JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY was born at Dowth JOHN Castle, County Meath, Ireland, on June 28, 1844. After serving an early apprenticeship to journalism on the Drogheda Argus, he removed, at the age of seventeen, to England, where he continued his journalistic work. When only eighteen years old he enlisted as a trooper in the Tenth Hussars, otherwise known as the "Prince of Wales' Own." While there he became an apostle of revolutionary doctrines, was arrested for high treason, and in June, 1866, was sentenced to death. The sentence was afterward commuted to twenty years' penal servitude. He was confined, in various English prisons until October, 1867, when he, with several other political convicts, was transported to finish his sentence in the penal colonies of West Australia. After enduring prison life there for about a year, he made his escape in an open boat, was picked up at sea by the American whaling bark "Gazelle," and finally reached Philadelphia, in November, 1869. In July, 1870, he became editor of the Boston Pilot, of which he is at present editor and co-proprietor. 64 Mr. O'Reilly's literary career dates from his arrival in America. He first attracted attention by his original and powerful ballads of Australian life. The Amber Whale," "Dukite Snake," "Dog Guard," "Monster Diamond," "King of the Vasse," and others, following in quick succession, showed to the world of readers that a new and virile singer had come to be heard. It is worth remembering that it was not then as it is now in the literary life of Boston. It is less than twenty years since, but long enough for a wholly different school of poetry to have arisen. Then, it may be safely said, it required a voice of more than common strength and melody to reach the ear of the world. Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier, Lowell, Bryant, were all doing work worthy of their prime. Bret Harte, with his fresh strong lyrics, and Joaquin Miller, crowned with the praise of London critics, seemed to have prëempted whatever field there might be for new singers. There was no room for another bard, except where room always is, at the top. The unknown youth, with no credentials but his talents, came with an unfashionable Irish name into a community which did not then discriminate too kindly in favor of a political convict whose politics were of the Fenian persuasion. Yet he took almost at once the place that was his by right of genius, in a literary circle which is always jealous, but never narrow, in defining its boundaries. Mr. O'Reilly's work is known to all readers. He prefers to be known by it and through it. wise one might be tempted to write indefinitely of his personal character, his unbounded popularity with all classes, his catholic sympathy with the oppressed and suffering of every class, creed and Other 44 color his healthy, robustness, mental and physical. But all these are patent in his writings, which reflect the man as in a mirror. In the scant leisure of an active journalist's busy life, supplemented by unceasing and earnest labors in the cause of Irish nationality, he has found time to write half a dozen or more books, including his 'Songs of the Southern Seas," published in 1873; Songs, Legends and Ballads," in 1878; "Moondyne," a novel, in 1879; "Statues in the Block, and Other Poems," in 1881; "In Bohemia," in 1886; "The Ethics of Boxing and Manly Sport," "Stories and Sketches," in 1888; and one or two volumes as yet unpublished. J. J. R. THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES. An incident of the flood in Massachusetts, on May 16, 1874. The peaceful valley has waked and stirred, As they glance aside at the white-walled homes, What was it, that passed like an ominous breath-- The air of the valley has felt the chill: God! what was that, like a human shriek Whence come they? Listen! And now they hear The sound of the galloping horse-hoofs near; "To the hills for your lives! The flood is behind !” A monster in aspect, with shaggy front hoarse, The merciless Terror fills the course Of the narrow valley, and rushing raves, With Death on the first of its hissing waves, Till cottage and street and crowded mill Are crumbled and crushed. But onward still, In front of the roaring flood is heard When heroes are called for, bring the crown JACQUEMINOTS. I MAY not speak in words, dear, but let my words be flowers, To tell their crimson secret in leaves of fragrant fire, They plead for smiles and kisses as summer fields for showers. And every purple veinlet thrills with exquisite desire. O, let me see the glance, dear, the gleam of soft confession, You give my amorous roses for the tender hope they prove; And press their heart-leaves back, love, to drink their deeper passion, For their sweetest, wildest perfume is the whisper of my love! My roses, tell her, pleading, all the fondness and the sighing, All the longing of a heart that reaches thirsting for its bliss ; And tell her, tell her, roses, that my lips and eyes are dying For the melting of her love-look and the rapture of her kiss. A LOST FRIEND. My friend he was; my friend from all the rest; I gave him love for love; but, deep within, Alone, of all men, I who knew him best, At last it came- the day he stood apart, Too late! too late! Oh, could he then have known, When his love died, that mine had perfect grown; That when the veil was drawn, abased, chastised, The censor stood, the lost one truly prized. Too late we learn -a man must hold his friend Unjudged, accepted, trusted to the end. IN BOHEMIA. I'd rather live in Bohemia than in any other land; With the names that are writ in the book of gold; land; There are no titles inherited there, No hoard or hope for the brainless heir; No gilded dullard native born To stare at his fellow with leaden scorn: Bohemia has none but adopted sons; Its limits, where Fancy's bright stream runs; grasp of a friendly hand, And I'd rather live in Bohemia than in any other land. A TRAGEDY. A SOFT-BREASTED bird from the sea And it wheeled round the tower on its airiest wing, For the flame had its heart afar,- It was thinking of children and waiting wives, A WHITE ROSE. THE red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love; Oh, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove. But I send you a cream-white rosebud For the love that is purest and sweetest AUSTRALIA. NATION of sun and sin, Thy flowers and crimes are red, Aloes and myrrh and tears REMORSE. I REMEMBER when I was a boy For the burdens the rich endure; But the patient lives of the poor. A man will trust another man, and show FATE. Soldier, why do you shrink from the hiss of the hungry lead? The bullet that whizzed is past: the approaching ball is dumb. Stand straight! you cannot shrink from Fate: let it come! A comrade in front may hear it whizz- when you are dead. CONSTANCY. "You gave me the key of your heart, my love; Then why do you make me knock?" "O, that was yesterday, Saints above! And last night-I changed the lock!" |