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 ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear,- 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, 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, 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 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. A deed accursed! Strokes have been struck before 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. The Memory of the Dead. WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? When cowards mock the patriot's fate, We drink the memory of the brave, The fame of those who died All true men, like you, men, Some on the shores of distant lands In true men, like you, men, The dust of some is Irish earth; And the same land that gave them birth Of true men, like you, men, They rose in dark and evil days That nothing shall withstand. Alas! that might can vanquish right They fell and passed away; But true men, like you, men, 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. THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat No more on life's parade shall meet And glory guards, with solemn round, No rumor of the foe's advance No troubled thought at midnight haunts No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; Their shivered swords are red with rust, And plenteous funeral tears have washed The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal Like the fierce northern hurricane Who heard the thunder of the fray Long has the doubtful conflict raged Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 'T was in that hour his stern command 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 Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, |