For they that earliest taste life's holiest feast Must early fast, lest, grown too bold, they dare Of them that follow after seize the share." Then, though my pulse's beat forever ceased, If where I slumbered thou shouldst chance to pass Though grave-bound, I thy presence should discern. Heedless of coffin-lid and tangled grass, Upward to kiss thy feet my lips would yearn; And did one spark of love thy heart inflame, With the old rapture I should call thy name. DEPENDENCE. WHAT would life keep for me if thou shouldst go? Beloved, give me answer; for my art Is pledged unto thy service, and my heart Apart from thee nor joy nor grace doth know. No arid desert, no wide waste of snow, Looks drearier to exiled ones who start On their forced journey than, shouldst thou depart, This fair green earth to my dead hope would show. And like a drowning man who struggling clings With stiffened fingers to the rope that saves. Thrown out to meet his deep need from the land, So to thy thought I hold when sorrow's wings Darken the sky, and 'mid the bitter est waves Of fate am succored by thy friendly hand. Our barque with skill, the proud waves seem to bear No nearer to that goal, and everywhere Stretches an endless circle wide and dim, So we do dream, treading the narrow path Of life, between the bounds of day and night, To-morrow turns this page so often conned. But when to-morrow cometh, lo! it hath The Still lies far off the unknown heaven beyond. limits of to-day, and in its light We sail the centre of a ceaseless round, Forever circled by the horizon's rim; And fondly deem that from that faroff brim Some sign will rise or some glad tidings sound. But no word comes, nor aught to break the bound Of sea and sky all day with distance dim, And vanished quite when darkness, chill and grim, About the deep her sable shroud has wound. So on the seas of life and time we drift, Within the circling limits of our fate, Expectant ever breath. of some solving But no sound comes, no pitying hand doth lift ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. KILCOLEMAN CASTLE. KILCOLEMAN CASTLE, an ancient and very picturesque ruin, once the residence of Spenser, hes on the shore of a small lake, about two miles to the west of Doneraile, in the county of Cork. It belonged once to the Earls of Desmond, and was who was hated by the Irish in consequence burned by their followers in 1598. Spenser, of his stringent advices to the English about the management of the refractory chiefs and minstrels, narrowly escaped unfortunately left behind, was burnt to with his life, and an infant child of his, death in the flames. No sound of life was coming From glen or tree or brake, Was swallowed in the deep, And the night came down with a sullen frown, On Houra's craggy steep. And Houra's hills are soundless: From the crest of Corrin Mór, Oh, sweet at hush of even The trumpet's golden thrill; Grand 'neath the starry heaven The pibroch wild and shrill; Yet all were pale with terror, The fearful and the bold, Well might their hearts be beating; Came kern and galloglass, To the wizard' man who had cast the ban On the minstrels bold and free! They gave no word of warning, His treasures all in that castle tall, All still that castle hoarest; Their pipes and horns were still, While gazed they through the forest, Up glen and northern hill; Till from the Brehon circle, On Corrin's crest of stone, A sheet of fire like an Indian pyre Then, with a mighty blazing, So bright it rolled and high; The man of endless fameSoon hid its head in a mantle red Of fierce and rushing flame. Out burst the vassals, praying There was a warlike giant Amid the listening throng; He looked with face defiant On the flames so wild and strong; Then rushed into the castle, And up the rocky stair, The wall was tottering under, And dashed him to the ground; Forever died that scream. And the fire sprang out with a wilder shout And a fiercer, ghastlier gleam! 'Tis there we'll stand, with bosoms Ay, marvels they are in their shadowy CHARLES DE KAY. FINGERS. WHO will tell me the secret, the cause For the life in her swift-flying hands? How weaves she the shuttle with never a pause, With keys of the octave for strands? Have they eyes, those soft fingers of her That they kiss in the darkness the keys, dance, But who is the god that has given them soul? When leanred they the spell other souls to entrance, When the heart, other hearts to control ? 'Twas the noise of the waves at the prow, The musical lapse on the beaches, "Twas the surf in the night when the land-breezes blow, The song of the tide in the reaches: She has drawn their sweet influence home To a soul not yet clear but profound, Where it blows like the Persian seafoam into pearls, Into pearls of melodious sound. HENRY KING. FROM THE "EXEQUY ON HIS SLEEP on, my love, in thy cold bed, My last good night! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake; It so much loves, and fills the room Stay for me there! I will not fail At night when I betake to rest, As in darkness the poets aver grees? gale, |