Sudden he woke and wondering, to behold,
Beneath the couch's furs and cloth of gold,
His wife beside him wrapt in sleep serene,
And 'mid the pillows, in the moony sheen,
His little boy with wild eyes weird and bright
Laughing and crowing loud in huge delight,
With dimpled arms outstretched all silvered o'er
By moonbeams from the calm tent's open door,
As if some godlike Presence none could see
With kindly wiles there woke his infant glee!
There Naisi looked, and filled with sudden awe
A mighty sword beside its scabbard saw
Stuck two good span-lengths in the grassy earth,
And bright as though the moon had given it birth
And cast it flashing down to where it stood
Within the tent-door, glorying in her flood
Of silver light. Then back in calm repose
The strong babe sank, and, wildered, Naisi rose
And bent above the weapon, marvelling
If mortal hand ere forged so fair a thing.
And as with curious eyes the hero gazed
On the gold hilt that bright with diamonds blazed,
A spirit voice through his whole being ran,
That seemed to say, "The gift of Mananan!
Take it, and fear not!" Then with eager hand
He grasped the hilt, and plucked the dazzling
brand

From the soft earth, and from the tent withdrew
Into the light, and looked with wonder new
On the great blade whereon was picturèd
All shapes that live and move in Ocean's bed.
Long time he gazed upon its mimic sea,
Then whirled the weapon round full joyously
O'er his proud head in circles of bright flame
That made the night breeze whistle as it came.

He stood and paused; stole softly to the tent;
Donned his strong garb of war, and musing went
Down the smooth hill-side to the glassy sound,
And halted on the shore and gazed around
On rugged isle and smooth white-tented hill,
And moonlit shore, that lay all cold and still,
Sleeping as though they ne'er would wake again
To life and morning and the sea-lark's strain.
And, as he looked, a breeze blew on his face,
Perfumed with scents from all the lovely race
Of flowers that blossom by the windy sea,
The fragrant pink, the wild anemone,
The armed thistle ere its head grows old
And the winds blow its beard across the wold,
The foxglove, heather, and sweet-smelling
thyme,-

Yea, all the flowers, from north to southland clime

That meet the morn with smiles, their odours sent,

With the fresh salty smell of ocean blent,
On that strange breeze that, waxing momently,
Fulfilled the hero with wild ecstasy

Of heart and brain, as though his footsteps fell

In heaven 'mid meadows of sweet asphodel!
And now, as stronger still the breeze blew by,
The sound's clear water caught the hero's eye:
Moveless it gleamed, with not one wave to show
That o'er its surface that weird breeze could blow.
Whereat great wonder filled him. To a tree,
That grew behind on the declivity

Of the green height, he turned: no motion there
Of branch or leaf;-not even his own dark hair
Was lifted by the marvellous wind. Around
Again the hero turned, and with a bound
Of his strong heart, and tingling cheeks all warm
From the fresh blood, beheld the giant form
Of a huge warrior, clad in sea-green mail,
Standing upon the shore. The flowing sail
Of a great bark appeared his cloak; the spray
That dances with the morning winds at play,
Topmost o'er all the woods on Scraba's elm,
Seemed the tall plume that waved above his helm,
While like a spire he stood, upon the sand
His long spear resting, towering from his hand
As a great larch's shaft in Ara's dell.
Silent he stood, the while his glances fell
On the Fomorian gate. A shadow vast
Betimes he seemed, wherethro' the moonbeams
passed

With shimmering glow, or in his mantle caught,
Or linked mail, to Naisi's vision brought
Strange shifting shapes of all the things that be,
Living or dead, within the crystal sea!

THE EXPLOITS OF CUROI.
(FROM "BLANID.")

[The princes form a league to attack the stronghold of the king of Mana and carry off his beautiful daughter Blanid. The place is defended by a mighty wheel "set in ages long gone by by Mananan the ruler of the sea," which stirred the waters of the fosse into a torrent no "living wight could pass." By the help of his magic spear Curoi destroys the terrible monsters, and strikes the "magic engine still as a frozen mill-wheel." Mana is captured, and Blanid carried off.]

There many a man's dim closing eye was cast In wonder at the strange Knight's glittering form,

His spear-shaft sloped, like a tall galley's mast

Bent slantwise by the buffets of the storm, As with grim frowning brows and footsteps fast

Along the breach with heroes' heart-blood warm, 'Mid showers of bolts and darts, like Crom the God

Of Thunder, toward the magic wheel he trod.

Now paused he for a space and looked, when, lo! Between him and the fosse erstwhile so near,

Upon his right crept forth a thing of fear, A serpent vast, with crested head, and coils Would crush ten battle chargers. Like the spoils

Of a great city gleamed his spotted back

As from the trembling reeds his volumes rolled, Wide spread, approaching o'er the tangled wrack Of battle, his bright head now flashing gold, Now red, now green, now sapphire. On his track

The hero stood in wrath, and with firm hold

Raised high the spear that from his right hand sped

Was empty now, and by the fosse's marge
He felt the mortal arrows smite his targe.

Then stood he like a tower and poised his spear;

And lightning-like the fateful weapon flung, And lodged it in the wheel's loud-roaring gear, Firm fixed in the huge plank whereon 'twas hung;

No more the fosse whirled round with tide of fear,
No more the magic engine thundering rung:
Still as a frozen mill-wheel now it lay,
And through the last breach open was the way.

head.

As he plucked forth his spear and still strode on, Out from behind a heap of slain there rose

A dreadful beast with eyes that gleamed and shone

In fury, like the eyes of one of those Twin Dragons of the strife that ever run

Beside the feet of Bava when she goes

From the bright Mount of Monad with the brand Of war far flaring in her armèd hand.

So flashed the beast's wild eyes, while o'er the dead

Whate'er of pearls of price his harp adorn, Howe'er his fingers touch the strings, could tell The great deeds done upon that far-famed morn; How amid heaps of slain the old King fell,

How to the wood the Bloom-bright One forlorn And her fair maids were brought forth from the hold,

With all the treasures of bright gems and gold.

THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK. (FROM "BALLADS OF IRISH CHIVALRY.")

And then shot forth, and 'mid the fire-bright eye

Pierced him through brain and body, on the bed
Of war transfixing him; then rising high
The hero loosed his spear, and 'mid the slain
Left him still writhing, and strode forth again.

And, as he went, there rose at every rood

Some monster dire his onward course to stay To the dread wheel, but through the demon brood He fearless broke, until before him lay A river whirling by of streaming blood.

Shouting he plunged therein, and made his way Up the far bank, and raising high his spear Strode onward still across that field of fear.

stand it more,

To hear the bomb-shells bursting, and thundering battle's roar;

He said, "The breach they're mounting, the Dutchman's murdering crew

I'll try my hammer on their heads, and see what that can do!

"Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron well,

'Tis Sarsfield's horse that wants the shoes, so mind not shot or shell."

"Ah, sure," cried both, "the horse can waitfor Sarsfield's on the wall, And where you go, we'll follow, with you to stand or fall!"

Tall, threatening, with a crown upon his head, Bright clad in gold and brass from heel to nape Of sturdy neck, and with a mantle red Wind-blown, that let the dazzling flashes 'scape

Of the strong mail, as now with onward tread He strode, and raised his giant arm in wrath, To the great wheel to stop the hero's path;

The hero who, now pausing, looked, and there Under the crown saw his dead father's face Approaching with fell frowning, ghastly stare Against him: yet no whit the hero's pace

into the street,

His 'prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe

to meet

High on the breach of Limerick, with dauntless hearts they stood,

Where bomb-shells burst, and shot fell thick, and redly ran the blood.

"Now look you, brown-haired Moran, and mark you, swarthy Ned,

This day we'll prove the thickness of many a Dutchman's head!

Whately next appeared; and this was followed by Lord Edward Fitzgerald and his Betrayers (1869). In 1870 Mr. Fitzpatrick produced a very interesting work under the title of Ireland before the Union, and this was succeeded by a volume of even greater historical value, entitled The Sham Squire and the Informers of 1798. The description of this remarkable figure in the history of Ireland is brought out clearly, and the whole story is a striking picture of the state of society at the troubled period immediately before and after the Act of Union. In 1873 a volume of pleasant gossip under the title of Irish Wits and Worthies, including Dr. Lanigan, was published; and the most recent production of Mr. Fitzpatrick's pen has been a biography of his famous compatriot Charles Lever. He has also written Historical Discoveries of the Days of Tone and Emmet, and has been a frequent contributor to periodical literature. He is an honorary Doctor of Laws, a member of the Royal Irish Academy, and of the Royal Dublin Society.]

regarded him with feelings not altogether paternal.

As a natural consequence of the perverse principle which he cultivated, Father Keogh was constantly in debt and difficulties. One day, when disrobing after delivering a charity sermon in Whitefriar Street Chapel, where a vast crowd had congregated to hear him surpass himself, two bailiffs stalked into the sacristy, and placing him in a covered car drove off in triumph. Dr. Spratt goodnaturedly accompanied his friend, and as they neared the sheriff's prison one of the officers, pulling out a pistol, said: "Father Keogh, I know your popularity, and in case you appeal to the mob, I draw the trigger." The idol of the people submitted to his fate with the desperate resignation he had so often inculcated in his sermons, and turning to Dr. Spratt said: "My dear friend, I am arrested at the suit evidently of B, the coach-maker. Go to him and arrange it." The good priest did as requested, and returned to the prison with a receipt in full, which he considered equivalent to an order for the liberation of his friend. But the document proved futile; it turned out

MASSILLON.

(FROM "IRISH WITS AND WORTHIES.") That love of hospitable and convivial pleasure characteristic of the old school of Irish priesthood, and which our historian sought to vindicate against the aspersions of Giraldus Cambrensis, was not only illustrated in Lanigan's own idiosyncracy, but in that of his friend, the Rev. M. B. Keogh, as well. The latter was hospitable to a fault, and would almost coin his heart into gold to give away; while legitimate creditors, as is often the fashion with literary men, were invariably left unpaid. A merchant to whom Mr. Keogh

was indebted, knowing that he would have no chance of a settlement if directly applied for, appealed to him with the representation that, as he was in great difficulties, a pecuniary loan would be specially acceptable. The preacher replied that he could not give it just then, but if the applicant would come and dine with him on the following Sunday he would try meanwhile to make out the loan for him somehow or another. The money was duly produced, and the merchant, full of expressions of gratitude, reminding him of his old claim, returned the overplus to Father Keogh, who henceforth

1 By permission of the author. VOL. IV.

utterly different creditor, and the glee of the coach-maker, who never expected to be paid, was only equalled by Mr. Keogh's dismay.2

The late Rev. J. Lalor, P.P. of Athy, the former coadjutor of Father Keogh at Baldoyle, used to tell that his curates, as they could never get one farthing from him, were generally most shabbily clad, and tried to console themselves by the reflection that in this respect they resembled our Lord's disciples, who were sent without scrip or staff. Mr. Lalor, small-clothes, and furnished with this startling at last losing patience, reefed the knee of his argument waited upon the pastor and claimed the price of a new one. "My dear fellow," was

the reply, "I have not a farthing in the world; but if you go into that dressing-room yonder you may take your choice of four.”

The late Dr. M-1 was in the habit of

paying Father Keogh, when in delicate health, a visit every Wednesday, and remaining to dine with him. One evening the doctor drank more than freely, and advised no end of When draughts of less palatable flavour. taking leave, Mr. Keogh placed a crumpled paper in his hand. The doctor's knock was

2 This, and several other anecdotes which follow, were

communicated by the late Very Rev. Dr. Spratt, 6th January, 1871. Dr. Spratt died, universally regretted, 27th May, 1871.

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