And He! what was his fate-the bard! That bore him and his harp along? That fate which waits the gifted one, The shade and silence of neglect. And this, the polished age, that springs To die in poverty and pride; The light of hope and genius past; Each feeling wrung, until the heart Could bear no more, so broke at last. Thus withering amid the wreck Of sweet hopes, high imaginings, What can the minstrel do but die, Cursing his too beloved strings! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. D 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 desart 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! THE evening star rose beauteously above the fading day, 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 appeared, And her crew all crowded to the deck, as to the land she neared; To the calm and sheltered 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 marked the whiteness of her robe, the radiance of her brow; Her arms were folded gracefully, upon her stainless breast, And her eyes looked up among the stars, to Him her soul loved best. He bad his sailors look on her, and hailed her with a cheer, They madly vowed a form so fair they ne'er had seen before, shore. And He! what was his fate-the bard! That bore him and his harp along? That fate which waits the gifted one, The shade and silence of neglect. And this, the polished age, that springs To die in poverty and pride; The light of hope and genius past; Each feeling wrung, until the heart Could bear no more, so broke at last. Thus withering amid the wreck Of sweet hopes, high imaginings, What can the minstrel do but die, Cursing his too beloved strings! Literary Gazette. L. E. L. D 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 desart 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! THE evening star rose beauteously above the fading day, 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 appeared, And her crew all crowded to the deck, as to the land she neared; To the calm and sheltered 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 marked the whiteness of her robe, the radiance of her Her arms were folded gracefully, upon her stainless breast, And her eyes looked up among the stars, to Him her soul loved best. He bad his sailors look on her, and hailed her with a cheer, And on the kneeling Virgin straight, they gazed with laugh and jeer; They madly vowed a form so fair they ne'er had seen before, And cursed the faint and lagging breeze that kept them from the shore. Such Fancy's dreams;-but never more Whilst Spring was gladdening all the skies, And smote them, in his love, together: STONEHENGE. BY THE REV. CHARLES HOYLE. MYSTERIOUS pile! what necromantic lore Eternal ages, regions without bound, Proclaim ye one sole strength-the Ineffable-Supreme! |