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GOUGANE BARRA. By a poet, little known, J. J. CALLANAN, an Irishman, who died, like his countryman Davis, prematurely, and whose poems had a posthumous publication. Many of them are extremely beautiful. The following has been termed “as delicious a morsel of minstrelsy as ever feasted the mind of an English or Irish reader.” THERE is a green island in lone Gougane Barra, Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow; In deep-vallied Desmond-a thousand wild fountains 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 bright’ning, When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning; And the waters rush down, ʼmid 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 highland, 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 Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter, And waked their last song by the rush of thy water. 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 glean'd each grey legend, that darkly was sleeping Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty was creeping. Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit, The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit, With the wrongs which like thee to our country has bound me, Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me !

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Still, still in those wilds may young liberty rally,
And send her strong shout over mountain and valley,
The star of the west may 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 ever.

HOPE.

A fine passage in CAMPBELL'S Pleasures of Hope.
At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ?
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ?
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way;
Thus, from afar, each dim-discover'd scene
More pleasing seems than all the past bath been,
And every form that fancy can repair
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there,

What potent spirit guides the raptured eye
To pierce the shades of dim futurity ?
Can wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power,
The pledge of joy's anticipated hour?
Ah, no! she darkly sees the fate of man-
Her dim horizon pointed to a span ;
Or, if she hold an image to the view,
'Tis nature pictured too severely true.

With thee, sweet Hope, resides the heavenly light
That pours remotest rapture on the sight:
Thine is the charm of life's bewilder'd way,
That calls each slumbering passion into play.
Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band,
On tiptoe watching, start at thy command,
And fly where'er thy mandate bids them steer,
To pleasure's path or glory's bright career.

WOODS IN WINTER.

By LONGFELLOW. WHEN winter winds are piercing chill,

And through the white-thorn blows the gale, With solemn feet, I tread the hill,

That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away

Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play,

And gladden these deep solitudes. On the gray maple's crusted bark

Its tender shoots the hoar-frost nips ; Whilst in the frozen fountain-hark!

His piercing beak the bittern dips. Where, twisted round the barren oak,

The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke

The crystal icicle is hung.
Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs

Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,

When birds sang out their mellow lay; And winds were soft, and woods were green,

And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,

Pale, desert woods, within your crowd ; And gathered winds, in hoarse accord,

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs, and wintry winds, my ear
Has
grown

familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year

I listen, and it cheers me long.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

By PIERPONT, an American poet.

The pilgrim fathers—where are they ?

The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray

As they break along the shore;
Still roll in the bay, as they rolld that day,

When the May-flower moor'd below,
When the sea around was black with storms,

And white the shore with snow.

The mists, that wrapp'd the pilgrim's sleep,

Still brood upon the tide; And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,

To stay its waves of pride.
But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale,

When the heavens looked dark, is gone ;
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,

Is seen, and then withdrawn.
The pilgrim exile-sainted name!-

The hill, whose icy brow
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,

In the morning's flame burns now.
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night

On the hill-side and the sea,
Still lies where he laid his houseless head ;-

But the pilgrim-where is he?

The pilgrim fathers are at rest:

When summer 's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dress'd,

Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
The earliest ray of the golden day

On that hallow'd spot is cast;
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,

Looks kindly on that spot last.
The pilgrim spirit has not fled:

It walks in noon's broad light;
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,

With the holy stars, by night.
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,

And shall guard this ice-bound shore,
Till the waves of the bay, where the May-flower lay,

Shall foam and freeze no more.

REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF

RETIREMENT.

By S. T. COLERIDGE.

Was green

Low was our pretty cot: our tallest rose
Peep'd at the chamber window. We could hear
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,
The sea's faint murmur. In the open air
Our myrtles blossom’d; and across the porch
Thick jasmines twined: the little landscape round

and woody, and refresh'd the eye. It was a spot which you might aptly call

The Valley of Seclusion ! Once I saw
(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness)
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by,
Bristowa's citizen: methought, it calm’d
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse
With wiser feelings : for he paused, and look'd
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around,
Then eyed our cottage, and gazed round again,
And sighed, and said, it was a blessed place.

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