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'Time is the warp of life," said he; “O, tell
Of life had left his veins: " Time!” he replied; “I've lost it! ah, the treasure!”—and he died.
I asked the golden sun and silver spheres,
And they replied (no oracle more wise), “T is Folly's blank, and Wisdom's highest prize!”
I asked a spirit lost,-—but O the shriek
Consulted, and it made me this reply,-
Livel live to-day! to-morrow never yet
One foot on sea and one on solid land: “Mortal!” he cried, “the mystery now is o'er; Time was, Time is, but Time shall be no more!'
The Groves of Blarney.
The groves of Blarney, they look so charming,
Down by the purlings of sweet silent brooks, All decked with posies, that spontaneous grow there,
Planted in order in the rocky nooks. 'T is there the daisy, and the sweet carnation,
The blooming pink, and the rose so fair ; Likewise the lily, and the daffodilly
All flowers that scent the sweet, open air.
'T is Lady Jaffers owns this plantation,
Like Alexander, or like Helen fair;
For regulation can with her compare.
Could ever plunder her place of strength;
And made a breach in her battlement.
There 's gravel walks there for speculation,
And conversation in sweet solitude; 'T is there the lover may hear the dove, or
The gentle plover, in the afternoon.. And if a young lady should be so engaging
As to walk alone in those shady bowers, 'T is there her courtier, he may transport her
In some dark port, or under ground.
For 't is there 's the cave where no daylight enters,
But bats and badgers are forever bred;
Than a coach and six, or a feather bed.
And comely eels in the verdant mud; Besides the leeches, and the groves of beeches,
All standing in order for to guard the flood.
'T is there 's the kitchen hangs many a flitch in,
With the maids a-stitching upon the stair; The bread and biske', the beer and whiskey,
Would make you frisky if you were there. 'I is there you 'd see Peg Murphy's daughter
A washing praties forenent the door, With Roger Cleary, and Father Healy,
All blood relations to my Lord Donoughmore.
There 's statues gracing this noble place in,
All heathen goddesses so fair-
All standing naked in the open air.
Which my poor geni' could not entwine; But were I Homer, or Nebuchadnezzar, 'T is in every feature I would make it shine.
RICHARD ALFRED MILLIKIN.
Helen of Kirkconnel.
I wish I were where Helen lies,
Still seems to beckon me!
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Where Kirtle waters gently wind,
Took deadly aim at me.
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell,
And tore my love from me!
They centred all in thee!
No resting-place for me.
On fair Kirkconnel-Leel
0, when I 'm sleeping in my grave,
Unite my love and me!
Connel and Flora.
Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main,
For see, on yon mountain the dark cloud of death
Ye light fleeting spirits that glide o'er the steep,
What dreaming drone was ever blest,
By thinking of the morrow?
To all the fools of sorrow;
The heart its own defender;
And never beat surrender.
On comes the foe-to arms—to arms
We meet—'t is death or glory;
Or fame in Britain's story;
And ruffians would enslave thee;
Who would not die to save thee?
'T is you, 't is I, that meets the ball;
And me it better pleases
Than die of cold diseases;
With saws and tales unheeded,
Nor longer loved nor needed.
But thou-dark is thy flowing hair,
Thy eye with fire is streaming,
Health sits in triumph beaming;