Corinne, the pride of Italy, descends the flow'r-wreathed

way,

For at the proud old Capitol she will be crown'd to-day. Right nobly prance her snow-white steeds-behold! the chariots come!

Room, room for her, the star of all! ye citizens of Rome.

Off with your hats, brave gentlemen, for genius is divine ; And never hath she made her home in such a lovely

shrine.

She comes! the fair Corinna comes! 'mid thunders of acclaim,

That rush unto the lips of all when murmur breathes her name.

Scatter sweet roses all around! fling perfumes to the air! And strew her path with all that breathes of beautiful and fair.

Her car hath gain'd the Capitol-her foot is on the stair; She stands, a form of matchless grace, the queen of thousands there.

Bring forth the wreath that threw afresh a lustre round

his name,

Whose genius burned, a vestal fire, with never-dying flame;

Whose vision pierced the mantling mists that circle round the tomb,

Where bitter groans resound for aye amid the starless

gloom;

Who saw the cities of the blest, and with as fearless tread,

Paced through the ebony halls of hell, the mansions of the dead

The crown that might have cast a ray to light sad Tasso's gloom,

But only droop'd a fun'ral wreath to wither on his tomb.. Ay, reach it down, that laurel crown, it never hath been given

To one more rich in beauty's grace and all the gifts of Heaven.

Oh! it is grand, a nation's love! a people's benison ! The homage of ten thousand hearts flung at the feet of

one!

The rapturous glow that fires the soul, and thrills through every frame,

At mention of the worshipp'd one, the echo of her name. Corinna at the Capitol! Oh! what a spell comes o'er

me,

As I view the gorgeous pageantry that passes now before me!

But I would know the meaning of the tears which starting rise

In pearly drops, to dim the joy which lights her rapturous eyes.

Though laurel wreath surrounds her brow, and glory lights her name,

There is a chamber in her heart can ne'er be fill'd by fame.

Lonely, amid adoring crowds, she dreams, as well she

may,

The faithful love of one true heart were better worth

than they.

And when the crowd is parted, and the festival is o'er, The many voices silent, and the music heard no more, She will think upon the triumph, the splendour that is

gone,

As the shadow of a dream, or the echo of a tone.

THE SARPINT LAKE.

GEORGE BENNETT.

[One of the Lakes of Killarney is called the "Sarpint Lake," or the "Last Sarpint's Lake," and the faithful guides believe the legend here versified-which, by the way, they aver is no legend at all-and regard it as one of the greatest feats of their Patron Saint.]

Ir's thrue as the day, and no legend, I'll swear
By St. Patrick himself, if you plaise;

For 'twas he, as they tell, by lake, mountain, or fell,
Was the praste could repel magic, witchcraft, or spell,
With the greatest of pleasure and aise.

If the damons or inps were as deep as the say,
He'd be down to them sure in a wink;

And he'd do it so nate, that 'twas almost a thrate
To be rayther too late, or to know they were bate
Ere they'd time to consither or think.

Oh, St. Pathrick!—the pride of ould Ireland is he—
Was the saint that no other could match;
He was down at the wakes of Killarney, i' faix;
So a ramble he takes by the beautiful lakes,
Just a glimpse of their glory to snatch.

As he wanthered along, soon he came to the place
Where a cunnin' ould sarpint was hid;

He could just see the thrail of his arrowy tail,
And the links of his mail, which no sword could assail,
Where down the deep banks he had slid.

"He's the last of his race," says the sturthy old praste, "But he's subtile almost as the first,

And he knows what is right, if he don't do it quite,
So I'll just be purlite, for I owe him no spite-
It's a thrick of desait at the worst.

So the saint he bent down o'er the green ferny banks,
And shouted, "Good morning, Sir Snake!

Sure it's dark now and could in that foul slimy hould, As you need not be tould." Says the sarpint, "You're bould

So early my slumbers to break.

"But it's civil you are, and it's civil I'll be;

So the top of the morning to you!

And if friendly you be, you'll discoorse now with me: I'm alone, as you see, so I hope you'll make free, While you rest and enjoy the sweet view.

"You can sit on that nate little box at your back, Full of goold, or why clasped with such care?"

Says St. Pathrick, "Begor, but I'd wish for no more, If I had to the fore, but a purse of bright ore.

But this box! why, 'twould hould you, I swear."

"Hould me!" says the sarpint," and thy tunder and turf!
It's my head now would scarcely be hid."
Says St. Pathrick so sly, "You may think it's my eye,
But now just have a thry, ere I wish you good-bye,
And sure now I'll open the lid."

Up leaps with a hiss of derision the snake,

Head and shoulthers thrusts into the thrap, And he snuffles about like a pig with his snout. But the saint gave a shout,

out!"

66 Sure your tail's hanging

And he bangs down the lid with a clap.

Och, my tail!"

tail! tare an' ouns! you are smashing my

"Then take your tail in wid you now,

Or by this and by that," says the good Father Pat,
"I will squeeze it as flat as the wing of a bat,
Or the ear of a Donnybrook sow.'

So he drew in his tail quick-to save it, of coorse,
And coiled it all round like a rope.

Says St. Pathrick, "All right, sure I'll lock you up tight;
As you haven't got a light, I may say, too, Good night,
And your dhrames 'ill be pleasant, I hope."

Then into the lake's deepest, murkiest hole,
He dasht down the iron-bound snake;

With a stifled "Och hone!" with a screech and a groan,
Down it sank like a stone, and to this day is known
To the thrav'ler the "Last Sarpint's Lake."

And whenever a sthorm dashes over its breast,
With a howl of demoniac rage;

In Killarney they say, "There's, there's the divil to pay;
For the sarpint to-day makes the lake like the say,
As he sthriekes 'gainst his dark iron cage."

(Copyright-Contributed.)

THERE once came, what of late happened so often in Ireland, a hard year. When the crops failed, there was beggary and misfortune from one end of the island to the other. At that time, a great many poor people had to quit the country from want of employment, and through the high price of provisions. Among others, John Carson was under the necessity of going over to England to try if he could get work, and of leaving his wife and family behind him, begging for a bite and a sup up and down, and trusting to the charity of good Christians.

John was a smart young fellow, handy at any work, from the hay-field to the stable, and willing to earn the bread he ate and he was soon engaged by a gentleman. The English are mighty strict upon Irish servants: he was to have twelve guineas a year wages, but the money was not to be paid until the end of the year, and he was to forfeit the entire twelve guineas in the lump if he misconducted himself in any way within the twelve months. John Carson was to be sure upon his best behaviour, and conducted himself in every particular so well for the time, there was no faulting him late or early, and the wages were fairly his.

The term of his agreement being expired, he determined on returning home, notwithstanding his master, who had a great regard for him, pressed him to remain, and asked him if he had any reason to be dissatisfied with his treatment.

"No reason in life, sir," said John; "you've been a good master, and a kind master to me; the lord spare you over your family: but I left a wife with two small children of my own at home, after me in Ireland, and your honour would never wish to keep me from them entirely the wife and the children !"

"Well, John," said the gentleman, "you have earned