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 ENDOWED BY THE 
 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
 
 SOCIETIES 
 
 PS3$07 
 
 .0 7 
 R6 
 1909 
 
UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 00022042406 
 
 This book is due at the WALTER R. DAVIS LIBRARY on 
 the last date stamped under "Date Due." If not on hold it 
 may be renewed by bringing it to the library. 
 
 DATE RET. 
 DUE 
 
 DATE RET. 
 DUE 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/romaotherpoemsOOdonn 
 
Of this edition six hundred copies 
 have been printed for private distribu- 
 tion only. 
 
 This is Number 
 
ROMA 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
: 
 
 
 <^<*zi^^z^€T 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 By 
 
 CHARLES FRANCIS DONNELLY 
 
 Q> 
 
 i 909 
 JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 PS 
 
 ROMA 
 
Copyright, 1909 
 By JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 
 
 The Mason-Henry Press 
 Syracuse, New York 
 
CJjese poems 
 
 here gathered for the first time, are sent 
 
 to the friends of the late 
 
 CHARLES FRANCIS DONNELLY 
 
 as a loving tribute to his memory 
 
 by his wife 
 
 AMY FRANCES COLLINS DONNELLY 
 
 911 
 
 UrndL 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 FOREWORD xi 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 The Holy Rood 3 
 
 The Ascension 4 
 
 My Lady's Garden 5 
 
 The Episcopal Anniversary 6 
 
 To a Lady 7 
 
 Mother Vincent , 8 
 
 Before a Portrait 9 
 
 A Last Message 10 
 
 Farewell , 11 
 
 Lines to a Friend 12 
 
 Blaine 13 
 
 Lowell 14 
 
 General Meagher 15 
 
 POEMS 
 
 Roma 19 
 
 You and I 21 
 
 The Obelisk 23 
 
 At Twilight in Autumn 26 
 
 The Building of the Minster 28 
 
JUVENILIA 
 
 A Summer Morning 33 
 
 The Irish-American's Song 36 
 
 War Song 38 
 
 The Rain Storm 40 
 
 The Old Schoolhouse 46 
 
 The Acadians' Hymn 48 
 
 The Churchyard 50 
 
 In Extremis 55 
 
 NOTES 59 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 The life of a literary man is interesting on ac- 
 count of his creations. This is none the less true 
 even though the work that survives be limited. 
 If the sonnet on the death and burial of James 
 Russell Lowell were the only poem by Charles 
 Francis Donnelly to be given to the world the 
 public would still desire to know something of the 
 author and of the conditions under which he wrote. 
 
 Mr. Donnelly was born in Athlone, County 
 Roscommon, Ireland. He was the son of Hugh 
 and Margaret (Conway) Donnelly. The orig- 
 inal spelling of the name was Ua Donngaile, his 
 paternal ancestors being of an old Irish sept in 
 the north who were chiefs in Tyrone, at Bally- 
 donnelly and other places. The family traces 
 descent from those glorious days of the early cen- 
 turies of the Christian era, the period of saints 
 and scholars, when in Ireland were established 
 the much frequented centers of learning; and back 
 yet farther from the sumptuous richly developed 
 
period of pagan times when the arts were culti- 
 vated and when at the court of Tara justice was 
 meted out and a code of honor established; when 
 the precepts of wise King Cormac were promul- 
 gated; when Find and Ossian composed their 
 poetry and harpers sang traditional melodies. 
 
 On his mother's side the family of Conway was 
 of Welsh-Irish stock originating in the west of 
 Wales. In this family were many distinguished 
 individuals, and both on the paternal and maternal 
 side Mr. Donnelly's ancestors were members of 
 the learned professions distinguished alike for 
 scholarship, patriotism, and religious loyalty. His 
 grandfather, Dominick Donnelly, was a teacher 
 of Latin at his home in Clogher, Tyrone. 
 
 In 1837 Hugh Donnelly, who had been a suc- 
 cessful woolen draper in Athlone, brought his 
 family to Canada. He established his residence 
 in St. John, New Brunswick, where Charles 
 Francis was educated in private schools and at the 
 New Brunswick Presbyterian Academy. Later, 
 Mrs. Donnelly, who was a woman of brilliant 
 intellect and great dignity of character, conducted 
 a successful private school at Yarmouth, Nova 
 Scotia. In this connection it is interesting to note 
 
that many of those who were connected by ties of 
 blood to the author of these poems were dis- 
 tinguished as writers or teachers. His uncle, 
 Charles Conway, was on the staff of the New 
 York Tribune; his aunt, Mother Vincent, after 
 some years as a religious at Mount St. Vincent's- 
 on-the-Hudson, founded the teaching Sisters of 
 Charity in St. John, New Brunswick, where his 
 only sister afterwards entered; and a brother was 
 a member of the priesthood. 
 
 In 1848 Hugh Donnelly with his family re- 
 moved to Providence, Rhode Island, and here 
 Charles Francis completed his classical studies. 
 In 1856 he began the study of law in the office 
 of Hon. Ambrose A. Ranney, of Boston, Massa- 
 chusetts. He also attended the Harvard Law 
 School, and was graduated with the degree of 
 LL.B. in 1859. In September of the same year 
 he was admitted to the bar and at once entered 
 upon the practice of his profession. He soon 
 became known as an entertaining vacation cor- 
 respondent for Boston newspapers and as a writer 
 on educational topics, especially as these related 
 to Catholic citizens. 
 
 During the years i860 and 1861 a large part 
 
of his time was spent in New York and Washing- 
 ton, and while in these cities much of his most 
 distinctive literary work was published in the 
 Knickerbocker Magazine and other secular jour- 
 nals over the pen-name of "Schuyler Conway." 
 Essays, poems, Washington correspondence, and 
 personal sketches came in rapid succession from 
 his pen, but the law made a stronger appeal than 
 letters and eventually his briefs were too numerous 
 to allow of a divided allegiance. In all forms of 
 composition, of which his poetry is the most vital 
 expression, he gave marked evidence of unusual 
 literary skill and artistic feeling, but he was his own 
 most severe critic and it is to be regretted that he 
 himself destroyed the greater part of his poetic 
 composition. Upon his return to Boston he re- 
 sumed the practice of law and it soon became 
 apparent that he was to occupy a high position 
 not only in his profession but in civic affairs as 
 well. 
 
