Be not with dull oblivion overcast;
Keep ever in thy sight life's certain goal;
Consider what thou art, not what thou hast.
And so be pure of soul.
Thou sittest to-day in purple and in gold;
Thy vesture is with jewels clasped to-day;
How soon the squalid earth-robe will enfold
The little mouldering clay!
Of all earth nourishes—the flocks of air,
The life that ocean in its deep maintains—
Of all the plenty spread for banquets rare—
What nothingness remains!
Now lofty painted ceilings shield thee well;
Now thy broad halls too narrow seem to be;
Scarce larger than thy mortal frame, the cell
Will soon suffice for thee.
What further say? O all that doth rejoice
Our human eyes! O all with beauty rife!
The worm! the dust! and then—the thunder-voice
That calls the dead to life!
C. E. B.
GERALD GRIFFIN.
In October, 1823, there arrived in the city of London a young man from the south of Ireland, unknown and without a friend in that vast metropolis. A stranger in a strange land, he brought with him nothing but a cultivated mind, a fresh, vigorous constitution, a pleasing address, a spirit of self-reliance amounting almost to a morbid dislike for every thing savoring of patronage, a slender purse, and a few manuscript plays, the labor of boyhood's leisure hours. His experience of life had been confined to his own peaceful household on the banks of the Shannon, and the society of a few intimate friends of his family. His contributions to literature amounted simply to some sketches published in the newspapers of his native city, Limerick, and the, to him, precious burden he bore with him in this his first adventure into the unknown world. Thus provided, he aspired with all the glorious confidence of youthful ambition to no less a mission than the reformation of the modern drama, and the infusion of moral sentiment into works of fiction, even then fast acquiring those deleterious qualities which so thoroughly permeate them in our day.
This young literary knight-errant was Gerald Griffin, who, born on the 12th day of December, 1803, had not yet completed his twentieth year. The story of his early life, as told by the pen of an affectionate brother, is remarkable principally for the calm, holy atmosphere of parental love by which it was surrounded, and the judicious mental training to which he was subjected even from his earliest infancy. His father, Patrick Griffin, a descendant of an ancient Irish family, seems to have occupied a social position equally removed from penury and affluence; such a one, at least, as enabled him to support his large family with comfort, and provide each of his children with an education not only suitable to their condition, but more extensive and varied than at that time was considered necessary for the sons and daughters of the middle class. He was a man of robust constitution, facile temper, an ardent nationalist, and well read in the history and antiquities of his country. His mother, a woman of more than ordinary cultivation and great religious fervor, was entirely devoted to her household duties and the moral training of her children, and we cannot better convey an idea of the character of this admirable woman than by transcribing the following extract from one of her letters to her son: