On hearing The Last Rose of Summer'—a melody on which
Wolfe wrote a prose story now extant.
The last stanza runs :

Sweet mourner, cease that melting strain,

Too well it suits the grave's cold slumbers;
Too well-the heart that loved in vain
Breathes, lives, and weeps in those wild numbers.
T. W. ROLLESTON.

Charles Wolfe was the son of Theobald Wolfe, a landowner of the County Kildare, of the same family as the hero of Quebec, now represen'ed by Richard Wolfe, Esq., of Forenaghts, County Kildare. One of Theobald Wolfe's tenants was Peter Tone, a coachmaker of Dublin, who called his eldest son after his landlord Theobald Wolfe--and thus caused the name to be written deep in Irish history. Charles Wolfe was born in 1791, and was educated at Winchester, and Trinity College, Dublin, where he was distinguished for high intellectual attainments and successes. He took orders in 1817 (the year in which the Burial Ode' was published), and held curacies at Drumclog and Castle Caulfield, County Tyrone. He was intensely beloved by all conditions of people among his flock, for whom he ruined his weak constitution in devoted work. He died of consumption in 1823, after a vain attempt to restore his health by a voyage to France. His LIFE AND REMAINS have been published (1825) by the Rev. Archdeacon Russell.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note.
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

IV

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

V

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,

And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

VI

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone.
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

VII

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring, And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

VIII

Slowly and sadly we laid him down

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-
But we left him alone with his glory!

SONNET WRITTEN DURING HIS RESIDENCE IN COLLEGE

My spirit's on the mountains, where the birds

In wild and sportive freedom wing the air,
Amidst the heath-flowers and the browsing herds,
Where Nature's altar is, my spirit's there.

It is my joy to tread the pathless hills,
Though but in fancy-for my mind is free,
And walks by sedgy ways and trickling rills,
While I'm forbid the use of liberty.

This is delusion, but it is so sweet

That I could live deluded. Let me be Persuaded that my springing soul may meet

The eagle on the hills-and I am free. Who'd not be flatter'd by a fate like this? To fancy is to feel our happiness.

LINES WRITTEN TO MUSIC

IF I had thought thou couldst have died
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,

And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more.

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!
But when I speak—thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own:
But there I lay thee in thy grave—
And now I am alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me,

And I perhaps may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light, ne'er seen before,

As Fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore.

LUKE AYLMER CONOLLY

It

THE following poem is frequently printed as anonymous. was written by Conolly, and is in his LEGENDARY TALES IN VERSE, published anonymously in Belfast in 1813. He was born at Ballycastle, County Antrim, graduated at Trinity College, Dublin, in 1806, and entered the Church. in or about 1833.

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND

To Rathlin's Isle I chanced to sail
When summer breezes softly blew,
And there I heard so sweet a tale

That oft I wished it could be true.

They said, at eve, when rude winds sleep,
And hushed is ev'ry turbid swell,

A mermaid rises from the deep,

And sweetly tunes her magic shell.

And while she plays, rock, dell, and cave,
In dying falls the sound retain,

As if some choral spirits gave

Their aid to swell her witching strain.

Then, summoned by that dulcet note,
Uprising to th' admiring view,

A fairy island seems to float

With tints of many a gorgeous hue.

And glittering fanes, and lofty towers,
All on this fairy isle are seen :
And waving trees, and shady bowers,
With more than mortal verdure green.

He died

And as it moves, the western sky

Glows with a thousand varying rays;
And the calm sea, tinged with each dye,
Seems like a golden flood of haze.

They also say, if earth or stone

From verdant Erin's hallowed land
Were on this magic island thrown,
For ever fixed it then would stand.

But when for this some little boat
In silence ventures from the shore
The mermaid sinks-hushed is the note-
The fairy isle is seen no more.

MARGUERITE A. POWER

NIEC of Lady Blessington, and a clever writer of verse. Landor praised her poems on more than one occasion. She was born about 1815, and died in July 1867. She wrote much poetry for periodicals (such as The Irish Metropolitan Magazine, 1857-8) edited by herself, her aunt, and others, and also several novels and a book of travel. The following is from her best poem, 'Virginia's Hand,' which was separately published

in 1860:

A HIDDEN ROSE-TREE

LATE at morning's prime I roved,

Where erst a garden bloomed, where now a waste
Of tangled vegetation, rank and wild,

Held sole pre-eminence-or so I deemed

Till, turning from an alley long untrod,

And densely sheltered by o'er-arching boughs,
From whence, scarce half a foot above my head,
The shrieking blackbirds darted from the nest
My presence had invaded, I arrived

Upon a little space hedged closely round