 Both of his parents were Catholics and he al- 
 ways adhered to the religion of his forefathers 
 with a zeal which found its greatest manifestation 
 in acts of charity. In recognition of his serv- 
 ices to the Church in America the honorary degree 
 
of LL.D. was conferred upon him by St. Mary's 
 College, Maryland, in 1885. 
 
 Mr. Donnelly, although reserved, was courteous 
 and genial in all his relations. He was noted for 
 his cheerfulness, ready wit, and quickness of 
 repartee. Genius is the predominant character- 
 istic of the Irish race, and in no other phase of a 
 very versatile character does Mr. Donnelly better 
 reveal his heritage than in his poetic utterances. 
 In primitive times the office of poet was identified 
 with that of prophet or seer. The author of 
 "Roma" also demonstrated that his soul had a 
 supernatural elevation. The scene of that poem 
 was visualized by his spirit alone, for in the flesh 
 Mr. Donnelly had never visited Rome. In the 
 poem "My Lady's Garden," which is replete 
 with delicate imagery, an exquisite tribute is offered 
 to the lady who eventually became the author's 
 wife. 
 
 Mr. Donnelly possessed in a marked degree 
 the imagination that is characteristic of both the 
 Irish race and the brotherhood of poets, and 
 which, as an original creative force, is akin to the 
 controlling power of the universe. 
 
 The Celtic revival has produced in Ireland 
 
poets of no ordinary ability. Wicklow Moun- 
 tain, the historic island of Iona, and the isolated 
 Aran islands have all been the haunts of vision- 
 aries; but just as truly did Charles Francis Don- 
 nelly see visions, albeit they came to him by his 
 own hearthstone and in America, the land of his 
 adoption. 
 
 Mabel Ward Cameron. 
 
 Boston, May, 1909. 
 
SONNETS 
 
THE HOLY ROOD 
 
 Against the darkened sky the cruel tree 
 
 Unpitying stood, mocking the sad day 
 
 On the deserted mount, while all earth lay 
 
 Deep rent, in fitful, throbbing agony; 
 
 And, awed, the far-off multitude did see 
 
 The armored Roman through the gloom delay, 
 
 With spear bent, and the sacred side essay 
 
 To pierce; as oft foretold in prophecy. 
 
 Yet that shunned tree is long the Holy Rood; 
 
 Transfigured by the sanctifying light 
 
 Of Heaven, and, grafted there, wide branches 
 
 forth — 
 A symbol which unchangeably hath stood 
 The emblem of Redemption, and the sight 
 Of it helps man to follow Christ on earth. 
 
THE ASCENSION 
 
 "O Virgin Mother, thy beloved Son 
 
 Passed out the Shushan Gate this eve, and lo ! 
 
 Down Kidron's silent valley then did go; 
 
 Thence climbing slowly, ere the day was done, 
 
 Went on to Bethany, just as the sun 
 
 Sank in the distant hills, and then the glow 
 
 Of Heaven itself o'er Olivet did show 
 
 Our Saviour's wondrous course with us nigh run." 
 
 Thus went the story Mary calmly heard, 
 And the next morn on Olivet's chief height 
 She stood, as the unfolding clouds rolled forth, — 
 When at the gentle summons of the Lord, 
 Her Son was borne up from her raptured sight, 
 And left her waiting yet awhile on earth. 
 
MY LADY'S GARDEN 
 
 There is a garden where my love doth dwell, 
 Not walled nor hedged in 'gainst cloister gray, 
 Yet cinctured as the Virgin's chaplet may 
 A saint-like nun, who passeth from her cell 
 At holy vesper tide, her beads to tell, 
 Or with her sisters in the choir to say 
 The office of the hour, and fervent pray, 
 While chimeth faint the convent's steepled bell. 
 Naught noxious groweth in that garden fair, 
 Nor nothing garish ever there is seen; 
 Like its dear mistress must it always be, 
 Adorned with nature's symbols everywhere, 
 Of Virtue, in each varied phase and mien, 
 With, gentlest of her charms, sweet modesty. 
 
THE EPISCOPAL ANNIVERSARY 
 
 (March 12, a.d. 1866) 
 
 Tu es sacerdos in aternum 
 
 Each bark that sails the waters of the deep 
 
 Must bear a Master on the boundless sea, 
 
 To guide her on her course, and whither she 
 
 Shall voyage with her valued freight, to reap 
 
 The harvest of emprise, and safely keep 
 
 It garnered; when her prow shall turn and feel 
 
 Her way towards port, with proudly plowing keel, 
 
 Till gladly comes in view upon the steep 
 
 Bold headland the bright pharos of her home. 
 
 O Pilot of our bark, throughout the night 
 
 Of all this travailing our pharos be, 
 
 Until our looked-for journey's end shall come, 
 
 When we may see Our Master's radiant light, 
 
 And from the wretched thralls of earth be free. 
 
TO A LADY 
 
 Dear Lady, I cannot thy thoughts divine, 
 
 Nor dare not on thy tranquil life intrude, 
 
 Yet watch thee in thy ways of doing good, 
 
 As one would vigil keep at some saint's shrine; 
 
 Still his devotion would by look nor sign 
 
 Not show, but in the silent hours would brood 
 
 On pious deeds, in sacred solitude, 
 
 While through the shade the votive lamp would 
 
 shine 
 With vestal light on his unquiet soul; 
 A guide to peace and moving it to still 
 The worldly longings binding him to earth. 
 Thus I, too, watching yet may reach the goal 
 Of all the good, and then see Christ there fill, 
 Full to the brim, the measure of thy worth. 
 
MOTHER VINCENT 
 
 (Obit May 27, 1892) 
 
 Proud Dover's castle thundered a salute 
 
 Of victory, and vanquished France bowed low, — 
 
 Then came the hush of peace to friend and foe, 
 
 And then, while the embrasured fort stood mute, 
 
 A child was born within, the blessed fruit 
 
 Of sacramental love, silent to grow 
 
 To womanhood, and missioned to bestow 
 
 Sweet Charity; nor kin nor creed to moot. 
 
 And so she grew, and wafted to our shore 
 
 In modest preparation sought her way 
 
 To serve the Lord; nun-vestured then went forth 
 
 Among the poor, and blessings scattered while 
 
 she bore 
 Herself with saintly mien; till came the day 
 When, summoned hence, she upward passed from 
 earth. 
 
BEFORE A PORTRAIT 
 
 (J. E. S. Obit June, 1892) 
 
 True Heart, thy captive soul from prison fled 
 One day, as the ungathered roses fell; 
 Then came the mourning, and the passing bell, 
 And the green earth received thee with the dead. 
 Yet to the stars beyond the cedars led 
 A messenger thy ransomed soul, to dwell 
 In Paradise, — and bid the world farewell, 
 Alas, with much at parting left unsaid. 
 
 O Limner, when didst thou those features trace? 
 Not in the shrouded mist of years gone by; 
 Nor in the darkness of his hour of flight; 
 Nay, in his summer blossoming, — that face 
 To us did so appear, with lighted eye, 
 With gentle, kindly look, — at manhood's height. 
 
A LAST MESSAGE 
 
 A faith-inspiring woman to the end — 
 
 u Thy will be done," she said, when dying, 
 
 And then, while friends stood hopeless sighing, 
 
 "This message only to my husband send: 
 
 Tell him," with loving look she gently said, 
 
 "For twenty years we lived together — " 
 
 Soon then in the summer weather, 
 
 Her soul from its dear tenement had fled. 
 
 Thus breathed she words of love from out the 
 
 past, 
 And died, true wife and fondest mother — 
 Not soon shall we see such another, 
 To faith and love so true, and to the last. 
 In that sweet message of her soul sublime 
 She meant not the old love to sever; 
 She bade him not farewell forever, 
 But waits his coming, in God's own good time. 
 
FAREWELL 
 
 O loyal heart, stilled in eternal sleep, 
 We prison thee now in thy narrow cell, 
 There in the silent, starless night to dwell, 
 While thy fond, life-long mate doth constant weep. 
 O 'franchised soul, with her thou yet shalt keep, 
 Some day in heaven, as tolls on earth her bell, 
 Sweet tryst, and there again shalt gently tell 
 Her of thy love, and virtue's guerdon reap. 
 Sleep on, true friend, in quiet slumber rest — 
 An oak the sentinel at thy green grave; 
 As if to symbolize the manly part 
 Thou playd'st in life, when honor was at test, 
 And man to man due proof of honor gave. 
 Adieu, loved friend; sleep on, brave, trusting 
 heart. 
 
LINES TO A FRIEND ON PRESENTING 
 A BOOK OF POEMS 
 
 You like the poets of a former time, 
 Payne, Bryant, Willis, Halleck and the rest, 
 And they sang bravely when they sang their best; 
 One, sad exile, sang in many a clime, 
 Of home; and one in organ strains sublime 
 Would requiems sing grandly for the west; 
 And one with tender pity would invest 
 Each erring soul, or else in sacred rhyme 
 Would hymn-like sing through all our forest 
 
 aisles. 
 Another's songs of men and arms would sound — 
 But let us leave the poets of the past, 
 Each his admirers, as of old, beguiles, 
 And hope, sir, in this volume may be found 
 A later poet to your mind — at last. 
 
BLAINE 
 
 The bells are tolling in the winter gale, — 
 A chief lies dead, in all a chieftain's state, 
 Beyond all praise, or blame, or foeman's hate 
 No more to hearken to his clansmen's hail, 
 No more to win again, no more to fail. 
 No more he'll proudly battle in debate, 
 No more he'll war against a wayward fate. — 
 No more shall Envy's shafts the dead assail. 
 
 Enshroud the Capitol with signs of woe, — 
 The Nation mourns a well-beloved son; 
 Forgives the faults his virtues far outweigh, 
 And, spite of party rancor, men shall show 
 All honor yet, for many deeds well done, 
 To him who living did a great part play. 
 
 13 
 
LOWELL 
 
 No bugle blast sounds through the summer air; 
 Nor tramp of riderless and neighing steed 
 In solemn march, behind the car, we heed; 
 Nor muffled drum is heard; nor trumpet blare; 
 Nor volleyed fire; nor shrouding smoke is seen. — 
 Yet in the earth to-day a soldier's form 
 We laid; one who brave bore the brunt and storm 
 Of battle front with knightly skill and mien. 
 Rest, minstrel, after all earth's weary strife; — 
 Fair Harvard hath borne many sons, but none 
 So tenderly beloved as those who gave 
 Their youth and manhood's prime, and even life, 
 To Freedom's cause, until the field was won, 
 And no man dare to call his brother slave. 
 
 14 
 
GENERAL MEAGHER 
 
 Above him shone the fitful glory's light; 
 With youthful voice he roused his native land, 
 And with her Tribune nobly took his stand ; 
 Forever then was exiled from her sight. 
 Flow of the gentle Suir, Dungarvin's height, 
 The altar where he knelt in boyhood's hour, 
 His mother's grave, the quay, the pillar tower 
 Knew him no more; yet oft in Austral night, 
 And 'neath our starry flag when day would fade, 
 He'd sigh for but one look at all behind; 
 For it was still the land he loved the best; 
 Gold nor place could never make him trade. 
 Farewell then, soul unloosed, — 
 An exile's dreary grave now gives him rest. 
 
 J 5 
 
POEMS 
 
ROMA 
 
 Against the Arch of Janus is a spring 
 
 Of water, clearer than the air and clime; 
 
 Amidst the past the only living thing, 
 
 It still flows onward through the wreck of time. 
 
 Near, the Cloaca winds its oozy way — 
 
 The sewer which Proud Tarquin built for 
 Rome — 
 
 Betwixt the hill where Numa once held sway, 
 And that where stood the Senate's stately dome. 
 
 By Janus Bifrons, thence in snake-like twine — 
 The Forum, and whence Vesta fled below; 
 
 By the Velabrum, and Virginia's shrine, 
 
 It crawls to where the Tiber's reeds yet grow. 
 
 Beside the sewer, with its slimy flood, 
 
 The little spring has calmly flowed and run 
 
 For ages, in accord with all things good, 
 Spite of Cloaca and the scorching sun. 
 19 
 
So the fair lily from the depth shall rise 
 A vestal still, up from its sedgy bed; 
 
 So stars shall lustrous gleam through stormy skies ; 
 So unmailed virtue, too, 'mid vice may tread. 
 
 So love flows ever from the Throne of Grace; 
 
 So flows the swelling fountain of the heart; 
 So in God's works we all can clearly trace 
 
 Rare sermons, far beyond the preacher's art. 
 
 O City of the Soul ! We look to thee 
 
 As pilgrims look from the Campagna drear, 
 
 Kneeling, with uplift hands, when first they see 
 Saint Peter's in the sunset glow appear. 
 
