We were together: we had tarried So oft by some enchanting spot To her familiar, and which carried Her thoughts away—where mine were not— That, ere she knew, the bright, chaste moon —Not as of old, (when Time was young) She roamed the woods, in sandal-shoon, With bow in hand and quiver strung— But 'mong the stars, and broad and round The moon of man's degenerate race, Its way had through an opening found, And shone full in her face! She started then, and, looking up, Turned on me her delicious eyes; And I, poor fool! I dared to hope, And met that look with sighs! From the “_Wreck of the Hornet_”— Now shrank with fear each gallant heart— Bended was many a knee— {514} And the last prayer was offered up, God of the Deep, to thee! Muttered the angry Heavens still And murmured still the sea— And old and sternest hearts bowed down God of the Deep, to Thee! The little ballad “_They told me not to love him_,” has much tenderness, simplicity, and neatness of expression. We quote three of the five stanzas—the rest are equally good. They told me not to love him! They said he was not true; And bade me have a care, lest I Should do what I might rue: At first I scorn'd their warnings—for I could not think that he Conceal'd beneath so fair a brow, A heart of perfidy. But they forc'd me to discard him! Yet I could not cease to love— For our mutual vows recorded were By angel hands above. He left his boyhood's home, and sought Forgetfulness afar; But memory stung him—and he fought, And fell, in glorious war. _He_ dwells in Heaven now—while _I_ Am doom'd to this dull Earth: O, how my sad soul longs to break Away, and wander forth. From star to star its course would be— Unresting it would go, Till we united were above, Who severed were below. By far the best poem we have seen from the pen of Mr. Gallagher is that entitled “_August_”—and it is indeed this little piece alone which would entitle him, _at least now_, we think, to any poetical rank above the general mass of versifiers. But the ability to write a poem such as “_August_,” while implying a capacity for even higher and better things, speaks clearly of present power, and of an upward progress already begun. Much of the beauty of the lines we mention, springs, it must be admitted, from imitation of Shelley—but we are not inclined to like them much the less on this account. We copy only the four initial stanzas. The remaining seven, although good, are injured by some inadvertences. The allusion, in stanzas six and seven, to Mr. Lee, a painter, destroys the _keeping_ of all the latter portion of the poem.