Mulhern Donation 
 

jReto 3Irisfr 
 
 THE 
 
 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
THE NEW IRISH LIBRARY. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 Sir CHARLES GAYAN DUFFY, K.C.M.G. 
 
 ASSISTANT EDITORS : 
 
 DOUGLAS HYDE, U.D., 
 
 National Literary Society, 
 
 4 College Green, 
 
 DUBLIN. 
 
 T. W. ROLLESTON, 
 
 Irish Literary Society, 
 
 Bloomsbury Mansion, Hart St., 
 
 LONDON. 
 
THE 
 
 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION; 
 
 OR, ; 
 
 BALLADS AND SONGS BY THE 
 WRITERS OF -THE NATION." 
 
 CONTAINING SONGS AND BALLADS PUBLISHED SINCE 1845. 
 EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION, 
 
 BY 
 
 MARTIN MACDERMOTT. 
 
 ILaiVDon 
 T. FISHER UNWIN 
 
 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 
 ub I in 
 
 SEALY, BRYERS & WALKER 
 
 MIDDLE ABBEY STREET 
 
 Jfarlt 
 
 P. J. KENEDY 
 BARCLAY STREET 
 
 MDCCCXCIV 
 
THE 
 
 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 O many years have gone over a full 
 half century since the first edition of 
 " The Spirit of the Nation " was pub- 
 lished, that it may well be asked, how 
 a " New Spirit" can be evolved now, 
 from what source it can be drawn, and 
 why in any case such a collection should 
 be published at the present time ? Answers to all such 
 enquiries the editor will endeavour to supply in the 
 following Introduction. 
 
 The Nation newspaper, which was the fountain and 
 origin of "The Spirit of the Nation," made its first 
 appearance in the world on the I5th of October, 1842. 
 The original poems appearing in its pages, which from 
 the first arrested attention by reason of their striking 
 literary merit, had won such favour and aroused such 
 enthusiasmpolitical as well as poetical that it was 
 deemed advisable to issue in book form a collection of 
 
 782570 
 
vi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 them, which accordingly came out so early as May, 1843. 
 The little book met with an immediate and an immense 
 success ; and it continued to appear in successive editions 
 (and additions) until the 1st of January, 1845, when it 
 arrived at its maturity in the form of a handsome quarto 
 volume ; many of the songs being set to ancient or 
 original music, and the whole enclosed in a very beautiful 
 cover, designed by a notable Irish artist, whose name 
 I am not at liberty to disclose. 
 
 This is the " Spirit of the Nation," as it has been 
 known from that day to this the wade mecum of Irish 
 patriotism which has gone the round of the world; 
 whose kindling thoughts and musical words have been 
 a cherished possession in Irish homes, not only within 
 the four seas of Ireland, but on every distant shore to 
 which inexorable fate has driven her exiles. Still, taken 
 as representing the whole volume of song produced by 
 the writers of the Nation, it is clearly inadequate. In the 
 first place the verses it contains do not go beyond the end 
 of the year 1845, although, for many years after that date, 
 the stream of poetry continued to flow plenteously from 
 the fountain-head. If it be asked why there was so 
 sudden a cessation in the work of collection, the answer 
 is not far to seek. It is, that in the autumn of that year, 
 1845, an event occurred which so overwhelmed the editor 
 of the Nation^ at first with grief, and afterwards with 
 new cares and duties, that he had no longer leisure left 
 for devoting himself to the task of completing the collection. 
 That event was the death of Thomas Davis ; in fact, the 
 history of the Nation newspaper may be divided into 
 three well-defined periods of which the one terminating 
 with Davis's death is the first; the next extending to the 
 catastrophe of '48, when the presses of the Nation were 
 broken up by order of the English government ; and the 
 last between '49 and '55, at which latter date the founder 
 and editor of the great Irish journal closed his stormy and 
 illustrious editorial career, and bade adieu to Ireland. 
 
 Now, only the verses belonging to the first of these three 
 periods having found a place in "The Spirit of the 
 Nation, 3 ' as hitherto published, it has been thought well 
 
INTRODUCTION. Vll 
 
 while there still remain some relics of our ancient con- 
 federacy of song, while, above all, its founder is still 
 amongst us with guidance and enthusiasm, as in the old 
 days, to gather together into a "NEW SPIRIT OF THE 
 NATION," not only so much of the old as may still be 
 considered in the land of the living, but also the most 
 popular part of the poetical literature produced by the 
 Nation in the second and third periods to which I have 
 referred. In this way, it is hoped, something like an 
 adequate representation may be bequeathed to future 
 generations of the part taken by *' Young Ireland " in 
 the great work, still to be completed, of building up a 
 National Literature. Fully to carry out this purpose, two 
 volumes will be required ; of which this, the first, is 
 devoted to the poetry published in the Nation after the 
 death of Davis. In due course a second volume will be 
 issued, should the favour of readers warrant it, con- 
 taining all the more popular poems which have appeared 
 in the old " Spirit of the Nation," along with others, 
 from the same source originally, but which have found 
 their way into publications to which they do not so 
 rightfully belong.* When this purpose has been fully 
 achieved, and something like a complete collection made 
 of the best of the poetical contributions from writers of 
 the Nation to the national stock, it will be found, I 
 think, that Young Ireland, as a political party of 
 which the Nation newspaper was the accredited re- 
 presentative has furnished a larger quota of literary 
 effort, especially in the region of song, and has wielded 
 a wider and deeper influence in that way contempor- 
 aneously and subsequently than any other political 
 organization which our country has seen. Is this claiming 
 too much ? Let the reader recall what the last century 
 has left us in this kind of poetical literature. The days of 
 
 *E.g. MacCarthy's "Book of Irish Ballads," Edward Hayes's 
 " Ballads of Ireland," Connolly's " Household Library of 
 Ireland" (New York); with a host of other compilations 
 English, Irish, Scotch, American and Australian, down to the 
 present day. 
 
Vlll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Grattan, with so splendid a record for eloquence and 
 patriotism, had not many poets to sing them ; a few songs, 
 and these not of the first order, are all that survive.* Of 
 the men of '98 also it may be said that their courage and 
 patriotism were great, but their lyrists far from numerous. 
 After the Union came Moore ; but Moore's "Melodies* 
 have been well described by Duffy as " the wail of a lost 
 cause." The poet has relinquished in them the very 
 accent of freedom, besides being, so far as words and 
 style go, more English than the English themselves. For 
 these reasons, and others which cannot be discussed here, 
 Moore never did, and never could, reach the heart of 
 the Gaelic people. t Neither was the long tribunate of 
 O'Connell prolific in poetry. He himself, except un- 
 consciously, was no poet. During his thirty years of 
 splendid labour for Ireland, it is true, he stirred the 
 nation to its depths. He drove his oratorical plough- 
 share deep into the national soil in every direction, 
 turning it over, furrowing it but sowing no seeds. 
 It was reserved for the Young Irelanders the men of 
 ideas, the men of convictions, the men of purpose- - 
 to sow broadcast in fields that had long lain fallow. 
 They were the sowers who found the good ground, 
 which has brought forth fruit to them some thirty, some 
 sixty, some a hundred fold. 
 Of the influence exerted over the Irish people by the 
 
 * Drennan's and Curran's chiefly. 
 
 t Moore, however, by his songs, conferred one inestimable 
 service on Ireland, by breaking through the barrier of prejudice 
 and distrust which had divided the two nations. As there are 
 missionary priests who have to acquire the language of the 
 people to whom the truth is to be preached, so there are missi- 
 onary poets and orators. Moore was a missionary poet ; Burke 
 (so far as his labours for Ireland extended), a missionary orator. 
 But what the almost inspired eloquence and wisdom of Burke 
 failed to accomplish, Moore with his bright wit, charming 
 poetry and enchanting music easily effected. His instrument 
 was not the harp, whose strings he is so fond of invoking, but 
 the piano of the great Whig salons. Like St. Patrick, he 
 sang his listeners into conversion. ED. 
 
INTRODUCTION. IX 
 
 songs and ballads of the Nation, it is too late in the day 
 now to raise a question ; the/^/ of that influence is patent, 
 and has been acknowledged everywhere. Davis, Duffy 
 and the rest may have lacked some of the literary skill, 
 finish, genius even, of Moore ; they may not have reached 
 the standard of aesthetic super-excellence demanded by 
 some of our young critics and poets of the present day ; 
 but they knew their way, at least, straight into the hearts 
 of the people, and they struck a chord there which has 
 been vibrating ever since ; a chord responsive, not to 
 the poetic merits of the verses alone, but to the patriotic 
 spirit which they breathe. For it must be remembered 
 that in the national creed of Young Ireland, poetry was 
 only a means ; the end and purpose of every ballad and 
 song being, to rouse the nation into enthusiasm for Ireland 
 as a Nation, and for the cause of national freedom. There 
 is scarcely a verse in this collection through which this 
 purpose does not shine ; and therefore in claiming for 
 Young Ireland a larger share of poetical inspiration than 
 any other political movement has called forth, I should 
 add that all the strings of the Young Ireland harp have 
 but one burthen and that is love of country. 
 
 As to the reception these verses met with on their first 
 appearance from writers of repute in literary criticism, 
 have we not read the unstinted praise which Lord Jeffrey 
 gave to the " Ballad Poetry of Ireland," and especially to 
 Mangan ; and how Macaulay while deploring, of course, 
 their tendency, was much struck with the energy and 
 beauty of some of the songs in the " Spirit of the Nation ;" 
 how Miss Mitford became enthusiastic over Davis's bal- 
 lads ; and how even the Times awarded to the literary 
 excellence of Duffy's great ballad " The Muster of the 
 North," what its author is fain to consider " extravagant 
 praise."* Nor ought one to omit, in this appreciation, the 
 close attention which the law officers of the Crown in Ire- 
 land bestowed (not gratuitously I am afraid) on the literary 
 
 * Richard Lai or Shiel considered " The Muster of the North " 
 equal to any piece of ballad -poetry he had ever read. 
 
jt INTRODUCTION. 
 
 labours of Young Ireland. In one of the prefaces to the 
 old " Spirit of the Nation," the writer makes the Solicitor- 
 General not only recite some of poems in court, but 
 express his regret that he was not able to sing one of 
 them " The Memory of the Dead "to the jury ! This, 
 of course, may be a playful exaggeration ; but there is no 
 doubt of the pains these learned gentlemen took in follow- 
 ing, from week to week, the poetical literature of the 
 Nation; nor is it without amusement that one sees in 
 the copy of that journal preserved at the British Museum, 
 the identical lines referred to above, duly initialled by the 
 Crown-Solicitor, as an exhibit. 
 
 One beneficent change, which Davis and the leaders of 
 Young Ireland were the means of bringing about by their 
 writings, was so important and so far-reaching in its 
 effects, that I think it ought not to be passed over, even in 
 such a cursory review as the present. Although Dublin, 
 like Edinburgh, has never been without refined and cul- 
 tured literary society, made up mainly of its professional 
 and academic citizens, there has been no period, perhaps, 
 in its history at least during the present century when 
 it stood so high in this respect as during the Forties. I 
 have no space here to do much more than enumerate 
 names ; but any one familiar with the time will recognise, 
 in each name, a celebrity in some department of intel- 
 lectual activity. There was George Petrie great anti- 
 quary, delightful artist, enthusiastic and most learned 
 musician a host in himself; there were the world-famed 
 physicians, Graves and Stokes, as eminent for their 
 personal worth as for their distinguished ability ; there 
 were Dr. Todd and the other Dons of Trinity College : 
 there was John O' Donovan, greatest of Gaelic scholars; 
 there was Samuel Ferguson, who, besides possessing many 
 other high qualifications, was unquestionably the greatest 
 Irish poet of his generation ; there were even one or two 
 stray lords ; and there were a number of other able men 
 whose names I am unable to find room for. Now, all these 
 
 ~ x ~ In Reg. v. O" Council and others, 1844. 
 
INTRODUCTION. XI 
 
 were good Irishmen, after their fashion, and devoted stu- 
 dents of, and believers in, Ireland's greatness in the past ; 
 but very few of them, I believe, if any, had any leaning 
 towards the idea of a nationality for the present time, 
 until the advent of the Nation. After that, I think, there 
 was a great change. I will not assert that everyone of 
 these distinguished men was won over completely to the 
 national idea, though some of the most eminent were 
 Petrie,* Ferguson, Stokes, O'Donovan, certainly and all 
 were leavened with the more generous spirit of the new 
 teaching. Considering the intellectual calibre of these 
 men, and the influence that spread from each of them 
 as a centre, I believe that the Nation never did a greater 
 service to Ireland than in leading them away from the 
 narrow circle of intolerance in which they had been bred. 
 Nor must it be forgotten that three, at least, of the 
 eminent men I have mentioned as illustrating the last 
 generation of Irishmen have, or have had, their repre- 
 sentatives in this equally distinguished, and, I believe, 
 equally patriotic. 
 
 As to the enduring pepularity of the " Spirit of the 
 Nation," I need only cite two witnesses, both of them 
 possessed of the widest experience of the popular feeling 
 the late Justice O'Hagan and William O'Brien, M.P. The 
 former, who may indeed be regarded as no inconsider- 
 able a contributor to the success he records, writes :t 
 
 * In a letter written by Petrie to his friend, Lord Adare, 
 there is the following passage showing at least how habitually he 
 turned for solace to the pages of the "Nation. It was written on 
 the day after signing the last proof of his monumental work on 
 the Round Towers. " Yesterday was a memorable day in my 
 life, and yet I never felt more calm and reconciled than I did 
 during the whole of it. About five o'clock the turmoil was over, 
 no proofs coming in, or to come, the house empty of scribes and 
 tranquil ; dined and sat down to read the Nation at the drawing- 
 room fire with my glass of punch beside me." Stokes' " Life of 
 Petrie." 
 
 f In an article contributed to the Freeman's Journal on Sir 
 Charles Ciavan Duffy's "Young Ireland." 
 
Xll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " When he " (Mr. Cowan, then member for Newcastle) 
 " said that '48 had been not a failure, but a success, he 
 spoke a truth of which ample evidence exists in the fact 
 that the prose and poetry, the names and history, of that 
 time are known and cherished by the people of Ireland to 
 the exclusion oj all other literature and history" And the 
 latter : * "As surely as you will find in the heart of every 
 Irish maiden a love message, so surely, deep down in the 
 heart of every young Irishman, you will find the ' Spirit 
 of the Nation."' Remember too that this opinion was re- 
 corded forty-five years after the first appearance of the 
 book to which it refers. 
 
 Perhaps, however, no better proof can be had of the 
 vitality of any literary work, be it ballad or book, than 
 the continued call for its republication, decade after 
 decade. Judged by this test, what volume published 
 within the last fifty years comes out better than our dear 
 old " Spirit of the Nation " ? Not only have its green 
 leaves appeared every year as regularly as those of 
 Spring, but they have out-rivalled the record of those un- 
 failing visitors. For, this very year (1893) being the 
 jubilee year of the book, its editions, I believe, already 
 number some fifty-four ; while the copies circulating in 
 the greater Ireland beyond the Atlantic and Pacific, far 
 exceed even this total. 
 
 Such being the state of the case, does it not behove us, 
 I would ask, to requite this singular amount of public 
 favour by making the book, if we can, even worthier of 
 acceptance at the hands of the readers of the present 
 generation ? an object which, it is considered, cannot be 
 better attained than by gathering together in the same 
 volume all that the old " Spirit of the Nation " holds of a 
 permanent value ; while enriching it with the verses, 
 hitherto uncollected, which are known to have received 
 the stamp of national approval. Which, briefly, I may be 
 allowed to repeat, is the aim and purpose of " THE NEW 
 SPIRIT OF THE NATION." 
 
 * In his novel, "When we were Boys." 
 
INTRODUCTION. xiii 
 
 And now, let me add a few words concerning the writers, 
 or some of them, to whom the following pages owe their 
 value. 
 
 Omitting for the present the names belonging to the 
 former " Spirit" nearly all of which I think reappear 
 here ; the first on our muster-roll, the laureate of the later 
 contingent as Davis was of the earlier, is Thomas D'Arcy 
 McGee. McGee was born in 1825, and had not yet 
 reached his twentieth year when he returned from his first 
 visit to America, just before Davis's death, to accept an 
 appointment on the staff of the Freeman's Journal, from 
 which, however, he speedily passed to the Nation. But 
 young as he was, he had already become known as 
 speaker, lecturer, and newspaper-writer in the United 
 States. In fact, some of his earliest utterances there 
 received contemporary praise from so excellent a judge as 
 O'Connell ; just as his last speech, spoken on the very night 
 he was murdered, won unqualified commendation from 
 Mr. Gladstone. McGee had been an early contributor to 
 the poetry of the Nation. A ballad of his, "The Battle 
 of Leitrim," which appeared early in 1843, seems to me to 
 have caught already the antique Ossianic spirit which 
 distinguishes, in so marked a degree, many of his later 
 poems.* As a rule, however, his early contributions are 
 far from being his best. His name does not figure at all 
 amongst the contributors to " The Spirit of the Nation." 
 It was only after 1848, and when he had left Ireland for 
 ever, that McGee found the full measure of his power as a 
 poet. Perhaps the most striking fact in connection with 
 the story of McGee's poetry is this, that the more his 
 exile was prolonged, the more intensely Irish became his 
 verse .t Even the change which unhappily came over his 
 
 * E.g. : "Their giant forms shone in the flood 
 Like mighty spirits long departed ; 
 For they were strong, and warm of blood, 
 
 Swift as the elk, and lion-hearted ! " 
 
 t It should be mentioned that some of the poems by Thomas 
 D'Arcy McGee in this collection were originally published in the 
 New York Nation. This was merely the Nation under another 
 form. 
 
Xiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 political opinions during his later years appears not to 
 have abated, but rather increased, his love for what was 
 native and Irish. At the time when his voice was loud in 
 the parliament of his adopted country in favour of Im- 
 perialism, when his pen, in the " History of Ireland," could 
 find excuses for Pitt, and scarce an execration even for 
 Castlereagh ; the poet still yearned with love and longing 
 towards the distant island of his birth. To use his own 
 words : u Its hills still surrounded his heart like a wall, 
 and its paths were all winding through his brain." The 
 glory of Keltic Erin, the ancient skill of her builders, the 
 piety of her saints, the erudition of her priests, the zeal 
 and patience of the old u Four Masters," all these form 
 subjects for sympathetic record, in words laden with the 
 gravity and sweetness of the Past. It is this archaic note 
 which he has caught as truly, I think, even as Ferguson 
 and more so than Clarence Mangan, which distinguishes 
 him among the poets of Young Ireland. One ought not 
 to forget, either, that as one great Irishman after another 
 was laid in his grave John O'Donovan, Eugene O'Curry, 
 Richard D' Alton Williams, William Smith O'Brien it was 
 McGee who gave a voice to their country's lamentation in 
 verses worthy of their fame. How pathetic, too, are some 
 of his own personal questionings and avowals : " Am I 
 remembered in Erin ? " " The land I adore ." 
 
 " I'd rather turn one simple verse 
 
 True to the Gaelic ear, 
 Than Sapphic odes I might rehearse 
 
 With senates listening near." 
 
 Such faithful evidence of McGee's persistent love of 
 country will be surely remembered long after his political 
 aberrations are forgotten ; while the sudden and tragic 
 close of a career, so freighted with labour and so illustrious, 
 must ever arouse the abhorrence and the pity of every 
 right thinking Irishman. , 
 
 McGee's countenance was not pleasing, from its de- 
 
INTRODUCTION. XV 
 
 cided African cast and woolly hair, characteristics as 
 strongly marked in him as in the Alexandre Dumas, 
 pere et fils. This negro race-mark, in Irishmen, I have 
 noticed in two or three other instances ; and I can only 
 attribute it to a probable descent from one of those faithful 
 countrymen of ours whom Cromwell and his son Henry 
 sent as slaves to the West Indies, and who may be pre- 
 sumed to have married women of African blood. Though 
 McGee's face was somewhat heavy and unpleasing in 
 repose, it lit up wonderfully under excitement ; and as he 
 was tall, of a fine presence, and perfect invoice and delivery, 
 his oratory was most impressive. Taking him all round, 
 McGee was far and away the finest speaker of the party 
 superior even to Meagher, who required time and labour 
 for his addresses whereas McGee's gift was spontaneous 
 and always at his command. He was murdered at 
 Ottawa, about midnight, on April yth, 1868, having been 
 shot through the head, from behind, as he was leaning 
 down to put the latch-key in the door of his lodgings. He 
 was murdered by a miscreant of his own nation. 
 
 Clarence Mangan I give him the name by which he 
 is best known, although his baptismal name was James and 
 '* Clarence " assumed belongs to an earlier period than 
 most of the other writers in the Nation. Duffy, who 
 reverenced Mangan's genius and had known the man and 
 loved him in spite of his failings years before the Nation 
 came to be founded, naturally sought the assistance of his 
 brilliant pen for the new journal. Accordingly the 
 poetical address to its readers which ushered in the first 
 number was from him. It has all his dash, brilliancy, 
 marvellous power of diction, and easy flow of numbers ; 
 but it is little more than an annonce, and contains much 
 more chaff than solid grain. It was Duffy himself in his 
 " Fagh a Beallach " who struck the first serious note of 
 the new minstrelsy in the third number of the paper, to 
 be followed after a brief interval by Davis' s " Lament for 
 Owen Roe" and O'Hagan's " Ourselves Alone." Beyond 
 " The Natioris First Number 5J there occurs only one 
 piece by Mangan which is not written in the same light 
 
XVI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 spirit of raillery until after Davis's death.* Nor was it 
 until 1846 that Mangan put forth all his power in the great 
 sweeping odes which he calls t( The Warning Voice " 
 and " The Peal of Another Trumpet." In these he 
 appears almost more of a prophet than a poet. In fact, 
 Mangan seems to have realised more than any of the 
 poets of that day the dark significance of the crisis then 
 impending over the country. Famine, Fever, Pestilence, 
 and Death cast their shadows over his verse, endowing it 
 with a dread solemnity. Perhaps he may have felt a 
 foreboding that he himself was doomed to go down in the 
 general cataclysm. 
 
 Another class of subjects which Mangan largely con- 
 tributed to the Nation at this time specimens of which 
 may be found in this collection are translations from the 
 Irish generally of the i6th or I7th centuries, but some- 
 times of a remoter date, like that wonderful rendering of 
 The Hymn of St- Patrick, in which, contrary to his wont, 
 he has reproduced almost word for word the ancient text, 
 but with such a mastery of rhyme and rhythm that the new 
 work appears as perfect as the old. It is said of Mangan 
 that he did not understand the ancient language, and that 
 these translations fine and spirited and faithful as some 
 
 * It was in Petrie's Dublin Penny Journal (1832-3) and Irish 
 Penny fournal (1840) that Mangan published, under the 
 pseudonym of " Clarence," most of the pieces which made his 
 early reputation. The " New V ear's Night of a Miserable 
 Man," a noble poetical rendering of Jean Paul's prose, and 
 "The One Mystery " (original) appeared in the former of these 
 publications. The great *' Lament for the Tyrone Princes," 
 " The Woman of Three Cows," " Kincora," in the latter. Petrie, 
 O'Donovan, Curry, Aubrey de Vere (the elder), Carleton, Fer- 
 guson, Anster all contributed to these volumes, which Southey 
 considered amongst the most valuable in his library. The illus- 
 trations (devoted exclusively to Irish subjects) are also of great 
 merit. No. 14 of the I. P. J. contains a sketch of " Paddy 
 Coneely," the blind Gal way piper, by Frederick Burton, with a 
 notice of him by Petrie, both inimitably well done. Gleanings 
 from these journals would form an admirable book. 
 
INTRODUCTION. XV11 
 
 of them are were made from word for word renderings 
 supplied to him by such Gaelic scholars as O'Donovan, 
 O'Curry, or his friend Daly, the printer, of Anglesey Street. 
 Yet it is hard to believe that, scholar and linguist as 
 Mangan was, he could have passed ten years of his life in 
 daily and intimate social intercourse with such masters of 
 Irish learning as O'Donovan, O'Curry, and Wakeman* 
 without picking up (malgre lui) a sufficient knowledge of 
 a language not very difficult to acquire. Be this as it may, 
 however acquired, his translations from the Irish have a 
 weird and unmodern stamp peculiarly their own. . . . All 
 students of Irish literature have been made familiar with 
 the sad life-history of Mangan. What he might have 
 accomplished had he been other than he was it seems a 
 vain thing to inquire. The wonder must always be 
 given the facts of his life that he has been able to leave 
 to us so much beautiful work, for the facts of his life are 
 tragic beyond all written tragedy. The contrast between 
 a splendid and cultivated genius and a life spent in 
 utter squalidness and misery must always be terrible ; 
 and this contrast, heightened and rendered more pitiful 
 by his periodical indulgence in excesses, is furnished 
 by at least a part of our poor Mangan's life. The 
 wonderful thing is that in spite of everything he retained 
 to the last not only his splendid play of fancy, not 
 only the marvellous power which he possessed over his 
 thoughts and language, but also a singular piety, sim- 
 plicity, and purity of feeling. The finest of his poems 
 were contributed to the Nation at a time when he 
 and his brother (co-partners in misery though not in 
 genius) were spending their time in migrations from one 
 wretched garret to another, with scarce a rush-light to 
 read by at night, a bed to lie on, or a blanket to cover 
 them.t Not that Mangan was without friends ever ready 
 
 * In the office of the Archaeological Department of the Ord- 
 nance Survey of Ireland. 
 
 t This statement, which is made on the authority of Father 
 Meehan, is perhaps too general in its terms. It may have re- 
 ferred only to the last year or two of Mangan's life. Sir Gavan 
 
 J3 
 
XV111 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 to lend him a helping hand, but of what avail was this to 
 a man who spent all he got in drink ? This vice, however, 
 was really the only one to which he was addicted. When 
 released from his besettiug sin, as sometimes for long 
 intervals he was wont to be, there was no more gentle, 
 compassionate, tender, or pious soul than Clarence 
 Mangan. He was forty- six when the end came to him, in 
 one of the wards of the Meath Hospital in Dublin, of the 
 after effects of an attack of cholera the famine epidemic.* 
 . . . Once only I met him, and then but for a few 
 minutes. He appeared to me just as he is described by 
 Mitchel and Father Meehan, except that one peculiarity 
 which struck me greatly appears to have escaped their 
 notice the intense blue of his eyes, which were of a 
 deep ultra-marine, like the waters of Lake Leman. I 
 have only seen in one other countenance eyes of the 
 same brilliancy and depth of colour. The effect was 
 startling in a face otherwise so wan. 
 
 A new and distinctive feature of the Nation minstrelsy 
 after 1845 was tne presence for the first time of a band 
 of women poets. The first to lead this choir was young 
 Ellen Downing, the Cork girl known as " Mary of the 
 Nation." Only 17 when her first contribution appeared t 
 (which, sooth to say, did not give very much promise), it 
 was only a little after Davis's death that her real power 
 became apparent. Ellen Downing* s poetical existence 
 at least politically lasted but three years in all, yet some 
 of her verses will always be sure of a place in every col- 
 lection of Irish song. They possess a simple charm of 
 directness, of candour which is indescribably winning 
 and entirely their own. One notices, too, a vein of strong 
 sense running through them, like a vein of iron, which, 
 
 Duffy considers it as being greatly exaggerated. He says : " I 
 have visited Mangan in his lodgings, which were poor, but not 
 squalid. I never saw him affected by drink. Opium was 
 supposed to be his temptation." 
 
 * On the 20th of June, 1849. 
 
 f In May, 1845. 
 
INTRODUCTION. XIX 
 
 combined with their tenderness and humour, is essentially 
 the mark of an Irishwoman.* 
 
 " Mary" was a Munster girl one of our own a child 
 of the clans as it were ; but the next poetess whose 
 voice was raised on our side came from what might 
 be called the enemy's camp. A young lady of fashion, 
 daughter of a dignitary of the Irish Church Miss Jane 
 Francesca Elgee could scarcely have been taught to 
 regard with sympathy the native poor people whom she 
 saw suffering around her, or the men who had embraced 
 their cause. But, in the end, no voice that was raised in 
 the cause of the poor and the oppressed, none that de- 
 nounced political wrong-doing in Ireland, was more 
 eagerly listened to than that of the graceful and accom- 
 plished woman known in literature as " Speranza " and in 
 society as Lady Wilde, 
 
 When the presses of the Nation were broken up by the 
 Government in 1848 the last article that came from their 
 type and the most defiant " Jacta Alea Est" was from 
 the pen of " Speranza." Her poems are characterized by 
 a certain epic or scriptural largeness of utterance a 
 sweeping and overmastering melody and a strain of 
 majestic thought. Womanlike, she has a heart " open as 
 day to melting charity." The sights and scenes of the 
 famine year appear to have gone through her with the 
 sharpness of a sword. But, in speaking of them, her tone 
 is so high that one is reminded of what Fuseli said of 
 Michael Angelo "A beggar rose from his hands the 
 patriarch of 'poverty '."t 
 
 * Ellen Downing was also a most charming correspondent. 
 A number of her letters, addressed to the editor of the Nation, 
 have been placed in the hands of the present editor for publica- 
 tion. Along with her poems I think they would form a most 
 attractive volume, which, I hope, may be deemed worthy of a 
 place in the new *' Irish Library." 
 
 f As an illustration of Speranza's grand manner, the follow- 
 
XX INTRODUCTION. 
 
 There were other fair Irish girls who sang, and sang 
 well as may be seen from examples given in this volume 
 in the Nation choir, but none, I think, with the sway 
 and penetrating influence of these two. 
 
 Another name, it occurs to me, ought not to be forgotten 
 here that of William James Linton the eager English 
 Chartist of those days, the admirable artist and engraver, 
 who, under the pseudonym of " Spartacus," enriched the 
 pages of the Nation with many very striking poems. His 
 name deserves not to be omitted, because he elected to 
 fight as a brother in our ranks at a time when English 
 sympathy for Irish wrongs was far rarer than it is now 
 His poetical pieces, which are very numerous, formed a 
 kind of miniature epic embracing in its cycle nearly every 
 aspect of the Irish trouble, each poem dealing with some 
 one particular phase of it landlord tyranny, the tenant's 
 revenge, famine, eviction, emigration, exile each of these 
 forming the subject of one or many lyrics closing with 
 the prophetic victory of right over wrong, and with a 
 beautiful picture of Ireland as she shall be when happiness 
 and comfort are restored : 
 
 The Happy Land ! 
 
 Studded with cheerful homesteads fair to see 
 With garden grace and household symmetry 
 How grand the wide-browed peasant's lordly mien, 
 The matron's smile serene 
 
 O happy, happy land ! 
 
 Of these excellent poems only very few can be given in 
 this collection ; but, with the title : " Ireland for the 
 Irish: Rhymes and Reasons against Landlordism 3 ': 
 they have been published in New York, where Mr. 
 Linton has long resided, and they are still well worth 
 reading. 
 
 ing, which occurs in some lines on the death of O'Connell, reads 
 like a translation from Dante : 
 
 " Seeking the gates of God's great Church on earth, 
 He found the gates of Heaven, and entered in." 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 XXI 
 
 Here, then, the editor may pause. He hopes to have a 
 few further words to address to the reader when Part II. 
 is called for. 
 
 MARTIN MACDERMOTT. 
 
THE NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 LIST OF POEMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 i THE KELTS 
 
 4 ARGAN MC?R 
 
 5 THE ANCIENT RACE 
 
 8 GLENGARIFF 
 
 9 GLENGARIFF ADRIGOOLE 
 
 10 BRIGHT FARIES BY GLEN- 
 
 GARIFF'S BAY 
 
 11 SWEET SYBIL 
 
 13 DARK ROSALEEN 
 
 16 EDUCATION 
 
 22 GIRL OF THE RED MOUTH 
 
 24 MY OWEN 
 
 25 THE VOICE OF NATURE ... 
 
 26 THE MOUNTAIN FERN ... 
 29 THE EXILE'S DEVOTION 
 
 Thomas D'Arcy Me Get 
 Thomas Davis 
 (Rev.)J. F. Tor my 
 Thomas Davis 
 Thomas Davis 
 
 Thomas Davis 
 Charles Gavan Duffy 
 fames Clarence Mangan 
 John O'Hagan 
 Martin MacDermott 
 Ellen Mary Downing 
 Charles Gavan Duffy 
 Arthur G. Geoghegan 
 Thomas D'Arcy Me Gee 
 
XXIV LIST OF POEMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 31 THE OLD STORY ... John O^Hagan 
 
 35 BLESS THE DEAR OLD 
 
 VERDANT LAND ... Denis Florence Mac Cart ky 
 
 37 DEATH OF O'CAROLAN ... Thomas D^Arcy McGee 
 
 39 OLD LOVE AND NEW . . . fohn 'Hagan 
 
 41 THE COOLUN ... Martin MacDermott 
 
 44 O'DONOVAN'S DAUGHTER Edward Walsh 
 
 46 A GLEN OF GREEN BEAUTY Edward Walsh 
 
 47 A BIRD IN THE DEEP 
 
 VALLEY SINGING ... Edward Walsh 
 
 48 UNPUBLISHED VERSES : 
 
 5 POEMS ... Thomas Davis 
 
 55 THE OLD CHURCH AT 
 
 LISMORE ... Ellen Mary Downing 
 
 58 PROTESTANT ASCENDANCY John O'Hagan 
 
 6 1 TlPPERARY ... Mrs. Varian 
 
 63 EXILES FAR AWAY ... Martin MacDermott 
 
 67 To A FRIEND GOING TO 
 
 EUROPE ... Thomas D'Arcy McGee 
 
 68 SONG OF THE IRISH 
 
 MINSTREL ... Mrs. Kevin O'Doherty 
 
 70 To JESSY ... Richard D* Alton Williams 
 
 72 A BREEZE THROUGH THE 
 
 FOREST ... Richard D* Alton Williams 
 
 76 IN MEMORY OF RICHARD 
 
 D 'ALTON WILLIAMS Thomas D'Arcy McGee 
 
 78 GOD BLESS THE BRAVE ... Thomas D'Arcy McGee 
 
LIST OF POEMS. 
 
 XXV 
 
 PAGE 
 
 80 THE GOOD SHIP CASTLE 
 DOWN 
 
 84 RHYMES FOR THE LAND- 
 LORDED: I., II., III. 
 
 87 COME, LIBERTY, COME ... 
 
 89 MY OWN SWEET RIVER 
 LEE 
 
 91 THE COBBAN SAOR 
 
 93 MY PEERLESS BOY 
 
 95 To DUFFY IN PRISON ... 
 
 98 WAITING FOR THE MAY ... 
 100 THE POET'S EGERIA 
 102 O'CLERY'S PROPHESY 
 104 THE FAMINE YEAR 
 108 " No IRISH NEED APPLY " 
 in THE RETURN 
 113 SHE'S COME! SHE'S COME! 
 115 THE REASON 
 1 1 7 THE VOICE OF THE POOR 
 1 19 WORK WHILE IT IS CALLED 
 
 DAY 
 
 122 WORDS OF FOREWARNING 
 127 THE FOUR MASTERS 
 132 THE DYING BARD 
 
 134 NATIVE HILLS 
 
 135 I LOVE You 
 
 136 HOME THOUGHTS 
 
 James McBurney 
 
 William James Linton 
 Denis Florence MacCarthy 
 
 Ellen Mary Downing 
 Thomas D 'Any Me Gee 
 J. Dejean Frazer 
 Thomas D*Arcy Me Gee 
 Denis Florence MacCarthy 
 Charles Gavan Duffy 
 Thomas D^Arcy McGee 
 Lady Wilde 
 
 Denis Florence MacCarthy 
 Anonymous 
 Anonymous 
 y. Dejean Frazer 
 Speranza (Lady Wilde) 
 
 Lady Wilde 
 fames Clarence Mangan 
 Thomas D'Arcy McGee 
 J. Dejean Frazer 
 Thomas D'Arcy McGee 
 Ellen Mary Downing 
 Thomas D'Arcy McGee 
 
XXVI 
 
 LIST OF POEMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 138 MAURYE NANGLE 
 141 MUSINGS AT SEA 
 
 145 EVENING THOUGHTS IN 
 EXILE 
 
 147 AMERICA'S INVITATION ... 
 
 148 VERSICLES 
 
 149 O ! THAT MY VOICE 
 
 COULD WAKEN 
 
 1 5 1 SALUTATION TO THE KELTS 
 
 153 PINING FOR THE DAWN ... 
 
 155 THE DEAD ANTIQUARY, 
 
 O'DONOVAN 
 
 158 NOT FOR ME 
 
 1 60 AM I REMEMBERED IN 
 
 ERIN? 
 
 1 6 1 A PRAYER TO ST. PATRICK 
 
 162 EUGENE O'CURRY 
 
 165 A VERY OLD, OLD, MAN... 
 
 168 SIR BANNERET OF THE 
 
 TRICOLOR 
 
 171 THE GREEN FLAG 
 
 173 OUR PARLIAMENT 
 
 175 PAT AS A LANDLORD 
 
 176 THE IRISH RAPPAREES ... 
 1 80 THE LAST OF OUR BAND... 
 183 APPENDIX : BIOGRAPHICAL 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 J^homas Davis 
 John O'Hagan 
 
 Thomas D'Arcy Me Gee 
 James Clarence Mangan 
 Martin MacDermott 
 
 Edward Walsh 
 Thomas D'Arcy McGee 
 Maurice Richard Leyne 
 
 Thomas D'Arcy McGee 
 Richard D* Alton Williams 
 
 Thomas D'Arcy McGee 
 Mrs. Hope Connolly 
 Thomas D^Arcy McGee 
 Martin MacDermott 
 
 J. Cashel Hoey 
 Mrs. Hope Connolly 
 Thomas Davis 
 Thomas D'Arcy McGee 
 Charles Gavan Duffy 
 Ellen Mary Downing 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 THE KELTS 
 
 LONG, long ago, beyond the misty space 
 
 Of twice a thousand years, 
 In Erin old there dwelt a mighty race 
 
 Taller than Roman spears ; 
 Like oaks and towers, they had a giant grace, 
 
 Were fleet as deers : 
 With winds and waves they made their biding place, 
 
 The Western shepherd seers. 
 
 Their ocean-god was Manaman Mac Lir, 
 
 Whose angry lips 
 In their white foam full often would inter 
 
 Whole fleets of ships : 
 Crom was their day-god, and their thunderer 
 
 Made morning and eclipse : 
 Bride was their queen of song, and unto her 
 
 They pray'd with fire-touch'd lips. 
 
2 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Great were their acts, their passions, and their sports ; 
 
 With clay and stone 
 They piled on strath and shore those mystic forts, 
 
 Not yet undone ; 
 On cairn-crbwn'd hills they held their council courts ; 
 
 While youths atone 
 With gi'ant-dogs, explored the elks' resorts, 
 
 And brought them down. 
 
 Of these was Finn, the father of the bard 
 
 Whose ancient song 
 Over the clamour of all change is heard, 
 
 Sweet-voiced and strong. 
 Finn once o'ertook Granu, the golden hair'd, 
 
 The fleet and young : 
 From her, the lovely, and from him, the feared, 
 
 The primal poet sprung 
 
 Ossianl two thousand years of mist and change 
 
 Surround thy name ; 
 Thy Finnian heroes now no longer range 
 
 The hills of Fame. 
 The very name of Finn and Gael sound strange ; 
 
 Yet thine the same 
 By miscalFd lake and desecrated grange 
 
 Remains, and shall remain ! 
 
 The Druid's altar and the Druid's creed 
 We scarce can trace ; 
 
NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 3 
 
 There is not left an undisputed deed 
 
 Of all your race 
 Save your majestic Song, which hath their speed, 
 
 And strength, and grace : 
 In that sole song they live, and love, and bleed 
 
 It bears them on through space. 
 
 Inspired giant, shall we e'er behold, 
 
 In our own time, 
 One fit to speak your spirit on the wold, 
 
 Or seize your rhyme ? 
 One pupil of the past, as mighty-soul'd 
 
 As in the prime 
 Were the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold 
 
 They of your song sublime ? 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
4 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 ARGAN MOR. 
 
 AIR. Argan Mor, 
 
 THE Danes rush around, around ; 
 
 To the edge of the fosse they bound ; 
 
 Hark ! hark, to their trumpets' sound, 
 
 Bidding them to the war. 
 Hark ! hark to their cruel cry, 
 As they swear our hearts' cores to dry, 
 And their Raven red to dye ; 
 
 Glutting their demon, Thor. 
 
 Leaping the Rath upon, 
 
 Here's the fiery Ceallachan 
 
 He makes the Lochlonnach* wan, 
 
 Lifting his brazen spear ! 
 Ivor, the Dane, is struck down, 
 For the spear broke right through his crown ; 
 Yet worse did the battle frown 
 
 Anlaf is on our rere ! 
 
 See ! see ! the Rath's gates are broke ! 
 And in in, like a cloud of smoke, 
 Burst on the dark Danish folk, 
 
 Charging us everywhere 
 Oh, never was closer fight 
 Than in Argan Mor that night 
 How little do men want light, 
 
 Fighting within their lair. 
 
 * Northmen, 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Then girding about our king, 
 
 On the thick of the foes we spring 
 
 Down down we trample and fling, 
 
 Gallantly though they strive : 
 And never our falchions stood, 
 Till we were all wet with their blood, 
 And none of the pirate brood 
 
 Went from the Rath alive ! 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
 THE ANCIENT RACE. 
 
 [This poem was written at the era of the Irish Tenant League 
 (from 1850-56), when the principles of the land struggle were 
 first defined and formulated.] 
 
 WHAT shall become of the ancient race, 
 The noble Keltic island race ? 
 Like cloud on cloud o'er the azure sky, 
 When winter storms are loud and high, 
 Their dark ships shadow the ocean's face 
 What shall become of the Keltic race ? 
 
 What shall befal the ancient race 
 
 The poor, unfriended, faithful race? 
 
 Where ploughman's song made the hamlet ring, 
 
 The hawk and the owlet flap their wing ; 
 
 The village homes, oh, who can trace 
 
 God of our persecuted race ! 
 
6 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 What shall befal the ancient race? 
 Is treason's stigma on their face ? 
 Be they cowards or traitors? Go 
 Ask the shade of England's foe ; 
 See the gems her crown that grace ; 
 They tell a tale of the ancient race. 
 
 They tell a tale of the ancient race 
 Of matchless deeds in danger's face ; 
 They speak of Britain's glory fed 
 With blood of Kelts, right bravely shed ; 
 Of India's spoil and Frank's disgrace 
 Such tale they tell of the ancient race. 
 
 Then why cast out the ancient race? 
 Grim want dwelt with the ancient race, 
 And hell-born laws, with prison jaws ; 
 And greedy lords, with tiger maws, 
 Have swallowed swallow still apace 
 The limbs and blood of the ancient race. 
 
 Will no one shield the ancient race ? 
 They fly their fathers' burial-place ; 
 The proud lords with the heavy purse, 
 Their fathers' shame their people's curse- 
 Demons in heart, nobles in face 
 They dig a grave for the ancient race ! 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 What shall befal the ancient race. 
 Shall all forsake their dear birth-place, 
 Without one struggle strong to keep 
 The old soil where their fathers sleep ? 
 The dearest land on earth's wide space 
 Why leave it so, O, ancient race ? 
 
 What shall befal the ancient race? 
 Light up one hope for the ancient race ; 
 Oh, priest of God Soggarth Aroon ! 
 Lead but the way, we'll go full soon ; 
 Is there a danger we will not face, 
 To keep old homes for the Irish race? 
 
 They shall not go, the ancient race 
 They must not go, the ancient race ! 
 Come, gallant Kelts, and take your stand 
 And form a league to save the land ; 
 The land of faith, the land of grace, 
 The land of Erin's ancient race ! 
 
 They must not go, the ancient race ! 
 They shall not go, the ancient race ! 
 The cry swells loud from shore to shore, 
 From emerald vale to mountain hoar, 
 From altar high to market-place 
 " THEY SHALL NOT GO, the ancient race ! " 
 
 (REVD.) J. F. TORMY. 
 c 
 
8 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 GLENGARIFF. 
 
 AIR C? Sullivan's March. 
 
 I WANDERED at eve by Glengariff's sweet water, 
 
 Half in the shade, and half in the moon, 
 And thought of the time when the Sacsanach slaughter 
 
 Reddened the night and darkened the noon ; 
 Mo nuar ! mo nuar J mo nuar / * I said 
 When I think, in this valley and sky 
 Where true lovers and poets should sigh 
 Of the time when its chieftain O'Sullivan fled. 
 
 Then my mind went along with O'Sullivan marching 
 
 Over Musk'ry's moors and Ormond's plain, 
 His curachs the waves of the Shannon o'erarching, 
 
 And his pathway mile-marked with the slain ; 
 Mo nuar/ mo nuar! mo nuar! I said 
 Yet 'twas better far from you to go, 
 And to battle with torrent and foe, 
 Than linger as slaves where your sweet waters spread. 
 
 But my fancy burst on, like a clan o'er the border, 
 
 To times that seemed almost at hand, 
 When grasping her banner, old Erin's Lamh Laidir 
 
 Alone shall rule over the rescued land : 
 O baothol O baotho! O baotho!\ I said 
 Be our marching as steady and strong, 
 And freemen our valleys shall throng, 
 When the last of our foemen is vanquished and fled ! 
 * Alas ! t Oh, fine. 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 GLENGARIFF AND ADRIGOOLE. 
 
 How soft is the moon on Glengariff ! 
 
 The rocks seem to melt with the light 
 Oh, would I were there with dear Annie 
 
 To tell her that love is as bright ; 
 And nobly the sun of July 
 
 O'er the waters of Adrigoole shines, 
 Oh, would that I saw the Green Banner 
 
 Wave there over conquering lines ! 
 
 Oh, love is more fair than the moonlight, 
 
 And glory more grand than the sun, 
 And there is no rest for a brave heart 
 
 Till its bride, and its laurels, are won ; 
 But next to the burst of our banner, 
 
 And the smile of dear Annie, I crave 
 The moon on the rocks of Glengariff 
 
 The sun upon Adrigoole's wave. 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
10 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 BRIGHT FAIRIES BY GLENGARIFFS BAY. 
 
 AIR Fanny Power. 
 
 [This song possesses, with the two which precede it, a melan- 
 choly interest, as being amongst the last written by Davis. The 
 subject of the two last given was the lady to whom he was 
 engaged when he died. The true name, which for obvious 
 reasons'was suppressed in the original text is here given Annie 
 not Fanny: Miss Annie Hutton of Dublin. The reader may 
 observe that only the poems of Davis which appeared after his 
 death are printed in this volume. ED.] 
 
 BRIGHT fairies by Glengariff's bay, 
 Soft woods that o'er Killarney sway, 
 Bold echoes born in Ceim-an-eich, 
 
 Your kinsman's greeting hear ! 
 He asks you, by old friendship's name, 
 By all the rights that minstrels claim, 
 For Erin's joy and Desmond's fame, 
 
 Be kind to Annie dear! 
 
 Her eyes are darker than Dunloe, 
 Her soul is whiter than the snow, 
 Her tresses like arbutus flow, 
 
 Her step like frighted deer: 
 Then, still thy waves, capricious lake! 
 And ceaseless, soft winds, round her wake, 
 Yet never bring a cloud to break 
 
 The smile of Annie dear ! 
 
 Oh! let her see the trance-bound men, 
 And kiss the red deer in his den, 
 And spy from out a hazel glen 
 O'Donoghue appear; 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. II 
 
 Or, should she roam by wild Dunbwy, 
 Oh ! send the maiden to her knee, 
 Whilome I sung, but then, ah ! me, 
 I knew not Annie dear ! 
 
 Old Mangerton ! thine eagles plume 
 Dear Innisfallen ! brighter bloom 
 And Mucruss! whisper thro' the gloom 
 
 Quaint legends to her ear : 
 Till strong as ash-tree in its pride, 
 And gay as sunbeam on the tide, 
 We welcome back to Liffey's side, 
 
 Our brightest, Annie dear. 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
 SWEET SYBIL. 
 
 MY Love is as fresh as the morning sky, 
 My Love is as soft as the summer air, 
 My Love is as true as the saints on high, 
 And never was saint so fair! 
 
 Oh glad is my heart, when I name her name, 
 
 For it sounds like a song to me 
 I'll love you, it sings, nor heed their blame, 
 For you love me, Ast6r machree ! 
 
12 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Sweet Sybil ! sweet Sybil ! my heart is wild 
 
 With the fairy spell that her eyes have lit ; 
 I sit in a dream where my Love has smiled, 
 I kiss where her name is writ ! 
 
 Oh, darling, I fly like a dreamy boy, 
 
 The toil that is joy to the strong and true ; 
 The life that the brave for their land employ 
 I squander in dreams of you. 
 
 The face of my Love has the changeful light 
 That gladdens the sparkling sky of spring ; 
 The voice of my Love is a strange delight 
 As when birds in the May-time sing. 
 
 Oh, hope of my heart ! oh, light of my life ! 
 Oh come to me, darling, with peace and rest ! 
 Oh come like the summer, my own sweet wife ! 
 To your home in my longing breast. 
 
 Be blessed the home sweet Sybil will sway 
 
 With the glance of her soft and queenly eyes; 
 Oh, happy the love young Sybil will pay 
 With the breath of her tender sighs ! 
 
 That home is the hope of my waking dreams 
 
 That love fills my eyes with pride 
 There's light in their glance, there's joy in their 
 
 beams, 
 When I think of rny own young bride. 
 
 CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 13 
 
 DARK ROSALEEN. 
 
 [This fine poem is a paraphrase from a Gaelic original, entitled, 
 "Roisin Dubh " (The Black Little Rose), in Hardiman's 
 Collection, supposed to have been written in the reign of 
 Elizabeth by a bard of Hugh O'Donnell the Red, one of the 
 banished earls. The original is much simpler than the trans- 
 lation so called to which it appears to have supplied no more 
 than the motif of. each of the verses.] 
 
 O MY Dark Rosaleen, 
 
 Do not sigh, do not weep ! 
 The priests are on the ocean green, 
 
 They march along the Deep. 
 There's wine . . . from the royal Pope, 
 
 Upon the ocean green ; 
 And Spanish ale shall give you hope, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 My own Rosaleen ! 
 
 Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, 
 Shall give you health, and help, and hope, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen. 
 
 Over hills, and through dales, 
 
 Have I roamed for your sake ; 
 All yesterday I sailed with sails 
 
 On river and on lake. 
 The Erne ... at its highest flood, 
 
 I dashed across unseen, 
 For there was lightning in my blood 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 My own Rosaleen ! 
 
14 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Oh ! there was lightning in my blood, 
 Red lightning lightened through my blood, 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 All day long in unrest, 
 
 To and fro do I move, 
 The very soul within my breast 
 
 Is wasted for you, love ! 
 The heart ... in my bosom faints 
 
 To think of you, my Queen, 
 My life of life, my saint of saints, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 My own Rosaleen ! 
 
 To hear your sweet and sad complaints, 
 My life, my love, my saint of saints, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 Woe and pain, pain and woe, 
 
 Are my lot, night and noon, 
 To see your bright face clouded so, 
 
 Like to the mournful moon. 
 But yet . . . will I rear your throne 
 
 Again in golden sheen ; 
 Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 My own Rosaleen ! 
 'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 
 'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 15 
 
 Over dews, over sands, 
 
 Will I fly, for your weal: 
 Your holy delicate white hands 
 
 Shall girdle me with steel. 
 At home ... in your emerald bowers, 
 
 From morning's dawn till e'en, 
 You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 My fond Rosaleen ! 
 
 You'll think of me through Daylight's hours, 
 My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, 
 
 My dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 I could scale the blue air, 
 
 I could plough the high hills, 
 Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer 
 
 To heal your many ills ! 
 And one . . . beamy smile from you 
 
 Would float like light between 
 My toils and me, my own, my true, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 My fond Rosaleen ! 
 Would give me life and soul anew, 
 A second life, a soul anew, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 Oh ! the Erne shall run red 
 
 With redundance of blood, 
 The earth shall rock beneath our tread, 
 
 And flames wrap hill and wood, 
 
1 6 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 And gun-peal, and slogan cry, 
 
 Wake many a glen serene, 
 Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 My own Rosaleen ! 
 
 The Judgment Hour must first, be nigh, 
 Ere you can fade, ere you can die, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 EDUCATION. 
 
 [" In Scotland what a work have the four-and-twenty letters 
 to show for them elves ! The natural enemies of vice, and folly 
 and slavery ; the great sowers, but the still great weeders of the 
 human soil." -John Philpot Curran.] 
 
 IN that dark time of cruel wrong, when on our country's 
 
 breast, 
 A dreary load, a ruthless code, with wasting terrors 
 
 press'd 
 Our gentry srripp'd of land and clan, sent exiles o'er 
 
 the main, 
 To turn the scales on foreign fields for foreign 
 
 monarch's gain ; 
 Our people trod like vermin down, all fenceless flung 
 
 to sate 
 Extortion, lust, and brutal whim, and rancorous bigot 
 
 hate 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 17 
 
 Our priesthood tracked from cave to hut, like felons 
 chased and lashed, 
 
 And from their ministering hands the lifted chalice 
 dashed 
 
 In that black time of law-wrought crime, of stifling 
 woe and thrall, 
 
 There stood supreme one foul device, one engine 
 worse than all : 
 
 Him whom they wished to keep a slave, they sought 
 to make a brute 
 
 They banned the light of heaven they bade instruc- 
 tion's voice be mute. 
 
 God's second priest the Teacher sent to feed men's 
 
 mind with lore 
 They marked a price upon his head, as on the priest''s 
 
 before. 
 Well we n they knew that never, face to face beneath 
 
 the sky, 
 Could tyranny and knowledge meet, but one of them 
 
 must die : 
 That lettered slaves will link their might until their 
 
 murmurs grow 
 To that imperious thunder-peal which despots quail 
 
 to know ; 
 That men who learn will learn their strength the 
 
 weakness of their lords 
 Till all the bonds that gird them round are snapt like 
 
 Samson's cords, 
 
1 3 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 This well they knew, and called the power of ignorance 
 
 to aid : 
 So might, they deemed, an abject race of soulless serfs 
 
 be made 
 When Irish memories, hopes, and thoughts, were 
 
 withered, branch and stem 
 A race of abject, soulless serfs, to hew and draw for 
 
 them. 
 
 Ah, God is good and nature strong they let not 
 thus decay . 
 
 The seeds that deep in Irish breasts of Irish feeling 
 lay : 
 
 Still sun and rain made emerald green the loveliest 
 fields on earth, 
 
 And gave the type of deathless hope, the little sham- 
 rock, birth ; 
 
 Still faithful to their Holy Church, her direst straits 
 among, 
 
 To one another faithful still, the priests and people 
 clung, 
 
 And Christ was worshipped, and received with trem- 
 bling haste and fear, 
 
 In field and shed, with posted scouts to warn of 
 blood-hounds near ; 
 
 Still, crouching 'neath the sheltering hedge, or 
 stretched on mountain fern, 
 
 The teacher and his pupils met, feloniously to 
 learn ; - 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 1 9 
 
 Still round the peasant's heart of hearts his darling 
 
 music twined, 
 A fount of Irish sobs or smiles in every note 
 
 enshrined. 
 And still beside the smouldering turf were fond 
 
 traditions told 
 Of heavenly saints and princely chiefs the power 
 
 and faith of old. 
 
 Deep lay the seeds, yet rankest weeds sprang mingled 
 
 could they fail ? 
 For what were freedom's blessed worth, if slavery 
 
 wrought not bale ? 
 As thrall, and want and ignorance, still deep and 
 
 deeper grew, 
 What marvel weakness, gloom, and strife fell dark 
 
 amongst us too ; 
 And servile thoughts, that measure not the inborn 
 
 wealth of man 
 And servile cringe, and subterfuge to 'scape our 
 
 master's ban ; 
 And drunkenness our sense of woe a little while to 
 
 steep 
 And aimless feud, and murderous plot oh, one could 
 
 pause and weep ! 
 'Mid all the darkness, faith in Heaven still shone a 
 
 saving ray, 
 And Heaven o'er our redemption watched, and chose 
 
 its own good day. 
 
2O NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Two men were sent us* one for years, with Titan 
 
 strength of soul, 
 To beard our foes, to peal our wrongs, to band us 
 
 and control. 
 
 The other at a latter time, on gentler mission came, 
 To make our noblest glory spring from out our saddest 
 
 shame ! 
 On all our wondrous, upward course hath Heaven its 
 
 finger set, 
 And we but, oh, my countrymen, there's much before 
 
 us yet ! 
 
 How sorrowful the useless powers our glorious Island 
 
 yields 
 Our countless havens desolate, our waste of barren 
 
 fields; 
 The all unused mechanic-might our rushing streams 
 
 afford, 
 The buried treasures of our mines, our sea's unvalued 
 
 hoard ! 
 But, oh, there is one piteous waste, whence all the rest 
 
 have grown 
 One worse neglect, the mind of man left desert and 
 
 unsown. 
 Send KNOWLEDGE forth to scatter wide, and deep to 
 
 cast its seeds, 
 The nurse of energy and hope, of manly thoughts and 
 
 deeds. 
 
 * It need scarcely be said that these two men were O' Council 
 and Father Mathew. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 21 
 
 Let it go forth : right soon will spring those forces in 
 
 its train 
 That vanquish Nature's stubborn strength, that rifle 
 
 earth and main 
 Itself a nobler harvest far than Autumn tints with 
 
 gold, 
 A higher wealth, a surer gain than wave and mine 
 
 enfold. 
 Let it go forth unstained, and purged from Pride's 
 
 unholy leaven, 
 With fearless forehead raised to Man, but humbly 
 
 bent to Heaven ; 
 
 Deep let it sink in Irish hearts the story of their 
 
 isle, 
 And waken thoughts of tenderest love, and burning 
 
 wrath the while ; 
 And press upon us, one by one, the fruits of English 
 
 sway, 
 And blend the wrongs of bygone times with this our 
 
 fight to-day \ 
 And show our Fathers' constancy by truest instinct 
 
 led, 
 To loathe and battle with the power that on their 
 
 substance fed ; 
 And let it place beside our own the world's vast page, 
 
 to tell 
 That never lived the nation yet could rule another 
 
 well. 
 
22 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Thus, thus our cause shall gather strength ; no 
 
 feeling vague and blind, 
 But stamped by passion on the heart, by reason on 
 
 the mind. 
 Let it go forth a mightier foe to England's power 
 
 than all 
 
 The rifles of America the armaments of Gaul ! 
 It shall go forth, and woe to them that bar or thwart 
 
 its way 
 'Tis God's own light all Heavenly bright we care 
 
 not who says nay. 
 
 JOHN O'HAGAN. 
 
 GIRL OF THE RED MOUTH. 
 
 GIRL of the red mouth, 
 
 Love me ! Love me ! 
 Girl of the red mouth, 
 
 Love me ! 
 
 'Tis by its curve, I know, 
 Love fashioneth his bow, 
 And bends it ah, even so ! 
 
 Oh, girl of the red mouth, love me ! 
 
 Girl of the blue eye, 
 
 Love me ! Love me ! 
 Girl of the dew eye, 
 
 Love me ! 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 23 
 
 Worlds hang for lamps on high ; 
 And thought's world lives in thy 
 Lustrous and tender eye 
 
 Oh, girl of the blue eye, love me ! 
 
 Girl of the swan's neck, 
 
 Love me ! Love me ! 
 Girl of the swan's neck, 
 
 Love me ! 
 
 As a marble Greek doth grow 
 To his steed's back of snow, 
 Thy white neck sits thy shoulder so, 
 
 Oh, girl of the swan's neck, love me ! 
 
 Girl of the low voice, 
 
 Love me ! Love me 1 
 Girl of the sweet voice, 
 
 Love me ! 
 
 Like the echo of a bell, 
 Like the bubbling of a well 
 Sweeter ! Love within doth dwell, 
 
 Oh, girl of the low voice, love me ! 
 
 MARTIN MACDERMOTT, 
 
2 4 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 MY OWEN. 
 
 PROUD of you, fond of you, clinging so near to you, 
 Light is my heart now I know I am dear to you ; 
 Glad is my voice now I know it may sing for you 
 All the wild love that is burning within for you ! 
 Tell me once more tell it over and over 
 The tale of that eve which first saw you my lover; 
 Now I need never blush 
 At my heart's hottest gush 
 The wife of my Owen her heart may discover ! 
 
 Proud of you, fond of you, having all right in you, 
 Quitting all else through my love and delight in you, 
 Glad is my heart since 'tis beating so nigh to you, 
 Light is my step for it always may fly to you ! 
 Clasped in your arms, where no sorrow can reach to me, 
 Reading your eyes, till new love they shall teach to me ; 
 Though wild and weak till now, 
 By that blest marriage vow, 
 More than the wisest know, your heart shall preach to me. 
 
 ELLEN MARY DOWNING 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 25 
 
 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 
 
 THE winds they sang in the boughs above, 
 The waves they sang in the stream below; 
 
 They sang to my soul ; and Peace and Love 
 
 In their cadence fell, 
 As cooling winds from the waters blow. 
 
 And I said "the light so strange and fair 
 
 That banished the gloom in my life's dark sky, 
 
 Oh, 'twas not a rocket to burst in glare, 
 
 But an arctic star 
 A light that shall never fade or die." 
 
 "Sweet Sybil," I said, "the summer beam 
 Is type of your spirit so fresh and warm ; 
 
 If fondly in peace it sparkle and gleam, 
 
 Like that light of Heaven 
 Twill burn as bright through the passing storm. 
 
 " For I look in her face like nature's own," 
 (I said) "my love is so young and fair, 
 
 Till the clouds of fear, like the night have flown, 
 
 And my breast is lit 
 With the morning hope that is beaming there. 
 
 "And gather ye stormful clouds," I said, 
 " And waken ye howling winds and roar ; 
 
 I watch where that light of my life is shed 
 
 For the sign that saith 
 My love will Iqve me for evermore ! " 
 
26 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 For the winds they sang in the boughs above 
 And the waves they sang in the stream below 
 
 And my heart so ripe for peace and love, 
 
 Into blossom burst 
 As roses bud in the summer glow ! 
 
 CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN FERN. 
 
 [The author of this poem, who has bequeathed to us many 
 striking and vigorous ballads, was never more happily inspired 
 than here, except perhaps in his quaint and picturesque 
 introduction to "The Monks of Kilcrea," first published in 
 Petrie's Irish Penny Journal. Geoghegan belonged in a double 
 sense to the confraternity of Robert Burns ; but happier in one 
 respect than his illustrious confrere, he had risen to a high position 
 before, at an advanced age, he retired from the service. It is 
 pleasant to be able to add that he retained undiminished to his 
 dying hour, in the innermost core of his heart, his love for liberty 
 and Ireland.] 
 
 OH, the Fern ! the Fern ! the Irish hill Fern ! 
 That girds our blue lakes from Lough Ine* to Lough 
 
 Erne, 
 
 That waves on our crags, like the plume of a king 
 And bends, like a nun, over clear well and spring ! 
 
 * Lough Ine, a singularly romantic lake in the western moun- 
 tains of Cork ; of Lough Erne, I hope, to Irishmen it is unneces- 
 sary to speak. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 27 
 
 The fairy's tall palm tree ! the heath-bird's fresh nest, 
 And the couch the red deer deems the sweetest and 
 
 best, 
 
 With the free winds to fan it, and dew-drops to gem, 
 Oh, what can ye match with its beautiful stem? 
 From the shrine of St. Finbar, by lone Avonbuie, 
 To the halls of Dunluce, with its towers by the sea, 
 From the hill of Knockthu to the rath of Moyvore, 
 Like a chaplet it circles our green island o'er, 
 In the bawn of the chief, by the anchorite's cell, 
 On the hill-top, or greenwood, by streamlet or well, 
 With a spell on each leaf, which no mortal can learn,* 
 Oh, there never was plant like the Irish hill Fern ! 
 
 Oh, the Fern! the Fern ! the Irish hill Fern! 
 That shelters the weary, or wild roe, or kern, 
 Thro' the glens of Kilcoe rose a shout on the gale, 
 As the Saxons rushed forth, in their wrath, from the 
 
 Pale, 
 
 With bandog and blood-hound, all savage to see, 
 To hunt thro' Clunealla the wild Rapparee ! 
 Hark ! a cry from yon dell on the startled ear rings, 
 And forth from the wood the young fugitive springs, 
 Thro' the copse, o'er the bog, and, oh, saints be his 
 
 guide ! 
 His fleet step now falters there's blood on his side ! 
 
 * The fortunate discoverer of the fern seed is supposed to obtain 
 the power of rendering himself invisible at pleasure. 
 
28 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Yet onward he strains, climbs the cliff, fords the stream, 
 And sinks on the hill-top, mid bracken leaves green, 
 And thick o'er his brow are their fresh clusters piled, 
 And they cover his form, as a mother her child ; 
 And the Saxon is baffled ! they never discern 
 Where it shelters and saves him the Irish hill Fern 
 
 Oh, the Fern! the Fern ! the Irish hill Fern! 
 That pours a wild. keen o'er the hero's grey cairn; 
 Go, hear it at midnight, when stars are all out, 
 And the wind o'er the hillside is moaning about, 
 With a rustle and stir, and a low wailing tone 
 That thrills through the heart with its whispering lone ; 
 And ponder its meaning, when haply you stray 
 Where the halls of the chieftain in ruin decay. 
 With night owls for warders, the goshawk for guest, 
 And their dais of honour by cattle-hoofs prest 
 With its fosse choked with rushes, and spider-webs 
 
 flung, 
 Over walls where the marchmen their red weapons 
 
 hung, 
 
 With a curse on their name, and a sigh for the hour 
 That tarries so long look ! what waves on the tower ? 
 With an omen and sign, and an augury stern, 
 'Tis the Green Flag of Time ! 'tis the Irish hill Fern ! 
 
 ARTHUR G. GEOGHEGAN. 
 
SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 2() 
 
 THE EXILE'S DEVOTION. 
 
 IF I forswear the art divine 
 
 That glorifies the dead 
 What comfort then can I call mine, 
 
 What solace seek instead? 
 For, from my birth, our country's fame 
 
 Was life to me and love; 
 And for each loyal Irish name 
 
 Some garland still I wove. 
 
 I'd rather be the bird that sings 
 
 Above the martyr's grave, 
 Than fold in fortune's cage my wings 
 
 And feel my soul a slave ; 
 I'd rather turn one simple verse 
 
 True to the Gaelic ear 
 Than sapphic odes I might rehearse 
 
 With senates listening near. 
 
 Oh, native land ! dost ever mark 
 
 When the world's din is drown'd 
 Betwixt the day-light and the dark, 
 
 A wandering solemn sound 
 That on the western wind is borne 
 
 Across thy dewy breast? 
 It is the Voice of those who mourn 
 
 For thee, far in the West ! 
 
30 NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 
 
 For them and theirs I oft essay 
 
 Your ancient art of Song, 
 And often sadly turn away, 
 
 Deeming my rashness wrong ; 
 For well I ween, a loving will 
 
 Is all the art I own : 
 Ah me ! could love suffice for skill, 
 
 What triumphs I had known ! 
 
 My native land ! my native land ! 
 
 Live in my memory still ! 
 Break on my brain, ye surges grand ! 
 
 Stand up, mist-cover'd hill! 
 Still on the mirror of the mind 
 
 The scenes I love, I see : 
 Would I could fly on the western wind, 
 
 My native land> to thee ! 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 31 
 
 THE OLD STORY. 
 
 " Old as the universe, yet not outworn." The Island. 
 
 HE came across the meadow-pass, 
 
 That summer-eve of eves, 
 The sunlight streamed along the grass, 
 
 And glanced amid the leaves; 
 And from the shrubbery below, 
 
 And from the garden trees, 
 He heard the thrushes' music flow, 
 
 And humming of the bees ; 
 The garden-gate was swung apart 
 
 The space was brief between ; 
 But there, for throbbing of his heart, 
 
 He paused perforce to lean. 
 
 He leaned upon the garden-gate; 
 
 He looked, and scarce he breathed ; 
 Within the little porch she sate, 
 
 With woodbine overwreathed ; 
 Her eyes upon her work was bent 
 
 Unconscious who was nigh; 
 But oft the needle slowly went, 
 
 And oft did idle lie ; 
 And ever to her lips arose 
 
 Sweet fragments faintly sung, 
 But ever, ere the notes could close, 
 
 She hushed them on her tongue. 
 
32 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Her fancies as they come and go 
 
 Her pure face speaks the while, 
 For now it is a flitting glow, 
 
 And now a breaking smile ; 
 And now it is a graver shade 
 
 When holier thoughts are there 
 An angel's pinion might be stayed 
 
 Tp see a sight so fair; 
 But still they hid her looks of light, 
 
 Those downcast eyelids pale 
 Two lovely clouds so silken white, 
 
 Two lovelier stars that veil. 
 
 The sun at length his burning edge 
 
 Had rested on the hill, 
 And save one thrush from out the hedge 
 
 Both bower and grove were still. 
 The sun had almost bade farewell; 
 
 But one reluctant ray 
 Still loved within that porch to dwell 
 
 As charmed there to stay- 
 It stole aslant the pfear-tree bough, 
 
 And through the woodbine fringe, 
 And kissed the maiden's neck and brow, 
 
 And bathed her in its tinge. 
 
 Oh ! beauty of my heart, he said, 
 
 Oh! darling, darling mine, 
 Was ever light of evening shed 
 
 On loveliness like thine ? 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 33 
 
 Why should I ever leave this spot, 
 
 But gaze until I die? 
 A moment from that bursting thought 
 
 She felt his footstep nigh. 
 One sudden lifted glance but one, 
 
 A tremor and a start, 
 So gently was their greeting done 
 
 That who would guess their heart ? 
 
 Long, long the sun had sunken down, 
 
 And all his golden trail 
 Had died away to lines of brown, 
 
 In duskier hues that fail. 
 The grasshopper was chirping shrill 
 
 No other living sound 
 Accompanied the tiny rill 
 
 That gurgled under ground 
 No other living sound, unless 
 
 Some spirit bent to hear 
 Low words of human tenderness, 
 
 And mingling whispers near. 
 
 The stars, like pallid gems at first, 
 
 Deep in the liquid sky, 
 Now forth upon the darkness burst, 
 
 Sole kings and lights on high 
 In splendour, myriad-fold, supreme 
 
 No rival moonlight strove, 
 Nor lovelier e'er was Hesper's beam. 
 
 Nor more majestic Jove. 
 
34 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 But what if hearts there beat that night 
 
 That recked not of the skies, 
 Or only felt their imaged light 
 
 In one another's eyes ? 
 
 And if two worlds of hidden thought 
 
 And fostered passion met, 
 Which, passing human language, sought 
 
 And found an utterance yet ; 
 And if they trembled like to flowers 
 
 That droop across a stream, 
 The while the silent starry hours 
 
 Glide o'er them like a dream; 
 And if, when came the parting time, 
 
 They faltered still and clung; 
 What is it all ? an ancient rhyme 
 
 Ten thousand times besung 
 That part of Paradise which man 
 
 Without the portal knows 
 Which hath been since the world began, 
 
 And shall be till its close. 
 
 JOHN O'HAGAN. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 35 
 
 BLESS THE DEAR OLD VERDANT LAND! 
 
 BLESS the dear old verdant land ! 
 
 Brother, wert thou born of it? 
 As thy shadow life doth stand 
 Twining round its rosy band, 
 Did an Irish mother's hand 
 
 Guide thee in the morn of it? 
 Did a father's first command 
 
 Teach thee love or scorn of it? 
 
 Thou who treadst its fertile breast 
 Dost thou feel a glow for it? 
 
 Thou of all its charms possest, 
 
 Living on its first and best, 
 
 Art thou but a thankless guest, 
 Or a traitor foe for it ? 
 
 If thou lovest, where's the test ? 
 Wilt thou strike a blow for it ? 
 
 Has the past no goading sting 
 That can make thee rouse for it 
 
 Does thy land's reviving spring, 
 
 Full of buds and blossoming, 
 
 Fail to make thy cold heart cling 
 Breathing lover's vows for it^ 
 
 With the circling ocean's ring 
 Thou wert made a spouse for 
 
36 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Hast thou kept as thou shouldst keep 
 Thy affections warm for it^- 
 
 Letting no cold feeling creep 
 
 Like an ice-breath o'er the deep 
 
 Freezing to a stony sleep. 
 Hopes the heart would form for it 
 
 Glories that like rainbows peep 
 Thro' the darkening storm for it 1 
 
 Son of this down-trodden land, 
 
 Aid us in the fight for it. 
 We seek to make it great and grand, 
 Its shipless bays its naked strand 
 By canvas-swelling breezes fanned: 
 
 Oh what a glorious sight for it ! 
 The past expiring like a brand 
 
 In morning's rosy light for it ! 
 
 Think, this dear old land is thine 
 And thou a traitor slave of it 
 
 Think how the Switzer leads his kine, 
 
 When pale the evening star doth shine; 
 
 His song has home in every line 
 Freedom in every stave of it ! 
 
 Think how the German loves his Rhine, 
 And worships every wave of it ! 
 
 Our own dear land is bright as theirs ; 
 
 But oh ! our hearts are cold for it ; 
 Awake ! we are not slaves but heirs. 
 Our fatherland requires our cares 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 37 
 
 Our speech with men, with God our prayers ; 
 
 Spurn blood-stained Judas gold for it 
 Let us do all that honour dares 
 
 Be earnest, faithful, bold for it ! 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY. 
 
 THE DEATH OF O'CAROLAN. 
 
 [Thorlogh O'Carolan, born at Nobber, A.D. 1670, became 
 blind at the age of manhood, and then the harp which bad been 
 his amusement became his profession. The lady of The 
 Macdermott, of Aldersford in Roscommon, equipped him with 
 horse, harp, and gossoon. At every house he was a welcome 
 guest, and for half a century he wandered from mansion to 
 mansion improvising words and airs. Roscommon, the native 
 county of Goldsmith, was his favourite district, where he died in 
 1731, at the house of his first patroness. One of Goldsmith's 
 most touching essays is on " Carolan the Blind," concerning 
 v/hom, no doubt, many a tale was current on the country-side in 
 Goldsmith's young days; and his musical influence can certainly 
 be traced not only in Goldsmith's Poems, but also in Sheridan, 
 Moore and Gerald Griffin. Author's Note.] 
 
 THERE is an empty seat by many a board, 
 
 A guest is miss'd in hostelry and hall 
 There is a harp hung up in Alderford 
 
 That was, in Ireland, sweetest harp of all. 
 The hand that made it speak, woe's me ! is cold, 
 
 The darken'd eye-balls roll inspired no more ; 
 The lips the potent lips gape like a mould 
 
 Where late the golden torrent floated o'er. 
 
3 8 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 In vain the watchman looks from Mayo's towers 
 
 For him whose presence filled all hearts with mirth 
 In vain the gather'd guests outsit the hours 
 
 The honour'd chair is vacant by the hearth. 
 From Castle Archdall, Moneyglass and Trim, 
 
 The courteous messages go forth in vain ; 
 Kind words no longer have a joy for him 
 
 Whose final lodge is in Death's dark demesne ! 
 
 Kilronan Abbey is his castle now, 
 
 And there, till Doomsday, peacefully he'll stay. 
 In vain they weave new garlands for his brow, 
 
 In vain they go to meet him by the way; 
 In kindred company, he does not tire 
 
 The native dead and noble lie around ; 
 His life-long song has ceased, his wood and wire 
 
 Rest, a sweet harp unstrung, in holy ground. 
 
 Last of our ancient minstrels ! thou, who lent 
 
 A buoyant motive to a foundering race 
 Whose saving song, into their being blent, 
 
 Sustained them by its passion and its grace: 
 God rest you ! may your judgment dues be light, 
 
 Dear Thorlogh ! and the purgatorial days 
 Be few and short, till clothed in holy white, 
 
 Your soul may come before the throne of rays. 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE, 
 
SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 39 
 
 OLD LOVE AND NEW. 
 
 MY old love ! his hazel eyes 
 
 Were very dark and fine, 
 And very conscious did they look 
 
 A-bending down to mine : 
 My new love my new love 
 
 It is not shape or hue, 
 But your eyes have that would lure my heart 
 
 The world to wander through ! 
 
 My old love was smooth of tongue, 
 
 And soft he spoke and well ; 
 I asked my heart what more it sought ? 
 
 It sighed and could not tell. 
 My new love my new love 
 
 What magic could it be, 
 That made me, in your first few words, 
 
 Such difference to see ? 
 
 The while I loved my old love 
 
 I walk'd amid my flowers, 
 And fed my thoughts with passion's lays 
 
 Such love, said I, is ours : 
 My new love my new love 
 
 Was never verse or tale 
 Could e'er interpret what I feel, 
 
 Or solace what I ail. 
 
 E 
 
4O NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 My old love my fancy dwelt 
 
 Upon him when away ; 
 But, with him, still I felt a void 
 
 And why, I could not say. 
 My new love ! my new love ! 
 
 Beside you, when I rest, 
 My cheek is like the western heaven, 
 
 And heaven itself my breast. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, my old love 
 
 Your heart will never break, 
 Though sore your pride be mortified 
 
 And I the blame must take. 
 But if I broke a thousand hearts 
 
 If all the world cried shame 
 My new love ! my true love ! 
 
 I'd love you all the same. 
 
 JOHN O'HAGAN 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 41 
 
 THE COOLUN. 
 
 THE scene is beside where the Avon-mor flows 
 'Tis the spring of the year, and the day's near its 
 
 close ; 
 
 And an old woman sits with a boy on her knee 
 She smiles like the evening, and he, like the lea ! 
 Her hair is as white as the flax ere it's spun, 
 His, brown as yon beech that is- hiding the sun. 
 Beside the bright river, 
 The calm, glassy river, 
 That's sliding, and gliding all peacefully on. 
 
 "Come, granny," the boy says, " you'll sing me, I 
 
 know, 
 
 The beautiful Coolun, so sweet and so low; 
 For I love its soft tones more than blackbird or thrush, 
 Though often the tears in a shower will gush 
 From my eyes, when I hear it. Dear granny, say why, 
 When my heart's full of gladness, I sob and I cry 
 To hear the sweet Coolun, 
 The beautiful Coolun 
 An angel first sang it above in the sky ! " 
 
 And she sings, and he listens ; but many years pass, 
 And the old woman sleeps 'neath the chapel-yard grass ; 
 And a couple are seated upon the same stone 
 Where the boy sat and listened so oft to the crone : 
 
42 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 'Tis the boy 'tis the man ! and he says while he sighs 
 To the girl by his side with the love-streaming eyes : 
 " Oh sing me, sweet Oona, 
 
 My beautiful Oona, 
 Oh, sing me the Coolun," he says and he sighs. 
 
 " That air, mo stor, brings back the days of my youth, 
 That flowed like the river there, sunny and smooth ; 
 And it brings back the old woman, kindly and dear 
 If her spirit, dear Oona, is hovering near, 
 'Twill glad her to hear the old melody rise 
 Warm, warm, on the wings of our love and our sighs 
 Oh, sing me the Coolun, 
 The beautiful Coolun," 
 Is't the dew, or a tear-drop, is moist'ing his eyes? 
 
 There's a change on the scene, far more grand but 
 
 less fair, 
 
 By the broad-rolling Hudson are seated the pair; 
 And the gray hemlock-fir waves its branches above, 
 As they sigh for their land, as they murmur their love ; 
 Hush ! the heart hath been touched, and its musical 
 
 strings 
 
 Vibrate into song ! 'tis the Coolun she sings 
 The home-sighing Coolun, 
 The love-breathing Coolun, 
 A well for all memory's deep flowing springs. 
 
 They think of the bright stream they sat down beside, 
 When he was a bridegroom, and she was his bride ; 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 43 
 
 The pulses of youth seem to throb in the strain, 
 Old faces, long vanished, look kindly again, 
 Kind voices float round them, and grand hills are near, 
 Their feet have not touched, ah, this many a year ! 
 And as ceases the Coolun, 
 The home-breathing Coolun, 
 Not the air, but their native land, faints on the ear. 
 
 Long in silence they weep, with hand clasped in hand, 
 Then to God send up pray'rs for the far-off old land j 
 And while grateful to Him for the blessings He's sent, 
 They know 'tis His hand that withholdeth content : 
 For the Exile and Christian must evermore sigh 
 For the home upon earth, and the home in the sky 
 So they sing the sweet Coolun, 
 The sorrowful Coolun, 
 That murmurs of both homes, they sing and they sigh. 
 
 A BENEDICTION. 
 
 Heaven bless thee, old Bard, in whose bosom were 
 
 nursed 
 
 Emotions that into each melody burst ! 
 Be thy grave ever green ! may the softest of showers 
 And brightest of beams nurse its grass and its flowers. 
 Oft, oft, be it moist with the tear-drop of love 
 And may angels watch round thee for ever above, 
 
 Old bard of the Coolun ! 
 
 The beautiful Coolun, 
 That sobs, like dear Eire, with Sorrow and Love. 
 
 MARTIN MACDERMOTT. 
 
44 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 O'DONOVAN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 [The three following songs were evidently written in praise 
 of the same young beauty. The first sings the joy of the 
 meeting ; the second and third, alas, are devoted to the regrets 
 of the parting of the lovers.] 
 
 AIR "Juice of the Barley." 
 
 ONE midsummer's eve, when the Bel-fires were lighted, 
 And the bag-piper's tune called the maidens delighted, 
 I joined a gay group by the Araglyn's 1 water, 
 And danced till the dawn with O'Donovan's daughter. 
 
 Have you seen the ripe monadan 2 glisten in Kerry ? 
 
 Have you marked on the Galtees the black whortle- 
 berry ? 
 
 Or ceanabhan 3 wave by the walls of Blackwater ? 
 
 They're the cheek, eye, and neck of O'Donovan's 
 daughter ? 
 
 Have you watched a wild kidling 4 on Claragh's round 
 
 mountain ? 
 
 The swan's arching glory on Sheeling's blue fountain ? 
 Heard a weird woman chant what the fairy choir 
 
 taught her ? 
 They've the step, grace and love of O'Donovan's 
 
 daughter. 
 
 ( 1 ) A stream in the western part of the barony of Duhallow, 
 Co. Cork. 
 
 ( 2 ) The cranberry, met with only on the wildest mountains. 
 
 ( 3 ) Ceanabhan, pron. : canavan, the beautiful pendulus cotton- 
 plant of the bogs. 
 
 ( 4 ) Claragh, a romantic hill. Co. Cork. 
 
SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 45 
 
 Have you marked in its flight the black wing of the 
 
 raven ? 
 The rose-buds that breathe in the summer-breeze 
 
 waven ? 
 
 The pearls that lie hid under Lene's 5 magic water? 
 They're the teeth, lips and hair of O'Donovan's 
 
 daughter. 
 
 Ere the Bel-fire was dimm'd, or the dancers departed, 
 I taught her a song of some maid broken-hearted ; 
 And that group, and that dance, and that love-song 
 
 I taught her 
 Haunt my slumber at night with O'Donovan's daughter. 
 
 God grant 'tis no fay from Cnoc-Firinn 6 that woos me ! 
 God grant 'tis not Cliodhna 7 the queen that pursues me ! 
 That my soul lost and lone has no witchery wrought me, 
 While I dream of dark groves with O'Donovan's 
 daughter ! 
 
 If spell- bound I pine with an airy disorder, 
 
 Saint Gobnate has sway over Musgry's 8 white border, 
 
 She'll scare from my couch, when with prayer I've 
 
 besought her, 
 That bright airy sprite like O'Donovan's daughter ! 
 
 EDWARD WALSH. 
 
 ( 5 ) LakeofKillarney. 
 
 ( 6 ) A celebrated fairy-hill in the Co. Limerick, the residence 
 of Doun, king of the fairies of West Munster. 
 
 ( 7 ) Cliodhna, or Cleena, the fairy queen of South Munster, 
 much given to the abduction of young men. 
 
 ( 8 ) A territory extending from Dripsey to Ballyvoorney, Co. 
 Cork. 
 
46 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 THERE'S A GLEN OF GREEN BEAUTY. 
 
 THERE'S a glen of green beauty, where echoes have 
 spoken, 
 
 And waters of brightness o'er rude rocks are flung. 
 In the glen blooms a bower, but haply 'tis broken 
 
 Where Mary the strains of her poet oft sung. 
 Till memory dies in the breast of the weeper, 
 
 Those moments of rapture he'll never forget; 
 Tho' vanish'd for aye, like the dream of the sleeper, 
 
 I wonder does Mary remember them yet? 
 
 Oh, ne'er shall the bard in that green blooming bower 
 
 Hear Mary's voice warble his wild song again 
 For young hearts that trembled to passion's soft power 
 
 Misfortune for ever hath sundered in twain ! 
 As blight eyes may light him o'er life's troubled ocean 
 
 As kind may caress him but can he forget 
 The raptures that hallow the heart's first devotion 
 
 I wonder does Mary remember them yet? 
 
 Restore him the bloom of a hope early blighted!* 
 
 Efface from his heart the deep trace of despair ! 
 
 Recall that wild vow which to heaven he once 
 
 plighted ! 
 
 Bid his soul be as pure as when first love was 
 there ! 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 47 
 
 Oh, never shall peace to his dark soul be spoken, 
 Or his couch be unstained with the tears of regret, 
 
 For pleasures long vanished and tender ties broken 
 I wonder does Mary remember them yet ? 
 
 ED WAP D WALSH. 
 
 A BIRD IN THE DEEP VALLEY SINGING. 
 
 THERE'S a bird in the deep valley singing, 
 
 That charms with his soft vesper song; 
 And a flow'ret, thrice beautiful, springing 
 
 The fairest the valleys among. 
 But the primrose might flourish forsaken, 
 
 The thrush vainly sing from his tree, 
 If Mary were there to awaken 
 
 Her wild note of sweetness for me. 
 
 O'er the rocks is the bright water sweeping ; 
 
 Below, waves the green alder grove ; 
 Yon cliff holds the wild echoes sleeping, 
 
 That oft woke to songs that I love. 
 The moonlight of magical power 
 
 Still streams through the old trysting tree ; 
 But Mary, fair star of that bower, 
 
 Hath fled from the valley and me. 
 
8 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 We met and have parted for ever; 
 
 We loved, but howe'er be her heart, 
 From mine shall the memory never 
 
 Of beautiful Mary depart. 
 Nor canst thou, O'Donovan's daughter ! 
 
 Permit from remembrance to flee 
 The twilight the rush of wild water 
 
 The bright star the bower and me. 
 
 EDWARD WALSH. 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS'S UNPUBLISHED VERSES 
 
 [In Sir Charles Gavan Duffy's ''Memoir of Thomas Davis " 
 some unpublished poems of his are given which ought to find a 
 place here. Although probably these verses did not receive his 
 final corrections, they are precious as being the last written by 
 Ireland's most cherished poet. The following all refer to the 
 person and the scenes both the very dearest to his heart which 
 inspired the lyrics given earlier in the present volume.] 
 
 I. LOVE. 
 
 REFRESHENED and uncloyed, they are springing out 
 
 again 
 
 The passions of my boyhood, like lions from a den ; 
 There are crowns upon the bramble, and angels 
 
 among men, 
 And triumph in each ramble, and fairies in each glen. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 49 
 
 I rush across the mountain, twice wilder than the 
 
 wind ; 
 I squander, without counting, the money of my 
 
 mind; 
 All hands have pleasant pressure, all voices sing a 
 
 song 
 The world was made for pleasure, and it cannot 
 
 last too long. 
 
 And what has changed my being, and what baptized 
 
 my heart 
 That, mid old sorrows fleeing, my lightning spirits 
 
 dart? 
 And why this cherub chorus ? and why this hovering 
 
 dove 
 Peace round, within and o'er us? Sweet sweetheart 
 
 it is love. 
 
 2. THE CHANGE. 
 
 I USED to sing of war and peace, 
 
 Of heroes dead and buried; 
 Of Ireland's wrongs forbid to cease 
 
 Until her sons were serried ; 
 But now I've not a fiery thought, 
 
 Nor rhymes, who had so many. 
 My soul is soft ; my heart is caught ; 
 
 I only sing of Annie. 
 
cjO NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Now, if I read of ancient days, 
 
 Or search through storied regions 
 'Tis but to swell romantic lays, 
 
 Or mould beguiling legends. 
 Nay, if I sit and hear the wind 
 
 Pour through a castle's cranny, 
 I only seek sweet sounds to find 
 
 And weave in songs for Annie. 
 
 And yet, machree, were we not fond 
 
 Of freedom and Old Eirinn ; 
 Were we not fretted by each bond 
 
 Our countrymen are wearing ; 
 Were we not full of hope to see 
 
 Our country great as any, 
 Methinks the power would pass from me 
 
 To sing for even Annie! 
 
 3. ANNIE IN THE SOUTH. 
 
 WOULD I were now thy guide, 
 Annie dear, 
 Where across Munster wide, 
 
 Annie dear, 
 
 Cliff-guarded rivers glide, 
 Lakes in the mountain hide, 
 Towers topple o'er the tide, 
 
 Annie dear. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 51 
 
 To glance down the silver Nore, 
 Annie dear, 
 
 Whisper till day was o'er, 
 
 Annie dear, 
 
 Tenderly lead thee through 
 
 Soft winding Avondhu 
 
 Softer 'twould seem for you 
 
 Annie dear. 
 
 Fairest! I'd show you there, 
 
 Annie dear, 
 
 Brave men and maidens fair, 
 
 Annie dear; 
 
 Never a nobler race ! 
 
 Sweet tongue and gentle grace 
 
 Often how sad the face, 
 
 Annie dear. 
 
 Then would you list me tell, 
 
 Annie dear, 
 How their sad fate befell, 
 
 Annie dear, 
 
 Faith to a foreign king 
 Feuds thick as leaves in spring, 
 Oh, 'twould your bosom wring, 
 Annie dear ! 
 
52 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Then, we would haste away, 
 
 Annie dear, 
 Off to lone Ceim-an-Eich, 
 
 Annie dear, 
 
 Wander in Finbar's isle, 
 Was it a maiden's wile 
 Drove him to that defile, 
 
 Annie dear? 
 
 Lone, in some gliding boat, 
 
 Annie dear, 
 Off from Glengariff float, 
 
 Annie dear; 
 
 List to the ocean's sighs, 
 Look on the purple skies, 
 Look in each other's eyes, 
 
 Annie dear ! 
 
 Holding your bridle rein, 
 
 Annie dear, 
 Arran's steep ridge we'd gain, 
 
 Annie dear ; 
 Never was view so fair, 
 Island, lake, hill and air, 
 Dream a long day-dream there, 
 Annie dear. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 53 
 
 Long silent echoes wake, 
 
 Annie dear, 
 
 Circling Killarney's lake, 
 
 Annie dear; 
 
 Mingling wild minstrelsy, 
 
 Legend and history, 
 
 Pondering love's mystery, 
 
 Annie dear. 
 
 Oh, that it ne'er would end, 
 
 Annie dear ; 
 
 Sweet 'twere such life to spend, 
 Annie dear; 
 
 Then like an angel dance, 
 Ending in holy trance, 
 Ah ! 'tis a wild romance ! 
 
 Annie dear. 
 
 4. ANNIE AWAY. 
 
 HER hair it is the trees at night ; 
 
 Her forehead is the moon ; 
 Her eyes they are a nameless light ; 
 
 Her heart a tender tune. 
 We told each other to forget, 
 
 As if we thought we should ; 
 'Twas said we might not wed, and yet 
 
 We kissed as if we could. 
 
54 XtiW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 They said 'twas good for us to part, 
 
 Nor, maybe, meet again ; 
 Or if we met, her callow heart 
 
 Might well be changed, ere then. 
 They knew not Annie as I knew, 
 
 For all their kindly fear ; 
 For all our sad and strange adieu, 
 
 You'll wed me, Annie dear. 
 
 5. MY ANNIE. 
 
 So gentle and joyous, the cloud floating by 
 Doesn't sail half so gracefully over the sky ; 
 And the sun in the flower-bedded dewdrop that lies 
 Is common and cold to the love in her eyes. 
 
