'-' x/ vV^ ^ * Si W** ^'^ ^^ ^fW^* ^/ ^^^ --^P.* ."^^ ^^ ^ VAo^ '^o^- ^^ ^^^^. » ''^^^^ ^. "^-'T.T* ' A < ^Ao^ 5"^ *j:;tL'* ^^ *; 0.0- ,^ ^ . *^ s^ie^-"- ^rf. «^ ''-^ ,o«o^ '^ ^^ *•'■" I /( In Bohemia: BY JOHN BOYIvK O'RKIIvIvY. BOSTON: THE PILOT PUBLISHING CO. 597 Washington Street. ripY. £fou I ;«?' ,11 q \3 Copyright, 188G, By John Boyle O'Reilly, Electrotyped and Printed by Cashman, Keating & Co. Fayette Court, 603 "Washington Street. mmm copy Co PiV iFour little Datitrl^tcrs. CONTENTS Page Songs That Aee Not Sung 9 A Lost Fkiend 12 In Bohemia 14 A Teagedy 16 Wendell Phillips 17 The King's Evil 22 A White Kose 24 The Word and The Deed 25 A Buildek's Lesson 27 The Priceless Things 29 A Dead Man 33 Silence, Not Death 34 The Unhappy One 36 Ensign Epps, The Color-Bearer . . . . - . .41 Grant — 1885 43 The Cry of The Dreamer 45 Ireland — 1882 47 The Dead Singer 52 Erin 55 Poet and Lord 59 A Year 60 An Old Vagabond 61 A Disappointment 64 Yesterday and To-Morrow .65 Yes? 66 A Passage . . . . , 67 Distance 69 The City Streets 70 The Three Queens 77 Midnight — September 19, 1881 84 America 88 (5) IN BOHEMIA, IN BOHEMIA. SONGS THAT AEE NOT SUNG. Do not praise : a smile is payment more than meet for what is done ; Who shall paint the mote's glad raiment floating in the molten sun? Nay, nor smile : for blind is eyesight, ears may hear not, lips are dumb ; From the silence, from the twilight, wordless but complete they come. Songs were born l)efore the singer : like white souls awaiting birth, They abide the chosen bringer of their melody to earth. Deep the pain of our demerit : strmgs so rude or rudely strung, Dull to every pleading spirit seeking speech but sent unsung ; 10 SONGS THAT ARE NOT SUXG. Eound our hearts with gentle breathing still the plaintive silence plays, But we brush away its wreathing, filled with cares of common days. Ever thinking of the morrow, burdened down with needs and creeds, Once or twice, mayhap, in sorrow, we may hear the song that pleads ; Once or twice, a dreaming poet sees the beauty as it flies. But his vision who shall know it, who shall read it from his eyes ? Voiceless he, — his necromancy fails to cage the wondrous bird ; Lure and snare are vain when fancy flies like echo from a word. Only sometime he may sing it, using speech as 'twere a bell, Not to read the song l)ut ring it, like the sea-tone from a shell. Sometimes, too, it comes and lingers round the strings all still and mute. Till some lover's trembling fingers draw it living from the lute. SONGS THAT ARE NOT SUNG. 11 Still, our best is but a vision which a lightning-flash illumes, Just a gleam of life elysian flung across the voiceless glooms. Why should gleams perplex and move us? Must the soul still upward grow To the beauty far above us and the songs no sense may know ? A LOST FKIEND. My friend he was ; my friend from all the rest ; With childlike faith he oped to me his breast ; No door was locked on altar, grave or grief; No weakness veiled, concealed no disbelief; The hope, the sorrow and the wrong were bare, And ah, the shadow only showed the fair. I gave him love for love ; but, deep within, I magnified each frailty into sin ; Each hill-topped foible in the sunset glowed, Obscuring vales where rivered virtues flowed. Eeproof became reproach, till common grew The captious word at every fault I knew. He smiled upon the censorship, and bore With patient love the touch that wounded sore ; Until at length, so had my blindness grown, He knew I judged him by his faults alone. Alone, of all men, I who knew him best. Refused the gold, to take the dross for test I (12) A LOST FEIEND. 13 Cold strangers honored for the worth they saw ; His friend forgot the diamond in the flaw. At last it came — the day he stood apart, When from my eyes he proudly veiled his heart ; When carping judgment and uncertain word A stern resentment in his bosom stirred ; When in his face I read what I had been, And with his vision saw what he had seen. Too late ! too late ! Oh, could he then have known, When his love died, that mine had perfect grown ; That when the veil was drawn, abased, chastised, The censor stood, the lost one truly prized. Too late we learn — a man must hold his friend Unjudged, accepted, trusted to the end. IN BOHEMIA. I'd rather live in Bohemia than in any other land ; For only there are the values true, And the laurels gathered in all men's view. The prizes of traffic and state are won By shrewdness or force or by deeds undone ; But fame is sweeter without the feud, And the wise of Bohemia are never shrewd. Here, pilgrims stream with a faith sublime From every class and clime and time, Aspiring only to be enrolled With the names that are writ in the book of gold ; And each one bears in mind or hand A palm of the dear Bohemian land. The scholar first, with his book — a youth Aflame with the glory of harvested truth ; A girl with a picture, a man with a play, A boy with a wolf he has modeled in clay ; A smith with a marvellous hilt and sword j A player, a king, a ploughman, a lord — And the player is king when the door is past. The ploughman is crowned, and the lord is last ! (14) m BOHE3IIA. 15 I'd rather fail in Bohemia than win in anotlier land ; There are no titles inherited there, Xo hoard or hope for the brainless heir ; No gilded dullard native born To stare at his fellow with leaden scorn : Bohemia has none but adopted sons ; Its limits, where Fancy's bright stream runs ; Its honors, not garnered for thrift or trade, But for beauty and truth men's souls have made. To the empty heart in a jeweled breast There is value^, maybe, in a purchased crest; But the thirsty of soul soon learn to know The moistureless froth of the social show ; The vulgar sham of the pompous feast Where the heaviest purse is the highest priest ; The organized charity, scrimped and iced. In the name of a cautious, statistical Christ ; The smilo restrained, the respectable cant, When a friend in need is a friend in want ; Where the only aim is to keep afloat, And a brother may drown with a cry in his throat. Oh, I long for the glow of a kindly heart and the grasp of a friendly hand, And I'd rather live in Bohemia than in any other land. A TRAGEDY. A soft-breasted bird from the sea Fell in love with the light-house flame ; And it wheeled round the tower on its airiest wing, And floated and cried like a lovelorn thing ; It brooded all day and it fluttered all night, But could win no look from the steadfast light. For the flame had its heart afar, — Afar with the ships at sea ; It was thinking of children and waiting wives, And darkness and danger to sailors' lives ; But the bird had its tender bosom pressed On the glass where at last it dashed its breast. The light only flickered, the brighter to glow; But the bird lay dead on the rocks below. (16) WENDELL PHILLIPS.* What shall we mourn ? For the prostrate tree that sheltered the joung green wood ? For the fallen cliff that fronted the sea, and guarded the fields from the flood ? For the eagle that died in the tempest, afar from its eyrie's brood? Xay, not for these shall we weep ; for the silver cord must be worn. And the golden fillet shrink back at last, and the dust to its earth return ; And tears are never for those who die with their face to the duty done ; But we mourn for the fledglings left on the waste, and the fields where the wild waves run. From the midst of the flock he defended, the brave one has gone to his rest ; And the tears of the poor he befriended their wealth of affliction attest. * Died Saturday, Feb. 2, 1884, (17) 18 WENDELL THILLIPS. From the midst of the people is stricken a symbol they daily saw, Set over against the law books, of a Higher than Human Law ; For his life was a ceaseless protest, and his voice was a prophet's cry To be true to the Truth and faithful, though the world were arrayed for the Lie. From the hearing of those who hated, a threatening voice has past ; But the lives of those who believe and die are not blown like a leaf on the blast. A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman that hewed toward the light, Wlio dared to be traitor to Union when Union was traitor to Eight ! "Fanatic!" the insects hissed, till he taught them to understand That the highest crime may be written in the high- est law of the land. *' Disturber" and '* Dreamer" the Philistines cried when he preached an ideal creed, WENDELL PHILLIPS. 19 Till they learned that the men who have changed the world with the world have disagreed ; That the remnant is right, when the masses are led like sheep to the pen ; For the instinct of equity slumbers till roused by instinctive men. It is not enough to win rights from a king and write them down in a book. New men, new lights ; and the fiithers' code the sons may never brook. What is liberty now were license then : their freedom our yoke would be ; And each new decade must have new men to deter- mine its liberty. Mankind is a marching army, with a broadening front the while : Shall it crowd its bulk on the farm-paths, or clear to the outward file ? Its pioneers are the dreamers who fear neither tongue nor pen Of the human spiders whose silk is wove fi'om tho lives of toilino: men. 20 WENDELL PHILLIPS. Come, brothers, here to the burial I But weep not, rather rejoice, For his fearless life and his fearless death ; for his true, unequalled voice, Like a silver trumpet sounding the note of human right ; For his brave heart always ready to enter the weak one's fight ; For his soul unmoved by the mob's wild shout or the social sneer's disgrace ; For his freeborn spirit that drew no line between class or creed or race. Come, workers ; here was a teacher, and the lesson he taught was good : There are no classes or races, but one human broth- erhood ; There are no creeds to be outlawed, no colors of skin debarred ; Mankind is one in its rights and wrongs — one right, one hope, one guard. By his life he taught, by his death we learn the great reformer's creed : WENDELL PHILLIPS. 21 The right to be free, and the hope to be just, and the o'uard ao-ainst selfish gfreed. And richest of all are the unseen wreaths on his coffin-lid laid down By the toil-stained hands of workmen — their sob, their kiss, and their crown. THE KING^S EYIL. They brought them up from their huts in the fens, The woful sufferers gaunt and grim ; They flocked from the city's noisome dens To the Monarch's throne to be touched by him. "For his touch," they whisper, ''is sovereign balm. The anointed King has a power to heal." Oh, the piteous prayers as the royal palm Is laid on their necks while they humbly kneel ! Blind hope ! But the cruel and cold deceit A rich reward to the palace brings ; A snare for the untaught People's feet, And a courtier's lie for the good of Kings. But the years are sands, and they slip away Till the baseless wall in the sun lies bare ; The touch of the King has no balm to-day. And the Eight Divine is the People's share. (22) 23 The word remains : but the Evil now Is caused, not cured, by imperial hands, — The lightless soul and the narrow brow, The servile millions in armed bands ; The sweat-wrung gold from the peasant's toil Flung merrily out by the gambling lord, Who is reckless owner of serf and soil. And master of church and law and sword. But the night has receded : the dawn like a tide Creeps slow round the world, till the feet of the throne Are lapped by the waves that shall seethe and ride Where the titles are gulfed and the shields over- blown. Our Kings are the same as the Kings of old, But a Man stands up where there crouched a clown ; The Evil shall die when his hand grows bold. And the touch of the People is laid on the Crown ' A WHITE ROSE. The red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love ; Oh, the red rose is a falcon. And the white rose is a dove. But I send you a cream-white rosebud With a flu>sh on its petal tips ; For the love that is purest and sweetest Has a kiss of desire on the lips. (24) THE WOKD AXD THE DEED. The Word was first, sajs the revelation : Justice is older than error or strife ; The Word preceded the Incarnation As symbol and type of law and life. And always so are the mighty changes : The Word must be sown in the heart like seed ; Men's hands must tend it, their lives defend it, Till it burst into flower as a deathless Deed. The primal truth neither dies nor slumbers, But lives as the test of the common right, That the laws proclaimed by the sworded numbers May stand arraigned in the people's sight. The Word is great, and no Deed is greater, When both are of God, to follow or lead ; But, alas, for the truth when the Word comes later, With questioned steps, to sustain the Deed. (25) 2G THE WORD AXD THE DEED. Not the noblest acts can be true solutions ; The soul must be sated before the eye, Else the passionate glory of revolutions Shall pass like the flames that flash and die. But forever the gain when the heart's convictions, Rooted in nature the masses lead ; The cries of rebellion are benedictions When the Word has flowered in a perfect Deed. A BUILDEK'S LESSOX. ''How shall I a habit break?" As you did that habit make. As you gathered, you must lose ; As you yielded, now refuse. Thread by thread the strands we twist Till they bind us neck and wrist ; Thread by thread the patient hand Must untwine ere free we stand. As we builded, stone by stone, We must toil unhelped, alone, Till the wall is overthrown. But remember, as we try, Lighter every test goes by ; Wading in, the stream grows deep Toward the centre's downward sweep ; Backward turn, each step ashore Shallower is than that before. (27) 2S A builder's lessox. Ah, the precious years we waste Levelling what we raised in haste ; Doing what must be undone Ere content or love be won ! First across the gulf we cast Kite-borne threads, till lines are passed. And habit builds the brids^e at last ! THE PRICELESS THINGS. Those are vulgar things we pay for, be they stones for crowns of kmgs ; While the precious and the peerless are unpriced symbolic things. Common debts are scored and cancelled, weighed and measured out for gold ; But the debts from men to ages, their account is never told. Always see, the noblest nations keep their highest prize unknown ; Chaeronea's deathless lion frowned above unlettered stone. Ah, the Greeks knew ! Come their victors honored frona the sacred games, Under arches red with roses, flushed to hear their shouted names ; (29) 30 THE PRICELESS TPIINGS. See their native cities take them, breach the wall to make a gate ! What supreme reward is theirs who bring such honors to their state ? In the forum stand they proudly, taK:e their prizes from the priest : Little wreaths of pine and parsley on their naked temples pressed ! We in later days are lower ? When a manful stroKe is made, We must raise a purse to pay it — making manliness a trade. Sacrifice itself grows venal — surely Midas will sub- scribe ; And the shallow souls are gratified when worth accepts the bribe. But e'en here, amidst the markets, there are things they dare not prize ; Dollars hide their sordid faces when they meet anointed eyes. THE PRICELESS THINGS. 31 Lovers do not speak with jewels — flowers alone can plead for them ; And one fragrant memory cherished is far dearer than a gem. Statesmen steer the nation safely ; artists pass the burning test ; And their country pays them proudly with a ribbon at the breast. ^Yhen the soldier saves the battle, wraps the flag around his heart, Who shall desecrate his honor with the values of the mart ? From his guns of bronze we hew a piece, and carve it as a cross ; For the gain he gave was priceless, as unpriced would be the loss. When the poet sings the love-song, or the song of life and death. Till the workers cease their toiling with abated wondering breath ; 32 THE PRICELESS THINGS, When he gilds the mill and mine, inspires the slave to rise and dare ; Lights with love the cheerless garret, bids the tyrant to beware ; When he steals the pang from poverty with mean- ings new and clear, Eeconciling pain and peace, and bringing blissful visions near ; — His reward? Nor cross nor ribbon, but all others high above ; They have won their glittering symbols — he has earned the people's love ! A DEAD MAN. The Trapper died — our hero — and we grieved ; In every heart in camp the sorrow stirred. *'His soul was red ! " the Indian cried, bereaved ; *'A white man, he !" the grim old Yankee's word. So, brief and strong, each mourner gave his best — How kind he was, how brave, how keen to track ; And as we laid him by the pines to rest, A negro spoke, with tears : ' ' His heart was black !" (33) SILENCE, NOT DEATH. I start ! I have slept for a moment ; I have dreamt, sitting here by her chair — Oh, how lonely ! What was it that touched me ? What presence, what heaven-sent air? It was nothing, you say. But I tremble ; I heard her, I knew she was near — Felt her breath, felt her cheek on my forehead — Awake or asleep, she was here ! It was nothing — a dream ? Strike that harp-string ; Again — still again — till it cries In its uttermost treble — still strike it — Ha ? vibrant but silent ! It dies — It dies, just as she died. Go, listen — That highest vibration is dumb. Your sense, friend, too soon finds a limit And answer, when mysteries come. (34) SILENCE, NOT DEATH. 35 Truth speaks in the senseless, the sph'it ; But here in this palpable part We sound the low notes, but are silent To music sublimed in the heart. Too few and too gross our dull senses, And clogged with the mire of the road, Till we loathe their coarse bondage ; as seabirds Encaged on a cliff, look abroad On the ocean and limitless heaven. Alight with the beautiful stars, And hear what they say, not the creakings That rise from our sensual bars. O life, let me dream, let her presence Be near me, her fragrance, her breath ; Let me sleep, if in slumber the seeking; Sleep on, if the finding be death. THE UNHAPPY ONE. *'He is false to the heart!" she said, stern-lipped; "he is all untruth ; He promises fair as a tree in blossom, and then The fruit is rotten ere ripe. Tears, prayers and youth, All withered and wasted ! and still — I love this falsest of men ! " Comfort ? There is no comfort when the soul sees pain like a sun : It is better to stare- at the blinding truth : if it blind, one woe is done. We cling to a coward hope, when hope has the seed of the pain : If we tear out the roots of the grief, it will never torment again. Ay, even if part of our life is lost, and the deep- laid nerves (36) THE UNHAPPY ONE. 37 That cany all joy to the heart are wounded or killed by the knife ; When a gangrene sinks to the bone, it is only half- death that serves ; And a life with a cureless pain is only half a life. But why unhealed must the spirit endure ? There are drugs for the body's dole ; Have we wholly lived for the lower life ? Is there never a balm for the soul ? O Night, cry out for the healer of woe, for the priest-physician cry, With the pouring oil for the bleeding grief, for the life that may not die ! <'He is false to the heart!" she moaned ; *'andl love him and cannot hate ! " Then bitterly, fiercely — "What have I done, my God, for such a fate?" "Poor heart ! " said the Teacher ; "for thee and thy sorrow the daily parables speak. Thy grief, that is dark, illumes for me a sign that was dim and weak. 38 THE IINTIAPPY ONE. In the heart of my garden I planted a tree — I had chosen the noblest shoot : It was sheltered and tended, and hope reached out for the future's precious fruit. The years of its youth flew past, and I looked on a spreading tree All gloried with maiden blossoms, that smiled their promise to me. I lingered to gaze on their color and shape — I knew I had chosen well ; And I smiled at the death that was promise of life as the beautiful petals fell. But the joy was chilled, though the lip laughed on, by the withered proof to the eye : The blossoms had shielded no tender bud, but cradled a barren lie. Before me it lay, the mystery — the asking, the promise, the stone ; The tree that should give good fruit was bare — the cause unseen, unknown ! But I said : Xext year it shall burgeon, my part shall be ftiithfully done ; My love shall be doubled — I trust my tree for its beautiful strength alone. THE UNHAPPY ONE. 39 But tenderness failed, and loving care, and the chalice of faith was dried When the next Spring blossoms had spoken their promise — smiled at the sun and lied ; The heart of the petals was withered to dust. Then, for duty, I trusted again ; For who should stand if God were to frown on the twice-told failures of men ? Unloving I tended, with care increased, but never a song or smile ; For duty is love that is dead but is kept from the grave for a while. The third year came, with the sweet young leaves, and I could not fear or doubt ; But the petals smiled at the sun and lied, — and the curse in my blood leaped out ! *'This corpse," I cried, **that has cumbered the earth, let it hence to the waste be torn ! " That moment of wrath beheld its death — while to me was a life-truth born : The straight young trunk at my feet lay prone ; and I bent to scan the core. And there read the pitiful secret the noble sapling bore. 40 THE UXHAPPY ONE. Through the heart of the pith, in its softest youth, it had bored its secret way, A gnawing worm, a hideous grief, — and the life it had tortured lay Accursed and lost for the cruel devil that nestled its breast within. Ah, me, poor heart ! had I known in time, I had cut out the clinging sin. And saved the life that was all as good and as noble as it seemed ! " He ceased, and she rose, the unresigned, as one who had slept and dreamed ; Her face was radiant with insight : " It is true ! it is true ! " she said ; *'And my love shall not die, like your beautiful tree, till the hidden pain is dead ! " ENSIGN EPPS, THE COLOR-BEARER. Ensign Epps, at the battle of Flanders, Sowed a seed of glory and duty That flowers and flames in height and beauty Like a crimson lily with heart of gold, To-day, when the wars of Ghent are old And buried as deep as their dead commanders. Ensign Epps was the color-bearer, — No matter on which side, Philip or Earl ; Their cause was the shell — his deed was the pearl. Scarce more than a lad, he had been a sharer That day in the Vvdldest work of the field. He was wounded and spent, and the fight was lost ; His comrades were slain, or a scattered host. But stainless and scatheless, out of the strife, He had carried his colors safer than life. By the river's brink, without weapon or shield, He faced the victors. The thick-heart mist (41) 42 ENSIGN EPPS, TPIE COLOR-BEARER. He dashed from his ejes, and the silk he kissed Ere he held it aloft in the setting sun, As proudly as if the fight were won, And he smiled when they ordered