event created the greatest consternation in Ireland, and more effectually checked the piracies of the O'Driscolls, than the repeated expeditions fitted out against them by the City of Waterford; as they appeared only to become more daring after each attack, notwithstanding the destruction of their vessels and the ruin of their castles.

"Our oars we ply, when seas run high,
And loud the winds are roaring,
Now down the depths, now up the sky,
On eagle billow soaring!

And when we hail the gentler gale,
With glee our stout hearts glowing,
Abroad we spread the spritted sail,
And catch it while 'tis blowing.

For us enough, or fair or bluff,
Waves calm or wildly foaming,

So we may launch, thro' smooth or rough,
Adventurously roaming.

Unknown to fear, the Buccanier,

Self-crown'd the Ocean Ranger,

Blow high-blow low-his course will steer,
His element is danger!"

SAMUEL LOVER,

a contemporary cultivator of the Muses, whose name has hitherto never appeared before the public as a poet, is, by profession, a miniature painter.

He was born in Dublin, in the memorable year 1798. The earliest desire of his youthful mind led him towards the profession which he has since embraced. Circumstances, however, continually intervened between his desires and the accomplishment of them; and, to gratify the wishes of his father, he embarked in commercial pursuits. Being afterwards thrown upon the world by the failure of these, his distaste for such avocations became more deeply rooted, and urged him to the daring decision of plunging into a profession for which he had no other preparation than that of a self-taught amateur. In thus consulting the bent of his inclination, he has succeeded most completely. The amusement of his youth has become the employment of his manhood; and, though now his profession, it has not ceased to be his pleasure. Painting, with her sweet sisters, Poetry and

Music, are still, as they ever were, his delight; the first affording him an honorable independence, and the others a sweet solace after the occupations of the day.

The following specimens, selected from several elegant little productions of Mr. Lover, with which the kindly feelings of friendship have induced him to favour the Editor, will prove that he is far from being an unsuccessful wooer of the Muse. The tone of feeling which pervades the first, and the sprightly and playful ease which characterizes the latter, well entitle them to preservation.

THOUGHTS OF SADNESS.

"How sad and forsaken

Is that heavy heart
Where Hope cannot waken,
Nor Sorrow depart!
So sad and so lonely,

No inmate is there,
Save one-and that only
Is chilling Despair.

How sad is the slumber

Long sufferings bring,

Whose visions out-number

The woes whence they spring!

Unblest such repose is,

Its waking is near, And the eyelid uncloses,

Still wet with a tear.

But tho' sad 'tis to weep

O'er incurable woes;

Sad, the dream-disturb'd sleep;

Yet far deeper than those Is the pang of concealing

The woes of the mind From hearts without feeling,

The gay, the unkind.

For saddest of any

Is he, of the sad,

Who must smile amongst many

Where many are glad ;

Who must join in the laughter,
When laughter goes round,

To plunge deeper after

In grief more profound.

Oh, such smile's like light shining

On ocean's cold wave, Or the playful entwining

Of sweets o'er a grave;

And such laugh, sorrow spurning

At revelry's calls,

Like echoes, returning

From lone empty halls."

SONG,

"When Sorrow first was known on earth,

No power could oppose him, Until, one day, plump buxom Mirth Determin'd to depose him :

With brow of gloom the demon frown'd, But Mirth, of birth divine,

Pale Sorrow in a goblet bound,

And drown'd him there with wine.

But soon as from the goblet's brim
The ruby tide subsided,

Young Mirth perceiv'd the demon grim
His heav'nly power derided:
And thus the jolly god contriv'd

To give repose to men,—
For, quickly as the fiend reviv'd,

He fill'd the bowl again."