'Time is the warp of life," said he; “O, tell
The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well!"
I asked the ancient, venerable dead,
Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled :
From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed,
“Time sowed the seed we reap in this abode!"
I asked a dying sinner, ere the tide

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,
Those bright chronometers of days and years:
They answered, “ Time is but a meteor glare,”
And bade me for eternity prepare.
I asked the Seasons, in their annual round,
Which beautify or desolate the ground;

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
That pierced my soul! I shudder while I speak.
It cried, “A particlel a speck! a mite
Of endless years, duration infinite!"
Of things inanimate, my dial I

Consulted, and it made me this reply,-
“ Time is the season fair of living well,
The path of glory or the path of hell."
I asked my Bible, and methinks it said,
“Time is the present hour, the past has filed;

Livel live to-day! to-morrow never yet
On any human being rose or set.”
I asked old Father Time himself at last;
But in a moment he flew swiftly past,
His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind
His noiseless steeds, which left no trace behind.
I asked the mighty angel who shall stand

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!'

WILLIAM MARSDEN,

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;
There 's no commander in all the nation

For regulation can with her compare.
Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder

Could ever plunder her place of strength;
But Oliver Cromwell, he did her pommel,

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;
Being mossed by natur' which makes it sweeter

Than a coach and six, or a feather bed.
'T is there 's the lake that is stored with perches,

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-
Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Nicodemus,

All standing naked in the open air.
So now to finish this brave narration,

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,
For night and day on me she cries,
And, like an angel, to the skies

Still seems to beckon me!
For me she lived, for me she sigh’d,
For me she wish'd to be a bride,
For me in life's sweet morn she died

On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

а

Where Kirtle waters gently wind,
As Helen on my arm reclined,
A rival with a ruthless mind

Took deadly aim at me.
My love, to disappoint the foe,
Rush'd in between me and the blow;
And now her corse is lying low,

On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell,
I curse the hand by which she fell,
The fiend who made my heaven a hell,

And tore my love from me!
For if, when all the graces shine,
O, if on earth there 's aught divine,
My Helen, all these charms were thine,

They centred all in thee!
Ah! what avails it that, amain,
I clove the assassin's head in twain ?
No peace of mind, my Helen slain,

No resting-place for me.
I see her spirit in the air-
I hear the shriek of wild despair,
When murder laid her bosom bare,

On fair Kirkconnel-Leel

0, when I 'm sleeping in my grave,
And o'er my head the rank weeds wave,
May He who life and spirit gave

Unite my love and me!
Then from this world of doubts and sighs,
My soul on wings of peace shall rise,
And, joining Helen in the skies,
Forget Kirkconnel-Lee.

JOHN MAYNE

Connel and Flora.

Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main,
Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again;
Alas! morn returns to revisit the shore;
But Connel returns to his Flora no more.

For see, on yon mountain the dark cloud of death
O’er Connel's lone cottage, lies low on the heath;
While bloody and pale on a far distant shore
He lies, to return to his Flora no more.

Ye light fleeting spirits that glide o'er the steep,
O, would you but waft me across the wild deep,
There fearless I'd mix in the battle's loud roar,
I'd die with my Connel, and leave him no more.

ALEXANDER WILSOK.

The Soldier.

What dreaming drone was ever blest,

By thinking of the morrow?
To-day be mine-I leave the rest

To all the fools of sorrow;
Give me the mind that mocks at care,

The heart its own defender;
The spirits that are light as air,

And never beat surrender.

On comes the foe-to arms—to arms

We meet—'t is death or glory;
'T is victory in all her charms,

Or fame in Britain's story;
Dear native landl thy fortunes frown,

And ruffians would enslave thee;
Thou land of honor and renown,

Who would not die to save thee?

'T is you, 't is I, that meets the ball;

And me it better pleases
In battle with the brave to fall,

Than die of cold diseases;
Than drivel on in elbow-chair

With saws and tales unheeded,
A tottering thing of aches and care,

Nor longer loved nor needed.

But thou-dark is thy flowing hair,

Thy eye with fire is streaming,
And o'er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air,

Health sits in triumph beaming;