Sarah, my last, my youngest love,

The crown of every other,

Though thou art born again above,
I only am thy mother;
Nor will affection let me
Believe thou canst forget me.

Then, thou in Heaven and I on earth, May this one hope delight us,

That thou wilt hail my second birth, When death shall re-unite us; Where worlds no more can sever, Parent and child for ever.

BEHOLD yon beetling cliff whose brow
Hangs pending o'er the vale below;
A tale not easily forgot,

Is told of that same fearful spot;
And thus it runs-one summer's day
A bridal party blithe and gay
Came hither to enjoy the scene
And dance at evening on the green.
Maria was the lovely bride,

Her parent's and her husband's pride;
That morning sun arose to shed
Its lustre on her happy head;

And ere its parting beams glanc'd down,
On valley green and mountain brown,
A mourning bride she was.--

They laugh'd and revell'd, till the sun
In heaven his mid-day course begun,
When to avoid the scorching heat,
In groupes they sought some cool retreat,
Maria, with a chosen friend,
In yonder grove retired to spend
An hour of confidence, and share
The breezes that were sporting there;
While William, full of hope and joy,
His happy moments to employ,
Wound round those rocky paths to gain
A prospect of the neighbouring plain,
Which bounded by the distant skies
In variegated beauty lies.

His steps were watched, his way pursued,
By one who thirsted for his blood;
Inflam'd with jealousy and fired
By fiendish rage, he but desired
To live to strike a deadly blow,
And stretch his hated rival low.
Maria he had lov'd and strove
By all the stratagems of love
To captivate her gentle heart;
But still in vain he found his art,
That undivided realm to share,
For William ruled supremely there :
Enraged, and stung, his hair he tore,
A deep and deadly vengeance swore;
And to fulfil his dark intent,
The bridal morn he chose to vent
His smother'd rage-he traced the way
Like blood-hound hov'ring on his prey,
Silent and sure-while gay and light,
The happy bridegroom climb'd the height.

Borne on the wings of bliss elate,
And thoughtless of impending fate;
He just had gained the steepest place
And felt the fresh breeze fan his face,
When pale and trembling in his ire,
With quiv'ring lip and eye of fire,
His foe sprung on the fatal spot-
Their conference was brief and hot;
Insult began-defiance flash'd,

A rash and sudden blow was dash'd;
They grasp'd-they strove-they strain'd
for breath

The struggle was for life or death.
Twice to the dizzy ledge they roll'd,
Clasp'd in each other's fatal fold,
And twice they backward roll'd and then
Renew'd the deadly strife again.
The aim of each was now to throw,
His rival on the rocks below.
To compromise they bade adieu,
And nothing short of death would do.
Again the frightful steep they ey'd,
And struggling hard again they tried
To fling each other down- at length
William's activity and strength
Had work'd his now exhausted foe,
Just to the gulph that yawn'd below.
One effort more and he was free-
But in this dread extremity
His rival drew a deadly blade,
One sure and fatal plunge he made,

The weapon pierc'd young William's breast,
A groan and struggle mark'd the rest.

The murderer then the deed to hide,
Flung from the precipice's side
The reeking corpse o'er cliffs and all,
'Twas dash'd to pieces with the fall.
He saw it plunge from rock to rock,
And smil'd at each repeated shock;
Till all the mangled fragments lay,
Deep buried from the light of day;
And then he silently withdrew-
The fearful story no man knew—-
But when the bloody tracks were found
The sad report was spread around
That William as he climb'd the height,
Fill'd with fond hopes of pleasures bright,
His footstep miss'd and thus he fell
All lifeless in the rocky dell

A mangled corpse. Maria's grief,

Was silent, but beyond relief;
Deep in a gloomy solitude

She kept her maiden widowhood

For three sad years-and when at last
That lonely boundary she pass'd
To mingle in the world again,
All friendly efforts were in vain,
Her cheerless moments to beguile,
Or raise one melancholy smile;

At last she died-and time roll'd on,
Till years were counted twenty one,
Since that sad bridal day-when lo!
There came a night of storm and snow,
And at a monastery in Spain,
A wearied man and worn with pain,
Implor'd admittance not in vain.
He fell exhausted on the ground
The pitying fathers gather'd round,
And strove to cheer his sinking frame,
Before their hospitable flame;
They us'd mild words of comfort too,
His mental sufferings to subdue,
But all in vain-for scarce the day,

Had chas'd the stormy night away,
When worn with pain-life ebbing fast-
The wretched wand'rer breath'd his last.
Yet ere he died, 'twas said that he,

In deep remorse and agony,
Confess'd a murder he had done
Beneath the full meridian sun,
Just one and twenty years before,
In a wild glen on Erin's shore.

