1 These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland; if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances, as related by O'Halloran :-" The king of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in

But onward!- the green banner rearing,
Go, flesh every sword to the hilt;
On our side is Virtue and Erin,
On theirs is the Saxon and guilt.

OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN.

OH! had we some bright little isle of our own, In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowen And the bee banquets on through a whole year o flowers;

Where the sun loves to pause

With so fond a delay,
That the night only draws

A thin veil o'er the day;

Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime We should love, as they lov'd in the first golder time;

The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air, Would steal to our hearts, and make all summe there.

With affection as free

From decline as the bowers,
And, with hope, like the bee,
Living always on flowers,

Our life should resemble a long day of light,
And our death come on, holy and calm as the night

FAREWELL!-BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.

FAREWELL - but whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,

Then think of the friend who once welcom'd it too
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of

pain,

those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored Mac Murchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns."-The monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled w England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II.

"Such," adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an c'è translation)," is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whome all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, is may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy."

Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing
Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell -
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of all my soul echoed to its spell.

Twas whisper'd balm-'twas sunshine spoken!-
Td live years of grief and pain

To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
By such benign, blessed sounds again.

And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believ'd thee.
Go-go-'tis vain to curse,

"Tis weakness to upbraid thee; Hate cannot wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made thee.

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.

WHEN first I met thee, warm and young,
There shone such truth about thee,
And on thy lip such promise hung,
I did not dare to doubt thee.

I saw thee change, yet still relied,
Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, though false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.
But go, deceiver! go,

The heart, whose hopes could make it
Trust one so false, so low,

Deserves that thou shouldst break it.

When every tongue thy follies nam'd,

I fled the unwelcome story;

Or found, in even the faults they blam'd,
Some gleams of future glory.

I still was true, when nearer friends
Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart that now thy falsehood rends
Would then have bled to right thee.
But go, deceiver! go,-

Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream, to know
The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, though youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee:
The few, who lov'd thee once, have fled,
And they, who flatter, scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledg`d to slaves,
No genial ties enwreath it;

The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank cold hearts beneath it.
Go-go-though worlds were thine,
I would not now surrender
One taintless tear of mine

For all thy guilty splendour!

And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When even those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret,
On her thou'st lost for ever;

On her who, in thy fortune's fall,
With smiles had still receiv'd thee,