WHOEVER the youth who, by heaven's decree,

Has his happy right hand 'neath that bright head of thine,
Tis certain that he

From all sorrow is free,

Till the day of his death—if a life so divine
Should not raise him in bliss above mortal degree.
Mild Mable Ni Kelly, bright coolun* of curls !
All stately and pure as the swan on the lake,
Her mouth of white teeth is a palace of pearls,
And the youth of the land are love-sick for her sake.

No strain of the sweetest e'er heard in the land
That she knows not to sing in a voice so enchanting,
That the cranes on the sand

Fall asleep where they stand;

Oh! for her blooms the rose, and the lily ne'er wanting To shed its mild lustre on bosom or hand.

The dewy blue blossom that hangs on the spray,

More blue than her eyes human eye never saw

Deceit never lurked in its beautiful ray

Dear lady, I drink to you, slainte go bragh! +

To gaze on her beauty the young hunter lies

'Mong the branches that shadow her path in the grove ;
But, alas! if her eyes

The rash gazer surprise,

All eyesight departs from the victim of love,

And the blind youth steals home with his heart full of sighs.
Oh, pride of the Gael, of the lily-white palm!
Óh, coolun of curls to the grass at your feet!

At the goal of delight and of honour I am,

To boast such a theme for a song so unmeet.

The lady, thus celebrated, was of the family of Castle Kelly in the county of Galway. What a charming touch of poetry, is that of the young hunter hiding to get a glance at this radiant beauty! and the consequence that follows-he is dazzled even to the loss of vision,

"And the blind youth steals home with his heart full of sighs." This is the more touching, when we remember it was a blind poet who wrote it: how often did he himself steal home with his heart full of sighs? Carolan thus makes a direct allusion to his blindness in a passage translated by Miss Brooke :

"Ev'n he whose hapless eyes no ray
Admit from beauty's cheering day,

Yet, though he cannot see the light,

He feels it warm, and knows it bright."

Coolun, or cuilin-head of hair.

† Pronounced softly, Slawn-tha' go bra, meaning "Save you, or health to you for ever."

O, JUDITH, MY DEAR!

From Hardiman's Minstrelsy. Translated from the Irish by EDWARD WALSHE.

O, JUDITH, my dear, 'tis thou that has left me for dead;
O, Judith, my dear, thou'st stolen all the brain in my head;
O, Judith, my dear, thou'st cross'd between Heaven and me,
And 'twere better be blind than ever thy beauty to see!

Thy person is peerless-a jewel full fashioned with care, Thou art the mild maiden so modest at market and fair; With cheek like the rose, and kiss like the store o' the bee, And musical tones that call'd me from death unto thee!

GO! FORGET ME.

Rev. CHARLES WOLFE. Born, 1791. Died, 1823.

Go, forget me-why should sorrow
O'er that brow a shadow fling?
Go, forget me-and to-morrow

Brightly smile, and sweetly sing.
Smile-though I shall not be near thee:
Sing-though I shall never hear thee:
May thy soul with pleasure shine,
Lasting as the gloom of mine.

Like the sun, thy presence glowing,
Clothes the meanest things in light,
And when thou, like him, art going,
Loveliest objects fade in night.
All things looked so bright about thee,
That they nothing seem without thee,
By that pure and lucid mind
Earthly things were too refined.

Go, thou vision wildly gleaming,
Softly on my soul that fell;
Go, for me no longer beaming-
Hope and Beauty! fare ye well!
Go, and all that once delighted
Take, and leave me all benighted ;
Glory's burning-generous swell,
Fancy and the Poet's shell.

Though the following song has not such striking marks of nationality as many of Griffin's, yet we place it first amongst his, in this collection, as an extract from "The Collegians"-that story of surpassing power which places him, we think, first among the novelists of Ireland, and in the foremost rank of the novelists of the world. Of Gerald Griffin, Ireland may well be proud; for he was not only a great novelist, but a good dramatist. His "Gisippus" is one of the best plays of modern times, and derives an additional, though saddening, interest from the fact that it was not produced on the stage until after his death; but though he tasted not the triumph of that success, his country must not forget it. His songs, too, are charming; and the one that follows, though not Irish in phrase, is peculiarly Irish in feeling: there is in it depth and devotedness of affection, delicacy, unselfishness-in short, a chivalrous adoration.

A PLACE in thy memory, dearest,

Is all that I claim;

To pause, and look back, when thou hearest
The sound of my name.

Another may woo thee, nearer,
Another may win and wear;
I care not though he be dearer,
If I am remembered there.

Remember me-not as a lover
Whose hope was cross'd;

Whose bosom can never recover
The light it hath lost :

As the young bride remembers the mother
She loves, though she never may see;
As a sister remembers a brother,

Oh, dearest! remember me.

Could I be thy true lover, dearest,
Could'st thou smile on me,

I would be the fondest and nearest
That ever loved thee!

But a cloud on my pathway is glooming,
That never must burst upon thine;
And heaven, that made thee all blooming,
Ne'er made thee to wither on mine.

Remember me then-O remember
My calm, light love :

Though bleak as the blasts of November
My life may prove,

That life will, though lonely, be sweet,
If its brightest enjoyment should be
A smile and kind word when we meet,
And a place in thy memory.

MY MOTHER DEAR.

SAMUEL LOVER.

THERE was a place in childhood that I remember well,
And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales did tell,
And gentle words and fond embrace were giv'n with joy to me,
When I was in that happy place-upon my mother's knee.

When fairy tales were ended, "Good night," she softly said,
And kiss'd and laid me down to sleep, within my tiny bed;
And holy words she taught me there-methinks I yet can see
Her angel eyes, as close I knelt beside my mother's knee.

In the sickness of my childhood, the perils of my prime,
The sorrows of my riper years, the cares of ev'ry time,
When doubt and danger weigh'd me down,-then pleading, all for me,
It was a fervent pray'r to Heaven that bent my mother's knee.

SLEEP ON.

JOHN O'KEEFFE. Born, 1746.

Dublin was the birthplace of O'Keeffe. The O'Keeffes, an ancient and honourable family, lost their estates in the civil wars of James and William. Our author was reared for the priesthood; objected to go into orders; became very nearly a professional painter; turned actor next, and, finally, dramatist of prolific pen, he having produced forty-nine pieces. He lost his sight in 1800. Many of his songs are graceful, though never rising to any great excellence; they were never intended, however, to be more than incidental to his dramas. The following is from the "Poor Soldier." The air to which it was written is a beautiful old Irish melody, entitled Ulican dubh oh! given in Bunting's "Ancient Music of Ireland." To the same air Moore wrote "Weep on, weep on!"

SLEEP on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear,
May peace possess thy breast;

Yet dost thou dream thy true love's here,
Deprived of peace and rest?

The birds sing sweet, the morning breaks,
These joys are none to me;

Though sleep is fled, poor Dermot wakes
To none but love and thee.

THE MOUNTAIN DEW.

SAMUEL LOVER.

By yon mountain tipp'd with cloud,

By the torrent foaming loud,

By the dingle where the purple bells of heather grew,
Where the Alpine flow'rs are hid,

And where bounds the nimble kid,

There we wandered both together through the mountain dew! With what delight in summer's night we trod the twilight gloom, The air so full of fragrance from the flowers so full of bloom, And our hearts so full of joy-for aught else there was no rooin, As we wandered both together through the mountain dew.

Those sparkling gems that rest
On the mountain's flow'ry breast

Are like the joys we number-they are bright and few—
For a while to earth are given,

And are called again to heaven,

When the spirit of the morning steals the mountain dew:
But memory, angelic, makes a heaven on earth for men,
Her rosy light recalleth bright the dew-drops back again,
The warmth of love exhales them from that well-remembered
glen,

Where we wandered both together through the mountain dew!