"Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began." "Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray." This passage concludes in a fine strain, the finest in the poem: "To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head." Here is a transcendent radiance that has been held the most sublime simile that language yields. Then, following with a most delicate transition, we have the genial and gentle humour in the picture of the pedagogue and his pupils, and then the village inn and the rustics discussing news "much older than their ale." Well may the sweetly chiding and chastening poet reflect, "How wide the limits stand, Between a splendid and a happy land." It may be surprising to hear dear Noll, the dandy of the Literary Club, deride "The glaring impotence of dress." There is a grace--nay, more, there is a genius in transition. The exile and the emigration of the Irish were not, and are not now, exclusively territorial, nor is the spiritual pang of leaving loved homes and cherished hearts entirely sentimental. Of the Irish it may be said that, of all the races, their pure love of home is the deepest, and the most faithful and devoted. Often the enforced exile that must be endured had no solace save death and the grave for peace--and a home. Of all the fair, and the gentle and pure, fairest and gentlest and purest, now and ever, is the Irish girl. Swift the passage in this tender poem from the village in its sunshine to the town and the streets in their darkness, and the clouds about the life of outcast humanity, suffering a more fearful exile: "Where the poor houseless shivering female lies: She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest. Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue, fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head." The wonders of the poem are first its pathos, and then its picturesqueness and its charm. With all these glidings from light to grave and gladness into gloom, and then again to gaiety, it is a moving and a magic intermingling. There is a very thunder in the phrase, "Pamper luxury, and thin mankind." And then later: