She now and then puzzled, with Latin, the codgers,
Which sounded like Hebrew to Commodore Rogers.
She muttered "O navis: infelix puella,"

And cried, when it blew, " aquilone procella."
Old dad braved the spray of the sea like a new one!
While Lyd, in the cabin, was reading Don Juan.
A boy on the top-mast, who kept a sharp look-out,
Now, from his potatoe-trap, bawl'd "Sandy hook" out,
Two words that we English did not understand,
But I guess "Sandy hook" is the Yankee for "Land ;”
For while we were wondering what he could say,

The pilot had floated us into the Bay.

Lord! who would have thought to have seen Dicky Barrow Quit Chancery-lane for the Land of Pizarro.

You and I were the prime ones :-the Fives-court, the Lobby, Were all Betty Martin without Dick and Bobby.

Dad shew'd himself up, for a rank Johnny-Raw,

In binding me 'prentice to follow the law.

You know'd, Bob, I scorn'd such a spooney to be

As to follow the law, so the law follow'd me.

Spick and Span were my Schneiders: dead hits at a button;

At running a bill up they found me a glutton;

Spick call'd: not at home; and I told Mugs, my man,
To bounce when he call'd again: ditto to Span.

I thought they'd have stood it: the devil a bit :

They bolted a Davy, and took out a writ.

:

Nunky flinch'd it was no use applying to him
So, finding the stumpy decidedly slim,

I thought it was best to be offish with dad,

And shew that Dick Barrow was not to be had.

;

Now do, there's a dear, draw a quill upon paper,
And tell us the news.-Is the needful still taper?
Kean bolted off here in a huff: does he bring,
Like Harris's Empress and Elliston's King?

Or, are you still dosed with stars, ribbons, and garters,
Cars, cream-colour'd horses, poles, platforms, and Tartars?
We can't come it here like your Viscounts and Madams
At Westminster-Abbey: our President Adams

To sport a procession has no hidden hoards,

I reckon he'd cut a shy show on the boards.

When guests tuck their trotters beneath his mahogany,
Short bite for Jonathan: if for good prog any

Visitor gapes, why the bigger flat he:

The President comes down with nothing but lea:
For which, if the Yankees know what they're about,
They'll treat him, next Caucus, with tea and turn out.
But pen cries peccavi, and paper is narrow,

So, Bob, I'm your humble cum dumble,

R. BARROW.

MODERN PILGRIMAGES.-NO. 11.

ROSSANNA.

"One tear, one passing tribute, and I've done."

THERE cannot be a more beautiful spot on earth than Rossanna, the domain of the Tighe family—not long since the residence of the lovely, the talented, the early summoned Muse of "Psyche." It is situated in the very Eden of Ireland, a few miles from the town of Wicklow.

Many an evening have I wandered through the vale, ignorant that it possessed any latent charm of memory or association, and thought "How here the Muse should love to dwell."

Often on the eminence of Broomfield, that overlooks it, have I stood for hours, contemplating the finest prospect that ever met my view-the ocean and sky mingling in vast and painful distance, over which the eye dilated with the consciousness of desolate and overpowering grandeur-the far promontory that broke upon the sea horizon, its gloom contrasted with the gay town that shone upon its side, and the fleet of fishing-smacks that bent upon their evening cruize under its protection-then the line of hills that rise beyond the wooded domain of Rossanna, and the immense vale, thirty miles in extent, so nobly terminating in the Croaghan, or Gold Mine Mountain; while the eye is relieved at intervals by some glittering spire or ambitious mansion that breaks the sameness and the vastness of the view. Towards the west rears itself the Carrig Morilliah, or Beautiful Rock, deservedly so called its extended summit, which is a perfect sierra, and graceful descent to the valleys that separate it from the chain of mountains, in the midst of which it stands perfectly isolated, make one of the most singular objects of the picturesque. From its summit, as well as from Cronroe, which is beneath, and of easier access, may be descried the celebrated Vale of Ovaca--“ the meeting of the waters"-hallowed not only by having inspired the muse of Moore, but for having given to one of Ireland's noblest and most upright sons the title he so proudly merited the early friend of Curran, Lord Avonmore. Below the rock of Cronroe is the sweet cottage of Mont Alta, where the unfortunate Trotter composed the life of his friend and patron, Charles James Fox. And then, to conclude my panoramic enthusiasm, the sun sets behind the most beautiful and most terrific of ravines-the Devil's Glen: a torrent breaks into it in a cataract from the farther extremity, continues its furious course under the walls of Glenmore Castle, and recovers its tranquillity in the silent shades of Rossanna, where the fair minstrel of Psyche has immortalized it in the song,

"Sweet are thy banks, O Vartree," &c.

The highest rank of genius is not that which most commands our sympathy; its independent character rather represses such a feeling, its capriciousness and unamiability are too often revolting. Minds of inferior power, but still of genius, command more of our love, if not so much of our admiration; we understand their joys and sorrows, which, however heightened, are still those of sane and healthy feeling. The sentiments they excite are not the fiercest paroxysms; but, on the

other hand, they never verge upon the ridiculous. Mrs. Henry Tighe's poem of "Psyche" is elegant and tender-languidly poetical like the mind of its author, which pined under the wasting disease of a slow consumption. There was not vigour enough in that delicate frame for a continued poem; but in her minor effusions, the momentary sparks of inspiration, we see the pathetic and spirited muse, that sickness undermined and at length destroyed. Its tone, as well as fate, reminds one of that of Henry Kirke White, save that in hers, who in birth and life was of the first rank in society, that refinement and elegance was natural, which in his was acquired. His, too, was the earlier fate; the flower of female genius and beauty was not cut off till it had lived its short but fragrant summer.

We would not seem to jest, in remarking that consumption is a poetical malady; besides the interesting appearance it gives the frame and countenance, it is consonant with our physical ideas, that genius should waste the body it inhabits,

"And o'erinform its tenement of clay."

Besides, the plaintive thoughts and prayers to which it gives birth, are generally of that mild, resigned, and angelic character, which the heart must be worse than dull if it can resist. The victims do not lament imaginary woes, nor gather interminable grief from their own querulous fantasies. It is the slow and awful hand of death they feel approaching, which is mingled with every sensation, and called up by every object;-it is a gloom we must all appreciate, because we must all feel it.

Such are the associations that shed an interest over the vale of Rossanna. The house, though extensive, is not elegant; it is shaded, and almost concealed by clumps of luxuriant chesnut-trees, whose extended branches are reflected in the river that flows beneath them. A sonnet of Mrs. Tighe's, by no means the best of her productions, alludes to them:

"Dear chesnut bower! I hail thy secret shade,
Image of tranquil life! escaped yon throng,
Who weave the dance and swell the choral song,

And all the summer's day have wanton play'd,

I bless thy kindly form in silence laid :

What though no prospects gay to thee belong,

Yet here I heed nor showers, nor sunbeams strong," &c. The fair poet has informed us, that her sorrows were alleviated by the visitings of the Muse-she has rendered it the means of alleviating the sorrows of others. By her will the produce of the publication of her poems was directed to be applied to the establishment of an additional ward in Wicklow Hospital. It has been carried into effect, and her bequest goes by the name of the Psyche Ward.

It is to Mrs. Tighe that Moore is supposed to allude in the following beautiful lines:

"I saw thy form in youthful prime,

Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of Time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!

Yet still thy features wore that light
Which fleets not with the breath;
And life ne'er look'd more purely bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams, that run o'er golden mines,
With modest murmur glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!

So, veil'd beneath a simple guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,

And that, which charm'd all other eyes,
Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,

Thou ne'er hadst left thy sphere;
Or could we keep the souls we love,
We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet,
Than to remember thee, Mary! *

R..

A CHAPTER ON "TIME".

BEING AN ATTEMPT TO THROW NEW LIGHT ON AN OLD SUBJECT.

"We know what we are," said poor Ophelia, "but we know not what we may be." Perhaps she would have spoken with a nicer accuracy had she said, "we know what we have been." Of our present state we can, strictly speaking, know nothing. The act of meditation on ourselves, however quick and subtle, must refer to the past, in which alone we can truly be said to live. Even in the moments of intensest enjoyment, our pleasures are multiplied by the quick-revolving images of thought; we feel the past and future in each fragment of the instant, as the flavour of every drop of some delicious liquid is heightened and prolonged on the lips. It is the past only which we really enjoy as soon as we become sensible of duration. Each by-gone instant of delight becomes rapidly present to us, and "bears a glass which shews us many more." This is the great privilege of a meditative being-never properly to have any sense of the present, but to feel the great realities as they pass away, casting their delicate shadows on the future.

Time, then, is only a notion-unfelt in its passege—a mere measure

The elegant poet here quoted has perhaps unconsciously translated one of the most beautiful of modern Latin epitaphs.

Ah, Maria!

Puellarum elegantissima!

Ah flore venustatis abrepta,

VALE!

Heu quanto minus est
cum reliquis versari,

quam tui

meminisse!

given by the mind to its own past emotions. Is there, then, any abstract common measure by which the infinite variety of intellectual acts can be meted-any real passage of years which is the same to all-any periodical revolution, in which all who have lived have lived out equal hours? Is chronology any other than a fable, a "tale that is told?" Certain outward visible actions have passed, and certain seasons have rolled over them; but has the common idea of Time, as applicable to these, any truth higher or surer than those infinite varieties of duration which have been felt by each single heart? Who shall truly count the measure of his own days--much more scan the real life of thousands?

The ordinary language of moralists respecting Time shews that we really know nothing respecting it. They say that life is fleeting and short; why, humanly speaking, may they not as well affirm that it is extended and lasting? The words "short" and "long" have only meaning when used comparatively; and to what can we compare or liken this our human existence? The images of fragility-thin vapours, delicate flowers, and shadows cast from the most fleeting things which we employ as emblems of its transitoriness, really serve to exhibit its durability as great in comparison with their own. If life be short, compared with the age of some few animals, how much longer is it than that of many, some of whom pass through all the varieties of youth, maturity, and age, during a few hours, according to man's reckoning, and, if they are endowed with memory, look back on their early minutes through the long vista of a summer's day! An antediluvian shepherd might complain with as much apparent reason of the brevity of his nine hundred years, as we of our threescore and ten. He would find as little to confute or to establish his theory. There is nothing visible by which we can fairly reckon the measure of our lives. It is not just to compare them with the duration of rocks and hills, which have held out " a thousand storms, a thousand thunders;" because where there is no consciousness, there is really no time. The power of imagination supplies to us the place of ages. We have thoughts which "date beyond the pyramids." Antiquity spreads around us her mighty wings. We live centuries in contemplation, and have all the sentiment of six thousand years in our memories :—

"The wars we too remember of King Nine,

And old Assaracus and Ibycus divine."

Whence then the prevalent feeling of the brevity of our life? Not, assuredly, from its comparison with any thing which is presented to our senses. It is only because the mind is formed for eternity that it feels the shortness of its earthly sojourn. Seventy years, or seventy thousand, or seven, shared as the common lot of a species, would seem alike sufficient to those who had no sense within them of a being which should have no end. When this sense has been weakened, as it was amidst all the exquisite forms of Grecian mythology, the brevity of life has been forgotten. There is scarcely an allusion to this general sentiment, so deep a spring of the pathetic, throughout all the Greek tragedies. It will be found also to prevail in individuals as they meditate on themselves, or as they nurse up in solitude and silence the instinct of the eternal.