When the calm and purple morning shone out on high

Dunmore,

Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchidony's

shore ;

And to this day the fisherman shews where the scoffers

sank,

And still he calls that hillock green "The Virgin Mary's Bank."

JOHN AUGUSTINE O'SHEA.

This bard has not yet reached his twentyfourth year; but, perhaps, has written more in the short space since his poetical talents have developed themselves than any of his contemporaries in the same period. The circumstances of Greece, and the glorious struggle which that too-long oppressed and degraded country has made to acquire her freedom, have been objects of particular attention to Mr. O'Shea, and his Muse has been principally employed in celebrating the modern triumphs of that regenerated country. The annexed specimen evinces considerable nerve, and true poetic feeling.

SULIOTE SONG OF VICTORY.

""Twas morn, and the mountain peaks
Were visor'd with purple light,

When the deep glen rung,

And the war shout sprung,

Unbroken from height to height.

Each Suliote knew the sound

That summon'd his ready brand,

And they rush'd along

With their rough war-song,

Like waves to a stormy strand.

The Arnaut host had reach'd

A pass of the guarded glen, When the loud steel clash'd, And the hot blood plash'd,

In the trample of mighty men.

Thro' th' Albanese reeling ranks

The conquering men rush'd down,

As wild winds sweep

Thro' the forests deep,

When the Autumn leaves are brown.

There were blood-fill'd turbans there,

And many a bleeding brand

Was scatter'd around

The reeking ground,

Fast clench'd in the lifeless hand.

And the countless crescents that shone

Thro' billows of boiling blood,

Seem'd so broken and bright,

Like reflected light,

On the eve-empurpled flood.

Then shout for the Suliote inen,

Besprent with that gory rain,

As lions appear

When the slaughter'd deer

Lie strew'd on the smoking plain.

They stood like their own wild hills,
Unhurt while the tempest rides,

While the lightnings flash

And the thunders crash

Around their mighty sides."

JOSEPH O'LEARY.

This wooer of the Poetic Muse, who is, at present, employed in a translation of "Tibullus," from his earliest years has been a lover of poesy. He, at one time, designed to make the Stage his profession; but the little encouragement which theatricals generally receive in Ireland, and the advice of his friends, induced him to put off the buskin, and grasp the quill instead of the truncheon.

He has repeatedly essayed his strength in short pieces, in the public papers of Cork, in which sweetness of manner, easy, flowing, and musical versification, with great polish and

felicity of language, and abundance of imagery, are the characteristic traits, bringing with him a warm attachment to his country, a close knowledge of its history, manners, traditions, and general antiquities.

He has successfully waked the lyre to lays of love, to freedom, and to Bacchic strains; and in all he has exhibited talent, feeling, and sprightliness. The following song, adapted to the lively national air of "Bob and Joan," has been sung in every convivial circle in Cork.

SONG.

"Whiskey, drink divine, Why should drivellers bore us With the praise of wine,

While we've thee before us?

Were it not a shame,

While we gaily fling thee

To our lips of flame,

If we could not sing thee?

Whiskey, drink divine, &c.

Had Anacreon, who

Was the grape's best poet,

Drank our mountain-dew,

All the world would know it.