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'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 cover beneath its stern torpidity ;

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THE FREQUENTED VILLAGE.

Still in my dreams the Master's voice I hear,
Or rise delighted from the Captain's cheer;
The Farmer's fireside cannot be forgot,
The well-stock'd garden, bower, and shelly grot ;
And oft doth recollection's power recall
The Squire, his guests, and old Sans Souci Hall
The Lawyer, too, is yet remember'd well,
And Boniface that ruled the Brazen Bell:
From one and all I claim the tribute due,
I've done my best to paint the picture true.

And if it chance that I should once again,
In days to come resume the poet's pen,-
I'll tune my lyre upon the sounding shore,
Mid screams of sea-birds and wild waters' roar,
To sing of yon black Castle on the steep,
Around whose base the white waves'madly sweep ;
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 !

REVERIES IN RHYME.

His strains displayed some feeling-right or wrong;

And feeling, in a poet, is the source
Of others' feeling ;-but they are such liars,
And take all colours, like the hands of dyers.
Bụt words are things, and a small drop of ink,

Talling like dew upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

To what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper_even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his.

-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,
And all my fond heart's wishes given!
I'd live 'neath the Muses' soft control,
With the poet's pen and the poet's soul ;
Far from the tasteless crowd to sing,
In the verdant bloom of an endless Spring;
Bright visions fresh in my fancy's view,
Moistened by Nature's mental dew,—
Ever breathing the odour of roses' sigh,
As the wanton zephyr is flirting by,
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,

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