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He went about his work, such work as few
Ever had laid on head and heart and hand,
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.
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.
The words of mercy were upon his lips,
Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,
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.
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
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,
The Memory of the Dead.
Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who blushes at the name?
Who hangs his head for shame?
Who slights his country thus;
Will fill your glass with us. ·
We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few-
Some sleep in Ireland, too;
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,
Their lonely graves were made;
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;
Has caught them to her breast;
Full many a race may start
To act as brave a part.
They rose in dark and evil days
To right their native land;
That nothing shall withstand.
They fell and passed away;
Are plenty here to-day.
Then here 's their memory-may it be
For us a guiding light,
And teach us to unite.
Though sad as theirs your fate;
John KELLS INGRAM. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD
The Bibouac of the Dead.
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
That brave and fallen few.
Their silent tents are spread,
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
Of loved ones left behind;
The warrior's dream alarms;
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumèd heads are bowed;
Is now their martial shroud.
The red stains from each brow,
Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The din and shout are past;
Shall thrill with fierce delight
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Came down the serried foe.
Break o'er the field beneath,
Was “Victory or death."
Long has the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
The vengeful blood of Spain;
Still swelled the gory tide;
Such odds his strength could bide.
'T was in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The nation's flag to save.
His first-born laurels grew,
Their lives for glory too.
Full many a norther's breath had swept
O'er Angostura's plain-
Above the mouldering slain.
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
That frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,
Ye must not slumber there,