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THE INFLUENCE OF BEAUTY.

THING of beauty is a joy for ever;

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such is the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,

Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,
They alway must be with us, or we die.

-JOHN KEATS.

TH

YOUNG NOURMAHAL.

HERE'S a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright,
Like the long sunny lapse of a summer-day's light,
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender,
Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour.
This was not the beauty-oh! nothing like this,
That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss,
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days,
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies
From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes,
Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams,
Like the glimpses a saint has of heaven in his dreams!
When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace,
That charm of all others, was born with her face;
And when angry-for even in the tranquillest climes
Light breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes—
The short, passing anger. but seem'd to awaken
New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken.
If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye

At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,
From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings
From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings!
Then her mirth-oh! 'twas sportive as ever took wing
From the heart with a burst like the wild-bird in spring;-
Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages,

Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages.
While her laugh, full of life, without any control
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul;
And where it most sparkled no glance could discover,
In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all over,—
Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon,
When it breaks into dimples, and laughs in the sun.
Such, such were the peerless enchantments, that gave
Nourmahal the proud Lord of the East for her slave.

-MOORE.

THE

FOUND DROWNED.*

HE day arrived on which Hepton Conolly was to give his hunting dinner. Hardress looked forward to this occasion with some satisfaction, in the hope that it would afford a certain degree of relief to his mind, under its present state of depression; and when the morning came, he was one of the earliest men upon the ground.

The fox was said to have kennelled in the side of a hill near the riverside, which on one side was gray with limestone crag, and on the other covered with a quantity of close furze. Towards the water, a miry and winding path among the underwood led downward to an extensive marsh or corcass, which lay close to the shore. It was overgrown with a dwarfish rush, and intersected with numberless little creeks and channels, which were never filled, except when the spring-tide was at the full. On a green and undulating champaign above the hill, were a considerable number of gentlemen mounted, conversing in groups, or cantering their horses around the plain, while the huntsman, whippers-in, and dogs, were busy amongst the furze, endeavouring to make the fox break cover. A crowd of peasants, boys, and other idlers, were scattered over the green, awaiting the commencement of sport; and amusing themselves by criticising, with much sharpness of sarcasm, the appearance of the horses, and the action and manners of their riders.

The search after the fox continued for a long time without avail. The gentlemen became impatient, began to look at their watches, and to cast from time to time an apprehensive glance at the heavens. This last movement was not without cause; the morning, which had promised fairly, began to change and darken. It was one of those sluggish days which frequently usher in the spring season in Ireland. On the water, on land, in air, on the earth, everything was motionless and calm. The boats slept on the bosom of the river. A low and dingy mist concealed the distant shores and hills of Clare. Above, the eye could discern neither

* From "The Collegians,” by Gerald Griffin (Bentley's Standard Novels).

On this novel Mr Dion Boucicault founded his popular melodrama of "The Colleen Bawn."

cloud nor sky. A heavy haze covered the face of the heavens, from one horizon to the other. The sun was wholly veiled in mist, his place in the heavens being indicated only by the radiance of the misty shroud in that direction. A thin drizzling shower, no heavier than a summer dew, descended on the party, and left a hoary and glistening moisture on their dresses, on the manes and forelocks of the horses, and on the face of the surrounding landscape.

"No fox to-day, I fear," said Mr Cregan, riding up to one of the groups before mentioned, which comprised his son Hardress and Mr Conolly. "At what time," he added, addressing the latter, "did you order dinner? I think there is little fear of our being too late for it."

"You all deserve this," said a healthy-looking old gentleman, who was one of the group; "feather-bed sportsmen, every one of you. I rode out to-day from Limerick myself, was at home before seven, went out to see the wheat shaken in, and on arriving on the ground at ten, found no one there but this young gentleman, whose thoughts seem to be hunting on other ground at this moment. When I was a young man, day-break never found me napping that way."

"Good people are scarce," said Conolly; "it is right we should take care of ourselves. Hardress, will you canter this way?"

"He is cantering elsewhere," said the same old gentleman, looking on the absent boy. "Mind that sigh. Ah, she had a heart of stone!"

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I suspect he is thinking of his dinner, rather," said his father.

"If Miss Chute had asked him to make a circuit with her," said Conolly, "she would not have found it so hard to get an answer."

"Courage, sir," exclaimed the old gentleman," she is neither wed nor dead."

"Dead, did you say?" cried Hardress, starting from his reverie. "Who says it? Ah, I see!"

A burst of laughter from the gentlemen brought the young man to his recollection, and his head sunk upon his breast, in silence and confusion. "Come, Hardress," continued Conolly; "although you are not in love with me, yet we may try a canter together. Hark! What is that? What are the dogs doing now?"

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They have left the cover on the hill," cried a gentleman who was galloping past, "and are trying the corcass."

"Poor Dalton!" cried Cregan; "that was the man that would have had old Reynard out of cover before now."

"Poor Dalton!" exclaimed Hardress, catching up the word with passionate emphasis, "poor-poor Dalton! Oh, days of my youth!" he added, turning aside on his saddle, that he might not be observed, and looking out upon the quiet river, "Oh, days-past, happy days! My merry boyhood, and my merry youth! My boat! The broad river, the rough west wind, the broken waves, and the heart at rest! Oh, miserable wretch! what have you now to hope for? My heart will burst before I leave this field!"

"The dogs are chopping!" said Conolly; "they have found him. Come, come away!"

""Tis a false scent," said the old gentleman.

"Ware hare!"

"Ware hare!" was echoed by many voices. A singular hurry was observed amongst the crowd upon the brow of the hill which overlooked. the corcass, and presently all descended to the marsh.

"There is something extraordinary going forward," said Cregan. "What makes all the crowd collect upon the marsh?"

A pause ensued, during which Hardress experienced a degree of nervous anxiety for which he could not account. The hounds continued to chop in concert, as if they had found a strong scent, and yet no fox appeared.

At length a horseman was observed riding up the miry pass before mentioned, and galloping towards them. When he approached, they could observe that his manner was flurried and agitated, and his countenance wore an expression of terror and compassion. He tightened the rein suddenly as he came upon the group.

"Mr Warner," he said, addressing the old gentleman already alluded to, "I believe you are a magistrate?"

Mr Warner bowed.

"Then come this way, sir, if you please. A terrible occasion makes your presence necessary on the other side of the hill."

"No harm, sir, to any of your friends, I hope?" said Mr Warner, putting spurs to his horse, and galloping away. The answer of the stranger was lost in the tramp of the hoofs as they rode away.

Immediately after, two horsemen came galloping by. One of them

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