LINES TO ERIN.

WHEN dullness shall chain the wild harp that would praise thee, When its last sigh of freedom is heard on thy shore,

When its raptures shall bless the false heart that betrays thee, Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!

When thy sons are less tame than their own ocean waters,

When their last flash of wit and of genius is o'er,

When virtue and beauty forsake thy young daughters,

Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!

When the sun that now holds his bright path o'er thy mountains, Forgets the green fields that he smiled on before,

When no moonlight shall sleep on thy lakes and thy fountains, Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!

When the name of the Saxon and tyrant shall sever,

When the freedom you lost you no longer deplore,

When the thoughts of your wrongs shall be sleeping forever,

Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!

STANZAS.

STILL green are thy mountains and bright is thy shore,
And the voice of thy fountains is heard as of yore.

The sun o'er thy valleys, dear Erin, shines on,
Though thy bard and thy lover forever is gone.

Nor shall he, an exile, thy glad scenes forget,
The friends fondly loved, ne'er again to be met—
The glens where he mused on the deeds of his nation,
And waked his young harp with a wild inspiration.

Still, still, though between us may roll the broad ocean,
Will I cherish thy name with the same deep devotion;
And though minstrels more brilliant my place may supply,
None loves you more fondly, more truly than I.

A LAY OF MIZEN HEAD.

It was the noon of Sabbath, the spring-wind swept the sky, And o'er the heaven's savannah blue the boding scuds did fly, And a stir was heard amongst the waves o'er all their fields of

might,

Like the distant hum of hurrying hosts when they muster for the fight.

The fisher marked the changing heaven and high his pinnace

drew,

And to her wild and rocky home the screaming sea-bird flew;
But safely in Cork haven the sheltered bark may rest
Within the zone of ocean hills that girds its beauteous breast.

Amongst the stately vessels in that calm port was one
Whose streamers waved out joyously to hail the Sabbath sun;
And scattered o'er her ample deck were careless hearts and free,
That laughed to hear the rising wind and mocked the frowning

sea.

One youth alone bent darkly above the heaving tide—

His heart was with his native hills and with his beauteous bride,
And with the rush of feelings deep his manly bosom strove,
As he thought of her he had left afar in the spring-time of
their love.

What checks the seaman's jovial mirth and clouds his sunny

brow?

Why does he look with troubled gaze from port-hole, side and

prow?

A moment-'t was a death-like pause-that signal! can it be? That signal quickly orders the "Confiance" to sea.

Then there was springing up aloft and hurrying down below, And the windlass hoarsely answered to the hoarse and wild "heave yo;"

And vows were briefly spoken then that long had silent lain, And hearts and lips together met that ne'er may meet again.

Now darker lowered the threatening sky and wilder heaved the

wave,

And through the cordage fearfully the wind began to rave;
The sails are set, the anchor weighed-what recks that gallant

ship?

Blow on! Upon her course she springs like greyhound from the slip.

O, heavens! it was a glorious sight, that stately ship to see,
In the beauty of her gleaming sails and her pennant floating free,
As to the gale with bending tops she made her haughty bow,
And proudly spurned the waves that burned around her flash-
ing prow!

The sun went down and through the clouds looked out the evening star,

And westward, from old Ocean's head, beheld that ship afar. Still onward fearlessly she flew, in her snowy pinion-sweep, Like a bright and beauteous spirit o'er the mountains of the deep.

It blows a fearful tempest-'tis the dead watch of the night—
The Mizen's giant brow is streaked with red and angry light,
And by its far illuming glance a struggling bark I see.
Wear, wear! the land, ill-fated one, is close beneath your lee!

Another flash-they still hold out for home and love and life,
And under close-reefed topsails maintain th' unequal strife.
Now out the rallying foresail flies, the last, the desperate
chance-

Can that be she? Oh, heavens, it is the luckless "Confiance!"

Hark! heard you not that dismal cry? T was stifled in the

gale

Oh! clasp, young bride, thine orphan child and raise the widow's

wail!

The morning rose in purple light o'er ocean's tranquil sleep— But o'er their gallant quarry lay the spoilers of the deep.

REV. MICHAEL MULLIN.

RIN, prolific land of genius, has given birth to

the Poet-Priest and litterateur whose life and

labors we briefly here indite. Like Like many another gifted Gael, he died far away from the land which birth and boyhood had endeared to him by a thousand sacrifices and hallowed associations.

Loughrea, on the banks of the "lordly Shannon," claims the honor of giving birth to the Rev. Father Mullin in the year 1833, when Ireland was fast recovering from the baneful effects of the odious Penal laws. O'Connell was then the uncrowned king of his native land. Three years before the birth of our poet, Catholic Emancipation, through the matchless statesmanship of the Liberator, became a startling reality, and the middle class of Catholics, who had lost neither the virtues nor the traditions of their race, could now reasonably indulge in the hope of educating their sons for the learned professions. The parents of Michael Mullin dedicated him to the service of the Church at the baptismal font, and carefully shaped his career and studies to the destined goal. His primary education was received at St. Jarlath's College, the great seminary of the West, and the alma mater of many a learned