Since then he'd wander'd round the earth
A guilty wretch that curst his birth;
Alike to him each distant clime,
For still the victim of his crime
Pursued his steps-amid the storm,
Aghast he saw the bleeding form
Of him he slew-'twas pale and grim,
And did it?-yes!-it beckon'd him!

Such is the melancholy tale,
That's current in this peaceful vale,
And thus it is that yonder steep
Is nam'd by all "The Lover's Leap."
ALLAN FITZALLAN.

I HAVE promised, in a former letter, that those gentry should form the subject of one of my "hours" and as fortune (however singular, always fortunate to a literary gossip) has placed it in my power to lay before your readers a scene-quorum pars parva fui-which, I flatter myself, they may not consider uninteresting, I hasten to redeem my pledge.

I was sitting quietly in the house of an acquaintance (a county of Limerick gentleman,) about twelve o'clock at noon, on a fine, still, sun-shiny day the good lady of the mansion was busily engaged in preparing luncheon: the master, a quiet, inoffensive, timid kind of man, who by his neutrality during the disturbances had secured himaelf against injury on all sides, was poring with eyes aghast, and a countenance surcharged with expression which he vainly endeavoured to suppress, over the columns of the last Limerick Evening Post, where in all the authenticity of neat long primer, the doings of the last week were recorded, not in the most soothing strain to the self-alarmist, when Pat Cahil, a gentleman who did my friend the honour of officiating as groom of his stables, burst into the chamber, hatless, coatless, and shoeless-his whole frame evidently agitated by the extremity of

consternation.

It was some time before he could articulate-" Mr. Wardow! there they are all !-gone up to the cross by the forge!"

"Who?" exclaimed my friend, endeavouring to preserve an appearance of dignified calmness.

"The boys, Sir-the boys! and 'tis thought they're going to do something that's bad, Sir, by the Peppards,* Sir, now the army arn't to the fore.""Where are the military stationed!" I asked. "Och, your honour, there isn't a sodger near to us than Adare; and it's but a poor account you'd have o' the business be the time you'd get there, let alone the road back." The distant report of a shot instantly convinced us that this was but too true. I rushed toward the door, however, rather rudely flinging back my friend, who opposed himself to my exit with the most haggard and woe-begone look of entreaty Ï ever beheld. In a few minutes I reached the hill of Lisnamuck, a place which cut rather a conspicuous figure as a place of rendezvous on the nocturnal occasions of those people, and in some part of which, knowing folks will tell you with

* It may be necessary to remark, that this attack on those gentlemen, and their manly resistance, is pure history.

a wink and a nod, an old cavern serves as an armoury to the worthy General's forces; but at all events I reached the summit of the hill, and in an instant the scene of battle lay before me. Cappa House, the residence of Mr. Peppard and his two sons, was an elderly-looking edifice, and apparently well calculated to sustain a seige in which musketry were the heaviest modes of assault to be apprehended. It was situated rather on a low ground, with a slope on one side leading to a plain still lower, and surrounded by a lofty wall, the only entrance through which was a small narrow gateway. It fact it had the appearance of a regular little fortress. I afterwards found by the public papers, that the elder Mr. P. was, at the time the Rockite party suddenly came upon the house, outside this gate, and unarmed. On seeing them approach he ran toward it, and closing it after him, made what haste he could along a narrow straight passage which led directly from it to the back-door of the house. This was open. Before he reached it he heard behind him the grating of the blunderbusses against the iron railing as the ruffians poked them through to take a deliberate aim, and he sprung towards the door. It was shut in his face! The alarm had been given in the house. Unconscious of Mr. P.'s absence, and imagining that the assailants had made good their entrance into this inner passage, they slapped to the door, and left him to the mercy of the men without, or rather of their blunderbusses, for these had more than their owners, and contrived to throw their contents harmlessly all around him. Indeed his escape was *almost miraculous. The door, the panels and jams of which were perforated by slugs, so as scarcely to leave a hair's-breadth more than the space necessary for his preservation, was for a considerable time afterwards an object of intense curiosity to numerous visitors. Before the discharge could be renewed, however, he was placed beyond its reach. The aggressors now (and it was just at this juncture the scene presented itself to my sight) retired from the gate, and commenced firing upon the windows. Only con

ceive the impression which such a spectacle must have produced on the mind of a stranger, in the deep stillness of a summer noontide, and in a populous country where there was something like civilization and civil government talked about! Every man went as coolly and openly to work as if the grey frieze on their backs had been regular, protracted, loyal scarlet, and the resisting housekeepers the proscribed men of the law. Very soon after, and while the clouds of smoke were rolling towards a clump of trees on the south, two of the windows were suddenly thrown up, and as suddenly a reciprocal discharge was commenced from within. The battle now began to wax earnest; the Rockites sent forth a yell with every discharge, which came over the still champagne around with almost a redoubled loudness; and the advantage of the housed warriors became quickly apparent. With all the credit for discipline which the Rockites have achieved, their mode of battle on this occasion was not very imposing: they regularly, after discharging a volley irregularly, ran down the slope a briglia sciolta, and squatted themselves behind a hedge, reloaded, and readvanced to the charge in any thing but marching order. Then, again unburthening their firearms with all the serious silence in the world, they again sent forth a shout, and scampered off to prepare for a new volley. One only among them seemed to despise this pusillanimous procedure: he appeared to command the band, and, in fact, did so, as was afterwards found; but he was only distinguished from the rest by a white handkerchief tied round his hat. He remained during the whole affray in the same spot, but he did not continue to expose himself with impunity : as his party advanced to the charge for the last time, he was in the act of raising his musket, when a ball from one of the windows struck him on the arm, and the piece fell to the ground: he instantly tore the handkerchief from the hat with his left hand, and bound it round the other, accompanying every twist with what Hotspur lusciously calls "a good mouth-filling oath," alter

nately directed, in a tremendous roar, to his poltroons, as he called them (for they now evidently showed symptoms of tergiversation, and no very equivocal ones,) and to the bandage, which he did not find ready enough to assist the awkward efforts of the left hand. He was the last who left the scene of fight, and he walked off sulkily down the slope, and across an adjacent bog, trailing his dishonoured musket after him.

In a few minutes they all united at the Cross of Lisnamuck, within rather

a scanty distance of the spot where I now lay. There were loud voices for a moment, and words of reproach exchanged in their vernacular tongue. Then ensued the silence and sullenness of defeat-disgraceful discomfiture; and they walked down the road in a body towards Curra Grove, the estate of Sir Aubrey De Vere Hunt, which, during the occasional absences of this amiable proprietor, was made a frequent place of meeting by those miserably misguided creatures. They entered the wood, and I lost them.

SLOWLY approach yon yew-tree shade
'Neath which is told the tender tale
Of her within its fring'd turf laid,
Poor Emma, lifeless, cold, and pale.

And read the silent record there,
Of one, whose life was chill'd by scorn,
Was blasted by thy damps, despair
And slighted love, too meekly borne.

Oh! if some swain of pity's mould,
Has e'er felt tears bedew his eye,
The while some rustic tongue has told
More than the lay could well supply-

Then memory to his generous mind
While musing on her hapless lot,
May paint the scene, when lilies, twined
In wreaths, bedecked this silent spot.

Or further to his fancy trace
When scented flowers and deadly rue,
O'er her white shroud and beauteous face,
'Twas each young maiden's task to strew.

Perchance more faithful still may tell
What sighs were breath'd of grief profound,
When sadly tolled her funeral knell,
And awe-struck was the hamlet round.

And o'er her grave mark many a print Of warbling words with soft impress,

Where many a rose of richest tint Has blush'd in nature's loveliness.

And one more fair than all beside,
Nurtur'd by some peculiar care,
Expanded forth in leafy pride,
And shed its sweetest fragrance there.

In peeerless beauty, nature's gem,
It grew in summer's sunny hours,
The fairest and the prettiest stem
Among the sisterhood of flowers.

At fall of eve this rose I viewed,
And then the balmy flower bloomed gay,
But ah! ere morn, each opening bud,
With dew o'ercharged had drooped away.

Like Emma, was this short-lived rose,
Which met the orient morning dew,
Its leaves of beauty to disclose,
Then sink in tears beneath the view.

Oh, could the sun's soft glow alone,
With genial warmth soft beauty raise,
This flower in lovely pride had blown,
And nourish'd still to Nature's praise.
Its leaves their wonted bloom would wear,
And, placed in Emma's bosom twine,
More fresh when water'd by the tear
Of eyes that speak a love like mine.

AH! could I then, could I then bid thee farewell! No, no, lovely girl, something wrong appears in it, Or why does it sound on my heart like a knell? Why could I not bid thee farewell every minute? Yet, dearest, I could, and how sweet would the sound be

Of farewell, if whisper'd to meet thee again; To meet thy pure love in the charms that surround thee,

And know that my passion is breath'd not in vain;

And, oh! I could love thee, love, though rejected, Like Adam, when sadly from Paradise driven,

To gaze on his home he turn'd lone and dejected, So could I gaze on thee, my Eden, my Heaven! And when for some rival your coldness dismisses, My love, as transgressing, annoying and vain, Should I once be refresh'd by the dew of your kisses, I'm sure I should sweetly transgress, dear, again; For in my fond bosom eternally lies

A feeling, spell-bound; but I cannot tell whether

'Tis charm'd by the lip, or the star of thine eyes, But I know that 'twill make me adore thee for

ever.