IMPROMPTU LINES,

SUGGESTED BY READING VERSES ON "CREMATION" IN THE "DUBLIN UNIVERSITY

WELL hast thou shown, my gifted Friend,
'Tis meet that earth with earth should blend,
And Man, the heir of sin and woe,

Sprung from the dust, to dust should go.
Yet who that looks upon the tomb,
So full of silence, fear, and gloom,
Would not Fire's radiant Car prefer,
To pass into the viewless air,
Rather than decompose in earth,
And breed all things of noxious birth?
For though from earth the body came,
What made it live but vital flame?
And when that flame hath ceased to burn,
Should earth not to its source return?

Besides, from Fire all things proceed,
The quenchless star, and quiv'ring reed;
The lofty mountain, lowly plain,
The glittering lake and spacious main,
The earth's soft breast and laughing hours,
The rugged rocks, and radiant flowers,
And, wanting it, what would earth be
But one dark cheerless cemetery?
To fire we owe the food we eat,

The skin which clothes our naked feet,
The fleecy robe which warmth affords,
And all the wines which stain our boards.
Is there a gift that we can name,

We owe not to the genial flame?

* DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE, April, 1876, p. 499.

Even winter drear, would drearier be,
Did fire not fill our homes with glee;
And where would be our summer skies,
With all their rich and varied dyes,
Were Nature to withdraw that heat
She keeps in store beneath our feet?
Even Thought itself owns as its Sire
The all-pervading, plastic fire,

And, in its warmth, attains a bloom
Unknown where winter spreads its gloom.
Hence, in the climes beneath the sun,
The deeds of power, and passion done-
The crimes which stain th' historic page,
The bigot's zeal, and despot's rage,
The rapturous glance, the frenzied look,
The crushing wheel and torturing hook.
There, to embrace his weeping bride,
The lover breasts the midnight tide;
And should she, false, betray his trust,
He stamps her, in his rage, to dust.
There, too, the widow mounts, with joy,
The fun'ral pile, nor mourns the boy
She leaves behind, but, laughing, leaps
Amid the flame which round her creeps.

For deeds like these we search in vain
Those lands wash'd by the northern main;
But go, where fire inflames the blood,
And makes it boil like some hot flood
Of lava, flowing from the mountain,
That seems, at night, a quenchless fountain;
And there you find such crimes abound,
As make the earth seem hellish ground.
And virtues, too, so stern and rare,
As only bloom in heavenly air.

Since, then, to fire we so much owe,

Why to it such aversion show?

Why not to it at last repay

Our debts, by giving it our clay?

For who can tell what 'tis to lie

Deep hid from bright and beauteous sky,

And what strange forms may round us meet
When Death has dragg'd us to that seat
Where as a king he reigns in state,

And tribute claims from small and great,
And at his girdle keeps the key
Which none on earth did ever see?

And is it not much better far

On fire's bright wings to soar afar,
And blend with light, and sound, and air,
And all things pure, and fresh, and fair,
Than to allow all creeping things

In our cold flesh to plant their stings,
And on us hold their Carnival

In Death's dark, hated, airless Hall?

OUR PORTRAIT GALLERY.

SECOND SERIES.-No. 30.

SIR BERNARD BURKE, C.B., LL.D., M.R.I.A.,

Ulster King of Arms and Knight Attendant on the Order of St. Patrick; Keeper of the State Papers in Ireland, Member of the Society of Antiquaries, Normandy, &c., &c, &c.

SIR BERNARD BURKE belongs to a class of writers and workers which, in an age like ours, runs the risk, with the general public, of not being adequately appreciated. To many amongst us, heraldry, with its attendant lore relating to the rise and progress of patrician orders, is only so much antiquated lumber. Presuming on the privilege of living in an enlightened age, many persons regard crests and pedigrees as relics of barbarism, and all literary labour bestowed upon such trifles simple waste of time. We entertain a very different opinion in holding that Sir Bernard Burke has, with other authors of the same type, kindled a torch in our midst which, by enabling us to compare present acquisitions with those of our ancestors, has so far accelerated social progress. The genius of the true student in heraldry constitutes, therefore, a formative power in the production of modern cultivation. Sir Bernard Burke has given the world, in his works, an exquisite master-key for deciphering, in the history of our national and æsthetic development, a variety of otherwise illegible inscriptions.

The subject of our memoir was born in London in the year 1818, and is the second son of the late John Burke, Esq., of Dublin, by Mary his wife, daughter of Bernard O'Reilly, Esq., of Ballymorris, Co. Longford. Sir Bernard's grandfather was Peter Burke, Esq., of Elm Hall, Co. Tipperary, and his only surviving brother is Mr. Serjeant Burke, of the English bar, who has gained distinction as a legal and general writer.

Sir Bernard Burke married, in 1856, Barbara Frances, second daughter of the late James MacEvoy, Esq., of Tobertynan, Co. Meath, and grand