He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted;
Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted.
Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord,
An' GOD will forgive you-O, don't say the word!"
That was the first minute that O'BRIEN was shaken,
When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken;
An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother,
The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other;
An' two or three times he endeavored to spake,
But the sthrong, manly voice used to falther and break;
But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride,
He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide,

"An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart For, sooner or later, the dearest must part;

And God knows it's betther than wandering in fear

On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer,
To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast,
From thought, labor, and sorrow, forever shall rest.
Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more,
Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour;
For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven,
No thrue man can say that I died like a craven !"
Then towards the judge SHAMUS bent down his head,
An' that minute the solemn death-sentince was said.

The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high,
An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;
But why are the men standin' idle so late?
An' why do the crowds gather fast in the street?
What come they to talk of? what come they to see?
An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?
O, SHAMUS O'BRIEN! pray fervent and fast,
May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last;
Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh,
When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die.
An' fasther an' fasther, the crowd gathered there,
Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just like a fair;
An' whiskey was sellin', and cussamuck too,
An' ould men and young women enjoying the view.
An' ould TIM MULVANY, he med the remark,
There wasn't sich a sight since the time of Nor's ark,
An' be gorry, 'twas thrue for him, for divil sich a scruge,
Sich divarshin and crowds, was known since the deluge
For thousands were gathered there, if there was one,
Waitin' till such time as the hangin' 'id come on.

At last they threw open the big prison-gate,
An' out came the sheriffs and sodgers in state,
An' a cart in the middle, an' SHAMUS was in it,
Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute.
An' as soon as the people saw SHAMUS O'BRIEN,
Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin',

A wild wailin' sound kem on by degrees,

Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees.
On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone,
An' the cart an' the sodgers go steadily on;
An' at every side swellin' around of the cart,
A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart.
Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,
An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand;
An' the priest, havin' biest him, goes down on the ground,
An' SHAMUS O'BRIEN throws one last look round.
Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still,
Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turn chill;
An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare,
For the gripe iv the life-strangling chord to prepare;
An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer.
But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound,
And with one daring spring JIM has leaped on the ground;
Bang bang! goes the carbines, and clash goes the sabres:
He's no down! he's alive still! now stand to him, neighbors!
Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,-
By the heavens, he's free!—than thunder more love,
By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken—
One shout that the dead of the world might awaken.
The sodgers ran this way, the sheriff's ran that,
An' Father MALONE this new Sunday hat;
To-night he'll be sieerun in Aherloe Glin,
An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.
Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,
But if you want hangin', it's yourself you must hang.

He has mounted his horse, and soon he will be
In America, darlint, the land of the free.

THE PARTING.-By N. K. Richardson.

BRIGHT rose the cheery morn; the golden sun
Had risen; and the night-clouds one by one,
Rolled back their dingy drapery from the sky,
Bidding the sun to live, the stars to die.
The glowing east, a panoramic view,
Blushed like a modest maid with crimson hue;
As onward rushed the glittering orb of day
Crushing the misty mountains in its way.
It gilded steeples, turrets, towers, and vanes;
And threw upon the village golden chains
Of heavenly light, that brighter, brighter grew,
Drinking from trembling leaves the sparkling dew,

And throwing darts reproachful, in the eyes
Of slumbering men, who, Past Meridian,―rise.
God sends this messenger of light to teach,
The sluggards practice what the laborers preach:
Behold! He walks upon the eastern rim,
And toiling on, bids all men follow Him.

But hark! What means that instantaneous roar,
Why doth the eagle, frightened, swiftly soar
To yon high peak that overhangs the sea?
What means that shriek of untold agony?
Proud bird of Freedom, hath some impious hand
Struck thy loved form?-Some cruel despot land,
Where liberty enchained is kept in awe,
Where regal tyrants make and rule the law?
Listen again, I hear the rumbling car;

Whilst on the breeze the cry of War! War! War!
Rings through the village, and the kindling spa.
Bursts into flame;-Alas! my country, hark!
O'er southern plains I hear the clash of arms,
The wail of women, and the dread alarms

Of battle! On, on they rush, on with impetuous specu,
The young, the old, the hound, the nimble steed!
Mechanics, artizans, farmers, lawyers too,

And of the reverend clergy not a few!

For weeks the drum and fife rang through the town,
The nation spoke, and with an awful frown,

Thousands on thousands governed by their reason,
Went forth to aid in trampling upon Treason.
As when the billows of old ocean swell,
So trooped the legions of the North, to quell
This emanation from the depths of hell!

A little cottage on the village street,

*

Homely 'tis true, but notwithstanding, neat;
With fences whitened, garden nicely made,
Show'd woman's thrifty hand to have been laid
On the rude dwelling, that would surely shock
Some foppish upstart of a wealthy stock.
Within, the furniture was scant and poor;
No carpet hid the water-polished floor;
But labor, faithful friend, forever true,
Gave to each object old appearance new.

A virtuous widow and an honest son,
Dwelt here alone: but, ah! the two were ons;
Oh! blessed poverty, thy trials prove,
How much exists in mutual love.
Together both in sunshine and in shade;
Both sang together and together prayed.
Our hero on this glorious sunny day

Was treading slowly o'er his grassy way,
Toward the little shop, where at his trade
A meagre pittance at the best he made:-
When, suddenly, the bugle blast

Of war came calling loud and fast!
For brave men, all to go and fight,
For home, for country, and for right,
For freedom, for our flag and laws,
And for the honor of our cause!

Backward he turned; she blessed her son,
And bade him go, and never come
Until the glorious work was done!

She prayed, she smiled, she kiss'd her boy,
She wept with patriotic joy,-

To think that, humble as she was,

Through him she fought in freedom's cause.

My child, she said, be true to God;
Study and love His Holy Word;
Then foremost in the fight stand forth,
And do your best to aid the North.
And should these earthly bonds be riven,
We'll meet within the courts of heaven.
Go forth, the threatening clouds dispel !
Farewell, dear boy, once more-farewell.

Part Second.