THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY

Changed bole to billets, bared at once the sap and soul. About him, watched the work his neighbors sheep-skin-clad; Each bearded mouth puffed steam, each gray eye twinkled glad To see the sturdy arm which, never stopping play, Proved strong man's blood still boils, freeze winter as he may. Sudden, a burst of bells. Out of the road, on edge Of the hamlet—horse's hoofs galloping. "How, a sledge? What 's here?" cried all as—in, up to the open space, Workyard and market-ground, folk's common meeting-place,— Stumbled on, till he fell, in one last bound for life, A horse; and, at his heels, a sledge held—"Dmìtri's wife! Back without Dmìtri too! and children—where are they? Only a frozen corpse!"

They drew it forth: then—"Nay, Not dead, though like to die! Gone hence a month ago: Home again, this rough jaunt—alone through night and snow— What can the cause be? Hark—Droug, old horse, how he groans: His day 's done! Chafe away, keep chafing, for she moans: She's coming to! Give here: see, motherkin, your friends! Cheer up, all safe at home! Warm inside makes amends For outside cold,—sup quick! Don't look as we were bears! What is it startles you? What strange adventure stares Up at us in your face? You know friends—which is which? I'm Vàssili, he's Sergeì, Ivàn Ivànovitch"—

At the word, the woman's eyes, slow-wandering till they neared The blue eyes o'er the bush of honey-colored beard, Took in full light and sense and—torn to rags, some dream Which hid the naked truth—O loud and long the scream She gave, as if all power of voice within her throat Poured itself wild away to waste in one dread note! Then followed gasps and sobs, and then the steady flow Of kindly tears: the brain was saved, a man might know. Down fell her face upon the good friend's propping knee; His broad hands smoothed her head, as fain to brush it free From fancies, swarms that stung like bees unhived. He soothed— "Loukèria, Loùscha!"—still he, fondling, smoothed and smoothed. At last her lips formed speech.

"Ivàn, dear—you indeed? You, just the same dear you! While I ... Oh, intercede, Sweet Mother, with thy Son Almighty—let his might Bring yesterday once more, undo all done last night! But this time yesterday, Ivàn, I sat like you, A child on either knee, and, dearer than the two, A babe inside my arms, close to my heart—that 's lost In morsels o'er the snow! Father, Son, Holy Ghost, Cannot you bring again my blessèd yesterday?"

When no more tears would flow, she told her tale: this way.

"Maybe, a month ago,—was it not?—news came here, They wanted, deeper down, good workmen fit to rear A church and roof it in. 'We'll go,' my husband said: 'None understands like me to melt and mould their lead.' So, friends here helped us off—Ivàn, dear, you the first! How gay we jingled forth, all five—(my heart will burst)— While Dmìtri shook the reins, urged Droug upon his track! "Well, soon the month ran out, we just were coming back, When yesterday—behold, the village was on fire! Fire ran from house to house. What help, as, nigh and nigher, The flames came furious? 'Haste,' cried Dmìtri, 'men must do The little good man may: to sledge and in with you, You and our three! We check the fire by laying flat Each building in its path,—I needs must stay for that,— But you ... no time for talk! Wrap round you every rug, Cover the couple close,—you'll have the babe to hug. No care to guide old Droug, he knows his way, by guess, Once start him on the road: but chirrup, none the less! The snow lies glib as glass and hard as steel, and soon You'll have rise, fine and full, a marvel of a moon. Hold straight up, all the same, this lighted twist of pitch! Once home and with our friend Ivàn Ivànovitch, All 's safe: I have my pay in pouch, all 's right with me, So I but find as safe you and our precious three! Off, Droug!'—because the flames had reached us, and the men Shouted, 'But lend a hand, Dmìtri—as good as ten!' "So, in we bundled—I and those God gave me once; Old Droug, that 's stiff at first, seemed youthful for the nonce: He understood the case, galloping straight ahead. Out came the moon: my twist soon dwindled, feebly red In that unnatural day—yes, daylight bred between Moonlight and snow-light, lamped those grotto-depths which screen Such devils from God's eye. Ah, pines, how straight you grow, Nor bend one pitying branch, true breed of brutal snow! Some undergrowth had served to keep the devils blind While we escaped outside their border!

