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And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement and true. “Lord Clare,” he says, "you have your wish–there are your

Saxon foes !” The Marshal almost smiles to see how furiously he goes ! How fierce the look these exiles wore, 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 wherein 't was writ could dry; [cry: Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women’s parting Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown; Each looks as if revenge for all were 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! “Revenge ! remember Limerick ! dash down the Sacsanagh ! 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, 't is bloody now, their guns are filled with gore; Thro' shattered ranks and severed files and trampled flags they tore; The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, scat

tered, 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 !

John Banim was the founder of that school of Irish novelists, which, always excepting its blameless purity, so much resembles the modern romantic French school, that if it were possible to suspect Messieurs Victor Hugo, Eugène Sue, and Alexandre Dumas of reading the English which they never approach without such ludicrous blunders, one might fancy that many-volumed tribe to have stolen their peculiar inspiration from the O'Hara family. Of a certainty the tales of Mr. Banim were purely original. They had no precursors either in our own language or in any other, and they produced accordingly the sort of impression more vivid than durable

which highly-coloured and deeply-shadowed novelty is sure to make on the public mind. But they are also intensely national. They reflect Irish scenery, Irish character, Irish crime, and Irish virtue, with a general truth, which, in spite of their tendency to melodramatic effects, will keep them fresh and life-like for many a day after the mere fashion of the novel of the season shall be past and gone. The last of his works, especially “ Father Connell,” contains the portrait of a parish priest, so exquisitely simple, natural, and tender, that in the whole range of fiction I know nothing more charming. The subject was one that the author loved ; witness the following rude, rugged, homely song, which explains so well the imperishable ties which unite the peasant to his pastor:


Am I the slave they say,

Suggarth aroon ?
Since you did show the way,

Soggarth aroon,
Their slave no more to be,
While they would work with me
Ould Ireland's slavery,

Soggarth aroon ?
Why not her poorest man,

Soggarth aroon,
Try anıl do all he can,

Soggarth aroon,
Her commands to fulfil
Of his own heart and will,
Side by side with you still,

Soggarth aroon?
Loyal and brave to you,

Soggarth aroon,
Yet be no slave to you,

Soggarth aroon,
Nor out of fear to you
Siand up so near to you-
Och ! out of fear to you,

Soggarth aroon !
Who in the winter night,

Soggarth aroon,
When the could blast did bite,

Soggarth aroon,

* Anglice, Priest dear.

Came to my cabin-door,
And on my earthen floor
Knelt by me sick and poor,

Soggarth aroon?
Who on the marriage-day,

Soggarth aroon,
Made the poor cabin gay,

Soggarth aroon,
And did both laugh and sing,
Making our hearts to ring
At the poor christening,

Soggarth aroon ?
Who as friend only met,

Soggarth aroon;
Never did flout me yet,

Soggarth aroon,
And when my hearth was dim,
Gave, while his


did brim,
What I should give to him,

Soggarth aroon ?
Och ! you, and only you,

Soggarth aroon !
And for this I was true to you,

Soggarth aroon;
In love they'll never shake,
When for ould Ireland's sake,
We a true part did take,

Soggarth aroon !
There is a small and little-known volume of these rough
peasant-ballads, full of the same truth and intensity of feeling,

songs which seem destined to be sung at the wakes and patterns of Ireland. But, to say nothing of his fine classical tragedy of “ Damon and Pythias,” Mr. Banim, so successful in the delineation of the sweet, delicate, almost idealised girl of the people, has written at least one song that may rival Gerald Griffin in grace and sentiment. A lover sings it to his mistress :

'Tis not for love of gold I go,

'Tis not for love of fame;
Though Fortune may her sinile bestow,
And I may win a name,

And I may win a name.
And yet it is for gold I go,

And yet it is for fame;
That they may deck another brow,
And bless another name,

And bless another name.

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For this, but this I go-for this

I leave thy love awhile,
And all the soft and quiet bliss
Of thy young faithful smile,

Of thy young faithful smile.
And I go to brave a world I hate,

And woo it o'er and o'er,
And tempt a wave, and try a fate
Upon a stranger shore,

Upon a stranger shore.
Oh! when the bays are all my own,

I know a heart will care !
Oh! when the gold is sought and won
I know a brow will wear,

I know a brow will wear !
And, when with both returned again,

My native land I see,
I know a smile will meet me then,
And a hand will welcome me,

And a band will welcune me !

Is it not strange that with such ballads as these of John Banim, Thomas Davis, and Gerald Griffin before us, Mr. Moore, that great and undoubted wit, should pass in the highest English circles for the only song-writer of Ireland ? Do people really prefer flowers made of silk and cambric, of gum and wire, the work of human hands, however perfect, to such as Mother Earth sends forth in the gushing spring.time, full of sap and odour, sparkling with sunshine, and dripping with dew?

I can find no regular life of our poet: nothing beyond a chance record of a kind word to one young struggling countryman, and a kind act to another. He died in the vigour of his age ; married, and, as I fear, poor. The too frequent story of a man of genius.





THREE summers ago I spent a few pleasant weeks among some of the loveliest scenery of our great river. The banks of the Thames, always beautiful, are nowhere more delightful than in the neighbourhood of Maidenhead,—one side rainparted by the high, abrupt chalky cliffs of Buckinghamshire ; the other edging gently away into our rich Berkshire meadows, chequered with villages, villas, and woods.

My own temporary home was one of singular beauty,-a snug cottage at Taplow, looking over a garden full of honeysuckles, lilies, and roses, to a miniature terrace, whose steps led down into the water, or rather into our little boat; the fine old bridge at Maidenhead just below us ; the magnificent woods of Cliefden, crowned with the lordly mansion (now, alas! a second time burnt down), rising high above; and the broad majestic river, fringed with willow and alder, gay with an ever-changing variety—the trim pleasure-yacht, the busy barge, or the punt of the solitary angler-gliding by placidly and slowly, the very image of calm and conscious power. No pleasanter residence, through the sultry months of July and August, than the Bridge Cottage at Taplow!

Besides the natural advantages of the situation, we were within reach of many interesting places, of which we, as strangers, contrived-as strangers usually do—to see a great deal more than the actual residents.

A six-mile drive took us to the lordly towers of Windsorthe most queenly of our palaces—with the adjuncts that so well become the royal residence, St. George's Chapel and Eton College, fitting shrines of learning and devotion! Windsor was full of charm. The ghostly shadow of a tree, that is, or passes for, Herne's oak-for the very man of whom we inquired our way maintained that the tree was apocryphal, although in such cases I hold it wisest and pleasantest to believe—the quaint old town itself, with the localities immortalised by Sir John and Sir Hugh, Dame Quickly and Justice

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