To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland, at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back

For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;

And one eye's black intelligence,-ever that glance

O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance, And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and

anon

His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur

Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,

We'll remember at Aix"*-for one heard the quick wheeze

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

The x in this word is not sounded.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongrés, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his

roan

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight

Of the news which alone could save Aix from her

fate,

With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,

And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse with

out peer;

'Clapped by hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round
As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the

ground,

And no voice but was praising this Roland of

mine,

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

THE O'KAVANAGH.

J. A. SHEA.

I.

The Saxons had met, and the banquet was spread,
And the wine in fleet circles the jubilee led;
And the banners that hung round the festal that
night,

Seemed brighter by far than when lifted in fight.

II.

In came the O'Kavanagh, fair as the morn,
When earth to new beauty and vigor is born;
They shrank from his glance like the waves from
the prow,

For nature's nobility sat on his brow.

III.

Attended alone by his vassal and bard;

No trumpet to herald-no clansmen to guard-
He came not attended by steed or by steel:
No danger he knew, for no fear did he feel.

IV.

In eye and on lip his high confidence smiled-
So proud, yet so knightly-so gallant, yet mild;
He moved like a god through the light of that
hall,

And a smile, full of courtliness, proffered to all.

V.

"Come pledge us, lord chieftain! come pledge us!" they cried;

Unsuspectingly free to the pledge he replied; And this was the peace-branch O'Kavanagh bore: "The friendships to come, not the feuds that are o'er."

VI.

But, minstrel! why cometh a change o'er thy theme?

Why sing of red battle-what dream dost thou dream?

Ha! "Treason's" the cry, and "Revenge" is the

call!

As the swords of the Saxon surrounded the hall.

VII.

A kingdom for Angelo's mind! to portray
Green Erin's undaunted avenger, that day;
The far-flashing sword, and the death-darting

eye,

Like some comet commissioned with wrath from the sky.

VIII.

Through the ranks of the Saxon he hewed his red way

Through lances, and sabres, and hostile array; And, mounting his charger, he left them to tell The tale of that feast, and its bloody farewell!

IX.

And now on the Saxons his clansmen advance, With a shout from each heart, and a soul in each lance.