"And he fell far through the pit abysmal, The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal Stock of returns.

XL

But yet redeemed it in days of darkness,
And shapes and signs of the final wrath,
Where death in hideous and ghastly starkness
Stood in his path.

XII.

"And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,
And want and sickness and houseless nights,
He bides in calmness the silent morrow
That no ray lights.

XIII.

"And lives he still, then? Yes! old and hoary

At thirty-nine, from despair and woe,

He lives enduring what future story

Will never know.

XIV.

"Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble,

Deep in your bosoms!

There let him dwell!

He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble,

Here and in hell."

The burden of all his song is sad, and in his translations he has chosen chiefly themes which echoed the harpings of his own soul. He began life as a copying clerk in an attorney's office, and had for some time to support wholly, or in the main, a mother and sister. In Mitchel's preface there are many passages almost as fine as the verse of the poet. Here is one, long as it is, that must find a place. Mitchel is speaking of the days when Mangan was in the attorney's office :

"At what age he devoted himself to this drudgery, at what age he left it, or was discharged from it, does not appear; for his whole biography documents are wanting, the man having never, for one moment, imagined that his poor life could interest any surviving human being, and having never, accordingly, collected his biographical assets, and appointed a literary executor to take care of his posthumous fame. Neither did he ever acquire the

habit, common enough among literary men, of dwelling upon his own early trials, struggles, and triumphs. But those who knew him in after years can remember with what a shuddering and loathing horror he spoke-when at rare intervals he could be induced to speak at all-of his labours with the scrivener and attorney. He was shy and sensitive, with exquisite sensibilities and fine impulses; eye, ear, and soul open to all the beauty, music, and glory of heaven and earth; humble, gentle, and unexacting; modestly craving nothing in the world but celestial, glorified life, seraphic love, and a throne among the immortal gods (that's all); and he was eight or ten years scribbling deeds, pleadings, and bills in Chancery."

There is, I believe, but one portrait of him in existence, and a copy of it hangs on the wall of the room in which I am writing, a few feet in front of my eyes. It is not a face easy to describe. Beauty is the chief characteristic of it. But it is not the beauty that men admire or that inspires love in women. It is not the

face of a poet or a visionary or a thinker. There is no passion in it;

not

even the It is not

passionate sadness of his own verse.

the face of a man who has suffered greatly, or rejoiced in ecstasy. It is the face of a

fleshless, worn man of forty, with hair pressed back from the forehead and ear. I have been looking at it for a long time, trying to find out something positive about it, and I have failed. It is not interesting. It is the face of a man who is done with the world and humanity. It is the face of a dead man whose spirit has passed away, while the body remains alive. The eyes are open, and have light in them; the face would be more complete if the light were out, and the lids drawn down and composed for the blind tomb.

He gives a picture of his mental attitude at about the time this portrait was taken :

TWENTY GOLDEN YEARS AGO.

I.

"Oh, the rain, the weary, dreary rain,
How it plashes on the window-sill!
Night, I guess too, must be on the wane,
Strass and Gass around are grown so still

Here I sit with coffee in my cup-
Ah, 'twas rarely I beheld it flow
In the tavern where I loved to sup
Twenty golden years ago!

II.

"Twenty years ago, alas !-but stay

On my life, 'tis half-past twelve o'clock !
After all, the hours do slip away—

Come, here goes to burn another block!
For the night, or morn, is wet and cold;
And my fire is dwindling rather low:
I had fire enough, when young and bold
Twenty golden years ago.

III.

"Dear! I don't feel well at all, somehow:
Few in Weimar dream how bad I am;
Floods of tears grow common with me now,
High-Dutch floods that Reason cannot dam.
Doctors think I'll neither live nor thrive
If I mope at home so-I don't know—
Am I living now? I was alive

Twenty golden years ago.

IV.

"Wifeless, friendless, flagonless, alone,

Not quite bookless, though, unless I choose; Left with naught to do, except to groan, Not a soul to woo, except the Muse.

Oh, this is hard for me to bear

Me who whilom lived so much en hautMe who broke all hearts like china-ware,

Twenty golden years ago.