THE VISION.

Sull was the night on ocean's breast,
Each ruder wave had sunk to rest,
Round the rough shore unbroken sleep

The billows of the tideless deep,

And its broad mirror calm and clear
Gave back each star that gems the sphere;

While zephyr lingered in his flight

As loath to mar that image bright;

So mute that moment of repose,
The lightest breath that bends the rose,
Nay, even the summer's softest sigh,
That wafts the gossamer on high

Had broke the spell with voice too rude,
Where silence watch'd o'er solitude

'Twas where a fountain murmuring played, Beneath the willow's weeping shade, In a deep glen, whose lonely breast By nature's wildest fancy drest, Seem'd as untrod by foot of man, Since first his race of guilt began; There war ne'er rung his iron peal, Ne'er had ambition bared the steel, Nor murder's crimson blade had dyed That fountain's pure unsullied tide, Nor treachery shuddered to behold Her image on its bosom cold; Ne'er heard that unfrequented grove The perjured vows of guilty love, Nor ever since the birth of time Wak'd echo to the voice of crime; On stiller hour or lovelier scene Ne'er look'd yon orb with ray serene, 'Since first array'd in robe of light, She claim'd the empire of the night; When past the weary hours of day, Sleep stole me from my cares away, That momentary grave of grief, Our best, alas! our sole relief,

Where the deep ills of human lot,
If cureless, are at least forgot—
Such was the scene that fancy drew
In colours brilliant but untrue,
Such scenes have oft her fingers wove,
Light, transient too as woman's love,
Deceiver sweet, whose airy power
On weary sorrow's slumbery hour,
With meteor's brightness loves to smile,
And soothe the cheated sense awhile,
Then fleet as melts the mist in air,
And wake the dreamer to despair;
Where round a rock whose aged brow
Frown'd darkly o'er the stream below,
Twin sisters fondly loved to twine,
The ivy and the eglantine,

And seem'd their arms around him cast,
Would shield a father from the blast;
Where bloom'd in unmolested pride

Each flower that loves the mountain's side,
And steep'd in nights of refreshing dew,
Around unwonted fragrance threw,
Fresh lighted from the fields of air,

A vision stood of form as fair,

As that the Grecian's fancy gave

To Venus walking from the wave;
O'er her light limbs of faultless mould,
Loose hung in many a graceful fold,
A mantling robe of snowy dye,

Like the flaunt cloud on summer's sky;

That fairy foot had scarce imprest

The foam upon the billow's breast,
Wild flowed her auburn tresses bright,
And a sweet smile of heavenly light,
Played o'er her brow and lit her eye,
Where softness tempered majesty,
Seem'd as if utterance just had died
On lips that mock'd the ruby's pride,
And promised soon to wake again
In sounds of more than mortal strain,
Less sweet poor Philomel thy song,
Borne on the listening breeze along ;

Less softly sound the accents sweet,

When long, long parted lovers meet;
Less plaintively when lovers part,

The sigh that speaks the breaking heart:
Even such on parting virtue's ear,
When pain is past and glory near,
And angel's summons mild and meek
Thro' night's deep stillness gently break,
When sent to guide at heaven's behest,
The weary soul to realms of rest.—
Such were the sounds that filled the gale,
When erst in Judah's hallow'd vale ;
The trembling shepherds bow'd the knee
To Heaven's eternal minstrelsy,

As on that hour of silence lone,
Broke the strange spirits' airy tone.
Wake, sleeper wake, the lark on high,
Tunes her blithe matin to the sky,
Now the fleek'd east, her robe of light
Flings o'er the misty mountain's height;
Now echo wakes her mimicd skill,
And hark! in mingling murmurs swell,
Each sound that greets the birth of day,
The cheerful shepherd's roundelay,

To her whose lip would half deny
The love that's beaming in her cye,
And all around in wildest glee,
Waked Nature tunes her melody.
Wake sleeper to the call of love,
By the maz'd path of yonder grove,
Where winds the stream its rippling way,
Steals one that chides thy lingering stay;
Sunk the soft sounds, and now they float
Like dying echo's distant note,;

Those sounds are hush'd, yet lingering still,

While yet on memory's ear they thrill;

Light o'er my throbbing temples flew,

Light as morn's footstep o'er the dew,
That gentle hand that oft, how oft
In pain, in grief with pressure soft,
Have held them to thy faithful breast,
Where all my cares and sorrows rest.
My airy vision melts in air,

I wake, and find her rival there.

