like for many a day after the mere fashion of the novel of the season shall be past and gone. The last of his works, especially "Father Connell," contains the portrait of a parish priest so exquisitely simple, natural, and tender, that in the whole range of fiction I know nothing more charming. The subject was one that the author loved; witness the following rude, rugged, homely song, which explains so well the imperishable ties which unite the peasant to his pastor.

Loyal and brave to you,
Soggarth aroon,

Yet be no slave to you,
Soggarth aroon,

Nor out of fear to you
Stand up so near to you—

Och! out of fear to you,
Soggarth aroon!

Who in the winter night,

Soggarth aroon,

When the could blast did bite,

Soggarth aroon,

Came to my cabin-door,

And on my earthen floor

Knelt by me sick and poor,
Soggarth aroon?

Who on the marriage-day,

Soggarth aroon,

Made the poor cabin gay,

Soggarth aroon,

And did both laugh and sing,

Making our hearts to ring
At the poor christening,
Soggarth aroon?

Who as friend only met,

Soggarth aroon;

Never did flout me yet,

Soggarth aroon,

And when my hearth was dim,

Gave, while his eye did brim,

What I should give to him,
Soggarth aroon ?

Och! you, and only you,
Soggarth aroon!

And for this I was true to you,
Soggarth aroon;

In love they'll never shake,

When for ould Ireland's sake,
We a true part did take,
Soggarth aroon!

There is a small and little-known volume of these rough peasant-ballads, full of the same truth and intensity of feeling,-songs which seem destined to be sung at the wakes and patterns of Ireland. But, to say nothing of his fine classical tragedy of "Damon and Pythias," Mr. Banim, so successful in the delineation of the sweet, delicate, almost idealised girl of the people, has written at least one song that may rival Gerald Griffin in grace and sentiment. A lover sings it to his mistress.

"Tis not for love of gold I go,
'Tis not for love of fame;

Though fortune may her smile bestow,

And I may win a name,

Ailleen;

And I may win a name.

And yet it is for gold I go,

And yet it is for fame;

That they may deck another brow,
And bless another name,

Ailleen ;

And bless another name.

For this, but this, I go-for this
I leave thy love awhile,
And all the soft and quiet bliss

Of thy young faithful smile,
Ailleen;

Of thy young faithful smile.

And I go to brave a world I hate,
And woo it o'er and o'er,
And tempt a wave, and try a fate

Upon a stranger shore,

Ailleen;

Upon a stranger shore.

Oh! when the bays are all my own,

I know a heart will care!

Oh! when the gold is sought and won,

I know a brow will wear,

Ailleen;

I know a brow will wear!

And, when with both returned again

My native land I see,

I know a smile will meet me then,

And a hand will welcome me,

Ailleen;

And a hand will welcome me!

Is it not strange that with such ballads as these of John Banim, Thomas Davis, and Gerald Griffin before us, Mr. Moore, that great and undoubted wit, should pass in the highest English circles for the only song-writer of Ireland? Do people really prefer flowers made of silk and cambric, of gum and wire, the work of human hands however perfect, to such as Mother Earth sends forth in the gushing spring time, full of sap and odour, sparkling with sunshine and dripping with dew?

I can find no regular life of our poet; nothing beyond a chance record of a kind word to one young struggling countryman, and a kind act to another. He died in the vigour of his age; married, and as I The too frequent story of a man of

fear poor. genius.