He bids thee breed him as thy son,
For Turlough's days of joy are done ;
And other lords have seized his land,
And faint and feeble is his hand,
And all the glory of Tyrone
Is like a morning vapour flown.
To bind the duty on thy soul,
IIe bids thee think on Erin's bowl!
If any wrong the young O'Neale,
He bids thee think of Erin's steel.
To Mortham first this charge was due,
But, in his absence, honours you.
Now is my master's message by,
And Ferraught will contented die.'--.
His look grew fixed, his cheek grew pale,
He sunk when he had told his tale ;
For, hid beneath his mantle wide,
A mortal wound was in his side.
Vain was all aid-in terror wild,
And sorrow, screamed the orphan child.
Poor Ferraught raised his wistful eyes,
And faintly strove to soothe his cries ;
All reckless of his dying pain,
He blest, and blest him o'er again!
And kissed the little hands outspread,
And kissed and crossed the infant head,
And, in his native tongue and phrase,
Prayed to each saint to watch his days;
Then all his strength together drew,
The charge to Rokeby to renew.
When half was faltered from his breast,
And half by dying signs expressed,
· Bless the O'Neale!” he faintly said,
And thus the faithful spirit fled.
'Twas long ere soothing might prevail
Upon the child to end the tale ;
And then he said, that from his home
llis grandsire had been forced to roam,

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Which had not been if Redmond's hand
Had but had strength to draw the brand,
The brand of Lenaugh More the Red,
That hung beside the gray wolf's head.
'Twas from his broken phrase descried,
His foster-father was his guide,
Who, in his charge, from Ulster bore
Letters, and gifts a goodly store ;
But ruffians met them in the wood,
Ferraught in battle boldly stood,
Till wounded and o’erpowered at length,
And stripped of all, his failing strength
Just bore him here--and then the child
Renewed again his moaning wild.

The tear, down childhood's cheek that flows,
Is like the dew-drop on the rose;
When next the summer breeze comes by,
And waves the bush, the flower is dry.
Won by their care, the orphan child
Soon on his new protectors smiled,
With dimpled cheek and eyes so fair,
Through his thick curls of flaxen hair.
But blithest laughed that cheek and eye,
When Rokeby's little maid was nigh;
'Twas his, with elder brother's pride,
Matilda's tottering steps to guide ;
His native lays in Irish tongue,
To soothe her infant ear he sung,
And primrose twined with daisy fair,
To form a chaplet for her hair.
By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's strand,
The children still were hand in hand,
And good sir Richard smiling eyed
The early knot so kindly tied.
But summer months bring wilding shoot
From bud to bloom, from bloom to fruit;
And years draw on our human span,
From child to boy, from boy to man:

And soon in Rokeby's woods is seen
A gallant boy in hunter's green.
He loves to wake the felon boar,
In his dark haunt on Greta's shore,
And loves, against the deer so dun,
To draw the shaft, or lift the gun;
Yet more he loves, in autumn prime,
The hazel's spreading boughs to climb,
And down its clustered stores to hail,
Where young Matilda holds her veil.
And she, whose veil receives the shower,
Is altered too, and knows her power ;
Assumes a monitress' pride,
Her Redmond's dangerous sports to chide,
Yet listens still to hear him tell
How the grim wild-boar fought and fell,
How at bis fall the bugle rung,
Till rock and green-wood answer flung;
Then blesses her, that man can find
A pastime of such savage kind !

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But Redmond knew to weave his tale
So well with praise of wood and dale,
And knew so well each point to trace,
Gives living interest to the chace,
And knew so well o'er all to throw
His spirit's wild romantic glow,
That, while she blamed, and while she feared,,
She loved each venturous tale she heard.
Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain
To bower and hall their steps restrain,
Together they explored the page
Of glowing bard or gifted sage;
Oft, placed the evening fire beside,
The minstrel art alternate tried,
While gladsome harp and lively lay
Bade winter-might flit fast away ;
Thus from their childhood blending still
Their sport, their study, and their skill.”

HOMER. Homer is usually styled the father of poetry. The oldest poet with whom we are acquainted, is Moses.Moses’song, which may be found in Deuteronomy,chapter xxxii: is translated from the Hebrew, and is the most ancient specimen of poetry with which we are acquainted. The probable date of it is 1550 years before Christ-six hundred years before Homer, the Greek poet. .

. moses' song. “Give ear, O'ye heavens, and I will speak; and hear, 0 earth, the words of my mouth. My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as the dew, as the small rain upon the tender herb, and as the showers upon the grass : Because I will publish the name of the LORD: ascribe ye greatness unto our God. He is the Rock. his work is perfect: for all his ways are judgment: a God of truth and without iniquity, just and right is he.”

“They have corrupted themselves, their spot is not the spot of his children: they are a perverse and crooked generation. Do ye thus requite the LORD, O foolish people and unwise ? is not he thy father that hath bought thee ? hath he not made thee, and established thee? Remember the days of old, consider the years of many generations : ask thy father, and he will show thee; thy elders, and they will tell thee. When the Most High divided to the nations their inheritance, when he separated the sons of Adam, he set the bounds of the people according to the number of the children of Israel.

“For the LORD's portion is his people; Jacob is the lot of his inheritance. He found him in a desert land, and in the waste howling wilderness; he led him about, he instructed him, he kept him as the apple of his eye. As an eagle stirreth up her nest, fluttereth over her young, spreadeth abroad her wings, taketh them, beareth them on her wings : so the LORD alone did lead him, and there was no strange god with him.”

· The foolish people and unwise, before whom Moses

celebrates the divine majesty and goodness, are the Isra. elites, whom, during more than forty years, this great man had governed, and whom he was now about to leave for ever.

Homer's verses were first preserved by oral tradition. Lycurgus heard them recited in Ionia, and made the people of Sparta acquainted with them; but according to Cicero, it is to Pisistratus, the Athenian, that we are indebted for the ultimate preservation of Homer's works and fanie. Pisistratus caused the books of Homer to be transcribed and placed in the public library which he founded at Athens. From this copy other manuscripts were taken, and these in modern times, have been copied, multiplied, and diffused by means of the art of printing.

Scholars of the sixteenth century in England employed themselves in translations from Greek and Latin. Greek and Latin tragedies, and the poetry of Virgil, and Ovid, were thus made familiar to the English reader. When Pope was a boy, about the year 1700, he was initiated in poetry by the perusal of Ogilby's Homer, and Sandy's Virgil." Chapman's translation of Homer is also mentioned about the same time. The date of these translations is not accurately known to me, but they were not of a character to exclude the utility and desirableness of an improved version of Homer.

Mr. Pope began an English translation of Homer's Iliad! in 1712, and finished it in 1718. It was first published by subscription in six volumes, with notes illustrative of the text. 16 The encouragement given to this translation," says Dr. Johnson, “ was such as the world has not often seen.” Mr. Pope received from Lintot the bookseller for this work 15320, more than $18,000 of our American money.

"It is," said Dr. Johnson, “ the noblest version of poetry which the world has ever seen; and its publication must therefore be considered as one of the great events in the annals of learning.” The publication of the Iliad was completed in 1720. The Odyssey, in the translation of which Mr. Pope was assisted by two gen

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