W. Kenealy.

BISHOP MAGINN.

How we loved him-how we loved him, 'tis in vain

to tell ;

Heaven alone we prized above him, earth not half so

well.

There's deep, deep grief in woman's wail, when fitful as the sea;

There's deeper grief in silent thought, on lowly bended

knee ;

But what are all to manhood's tears, fast streaming from his eyes,

Like torrents from the mountains wild, when wrapp'd in lowering skies,

And silent thought, and manhood's tears, and wailing wild and deep,

Have shown how we have loved him-still weep, weep, weep!

All nature will be smiling on his drear and lonely tomb,

The brightest sunbeams there will fall, its verdure to illume!

The softest dews of heaven will descend upon his

breast!

The waves will roll more peacefully, lest they should break his rest;

Their gentle fall upon the strand will be the mourner's sigh,

The little stars, his watchers lone-his canopy the

sky

And sure the winds will gently blow-they dare not wildly sweep,

Above the heart that's cold-oh! weep, weep, weep!

Rev. J. Fitzgerald.

RUINS.

BEHOLD those abbey walls so grey !

Oh! where's yon turret's chime?
Songs of the blessed, where are they,
That swell'd in olden time?

Where are those hallow'd choirs at even,

That matin music-where?

Those hymns that once were sung to heaven,
Now angels sing them there.

The sunlight of departing eve,

The moonbeam glancing through,

The broken arches teach to grieve
For hearts long broken too.

As o'er yon mouldering structure hangs
That wreath the ivy makes,

Thus round the heart shall memory's pangs

Cling dearer while it breaks.

The green tree o'er the altar bends,
The long grass sweeps the wall,
Deeply her sigh the midnight sends
Along the chancel hall.

Of sainted memories calm and bright,
No legend needs to tell;

For story's pen must fail to write
What ruin paints so well.

Rev. Dr. Pise.

MORNING-NOON-EVENING-NIGHT.

MY GOD! yon matin-ray
Which, like a dimple bright,
Glows on Aurora's cheek,

As shrinks the shadowy night,
Tells of those guiltless hours
I pass'd in childhood's bowers,
So innocently gay.

My God! yon flaming sun,
High in his noon-day car,
Drawn by the steeds of heaven,
Flinging their red manes far,
Bids the reflecting soul

Think how the swift hours roll

How soon life's prime is done.

My God! yon gem of eve,
Upon the twilight brow
Of Hesper glimmering faint,
Tells all is fading now;
Shadows are gathering fast :-
Look, mortal, look thy last,
And take thy long, long leave!

Oh! as the last dim ray,

Still flickers in the skies,
My God! close not thine ear,
Turn not away thine eyes;
My prayer, my prayer ascends,
As life's last taper ends-
Spare, as I pass away!

THE BIRD OF PARADISE AND THE CHERUB.
Suggested by the Death of a lovely Infant.

LIST! list the Bird of Paradise
Carols her sweet hymn forth,

And from the blest bowers of the skies
Comes down upon the earth.
He comes to bear a message bright
To a sweet Cherub-the delight
Of those that gave her birth.

He perch'd upon the gentle child
Whilst smiling she reposed,
Bearing upon her features mild
And lovely, as she dozed,

The impress of her mother dear,
Who watched her slumber with a tear,
And her meek eyelids closed.

And to the Cherub thus he sung
The tidings brought from heaven :
"Come with me, innocent and young,
And thou shalt be, ere even,

In bowers of Peace, and groves of Bliss-
Thou art not made for worlds like this;
Far better will be given !

'Come to the realms of Paradise,
Where angels weave their wreaths
From flowers ambrosial of the skies,
On which Spring ever breathes.
And such a Spring!-not like the one
Which now so brightly smiles upon
The meadows and the heaths.

"Come to the everlasting Spring, Where flowers undying bloom, Where we of Paradise will sing,

While fond ones deck thy tomb. There wilt thou, spotless Cherub, twine A garland for those friends of thine Whom Love shall thither bring."

The Cherub heard the message Bird-
The Bird of Paradise;

And calmly then, the message heard,
She closed her meek blue eyes,