Leal heart, and brave right hand that never drew One false note from thy harp, although the ache Of weariness and hope deferred might shake Harsh discords from a soul less clear and true Than thine amid the gloom that knew no break-- The London gloom that barred the heaven's blue From thy deep Celtic eyes, so wide to take The bliss of earth and sky within their view! On fleet, white wings thy music made its way Back o'er the waves to Ireland's holy shore; Close nestled in her bosom, each wild lay Mixed with her sighs--'twas from her deep heart's core She called thee: "'Gille Machree'[7] come home, I pray-- In my green lap of shamrocks sleep, asthore!" ROSE KAVANAGH, in _Irish Monthly_. Mary E. Blake. Two years ago we concluded a slight notice of the poems of "Thomasine" (known in Ireland as Miss Olivia Knight, and in Australia as Mrs. Hope Connolly), with the following words: "A writer in the _Irish Fireside_ said lately that Eva and Speranza had no successors. We could name, if we dared, three or four daughters of Erin whom we believe to be singing now from a truer and deeper inspiration and with a purer utterance." Happily, since these words were printed, two of these unnamed rivals whom we set up against the gifted wife of the new M. P. elect for Meath, and against the more gifted widow of Sir William Wilde, have placed their names on the title pages of collections of their poems. We allude, of course, to Katharine Tynan and Rosa Mulholland. Not only these whose place in literature is already secured, but higher than some to whom the enthusiasm of a political crisis gave prominence, we should be inclined to rank such Irish songstresses as the late Attie O'Brien and the living but too silent "Alice Esmonde." And then of Irishwomen living outside Ireland we have Fanny Parnell, Fanny Forrester, Eleanor C. Donnelly, and the lady whom we claim as our own in the title of this paper--Mrs. Mary E. Blake. Though the wife of a physician at Boston, she was born at Clonmel, and bore the more exclusively Celtic name of Magrath.[8] Boston claims, or used to claim, to be the literary metropolis of the United States. A prose volume by Mrs. Blake and a volume of her poems lie before us, and for elegance of typography do credit to their Boston publishers. "On the Wing"--lively sketches of a trip to the Pacific, all about San Francisco and the Yosemite Valley, and Los Angeles, and Colorado, but ending with this affectionate description of Boston aforesaid: