"Many a green isle needs must be In the deep, wide sea of pocsy," which still remain undiscovered and unappropriated; yet, as far as our humble selves are concerned, from an intimate knowledge of the craft to which we must trust, we fear we have but little chance of reaching the remoter and profounder archipelago of song, and thus add a new unit to the already clustering islets on its bosom. We shall be content if, in passing along the shallow but safer waters to which we are confined, we shall happen to meet with a few ideas resembling those floating rafts of verdure which are occasionally seen on the loughs and ocean creeks of Kerry, which, first formed of the loose grass blown from the neighbouring mountains, gradually collect a sufficiency of soil for the protection of such "winged seeds" as the summer wind may bring them, and thus, for a short time, present the surface without the solidity of islands. If we shall be able to plant a little flower occasionally in the midst of the commoner herbage as mariners set up a staff on shores that they do not think of sufficient importance to colonise- we shall be well pleased. The familiar fairy tale of the "Sleeping Beauty," or, as Tennyson prefers to call it, "The Sleeping Palace," presents to us a very pleasing allegory of the earth, locked, as it were, in the enchanted sleep of Winter, and waiting for the approach of "The fated fairy prince" the Spring-at whose kiss the spell would be broken, and all things would start into life and beauty as before. To develop this idea with all the minuteness and variety of which it is capable, and to express it in verse whose harmony might correspond with the mystic beauty of the conception, would require no small portion of the careful and elaborate melody of the poet of "The Day Dream," who, in its literal meaning, has made the story of the "Sleeping Palace" so peculiarly his own. Time would also be necessary, even if the other requisites were not wanting; so that, for every reason, we are compelled to forego the pursuit of this fleeting Hy-Brasil, resigning to some future explorer to ascertain whether the shadowy idea we have indicated is a substantial reality, or merely a tempting illusion. We must not, however, lose all advantage from the thought. We shall, therefore, discard the entire machinery of the fable, and, by merely changing the position of the parties making the magic kiss be more appropriately given by female lips, and extending the action a little — adapt it to our simpler purpose: THE AWAKING. BY DENIS FLORENCE M'CARTHY. I. A lady came to a snow-white bier, And she took the veil from her widow'd head, II. She pass'd, with a smile, to a wild wood near, Where the boughs were barren and bare, And she tapp'd on the bark with her fingers fair, III. The birds beheld her without a fear, As she walk'd through the deep'ning dells; IV. On the graves of the flowers she dropp'd a tear, And even as the Lord to Lazarus, She called to the slumb'ring, sweet flowers thus- V. To the lilies that lay in the silver mere, To the reeds by the golden pond, To the moss that rounded the marge beyond, VI. The violet peep'd, with its blue eye clear, For the blessed tidings around had flown, VII. The pale grass lay with its long locks sere, She loosened the matted hair of the slain, VIII. The rush rose up, with its pointed spear; As her voice ran clear through the quickening sod― THE revival of nature in Spring is one of those rare phenomena of the exterior world, which never presents itself to our observation or imagination, without perpetually renewing feelings of wonder and delight. Nothing can state the infinite variety of its attractions-not even the changes in our own mental and physical organisation, which so materially affect most other things. The wonderful terrestrial and celestial phenomena that occur every day of our lives the rising and the setting of the sun, so astonishing for their regu larity and importance, the ebb and flow of the tides, and the perpetuallysupplying and never-exhausted abundance of the rivers, fail to awaken those sensible feelings of enjoyment and gratitude which the conception or the realisation of Spring produces. No age, no sex, no condition of life, is insensible to the approach of this beautiful season, or disappointed when it arrives. To the child emerging out of babyhood, it promises the paradise of the meadow or the lawn; and the only floral games which yet survive in the world, from which, by the aid of a few bunches of buttercups and daisies, innocence and health, and the quick fancy of young life, can extract more enjoy ment, than at a later period could be derived from all the roses of the East. To the boy, and to the girl too, it unfolds in prospect the wider world of the fields, and the winding green roads of the remoter country, which are longed for with an eagerness which seems prophetic of that stronger impulse, which, in a few years later, will send them forth to the still more extensive regions of active life. To the lover of nature VOL. XLI.NO. CCXLIV. itself, it presents the beautiful object of his affections, in the most charming period of her existence, arrayed in all the freshness and the purity of youth; while, to the practical naturalist, it unfolds the minuter phenomena of her existence, which, hived up in such delightful books as that of White's "Selborne," shed such a delicious savour of the country around the winter's fire. Need we speak of the prospect of freedom and vigour which it holds out to the feeble and the invalid, and the hope of exchanging the monotony of the sick room for the infinite variety of the hill-side, the valley, or the shore? It is the longed-for studio of the artist-the silent academe of the student-the trysting-time of the lover-the chosen school for meditation-and the most abundant source of inspiration to the poet, and of instruction, as well as of illustration, to the moralist. It is thus that the sacred books of the Old Tes tament, written by men who, in an immeasurably high degree, united in their own persons the grave vocation of the teacher, and the melodious organisation of the minstrel, abound with such exquisite and touching allusions to the outward beauty of this season, and the inward lessons which it inculcates. Take, for instance, the celebrated mystical and allegorical invitation in the second chapter of the Song of Solomon, which, as it were, contains within itself the essence of all that has ever been said or sung upon the same subject, and which, by the transcendant beauty of its language and allusions, shares in the perpetual welcome which the season it so exquisitely describes receives, and makes the descrip2 E tion be read with the same delight upon its last repetition as at its first: "Behold, my beloved speaketh to me: arise, make haste, my love, my dove, my beautiful one, and come, for winter is now past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers have appeared in our land, the time of pruning is come; the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the fig-tree hath put forth her green figs; the vines in flower yield their sweet smell. Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and come." But it is the Christian religion that, in an especial manner, has availed itself of the wonderful working of Nature at this season, for the illustration of one of its most peculiar doctrines and consolatory truths-namely, the resurrection of the dead. Analogies seldom square at every side with the thing compared; but few copies so nearly resemble their prototypes as the one under consideration. We have here, life out of death; we have order out of confusion; we have animation out of corruption; and organisation out of apparent annihilation. The seed rots before it revives, and the flower passes from before our eyes, and lies buried for a while beneath the ground, before it re-appears at the call of Spring "Another, yet the same." Before we proceed to describe to the best of our humble ability, the revival of Nature, under this consoling aspect, let us devote a few simple lines to one of the most ordinary sorrows of our lives a sorrow that instinctively clings to the doctrine of the resurrection as its especial recompense, and which is its best protection against the mutterings of rebellion, and the temptation of despair. DOLORES. BY DENIS FLORENCE M'CARTHY. The moon of my soul is dark, Dolores, The rose of my heart is gone, Dolores, The pulse of my heart is still, Dolores- But the moon shall revisit my soul, Dolores, The revival of the plant has been frequently used to typify the resurrection of the body, but the greater analogy has never been applied, as far as we can recollect, as an illustration of the lesser. It is this inversion of the idea that has suggested to us the following lines, which might easily be expressed with more felicity, and expanded to a much greater length, at the risk, however, of changing a congenial and apt comparison into a frigid conceit: THE RESURRECTION OF THE DEAD. BY DENIS FLORENCE M'CARTHY. I. The day of wintry wrath is o'er, The whirlwind and the storm have pass'd, Enwrap the ruined world no more; |