fool, of thyself speak well:—fool, do not flatter.
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,



And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Perjury, perjury, in the highest degree;
Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree;
All several sins, all used in each degree,
Throng to the bar, crying all, -Guilty! guilty !
I shall despair. There is no creature loves me; :
And, if I die, no soul will pity me:-
Nay, wherefore should they? since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself.
Methought the souls of all that I had murdered
Came to my tent; and every one did threat
To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard.


TWHENCE come those shrieks so wild and shrill,

That cut, like blades of steel, the air,
Causing the creeping blood to chill

With the sharp cadence of despair ?

Again they come, as if a heart

Were cleft in twain by one quick blow,
And every string had voice apart

To utter its peculiar woe.

Whence came they? from yon temple, where
An altar, raised for private prayer,
Now forms the warrior's marble bed
Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.

The dim funereal tapers throw
A holy lustre o'er his brow,
And burnish with their rays of light
The mass of curls that gather bright
Above the haughty brow and eye
Of a young boy that's kneeling by.



What hand is that, whose icy press

Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress ?

No thrilling fingers seek its clasp. It is the hand of her. whose cry

Rang wildly, late, upon the air, When the dead warrior met her eye,

Outstretched upon the altar there.

With pallid lip and stony brow
She murmurs forth her anguish now.
But hark! the tramp of heavy feet
Is heard along the bloody street;
Nearer and nearer yet they come,
With clanking arms and noiseless drum.
Now whispered curses, low and deep,
Around the holy temple creep;
The gate is burst ; a ruffian band
Rush in, and savagely demand,
With brutal voice and oath profane,
The startled boy for exile's chain.

The mother sprang with gesture wild,
And to her bosom clasped her child;
Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye,
Shouted, with fearful energy,
“ Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread
Too near the body of my dead;
Nor touch the living boy ; I stand
Between him and your lawless band.
Take me, and bind these arms, these hands,
With Russia's heaviest iron bands,
And drag me to Siberia's wild
To perish, if 'twill save my child !”

“Peace, woman, peace !” the leader cried,
Tearing the pale boy from her side,
And in his ruffian grasp he bore
His victim to the temple door.

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