above us the splendid rocks of St. Vincent, exactly at the foot of which, in their loftiest and most magnificent point of view, we lay: across the water, dancing and sparkling from the continual agitation of passing ships, were spread the beautiful wooded heights of Leigh. I do not think that any river can afford a more strikingly imposing coup d'oeil than we had then full leisure to contemplate but that annoying red chimney-top marred all our gratification. The Nora Creina had cleared the lock, had put on her steam; and while our men were straining every nerve in ineffectual efforts to float St. Patrick, his fair rival paddled by in triumph, bestowing on us a merry cheer-whether of condolence or exultation is best known to those who uttered it.

By means of a rope we were at length hauled into deep water again, and had the satisfaction of following Nora, but at as respectful a distance in the rear as we had intended her to keep. We passed into the Bristol channel, and without further adventure held on our way. An excellent dinner was provided, and the afternoon passed pleasantly on deck, a bright sky above, and a wide outspread of tranquil water around us. Towards evening, as I watched the sun's westward progress, that splendid reflexion which renders a sun-set at sea so glorious, suddenly appeared; a stream of

light seemed to descend perpendicularly from the flaming orb, still high above the horizon, and to settle on the wave beneath in a body of effulgence -it was like a carpet of silver tissue interspersed with diamonds, a little larger than the sun's apparent diameter. At that moment my young Hibernian friend approached, Do you see that, Robert?' I asked, pointing to the brilliant object before us. 'Yes,' he replied; and Ireland is just under it.'

Oh! what a multitude of mixed feelings came crowding to oppress my mind at that moment! I knew that the morrow must dawn before I could catch a glimpse of that distant shore; but here its location was unexpectedly pointed out to me, and that too with an association of the sublime and beautiful not often occurring together. Ireland is called the land of song; and I think it is the experience of all who have deeply pondered on her history, and looked upon her glorious landscapes, that the feelings excited on her behalf always partake of something which, for want of a better term, I suppose I must call romance. That mixture of the wild, the terrible, the joyous and pathetic peculiar to the Irish character, which is stamped on the natural scenery of the land, marks the pages of her changeful story, and thrills in her national melodies, rouses in those who are con

versant with it a species of enthusiasm incomprehensible to such as have never felt it. The anxious bustle of preparatory arrangements, the shifting scenery of a rapid journey, the events of our outset, and the many new faces appearing around me, amid the lively quarter-deck concomitants of a fine day, had almost lulled to sleep a chord long strung in my bosom. It was now touched-struck with a force that sent the vibration through its entire length and breadth; and from that moment I was dead to all else but the absorbing theme of our loved, unhappy Ireland. Often, very often, during a long absence of many years, had I breathed the language adapted to one of the Irish melodies.

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,

And sunbeams melt along the silent sea:

For then sweet dreams of other days arise,

And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

Can you not imagine with what a rush of gratified feeling they recurred to me now that I was pursuing a swift and steady course towards the land? The silver speck enlarged, it lengthened, it approached us, assuming every moment a deeper glow and there it lay, stretched from the furthest horizon to the very keel below me, and kindling into diamond brilliancy the gushes of foam from our paddle wheels. How exquisitely expressive of my sensations was the next verse

And as I mark the line of light that strays

Along the cool wave tow'rd the burning west,

I long to tread that golden path of rays,

And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest.

Rest!' that word presented too painful a contrast to the reality of what is, and has been, and too probably will yet be the lot of Ireland. You will not be surprised to hear that I did not withdraw my eyes from that quarter so long as the faintest lingering blush continued to mark the spot; and that by five o'clock the next morning I was at my post, in eager expectation of the first glimpse of Erin. It appeared at last; and after swallowing a hasty breakfast from the abundance of good cheer provided on board the St. Patrick, we again seated ourselves on deck, to mark the bold outline of the Wexford mountains, and the fine approach to Waterford.

On a jutting point of land, conspicuous alike for size and situation, stands the tower of Hook, a round, white building; and several other martello towers are seen along the coast where it stretches off to the north east, forming the bay of Ballyteig. Hook being rounded, we had fairly entered the harbour's mouth; and shall I try to tell you what I felt when beholding on either side the sweet green shores, like arms outspread to receive, with the national cead-mille-failte,' the hundred thousand welcomes' of Irish hospitality, a return

ing friend? No, I will not attempt it: you know the many touching circumstances that must have combined to render it an hour of trying emotion to me; you know that, since last I beheld her, Ireland has become the grave of that dear lost companion,' who, from earliest babyhood was

to me,

'Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,

Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.'

and you know that a pilgrimage of sorrowing affection to that spot had been for years the object of my daily wish and nightly dream. The circumstance threw a shade of indescribable sadness over my mind: the heart knew its own bitterness; and the tears that for an hour would not cease to fall, as I looked upon the soft and beautiful scenery around me, were indeed tears of love and grief, sacred alike to the memory of the dead and the doom of the living. I could at once take up the language of David and of Jeremiah; I could say with the former, "I am distressed for thee, my brother," and with the latter, "Oh that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughters of my people!"

Nothing could be more lovely than the gradually narrowing banks of Waterford harbour. There is no striking object-no grandeur of any kind,