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a St-ixsaato WOHHbihhi YOL. I. IN MEMORIAM—D. J, R, nT RKT. ABEAM J. KTAN. Thou art sleeping, Brother, sleeping In thy lonely battle grave; Shadows o’er the Past are creeping. Death, the Iteaper, still is reaping, Years have swept, and years are sweeping, Many a memory from my keeping, But I’m waiting still, and weeping. For my Beautiful and Brave. When the battle songs were chanted. And war’s stirring tocsin pealed, By those songs thy heart was haunted. And thy spirit, proud, undaunted, Clamored wildly—wildly pan bid: •‘Mother! let my wish be granted; I will ne’er be mocked and taunted That I feared to meet our vaunted Foemen on the bloody Held.” •They are thronging, Mother, thronging To a thousand fields of fame; Let me go—'tis wrong and wronging God and thru to crush this longing ; On the moster roll of glory, In my country’s future story, < >n the field of battle gory, I must consecrate my name.” ‘‘Mother, gird my sword around ms. Kiss thy soldier-boy ‘good-bye.’ ” In her arms sho wildly wound thee— To thy birthiand’s cause sho bound thee— With fond prayers and blessings crowned thee— And she sobbed: “When foes surround thee, If you fall, I’ll know they found thee. Where the bravest love to die.” At the altar of their nation, Stood that mother and her sou; He, the victim of oblation, Panting for his immolation; She, in priestess’ holy station, Weeping words of consecration, While God smiled his approbation, Blessed the boy’s self-abnegation, Cheered the mother’s desolation When tho sacrifice was done. Forth like many a noble other. Went he, whispering soft and low: “Good-byo—pray for me, my mother: Sister! kiss me—farewell, brother;” And he strove his grief to smother. Forth, with footsteps firm and fearless, And his parting gaze was tearless. Though his heart was lone and cheerless. Thus from all he loved to go. I/O! yon flag of freedom flashing In the sunny Southern sky ! On—to death and glory dashing ; On—where swords are clanging, clashing : On—where balls are crushing, crashing ; On—’mid perils, dread, appalling On—they’re falling, falling, falling ; On—they’re growing fewer, fewer : »>n—their hearts beat all the truer ; On—on—on—no fear, no falter ; On—though round the battle-altar There were wounded victims moaning. There were dying victims groaning ; On—right on—death, danger braving : Warring where their flag was waving. And baptismal blood was laving. With a tide of crimson water, All that field of death and slaughter ; On—still on—that bloody laver Made them brave and made them braver : On—with never a halt or waver ; On—they're battling, bleeding, bounding. While the glorious shout is sounding : ”We will win tho day or die.” And they won it—routed—riven— lieeled tho foeman's proud array ; They had struggled long ami striven, Blood iu torrents they had given, But their ranks, dispersed and driven. Fled, disgracefully, away. Many a heart was lonely lying There that would not throb again : Some wore dead and some were dying ; Some were silent—some were sighing ; I bus to die—lone—unattended— [ uvsept and unbefriended— On that bloody battle plain. When the twilight, sadly, slowly Wrapped its mantle o’er them all! o’er these thousands lying lowly Hushed in silence deep and holy There was one—his blood was llowing. And his last of life was going— And bis pulse faint—fainter beating Told bis hours were few and fleeting ; And his brow grew white and whiter. And his eyes grew bright and brighter— There he lay—like infant dreaming. With his sword beside him gleaming : For the hand in life that grasped it, True to death—still fondly clasped it. There his comrades found him lying Mid the heaps of dead and dying ; And the sternest there bent weeping O’er that lonely sleeper sleeping. rwas the midnight ; stars shone 'round him In a shroud of glory bound him— And they told us how they found him Where the bravest love to fell. ! Where the woods, like banners bending— Draped in glory and in gloom— There—when that sad night was ending. And the faint, far dawn was blending With the stars now fast descending— There—they mute and mournful bore him— With the stars and shadows o’er him— There they laid him down, so tender ; And the next day's sun and splendor Hashed upon my brother’s tomb. From the Hibernian Magazine. ASM OF THE OLDEN TIME, | CONCLUDED.] Wholly occupied with his wife, Herbert paid no attention to tho sergeant’s guard that stood at tho tent door under arms. When at length lie perceived them, he flew into a frenzy of passion, asking them how they dared stand thus in his pre sence ?