Before the winds propitious past Achill, south by Ara,

The good ship gliding left behind Hiar Connaught like an

arrow

From the southern brow of Erin they shoot the shore of Gaul, And in holy Tours, Saint Patrick findeth freedom, friends, and all.

In holy Tours he findeth home and Altars, friends and all;
There matins hail the morning, sweet bells to vespers call;
There's no lord to make him tremble, no magician to endure,
No need he to dissemble in the pious streets of Tours;
But ever, as he rises with the morning's early light,

And still erewhile he sleepeth, when the North star shines at night;

When he sees the angry ocean by the tempest trod,

He murmurs in devotion-" Fear nothing! Trust to God!"

SAMUEL LOVER

POET, PAINTER AND NOVELIST.

OVERS are given to poetry," wrote Shakspeare, and the subject of our memoir was no exception to the general rule. On the 24th of February, 1797, Samuel Lover was born in the city of Dublin. His parents were people of means and education. His first studies were made at a boys' academy in his native city, where he applied himself with so much ardor that his health gave way, and, acting on a physician's advice, his parents procured him a comfortable lodging with a farmer in the County Wicklow, where he could enjoy fresh air and plenty of exercise. At this plastic period the wild and beautiful scenery of Wicklow made a deep and lasting impression on his mind. Rambling at will among the romantic vales, and conversing with the noble and generous peasantry, he gained not only physical strength but also a large fund of knowledge relative to the habits and customs of the people whose traits he was destined to describe in song and story.

The memory of his sojourn in Wicklow remained

with Lover, and in after years he gave to it a more tangible form in these verses, entitled:

MY MOUNTAIN HOME.

My mountain home! my mountain home!
Dear are thy hills to me!

Where first my childhood loved to roam

Wild as the summer bee;

The summer bee may gather sweet
From flowers in sunny prime;

And memory brings with wing as fleet,
Sweet thoughts of early time.
Still fancy bears me to the hills
Where childhood loved to roam-
I hear, I see your sparkling rills,
My own, my mountain home!

At the age of sixteen Samuel was taken from school and placed in his father's office, there to be initiated into the keeping of accounts-uncongenial business for a poet !-and so it proved in the case of young Lover, who gave more of his time to study and sketching than to his father's accounts. For this his father remonstrated with him, but to no purpose. The young poet-painter would follow the strong bent of his nature, despite all the remonstrances of an anxious parent. So, with the firm resolution of cleaving his own way in the world he left the paternal mansion and patiently applied himself to the study of art. For three years he labored with indomitable zeal and perseverance, during all this time supporting himself principally by copying music and sketching portraits, which in those days were in good demand. Like Gerald Griffin, young Lover more than once felt the pangs of want; but his purpose never weakened, even in the darkest hour of adversity.

Having spent three years in study he came before the public as a marine and miniature painter. He was then only twenty years old, and towards the close of 1818 he became the most popular artist in Dublin. In literary circles he was also recognized as a man of considerable poetic genius; and, when Moore visited his native city, the citizens invited him to

write a poem for the occasion. On the evening of the banquet in honor of the great Irish melodist, Lover was there with his song brimful of Irish humor.

The song describes a caucus of the gods, who were to elect a poet laureate for Mount Olympus.

Scott, Southey, Lord Byron and Campbell were nominated for the exalted position and received some votes, but Moore was the successful candidate. We have room here for three or four verses only:

T' other day Jove exclaimed, with a nod most profound,
While the gods of Olympus in state sat around,
"I have fully resolved, after weighty reflection,
To soon set a-going a poet's election."

"A good thought, Jupiter boy!"

While the gods were discussing matters appertaining to election, Juno put in a claim for woman's rights:

'I request, though," said Juno, "you'll let it be known
Why this right of election the gods have alone;
On this point as on others I differ from you,
And insist every goddess shall have a vote, too."
"Brave Juno! stand up for your rights."

Then Jupiter said, "Let it be so, my dear,
Let th' election commence; bid the poets appear;
The polling concluded, whoever is found

To have carried most votes shall our poet be crowned."
"Fair play, Jupiter boy!"