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O'CONNOR'S CHILD.

Оa, once the harp of Innisfail

Was strung full high to notes of gladness;

But yet it often told a tale

Of more prevailing sadness.

Sad was the note, and wild its fall,

As winds that moan at night forlorn
Along the isles of Fion-Gael,

When for O'Connor's child to mourn,
The harper told how lone, how far
From any mansion's twinkling star,
From any path of social men,

Or voice, but from the fox's den,
The lady in the desert dwelt,
And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt:
Say, why should dwell in place so wild
The lovely, pale O'Connor's child?
Sweet lady she no more inspires

Green Erin's heart with beauty's power, As in the palace of her sires

She bloom'd a peerless flower. Gone from her hand and bosom, gone, The regal broche, the jewell'd ring, That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone Like dews on lilies of the spring. Yet why, though fallen her brother's kerne, Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern, While yet in Leinster unexplored, Her friends survive the English sword; Why lingers she from Erin's host, So far on Galway's shipwreck'd coast; Why wanders she a huntress wildThe lovely, pale O'Connor's child? And, fix'd on empty space, why burn Her eyes with momentary wildness; And wherefore do they then return

To more than woman's mildness? Dishevell'd are her raven locks,

On Connocht Moran's name she calls;
And oft amidst the lonely rocks

She sings sweet madrigals.
Placed in the foxglove and the moss,
Behold a parted warrior's cross!
That is a spot where, evermore,
The lady, at her shieling door,
Enjoys that in communion sweet,
The living and the dead can meet:
For lo! to lovelorn fantasy,
The hero of her heart is nigh.

Bright as the bow that spans the storm,
In Erin's yellow vesture clad,

A son of light-a lovely form,

He comes and makes her glad :
Now on the grass-green turf he sits,
His tassell'd horn beside him laid;
Now o'er the hills in chase he flits,

The hunter and the deer a shade!
Sweet mourner! those are shadows vain
That cross the twilight of her brain;
Yet she will tell you she is blest,
Of Connocht Moran's tomb possess'd,
More richly than in Aghrim's bower,

When bards high praised her beauty's power,

And kneeling pages offer'd up
The morat in a golden cup.

"A hero's bride! this desert bower,
It ill befits thy gentle breeding:
And wherefore dost thou love this flower
To call My love lies bleeding?"
"This purple flower my tears have nursed;
A hero's blood supplied its bloom:

I love it, for it was the first

That grew on Connocht Moran's tomb.
O, hearken, stranger, to my voice;
This desert mansion is my choice;
And blest, though fatal, be the star
That led me to its wilds afar:
For here these pathless mountains free
Gave shelter to my love and me;
And every rock and every stone
Bore witness that he was my own.
"O'Connor's child, I was the bud

Of Erin's royal tree of glory;
But wo to them that wrapt in blood
The tissue of my story!
Still as I clasp my burning brain,

A death-scene rushes on my sight;
It rises o'er and o'er again,

The bloody feud-the fatal night,
When chafing Connocht Moran's scorn,
They call'd my hero basely born,
And bade him choose a meaner bride
Than from O'Connor's house of pride.
Their tribe, they said, their high degree,
Was sung in Tara's psaltery;
Witness their Eath's victorious brand,
And Cathal of the bloody hand,-
Glory (they said) and power and honour
Were in the mansion of O'Connor;
But he, my loved one, bore in field
A meaner crest upon his shield.

66 Ah, brothers! what did it avail
That fiercely and triumphantly
Ye fought the English of the pale,
And stemm'd De Bourgo's chivalry?
And what was it to love and me

That barons by your standard rode;
Or beal-fires, for your jubilee,

Upon a hundred mountains glow'd?
What though the lords of tower and dome
From Shannon to the North-sea foam,-
Thought ye your iron hands of pride
Could break the knot that love had tied?
No let the eagle change his plume,
The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom;
But ties around this heart were spun,
That could not, would not, be undone.
"At bleating of the wild watch fold

Thus sang my love-O, come with me,
Our bark is on the lake: behold,

Our steeds are fasten'd to the tree.
Come far from Castle-Connor's clans-
Come with thy belted forestere,
And I beside the lake of swans

Shall hunt for thee the fallow deer,
And build thy hut and bring thee home
The wild fowl and the honeycomb;

And berries from the wood provide,
And play my clarshech by thy side.
Then come, my love!'-How could I stay?
Our nimble stag-hounds track'd the way,
And I pursued, by moonless skies,
The light of Connocht Moran's eyes.

