AND doth not a meeting like this make amends
For all the long years I've been wandering away?
To see thus around me my youth's early friends,
As smiling and kind as in that happy day!
Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,
The snow-fall of Time may be stealing-what then?
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,
We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.

What softened remembrances come o'er the heart,
In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,
Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng.

1 'Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind their ears and this we find confirmed by a

present made, A.D. 1094, by Gilbert Bishop of Limerick to Anselm Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls.'O'Halloran.

As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,

When held to the flame will steal out on the sight, So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced

The warmth of a meeting like this brings to light.

And thus, as in Memory's bark we shall glide
To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew-
Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide,
The wreck of full many a hope shining through—
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers,

That once made a garden of all the gay shore,
Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours,
And breathe the fresh air of Life's morning once more.

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,

Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,

For want of some heart, that could echo it near.
Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone,
To meet in some world of more permanent bliss;
For a smile, or a grasp of the haud, hastening on,
Is all we enjoy of each other in this.

But come-the more rare such delights to the heart,

The more we should welcome, and bless them the more : They're ours when we meet-they are lost when we part, Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er. Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,

Let sympathy pledge us, through pleasure, through pain, That fast as a feeling but touches one link,

Her magic shall send it direct through the chain.

THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE.

IN yonder valley there dwelt, alone,

A youth, whose life all had calmly flown,

Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night,

He was haunted and watched by a Mountain Sprite.

As he, by moonlight, went wandering o'er
The golden sands of that island shore,
A footprint sparkled before his sight,

'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite.

Beside a fountain, one sunny day,

As, looking down on the stream, he lay,
Behind him stole two eyes of light,

And he saw in the clear wave the Mountain Sprite.

He turned-but lo, like a startled bird,

The Spirit fled-and he only heard

Love came, and brought sorrow
Too soon in his train;
Yet so sweet, that to-morrow
"Twould be welcome again.
Were misery's full measure
Poured out to me now,

I would drain it with pleasure,
So the Hebe were thou.

You who call it dishonour
To bow to this flame,

If you've eyes, look but on her,
And blush while you blame.

Hath the pearl less whiteness

Because of its birth?
Hath the violet less brightness
For growing near earth?

No-Man, for his glory,
To history flies;

While Woman's bright story
Is told in her eyes.
While the monarch but traces
Through mortals his line,
Beauty, born of the Graces,
Ranks next to divine!

THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

THEY know not my heart, who believe there can be
One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;
Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour,
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower,
I could harm what I love-as the sun's wanton ray
But smiles on the dewdrop to waste it away!

No-beaming with light as those young
features are,
There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far:
It is not that check-'tis the soul dawning clear
Through its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear-
As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair,
Is looked up to the more, because heaven is there!

I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE.

I WISH I was by that dim lake,'
Where sinful souls their farewells take
Of this vain world, and half-way lie
In Death's cold shadow, ere they die.
There, there, far from thee,

Deceitful world, my home should be

These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition called Patrick's Purgatory. In the midst of these gloomy regions of Donnegall (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Purgatory, which during the dark ages attracted the notice

of all Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every country in Europe.

'It was,' as the same writer tells us, 'one of the most dismal and dreary spots in the North, almost inaccessible, through deep glens and rugged mountains, frightful with impending rocks, and the hollow murmurs of the western winds in dark caverns, peopled only with such