her sufferings and tears. He himself was a man of sorrow and much grief. In his latter days he carried about with him a bleeding heart, which thereby was rendered all the more sensitive to the pains and woes of others. Silently he suffered the throes of mental agony that shook his well-knit frame; yet betimes would his grief find expression in lines like these:

No kindly counsel of a friend

With soothing balm the hurt can mend;

I walk alone in grief, and make

My bitter moan for her dear sake,
For loss of love is man's worst woe,
And I am suffering, and I know.

Earth, air and sun, and moon and star,
Of man's strange soul but mirrors are,
Bright when the soul is bright, and dark
As now, without one saving spar,
While the black tides of sorrow flow;

And I am suffering, and I know.

This pathetic little song, found in "The Despair of Cuhullin," is nothing but an outward expression

of the grief that drove the strong, sweet singer to an

untimely grave.

In the spring of 1883 he sickened, and died in the Fall of the same year. Followed by the esteem of her most distinguished citizens, and bearing with him the deep affection of the poor whom he had served, Dr. Joyce left Boston for Ireland early in September, 1883. The close of the next month witnessed his burial in the cemetery of Glasnevin.

About one month before his departure for Ireland the writer, in company with a mutual friend, visited Dr. Joyce in his rooms, on Chambers street, in Boston, and enjoyed his conversation for a space of two hours. Though but the shadow of his former self, he yet seemed vigorous, and talked eloquently nearly all the time. After some remarks relating to his forthcoming trip to Ireland, he changed the conversation over to Irish history and literature. His ruling passion was still strong.

The gentleman who accompanied the writer said: "Come what may, Doctor, you have left your impress on the literature of our native land, and established a lasting fame."

"Fame, I suppose," the writer remarked, "affords very poor consolation to a man when about to close his eyes to earthly things."

"On that point," rejoined the poet, "I do not agree with you. I think it affords one great consola

tion. It is a great deal to leave behind a name that is likely to be cherished in the hearts of a grateful people.

"I do not, however," he continued, "draw all my consolation from that source. The priest was with me yesterday, and I am prepared for any kind of a journey now. If the worst comes, I am not without hope of a happy resurrection."

It is more than a quarter of a century since, under the signature of "Feardana," Dr. Joyce's first verses appeared in The Harp, a magazine then published in the City of Cork, under the editorial management of M. J. McCann the gifted author of "O'Donnell Aboo." The force and spirit of his verses attracted general attention among the Nationalists, and his pen soon found employment in the columns of the Hibernian Magazine also. "The Blacksmith of Limerick," which appeared at this period, gained for him a wide popularity, and established his reputation as a poet on a firm and enduring basis. He became a regular contributor to the Dublin Nation; and the London Universal News, edited at that time by the late John Francis O'Donnell, eagerly sought the productions of his pen, for which he was well paid in all instances. It was not in the domain of poetry alone that "Feardana" (the song-maker) excelled; he also wrote racy sketches for the press. A very interesting novel "The Squire of Castleton," which

appeared as a serial in the Dublin Irishman, received high praise from the critics, and the opinion prevails that, had he devoted his time and talents to fiction instead of medicine, he would have outrivaled Samuel Lover as a novelist. His "Irish Fireside Tales" and "Legends of the Wars in Ireland," collected and compiled during the busiest period of his professional career, are replete with genuine Irish wit and humor. These works added to the fastincreasing popularity of the author, and from them the publisher reaped a rich harvest.

The writer of this sketch can never forget the impression made upon his mind by the perusal of our author's "Ballads of Irish Chivalry, Songs and Poems," when they first appeared in 1872, from the press of Patrick Donahoe, Boston. This work, which was well received at home and abroad, contained all the poems written by Dr. Joyce up to that date.

The appearance of this volume it was that evoked the following beautiful tribute from the brilliant Bard of Thomond, Michael O'Hogan:

TO ROBERT D. JOYCE,

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS POEMS.

BOLD master of the Irish lyre! sweet mouth of song, all hail! Feardana of the lofty verse! Ard Filea of the Gael!

As joys the thirsty traveler when a pure spring trickles near, So burst thy living numbers on my soul's enraptured ear!

The silent, cloud-robed grandeur of the mountain solitude,
The bowery vale, the flowery plain, the emerald-vested wood;
The gaping breach, the 'leaguered town, the reckless battle-
throng-

All glow before my spirit, in the pictures of thy song!

The mystic Spirit-world, with its fairy splendor gay,
Thy daring genius has unlocked with Poesy's magic key;
The sun-ray'd jewels of Romance, with all their pristine light,
Burst, flashing from thy wizard pen, upon our charmèd sight!

Sweet Ollav of the golden lay! oh, would my simple praise
Add one bright floweret to the crown of thy immortal bays,
And place thy brilliant page-a gem-in every Irish hand—
Feardana of romantic song were honored in our land!

Then pour upon thy country's ear thy harp-notes wild and strong,

And melt into our burning hearts the jewels of thy song;

And let thy eagle Muse tower up to heaven, on flashing wing, "Till Erin, with admiring soul, delights to hear thee sing!

Here, by old Shannon's noble flood, I drink thy tuneful lore,
And, as my spirit quaffs thy strain, I thirst and long for more!
Back on the spring-tide of thy verse I float to olden times,
And bathe my fancy in the rays of radiant Fairy climes!

"Deirdre" and "Blanid" are, however, the works on which the fame of Dr. Joyce securely rests. They are the crowning glory of his labors. The former has been pronounced by no less a critic than James Russell Lowell "the greatest epic of the nineteenth century."