18.
Although from darkness born, to darkness fled,
We know that light beyond surrounds the whole ;
The man survives, though the weird-corpse be dead,
And He who dooms the flesh, redeems the soul.

HYMN XI. 1.

7. Each trembling spray and little flower O God! thy forests old attest, Repeats a tale of God,

How fix'd thy wisdom's plan; Who feeds their life with ev'ry shower The sudden grass may teach us best That wets the steaming sod.

How much thy moments can.

2.

8. He gave

the force unseen and strange But while unfathomable will That works in every pore,

[range, Thus rules creation's host; Through hours, and days, and seasons' O living Truth ! instruct me still Unfolding wiser lore.

That man reveals thee most.

3.
A course of endless change in all
By changeless rules decreed,
That weave about this teeming vale
New life from every

seed.

9.
Hegrows like herbs, like leaves decays,
And turns again to dust;
But even his flesh proclaims thy praise,
And bids his reason trust.

4.
Thou, seen around, above the whole,
Sustaining every part,
By each to man's believing soul
Displayest what thou art.

10.
Like some fair plant the body grows,
But oh ! how subtlier knit
The web and frame, that largely shows
Thy life pervading it!

11.

5. Unmeasured might, unmingled good, A moving frame, an engine strong, In countless beings shown;

For thought and choice to guide ; That fills each leaf in all the wood, When these to it no more belong In every bud is known.

In darkness laid aside,

6.
Beneath thy sun their fruits mature,
And so a world sustain ;
Yet still the procreant seeds endure,
And all shall flower again.

12.
Give Thou the life which we require,
That rooted fast in Thee,
From Thee to Thee we may aspire,
And earth thy garden be.

SONG OF A RETURNED EXILE.

BY B. SIMMONS.

1.
Sweet Corrin ! * how softly the evening light goes,
Fading far o'er thy summit from ruby to rose,
As if loth to deprive the deep woodlands below
Of the love and the glory they drink in its glow :
Oh, home-looking Hill! how beloved dost thou rise
Once more to my sight through the shadowy skies ;
Shielding still, in thy sheltering grandeur unfurld,
The landscape to me that so long was the world.
Fair evening—blest evening! one moment delay
Till the tears of the pilgrim are dried in thy ray-
Till he feels that through years of long absence not one
Of his friends—the lone rock and grey ruin-is gone.

2.
Not one:-as I wind the sheer fastnesses through,
The valley of boyhood is bright in my view!
Once again my glad spirit its fetterless flight
May wing through a sphere of unclouded delight,
O'er one maze of broad orchard, green meadow, and slope-
From whose tints I once pictured the pinions of hope ;
Still the hamlet gleams white-still the church yews are weeping,
Where the sleep of the peaceful my fathers are sleeping ;
The vane tells, as usual, its fib from the mill,
But the wheel tumbles loudly and merrily still,
And the tower of the Roches stands lonely as ever,
With its grim shadow rusting the gold of the river.

3.
My own pleasant River, bloom-skirted, behold,
Now sleeping in shade, now refulgently rollid,
Where long through the landscape it tranquilly flows,
Scarcely breaking, Glen-coorah, thy glorious repose !
By the Park's lovely pathways it lingers and shines,
Where the cushat's low call, and the murmur of pines,
And the lips of the lily seem wooing its stay
'Mid their odorous dells ;-but 'tis off and away,
Rushing out through the clustering oaks, in whose shade,
Like a bird in the branches, an arbour I made,
Where the blue eye of Eve often closed o'er the book,
While I read of stout Sinbad, or voyaged with Cook.

4.
Wild haunt of the Harper! | I stand by thy spring,
Whose waters of silver still sparkle and fling
Their wealth at my feet,—and I catch the deep glow,
As in long-vanish'd hours, of the lilacs that blow

* The picturesque mountain of Corrin, (properly Cairn-thierna, i. e. the Thane or Lord's cairn,) is the termination of a long range of hills which encloses the valley of the Blackwater and Funcheon, (the Avonduff and Fanshin of Spenser,) in the county of Cork, and forms a striking feature of scenery, remarkable for pastoral beauty and romance.

| One of the most beautiful bends of the Funcheon is taken through the demesne of Moorepark, near Kilworth, close to a natural grotto or cavern, called from time immemorial the cave of Thiag-na-fibah-(Tim or Teague the Bard.)

