From those he wept for; well did he foresee
The scourge the thorns-the cross-the agony;
Yet still, how oft upon thy sons he laid

The hands of health; how oft beneath his wing
Thy children would have gathered, O Jerusalem !—
Thou art not mortal-thou didst come from Heaven,
Spirit of patriotism! thou art divine!

Then, seraph! where thy first descent on earth?
Heaven's hallelujahs, for what soil abandon'd?—
Close by the side of Adam, ere he woke
Into existence, was thy hallowed stand;
On Eden and on thee his eyes unclosed :
For say, instead of wisdom's sacred tree,
And its sweet fatal fruit, had Heaven denied
His daily visit to his natal spot,—

Say, could our father boast one day's obedience?———
And wherefore, Eden, when he pass'd for ever
Thy gates, in slow and silent bitterness,-
Why did he turn that look of bursting anguish
Upon thy fruits, thy groves, thy vales, thy fountains,
And why inhale with agonising fervour

The last-last breeze that blew from thee upon him?— 'Twas not alone because thy fruits were sweet— Thy groves were music-and thy fountains, health

Thy breezes balm-thy valleys, loveliness ;

But that they were the first his ear, eye, taste,

Or smell, or feeling had perceived or tasted,

Heard, seen, inhaled;-because thou wert his country! Yes, frail and sorrowing sire, thy sons forgive thee!

True, thou hast lost us Eden and its joys,
But thou hast suffer'd doubly by the loss!
We were not born there-it was not our country!
O holy Angel! thou hast given us each
This substitute for Paradise; with thee,
The vale of snow may be our summer walk;
The pointed rock, the bower of our repose;
The cataract, our music; while, for food,
Thy fingers, icy-cold, perhaps may pluck
The mountain-berry; yet, with thee, we'll smile-
Nor shiver when we hear, that Father Adam
Once lived in brighter climes, on sweeter food.—
But, ah! at least to this our second Eden
Permit no artful serpent to approach;

Let no foul traitor grasp at fruits which thou
Hast interdicted; and no sword of flame
Flash forth despair, and wave us to our exile.
Yet, rather than that I should rise in shame
Upon my country's downfal, or should draw
One tear from her, or e'en one frown from thee—
Rather than that I should approach her walls,
Like Caius Marcius, with her foes combined,
Or turn, like Sylla, her own sons upon her,—
Let me sit down in silence by thy side,
Upon the banks of Babylon, and weep,
When we remember all that we have lost :
Nor shall we always on the stranger's willow
Allow our harp in sorrow to repose;
But when thy converse has inspired my soul,

Roused it to frenzy, taught me to forget

Distance, and time, and place, and wo, and exile,
And I no more behold Euphrates' bank,

And hear no more the clanking of my fetters,-
Then, in thy fervours, shalt thou snatch thy harp,
And strike me one of Sion's loftiest songs,
Until I pour my soul upon the notes-
Deep from my heart-and they shall waft it home.
O Erin! O my mother! I will love thee!
Whether upon thy green, Atlantic throne,
Thou sitt'st august, majestic, and sublime;
Or on thy empire's last remaining fragment,
Bendest forlorn, dejected, and forsaken,-
Thy smiles, thy tears, thy blessings, and thy woes,
Thy glory and thy infamy, be mine!

Should Heaven but teach me to display my heart,
With Deborah's notes thy triumphs would I sing-
Would weep thy woes with Jeremiah's tears;
But for a warning voice, which, though thy fall
Had been begun, should check thee in mid-air,-
Isaiah's lips of fire should utter, Hold!—
Not e'en thy vices can withdraw me from thee;—
Thy crimes I'd shun-thyself would still embrace;
For e'en to me Omnipotence might grant

To be the "tenth just man," to save thee, Erin!
And when I leave thee, should the lowest seat
In heaven be mine,-should smiling mercy grant
One dim and distant vision of its glories,-
Then if the least of all the blest can mix

With heaven one thought of earth,-I'll think of thee.

The fragments of the speech delivered from the chair, in the Historical Society, which shall now be presented to the reader, can give but an imperfect idea of its merits as a whole; however, they may serve to exhibit the character of his mind at that early period of his life, and afford an interesting ground of comparison between his juvenile efforts as a speaker, and his graver exertions in maturer years, when the sublime realities of religion had more fully engaged those sensibilities which were now so keenly alive to the romance of poetry and the charms of general literature.

After a modest and appropriate introduction, and a high panegyric on the objects and constitution of the society he was addressing, the speaker thus proceeds:

She (the Historical Society)' sends her ambassador, to recall the wavering and disaffected to their allegiance, by displaying the beauties of her constitution; that you may not desert the station for which nature and education have designed you; that you should not dare to frustrate a nation's hope, which looks to you for the guardians of her laws and the champions of her political prosperity; that you

should not presume to neglect the voice of your God, who demands from among you the supporters of his church; that a portion of mind, a mass of concentrated intellect, may issue from these walls, and overshadow the land; and that, at length, after a glorious career of enlightened and diffusive utility, you may retire with dignity from the part you have acted, and Ireland command posterity to imitate your example. Such are the objects to which you are now invited, from low pursuits and sordid gratifications.

Poetry* demands no laborious intellectual intensity to imbibe her angelic counsels; it is upon the hours of our pleasures she descends; it is our recreation she exalts. Thus, she makes our hours of rapture or enjoyment, the hours of our greatest elevation of soul: our

The introductory part of the subject of Poetry (which those who heard the speech delivered can recollect as peculiarly happy) is not to be found amongst the loose papers from which these fragments are transcribed. This will account for the abruptness with which this part commences.— EDITOR.