With sinking mind and bosom riven,
And heart with lonely anguish aching,
It needs my long-taught hope in heaven,
To keep that weary heart from breaking!
Know ye not, &c.

The following remarks from Dr. Griffin, in his interesting memoir of his brother, seem to me too worthy of quotation to be omitted here :

"The exquisite tenderness and depth of the feeling conveyed in these lines rendered them, like those touching ones addressed by the late Rev. C. Woolfe to "Mary," but badly adapted to be sung to any air, however beautiful. It is evident they were written after that change had come over his mind to which I have already slightly alluded, and which took away entirely his early and strong thirst for literary fame. However people in general may regret such an alteration, there are few persons who have arrived at that period of life when reflection begins to prevail, and enables them to perceive clearly the fleeting destiny of every temporal interest, who have not themselves at one time or another been under the visitation of those 'doubts and fears' they so beautifully express, and who will fail, therefore, to sympathise with that serious cast of thought which was so prevalent in his later writings, though it lessened their interest by depriving them of that character of passion which is such a jewel with the multitude."-Life of Gerald Griffin, by his brother, Daniel Griffin, M.D., p. 58.

KATE OF GARNAVILLA.

EDWARD LYSAGHT.

Here is the song alluded to in the leading notice of the foregoing verses. To any one of musical ear it will be apparent I have not said too much in giving it the preference to Burn's "Canst thou leave me thus my Katy?" It has more variety and greater sweetness, even in the refrain—or chorus, as Burns has it. Let comparison be made by speaking-to say nothing of singing-the two following lines, and

"Canst thou leave me thus my Katy?"

sounds rather harsh and sibilant; while

"Have you been at Garnavilla?"

is almost as musical as Italian. In short, the song throughout is very happy in syllable structure and choice of suitable and musical words.

Have you been at Garnavilla?
Have you seen at Garnavilla
Beauty's train trip o'er the plain
With lovely Kate of Garnavilla !
Oh! she's pure as virgin snows
Ere they light on woodland hill; O
Sweet as dew-drop on wild rose
Is lovely Kate of Garnavilla!

Philomel, I've listened oft

To thy lay, nigh weeping willow;
Oh, the strain's more sweet, more soft,
That flows from Kate of Garnavilla !
Have you been, &c.

As a noble ship I've seen

Sailing o'er the swelling billow,
So I've marked the graceful mien
Of lovely Kate of Garnavilla.
Have you been, &c.

If poets' prayers can banish cares,
No cares shall come to Garnavilla;
Joy's bright rays shall gild her days,

And dove-like peace perch on her pillow.
Charming maid of Garnavilla !

Lovely maid of Garnavilla!

Beauty, grace, and virtue wait

On lovely Kate of Garnavilla !

"Fair play is a jewel”—an old saying I honour; and, wishing to act up to it, I give the entire of Burns's song, that any reader who may not have a volume of Burns to refer to at the moment, may compare the two songs here :

"CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY?

Tune, 'Roy's Wife.'

"Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?

Well thou know'st my aching heart,
And canst thou leave me thus for pity?

"Is this thy plighted fond regard,
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy?
Is this thy faithful swain's reward—
An aching, broken heart, my Katy?
Canst thou, &c.

"Farewell! may ne'er such sorrows tear

That fickle heart of thine, my Katy :

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear

But not a love like mine, my Katy.

Canst thou, &c.'

It is a curious coincidence that each of these three songs begins with a question. Perhaps the note of interrogation infected me with the inquiring spirit of criticism in which I have ventured to indulge.

CUPID'S WING.

SAMUEL LOver.

THE dart of Love was feather'd first
From Folly's wing, they say,
Until he tried his shaft to shoot

In Beauty's heart one day;
He miss'd the maid so oft, 'tis said,
His aim became untrue,

And Beauty laugh'd as his last shaft
He from his quiver drew;

"In vain," said she, " you shoot at me, You little spiteful thing—

66

The feather on your shaft I scorn,
When pluck'd from Folly's wing."

But Cupid soon fresh arrows found,
And fitted to his string,

And each new shaft he feather'd from
His own bright glossy wing;
He shot until no plume was left,
To waft him to the sky,

And Beauty smiled upon the child
When he no more could fly:

'Now, Cupid, I am thine," she said,
"Leave off thy archer play;

For Beauty yields-when she is sure
Love will not fly away."

WHEN LOVELY WOMAN.

GOLDSMITH. From the "Vicar of Wakefield."

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray; What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is-to die.

These sweet and ingenious lines are from "The Duenna." The song does not appear in the late edition of the opera. I obtained it from an old Dublin edition, dated 1786-where the piece is entitled, "The Duenna, or double elopement; a comic opera, as it is acted at the Theatre, Smoke Alley, Dublin." (Properly called Smock Alley.) In this edition most outrageous liberties have been taken with the original text.

ALAS! THOU HAST NO WINGS, OH! TIME.

SHERIDAN.

In the lines that follow will be found the original form of the idea which the author so much improved in the foregoing. Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, gives numerous instances of the extreme care with which he filed and polished up his shafts of wit to bring them to the finest point. In this practice no one could better sympathise than Moore.

ALAS! thou hast no wings, oh! time;
It was some thoughtless lover's rhyme,
Who, writing in his Chloe's view,
Paid her the compliment through you.

For had he, if he truly loved,

But once the pangs of absence proved,
He'd cropp'd thy wings, and in their stead,
Have painted thee with heels of lead.

A four-leaved Shamrock is of such rarity that it is supposed to endue the finder with magic power.

'LL seek a four-leaved shamrock in all the fairy dells,

And if I find the charmèd leaves, oh, how I'll weave my spells!

I would not waste my magic might on dia-
mond, pearl, or gold,

For treasure tires the weary sense-such triumph is but cold;
But I would play the enchanter's part in casting bliss around,
Oh! not a tear nor aching heart should in the world be found.

To worth I would give honour !-I'd dry the mourner's tears,
And to the pallid lip recall the smile of happier years;

And hearts that had been long estrang'd and friends that had grown cold,

Should meet again-like parted streams-and mingle as of old! Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, thus scatter bliss around, And not a tear nor aching heart should in the world be found!