XVIII.

"Remember with a pitying love the hapless land that bore you;

At every festal season be its gentle form before you ;

When the Christmas candle is lighted, and the holly and ivy glisten,

Let your eye look back for a vanished face-for a voice that is silent, listen!

XIX.

"So go, my children, go away-obey this inspiration;

Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation;

Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant prairies;
Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's."

An over-true tale: all its pathos deepened by the exquisite tenderness and poetic feeling with which the bard has told it. Alas! alas! that it should be so; that the children of our own dear land should fly from the soil where they sprang; that the "mal du pays" of the Swiss mountaineers should be reversed in Irish bosoms, driving them, with a passionate ardour which is the sacred due of fatherland alone, to seek the hospitable wilds of a newer world. Yet what marvel at that feeling now-a-days! The evil was done in the age that is past; the broad way across the Atlantic was paved in the last generation; and now they who hurry away, fly not to an unknown land, but to one that draws their hearts by a thousand bonds. They go to meet friends, and kindred, and homesteads, to where brothers and sisters, or children await them. And where they all are, that is their country. But this is no theme to linger sadly over in merry Christmas times; so now for another tale to suit the season :

Shall we now give you a piece of minstrelsy which has come to us all across the "broad Atlantic,"-ay, even from Pennsylvania,-for you see we have already established our transatlantic communication? While others are discussing which is the nearest port and the safest harbour, we have laid down our line of telegraph, by which spirit communicates with spirit; and the spark of genius kindled on the Susquehana and the Alleghany soon blazes upon the banks of the Liffey.

FATHER TIME AND HIS CHILDREN.

As Time passed on his ceaseless course,
His children, one by one,

To greet him came;-and first appeared,
With stately step and flowing beard,
His fearless first-born son.

A snowy robe was round him thrown,
His brow was bare and bold;

So proud was he that he car'd for none-
He spoke in a hoarse and hurried tone,
And his breath was sharp and cold.

Few were the words that passed between
Old Time and his sullen child,
When the second came with sadder mien;
In his dull face no pride was seen,

And he seldom, if ever, smiled.

A coat of glittering mail he wore,
That rattled with every breeze;

A crystal staff in his hand he bore,
And tears anon from his eyes would pour,
On his icy cheek to freeze.

A hurried greeting, a cold farewell,

And Time on his journey pass'd;

When he heard a sound through the woodland swell,
And the voice of March on his quick ear fell,
Like the rush of a stormy blast.

A merry, merry lad is March,

With his loud and cheerful song; A ragged cloak o'er his shoulders cast, And half-unclothed his rugged breast, And little he cares in his song to rest,

For his lungs are stout and strong.

Rudely he greeted his aged sire,

Though his heart was kind enough;
And the old man smothered his kind'ling ire,
While his son struck wildly his tuneless lyre
To numbers wild and rough.

April came next, like a laughing child,

And the old man's heart was stirred,

As she gathered flowers that were sweet and wild, And o'er them by turns she wept and smiled, And her happy voice the hours beguiled,

Like the song of a singing bird.

Yet on she went, for the gentle May
Was waiting his smile to meet;
She scattered blossoms about his way,
And flung, wherever he chose to stray,
At early morn or the close of day,
Fresh dews to cool his feet.

Oh, a happy, happy time he had

While his lovely child was nigh;

She was never weary and never sad,
And her merry voice made his old heart glad
As the pleasant hours flew by.

But he might not linger, for blue-eyed June
Advanced with a smiling face,

Her form was light, and a brilliant zone
Of gorgeous hues around her thrown,

And she flew with a grace which was all her own
To her father's fond embrace.

She led him away over field and hill,

With lightsome step and free,

His bosom with fragrant flowers did fill,
By field and forest and dancing rill,
And Time for awhile had a right good will
To be as gay as she.

But she passed away with her beauties rare,
And her sister, bright July,

With fruit-stain'd lips and golden hair,
Approached her sire with a bustling air,
For the harvest time was nigh.

And she was a gay, industrious maid,
With little time to waste;

But the noonday rest in the cooling shade
She loved full well; or by bright cascade
To bathe her limbs; or in forest glade
The ripe wild fruit to taste.

And the flowers which June had kindly nurs'd
She scattered in high disdain,

But the merry laugh from her red lips burst,
When the bright scythes swung, and she bound the first
Ripe sheaves of the yellow grain.

Old Time loved dearly his bright-eyed child,
Though rest she gave him not,

He must follow her steps wherever she toiled,
Till his sluggish veins with fever boiled,
For the sun shone fierce and hot.

But the merry harvest time was gone,
And Time, with weary sigh

And listless step, moved slowly on,
While August came o'er the dew-gem'd lawn
With half-shut, drowsy eye.

With languid step did August come,

And look of weariness,

Her voice was soft as the wild bee's hum,
And thin as if woven in spider's loom
Was her bright, unbelted dress.

Some flowers of bright and varied hue
Among her hair she wove,

Scarlet and yellow and brilliant blue,
And she bathed them oft in pearly dew
In meadow, field, and grove.

But the bright things drooped on her sultry brow,
And her sunny face grew wan,

As she heard a voice that whisper'd low,
And soft as the streamlet's gentle flow—
"Your flowers must die in their summer's glow,
For September is coming on."

She passed; and her sunburnt brother sprung
To his father's side with glee.

His clear, shrill notes through the valleys rung,
And the songs that fell from his silvery tongue
Were gladly welcomed by old and young;
For a cheerful youth was he.

A heavy load did September bear,

Though his step was firm and light:The purple plum, the yellow pear,

The ripe red peach with its fragrance rare; And he scattered his treasures here and there, Like the gifts of a fairy sprite.

No wonder if Father Time should prize
His generous-hearted boy;

But Time (as the proverb hath it) flies,
And with hurried step and heavy sighs,
Such as mortals heave when a bright hope dies,
Or they miss some promis'd joy.

Next came October, richly clad,
In robe of gorgeous dye;

A regal crown adorns his head,

Of purple grapes; and round him spread
Were the ripened fruits the trees had shed;
For the vintage time drew nigh.

He looked about as if to see

What work was left to do.

He chased away the humming bee
And summer bird, and merrily

Shook the ripe nuts from the rustling tree,
Nor seemed his work to rue.

But yet his work was hardly done,

When November said in wrath

"You wear a robe; you have need of none.
I have shivered for years for lack of one,
As year by year my course I run

Along this dreary path.”

And he was, indeed, a shivering wight,
Nor robe nor cloak he wore.
He grasped October's mantle bright,
Tore it apart with ruthless might,
And scattered it, in sport or spite,
His father's face before.

The squirrel he chased to its winter rest,
Within the hollow tree;

The serpent crawl'd to his earthy nest,

As the wind blew cold from the bleak north-west, For averse to cold was he.

But Time went on with a quicker pace,
And a frown upon his brow;

For how could he wear a smiling face,

When a bloomless world was his dwelling-place,
For he sought in vain to find a trace
Of his favourite beauties now.

December met him with noisy shout,

Like a schoolboy's heedless mirth,
And he rung his merry welcome out—
"I am glad to find you so hale and stout;
But what, old man, have you been about,
As you journey'd round the earth ?”