The words of mercy were upon his lips,

Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse

To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men.

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,

Utter one voice of sympathy and shame.
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high!
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came!

A deed accursed! Strokes have been struck before
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt

If more of horror or disgrace they bore;

But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out,

Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife,

Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven, And with the martyr's crown crownest a life With much to praise, little to be forgiven.

TOM TAYLOR.

The Memory of the Dead.

WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who blushes at the name?

When cowards mock the patriot's fate,
Who hangs his head for shame?
He's all a knave, or half a slave,
Who slights his country thus;
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few-
Some lie far off beyond the wave-
Some sleep in Ireland, too;
All, all are gone-but still lives on

The fame of those who died

All true men, like you, men,
Remember them with pride.

Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,
And by the stranger's heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made;
But, though their clay be far away
Beyond the Atlantic foam-

In true men, like you, men,
Their spirit's still at home.

The dust of some is Irish earth;
Among their own they rest;

And the same land that gave them birth
Has caught them to her breast;
And we will pray that from their clay
Full many a race may start

Of true men, like you, men,
To act as brave a part.

They rose in dark and evil days
To right their native land;
They kindled here a living blaze

That nothing shall withstand.

Alas! that might can vanquish right—

They fell and passed away;

But true men, like you, men,

Are plenty here to-day.

Then here's their memory-may it be

For us a guiding light,

To cheer our strife for liberty,

And teach us to unite.

Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,

Though sad as theirs your fate;

And true men, be you, men,

Like those of Ninety-Eight!

JOHN KELLS Ingram

The Bivouac of the Dead.

THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;

No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread,

And glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;

No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow's strife

The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed;
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.

And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,

And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout are past;

Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe.

Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was "Victory or death."

Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the gory tide;

Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.

'T was in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation's flag to save.
By rivers of their fathers' gore

His first-born laurels grew,

And well he deemed the sons would pour

Their lives for glory too.

Full many a norther's breath has swept

O'er Angostura's plain

And long the pitying sky has wept
Above the mouldering slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,

Alone awakes each sullen height

That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,
Ye must not slumber there,

Where stranger steps and tongues resound

Along the heedless air;

Your own proud land's heroic soil

Shall be your fitter grave;

She claims from war his richest spoil-
The ashes of her brave.

So, 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,

Borne to a Spartan mother's breast,
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes' sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead,
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot

While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone,

In deathless song shall tell,

When many a vanished age hath flown,

The story how ye fell;

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,

Nor Time's remorseless doom,

Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.

THEODORE O'HARA

Nearer, my God, to Thee.

NEARER, my God, to thee,

Nearer to thee!