About 1830 Davis travelled through England and Scotland, earning his living by his trade as he went, and writing poems all the while, studying at the same time French, Greek, Latin, and Gaelic. During this period also he contributed to the Nation newspaper and to various periodicals, spending some years in Manchester. Returning to Belfast in 1845, he resumed his toil; but his fame had preceded him, and he left the loom to edit the Belfastman's Journal. He then engaged in literary work for a Belfast firm, also contributing to several magazines and journals. He was elected successively to the positions of librarian in the People's Institute and assistant registrar in Queen's College. His poetical works are The Tablet of Shadows, The Lispings of the Lagan, Earlier and Later Leaves, or an Autumn Gathering, and several love poems and patriotic songs.]

CASTE AND CREED.1

Come, man! your hand, a brother sings,
Or silken be't or sergy;

The wars of nations leave to kings,

And those of creeds to clergy:
And taste with us that grand sublime
Which zests your every other,

By holding man, whate'er his clime,
His caste or creed, a brother!

May all who'd sow opposing views,

Their harvests find tremendous,
While, oh, from such, and from their dues,
The Lord of love defend us!

What, though the waves should walk the air,
Betwixt each earthly acre;
What, though each hill a differing pray'r
Should offer to its Maker;

Do these make men the less akin,

Or pleas for hate and slaughter?
If so, whate'er the weight of sin,
It lies with hills and water!

Ah, if, indeed, ye hold a creed,
That Conscience calls a high one,
Then hold it for your spirit's need,
And not a scourge for my one!

We've fair-we've foul in every clime,
In every creed and calling;
We've men to sport their chaff sublime
O'er every feather's falling;
We've men of straw, of stick, of stone;
We've soul whose savour such is

1 By permission of the author.

If, loathing virtue-blood and bone,
Adores the ghost on crutches!

Ah, Virtue, ever in our throats,

Much wear and tear attend thee!
For wear thou wilt, as wear our coats,
But, faith, 'tis worse to mend thee!
Still wherefore make the wordy moan

O'er ills that mayn't be mended—
Where will's so weak that thousands groan
In guilt they ne'er intended?
Our own poor mite of righteous ways,

Let's hold from frost and ferment-
But not for crowds or stated days,

Like Save-all's Sabbath garment!

Let's clear our light to show the right-
To aid in its extending;

And loathe the bile would green the sight,
O'er any Worth's ascending!

My neighbour's weal is weal to me,
If reared not on my ruin!
And though for what I feel or be,

He'd care no more than Bruin,
I'd say, enjoy your silken share-
Yea! as I hope for Heaven;
For Coin and Care a wedded pair
Are six times out of seven!
Miss Fortune trips a painted porch,
Too oft in slippery sandal,
Where coldlier glares her gilded torch,
Than Misery's farthing candle!

Then creeds and classes, To-or-Fro-
Thy smile with each, my brother!
We must have sun, and shade, and snow-
They'll come to aid each other!
Let matter, too, enjoy its grades,

Nor deem it an unsound thing—
'Twere just as wise to measure blades,
Because the world's a round thing!
We must have low-we must have high,
And many a niche between them;
The height may be a tinselled lie-
The men are what's within them!

And mark me, men, a day shall dawn
When neither serge nor ermine,

Nor clime nor class shall make the man-
Nor creed nor worth determine;
'Twill come 'twill come-and come to stand—
The caste of LOVE-LIGHT STATURE,
When Love alone, where'er your land,
Shall tell the who, and what you're!
God send it soon, in peace-in might,
God guide its rear and vanguard;
Hurra for Love! for Light! for Right!
The mind, and moral standard!

Then, brother man, if all agreed, Though live we mayn't to see such,

Let's tack this trifle to our creed,

And chant a long "So be such!" All knavish souls, or high or low,

May conscience-cuffs distress them;
But honest hearts, where'er they grow,
The King of Kingdoms bless them!
May all who hold a sicklier thought,
Hold bitters, too, to mend it;

But bless, O Heaven, the better taught-
Their teaching, Lord, defend it!

MY KALLAGH DHU ASTHORE.

Again the flowery feet of June

Have tracked our cottage side;
And o'er the waves the timid moon
Steals, smiling like a bride:

But what were June or flowers to me,
Or waves, or moon, or more,
If evening came and brought not thee,
My Kallagh dhu asthore!

Let others prize their lordly lands,

And sceptres gemmed with blood; More dear to me the honest hands

That earn my babes their food: And little reck we queens or kings

When daily labour's o'er;
And by the evening embers sings
My Kallagh dhu asthore!

And when he sings, his every song
Is sacred freedom's own:

And like his voice his arm is strong,
For labour nursed the bone:
And then his step, and such an eye!

Ah, fancy! touch no more;
My spirit swims, in holy joy,

O'er Kallagh dhu asthore!

His voice is firm, his knee is proud,

When pomp's imperious tone
Would have the free-born spirit bowed,

That right should bow alone;

For well does Kallagh know his due,

Nor ever seeks he more;

Would Heaven mankind were all like you, My Kallagh dhu asthore!

And Kallagh is an Irishman

In sinew, soul, or bone;

Not e'en the veins of old Slieveban

Are purer than his own;

The wing of woe has swept our skies,

The foreign foe our shore,

But stain or change thy race defies, My Kallagh dhu asthore!

What wonder, then, each word he said

Fell o'er my maiden day,

Like breathings o'er the cradle bed
Where mothers kiss and pray;

Though dear your form, your cheek, and eye, I loved those virtues more,

Whose bloom nor ills nor years destroy,

My Kallagh dhu asthore!

Oh could this heart, this throbbing thing,
Be made a regal chair,

I'd rend its every swelling string,
To seat you, Kallagh, there;
And oh, if honest worth alone
The kingly bauble bore,

No slave wert thou, my blood, my bone,
My Kallagh dhu asthore!

ONLY A FANCY.

Hast thou ever known a flower

Which, when years had bustled by, Flashed again upon thy dreamin sDreaming 'neath a darker skyTill its phantom light and fragrance Forced a moisture from thine eye,

As are those beloved faces,
Filling long-deserted places
In thy wakening memory?
Heaven help me, I am weary-

Ah, how weary can be known
To the Love that never sleepeth-
The Almighty love alone-
As I climb my silent towers-

Towers not of brick or stone-
Towers whose aërial porches,
Lit by Fancy's thousand torches,
Often flee beneath my moan!

Yet, I love my shadowy castles-
Ah, they're all the world to me!
Where, if limbs be weak and shackled,
All the soul is strong and free-
Free to build, and gild and glory,
In her might a queen to be,
Even while her home, more lowly,
'Mongst the wreck of things unholy,
She can, downward looking, see!

Thus I walked a moonlight garden
By my towers of the night,
With, at every side, a shadow

On my left and on my right;
They were spirits, good and evil,

One was dark and one was bright,
As is soul in infant faces,

Or as, in Day's death-embraces, Blusheth heaven's feathery white!

There were flowers young and many,
Glowing, glistening, here and there,
As when o'er the dews of summer,
Morning floats her golden hair;
While one spirit urged my culling—
'Twas the dark one, not the fair-

Till my full heart's solemn heavings,
Bounding hopes, and lame misgivings,
Rose like voices on the air!

For, though beauties never, never,

Burst the teeming earth like these, They were mingled, good and evilBody's health, and soul's disease, Holding, in their fieriest splendour, What the fieriest truth might freeze; So, I sighed, and whispered meekly: "Nay, my eyes are dim and weakly, And I know not which should please!"

Then the fairer spirit caught me,

And I wandered where she led, While the darker followed, chiding,

Though I knew not what she said; Till a lake there gleamed beneath me, Like the round moon overhead;

Green its banks, and flower-besprinkled,

Then I sat, and songlets tinkled
O'er each trefoil round us spread!

Leaves I wove in links together,

Doing what I did not know, Till the fairer spirit's fingers

Pencils-things of tinted snow-
Caught my wreath, and while they strewed it,
"Little sweets," she murmured, "go,
Root along the coming hours,

Seeds are ye of many flowers,
Which from out the winds shall grow!"

[Dion Boucicault was born in Dublin on December 26, 1822. He was brought up under the guardianship of Dr. Dionysius Lardner, whose life and writings we have noticed in vol. iii. Boucicault had scarcely reached his majority when he produced the play of London Assurance, which was brought out at Covent Garden in March, 1841. It was enormously successful, has since remained a stock piece on the stage, and is perhaps the best of all his works. From that time forward Mr. Boucicault has been constantly before the public, either as author, actor, or theatrical manager, and frequently in the combined character of the three. He has written upwards of fifty pieces. In most of these he has been indebted to some other author for his story, but that does not take away from him the merit of having used his materials with great skill. Most of his works are a singular mixture of merits and defects. He possesses unquestionably wit, skill in describing character, and marvellous ingenuity in stage effects. On the other hand, he depends for a great part of his success on the aid of the stage carpenter, and his plays, when they come to be read, appear very poor in comparison with the impression they produce on the stage. Among his chief pieces may be mentioned London Assurance, already referred to, the Colleen Bawn, the Octoroon, Old Heads and Young Hearts, Janet Pride,

The Corsican Brothers, Louis XI., and The Shaughraun. Since 1876 Mr. Boucicault has lived in New York, where he has brought out several pieces, some of which have appeared on the London stage.]

THE MAN OF FASHION IN THE

COUNTRY.

(FROM "LONDON ASSURANCE.")

[Sir Harcourt Courtly is a London man of fashion: Charles is his son, a wild-going scapegrace: Max Harkaway is a country gentleman: Grace, his niece, is intended for Sir Harcourt: Meddle is a rural attorney, Dazzle a town adventurer, and Cool Sir Harcourt's servant.]

Enter MAX and SIR HARCOURT. Max. Here we are at last. Now give ye welcome to Oak Hall, Sir Harcourt, heartily.

Sir H. (Languidly.) Cool, assist me. (Cool takes off his furred cloak, gloves; gives him white gloves and a white handkerchief, then places a flower in his coat.)

Max. Why, you require unpacking as carefully as my best bin of port. Well, now you are decanted, tell me what did you think of my park as we came along?

Sir H. That it would never come to an end. You said it was only a stone's throw from

your infernal lodge to the house; why it's ten miles at least.

Max. I'll do it in ten minutes any day. Sir H. Yes, in a steam-carriage. Cool, perfume my handkerchief.

Max. Don't do it. Don't! perfume in the country! why it's high treason in the very face of Nature; 'tis introducing the robbed to the robber. Here are the sweets from which your fulsome essences are pilfered, and libelled with their names,-don't insult them too.

Sir H. (To Meddle, who is by a rose-bush.) Oh! cull me a bouquet, my man!

Max. (Turning.) Ah, Meddle! how are you? This is Lawyer Meddle.

Sir H. Oh! I took him for one of your people.

Meddle. Ah! naturally-um-Sir Harcourt Courtly, I have the honour to congratulate happy occasion approaches. Ahem! I have no hesitation in saying this very happy occasion approaches.

Sir H. Cool, is the conversation addressed towards me?

Cool. I believe so, Sir Harcourt.

Meddle. Oh, certainly! I was complimenting you.

Sir H. Sir, you are very good: the honour is undeserved; but I am only in the habit of receiving compliments from the fairsex. Men's admiration is so d--ably insipid. (Crosses to Max, who is seated on a bench.) If the future Lady Courtly be visible at so unfashionable an hour as this, I shall beg to be introduced.

Max. Visible! Ever since six this morning. -I'll warrant ye. Two to one she is at din

ner.

Sir H. Dinner! Is it possible! Lady Courtly dine at half-past one P.M.!

Meddle. I rather prefer that hour to peck a little my

Sir H. Dear me! who was addressing you? Meddle. Oh! I beg pardon.

Max. Here, James! (Calling.)

Enter JAMES.

Tell Miss Grace to come here directly.

[Exit James. Now prepare, Courtly, for, though I say it, she is with the exception of my bay mare Kitty the handsomest thing in the country. Considering she is a biped she is a wonder! Full of blood, sound wind and limb, plenty of bone, sweet coat, in fine condition, with a thorough-bred step, as dainty as a pet greyhound.

VOL. IV.

Sir H. Don't compare her to a horse. Max. Well, I wouldn't, but she's almost as fine a creature,-close similarities.

Meddle. Oh, very fine creature! Close similarity amounting to identity.

Sir H. Good gracious, sir! What can a lawyer know about woman?

Meddle. Everything. The consistorial court is fine study of the character, and I have no hesitation in saying that I have examined more women than Jenks or Sir H. Oh, d- Jenks! Meddle. Sir, thank you.

Max. Won't you kiss your old uncle? (He kisses her.)

Sir H. (Draws an agonizing face.) Oh!— ah-um-N'importe!-my privilege in embryo-hem! It's very tantalizing though.

Max. You are not glad to see me, you are not. (Kissing her.)

Sir H. Oh! no, no, (aside) that is too much. I shall do something horrible presently if this goes on. (Aloud.) I should be sorry to curany little ebullition of affection; butahem! May I be permitted?

tail

Max. Of course you may. There, Grace, is Sir Harcourt, your husband that will be. Go to him, girl. (She curtseys.)

charms, the presence of which have placed me Sir H. Permit me to do homage to the in sight of paradise.

(Sir Harcourt and Grace retire.)

Enter DAZZLE.

Dazzle. Ah! old fellow, how are you? (Crosses to him.)

Max. I'm glad to see you! are you comfortably quartered yet, eh?

Dazzle. Splendidly quartered! What a place you've got here! Why it's a palace. Here, Hamilton.

Enter CHARLES COURTLY. COOL sees him and looks astonished.

Permit me to introduce my friend, Augustus Hamilton. (Aside.) Capital fellow! drinks like a sieve, and rides like a thunder-storm.

Max. (Crosses.) Sir, I'm devilish glad to see you. Here, Sir Harcourt, permit me to intro

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