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GOUGANE BARRA. By a poet, little known, J. J. CALLANAN, an Irishman, who died, like his countryman Davis, prematurely, and whose poems had a posthumous publication. Many of them are extremely beautiful. The following has been termed “as delicious a morsel of minstrelsy as ever feasted the mind of an English or Irish reader.” THERE is a green island in lone Gougane Barra, Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow; In deep-vallied Desmond-a thousand wild fountains Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains. There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow ; As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning, It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning. And its zone of dark hills—oh! to see them all bright’ning, When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning; And the waters rush down, ʼmid the thunder's deep rattle, Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle ; And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming, And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming. Oh! where is the dwelling in valley or highland, So meet for a bard as this lone little island ! How oft when the summer-sun rested on Clara, And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera, Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean, And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion, And thought of thy bards, when assembling together, In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather; They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter, And waked their last song by the rush of thy water. High sons of the lyre, oh! how proud was the feeling, To think, while alone through that solitude stealing, Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number, I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber, And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains The songs even echo forgot on her mountains, And glean'd each grey legend, that darkly was sleeping Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty was creeping. Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit, The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit, With the wrongs which like thee to our country has bound me, Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me !
Still, still in those wilds may young liberty rally,
A fine passage in CAMPBELL'S Pleasures of Hope.
What potent spirit guides the raptured eye
With thee, sweet Hope, resides the heavenly light
WOODS IN WINTER.
By LONGFELLOW. WHEN winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the white-thorn blows the gale, With solemn feet, I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes. On the gray maple's crusted bark
Its tender shoots the hoar-frost nips ; Whilst in the frozen fountain-hark!
His piercing beak the bittern dips. Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
The crystal icicle is hung.
Pour out the river's gradual tide,
And voices fill the woodland side.
Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay; And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!
But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods, within your crowd ; And gathered winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.
Chill airs, and wintry winds, my ear
familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year
I listen, and it cheers me long.
THE PILGRIM FATHERS.
By PIERPONT, an American poet.
The pilgrim fathers—where are they ?
The waves that brought them o'er
As they break along the shore;
When the May-flower moor'd below,
And white the shore with snow.
The mists, that wrapp'd the pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide; And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride.
When the heavens looked dark, is gone ;
Is seen, and then withdrawn.
The hill, whose icy brow
In the morning's flame burns now.
On the hill-side and the sea,
But the pilgrim-where is he?
The pilgrim fathers are at rest:
When summer 's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dress'd,
Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
On that hallow'd spot is cast;
Looks kindly on that spot last.
It walks in noon's broad light;
With the holy stars, by night.
And shall guard this ice-bound shore,
Shall foam and freeze no more.
REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF
By S. T. COLERIDGE.
Low was our pretty cot: our tallest rose
and woody, and refresh'd the eye. It was a spot which you might aptly call
The Valley of Seclusion ! Once I saw