eaves. Presently, however, it settled under the window, and became so sad, so piteous, and so heart-rending, that the women burst into tears, and the men stood like statues exposed in the morning dew: their skins were covered with a thick moisture, their lips quivered, their limbs tottered, and their hair stood as straight as 'quills upon the fretful porcupine.' At that moment none appeared unmoved but the priest: I was too much agitated to observe him narrowly, but I envied him his courage and coolness. Taking in his hand a small crucifix he opened the door and went out none endea voured to prevent him; their confidence in his spiritual powers was such that they apprehended no danger, and the moment the door opened the cry retired. All else was silent: we heard his footsteps on the pavement, the jarring noise of a wicket, as he entered the garden, was heard, and our excitement was in the extreme when his words Who is there?' reached us.

It was a moment of deep suspense, but it was quickly interrupted by the return of the good priest: he hurried past us into the parlour, sank on his knees, and burst into tears. The cry had ceased, he arose, and desired the servants to retire to rest. I wished for some explanation, but he would give me none. He was evidently agitated, I might say frightened, but he refused to speak on the subject.

Next morning I departed, but that terribly awful sound still rings in my ears. Can naturalists explain the cause? Was it supernatural ?

M.

THERE'S HAPPINESS IN HEAVEN. DELIGHTFULLY, delightfully, I marked thine hours roll on,

While pleasure, like some gleaming star, within thy bosom shone ;

And, as the lark that soars on high, thy heart was wild and free,

I never thought care was so nigh to pour its wrath on thee.

'Tis thus we view the bud expand into the perfect flower,

While oft beneath its bloom a worm inserts its poisonous power;

And while we bless each sunny tint the lovely thing displays,

Oh! suddenly and mournfully, it fades beneath our gaze.

Life has been like a day to thee, that wakes in sunshine bright,

But, ere its course is finished, sets in clouds of gloom and night;

Well, cheer thee up! although thy heart by tempests hath been riven,

One hope, one glowing hope, is left-there's happiness in heaven.

JAMES KNOX.

SONG.

TO MARY

MARY! my home is in thy heart,
And my heaven on thy breast;
I know no home but where thou art,
No other place of rest!

Thy eyes receive the fitful glance
Öf light, that shines from mine,
And, with redoubled radiance,

It flashes back from thine.

I have looked on beauty carelessly,
No other charms my heart could move,
For thou art every thing to me,

My hope, my light, my

love!

Mary! there is no power can crush
Or chain our love; it's free;
Free, as the lightning's vivid flash,
As the waves of the bounding sea.

C. T. JONES.

OWNEY SULLIVAN.

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade.

Moore.

In a remote part of the south of Ireland, the union of three valleys forms the bed of an extensive and magnificent lake, from one side of which issues a small river navigable by boats, and communicating with the mighty expanse of the northern Atlantic; the sides of the mountain nearest the lake are in the extreme precipitous, and among their towering heath-clad cliffs and solitary caverns afforded many a secure retreat for those who outlawed themselves by a public adherence to the insurgents of 1798. The side of one of the hills was a beautiful verdant slope, and the decline of an opposing hill was wooded to its summit; the lovely green of the herbage, contrasted with the various tints of the trees as they appeared at different heights and in different groups, produced a delightful effect, and gave an air of gladness to this otherwise apparent solitude; but how much more was it enhanced, when the wearied traveller happened to espy the blue turf smoke curling gracefully upwards, amid the embowering trees, giving evidence of a human habitation. It once presented a sheltering spot, where a night's rest for the weary might with certainty be obtained-when warm hearts were sure to give cheerful welcome, and think their hospitality well repaid to see their guest happy. This lonely sheeling had stood here in humbleness for ages, and was now tenanted by the lonely descendants of the builder. They had one lovely daughter; she was their only comfort and principal assistant. The father, although the hoariness of age was his, retained all the alertness and vigour of a mountaineer-he tended his scanty flock, and tilled his few acres for his family's support-while the mother, with her daughter, kept every thing within doors in the most perfect rural order and neatness.

Mary had the imprint of health upon her face, her eyes sparkled with good nature; and, though natu

rally vivacious, her innate modesty threw a veil of reservation over her every action, which charmed not less than the perfect symmetry of her form. Such a rustic beauty could not be long without a train of admirers, but one more especially won his way to her affections, and his ardency in the cause for which all then strained their very heartstrings, was additional recommendation in Mary's eyes.

Charley Driscol was esteemed by all who knew him; he was industrious and prudent, and, though not wealthy, he was independent. He tilled his little farm with care, and lived comfortably upon its produce; but he suffered himself to be seduced into the practices of those who indulged in wild schemes of national redress. He was already celebrated as an expert hurler, and renowned for athletic exploits; and Mary fondly thought one known to local fame required only a more enlarged field of action to deserve and acquire still greater notoriety. The course of their 'true love' ran on sweetly enough for some time; and, on the first agitation of the country, by the moral volcano of Ninety-eight, every thing wore a favourable aspect; but the reverse was sudden, and, with the downfall of their hopes, came fears and anxieties which their inexperience did not dream of.

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During the eventful contest, Charley performed the part of a daring insurgent; he was foremost wherever danger tempted valour, and when the day was lost,' he returned home 'wan and faint, but fearless still.' He was an outlaw, but was not without companions in his peril; and, amongst others, Owney Sullivan sought with him the security of the hill and the dale, the wood and the recesses of the shore. A common danger reconciles slight differences; Owney had been Charley's rival, and had formerly drawn upon himself Mary's anger; but all cause of anger or resentment was soon forgotten, and he was hospitably received, along with others, by her, whenever the absence of their pursuers rendered it safe to venture from their places of concealment. Here they found some alleviation of their suffer

ings; and Charley, still sanguine, cheered the mind of the mountain nymph with prognostics of happier days, and undisturbed quiet domestic enjoyment. The times, however, were fearful; the progress of martial law had left its revolting traces in almost every village, and the gallows, like a pestilence, remorselessly prepared its victims for the chilly grave. Under these circumstances even the national gaiety of the Irish character had but little room to display itself; their conversations were necessarily gloomy; and, at length, weary of a life of anxiety and hardship, the outlaws resolved to solicit the interposition of their landlord, a nobleman of great political influence. Owney Sullivan undertook the mission, and as he had some distance to travel, he set out, properly disguised, early in the morning. His comrades waited with anxiety for his return; the day passed away, and Owney did not make his appearance; but there was no apprehension of treachery; he might have fallen into the hands of the enemy, but no one dreamed of deceit.

The evening was now fast falling, and Mary, at the request of her father, went out to see if she could discover the approach of friend or foe; Charley followed her; and both of them took their station on the ruins of an old abbey, which had stood for ages on a beetling rock, towering over the lake,

Mossed and gray,

A desolate and time-worn pile,

With ivy wreaths and wall-flowers.'

They strained their eyes over the heath-clad hill, but no human being appeared; all was silent; and under other circumstances they would have felt the sweetness of the mellow evening, and the increasing breeze which the declining summer's sun seldom fails to call up to refresh, as it were, the living things which his fervour had nearly blasted. The scene, too, was as lovely as ever. Nature is not influenced by the crimes or madness of men; the summer calls forth flowers, whether they bloom to waste their sweetness on the desert air,' or to gratify mortals, be they good VOL. I. Jan. 1830.

D