O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS.

Of all the fair months, that round the sun
In light-link'd dance their circles run,
Sweet May, shine thou for me;

For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,

Sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves Its lingering smile on golden eves,

Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me;

For when the last April sun grows dim,

Thy Naïads

prepare

*
his steed for him

Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee.

* The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of May-day, gliding over

Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,
White Steed, most joy to thee;

Who still, with the first young glance of spring,
From under that glorious lake dost bring

My love, my chief, to me.

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launch'd, thy long mane * curls,

Fair Steed, as white and free;

And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,
Around my love and thee.

the lake on his favourite white horse, to the sound of sweet unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path.

Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the Lakes, 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.

* The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, "O'Donohue's white horses."

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,

Most sweet that death will be,

Which, under the next May evening's light, When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, Dear love, I'll die for thee.

ECHO.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,

Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star,

Of horn or lute, or soft guitar,

The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,

And only then,—

The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear,

Is by that one, that only dear,

Breathed back again!

OH BANQUET NOT.

OH banquet not in those shining bowers,
Where Youth resorts, but come to me:
For mine's a garden of faded flowers,
More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee.
And there we shall have our feast of tears,
And many a cup in silence pour;

Our guests, the shades of former years,
Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs Their lifeless leaves around us shed,

We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,

To friends long lost, the changed, the dead.

Or, while some blighted laurel waves
Its branches o'er the dreary spot,
We'll drink to those neglected graves,

Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot