Have met thy glance in Fashion's festal throng, And oh! I've seen thee at the altar stand, For life the kindest of the kind to thee! Such, Woman! art thou-such whom Man forsakes; His fond hope here-nay more-his guide to Heaven! Oh! there were moments when FITZREYNARD's soul But who could tell the mystic throb within...... So fled that darken'd aspect......o'er that brow Upon a sofa lay a sleeping child, Angel in mien, and as an Angel mild; Calm amid Nature's passions......there it lay, Sun-beam of Peace beside Thought's treacherous ray. # He turn'd-but, gracious Powers! what met his gaze- One look sufficed-it was, it was the same! Those clustering locks fell o'er that pallid brow. She wreath'd for him Hope's earliest, fondest flowers. Dorsetshire. SIR, It was the song he'd loved in happier times Feelings long dormant o'er his mem❜ry crept, But grown more calm, his eye one moment gleam'd, Then paus'd, one moment lowly bow'd his head, A NATIVE. SKETCH OF THE HIBERNIAN TURF: I scattered over the world, believe me it has proceeded from no want of inclination to aid the mutual cause, or a lack of gratitude to those out-and-out Correspondents, whose facetious wits have brought on many a twinge in my swaddled extremities, by making me the animated picture of "Laughter holding both his sides." But to my subject-The Irish, Mr. Editor, are a race of people sui generis. I know of none, indeed, on the face of the globe so prominently distinguished for their national attributes and lively characteristics. By the former I mean to be understood as referring to that warm-hearted philanthropy and boundless hospitality which are the eulogy of every traveller, and the cementing bond of many a friendship. Their peculiarities of manner and sentiment, ludicrous as they are-and at which none laugh more heartily than themselves where is the man who would not speak of them with complacency--smile indulgently on their foibles-and willingly find a liberal apology for their less venial errors? I am not, however, going to explore the dark regions of Erin's political ills would I could impart a perennial sunshine to its scowling horizon!-but I am about to relate one of those mirthinciting scenes so often mingled with the hilarious moments of the natives, and which seldom fail to communicate their joyous influence to everybody else who may happen to witness or hear of them. The scene is a Race Course the prize a saddle. The incidents will be gathered from the following portraiture by one of their own artists. The spot selected for the occasion was the shore of a small bay, which was composed of a fine hard sand that afforded a very fair and level course for the horses. At the farther end was a lofty pole, on the top of which was suspended by the stirrup a new saddle, the destined guerdon of the conqueror. A red handkerchief stripped from the neck of Dan Hourigan, the housecarpenter, was hoisted over-head, and a crowd of country people, dressed, notwithstanding the fineness of the day, in their heavy frieze great-coats, stood round the winning-post, each faction being resolved to see justice done to its own representative in the match. A number of tents, com posed of old sheets, bags, and blankets, with a pole at the entrance, and a sheaf of reed, a broken bottle, or a sod of turf erected for a sign, were discernible among the multitude that thronged the side of the little rising ground before mentioned. High above the rest Mick Normile's sign-board waved in the rising wind. Busy was the look of that lean old man as he bustled to and fro among his pigs, kegs, mugs, pots, and porringers. A motley mass of felt hats, white muslin caps and ribands, scarlet cloaks, and blue riding jocks, filled up the spaces between the tents, and moved in a continual series of involutions, whirls, and eddies, like those which are observable on the surface of a fountain newly filled. The horses were to start from the end of the bay opposite to the winning post, go round Mick Normile's tent, and the cowel on the hill side, and, returning to the place whence they came, run straight along the strand for the saddle. This was to be the victor's prize. The solatio victo were to be had at the rate of four-pence per tumbler at Mick Normile's tent. The following insight into the characters of the heroes of the reins, and of the secret machinery of intrigue which was expected to interfere with the fair dealing of the day, was thus communicated by one of a visiting party, as the rural equestrians passed by. The first whom you see advancing, on that poor half-starved black mare with the great lump on her knee, and the hay-rope for a saddle-girth, is Jerry Dooley, our village nailer, famed alike for his dexterity in shaping the heads of his brads and demolish- can to win the saddle for himself. ing those of his acquaintances. Renowned in war is Jerry, I can tell you-Gurtenaspig and Derrygortnacloghy re-echo with his fame. Next to him, on that spavined grey horse, rides John O'Reilly, our blacksmith, not less esteemed in arms, or rather in cudgels. Not silent are the walks of Garryowen on the deeds of John O'Reilly, and the bogs of Ballinvoric quake when his name is mentioned. A strength of arm, the result of their habitual occupation, has rendered both these heroes formidable among the belligerent factions of the village; but the nailer is allowed a precedence. He is the great Achilles, O'Reilly the Talemon Ajax of the neighbourhood: and, to follow up my Homeric parallels, close behind him on that long-backed, ungroomed creature, with the unnameable colour, rides the crafty Ulysses of the assemblage, Dan Hogan, the process-server. You may read something of his vocation in the sidelong glance of his eye, and in the paltry deprecating air of his whole demeanour. He starts as if afraid of a blow whenever any one addresses him. As he is going to be married to Dooley's sister, it is apprehended by the O'Reillys that he will attempt to cross the blacksmith's mare; but the smoky Achilles, who gets drunk with him every Saturday night, has a full reliance on his friendship. Whether, however, Cupid or Bacchus will have the more powerful influence upon the process-server, is a question that I believe yet remains a mystery even to himself; and I suspect he will adopt the neutral part of doing all he The two who ride abreast behind Hogan are mountaineers, of whose motives or intentions Í am not aware. The sixth and last is Lowry Looby. He is the only romantic individual of the match. He rides for love; and it is to the chatty disposition of the lady of his affections, our own housemaid, that I am indebted for all this information. The signal being at length given, after a hundred shouts of "clear the coorse!" the six horsemen started in good order, and with more zeal and eagerness in their faces than was to be found in the limbs of the animals which they bestrode. For a few moments the strife seemed doubtful, and victory hovered, with an indecisive wing, now over one helmet, and now over another. The crowd of spectators, huddling together on a heap, with faces that glowed and eyes that sparkled with intense interest, encouraged the riders with shouts and exclamations of hoarse and vehement applause. "Success! success, Jerry!"-"It's done ; a half-pint wit you Dan Hogan wins!"-"I depend my life upon John O'Reilly.". "Give her a loose, Lowry:" and other expressions of a similar nature. But ere they again came round the winning-post, the position of the horses was altered. O'Reilly rode in front, lashing his horse in the flank with as much force as if he were pounding on his own anvil. Dooley, the nailer, came close behind, drubbing his black mare's lean ribs with the calves of his legs, as if designing to beat the poor beast out of the last remnant of her wind. The others followed, lashing their |