writer of polemic prose Ireland has produced; | struggle, Davis died. This was on the 16th of and that same time also begat Thomas Davis, September, 1845, and consequently when he one of the greatest of Irish singers. Davis was was only in his thirty-first year. the son of a Welsh gentleman who had settled in Cork. He was born at Mallow in 1815. From an early age he exhibited a keen interest in the language, the history, and the antiquities of his country. He was educated at Trinity College, Dublin, where he graduated in 1836; and two years afterwards he was called to the bar. The troubled and exciting times in which he lived, however, were destined to drag him from the quiet pursuit of his profession to the stormier arena of politics. He joined the Repeal Association of O'Connell, a step which coloured his whole after-life, and had, besides, influences far wider than his personal fortunes.

The Association, powerful as it was in some respects, was in others very feeble. There attached to it, in the first place, the suspicion of being a sectarian body, a society which identified national with purely Catholic interests. The autocratic position of O'Connell, too, had had the effect of making the Association appear to be merely an arena in which he performed as a star amid the placidity of mean-spirited and insignificant "supers." The adhesion of Davis to the body did much to remove these prejudices. He was a Protestant; he was a man of genius; his character was high and independent. The result was that the new recruit was followed by several others of perhaps a better class than had hitherto united their fortunes to those of O'Connell's Association.

It

In 1842 the Nation newspaper was founded: an event destined to bear most important fruits, literary and political, in the history of Ireland. Mr. (now Sir) Charles Gavan Duffy was the editor; and Davis became one of the chief contributors. It was in the columns of this paper that the greater part of Davis's poems appeared; and his stirring words were among the most potent agencies in stimulating the revolutionary passions of the people. is well known that Davis soon formed in the Association a party, which aimed at objects and contemplated means to which the founder of the body was most vehemently opposed. We need not here tell again the oft-told story of the quarrel between the advocates of physical force-who came to be known as the Young Ireland party-and O'Connell, who believed in the omnipotence of constitutional agitation. Here we must confine ourselves to the statement, that in the middle of the

It is impossible to describe the poignancy of regret with which the news of this premature and sudden close to a career of such bright promise was received. Extreme as were the political opinions of Davis, they were free from the least suspicion of sectarianism; this, together with the transparent purity of his motives and his splendid talents, made him admired by men of the most opposite principles. The Warder, one of the strongest opponents of the Nation and its views, wrote a notice of his death full of the kindliest feelings.1

But the most eloquent and touching tribute to the memory of Davis is that of John Mitchel, his friend and disciple. Having first told how the premature death of Davis was due to the effect of "incessant labour and excitement" for three years "on an ardent temperament and unresting brain," Mitchel goes on:-"He was thirty-one years of age when he died. His figure was not tall, but compact and active. He walked fast, and with his head held slightly forward, as is the wont of eager and impulsive characters. But he was no mere revolutionist. In the antiquarian reunions at the Academy none was heard with more respect; in the gay drawingrooms of Dublin none was a more welcome guest. He laughed seldom but heartily. He had not time to marry; but he loved passionately, as such men must, and over his early grave a fair woman shed bitter tears."

"How felt O'Connell ?" Mitchel goes on:-" "Davis had been much in his way, and O'Connell was somewhat of a despot. Davis had been independent of him and his opinions while he gave impetus to his movement; and O'Connell saw no use in independence, and abhorred impetus, unless when he could bridle it himself. "Young Ireland" had

1 "With a scholarship," wrote the Warder, "in general literature as well as in history and in politics, the extent of which was absolutely prodigious, Mr. Davis combined the finest and the noblest natural endowments of mind and disposition; he was a constant, earnest, and guileits service he lavished, with the unreserve of conscious genius, the inexhaustible resources of his accomplished undebased by the scheming and powerful intellect, of ambition-untainted by the rancour of faction; and if we pass by the errors of a wrongly chosen cause, he was Young

lessly honest labourer in the cause of his choice; and in

entitled truly to the noble name of patriot.
though he died, his life had been long enough to impress
the public with a consciousness of his claims upon their
admiration and respect; his admirers were of all parties,
and in none had he an enemy."

been a thorn in his side, had applied fire to

his back, and singed his beard. Yet, withal, LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN

RUADH O'NEILL,

COMMONLY CALLED OWEN ROE O'NEIL.1

"Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Owen Roe

O'Neil?"

"Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to

meet with steel."

"May God wither up their hearts! May their

blood cease to flow!

Roe!

"Though it break my heart to hear, say again the

bitter words."

