hey
called his desertion of their cause, when he saw that England was
willing to do, and was doing, justice to Ireland.

[O] A bronze statue of Moore has been erected in College Street, Dublin.
It is a poor affair, the production of his namesake, the sculptor. Bad
as it is, it is made worse by contrast with its neighbor, Goldsmith,--a
work by the great Irish artist, Foley,--a work rarely surpassed by the
art of the sculptor at any period in any country.

ON BOARD THE SEVENTY-SIX

[Written for Bryant's Seventieth Birthday.]

Our ship lay tumbling in an angry sea,
Her rudder gone, her mainmast o'er the side;
Her scuppers, from the waves' clutch staggering free,
Trailed threads of priceless crimson through the tide;
Sails, shrouds, and spars with pirate cannon torn,
We lay, awaiting morn.

Awaiting morn, such morn as mocks despair;
And she that bore the promise of the world
Within her sides, now hopeless, helmless, bare,
At random o'er the wildering waters hurled;
The reek of battle drifting slow a-lee
Not sullener than we.

Morn came at last to peer into our woe,
When lo, a sail! Now surely help is nigh;
The red cross flames aloft, Christ's pledge; but no,
Her black guns grinning hate, she rushes by
And hails us:--"Gains the leak? Ah, so we thought!
Sink, then, with curses fraught!"

I leaned against my gun still angry-hot,
And my lids tingled with the tears held back;
This scorn methought was crueller than shot;
The manly death-grip in the battle-wrack,
Yard-arm to yard-arm, were more friendly far
Than such fear-smothered war.

There our foe wallowed like a wounded brute,
The fiercer for his hurt. What now were best?
Once more tug bravely at the peril's root.
Though death come with it? Or evade the test
If right or wrong in this God's world of ours
Be leagued with higher powers?

Some, faintly loyal, felt their pulses lag
With the slow beat that doubts and then despairs;
Some, caitiff, would have struck the starry flag
That knits us with our past, and makes us heirs
Of deeds high-hearted as were ever done
'Neath the all-seeing sun.

But one there was, the Singer of our crew,
Upon whose head Age waved his peaceful sign,
But whose red heart's-blood no surrender knew;
And couchant under brows of massive line,
The eyes, like guns ben