 Oh, heaven, such a heart! and to think that it's mine 
 To think, when I'm absent, that sweet heart will pine ! 
 To think that she pants when my footstep is near ! 
 And dreams of my breast as a refuge from fear. 
 
 My God, look upon her! how good and how fair! 
 And charge the good angels to make her their care ; 
 And grant that our grey hairs may mingle below 
 Ere our souls close together to Paradise go. 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 55 
 
 THE OLD CHURCH AT LISMORE. 
 
 [This poem, inscribed in the MS., "My Last Verses," 
 was the last written by " Mary" before entering on her novi- 
 tiate in 1849.] 
 
 OLD Church, thou still art Catholic ! e'en dream 
 
 they as they may 
 That the new rites and worship have swept the 
 
 old away ; 
 
 There is no form of beauty raised by nature, or by art, 
 That preaches not God's saving truths to man's 
 
 adoring heart ! 
 
 In vain they tore the altar down ; in vain they 
 
 flung aside 
 The mournful emblem of the death which our sweet 
 
 Saviour died ; 
 
 In vain they left no single trace of saint or angel here 
 Still angel-spirits haunt the ground, and to the soul 
 
 appear. 
 
 I marvel how, in scenes like these, so coldly they can 
 
 pray, 
 Nor hold sweet commune with the dead who once 
 
 knelt down as they; 
 Yet not as they, in sad mistrust or sceptic doubt 
 
 for, oh, 
 They looked in hope to the blessed saints, these 
 
 dead of long ago. 
 
56 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 And, then, the churchyard, soft and calm, spread 
 
 out beyond the scene, 
 With sunshine warm and soothing shade and trees 
 
 upon its green ; 
 Ah ! though their cruel Church forbid, are there 
 
 no hearts will pray 
 For the poor souls that trembling left that cold 
 
 and speechless clay ? 
 
 My God ! I am a Catholic ! I grew into the ways 
 Of my dear Church since first my voice could lisp 
 
 a word of praise ; 
 But oft I think, though my first youth were taught 
 
 and trained awrong, 
 I still had learnt the one true faith from nature and 
 
 from song ! 
 
 For still, whenever dear friends die, it is such joy 
 
 to know 
 They are not all beyond the care that healed their 
 
 wounds below ; 
 That we can pray them into peace, and speed 
 
 them to the shore 
 Where clouds and cares and thorny griefs shall 
 
 vex their hearts no more. 
 
 And the sweet saints, so meek below, so merciful 
 above ; 
 
 And the pure angels, watching still with such un- 
 tiring love ; 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 57 
 
 And the kind Virgin, Queen of Heaven, with all 
 
 her mother's care, 
 Who prays for earth, because she knows what 
 
 breaking hearts are there! 
 
 Oh, let us lose no single link that our dear Church 
 
 has bound, 
 To keep our hearts more close to Heaven, on earth's 
 
 ungenial ground; 
 But trust in saint and martyr yet, and o'er their 
 
 hallowed clay, 
 Long after we have ceased to weep, kneel faithful 
 
 down to pray. 
 
 So shall the land for us be still the Sainted Isle of 
 
 old, 
 Where hymn and incense rise to Heaven, and holy 
 
 beads are told ; 
 And even the ground they tore from God, in years 
 
 of crime and woe, 
 Instinctive with His truth and love, shall breathe 
 
 of long ago ! 
 
 ELLEN MARY DOWNING. 
 
58 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 PROTESTANT ASCENDANCY. 
 
 ["A Protestant King, a Protestant House of Lords and Com- 
 mons, a Protestant Hierarchy ; the courts of justice, the army, 
 the navy, and the revenue, in all their branches and details, 
 Protestant and this system fortified and maintained by a con- 
 nexion with the Protestant State of Great Britain : 
 
 " The Protestants of Ireland will never relinquish their poli- 
 tical position, which their fathers won with their swords, and 
 which they, therefore, regard as their birthright." Letter of the 
 Dublin Corporation , 1793.] 
 
 GREAT fabric of oppression 
 
 By tyrant plunderers planned, 
 So giant-vast, so iron-fast, 
 That were not God's great fiat pass'd, 
 That man's injustice shall not last 
 
 Thou might'st eternal stand ; 
 Black fortress of ascendancy, 
 
 Beneath whose wasting sway 
 Sprang crime and strife, so deadly rife 
 
 What rests of thee to-day? 
 
 A few unsightly fragments, 
 
 The scoff and scorn of all, 
 Long pierc'd and rent by Freedom's power 
 They rot and crumble hour by hour, 
 And wait the lightest storm to lour, 
 
 In hapless wreck to fall. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 59 
 
 What show of faded banners, 
 
 What shouts of angry men, 
 Or doughty threat, or sullen fret, 
 
 Will raise that pile again ? 
 
 Vain ! vain ! go seek the charnel 
 Where haughty Clare lies low ; 
 Tell him how ruin darkens o'er 
 The cause he sav'd in flames and gore, 
 How his strong will is needed sore 
 
 In this your day of woe 
 Rouse bloody Toler, summon all 
 
 Clan Beresford to gorge and prey, 
 And acrid Saurin's heart of gall 
 
 And serpent Castlereagh. 
 And those dry bones shall hearken 
 
 And smite with ghastly fear 
 This isle once more, ere ye restore 
 
 Their dead dominion here. 
 
 Vain ! vain ! can ye roll backward 
 
 The world for fifty years ? 
 From thrice three glowing millions drain 
 Their strength and substance, heart and brain ; 
 Where thought and daring impulse reign, 
 
 Plant old derided fears ? 
 Get their strong limbs your yoke to bear 
 Your grasp upon their purse? 
 
60 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Your maddest madman would not dare 
 So wild a dream to nurse 
 
 Awake ! awake ! your paths to take 
 For better or for worse. 
 
 The better lies before you, 
 
 The noblest ever trod ; 
 To meet your brothers face to face, 
 Quell idle feuds of creed or race, 
 And take your gallant grandsires' place 
 
 To free your native sod. 
 Make recreant statesmen tremble 
 
 And ingrate England quail, 
 And win and wear the proudest share 
 
 In Ireland's proudest tale. 
 
 The worse 'tis yours to choose it- 
 In helpless rage to stand : 
 
 To see the gulf and trembling wait 
 
 To writhe beneath o'ermastering fate, 
 
 Repelling with a scowl of hate 
 
 Your brother's outstretched hand. 
 
 In history known as tigers 
 
 Whose teeth and fangs were drawn, 
 
 Whose heart and will were murderous still 
 When means and strength were gone. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 6l 
 
 Know, Protestants of Ireland, 
 
 That, doomed among mankind 
 Marked with the fatal mark, are they 
 Who will not know their place or day, 
 But cling to phantoms pass'd away, 
 
 And sow the barren wind. 
 Life's ever-shifting currents 
 
 Brave men put forth to try, 
 They wait beside the ebbing tide 
 
 Till darkness finds them dry. 
 
 JOHN O'HAGAN. 
 
 TIPPERARY. 
 
 WERE you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the fields 
 
 are so sunny and green, 
 And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galtees 
 
 look down with so proud a mien ? 
 'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all 
 
 Irish ground 
 God bless you, my sweet Tipperary, for where could 
 
 your match be found ? 
 
 They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is 
 
 in your eye : 
 But I'll not let them dare to talk so black and 
 
 bitter a lie. 
 
62 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION 
 
 Oh ! no, macushla storin ! bright, bright, and warm 
 
 are you, 
 With hearts as bold as the men of old, to yourselves 
 
 and your country true. 
 
 Oh ! come for a while among us, and give us 
 
 the friendly hand, 
 And you'll see that old Tipperary is a loving and 
 
 gladsome land; 
 From Upper to Lower Ormond, bright welcomes 
 
 and smiles will spring 
 On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is like a king ! 
 
 MRS. VARIAN. 
 
KEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 63 
 
 EXILES FAR AWAY. 
 
 WHEN round the festive Christmas board, or by 
 
 the Christmas hearth, 
 That glorious mingled draught is pour'd wine, 
 
 melody, and mirth ! 
 When friends long absent tell, low-toned, their joys 
 
 and sorrows o'er, 
 And hand grasps hand, and eyelids fill, and lips 
 
 meet lips once more 
 Oh ! in that hour 'twere kindly done, some 
 
 woman's voice would say 
 "Forget not those who're sad to-night poor exiles 
 
 far away ! " 
 
 Alas, for them ! this morning's sun saw many a 
 
 moist eye pour 
 Its gushing love, with longings vain, the waste 
 
 Atlantic o'er; 
 And when he turned his lion-eye this ev'ning from 
 
 the West, 
 The Indian shores were lined with those who 
 
 watched his couched crest ; 
 
 But not to share his glory then, or gladden in his ray, 
 They bent their gaze upon his path those exiles far 
 
 away. 
 
64 NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 
 
 It was oh ! how the heart will cheat ! because 
 
 they thought, beyond 
 His glowing couch lay that Green Isle of which 
 
 their hearts were fond ; 
 And fancy brought old scenes of home back to 
 
 each welling eye, 
 And through each breast pour'd many a thought 
 
 that filled it, like a sigh ! 
 Twas then 'twas then, all warm with love, they 
 
 knelt them down to pray 
 For Irish homes, and kith, and kin poor exiles far 
 
 away ! 
 
 And then the mother bless'd her son, the lover 
 
 bless'd the maid, 
 And then the soldier was a child, and wept the 
 
 whilst he prayed, 
 And then the student's pallid cheek flushed red 
 
 as summer rose, 
 And patriot souls forget their grief to weep for Erin's 
 
 woes; 
 And, oh ! but then warm vows were breathed, that 
 
 come what might or may, 
 They'd right the suffering isle they loved those 
 
 exiles far away ! 
 
 And some there were, around the board like loving 
 
 brothers met, 
 The few fond faithful joyous hearts, that never can 
 
 forget; 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 65 
 
 They pledged "The girls we left at home, God 
 
 bless them ! " and they gave 
 " The memory of our absent friends, the tender and 
 
 the brave ! " 
 Then up, erect, with nine times nine, and hip, hip, 
 
 hip hurrah 1 
 Drank, " Eirt do slainthe geal go brah l those exiles 
 
 far away ! 
 
 And, oh ! to hear the sweet old strains of Irish music 
 
 rise, 
 Like gushing memories of home, beneath far foreign 
 
 skies, 
 Beneath the spreading calabash, beneath the trellised 
 
 vine, 
 The bright Italian myrtle bower, or dark Canadian 
 
 pine 
 Oh, don't those old familiar strains so sad now 
 
 now so gay 
 Speak out your very, very hearts poor exiles far 
 
 away ! 
 
 But heavens ! how many sleep afar, all heedless of 
 
 these strains 
 Tired wanderers ! who sought repose through 
 
 Europe's battle-plains ; 
 In strong, fierce, headlong fight they fell as ships 
 
 . go down in storms 
 They fell, and human whirlwinds swept across their 
 
 shattered forms ! 
 
66 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 No shroud, but glory, wrapped them round; nor 
 
 prayer, nor tear, had they, 
 Save the wandering winds and the heavy clouds 
 
 poor exiles -far away ! 
 
 And might the singer claim a sigh, he too could 
 
 tell how, tost 
 Upon the stranger's dreary shore, his heart's best 
 
 hopes were lost 
 How he, too, pined to hear the tones of friendship 
 
 greet his ear, 
 And pined, to walk the river side, to youthful 
 
 musing dear, 
 And pined, with yearning, silent love, amongst his 
 
 own to stay 
 Alas ! it is so sad to be an exile far away ! 
 
 Then, when round the Christmas board, or by the 
 
 Christmas hearth, 
 That glorious mingled draught is poured wine, 
 
 melody, and mirth! 
 When friends long absent tell, low-toned, their joys 
 
 and sorrows o'er, 
 And hand grasps hand, and eyelids fill, and lips 
 
 press lips once more 
 In that bright hour, perhaps perhaps some 
 
 woman's voice would say 
 " Think think on those who weep to-night poor 
 
 exiles far away ! " 
 
 MARTIN MACDERMOTT. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 67 
 
 TO A FRIEND GOING TO EUROPE. 
 
 OH, Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far off lands 
 
 a sign, 
 Let it be some token telling of the green old land, 
 
 once mine ; 
 A shell from the shores of Ireland would be dearer 
 
 far to me 
 Than all the wines of the Rhine-land, or the arts of 
 
 Italy. 
 
 For I was born in Ireland I glory in the name 
 I weep for all her woes, I remember all her fame ; 
 And still my heart must hope I may yet repose 
 
 at rest 
 On the holy Zion of my youth, in the Israel of 
 
 the west. 
 
 Her beauteous face is furrowed with sorrow's streamy 
 
 rains, 
 Her lovely limbs are manacled with slavery's ancient 
 
 chains ; 
 
 Yet, Pilgrim, pass not over with heedless heart or eye 
 The island of the gifted, of men who knew how to die. 
 
 Like the crater of a fire-mount, all without is bleak 
 
 and bare, 
 But the muttering of its lips show what fire and 
 
 force are there; 
 
68 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Even now in the heaving crater, far from the gazer's 
 
 ken, 
 The fiery hail is forging that will crush her foes again. 
 
 Then, Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off lands 
 
 a sign, 
 Let it be some token telling of the green old land 
 
 once mine ; 
 A shell from the shores of Ireland would be dearer 
 
 far to me 
 Than all the wines of the Rhine-land, or the arts of 
 
 Italy. 
 
 THOMAS D'Ancv McGEE. 
 
 SONG OF THE IRISH MINSTREL. 
 
 I HEAR cold voices saying that she, my queen, is dead, 
 And these sad chords may never more their tones of 
 
 music shed ; 
 That I, who wildly loved her, must weep in mute 
 
 despair 
 Ah, they know not how true love will cling, though 
 
 blight and death be there ! 
 
 Yes ! pale one, in thy sorrow yes ! wronged one, 
 
 in thy pain 
 This heart has still a beat for thee, this trembling 
 
 hand a strain 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 69 
 
 They cannot steal the golden store the past has left 
 
 to me, 
 Or make me shrink, with broken faith, asthore 
 
 machre ! from thee. 
 
 Oh, hear, my darling, hear me ! 'tis no cold pulse 
 
 meets your own ; 
 Its burning throbs would warm to life, though thou 
 
 wert changed to stone ! 
 I'll call the colour to thy cheek, the light into thine 
 
 eye 
 I know at least, if thou art dead, my love can never 
 
 die. 
 
 'Twill make the air around thee warm with breath of 
 
 living flame ; 
 In life, or death, in joy or woe, 'twill cling to thee the 
 
 same; 
 Oh, never in the gladdest hour, when thou wert proud 
 
 and strong, 
 Was deeper worship poured than now, in this low 
 
 mourning song. 
 
 MRS. KEVIN O'DOHERTY.* 
 
 * " Eva." 
 
7O NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 TO JESSY. 
 
 [These verses, which have been somewhat abridged, are the 
 heart-felt expression of a real and lasting passion. Long years 
 after they were written, when the poet was hastening to an early 
 grave on the banks of the Mississippi, the lines which follow 
 them, entitled, "A BREEZE THROUGH THE FOREST," were 
 composed. They prove the persistent fidelity with which 
 Richard D' Alton Williams clung to the love, the sorrow, and the 
 patriotism of his early years. ED.] 
 
 DEAREST ! since we parted, sighs 
 Amid my gayest moments rise, 
 And the summer in thine eyes 
 
 Haunts me night and day, Jessy. 
 Still I see the tresses flow 
 O'er thy bosom's globes of snow. 
 And thy lips before me glow 
 
 Whereso'er I stray, Jessy. 
 
 Oh, must I wear a hopeless chain, 
 
 And force my heart, with ceaseless pain, 
 
 To throb and burn and bleed in vain, 
 
 And ne'er to think of thee, Jessy. 
 Alas, I feel it tenfold glow 
 Its pulses' rise, its springtide flow 
 It bursts away with one wild throe, 
 
 And flies thy slave to be, Jessy. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 71 
 
 Oh ! would thine eyes speak hope to me, 
 Fore Heaven, I vow, on bended knee, 
 With faithful heart to cherish thee 
 
 Thro' life's tempestuous blast, Jessy. 
 And while the waves around us roar, 
 Their rage shall but unite us more, 
 Until, on death's mysterious shore, 
 
 We furl our sails at last, Jessy. 
 
 My harp shall gain a sweeter string, 
 And learn at length of love to sing; 
 I'll plume my spirit's folded wing, 
 
 And fly with thee above, Jessy. 
 I bear no monsters on my shield, 
 'Tis blank, save where, on verdant field, 
 The harp in Irish yew concealed, 
 
 Shows sorrow linked with song, Jessy. 
 
 But nobler far, a soul of flame, 
 
 To Heaven that soars, from Heaven that came, 
 
 A generous heart, a guiltless fame, 
 
 To poets still belong, Jessy. 
 And if I am, indeed, a bard, 
 Immortal song, uncrown'd, unstarr'd 
 Tho' pride, and gold, and rivals guard 
 
 Will win thee spite of fate, Jessy. 
 
 G 
 
72 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Yet vain e'en music to express 
 
 Love's hopes, and fears, and keen distress, 
 
 I cannot love thee more nor less 
 
 I cannot fight nor fly, Jessy. 
 May Heaven if mine thou canst not be, 
 From life and love the mourner free, 
 And grant, who may not live for thee, 
 
 At least for thee to die, Jessy. 
 
 RICHARD D' ALTON WILLIAMS. 
 
 A BREEZE THROUGH THE FOREST. 
 
 THE sounding forest towers 
 
 Through the tinted blossom showers 
 
 Green heavens raining flowers, 
 
 Like my heart in the days that are gone. 
 
 O thousand-pillared shrine 
 Of an Architect divine ! 
 What chancel meet as thine 
 
 For praise to the days that are gone? 
 
 But oh! what forest hath 
 Such unforgotten path 
 As the haunted fairy rath 
 
 Where we met in the days that are gone? 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 73 
 
 For an Irish Venus there, 
 Twining shamrocks in her hair, 
 Smiled a glory through the air 
 
 Pure as dawn in the days that are gone. 
 
 Oh ! the soul within her eyes, 
 And our mingled tears and sighs 
 Hush ! in Irish clay she lies ; 
 
 Hang a pall o'er the days that are gone. 
 
 Now a wailing phantom there 
 Wrings the death-dew from her hair, 
 Gazing westwards in despair 
 
 Through the mist, where the black ships have gone. 
 
 Thou shalt not long alone. 
 O'er our joys abandoned throne 
 To the midnight breezes moan 
 
 O'er the hopes of the days that are gone. 
 
 My life is ebbing fast, 
 On the fiery southern blast 
 I spring to thee at last, 
 
 First love of the days that are gone. 
 
 Prophetic shadows loom 
 
 O'er my spirit from the tomb 
 
 In glory, or in gloom, 
 
 Thou art mine, by the days that are gone 
 
74 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 There too the white-thorn blows 
 O'er the mother's dust, whose woes 
 One heart one only knows ; 
 
 Child of tears, it is well thou art gone. 
 
 As I bore thee home to die, 
 The lark filled all the sky; 
 'Twas thine angel's call on high 
 
 Let us pray for the souls that are t 
 
 I miss the cloister bells 
 Through the ruin-hallowed dells, 
 The round towers and holy wells, 
 
 That were part of the days that are gone. 
 
 And the friends alas ! how few 
 In the hours of anguish true,^ 
 Whose inmost hearts I knew, 
 
 In the fire of the days that are gone. 
 
 And the dreams that once I dreamed 
 Of a nation's soul redeemed 
 From the hell in which she seemed 
 A saint in the days that are gone 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 75 
 
 Still the tomb, the rath, the shrine, 
 And love's memories divine, 
 O rich in tears ! are thine, 
 
 Widowed queen of the days that are gone. 
 
 Sad isle of chains and graves, 
 Though thy sons are slaves of slaves, 
 I bless thee o'er the waves, 
 
 For the sake of the days that are gone. 
 
 Thus memory like a breeze 
 Through the strong and silent trees, 
 Bows my manhood, strewing these 
 
 Withered leaves of the days that are gone. 
 
 RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 
 
76 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF RICHARD D'ALTON 
 WILLIAMS. 
 
 THE early mower, heart-deep in the corn, 
 Falls suddenly, to rise on earth no more; 
 
 The lark he startled carols to the morn, 
 The field flowers blossom brightly as before, 
 
 Gay laughs the milk-maid to the shouting swain, 
 
 Who calls the dead afar, but calls in vain. 
 
 Thus in the world's wide harvest-field doth life, 
 Unconscious of the stricken heart, rejoice; 
 
 Thus, through the city's thousand tones of strife, 
 The true friend misses but the single voice ; 
 
 Thus, while the tale of death fills every mouth, 
 
 For us there is but one fallen in the South. 
 
 One that, amid far other scenes and years, 
 Leal memory still recals full to our view, 
 
 Ere life as yet had reached the time of tears. 
 When many hopes were garnered in a few 
 
 Blithe was his jest in those fraternal days, 
 
 Before we reached the parting of the ways. 
 
 They were a band of brethren, richly graced 
 
 With all that most exalts the sons of men- 
 Youth, courage, honour, conduct, wit well-placed 
 
 When shall we see their parallels again? 
 The very flower and fruitage of their age, 
 Destined for duty's cross or glory's page. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 77 
 
 And he, our latest-lost among them all, 
 
 No rival had for strangely-blended powers 
 
 All shapes of beauty waited at his call : 
 Soft Pity wept o'er Misery in showers, 
 
 Or honest Laughter, leaping from the heart, 
 
 Pealed her wild note beyond the reach of Art. 
 
 Meekly o'er all, the rare and priceless crown 
 Of gentle, silent Pity he still wore 
 
 Like some fair chapel in the midmost town, 
 His busy heart was holy at the core ; 
 
 Deep there his virtues lay no eye could trace 
 
 The Pharisee's prospectus in his face. 
 
 Sleep well, O Bard! too early from the field 
 Of labour and of honour called away ; 
 
 Sleep, like a hero on your own good shield, 
 Beneath the Shamrock wreathed about the bay. 
 
 Not doubtful is thy place among the host 
 
 Whom fame and Erin love and mourn the most. 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
78 NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 
 
 GOD BLESS THE BRAVE ! 
 
 [The touching incident which inspired this poem requires to 
 be narrated in order that the lines may be understood. During 
 the American war, two companies of Irish-American soldiers 
 happening to halt for a few days (between two battles) at Thibo- 
 deaux, Louisiana, where Richard D' Alton Williams had, shortly 
 before, breathed his last, saw his grave there, unmarked by stone 
 or inscription. One of their captains was commissioned to go to 
 New Orleans, and with a fund raised among themselves to pur- 
 chase a monument which was reverently placed over the remains 
 of the dead poet before they marched away, with the following 
 inscription : 
 
 Sacred to the Memory of 
 RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS, 
 
 The Irish Patriot and Poet, 
 
 Who died July 5th, 1862. Aged 40 years. 
 
 This stone was erected by his countrymen serving in 
 
 Companies C and K, 8th Regt, N. H. Volunteers, 
 
 As a slight testimonial of their esteem 
 
 For his unsullied patriotism and his exalted devotion 
 
 To the cause of Irish Freedom.] 
 
 GOD bless the brave! the brave alone 
 Were worthy to have done the deed. 
 
 A soldier's hand has raised the stone, 
 Another traced the lines men read, 
 
 Another set the guardian rail 
 
 Above thy minstrel Innisfail ! 
 
 A thousand years ago ah! then 
 Had such a harp in Erin ceased 
 
 His cairn had met the eyes of men 
 By every passing hand increased. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 79 
 
 God bless the brave ! not yet the race 
 Could coldly pass his dwelling place 
 
 Let it be told to old and young, 
 At home, abroad, at fire, at fair, 
 
 Let it be written, spoken, sung, 
 Let it be sculptured, pictured fair, 
 
 How the young braves stood weeping round 
 
 Their exiled poet's ransomed mound. 
 
 How lowly knelt and humbly prayed 
 
 The lion-hearted brother band 
 Around the monument they made 
 
 For him who sang the Fatherland! 
 A scene of scenes, where glory's shed 
 Both on the living and the dead. 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 THE GOOD SHIP CASTLE DOWN. 
 
 (A REBEL CHAUNT, A.D. 1776.) 
 
 OH, how she plough'd the ocean, the good ship 
 
 Castle Down, 
 That day we hung our colours out, the Harp without 
 
 the Crown ! 
 A gallant barque, she topp'd the wave, and fearless 
 
 hearts were we, 
 With guns and pikes and bayonets, a stalwart 
 
 company. 
 Twas a sixteen years from THUROT ; and sweeping 
 
 down the bay 
 
 The " Siege of Carrickfergus " so merrily we did play : 
 And by the old castle's foot we went, with three 
 
 right hearty cheers, 
 And wav'd aloft our green cockades, for we were 
 
 Volunteers, 
 
 Volunteers ! 
 Oh we were in our prime that day, stout Irish 
 
 Volunteers. 
 
 Twas when we heav'd our anchor on the breast of 
 
 smooth Garmoyle, 
 Our guns spoke out in thunder : t( Adieu, sweet Irish 
 
 soil ! " 
 
 At Whiteabbey and Greencastle, and Holywood so gay 
 Were hundreds waving handkerchiefs and many a 
 
 loud huzza. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 8 1 
 
 Our voices o'er the water struck the hollow mountains 
 
 round 
 Young Freedom, struggling at her birth, might utter 
 
 such a sound. 
 By that green slope beside Belfast, we cheer'd and 
 
 cheer'd it still 
 For they had chang'd its name that year, and they 
 
 call'd it Bunker's Hill. 
 
 Bunker's Hill ! 
 Oh, were our hands but with our hearts in the trench 
 
 at Bunker's Hill. 
 
 Our ship clear'd out for Quebec; but thither little 
 
 bent, 
 
 Up some New England river, to run her keel we meant ; 
 So we took a course due north as round the old 
 
 Black Head we steer'd, 
 Till Ireland bore south-west by south, and Fingal's 
 
 rock appear'd. 
 Then on the poop stood Webster, while the ship 
 
 hung flutteringly, 
 About to take her tack across the wide, wide ocean 
 
 sea 
 He pointed to th' Atlantic : " Sure yon's no place 
 
 for slaves : 
 Haul down these British badges, for Freedom rules 
 
 the waves, 
 
 Rules the waves " 
 Three hundred strong men answered, shouting 
 
 " Freedom rules the Waves ! " 
 
82 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Then all together rose and brought the British 
 
 ensign down, 
 And up we haul'd our Irish green, without the 
 
 British crown. 
 Emblazoned there a golden harp like a maiden 
 
 undefiled, 
 A shamrock wreath around her head, look'd o'er the 
 
 sea and smiled. 
 A hundred days, with adverse wind, we kept our 
 
 course afar, 
 On the hundredth day came bearing down, a British 
 
 sloop of war. 
 When they spied our flag they fired a gun, but as 
 
 they near'd us fast, 
 Old Andrew Jackson went aloft and nailed it to 
 
 the mast, 
 
 To the mast! 
 A soldier was old Jackson and he made our colours 
 
 fast. 
 
 Patrick Henry was our captain, as brave as ever 
 
 sailed ; 
 " Now we must do or die," said he, " for the green 
 
 flag is nailed." 
 
 Silently came the sloop along ; and silently we lay 
 Flat, till with cheers and loud broadside the foe 
 
 began the fray : 
 Then the boarders o'er the bulwarks, like shuttlecocks? 
 
 we cast; 
 One close discharge from all our guns cut down 
 
 the tapering mast ; 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 83 
 
 " Now, British tars ! St. George's Cross is trailing 
 
 in the sea 
 How d'ye like the greeting and the handsel of the 
 
 Free ? 
 
 Of the Free ! 
 How like you, lads, the greeting of the men who 
 
 will be free?" 
 
 They answer'd us with cannon, as befitted well their 
 
 fame ; 
 And to shoot away our Irish flag each gunner took 
 
 his aim ; 
 
 They ripp'd it up in ribbons, till it fluttered in the air 
 And riddled it with shot-holes, till no Golden Harp 
 
 was there; 
 But through the ragged holes the sky did glance 
 
 and gleam in light, 
 Just as the twinkling stars shine through God's 
 
 unfurled flag at night. 
 With dropping fire we sang " Good night, and fare 
 
 ye well, brave tars ! " 
 Our captain looked aloft : " By heaven ! the flag is 
 
 Stripes and Stars," 
 
 Stripes and Stars ! 
 So into Boston port we sailed, beneath the Stripes 
 
 and Stars. 
 
 JAMES McBuRNEY. 
 
84 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 RHYMES FOR THE LANDLORDED. 
 
 I. EVICTION. 
 
 LONG years their cabin stood 
 
 Out on the moor ; 
 More than one sorrow-brood 
 
 Passed through their door; 
 Ruin them over-cast, 
 Worse than the wintry blast; 
 Famine's plague followed fast : 
 
 God help the poor ! 
 
 Dying, or living here 
 
 Which is the worse? 
 
 Misery's heavy tear, 
 
 Back to thy source ! 
 
 Who dares to lift her head 
 
 Up from the scarcely dead? 
 
 Who pulls the crazy shed 
 Down on the corse? 
 
 What though some rent was due, 
 Hast thou no grace ? 
 
 So may God pardon you, 
 Shame of your race ! 
 
 What though that home may be 
 
 Wretched and foul to see 
 
 What if God harry thee 
 
 Forth from His face? 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 85 
 
 2. REVENGE. 
 
 THE leaves are still ; not a breath is heard ; 
 
 How bright the harvest day ! 
 Tis the tramp of a horse ; the boughs are stirred : 
 
 The agent comes this way. 
 Was it an old gun-muzzle peeped 
 
 Behind yon crimson leaf? 
 
 A shot! and murder's bloody sheaf 
 Is reaped. 
 
 Who sold the farm above his head? 
 
 Who drove the widow mad ? 
 Who pulled her dying from her bed? 
 
 Who robbed the idiot lad? 
 Who sent the starved girl to the streets? 
 
 Who mocked grey Sorrow's smart? 
 
 Yes ! listen in thy blood ! His heart 
 Yet beats. 
 
 Not one has help for the dying man ; 
 
 Not one the murderer stays ; 
 Tho' all must see him where he ran, 
 
 Not even the child betrays. 
 O Wrong ! thou hast a fearful brood ! 
 
 What inquest can ye need 
 
 Who know Revenge but reaped the seed 
 Of Blood ? 
 
86 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 3. EMIGRATION. 
 
 STOOPS the sun behind the ocean ; 
 
 Darker shadows hide the bay ; 
 And the last weak words are spoken, 
 From heart-breaking to heart-broken, 
 
 As the ship gets under weigh. 
 Now the yellow moon is waning 
 
 On the dim and lessening strand; 
 Darkly speeds the Exile^ draining 
 
 The life-blood of the Land. 
 
