love of liberty in his soul; he could feel for Ireland as he felt for Poland, and the author of that often-quoted line

"And freedom shriek'd-as Kosciusko fell,"

sympathized with the humble exile of Erin.

I cannot help expressing my regret, and almost a sense of shame, that any, in Ireland, could be so forgetful of what was due to Campbell for such a song, as to make the attempt (alluded to in the note to the preceding song) to brand with the charge of literary piracy the man who had so sympathized with the Irish exile.

The charge that Campbell did not write this song, which he published under his name, was first made in 1830, twenty-nine years after the song was written. Why was not the charge made and substantiated (if it could be) before? In law, if a man holds an estate for twenty years, unchallenged, it is reckoned a good title. Is there to be no protection on Parnassus? Campbell publicly denied this charge, under his own hand, while he lived; the charge was revived when he was in the grave. What can be said of this?

"A lion preys not upon carcasses."

But the charge was too ridiculous to be entertained for a moment by any person of critical acumen. Campbell's lyric has his own mint-mark upon it, and all the scrubbing of presumptuous meddlers cannot efface it.

"There is nothing new under the sun," saith the preacher. reputation has ever been:

"A falcon towering in her pride of place

Was by a mousing owl hawked at

This desire to damage

There is a passage of Moore's so singularly applicable to the present subject that I quote it. "In a late work, professing to be the memoirs of Mr. Sheridan, there are some wise doubts expressed as to his being really the author of 'The School for Scandal,' to which, except for the purpose of exposing absurdity, I should not have thought it worth while to allude. It is an old trick of detraction, and one of which it never tires, to father the works of eminent writers upon others; or, at least, while it kindly leaves the author the credit of his worst performances, to find some one in the background to ease him of the fame of his best. When this sort of charge is brought against a contemporary, the motive is intelligible; but, such an abstract pleasure have some persons in merely unsettling the crowns of Fame, that a worthy German has written an elaborate book to prove that the Iliad was written, not by that particular Homer the world supposes, but by some other Homer! In truth, if mankind were to be influenced by those qui tam critics, who have, from time to time, in the course of the history of literature, exhibited informations of plagiarism against great authors, the property of fame would pass from its present holders into the hands of persons with whom the world is but little acquainted. Aristotle must refund to one Ocellus Lucanus-Virgil must make a cessio bonorum in favour of Pisander. The metamorphoses of Ovid must be credited to the account of Parthenius of Nicæa, and (to come to a modern instance) Mr. Sheridan must, according to his biographer, Dr. Watkins, surrender the glory of having written the 'School for Scandal' to a certain anonymous young lady, who died of consumption in Thames-street!"-Moore's Life of Sheridan. 8vo. Vol. I. p. 254. The Americans seem determined not to be surpassed by the rest of the world in this, as in many other achievements. When a planet, before it was ever seen in the unexplored depths of

, was declared to exist, by Le Verrier, and when, to the delight of every generous mind

at this marvellous triumph of science, it did appear in the very place where Le Verrier prophesied it would be found at a certain time, a jealous Yankee star-gazer published a letter to declare that the planet thus revealed, was not the planet Le Verrier thought it was. Another American, but the other day, favoured us with the amusing information that the Plays of Shakspeare (so called) were written by Lord Bacon.

But, enough of such odious theme! Let us turn from this miserable spirit of detraction to the generous outburst of a poet's soul.

THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill:
But the day-star attracted his eyes' sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

Sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger;
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again in the green sunny bowers,

Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh.

Erin, my country, tho' sad and forsaken,

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore,
But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more.

Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace-where no perils can chase me?
Never again shall my brothers embrace me?

They died to defend me, or live to deplore!

Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire, did you weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?
Where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?
Oh!
my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure,
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure,
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw:
Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!
Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields,-sweetest isle of the ocean,
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin, ma vourneen! Erin go bragh!*

Ireland, my darling! Ireland for ever!

This song surpasses by far all that were ever written to the lovely air of Savourneen Deelish. Moore felt that a melody of such beauty must appear in his "Irish Melodies," but he abstained from using it for a long time, conscious of the formidable rivalry he had to encounter. He says himself, "I must express my diffidence in treading upon the same ground with Mr. Campbell, whose beautiful words to this fine air have taken too strong possession of all ears and hearts for me to think of following in his footsteps with any

The revolutionary party in Ireland of this period wore their hair short, like the roundheads of Cromwell's day-hence the term "crop," or "croppy." The dramatic spirit of this ballad imparts to it a strange interest.

"GOOD men and true! in this house who dwell,

To a stranger bouchalt I pray you tell
Is the priest at home? or may he be seen?
I would speak a word with Father Green."

"The priest's at home, boy, and may be seen;
'Tis easy speaking with Father Green;
But you must wait till I go and see
If the holy Father alone may be."

The youth has entered an empty hall-
What a lonely sound has his light foot-fall!
And the gloomy chamber's chill and bare,
With a vested priest in a lonely chair.

The youth has knelt to tell his sins:
"Nomine Dei," the youth begins;
At" mea culpa" he beats his breast,
And in broken murmurs he speaks the rest.

+ Boy.

"At the siege of Ross did my father fall,
And at Gorey my loving brothers all.
I alone am left of my name and race;
I will go to Wexford* and take their place.

"I cursed three times since last Easter day-
At mass-time once I went to play;

I passed the churchyard one day in haste,
And forgot to pray for my mother's rest.

"I bear no hate against living thing;
But I love my country above my king.
Now, Father! bless me, and let me go
To die, if God has ordained it so."

The priest said nought, but a rustling noise
Made the youth look up in wild surprise;
The robes were off, and in scarlet there
Sat a yeoman captain with fiery glare.

With fiery glare and with fury hoarse,
Instead of blessing, he breathed a curse:-
"Twas a good thought, boy, to come here and shrive,
For one short hour is your time to live.

"Upon yon river three tenders float,†
The priest's in one, if he isn't shot-
We hold his house for our Lord the King,
And, amen say I, may all traitors swing!"

At Geneva Barrack‡ that young man died,
And at Passage they have his body laid.
Good people who live in peace and joy,

Give a prayer and a tear for the Croppy Boy.

*The rebels made a desperate stand at Wexford, which was in their hands for some time; and there the sanguinary spirit of both parties was fearfully displayed. It was not the first time Wexford beheld a massacre, for Cromwell, in 1649, placed a red letter before his name, there, in the page of history.

+ Guard-ships were anchored off Wexford, which served as prisons for the captured rebels, or suspected persons.

A military station in Wexford county.

MARY LE MORE.

The Maniac of 1798.

GEORGE NUGENT REYNOLDS. Air, "Savourneen Deelish."

This is among the best of Mr. Reynolds's poetical effusions, and gives a fearful picture of the times it represents.

As I stray'd o'er the common on Cork's rugged border,
While the dew-drops of morn the sweet primrose array'd,

I saw a poor maiden whose mental disorder

Her quick-glancing eye and wild aspect betray'd.
On the sward she reclin'd, by the green fern surrounded,
At her side speckled daisies and wild flow'rs abounded;
To its inmost recesses her heart had been wounded;
Her sighs were unceasing 'twas Mary le More.

Her charms by the keen blasts of sorrow were faded,
Yet the soft tinge of beauty still play'd on her cheek ;
Her tresses a wreath of pale primroses braided,

And strings of fresh daisies hung loose on her neck.
While with pity I gaz'd, she exclaim'd, "O my Mother!
See the blood on that lash, 'tis the blood of
my brother;

They have torn his poor flesh, and they now strip another—
'Tis Connor, the friend of poor Mary le More.

"Though his locks were as white as the foam of the ocean, Those wretches shall find that my father is brave;

My father!" she cried, with the wildest emotion,

"Ah! no, my poor father now sleeps in the grave!* They have tolled his death-bell, they've laid the turf o'er him; His white locks were bloody! no aid could restore him; He is gone! he is gone! and the good will deplore him, When the blue waves of Erin hide Mary le More."

* This is an allusion to a song written some time previously, entitled "Mary Le More," in which the burning of a cabin, accompanied with murder and violation, is the subject, and in which I remember this verse occurs

"One cold winter's night, as poor Dermot sat musing,

Hoarse curses alarm'd him, and crash went the door;
The fierce soldiers enter'd, and straight 'gan abusing
The mild but brave father of Mary Le More;

To their taunts he replied not-with blows they assail'd him-
He felt all indignant, his patience now fail'd him—

He return❜d their vile blows; and all Munster bewail'd him—
For stabb'd was the father of Mary le More."