By the low cottage-porch—and the same crescent moon
That then plough'd, like a pinnace, the purple of June,
Is white on Glen-duff, and all blooms as unchanged
As if years bad nnt pass'd since thy greenwood I ranged-
As if ONE were not fled, who imparted a soul
Of divinest enchantment and grace to the whole,
Whose being was bright as that fair moon above,
And all deep and all pure as thy waters her love.

5.
Thou long-vanish'd Angel! whose faithfulness threw
O'er my gloomy existence one glorified hue !
Dost thou still, as of yore, when the evening grows dim,
And the blackbird by Douglass is hushing its hymn,
Remember the bower by the Funcheon's blue side
Where the whispers were soft as the kiss of the tide ?
Dost thou still think, with pity and peace on thy brow,
Of him who, toil-harass'd and time-shaken now,
While the last light of day, like his hopes, has departed,
On the turf thou hast hallow'd sinks down weary-hearted,
And calls on thy name, and the night breeze that sighs
Through the boughs that once blest thee is all that replies ?

6.
But thy summit, far Corrin, is fading in grey,
And the moonlight grows mellow on lonely Cloughlea ;
And the laugh of the young, as they loiter about,
Through the elm-shaded alleys rings joyously out:
Happy souls! they have yet the dark chalice to taste,
And like others to wander life's desolate waste
To hold wassail with sin, or keep vigil with woe;
But the same fount of yearning wherever they go,
Welling up in their heart-depths to turn at the last
(As the stag when the barb in his bosom is fast)
To their lair in the hills on their childhood that rose,
And find the sole blessing I seek for REPOSE ! *

"" Some of the epitaphs at Ferrara pleased me more than the more splendid monuments at Bologna. For instance, 'Martini Luighi implora pacz.' Can any thing be more full of pathos ?

Those few words say all that can be said or sought; the dead bad had enough of life--all they wanted was rest, and this they implore.”—LORD BYRON.

WELLINGTON.

ANCIENT heroes, chiefs victorious, Thus with blood was Ebro darken'd,

Long have these been hail'd sublime: Storm'd Pyrene's cliffs of snow, Say, hath Britain none as glorious Till their Paris, while it harken'd, For the tongues of future time? Felt each coming step a blow.

[den'd, Sullen years, and silence jealous,

Graves would tell, with triumph glad. Darken many a famous brow;

If no living voice were true, Farthest ages shall be zealous

How the lord of nations, madden'd, Honouring him we honour now. Found his doom at Waterloo. And while human hearts shall cherish Still amid the whirl of terror, (sun, This our land's ennobled soil,

Smooth and strong as moves the His renown shall never perish

Clear from passion, sure from error, Who redeem'd it best from spoil. Sway'd the soul of Wellington. Language, Freedom, old Uprightness, Him no huge adventurous raving, All our fathers were, and won,

Him no storm of pride or wrath, All has gain'd its crowning brightness Him no sordid hunger's craving, In the praise of Wellington.

Turn'd aside from duty's path. Who ʼmid battles' booming thunder Him ’mid warfare's dread commotion, E’er with calmer might arose,

Might the weak for safety trust; Smiting down in helpless wonder Him his patriot life's devotion

Hosts that scorn'd all meaner foes ? Teaches all to name--the Just. When the gather'd East defied him; He with simple mild sedateness Swarthy kings at far Assaye,

All an empire's honours bears, Fewer those who fought beside him Yet they leave his own pure greatness Than the dead that round them More than all the robes it wears. lay.