YOU AND I 
 
 Shall we forth together journey, you and I, 
 Whate'er betide, in one endeavor; 
 Not for to-day alone, but ever ; 
 Nor spite of calm or storm once sever, 
 You and I? 
 
 Shall we tread the highway dreary, you and I, 
 With calm, cold eyes at us oft staring, 
 We undaunted, nor for them caring; 
 With love to cheer and fortune daring, 
 You and I? 
 
 Shall we wander through green by-ways, you and I, 
 Hand in hand the time beguiling, 
 On together, and nature smiling; 
 We naught marring, naught defiling, 
 You and I? 
 
When we find the years thus vanish, you and I, 
 Shall we then, love, await the ending 
 At the river, in spirit bending; 
 None disdaining, in naught offending, 
 You and I? 
 
 22 
 
THE OBELISK 
 
 Each stone a history doth mutely tell 
 Of elemental change, or peace, or war; 
 
 It taketh impress from each touch as well 
 As from a graver's edge, to make or mar. 
 
 So hewn or rent from the strong parent rock 
 It liveth thence its own immobile life, 
 
 And nature worketh into form the block 
 
 With wind and wave, and ceaseless chymic strife. 
 
 But art doth make the dumb block speak to all; 
 
 Some hidden meaning, or some plain-told tale; — 
 A trophy won, a patriot's sad fall, 
 
 A sculptor's dream, a woman's tristful wail. 
 
 The stranger at the Flaminian Gate, 
 First sees erect within a mystic stone, 
 
 Mute captive, borne from Egypt by the state 
 And there left prisoned mid the past, alone. 
 23 
 
It there points mutely upward to the sky, 
 While down its symbol-carven sides we read 
 
 Of one who ruled in Afric history, 
 
 And wisely served his land in direst need. 
 
 The wise Psammetichus reigned in the day 
 When haughty Babylon smote Judah down; 
 
 When Hebrew prophets mourned the tyrant's 
 sway, 
 And Cyrus seized Belshazzar's fateful crown. 
 
 The shaft was reared by Neku, next in line, 
 An obelisk from Egypt to her king, 
 
 It stands, of his famed past the only sign, 
 To point the end of ev'ry earthly thing. 
 
 It stood beside the Nile, and viewed afar 
 The tawny desert, and the lion free, 
 
 Proud Karnak's temple, and each occult star, 
 Ere Rome was founded on an augury. 
 
 It standeth still above the Corso's throng, 
 As when the Caesars marched to war away, 
 
 And their returning legions strode along, — 
 It yet shall stand though men and states decay. 
 24 
 
A monument of Egypt's ruined past, 
 
 It too must fall, by Fate's slow-wrought decree ; 
 Thus warning man this lower life at last 
 
 Ends at the threshold of eternity. 
 
 25 
 
AT TWILIGHT IN AUTUMN 
 
 With ev'ning shades let us our care subdue, 
 My soul, and from this window outward look, 
 To muse in silence o'er that unsealed book, 
 Kind Nature's page, illumined now anew, 
 A lustrous lettered missal to our view. 
 
 Jacob far back in ages past did see, 
 
 On his Syrian journey, in his dream, 
 
 A ladder, lifted, as to him did seem, 
 
 'Gainst heaven, whence to him God said : "In thee 
 
 Thy seed and all the tribes shall blessed be." 
 
 Then Beth-el, or God's House, he named the place, 
 And then towards Haran's Well he went his way. 
 But where is not God's House, might each one 
 
 say, 
 My soul? For in the firmament we trace 
 The wondrous dome, extending o'er all space. 
 
 26 
 
Pillared and columned by each mountain height — 
 And builded by the one Almighty hand — 
 Through all its aisles, like some cathedral grand, 
 Come psalm-like strains; not Nature in her might, 
 But calmly worshipful, all through the night. 
 
 Let us, my soul, henceforth not less so be, 
 And as the sage Chaldeans long ago 
 By gazing heavenward first learned to know 
 That Christ had come ; so magi-like, should we 
 Gaze up, the glory of God's works to see. 
 
 27 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE MINSTER 
 
 In the great street of a city men idly stood awhile, 
 Watching workers rearing slowly, stone by stone, 
 
 a Gothic pile. 
 One thus standing turned and gravely said: "What 
 
 waste of money there, 
 While to the poor if it were given, 'twould call 
 
 down blessings ev'rywhere." 
 
 Hearing such words, none dissenting, quoth I: 
 
 "Yet can he be right?" 
 Then bethought me of the scene at Simon's house, 
 
 where supped one night 
 Our Redeemer, and let Mary precious oil pour on 
 
 His feet, 
 And then the betrayer, Judas, spake as this one 
 
 on the street. 
 
 28 
 
Still unto them all said Jesus: "Ev'rywhere ye 
 preach my word 
 
 There that done me by this woman in remem- 
 brance shall be heard." 
 
 Then I thought of weary pilgrims who would 
 tarry on life's way, 
 
 And that temple gladly enter with their Lord 
 oft-times to stay. 
 
 Not such pilgrims nor such palmers as o'er paynim 
 
 wastes were bent 
 To the Holy Places wending; rather those on 
 
 Christ intent; 
 Their pure gold, and myrrh, and incense to lay at 
 
 His blessed feet, 
 Churches are inns on life's journey; servants His 
 
 priests, guests to greet. 
 
 29 
 
JUVENILIA 
 
A SUMMER MORNING 
 
 The crowing cock warns night to hie away; 
 The stately queen resigns her awful sway; 
 Each feathered warbler sings his matin lay 
 As slowly breaks the blithesome coming day. 
 
 The cawing rook flits through the hazy air; 
 The cunning fox slinks slyly to his lair; 
 The sun bursts forth with burning, lusty glare, 
 And hotly kisses now the landscape fair. 
 
 On each tree and tower and steeple high 
 Is glistening the moisture of the sky; 
 From ev'ry field comes forth the farmer's cry; 
 And straining oxen with each other vie. 
 
 The creaking cart wheels down the rutted lane, 
 While closely by it walks the shouting swain; 
 The sunlight flashes on each cottage pane, 
 And brightly shines the gilded village vane. 
 
 33 
 
The sluggard yawns and turns upon his bed ; 
 The housewife sees the clucking poultry fed; 
 Each lazy schoolboy now becomes in dread, 
 For ev'ry tiresome task must soon be said. 
 
