THE FAMINE IN IRELAND.

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SECTION XXV.

I.

117. THE FAMINE IN IRELAND.

statesmèn, we of genius ansfully in all batt.like its

THERE lies upon the other side of the wide Atlantic a beau.

I tiful island, famous in story and in song. It has been prolific in statesmèn, warriors, and poets. It has given to the world more than its share of genius and of greatnèss. Its brave and generous sons have fought successfully in all battles but its own. In wit and humor it has no equal; while its harp, like its history, moves to tears by its sweet but melancholy păthos.'

2. In this fair region God has seen fit to send the most terrible of all those fearful ministers who fulfill his inscrutable ? decrees. The earth has failed to give her in'crease ; the common mother has forgotten her offspring, and her breast no lõnger affords them their accustomed nourishment. Famine, gaunt and ghastly famine, has seized a nation with its strangling grasp; and unhappy Ireland, in the sad woes of the present, forgěts, for a moment, the gloomy history of the past.

3. In battle, in the fullness of his pride and strength, little recks the soldier whether the hissing bullet sing his sudden requiem, or the cords of life are severed by the sharp steel. But he who dies of hunger, wrestles alone, day after day, with his grim and unrelenting enemy. He has no friends to cheer him in the terrible conflict ; for if he had friends, how could he die of hunger? He has not the hot blood of the soldier to maintain him; for his foe, vampire-like,has exhausted his veins.

4. Who will hesitate to give his mite, to avert such awful results ? Give, then, roncrously and freely. Recollect, that in so doing, you are exercising one of the most god-like qualities of your nature, and, at the same time, enjoying one of the greatest luxuries of life. We ought to thank our Maker that he has

permitted us to exercise equally with himself, that noblest of even the Divine attributes,' benevolence.

5. Go home and look at your families, smiling in rosy health, and then think of the pale, famine-pinched cheek of the poor children of Ireland ; and you will give according to your stére, even as a bountiful Providence has given to you—not grudg. ingly, but with an open hand ; for the quality of benevolence. like that of mercy,

“Is not strained ;
· It droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven,

Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed ;
It blessés him that gives, and him that takes."

S. S. PRENTIS&.

II.

118. ONLY THREE GRAINS OF CORN.
NYIVE me three grains of corn, mother,
UT Only three grains of corn ;
It will keep the little life I have,

Till the coming of the morn.
I am dying of hunger and cold, mother,

Dying of hunger and cold,
And half the agony of such a death

My lips have never told.
-2. It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother,

A wolf that is fierce for blood,
All the livelòng day, and the night beside,

Gnawing for lack of food.
I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother,

And the sight was heaven to see,-
I ăwoke with an eager, famishing lip,

But you had no bread for me.
3. How could I look to you, mother,

How could I look to you,
For bread to give to your starving boy,

When you were starving too ?

"Attri būte, that which is con- to, a person or thing. sidered as dwelling in, or belonging Străined, forced ; unnaturale

ONLY THREE GRAINS OF CORN.

281

For I read the famine in your cheek,

And in your eye so wild,
And I felt it in your bony hand,

As you laid it on your child.
4. The queen has lands and gold, mother,

The queen has lands and gold,
While you are forced to your empty breast

A skeleton babe to hold,-
A babe that is dying of want, mother,

As I am dying now,
With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,

And famine upon its brow.
5. What has poor Ireland done, mother,

What has poor Ireland done,
That the world looks on, and sees us starve,

Perishing, one by one?
Do the men of England care not, mother,

The great men and the high,
For the suffering sons of Erin's isle,

Whether they live or die ?
6. There is many a brave heart here, mother,

Dying of want and cold,
While only ăcross the Channel, mother,

Are many that roll in gold ;
There are rich and proud men there, mother,

With wondrous wealth to view,
And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night,

Would give life to me and you.

7. Come nearer to my side, mother,

Come nearer to my side,
And hold me fondly, as you held

My father when he died;
Quick, for I can not see you, mother ;

My breath is almost gone ;
Mother, dear mother! ere I die,

Give me three grains of corn. Miss EDWARDS

III.
119. THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.

NT\READ softly,—bow the head,

I In reverent silence bow;
No passing-bell doth toll, —
Yet an immortalo soul

Is passing now.
2. Stranger, however great,

With holy reverence bow ;-
There's one in that poor shed,
One by that paltry bed,-

Greater than thou.
3. Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! death doth keep his state ;
Enter,-no crowds attend;
Enter,—no guards defend

This palace gate.
4. That pavement, damp and cold,

No smiling courtiers* tread;
One silent woman stands,
Lifting, with meager: hands,

A dying head.
5. No mingling voices sound,

An infant wail ălone;
A sob suppressed,-again
That short, deep gasp, and then

The parting groan.
6. Oh, change !-oh, wondrous changel

Burst are the prison bars,—
This moment, there, so low,
So agonized, and now

Beyond the stars!

Rěv'er ent, submissive; humble. frequents the courts of princes ; onb ? Im mor tal, imperishable; un- who flatters to please. dying ; lasting forever.

Mēa' ger, having little flesh; Paltry,(pål’tri), mean; worthless. thin ; lean ; without richness, • Court' ier, one who attends or strength, or the like.

THE PAUPER'S DRIVE.

283

- 7. Oh, chănge!-stupendous' change!

There lies the soulless clod ;
The Sun eternal breaks,-
The new immortal wakes,
Wakes with his God!

CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.

IV.
* 120. THE PAUPER'S DRIVE.

M HERE'S a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trotz

1 To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot, The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs ; And hark to the dirge which the sad driver sings :

“Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!"
2. Oh, where are the mourners ? Alas! there are none

He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone-
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ;
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can :

“Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns !" 3. What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din!

The whip how it cracks ! and the wheels, how they spin! How the dirt, right and left, õ'er the hedges is hurled !The pauper at length makes a noise in the world!

“Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!"
4. Poor pauper defunct!' he has made some approach

To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach!
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last ;
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast :

“Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!” 5. You bumpkins!" who stare at your brother conveyed

Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid !