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valley. These were contrasted with the grand flowing outline of the mountains to our right, and the exquisite refinement and variety of the light that spread itself over their gigantic sides. Far to the left, the sea was again disclosed to our view, and behind us was the Scalp, like the outlet from Paradise into the wide world of thorns and briars.

A BIRTH-DAY POEM.

Oh have you not heard of the harp that lay
This morning across the pilgrim's way—
The wayward youth that loved to wander

By twilight lone up the mountain yonder ?

How that wild harp came there not the wisest can know,
It lay silent and lone on the mountain's brow;

The eagle's down on the strings that lay

Proved he there had awaited the dawning ray;

But no track could be seen, nor a footstep was near,
Save the course of the hare o'er the strings in fear,-
And ah! no minstrel is here to be seen

On our mountain's brow, or our valleys green ;
And if there were, he had miss'd full soon
His wild companion so sweet and boon.-
While the youth stood gazing on aghast,

The wind it rose strong, and the wind it rose fast,

Quick on the harp it came swinging, swinging-

Then away through the strings it went singing, singing,

Till a peal there arose so lofty and loud

That the eagle hung breathless upon his cloud,

And away through the strings the wind it went sweeping
Till the spirit awoke, that among them was sleeping-
It awoke, it awoke;

It spoke, it spoke

"I am the spirit of Erin's might,

That brighten'd in peace, and that nerved her in fight--

The spirit that lives in the blast of the mountain, And tunes her voice to the roll of the fountain

The spirit of giddy and frantic gladness

The spirit of most heart-rending sadness-
The spirit of maidens weeping on
Wildly, tenderly-

The spirit of heroes thundering on
Gloriously, gloriously ;—

And though my voice is seldom heard,
Now another's song 's preferr'd,

I tell thee, stranger, I have sung
Where Tara's hundred harps have rung-
And I have rode by Brien's side,
Rolling back the Danish tide-
And know each echo long and slow
Of still-romantic Glandulough;
Though now my song but seldom thrills,
Lately a stranger awaken'd me;

And Genius came from Scotland's hills
A pilgrim for my minstrelsy.-
But come-more faintly blows the gale,
And my voice begins to fail-
Pilgrim, take this simple lyre-
And yet it holds a nation's fire-
Take it, while with me 'tis swelling,
To your stately lowland dwelling-
There she dwells-my Erin's maid—
In her charming native shade;
I have placed my stamp upon her,
Erin's radiant brow of honour;
Spirits lambent-heart that's glowing-
Mind that's rich, and soul o'erflowing;

She moves with her bounding mountain-grace,
And the light of her heart is in her face:

Tell the maid-I claim her mine

For Erin it is her's to shine;

And, that she still increase her store

Of intellect and fancy's lore,

Oh my love has an eye of the softest blue,

Yet it was not that that won me;

But a little bright drop from her soul was there'Tis that that has undone me.

II.

I might have pass'd that lovely cheek,

Nor, perchance, my heart have left me;

But the sensitive blush that came trembling there, Of my heart it forever bereft me.

III.

I might have forgotten that red, red lip

Yet how from the thought to sever?

But there was a smile from the sunshine within, And that smile I'll remember for ever.

IV.

Think not 'tis nothing but lifeless clay,
The elegant form that haunts me-
'Tis the graceful delicate mind that moves
In every step, that enchants me.

V.

Let me not hear the nightingale sing,

Though I once in its notes delighted;

The feeling and mind that comes whispering forth,
Has left me no music beside it.

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