 Now smoke curls upward from the chimney tall; 
 On clinking anvils sturdy hammers fall; 
 The dog bounds forward at his master's call; 
 And squirrels gambol on the gray stone wall. 
 
 The barefoot maid trips coyly up the dell, 
 With dripping buckets from the mossy well; 
 The roving bee has left its honeyed cell; 
 O'er dewy meadows sounds the tinkling bell. 
 
 Along the road the early trav'ler sings, 
 While on his staff a little bundle swings ; 
 Clearly the post-horn's mellow music rings, 
 As to yon wood the timid rabbit springs. 
 
 The lowing kine, in one long tardy train, 
 Once more their close-cropp'd pasture find again; 
 While dull-edg'd scythes are whetted on the plain, 
 And brawny mowers sweep the grassy main. 
 
 34 
 
From dusty hillocks busy ants now creep; 
 O'er broad green acres graze the snowy sheep; 
 The angry bull, thundering loud and deep, 
 Attempts, in vain, the well-barr'd gate to leap. 
 
 Now round the verdant country, far and near, 
 The hum of labor ev'rywhere we hear; 
 Each robin's carol echoes sweet and clear, 
 And insects' chirping greet the listening ear. 
 
 White clouds sail slowly in the ether blue; 
 The sun, now smiling, brightens all in view; 
 The face of Mother Nature, ever new, 
 Enchants the senses, mind, and spirit too. 
 
 35 
 
THE IRISH-AMERICAN'S SONG 
 
 April, 1 86 1 
 
 Would we desert you now, 
 
 Flag of the Free, 
 When we a solemn vow, 
 
 Flag of the Free, 
 You from all harm to save, 
 Made when we crossed the wave, 
 And you a welcome gave, 
 
 Flag of the Free? 
 
 Whose aid to cheer us came, 
 
 Flag of the Free, 
 When to proud England's shame, 
 
 Flag of the Free, 
 Famine swept o'er our land, 
 Death ravaged ev'ry band, 
 And loosed the tyrant's hand, 
 
 Flag of the Free? 
 36 
 
Are we now cowards grown, 
 
 Flag of the Free? 
 Would we you now disown, 
 
 Flag of the Free? 
 You to whose folds we fled, 
 You in whose cause we've bled, 
 Bearing you at our head, 
 
 Flag of the Free? 
 
 Could we desert you now, 
 
 Flag of the Free? 
 And to black traitors bow, 
 
 Flag of the Free? 
 Never ! Through good and ill 
 Ireland her blood will spill 
 Bearing you onward still, 
 
 Flag of the Free. 
 
 37 
 
WAR SONG 
 1861 
 
 Praise to the Lord for souls so brave — 
 A million freemen all in arms, 
 A million hearts, a million hands, 
 
 Uplifted now our flag to save. 
 
 For them let anthems proudly swell; 
 Let poet, painter, sculptor, all — 
 Emblazon high and clear each deed, 
 
 And History's scroll the story tell. 
 
 Praise to the Lord for men who fight, 
 Not for base despots, not for gold, 
 But for stern order and the Law; 
 
 For union, liberty and right. 
 
 How bravely now they stride along, 
 Gray veterans and young volunteers; 
 Forward they march with thundering tread, 
 
 Equipped and armed, a million strong. 
 
 38 
 
Praise to the Lord, how grand the sight! 
 A people rising in their wrath — 
 Woe to the traitors, hope for slaves — 
 
 Swords and bayonets flashing bright. 
 
 No blanching cheek, no craven hearts; 
 No cowards in those serried ranks — 
 They fear not death; with hearts aflame 
 
 They go to do the freeman's part. 
 
 Praise to the Lord for souls so brave, 
 Who strive for right with hearts aflame; 
 Praise one and all forevermore, 
 
 Who spring to arms our flag to save. 
 
 39 
 
THE RAIN STORM 
 
 From the German 
 
 "Thuck-cluck," chants the solemn-faced clock with 
 a stare, 
 
 He points at four with his long, lean finger; 
 Good Grandma is nodding away in her chair, 
 
 And the slow hours now quietly linger. 
 "Luck-luck," saith the sober-faced clock in great 
 glee, 
 
 As he chuckles — the rain is fast falling — 
 Naught careth he for the bleak air on the lea, 
 
 As he tells each past hour with loud thrumming. 
 
 "Cheer up," chirps the cricket, from out his snug 
 hole, 
 
 While the cat his head's sleepily turning; 
 All round the still house not the stir of a soul; 
 
 On the hearth not a spark is now burning. 
 "Cheer up," sings the little gay cricket again, 
 
 And back echoes the tiny sound cheerful; 
 The hum of a bluebottle's heard now and then; 
 
 The wee mice in the wainscot grow fearful. 
 40 
 
But deeper gloom falls on ceiling and floor; 
 
 To his cobweb each spider is creeping; 
 Grim and weird shadows flit through window and 
 door, 
 
 And the house dog is heavily sleeping. 
 Now even the cricket has ceased to be heard; 
 
 Sad, dull silence is ev'rywhere reigning; 
 Without not a chirp nor a song from a bird, 
 
 As the beams of the pale sun are waning. 
 
 Aloft once more sounds the loon's warning, lone 
 cry; 
 By the low walls the wind is now wailing; 
 Dull clouds scud with swiftness across the gray 
 sky, 
 And the blue spots above are fast veiling. 
 Far distant hills gloomily loom up to view; 
 The fitful wind the sedgy pool wimples, 
 And the brook from the black clouds takes a dark 
 hue, 
 While its surface the greedy trout dimples. 
 
 41 
 
"Haw-haw," laughs the wicked black crow as he 
 flies, 
 Like an imp of the Evil One jeering; 
 Straight to his roost in the dark woods he hies, 
 
 All the while for the carrion peering. 
 "Go, rogue," croaks the yellow-mouthed frog to 
 the crow; 
 From the shunned marsh where will o' wisp 
 dances, 
 "Haw-haw," comes back mockingly, yet faint and 
 low, 
 As the reeds bend like warriors' lances. 
 
 The dust on the road now whirls round and 
 around ; 
 On the house-eve the pigeon is cooing; 
 Each swallow skims swiftly along the drear 
 ground ; 
 Each ox in his stanchions is chewing. 
 Big drops fall and patter on window and roof; 
 
 The parched plants in the garden are drooping; 
 The horse in the field with head bowed stands 
 aloof, 
 And the sheep to their shelter are trooping. 
 
 42 
 
The wayfarer speeds to the first hut he spies; 
 
 From his burrow the weasel is peeping; 
 Amid the tall trees the wind frets and sighs; 
 
 Then o'er hill, plain and forest goes sweeping. 
 The cold rain drives fiercely and fitfully now; 
 
 Soon it drenches the woodlands and highway; 
 Floods ev'ry broad meadow, morass and deep 
 slough, 
 
 And cleaves gullies across each green by-way. 
 
 Chill day leaves the landscape sad, dark and for- 
 lorn; 
 Round and round whirs the weather-vane creak- 
 ing; 
 Along on the wild air fierce noises are borne, 
 For the storm-sprites are angrily shrieking. 
 The candle-light shines through the glassy wet 
 pane, 
 On the broad hearth the faggots are blazing; 
 Good grandma now knits and then dozes again, 
 While the cat at the embers sits gazing. 
 
 43 
 
"Ho-ho!" roars the chimney-elf merry and long; 
 
 In the soot the droll goblin is singing; 
 Till midnight he trolls out his noisy odd song, 
 
 As the wind through the rafters keeps ringing. 
 Till midnight he laughs and he echoes "Ho-ho!" 
 
 Through each gust the old casement is shaking; 
 He keeps his carouse till the hearth fire burns low, 
 
 And the moon through the black clouds is break- 
 ing. 
 
 Now ghost-like, soft whispers are heard in each 
 room, 
 
 In the garret amid the old lumber; 
 Round glide household spirits and dead from the 
 tomb, 
 
 While the good folk are hushed in deep slumber. 
 On tip-toe they restlessly wander about, 
 
 Then each chamber go suddenly haunting; 
 At last through the keyhole they quickly troop out, 
 
 Not a whit sly and watchful puss daunting. 
 
 44 
 
"Thuck-cluck," saith the solemn-faced clock with 
 a stare, 
 He points at one with a long, lean finger; 
 From the wood the owl's hoot sounds on the still 
 air, 
 And the lone night hours drowsily linger. 
 
 45 
 
THE OLD SCHOOLHOUSE 
 
 It stood by the green wayside, I remember it well, 
 As it looked each shining morning I loitered 
 along, 
 Village sounds mingling faintly with the ring of 
 the bell, 
 While from the calm, dewy fields came the 
 robin's glad song. 
 
 Bright mornings of boyhood, from the Giver of 
 all good, 
 Every leaf breathing fragrance on the cool, 
 healthful air, 
 When I knelt by my bedside to Him Who for us 
 died, 
 And lisped in meek accents my short, simple 
 prayer. 
 
 4 6 
 
How high up the worn latch-string used to seem 
 to me, then — 
 The knotted latch-string that hung in the old 
 schoolhouse door, 
 And how gravely the kind master would mend my 
 quill pen, 
 While the wide slanting sunbeams shone on 
 form, desk and floor. 
 
 Life then was all cheerful, only joy made me 
 tearful, 
 My little book-laden satchel held all my cares 
 then; 
 The world has changed sadly, now it seldom smiles 
 gladly, 
 And those pure, happy days will never come 
 back again. 
 
 Still I hear the distant ring of the old schoolhouse 
 bell, 
 Faintly nearer stealing like a once familiar song ; 
 Still I hear the blacksmith's anvil clinking through 
 the dell, 
 With the sound of children's voices echoing 
 along. 
 
 47 
 
THE ACADIANS' HYMN 
 
 The sun is sinking in the wave, 
 
 Deep in the gilt blue sea ; 
 
 The waters now the calm shores lave 
 
 Along Saint Martin's Bay. 
 
 Saint Martin's bell sounds on the ear 
 
 With holy melody; 
 
 It is the hour for vesper pray'r; 
 
 Bare the head, bend the knee : 
 
 Mater castissima, Ave Maria, 
 Ora pro nobis, Sancta Maria. 
 
 Lone boats drift on the ebbing tide, 
 
 And fishermen I see 
 
 Casting their nets as on they glide — 
 
 As once in Galilee 
 
 Did they who followed Mary's Son, 
 
 E'en to sad Calvary; 
 
 Where God the Father's will was done 
 
 Upon the fatal tree: 
 
 Mater castissima, Ave Maria, 
 Ora pro nobis, Sancta Maria. 
 4 8 
 
Saint Martin's bell has ceased to ring; 
 
 The aisle and roof grow dim, 
 
 As priest and choir together sing 
 
 The holy ev'ning hymn; 
 
 Soon wafted out upon the air, 
 
 'Tis echoed from the sea; 
 
 The soft refrain the boatmen hear, 
 
 And chant it piously: 
 
 Mater castissima, Ave Maria, 
 Ora pro nobis, Sancta Maria. 
 
 Each ev'ning hue has left the sky; 
 
 The chapel now is still; 
 
 O'er the dark waves the west winds sigh, 
 
 And all the sails soon fill. 
 
 Protect those on the bay to-night, 
 
 This moonless night, Mary; 
 
 Watch over us till morning's light, 
 
 O Queen, Star of the Sea. 
 
 Mater castissima, Ave Maria, 
 Ora pro nobis, Sancta Maria. 
 
 49 
 
THE CHURCHYARD 
 
 Tall poplars, like grim sentinels, the dark road 
 line; 
 Huge shadows fling their changing forms upon 
 the ground, 
 And where the damp, neglected path turns to the 
 gate, 
 The wind gives forth, like one in pain, a moan- 
 ing sound. 
 
 Through a dim, leafy op'ning in the sombre trees, 
 
 A crumbling tower lifts its old, gray, ivied head, 
 
 Round which the fading sunbeams linger long at 
 
 eve 
 
 With hectic hue ; while groping twilight shrouds 
 
 the dead. 
 
 5° 
 
Then bats forth steal, and noiseless wing by the 
 still tombs; 
 By the decaying wall, where limp weeds upward 
 creep 
 O'er graves where the long, tangled grass grows 
 rank and rots, 
 And where the lean, hungry rat is burrowing 
 deep. 
 
 In the drear, starless nights the melancholy owl 
 Mopes silent on the hoary, lichen-mantled 
 stones; 
 While marble monuments all covered with green 
 mould 
 And ooze stand ghost-like staring o'er the 
 wasting bones. 
 
 On such sad nights, too, low whispering sounds 
 are heard, 
 
 In mournful cadence dying on the dewy air; 
 As if the dead together were communing, and 
 
 Souls shut out from heaven were weeping there. 
 
 5* 
 
About the sodded vaults the fleshy mushroom 
 sprouts ; 
 The blood-hued strawberry there too grows 
 rank and red; 
 Wild parasites with bony, branching arms clasp 
 firm 
 The arched, rusty doors — to bar within the 
 dead. 
 
 Save through the cobwebbed holes no light in 
 those vaults shines; 
 No air is there inhaled, but a sick, earthy smell 
 From the black, mildewed coffins, fills these dark 
 abodes, 
 While round the specter walls reigns chill 
 death's silent spell. 
 
 Beneath the mould'ring coffin-lid the skeleton 
 Wrapt in the quaint and ghastly fashion of the 
 dead, 
 Grins hideously, and from its gloomy, eyeless orbs 
 Stares mocking up to where the lonely soul 
 hath fled. 
 
 52 
 
From dusk till break of day great phantoms shift 
 and move; 
 Now from behind funereal trees striding quick, 
 Then crouching strangely under tablets and by 
 mounds ; 
 As though each playing some appalling goblin 
 trick. 
 
 A fearful place this still churchyard, where men 
 lie down 
 To sleep the sleep that knows no waking, till 
 the day 
 Of wrath and doom shall come, when the last 
 trump shall rouse 
 The dead, and the whole world in air dissolve 
 away. 
 
 There lie they while the weary soul goes forth at 
 eve 
 To haunt through the long, silent watches of 
 the night, 
 Each spot well-known and dear to it, in mortal 
 life, 
 Till quiet dawn streaks the gray eastern sky 
 with light. 
 
 53 
 
Then back affrighted by the cock's shrill note it 
 steals 
 From the dispelling day, and hides in the dark 
 tomb, 
 Till night with her deep, mysterious shadows 
 comes, 
 And shrouds again each tablet, vault, and grave 
 in gloom. 
 
 54 
 
IN EXTREMIS 
 
 Ev'ry lamp is shining dimly; 
 List! A footfall echoes slowly; 
 Voices sound from dens unholy; 
 And black midnight looks on grimly. 
 Vice goes forth in form alluring, 
 Hell is now its prey securing. 
 
 All alone in the great city, 
 
 Through the streets now still and dreary, 
 
 Walks an outcast sick and weary; 
 
 Not a soul on her has pity, 
 
 Solitary on she wanders, 
 
 And upon her future ponders. 
 
 Health and peace and grace have faded. 
 Nothing has she left to barter. 
 To the Evil One a martyr 
 She will die if not soon aided; 
 
 55 
 
For beside her ghastly grinning 
 Death its game from Life is winning. 
 
 Help her, Father, I implore Thee! 
 Quickly! Quickly! Life is waning; 
 Death is ev'ry moment gaining, 
 And ready holds the oft-turned key 
 Of that dark and dreadful portal 
 Never opened yet to mortal. 
 
 Aid her now, O blessed Saviour, 
 For round her fiends infernal hiss, 
 Oh save her from the dark abyss; 
 Look not on her past behavior; 
 For her sins she suffered sadly, 
 To misfortune she went madly. 
 
 See, she sinks now on the pavement 
 Pillowed by a doorstep only — 
 Death-bed desolate and lonely — 
 What an end to her enslavement, 
 Woeful night of tribulation; 
 None to give her consolation. 
 
 56 
 
Dimmer still the lamps are burning; 
 Hearse-like now the black clouds lower; 
 Angels now exert your power. 
 From her evil ways she's turning, 
 Listen to her plaintive sighing; 
 Wretched, homeless she is dying. 
 
 Sight to move a heart of stone; 
 
 Lesson bitter, sad and fearful; 
 
 Warning awful, story tearful; 
 
 There she is lying all alone. 
 
 Spurned by friends and scorned by strangers, 
 
 Father, guide her through death's dangers. 
 
 To her knees she rises faintly, 
 And now mutely begs of Heaven 
 That her sins may be forgiven; 
 With her hands uplifted saintly 
 Upward now her prayer is going, 
 While hot tears are quickly flowing. 
 
 57 
 
Never yet did one sincerely 
 Beg of Him for absolution 
 At the hour of dissolution 
 But he gained it freely, clearly. 
 Soon her guilt will be forgiven; 
 Soon her soul will be in Heaven. 
 
 Remember Calvary's blessed hill; 
 Jesus, and the thief when dying 
 To our Saviour humbly crying. 
 Sufferer, this remember still, 
 Satan now you're boldly braving, 
 Sorrow now your soul is laving. 
 
 See, her head is bow'd contritely; 
 Guardian angels round her hover — 
 Sister spirits, all is over, 
 None among you shine more brightly; 
 Spotless, wash'd from sin and stain, 
 From sorrow fled and free from pain. 
 
 58 
 
NOTES 
 
 The Ascension: Published May 15, 1891, in the Boston Daily 
 Advertiser. 
 
 My Lady's Garden: Written for Miss Amy Frances Collins, 
 who afterwards became Mrs. Donnelly. 
 
 The Episcopal Anniversary: Written for Archbishop Williams' 
 twenty-fifth anniversary; published in the Boston Daily 
 Advertiser, March 12, 1891. 
 
 To a Lady: Eleanor Collins, known in religion as Sister Agatha 
 of the Visitation Order, Brooklyn. 
 
 Mother Vincent: Mother Vincent was the sister of Mr. Don- 
 nelly's mother. The following note accompanied the MS 
 of the poem: "The father of the late Mother Vincent, 
 born Honoria Conway, was a subaltern, on the regimental 
 staff of his uncle, Lieut Col. Martin, commanding the 
 Galway Militia Regiment. Towards the close of the 
 Napoleonic war, in the absence of Lord Clancarty, its 
 colonel, the regiment was ordered from Ireland to garrison 
 Dover Castle, owing to the exigencies of the time, and 
 while the wife of the young officer was visiting him there, 
 from their house in Ballinasloe, County Galway, their 
 daughter, Honoria, was born, thus happily ushered into the 
 world as the cannon had proclaimed the victory of Waterloo, 
 and peace to Europe, after long, weary years of destructive 
 war. The incident attending the birth of the foundress of 
 the Sisters of Charity in New Brunswick was a romantic 
 and happy augury of her pious career." — C. F. D. 
 59 
 
Before a Portrait: Lines suggested on receiving a crayon por- 
 trait of Joseph E. Sinnott, of Philadelphia, soon after his 
 death. 
 
