WREATH THE BOWL.

WREATH the howl

With flowers of soul,

The brightest Wit can find us
We'll take a flight

Toward heaven to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us.
Should Love amid

The wreaths be hid,

That Joy, th' enchanter, brings us, No danger fear,

While wine is near,

We'll drown him if he stings us;

Then, wreath the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight

Toward heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.

'Twas nectar fed
Of old, 'tis said,
Their Junos, Joves, Apollos;
And man may brew

His nectar too,

The rich receipt's as follows:
Take wine like this,
Let looks of bliss

Around it well be blended,

Then bring Wit's beam
To warm the stream,

And there's your nectar, splendid!
So wreath the bowl
With flowers of soul,

The brightest Wit can find us
We'll take a flight
Toward heaven to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us.

Say, why did Time,
His glass sublime,

Fill up with sands unsightly,

When wine, he knew,
Runs brisker through,

And sparkles far more brightly?
Oh, lend it us,

And, smiling thus,
The glass in two we'll sever,
Make pleasure glide
In double tide,

And fill both ends for ever!

Then wreath the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest Wit can find us; We'll take a flight

Toward heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us,

IF THOU'LT BE MINE.

Ir thou❜lt be mine, the treasures of air,
Of earth, and sea, shall lie at thy feet,
Whatever in Fancy's eye looks fair,

Or in Hope's sweet music sounds most sweet,

Shall be ours-if thou wilt be mine, love!
Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove,
A voice divine shall talk in each stream;
The stars shall look like worlds of love,
And this earth be all one beautiful dream

In our eyes-if thou wilt be mine, love!
And thoughts, whose source is hidden and high,
Like streams, that come from heavenward hills,
Shall keep our hearts, like meads, that lie
To be bathed by those eternal rills,
Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love
All this and more the Spirit of Love

Can breathe o'er them who feel his spells That heaven, which forms his home above, He can make on earth, wherever he dwells,

As thou'lt own-if thou wilt be mine, love!

TO LADIES' EYES.

To ladies' eyes around, boy,

We can't refuse, we cant't refuse, Though bright eyes so abound, boy, "Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose. For thick as stars that lighten

Yon airy bowers, yon airy bowers, The countless eyes that brighten

This earth of ours, this earth of ours. But fill the cup-where'er, boy,

Our choice may fall, our choice may fali, We're sure to find Love there, boy,

So drink them all! so drink them all!

Some looks there are so holy,

They seem but given, they seem but given, As shining beacons solely,

To light to heaven, to light to heaven.
While some-oh! ne'er believe them-
With tempting ray, with tempting ray,
Would lead us (God forgive them!)
The other way, the other way.
But fill the cup-where'er, boy,

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find Love there, boy,

So drink them all! so drink them all!

In some, as in a mirror,

Love seems portrayed, Love seems portrayed,

But shun the flatt'ring error,

"Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade.

Himself has fixed his dwelling

In eyes we know, in eyes we know, And lips-but this is telling-

So here they go! so here they go! Fill up, fill up—where'er, boy,

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find Love there, boy,

So drink them all! so drink them all!

THEY MAY RAIL AT THIS LIFE.

THEY may rail at this life-from the hour I began it,
I found it a life full of kindness and bliss;
And, until they can show me some happier planet,

More social and bright, I'll content me with this.
As long as the world has such lips and such eyes,
As before me this moment enraptured I see,
They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies,
But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

In Mercury's star, where each moment can bring them
New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high,
Though the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them,
They've none, even there, more enamored than I.
And, as long as this harp can be wakened to love,

And that eye its divine inspiration shall be,
They may talk as they will of their Edens above,
But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendor,
At twilight so often we've roamed through the dew,
There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender
And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you.
But though they were even more bright than the queen
Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea,
As I never those fair young celestials have seen,
Why-this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.
As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation.
Where sunshine and smiles must be equally raic.
Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station,
Heaven knows we have plenty on earth we could spare
Oh! think what a world we should have of it here,
If the haters of peace, of affection, and glee,
Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere,
And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me!