 . Reck not Youth's intense emotion 
 
 Weeping Love, or white-brow'd Care, 
 Look on Manhood, spirit-broken ; 
 On the dark signs that betoken 
 
 Progress of the plague, Despair. 
 Hopeless are the dim eyes, straining 
 
 Tow'rd that woe-worn pilgrim band : 
 Darkly speeds the Exile, draining 
 
 The life-blood of the Land. 
 
 WILLIAM JAMES LINTON. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 87 
 
 COME, LIBERTY, COME! 
 
 COME, Liberty, come ! we are ripe for thy coming ; 
 
 Come, freshen the hearts where thy rival has trod ; 
 Come, richest and rarest ! come, purest and fairest ! 
 
 Come, daughter of science ! come, gift of the god ! 
 
 Long, long have we sighed for thee, coyest of maidens ! 
 Long, long have we worshipped thee, queen of 
 
 the brave f 
 
 ' Steadily sought for thee, readily fought for thee, 
 Purpled the scaffold and glutted the grave ! 
 
 Still in the ranks are we, struggling with eagerness, 
 Still in the battle for Freedom are we ! 
 
 Words may avail in it, swords if they fail in it, 
 What matters the weapon if only we're free? 
 
 Oh, we are pledged in the face of the universe, 
 Never to falter and never to swerve ; 
 
 Toil for it ! bleed for it ! if there be need for it- 
 Stretch every sinew and strain every nerve. 
 
 Irishmen ! Irishmen ! think what is Liberty, 
 Fountain of all that is valued and dear; 
 
 Peace and security, knowledge and purity, 
 Hope for hereafter, and happiness here. 
 
88 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Nourish it, treasure it deep in your inner heart, 
 Think of it ever by night and by day ; 
 
 Pray for it ! sigh .for it ! work for it ! die for it ! 
 What is this life and dear freedom away'? 
 
 List ! scarce a sound can be heard in our thorough- 
 fares ; 
 
 Look ! scarce a ship can be seen on our streams ; 
 Heart-crushed and desolate, spell-bound, irresolute, 
 
 Ireland but lives in the by-gone of dreams. 
 
 Irishmen ! if we be true to our promises, 
 Nerving our souls for more fortunate hours, 
 
 Life's choicest blessings, love's fond caressings, 
 Peace, home, and happiness all shall be ours ! 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 89 
 
 MY OWN SWEET RIVER LEE. 
 
 MY own dear native river, how fondly dost thou flow 
 By many a fair and sunny scene where I can never go. 
 Thy waves are free to wander, and quickly on they wind, 
 Till thou hast left the crowded streets and city 
 
 far behind ; 
 
 Beyond, I may not follow, thy haunts are not for me; 
 Yet I love to think on the pleasant track of my 
 
 own sweet river Lee ! 
 
 The springtide now is breaking, where thy waters 
 
 glance along 
 Full many a herd salutes thee with bright and 
 
 cheering song, 
 
 Full many a sunbeam falleth upon thy bosom fair, 
 And every nook thou seekest hath welcome smiling 
 
 there. 
 
 Glide on, thou blessed river ! nor pause to think of me 
 Who, only in my longing heart, can tread that 
 
 track with thee ! 
 
 Yet, when thy waters wander, where haughty in decay, 
 Some grand old Irish castle looks frowning on thy 
 
 way 
 Oh, speak aloud, bold river ! how I have wept 
 
 with pride 
 To read of those past ages, ere all our glory died ; 
 
90 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 And wish for one short moment I had been there 
 
 to see 
 Such relic of the bygone day upon thy banks, fair Lee ! 
 
 And if, in roving onward, thy gladsome waters bound 
 Where cottage homes are smiling and children's 
 
 voices sound, 
 Oh, think how sweet and tranquil, beneath the 
 
 loving sky 
 Rejoicing in some country home, my life had glided 
 
 by, 
 
 And grieve one little moment that I can never be 
 A happy cottage maiden upon thy banks, fair Lee ! 
 
 Now, fare thee well, glad river! peace smile upon 
 
 thy way, 
 And still may sunbeams brighten where thy wild 
 
 rimples play ! 
 
 Oft, in that weary city thy blue waves leave behind, 
 I'll think upon the pleasant paths where thy smooth 
 
 waters wind. 
 Oh, but for one long summer's day to wander on 
 
 with thee 
 And rove where'er thou rovest, my own sweet river Lee! 
 
 ELLEN MARY DOWNING. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 91 
 
 THE GOBBAN SAOR. 
 
 [In Petrie's " Round Towers " there is a short account of " The 
 Gobban Saor" their builder. He is there supposed to have 
 lived in the first Christian age of Ireland, the 6th century ; but his 
 birth, life and death are involved in great obscurity and many 
 legends. He is, perhaps, after Finn and St. Patrick, the most 
 popular personage in the ancient period of Irish history.] 
 
 HE step'd a man, out on the ways of men, 
 
 And no one knew his sept, or rank, or name; 
 Like a strong stream far issuing from a glen, 
 
 From some source unexplored the Master came ; 
 Gossips there were who, wondrous keen of ken, 
 
 Surmised that he must be a child of shame; 
 Others declared him of the Druids, then 
 
 Thro' Patrick's labours fall'n from power and fame. 
 
 He lived apart, wrapt up in many plans; 
 
 He woo'd not women, tasted not of wine ; 
 He shunn'd the sports and councils of the clans ; 
 
 Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine. 
 His orisons were old poetic ranns 
 
 Which the new Olamhs deem'd an evil sign; 
 To most he seem'd one of those Pagan Khans 
 
 Whose mystic vigor knows no cold decline. 
 
 He was the builder of the wondrous Towers, 
 Which, tall and straight and exqusitely round, 
 
 Rise monumental round this isle of ours, 
 Index-like, marking spots of holy ground 
 
92 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 In gloaming silent glens, in lowland bowers, 
 On river banks, these Cloiteachs old abound, 
 
 Where Art, enraptured, meditates long hours 
 And Science ponders, wondering and spell-bound. 
 
 Lo, wheresoe'er these pillar-towers aspire, 
 
 Heroes and holy men repose below; 
 The bones of some, gleaned from a Pagan pyre, 
 
 Others in armour lie, as for a foe ; 
 It was the mighty Master's life-desire 
 
 To chronicle his great ancestors so ; 
 What holier duty, what achievement higher 
 
 Remains to us, than this he thus doth show ? 
 
 Yet he, the builder, died an tmknown death; 
 
 His labours done, no man beheld him more; 
 'Twas thought his body faded like a breath 
 
 Or, like a sea-mist, floated off Life's shore. 
 Doubt overhangs his fate and faith and birth : 
 
 His works alone attest his life and love, 
 They are the only witnesses he hath, 
 
 All else Egyptian darkness covers o'er. 
 
 Men called him COBBAN SAOR, and many a tale 
 Yet lingers in the byways of the land, 
 
 Of how he cleft the rock, and down the vale 
 Led the bright river, child-like, in his hand; 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 93 
 
 Of how on giant ships he spread great sail 
 And many marvels else, by him first planned, 
 
 And tho' these legends fail, in Innisfail 
 
 His name and Towers for centuries still shall stand 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
 MY PEERLESS BOY. 
 
 IN many a woe have I betaken, 
 
 My gentle lyre, myself to thee. 
 And deemed my heart not all forsaken 
 
 If still thy strings would speak to me ; 
 But then, with thy consoling measure, 
 
 Was blent an undertone of joy, 
 From one unmasked, one hidden pleasure- 
 
 The presence of my Peerless Boy. 
 
 I loved him ! but till he lay sleeping 
 
 With death's cold shadow on his brow 
 Ne'er seemed the treasure in my keeping 
 
 So precious as I feel it now ! 
 He lent to every hope and feeling 
 
 A secret but pervading joy; 
 And thou, my lyre, wert only stealing 
 
 Thy music from my Peerless Boy. 
 
94 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 And shall my grief not be forgiven ? 
 
 Though minstrel spirits be endued 
 To soar and sing, like birds to heaven, 
 
 They must descend to earth for food : 
 And where shall I, whose soul was bounded 
 
 To him, its sole sustaining joy, 
 Find comfort since the knell has sounded 
 
 The requiem of my Peerless Boy ? 
 
 Oh, sweet it was, past human telling, 
 
 To see his young eye catching fire, 
 And watch his full heart proudly swelling 
 
 Beneath the lessons of my lyre. 
 And, if there be an hour conferring 
 
 On . mortal an immortal's joy, 
 I felt it when my song was stirring 
 
 The spirit of my Peerless Boy. 
 
 No more shall element, or season, 
 
 Or scene, assist me to impart 
 New truth and vigor to his reason 
 
 New grace and beauty to his heart. 
 We ne'er shall roam, as oft together, 
 
 When even our silence had its joy : 
 He moulders in the grave, and thither 
 
 I hasten to my Peerless Boy. 
 
 J. DE J. FRAZER* 
 
NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 95 
 
 TO DUFFY IN PRISON. 
 
 'TWAS but last night I traversed the Atlantic's 
 
 furrow'd face 
 The stars but thinly colonized the wilderness of 
 
 space 
 A white sail glinted here and there, and sometimes 
 
 o'er the swell, 
 Rang the seaman's song of labor or the silvery 
 
 night-watch bell ; 
 I dreamt I reached the Irish shore and felt my heart 
 
 rebound 
 From wall to wall within my breast, as I trod that 
 
 holy ground ; 
 I sat down by my own hearth-stone, beside my 
 
 love again 
 I met my friends, and Him, the first of friends, and 
 
 Irish men. 
 
 I saw once more the dome-like brow, the large and 
 
 lustrous eyes ; 
 I mark'd upon the sphinx-like face the cloud of 
 
 thoughts arise, 
 I heard again that clear quick voice that as a trumpet 
 
 thrill'd 
 The souls of men, and wielded them even as the 
 
 speaker will'd 
 
96 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 I felt the cordial-clasping hand that never feigned 
 
 regard, 
 Nor ever dealt a muffled blow, or nicely weighed 
 
 reward. 
 My friend ! my friend! oh, would to God that you 
 
 were here with me 
 A-watching in the starry west for Ireland's liberty ! 
 
 Oh, Brothers, I can well declare, who read it like 
 
 a scroll, 
 What Roman characters were stamp'd upon that 
 
 Roman soul. 
 The courage, constancy and love the old-time faith 
 
 and truth 
 
 The wisdom of the sages the sincerity of youth 
 Like an oak upon our native hills, a host might 
 
 camp there-under, 
 Yet it bare the song-birds in its core, amid the 
 
 storm and thunder , 
 It was the gentlest, firmest soul that ever, lamp-like 
 
 showed 
 A young race seeking freedom up her misty mountain 
 
 road. 
 
 Like a convoy from the flag-ship^ our fleet is scattered 
 
 far, 
 And you, the valiant Admiral, chained and imprisoned 
 
 are 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 97 
 
 Like a royal galley's precious freight flung on sea- 
 
 sunder'd strands, 
 The diamond wit and golden worth are far-cast on 
 
 the lands, 
 And I, whom most you lov'd, am here, and I can 
 
 but indite 
 My yearnings and my heart hopes, and curse them 
 
 while I write, 
 Alas ! alas ! ah what are prayers, and what are moans 
 
 or sighs, 
 When the heroes of the land are lost of the land 
 
 that will not RISE. 
 
 They will bring you in their manacles beneath their 
 blood-red rag, . 
 
 They will chain you like the conqueror to some sea- 
 moated crag. 
 
 To their slaves it will be given your great spirit to 
 annoy, 
 
 To fling falsehood in your cup, and to break your 
 martyr joy, 
 
 But you will bear it nobly, as Regulus did of eld, 
 
 The oak will be the oak, and honored e'en when felFd; 
 
 Change is brooding over earth, it will find you mid 
 the main, 
 
 And throned between its wings you'll reach your 
 native land again. 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
 NEW YORK, October 2$th> 1848. 
 
98 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 WAITING FOR THE MAY. 
 
 AH ! my heart is weary waiting, 
 
 Waiting for the May 
 Waiting for the pleasant rambles, 
 Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, 
 With the woodbine alternating, 
 
 Scent the dewy way. 
 Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
 Waiting for the May. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 
 
 Longing for the May 
 Longing to escape from study, 
 To the young face fair and ruddy, 
 And the thousand charms belonging 
 
 To the summers day. 
 Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 
 Longing for the May. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
 
 Sighing for the May 
 Sighing for their sure returning, 
 When the summer beams are burning, 
 Hopes and flowers that dead or dying 
 
 All the winter lay. 
 Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, 
 Sighing for the May. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 99 
 
 Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing 
 
 Throbbing for the May 
 Throbbing for the sea-side billows, 
 Or the water-wooing willows ; 
 Where in laughing and in sobbing 
 
 Glide the streams away. 
 Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing, 
 Throbbing for the May. 
 
 Waiting sad, dejected, weary, 
 
 Waiting for the May. 
 Spring goes by with wasted warnings, 
 Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings ; 
 Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 
 
 Life still ebbs away : 
 
 Man is ever weary, weary, 
 
 Waiting for the May ! 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY. 
 
IOO NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 THE POET'S EGERIA. 
 
 THERE came a dream of most divine delight 
 To soothe my soul tossed in a wild unrest ; 
 
 Two soft fair hands lay on my matted hair, 
 And my brow throbbed upon a loving breast. 
 
 A form, methought, in youth's most glowing May 
 A form, in mould of heavenly contour cast 
 
 A form, which shrined a high aspiring soul 
 Within my circling arms was prisoned fast. 
 
 And eyes which rule my life as polar stars 
 Above the trusting seaman soar and shine 
 
 Dear eyes, fond eyes, eyes of benignant light, 
 Looked with a loving kindness into mine ; 
 
 From a high brow where one might fitly set 
 The antique crown of some heroic race ; 
 
 A proud fair brow ; but made divinely sweet 
 
 When smiles lit up earth's loveliest human face. 
 
 And that fair type of perfect womankind, 
 
 Methought did love me with ingenuous truth ; 
 
 And gave to me, unworthy of such grace, 
 
 Her woman's faith, her warm and lovely youth 
 
_N T EW SPIRIT OF 1HE NATION. IOI 
 
 Fame, friendship, gain whatever move men's souls 
 
 Are ice-cold all, after that dream of bliss; 
 I walk alone amid the jostling crowd, 
 L Rapt in the memory of her parting kiss. 
 
 Matchless Egeria ! vision of delight ! 
 
 Which on my drear and dungeoned life did 
 
 break, 
 As blessed sunshine beams through prison bars ; 
 
 Oh, dream divine! why did I ever wake? 
 
 CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 
 
102 NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 
 
 O'CLERY'S PROPHESY. 
 
 A.D. I600. 
 
 [Hugh O'Neill had a poet, O'Clery, who foretold the victory 
 of the Blackwater. The original of the following lines may have 
 been written by the same hand, as I ' first met with them in an 
 old MS. in the Burgundian Library at Brussels, among other 
 fragments left by Friar Michael O'Clery, the chief of the " Four 
 Masters." Author's Note.] 
 
 BY the Druid's stone I slept, 
 While my dog his vigil kept, 
 And there on the mountain lone, 
 By that old weird-raising stone, 
 Visions wrapt me round, and voices 
 Spoke" the word my soul rejoices. 
 
 ' "Bard f'fhe stranger's roof shall fall. 
 Grass shall grow in Norman hall, 
 Mileadh's race shall rise again, 
 Lords of mountain and of glen ; 
 Nial's blood, and Brian's seed 
 Known for kingly word and deed 
 Ollamh's skill and Ogma's lore 
 Time to Banbha will restore. 
 
 " Destiny has doomed it so ! 
 Through pass of death, and waves of woe, 
 Banbha's sons shall come and go ; 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Twelve score years a foreign brood 
 Shall warm them in the native blood 
 Shall lord it in the fields of Eri, 
 Till her sons of life are weary. 
 
 "When the long-wronged men of Eri 
 Of their very lives are weary, 
 In that hour from cave and rath 
 Mighty souls shall find a path 
 They who won in Gaul dominion ; 
 They who cut the Eagle's pinion; 
 They of the prophetic race, 
 They of the fierce blood of Thrace, 
 They who Man and Mona lorded * 
 Shall regain the land and guard it" 
 
 So, upon that mountain lone, 
 By the grey weird-raising stone, 
 Visions wrapped me round and voices 
 Spake the word my soul rejoices. 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE 
 
 * The Picts are derived by ancient tradition from Thrace. 
 Besides their Scottish colony the Irish had dominion over the 
 Isles of Man and Mona (Anglesey). 
 
IO4 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 THE FAMINE YEAR. 
 
 WEARY men what reap ye ? " Golden corn for the 
 
 stranger." 
 What sow ye ? " Human corses that await for the 
 
 Avenger." 
 Fainting forms, all hunger-stricken, what see you in 
 
 the offing ? 
 "Stately ships to bear our food away, amid the 
 
 stranger's scoffing." 
 There's a proud array of soldiers what do they round 
 
 your door ? 
 "They guard our master's granaries from the thin 
 
 hands of the poor." 
 Pale mothers, wherefore weeping ? " Would to God 
 
 that we were dead 
 " Our children swoon before us, and we cannot give 
 
 them bread ! * 
 
 Little children, tears are strange upon your infant 
 
 faces, 
 God meant you but to smile within your mother's 
 
 soft embraces. 
 " Oh, we know not what is smiling, and we know 
 
 not what is dying ; 
 " But we're hungry, very hungry, and we cannot stop 
 
 our crying ; 
 
NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 105 
 
 u And some of us grow cold and white we know 
 
 not what it means. 
 
 "But as they lie beside us, we tremble in our dreams." 
 There's a gaunt crowd on the highway are ye come 
 
 to pray to man, 
 With hollow eyes that cannot weep, and for words 
 
 your faces wan? 
 
 " No ; the blood is dead within our veins, we care 
 
 not now for life ; 
 " Let us die hid in the ditches, far from children and 
 
 from wife ; 
 " We cannot stay to listen to their ravings, famished 
 
 cries 
 " Bread ! Bread ! Bread ! and none to still their 
 
 agonies. 
 "We left an infant playing with her dead mother's 
 
 hand : 
 " We left a maiden maddened by the fever's scorching 
 
 brand : 
 "Better, maiden, thou wert strangled in thy own 
 
 dark-twisted tresses ! 
 " Better, infant, thou wert smothered in thy mother's 
 
 first caresses. 
 
 " We are fainting in our misery, but God will hear 
 
 our groan ; 
 "Yea, if fellow-men desert us, He will hearken from 
 
 His throne ! 
 
106 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 " Accursed are we in our own land, yet toil we still 
 
 and toil ; 
 " But the stranger reaps our harvest the alien owns 
 
 our soil. 
 " O Christ, how have we sinned, that on our native 
 
 plains 
 " We perish houseless, naked, starved, with branded 
 
 brow, like Cain's? 
 " Dying, dying wearily, with a torture sure and 
 
 slow 
 "Dying as a dog would die, by the wayside as we 
 
 go- 
 
 " One by one they're falling round us, their pale 
 
 faces to the sky ; 
 "We've no strength left to dig them graves 
 
 there let them lie. 
 "The wild bird, when he's stricken, is mourned 
 
 by the others, 
 " But we, we die in Christian land we die amid 
 
 our brothers 
 " In the land which God has given like a wild beast 
 
 in his cave, 
 "Without a tear, a prayer, a shroud, a coffin, or a 
 
 grave. 
 "Ha! but think ye the contortions on each dead 
 
 face ye see, 
 " Shall not be read on judgment-day by the 
 
 eyes of Deity ? 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 1 07 
 
 " We are wretches, famished, scorned, human tools 
 
 to build your pride, 
 "But God will yet take vengeance for the souls 
 
 for whom Christ died. 
 "Now is your hour of pleasure, bask ye in the 
 
 world's caress ; 
 " But our whitening bones against ye will arise as 
 
 witnesses, 
 " From the cabins and the ditches, in their charred, 
 
 uncoffined masses, 
 " For the ANGEL OF THE TRUMPET will know them 
 
 as he passes. 
 "A ghastly, spectral army before great God we'll 
 
 stand 
 "And arraign ye as our murderers, O spoilers of 
 
 our land ! " 
 
 SPERANZA (LADY WILDE). 
 
108 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 "NO IRISH NEED APPLY." 
 
 [It would appear that this rejoinder was provoked by an 
 advertisement (not uncommon at the time it was written 1845 
 in the Dublin papers) for an English or foreign servant, with the 
 proviso which forms the refrain of this feu z esprit : what lent 
 the exclusion additional piquancy was the fact which had become 
 known, that the advertiser was an Englishman employed in 
 Ireland, at a very high salary, as a Poor Law Commissioner. ] 
 
 THANK you, John Bull, for this nice little summary 
 Here is no "message of peace " and such flummery 
 Here, you would scorn to bamboozle or lie 
 Stript of its metaphors, shorn of its mystery, 
 Here is our share of your statute-book's history 
 " For Justice and Right, let no Irish apply ! " 
 Hear it, oh, Irishmen, 
 Boorish or squirishmen, 
 Whether your station be low or be high 
 From wigged men to watchmen, 
 English and Scotch men 
 Are the fittest to trust, so you need not apply 
 
 Every spring s "the Great Talk" is commenced at 
 
 St. Stephen's, 
 The sweet lips of Royalty soothe every grievance, 
 
 And Chartists may threaten, and Welshmen 
 defy! 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 1 09 
 
 But lest Justice should hitherward wander, to spancel 
 
 her, 
 
 England proclaims through her learned Lord Chan, 
 cellor, 
 
 " The Irish are aliens," * so needn't apply ! 
 Hear it, oh, Irishman, 
 Peasant or squirishman, 
 
 With a flush on your cheek, and a flash in 
 your eye 
 
 Milesians ! Cromwellians ! 
 Ye're nothing but aliens 
 In language and race, so you needn't apply. 
 
 Suppose Mr. Rothschild would take into partnership 
 A poor struggling merchant who had neither chart 
 nor ship, 
 
 Would Roth, live in a palace the "Co." 
 
 in a sty ? 
 
 Vould he take all his labour, his time, and his talents, 
 Aid say, when the latter applied for his balance, 
 "You're an Irishman, Pat, so you needn't apply ? " 
 Well, gallant Irishman, 
 Peasant or squirishman, 
 This you are told, and you pause to reply ? 
 England says this to you ! 
 Have you no fist to you ? 
 Signs are sometimes the best way to reply. 
 
 * It was Lord Lyndhurst who used this memorable expression. 
 
HO NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Well ! the meaning of one little line is surprising 
 We have spoken and met, what is left ? advertising ! 
 Some notice like this 'tis no harm if we try ? 
 WANTED FOR IRELAND a true native Parliament, 
 Better than that won by Grattan and Charlemort 
 NOTA BENE : "No English or Scotch need apply! '' 
 This is our ultimatum, 
 We don't love or don't hate ? en, 
 But the wants of our island her sons can 
 supply 
 
 Boorish or squirishmen, 
 They must be Irishmen 
 So [Johnny and Sawney, you needn't ipply 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Ill 
 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 AT length beneath the roof we rest 
 
 That sheltered us when life was young, 
 In this old window tow'rds the West, 
 
 Where oft in twilight's glow weVe sung ; 
 Still bright the mountain's starry rim, 
 
 Still fresh the trees around the door; 
 But where are they, the lost, the dim, 
 
 Whose forms shall light it never more? 
 
 Ah me ! how many an afternoon, 
 
 Along yon ivied lane we went 
 The low wind breathing from the moon 
 
 The dead leaves wafting wintry scent; 
 The ruin gloomed the holy ground, 
 
 The fields were full of fading light 
 The beat of barrack drums was round 
 
 The dead West rolling tow'rd the night. 
 
 Rememberest thou old summer time 
 
 When, the long studious day now o'er, 
 Entranc'd we sat in talk sublime 
 
 Drawn from some storied page of yore? 
 Rich fancies, themes abstruse, old songs, 
 
 From varied lips were heard to rise 
 Ah ! where are those old spirit throngs 
 
 Long passed beyond yon crimson skies ? 
 
112 ttEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Perchance with silent eyes to-night 
 
 They gaze upon us from afar ; 
 Perchance their dreams from spheres of light 
 
 Float tow'rd us on this green old star; 
 And each old friend, each long-lost hour, 
 
 Each field and brook and song they knew 
 Strikes o'er their memory with the power 
 
 That strews these tears between us two. 
 
 The low wind moans along the hill, 
 
 The ivy round the casement shakes, 
 The full moon rises slow and still 
 
 And drifts the fields with silver flakes: 
 Then let us o'er this shadow'd bowl 
 
 Clasp these old hands, and while the breath 
 Flows through us, charm the silent soul 
 
 With dreams of vanish'd joy and death. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 1 13 
 
 SHE'S COME! SHE'S COME! 
 
 SHE'S come ! She's come ! 
 I wondered at first why a tenderer light 
 Added beauty to day, and new lustre to night 
 And I wondered to see a fresh bloom on the flowers, 
 And the laughter and joy that came on with the hours : 
 The skies they are brighter, the breezes are lighter, 
 The rivers are fleeter, all music is sweeter, 
 And earth seems refreshed and endued with new powers! 
 While the secret of all, though no secret to some, 
 Is the sight of the Loved One She's come ! She's come ! 
 
 She's come ! She's come ! 
 
 I wondered at first at such glory and gladness ; 
 For earth has no shadows, and men have no sadness : 
 Care, grief, and misfortune, from mortals have flown ; 
 And Nature is proud as a queen on her throne ; 
 The breezes, the vagrants, go round with her fragrance, 
 And the pinks and sweet briars are robbers and liars, 
 For 'tis her breath they've stolen, ashamed of their own ; 
 While the secret of all, though no secret to some, 
 To the presence of Ellen She's come ! She's come ! 
 
 She's come ! She's come ! 
 
 'Tis surprising how brilliantly all things are glancing ! 
 The business of life now's but singing and dancing. 
 No wonder 'tis Jubilee ! Lord, it begins 
 And all the wide world will be pardoned their sins ! 
 
114 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Methinks I could fly now, my spirit's so high now 
 But, stop is it plain, man, that I'm not insane, man, 
 Yet, granting I'm mad as the maddest O'Flynns,* 
 Still the secret of all, though no secret to some, 
 Is the sight of the dear one She's come ! She's come ! 
 
 She's come ! She's come ! 
 
 Go tell the old sun, whom our bards sing the praise of, 
 To take a short rest, let him now lay his rays off ! 
 And the moon put it to her old age to say whether 
 They might not enjoy a vacation together : 
 We don't want their light now, by day or by night now, 
 And the stars needn't cluster we've two with more lustre 
 Than all that the firmament gives altogether ! 
 Whilst the secret of all, though no secret to some, 
 Is the light of the Loved One She's come! She's come! 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 * There liveth a famil)*in this quarter, named O'Flynne, of 
 which report hath it that few of them be compos mentis in ordinary 
 matters. SPENSER'S " Case of Ireland Stated." 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 THE REASON. 
 
 [Some verses having appeared in the Nation complaining of the 
 long silence of the writer of this ballad, the following is the 
 answer : " One of the most tender and touching," the editor of 
 the Nation wrote at the time, "he had ever read, and the more 
 so that the death of a dear child gives it a force beyond the 
 reach of art."] 
 
 MY spirit o'er an early tomb, 
 
 With ruffled wing, sits drooping; 
 And real forms of blighted bloom 
 Have in my heart left little room 
 
 For forms of fancy's grouping. 
 The heart, the eye, I loved to light 
 
 With song, are dark and hollow ; 
 Ah, if, when the young eye was bright, 
 I took a haughty minstrel flight, 
 It was to tempt the inborn might 
 
 Of that young heart to follow ! 
 
 No more ah, never more, his gaze 
 
 Shall be to me as glory ! 
 No more ah, never more, my lays 
 Shall sway him with a hope to raise 
 
 His country, and her story ! 
 And when the loved ones in the numb 
 
 Deaf trance of death are wreathed 
 (Though sweet may be his song to some) 
 
Il6 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 The singer feels the hour is come 
 
 For lyre and lyrist to be dumb 
 
 His best of song is breathed. 
 
 'Tis true it was a joy to see 
 
 The slave for freedom wrestle, 
 Stirr'd by my random minstrelsy ; 
 But 'tis not in the lofty tree 
 
 The sweetest song birds nestle : 
 They are a shy and chary race 
 
 And though they soar and squander 
 Rich music over nature's face, 
 To one deep, lonely dwelling-place 
 No foot may find, no eye may trace, 
 
 They still return the fonder. 
 
 Oh, God ! But prayers availed me not ! 
 
 The darkening angel entered, 
 And made one universal blot 
 A world-wide desert of the spot 
 
 Where all my hope was centered ! 
 The heart, the eye, I loved to light 
 
 With song, are dark and hollow : 
 What marvel, if my spirit slig;ht 
 The guerdon of the minstrel's flight? 
 I cannot tempt the inborn might 
 
 Of that young heart to follow. 
 
 J. DE JEAN FRAZER. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 1 17 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE POOR. 
 
 WAS sorrow ever like unto our sorrow ? 
 
 Oh, God above! 
 Will our night never change into a morrow 
 
 Of joy and love ? 
 A deadly gloom is on us waking sleeping 
 
 Like the darkness at noon-tide 
 That fell upon the pallid Mother, weeping 
 
 By the Crucified. 
 
 Before us die our brothers of starvation : 
 
 Around are cries of famine and despair : 
 Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salvation? 
 
 Where, oh, where? 
 If the angels ever hearken, downward bending, 
 
 They are weeping, we are sure, 
 At the litanies of human groans, ascending 
 
 From the crushed hearts of the poor. 
 
 When the human rests in love upon the human, 
 
 All grief is light ; 
 But who bends one kind glance to illumine 
 
 Our life-long night ? 
 The air around is ringing with their laughter. 
 
 God has only made the rich to smile : 
 And we, in our rags and want and woe, we follow after, 
 
 Weeping the while. 
 
Il8 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 And the laughter seems but utter'd to deride us 
 
 When, oh! when, 
 Will fall the frozen barriers that divide us 
 
 From other men ? 
 Will ignorance for ever thus enslave us ! 
 
 Will misery for ever lay us low ? 
 All are eager with their insults, but to save us 
 
 None, none we know. 
 
 We never knew a childhood's mirth and gladness 
 
 Nor the proud heart of youth, free and brave ; 
 Oh ! a death-like dream of wretchedness and sadness 
 
 Is our life's weary journey to the grave. 
 Day by day we lower sink and lower, 
 
 Till the God-like soul within 
 Falls crushed, beneath the fearful demon power 
 
 Of poverty and sin. 
 
