More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round;
  As stubble to the lava-tide, French squadrons strew the ground;
  Bombshells and grape and round-shot tore, still on they marched and
          fired;
  Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur retired. 
  “Push on my household cavalry,” King Louis madly cried. 
  To death they rush, but rude their shock, not unavenged they died. 
  On through the camp the column trod—­King Louis turned his rein. 
  “Not yet, my liege,” Saxe interposed; “the Irish troops remain.” 
  And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,
  Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement, and true.

  “Lord Clare,” he said, “you have your wish; there are your Saxon foes!”
  The Marshal almost smiles to see how furiously he goes. 
  How fierce the look these exiles wear, who’re wont to be so gay! 
  The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day: 
  The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith ’twas writ could dry;
  Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women’s parting cry;
  Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown—­
  Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone. 
  On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,
  Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were.

  O’Brien’s voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands: 
  “Fix bayonets—­charge!” Like mountain-storm rush on those fiery bands. 
  Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,
  Yet mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show. 
  They dress their ranks upon the hill, to face that battle-wind! 
  Their bayonets the breakers’ foam, like rocks the men behind! 
  One volley crashes from their line, when through the surging smoke,
  With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke. 
  On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza! 
  “Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanagh!”

  Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger’s pang,
  Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang;
  Bright was their steel, ’tis bloody now, their guns are filled with
          gore;
  Through scattered ranks and severed files and trampled flags they tore. 
  The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, scattered,
          fled;
  The green hillside is matted close with dying and with dead. 
  Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack,
  While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track. 
  On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,
  With bloody plumes the Irish stand—­the field is fought and won!

THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS.

* * * * *

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.