That deepens, and fades, and faints away;—
As the sun to his azure bed
Sinks slowly, scenting with magic ray
Both ocean and sky to wed.
Around him is spread a mystical veil,
Of varying colors blent,
Turning his golden beams more pale,
As they dart through each gauzy rent.
But sweeter beloved, to think of thee,
Thou soul of my sweetest hours;
The memory brightness Sun, Sky, and Sea:
Less bright than the love of ours.
Two Days at Killarney.
We arrived at Ross, when a light boat, with a crow and bugler, were to meet us. After passing over the small bridge That connects Ross island to the mainland, immediately in front appeared Ross Castle,—an old ruin, still containing traces of its former beauty and splendour, towering majestically over wood and lake, and giving a princely air to the surrounding scenery. Its round watch-towers, on either side, with ramparts between,—the main structure standing on a higher eminence behind, clothed with ivy from base to summit, as if to shield it in its old age from the rude blasts of the winter’s wind,—the rusty canon peering over the parapets, and commanding the entrance,—must have once formed a formidable defence against besieges; but the shattered turrets above tell their own tale of the destroying hand of the conqueror. we ascend a circular stone stairs to and arched passage in front which commands a magnificent view of the lower lake in all its beauty; its islands mantled in rich green, and forming a beautiful contrast with the silvery waters in which they lay enbosomed. Just beneath lay Ross island, extending nearly half-way across the lake, with its picturesque mound and valleys, some robed in soft moss of a light yellow shade, and others covered with shrubs and trees if different tints of green, all forming a beautiful harmony of colors. After gazing on the little paradise with rapt admiration, and glancing over the scenes in the distance, which promised a similar treat, we retraced our steps by the old stairs to the quay, near the base of the castle, where the boat was in waiting for us. After making the necessary arrangements, our boat glided gently over the smooth waters, the bugler playing "The Last Rose of Summer"; its soft notes dying away in the distance, and again sent back in a subdued and softened tone, as if by some fairy mimic. The music was so ingeniously executed in short bars of three or four notes, with an interval of the same time—that the magic performer in the distance had perfect silence to repeat each bar without interruption, and to illustrate the beauties of this charming air. This I thought was the exquisite reality of what I frequently heard described, and which I often longed to hear; but I was told by the bugler that, in another part of the lake Echo (whom he called "Paddy Blake") might be heard with much finer effect. We continued our course by the shores of Ross Island—sometimes passing under the old yew and arbutus trees, which overhang the water’s edge,—and on, crossing a little bay whose rocky and irregular outline tempted us to a closer inspection, but looked intricate for our boat to explore. We crossed the lake and passed by Twomy’s mountains on the other side, which stretched out to the west as far as the eye could reach, thickly wooded at its base and gradually thinning to its summit, passed by Glenna, under Bricken Bridge, and entered the Middle Lake with (illegible text) demesne skirting it all round; Mangerton and Torc mountains forming the background and rearing their lofty summits to the clouds. Mountains and wood seemed to encompass it giving one the impression that no other lake was farther on; but passing by Div(illegible text) Island, we soon came to a rustic bridge which we passed and lay in front of the Old Weir Bridge. Here the boat had to be pulled through, as the current ran too rapidly for rowing; and ’ere long a new scene opened to our view. This is called the long range; it connects the middle of the Upper Lake, and runs about two miles long, winding round rock and island, with mountains on either side, rising in parts almost out of sight, and thickly wooded. the Eagle’s rock lies about half way up the Long Range; rising perpendicularly from the water’s edge and standing out from the mountain’s side. At the end of this pass lies the Upper Lake, surrounded with barren mountains of a purple color, and different in appearance fro all the rest. In fact, every object the eye could rest on, from Ross’s Quay to the termination of the Upper Lake,—which is from ten to twelve miles,—present new beauties too numerous to describe—every island and mountain having its own peculiar crags and peaks,—shrubs and trees, and beautiful ferns, which would need a chapter of description of themselves alone.
