She marks them unheeding-her heart is afar, Where the clansmen are bleeding for her in the

war.

Hark! loud from the mountain-'tis victory's cry!

O'er woodland and fountain it rings to the sky! The foe has retreated! he flees to the shore; The spoiler's defeated-the combat is o'er!

With foreheads unruffled the conquerors comeBut why have they muffled the lance and the drum?

What form do they carry aloft on his shield? And where does he tarry, the lord of the field?

Ye saw him at morning, how gallant and gay!
In bridal adorning, the star of the day:
Now, weep for the lover-his triumph is sped,
His hope, it is over!-the chieftain is dead!

But, oh! for the maiden who mourns for that chief,

With heart overladen, and broken with grief! She sinks on the meadow:-in one morning-tide, A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride!

Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole!
Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul.
True true, 'twas a story for ages of pride;
e died in his glory-but, oh, he has died!

Gerald Griffin (Altered).

THE MOURNERS.

KING DEATH sped forth in his dreaded power
To make the most of his tyrant hour;

And the first he took was a white-robed girl, With the orange bloom twined in each glossy curl.

Her fond betrothed hung over the bier,
Bathing her shroud with the gushing tear :
He madly raved, he shrieked his pain,
With frantic speech and burning brain.
"There's no joy," cried he, "now my dearest is

gone,

Take, take me, Death; for I cannot live on!"

The valued friend, too, was snatched away, Bound to another from childhood's day; And the friend that was left exclaimed in despair, "Oh! he sleeps in the grave-let me follow him there!"

A mother was taken, whose constant love
Had nestled her child like a fair young dove;
And the heart of that child to the mother had

grown

Like the ivy to oak, or moss to the stone;

Nor loud nor wild was the burst of woe,
But the tide of anguish ran strong below;

And the reft one turned from all that was light,
From the flowers of day and the stars of night;
Breathing where none might hear or see—
"Where thou art, my mother, thy child

be."

Death smiled as he heard each earnest word:
"Nay, nay," said he, "be this work deferred;
I'll see you again in a fleeting year,
And, if grief and devotion live on sincere,
I promise then ye shall share the rest

Of the beings now plucked from your doting breast;

Then, if ye crave still the coffin and pall

As ye do this moment, my spear shall fall."
And Death fled till time on his rapid wing
Again brought back the skeleton king.

But the lover was ardently wooing again,
Kneeling in serfdom, and proud of his chain;
He had found an idol again to adore,
Rarer than that he had worshipped before :
His step was gay, his laugh was loud,
As he led the way for the bridal crowd;

And his eyes still kept their joyous ray,

Though he went by the grave where his first love lay.

"Ha! ha!" shouted Death, "'tis passing clear That I am a guest not wanted here!"

The friend again was quaffing the bowl, Warmly pledging his faith and soul; His bosom cherished with glowing pride A stranger form that sat by his side; His hand the hand of that stranger pressed; od his song, he echoed his jest ; hand wit of that new-found mate the name so prized of late.

He stood unmoved, e'en as the warrior stands
Who neither courts nor shuns the coming fray;
But even as he clasped his slender hands,
A door swung grating-and across the sands
A lion stalked in majesty of might.

There was no fury in his stately tread,
No bloody thirst which hastens to destroy,
But calm in power he raised his noble head,
And with a kingly glory 'round him shed,
Moved onward to that slender, graceful boy.

Nearer he came; upon the martyr's cheek
The hot breath of the forest-monarch burned,
Till once-but once-that brave young heart grew
weak,

When lo! with startled look, all mild and meek,
Back to its den the moaning lion turned!

Then rose that mighty multitude and loud
Upswelled a shout of mingled joy and rage,
As some their gladly tearful faces bowed,
While others stood apart and, stormy-browed,
Chafed like the maniac in his iron cage.

But o'er that tide of sound which rudely gushed Till Tiber all her slumbering echoes woke

A clear young voice rang out, the din was hushed,

And while his brow, uplifted, brightly blushed, With gentle grace, the young Pancratius spoke:

"Patience, sweet friends," he cried, "bear yet awhile,

For see, yon panther thirsts for liberty.
'Twas he that freed my father from his toil;
Oh! may he not"-and here a glorious smile
Parted his bright lips-" set Pancratius free?”

He paused-and men gazed, wonder-stricken, how
Such thirst could be for that which mortals dread;
Yet with a gloomy satisfaction on each brow,
The fatal sign was made, and cageless, now
A panther bounded forth with noiseless tread.

Joyous in liberty, it frisked and played,
And turned its shining neck in conscious pride;
Now in the yielding sand its form was laid;
Anon, with cat-like glee, low murmurs made,
And shook the dusk sand from its glittering hide.

At length it rose-its keen quick glance had caught

The youthful martyr, as he stood apart,
With all a mother's tender lips had taught,
And all a Saviour's tender love had wrought,
In that dread moment stealing o'er his heart.

Earnest the Christian prayed, and breathless,

men

Beheld the look that crouching panther wore; There was a pause—the echoes slept again— And then-oh! just and righteous Father! then One bound-one stroke-Pancratius dies no more! Eleanor C. Donnelly.