Those shields - their covering late from foot to helmShrinking, so seemed it, till above them beamed Shoulders and heads. So close that fight, their crests,

That waved defiance, mingled in mid-air;

While all along the circles of their shields

And all adown their swords, ran, mad with rage,
Viewless for speed, the demons of dark moors
And war sprites of the valleys, Bocanachs,
And Banacahs, whose screams, so keen its edge,
Might shear the centuried forest as the scythe
Shears meadow grass. To these in dread response
Thundered far off, from sea caves billow beat
And halls rock-vaulted 'neath the eternal hills,
That race Tuatha, giant once, long since
To pygmy changed, that forge from molten ores
For aye their clanging weapons, shield or spear,
On stony anvils, waiting the day decreed

Of vengeance on the Gael. That tumult scared
The horses of the host of Meave, that brake
From war car or the tethering rope, and spread
Ruin around. Camp followers first, then chiefs
Innumerable, were dragged along, or lay
'Neath broken axle, dead. The end was nigh.
Cuchulain's shield, splintered upon his arm,

Served him no more; and through his fenceless side
Ferdia drave the sword. Then first the Gael

Hurled forth this taunt: "The Firbolg, bribed by

Meave,

Has sold his ancient friend!" Ferdia next,

"No Firbolg he, that man in Scatha's Isle,

Who won a maid, then left her!" Backward stepped
Cuchulain paces three; he reached the bank;
He uttered low, "The Gae-Bulg!" Instant, Leagh
Within his hand had lodged it. Bending low,
Low as that stream - the war game's crowning feat
He launched it on Ferdia's breast. The shield,
The iron plate beneath, the stone within it,
Like shallow ice films 'neath a courser's hoof,
Burst, all was o'er. To earth the warrior sank;
Dying, he spake: "Not thine this deed, O friend;
'Twas Meave who winged that bolt into my heart!"
Then ran Cuchulain to that great one dead,

And raised him in his arms, and laid him down
Beside the Ford, but on its northern bank,
Not in that realm by Ailill swayed and Meave.
Long time he looked the dead man in the face;
Then by him fell in swoon. "Cuchulain, rise!
The men of Erin be upon thee! Rise!"

Thus Leagh. He answered, waking, "Let them

VANQUISHERS OF THE MIGHTY

For a long time the last of the captains had held destiny in his grasp; the Alps and Pyrenees had trembled under him; Europe was listening in silence to the thunder of his thought; when, tired of the sphere in which glory had spent itself to please him, he threw himself on to the confines of Asia. There his eye became troubled, and his eagles turned back for the first time.

What had he met with? A general superior to himself? No! A yet unvanquished army? No. Was age laying its icy hand on his genius? No. What had he then met with? He had met with the protector of the weak, the refuge of the oppressed, the defender of human liberty; he had met with space, and all his power had crumbled beneath his feet.

If God has created such barriers in the very bosom of nature, it is because He has had compassion on us. He knew all that forced unity involved of disaster for the human race, and He prepared for us, in the mountains and the deserts, inaccessible retreats. He hollowed out the rock of St. Anthony and St. Paul the first hermit; He made nests to which the eagle would not come to tear away the little ones of the dove. O inaccessible mountains, eternal snows, burning sands, noxious marshes, destructive climates, we thank you for the past, and we trust you for the future!

Yes, you will keep us free; you will ever protect us against the mighty of this world; you will not allow chemistry to prevail against nature, and to convert the globe, so well studded by the hand of God, into a horrible and narrow dungeon, where fire and sword will be the first minions of a merciless autocracy.

-FATHER LACORDAIRE.

MOTHER OF THE SACRED HEART

Thy sacred heart, dear Mother, was the shrine
That held the precious jewel -the Christ-Child;
No soul of mortal was found undefiled,
No other human breast was pure as thine,
A casket meet to hold the Gem Divine
Brought by the angels to the Virgin mild,
An Offering of Peace that reconciled
God and the sinner

sign of love benign.

Mary, Mother of Jesus, look thou down
On thy dear children, from heaven above,
With pitying eyes of tenderest love;

Our tears of repentance will gem thy crown;

Thy love and compassion will soothe pain's smart; Pray for us, Mother of the Sacred Heart.

HENRY COYLE.

FROM "THE DREAM OF GERONTIUS"

I went to sleep; and now I am refresh'd,
A strange refreshment: for I feel in me
An inexpressive lightness, and a sense
Of freedom, as I were at length myself,
And ne'er had been before. How still it is!

I hear no more the busy beat of time,

No, nor my fluttering breath, nor struggling pulse;
Nor does one moment differ from the next.

I had a dream; yes: some one softly said
"He's gone"; and then a sigh went round the room.
And then I surely heard a priestly voice
Cry "Subvenite"; and they knelt in prayer.
I seem to hear him still; but thin and low,
And fainter and more faint the accents come,

As at an ever-widening interval.

Ah! whence is this? What is this severance?
This silence pours a solitariness

Into the very essence of my soul;

And the deep rest, so soothing and so sweet,
Hath something too of sternness and of pain.
For it drives back my thoughts upon their spring
By a strange. introversion, and perforce
I now begin to feed upon myself,

Because I have nought else to feed upon.