Oh, lonely tomb in Moab's land! Oh, dark Beth-peor's hill! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still. God hath his mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell; He hides them deep like the secret sleep Of him he loved so well. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. BY THEODORE O'HARA. THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat No more on life's parade shall meet On Fame's eternal camping-ground And glory guards with solemn round No rumor of the foe's advance No troubled thought at midnight haunts No vision of the morrow's strife No braying horn or screaming fife Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their haughty banner trailed in dust And plenteous funeral tears have washed And the proud forms by battle gashed Are free from anguish now. The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout are passed Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, Shall thrill with fierce delight Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain Came down the serried foeWho heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was victory or death. Full many a mother's breath hath swept O'er Angostura's plain, And long the pitying sky has wept Above its mouldered slain. The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, Alone now wake each solemn height Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave; She claims from war its richest spoil The ashes of her brave. Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield. The sunshine of their native sky Shines sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood ye gave; No impious footstep here shall tread Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps, Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished year hath flown, The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Can dim one ray of holy light That gilds your glorious tomb. THE BATTLE OF FONTENOY. BY THOMAS DAVIS. THREE, at the heights of Fontenoy, the English column failed, More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush around, As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground; Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fireaFast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur retired. "Push on, my household cavalry!' King Louis madly cried; To death they rush, but rude their shock-not unavenged they died. On through the camp the column trod-King Louis turns his rein: "Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain; " And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement and true? "Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes!" The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes! How fierce the look these exiles wear, who 're wont to be so gay, The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry, Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting cry. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere. Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. "Fix bayonets! Charge!" Like mountain storm rush on these fiery bands. 66 Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sassanach! Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang, Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang ; Bright was their steel-'tis bloody now; their guns are filled with gore; I he green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead. Across the plain, and far away, passed on that hideous wrack, On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, With bloody plumes the Irish stand-the field is fought and won! OVER THE RIVER. BY N. A. W. PRIEST. OVER the river they beckon to me, Loved ones who crossed to the other side; The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are drowned by the rushing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels that met him there- My brother stands, waiting to welcome me. Carried another, the household pet; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale- She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands, My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores, We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail; And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts, They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the veil apart That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barks no more I shall one day stand by the waters cold And list to the sound of the boatman's oar. I shall watch for the gleam of the flapping sail; |