him to yield. Ensign Epps, with his broken blade. Cut the silk from the gilded staff. Which he poised like a spear till the charge was made, And hurled at the leader with a laugh. Then round his breast, like the scarf of his love, He tied the colors his heart above. And plunged in his armor into the tide. And there, in his dress of honor, died. T\Tiere are the lessons your kinglings teach ? And what is text of your proud commanders ? Out of the centuries, heroes reach With the scroll of a deed, with the word of a story, Of one man's truth and of all men's glory. Like Ensign Epps at the battle of Flanders. GRANT — 1885. Blessed are Pain, the smiter, And Sorrow, the uniter ! For one afflicted lies — A symboled sacrifice — And all our rancor dies ! "No North, no South ! O stern-faced Chief, One weeping ours, one cowled Grief — Thy Country — bowed in prayer and tear — For North and South — above thy bier ! For North and South ! Soldier grim. The broken ones to weep for him Who broke them ! He whose terrors blazed In smoking harvests, cities razed ; Whose Fate-like glance sent fear and chill ; Whose wordless lips spake deathless will — Till all was shattered, all was lost — (43) 44 GEAXT. All hands dropped down — all War's red cost Laid there in ashes — Hope and Hate And Shame and Glory ! Death and Fate Fall back ! Another touch is thine ; He drank not of th}^ poisoned wine, iNor blindly met thy blind-thrown lance, Nor died for sightless time or chance — But waited, suffered, bowed and tried, Till all the dross was purified ; Till every well of hate was dried ; And Xorth and South in sorrow vied, And then — at God's own calling — - died I July 23, 1885. THE CRY OF THE DREAMER. I am tired of planning and toiling In the crowded hives of men ; Heart-weary of building and spoiling, And spoiling and building again. And I long for the dear old river, Where I dreamed my youth aw^ay ; For a dreamer lives forever. And a toiler dies in a day. I am sick of the showy seeming Of a life that is half a lie ; Of the faces lined with scheming In the throng that hurries by. From the sleepless thoughts' endeavor, I would go where the children play ; For a dreamer lives forever. And a thinker dies in a day. (-15) 46 THE CllY OF THE DREAMER. I can feel no pride, but pity For the burdens the rich endure ; There is nothing sweet in the city But the patient lives of the poor. Oh, the little hands too skilful, And the child-mind choked with weeds ! The daughter's heart grown wilful. And the Other's heart that bleeds ! No, no ! from the street's rude l)ustle, From trophies of mart and stage, I would fly to the woods' low rustle And the meadows' kindly page. Let me dream as of old by the river, And be loved for the dream alway ; For a dreamer lives forever. And a toiler dies in a day. IKELAND — 1882. * ' Island of Destiny ! Innisfail ! " they cried when their weary eyes First looked on thy beauteous bosom from the amorous ocean rise. '* Island of Destiny ! Innisfail !" we cry, dear land, to thee. As the sun of thy future rises and reddens the west- ern sea ! Pregnant as earth with its gold and gems and its metals strong and fine. Is thy soul with its ardors and fancies and sympathies divine. Mustard seed of the nations ! they scattered thy leaves to the air, But the ravisher pales at the harvest that flourishes everywhere. (47) 48 IRELAND. Queen in the right of thy courage ! manacled, scourged, defamed, Thy voice in the teeth of the bayonets the right of a race proclaimed. "Bah!" they sneered from their battlements, "her people cannot unite ; They are sands of the sea, that break before the rush of our ordered might ! " And wherever the flag of the pirate flew, the Eng- lish slur was heard. And the shallow of soul re-echoed the boast of the taunting word. But we — O sun, that of old was our god, we look in thy face to-day, As our Druids who prayed in the ancient time, and with them we proudly say : • "We have wronged no race, we have robbed no land, we have never oppressed the weak ! " And this in the face of Heaven is the nobler thing to speak. IRELAND. 49 We can never unite — thank God for that ! in such unity as yours, That strangles the rights of others, and only itself endures As the guard of a l)loodstained spoil and the red- eyed watch of the slave ; No need for such robber-union to a race free-souled and brave. The races that band for plunder are the mud of the human stream, The base and the coward and sordid, without an unselfish gleam. It is mud that unites ; but the sand is free — ay, every grain is free, And the freedom of individual men is the highest oi liberty. It is mud that coheres ; but the sand is free, till the lightning smite the shore, And smelt the giains to a crystal mass, to return to sand no more. 50 IRELAND. And so with the grains of our Irish sand, that flash clear-eyed to the sun, Till a noble Purpose smites them and melts them into one. While the sands are free, O Tyrants ! like the wind are your steel and speech ; Your brute-force crushes a legion, but a soul it can never reach. Island of Destiny ! Innisfail ! for thy faith is the payment near : The mine of the future is opened, and the golden veins appear. Thy hands are white and thy page unstained. Reach out for the sjlorious vears, And take them from God as His recompense for thy fortitude and tears. Thou canst stand by the way ascending, as thy tyrant goes to the base : The seeds of her death are in her and the signs in her cruel face. IRELAND. 51 On her darkened path lie the corpses of men, with whose blood her feet are red ; And the curses of ruined nations are a cloud above her head. O Erin, fresh in the latest day, like a gem from a Syrian tomb, The burial clay of the centuries has saved thy light in the gloom. Thy hands may stretch to a kindred world : there is none that hates but one ; And she but hates as a pretext for the rapine she has done. The night of thy grief is closing, and the sky in the East is red : Thy children watch from the mountain-tops for the sun to kiss thv head. O Mother of men that are fit to be free, for their test for freedom borne. Thy vacant place in the Nations' race awaits but the THE DEAD SINGER. ' ' She is dead I " they say ; ' ' she is robed for the grave ; there are lilies upon her breast ; Her mother has kissed her clay-cold lips, and folded her hands to rest ; Her blue eyes show through the waxen lids : they have hidden her hair's gold crown ; Her grave is dug, and its heap of earth is waiting to press her down." "She is dead !" they say to the people, her people, for whom she sung ; Whose hearts she touched with sorrow and love, like a harp with life-chords strung. And the people hear — but behind their tear they smile as though they heard Another voice, like a Mystery, proclaim another word. (52) THE DEAD SINGER. 53 '*She is not dead," it says to their hearts; "true Singers can never die ; Their life is a voice of higher things unseen to the common eye ; The truths and the beauties are clear to them, God's right and the human wrong. The heroes who die unknown, and the weak who are chained and scourged by the strong." And the people smile at the death-word, for the mystic voice is clear : * ' The Singer who lived is always alive : we hearken and alavays hear ! " And they raise her body with tender hands, and bear her down to the main. They lay her in state on the mourning ship, like the lily-maid Elaine ; And they sail to her isle across the sea, where the people wait on the shore To lift her in silence with heads all bare to her home forevermore. Her home in the heart of her country ; oh, a grave amono' our own o Is warmer and dearer than livinc; on in the strani^ei lands alone c 54 THE DEAD SIXGER. No need of a tomb for the Singer ! Her fair hair's pillow now Is the sacred clay of her country, and the sky above her brow Is the same that smiled and wept on her youth, and the grass around is deep With the clinging leaves of the shamrock that cover her peaceful sleep. Undreaming there she will rest and wait, in the tomb her people make, Till she hears men's hearts, like the seeds in Spring, all stirring to be awake, Till she feels the moving of souls that strain till the bands around them break ; And then, I think, her dead lips will smile and her eyes be oped to see. When the cry goes out to the Nations that the Singer's land is free ! ERIN. **Come, sing a new song to her here while we listen!" They cry to her sons who sing ; And one sings: '■'Mavourneen, it makes the eyes glisten To think how the sorrows cling, Like the clouds on your mountains, wreathing Their green to a weeping gray ! " And the bard with his passionate breathing Has no other sweet word to say. *'Come sing a new song!" and their eyes, while they're speaking, Are dreaming of far-off things ; And their hearts are away for the old words seeking, ^ Unheeding of him who sings. (55) 56 EEIN. But he smiles and sings on, for the sound so slender Has reached the deep note he knows ; And the heart-poem stirred by the word so tender Out from the well-spring flows. And he says in his song : * ' O dhar dheelish ! the tearful ! She's ready to laugh when she cries ! " And they sob when they hear : ' ' Sure she's sad when she's cheerful ; And she smiles with the tears in her eyes ! " And he asks them : What need of new poets to praise her? Her harpers still sing in the past ; And her first sweet old melodies comfort and raise her To joys never reached by her last. What need of new hero, with Brian? or preacher, With Patrick ? or soldier, with Conn ? With her dark Ollamh Fohla, what need of a teacher, Sage, ruler, and builder in one? ERIN. 5 i What need of new lovers, -with Deirdre and Imer ? With Avonders and visions and elves Sure no need at all has romancer or rhymer, When the fairies belong to ourselves. What need of new tongues? O, the Gaelic is clear- est, Like Nature's own voice every word ; ^'Ahagur! Acushlaf Savourneen!" the dearest The ear of a girl ever heard. They may talk of new causes ! Dliar DJiial our old one Is fresher than ever to-day ; Like Erin's green sod that is steaming to God The blood it has drunl^ in the fray. They have scattered her seed, with her blood and hate in it, And the harvest has come to her here ; Her crown still remains for the strong heart to win it. And the hour of acceptance is near. 58 ERIN. Through ages of warfare and famine and prison Her voice and her spirit were free : But the lono-est ni^-ht ends, and her name has uprisen : The Sunburst is red on the sea ! What need of new songs? When his country is singing, What word has the Poet to say, But to drink her a toast while the joy-l3ells are rinofinsf The dawn of her opening da}^? * ' O Bride of the Sea ! may the world know your laughter As well as it knows your tears ! As your past was for Freedom, so l)e your hereafter ; And through all your coming years May no weak race be wronged, and no strong robber feared ; To oppressors gTow hateful, to slaves more endeared ; Till the world comes to know that the test of a cause Is the hatred of tyrants, and Erin's applause !" POET AND LORD. God makes a poet : touches soul and sight, And lips and heart, and sends him forth to sing ; His fellows hearing, own the true birthright, And crown him daily with the love they bring. The king a lord makes, by a parchment leaf; Thou«:h heart be withered, and thou2:h si2:ht be dim With dullard brain and soul of disbelief — Ay, even so ; he makes a lord of him. What, then, of one divinely kissed and sent To fill the people with ideal words. Who with his poet's crown is discontent. And begs a parchment title with the lords ? (59) A YEAK. In the Spring we see : Then the buds are dear to us — immature bosoms like lilies swell. In the Summer we live ; When bright eyes are near to us, oh, the sweet stories the false lips tell I In the Autumn we love : When the honey is dripping, deep eyes moisten and soft breasts heave ; In the Winter we think : With the sands fast slipping, we smile and sigh for the days we leave. (60) AN OLD VAGABOND. He was old and alone, and he sat on a stone to rest for awhile from the road ; His beard was white, and his eye was bright, and his wrinkles overflowed With a mild content at the way life went ; and I closed the book on my knee : *'I will venture a look in this living book," I thought, as he greeted me. And I said : "My friend, have you time to spend to tell me what makes you glad ? " *' Oh, ay, my lad," with a smile ; ** I'm glad that I'm old, yet am never sad I" * ' But why ? " said I ; and his merry eye made an- swer as much as his tongue ; *' Because," said he, "I am poor and free who was rich and a slave when young. (61) 62 AN OLD VAGABOND. There is naught but age can allay the rage of tho passions that rule men's lives ; And a man to be free must a poor man be, for un- happy is he who thrives : He fears for his ventures, his rents and debentures, his crops, and his son, and his wife ; His dignity's slighted when he's not invited ; he fears every day of his life. But the man who is poor, and by age has grown sure that there are no surprises in years, "Who knows that to have is no joy, nor to save, and who opens his eyes and his ears To the world as it is, and the part of it his, and who says : They are happy, these birds. Yet they live day by day in improvident way — im- provident ? What were the words Of the Teacher who taught that the field-lilies brought the lesson of life to a man ? Can we better the thing that is schoolless, or sing more of love than the nightingale can ? See that rabbit — what feature in that pretty creat- ure needs science or culture or care ? Send this dog to a college and stuff him with knowledge, will it add to the warmth of his hair? AN OLD VAGABOND. 63 Why should mankind, apart, turn from Xature to Art, and declare the exchange better-planned ? I prefer to trust God for my living than plod for my bread at a master's hand. A man's higher being is knowing and seeing, not having and toiling for more ; In the senses and soul is the joy of control, not in pride or luxurious store. Yet my needs are the same as the kingling's whose name is a terror to thousands : some bread, Some water and milk, — I can do without silk, — some wool, and a roof for my head. What more is possest that will stand the grim test of death's verdict ? What riches remain To give joy at the last, all the vanities past? — Ay, ay, that's the word — they are vain And vexatious of spirit to all who inherit belief in the world and its ways. And so, old and alone, sitting here on a stone, I smile with the birds at the days." And I thanked him, and went to my study, head bent, where I laid down my book on its shelf; And that day all the page that I read was my age, and my wants, and my joys, and myself. A DISAPPOINTMENT. Her hair was a waving bronze, and her eyes Deep wells that might cover a brooding soul ; And who, till he weighed it, could ever surmise That her heart was a cinder instead of a coal ! (64) YESTERDAY AND TO-MOREOW. Joys have three stages, Hoping, Having, and Had: The hands of Hope are empty, and the heart of Having is sad ; For the joy we take, in the taking dies ; and the joy we Had is its ghost. Now, which is the better — the joy unknown or the joy we have chisped and lost ? (65) YES? The words of the lips are double or single, True or false, as we say or sing : But the words of the eyes that mix and mingle Are always saying the same old thing I' (66) A PASSAGE. The world was made when a man was born ; He must taste for himself the forbidden springs, He can never take warning from old-fashioned things ; He must fight as a boy, he must drink as a youth, He must kiss, he must love, he must swear to the truth Of the friend of his soul, he must laugh to scorn The hint of deceit in a woman's eyes That are clear as the wells of Paradise. And so he goes on, till the world grows old, Till his tono:ue has 2:rown cautious, his heart has grown cold. Till the smile leaves his mouth, and the ring leaves his laugh. And he shirks the bright headache you ask him to quaff; (67) 68 A PASSAGE. He grows formal with men, and with women polite, And distrustful of both when they're out of his sight ; Then he eats for his palate, and drinks for his head. And loves for his pleasure, — and 'tis time he was dead ! DISTAXCE. The world is large, when its weary leagues two lov- ing hearts divide ; But the world is small, when your enemy is loo.«e on the other side. THE CITY STREETS. A City of Palaces ! Yes, that's true : a city of palaces built for trade ; Look down this street — what a splendid view of the temples where fabulous gains are made. Just glance at the wealth of a single pile, the marble pillars, the miles of glass, The carving and cornice in gaudy style, the massive show of the polished brass ; And think of the acres of inner floors, where the wealth of the world is spread for sale ; Why, the treasures enclosed by those ponderous doors are richer than ever a fairy tale. Pass on to the next, it is still the same, another Aladdin the scene repeats ; The silks are unrolled and the jewels flame for leagues and leagues of the city streets ! (70) THE CITY STREETS. 71 Now turn away from the teeming town, and pass to the homes of the merchant kings, Wide squares where the stately porches frown, where the flowers are bright and the foun- tain sings ; Look up at the lights in that brilliant room, with its chandelier of a hundred flames ! See the carpeted street where the ladies come whose husbands have millions or famous names ; For whom are the jewels and silks, behold : on those exquisite bosoms and throats they burn ; Art challenges Nature in color and gold and the gracious presence of every turn. So the Winters fly past in a joyous rout, and the Summers bring marvellous cool retreats ; These are civilized wonders we're findino^ out as we walk through the beautiful city streets. A City of Palaces ! Hush ! not quite : a city where palaces are, is best ; No need to speak of what's out of sight : let us take what is pleasant, and leave the rest : 72 THE CITY STREETS. The men of the city who travel and write, whose fame and credit are known abroad, The people who move in the ranks polite, the cultured women whom all applaud. It is true, there are only ten thousand here, but the other half million are vulgar clod ; And a soul well-bred is eternally dear — it counts so much more on the books of God. The others have use in their place, no doubt; but why speak of a class one never meets ? They are gloomy things to be talked about, those common lives of the city streets. Well, then, if you will, let us look at both : let us weigh the pleasure against the pain, The gentleman's smile with the bar-room oath, the luminous square with the tenement lane. Look round you now ; 'tis another sphere, of thin- clad women and grimy men ; There are over ten thousand huddled here, where a hundred would live of our upper ten. Take care of that child : here, look at her face, a baby who carries a bal^y brother ; They are early helpers in this poor place, and the infant must often nurse the mother. THE ClXr STREETS. 73 Come up those stairs where the little ones went : five flights they groped and climbed in the dark ; There are dozens of homes on the steep ascent, and homes that are filled with children — hark ! Did you hear tliat laugh, with its manly tones, and the joyous ring of the baby voice? 'Tis the father who gathers his little ones, the nurse and her brother, and all rejoice. Yes, human nature is much the same when you come to the heart and count its beats ; The workman is proud of his home's dear name as the richest man on the city streets. God pity them all ! God pity the worst ! for the worst are reckless, and need it most : When we trace the causes why lives are curst with the criminal taint, let no man boast : The race is not run with an equal chance : the poor man's son carries double weight ; Who have not, are tempted ; inheritance is a blight or a blessing of man's estate. No matter that poor men sometimes sweep the prize from the sons of the millionnaire : What is good to win must be good to keep, else the virtue dies on the topmost stair ; 74 THE CITY STREETS. When the winners can keep their golden prize, still darker the day of the laboring poor : The strong and the selfish are sure to rise, while the simple and generous die obscure. And these are the virtues and social gifts by which Progress and Property rank over Man ! Look there, O woe I Avhere a lost soul drifts on the stream where such virtues overran : Stand close — let her pass ! from a tenement room and a reeking workshop graduate : If a man were to break the iron loom or the press she tended, he knows his fate ; But her life may be broken, she stands alone, her poverty stings, and her guideless feet, Not long since kissed as a father's own, are dragged in the mire of the pitiless street. Come back to the light, for my brain goes wrong when I see the sorrows that can't be cured. If this is all righteous, then w^hy prolong the pain for a thing that must be endured ? We can never have palaces built without slaves, nor luxuries served without ill-paid toil ; Society flourishes only on graves, the moral graves in the lowly soil. THE CITY STREETS. 75 The earth was not made for its people : that cry has been hounded down as a social crime ; The meaning of life is to barter and buy ; and the strongest and shrewdest are masters of time. God made the million to serve the few, and their questions of right are vain conceits ; To have one sweet home that is safe and true, ten garrets must reek in the darkened streets. 'Tis Civilization, so they say, and it cannot be changed for the weakness of men. Take care ! take care ! 'tis a desperate way to goad the wolf to the end of his den. Take heed of your Civilization, ye, on your pyra- mids built of quivering hearts ; There are stages, like Paris in '93, where the com- monest men play most terrible parts. Your statutes may crush but they cannot kill the patient sense of a natural right ; It may slowly move, but the People's will, like the ocean o'er Holland, is always in sight. *'It is not our fault !" say the rich ones. No ; 'tis the fault of a system old and strong ; But men are the makers of systems : so, the cure will come if we own the wrong. 76 THE CITY STREETS. It will come in peace if the man-right lead ; it will sweep in storm if it be denied : The law to bring justice is always decreed ; and on every hand are the warnings cried. Take heed of your Progress ! Its feet have trod on the souls it slew with its own pollutions ; Submission is good ; but the order of God may flame the torch of the revolutions ! Beware with your Classes ! Men are men, and a cry in the night is a fearful teacher ; When it reaches the hearts of the masses, then they need but a sword for a judge and preacher. Take heed, for your Juggernaut pushes hard : God holds the doom that its day completes ; It will dawn like a fire when the track is barred by a barricade in the city streets. THE THREE QUEENS.* In the far time of Earth's sweet maiden beauty, ^Vhen Morning hung with rapture on her breast ; AYhen every sentient life paid love for duty, And every law was Nature's own behest ; When reason ruled as subtle instinct taught her ; When joys were pure and sin and shame unseen ; Then God sent down His messenger and daughter, His kiss upon her lips, to reign as Queen ! Her name was Liberty ! Earth lay before her. And throbbed unconscious fealty and truth ; Mornins: and niijht men hastened to adore her. And from her eyes Peace drew perennial youth. Her hair was golden as the stars of heaven ; Her face was radiant with the kiss of Jove ; Her form was lovelier than the sun at even ; Death paled before her : Life was one with Love. * Read at the annual meeting of Phi Beta Kappa, Dartmouth College, 1882. (77) 78 THE THREE QUEENS. O time traditioned ! ere thy dismal sequel, Men owned the world, and every man was free ; The lowest life was noble ; all were equal In needs and creeds, — their birthright Liberty. Possession had no power of caste, nor learning ; He was not great who owned a shining stone ; No seer was needed for the truth's discerning, Nor king nor code to teach the world its own. Distinction lived, but gave no power o'er others, As flowers have no dominion each o'er each ; What men could do they did among their brothers By skill of hand or gift of song or speech. Dear Golden Age ! that like a deathless spirit Fills our traditions with a light sublime ; Like wheat from Egypt's tombs our souls inherit Sweet dreams of freedom from thy vanished timCc O Goddess Liberty ! thy sun was cleaving Its golden path across a perfect sky, When lo ! a cloud, from night below upheaving, And underneath a shadow and a cry ! THE THREE QUEENS. 79 In lurid darkness spread the thing of error, Swift ran the shudder and the fear beneath ; Till o'er the Queen's face passed the voiceless terror, And Love grew pale to see the joy of Death. Men stood benumbed to wait unknown disaster ; Full soon its sworded Messenger was seen ; **^eAoM/" he cried, '•Hlie %ceak shall have a master! The Strong shall rule! There reigns another Queen!'' Then rushed the forces of the night-born Power, And seized white Liberty, and cast her down ; Man's plundered birthright was the new Queen's dower, The sorrow of the weak ones was her crown. Her name was Law ! She sent her proclamation Through every land and set her crimson seal On every strangled right and revocation Of aim and instinct of the commonweal. She saw the true Queen prisoned by her creatures ; Who dared to speak, was slain by her command. Her face w^as lustreless. With smileless features She took the throne — a weapon in her hand ! 80 THE THREE QUEEXS. Her new code read : ' ' The earth is for the able ; " (And able meant the selfish, strong, and shrewd ;) ' ' Equality and freedom are a fable ; To take and keep the largest share is good." Her teachers taught the justice of oppression, That taxed the poor on all but air and sun ; Her preachers preached the gospel of possession, That hoards had rights Avhile human souls had none. Then all things changed their object and relation ; Commerce instead of Xature — Progress instead of Men ; The world became a monstrous corporation. Where ninety serfs ground luxury for ten. The masters blessed, the toilers cursed the system That classified and kept mankind apart ; But passing ages rained the dust of custom AVhere broken Nature showed the weld of art. But there were some who scorned to make alliance. Who owned the true Queen even in the dust ; And these, through generations, flung defiance From sraol and oribbet for their sacred trust. THE THREE QUEENS. 81 Then came the Christ, the Saviour and the Brother, With truth and freedom once again the seed ; ' ' Woe to the rich ! Do ye to one another As each desires for self" — man's primal creed. But, lo ! they took the Saviour and they bound him. And set him in their midst as he were free ; They made His tied hands seal their deeds around Him, And His dumb lips condemn fair Liberty ! * ' Then woe ! " cried those faint-hearted ; * ' woe for dreaming. For prayers and hopes and sufferings all in vain!" O Souls despondent at the outward seeming, Here at the cry, behold the light again ! Here at the cry, the answer and solution : When strong as Death the cold usurper reigns, When human right seems doomed to dissolution. And Hope itself is wrung with mortal pains ; When Christ is harnessed to the landlord's burden ; His truth to make men free a thing of scorn ; God hears the cry, and sends the mystic guerdon, — Earth thrills and throes — another Queen is born ! 82 THE THREE QUEENS. O weak she comes, a child and not a woman ; Needing our nursing and devotion long ; But in her eyes the flame divine and human, To strengthen weak ones and restrain the strong. Her name is Learning ! Her domain unbounded ; Of all the fetters she commands the key ; Through her babe-mouth man's wrong shall be confounded, And link by link her sister Queen set free. Her hand shall hold the patriotic passes. And check the wrons: that zeal would do for o right ; Her whispered secrets shall inflame the masses To read their planet-charter by her light. Kound her to-day may press the base Queen's minions. Seeking alliance and approval. Nay ! The day and night shall mingle their dominions Ere Nature's rule and Mammon's join their sway. Our new Queen comes a nursling, thus to teach us The patience and the tenderness we need : To raise our natures that the light may reach us Of sacrifice and silence for a creed. THE THREE QUEENS. 83 A nursling yet, — but every school and college Is training minds to tend the heavenly maid ; And men are learning, grain by grain, the knowl- edge That worlds exist for higher ends than trade. Grander than Vulcan's are these mighty forges Where souls are shaped and sharped like fiery swords. To arm the multitude till Might disgorges, And save the Saviour from the selfish hordes. Around us here we count those Pharos stations, Where men are bred to do their Queen's behest : To guard the deep republican foundations Of our majestic freedom of the West ! From our high place the broken view grows clearer, The bloodstained upward path the patriots trod ; Shall we not reach to bring the toilers nearer The law of Nature, Liberty, and God? MIDNIGHT — SEPTEMBER 19, 1881.* Once in a lifetime, we may see the veil Tremble and lift, that hides symbolic things ; The Spirit's vision, when the senses fail, Sweeps the weird meaning that the outlook brings. Deep in the midst of turmoil, it may be — A crowded street, a forum, or a field, — The soul inverts the telescope to see To-day's event in future's years revealed. Back from the present, let us look at Rome ; Behold, what Cato meant, what Brutus said. Hark ! the Athenians welcome Cimon home ! How clear they are those glimpses of the dead ! * Death of President Garfield (84) MIDNIGHT, SEPTEMBER 10, 1881. 85 But we, Lard toilers, we who plan and weave Through common days the web of common life, What word, alas ! shall teach us to receive The mystic meaning of our peace and strife ? Whence comes our symbol? Surely, God must speak — Xo less than He can make us heed or pause : Self-seekers we, too busy or too weak To search beyond our daily lives and laws. From things occult our earth-turned eyes rebel ; ]^o sound of Destiny can reach our ears ; We have no time for dreaming Hark ! a knell — - A knell at midnight ! All the nation hears ! A second grievous throb ! The dreamers wake — The merchant's soul forgets his goods and ships ; The weary workmen from their slumbers break ; The women raise their eyes with quivering lips ; The miner rests upon his pick to hear ; The printer's type stops midway from the case ; The solemn sound has reached the roysterer's ear, And brouHit the shame and sorrow to his face. 86 MIDNIGHT, SEPTEMBER 19, 1881. Again it booms ! O Mystic Veil, upraise ! — Behold, 'tis lifted? On the darkness drawn, A picture lined with light ! The people's gaze, From sea to sea, beholds it till the dawn ! A death-bed scene — a sinking sufferer lies, Their chosen ruler, crowned with love and pride ; Around, his counsellors, with streaming eyes ; His wife, heart-broken, kneeling by his side : Death's shadow holds her — it will pass too soon; She weeps in silence — bitterest of tears ; He wanders softly — Nature's kindest boon ; And as he murmurs, all the country hears : For him the pain is past, the struggle ends ; His cares and honors fade — his younger life In peaceful Mentor comes, with dear old friends ; His mother's arms take home his dear young wife. He stands among the students, tall and strong, And teaches truths republican and grand ; He moves — ah, pitiful — he sweeps along O'er fields of carnage leading his command ! MIDNIGHT, SEPTEMBER 19, 1881. 87 He speaks to crowded faces — round him surge Thousands and millions of excited men : He hears them cheer — sees some vast light emerge — Is borne as on a tempest — then ah, then, The fancies fade, the fever's work is past ; A deepened pang, then recollection's thrill ; He feels the faithful lips that kiss their last. His heart beats once in answer, and is still ! The curtain falls : but hushed, as if afraid, The people wait, tear-stained, with heaving breast ; 'Twill rise again, they know, when he is laid With Freedom, in the Capitol, at rest. AMERICA.* Nor War nor Peace, forever, old and young, But Strength my theme, whose song is yet un- sung. The People's Strength, the deep alluring dream. Of truths that seethe below the truths that seem. The buried ruins of dead empires seek, Of Indian, Syrian, Persian, Roman, Greek : From shattered capital and frieze upraise The stately structures of their golden days : Their laws occult, their priests and prophets ask, Their altars search, their oracles unmask, Their parable from birth to burial see. The acorn germ, the growth, the dense-leafed tree, (Read before the Army of the Potomac, in Detroit, 1881.) (88) AMERICA. 89 A world of riant life ; the sudden day When like a new strange glory, shone decay, A golden glow amid the green ; the change From branch to branch at life's receding range, Till nothing stands of towering strength and pride Save naked trunk and arms whose veins are dried ; And these, too, crumble till no signs remain To mark its place upon the wind-swept plain. Why died the empires ? Like the forest trees Did Nature doom them ? or did slow disease Assail their roots and poison all their springs ? The old-time story answers : nobles, kings. Have made and been the State, their names alone Its history holds ; its wealth, its wars, their own. Their wanton wiJ could raise, enrich, condemn ; The toilins: millions lived and died for them. Their fortunes rose in conquest fell, in guilt ; The people ncA^er owned them, never built. 