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agent, the driver? No! the driven slaves who dared not for their lives to disobey their lord's ukase. Yet the verdict of manslaughter was right, though slaves are not responsible beings. But when the slave-master employs his slave as assassin, drives the assassin to his work, shall we content ourselves with a verdict of manslaughter recorded against the unwilling tool ? Be your indictment, or your verdict, what it may, be the judge never so feeling and so careful, it is a murder which has been committed ; and men will-must ask, WHO IS THE MURDERER ?

The lesser culprits have been condemned, but the principal remains at large, and unaccused. Was there an inquest on the murdered, and yet no warrant issued against the real murderer, the well-known master of those who only 'slew' the victim ?

Before God and man we arraign Lord Lansdowne of this murder. He owns the land; he claims and exercises his legal right to reduce his tenants to the condition of the Donoghues; he by his order directly instigates and virtually commands the murder of this child. Was there equal law in Britain, was there justice between man and man, between the serf and his peer, this most noble President of a Queen's Privy Council had stood in Tralee dock, beside his fellow-culprits, tools, agents, and drivers; and as principal, bad borne the heaviest penalty. For as surely as if his dagger had struck the blow, his hand signed the death-warrant of Denis Shea.

The malignant Times can find fault with the Literature of the Poor, picking out in some unhappy corner a seeming provocation to murder. Will the Times inform us what kind of literature bas educated this Privy-Councillor? Will the Times but tell us what provocation the Poor can need worse than this bloody scripture of Lord Lansdowne ?

This is your boasted Order,' most respectable Loyalist! that a landowner may doom God's children to any horrible death, and judge, jury, and society conspire together to hold the offender guiltless. We say nothing of his degrading men and women to the level of the Donoghues : he has a legal right to the lives of his tenants; but is not bound to care for their morality.

This is your religion, most zealous Priest ! to be mouthing in the Rotunda while through the heart of the land Coroneted Murder walks unreproved.

And this is your patriotism, most able Leader of the Irish People! to set Irish and English at savage variance, and so secure the impunity of the Murderer: you who should be urging the people of both countries to make common cause against their oppressors.

Who are the Murderers of the Poor we know. But what are ye whose selfish apathy, or craft, or blundering intemperance, leaves Murder still unchallenged ?

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* At the invasion of Ireland by the French conquerors of England- the Normans. What had Saxon England to do with it? The very fact of the frogs (doubtless imported as an old-country delicacy) shows how thoroughly French was the occupation. The frogs indeed, as the Rev. W. P. Moore tells us, would not thrive; but the laudlords are a living proof to this day,

b Landlord and Company: all Middlemen.

Back there! we are loyal warders,

Say to those you left behind.

Halt! again, who passes there?

Freedom's vanguard the reply: Freedom's harvest-gifts we bear

For the Slaves of Poverty. Soldier! thy old father lieth

Starving in thy peasant home.Still the passage he denieth:

Back! return to whence ye come!

Halt! again, who passes here?

Freedom's host--the loud reply, Like God's voice, so full and clear,

Brethren sworn to pass or die.Soldiers' oaths are- To the Nation :

'Tis her will that speaks through us; Answer you our acclamation

With your shout unanimous.

Ring the muskets on the ground;

Pile your arms,-no need of them; Peaceful smiles are gleaming round,

Starring Freedom's diadem. Who shall ban the Natiou's Chosen ?

Rusheth in the swollen sea : Shall its crested waves be frozen

By thy breath? Finality!

THE PARKS. The noble Parks of England,

With all their clumps of green,
And dips of knee-deep grassy land

The graceful slopes between,
Their beeches-silver'd by the breeze-

So stately to be seen,
Their bird and squirrel palaces

Built high in oaken screen :

The grand old Parks of England,

With their ancestral mien,
Their avenues where Sidney plan'd

His pastoral serene,
And their pleasant leaf-strown terraces

Whence the level sun is seen

Flinging over the miles of trees

Its glorious golden sheen:

Those Parks, despite their beauty's worth,

And memories proudly worn,
We value less than common earth

That grows the peasant's corn;
We'd raze their bowers and plough them o'er,

Ay! 'confiscate' the best,
Ere one of England's Martyr Poor

Should hunger unredress’d.

It need not be: there's room for both

The means for man to live
And all magnificence of growth

The Beautiful can give.
Our Parks we vet shall live to see

The Nation's own domain,
When Labour's daily path shall be

Across the sward again.

The glorious roll of martyr names--

The Angels of our earth,-
Our hearts beat high when praise proclaims

That constellated Worth;
But in the shade of Time there lies

A tomb Love stoopeth o'er,
To read, The Scorn'd of Histories,

The Nameless Martyr Poor.'

The Poor, the unthank'd labour-worn,

Who all unnoticed died, -
The Toilers trampled down by Scorn

Upon the world's way side !
Tell out the starry names that gem

God's heaven! The sanded shore
Is countless : who shall number them

The sileut-suffering Poor?

• Surely with fifteen millions of cultivable acres unreclaimed, and scarcely a bit of cultivated land doing its utmost, there is yet plenty of room for food without encroaching on the Beautiful. We will not plough up the Parks, but keep them as the holiday-grounds of the People; and when the noble and gentle owners, disgusted at the sight of happy faces, give up their mansions, we will make them the homes of the aged and infirm, and use the banqueting-halls as lecture-rooms,

The world shall never know their names,

Nor Fame recount their deeds;
They had no high heroic aims,

Nor strain'd at lofty meeds :
They were but men of common mould,

Yet royal crowns they wore :
What though their trials be untold!

God's Martyrs are the Poor.

They toil'd, they died, -Oblivion trod

Above the dust of Slaves :
Yet reach'd they hero-souls to God
. From out the lowliest graves.
And yet a glorious shrine we'll raise

Their buried memories o'er,
Where reverent ages long shall praise

The scarce-remember'd Poor.

From the martyr-dust before thee,

From the pinnacles of Fame,
From the heavens bending o'er thee,

Aye the Voices are the same;
Courage! we too have borne trial;'

Courage! if thou would'st aspire;'
'Courage! Fate hath no denial,

Through her ordeal of fire.'

Courage,-valour active-hearted : .

Like a charmed sword, to be
Never from the hero parted

Even in last extremity.
Sword that well can shield its master,

Sword to lead the battle's front,
Keen to rive the worst disaster,

Strong to ward despairing brunt.

Patience, for the sick man's wearing,

For the spirit-broken slave :
Knightly weapon's noble daring,

Though his threshold be a grave.
Courage: neither fierce nor tardy,

Lightning-swift if storm must be,

Royal means real. Royalty is reality. True old Chaucer uses the words as synonimous.

. See the derivation of the word: caur-agir.

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