wild turbulence and impetuosity; and at the farthest extremity thereof, the road gradually ascends in a spiral manner till it attains the topmost extremity of an elevation which flanks that portion of its boundary. Having arrived at the summit thereof, we obtained a truly sublime and magnificent view of the tract of scenery we had just traversed. On continuing our journey southwards another desolate waste of dreary bog, studded with wretched hovels, was exhibited to view. Clouds of misty vapour now darkened the air, and rolled in billowy volumes over the desolate fields and hills. We had reason to be thankful that this visitation in no way resembled the "pea-soup" fog of London; on the contrary, its odour was rather fresh and pleasant, and not at all irritating to the chest and lungs.

We arrived at the Carricks in the course of the evening, and having refreshed ourselves in the precincts of a large, airy, and excellently-conducted hotel, on the next morning we scrambled to the summit of Slieve League, a colossal mountain mass that rises in an almost perpendicular wall of rugged rock, to the height of 1972 feet above the waves o'er which it frowns. We were conducted thereunto by a guide, a young lad of excellent appearance, agility, and intelligence. On the way we traversed a number of fields and hollows which were beautifully carpetted with a species of heather (Erica). How charmingly the sweet and tender flask. shaped flowers peeped forth from their dense leafy environments, and exhibited the beautiful amid scenes of rough and rugged sublimity! At the summit, a scene of unrivalled magnificence burst upon the sight. The ocean, in gentle agitation, was radiant with the lustre of the noontide sun; while turning northward, the gleaming splendour of the mountain peaks of Donegal impressed the mind with cheering and grateful feelings.

After briefly enjoying the eminently picturesque prospect, we descended, and thus wise terminated the more interesting and and memorable portion of our tour among the wilds of Donegal.

HIGH raise for the brave a noble song,
As an organ peal or a chime of bells,
For one of courage mighty and strong,

Whom gold would reward not, my story tells.
Thank Heaven! I have the power and will
To sing, and to honour the brave man still.

The thaw-wind came from the Southern Sea,
And passed o'er the land with misty breath;
And before it the scattered clouds did flee,

As folks that the wolf chases unto death;

It swept o'er the fields, and the forest-boughs brake, And it burst the thick ice on the river and lake.

On the blue mountain peaks it melted the snow,
And the torrent, increased from a thousand sources,
Engulfs in its waters the valley below,

And swells the river that onward courses.

High roll the waves on their headlong path,
Heaving the mighty ice-blocks in their wrath.

On ponderous basement of massive stone,
With heavy arches and pillars tall,
Across the river a bridge is thrown.

On the centre-arch rises a dwelling small-
There lives the tollman with child and wife,-
Oh, tollman! ob, tollman! escape for thy life!

On thunders the river with deafening roar,

Loud howls the storm, and the waves dash high; The toll-keeper gazes the wild waters o'er, And shuddering looks on the danger nigh. "Ob, merciful Heaven, have pity on me!" Lost! lost! who on earth shall deliver thee?

The splintering ice bursts, crash upon crash, From the banks where it lately so calmly lay; And against the bridge doth heavily dash,

Till at each end the pillars are carried away. The shuddering tollman with wife and child Shrieks louder yet than the storm so wild.

The splintering ice rolls, shock upon shock,
One pillar after another is gone;
Asunder is burst each massive block,

And tremble the mighty foundations of stone.
Destruction is near! see the raging strife!
May merciful Heaven preserve thy life!

Look out! on the distant shore a crowd
Of trembling gazers watch fearfully;
Each wrings his hands and cries aloud,

But none may the bold deliverer be.
And the shuddering tollman with wife and child
Shrieks louder yet than the storm so wild.

As an organ peal or a chime of bells

High raise the song to the man so brave; Come, tell me his name, or say where dwells

The man who these lost ones will venture to save. Haste show thyself, brave one, ere hope have fled ! Destruction speeds onward with merciless tread.

Who gallopeth hither with speed, with speed?
Why waves he his head on high?

'Tis a noble count, on a noble steed,

With a purse of gold filled heavily.

"Two hundred broad pieces to him who will dare To rescue the lost ones perishing there!"

Who is the bravest amongst the throng?
His fame my song to the world declare,
To the Count high courage doth belong;

But a braver than he standeth there.
Oh, brave man! brave man! quickly come forth,
Destruction flies swift on its work of wrath.

And higher and higher the waters rise,
And louder and louder howls the blast;
And the heart of each gazer within him dies-
Deliverer, hasten-fly fast! fly fast!

The last pillars and arches are giving way,
And the torrent rolls on on its fearful way.

Then forward steppeth a lowly man,

With staff in hand and peasant's dress,
Yet all who his calm firm features scan,
His true nobility confess-

The Count he approaches, his words doth hear,
And marks the threatening danger near.

And strong in the fear of God sprang he

Into the bark that was nearest the land,
And spite of the storm and the raging sea,
He reaches the perishing band.

Ah, woe! for too small is that tiny bark
To bear them all over the waters dark.

Three times o'er the waters that bark doth ride,
Three times it returns to the shore ;

And in spite of the wind and the raging tide,
They are saved-all the peril is o'er :
Ere the last one on firm dry land hath stepped
The last pillars and arches away are swept.

And who is the man who hath felt no fear

To venture his life on the dangerous wave? Had the sound of gold never rung in his ear,

Oh, say, would that peasant have been so brave? Had the Count never offered that purse of gold, Would the humble peasant have been so bold?

"Here," cried the Count, "most valiant friend, Take thy reward, 'tis earned manfully,"

Full well did the noble Count intend,

And a true and a lofty soul had he;

But higher and holier beat that day,

The heart 'neath the peasant's rude garb that lay,

"I do not barter for gold my life;
With the poor tollman your riches share.
He has lost all in the raging strife;

I have enough to be free from care.'

Thus spoke the brave peasant with lordly tone, And turned from the gazing crowd, and is gone!

High raise to the brave a noble song,

As an organ peal and a chime of bells; Whom gold can reward not, to him doth belong

The homage that deep in the poet's heart dwells. Thank Heaven the power is given to me,

To honour the brave man immortally.