clared it to be an excellent piece of music; but, to the astonishment and satisfaction of the company, added humorously, 'but here and there it limps and stumbles.' He was then requested to rectify the errors, which he accordingly did. In this state the piece was sent back to Dublin; and the Italian master no sooner saw the amendments, than he cordially pronounced Carolan to be a true musical genius.

Aside from his superior musical abilities, he was a very fair poet, and has left coupled to his music many fine lyric poems. As music always tends to soften and refine the feelings, and to kindle in the soul deep and ardent passions, Carolan was by no means exempt from this rule. Being frequently dependent upon others for kind offices, and perhaps sometimes accused by them of ingratitude, he no doubt felt most keenly, at times, his forlorn and friendless condition. When he grew to manhood, there was a time when his harp could only reëcho the impulses of love. About this time he became warmly attached to a young lady by the name of Bridget Cruise. But Bridget, it appears, did not unite her lot with his; and he afterward loved and married Mary Maguire, of a good family, in the county of Fermanagh. After this event, he built him a neat little house, on a small farm near Mars-hill, where he lived, it is said, more merrily than wisely.

An interesting anecdote is related of our blind poet and musician, in which it appears he was able to recognise a very dear friend, who had long been ab

sent, by the shape of her hand. Many years after his marriage, he went on a pilgrimage to St. Patrick's Purgatory, a cave in the island of Soughderg, Donegal; and on returning to the shore, met several pilgrims waiting the arrival of the boat that conveyed him. On assisting some of these into the boat, his hand unexpectedly met one which caused him to start, and he instantly exclaimed, "This is the hand of Bridget Cruise!" His sense of feeling had not deceived him. It was the hand of her he had once loved so passionately. It is by no means uncommon for the blind to recognise their friends by touching their hands; yet the narrator of this anecdote, (as though fearful the account might be thought fabulous and legendary in a few generations,) adds: “I had this anecdote from his own mouth, and in terms which gave me a strong impression of the emotion which he felt on meeting the object of his early affection."

By many it is thought wonderful, that blind persons should be able to recognise their friends by the sound of their voices, or the peculiar form of their hands. To us, it appears no more strange, than that the seeing should recognise a friend by the countenance he is in the habit of wearing every day; to say nothing of the one he has in reserve for extra occasions. The reserve is only a counterfeit of the one nature gave him, though perhaps a little more highly carved and polished. If there are some faces more striking than others, there are some voices more at

tractive than others. When men habitually wear a face expressive of severity, constantly clouded with frowns, the voice is sure to indicate it. It is no more surprising that the blind should discover marks of recognition in the hand, or voice, than that the seeing should observe differences in figure and dress. Almost any one can distinguish a friend from a stranger, even in the dark, by the sound of his voice; yet, because the loss of sight compels one to resort to this method, it is made a matter of wonderment and surprise, even among those who can do it themselves.

At a period in Carolan's life when he most needed the attention of a kind friend, he was called to mourn the loss of an affectionate wife. After this sad event Carolan lived but five years. While on a visit at the house of Mrs. McDermott, of Alderford, in the county of Roscommon, he died, in March, 1738, in the sixtyeighth year of his age.

A monody, composed by him, on the death of his wife, we subjoin:

ON THE DEATH OF MARY MAGUIRE.

Were mine the choice of intellectual fame,
Of skillful song and eloquence divine,
Painting's sweet power, philosophy's pure flame,
And Homer's lyre and Ossian's harp were mine,—
The splendid arts of Erin, Greece, and Rome,

In Mary lost, would love? their wonted grace;
All would I give to snatch her from the tomb,
Again to fold her in my fond embrace!

Desponding, sick, exhausted with my grief,
Awhile the founts of sorrow cease to flow;
In vain I rest, and sleep brings no relief;

Cheerless, companionless, I wake to woe.
Nor birth, nor beauty, shall again allure,
Nor fortune win me to another bride;
Alone I'll wander, and alone endure,

Till death restore me to my dear one's side.

Once every thought and every scene was gay,

Friends, mirth, and music, all my soul enjoyed;
Now doom'd to mourn my last sad years away;
My life a solitude, my heart a void.
Alas! the change, to change again no more,
For every comfort is with Mary fled;
And ceaseless anguish shall her loss deplore,
Till age and sorrow join me with the dead.

Adieu! each gift of nature and of art,

That erst adorn'd me in life's earliest prime;
The cloudless temper and the social heart,
The soul ethereal, and the flight sublime.

Thy loss, my Mary, chas'd them from my breast!
Thy sweetness cheers, thy judgment aids no more;

The muse deserts a heart with grief oppress'd,

And lost is every joy that charm'd before i

A SONG.

[The following lines were addressed to a young lady, written perhaps, while yet our poet's harp was rapturously tuned to the sweet plaints of love :]

To thee harmonious powers belong,

That add to verse the charms of song,

Soft melodies with numbers join,

And make the poet half divine.

As when the softly blushing rose,
Close by some neighboring lily grows,
Such is the glow thy cheeks diffuse,
And such their bright and blended hues !

The timid luster of thine eye
With nature's purest tints can vie;
With the sweet blue-bell's azure gem,
That droops upon the modest stem!

The poets of Ierni's plains

To thee devote their choicest strains;
And oft their harps for thee are strung,
And oft thy matchless charms are sung.

Since the fam'd fair of ancient days,
Whom bards and worlds conspir'd to praise,
Not one like thee has since appear'd,
Like thee to every heart endear'd.

How blest the bard, O lovely maid!
To find thee in thy charms arrayed;
Thy pearly teeth, thy flowing hair,
Thy neck beyond the cygnet fair.

Even he, whose hapless eyes no ray
Admit from beauty's cheering day;
Yet though he cannot see the light,
He feels it warm, and knows it bright.

In beauty, talents, taste refined,
And all the graces of the mind,
In all, unmatch'd thy charms remain,
Nor meet a rival on the plain.