The Rev. Charles Wolfe, a minister of the Established Church, was a native of Dublin. It is to be regretted that he died in the prime of manhood, for a youth of such promise gave hope of a distinguished future. He furnished another evidence to the truth of that apothegm of the ancients,-"Whom the gods love die young." His lines, entitled as above, at first appeared anonymously, and created such general admiration, that, along with several speculations as to their authorship, not a few absolute claims were made for that honour, by impudent aspirants for fame. Medwin, in his "Conversations of Lord Byron," asserts his belief (among the speculators) that they were written by the noble poet, though all he establishes is the fact that they were admired and read by him. Though the extract is longer than is desirable to be given in a work like the present, yet it is so pregnant with evidence of the high worth at which Wolfe was rated among the highest, that I cannot resist giving it, as tribute due to his memory.

"The conversation turned after dinner on the lyrical poetry of the day, and a question arose as to which was the most perfect ode that had been produced. Shelley contended for Coleridge's on Switzerland, beginning, 'Ye clouds,' &c. &c.; others named some of Moore's Irish Melodies, and Campbell's Hohenlinden; and, had Lord Byron not been present, his own Invocation to Manfred, or Ode to Napoleon, or on Prometheus, might have been cited.

"Like Gray,' said he, 'Campbell smells too much of the oil: he is never satisfied with what he does; his finest things have been spoiled by over-polish-the sharpness of the

outline is worn off. Like paintings, poems may be too highly-finished. The great art is effect, no matter how produced.

"I will show you an ode you have never seen, that I consider little inferior to the best which the present prolific age has brought forth.' With this he left the table, almost before the cloth was removed, and returned with a magazine, from which he read the following lines on Sir John Moore's burial, which perhaps require no apology for finding a place here."

Here follow the stanzas, after which Medwin continues-"The feeling with which he recited these admirable stanzas I shall never forget. After he had come to an end, he repeated the third, and said it was perfect, particularly the lines—

"But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.'

"I should have taken,' said Shelley, 'the whole for a rough sketch of Campbell's.' 'No,' replied Lord Byron; 'Campbell would have claimed it, if it had been his.'

"I afterwards had reason to think that the ode was Lord Byron's; that he was piqued at none of his own being mentioned; and, after he had praised the verses so highly, could not own them. No other reason can be assigned for his not acknowledging himself the author, particularly as he was a great admirer of General Moore."

Here we have Coleridge, Campbell, and Moore among the hypothetical authors; Byron and Shelley, as admirers and conjecturers; and, after all, it was a young Irishman who produced this poem. Such literary honour is worth recording, not only for the sake of the memory of the departed poet, but for the fame of the land that gave him birth.

Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone-
But we left him alone in his glory!

I have said, many claims were laid to the authorship of this ode, but they were all soon silenced by the indubitable evidence existing as to the real author. Among the pseudo claimants, the most unfortunate was a certain Dr. Marshall, whose name laid him open to a very funny squib, let off against him in the shape of a parody on the ode, setting forth how a certain drunken man was discovered in the kennel,

"Where he lay like a gentleman taking a snooze,

With his MARSHALL cloak around him.”

The parody is too good to be lost to those who love that sort of fun, but respect for the noble lines of the original forbids placing a parody in juxtaposition, therefore it is inserted in the Appendix, with some other information on the subject-matter of the burial of sufficient interest to be recorded, but which would have overloaded, to an inconvenient length, annotations already unusually long.

TO THE BATTLE, MEN OF ERIN.

THOMAS CAMPBELL. Air, "Beside a Rath.”

To the battle, men of Erin,

To the front of battle go;

Every breast the shamrock wearing
Burns to meet his country's foe.

What though, France, thine eagle standard
Spreading terror far and nigh,

Over Europe's skies hath wander'd
On the wings of victory-

Yet thy vauntings us dismay not,
Tell us when ye, hand to hand,
Ever stood the charging bay'net
Of a right true Irish band.

Erin, when the swords are glancing
In the dark fight, loves to see
Foremost still her plumage dancing
To the trumpet's jubilee.

This song was written for Bunting's "General Collection of the Ancient Music of Ireland." It is pleasant to see a distinguished Scotchman celebrating the valour of Ireland. Campbell must have had a strong feeling for Ireland, or he could not have written the above; still less that finest of lyrics, "There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin."

Another illustrious Scotchman, by the way, pays a high tribute to the military glory of Ireland:

"Hark, from yon stately ranks what laughter rings,

Mingling wild mirth with war's loud minstrelsy;
His jest which each blithe comrade round him flings,
He moves to death with military glee.

Boast Erin, boast then, fearless, frank, and free.
And HE,* their chieftain-strike the loudest tone

Of thy proud harp, Green Isle-the hero is thine own!"

Sir Walter Scott's Vision of Don Roderic,

* The Duke of Wellington.

OH! ERIN!

JOHN DALTON, M.R.I.A.

OH! Erin! in thine hour of need,

Thy warriors wander o'er the earth;

For others' liberties they bleed,

Nor guard the land that gave them birth:
In foreign fields it is their doom,

To seek their fame-to find their tomb.*

For them no friend of early days

A tear of kindred grief shall shed:
Nor maiden's prayer, nor minstrel's lays,
Shall hallow their neglected bed.†
They sleep beneath the silent stone,
To country lost-to fame unknown.

* One evil consequence of the penal laws was, that the Irish being denied the exercise of the honourable profession of arms at home, (as alluded to in the introduction to this section,) the high-mettled youth of the land were driven to take service under foreign banners; and England had often to regret the valour of such soldiers as their foes in defeat (as at Fontenoy, for instance), instead of rejoicing in it, as their friends in victory, which they have since done on many a well-fought field in the last half century.

+ Here, I think, my friend Mr. Dalton does not justice to himself and his brother poets of Ireland; for, however hard was the lot of the expatriated Irish soldier, his story has not been "neglected," nor his valour unsung by the bard.

The name of John Banim stands high in the record of Irish literature. His tale of "Crohore na bilhoge" is of wondrous power; as, also, his "Ghost Hunter." His tragedy of "Damon and Pythias" is of high merit. Many more of his works might be named, but it is unnecessary here. In the lyric vein, Mr. Banim is not so felicitous as in other forms of composition; but his knowledge of Irish character, strength of feeling, and vigorous expression, are valuable counterpoises against blemishes of versification and carelessness of construction. The following address of the Irish peasant to his priest is full of nature, and vividly and forcibly expresses the sources and the strength of the ties that exist between them.

Am I the slave they say,
Soggarth aroon ?*

Since you did show the way,
Soggarth aroon,

Their slave no more to be,

While they would work with me
Ould Ireland's slavery,

Soggarth aroon?

Priest dear.