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He went about his work, such work as few

Ever had laid on head and heart and hand,
As one who knows, where there 's a task to do,

Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,

That God makes instruments to work his will, If but that will we can arrive to know,

Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.

So he went forth to battle, on the side

That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied

His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights

The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,

The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toil,

The prairie hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,

The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear,

Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train : Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear,

If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.

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So he grew up, a destined work to do,

And lived to do it; four long-suffering years' Ill fate, ill feeling, ill report lived through,

And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,

And took both with the same unwavering mood, — Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,

And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,

A felon hand, between the goal and him,

Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest, And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim,

Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest.

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

195

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!

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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.

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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 foamIn 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

197

The Bibouac 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 plumèd 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 has 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 had 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,

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