a respectable young lady with whom he had been acquainted for some time. Her unassuming manners, amiable disposition, industrious habits, and assiduous devotion to his interests, made her not only an agreea ble companion of his youth, but a solace in declining age. They had eleven children, only four of whom were living when he published his memoirs, in 1838. His merits as an author, and fine literary attaininents, recommended him to the notice of many distinguished cotemporary writers, among whom were Dr. Percy, bishop of Dromore, last of that illustrious school of which Johnson, Goldsmith, and Burke were mem bers; and the Rev. H. Boyd, well known in the literary world as translator of Dante.

Quite early in life, at the solicitation of his friends, our author published a small work in verse. Though this production would not, perhaps, commend itself to the mercy of literary cudgelers, we think it quite creditable, and shall favor our readers with a few selections.

He afterward formed the design of publishing a history of the blind, which he accomplished, though attended with immense labor, in 1820. To this work we are greatly indebted for many valuable statistics.

TO MEMORY.

Come, Memory, and paint those scenes
I knew when I was young,

When meadows bloomed, and vernal greens,
By nature's band were sung.

I mean those hours which I have known,
Ere light from me withdrew-

When blossoms seemed just newly blown,
And wet with sparkling dew

Yet, ah forbear, kind Memory, cease
The picture thus to scan!

Let all my feelings rest in peace,
'Tis prudence' better plan;

For why should I on other days
With such reflections turn,
Since I'm deprived of vision's rays,
Which sadly makes me mourn!

And when I backward turn my mind,
I feel of sorrow's pain,

And weep for joys I left behind,
On childhood's flowery plain;

Yet now, through intellectual eyes,
Upon a happier shore,

And circled with eternal skies,

Youth sweetly smiles once more

Futurity displays the scene,

Religion lends her aid;

And decks with flowers forever green
And blooms that ne'er can fade,

Oh, happy time! when will it come,
That I shall quit this sphere,
And find an everlasting home,
With peace and friendship there?

Throughout this chequer'd life 'tis mine

To feel affliction's rod;

But soon I'll overstep the line
That keeps me from my God.

A DREAM.

Night o'e rthe sky her sable mantle spread,
And all around was hushed in sweet repose,
Nor silence suffered from intrusive noise;
Save now and then the owl's unpleasant scream
From yon old pile of ancient grandeur sent,
Broke in, obtrusive on the tranquil hours.
Reflection took my mind, and o'er my thoughts
Unnumbered visions flit with rapid speed.

I thought on man, and all his childless joys,
From rosy infancy to palsied age-

And yet the sigh of recollection stole,

Then heaved my breast with sorrow's poignant throb For ah! I feel what some have never felt,

That is, to be in one continued night,

From January's sun till dark December's eve;
And strange it is, when sleep commands to rest,
While gloomy darkness spreads her lurid vai',
That then by being blind I suffer most!
O sight! what art thou? were my final words
When sleep with leaden fingers seal'd my eyes.
Now free from care and tumult's torturing din,
Young fancy led me from my humble cot;

And far through space, where suns unnumbered bur,
I with her took a grand excursive flight,
Then back again to Erin's hill of green,

I with her wandered; nor did night, nor gloom,
One step intrude to shade the prospects round.
I saw sweet Scarvagh, in her loveliest garb,
And als her trees in summer's dress were clad

Her honored mansion, seat of peace and love, Gave rapture to my breast, for there I've found True hospitality, which once did grace

The hall's of Erin's chiefs of old;

But soon, alas! the hum of nightly bands
And vagrants, strolling on in quest of sin,
Bore fancy from me with her golden trait,
And once more left me in the folds of night.

BEAUTIES FROM "A BLIND MAN'S OFFERING,"

TOGETHER WITH A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE.

"Offerings there are, of moral worth and talents,
Sacrificed to lust and love of gain,

To envy, hatred, loves inordinate,

And all the baser passions of the soul.

But thine are offerings sacred to the shrine

Of reason, truth and sentiment, replete

With beauties rare, and treasures of the mind."

MAN's nature, like veneering, may be warped to almost every condition in life. It may be bent to angular circumstances, or shaped to infirmities; it may be marred and chafed by care and want; and still present a surface susceptible of the highest polish. Misfortunes which may seem at first almost insupportable, may grow in favor, like Crusoe's pet spider, and at length come to be regarded as old and tried friends, if not positive blessings. Afflictions are but the seasonings of life's dish, and without them it would be tasteless and insipid. Without the ills of life, we should be illy prepared to enjoy its blessings By opposites, alone, we judge of the nature of things. Contrast is the betrayer of every object in nature. Were it not for darkness, or the absence of light, we should remain forever ignorant of the existence of