the cave of Fill-moor, in search of his former master;-and who had been induced by the hope of gaining a base reward, to sacrifice all those feelings of gratitude, so congenial to an Irish soul.

“Donald recognized him instantly, touched his hat with his hand to return his salute, and, with a smile of benevolence, offered him half a crown to drink his health. He took the money, but his heart was proof against kindness; and having ascertained the direction which O'Brien had taken, he set out in pursuit of him with the party, as has been previously mentioned; whilst the object of their pursuit, unconscious of his danger, was riding at an easy pace, along a rough and unpleasant road. On a sudden, he raised his head, and looked around, when he observed that the ground he trod bore a striking resemblance to the scenes so strongly depicted in an already mentioned dream. The idea at first struck him with dread; but observing no cause of alarm near, his visionary terrors vanished from his mind, and he pursued his journey at the same easy pace.

Meanwhile the soldiers reached the summit of the hill, and obtained a view of the valley on the other side: it was a drear and lonely place, flanked by mountains, and occupied in the middle by a large bog. The majority of the soldiers had begun to descend the hill in the direction which their guide had pointed out, when the officer, turning to one of the party, who had accompanied him, broke silence for the first time since they had divided their body.

"Can you tell me if that's Jem Doran down there on the road?'

Why, yes, sir,' replied the other, 'I thinks as how

it is."

6

"What a hurry he has been in,' rejoined the officer, see how far before us he has got. But what can he be doing there on the road? he seems to be aiming at something; and who or what is there for him to aim at?'

'Perhaps at that man on horseback yandher, sir,' returned

the soldier, may be, it's this here O'Brien, as he told us he was on horseback.'

"Poh! nonsense!' said the lieutenant, a cannon would hardly hit him at such a distance; why, man, he's near a mile from him. But the fool is evidently aiming at somethingfor see how he rests his gun on yon old wall! in my life I never saw so complete a Paddy. He's always—'

"Before the sentence was finished, the flash of the discharged musket gleamed to their view, and as the report, reverberated by the rocky mountains around, burst on the hearing like a peal of thnnder, they saw the horseman, on whom they had their eyes fixed, reel in his seat, and fall to the earth. It was-Donald O'Brien !

"Nothing more now remained to be done, but to secure the body; and to effect this purpose, the party, having been assembled by the report, proceeded to cross the bog. There were but two ways of passing it, and they took the longer of the two, as the other passed near the castle of Carrigafoile, and they feared an attack from the country people, if they attempted it. But when they arrived at the spot, where the victim of his ardent but rash patriotism had fallen, to their great surprise they found not the body. The ground was marked with blood, a certain sign that he had fallen, and was, at least, dangerously wounded; but they afforded no track to any distance, and the soldiers, after searching for it awhile, gave it up as fruitless, and retired from the neighbourhood in haste.

"About half an hour after her husband's death, Alice, who, was seated in the window of the castle, observed his horse galloping home in full speed without a rider. Dreading what might be the cause, she lost not a moment, but mounted the animal, which quickly set off with her to the place where her husband lay, and there stopped. She alighted, took up the body, and remounted the horse, placing the corpse before her : the noble animal speedily returned to Carrigafoile, and thus the search of the soldiers was rendered fruitless. The body of

Donald was buried in the grave of his forefathers, and his loss was long lamented by his tenantry and neighbours. His death preyed deeply upon Alice's heart; she fell into a lingering decline, which, in a few years, brought her to the tomb. As for Tim Flaherty, the death of his young master inspired him with so rooted a hatred for the government, that he became a leader in the disturbances which raged in the county of Cork, in the years 1785 and 1786, and, being apprehended, was transported to Botany Bay, where he ended his life.

A MOTHER'S FATE.

BY MRS. ANN ROLFE,

0.

AUTHOR OF THE WILL, OR TWENTY-ONE YEARS," ETC.

A mother's fate, a mother's fate,

How many have in sorrow knelt,
And every mother, small and great,
A mother's love hath felt;
With honourable hopes elate

She clasps her offspring in her arms,
She watches o'er its infant state,
And dotes upon its charms.

The sweetness of its sunny eye,
The beauty of each little curl.
Its cheeks, where the pale lilies lie
To watch its teeth of pearl,
Are more delightful and sublime

To her who bears a mother's name,
Than all the joys of summer time,
Or titles of high fame.

A mother's fondness deems her child
The beautiful of all his race,

Its sportfulness, and accents wild
To her are full of grace;

Her holiest thoughts are on that thing That pillows on her breast all day, But time another change will bring, For childhood speeds away.

Her boy, a gem of purity,

Springs up her latter years to bless, Impassion'd, glowing, restless, free, And proud in loveliness;

Then school commences, studies deep, French, mathematics, elocution, Greek, Latin, that disturbs his sleep, Lessons fit for Newton.

The mother in her sweet beholds
High talents, virtues too severe,
And thinks him, as his mind unfolds,
Fit for a prouder sphere.

His god-like face, his starry eyes,
His graceful form, and airy tread,
What thrilling hopes, what fond surprise
The mother's cheeks o'erspread.

A mother's fate, a mother's fate,
Alas! her darling dreams of love,
She trembles for his future state,

And would those dreams remove;
He weds, and bids his home farewell,
Another claims him for her own,-

A mother's feelings who can tell?
She smiles, but seems alone.

Or else, too deeply read in lore,

That treats of others' wealth and fame,

Golconda's mine, a foreign shore,

The mighty Nabob's name

Warm his young heart, stir up his pride, Gay visions riot through his brain, Fond mothers weep, and gently chide, But chiding is in vain.

No gorgeous robe, no jewelled vest,
No festival of earth or sky

Can still a mother's throbbing breast
Fill'd with anxiety;

She warns him, tells him of the brave
Who once were beautiful as he
That found a cold, a watery grave
Amidst the boundless sea.

Yet oceans roll between them now,
The kiss she prest in sorrow deep
On that seraphic youthful brow
Would make an angel weep:
No grief is like a mother's grief,
No love is like a mother's love!
Her cares how long, her joys how brief,
Maternal hearts can prove.

A mother's fate, a mother's fate,

Her children talented, and fair, She ponders on their future state And breathes a mental prayer; She envies not a diadem,

Her holiest and her gayest hours Speak her devotedness to them Those lovely fragile flowers.

She dotes upon their balmy breath;

But see that mother bathed in tears, See her beside the bed of death

Distracted with her fears.