That could she meet, she might enchant even you.
You came. I augur'd the event, 't is true;
But how was Udolph's mother to exclude
The guest that claim'd our boundless gratitude?
And that unconscious you had cast a spell
On Julia's peace, my pride refused to tell:
Yet in my child's illusion I have seen,
Believe me well, how blameless you have been :
Nor can it cancel, howsoe'er it end,

Our debt of friendship to our boy's best friend.»
At night he parted with the aged pair;

At early morn rose Julia to prepare

The last repast her hands for him should make;
And Udolph to convoy him o'er the lake.
The parting was to her such bitter grief,
That of her own accord she made it brief;
But, ling'ring at her window, long survey'd
His boat's last glimpses melting into shade.

Theodric sped to Austria, and achieved
His journey's object. Much was he relieved
When Udolph's letters told that Julia's mind
Had borne his loss firm, tranquil, and resign'd.
He took the Rhenish route to England, high
Elate with hopes, fulfill'd their ecstasy,
And interchanged with Constance's own breath
The sweet eternal vows that bound their faith.

To paint that being to a grovelling mind
Were like pourtraying pictures to the blind.
'T was needful ev'n infectiously to feel
Her temper's fond and firm and gladsome zeal,
To share existence with her, and to gain
Sparks from her love's electrifying chain,
Of that pure pride, which less'ning to her breast
Life's ills, gave all its joys a treble zest,
Before the mind completely understood
That mighty truth-how happy are the good!

Ev'n when her light forsook him, it bequeath'd
Ennobling sorrow; and her memory breathed
A sweetness that survived her living days
As od'rous scents outlast the censer's blaze.

Or if a trouble dimm'd their golden joy,
'T was outward dross, and not infused alloy:
Their home knew but affection's looks and speech-
A little Heav'n, above dissension's reach.
But 'midst her kindred there was strife and gall;
Save one congenial sister, they were all

Such foils to her bright intellect and grace,
As if she had engross'd the virtue of her race.
Her nature strove th' unnatural feuds to heal,
Her wisdom made the weak to her appeal;
And though the wounds she cured were soon unclosed,
Unwearied still her kindness interposed.

Oft on those errands though she went, in vain,
And home, a blank without her, gave him pain,
He bore her absence for its pious end.-
But public grief his spirit came to bend;

For war laid waste his native land once more,
And German honour bled at ev'ry pore.

Oh! were he there, he thought, to rally back
One broken band, or perish in the wrack!
Nor think that Constance sought to move or melt
His purpose: like herself she spoke and felt:-
<<< Your fame is mine, and I will bear all woe
Except its loss!-but with you let me go,

To arm you for, to embrace you from the fight;
Harm will not reach me-hazards will delight!»
He knew those hazards better; one campaign
In England he conjured her to remain,
And she express'd assent, although her heart
In secret had resolved they should not part.

How oft the wisest on misfortune's shelves Are wreck'd by errors most unlike themselves! That little fault, that fraud of love's romance,

That plan's concealment, wrought their whole mis

chance.

He knew it not preparing to embark,

But felt extinct his comfort's latest spark,

When, 'midst those number'd days, she made repair
Again to kindred worthless of her care.
'T is true she said the tidings she should write
Would make her absence on his heart sit light;
But, haplessly, reveal'd not yet her plan,
And left him in his home a lonely man.

Thus damp'd in thoughts, he mused upon the past:
'T was long since he had heard from Udolph last,
And deep misgivings on his spirit fell,
That all with Udolph's household was not well.
'T was that too true prophetic mood of fear
That augurs griefs inevitably near,
Yet makes them not less startling to the mind,
When come. Least look'd-for then of human kind,
His Udolph ('t was, he thought at first, his sprite)
With mournful joy that morn surprised his sight.
How changed was Udolph! Scarce Theodric durst
Inquire his tidings, he reveal'd the worst.

<< At first,»he said, « as Julia bade me tell,
She bore her fate high-mindedly and well,
Resolved from common eyes her grief to hide,
And from the world's compassion saved our pride;
But still her health gave way to secret woe,
And long she pined-for broken hearts die slow!
Her reason went, but came returning, like
The warning of her death-hour-soon to strike:
And all for which she now, poor sufferer! sighs,
Is once to see Theodric ere she dies.

