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Is as an echo of the distant main,

The name of Cunnemara,--Land of Bays.

I stood among those waters and low hills,
Within the circuit of a goodly town,

Furnished with mart and port and church and school,
Meet for the duteous work of social man

And all the uses of commodious life :
While round me circulated, free and wide,
A shifting crowd of almost giant shapes,
Creatures of busy blood and glorious eyes
Andalusian (as beseems the race),
Moulds of magnificent humanity.
Then was I told that twenty years before,
Or less, this spot, thus gay and populous,
Was one unmitigated solitude,

And all this outer wonder brought about
By the mere act of one industrious man!
Thus rolls amain the large material world,
Impelled and energised by human will.

Accord not him alone the Hero's name,
Who weaves the complicate historic woof,
Out of the rough disorder of mankind,
Fashioning nations to his own proud law :
Nor him alone the Poet's, who creates,
In his own chamber, and exclusive spirit,

A universe of beauty, undisturbed
But by serene and sister sympathies.
For He who in one unremitting chain
Of solemn purpose solders link to link
Of active day and meditative night,

And with unquivering heart and hand can meet
Ever distress, ever impediment,

And wring from out a world of checks and flaws

Some palpable and most perspicuous whole

Of realised design and change impressed,

Shall be enrolled among heroic souls,

Though small the scope and slow the growth of deed.

He too, whose care has made some arid soil
Alive with waters of humane delight,
That shall in merry channels gambol on,
Or rest in depths of happy consciousness,
Has planted and defended in the wild
Some garden of affection, a safe place
For daily love to grow in, and when ripe

To shed sweet seeds, that in their turn will feed

The winds of life with odours, shall be writ

Poet, Creator, in that book of worth,

Which Nature treasures for the

eye of Heaven.

THE SUBTERRANEAN RIVER AT CONG.

A PLEASANT mean of joy and wonder fills
The traveller's mind, beside this secret stream,
That flows from lake to lake beneath the hills,
And penetrates their slumber like a dream.

Untracked by sound or sight it wends its way,
Save where this well-like cave descending far,
Through ivy curtains, lets the uncertain day
Fall on the current and its couch of spar.

A slippery stair will lead you to the brink,
There cast your torch athwart the gleaming tide,
And while you watch the motions of the link
That marries the great waters on each side,-

Think of our common life that glides a span,
In partial light, dark birth and death between,-
Think of the treasures of the heart of man
That once float by us and are no more seen.

Or, for more cheerful mood, let local fame
Recount, how in old time, the faery sprite,
Finvara, or some such melodious name,
Fashioned this channel for her own delight;

And here, distressed at these unloyal days,
Masked in a milk-white fish, still sports along,
And altogether leaves the moonlight rays
For the cool shadow of her Caves of Cong.

"We arrived at the Coleraine Salmon Leap on the 12th of August, just in time to see the last salmon caught,-the fishery there ending that day." -MS. JOURNAL.

ONE moment more before that fatal leap!

One moment more! and now thou hadst been free

To wanton in the autumn sun or sleep

In the warmed crystal of thy little sea.
I saw thee pant,—I saw the flickering shades
Wander beneath thy silver, loth to die,-
And still their glazèd brilliancy upbraids
The heavens that they permit man's perfidy.
But is it not a weak nor sinless thought,
Since Nature's law thus undisturbed has run,
Heedless of all the same hard fate has wrought,
To pass the myriad and deplore the one?
No, no,-our heart has but a narrow span,
Let it hold all the sympathy it can.

VALENTIA.

A FRAGMENT.

WHERE Europe's varied shore is bent Out to the utmost Occident,

There rose of old from sea to air,

An island wonderful and fair!

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Our stranger-sister hemisphere,

Here the Sun is pleased to cast
Liefest smiles, as more his last,

Kinder than he gives to us-
Parting love-looks rubious :

Not that here the wind may fling

Odours from his faithless wing,

Scented breath of heaths and bowers,—

Keepsakes from confiding flowers,

That the rover may be light

For his long Atlantic flight :—
Not that here the haughty land,
Spurning an assistant hand,

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