Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang,
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang:

Bright was their steel--'tie bloody now! their guns are filled with gore,
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags, they tore;
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered,
fled-

The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead--
Across the plain, and far away, passed on that hideous wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track.

On Fontenoy! on Fontenoy! like eagles in the sun,

With bloody plumes the Irish stand-the field is fought and won!

XVIII.—THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL.-H. W. Longfellow.

"HADST thou stayed, I must have fled!" that is what the Vision said.— In his chamber, all alone, kneeling on the floor of stone, prayed the Monk-in deep contrition for his sins of indecision; prayed for greater self-denial in temptation and in trial:-it was noonday by the dial, and the Monk was all alone. Suddenly, as if it lightened, an unwonted splendour brightened all within him and without him, in that narrow cell of stone; and he saw the Blessed Vision of our Lord,-with light Elysian like a vesture wrapped about him, like a garment round him thrown! Not as crucified and slain, not in agonies of pain, not with bleeding hands and feet, did the Monk his Master see; but as-in the village-street, in the house or harvest-field, -halt and lame and blind he healed, when he walked in Galilee.

In an attitude imploring, hands upon his bosom crossed, wondering, worshipping, adoring, knelt the Monk in rapture lost. "Lord," he thought, "in heaven that reignest, who am I, that thus Thou deignest to reveal Thyself to me? Who am I, that, from the centre of Thy glory, Thou shouldst enter this poor cell, my guest to be ?" Then, amid his exaltation, loud the Convent-bell, appalling, from its belfry calling, calling, rang through court and corridor, with persistent iteration he had never heard before.

It was now the appointed hour, when,-alike in shine or shower, winter's cold or summer's heat,-to the Convent-portals came all the blind and halt and lame, all the beggars of the street, for their daily dole of food dealt them by the Brotherhood; and their Almoner was he who, upon his bended knee, rapt in silent ecstasy of divinest selfsurrender, saw the Vision and the Splendour. Deep distress and hesi tation mingled with his adoration should he go, or should he stay? Should he leave the poor to wait hungry at the Convent-gate, till the Vision passed away? Should he slight his radiant Guest-slight his Visitant Celestial, for a crowd of ragged, bestial beggars at the Conventgate? Would the Vision there remain? Would the Vision come again? Then a voice within his breast whispered, audible and clear, as if to the outward ear, "Do thy duty; that is best: leave unto thy Lord the rest!"

Straightway to his feet he started, and, with longing look intent, on the Blessed Vision bent, slowly from his cell departed-slowly on his errand went. At the gate the poor were waiting; looking through the iron grating, with that terror in the eye that is only seen in those, who,

amid their wants and woes, hear the sound of doors that close, and of feet that pass them by: grown familiar with disfavour, grown familiar with the savour of the bread by which men die! But to-day,-they knew not why,-like the gate of Paradise seemed the Convent-gate to rise; like a sacrament divine seemed to them the bread and wine.

In his heart the Monk was praying, thinking of the homeless poor, what they suffer and endure; what we see not, what we see; and the inward Voice was saying, "Whatsoever thing thou doest to the least of mine and lowest, that thou doest unto Me!" "Unto Me!" But had the Vision come to him in beggar's clothing, come a mendicant imploring, would he then have knelt adoring, or have listened with derision, and have turned away with loathing?

Thus his conscience put the question, full of troublesome suggestion, as, at length, with hurried pace, towards his cell he turned his face; and beheld the Convent bright with a supernatural light,-like a luminous cloud expanding over floor and wall and ceiling. But he paused, with awe-struck feeling, at the threshold of his door; for the Vision still was standing as he left it there before; when the Conventbell, appalling, from its belfry calling, calling, summoned him to feed the poor. Through the long hour intervening, it had waited his return; and he felt his bosom burn, comprehending all the meaning, when the Blessed Vision said, "Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"

XIX.—THE DEATH OF THE OLD SQUIRE.-Anonymous. 'Twas a wild mad kind of night, as black as the bottomless pit; The wind was howling away, like a bedlamite in a fit; And the rain (well, it did rain !) dashing the window glass, And deluging on the roof, as if harm would come to pass! We was buddlin' in the harness room, by a little scrap of fire, And Tom the Coachman, he was there, a practisin' for the choir; But it sounded dismal, anthem did, for Squire was dying fastAnd the Doctor 'd said, do what he would, "Squire's breakin' up at last." The Death-watch," sure enough, tick'd loud, just over th' owd mare's head,

Though he had never once been heard up there, since master's boy lay dead;

We listened to the clock upstairs—'twas beating soft and low

For the Nurse said, "At the turn of night, the Old Squire's soul would go !"

