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Not one alone; from each projecting cape
And perilous reef along the ocean's verge,
Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,

Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge.

Like the great giant Christopher it stands
Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave,
Wading far out among the rocks and sands,
The night-o'ertaken mariner to save.

And the great ships sail outward and return,
Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells,
And ever joyful, as they see it burn,

They wave their silent welcomes and farewells.

They come forth from the darkness, and their sails Gleam for a moment only in the blaze,

And eager faces, as the light unveils,

Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze.

The mariner remembers when a child,

On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink;
And when, returning from adventures wild,
He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink.

Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same

Year after year, through all the silent night Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame, Shines on that inextinguishable light!

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace;
It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,
And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece.

The startled waves leap over it; the storm
Smites it with all the scourges of the rain,
And steadily against its solid form

Press the great shoulders of the hurricane.

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din
Of wings and winds and solitary cries,
Blinded and madden'd by the light within,
Dashes himself against the glare, and dies.

A new Prometheus, chain'd upon the rock,
Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove,
It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,
But hails the mariner with words of love.

"Sail on!" it says, "sail on, ye stately ships!
And with your floating bridge the ocean span;
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,
Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!"

DESERTER'S MEDITATION.

"As Mr. Curran was travelling upon an unfrequented road, he perceived a man in a soldier's dress sitting by the road side, and apparently much exhausted by fatigue and agitation. He invited him to take a seat in his chaise, and soon discovered that he was a deserter. Having stopt at a small inn for refreshment, Mr. Curran observed to the soldier that he had committed an offence of which the penalty was death, and that his chance of escaping it was but small: 'Tell me, then (continued he), whether you feel disposed to pass the little remnant of life that is left you in penitence and fasting, or whether you would prefer to drown your sorrow in a merry glass?' The following is the deserter's answer, which Mr. Curran, in composing it, adapted to a plaintive Irish air."-Life of Curran by his son, W. H. Curran.

Ir sadly thinking, with spirits sinking,

Could more than drinking my cares compose,
A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow,
And hope to-morrow would end my woes.
But as in wailing there's naught availing,
And Death unfailing will strike the blow,
Then for that reason, and for a season,
Let us be merry before we go!

To joy a stranger, a way-worn ranger,
In ev'ry danger my course I've run;
Now hope all ending, and Death befriending,
His last aid lending, my cares are done:

No more a rover, or hapless lover,

My griefs are over-my glass runs low;
Then for that reason, and for a season,
Let us be merry before we go!

SONGS OF OUR LAND.

From one of the Irish newspapers where it appeared anonymously.

SONGS of our land, ye are with us for ever:

The power and the splendour of thrones pass away,
But yours is the might of some deep-rolling river,
Still flowing in freshness thro' things that decay.
Ye treasure the voices of long-vanish'd ages;

Like our time-honour'd towers, in beauty ye stand;
Ye bring us the bright thoughts of poets and sages,
And keep them among us, old songs of our land.

The bards may go down to the place of their slumbers,
The lyre of the charmer be hush'd in the grave,
But far in the future the power of their numbers
Shall kindle the hearts of our faithful and brave.
It will waken an echo in souls deep and lonely,
Like voices of reeds by the winter-wind fanned;
It will call up a spirit of freedom, when only

Her breathings are heard in the songs of our land.

For they keep a record of those, the true-hearted,
Who fell with the cause they had vow'd to maintain ;
They show us bright shadows of glory departed,
Of love unrewarded, and hope that was vain;
The page may be lost, and the pen long forsaken,
And weeds may grow wild o'er the brave heart and hand;
But ye are still left when all else hath been taken,
Like streams in the desert-sweet songs of our land.

Songs of our land,-to the land of the stranger
Ye follow'd the heart-broken exile afar;

Ye went with the wanderer through distance and danger,
And gladden'd his desolate path, like a star;
The breath of his mountains, in summers long vanish'd,
And visions that passed like a wave from the strand,
And hope for his country-the joy of the banish'd,
Where borne to him oft in the songs of our land.

When spring-time is come, with its fresh burst of glory,
To bid the green heart of the forest rejoice;
The pine of the mountain, with age growing hoary,
In lofty solemnity gives forth its voice.

So, tuneful thro' ages, the harp of our nation
Hath answer'd with pride to the bard's gifted hand,
And, breaking the silence of dark desolation,

Bids us love and exult in the songs of our land.

A DEEP AND A MIGHTY SHADOW.

By BARRY CORNWALL.

A DEEP and a mighty shadow

Across my heart is thrown,

Like the cloud on a summer meadow,

Where the Thunder-wind hath blown!

The wild rose, Fancy, dieth,

The sweet bird, Memory, flieth,

And leaveth me alone,—

Alone with my hopeless Sorrow;
No other mate I know!

I strive to awake To-morrow;

But the dull words will not flow!
I pray, but my prayers are driven
Aside by the angry heaven,

And weigh me down with woe!

I call on the Past, to lend me
Its songs, to soothe my pain:
I bid the dim Future send me

A light from its eyes,—in vain!
Nought comes; but a shrill cry starteth
From Hope, as she fast departeth;
"I go, and come not again!"

OLD TIMES.

By GERALD GRIFFIN,

OLD times! old times! the gay old times!
When I was young and free,

And heard the merry Easter chimes
Under the sally tree.

My Sunday palm beside me placed,
My cross upon my hand;

A heart at rest within my breast,

And sunshine on the land!

Old times! old times!

It is not that my fortunes flee,
Nor that my cheek is pale;
I mourn whene'er I think of thee,
My darling native vale!
A wiser head I have, I know,
Than when I loiter'd there;
But in my wisdom there is woe,
And in my knowledge, care.

Old times! old times!

I've lived to know my share of joy,
To feel my share of pain,

To learn that friendship's self can cloy,
To love, and love in vain ;

To feel a pang and wear a smile,
To tire of other climes,

To like my own unhappy isle,
And sing the gay old times!

Old times! old times!

And sure the land is nothing changed,
The birds are singing still;

The flowers are springing where we ranged,
There's sunshine on the hill;

The sally waving o'er my head

Still sweetly shades my frame,

But ah, those happy days are fled,
And I am not the same!

Old times! old times!

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