The bard, who studies nature's smiles,
And sleep claim'd hours with lyre beguiles,
Enwrapt in fancy's dream,

Now in each hill sees Hybla's mount,
Views in each rill Castalia's fount,
And sips the nectar'd stream;

For, round the form of truant spring,
Unnumber'd spells and pleasures cling,
That bid his soul aspire :

At morn he roves her smiles to meet-
At eve he seeks some lone retreat
To greet her with his lyre.

The sun's bright rays that now descend
On scenes which art and nature blend
Around enchantment fling,
And ev'ry scene on which we gaze
Proclaims, as if in notes of praise,
The lov'd return of spring.

Oh! who amid such scenes can stray,
And, not with rapture mov'd, survey
Earth's fragrant fairy bow'r?

The Scythian horde would not such view,
Without ascribing homage due
To one benignant Pow'r.

Oxford.

GREEK SONG.

BY JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA, ESQ.

Awake-awake! 'tis come

On bower, on shrine, and hall

The hour of death to some,
Of victory to all!
The banner's pride is up,

'Tis flaming through the land ;-
Dash down the crimson cup,
And seize the crimson brand.

J. P.

Nor yet the martyr band
Of red Thermopylæ,
For here before me stand
The spirits of the three.
Hark-hark! again the call

Rings out for home and God,-
Awake ye, one and all,

And tread the battle sed!

We come we come! that voice
Hath thrill'd through earth and sea,
Till the mute dead rejoice

Their children's strength to see.
Resistless be each blow-

Your spirit-sires look on! And if ye perish—go,

Chainless, as they have gone. Hark-hark! again the call

Rings out for home and God,Awake ye, one and all,

And tread the battle sod!

Away-away-away!

Like billows tempest-driven,
And fling the bloody spray
From battles' depths to heaven!

And hurl the tyrant-slaves,
Who'd ride above your wrath,
Into the rolling graves

That foam beneath your path!
Then hark! again the call

The field the foe have trod,Rush onward, one and all,,

Our war-cry-GREECE AND GOD!

GONE OUT.-AN EPIGRAM.

"What! Master and Mistress gone out?" Indeed, "replies John," sir, tis true."

"I'll wait, and sit down by the fire: "You can't sir, for that's gone out too."

THE FOUR-LEAFED SHAMROCK.

A TRADITIONARY TALE OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY.

Talk of foreign aid, and steam-boats, indeed! Faith, Ireland don't want them at all, for she has a snug little army of some five hundred thousand of her own; cozy and warm, well armed and well mounted, under the Black Stairs, and only just waiting for the word of command to gallop forth, and emancipate the country! Only think of that, Mr. Plunkett, and don't be after filing an ex officio against me; for sooner than lie two or three years in Newgate, I would deliver up my authority for the fact: and troth its no other than Kit Kavanagh himself, the queerest fellow in the whole county Carlow, and who is, beside, lineally descended from the celebrated M Murchad O'Kavanagh, who makes so fine a figure on horse-back without a saddle, in the rude embellishment of Froissard.

I think it was in the year 1812, that I paid a visit to the good, kind, pious, but eccentric Dr. Staunton,* of Carlow college; an' I put up at an hotel in Tullow street, kept by one Cullen (I believe,) who had a smart house, a pretty garden, and still more pleasing daughters. One of the latter had a pair of roguish eyes that, doubtless, have done execution before this time o'day; and heaven knows what they might have made me do, only she chanced to mention, in the first ten minutes' conversation, something about the well of St. Lasarien. The well of St. Lasarien! whereabouts is it? why, quite close to one end of the old church at Old Leighlin; and Miss Cullen and her mother were going there on the following day, to get (the latter only) cured of the dropsy.

Early next morning the college gate was opened for me by a little withered old man, not much bigger nor taller than a full-grown Luprechaun; and, in ten minutes after, there was

*The doctor's eccentricity continued to the last. When on his death-bed, a particular favorite of his-and he had but few favorites -the Rev. Mr. Doyle, of Liffey-Street Chapel, Dublin, paid him a visit: "What brought you to Carlow?" was the doctor's first interrogation. "To see you, doctor; " was the reply. Then you had very little to do," rejoined the expiring divine; don't you think! can die without you?" and he averted his head, refusing to hold further conversation with one of his most esteemed pupils.

nothing to prevent me from proceeding to the holy well. The road from Carlow to Leighlin is one of the most agreeable in Ireland; and, though the old town lies up in the mountains, the place is not devoid of picturesque beauty; and, to tell the truth, there is little else charming about it but the view. Part of the Queen's County was seen to the north-west, and Slievbloom mountains were easily enough distinguished in the distance, while, nearer home, the white-washed villas of the more fortunate inhabitants of Carlow seemed to repose happily in the morning gloom of Black Stairs and Mount Leinster, which yet partially intercepted the sun's first rays. As yet there were but few collected about the holy fountain; a pilgrim, who made a living by the exhibition of a horribly lacerated leg, and an old woman in a tattered red cloak, were all I found in attendance. The man of beads and beard was relaxing on a green bank, and ever and anon raised a glass, the bottom of which was composed of wood, to his lips, and, ere she of the red cloak replenished it, an old stocking was carefully unfolded, and some talisman drawn from its many-ribbed folds, which had the quality of uncorking a green bottle that stood upon a white cross-legged table, adorned with jugs and jars, naggains and noggins.

Eh, then, sur," inquired the vender of potheen, making a low courtesy, 66 may be you'd give me hansel this mornin' afore the pathern begins; troth 'tis real Parliament, an' your honour is too fine a lookin' gintleman, God bless you, to be guager like."

My reply to her indirect quere seemed to give her no small satisfaction, inasmuch as it did away with all apprehension respecting her illicit wares; and, though I refused to swallow any of her highly recommended potations, she did not hesitate to answer my inquiries regarding Leighlin and the Well of St. Lasarien. Our conversation, however, was soon interrupted by the presence of a fourth person, who, disdaining the legitimate entrance by the stile, sprang actively over the quickset ditch, and, doffing his felt, popped down upon one knee, near a newly-made grave, where he continued for about five minutes, perpetrating an Ave-Marie, and then, hurriedly blessing himself, stood up and approached us. "but you

66

Arrah, bad luck to ye, Judy aroo!" said he, are here early any how. Come now, give us a corn crake."