And men sore wounded themselves drew nigh,
And said, "We will go with our king and die ;"
And women wept as the pomp pass'd by.
The sad, yellow torches far off were seen;
No war-note peal'd through the gorges green;
But the black pines echo'd the mourners' keen.

1. "What," said the Invader, "that pomp in sight?
They sue for pity, they shall not win."

But the sick king sat on the bier upright,
And said, "So well! I shall sleep to-night:
Rest here, my couch, and my peace begin."

8. Then the war-cry sounded-" Bataillah Aboo !"

And the whole clan rush'd to the battle-plain :
They were thrice driven back, but they form'd anew,
That an end might come to their king's great pain.
'Twas a people, not army, that onward rush'd;
'Twas a nation's blood from their wounds that gush'd:
Bare-bosom'd they fought, and with joy were slain,
Till evening their blood fell fast like rain;
But a shout swell'd up o'er the setting sun,
And O'Donnell died, for the field was won.

9. So they buried their king upon Aileach's shore :
And in peace he slept-O'Donnell More.

62. ST. BERNARD.

[In the "Monks of the West," from which this sketch is taken, Montalembert has penned one of the freshest tributes ever paid to Liberty. And he has portrayed, in the most brilliant and true colors, how men adopted and presevered in the monastic state, not from a spirit of sacrifice, nor for the good of their kind, nor through a disgust for the troubles of life, but from a love of the state itself.]

A

LL acknowledge Saint Bernard to be a great man and a man of genius; he exercised over his age an influence

that has no parallel in history; he reigned by eloquence, courage, and virtue. More than once he decided the future of nations and of crowns. At one time he held, as it were, in his hands the destiny of the Church. He knew how to move Europe, and precipitate it upon the East; he completely vanquished Abelard, the precursor of modern Rationalism. All the world knows it, and all the world says it; all, with one voice, place him by the side of Ximenes, Richelieu, and Bossuet.

2. But this is not sufficient. If he was, and who can doubt it? a great orator, a great writer, and a great person, it was almost without his knowing it, and always in opposition to his own wish. He was, and above all wished to be, something else; he was a monk and he was a saint; he lived in a cloister and he worked miracles.

3. The Church has defined and canonized the sanctity of Bernard; history is charged with the mission of relating his life, and of explaining the wonderful influence he exercised over his contemporaries.

4. But in studying the life and epoch of this great man, who was a monk, we find that the Popes, Bishops, and Saints, who were the bulwark and honor of Christian society, all, or almost all, like Bernard, came from the monastic orders. Who then were these monks, and whence did they come, and what had they done, up to this period, to make them occupy so high a place in the destiny of the world?

5. These questions we must solve before going farther. And we must do more; for in trying to judge of the age in which Saint Bernard lived, we find that it is impossible to explain or comprehend it, if we do not recognize that it was animated by the same breath which vivified an anterior epoch, of which it is only the direct and faithful continuation.

6. If the twelfth century bowed before the genius and virtue of Saint Bernard, it was because the eleventh century had been regenerated and penetrated with the virtue and

genius of another monk, Gregory VII.; and we could not comprehend either the epoch or the action of Bernard, when apart from the salutary crisis which the one had prepared and rendered possible for the other; and never would a simple monk have been heard and obeyed as Bernard was, if his uncontested greatness had not been preceded by the struggles, the trials, and the posthumous victories of that other monk, who died six years before the birth of our Saint.

7. It must then be characterized, not only by a conscientious view of the pontificate of the greatest of the Popes, taken from the ranks of the monks, but also by passing in review the entire period which unites the last combats of Gregory with the first efforts of Bernard ; and, while keeping this in view, describe the most important and most glorious struggle in which the Church was ever engaged-in which the monks were the first in sufferings as in honors.

8. And even this is not sufficient. Far from being the founders of monastic orders, Gregory VII. and Bernard were only their offsprings, in common with so many thousands of their contemporaries. When these great men took so wondrous a part in them, these institutions had existed more than five centuries.

9. To understand their origin, and to appreciate their nature and services, we must go back to another Gregory-to Saint Gregory the Great-the first Pope who left the cowl for the tiara; or back still farther, to Saint Benedict, the legislator and patriarch of the monks of the West. We must at least cast a glance, during these five centuries, upon the superhuman efforts made by these legion of monks to subdue, pacify, discipline, and purify twenty barbarous nations, and successively transform them into Christian na tions. MONTALEMBERT.

8*

63. O FOR THE WINGS OF THE WIND TO WANDER!

[The following breathings of the heart are full of poetical beauty, and testify that if the author turned his attention as assiduously to the Court of the Muses as to the civil courts of the land, he would stand as high as a poet as he now stands at the bar as an eloquent and profound lawyer.]

FOR the wings of the wind to wander
Farther than the sun in the zenith shines,
Over the peaks of the paradise yonder,
Richer in gems than a million mines!
Up where the maidenly moon is beaming,
The face of a snow-white angel seeming,
Or queen of the sinless angels dreaming,-
Love by the light of her starry shrines.

2. O for the speed of a spirit's pinions,

Soaring like thought from a burning brain;
Soaring from sorrow in sin's dominions,
Realms where the pitiless passions reign!
O, but to flee from the fiend that chases
Hope to the home of the charnel places,
Lurid with lights of the faded faces,

Beauty that never shall bloom again.

3. Why should I shiver beside the dim river
Which the feet of Christ have coasted before?
For the angel of death alone can deliver

Grief-laden souls that are yearning to soar.
O for the faith all my darkness to brighten;
O for the faith all the demons to frighten ;
O for the love that all terror can lighten-
Mary, sweet Mother, I ask for no more!

JUDGE ARRINGTON.

IT

64. A MAN OVERBOARD.

T is a dreadful night! The passengers are clustered, trembling, below. Every plank shakes; and the oak ribs groan, as if they suffered with their toil. The hands are all aloft; the captain is forward shouting to the mate in the crosstrees, and I am clinging to one of the stanchions, by the binnacle

2. The ship is pitching madly, and the waves are toppling up, sometimes as high as the yard-arm, and then dipping away with a whirl under our keel, that makes every timber in the vessel quiver. The thunder is roaring like a thousand cannons; and, at the moment, the sky is cleft with a stream of fire, that glares over the tops of the waves, and glistens on the wet deck and the spars,-lighting up all so plain, that I can see the men's faces in the main-top, and catch glimpses of the reefers on the yard-arm, clinging like death; then all is horrible darkness.

3. The spray spits angrily against the canvas; the waves crash against the weather-bow like mountains; the wind howls. through the rigging, or, as a gasket gives way, the sail, bellying to leeward, splits like the crack of a musket. I hear the captain in the lulls, screaming out orders; and the mate in the rigging, screaming them over, until the lightning comes, and the thunder, deadening their voices as if they were chirping sparrows.

4. In one of the flashes, I see a hand upon the yard-arm lose his foothold, as the ship gives a plunge; but his arms are clinched around the spar. Before I can see any more the blackness comes, and the thunder, with a crash that half deafens me. I think I hear a low cry, as the mutterings die away in the distance; and at the next flash of lightning, which comes in an instant, I see upon the top of one of the waves alongside, the poor reefer who has fallen. upon his face.

The lightning glares

5. But he has caught at a loose bit of running-rigging, as he fell; and I see it slipping off the coil upon the deck. I shout