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Though the following song has not such striking marks of nationality as many of Griffin's, yet we place it first amongst his, in this collection, as an extract from "The Collegians"-that story of surpassing power which places him, we think, first novelists of Ireland, and in the foremost rank of the novelists of the world. Of Gerald Griffin Ireland may well be proud; for he was not only a great novelist, but a good dramatist. His Gisippus is one of the best plays of modern times, and derives an additional, though saddening interest, from the fact that it was not produced on the stage until after his death: but though he tasted not the triumph of that success, his country must not forget it. His songs, too, are charming; and the one that follows, though not Irish in phrase, is peculiarly Irish in feeling: there is in it depth and devotedness of affection, delicacy, unselfishness-in short, a chivalrous adoration.

A PLACE in thy memory, dearest,
Is all that I claim;

To pause, and look back, when thou hearest
The sound of my name.

Another may woo thee, nearer,
Another may win and wear;
I care not though he be dearer,
If I am remembered there.

Remember me-not as a lover
Whose hope was cross'd;
Whose bosom can never recover
The light it hath lost:

As the young bride remembers the mother
She loves, though she never may see;
As a sister remembers a brother,

Oh dearest, remember me.

Could I be thy true lover, dearest,
Could'st thou smile on me,

I would be the fondest and nearest,
That ever loved thee!

But a cloud on my pathway is glooming,
That never must burst upon thine;
And heaven, that made thee all blooming,
Ne'er made thee to wither on mine.

Remember me then-O remember
My calm, light love:

Though bleak as the blasts of November
My life may prove,

That life will, though lonely, be sweet,
If its brightest enjoyment should be
A smile and kind word when we meet,
And a place in thy memory.

MY MOTHER DEAR.

SAMUEL LOVER.

THERE was a place in childhood that I remember well,
And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales did tell,
And gentle words and fond embrace were giv'n with joy to me,
When I was in that happy place:-upon my mother's knee.

When fairy tales were ended, "good night," she softly said,
And kiss'd and laid me down to sleep, within my tiny bed;
And holy words she taught me there methinks I yet can see
Her angel eyes, as close I knelt beside my mother's knee.

In the sickness of my childhood; the perils of my prime;
The sorrows of my riper years; the cares of ev'ry time;

When doubt and danger weigh'd me down-then pleading, all for me,
It was a fervent pray'r to Heaven that bent my mother's knee.

SLEEP ON.

JOHN O'KEEFFE. Born 1746,

Dublin was the birthplace of O'Keeffe. The O'Keeffes, an ancient and honourable family, lost their estates in the civil wars of James and William. Our author was reared for the priesthood; - objected to go into orders; - became very nearly a professional painter;-turned actor next, and, finally, dramatist of prolific pen,-he having produced forty-nine pieces. He lost his sight in 1800. Many of his songs are graceful, though never rising to any great excellence: they were never intended, however, to be more than incidental to his dramas. The following is from "The Poor Soldier." The air to which it was written is a beautiful old Irish melody, entitled, Ulican dubh oh! given in Bunting's "Ancient Music of Ireland." To the same air Moore wrote "Weep on, weep on!"

SLEEP on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear,
May peace possess thy breast;

Yet dost thou dream thy true love's here,
Deprived of peace and rest?

The birds sing sweet, the morning breaks,
These joys are none to me;

Though sleep is fled, poor Dermot wakes
To none but love and thee.

THE MOUNTAIN DEW.

SAMUEL LOVER.

By yon mountain tipp'd with cloud,

By the torrent foaming loud,

By the dingle where the purple bells of heather grew,
Where the Alpine flow'rs are hid,

And where bounds the nimble kid,

There we wandered both together through the mountain dew!
With what delight in summer's night we trod the twilight gloom,
The air so full of fragrance from the flowers so full of bloom,
And our hearts so full of joy-for aught else there was no room,
As we wandered both together through the mountain dew.

Those sparkling gems that rest

On the mountain's flow'ry breast

Are like the joys we number-they are bright and few,
For a while to earth are given,

And are called again to heaven,

When the spirit of the morning steals the mountain dew:

But memory, angelic, makes a heaven on earth for men, Her rosy light recalleth bright the dew-drops back again, The warmth of love exhales them from that well-remembered glen, Where we wandered both together through the mountain dew!

I LOVE my love in the morning
For she like morn is fair,-

Her blushing cheek, its crimson streak,
Its clouds, her golden hair.

Her glance, its beam, so soft and kind;
Her tears, its dewy showers;

And her voice, the tender whispering wind
That stirs the early bowers.

I love my love in the morning,
I love my love at noon,

For she is bright, as the lord of light,

Yet mild as autumn's moon:

Her beauty is my bosom's sun,
Her faith my fostering shade,
And I will love my darling one,
Till even the sun shall fade.

I love my love in the morning,
I love my love at even;
Her smile's soft play is like the ray,
That lights the western heaven:
I loved her when the sun was high,
I loved her when he rose ;
But, best of all when evening's sigh
Was murmuring at its close,

FORGIVE, BUT DON'T FORGET,
From "Songs and Ballads," by SAMUEL Lover,

I'm going, Jessie, far from thee,
To distant lands beyond the sea;
I would not, Jessie, leave thee now,
With anger's cloud upon thy brow.
Remember that thy mirthful friend
Might sometimes teaze-but ne'er offend;
That mirthful friend is sad the while:
Oh, Jessie, give a parting smile.

Ah! why should friendship harshly chide
Our little faults on either side?

From friends we love, we bear with those,
As thorns are pardon'd for the rose.
The honey-bee, on busy wing,
Producing sweets, yet bears a sting;
The purest gold most needs alloy;
And sorrow is the nurse of joy.

Then, oh, forgive me, ere I part,
And if some corner in thy heart
For absent friend a place might be-
Ah, keep that little place for me!
"Forgive-Forget," we're wisely told,
Is held a maxim, good and old,
But half the maxim's better yet,-
Then, oh, forgive, but don't forget!

This song was written as a musical illustration to a portion of a lecture, where a passage occurred setting forth that the heart is particularly open to gentle impressions at the parting hour. The lecturer then glanced at the various ways in which the same natural sensations will influence different people, and how different classes of society have their peculiar phases of thought and feeling; and as the foregoing song represented the sentiment of the drawing-room, I sought, in the following one, the contrast of the cottage,

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