a gentleman remarkable for second sight. He | you, Lady Bab, like a generous conqueror, knows all women by instinctshould bear the triumph moderately. 1792, and produced her, together with the Reliques, the sum of over £300, with which she purchased an annuity of £40 a year. This she did not enjoy long, for in the following year she died, regretted by every one who had known her. [Charlotte Brooke was the daughter of | of the works of her father, which appeared in Henry Brooke author of Gustavus Vasa, and was born in 1740. At an early age she exhibited a passion for books, which for a time was interrupted by a desire to go upon the stage. Luckily her father prevailed upon her to forego this intention, and returning once more to her books she studied more passionately than ever. Frequently, while the rest of the family were in bed, she would steal down stairs to the study, there to lose herself in her beloved antiquities. In this way she was led to the study of the Irish language, and in less than two years from commencing she found herself mistress of it. From reading Irish poetry and admiring its beauties, she proceeded to translate it into English, one of her earliest efforts being a song and monody by Carolan, which appeared in Walker's Historical Memoirs of the Irish Bards. These were widely admired, and encouraged by this, and by the advice of friends, she set herself to collect and translate such works of Irish poets as she could procure and were found worthy of appearing in an English dress. The result was her Reliques of Irish Poetry, which appeared in 1788. This work may well take rank with Percy's Reliques, not only for its intrinsic worth, but because of the influence it has had on the study of the almost forgotten poets who had written in the Irish language. Soon after the appearance of her principal work she was unexpectedly reduced from affluence almost to poverty. Instead of indulging in fruitless complaints, however, she busily set about preparing a complete edition Miss Brooke's other works were: Dialogue between a Lady and her Pupils; The School for Christians, 1791; Natural History, &c., 1796; Emma or the Foundling of the Wood, a novel, 1803; and Belesarius, a tragedy. In The Reliques she has printed an original poem, entitled An Irish Tale, an extract from which we give as characteristic of her style.] THE SONG OF THE BARD CRAFTINĖ. ADDRESSED TO MÄON, AN IRISH PRINCE IN Mäon! bright and deathless name! "Mäon (she cries), behold my ruin'd land! The prostrate wall-the blood-stained field:Behold my slaughtered sons, and captive sires, Thy vengeance imprecate, thy aid demand! (From reeking swords and raging fires, No arm but thine to shield). Come see what yet remains to tell, Of horrors that befel! Come see where death, in bloody pomp array'd, Triumph'd o'er thy slaughtered race! Where murder show'd his daring face, "Rush on murder's blood-stained throne! Ha! I behold thy sparkling eyes! Erin!-'tis done!-thy tyrant dies! Hark-from the tomb my slaughtered princes cry! Thy Mäon comes to free his groaning land! "Still attention! hold thy breath!— "Son of my son! (he cries) O Mäon! hear!— Yes, yes, our child thou art! Well may the unexpected tale Thus turn thy beauty pale! Yet cheer, my son, thy fainting heart, "Son of Ollioll's love art thou, Offspring of his early vow; One dreadful morn our fall beheld, "See Erin's dying princes press the ground, "Tears!-shall tears for blood be paid? Still shows the wound of death. Still from his bosom flows the crimson tide, As when he first resign'd his guiltless breath! "Mäon! (he cries) O hear thy sire! "Speak I to an infant's ears, With shuddering blood and flowing tears! To do the work his early virtue plann'd. He comes the heir of Laoghaire's splendid crown! He comes the heir of Ollioll's bright renown! He comes, the arm of Gallia's host! Her warriors round their hero press; They rush, his wrongs, his country to redress. TO A WARRIOR. TRANSLATION FROM THE OLD IRISH. Resistless as the spirit of the night, In storms and terrors drest, Withering the force of every hostile breast, Youth of fierce deeds and noble soul! Rend, scatter wide the foe! Swift forward rush, and lay the waving pride Thine be the battle, thine the sway! On-on to Cairbre hew thy conquering way, And let thy deathful arm dash safety from his side! As the proud wave, on whose broad back The storm its burden heaves, Drives on the scattered wreck Its ruin leaves; So let thy sweeping progress roll, Pour, like the billow of the flood, o'erwhelming might along. OH, GIVE ME SIGHT! Like Bartimeus, Lord, I came, To meet thy healing word; To call upon thy gracious name, And cry to be restored. Across thy path my limbs I laid, |