90 AMERICA. Those olden times ! how many words are spent In weak regret and shallow argument To prove them wiser, happier than our own ! The oldest moment that the world has known Is passing now. Those vaunted times w^erc young ; Their wisdom from unlettered peasants sprung ; Their laws from nobles arrogant and rude ; Their justice force, their whole achievement crude. With men the old are wise : why change the rule When nations speak, and send the old to school? Eespect the past for all the good it knew : Give noble lives and struggling truths their due ; But ask what freedom knew the common men Who served and bled and won the victories then ? The leaders are immortal, but the hordes They led to death were simply human swords, Unknowing what they fought for, why they fell. What change has come ? Imperial Europe tell ! Death's warders cry from twenty centuries' peaks : Plataea's field the word to Plevna speaks ; AMERICA. 91 The martial draft still wastes the peasants' farms — A dozen kings, — five million men in arms ; The earth mapped out estate-like, hedged with steel ; In neio^hborino^ schools the children bred to feel Unnatural hate, disjoined in speech and creed ; The forges roaring for the armies' need ; The cities builded by the people lined With scowling forts and roadways undermined ; At every bastioned frontier, every State, Suspicion, sworded, standing by the gate ! But turn our eyes from these oppressive lands : Behold, one country all defenceless stands, One nation-continent, from East to West, With riches heaped upon her bounteous breast ; Her mines, her marts, her skill of hand and brain. That bring Aladdin's dreams to light again ! Where sleep the conquerors? Here is chance for spoil : Such un watched fields, such endless, priceless toil ! 92 AMERICA. Vain dream of olden time ! The robber strength That swept its will is overmatched at length. Here, not with swords but smiles the people greet The foreign spy in harbor, granary, street ; Here towns unguarded lie, for here alone Nor caste, nor king, nor privilege is known. For home our farmer ploughs, our miner delves, A land of toilers, toiling for themselves ; A land of cities, wdiich no fortress shields. Whose open streets reach out to fertile fields ; Whose roads are shaken by no armies' tread ; Whose only camps are cities of the dead I Go stand at Arlington the graves among : No ramparts, cannons there, no banners hung, No threat above the Capitol, no ])lare To warn the senators the guns are there. But never yet was city fortified Like that sad height above Potomac's tide ; There never yet was eloquence in speech Like those ten thousand stones, a name on each ; No guards e'er pressed such claims on court or king As these Praetorians to our Senate bring ; AMERICA. 93 The Army of Potomac never lay So full of strength as in its camp to-day ! On fatal Chaeronea's field the Greeks A lion raised — a sombre tomb that speaks No word, no name, — an emblem of the pride Of those that ruled the insect host that died. But by her soldiers' graves Columbia proves How fast toward morn the ni^iit of manhood moves. Those low white lines at Gettysburg remain The sacred record of her huniblest slain, Whose children's children in their time shall come To view with pride their hero-father's tomb, While down the ages runs the patriot line, Till rich tradition makes each toml) a shrine. Our standing army these, with spectre glaives ; Our fortressed towns their battle-ordered graves. Here sleep our valiant, sown like dragon's teeth ; Here new-born sons renew the pious wreath ; 04 AMERICA. Here proud Columbia bends with tear-stirred niouth, To kiss their blood-seal, binding North and South, Two clasping hands upon the knot they tied When Union lived and Human Slavery died ! Who doubt our strength, or measure it with those Whose armed millions wait for coming foes. They judge by royal standards, that depend On hireling hands to threaten or defend, That keep their war-dogs chained in time of peace. And dread a foe scarce less than their release. Who hunt wild beasts with cheetahs, fiercely tame. Must watch their hounds as well as fear their Around our veterans hung no dread nor doul)t When twice a million men were mustered out. As scattered seed in new-ploughed land, or flakes Of Spring-time snow descend in smiling lakes, Our war-born soldiers sank into the sea Of peaceful life and fruitful energy. No sign remained of that vast army, save In field and street new workmen, bronzed and grave • AMERICA. 95 Some whistling teamsters still in army vest ; Some quiet citizens with medalled breast. So died the hatred of our brother feud ; The conflict o'er the triumph was subdued. What victor King e'er spared the conquered foe ? How much of mercy did strong Prussia show When anguished Paris at her feet lay prone ? The German trumpet rang above her moan, The clink of Uhlan spurs her temples knew, Her Arch of Triumph spanned their triumph, too. Not thus, O South ! when thy proud head was low. Thy passionate heart laid open to the foe — Not thus, Virginia, did, thy victors meet At Appomattox him who bore defeat : No brutal show abased thine honored State : Grant turned from Kichmond at the very gate ! O Land magnanimous, republican ! The last for Nationhood, the first for Man ! Because thy lines by Freedom's hand were laid Profound the sin to change or retrograde. 96 A^lEIilCA. From base to cresting let thy work be new ; 'Twas not by aping foreign ways it grew. To struggling peoples give at least applause ; Let equities not precedent subtend your laws ; Like rays from that great Eye the altars show, That fall triangular, free states should grow. The soul above, the brain and hand below. Believe that strength lies not in steel nor stone ; That perils wait the land whose heavy throne. Though ringed by swords and rich with titled show. Is based on fettered misery below ; That nations grow where every class unites For common interests and common rights ; Where no caste barrier stays the poor man's son. Till step by step the topmost height is won ; Where every hand subscribes to ever}^ rule. And free as air are voice and vote and school ! A Nation's years are centuries. Let Art Portray thy first, and Liberty will start From every field in Europe at the sight. ''Why stand these thrones between us and the light?" Strong men will ask : "Who built these frontier towers To bar out men of kindred blood with ours?" AMERICA. 97 O, this thy work, Republic ! this thy health. To prove man's birthright to a commonwealth ; To teach the peoples to be strong and wise, Till armies, nations, nobles, royalties, Are laid at rest with all their fears and hates ; Till Europe's thirteen Monarchies are States, Without a barrier and without a throne. Of one grand Federation like our own ! THE STATUES IN THE BLOCK, AND OTHER POEMS. BY JOHN BOYLE O'REIL LV, OriNIONS OF THE PRESS. From the Boston Bdly Advertiser. " Mr. O'Keilly excels in dramatic poetry. When he has an heroic story to tell, he tells it with ardor and vigor; he appreciates all its nobleness of soul, as Avell as its romantic and picturesque situations; and his 'Song for the Soldiers,' and 'The Mutiny of the Chains,' in his last volume, show with what power he can portray the daring and heroism that have stirred his own heart. He writes with ease and freedom, but his poems of love and of discontent are not superior to those of other well-known English poets. His best work in this way are 'Her Hefrain,' a sweet, tender poem, true to life; and 'Waiting,' that is far more impassioned. The cynical verses and epigrams scattered through the book are piquant, and enhance its sweetness, as bitter almonds do the richness of confectionery. There is another side still to Mr. O'Reilly's poetr^^ and it v»^ould be easy to represent him as chiefly religious, earnest and tender. His jjoems abound in passages like the following from ' Living ' : — " ' 'Wlio waits and sympathizes with the pettiest life, And loves all things, and reaches np to God With thanks and blessing — he alone is living.' " And ' From the Earth a Cry,' this line : — " ' God purifies sloAvly by peace, and urgently by fire. " From ' The Statues in the Block ': — " ' And I know That when God gives to us the clearest sight, He does not touch our eves with Love, l)ut Sorrow.' " OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. From the JVevj York World. " Nobody can look over Mr. O'Reilly's poems without being convinced that they are poems; that is to say, that the writer has really something to say, and something which could not be said so well and so completely in prose. Those who are in the habit of looking over current volumes of verse will recognize that this is very much to say of them. Mr. O'Reilly's verses are, indeed, quite out of the common. There is not one of the poems in this thin volume that is not a genuine poem in the sense that it records a genuine and poetical impression. His talent is essentially, we should say almost exclusively, dramatic, as strictly dramatic as Browning's. The most successful of these poems are those which are professedly dramatic rather than those which are contemplative. This excellence in dramatic verse is nfttional. From Thomas Davis down, the Irish lyrists, who are worthy of classification at all in poetry, excel in representation of rapid action and of the emotion which is connected with rapid action; and this is what we call dramatic excellence. Mr. O'Reilly's chief successes are in such poems as 'A Song for the Soldiers,' and 'The Mutiny of the Chains,' in the present volume." Newark {N. J.) Morning Begister. " Roberts Brothers, Boston, have just published ' The Statues in the Block, and Other Poems,' by John Boyle O'Reilly. The poem that gives the book its title is the storj' of four persons looking at a block of marble and seeing an ideal in it. One, her he loved, his jewel, and the jewel of the world. Another, her upon whom he lavished coin — he drank the wine she filled and made her eat the dregs, and drenched her honey with a sea of gall; he, however, was but one who swooned with love beside her. The third was suffering " Motherland," and, as may be supposed, the author's pen waxes strong at picturing the sorrow, because — " ' No love but thine can satisfy the heart, For love of thee holds in it hate of wrong, And shapes the hope that moulds humanity." " The fourth sees in the block his lost child, and the pen softens as he sees — " ' The little hands still crossed — a child in death; My link with love — my dying gift from her "Whose last look smiled, on both when I was left A loveless man, save this poor gift, alone. I see my darling in the marble now — My wasted leaf — her kind eyes smiling fondly, And through her eyes I see the love beyond, The binding light that moves not; and' I know That when God gives to us the clearest sight, He does not touch our eyes with Love, but Sorrow.' " OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 3 " Here and there through the collection are little unnamed wavelets, of which these four lines are a good example : — " ' You gave me the key of your heart, my love; Then why do you make me knock ? ' ' O, that was yesterday, saints above ! And last night — I changed the lock! ' " Dr, Slielton M'Kenzie in the Philadelphia Evening News. " Good poetry, which constitutes a considerable portion of literature, has been rather scarce of late. The odds and ends of verse which get into the magazines are generally aimless and crude. The poet sits down to write what he has thought, but the poetaster takes pen in hand to think what he shall think. There is a world of difference between the results — that is, between true poesy and merely mechanical