"Was that—wind? Anyhow, Droug starts, stops, back go his ears, he snuffs, Snorts,—never such a snort! then plunges, knows the sough 's Only the wind: yet, no—our breath goes up too straight! Still the low sound,—less low, loud, louder, at a rate There 's no mistaking more! Shall I lean out—look—learn The truth whatever it be? Pad, pad! At last, I turn—

"'T is the regular pad of the wolves in pursuit of the life in the sledge! An army they are: close-packed they press like the thrust of a wedge: They increase as they hunt: for I see, through the pine-trunks ranged each side, Slip forth new fiend and fiend, make wider and still more wide The four-footed steady advance. The foremost—none may pass: They are the elders and lead the line, eye and eye —green-glowing brass! But a long way distant still. Droug, save us! He does his best: Yet they gain on us, gain, till they reach,—one reaches ... How utter the rest? O that Satan-faced first of the band! How he lolls out the length of his tongue, How he laughs and lets gleam his white teeth! He is on me, his paws pry among The wraps and the rugs! O my pair, my twin-pigeons, lie still and seem dead! Stepàn, he shall never have you for a meal,— here's your mother instead! No, he will not be counselled—must cry, poor Stiòpka, so foolish! though first Of my boy-brood, he was not the best: nay, neighbors called him the worst: He was puny, an undersized slip,—a darling to me, all the same! But little there was to be praised in the boy, and a plenty to blame. I loved him with heart and soul, yes—but, deal him a blow for a fault, He would sulk for whole days. 'Foolish boy! lie still or the villain will vault, Will snatch you from over my head!' No use! he cries, he screams,—who can hold Fast a boy in frenzy of fear! It follows—as I foretold! The Satan-face snatched and snapped: I tugged, I tore, and then His brother too needs must shriek! If one must go, 't is men The Tsar needs, so we hear, not ailing boys! Perhaps My hands relaxed their grasp, got tangled in the wraps: God, he was gone! I looked: there tumbled the cursed crew, Each fighting for a share: too busy to pursue! That's so far gain at least: Droug, gallop another verst Or two, or three—God sends we beat them, arrive the first! A mother who boasts two boys was ever accounted rich: Some have not a boy: some have, but lose him,—God knows which Is worse: how pitiful to see your weakling pine And pale and pass away! Strong brats, this pair of mine!

"O misery! for while I settle to what near seems Content, I am 'ware again of the tramp, and again there gleams— Point and point—the line, eyes, levelled green brassy fire! So soon is resumed your chase? Will nothing appease, naught tire The furies? And yet I think—I am certain the race is slack, And the numbers are nothing like. Not a quarter of the pack! Feasters and those full-fed are staying behind ... Ah, why? We 'll sorrow for that too soon! Now,—gallop, reach home and die, Nor ever again leave house, to trust our life in the trap For life—we call a sledge! Teriòscha, in my lap! Yes, I 'll lie down upon you, tight-tie you with the strings Here—of my heart! No fear, this time, your mother flings ... Flings? I flung? Never! But think!—a woman, after all, Contending with a wolf! Save you I must and shall, Terentiì!

"How now? What, you still head the race, Your eyes and tongue and teeth crave fresh food, Satan-face? Flash again? There and there! Plain I struck green fire out! All a poor fist can do to damage eyes proves vain! My fist—why not crunch that? He is wanton for ... O God, Why give this wolf his taste? Common wolves scrape and prod The earth till out they scratch some corpse—mere putrid flesh! Why must this glutton leave the faded, choose the fresh? Terentiì—God, feel!—his neck keeps fast thy bag Of holy things, saints' bones, this Satan-face will drag Forth, and devour along with him, our Pope declared The relics were to save from danger!

"Spurned, not spared! 'T was through my arms, crossed arms, he—nuzzling now with snout, Now ripping, tooth and claw—plucked, pulled Terentiì out, A prize indeed! I saw—how could I else but see?— My precious one—I bit to hold back—pulled from me! Up came the others, fell to dancing—did the imps!— Skipped as they scampered round. There 's one is gray, and limps: Who knows but old bad Màrpha—she always owed me spite And envied me my births—skulks out of doors at night And turns into a wolf, and joins the sisterhood, And laps the youthful life, then slinks from out the wood, Squats down at the door by dawn, spins there demure as erst —No strength, old crone—not she!—to crawl forth half a verst!

"Well, I escaped with one: 'twixt one and none there lies The space 'twixt heaven and hell. And see, a rose-light dyes The endmost snow: 't is dawn, 't is day, 't is safe at home! We have outwitted you! Ay, monsters, snarl and foam, Fight each the other fiend, disputing for a share,— Forgetful in your greed, our finest off we bear, Tough Droug and I,—my babe, my boy that shall be man, My man that shall be more, do all a hunter can To trace and follow and find and catch and crucify Wolves, wolfkins, all your crew! A thousand deaths shall die The whimperingest cub that ever squeezed the teat! 'Take that!' we 'll stab you with,—'the tenderness we met When, wretches, you danced round,—not this, thank God—not this! Hellhounds, we balk you!'

"But—Ah, God above!—Bliss, bliss,— Not the band, no! And yet—yes, for Droug knows him! One— This only of them all has said 'She saves a son!' His fellows disbelieve such luck: but he believes, He lets them pick the bones, laugh at him in their sleeves: He's off and after us,—one speck, one spot, one ball Grows bigger, bound on bound,—one wolf as good as all! Oh, but I know the trick! Have at the snaky tongue! That 's the right way with wolves! Go, tell your mates I wrung The panting morsel out, left you to howl your worst! Now for it—now! Ah me, I know him—thrice-accurst Satan-face,—him to the end my foe!

"All fight's in vain: This time the green brass points pierce to my very brain. I fall—fall as I ought—quite on the babe I guard: I overspread with flesh the whole of him. Too hard To die this way, torn piecemeal? Move hence? Not I—one inch! Gnaw through me, through and through: flat thus I lie nor flinch! O God, the feel of the fang furrowing my shoulder!—see! It grinds—it grates the bone. O Kìrill under me, Could I do more? Besides he knew the wolf's way to win: I clung, closed round like wax: yet in he wedged and in, Past my neck, past my breasts, my heart, until ... how feels The onion-bulb your knife parts, pushing through its peels, Till out you scoop its clove wherein lie stalk and leaf And bloom and seed unborn?

"That slew me: yes, in brief, I died then, dead I lay doubtlessly till Droug stopped Here, I suppose. I come to life, I find me propped Thus,—how or when or why—I know not. Tell me, friends, All was a dream: laugh quick and say the nightmare ends! Soon I shall find my house: 't is over there: in proof, Save for that chimney heaped with snow, you'd see the roof Which holds my three—my two—my one—not one?

"Life 's mixed With misery, yet we live—must live. The Satan fixed His face on mine so fast, I took its print as pitch Takes what it cools beneath. Ivàn Ivànovitch, 'T is you unharden me, you thaw, disperse the thing! Only keep looking kind, the horror will not cling, Your face smooths fast away each print of Satan. Tears —What good they do! Life's sweet, and all its after-years, Ivàn Ivànovitch, I owe you! Yours am I! May God reward you, dear!"

Down she sank. Solemnly Ivàn rose, raised his axe,—for fitly as she knelt, Her head lay: well apart, each side, her arms hung,—dealt Lightning-swift thunder-strong one blow—no need of more! Headless she knelt on still: that pine was sound of core (Neighbors used to say)—cast-iron-kernelled—which Taxed for a second stroke Ivàn Ivànovitch.

The man was scant of words as strokes. "It had to be: I could no other: God it was, bade 'Act for me!'" Then stooping, peering round—what is it now he lacks? A proper strip of bark wherewith to wipe his axe, Which done, he turns, goes in, closes the door behind. The others mute remain, watching the blood-snake wind Into a hiding-place among the splinter-heaps.

At length, still mute, all move: one lifts—from where it steeps Redder each ruddy rag of pine—the head: two more Take up the dripping body: then, mute still as before, Move in a sort of march, march on till marching ends Opposite to the church; where halting,—who suspends, By its long hair, the thing, deposits in its place The piteous head: once more the body shows no trace Of harm done: there lies whole the Loùscha, maid and wife And mother, loved until this latest of her life. Then all sit on the bank of snow which bounds a space Kept free before the porch of judgment: just the place!

Presently all the souls, man, woman, child which make The village up, are found assembling for the sake Of what is to be done. The very Jews are there: A Gypsy-troop, though bound with horses for the Fair, Squats with the rest. Each heart with its conception seethes And simmers, but no tongue speaks: one may say,—none breathes.