Why should I come to tell you this caprice?
Forgive me! for my mind has lost its peace.
I blame myself, and ne'er shall cease to blame,
That my insane ambition for the name
Of brother to Theodric, founded all

Those high-built hopes that crush'd her by their fall.
I made her slight a mother's counsel sage,
But now my parents droop with grief and age;
And though my sister's eyes mean no rebuke,
They overwhelm me with their dying look.
The journey 's long, but you are full of ruth;
And she who shares your heart, and knows its truth,
Has faith in your affection, far above

The fear of a poor dying object's love.>>-
• She has, my Udolph, he replied, « 't is true;
And oft we talk of Julia-oft of you.>>>
Their converse came abruptly to a close;
For scarce could each his troubled looks compose,
When visitants, to Constance near akin
(In all but traits of soul), were usher'd in.

They brought not her, nor 'midst their kindred band
The sister who alone, like her, was bland;
But said and smiled to see it give him pain-

That Constance would a fortnight yet remain.

Vex'd by their tidings, and the haughty view
They cast on Udolph as the youth withdrew,
Theodric blamed his Constance's intent.-
The demons went, and left him as they went,
To read, when they were gone beyond recall,
A note from her loved hand, explaining all.
She said, that with their house she only staid
That parting peace might with them all be made;
But pray'd for love to share his foreign life,
And shun all future chance of kindred strife.
He wrote with speed, his soul's consent to say:
The letter miss'd her on her homeward way.
In six hours Constance was within his arms:
Moved, flush'd, unlike her wonted calm of charms,
And breathless-with uplifted hands outspread-
Burst into tears upon his neck, and said, -
<< I knew that those who brought your message laugh'd,
With poison of their own to point the shaft;
And this my own kind sister thought, yet loth
Confess'd she fear'd 't was true you had been wroth.
But here you are, and smile on me: my pain
Is gone, and Constance is herself again..
His ecstasy, it may be guess'd, was much :
Yet pain's extreme and pleasure's seem'd to touch.
What pride! embracing beauty's perfect mould;
What terror! lest his few rash words, mistold,
Had agonized her pulse to fever's heat:
But calm'd again so soon it bealthful beat,
And such sweet tones were in her voice's sound,
Composed herself, she breathed composure round.

Fair being! with what sympathetic grace
She heard, bewail'd, and pleaded Julia's case;
Implored he would her dying wish attend,
And go,» she said, to-morrow with your friend;
I'll wait for your return on England's shore,
And then we 'll cross the deep, and part no more.>>>

To-morrow both his soul's compassion drew
To Julia's call, and Constance urged anew
That not to heed her now would be to bind
A load of pain for life upon his mind.
He went with Udolph-from his Constance went-
Stifling, alas! a dark presentiment

Some ailment lurk'd, ev'n whilst she smiled, to mock
His fears of harm from yester-morning's shock.
Meanwhile a faithful page he singled out,
To watch at home, and follow straight his route,
If aught of threaten'd change her health should show:
-With Udolph then he reach'd the house of woe.

That winter's eve how darkly Nature's brow
Scowl'd on the scenes it lights so lovely now!
The tempest, raging o'er the realms of ice,
Shook fragments from the rifted precipice;
And whilst their falling echoed to the wind,
The wolf's long howl in dismal discord join'd,
While white yon water's foam was raised in clouds,
That whirl'd like spirits wailing in their shrouds:
Without was Nature's elemental din-
And beauty died, and friendship wept, within!

Sweet Julia, though her fate was finish'd half,
Still knew him-smiled on him with feeble laugh-
And blest him, till she drew her latest sigh!
But lo! while Udolph's bursts of agony,
And age's tremulous wailings, round him rose,
What accents pierced him deeper yet than those!

'T was tidings, by his English messenger,
Of Constance-brief and terrible they were.
She still was living when the page set out
From home, but whether now was left in doubt.
Poor Julia! saw he then thy death's relief-
Stunn'd into stupor more than wrung with grief?
It was not strange; for in the human breast
Two master-passions cannot co-exist,
And that alarm which now usurp'd his brain
Shut out not only peace, but other pain.
'T was fancying Constance underneath the shroud
That cover'd Julia made him first weep loud,
And tear himself away from them that wept.
Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept,
Till, launch'd at sea, he dreamt that his soul's saint
Clung to him on a bridge of ice, pale, faint,
O'er cataracts of blood. Awake, he bless'd
The shore; nor hope left utterly his breast,
Till reaching home, terrific omen! there
The straw-laid street preluded his despair-
The servant's look-the table that reveal'd
His letter sent to Constance last, still seal'd,
Though speech and hearing left him, told too clear
That he had now to suffer-not to fear.

