Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then!
Oh for the pomp that crown'd them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men
Were all the ramparts round them!

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ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY.

ST. SENANUS.

"OH! haste and leave this sacred isle,
"Unholy bark, ere morning smile;

"For on thy deck, though dark it be,
"A female form I see;

"And I have sworn this sainted sod

"Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod."

* In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kilkenny MS., and may be found among the Acta Sanctorum Hiberniæ, we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his resolution not to admit any woman of the party; he refused to receive even a sister saint, St. Cannera, whom an angel had taken to the island for the express purpose of introducing her to him. The following was the ungracious answer of Senanus, according to his poetical biographer:

Cui Prasul, quid fœminis

Commune est cum monachis ?
Nec te nec ullam aliam

Admittemus in insulam.

See the Acta Sanct. Hib., page 610.

According to Dr. Ledwich, St. Senanus was no less a personage than the river Shannon; but O'Connor and other antiquarians deny the metamorphose indignantly.

THE LADY.

"Oh! Father, send not hence my bark, "Through wintry winds and billows dark: "I come with humble heart to share

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Thy morn and evening prayer; "Nor mine the feet, oh! holy Saint, "The brightness of thy sod to taint."

The Lady's prayer Senanus spurn'd;
The winds blew fresh, the bark return'd;
But legends hint, that had the maid
Till morning's light delay'd,
And given the saint one rosy smile,
She ne'er had left his lonely isle.

NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.

NE'ER ask the hour-what is it to us

How Time deals out his treasures?

The golden moments lent us thus,

Are not his coin, but Pleasure's.

If counting them o'er could add to their blisses, I'd number each glorious second:

But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,

Too quick and sweet to be reckon❜d.

Then fill the cup

what is it to us

How time his circle measures?

The fairy hours we call up thus,

Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,
Till Care, one summer's morning,
Set up, among his smiling flowers,

A dial, by way of warning.

But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun,

As long as its light was glowing,

Than to watch with old Care how the shadow

stole on,

And how fast that light was going.

So fill the cup

what is it to us

How Time his circle measures?

The fairy hours we call up thus,

Obey no wand but Pleasure's.