"And fast and far, before the star

Of dayspring rush'd me through the glade, And saw at dawn the lofty bawn Of Castle Connor fade. Sweet was to us the hermitage

Of this unplough'd, untrodden shore: Like birds all joyous from the cage,

For man's neglect we loved it more.
And well he knew, my huntsman dear,
To search the game with hawk and spear;
While I, his evening food to dress,
Would sing to him in happiness.
But oh, that midnight of despair!
When I was doom'd to rend my hair:
The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow!
The night, to him, that had no morrow!
"When all was hush'd at eventide,

I heard the baying of their beagle:
Be hush'd!' my Connocht Moran cried,
'Tis but the screaming of the eagle.'
Alas! 'twas not the eyrie's sound,

Their bloody bands had track'd us out: Up-listening starts our couchant hound,— And hark! again that nearer shout

Brings faster on the murderers.

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Spare-spare him-Bazil-Desmond fierce!' In vain-no voice the adder charms; Their weapons cross'd my sheltering arms: Another's sword has laid him low

Another's and another's;

And every hand that dealt the blow

Ah me! it was a brother's!
Yes, when his moanings died away,
Their iron hands had dug the clay,
And o'er his burial turf they trod,
And I beheld-O God! O God!
His life-blood oozing from the sod!
"Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred,
Alas! my warrior's spirit brave
Nor mass nor ulla-lulla heard,

Lamenting soothe his grave.
Dragg'd to their hated mansion back,
How long in thraldom's grasp I lay
I know not, for my soul was black,

And knew no change of night or day.
One night of horror round me grew;
Or if I saw, or felt, or knew,
'Twas but when those grim visages,
The angry brothers of my race,
Glared on each eyeball's aching throb,
And check'd my bosom's power to sob;
Or when my heart with pulses drear,
Beat like a death-watch to my ear.

"But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse
Did with a vision bright inspire:

I woke, and felt upon my lips
A prophetess's fire.

Thrice in the east a war-drum beat,

I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound,
And ranged as to the judgment seat

My guilty, trembling brothers round.
Clad in the helm and shield they came;
For now De Bourgo's sword and flame
Had ravaged Ulster's boundaries,
And lighted up the midnight skies.
The standard of O'Connor's sway
Was in the turret where I lay:
That standard, with so dire a look,

As ghastly shone the moon and pale,
I gave that every bosom shook
Beneath its iron mail.

"And go! I cried, the combat seek:
Ye hearts that unappalled bore
The anguish of a sister's shriek,
Go-and return no more!
For sooner guilt the ordeal brand

Shall grasp unhurt, then ye shall hold
The banner with victorious hand,

Beneath a sister's curse unroll'd.
O stranger! by my country's loss!
And by my love! and by the cross!
I swear I never could have spoke
The curse that sever'd nature's yoke;
But that a spirit o'er me stood,

And fired me with the wrathful mood;
And frensy to my heart was given,
To speak the malison of Heaven.

"They would have cross'd themselves all mute, They would have pray'd to burst the spell, But at the stamping of my foot

Each hand down powerless fell!
And go to Athunree! I cried;
High lift the banner of your pride!
But know that where its sheet unrolls
The weight of blood is on your souls!
Go where the havoc of your kerne
Shall float as high as mountain fern!
Men shall no more your mansion know!
The nettles on your hearth shall grow!
Dead as the green, oblivious flood,

That mantles by your walls, shall be
The glory of O'Connor's blood!

Away! away to Athunree!

Where downward when the sun shall fall
The raven's wing shall be your pall;

And not a vassal shall unlace

The vizor from your dying face!

"A bolt that overhung our dome

Suspended till my curse was given,
Soon as it pass'd these lips of foam
Peal'd in the blood-red heaven.
Dire was the look that o'er their backs
The angry parting brothers threw ;
But now, behold! like cataracts,

Come down the hills in view
O'Connor's plumed partisans,
Thrice ten Innisfallian clans

Were marching to their doom:
A sudden storm their plumage toss'd,
A flash of lightning o'er them cross'd,
And all again was gloom;

But once again in heaven the bands Of thunder-spirits clapt their hands. "Stranger! I fled the home of grief,

At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall; I found the helmet of my chief,

His bow still hanging on our wall; And took it down, and vow'd to rove This desert place a huntress bold; Nor would I change my buried love For any heart of living mould. No! for I am a hero's child, I'll hunt my quarry in the wild;

And still my home this mansion make, Of all unheeded and unheeding, And cherish, for my warrior's sake, The flower of Love-lies-bleeding."

LAST SCENE IN GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

A SCENE of death! where fires beneath the sun, And blended arms, and white pavilions glow: And for the business of destruction done, Its requiem the war-horn seem'd to blow. There sad spectatress of her country's wo! The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of snow On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hush'd its wild alarm!

But short that contemplation-sad and short The pause that bid each much-loved scene adieu! Beneath the very shadow of the fort, [flew ; Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew Was near?-yet there, with lust of murderous deeds,

Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view,

The ambush'd foeman's eye-his volley speeds, And Albert, Albert falls! the dear old father bleeds.

And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd; Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wounds, These drops?-O God! the life-blood is her own. And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown, "Weep not, O love!" she cries, "to see me bleedThee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed These wounds;-yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed.

"Clasp me a little longer, on the brink

Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;
And when this heart hath ceased to beat, O think,
And let it mitigate thy wo's excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
And friend to more than human friendship just.
Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,

And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in dust! "Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, Where my dear father took thee to his heart, And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove With thee, as with an angel, through the grove Of peace,-imagining her lot was cast In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love. And must this parting be our very last? No! I shall love thee still when death itself is past.

"Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth, And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, If I had lived to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge;—but shall there then be none In future times-no gentle little one, To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me? Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run, A sweetness in the cup of death, to be Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee !" Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips; but still their And beautiful expression seem'd to melt [bland With love that could not die! and still his hand She presses to the heart no more that felt. Ah! heart where once each fond affection dwelt, And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.

THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION.

Оn, leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark, unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour; Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made, And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground; By all that love has whisper'd here, Or beauty heard with ravish'd ear; As love's own altar honour me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

WILLIAM HERBERT.

THE Honourable and Very Reverend WILLIAM HERBERT, now Dean of Manchester, was born in 1778, in the county of Hampshire, and is the third son of HENRY third Earl of CAERNARVON and Lady ELIZABETH WYNDHAM, sister of the late Earl of EGREMONT, being descended directly on the father's side from the Earls of PEMBROKE, and on the mother's from the Earls of PERCY. He was educated at Eton, with his brother, the late earl, who was himself distinguished for his ability as a speaker in the House of Lords, and for his strenuous denunciation of King GEORGE the Fourth in the matter of the divorce of Queen CAROLINE. From Eton Mr. HERBERT went to Christ's Church, Oxford, in which university he was afterward elected fellow of Merton College; and both at school and the university he obtained high distinction as a classical scholar. He adopted civil and ecclesiastical law as his profession, became a member of Doctors Commons, was retained largely by American shipholders in the admiralty suits previous to the last war, and in the case of the Snipe, delivered an argument which was considered the ablest that was produced in any of those cases, and which Sir WILLIAM SCOTT said contained so many and strong new points that he must take time to consider previous to giving a decision. During the consideration, however, war was declared, in consequence of earlier confiscations, and the decision was at length adverse. About this time Mr. HERBERT was returned to the House of Commons for the borough of Cricklade in Wiltshire, and afterward for his native county, in a strongly contested election, and in the House soon came to be considered a rising member of uncommon promise. During this time he had the satisfaction of sharing the glory of the immortal WILBERFORCE, with whom he was a steady co-operator, in the abolition of the slave trade. Shortly afterward, all hopes of the Whig party, to which he was attached, coming into power, being destroyed by the change in the Prince Regent's policy, and his brother having sold the borough of Cricklade, Mr. HERBERT, who had in the

meantime married the daughter of Viscount ALLEN, with an increasing family, and no hopes of political success,-took orders in the church, for which he had always felt a strong inclination, and was inducted to a valuable rectory in Yorkshire, in the gift of his uncle the Earl of EGREMONT, where he has constantly resided since 1816, dividing his time between his parishioners, his literary pursuits, and his beautiful gardens and collection of exotics. In 1840 he was installed to the deanery of Manchester, whereby his sphere of utility and benevolence has been very much increased, although it is to be feared that his leisure for literary occupation may be considered almost at an end.

Mr. HERBERT'S writings are in many languages, and are as remarkable for their variety, as for their depth, their compass, and their correctness. As a botanist, it would probably not be too much to say, that throughout the world he has no living superior; as a naturalist and ornithologist, he has produced much new and accurate information; as a preacher, he is one of the first in the church of which he is among the brightest ornaments. As a classical scholar, of exquisite taste and finish, his whole mind thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the Greek and Roman orators and poets, he has been favourably known from his childhood upward; and he still continues to compose in the dead languages with fluency and grace, as some of our selections from his recent works will show. At a period when the tongues of northern Europe, the Scandinavian and Sclavonic, little known even now, were utterly unstudied, Mr. HERBERT made himself so thoroughly a proficient in their intricacies as to compose in them likewise easily and well; as also in the sweeter and more usually known languages of Italy and Spain.

His poetry consists, for the most part, of original poems and translations, either on the northern model, or from the northern tongue. The grandest and most sustained of all is "Attila," which the Edinburgh Review pronounced the most Miltonic poem that has appeared since "Paradise Regained." Their

character will be best shown by the copious extracts given below; it may not be, however, superfluous to add, that in his knowledge and practice of rythm and versification, no one is superior to our author.

After the withdrawal of Lord FRANCIS EGERTON from the chair of the British Association, when it was assembled at Manchester, his place was supplied by the Dean, who took the opportunity of delivering a handsome compliment to Mr. EVERETT, and America, of which country, as being in politics a mild and now conservative Whig, he has ever been

a steady and consistent friend. In politics he gave his support to the movers of Roman Catholic emancipation; and he seconded the nomination of Lord MORPETH for Yorkshire during the excitement previous to the passage of the reform bill, in favour of which he voted. It may not be impertinent to add, that he has recently been elected a corresponding member of the Academy of Natural Sciences in Philadelphia. An edition of his writings, comprising his poems, criticisms, and sermons, was published by Bohn, in three large octavo volumes, in 1842.

THE PHANTOM FIGHT.

Taɛ night was calm and murky; the soft gale
Seem'd to diffuse fair peace o'er hill and vale;
But Hilda slept not, whom the strong desire
Of her lost Hedin gnaw'd with secret fire.
To the still grave she bent her fearless way,
While her dark thoughts with nature's gloom
conspire;

Awhile she seem'd in anguish to survey
The monumental pile above his mouldering clay.
But not to mourn she sought that mansion lone,
Or weep unseen upon the dreary stone,
And in her sorrow there was nothing meek;
Gloomy her eye, and lowering seem'd to speak
A soul by deep and struggling cares distraught;
And the bright hectic flush upon her cheek

Told the mind's fever, and the darkling thought With haughty high designs and steadfast passion fraught.

Strange signs upon the tomb her hands did trace; Then to the witching north she turn'd her face, And in slow measure breathed that fatal strain, Whose awful harmony can wake the slain, Rive the cold grave, and work the charmer's will. Thrice, as she call'd on Hedin, rang the plain; Thrice echo'd the dread name from hill to hill! Thrice the dark wold sent back the sound, and all was still.

Then shook the ground as by an earthquake rent,
And the deep bowels of the tomb upsent
A voice, a shriek, a terror; sounds that seem'd
Like those wild fancies by a sinner dream'd;
A clang of deadly weapons, and a shout:
With living strength the heaving granite teem'd,
Inward convulsion, and a fearful rout, [out.
As if fiends fought with fiends, and hell was bursting

And then strange mirth broke frantic on her ear,
As if the evil one was lurking near;
While spectres wan, with visage pale and stark,
Peep'd ghastly through the curtain of the dark,
With such dire laugh as phrensy doth bewray,
It needs a gifted hand, with skill to mark

Hilda's proud features, which no dread betray, Calm amid lonesome deeds and visions of dismay. On her pale forehead stream'd an eyrie light From that low mansion of infernal night, Displaying her fair shape's majestic mould In beauteous stillness; but an eye that told More sense of inward rapture than of wo, Thoughts of forbidden joy, and yearnings bold. On the lone summits of eternal snow [glow. So shines, in nature's calm, the pure sky's azure Speechless she gazed, as from the yawning tomb Rose Hedin, clad as when he met his doom. Dark was his brow, his armour little bright, And dim the lustre of his joyless sight; His habergeon with blood all sprinkled o'er, Portentous traces of that deadly fight. His pallid cheek a mournful sadness wore, And his long flowing locks were all defiled with gore. There have been those, who, longing for the dead, Have gazed on vacancy till reason fled; And some dark vision of the wandering mind Had ta'en the airy shape of human kind, Giving strange voice to echoes of the night, And warning sounds by heaven's high will design'd:

But this was bodily which met her sight, And palpable as once in days of young delight. High throbb'd her heart; the pulse of youth swell'd high;

Love's ardent lightning kindled in her eye; And she has sprung into the arms of death, Clasp'd his cold limbs, in kisses drunk his breath; In one wild trance of rapturous passion blest, And reckless of the hell that yawn'd beneath. On his dire corslet beats her heaving breast, And by her burning mouth his icy lips are press'd. Stop, fearless beauty! hope not that the grave Will yield its wealth, which frantic passion gave, Though spells accursed may rend the solid earth, Hell's phantoms never wake for joy or mirth! Hope not that love with death's cold hand can wed, Or draw night's spirits to a second birth! Mark the dire vision of the mound with dread, Gaze on thy horrid work, and tremble for the dead!

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