From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to

measure swords;

But the weapon of the Saxon met him on his way,
And he died at Cloc Lactair, upon Saint Leonard's
Day."

the heart of Daniel O'Connell was large and loving; Davis had ever treated him with the most reverential respect; and he, on his side, could not but do homage to the imperial genius, nor fail to be won by such a gallant and gentle nature. He was, that month of September, at his house of Derrynane Abbey, far in the wilds of Kerry, among the cliffs of the Atlantic coast, trying to freshen his worn life in the vital air of his mountains, and per- May they walk in living death, who poisoned Owen suading himself that he could still, when the fox broke cover, listen to the ringing music of his hounds with a hunter's joy. But the massive and iron frame was bent; the bright blue eyes had grown dim; and on that overwearied brain lay the shadow of death. One morning came the news of the death of Davis; and the old man is shaken by a sudden tempest of wildest grief. Well might he cry out, 'Would to God that I had died for thee, my son' From Derrynane his habit was to send a long weekly letter, to be read at the meeting of the Association. This week his letter was very short-nothing but a burst of lamentation. . . . 'As I stand alone in the solitude of my mountains many a tear shall I shed in memory of the noble youth. Oh! how vain are words or tears when such a national calamity afflicts the country. Put me down among the foremost contributors to whatever monument or tribute to his memory may be voted by the National Association. Never did they perform a more imperative, or, alas! so sad a duty. I can write no more-my tears blind me and after all, Fungar inani munere.'

The chief and best poems of Davis are those of a national character. The most stirring is the well-known "Fontenoy." But he was equally at home in verses of quiet description or of the affections. "The Sack of Baltimore," it has been well remarked by a writer in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1875, "has hardly a rival in its charm of description, its dramatic presentment of the most exciting action, and its deep and touching pathos. "My Grave" is also a beautiful little poem; and it would be difficult to find a truer or more striking feature of a weird spot than "A Scene in the South."

A collection of his poems is published in Duffy's National Library Series. A marble statue of much merit by Hogan marks his last resting-place in Mount Jerome Cemetery, Dublin].

66

Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One! Wail, wail

ye for the Dead!

Quench the hearth, and hold the breath-with
How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we

ashes strew the head!

deplore!

Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him

"We thought you would not die-we were sure | They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in

you would not go,

And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow

Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky

Oh! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die?

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!"

"Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neil! bright From out their beds, and to their doors, rush

was your eye!

Oh! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die?

maid, and sire, and dame

And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall,

Your troubles are all over-you're at rest with And o'er each black and bearded face the white

God on high;

But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Owen!-why did you die?"

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.1

or crimson shawl

The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hun- Then sprung the mother on the brand with which

dred isles

her son was gored;

The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grandrough defilesbabes clutching wild;

Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moult- Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled ing bird; with the child; And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed heard; with splashing heel, The hookers lie upon the beach; the children While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his cease their play; Syrian steelThe gossips leave the little inn; the households Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers kneel to pray— yield their store, And full of love, and peace, and rest-its daily There's one hearth well avengèd in the sack of labour o'er

Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Balti

more.

Baltimore !

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds began to sing

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with mid- They see not now the milking maids-deserted is night there;

the spring!

No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, Midsummer day-this gallant rides from distant or sea, or air. Bandon's townThe massive capes, and ruined towers, seem con- These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that scious of the calm; skiff from Affadown;

The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing They only found the smoking walls, with neighheavy balm. bours' blood besprent, So still the night, these two long barques, round And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile Dunashad that glide, they wildly went

Must trust their oars-methinks not few-against Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cléire, and the ebbing tidesaw five leagues before

Oh! some sweet mission of true love must urge The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltithem to the shore

1 Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up round a castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the 20th of June, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisher

This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk,1 and that a | Six thousand English veterans in stately column

Bey's jerreed. 2

Oh! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles;

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

tread,

Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;

Steady they step a-down the slope-steady they climb the hill;

The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen Steady they load-steady they fire, moving right

onward still,

for the DeyShe's safe-she's dead-she stabbed him in the Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a midst of his serai; furnace blast, And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bulthey bore, lets showering fast; She only smiled--O'Driscoll's child-she thought | And on the open plain above they rose, and kept

of Baltimore.

'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band,

their course,

With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force:

Past

And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand,

Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks-

Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen

'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan-he who steered the More idly than the summer flies, French tiraillAlgerine! eurs rush round; He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing | As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground;

prayer,

For he had slain the kith and kin of many a Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still hundred thereon they marched and fired

Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur the Norman o'er

retired.

Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Balti- "Push on my household cavalry!" King Louis

"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain;"

And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a in vain assailed;

Waterloo,

For town and slope were filled with fort and flank- Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement,

ing 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.

and true.

"Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes!'

The marshal almost smiles to see, so 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,

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he | Been seen to soil Fitzgerald's plume, or mantle in commands,

The Geraldines! the Geraldines!-'tis full a thou- What gorgeous shrines, what breitheamh lore,

Since, 'mid the Tuscan vineyards, bright flashed In and around Magh Nuadhaid's keep, and their battle-spears;

When Capet seized the crown of France, their iron But not for rite or feast ye stayed, when friend or shields were known,

And their sabre-dint struck terror on the banks of And foemen fled, when "Crom Abú"8 bespoke the Garonne: