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The Cromlech.-Grace and Dermot.

Unmoved, she saw the train go by,
If Dermot's crest caught not her eye;
The wine was tasteless at the board,
Save Dermot's hand the goblet pour'd;
The song
fell on a listless ear

If Dermot's voice she did not hear,
And Dermot's was the only word
That all her heart's wild pulses stirr'd.

Long had she striven with maiden zeal,
This strange sweet gladness to conceal ;
Long had she struggled with this pain,
Long had she school'd her heart in vain;
The mutual glance, the frequent sigh,
The ready blush, the averted eye,
The wish to hide but plain revealed
What each from other had concealed.

Till vanquished pride, her towers o'erthrown,
The useless spear and shield threw down ;
Love, mightier than pomp or pride,
The frowns of fate and kin defied,
And Dermot, hated of her race,
Won to his arms the Lady Grace.

Dread was the hour and dark the night,
When the young lovers took their flight;
Yet rusty bolt, and creaking stair,
No hindrance gave unto the pair,
For love had bidden both be mute
At sound of lover's flying foot.

So, silently, the ponderous bar
Withdrew, and flung the gates ajar,
And silently the sullen chain
Dropped back into its place again;
Safely the slippery moat they pass'd,
And now tis o'er, they're free at last.
"Where shall I shelter this dear head?”

Thus Dermot to the lady said,
"No castled keep, alas! have I,
To which with thee, my love, I'd fly,
No followers to guard thy feet,

Oh! whither shall I bear thee, sweet.”

The lady sank upon the heath,
With paling cheek, and failing breath,
"My Dermot," then at last she sigh'd,
"In yon dark tomb with thee I'll hide,
The grave itself, tho' cold and dread,
Is welcome shared with thee." She said,
“I have no fears while thou art nigh,
E'en in its charnel house to lie.”

And so like hunted birds they rest,
None dared their sacred peace molest,
For angels guard on every side,

The place where love and death abide ;
There, safe 'neath love's dear shield they lay,
Till the muir-cock proclaimed the day.

FUNERAL OF LORD MAYO.

(Viceroy of India).

Assassinated 8th February, 1872; buried in Dublin.

LOW through our crowded capital passes a mourning throng,

We should have bidden thee welcome, with voice of harp and

song;

Now we but grant thee such farewell, as to crowned king might belong.

Thou wert the stateliest scion of the great De Burgho's line, Ne'er glowed a loftier spirit, nor kindlier heart than thine, Noble by birth and lineage, and the grace of God Divine.

Funeral of Lord Mayo.

23

Thy rule, the rule of mercy-thy cause, the cause of right, Thou hast left thy land a memory with deeds of virtue white,

With diamond writ on her records, thine honour'd name burns bright.

Others have conquered countries, but thou didst conquer

men,

Thy sword was the voice of kindness, thy spear the gifted pen;

Weep India, thy friend and lover, who will show thee his like again?

There were some who dared to doubt thee, yet who came to see at last,

That to hands both wise and gentle an Empire's rule had

past;

Great son of Erin! all honour that men could give, thou hast.

Were there no clouds portentous in the watching heavens that day?

Was there no voice uplifted, that deadly stroke to stay? Woe to the wretch who smote thee, his name be curst

alway.

Dead! yet methinks such dying were nobler than other's

life, But, alas for the orphan children, and alas! for the widowed wife;

The blood of a father and husband crimsoned that fatal

knife.

And, alas! for the land bereavèd, which to-day awe-stricken

stands,

The brows of our swart cheek'd sister are bound with funeral bands!

And tho' oceans roll between us, one sorrow links our hands.

"now

CHARLES LEVER.

(Died at Trieste, of heart disease).

OW cracks a kindly heart"-its labours o'er-
Now sets a star that never more may rise;
Hushed is the genial voice we hear no more,

And quenched the light for ever in those eyes;
Thine Erin weeps thee with a plaintive moan—
Alas! too soon for her thy work is done.

Sore she bewails thee with a mother's tears,
But lately were her funeral weeds put on
For him, the noblest man among his peers,

And now she mourns another honoured son ;
Doubly bereaved, with downcast face she stands,
Burke's sword and Lever's pencil in her hands.

A household friend wert thou, whose genial mirth
Bade care, with all its sable train, depart;
Welcome alike to all-at board or hearth
Laughter awaking in the saddest heart;
Solace of heavy hours-alas! that we
No more thy genial smile may kindling see!

Under Trieste's soft skies thy form reposes;

'Tis meet that thou should'st lie 'mid scenes so fair,
But England strews thy bed with June's blush roses,
And Ireland's shamrock clusters fondly there;
No matter where thy bones, thy soul must be
At home with us, who loved thee o'er the sea.

All that is mortal mingles with the dust,

But what is deathless none to dust may give;
Weapons were thine no time can ever rust,

And in our happiest memories these shall live :
Perchance, not all too soon thy doom was spoken,
For, ah!* the mainspring of thy life was broken.

* See Dedication to his Wife of "Lord Kilgobbin"-his last Work.

Mary's Story.

When she who still inspired thy ready pen,

25

Who watched thy well-earned fame with loving pride,
Passed to the world of spirits-o'er thee then

Death's shadows fell, then ebbed thy heart's full tide,
But trust we now that on that silent coast,
Never to part, have met the loved and lost.

MARY'S STORY,

TOLD BY HER FRIEND ESTHER.

OME here and sit beside this grave, beneath its covering

COME

stone

A flower lies withered. Oh! it was a fair, though blighted

one;

My childhood's play-fellow and friend in bygone happy years, Whose name engraven here I dew with unavailing tears.

And wouldst thou know her history, that dear departed friend?

Look on me, child, and hear her life from dawning to the end. A trusting heart-a loving heart beneath us mouldering lies: Ay, weep! her grave may drink those tears, her dust demands those sighs.

She wedded in her early youth, and on her bridal day

I saw her go with hopeful trust forth on life's shadowy way; Round her there seemed an atmosphere of sunshine and of light.

And her radiant eyes were all aglow with visions passing bright.

A year fled by, and I, her friend, to Mary's dwelling went
To see again my bright-eyed love, to share in her content;
I hastened to the opening door her outstretched arms to
meet-

But one year gone, and yet her brow was printed by its feet.