Oh! where is the dwelling in valley or highland,
So meet for a bard as this lone little island!
How oft when the summer-sun rested on Clara,
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera,
Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean,
And trod all thy wilds with a Minstrel's devotion,
And thought of thy bards, when assembling together,
In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather;
They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter,
And waked their last song by the rush of thy water.
High sons of the lyre, oh! how proud was the feeling,
To think while alone through that solitude stealing,
Though loftier Minstrels green Erin can number,
I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber,
And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains,
The songs even echo forgot on her mountains,
And gleand each grey legend, that darkly was sleeping
Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty was creeping.
Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit,
The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit,
With the wrongs which like thee to our country has bound me,
Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me,
Still, still in those wilds may young liberty rally,
And send her strong shout over mountain and valley,
The star of the west may yet rise in its glory,
And the land that was darkest, be brightest in story.
I too shall be gone;--but my name shall be spoken
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken;
Some Minstrel will come, in the summer eve's gleaming,
When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,
And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,
Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of ocean,
Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that river,

O'er the heart, and the harp, that are sleeping for ever. Now, to establish the author's title to the merit of exquisite simplicity: we have only to regret that the producer of such sweet simplicity as the following ballad contains, has not given us many, many more such invaluable examples of this divine peculiarity. THE NIGHT WAS STILL.

With modest air she drooped her head,

Her cheek of beauty veiling;
The night was still,--the air way balm, Her bosom heav'd, -no word she said;
Soft dews around were weeping;

I mark'd her strife of feeling;
No whisper rose o'er ocean's calm,

“Oh, speak my doom, dear maid," I cried, Its waves in light were sleeping,

“ By yon bright Heaven above thee ; With Mary on the beach I stray'd ; She gently raised her eyes and sighed, The stars beam'd joy above me:

* Too well yon know I love thee." prest her hand and said, "sweet maid,

* Oh tell me do you love me?"

It is not alone in “The Recluse of Inchidony” that a resemblance to Byron may be traced : he evinces a kindred spirit to that of the great author of "Childe Harold,” in almost all his poetical writings, though his melancholy was not as deep, or so much steeped in despair as that of the former. Our readers who remember, and there are few who have read “The Siege of Corinth” who will not remember, that beautiful passage commencing, “ 'Tis midnight on the mountains brown,” will not fail to observe a striking siinilarity to it in the lines beluw; a

resemblance, albeit, which none can for a moment suppose to wear the most remote appearance of plagiarism, which never can be attributed to Callanan, whose ideas are as fresh as the water in “ The thousand wild fountains" which he tells us empty themselves into the lake of “Gougane Barra." MOONLIGHT.

But then will feel

Upon him steal 'Tis sweet at hush of night

Their silent sweet reproaches ? By the calm moon to wander,

Oh! that my soul all free, And view those isles of light

From bonds of earth might sever ; That float so far beyond her

Oh! that those isles might be
In that wide sea

Fler resting place for ever.
Whose waters free
Can find no shore to bound them,

On whose calm breast
Pure spirits rest

And when in secret sighs
With all their glory round them;

The lonely heart is pining. Oh! that my soul all free

If we but view those skies
From bonds of earth might sever; With all their bright host shining
Oh! that those isles might be

While sud we gaze
Her resting place for ever.

On their mild rays,

They seem like seraphs smiling, When all those glorious spheres

To jogs above, The watch of Heaven are keeping,

With looks of love, And dews, like Angels' tears,

The weary spirit wilingi
Around are gently weeping;

Oh! that my soul all free
O who is he

From bonds of earth could sever;
That carelessly

Oh ! that those isles might be On virtue's bound encroaches,

Her resting place for ever. An Irishman who is tolerably well acquainted with the character of his countrymen, cavnot but observe in the dirge of “O'Sullivan Bear,” a most intensely graphic picture of that strong denunciatory power (to use a inild word) for which the Irish have ever been famous, whenever burning injustice roused their passions. The ballad has sufficient attractions to render its presence here desirable. The son upon Ivera

Had he died calmly, No longer shines brightly;

I would not deplore him, The voice of her music

Or if the wild strife No longer is sprightly;

Of the sea-war closed o'er him; No more to her maidens

But with ropes round his white limbs The light dance is dear,

Through ocean to trail him, Since the death of our darling

Like a fish after slaughter! O'Sullivan Bear.

"Tis therefore I wail him. Scully! thou false one,

Long may the curse You basely betray'd him ;

Of his people pursue them;
In his strong hour of need

Scully that sold hiin
When thy right hand should aid him ; And soldier that slew him,
He fed thee; -he clad tliee; --

One glimpse of Hearen's lighi
You had all could delight thee;

May they see never: You left him ;--you sold him ;

May the hearth-stone of hell May Heaven requite thee !

Be their best bed for ever! Scully ! may all kinds

In the hole which the vile hands Of evil attend thee;

Of soldiers had made thee, On thy dark road of life

Unhonoured, unshrouded May po kind one befriend thee;

And headless they laid thee; May fevers long burn thee,

No sigh to regret thee, And agues long freeze thee;

No eye to rain o'er thee, May the strong hand of God

No dirge to lament thce, In his red anger seize thee.

No friend to deplore thee.

a

Down her white neck her auburn tresses fall:

Dear Lead of my darling

A curse, blessed ocean, How gory and pale,

Is on thy green water, These aged eyes see thee

From the haven of Cork High spiked on their gaol ;

To Irera of slaughter, That cheek in the summer sun

Since the billows were dyed Ne'er shall grow warm,

With the red wounds of fear, Nor that eye e'er catch light:

Of Muiertach Oge, But the flash of the storm.

Our O'Sullivan Bear. It would appear that among the Irish peasantry, a custom prevailed at dances, and merry makings, in which a young man admiring one of the fair dancers, rose and, offering his glass to the object of his admiration, requested her to drink to him. After a considerable number of refusals, the offer was sometimes accepted, and considered a favourable omen : allusion is made by Callanan to this custom in a choice piece of enthusiastic poetry, which affords another convincing proof of the great and transcendant genius, which could so intimately identify itself with all the minute peculiarities of Irish life. The song bears the name of “ The girl I love," and runs thus :

The girl I love is comely, straight, and tall ;
Her dress is neat, her carriage light and free :-
Here's a health to that charming maid whoe'er she be !
The rose's blush but fades beside her cheek ;
Her eyes are blue, her forehead pale and mcek;
Her lips like cherries on a summer tree;-
Here's a health to the charming maid whoe'er she be!
When I go to the field no youth can lighter bound,
And I freely pay when the cheerful jug goes round;
Come, here's to that charming maid whoe er sha be!
Had I the wealth, that props the Saxon's reign;
Or the diamond crown that decks the King of Spain,
I'd yield them all if she kindly smiled on me;-
Here's a health to the maid I love whoe'er she be!
Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair I'd pay,
And five times five, for my love one hour each day;
Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its own green tree;

Then, my dear, may I drink a fond deep health to thee! What indeed has Callanan written, which does not bear the impress of elegance, elevated imagination, copious diction, and magical affinity with the very nature of our scenery, and the exact character of our people ? Our very hills and valleys, the former with their towering peaks and shadowy hues, in which a dreamy and delicious gloom constitutes a mysterious charm; the latter with their verdant and extensive meads, or heatly wastes which seem as though they were never trodden by human footsteps, appear through the diaphonous medium of this beautiful poetry, in such a way, as we have often ob

The barrel is full: but its heart we soon shall see ;

served the leaves of an umbrageous tree, overhanging a pellucid stream, reflected on a calm evening in its tranquil waters. The Irishman who reads the poetry of Callanan, must necessarily lay down the volume a more patriotic man; he must also of necessity feel himself incited to increased exertions for the furtherance of his country's good.

