Next day we proceeded on our journey, and, preferring the coolness of the deck to the heated atmosphere of the cabin, seated ourselves there to enjoy the quiet beauty of the night. The full glory of a September's moon was beaming bright in the clear rich blue of heaven; the stars were glittering in the water's depths, and ever and anon the fire flies flashed like diamonds through the dark foliage on the shore--the light fair breeze scarce stirred the ripples on the stream--when, from one of the white dwellings on the beach in whose casement a light was yet burning, came a low, sad strain of sorrow. I had heard that sound once before, and knew now it was the wail of Irish grief. Strange that mournful dirge of Erin sounded in that distant land. Grace knew the language of her country, and ere the "keen" had died upon the breeze, she translated thus THE SONG OF THE IRISH MOURNER. Light of the widow's heart! art thou then dead? And is then thy spirit from earth ever fled? And shall we, then, see thee and hear thee no more, All radiant in beauty and life as before? My own blue-eyed darling, Oh, why didst thou die, Ere the tear-drop of sorrow had dimmed thy bright eye, Ere thy cheek's blooming hue felt one touch of decay, Or thy long golden ringlets were mingled with grey? Why, star of our path-way, why didst thou depart? Why leave us to weep for the pulse of the heart? Oh, darkened for ever is life's sunny hour, When robbed of its brightest and loveliest flower! Around thy low bier sacred incense is flinging, And soft on the air are the silver bells ringing; For the peace of thy soul is the holy mass said, And on thy fair forehead the blessed cross laid. Soft, soft be thy slumbers, our lady receive thee, And shining in glory for ever thy soul be; To the climes of the blessed, my own grama-chree, May blessings attend thee, sweet cushla ma-chree. As we passed the jemseg, we spoke of the time when Madame la Tour so bravely defended the fort in the absence of her husband--this occurred in the early times of the province, and strange stories are told of spirit forms which glide along the beach, beneath whose sands the white bones of the French and Indians, who fell in the deadly fight, lie buried. Talking of these things, induced Mrs. Gordon to tell us the following tale, which she had heard, and which I have entitled A WINTER'S EVENING SKETCH, WRITTEN IN NEW BRUNSWICK. "Oh! there's a dream of early youth, And it never comes again; 'Tis a vision of joy, and light, and truth, That flits across the brain; And love is the theme of that early dream, So wild, so warm, so new. And oft I ween, in our after-years, That early dream we rue."---Mrs. HEMANS.