And see!-a Grecian pennant waves below,
With restful oars the sailor moves along-
And in a rich voice, sweet, and deep, and low,
He pours his soul in floods of plaintive song:
Perhaps but who the heart's dreams may divine?
His thoughts go back to home and childhood's days,
To fairer scenes and suns that brighter shine,

To long-lost friends and old familiar ways.

A mother's eyes, a father's troubled voice-
A sister's tears, a friend's or brother's hands
Outstretched between him and his wayward choice,
Of ocean's roar and strange and unknown lands,
While yet the wild waves wooed him to their breast,
His soul bewitched with all their magic strain,
He turned from those on earth that loved him best,
With pulse on fire for dangers o'er the main.

Oh! silent seas, so fair, and calm, and sad,
That angry dreams deep in your bosom hide
Oh! Life that looks to youthful eyes so glad,
With treacherous ways for trustful feet untried!
So strangely sweet, and still, and hushed to-day,
That far-off haze of blue and misty wave,
As when it lured the sailor youth away,
To give, alas!-as oft before-a grave.

Oh! solemn seas, so lone, and free and wide,
Oh! sailor, singing sad of distant lands,
Complaining waves that moan along the tide,

And restless birds that flit across the sands:
Ye touch deep, yearning chords in souls this hour,
And feelings wake responsive to your call-
While still ye tell with words of truth and power,
That aching hearts find kindred here with all.

Low evening winds just stir the trackless foam,
And from the sands rush weary waves in fear;

In lines the fishers' sails draw nearer home,

No music-strains from out the streets come near.

I sit and dream of storms and tempests' cry,

Of hearts that break and sink on Life's dark shore;

And still the restless sea-birds wail and fly,

But sailor, boat, and song, are there no more.

IN the general advance of the Irish lines MacDermott found himself in front of Monroe's field-pieces. The order was brought him that he should charge the enemy's guns, and, if possible, seize them where they stood. Whilst O'Reilly with the main body of the Irish horse bore down on the Scotch cavalry, MacDermott, at the head of his troop, rode for the hillock on which the guns were planted. A few illdirected shots were aimed at them as they approached, but they passed harmlessly over their heads. Soon they were near enough to reply with their pistols, and then with half-a-dozen strides they were in the midst of the Scottish gunners, overriding and cutting down all who waited their attack.

The conflict at this point was fierce and bloody. Lord Blaney, though an indifferent captain of artillery, was a valiant soldier withal. He met the charge of the Irish pistoliers without flinching, and by command and example animated his wavering followers. A random shot had broken his leg at the beginning of the action, but he sat his horse as if the wounded limb caused him no suffering. His sword dealt blows thick and fast about him, and his voice was heard above the din of the fight, calling on his men to stand fast. Again and again he rallied his dispirited followers to meet their assailants, but again and again his ranks were broken, overridden and cut down by the furious horsemen.

Half his followers had already fallen, and he was no longer able to control the panic which had seized the remainder. Supported by a few of his officers, he still struggled desperately to maintain his position, and round the spot where he stood the conflict was fiercest. MacDermott could not but admire the valour displayed by the veteran, and determined to save him. Forcing his way through the thick of the fight, he endeavoured to restrain his men, who were closing in upon the resolute group that had rallied round the Master of the Ordnance. "Your sword!" he cried; "resistance is useless."

"Never, rebel, never!" shouted the veteran, at the same time urging forward his horse, to meet the Irish officer. He had hardly advanced a step, when a bullet from the pistol of an Irish trooper pierced his breast, and with a sharp cry of pain he rolled from his saddle. A youthful officer of his train caught him as he fell, and tried to prevent his sinking under the feet of the horses. This act of

humanity or friendship well-nigh cost the doer of it his life. Half a dozen sabres flashed above his defenceless head. MacDermott interposed his sword between them and the young soldier, and touching him lightly on the shoulder, said, in hurried tones:

"You are my prisoner. Bear your friend to the rear. O'Duigenan, attend the prisoners to my quarters, and as you value your life see that no harm befalls them. Forward, men, forward! We are behind in the chase," and at the head of his troopers he rode madly away in pursuit of the scattered bands of fugitives-all that now remained of the army of General Monroe.

We are not concerned with the further events of this memorable day. Before night closed in, more than half the Parliamentarian army had fallen by the banks of the Blackwater. Long after darkness had come down upon the earth, the hills echoed with the tumult of the pursuit the shouts of triumph and vengeful hatred-the cry of despair, and the appeal for mercy, too often sternly refused. With the dawn of day the pursuit began afresh, and before another night came on, most of the stragglers who had failed to reach a friendly fortress, had fallen into the hands of the Irish, and had been made prisoners or slain according to the temper of their captors.

Late in the day succeeding the battle, MacDermott and his exhausted troopers returned to Benburb. His first inquiry on entering the village was for the prisoners he had made the day preceding. With discontented and sullen mien, O'Duigenan, who had spent the morning cursing the accident that had deprived him of his share in the chase of the Sassenach, informed him that one of the prisoners was dead, and that the other was keeping watch by his body. MacDermott hastened to report his return to the General, and then proceeded to his own quarters.