Anon from out the church totters the Pope—the priest— Hardly alive, so old, a hundred years at least. With him, the Commune's head, a hoary senior too, Stàrosta, that's his style,—like Equity Judge with you,— Natural Jurisconsult: then, fenced about with furs, Pomeschik—Lord of the Land, who wields—and none demurs— A power of life and death. They stoop, survey the corpse.

Then, straightened on his staff, the Stàrosta—the thorpe's Sagaciousest old man—hears what you just have heard, From Droug's first inrush, all, up to Ivàn's last word— "God bade me act for him: I dared not disobey!"

Silence—the Pomeschik broke with "A wild wrong way Of righting wrong—if wrong there were, such wrath to rouse! Why was not law observed?
————

Ivàn Ivànovitch has done a deed that's named Murder by law and me: who doubts, may speak unblamed!"

All turned to the old Pope. "Ay, children, I am old— How old, myself have got to know no longer. Rolled Quite round, my orb of life, from infancy to age, Seems passing back again to youth. A certain stage At least I reach, or dream I reach, where I discern Truer truths, laws behold more lawlike than we learn When first we set our foot to tread the course I trod With man to guide my steps: who leads me now is God. 'Your young men shall see visions:' and in my youth I saw And paid obedience to man's visionary law: 'Your old men shall dream dreams.' And, in my age, a hand Conducts me through the cloud round law to where I stand Firm on its base,—know cause, who, before, knew effect.
————

I hold he saw The unexampled sin, ordained the novel law, Whereof first instrument was first intelligence Found loyal here. I hold that, failing human sense, The very earth had oped, sky fallen, to efface Humanity's new wrong, motherhood's first disgrace. Earth oped not, neither fell the sky, for prompt was found A man and man enough, head-sober and heart-sound Ready to hear God's voice, resolute to obey. Ivàn Ivànovitch, I hold, has done, this day, No otherwise than did, in ages long ago, Moses when he made known the purport of that flow Of fire athwart the law's twain-tables! I proclaim Ivàn Ivànovitch God's servant!"
————

When the Amen grew dull And died away and left acquittal plain adjudged, "Amen!" last sighed the lord. "There's none shall say I grudged Escape from punishment in such a novel case. Deferring to old age and holy life,—be grace Granted! say I. No less, scruples might shake a sense Firmer than I boast mine. Law's law, and evidence Of breach therein lies plain,—blood-red-bright—all may see! Yet all absolve the deed: absolved the deed must be!"
————

So, while the youngers raised the corpse, the elders trooped Silently to the house: where halting, some one stooped, Listened beside the door; all there was silent too. Then they held counsel; then pushed door and, passing through, Stood in the murderer's presence.

Ivàn Ivànovitch Knelt, building on the floor that Kremlin rare and rich He deftly cut and carved on lazy winter nights. Some five young faces watched, breathlessly, as, to rights, Piece upon piece, he reared the fabric nigh complete. Stèscha, Ivàn's old mother, sat spinning by the heat Of the oven where his wife Kàtia stood baking bread. Ivàn's self, as he turned his honey-colored head, Was just in the act to drop, 'twixt fir-cones,—each a dome, The scooped-out yellow gourd presumably the home Of Kolokol the Big: the bell, therein to hitch, —An acorn-cup—was ready: Ivàn Ivànovitch Turned with it in his mouth.

They told him he was free As air to walk abroad. "How otherwise?" asked he.

ROBERT BROWNING.

A DAGGER OF THE MIND FROM "MACBETH," ACT II. SC. 1.

[Macbeth, before the murder of Duncan, meditating alone, sees the image of a dagger in the air, and thus soliloquizes:]

Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:— I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before.—There's no such thing: It is the bloody business, which informs Thus to mine eyes.—Now o'er the one half world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtained sleep; witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered murder, Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost.—Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear The very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it.—Whiles I threat, he lives: Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.

(A bell rings.)

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE MURDER. FROM "MACBETH," ACT II. SC. 2.

Scene in the Castle. Enter Lady Macbeth.

Lady Macbeth.—That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold, What hath quenched them hath given me fire. Hark!—Peace! It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it: The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mark their charge with snores: I have drugged their possets, That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die.

Macbeth (within).—Who's there? What, ho!

