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 Heav'n, without alighting

Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,2

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 victorious—
Thinking how man hath cursed

What Heaven had made so glorious!

QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND.

QUICK! We have but a second,

Fill round the cup, while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd,

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 beckon'd,
And we must away, away!

See the glass, how it flushes,
Like some young Hebe's lip,
And half meets thine, and blushes

That thou shouldst delay to sip.

In describing the Skeligs, (islands of the Barony of Forth,) Dr. Keating says, "There is a certain attractive virthe in the soil which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges 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 behind their ears; and this we find confirmed by a present made A. C. 1094, by Gilbert, Bishop of

Shame, oh shame unto thee,

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

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

AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS.

AND doth not a meeting like this make amends,
For all the long years I've been wand'ring away-
To 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 soften'd 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 invisibly traced,

When held to the flame will steal out on the sight, So many a feeling, that long seem'd 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,
Thought 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.

Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a con siderable quantity of Irish pearls."-O'Halloran.

3 Glengariff.

4 Jours charmans. quand je songe à vos heureux in ans,
Je pense remonter le fleuve de mes ans ;
Et mon cœur, enchanté sur sa rive fleurie,
Respire encore l'air pur du matin de la vie.

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, hast'ning 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, thro' pleasure, thro' pain, That, fast as a feeling but touches one link,

Her magic shall send it direct thro' the chain.

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 watch'd by a Mountain Sprite.

As once, by moonlight, he wander'd 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 peep'd down o'er him two eyes of light,
And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite.

He turn'd, 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, bewilder'd, his pencil took,
And, guided only by memory's light,

Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite.

"Oh thou, who lovest the shadow," cried A voice, low whisp'ring by his side,

1 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 towards the great and free country that gave him birth, have been long such as every real lover of the liberty and happiness of the human race must entertain.

"Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had acci

dentally been so engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependents, called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which be could not subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable degradation of his family."-Leland, vol. ii.

To thy door by Love lighted,

I first saw those eyes. Some voice whisper'd o'er me, As the threshold I cross'd, There was ruin before me, If I loved, I was lost.

Love came, and brought sorrow
Too soon in his train;
Yet so sweet, that to-morrow

"Twere welcome again. Though misery's full measure My portion should be,

1 would drain it with pleasure, I pour'd out by thee.

You, who call it dishonor

To bow to this flame,

If you've eyes, look but on her,
And blush while you blame.
Hath the pearl less whiteness
Because of its birth?
Hath the violet less brightness
For growing near earth?

No-Man for his glory

To ancestry flies;
But Woman's bright story

Is told in her eyes.

While the Monarch but traces

Through mortals his line, Beauty, born of the Graces, Ranks next to Divine!

THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

THEY know not my heart, who believe there can be
One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;
Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour,
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flow'r,

I could harm what I love,-as the sun's wanton ray

But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.

1 These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. "In the midst of these gloomy regions of Donegall (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every country in Europe."

No-beaming with light as those young features

are,

There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far:

It is not that cheek-'tis the soul dawning clear Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear; As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair, Is look'd up to the more, because Heaven lies there!

I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE.

I WISH I was by that dim Lake,'

Where sinful souls their farewell take
Of this vain world, and half-way lie
In death's cold shadow, ere they die.
There, there, far from thee,
Deceitful world, my home should be ;
Where, come what might of gloom and pair,
False hope should ne'er deceive again.

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound
Of unseen waters falling round;
The dry leaves, quiv'ring o'er my head,
Like man, unquiet ev'n when dead!
These, ay, these shall wean

My soul from life's deluding scene,

And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom, Like willows, downward tow'rds the tomb.

As they, who to their couch at night
Would win repose, first quench the light,
So must the hopes, that keep this breast
Awake, be quench'd, ere it can rest.
Cold, cold, this heart must grow,

Unmoved by either joy or wo,

Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown Within their current turns to stone.

SHE SUNG OF LOVE.

SHE sung of Love, while o'er her lyre The rosy rays of evening fell,

"It was," as the same writer tells us, "one of the most dismal and dreary spots in the North, almost inaccessible, through deep glens and rugged mountains, frightful with impending rocks, and the hollow murmurs of the western winds in dark caverns, peopled only with such fantastic beings as the mind, however gay, is, from strange association, wont to appropriate to such gloomy scenes."--Strictures on the Ecclesiastical and Literary History of Ireland.

1 The thought here was suggested by some beautiful lines in Mr. Rogers's Poem of Human Life, beginning

"Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows
Less and less earthly."

I would quote the entire passage, did I not fear to put my own humble imitation of it out of countenance.

power

To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;

And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower,

Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine.