Even in the pulse of joy itself the native charm is wanting,

For distant far the bosoms that would share it as their own: Too late to learn that loving hearts will never bear transplanting;

Uprooted once, like seedless flowers, they wither lost and lone.

Oh! the old land, the green land,

The land of lands, the queen land;

Keep, keep the gorgeous splendor of your sunny Southern shore;

Unfading and undying,

O'er the world between us lying,

The hallowed loves of former days are mine for evermore.

JAMES ORR.

(1770-1816.)

JAMES ORR, "the weaver-poet," author of 'The Irishman,' was born in 1770 at Broad Island, County Antrim, and in early life followed the trade of a journeyman weaver. He became a United Irishman, and contributed to The Northern Star, the organ of that party, many of his poems, which were collected and published in 1804. He fought at the battle of Antrim in 1798, and as a consequence was obliged to go into hiding. At last, being conscious that he was not guilty of any really criminal action, he appeared before the authorities and surrendered himself. He was sent to prison, where he lay for a long time; but as nothing like an overt act of treason could be proved against him, except by his own confession, he was in the end set free on condition of transporting himself to America. On the outward passage he wrote his pathetic Song of an Exile.' He did not remain here many years; matters had rapidly improved at home, and he returned to his native village and his trade. But his misfortunes seem to have had a depressing influence on his spirit, for after his return his poetic efforts were much inferior to those of earlier times, and soon ceased altogether.

He died April 24, 1816.

of his life, in the next year.

His poems were published with a sketch

THE IRISHMAN.

The savage loves his native shore,
Though rude the soil and chill the air;
Then well may Erin's sons adore

Their isle, which nature formed so fair.
What flood reflects a shore so sweet
As Shannon great, or pastoral Bann?
Or who a friend or foe can meet
So generous as an Irishman?

His hand is rash, his heart is warm,
But honesty is still his guide;

No more repent deed of harm,

And none forgives with nobler pride;
He may be duped, but won't be dared-
More fit to practice than to plan;
He dearly earns his poor reward,
And spends it like an Irishman.

If strange or poor, for you he 'll pay,
And guide to where you safe may be;

If you 're his guest, while e'er you stay
His cottage holds a jubilee.
His inmost soul he will unlock,

And if he may your secrets scan,
Your confidence he scorns to mock,
For faithful is an Irishman.

By honor bound in woe or weal,
Whate'er she bids he dares to do;
Try him with bribes-they won't prevail;
Prove him in fire-you'll find him true.
He seeks not safety, let his post

Be where it ought, in danger's van;
And if the field of fame be lost,
It won't be by an Irishman.

Erin! loved land! from age to age

Be thou more great, more famed, and free;
May peace be thine, or, should'st thou wage
Defensive war, cheap victory.

May plenty bloom in every field.
Which gentle breezes softly fan,
And cheerful smiles serenely gild
The home of every Irishman!

SONG OF AN EXILE.

In Ireland 't is evening-from toil my friends hie all,
And weary walk home o'er the dew-spangled lea;
The shepherd in love tunes his grief-soothing viol,
Or visits the maid that his partner will be;

The blithe milk-maid trips to the herd that stands lowing;
The west richly smiles, and the landscape is glowing;
The sad-sounding curfew, and torrent fast-flowing,
Are heard by my fancy, though far, far at sea!

What has my eye seen since I left the green valleys,
But ships as remote as the prospect could be?
Unwieldy, huge monsters, as ugly as malice,

And floats of some wreck, which with sorrow I see? What 's seen but the fowl, that its lonely flight urges, The lightning, that darts through the sky-meeting surges, And the sad-scowling sky, that with bitter rain scourges This cheek care sits drooping on, far, far at sea?

How hideous the hold is!-Here, children are screaming-There, dames faint through thirst, with their babes on their knee!

Here, down every hatch the big breakers are streaming,

And there with a crash, half the fixtures break free! Some court, some contend, some sit dull stories telling; The mate's mad and drunk, and the tars tasked and yelling; What sickness and sorrow pervade my rude dwelling!A huge floating lazar-house, far, far at sea!

How changed all may be when I seek the sweet village:
A hedge-row may bloom where its street used to be;
The floors of my friends may be tortured by tillage,

And the upstart be served by the fallen grandee;
The axe may have humbled the grove that I haunted,
And shades be my shield that as yet are unplanted,
Nor one comrade live who repined when he wanted
The sociable sufferer that 's far, far at sea!

In Ireland 't is night-on the flowers of my setting
A parent may kneel, fondly praying for me;-
The village is smokeless-the red moon is getting

That hill for a throne which I hope yet to see.
If innocence thrive, many more have to grieve for;
Success, slow but sure, I'll contentedly live for:

Yes, Sylvia, we'll meet, and your sigh cease to heave for
The swain your fine image haunts, far, far at sea!

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.

(1846-1881.)

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY was born March 14, 1846. He belonged to the Galway branch of the O'Shaughnessy family, the several divisions of which in Galway, Clare, and Limerick are supposed to have a common descent from Lieutenant-Colonel William O'Shaughnessy, son of Sir Dermot O'Shaughnessy the second.

He was employed in the British Museum, first as a transcriber, but after some four years was transferred to the Natural History Department, where he remained till he died. His papers on zoology are considered good, but it was in poetry that he made his fame. He was a poet distinctly of the Swinburnian school-a school whose chief characteristic was a Hellenic worship of beauty in nature and art and a great mastery of exquisitely sensuous melody.

6

His first work was An Epic of Women, and other Poems.' It has a considerable bibliographical interest on account of a symbolical title-page and curious designs by Mr. J. T. Nettleship, a friend of the poet and author of An Essay on Robert Browning' and other works. In the Epic' the most notable poem was perhaps Creation,' verses which caused such division of opinion in the ranks of rival critics as to be read among what we may call the piéces justificatives in a literary libel trial which attracted some attention a few years ago.

Other well-known poems in the volume were 'The Daughter of Herodias' and 'Cleopatra.' But that which obtained immediate popularity, has been quoted everywhere, and is a particular favorite in this country, is the flowing lyric entitled 'The Fountain of Tears.' Two of the 'Lays of France' (1873) were founded on the lyrics of Marie de France, but the greater part were original. Music and Moonlight' (1874) contained some of the choicest of O'Shaughnessy's lyrics. Of these the most widely known is the 'Outcry,' a passionate love-dream. Arthur O'Shaughnessy was a frequent contributor to periodical literature, and many of his poems were taken up by the public. Among these we may mention the 'Song of a Fellowworker.' His 'Songs of a Worker' appeared in the year of his death.

His work was largely inspired by French influence, for he was the friend of the majority of contemporary French poets, Victor Hugo among the rest. He wrote for French journals, more especially Le Livre, and he was one of the chief contributors to the once wellknown La République des Lettres. In 1873 he married the daughter of Westland Marston, the dramatist, and sister of Philip Bourke Marston, the blind poet. This lady had a great deal of the literary talent of the family, and with her husband published in 1874 ' Toyland,' a series of stories about toys. She died in 1879, and on Jan. 30, 1881, he followed her.