But now he stood, chained and alone;
The headsman by his side;

The plume, the helm, the charger gone;
The sword, that had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near ;-
And yet no sign or sound of fear
Came from that lip of pride:
And never king or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look that his did now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncovered eye;

A wild shout from the numbers broke,
That thronged to see him die.
It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame—
A nation's funeral cry:-
Rome's wail above her only son,
Her patriot-and her latest one!

THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND.

D. F. M'CARTHY.

THE pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand

By the lakes and rushing rivers, through the valleys of our land!

In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime.

These gray old pillar temples-these conquerors of time!

Beside these gray old pillars, how perishing and weak The Roman's arch of triumph, and the temple of the Greek,

And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed Gothic spires:

All are gone, one by one, but the temples of our sires!

THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND..

147

The column, with its capital, is level with the dust, And the proud halls of the mighty, and the calm homes of the just;

For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower,

Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of the mower!

But the grass grows again when, in majesty and mirth,

On the wing of the Spring comes the Goddess of the Earth;

But for man, in this world, no spring-tide e'er

returns

To the labours of his hands or the ashes of his urns!

How many different rites have these gray old temples

known!

To the mind, what dreams are written in these chronicles of stone!

What terror, and what error! what gleams of love and truth,

Have flashed from these walls since the world was in its youth!

Here blazed the sacred fire, and, when the sun was gone,

As a star from afar to the traveller it shone;

And the warm blood of the victim have these gray

old temples drunk,

And the death-song of the Druid, and the matin of the monk.

Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine,

And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from the shrine,

And the mitre shining brighter with its diamonds than the east,

nd the crosier of the pontiff, and the vestments of the priest !

Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper bell,

Where the fugitive found shelter, became the hermit's cell;

And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and good,

For, the cross o'er the moss of the pointed summit stood!

There may it stand for ever, while this symbol doth impart

To the mind one glorious vision, or one good throb to the heart:

While the breast needeth rest may these gray old temples last,

Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past!

VALENTINE TO A LITTLE GIRL.

CARDINAL NEWMAN.

LITTLE maiden, dost thou pino
For a faithful Valentine ?
Art thou scanning timidly
Every face that meets thine eye?
Art thou fancying there may be
Fairer face than thou dost see?
Little maiden, scholar mine,
Wouldst thou have a Valentine ?

Go and ask, my little child,
Ask the Mother undefiled:
Ask, for she will draw thee near,
And will whisper in thine ear,
"Valentine! the name is good;

For it comes of lineage high,
And a famous family:
And it tells of gentle blood.

DEATH OFDE BOUNE.

Noble blood,-and nobler still,
For its owner freely pour'd
Every drop there was to spill

In the quarrel of his Lord.
Valentine! I know the name,
Many martyrs bear the same;
And they stand in glittering ring
Round their warrior God and King,

Who before and for them bled,
With their robes of ruby red,
And their swords of cherub flame."

Yes! there is a plenty there,
Knights without reproach or fear,
Such St. Denys, such St. George,
Martin, Maurice, Theodore,
And a hundred thousand more;
Guerdon gained and warfare o'er;
By that sea without a surge,
And beneath the eternal sky,
And the beatific sun,

In Jerusalem above,
Valentine is every one;
Choose from out that company

Whom to scrve, and whom to love

149

DEATH OF DE BOUNE.

SIR W. SCOTT.

OH! gay, yet fearful to behold,

Flashing with steel, and rough with gold,
And bristled o'er with bills and spears,
With plumes and pennons waving fair,
Was that bright battle-front! for there
Rode England's king and peers:

And who, that saw that monarch ride,
His kingdom battled by his side,
Could then his direful doom foretell!
Fair was his seat in knightly selle,
And in his sprightly eye was set
Some spark of the Plantagenet.

Though light and wandering was his glance,
It flashed, at sight of shield and lance.
"Know'st thou," he said, "De Argentine,
Yon knight who marshals thus their line ?"
"The tokens on his helmet tell

The Bruce, my liege; I know him well."
"And shall the audacious traitor brave
The presence where our banners wave
"So please my liege," said Argentine,
"Were he but horsed on steed like mine,
To give him fair and knightly chance,
I would adventure forth my lance."
"In battle-day," the king replied,
"Nice tourney rules are set aside.
Still must the rebel dare our wrath?
Set on him-sweep him from our path!"
And at King Edward's signal, soon
Dashed from the ranks Sir Henry Boune.

He spurred his steed, he couched his lance,
And darted on the Bruce at once.

As motionless as rocks that bide
The wrath of the advancing tide,

The Bruce stood fast. Each breast beat high,
And dazzled was each gazing eye.
The heart had hardly time to shrink,
The eyelid scarce had time to wink,
While on the king, like flash of flame,
Spurred to full speed the war-horse came!
The partridge may the falcon mock,
If that slight palfrey stand the shock!
But swerving from the knight's career,
Just as they met, Bruce shunned the spear