verse. .... The poem which leads off, covering only thirteen pages, is the longest in the volume, and is full of deep-thoughted expression; but it is probable that ' Muley Malek, the King,' a lay of chivalry, will have more numerous admirers. There is also ' From the Earth a Cry,' reviewing the leading events of the decade which closed in 1870. The heart-poems here are highly impressive in their truth. Here and there, on casual fly-leaves, we find curt truths; thus: — " 'Life is a certainty, Death is a doubt; Men may be dead AVhile'^they're walking about. Love is as needful In being as breath; Loving is dreaming. And waking is death.' " Here is another leaflet; an epigram if you please to call it so: — " ♦ You gave me the key of your heart, my love, Then why do you make me knock? ' ' O, that was yesterday, saints above ! And last night — I changed the lock ! ' " Apropos of the season, which holds back its beauty and bloom, here is a bit of truth : — " ' O, the rare spring flowers! take them as they come; Do not wait for summer buds, they may never bloom ; Every sweet to-day sends, we are wise to save; Roses bloom for pulling^ the path is to the grave.' '•In conclusion, we earnestly hope that Mr. Boyle O'Reilly, who writes so well, will challenge our attention, our admiration, far more frequently than he yet has done." OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. From the New York Herald. " Mr. 0'E,eilly has treated with a beautiful purpose the theme of four men, each imagining the statue that may be carved from a block of marble. Love is the first, Revenge the second, Suffering Motherland the third, and Borrow the last. All these are strongly, nay, passionately drawn, with that inner relation to actual experience in the narrator, which so intensifies the interest. The first is a lovely woman : — " ' O Love! still living, memory and hope, Beyond all sweets, thy bosom, breath and lips — My jewel and the jewel of the world.' " The second, a faithless woman, cowering above the form of her newly- slain paramour: — " ' O balm and torture! he nnist hate who loves, And bleed who strikes to seek thy face, Revenge.' " The third a chained woman — Mother and Motherland: — " ' O star That lightens desolation, o'er her beam, . . . Till the dawn is red Of that white noon when men shall call her Queen.' "The fourth is the figure of a dead child: — " ' I know That when God gives to us the clearest sight He does not touch our eyes with Love, but Sorrow.' •'In 'Muley Malek, the King,' Mr. O'Reilly bursts over the bounds of metre; but in the swing of his utterance there is a certain forceful rhythm, indicating an earnest endeavor to preserve some of the character- istics of song. In 'From the Earth a Cry,' however, all reserve is thrown off, and he launches formlessly forth. Walt Whitman chopped uj) Carlylesque sentences into lines at hazard, but rapidly debased the model. Mr. O'Reilly takes a high strident key, and follows Whitman's most ambitious endeavors. It is an eloquent invective, and its fitfulness and spasmodics have a certain relation to its grievous story of hum.an oppres- sion. It is as formless and as forcible as the onrushing mob it invokes. All that is, is wrong; what need of nice measiiring of feet? It is not the measured tramp of an array that can be expected where the undisciplined millions rise to bear down drilled thousands. " ' O Christ! and O Christ! In thy na.me the law! In thy mouth the mandate ! In Thy loving hands the whip ! They have taken Thee down from thy cross and sent Thee to scourge the people; They have shod Thy feet with spikes, and jointed Thy dead knees with iron, And pushed Thee, hiding behind, to trample the j)oor dumb faces.' " Oppression has its leagues and its triumphs, but " 'Never, while steel is cheap and sha.rp, shall thy kingl'ngs sleep without dreaming.' " OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 5 From the Buffalo Union. " The strength, tenderness, and exceeding power and aptness of expres- sion conspicuous in a former volume — (' Songs, Legends, and Ballads") — .are all here, intensified. The poet goes beyond the limits of any one land or nationhood. He sings here for all time and for every nation. His in- spiration is Hmnanity, wherever it agonizes under tyrannical bonds or struggles to break them, ' From the Earth a Cry,' is a very epitome of the history of the manifold uprisings, all the world over, of the vreak against the strong during the decade just ended — the voice of the oppressed clamoring to Heaven for vengeance — an arraignment of the " ' Landlords and Lawlords and Tradelords,' before the bar of justice, and in face of the terrible growth of " 'Communists, Socialists, Nihilists, Rent-rebels, Strikers' — from the seed themselves have sown. "We wish we could speak in detail of some of the other poems, with their rugged but splendid versification, in which the poet has taken • No heed of the words, nor the style of the story,' but " ' Let it burst out from the heart, like a spring from the womb of the mountain; ' or of that majestic opening poem. ' The Statues in the Block,' through v.hich this true note rings : — " ' When God gives to us the clearest sight, He does not touch our eyes with Love, but Sorrow.' "We strike on a vein of keen but kindly sarcasm at the expense of poor human nature here and there through the collection, especially in a few of those gem-like stanzas that prelude the different sections. But the poet has a sweet voice for tender themes; and there are some exquisite lyrics here, too, like fragrant, delicate flowers, blooming in the clefts of the massive rock. Such, notably, are ' Her Refrain,' ' Waiting,' ' Jacque- minots ' and ' The Temple of Friendship.' The book is inscribed ' To the Memory of Eliza Boj'le ; INIy Mother.' " From the Boston Journal. "The little volume containing 'The Statues in the Block, and Other Poems,' by John Boyle O'Reilly, will commend itself to those for v/hom fresh and spirited verse has charms. The pieces, which number about OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. twenty, are of two very different styles ; the one graceful in form, and con veying some light fancy or suggestion, and the other careless as to form, usually barren of rhyme, and irregular with the pulses of stern and pas- sionate emotion. Of the former type are ' Jacqueminots,' ' Her Refrain and ' The Temple of Friendship' ; of the latter, ' From the Earth a Cry ' A Song for the Soldiers, and ' The Mutiny of the Chains.' The first poem mentioned in the latter group, and indeed some others belonging to the same group, have a Walt Whitmanish turn to them which, we are free to confess, we do not like. Take, for example, such lines as these:— " ' Lightning! the air is split, the crater bursts, and the breathing Of those below is the fume and fire of hatred. The thrones are stayed with the courage of shotted guns. The warnin^ dies. But queens are dragged to the block, and the knife of the guillotine sinks In the garbage of pam^jered flesh that gluts its bed and its hinges.' " The story of the mutiny in the final poem is finely told, as is also the story of the defence of the Cheyennes, in the poem preceding it. Mr. O'Reilly is at his best when his blood is hot and his indignation roused by the thought of human wrongs; and some of his pieces, written under this inspiration, have a ring like anvil strokes, and stir the blood of the reader as by the sound of trumpets." opiniojsts of the peess. ''SONGS FROM THE SOUTHERN SEAS.' BY JOHN BOYLE O'JREILLY. Neil} York Arcadian. " Like the Mnell of new-mown Lay, or the first breath of spring, or an unexpected kiss from well-lovevl lips, or any other sweet, fresh, whole- some, natural delight, is to the professional reviewer the first perusal oi genuine poetry by a new writer. Not for a long time have we experiencec? so fresh and joyous a surprise, so perfect a literary treat, as has been given us bv these fresh and glowing songs by this young and hitherto utterly unknown poet. There is something so thoroughly new and natural and lifelike, something so buoyant and wholesome and true, so much original power nnd boldness of touch in tliese songs, that we feel at once that we are in the presence of a new power in poetry. This work alone places its author head and shoulder above the rank and file of contemporary versi- fiers. . . . The closing passages of * Uncle Ned's ' second tale, are in the highest degree dramatic, — thrilling the reader like the bugle-note that sounds the cry to arms. Finally, several of the poems are animated by a spirit so alTectionate andpure, that we feel constrained to love theirwriter, offering, as they do in this n^spect, so marked and pleasant a contrast with too much of the so-calleil poetry of these modern times." Baltimore Bulletin. *• Mr. O'Reilly is a true poet — no one can read his stirring measures and Lis picturesque descriptive passages without at once recognizing the true singer, and experiencing the contagion of his spirit. He soars loftily and grandly, and his song peals forth with a rare roundnesss and mellowness of tone that cheers and inspirits the hearer. His subjects belong to the open air, to new fields or untrod wilds, and they ate full of healthy freshness, and the vigor of sturdy, redundant life. We hail Mr. O'Reilly with pleasure, and we demand for him the cordial recognition he a* serves." OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. Chicago Inter-Ocean. *' We may safely say that we lay these poems down witl a feeling of de- light that there has come among us a true poet, who ca i enchant by the vivid tire of his pictures without having recourse to a tx-iclv of words, or the re-, from isle to isle we passed, Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips; And when that all was tasted, then at last We thirsted still for draughts instead of sip«. <« * I learned from this there is no Southern land Can till with love the hearts of Northern men. Sick minds need change; but, when in health they ataad 'Ne»th foreign skies their love flies home again. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. An suffered to begin life anew, deserve to be closely scanned and maturely pondered. . . . Such are some of the problems forced upon the reader's attention by this remarkable book, but which are rather hinted than ex- pounded — not so much dissected by argument as commended to our sympa- thies by the poignant spectacle of suffering and the winning accent of conviction. The author seldom overlooks the limitations of his artistic purpose, and the thread of his story may be followed with eagerness by those who would hear with indifference the teaching of the student and the philanthropist." iCv OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. From the Chicago Times. " 3foonclyne is remarkable in more respects than one. It has plot erongh for flaif-a-dozen strong romances; it is written with ciispness and sim- plicity, and in pure and nervous English ; its morality is orthodox ; its scene and characters are who ly novel and unique, and the interest is keenly — even painfully — sustained, . . . and no one can read MooJidyne without loving virtue more, pitying distress, abhorring injustice, and detesting vice. It is one of the few American novels which, while intensely romantic, is lolty in its aim, eloquent a"d noble in its argument, and hea'thy and refining in its effect. It is characterized throughout by the highest dramatic intuition, and ought to find its way speedi'y to the boards." From the New Orleans Morning Star and Catholic Visitor. "This fine novel is really a treat, refined in diction, high-toned in senti- ment, and instructive in details. There is no religious controversy in its pages, no tedious theological arguments in the fabric of its story, but the whole book affords its readers onlj' pleasure and profit. The spirit which animates the work is that of philanthropy, and the dedication, 'To all who are in prison, for whatever cause,' gives the clew to the object of the writer. The cliaracters are we 1 drawn, although we think the hero is over- drawn — that is, he is too perfect — but as a model to youth, the ex'mp'ar must be, as far as possible, faultless. The interest of the story is splendidly Bustained, and the life of ' Moondj-ne ' is thrilling, grand, and beautiful. The lessons conveyed are very noble, and we think this expression in the mouth of Mr. Wvville, under the attendant circumstances, is the one grand lesson of the book, ' Authority must never forget humanity.^ We would like to quote several passages from the book, which for strength and pathos approach very near to the sublime — but we can only name the many striking points, and leave to the reader the pleasure of reading them in full." From the Boston Daily Advertiser. ** Mr. O'Reilly has made a wonderful story of the convict-labor in Aus- tralia. The whole tale is on as magnificent a sca'.e as Dumas' J/onte Cristo, and more lofty in aim and sentiment. The vast natural wealth and bewil- dering beauty of the country, are made the mere setting for a group Of men, who answer every demand of heroism, and for two sweet women. The "vMlain is as bad as the heroes are good ; through the whole book the interest never flags, the enthusiasm never cools, the intense dramatic and emotional OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 1/ power never breaks. With the same glowing ardor the e~oquent author tells of superhuman courage, hair-brcadth escapes, experiences in the bush, and in the convict-gangs, discusses the penal code of Austra'ia, the respon- sibility of Eng'and, the abstract principles of liberty and the rights of man, the origin of crime and the deepest and most tender love of man and woman. The rapid and high-wrought fiction of the story is enhanced by the rush and color of the style and the air of reality that is given to the most romantic incidents and to the wildest hori'ora. Moondyne, the title of the book, means something more tlian manly or kingly, and although it is applied especially to the chief god-iike hero, it belongs properly to the whole group of men who are represented as lifting Australia fi-om sin and darkness into virtue and glory by the greatness of their own souls, the strength of their own wills, and their own passion of unselfishness. And all through this gorgeous fabric runs the thread of faith in man, faith in the root of good to be found even in the worst of convicts, and in the Jaw of kindness and encouragement, to replace in all penal co'onics the law of force. Mr. O'Reilly dedicates his book ' to all who are in prison for what- ever cause.' And prisoners never had a more gallant and chivalrous champion." From the Woman's Journal. "This book is no ordinary romance. It is the work of a man of genius, who writes a descriptive story, largely based ufjon his own observation and experience, colored by his own feelings, and reflecting his own opinions, aspirations, and prejudices. It could onlj' have been written by John Boyie O'Reilly, a genuine poet and philanthropist, but also au American Catholic Irishman, an escaped Australian convict, exiled by the British Government for his participation in the Fenian insurrection. From such a man, with such an experience, it would be unfair to expect an exact picture of English or Australian life; but it is natural to expect a graphic transcript of an exceptional experience, all the more valuable because exceptional, ail the luore vivid because a record of scenes of which he has been an eye-witness. Australian scenery is reproduced with a wealth of word-painting which few living writers could equal. The horrible life of a penal colony is por- trayed with admirable distinctness. The national and re'igious feelings of the writer are carefully kept in the background, and there is an evident intention of fairness all through the book." From the Boston Traveller. •' Mr. O'Reilly has produced a strong and vigorous romance, in striking contrast with the namby-pamby literature of late offered to the public as 1 8 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. exemplars of 'the great American novel.' The character of 'Moondyne' is among the noblest ever conceived by any novelist, and he who cannot read this story without attaining to a loftier inspiration toward a nobler life, •who cannot sympathize with the sorrows of the sinning and down-trodden, who cannot lay it aside with a resolution to make his own life more useful and better, — such an one must be blind indeed. The author's style is not among the least attractive features of the book. Strong, yet graceful, with a certain verve which is delightfully invigorating, whether in giving those inimitable character sketches which mark the volume in question, or in depicting to the mind of the reader the wildness and beauty of Australian scenery, Mr. O'Reilly is equally at home. We trust that Moondyne will not be the last novel from his pen." Frovi the London Bookseller. " A powerful and fascinating tale, illustrating different systems of treat- ment adopted towards criminal convicts. The story belongs to the time when Western Australia was a penal settlement, governed by laws of Dia- conic severity. The regulations of our prisons at home were far from satisfactory, as was proved by their frequent clianges, none of which long recommended themselves to practical men. Like Jean Valjean in Victor Hugo's story, the hero of the tale under notice was a convict, who, by a turn of the wheel, rose to a position of trust, and distinguished himself as a philanthropist, and a reformer of the present system. ISTo one who begins the story will be able to stop till it is finished." From the Worcester Spy. " This is a novel of harrowing and exciting description, brilliantly written, but almost too painful to allow enjoyment in the reading." From the Boston Journal. •'There is power in the book, and pathos, and passion of a noble sort; and there is an abundance of exciting incidents and some bits of stirring and graphic description. The most jaded novel reader will find that there is something more than commonly fresh and inspiring about the story. If there are some faults of construction, and a little lack of sj-mmetry, these are more than atoned for by the virile strength and intensity which hold the reader to the end." OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. J\f From the New York Graphic. ••This brilliant and picturesque fiction obtained, a« it deserved, an imtrie- diate recognition of its power and originalitj', and added greatly to the already enviable reputation of its versatile and gifted author. In the form in which it now appears, with its large, clear type and its attractive pages, it will increase its circle of readers, and consequently its popularity. The book is one that amply rewards the reading, not only for the fire and vigor of its style, but for the dramatic interest and the unconventionality of its plot." From the Boston Herald. *' As a novel, we cannot but regret that the ending is so tragic, but we do not regard this volume as simply a novel. From beginning to end it is a satire upon British institutions, and we have seen nothing to sui-pass it since Bulwer's novel of Paul Clifford, where, under the guise of a love story, the author demonstrated that the prison system of England was an encouragement to crime, and that " the worst use you could put a man to was to hang him." Mr. O'Reilly's book has been favorably noticed in most of the leading journals of the country, but the Catholic newspapers criticise it very sharply, although thej^ ijrofess great respect for the author, and to love him sincerely. Mr. O'Reilly is not only a man of talent, but one of real genius. He is in the i^rime of life, and is abundantly able to take care of himself. He has w^ritten some of the best lyric jjoetry in the language, and although his first novel is not faultless, he has no occasion to be dis- turbed by any of the flies, gnats, or other dipterous insects which buzz about him." From the Boston Post. "Its originality is a special charm. It is full of manliness and viiile power, and yet abounding in gentleness and pathos." From the London Saturday Review. " 2roondy7ie is a really clever and graphic story of Australian life." From the Golden Rule. " The story is powerfully written. There is little scenic description, but Mr. O'Reilly shows a keen analysis of motives and character, and there is an imaginative glow and color suffused through the book which oniy tc» 20 OPINION? ^F THE PRESS. poet could impart. The book is entirely without a harlequin. There is lew wit than the American reader might expect ; but the interest of the story never flags, and we feel that it was omitted, not because the writer could not command it, but because he had a greater joy and confidence in tb« higher and more serious purposes of his book." Fro-*i the Irish World. "As an insight into the p'>litical and natural history of Australia alone, it is one of the most valuable books written for years past; there is so little known of that strange land cl" oongless birds, scentless flowers, and fruit- less trees so wonderfully described in Mr. O'Reilly's Australian poems. ' Moondyne,' the hero of the tale, reminds one of Victor Hugo's Jean Val- jean. Body and ^oul ground to the dust in penal servitude for little or no crime, his grand, rough nature comes out of it unscathed by its degrading influences, and even elevated to more than human strength and beauty as he /ays aside all thoughts of his own welfare, and devotes himself to the reform of the penal colony, and the amelioration of the awful slavery of Ms fellow-men." From the Cambridge Tribune. •* We think the book superior to Char'es Reade's book with the same object, that of calling attention to the wrongs inflicted upon convicts, and a« a work of fiction it impresses one more agreeably than that." A NKw roniance:. THE KING'S MEN, A TALE OF TO-MORROW. BY ROBERT GRANT, JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY, J. S. OF DALE, AND JOHN T. WHEELWRIGHT, " All the king's horses and all the king's mefi Coiddn^t put Humpty Diimpty up again.^^ NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 1884. IB'^^ •^'-o ■% ^ »* '/^o %^<^ - 5^'^- .<^°^ -■ > ♦ o.. .//^<.\. ./.:^^%% mO ; "^0^ vCv •»• .^ ^^-^^^ 5-... ^^"* .^^^ "b,/'^^* .0*^ ^^. ^^"* .^^' n> .^^i^^r-^-.^ .0^ -v v^^ u\ ^ A^ * fS^^ ^^. ^^ ^'A%f/h,^. «^ A^ ♦N 3^r -^.^♦^ «: "^ A*" *'ft^^^*« iS)' «i ^♦^^^^^^ *Ca a*" * • <*ft <:^ *A^r/h,*L '^ AT ♦fSii^l* "^t, £^ *A V ^^^^-i" .' ^.A^ ■; .♦^'V. ^.^it'; ./i. S" .* ■ '^<^, V*^^ .<^ HECKMAN I ., I BINDERY INC. | DEC 88 L \'^^: ^^""^ - fflP- N. MANCHESTER. , A^ *^^^A^* A.^ C> •J^''*^^^** ^0 ^^ INDIANA 46962 J '»^ * » , 1 • A^ O^ ♦•.«)* a©