As prized as is the blessing
From an aged father's lip —
As welcome as the haven

To the tempest-driven ship-
As dear as to the lover

The smile of gentle maid

Is this day of long-sought vengeance
To the swords of the Brigade.

See their shattered forces flying,
A broken, routed line.

See, England, what brave laurels
For your brow to-day we twine.
Oh, thrice blest the hour that witnessed
The Briton turn to flee
From the chivalry of Erin,
And France's fleur-de-lis.

As we lay beside our camp-fires,
When the sun had passed away,
And thought upon our brethren
That had perished in the fray-
We prayed to God to grant us,
And then we'd die with joy,
One day upon our own dear land
Like this of Fontenoy.

ELLEN MARY PATRICK DOWNING (1828-1869)

THE OLD CHURCH AT LISMORE

This poem, inscribed in the manuscript "My Last Verses," was the last written by "Mary" before entering on her novitiate in 1849.

LD Church, thou still art Catholic!-e'en dream they as they may

OLD

That the new rites and worship have swept the old away;

There is no form of beauty raised by Nature, or by art,

That preaches not God's saving truths to man's adoring heart!

In vain they tore the altar down; in vain they flung

aside.

The mournful emblem of the death which our sweet Saviour died;

In vain they left no single trace of saint or angel here

Still angel-spirits haunt the ground, and to the soul

appear.

I marvel how, in scenes like these, so coldly they can

pray,

Nor hold sweet commune with the dead who once

knelt down as they ;

Yet not as they, in sad mistrust or sceptic doubtfor, oh,

They looked in hope to the blessèd saints, these dead of long ago.

And, then, the churchyard, soft and calm, spread out beyond the scene

With sunshine warm and soothing shade and trees upon its green ;

Ah! though their cruel Church forbid, are there no hearts will pray

For the poor souls that trembling left that cold and speechless clay ?

My God! I am a Catholic! I grew into the ways Of my dear Church since first my voice could lisp a word of praise;

But oft I think though my first youth were taught and trained awrong,

I still had learnt the one true faith from Nature and from song!

For still, whenever dear friends die, it is such joy to

know

They are not all beyond the care that healed their wounds below,

That we can pray them into peace, and speed them to the shore

Where clouds and cares and thorny griefs shall vex their hearts no more.

And the sweet saints, so meek below, so merciful above;

And the pure angels, watching still with such untiring

love;

And the kind Virgin, Queen of Heaven, with all her mother's care,

Who prays for earth, because she knows what breaking hearts are there!

Oh, let us lose no single link that our dear Church has bound,

To keep our hearts more close to Heaven, on earth's ungenial ground;

But trust in saint and martyr yet, and o'er their hallowed clay,

Long after we have ceased to weep, kneel faithful down to pray.

So shall the land for us be still the Sainted Isle of old, Where hymn and incense rise to Heaven, and holy beads are told;

And even the ground they tore from God, in years of crime and woe,

Instinctive with His truth and love, shall breathe of long ago!

When
Churc

And,

Eyed

By t

For

Dri

And

Let

A

DR. WILLIAM DRENNAN

(1754-1820)

ERIN

WHEN Erin first rose from the dark swelling
flood

WHE

God blessed the green Island, and saw it was
good;

The em'rald of Europe, it sparkled and shone
In the ring of the world the most precious stone.
In her sun, in her soil, in her station thrice blest,
With her back towards Britain, her face to the West,
Erin stands proudly insular on her steep shore,
And strikes her high harp 'mid the ocean's deep roar.

But when its soft tones seem to mourn and to weep,
The dark chain of silence is thrown o'er the deep;
At the thought of the past the tears gush from her eyes
And the pulse of her heart makes her white bosom rise.
Oh! sons of green Erin, lament o'er the time

When religion was war and our country a crime;
When man in God's image inverted his plan,
And molded his God in the image of man;

When the int'rest of State wrought the general woe,
The stranger a friend and the native a foe;
While the mother rejoiced o'er her children oppressed
And clasped the invader more close to her breast;

Gi

N