MY NASTURTIUMS. And as above the gardens and the sea QUAINT blossom with the old fantas-The moon arises, and her silver light tic name, By jester christened at some ancient feast! How royally to-day among the least Considered herbs, it flings its spice and flame. How careless wears a velvet of the same Unfathomed red, which ceased when Titian ceased To paint it in the robes of doge and priest. Oh, long lost loyal red which never came Again to painter's palette-on my sight It flashes at this moment, trained and poured Through my nasturtiums in the morning light. Like great-souled kings to kingdoms full restored, They stand alone and draw them to their height, And shower me from their stintless golden hoard. LUCIA W. JENNISON (OWEN INNSLY). IN A LETTER. Touches the landscape with a deeper term THERE came a breath, out of a dis- Too brief to all things? I have lived tant time, An odor from neglected gardens where my hour, And die contented since for thee I die. OUTRE-MORT. SUPPOSE the dreaded messenger of death Should hasten steps that seem, though sure, so slow, And soon should whisper with his chilly breath: "Arise! thine hour has sounded, thou must go; Of fate am succored by thy friendly hand. AT SEA. WHAT lies beyond the far horizon's rim? Ah! could our ship but reach and anchor there, What wondrous scenes, what visions bright and fair Would meet the eyes that gazed across the brim! But though we crowd the canvass on and trim Our barque with skill, the proud waves seem to bear No nearer to that goal, and everywhere Stretches an endless circle wide and dim, So we do dream, treading the narrow path Of life, between the bounds of day and night, To-morrow turns this page so often conned. But when to-morrow cometh, lo! it hath The Still lies far off the unknown heaven beyond. limits of to-day, and in its light We sail the centre of a ceaseless round, Forever circled by the horizon's rim; And fondly deem that from that faroff brim Some sign will rise or some glad tidings sound. But no Of sea And word comes, nor aught to break the bound and sky all day with distance dim, vanished quite when darkness, chill and grim, About the deep her sable shroud has wound. So on the seas of life and time we drift, Within the circling limits of our fate, Expectant ever breath. of some solving But no sound comes, no pitying hand doth lift ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. KILCOLEMAN CASTLE. KILCOLEMAN CASTLE, an ancient and very picturesque ruin, once the residence of Spenser, lies on the shore of a small lake, about two miles to the west of Doneraile, in the county of Cork. It belonged who was hated by the Irish in consequence once to the Earls of Desmond, and was burned by their followers in 1598. Spenser, of his stringent advices to the English about the management of the refractory chiefs and minstrels, narrowly escaped unfortunately left behind, was burnt to with his life, and an infant child of his, death in the flames. No sound of life was coming Save the bittern's hollow booming Was swallowed in the deep, On Houra's craggy steep. And Houra's hills are soundless: Rings round the summits vast; From the crest of Corrin Mór, Oh, sweet at hush of even The trumpet's golden thrill; The fearful and the bold, Well might their hearts be beating; Came kern and galloglass, To the wizard man who had cast the ban On the minstrels bold and free! There was a warlike giant Amid the listening throng; He looked with face defiant On the flames so wild and strong; Then rushed into the castle, And up the rocky stair, The wall was tottering under, And the flame was whirring round, The wall went down in thunder, And dashed him to the ground; Up in the burning chamber Forever died that scream, And the fire sprang out with a wilder shout And a fiercer, ghastlier gleam! 'Tis there we'll stand, with bosoms Ay, marvels they are in their shadowy The morning sun may fail to show In autumn's purple blooming; seen, And breezes cease to fan her, Ere I forget the friends I met Upon the banks of Anner! CHARLES DE KAY. FINGERS. WHO will tell me the secret, the cause How weaves she the shuttle with Have they eyes, those soft fingers of her That they kiss in the darkness the keys, dance, But who is the god that has given them soul? When leanred they the spell other souls to entrance, When the heart, other hearts to control ? 'Twas the noise of the waves at the prow, The musical lapse on the beaches, 'Twas the surf in the night when the land-breezes blow, The song of the tide in the reaches: She has drawn their sweet influence home To a soul not yet clear but profound, Where it blows like the Persian seafoam into pearls, Into pearls of melodious sound. HENRY KING. FROM THE "EXEQUY ON HIS SLEEP on, my love, in thy cold bed, My last good night! Thou wilt not Till I thy fate shall overtake; It so much loves, and fills the room Stay for me there! I will not fail At night when I betake to rest, As in darkness the poets aver grees? gale, |