Chiefs, Captains, rank and file, a shining mount
Of God's ripe grain.

The Recreant's hate, the Puritan's claymore,
Smote thee not down;

On headland steep, on mountain summit hoar,
In mart and town;

In Glendalough, in Ara, in Tyrone,
We find thee still,

Thy open arms still stretching to thine own,
O'er town and lough and hill.

And they would tear thee out of Irish soil,
The guilty fools!

How Time must mock their antiquated toil
And broken tools.

Cranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp retired,
Baffled and thrown;

William and Anne to sap thy site conspired-—
The rest is known!

Holy Saint Patrick, Father of our Faith,
Beloved of God!

Shield thy dear church from the impending scaith,
Or, if the rod

Must scourge it yet again, inspire and raise
To emprise high,

Men like the heroic race of other days,

Who joyed to die!

Fear! Wherefore should the Celtic people fear Their Church's fate?

Its cross shall stand till that predestined day,
When Erin's self is drowned!

THE DEATH OF O'CAROLAN.

THERE is an empty seat by many a Board,
A Guest is missed in hostelry and hall
There is a Harp hung up in Alderford

That was in Ireland, sweetest harp of all.
The hand that made it speak, woe 's me, is cold,
The darkened eyeballs roll inspired no more;
the potent lips - gape like a mould,
Where late the golden torrent floated o'er.

The lips

In vain the watchman looks from Mayo's towers
For him whose presence filled all hearts with mirth;
In vain the gathered guests outsit the hours,

The honored chair is vacant by the hearth.
From Castle-Archdall, Moneyglass, and Trim,
The courteous messages go forth in vain,
Kind words no longer have a joy for him
Whose final lodge is in Death's dark demesne.

Kilronan Abbey is his Castle now,

And there till Doomsday peacefully he'll stay;
In vain they weave new garlands for his brow,
In vain they go to meet him by the way;
In kindred company he does not tire,

The native dead and noble lie around,

His life-long song has ceased, his wood and wire
Rest, a sweet harp unstrung, in holy ground.

Last of our ancient Minstrels! thou who lent
A buoyant motive to a foundering Race
Whose saving song, into their being blent,
Sustained them by its passion and its grace.
God rest you! May your judgment dues be light,
Dear Turlogh! and the purgatorial days

Be few and short, till clothed in holy white,

Your soul may come before the Throne of rays.

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

THE WARNING VOICE.

'Il me semble que nous sommes à la veille d'une grande bataille humaine. Les forces sont là; mais je n'y vois pas de général.'

BALZAC: Livre Mystique.

Ye Faithful!-ye Noble!

A day is at hand

Of trial and trouble,

And woe in the land!

O'er a once greenest path,
Now blasted and sterile,

Its dusk shadows loom

It cometh with Wrath,
With Conflict and Peril,

With Judgment and Doom!

False bands shall be broken,
Dead systems shall crumble,

And the Haughty shall hear
Truths yet never spoken,

Though smouldering like flame
Through many a lost year
In the hearts of the Humble;

For, Hope will expire

As the Terror draws nigher,

And, with it, the Shame

Which so long overawed

Men's minds by its might

And the Powers abroad

Will be Panic and Blight,

And phrenetic Sorrow

Black Pest all the night,
And Death on the morrow!

Now, therefore, ye True,

Gird your loins up anew!

By the good you have wrought!

By all you have thought,

And suffered, and done!

By your souls! I implore you,
Be leal to your mission
Remembering that one

Of the two paths before you
Slopes down to perdition!

To you have been given,

Not granaries and gold,

But the Love that lives long,

And waxes not cold;

And the Zeal that hath striven

Against Error and Wrong,
And in fragments hath riven
The chains of the Strong!
Bide now, by your sternest
Conceptions of earnest
Endurance for others,

Your weaker-souled brothers!

Your true faith and worth

Will be History soon,

And their stature stand forth
In the unsparing Noon!

You have dreamed of an era

Of Knowledge and Truth,

And Peace-the true glory!

Was this a chimera?

Not so! - but the childhood and youth
Of our days will grow hoary

Before such a marvel shall burst on their sight!

its beams glow not

For you its flowers blow not!

You cannot rejoice in its light,

But in darkness and suffering instead
You go down to the place of the Dead!

To this generation

The sore tribulation,

The stormy commotion,

And foam of the Popular Ocean,

The struggle of class against class;

The Dearth and the Sadness,

The Sword and the War-vest;

To the next, the Repose and the Gladness, 'The sea of clear glass,'

And the rich Golden Harvest !

Know, then, your true lot,

Ye Faithful, though Few!
Understand your position,
Remember your mission,

And vacillate not,

Whatsoever ensue !

Alter not! Falter not!

Palter not now with your own living souls,

When each moment that rolls

May see Death lay his hand
On some new victim's brow!
Oh! let not your vow

Have been written in sand!

Leave cold calculations

Of Danger and Plague

To the slaves and the traitors

Who cannot dissemble

The dastard sensations

That now make them tremble

With phantasies vague!
The men without ruth