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

And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how I'll

I would not waste my magic might on diamond,
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 honor!-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!

The heart that had been mourning o'er vanish'd dreams of love
Should see them all returning,-like Noah's faithful dove,
And Hope should launch her blessed bark on Sorrow's dark'ning sea,
And Mis'ry's children have an Ark, and saved from sinking be;
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.

SLEEP THAT LIKE THE COUCHED DOVE.
GERALD GRIFFIN.

SLEEP, that like the couched dove,
Broods o'er the weary eye,
Dreams, that with soft heavings move
The heart of memory-
Labour's guerdon, golden rest,
Wrap thee in its downy vest;
Fall like comfort on thy brain,

And sing the hush-song to thy pain!*

Far from thee be startling fears,

And dreams the guilty dream;
No banshee scare thy drowsy ears,†
With her ill-omened scream.

But tones of fairy minstrelsy

Float, like the ghosts of sound o'er thee, t

Soft as the chapel's distant bell,

And lull thee to a sweet farewell.

Ye, for whom the ashy hearth
The fearful housewife clears-§
Ye, whose tiny sounds of mirth,
The nighted carman hears—

* To English readers it may be as well to state that the hush-song, or the more familiar Irish word "hush-o," is lowly murmured by every Irish nurse as she rocks the child in her arms, or in the cradle.

+ The Banshee is more frequently heard than seen, but when seen, is arrayed in white (hence the prefix ban), and, Siren-like, combing her hair. Her wail predicts death to some one dear to the hearer.

"Ghosts of sound "-how expressive!

§ Often may the "fearful housewife" be seen sweeping up the hearth for the fairies-or, as they more frequently call them, "the good people"-I have been chidden, as a boy, by an Irish peasant for using the word "fairy"-"Don't call them that, Masther; they don't like it-say 'good people.""

Ye, whose pigmy hammers make
The wonderers of the cottage wake-
Noiseless be your airy flight,
Silent, as the still moonlight.

Silent go, and harmless come,

Fairies of the stream-
Ye, who love the winter gloom,
Or the gay moonbeam-
Hither bring your drowsy store,
Gathered from the bright lusmore,†
Shake o'er temples, soft and deep,
The comfort of the poor man's sleep.

The fairies in Ireland have the reputation of being great shoemakers;-hence the tapping of the "pigmy hammers." I suppose the fairies thus employ themselves for such ladies as have that personal gift, (so be-poetized,) a fairy foot.

+ Commonly called "fairy-cap" by the Irish-the fairies being supposed to appropriate the flowers of the plant for head-dresses. The literal meaning of Lusmore is "great herb." It is supposed to possess many magical qualities, and really does possess valuable medical ones, for it is the digitalis purpurea.

WAITING FOR THE MAY.

CLARENCE MANGAN.

Command of rythm, in almost capricious variety, with great facility and melody of rhyme, were among the poetic gifts of Clarence Mangan. The fineness of his ear, in both respects, is evident in the following exquisite lines, and it is feared his latter days were sufficiently sorrow-shaded to account for their morbidness. They are intense in feelingsweetly poetical-bitterly sad

And the thousand charms belonging
To the summer's day.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May-

Sighing for their sure returning
When the summer-beams are burning,
Hopes and flowers that dead or dying
All the winter lay.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing,
Throbbing for the May-

Throbbing for the seaside billows,
Or the water-wooing willows,

Where in laughing and in sobbing
Glide the streams away.

Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing,
Throbbing for the May.

Waiting, sad, dejected, weary,
Waiting for the May.

Spring goes by with wasted warnings-
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings-
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary
Life still ebbs away-

Man is ever weary, weary,
Waiting for the May!

THE ROAD OF LIFE;

OR, SONG OF THE IRISH POST-BOY.

SAMUEL LOVER. From "Songs and Ballads."

OH! youth, happy youth! what a blessing!
In thy freshness of dawn and of dew;
When Hope the young heart is caressing,
And our griefs are but light and but few:
Yet in life, as it swiftly flies o'er us,
Some musing for sadness we find;
In youth—we've our troubles before us,
In age-we leave pleasure behind.

Aye-Trouble's the post-boy that drives us
Up hill, till we get to the top;
While Joy's an old servant behind us
We call on for ever to stop;
"Oh, put on the drag, Joy, my jewel,
As long as the sunset still glows;
Before it is dark 'twould be cruel
To haste to the hill-foot's repose.

But there stands an inn we must stop at,
An extinguisher swings for the sign;
That house is but cold and but narrow:-
But the prospect beyond it's divine!
And there whence there's never returning,
When we travel-as travel we must-
May the gates be all free for our journey!
And the tears of our friends lay the dust!

HARK! HARK! THE SOFT BUGLE.

GRIFFIN.

HARK! hark! the soft bugle sounds over the wood,
And thrills in the silence of even,

Till faint, and more faint, in the far solitude,
It dies on the portals of heaven!

But Echo springs up from her home in the rock,
And seizes the perishing strain;

And sends the gay challenge with shadowy mock,
From mountain to mountain again,

And again!

From mountain to mountain again.

Oh, thus let my love, like a sound of delight,
Be around thee while shines the glad day,

And leave thee, unpain'd in the silence of night,

And die like sweet music away.

While hope, with her warm light, thy glancing eye fills,

Oh, say, "Like that echoing strain—

Though the sound of his love has died over the hills,

It will waken in heaven again,

And again!

It will waken in heaven again."