May kneel, perchance, and free from blame, Hear holy men with rites unknown New names of God proclaim. Let change as.may the name of Awe, Let right surcease and altar fall, The same one God remains, a law Forever and for all. Let change as may the face of earth, Let alter all the social frame, For mortal men the ways of birth And death are still the same. And still, as life and time wear on, The children of the waning days (Though strength be from their shoulders gone To lift the loads we raise) Shall weep to do the burial rites Of lost ones loved; and fondly found In shadow of the gathering nights The monumental mound. Farewell, the strength of men is worn; The night approaches dark and chill; Sleep till, perchance, an endless morn Descend the glittering hill"-- Of Oscar and Aideen bereft So Ossian sang. The Fenians sped Three mighty shouts to heaven; and left Ben-Edar to the dead. The spirit of Ossian, the woe and desolation of a mortal world, and the resigned but not bitter sense of the vanity of all things, lives in this solemn elegy. The charming lyrics of the later Irish Celtic poetry, which succeeded that of the bards, and were the voices of the peasant people themselves and of the professional descendants of the bards, the itinerant poets and musicians, who wandered from house to house with their harps, singing the praises of their entertainers, and were not extinct until the end of the last century, have found an adequate interpreter in Sir Samuel Ferguson. As in his reproductions of the bardic poetry, he has been able to seize the very spirit of these songs, their intoxication of love, their breath of hopeless longing and misfortune, the characteristics of the race and the results of their cruel fate at the hands of alien conquerors, and to interpret it in measures as melodious as the sad and sweet old airs, which are the most valuable gift which the intellectual life of Celtic Ireland has bestowed upon posterity. The genuine Irish melodies are to be found in these lyrics, which interpret the spirit as well as the language of the Celtic poets, and not in the rococo songs of Moore, in which artificial sentiment is tricked out in a mechanical melody, and in which the atmosphere of the drawing-room takes the place of the free air of the hillside. Of these Celtic lyrics the greater number have been lost, the airs alone surviving, but those which remain show how strong, sensitive, and impassioned was the poetic spirit of the Irish Celtic people, and which, but for the misfortunes of the nation, might have left as rich a treasury of lyric song as the Scotch. The following is a specimen of the impassioned spirit of these songs, almost an improvisation, the very cry of the heart finding vent at the lips.