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and thread. The character of the inhabitants is highly impetuous, warm, and ungovernable ; they are unalterable in their attachment, and many beautiful tales have been selected of the readiness with which they have risked their lives to save those of others to whom they owed any obligation. They are extremely hospitable the poorest peasant in Ireland will offer to the stranger an air of the fire, with potatoes and butter-milk, and minds no trouble in setting him right, if he have lost his way, even though it take him ten miles out of his own. They have a great fund of native humour—their wellknown blunders, entitled bulls, are a great characteristic in even the higher ranks of society. They possess a great fund of oratory, ingenuity, and strong good sense, but their inordinate love of whiskey, and their highly irritable characters, frequently occasion much bloodshed and confusion. The state of the peasantry in some parts of the country, is wretched in the extreme, but in others, it is greatly improved. The established religion is that of the Church of England, but the prevailing one is the Roman Catholic. Great rebellions have often taken place in Ireland, but the state of the people, to which they are reduced by the absenteeism of the nobility and gentry, and the oppression of the petty farmers, must, in some measure, plead their excuse. Great pains have lately been taken to ameliorate the condition of the peasantry; and we may hope that, ere long, Ireland will as firmly unite with her sister countries in every respect, as in the three divisions of the national emblem -the green and graceful shamrock. And perhaps I cannot better conclude this article, than with the lines from the pen of a highly celebrated poet, whose candour has given the generous and warm-hearted natives of the Emerald Isle their due.

Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings,

Mingling wild mirth with war's stern minstrelsy ;
His jest while each blithe comrade flings,

And moves to death with military glee.

Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, frank, and free ;
In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known,

Rough nature's children, humourous as she;
And he, yon chieftain-strike the proudest tone
Of thy bold harp, green Isle !—the hero is thine own.




When I remember thee upon my bed.”—Psalm Ixiii. 6.

In the mid silence of the voiceless night,
When chas'd by airy dreams the slumbers flee,
Whom in its darkness does my spirit seek,

O God, but Thee?

And if there seem a weight upon my breast,
Some vague impression of the day foregone,
Scarce knowing what it is, I fly to Thee,

And lay it down.

Or if it be such heaviness as comes
In token of anticipated ill,
My bosom takes no care for what it means,

Since 'tis thy will.

And oh! in spite of past or future care,
Or any thing beside, how joyfully
Passes that silent, solitary hour,

My God, with Thee!

More tranquil than the bosom of the night,
More peaceful than the stillness of that hour,
More bless'd than any thing, my bosom lies

Beneath thy power.

For what is there on earth that I desire
Of all that it can give or take from me
Or what is there in heaven that I need,

My God, hut thee?


The bold adventurer, mid-way on his course To some far island that his fancy dreams, Where mís-shaped animals and forms grotesque Prowl over regions of embowel'd gold, Becomes full soon impatient of the calm That holds him anchor'd in the glassy bay: And longs—aye, longs to hear the dashing wave In reckless fury bursting o'er his bows. And so the warrior, too, the battle shout Of victory still ringing in his ears, Unscaith'd in limb, in spirit unsubdued, Distastes the plays and pleasures of the court, And lists in proud impatience for the call To higher glories and to fresher bays. But is there not a time? Can fancy's dream Of things that may be, though as yet unfound, And treasures hidden though we know not where, But worth the seeking were it but to know Can they go on for ever? And when worn And wasted with defeat, and wounded deep; And if perchance the tardy victory come, With scarce a limb to hang the ribbons onO is there not a time, when satisfied, Alike of what it has and has not found, In doubt if there are treasures yet to find, Or earing not to have them, if there areThe spirit asks no better boon of Heaven Than to repose between the earth and skies, To tread a soil that footsteps have not worn, To breathe an air untainted and unfoul'd By contact with the impurities of earth And as the eye sees nothing intervene Between this fair creation of his love And that far heaven, where we think He dwells, So in the purified and chasten'd soul To feel no baser interest interfere Between our spirit and the God of love ?

O yes, believe it there does come an hour When spirits brave, and bold, and blithely fitted, Ardent to know, and panting to perform, Have had enough-and, sicken'd, or asham'd,

Tire never of the shelter that receives them,
From life's impetuous and unhallow'd cares,
To days of meditation, peace,

and prayer.
And vainly then may wealth and fame invite
And fancy.tell of mighty deeds to do
The treasures are laid up-the store is full-
The pure and molten gold has pass'd the fire,
And proved itself eternal-now we ask
But time to count our treasures, and possess them,
And live upon that rich celestial store
Earth can add nothing too, nor all the waste
Of time or of eternity exhaust:
And hear-pot earth's cold counsets or its fame-
But, safer far, to list the harmony
Of nature's musick; and by the lark,
That sings ere day-light opens, be reminded
Of that unseen and near approaching day:
And do--have we not done enough?--of sin,
Of folly, and of our own false will
Heaping the evil measure of our doings
Till scarce eternal misery may requite them?
Now rather give us time to tell them over
And take the value of them; and be taught
Or e'er that day arrive, the sum we owe,
How much must pay, or how much be forgiven.
Cease the world's music-cease the battle strife
Cease all alike, and stop the cumbrous wheels
Of earth's machinery+silent and serene
That we may rest awhile without their noise
Or ever we depart beyond their reach;
And earth's poor interests willingly foregone,
Make God our all before He claims to be so.

Psalm cxlvii. 11.

O LET me call thee Father--for to me

Above all other names, that name is sweet; And if I am thy child, admit the plea,

When I approach before thy mercy seat. O look upon me in thy best beloved,

I come to thee in Jesus' precious name; And in my Lord, accepted and approved,

Let me thy guidance, thy protection claim;

And tenderest love-unworthy as I am,

His spirit bids me, “ Abba, I'ather," cry Let me in him, for “ Worthy is the Lamb,”

Meet the loved radiance of Jehovah's eye.

Here, O my Father, is my soul's repose;

Thine eye is ever beaming from above With pleasure, with complacency on those,

Whose hope is in thy covenanted love.


Where is my heart? Dear Lord, with thee,

And all the little flock who bear Thy name and likeness—where I see

That mark impressed, my heart is there; With friends on earth and friends above, With all who love the Lord I love.

In thee alone it finds repose,

Or where thy beams reflected shine; No other resting place it knows,

But thee, O Lord, or thee in thine; Whose lips confess, whose actions prove They truly love the Lord I love.

Whate'er their country or their name,

With such, when privileged to meet,
Kindred and fellowship I claim,

And converse hold-communion sweet;
For still my heart will freely move
To all who love the Lord I love.

When thou shalt raise us to the skies,

Circling thine everlasting throne,
As from one heart, one song shall rise,

The theme, THY NAME, and thine alone:
Thou wilt thy perfect work approve,
Where all will love the Lord I love.

IoTA. .

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