THE FETCH. JOHN BANIM. In Ireland, a Fetch is the supernatural fac simile of some individual, which comes to insure to its original a happy longevity, or immediate dissolution. If seen in the morning, the one event is predicted; if in the evening, the other.-Author's note. THE mother died when the child was born, And left me her baby to keep; I rocked its cradle the night and morn, "Twas a sickly child through its infancy, Till it broke from my arms to walk in glee, And then my little girl grew strong, Or sung me the merry lark's mountain song, When she wreathed her hair in thicket bowers, I called her my May, in her crown of flowers, And the rose, I thought, never shamed her cheek, And her eye of blue did more brightly break, One evening I left her asleep in her smiles, She darkened my path, like a troubled dream, I spoke to my child! but she did not seem She only looked with a dead, dead eye, THE LOST PATH. THOMAS DAVIS. SWEET thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be All comfort else has flown; For every hope was false to me, And here I am alone. What thoughts were mine in early youth! Like some old Irish song, Brimful of love, and life, and truth, My spirit gush'd along. I hoped to right my native isle, I hoped to rest in woman's smile, But fancy has a magic power, It brings me wreath and crown, And woman's love, the self-same hour It smites oppression down. Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be, I have no joy beside; Oh! throng around, and be to me Power, country, fame, and bride. WHOE'ER SHE BE, I LOVE HER. From the Irish. Translated by EDWARD WALSH. THROUGH pleasure's bowers I wildly flew, That one young Fair-neck saw me, O'er death's dark shade- Who'er she be, I love her! But since soft ties are round us wove, That spell-bound left me dying— The ocean billows over, Who can divide From me my bride ? But first to Eirne's lovely lake, Where maids are gay, our course we'll take, I and my dame Of stainless fame Whoe'er she be, I love her! Her secret name I'll not impart, Although she pierced my wandering heart, As love-sick left me lying, In fiery torment dying, To her we'll drain, Whoe'er she be, I love her! FROM Sweet Tipperary Her step, like a fairy, scarce ruffles the dew, Disdaining such things as a stocking or shoe; Like Venus, or Cupid, And who'd be so stupid to put her in silk, When her sweet foot and her ankle The dewdrops bespangle, As she trips o'er the lawn, At the blush of the dawn, For the dance when array'd, See this bright mountain maid, If her hair she would braid with young beauty's fond lure, O'er some clear fountain stooping, Her dark tresses looping, Diana herself ne'er had mirror more pure ! Would fashion dare soil it With paint, or with patches, when Nature bestows Heaven's light in her eye The soft blue of the sky Heaven's light in her eye, and a blush like the rose ! THE SEA. Mrs. DOWNING. I LOVE it, I love it, It is dear to me still. I love it when glassy, On its wave are reclining- O'er its bosom are stealing- I love it when resting |