THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

With deep affection

And recollection

I often think of

Those Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would,

In the days of childhood,
Fling round my cradle
Their magic spells.

On this I ponder
Where'er I wander,

And thus grow fonder,

Sweet Cork, of thee,—
With thy Bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine,

While at a glib rate

Brass tongues would vibrate;

But all their music

Spoke not like thine.

For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling
Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells tolling
Old Adrian's Mole in,

Their thunder rolling
From the Vatican,—
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets
Of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter
Than the dome of Peter

Flings o'er the Tiber,
Pealing solemnly.

Oh! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow;

While on tower and kiosk O

In St. Sophia

The Turkoman gets,

And loud in air

Calls men to prayer,

From the tapering summit

Of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there's an anthem

More dear to me,-
"T is the bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

FATHER PROUT (FRANCIS MAHONY).

DRIFTING.

My soul to-day

Is far away:
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;

The day, so mild,

Is Heaven's own child,

With Earth and Ocean reconciled;-
The airs I feel

Around me steal

Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail

My hand I trail

Within the shadow of the sail;

A joy intense,

The cooling sense,

Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies

Where summer sings and never dies,— O'erveiled with vines,

She glows and shines

Among her future oils and wines.

Her children hid

The cliffs amid,

Are gamboling with the gamboling kid; Or down the walls,

With tipsy calls,

Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

The fisher's child,

With tresses wild,

Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,

With glowing lips

Sings as she skips,

Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes

Where traffic blows,

From lands of sun to lands of snows;

This happier one,

Its course is run

From lands of snow to lands of sun.

"Tis plain to see," said a farmer's wife,
"These boys will make their mark in life;
They were never made to handle a hoe,
And at once to a college ought to go;
There's Fred, he's little Letter than a fool,
But John and Henry must go to school."

"Well, really wife," quoth Farmer Brown,
As he set his mug of cider down,
"Fred does more work in a day for me
Than both his brothers do in three.
Book larnin' will never plant one's corn,
Nor hoe potatoes, sure's you're born,
Nor mend a rod of broken fence-
For my part, give me common sense."

But his wife was bound the roast to rule,
And John and Henry were sent to school.
While Fred, of course, was left behind,
Because his mother said he had no mind.