Round the mountain pine of ages But how wan that Indian story

Summer flowers may creep and Fades before the loftier tale,

twine, When all Europe, pale and gory,

Till the strife that winter wages All but England, seem'd to quail. Cuts them down, but not the pine. Tagus, Douro, leaping shouted Friend of Peace, of Truth, and Order,

Tow’rd Busaco's crest of rock, Seeking right with steadfast mind, When they saw their plunderers routed O'er his will a sleepless warder, In the Briton's battle-shock.

Thus he firmly rules mankind.

Haught Iberia's stately regions,

Seats of laurell’d Rome's command, Ye have seen Napoleon's legions

Fly before the island band.

True to all, to all benignant,

Bold against the rage of all, Well can he with voice indignant,

Public fraud and crime appal.

But 'twas not alone the spirit,

Known so wide on shore and sea, Not the blood which we inherit,

Could alone the nations free.

As a mole by seas assaulted,

Breasts at once and calms the waves, So 'mid those from right revolted,

He subdues the souls he braves.

'Twas the bright unwavering Reason, Britain, fair and stainless mother

One great soul's reflection sage, Of the Bold, the Just, the Wise, That undid the despot's treason,

Seldom hast thou known another, And befool'd his wildest rage.

Brighten thus thy fostering skies!
While so much is praised untruly,

Scarce his fame can struggle forth;
Years to come shall reverence duly
All the Man's unboastful worth.

ARCHÆUS.

(Tradition does not inform us who was the author of the following poem nor is it known in what age it was composed. It is obviously to be in.. ferred, however, from internal evidence, that it is of great antiquity. It is the only Gaelic lyric extant which professes to have been composed previous to the fifteenth century; for the reputed works of Ossian and other contemporary bards, and the imperfect poem entitled Mordil, all belong to the class of heroic poetry. Two translations have already appeared, one in measured prose, by John Clark, author of The Caledonian Bards, the other in rhyme, by Mrs Grant of Laggan. Both these were made from in. correct copies; and this, with the translators' ignorance of old Gaelic, led them to misunderstand the whole tenor of the poem, besides committing many minor mistakes. Clark further imitated Macpherson's Ossian, though the style of that celebrated work is very different from that of our Bard. The following version is literal-almost verbal-except in a few instances where the Gaelic idiom is so different, that a very close rendering would not convey the true sense of the original. The Gaelic consists throughout of quatrains in iambic dimeters, the third line rhyming with the first, and the fourth with the second.] OH! set me down beside the brook Every mount and hill reply Which travels slow with tranquil steps; To the frisky heifers' lowing shrill. Beneath the foliage lay my head. Now I hear a thousand sounds Be thou, O Sun! to me benign. Rebounding around, on every side. Lay softly on the grass my side, Around me are gamboling calves, On bank of flowers and gentle winds; Beside the stream and on the plain ; And lave my foot in the peaceful bourn, The little kid, of sporting tired, As, still, it curves along the plain. Beside me fearless lies to sleep. Now fair primroses of beauteous hue Oh, now I hear a hunter's steps, Surround my verdant height, be With hissing darts, and nimble dogs! dew'd

Then does youth beam upon my cheek With little daisies, and my hand When rises the clamour of a deerRests on a green of fragrant violets. chase.

Around my valley's lofty banks The marrow in my bones revives, Are bending boughs with blossoms When I hear the sounds of horns, and clad,

hounds, and bows. While the warblers of the bushes

When they cry,

“ The hart has fallchant,

en !"my soles On aged rocks, their songs of love. Spring lively up the steeps of hills ! There bursts from thickly.ivied Now do I see, methinks, the hound rocks,

That used to follow me at morn and With murmurs sweet, a fountain eve, fresh,

And the mountains I delighted to While Echo, that returns each sound, frequent, Replies to the flood of noisy waves. And the rocks that echo'd to

my

horn, I hear on the wing of the gale I see the grot that hospitably and oft The gentle lowing of the folds ; Received our steps from the gloom of Soon will the flocks reply when they night, hear

Our gladness waked before its fire ; Their young, and hither run,

In the solace of bowls there was greatjoy.