A Mother's Lament.

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A mother's Lament.

BY GERALD Griffen.

'HE Christmas light* is burning bright

THE

In many a village pane;

And many a cottage rings to-night

With many a merry strain.

Young boys and girls run laughing by,

Their hearts and eyes elate

I can but think on mine and sigh,
For I am desolate.

There's none to watch in our old cot,
Beside the holy light,

No tongue to bless the silent spot
Against the parting night.†

I've closed the door, and hither come
To mourn my lonely fate;

I cannot bear my own old home,
It is so desolate.

I saw my father's eyes grow dim,
And clasp'd my mother's knee;
I saw my mother follow him—
My husband wept with me.
My husband did not long remain—
His child was left me yet;

But now my heart's last love is slain,

And I am desolate.

* The Christmas candle—a light blessed by the priest, and lighted at sunset on Christmas Eve, in Irish houses. It is a kind of impiety to snuff, touch, or use it for any profane purpose after.

It is the custom in Irish Catholic families to sit up till midnight on Christmas Eve, in order to join in devotion at that hour. Few ceremonies of the religion have a more splendid and imposing effect than the morning mass, which in cities is celebrated soon after the hour alluded to, and long before daylight.

The Virgin Mary's Bank.

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 desert 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.

TH

'HE evening star rose beauteously above the fading day As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin went to pray;

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 appear'd,

And her crew all crowded to the deck as to the land she near'd;

To the calm and shelter'd 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 mark'd the whiteness of her robe, the radiance of her

brow;

The Virgin Mary's Bank.

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Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stainless breast, And her eyes look'd up among the stars to Him her soul loved best.

He bade his sailors look on her, and hail'd her with a cheer, And on the kneeling Virgin straight they gazed with laugh and jeer,—

They madly vow'd 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 leap'd

about,

And, rushing with its watery war, the tempest gave a shout; That fated bark from a mountain wave came down with

direful shock,

And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on Inchidony's rock.

Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek rose wild and

high,

But the angry surge swept o'er them, and hush'd 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,

Full many a mangled corse was seen on Inchidony's shore; And even now the fisher points to where those scoffers sank, And still proclaims that hillock green THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK.

The Bameless Spring.

ΤΗ

HE mountain breeze profusely flings
A balmy welcome from its wings,
Rich in a pure, celestial wealth,
The elastic happiness of health.
The rivulet, chafed or gushing clear,
Salutes me with a friendly cheer;
Inviting, as to Fancy seems,

A verse to consecrate its streams.
For GOD hath to the Muses given
A gift no other powers attain,
To stamp the eternity of heaven
On earthly things that grace their strain.
Even I, the least of all their train,
In happy mood, and happier hour,
May, with a fire ne'er lit in vain,
Convey the bright, immortal dower,

Fulfilling all this lovely Spring's desire,
Whose music hath awoke my slumbering lyre.

Scamander's princely waters still

Descend in song from Ida's hill,
Clearing the heroic plain—although
His urn was shatter'd long ago.

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The Nameless Spring.

The array divine of warrior kings
Drink still from Simois' sacred springs.
Gleams still Eurotas' gelid tide,
Emblem of Spartan trick and pride.
Still ancient Tiber bursts along
In yellow whirlpools to the sea,-
God of a people fierce, and strong,
And free-in right of Virtue free-
Is there a lip that touches thee,
Dear flood, and owns a tyrant's sway?
A living fire that draught should be
To melt his craven heart away!

Streams where a poet sings, or patriot bleeds,
Instinct with spirit flow, and generous deeds.

Sweet, nameless Spring! heroic themes
Suit ill thy modest, shrinking streams.
Thy waves a quiet cave have won,
This tall rock guards thee from the sun.
Thou seest the steer or steed alone,
Refresh them from thy cup of stone.
Hear'st shepherd's reed, or lover's plaint,
(Vexing thy shrubs with carvings quaint.)
Nor other sights or sounds prevail,
For thou, shy fountain, hast retired
Far up this rough untrodden vale,
As half ashamed to be admired.
And I, an idler undesired,
Seem to disturb thy quiet cell

With songs by OTHER TIMES inspired,

And murmurs of the classic shell,

Bear me, meek Fount! a lone, forgotten thing,
Beneath these rocks, like thee to muse and sing

Yet, let not pensiveness intrude

Upon this blameless solitude.

F