a name which will be for ever linked with the minstrelsy of his native land.

JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN was born in Cork, in 1795, and died in Lisbon, in 1829. He possessed first-rate natural abilities, but the unhappy indecision of his character led him into many misfortunes. His "Recluse of Inchidony" is a fine poem, and the specimens from his other works in this volume will also gratify every reader of taste.

FURLONG belonged to Dublin, and died at an early age. His lines breathe a fine devotional spirit, and there is little doubt that, had he been spared longer, he would have added many an ornament to literature.

Excellent lives of JOHN BANIM and GERALD GRIFFIN have been published, and are of easy access. The former is by P. J. Murray, Esq., the eloquent editor of the "Irish Quarterly Review," and the latter by Griffin's gifted and affectionate brother.

It is not necessary to enter into particulars respecting the other writers from whose poems selections have been made, as they are all no doubt "familiar names" to the readers of this volume, which, I trust, may lead many to the deeper study of the glorious works of our gifted Catholic Poets.

JAMES BURKE.

GEMS FROM CATHOLIC POETS.

Chaucer.

[B. 1328.-D. 1400.]

A GOOD PARISH PRIEST.

A TRUE, good man there was there of religion, Pious and poor-the parson of a town.

But rich he was in holy thought and work;
And thereto a right learned man; a clerk
That Christ's pure gospel would sincerely preach,
And his parishioners devoutly teach.

Benign he was, and wondrous diligent,

And in adversity full patient,

As proven oft; to all who lack'd a friend.
Loth for his tithes to ban or to contend,
At every need much rather was he found
Unto his poor parishioners around
Of his own substance and his dues to give;
Content on little, for himself, to live.

Wide was his cure; the houses far asunder, Yet never fail'd he, or for rain or thunder,

C

Whenever sickness or mischance might call,
The most remote to visit, great or small;
And, staff in hand, on foot, the storm to brave.

This noble ensample to his flock he gave,
That first he wrought, and afterwards he taught.
The word of life he from the gospel caught;
And well this comment added he thereto,
If that gold rusteth, what should iron do?
And if the priest be foul on whom we trust,
What wonder if the unletter'd layman lust?
And shame it were in him the flock should keep,
To see a sullied shepherd and clean sheep.
For sure a priest the sample ought to give
By his own cleanliness how his sheep should live.
He never set his benefice to hire,
Leaving his flock acomber'd in the mire,
And ran to London cogging at St. Poul's,
To seek himself a chauntery for souls,
Or with a brotherhood to be enroll'd;

But dwelt at home, and guarded well his fold,
So that it should not by the wolf miscarry.
He was a shepherd, and no mercenary.

Though holy in himself, and virtuous,
He still to sinful men was mild and piteous:
Not of reproach imperious or malign;
But in his teaching soothing and benign.
To draw them on to Heaven by reason fair
And good example, was his daily care.
But were there one perverse and obstinate,
Were he of lofty or of low estate,

Him would he sharply with reproof astound.
A better priest is nowhere to be found.

He waited not on pomp or reverence.
Nor made himself a spiced conscience.
The lore of Christ and his apostles twelve
He taught but first he follow'd it himselve.

Southwell.

[B. 1560.-D. 1595.]

A CHILD MY CHOICE.

LET folly praise that fancy loves,

I praise and love that child

Whose heart no thought, whose tongue no word, Whose hand no deed defiled;

I praise him most, I love him best,
All praise and love is his ;
While him I love, in him I live,

And cannot live amiss.

Love's sweetest mark, laud's highest theme,
Man's most desired light,

To love him life, to leave him death,'

To live in him delight.

He mine by gift, I his by debt,

Thus each to other due;

First friend he was, best friend he is,

All times will try him true.

Though young, yet wise; though small, yet strong; Though man, yet God he is;

As wise he knows, as strong he can,

As God he loves to bless.

His knowledge rules, his strength defends,
His love doth cherish all;
His birth our joy, his life our light,
His death our end of thrall.

Alas! he weeps, he sighs, he pants,
Yet do his angels sing;

Out of his tears, his sighs and throbs,
Doth bud a joyful spring.

Almighty babe, whose tender arms
Can force all foes to fly,
Correct my faults, protect my life,
Direct me when I die!

AT HOME IN HEAVEN.

FAIR Soul! how long shall veils thy graces shroud ?
How long shall this exile withhold thy right?
When will thy sun disperse his mortal cloud,
And give thy glories scope to blaze their light?