Ah, fatal haste, remembrance late!
Beneath, around, the waters gush'd;
Vainly she strove to fly from fate,
Destruction yawn'd where'er she rushed.
And whilst in hopeless woe she wept,

While yet the unconscious infant smiled,
A ruthless wave, which o'er them swept,
Entomb'd the parent and the child.

No longer now the waters gush'd,

You might have heard the softest breath,
All was around so calm, so hush'd-
Hush'd in the stilliness of death.
Where late so active man had been,
Fate had decreed his toil should cease;
O'er hamlet, spire, and village green,
Erne's limpid waters roll'd in peace.

Since then have ages pass'd away,
The story of its grief is old,
But still, in legendary lay,

That hamlet's fearful fate is told;
Still in the wave the hawthorn dips,
Unharm'd by years, unscath'd by storm;
But none will pull its crimson hips-
They're guarded by a spectral form.

And if beside the copsy brake,
Benighted peasant chance to stray,
He glances at the darksome lake,
And, shuddering, turns another way.
For there a shadowy figure stands,
Now gazing round in anguish wild,
Now wringing sore her snowy hands,

And plaintive sighs, "My child, my child!"

The softest gale that murmurs by,
The purest wave that ripples here,
That zephyr wafts the mother's sigh,
That wave contains the parent's tear.
Her mournful vigil must she keep,-
Still at the midnight hour's return,
And still her fatal fondness, weep,

While flow thy crystal waves, Lough Erne!

ST. KEVIN AND KATHLEEN.

BY R. D. WILLIAMS.

[The legend of St. Kevin and Kathleen, as it has been sung by Moore, and more recently by Gerald Griffin, is totally devoid of foundation in fact. Not to speak of the absurdity of our Saint's qualifying for canonization by committing murder, there is no trace of such a tale in any ecclesiastical MS., Latin or Irish, that has survived to our times. This, at least, is the opinion of all from whom I have sought information on the subject, amongst whom not a few were antiquarians and erudite clergymen. In particular, the reverend gentlemen of Glendalough, to whom the legends of the lakes are familiar as their shadows, have assured me that the whole story which tries to prove that "Saints have cruel hearts," is a recent invention and finds no echo by the firesides of the glens. Tradition authorizes, and poesy loves to contemplate the grouping of St. Kevin and Kathleen in the same picture; but beyond their names we have no certain data. I have therefore followed the more natural and simple version -that Kevin and Kathleen were betrothed in early youth. Beyond this I do not travel. Whether Kathleen died young, or retired to the neighbouring convent at Luggelaw, where it is easy to suppose Kevin's sister may have been also, we do not know. Great shadows must have fallen before he gained the strength that reared the churches so wonderfully and made him finally a Saint.]

COME, Kathleen, pure and soft as dew,
The lake is heaving at our feet,
The stars ascend the eternal blue,
Primeval granite makes our seat.
Beneath eternal skies above,

'Mid everlasting hills around,
I speak of love-immortal love-
Such as in Eden first was found.
Let each look thro' the other's soul,

Until each thought within that lies,

Like spar o'er which these clear waves roll,
Unveil its lustre to our eyes.

I bless thee, Kathleen, o'er and o'er,

For all the joy thy smiles have brought me,

And mysteries of loving lore

Thy very presence oft hath taught me.

For beauty innocent as thine

Such lovely soul in lovely form

Still makes diviner aught divine,

And calms the spirit's wildest storm.

Whene'er I muse-how oft !-on thee,
Half seen, each high and holy feeling
Of love and immortality

Take shape, like angels round me wheeling.

To thee, I owe the purest flow'rs

Of song, that o'er my pathway burst, And holy thought, at midnight hours, From thine unconscious beauty nurst. There is no stain on flowers like these,

That from my heart to thine are springing; And thoughts of thee are like the breeze, When bells for midnight mass are ringing. Without thy knowledge, from thee beams Some gentle and refining light,

That fills my heart with childhood's dreams, And I grow purer in thy sight.

Thou art no Queen-no hero I—

But thou'rt the fairest Christian maid

To whom the worship of a sigh,

By Christian bard was ever paid.

And this I am-Sire-God above,

Who made my soul of that rich flame,

All adoration, song, and love,

That from thine own great Spirit came !
Than mine no purer, warmer zeal
For justice, and sublime desire
Of freedom, truth, and human weal,
Glows in the seraph ranks of fire

I've bower'd thee in a lonely shrine—
My bosom's convent-garden, sweet—
Where song and pray'r their sighs combine,
Where love and adoration meet.

I've rob'd thee like Ban-Tierna olden
Of Eirè, in a vesture green;

And clasp'd thee with a girdle golden

O'er all my dream-world Saint and Queen.

I've starr'd thy hands with Irish gems,

And sought to wreathe thy rich brown hair,

The oakwood's dewy diadems,

And won the sacred shamrocks there.

Oh, would that thou couldst read my heart,
Or that my lips might be unseal'd,
And by love's lamp, in every part,
My spirit's inmost crypt reveal'd!
Within, like maid in minstrel tale,
One lovely Vision sleeping lies,
Beside her Hope, with forehead pale,
And timid Joy with downcast eyes.
"Tis Love, in long enchantment bound,
I know not how, in torpor there—
The spells obey but one sweet sound,
When Kathleen sings, they melt in air.

See! over yonder mountains, crack'd
And sunder'd by Volcanic fire,
Sings Glendalough's white cataract—
Fit chord of such a granite lyre.
And then the cloud-born waterfall
Summons aloud, from rock and wood,
The child-like springs, and leads them all,
With laughter to this gloomy flood.
And thus thy love my heart shall lave-
When Sorrow's rocks, faith-cloven, sever,
Giving a glimpse of God-and save

Life's current pure and fresh for ever!

A LEGEND OF THE SHANNON.

ON Shannon's fair majestic tide
The moon with queenly splendour
Looks down in her meridian pride,
While vassal stars attend her;
Light zephyrs dancing o'er the wave
Scarce break its peaceful slumbers,
While Echo from each rock and cave
Sings forth her magic numbers.

But why doth yon frail shallop bear
Across the Shannon's water,
At such an hour, Teresa fair,
De Burgo's only daughter?

Why flies she thus alone and free,
From home and kindred speeding?
Why seeing, sigh, yet sigh to see
Portumna's tower receding?

Ah! sure 'tis love alone could teach
The maiden thus to wander,
Yes! see upon the moonlit beach
A youth awaits her yonder;
With bounding heart and eager glance
He views Clanricarde's daughter,
Like some aërial being dance
Across the rippling water.

The brave O'Carroll, he for years
Had dared the Saxon power,
And taught the force of Irish spears
On battle-field and tower;
But one sad day saw fall his best

And bravest kerns around him-
Insatiate for revenge, the next

'Mid Burgo's clansmen found him.

"Twas then Teresa's soft blue eye First wrought its magic power; Teresa's love now bids them fly For aye from yonder tower. "Now hie thee, love," O'Carroll cried, "By yon fair moon I swear thee, Far, far away from Shannon's tide This faithful steed shall bear thee.

"For this I braved thy father's wrath,
He swore my heart should shun thee,
But I had plighted thee my troth,
And I had died or won thee.
Then hie-" but hark! Teresa, fair,

What peril now hath found her? Oh! see, 'mid shrieks of wild despair, The waters close around her!

As to the serpent's witching eye
The victim bird is borne-