nor me from entertaining myself with all these pleasures,... at least from being contented."-p. 406. You feel as if in another region,...almost in another world.-p. 149. This feeling is beautifully expressed in a very pleasing volume, which ought to send some of our tourists to Ireland. Describing a scene among the mountains of Donegal, the writer says, 66 you seemed lifted as it were out of the turmoil of the world into some planetary Paradise, into some such place as the Apostle in the Apocalypse was invited to, when the voice said come up hither!'. You might have supposed that sound had no existence here; were it not that now and then a hawk shrieked while cowering over the mountain top, or a lamb bleated beneath as it ran to its mother. I could have gone to sleep here, and dreamt of heaven purchased for poor sinners like me, by a Saviour's blood." I did at any rate praise the God of nature and of grace, and draw near to him in Christ, grateful for all his blessings, and all his wonders of creating and redeeming love!" Sketches in Ireland: descriptive of interesting and hitherto unnoticed districts in the North and South.―p. 10. Readers who have not seen this little volume may thank me for recommending it to their notice. Llywarch Hen.-p. 151. His remaining poems were published with a literal translation, by Mr. William Owen, in 1792. Their authenticity has been proved by Mr. Turner, and they are exceedingly curious, as some of the oldest remains of Keltic poetry. They are also of some historical value. The loss of his sons he imputes to some indiscretion of his own, concerning which there is probably no tradition extant, as his translator has given no comment upon the passage. Four-and-twenty sons, the offspring of my body; By the means of my tongue they were slain : The general strain of these poems is as melancholy as it is rude. He laments for his friends, his patrons, and his children, and complains of old age, infirmity, and sickness. Before I appeared with crutches, I was eloquent, I was admitted into the congress house. My wooden crook be thou a contented branch Llywarch accustomed much to talk, My wooden crook, thou hardy branch, My wooden crook be thou steady, So that thou mayest support me the better.- What I loved when I was a youth are hateful to me now, Am I not for them unmeet? The four most hateful things to me through life, The cough, old age, sickness and grief. I am old, I am alone, I am decrepid and cold, After the sumptuous bed of honour, I am wretched, I am triply bent. Those that loved me once, now love me not. Young virgins love me not. I am resorted to by none. Ah Death, why will he not befriend me? I am befriended by neither sleep nor gladness. For Llywarch, on the night he was born, Long pains without being delivered of his load of trouble. I annex also some extracts from his verses on the Cuckoo. Sitting to rest on a hill, cruelly inclined is my mind, Short is my journey and my dwelling wretched. Sharply blows the gale, it is base punishment to live, When the trees array themselves in their summer finery; Violent is my pain this day. I am no follower of the chace, I keep no hound, I cannot move myself abroad. As long as it seemeth good to the Cuckoo, let her sing! The loud-voiced Cuckoo sings with the dove By the waters of Cuawg the Cuckoos sing Woe to the sick that hears their contented notes! By the waters of Cuawg Cuckoos are singing: To my mind grating is the sound. Oh may others that hear not sicken like me! * It seems, says Mr. Owen, that this proverb is to be considered a song of the Cuckoo,-Gwell corawg na cybydd. Have I not listened to the Cuckoo, on the tree encircled with ivy, And did it not cause me to hang down my shield! But hateful is what I loved. If I loved, hence shall it cease. On a hill that overlooked the merry oak, I have listened to the song of birds, The loud Cuckoo that is in every lover's thoughts. Sweet songstress with her song of content, her voice creates longing: She is fated to wander; like the hawk scuds The birds are clamorous, the beach is wet: The birds are clamorous, the strand is wet: The birds are clamorous, the strand is wet, Clamorous are the birds on the scent of the prey; When the harbinger of summer comes, every varied seed is gay. When the warriors hasten to the conflict, I do not go, infirmity prevents me. When the summer comes, glorious on the impatient steeds There are frequent expressions of religious belief in these poems, but Llywarch never appears to derive consolation from it. The Shepherd Lord Clifford.—p. 158. "So in the condition of a shepherd's boy at Lonsborrow, where his mother then lived for the most part, did this Lord Clifford spend his youth, till he was about fourteen years of age, about which time his mother's father, Henry Bromflett, Lord Vesey, deceased. But a little after his death it came to be rumoured, at the Court, that his daughter's two sons were alive; about which their mother was examined: but her answer was, that she had given directions to send them both beyond seas, to be bred there; and she did not know whether they were dead or alive. "And as this Henry Lord Clifford did grow to more years, he was still the more capable of his danger, if he had been discovered. And therefore presently after his grandfather, the Lord Vesey, was dead, the said rumour of his being alive, being more and more whispered at the Court, made his said loving mother, by the means of her second husband, Sir Lancelot Threlkeld, to send him away with the said shepherds and their wives into Cumberland, to be kept as a shepherd there, sometimes at Threlkeld, and amongst his father-in-law's kindred, and sometimes upon the borders of Scotland, where they took lands, purposely for these shepherds that had the custody of him; where many times his father-in-law came purposely to visit him, and sometimes his mother, though very secretely. By which mean kind of breeding this inconvenience befell him, that he could neither write nor read; for they durst not bring him up in any kind of learning, lest by it his birth should be discovered. Yet |