Lady Macbeth.—Alack, I am afraid they have awaked And 't is not done:—the attempt and not the deed Confounds us.—Hark!—I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss them.—Had he not resembled My father, as he slept, I had done 't.—My husband!

(Enter Macbeth.)

Macbeth.—I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise?

Lady Macbeth.—I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry. Did not you speak?

Macbeth.—When?

Lady Macbeth.—Now.

Macbeth.—As I descended?

Lady Macbeth.—Ay.

Macbeth.—Hark!— Who lies i' the second chamber?

Lady Macbeth.—Donalbain.

Macbeth (looking on his hands).—This is a sorry sight.

Lady Macbeth.—A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.

Macbeth.—There's one did laugh in 's sleep, and one cried, "Murder!" That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them: But they did say their prayers, and addressed them Again to sleep.

Lady Macbeth.—There are two lodged together.

Macbeth.—One cried, "God bless us!" and, "Amen," the other; As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. Listening their fear, I could not say, "Amen," When they did say, "God bless us."

Lady Macbeth.—Consider it not so deeply.

Macbeth.—But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"? I had most need of blessing, and "Amen" Stuck in my throat.

Lady Macbeth.—These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

Macbeth.—Methought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,"—the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast,—

Lady Macbeth.—What do you mean?

Macbeth.—Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house: "Glamis hath murdered sleep; and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!"

Lady Macbeth.—Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength, to think So brainsickly of things.—Go, get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand. Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them; and smear The sleepy grooms with blood.

Macbeth.—I'll go no more! I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on 't again, I dare not.

Lady Macbeth.—Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping, and the dead, Are but as pictures: 't is the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal; For it must seem their guilt. [Exit. Knocking within.

Macbeth.—Whence is that knocking? How is 't with me, when every noise appalls me? What hands are here! Ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green—one red.

(Re-enter Lady Macbeth.)

Lady Macbeth.—My hands are of your color; but I shame To wear a heart so white. (Knocking.) I hear a knocking At the south entry:—retire we to our chamber: A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended. (Knocking.) Hark, more knocking. Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us, And show us to be watchers:—be not lost So poorly in your thoughts.

Macbeth.—To know my deed, 't were best not know myself. (Knocking.) Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE TWA CORBIES.

As I was walking all alane, I heard two corbies making a mane; The tane unto the t'other say, "Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"

"In behint yon auld fail dyke, I wot there lies a new-slain knight; And nae body kens that he lies there, But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

"His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady's ta'en another mate, So we may make our dinner sweet.

"Ye 'll sit on his white hause bane, And I'll pike out his bonny blue een: Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair, We 'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

"Mony a one for him makes mane, But nane sall ken whare he is gane; O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair."

ANONYMOUS.

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.

[Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up around a castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the 20th of June, 1631, the crews of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too fierce, for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years later, he was convicted of the crime and executed. Baltimore never recovered from this.]

The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles, The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles,— Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird; And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard: The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play; The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray; And full of love and peace and rest,—its daily labor o'er,— Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there; No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth or sea or air. The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm; The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. So still the night, these two long barks round Dunashad that glide Must trust their oars—methinks not few—against the ebbing tide. O, some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore,— They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore!

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet. A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! The roof is in a flame! From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid and sire and dame, And meet upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall, And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl. The yell of "Allah!" breaks above the prayer and shriek and roar— O blessèd God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore! Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword; Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored; Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild; Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child. But see, yon pirate strangling lies, and crushed with splashing heel, While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel; Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, There 's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore!

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing; They see not now the milking-maids, deserted is the spring! Midsummer day, this gallant rides from the distant Bandon's town, These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown. They only found the smoking walls with neighbors' blood besprent, And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went, Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and saw, five leagues before, The pirate-galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.

O, some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed,— This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. O, some are for the arsenals by beauteous Dardanelles, And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey, She 's safe,—she 's dead,—she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai; And when to die a death of fire that noble maid they bore, She only smiled,—O'Driscoll's child,—she thought of Baltimore.

'T is two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band, And all around its trampled hearth a larger concourse stand, Where high upon a gallows-tree a yelling wretch is seen,— 'T is Hackett of Dungarvan,—he who steered the Algerine! He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer, For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there: Some muttered of MacMorrogh, who had brought the Norman o'er, Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.

THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS.