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HYMN XI. 1.
7. Each trembling spray and little flower O God! thy forests old attest, Repeats a tale of God,
How fix'd thy wisdom's plan; Who feeds their life with ev'ry shower The sudden grass may teach us best That wets the steaming sod.
How much thy moments can.
8. He gave
the force unseen and strange But while unfathomable will That works in every pore,
[range, Thus rules creation's host; Through hours, and days, and seasons' O living Truth ! instruct me still Unfolding wiser lore.
That man reveals thee most.
10. Thou, seen around, above the whole, Like some fair plant the body grows, Sustaining every part,
But oh ! how subtlier knit By each to man's believing soul The web and frame, that largely shows Displayest what thou art.
Thy life pervading it!
1 5. Unmeasured might, unmingled good, A moving frame, an engine strong, In countless beings shown;
For thought and choice to guide ; That fills each leaf in all the wood, When these to it no more belong In every bud is known.
In darkness laid aside,
SONG OF A RETURNED EXILE.
BY B. SIMMONS.
* The picturesque mountain of Corrin, (properly Cairn-thierna, i. e. the Thane or Lord's cairn,) is the termination of a long range of hills which encloses the valley of the Blackwater and Funcheon, (the Avonduff and Fanshin of Spenser,) in the county of Cork, and forms a striking feature of scenery, remarkable for pastoral beauty and romance.
| One of the most beautiful bends of the Funcheon is taken through the demesne of Moorepark, near Kilworth, close to a natural grotto or cavern, called from time immemorial the cave of Thiag-na-fibah-(Tim or Teague the Bard.)
By the low cottage-porch—and the same crescent moon
"" Some of the epitaphs at Ferrara pleased me more than the more splendid monuments at Bologna. For instance, 'Martini Luighi implora pacz.' Can any thing be more full of pathos ?
Those few words say all that can be said or sought; the dead bad had enough of life--all they wanted was rest, and this they implore.”—LORD BYRON.
ANCIENT heroes, chiefs victorious, Thus with blood was Ebro darken'd,
Long have these been hail'd sublime: Storm'd Pyrene's cliffs of snow, Say, hath Britain none as glorious Till their Paris, while it harken'd, For the tongues of future time? Felt each coming step a blow.
[den'd, Sullen years, and silence jealous,
Graves would tell, with triumph glad. Darken many a famous brow;
If no living voice were true, Farthest ages shall be zealous
How the lord of nations, madden'd, Honouring him we honour now. Found his doom at Waterloo. And while human hearts shall cherish Still amid the whirl of terror, (sun, This our land's ennobled soil,
Smooth and strong as moves the His renown shall never perish
Clear from passion, sure from error, Who redeem'd it best from spoil. Sway'd the soul of Wellington. Language, Freedom, old Uprightness, Him no huge adventurous raving, All our fathers were, and won,
Him no storm of pride or wrath, All has gain'd its crowning brightness Him no sordid hunger's craving, In the praise of Wellington.
Turn'd aside from duty's path. Who ʼmid battles' booming thunder Him ’mid warfare's dread commotion, E’er with calmer might arose,
Might the weak for safety trust; Smiting down in helpless wonder Him his patriot life's devotion
Hosts that scorn'd all meaner foes ? Teaches all to name--the Just.
'Twas the bright unwavering Reason, Britain, fair and stainless mother
One great soul's reflection sage, Of the Bold, the Just, the Wise, That undid the despot's treason,
Seldom hast thou known another, And befool'd his wildest rage.
Brighten thus thy fostering skies!
Scarce his fame can struggle forth;
(Tradition does not inform us who was the author of the following poem nor is it known in what age it was composed. It is obviously to be in.. ferred, however, from internal evidence, that it is of great antiquity. It is the only Gaelic lyric extant which professes to have been composed previous to the fifteenth century; for the reputed works of Ossian and other contemporary bards, and the imperfect poem entitled Mordil, all belong to the class of heroic poetry. Two translations have already appeared, one in measured prose, by John Clark, author of The Caledonian Bards, the other in rhyme, by Mrs Grant of Laggan. Both these were made from in. correct copies; and this, with the translators' ignorance of old Gaelic, led them to misunderstand the whole tenor of the poem, besides committing many minor mistakes. Clark further imitated Macpherson's Ossian, though the style of that celebrated work is very different from that of our Bard. The following version is literal-almost verbal-except in a few instances where the Gaelic idiom is so different, that a very close rendering would not convey the true sense of the original. The Gaelic consists throughout of quatrains in iambic dimeters, the third line rhyming with the first, and the fourth with the second.] OH! set me down beside the brook Every mount and hill reply Which travels slow with tranquil steps; To the frisky heifers' lowing shrill. Beneath the foliage lay my head. Now I hear a thousand sounds Be thou, O Sun! to me benign. Rebounding around, on every side. Lay softly on the grass my side, Around me are gamboling calves, On bank of flowers and gentle winds; Beside the stream and on the plain ; And lave my foot in the peaceful bourn, The little kid, of sporting tired, As, still, it curves along the plain. Beside me fearless lies to sleep. Now fair primroses of beauteous hue Oh, now I hear a hunter's steps, Surround my verdant height, be- With hissing darts, and nimble dogs! dew'd
Then does youth beam upon my cheek With little daisies, and my hand When rises the clamour of a deerRests on a green of fragrant violets. chase.
Around my valley's lofty banks The marrow in my bones revives, Are bending boughs with blossoms When I hear the sounds of horns, and clad,
hounds, and bows. While the warblers of the bushes
When they cry,
“ The hart has fallchant,
en !"my soles On aged rocks, their songs of love. Spring lively up the steeps of hills ! There bursts from thickly.ivied Now do I see, methinks, the hound rocks,
That used to follow me at morn and With murmurs sweet, a fountain eve, fresh,
And the mountains I delighted to While Echo, that returns each sound, frequent, Replies to the flood of noisy waves. And the rocks that echo'd to
horn, I hear on the wing of the gale I see the grot that hospitably and oft The gentle lowing of the folds ; Received our steps from the gloom of Soon will the flocks reply when they night, hear
Our gladness waked before its fire ; Their young, and hither run,
In the solace of bowls there was greatjoy.