The garden wall, we nothing saw,

But flowers and blossoms, and we heard Nought but the whirring of some bird, Or the rooks' distant, clamorous caw.

And in the shade we saw the face

Of our dear Mary sleeping near,
And thou wert by to smile and hear,
And speak with innate truth and grace.

There through the pleasant noontide hours
My task of echoed song I sung;

Turning the golden southern tongue
Into the iron ore of ours!

"Twas the great Spanish master's pride,
The story of the hero proved;
"Twas how the Moorish princess loved,
And how the firm Fernando died.

Oh! happiest season ever seen,

Oh day, indeed the happiest day; Join with me, love, and with me say Sweet Summer time and scene.

V.

One picture more before I close

Fond Memory's fast dissolving views;
One picture more before I lose

The radiant outlines as they rose.

'Tis evening, and we leave the porch,

And for the hundreth time admire The rhododendron's cones of fire Rise round the tree, like torch o'er torch.

And for the hundredth time point out

Each favourite blossom and perfume—
If the white lilac still doth bloom,

Or the pink hawthorn fadeth out:

And by the laurel'd wall, and o'er

The fields of young green corn we're gone;
And by the outer gate, and on

To our dear friend's oft-trodden door.

And there in cheerful talk we stay,

Till deepening twilight warns us home;
Then once again we backward roam

Calmly and slow the well-known way—

And linger for the expected view-
Day's dying gleam upon the hill;
Or listen for the whip-poor-will,

Or the too seldom shy cuckoo.

At home the historic page we glean,

And muse, and hope, and praise and pray-
Join with me, love, as then, and say

Sweet Summer time and scene!

Oh! Kathleen, my darlin', I've had such a dhrame,
Sure no man ever fancied the likes of the same;
I dreamt that the World, like yourself, darlin' dear,
Just presented a son to the happy New Year!
Like yourself, too, the poor mother suffered awhile,
But like thine was the joy, at her baby's first smile,
When the tender nurse, Nature, her mantle did fling
Of sunshine around it, and called it THE SPRING!

II.

Oh! Kathleen, 'twas strange how the elements all,
With their friendly regards, condescended to call.
The rough rains of Winter like summer-dews fell,

And the North-wind said, Zephyr-like-Is the World well?
And the streams ran quick-sparkling to tell o'er the earth
God's goodness to man in this mystical birth;

For a Son of this World, and an heir to the King
Who rules over man, is this beautiful Spring!

III.

Oh! Kathleen, methought, when the bright babe was born,
More lovely than morning appeared the bright morn;
The birds sang more sweetly, the grass greener grew,
And with buds and with blossoms the old trees looked new;
And methought when the Priest of the Universe came-
The Sun-in his vestments of glory and flame,

The name that he gave all creation did sing

"Twas the bouchelleen bawn of the World 'twas the Spring!

Feb.

IV.

Oh! Kathleen, dear Kathleen! what treasures are piled
In the mines of the Past for this wonderful Child!
The lore of the sages, the lays of the bards,
Like a primer, the eye of this infant regards;

All the dearly-bought knowledge that cost life and limb,
Without price, without peril, are offered to him ;
And the blithe bee of Progress concealeth its sting,
As it offers its sweets to this beautiful Spring!

V.

Oh! Kathleen, they tell us of wonderful things,
Of speed that surpasseth the fairy's fleet wings;
How the lands of the world in communion are brought,
And the slow march of speech is as rapid as thought.
Oh! think what an heir-loom the great world will be,
With this wonderful wire 'neath the Earth and the Sea;
When the snows and the sunshine together shall bring,
And the East and the West, all their gifts to the Spring.

VI.

Oh! Kathleen, but think of the birth-gifts of love

That THE MASTHER who lives in the GREAT HOUSE above Prepares for the poor child that's born on his land

Oh, God! they're the sweet flowers that fall from thy hand, The crocus, the primrose, the violet given

Awhile, to make Earth the reflection of Heaven;

The brightness and lightness that round the world wing,
Oh! heir of the ages! are thine, happy Spring!

VII.

Oh! Kathleen, dear Kathleen! that dream is gone by,
And I wake once again, but, thank God! thou art by;
And the land that we love looks as bright in the beam,
Just as if my queer dream was not all out a dream.
The spring-tide of Nature its blessing imparts-

Let the spring-tide of Hope send its pulse through our hearts;
Let us feel 'tis a mother, to whose breast we cling,

And a brother we hail, when we welcome the Spring.

OUR PORTRAIT GALLERY.-NO. LXII.

SAMUEL LOver.

TOUCHSTONE.-"Lovers are given to Poetry."-As You Like it.

SAMUEL LOVER, poet, painter, dramatist-an Irishman well entitled to a place in our Gallery-the author of " Rory O'More," and who has not heard it, ground as it is on organs, scratched on fiddles, blown on coach horns, pressed into the service of quadrilles, and even tortured into a waltz? Sung in the western wilds of America and on the wall of China, piped and drummed by our military bands in every quarter of the globe, "Rory" still reigns an universal favourite, and bids fair, like "Patrick's-day" or "Garryowen," to go on living among us in our own sea-girt isle from sire to son, by "a lease of lives renewable for ever."

We have by us, as we write, a book entitled "Crosby's Irish Musical Repository," containing "a Choice Collection of Esteemed Irish Songs, adapted for the Voice, Violin, and German Flute," which, bearing date 1808, emanated from Stationer's-court, Paternoster-row, and professes on its title-page to be purchaseable "at all respectable book and music-sellers in the United Kingdom." An examination of this volume has satisfied us that a pig, a shillelagh, and a knock on the head were the chief stock in trade of the comic song writers of that day, who felt it indispensable to end their verses with the senseless refrain of "Whack row-de-dow," "Smallilou," or "Bubbero," "Palliluh," or "Whilleluh, Botheration," "Langolee," "Whack," and whack again. Instead of imitating what they affected to represent, they created, Frankenstein-like, a strange monster which they called an Irishman, who could only make mistakes, and whenever he was pushed to an argument twisted his stick in solution of the difficulty and sang a song with an appropriate "Whack." Most of these absurdities were written for the stage, at a time when the Irishman played but a subordinate part in the drama, passed current in England until a very recent period, and were tolerated and even applauded in Ireland. The days of "Whack and Smallilou," however, were destined to be numbered, for in "Rory O'More" a way was shown to a new phase of song, in which there is comicality without vulgarity or coarseness, and, in the midst of fun, a poetic appreciation of female beauty, combined with gallantry and tenderness

"Her neck,

So soft and so white, without freckle or speck,

And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light."

But we are anticipating. Let us go back awhile, and say something about the subject of our memoir before the birth of his "Rory." Lover, like Moore, was born in Dublin; they drew their life-stream from Irish mothers; alike were lulled to sleep by the unmatched melodies of their native land; alike heard her legends and fairy tales, and had their young fancies warmed from the same source. At a very early age he displayed evident musical tendencies. When once on a visit with a friend of his father's, where there were children of his own age, he left his companions at play, and being missed by the lady of the house, who went about in some anxiety looking for him, her ear was arrested by the sound of an old piano-forte in a remote room, its notes dropping now and then in the apparent effort of somebody trying to make out a tune, she softly opened the door and saw him poking out the then popular melody of "Will you come to the bower," the composition of the illustrious bard who excited his imagination, and who years afterwards heard his praises sung by the same boy under circumstances which are still fresh in the memory of many. There was a public dinner given to Moore in Dublin, on the 8th of June, 1818, for which Lover, then a mere stripling, was presented with a ticket by a friend, to whom,