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HARPER'S WEEKLY. [OCTOBER 29, 1864. 690 THE QUAKER COQUETTE.BY MILES O'REILLY.DEAR, coy coquette ! but once, we met, But once, and yet—'twas once too often! Plunged unawares in silvery snares All vain my prayers her heart to soften : Yet seemed so true her eyes of blue, Veined lids and longest lashes under, Good angels dwelt therein, I felt, And could have knelt in reverent wonder. Poor heart, alas ! what eye could pass The auburn mass of curls caressing? Her pure, white brow—made regal now By this simplicity of dressing ! Lips dewy, red, as Cupid's bed Of rose-leaves spread on Mount Hymettus ; With balm imbued, they might be wooed, But ah, coy prude ! she will not let us! No jewels deck her radiant neck What pearl would reek its hue to rival? A pin of gold—the fashion old A ribbon fold, or some such trifle. O past belief! the lily's leaf In dark relief sets off the whiteness Of all the breast not veiled and prest Beneath her collar's Quaker tightness ! And milk-white robes o'er snowier globes, As Roman maids are drawn by Gibbon, With classic taste are gently braced Around her waist beneath a ribbon ; And thence unrolled in billowy fold, Profuse and bold—a silken torrent Not hide but dim each rounded limb, Well turned and trim and plump, I warrant ! O Quaker maid, were I more staid, Or you a shade less archly pious ; if soberest suit from crown to boot Could chance uproot your Quaker bias ! How gladly so in weeds of woe, From head to toe my frame I'd cover, That, in the end, the convert "friend" Might thus ascend—a convert lover ! TO MY BROTHER EXILES.Is it true what they say of you, brother, Do you join in the cry that we fail ? Are you leagued with the white-livered rabble Who hear of the foeman, and quail? What ? Pat in the ranks of the craven ! Down ! down ! as you would to your God ; On your knees—press your lips to the clover, Ask pardon of Erin's green sod. The old island would crimson for shame, And shrink 'neath the tread of the stranger, Did she know that one child she had nursed E'er skulked in the moment of danger. Go tear up the record of fame, Blot out each bright word on the scroll, Renounce every martyr and hero, Forget every patriot soul. Go wipe out the glorious list, Ay Waterloo, Inkermann, all, From remotest antiquity's mist To Atlanta's thrice glorious fall.
Yes, Agincourt, Cressy, Poitiers,
Once they echoed to Irish cheers, Now the record in silence efface. Let Sheridan, Grattan, and Burke Be named by such cravens no more; You cry for a cowardly peace, Their souls were for honor and war. Ay! forget all the masters of song Who have sung of our smiles and our tears; Those we claimed for our brothers so long Now look down in disdain at our fears. We've no share in their memory now; Leave their names to the ivy and moss . We forfeit our right to the crown, Too feeble to carry the cross. Is it true that you truckle to traitors? Can it be that your soul is so base? Stand up by my side, and, my brother, Fling the lie in the slanderer's face.
God knows we've our measure of
failing,
But we never yet fled from our colors, Our friend, or our foe, or our creed. O! keep the sweet heritage green, As fresh as the turf of our land, That he taketh a sacrament who Once giveth an Irish hand. Our hand has been pledged to this soil Through prosperity's bountiful years; We must not, we can not dishonor Its flag with our cowardly fears. Bowed down, O! my God, I implore, On my knees, at the footstool of grace, Thou wilt stretch out thine arm and avert This sin from the soul of my race. OUR FLAG IN '64.FLING, fling our banner out, With loyal song and shout, O'er every home and hill, By each deep valley's mill ; And let its heaven-lit beam Round every hearth-stone gleam, And fill the passing hour—This pregnant, fateful hour With all its stirring voices And the thunder of its power. The foe is striking hard; But in the castle-yard Uprise fresh traitor bands To snatch from out our hands, From fortress and from sea, This banner of the free, To give it coward flight, That Anarchy's dark night, With all its muttering thunders, May swallow up its light. Ay ! when our soldiers brave, On battle-field and wave, Sprang forth with deadly stroke Through battle's blazing smoke, Our standard to uphold, And save its every fold, These home-born traitors cry, " God grant no victory !" Though scores of gallant heroes Round the old flag bravely die. Rise, then, each loyal man, Your home horizon scan, And plant the nation's flag On hill-side and on crag ; And let your swelling soul In earnest tones outroll That brave resolve of old, When our fathers, true and bold, Swore a fealty to the flag Which never once grew cold. The flag, the flag bends low, For whirlwinds round it blow, And wild, chaotic night Is veiling it from sight. So let us every one, While yet the winds rage on, Cling round the straining mast And hold the banner fast, Till stormy Treason's rage Be safely overpast. DETROIT, October, 1864.
HARPER'S WEEKLY
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