Tous les habitans de Mercure sont vifs-Pluralite des Mandes, + La terre pourra être pour Vénus l'étoile du berger et la mère des amours, comme Venus l'est pour nous.-Pluraite des Monden.

FORGET NOT THE FIELD.

FORGET not the field where they perished,

The truest, the last of the brave, All gone-and the bright hope we cherished Gone with thein, and quenched in their grave! Oh! could we from death but recover

Those hearts as they bounded before, In the face of high heaven, to fight over That combat for freedom once more ;Could the cha for an instant be riven Which Tyranny flung round us then, No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven,

To let Tyranny bind it again!

But 'tis past-and, though blazoned in story
The name of our Victor may be,
Accursed is the march of that glory

Which treads o'er the hearts of the free.
Far dearer the grave or the prison,
Illumed by one patriot name,
Than the trophies of all, who have risen
On Liberty's ruins to fame.

SAIL ON, SAIL ON.

SAIL on, sail on, thou fearless bark-
Wherever blows the welcome wind,
It can not lead to scenes more dark,

More sad than those we leave behind.
Each wave that passes seems to say,
"Though death beneath our smile may be,
Less cold we are, less false than they,

Whose smiling wrecked thy hopes and thee."
Sail on, sail on-through endless space-

Through calm-through tempest-stop no more: The stormiest sea's a resting place

To him who leaves such hearts on shore. Or-if some desert land we meet,

Where never yet false-hearted men Profaned a world, that else were sweetThen rest thee, bark, but not till then.

ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY.
ST. SENANUS.

"OH! haste and leave this sacred isle,
Unholy bark, ere morning smile;
For on thy deck, though dark it be,
A female form I see;

And I have sworn this sainted sod
Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod."

THE LADY.

"Oh! Father, send not hence my bark,
Through wintry winds and billows dark:
I come with humble heart to share

Thy morn and evening prayer:
Nor mine the feet, oh! holy Saint,
The brightness of thy sod to taint."
The Lady's prayer Senanus spurned;
The winds blew fresh, the bark returned;
But legends hint, that had the maid
Till morning's light delayed;
And given the saint one rosy smile,
She ne'er had left his lonely isle.

In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kilkenny MS., and may be found among the Acta Sanctorum Hibernia, we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his resolution not to admit any woman of the party; and that he refused to receive even a sister saint, St. Cannera, whom an angel had taken to the island for the express purpose of introducing her to him. The following was the ungracious answer of St. Senanus, according to his poetical biographer:

"Cui Præsul, quid fœminis

Commune est cum monachis?
Nec te nec ullam aliam

Admittemus in insulam."

See the Acta Sanct. Hib., page 610.

According to Dr. Ledwich, St. Sepanus was no less a personage than the river Shannon; but O'Connor and other antiquarians deny the metamorphose indigna atly.

THE PARALLEL.

YES, sad one of Sion, if closely resembling,

In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heartIf drinking deep, deep, of the same "cup of trembling,”Could make us thy children, our parent thou art. Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken, And fallen from her head is the once royal crown; In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken, And "while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down." Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning, Die far from the home it were life to behold; Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning, Remember the bright things that blessed them of old. Ah, well may we call her, like thee, "the Forsaken," Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves; And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken, Have tones 'mid their mirth like the wind over graves! Yet hadst thou thy vengeance-yet came there the morrow, That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night, When the sceptre that smote thee with slavery and sorrow, Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight.

When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City
Had brimmed full of bitterness, drenched her own lips;
And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity,
The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.
When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over
Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust,

And a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover,§
The Lady of Kingdoms¶ lay low in the dust.

DRINK OF THIS CUP.

DRINK of this cup; you'll find there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality.
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Would you forget the dark world we are in,

Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it; But would you rise above earth, till akin

To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it; Send round the cup-for oh, there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality: Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philter formed with such power

To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing; Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,

A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. There having, by Nature's enchantment, been filled With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather, This wonderful juice from its core was distilled

To enliven such hearts as are here brought together.
Then drink of the cup-you'll find there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality:
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
And though, perhaps-but breathe it to no one-
Like liquor the witch brew sat midnight so awful,
This philter in secret was first taught to flow on,
Yet 'ts n't less potent for being unlawful.
And, ev'n though it taste of the smoke of that flame,
Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden-
Fill up there's a fire in some hearts I could name,
Which may work to its charm, though as lawless and
hidden.

