of the Glacier of the Rhone is quite enchanting:"To form an idea," he says, "of this superb spectacle, figure in your mind a scaffolding of transparent ice, filling a space of two miles, rising to the clouds, and darting flashes of light like the sun. Nor were the several parts less magnificent and surprising. One might see, as it were, the streets and buildings of a city, erected in the form of an amphitheatre, and embel. lished with pieces of water, cascades, and torrents. The effects were as prodigious as the immensity and the height: the most beautiful azure-the most splendid white-the regular ap. pearance of a thousand pyramids of ice, are more easy to be imagined than described."-BOURRIT, iii. 163.

Note 2, page 125.

From heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin.

Laborde, in his "Tableau de la Suisse," gives a curious account of this animal, the wild sharp cry and elastic movements of which must heighten the picturesque appearance of its haunts."Nature," says Laborde, "has destined it to mountains covered with snow: if it is not exposed to keen cold, it becomes blind. Its agility in leaping much surpasses that of the chamois, and would appear incredible to those who have not seen it. There is not a mountain so high or steep to which it will not trust itself, provided it has room to place its feet; it can scramble along the highest wall, if its surface be rugged."

Note 3, page 125.

Enamell'd moss.

The moss of Switzerland, as well as that of the Tyrol, is remarkable for a bright smoothness approaching to the appearance of enamel.

Note 4, page 129.

How dear seem'd ev'n the waste and wild Schreck-horn.

The Schreck-horn means, in German, the Peak of Terror.

Note 5, page 129.

Blindfold his native hills he could have known.

I have here availed myself of a striking expression of the Emperor Napoleon respecting his recollections of Corsica, which is recorded in Las Cases's History of the Emperor's Abode at St. Helena.

10

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

O'CONNOR'S CHILD;

OR, THE "FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING."

I.

OH! once the harp of Innisfail*

Was strung full high to notes of gladness;
But yet it often told a tale

Of more prevailing sadness.

Sad was the note, and wild its fall,
As winds that moan at night forlorn
Along the isles of Fion-Gall,

When, for O'Connor's child to mourn,
The harper told, how lone, how far
From any mansion's twinkling star,
From any path of social men,
Or voice, but from the fox's den,
The lady in the desert dwelt;

And yet no wrongs, nor fear she felt:
Say, why should dwell in place so wild,
O'Connor's pale and lovely child?

II.

Sweet lady! she no more inspires
Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power,

As, in the palace of her sires,

She bloom'd a peerless flower.

Gone from her hand and bosom, gone,

* Innisfail, the ancient name of Ireland.

The royal brooch, the jewell'd ring,
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone,
Like dews on lilies of the Spring.

Yet why, though fall'n her brother's kerne,*
Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern,
While yet, in Leinster unexplored,
Her friends survive the English sword;
Why lingers she from Erin's host,
So far on Galway's shipwreck'd coast?
Why wanders she a huntress wild-
O'Connor's pale and lovely child?

III.

And, fix'd on empty space, why burn
Her eyes with momentary wildness;
And wherefore do they then return
To more than woman's mildness?
Dishevell'd are her raven locks;
On Connocht Moran's name she calls;
And oft amidst the lonely rocks
She sings sweet madrigals.

Placed in the foxglove and the moss,
Behold a parted warrior's cross!
That is the spot where, evermore,
The lady, at her shielingt door,
Enjoys that, in communion sweet,
The living and the dead can meet;

*Kerne, the plural of Kern, an Irish foot-soldier. In this sense the word is used by Shakspeare. Gainsford, in his Glorys of England, says, They (the Irish) are desperate in revenge, and their kerne think no man dead until his head be off."

† Shieling, a rude cabin or hut.

For, lo! to lovelorn fantasy,

The hero of her heart is nigh.

IV.

Bright as the bow that spans the storm,
In Erin's yellow vesture clad,*
A son of light-a lovely form,
He comes and makes her glad:
Now on the grass-green turf he sits,
His tassel'd horn beside him laid;
Now o'er the hills in chase he flits,
The hunter and the deer a shade!

Sweet mourner! those are shadows vain,
That cross the twilight of her brain;
Yet she will tell you, she is blest,
Of Connocht Moran's tomb possess'd,

More richly than in Aghrim's bower,

When bards high praised her beauty's power, And kneeling pages offer'd up

The morat† in a golden cup.

V.

"A hero's bride! this desert bower,

It ill befits thy gentle breeding:

And wherefore dost thou love this flower
To call My love lies bleeding?'

* Yellow, dyed from saffron, was the favourite colour of the ancient Irish. When the Irish chieftains came to make terms with Queen Elizabeth's lord-lieutenant, we are told by Sir John Davis, that they came to court in saffron-coloured uniforms.

† Morat, a drink made of the juice of mulberry mixed with honey.