AN IRISH TRADITION. From the foot of Inchidony Island, in the bay of Clonakilty, an elevated tract of sandy ground juts out into the sea, and terminates in a bank of soft verdure, which forms a striking contrast to the little desart behind it, and the black solitary rock immediately under it. Tradition relates, that the Virgin Mary having wandered one evening to this sequestered spot, was there discovered praying, by the crew of a vessel which was then coming to anchor in the Bay. Instead of sympathising with her in her piety, the sailors were so inconsiderate as to turn her into ridicule, and even add to their ill-timed jeers some very impertinent remarks upon her beauty. The result may readily be anticipated—a storm arose, and the vessel having struck upon the black rock of Inchidony, went down with all her crew, not one of whom was ever afterwards heard of! THE evening star rose beauteously above the fading day, And hill and wave shone brightly in the moonlight's mellow fall, But the bank of green where Mary knelt was the brightest of them all. Slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark appeared, And her crew all crowded to the deck, as to the land she neared; To the calm and sheltered haven she floated like a swan, And her wings of snow o'er the waves below, in pride and glory shone. The Captain saw "Our Lady" first, as he stood upon the prow, And marked the whiteness of her robe, the radiance of her brow; Her arms were folded gracefully, upon her stainless breast, And her eyes looked up among the stars, to Him her soul loved best. He bad his sailors look on her, and hailed her with a cheer, And on the kneeling Virgin straight, they gazed with laugh and jeer; They madly vowed a form so fair they ne'er had seen before, And cursed the faint and lagging breeze that kept them from the shore. The ocean from its bosom then shook off its moonlight sheen, And its wrathful billows fiercely rose to vindicate their Queen; A cloud came o'er the heavens, and a darkness o'er the land, And the scoffing crew beheld no more the Lady on the strand. Out burst the pealing thunder, and the lightning leaped about, And her timbers flew like scattered spray, on Inchidony's rock. Then loud from all that guilty crew, one shriek rose wild and high, But the angry surge swept over them, and hushed that maddening cry ; With a hoarse, exulting murmur, the tempest died away, And down, still chafing from their strife, the indignant waters lay. When the calm and purple morning shone out on high Dunore, FROM THE ARABIC OF TOGRAI. THOU sleep'st, while the eyes of the planets are watching, I sleep, but my dreams, at thy lineaments catching, Thou art changed, while the colour of night changes not, I am changed, for all beauty to me seems a blot, BY ALARIC A. WATTS. They grew together Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, Two lovely berries moulded on one stem: Shakspeare. I SAW them when their bud of life Was slowly opening into flower, Had burst above their natal bower; What were they then? Two twinkling stars,- Far, far from earth, and earth-born jars, Now borrowing, now dispensing light, What were they then? Two limpid streams, Through life's green vale in beauty gliding, Mingling like half-forgotten dreams; Now, 'neath the gloom of willows hiding;Now, dancing o'er the turf away, In playful waves and glittering spray. I see them, as I saw them then, With careless brows, and laughing eyes;They flash upon my soul again, With all their infant witcheries ;Two gladsome spirits, sent on earth, As envoys from the Muse of mirth! Such Fancy's dreams;-but never more Whilst Spring was gladdening all the skies, And smote them, in his love, together: STONEHENGE. BY THE REV. CHARLES HOYLE. MYSTERIOUS pile! what necromantic lore Eternal ages, regions without bound, Proclaim ye one sole strength-the Ineffable-Supreme! BY THOMAS HOOD, ESQ. OH when I was a tiny boy My days and nights were full of joy, A hoop was an eternal round Of pleasure. In those days I found But now those past delights I drop, And careful thoughts the string! By marbles-once my bag was stored, My playful horse has slipt his string, And harnessed to the law! My kite-how fast and far it flew! 'T was papered o'er with studious themes, The tasks I wrote,-my present dreams Will never soar so high! My joys are wingless all, and dead; My flights soon find a fall; My fears prevail, my fancies droop, And seldom with a call! |