- and ended by ordering “the caitiffs who could thus treat a woman to get out of his sight presently.” But the orderly remained unmoved. Were his hands free at the moment, Her bert would have unquestionably run him through for presuming to disobey his or ders, such was the irritated state of his feelings, Bufc he could uaa leave the shrinking, still unconscious, being that clung to him for support. Stamping his foot in a rage, he demanded what he wanted, or why he remained there? “Pris’ner, sir,” was the sergeant’s laconic reply, as he mechanically touched his hat. ‘ What prisoner ?” “The woman, sir.” “Heavens and earth 1 do you mean to j drive me mad, man ?” and the soldier recoiled for an instant at the voice and look of his officer, “Can’t help it, sir—gen’ral’s orders. Woman came to the camp three times, sir—supposed to be a spy, and ordered to be hanged.” “Hanged 1” In a second his burthen was laid on the camp-bed, and the ser geant laid prostrate by a blow that would have almost felled an ox. The guard now interposed ; and from them he learned that the party iu question had been several times seen to leave the city, in defiance of Sir Hardress Waller’s orders. Twice already she had been flogged back, but she came out again that day at noon, and was by the general or ders sentenced to execution. The soldier added that an old rebel, calling himself her father, when he heard of the sentence, offered himself in her stead; hut Sir Hardress ordered him to he instantly flogged back. “She was to have been hanged,” he continued, “at sunset, but she broke loose from them and ran to ward his tent as he had seen.” “Touch not a hair of her head, on your peril,” exclaimed Herbert as the corporal concluded, and kissing the pallid lips of his wife, he rushed out of the tent to seek the genetal, just as returning con sciousness revealed to Eily the name of her deliverer. “Walter, my own dear husband. Oh ! come hack, don’t leave me,” were the last words he heard as he flew toward the tent of the commander-in-chief, more like a maniac than anything else. “By the hones of St. Pancras, he’s either mad, or she is,” said a tall weaver from Lambeth, who wore the badge of a lance-corporal. “Ay, is he, and sore wrathful to boot,” replied his rear rank man, with a grin— he was a butcher from Newgate. “But w T e are the sufferers, and shall, I fear, be late for supper. The gallows, however, is ready to hand, thank God, and we shall make short work of it when the captain returns.” I lie name of God on the lips of such a 1 nilßcr eant, and on such an occasion, ■AUGUSTS, GA., yVLPRIL 11, 1868. makes us almost shudder. But, reader, these were Cromwellian times, and such were Cromwellian customs. Herbert found Ireton and his second in command seated at the supper table—and hell could not have unchained two such incarnate demons on that same evening. The object ol his visit was soon explained. But it seemed only to supply subject of mirth to his superior officers. “Pooh, pooh! man,” said the eom mander-in-chief, “you are, I fear, grown quite a papist, too soft-hearted entirely. I wonder how you would act had you been at the battue in Drogheda or Wex ford ?” and Ireton sipped his hock with a devilish leer. “But, general, she is my wife,” gasped Herbert. % “Folly, man !” rejoined Waller ; “no faith to be kept with heretics, you know, and all these Irish are such. You will easily find another, I trow you, when we sack the city one of these fine days.” Herbert heeded not the coarse jest of the speaker, but, turning to the general, implored him to turn a serious ear to a matter on which the happiness of his life depended. But Ireton seemed inclined to laugh it off as an excellent joke. Driven to desperation, the brave soldier, who never before feared or supplicated any man, sank on his knees, and, with tears of agony, besought him to cancel Waller s iniquitous sentence, lie even asked him to do so in memory of the act by which, at the risk of his own life, he saved his at Naseby. And Ireton seem ed almost inclined to relent, and hope be gan to brighten in the heart of the sup pliant, when a whisper from Waller to the general blasted them forever. He had himself iu person given the order for execution, and his callous heart was too obdurate to feel compunction even for a bad act. Summoning an orderly, he gave him some instructions in an under tone ; and Herbert was directed by his commander-in-chief to make his report of the progress of the trenches under his command in the King’s Island. This was but a feint to turn his attention from the main object of his visit. Ilis report was, however, quickly made, and as there was no other pretext for detaining him, he arose to depart. There was something more than fiendish in the laugh of Hard ress Waller as he wished him safe home, and a good night/s rest. That night, a heart-broken man knelt beneath the gibbet erected on the green sward in front of King John’s castle. For him all earthly happiness was now over ; and there, in the presence of the pale moon that looked silently on his sorrow, that cold October night, he vowed eternal fealty to his wife in heaven, eter nal hatred to her murderers. There was a strange admixture of reverence and irre ligion, ot love and hatred, in his feelings and sentiments, no doubt; hut the camp ot Cromwell was but an indifferent school for the culture of Christian ethics. Be sides, his brain was, for the time, astray from sonow and outraged feeling; he followed but the dictates of human pas sion, unrestrained by either reason or re ligion. ILs heart and his hopes were al ready buried in tho grave that was soon to close over the remains of his first and only love ; and, from that night out, though his life was a long and a chequer ed one, he was never known to smile, till he became an inmate of the monastery where wo found him at the commence ment of our narrative. The remainder of the siege wasa blank chapter in his life. By nature a soldier, he got through his duties fearlessly, but mechanically, without the slightest feeling of interest in any enterprise in which he had a share. To him defeat or victory was a matter of utter indifference ; and it was in this mood he entered the fallen city, as the sun was sinking, on the 27th of October, IGol, and took up his quar ters with Ireton, in the old Dutch-gabled house which is still standing, and adjoins the Tholsel in Mary street. It is more than probable that his reason would have altogether succumbed beneath the terri ble shock it had sustained, were it not for some new incidents that now occurred to awaken it for a time to activity. By sunrise, on the 29th, the Cromwel lian garrison beat to arms. It was the signal for the assemblage of the Irish troops in the old cathedral of St. Mary’s, where, in accordance with the third article of capitulation, they were to lay down their arms. It was not Fennelfs fault that they escaped the fate of the soldiers and women of Drogheda and Wexford. He had done his work of treachery well; and we cannot venture to say what his feelings were when he beheld his brave hut ill-fat eel countrymen assembled round the altar to deposit at its rails tho weapons they had so long and so gallantv wielded in the cause of one who was afterwards to despoil their children of their lawful heritage, and sanction its appropriation by the murderers of his father. Ah ! no Irishman can ever forget the ingratitude of the second Charles. But Walter Her bert thought little of the ceremony gone through that morning in the old church of the O’Briens till all was over. As the disarmed garrison marched down the long aisle of the cathedral many of them dropped dead—it might have been of the plague, or it might have been of a luoken Heart. Among uic ocaa were two whose faces Ire had net looked on for years—Terence and Donat O’Brien, his wife’s brothers. The sight awakened a new thought within him—that of his child whom he had not yet seen—and but few’ moments elapsed ere he was standing in front of the old corner-house opposite the church of St. Nicholas. But its ap pearance was sadly changed since last he saw it. Galde and chimney bore evident marks of the enemy’s cannon, while all around wore an air of desolation and sorrow. He looked up into one well remembered window, but no fragrant geraniums were now there, as of old ; no lark carolled the cheering song he so often listened to, with pleasure, some nine years before; balcony, and shutter, and curtain had disappeared. The whole house seemed in mourning. Even his knock rang through the house as through a sepulchre—so he thought Twice he repeated it; and, at length, an aged head peered cautiously through a dormer win dow, and asked who was there. Ilis an swer quickly brought down the old do mestic ; but a flood of tears was her only welcome, as she opened the door and ad mitted him. She had been the nurse of Eily and her brothers in childhood, and partly his own in sickness; and was now the survivor of all her old heart loved ; of all, save one, a blue-eyed, curly-headed hoy, who now hid behind her, evidently scared at the presence of a visitor in that desolate dwelling. A few words of greeting on the part of old Winny or Winifred assured him that he was known and welcome ; and a few words of fond ness addressed to the child soon restored his confidence. He was even, ere long, seated contentedly on his father’s knee, playing with his sword-buckle—for that fair-headed, blue-eyed hoy was the only child of Eily O’Brien and Walter Her bert. And as lie gazed with pride on his beautiful hoy, new hope and anew sense of duty sprang up within him. He felt that there was even yet something to live for. To protect that half-orphan child and his sorrowing grandsire would from that moment he the sole duty of his life, the sole solace of existence; and to this he pledged himself in Eily’s little room, to which he ascended with his youthful companion, who, at his nurse’s bidding, now called him father, and twined his little hands round his neck as he kissed him. The sudden roll of drums at length announced to him that it was time to de part, and, fondly embracing his child once more, he hurried out of the house. He would never have left it did he then hut know that in so doing he was bidding his boy farewell for ever. The beating to arms announced the commencement of the mock trial of two dozen individuals, whom Ireton had already virtually sentenced to death, by excluding them trom the protection guar anteed to the remaining citizens in the terms of capitulation. How readily would Herbert have saved every one of them, but his vote was only effective in one case, that of the gallant Hugh O’Neil, the city governor. The rest were condemned, by a majority, to die; and it was not without a tear lie beheld that long file of brave and resolute men led forth to the scaffold. Driest and layman, soldier and citizen, were alike sacrificed, and for no crime save that of loving and defending their native land. And what English man, thought he, would not readily bo guilty of the same offence ? All passed silently from the death-chamber; all, save one, a venerable man, who, with bather Woulfe, was arrested in the lazar-house while administering the last sacraments of the Church to its plague stricken inmates, soon to lie deprived of all spiritual ministry. Herbert thought he recognized him, as he stood erect and fearless in the council-hall, and hand pointed toward heaven, summoning Ireton to meet him, ere a month, at its judgment bar. He had certainly seen him before, l\nf dviaoprul pAi*p(A f ri r\ *4 nnt i qq now, in purple. Nay, if he remembered rightly, lie had beeu Eily’s confessor, and, with the parish clergyman’s permission, had married them privately iu the church of St. Saviour, having first obtained a promise, freely granted by Herbert, that the children of that union, if such there were, should be brought up in the religion of the mother. What would he not have done to preserve the life of that venera ble, heavenly-looking man! The last of Ircton’s victims was one whose presence among the condemned he witnessed with astonishment. He had seen him closeted for hours with that same Ireton; and knew him to have been promised lands aud money for certain services to he ren dered to the general. But treachery was met with treachery; and Fennell, tho traitor, ended his days on the same scaf fold with Terence O’Brien, the bishop and martyr. The last guard wa9 relieved on the day of execution—it was the eve of All-llal lows—and the clock of the town-hall was just chiming midnight as Herbert, who was the officer of the night, commenced his rounds. As he passed along, in silence and alone, by the Dean’s Close, on his way to the castle barracks, he was suddenly stopped, at the head of an arch ed passage, over which an oil lamp feebly flickered, by an individual closely wrapped up in a large, dark frieze over-coat. To draw his sword was his first impulse; hut a single glance at that wan face, whose gaze was sadly fixed upon him, changed Ins purpose in an instant. And, though armed to the teeth, he trembled in pre sence of that defenceless old man, and stood in silence before him. “Don’t you know me, Walter ?” said the stranger. “Alas! too well,” was his reply. “But can l hope that you will ever forgive me V * “My creed toils me to forgive even my enemies—but I believe you never meant to he such”—and the old man extended his hand to Herbert They stood alone—with no eye upon them save that of the all-seeing One, and, in his presence, Walter tell on his knees, protesting his purity of intention, and asking the old man’s blessing. And Conner O’Brien, for it was he, with head uncovered, blessed the stranger for the first time, and, raising him up, clasped him to his bosom as his son—the husband of his darling Eily, now sleeping with her mother in Killely. Herbert was about to respond, with a No. 4.