when she sat under her own "vines and fig-trees," with none to make her afraid, and though
"The harp that once through Tara's halls,
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul was fled.
Yet let it once more waken
The sweetness of its slumbering strain."
The Third Part is legible, and tells its own story. The echo of the mournful wail is still on the ear, the cries of the widow and fatherless are still going up, and the carcases of the slain are yet unburied. Gladly would I have written a more pleasing and better book, but the material was wanting. While Ireland remains the same, the same things must be written of her; and let him be tired of reading who is not willing to do her justice. And in conclusion, allow me to add, with hope,—
"Erin, Oh, Erin! thy winter is past,
And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last."