Says the Shan Van Vocht.
Oh! the French are in the bay;
They'll be here without delay,
And the Orange will decay,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
Oh! the French are in the bay,
They'll be here by break of day,
And the Orange will decay,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

And where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;

Where will they have their camp?

Says the Shan Van Vocht.
On the Currach of Kildare;
The boys they will be there

With their pikes in good repair,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

To the Currach of Kildare
The boys they will repair,

And Lord Edward will be there,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

Then what will the yeomen do?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
What will the yeomen do?

Says the Shan Van Vocht.
What should the yeomen do,
But throw off the red and blue,
And swear that they'll be true
To the Shan Van Vocht?

What should the yeomen do,
But throw off the red and blue,
And swear that they'll be true
To the Shan Van Vocht?

And what color will they wear?

Says the Shan Van Vocht; What color will they wear?

Says the Shan Van Vocht. What color should be seen,

Where our fathers' homes have been,
But our own immortal green?

Says the Shan Van Vocht.
What color should be seen,

385

Where our fathers' homes have been,
But our own immortal green ?
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

And will Ireland then be free?

Says the Shan Van Vocht; Will Ireland then be free?

Says the Shan Van Vocht.
Yes! Ireland shall be free,
From the centre to the sea;
Then hurrah for liberty!

Says the Shan Van Vocht.
Yes! Ireland shall be free,
From the centre to the sea;
Then hurrah for liberty!

Says the Shan Van Vocht.

near

Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;

At Boom a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the
half-chime-

So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!"

At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past;
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back

fate,

With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer

Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or good,

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking round, As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;

wine,

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

ROBERT BROWNING.

The Knight's Leap.

A LEGEND OF ALTENAHR.

So the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine; And the water is spent and gone?

Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine:

I never shall drink but this one.

And reach me my harness, and saddle my horse,
And lead him me round to the door:
He must take such a leap to-night perforce,
As horse never took before.

I have fought my fight, I have lived my life,
I have drunk my share of wine;
From Trier to Cöln there was never a knight
Led a merrier life than mine.

I have lived by the saddle for years twoscore;
And if I must die on tree,

Then the old saddle tree, which has borne me of yore,
Is the properest timber for me.

387

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod;

They have left unstained what there they found Freedom to worship God.

FELICIA HEMANS.

It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,
And shall guard this ice-bound shore,
Till the waves of the bay where the Mayflower lay
Shall foam and freeze no more.

JOHN PIERPONT.

The Pilgrim Fathers.

THE Pilgrim Fathers, where are they?

The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray, As they break along the shore— Still roll in the bay as they rolled that day

When the Mayflower moored below, When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow.

The mists that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep
Still brood upon the tide;

And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride:

But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale
When the heavens looked dark, is gone;
As an angel's wing through an opening cloud
Is seen, and then withdrawn.

The pilgrim exile - sainted name!

The hill, whose icy brow

Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, In the morning's flame burns now.

And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night
On the hill-side and the sea,

Still lies where he laid his houseless head;
But the pilgrim, where is he?

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest:

When Summer is throned on high,

And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed,
Go, stand on the hill where they lie:
The earliest ray of the golden day

On the hallowed spot is cast;

And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,
Looks kindly on that spot last.

The pilgrim spirit has not fled:

It walks in noon's broad light;

And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, With the holy stars by night:

On the Prospect of Planting Arts and
Learning in America.

THE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime
Barren of every glorious theme,

In distant lands now waits a better time,
Producing subjects worthy fame;

In happy climes, where from the genial sun
And virgin earth such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true;

In happy climes the seat of innocence,

Where nature guides and virtue rules, Where men shall not impose, for truth and sense, The pedantry of courts and schools. There shall be sung another golden age, The rise of empire and of arts, The good and great uprising epic rage, The wisest heads and noblest hearts.

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;

Such as she bred when fresh and young, When heavenly flame did animate her clay, By future poets shall be sung.

Westward the course of empire takes its way;
The four first acts already past,

A fifth shall close the drama with the day;
Time's noblest offspring is the last.

Hymn

GEORGE BERKELEY.

SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONU-
MENT, APRIL 19, 1836.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.