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and the knowledge of his wife's delicate state of health, which must now receive a fresh shock from his departure, called forth all his former tenderness. The voyage was performed in silence. They reached the opposite shore, and the moment of separation was now come. Ellen contrived to delay it for some time, by pretending to settle some matters which she did, and undid many times ; at length when nothing further offered itself to delay her, and when she examined all affairs an hundred times over, she stopped, looked fixedly at her husband, and flying to his arms cried out in agony,“ O'Driscoll! will you leave your own poor Ellen ? " She clung in his embrace, moaning, and sobbing, as if her heart would break, whilst he wept like an infant, and whispered in her ear, that he would soon réturn and make her happy. He consigned her to the care of Florence, and in all the heaviness of heart, having kissed and embraced his little boys, departed with the stranger.

Two letters they received from O'Driscoll, during the long period he spent abroad; one on his arrival in Spain, and the other announcing the death of his father, which event occurred six months after he had left home. In the latter, he promised that his departure from Spain would shortly take place, and that he would soon join his family at home. I had forgotten to mention, that some short time before his departure from Ireland, Sir Edward Simmons died, and his wife and daughter had left the county, and had gone abroad, it was said to France or Italy.

It was a dilicious evening, towards the middle or the latter part of August, when a traveller was seen seated on the cool grass, beneath the deserted mansion of the late Sir Edward Simmons. The day which had been intolerably hot, had now become quite refreshing, in the approach of twilight'; and the heavy dews that usually fall at that season, diffuse a freshness around, which became a delightful luxury, to the wearied limbs and burning brow of the wayfarer. He was to appearance recovering himself from the fatigues of a long journey, performed during the fierceness of the noon day heat. His large travelling boots were covered with dust, and his horse was drenched in perspiration. He had taken off the bridle, and suspended it on a piece of rock, and permitted the animal to range about the paddock, the walls of which were broken down for want of repair. A holster was at the saddle bow, and the girths were slackened to give relief to the poor animal, from the galling pain caused by their overstrained tightness, in such weather. The paddock extended from the house, down to the sea shore, from which it was divided by a narrow path, barely affording room for å man and horse to travel by. A wall which had evidently been built without cement, just marked the boundaries of the enclosure, as the large round white stones lay heaped together in one place, whilst in another part it was almost perfect. The ground was raised about ten or twelve feet over the pathway, and in one part was faced for the tength of twenty or thirty feet, with a front of solid rock, which had been made level at the summit by stone work. In this spot it was clear of trees or shrubs, made so, perhaps for the purpose of displaying four pieces of cannon, which were now dismounted from their carriages, and lay strewed on the rank grass, covered with rust. About fifty yards to the rere of this, the house itself stood, with its windows broken and shattered. It was of a heavy square construction, built of dark stone, and surmounted by a kind of battlement. On each of the four corners, was placed a marble urn, with the carvings broken off. Behind, was a range of out houses, which appeared like one mass of ivy, so completely were they enveloped in a green clothing. At a short distance from the resting place of the traveller, was a massive wooden gate painted blue, and Hanked by two pillars, which were falling to decay. Near the gate was a porter's lodge, which had an air of comfort much superior to what appeared in the scenery around. The windows were painted a dark green; and a little garden enclosed by paling, lay before it. A few sun flowers peeped over the fence, and young rose trees, and Indian cresses crept up the wall. The hum of a cottage wheel was heard in the distance, and the thin blue smoke curled around the elm and yew trees, which hung over the gateway. The wicket was open, through which a little rosy cheeked girl was running up and down. A young man was approaching the lodge with a basket on his back, and a spade on his shoulder, after having dug the evening's meal. The traveller surveyed for a while, this solitary but picturesque scene, with marks of emotion and sadness. He arose from the ground, and leading his horse by the bridle, which he now put on him, used the large sword at his side as a walking staff, and walked towards the door. He enquired if he could procure a boat, to ferry him across the straight to Shirky.

An old woman came out, and curtseying, replied in Irish, that her son was returning home, and that he may be able to comply with his request; meantime she desired him to rest inside the cottage, or if he pleased to walk about the shrubberies. He preferred the latter, and wrapping his large cloak about him, he proceeded towards the house. The doors were made quite fast, so that he could only view it from the outside. He remained standing there in one fixed posture, and would probably have continued longer, had he not been interrupted, and awaked from his reverie, by the voice of the young man, whom he had already seen, and who now told him that the boat was prepared. The stranger gazed at him for some moments in an unmeaning manner, but soon recollecting himself, he hastened down, and delivering his horse to the care of the old woman, until she should hear further from him, covered his face with his mantle, and pulling down his hat, embarked and sank upon the bench of the little vessel. It was just twilight. The moon was not arisen, but the stars shed a clear strong light over the basin on which they were sailing. The sky was beautifully serene, and not a cloud strayed over its calm bosom, save towards the western hills, where the sun had left a few dark brown streaks, which extended over that part of the horizon. The two men who rowed were silent, wondering in their minds at the demeanour of their strange passenger. The shrill scream of the curlew as she wheeled around the rock on which her nest was built, together with the monotonous strokes of the oars, was the sole disturber of the silence. All on the island was dark, save one spot, from which streamed a clear steady light. Thitherwards they directed their course, and as they approached the shore, the deep baying of some mastiff was heard in the distance, roused perhaps by the splashing of the oars in the waters. They soon landed, and the stranger after giving some directions about his horse, and throwing them a piece of gold, leaped on the rock, and without looking back, waved his hand to them to depart immediately. With a tottering step he ascended the cliffs, and soon found a path, with which he seemed to be well acquainted. He soon approached the castle, and remained for some time outside, viewing its desolate situation. Not a sound broke from the house, and all seemed the work of enchantment, such an universal stillness prevailed

around. The light which he had seen, he could now perceive came from the large apartment, which had been used as a banquetting room, and he now found that more than one taper was burning within. A chill came through his veins, his knees tottered and he would have sunk on the ground, but for the support of the door frame. Night was falling fast, and the cold, damp, heavy dew made him shudder, as he remained standing in an immovable posture. It is unknown how long he may have delayed there, were he not roused by a shriek as it were of a female, rising from that part of the yard, where the stream came down from the hill. This was followed by another, and another, which seemed to come from the little fountain ; and at length they died away into a low melancholy caoin. He ran forwards, and perceived a white form seated on a stone, moving the head from one side to another, and clapping the hands, as it were in an agony of grief, but which disappeared the moment he attempted to approach it. Worked up to a state of desperation, he resolved to know the worst; he rushed into the hall--not a mortal was there ; he mounted the stairs, and no one appeared to impede his ascent. He walked slowly into the room, without daring to lift his eyes towards the light. When he did, he beheld what his heart foreboded—but what he could searce believe. It was O’Driscoll himself, and his wife lay a corpse before him, decked out in all the mournful finery of death! He gazed fixed as a statue, he spoke not a word, but his head became dizzy, and the light, and room, and corpse, seemed to swim around him, he groaned once, and dropped senseless on the floor.

Ard-na-Mbrahara, Sept. 4. 1826.


When sever'd from its parent tide
The wave pursues its restless way,
Now foams along the mountain's side,
Now 'mid the valley loves to play.

A prisoner now the fountain's cell
Can scarce its rebel grief restrain,
Its very murmurs seem to tell
Its sorrows for its native main.

It longs to kiss the well known shore,
And pillow'd on a mother's breast,
Its weary toils and wandering o'er,
Sink once again to gentle reste.

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I came to the bow'r when the morning was bright
And the zephyr's there revelled "oppress'd with perfume,".
I saw there a rose-bud, young summer's delight,
And fragrancy shed all its sweets round its bloom.

And still on its cheek the last dew-drop of night
Hung glist’ning, yet pure in the summer's mild ray,
As if loth to depart from a fow'ret so bright,
But the wing of the breezes soon brush'd it away.

It seem'd such a rose as in Eden might blow,
So unsullied its form, and so fragrant its sigh,
The ruby there blended its blush with the snow,
And its leaves fraught with beauty, seem'd made for the sky.

I left it and came at the evening's still hour,
To cull the fair rose that had bloom'd in the morn,
Some rude hand had scattered the leaves of the flow'r,
And all that remained on its stem was the thorn.

Thus oft in the morning of childhood's bright day,
When affections are glowing, and life is but young,
We dream of delight that with eve fleet away,
And the heart with the rude thorn of sorrow is stung,


First lured to guilt how shrinks the flutt'ring heart,
Unpractis'd yet, a novice in her art,
Past that one step—from crime to crime we run,
Remorse but follows when the deed is done;
Thus be who ne'er liad heard old ocean's roar,
Rode the wild wave and marked the less'ning shore,
Hlears the rude tempest in each zephyr's breath,
And every star is big with threatened death;
Now balder grown as sweeps his bark her way,
He blithely carols many a careless lay;
Now 'mid the tossing surge serenely goes,
And the wild wind but woo's him to repose.




O balmy time,
In which a love-knot on a lady's brow
Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven.

“ The parson lives in that low white house, just peeping through the “ trees yonder-you will be there in a minute, sir”—and the little blueeyed maiden curtsied, and tripped away before the young traveller had time to thank her. The door of the rectory was open, and the stranger entered unannounced, and almost unperceived, for evening was nigh, and the narrow green lane which led to the house was strewed with the yellow leaves of autumn. This was Arthur's first visit to S

The rector had not seen him since he left his nursery. He was now almost a man-had entered College, and was full of the hopes and day-dreams that belong to the happiest hours of life. He was perhaps below the middle stature, but a fair broad forehead, dark eyes, and an honest open countenance, gave him an acknowledged superiority over more towering personages. In conversation he was original and animated, and there was a zestful humour in some of his remarks that charmed his host, and won the hearts of the fair circle he had just entered. Arthur remained at S

one month. One bright morning-a week before he returned to College—accompanied by Mary Lisle, the rector's eldest daughter,—he set out to pay a visit in the neighbourhood. There are two ways leading to Hollyhill —the path across the fields is the shortest, and it is the most romantic, for it affords fine and varied views of sea and mountain.—Arthur had never been at Hollyhill. Late unfavourable weather served as an excuse for deferring the visit so long—besides it is full three miles from the glebe;- but, in one week, he must leave S * and it was the express desire of his father that he should pay this visit, which was to a relative he had not seen for many years.

Arthur and Mary walked on for some time in silence; Hollyhill and its owner occupying three-fourths of Arthur's imagination, while, perhaps, the image of his fair companion occasionally fitted into the other corner. Mary thought, strange to say, of College and its occupants, and of the distance from S to the gate of old Trinity. At length, their reverie was broken by a glimpse of the sea which completed one of the most glorious pictures that can be enjoyed in this romantic land. It was one of the fairest days of autumn-the rich tints of the foliage continually changing in their beauty under the influence of the rays of a bright sun. Mary was an enthusiastic girl—and is not a young and beautiful enthusiast a bewitching companion on an overland journey of three miles ?-Arthur's taste was matured by travel and by study, and he was generally calmer than


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