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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
The soldier's last tattoo;

No more on life's parade shall meet
The brave and fallen few.

On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,

And glory guards with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind,

No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms,

No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed,

Their haughty banner trailed in dust
Is now their martial shroud-

And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,

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
Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture of the fight.

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,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,

Alone now wake each solemn height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,
Ye must not slumber there,

Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air!

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
The herbage of your grave!

Nor shall your glory be forgot

While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

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,
Nor time's remorseless doom,

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,
And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain assailed;
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery,
And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly through De Barri's wood the British soldiers burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide.
Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;
Steady they step adown the slope-steady they climb the hill;
Steady they load-steady they fire, moving right onward still,
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast,
Through rampart, trench and palisade, and bullets showering fast;
And, on the open plain above, they rose, and kept their course,
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force.
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks-
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks!

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.
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown-
Each looks as if revenge for all was staked on him alone.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere.

Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were.
O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,

"Fix bayonets! Charge!" Like mountain storm rush on these fiery bands.
Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,
Yet, mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind—
Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks the men behind!
One volley crashes from their line, when through the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza!

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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;
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore;
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled-

I he green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead.

Across the plain, and far away, passed on that hideous wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track.

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-
The gates of the city we could not see;
Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands, waiting to welcome me.
Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the household pet;

Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale-
Darling Minnie! I see her yet;

She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
We watched it glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark.
We know she is safe on the further side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be;
Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;

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
Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch and beckon, and wait for me.
And I sit and think when the sunset's gold
Is flashing on river, and hill, and shore,

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;
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand;
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale
To the better shore of the spirit-land.

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