The thoughts contained in these lines which we now insert, we might almost fancy to hear escaping from the lips of some poor criminal, in unpremeditated discourse with himself: so natural are the reflections, and so apparently unstudied is the entire soliloquy

How hard is my fortune

And vain my repining; The strong rope of fate

For this young neck is twining: My strength is departed,

My cheeks sunk and sallow; While I lauguish in chains

In the gaol of Clonmala.* No boy of the village

Was ever yet milder; I'd play with a child

And my sport would be wilder ; I'd dance without tirirg

From morning till even, And the goal-ball I'd strike

To the lightning of Heaven.

At my bed foot decaying

My burl.bat is lying;
Through the boys of the village

My goal-ball is flying;
My horse 'inong the neighbours

Neglected may fallow;
While I pine in my chains

In the gaol of Clunmala.
Next Sunday the patron*

At hoine will be keeping
And the young active hurlers

The held will be sweeping;
With the dance of fair maidens

The evening they'll hallow,
While this heart once $0 gay

Shall be cold in Clonmala.

* Clonmala, ie, the solitude of deceit, the Irish name of Clonmel.

• Patron,- Irish Patruin,-a festive gathering of the people on tented ground.

We will wind up our comments on Callanan, with giring our readers an example of his powers as a translator, and also an instance in the poem itself (whieh was written in Irish.) of the forcible expression, masculine flow of thought, and dramatic character of some of the old Irish manuscripts.

THE LAMENT OF OʻGNIVÉ.
How dimn'd is the glory that circled the Gael,
And fall'n the high people of green Innisfall:
The sword of the Saxon is red with their gore;

And the mighty of nations is mighty no more!
og
til

Like a bark on the ocean, long shattered and tost,
On the land of your fathers at length you are lost;
The hand of the spoiler is stretched on your plains,
And you're doom'd from your cradles to bondage and chains.
O where is the beauty that beam'd on thy brow?
Strong hand in the battle ! how weak art thou nov;
That heart is now broken that never would quail,
And thy high songs are turned into weeping and wait.

• Innisfail - the Island of destiny, one of the names of Irelaod.

Bright shades of our sires ! from your home in the skies
O blast not your sons with the scorn of your eyes !
Proud spirit of Gollam* how red is thy cheek,
For thy freemen are slaves, and thy mighty are weak !
O'Neilt of the Hostages: Con whose high name,
On a hundred red battles has floated to fame,
Let the long grass still sigh undisturbed o'er thy sleep;
Arise not to shame us, awake not to weep.
In thy broad wing of darkness enfold us, 0 night;
Withhold, O bright sun, the reproach of thy light;
For freedom, or valour no more canst thou see,
In the home of the Brave, in the isle of the Free,
Affliction's dark waters your spirits have bow'd,
And oppression hath wrapped all your land in its shroud,
Since first from the Brehon's pure justice you stray'd,
And bent to those laws the proud Saxon has made.
We know not our country, so strange is her face ;
Her sons once her glory are now her disgrace ;
Gone, gone is the beauty of fair Innisfail,
For the stranger now rules in the land of the Gael.
Where, where are the woods that oft rung to your cheer,
Where you waked the wild chace of the wolf and the deer?
Can those dark heights with ramparts all frowning and riven,
Be the hills where your forests wav'd brightly in Heaven?
O bondsmen of Egypt ! no Moses appears
To light your dark steps thro' this desert of tears;
Degraded and lost ones, no Hector is nigh

To lead you to freedom, or teach you to die! Francis Davis, commonly called the Belfast man, the last of those whom we have selected for notice, has decidedly very many claims on our admiration.

Though he may not possess that deep spirit of meditation which belonged to Griffin and Callanan, and though some may consider that he has not that profound knowledge of, taste for, and capacity to treat in all the fulness of sustained narrative, the "grey old legends," and historical land marks of Ireland, in the former of which they have shewn themselves such masters, and in the latter of which they have evinced such extraordinary instances of excelling talent, the indomitable spirit which he shews, the melodious nature of his verse, the felicitous turn of his ideas, and the rich, transcendentally rich fancy which sparkles so brilliantly through his every lay, adequately compensate us for any deficiency which may render him unequal to the others in particular attributes. 'Not that we would infer that bis peculiar beauties are such as to place him on an equality with