So drink of the cup-for oh there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality:
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jews.

"Her sun is gone down while it was yet day."-Jer. xv. 9. "Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken."-Isaiah, lxii. 4. "How hath the oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased!"Isaiah, xiv. 4.

"Thy pomp is brought down to the grave...... and the worms cover thee."-Isaiah xiv. 11.

"Thou shalt no more be cred the Lady of Kingdoms." Isaiah, xlvii. 5.

OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME!

OH for the swords of former time!

Oh for the men who bore them,
When armed, for Right they stood sublime,
And tyrant's crouched before them:
When free yet, ere courts begar.
With honors to enslave him,
The best honors worn by Man

Were those which virtue gave him.
Oh for the swords, &c., &c.

Oh for the Kings who flourished then!
Oh for the pomp that crowned them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men
Were all the ramparts round them:
When, safe built on bosoms true,

The throne was but the centre,
Round which Love a circle drew,
That Treason durst not enter.
Oh for the Kings who flourished then!

Oh for the pomp that crowned them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men
Were all the ramparts round them!

NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.

NE'ER ask the hour-what is it to us
How Time deals out his treasures?

The golden moments lent us thus

Are not his coin, but Pleasure's.

If counting them o'er could add to their blisses,
I'd number each glorious second:

But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,
Too quick and sweet to be reckoned.
Then fill the cup-what is it to us
How Time his circle measures ?
The fairy hours we call up thus,
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,
Till Care, one summer's morning,

Set up, among his smiling flowers,

A dial, by way of warning.

But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun,

As long as its light was glowing,

Than to watch with old Care how the shadow stole on,

And how fast that light was going.

So fill the cup-what is it to us

How Time his circle measures?

The fairy hours we call up thus,
Obey no wand, but Pleasure's.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER. Down in the valley come meet me to-night, And I'll tell you your fortune truly As ever was told, by the new moon's light, To a young maiden, shining as newly. But, for the world, let no one be nigh,

Lest haply the stars should deceive me; Such secrets between you and me and the sky Should never go farther, believe me.

If at that hour the heavens be not dim,
My science shall call up before you
A male apparition-the image of him
Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.
And if to that phantom you'll be kind,
So fondly around you he'll hover,
You'll hardly, my dear, any difference fin
Twix: him and a true living lover.
Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight,
He

kneci, with a warmth of devotionAn ardor, of which such an innocent sprite You'd scarcely believe had a notion. What other thoughts and events may arise, As in destiny's book I've not seen them, Must only be le to the stars and your eyes To settle, ere morning, between them.

OH, YE DEAD!

Oн, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead! whom we know by the light you give

From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live,

Why leave you thus your graves,

In far-off fields and waves,

Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed, To haunt this spot where all

Those eyes that wept your fail,

And the hearts that wailed you, like your own, lie dead?

It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan;
And the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone,
But still thus even in death,

So sweet the living breath

Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wandered o'er, That ere, condemned, we go

To freeze 'mid Hecla's snow,

We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more!

O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS.

Or all the fair months that round the sun
In light-linked dance their circles run,
Sweet May, shine thou for me:

For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,
Sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the bright haunts where daylight leaves
Its lingering smile on golden eves,

Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me:
For when the last April sun grows dim,
Thy Naïads prepare his steed for him
Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee.

Of all the proud steeds that ever bore
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,

White Steed, most joy to thee;

Who still, with the first young glance of spring, From under that glorious lake dost bring

My love, my chief, to me.

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, When newly launched, thy long manet curls,

Fair Steed, as white and free;

And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,
Around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,
Most sweet that death will be,

Which, under the next May evening's light,
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,
Dear love, I'll die for thee.

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.
THE dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,
The night's long hours still find me thinking
Of thee, thee, only thee.

When friends are met, and goblets crowned,
And smiles are near, that once enchanted,
Unreached by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot is haunted

By thee, thee, only thee.

Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some par of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foren lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear im diately.

The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, of more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of May-day, gliding over the lake on his favorite white horse, to the sound of sweet unearthly music, and preceded groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spri flowers in his path.

Among other stories connected with this Legend of the Lakes, is said that there was a young and beautiful girl whose imagina was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning, threw herself into the lake.

The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come an a windy day, crested with foam, "O'Donohue's white horses."

Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit once, is now forsaken

For thee, thee, only thee.

Like shores, by which some headlong bark
To the ocean hurries, resting never,
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever
To thee, thee, only thec.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pa n itself seems sweet when springing
1'rom thee, thee, only thee.

Like spells that naught on earth can break,
Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world may wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
By thee, thee, only thee.

ECHO.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,
And far more sweet,

Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar,
The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,
And only then-

The sigh that's breathed for one to hear, Is by that one, that only dear,

Breathed back again!

OH BANQUET NOT.

OH banquet not in those shining bowers,
Where Youth resorts, but come to me:
For mine's a garden of faded flowers,

More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee.
And there we shall have our feast of tears,
And many a cup in silence pour;
Our guests, the shades of former years,
Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more.
There, while the myrtle's withering boughs
Their lifeless leaves around us shed,
We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,

To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. Or, while some blighted laurel waves Its branches o'er the dreary spot, We'll drink to those neglected graves, Where valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot.

THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE.

IN yonder valley there dwelt, alone,

A youth, whose moments had calmly flown,
Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night,

He was haunted and watched by a Mountain Sprite.

As once, by moonlight, he wandered o'er

The golden sands of that island shore,

A foot-print sparkled before his sight

'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite!

Beside a fountain, one sunny day,

As bending over the stream he lay,
There peeped down o'er him two eyes of light,
And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite.

He turned, but, lo, like a startled bird,
That spirit fled-and the youth but heard
Sweet music, such as marks the flight

Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite.

One night, still haunted by that bright look,
The boy, bewildered, his pencil took,
And, guided only by memory's light,

Drew he once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite.

"Oh thou, who lovest the shadow," cried A voice, low whispering by his side,

"Now turn and see,"-here the youth's delight Sealed the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.

"Of all the Spirits of land and sea,"

Then rapt he murmured, "there's none like thee, "And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light

In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite!"

SWEET INNISFALLEN.

SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well,

May calm and sunshine long be thine!
How fair thou art let others tell-
To feel how fair shall long be mine.
Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell

In memory's dream that sunny smile,
Which o'er thee on that evening fell,
When first I saw thy fairy isle.
"Twas light, indeed, top blest for one,
Who had to turn to paths of care-
Through crowded haunts again to run,
And leave thee bright and silent there;
No more unto thy shores to come,
But, on the world's rude ocean tost,
Dream of thee sometimes, as a home
Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hours
To part from thee, as I do now,
When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers,
Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.
For, though unrivalled still thy grace,
Thou dost not look, as then, too blest,
But thus in shadow, seem'st a place
Where erring man might hope to rest-
Might hope to rest, and find in thee
A gloom like Eden's, on the day
He left its shade, when every tree,
Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.
Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!

And all the lovelier for thy tears-
For though but rare thy sunny smile,
'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears.
Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few,

But, when indeed they come, divine-The brightest light the sun e'er threw Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!

QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND.

QUICK! We have but a second,

Fill round the cup, while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,
And we must away, away!
Grasp the pleasure that's flying,
For oh, not Orpheus' strain
Could keep sweet hours from dying,
Or charm them to life again.

Then, quick! we have but a second,
Fill round the cup, while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,
And we must away, away!

See the glass, how it flushe
Like some young Hebe's p,
And half meets thine, and blushes
That thou shouldst delay to sip.
Shame, oh shame unto thee,

If ever thou seest that day,
When a cup or lip shall woo thee,
And turn untouched away!

Then, quick we have but a second,
Fill round, fill round, while you may
For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,
And we must away, away!

FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE.

FAIREST! put on awhile

These pinions of light I bring thee,
And o'er thine own Green Isle

In fancy let me wing thee.
Never did Ariel's plume,
At golden sunset hover
O'er scenes so full of bloom,
As I shall waft thee over.
Fields, where the Spring delays,
And fearlessly meets the ardor
Of the warm Summer's gaze,

With only her tears to guard her.
Rocks, through myrtle boughs

In grace majestic frowning; Like some bold warrior's brows

That Love hath just been crowning.

Islets, so freshly fair,

That never hath bird come nigh them, But from his course through air

He hath been won down by them ;Types, sweet maid of thee,

Whose look, whose blush inviting, Never did Love yet see

From Heaven, without alighting.

Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,t

And caves, where the gem is sleeping,

Bright as the tears thy lid

Lets fall in lonely weeping.

Glens, where Ocean comes,

To 'scape the wild wind's rancor, And Harbors, worthiest homes

Where Freedom's fleet can anchor.

Then, if, while scenes so grand,

So beautiful, shine before thee, Pride for thy own dear land

Should haply be stealing o'er thee, Oh, let grief come first,

O'er pride itself victoriousThinking how man hath curst

What Heaven had made so glorious!

OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING.

Oн, the sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files arrayed

With helm and blade,

And plumes, in the gay wind dancing!
When hearts are all high beating,
And the trumpet's voice repeating
That song, whose breath
May lead to death,

But never to retreating.

Oh the sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing

O'er files arrayed,

With helm and blade,

And plumes, in the gay wind dancing.

Yet, 'tis not helm or feather-
For ask yon despot, whether
His plumed bands

Could bring such hands
And hearts as ours together.

Leave pomps to those who need 'em-
Give man but heart and freedom,
And proud he braves

The gaudiest slaves

That crawl where monarchs lead 'em.

in aescribing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth), Dr. Keating says, "There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil, which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and bliges them to light upon the rock."

"Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them Sehind their ears: and this we find confirmed by a present made A. C. 1094. by Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls."-O'HalLoran.

* Glengarif

The sword may pierce the beaver,
Stone walls in time may sever,
'Tis mind alone,

Worth steel and stone,
That keeps men free for ever.
Oh that sight entrancing,

When the morning's beam is glancing, O'er files arrayed

With helm and blade,

And in Freedom's cause advancing!

AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS. AND doth not a meeting like this make amends,

For all the long years I've been wandering awayTo see thus around me my youth's early friends, As smiling and kind as in that happy day? Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine, The snow-fall of time may be stealing-what then? Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,

We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again. What softened remembrances come o'er the heart, In gazing on those we've been lost to so long! The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part, Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng, As letters some hand hath invisible traced,

When held to the flame will steal out on the sight, So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced, The warmth of a moment like this brings to light. And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide, To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide, The wreck of full many a hope shining through; Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers,

That once made a garden of all the gay shore, Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours, And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more. So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most, Is all we can have of the few we hold dear; And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,

For want of some heart, that could echo it, near. Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone, To meet in some world of more permanent bliss, For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on, Is all we enjoy of each other in this.†

But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart,

The more we should welcome and bless them the more; They're ours, when we meet-they are lost when we part, Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,

Let Sympathy pledge us, through pleasure, through pain. Then, fast as a feeling but touches one link,

Her magic shall send it direct through the chain.

"TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS.‡

TWAS one of those dreams, that by music are brought,
Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought-
When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.

The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those
He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes,
And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er
From Dinis' green isle, to Glena's wooded shore.

He listened-while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest,
The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest;
And the echoes sung back from their full mountain chos,
As if loth to let song so enchanting expire.

"Jours charmans, quand je songe a vos heureux instans,
Je pense remonter le fleuve de mes ans ;

Et mon cœur, enchante sur sa rive fleurie, Respire encore l'air pur du matin de la vie." The same thought has been happily expressed by my friend Mr Washington Irving, in his Bracebridge Hall, vol. i. p 213 The sincere pleasure which I feel in calling this gentleman my friend is much enhanced by the reflection that he is too good an American to have admitted me so readily to such a distinction, if he had not known that my feelings toward the great and free counter that gave him birth, have been long such as every real lover of the liberty and happiness of the human race must entertain.

Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Killarney.