Its very ruins now are lost, its site is waste and lonc,
And if you seek for giants there, they are all dead and gone.
The giant's daughter once came forth the castle-gate be-
fore,

And played with all a child's delight, beside her father's door;

Then sauntering down the precipice, the girl did gladly go, To see, perchance, how matters went in the little world

below.

With few and easy steps she passed the mountain and the

wood;

At length near Haslach, at the place where mankind dwelt, she stood;

And many a town and village fair, and many a field so

green,

Before her wondering eyes appeared a strange and curious

scene.

And as she gazed, in wonder lost, on all the scene around, She saw a peasant at her feet, a-tilling of the ground; The little creature crawled about so slowly here and there, And, lighted by the morning sun, his plough shone bright and fair.

"O, pretty plaything!" cried the child, "I'll take thee home with me;"

Then with her infant hands she spread her kerchief on her knee,

And cradling horse, and man, and plough, all gently on

her arm,

She bore them home with cautious steps, afraid to do them harm:

She hastes with joyous steps and quick (we know what children are),

And spying soon her father out, she shouted from afar—

"O father, dearest father, such a plaything I have found, I never saw so fair a one on all our mountain ground." Her father sat at table then, and drank his wine so mild, And, smiling with a parent's smile, he asks the happy child

"What struggling creature hast thou brought so carefully

to me?

Thou leap'st for very joy, my girl; come, open, let us see." She opes her kerchief carefully, and gladly, you may deem, And shows her eager sire the plough, the peasant, and his

team;

And when she'd placed before his sight the new-found

pretty toy,

She clasped her hands, and screamed aloud, and cried for

very joy.

But her father looked quite seriously, and shaking slow

his head,

"What hast thou brought me home, my child? This is no toy," he said;

"Go, take it quickly back again, and put it down below; The peasant is no plaything, girl-how could'st thou think him so?

So go, without a sigh or sob, and do my will," he said; "For know, without the peasant, girl, we none of us had bread;

"Tis from the peasant's hardy stock the race of giants are, The peasant is no plaything, child-no, God forbid he

were!"

RICHARDSON.

ADARE.

O SWEET Adare! O lovely vale!

O soft retreat of sylvan splendour! Nor summer sun, nor morning gale,

E'er hailed a scene more softly tender. How shall I tell the thousand charms

Within thy verdant bosom dwelling, Where lulled in Nature's fost❜ring arms,

Soft peace abides and joy excelling!

Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn
The slumbering boughs your song awaken,
Or linger o'er the silent lawn,

With odour of the harebell taken.
Thou rising sun, how richly gleams

Thy smile from far Knockfierna's mountain, O'er waving woods and bounding streams, And many a grove and glancing fountain.

In sweet Adare, the jocund spring

His notes of odorous joy is breathing, The wild birds in the woodland sing,

The wild-flowers in the vale are breathing.

There winds the Mague, as silver clear,

Among the elms so sweetly flowing,

There, fragrant in the early year,

Wild roses on the banks are blowing.

The wild duck seeks the sedgy bank,
Or dives beneath the glistening billow,
Where graceful droop and clustering dank
The osier bright and rustling willow.

The hawthorn scents the leafy dale,
In thicket lone the stag is belling,
And sweet along the echoing vale

The sound of vernal joy is swelling.

GRIFFIN.

MORNING'S DAWN.

THERE is a soft and fragrant hour-
Sweet, fresh, reviving, is its power;
'Tis when a ray

Steals from the veil of parting night,
And by its mild prelusive light,
Foretells the day.

'Tis when some ling'ring stars scarce shed O'er the mist-clad mountain's head

Their fairy beam;

Then one by one, retiring, shroud,
Dim glitt'ring through a fleecy cloud,
Their last faint gleam.

'Tis when, just waked from transient death
By some fresh zephy'rs balmy breath,
The unfolding rose

Sheds on the air its rich perfume,

While

every bud with deeper bloom
And beauty glows.

"Tis when fond nature, genial power!

Weeps o'er each drooping night-closed flower,
While softly fly

Those doubtful mists, that leave to view
Each glowing scene of various hue
That charms the eye.

"Tis when the restless child of sorrow,
Watching the wished-for rising morrow,
His couch foregoes,

And seeks, 'midst scenes so sweet, so mild,
To soothe those pangs so keen, so wild,
Of hopeless woes.

Nor day, nor night, this hour can claim ;
Nor moonlight ray, nor noontide beam,
Does it betray;

But fresh, reviving, dewy, sweet,

It hastes the glowing hours to meet
Of rising day.

MORGAN.

THE HAUNTED SPRING.

GAILY through the mountain glen

The hunter's horn did ring,

As the milk-white doe

Escaped his bow,

Down by the haunted spring.

In vain his silver horn he wound,-

"Twas echo answered back;

For neither groom nor baying hound
Were on the hunter's track;

In vain he sought the milk-white doe

That made him stray, and 'scaped his bow,