There are to be sure in Ireland, as in all countries, poems which deserve to be laughed at. The native productions of which I speak, frequently abound in absurdities--absurdities which are often, too, provokingly mixed up with what is beautiful; but I strongly and absolutely deny that the prevailing or even the usual character of Irish poetry is that of comicality. No country, no time, is devoid of real poetry, or something approaching to it; and surely it were a strange thing if Ireland, abounding as she does from shore to shore with all that is beautiful, and grand, and savage in scenery, and filled with wild recollections, vivid passions, warm affections, and keen sorrow, could find no language to speak withal, but that of mummery and jest. No, her language is imperfect, but there is strength in its rudeness, and beauty in its wildness; and, above all, strong feeling flows through it, like fresh fountains in rugged caverns. And yet I will not say that the language of genuine indigenous Irish composition is always vulgar and uncouth: on the contrary, I am in possession of some specimens, though by no means of the highest order as to poetic merit, which do not possess throughout a single peculiarity of diction. The lines which I now proceed to lay before you, by way of illustration, are from the pen of an unfortunate young man, of very humble birth, whose early hopes were crossed by the untimely death of her whom he loved. He was a self-educated man, and in after-life rose to high distinctions in the Church to which he devoted himself--an act which proves the sincerity of spirit with which these verses were written. 'When moonlight falls on wave and wimple, And silvers every circling dimple, That onward, onward sails: When fragrant hawthorns wild and simple Lend perfume to the gales, And the pale moon in heaven abiding, O'er midnight mists and mountains riding, Shines on the river, smoothly gliding Through quiet dales, 'I wander there in solitude, Charmed by the chiming music rude Of streams that fret and flow. For by that eddying stream SHE stood, On such a night I trow: For HER the thorn its breath was lending, On this same tide HER eye was bending, And with its voice HER voice was blending Long, long ago. Wild stream! I walk by thee once more, I see thy hawthorns dim and hoar, I hear thy waters moan, And night-winds sigh from shore to shore, With hushed and hollow tone; But breezes on their light way winging, And all thy waters heedless singing, No more to me are gladness bringing-- I am alone. 'Years after years, their swift way keeping, Like sere leaves down thy current sweeping, Are lost for aye, and sped-- And Death the wintry soil is heaping As fast as flowers are shed. And she who wandered by my side, And breathed enchantment o'er thy tide, That makes thee still my friend and guide-- And she is dead.'