and brother, arise to the strife,
For sister and mother, for children and wife!
O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and plain,
Up, true men, and follow! let dastards remain!"

Farrah! to the battle!--They form into line--
The shields, how they rattle! the spears, how they shine!
Soon, soon shall the foeman his treachery rue--
On, burgher and yeoman! to die or to do!

The eve is declining in lone Malahide;
The maidens are twining gay wreaths for the bride;
She marks them unheeding--her heart is afar,
Where the clansmen are bleeding for her in the war.

Hark!--loud from the mountain--'tis victory's cry!
O'er woodland and fountain it rings to the sky!
The foe has retreated! he flees to the shore;
The spoiler's defeated--the combat is o'er!

With foreheads unruffled the conquerors come--
But why have they muffled the lance and the drum?
What form do they carry aloft on his shield?
And where does he tarry, the lord of the field?

Ye saw him at morning, how gallant and gay!
In bridal adorning, the star of the day;
Now, weep for the lover--his triumph is sped,
His hope it is over! the chieftain is dead!

But, O! for the maiden who mourns for that chief,
With heart overladen and rending with grief!
She sinks on the meadow--in one morning-tide,
A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride!

Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole!
Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul:
True--true, 'twas a story for ages of pride;
He died in his glory--but, oh, he _has_ died!

The war-cloak she raises all mournfully now,
And steadfastly gazes upon the cold brow;
That glance may for ever unaltered remain,
But the bridegroom will never return it again.

The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide,
The death-wail is rolling along the seaside;
The crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from the green,
For the sun has departed that brightened the scene!

How scant was the warning, how briefly revealed,
Before on that morning, death's chalice was filled!
Thus passes each pleasure that earth can supply--
Thus joy has its measure--we live but to die!

THE DAUGHTER OF MEATH.

BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.

Turgesius, the chief of a turbulent band,
Came over from Nor