RORY O'MORE; OR, GOOD OMENS. Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn; "Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, Faith, you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out." "Och! jewel," says Rory, "that same is the way You've thrated my heart for this many a day; And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? For 'tis all for good-luck," says bold Rory O'More. "Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. In Ireland they have a superstition that when a child smiles in its sleep it is talking with angels. A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh come back to me!" Her beads while she numbered, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee: "Oh, blessed be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. "And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound"- Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! "Faith!" says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the ground." "Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go: And say thou wouldst rather For I know that the angels are whispering to thee." The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, Sure I dream every night that I'm hating you so!" lie! And closely caressing And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with Since 'tis all for good-luck," says bold Rory O'More. "Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased me enough; Sure I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste, So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste." Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck; And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light, And he kissed her sweet lips-Don't you think he was right? "Now, Rory, leave off, sir,- you'll hug me no more, That's eight times to-day you have kissed me before." "Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More. thee." Thomas Hood. Hood (1798-1845) was a native of London, the son of a bookseller. At school he picked up some Latin and more French. On leaving, he was planted on a countinghouse stool, where he remained long enough to get materials for the following sonnet: "Time was, I sat upon a lofty stool, After passing two years with his father's relatives in to his uncle, Robert Sands, as an engraver. He made his first mark as a writer by joining with his brother-in-law, J. H. Reynolds, in a playful volume of "Odes to Great People"-such as Graham, the aeronaut; Macadam, the improver of roads; and Kitchener, author of "The Cook's Oracle." In 1826 Hood published his first series of "Whims and Oddities;" a second series in 1827; and then a volume, "The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies, with other Poems." In 1829 he commenced "The Comic Annual," which was continued for nine years. In 1834 he published "Tylney Hall," a novel. It was a failure. Ill health compelled him to travel on the Continent to recruit; and on his return home he became editor of the New Monthly Magazine. From this he retired in 1843, and in 1844 started Hood's Magazine, and contributed to its pages until within a month before his death. His celebrated "Song of the Shirt" first appeared in Punch in 1844. Hood died a poor man, leaving a widow and two chil dren. His life was one of incessant brain-work, aggravated by ill health and the uncertainties and disquiets of authorship. After his death his literary friends contributed liberally to the support of his widow and family; Government had already granted to Mrs. Hood a pension of £100. There is a healthy moral tone in nearly all Hood's poetry, and in some of it he shows high imaginative power. If he had not been compelled to coin his brain into money for immediate use, he would doubtless have tried many nobler flights. He left a son of the same name, who died in 1874, not without giving tokens that he had inherited some of the paternal genius. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. One more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair! Look at her garments, Whilst the wave constantly Touch her not scornfully, Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her: All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful; Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, Loop up her tresses Escaped from the combHer fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home? Who was her father? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet than all other? Alas! for the rarity Sisterly, brotherly, Feelings were changed; Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night. The bleak wind of March Or the black flowing river; |