Again! at the harbours of sea-ports there was an unmistakeable noise. Over the rugged stones went the continual tramp and tread of armed men, who, with bursts of brutal insolence, marched from the ships. The clang of foreign arms again sounded in the cities, along the plains, and across the hills of Erin. Ireland had become the province of a foreign power which did not speak the English tongue. Ireland was that day trampled on by the iron heel of a new master. Albion, from its white cliffs, saw the scene. But the ties had been long broken. THE LAST WALK. BY B. SIMMONS. Oh lost Madonna, young and fair! O'er-leant by broad embracing trees, A streamlet to the lonely air Murmurs its meek low melodies; And there, as if to drink the tune, And mid the sparkling sands to play, One constant Sunbeam still at noon Shoots through the shades its golden way. My lost Madonna, whose glad life Was like, that ray of radiant air, The March-wind's violet scents blew rife When last we sought that fountain fair. Blythe as the beam from heaven arriving, --Thy hair held back by hands whose gleam Was white as stars with night-clouds striving-- Thy bright lips bent and sipp'd the stream. Fair fawn-like creature! innocent In soul as faultless in thy form,-- As o'er the wave thy beauty bent It blushed thee back each rosy charm. How soon the senseless wave resign'd The tints, with thy retiring face, While glass'd within my mournful mind Still glows that scene's enchanting grace. Ah! _every_ scene, or bright or bleak, Where once thy presence round me shone, To echoing Memory long shall speak The Past's sweet legends, Worshipp'd One! The wild blue hills, the boundless moor, That, like my lot, stretch'd dark afar, And o'er its edge, thine emblem pure, The never-failing evening star. The lawn on which the Sunset's track Crimson'd thy home beside the Glen-- The village pathway, leading back From thee to haunts of hated men-- The walk to watch thy chamber's ray, 'Mid storm and midnight's rushing wings-- These, these were joys, long pass'd away, To dwell with Grief's eternal things. My lost Madonna, fair and young! Before thy slender-sandall'd feet The dallying wave its silver flung, Then dash'd far ocean's breast to meet; And farther, wider, from thy side Than unreturning streams could rove, Dark Fate decreed me to divide-- _To me_, my henceforth buried Love! Yes! far for ever from thy side, Madonna, now for ever fair, To death of DISTANCE I have died, And all has perished, but--Despair. Whether thy fate with woe be fraught, Or Joy's gay rainbow gleams o'er thee, I've died to all, but the mad thought That WHAT WAS ONCE NO MORE SHALL BE.