THE AVENGER. Da bfeacin se'n la sin bo seasta bfeic m'intin. O, Heavens! if that long-wished for morning I spied, blow, Ten thousand huzzas should ascend to high heaven, riven. O! chieftains of Ulster, when will you come forth, Red stars of the battle, O'Donnel, O'Neal ! Bright house of O'Connor, high offspring of kings, Mononia* of Druids, green dwelling of song, * In Mononia, (Munster) Druidism appears to have flourished most, as we may conjecture, from the numerous remains of Druidical workmanship, and the names of places indicating that worship. The records of the province are the best kept of any in Ireland, and it has proverbially_retained among the peasantry, a character for superior learning.-Blackwood's Magazine. Does no bard live to wake, as they oft did before, O, come from yon hills, like the waves to the shore, When the storm-girded headlands are mad with the roar! Ten thousand hurras shall ascend to high heaven, When our prince is restor'd, and our fetters are riven. You The names in this last song are those of the principal families in Ireland, many of whom, however, were decided enemies of the house of Stuart. cannot fail to observe the strange expectation which these writers entertained of the nature of the Pretender's designs. They call on him, not to come to re-instate himself on the throne of his fathers, but to aid them in doing vengeance on the "flint-hearted Saxon." Nothing, however, could be more natural. The Irish Jacobites, at least the Roman Catholics, were in the habit of claiming the Stuarts, as of the Milesian line, fondly deducing them from Fergus, and the Celts of Ireland. Who the Avenger is, whose arrival is prayed for in the last song, I am not sure; but circumstances, too tedious to be detailed, make me think, that the date of the song is 1708, when a general impression prevailed, that the field would be taken in favour of the Pretender, under a commander of more weight and authority than had come forward before. His name was kept a secret. Very little has been written on the history of the jacobites of Ireland, and yet, I think it would be an interesting subject. We have now arrived at a time when it could be done, without exciting any angry feelings. Blackwood's Magazine. ODE TO IMAGINATION. As we are intimately acquainted with the author of this Ode, we must forbear commenting upon it. We therefore leave its merits to be determined by the judgment of our readers.-ED. Say, who art thou, whose vivid eye, Ere art had strung the unpractis'd lyre,— But still to us thou art unknown, Or trace thy devious, hermit way? Visions of high, ethereal bliss, That never lingered here below; And that pure ecstacy that finds And owns thy genial power. A pensive lover thou art seen Lone, lingering through some desert shade, Unmindful of the smiling green, And all the magic of the mead... Nature for thee no more hath charms, Consign'd to passion's dread alarms, The offspring of unwise desire; Escap'd from Love's tyrannic sway, And claim thy own, thy natal skies. Where space extends her boundless line; And other planets shine. Oft dost thou stray where ocean's roar, D More wild thy looks than his who braves Lured by Ambition's erring pride, And fancied treasures of delight: And points to scenes of future power ; Yet every bliss to hope allied, The terrors of sublime Affright, Be all thy mixed emotions mine!.. Yet far from ocean's desert waste, Where science waits us, to bestow Or language can reveal. Remote from courts and regal sway, With thee enjoy the pensive lay, And court the humble, rustic cell, |