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Her foot is small, and hath a fall
Like snow-flakes on the snow;

And where she goes
Beneath the rose-
Wouldn't you like to know?

She has a name, the sweetest name
That language can bestow;
"Twould break the spell

If I should tell-
Wouldn't you like to know?





HE night was falling dreary, in merry Bandon town,
When in his cottage, weary, an Orangeman lay down.
The summer sun in splendor had set upon the vale,
And shouts of "No surrender!" arose upon the gale.

Beside the waters, laving the feet of aged trees,
The Orange banners waving, flew boldly in the breeze-
In mighty chorus meeting, a hundred voices join,
And fife and drum were beating the Battle of the Boyne.

Ha! tow'rd his cottage hieing, what form is speeding now,
From yonder thicket flying, with blood upon his brow?
"Hide-hide me, worthy stranger, though green my color be,
And in the day of danger may heaven remember thee!

"In yonder vale contending alone against that crew,
My life and limbs defending, an Orangeman I slew.
Hark! hear that fearful warning, there's death in every tone-
Oh, save my life till morning, and heaven prolong your own!"

The Orange heart was melted in pity to the Green;
He heard the tale, and felt it his very soul within.

"Dread not that angry warning, though death be in its toneI'll save your life till morning, or I will lose my own."



Now, round his lowly dwelling the angry torrent press'd,
A hundred voices swelling, the Orangeman addressed-
"Arise, arise and follow the chase along the plain!
In yonder stony hollow your only son is slain!"

With rising shouts they gather upon the track amain,
And leave the childless father aghast with sudden pain.
He seeks the frighted stranger, in covert where he lay-
"Arise!" he said, "all danger is gone and passed away!


"I had a son-one only, one loved as my life,

Thy hand has left me lonely, in that accursed strife.

I pledged my word to save thee until the storm should cease,
I keep the pledge I gave thee-arise, and go in peace!"

The stranger soon departed from that unhappy vale;
The father, broken-hearted, lay brooding o'er that tale.
Full twenty summers after to silver turned his beard;
And yet the sound of laughter from him was never heard.

The night was falling dreary, in merry Wexford town,
When in his cabin, weary, a peasant laid him down.
And many a voice was singing along the summer vale,
And Wexford town was ringing with shouts of "Granua Uile."

Beside the waters, laving the feet of aged trees,

The green flag, gayly waving, was spread against the breeze

In mighty chorus meeting, loud voices filled the town,

And fife and drum were beating, "Down, Orangemen, lie down!"

Hark! 'mid the stirring clangor that woke the echoes there,
Loud voices, high in anger, rise on the evening air.

Like billows of the ocean he sees them hurry on

And, 'mid the wild commotion, an Orangeman alone.

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“My hair,” he said, “is hoary, and feeble is my hand,

And I could tell a story would shame your cruel band.
Full twenty years and over have changed my heart and brow,
And I am grown a lover of peace and concord now.


"It was not thus I greeted your brother of the Green;
When, fainting and defeated, I freely took him in.

I pledged my word to save him from vengeance rushing on,—-
I kept the pledge I gave him, though he had killed my son."

That aged peasant heard him, and knew him as he stood;
Remembrance kindly stirr'd him, and tender gratitude.
With gushing tears of pleasure, he pierced the listening train,
"I'm here to pay the measure of kindness back again!”

Upon his bosom falling, that old man's tears came down;
Deep memory recalling that cot and fatal town.
“The hand that would offend thee my being first shall end;
I'm living to defend thee, my savior and my friend!"

He said, and slowly turning, address'd the wondering crowd;
With fervent spirit burning, he told the tale aloud.

Now pressed the warm beholders their aged foe to greet;


They raised him on their shoulders and chaired him through the street.

As he had saved that stranger from peril scowling dim,
So in his day of danger did Heav'n remember him.

By joyous crowds attended, the worthy pair were seen,

And their flags that day were blended of Orange and of Green.



IT matters very little what immediate spot may be the birth

place of such a man as WASHINGTON. No people can claim, no country can appropriate him; the boon of Providence to the human race, his fame is eternity, and his residence creation. Though it was the defeat of our arms and the disgrace of our policy, I almost bless the convulsion in which he had his origin. If the heavens thundered and the earth rocked, yet, when the storm passed, how pure was the climate that it cleared; how bright in the brow of the firmament was the planet which it revealed to us! In the production of Washington it does really



appear as if nature was endeavoring to improve upon herself, and that all the virtues of the ancient world were but so many studies preparatory to the patriot of the new. Individual instances no doubt there were-splendid exemplifications of some single qualification; Cæsar was merciful, Scipio was continent, Hannibal was patient; but it was reserved for Washington to blend them all in one, and, like the lovely masterpiece of the Grecian artist, to exhibit, in one glow of associated beauty, the pride of every model and the perfection of every master. As a general, he marshalled the peasant into a veteran, and supplied by discipline the absence of experience; as a statesman, he enlarged the policy of the cabinet into the most comprehensive system of general advantage; and such was the wisdom of his views and the philosophy of his counsels, that to the soldier and the statesman, he almost added the character of the sage! A conqueror, he was untainted with the crime of blood; a revolutionist, he was free from any stain of treason; for aggression commenced the contest, and his country called him to the command. Liberty unsheathed his sword, necessity stained, victory returned it. If he had paused here, history might have doubted what station to assign him: whether at the head of her citizens or her soldiers— her heroes or her patriots. But the last glorious act crowns his career, and banishes all hesitation. Who, like Washington, after having emancipated a hemisphere, resigned its crown, and preferred the retirement of domestic life to the adoration of a land he might be almost said to have created!

"How shall we rank thee upon glory's page,
Thou more than soldier and just less than sage;
All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee,
Far less, than all thou hast forborne to be!"

Happy, proud America! the lightnings of heaven yielded to your philosophy! The temptations of earth could not seduce your patriotism!



H, happy England! Isle supremely blest!

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Thy children call thee fairest, noblest, best:
Whose charity that scorns to be confin'd
To Europe's shores-is poured to all mankind;
To whom the cry of suff'ring and of pain,
Though low and distant, never breathed in vain
From the dark children of the torrid zone,-
Would thou hadst more of mercy on thine own!

Thy preachers, warm with missionary zeal,
From many a pulpit raise the loud appeal,
With all that eloquence can give to art,

To warp the judgment and mislead the heart;
And even from the altar, in His name

Who spake from Sinai's Mount of cloud and flame,
Launch curses on the soul that giveth not
Its worldly dross to change the heathen's lot.
And has that God, while nature's blessings fall
In every land and clime, alike to all,
Left the eternal weal of souls untold,
Dependent on the power of English gold?

Would'st thou, presumptuous, to one creed confine
His saving mercy, so that creed were thine?
Is England, then, so happy, that her hand
Must lavish treasure o'er each stranger land?
Hath she ǹo poor, her generous aid to claim?-
Is want unknown, and poverty a name?
They who have perished in the wintry night,
From very famine, even in the light
That flashed its radiance from the banquet-hall,
Would answer-might the dead attend the call!
Her factory children!-oh! if well-told tale
Of Afric's offspring make thy cheek grow pale;
Pause, ere the curse be on their tyrants shed,—
Lest it return, redoubled, on thy head ;--
Gaze on fair childhood's blighted form and face,
That toil hath robbed of childhood's bloom and



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