 So we toil on on, with fever burning 
 
 In heart and brain ; 
 So we toil on on, thro' bitter scorning 
 
 Want, woe and pain : 
 We dare not raise our eyes to the blue heaven 
 
 Or the toil must cease 
 We dare not breathe the fresh air God has given, 
 
 One hour in peace. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 119 
 
 We must toil, though the light of life is turning, 
 
 Oh, how dim ! 
 We must toil on our sick bed, feebly turning 
 
 Our eyes to Him 
 Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly saying 
 
 With scarce moved breath, 
 And the paler hands, uplifted, and the praying, 
 
 "Lord, grant us Death!" 
 
 SPERANZA (LADY WILDE). 
 
 WORK WHILE IT IS CALLED DAY. 
 
 " No man hath hired us "strong hands drooping 
 
 Listless falling in idleness down ; 
 Men in the silent market place grouping 
 
 Round Christ's cross of silent stone. 
 '' No man hath hired us " pale hands pining, 
 
 Stalwart forms bowed down to sue 
 " The red dawn is passed, noon is shining, 
 
 But no man hath given us work to do." 
 
 Then a Voice seemed to peal from the heights of 
 heaven : 
 
 " Men," it said, of the Irish soil ! 
 4< I gave ye a land as a Garden of Eden, 
 
 "Where you and your sons should till and toil; 
 
120 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 " I set your throne by the glorious waters, 
 
 "Where ocean flung round you her mighty 
 
 bands, 
 "That your sails, like those of your Tyrian 
 
 fathers, 
 "Might sweep the shores of a hundred lands. 
 
 " Power I gave to the hands of your leaders 
 
 "Wisdom I gave to the lips of the wise, 
 "And your children grew as the stately cedars 
 
 " That shadow the streams of Paradise. 
 "What have ye done with my land of beauty? 
 
 " Has the spoiler bereft her of robe and crown ? 
 <{ Have my people failed in a people's duty? 
 
 "Has the wild boar trampled my vineyard down ? " 
 
 " True," they answered, faint in replying, 
 
 " Our vines are rent by the wild boar's tusks ; 
 "The corn on our golden slopes is lying, 
 
 " But our children feed on the remnant husks. 
 " Our strong men lavish their blood for others ; 
 
 c ' Our prophets and wise men are heard no more ; 
 "Our young men give a kiss to their mothers, 
 
 "Then sail away for a foreign shore." 
 
 Then the Lord came down from the heights of 
 heaven, 
 
 Came down to that garden fair to view, 
 Where the weary men waited, from morn' till even, 
 
 For some one to give them work to do. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 121 
 
 "Ye have sinned," He said, and the angel lustre 
 Darkened slowly as bright clouds may ; 
 
 " Weeds are growing where fruit should cluster 
 "Yet ye stand idle all the day." 
 
 " Have ye trod in the furrows, and worked as 
 truly 
 
 "As men who knew they reap as they sow? 
 " Have ye flung in the seed and watched it duly, 
 
 " Day and night, lest the tares should grow ? 
 " Have ye tended the vine my hand hath planted ? 
 
 "Pruned and guided its tendrils fair, 
 " Ready with all things that might be wanted 
 
 "To strengthen the fruit its branches bear? 
 
 "Who knoweth the time of the new dispensations; 
 
 " Go on in faith, and the light will come ; 
 "The last may yet be first amongst nations; 
 
 "Wait till the end for the final doom." 
 The last may be first ! Shall our country's glory 
 
 Ever flash light on the path we have trod? 
 Who knows? Who knows? for our future story 
 
 Lies hid in the great sealed Book of God. 
 
 LADY WILDE, 
 
122 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 WORDS OF FOREWARNING. 
 
 YOUTHS ! Compatriots ! Friends ! Men for the time 
 
 that is nearing ! 
 Spirits appointed by Heaven to front the storm and 
 
 the trouble ! 
 You, who in seasons of peril, unfaltering still and 
 
 unfearing, 
 Calmly have held on your course, the course of the 
 
 Just and the Noble ! 
 You, young men, would a man unworthy to rank 
 
 in your number, 
 Yet with a heart that bleeds for his country's wrongs 
 
 and affliction, 
 Fain raise a voice to, in song, albeit his music and 
 
 diction 
 Rather be fitted, alas, to lull to, than startle from, 
 
 slumber. 
 
 FRIENDS ! the gloom in our land, in our once bright 
 
 land, grows deeper. 
 Suffering, even to death, in its horriblest forms, 
 
 aboundeth ; 
 Thro' our black harvestless fields, the peasants' faint 
 
 wail resoundeth. 
 Hark to it, even now ! . . The night-mare oppressed 
 
 sleeper 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 123 
 
 Gasping and struggling for life, beneath his hideous 
 
 bestrider, 
 Seeth not, drecth not, sight or terror more fearful 
 
 or ghastly 
 Than that poor paralysed slave ! Want, House- 
 
 lessness, Famine, and lastly 
 Death in a thousand-corpsed grave, that momently 
 
 waxeth wider. 
 
 WORSE ! The great heart of the country is thrilled 
 
 and throbbeth but faintly ! 
 
 Apathy palsieth here and there, a panic misgiving: 
 Even the Trustful and Firm, even the Sage and the 
 
 Saintly, 
 Seem to believe that the Dead but foreshow the 
 
 doom of the Living. 
 
 Men of the faithfullest souls all but broken hearted 
 O'er the dishonoured tombs of the glorious dreams. 
 
 that have perished 
 Dreams that almost outshone Realities while they 
 
 were cherished 
 All, they exclaim, is gone! The Vision and Hope 
 
 have departed ! 
 
 WORST AND SADDEST. As, under Milton's lower- 
 most Tophet 
 
 Yawned another yet lower, so for the mourning Million 
 Still is there deeper woe ! Patriot, Orator, Prophet, 
 Some who a few years agone stood proudly in the 
 Pavilion 
 
124 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Of their land's rights and liberties, gazing abroad 
 
 thro' its casement 
 On the fair Future they fondly deemed at hand 
 
 for their nation, 
 Now not alone succumb to the Change and the 
 
 Degradation, 
 But have ceased even to feel them ! God ! this 
 
 indeed is abasement ! 
 
 IS THE LAST HOPE THEN GONE ? Must W6 lie down 
 
 despairing ? 
 No ! there is always hope for all who will dare 
 
 and suffer ; 
 Hope for all who surmount the Hill of Exertion, 
 
 uncaring 
 Whether their path be brighter or darker, smoother 
 
 or rougher ; 
 No ! there is always hope for those who, relying 
 
 with earnest 
 Souls on God and themselves take for their 
 
 motto, 'Labour.' 
 Such see the rainbow's glory where Heaven looms 
 
 darkest and sternest : 
 Such in the storm-wind hear but the music of pipe 
 
 and tabor. 
 
 FOLLOW YOUR DESTINY UP ! Work ! Write ! Preach 
 
 to arouse and * 
 
 Warn, and watch and encourage ! Dangers, no 
 
 doubt, surround you 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 125 
 
 But for Ten threatening you now, you will soon be 
 
 appalled by a Thousand 
 If you forsake the course to which Virtue and Honour 
 
 have bound you ! 
 Oh, persevere ! persevere ! Falter not ! faint not ! 
 
 shrink not ! 
 Hate and Hostility serve but as spurs to the will 
 
 of the Zealous 
 Tho' your foes flourish awhile, and you seem to 
 
 decline, be not jealous, 
 " Help from the Son of Man cometh in such an 
 
 hour as you think not ! " 
 
 SLAVERY DEBASES THE SOUL, yea ! reverses its primal 
 
 nature ; 
 Long were our fathers bowed to the earth with 
 
 fetters of iron 
 
 And alas ! we inherit the failings and ills that environ 
 Slaves _like a dungeon wall and dwarf their original 
 
 stature. 
 Look on your countrymen's failings with less of 
 
 anger than pity; 
 Even with the faults of the evil deal in a manner 
 
 half tender ; 
 And like an army encamped before a beleagured 
 
 city, 
 Earlier or later you must compel your foes to 
 
 surrender ! 
 
126 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Lo, A NEW YEAR ! A year, into whose bosom Time 
 
 gathers 
 
 All the past lessons of ages a mournful but truth- 
 teaching muster ; 
 All the rich thoughts and deeds and the marvellous 
 
 lore of our fathers ; , 
 
 All the sunlike experience that makes men wiser 
 
 and juster. 
 Hail it with steadfast resolve thankfully, if it 
 
 befriend you 
 Guardedly, lest it betray without either Despair 
 
 or Elation, 
 
 Panoplied inly against the sharpest ills it may send you, 
 But with a high hope still for yourselves and the 
 
 Rise of your Nation. 
 
 OMEN FULL, arched with gloom and laden with 
 
 many a presage, 
 
 Many a portent of woe, looms the Impending Era, 
 Not as of old, by comet, sword, Gorgon, or ghastly 
 
 Chimera, 
 Scarcely by lightning and thunder, Heaven to-day 
 
 sends its message 
 Into the secret heart down thro' the caves of the 
 
 spirit, 
 
 Pierces the silent shaft sinks the invisible token 
 Cloaked in the Hall, the -Envoy stands, his mission 
 
 unspoken, 
 While the pale banquetless guests await in trembling 
 
 to hear it. 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 127 
 
 THE FOUR MASTERS. 
 
 [The great historical record, known in Irish as "Annala 
 rioghachta Eireann" and in English as the "Annals of the 
 Kingdom of Ireland, by the Four Masters," is certainly the most 
 valuable title deed of Ireland's nationality. Its Index Nominum 
 supplies a roll of many thousands of the notable men and women 
 who lived in Ireland from the time of St. Patrick to the year of 
 our Lord 1616 her kings and chiefs, her warriors and sages, 
 her poets and her priests. Its Index Locorum indicates, by their 
 true names, many thousands of places which have been the scenes 
 of memorable events in Irish history. Of the " Four Masters " 
 who compiled this priceless summary, Michael O'Clery, "a poor 
 brother of the order of St. Francis," was the principal. Before 
 entering on his labour of love, O'Clery spent ten years in travel- 
 ling about the country, collecting MSS. and materials from the 
 religious houses and elsewhere. The munificence of Feargal 
 Lord O'Gara and the hospitality of the brethren of the Franciscan 
 convent of Donegal enabled Brother Michael and his colleagues 
 to work uninterruptedly at their compilation for five years i.e., 
 from 1632 to 1636. When it was finished O'Clery dedicated 
 it to his patron Lord O'Gara, and left it in his hands, returning 
 himself to his friary at Louvain, where he died in 1643. McGee 
 appears to have cherished a singular affection for Brother Michael 
 O'Clery. He has written many poems in honour of him ; and 
 in his earliest work, "The Irish Writers of the iyth Century," 
 there is an interesting memoir of O'Clery and his associates. ED.] 
 
 MANY altars are in Banva, 
 Many chancels hung in white, 
 
 Many schools and many abbeys 
 Glorious in our fathers' sight; 
 
128 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Yet whene'er I go a pilgrim 
 Back, dear Native Isle, to thee, 
 
 May my filial footsteps bear me 
 To that Abbey by the sea 
 
 To that Abbey roofless, doorless, 
 Shrineless, monkless, though it be ! 
 
 These are days of swift up-building; 
 
 All to pride and triumph tends ; 
 Art is liegeman to Religion ; 
 
 Wealth on Genius now attends. 
 As the day-beam to the sailor, 
 
 Lighting up the wrecker's shore- 
 So the present lustre shineth 
 
 And our dangers all are o'er 
 But no gleam rests on that Abbey, 
 
 Silent by Tyrconnel's shore. 
 
 Yet I hear them in my musings, 
 
 And I see them as I gaze, 
 Four meek men around the cresset, 
 
 Reading scrolls of other days; 
 Four unwearied scribes who treasure 
 
 Every word and every line 
 Saving every ancient sentence 
 
 As if writ by hands divine. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. I2Q 
 
 On their calm down-bended foreheads 
 
 Tell me what it is you read? 
 Is there malice, or ambition, 
 
 Selfish will, or selfish deed? 
 Oh, no, no! the angel Duty 
 
 Sheds his light within these walls ; 
 And their four worn right hands follow 
 
 Where the Angel's radiance falls. 
 
 Not of fame, and not of fortune, 
 
 Do these eager pensmen dream; 
 Darkness shrouds the hills of Banva, 
 
 Sorrow sits by every stream ; 
 One by one the lights that led her, 
 
 Hour by hour, are quenched in gloom; 
 But the patient, sad, Four Masters, 
 
 Toil on in their lonely room 
 
 Duty still defying Doom. 
 
 As the breathing of the west wind 
 
 Over bound and bearded sheaves 
 As the murmur in the bee-hives 
 
 Softly heard on summer eves 
 So the rustle of the vellum, 
 
 So the anxious voices, sound; 
 While a deep expectant silence 
 
 Seems to listen all around. 
 
130 NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 
 
 Brightly on the Abbey gable 
 
 Shines the full moon thro' the night, 
 
 While afar to northward glances 
 
 All the bay in waves of light : 
 Tufted isle, and splinter'd headland 
 Smile and soften in her ray ; 
 
 Yet within their dusky chamber 
 The meek Masters toil alway, 
 Finding all too short the day. 
 
 Now they kneel ! oh, list the accents, 
 
 From the souls of mourners wrung; 
 Hear the soaring aspirations 
 
 In the old ancestral tongue; 
 For the houseless sons of chieftains, 
 
 For their brethren near and far, 
 For the mourning Mother Island 
 
 These their aspirations are. 
 
 And they say before up-rising: 
 
 " Father ! grant one other pray'r. 
 Bless the lord of Moy O'Gara! 
 
 Bless his lady and his heir ! 
 Send the generous Chief, whose bounty 
 
 Cheers, sustain us, in our task, 
 Health, success, renown, salvation : 
 
 Father! grant the prayer we ask." 
 
NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 131 
 
 Oh, that we, who now inherit 
 
 The great bequest of their toil, 
 Were but fit to trace their footsteps 
 
 Through the annals of the Isle; 
 Oh, that the same angel, Duty, 
 
 Guardian of our tasks might be; 
 Teach us, as she taught our Masters, 
 
 Faithful, grateful, just, to be : 
 As she taught the old Four Masters 
 
 In that Abbey by the sea ! 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
132 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 THE DYING BARD. 
 
 ASK not a lay my lyre is cold 
 
 My heart is chill'd, as by decay, 
 O'er-heaping it with funeral mould 
 
 And muttering " Clay, return to clay ! " 
 So be it let the happy shrink 
 
 Aghast at time's unlook'd-for close 
 / learnt from life, how calm can sink 
 
 The wretched into death's repose. 
 
 Yet has my heart enough of life 
 
 To blush for this intrusive strain ; 
 For I had girt me for the strife 
 
 Of soul with steel, of song with chain ; 
 And though my place where none may grieve, 
 
 Be measured, yet it chafes my will 
 To perish from the earth, and leave 
 
 My land beneath oppression still. 
 
 Yes ! mourn I must, to see the pall 
 
 Drop o'er my visions unfulfill'd, 
 The last bright airy palace fall 
 
 I pledged my very soul to build. 
 But one deep comfort still remains ; 
 
 / am the humblest of the band 
 Who burned and burn to scorch the stains 
 
 Of slavery from our fatherland fj 
 
NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 133 
 
 The furnace will not miss one spark 
 
 Evoked from its absorbing glow : 
 Strong men, by hosts, will strike our mark, 
 
 Tho' lost be my light shaft and bow. 
 And so the meed be nobly won, 
 
 Let glory shrine the conquering brave, 
 Tho' every pilgrim trample on 
 
 My ashes in a neighbouring grave. 
 
 Oh, could I, ere my voice be hushed, 
 
 See all unanimous as waves ! 
 No minstrel weeping, while he blushed, 
 
 And sang upraiding songs for slaves ! 
 No chains, to make the heart a hell ! 
 
 No coward, to endure its fire ! 
 How gladly would I say: Farewell, 
 
 My listener and farewell, my lyre! 
 
 J. DE JEAN FRAZER. 
 
134 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 NATIVE HILLS. 
 
 I KNOW, I know, each storied steep 
 
 Thoughout the land, 
 Where winds enchanted love-locked sleep, 
 
 Where teem the torrents grand, 
 For them I pine, for them I weep, 
 
 An outcast man and banned. 
 
 I see the assembled bards of old 
 
 On these grand hills ; 
 Their music o'er the upland fold 
 
 Like dew distils \ 
 Or flashes downward bright and bold 
 
 As cave-born rills. 
 
 Content thee, soul ! in vain you long 
 
 To breathe that air, 
 Sweet with the loving breath of song, 
 
 Felt everywhere 
 For man is weak, and Fate is strong : 
 
 Not there ! not there ! 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATIOX. 135 
 
 I LOVE YOU. 
 
 I LOVE you ! 'tis the simplest way 
 
 The thing I feel to tell ; 
 Yet if I told it all the day, 
 
 You'd never guess how well. 
 You are my comfort and my light, 
 
 My very life you seem ; 
 I think of you all day all night 
 
 Tis but of you I dream. 
 
 There's rapture in the lightest word 
 
 That you can speak to me; 
 My soul is like -^Eolian chord, 
 
 And vibrates under thee. 
 I never read the love-song yet 
 
 So thrilling, fond, or true, 
 But in my own heart I have met 
 
 Some kinder thought for you. 
 
 I bless the shadows on your face, 
 
 The light upon your hair ; 
 I'd like for hours to sit and trace 
 
 The passing changes there ; 
 I love to hear your voice's tone, 
 
 Although you should not say 
 A single word to dream upon, 
 
 When that has died away. 
 
 L 
 
136 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Oh, you are kindly as the beam 
 
 That warms where'er it plays; 
 And you are gentle as a dream 
 
 Of happy future days; 
 And you are strong to do the right, 
 
 And swift the wrong to flee; 
 And if you were not half so bright 
 
 You're all the world to me ! 
 
 ELLEN MARY DOWNING. 
 
 HOME THOUGHTS, 
 
 IF Will had wings 
 
 How fast I'd flee 
 To the home of my heart 
 
 O'er the seething sea ! 
 If Wishes were power, 
 
 If Words were spells, 
 I'd be this hour 
 
 Where my own love dwells. 
 
 My own love dwells 
 
 In the storied land 
 Where the holy wells' 
 
 Sleep in yellow sand, 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 And the emerald lustre 
 
 Of Paradise beams 
 Over homes that cluster 
 
 Round singing streams. 
 
 I, sighing, alas! 
 
 Dwell here alone; 
 My youth is as grass 
 
 On an unsunn'd stone ; 
 Bright to the eye, 
 
 But unfelt below; 
 As sunbeams that lie 
 
 Over arctic snow ; 
 
 My heart is a lamp 
 
 That love must re-light, 
 Or the world's fire-damp 
 
 Will quench it quite; 
 In the breast of my dear 
 
 My life-tide springs 
 Oh ! I'd tarry none here 
 
 If Will had wings. 
 
 If Will had wings 
 
 How fast I'd flee 
 To the home of my heart 
 
 O'er the seething sea! 
 
138 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 If Wishes were power, 
 
 If Words were spells, 
 I'd be this hour 
 
 Where my own love dwells. 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
 MAURYE NANGLE; OR, THE SEVEN 
 SISTERS OF NAVAN. 
 
 A FRAGMENT (unpublished). 
 
 OH, there are sisters sisters seven, 
 As bright as any stars in heaven ; 
 Save one, they all were snowy white, 
 And she, like oriental night : 
 Yet she was like unto the rest, 
 Had all their softness in her breast, 
 Their lights and shadows in her face, 
 And in her figure all their grace; 
 The brightest she of all the seven, 
 Yet all were bright as stars in heaven. 
 
 They had true lovers, every one, 
 
 Except the fairest she had none; 
 
 Or rather say that she returned 
 
 Their love to none who for her burned ; 
 
 For Maurye's timid, Maurye's mild, 
 
 And on her spirit undefiled 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 139 
 
 St. Brigid's* nuns their thoughts have bent ; 
 She flies her sister's merriment. 
 They say they'll marry, every one, 
 But Maurye says she'll be a Nun. 
 
 "Oh, wait awhile," her father said, 
 "Sweet Maurye, wait till I am dead." 
 The nuns for her more firmly sought 
 To wean her from each worldly thought. 
 "Oh, you were made for God, not man" 
 Twas thus their pious plea began ; 
 For much these pale recluses feared 
 As her gay sisters' nuptials neared. 
 " Oh, wait awhile," the Baron said, 
 "Sweet Maurye, wait till they are wed." 
 
 A novice now, sweet Maurye dwells 
 
 Within dark Odder's sacred cells; 
 
 Yet on her sisters' wedding day 
 
 She joins the chivalric array. 
 
 The brides were sweeter than their flowers, 
 
 The bridegrooms came from haughty towers, 
 
 For Nangle'st daughters are beneath 
 
 No lordly hand in lordly Meath. 
 
 The novice heart of Maurye swells : 
 
 "Oh, dark," she sighs, "are Odder's cells!" 
 
 * Of Odder a nunnery dedicated to St. Bride (St. Brigide, 
 hibernice] in the parish of Skreen, co. Meath, in the I2th century. 
 
 t The Nangles were Barons of the Navan and figured much 
 in the history of the Pale. 
 
140 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Yet vainly, on that wedding day 
 Her sisters and their gay grooms pray 
 She grieves to part with those so dear, 
 But she is filled with pious fear ; 
 While Tuite and Tyrrell urged in vain, 
 Her tears fell down like Munster rain 
 Malone and Bellew, Taaffe and Dease,* 
 " Oh, cease," she says, " in pity cease, 
 Or I must leave your wedding gay, 
 In Odder's walls to fast and pray." 
 
 The marriage rites are bravely done ; 
 
 But what ails her, the novice Nun? 
 
 Oh, never had she seen an eye 
 
 Look into hers so tenderly ! 
 
 " Methinks that deep and mellow voice 
 
 Would make the abbess' self rejoice ; 
 
 He's sure the saint I dreamt upon 
 
 Not Barneville of Trimleston ; 
 
 In Holy Land his spurs he won 
 
 What aileth me, a novice Nun ? " 
 
 Cetera desunt 
 
 * 'Tis clear the Nangles knew their rank, for these names were 
 among the best in Meath [Author's note]. 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 14! 
 
 MUSINGS AT SEA. 
 
 [Written to commemorate the first anniversary of Thomas 
 Davis's death.] 
 
 ALONE and pacing to and fro, 
 Or peering on the wave below, 
 Rise fast within me, as I muse, 
 Regrets, resolves, and sad adieus. 
 
 It hath a solemn charm to me 
 This nightfall on the tranquil sea, 
 With strangely mingled light and sound, 
 And Nature's mystic deeps around. 
 
 Their ceaseless plash the paddles make, 
 Phosphoric sparkles crest their wake 
 The cluster'd lamps fade off on shore 
 And I need strain my eyes no more. 
 
 No cloud, save floating smoke and steam 
 Twin spirits, black and white, they seem. 
 The dusky chimney, mast and spars 
 Rise, ghostlike to the placid stars. 
 
 God's placid stars shine over all 
 Their semblance meteors flash and fall; 
 So reign the blest in star-like peace 
 So earthly glories gleam and cease. 
 
142 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Beside me frequent laughter rings, 
 With common talk of common things; 
 And evermore the thought is near 
 How mortal life is imaged here. 
 
 Thus buoyed upon a thin frail stay 
 That breaks around us day hy day 
 The dreaded gulf of gulfs below, 
 All thoughtless and secure we go. 
 
 And thus Trom dark to dark we sail 
 Our ken a dim and narrow pale 
 Yet Heaven's true light is not denied, 
 And in us reigns a power to guide. 
 
 And thus but let me cease a strain 
 For ever preached, and preached in vain; 
 I've crossed these waves with other tone, 
 Not moralizing nor alone. 
 
 With buoyant hope with laughter free, 
 With hearts on fire for days to be, 
 With blood too boyish-bold that ran, 
 But all the thoughts and aims of man. 
 
 For Freedom then not coy to win 
 Seemed nigh our longing arms within : 
 Wide earth possess'd no other thing 
 Could claim such fervent worshipping. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 143 
 
 We saw her form it hovered o'er 
 Where kindling myriads met and swore ; 
 We heard her in their pealing cheer 
 Oh, what a future brighten'd near ! 
 
 Beyond what flushing France had seen 
 When first she sprang a chainless Queen 
 Her tameless might, her glorious gains 
 Untouched by guilt or impious stains. 
 
 A time of fiery act and word, 
 Of souls like mighty waters stirred, 
 Of sweeping thought, of loftiest will, 
 And sacrifices grander still. 
 
 Until from out that plastic glow 
 New forms of peaceful strength should flow, 
 And fair content and calm renown 
 Should gem transfigur'd Ireland's crown. 
 
 Oh, many a vaunt since then is stilled 
 And many a dear dream unfulfilled ; 
 And one best hope of coming years 
 Lies quenched in grief and bitter tears. 
 
 Death's awful shadow passed between, 
 To teach what mortal visions mean 
 Our noblest friend, our truest aid, 
 Cold in his vault we saw him laid. 
 
144 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Quenched is that glorious beacon snapped 
 The bond so close around us wrapped; 
 Yet now before my dreaming eye 
 His image stands how vividly ! 
 
 I see that start of glad surprise 
 The lip compressed, the moistened eyes ; 
 I hear his deep impressive tone, 
 And feel his clasp, a brother's own. 
 
 Affections like a girl's were there, 
 With strength for all the strong could dare, 
 And fire whence flagging spirits drew 
 Fresh heat to rise and strive anew. 
 
 One aim was his that never stooped, 
 One idol-hope that never drooped ; 
 One task to shatter Ireland's thrall, 
 'Twas love, devotion all-in-all. 
 
 Its greatness o'er his soul took hold, 
 And formed and fired to hero-mould 
 Its beauty sank his bosom through 
 Until impassioned Song it grew ! 
 
 Beloved and honoured ! with a sphere 
 Of proud exertion widening near, 
 In manhood's power and might arrayed 
 Cold in the grave we saw him laid. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 145 
 
 Not dying as he yearned to die, 
 Keened by his Country's victor-cry, 
 But struck by swift and stern disease : 
 How strange to man are God's decrees! 
 
 Well each, like him, must tread his way, 
 And hope and labour as he may ; 
 And each at last must meet his fate, 
 Too soon or haply, far too late. 
 
 For me, thrice welcome Schiller's friend 
 " Calm occupation : " let me bend 
 To do the work that nearest lies, 
 And watch for other tasks to rise. 
 
 JOHN O'HAGAN. 
 
 EVENING THOUGHTS IN EXILE. 
 
 'Tis night in Ireland now, and those we love 
 Are dreaming of the distant and the dear ; 
 
 The stars upon the sea think of the stars above, 
 And fairy music mocks the sleeper's ear. 
 
146 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Darkness is round the home I left behind, 
 Silence along the old familiar way; 
 
 The unshut gate swings sadly in the wind, 
 The ivy o'er the wall has gone astray. 
 
 Oh, my home, my lost home, my loved home ! 
 
 There can never be another home for me 
 My soul flies nightly back through the wild winds 
 and foam, 
 
 And with its wet wings hovereth over thee. 
 
 Here, the gorgeous sunset scenes tires my eyes, 
 A lovely and a liberal land is here ! 
 
 But gladly would I part from it to-morrow, and arise 
 To return to you, my unforgotten dear! 
 
 For your hills surround my heart like a wall, 
 And your paths are all winding through my brain, 
 
 And in my ears there echoeth the deep foamy fall, 
 Shall I never sit within its spray again? 
 
 Oh, my home ! my loved home ! my lost home ! 
 
 How I long in thy close embrace to be ! 
 But whereso'er I dwell, to whatever land I roam, 
 
 I can never more be happy but with thee. 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 147 
 
 AMERICA'S INVITATION. 
 
 FRIENDS to Freedom ! is't not time 
 
 That your course were shaped at length? 
 
 Wherefore stand ye loitering here? 
 Seek some healthier, holier clime, 
 Where your souls may grow in strength, 
 And whence Love hath exiled Fear! 
 
 Cross with me the Atlantic's foam, 
 And your genuine goal is won. 
 Purely Freedom's breezes blow, 
 Merrily Freedom's children roam 
 By the doedal Amazon, 
 And the glorious Ohio ! 
 
 Come ! if Liberty's true fires 
 Burn within your bosoms, come! 
 
 If ye would that in your graves 
 Your free sons would bless their sires, 
 Make the Far Green West your home 
 Cross with us the Atlantic's waves ! 
 
 JAMLS CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
148 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 VERSICLES. 
 
 THE BANNER. 
 
 LITTLE I know what hero hand 
 First flung a Banner on the air, 
 
 And gave to every eye that scanned 
 The legend of its purpose there ; 
 
 But well I know it was a deed 
 Of right heroic pious strain, 
 
 To lift the spell-word of your creed 
 Above the slaying and the slain 
 Above the purple battle rain 
 
 Above the tumult-covered sod 
 
 And fly it, silent, in the face of God ! 
 
 DUTY. 
 WHEN God had made the world while man 
 
 Rose pliant 'neath His will, 
 And his lone eyes awoke to scan 
 
 The world God's wonders fill; 
 As, half inform soft, plastic, warm, 
 
 Arose the nascent thought, 
 The Godhead wrote there one bright word, 
 
 "The grand word, Ought,"* 
 And man looked up and blessed the Lord : 
 
 And soul was wrought! 
 
 MARTIN MACDERMOTT. 
 
 * Emerson. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 149 
 
 O ! THAT MY VOICE COULD WAKEN. 
 
 (FROM THE IRISH.) 
 
 OH, that my voice could waken the hearts that 
 
 slumber cold ! 
 The chiefs that time hath taken, the warrior kings 
 
 of old ! 
 
 O ! for Fingal, the pride of all the gallant Finnian crew 
 To wave his hand, the fight demand, and blow 
 the lar-abii ! 
 
 O ! for the Clan-na-Morin, the Clan-na-Deaghaid tall, 
 Dalriada's knights of glory, who scaled the Roman 
 
 wall! 
 O ! for the darts that smote the hearts of freedom's 
 
 foreign foe, 
 When bloodier grew the fierce Crobh-ruadh, o'er 
 
 bleak Helvetia's snow ! 
 
 The fishers of Kilkernan, the men of Greenore bay, 
 The dwellers by Loch Dergert, and by the broad 
 
 Loch Neagh, 
 Leave boat and oar, and leap ashore, to join the 
 
 fiery ranks 
 Who come in pride from Gailtee's side, and from 
 
 Blackwater's banks. 
 
150 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Where stubborn Newre is streaming where Lee's 
 
 green valley smiles 
 Where kingly Shannon circles his hundred sainted 
 
 isles 
 They list the call, and woe befall the hapless doomed 
 
 array 
 Who'll rouse their wrath on war's red path, to 
 
 strike in freedom's fray. 
 
