Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds

Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs, and God has given my share, –
I still had hopes-my latest hours to crown—
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose:
I still had hopes for pride attends us still
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return, — and die at home at last.

Oliver Goldsmith.

I

Lough Ina (Inagh).

LOCH INA.

KNOW a lake where the cool waves break,
And softly fall on the silver sand;

And no steps intrude on that solitude,

And no voice, save mine, disturbs the strand.

And a mountain bold, like a giant of old
Turned to stone by some magic spell,
Uprears in might his misty height,

And his craggy sides are wooded well.

In the midst doth smile a little isle,

And its verdure shames the emerald's green;
On its grassy side, in ruined pride,
A castle of old is darkling seen.

On its lofty crest the wild cranes nest,

In its halls the sheep good shelter find;
And the ivy shades where a hundred blades
Were hung, when the owners in sleep reclined.

That chieftain of old, could he now behold
His lordly tower a shepherd's pen,
His corpse, long dead, from its narrow bed
Would rise with anger and shame again.

"T is sweet to gaze when the sun's bright rays
Are cooling themselves in the trembling wave,
But 't is sweeter far when the evening star
Shines like a smile at Friendship's grave.

There the hollow shells through their wreathed cells
Make music on the silent shore,

As the summer breeze, through the distant trees,
Murmurs in fragrant breathings o'er.

And the seaweed shines, like the hidden mines,
Or the fairy cities beneath the sea;

And the wave-washed stones are bright as the thrones Of the ancient Kings of Araby.

If it were my lot in that fairy spot

To live forever, and dream 't were mine, Courts might woo, and kings pursue,

Ere I would leave thee, loved Loch-Ine.

Anonymous.

BE

Lough Foyle.

THE GORSY GLEN.

ETWEEN Loch-Foyle and Greenan's ancient fort,
From Derry's famous walls a little way,

There dreams a gorsy glen, in whose lone heart
I mused a Sabbath day.

A nameless glen, one mass of yellow gorse,
That hides the sparkle of a trotting burn,
Save where in dimpling pools it stays its force,
Or takes a rocky turn.

The sandy linnet sang, the tiny wren
Poured in the burn its tiny melodies.
The air was honey-laden, and the glen
All murmurous with bees.

A straggling crow, upon its woodward way,
Might start an echo with its rusty croak;

But all around the quiet Sabbath lay,
Hushed from the week-day yoke.

Near, yet all hidden from, the ways of men,
No foot into my sanctuary stole ;

I wandered with my shadow in the glen, -
The only living soul.

Yet many more were in the glen, 't would seem :

I heard, or thought I heard, their whispered words, And knew 't was not the bees, the babbling stream, Or carol of the birds.

And sometimes through the sunniest gleams of day
There passed a light intenser than the gleam, -
A living soul without its grosser clay?
Or but my waking dream?

Who knows? who knows? The dream to-day is found
A verity to-morrow. Things have been
Forever with us in our daily round,

Though now but newly seen.

Ah! could we by a purer life refine

The veil that keeps the inward from our ken, No lonely fellowship had then been mine

Within the gorsy glen.

Robert Leighton.

Lough Sheeling.

ST. PATRICK'S FIRST CONVERTS.

THE legend here versified, almost literally, is one of the oldest episodes in Irish history.

[ORN on the hills of Innisfail!

sudden sail,

The sun has kissed the mountain gray,
For ancient friends and foud are they!

In the deep vale, where osiers verge
The clear Lough Sheeling's gentle surge,
Two royal sisters doff their dresses,
And, binding up their night-black tresses,
Fair as the spirits of the streams,
Or Dian's nymphs in poets' dreams,
They bathe them in the limpid lake,
And mock the mimic storm they make!

Scarce had their sandals clasped their feet,
Scarce had they left their still retreat,
Scarce had they turned their footsteps, when
Strange psalmody pervades the glen;
And full before them in the way
There stood an ancient man and gray,
Chanting with fervent voice a prayer
That trembled through the morning air.