On entering the cabin assigned him as his lodging, a painful sight encountered him. Stretched on a pallet of straw lay the body of the commander of the Scottish artillery-his rugged features bearing still in death the look of proud defiance they wore when he fell. His breastplate had been removed by some friendly hands, and the buff coat which he wore beneath it was deeply stained with blood. Beside the body sat the officer who had borne him from the field. His youthful figure was bent down in silent grief, his forehead rested on his hands, which were clasped round the hilt of his sword, and his eyes were fixed moodily on the earthen floor. The solitary mourner raised himself from his attitude of deep dejection as soon as he heard MacDermott's heavy tread within the cabin, and an expression of satisfaction came over his troubled features as he recognised his deliverer. "I will not attempt to express my gratitude," he began. "I owe you my life, and I owe it to you that the body of my best friend has been preserved from insult and disfigurement."

"I deeply regret," returned the Irish officer, courteously, "that he, too does not owe me life. Never have I seen soldier bear himself more gallantly against desperate odds. It shall be my care that his body is treated as becomes the remains of a man of rank and a valiant officer. This is all the honour it is in our power to pay him. But

now a word about your own lot. You will pardon me if I remark that you seem over young and over delicate for the hardships of the rude trade of war."

"This is my first experience of its disasters," replied the prisoner, "and it will probably be my bitterest. It cannot deprive me of more than I lost yesterday. I was left when a child to the care of him who lies there before us. He has been to me more than parent could have been. He trained me to his own profession, it is the only one open to me now; I cannot abandon it."

Ill would it beseem me to persuade you to do so," replied MacDermott, with a glance of pride at his own glittering harness. "I did but sympathise with the mishaps you have met thus early in your career. Happily it is given me to do something to alleviate them. The officers we have made prisoners are to be divided between Charlemont and Clough Oughter. I shall, I doubt not, be able to obtain from General O'Neill that you be sent to Charlemont. The prisoners in that fortress will, it is expected, be speedily exchanged for our officers at present confined in Derry and Dungannon. I go at once to prefer my request. The convoy of prisoners will leave within the hour. If you are to be of the number, you will need to refresh yourself for the journey."

Bidding O'Duigenan attend to the wants of the captive, he quitted. the cabin. After half-an hour's absence, he returned with the intelligence that his request had been granted by The O'Neill.

"You have not been amenable to my counsels," he remarked, perceiving that the bread and beer provided by O'Duigenan remained untouched. "I fear you will have reason to regret it before the day is over."

"I appreciate your kindness," answered, the prisoner, "but I cannot profit by it now. I am ready, let us go."

He stooped, took the hand of his dead commander, and raised it to his lips. "Kinder or truer hand than thine I shall never grasp again," he said, sorrowfully. He gently restored the stiffened member to its place on the straw, and followed MacDermott in silence from the cabin.

At the extremity of the village street the prisoners stood ready to begin their march. They were all officers of rank-the private soldiers who had been spared by the conquerors had been already dismissed. The prisoners were guarded by a strong escort of horse and foot, the musketeers with matches smoking, the horsemen with pistols "ordered." MacDermott conducted his single prisoner to his place among the captives and bade him a friendly adieu.

Shoulder your pike! march!" ordered the officer in command of the detachment of foot.

"Farewell, Captain MacDermott," said the prisoner; "should you ever need a friend in the camp of your enemies, count on the gratitude of Arthur Montgomery."

SUMMER had fairly come, and the evening air was now so mild that Kathleen Dillon could prolong her stay in the garden to see the sun go down behind the blue hills that rose beyond the woods on the shore. One bright June evening Mary had led her to her favourite nook, and bidding Wolf, a large shaggy hound, wait upon her, had quitted her to attend to her household concerns. As she passed through the castle hall, her eye caught the outline of figures moving on the shore, and she paused by the open window to observe them. She recognised her father and some of the servants of the castle. But, her curiosity satisfied, she quitted not her post of observation. It had become with her a favourite occupation to while away the time by the window, gazing on the flood that came pouring down from the hazy North, and wondering what events were happening there where these waters had their source. Her interest in passing events had been wonderfully intensified during the past few weeks. She listened eagerly to the rumours afloat of battles fought and victories won, and heard with unwonted attention the comments on the success failure of the rival commanders who warred on each other in every province of the island. Absorbed in her own thoughts she stood by the window, her eyes fixed on the hazy purple border that stretched northwards along the bank of the river, when the door opened softly and Lucas Plunkett entered.

or

His face was paler than usual, and a livid scar across the forehead had come since we last saw him in the same apartment, to add to its unattractiveness. He had returned to Duneevin a few days after he and quitted it, with an ugly wound on the forehead, caused, he said, by a fall off his horse. His hurt was a serious one, and it required much careful nursing to save him from the ugly consequences which it threatened. He had been received with the sympathy which suffering of any kind never failed to excite at Duneevin, and the kindness of the young mistress of the castle had called back to his breast hopes which he had abandoned. He was now recovered from the effects of his fall, and bore no other token of the disaster than the livid weal upon his face which no skill of leech could ever remove. With noiseless step he approached the window at which Mary stood.

"Have I found you of melancholy mood, at last?" he asked, softly. She started at the sound of his voice, and her confusion increased when she encountered his piercing eyes fixed upon her face.

"Not sad, but thoughtful, Mr. Plunkett," she answered presently.