iently
modest on the subject of his own poetical merits, he took delight in
singing his own songs. Interested in the history of the Middle Ages, he
had designed to publish an "Account of Ancient Chivalry." Latterly, his
views were more concentrated on the subject of religion. Shortly before
his death, he composed a "Discourse on the Sufferings of Christ," the
proof-sheets of which he corrected on his deathbed. As a poet, with more
advanced years, he would have obtained a distinguished place. With
occasional defects, the poem of "Vallery" is possessed of much boldness
of imagery, and force and elegance of expression.

FOOTNOTES:

[24] Captain Doyne Sillery was born in Drogheda, Ireland, of which place
his father was mayor during the Rebellion of 1798, and where he
possessed considerable property. He was descended from one of the most
ancient and illustrious families in France, of which the representative
took refuge in England during the infamous persecution of the
Protestants in the sixteenth century. On the reduction of priestly power
in Ireland by Cromwell, the family settled in that portion of the United
Kingdom. The family name was originally Brulart. Nicolas Brulart,
Marquis de Sillery, Lord de Pinsieux, de Marinis, and de Berny, acquired
much reputation from the many commissions in which he served in France.
(See "L'Histoire Genealogique et Chronologique des Chanceliers de
France," tom. vi. p. 524). On the maternal side Captain Sillery was
lineally descended from Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, the famous
chancellor.

SHE DIED IN BEAUTY.

She died in beauty! like a rose
Blown from its parent stem;
She died in beauty! like a pearl
Dropp'd from some diadem.

She died in beauty! like a lay
Along a moonlit lake;
She died in beauty! like the song
Of birds amid the brake.

She died in beauty! like the snow
On flowers dissolved away;
She died in beauty! like a star
Lost on the brow of day.

She _lives_ in glory! like night's gems
Set round the silver moon;
She lives in glory! like the sun
Amid the blue of June!

THE SCOTTISH BLUE BELLS.

Let the proud Indian boast of his jessamine bowers,
His pastures of perfume, and rose-cover'd dells;
While humbly I sing of those wild little flowers--
The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.

Wave, wave your dark plumes, ye proud sons o