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 rested on him alone. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet else- where, 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! "Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sassenach." 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-- The 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! ---T. Davis. [Illustration: 0239] THE SACK OF BALTIMORE |The summer sun is falling soft an Carbery's hundred isles-- The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles-- Old Innisherkin'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 labour 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.