THE EMIGRANT-SHIP.

75

of the subordinate parts, might have passed for a representation of a Calabrian bandit. Wilkie was appointed Painter to the King, by George IV., and was continued in this post by William IV., and by her present majesty, Queen Victoria; from whom he received the additional honour of knighthood. He painted portraits of his royal patrons; and two Court pictures-" George IV. received by the Nobles and People of Scotland at Holyrood House," and "Queen Victoria's First Council."

In the autumn of 1840, Sir David Wilkie set out rather suddenly on an Eastern tour. He visited Germany, Turkey, Palestine, and Egypt; he painted a portrait of the young sultan in Constantinople, and made some progress with that of Mohammed Ali, in Egypt. His great object, however, was to qualify himself, by actual acquaintance with the scenery and climate of the Holy Land, for the production of Scripture pieces. While returning home, he was suddenly seized by mortal illness, and died on board the packet, June 1st, 1841. As the authorities of Malta deemed it prudent to refuse permission for the landing of the body, it was committed to the deep, the funeral service having been read by a clergyman who was among the passengers.

Men of all political parties combined to pay their tribute of respect to the memory of Sir David Wilkie. The Right Hon. Sir Robert Peel, who had been his munificent patron and firm friend, presided at a meeting, in which it was resolved that a public monument should be erected to his memory, by subscription: and although the meeting was held on the very day when the administration, of which he formed a part, vacated office to make room for the cabinet of his rival, Lord John Russell moved one of the resolutions.

The personal history of SIR DAVID WILKIE, with the public respect paid to his memory, is peculiarly calculated to encourage aspirants after professional excellence; since it can scarcely fail to suggest to them the animating truth, that in this free country, talent and industry are the passports to wealth and fame.

"

A flight of Swallows passed us to-day; some one said, 'If those birds had but sense to take news of us home, they'd be the welcome birds in Connaught, this day!' I stood and watched them out of sight, and God knows my heart went with them."-Extract from the Letter of an Irish Emigrant.

BY LADY DUFFERIN.

Он, happy, happy Swallows! The Spring is come again,

And ye are bound for Summer homes beyond this weary main!
Fly on fly on! your summer nests, our roofs may shelter still,
But the poor turf-fire is out at last; our hearths are black and chill!

"A hundred thousand welcomes."-ERSE.

There is no life; there is no sound; the old man sits no more
Within the shadow of the thatch, beside the cottage door;
The child has ceased its playing, in the shallow brook close by;
No kindly smoke is climbing the gray and empty sky;

Few eyes shall watch your coming; few and sad our friends remain;
But the "hundred thousand welcomes," shall be said to you again;

For us alone, (poor exiles!) those words of kindly cheer,
Shall fall no more, in Irish tongue, upon the longing ear!
None wait for us; none welcome us; beyond the moaning wave;
Small space to labour in and die-is all the exiles crave!
But tell our friends in Ireland, that we talk of them by day,
And we dream of them the livelong night, and waken up to pray;
And in sleep we feel the pressure, of the eager, trembling hand,
And we hear the fervent accents, of that cordial-spoken land;
And we'll teach them to our children,-e'en on that alien shore,
Where the "hundred thousand welcomes," shall be said to us no more!

Oh, blessed words! the very sound takes back the heart again,
Like a glad bird,—a thousand miles across this dreary main!
We hear no more the plashing wave, beneath our vessel's prow;
The dear green fields lie round us, (which others labour now!)
The sunny slopes, the little paths, that wind from door to door,
So worn by friendly steps, which ne'er shall tread those pathways more!
Dear faces, gather'd round the hearths; dear voices in our ear;
And neighbour-hands that press our own, and spread their simple cheer;
The scanty meal, so hardly earn'd, yet shared with such good will;
And the "hundred thousand welcomes," that made it sweeter still!

Is the cabin still left standing? had the rich man need of all?
Is the children's birth-place taken now, within the new park wall?
And the little field, that was to us such source of hopes and fears,
An unregarded harvest, to the rich man's barn it bears!

Oh, could he know how much to us, that little field has been;
What heart-warm prayers have hallow'd it; what dismal fears between ;
What hopeless toil hath groan'd to God, from that poor plot of ground,
Which held our all of painful life, within its narrow bound;
"Twould seem no common earth to him, and he'd grieve, amidst his store,
That the "hundred thousand welcomes," can be said to us no more!

But tell our friends in Ireland, that, in our distant home,

We'll think of them, at that glad time, when back the swallows come;