Written beneath a Portrait

Of Mr. G. F. MANDLEY, of Manchester, Taken during his representation of the character of Julian St. Pierre, in Sheridan Knowles's celebrated Play of “THE WIFE,” enacted for the benefit of the

MANCHESTER INFIRMARY, On the Anniversary of the Prince of Wales's Birthday,

March, 1843.

So stands he whilst depicting scenes gone by,

His earliest home amid the glacier'd rills; Speaks of his father with a glistening eye

Thinks of the chamois and his native hills.

But vain the pencil's mimic power to trace

The proud soul pent up ’neath that lofty brow; It may depict a momentary face,

But cannot the mind's varied workings show.

As vain its efforts to display the force

Of that wild tale, whose thrilling interest draws From the 'wrapt crowd, like thunder in its course,

The long, loud, deep, encouraging applause.

Well might the wise discriminating few,

That sat around in critic judgement there, Exclaim_“If ever Knowles a hero drew,

That hero was-nay there he is !-St. Pierre.”

Written in an Ancient Churchyard,

(ASSELYNN, NEAR BOYLE,)

County Roscommon.

Days were, when beings now in dust,

That in their last cold couch are laid, Unharmed by each Æolian gust,

Tho' toss'd by the inhumer's spade, As all of us must one day be

Days were perhaps when they

Were lovely, youthful, gay,
With fairer prospects blest than ever we.

2

Here, with a grave her narrow bed,

Her pillow the damp valley clod, There rests perchance as fair a maid

As ever went to meet her God; And here, mayhap, a warrior lies,

That for his country fought

And with life's bright streams bought Her liberty—long tarnished, sullied prize.

All-powerful death ! relentless king !

That sweeps off all—the beggar, lord, Distinctions thou aside dost fling,

Nor to the monarch wilt afford One moment, heedless of his gold,

Thy fatal shaft is thrown

He is thy own, thy own, And as the peasant's heart, his heart is cold.

Time was--we were in childhood's bloom,

And life's young day-beam was all bright; Time is—’tis overspread with gloom,

And like a meteor of the night Joy shines ; but time will come, and where

Our after-home shall be

Through all Eternity,
Time is must tell if we'll be happy there.

Song of a Sca-born Sailor.

List, ye landsmen, unto me.-Old Song.

Loudly roar, thou dark-blue Ocean !

Burst thy white waves on my prow! Madly dash in wild commotion, I am on thy bosom now.

Not on earth

Had I my birth,
But on the wide Atlantic's breast;

Why not love

On thee to rove,
Nought on earth affords me rest ?

Dark-blue Ocean, what shall bound thee,

First-create of Deity ? Below thee, what ? A bove, around thee? Sky and sky's serenity.

The bright moon sleeps

Within thy deeps, And the stars hide beneath thy billow ;

Phoebus laves

In thy green waves,
And weary seeks in thee his pillow.

What extent dost thou not cover,

Round the earth from pole to line ? Who is't that would not be a rover ?

Sea and a sailor's life be mine!

Oh, how sweet

The morn to greet
Within my ærial hammock sleeping,

Or thro' the bright

And moon-lit night Upon the deck my watch-guard keeping.

Thrice I crossed the wide Equator,

Visited the North and South ;
Laved me in the foaming water
At the Great St. Lawrence mouth.

Thrice I washed,

While mad waves dashed, Upon the thundering Baltic's shore ;

Viewed the stones

And snow-white bones
That in its unsearched womb it bore.