THE THREE FISHERS. Sith she, for whom these once to me were dear, THREE fishers went sailing out into the No part of them can have now with me here? west, of the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down, They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and brown; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning. What doth it serve to hear the sylvan's songs, The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs? WILLIAM DRUMMOND. THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. (Baltimore is a small seaport in South Munster, Ireland. On the 20th of June, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of the 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 a fisherman, whom they had taken at sea.) THEberry's hundred isles; HE summer sun is falling soft on Car The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles; Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird; And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean-tide is heard; The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play; The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray; And full of love, and peace, and rest, its daily labor o'er, Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of 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!" For what doth serve all that this world con- From out their beds and to their doors rush tains, maid and sire and dame, And meet upon the threshold's stone the And when to die the death of fire that noble gleaming saber's fall, maid they bore, And o'er each black and bearded face the She only smiled-O'Driscoll's child: She 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; 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 Dungarvion, he who steered the Algerine! He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer, Then fled the maiden, moaning faint, and For he had slain the kith and kin of many a nestled with the child. hundred there. But see! yon pirate strangled lies, and Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who had crushed, with splashing heel, While o'er him, in an Irish hand, there sweeps his Syrian steel; Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and There's one heart well avenged in the sack of 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 bespent, And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went; Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and saw five leagues before brought the Norman o'er, Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore. THOMAS DAVIS. THE DEAD MARINER. O'er thee mild eve her beauty flings, Sleep on-no willow o'er thee bends No violet springs, nor dewy rose The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Is sweetly o'er thy slumbers flung, Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed, This boy will bear a sheik's chibouk, and Oh! some are for the arsenals by beauteous And like a weeping mourner fair, Sleep on-sleep on-the glittering depths Are thy bright urn, thy requiem, And some are in the caravans to Mecca's In fadeless beauty round thy urn, sandy dells. The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey; And pure and deep as infant love, She's safe! she's dead! she's stabbed him in Sleep on-sleep on-the fearful wrath the midst of his serai! Of mingling cloud and deep May leave its wild and stormy track Above thy place of sleep; But when the wave has sunk to rest, As now, 't will murmur o'er thy breast, And the bright victims of the sea Not an officer lost; only one of the men, Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle." All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Perchance will make their home with thee. Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping, While stars, up above, with their glittering eyes Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in that low trundle bed, Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep; For their mother, may Heaven defend her! The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night, when the love, yet unspoken, Leaped up to his lips, when low-murmured VOWS Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place, As if to keep down the heart-swelling. He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree; The footstep is lagging and weary, Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Toward the shade of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle "Oh, Mary, good-bye!" And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. All quiet along the Potomac to-night, No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead The picket's off duty forever! MRS. ETHEL LYNN BEERS. 253033B When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air, My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy; SELECTIONS FROM "IN MEM ORIAM" SOMETIMES feel it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel; But, for the unquiet heart and brain, In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, * * * Do we indeed desire the dead * * Should still be near us at our side? Is there no baseness we would hide, No inner vileness than we dread? Then comes the sad thought that he is not Should he for whose applause I strove, I had such reverence for his blame, See with clear eye some hidden shame; And I be lessened in his love? |