"Father Prout" (Frank S. Mahony)

BATTLE OF THE NORSEMEN AND THE GAELS.

("Accourez tous, oiseaux de proie!")

[VII., September, 1825.]

Ho! hither flock, ye fowls of prey! Ye wolves of war, make no delay! For foemen 'neath our blades shall fall Ere night may veil with purple pall. The evening psalms are nearly o'er, And priests who follow in our train Have promised us the final gain, And filled with faith our valiant corps.

Let orphans weep, and widows brood! To-morrow we shall wash the blood Off saw-gapped sword and lances bent, So, close the ranks and fire the tent! And chill yon coward cavalcade With brazen bugles blaring loud, E'en though our chargers' neighing proud Already has the host dismayed.

Spur, horsemen, spur! the charge resounds! On Gaelic spear the Northman bounds! Through helmet plumes the arrows flit, And plated breasts the pikeheads split. The double-axe fells human oaks, And like the thistles in the field See bristling up (where none must yield!) The points hewn off by sweeping strokes!

We, heroes all, our wounds disdain; Dismounted now, our horses slain, Yet we advance--more courage show, Though stricken, seek to overthrow The victor-knights who tread in mud The writhing slaves who bite the heel, While on caparisons of steel The maces thunder--cudgels thud!

Should daggers fail hide-coats to shred, Seize each your man and hug him dead! Who falls unslain will only make A mouthful to the wolves who slake Their month-whet thirst. No captives, none! We die or win! but should we die, The lopped-off hand will wave on high The broken brand to hail the sun!

MADELAINE.

("Ecoute-moi, Madeline.")

[IX., September, 1825.]

List to me, O Madelaine! Now the snows have left the plain, Which they warmly cloaked. Come into the forest groves, Where the notes that Echo loves Are from horns evoked.

Come! where Springtide, Madelaine, Brings a sultry breath from Spain, Giving buds their hue; And, last night, to glad your eye, Laid the floral marquetry, Red and gold and blue.

Would I were, O Madelaine, As the lamb whose wool you train Through your tender hands. Would I were the bird that whirls Round, and comes to peck your curls, Happy in such bands.

Were I e'en, O Madelaine, Hermit whom the herd disdain In his pious cell, When your purest lips unfold Sins which might to all be told, As to him you tell.

Would I were, O Madelaine, Moth that murmurs 'gainst your pane, Peering at your rest, As, so like its woolly wing, Ceasing scarce its fluttering, Heaves and sinks your breast.

If you seek it, Madelaine, You may wish, and not in vain, For a serving host, And your splendid hall of state Shall be envied by the great, O'er the Jew-King's boast.

If you name it, Madelaine, Round your head no more you'll train Simple marguerites, No! the coronet of peers, Whom the queen herself oft fears, And the monarch greets.

If you wish, O Madelaine! Where you gaze you long shall reign-- For I'm ruler here! I'm the lord who asks your hand If you do not bid me stand Loving shepherd here!

THE FAY AND THE PERI.

("Où vas-tu donc, jeune âme.")