A memorial volume of his poems containing several till then unprinted pieces has been published for private circulation by R. and M. J. Livingstone (A. Holden, Church Street, Liverpool).

From NEPENTHE

OVER hills and uplands high

Hurry me, Nymphs! O hurry me!
Where green Earth from azure sky
Seems but one blue step to be ;
Where the Sun in wheel of gold
Burnishes deeply in her mould,
And her shining walks uneven
Seem declivities of Heaven.
Come where high Olympus nods,
Ground-sill to the hill of Gods!
Let me through the breathless air
Soar insuperable, where

Audibly in mystic ring

The angel orbs are heard to sing ;
And from that bright vantage ground,
Viewing nether heaven profound,
Mark the eagle near the sun
Scorching to gold his pinions dun;
With fleecy birds of paradise
Upfloating to their native skies;
Or hear the wild swans far below
Faintly whistle as they row

Their course on the transparent tide
That fills the hollow welkin wide.

HYMN TO THE SUN

BEHOLD the world's great wonder,
The Sovereign Star arise!
'Midst Ocean's sweet dead thunder,
Earth's silence and the skies.

The sea's rough slope ascending,
He steps in all his beams,
Each wave beneath him bending

His throne of glory seems.

Of red clouds round and o'er him
His canopy is roll'd,

The broad ooze burns before him,
A field of cloth of gold.

Now strike his proud pavilion!
He mounts the blue sublime,
And throws in many a million

His wealth from clime to clime.

TRUE LOVELINESS 1

IT is not beauty I demand,

A crystal brow, the moon's despair,
Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand,
Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair.

Tell me not of your starry eyes,
Your lips that seem on roses fed,
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed.
A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks.
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,
A breath that softer music speaks
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,
These are but gauds. Nay, what are lips?
Coral beneath the ocean-stream,
Whose brink, when your adventurer slips,
Full oft he perisheth on them.

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft

That wave hot youths to fields of blood?
Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,
Do Greece or Ilium any good?

Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;

Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed ;
There's many a white hand holds an urn

With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.

In the first edition of the GOLDEN TREASURY this poem was printed as anonymous among the seventeenth-century writers in Book II.

For crystal brows there's nought within,
They are but empty cells for pride;
He who the Siren's hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide.

Give me, instead of beauty's bust,
A tender heart, a loyal mind,
Which with temptation I would trust,
Yet never linked with error find-

One in whose gentle bosom I

Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthened honey-fly

That hides his murmurs in the rose.

My earthly comforter whose love
So indefeasible might be,

That when my spirit wonn'd above,
Hers could not stay for sympathy.

THE FALLEN STAR

A STAR is gone! a star is gone!
There is a blank in Heaven,

One of the cherub choir has done
His airy course this even.

He sat upon the orb of fire
That hung for ages there,

And lent his music to the choir
That haunts the nightly air.

But when his thousand years are passed
With a cherubic sigh

He vanished with his car at last

For even cherubs die!

Hear how his angel-brothers mourn
The minstrels of the spheres--
Each chiming sadly in his turn
And dropping splendid tears.

The planetary sisters all

Join in the fatal song,

And weep this hapless brother's fall
Who sang with them so long.

But deepest of the choral band
The Lunar Spirit sings,
And with a bass-according hand
Sweeps all her sullen strings.

From the deep chambers of the dome
Where sleepless Uriel lies
His rude harmonic thunders come
Mingled with mighty sighs.

The thousand car-borne cherubim
The wandering Eleven,

All join to chant the dirge of him
Who fell just now from Heaven.

From THE FIGHT OF THE FORLORN

THE CHIEF loquitur:

BARD! to no brave chief belonging,

Hath green Eire no defenders?

See her sons to battle thronging,

Gael's broad-swords and Ir's bow-benders!

Clan Tir-oer! Clan Tir-conel !

Atha's royal sept of Connacht !
Desmond red and dark O'Donel!

Fierce O'More! and stout MacDonacht

'Darley has a note deriving Tara,' originally Teamur,' from Teachmor, or 'Great House '-the palace of the Irish Kings.

? This phrase evidently refers to the metrical structure of the Gaelic Rosg-catha, or battle-song.

Ullin's chief, the great O'Nial,
Sternly with his brown axe playing,
Mourns for the far hour of trial

And disdains this long delaying!

Gray O'Ruark's self doth chide me,
Thro' his iron beard and hoary,
Murmuring in his breast beside me-
'On to our old fields of glory!'

Red-branch crests, like roses flaming,
Toss with scorn around Hi-Dallan,
Battle, blood, and death proclaiming -
Fear'st thou still for Inisfallan?

SAMUEL LOVER

THE versatility of Lover is one of the stock examples in Irish biography, and it is somewhat difficult to say in which of his various capacities he best succeeded. I am inclined to think that it is as a humorous poet that he ranks highest. He has many competitors in other branches of intellectual activity, but there are very few indeed who can be placed on the same level as a humorist in verse. His work as a miniature painter, as a composer, and as a novelist, excellent as it is, is likely to be forgotten long before such racy songs as 'Widow Machree,' Molly Carew,' 'Barney O'Hea,' and 'Rory O'More,' to name but a few of his best-known pieces, have become obsolete. There is an archness, an irresistible gaiety in these effusions to which it is difficult to find a parallel even among Irish writers. When he attempts the serious or sentimental, he generally fails lamentably. Humour is his most legitimate quality-he is the arch-humorist among Irish. poets. He was born in Dublin on February 24, 1797, and gave early indication of his literary and musical gifts, to the annoyance of his father, a worthy stockbroker, whose intention it was to train him in business, and who disliked the arts. Finally