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Another hand thy sword shall wield,

Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is peald

The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

W. C. Bryanto



WHAT'S hallowed ground! Has earth a clod

Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God,

Erect and free, Unscourged by Superstition's rod

To bow the knee?

That's hallowed ground where mourned and missed,
The lips repose our love has kissed ;
But where's their memory's mansion ? Is 't

Yon churchyard's bowers ?
No; in ourselves their souls exist,

A part of ours.

What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap !
In dews that heavens far distant weep,

Their turf may bloom ;
Or genii twine beneath the deep

Their coral tomb.

But strew his ashes to the wind
Whose sword or voice has served mankind
And is he dead, whose glorious mind

Lifts thine on high?
To live in hearts we leave behind

Is not to die.

Is 't death to fall for freedom's right?
He's dead alone that lacks her light !

And murder sullies in Heaven's sight

The sword he draws : What can alone ennoble fight?

A noble cause !

Give that! and welcome war to brace
Her drums! and rend heaven's reeking space!
The colors painted face to face,

The charging cheer,
Though Death's pale horse led on the chase,

Shall still be dear !

And place our trophies where men kneel
To Heaven ! but Heaven rebukes


zeal! The cause of truth and human weal,

O God above!
Transfer it from the sword's appeal

To peace and love!

Peace, love! the cherubim, that join
Their spread wings o'er devotion's shrine ;
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine

Where they are not ;
The heart alone can make divine

Religion's spot.

To incantations dost thou trust,

rites in domes august ? See niouldering stones and metals' rust

Belie the vaunt,
That man can bless one pile of dust

With chime or chant.

Fair stars! are not your beings pure ? Can sin, can death your worlds obscure ? Else why so swell the thoughts at your

Aspect above? Ye must be Ileaven's that make us sure

Of heavenly love!

And in your harmony sublime
I read the doom of distant time;
That man's regenerate soul from crime

Shall yet be drawn,
And reason on his mortal clime

Immortal dawn.

Wliat 's hallowed ground ? 'T is what gires birth
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! -
Peace! independence! truth! go forth

Earth’s compassed round ;
And your high-priesthood shall make earth
All hallowed ground.

T. Campbolla



WHERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, -

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ;
For his country he sighed, when, at twilight, repairing

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill :
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion ;
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fervor of youth's warm emotion,

He sung the bold anthem of “ Erin go bragh !”

“ Sad is my fate!” said the heart-broken stranger

“ The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger:

A home and a country remain not to me! Never again in the green sunny bowers, Where


forefathers lived, shall spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with wild woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of “ Erin go bragh!'

“ Erin! my country! though sad and forsaken,

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore !

But, alas ! in a far, foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! O cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me!

They died to defend me ! — or live to deplore !

" Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ?

Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood ?

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ?
Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure !
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ?
Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure,

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall !

“ Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw; Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing !

Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, – • Erin mavournin Erin

T. Campbell .

go bragh!""



A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound, ,

Cries, “ Boatman, do not tarry !
And I'll give thee a silver pound

To row us o'er the ferry ! ”

“ Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water?” « O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

“ And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

“ His horsemen hard behind us ride

Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride,

When they have slain her lover!”

Out spoke the hardy highland wight,

"I'll go, my chief, I'm ready: It is not for


silver bright, But for your winsome lady:

“ And by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are raging white,

I'll row you o'er the ferry.”

By this the storm grew


apace, , The water-wraith was shrieking; And, in the scowl of heaven, each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

“ ) haste thee, haste !” the lady cries,

“Though tempests round us gather ; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry


The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her, When, O! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gathered o'er her.

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