What a union of all the affections and powers, By which life is exalted, embellished, refined, And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time!— That one lucid interval snatched from the gloom And the madness of ages, when, filled with his soul, Who, that ever hath heard him-hath drank at the source In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force, An eloquence, rich-wheresoever its wave Wandered free and triumphant-with thoughts that shone through As clear as the brook's 'stone of lustre,' and gave, With the flash of the gem, its solidity too ; Who, that ever approached him, when, free from the crowd, 'Mong the trees which a nation had giv'n, and which bowed, As if each brought a new civic crown for his head,— That home, where-like him who, as fable hath told, Put the rays from his brow, that his child might come nearEvery glory forgot, the most wise of the old Became all that the simplest and youngest hold dear : Is there one who has thus, through his orbit of life, But at distance observed him, through glory, through blame, In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife, Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same? Such a union of all that enriches life's hour, Of the sweetness we love and the greatness we praise, As that type of simplicity blended with power, A child with a thunderbolt, only portrays.— Oh no-not a heart that e'er knew him but mourns, SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well, While but to feel how fair is mine! Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, And long may light around thee smile, As soft as on that evening fell When first I saw thy fairy isle ! Thou wert too lovely then for one Who had to turn to paths of careWho had through vulgar crowds to run, And leave thee bright and silent there: No more along thy shores to come, But on the world's dim 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 dos not look, as then, too blest, But in thy shadows seem'st a place Where weary man might hope to rest Might hope to rest, and find in thee Weeping or smiling, lovely isle! And still the lovelier for thy tearsFor 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, divineThe steadiest light the sun e'er threw Is lifeless to one gleam of thine? 'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS. "TWAS one of those dreams that by music are brought, And all of this life but its sweetness is gone The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those He listened-while high o'er the eagle's rude nest It seemed as if every sweet note that died here Oh forgive, if, while listening to music whose breath 'Even so, though thy memory should now die away, FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE. FAIREST! put on awhile These pinions of light I bring thee, In fancy let me wing thee. As I shall waft thee over. Rocks, through myrtle boughs, That Love hath just been crowning. Islets so freshly fair That never hath bird come nigh them, But, from his course through air, Hath been won downward by them1Types, sweet maid, of thee, Whose lcok, whose blush inviting, Never did Love yet see From heaven, without alighting. In describing the Skeligs (islands of the barony of Forth) Dr. Keating says: "There is a ertain attractive virtue in the soil, which draws down all the birds that attem-t to fly over it, nd obliges them to light upon the rock.' AND doth not a meeting like this make amends What softened remembrances come o'er the heart, 1 'Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind their ears. and this we find confirmed by a present made, A.D. 1094, by Gilbert Bishop of Limerick to Anselm Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls,'O'Halloran. As letters some hand hath invisibly traced, When held to the flame will steal out on the sight, So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced The warmth of a meeting like this brings to light. And thus, as in Memory's bark we shall glide That once made a garden of all the gay shore, 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. 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, That fast as a feeling but touches one link, Her magic shall send it direct through the chain. THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE. IN yonder valley there dwelt, alone, A youth, whose life all had calmly flown, Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night, He was haunted and watched by a Mountain Sprite. As he, by moonlight, went wandering o'er The golden sands of that island shore, A footprint sparkled before his sight, 'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite. Beside a fountain, one sunny day, As, looking down on the stream, he lay, Behind him stole two eyes of light, And he saw in the clear wave the Mountain Sprite. He turned-but lo, like a startled bird, The Spirit fled-and he only heard |