Oh! God be with those happy times!

Oh! God be with my childhood!
When I, bareheaded, roamed all day-
Bird-nesting in the wild-wood.
I'll not forget those sunny hours,

However years may vary;
I'll not forget my early friends,

Nor honest Caoch O'Leary.

Poor Caoch and "Pinch" slept well that night, And in the morning early

He called me up to hear him play

"The wind that shakes the barley;" And then he stroked my flaxen hair,

And cried, "God mark my deary!"
And how I wept when he said, "Farewell,
And think of Caoch O'Leary!"

And seasons came and went, and still

Old Caoch was not forgotten,
Although we thought him dead and gone,
And in the cold grave rotten;
And often, when I walked and talked
With Eily, Kate, and Mary,
We thought of childhood's rosy hours,
And prayed for Caoch O'Leary.
Well-twenty summers had gone past,
And June's red sun was sinking,
When I, a man, sat by my door,

Of twenty sad things thinking.
A little dog came up the way,

His gait was slow and weary,
And at his tail a lame man limped-
"Twas "Pinch" and Caoch O'Leary!

Old Caoch, but, oh! how woebegone!
His form is bowed and bending,
His fleshless hands are stiff and wan,
Ay-time is even blending

The colours on his thread-bare "bag".
And "Pinch" is twice as hairy
And "thin-spare" as when first I saw
Himself and Caoch O'Leary.

"God's blessing here!" the wanderer cried,
"Far, far be hell's black viper;
Does any body hereabouts

Remember Caoch the Piper?"
With swelling heart I grasped his hand;
The old man murmured, "Deary,
Are you the silky-headed child

That loved poor Caoch O'Leary?"

"Yes, yes," I said the wanderer wept
As if his heart was breaking-
"And where, a vic machree," he sobbed,
"Is all the merry-making

I found here twenty years ago?"
"My tale," I sighed, "might weary;

1 Son of my heart.

Enough to say-there's none but me To welcome Caoch O'Leary."

"Vo, vo, vo!" the old man cried,

And wrung his hands in sorrow, "Pray let me in, astore machree,

And I'll go home to-morrow. My 'peace is made;' I'll calmly leave This world so cold and dreary; And you shall keep my pipes and dog, And pray for Caoch O'Leary."

With "Pinch" I watched his bed that night;
Next day his wish was granted:

He died; and Father James was brought,
And the Requiem Mass was chanted.
The neighbours came; we dug his grave
Near Eily, Kate, and Mary,

And there he sleeps his last sweet sleep.
God rest you! Caoch O'Leary.

THE DARK GIRL AT THE HOLY WELL.

"Mother! is that the passing-bell?

Or yet the midnight chime?

Or rush of angels' golden wings?

Or is it near the time

The time when God, they say, comes down

This weary world upon,

With holy Mary at his right,

And at his left St. John?

"I'm dumb! my heart forgets to throb,
My blood forgets to run;
But vain my sighs-in vain I sob-
God's will must still be done.

I hear but tone of warning bell
For holy priest or nun;

On earth God's face I'll never see!
Nor Mary! nor St. John!

"Mother! my hopes are gone again—
My heart is black as ever!
Mother! I say, look forth once more,
And see can you discover

God's glory in the crimson clouds-
See does he ride upon

That perfumed breeze-or do you see The Virgin, or St. John?

2 Dark is here used in the sense of blind.-It is believed that the waters of St. John's Well, near Kilkenny, possess healing powers, and that, as the angel troubled the pool at Bethesda at certain seasons, so St. John, the Virgin, and Jesus would at certain times, and at the hour of midnight, descend in the form of three angels in white, and pass with lightning speed into the fountain. The patients who saw this wonderful sight were cured; those who only heard the rushing of the wings might still continue to endure their disease or infirmity.

She uttered one low piercing moan-then cast her boughs away,

the wanderer sing;

ring

My heart felt cold and lonely, and my thoughts were far away

Where I was many a Christmas-tide and Happy New Year's Day.

new-made grave,

Dug decently in sacred soil, by Liffey's murmuring

wave:

The minstrel maid from earth to heaven has winged her happy way,

Year's Day.

[This illustrious soldier was the son of Colonel Napier, of Castletown, county Kildare, and was born on the 10th August, 1782. Like many other distinguished officers, he entered the army in very early boyhood, becoming an ensign in the 22d Regiment before he had completed his twelfth year, and at the age of sixteen the Irish rebellion gave him his first active service. He obtained his company at a correspondingly early period, and proceeded to Spain in command of the 50th Foot. He was with Sir John Moore during that famous general's retreat upon Corunna, and in the battle which took place at the termination of that memorable march, received five wounds, and was taken prisoner. He returned to England a major, and found his friends in mourning for his supposed death. His sword being sheathed for a time, young Napier employed the interval of peace with his pen, and produced An Essay on the State of Ireland, Military Law, and Colonies and Colonization. In 1809 he volunteered into the army serving in Spain, was wounded in the battle of Busaco, and took an active part in the siege of Badajoz. In 1813 he served in North America, and was

VOL. III.

promoted to the rank of colonel. Returning to Europe, he reached Waterloo on the 21st of June, 1815, three days after the battle; but he was present at the storming of Cambrai, and entered Paris with the British troops. He was afterwards appointed governor of Cephalonia, and in the execution of his new duties, exhibited great foresight and administrative talent. But it was not until late in life that this able and gallant officer won the renown which secured for him a place for all time in the temple of Fame. In 1841 the Ameers of Scinde having given signs of a disposition to dispute British authority, and the disasters of the first war in Afghanistan having lowered the prestige of the British arms, Major-general Napier was despatched to India. As commander-in-chief of the Bengal army, he diligently applied his energies towards the reform of the military organization of the forces, and then framed and submitted to the governor-general, Lord Ellenborough, his plan for a second Afghan campaign. This being accepted, he promptly attacked the enemy, dismantled the hitherto impregnable fortress of Emaum Ghur, and at the battle of Meanee,

49

in 1843, completely routed the foe, who mustered 30,000 men against his 16,000. His brilliant strategy in outflanking the wily Dost Mohammed, and the incredibly short time within which he subjugated the province of Scinde, are matters of history. Having brought the war to a successful conclusion, he devoted his attention with indefatigable and patriotic energy to the civil government of the conquered people, and created a permanent administration-one calculated to secure lasting and amicable relations with the various peoples inhabiting Scinde.

Returning to England in 1847, he received an enthusiastic welcome. Always the conscientious soldier of duty, he did not rest contented because he had left for a while the tented field. With a view to secure more firmly the preservation of India to the British crown he resumed his pen, and produced Civil and Military Defects of the Indian Government, which was published in 1853. During this interval also he edited De Vigny and Blaze's Lights and Shades of Military Life. But the interval of quiet which he was employing so usefully, was again to be interrupted. Reverses had occurred in the campaign against the Sikhs, and the valiant old general was again ordered to the East to repair the disaster. Before his arrival, however, the tide of success had turned, and the Sikhs were utterly defeated. Sir Charles returned home in 1850, worn out with fatigue and in shattered health, and his honourable and brilliant career soon afterwards came to a close at Oaklands, near Portsmouth, where he died on the 29th August, 1853. A bronze statue was erected to his memory in Trafalgar Square, London. His Minutes of the Resignation of Command of the Army were published in 1854, and William the Conqueror, a Historical Romance, from which our extract is taken, in 1858.]

FRICA THE VALA.1

"Perhaps, Editha, you are right; but the wisest may gain knowledge from an expert sorceress; and as the height of all wisdom is to foresee and propose, I think there can be no great sin in a Christian consulting a Vala. There is one named Frica, who, as you know, lives at her small strong tower in the bosom of the forest. Thence she goes to the castles

1 By permission of Messrs. Routledge & Co.

of the great and the dwellings of the humble. The Saxon people love and fear her; for few have ever incurred her anger that misfortune has not blighted them.

"I have never heard that any one has been allowed to enter her high tower; a dwarf attends her, and many large and ferocious dogs. What she needs she receives from Winchelsea; it is deposited in an outer dwelling by the butcher of that town. Her riches are great, but secure. A band of robbers once assaulted her tower; they tried to loosen the stones at the base, but scarcely had they struck a dozen blows when the basket, by which she usually descended, was lowered from the top. It contained a square box.

"If you want riches,' said the Vala from above, 'take them-Frica values them not.' "The robbers collected round the box, and, as the basket reascended, tried to open the lid with a battle-axe; it was but raised an inch, when an explosion like thunder took place, and three of the robbers fell dead, torn to pieces. Several others were dreadfully lacerated, and all were struck to earth amidst a thick smoke.

"Great riches, but small profit, knaves!' cried the Vala, in a shrill voice of derision. 'Waes Hael!' added she, and a shower of boiling water fell upon the stricken men, who shrieked in agony.

"What, no drine Hael! uncourteous dogs? An I don't please ye, caitiffs, even get ye hence, or sorrow will betide ye, for I will let my imps out even now, and two legs must run fast if four can't catch 'em.'

"Those who were able fled, but ere they could escape a small iron door at the foot of the tower was raised by an unseen hand, and forth rushed six furious dogs, pulling the fugitives down; soon a horn sounded from the tower, whereupon the dogs came back and killed the wounded men who lay there. The basket then again descended with the Vala; she tied a cord to the feet of the dead, and, having kennelled her dogs, reascended.

"From the top she and her dwarf pulled each body up, then boiled them all and fed her dogs with the flesh. The skeletons she hung from the top of the tower, and such terror did she thereby strike through the country that the army of King Edward would not attack that magic tower! Editha, to this Vala will I go, and pray her to visit us and tell our fate."

A messenger was accordingly despatched to the butcher of Winchelsea, who on his return

"Let Alfnoth come to the wood at night before the hour of twelve. If he sees the tower dark, let him return; if not, then shall he remain and observe in silence; but he must be unattended, save by his daughter Editha, his own people, and a palfrey for me, which must wait at the outskirt of the wood.""

The Childe, attended by some armed men, a led palfrey, Editha, and myself, proceeded that night to the tower: we reached the wood about eleven. Alfnoth and Editha dismounted, and leaving me in charge of the armed party, entered.

The night was dark, and the thickness of the trees made it so completely black, that it was with great difficulty the father and daughter proceeded. However, they reached the site of the tower and halted, alarmed by the fearful barking of fierce dogs within, while without all was quiet. Suddenly a loud explosion, which made Editha tremble, was heard, and a flash of fire illuminated all the wood, then all was dark again. Yet still the barking of the dogs was heard.

"Be quiet, ye curs!" exclaimed the sorceress within the tower; and silence reigned.

"Let us return, dearest father!" said Editha; "I am dreadfully frightened."

A strong female voice now cried out, "Do friends or foes approach the castle of the Vala?"

"Friends! friends!" cried Harold; and as he spake a vivid flame arose on the summit of the tower, casting a deep blue light around, brilliant as the day, but giving a ghastly hue. The tower was high and smooth; at the top there was a door, and various narrow and grated windows were visible. A small house stood a few paces from the foot of the tower, and from the battlements of the latter hung the robbers' skeletons, which, with the stems of the oaks, the leaves, the branches, were all tipped with a blue silvery glare, while the deep black back-ground of the forest marked the limit of the magic effulgence. The lovely Editha, wrapped in a white tunic and resting on her father's iron-clad figure, which reflected the ghastly light, would have been like the good genius of the place, if her pallid face had not made her appear rather as a beautiful apparition from the dead.

"Fear not, Editha," said the Childe, "all here is safe!"

"Safe!" echoed a deep voice from amidst a cloud of smoke which had, as the blue splendour died away, arisen with a red flash and hissing noise. As it cleared off, the gigantic

"The holy Virgin protect us!" said Editha; "this is awful,—hark! I hear a step. O my father, let us go back! I fear me this is unhallowed work;" and she repeated in a low voice the sacred rhymes or paraphrase of the Lord's prayer, made by the Saxon pope, which was rife among that people:

"Ure fadyr in heaven rich
Thy name be halyed ever lich,
Thou bring us thy michell blisse,
Als hit in heaven y-doe,

Evar in yearthe beene it also

A heavy step approached,-the Childe drew his sword.

"Who art thou that dares to enter the wood of the tower without leave of the Vala?" said Alfnoth, in a determined but not a loud voice. "Harding," answered the intruder. "I heard you were to be here, and obtained the Vala's leave to join you; for, though believing you to be secure, Editha's safety is too dear to me to let her risk the dangers of this neighbourhood with so slender a train. Deeds are doing that you are a stranger to, brave Alf

battlements; she seemed clothed in a silver robe sparkling with diamonds, for the eye could scarcely bear the brightness.

Motionless she stood, with hands high above her head, as if in the act of evocation.

"God and the Virgin defend me!" again uttered Editha. "I hope we are safe, but I like not these dismal, perhaps unlawful rites." "Our ancestors held them, Editha," said her father; "but silence-look!"

As he said this the basket of the tower ascended and disappeared, the light was extinguished, and darkness again prevailed.

"Harold!" cried a voice from the tower. "Here stands Harding," was the reply; "Harold is in Ireland."

"Does the great Harold fear his friends? does he seek to hide himself from her from whom he cannot hide?" hissed the Vala.

"No," said Harold in a low tone, "but there may be other ears shrouded by the darkness, good Frica!"

"False! Who dares be here without leave from the Vala?" A pause ensued, and then the same voice called out, "Alfnoth."