Song of the Sea.

A MOTHER'S DIRGE.

And art thou gone to thy cheerless home,

My own, my lovely boy?

And is thy mother's eye to see

No more her earthly joy?

I little thought when thy gilded prow
Was washed by the ocean surge,
That thy broken-hearted mother now
Should sing thy funeral dirge.

I looked upon my blooming boy,

And my heart was filled with pride,
To think on the ocean dark and deep
How dauntless he would ride.
I fancied that the wind and storm

Would be still for him alone;

I little dreamed of an early grave
For my first, my only son.

His stroke was strong in the billow's surf,
And his pull at the sturdy oar,

And his heart beat high for his own lov'd land,
When he leaped on its em'rald shore,

But that heart is chilled, and that arm is white

The ocean caves among;

His shroud is the wave of the dark green sea, And a Mother's wail his song,

The Friendly Greeting

Of Earl Mulgrave, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and James M‘Dermot, Esq., vulgarly called the Prince of Coolavin.

They met upon the Curlieu top,

A gay and joyous throng,

That smiled thro' sadness and thro' tears,

In which they laboured long,

Each eye bespoke its feeling

Of gladness as they pass'd,

To see their only native prince
In natal pride at last.

They spoke upon the Curlieu top,-

No ire, no threat, no ban,

Then say who shone most brilliant there;

The monarch, or the man?

Their words were open, calm, an1 kind,
As brother met with brother;
Hands were there in friendship joined,
Not wrath toward one another.

They stood upon the Curlieu top,
Which once his reign o'erspread;
They thought upon his kingly sires,
Long numbered with the dead.
And as remembrance brought a trace
Of ages past before them,

One cheer for freedom rent the air

One for the land that bore them!

They parted on the Curlieu top,
That high and mighty twain,-
A prince unsceptered, and a king
Beneath a monarch's reign.

The one bears home a nation's praise,
Which he must ever win;

And one a people's unioned pride
To rocky Coolavin.

On seeing a Bust

OF THE LATE

DR. ELRINGTON, BISHOP OF FERNS,
At Kilscoran Glebe, County Wexford.

"Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his."

Religion looked bright, for a saint was translated, Tho' Learning was sad, and her votaries sighed, Generosity mourned o'er her offerings abated,

And Science, too, wept when her Elrington died.

Not a tear may we shed, for we know thou art sleeping

The sleep that must break in a heavenly sphere; 'Tis enough that the orphan and widow are weeping;

They grieve for the lot which thy kindness could

cheer.

How oft, when this world and its vice coming o'er

us,

Have led our weak hearts into vanity's snare, Hath thy voice called aloud to the haven before us, And thine arm pointed up to the treasury there?

'Tis gloomy to think thou hast left us behind thee, Thy works to admire and thy loss to deplore;

Yet 'tis joyous to know that in heaven we shall find thee,

And earth, with its troubles, shall taint us no

more.

Farewell!-all is peace when the righteous are dy

ing ;—

'Tis horror when guilt enters into the tomb.

Let no monument shrine thee; the mighty are

sighing;

Their tears shall on memory freshen thy doom.

May we seek to be like thee in heart's holy beauty,
Nay, even to outvie thee in pureness of mind;
May we earn like thee the reward of our duty-
A kingdom and crown in Eternity find.