I look'd into thy dewy eye,
And echoed thy half-stifled sigh;

I clasped thy hand, and vow'd to be
The soul of love and truth to thee!

The scene and hour have past-yet still
Remains a deep impassion'd thrill;
A sun-set glow on memory,

That kindles at each thought of thee!

We lov'd-how wildly, and how well,
"Twere worse than idle now to tell;
From love and life alike thou'rt free,
And I am left to think of thee!

Though years, long years have darkly sped Since thou wert number'd with the dead, In fancy oft thy form I see;

In dreams at least I'm still with thee:

Thy beauty, helplessness, and youth,-
Thy hapless fate-untiring truth,
Are spells that often touch the key

Of sweet harmonious thoughts of thee!

The bitter frowns of friends estrang'd,-
The chilling straits of fortune, chang'd;
All this-and more-1
-thou'st borne for me-
Then how can I be false to thee?

I never will:-I'll think of thee
Till fails the power of memory;
In weal or woe— —in gloom or glee—
I'll think of thee-I'll think of thee!

THINK OF ME.

FAREWELL!-and never think of me
In lighted hall or lady's bow'r!
Farewell! and never think of me

In spring sunshine, or summer hour!

But when you see a lonely grave

Just where a broken heart might be,
With not one mourner by its sod,

Then-and then only-THINK OF ME.

THE DEVOTED SISTER.

A Story of the Irish "Reign of Terror."

THERE is in the county of Wexford a district called the Barony of Forth, or, as it is vulgarly termed, Barneyfort. For the historian and the antiquary it possesses considerable interest, as its inhabitants are exclusively descended from the settlers who conquered Ireland during the reign of Henry the Second; and they have preserved their manners and their language to such an extent as to be easily distinguished by either from the people of the surrounding baronies. On a highly cultivated spot, and in a very superior farmhouse in this barony, lived James Corish, a man universally respected and esteemed by all classes of his neighbours. He was "full of years," and there were few more happy; for the prosperity that had continued for nearly half a century appeared almost certain to be uninterrupted during the remainder of his days. His wife had been some years dead; and of a once numerous fa

mily, two only remained to him :-Mary, the eldest, who was considered, among her simple neighbours, as a prodigy of learning and beauty; and her brother John, a fine spirited lad of seventeen, gay and thoughtless, as all boys are, before they have mingled with the world, to taste of its sorrow, or be infected by its taint. On the Sabbath-day, James Corish, with his silver hair falling over his shoulders, accompanied by his two children,—the one with her dark tresses carefully looped up by a bodkin under her straw hat, and her short, bright scarlet petticoat that displayed her white Sunday stockings; the other, with his light curls and laughing blue eyes,-formed a group of no common interest, as they ascended the little slope that led to Rahaspeck church.

When it was deemed necessary to preserve the peace of the country, by raising militia regiments, young Corish was obliged to leave his happy home and repair to Wexford. "God bless you! my only boy," sobbed his old father; "it's like spilling one's own blood, to fight against one's neighbours; but, God bless you, boy! do your duty, as your father did before you; only remember, a Protestant soldier need not be an Orangeman." Mary neither spoke nor wept; but she pushed the curling locks from off her brother's brow, and mournfully gazed upon it;

and when, laughing at her fears, he affectionately kissed her cheek,-still she looked sad; and long and anxiously did her eyes follow him, until his form was lost in the twilight mist as he ascended the mountain of Forth.

The rebellion of 1798 commenced. The cottage of the Protestant and the Catholic were alike invaded by rebel hordes, or no less lawless soldiery. The ties of friendship and of kindred were alike disregarded in a war so unnatural; brother fought against brother, and fathers were not unfrequently found in the ranks fighting against their sons. The demon Superstition ruled over many minds, and prompted to deeds of bloodshed those who, before and after the "reign of terror," were gentle and kindly as the breath of spring.

Under these circumstances, old James Corish-who was a marked man, because he was a Protestant, and had a son who was a soldier-saved his life by leaving the country, and removing to Ross. Mary fled with her father, and was in safety; but the knowledge of her brother's danger came like a blight to her young heart, and long and eager were her inquiries of each new fugitive, as to the fate of the Wexford militia. With feelings of indescribable anguish, she learnt that Wexford had surrendered to