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The gorgeous sky is loud

With the ringing voice of mirth, And the sounds of joy have overflowed

This fair and fruitful earth :

Would ye not look once more

On the scene of bliss and bloom Ye left for a land where joy is o'er,

The dark and dreary tomb?

Ye answer not! The flowers

Of spring are glancing fair, Nursed by the warm and welcome showers

That southern breezes bear;

The wild bird's mellow song,

From her leafy solitude,
Pours in a rapturous flood along

The green and sunlit wood;

All, all around us seems

Without a taint of woe,
Bright as the lovely clime his dreams

To the sinless hermit show:

Joy is over the earth,

Joy is over the sky, Would ye not mix with the sons of mirth,

And the festal revelry?

What, silent still ? May none

Of these things win your praise ? Not the smiling earth, nor the glittering sun,

Nor the wild birds' sweetest lays ?

The friends ye prized of old,

May not they your greeting crave; Or waxeth the hand of friendship cold

In the chill and cheerless grave ?

Long ye not yet to press

To your hearts each once loved form, Or reck


less of love's embrace Than the clasp of the slimy worm ?

Arise! arise! for they

Invite to the banquet hall; Rend, then, your mouldering shrouds away,

And burst the charnel's thrall !

Ye linger! Sleep ye yet

In the narrow house of fear ? The feast is spread, and the guests are met,

But still ye come not here!

The young, the fair, are sped

To the banquet in their pride; The wine is sparkling ruby red,

O'er the goblet's jewelled side;

The song of pleasure rings

From joyous hearts on high, And the minstrel wakes the golden strings

Of his lyre to melody;

Would ye not know the mirth

That lights each burning soul? Then shake off the weary weight of earth,

And spurn the grave's control !

Still silent! Then 'tis vain
For man to call


back To pass the bourne of death again,

And retrace life's shining track.

As the rainbow is consumed,

And vanisheth away,
So were ye in your spring-time doomed

To fade from the light of day;

To sink in that dark sea,

When fear and hope are o'er,
And a breathless calm eternally

Broods o'er a tideless shore:

Slumber then, yet, ye

dead!. Till the hour when earth and sky Shall echo the angel's voice of dread,

And the tyrant Death must die!



PROGRESS! progress! all things cry;

Progress, Nature's golden rule; Nothing tarries 'neath the sky;

Learn in Nature's wondrous school: Earth from chaos sprang sublime,

Broad-armed oaks from acorns grow, Insects, labouring, build in time

Mighty islands from below; Press we on thro' good and ill, Progress be our watchword still.

Rough may be the mountain-road

Leading to the heights of Mind; Climb, and reach Truth's bright abode :

Dull the souls that grope behind. Science, learning, yield their prize;

Faint not in the noble chase, He who aims not to be wise

Sinks unworthy of his race; He who fights shall vanquish ill; Progress be our watchword still.

Slave! your

Broad the tract that lies before us;

Never mourn the days of old,
Time will not tombed years restore is,

Past is iron_future gold!
Savage! learn till civilized;

fetters shake till free;
Hearts that struggle, souls despised!

Work your own high destiny :
All things yield to steadfast will,
Progress be our watchword still,
Onward !-Orient nations know

Nothing of that magic word;
'Tis the trump that giants blow-

'Tis the spirit's conquering sword !
'Tis the electric, mystic fire

Which should flash around the earth,
Making every heart a wire-

Tis a word of heavenly birth;
Onward ! at the sound we thrill;
Progress be our watchword still.



SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A. (Mr. Samuel Ferguson is a native of Belfast, a Queen's counsel, and one of the leaders of the Irish North East Circuit. His reputation as a poet of the very highest order has long been established; his poetry is distinguished for its vigour and tenderness, the truthful minuteness of its descriptive passages, the fertility of its imagery, and its exquisite finish generally. As a translator he is known most favourably for the efficient way in which he has cast the rude materials of Irish historical and romantic story into forms not un worthy of their really heroic character. About twenty years since Mr. Ferguson contributed pretty largely to “Blackwood" and "The Dublin University Magazine," and he still contributes occasional papers on archæological subjects to the transactions and proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy, of which he is a member.' The University of Dublin has lately conferred on him the honorary degree

of Doctor of Laws. Mr. Ferguson is now a resident of Dublin. We are glad to find that a new edition of his collected writings has recently been published by Messrs. Bell & Daldy, London.] “Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning

wheel; For your father's on the hill, and your mother is

asleep:: Come

up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland


Around the fairy thorn on the steep."
At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried,

Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green; And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside,

The fairest of the four, I ween. They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve,

Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare ; The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave,

And the crags in the ghostly air : And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go, The maids along the hill-side have ta’en their fearless

way, Till they come to where the rowan-trees in lonely

beauty grow

Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey. The hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim, Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her

knee; The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head


and dim,

In ruddy kisses sweet to see. The merry

maidens four have ranged them in a row, Between each lovely couple a stately rowan-stem; And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they

Oh, never carolled bird like them !

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