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DRINK OF THIS CUP.

FjRINK of this cup — you'll find there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. Would you forget the dark world we are in,

Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it; But would you rise above earth, till akin

To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it. Send round the cup — for O there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philter form'd with such power

To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing; Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,

A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. There having, by Nature's enchantment, been fillM

With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather, This wonderful juice from its core was distilled,

To enliven such hearts as are here brought together. Then drink of the cup—you'll find there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

And though, perhaps — but breathe it to no one —

Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful, This philter in secret was first taught to flow on,

Yet 't is n't less potent for being unlawful. And e'en though it taste of the smoke of that flame

Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden — Fill up — there's a fire in some hearts I could name,

Which may work too its charm, though as lawless and hidden. So drink of the cup — for O, there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

THE FORTUNE TELLER.

"HOWN in the valley come meet me to-night,

And I'll tell you your fortune truly

As ever 'twas told, by the new-moon's light,

To a young maiden, shining as newly.

But, for the world, let no one be nigh,
Lest haply the stars should deceive me;

Such secrets between you and me and the sky
Should never go farther, believe me.

If at that hour the heavens be not dim,
My science shall call up before you

A male apparition — the image of him
Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.

And if to that phantom you'll be kind,

So fondly around you he'll hover,
You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find

'Twixt him and a true living lover.

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight,
He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion —

An ardor, of which such an innocent sprite
You'd scarcely believe had a notion.

What other thoughts and events may arise,
As in destiny's book I've not seen them,

Must only be left to the stars and your eyes
To settle, ere morning, between them.

OH, YE DEAD.

AH, ye Dead! O, ye Dead! whom we know by the

light you give From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live,

Why leave you thus your graves, In far-off fields and waves, Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed, To haunt this spot, where all Those eyes that wept your fall, And the hearts that wail'd you, like your own, lie dead?

It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan; And the fair and the brave whom we lov'd on earth are gone;

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But still, thus ev'n in death, So sweet the living breath Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wauder'd o'er,

That ere, condemn'd, we go To freeze 'mid Hecla's snow,* We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more!

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O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS.

all the fair months that round the sun
In light-link'd dance their circles run,

Sweet May, shine thou for me;
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,

Sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the bright haunts where daylight leaves
Its lingering smile on golden eves,

Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me;
For, when the last April sun grows dim,
Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him+

Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee.

* Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes', they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.

t The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and his White Horse may be found in Mr Weld's Account of Killarney, or

Of all the proud steeds that ever bore
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,

White Steed, most joy to thee;
Who still, with the first young glance of spring,
From under that glorious lake dost bring

My love, my Chief, to me.

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launched, thy long mane curls,*

Fair Steed, as white and free;
And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave, scattering flowers

Around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,

Most sweet that death will be,
Which, under the next May evening's light,
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,

Dear love, I'll die for thee.

more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to hare been seen on the morning of May-day, gliding over the lake on his favorite white horse, to the sound of sweet unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path.

Among other stories connected with this Legend of the Lakes it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl, whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May morning, threw herself into the lake.

* The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, " O'Donohue's white horses."

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