Ile felt as if he ne'er should cease to feel-
A wretch live-broken on misfortune's wheel;
Her death's cause-he might make his peace with Heaven,
Absolved from guilt, but never self-forgiven.

The ocean has its ebbings-so has grief; 'T was vent to anguish, if 't was not relief, To lay his brow ev'n on her death-cold cheek. Then first he heard her one kind sister speak: She bade him, in the name of Heaven, forbear With self-reproach to deepen his despair: ■'T was blame, she said, I shudder to relate, But none of your's, that caused our darling's fate; Her mother (must I call her such?) foresaw, Should Constance leave the land, she would withdraw Our House's charm against the world's neglectThe only gem that drew it some respect. Hence, when you went, she came and vainly spoke To change her purpose-grew incensed, and broke With execrations from her kneeling child. Start not! your angel from her knee rose mild, Fear'd that she should not long the scene outlive, Yet bade ev'n you th' unnatural one forgive. Till then her ailment had been slight, or none; But fast she droop'd, and fatal pains came on: Foreseeing their event, she dictated

And sign'd these words for you. The letter said

• Theodric, this is destiny above

Our power to baffle; bear it then, my love!
Rave not to learn the usage I have borne,
For one true sister left me not forlorn;
And though you 're absent in another land,
Sent from me by my own well-meant command,
Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine
As these clasp'd hands in blessing you now join:
Shape not imagined horrors in my fate-
Ev'n now my sufferings are not very great;
And when your grief's first transports shall subside,
I call upon your strength of soul and pride
To pay my memory, if 't is worth the debt,
Love's glorying tribute-not forlorn regret:

I charge my name with power to conjure up
Reflection's balmy, not its bitter cup.
My pard'ning angel, at the gates of Heaven,
Shall look not more regard than you have given
To me; and our life's union has been clad
In smiles of bliss as sweet as life e'er had.
Shall gloom be from such bright remembrance cast?
Shall bitterness outflow from sweetness past?
No! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast,
There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest;
And let contentment on your spirit shine,
As if its peace were still a part of mine:
For if you war not proudly with your pain,
For you I shall have worse than lived in vain.
But I conjure your manliness to bear
My loss with noble spirit-not despair:
I ask you by our love to promise this,
And kiss these words, where I have left a kiss,-
The latest from my living lips for yours.>>->

Words that will solace him while life endures:
For though his spirit from affliction's surge
Could ne'er to life, as life had been, emerge,
Yet still that mind whose harmony elate
Rang sweetness, ev'n beneath the crush of fate,-
That mind in whose regard all things were placed
In views that soften'd them, or lights that graced,
That soul's example could not but dispense
A portion of its own bless'd influence;
Invoking him to peace, and that self-sway
Which Fortune cannot give, nor take away:

the computation of M. Bourrit, between Mont Blanc and the frontiers of the Tyrol. The full effect of the most lofty and picturesque of them can, of course, only be produced by the richest and warmest light of the atmosphere; and the very heat which illuminates them must have a changing influence on many of their appearances. I imagine it is owing to this circumstance, naniely, the casualty and changeableness of the appearance of some of the glaciers, that the impressions made by them on the minds of other and more transient travellers have been less enchanting than those described by M. Bourrit. On one occasion M. Bourrit seems even to speak of a past phenomenon, and certainly one which no other spectator attests in the same terms, when he says, that there once existed between the Kandel Steig and Lauterbrun, «a passage amidst singular glaciers, sometimes resembling magical towns of ice, with pilasters, pyramids, columns, and obelisks, reflecting to the sun the most brilliant hues of the finest gems.-M. Bourrit's description of the Glacier of the Rhone is quite enchanting:-«To form an idea, he says, of this superb spectacle, figure in your mind a scaffolding of transparent ice, filling a space of two miles, rising to the clouds, and darting flashes of light like the sun. Nor were the several parts less magnificent and surprising. One might see, as it were, the streets and buildings of a city, erected in the form of an amphitheatre, and embellished with pieces of water, cascades, and torrents. The effects were as prodigious as the immensity and the height; -the most beautiful azure-the most splendid white-the regular appearance

NOTES.

Note 1, page 26, col. 1.

That gave the glacier tops their richest glow.

THE Sight of the glaciers of Switzerland, I am told, has often disappointed travellers who had perused the accounts of their splendour and sublimity given by Bourrit and other describers of Swiss scenery. Possibly Bourrit, who had spent his life in an enamoured familiarity with the beauties of Nature in Switzerland, may have leaned to the romantic side of description. One can pardon a man for a sort of idolatry of those imposing objects of Nature which heighten our ideas of the bounty of Nature or Providence, when we reflect that the glaciers-those seas of ice-are not only sublime, but useful: they are the inexhaustible reservoirs which supply the principal rivers of Europe; and their annual melting is in proportion to the summer heat which dries up those rivers and makes them need that supply.

That the picturesque grandeur of the glaciers should sometimes disappoint the traveller, will not seem surprising to any one who has been much in a mountainous country, and recollects that the beauty of Nature in such countries is not only variable, but capriciously dependent on the weather and sunshine. There are about four hundred different glaciers, according to

imagined than described. --BOURRIT, iii, 163.

Note 2, page 26, col. 1.

From heights brouzed by the bounding bouquetin. Laborde, in his «Tableau de la Suisse, gives a curious account of this animal, the wild sharp cry and elastic movements of which must heighten the picturesque appearance of its haunts. -Nature, says Laborde, has destined it to mountains covered with snow: if it is not exposed to keen cold, it becomes blind. agility in leaping much surpasses that of the chamois, and would appear incredible to those who have not seen it. There is not a mountain so high or steep to which it will not trust itself, provided it has room to place its feet; it can scramble along the highest wall if its surface be rugged..

Note 3, page 26, col. 1.

Enamell'd moss.

Its

O'CONNOR'S CHILD;

OR, THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.»

I.

On! 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-Gall,

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,
O'Connor's pale and lovely child?

II.

Sweet lady! she no more inspires

Green Erin's hearts 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 royal brooch, the jewell'd ring,
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone,
Like dews on lilies of the spring.
Yet why, though fall'n 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 wild-
O'Connor's pale and lovely child?

III.

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 the spot where, evermore,
The lady, at her shieling 3 door,
Enjoys that, in communion sweet,
The living and the dead can meet;
For, lo! to love-lorn fantasy,
The hero of her heart is nigh.

Innisfail, the ancient name of Ireland.

* Kerne, the plural of Kern, an Irish foot-soldier. In this sense the word is used by Shakspeare. Gainsford, in his Glorys of England, says, - They (the Irish) are desperate in revenge, and their kerne think no man dead until his head be off..

Shieling, a rude cabin or hut.

IV.

Bright as the bow that spans the storm,

In Erin's yellow vesture clad,1

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 Agbrim's bower,

When bards high praised her beauty's power,

And kneeling pages offer'd up

The morat 2 in a golden cup.

V.

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 iny 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.
Oh! 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
Bare witness that he was my own.

VI.

<<< O'Connor's child, I was the bud
Of Erin's royal tree of glory;
But woe 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 chuse a meaner bride
Than from O'Connor's house of pride.
Their tribe, they said, their high degree,
Was sung in Tara's psaltery; 3

1 Yellow, dyed from saffron, was the favourite colour of the ancient Irish. When the Irish chieftains came to make terms with Queen Elizabeth's lord-lieutenant, we are told by Sir John Davis, that they came to court in saffron-coloured uniforins.

2 Morat, a drink made of the juice of mulberry mixed with honey.

3 The pride of the Irish in ancestry was so great, that one of the O'Neals being told that Barrett of Castlemone had been there only 400 years, he replied, that he hated the clown as if he had come there but yesterday.

Tara was the place of assemblage and feasting of the petty princes of Ireland. Very splendid and fabulous descriptions cre

Witness their Eath's victorious brand,1
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.

VII.

