'Tis the black huntsman, laughing harsh and shrill, "Come on, come on; you see I'm leading still!" That barren ledge the whirling corse had stopt, When it from jutting crag to crag had dropped. He spoke not,-stirred not,-scarce a quiver ran Of life thro' what so late had been a man,So changed, so mutilated by that fall, No trace was left his semblance to recall. "Tis said that ever since that fatal hour The glen is subject to a Phouca's power, Who once a year, while honest peasants sleep, With "Lead; I'll follow !" takes the dreadful leap. Howe'er this be, none hunter rode, or hack, At "meet" or "death" that morn, in colour black. Conclusion. Green Wicklow! Tyrol of our Western Isle ! Whose bleakest heights with cultured verdure smile, Dear is thy mountain chamois and its bleat, Thy furze, thy meadows, and their flow'rets sweet,Dear to my heart the meanest fount that trills In gurgles from thy mine-embowelled hills. And still thro' distance and thro' years I trace In memory's treasure-store each well known place, Where childhood and incipient youth were past, Ere fate o'er riper age its clouds had cast. Still doth my fancy paint the Pastor's eye, And cower beneath its stern torpidity; C Still in my dreams the Master's voice I hear, The Squire, his guests, and old Sans Souci Hall; And if it chance that I should once again, Nor shall the ruins near Newcastle claim Less anxious care, although without a name. So now to friends and surly critics too, Perhaps a long, but not a last adieu! His strains displayed some feeling-right or wrong; And feeling, in a poet, is the source Of others' feeling;-but they are such liars, But words are things; and a small drop of ink, Frail man, when paper-even a rag like this, -Byron. REVERIES IN RHYME. A Wish, A poetical temperament is of all others the least fitted to the world. Its inequalities, its frankness, its indignations, its ebbs and flows-are all the reverse of craft; and what but craft will the world be ruled by.-Johnson. Oh, were I smiled on by bounteous Heaven, : While it wafts through the air the wild bee's hum, With the still small drone of the beetle's drum; Lulled by the music of pebbled rill, As it wheels down the steep of some mossy hill, |