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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 ;
And moves to death with military glee.
Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, frank, and free ;
Rough nature's children, humourous as she;
Tue VISION OF Don RODERICK.
HYMNS AND POETICAL RECREATIONS,
“ When I remember thee upon my bed.”—Psalm Ixiii. 6.
In the mid silence of the voiceless night,
O God, but Thee?
And if there seem a weight upon my breast,
And lay it down.
Or if it be such heaviness as comes
Since 'tis thy will.
And oh! in spite of past or future care,
My God, with Thee!
More tranquil than the bosom of the night,
Beneath thy power.
For what is there on earth that I desire
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,
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,
And converse hold-communion sweet;
When thou shalt raise us to the skies,
Circling thine everlasting throne,
The theme, THY NAME, and thine alone: