83 



The tempest-beateu Mariner 



Once more may tempt the main, 

 But when life's stream forsakes the heart, 



' T will never flow again. 

 The flowers that in the Autumn die, 



In Spring again will bloom ; 

 The roses of the faded year 



Will yield a sweet perfume ; 

 The Verdure of departed spring 



Again will glad the plain ; 

 But when hope's bud fades at the heart 



'T will never bloom again. 



The following little Sonnet could not fail to be admired by 

 every one of classical taste : — 



anacreon's grave. 



Here, where the rose unfolds her glowing charms, 

 And the vine clasps the myrtle with her arms ; 

 Where chirps the blithe cicada on the ground. 

 And the fond turtle coos with billing sound ; 

 Whose grave is this ? What mortal here is laid ? 

 Where love's own hand hath dressed the rural shade. 

 Here sleeps the bard, who woke the Teian shell, 

 Anacreon — he who sang of love so well. 

 Spring, Summer, Autumn, living he was blest, 

 And here, from winter safe, he takes his rest. 



He referred, also, to the many fugitive pieces of Dr. Mackay, 

 the late Mr. Mahony, of Cork, (Father Prout,) Mr. Proctor, 

 (Barry Cornwall,) and others, and lauded highly the poetical 

 effusions which appear in the columns of the "Manchester 

 Examiner." 



In concluding, he said he might have instanced many other 

 productions of equal or superior power, but it was time to 

 enquire shortly what were the characteristics of those which 

 he had read, and which he asserted to be a fair sample of the 

 fugitive poetry of the present day, and he thought that they 

 would be considered to possess the essential qualities of the 

 poetry of all times — invention, description, and imagination ; 



