Next morning, on the sands, I contrived to
meet her, and delicately hinted at the state of
my feelings towards her: thereby giving her a
chance of an escape from Ted, if she were so
inclined. Apparently she was not so inclined,
for she seemed unusually dense, and carefully
misunderstood me the whole time. When I had
quite finished, she told me what had happened
on the stairs last night, and demanded, in her
pretty imperious little manner, to be congratulated:
"papa" having interposed no objections.

Congratulate her! Blue eyes engaged, and
not to me! I looked unutterable things at Ted
when he joined us; but that young man paid
not the smallest attention to me. I looked at
blue eyes. She seemed very happy.

How to account for this, now? Take Ted,
when she might have taken me? And yet in
her right mind! I can only account for it, on
the supposition that she had never heard of his
fits. Nor indeed had I myself ever heard of his
having any other fit than a love-fit: only, when
that was on him, in the height of that
everlasting waltz, he looked as if he were fit to fall
into any number of other fits and (though I
am greatly attached to him) I wish he had.

A MAN-OF-WAR IN THE ACORN.

AN oak-tree, wrestling with the wind,
Shook down an acorn where I stood;
I turn'd aside, I would not crush
That little orphan of the wood.

It was as smooth as the brown egg
That prisons in the nightingale,
By fairy files was notch'd and barr'd,
Its cup symmetrical as frail.

In bowls like this the moonlit dew
Elves gather from the violet flowers,
Or from the hawthorn shake the drops
Remaining from the noonday showers.

A spirit showed me, hid within
The acorn's little dusky shell,
A floating tower, perhaps to ride,
Three centuries hence, on waves that swell

Around the iceberg's sapphire cliffs,
Or the rough Baltic's storm-swept strand;
Perhaps to threaten with its fire
Some bastion of the Eastern land.

Yes! see above the bulwarks smile
Frank sunburnt faces, as the guns
Vomit their thunder-burst of flame—
Those cheers are from old England's sons!

See down go colours, spars, and mast,
Blood-spouting like a dying whale
The rival ship has struck, and now
The dear old flag flaunts in the gale.

Then once more rings the lusty shout,
And once more rings the stirring cheer,
O'er the dark blue rolling waves
That smites the proud foeman's heart with fear.

Sail on, brave ships, spread nobler faith,
A truer creed, a wider love;
For on your sails from opening skies
Glance rays of glory from above!

Sail on, sail on, ye wingèd towers!
Far be your angry thunders hurl'd,
And bear our Heaven-lighted flag
Around a subjugated world.

The vision fades. Now let me plant
With reverent hand, the acorn seed,
Deep in the kindly English soil,
On which the oak loves best to feed.

May happy summers nurse the bud,
And April's brightest, softest showers
Widen this germ to nobler life,
And give its limbs a giant's powers!

Rock, but rend not, ye winter storms!
Spare, spare, the helpless little tree;
Earth, nurse it kindly till it float,
Bulwark of Home and Liberty!

CURRAGH CAMP.

IN the bare and sombre aisle of Christ Church
Cathedral, Dublin, close to the blank and heavy
wall which now supplies the place of arches and
clustering pillars, on the right hand as you enter
through the great gate, there is a strange old
monument. It is the recumbent figure of a
warrior sheathed in complete armour, with his
shield upon his left arm, his hands clasped as if
in prayer, his legs crossed like those of dead
Crusaders. Close under the shield there is a
figure as of one sawn asunder in the midst. The
features and dress indicate that this is the
memorial of a woman. The two are hewn out of
ponderous blocks of granite, darkened, mellowed,
and polished by age. An inscription, itself
ancient, let into the wall above, informs the
stranger that "the roof and bodie" of Christ's
Church fell down nearly three centuries since,
and broke the monument beneath. Painfully
deciphering the old characters, you learn that
the mailed figure is that of the great Strongbow,
the conqueror of Leinster, and that the
mutilated effigy beside him represents the doom
of Eva, his wife, daughter of King Dermot.
The legend runs, that once when Strongbow had
but ninety knights to keep the castle of Dublin,
Eva betrayed the weakness of the garrison to
her countrymen, and that Strongbow, in the
excitement of victory, condemned the traitress to
be sawn in two. One portion of her body was
cast to the dogs, the other was reserved for
hallowed ground. There exist many forms of
the legend, but one historical fact is clear; it is
through this Eva that the Queen of England
holds the royal manor of the "great plain of
Kildare."

Long prior to Eva's sin against the English
pale, the church and the poor had rights over
the pastures of the Curragh. You can see in
strong relief against the golden sky on summer
evenings—for then the sunsets on the Curragh
are gorgeously beautiful—the tall and graceful
round tower of Kildare, and the long lancet
windows of the ruined cathedral, contrasting,
even in desolation, with the tasteless erection
of modern times beside it. Here Saint Brigid,