Sleep! for the weeping flowers have shed Their fragrant tears upon thy head, The voice of love hath sooth'd thy rest, And thy pillow is a mother's breast. Sleep, my child! Weary hath pass'd the time forlorn, Since to your mansion I was borne, Tho' bright the feast of its airy halls, And the voice of mirth resounds from its walls. Sleep, my child! Full many a maid and blooming bride Within that splendid dome abide,-- And many a hoar and shrivell'd sage, And many a matron bow'd with age. Sleep, my child! Oh! thou who hearest this song of fear, To the mourner's home these tidings bear. Bid him bring the knife of the magic blade, At whose lightning-flash the charm will fade. Sleep, my child! Haste! for to-morrow's sun will see The hateful spell renewed for me; Nor can I from that home depart, Till life shall leave my withering heart. Sleep, my child! Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees, Stirr'd by the breath of summer breeze, And fairy songs of sweetest note, Around us gently float. THE WHITE TROUT; A LEGEND OF CONG. BY S. LOVER. There was wanst upon a time, long ago, a beautiful lady that lived in a castle upon the lake beyant, and they say she was promised to a king's son, and they wor to be married, when all of a sudden he was murthered, the crathur (Lord help us), and threwn into the lake above, and so, of course, he couldn't keep his promise to the fair lady,--and more's the pity. Well, the story goes that she went out iv her mind, bekase av loosin' the king's son--for she was tendher-hearted, God help her, like the rest iv us!--and pined away after him, until at last, no one about seen her, good or bad; and the story wint that the fairies took her away. Well, sir, in coorse o' time, the White Throut, God bless it, was seen in the sthrame beyant, and sure the people didn't know what to think av the crathur, seein' as how a _white_ throut was never heard av afor, nor since; and years upon years the throut was there, just where you seen it this blessed minit, longer nor I can tell--aye throth, and beyant the memory o' th' ouldest in the village. At last the people began to think it must be a fairy; for what else could it be?--and no hurt nor harm was iver put an the white throut, until some wicked sinners of sojers kem to these parts, and laughed at all the people, and gibed and jeered them for thinkin' o' the likes; and one o' them in partic'lar (bad luck to him; God forgi' me for saying it!) swore he'd catch the throut and ate it for his dinner--the blackguard!