“There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet, As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. “Yet, it _was_ not that nature had shed o’er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; ’Twas _not_ her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh! no, it was something more exquisite still. “’Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve When we see them reflected from looks that we love; “Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best. Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.” The vale of Avoca, thus made classic ground, thousands have since visited; and the tourist through Ireland would as soon think of neglecting the lakes of Killarney as “the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.” From among the many descriptions of this beautiful spot, we will select that given by an American lady who visited Ireland in 1845. It is brief but eloquent. She says— “It was Ireland’s summer twilight, lingering long, as though loth to draw the curtain closely about a bright isle in a dark world like this. It was early in July, the rich foliage had attained its maturity, and not a seared leaf was sprinkled on bush or tree, to warn that autumn was near. For the first mile the road was smooth and broad, lined with trees, now and then a white gate with white stone pillars, opening to some neat cottage or domain; the glowing streaks of the setting sun had not left the western sky, and glimmered through the trees; while the air, made fragrant by the gentle shower, diffused through body and mind that calmness which seemed to whisper, ‘Be silent; it is the Vale of Avoca you are entering.’ We descended a declivity, and the vale opened upon us at ‘the Meeting of the Waters.’ The tree under which Moore sat when he wrote the sweet poem had been pointed to me in the morning. We now stood near the union of the two streams, where the poet says, ‘There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.’