NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away,
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave, ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings leaned to Virtue's side;
But, in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all:
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway;
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray,
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile:
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed,
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
GOUGAUNE BARRA:
J. J. CALLANAN.
THERE is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra,
Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow;
In deep-valleyed Desmond :-a thousand wild foun-
tains
Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains:
There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow;
As like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning,
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.
And its zone of dark hills-oh! to see them all
When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning;
And the waters rush down, 'mid the thunder's deep rattle,
Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle; And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming, And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming: Oh! where is the dwelling in valley, or high land, So meet for a bard as this lone little island?
How oft, when the summer sun rested on Clara,
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera,
Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by
the ocean,
And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion;
And thought of thy bards, when assembling together
In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather,
They fled from the foemen's dark bondage and
slaughter,
And waked their last song by the rush of thy
High sons of the lyre, oh! how proud was the feeling,
To think while alone through that solitude stealing,
Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number,
I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber,
And mingled once more with the voice of those
fountains
The songs even Echo forgot on her mountains;
And gleaned each gray legend that darkly was
sleeping
Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty were creeping.
Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit
The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit,
With the wrong which like thee to our country has bound me;
Did your mantle of song fling its radiance round me,
Still, still in those wilds might young Liberty rally,
And send her strong shout over mountain and valley;
The Star of the West might yet rise in its glory,
And the land that was darkest be brightest in story.
I too shall be gone;-but my name shall be spoken
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken;
Some minstrel will come, in the summer eve's
gleaming,
When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,
And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,
Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of ocean;
Or plant a wild wreath from the banks of that river,
O'er the heart, and the harp, that are sleeping for
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite ?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?
CRESCENTIUS.
MRS. MACLEAN. ("L. E. L.") LOOKED upon his brow ;-no sign
Of guilt or fear was there;
He stood as proud by that death-shrine,
As even o'er despair
He had a power; in his eye
There was a quenchless energy,
A spirit that could dare
The deadliest form that death could take,
And dare it for the daring's sake.
He stood, the fetters on his hand-
He raised them haughtily;
And had that grasp been on the brand,
It could not wave on high
With freer pride than it waved now;
Around he looked, with changeless brow,
On many a torture nigh-
The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,
And, worst of all, his own red steel!
I saw him once before; he rode
Upon a coal-black steed,
And tens of thousands thronged the road,
And bade their warrior speed.
His helm, his breastplate, were of gold.
And graved with many a dent, that told
Of many a soldier's deed;
The sun shone on his sparkling mail,
And danced his snow-plume in the galo.
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