rate of a wedding; "I cannot deny it, and by tare-an-ounty," says she, "I am unworthy to be either his wife or yours, for except I marry you both, I dunna how to settle this affair between you ;-oh, murther sherry! but I'm the unfortunate crathur, entirely." "Well," says Jack to the officer, "nobody can do more than be sorry for a wrong turn; small blame to her for taking a fancy to your humble servant, Mr Officer,”—and he stood as tall as possible to show off a bit: "you see the fair lady is sorryful for her folly, so, as it's not yet too late, and as you came in the nick of time, in the name of Providence take my place and let the marriage go on." "No," says she, "never; I'm not worthy of him, at all at all; tundheran-ouns, but I'm the unlucky thief!" While this was going forward the officer looked closely at Jack, and seeing him such a fine handsome fellow, and having heard before of his riches, he began to think that, all things considhered, she wasn't so much to be blempt. Then, when he saw how sorry she was for having forgot him, he steps forrid; "Well," says he, "I'm still willing to marry you, particularly as you feel conthrition for what you were going to do;"' so with this they all gother about her, and, as the officer was a fine fellow himself, prevailed upon her to let the marriage be performed, and they were accordingly spliced as fast as his Reverence could make them. "Now, Jack," says the dog, "I want to spake with you for a minnit; it's a word for your own ear :" so up he stands on his two hind legs, and purtinded to be whispering something to him; but what do you think he gives him the slightest touch on the lips with his paw, and that instant Jack remimbered the lady and every thing that happened betune them. "Och! tundher-an-ages," says Jack, "where is the darling at all at all?" Jack spoke finer than this, to be sure, but as I can't give his tall English, the sorrow one of me will bother myself striving to do it. "Behave yourself," says the dog, "just say nothing, only follow me." Accordingly, Jack went out with the dog, and in a few minnits comes in again, leading on the one side the loveliest lady that ever eye beheld, along with him, and a beautiful, illegant jintleman on the other. "Now Father Flanagan," says Jack, "you thought awhile ago you'd have no marriage; but, instead of that, you will have a brace of them;" up and telling the company, at the same time, all that happened him, and how the beautiful crathur that he brought in with him had done so much for him. When the jintlemen heard this, as they were all Irishmen, you may be sure there was nothing but hazzaing and throwing up of hats from them, and waving of handkerchers from the ladies. Well my dear, the wedding dinner was ate in great style: the nobleman proved himself no disgrace to his cloth at the trencher: and so, to make a long story short, such faisting and banqueteering was never III. 2 E seen since or before. At last night came, and among ourselves, not a doubt of it, but Jack thought himself a happy man: and maybe, if all was known, the bride was much of the same opinion; be that as it may, night came-the bride, all blushing, beautiful, and modest as your own sweetheart, was getting tired after the dancing; Jack, too, though much stouter, wished for a trifle of repose, and many thought it was near time to throw the stocking, as is proper of coorse, on every occasion of the kind. Well, he was just on his way up stairs, and had reached the first landing, when he hears a voice at his ear, shouting, "Jack-Jack-Jack Magennis!" Jack could have spitted any body for coming to disturb him at such a criticality -"Jack Magennis," says the voice. Jack looked about to see who it was that called him, and there he found himself lying on the green rath, a little above his mother's cabin, of a fine calm summer's evening in the month of June. His mother was stooping over him with her mouth at his ear, striving to waken him, by shouting and shaking him out of his sleep. "Tundher-an-age, mother," says Jack, "what did you waken me for?" "Jack, a-vourneen," says the mother, "sure and you were lying grunting, and groaning, and snifthering there, for all the world as if you had the colic, and I only nudged you for fraid you were in pain. "I wouldn't for a thousand guinneys," said Jack, "that ever you wakened me, at all at all: but whisht, mother, go into the house and I'll be afther ye in less than no time." The mother went in, and the first thing Jack did was to try the rock; and sure enough, there he found as much money as made him the richest man that ever was in that country. And what was to his credit, when he did grow rich, he wouldn't let his cabin be thrown down, but built a fine house on a spot near it, when he could always have it under his eye. In the coorse of time, a harper hearing the story, composed a tune upon it, which every body knows is called the "Little House under the Hill" to this day beginning "Hi for it, ho for it, hi for it still; Och, and whoo! your sowl-hi for the little house under the hill." ADONAIS. AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS. I WEEP for ADONAIS-he is dead! O! weep for Adonais; though our tears Died Adonais;-till the Future dares Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, 'Mid list'ning Echoes, in her Paradise She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath, With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, O, weep for Adonais-he is dead! Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. Most musical of mourners, weep again! Lament anew, Urania!-He died, Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride, The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, Trampled and mock'd with many a loathed rite Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified, Into the gulf of death; but his clear sprite Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light. Most musical of mourners, weep anew! Not all to that bright station dared to climb; And some yet live, treading the thorny road, Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode. But now the youngest, dearest one, has perished, The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished, And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew Most musical of mourners, weep anew! To that high Capital, where kingly Death He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, He will awake no more, oh, never more!- Of mortal change, shall fill the grave which is her maw. O, weep for Adonais!-The quick Dreams, The passion-winged Ministers of thought, Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught The love which was its music, wander not, Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain, But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot And one with trembling hand clasps his cold head, See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes, A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain. Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise! She knew not 'twas her own; as with no stain One from a lucid urn of starry dew Washed his light limbs, as if embalming them; A greater loss with one which was more weak; Another Splendour on his mouth alit, That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit, With lightning and with music: the damp death And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips, It flushed through his pale limbs, and pass'd to its eclipse. And others came,-Desires and Adorations, Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies, And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam Came in slow pomp;-the moving pomp might seem All he had loved, and moulded into thought, Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound, Afar the melancholy thunder moan'd, Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, And the wild wings flew round, sobbing in their dismay. Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief with his remembered lay, Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray, Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day; Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear Than those for whose disdain she pined away Into a shadow of all sounds :-a drear Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear. Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown To Phœbus was not Hyacinth so dear Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both Thou Adonais: wan they stand and sere Amid the drooping comrades of their youth, With dew all turned to tears; odour, to sighing ruth. Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain; Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain |