have had, accordingly, knights of many new orders: "Satanic" -"Spasmodic "-"Metaphysical "—and so forth; and now,

"Nobles and heralds, by your leave,"

an old knight of an older order asks permission to run a course for the honour of the lady in white muslin.

But, allegory apart, and to say a few plain words to this socalled prosaic age, the matter of fact is this:-I have great faith in the universal love of rhyme. I think it is inherent in our nature to be pleased with measured sound; and if with measure there is also syllabic echo (I mean rhyme), I think the pleasure is increased; and it is this belief that has tempted me to try the experiment of telling a few simple stories in simple rhyme, and testing if the nineteenth century be not as open as the earlier ones to be pleased with composition something after the fashion of the ancient ballads. And though not adopting their structure as to stanza, and though incapable of equalling the exquisite tenderness in which many of them abound, I have endeavoured to adhere to their unaffected simplicity.

BARNES, LONDON, November 1, 1859.

SAMUEL LOVER.

The Fisherman who is the hero of the following tale is not merely a creature of imagination, for the self-denying spirit which forms the staple of the story is, I am happy to say, in accordance with fact; and the last magnanimous achievement of the poor Fisherman is literally true. Magnanimous may seem an inflated word to employ in connection with so humble a subject, but it is believed that the reader, on arriving at the end of the story, will not think the epithet unwarrantable.

"Twas down by the shore of the steep coast of Kerry
Dwelt a young Irish Fisherman-mournful, or merry,
As the fast-changing flow of his feelings might be ;
Just as tempests of winter will darken the sea,
Or the breeze and the sunshine of summer will chase
In ripples and brightness along its fair face.

And what made the darkness of young Donoghue !
'Twas the sense of a sorrow-steeped poverty grew,
Like the dripping sea-weed by the storm-beaten shore,
And clung fast to the heart sorrow's tide had run o'er.

And what made his brightness! A lovely young girl—
The prize of his fancy-more precious than pearl;
And if diving the sea could have made the boy win it,
Were it fifty miles deep, he'd have surely been in it.

But parents are thoughtful, as lovers are blind;
And tho' Dermot and Peggy were both of a mind,
The father and mother, on either side, thought
That over-young weddings with sorrow were fraught
To those who were fast bound in poverty's fetter;
So the mother would only consent he should get her
When "times were more promising." O! where's the lover
Broke promise so often as Time hath done, ever?
And poor Dermot, as promising periods drew nigher,
Found "Owld Father Time" was a "mighty big liar."

Young Donoghue's friends used to rally him often,
Why to marriage he could not his sweet Peggy soften;
They said, "Marry at once, and take chance, like the rest."
But young Donoghue, while a sigh swelled his breast,
Would laugh off their taunts, and say, "Better to wait
Than 'marry in haste, and repent' when too late."

"Twas thus that he spoke, but the thoughts were more deep
That kept him awake when the world was asleep;
He thought of the joys that would bless him, if she
Were the wife of his bosom-his cushla ma chree ;2
But, suddenly, conscience would sternly reprove,
And balance the scale between passion and love,
"By wedding his darlin' what would he be doin'
But playing the guide where the road led to ruin?"
And then by his manly resolve he would profit,
And, closing his eyes, say "I must not think of it."

But fancy would trouble his feverish rest,

For in dreams the sweet vision still haunted his breast;
He saw his beloved one, bewitching, as when,

Fresh, fair, round, and lovely, she tripped down the glen,
Her blush like the morn, and her hair dark as night,
Her brow's playful shadow o'er eyes gleaming bright,
Her lip like the rose, and her neck like the lily,
Her tongue's ready taunt making suitors look silly—
All suitors but one-and to him the sweet tongue
With accents of tenderness ever was strung,
And the eye and the brow forgot coquetry's art,
And were open'd-to let him look into her heart.

1 See Notes at the end of the Volume.

O, dream too delicious !-he'd start and awake,
And again summon courage the dream to forsake-
First, his arms open'd wide to clasp beauties of air,
And then chasten'd thought clasp'd his hands in deep pray'r,
And he vow'd that he never would darken the brow
That glow'd with the light of mirth's witchery now.

And Peggy knew this-and she lov'd him the more;
And oft, when poor Dermot was stretch'd on the shore
And lost in sad thought-pretty Peggy, perchance
Half pleased, and half pitying, might furtively glance
From the cliff overhead-and her sensitive heart
Could divine what he felt-and, with delicate art,

She would gather the flowers from the dark cliff, and pass
Round some pebble a primitive tie of wild grass,

And, attaching her nosegay, would fling it from high,
And the flow'rs fell on Dermot, as though from the sky :—
From the sky-say from Heaven: for the dew ne'er did drop
From the fountain on high on the summer-scorch'd crop,
More assuaging its fervour, refreshing its might,

Than those flow'rs dropp'd on him from that Heaven-crown'd height!

Then would Dermot take heart-and he thought some fine day
Would reward him, at last, for this cruel delay;
He had heard it remarked, "It was no use to fret,"
And believed there was 66
great luck in store for him yet ;"3
And, seeing that nothing is e'er got by wishing,

He thought he'd "get up out o' that," and go fishing;
But even then, Fancy still played her sly part:
The net seemed a woman-each herring a heart.

And thus it went on-weeks and months passed away,
And Peggy, the pride of the glen,

Grew fairer and fairer with every day,

And was courted by all sorts of men.

The long, and the short, and the fat, and the lean,

In Peggy's long list of admirers were seen,

But Dermot, in all these great hosts round her thronging,
If he was not the longest, at least was most longing;
Longing-though vista of hope seem'd no clearer,
Longing for time that came never the nearer.
O, longing-thou love-lure !—with magical art
Engend'ring the sultry mirage of the heart
That flatters while flying, allures to betray,
Exciting the thirst which it cannot allay !

Poor Dermot !—What projects prodigious would start
From the fanciful fumes of that furnace, his heart,

To haunt his poor brain !-Could he seize on some chance
That might better his lot?-Or his fortune advance
By some feat of great prowess-some high-daring deed?
And what danger could daunt him-with Peggy the meed !
Some think we're surrounded by mystical pow'rs,
Who work into shape the wild dreams of lone hours,
And 'twould seem that such spirits were willing to test

The forces of evil and good in the breast

Of the deep-loving dreamer-soon doom'd to a trial
For mortals the hardest of all-self-denial.

But if spirits of darkness do wait, as 'tis said,
To pilot our way,

if towards wrong we would tread,
O! watching us, also, are spirits of light
To shed a bright ray on our pathway when right !4

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