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FRANCIS SYLVESTER MAHONY.

FRANCIS SYLVESTER MAHONY, an Irish journalist, born at Cork in 1804; died in Paris, May 18, 1866. He was educated at a Jesuit college in Paris, afterward studied at Rome, where he took orders in the Roman Catholic Church. Abandoning the clerical profession, he became about 1832 a regular writer in Fraser's Magazine, and subsequently in Bentley's Miscellany, under the nom de plume of "Father Prout." From 1840 until 1864 he was a foreign correspondent, at Rome and Paris, of several English newspapers. In 1864 he retired to a monastery in Paris, where he died. Several collections of his articles have been published, among which are "The Reliques of Father Prout" (1836; new edition, 1860), and "The Final Reliques of Father Prout," edited by Blanchard Jerrold (1874).

THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

WITH deep affection and recollection

I often think of those Shandon bells,

Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of childhood,
Fling round my cradle their magic spells.

On this I ponder, where'er I wander,

And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;

With thy bells of Shandon that sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine,

While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate;
But all their music spoke naught like thine.

For memory dwelling on each proud swelling
Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free,
Make the bells of Shandon sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

I've heard bells tolling old Hadrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling from the Vatican;

And cymbals glorious swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame.

But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly;

Oh, the bells of Shandon sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow; while on tower and kiosk O,
In Saint Sophia, the Turkman gets,

And loud in air calls men to prayer

From the tapering summits of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom I freely grant them;
But there's an anthem more dear to me:

'Tis the bells of Shandon that sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

MALBROUCK.

MALBROUCK, the prince of commanders,
Is gone to the war in Flanders;
His fame is like Alexander's:

But when will he come home?

Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or
Perhaps he may come at Easter.
Egad! he'd better make haste, or
We fear he may never come.

For "Trinity Feast" is over,

And has brought no news from Dover;
And Easter is past, moreover:

And Malbrouck still delays.

Milady in her watch-tower
Spends many a pensive hour,

Not well knowing why or how her
Dear lord from England stays.

While sitting quite forlorn in
That tower, she spies returning
A page clad in deep mourning,

With fainting steps and slow.

"O page, prithee come faster!
What news do you bring of your master?
I fear there is some disaster,

Your looks are so full of woe."

"The news I bring, fair lady,"

With sorrowful accent said he,
"Is one you are not ready
So soon, alas! to hear.

But since to speak I'm hurried,"
Added this page, quite flurried,
"Malbrouck is dead and buried!"
(And here he shed a tear.)

"He's dead! he's dead as a herring! For I beheld his berring,'

And four officers transferring
His corpse away from the field.

"One officer carried his saber,
And he carried it not without labor,
Much envying his next neighbor,
Who only bore a shield.

"The third was helmet-bearer
That helmet which on its wearer
Filled all who saw it with terror,

And covered a hero's brains.

"Now, having got so far, I
Find that (by the Lord Harry!)
The fourth is left nothing to carry

So there the thing remains."