An' the words were scarce out of his mouth, whin hard by, thro' a dhrift o' the haze,

The ould boat we beheld sthrivin' on in the storm-och, the yell we did raise!

An' it's little we yelled for, bedad! for the next instant there under our eyes,

Not a couple o' perch from the pier-end, th' ould baste she must take an' capsize.

Och! small blame to thim all if we'd never seen sight of a one o' thim more,

Wid the waves thumpin' thuds where they fell, like the buttends o' beams on a door;

An' the black hollows whirlin' between, an' the dhrift flyin' over thim thick,

'S if the Divil had melted down Hell, an' was stirrin' it up wid a stick.

But it happint the wave that they met wid was flounderin' sthraight to the strand,

An' just swep' thim up nate on its way, till it set thim down safe where the sand

Isn't wet twice a twelvemonth, no hurt on thim all, on'y dhrippin' an' dazed.

And one come to his feet nigh me door, where that mornin' me heifer had grazed,

An' bedad! 't was himself, Mister Denis, stood blinkin' and shakin' the wet

From his hair; "Hullo, Connor!" sez he, "is it you, man?" He'd never forget

One he'd known. But I'd hardly got hould of his hand, an' was wishin' him joy,

Whin, worse luck, he looked round an' he spied Widdy Sullivan's imp of a boy

That a wave had tuk off of his feet, an' was floatin' away from

the beach,

An' he screechin' an' sthretchin' his arms to be saved, but no help was in reach.

An' as soon as the young master he seen it, he caught his hand out o' me own :

"Now, stand clear, man," sez he; "would ye have me be lavin' the lad there to dhrown?

An' wid that he throd knee-deep in foam-swirls.

he gev us the slip,

Ochone! but

Runnin' sheer down the black throat o' Death, an' he just

afther 'scapin' its grip;

For the wild says come flappin' an' boomin' an' smotherin' o'er him, an' back

In the lap o' their ragin' they swep' him as light as a wisp o' brown wrack.

An' they poundin' the rocks like sledge-hammers, an' clatterin' the shingle like chains;

Ne'er the live sowl they'd let from their hould till they'd choked him or bet out his brains,

Sure an' certin. And in swung a wave wid its welthers o' wather that lept

Wid the roar of a lion as it come, an' hissed low like a snake as it crept

To its edge, where it tossed thim, the both o' them. Och! an' the little spalpeen

Misther Denis had gript be the collar, he jumped up the first thing we seen,

While young master lay still-not a stir-he was stunned wid a crack on the head

Just a flutter o' life at his heart-but it's kilt he was, kilt on us dead.

THE FLITTING OF THE FAIRIES.

From the End of Elfintown.'

Then Oberon spake the word of might
That set the enchanted cars in sight;
But love I lack, to tell aright

Where these had waited hidden.
Perchance the clear airs round us rolled
In secret cells did them enfold,

Like evening dew that none behold
Till to the sward 't is slidden.

And who can say what wizardise
Had fashioned them in marvelous wise,
And given them power to stoop and rise

More high than thought hath traveled?
Somewhat of cloud their frames consist,
But more of meteor's luminous mist,
All girt with strands of seven-hued twist
From rainbow's verge unraveled.

"T is said, and I believe it well,
That whoso mounts their magic selle,
Goes, if he list, invisible

Beneath the broadest noonlight;

That virtue comes of Faery-fern,

Lone-lived where hill-slopes starward turn
Thro' frore night hours that bid it burn
Flame-fronded in the moonlight;

For this holds true-too true, alas!
The sky that eve was clear as glass,
Yet no man saw the Faeries pass
Where azure pathways glisten;
And true it is-too true, ay me
That nevermore on lawn or lea
Shall mortal man a Faery see,
Though long he look and listen.

Only the twilit woods among

A wild-winged breeze hath sometimes flung
Dim echoes borne from strains soft-sung
Beyond sky-reaches hollow;

Still further, fainter up the height,
Receding past the deep-zoned night—
Far chant of Fays who lead that flight,
Faint call of Fays who follow:

(Fays following.) Red-rose mists o'erdrift

Moth-moon's glimmering white,

Lit by sheen-silled west
Barred with fiery bar;
Fleeting, following swift,
Whither across the night
Seek we bourne of rest?

(Fays leading.) Afar.

(Fays following.) Vailing crest on crest

Down the shadowy height,

Earth with shores and seas
Dropt, a dwindling gleam.
Dusk, and bowery nest,

Dawn, and dells dew-bright,
What shall bide of these?

(Fays leading.) A dream.

(Fays following.) Fled, ah! fled, our sight.
Yea, but thrills of fire
Throbbed adown yon deep,
Faint and very far
Who shall rede aright?
Say, what wafts us nigher,
Beckoning up the steep?

(Fays leading.)

(Fays following.)

A star.

List, a star! a star!
Oh, our goal of light!

Yet the winged shades sweep,
Yet the void looms vast.
Weary our wild dreams are:
When shall cease our flight
Soft on shores of sleep?

(Fays leading.) At last.

EATON STANNARD BARRETT.

(1785-1820.)

EATON STANNARD BARRETT was born in Cork in 1785, and was graduated A.B. in Trinity College, Dublin. Here his attractive manners and genial disposition won him the friendship and esteem of his fellow-students. In 1805 he entered as a law student in the Middle Temple, London. He however ultimately forsook law for literature. His first satirical poem, which ridiculed the ministry in power in 1807, gave it the name of The Ministry of All the Talents,' by which it is known in history. Its success encouraged him to persevere, and in 1808 he brought out a satirical newspaper, entitled The Comet. His 'Woman,' with other poems and humorous effusions, followed; all attracted considerable attention, and proved the talent and culture of the author. The satire of All the Talents,' which delighted the town in its day, now misses fire with all but the close student of history; for others the point of the allusions is lost.

A book which in some ways reminds one of Bret Harte's famous 'Sensation Novels Condensed' still lives: The Heroine, or Adventures of Cherubina,' burlesquing the novels in vogue at the beginning of the nineteenth century. It doubtless did much to kill the type of fiction, full of unreality and affectation, which did so much harm in those days. He wrote other burlesque novels, plays, and poems, and could write well on serious topics. His last work was a comedy entitled 'My Wife! What Wife?' which appeared in 1815. He died March 20, 1820.

It was on a nocturnal night in autumnal October; the wet rain fell in liquid quantities, and the thunder rolled in an awful and Ossianly manner. The lowly but peaceful inhabitants of a small but decent cottage were just sitting down to their homely but wholesome supper, when a loud knocking at the door alarmed them. Bertram armed himself with a ladle. "Lack-a-daisy!" cried old Margueri