A MIDSUMMER SPELL

Before a step has trode the bower,
While dew is yet upon the flower,

At the sweet blushing dawn of day,
"Tis said, whoe'er shall steal away
The brilliant child of summer skies,
That in its sleeping beauty lies
Within a rose leaf's glowing fold—
(All starred with azure and with gold
The pure white of its fragile wings,
Loveliest of created things!)

'Tis said, that such shall win the bliss
Of other worlds to dwell in this:
Devoted love, eternal youth,

And all the loveliness and truth
For which the restless spirit sighs,
All shall be his who wins that prize.
But who e'er stole the glist'ning rose
Nor broke the sleeper's light repose?
None-not the brave, nor yet the fair,
Nor lovely girl with radiant hair
And softest tread and purest eyes;
Some pull the stem-it wakes and flies-
Some crush the flow'r-the insect dies;
So wary, beautiful and frail—
Perchance 'tis but a fairy tale.

Yet love, we know, eludes the clasp
And pressure rude of mortal grasp;
Some say they've seen him, as he springs
To heav'n, ere man can touch his wings!

A SKETCH OF AN EXCURSION

TO THE COUNTY OF WICKLOW,

IN SEPTEMBER, 1825.

Having never visited the county of Wicklow, and being particularly anxious, before leaving Dublin, to spend a few days in this delightful part of the country, I willingly accepted an invitation from some intimate friends to accompany them thither. Accordingly on wednesday the 21st of September, we set out on our expedition. We proceeded along the Dunleary road and had the pleasure of seeing the tide full in, so that it washed the wall which bounded the highway. On passing through Dunleary, we took a survey of that wonderful production of human industry and toil,-the pier, stretching its long arms into the sea, and holding in its giant clasp the artificial bay, which calmly slumbered in the enclosure, whilst the excluded ocean raged and foamed, and heaved its waves against each external side of the mighty bulwark. After leaving the village, we enjoyed a full view of the beautiful hills of Killiney, which lift their heads almost from the edge of the ocean; on one of them is erected a smal! obelisk, which crowns the summit, and is conspicuous at a great distance. the quarries which lie among these hills, is found the granite with which the pier is built. The blocks are conveyed to their place of destination, in small, flat, four-wheeled carts which descend with ease, along the inclined plain from the foot of the hill, to the water's edge, the wheels rolling in grooves adapted to their size, and lined with metal. This granite, which is very beautiful, is supposed by naturalists to have been the primary stone of the earth, which is extraordinary, as it is itself a composition, consisting of three parts, viz; nuca, quartz, and felt spar: this consideration involves the philosopher in a maze of conjecture, from which he generally escapes with the satisfactory conclusion, that some strange convulsion, agitated the chaotic mass, before the Creator established harmony and order.

In

As we advanced on our journey, the country presented the most agreeable aspect, being thickly covered with villas, cottages, and clumps of trees, bounded on the one side by the sea, and on the other by the distant Wicklow mountains, whilst the steeples of the Dublin cathedrals rose at a distance, through the mist of an autumn morning. At a sudden turn of the road we were astonished and delighted by the prospect of the Killiney bay, which rushed full on our view, dashing its white billows on the smooth sandy shore, which lay under the road by which we passed. From hence we had a clear prospect of Bray-head, which is a high and majestic promontory. We continued to contemplate the lovely and ever varying mountains, which seemed advancing to meet us, and to invite us into their dark recesses, until our arrival at Bray. From Bray, which is a pretty village and well situated, the traveller enters into the county of Wicklow, and here the scenery becomes still more beautiful. The first remarkable object which presented itself, was Kilruddery, the seat of the Earls of Meath. Grey, sombre, and stately, its towers shoot forth their heads from among the dark masses of trees which surround them; vener