"What is our loss?" questioned O'Neill.

"Thirteen of the Ocahans and five of the O'Hagans, with an hundred and fifty galloglass, and two hundred kern and horseboys."

"Ha!" cried Shane, "this smacks of sweat in the palm. Go there, Hugh Duff, to the quarters of Sir Neale MacPhelimy; shew him this my signet ring, and tell him to draw down his battle to the hill of Moneymore, and to keep the pass against all comers; and do thou," turning to the other messenger, "get thee a fresh horse, and carry to Ocahan my command, that he make stand in Tulleghaga with the clan Hagan. Now send me hither my secretary, Neal MacEver, call up Brian Barry and Harry Oge. Ah! my poor foster-brother. I had forgotten that shrewd stroke of the oar-blade, but it was fairly dealt and I forgive it-thou wilt never again rise at the cry of lamh dearg. But

enough of idle sorrow. Ho, MacEver, write to Sir Art MacMahon that I must have a thousand galloglass on the banks of Blackwater in a week. Brian Barry, thou art captain of the watch, double the guards on the north, and erect outposts. Rory Buye-send thither our chief herdsman-see thou that one-third of our creaght be driven ere daylight to the hills above Killymoone; let the women and children of the camp accompany them;" and so on, issuing orders, and arranging his plan, of defence, apparently unconscious of the presence of the silent females. At length the Lady O'Donnell recovering from her consternation, ordered her attendants to lift the dead body of Mackenzie, and was about to have renewed her complaint"Tut!" cried Shane, "get to your bed, ye silly women. My business is now with Elizabeth of England."

"In the hand of the Lord there is a cup, and the wine is red: it is full mixed, and he poureth out the sime. As for the dregs thereof, all the ungodly of the earth shall drink them, and suck them out.” Psalm lxxv. v. 9, 10. Common Prayer Version.

I SAW the secrets of the sky :

On Angel-wing I seem'd to fly

Up to the flaming judgment-throne,

And the dread Power who sits thereon.

I saw his hand a wine-cup hold;
And, mantling o'er the radiant gold,
A blood-red stream came foaming o'er,
And purpled heaven's eternal floor.

I ask'd a seraph why the wine
Presented by the hand divine

That vivid sanguine colour wore,

And why its torrent rush'd impetuous to the floor.

"That cup," said the seraph, "by vengeance' hand
Is mix'd; and th' Eternal's high command
Dooms its unfailing, endless draught

To be by th' unrepentant quaff’d.

'Tis ting'd with the blood of human souls,
And thus all crimson its torrent rolls.
Dost thou marvel why with impatient gush
Its living waves o'er the goblet rush,
And fling far round their flood unblest?
It burns to lave each victim-breast
With the madd'ning draught of finish'd sin,*
And thinks it long till the work begin.”—

"Sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.”—St James, i, 15.

"And what is the taste to the liquor given?
Is it like aught else in earth or heaven ?"-
"O yes, 'tis like all tastes below:

Its drops each change of flavour know,
As from lip to lip it passes round,
And still each palate to suit are found.

"To the stern oppressor its draught appears
The salt, salt brine of his victim's tears;
And, if for a delicate perfume he cries,
'Tis wafted straight in their deep-drawn sighs.

"To the murderer's lip its fatal flood
Shall taste as it looks, of blood, still blood ;*
For in blood he revell'd and bathed below,
And blood shall be ever his draught of woe."-

"And what,” I ask'd, “shall its flavour be
To the demagogues' godless company,
And the rebel-band who their nod obey,
And all that is holy make their prey ?”-

"Of wormwood its taste to that tribe accurst;
For their souls, with bitterest longings nurst,
To bitterest deeds are wildly driv'n;

And bitter their portion shall be from Heav'n."

The vision fled: I sadly thought,
Since thus the cup of God is fraught
With vengeance, and must soon begin
To pour for all who live in sin
Its draught of mantling misery,
My late and early prayer shall be,

"O God, thy mercy shew to me;

And keep, good Lord! thy servant free

From proud, presumptuous ways, and passion's mastery."

THE HEART'S PRISON. BY C. M.

"HERE, take this heart," an Angel said:
(His hand the while a heart convey'd.)
"Tis lawless, godless, rude, and wild,
With ev'ry stain of sin defiled,

And must, so stands th' eternal will,
Be closely barr'd and fetter'd till

Its dreary penance-term expir'd,

It be once more with goodness fired;
Or, failing that, for ever be
Shut up in lonely misery."

Th' avenging demons took the heart
And gloated o'er its ev'ry part,

To think (O pleasing task!) that Heaven
To them its punishment had given.-
And first they sought fit substance out
For barricadoes firm and stout,

To shut the victim closely in,

Ere its dire fett'ring should begin.

"Thou hast given them blood to drink; for they are worthy."-REVELATION, xvi. 6.

They met Remorse; and he quickly found

Firm matter the prison to build:

But they said that, when hearts shed their tears around,
As the drops the prison fill'd,

The walls of Remorse were such no more,

But form'd, as that flood distill'd,

The cell of a contrite spirit and poor;
And the fiends could no longer guard the door.

Then Madness came; and he storming cried
That in his ever-boiling sea

He could find stern-temper'd stuff and tried,
That should mock all hopes to flee:

"There are chinks," said the fiends, " in the stuff, though strong, That has oft been supplied by thee;

And the Day-spring finds its way erelong,

And then the heart's sorrows are turn'd to song."

"Fools! fools!" a deep, slow, mocking voice

Behind them cried: they turn'd to see,

Bent low with age and misery,

A crippled wretch, a hideous man,
Whose iron features to rejoice

Had long forgotten: scarce a span

His slow and weary feet could move:
Ne'er from the ground his eye its look
Could raise; but on that senseless book

With dull regard it ever por'd.

"Fools! fools! to hope that aught would prove
A dungeon," said the wretch abhorr'd,
"For human hearts save my material!

Turn in with me." The Demons turn'd,
And saw a forge where num'rous burn'd
Thick heavy bars. "This precious ore,"
He said, 66 no art, no hand imperial,
No heav'nly magic can o'erpower.

"Must I its name, its nature tell?

No tears will melt it; no bright beams,
No fresh and dewy morning gleams,
May pierce, or burning noontide glare,
This metal, forg'd in fire of hell:
Its name, its nature is-DESPAIR."

Then the flaming bars the Demons seized:
And with that dire metal they went, well pleased,
The heart's sad house to prepare:

And still, as their horrid task they ply,

They shout to their brother-fiends that pass'd,
"If a dungeon ye want that shall ever last,
O build its walls of Despair!"

And the wild caves of hell flung back the cry,
"O build its walls of Despair!"

SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE.

BY MRS HEMANS.

No. VIII.

PRISONER'S EVENING SERVICE.

A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

From their spheres

The stars of human glory are cast down;
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms
Of all the mighty, withered and consumed?
Nor is power given to lowliest Innocence
Long to protect her own.-WORDSWORTH.

Scene-Prison of the Luxembourg, in Paris, during the Reign of 1 error.

D'AUBIGNE, an aged Royalist.-BLANCHE, his Daughter, a young girl.

Blanche. What was our doom, my father ?--In thine arms

I lay unconsciously thro' that dread hour.

Tell me the sentence !-Could our judges look,

Without relenting, on thy silvery hair?

Was there not mercy, father?-Will they not
Hasten us to our home?

D'Aubigné.

They send us home.

Blanche.

Yes, my poor child!

Oh! shall we gaze again

On the bright Loire ?-Will the old hamlet-spire,
And the grey turret of our own château,
Look forth to greet us thro' the dusky elms?
Will the kind voices of our villagers,

The loving laughter in their children's eyes,
Welcome us back at last ?-But how is this?
-Father! thy glance is clouded-on thy brow
There sits no joy!

D'Aubigné.

Upon my brow, dear girl,
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace,
As may befit the Christian, who receives

And recognises, in submissive awe,

The summons of his God.

D'Aubigné

Thou dost not mean

Where is the spirit's home ?—

Oh! most of all, in these dark evil days,

Where should it be-but in that world serene,

Beyond the sword's reach, and the tempest's power

Where, but in Heaven.

Blanche.

D'Aubigné.

We must look up to God, and calmly die.

-Come to my heart, and weep there!-for awhile

Give Nature's passion way, then brightly rise

In the still courage of a woman's heart!

The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Souru, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her Letters from France, gave rise to this little scene. These two victims had composed a little hymn, which they every night sung together in a low and restrained voice,

Do I not know thee?-Do I ask too much
From mine own noble Blanche ?

Blanche (falling on his bosom.) Oh! clasp me fast!
Thy trembling child !—Hide, hide me in thine arms—
Father!

D'Aubigné. Alas! my flower, thon'rt young to go,
Young, and so fair!-Yet were it worse, methinks,
To leave thee where the gentle and the brave,
The loyal-hearted and the chivalrous,

And they that loved their God, have all been swept
Like the sere leaves away. For them no hearth
Through the wide land was left inviolate,
No altar holy; therefore did they fall,
Rejoicing to depart.-The soil is steep'd
In noble blood; the temples are gone down,
The voice of prayer is hush'd, or fearfully

Mutter'd, like sounds of guilt.-Why, who would live?
Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee,

To quit for ever the dishonour'd soil,

The burden'd air?-Our God upon the cross-
Our King upon the scaffold*-let us think

Of these and fold endurance to our hearts,
And bravely die!

Blanche.

A dark and fearful way!

An evil doom for thy dear honour'd head!

Oh! thou, the kind, the gracious!-whom all eyes
Bless'd as they look'd upon !-Speak yet again—
Say, will they part us?

D'Aubigné.

We shall not be divided.

Blanche.

No, my Blanche; in death

Thanks to God!

He by thy glance will aid me ;-I shall see

His light before me to the last.-And when

-Oh! pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child!—
When shall the hour befall?

D'Aubigné.

Oh! swiftly now,

And suddenly, with brief dread interval,

Comes down the mortal stroke.-But of that hour

As yet I know not.-Each low throbbing pulse

Of the quick pendulum may usher in

Eternity!

Blanche (kneeling before him.) My father! lay thy hand
On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again

Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness,

Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul,
Ere we are call'd.

D'Aubigné. If I may speak through tears!

-Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,

Child of my heart!-thou who didst look on me
With thy lost mother's angel-eyes of love!

Thou that hast been a brightness in my path,

A guest of Heaven unto my lonely soul,

A stainless lily in my widow'd house,

There springing up-with soft light round thee shed-
For immortality!-Meek child of God!

I bless thee,-He will bless thee!-In his love

A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and hearing some one near him uttering the most plaintive lamentations, turned towards the suff.rer, ai d thus addressed him :-" My friend, whoever you may be, remember that your God expired upon the cross-your King upon the scaffold, and he who now speaks to you has had his limbs shot from under him.-Meet your fate as becomes a man."