rounds, credited only to the Dublin University Magazine.

COLLINS (b.

in England, 1827, d. 1876) was editor of that periodical. He published three volumes of poetry.

Rain on the Roof. Page 244.

KINNEY (b. in Penn Yan, N. Y., 1826) is

a lawyer and journalist, and resides in Xenia, O. The text of this poem as usually printed is very corrupt. It is here set from a copy furnished by the author.

Willie Winkie. Page 246. MILLER is a native of Scotland,

The Old Canoe. Page 247. Miss PAGE (b. in Bradford, Vt., about 1835, d. about 1859) wrote this poem at the age of seventeen.

Only Waiting. Page 248. Published in the Waterville, Me., Mail in 1854.

The Burial of Moses. Page 249. Miss HUMPHREYS (b. in Strabane, Ireland) married in 1850 the Rev. William Alexander, who is now Bishop of Derry.

Milton's Prayer of Patience. Page 252. Mrs. HOWELL was a resident of Philadelphia.

Curfew Must not Ring To-night. Page 253. ROSA HARTWICK (b. in Mishawaka, Ind., 1850) married Edmund C. Thorpe in 1871, and now resides in Missouri. She wrote this poem in 1867, and published it in the Detroit Commercial Advertiser in the autumn of 1870.

Revelry in India. Page 256. These lines are said to have been sung by a company of British officers stationed at a frontier post in India during a pestilence. It is also said that the author of them was the next victim. They have been persistently attributed to Alfred Domett; but in a letter to me, dated February 6, 1879, he says: "I did not write that poem, and was never in India in my life. I am as ignorant of the authorship as you can be; indeed, I never heard of the poem until I saw it attributed to myself in an article in the Chicago Times, in the year 1872, I think. The poem has splendid talent, and even more spirit, which makes me the more anxious to disclaim it, as I do not wish to take any credit that properly belongs to another man."

The Rising of the Moon. Page 258. CASEY (b. in Ireland about 1840) has published a small volume of poems.

My Maryland. Page 259. This song, written in the first year of the Rebellion, was first published in the Charleston Mercury. Perhaps it was suggested by Mangan's "Karamanian Exile," to which it bears a strong resemblance.

Civil War. Page 262. This poem, which appeared originally in London Once a Week, with the signature "From the once United States,' has been attributed to CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY (b. about 1830, d. 15,6).

The Picket Guard. Page 263, The authorship of this poem has been disputed, but there is now no reason to doubt that it belongs to Mrs BEERS, who resided in Orange, N. J., and died Oct. 10, 1879.

The Countersign.

Page 264. This poem was said to have been found in the pocket of a dead soldier on the battle-field; then to have been written by a member of Stuart's Engineers; then by a member of J. E. B. Stuart's Confederate Cavalry. Now it has been distinctly ascertained that Fitz-James O'Brien contributed it to Harper's Magazine in 1862, the same year in which he died of a wound received in a skermish.

Sherman's March to the Sea. Page 265. Adjutant BYERS (b. in Pennsylvania about 1835), Fifth Iowa Infantry, wrote this song while a prisoner at Columbia, S. C. General Sherman, to whom a copy of the lines was handed when he arrived at that place, so admired them that he sent for the author and attached him to his staff. Byers was afterward U. S. Consul at Zurich, Switzerland.

Driving Home the Cows. Page 267. Miss OSGOOD, who is a native of Fryeburg, Maine, contributed this poem to Harper's Magazine for March, 1865.

The Twins. Page 269. LEIGH (b. in England about 1840) published "Carols of Cockayne" in 1869.

A Little Goose. Page 270. Mrs. TURNER, who resides in Pennsylvania, published a volume of poems in 1871.

Tired Mothers. Page 272. Mrs. SMITH (née RILEY, Brighton, near Rochester, N. Y.) resides in New York city.

The Children. Page 274. DICKINSON (b. about 1845) was a teacher when he wrote this poem. He is now a journalist in Binghamton, N. Y.

The Burial of Sir John Moore. Page 276. This famous ode is here printed exactly as it stands in "Wolfe's Remains," where it is copied from the original manuscript. The Rev. Samuel O'Sullivan, writing under date of April 22, 1841, says: "I think it was about the summer of 1814 or 1815 (I cannot say for certainty which), I was sitting in my college rooms [in Dublin] and reading in the 'Edinburgh Annual Register,' in which a very striking and beautiful account is given of the burial of Sir John Moore. Wolfe came in, and I made him listen to me as I read the passage, which he heard with deep and sensible emotion. We were both loud and ardent in our commendation of it; and after some little time I proposed to our friend to take a walk into the country. He consented, and we bent our way to Simpson's nursery, about halfway between Dublin and the Rock. During our stroll Wolfe was unusually meditative and silent; and I remember having been provoked a little by meeting with no response or sympathy to my frequent bursts of admiration about the country and the scenery, in which, on other occasions, he used so cordially to join. But he atoned for his apparent. dullness and insensibility upon his return, when he repeated for me the first and last verses of his beautiful ode, in the composition of which he had been absorbed during ur little perambulation. These were the only verses which our dear friend at first contemplated; but moved, as he said, by my approbation, his mind worked upon the subject after

....

he left me, and in the morning he came over to me with the other verses by which it was completed." WOLFE (b. in Dublin, Dec. 14, 1791, d. Feb 21, 1823) neither published this poem nor took pains to claim it. Manuscript copies were taken down from recitation, and it was finally printed, with the initials "C. W.", in the Newry, Ireland, Telegraph, from which it was speedily copied far and wide. An interesting discussion of its merits by Byron and Shelley is given in Medwin's "Conversations of Byron."

Song.-If I had thought. Page 277. The Irish air “Gramachree was a favorite with WOLFE, but he thought no words had ever been written for it which were worthy of its peculiar pathos. Accordingly, he composed these.

Song.-Go, forget me! Page 278. These words were written for a celebrated singer, to an unpublished air of her own composition.

The First Miracle. Page 279. CRASHAW (b. in London, d. in Italy about 1650) was a clergyman-at first Protestant, afterward Catholic. This, famous as "the one-line poem," appeared in a volume which he published anonymously at Cambridge in 1634.

A Javanese Poem. Page 279. DEKKER is a native of Holland. This poem occurs in his novel "Max Havelaar; or, the Coffee Auctions of the Dutch Trading Company," the English translation of which was pub lished in Edinburgh in 1868.

A Yukon Cradle-Song. Page 280. This occurs in Dall's "Alaska."

The Passage. Page 282. Longfellow brought this poem into notice by quoting it in his "Hyperion," where he makes one of his characters say that, "though not very literal, it equals the original in beauty; . . . though in the measure of the original there is something like the rocking motion of a boat, which is not preserved in the translation." UHLAND was born in Tubingen in 1787, and died in 1862. Mrs. AUSTIN, (née Taylor, England, 1793, d. 1867) was the translator of Ranke's works.

Ann Hathaway. Page 282. These lines were originally addressed "To the Idol of my Eyes and Delight of my Heart."

On Parting with his Books. Page 284. ROSCOE (b. in Liverpool 1753, d. 1831) was a banker and historian. His firm failed in 1816, and he was obliged to sell his library and art collections.

Hylas. Page 284. Hylas, a beautiful youth, was one of the Argonauts When they stopped on the coast of Mysia, he went for water, and was seized by the nymphs of the stream into which he dipped his urn. Hercules, to whom he had been entrusted, went in search of him, and was left by the ship. These lines appeared in the “London Keepsake," 1838. We Parted in Silence. Page 285. Mrs. CRAWFORD was a native of Ireland.

