to sober reason. That the English are imbibing a fondness for change, is most true; that they are giving up those prejudices in favour of established customs which were formerly their characteristics, is also true; and happy it is that they are. Nothing has tended so much to perpetuate errors, as the pertinacity with which they have clung to the customs and manners of their forefathers, a feeling which has sanctioned abuse, and immortalized absurdity. In what particular were their ancestors better or happier than themselves, that they should look back with such regret on their condition ; in what particular were they wiser, that their institutions should be respected in the face of reason and sense? Can it be supposed that, while all the arts and sciences have made rapid strides to perfection, the condition, wisdom, and energies of man have alone been retrograding? If it can be proved that man was neither wiser nor better five hundred years ago than he is at present, how strange is this infatuation, which estimates customs and institutions, like wine, or black-letter books, simply by their age. That the English under Edward the Third were one jot better than the English under George the Fourth is, in my opinion, untrue; and all the boasted superiority of olden time is owing to the simple reason, that men cannot bring their minds to be contented with the present. Of all evils, the present is always the greatest; but with respect to good, precisely the reverse takes place. Thus it is, that the greatness of the dead, and the excellence of past times are exaggerated; while living virtue, or present felicity, is too often undervalued. For these reasons, Mr. Bull, be not angry with me, if I advise

you to burst the shackles of custom, and to acknowledge the advantages of change..

ANTONY HEAVISIDE,

THE BRIDE OF THE LAKE.

Relic of fairy days-deep, blue Loch-lein, *.
Whose waters kiss Creation's noblest shrine,
A mountain's purpled outline, where no rude
Invader tracks the pine-clad solitude:

How sweet to watch, ere yet his course be run,
The mellowing glory of that vesper sun!

While o'er the foam, that wreathes in smiles thy wave,
Varies the magic light his parting radiance gave:
And distant chimes, heard thro' the twilight's grey,
Swell the sad note, and mourn th' expiring day.t
How sweet to hear the light-breath'd serenade
In tuneful echoes melt along the glade;
While choral voices seem to wake around,
Stealing on Night's dull ear with rapt'rous sound!
Ye, too, dark-crested pinnacles of might,
That from the giant grandeur of your height,
Fling a broad shadow to the lake below,

Where, silver-bright, the languid waters flow;
Storm-children, hail! On yon tremendous peak
The wheeling eagle rests him from the break
Of some unbridled tempest: by thất sẽaur,
Which seem'd the centre of the thunder's roar;

E'en there the monarch of the mountain gloom

Ceas'd his wild flight, and dropt the flagging plume!

Well do thy glories beam on Fancy's sight,

Loch-lein, by Memory's mild, reflected light:

* Loch-lein, the ancient name for the Lake of Killarney.
↑ Che paja 'l giorno pianger, che si muoja-Dante.

The warring winds had soften'd to a breeze,
Mild as the musk-wind o'er Arabian seas;
The waves were rippling round my bark's career,
And the light blossoms hail'd the vernal year,
Wafting their scents from Innisfallen's shore :
Then, as the boatman check'd his plashing oar,
Midst the calm slumber of that moonlight bay,
Broke forth the richness of his deep-ton'd lay,
That told of haunted stream, of fairy bower,
While Erin yet was Freedom's loveliest flower;
And sang, how erst the Chieftain's arm of pride
Bore to the cavern'd halls his destin'd bride.

THE BOATMan's Legend. *

O wildly o'er the buoyant tide

Floated the echoes of thy water,
When the dark chieftain woo'd his bride,
Killarney's meek and lonely daughter.

66

* To those who are acquainted with Moore's beautiful Melodies, it will be unnecessary to call to mind, that the story of the Chieftain of the White Horse, or O'Donoghue, as he is sometimes called, who, on the first of May, returned to the upper world to claim a bride of exquisite purity and loveliness, has furnished materials for four or five highly poetical stanzas in his collection. The story, however, which is related above, is essentially different from that of Mr. Moore, who has made the courtship entirely on the lady's part. Among other stories connected with this Legend of the Lake, it is said, that there was a young and beautiful girl, whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself, in love with him, and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning, threw herself into the Lake." Although, as the peasantry of Killarney will tell us, many years have elapsed since the sound of O'Donoghue's unearthly music has been heard on their waters, a remnant of the superstition still remains, and the waves, to which a windy day gives, me ipso teste, a very formidable appearance, are still called by them "O'Donoghue's white horses.”

As the star that heralds morning
On its brightly-gleaming way;
As the rainbow, richly dawning

Where the mountain haloes play;
So shone her cheek's unfading hue,
While, deck'd with blushes ever new,
She shunn'd th' impassion'd gazer's view.
The maid has started from her bed
With Nature's own profusion spread-
For she was resting where the stream
Of cloudless Evening's crimson beam
Illumin'd banks of jessamine,

That on the hill's dark verge recline :
A thousand mingling branches made
Her canopy of light and shade;
And the lake's breezes sighing near,
Mildly fann'd her golden hair.
'Twas said, around that leafy grove
The lightsome fairies lov'd to rove;
And well might spirits love, I ween,
The glories of that highland scene;
Where arbutus, and lichen wild
Allur'd' the steps of Beauty's child,
As light and merrily she flew

Along that deep, fantastic glen,
To cull the wild rose, bright with dew,
Far from the busy haunts of men-
Now has she started from the bed,
Where balmy flowers had wreath'd her head

And, kneeling on the fragrant sod,

She breathes the holy name of God,

In accents such as angels raise
With purity of sinless praise.

Then rising, towards those waters bright,
Glistening in the pale moonlight,

She bent her lonely way :

Her blue eyes sought the western star,
Where, thro' the cloudlets from afar

Trembles that magic ray.

'Twas stillness all; as in that hour
All nature felt her beauty's power,
And hush'd the grove, the lake, the air,
To gaze upon a thing so fair!
Slowly o'er that deep repose

Steals a distant, distant strain :
Now soft it fell, now wild it rose,

Like that blest song, that poets feign
Is heard among the rolling spheres,
That swim in light for endless years.
Far up the lengthen'd lake are seen
Those streamers of celestial sheen,
Which tell to all who watch them there,
That spirits ride the viewless air.
Full in the midst a steed of snow
Seem'd starting from th' abyss below;
With heaving breast, and loosen'd mâne,
And hoofs that spurn'd the liquid plain.
And who is he, that dares to ride
With eye of fire, and crest of pride?
Hark! by the sullen sounds that wake,
"Tis the dark chieftain of the Lake!
Tho' many a circling year is fled,
Since he was number'd with the dead,
Yet still in the bloom of early May,

Is heard his wizard roundelay,

As he seeks the bride, whose eye's blue languish
Will banish long-enduring anguish ;

O mild and pure that bride must be,
As snow-flakes on a waveless sea!
Now faster and braver he dashes on,

And the waters curl, where his course is run.
Faster and braver he makes for the shore,
And his glossy plume is spangled o'er
With the white-crested foam :
And now he checks his headlong speed,
And curbs awhile that panting steed,

Near the maiden's woodland home.