• 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 3 for your jubilee,
Upon a hundred mountains glow'd?

given by the Irish historians of the pomp and luxury of those meetings. The psaltery of Tara was the grand national register of Ireland. The grand epoch of political eminence in the early history of the Irish is the reign of their great and favourite monarch Ollam Fodlah, who reigned, according to Keating, about 950 years before the Christian æra. Under him was instituted the great Fes at Tara, which it is pretended was a triennial convention of the states, or a parliament; the members of which were the Druids, and other learned men, who represented the people in that assembly. Very minute accounts are given by Irish annalists of the magnificence and order of these entertainments; from which, if credible, we might collect the earliest traces of heraldry that occur in history. To preserve order and regularity in the great number and variety of the members who met on such occasions, the Irish historians inform us, that when the banquet was ready to be served up, the shield-bearers of the princes, and other members of the convention, delivered in their shields and targets, which were readily distinguished by the coats of arms emblazoned upon them. These were arranged by the grand marshal and principal berald, and hung upon the walls on the right side of the table and upon entering the apartments, each member took his seat under his respective shield or target, without the slightest disturbance. The concluding days of the meeting, it is allowed by the Irish antiquaries, were spent in very free excess of conviviality; but the first six, they say, were devoted to the examination and settlement of the annals of the kingdom. These were publicly rehearsed. When they had passed the approbation of the assembly, they were transcribed into the authentic chronicles of the nation, which was called the Register, or Psalter of Tara.

Col. Vallancey gives a translation of an old Irish fragment, found in Trinity-college, Dublin, in which the palace of the above assembly is thus described as it existed in the reign of Cormac :

In the reign of Cormac, the palace of Tara was nine hundred feet square; the diameter of the surrounding rath, seven dice or casts of a dart; it contained one hundred and fifty apartments; one hundred and fifty dormitories, or sleeping-rooms for guards, and sixty men in each the height was twenty-seven cubits; there were one hundred and fifty common drinking-horns, twelve doors, and one thousand guests daily, besides princes, orators, and men of science, engravers of gold and silver, carvers, modelers, and nobles. The Irish description of the banqueting-hall is thus translated: twelve stalls or divisions in each wing; sixteen attendants on each side, and two to each table; one bundred guests in all."

1 Vide infrà.

The house of O'Connor had a right to boast of their victories over the English. It was a chief of the O'Connor race who gave a check to the English champion, De Courcy, so famous for his personal strengib, and for cleaving a helmet at one blow of his sword, in the presence of the kings of France and England, when the French champion declined the combat with him. Though ultimately conquered by the English under De Bourgo, the O'Connors had also humbled the pride of that name on a memorable occasion: viz. when Walter De Bourgo, an ancestor of that De Bourgo who won the battle of Athunree, had become so insolent as to make excessive demands upon the territories of Connaught, and to bid defiance to all the rights and properties reserved by the Irish chiefs, Aeth O'Connor, a near descendant of the famous Cathal, surnamed of the bloody hand, rose against the usurper, and defeated the English so severely, that their general died of chagrin after the battle.

The month of May is to this day called Mi Beal tiennie, i. e. the month of Beal's fire, in the original language of Ireland, and hence I believe the name of the Beltan festival in the Highlands. These

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!

VIII.

• At bleating of the wild watch-fold
Thus sang my love-'Oh! 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 honey-comb;
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 Moron's eyes.

IX.

• And fast and far, before the star
Of day-spring, rush'd we through the glade,
And saw at dawn the lofty bawn a
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!

Χ.

• When all was hush'd, at even-tide
I heard the baying of their beagle:
'Be hush'd!' my Connocht Moran cried,
''T is but the screaming of the eagle.'

fires were lighted on the summits of mountains (the Irish antiquaries say) in honour of the sun; and are supposed, by those conjecturing gentlemen, to prove the origin of the Irish from some nation who worshipped Baal or Belus. Many hills in Ireland still retain the name of Cnoc Greine, 1. e. the hill of the sun; and on all are to be seen the ruins of druidical altars.

1 The clarshech, or harp, the principal musical instrument of the Hibernian bards, does not appear to be of Irish origin, nor indigenous to any of the British islands. -The Britons undoubtedly were not acquainted with it during the residence of the Romans in their country, as on all their coins, on which musical instruments are represented, we see only the Roman lyre, and not the British teylin, or harp.

2 Bawn, from the Teutonic Bawen-to construct and secure with branches of trees, was so called because the primitive Celtic fortification was made by digging a ditch, throwing up a rampart, and on the latter fixing stakes, which were interlaced with boughs of trees. This word is used by Spenser; but it is inaccurately called by Mr Todd, his annotator, an eminence.