V.

Open wide the vaults of Athol,

Where the bones of heroes rest

Open wide the hallowed portals
To receive another guest!
Last of Scots, and last of freemen-
Last of all that dauntless race
Who would rather die unsullied
Than outlive the land's disgrace!

O thou lion-hearted warrior!

Reck not of the after-time: Honour may be deemed dishonour, Loyalty be called a crime. Sleep in peace with kindred ashes Of the noble and the true, Hands that never failed their country,

Hearts that never baseness knew.

Sleep!-and till the latest trumpet

Wakes the dead from earth and sea,

Scotland shall not boast a braver

Chieftain than our own Dundee !

Baltimore is a sea-port in South Munster, and was plundered by a band of Algerines in the night of June 20th, 1631, under the guidance of Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman.

THE summer sun is falling soft on Carb'ry's hundred isles,
The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles;
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird,

And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard.

The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray,--
And full of love, and peace, and rest-its daily labour o'er-
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there;
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air.
The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.

So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that glide
Must trust their oars, methinks not few, against the ebbing-tide-
Oh! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore-
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore!

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street,

And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet-
A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise!"The roof is in a flame !"
From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame--
And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall,

And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl-
The yell of "Allah" breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar
Oh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore !

Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword;
Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gor'd;
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild;
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child;
But see yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel.
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel-
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store,
There's one hearth well avengèd in the sack of Baltimore.

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing-
They see not now the milking maids, deserted is the spring!
Midsummer day-this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town,-
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown;

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.

They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent, And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went,Then dash'd to sea, and passed Cape Cleir, and saw five leagues before The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.

Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed,—
This boy will bear a Sheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed.
Oh! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles;
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells.

The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey-
She's safe-she's dead-she stabb'd him in the midst of his Serai.
And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore,
She only smiled-O'Driscoll's child-she thought of Baltimore.

'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band, And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand, Where, high upon a gallows-tree, a yelling wretch is seen'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan,-he, who steered the Algerine! He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer,

For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there—

Some muttered of Mac Morrogh, who had brought the Norman o'erSome curs'd him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.