 I see the brave rejoicing I hear their shouts ascend 
 See martyred men, approving, from thrones of 
 
 brightness bend. 
 Ye ache my sight, ye visions bright, of all our glory 
 
 won 
 The " Battle's Eye * " hath found reply my tuneful 
 
 task is done ! 
 
 EDWARD WALSH. 
 
 *" Battle's Eye " Rosg-Catha : the war-song of the clan. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 151 
 
 SALUTATION TO THE KELTS. 
 
 HAIL to our Keltic brethren wherever they may be, 
 In the far woods of Oregon, or o'er the Atlantic sea ; 
 Whether they guard the banner of St. George, in 
 
 Indian vales, 
 
 Or spread beneath the nightless North experimental 
 sails 
 
 One in name, and in fame, 
 Are the sea-divided Gaels. 
 
 Though fallen the state of Erin, and changed the 
 
 Scottish land, 
 Though small the power of Mona, though 
 
 unwaked Lewellyn's band, 
 Though Ambrose Merlin's prophecies are held as idle 
 
 tales, 
 Though lona's ruined cloisters are swept by northern 
 
 gales : 
 
 One in name, and in fame, 
 Are the sea-divided Gaels. 
 
 In Northern Spain and Italy our brethren also dwell, 
 And brave are the traditions of their fathers that 
 they tell : 
 
152 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 The Eagle or the Crescent in the dawn of history pales 
 Before the advancing banners of the great Rome 
 conquering Gaels.* 
 
 One in name, and in fame, 
 Are the sea-divided Gaels. 
 
 A greeting and a promise unto them all we send ; 
 Their character our charter is, their glory is our end 
 Their friend shall be our friend, our foe whoe'er 
 
 assails 
 
 The glory or the story of the sea-divided Gaels. 
 One in name, and in fame, 
 Are the sea-divided Gaels. 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 BOSTON, August 30^, 1850. 
 
 * The province of Gallicia in Spain (and the poet might have 
 added that of the same name in Poland, as well as the ancient Gal- 
 latia) are all of Gaelic origin. North Italy in Caesar's time, as we 
 all know, bore the name of Cisalpine Gaul; and Sienna, Sinigaglia 
 (Senogalliae), as well as Sens in France, recall the presence of 
 the Gallic (or Gaelic) tribe of the Senones, whose Brenn (or 
 Brehon) captured Rome in the twilight of history. Not only 
 Ireland, but England, Scotland, France, Belgium, Switzerland 
 ( "Omnis Gallia " in fact) owe their earliest known inhabitants to the 
 race to which the Gael and Cymry belong ; and spoke the tongues, 
 one of which we ought to speak, and the other of which the 
 Welsh do speak. Anglo-Saxon, as the name of the English race t 
 is a misnomer : it ought to be Kelto- Saxon. The term Anglo- 
 Saxon is properly applicable to the language only, not to the 
 race. ED. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 153 
 
 PINING FOR THE DAWN. 
 
 THERE'S a motherland all beauty, sorrow-stricken, 
 
 blind with tears, 
 Growing paler, growing weaker, with the heavy wrongs 
 
 of years; 
 And her look of want and grief-tones pierce our 
 
 bosoms, weak to save 
 The dear mother of our manhood from the name 
 
 and doom of slave. 
 Oh, tis Eire of the ocean ! Oh, tis Eire of the 
 
 song ! 
 Oh, tis Eire of lost glory ! she it is who drees 
 
 this wrong. 
 
 "My sons/' she says "are banished, or lie in lonely 
 
 graves, 
 And the young and strong who're left me, flee for 
 
 safety o'er the waves, 
 Scarce a voice is now uplifted ; scarce a hero-soul 
 
 remains ; 
 While the stranger's pride grows bolder, as he smites 
 
 me with his chains ; " 
 In the night-time, in the day-time, still thy troubled 
 
 voice I hear, 
 Injured mother ! all reproachful, hissing ever in my 
 
 ear. 
 
154 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Oh, my brothers ! we are guilty. We are obdurate 
 
 in hate. 
 We are the true enslavers ! we, the workers of 
 
 this fate! 
 Could we make a great forgiveness, brother taking 
 
 brother's hand, 
 Deathless honor should attend us as the saviours 
 
 of the land. 
 And the wan-look, and the grief-tones, and the 
 
 name and doom of shame 
 Would not torture, would not darken, mourning 
 
 Eire's soul and fame. 
 
 Then, an island of all beauty, throned gladsome 
 
 on the sea, 
 Ruling wisely, teaching widely, would our rescued 
 
 Eire be; 
 And the deep ships of the nations, swarming 
 
 countless o'er the brine, 
 Swift would seek our desert havens with the spoils 
 
 of loom and mine, 
 Then again we'd greet our brothers whom the 
 
 stranger bore away 
 Mother Eire, we are pining for the Dawning of 
 
 the Day ! 
 
 / 
 
 MAURICE RICHARD LEYNE, 
 
NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 155 
 
 THE DEAD ANTIQUARY O'DONOVAN. 
 
 FAR are the Gaelic tribes and wide 
 Scattered round earth on every side, 
 
 For good or ill ; 
 
 They aim at all things, rise or fall, 
 Succeed or perish : but, through all, 
 
 Love Erin still. 
 
 Although a righteous Heaven decrees* 
 Twixt us and Erin stormy seas 
 
 And barriers strong 
 Of care, and circumstance, and cost 
 Yet count not all your absent lost, 
 
 Oh, Land of Song ! 
 
 Above your roofs no star can rise 
 That does not lighten in our eyes j 
 
 Nor any set, 
 
 That ever shed a cheering beam 
 On Irish hillside, street or stream, 
 
 That we forget. 
 
 And thus it comes that even I, 
 Though weakly and unworthily, 
 
 Am moved by grief 
 To join the melancholy throng 
 And chant the sad entombing song 
 
 Above the Chief: 
 
 * These lines were written in America, 
 
156 NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 
 
 I would not do the dead a wrong : 
 If graves could yield a growth of song 
 
 Like flowers of May, 
 
 Then Mangan from the tomb might raise 
 One of his old resurgent lays, 
 
 But, well-a-day ! 
 
 He, close beside his early friend, 
 By the stark shepherd safely penned, 
 
 Sleeps out the night ; 
 So his weird numbers never more 
 The sorrow of the isle shall pour, 
 
 In tones of might. 
 
 Though haply still, by Lirfey's tide, 
 That mighty master must abide, 
 
 Who voiced our grief 
 O'er Davis lost * ; and he who gave 
 His free frank tribute to the grave 
 
 Of Erie's Chief ;f 
 
 Yet must it not be said that we 
 Failed in the rites of minstrelsy, 
 
 So dear to souls 
 
 Like his whom lately death had ta'en 
 Altho' the vast Atlantic main 
 
 Between us rolls ! 
 
 * Samuel Ferguson. 
 
 t Denis Florence MacCarthy whose poem on the death of 
 O'Connell was one of the noblest tributes paid to the memory 
 of the great Tribune. Author's Note. I need not add that 
 all the poets named praising and praised have since passed 
 away. ED. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION* 157 
 
 Too few, too few, among our great, 
 In camp or cloister, church or state, 
 
 Wrought, as he wrought ; 
 Too few, of all the brave we trace 
 Among the champions of our race, 
 
 Gave us his thought. 
 
 He toiled to make our story stand, 
 As from Time's reverent, runic hand 
 
 It came, undecked 
 By fancies false; erect, alone, 
 The monumental arctic stone 
 
 Of ages wrecked. 
 
 Truth was his solitary test, 
 
 His star, his chart, his east, his west ; 
 
 Nor is there aught 
 In text, in ocean, or in mine, 
 Of greater worth, or more divine 
 
 Than this he sought. 
 
 "With gentle hand he rectified 
 The errors of old bardic pride, 
 
 And set aright 
 
 The story of our devious past. 
 And left it, as it now must last, 
 
 Full in the light. 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
158 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 NOT FOR ME. 
 
 CARELESS of the dark Hereafter 
 Fairy childhood's magic laughter 
 Lightly rings from floor to rafter, 
 
 Not for me. 
 
 Sunset's angel fondly hovers 
 O'er the sheltering copse that covers 
 All the world to whispering lovers 
 
 Not for me ! Not for me ! 
 
 Love the heart's immortal story ! 
 Young, though Earth and Time be hoary, 
 Burns shall burn in fervid glory 
 
 But not for me. 
 
 Passion's tide hath ebbed for ever 
 Dearest friendships wane and sever 
 Murdered Love reviveth never, 
 
 Never ! never ! more for me. 
 
 Not for me, in sylvan alleys, 
 Leafy nooks and happy valleys, 
 Loveliness confiding dallies, 
 Woe is me ! 
 
 Last farewells are writ and spoken 
 Sooner were the dead awoken, 
 Than renewed the jewel broken, 
 
 Woe is me ! Woe is me ! 
 
SPIRIT OF THE KATlOtf. 159 
 
 Soon shall thrill the love-bird's measure, 
 Spring unfold her living treasure, 
 Nature's smile in vernal pleasure, 
 
 Not for me. 
 
 Shadows veil the moon's reflection, 
 Blushes rise without detection, 
 Whispers thrill with pure affection, 
 
 Not for me. Not for me. 
 
 Irish harps np more shall fire me, 
 Irish Beauty's lips inspire me 
 Mute I mourn tho' joy desire me 
 
 Woe is me ! 
 
 Once the song not thus was wasted, 
 Beauty's burning lips untasted 
 Ah, how swiftly summer hasted ! 
 
 Woe is me. Woe is me. 
 
 RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS 
 
l6o NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 AM I REMEMBERED IN ERIN? 
 
 AM I remember'd in Erin ? 
 
 I charge you, speak me true ! 
 Has my name a sound a meaning, 
 
 In the scenes my boyhood knew? 
 Does the heart of the Mother ever 
 
 Recall her exile's name ? 
 For to be forgot in Erin, 
 
 And on earth, were all the same. 
 
 Oh, Mother! Mother Erin! 
 
 Many sons your age hath seen 
 Many gifted constant lovers 
 
 Since your mantle first was green ; 
 Then how may I hope to cherish 
 
 The dream that I could be 
 In your crowded jnemory number'd 
 
 With that palm-crown'd company? 
 
 Yet faint and far, my Mother ! 
 
 As the hope shines on my sight. 
 I cannot choose but watch it 
 
 Till my eyes have lost their light; 
 For never among your brightest 
 
 And never among your best, 
 Was heart more true to Erin 
 
 Than beats within my breast. 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. l6l 
 
 A PRAYER TO ST. PATRICK. 
 
 SAINTED Apostle, guardian, guide and father ! 
 
 Throned with the blest on high, 
 Hear how the groans of age-long anguish gather 
 
 List to thy people's cry ! 
 Remember when thy torch of faith was lighted 
 
 Of old in Erin's Isle, 
 How, one and all, her fervent sons united 
 
 To hail its radiant smile : 
 But frantic discord since hath rent asunder 
 
 Our state, and cause, and grace; 
 Till nations gaze in sorrow, scorn and wonder 
 
 Upon our scattered race 
 
 Oh, blessed Patrick ! lowly now imploring 
 
 We crave thy mighty aid, 
 While God's high justice humbly still adoring, 
 
 Pray that this plague be stayed ! 
 Pray that the centuries of our desolation 
 
 Blotting the book of Time, 
 May have filled up the meed of expiation 
 
 For our ancestral crime. 
 Pray that the seven-fold gift of God the spirit 
 
 Of wisdom, strength and love, 
 May heal our feuds and set us free to merit 
 
 The brighter home above. 
 
 MRS. HOPE CONNOLLY.* 
 * "Thomasine" of the Nation. 
 
1 62 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 EUGENE O'CURRY. 
 
 GIVE me again my harp of yew, 
 
 In consecrated soil 'twas grown ; 
 Shut out the day-star from my view, 
 
 And leave me with the night alone. 
 The children of this modern land* 
 
 May deem our ancient custom vain, 
 But aye responsive to my hand, 
 
 The harp must pour the funeral strain. 
 
 It was of old a sacred rite, 
 
 A debt of honor freely paid, 
 To champions fallen in the fight, 
 
 And scholars known in peaceful shade. 
 Alas ! that it should now be claimed, 
 
 O World ! for one we least can spare ; 
 Whose name by us was never named 
 
 Without its meed of praise and prayer. 
 
 An Ollavt of the elect of old, 
 
 Whose chairs were placed beside the king; 
 Whose herds, whose hounds, whose gifts of gold, 
 
 The later bards regretful sing. 
 Ay ! there was music in his speech 
 
 And in his wand the power to save, 
 This sole Recorder on the beach 
 
 Of all we've lost beneath the wave. 
 
 * Written in America. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 163 
 
 Who are his mourners? by the hearth 
 
 His presence kindled, sad they sit ; 
 They dwell throughout the living earth 
 
 In homes his presence never lit ; 
 Where'er a Gaelic brother dwells, 
 
 There heaven has heard for him a prayer ; 
 Where'er an Irish maiden tells 
 
 Her votive beads, his soul has share. 
 
 Where, far or near, or west or east, 
 
 Glistens the sogart/t's sacred stole, 
 There from the true unprompted priest 
 
 Shall rise a requiem for his soul ; 
 Such orisons like clouds shall rise 
 
 From every realm beneath the sun, 
 For where be now the shores or skies 
 
 The Irish sogarth has not won ? 
 
 Oh ! mortal tears will dry like rain, 
 
 And mortal sighs pass like the breeze, 
 And earthly prayers are oft in vain, 
 
 E'en breathed amid the Mysteries ; 
 Happy alone we hold the man 
 
 Whose steps so righteously were trod ; 
 Who 'ere the judgment act began, 
 
 Had supplicants in the Saints of God. 
 
164 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Arise ye cloud-borne saints of old, 
 
 In number like the polar flock ! 
 Arise, ye just, whose tale is told 
 
 On Shannon's side and Arran's rock ! 
 In number, like the waves of seas 
 
 In glory like the stars of night 
 Arise, ambrosial-laden bees 
 
 That banquet thro' heaven's fields of light ! 
 
 This mortal, called to join your choir, 
 
 Through every care and every grief, 
 Sought with an antique soul of fire 
 
 O'er all, God's glory first and chief: 
 And next he sought, oh, sacred band ! 
 
 Ye disinherited of heaven ! 
 To give you back your native land 
 
 To give it as it first was given. 
 
 No more the widowed glen repines, 
 
 No more the ruined cloister groans ; 
 Back on the tides have come the shrines; 
 
 Lo ! we have heard the speech of stones ! 
 In the mid-watch, when darkness reigned 
 
 And sleepers slept, unseen his toil 
 But heaven kept count of all he gained 
 
 For ye, men of the Holy Isle ! 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE 
 
NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 165 
 
 A VERY OLD, OLD, MAN. 
 
 " I MUST be very old," I keep 
 
 Repeating o'er and o'er ; 
 And yet, by the old bible -page 
 (Where our good father marked my age) 
 
 My years are twenty-four. 
 What, twenty-four ! Life's sunny prime ! 
 
 Life's early Age of Gold ! 
 
 When thought is warm, when hopes are bright, 
 And hearts still bathed in young delight 
 
 Ah, no ! my heart is cold, 
 
 I must be very, very old 
 A very Old, Old, Man ! 
 
 They say, my hairs are thick and brown 
 
 I feel them thin and gray ; 
 They say, my cheek though pale still bears 
 No furrowed trace of tears or cares 
 
 I care not what they say. 
 Does my step totter? No, I pace 
 
 Erect and firm, and bold! 
 What then? Deep underneath the lid 
 Of my strong heart, the worm is hid 
 
 The worm that's keen and cold ; 
 
 Ah, me ! I must be very old 
 A very Old, Old, Man. 
 
1 66 NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 
 
 For why? The glad sun's genial rays 
 
 Fail to make my heart glad ; 
 And strangely as a thing foregone 
 Striketh youth's soaring, joyous tone 
 
 Upon my soul so sad. 
 I love the night time more than day 
 
 The night, with stars so cold ; 
 And better quiet thought than mirth, 
 Though it were round a Christmas hearth 
 
 Where tales of love are told. 
 
 In sooth I must be very old 
 A very Old, Old, Man. 
 
 I know not now (I am so old) 
 
 How long it is ago : 
 But, sure, it must be very long"! 
 Since I beheld a Nation, strong 
 
 In hope and valour grow ; 
 Her voice was loud, her bearing proud, 
 
 And glorious to behold ! 
 And now where is she? What is she? 
 A beggar upon bended knee, 
 
 A slave that's bought and sold : 
 
 Indeed, I must be very old 
 A very Old, Old, Man. 
 
 Besides, doth not the good God give 
 
 Life, its appointed span 
 Some more, some less, but still enow 
 To let sweet flowers and green grass grow 
 Upon the grave of man ? 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE XATIOX. 167 
 
 But I have seen Death strike so fast 
 
 That church-yards could not hold, 
 Though torn into one general grave, 
 The remnants of the young, the brave, 
 The bright-eyed and the bold ! 
 I must be very, very old 
 A very Old, Old, Man. 
 
 Or say, I am not old, or say, 
 
 My years are twenty-four : 
 Alas ! when sorrows come so fast, 
 So thickly crowd so short a past, 
 
 What boot years less or more? 
 While in my heart I feel the change, 
 
 In sorrows manifold : 
 
 When bright hopes wane, like summer-eves, 
 And human creatures fall, like leaves 
 
 Upon the autumn mould 
 
 I know, I feel, I must be old 
 A VERY Old, Old, Man. 
 
 MARTIN MACDERMOTT. 
 
1 68 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 SIR BANNERET OF THE TRICOLOR. 
 
 WHET my sabre, my cuirass bind, 
 
 Sling my carabine far behind ; 
 
 Loose my bannerol broad and free, 
 
 For I am a knight of high degree 
 
 Of a famous Order, whose lists were old 
 
 When Charlemagne blazoned the Book of Gold 
 
 Whose Free Companions had won renown, 
 
 Ere Brutus stabbed the Caesar down, 
 
 A Banneret of the Tricolor ! 
 
 Banneret knight of the Tricolor ! 
 
 Ladies' graces and trophies go leor 
 
 To the Banneret of the Tricolor ! 
 
 Not mine to be dubbed by a royal blade, 
 
 Nor won my spurs by a noble's raid 
 
 Oh ! I knelt for the knightly accolade 
 
 At the back of a Paris barricade ; 
 
 I kept the vigil our laws ordain 
 
 While the bombs fell fast around the Madeleine, 
 
 And swore my vow at Ventura's knee 
 
 To fight to the death for Liberty ! 
 
 Life and death for the Tricolor ! 
 
 Banneret true of the Tricolor ! 
 
 Freedom's vassal for evermore 
 
 Is the Banneret of the Tricolor ! 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 169 
 
 In Berlin streets there are broad platoons, 
 Down Berlin streets ride the fierce dragoons, 
 In Berlin streets there are dripping blades, 
 And the cry is, " Up with the barricades ! "' 
 Who heads the charge through the Konig- 
 
 strasse, 
 
 Who points the grape where the Yagers pass, 
 Whose gallop splashes the gutters of gore ? 
 Tis the Banneret of the Tricolor! 
 
 The Eagle under the Tricolor! 
 
 Black and Red on the Tricolor ! 
 
 Through showers of bullets and streams 
 of gore, 
 
 Rides the Banneret of the Tricolor! 
 
 The day that I sat by Guyon's side! 
 After the Bann, the Serezans ride, 
 And many a league we could track their trail 
 By smoking roof-tree and woman's wail 
 Christ ! how we galloped their lances down 
 And battered their files in Mannswerth town, 
 Till the Austrian bugles brayed retreat, 
 As I clove a Croat from crown to seat. 
 Charging for Hungary's Tricolor, 
 The ancient Magyar Tricolor, 
 'Twill wave from the walls of Pesth 
 
 once more; 
 God guard Kossuth and the Tricolor ! 
 
170 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Dear Di Lana ! a day will be 
 
 For Freedom's smile over Sicily ; 
 
 And from Etna's top to Messina's shore 
 
 The tyrant's frown shall be death no more. 
 
 We'll fling old Bornba the crater down ; 
 
 Thy statue '11 stand in Palermo town, 
 . As when you sprung forth, sword in hand, 
 
 Like Joan of Arc, for native land. 
 
 Oh, Ensign fair of the Tricolor, 
 The lilies yield to the Tricolor, 
 We'll trample their bloom on the golden 
 
 shore, 
 And raise the glorious Tricolor. 
 
 And thou, old natal Isle ! again 
 
 I hear the tramp of thine armed men ; 
 
 And aye once more the day shall, come 
 
 For the bristling steel and rolling drum ! 
 
 I see through the battle's lurid haze, 
 
 The Orange and Green on thy banner blaze, 
 
 And the Blue gleam high over files of steel 
 
 Where the tyrant's squadroons backward reel ! 
 
 On with the glorious Tricolor ! 
 
 Fight to the death for the Tricolor ! 
 
 Shroud in death and pennon before 
 
 Sir Banneret of the Tricolor ! 
 
 J. CASHEL HOEY. 
 
 24/7* May, 1851. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. lyi 
 
 THE GREEN FLAG. 
 
 AIR" The Wearing of the Green" 
 
 THE Green Flag the Green Flag ! oh, would that 
 
 it flew 
 As proudly in the Old Land as 'tis flying in the 
 
 New ! 
 The West and South gave honoured place unto its 
 
 radiant sheen, 
 And our Exiles build their homes beneath the 
 
 banner of the Green. 
 
 Oh the South loves the Green, for the 
 
 summer's shining there, 
 While here the winter, dim and cold, is 
 
 bleak as our despair ; 
 And the numbing snow-drifts cover every 
 
 path where once was seen 
 The pride and promise of the spring the 
 
 glory of the Green. 
 
 Once gallant hands upheld the flag, and hearts 
 
 were throbbing high 
 With fiery love that deemed it joy for that dear 
 
 cause to die. 
 Now strangers mock its drooping folds, and scoffing 
 
 pass it by, 
 While round it swells no battle song, but slavery's 
 
 feeble sigh. 
 
 Oh, the South loves the Green, &c. 
 
172 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 Alas, alas .for Eire ! ah, the friends are faint and 
 
 few 
 That still guard round the emblem of her spirit 
 
 bright and true ; 
 Yet day by day some shrink away, or turn their 
 
 hearts and eyes 
 To where the Green is waving free beneath the 
 
 Southern skies. 
 
 But sure as God renews again the glory of 
 the year, 
 
 Our Winter yet shall pass away the Summer 
 shall be here ; 
 
 Beneath the snow revives the glow in Ireland's 
 breast, I ween, 
 
 And faithful lovers yet shall twine fresh gar- 
 lands of the Green. 
 
 MRS. HOPE CONNOLLY. 
 
NEW tS-PIRIT OF THE NATION. 173 
 
 OUR PARLIAMENT A STREET BALLAD. 
 
 AIR "/^ an Bealach." 
 
 [The following note is appended to this ballad in the copy of 
 it first printed in the "Memoir of Thomas Davis" by Sir 
 Charles Gavan Duffy : " Here is a street ballad, written with 
 something of the plainness and vigour of Swift, which he (Davis) 
 probably intended for an experiment often debated, and made 
 by some of his friends after his death, of substituting sense and 
 spirit for the incoherent nonsense which made up the bulk of 
 ballads sung to the people." J 
 
 'TWAS once in College Green, boys, 
 
 Our Parliament, our Parliament, 
 But its blessings might be seen, boys, 
 
 Where'er you went, where'er you went. 
 Twas won by armed men, boys, 
 
 The Volunteers, the Volunteers ; 
 We were united then, boys, 
 
 And had no fears, and had no fears. 
 
 The arms that won our right, boys, 
 
 Were crossed in wrath, were crossed in wrath ; 
 But England urged the fight, boys, 
 
 To weaken both, to weaken both ; 
 And some were English slaves, boys, 
 
 Who bent, alas ! who bent, alas ! 
 And some were greedy knaves, boys, 
 
 \\lio sold the pass, who sold the pass. 
 
174 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 And thus they took away, boys, 
 Our Parliament, our Parliament. 
 
 Our curse upon the day, boys, 
 
 When off it went, when off it went. 
 
 But as our fathers did, boys, 
 
 In Eighty-two, in Eighty-two, 
 And right and honour bid, boys, 
 
 Their sons can do, their sons can do. 
 Let Protestant unite, boys, 
 
 With Catholic, with Catholic, 
 And we'd, this very night, boys, 
 
 The English lick, the English lick. 
 'Twas once in College Green, boys, 
 
 Our Parliament, our Parliament, 
 And there it shall be seen, boys, 
 
 Or they'll repent, they'll repent. 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 PAT AS A LANDLORD. 
 
 I HAVE a farm of my own, 
 
 I pay rent to nobody; 
 Crouching and whining are gone, 
 
 I'm the tenant of nobody ! 
 Now I have courage to toil, 
 
 Since what I earn is sure to me ; 
 I can work like a slave of the soil, 
 
 For all that it yields is secure to me. 
 
 Chorus (digs) " I have a farm of my own," &c. 
 
 I have a mind of my own, 
 
 I'll be fooled by nobody; 
 I can act, or let it alone, 
 
 Driven or hinder'd by nobody. 
 The farmer, of old, was no man, 
 
 Many's the time I lamented it ; 
 Now, we've a serf-freeing plan, 
 
 My blessings on those who invented it ! 
 
 Chorus (digs) " I have a farm of my own," &c. 
 
 All that I have is my own, 
 I owe duty to nobody; 
 
 I can labour, or let it alone, 
 I give my work to nobody. 
 
176 XEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 I have no agent to tease 
 
 I have no bailiff to bother me ; 
 
 I'll vote for whoever I please 
 However they try to soother me. 
 Chorus (digs] " I have a farm of my own," &c. 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
 THE IRISH' RAPPAREES. 
 A PEASANT BALLAD. 
 
 [When Limerick was surrendered and the bulk of the Irish 
 army took service with Louis XIV., a multitude of the old 
 soldiers of the Boyne, Aughrim and Limerick preferred remain- 
 ing in the country at the risk of fighting for their daily bread ; 
 and with them some gentlemen, loath to part from their estates 
 or their sweethearts. The English army and the English law 
 drove them by degrees to the hills, where they were long a 
 terror to the new and old settlers from England, and a secret 
 pride and comfort to th trampled peasantry, who loved them 
 even for their excesses. It was all they had left to take pride 
 in.] 
 
 RICH SHEMUS he has gone to France and left his 
 
 crown behind : 
 Ill-luck be theirs, both day and night, put runnin' 
 
 in his mind ! 
 
SPIRIT OF THE XATTOX. 1 77 
 
 Lord Lucan* followed after, with his slashers brave . 
 
 and true, 
 And now, the doleful keen is raised " What will 
 
 poor Ireland do? 
 
 '' What must poor Ireland do ? 
 4< Our luck, they say, has gone to France. What 
 
 can poor Ireland do ? " 
 
 Oh, never fear for Ireland, for she has so'gers still, 
 
 For Remy's boys are in the wood, and Rory's on 
 the hill ; 
 
 And never had poor Ireland more loyal hearts 
 than these 
 
 May God be kind and good to them, the faithful 
 Rapparees ! 
 
 The fearless Rapparees ! 
 
 The jewel waar ye, Rory, with your Irish Rappa- 
 rees ! 
 
 Oh, black's your heart, Clan Oliver, and coulder 
 
 than the clay ! 
 Oh, high's your head, Clan Sassenach, since Sars- 
 
 field's gone away ! 
 
 * After the Treaty of Limerick. Patrick Sarsfield, Lord Lucan, 
 sailed with the Brigade to France, and was killed while leading 
 his countrymen to victory at the battle of Landen, in the Low 
 Countries, 29th July, 1693. 
 
178 NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 
 
 It's little love you bear to us for sake of long 
 
 ago 
 But howld your hand, for Ireland still can strike a 
 
 deadly blow 
 
 Can strike a mortal blow 
 Och! dar-a-Chreesth ! 'tis she that still could strike 
 
 the deadly blow ! 
 
 The Master's bawn, the Master's seat, a surly 
 
 bodach* fills; 
 The Master's son, an outlawed man, is riding on 
 
 the hills; 
 But, God be praised, that round him throng, as 
 
 thick as summer bees, 
 The swords that guarded Limerick walls 
 
 Rapparees ! 
 
 His lovin' Rapparees ! 
 Who daar say no to Rory Oge, who heads the 
 
 Rapparees ! 
 
 Black Billy Grimes, of Latnamard, he racked us 
 
 long and sore 
 God rest the faithful hearts he broke, we'll never 
 
 see them more ! 
 
 * Bodach : a severe, inhospitable man. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION, 179 
 
 But I'll go bail he'll break no more while Truagh 
 
 has gallows-trees, 
 For why? he met one lonesome night the awful 
 
 Rapparees ! 
 
 The angry Rapparees ! 
 They never sin no more, my boys, who cross the 
 
 Rapparees. 
 
 Now, Sassenach, and Cromweller, take heed' of 
 
 what I say 
 Keep down your black and angry looks that scorn 
 
 us night and day; 
 For there's a just and wrathful Judge that every 
 
 action sees, 
 And He'll make strong, to right our wrong, the 
 
 faithful Rapparees! 
 
 The fearless Rapparees ! 
 The men that rode at Sarsfield's side, the changeless 
 
 Rapparees ! 
 
 CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 
 1850. 
 
l8o NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 THE LAST OF OUR BAND. 
 
 LOST are the brave and true, Erin! 
 
 They fell from me and you, Erin ! 
 But though my heart be chill, 
 Stirred by no joyful thrill, 
 
 Oh ! it is faithful still, Erin. 
 
 I loved you long ago, Erin ! 
 
 I don't forget you now, Erin ! 
 But then, my heart was light, 
 Planning your glory bright, 
 
 You make it sad to-night, Erin. 
 
 When will your tears be past, Erin ? 
 
 When will you smile at last, Erin ? 
 Which of us all who make 
 Struggle for your dear sake 
 
 Will see your fetters break, Erin? 
 
 From our ranks, day by day, Erin ! 
 The faithfulest pass away, Erin ! 
 
 Oh, if but one remain, 
 
 When thou has snapt thy chain- 
 Will he feel joy or pain, Erin ? 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. l8l 
 
 Though he give back thy smile, Erin, 
 Must he not weep the while, Erin ? 
 
 Smile to behold thee free, 
 
 Weep that they cannot see ; 
 Sad will the triumph be, Erin. 
 
 ELLEN MARY DOWNING 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Page 
 
 in i. THE RETURN. 
 
 113 2. SHE'S COME! SHE'S COME ! 
 
 MRS, HOPE CONNOLLY. 
 
 THIS lady, who wrote for the Nation under the name 
 of "THOMASINE," has lived for many years in or 
 near Brisbane. A volume of her poems was recently 
 published in this country, with an introduction by Sir 
 Charles Gavan Duffy. 
 
 Page 
 
 161 i. A PRAYER TO ST. PATRICK. 
 171 2. THE GREEN FLAG. 
 
 o 
 
184 NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 
 
 THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
 THE greatest of the patriot-poets of Ireland. Born at 
 Mallow, Co. Cork, October 14*, 1814. B.A., T.C.D,, 
 1836. Died, September i6th, 1845. Davis rightly 
 signed his early contributions to the Nation, " A True 
 Celt," his father, an eminent military surgeon, belonging 
 to a family of Welsh extraction, settled in England 
 and his mother an O'Sullivan-Beare, thus combining 
 in his person the two strains of pure Keltic blood. He 
 became a barrister but never practised. After an 
 exhaustive study of the historical records of Ireland, 
 doing violence to his family tradition, he became an 
 enthusiastic Nationalist, identifying himself wholly 
 with the cause of the Gaelic majority of the Irish people, 
 but always inculcating a cordial and fraternal fusion of 
 races and creeds. When Sir Charles Gavan Duffy 
 conceived the idea of founding the Nation newspaper, 
 it was to Davis and his friend John Dillon that he 
 applied for literary assistance in that undertaking- 
 Thenceforward during the three years that remained 
 of life, no man ever laboured so strenuously, or accom- 
 plished so much. The true value of his work for 
 Ireland is only now becoming fully appreciated. The 
 verses printed in this volume were all published after 
 Davis's death. A small volume of Davis's poems, 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 185 
 
 edited by his college friend, Thomas Wallis, was 
 published in 1846, and has gone through many edi- 
 tions. 
 
 Page 
 
 4 i. ARGAN MOR. 
 
 8 2. GLENGARIFF. 
 
 9 3. GLENGARIFF AND ADRIGOOLE. 
 
 10 4. BRIGHT FAIRIES BY GLENGARIFF'S BAY. 
 
 48 5. UNPUBLISHED VERSES, 5 POEMS. 
 
 138 6. MAURYE NANGLE. 
 
 173 7. OUR PARLIAMENT. 
 
 ELLEN MARY DOWNING. 
 
 BORN in Cork in 1828. Died, January 27th, 1869, 
 at the Ursuline Convent of the same city. A sad 
 and beautiful life history. Perhaps some day it may 
 be given to the world. 
 
 Page 
 
 24 i. MY OWEN. 
 
 55 2. THE OLD CHURCH AT LISMORE. 
 
 89 3. MY OWN SWEET RIVER LEE. 
 
 135 4. I LOVE You. 
 
 1 80 5. THE LAST OF OUR BAND. 
 
1 86 XEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 
 
 Now Sir Charles Gavan Duffy, K.C.M.G. Born in 
 Co. Monaghan in 1816. Received his education in 
 the town of the same name, from which, shortly after 
 leaving school, he came to Dublin where, as a lad, he 
 performed the duties of sub-editor in the office of The 
 Morning Register. Thence he removed to Belfast, 
 becoming editor first, and then proprietor of the 
 Belfast Vindicator. Here he married a grand-daughter 
 of the MacDermott of Coulavin, a charming lady who 
 survived but a short time the birth of a son, now the 
 Hon. John Gavan Duffy, who, following in his father's 
 footsteps, has held various ministries in the Victorian 
 legislature. Sir Gavan Duffy's work in the Nation and 
 the control he exercised for many years over Irish 
 politics in advancing the National cause are things 
 too well-known to require more than a reference to 
 them here. He wrote many great and vigorous 
 poems ; but this is not his greatest gift. It was not 
 poetry he brought to the party so much as the power 
 of initiation and organization, without which, notwith- 
 standing Davis's splendid talents there never would 
 have been a Nation newspaper, or a Young Ireland 
 party any more than there would have been the old 
 Library of Ireland, or the new. Davis did splendid 
 work in the Citizen, and it fell dead ; splendid work in 
 the Register, in concert with John Dillon, and the 
 circulation fell off. His first success was in the 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 187 
 
 Nation^ and it was attributable not only to his own 
 splendid gifts, but to the method in which that journal 
 was organized, launched and sustained. Of the work 
 done by Duffy after the collapse in 1848, first in the 
 English Parliament (work on which Parnell said 
 before the Commission that he had modelled his 
 own) and afterwards in the Parliament of Victoria 
 where as Minister of Lands he devised and passed 
 the greatest democratic measure of land distribution 
 with which any State has ever been endowed it would 
 be irrelevant here to extend this reference. The "New 
 Irish Library," as well as the old, has reason to be 
 proud of its projector. 
 
 Page 
 
 ii i. SWEET SYBIL. 
 
 25 2. THE VOICE OF NATURE. 
 
 100 3. THE POET'S EGERIA. 
 
 176 4. THE IRISH RAPPAREES. 
 
1 88 NEW SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 
 
 DE JEAN FRAZER. 
 
 BORN in King's County about 1809. Died March, 
 1852, in Dublin. A cabinet-maker by trade. Was 
 a frequent contributor to the Nation from almost its 
 earliest days. His poems are remarkable for their 
 beautiful imagery, intense feeling, rush, and poetic 
 sensibility. His life to its close appears to have 
 been passed in ungenial surroundings, and in poverty. 
 Of Northern extraction, and originally a Presbyterian, 
 Frazer gave himself heart and soul to the National 
 cause. A volume of Frazer's poems was published in 
 Dublin, but it is probably out of print. 
 
 Page 
 
 93 i. MY PEERLESS BOY. 
 115 2. THE REASON. 
 132 3. THE DYING BARD. 
 
 ARTHUR GERALD GEOGHEGAN. 
 
 BORN in Dublin, June ist, 1810. Spent nearly 50 
 years of his life in the Excise, from which he retired 
 as Collector of Inland Revenue in 1877. Died in 
 London, where he had resided for a great number of 
 years, November i2th, 1889. His best poem is the 
 introduction to his " Monks of Kilcrea," but it does 
 not belong to the Nation series, in which, however, he 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 189 
 
 published a great many fine and stirring ballads. Sir 
 C. G. Duffy in the " League of North and South," 
 writing of the time (1855) when relinquishing his 
 long struggle against the forces of compression and 
 corruption he determined to carve out for himself a 
 new career at the antipodes, mentions without naming 
 them three friends who came forward with eager 
 spontaneity to proffer him help. One of these he 
 refers to thus : " An Irishman, in the public service 
 of England, whom I had never seen, and knew at the 
 time only as a Protestant nationalist of remarkable 
 literary gifts, offered me the savings of his lifetime to be 
 repaid at discretion" That Irishman I am authorised 
 to say was Arthur Gerald Geoghegan. 
 
 Page 
 
 26 i. THE MOUNTAIN FERN. 
 
 JOHN CASHEL HOEY. 
 
 BORN in Dundalk, 1828 ; died in Kensington, January 
 6th, 1892. Became editor of the Nation when Duffy 
 retired from that position in 1855. Afterwards for 
 many years secretary at the Agency-General of Vic- 
 toria, to which position he had been appointed by his 
 former chief, when Prime Minister of that great colony. 
 Hoey edited Lord Plunket's Speeches and otherwise 
 
I QO NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 contributed extensively to contemporaneous litera- 
 ture. 
 
 Page 
 
 168 i. SIR BANNERET OF THE TRICOLOR. 
 
 MAURICE RICHARD LEYNE. 
 
 BORN in Kerry, and was a grandson of O'Connell. 
 In the contest between O'Connell and the Young 
 Irelanders, he joined the latter, an heroic sacrifice 
 considering the circumstances. He was of a most 
 genial and loyal character, an effective speaker and 
 writer, and a fellow of infinite humour, which he em- 
 ployed in lashing unsparingly the humbugs and traitors 
 of u The Irish Brigade." The editor regrets that the 
 brilliant pasquinades written by Leyne lie beyond the 
 scope of this publication. He became a State prisoner 
 in 1848, and joined the Nation after its revival in 
 1849. He died in 1855. 
 
 Page 
 
 153 i. PINING FOR THE DAWN. 
 
 JAMES McBURNEY (" CARROLL MALONE.") 
 
 SIK GAVAN DUFFY says, "all he knows about this 
 admirable ballad-writer is that he was a County Down 
 man ; that he emigrated to the United States ; and 
 that he believes he died there only last year " (1892). 
 
 Page 
 
 So i. THE GOOD SHIP CASTLE DOWN. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 19 1 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MAcCARTHY. 
 BORN in Dublin in 1817 ; and died there on April yth, 
 1882. A volume of his poems has been published, 
 chiefly containing verses published in the Nation, but 
 omitting many of the more National and all of the 
 humourous from the collection. MacCarthy was more 
 entirely the hommc-de-lettres than any of his associates 
 in the Nation circle. He translated a great quantity of 
 Calderon's plays, wrote a Centenary Ode to Moore, etc., 
 He was noted for the brilliancy of his wit, which flashed 
 out into rapartee on the slightest provocation at least 
 that was his characteristic as a young man. 
 
 Page 
 
 35 i. BLESS THE DEAR OLD VERDANT LAND. 
 
 87 2. COME, LIBERTY, COME. 
 
 98 3. WAITING FOR THE MAY. 
 
 108 4. "No IRISH NEED APPLY." 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
 BORN in Carlingford, Co. Louth, in 1825; died by 
 assassination in Ottawa, ' Canada, on the night of 
 April 7th, 1868. Went first to the United States in 
 1842, becoming editor of the Boston Pilot at the early 
 age of 17. Returned to Ireland in 1844 and soon 
 after joined the editorial staff of the Nation. He wrote 
 some early books of much interest for the original 
 Library of Ireland one relating to Irish writers of 
 the 1 7th century. Returning to America after the 
 outbreak of 1848, he spent some years in travel- 
 ling from place to place in the States lecturing, 
 
IQ2 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 editing Irish newspapers, and delivering pub ic 
 addresses. Eventually McGee settled in Canada 
 where he almost immediately became a member of 
 the legislature and one of the ministers of the Crown. 
 His greatest work as a statesman was the leading 
 part he took in the Federation of the Canadian 
 States. Indeed the foundation of the Dominion of 
 Canada may be said almost to owe its inception and 
 completion to Thomas D'Arcy McGee. To weld half 
 the American continent into one all but independent 
 State, on the principle of automatic liberty for each 
 of its territorial and racial divisions, was a work of 
 superb achievement, reserved for few men. 
 
 The editor has elsewhere alluded to McGee's poems. 
 
 Page 
 
 i i. THE KELTS. 
 
 24 2. THE EXILE'S DEVOTION. 
 
 37 3. DEATH OF O'CAROLAN. 
 
 67 4. To A FRIEND GOING TO EUROPE. 
 
 76 5. IN MEMORY OF RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 
 
 78 6. GOD BLESS THE BRAVE! 
 
 91 7. THE COBBAN SAOR. 
 
 95 8. To DUFFY IN PRISON. 
 
 102 9. O'CLERY'S PROPHESY. 
 
 127 10. THE FOUR MASTERS. 
 
 134 ii. NATIVE HILLS. 
 
 136 12. HOME THOUGHTS. 
 
 145 13. EVENING THOUGHTS IN EXILE. 
 
 151 14. SALUTATION TO THE KELTS. 
 
 155 15. THE DEAD ANTIQUARY, O'DONOVAN. 
 
 1 60 1 6. AM I REMEMBERED IN ERIN? 
 
 162 17, EUGENE O'CURRY. 
 
 175 1 8. PAT AS A LANDLORD. 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 193 
 
 MARTIN MAcDERMOTT. 
 
 BORN in Dublin in 1823 ; an architect by profession; 
 editor of the New Spirit of the Nation. Deputed to 
 represent in Paris the political leaders of 1 848. Served 
 in Egypt for some years as Chief Architect to the 
 Office of Works of the Khedive of Egypt. 
 
 Page 
 
 22 i. GIRL OF THE RED MOUTH. 
 
 41 2. THE COOLUN. 
 
 63 3. EXILES FAR AWAY. 
 
 148 4. VERSICLES: BANNER. DUTY. 
 
 165 5. A VERY OLD, OLD, MAN. 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 BORN in Dublin, May ist, 1803. Diedjune 20th, 1849. 
 The editor has written at such length in the introduction 
 of this gifted and unfortunate Irishman that nothing 
 more need be said here. The best account of him is 
 to be found in Fr. Charles P. Meehan's Introduction 
 to the " Poets and Poetry of Munster," translated by 
 J. C. M. (Third Edition.) 
 
 Page 
 
 13 i. DARK ROSALEEN. 
 122 2. WORDS OF FOREWARNING, 
 147 3* AMERICA'S INVITATION. 
 
194 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 MRS. KEVIN O'DOHERTY. 
 
 THERE is a delightful legend attached to this lady 
 and her husband, Dr. Kevin Izod O'Doherty, who was 
 tried in 1848 for Treason-Felony along with his friend, 
 Richard D' Alton Williams. Williams had a friend in the 
 Crown Solicitor, who by a dexterous tour-de-main con- 
 cealed the only paper incriminating him; but O'Doherty, 
 though having no friend in court, might have escaped, 
 had he been willing to plead guilty. He took counsel 
 with his fiancee but she bravely said " No : don't. 
 I'll wait for you." She did, and they were married 
 the day after he at rived in Ireland, a free man. 
 " Eva " was this lady's name as a poetess, Eva Mary 
 Kelly her name as a heroine, and Mrs. Kevin Izod 
 O'Doherty that which she bears as a matron in Brisbane 
 where she has lived with her husband for many years. 
 Both were back in this country some little time ago, 
 but have now returned. 
 
 Page 
 
 68 i. SONG OF THE IRISH MINSTREL. 
 
 JOHN O'HAGAN. 
 
 BORN at Newry, Co. Down, in 1822* Called to the 
 Irish bar in 1842 ; married the youngest daughter 
 of Lord O'Hagan in 1865; appointed judge of the 
 Irish Land Court in 1881, and died on November 
 1 2th, 1890. O'Hagan, though a much younger man, 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 195 
 
 had been a friend of Davis's in Trinity College ; and 
 when the Nation was started in 1842, he and his bosom- 
 friend, John E. Pigot, became intimately connected 
 with the working of it, forming with Duffy, Davis 
 and Dillon, "the inner council of five," who met 
 weekly to discuss i ationality and literature. In 1848 
 O'Hagan took no active part except as junior counsel 
 for the various political prisoners of that stirring era. 
 In latter years he became a Justice of the Queen's 
 Bench and head of the Irish Land Commission. He 
 was a man of great intellectual balance and power, 
 a most excellent and amiable man, and a fine poet : 
 ecce signum. - 
 
 Page 
 
 16 i, EDUCATION. 
 
 31 2. THE OLD STORY. 
 
 39 3. OLD LOVE AND NEW. 
 
 58 4. PROTESTANT ASCENDANCY. 
 
 141 5. MUSINGS AT SEA. 
 
 REV. J. F. TORMY, D.D. 
 
 BORN in Westmeath in 1820. Died in the same 
 county in 1893. Father Tormy edited the Tablet 
 with marked ability during Lucas's enforced absence 
 in Rome. He spent many years in America. 
 
 Page 
 
 5 T. THE ANCIENT RACE. 
 
196 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 MRS. VARIAN. 
 
 THE pseudonym of this lady in the Nation was 
 " FIONNUALA." She is still living, it is believed, in the 
 County Cork. 
 
 Page 
 6 1 I. TlPPERARY. 
 
 EDWARD WALSH. 
 
 BORN in Londonderry in 1805. Died, August 6th, 
 1850. He appears to have led a wandering unstable 
 life alternating between teaching and literature. The 
 last we see of him is in a pathetic entry in Mitchel's 
 " Jail Journal," where he just for a brief moment 
 comes into the court-yard of the jail to whisper a 
 word of sympathy with the prisoner, he being then 
 the schoolmaster to the convicts. What a position 
 for a man of real genuis which Edward Walsh 
 undoubtedly was. 
 
 Pajje 
 
 44 i. O'DONOVAN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 46 2. A GLEN OF GR.EEN BEAUTY. 
 
 47 3. A BIRD IN THE DEEP VALLEY. 
 
 149 4- O ! THAT MY VOICE COULD WAKEN, 
 
NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 197 
 
 LADY WILDE. 
 
 MAIDEN name, Jane Francesca Elgee, the widow of 
 Sir W. R. Wilde, a distinguished surgeon, well-known 
 for his devotion to Irish archaeology and topographical 
 studies. The editor has spoken of Lady Wilde's great 
 gift of song in his Introduction. She lives in London 
 and is the mother of Oscar and William Wilde. 
 
 Page 
 
 104 T. THE FAMINE YEAR. 
 
 117 2. THE VOICE OF THE POOR. 
 
 119 3. WORK WHILE IT is CALLED DAY. 
 
 RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 
 
 BORN in Tipperary (or, as some say, in Dublin) in 1821. 
 His father was Count D'Alton, a landed proprietor in 
 Co. Tipperary whose name, along with his mother's, 
 he bore. The secret of his parentage has never been 
 made known, but one can see that it rankled in his 
 heart all through his life who will read his last poem, 
 " A Breeze Through the Forest." He sent his first 
 poem "The Munster War Song" from Carlow College 
 while he was still a student there in 1843. Williams 
 had an abundant sense of humour ; and when, about 
 1844, he became a medical student in Dublin, he kept 
 the readers of the Nation on a broad grin with the 
 
1 98 NEW SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 
 
 adventures of a certain member of his tribe whose 
 merry pranks he translated into the Greek dialect of the 
 dissecting room. But unfortunately these rhapsodies 
 are not transplantable. How rare a quality is uni- 
 versal humour ! Only once in centuries one meets 
 with a Rabelais. Williams like all humourists was 
 also very melancholy. As his works have been 
 published separately by a kindred poet, T. D. Sullivan, 
 I forbear to make any long citations here. 
 
 Page 
 
 70 i. To JESSY. 
 
 72 2. A BREEZE THROUGH THE FOREST. 
 158 3. NOT FOR ME. 
 
 [NOTE. For many dates and particulars given in the fore- 
 going Notes, the editor is indebted to the minute research of Mr. 
 D. J. O'Donoghue in his Biographical Dictionary of Irish Poets.] 
 
THE PATRIOT PARLIAMENT 
 
 Of 1689, with its Statutes, Bites, and Proceedings, 
 By THOMAS DAVIS. 
 
 Edited, with an Introduction, by the Hon. Sir CHAHLHJ3 
 QAVAN DUFFY, K.C.M.G. 
 
 LONDON : T. FISHER UNWIN, Paternoster Square. 
 
 DUBLIN : SEALY, BRYERS & WALKER, Middle Abbey Street. 
 
 NEW YORK: P. J. KENEDY, Barclay Street. 
 
 NOTICES OF THE BRITISH PRESS. 
 
 From THE DAILY NEWS. 
 The remarkable series of papers on " The 
 Patriot Parliament." 
 
 From THE PALL MALL GAZETTE. 
 
 The papers are by far the most valuable of Davis's 
 contribution to Irish history. Mr. Lecky, in his history, 
 has spoken of them with much admiration, and has 
 adopted many of their conclusions. The account of the 
 Jacobite Parliament which is given by Lord Macaulay 
 has long been generally accepted in England, 
 but we believe that any one who will candidly examine 
 the evidence that is collected by Davis will arrive 
 at the conclusion that this account is seriously mis- 
 leading. 
 
 To many, however, the most attractive part of this 
 little volume will be the introduction which is written 
 by Sir Gavan Duffy. It is a brilliant and powerful 
 indictment of the government of Ireland under the 
 Stuarts. It is impossible to mistake the accent of 
 sincerity that runs through his pages, and very few 
 men have written Irish history with such eloquence 
 and force. 
 
2 THE PATRIOT PARLIAMENT, 
 
 From THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE. 
 
 We have Mr. Lecky's testimony that Davis's account 
 of what he calls the Patriot Parliament is "the best and 
 fullest " he is acquainted with. He has made it clear 
 that Macaulay's condemnation of the Parliament was 
 over coloured. 
 
 From NOTES AND QUERIES. 
 
 We do not discuss politics, even when upwards of 
 two hundred years intervenes between the then and 
 the now. From the literary point of view, taking into 
 consideration the limitations of a popular book, we 
 have little but praise to give to Davis's " Patriot Parlia- 
 ment." He wrote as a partisan ; but we detect no 
 perversion of facts. Sir Charles Gavan Duffy's intro- 
 duction is remarkably interesting. Some of our readers 
 will like to put this volume on the shelf where they 
 keep their books of historic reference, for in the 
 appendix is a carefully compiled catalogue of the Lords 
 and Commons of the Parliament of 1689. 
 From THE TIMES. 
 
 A reprint of a politico-historical tract by a writer 
 highly commended by Mr. Lecky, with an appreciative 
 biographical introduction from the pen of a well-knovyn 
 authority on Irish history. 
 
 From THE GLOBE. 
 
 Mr. Lecky once described Davis's work as " by far 
 the best and fullest account" of the assembly in 
 question, and in reproducing it the Irish Society have 
 earned the thanks of all students of Irish history. 
 
 From THE SCOTSMAN. 
 
 The work is a valuable and instructive account of 
 the work done by " the Popish Parliament of James 
 II.," It is introduced by a paper in which its editor 
 tells all that need be known of Davis, and shows in 
 
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 3 
 
 what respects his account corrects Macaulay. The 
 reissue should be welcome to every one interested in 
 
 Irish history. 
 
 From THE MANCHESTER GUARDIAN. 
 It is a vigorous and readable paper, and it carries 
 weight with it 
 
 From THE NEWCASTLE CHRONICLE. 
 Sir Charles Gavan Duffy's introduction extends 
 to nearly one hundred pages, and traces in bold and 
 rapid lines the history of Ireland under the Stuarts. 
 It is written with that ease, lucidity and decision which 
 marks the style of Davis's colleague of fifty years ago, 
 who now does this service to the history of his country 
 and to the memory of his friend. 
 
 From THE SCOTTISH LEADER. 
 
 It would not have been easy indeed to make a 
 better opening of such a series as this aspires to be. 
 " The Patriotic Parliament " is only a characteristic 
 fragment of the work of one of Ireland's most notable 
 heroes, and it is also a contribution of real merit to 
 Irish history. A perusal of this little book will fully 
 justify Mr. Lecky's praise of the skill and industry 
 displayed by Davis, at the same time that it will fill 
 one with a kind of amused admiration of the fervid and 
 somewhat youthful enthusiasm of the " Young Ireland" 
 of 1845. 
 
 From THE FREEMAN. 
 
 The Irish Parliament of 1690 has been seriously 
 maligned by Macaulay, Froude, Ingram and others. 
 This is a vindication, and the work of an Irish 
 Protestant. The introduction by Sir Charles Gavan 
 Duffy is very vividly written and gives a view of the 
 colonization of Ulster of a very serious character. We 
 have not space for the story as given here, but we 
 
4 THE PATRIOT PARLIAMENT. 
 
 commend it to our readers who desire to understand 
 the spings of Irish discontent. 
 
 From THE BAPTIST. 
 
 To impartial students of history Davis's work will be 
 indispensable, 
 
 From THE METHODIST TIMES. 
 
 This humble-looking little book marks an era. Sir 
 Charles Duffy has prefixed an introduction in which 
 he tells once more the long story of Ireland's wrongs. 
 The perusual of it makes one feel that England will 
 never lay aside her prejudices and look at Irish 
 questions as she looks at Italian or Russian questions. 
 After Sir C. G. Duffy's introduction comes Thomas 
 Davis's modest preface. It fills five pages ; it was 
 written just 50 years ago. It is altogether admirable 
 in tone and sentiment. 
 
 From THE UNIVERSE. 
 
 We are of opinion that the issue of this new library 
 will tend to place the position of our country more 
 fairly before the public, and will foster a much-wanted 
 knowledge of Ireland, its requirements and its failings 
 amongst our own people. We bid the patriotic venture 
 most heartily welcome. 
 
 As a necessity, this opening book is identified with 
 Thomas Davis not by any means that it is the best 
 specimen of his thought or writing as in some sort 
 acting as a hyphen between his era and ours the era 
 of glorious promise and that of partial fruition. Sir 
 Gavan Duffy thanks that he still survives supplies 
 a masterly introduction, which to us is the kernel of 
 the volume. 
 
 From THE CATHOLIC TIMES. 
 Not the least of the many services which Sir Charles 
 Gavan Duffy's prolific pen has rendered to the country 
 
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS, 5 
 
 which gave him birth, and which he has long loved 
 and served with patriotic devotion, is the interesting 
 historical introduction he has prefixed to Thomas 
 Davis's " Patriotic Parliament." The mind of the 
 statesman, the heart of the patriot, and the hand of 
 the practised politician are strikingly evident on every 
 page of this powerful polemic. 
 
 From THE WEEKLY REGISTER. 
 
 We are, it may be hoped, at the beginning of a 
 better time. Along with the publications of the Irish 
 Literary Society, which have just begun so well with 
 "The Patriotic Parliament of 1689," the joint work of 
 Thomas Davis and Gavan Duffy, the twin brethren .of 
 modern literature in Ireland, may we see also many a 
 publication by the Irish clergy of such books as the 
 two we have named, and the volumes published 
 some years ago by the present Coadjutor-Bishop for 
 Kildare and Leighlin. 
 
 From THE COLONIES AND INDIA. 
 
 The book before us is one which no student of Irish 
 history can well be without, for it discloses in what is 
 no doubt the true light the character of the Catholic 
 Parliament of James IE. 
 
 From THE WEEKLY DESPATCH. 
 The volume, a very graphic account of the 
 "Patriot Parliameftt " of 1689, written by Thomas 
 Davis, the Irish patriot of two generations back, is an 
 interesting and very instructive narrative, correcting the 
 slanders and false statements of Macaulay and other 
 English historians, and showing how just, and even 
 how tolerant of Protestant aliens, Irish Catholics could 
 be in the short time allowed to them, more than a 
 hundred years before Grattan's Parliament came into 
 existence, for experimenting in Home Rule. But the 
 
6 THE PATRIOT PARLIAMENT. 
 
 most readable portion of the volume is the long intro- 
 duction supplied by the editor, Sir Charles Gavan 
 Duffy, who here succinctly reminds us of some of the 
 wrongs inflicted on his fellow-countrymen and fellow- 
 religionists in the old days, and not yet redressed. 
 
 From THE WEEKLY SUN. 
 
 There ought to be many such books in circulation 
 in England and Ireland, and I hope that this volume 
 will run through many editions. Ignorance has been 
 the bane of the two countries hitherto. Books like 
 " The Irish Parliament under James II." will go far to 
 cement that feeling of friendship by showing the 
 people of this country how erroneous their precon- 
 |ceived opinions of the character of the Irish people 
 have been. 
 
 From THE FREEMAN'S JOURNAL. 
 
 Though written fifty years ago, it is as much alive with 
 lessons for the hour as any composition of recent date. 
 The introduction is in itself a most valuable summary 
 of the story of Ireland during the Stuart period. 
 Together with Da vis's work it forms a book of which 
 no student of Irish history or Irish politics can afford 
 to remain in ignorance. 
 
 From THE LYCEUM. 
 
 Sir Charles Gavan Duffy in his Introduction give us 
 a sketch of the times immediately preceding the 1689 
 Parliament, beginning with the Plantation of Ulster 
 under James I. Step by step he traces the course of 
 events through the dark period of Cromwell's campaigns, 
 through the reign of Charles II., with his lack of good 
 faith and honour in his dealings with Ireland, down to 
 the time when James, a fugitive from his own country 
 and in peril of his life, landed on the shores of Ireland 
 and summoned a Parliament of his Irish subjects. 
 
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 7 
 
 Davis's writings on this Parliament and his ample 
 vindication of it from the contumely and abuse so 
 freely bestowed on it, have now, for the first time, been 
 collected together and given to the reading world as a 
 connected whole. It is a book to be closely studied 
 as throwing a blight and instructive light on a dark 
 and much misrepresented portion of Irish history. 
 
 From THE DUBLIN DAILY INDEPENDENT. 
 To Sir Charles Gavan Duffy this work must have 
 been much of a labour of love. Of that company of 
 devoted Irishmen who had gathered together in Dublin 
 nigh fifty years ago he alone survives with one other, 
 a busy philanthropist in a southern city who has en- 
 hanced the beauty of our national ballads and endeared 
 himself to his countrymen thereby. The coming 
 home of Gavan Duffy to renew the work of his early 
 manhood after half a century of exile is an interesting 
 incident. The young fresh revival in Irish literature 
 in its connection with these few fine old men is as the 
 return of the Son of Cool to the few remaining old 
 Fians who kept true to the traditions of their youth 
 in the heart of the wooded hills of Connaught. It is 
 the proof that their fond hopes cannot be for ever 
 unfulfilled. Sharing with Sir Charles Gavan Duffy the 
 kudos of editing the New Library were two men not 
 unknown to their countrymen. One of them, as An 
 Chraoibhin Aoilhinn^ has laboured earnestly and well 
 to recusitate an interest in the purely Gaelic side of Irish 
 literature Dr. Douglas Hyde. The other, recognis- 
 ing that Thomas Davis's influence is of that peculiar 
 kind rather bequeathed than withdrawn, has gone 
 fortli zealously to the endeavour of making Thomas 
 Davis understanded of the people, and, with confi- 
 dence to Mr. T. W. Rolleston, may be entrusted the 
 
S THE PATRIOT PARLIAMENT. 
 
 gathering up the fragments that remain that nothing 
 be lost of those who brought a new soul into 
 Erinn. 
 
 From THE DUBLIN EVENING TELEGRAPH. 
 
 An able work, by Thomas Davis, edited by Sir 
 Charles Gavan Duffy, with a magnificent essay on the 
 Stuart and Cromwell period. That we should get such 
 a jewel as this first volume, such a thing of beauty 
 for a shilling, is little short of a marvel. 
 
 From THE CORK HERALD. 
 
 It might be said, without exaggeration, that the ap- 
 pearance of this work the forerunner as 'it is of a 
 series in which Irish life, Irish genius, and Irish char- 
 acter will be represented constitutes an event of no 
 ordinary importance in Irish History. It is the out- 
 come of a desire and a want which have been long 
 felt that the Irish people should know accurately and 
 intimately everything connected with the past history 
 of their country, with its literature, its music, its anti- 
 quities, and its art. The same idea which is now 
 taking visible shape, presented itself to the minds of 
 the leaders of the Young Ireland movement fifty years 
 ago, when a series of little books was published which 
 have since been the companions, the inspiration, and 
 the delight of two generations of Irishmen at home and 
 abroad. There are few Irishmen who have not at one 
 time or another received a potent intellectual stimulus 
 from the writings of Davis or Duffy, Mitchell or 
 M'Nevin. We do not err, therefore, when we say that 
 great possibilities lie hidden in this new movement. 
 
 LONDON: T. FISHER UN WIN. 
 DUBLIN : SEALY, BRYERS & WALKER. 
 

 
 PEB251974 8 
 
 - 
 
78257O 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY