“If you would find the ancient gentry of Ireland,” said Swift, “you must seek them on the coal quay, or in the Liberties.” The ancient minstrelsy of Ireland has shared the fate of her gentry; you must seek for it in the peasant’s cabin or in the dusty corners of the libraries of Europe. This parallel is by no means surprising. The common fate of our ancient gentry and our ancient minstrelsy is perfectly natural. While they lived they were the body and soul of Irish nationality; and like body and soul they departed together. When adverse circumstances made the gentry fugitives to foreign lands, the bards became fugitives at home. Their praises were heard no more in the old baronial halls — the voice of their song had ceased. From the days of Amergin to those of Swift, our minstrelsy is a blank in the literature of Europe. The poems of Ossian may form an exception; for notwithstanding the ingenious imposture of MacPherson, those most capable of judging and expressing an opinion upon the subject, even amongst his own countrymen, have almost uniformly credited Ireland with their paternity.* This absence of an extensive native literature is one of the saddest features of Irish history. But when it is known that the use of the ancient tongue was prohibited, and the cultivation of the new declared a felony by law, — if that privilege were not purchased by the renunciation of the ancient faith; and that this struggle between the tongues and creeds had been cruelly maintained for hundreds of years, — and has ceased only in our own time, — it cannot be a matter of surprise that Ireland is looked upon as an illiterate nation, — and that the accumulated [14] product of her intellect bears no adequate proportion to her genius.
 *Among these may be named Dr. Shaw, William Buchanan, David Hume, Edward Davies, Dr. Johnson, O’Connor, O’Halloran, &c.
 Periods of great excitement are unfavorable to the development of letters, or the progress of civilization. History teems with illustrations of this truth. After the impetus given to English literature by Chaucer, its progress was completely checked by the civil contentions which succeeded. The Wars of. the Roses threw English poetry back for two hundred years. We almost lose sight of it from the fourteenth to the sixteenth century, when Surrey and Wyatt made their appearance upon the silent stage. The troubled reigns of Henry, Edward VI., and Mary, were also singularly barren of poetry. The vigorous policy of Elizabeth having quelled the storms of those troublous times, national victory inspired the popular voice. Jeffrey, speaking of literature in the reign of James I, says, it would probably have advanced still farther, in the succeeding reign, had not the great national dissensions which then arose turned the energy and talent of the people into other channels; first to the assertion of their civil rights, and afterwards to the discussion of their religious interests. The graces of literature, he adds, suffered of course in these contentions, and a shade of deeper austerity was thrown over the intellectual chronicler of the nation. If the absence of civil rights or religious freedom, or the struggle for their assertion, be a barrier to intellectual progress, Ireland may well be poor in literature to-day. Indeed the wonder is, how she has even a literature at all, when we consider the proscription of her intellect. Her history is one long series of warfare and disaster; and from the Battle of the Boyne to this hour, her energies have been absorbed either in struggles for religious liberty or in contests for political power.
 Even the dramatic literature of England has never recovered from the hostility of the Puritans. In 1642, it was enacted, that all stage-plays should be discountenanced. Theatricals were constituted a public offence, punishable by fine or imprisonment. Germany also affords a remarkable instance of the injurious influence of warfare on intellectual, and more particularly, on poetic, development. From the fourteenth to the sixteenth century, the days of the Meistersingers, she was rich in song; but the religious dissensions of the seventeenth century created a blank in German minstrelsy. In the eighteenth century, when the devastating influence of the sword was passing away, the Black Forest of German literature, as it has been [15] happily designated, soon passed away also. And we are now, fortunately, issuing from the Black Forest which has darkened Irish genius, ever since the days “when Ireland was the school of the West, the quiet habitation of sanctity and literature.’ [Ftn. Dr. Johnson] The excitement before or after a nation’s struggle is the hotbed of poetry. When peace is restored, then triumph is chanted, or defeat mourned, in national song; and the daily increasing means of education will quicken Ireland’s acknowledged poetical genius, hitherto prostrated by adversity, and shed a glory around the land and the language which it celebrates and adorns.
 When the chivalry of the Middle Ages developed the romantic poetry of Provence, Ireland had only then succeeded in driving the Danish invader into the sea, after a warfare of two hundred years. When the Italian schools of poetry started into existence under the inspiration of Dante and Petrarch, a fiercer foe than the Dane had nestled in her bosom. She was harassed from without by English invasion and from within by native faction. When Saxon barbarism was softening down under the influence of Norman chivalry and refinement, Ireland was denied the protection of English laws, and, according to the Statutes of Kilkenny, was scourged if she adopted her own! Such was her unhappy condition, when the Saxon tongue was first softening its rudeness through the favored lips of Chaucer. And in the commencement of the fifteenth century, when Spanish minstrels were singing the story of Charlemagne and the Twelve peers of France, of Bernard del Carpio and the Cid, Ireland was engaged in a fierce struggle against English power, and succeeded to such an extent, as to elicit from the Speaker of the House of Commons the admission, that the Irish had “conquered the greater part of the Lordship of Ireland.” When Ariosto reigned in Italy by the grace of genius and the favor of Cardinal d’Este, and rendered his country still more celebrated by the immortal productions of his muse; when Cardinal Ximenes, by his statesmanship and munificent patronage of literature, lifted Spain to a glory that made her worthy of Columbus; when the illustrious family of the Medici were more than royal in their encouragement of intellectual culture, literature, and art; whep, in fact, the sovereigns of all the petty states of Italy vied with each other in their princely endowments of genius, and, in a [16]
 single century, within the small principality of the House of Este, were produced, — besides the important works of Guarini and Tassoni, — the three great epics of Italy, the “Orlando Innamorato,” the “Furioso,” and the “Gerusalemme Liberata,” — at that very time, English law in Ireland, by way of ameliorating the condition of the country, legalized the murder of the natives! When Tasso was summoned to Rome, at the instance of Clement VHL, for his Coronation in the Capitol as the successor to the laurel of Petrarch, —when Spenser borrowed the wild legends of Munster, and stamped them with the gorgeous coloring and chivalrous character of his “Faery Queen,” the horrors depicted in his “View of the State of Ireland,” and the prostrate condition of the country at that time, are illustrated in his own experience; for he was then in possession of the confiscated estates and castle of the Earl of Desmond; and from the banks of the “gentle Mulla¸ we may perceive how his poem is pictured with that fair, Munster scenery. In that right royal age of British literature, when the English language was assuming consistency and beauty, the language and literature of Ireland were withering under the deadly shade of persecution. When the poets of the Elizabethan era stamped upon their glorious productions the romantic beauties of that age of chivalry, Ireland was prostrated by famine, pestilence, and war. “When the stem enthusiasm of the Puritans moulded the English tongue into forms of sublimity, Ireland was still bleeding under the terrible scourge of merciless conquest. Had England been thus treated, no Shakspeare would ever have immortalized her literature and her language. When Philip IV nursed the genius of Spain, and invited the poets to the festivities of the palace as his friends; when the monarch himself contributed some of the best dramas of the day to the rich storehouse of Spanish poetry, and instituted those poetical tournaments, at which poets improvised and noble ladies judged, and which operated so powerfully in the development of dramatic literature, — then had Ireland passed under the confiscating hammer of that royal auctioneer, James I, who effected his plunder of the land from the native chiefs by “ cruelty, subornation, and perjury.” When Louis XIV pensioned his poets like princes, and in his appreciation of the genius of Molière, when this author was calumniated, stood sponsor for his innocence by becoming the godfather of his child; when Milton’s majestic muse produced the “Paradise Lost,” Ireland was then, also, in an unfavorable [17]  condition for the cultivation of literature, exposed as she was to the tender mercies of Cromwell. But that total ignorance which the sword could never produce was achieved by the infamous penal laws, which disgrace the name and the statute-book of England. This barbarous code, in the language of Edmund Burke, “had a vicious perfection — it was a complete system — full of coherence and consistency; well digested and well disposed in all its parts. It was a machine of wise and elaborate contrivance, and as well fitted for the oppression, impoverishment, and degradation of a people, and the debasement in them of human nature itself, as ever proceeded from the perverted ingenuity of man.”
 Ireland has been happily called the “Cinderella of Nations.” She had sisters who enjoyed all the luxuries of education, while she was jealously excluded from any participation in such favors. She was abused and scourged alternately; and if her beautiful voice burst forth in song, in imitation of her sisters, she was forthwith gagged. Ireland has been compared to Spain under the dominion of the Moors, but there is no point of resemblance between them, except that of foreign conquest. She had the long crusades of Spain, but she had not the conquest of Granada to thrill her like an inspiration. Victory sways the poet more than the soldier. When Henry V forbade his subjects to sing the Battle of Agincourt, they had already either begun to chant the strains of triumph, or defied the prohibition. Ireland had the feuds of her Zegris and Abencerrages; and while the policy of the invader fomented these feuds, his proscriptions did not permit her to sing them. She had an adventurous foe struggling bravely against her nationality, but she had not the chivalrous foe of Moorish Spain. She fell beneath the sword of the invader, but the bloody blade did not flash with the light of Saracen civilization. She was conquered; but instead of being consoled in her desolation by the elegance and philosophy of the East, she was crowned with the thorns of ignorance and persecution. Instead of the Moorish colleges and libraries of Cordova, Granada, and Seville, her halls of learning were demolished, or turned into barracks for a merciless soldiery. Instead of being taught the philosophy of Aristotle, which was expounded at Cordova by Averroes and other Moorish doctors, her conquerors taught her the higher philosophy of dying well! Ben Zaid cheered fallen Spain with the light of a glorious history, but the invader in Ireland wrote history with the torch and the [18] sword. Moorish genius presented Spain with an Encyclopaedia of Science; while the Genius of Misrule presented Ireland with an Encyclopaedia of Horrors! Mahometan teachers invited Christian students to their schools and became their masters and their friends, while the Christian invaders of Ireland prohibited education under penalty of death.
 These facts must be borne in mind in connection with Irish literature and its history; they account for the blank of a thousand years. We disclaim any intention of exciting animosity or old jealousies, by these remarks. We regret the occasion of them as much as any of our readers; but this is not the time to blink the truth. In our own day the world is becoming wiser or more magnanimous; it is beginning to look boldly at the faults of the past. All parties have much to learn from such sad experience as the history of Ireland affords. The characteristic of modern history is the contrast drawn between the barbarism of our forefathers and the civilization of to-day. If Irish history be wisely studied to this end, there will be little danger in the knowledge or expression of the truth. But we can no more overlook the influence of persecution, in relation to this subject, than we can ignore the conquest of the country when treating of its history and the social condition of its people.
 And yet, an Irish minstrelsy was never wanting in Ireland. The external world knew it not, because it was ignorant of her sweet tongue. But from the days of the Druids it existed, — natronized by her chiefs, and sung by her people. Without wandering so far back as the misty ages of Milesius, we may safely say, that Ireland was not behind any nation of Europe in her ancient minstrelsy. Greece and Rome are, of course, excepted. The rhapsodies of Homer were recited before the poems of Ossian; but both are alike immortal. Rome conquered the Greek empire; but Greece enslaved the intellect of Rome, when the latter borrowed her literature. Yet Rome has no ancient ballads; and if she ever had any, they have not escaped the wreck of years. Macaulay supposes such ballads, and makes this idea the foundation of his “Roman Lays.” But Homer and Ossian are the inspired giants of the shadowy past, whose productions will ever triumph over time.
 The Irish bards were divided into three classes — the Fileas, who celebrated the strains of war and religion; the Brehons, who devoted themselves to the study of the law, which they versified and recited [19] to the people, after the maimer of the Ionian bards; and the Seanachies, who filled the offices of antiquarian and historian. Almost every homestead of importance had its own Seanachie, whose duty it was to sing the exploits, and trace the genealogy, of the family up to Milesius. The ancient Irish felt proud of their oriental descent from this monarch; and the Irish of to-day are as strongly attached to this idea as were their ancestors. Even Dr. Petrie’s elaborate Christianity of the Round Towers, will not divest thousands of the belief, that these grand structures are the relics of an oriental civilization, with whose history we are unacquainted.
 No country is richer than Ireland, in those poetic records which form the early history of all nations. The productions of her bardic historians are most ample; but they are as dumb oracles to our generation. It is no wonder that she is rich in such records, for in that early age her kings were the munificent patrons of literature. They founded colleges for the education of the bards, whose term of study was, at least, seven years. Out in the green woods, beneath the shade of the sacred oak, these poetic institutions flourished. And when this term of study was completed, the degree of Ollamh, or doctor, was conferred upon the students. Then they went forth and sang the war-songs of the clans, and the dogmas of religion; versified the proclamations of the law, the axioms of philosophy, and the annals of history; and traced the genealogies of their respective patrons up to Milesius. Such were the offices of this venerated and privileged class.
 The Irish bards were remarkable for the epigrammatic style of their productions, which frequently consisted of quaint wit, healthy morality, and sound advice. Their teachings are the popular maxims, even at the present day, in the vernacular, — maxims which, for shrewd sense and. wisdom, can scarcely be surpassed. The genius of the Celtic language assisted in the formation of this terse style. Its subtile grace and vigor, as idiomatic as its soul-touching tenderness, rendered it an appropriate vehicle for the exquisite touches of the poet, or the pregnant “wisdom of the philosopher. The influence of the bards over the multitude, and the superstitious veneration attached to their office, soon elevated their dignity next to that of the king. The different orders of the state were distinguished by the number of colors which adorned their dress; and while the peasant’s garment consisted of only one color, the bards were allowed [20] four, one less than the number worn by the monarch himself Moore remarks, that this law argues the high station accorded to learning among the ancient Irish, as well as a remarkable coincidence with that Hebrew custom, which made a garment of many colors the distinguishing dress of royalty and rank.
 Christianity superseded druidism; and though the bards were still in favor, the character of their song was changed. The productions of the heathen muse were given to the flames, in a moment of extravagant zeal, and the breathings of the new lyre were crowned with the sweetness of Christian morality. No more do we see the herald-bards, dad in their white flowing robes, marching with their chiefs at the head of the armies, and singing their war-songs to the music of the harp. The hymn of peace superseded the strain of battle; and if Christianity destroyed those early records of a nation’s infancy, her truth and beauty imparted to the muse a higher and a holier inspiration. The Lives of the Saints inspired that lyre which once bowed down before the idol of paganism. . The Church took Song under her protection, and used it in her warfare against the world. The most remarkable of Irish ecclesiastics were poets of a high order, among whom w r e may mention St. Columbanus, one of the restorers of early European Christianity. But they wrote in tflfe favored language of the church; and though, according to Bede, the Cdtic, the Welsh, the Teutonic, and the Latin languages were spoken in Ireland in the seventh century, the strains of their muse never lived in the hearts of the people. Politian is remembered in Italy to-day, not by his accomplished Latin productions, but by the few Italian verses he has left behind him. The Arabians are said to have introduced rhyme into Europe in the eighth century; but it is well known that rhyme was employed in Ireland in the time of St. Patrick, four centuries previously. Music, poetry, and literature, were the characteristics of the country in those ancient days when the students of Europe crowded to her schools.
 The bardic productions of Ireland have an importance unknown to similar records of other lands. The strict supervision exercised over the historical records surpasses even the scrutiny of the present day. A council was specially appointed to investigate their truth; and Moore says, that “whatever materials for national history the provincial annals supplied, were here sifted and epitomized, and the result entered in the great national register, the Psalter of Tara.” [21]
 Strange to say, that while the beauties of the Persian tongue are studied in Perdusi by our learned antiquaries; wliile they unravel the tangled web of Sanscrit, explore the ruins of Nineveh, and decipher the hieroglyphics of Egypt, the ancient records of Ireland have never been deemed worthy of notice. The ruins of a great civilization at our own door have been all but completely overlooked. A paltry grant of two hundred pounds has been lately procured from Government for the translation of the Brehon Laws, which are said to be an epitome of ancient wisdom. It is thus that Irish history has been neglected. Every country of Europe has her biography except Ireland. While other nations are rich in chronicle and memoir, she has few besides those which speak of her as a barbarous enemy. These are not the national records over which a people might well exult. The truest history of Ireland will be found in the stray ballads of her persecuted bards, and the memoranda of her banished monks.
 Ireland had once a glorious history, when she w’as the mart of learning, and the resort of the students of all nations. When Europe was a corpse beneath the hoof of the Vandal, then was Ireland famous, — then was she “the school of the West, the quiet habitation of sanctity and literature.” She had a glorious history before the crowning of Charlemagne, — before the Crescent waved over the fair fields of Andalusia. And wdien w’ar raged like an angry demon in the heart of Europe, she held up the torch of knowledge, as a beacon, and received with open arms all those who sought shelter and science within her peaceful bosom.
 Her history has been neglected, but the day will yet come when it will be lovingly written. France is rich in chronicle and memoir. French biography has been scrupulously active since the thirteenth century. Every Frenchman that has risen above the crowd, has his niche in the temple of contemporary history. Such memoirs are the most important portions of a nation’s biography, — the lives of the great movers in the national drama. Every city in Italy had its own historian from the same period; but they do not show the inner life of a nation like the biographies of France. The chronicles of Spain are ample from the days of Alphonso the Wise down to the time when it almost ceased to have a history; but the social habits and peculiar characteristics of the people have been illustrated by no other history than the beautiful ballads which attest the ancient [22] chivalry of that degenerate land. Ireland is not without such records and chronicles: but, as yet, the majority of them are little better than waste paper in the illustration of her national existence. The biographies of her children would be an epitome of European bistory, for she has given soldiers and statesmen to every country from Spain to Russia. The breaking up and migration of the nations which succeeded the fall of the Roman Empire, and which scattered to the winds all the civilization of the past, have been the characteristics of Ireland for a thousand years.
 At the end of the eighth century, a tribe of that robber race which had previously overrun the fair lands of the South, invaded and desolated the happy homes of Ireland. The Danish Goth, true to the instincts of his barbarian nature, aimed the first blow at the literature of the land, that glorious treasure which had been so generously dispensed to the pilgrims of every clime. Monasteries were razed, religious were persecuted, and the bards, who had hitherto been regarded as sacred in the eyes of monarch and people, were exterminated with savage ferocity. Dor nearly three centuries, these pirates desecrated the soil of Ireland; and, on their expulsion in the eleventh century, literature revived without resuming its former sway. Another invasion in the twelfth century brings us in a stride down to 'the present time. The bards were still held in high estimation by chiefs and people. But the reign of Elizabeth inaugurated the renewal of another Danish persecution. The obnoxious bards were victims once more at the altar of tyranny; and thenceforth their character declined. Penal laws ruled the land, and laid the foundation of that ignorance for which Ireland is so unjustly blamed today. The Catholic who imparted or received education was guilty of treason against the crown. The Catholic schoolmaster and the priest were both outlawed; and as if these laws were not considered sufficient to keep the country ignorant, they were rendered still more stringent in succeeding reigns. We know that there are thousands in England at the present time, who would battle to the death against such injustice; and we make these remarks to excite their charity for the ignorance and their sympathy for the sufferings of a country which has been so systematically misgoverned.
 Under the rigorous enactments of Elizabeth the bards gradually declined. But the fidelity which was so characteristic of the order still distinguished them amid all their misfortunes. The gold of the [23] treasury was laid at their feet to sing her “Majestie’s most worthie praises,” but they spurned the base bribe, and fled to the mountains. The gold of England could not make them swerve from the path of duty. From time immemorial they were the personification of Ireland’s chivalry, and to this hour that chivalry has had no truer exponents than the Children of the Lyre. Some of the finest characters in English history, are, also, some of her sweetest poets. It has been well remarked of Sir Philip Sydney that you may survey him as you would survey an antique statue; you must walk round him to perceive all his beautiful proportions. And it is a remarkable item in poetical biography that Sir Philip, as well as many others of the English poets, such as Spenser, Raleigh, and Harington, were connected with Ireland as the first stage on “which they appeared — the starting point of their illustrious career. Spenser, while he praises the productions of the bards who lived in his time, is severe in his strictures upon their character. In the reign of Charles II., an act was passed to prevent the wandering minstrels from exacting meat or drink from the people, “for fear of some scandalous song or rhyme to be made upon them.” The act farther states, that all “such persons may be bound to loyalty and allegiance, and committed till bond be given with good sureties.” We see here the position to which the order was reduced by the oppressions of former reigns. The warfare of centuries had struck down the native chiefs, who had ever regarded them “with a species of paternal affection. Around the oak of power the ivy of song had lovingly twined itself, and when the former was violently torn from the land, the latter “was flung upon the world to float like a weed upon every wind.
 It was this persecution of the bards by Elizabeth and Cromwell, which led to the dreamy allegory in which the national hopes were shrouded. Ireland “was the poet’s love, but a jealous stepmother stood between him and his mistress. And so consistent were his political rhapsodies, on some occasions, with the wailings of the tender passion, that it is almost impossible to discriminate whether they were intended for his country or his mistress. Of this class is Mangan’s “Dark Rosaleen,” which some consider political, but which we have placed among the Ballads of the Affections. The very extravagance of allegory employed on these occasions, is an unmistakable index to the intensity of the persecution by which the bards were harassed, and ultimately destroyed. [24]
 Ossian’s Poems and Mangan’s translations from the Irish, may be regarded as fair specimens of the old and later poets of Ireland. And as far as the latter are concerned, it may he well said of Siangan, what was once remarked of a celebrated French translator, that it is doubtful whether the dead or living are most obliged to him. Ossian is stamped with the freshness of national infancy — the later translations with the allegory of national prostration and trembling hope. And both are pregnant with the history of their respective periods. In the latter, voice and pen are stifled; and the muffled wail of a trampled nation sounds like a death-bell upon the ear. We see the Penal Laws in full operation, and the native population stricken to the earth, but still living in the hope of a better day. We see the national religion banned, and a price set upon the head of its priesthood. We become acquainted with the intrigues and struggles to get these priests educated in distant lands by the Garonne and Guadalquivir, and we see them concealed on their return in the fastnesses of the mountains, and the caverns of the rugged shore. Yet amid all these adverse circumstances, Ireland did not manifest an indifference to the spirit of song in this day of her dolor, nor a want of taste for its cultivation. Still was she, as in the olden time, the mother of patriot bards; and though a price was set upon the minstrel’s head as well as upon the priest’s, every valley resounded with the praises of ancient heroes — elegies for the martyred brave dark curses for the native traitor and the ruthless stranger — proud invocations of the Genius of Liberty — and passionate aspirations for the glory and independence of Erin.
 And thus we perceive the existence of a native minstrelsy in Ireland, from the landing of the Milesians, almost to our own time, in one unbroken wreath of song. We have sketches of more than two hundred Irish writers, principally poets, from the days of Amergin, the chief bard of the Milesian colony, down to the beginning of the present century. Their poems are, in many instances, still extant, from the hymns of St. Columb to the Lamentation of M’Liag, the biographer and family bard of Brian Bom; and still downwards to the dreamy allegory of the proscribed poets of the Penal Days. The stores of native minstrelsy which Ireland possesses, both in the memory of her people and the cabinet of the antiquarian, are astonishing, when we consider the characteristics of her history, and the condition of her people, for the last seven centuries. Rome had lost her ballads [25] long before she reached the zenith of her power. Mr. Macaulay remarks that, in spite of the invention of printing, the old ballads of England and Spain narrowly escaped the withering blight of years, and that Scott was but just in time to save the precious relics of the Minstrelsy of the Border. In truth, he adds, the only people who, through their whole passage from simplicity to the highest civilization, never for a moment ceased to love and admire their old ballads, were the Greeks. But we think Ireland equal to Greece in this respect, as far as the comparison can be instituted. Since these pagan days when Bride was the Queen of Song, her bards have ever been scrupulously venerated, and their productions cherished with a traditional love which Greece never surpassed; and her people have beenas true to this balladworship in the days of her distress as in those of her glory. We can easily understand how deep was the reverence, and how unchanging the affection, with which Ireland clung to her minstrelsy, from the ample relics of it which still live in the hearts and memories of her people, and from those, also, which unfortunately lie dead in the ancient tongue. The influence of the old bards on popular tastes and habits is still observable. Not many years ago the rustic schoolmaster was elected by a species of poetic tournament. A prize poem was generally the test of merit; and the successful candidate was chosen more for his skill in the muses than for his acquaintance with the doctrines of Political Economy.
 The rage for street ballads is another trace of their influence. And so strict is the resemblance, in one respect, between the present and the past, that a collection of these ballads will be a versified record of the principal events of modem Irish history. But this is the only point of resemblance between them. The contemptible street ballad of to-day will not bear comparison with the racy, vigorous minstrelsy of old. There are few people more susceptible to song than the Irish. They are swayed by its influence as the tides by the moon. We may assign this, in some degree, to Ireland’s unconquerable attachment to her ancient minstrelsy, and, also, to the fact that, till a late period, the street ballad has been the only popular literature which she possessed. Nothing but this deathless love of song could have saved the precious relics of our bardic muse from the hand of time, the torch of war, and the still more destructive infirence of foreign conquest. Seldom has the successful invader spared either the life or literature of the fallen land. The Caliph Omar burned to ashes the magnificent [26] library of Alexandria when he captured that city. The Persians burned the books of the Egyptians, and the Romans of the Jews, the philosophers, and the Christians. The Jews in turn destroyed the books of the Christians and the pagans. And the Christians again, the books of the pagans and the Jews. The Turks destroyed the grand libraries of Constantinople; the Spaniards, the painted histories of Mexico; and such, also, was the fate of the national records and literature of Ireland which fell into the hands of the English conquerors. Its ruin was inevitable, but the relics are numerous and beautiful, reminding us of the porticoes and stately columns which shine through the ashes of Pompeii.
 Since the reign of Elizabeth, Ireland produced twenty-six poets in the Gaelic language. Some of these were of a high order, and of distinguished attainments. In connection with this portion of our subject we are tempted to sketch them individually; but their biography would prove uninteresting to the general reader. The lives of the bards would form no inconsiderable portion of Irish history, from the influence which they exercised in the direction of its events, and in s timulatin g the spirit of resistance. The strains of O Gnive, the bard of Shane O’Neil, often flung the stirrupless lancer of Ulster like a falling rock upon the armies of Elizabeth, and gathered round the national standard the hesitating chieftains of the North. Angus O’Daly’s war-song of the Wicklow clans prompted the O’Byrnes to many a fierce raid, from their mountain fastnesses, against the clan London of the Pale, carrying destruction across the English Border, under the chieftainship of the famous Feagh Mac Hugh. The martial muse of O’Mulconry, the bard of Breifny and laureate of Ireland, summoned Clan Connaught to the battle field against the invader, and helped to inspire that determined and .protracted struggle which ended only with the death of Bryan O’Rourke. He was Prince of Breifny, and was betrayed by James VI of Scotland into the hands of Elizabeth, who beheaded him in 1592. But there is one serious drawback observable in the strains of these ancient bards, and a glance at the titles of their productions will render it apparent. Their sympathies were more factious than Irish, more clannish than national. Not that they loved Ireland less, but that they loved their Sept more. We have appeals to the O’Neils and the O’Donnell of the North, to the O’Briens and M’Carthys of the South, to the O’Moores and O’Bymes of the East, to the O’Connors and O’Rourkes [27] of the West; but, unfortunately, seldom an appeal to the spirit and energies of universal Ireland, except when some great victory inspired the national voice, and lifted it up to higher hopes and grander aspirations. But this is scarcely to be wondered at, when we consider the rivalries of the clans, and their constant struggles for ascendency and personal aggrandizement — the natural result of the feudal system upon the warm and impulsive character of the Irish people.
 Nor are the poets of the last century entirely free from blame in this respect, though their fault lies in a different direction. The proscription of the ancient faith attracted them to it more powerfully, and called forth their sympathizing strains for its suffering sons and bleeding martyrs. They almost lost sight of nationality, and the political privileges of which they had been deprived, in their anxiety for the blessing of religious liberty. This was the want they felt the keenest, and expressed the heartiest. It made their religion bitter and sectarian, though in good truth their charity had such little scope that it could scarcely be otherwise. They looked forward more to a religious, than to a political deliverer; and, hence, their effusions were more dynastic than national — more Jacobite than Irish. When they sang of Ireland, it was in connection with the fallen dynasty. They longed for 4he union of Una and Donald, or in other w r ords, Ireland and the Stuart. They addressed their country as a beloved female to disguise the object of their affections. Sometimes it w r as Sabia, from Brian Born’s daughter of that name; sometimes it was Sheela Ni Guira, or Cecilia O’ Gar a, Moreen Ni Cullenan, Kathleen Ni Houlahan, Boseen Dhuv, and more frequently Granu Weal, or Grace O’Malley, from a princess of Connaught who rendered herself famous by her exploits and adventures. The poet beheld his beloved in a vision, and wandering in remote places bewailed the suffering of his country. He rests himself beneath the shade of forest trees, and seeks refuge from his thoughts in calm repose. Then appears to his rapt fancy one of those beautiful creations w r e have named. Language is not sufficiently copious to describe all her charms. He addresses her, and asks her if she be one of the fair divinities of old or an angel from heaven to brighten his pathway through life, and restore peace to his afflicted country. She replies that she is Erin of the Sorrows, once a Queen, but now a slave; and after enumerating all the WTongs and indignities which she is enduring, she prophesies [28] the dawn of a brighter day, when her exiled lord shall be restored to his rightful inheritance. This was the style adopted by most of the Jacobite poets of the last century to express the sufferings of their country, and their hopes of deliverance from oppression.
 We question if imagination could originate a style of song more pathetic in its allusions, or more powerful in its results. Allegory, in this instance, had lost its inherent weakness, and acquired an influence which no directness of expression could have produced. Woman has ever been honored in Ireland with especial reverence. Since those ancient days which Moore has celebrated in one of his exquisite lyrics, when the fairest lady might travel the land from shore to shore without harm or danger, the Irishwoman’s virtue and beauty have commanded universal respect, and made her a national deity almost to be worshipped. This national chivalry imparted to the poet’s allegory an insinuating and enduring power over the heart which no appeal to the passions could possess. Ireland was no longer an abstraction, but a familiar being; and still more an afflicted woman, a forlorn mother, a fallen Queen, mourning over her sorrows, and calling upon her sons to avenge her wrongs and restore her to the dignity from which she had fallen. As illustrative of these feelings, the following extract from Mons. Thicry will, we hope, not be out of place : — “Ancient Ireland,” he says, “is still the only country which the true Irish acknowledge; on its account, they have adhered to its religion and its language; and in their insurrections they still invoke it by the name of Erin, the name by which their ancestors called it. To maintain this series of manners and traditions against the efforts of the conquerors, the Irish made for themselves monuments which neither steel nor fire could destroy; they had recourse to the art of singing, in which they gloried in excelling, and which, in the times of independence, had been their pride and their pleasure. The bards and minstrels became the keepers of the records of the nation. Wandering from village to village, they carried to every heart memories of ancient Ireland; they studied to render them agreeable to all tastes and ages; they had w T arlike songs for the men, love ditties for the women, and marvellous talcs for the children. Every house preserved two harps always ready for travellers, and he w r ho could best celebrate the liberty of former times, the glory of patriots, and the grandeur of their cause, was rew T arded by a more lavish hospitality. The Kings of England endeavored more than once to strike a [29] blow at Ireland in this last refuge of its regrets and hopes; the wandering poets were persecuted, banished, delivered up to tortures and death; but violence served only to irritate indomitable wills; the art of poetry and of singing had its martyrs like religion; and the remembrances, the destruction of which was desired, were increased by the feeling of how much they cost them to preserve.

* * * *

 The Irish love to make their country into a loving and beloved real being, they love to speak to it without pronouncing its name, and to mingle the love they bear it, an austere and perilous love, with what is sweetest and happiest among the affections of the heart. It seems as if, under the veil of these agreeable illusions, they wished to disguise to their minds the reality of the dangers to which the patriot exposes himself, and to divert themselves with graceful ideas while awaiting the hour of battle, like those Spartans who crowned themselves with flowers, when on the point of perishing at Thermopylae.
 The calumnies uttered against the character of the bards may be easily traced to the political influence which they exercised over the people. This was the head and front of their offending. They sang the hopes of the nation in strains of misty song which the circumstances and national shrewdness of the people rendered transparent. When the sword of O’Neil was broken, the minstrelsy which had made it start from its scabbard still lived and moved the pulse of the nation’s heart. When the battle-axe of Tyrconnell had rusted, the strains which once nerved the arm of the fierce gallowglass still hung on the people’s lips, and kept alive the spirit of national resistance. The warrior’s strength dies with him; but the poet’s power ever stirs like an immortal prophecy. The bards of Ireland were persecuted, because they excited hopes of national independence, as the ancient minstrels of Spain sang her struggles against the Moor, or the minstrels of Scotland the Border-battles of the Percy and the Douglas. And though these strains were not fortunate enough to crown the struggles of Ireland with success, they did not wholly fail, for they have embalmed her nationality to live throughout all ages. It is as distinct at this hour from that of England in all things, save language, as it was in the days of The O’Neil. And Irish poetry is the power which has achieved this result, linked as it has been to the life and struggles of the national faith. It has been well said that poetry has an influence not to be measured by arithmetic, nor expressed [30]  by syllogism. And we know no instance in which this is so true as with reference to Irish minstrelsy. Great poets are the legislators of the empire of the heart. The poetry of Spain flung back the Moor from the Asturian mountains to sigh for his fallen power by the banks of the Guadalquivir, and the fountains of the Alhambra. The religious feeling inspired by the struggle against the Saracen gave the Spanish character a lofty enthusiasm which no disaster could wholly destroy. Centuries of suffering, instead of crushing the national spirit, but kindled it into higher resolves, and prompted it to deeds of nobler daring. Religion is ever a powerful element in a national struggle, and no unfailing source of poetic inspiration. When Tasso lived, Europe throbbed from end to end with religious excitement. The sword of the Ottoman was at her throat, and her own members were arrayed against each other, while she trembled for her safety on the brink of ruin. It was then that the victory of Lepanto burst like an inspiration over the religious genius of Tasso; and the moral grandeur of his muse, in which he almost stands alone in his glory, shows how much religion may effect for poetry. Ireland had all the benefit of this inspiration in her warfare and in her muse; and though it has failed to secure for her what it did for Spain, the enthusiasm it evoked has preserved the same faith unsullied — the same feeling unsubdued.
 No nation can afford to despise its ballads. They are an important portion of its history — the first efforts of its civilization. And in the record of a nation’s ballads, we find the history of its progress and its triumphs — or its decay and death. The shepherd grazing his flock in the peaceful valley, the warrior heading his men to battle, the disasters of defeat or the rapture of triumph, the throbbing of broken hearts, or the happiness of successful love — all these 'will be the inspiration of a nation’s infant poetry. Fancy or imagination will have little to do with it; all will be as simple and natural as the unsophisticated heart of the people. Nature offers her inspirations in gloomy woods and lofty mountains reposing in her lap of beauty, while the feelings of primitive life animate them with the breathings of emotion. As society advances, the language of “passion will be better defined and more cultivated. Thought will grow more vigorous, and will require a corresponding degree of elevation and nervousness of expression. The pathetic ballad will follow quickly upon the gray dawn of the legendary and pastoral literature [31] of a nation’s infancy. The adversities of life soon develop their strain of sorrow. But when the inspirations of nature are rejected for flights of fancy and imagination, poetry loses its strongest impulse, and its most attractive influence. Nature is thrown aside for art — the flush of health for the artist’s coloring — and the breathing beauty of life for the graces of Daedalus. The warmth of emotion is supplanted by the cold glitter of fancy; and that poetry which once swayed the hearts and kindled the enthusiasm of the multitude, now becomes a fasliionable toy for people of quality. The soul of poetry departs with its simplicity and feeling.
 The ballad is a species of narrative poetry, short and pithy, simple in its structure and language, accurate in its incidents, consistent in its dates, costume, and coloring, graceful in its ease and beauty, and perfect in all its parts. It was the first record of the events and the laws of all nations. Its measured music assisted the memory, and popularized 'whatever knowledge it clothed. Though at first rude in structure and unpolished in expression, it soon rose with advancing civilization, and became an important element of power. It scorned its lowly origin, assumed all the importance of history, all the fascination of romance, and all the grace and dignity of poetry. It was the first vehicle of instruction, the earliest perpetuation of thought, the first parent of literature. The rhapsodies of the wandering minstrels of Iona were ballads borrowed from the epic of Homer. The epic, which w r as a development of the ballad, was again broken up into its original elements for the accompaniment of the harp. And to the same necessity are w*e indebted for the ballad literature of modem times. The Norman romances were broken up into fragments by the jongleurs of the twelfth century for the same purpose; and to that age may be traced the form of our modem ballads.
 Lyrical poetry requires the highest degree of inspiration and intellectual development. What narrative is to the ballad, sentiment is to lyrical poetry. It is frequently an epitome of the ballad, and m such cases, it is not easy to draw the line. Ballads so compressed may be denominated suggestive songs. The literary perfection of ancient Greece developed some of the best specimens of the lyric muse. Italy excelled in this high department of minstrelsy since the days of Petrarch, who tested the melody of his verses by the breathings of his lute. Moore is the Petrarch of modem times. In every line of his muse, the fancy revels in an atmosphere of melody, [32] till his artistic elaboration seems but the perfection of nature. Burns is the highest of simplicity and feeling; his inspired song sways all hearts.
 Although Plato excluded the poets from his republic, the influence of poetry has been felt in all ages. Patriotism and virtue are still nourished by the strains of a national minstrelsy. It holds up to posterity the mirror of a proud past to guide it to a triumphant future. The province of poetry is to soothe and cheer the heart in the struggles of life, and to dignify human nature by prompting it to aspire to that virtuous heroism which the world too often repudiates. It borrows from the past all that is beautiful, to throw around fallen man a paradise of its own creation. And if sometimes it pictures the dark side of nature, its corrective power is still true to its mission — by teaching us that error is frequently the best warning. Poetry is the aspiration of humanity for that happiness and perfection which the world lost in the Fall, and which it strives to attain by substituting the shadow for the substance. History pictures the world as it is — poetry as it ought to be. It lifts the standard of heroism, and invites to follow by climbing the rugged path of duty.
 The poet is the oracle of dumb nature’s divinity; and poetry the harmonious embodiment of his inspired revelations. The greatest poet is he who expresses this divinity the truest and the sweetest. He who fails in poetry, fails for want of truth to nature, or of eloquence and harmony to make that truth attractive. Nature’s oracle must first study nature’s mysteries. From the farthest fixed star to the humblest daisy must his study range. He must be familiar with all the miracles of creation between the poles of space; and he must hear every sound within these limits, from the waves of celestial music rolling against the flying planets, to the hoarse gurgle of the ocean, and the sighing of the summer wind. What is vacant he must fill up; what is uninhabited he must people; what he does not know he must imagine. But his imaginings must be always consistent with truth and nature. Those who possess thought and feeling, a harmonious ear and an eloquent expression, are poets, if they but add the fervor of sincerity to their natural qualifications. Any one who sees more in nature than the ordinary run of mortals, has the germ of poetry within him. If he express in harmonious language, this mystery which he perceives, he is uttering poetry. He tells some what they think, but cannot say; and he tells others [33] what they should think if they had thought at all. Homer and Shakspeare stand unrivalled in this respect; and, hence, they are the world’s poets.
 If poetry creates a paradise of its own, and tends to make mankind happier, Ireland has indeed need of song. Scarcely had her history emerged from the “twilight of fable “ when her annals became blackened with disaster. The days of her mourning are not yet ended. The dirge of a thousand years still swells over the land of numberless sorrows. The voice of her song is still plaintive over the razed homesteads of her valleys, — over the sweltering plagueship and shattered bark of the Western Main. For long, long years has had nothing but her faith and her poetry to call her own, and by the sincerity with which she has clung to these she has preserved her distinct nationality through storms of conquest, tears, and blood. Ireland needs poetry; and it is deep in her people’s heart.
 One may now refer historically to the wrongs of Ireland without incurring the risk of being pounced upon as an agitator. In writing of Irish Minstrelsy, we cannot avoid referring to Irish history with which this subject is so intimately interwoven. Our object is not to excite angry recollections, but to vindicate the poetic fame of Ireland, and to claim as high a rank for her in ballad literature as that of any other nation. We have shown the difficulties which fettered her in the path of literature, and their distinctive influence on that of other lands. Nationality imparts a peculiar charm to song. It has embalmed Spanish poetry, and endowed it with a life that will endure forever. The proud Castilian and chivalrous Granadine stand out almost in relief in the early ballads of Moorish Spain. The sun, the soil, the sky, as well as the struggles and characteristics of the people, are reflected in this glorious national minstrelsy. Scotland may also thank her nationality for the beautiful ballad-literature which she possesses. Her clan-feuds, her wars against England, her Jacobite struggles, her chivalrous loyalty to the Stuarts, her wild mountains and picturesque lakes — all these tended to develop that ancient national minstrelsy which has been the inspiration of the immortal peasant-poets of that land of song. In its earlier ballads we see the distractions and barbarism of the feudal system, which rendered the names of the Barons more prominent than even that of the reigning sovereign. We see in them also the gloomy ferocity of those times when men held life and land at the point of the sword. [34] Nationality in all its phases is mirrored in Scottish song. English character and the durability of the British Empire owe more to Shakspeare than to the British Constitution; and “Ye Mariners of England” has done more for the British Navy than Copenhagen and Trafalgar. The peculiar beauty of Irish music, is its eloquent interpretation of the national character, in all its moods of joy and sorrow; and though our present Minstrelsy is written in the English tongue, it is still as true to our nationality as our music. When Scott’s “Marmion “ made its first appearance, Jeffrey abused it heartily for its want of Scottish feeling. “There is scarcely one trait,” said the Reviewer, “of true Scottish nationality cr patriotism introduced into the whole poem; and Walter Scott’s only expression of admiration for the beautiful country to which he belongs, is put, if we remember, into the mouth of one of his Southern favorites.” How this happened to be said of Scott, whose nationality was his inspiration, we know not; but we trust that no critic will be able to pronounce a similar censure upon the ballads which we introduce to our readers in the present volumes.
 When an eminent Scotch professor delivered a series of lectures on poetry, some time ago, to the fashion and beauty of London, his intense nationality called forth the strictures of the press. An able reviewer remarks that the Lecturer scarcely ever referred even by name, to “Paradise Lost,” introduced Chaucer with an apology. Pope with condemnation, Ben Jonson with pity, and Moore with a rebuke for his Eastern stories; that Scott was placed upon a pedestal just lower than that of Shakspeare, but higher far than those of Chaucer, Milton, and Spenser. Campbell is faultless, and they who wrote the ancient ballads immortal. Such is the epitome given of these lectures. “He is more Scottish than British,” adds the reviewer, “more national in his tastes than universal in his sympathies. In politics and poetry the Professor is national to a fault; but the fault is amiable, and criticism involuntarily applauds even while it deliberately condemns.” This nationality so amiable in a Scotchman is frequently wicked in an Irishman. Nationality is amiable every where but in Ireland. The aroma of these volumes is the patriotism which pervades and characterizes them; and while it imparts vigorous life to this Irish minstrelsy, it seeks not to depreciate the literature of any other country, and so far at least disarms the resentment of the critic. We hereby put forth our claim for the [35] “amiability” of Irish nationality, more particularly in its association with song. We trust the Press will look with favor upon this Irish minstrelsy which adds new graces to the English tongue, as Irish blood grows new laurels to the brow' of England and sw’ells the tide of British glory.
 Our modern minstrelsy loses much by its recent origin. It suffers from want of the shadowy background of antiquity. But with the greater part of our ballads this was simply unavoidable, except those translated from the Irish. The sonorous melody of the Celtic tongue would be preferable, though the wish to return to it now might be considered impracticable. It has been w r ell said that we can be thoroughly Irish in thought and feeling although we are English in expression. The fathers of the early church struck down paganism with weapons borrowed from its own armory. Augustine and Chrysostom dipped their wings in the fountain of Cicero’s genius, and made their highest flights in Christian preaching through the heathen atmosphere of Demosthenes. And so, also, has Ireland conquered in her captivity, by her successful cultivation of the English tongue. Like the enslaved Israelites of old, she has carried off from the Egyptian taskmasters the treasures of their learning, to develop a literature that shall shine like a star in the firmament of intellect. It has been remarked that poetry and eloquence rarely flourish on the same soil; they are set down as the results of different states of life — the one of contemplation and solitude; the other of intercourse with the world. But Ireland disproves this opinion. The fountain of her song is as deep as the sea; and her eloquence has never been surpassed. Though speaking a foreign tongue, she has wielded it with ease and strength, moulding it into gorgeous rhetoric and sweetest song. Jeffrey, in his essay on the English language, after tracing its progress from Chaucer to Swift and Pope, and still downwards to Goldsmith, Johnson, and Junius, attributes its present perfection principally to “the genius of Edmund Burke, and some others of his countrymen.” If we have been compelled to adopt the English language, we certainly have used it well. It has not degenerated in our hands. The manners, customs, and superstitions — the thoughts, feelings, and idioms — the struggles, the defeats, and the aspirations of a people, constitute, the essentials of its nationality, not the language in which they are uttered.
 Well might Jeffrey attribute the perfection of the English tongue  [36] to Irish genius, and well may Ireland feel proud of the men who achieved such a result. There is hope for the land which in the depth of its degradation could produce such a galaxy of genius as that which illuminated the period from Swift to Grattan. There is a brilliant future before that country which, in the darkest century of its history, could produce Swift, Sterne, and Steele in literature; Boyle and Berkley in philosophy; Parnell and Goldsmith in poetry; Francis (Junius), Burke, Flood, Grattan, Sheridan, Curran, and Plunkett in oratory; — and in our own day, the illustrious genius of O’Connell, and Moore, and the Historian of the peninsular war.
 In the present volumes will be found names deserving a wider poetic reputation than they have hitherto attained. Mangan, M’Carthy, M’Gee, Ferguson, Simmons, Mrs. Wilde, and Richard Dalton Williams, are a few among the number. With few exceptions the present ballads are of recent growth, and the fruit of a comparatively few years. The great majority of them will be new to the English public; and as they become better known, it is hoped they will become still more esteemed. They are the throbbings of Ireland’s heart, when it bounded with the life of a grand passion, which the magical genius of O’Connell called into existence. Till then Irish poetry was sadly neglected. The struggle for Catholic emancipation had produced little besides the immortal melodies of Thomas Moore, upon w hom we principally depended to uphold the honor of our race and the poetic genius of our country. Even the old literature of the land had never been used as it might have been, for the development of a ballad minstrelsy. The treasures of our dead language were buried in oblivion, and none but a great poet could call them back to life, and clothe their new form with the vigor and raciness of the original. Such a poet arose in James Clarence Mangan; and his translations from the Irish show how much yet remains to be done for the development of the golden mine of our ancient minstrelsy.
 The people after all are the great judges of poetry, and the most profound in their appreciation of its beauties. It sprung from them and belongs to them. They feel its influence, while others analyze its philosophy; and the muse is elevated or otherwise, according to the power with which it sways the people’s heart, tunes the popular voice, and captivates the popular ear. It owns no other sway than the magic of the heart, and receives but its allegiance. The heart is [37] the grand source of poetry; and from this throbbing throne of feeling, the muse looks down upon all nature as its dominions. Dryden strove partially to exhibit Chaucer in the costume of modem phraseology, but the simple, vigorous verse of the original is preferred to the classic grace of the elaborate imitation. We have no great sympathy with philosophic poetry. Poetry, like history, has lost its primitive simplicity, and adopted the speculative and philosophic tendency.
 Addison says — “an ordinary song or ballad, that is the delight of the common people, cannot fail to please all such readers as are not unqualified for the entertainment by their affectation or their ignorance; because the same paintings of nature, which recommend it to the most ordinary mind, will appear beautiful to the most refined.” How thoroughly the people of Greece must have appreciated Homer, when the Iliad was not transcribed for centuries after the poet’s era! And yet, the thunder of his wars is reverberating through the depths of the world’s heart as loud as ever. Take philosophy and science to the cloister and the study, but poetry will always make itself felt in the home of the peasant, whose loving appreciation of the muse has snatched from the grave of time all the ancient minstrelsies of Europe. Where would be now the ballads of the Border, and the relics of our ancient Irish minstrelsy, were it not for the loving memories of the people? And need we ask, where is the sublime simplicity of Bums more truly admired than by the Cottager’s fireside? Cellini states, that he exposed his celebrated statue of Perseus in the public square of Florence, by order of his patron, Duke Cosmo I, who declared himself perfectly satisfied with it on learning the commendations of the people.
 The poet who has sung for the people has rarely yet been neglected; and he who has been neglected by the people need sing no more. He may amuse a small class of readers who prefer the delicate touches of the artist’s hand to the bounding passion of the poet’s heart — the artificial flower to the simple daisy. With such persons, poetry is merely to tickle the fancy. It has no higher mission. Poetry should sway the passions and educate the affections; and the passions and the affections, which are the groundwork of poetry, are the common heritage of all humanity. They belong to the peasant as well as to the peer; and the poet who strikes these chords will find as true and as hearty a response in the bosom of the one as in that of the other. [38] The poetry of fancy will never stir the heart, nor awaken new feelings in the reader’s soul.
 If the appreciation of poetry depended upon a reasoning process, then would the test of popular approbation soon fall to the ground. But it requires neither the abstraction of analysis, nor the careful induction of logical investigation, to unravel the mysteries of the muse. Poetry is judged by the heart only, and its beauties are understood intuitively. And those whose feelings are the most natural are the infallible critics of its genuine and immortal inspirations.
 Fletcher of Saltoun spoke truly when he said — “Give me the making of a nation’s ballads, and I care not who makes its laws.” We see in it the breathings of a people’s inner life, which history cannot possibly record. It is the reflection of their wants and aspirations, and the truest history of their feelings. Even the statesman may study it with advantage, for it is the daguerreotype of the national mind. Heeren observes that the poems of Homer were the principal bond which united the Grecian states. And we have already spoken of the influence of song in the struggles of Scotland, and of Ireland. In the reign of Edward I, the Welsh bards exercised such sway over the people, stirring up in their souls the memories of independence, that continual insurrection was the result, till an edict was issued against them ordering their execution without mercy. Ritson, in his essay on national song, says that the poetic squibs of the cavaliers, during the Common-wealth, tended in no slight degree to keep alive the trampled spirit of loyalty, and ultimately contributed to the Restoration. Lord Wharton used to boast, that he rhymed King James out of his dominions by the chorus of “Lillebullero,” the only thing in the shape of a song which the Revolution produced. It is stated of one of the troubadours, who was seized by robbers, that he begged of them, before taking his life, to hear one of his songs; and so disarmed were the brigands by the touching pathos of the poet, that they instantly restored him to liberty', and instead of robbing him, loaded him with presents.
 And if a national minstrelsy consecrate courage and nourish patriotism, its influence in the development of poetic taste is not less remarkable. The lyrical genius of Bums was half inspired by the fine old Scottish ballads winch had made the land musical from the Orkneys to the Border. Scott, speaking of the books which he had read in childhood, says — “The tree is still in my recollection beneath which [39] I lay, and first entered upon the charming perusal of Percy’s Reliques.” His infancy was surrounded by the traditions and legends of Sandy Knowe; and the old ballads of Scotland were as familiar to his infant tongue as the endearing expressions of his paternal grandfather, at whose house he resided. And to these old ballads may his future fame be traced as truly as his Border minstrelsy to the inspiration of Percy’s Reliques, whose charming perusal made such a lasting impression upon his youthful mind. And the immortal “Melodies “ of Thomas Moore have contributed, in no slight degree, to inspire the minstrelsy of the present volumes, invigorated as they are by the fire and feeling of popular passion, and flavored with the simplicity of popular expression.
 How much happiness life would lose, were it deprived of the soothing influence of poetry! In childhood we are charmed by its sweet sounds; in manhood we are tlirilled by its inspirations or spiritualized by its pathos; and in old age, it calls back to the memory the simplest and most beautiful pleasures of the past. We must ever regard the poets who have adorned and elevated humanity by their genius as men of superior order, as philanthropists who have added a new pleasure to life — a pleasure which purifies the heart while it gratifies the sense, and which no mere utilitarian triumphs could ever supply. If there is any book of which we never grow tired, it is a book of ballads.
 What better picture of the religious and domestic life of Ireland in the seventh century, when she was “the school of the West, the quiet habitation of sanctity and literature,” than the “Itinerary of Prince Aldfrid,” a translation of which will be found in its proper place among the Historical Ballads of this collection? Is not our entire history, our sorrows, our struggles, and our hopes, comprised in the melodious lyrics of Thomas Moore, from the “Landing of the Milesians” to the chivalry of “Brian the Brave,” and still downwards to the “slave so lowly” of our own day?
 There is a false poetry which has fastened itself upon the world, because the world has a quick ear for evil. But vice was never intended to be the theme of poetic strains. The beautiful in all things should be the poet’s only theme. The Athenians prohibited the honored names of Harmodius and Aristogiton from being ever given to slaves; those who freed their own country from the tyranny of Hippias and Hipparchus should never have their names profanely associated with slavery. Why desecrate the sacred name of poetry by [40] conferring it npon the daring indecencies of the profligate? Or disgrace the Muses by associating them with vice?
 Moore’s melodies are said to have assisted powerfully in achieving Catholic Emancipation, by creating a sympathy for the wrongs of Ireland wherever they penetrated. Let us hope that our labors may have an effect in a similar direction — that they may create a more charitable feeling towards Ireland by inducing the English public to study the history of a country which they have hitherto strangely and unaccountably neglected. If we have added a new charm to Ireland’s beautiful scenery — if we have excited curiosity regarding her legends and her traditions — if we have excited sympathy for her sufferings, or charity for her shortcomings — if we have paved the way to kindlier feeling between the people of both countries, or dispelled from the English mind a single prejudice against Ireland — if we have effected any of these objects, our labors have not been all in vain.