 A Last Message: "The wife of a well-known Boston merchant, 
 Josiah Bardwell, while visiting some friends in New York, 
 in June, 1873, was taken ill and died, before her husband 
 could be informed of her illness. She was a lady of noble 
 deeds and purposes, distinguished for her charities, and 
 deservedly loved and admired for her many virtues. The 
 lines above were suggested at the time of her death by the 
 recital of an affecting scene which occurred when it was 
 announced to her that she was soon to die, and she was 
 asked if she had any word she wished to send to her 
 husband. A short time afterward the writer saw, for the 
 last time to be seen on earth, the handsome, kindly face of 
 him she loved so tenderly, still wearing the old kindly look, 
 as his remains were sadly laid away by her side, in the 
 cemetery ; there to rest 'after life's fitful fever.' " — C. F. D. 
 
 Farewell: "Lines suggested at the burial of the remains of the 
 late Charles H. Mann, May 23, 1891, at Duxbury church- 
 yard, near which lie the remains of many of his kindred 
 identified with the early history of Plymouth Colony." — 
 C. F. D. 
 
 Lines to a Friend on Presenting a Book of Poems: Adelaide 
 Procter's poems. 
 
 Blaine: Published Boston, January 28, 1893. 
 
 Lowell: On the death and burial of the poet and scholar, 
 James Russell Lowell; published August 17, 1891, in the 
 Boston Daily Advertiser. 
 
 General Meagher: This sonnet was found among Mr. Don- 
 nelly's papers labeled in his handwriting "a rough draft" 
 60 
 
Thomas Francis Meagher was born in Waterford, Ire- 
 land, August 3, 1823. He was one of the leaders of the 
 Young Ireland movement of 1848, when, a mere youth, he 
 sprang into fame by his marvelous oratorical powers. He 
 was condemned to death for high treason, but his sentence 
 was commuted, and he was transported to Van Dieman's 
 Land, whence he effected a few years later his escape and 
 came to the United States. On the outbreak of the Civil 
 War he raised and commanded the Irish Brigade. When 
 acting governor of Montana Territory, he was accidentally 
 drowned in the Missouri River, July, 1867. 
 Roma: "Lines suggested from reading a passage in Mr. Hil- 
 lard's charming book, Six Months in Italy." — C. F. D. 
 
 Stanza 2, verse 1, Cloaca, — the great sewer of Rome — 
 Cloaca Maxima. 
 
 This poem was printed first in the Boston Pilot about 
 the year 1873. It was republished in the Boston Evening 
 Transcript, March 17, 1885, with the following note: "The 
 fugitive column of a newspaper ofttimes contains 'a gem 
 of purest ray serene,' the paternity of which is, in many 
 cases, sought for in vain. For some time past there have 
 been a number of inquiries touching the authorship of the 
 following poem. It is from the pen of Mr. Charles F. 
 Donnelly of this city, and appeared originally in the col- 
 umns of the Pilot, something over twelve years ago." 
 
 The Obelisk: "These lines were suggested by reading a pas- 
 sage in Hawthorne's Transformation, on the Obelisk of the 
 Piazza del Popolo, the first Egyptian monolith brought to 
 Rome, and a familiar sight to all travelers entering the 
 Eternal City, from the North."— C. F. D. 
 
 A Summer Morning: Published March 16, 1861, in the New 
 York Leader, signed "Schuyler Conway." 
 61 
 
The Irish-American's Song: "This song, written to a very old 
 Celtic air — Robin Adair — was one of the earliest of the 
 late war. It was published in the New York Tribune, 
 April 20, 1861 ; was adopted as a regimental song by the 
 Tenth Ohio Reg. Vols. (Irish-American), Gen. Lytle's old 
 regiment, and became popular among kindred organizations 
 of the army. It is published in Frank Moore's collection of 
 Songs of the Soldiers, G. P. Putnam and Company, New 
 York, 1864." — C. F. D. It was republished in the Boston 
 Pilot, June 15, 1861, signed "Schuyler Conway." 
 
 The Rain Storm: Published May 24, 1862, in the New York 
 Leader, signed "Schuyler Conway." 
 
 The Old Schoolhouse: Published July 26, 1862, in the New 
 York Leader, signed "Schuyler Conway." 
 
 The Acadians' Hymn: "Acadia was the poetic name long 
 restricted to that part of Nova Scotia settled by peasants 
 from Normandy and Gascony in the latter part of the 
 seventeenth century. In their new homes these primitive 
 people lived in quiet and contentment for many years. The 
 village cure was their notary, lawyer, physician, and judge; 
 he settled all differences which arose between them. Thriv- 
 ing orchards and well-tilled farms supplied them with fruit 
 and grain; the streams and inlets along the Bay of Fundy 
 yielded them an abundance of fish, and the forests around 
 were alive with game. No people could be more happy, till 
 the war between England and France broke out in 1753. 
 Then the English barbarously took their lands and flocks 
 from them; hunted them to the woods, or tore them from 
 their homes, to send them into exile. Hundreds of the 
 unfortunate people died in different parts of New England 
 and the South, in the land of strangers, and far from their 
 beautiful "L'Acadie." After years of wandering and suffer- 
 62 
 
ing, they were allowed to return to Nova Scotia, and form 
 new settlements, in such places as the British Government 
 chose to grant to them. The descendants of these people 
 carefully preserved, until a generation ago, all the quaint 
 customs of their ancestors, and lived in the same simple 
 manner, wearing the same old picturesque costume, speaking 
 still the language of La Belle France, and worshiping in 
 the faith of their fathers. The accompanying stanzas but 
 faintly describe a sunset scene often witnessed along La Baie 
 Sainte Marie where many of the descendants of the exiled 
 Acadians have lived for more than a century. A little 
 farther northward, at the head of the adjacent Bay of 
 Fundy, or La Baie Franchise, as the early navigators called 
 it, lies Longfellow's village of Grand Pre, with nothing 
 French about it now, unless the ghosts of the exiled and 
 murdered Acadians haunt the place they were robbed of so 
 cruelly." C. F. D. This note, by Mr. Donnelly, was pub- 
 lished with the poem, August 9, 1862, in the New York 
 Leader, signed "Schuyler Conway." 
 
 The Churchyard: Published August 16, 1862, in the New York 
 
 Leader, signed "Schuyler Conway." 
 In Extremis: Written for the New York Leader, signed 
 
 "Schuyler Conway." 
 
 63 
 
A