IV. I looked on the field of contention again, When the sabre was sheathed, and the tempest had past; The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain, And the fern softly sighed in the low wailing blast. V. Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose, And bright shone the stars through the sky's deepened blue; And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose, Where the foxglove lay gemmed with its pearl-drops of dew. VI. But where swept the ranks of that dark frowning host, VII. Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone, VIII. Oh! glory!-behold thy famed guerdon's extent, A A VISION OF PURGATORY. BY WILLIAM MAGINN, ESQ. THE church-yard of Inistubber is as lonely a one as you would wish to see on a summer's day, or avoid on a winter's night. It is situated in a narrow valley, at the bottom of three low, barren, miserable hills, on which there is nothing green to meet the eye, tree or shrub, grass or weed. The country beyond these hills is pleasant and smiling ;—rich fields of corn, fair clumps of oaks, sparkling streams of water, houses beautifully dotting the scenery, which gently undulates round and round, as far as the eye can reach but once cross the north side of Inistubber-hill, and you look upon desolation. There is nothing to see but, down in the hollow, the solitary churchyard, with its broken wall, and the long, lank grass growing over the grave-stones, mocking with its melancholy verdure the barrenness of the rest of the landscape. It is a sad thing to reflect that the only green spot in the prospect springs from the grave! Under the east window is a mouldering vault of the De Lacys,—a branch of a family descended from one of the conquerors of Ireland; and there they are buried, when the allotted time calls them to the tomb. On these occasions a numerous cavalcade, poured from the adjoining districts in all the pomp and circumstance of woe, is wont to fill the deserted church-yard; and the slumbering echoes are awakened to the voice of prayer and wailing, and charged with the sigh that marks the heart bursting with grief, or the laugh escaping from the bosom mirth-making under the cloak of mourning. Which of, these feelings was predominant, when Sir Theodore De Lacy died, is not written in history; nor is it necessary to inquire. He had lived a jolly, thoughtless life, rising early for the hunt, and retiring late from the bottle. A good-humoured bachelor who took no care about the management of his household, provided that the hounds, were in order for his going out; and the table ready on his coming in. As for the rest, an easy landlord, a quiet master, a lenient magistrate (except to poachers), and a very excellent foreman of a grand jury. He died one evening while laughing at a story which he had heard regularly thrice a week for the last fifteen years of his life, and his spirit mingled with the claret. In former times when the De Lacys were buried, there was a grand breakfast, and all the party rode over to the church to see the last rites paid. The keeners lamented; the country people had a wake before the A funeral, and a dinner after it—and there was an end. But with the march of mind comes trouble and vexation. man has now-a-days no certainty of quietness in his coffin-unless it be a patent one. He is laid down in the grave, and the next morning finds himself called upon to demonstrate an interesting fact! No one, I believe, admires this ceremony, and it is not to be wondered at that Sir Theodore De Lacy held it in especial horror. "I'd like," he said one evening, "to catch one of the thieves coming after me when I'm dead-By the God of War, I'd break every bone in his body!-but," he added with a sigh, 66 as I suppose I'll not be able to take my own part then, upon you I leave it, Larry Sweeny, to watch me three days and three nights after they plant me under the sod. There's Doctor Dickenson there, I see the fellow looking at me-fill your glass, Doctor-here's your health! and shoot him, Larry, do you hear, shoot the Doctor like a cock, if he ever comes stirring up my poor old bones from their roost of Inistubber." "Why, then," Larry answered, accepting the glass which followed this command, "long life to both your honours; and it's I that would like to be putting a bullet into Dr. Dickenson-heaven between him and harm-for hauling your honour away, as if you was a horse's head, to a bonfire. There's nothing, I 'shure you, gintlemin, poor as I am, that would give me greater pleasure." "We feel obliged, Larry," said Sir Theodore, "for your good wishes." "Is it I pull you out of the grave, indeed?" continued the whipper-in, for such he was," I'd let nobody pull your honour out of any place, saving 'twas purgatory; and out of that I'd pull you myself, if I saw you going there." "I am of opinion, Larry," said Dr. Dickenson, "you would turn tail if you saw Sir Theodore on that road. You might go further, and fare worse, you know." "Turn tail!" replied Larry, "it is I that wouldn'tI appale to St. Patrick himself over beyond"-pointing to a picture of the Prime Saint of Ireland, which hung in gilt daubery behind his master's chair, right opposite to him. To Larry's horror and astonishment, the picture fixing its eyes upon him, winked with the most knowing air, as if acknowledging the appeal. "What makes you turn so white then at the very thought," said the doctor, interpreting the visible consternation of our hero in his own way. "but a "Nothing particular," answered Larry; wakeness has come strong over me, gintlemin, and if you'd have no objection, I'd like to go into the air for a bit." Leave was of course granted, and Larry retired amid the laughter of the guests—but as he retreated, he could not avoid casting a glance on the awful picture—and again the Saint winked, with a most malicious smile. It was impossible to endure the repeated infliction, and Larry rushed down the stairs in an agony of fright and amaze ment. |