THE STORY OF A BOMB.

WHERE Shannon’s waves with smiling face Woo smiling banks with soft embrace, A modest cabin stood beside Its gentle perfume-laden tide. The sunshine of an honest life, A prattling child, a loving wife, The joys of home, their blessings shed Around the peasant tenant’s head. The twinkling stars of summer skies Reflected back his colleen’s eyes, His baby’s locks the noonday rays Encircled with a golden haze. But drear December, dark and chill, Whirled blighting blasts adown the hill, Sickness and famine scourged the land; And in their train the landlord band, And aiding in their mission dire The liveried hounds in England’s hire. In one brief hour their work was o’er, A happy home was home no more. The wintry skies looked sadly down, Half veiled in tears, half wrapt in frown, Upon the babe that sobbed to rest Upon its dying mother’s breast. A week—a month—he had no power To mark or count each anguished hour, He knew not if ’twere night or day When wife and infant passed away. Without a hope to dull the pain That numbed his heart and seared his brain, Despair behind and gloom before, He left his native Shannon’s shore, Whose rippling wavelets seemed to press The ship’s dark side with fond caress, While chimes from many a distant bell Breathed Mother Erin’s last farewell. Uncouth in dress, but huge of limb, With earnest faces fierce and grim, Are gathered near a silent swamp, Rough toilers from a mining camp; The rasping tones of Ulster greet The voice of Munster soft and sweet, And Connaught’s mellow accent blends, But one and all are Ireland’s friends. Yet whispering pines that bend above Hear words of hatred, not of love; Tears that from eyes of strong men fall Are not of mercy, but of gall. Each has a sickening tale to tell Of England’s robber rule of hell, Each has a deeply cherished cause To hate her power and curse her laws. “Then who will venture life, and go To wreak our vengeance on this foe, Though ’mid the ruins he may lie?” And he from Shannon answers “I!” The western breezes catch the vow That surges from his bosom now, The exile’s vengeful brand to bear And smite the tiger in his lair. In Babylonian halls to-night Are strains of mirth and flashing light, The sheen of satin, gleaming gems In scores of priceless diadems; These are the butterflies, the drones, Vampires who feed on blood and bones. Ah, cruel parasites, beware, One victim of your wrong is there. The London skies are black with cloud The earth enwrapt in night’s dark shroud, As by the despot’s citadel A hand from Shannon fires the shell. England, to thee and thine belongs The memory of uncounted wrongs That, multiplied through all the years, Have dried the fount of Ireland’s tears. Thy fate is sealed, thy knell has tolled, Not thrice the sum of thrice thy gold Can turn the wrath thou hast defied Of hearts like those from Shannon’s side. Thy future sky is overcast, Thy halcyon days forever past, Earthquake and storm shall overwhelm Thy towers and fanes, thy laws and realm.