A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there,
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth or sea or air;
The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.

So still the night, those two long barques round Dunashad that glide,
Must trust their oars, methinks not few, against the ebbing tide;
Oh! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore,
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore.

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street,

And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet;-
A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise!" The roof is in a flame !"
From out their beds and to their doors rush maid and sire and dame,
And meet upon the threshold stone, the gleaming saber's fall,
And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl,
The yell of" Allah !" breaks above the prayer and shriek and roar—
Oh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore !

Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword;
Then sprang the mother on the brand with which her son was gored;
Then sank the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild ;
Then fled the maiden, moaning faint, and nestled with the child.
But see yon pirate strangled lies and crushed with splashing heel,
While o'er him, in an Irish hand, there sweeps his Syrian steel.
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store,
There's one heart well avenged in the sack of Baltimore !

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing,
They see not now the milking-maids, deserted is the spring!
Midsummer day, this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town,
Those hookers crossed from stormy Skull, the skiff from Affadown,
They only found the smoking walls with neighbors' blood besprent,
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went,
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and saw five leagues before,
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.

Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed,
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed.
Oh! some are for the arsenals by beauteous Dardanelles,

And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells.

The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey;
She's safe! she's dead! she stabbed him in the midst of his serai!
And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore,
She only smiled-O'Driscoll's child!—she thought of Baltimore !

'Tis two long years since sank the town beneath that bloody band,
And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand,
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen,
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvon, he who steered the Algerine.

He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer,

For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there.
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who had brought the Norman o'er;
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.

The more we study this ballad, the more extraordinary does it appear, that it should have been the work of an unpracticed hand. Not only is it full of spirit and of melody, qualities not incompatible with inexperience in poetical composition, but the artistic merit is so great. Picture succeeds to picture, each perfect in itself, and each conducing to the effect of the whole. There is not a careless line, or a word out of place; and how the epithets paint; "fibrous sod," "heavy balm," "shearing sword!" The Oriental portion is as complete in what the French call local color as the Irish. He was learned, was Thomas Davis, and wrote of nothing that he could not have taught. It is something that he should have left a poem like this, altogether untinged by party politics, for the pride and admiration of all who share a common language, whether Celt or Saxon.

MAIRE BHAN ASTOIR*-" FAIR MARY MY TREASURE."

IRISH EMIGRANT SONG.

In a valley far away,

With my Maire bhan astoir,
Short would be the summer day,

Ever loving more and more.

Winter days would all grow long

With the light her heart would pour,

With her kisses and her song

And her loving maith go léor.†

Fond is Maire bhan astoir,
Fair is Maire bhan astoir,
Sweet as ripple on the shore
Sings my Maire bhan astoir.

Oh! her sire is very proud,

And her mother cold as stone;
But her brother bravely vowed
She should be my bride alone;

* Pronounced Maur-ya Vaun Asthore.
† Much plenty, or in abundance.

For he knew I loved her well,

And he knew she loved me too,
So he sought their pride to quell,
But 'twas all in vain to sue.
True is Maire bhan astoir,
Tried is Maire bhan astoir,
Had I wings I'd never soar
From my Maire bhan astoir.

There are lands where manly toil
Surely reaps the crop it sows,
Glorious woods and teeming soil
Where the broad Missouri flows;
Through the trees the smoke shall rise
From our hearth with maith go léor,
There shall shine the happy eyes
Of my Maire bhan astoir.

Mild is Maire bhan astoir,
Mine is Maire bhan astoir,

Saints will watch about the door

Of my Maire bhan astoir.

I subju ne of thel yrics, a ballad of the "Brigade," which produced so much effect, when printed on the broad sheet of the "Nation." It is a graphic and dramatic battle-song, full of life and action; too well calculated to excite that most excitable people, for whose gratification it was written.

FONTENOY.
(1745.)

Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed;
And twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain assailed;
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery,
And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly through De Barri's wood the British soldiers burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops like clouds at eventide.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head.
Steady they step adown the slope, steady they mount the hill,
Steady they load, steady they fire, moving right onward still,
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast,
Through rampart, trench and palisade, and bullets showering fast;

And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course,
With ready fire, and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force:
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks,
They break as breaks the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks!

More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round;
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground;
Bomb-shell and grape and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired
Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired.

"Push on, my household cavalry!" King Louis madly cried;

To death they rush, but rude their shock, not unavenged they died.
On, through the camp the column trod, King Louis turned his rein:
"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain.”
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo

Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement and true.

"Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes!" The Marshal almost smiles to see how furiously he goes!

How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay!
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day;
The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry;

Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting cry;
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown;
Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,

Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were.

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,

"Fix bayonets-charge !" Like mountain storm rush on these fiery bands !---
Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,
Yet, mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill, to face that battle-wind;
Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks the men behind!
One volley crashes from their line, when through the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza!
"Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanagh !"

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, 'tis 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, scattered, fled;
The green hillside 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!

John Banim was the founder of that school of Irish novelists, which, always excepting its blameless purity, so much resembles the modern romantic French school, that if it were possible to suspect Messieurs Victor Hugo, Eugène Sue, and Alexander Dumas of reading the English, which they never approach without such ludicrous blunders, one might fancy that many-volumed tribe to have stolen their peculiar inspiration from the O'Hara family. Of a certainty the tales of Mr. Banim were purely original. They had no precursors either in our own language or in any other, and they produced accordingly the sort of impression, more vivid than durable, which highly-colored and deeply-shadowed novelty is sure to make on the public mind. But they are also intensely national. They reflect Irish scenery, Irish character, Irish crime, and Irish virtue, with a general truth which, in spite of their tendency to melo-dramatic effects, will keep them fresh and life-like for many a day after the mere fashion of the novel of the season shall be past and gone. The last of his works, especially, "Father Connell," contains the portrait of a parish priest, so exquisitely simple, natural, and tender, that in the whole range of fiction I know nothing more charming. The subject was one that the author loved; witness the following rude, rugged, homely song, which explains so well the imperishable ties which unite the peasant to his pastor.

SOGGARTH AROON.*

Am I the slave they say,
Soggarth Aroon?

Since you did show the way,
Soggarth Aroon,

Their slave no more to be,

While they would work with me

Ould Ireland's slavery,

Soggarth aroon?

Why not her poorest man,

Soggarth aroon,

Try and do all he can,

Soggarth aroon,

Her commands to fulfill

Of his own heart and will,

Side by side with you still,
Soggarth aroon ?

* Anglice, Priest dear.