66 See, how the moon, on the river space, Oh! Love, could I watch her beauteous face, Of the moon to-night, As she draws aside her curtains slight With tremulous almond fingers! Shine through her chamber, moon and stars. By roof and lattice rounding, And tenderly tinkle, ye soft guitars, 'Mid the golden viol's sounding. The blind withdraws to the small, white hand One look through the vine is gleaming; 'Tis gone-and lost in the night we standBut away, away, Till dawn of day, That smile, like Autumn's dusky ray, Back to the town-the setting stars Passing over some pieces of no extraordinary merit, we come to The Forge," which for spirit, ingenuity, imitation in language of the sounds alluded to, and sustentation of interest, we have seldom seen equalled. It is well that Gretna Green is abolished, or we fear this Poem would not sensibly decrease the number of its votaries. THE FORGE. In the gloomy mountain's lap There is not a sound of riot, Even the moon a drowse is taking. By the blossomed sycamore, Filled with bees when day is o'er it, Strew the umbered ground before it, Yes, the moon is in the wane: Hark! a sound of horses trampling Now 'tis stopt,--and one springs down, The best, the best your village boasts!" Up springs the brawny blacksmith now, Hurries his clothes and apron on, He strikes a lusty shoulder-blow: His face is in an eager glow, "Take my purse and all that's in its Heart, if you in twenty minutes Fit us for the road." The smith Looks at the wearied horses panting And thinks, as he falls to his work, But now the forge fire spirts alive To the old bellows, softly purring; In the red dot the irons dive; Brighter and broader it is glowing, Stronger and stronger swells the blowing; The bare armed men stand round and mutter Lowly while the cinders stirring,- In the cottage, dimly lighted By the taper's drowsy glare, Stands the gentle girl benighted; By her side for ever hovers That dark youth, oh, best of lovers! Now the moom seems shining clearer- Lists with ear acute; and while Now the forge is in a glow, Bellows roaring, irons ringing; Three are made; and blow on blow Sets the patient anvil ringing; "Another shoe-another, hark ye!" Ra-ra, ra-ra, ra ra-ra-rap Strikes the quick and lifted hammer On the hill-road, moving nigher, Glances from two eyes of fire: Cries the blacksmith, "Now they're Pats the pawing horses, testing On the ground their iron footing; On his black arm, up the carriage; Takes the gold with doubt and wonder; Scarce a minute's past away When, oh, magic scene, the village But, hark! who throng again the street While, a-top a distant hill Flushed with dawn-light's silent warning, While, behind that father fretting, "Swift," is a touching narrative of the love of Vanessa for the great humorist, and of the melancholy catastrophe which that love produced. Unfortunate indeed was poor Vanessa in conceiving an affection for a man, whom vanity could tempt to rob a weak woman's heart of its every happiness, and who has left no tangible proof upon record of bitter sorrow for his crime. The last interview between Vanessa and the Dean is sketched in a masterly way, and though we do not quite agree with the author as to the extent of the Doctor's grief for the loss of Stella, still it must be acknowledged that he has exhibited no ordinary amount of the most feeling pathos in the closing lines, in which Swift is represented as plunged in the deepest melancholy, while he contemplates the paper, containing a lock of Stella's hair, upon which he has inscribed the words, "only a woman's hair." It is quite possible that Swift in writing thus, might be actuated by feelings of the most keen compunction, but to our mind one who acted as he did to was not likely to indulge in any generous both women, regret. The following is fanciful GRAPE SONG OF ITALY. and pleasant: When Love shall speed his mandates from And peace shall plenty bring, And men shall know their Monarchs by "A May-day Revel," a pretty Irish fairy tale, was just the subject to give Irwin an opportunity of pouring forth the rich jewels contained in the sparkling casket of his fancy. The elfin king of Cloagh More, a mountain overhanging the bay of "sweet Rostrevor," is betrothed to the most beautiful sprite in the fairy realms of Carlingford; being asked upon what day she would wish the nuptials to take place, she answers eagerly, "the first of May," and the monarch, hardly able to express his approbation of her selection of May-day, immediately commands it to be proclaimed to all his subjects that the day of his marriage shall be, "A Joyous Saturnalia." The greater portion of the Poem is taken up in describing the manner in which the subjects of the fairy, the birds, and beasts, and insects, avail themselves of the indulgence granted them. The ensuing passage winds up the Poem, and is replete with minute and faithful sketches of evening scenes. Now falls the hour of evening rest, The fresh wind puffs the fisher's sails; The bee is hived, the bird's a-nest, The udder's spirt in foaming pails, And twilight deepens past the bay, 'Till o'er the inland town afar, 'Mid flakes of cloud still rosed with day, Sparks out some golden-cinctured starAnd strikes the river narrowing down, With ruffled current as it flows, By one old turret, lone and brown, Sea-lapped and sentinelled by crows. Now, 'mid the slopes of furrowed earth, The peasant drives his wearied yoke; Now from the crackling cottage heart Mounts tranquilly the azure smoke; Now, past the winding road anigh, The drover guides his dusty sheep; The lazy waggoner plods by, Behind his slow horse, half asleep: Now groups of rustic lad and lass Beside the shadowy ferry throng; Now through the bright mid-stream they pass, With oars that time some homely song; Push homeward up each shadowy height, While glimmers red and distantly Their cottage window's welcome light; The farms are hushed; beside their way The dripping wheels of mountain mills Stream in the leafy trickling ray; The bon-fires blaze along the hills; In twilight dances round the flame; The red fires drowse along the ground, The dances cease, the hills are bare; And as the sea-wind stirs the heath, And silvery spring-tide floods the shores, Nought save the moon on grey Omeath Moves by the quiet cottage doors. We cannot fail in finding cheerful thoughtfulness, graceful pleasantry, intellectual aspirations, and becoming independnet feeling in the "Artists' Song." The war is now over, and although it is trite to speak upon the subject, how few there are who have reflected much on the deluge of tears that has been shed, during its brief but mournful continuance! While the excitement continued, while the noise of cannon thundered in our ears, while the magic wires conveyed to us the news of victory or defeat, how little thought had we for widowed bosoms, and desolated hearths, and forlorn orphans! Well, after all, we are but human, and sorrow must be inade our own case, before we can be got to understand its bitterness. The Irish Mother's Dream," traces with touching fidelity the agonized suspense, and despairing woe of an Irish Mother, one of the many hundreds, should we not say thousands, of those whose heroic offspring have breathed their last before the walls of Sebastopol. 66 AN IRISH MOTHER'S DREAM. One night, as the wind of the Winter blew loud, And snow swathed the earth, like a corse in its shroud, The poor Mother turned on her pillow, and there And passed, for a space, is her sorrow and pain; |