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BREAKING UP OF THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 413

Ne'er fairy revels on the greensward mound,
To dreaming bard a lovelier show display'd:-
Titania's self did ne'er with lighter bound,
Dance o'er the diamonds of the dewy glade,

Than danc'd, at peep of morn, mine own dear mountain maid.

Oft in her own small mirror had the gleam,
The soften'd gleam of her rich golden hair,
That o'er her white neck floated in a stream,
Kindled to smiles that infant's visage fair,
Half-conscious she that beauty glisten'd there!
Oft had she glanced her restless eyes aside
On silken sash so bright and debonnair,
Then to her mother flown with leaf-like glide,
Who kiss'd her cherub-head with tears of silent pride.

BREAKING UP OF THE CHILDREN'S DANCE.

But now the lights are waxing dim and pale,
And shed a fitful gleaming o'er the room;
'Mid the dim hollys one by one they fail,
Another hour, and all is wrapt in gloom.
And lo! without, the cold, bright stars illume
The cloudless air, so beautiful and still,
While proudly placed in her meridian dome,

Night's peerless queen the realms of heaven doth fill

With peace and joy, and smiles on each vast slumbering

hill.

The dance and music cease their blended glee,
And many a wearied infant hangs her head,
Dropping asleep upon her mother's knee,
Worn out with joy, and longing for her bed.
Yet some lament the bliss too quickly fled.
O'er Loughrig-cliffs I see one party climb,

Whose empty dwellings, through the hush'd midnight,
Sleep in the shade of Langdale peaks sublime-
Up Dummail-Raise, unmindful of the height.

His daughter in his arms, with footsteps light,
The father walks, afraid lest she should wake!
Through lonely Easdale past yon cots so white,
On Helm-crag side, their journey others take;
And some to those sweet homes that smile by Rydal lake.
He too, the poet of this humble show,

Silent walks homeward through the hour of rest-
While quiet as the depth of spotless snow,
A pensive calm contentment fills his breast!
O wayward man! were he not truly blest!
That lake so still below-that sky above!
Unto his heart a sinless infant press'd,

Whose ringlets like the glittering dew-wire move,
Floating and sinking soft amid the breath of love.

ROBERT PATTERSON.*

THE GAP OF DUNLOE-KILLARNEY.
HERE let us stop; this glorious scene demands
Our more minute observance. The hills around
Have girt us in-their lofty heads, inwrapped
In misty wreaths, permit the mind to dream
Of more aspiring summits than the truth
Might offer to our gaze.

The arbutus blossom bows in gentle rest!
The oak leaves quiver not; the drooping bells
Of the sweet heather are not trembling now!
The dazzling pennons of the furze are still!
There is not even a gaudy fly afloat;
Nor doth the humming music of the bee
Break on the solitude--even the silver breast,

The dream-like waters of that little lake,

Are undisturbed; no struggling sunbeam sheds

A glancing radiance o'er its glassy calm.

Robert Patterson, of Belfast, the author of "Zoology for Schools," and other works on Natural History.

THE GAP OF DUNLOE, KILLARNEY.

How deeply doth such solitude affect!
How very soothing to the human heart,
Scenes of such peace! what fairy-like repose
Reigns over all! 'tis as if nature slept;
Or, like the landscape of a pleasant dream,
Where all is sight, and sound intrudeth not.

But hark! the spell of silence is dissolv'd;
A note, a bugle note, breaks on mine ear,
Startling the echoes from their deep repose;
And, though it bids my reverie depart,

'Tis a most pleasing change, for, lo, the dreams
Of magic are outdone: what thrilling tones,
Magnificently wild, are flung around,
Pouring their music from a hundred points!
And is it possible, one pealing note
Originates the gush of glorious sound

415

That thrills my startled ear? May fancy dream
The misty spirits of the clouds pour forth
Their mocking powers, and yield a wilder sound
To the wild tones of that unearthly strain,
And deeper yet it breaks upon mine ear-
The spirits of the mountain are arous'd,
And seem to utter dim mysterious sounds
To their unearthly brethren of the lake ;-
But, lo! 'tis fading as a dream away.
The genii of the heath-bell gently strive
To do their softer part; the fairies catch
The parting strain, and blend their tiny notes
With the wild breathings from the waveless lake.
From such a scene, how many feelings spring!
How many thoughts flash through the kindling mind!
Delightful dreams have birth;—we almost seem
Pass'd to another sphere-and the glad heart
Forgets that earth is still its transient home.
This is a vision for the rest of life.

An amaranthine tenant for the breast-
A morning star for memory, which, amid

Life's fitful clouds, shall radiantly come forth.
When scenes less beautiful attract my gaze,

I shall recall thy quiet loveliness.

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When harsher tones are around me, I shall dream
Of those mysterious notes, whose thrilling sounds
Peopled the solitude.

THOMAS K. HERVEY.

THE CONVICT SHIP.

MORN on the waters! and purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flashing of light;
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on;

Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,

And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale;
The winds come around her, and murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice as they bear her along.
See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in her shrouds :
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters, away and away!

Bright as the visions of youth ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart!
Who, as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high,
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below.

Night on the waves! and the moon is on high,
Hung like a gem on the brow of the sky,
Treading its depths in the power of her might,
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light;
Look to the waters! asleep on their breast,
Seems not the ship like an island of rest?
Bright and alone on the shadowy main,

Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain!

THE SCOTCH EMIGRANT'S NOONDAY DREAM.

Who, as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,
A phantom of beauty,-could deem, with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And souls that are smitten lie bursting within!
Who, as he watches her silently gliding,
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,
Hearts that are parted and broken for ever?
Or dreams that he watches, afloat on the wave,
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave?
"Tis thus with our life: while it passes along,
Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song,
Gaily we glide in the gaze of the world,

With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurled;
All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes,

Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs:
Fading and false is the aspect it wears,

417

As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears;
And the withering thoughts that the world cannot know,
Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below;

Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore,
Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er.

THOMAS PRINGLE.

THE SCOTCH EMIGRANT'S NOONDAY DREAM
IN AFRICA.

"Twas noontide; and breathless beneath the hot ray
The far winding vales of the wilderness lay;

By the Koonap's lone brink, with the cool shadow o'er me,
I slept and a dream spread its visions before me.
Methought, among scenes which I loved when a boy,
I was walking again with fresh feelings of joy;
For my soul, like the landscape, seemed softened and
changed

From what it was once-when, in childhood, I ranged

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