Master had been a wildish man, and led a roughish life

Good-hearted,—ay, free-handed too,—to servant, friend, and wife;
And now to die—and in his bed!—the hunting just begun !—
It made him fret-the Doctor said-as 't might do any one.

And when the young sharp Lawyer came to see him sign his will,
Squire made me blow my horn outside, as we were goin' to kill;

And we turned the hounds out in the Court-that seemed to do him good

For he swore-and sent us off to seek a fox in Thorn-hill wood.

But then, the fever it rose high, and he would go see the room
Where "Missus" died-ten years ago, when Lammas-tide shall

como.

It might be two, or half-past two-the wind seemed quite asleep;
Tom, he was off-but I, awake, sat, watch and ward to keep.
The moon was up, quite glorious like, the rain no longer fell,
When all at once out clashed and clang'd the rusty turret bell!
Then Tom and I leapt up half scared, and out we ran like mad-
I, Tom, and Joe the whipper-in, and t' little stable lad.

"He's killed himself!" that's the idea that came into my head:
I felt as sure as though I saw the Old Squire lying dead;
When all at once a door flew back-and he met us, face to face;
His scarlet coat was on his back, and he looked like the old race.
"Saddle me 'Lightning Bess!' Get out the dogs! I'm young again and

sound!

I'll have a run once more, before they put me underground! They brought my father home feet first, and it never shall be said That his son Joe-the Old Squire now-died quietly in his bed! "Brandy!" he cried: "a tumbler, full-you women howling there!" Then clapped the old black velvet cap upon his long gray hair; Snatched up his whip-let stirrups down, though he was crazed and weak;

There was a wildness in his eye that would not let me speak!

Then up he got and spurred the mare, and, ere I well could mount,
He drove the yard-gate open wide, and called to old Dick Blount-
Our huntsman-dead five years ago!-for the feyer rose again,
And was spreading like a flood of flame, fast up into his brain!

Then off he flew before the dogs, yelling to call us on,

While we stood there, all pale and dumb, scarce knowing he was gone; We mounted, and, below the hill, we saw the fox break out,

And, down the covert-ride, we heard again the Old Squire's shout!

"Yoicks! tally-ho!" he cried, as we rode free and fast,

Hoping to turn him at the brook, that could not well be past,

For it was swollen with rain; but, no! 'twas not to be:

Nothing could stop old "Lightning Bess," but the broad breast of the sea!

The hounds swept on, and well in front the mare had got her stride : She broke across the fallow land that runs by the Down-side;

In at the death!" he cried again; and, as we pull'd up there,

Two fields beyond we saw the Squire fall stone-dead from the mare!
Then she swept on, and, in full cry, the hounds went out of sight;
A cloud came over the broad moon, and something dimmed our sight,
As Tom and I bore Master home, both speaking under breath ;-
And that's the way I saw the Old Squire ride boldly to his death!

Theodore Tilton.

XX. -THE GREAT BELL ROLAND. TOLL, "Roland," toll! In old St. Bavon's tower, at midnight hour, the great bell Roland spoke!-all souls that slept in Ghent awoke !... What meant the thunder-stroke? Why trembled wife and maid? Why caught each man his blade? Why echoed every street with tramp of thronging feet-all flying to the city's wall?...It was the warning call that Freedom stood in peril of a foe! and even timid hearts grew

bold, whenever "Roland" tolled; for every hand a sword must hold ! So acted men like patriots then, three hundred years ago!

Toll! "Roland," toll! Bell never yet was hung between whose lips there swung more grand a tongue! If men be patriots still, at Freedom's sound true hearts will bound,-great souls will thrill! Then toll! and strike the test through each man's breast, till loyal hearts shall stand confess'd!...And may God's wrath smite all the rest!

Toll! "Roland," toll!-Not now in old St. Bavon's tower-not now at midnight hour-not now from River Scheldt to Zuyder Zee-but here!-this side the sea! Toll here, in broad, bright day!-for not by night awaits a noble foe without our gates; but perjured friends, within, betray, and do the deed at noon! Toll! "Roland," toll! Thy sound is not too soon! "To arms!"-Ring out the leader's call! re-echo it from East to West, till every slave-bent breast shall swell beneath a soldier's crest! Toll! " Roland," toll! till cottager from cottage-wall snatch pouch, and powder-horn, and gun. The Šire bequeath'd them to the Son, when only half their work was done!-Toll! "Roland," toll! till swords from scabbards leap! Toll! "Roland," toll!-What tears can widows weep, less bitter than when brave men fall ?—Toll! Roland," toll! In shadow'd hut and hall must lie the funeral pall; and hearts will break when graves are fill'd-Amen!-since God hath will'd! But-may His grace anoint us all!

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Toll! "Roland," toll!-The Dragon on thy tower stands sentry to this hour; and Freedom now is safe in Ghent, and merrier bells now ring, while, in the land's serene content, men shout, "God save the King!" until the skies are rent! So let it be! A kingly king is he who keeps his people free! Toll! "Roland," toll! Ring out, across the sea! No longer THEY, but we have now such need of thee!-Toll! "Roland," toll!-nor ever may thy throat keep dumb its warning note, till Freedom's perils be outbrav'd!-Toll!*“ Roland,” toll!-till Freedom's flag, wherever waved, shall shadow not one man enslaved !-Toll! "Roland," toll!-from Northern shore to Southern strand! Toll!

Roland," toll!-till Friend and Foe, at thy command, once more shall clasp each other's hand, and shout, one-voic'd, “God save the Land! and love the land that God hath saved!"-Toll! "Roland," toll!

XXI.—THE BROTHERS (HENRY AND JOHN SHEARS).—A SCENE
FROM '98.- Lady Wilde.

'Tis midnight; falls the lamplight, dull and sickly,
On a pale and anxious crowd,-

Through the Court, and round the Judges,-thronging thickly,
With prayers they dare not speak aloud.

Two youths, two noble youths,-stand prisoners at the bar

You can see them through the gloom

In the pride of life and manhood's beauty there they are,

Awaiting their death-doom!

All eyes an earnest watch on them are keeping,

Some, sobbing, turn away;

And the strongest men can hardly see for weeping,

So noble and so loved were they!

Their hands are lock'd together, those young Brothers

As before the Judge they stand

They feel not the deep grief that moves the others;
For they die for Fatherland!

They are pale,-but it is not fear that whitens
On each proud high brow;

For the triumph of the Martyr's glory brightens

Around them, even now.

They sought to free their land from thrall of stranger-
Was that treason?-Let them die!

But their blood will cry to Heaven-the Avenger
Yet will hearken from on high!

Before them, shrinking, cowering, scarcely human,
The base Informer bends;

Who, Judas-like, could sell the blood of true men,
While he clasp'd their hands as friends.

Ay! could fondle the young children of his victim-
Break bread with his young wife, -

At the moment that, for gold, his perjured dictum
Sold the husband's and the father's life!

There is silence in the midnight-eyes are keeping
Troubled watch till forth the Jury come;

There is silence in the midnight-eyes are weeping-
'Guilty!" is the fatal, uttered doom.

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For a moment, o'er the Brothers' noble faces,

Came a shadow, sad to see;

Then, silently they rose up in their places,

And embraced each other fervently!

Oh! the rudest heart might tremble at such sorrow,

The rudest cheek might blanch at such a scene:
Twice the Judge essay'd to speak the word, "To-morrow,"
Twice faltered, as a woman he had been.

"To-morrow!"-Fain the elder would have spoken,
Pray'd for respite, though it is not Death he fears;
But thoughts of home and wife his heart have broken,
And his words are stopped by tears!

But the younger-oh, he spake out bold and clearly:
"I have no ties of children or of wife;

Let me die-but spare the brother, who more dearly
Is lov'd by me than life!"......

Pale martyrs, ye may cease! your days are numbered!
Next noon, your sun of life goes down!

One day, between the sentence and the scaffold;
One day, between the torture and the crown!

-A hymn of joy is rising from creation;
Bright the azure of the glorious summer sky;
But human hearts weep sore in lamentation,
For the Brothers are led forth to die!

Ay! guard them with your cannon and your lances!
So of old came martyrs to the stake:

Ay! guard them!-See the people's flashing glances,
For those noble Two are dying for their sake!

Yet none spring forth their bonds to sever:
Ah! methinks, had I been there,

I'd have dared a thousand deaths, ere ever
The sword should touch their hair!