Vanitas Vanitatum. Page 286. These lines, which do not appear i

the collected poems of GRIFFIN (b. in Ireland, 1803, d. 1840), are attrib uted to him on the authority of the Glasgow Free Press, which published them about 1861.

Wonderland. Page 288. NEWTON, an Englishman, contributed this poem to the London Athenæum in September, 1851.

Nathan Hale. Page 289. Nathan Hale (b. in Coventry, Conn., 1755) was a captain in the Continental army, went within the British lines at New York as a spy in September, 1776, was discovered and arrested, and by order of Lord Howe was executed the next morning, 22d. The ladies of his native town have recently erected a monument to his memory. FINCH (b. in Ithaca, N. Y., 1827) introduced this lyric in the poem which he read before the Linonian Society of Yale in 1853. An unknown contemporary of Hale's wrote a poem on the subject, which is almost as unique as Finch's:

The breezes went steadily through the tall pines,
A-saying "Oh, hu-ush !," a-saying “Oh, hu-ush!"
As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse,

For Hale in the bush, for Hale in the bush.

"Keep still," said the thrush, as she nestled her young
In a nest by the road, in a nest by the road;
"For the tyrants are near, and with them appear
What bodes us no good, what bodes us no good."

The brave Captain heard it, and thought of his home
In a cot by the brook, in a cot by the brook;
With mother and sister and memories dear,
He so gayly forsook, he so gayly forsook.

Cooling shades of the night were coming apace,
The tattoo had beat, the tattoo had beat;

The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place,
To make his retreat, to make his retreat.

He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves,

As he passed through the wood, as he passed through the wood And silently gained his rude launch on the shore,

As she played with the flood, as she played with the flood.

The guards of the camp. on that dark, dreary night,
Had a murderous will, had a murderous will;
They took him, and bore him afar from the shore,
To a hut on the hill, to a hut on the hill.

No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer,
In that little stone cell, in that little stone cell;
But he trusted in love from his Father above,-
In his heart all was well, in his heart all was well.

An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice,
Sat moaning hard by, sat moaning hard by:
"The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice,
For he must soon die, for he must soon die."

The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,

The cruel gen'ral, the cruel gen'ral,

Of his errand from camp, of the end to be gained,
And said that was all, and said that was all.

They took him, and bound him, and bore him away,
Down the hill's grassy side, down the hill's grassy side
'T was there the base hirelings in royal array

His cause did deride, his cause did deride.

Five minutes were given, short moments, no more,
For him to repent, for him to repent;

He prayed for his mother, he asked not another,-
To heaven he went, to heaven he went.

The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed,

As he trod the last stage, as he trod the last stage;
And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood,
As his words do presage, as his words do presage.

Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,
Go frighten the slave, go frighten the slave;
Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe.

No fears for the brave, no fears for the brave.

The Blue and the Gray. Page 291. This poem appeared originally in the Atlantic Monthly. It was suggested by the women of Columbus, Miss., decorating alike the graves of national and rebel dead. Certainly no fault can be found with it as poetry; I know of nothing of its kind that surpasses it; but JAMES M. DALZELL, who served in the 116th Ohic Volunteers, thus takes issue with it on the score of patriotism or policy

You may sing of the Blue and the Gray,
And mingle their hues in your rhyme,
But the blue that we wore in the fray
Is covered with glory sublime.

So no more let us hear of the Gray,
The symbol of treason and shame-
We pierced it with bullets-away!

Or we'll pierce it with bullets again.

Then up with the Blue and down with the Gray,
And hurrah for the Blue that won us the day!

Of the rebels who sleep in the Gray,

Our silence is fitting alone,

But we cannot afford them a bay,

A sorrow, a tear, or a moan.

Let oblivion seal up their graves

Of treason, disgrace, and defeat;

Had they triumphed, the Blue had been slaves.
And Union been lost in retreat.

Then up with the Blue and down with the Gray,
And hurrah for the Blue that won us the day!