and the hungry ravens reddened their beaks from the war of men. From this mountainous throne may also be seen the Isle of Man; Wicklow, the garden of Ireland; the mountains in the county of Down, near the Bay of Dundrum; Bardsey Island; the Cumberland hills, and parts of the Highlands of Scotland: the vast expanding waters of the Carnarvon Bay, St. George’s Channel, and Holyhead Bay, roll before you. Below you lies the Pier on Salt Island, with the Light-house on the extremity—the New Harbour, with its whistling engines, bustling workmen, and prancing horses; contiguous to which stand the modern mansions erected for the accommodation of those whose intellectual brains, like a main-spring, keep the stupendous machinery in operation, and whose engineering mappings and dottings, and sketchings and plannings, keep this corner of the world wide awake—the Old Harbour, with its vessels and smaller craft in different stages of preparation, and packets busily preparing for immediate sail—the modest Obelisk peeping over the town—the Skerry Rocks—the sea-washed South Stack, and other objects of interest, open out on every side perspicuously to the view. The painter would be at a loss upon what particular spot to fix his eye; turn which way he will, some beauty, variable and exhaustless, is before him; it is impossible for either the artist or poet to describe, with a hope of doing anything like justice to, so picturesque and varied a landscape. The impression is that of singular wildness and solitude, stretching in a succession of prospects, fading into distant softening vista, as agreeable to the eye as the imagination. While standing on this promontory, your thoughts flow poetically, although you have neither rhythm nor music in your composition. Having filled every cell in the lungs with exquisitely pure air, that comes direct from a “high ethereal source”—air so uncorrupted as to be met with only far, far from the haunts of men, and the hum of human cities, we must now bid farewell to this enchanting and enchaining spot, but the scene will leave an undying impression on the mind. I love to stand upon the hill, And gaze on the ocean wide; See ships of commerce—not of war, On her bright bosom glide. But now before our eyes the mirror fades, Yet our strain’d glance shall linger on the scene. A RAMBLE TO THE MOUNTAIN HEAD. O! let us away to yon heights, Where the Roman encamp’d him of old; With his train’d bowmen and Knights, And his banner all burnish’d with gold.