UC-NRLF 
 
 SB 2T IhD 
 

 
 .; 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
 Received 
 Accession No. 
 
 
 
 OF 1 
 
 Cliiss No. 
 

 
 
 .., 
 
 
iRISfiHPOETS 
 
 PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED AND EMBRACING 
 
 COMPLETE BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THOSE WHO AT HOME AND 
 
 ABROAD HAVE SUSTAINED THE REPUTATION OF IRELAND 
 
 AS THE LAND OF SONG AND STORY 
 
 COPIOUS SELECTIONS FROM THEIR WRITINGS 
 
 BY 
 
 REV. D. O. CROWLEY 
 
 President of the Youths' Directory 
 
 INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 THOMAS R. BANNERMAN 
 
 " Carmine fit vivax virtus, expersque sepulcri, 
 Notitiam serse posteritatis habet." 
 
 THE fame of great and noble deeds, 
 "Wing'd with his matchless lore, 
 
 The poet's pen sends echoing down 
 To Time's remotest shore. 
 
 1892 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1892, by 
 
 D. O. CROWLEY, 
 In the Office of the librarian at Washington, D. C. 
 
 Electrotyped and Printed by P. J. THOMAS, 
 505 Clay St., San Francisco, Cal. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 IN presenting this volume to the public, the editor 
 claims for his share no other merit than that 
 of accuracy in the biographical data which have 
 been collected from different sources at the cost of 
 considerable time, and not without labor. All other 
 merits belong to the gifted children of the Gael 
 whose life-trials and triumphs he has endeavored to 
 portray. 
 
 Irish literature is not wanting in collections of 
 songs and ballads. It is admitted on every side that 
 the songs of Erin stand unrivaled; and both in 
 quantity and quality her ballad-poetry ranks next 
 after that of Scotland. But, up to a very recent date, 
 comparatively little has been done towards preserving 
 biographies of those to whom she is indebted for 
 such priceless treasures. A few books have of late 
 been printed in the United States with a view to 
 remedy this defect; but they are all so bulky and, in 
 many instances, so badly bound as to render them 
 useless, except as works of reference. Besides, the 
 price of those tomes is so high that it places them 
 
 beyond the reach of the mass of our people. 
 
 (iii.) 
 
IV. PBEFACE. 
 
 It is, therefore, to supply a popular want that these 
 sketches and poems have been collected from the 
 pages of the Celtic Magazine, in which they first 
 appeared under the title they still retain. 
 
 The portrait of Richard D'Alton Williams which 
 appears in this work is the only one ever published 
 of that graceful and gifted writer. The miniature 
 ivory portrait, of which our frontispiece is a faithful 
 copy, was made when " Shamrock" had the honor of 
 being a political prisoner, in Newgate, on account of 
 his participation in the 'Forty-Eight movement. 
 This is the first and only one ever taken of him. 
 As the reader will readily observe, he was sketched 
 in prison garb. His sole surviving son, Mr. Dal ton 
 Williams of New Orleans, was good enough to have a 
 copy made specially for IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS 
 a favor which is highly appreciated. 
 
 The portrait of that sweet charmer of the lyre, 
 James Joseph Callanan, so far as can be learned, has 
 never before appeared in print. The one that accom- 
 panies his life-sketch in the present work is supposed 
 to have been taken in his native city before he left 
 forever the land of his love. 
 
 Here also the reader will find, for the first time 
 in extenso, a memoir of that genuine poet and patri- 
 otic Irishman, Bartholomew Dowling, who has done 
 good work in the domain of Irish literature. Like 
 
PBEFACE. V. 
 
 most men of genius he was modest, and wrote seem- 
 ingly without any intention of leaving his work be- 
 hind him in a collective form. The disjecta membra 
 poetae have, however, been gathered together in this 
 volume. The consciousness of having assisted in 
 rescuing the poems of this excellent author from the 
 brink of oblivion more than compensates for the 
 labor expended on the entire book. 
 
 It may be objected that we have omitted many of 
 Ireland's best poetical writers here. Very true; the 
 author of the Irish Melodies is not mentioned; nor 
 are many others of greater note than some of those 
 represented, because we seek not so much to increase 
 the fame of well-known poets as to popularize those 
 comparatively unknown, but whose works, neverthe- 
 less, entitle them to our gratitude and admiration. 
 
 THE EDITOR. 
 
 UIIT 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 | HE ruthless efforts of the British Government 
 
 JL to degrade and stifle the mental energies of 
 
 the Irish people are little known to the great 
 
 mass of their descendants in these later days of 
 
 intellectual freedom. Occasional mention is made 
 
 of the atrocious Penal Code, which, even as recently 
 
 as the beginning of the present century, was enforced 
 
 by those of whom the immortal Davis wrote: 
 
 ' They bribed the flock, they bribed the son, 
 
 To sell the priest and rob the sire; 
 Their dogs were taught alike to run 
 Upon the scent of wolf and friar." 
 
 But how few, even amongst the friends of the 
 Irish cause, are intimately familiar with the text 
 and the means employed for the execution of those 
 monstrous enactments against the acquirement and 
 dissemination of human knowledge! 
 
 The question involves one of the darkest pages of 
 history and possesses a deep import for all who 
 belong either closely or remotely to that widely- 
 scattered but ambitious and hopeful part of the 
 world's population known as the Irish Nation. The 
 Goths and Vandals, sweeping down from the shores 
 of the Baltic and razing to the earth the temples of 
 art and science, were less malignant in their purpose 
 
 (vii.) 
 
Vlll. INTRODUCTION. 
 
 than the statesmen who framed those statutes for the 
 suppression of education in Ireland. The former, 
 rude and barbarous, destroyed the fountain of know- 
 ledge but spared the stream that supplied it, whilst 
 the latter, with ripe experience in the ways of civili- 
 zation, not only shattered the receptacle but also 
 penetrated to the depths in order to obstruct the 
 current upon which a nation depended for intellec- 
 tual existence. All the furies of a merciless tyranny 
 were directed against the schoolmasters of Ireland 
 by a monarchy which boasted of its own wealth of 
 learning and the liberality of its patronage of art 
 and literature. It was not the semi-barbarous Goth 
 but the civilized Anglo-Norman of the seventeenth 
 and eighteenth centuries that proved the greatest 
 scourge of knowledge in Ireland. It was not the 
 wild tribesmen from the mountains of Northern 
 Europe, but the titled courtiers and mail-clad war- 
 riors from the land of Shakespeare, of Bacon, of 
 Macauley and of Locke, that rifled the archives of 
 the Irish monasteries and wantonly destroyed the 
 ancient treasures of a nation of scholars. The 
 spectacle of a people made helplessly illiterate by 
 process of law should excite resentment in the mind 
 of every lover of justice. It should also stand as a 
 barrier for the protection of their descendants, so 
 frequently subjected to humiliation and reproach 
 by those who are either ignorant of or otherwise 
 blindly prejudiced to the facts of history. 
 
 During recent generations the people of Ireland, 
 both at home and abroad, were but too often com- 
 
INTRODUCTION. IX. 
 
 pelled to hear the coarsely-insulting designation, 
 " ignorant Irish " a phrase which found its origin 
 upon the lips of the very enemies who despoiled 
 their country's institutions of learning, and after- 
 wards, by means of the most infamous legislation, 
 sought to obliterate every vestige of their former 
 enlightenment. 
 
 This galling insult burned deeply into the hearts 
 of millions who keenly felt its injustice whilst be- 
 holding in the ivy-clad ruins of their beloved "Insula 
 Sanctorum" the proofs that they were not ignorant 
 by choice, but because of the Nero-like persecution 
 waged against the teachers who would have instructed 
 them. 
 
 The skeleton of the Penal Code should not be per- 
 mitted to lie undisturbed in the closet of imperial 
 England. 
 
 Justice to the Irish people of the present, as well 
 as to the memory of those of the past, demands that 
 the monstrous relic should be exposed. Ours is an 
 age of investigation and progress; and it is due the 
 educated Irish of to-day as well as their descendants 
 in this thrice-blessed land of freedom that the reason 
 of the existence of the so-called " ignorant Irish " of 
 years gone by should be fully and effectively ex- 
 plained. The utterance of Burke should be known 
 and remembered by all who would bear testimony 
 to the iniquitous character of the Penal Code and 
 its blighting effects upon the inhabitants of Ireland. 
 "It was," says the eminent statesman, "a machine 
 of wise and elaborate contrivance, and as well fitted 
 
X. INTRODUCTION. 
 
 for the oppression, impoverishment and degradation 
 of a people, and the debasement in them of human 
 nature itself, as ever proceeded from the perverted 
 ingenuity of man." With such a machine in opera- 
 tion it is not at all surprising that the tree of 
 knowledge ceased to bear fruit amongst the sons and 
 daughters of Erin. On the contrary, being so per- 
 fectly equipped for the accomplishment of evil, it is 
 simply a wonder that the fell purpose of those who 
 introduced the engine of destruction was not wholly 
 consummated. The Irish people were oppressed, 
 impoverished, and degraded ; but not all the fiendish 
 ingenuity of their enemies could produce " the de- 
 basement in them of human nature itself." As a 
 nation, they have never borne the taint of debase- 
 ment. Even from the remote period of their exalted 
 paganism down to the days of the present they have 
 been distinguished as the guardians of social purity, 
 the patrons of chivalry and the devoted conservators 
 of song and story. The authors of the Penal Code 
 succeeded in depriving them of the benefits of educa- 
 tion, but struggled in vain to destroy their love and 
 loyalty for the " Soggarth Aroon " and the ever- 
 faithful poet, by whose ministry and lays they were 
 alone preserved from spiritual and national decay. 
 This love and loyalty, born in the dark days of 
 oppression and still active and unwavering in the 
 hearts of millions, is most felicitously commemo- 
 rated in the pages of the volume herewith given to 
 the public. 
 
 The pen of the reverend author could not have 
 
INTEODUCTION. XJ 
 
 been more fittingly employed than in spreading the 
 fame of those who, without the expectation of mate- 
 rial reward, devoted their genius and talents to a 
 poor and helpless motherland in order that she 
 might perpetuate the existence of her ancient 
 nationhood. His patient research has brought to 
 this work much valuable information which has 
 never before appeared in print, and which, were it 
 not for his exertions, might have been lost to Irish 
 biographical literature. 
 
 This is notably illustrated in the case of that con- 
 summate poet and ardent patriot, Bartholomew 
 Dowling, whose life and labors are here published 
 for the first time, and whose career must possess a 
 special interest for those whose lot like his own was 
 cast on the golden shores of the Pacific, whence, to 
 use his own words, 
 
 ' ' That poet's song doth now go forth 
 
 To many a distant shore, 
 To fling around his land of birth 
 A glory evermore." 
 
 The survivors of the patriotic Boys of '65 to '67 
 will also read with especial pleasure the pages devoted 
 to the biography of the gifted Dowling. 
 
 It will bring back to their minds the fervent out- 
 pourings of patriotic sentiment to which they lis- 
 tened, in those hidden gatherings of more than a 
 quarter of a century ago, by the banks of the Liffey, 
 the Blackwater or the Shannon. 
 
 As in a dream they will listen, once again, to a 
 deep- toned voice singing the glories of "The Brigade 
 
Xll. INTRODUCTION. 
 
 at Fontenoy," whilst a John Boyle O'Reilly or an 
 Edmund O'Donovan will give ghostly approval to 
 the author of the soul-stirring strains : 
 
 * ' By our camp fires rose a murmur 
 
 At the dawning of the day, 
 And the tread of many footsteps, 
 
 Spoke the advent of the fray." 
 
 Another particularly interesting and most valuable 
 feature of the volume is the publication, also for the 
 first time, of the portrait of the versatile and sub- 
 limely-endowed Richard D'Altoii Williams. The 
 reverend biographer has aimed to present as fully as 
 possible the distinguishing traits of this fondly-re- 
 membered poet, and that he has succeeded, is amply 
 shown by the fascinating sketch in which he pictures 
 the genius and virtue of him who wrote 
 
 ' ' When I slumber in the gloom 
 Of a nameless foreign tomb 
 By a distant ocean's boom. " 
 
 Happily, the anticipations of the exile poet were 
 not long fulfilled. His tomb, as we are so beautifully 
 informed, was not allowed to remain nameless. All 
 praise to the noble-hearted soldiers who accomplished 
 the chivalrous and patriotic duty of honoring the last 
 resting place of Richard D'Alton Williams. 
 
 The most liberal support should be ungrudgingly 
 given to those who compile and preserve the " mate- 
 rials for a true and complete history of Ireland, " and 
 it is therefore cordially hoped that such support and 
 patronage may be freely extended to IRISH POETS 
 AND NOVELISTS. 
 
 T.R.B. 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS 
 
 Page. 
 
 Biography 1 
 
 The Munster War Song 3 
 
 Sister of Charity 5 
 
 The Dying Girl 8 
 
 Adieu to Innisfail 12 
 
 The Patriot Brave 16 
 
 God Bless the Brave (McGee) 18 
 
 Dies Irae 19 
 
 Kathleen 24 
 
 The Pass of Plumes 25 
 
 The Extermination 29 
 
 BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING 
 
 Portrait 30 
 
 Memoir 31 
 
 Theodore Korner 37 
 
 Prayer During Battle 39 
 
 Death Song of the Viking 44 
 
 The Brigade at Fontenoy 45 
 
 Hymn of the Imperial Guard 48 
 
 Hurrah for the Next that Dies 50 
 
 The Foreign Shamrock 52 
 
 Odors 53 
 
 Sarsfield's Sortie 54 
 
 The Vision of King Brian 57 
 
 In Vain 60 
 
 Song of the '82 Club 61 
 
 Launching " La Gloire" 62 
 
 The Capture of Paris 64 
 
 (xiii.) 
 
XIV. CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 The Song of the Cossack 66 
 
 The Midnight Watch 68 
 
 The Assault on Limerick 70 
 
 A Reminiscence of the Mines 72 
 
 The Relief of Lucknow 75 
 
 Mort Sur Champs D'Honneur 77 
 
 JOHN BANIM 
 
 Biographical Sketch 79 
 
 Portrait 80 
 
 Advice to Young Writers ... 89 
 
 Call from Home 91 
 
 Names of his Principal Works 96 
 
 Jeffrey's Opinion of Soggarth Aroon 97 
 
 He said that He was not Our Brother 99 
 
 Aileen 100 
 
 The Irish Maiden's Song 102 
 
 REV. C. P. MEEHAN 
 
 Biographical Sketch 103 
 
 Boyhood's Years 103 
 
 Portrait 104 
 
 Defence of Mangan 105 
 
 Leo's Tribute to Father Meehan 106 
 
 The Patriot's Wife Ill 
 
 Hearts that are Great Beat never Loud 116 
 
 The Fall of the Leaves 118 
 
 The Battle of Benburb 121 
 
 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN 
 
 Biographical Sketch 125 
 
 Portrait 126 
 
 Loch Ine 127 
 
 Kane 130 
 
 Bacchus 134 
 
 Irish Castles . . 137 
 
CONTENTS. XV. 
 GERALD GRIFFIN 
 
 Page. 
 
 Biographical Sketch 139 
 
 Portrait 140 
 
 Adare 144 
 
 Old Times 146 
 
 Why Has my Soul been Given ? 150 
 
 O'Brazil, the Isle of the Blest 155 
 
 Tis, it is the Shannon Stream 157 
 
 The Bridal of Malahide 159 
 
 When Filled with Thoughts 162 
 
 For I am Desolate 163 
 
 My Mary of the Curling Hair 164 
 
 Gille Ma Chree 165 
 
 A Place in thy Memory, Dearest 168 
 
 Lines to a Sea Gull 169 
 
 Monody on Griffin (McGee) 170 
 
 REV. CHAS. WOLFE 
 
 Biographical Sketch v 173 
 
 At the Grave of Rev. C. Wolfe (Mrs. Piatt) 177 
 
 The Burial of Sir John Moore 178 
 
 If I had Thought 179 
 
 Oh! Say not That 181 
 
 Go! Forget Me 182 
 
 CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE 
 
 Biographical Sketch 183 
 
 The Fall of Richmond '189 
 
 Raising a Monument to the Irish Legion 191 
 
 Janette's Hair 195 
 
 Not a Star from the Flag shall Fade 197 
 
 Stamping Out 198 
 
 The Flaunting Lie 200 
 
 Sambo's Right to be Kilt 201 
 
 JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN 
 
 Biographical Sketch 203 
 
 Portrait.. . 204 
 
Xvi. CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Spirit of Song 208 
 
 Dirge of O'Sullivan Beare 212 
 
 Gougane Barra 217 
 
 The Virgin Mary's Bank 219 
 
 The Star of Heaven 220 
 
 Say, My Brown Drimin , 221 
 
 Lament for Ireland 222 
 
 Address to Greece 224 
 
 The Mother of the Macchabees 226 
 
 Lines to the Blessed Sacrament 228 
 
 The Exile's Farewell 230 
 
 Lines to Erin. 231 
 
 Stanzas 231 
 
 A Lay of Mizen Head 232 
 
 REV. MICHAEL MULLIN 
 
 Biographical Sketch 235 
 
 Portrait 236 
 
 Arthur McCoy 237 
 
 Lament for the Celtic Tongue 244 
 
 ROBERT DWYER JOYCE 
 
 Biographical Sketch 247 
 
 Portrait 248 
 
 1 am Suffering, and I Know 251 
 
 Hogan's Tribute 254 
 
 The Palace Garden 257 
 
 The Blacksmith of Limerick 260 
 
 Sweet Glengariffs Water 263 
 
 The Green and the Gold 264 
 
 The Rapparee's Horse and Sword 265 
 
 The Cailin Rue 266 
 
 The Sack of Dunbuie 267 
 
 Sarsfield's Ride; The Ambush of Sliav Bloom 272 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN 
 
 Portrait 280 
 
 Biographical Sketch 281 
 
CONTENTS. xvii. 
 
 Page. 
 
 And Then No More 283 
 
 The Nameless One 284 
 
 The Ideal 289 
 
 Irish National Hymn 289 
 
 The Dying Flower 290 
 
 Highway for Freedom 296 
 
 The Woman of Three Cows 297 
 
 The Fair Hills of Erie, 0! 300 
 
 Soul and Country 301 
 
 Cahal Mor of the Wine-Red Hand 303 
 
 Lament for Banba 305 
 
 The Time of the Barmecides 307 
 
 The Poet's Preaching 309 
 
 To Joseph Brennan 311 
 
 Ireland Under Irish Rule 313 
 
 O Maria, Regina Misericordiae 314 
 
 REV. A. J. RYAN 
 
 Biographical Sketch 317 
 
 Portrait 318 
 
 Longfellow to Father Ryan 318 
 
 In Memory of my Brother 323 
 
 Their Story Runneth Thus 326 
 
 The Conquered Banner 330 
 
 Lines- -1875 332 
 
 Erin's Flag 334 
 
 Song of the Mystic 336 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE 
 
 Memoir 339 
 
 Portrait 340 
 
 Parting from Ireland 344 
 
 Wishing Cap 351 
 
 The Homeward Bound 353 
 
 The Celtic Cross 354 
 
 Salutation to the Celts 356 
 
 The Exile's Request 357 
 
XV111. CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 The Living and Dead 358 
 
 To a Friend in Australia 359 
 
 Consolation 360 
 
 The Exile's Devotion 361 
 
 The Dying Celt to his American Son. 363 
 
 The Virgin Mary's Knight 364 
 
 Amergin's Anthem 366 
 
 The Celts 368 
 
 The Irish Wife 370 
 
 If Will had Wings 371 
 
 A Legend of St. Patrick 372 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER 
 
 Biography 375 
 
 Portrait 376 
 
 My Mountain Home 376 
 
 In Honor of Moore 378 
 
 Handy Andy 384 
 
 The Four-Leaved Shamrock 391 
 
 Eory O'More 394 
 
 Molly Bawn 394 
 
 Angel's Whisper 395 
 
 The Fairy Boy , 396 
 
 REV. FRANCIS MAHONY (FATHER PROUT) 
 
 Memoir 397 
 
 Portrait 398 
 
 In Pulchram Lactiferam 405 
 
 The Bells of Shandon 407 
 
 The Groves of Blarney 410 
 
 Ode to Chateaubriand 412 
 
 Don Ignatio Loyola's Vigil 415 
 
 The Tri-Color 416 
 
 Pray for Me 418 
 
 Battle of Lepanto 419 
 
 Ode to the Wig of Boscovich 421 
 
 Michael Angelo's Farewell 422 
 
 The Death of Father Prout. . . 423 
 
ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Adare Griffin 144 
 
 Address to Greece Callanan 224 
 
 Adieu to Innisfail Williams 12 
 
 Advice to Young Writers Banim 89 
 
 Aileen Banim 100 
 
 Amergin's Anthem McGee 366 
 
 Angel's Whisper Lover 395 
 
 And Then No More Mangan 283 
 
 A Place in thy Memory Griffin 168 
 
 Arthur McCoy Meehan 237 
 
 Assault on Limerick, The Dowling 70 
 
 At the Grave of Wolfe Piatt 177 
 
 Bacchus O'Brien 134 
 
 Battle of Benburb, The Meehan 121 
 
 Battle of Lepanto Mahony 419 
 
 Bells of Shandon Mahony 407 
 
 Blacksmith of Limerick, The Joyce 260 
 
 Boyhood's Years Meehan 103 
 
 Bridal of Malahide, The Griffin 159 
 
 Brigade at Fontenoy , The Dowling 45 
 
 Burial of Sir John Moore, The Wolfe 178 
 
 Cailin Rue, The Joyce 266 
 
 Cahil Mor of the Wine-Red Hand Mangan 303 
 
 Call from Home Banim 91 
 
 Capture of Paris, The Dowling 64 
 
 Celtic Cross, The McGee 368 
 
 Conquered Banner, The Ryan. . ". 330 
 
 Consolation McGee 360 
 
 (xix.) 
 
XX. ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 
 
 Pape. 
 
 Death of Father Prout MacCarthy 423 
 
 Death Song of the Viking Dowling 44 
 
 Defence of Mangan Meehan 105 
 
 Dies Irae Williams 19 
 
 Dirge of O'Sullivan Beare Callanan 212 
 
 Don Ignatio Loyola Mahony 415 
 
 Dying Celt, The McOee 363 
 
 Dying Flower, The Mangan 290 
 
 Dying Girl, The Williams 8 
 
 Erin's Flag Ryan 334 
 
 Exile's Devotion, The McGee 361 
 
 Exile's Farewell, The Callanan 230 
 
 Exile's Request, The McGee 357 
 
 Extermination, The Williams 29 
 
 Fair Hills of Erie, O! The Mangan 300 
 
 Fairy Boy, The Lover 396 
 
 Fall of the Leaves, The Meehan 118 
 
 Fall of Richmond, The Halpine 189 
 
 Flaunting Lie, The Halpine 200 
 
 Foreign Shamrock, The Dowling 52 
 
 For I am Desolate Griffin 163 
 
 Four-Leaved Shamrock Lover 391 
 
 Gille Machree Griffin 165 
 
 God Bless the Brave McGee 18 
 
 Go! Forget Me Wolfe 182 
 
 Gougane Barra Callanan 217 
 
 Green and Gold, The Joyce 264 
 
 Groves of Blarney, The Mahony 410 
 
 Handy Andy LOVPT 384 
 
 Hearts that are Great Beat never Loud. . ..Meehan 116 
 
 He said that He was not our Brother Banim 99 
 
 Highway for Freedom Mangan 296 
 
 Hogan's Tribute Joyce 254 
 
 Homeward Bound, The McGee 353 
 
ALPHABETICAL INDEX. xx j. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Hurrah for the Next that Dies Dowling 50 
 
 Hymn of the Imperial Guard Dowling 48 
 
 I am Suffering and I Know Joyce 251 
 
 Ideal, the Mangan 289 
 
 If I had Thought Wolfe 179 
 
 If Will had Wings McGee 371 
 
 In Honor of Moore Lover 378 
 
 In Memory of my Brother Ryan 323 
 
 In Pulchram Lactif eram Mdhony 405 
 
 In Vain Dowling 60 
 
 Ireland Under Irish Rule Mangan 313 
 
 Irish Castles O'Brien 137 
 
 Irish Maiden's Song, The Banim 102 
 
 Irish National Hymn Mangan 289 
 
 Janette's Hair Halpine 195 
 
 Jeffrey's Opinion of Soggarth Aroon Banim 97 
 
 Joseph Brennan, To. ... Mangan 311 
 
 Kane O'Brien 130 
 
 Kathleen Williams 24 
 
 Lament for Banba ......... Mangan 305 
 
 Lament for the Celtic Tongue Mullin 244 
 
 Lament for Ireland Callanan 222 
 
 Launching " La Gloire " Dowling 62 
 
 Lay of Mizen Head, A Caltanan 372 
 
 Legend of St. Patrick, A McOee 372 
 
 Leo's Tribute to Father Meehan 106 
 
 Lines 1875 Ryan 332 
 
 Lines to Erin Callanan 231 
 
 Lines to the Blessed Sacrament Callanan 228 
 
 Lines to a Sea Gull Griffin 169 
 
 Living and Dead, The McGee 358 
 
 Loch Ine O'Brien 127 
 
 Longfellow to Father Ryan 318 
 
xxil. ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Michael Angelo's Farewell Mahony 422 
 
 Midnight Watch, The Dowling 68 
 
 Molly Bawn Lover 394 
 
 Monody on Griffin McGee 170 
 
 Mort Sur Champ d'Honneur Dowling 77 
 
 Mother of the Macchabees, The Callanan 226 
 
 Munster War Song, The Williams 3 
 
 My Irish Wife McGee 370 
 
 My Mary of the Curling Hair Griffin 164 
 
 My Mountain Home Lover 3<T3 
 
 Nameless One, The Mangan 2&j 
 
 Names of His Principal Works Banim 96 
 
 Not a Star from the Flag Shall Fade Ealpine 197 
 
 O'Brazil, the Isle of the Blest Griffin 155 
 
 Ode to Chateaubriand Mahony 412 
 
 Ode to the Wig of Father Boscovich Mahony 421 
 
 Odors Dowling 53 
 
 Oh! Say not That Wolfe 181 
 
 Old Times Griffin 146 
 
 O Maria, Regina Misericordiae Mangan 314: 
 
 O Say, My Brown Drimin Callanan 221 
 
 Palace Garden, The Joyce 257 
 
 Parting from Ireland McGee 344 
 
 Pass of Plumes Williams 25 
 
 Patriot Brave, The Williams 16 
 
 Patriot's Wife, The Meehan Ill 
 
 Poet's Preaching Mangan 309 
 
 Prayer During Battle Dowling 39 
 
 Pray for Me Mahony 418 
 
 Raising a Monument to the Irish Legion . Halpine 191 
 
 Rapparee's Horse and Sword, The Joyce 265 
 
 Relief of Lucknow Dowling. 75 
 
 Reminiscence of the Mines, A Dowling 72 
 
 Rory O'More Lover . . . 393 
 
ALPHABETICAL INDEX. XXlll. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Sack of Dunbuie Joyce 267 
 
 Salutation to the Celts McGee 356 
 
 Sambo's Right to be Kilt Halpine 201 
 
 Sarstield's Ride; the Ambush of Sliav Bloom. Joyce 272 
 
 Sarsfield's Sortie Dowling .54 
 
 Sister of Charity , Williams 5 
 
 Soggarth Aroon Banim 97 
 
 Song of the Cossack, The Dowling.. 66 
 
 Song of the '82 Club Dowling. ..... 61 
 
 Song of the Mystic Ryan 336 
 
 Soul and Country Mangan 301 
 
 Spirit of Song Callanan 208 
 
 Stamping Out Halpine 198 
 
 Stanzas Callanan 231 
 
 Star of Heaven, The Callanan 220 
 
 Sweet Glengariff s Water Joyce 263 
 
 Their Story Runneth Thus Ryan 326 
 
 Theodore Korner Dowling 37 
 
 Time of the Barmecides, The Mangan 307 
 
 Tis, It is the Shannon Stream Griffin 157 
 
 To a Friend in Australia McGee 359 
 
 Tri-color, The Mahony 416 
 
 Virgin Mary's Bank, The Callanan. ..... 219 
 
 Virgin Mary's Knight, The McGee 364 
 
 Vision of King Brian, The Dowling 57 
 
 When Filled with Thoughts Griffin 162 
 
 Why has my Soul been Given Griffin 150 
 
 Wishing Cap ...... McGee 351 
 
 Woman of Three Cows, The Mangan '297 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Banim, John 80 
 
 Callanan, James Joseph 204 
 
 Bowling, Bartholomew 31 
 
 Griffin, Gerald 140 
 
 Halpine, C. G 183 
 
 Joyce, R. D 248 
 
 Lover, Samuel 379 
 
 Mahony, Francis (Rev.) 398 
 
 Mangan. J. C 281 
 
 Meehan, C. P. (Rev.) 104 
 
 McGee, T. D 340 
 
 Mullin, Michael (Rev.) 236 
 
 O'Brien, Fitz-James 126 
 
 Ryan, A. J. (Rev.) 318 
 
 Williams, R. D 1 
 
 (xxiv.) 
 
RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS, 
 
 POET, PHYSICIAN AND PROFESSOR. 
 
 HILE this singer, whose sweet songs have 
 charmed two generations of readers at 
 home and abroad, doth 
 
 Slumber in the gloom 
 
 Of a nameless, foreign tomb, 
 
 Innisfail keeps his memory fresh and green. 
 
 The life's history of every man who devotes his 
 days to literary pursuits is easily told; and that of 
 Richard D'Alton Williams is no exception to this 
 general rule. Born in the city of Dublin, October 
 8th, 1822, the future bard was taken at a very early 
 age to Grenanstown, in the County Tipperary, where 
 he spent his boyhood years. He was of a shy, sen- 
 sitive disposition, fond of poetry, fairy lore, and of 
 solitary rambles by the limpid rills and sombre 
 clefts that abound in the vicinity of the " Devil's 
 Bit." His poetic imagination grew strong and vivid 
 among the gorges of Tipperary mountains, where his 
 youthful footsteps often disturbed the eagles from 
 their lofty perches as his brave little heart bounded 
 with delight to watch them sailing gracefully across 
 
IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 the adjacent chasms till they vanished amid the 
 gray rocks of some distant peak. When tired of the 
 wild " Camailte's darkling mountains," he descended 
 to the glens, where his fanciful spirit peopled every 
 gorge and grove with elfin crowds. 
 
 About the period that this retiring, timid country 
 lad was bordering on his teens the Irish Nation was 
 nearing a series of memorable events in the history 
 of her people. Three D's Davis, Dillon and Duffy 
 representing Mallow, Mayo and Monaghan, met 
 about this time in Phoenix Park, Dublin, and estab- 
 lished a newspaper that was destined to become the 
 exponent of Ireland's national hopes and aspirations. 
 
 Davis was one of the first poetical contributors to 
 the columns of this national organ, which sent forth 
 its initial number on the 15th of October, 1842, and 
 startled the enemies of Irish freedom. 
 
 In January, 1843, D'Alton Williams' first poem 
 appeared in the columns of that journal over the nom 
 deplume of " Shamrock." Thenceforth " Shamrock " 
 was a welcome name in the office of the Nation, and 
 an assurance to the editor that whatever accompanied 
 it was worthy of insertion. Here is what the Nation 
 had to say of " Shamrock's " first effort, some time 
 after Williams had been " borne, an exile on the 
 deep," far from his native land: 
 
 ' ' Williams was not among the founders of that memorable 
 school of national poetry which sprang up in '42 and '43, but 
 
KICHARD D' ALTON WILLIAMS. 3 
 
 he was its second recruit. Early in the first year of the Nation 
 a poem reached us from Carlow College which may take its 
 place in literary history with the boyish pastorals of Pope, and 
 the boyish ballads of Chatterton. It was scrawled in the angu- 
 lar, uncertain hand of a student, and scarcely invited an exam- 
 ination. But it proved to be a ballad of surpassing vigor, full 
 of new and daring imagery, which broke out like a tide of lava 
 among the faded flowers and tarnished tinsel of minor poetry. 
 And the vigor seems to be held in check by a firm and culti- 
 vated judgment; there was not a single flight which Jeffrey 
 would have called extravagant, or a metre to which Pope could 
 object. This was the ' Munster War Song. ' It was Williams' 
 first poem in the Nation. A couple of months before , Davis had 
 written his first poem, 'The Lament of Owen Roe.' Memo- 
 rable beginnings, and beginnings of more than a new race of 
 Irish bards. At this time, Meagher was a student at Stony- 
 hurst, O'Brien a Parliamentary Liberal, Mitchel a provincial 
 attorney, and McGee an American editor. McNevin had never 
 been across the threshold of the Nation office, either in person or 
 by contribution; nor had MacCarthy, Mr. Walsh, nor De Jean; 
 nor had any two of these young men ever met. But a new 
 banner had been set up, and here were trumpet-notes sufficient 
 to summon a host about it." 
 
 The title of this martial poem is: 
 
 THE MUNSTER WAR SONG. 
 
 Can the depths of the ocean afford you no graves, 
 That you come thus to perish afar o'er the waves 
 To redden and swell the wild torrents that flow 
 Through the valleys of vengeance, the dark Aherlow? 
 
4 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 The sunburst that slumbered, embalmed in our tears, 
 Tipperary ! shall wave o'er thy tall mountaineers ! 
 And the dark hill shall bristle with sabre and spear, 
 While one tyrant remains to forge manacles here. 
 
 The riderless war-steed careers o'er the plain 
 With a shaft in his flank and a blood-dripping mane; 
 His gallant breast labors, and glare his wild eyes! 
 He plunges in torture, falls, shivers and dies. 
 
 Let the trumpets ring triumph ! the tyrant is slain ! 
 He reels o'er his charger, deep-pierced thro' the brain; 
 And his myriads are flying like leaves on the gale ; 
 But who shall escape from our hills with the tale ? 
 
 For the arrows of vengeance are showering like rain, 
 And choke the strong rivers with islands of slain, 
 Till the waves, " lordly Shannon," all crimsonly flow, 
 Like the billows of hell, with the blood of the foe. 
 
 While this stirring war song was fresh in the 
 minds of his countrymen, the author went up to 
 Dublin, and began his career as a medical student 
 in St. Vincent's Hospital, Stephen's Green. This 
 institution, under the care of the good Sisters of 
 Charity, was to the Irish metropolis at that time 
 what St. Mary's Hospital is at present to our own 
 City of San Francisco the best managed hospital in 
 all the land. Here young Williams gave himself up 
 to the study of the healing art under Dr. Bellingham, 
 who had many good things to say afterwards of his 
 promising pupil when summoned to testify in the 
 
RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 5 
 
 State Trials as to the character of the young medico. 
 It was during his incumbency at St. Vincent's, where 
 he saw with his own eyes the heroic deeds of the 
 Sisters, that he penned the following oft-quoted lines 
 on the 
 
 SISTER OF CHARITY. 
 
 Sister of Charity, gentle and dutiful, 
 
 Loving as Seraphim, tender and mild, 
 In humbleness strong and in purity beautiful, 
 
 In spirit heroic, in manners a child; 
 Ever thy love, like an angel, reposes 
 
 With hovering wings o'er the sufferer here, 
 Till the arrows of death are half hidden in roses, 
 
 And hope, speaking prophecy, smiles on the bier. 
 When life like a vapor is slowly retiring, 
 
 As clouds in the dawning to heaven uprolled, 
 Thy prayer, like a herald, precedes him, expiring, 
 
 And the cross on thy bosom his last looks behold. 
 And, oh ! as the Spouse to thy words of love listens, 
 
 What hundredfold blessings descend on thee then ! 
 Thus the flower-absorbed dew in the bright iris glistens, 
 
 And returns to the lilies more richly again. 
 
 Sister of Charity ! child of the Holiest ! 
 
 Oh ! for thy loving soul, ardent as pure ! 
 Mother of orphans and friend of the lowliest ! 
 
 Stay of the wretched, the guilty, the poor ! 
 The embrace of Godhead so plainly enfolds thee, 
 
 Sanctity's halo so shrines thee around, 
 Daring the eye that unshrinking beholds thee, 
 
 Nor droops in thy presence abashed to the ground. 
 
IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Dim is the fire of the sunniest blushes, 
 
 Burning the breast of the maidenly rose, 
 To the exquisite bloom that thy pale beauty flushes 
 
 When the incense ascends and the sanctuary glows; 
 And the music that seems heaven's language is pealing, 
 
 Adoration has bowed him in silence and sighs, 
 And man, intermingled with angels, is feeling 
 
 The passionless rapture that comes from the skies. 
 Oh ! that this heart, whose unspeakable treasure 
 
 Of love hath been wasted so vainly on clay, 
 Like thine, unallured by the phantom of pleasure, 
 
 Could rend eveiy earthly affection away ! 
 And yet, in thy presence, the billows subsiding, 
 
 Obey the strong effort of reason and will ; 
 And my soul, in her pristine tranquility gliding, 
 
 Is calm as when God bade the ocean be still ! 
 Thy soothing, how gentle ! thy pity, how tender ! 
 
 Choir-music thy voice is, thy step angel-grace, 
 And thy union with Deity shines in a splendor 
 
 Subdued, but unearthly, thy spiritual face. 
 When the frail chains are broken, a captive that bound thee 
 
 Afar from thy home in the prison of clay, 
 Bride of the Lamb I and Earth's shadow around thee 
 
 Disperse in the blaze of eternity's day; 
 Still mindful, as now, of the sufferer's story 
 
 Arresting the thunders of wrath ere they roll, 
 Intervene, as a cloud, between us and His glory, 
 
 And shield from his lightnings the shuddering soul; 
 And mild as the moonbeams in autumn descending, 
 
 That lightning, extinguished by mercy, shall fall, 
 While He hears, with the wail of the penitent blending, 
 Thy prayer, holy daughter of Vincent de Paul. 
 
RICHARD D ALTON WILLIAMS. 7 
 
 In the early part of 1848 Kevin Izod O'Doherty 
 and D' Alton Williams founded and edited the Irish 
 Tribune. The first number issued forth on June 10th 
 of that eventful year. Scarcely six weeks had elapsed 
 when the Tribune's career was brought to a stop by 
 the British Government, and the editors were locked 
 up under the pretense that they had intended to 
 levy war against Her Majesty, Victoria, through the 
 columns of a newspaper. The young bard in his 
 new character of traverser was defended by three 
 men who have since become famous in the history of 
 their country Samuel Ferguson, Colman O'Loghlen 
 and John O'Hagan. 
 
 To the charges of infidelity preferred against the 
 patriotic poet, Ferguson answered thus: 
 
 " He is not an infidel With a chanty becoming his Chris- 
 tianity he prays that God may forgive his enemies that abomi- 
 nable slander. Gentlemen, I am not a member of that ancient 
 and venerable Church within whose pale my client seeks for sal- 
 vation and has found tranquility and contentment in affliction. 
 But I would be unworthy the noble and generous Protestant 
 faith which I profess, if I could withhold my admiration from 
 the services which I am instructed he has rendered to the cause 
 of religion and of charity, not only by his personal exertions in 
 distributing the beneficence of one of the best and most useful 
 charitable institutions existing in our city, but also by his pen 
 in embodying the purest aspirations of religion in sublime and 
 beautiful poetry When I speak of the services he has ren- 
 dered religion by his poetry, allow me also to say that he has 
 
8 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 also rendered services to the cause of patriotism and of humanity 
 by it; and permit me to use the privilege of a long apprentice- 
 ship in those pursuits by saying that, in my own humble judg- 
 ment, after our own poet Moore, the first living poet of Ireland 
 is the gentleman who now stands arraigned at the bar." 
 
 Such is the high estimate put on the budding 
 genius of Richard D'Altoii Williams by one who was 
 a poet himself of very high rank, and whose name 
 shines to-day among the foremost literary men oi 
 his native land. 
 
 During the progress of his trial many kind things 
 were said of Mr. Williams; and although the jury 
 were sent back twice to reconsider their decision in 
 this case, they finally returned with a verdict ol 
 " not guilty." The poet was set at liberty, despite 
 the efforts of the Crown to convict him. 
 
 It was during his apprenticeship in the hospital 
 conducted by the heroic Sisters of Charity that he 
 wrote his universally admired little poem on 
 
 THE DYING GIRL. 
 
 From a Munster vale they brought her 
 
 From the pure and balmy air, 
 An Ormond peasant's daughter, 
 
 With blue eyes and golden hair. 
 They brought her to the city, 
 
 And she faded slowly there 
 Consumption has no pity 
 
 For blue eyes and golden hair. 
 
RICHARD D ALTON WILLIAMS. 
 
 When I saw her first reclining, 
 
 Her lips were moved in pray'r, 
 And the setting sun was shining 
 
 On her loosened golden hair. 
 When our kindly glances met her 
 
 Deadly brilliant was her eye 
 And she said that she was better, 
 
 While we knew that she must die. 
 
 She speaks of Munster valleys, 
 
 The pattern, dance and fair, 
 And her thin hand feebly dallies 
 
 With her scattered golden hair. 
 When silently we listened 
 
 To her breath with quiet care, 
 Her eyes with wonder glistened 
 
 And she asked us what was there ? 
 
 The poor thing smiled to ask it, 
 
 And her pretty mouth laid bare, 
 Like gems within a basket, 
 
 A string of pearlets rare ; 
 We said that we were trying, 
 
 By the gushing of her blood, 
 And the time she took in sighing, 
 
 To know if she were good. 
 
 Well, she smiled and chatted gaily; 
 
 Though we saw in mute despair 
 The hectic biighten daily 
 
 And the death-dew on her hair. 
 
10 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 And oft, her wasted fingers 
 
 Beating time upon the bed, 
 O'er some old tune she lingers, 
 
 And she bows her golden head. 
 
 At length the harp is broken, 
 
 And the spirit in its strings, 
 As the last decree is spoken, 
 
 To its source exulting springs. 
 Descending swiftly from the skies 
 
 Her guardian angel came : 
 He struck God's lightning from her eyes, 
 
 And bore Him back the flame. 
 
 Before the sun had risen 
 
 Through the lark -loved morning air, 
 Her young soul left its prison, 
 
 Undefiled by sin or care. 
 I stood beside the couch in tears, 
 
 Where pale and calm she slept, 
 And though I've gazed on death for years 
 
 I blush not that I wept. 
 I checked with effort pity's sighs, 
 
 And left the matron there 
 To close the curtains of her eyes 
 
 And bind her golden hair. 
 
 Though gifted like Edgar Allen Poe, Williams had 
 none of Poe's weaknesses or failings. He was sober, 
 sedate, benevolent and fervently pious. In fact, it 
 has been said of him that " he was much more ready 
 to visit the sick and dying than to join the not 
 
RICHARD D'AJLTON WILLIAMS. 11 
 
 unfrequent symposia of his literary and political 
 friends." 
 
 He was one of the most active and unselfish mem- 
 bers of the Society of St Vincent de Paul. The 
 duties assigned to him in connection with this 
 Society were always faithfully and carefully per- 
 formed. It is related by personal acquaintances that 
 in making his rounds among the sick and needy the 
 young physician left his overcoat behind him more 
 than once to cover some shivering creature. Refer- 
 ence is made to this Society in the following letter 
 written to the late Denis Florence MacCarthy whose 
 nom de plume in those early days was " Desmond " 
 
 " MY DEAR DESMOND: I send you the standing desk and hope 
 that you may make countless standing jokes and Irish ballads 
 upon it. The bearer is visited by our Society and deals in 
 Punch and other periodicals, on which he has some small profit. 
 He supplies me, and I recommend you to get your Punch through 
 his hands. If you are here this evening at eight o'clock, you 
 shall have a cup of coffee on our way to Westland Row. With 
 best respects to Mr. MacCarthy and the ladies, I am, 
 
 " Sincerely yours, 
 
 "R. D. WILLIAMS. 
 
 "MARCH 26, 1847." 
 
 Though acquitted of the charge preferred against 
 him by the Government, Williams suffered by his 
 imprisonment in Newgate. But he suffered in 
 silence, and like a great man, never whined. 
 
12 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 The failure of the 'Forty-Eight movement depressed 
 the spirits of young Williams very much, and left 
 him without any occupation for a time. After a 
 while, however, he went over to Scotland, where he 
 stood a successful examination for a medical diploma 
 Returning to his native city, he practiced his pro- 
 fession with considerable success. But the failure 
 of all his schemes for nationhood cast a gloom over 
 his paths, and he soon resolved to try his fortune 
 in a new land. 
 
 Early in the summer of 1851 he bade adieu to Erin, 
 and sailed away, never to return. His thoughts on 
 that occasion are feelingly expressed in that pathetic 
 little poern: 
 
 ADIEU, TO INNISFAIL. 
 
 Adieu ! the snowy sail 
 Swells her bosom to the gale 
 And our bark from Innisfail 
 
 Bounds away. 
 
 While we gaze upon the shore 
 That we never shall see more, 
 And the blinding tears flow o'er, 
 
 We pray: 
 
 Mavourneen, be thou long 
 In peace the queen of song 
 In battle proud and strong 
 
 As the sea. 
 
RICHARD D' ALTON WILLIAMS. 13 
 
 Be saints thine offspring still, 
 True heroes guard each hill, 
 And harps by every rill 
 Sound free. 
 
 Though round her Indian bowers 
 The hand of nature showers 
 The brighest, blooming flowers 
 
 Of our sphere; 
 Yet not the richest rose 
 In an alien clime that blows 
 Like the briar at home that grows 
 
 Is dear. 
 
 Though glowing hearts may be 
 In soft vales beyond the sea, 
 Yet ever, gramachree! 
 
 ShaU I wail 
 
 For the hearts of love I leave , 
 In the dreaiy hours of eve, 
 On thy stormy shores to grieve, 
 
 Innisfail. 
 
 But mem'ry o'er the deep 
 On her dewy wing shall sweep 
 When in midnight hours I weep 
 
 O'er thy wrongs; 
 And bring me steeped in tears, 
 The dead flowers of other years, 
 And waft unto my ears 
 
 Home's songs. 
 
14 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 When I slumber in the gloom 
 Of a nameless, foreign tomb, 
 By a distant ocean's boom 
 
 Innisf ail ! 
 
 Around thy em'rald shore 
 May the clasping sea adore 
 And each wave in thunder roar, 
 
 "All hail!" 
 
 And when the final sigh 
 Shall bear my soul on high, 
 And on chainless wings I fly 
 
 Through the blue, 
 Earth's latest thought shall be, 
 As I soar above the sea, 
 " Green Erin, dear, to thee 
 
 Adieu!" 
 
 The exiled bard made his home in the New World, 
 Nearer to the tropic's glow 
 
 than most of his countrymen. Poet-like, he sought 
 the sunny South, and for a considerable time occupied 
 the chair of Belles-Lettres in Spring Hill College, 
 Alabama. With his old friends, the Jesuits, who 
 conducted this institution of learning, and in pur- 
 suits so congenial to his tastes, he spent a few happy 
 years. Marrying Miss Connolly, an estimable and 
 highly-educated lady of New Orleans, about 1856, 
 he moved to Thibodeaux, La., where he was to be 
 found at the outbreak of the late civil war, practicing 
 
BICHAKD D' ALTON WILLIAMS. 15 
 
 medicine and writing for the local press. Here 
 it was that death overtook him, on the 5th day of 
 July, 1862, amid the clash of resounding arms. His 
 grave in the Catholic Cemetery of that town was 
 still red when two companies of the 8th Regiment, 
 New Hampshire Volunteers, came to camp in the 
 vicinity. This regiment was chiefly made up of 
 Irish-Americans, who, on hearing of the death of 
 " Shamrock," sought his final resting place on earth, 
 and resolved to perpetuate his memory by a monu- 
 ment befitting one so gifted and so good. 
 
 The Captain of Company G, having collected 
 among the soldiers sufficient money for this purpose, 
 obtained leave of absence for a few days, and repair- 
 ing to New Orleans, there, in his own language, he 
 
 Purchased a stone of pure Carrara marble, weighing one ton, 
 with a pedestal of the same material. This was the best thing 
 of the kind to be procured in the city at that time. Yet, 
 though it has not the loftiness and grandeur of conception of 
 the monument which should rise over the grave of an Irish 
 patriot, it is elegant and chaste in design, and the best that 
 war-worn soldiers could have done who were hourly expecting 
 orders to move further into the State. In the center of the 
 slab is an oak leaf enclosing a sprig of shamrock; and beneath 
 is the following inscription: 
 
16 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OP 
 
 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 G and K, N. H. Volunteers, 
 
 As a slight testimonial of their esteem 
 
 For his unsullied Patriotism, and his exalted devotion 
 
 To the cause of Irish Freedom. 
 
 Such is the tribute of his grateful countrymen to 
 the true poet and " unsullied patriot." It was a fit- 
 ting tribute from the veteran victors of many a hard- 
 fought field to the memory of one who sang such 
 verses as 
 
 THE PATRIOT BRAVE. 
 
 I drink to the valiant who combat 
 
 For freedom by mountain or wave; 
 And may triumph attend like a shadow, 
 
 The sword of the patriot brave ! 
 Oh ! never was holier chalice 
 
 Than this at our festivals crowned, 
 The heroes of Morven, to pledge it, 
 
 And gods of Valhalla float round. 
 Hurrah for the patriot brave ! 
 
 A health to the patriot brave! 
 And a curse and a blow be to liberty's foe, 
 
 Whether tyrant or coward or knave. 
 
RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 17 
 
 Great spirits, who battled in old time 
 
 For the freedom of Athens, descend! 
 As low to the shadow of Brian 
 
 In fond hero-worship we bend. 
 From those that in far Alpine passes 
 
 Saw Dathi struck down in his mail, 
 To the last of our chief's gallow-glasses, 
 
 The saffron-clad foes of the Pale. 
 Let us drink to the patriot brave ! 
 
 Hurrah for the patriot brave! 
 But a curse and a blow be to liberty's foe, 
 
 And more chains for the satisfied slave. 
 
 O Liberty ! hearts that adore thee 
 
 Pour out their best blood at thy shrine, 
 As freely as gushes before thee 
 
 This purple libation of wine. 
 For us, whether destined to triumph 
 
 Or bleed as Leonidas bled, 
 Crushed down by a forest of lances 
 
 On mountains of foreigner dead, 
 May we sleep with the patriot brave ! 
 
 God prosper the patriot brave ! 
 But may battle and woe hurry liberty's foe 
 
 To a bloody and honorless grave. 
 
 Having performed their work at the grave of 
 " Shamrock," the Federal troops moved away to 
 other quarters; but the graceful act of the Irish- 
 American Volunteers still remains to point the hal- 
 
 3 
 
18 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 lowed spot where all that is mortal of the bard min- 
 gles with the mold of his adopted land. 
 
 So much devotion to the memory of one who had 
 labored for the cause of Irish freedom naturally 
 elicited the admiration of many. The life-long friend 
 of Williams, Thomas D'Arcy McGee, from his home 
 in the Dominion of Canada, enshrined the touching 
 incident in a poem of great power and beauty. It 
 runs thus: 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
KICHARD D' ALTON WILLIAMS. 19 
 
 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. 
 
 Williams was not only a poet of rare gifts, but also 
 a scholar of varied acquirements. In Carlow Col- 
 lege he won a reputation for learning, and was 
 excelled by few in his knowledge of the classic 
 tongues. He read in the originals the Greek and 
 Latin poets while yet a mere youth, and those 
 models left by the ancients were not neglected in his 
 maturer years. Good books were always his delight. 
 
 Though sensitive and retiring in his nature, he 
 made and held hosts of friends wherever he went. 
 In college, where manly virtues unfailingly win the 
 admiration of the students, he was a popular favorite 
 with professors and pupils alike ; and the affectionate 
 admiration which the many noble traits of his char- 
 acter evoked followed him through every change of 
 life to his Louisiana grave, where he awaits that 
 awful scene so vividly described in his translation of 
 
 the 
 
 DIES IRAE. 
 
 Wo is the day of ire, 
 Shrouding the earth in fire; 
 Sybil's and David's lyre 
 Dimly foretold it. 
 
20 IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Strictly the guilty land, 
 By the avenger scanned, 
 Smitten, aghast shall stand 
 Still, to behold it. 
 
 Start from your trance profound 
 Through the rent graves around, 
 Hark ! the last trumpet's sound 
 
 Dolorous clangor. 
 Death sees in mute surprise 
 Ashes to doom arise 
 Dust unto God replies 
 
 God in his anger. 
 
 Bring forth the judgment roll 
 Blazon aloud the whole 
 Guilt of each trembling soul 
 
 Justice hath bidden. 
 Then shall all hearts be known, 
 Sin's abyss open thrown, 
 Vengeance shall have her own, 
 
 Naught shall be hidden. 
 
 Oh, on that dreadful day 
 What shall the sinner say 
 When scarce the just shall stay 
 
 Judgment securely ? 
 Save me, tremendous King ! 
 Who the saved soul dost bring 
 Under Thy mercy's wing, 
 
 Through thy grace purely. 
 
BICHABD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 21 
 
 Jesus, remember 1 
 
 Caused Thee to toil and die 
 
 Sin brought Thee from the sky 
 
 I am a sinner. 
 
 Break my soul's bitter chain 
 Thou for her love wert slain 
 Gushed Thy heart's blood in vain, 
 
 Saviour ! to win her ! 
 
 Just Judge and strong, we pray, 
 Ere the accusing day, 
 From every stain of clay, 
 
 Grant us remission. 
 Guilty and sore in fear, 
 I, clad in shame, appear 
 Yet for Thy mercy hear, 
 
 Lord, my petition: 
 
 Who madest Mary pure 
 And the good thief secure 
 Gavest me also sure 
 
 Hope of Salvation; 
 Though to my shrinking gaze 
 Hell's everlasting blaze 
 Glare through the judgment day's 
 
 Dire desolation. 
 
 Lamb, for the ransom slain! 
 Then, mid Thy snowy train, 
 At Thy right hand to reign, 
 Place me forever: 
 
22 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 While, at Thy dread command, 
 Those at Thy left who stand, 
 Far from the chosen band, 
 
 Lightnings shall sever. 
 
 Rings the last thunder shock 
 Earth's broken pillars rock 
 Down the accursed flock 
 
 Numberless falling- 
 Down to the fiery doom, 
 Gulfed in hell's hopeless tomb, 
 Shriek through the ghastly gloom, 
 
 Horrors appalling. 
 
 Contrite, in pale dismay, 
 Lord! hear a sinner pray, 
 On that tremendous day 
 
 Spread Thy shield o'er him; 
 Day of great anguish, when 
 God, from the dust again, 
 Summons us, guilty men, 
 
 Wailing before Him. 
 
 Clement Thou art, as just, 
 Mercy, O God, on dust 
 In Thee alone we trust, 
 
 Shelter and save us ! 
 When, on the day of dole, 
 Death-bells of nations toll, 
 Spare the immortal soul 
 
 Thy spirit gave us. 
 
 Williams was a man of more than medium height, 
 with well-knit frame and face strongly marked with 
 
BICHABD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 23 
 
 the lines of thought. In youth he possessed a keen 
 sense of humor and a disposition to look always on 
 the " silver lining of the cloud." 
 
 In head, heart and soul he was Irish, and his chief 
 aim in life was to serve his native land. His earlier 
 poems were written with that end in view, and not 
 for fame. Having a great deal of serious business on 
 hand, he always wrote in a hurry when the mood 
 took him, and seldom waited to re-read or revise his 
 copy. He did not, like Pope and Edmund Burke, 
 write his compositions over and over several times, 
 but left them as they came gushing from the heart, 
 without a single touch of the linae labor. 
 
 After the failure of the Young Irelanders his mind 
 and disposition changed from gay to grave. The 
 happy, humorous young rebel to British injustice in 
 Ireland ever after seemed to mourn his blighted 
 hopes. He did not thrive in exile. 
 
 His last literary work was the " Song of the Irish- 
 American Regiments," in which his old patriotic fer- 
 vor seems to burn anew. Two months later and the 
 hand that wrote this was stilled in death. 
 
 Sleep well, O Bard! too early from the field 
 
 Of labor and of honor call'd away; 
 Sleep like a hero, on your own good shield, 
 
 Beneath the Shamrock wreath'd about with bay; 
 Not doubtful is thy place among the host, 
 
 Whom fame and Erin love and mourn the most. 
 
24 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 KATHLEEN. 
 
 My Kathleen, dearest! in truth or seeming 
 
 No brighter vision e'er blessed mine eyes 
 Than she for whom, in Elysian dreaming, 
 
 Thy tranced lover too fondly sighs. 
 Oh, Kathleen, fairest! if elfin splendor 
 
 Hath ever broken my heart's repose, 
 'Twas in the darkness, ere purely tender, 
 
 Thy smile, like moonlight o'er ocean, rose. 
 
 Since first I met thee thou knowest thine are 
 This passion-music, and each pulse's thrill 
 
 The flowers seem brighter, the stars diviner, 
 And God and Nature more glorious still. 
 
 I see around me new fountains gushing 
 More jewels spangle the robes of night ; 
 
 Strange harps resounding fresh roses blushing- 
 Young worlds emerging in purer light. 
 
 No more thy song-bird in clouds shall hover 
 
 Oh, give him shelter upon thy breast, 
 And bid him swiftly, his long flight over, 
 
 From heav'n drop into that love-built nest! 
 Like fairy flow'rets is Love, thou fearest, 
 
 At once that springeth like mine from earth 
 'Tis Friendship's ivy grows slowly, dearest, 
 
 But Love and Lightning have instant birth. 
 
 The mirthful fancy and artless gesture 
 Hair black as tempest, and swan-like breast, 
 
 More graceful folded in simple vesture 
 Than proudest bosoms in diamonds drest. 
 
RICHARD D' ALTON WILLIAMS. 25 
 
 Nor these, the varied and rare possession 
 
 Love gave to conquer, are thine alone; 
 But, oh! there crowns thee divine expression, 
 
 As saints a halo, that's all thine own. 
 
 Thou art, as poets in olden story 
 
 Have pictured woman before the fall 
 Her angel beauty's divinest glory 
 
 The pure soul shining, like God, through all. 
 But, vainly, humblest of leaflets springing, 
 
 I sing the queenliest flower of Love: 
 Thus soars the skylark, presumptuous singing 
 
 The orient morning enthroned above. 
 
 Yet hear, propitious, beloved maiden, 
 
 The minstrel's passion is pure as strong, 
 Though, nature fated, his heart, love-laden 
 
 Must break, or utter its woes in song. 
 Farewell ! If never my soul may cherish 
 
 The dreams that bade me to love aspire, 
 By mem'ry's altar ! thou shalt not perish, 
 
 First Irish pearl of my Irish lyre ! 
 
 THE PASS OF PLUMES. 
 
 [To the pompons preparations of the Earl of Essex, the results of his gov- 
 ernment in Ireland formed a most lamentable sequel. Barely, if ever, indeed, 
 had there been witnessed, in any military expedition, a more wretched con- 
 trast between the promises and performances of its leader, or a wider 
 departure in the field from the plans settled in the Council. Provided with 
 an army the largest that Ireland had ever witnessed on her shores, consisting 
 of 20,000 foot and 2,000 horse, his obvious policy, and at first his purpose, 
 was to march directly against Tyrone, and grapple at once with the strength 
 of the Rebellion in its great source and centre, the North. Instead of pursu- 
 ing this course of policy, at once the boldest and most safe, he squandered 
 both time and reputation on a march of parade into Munster, and the sole 
 result of his mighty enterprise was the reduction of two castles and the feigned 
 
26 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 submission of three native Chiefs. When passing through Leinster, on his 
 way back to Dublin, he was much harassed by the O'Moores, who made an 
 attack upon his rear-guard, in which many of his men and several of his 
 officers were killed; and, among the few traditional records we have of his 
 visit, it is told that, from the quantity of plumes of feathers of which his 
 soldiers were despoiled, the place of action long continued to be called the 
 Pass of Plumes, " Thus," says Moryson, in describing the departure of 
 Essex from London, ' ' at the head of so strong an army as did ominate nothing 
 but victory and triumphs, yet with a sunshine thunder happening (as Cam- 
 den notes for an ominous ill token) this lord took his journey." Moore's Ire- 
 land, vol. iv., p. 112.] 
 
 " Look out," said O'Moore to his clansmen, "afar 
 
 Is yon white cloud, the herald of tempest or war! 
 
 Hark! know you the roll of the foreigners' drums? 
 
 By Heaven! Lord Essex in panoply comes, 
 
 With corselet, and helmet, and gay bannerol, 
 
 And the shields of the nobles with blazon and scroll; 
 
 And, as snow on the larch in December appears, 
 
 What a winter of plumes on that forest of spears! 
 
 To the clangor of trumpets and waving of flags, 
 
 The clattering cavalry prance o'er the crags; 
 
 And their plumes By St. Kyran! false Saxon, ere night, 
 
 You shall wish these fine feathers were wings for your flight. 
 
 " Shall we leave all the blood and the gold of the Pale 
 
 To be shed at Armagh and won by O'Neill ? 
 
 Shall we yield to O'Ruark, to McGuire and O'Donnell, 
 
 Brave chieftains of Breffny, Fermanagh Tyrconnell; 
 
 Yon helmets, that ' Erick' thrice over would pay 
 
 For the Sassenach heads they'll protect not to-day ? 
 
 No! By red Mullaghmast, fiery clansmen of Leix, 
 
 Avenge your sires' blood on their murderers' race ! 
 
 Now, sept of O'Moore, fearless sons of the heather, 
 
 Fling your scabbards away, and strike home and together! " 
 
RICHARD D' ALTON WILLIAMS. 27 
 
 Then loudly the clang of commingled blows 
 
 Upswell'd from the sounding fields, 
 And the joy of a hundred trumps arose, 
 
 And the clash of a thousand shields. 
 And the long plumes danc'd and the falchions rung, 
 
 And flash'd the whirl'd spear, 
 And the furious barb through the wild war sprung, 
 
 And trembled the earth with fear; 
 The fatal bolts exulting fled, 
 
 And hissed as they leap'd away; 
 And the tortur'd steed on the red grass bled, 
 
 Or died with a piercing neigh. 
 
 I see their weapons crimson'd; I hear the mingled cries 
 
 Of rage and pain and triumph, as they thundered to the skies. 
 
 The Coolun'd kern rushes upon armor, knight and mace, 
 
 And bone and brass are broken in his terrible embrace ! 
 
 The coursers roll and struggle; and the riders, girt in steel, 
 
 From their saddles, crush'd and cloven, to the purple heather 
 
 reel, 
 
 And shatter'd there, and trampled by the charger's iron hoof, 
 The seething brain is bursting thro' the crashing helmet's roof. 
 Joy! Heaven strikes for freedom! and Elizabeth's array, 
 With her paramour to lead 'em, are sore beset to-day. 
 
 Their heraldry and plumery, their coronets and mail, 
 Are trampled on the battle field, or scatter'd on the gale! 
 As the cavalry of ocean, the living billows bound, 
 When lightnings leap above them and thunders clang around, 
 And tempest-crested dazzlingly, caparison'd in spray, 
 They crush the black and broken rocks, with all their roots 
 away 
 
28 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 So charged the stormy chivalry of Erin in her ire 
 Their shock the roll of ocean, their swords electric fire. 
 They rose like banded billows that, when wintry tempests blow, 
 The trembling shore, with stunning roar and dreadful wreck 
 
 o'erflow, 
 
 And where they burst tremendously, upon the bloody groun', 
 Both horse and man, from rear to van, like shiver'd barqueh 
 
 went down. 
 
 Leave your costly Milan hauberks, haughty nobles of the Pale, 
 And your snowy ostrich feathers as a tribute to the Gael. 
 Fling away gilt spur and trinket, in your hurry, knight and 
 
 squire, 
 
 They will make our virgins ornaments or decorate the lyre. 
 Ho, Essex! how your vestal Queen will storm when she hears 
 The " mere Irish" chased her minion and his twenty thousand 
 
 spears. 
 
 Go! tell the Royal virgin that O'Moore, McHugh, O'Neill 
 Will smite the faithless stranger while there 's steel in Innisfail. 
 The blood you shed shall only serve more deep revenge to nurse, 
 And our hatred be as lasting as the tyranny we curse. 
 From age to age consuming, it shall blaze a quenchless lire, 
 And the son shall thirst and burn still more fiercely than his 
 
 sire. 
 By our sorrows, songs and battles by our cromleachs, raths 
 
 and tow'rs 
 By sword and chain, by all our slain between your race and 
 
 ours 
 By naked glaives and yawning graves, and ceaseless tears and 
 
 gore, 
 Till battle's flood wash out in blood your footsteps from the 
 
 shore! 
 
KICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 29 
 
 THE EXTERMINATION. 
 
 Dominus pupillum et viduam susdpiet. Pa. 145. 
 
 When tyranny's pampered and purple-clad minions 
 Drive forth the lone widow and orphan to die, 
 
 Shall no angel of vengeance unfurl his red pinions , 
 And, grasping sharp thunderbolts, rush from on high? 
 
 "Pity! oh, pity! a little while spare me: 
 
 My baby is sick I am feeble and poor; 
 In the cold winter blast, from the hut if you tear me, 
 
 My lord, we must die on the desolate moor!" 
 
 Tis vain for the despot replies but with laughter, 
 
 While rudely his serfs thrust her forth on the wold; 
 Her cabin is blazing from threshold to rafter, 
 
 And she crawls o'er the mountain, sick, weeping and cold. 
 Her thinly-clad child on the stormy hill shivers 
 
 The thunders are pealing dread anthems around 
 Loud roar in their anger the tempest-lashed rivers 
 
 And the loosened rocks down with the wild torrent bound. 
 
 Vainly she tries in her bosom to cherish 
 
 Her sick infant boy, 'mid the horrors around, 
 Till faint and despairing, she sees her babe perish 
 
 Then, lifeless she sinks on the snow-covered ground. 
 Though the children of Ammon, with trumpets and psalters, 
 
 To devils poured torrents of innocents' gore, 
 Let them blush from deep hell at the far redder altars 
 
 Where the death-dealing tyrants of Ireland adore ! 
 But, for Erin's life-current, thro' long ages flowing, 
 
 Dark demons that pierce her, you yet shall atone; 
 Even now the volcano beneath you is glowing, 
 
 And the Moloch of tyranny reels on the throne. 
 
 *^>\ 
 
 ESI T 71 
 

 " The trumpet blast has sounded 
 
 Our footmen to array, 
 The willing steed has bounded 
 
 Impatient for the fray." P. 46. 
 
BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE BRIGADE AT FOXTENOY." 
 
 |HE subjoined article on Mr. Dowling was 
 written, at our request, by a gentleman who 
 for more than twenty years enjoyed the personal 
 friendship of the deceased poet: 
 
 : " The author of that beautiful ballad, < The Brigade at Fon- 
 tenoy,' was a native of Lis towel, County Kerry, Ireland. While 
 Bartholomew Dowling was yet a boy, his parents emigrated to 
 Canada, where they remained for some years, and where the 
 future poet and patriot received a part of his education. Re- 
 turning to Ireland, after the death of the father, the family 
 settled in Limerick. This circumstance has given, unjustly, to 
 the ' City of the Violated Treaty ' the honor of Mr. Bowling's 
 birth. His parents were, however, from the Kingdom of 
 Kerry, and there he himself was born about the year 1823, as 
 near as I can judge. 
 
 " In a review of a recent publication, ' A Chaplet of Verse 
 by California Catholic Writers/ the Boston Pilot desired to get 
 information regarding the subject of this sketch. My attention 
 has also been called to a similar inquiry in the Irish Monthly, 
 published in Dublin by Rev. Mathew Russell, who takes an 
 active interest in everything that concerns the literature of his 
 native land. In his brief mention the reverend editor gives 
 Mr. Dowling a very high rank in the brilliant galaxy of gifted 
 young Irishmen who threw themselves and their fortunes, heart 
 
 (31) 
 
32 IPJSH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 and soul, into the movement inaugurated by the Dublin Nation, 
 and which culminated in the disaster of 1848, scattering their 
 hopes and making voluntary exiles of those who escaped penal 
 servitude at the hands of the Government they had labored to 
 overthrow. 
 
 " The writer of this brief biography was then a boy, and 
 can now go back in vivid memory to the monster meetings of 
 the Repeal Association, and again almost feel with what eager- 
 ness he looked forward to the weekly issue of the Dublin Nation 
 and the alacrity with which he read its lessons of Nationality 
 in prose and verse. Standing to-day on this peaceful shore, far 
 from the scenes of so many ardent aspirations and unrealized 
 hopes, after the flight of many years years that have changed 
 the sand dunes of San Francisco into a beautiful city of won- 
 derful resources and glorious energy as I turn over the pages 
 of Ireland's ballad poetry, it is with the feelings of one who 
 wanders through a cemetery, reading the names of dead friends. 
 
 ' ' Through the kind courtesy of one who is himself a gifted 
 poet as well as a practical patriot, I am afforded this opportunity 
 of supplying the information asked for by Father Russell and 
 the distinguished editor of the Pilot, and doing my part towards 
 resuscitating the memory of a good and gifted man who was 
 very dear to me. 
 
 ' ' The writer of whom I treat here had the cares and respon- 
 sibilities of life shifted on to his shoulders, while yet a mere 
 youth, by the death of his father; and well did he sustain the 
 burden, cheering and comforting his mother to the day of her 
 death, and aiding his younger brothers and a sister till time 
 fitted them for the battle of life. The lives of the good are 
 generally devoid of sensation, and he enjoyed an average share 
 of such blessings. 
 
BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 33 
 
 * ' He did not follow literature as a profession. The best 
 years of his life were devoted to mercantile pursuits, and his 
 contributions to current literature, in prose or verse, were mostly 
 published anonymously, without any effort at preservation; and 
 such as are at our disposal have been gathered from many 
 sources with considerable labor. 
 
 " He came to California in the summer of 1852, and, for a 
 time , engaged in mining in the northern counties. Not finding 
 this work congenial, he took to farming in Contra Costa, where 
 he built himself a home and shared the hospitality of his board 
 with John Mitchel, General James Shields and Terence Belle w 
 McManus, while they were sojourning on the ' Golden Slopes/ 
 
 " In 1858 he became editor of the San Francisco Monitor, at 
 a time when his health was broken down; but yet his writings 
 displayed a vigor and versatility that gave evidence of what he 
 was capable of accomplishing under more favorable circum- 
 stances. In this position his gentlemanly and courteous style 
 left no cause of quarrel with those with whom he was compelled 
 to differ. 
 
 " Mr. Bowling's death was immediately caused by being 
 thrown from a buggy and having his leg broken. His health 
 previous to this shock being declining, he had no physical 
 strength to bear him up, and his spirit passed from earth to 
 judgment under the kind and holy care of the good Sisters of 
 Mercy, at St. Mary's Hospital, where he was happily removed 
 for surgical treatment. 
 
 ' ' This splendid institution was founded by the Sisters of 
 Mercy, and at the time of Mr. Bowling's death, Rev. Mother 
 Russell, sister to Father Russell of the Irish Monthly, referred 
 to above, presided over its destiny. I understand that the 
 same noble lady is still Superioress of this hospital, which has 
 
34 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 been a blessing to San Francisco for more than a quarter of a 
 century. 
 
 "Fortified by the Sacraments of the Church, of which he 
 had always been a devoted and faithful member, Bartholomew 
 Bowling died in St. Mary's on the 20th day of November, 1863, 
 in the fortieth year of his age. The Irish- American societies of 
 San Francisco accompanied his mortal remains to their final 
 resting place in Calvary cemetery, where a handsome monument, 
 erected by his brother, Mr. William Dowling, marks his grave 
 and perpetuates his name. " 
 
 Such is the short story of the author's life from one 
 who knew him intimately and loved him sincerely. 
 Mr. Dowling was a poet of rare gifts and liberal 
 education. Versed in one of the ancient and several 
 of the modern languages, the classic writers were the 
 masters of his youth and the constant companions of 
 his matured years. 
 
 Wherever he wandered, whether 
 In chapel, church or meeting, 
 On prairie, field or strand, 
 At home among the hills and streams, 
 Or in a foreign land, 
 
 He carried along with him a little volume of Beran- 
 ger's poems, the gift of his friend and compatriot, 
 John Mitchel. From this he made many beautiful 
 translations during his connection with the Monitor. 
 At his death this souvenir of the indomitable Mitchel 
 became the property of a talented and accomplished 
 young lady of San Francisco, who, judging from her 
 
BAKTHOLOMEW BOWLING, 35 
 
 many published translations, knows well how to use 
 and appreciate it. To her we are indebted for " A 
 Memory of Seville," which is here published for the 
 first time from a manuscript in the handwriting of 
 the author. 
 
 Though of a retiring disposition and sensitive 
 nature, the talents of Mr. Dowling were recognized 
 and appreciated. 
 
 Some prominent business men of San Francisco 
 induced him to quit the seclusion of Crucita Valley, 
 Contra Costa County, and take his place in the heart 
 of the young metropolis, among men of brilliant 
 parts. Mr. P. J. Thomas, the enterprising publisher 
 and patron of every good work, then a young man in 
 full sympathy with the doctrine of the Young Ireland 
 leaders, would not suffer Mr. Dowling to live in the 
 peaceful shade of his own vine. Mr. Thomas was 
 one of the founders of the San Francisco Monitor, in 
 March, 1858, and, shortly after, at the earnest solici- 
 tation of himself and his partners, Mr. Dowling 
 assumed the editorial management of the paper. 
 Many leading articles and poems written by him at 
 this time show the grasp and fertility of his intellect. 
 
 His stories, essays and poems, if collected, would 
 make a portly volume, though, as we are told in this 
 article by his biographer, " he did not make litera- 
 ture a profession," except in the too brief period of 
 
36 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 his connection with the pioneer Catholic paper of the 
 Pacific Coast. 
 
 During his labors in the mines of California Mr. 
 Dowling wrote many interesting sketches and beau- 
 tiful poems, which may be found in the California 
 Pioneer, under the nom de plume of " Hard Knocks." 
 In a lengthy poem entitled " Eeminiscences of the 
 Mines/' he depicts life in the mining camp more 
 faithfully than and quite as graphically as Bret Harte. 
 It was published in the Pioneer magazine for Novem- 
 ber, 1855, and thence we refer the old prospector who 
 packed his pick and pan in the " days of gold." 
 Sometimes he wrote under the pen-name of Southern; 
 at other times over the initial letter of his surname; 
 but his favorite signature was Masque. In " Hayes' 
 Ballad Poetry of Ireland," two of Mr. Dowling's 
 productions are printed anonymously, and only one 
 bears his name. 
 
 We have succeeded in collecting, from different 
 sources, forty of his best songs and ballads, of a very 
 high order, deserving, indeed, a better fate than that 
 to which they have been consigned for a quarter of a 
 century. 
 
 The following introductory remarks to his trans- 
 lation of Korner's " Prayer Before Battle," we give 
 as a specimen of Mr. Dowling's prose writing. This 
 short preamble bristles with imaginative power, and 
 
BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 37 
 
 demonstrates how fully his soul sympathized with 
 the subject which evoked his innate love of liberty: 
 
 THEODORE KORNER. 
 
 ' ' At the commencement of the year 1813 a young man 
 resided in Vienna , whose brilliant talents had won him a most 
 enviable social position. The purity of his principles and the 
 high moral tone of his character fortunately protected him 
 from those fatal allurements that, in Courts and capitals, are 
 so seductive; which first tempt, then tarnish, and finally destroy 
 for all purposes of good the glorious gift of genius. 
 
 " Living in a state of society where men had not yet learned 
 to appraise noble aspirations, generous impulses, glowing 
 thoughts or elevated principles of action by the dignified 
 standard, 'How does it pay?' Theodore Korner had given 
 voice to the aspiration of his mind and the feelings of his soul 
 in noble songs that went direct to the hearts of his country- 
 men and roused the national spirit in an extraordinary degree. 
 It was at this time that Prussia raised her standard to emanci- 
 pate herself from the humiliating rule of the first Napoleon, 
 and invoked her sons to rise for the Fatherland. Lutznow's 
 celebrated brigade of volunteers was then formed and its ranks 
 filled with the educated youth of the country, amongst whom 
 Korner at once took his place as a private. He was then in the 
 full enjoyment of earthly happiness, fame, social position, fair 
 fortune, high esteem among the good and educated of his coun- 
 try; and, that nothing might be wanted to fill his cup, the first 
 dream of a pure and fortunate love was at this moment illumi- 
 nating his youth and harmonizing his existence. All these 
 inducements, however, could not win him to rest in the mere 
 enjoyment of life when duty called him to its move active exer- 
 
38 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 else at the post of danger. He thus expressed his motives at 
 the time, in a letter to his father: 
 
 " ' I swear to God the sentiments which animate me are, a 
 firm belief that no sacrifices are too great for the liberty of our 
 countiy. I feel compelled to rush into this tempest. Shall I, 
 far from the path of my brave brethren, send them hymns and 
 songs inspired by a safe and cowardly enthusiasm ? Wo ! ' 
 
 ''Active, energetic, obedient, disciplined and brave, Korner 
 became specially distinguished in this great, distinguished corps, 
 and was soon appointed Adjutant of it. On the 26th of August, 
 1813, the corps of Lutznow confronted the French at Kitzen. 
 They halted in the forest to rest for an hour at the grey light 
 of the morning. During this interval, Korner composed his 
 celebrated "Prayer during Battle," (of which we give an 
 attempt at an English version). Korner read it to a friend at 
 the moment he wrote it; whilst still reciting it the bugle sounded 
 the advance. In an instant he was in the front of battle, and 
 as the vanquished French gave way and retreated before the 
 fiery enthusiasm of Lutznow's corps, Korner exultingly led the 
 pursuit, and in the act of cheering on his countrymen, he fell, 
 pierced by a grape shot, and found the glorious death, at the 
 early age of 22, which he had poetically prophesied. All Ger- 
 many mourned the fate of the brave and gifted young patriot. 
 But why should he have been mourned ? His was a fortunate 
 and happy destiny, briefly but nobly accomplished. He passed 
 from earth with all life's bright illusions undispelled, while fame 
 and love, and glory, and virtue, were still realities to him, before 
 a questionable experience had chilled his faith, or worldly wis- 
 dom with its plausible expediencies had taken the place of nobler 
 motives and simpler purpose. He fell on the frontier of his 
 native land, driving the foe from her soil, giving force and 
 vitality to heroic sentiment by heroic deeds, and casting over 
 
BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. :j'J 
 
 all the brighter halo of a pure, a virtuous and a devotional 
 spirit. " 
 
 PRAYER DURING BATTLE. 
 
 [From the German of Theodore Korner.] 
 
 FATHER, I call to Thee! 
 Roaring around me the cannons storm; 
 Like a shroud their lightnings enwrap my form. 
 
 Guide of the battles, I call to Thee: 
 
 Father ! to-day be a guide to me. 
 
 Father, oh guide me! 
 Lord of my life and breath, 
 Give me to victory or to death; 
 
 Even as thou wiliest so to me. 
 
 God, I acknowledge Thee! 
 
 God, I acknowledge Thee 
 In the fair woodland's light, 
 As in the tempest of the fight. 
 
 Fountain of Mercy, I acknowledge Thee ! 
 
 Father, give blessing unto me. 
 
 Father, oh bless me! 
 My life into thy hands I give. 
 Tis thine to take or bid me live. 
 
 On life or death, oh, let Thy blessing be. 
 
 Father! Thy child gives praise to Thee. 
 
 Father, I praise Thee! 
 This holy strife, bless Thou, O Lord; 
 Give to me strength and guide my sword. 
 
 Falling or conquering, praise to Thee! 
 
 God, I bow willingly. 
 
40 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 God, I bow willingly. 
 When death comes in the battle glow, 
 Even as my heart's warm currents flow, 
 
 To Thee, my God, I make the offering free. 
 
 Father, O Father, hear! I call on Thee! 
 
 Since we had the privilege of publishing in the 
 St. Joseph's Union the foregoing biographical sketch, 
 Mr. William Dowling, who is himself a writer of 
 ability also, has kindly placed at our disposal a large 
 number of his brother's poems, both in print and 
 manuscript. This collection comprises nearly all 
 of Bartholomew Dowling's reliques, and it affords 
 us much pleasure to think that it is through the 
 medium of IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS they will be 
 given to the public for the first time in a collected 
 form, and handed down to future generations of 
 Irish- American readers. 
 
 Most of the historical verses were written for and 
 published in the Nation, at a time when the editors 
 of that journal had determined to write a ballad 
 history of Ireland. This was a pet scheme of Davis, 
 and to the task he addressed himself with an 
 earnestness which was equalled only by his success. 
 Dowling, then residing in Limerick, was commis- 
 sioned to chronicle in stirring verse all the historic 
 events of national interest that had occurred in 
 recent days or old within the confines of Thomond. 
 As a result we have a number of splendid ballads 
 
BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 41 
 
 such as "Sarsfield's Sortie," " The Vision of King 
 Brian/' "The Assault on Limerick/' "The Brigade 
 at Fontenoy," and many others equally calculated to 
 kindle the enthusiasm of the masses and nerve the 
 arms of struggling patriots. 
 
 Though Mr. Dowling wrote not a few sweet lyrics, 
 which go to prove that he possessed in a marked 
 degree both the sentiment and inspiration so essen- 
 tial to success in that species of composition, yet it 
 is quite evident that ballad-writing, or narrative 
 poetry, was his forte; and, had not his plans and 
 those of his associates been frustrated by the brute 
 force that stood behind English bayonets, he 
 undoubtedly would have left us many more ballads 
 as intensely national in tone and spirit as those to 
 be found in this collection. 
 
 That awe-inspiring poem entitled "Hurrah for the 
 Next that Dies/' conclusively proves that our author 
 possessed a mine of dramatic genius which was no 
 more than prospected. He seems to have been 
 unconscious of possessing this power, and it went 
 undeveloped to the grave. In his brief, busy life, 
 perhaps, he never had within reach the opportunity 
 necessary for such development. 
 
 His claim to the authorship of this poem has been 
 brought into question of late, and it has been ascribed 
 to one Capt. Walter Dobenay, serving in India at the 
 time of the epidemic to which the verses allude. 
 
42 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 But the name of Mr. Dowling has nearly always 
 been attached to this strange poem. It appears over 
 his name on page 787 in Henry Coates' Encyclopedia 
 of Poetry, published at Philadelphia, when the poem 
 was yet fresh in the public mind. We have seen it 
 ascribed to Dowling in other publications also, but 
 never more than once heard of its being the compo- 
 sition of " that officer in India," Capt. Dobenay. 
 
 About the strongest reason put forward for con- 
 necting it with the name of this British captain is 
 the assertion of a pedantic writer in a late issue of 
 a local paper. He gives neither proofs nor authori- 
 ties, however, to substantiate his assertion. 
 
 Mr. Dowling " was never in India," it is true; 
 neither was he ever at Fontenoy. Yet he wrote that 
 inimitable martial ballad called "The Brigade at 
 Fontenoy." 
 
 He had an uncle, however, who died in India when 
 the poet was a mere boy, and ever after, both at 
 home and in exile, the genial bard took a deep 
 interest in the happenings of that plundered land. 
 
 He has written another poem of much merit, 
 which has for its subject an incident in India, and 
 for title, " The Relief of Lucknow." This poem is 
 now before us, and so far as we are aware, nobody 
 doubts that he is the author of it. It was not neces- 
 sary, therefore, for him to go to India in order to 
 write such a poem. 
 
BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 43 
 
 Now comes one of our strongest proofs. The poem 
 in dispute was first printed in this city in 1858. 
 Mr. Dowling was then editor of the San Francisco 
 Monitor. Mr. P. J. Thomas, 505 Clay street, one of 
 the founders of that paper, was also the publisher. 
 He has a distinct recollection of putting the poem in 
 type from the manuscript of Bartholomew Dowling. 
 He still clearly remembers the comments passed on 
 it in the office of the paper when it was read in his 
 presence by the author We are glad that there is a 
 living witness to settle this question of disputed 
 authorship. 
 
 As a prose writer Dowling was brilliant, copious 
 and convincing. His leading articles in the back 
 files of the Monitor attest the truth of this assertion 
 and bear us out in saying that he was no novice in 
 the politics of his time. He took no part in politics, 
 however, more than that of giving his views regard- 
 ing the issues of the day to the readers of the Monitor. 
 Though fond of the society of active and learned 
 men, a fine conversationalist and brilliant public 
 speaker, he was never seen in the political arena of 
 his adopted country. The spoils of office had no 
 charms for him. In Ireland, when the hopes and 
 aspirations of the '48 men were high, the part he 
 took in establishing " physical force" clubs proved 
 that he possessed organizing as well as literary 
 ability. 
 
44 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Possessing but one aim in life the liberation of 
 Ireland from English thraldom Mr. Dowling never 
 married. All his energies and intellectual gifts were 
 devoted to the cause of Irish independence. Out of 
 that cause he made no capital. He was honestly and 
 honorably devoted to it, and his character as Irish 
 Patriot comes down to us without stain and without 
 reproach. His early youth and manhood were given 
 to a noble cause. His heart and hopes were set on 
 the regeneration of his native land, and although the 
 work was not accomplished he labored not in vain. 
 Nor is his memory likely to perish. It is insepara- 
 bly connected with the " Brigade at Fontenoy," and 
 that is destined to endure as long as the martial 
 spirit of the Irish Celt. 
 
 THE DEATH-SONG OF THE VIKING. 
 
 [There is a Scandinavian legend that Siegfried, the "Viking," feeling that 
 he was at the point of death, caused himself to be placed on the deck of his 
 ship; the sails were hoisted, the vessel set on fire, and in this manner he 
 drifted out to sea, alone, and finished his career. "] 
 
 MY race is run, my errand done, the pulse of life beats low; 
 My heart is chill, and the conquering will has lost its fiery glow. 
 Launch once again on the northern main my battleship of old: 
 I would die on the deck, 'mid storm and wreck, as befits a 
 Viking bold. 
 
 I know no fears, but the mist of years that has gathered round 
 
 my track 
 For a moment deal's, and my youth's compeers again to my 
 
 side come back; 
 
BAKTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 45 
 
 And the tall ships reel o'er their iron keel, as we sweep down on 
 the foe, 
 
 Like a giant's form amid the storm, where the mighty tem- 
 pests blow. 
 
 Again I gaze on the leaping blaze o'er a conquered city rise, 
 
 As in those days, when the Skald's wild lays, sang the fame of 
 our high emprise; 
 
 When our ships went forth from the stormy North with the 
 Scandinavian banda 
 
 Who backward bore to the Baltic's shore the spoil of the West- 
 ern lands. 
 
 But my race is run, my errand done; so bear me to my ship. 
 Place my battle-brand in this dying hand, and the wine-cup to 
 
 my lip; 
 
 Then loose each sail to the rising gale and lash the helm a-lee. 
 Alone, alone, on my drifting throne, I would view my realm. 
 
 the sea. 
 
 My realm and grave the northern wave, where the tempest's 
 voice will sing 
 
 My death-song loud, where flame shall shroud the ocean's war- 
 rior-king. 
 
 Whilst heroes wait at Valhalla's gate to proudly welcome me. 
 
 For my race is run, my errand done. Receive thy Chief, O sea! 
 
 THE BRIGADE AT FONTENOY. 
 
 BY our camp-fires rose a murmur 
 
 At the dawning of the day, 
 And the sound of many footsteps 
 
 Spoke the advent of the fray; 
 
46 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 And as we took our places 
 
 Few and stern were our words, 
 
 While some were tightening horse-girths, 
 And some were girding swords. 
 
 The trumpet blast has sounded 
 
 Our footmen to array, 
 The willing steed has bounded, 
 
 Impatient for the fray. 
 The green flag is unfolded, 
 
 While rose the cry of joy: 
 * * Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner 
 
 This day at Fontenoy!" 
 
 We looked upon that banner, 
 
 And the memory arose 
 Of our homes and perished kindred, 
 
 Where the Lee or Shannon flows; 
 And we looked upon that banner, 
 
 And we swore to God on high, 
 To smite to-day the Saxon's might 
 
 To conquer or to die. 
 
 Loud swells the charging trumpet 
 
 'Tis a voice from our own land 
 God of battles ! God of vengeance ! 
 
 Guide to-day the patriot's brand' 
 There are stains to wash away, 
 
 There are memories to destroy 
 In the best blood of the Briton, 
 
 To-day, at Fontenoy. 
 
BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 47 
 
 Plunge deep the fiery rowels 
 
 In a thousand reeking flanks. 
 Down, chivalry of Ireland, 
 
 Down on the British ranks ! 
 Now shall their serried columns 
 
 Beneath our sabres reel. 
 Through their ranks, then, with the war-horse; 
 
 Through their bosoms with the steel ! 
 
 With one shout for good King Louis, 
 
 And the fair land of the vine, 
 Jjke the wrathful Alpine tempest 
 
 We swept upon their line. 
 Then rang along the battle-field 
 
 Triumphant our hurrah, 
 And we smote them down, still cheering, 
 
 " Erin, slanthagal go bragh." 
 
 As prized as is the blessing 
 
 From an aged father's lip ; 
 As welcome as the haven 
 
 To the tempest driven ship; 
 As dear as to the lover 
 
 The smile of gentle maid, 
 Is this day of long-sought vengeance 
 
 To the swords of the brigade. 
 
 See their scattered forces flying, 
 
 A broken, routed line. 
 See, England, what brave laurels 
 
 For your brow to-day we twine. 
 
48 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 O, thrice blessed the hour that witnessed 
 
 The Briton turn to flee 
 From the chivalry of Erin 
 
 And France's "fleur de Us." 
 
 As we lay beside our camp-fires 
 
 When the sun had passed away, 
 And thought upon our brethren 
 
 Who had perished in the fray, 
 We prayed to God to grant us, 
 
 And then we'd die with joy, 
 One day upon our own dear land 
 
 Like this at Fontenoy. 
 
 HYMN OF THE IMPERIAL GUARD. 
 
 UP, comrades, up, the bugle peals the note of war's alarms, 
 And the cry is ringing sternly round, that calls the land to arms; 
 Adieu, adieu, fair land of France, where the vine of Brennus 
 
 reigns; 
 We go where the blooming laurels grow, on the bright Italian 
 
 plains. 
 Advance! advance! brave sons of France, before the startled 
 
 world; 
 For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. 
 
 Our eagles shall fly 'neath many a sky, with a halo round their 
 
 way, 
 Where History flings, on their flashing wings, the light of 
 
 Glory's ray; 
 
BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 49 
 
 And we shall bear them proudly on, through many a mighty 
 
 fray, 
 That shall win old nations back to life, in the glorious coming 
 
 day. 
 Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled 
 
 world, 
 For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. 
 
 The glowing heart of the land of Art, throbbing for Liberty, 
 Our swords invoke, to erase the yoke from beauteous Italy. 
 And the Magyar waits, with kindling hope, the aid of the Gallic 
 
 hand, 
 To drive the hated Austrians forth, from the old Hungarian 
 
 land. 
 Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled 
 
 world, 
 For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. 
 
 See the Briton, pale, as he dons his mail, for the coming conflict 
 
 shock, 
 And before his eyes, see the phantom rise, of the Chief on 
 
 Helena's rock; 
 In foreboding fears, already he hears through palace and mart 
 
 anew, 
 
 Our avenging shout, o'er the battle rout remember Waterloo! 
 Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled 
 
 world. 
 For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. 
 
 And, hark, a wail from our kindred Gael, comes floating from 
 
 the West 
 That gallant race, whose chosen place was ever our battle's 
 
 crest ; 5 
 
50 IPJSH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Now is the day we can repay the generous debt we owe 
 To Irish blood, that freely flowed to conquer France's foe. 
 Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled 
 
 world, 
 For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. 
 
 Old Tricolor, as in days of yore, you shall wave o'er vanquished 
 
 kings, 
 And your folds shall fly 'neath an English sky, on Victory's 
 
 crimson wings; 
 And Europe's shout shall in joy ring out, hailing freedom in 
 
 thy track, 
 When our task is done, and we bear thee on, to France with 
 
 glory back. 
 Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled 
 
 world, 
 For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled. 
 
 . HURRAH FOR THE NEXT THAT DIES! 
 
 [This remarkable poem relates to revelry in India at a time when the 
 English officers serving in that country were being struck down by pestilence. 
 Tt has been- correctly styled "the very poetry of military despair."] 
 
 WE meet 'neath the sounding rafter, 
 
 And the walls around are bare: 
 As they shout back our peals of laughter, 
 
 It seems as the dead were there. 
 Then stand to your glasses ! steady ! 
 
 We drink 'fore our comrades' eyes; 
 One cup to the dead already: 
 
 Hurrah for the next that dies! 
 
BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 51 
 
 Not here are the goblets glowing, 
 
 Not here is the vintage sweet ; 
 Tis cold as our hearts are growing, 
 
 And dark as the doom we meet. 
 But stand to your glasses! steady! 
 
 And soon shall our pulses rise. 
 One cup to the dead already : 
 
 Hurrah for the next that dies : 
 
 There's many a hand that's shaking, 
 
 And many a cheek that's sunk ; 
 But soon, though our hearts are breaking, 
 
 They'll burn with the wine we've drunk. 
 Then stand to your glasses ! steady ! 
 
 'Tis here the revival lies; 
 Quaff a cup to the dead already: 
 
 Hurrah for the next that dies ! 
 
 Time was when we laughed at others; 
 
 We thought we were wiser then. 
 Ha! ha! let them think of their mothers, 
 
 Who hope to see them again. 
 No ! Stand to your glasses ! steady ! 
 
 The thoughtless is here the wise; 
 One cup to the dead already: 
 
 Hurrah for the next that dies ! 
 
 Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, 
 
 Not a tear for the friends that sink ; 
 We'll fall 'mid the wine-cup's sparkles, 
 
 As mute as the wine we drink. 
 
52 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Come ! Stand to your glasses ! steady ! 
 
 Tis this that the respite buys; 
 One cup to the dead already: 
 
 Hurrah for the next that dies ! 
 
 Who dreads to the dust returning ? 
 
 Who shrinks from the sable shore, 
 Where the high and haughty yearning 
 
 Of the soul can sting no more ? 
 No ! Stand to your glasses ! steady ! 
 
 This world is a world of lies; 
 One cup to the dead already : 
 
 Hurrah for the next that dies ! 
 
 Cut off from the land that bore us, 
 
 Betray 'd by the land we find, 
 When the brightest are gone before us, 
 
 And the dullest are left behind. 
 Stand! stand to your glasses! steady! 
 
 Tis all we have left to prize; 
 One cup to the dead already: 
 
 Hurrah for the next that dies! 
 
 THE FOREIGN SHAMROCK. 
 
 DOWN in the ocean of the years my ship and freight hath gone, 
 And the wave of Time o'er the perished wreck is slowly surging 
 
 on. 
 To-day, on the shore of this Western land, that wave brings 
 
 back to me 
 A shamrock green, and, in its sheen, my long lost argosy. 
 
BARTHOLOMEW DO\VLING. 53 
 
 I place the leaves above my heart, as a wondrous talisman, 
 For they bear me back to a better time, ere the exile's lot began; 
 And again, in the flush of glowing youth, among my own 
 
 I stand, 
 In the bright mirage of a generous hope, in my own lost native 
 
 land. 
 
 What memories throng round this triple leaf, and, phantom- 
 like, arise, 
 
 O'er sordid cares and lonely toil, to the spirit's longing eyes, 
 
 When the will was strong, and the purpose proud, and the fresh 
 heart only knew 
 
 An earnest faith, and a fiery throb, and a trustful love and true! 
 
 Hence hence, with every mean desire, with selfishness and 
 
 pride! 
 
 And be this day, on life's rude way, beloved and sanctified; 
 And from the Irish exile's heart, with many a fault o'ercast 
 Let Faith and Hope and Love arise, as incense to the past. 
 
 ODORS. 
 
 "A valley where he sees 
 Things lost on earth." Milton. 
 
 A BREATH of south wind, floating free, 
 Wafts odors faint from distant flowers, 
 Waking a subtle sense and hours, 
 
 Long vanished, come again to me. 
 
 A voice, long silent, strikes my ear, 
 
 Whose gentle whisperings, soft and low, 
 Woke all the music long ago 
 
 That youth's pure dreaming loved to hear. 
 
54 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 A vanished hand, whose touch once gave 
 A thrill of heavenly life to mine, 
 Again the spring-flowers seem to twine 
 
 Beside a silvery river's wave. 
 
 The joy is dead and a dull pain 
 
 Comes wafted on this soft perfume, 
 While the dim past seems to entomb 
 
 Phantoms of buried dreams again. 
 
 SARSFIELD'S SORTIE. 
 
 KING James' banner floats above 
 
 The city's southern tower, 
 Defying proudly to the last 
 
 The Dutch usurper's power; 
 And Hope seeks there a resting place 
 
 For Freedom's shattered wing, 
 And faithful Limerick stands alone 
 
 For Ireland's rightful King. 
 
 The Chiefs are gathered for debate 
 
 Within the civic hall, 
 While foes are gathering thick around 
 
 Her closely leaguered wall; 
 And news has come that William sends 
 
 A ponderous battering train 
 To breach the walls that by assault 
 
 His warriors failed to gain. 
 
 Out spoke the Mayor: " 'Tis bootless strife 
 
 For James' ruined throne; 
 The land is vanquished east and west 
 
 We struggle now alone. 
 
BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 55 
 
 And famine soon will chill the heart 
 
 That fearlessly would brave 
 An open field or leaguered wall, 
 
 The soldier's bloody grave. " 
 
 " Now, by the spirit of my sires!" 
 
 The gallant Sarsfield cried, 
 ' ' We shall not truckle to the foe 
 
 While swords are by our side. 
 Give me but fifty daring hearts 
 
 Nay, never frown or chide 
 And, by my faith! King William's train 
 
 Ne'er sees the Shannon's side." 
 
 He gazed a moment sternly round; 
 
 They hail his words with cheers, 
 And quick into their saddles spring 
 
 The fifty volunteers. 
 Then through the eastern sally-port 
 
 They spin with headlong speed, 
 And " Sarsfield to the rescue!" rings 
 
 In Limerick's hour of need. 
 
 On swept they, like a whirlwind, 
 
 Knockanny's hill to gain; 
 Where twice two hundred cannoniers 
 
 Are guarding William's train; 
 On, on they dashed, no word they spoke, 
 
 Nor bridle rein they drew, 
 Till Ireland's hated foreign foe 
 
 Had met their eager view. 
 
56 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Hark, hark! upon the startled foe 
 
 Now bursts their wild hurrah: 
 " Down, down upon the foreign slaves! 
 
 Upon them ! Smite and slay ! 
 Trample the robbers to the earth ! 
 
 Ay, cleave them to the core! 
 To spare the plunderers of our homes 
 
 Were scorn for evermore." 
 
 The field is won, the prize is gained 
 
 They sallied forth to gain; 
 The Dutchman's brave artillery 
 
 And all his battering train 
 Lie shattered wide and harmless 
 
 By noble Sarsfield's skill, 
 Whose glory haunts our memories, 
 
 And fires our spirits still. 
 
 They durst not try to storm again, 
 
 For few came back to tell 
 How, 'neath the brave defenders, 
 
 The storming party fell. 
 Next day, before the sun had gilt 
 
 The banner of our liege, 
 The foe withdrew their army, 
 
 And Ginkle raised the siege. 
 
 No monuments are towering 
 To honor Sarsfield's name , 
 
 But in faithful Irish bosoms 
 There are temples to his fame. 
 
BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 57 
 
 And marble shrines shall perish 
 
 And ages roll away 
 Ere his memory is forgotten, 
 
 Or the glory of that day. 
 
 THE VISION OF KING BRIAN. 
 
 [Time. The Night before the Battle of Clontarf.] 
 THE great old Irish houses, the proud old Irish names, 
 Like stars upon the midnight, to-day their lustre gleams. 
 Gone are the great old houses, the proud old names are low 
 That shed a glory on the land a thousand years ago. 
 
 These were the great old houses, o'er whom the spirits held 
 Mystic watchings at Life's closing, in the distant days of eld; 
 Oft foretold they of Death's advent, in a slowly chanted wail, 
 And often in the tones that glad a warrior in his mail. 
 
 And wheresoe'er a scion of those great old houses be, 
 
 In the country of his fathers, or the lands beyond the sea, 
 
 In city, or in hamlet, by the valley, on the hill, 
 
 The spirit of his brave old sires is watching o'er him still. 
 
 'Twas thus before the battle that freed the Irish land, 
 That crushed the Dane forever on Clontarf's empurpled strand; 
 Twas thus that brave King Brian, at the mid hour of the night 
 Saw a vision as he slumbered, bedtting kingly sight: 
 
 A woman pale and beautiful , a woman sad and fair 
 
 Proud and stately was her stature, black and flowing was her 
 
 hair; 
 White as snow the robe around her, floating shadow-like and 
 
 free, 
 Whilst with a silver trumpet's tone, to the sleeper, thus spoke 
 
 she: 
 
58 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 " King! unto thee 'tis given to triumph o'er the Dane 
 To drive his routed army forth unto the Northern Main, 
 But the palace of thy fathers thou shalt never see again; 
 Thou, and the son thou lovest, shall sleep amongst the slain 
 
 " Yet far into the future thy memory shall live, 
 And to the souls of men unborn a glorious impulse give; 
 Thy dynasty shall perish before a factious band, 
 But thy spirit shall forever dwell upon the Irish land. 
 
 " Men yet unborn shall know thee as thy country's sword and 
 
 shield, 
 
 Wise and prudent in the council, brave and skillful in the field; 
 When the factious and the spoilers shall trample on the free, 
 They will pray to God to raise them a Deliverer like thee. 
 
 " Thou shalt leave unto thy country, and the nations, a proud 
 name; 
 
 Thou shalt leave it peace and freedom, and a bright and glori- 
 ous fame; 
 
 Thou shalt leave it upraised altars, happy homes and smiling 
 fields 
 
 Where the sower shall be reaper of what Heaven's bounty yields. 
 
 " Yet, trampling on thy country, the spoiler's foot shall come, 
 Woo'd to conquest and to plunder, by factious feuds at home; 
 Milesian with Milesian shall battle day by day, 
 Till the glory of the Irish land shall pass from it away. 
 
 " The fanatic and the bigot shall come with fire and brand, 
 With foreign swords and foreign laws, black heart and bloody 
 
 hand; 
 
 They will trample on the altar, they will trample on the shrine, 
 And pollute each holy relic that thy country holds divine. 
 
BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 59 
 
 "But thy country shall stand firm, thro' .plunder and thro* 
 
 scathe, 
 
 To that which thou shalt die for, her consecrated faith; 
 Tho' her altars be in ruins, tho' her -conquerors slay and rive, 
 Yet, despite of ban or guerdon, her faith shall still survive. 
 
 "Thy country's best and bravest shall struggle long and vain, 
 And some shall seek in distant lands to 'scape a conqueror's chain; 
 And some shall fall from princely hall e'en to the peasant's shed, 
 Anol many on her hard-fought fields shall slumber with the dead. 
 
 ' ' But the God whose hand is stretched forth thy country to 
 
 chastise, 
 
 In His own good time and fitting will bid the prostrate rise; 
 For her faith He hath recorded where the mighty seal is set, 
 And His mercy, aye, it shall gush forth and vivify her yet. 
 
 " In her deepest hour of sorrow, in her darkest hour of shame, 
 Thy country still shall treasure the glory of thy name. 
 In the greatest hour of triumph, when her history shall bear 
 To the future all her glory, thine shall still be foremost there." 
 
 No more she spake unto him, but passed like mist away, 
 As it floats up from the valley, beneath the summer's ray 
 No more spake she unto him, but ever on the gale, 
 Until the hour of dawning, came a low and mystic wail. 
 
 Next day amid the foremost brave Murrough, fighting, fell, 
 The flower of Irish chivalry the son he loved so well; 
 And from our shores for ever was swept that day the Dane; 
 But the old king and his favorite son were numbered with the 
 slain. 
 
60 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 IN VAIN. 
 
 IN vain, how many a year is spent, 
 
 Aye, long years worn away, 
 And oh, how much to hope is lent, 
 
 It never will repay ! 
 For who can tell the years of toil, 
 
 The waste of heart and brain, 
 And the weary travail of the soul 
 
 That have been borne in vain ! 
 
 The sleepless sage some star hath sought, 
 
 Till hope and sight grew dim 
 It shone for eyes that loved it not; 
 
 But never beamed on him. 
 Thus fate will snatch the gem away 
 
 Which all was given to 'gain, 
 Or feebly shed the long-sought ray 
 
 Where it may beam in vain. 
 
 The poet's song may yet go forth 
 
 To many a distant shore, 
 To fling around his land of birth 
 
 A glory evermore; 
 Yet, o'er the lyre hangs cloud and gloom 
 
 Where dwells a witching strain, 
 And the minstrel yet will find a tomb 
 
 With bright bays crowned in vain. 
 
 The Chief, who seeks for endless life, 
 His country's pride and might; 
 
 Who wins his way through days of strife 
 And watchings of the night ; 
 
BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 61 
 
 Whose voice the powers of earth could shake 
 
 In senate, field or fane 
 High hearts like these too oft must break, 
 
 And often fall in vain. 
 
 And love, the pure and true, that clings 
 
 In spite of ill or check 
 Oh, many give SOME treasured things, 
 
 But THIS holds nothing back. 
 Yet woe to well-springs of the heart 
 
 Poured forth like summer rain, 
 While wealth could fail to purchase part 
 
 Of all that's given in vain. 
 
 And some have borne the blast unbowed 
 
 To sink beneath the wave, 
 E'en when the bow was in the cloud, 
 
 Or life-boat near to save. 
 Thus upon human toil and care 
 
 Some blight will still remain: 
 So let us lay our treasures where 
 
 They are not heaped in vain. 
 
 SONG FOR THE '82 CLUB. 
 
 AT last we meet, as brothers meet, 
 
 A nation's strength combining; 
 A giant starting to his feet, 
 
 A long-dimmed weapon shining. 
 No longer foreign rule shall cast 
 
 Its festering chain, to bind us; 
 The feuds and follies of the past 
 
 Are forever cast behind us. 
 
62 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 We boast a still unconquered land, 
 
 Despite their foreign charters; 
 For that dear isle we take our stand, 
 
 Her champions, or her martyrs. 
 The memory of her glorious dead 
 
 And her smiling fields remind us 
 Of the debt we owe the land we tread, 
 
 While our feuds we cast behind us. 
 
 Up, brothers! there is work to do 
 
 Go take a foremost station, 
 To build the temple up again, 
 
 To raise a fallen nation. 
 To spread her glory far and wide 
 
 None shall divided find us; 
 But working bravely, side by side, 
 
 While the past is cast behind us. 
 
 THE LAUNCHING OF -LA GLOIRE." 
 
 [The magnificent French line-of-battle ship "La Gloire" was launched at 
 Cherbourg in the year 1861. This was then the largest war ship in the world, 
 presenting the novel feature of being entirely cased in steel. "La Gloire" 
 was at that time justly considered the pride of the French Navy.] 
 
 COME bare the arm and grasp the sledge, to strike the shores 
 
 away, 
 
 For our work is finished, and we launch a royal ship to-day. 
 All panoplied like knight of old cuirassed in mail of steel, 
 From stem to stern, from side to side, from bulwark to the keel. 
 
 A flag for our ship, our royal ship, to bear to eveiy shore, 
 To float and fly o'er every sea where waves and tempests roar 
 Up to the peak with France's flag, the glorious tricolor, 
 Sacred to victory, freedom, fame, now and for evermore! 
 
BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 63 
 
 A name for our ship, our royal ship, to live on History's page, 
 
 That shall ring like a nation's rallying cry where the fierce sea- 
 battles rage ; 
 
 Sprinkle our ship with the southern wine, from stern to armed 
 prow: 
 
 In the name of France, and France's fame, we name thee 
 " Glory "now. 
 
 Oh, wondrous triumph of man's art, what destiny is thine! 
 Where Northern tempests madly rave, or tropic glories shine 
 Wrestling with whirlwinds in their wrath, like a giant fired 
 
 with wine, 
 Or bearing ocean warriors on through the sea-fight's battle's line ! 
 
 No galleon from the Spanish Main no Eastern argosie 
 E'er bore so rich a freight as thine, proud monarch of the sea; 
 For a thousand conquering, fiery hearts are throbbing now in 
 
 thee, 
 For France's name, for France's fame, for death or victory. 
 
 What shadows from the past shall haunt thy pathway on the 
 
 main ! 
 
 The great traditions of the land of mighty Charlemagne ! 
 Illuming with their undimmed light a heritage of fame, 
 For thee to guard, for thee to keep and mingle with thy name. 
 
 Up from Atlantic waves shall come, as through the foam you 
 
 sweep, 
 
 The echo of a gurgling cheer that once rose from the deep, 
 As " La Vengeur " fighting England's fleet, sank in the 
 
 whelming sea, 
 And Vive le France! from her thousand men, rose up defiantly. 
 
64 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Go bear thy flag go bear thy name along the mountain wave, 
 Thou proud, mailed warrior of the deep, to conquer and to save! 
 In storm or fight thy mission still to grandly do and dare, 
 Showing the world, where'er thou art, that France in Glory's 
 there. 
 
 THE CAPTURE OF PARIS. 
 
 (FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR CARMINE.) 
 
 [In the following lines the writer illustrates the heroic incidents in the 
 days of July, 1830, when a body of the students of the Polytechnic School 
 broke out of that institution, and headed the first attacks that were made in 
 the streets of Paris, which eventuated in the overthrow of the government of 
 Charles X, and the establishment of Louis Philippe on the throne.] 
 
 A MIGHTY crowd, with accents loud, are swaying to and fro, 
 Where a nation's arm seems lifted up to strike a nation's blow. 
 Some shout aloud, " Down with the King!" some counsel calm 
 
 and slow, 
 Some gaze about with anxious doubt, and some with fiery glow. 
 
 Thus was it, as the sun arose, o'er lofty Notre Dame, 
 When a stripling, but a gallant band, among the people came, 
 With beardless lips, but manly hearts, made for the battle's van, 
 With skillful hands, and ready swords, to win the rights of man. 
 
 Out stepped young Dumont from their ranks, he waved his 
 
 bonnet high , 
 Proudly he spoke, in words of fire, whilst fiercely flashed his 
 
 eye: 
 
 " A bas les Bourbons ! Follow us. We'll show you how to die ! " 
 " A bas les Bourbons!" rang around, and Paris caught the cry. 
 
BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 65 
 
 Abas les Bourbons! Frenchmen, on! the Polytechnic leads 1 
 The beardless youth shall win to-day the fame of heroes' deeds. 
 Down falls the first in glory's lap; from twenty wounds he 
 
 bleeds; 
 Hurrah! close up. His place is filled; another, fearless, leads. 
 
 Hurrah' they come, the hireling swords, Switzer and 
 
 Allemagne. 
 
 Ho ! Saint Antoine ! stout Saint Antoine ! upon them once again ! 
 Up, up, Saint Jaques! and smite them down! fear not the fiery 
 
 rain! 
 Hurrah for freedom for the quick, and vengeance for the slain! 
 
 Fear not their swooping cavalry, fear not their cannoniers! 
 Up, to the deadly muzzles up, heroic Ecoliers! 
 Forth gushes flame and leaden hail, but as the death-cloud clears, 
 The Polytechnics' flag above the captured guns appears. 
 
 Look up , look up ! How brave it floats upon the summer breeze ! 
 
 The tricolor is planted o'er the haughty Tuilleries. 
 
 Then high the shout of triumph rose, that crushed the Bourbon's 
 
 throne: 
 " Live France, live France! the day is won; proud Paris is our 
 
 own!" 
 
 Time-honored be their memories, who for their fathers' land 
 Rushed from the students' solitude to grasp the patriot's brand ; 
 Time-honored be their gory graves who hated tyrant laws, 
 Who loved the people and who died, to right the people's 
 cause! 
 
66 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 THE SONG OF THE COSSACK. 
 
 [From the French of Beranger] 
 
 HARK, hark, my steed! come rouse thy speed; on the wings of 
 
 death let's forth I 
 Thou, the Cossack's pride and comrade tried hark! the 
 
 trumpets of the North; 
 No enriching gold does thy saddle hold; but rouse thee up, my 
 
 steed 
 
 For the ready spoil of city and soil awaits our daring deed. 
 Then neigh in thy pride, my courser tried, for thy hoof with 
 
 conquest rings, 
 And trample down Europe's old renown, and her peoples and 
 
 her kings. 
 
 Europe is old, her heart is cold, and her ancient ramparts low; 
 Peace flies the plain, and, with loosened rein, we rush like a 
 
 torrent's flow; 
 Come, and fill my hands, in the Western lands, with the 
 
 treasures of the mart; 
 Come, and make thy stall in the stately hall, and repose in the 
 
 homes of art. 
 Return to drink at that river's brink, where thou before hast 
 
 been, 
 And lave thy flanks by the sunny banks of rebellious river 
 
 Seine 
 Then neigh in thy pride, my courser tried, for thy hoof with 
 
 conquest rings, 
 And trample down Europe's old renown, and her peoples and 
 
 her kings. 
 
BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 67 
 
 I have seen at night, by our camp-fire's light, a phantom stern 
 
 and grand, 
 Fix his ardent gaze o'er the bivouack's blaze and point with his 
 
 armed hand 
 To the West, with pride, as he fiercely cried: " Once more 
 
 begins my reign." 
 
 'Twas the mighty Hun, Attilla's son I obey thy voice again! 
 Then neigh in thy pride, my courser tried, for thy hoof with 
 
 conquest rings, 
 And trample down Europe's old renown, and her peoples and 
 
 her kings. 
 
 The glory and fame of Europe's name, that wreathe with pride 
 
 her brow, 
 The wisdom and lore which was hers of yore, but which cannot 
 
 save her now, 
 It is time they fall! Engulph them all, in the waves of dust 
 
 that rise 
 'Round the Cossack's track, from thy hoofs flung back, like an 
 
 eclipse in the skies. 
 Erase, erase from their ancient place, in the wrath of thy new 
 
 career, 
 
 Palace and mart, temples and art, laws and each souvenir. 
 Then neigh in thy pride, my courser tried, for thy hoof with 
 
 conquest rings, 
 And trample down Europe's old renown, and her peoples and 
 
 her kings. 
 
68 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT WATCH. 
 
 GROUPED in the sick one's stilly room, 
 Beneath the waning midnight's gloom, 
 While passed the night hours, sad and slow, 
 And lamp and life were burning low; 
 We watched, where, passing forth from clay, 
 A loved and dying mother lay. 
 
 We watched in silence, for the power 
 Of memory ruled us in that hour, 
 And pictured all that she had been 
 Through life in many a changing scene; 
 For true and firmly had she trod 
 That earthly path, which ends with God. 
 
 What visions thronged around us then 
 Of childhood's days, come back again! 
 When, in her fair and early youth, 
 We basked beneath her eyes of truth; 
 And sinless hearts saw from above 
 The great God's through a mother's love; 
 
 How at the matron's tranquil hearth, 
 Where happy hours had gentle birth. 
 Kindred and friends oft gathered 'round, 
 Where welcome, frank and kind, was found, 
 And, spite of change, and years of care, 
 She, 'mid the young, was youngest there; 
 
BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 
 
 How, in more sad and later years, 
 
 With " smiles that might as well be tears/' 
 
 Faithful and hopeful evermore , 
 
 Her cross of life she meekly bore, 
 
 Taking no stain from adverse fate 
 
 To dim a spirit pure and great. 
 
 Fainter and fainter comes each sigh; 
 At last, the parting hour is nigh, 
 Her bark is on the shadowy shore 
 Where cares and fears and hopes are o'er. 
 Thus, like the twilight time of May, 
 Her spirit passed from earth away. 
 
 No, not all gone! though Heaven may claim 
 
 Back to its fount the eternal flame 
 
 Her spirit with us doth abide, 
 
 As on through life's dim paths we glide; 
 
 Though all unseen, still present there, 
 
 Watching with guardian angel's care. 
 
 Alas! all we have left undone, 
 While yet thy life around us shone, 
 To cheer thy path or glad thy time , 
 Comes burning on our hearts as crime; 
 And our atonement now must be 
 To act, to live, and die like thee. 
 
70 IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 THE ASSAULT ON LIMERICK. 
 
 Ho, Limerick! ancient Limerick, arouse thy heart to-day; 
 Put harness on thy citizens and gird thee for the fray; 
 Nerve thy arm for thy homesteads, for the altar and the shrine, 
 And the time-enduring memories, proud city, that are thine 
 
 Thy battlements are tottering, thy walls are sapped away, 
 And yawns at length the breach whereon full fifty cannon play, 
 And, thundering o'er the space between, with fierce exulting 
 cheers, 
 
 Carlisle and Drogheda lead on King William's grenadiers. 
 
 i 
 
 They've mounted on the ruined wall, two thousand, firm arrayed, 
 Casting before them, on their path, the deadly hand grenade. 
 And with a shout of triumph they sweep upon their way, 
 Nor dream of what a welcome we've prepared for them to-day. 
 
 Now shall they feel our Irish steel thro' crest and helmet glide; 
 For Sarsfield 's charging in our van with Galway at his side , 
 And where e'er his plume is waving, the Brandenbergs lie low, 
 And the shout is raised the loudest: " No quarter for the foe!" 
 
 As break the tempest-driven waves recoiling from the rock, 
 The chosen band of Brandenberg shrink from the fiery shock, 
 And o'er the din of battle, and o'er the wild hurrah, 
 Loud swells the gladsome tidings: " The foreigners give way!" 
 
 Yet 'tis only for a moment: fierce Hanmer's on the wall. 
 He charges with his Danish guards, tho' fast and thick they fall; 
 And the stout brigades of Camdon rush quickly to his side, 
 And Bolcastel's good regiment to swell the bloody tide. 
 
BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 71 
 
 But tho' we are out numbered and sore pressed by the foe, 
 While we have hands to grasp the sword we'll deal them blow 
 
 for blow; 
 
 Tho' our brethren fall around us, still our bravest and our best 
 Gather, like eagles to a feast, 'round Sarsfield's towering crest. 
 
 In the thickest of the battle, in the sorest hour of need, 
 When even hope had left us, and but honor bade us bleed, 
 A vision came upon us, such as warrior seldom saw, 
 That filled our hearts with daring, and our foemen's hearts with 
 awe. 
 
 The matrons of our city, whose teachings hallow home, 
 The maidens of the city, in their beauty and their bloom, 
 Join their kin amid the carnage, and battle by their side, 
 The mother and the daughter, the sister and the bride. 
 
 We paused but for a moment, while o'er our spirits came 
 All the fond and gentle memories that feed affection's flame, 
 Then passed into our bosoms a wild and stern glow, 
 As we looked back at our city, and then forward at the foe. 
 
 We paused but for a moment, then arose our thrilling cheer, 
 Such as men but seldom hearken and forget not when they hear, 
 While, beside our bravest warriors, soft lily hands assail 
 The foe that flies before us, like leaves before the gale. 
 
 And then the breach their cannon made, we filled up with their 
 
 dead, 
 
 And we chased them to their trenches, by gallant Sarsfield led; 
 And we looked down from our ramparts, that evening, o'er the 
 
 plain, 
 While the twilight cast its shadows, and the foe entombed his 
 
 slain. 
 
72 IEISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 A REMINISCENCE OF THE MINES. 
 
 UP in a mountain solitude 
 
 Beside a pile of clay, 
 A man with shovel, pick and pan 
 
 Stood at the close of day. 
 
 His shirt and sash were very red, 
 
 His nose was very blue, 
 And, though the scene around was grand, 
 
 ' ' The prospect J) would not do. 
 
 His hat! enough 'twas shocking bad, 
 His sunburnt neck was bare; 
 
 One eye looked droll, the other sad, 
 Beneath his unkempt hair. 
 
 His muddy jackboots, of all jet 
 
 Were long ago bereft, 
 And unto them, like unto him, 
 
 But little sole was left. 
 
 From out his pale, unsmiling lips, 
 With rank beard overgrown, 
 
 Outspoke this lonely mining man 
 In semi-growling tone. 
 
 Whilst restlessly his jackboot kept 
 The devil's tattoo drumming: 
 
 * I had no sense in coming here, 
 I've gained no cents by coming. 
 
BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. 73 
 
 " Fortune, 'tis written, smiles on fools, 
 
 Wherever they may labor; 
 And, surely, I've been fool enough 
 To win her choicest favor. 
 
 " But ever she eludes my grasp, 
 Despite the proofs I give her 
 That I'm an ass*. She turns from me 
 To wanton with my neighbor. 
 
 " I have not sinned; as some folk sin 
 
 I pick, but do not steal 
 And though my ways of life are hard, 
 My heart is soft to feel. 
 
 " My neighbor's failings I let pass; 
 
 I covet not a shade 
 Of all his goods, his ox, his ass, 
 Nor man, nor servant maid. 
 
 ' c But for this last I claim no grace 
 
 Though some may not approve it 
 Because in this infernal place 
 There are no maids to covet. 
 
 " Nor sparkling eyes, nor beaming smiles 
 
 That filled my dreams of yore ! 
 
 Alas, alas! those days are passed 
 
 My day-dreams are now "ore." 
 
 " Oh, for one hour where some one's eyes 
 
 Are bright and purely glancing, 
 And some one's dainty little feet 
 To joyous music dancing. 
 
74 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 " Where graceful forms are floating round 
 
 Most potent heart-dissolvers 
 None but " rope dancers " here are found, 
 Surrounded by ' ' revolvers. " 
 
 " Oh, for one hour where early life 
 
 Flowed , passing merrily ; 
 Where youth still hung on low-toned words, 
 And not upon a tree. 
 
 " Where friends could wrangle and debate 
 
 About each passing trifle; 
 And meet the flash of wit, instead 
 Of bowie-knife or rifle."- 
 
 He paused, he sighed, he gazed about; 
 
 Then spoke: ' ' Tis cussed fine ! 
 Oh, for a pail of double-stout 
 
 To cool this thirst of mine ! 
 
 ' ' But never more I'll taste a pot 
 Of Thunder's glorious beer ! " 
 
 The miner turned from the spot, 
 And wiped away a tear. 
 
BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 75 
 
 THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW. 
 
 MARCH 6, 1858. 
 To THE EDITOB OF THE MONITOE: 
 
 SIB I could not help versifying this heroic episode in current history ; 
 but my admiration is confined to the bravery and endurance of the rescuers 
 and rescued, and has no sympathy whatever with the cause, policy or govern- 
 ment whose work they were doing. The relation of the British Government 
 to India is simply the relation of the robber to his victim. 
 
 Yours, etc., 
 
 MASQUE. 
 
 A TORN flag is flying, 
 
 Torn by shot and shell, 
 O'er wounded men and dying, 
 
 In Lucknow's citadel, 
 Where the stern European 
 
 Hath fought so long and well. 
 
 The ruthless Asiatic, 
 
 Full fifty thousand strong, 
 With eager fierceness waits its prey, 
 
 And round the ramparts throng; 
 " We'll die for duty; hope or fear 
 
 To us no more belong. 
 
 Look forth upon the Cawnpore road; 
 
 Look forth to Allabad 
 Strain, strain your gaze to every point, 
 
 Whence succor may be had ! 
 Have our countrymen forgot our need ? 
 
 This, this, than death 's more sad." 
 
7t> IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 The sun hath westward passed 
 On the eighty-seventh day, 
 
 Since round the leaguered city, 
 The dusky foeman lay; 
 
 On the eighty-seventh weary night 
 Falls the young moon's tranquil ray. 
 
 An island woman muses 
 
 On her long lost highland home, 
 
 Where her worn form and longing heart 
 Never again may come; 
 
 To the pleasant places of her youth, 
 Once more her fancies roam. 
 
 Upward she springs, all throbbing, 
 Beneath the moonbeam's ray; 
 
 A cry of joy bursts from her lips, 
 ' ' I hear the pibroch's play 
 
 ' Campbells are coming' they'll be here 
 Before the break of day." 
 
 Nought spoke the weary warriors, 
 All toil-worn, stern and pale; 
 
 But every ear was bent to hear 
 The tidings on the gale. 
 
 Again the night wind brought the sound 
 Of the pibrochs of the Gael. 
 
 " To arms!" the chieftain cried, 
 " We'll conquer once again; 
 
 To arms, and to the Cawnpore gate!" 
 A fierce hurrah and then 
 
 The word was passed from rank to rank, 
 " 'Tis Campbell and his men." 
 
BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 77 
 
 They come, the Highlandmen, 
 
 Upon the dusky foe, 
 And an aged warrior leads them on, 
 
 With a youthful hero's glow; 
 And the pibrochs play the charging step 
 
 Of a thousand years ago. 
 
 As the flashing muskets roll 
 
 They raise their battle cry, 
 And, o'er the din of 'the mingling steel, 
 
 It surges fierce and high: 
 'Tis the Celtic slogan, triumphing 
 
 Beneath that Orient sky. 
 
 Ye warriors, tried and true, 
 
 Rescuers, and rescued brave! 
 No nobler triumph ever 
 
 Hath war or glory gave 
 Than yours, ye proud immortals, 
 
 To conquer and to save. 
 
 "MORT SUR CHAMP D'HONNEUR." 
 
 OH, think not that there's glory won 
 
 But on the field of bloody strife, 
 Where flashing blade and crushing gun 
 
 Cut loose the silver chords of life. 
 Carve deep his name in brass or stone, 
 
 Who for his home and country bled, 
 Who lies uncoffined and unknown, 
 
 Upon the field of honor dead." 
 
78 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 But carve there, too, the names of those 
 
 Who fought the fight of faith and truth, 
 Bending beneath life's wintry snows, 
 
 Or battling in the pride of youth. 
 Whoe'er have kindled one bright ray 
 
 In hearts whence hope and joy had fled, 
 Have not lived vainly: such as they 
 
 Are " on the field of honor, dead." 
 
 And those who sink on desert sand, 
 Or calmly rest 'neath ocean wave, 
 
 Dropping the cross from weary hand, 
 Telling no more its power to save; 
 
 The true, the pure, the brave, the good, 
 Falling at duty's post still shed 
 
 A radiant light o'er plain and flood- 
 Though " on the field of honor, dead." 
 
 Thus may we live, thus may we die, 
 
 In earnest, valiant, faithful fight; 
 True to man's loftiest destiny 
 
 True to our God, ourselves, and right. 
 Then when we sleep, as sleep we must, 
 
 In ocean's cell or earth's dark prison, 
 Be this memorial o'er our dust, 
 
 Though dead " he is not here, but risen." 
 
JOHN BANIM 
 
 POET AND NOVELIST 
 
 I saw him on his couch of pain, 
 
 And when I heard him speak, 
 It was of Hope, long nursed in vain, 
 
 And tears stole down his cheek. 
 He spoke of honors early won, 
 
 Which youth could rarely boast, 
 Of high endeavors well begun 
 
 But prematurely lost. 
 
 HUS sang Thomas Haynes Bayly, the inti- 
 mate literary friend of Hood, Rogers and 
 Moore, and the devoted friend and admirer of Banim. 
 The historic old town of Kilkenny, on the banks of 
 the Nore, gave birth to the subject of this sketch on 
 the 3d of April, 1798. His father, Michael Banim, 
 was a trader, fond of field sports and possessing more 
 than an ordinary share of common sense and educa- 
 tion. His mother, a woman of excellent qualities 
 both of head and heart, was named Carroll, and 
 descended from a family of respectability and marked 
 refinement. Michael, her eldest son, has left us a 
 faithful portrait of her in Rose Brady, the heroine of 
 the " Ghost Hunter," and John inherited many of 
 
 her best qualities, as he did also her latent talents. 
 
 (79) 
 
80 
 
 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Latent, indeed, and undeveloped; for in Ireland 
 during those " dark and evil days, " 
 
 Full many a flower was born to blush unseen 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 How could it be otherwise? The wonder is, how 
 that dear old Isle of Sage and Saint could have pro- 
 
 duced such an incomparable array of literary lights, 
 while oppressed by the incubus of coercion while 
 her noblest sons were being forced by brutal British 
 barbarity into exile, or sacrificed to the Moloch of 
 British rule. But produce them she did, in spite of 
 
JOHN BANIM. 81 
 
 all the discouraging circumstances; and the struggles, 
 trials and tribulations of her Swifts, Moores, Griffins 
 and Goldsmiths were equalled only by their fame. 
 
 Speaking of his mother, Banim says : "She pos- 
 sessed a mind of a very superior order, and a store of 
 good sense and womanly, wifely patience; and these, 
 with trust in Heaven, were her only marriage portion." 
 These qualities her second son, John, possessed in 
 an eminent degree, and they were the mainspring of 
 his success. 
 
 Having entered the English academy of his native 
 town, where Mr. Chas. James Buchanan ruled with 
 all the pomp and authority of the schoolmaster men- 
 tioned in the " Deserted Village," the future author 
 of the "O'Hara Family" picked up the rudiments, 
 and was soon promoted to a seminary presided over 
 by the learned Father Magrath, a gentleman of 
 acknowledged ability in teaching young ideas how 
 to shoot. Like many other boys whom we remem- 
 ber well, John was wont to play truant in the cool 
 recesses of a ruined monastery, or in the delightful 
 umbrage of a spreading hawthorn, where he would 
 pore for hours over a volume of fairy lore, or con 
 with avidity such magazines as came into his posses- 
 sion. The literary faculty manifested itself in him 
 at even a more tender age than it did in Pope ; and 
 when he reached his tenth year his manuscript 
 
 7 
 
82 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 poems and romances were very considerable. Like 
 all young literary aspirants who feel the divinus 
 sufflatus within them, he idolized men who had dis- 
 tinguished themselves in the arena of authorship; 
 and when his arch idol, Tom Moore, came to Kil- 
 kenny, rolling up his bundles of manuscript, young 
 John Banim went to visit the unrivalled melodist, 
 showed the productions of his young muse, and had 
 the satisfaction of being called " brother poet " by 
 the greatest lyrist that the world saw since the days 
 of Horace. 
 
 Whilst at the Kilkenny College the young poet 
 manifested and developed quite a talent for drawing 
 and landscape painting; and, having selected the 
 artist's profession, was transferred to the Academy 
 of the Royal Irish Society, Dublin. He obtained 
 the first prize for drawing at this academy, and was 
 equally distinguished for his industry and regularity 
 during the two years of pupilage in the metropolis 
 of his native land. One of his letters to his mother 
 during this period shows at the same time his filial 
 attachment, his abiding trust in Providence, and the 
 hope, which then buoyed his heart, of one day 
 " tracing the footsteps "'of eminent painters: 
 
 " MY DEAR MOTHER. Your anxious love could not wish me 
 better than I am, or with better prospects before me. I have 
 the countenance of all, and the friendship of many of the first 
 artists and amateurs in my profession. I meet with warm 
 encouragement and hope of success from everyone". " 
 
JOHN BANIM. 83 
 
 In a letter written to his father, Christmas Day, 
 1813, he says: " There is nothing in the intercourse 
 with strangers to compensate one for the absence of 
 kindred; but I must not murmur against what can- 
 not be avoided. The festival of Christmas reminds 
 me that I am desolate. There is no equivalent for 
 the peace and blessings I have hitherto enjoyed at 
 our Christmas hearth." Poor Banim gave expres- 
 sion then to the feelings of many an exiled Celt, who 
 yearned for the " Christmas hearth," at home. 
 
 After two years of separation, the artist of eight- 
 een summers returned to the old hearth-stone, and 
 was fortunate in securing a lucrative situation as 
 teacher of drawing in one of the boarding-schools of 
 his native city. And now the old drama in which 
 the poet-painter was to take his part was enacted 
 
 anew. Annie D , a boarder in the academy 
 
 where he professed drawing, was, we are told, " fair, 
 bright-eyed, full of the fresh beauty of seventeen, 
 artless, innocent t and pure-minded." Her teacher, 
 only one year her senior, forgot the grave moral of 
 the history of the tutor Abelard and the pupil Eloise; 
 and, day after day, a deep ardent passion grew 
 within his breast and ripened into a love strong and 
 abiding, which on the part of Annie was recipro- 
 cated. Many a sunny morn and dewy eve saw the 
 young artist and his plighted Annie, as they went 
 their way to the favorite trysting place on the flowery 
 
84 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 banks of the Nore, ostensibly for the purpose of 
 sketching landscape views, but in reality to talk of 
 love, which is closely connected with, and always 
 had the greatest influence on, the fine arts of paint- 
 ing and poetry. 
 
 Of the many effusions to the idol of his heart, 
 space will permit us to select only one, and that 
 must be very short: 
 
 I thank thee, high and holy pow'r, 
 
 That thus upon my natal hour, 
 Thy blessed bounty hath bestowed 
 
 More than to mortal life is owed. 
 
 If thy dispensing hand had given 
 All other joys this side of heaven; 
 
 The monarch's crown, the hero's crest, 
 All honors, riches, powers, the best, 
 
 And Anna's love, away the while, 
 I'd change them all for Anna's smile. 
 
 Annie's father, a country squire, hearing of his 
 daughter's attachment, took means' of cutting off all 
 communication between the lovers; but "love that 
 laughs at locksmiths " soon found means of evading 
 the vigilance of the squire, and correspondence was 
 kept up until Annie was removed from the boarding 
 school and forced to return the miniature, letters and 
 poems of her lover. The poor girl brooded over the 
 passion of her heart until it sapped her vitality, 
 
JOHN BANIM. 85 
 
 and, as her father was unrelenting in his determina- 
 tion that she should never see John Banim, she died 
 in despair and of a broken heart. 
 
 Being informed of Annie's death and of her 
 fidelity to him during so trying and painful a sepa- 
 ration, the noble-hearted painter was inconsolable. 
 Being too poor to hire a vehicle, he started on foot 
 for the home of his affianced, some twenty miles 
 distant. It was a cold, rainy November day, and 
 when he reached the corpse of his beloved that night 
 he felt footsore, weary and wet. Entering the house 
 he gazed silently on the pallid cheek and shrunken 
 form which once seemed so beautiful to him. That 
 warm heart and lively, laughing eye were now stilled 
 in death. The agony which his features betrayed, as 
 he stood there beside the bier, attracted attention, and 
 revealed the lover of the deceased girl. Her sister, re- 
 cognizing Banim, rudely ordered him from the house. 
 He retired to an outhouse, where he fell into a dreamy 
 stupor, which lasted until the funeral cortege was 
 formed next morning. He had not tasted a morsel 
 since the preceding morning; but grief had banished 
 all cravings of hunger, and he only looked for the 
 privilege of seeing his Annie once more before the 
 coffin-lid closed forever on her cherished form. He 
 followed the hearse to the churchyard, saw the last 
 sod placed over her grave, and then, the mourners 
 having departed, cast himself almost unconscious on 
 
86 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 the mound that marked the final resting-place of all 
 that was dearest to him on earth. How long he 
 remained in this position no one knows. Next day 
 his brother found him some distance from Kilkenny, 
 in a half conscious state, and prostrate, almost, in 
 body and mind. The stamina of life was buried 
 with his first love, ambition fled, and his taste for 
 literature and painting lay dormant for a long time. 
 
 After a year of prostration and pain, Banim's 
 health returned, and with it his love of literature. 
 Like Gerald Griffin, he first became a contributor 
 and then editor of a local newspaper, the Leinster 
 Gazette. Finding this position ill suited to his taste 
 and independent spirit, he moved to Dublin in 1820, 
 where he wrote not only for the metropolitan press, 
 but also for several country papers. Here he became 
 acquainted with Charles Philips, the poet and orator, 
 who had then published his poem entitled "The 
 Emerald Isle," also with Shiel, William Curran and 
 Lord Cloncurry. To the latter he dedicated his first 
 long poem, "The Celt's Paradise/' for which he 
 obtained 20 from Warren, the publisher, of Bond 
 street, London. 
 
 This successful adventure in the region of litera- 
 ture prompted the young artist, like Lover and 
 Hazlitt, to relinquish the brush for a mightier 
 instrument, and to launch into the literary ocean. 
 At his very outset he wrote the tragedy, " Damon 
 
JOHN BANIM. 87 
 
 and Pythias, " which his fellow-countryman, Mac- 
 ready, the " reformer of the stage," produced at 
 Covent Garden Theatre in May, 1821. This being a 
 complete success, like Lord Byron, Banim might 
 have said: " I rose next morning a famous man." 
 In London he conceived the idea of rivalling Scott 
 as a novelist, and for that purpose entered into 
 partnership with his brother Michael, to whom he 
 wrote the following instructive letter, which we give 
 here, hoping it may be of some value to the young 
 readers who aspire to literary distinction: 
 
 "LONDON, May 2d, 1824. 
 
 " MY DEAR MICHAEL I have read attentively, and with the 
 greatest pleasure, the portion of the tale you sent me by 
 J. H - . So far as it goes, I pronounce that you have been 
 successful. Two of the personages do not stand out sufficiently 
 from the canvas. Aim at distinctness and at individuality of 
 character. Open Shakespeare, and read a play of his; then 
 turn to the list of dramatis personae and see and feel what he 
 has done in this way. 
 
 " Of a dozen characters, each is himself alone. Look about 
 you; bring to mind the persons you have known; call them up 
 before you; select and copy them. Never give a person an 
 action to do who is not a legible individual. Make that a rule, 
 and I think it ought to be a primary rule with novel writers. 
 
 " Suppose one was to get a sheet of paper, draw up thereon a 
 list of persons, and after their names write down what kind of 
 human beings they shall be, leaving no two alike, and not one 
 generalized or undrawn. After Shakespeare, Scott is the great 
 master-hand of character, and hence, one of his sources of great 
 
88 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 power. To show you clearly what I mean, not a creature we 
 ever met in our father's penetralia resembled the other. There 
 might be somewhat of a conventional, outward similarity, 
 arising from their pursuits, habits and amusements being 
 similar; but each was, notwithstanding, distinct. 
 
 " I think that, in writing a tale, every character in it should 
 be drawn from nature. It is impossible all should be absolute 
 originals. Human nature being the same in all ages, and in all 
 climes, it cannot be hoped, now-a-days, that a writer can be the 
 discoverer of new character. It cannot be no more than the 
 same dough, somewhat differently shaped. Habits of country, 
 habits of station, habits of any kind, will diversify; but human 
 nature is the same now as it ever was. I say one can scarcely 
 draw an original character; but I say, draw like nature no 
 matter what kind of nature you draw from provided that the 
 likeness be not that of a disgusting object. After all, there is 
 nothing commonplace in nature. 
 
 " Get fourteen or fifteen of any of the persons you ever knew, 
 put them into scenes favorable to their peculiarities their 
 individualities can be exemplified without straining after the 
 point; in proper situations set them talking for themselves; by 
 their own word of mouth they will denote their own characters 
 better than any description from pen. Thus will you dramatize 
 your tale, and faithful drama is the life and soul of novel- 
 writing. Plot is an inferior consideration to drama, though 
 still it is a main consideration. 
 
 ' ' A few words more as to the mode of studying the art of 
 novel- writing. Kead any first-rate production of the kind, 
 with a note-book. When an author forces you to feel with him, 
 or whenever he produces a more than ordinary degree of pleas- 
 ure, or when he startles you, stop and try to find out how he 
 
JOHN BANIM. 89 
 
 has done it; see if it be by dialogue or by picture, or by descrip- 
 tion, or by action. Fully comprehend his method, his means 
 for the effect, and note it down. Write down all such impres- 
 sions. Enumerate these and see how many go to make the 
 combined interest of one book. Observe, by contrasting char- 
 acters, how he keeps up the balance of the familiar and the 
 marvelous, humorous, serious and romantic. 
 
 " This would not be imitation, it would be study what, I 
 will venture to say, great men have done with their prede- 
 cessors; what painters do in the study of their art." 
 
 "Tales by the O'Hara Family " appeared in April, 
 1825, and their success was wonderful. The Press 
 said they were admirably written; the critics that 
 they were well written. Griffin, a book critic himself, 
 wrote of these tales: " I think them most vigorous 
 and original things; overflowing with the very spirit 
 of poetry, passion and painting. Nothing since 
 Scott's first novels has equalled them." For these 
 tales, the joint production of the Banim brothers, 
 they were well paid, and the inducements were so 
 flattering that John soon after sent to the Press 
 " The Bo} T ne Water," a work of three volumes, the 
 sale of which was exceptionally great. John's 
 trenchant pen, made smooth by the oil of his vigor- 
 ous imagination and fed from the exhaustless stores of 
 his knowledge, was incessantly at work in the field of 
 fiction. Well has it been said: 
 
90 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Morning saw him at his folios, 
 Twilight saw his fingers run, 
 Laboring ever, weary never 
 Of the work he had begun. 
 
 But this application, for which Banim was so 
 remarkable, eventually sapped his by no means 
 robust constitution, and he was obliged to seek 
 relaxation and health in Boulogne where embarrass- 
 ments of a pecuniary complexion soon stared him 
 in the face, and his only consolation consisted in the 
 remembrance of happier times and things. From 
 these embarassments he was, however, soon relieved 
 by the generosity of his admiring countrymen. 
 
 A laudable movement was set on foot by his 
 friend Mr. Sterling, who, writing in the London 
 TimeSj of which papier he was editor, made a bril- 
 liant and truthful appeal on behalf of his sick and 
 suffering friend. The appeal was supported by other 
 journals, and Banim expressed his gratitude in a 
 letter to the editor of the Times. On this occasion, 
 as on every other, the Irish people were not appealed 
 to in vain, and the handsome amount realized was 
 a pleasing testimonial to the sick man of the appre- 
 ciation and love in which he was held by them. 
 Prominent in the subscription list were the names 
 of Earl Grey, Sir Robert Peel, Richard Lalor Sheil 
 and Samuel Lover. This pecuniary assistance ena- 
 bled the invalid author to pay off all the debts he 
 
JOHN BANIM. 91 
 
 had unavoidably contracted, and to remain on the 
 Continent for two years for the benefit of his health. 
 But, alas, poor Banim ! he reaped no advantage what- 
 ever from his sojourn in Paris and Boulogne. His 
 complaint (disease of the spine) was, by eminent 
 Parisian physicians, pronounced to be incurable; 
 and thus bereft of all hope he had but one wish, to 
 pass the remainder of his days in his native land, 
 where the kind and affectionate sympathy of rela- 
 tives and friends " might gently slope his pathway to 
 the grave"; and, accordingly, in answer to the urgent 
 solicitation of his brother, he prepared to return 
 home. In a reply he wrote to Michael, previous to 
 setting out, he enclosed a poem, a few stanzas of 
 which we cannot refrain from quoting, as they show 
 the affectionate longing which filled his heart to reach 
 once more the happy scenes of his childhood. It is 
 entitled 
 
 THE CALL FROM HOME. 
 
 From home and hearth and garden it resounds 
 From chamber stairs, and all the old house bounds, 
 And from our boyhood's old playgrounds. 
 ****,* 
 
 Brother, I come; you summon and I come; 
 From love like yours I never more may roam 
 Yours is the call from brother and from home. 
 
 Reaching London he rested there some days, during 
 which time he was visited bv manv old familiar 
 
92 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 friends, foremost among whom was his ardent ad- 
 mirer, Thomas Haynes Bayly, who was sorely 
 afflicted at seeing the gifted Banim thus prostrated 
 by sickness. The feeling of his heart on this occa- 
 sion found expression in a poem, a stanza of which 
 prefaces this article. 
 
 Quitting London for ever he arrived in Dublin at 
 the close of July, 1835; here Michael met him after 
 a separation of thirteen years. This meeting between 
 the two brothers was a very affecting one. We will 
 let Michael tell it in his own words: " I entered his 
 room unannounced. I found him laid listlessly on 
 a sofa, his useless limbs at full length, and his sunken 
 cheeks resting on his pillow. I could not at once 
 recognize the companion of my boyhood in the rem- 
 nant I now beheld. I had been prepared to meet a 
 change, but not such a change as was now apparent, 
 for I looked down on a meagre, attenuated, almost 
 white-headed old man. We were not long, however, 
 recognizing each other and renewing our old love." 
 In Dublin, as in London, old and new friends gath- 
 ered around Banim, and among these the Viceroy, 
 the Earl of Musgrave, was most attentive and thought- 
 ful in his endeavors to aid the poor, broken sufferer. 
 As a graceful means of increasing his resources there 
 was opened for him on July 21st a benefit at the 
 Theatre Royal, Hawkins street, under the immediate 
 patronage of the Lord Lieutenant; and we are told 
 
JOHN BANIM. 93 
 
 by the Morning Register of the following day that 
 persons of high and worthy names occupied the pri- 
 vate boxes. The affair was in every sense a complete 
 success. Early in the month of September Banim 
 went back to his longed-for home. On his arrival in 
 Kilkenny his fellow-townsmen received him with 
 open arms, and presented him with an address 
 expressive of the pleasure they experienced in wel- 
 coming back to his native town one whose talents 
 and worth reflected such credit upon all Ireland. 
 Accompanying the address was a small silver snuff 
 box containing a subscription of 85. 
 
 Banim replied in words brimful of warm affection 
 and ardent patriotism. Thus was Banim received 
 by his admiring countrymen. 
 
 Space will not permit us to give a detailed account 
 of the events of the last seven years of his life; suf- 
 fice it to say that during that time, though suffering 
 the most acute pains, he always displayed a fortitude 
 and cheerfulness of spirits which, in the circum- 
 stances, was truly commendable. Before he had 
 been a year at home Queen Victoria bestowed a pen- 
 sion on him of 150 a year. 
 
 Never was the royal bounty more needed or more 
 truly deserved; for this boon he was indebted to the 
 Earl of Carlisle, aided by his early friend Richard 
 Lalor Shiel. The nobleman often visited Banim, 
 and was very much attracted by his little daughter, 
 
y4 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 then twelve years of age. Knowing her father's 
 anxiety on her account, he obtained an additional 
 pension of 40 for her benefit. Gerald Griffin, who 
 was Banim's life-long friend, often visited him in his 
 home by the Nore during his illness, and spent many 
 a pleasant hour talking with the novelist on literary 
 topics. These two gifted authors in some respects 
 resembled one another, not so much in their works 
 as in the interior sentiments which permeate as an 
 atmosphere their writings, aims and aspirations. 
 Some writers there are, who, when we read their 
 works, awaken in us a sentiment of admiration, 
 while others elicit our esteem and love. In the latter 
 category we must place John Banim and Gerald 
 Griffin; and the perpetuity of their fame is, and, no 
 doubt will ever be due to this benign and salutary 
 influence which they exercise on the minds of their 
 readers. 
 
 Seven years had now passed since Banim's return 
 to his Irish home. The malignant complaint to 
 which he was a victim had much impaired his bodily 
 strength, but the will and intellect remained as 
 indomitable as ever until the month of June, 1842, 
 when even these gave signs of waning; and late in 
 the following month his brother Michael was sud- 
 denly summoned to his death-bed. John was barely 
 able to recognize him. Taking his hand, he gave 
 one fond long look into his face, and then with a 
 
JOHN BANIM. 95 
 
 smile upon his pallid countenance, calmly and quietly 
 passed away. 
 
 He lies buried in the graveyard of the Catholic 
 chapel of St. John, Kilkenny, by the side of his 
 mother, whom he loved with such filial affection - 
 He left f surviving him his widow and an only 
 daughter, Mary, whom we had occasion to allude to 
 above. This child, after her father's death, was 
 placed in a convent school at Waterford, under the 
 special care of the sister of Richard Lalor Shiel 
 this distinguished Irishman being one of her guar- 
 dians. 
 
 She was then a very lovely girl, full of talent, full of 
 endearing affection, and gave promise of doing credit 
 to her father's name. But, alas! in February, 1844, 
 she showed symptoms of chest disease, which were 
 at first thought lightly of, but which soon took the 
 form of that insidious disease, consumption, which 
 has no pity for " blue eyes and golden hair." In the 
 June following she fell a victim to it in the eight- 
 eenth year of her age, and her coffin was placed on 
 the yet sound timber encasing her father's remains. 
 
 On the death of John Banim's daughter, Sir Rob- 
 ert Peel performed one of those acts which, whether 
 it proceeded from feelings or policy, was none the less 
 praiseworthy. At the solicitation of a committee of 
 twenty-one gentlemen representing all shades of 
 political opinion, he placed Mrs. Banim on the 
 
IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 pension list. Among the distinguished men who took 
 up Mrs. Banim's case we notice the names of Daniel 
 O'Connell, Smith O'Brien, Isaac Butt, Charles Lever, 
 Thomas Davis, William Carleton, Charles Gavan 
 Duffy, Thomas MacNevin, and others. 
 
 We desire, ere closing, to say a few words about 
 John Banim's writings. By himself, as well as in 
 conjunction with his brother, he wrote much. His 
 principal works were " Tales by the O'Hara Family," 
 11 The Peep o' Day," "The Denounced; or the Last 
 Baron of Crana," "The Conformist" and ' The Boyne 
 Water." Especially on those mentioned will his fame 
 as a novelist rest. In them he has portrayed his 
 country in the colors of truth; delineated without 
 concealment or exaggeration its national character; 
 sketched its peasantry as they really are, blending 
 the charms of truth with the creations of a powerful 
 fancy, and directing all to the noble purpose of ele- 
 vating the national character, and vindicating a too 
 long neglected and oppressed land. In this Banim 
 has shown himself a benefactor of his country, and 
 for this very reason his name and fame shall live in 
 the memory of his countrymen as long as gratitude 
 and love are ranked as virtues among men. His 
 poems, though few, are worthy of his genius. 
 
 The following paragraph, which refers in compli- 
 mentary terms to Duffy's collection of Irish ballads 
 in general, and to our author's "Soggarth Aroan " in 
 
JOHN BANIM. 97 
 
 particular, is taken from Cockburn's " Life of Lord 
 Jeffrey": 
 
 ' ' I read a very interesting little volume of ' Irish Ballad 
 Poetry/ published by that poor Duffy of the Nation, who died 
 so prematurely the other day. There are some most pathetic, 
 and many most spirited, pieces, and all, with scarcely an excep- 
 tion, so entirely national. Do get the book and read it. I am 
 most struck with ' Soggarth Aroon,' after the two first stanzas; 
 and a long, racy, authentic, sounding dirge for the Tyrconnel 
 Princes. But you had better begin with ' The Irish Emigrant ' 
 and ' The Girl of Loch Dan/ which immediately follows, which 
 will break ^ou in more gently to the wilder and more impas- 
 sioned parts. It was published in 1845, and as a part of 
 'Duffy's Library of Ireland.' You see what a helpless victim 
 I still am to these enchanters of the lyre. I did not mean to 
 say but a word of this book, and here I am furnishing you with 
 extracts. But God bless all poets ! and you will not grudge them 
 a share even of your Sunday benedictions." 
 
 This is an excerpt from a letter written by the 
 great reviewer to Mrs. Empson. 
 
 SOGGARTH AROON. 
 
 AM I the slave they say, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon ? 
 Since you did show the way, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon, 
 Their slave no more to be 
 While they would work with me 
 Ould Ireland's slavery, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon ? 
 
 8 
 
IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Why not her poorest man, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon, 
 Try and do all he can, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon, 
 Her commands to fulfil 
 Of his own heart and will 
 Side by side with you still 
 
 Soggarth Aroon ? 
 
 Loyal and brave to you, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon, 
 Yet be no slave to you, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon, 
 Nor, out of fear to you 
 Stand up so near to you 
 Och! out of fear to you! 
 
 Soggarth Aroon ! 
 
 Who, in the winter's night, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon, 
 When the could blast did bite, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon, 
 Came to my cabin-door, 
 And, on my earthen-flure, 
 Knelt by me, sick "and poor, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon ? 
 
 Who, on the marriage-day, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon, 
 Made the poor cabin gay, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon 
 
JOHN BANIM. 
 
 And did both laugh and sing 
 Making our hearts to ring, 
 At the poor christening, 
 Soggarth Aroon ? 
 
 Who, as friend only met, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon, 
 Never did flout me yet, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon? 
 And when iny hearth was dim, 
 Gave, while his eyes did brim, 
 What I should give to him, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon ? 
 
 Och! you, and only you, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon! 
 And for this I was true to you, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon; 
 In love they'll never shake, 
 When for ould Ireland's sake 
 We a true part did take, 
 
 Soggarth Aroon! 
 
 HE SAID THAT HE WAS NOT OUR BROTHER.* 
 
 HE said that he was not our brother 
 
 The mongrel ! he said what he knew 
 No, Eire! our dear Island-mother, 
 
 He ne'er had his black blood from you ! 
 And what though the milk of your bosom 
 
 Gave vigor and health to his veins 
 He zvas but a foul foreign blossom 
 
 Blown hither to poison our plains ! 
 * The Duke of Wellington. 
 
100 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 He said that the sword had enslaved us 
 
 That still at its point we must kneel, 
 The liar! though often it braved us, 
 
 We cross'd it with hardier steel! 
 This witness, his Richard our vassal! 
 
 His Essex whose plumes we trod down! 
 His Willy whose peerless sword-tassel 
 
 We tarnish'd at Limerick town! 
 
 No! falsehood and feud were our evils, 
 
 While force not a fetter could twine 
 Come Northmen, come Normans, come Devils! 
 
 We gave them our Sparth to the chine ! 
 And if once again he would try us, 
 
 To the music of trumpet and drum, 
 And no traitor among us or nigh us 
 
 Let him come, the Brigand! let him come! 
 
 AILLEEN. 
 
 'Tis not for love of gold I go, 
 
 'Tis not for love of fame; 
 Though fortune should her smile bestow, 
 
 And I may win a name, 
 
 Ailleen, 
 
 And I may win a name. 
 
 And yet it is for gold I go, 
 
 And yet it is for fame, 
 That they may deck another brow, 
 
 And bless another name, 
 
 Ailleen, 
 
 And bless another name. 
 
JOHN BANIM. 101 
 
 For this, but this, I go for this 
 
 I lose thy love awhile ; 
 And all the soft and quiet bliss 
 
 Of thy young, faithful smile, 
 Ailleen, 
 
 Of thy young, faithful smile. 
 
 And I go to brave a world I hate, 
 
 And woo it o'er and o'er, 
 And tempt a wave, and try a fate 
 
 Upon a stranger shore, 
 
 Ailleen, 
 
 Upon a stranger shore. 
 
 Oh, when the bays are all my own, 
 
 I know a heart will care ! 
 Oh, when the gold is wooed and won, 
 
 I now a brow shall wear, 
 
 Ailleen, 
 
 I know a brow shall wear! 
 
 And when with both returned again, 
 
 My native land to see, 
 I know a smile will meet me there, 
 
 And a hand will welcome me, 
 Ailleen, 
 
 And a hand will welcome me ! 
 
102 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG. 
 
 You know it, now it is be tray 'd 
 
 This moment, in mine eye 
 And in my young cheek's crimson shade, 
 
 And in my whisper'd sigh. 
 You know, now yet listen, now 
 
 Though ne'er was heart more true, 
 My plight and troth, and virgin vow, 
 
 Still, still I keep from you, 
 
 Ever 
 
 Ever, until a proof you give 
 
 How oft you've heard me say 
 I would not even his empress live, 
 
 Who idles life away, 
 Without one effort for the land 
 
 In which my fathers' graves 
 Were hollow'd by a despot hand 
 
 To darkly close on slaves 
 
 Never! 
 
 See! round yourself the shackles hang, 
 
 Yet come you to love's bowers, 
 That only he may soothe their pang, 
 
 Or hide their sting in flowers. 
 But try all things to snap them, first, 
 
 And should all fail, when tried, 
 The fated chain you cannot burst 
 
 My twining arms shall hide, 
 
 Ever. 
 
REV. CHARLES P. MEEHAN, 
 
 PRIEST AND HISTORIAN. 
 
 IN the columns of the Dublin Nation for October 
 29th, 1842, there appeared a paragraph among 
 answers to correspondents which read thus: 
 
 " Clericus, who offers us the option of inserting or burning 
 his verses, does himself an injustice. They are most admirable, 
 and will appear in our next number. " 
 
 The verses alluded to by the editor of the Nation 
 were written by the subject of this biographical 
 sketch, and appeared according to promise on 
 November 5th, in the Poet's Corner, under the 
 title of 
 
 BOYHOOD'S YEARS. 
 
 AH! why should I recall them the gay, the joyous years, 
 Ere hope was cross'd or pleasure dimm'd by sorrow and by tears ? 
 Or why should mem'ry love to trace youth's glad and sunlit way, 
 When those who made its charms so sweet are gather'd to decay ? 
 The summer's sun shall come again to brighten hill and tower 
 The teeming earth its fragrance bring beneath the balmy 
 
 shower 
 
 But all in vain will mem'ry strive ; in vain we shed our tears 
 They're gone away and can't return the friends of boyhood's 
 
 years! 
 
 Ah! why then wake my sorrow, and bid me now count o'er 
 The vanished friends so dearly prized the days to come no 
 
 more 
 
 (103) 
 
 
104 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 The happy days of infancy, when no guile our bosoms knew, 
 Nor reck'd we of the pleasures that with each moment flew ? 
 'Tis all in vain to weep for them the past a dream appears ; 
 And where are they the lov'd, the young, the friends of 
 boyhood's years ? 
 
 Go, seek them in the cold churchyard they long have stoPn to 
 
 rest; 
 But do not weep, for their young cheeks by woe were ne'er 
 
 oppress'd; 
 
 Life's sun for them in splendor set no cloud came o'er the ray 
 That lit them from this gloomy world upon their joyous way, 
 No tears about their graves be shed but sweetest flowers be 
 
 flung, 
 The fittest offering thou canst make to hearts that perish 
 
 young 
 To hearts this world has never torn with racking hopes and 
 
 fears; 
 For bless'd are they who pass away in boyhood's happy years ! 
 
EEV. C. P. MEEHAN. 105 
 
 These lines need no comment; they speak for 
 themselves. We only regret that he has not written 
 more poetry. For, though he devoted most of his 
 time to prose writing, he was a genuine poet, and 
 would have found the ascent to Parnassus both easy 
 and pleasant. If he has not contributed largely to 
 the poetic literature of his native land, however, 
 he has assisted very materially, and encouraged and 
 inspired many of those whose names are to-day dear 
 to the lovers of Irish ballad-poetry. He was the 
 intimate and dearly -beloved friend of Mangan and 
 McGee, the benefactor of " Leo " and " Caviare." 
 McGee's last letter was written to Father Meehan, 
 the friend and counsellor of his youth. With all the 
 ardor of his Catholic heart he loved the patriotic 
 priest who wrought so zealously to rescue from 
 oblivion the records of Erin's elder days. 
 
 Mangan this good priest admired and consoled 
 while living, and defended when dead from the 
 aspersions of his enemies. Poor Mangan, who was, 
 indeed, a veritable poet one who ranks among the 
 best of his time dined with Father Meehan when- 
 ever he chose to do so; and when the memory of 
 the former was assailed by a Dublin essayist about 
 five years ago, Father Meehan wrote the following 
 letter to a literary friend: 
 
 " DEAR FRIEND: Let me tell you that it would be impossible 
 to find here a single being, my unfortunate self excepted, who 
 
106 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 knew Mangan personally. Poor fellow! he did occasionally 
 take what he ought not to have taken. A spoonful of wine or 
 whisky upset his nervous system. 
 
 ' ' Mangan, be his faults what they may have been, was a pure 
 man, never lowering himself to ordinary debaucheries or sen- 
 suality of any sort. He prayed, heard Mass almost every day, 
 and occasionally knelt at the altar rail. He dined with me 
 when he liked ; and I never heard him say a word that was not 
 worth remembering." 
 
 This loyalty to the " friend of his early days" is 
 much to be admired. Faithful was he to the 
 memory of the Young Irelanders unto death. Dur- 
 ing the Fenian epoch, he was the patron of the 
 short-lived but brilliant lyrist, John K. Casey, who 
 has left us among his writings a poem descriptive of 
 the incident which led Father Meehan to write his 
 magnum opus, "The Fate and Fortunes of the Earls 
 of Tyrone and Tyrconnell." 
 
 While Father Meehan was a student in Rome he 
 happened one day in the vicinity of St. Isidore, and 
 there discovered the final resting place of Hugh 
 O'Neill and Rory O'Donnell. There and then the 
 gifted Irish Levite commenced those researches to 
 which the literature of Ireland owes so very much. 
 
 This historical episode is thus woven into verse: 
 
 'Twas summer time long years ago, 
 
 Where shone the skies of Italy, 
 And Tiber's waters calmly flow 
 
 Far westward to the sun-lit sea. 
 
REV. C. P. MEEHAN. 107 
 
 Amid the Roman city's crowd, 
 
 Montorio's arches darkly loom, 
 And, in their shade, with forehead bowed, 
 
 An Irish boy knelt by a tomb. 
 
 He read the names above the clay: 
 
 He asked ' ' What led their footsteps here 
 
 From Irish hills far, far away, 
 To find an exile's lonely bier?" 
 
 "O Pilgrim! in this cold clay rest 
 
 Two chiefs of distant Innisfail, 
 O'Donnell, of the peerless crest, 
 
 And Ulster's prince, great Hugh O'Neill. 
 
 "They fled their land then all is dim; 
 
 Their after fate none now may tell: 
 They faded from the earth s wide rim 
 
 The day they bade their homes farewell." 
 
 Up rose the youth, with steady eye 
 
 And heart in resolution strong 
 He prayed a prayer to God on high 
 
 To save the just and right the wrong. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Leaf after leaf, as years passed on, 
 
 He added to the record frail; 
 Leaf after leaf, till years were gone 
 
 With Time's swift wing to fill the sail. 
 
 Now now the hope 's fulfilled at last, 
 The path is traced the work is done; 
 
 The stars shine through the misty past 
 The fight 'gainst darkness fought and won. 
 
108 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 "Caviare," (John Francis O'Donnell) also was a 
 steadfast admirer of our gifted author. Among the 
 published poems of that talented young man, who 
 perished all too soon for his fame, we find one 
 entitled " Reminiscences of a day in Wi.cklow," in 
 which Father Meehan is thus apostrophised: 
 
 O, friend of the radiant, lucent mind 
 
 And boundless charity of heart, 
 As through the hills we climb and wind, 
 
 See the red deer leap up and start 
 
 Out in the sun that we mnst part, 
 Flings sadness on this tender morn, 
 
 A lengthening shadow on the path 
 That flows in curious maze between 
 
 The wildwood and the rath. 
 
 The author of these lines cast into verse some of 
 the striking parts of Meehan's "Rise and Fall of the 
 Franciscan Monasteries" also, and furnished the 
 poem which we find at the end of our subject's chief 
 work. 
 
 Rev. Charles Patrick Meehan was born in Dublin 
 on July 12th, 1812. His parents, who were from 
 Ballymeehan, in the county of Leitrim, were so 
 circumstanced that they could afford to give the 
 future historian the best education then going. In 
 his boyhood he manifested a vocation for the sacred 
 ministry, and his parents sent him to the Irish 
 College at Rome, then presided over by the learned 
 
KEY. C. P. MEEHAN. 109 
 
 Dr. Christopher Boylan. During his eight years' 
 course in the metropolis of the Christian world he 
 had for professors such eminent and renowned 
 scholars as Perrone, Manera and De Vico. The 
 lectures of those astute professors were not lost to the 
 * young Irish boy who noted with care every salient 
 point that was treated in the course of their delivery. 
 His ever busy and inquiring mind sought every 
 source of knowledge in the City of the Tiber; and 
 even in Rome he was considered a " learned youth." 
 Ordained in 1835, Father Meehan, young, active 
 and zealous, returned to his native land. His first 
 appointment was to the parish of Rath drum, in the 
 County of Wicklow, where he devoted his leisure 
 moments to the patriotic work of rescuing the 
 exploits of the O'Tooles and O'Byrnes from the 
 oblivion into which they were fast sinking. At the 
 end of his first year in the ministry he was trans- 
 ferred by Archbishop Murray to SS. Michael and 
 John's, Dublin, where he remained and labored for 
 fifty-four eventful years. The period of his appoint- 
 ment to a curacy in his native city is remarkable in 
 the annals of Irish history. The tithe question was 
 then agitating the whole nation, from Malin to the 
 Dursey Head. O'Connell was at the meridian of his 
 fame, and that brilliant band of poets and orators, 
 who a decade of years later loomed up before the 
 world as the Chiefs of the " Young Ireland" party 
 
110 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 were cleaving a way to prominence in their respec- 
 tive localities. It was the formative period of a new 
 era. 
 
 " In Father Meehan's room/' writes the reverend 
 editor of the Irish Monthly, "Clarence Mangan, Flor- 
 ence MacCarthy and the rest often gathered to spend 
 the evenings together, with talk as a chief item in 
 the entertainment noctes atticae with two deriva- 
 tions, classical and modern, for the last epithet." 
 
 The junior curate of SS. Michael and John's had 
 doubtless been among the most eager readers of the 
 "Nation's first number," and soon his ambition might 
 be expressed in the line which Goldsmith once so 
 cleverly turned against Johnson: 
 
 ' ' Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebetur istis. " 
 
 His name was soon classed with " Desmond," 
 "TerraeFilius," " Shamrock," '< Slievegullion," and 
 the "Celt;" and, although his poems are few, they 
 are of such high merit as to entitle him to a niche 
 with the best of his contemporaries. 
 
 Though closely allied to the editors of the Nation 
 and in full sympathy with the doctrines of the 
 "Young Ireland" party, only three of his poems 
 appeared in the columns of the great national organ, 
 " Boyhood's Years," "The Fall of the Leaves," and 
 
REV. C. P. MEEHAN. Ill 
 
 THE PATRIOT'S WIFE. 
 
 [There is a tradition amongst the Swiss of the Canton of Uri that the 
 wife of the tyrant Gesler, disgusted at the atrocities perpetrated by her hus- 
 band, fled from him; and as she was of Swiss extraction, made a vow never 
 to return to him. The tyrant, however, succeeded in capturing her; and the 
 following verses record the dialogue which is often repeated by the Swiss 
 hearth when the peasant recounts to his children the glories and achieve- 
 ments of William Tell.] 
 
 How changed thou art since last we met ! 
 
 Thy brow is wan thy smile is cold; 
 Stern grief her seal has on thee set 
 
 Thou art not what thou wert of old! 
 
 No joy now flashes from that eye 
 
 Which once around shed charms of light; 
 
 That voice once sweet can now but sigh; 
 
 Oh, Heavens! whence came this sudden blight! 
 
 Say, wilt thou tell? Great God! how strange 
 
 That beauty thus could pass away, 
 And mirth to deepest sorrow change 
 
 More quickly than the tomb's decay 5 
 
 Yes; tell me if the memory lives 
 
 Of early loves and sun-bright years 
 If thought but one faint flickering gives 
 
 Whence all those woes and burning tears? 
 
 Nay, do not ask to tell were vain 
 My grief, not Heaven itself can 'suage; 
 
 Nor seraph's breath can cool my pain, 
 Nor quench my bosom's burning rage. 
 
 My country, prey to tyrant's bands 
 
 Her glory gone her brave ones dead 
 Her daughter slain by traitor's hands 
 
 And ask'st thou why my joy is sped ? 
 
112 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 
 
 'Fore Heaven, I prize this faded form, 
 
 E'en in its ghastly features, more 
 Than when you won it young and warm, 
 
 And it alone to worship swore. 
 
 For now I make thee, tyrant, tremble ' 
 
 O'er all the ruin thou hast made ; 
 In vain thou seekest to dissemble 
 
 Oh ! curse thy bloody heart and blade. 
 
 And cursed may her ashes be 
 
 Who basely sold her maiden hand 
 To him who crushed our liberty, 
 
 And drowned in blood my fatherland. 
 
 The prose works of the patriotic priest are numer- 
 ous, and of a character calculated to perpetuate his 
 name and fame to many a future generation. In the 
 order of time "The Confederation of Kilkenny" 
 comes first. It is dedicated to Charles Gavan Duffy. 
 It ranks high among the historical works of Ireland. 
 He collected and edited the literary remains of his 
 friends, Thomas Davis and James Clarence Mangan. 
 "The History of the Rise and Fall of the Franciscan 
 Monasteries in Ireland" and a " History of the Ger- 
 aldines " are the work of his active brain and busy 
 pen. He contributed a good deal to the periodicals 
 of his day, and for many years was chief editor of 
 Duffy's Irish Catholic Magazine. It was in this pub- 
 lication that his longest, though by no means his 
 best, poem first appeared, " The Battle of Benburb." 
 
REV. C. P. MEEHAN. 113 
 
 As a linguist Father Meehan had very few super- 
 iors in Ireland or elsewhere. German, French, 
 Spanish and Italian were almost as familiar to him 
 as his vernacular tongue, and he made good use of 
 his linguistic learning. He compelled all these 
 tongues to pay tribute to him during his pilgrimage 
 to the celebrated libraries of Europe, in search of 
 unpublished manuscripts referring to his native 
 land, and the portraits of illustrious Irishmen who, 
 after the Treaty of Limerick, had secured fame and 
 fortune in the service of continental potentates. 
 
 As early as 1847 he published a translation of 
 " La Monaco di Monza," from the original by Magoni. 
 In 1852 he rendered the Rev. Father Marchese's 
 " Dominican Sculptors, Architects and Painters " 
 into English. His English version of Archdeacon 
 Lynch's " Life of the Right Rev. Dr. Kirwan, Bishop 
 of Killala," is translated from the Latin. This book 
 has improved in the translation. All these works 
 met with a large sale in Ireland and America; for 
 the profit he cared but little. 
 
 From annals compiled by one John O'Toole of 
 Wicklow, he wrote an excellent work on the O'Tooles 
 and O'Byrnes, which is long since out of print. But 
 his great work, as we have said before the one on 
 which his literary reputation principally rests is 
 familiarly known as the " Flight of the Earls." 
 
 9 
 
114 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 For this work the reviewers had much praise. 
 They spoke of it in the very highest terms. One 
 Londoner wrote of it: 
 
 "The work is big enough, with its recondite research, its 
 multiplicity of invaluable documents, dug out of the strata of 
 libraries and museums, obtained at no mean inconvenience or 
 cost, to be reckoned worthy of the labor of a man's life. 
 
 Sir Bernard Burke declared it to be a " most im- 
 portant contribution to the best historical literature ;" 
 and many other critics of high repute have spoken 
 of it in words of like import. 
 
 The Hon. Thomas D'Arcy McGee wrote to the 
 author from Montreal, Canada, under date of Febru- 
 ary 27th, 1867, as follows: 
 
 " MY DEAK MEEHAN: Your book has reached me at last, 
 and, after three days' steady reading, I have gone through it 
 from cover to cover. I cannot tell you the fascination I 
 found in its pages. Although I was sorry to part with Cahir 
 O'Doherty, who turns out to be a poor tool, still one is compen- 
 sated by the heroic firmness of the main figures, and, above all, 
 by Tyrone himself. Considering the obsequiousness of the age 
 which even Bacon and Raleigh bent to, I was afraid that the 
 altered fortunes of the great Hugh might have broken his spirit 
 and tempted him to some declaration unworthy of his great 
 place in history; but, thank God, there is nothing of the kind, 
 and these closing scenes are really among the fairest and worth- 
 iest of his whole life. * * * 
 
 "James Duffy has done his part nobly, not only to the 
 typography, but those admirable portraits. How I wish you 
 
REV. C. P. MEEHAN. 115 
 
 may be so cheered on as to take up Owen Roe ! What an 
 admirable sequel it would make to this volume, which, save and 
 except Prendergast's, I hold to be far and away the most valua- 
 ble contribution to our historical literature for many a long day. 
 If you never put your pen to paper again, you may rest your 
 renown on this book. It will send your name down to posterity 
 with the heroes whose closing scenes it so piously records. * * 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 " T. D. McGEE. 
 
 " REV. C. P. MEEHAN, M. R. I. A.. 
 Dublin, Ireland." 
 
 Such was McGee's estimate of the work on which 
 Father Meehan's renown rests. 
 
 The reverend writer did not " take up Owen Roe." 
 The duties of his sacred calling were manifold, oner- 
 ous and pressing, and the vigor of youth was ebbing 
 fast away; so he deemed it best to leave that work 
 for younger hands. 
 
 Towards the close of his years, Father Meehan 
 lived a great deal by himself. His old friends and 
 literary associates having all gone to their eternal 
 home, he seemed lonely, and lived a great deal with 
 God alone. Very few fully appreciated the high- 
 souled, large-hearted, simple-minded priest whose 
 noble life was so usefully spent in the service of God 
 and his country. 
 
 " Though an honored member of the Royal Irish 
 Academy/' writes one who knew him, " he was full 
 of that modesty and humility which are alike the 
 
116 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 attributes of true genius and the 'true priest." He 
 was never of a noisy or demonstrative nature. He 
 thought and felt more than he ever expressed in 
 words. Well, indeed, might these lines of the Poet- 
 Priest of the South be applied to that generous and 
 heroic priest whose heart, without a murmur, has 
 bled during many a dreary year for the miseries of 
 his ill-fated country: 
 
 Hearts that are great beat never loud; 
 
 They muffle their music when they come, 
 They hurry away from the thronging crowd 
 
 With bended brows and lips half dumb. 
 
 And the world looks on and mutters: " Proud." 
 But when great hearts have passed away, 
 
 Men gather in awe and kiss their shroud, 
 And in love they kneel around their clay. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Hearts that are great are always lone, 
 
 They never will manifest their best; 
 Their greatest greatness is unknown. 
 
 Earth knows a little God the rest. 
 
 John Mitchel was Father Meehan's ideal of a true 
 Irish Nationalist, and between the two a lasting 
 friendship existed. Devin Reilly, Father John Ken- 
 yon and John Martin were also 'in the circle of his 
 intimate friends. The portraits of these, with those 
 of Hugh O'Neill, O'Sullivan Beare, Colgan, and Luke 
 
REV. C. P. MEEHAN. 117 
 
 Wadding adorned his walls and kept him company 
 in his hours of loneliness. 
 
 The latest edition of " The Poets and Poetry of 
 Munster" was made by our author, and the preface 
 to that very interesting little work, which is also the 
 work of his fertile pen, seems to us the best, if not 
 the most complete, biographical sketch of Clarence 
 Mangan that has yet gone into print. 
 
 In concluding this biographical notice of a learned 
 ecclesiastic whose name is so widely known and 
 respected, it is proper to say a few words about 
 his personal appearance. He was very little short of 
 medium height, slender in form, with a well-knit 
 frame and head well poised. His mouth, while indi- 
 cating sensibility of the finest cast, at the same time 
 betokened that firmness of purpose which was a dis- 
 tinguishing trait of the great good man. Intellectu- 
 ality was stamped upon his finely-formed forehead; 
 and his blue eyes, dreamy at times, kindled with a 
 brilliant light whenever he discussed subjects con- 
 genial to his exalted mind. 
 
 In temperament he was purely Celtic quick and 
 impetuous. Next to his Breviary, which he conned 
 over very carefully every day for more than fifty 
 years, he loved the national poetry of Erin. His 
 appreciation of a good poem was remarkably keen, 
 and his criticism of a bad one telling. 
 
118 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 As a preacher he was eloquent, earnest and impres- 
 sive. The poor of his flock he relieved to the full 
 extent of his means, and loved them only as a zeal- 
 ous priest can love. 
 
 The last four lines of the following melancholy 
 little poem have haunted my memory for many years, 
 and will not be forgotten. There is scarcely a coup- 
 let in all this exquisitely-mournful piece that is not 
 worth remembering; and therefore do I give it a 
 place in this brief memorial: 
 
 THE FALL OF THE LEAVES. 
 
 THEY are falling, they are failing, 
 
 And soon, alas! they'll fade, 
 The flowers of the garden, 
 
 The leaves of dell and glade. 
 
 Their dirge the winds are singing 
 
 In the lone and fitful blast, 
 And the leaves and flowers of Summer 
 
 Are strewn and fading fast. 
 
 Oh, why, then, have we loved them, 
 When their beauties might have told 
 
 They could not linger long with us, 
 Nor stormy skies behold ? 
 
 Fair creatures of the sunshine, 
 
 Your day of life is past; 
 Ye are scattered by the rude winds, 
 
 Fallen and fading fast. 
 
REV. C. P. MEEHAN. 119 
 
 And, oh! how oft, enchanted, 
 
 Have we watched your opening bloom, 
 
 When you made unto the day-god 
 Your offerings of perfume ! 
 
 How vain are our imaginings 
 
 That joy will always last ! 
 Tis like to you, ye sweet things, 
 
 All dimmed and faded fast. 
 
 The glens where late ye bloomed for us 
 
 Are leafless now, and lorn; 
 The tempest's breath hath all their pride 
 
 And all their beauty shorn. 
 
 Twas ever so, and so shall be; 
 
 By fate that doom was cast 
 The things we love are scarcely seen 
 
 Till they are gone and past. 
 
 Ay, ye are gone and faded, 
 
 Ye leaves and lovely flowers, 
 But when Spring comes you'll come again 
 
 To deck the garden's bowers. 
 
 And beauty, too, will cull you, 
 
 And twine ye in her hair 
 What meeter, truer emblem 
 
 Can beauty ever wear ? 
 
 But never here, oh, never, 
 
 Shall we the loved ones meet, 
 Who shone in youth around us 
 
 And, like you, faded fleet. 
 
120 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Full soon affliction bowed them 
 
 And life's day-dawn o'ercast ; 
 They're blooming now in heaven; 
 
 Their day of fading's past ! 
 
 Ye withered leaves and flowers, 
 
 Oh, may you long impart 
 Monition grave and moral stern 
 
 Unto this erring heart ! 
 
 Oh, teach it that the joys of earth 
 
 Are short-lived, vain and frail, 
 And transient as the leaves and flowers 
 
 Before the wintry gale ! 
 
 On the .14th of March, 1890, Rev. Father Meehan 
 died at the rectory, in Exchange street, Dublin, 
 where he had labored so long, and his final resting 
 place on earth is Glasnevin, which enshrines all that 
 is mortal of many of his illustrious countrymen. 
 
 Of his ability as a historian he has left us palpable 
 and ample proof. 
 
 Had the more serious obligations of his sacred 
 calling permitted him to woo the muses more, he 
 would have been equally successful as a poet. That 
 he was one is amply attested by the poems pub- 
 lished with this biography. 
 
REV. C. P. MEEHAN. 121 
 
 THE BATTLE OF BENBURB. 
 
 [About the end of May, 1646, Owen Eoe O'Neill, at the head of five thou- 
 sand foot and five hundred horse, approached Armagh. Monroe, wlio was 
 then stationed within ten miles of the city, marched thither on the 4th of 
 June, at midnight, with eight hundred horse and six thousand foot. Mean- 
 while, O'Neill, aware of his advance, had encamped his troops at Benburb, 
 betwixt two small hills. The rear of his army was protected by a wood, and 
 the right by the river Blackwater. Here Monroe determined to attack him. 
 Monroe himself had passed the river at a ford near Kinard, and marched 
 towards Benburb. And now the two armies met in order of battle. The 
 wary O'Neill amused his enemy, during several hours, with various maneuvres 
 and trifling skirmishes, until the sun, which at first had been favorable to the 
 Scots, began to descend in the rear of the Irish troops, and shed a dazzling 
 glare on their enemies. The Scottish General, when he perceived this 
 prepared to retreat. O'Neill, however, seized the opportunity with the 
 promptitude of an experienced commander, and charged the Scots and the 
 British with the most determined valor, and with the result so graphically 
 described by the poet.] 
 
 GIVE praise to the Virgin Mother! O'Neill is at Benburb, 
 The chieftain of the martial soul, who scorns the Saxon curb; 
 Between two hills his camp is pitch'd, and in its front up thrown, 
 The ' ' Red Hand " points to victory from the standard of 
 
 Tyrone ; 
 Behind him rise the ancient woods, while on his flank, anear 
 
 him, 
 The deep Blackwater calmly glides and seems to greet and 
 
 cheer him. 
 
 Tis a glorious morn in glowing June! against the sapphire sky, 
 Bright glancing in the golden light the adverse banners fly; 
 With godly boasts the Scottish hast, led on by stout Monroe, 
 Have crossed the main with venal swords to aid our ruthless 
 
 foe; 
 And never in sorer need than now, the steel of the hireling 
 
 fenc'd him, 
 For a dauntless Chief, and mighty host, stand in array against 
 
 him! 
 
122 HUSH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 By all the Saints, they are welcome, across the crested wave! 
 For few who left Kinard this morn, ere night shall lack a grave. 
 The hour the man await them now, and retribution dire 
 Shall sweep their ranks from front to rear, by our avenging fire. 
 Yet on they marched in pride of heart the hell-engendered 
 
 gloom 
 Of the grim, predestined Puritan impels them to their doom. 
 
 A thrilling charge their trumpets blow, but the shout " O'Neill* 
 
 aboo!" 
 
 Is heard above the clarion call, ringing the wild woods through- 
 " On, "cries Lord Ardes, "On, Cunninghame! Forward with 
 
 might and main!" 
 And the flower of Scottish chivalry come swooping down the 
 
 plain. 
 Fiercely they dash and thunder on, as the rathful waves come 
 
 leaping 
 Toward Rathlin gray on a wild March day, when western 
 
 winds are sweeping. 
 
 Now, where are thy hardy kerne, O'Neill? oh, whither have 
 
 they fled ? 
 Hurrah! that volley from out the brakes hath covered the 
 
 sward with dead. 
 
 The horses rear, and in sudden fear, the Scottish warriors flee, 
 And the field is dyed with a crimson tide from their bravest 
 
 cavalry ! 
 All praise to the Right-protecting God, who guards his own in 
 
 danger, 
 None fell save one of the Irish host by the gun of a baffled 
 
 stranger. 
 
BEY. C. P. MEEHAN. 123 
 
 " On to the charge!" cries fierce Monroe, " Fear not the bush 
 
 and scrog 
 Nor that the river bound your right, and your left be flanked 
 
 with bog." 
 
 And on they come right gallantly ; but the Fabius of the West 
 Receives the shock, unmoved as a rock, and calm as a lion at 
 
 rest ; 
 
 The red artillery flashes in vain, or standeth spent and idle. 
 While the war-steeds bound across the plain, and foaming 
 
 champ the bridle. 
 
 From the azure height of his realm of light the sun is sinking 
 
 low, 
 And the blinding gleams of his parting beams dazzle the chafing 
 
 foe; * 
 
 And Owen's voice, like a trumpet note, rings clear through the 
 
 serried ranks: 
 " Brave brothers in arms, the hour has come, give God and the 
 
 Virgin thanks ! 
 Strike home to-day, or heavier woes will crush our homes and 
 
 altars ; 
 Then trample the foeman in his blood, and curst be the slave 
 
 who falters!" 
 
 A wild shout rends the lurid air, and at once from van to rear, 
 Of the Irish troops each soldier grasps his matchlock, sword or 
 
 spear ; 
 The chieftains haste their steeds to loose, and spring upon their 
 
 feet, 
 That every chance be thus cut off, of a coward's base retreat. 
 
124 IRISH POETLS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 And, " Onward! Forward!" swells the cry, in one tumultuous 
 
 chorus, 
 By God and the Virgin's help, we'll drive these hireling Scots 
 
 before us ! " 
 
 'Tis body to body with push of pike 'tis foe confronting foe ; 
 Tis gun to gun and blade to blade 'tis blow returning blow. 
 Fierce is the conflict, fell the strife; but Heaven defends the 
 
 right. 
 
 The Puritan's sword is broken, and his army put to flight. 
 They break away in wild dismay, while some, to escape the 
 
 slaughter, 
 Plunge panting into the purple tide that dyes the dark 
 
 Blackwater. 
 
 May Mary, our Mother, be ever praised, for the battle fought 
 
 and won! 
 
 By Irish hearts and Irish hands, beneath that evening sun. 
 Three thousand two hundred and forty foes lay dead upon the 
 
 plain, 
 And the Scots bewailed of their noble chiefs, Lord Blaney 
 
 among the slain. 
 
 And ever against a deadly foe no weaponed hand shall falter, 
 But strike, as the valiant Owen Roe, for home, and shrine, and 
 
 altar! 
 
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 
 
 HE subject of this sketch derives his origin 
 from the most illustrious house in the history 
 of his native land. The name alone brings to every 
 mind well versed in the annals of Erin a long list of 
 great deeds, coupled with constant fidelity to the 
 cause of faith and fatherland. 
 
 This poet and litterateur, Fitz- James O'Brien, was 
 born in the County of Limerick, early in the year of 
 our Lord 1828, of parents who were neither poor nor 
 wealthy. His father, an Irish barrister, took a 
 special interest in the future bard, and devoted much 
 of his leisure time in " teaching the young idea how 
 to shoot," and instilling into the gifted mind of 
 Fitz-James that love of philosophy and poetry which 
 distinguished him afterwards in the world of letters. 
 His mother was a lady of superior talent and refine- 
 ment, much beloved by rich and poor alike for her 
 piety and benevolence. From her, it is said, he 
 inherited those traits of kindness and uprightness 
 that characterized every act of his checkered career. 
 
 Having completed his primary education at home 
 and become proficient in the classics, he entered 
 Trinity College, Dublin, where he evinced great 
 
 (125) 
 
126 
 
 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 aptitude for literature, and acquired that solid and 
 complete education which stood to him so well in 
 the battle of life, and made him a remarkable man 
 among the literary characters of the day. 
 
 While yet attending the College of " Old Trinity," 
 and during his second summer vacation, he visited 
 the places of interest along the sea-coast of the 
 County Cork, and spent some d&ys in the vicinity 
 of Loch Ine Lake of the Ivy near the town of 
 Baltimore, where he wrote that oft-quoted, much 
 admired and beautiful ballad bearing the title " Loch 
 
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 127 
 
 Ine." This is a picturesque salt-water lake south of 
 Skibbereen, whose shores are dotted with the ivy- 
 clad walls of many an ancient castle: 
 
 LOCH INE. 
 
 I KNOW a lake where the cool waves break, 
 
 And softly fall on the silver sand; 
 And no steps intrude on that solitude, 
 
 And no voice, save mine, disturbs the strand. 
 
 And a mountain bold, like a giant of old, 
 
 Turned to stone by some magic spell, 
 Uprears in might his misty height , 
 
 And his craggy sides are wooded well. 
 
 In the midst doth smile a little isle , 
 
 And its verdure shames the emerald's green; 
 
 On its grassy side, in ruined pride, 
 A castle of old is darkling seen. 
 
 On its lofty crest the wild cranes nest, 
 In its halls the sheep good shelter find ; 
 
 And the ivy shades where a hundred blades 
 Were hung, when the owners in sleep reclined. 
 
 That chieftain of old, could he how behold 
 
 His lordly tower a shepherd's pen, 
 His corpse, long dead, from its narrow bed 
 
 Would rise, with anger and shame, again. 
 
 'Tis sweet to gaze when the sun's bright rays 
 Are cooling themselves in the trembling wave ; 
 
 But 'tis sweeter far when the evening star 
 Shines like a smile at Friendship's grave. 
 
128 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 There the hollow shells, through their wreathed cells, 
 
 Make music on the silent shore, 
 As the summer breeze, through the distant trees, 
 
 Murmurs in fragrant breathings o'er. 
 
 And the sea-weed shines, like the hidden mines, 
 
 Or the fairy cities beneath the sea, 
 And the wave-washed stones are bright as the thrones 
 
 Of the ancient Kings of Araby. * 
 
 If it were my lot in that fairy spot 
 To live forever and dream 'twere mine, 
 
 Courts might woo, and kings pursue, 
 Ere I would leave thee, loved Loch Ine 
 
 This magnificent poem has been published anony- 
 mously in the national school series of his native 
 land, and is as familiar to his countrymen as their 
 matin prayer. It also appears anonymously at page 
 21, Vol. 1, of the " Ballads of Ireland/' collected and 
 edited by Edward Hayes some thirty-five years ago, 
 and published by Duffy and Sons, Dublin. 
 
 The second volume of the same excellent work 
 contains another of Mr. O'Brien's early poems 
 named " Irish Castles," printed under the head of 
 " Miscellaneous Poems," and without the author's 
 name. 
 
 Having completed his curriculum in the great 
 university of the Irish metropolis, young O'Brien 
 received a considerable sum of money left him by 
 the will of his lately deceased father, and emigrated 
 
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEX. 129 
 
 to London in the fall of 1850; and there, report has 
 it, disburdened himself of the greater part of his 
 inheritance. Through the influence of Dr. Collins, 
 he obtained from his distinguished countryman, Dr. 
 R. Shelton Mackenzie, letters of introduction to 
 prominent literary men in the United States, and, 
 with these in his pocket as his only capital, Fitz- 
 James O'Brien, young and buoyant with hope, sought 
 the shores of the New World whither so many of his 
 countrymen had gone before. 
 
 With the summer of 1852 he arrived in New 
 York, where thenceforth he followed journalism as a 
 profession, and secured for his friends and fellow- 
 workers such men as John Brougham, Thomas B. 
 Aldrich, Frank H. Bellew, Frank Wood, Edward F. 
 Mullen, Stephen Fiske, Arnold, and the gifted, genial 
 Ned Wilkins. 
 
 His first engagement in the great American me- 
 tropolis was on the Lantern, published by Brougham. 
 In a very short space of time the products of his 
 fertile pen found a ready market, and the Whig 
 Review, Harper's Magazine, the Home Journal and 
 Nt "' York Times sought with avidity every article 
 that came from his pen. 
 
 He was a regular contributor to Harper's Magazine, 
 and one of the most valued members of the staff. 
 His connection with that periodical dates from 
 
 ^0^^t 
 
 ^ 0* TH* 
 
130 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 February, 1853; and between that issue and the 
 time of his death in 1862, his prolific genius may 
 be traced through the most interesting pages of the 
 monthly. His last contribution appeared in it in 
 1864, two years after poor O'Brien was laid in his 
 final resting-place. 
 
 The greatest and best ode of our century was writ- 
 ten by him on the death of the famous Arctic Ex- 
 plorer, Dr. Kane, and first appeared in Harper's 
 Weekly, whence it was reproduced in almost every 
 paper of note throughout the whole extent of the 
 Republic. We reprint it here to give the readers a 
 concept of our author's mastery over ideas and lan- 
 guage: 
 
 KANE. 
 I. 
 
 ALOFT, upon an old basaltic crag, 
 
 Which, scalped by keen winds that defend the Pole, 
 
 Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll 
 
 Around the secret of the mystic zone, 
 
 A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag 
 Flutters alone; 
 
 And underneath, upon the lifeless front 
 
 Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced 
 
 Fit type of him, who, famishing and gaunt, 
 
 But with a rocky purpose in his soul, 
 
 Breasted the gathering snows, 
 
 Clung to the different floes, 
 
 By want beleaguered, and by winter chased, 
 
 Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste. 
 
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 131 
 
 II. 
 
 Not many months ago we greeted him, 
 Crowned with the icy honors of the North. 
 Across the land his hard-won fame went forth, 
 And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb. 
 His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, 
 Burst from its decorous quiet as he came. 
 Hot Southern lips, with eloquence aflame, 
 Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim, 
 Proffered it's horny hand. The large-lunged West 
 From out it's giant breast 
 
 Yelled it's frank welcome. And from main to main, 
 Jubilant to the sky, 
 Thundered the mighty cry, 
 
 Honor to Kane ! 
 
 III. 
 
 In vain, in vain, beneath his feet we flung 
 The reddening roses ! All in vain we poured 
 The golden wine, and round the shining board 
 Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung 
 With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast ! 
 Scarce the buds had wilted and the voices ceased 
 Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes, 
 Bright as auroral fires in southern skies, 
 Faded and faded; and the brave young heart 
 That the relentless Arctic winds had robbed 
 Of all its vital heat, in that long quest 
 For the lost Captain, now within his breast 
 More and more faintly throbbed. 
 His was the victory; but as his grasp 
 Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp, 
 
132 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Death launched a whistling dart; 
 And, ere the thunders of applause were done, 
 His bright eyes closed forever on the sun ! 
 Too late, too late, the splendid prize he won 
 In the Olympic race of science and of art! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Like to some shattered berg that, pale and lone, 
 
 Drifts from the white north to a tropic zone, 
 
 And in the burning day 
 
 Wastes peak by peak away, 
 
 Till on some rosy even 
 
 It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he 
 
 Tranquilly floated to a southern sea, 
 
 And melted into heaven ! 
 
 V. 
 
 He needs no tears, who lived a noble life' 
 
 We will not weep for him who did so well ; 
 
 But we will gather round the hearth and tell 
 
 The story of his strife. 
 
 Such homage suits him well; 
 
 Better than funeral pomp or passing-bell ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 What tale of peril and self-sacrifice ! 
 Prisoned amid the fastnesses of ice, 
 With hunger howling o'er the waves of snow ! 
 Night lengthening into months; the ravenous floe 
 Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear 
 Crunches his prey; the insufficient share 
 Of loathsome fgpd; 
 
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 133 
 
 The lethargy of famine ; the despair 
 Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued; 
 Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued 
 Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind 
 Glimmered the fading embers of a mind! 
 That awful hour, when through the prostrate band 
 Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand 
 Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew- 
 The whispers of rebellion, faint and few 
 At first, but deepening ever till they grew 
 Into black thoughts of murder such the throng 
 Of horrors round the Hero. High the song 
 Should be that hymns the noble part he played ! 
 Sinking himself, yet ministering aid 
 To all around him, by a mighty will 
 Living defiant of the wants that kill, 
 Because his death would seal his comrade's fate ; 
 Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill, 
 Those polar winters dark and desolate, 
 Equal to every trial, every fate, 
 He stands until spring, tardy with relief, 
 Unlocks the icy gate, 
 
 And the pale prisoners tread the world once more, 
 To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore, 
 Bearing their dying chief. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold 
 From royal hands, who wooed the knightly state; 
 The knell of old formalities is tolled, 
 And the world's knights are now self -consecrate. 
 
134 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 No grander episode doth chivalry hold 
 In all its annals back to Charlemagne, 
 Than that long vigil of unceasing pain, 
 Faithfully kept, through hunger and through cold, 
 By the good Christian knight, ELISHA KANE. 
 
 He has written entirely about fifty poems, all or 
 nearly all of which bear evidence of superior talent 
 and will afford pleasure and instruction to many 
 readers yet unborn. 
 
 A writer in the New York Citizen of September 
 30, 1865, referring to the dead poet, says: 
 
 ' ' Fitz- James O'Brien would have passed anywhere for a fine- 
 looking man, as he certainly was. His complexion was florid; 
 his eyes dark blue, with a marvellously winning expression. 
 His voice in speaking was the richest, the sweetest, the most 
 persuasive and expressive of all the male voices I can now 
 recall. It was a power in itself. I shall never forget the im- 
 pression he made on a little party, one evening, by the manner 
 in which he read several of Emerson's poems. He threw so 
 much warmth, so much human tenderness and sympathy into 
 them that we were all astonished. Then, artfully turning the 
 leaves, as if still reading from the book, he recited his own 
 
 BACCHUS. 
 Pink as the rose was his skin so fair 
 
 Round as the rosebud his perfect shape, 
 And there lay a light in his tawny hair, 
 
 Like the sun in the heart of a bursting grape. 
 ' ' You can fancy how we marveled to hear such luscious tropes 
 from Emerson, and how we laughed over the deception when 
 O'Brien informed us of it." 
 
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 135 
 
 O'Brien's methods of working were in no wise sys- 
 tematic. He often let days and weeks pass without 
 putting a pen to paper. Then, when the inspiration 
 came, he wrote steadily and easily to the end, often 
 without interruption. 
 
 One who admired and appreciated him, Stephen 
 Fiske, fifteen years after the death of the poet, jour- 
 nalist and soldier, speaks of him thus: 
 
 ' ' Fitz- James O'Brien now stands before me, and I see his 
 stout, athletic figure; his broad, ruddy Irish face; his charac- 
 teristic suit of that check pattern supposed to be monopolized 
 by British tourists; and, indeed, in those merry Bohemian days, 
 the checks he wore were the only ones he knew. * * * 
 O'Brien, like most of his comrades of that brilliant coterie we 
 knew and loved, died too soon for his fame. His writings were 
 exquisite; but they are forgotten, except by the select few 
 who collect and prize such literary gems. The war interposes 
 between his fame and the present generation, like a new deluge. 
 The clear, strong, sweet voice of poetry was drowned by the 
 clash of resounding arms. Even as a soldier of the Union he 
 fell too soon; for his memory is obscured by the holocausts of 
 later but not more noble sacrifices/' 
 
 Among O'Brien's writings are many plays which 
 have met with great favor in New York. For James 
 W. Wallack he wrote a piece entitled, "A Gentleman 
 from Ireland," which held its own on the stage for 
 many years after the author was consigned to the 
 grave. He possessed great dramatic power and a 
 consummate knowledge of stage business, and acted 
 
136 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 for some time in the capacity of stage critic and 
 dramatic reviewer for the New YorV Saturday Press. 
 
 Numerous articles from his pen are scattered 
 through at least fifteen different periodicals, bearing 
 the stamp of originality and genius upon them. His 
 poems and about thirteen of his short stories have 
 been published by Osgood & Co., Boston, Mass.; but 
 the book is entirely out of print now. 
 
 A lover of liberty, equality, and the flag of his 
 adopted country, he espoused the cause of the Union 
 when the Civil War broke out in 1861, and, like 
 thousands of his noble-hearted and enthusiastic 
 countrymen, went proudly to the front. While act- 
 ing on the staff of General Lander, in Virginia, he 
 received a mortal wound in a skirmish with Colonel 
 Ashley's command, on the 26th day of February, 
 1862, and died on the 6th of April following. 
 
 General Lander having commended Lieutenant 
 O'Brien's behavior on this occasion in his dispatches 
 to headquarters, General McClellan returned the 
 following dispatch on the very next day: 
 
 " GENERAL LANDER: Please say to Lieutenant O'Brien that 
 I am much pleased with his gallantly, and deeply pained to 
 hear of his wound. I trust he will soon be well enough to give 
 the cause the benefit of his services again. 
 
 " GEORGE B. MCCLELLAN." 
 
 He died at the house of a Mr. Thruston, in Cum- 
 berland, Maryland, on the day given above, and his 
 
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 137 
 
 remains were brought to New York by his numerous 
 friends and associates, for interment in Greenwood 
 Cemetery, where he sleeps the sleep that knows no 
 waking. 
 
 He gave to his adopted land the products of his 
 gifted mind to enrich her literature and exalt her 
 name; with all the fervor and fidelity of his generous 
 and heroic race, he championed her cause and laid 
 down his life on the field of battle to maintain the 
 integrity of her government. 
 
 IRISH CASTLES. 
 
 SWEET Norah, come here, and look into the fire; 
 
 Maybe in its embers good luck we might see ; 
 But don't come too near, or your glances so shining, 
 
 Will put it clean out, like the sunbeams, machree! 
 
 " Just look 'twixt the sods, where so brightly they're burning, 
 There's a sweet little valley, with rivers and trees, 
 
 And a house on the bank, quite as big as the squire's 
 Who knows but some day we'll have something like these ? 
 
 " And now there's a coach and four galloping horses, 
 
 A coachman to drive, and a footman behind; 
 That betokens some day we will keep a fine carriage, 
 
 And dash through the streets with the speed of the wind." 
 
 As Dermot was speaking, the rain down the chimney, 
 Soon quenched the turf -fire on the hollowed hearth stone: 
 
 While mansion and carriage, in smoke-wreaths evanished, 
 And left the poor dreamer dejected and lone. 
 
138 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Then Norah to Dermot. these words softly whisper'd: 
 ' ' Tis better to strive than to vainly desire : 
 
 And our little hut by the roadside is better 
 
 Than palace, and servants, and coach in the fire!" 
 
 'Tis years since poor Dermot his fortune was dreaming- 
 Since Norah's sweet counsel effected its cure ; 
 
 For, ever since then hath he toiled night and morning, 
 And now his snug mansion looks down on the Suir. 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
 FEIENDS far away and late exiled, 
 
 Whene'er these scattered pages met your gaze, 
 Think of the scenes where early fortune smiled 
 
 The land that was your home in happier days; 
 
 The sloping lawn, in which the tired rays 
 Of evening stole o'er Shannon's sheeted flood, 
 
 The hills of Clare that in the softening haze 
 Looked vapor-like, and dim the lonely wood; 
 
 The cliff-bound Inch, the chapel in the glen, 
 Where oft with bare and reverent locks we stood 
 
 To hear th' eternal truths; the small, dark maze 
 
 Of wild stream that clipped the bosom'd plain, 
 And, toiling thro' the varied solitude, 
 
 Upraised its hundred silvered tongues and babbled praise. 
 
 EARLY fifty-one weary years have passed 
 away since the author of this touching stanza, 
 robed in the simple habit of a Christian Brother, 
 breathed forth his pure and noble spirit into the 
 hands of Him who gave it; and yet these lines have 
 as much interest for " friends far away " the Irish 
 exiles of to-day as they had for the generation to 
 which they were addressed. Still is the mere men- 
 tion of " that land that was his home in happier 
 days " sufficient to bring a flood of affectionate feel- 
 ing to the heart of every wanderer from that gifted, 
 though ill-fated isle. As gentle Gerald, with patriotic 
 pride and filial devotion, looked back from the cold 
 
 (139) 
 
140 
 
 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 land of the Briton to the " cliff-bound Inch and 
 chapel in the glen," entwined with his fondest recol- 
 lections, so does many a brave and loving heart to- 
 day turn from distant shores to those self-same 
 scenes, hallowed by a thousand memories. The feel- 
 ings and affections of Gerald Griffin were in common 
 
 with the majority of our race, and hence it is that 
 we claim for him a foremost place in these pages. 
 
 Gerald, ninth son of Patrick Griffin, a Brunswick- 
 street brewer, was born on the 12th of December, 
 1803, within the old city wall of Limerick. His 
 mother, who was a woman of more than ordinary 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 141 
 
 taste and refinement, placed the future poet and nov- 
 elist under the instruction of a certain Mr. MacEli- 
 got, at that time the most learned and successful 
 " hedge teacher" in Limerick county. When Mrs. 
 Griffin, accompanied hy an elder brother, first intro- 
 duced Gerald to this wondrous pedagogue, she re- 
 marked: " You will oblige me very much, Mr. Mac- 
 Eligot, by paying particular attention to the boys' 
 pronunciation, and making them perfect in their 
 reading." The knight of the birchen-switches gazed 
 for a while with astonishment at her, and answering 
 said : " You had better take your children home, 
 madam. I can have nothing to do with them! Per- 
 haps, Mrs. Griffin, you are not aware that there are 
 only three persons in Ireland who know how to read." 
 " Three persons!" exclaimed Mrs. Griffin. " Yes> 
 madam, only three the Bishop of Kildare, the Earl of 
 Clare, and your humble servant. Reading is, indeed, 
 a natural gift, not an acquirement." This was the 
 man who first trained Gerald's "young idea how to 
 shoot." After developing considerable talent at the 
 school of Mr. MacEligot, young Gerald moved to a 
 farm about thirty miles from the " City of the Broken 
 Treaty." This homestead, beautifully situated on the 
 banks of the Shannon, they called Fairy Lawn, and 
 here a tutor was secured, under whose guidance and 
 instruction young Griffin became familiar with the 
 best authors in English literature, and cultivated a 
 
142 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 taste and developed his talent for poetry. Even 
 when a mere boy he was a voracious devourer of 
 books, reading everything on which he could lay 
 hands, and even copying out with his ever busy pen 
 whatever struck him as beautiful or beneficial. He 
 transcribed almost all " Moore's Melodies " with such 
 care and exactitude as to omit not even a comma. 
 
 It is almost a truism that there were but few re- 
 markable men in the world who did not draw their 
 best inspirations and most salutary principles of 
 morality from a good mother. Gerald's mother had 
 no small influence in forming the noble character of 
 her ninth son, and to the integrity of that well- 
 formed character he owed most of his success in after 
 life. This amiable lady is said to have been passion- 
 ately fond of literature, and had an original turn of 
 mind. She was well acquainted with the best works 
 of English classic literature, and took great delight in 
 training her children to cultivate tastes similar to 
 her own in this respect. "But," says her son, "a 
 sound religious instruction she considered as the 
 foundation of everything good, and it was her con- 
 stant aim to instill more strongly into the minds of 
 her children that nobility of sentiment and princely 
 feeling, in all transactions with others, which are its 
 necessary fruits, and which the world itself, in its 
 greatest faithlessness to religion , is compelled to wor- 
 ship. She would frequently, through the day, or in 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 143 
 
 the evening, ask us questions in history, and these 
 were generally such as tended to strengthen our 
 remembrance of important passages, or to point out 
 in any historical character those traits of moral beauty 
 she admired. ' Gerald, ' I have heard her ask, 
 'what did Camillus say to the school-master of 
 Falarii? ' Gerald sat erect, his countenance glowing 
 with the indignation such an act of baseness inspired, 
 and repeated with energy: " 'Execrable wretch/ cried 
 the Roman, * offer thy abominable proposals to some 
 creature like thyself and not to me. What! though 
 we be enemies of your city, are there not natural ties 
 that bind all mankind which should never be bro- 
 ken?'" 
 
 Mr Griffin being unsuccessful in business, was in- 
 duced by one of his sons, who had been an officer 
 in the British army in Canada, to emigrate to 
 America. About the year 1820 a portion of the 
 family found a new home on the banks of the Sus- 
 quehanna, Pennsylvania, and this sweet spot they 
 called Fairy Lawn, after the old home in the Green 
 Isle. Gerald remained in Ireland, and resided with 
 his brother, a medical doctor, in Adare. There, 
 among the ruins of Erin's former splendor, he conned 
 over the pages of Ovid and Virgil, or feasted on the 
 lyrics of Horace; and there he felt the first inspira- 
 tion of the muse which he has left us in a beautiful 
 poem descriptive of the scenes and objects of his love: 
 
144 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 AD ARE. 
 
 Oh, sweet Adare! oh, lovely vale! 
 
 Oh, soft retreat of sylvan splendor* 
 Nor summer sun nor morning gale 
 
 E'er hailed a scene more softly tender. 
 How shall I tell the thousand charms 
 
 Within thy verdant bosom dwelling, 
 Where, lulled in Nature's fostering arms 
 
 Soft peace abides and joy excelling. 
 
 Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn 
 
 The slumbering boughs your songs awaken, 
 Or linger o'er the silent lawn 
 
 With odors of the hare-bell taken. 
 Thou rising sun, how richly gleams 
 
 Thy smile from far Knock Fierna's mountain, 
 O'er waving woods and bounding streams, 
 
 And many a grove and glancing fountain. 
 
 Ye clouds of noon, how freshly there, 
 
 When summer heats the open meadows, 
 O'er parched hill and valley fair, 
 
 All coolly lie your veiling shadows. 
 Ye rolling shades and vapors grey, 
 
 Slow creeping o'er the golden heaven, 
 How soft you seal the eye of day , 
 
 And wreath the dusky brow of even. 
 
 In sweet Adare, the jocund spring 
 His notes of odorous joy is breathing. 
 
 The wild birds in the meadows sing; 
 
 The wild flowers in the air are breathing. 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 145 
 
 There winds the Hague, as silver clear 
 
 Among the elms so sweetly flowing; 
 There fragrant in the early year, 
 
 Wild roses on the banks are blowing. 
 
 The wild duck seeks the sedgy bank, 
 
 Or dives beneath the glistening billow, 
 Where graceful droop and clustering dank 
 
 The osier bright and rustling willow. 
 The hawthorn scents the leafy dale, 
 
 In thicket lone the stag is belling; 
 And sweet along the echoing vale 
 
 The sound of vernal joy is swelling. 
 
 His passion for literature became so strong while 
 in Adare, that Gerald abandoned all idea of the 
 medical craft for which his parents, even then in 
 America, had destined him. His occasional contri- 
 butions to the Limerick Advertiser attracted the 
 notice of Mr. McDonnell, then editor and proprietor 
 of that journal; and the young novelist, after a short 
 apprenticeship, was placed in the editorial chair of 
 the Advertiser. But the young patriotic Irishman, 
 instead of adhering to Mr. McDonnell's political 
 maxim to " please the Castle," " pulled the Castle 
 around that place-hunter's ears," and, in consequence, 
 was obliged to beat a hasty retreat from the sanctum 
 of the indignant politician. This was Gerald's start- 
 ing point for fields of fame for London to " revo- 
 
 ii 
 
146 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 lutionize the dramatic taste of the time by writing 
 for the stage." But we shall not follow him at pres- 
 ent to recount his trials and triumphs in the smoky 
 city. We shall linger to cull a few garlands from his 
 poetry, which ought to be fostered and preserved in 
 the household of every true-hearted Celt. The fol- 
 lowing lines never fail to awaken a responsive chord 
 in every exile's bosom: 
 
 OLD TIMES. 
 
 Old times! old times! the gay old times! 
 
 When I was young and free, 
 And heard the merry Easter chimes 
 
 Under the sally tree. 
 My Sunday palm beside me placed, 
 
 My cross upon my hand; 
 A heart at rest within my breast, 
 
 And sunshine on the land ! 
 
 Old times! old times! 
 
 It is not that my fortunes flee, 
 
 Nor that my cheek is pale; 
 I mourn when e'er I think of thee, 
 
 My darling native vale ! 
 A wiser head I have, I know, 
 
 Than when I loitered there; 
 But in my wisdom there is woe, 
 
 And in my knowledge care. 
 
 Old times! old times! 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 147 
 
 I've lived to know my share of joy, 
 
 To feel my share of pain; 
 To learn that friendship's self can cloy, 
 
 To love and love in vain; 
 To feel a pang and wear a smile, 
 
 To tire of other climes; 
 To love my own unhappy Isle, 
 
 And sing the gay old times! 
 
 Old times! old times! 
 
 And sure the land is nothing changed; 
 
 The birds are singing still, 
 The flowers are springing where we ranged, 
 
 There's sunshine on the hill. 
 The sally waving o'er my head 
 
 Still sweetly shades my frame; 
 But oh! those happy days are fled, 
 
 And I am not the same. 
 
 Old times! old times! 
 
 Oh, come again, ye merry times! 
 
 Sweet, sunny, fresh and calm; 
 And let me hear those Easter chimes, 
 
 And wear my Sunday palm. 
 If I could cry away mine eyes, 
 
 My tears would flow in vain; 
 If I could waste my heart in sighs, 
 
 They'll never come again ! 
 
 Old times! old times! 
 
 This sweet, simple poem which " looks longingly 
 back to the days that are forever faded," surpasses in 
 many respects that of Oliver W. Holmes on the same 
 
148 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 subject, so much admired and so deservedly popular. 
 Once read, its euphonious measures haunt the mem- 
 ory in every stage of life, and gives expression to 
 that yearning for the past so common to humanity. 
 Gerald Griffin's " Sister of Charity " is well known 
 to most readers of poetry. 
 
 This beautiful composition, with " O'Brazil the Isle 
 of the Blest," and another equally moral, were writ- 
 ten when Gerald began to see the vanity of human 
 ambition, and to think seriously of embracing a reli- 
 gious state of life. 
 
 Griffin's lyrics are the best of his pieces, and his 
 simple love songs are the best of all. It is believed, 
 had he devoted his muse to writing songs for the 
 people, that he would be to the "land of song" what 
 Burns was to Scotland a poet of and for the people. 
 It is to be regretted that, on deciding to pursue a 
 religious life, he destroyed a number of poems which 
 were never published. They were, according to the 
 opinion of his brother, superior to most of his pub- 
 lished pieces; but he has left us enough to establish 
 his reputation as a poet whose name is not soon des- 
 tined to sink into oblivion. 
 
 In the autumn of 1823 this aspirant for literary 
 laurels went to London, where he met John Banim 
 and William Maginn, LL. D., the famous editor of 
 Frazer's Magazine. Banim, who was then a great 
 success in the literary world, became quite interested 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 149 
 
 in Gerald, soon recognized his ability, and introduced 
 him to the first literary lights of London. In a let- 
 ter to his brother, Gerald says of Banim: " Mark 
 me, he is a man the best I have met since I left 
 Ireland. We walked over Hyde Park on St. Patrick's 
 Day, and renewed our home recollections by gathering 
 shamrocks and placing them in our hats, even under 
 the eye of John Bull." In the English metropolis, 
 he was obliged to write for food instead of fame, and, 
 though his tales and articles were promptly accepted 
 by the best magazines, payment was by no means 
 prompt or liberal. Some of the best pages of the 
 Literary Gazette were filled by his pen, and the raci- 
 est articles of the European Review emanated from 
 his fertile brain. He wrote plays which were ad- 
 mired; he translated Prevot's works at the rate of 
 two guineas a volume, and, withal starved in a dark 
 and dismal garret, where he was sought and saved 
 by a kind friend. When discovered in this gloomy 
 retreat he was working hard on one of his tales, 
 though he had not tasted food for three days. 
 
 But this was the dark hour which preceded the 
 dawn. The day of public patronage soon shone on 
 him, and success crowned his persevering toil. In 
 1832 his play of " Gisippus," a tragedy in five acts, 
 was performed in the Drury Lane Theatre, and 
 received from both press and public a magnificent 
 reception. We can best estimate the rapidity of his 
 
150 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 success after this by an extract from one of his own 
 letters : 
 
 " Since the day I received your letter," he says to his brother, 
 ' * I have achieved a multiplicity of engagements with publishers 
 and periodicals. In the first place, I procured an introduction 
 from Dr. Maginn to the editor of the Literary Gazette and got 
 an engagement from him to furnish sketches at a very liberal 
 remuneration a guinea a page. * * * 
 
 " Then I sent articles to the European Magazine. Here, also, 
 I was successful there was not a word of objection, and they 
 have already inserted several pieces. Then I made an essay on 
 one of the lions the London Magazine and was accepted there. 
 I know not what the proceeds will be yet, but I am told by an 
 old contributor that I made ' a palpable hit. ' I also got an 
 engagement from the proprietor of the new Catholic newspaper, 
 by which I have already made several guineas." 
 
 Success was now at his command, but possession 
 seems to have destroyed the charm; for, though he 
 worked on still with characteristic determination 
 and energy he wrote to his brother: 
 
 " I am sick and tired of this gloomy, stupid, lonely, wasting, 
 dispiriting, caterpillar kind of existence, which I endure, how- 
 ever, in hope of a speedy metamorphosis." 
 
 It was ahout this time that he wrote that sweet 
 pathetic little lyric, of which the following is a verse. 
 It is an index to his feelings at this stage: 
 Why has my soul been given 
 
 A zeal to soar to higher things 
 
 Than quiet rest to seek a haven 
 
 And fall with scattered wings ? 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 151 
 
 Have I been blest ? the sea wave sings 
 'Tween me and all that was mine own; 
 
 I've found the joy Ambition brings, 
 And walk alone and walk alone. 
 
 Our author's personal appearance, which was of 
 the best kind, may be inferred from a description 
 left by his brother, Dr. Griffin, who visited the 
 novelist in London in the month of September, 
 1826. " I had not seen him," says the Doctor, " since 
 he left Adare, and was struck with the change in his 
 appearance. All color had left his cheek, he had 
 grown quite thin, and there was a sedate expression 
 of countenance so unusual in one so young, and 
 which afterwards became habitual to him. It was 
 far from being so, however, at the time I speak of, 
 and readily gave way to that light and lively glance 
 of his dark eye, that cheerfulness of manner and 
 observant humor, which from his very infancy had 
 enlivened our fireside circle at home. Although so 
 pale and thin, his tall figure, expressive features and 
 profusion of dark hair thrown back over his fine 
 forehead, gave an expression of a person remarkably 
 handsome and interesting." 
 
 Here it may not be out of place to mention a very 
 interesting episode which gave a tinge of romance to 
 the last ten or twelve years of Gerald Griffin's life. 
 In Limerick he became acquainted with a certain 
 gentleman and his wife, members of the Society of 
 
152 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Friends, and a very strong natural attachment soon 
 formed between them and the amiable author of the 
 " Collegians." " The feelings of the poet towards the 
 lady/' says Mr. Giles, "though evidently of reveren- 
 tial purity, were colored nay beautified by the 
 difference of sex. His letters to her were numerous, 
 eloquent and very often of an elevated character. 
 His last letter, presenting her with an old desk on 
 which all his literary work had been accomplished, 
 was tender and musical with pathos and affection. 
 Shortly after he became a monk she called upon him. 
 When her name was announced he was walking in 
 the garden. He turned pale, hesitated, but at last, 
 though with strong emotion, refused to see her." On 
 hearing of his decision, the affectionate lady burst 
 into tears, for something seemed to tell her that she 
 would never more see him on earth 
 
 The " Collegians/' in which he was destined to live 
 a long time, was written in his 25th year, and the 
 tragedy of " Gisippus " five years earlier. The stories 
 which he wrote consist of three series: " Tales of the 
 Munster Festivals," "Tales of the Jury Room" and 
 "Holland Tide Tales." His romances are three- 
 "The Duke of Monmouth," "The Invasion" and 
 "The Collegians." These, with his plays and poems, 
 comprise ten handsome volumes published by Sadlier 
 & Co., New York. As a poet he was sensitive, sweet, 
 sympathetic and simple. As a novelist he had a 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 153 
 
 genius at the same time inventive, plastic and bold. 
 His style manifests fancy in a high degree, and his 
 strong natural passion betrays itself very powerfully 
 in many scenes of the "Collegians." In portraying 
 Irish life, he " holds the mirror up to nature." In 
 his literary career he acted in the capacity of musical 
 and stage critic, was employed as Parliamentary 
 reporter, and considered by many London publishers 
 as a consummate literary connoisseur. 
 
 As to his moral strength and integrity, the elo- 
 quent Henry Giles says: " Perhaps no literary 
 adventurer ever endured more hardships in the same 
 space of time in London than did Gerald Griffin, and 
 endured them with less moral injury to his personal 
 or literary character. He kept himself free from all 
 meanness, from low companionship, from degrading 
 habits, and came out of the trial a young man with 
 home-born purity unsullied, a Christian with faith 
 more confirmed, a gentleman unharmed in his honor 
 and refinement, a writer who won success and the 
 public by his own independent genius, bearing the 
 triumph with true and graceful modesty." While 
 blessed with the self-reliance of Johnson, he was en- 
 tirely free from the egotism of that literary lion. 
 "It is strange," he was wont to say, "that I've never 
 found success except where I depended solely on 
 my own exertions." His motto was "death before 
 failure." Though he wrote nothing so universally 
 
154 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 admired as the " Deserted Village" or the " Vicar of 
 Wakefield," he possessed nearly as much ability as 
 Goldsmith, without being burdened by any of his 
 defects; and, according to most writers, he was supe- 
 rior both as an author and a man to Dermody and 
 Crabbe. 
 
 For some time previous to 1830 our young novelist 
 entertained an idea that he was called to the priest- 
 hood, and actually made preparations to enter the 
 Ecclesiastical Seminary at Maynooth for that end 
 In a letter to his parents, on the banks of the Sus- 
 quehanna, he alludes to this matter as follows: 
 
 " To say nothing of the arguments of faith, I do not know 
 any station in life in which a man can do so much good, both 
 for others and himself, as in that of a Catholic priest, and it 
 gave me great satisfaction to find that my friends in America 
 were of the same mind with me on this point. * * * * To 
 say that Gerald, the novel writer, is by the grace of God really 
 satisfied to lay aside for ever all hope of that fame for which he 
 was once sacrificing health, repose and pleasure, and to offer 
 himself as a laborer in the vineyard of Jesus Christ. That 
 literary reputation has become a worthless trifle to him to whom 
 it was once almost all; and that he feels a happiness in the 
 thought of giving all to God is such a merciful favor that all 
 the fame and riches in the world dwindle into nothing at the 
 thought of it." 
 
 The idea of becoming a priest, however, he soon 
 abandoned partly, perhaps, through motives of 
 humility and resolved to assume the humble habit 
 
GEBALD GRIFFIN. 155 
 
 of a Christian Brother. His brief career with this 
 exemplary body of monks was very happy, and on 
 many occasions he manifested his delight with his 
 vocation. At the instance of his religious superior, 
 he resumed his long-neglected pen, and was engaged 
 on a religious tale, entitled " The Holy Island " when 
 he was stricken down with typhus fever, of which he 
 died at the North Monastery of the Brothers, in the 
 City of Cork, on Friday, June 12th, 1840. In the 
 little cemetery of this Monastery a simple headstone 
 bearing the inscription "Joseph" his name in 
 religion still marks the resting-place of the author 
 of the "Collegians," and invites the passing monk 
 to recite a De Profundis for the soul of Ireland's 
 beloved poet, reposing there in silence and solitude. 
 
 O'BRAZIL, THE ISLE OF THE BLEST. 
 
 [A spectre island, said to be sometimes visible on the verge of the western 
 horizon in the Atlantic, from the Isles of Arran. ] 
 
 ON the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, 
 A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell; 
 Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, 
 And they called it O'Brazil the Isle of the Blest. 
 From year unto year, on the ocean's blue rim, 
 The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim; 
 The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay, 
 And it looked like an Eden, away, far away! 
 
 A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, 
 In the breeze of the orient, loosened his sail; 
 
156 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west, 
 For though Ara was holy, O'Brazil was blest. 
 He heard not the voices that called from the shore, 
 He heard not the rising winds' menacing roar; 
 Home, kindred and safety he left on that day, 
 And he sped to O'Brazil, away, far away! 
 
 Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy Isle, 
 O'er the faint rim of distance reflected its smile ; 
 Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore, 
 Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before: 
 Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track, 
 And to Ara again he looked timidly back ; 
 Oh! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, 
 Yet the Isle of the Blest was away, far away. 
 
 Rash dreamer, return! ye winds of the main, 
 Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again ; 
 Rash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss, 
 To barter thy calm life of labor and peace. 
 The warning of Reason was spoken in vain, 
 He never re-visited Ara again; 
 Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, 
 And he died on the waters, away, far away! 
 
 To you, gentle friends, need I pause to reveal 
 
 The lessons of prudence my verses conceal ? 
 
 How the phantom of pleasure, seen distant in youth, 
 
 Oft lures a weak heart from the circle of truth, 
 
 All lovely it seems like that shadowy Isle, 
 
 And the eye of the wisest is caught by its smile; . 
 
 But ah ! for the heart it has tempted to stray 
 
 From the sweet home of duty, away, far away! 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 157 
 
 Poor friendless adventurer ! vainly might he 
 Look back to green Ara, along the wild sea; 
 But the wandering heart has a guardian above, 
 Who, though erring, remembers the child of his love. 
 Oh! who at the proffer of safety would spurn, 
 When all that he asks is the will to return ? 
 To follow a phantom from day unto day, 
 And die in the tempest, away, far away! 
 
 'TIS, IT IS THE SHANNON'S STREAM. 
 
 'Tis, it is the Shannon's stream 
 
 Brightly glancing, brightly glancing! 
 See, oh see the ruddy beam 
 
 Upon its waters dancing ! 
 Thus returned from travel vain, 
 Years of exile, years of pain, 
 To see old Shannon's face again, 
 
 Oh, the bliss entrancing! 
 Hail! our own majestic stream, 
 
 Flowing ever, flowing ever, 
 Silent in the morning beam, 
 
 Our own beloved river ! 
 
 Fling thy rocky portals wide 
 
 Western ocean, western ocean; 
 Bend ye hills on either side, 
 
 In solemn, deep devotion; 
 While before the rising gales 
 On his heaving surface sails, 
 Half the wealth of Erin's vales 
 
 With undulating motion. 
 
158 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Hail! our own beloved stream, 
 Flowing ever, flowing ever, 
 
 Silent in the morning beam, 
 Our own majestic river! 
 
 On thy bosom deep and wide, 
 
 Noble river, lordly river, 
 Royal navies safe might ride, 
 
 Green Erin's lovely river! 
 Proud upon thy banks to dwell, 
 Let me ring Ambition's knell 
 Lured by Hope's illusive spell 
 
 Again to wander, never. 
 Hail! our own romantic stream, 
 
 Flowing ever, flowing ever, 
 Silent in the morning beam, 
 
 Our own majestic river! 
 
 Let me, from thy placid course, 
 
 Gentle river, mighty river, 
 Draw such truth of silent force, 
 
 As sophist uttered never. 
 Thus, like thee, unchanging still, 
 With tranquil breast and ordered will, 
 My heaven-appointed course fulfil, 
 
 Undeviating ever ! 
 Hail ! our own majestic stream 
 
 Flowing ever, flowing ever, 
 Silent in the morning beam, 
 
 Our own delightful river! 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 159 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE. 
 
 [Of the monuments most worthy of notice in the chapel of Malahide is an 
 altar tomb surmounted with the effigy, in bold relief, of a female habited in 
 the costume of the 14th century, and representing the Honorable Maude 
 Plunket, wife of Sir Richard Talbot. She had been previously married to 
 Mr. Hussey, son to the Baron of Galtrim, who was slain on the day of her 
 nuptials, leaving her the singular celebrity of having been " A maid, wife 
 and widow, on the same day." DaUon's History of Drogheda.] 
 
 THE joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide; 
 
 The fresh wind is singing along the sea-side; 
 
 The maids are assembling with garlands of flowers, 
 
 And the harpstrings are trembling in all the glad bowers. 
 
 Swell, swell the gay measure ! roll trumpet and drum ! 
 'Mid greetings of pleasure in splendor they come ! 
 The chancel is ready, the portal stands wide 
 For the lord and the lady, the bridegroom and bride. 
 
 What years, ere the latter, of earthly delight 
 The future shall scatter o'er them in its flight! 
 What blissful caresses shall Fortune bestow, 
 Ere those dark-flowing tresses fall white as the snow! 
 
 Before the high altar young Maud stands array 'd; 
 With accents that falter her promise is made 
 From father and mother for ever to part, 
 For him and no other to treasure her heart. 
 
 The words are repeated, the bridal is done, 
 The rite is completed the two, they are one; 
 The vow, it is spoken all pure from the heart, 
 That must not be broken till life shall depart. 
 
160 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Hark ! 'mid the gay clangor that compass'd their car, 
 Loud accents in anger come mingling afar ! 
 The foe's on the border, his weapons resound 
 Where the lines in disorder unguarded are found. 
 
 As wakes the good shepherd, the watchful and bold, 
 When the ounce or the leopard is seen in the fold, 
 So rises already the chief in his mail, 
 While the new-married lady looks fainting and pale. 
 
 " Son, husband, and brother, arise to the strife, 
 For the sister and mother, for children and wife! 
 O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and plain, 
 Up, true men, and follow! let dastards remain!" 
 
 Farrah ! to the battle ! they form into line 
 
 The shields, how they rattle! the spears, how they shine! 
 
 Soon, soon shall the foeman his treachery rue 
 
 On, burgher and yeoman, to die or to do! 
 
 The eve is declining in low Malahide, 
 The maidens are twining gay wreaths for the bride; 
 She marks them unheeding her heart is afar, 
 Where the clansmen are bleeding for her in the war. 
 
 Hark! loud from the mountain, 'tis Victory's cry) 
 O'er woodland and fountain it rings to the sky ! 
 The foe has retreated ! he flies to the shore ; 
 The spoiler's defeated the combat is o'er! 
 
 With foreheads unruffled the conqueror come 
 But why have they muffled the lance and the drum ? 
 What form do they carry aloft on his shield ? 
 And where does he tarry, the lord of the field ? 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 161 
 
 Ye saw him at morning how gallant and gay ! 
 In bridal adorning the star of the day: 
 Now weep for the lover his triumph is sped ; 
 His hope it is over ! the chieftain is dead ! 
 
 But, oh for the maiden who mourns for that chief, 
 With heart overladen and rending with grief ! 
 She sinks on the meadow in one morning-tide, 
 A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride! 
 
 Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole! 
 Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul. 
 True true, 'twas a story for ages of pride; 
 He died in his glory but, oh, he has died! 
 
 The war cloak she raises all mournfully now, 
 And steadfastly gazes upon the cold brow. 
 That glance may for ever unaltered remain, 
 But the bridegroom will never return it again. 
 
 The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide, 
 
 The death- wail is rolling along the sea-side; 
 
 The crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from the green, 
 
 For the sun has departed that brighten'd the scene ! 
 
 Ev'n yet in that valley, though years have rolPd by, 
 When through the wild sally the sea-breezes sigh, 
 The peasant, with sorrow, beholds in the shade 
 The tomb where the morrow saw Hussey convey 'd 
 
 How scant was the warning, how briefly reveal'd, 
 Before on that morning death's chalice was fill'd! 
 The hero that drunk it there moulders in gloom, 
 And the form of Maude Plunket weeps over his tomb. 
 
 12 
 
162 IEISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 The stranger who wanders along the lone vale 
 Still sighs when he ponders on that heavy tale; 
 1 ' Thus passes each pleasure that earth can supply 
 Thus jo^ has its measure we live but to die!" 
 
 WHEN FILLED WITH THOUGHTS OF LIFE'S YOUNG 
 
 DAY. 
 
 WHEN filled with thoughts of life's young day, 
 
 Alone in distant climes I roam, 
 And year on year has rolled away 
 
 Since last we view'd our own dear home, 
 Oh, then, at evening's silent hour, 
 In chamber lone, or moonlit bow'r, 
 How sad, on memory's listening ear, 
 Come long lost voices sounding near 
 Like the wild chime of village bells 
 Heard far away in mountain dells. 
 But, oh! for him let kind hearts grieve, 
 
 His term of youth and exile o'er, 
 Who sees in life's declining eve, 
 
 With alter'd eyes, his native shore! 
 With aching heart and weary brain, 
 Who treads those lonesome scenes again! 
 When first he knew those ruin'd bow'rs, 
 And hears in every passing gale 
 Some best affection's dying wail. 
 Oh, say, what spell of power serene 
 
 Can cheer that hour of sharpest pain, 
 And turn to peace the anguish keen 
 
 That deeplier wounds, because in vain? 
 'T is not the thought of glory won, 
 Of hoarded gold or pleasures gone, 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 163 
 
 But one bright course, from earliest youth, 
 Of changeless faith unbroken truth, 
 These turn to gold the vapors dun 
 That close on life's descending sun. 
 
 FOR I AM DESOLATE. 
 
 THE Christmas light is burning bright 
 
 In many a village pane, 
 And many a cottage rings to-night 
 
 With many a merry strain. 
 Young boys and girls run laughing by, 
 
 Their hearts and eyes elate 
 I can but think on mine, and sigh, 
 
 For I am desolate. 
 
 There's none to watch in our old cot, 
 
 Beside the holy light, 
 No tongue to bless the silent spot 
 
 Against the parting night, 
 I've closed the door, and hither come 
 
 To mourn my lonely fate ; 
 I cannot bear my own old home, 
 
 It is so desolate ! 
 
 I saw my father's eye grow dim, 
 
 And clasp'd my mother's knee; 
 I saw my mother follow him 
 
 My husband wept with me. 
 My husband did not long remain 
 
 His child was left me yet; 
 But now my heart's last love is slain, 
 
 And I am desolate ! 
 
164 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 MY MARY OF THE CURLING HAIR. 
 MY Mary of the curling hair, 
 The laughing teeth and bashful air, 
 Our bridal morn is dawning fair, 
 With blushes in the skies. 
 
 Come! come! come, my darling 
 Come softly, and come, my love! 
 My love ! my pearl ! 
 My own dear girl ! 
 My mountain maid, arise! 
 
 Wake , linnet of the osier grove ! 
 Wake, trembling, stainless, virgin dove! 
 Wake, nestling of a parent's love! 
 Let Moran see thine eyes. 
 
 Come, come, etc. 
 
 I am no stranger, proud and gay, 
 To win thee from thy home away, 
 And find thee, for a distant day, 
 A theme for wasting sighs. 
 
 Come, come, etc. 
 
 But we were known from infancy, 
 Thy father's hearth was home to me, 
 No selfish love was mine for thee, 
 Unholy and unwise. 
 
 Come, come, etc. 
 
 And yet, (to see what love can do!) 
 Though calm my hope has burned, and true, 
 My cheek is pale and worn for you, 
 And sunken are mine eyes! 
 
 Come, come, etc. 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 165 
 
 But soon my love shall be my bride, 
 And happy by our own fireside ; 
 My veins shall feel the rosy tide 
 That lingering hope denies. 
 
 Come, come, etc. 
 
 My Maiy of the curling hair, 
 The laughing teeth and bashful air, 
 Our bridal morn is dawning fair, 
 With blushes in the skies. 
 
 Come ! come ! come , my darling 
 Come softly! and come, my love! 
 My love ! my pearl ! 
 My own dear girl ! 
 My mountain maid, arise! 
 
 GILLE MA CHREE. 
 
 Gille ma chree,* 
 
 Sit down by me ; 
 We now are joined and ne'er shall sever: 
 
 This hearth's our own, 
 
 Our hearts are one, 
 And peace is ours for ever! 
 
 When I was poor, 
 
 Your father's door 
 Was closed against your constant lover; 
 
 With care and pain, 
 
 I tried in vain 
 My fortunes to recover. 
 
 Brightener of my heart. 
 
 ^ 
 
166 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 I said, " To other lands I'll roam, 
 Where Fate may smile on me, love;" 
 
 I said, ' ' Farewell, my own old home ! " 
 And I said, " Farewell to thee, love!" 
 
 Sing, Gille ma chree, etc. 
 
 I might have said, 
 My mountain maid, 
 
 Come live with me, your own true lover: 
 I know a spot, 
 A silent cot, 
 
 Your friends can ne'er discover, 
 Where gently flows the waveless tide 
 
 By one small garden only; 
 Where the heron waves his wings so wide, 
 And the linnet sings so lonely ! 
 
 Sing, Gille ma chree, etc. 
 
 I might have said, 
 My mountain maid, 
 A father's right was never given 
 True hearts to curse 
 With tyrant force 
 That have been blest in heaven. 
 But then I said, " In after years, 
 
 When thoughts of home shall find her, 
 My love may mourn with secret tears 
 Her friends thus left behind her. " 
 
 Sing, Gille ma chree, etc. 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 167 
 
 " Oh no," I said; 
 " My own dear maid, 
 For me, though all forlorn for ever, 
 That heart of thine 
 Shall ne'er repine 
 O'er slighted duty never. 
 From home and thee, though wandering far, 
 
 A dreamy fate be mine, love 
 I'd rather live in endless war, 
 
 Than buy my peace with thine, love." 
 
 Sing, Gille ma chree, etc. 
 
 Far, far away, 
 
 By night and day, 
 I toiled to win a golden treasure; 
 
 And golden gains 
 
 Repaid my pains 
 In fair and shining measure. 
 I sought again my native land, 
 
 Thy father welcomed me, love; 
 I poured my gold into his hand 
 
 And my guerdon found in thee, love. 
 
 Sing, Gille ma chree, 
 
 Sit down by me ; 
 We are joined and ne'er shall sever: 
 
 This hearth's our own, 
 
 Our hearts are one, 
 And peace is ours for ever. 
 
168 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 A PLACE IN THY MEMORY, DEAREST. 
 
 A PLACE in thy memory, dearest, 
 
 Is all that I claim, 
 To pause and look back when thou hearest 
 
 The sound of my name. 
 Another may woo thee, nearer. 
 
 Another may win and wear; 
 I care not though he be dearer, 
 
 If I am remembered there. 
 
 Remember me not as a lover 
 
 Whose hope was cross'd, 
 Whose bosom can never recover 
 
 The light it hath lost; 
 As the young bride remembers the mother 
 
 She loves, though she never may see; 
 As a sister remembers a brother, 
 
 O dearest! remember me. 
 
 Could I be thy true lover, dearest, 
 
 Could'st thou smile on rne, 
 I would be the fondest and nearest 
 
 That ever loved thee ! 
 But a cloud on my pathway is glooming, 
 
 That never must burst upon thine ; 
 And Heaven, that made thee all blooming, 
 
 Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. 
 
 Remember me, then! oh, remember, 
 
 My calm, light love; 
 Though bleak as the blasts of November 
 
 My life may prove, 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 169 
 
 That life will, though lonely, be sweet, 
 
 If its brightest enjoyment should be 
 A smile and kind word when we meet, 
 
 And a place in thy memory. 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO A SEAGULL, 
 
 SEEN OFF THE CLIFFS OF MOHER, IN THE COUNTY OF CLARE. 
 
 WHITE bird of the tempest! oh, beautiful thing, 
 With the bosom of snow, and the motionless wing 
 Now sweeping the billow, now floating on high, 
 Now bathing thy plumes in the light of the sky 
 Now poising o'er ocean thy delicate form. 
 Now breasting the surge with thy bosom so warm, 
 Now darting aloft, with a heavenly scorn, 
 Now shooting along, like a ray of the morn; 
 Now lost in the folds of the cloud-curtained dome, 
 Now floating abroad like a flake of the foam ; 
 Now silently poised o'er the war of the main, 
 Like the spirit of charity, brooding o'er pain; 
 Now gliding with pinion, all silently furled, 
 Like an Angel descending to comfort the world I 
 Thou seem'st to my spirit, as upward I gaze, 
 And see thee, now clothed in mellowest rays; 
 Now lost in the storm-driven vapors that fly, 
 Like hosts that are routed across the broad sky ! 
 Like a pure spirit, true to its virtue and faith, 
 'Mid the tempests of nature, of passion, and death! 
 
 Rise ! beautiful emblem of purity I rise 
 
 On the sweet winds of heaven, to thine own brilliant skies 
 
 Still higher! still higher! till lost to our sight, 
 
 Thou hidest thy wings in a mantle of light; 
 
170 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 
 
 And I think how a pure spirit gazing on thee, 
 Must long for the moment the joyous and free 
 When the soul, disembodied from nature, shall spring, 
 Unfettered, at once to her maker and king; 
 When, the bright day of service and suffering past, 
 Shapes fairer than thine shall shine round her at last, 
 While the standard of battle triumphantly furled, 
 She smiles like a victor, serene on the world! 
 
 A MONODY ON THE DEATH OF GERALD GRIFFIN, 
 
 BY THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE. 
 
 [Written during the author's visit to Ireland in March, 1855.] 
 
 WHEN night surrounds the sun, and the day dies, 
 
 Leaving to darkness for its hour the skies, 
 
 Nought has the heart of man thence to deplore 
 
 The day lived long, was fruitful, is no more; 
 
 But when the hurricane at noon o'erspreads 
 
 The orb divine, which life and gladness sheds, 
 
 Or some disorder'd planet rolls between 
 
 The sun and earth, darkling the verdant green, 
 
 Eclipsing ocean, shadowing like a pall 
 
 The busy town, men, discontented all, 
 
 By sea and land, anxiously pause and pray 
 
 For the returning giver of the day 
 
 So have bright spirits been eclipsed and lost, 
 
 Forever dark, if by Death's shadow cross'd. 
 
 In Munster's beauteous city died a man 
 As 'twere but yesterday, whose course began 
 In clouded and in cheerless morning guise 
 Had climb'd the summit of his native skies, 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 171 
 
 
 
 And, as he rose, brighter and fairer grew, 
 
 Beneath his influence, every scene he knew. 
 
 His country hail'd him as a Saviour, given 
 
 To chronicle past times; when 'mid the heaven 
 
 Of expectation and achievement, lo! 
 
 A monastery's gate therein the Bard doth go, 
 
 And sees the children of the poor around 
 
 Feed on the knowledge elsewhere yet unfound. 
 
 The Poet, then, his former tasks foreswore, 
 
 Vowing himself to charity evermore, 
 
 Folded his wings of light cast his fresh bays aside 
 
 His friends beloved abjured, abjured his pride, 
 
 There lived and labor'd, and there early died 
 
 Short was his day of labor, but its morn 
 
 Prolific was of beauty; thoughts were born 
 
 In his heart's secret spots, which grew, attended 
 
 By a fine sense instinct and reason blended 
 
 Till, like a spring, they spread his haunts with glory, 
 
 O'er-arched their streams, upraised their hills in story, 
 
 Fixed the broad Shannon in its course forever, 
 
 And bade it flow for aye, a genius-haunted river. 
 
 Ye men of Munster, guard his sleep serene! 
 Spirits of such bright order are not seen 
 But once in generations. He was an echo, dwelling 
 Amid your mountains, all their secrets telling, 
 Their mem'ries, their traditions, and their wrongs, 
 The story of their sins the music of their songs, 
 Their tempests, and their terrors, and the forms 
 They bring forth, impregnated by the storms. 
 
172 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 He knew the voices of your rivers, knew 
 
 Every deep chasm they leap or murmur through, 
 
 Blindfold, at midnight, by their sounds could tell 
 
 Their names and their descent o'er cliff and dell. 
 
 Oh! men of Munster, since the ancient time, 
 
 Ye have not met such loss as in this monk sublime ) 
 
 The second summer's grass was on his grave, 
 
 When to his memory Melpomene gave 
 
 A laurel wreath wove from the self -same tree 
 
 That shades Boccaccio's dust perennially; 
 
 Fair were the smiles her mournful glances met 
 
 In woman's lovely eyes, with heart 's-dew wet, 
 
 And many voices loudly cried, " Well done!" 
 
 As the sad goddess crown'd her lifeless son. 
 
 Oh, ever thus: Death strikes the gifted, then 
 
 Come the worms inquests and the award of men ! 
 
 Low in your grave, young Gerald Griffin, sleep; 
 
 You never looked on him who now doth weep 
 
 Above your resting-place yon never heard 
 
 The voice that oft has echo'd eveiy word 
 
 Dropped from your pen of light sleep on, sleep on 
 
 I would I knew you, yet not now you are gone! 
 
REV. CHARLES WOLFE, 
 AUTHOR OF "THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE." 
 
 ~KE Ingram and Gray the Rev. Charles Wolfe 
 is known to the world as the author of a 
 single song. "The Burial of Sir John Moore" has 
 made his name immortal. 
 
 He was born in the city of Dublin in the year 
 1791. His parents were people of means, and his 
 family not without distinction both in Ireland and 
 America. The brilliant but ill-fated Wolfe Tone and 
 the hero of Quebec were closely allied to his family, 
 and others of the same name and lineage subse- 
 quently became distinguished in the annals of Irish 
 history. In 1809 Charles Wolfe entered Trinity 
 College, Dublin, after having spent some years of 
 preparation at school in England. 
 
 His poetic genius was first revealed to the faculty 
 of the University by the excellence of a Latin class- 
 poem which he wrote during the early part of his 
 second year. But the composition which brought 
 him prominently into public favor was the ode on 
 the burial of Sir John Moore. Lord Byron, seeing 
 this poem, pronounced it " the very best of its kind 
 which the present prolific age has brought forth." 
 
 (173) 
 
174 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 " Medwin's Conversations of Byron/' relating a 
 critical discussion that arose between Byron, Shelley 
 and other literary men of their time, has the following 
 passages : 
 
 The conversation, after dinner, turned on the lyrical poetry 
 of the day, and a question arose as to which was the most per- 
 fect ode that had been produced in the English language. 
 Shelly contended for Coleridge's on Switzerland, beginning 
 " Ye Clouds," etc. Others named some of Moore's Irish Melo- 
 dies and Campbell's " Hohenlinden;" and had Lord Byron not 
 been present, the Invocation in " Manfred" or the Ode to Napo- 
 leon might have been cited. 
 
 11 Like Gray," said Byron, " Campbell smells too much of the 
 oil; he is never satisfied with what he does; his finest things 
 have been spoiled by the ' labor of the file.' Like paintings, 
 poems may be too highly finished. The great art is effect, no 
 matter how produced. I will show you an ode you have never 
 seen, that I consider the very best which the present prolific 
 age has brought forth." With this he left the table, almost 
 before the cloth was removed , and soon returned with a maga- 
 zine from which he read the lines on Sir John Moore's burial. 
 The feeling with which he recited these admirable stanzas I 
 I shall never forget. After he had come to the end he repeated 
 the third, and said it was perfect, particularly the lines: 
 
 " But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest, 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 " I should have taken the whole," said Shelley, " for a rough 
 sketch of Campbell's." 
 
 " No/' replied Byron; " Campbell would have claimed it if it 
 had been his. " 
 
BEY. CHAKLES ^YOLFE. 175 
 
 The account of Sir John Moore's burial which 
 inspired our author to write this poem was first 
 printed in a Scotch paper, and runs thus: 
 
 Sir John Moore had often said that, if he was killed in 
 battle, he wished to be buried where he fell. The body was 
 removed at midnight to the citadel of Corunna, A grave was 
 dug for him on the rampart there, by a party of the Ninth 
 Regiment, the aides-de-camp attending by turns. No coffin 
 could be procured, and the officers of his staff wrapped the body, 
 dressed as it was, in a military cloak and blankets. The inter- 
 ment was hastened, for about eight in the morning some firing 
 was heard, and the officers feared that if a serious attack were 
 made, they should be ordered away and not suffered to pay 
 him their last duty. The officers of his staff bore him to the 
 grave. The funeral service was read by the chaplain and the 
 corpse was covered with earth. 
 
 This is the simple narrative that produced the 
 impression which prompted and enabled Wolfe to 
 write his famous poem. His biographer, Archdeacon 
 Russell of Clogher, informs us that it found its way 
 into print without the knowledge of its author. 
 
 "It was," he goes on to say, " recited by a friend 
 in presence of a gentleman traveling toward the 
 North of Ireland, who was so much struck with it 
 that he requested and obtained a copy, and, imme- 
 diately after, it appeared in the Newry Telegraph with 
 the initials of the author's name. From that it was 
 copied into most of the London prints, and thence 
 into the Dublin papers, and subsequently it appeared 
 
176 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS. 
 
 with some considerable errors in the Edinburgh 
 Annual Register, which contained the narrative that 
 first kindled the poet's feelings on the subject, and 
 supplied the materials to his mind." 
 
 Besides these given in this volume Wolfe wrote 
 many other pieces of lesser note. He was ordained 
 a minister of the Anglican Church, in 1817, and 
 appointed to a living in Donoughmore, within the 
 jurisdiction of Armagh. Here he lived for some 
 years, devoting a good deal of his time to the study of 
 Irish authors, and preaching when it came his turn 
 to do so. Ireland's great lyrist, Tom Moore, was his 
 favorite poet, and it is said that there were very few 
 contemporaries who possessed a keener appreciation 
 of the Irish Melodies than did the Rev. Charles 
 Wolfe. 
 
 After a few short years in the ministry, he became 
 the victim of consumption, which in a brief space 
 closed a career that opened with the promise of much 
 more than was ever realized. 
 
 With the fond hope of prolonging his life he left 
 Donoughmore and went southward to that beautiful 
 watering-place called, in those days, the Cove of Cork. 
 Even the balmy air of Munster could not restore his 
 wasted strength or retard the progress of the fatal 
 disease. He died at Cove in 1823, and was buried 
 in the neighboring churchyard of Clonmel Parish, 
 where his grave is almost entirely neglected. Is the 
 
REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 177 
 
 spirit of utilitarianism creeping into Ireland that his 
 countrymen should neglect the final resting-place of 
 this gentle poet? Alas! such is the common fate of 
 genius ! 
 
 The following lines are from the pen of an 
 American poetess, Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt, the accom- 
 plished wife of our Consul at Cork. She was natur- 
 ally surprised that a people proverbially so fond of 
 poetry should neglect the grave of one whose name 
 has reflected credit on his native land: 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 
 
 WHERE graves were many, we looked for one- 
 
 Oh, the Irish rose was red 
 And the dark stones saddened the setting sun 
 
 With the names of the early dead. 
 Then a child who, somehow, had heard of him 
 
 In the land we love so well, 
 Kept lifting the grass till the dew was dim 
 
 In the churchyard of Clonmel. 
 
 But the sexton came. " Can you tell us where 
 
 Charles Wolfe is buried ? " "I can. 
 See, that is his grave in the corner there 
 
 Aye, he was a clever man, 
 If God had spared him ! It's many that come 
 
 To be asking for him/' said he; 
 But the boy kept whispering ' ' Not a drum 
 
 Was heard," in the dusk to me. 
 
 13 
 
178 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Then the gray man tore a vine from the wall 
 
 Of the roofless church where he lay , 
 And the leaves that the withering year let fall, 
 
 He swept with the 'ivy away. 
 And, as we read on the rock the words 
 
 That, writ in the moss, we found, 
 Right over his bosom a shower of birds 
 
 In music fell to the ground. 
 
 Young poet, I wonder did you care 
 
 Did it move you in your rest 
 To hear that child in his golden hair, 
 
 From the mighty woods of the West, 
 Repeating your verse of his own sweet will 
 
 To the sound of the twilight bell, 
 Years after your beating heart was still 
 
 In the churchyard of Clonmel ? 
 
 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 
 
 NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
 As his corse to the ramparts we hurried; 
 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
 The sods with our bayonets turning; 
 
 By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
 
 Nor in sheet or in shroud we wound him; 
 
 But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest. 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 179 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said, 
 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 
 
 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, 
 
 And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head 
 
 And we far away on the billow. 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; 
 But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
 
 In the grave where a Briton has laid him ! 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done 
 
 When the clock struck the hour 4 for re tiling, 
 
 And we heard the distant and random gun 
 That the foe was sullenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 
 
 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
 But we left him alone with his glory. 
 
 IF I HAD THOUGHT. 
 
 IF I had thought thou couldst have died, 
 
 I might not weep for thee ; 
 But I forgot, when by thy side, 
 
 That thou couldst mortal be: 
 
180 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 It never through my mind had pass'd 
 The time would e'er be o'er, 
 
 And I on thee should look my last, 
 And thou shouldst smile no more. 
 
 And still upon that face I look, 
 
 And think 't will smile again; 
 And still the thought I will not brook 
 
 That I must look in vain. 
 But, when I speak, thou dost not say 
 
 What thou ne'er left unsaid; 
 And now I feel, as well I may, 
 
 Sweet Mary ! thou art dead. 
 
 If thou would'st stay e'en as thou art, 
 
 All cold and all serene, 
 I still might press thy silent heart, 
 
 And where thy smiles have been! 
 While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have, 
 
 Thou seemest still mine own; 
 But there I lay thee in thy grave 
 
 And I am now alone ! 
 
 I do not think, where'er thou art, 
 
 Thou hast forgotten me; 
 And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart 
 
 In thinking, too, of thee. 
 Yet there was round thee such a dawn 
 
 Of light ne'er seen before , 
 As fancy never could have drawn, 
 
 And never can restore. 
 
REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 181 
 
 OH! SAY NOT THAT. 
 
 OH ! say not that my heart is cold 
 
 To aught that once could warm it, 
 That nature's form, so dear of old, 
 
 No more has power to charm it; 
 Or that th' ungenerous world can chill 
 
 One glow of fond emotion 
 For those who made it dearer still, 
 
 And shared its wild devotion. 
 
 Still oft those solemn scenes I view 
 
 In rapt and dreamy sadness 
 Oft look on those who loved them, too, 
 
 With fancy's idle gladness. 
 Again I long to view the light 
 
 In nature's features glowing, 
 Again to tread the mountain's height, 
 
 And taste the soul's o'erflowing. 
 
 Stern Duty rose and frowning flung 
 
 Her leaden chain around me; 
 With iron look and sullen tongue 
 
 He muttered as he bound me: 
 " The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven 
 
 Unfit for toil the creature; 
 These for the free alone are given, 
 
 But what have slaves with Nature ?' 
 
182 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 GO! FORGET ME. 
 
 Go! forget me, why should sorrow 
 O'er that brow a shadow fling ? 
 
 Go! forget me and to-morrow 
 Brightly smile, and sweetly sing. 
 
 Smile though I shall not be near thee; 
 
 Sing though I shall never hear thee. 
 
 May thy soul with pleasure shine, 
 
 Lasting as the gloom of mine. 
 
 Like the sun, thy presence glowing, 
 
 Clothes the meanest things in light; 
 And when thou, like him, art going, 
 
 Loveliest objects fade in night. 
 All things looked so bright about thee, 
 That they nothing seem without thee. 
 By that pure and lucid mind 
 Earthly things were too refined. 
 
 Go! thou vision, wildly gleaming, 
 
 Softly on my soul that fell, 
 Go! for me no longer beaming, 
 
 Hope and beauty, fare ye well' 
 Go ! and all that once delighted 
 Take and leave me, all benighted, 
 Glory's burning gen'rous swell, 
 Fancy and the poet's shell. 
 
CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 
 
CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE 
 
 POET, EDITOR AND SOLDIER. 
 
 ;LDCASTLE, in the County Meath, Ireland, is 
 the birth-place of the subject of this memoir. 
 The Halpines originally belonged to County Louth, 
 where the Clan Halpine held an honorable place 
 among the well-to-do farmers for many generations. 
 Nicholas Halpine, the father of the future litterateur, 
 was educated at old Trinity College, Dublin, and, 
 after graduation, became a minister of the Estab- 
 lished Church. Appointed to a living near Oldcas- 
 tle, he resided there for many years; and there his 
 oldest son, Charles, first drew vital breath, in the 
 year 1829. When this boy was eleven years old the 
 Rev. Nicholas Halpine, growing weary of country 
 life, moved to Dublin where he became editor-in- 
 chief of the Evening Mail, at that time the organ of 
 Protestantism in Ireland. Young Charles accom- 
 panied his father to the metropolis, and, having 
 attained the proper age, entered Trinity College, 
 where he became not only very popular with the 
 students but also a distinguished classical scholar and 
 a linguist of no mean parts. Having finished his 
 course at the University he graduated with honor, 
 
 (188) 
 
184 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 and then turned his mind for some time to the study 
 of medicine. This he discovered to be very uncon- 
 genial to his taste and talent, and, for another short 
 period, his attention was given to the study of Black- 
 stone. But law proved as distasteful to him as 
 medicine. The natural bent of his mind was tow- 
 ards literature, and most of his after years were de- 
 voted to writing for the press. 
 
 When only nineteen years of age he married an 
 amiable and accomplished Irish lady, and thought 
 for a while of leading a quiet life in his native land. 
 Assiduously devoting himself to journalism he found 
 a ready market for his work both in London arid 
 Dublin. His poetic contributions were always in 
 high demand at the offices of the English periodicals, 
 and the Irish newspapers cheerfully paid for his 
 prose articles on the issues of the time. 
 
 But the Greater Ireland was rising in the West, 
 young, vigorous and progressive. The priests, phy- 
 sicians and poets of the Gael were following the Star 
 of Empire in the track of the great Irish exodus; 
 and Halpine, young and hopeful, was drawn into the 
 current and swept along by the outgoing tide. 
 
 Reaching New York in the summer of 1852, about 
 the same time as his college-mate Fitz-James O'Brien, 
 he became connected with the New York Herald. 
 His large literary attainments and prolific genius in 
 a short time asserted themselves and enabled him to 
 
CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 185 
 
 take a prominent place among' the distinguished 
 writers of the country. The leading journals through- 
 out the Union paid him handsomely for articles on 
 various subjects. For some great daily he wrote a 
 leader on the politics of the time; to some leading 
 weekly he contributed a stirring song brimful of 
 Irish wit, and for one or other of the high-standard 
 monthlies he translated some short story that was 
 going the rounds of the French, Italian or German 
 press. 
 
 After a few busy and successful years spent in 
 New York, Mr. Halpine went down to the metropolis 
 of New England to occupy the editorial chair of 
 the Boston Post. Having infused new blood and 
 vigor into the old journal and given it a long lease 
 of life, he formed a partnership with the poet Shilla- 
 ber, and started a comic paper called the Carpet 
 Bag. This literary venture did not prove a pecu- 
 niary success, however, and Halpine returned to New 
 York where he was immediately installed as asso- 
 ciate editor of the Times. 
 
 In 1858 Mr. John Clancy and our author com- 
 menced the publication of the Leader, which in a 
 short time, under their joint control, became a jour- 
 nal not alone of great influence in politics, but 
 also a high-grade literary paper. In the office of 
 the Leader Mr. Halpine labored assiduously until 
 Col. Michael Corcoran began to recruit for the 
 
186 IBLSH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 famous Sixty-ninth, when he joined his fellow- 
 countrymen and went South to defend the Union. 
 
 A lover of freedom and member of the Young 
 Irelanders at home in his native land, he naturally 
 hated slavery in his adopted country, and his pen 
 did effective service in the cause of Abolition. 
 
 When Anthony Burns, a fugitive slave, was re- 
 turned by the authorities to his master in the South, 
 Halpine wrote his remarkable poem, the "Flaunting 
 Lie," which was for a long time attributed to Horace 
 Greeley. He loved to see that freedom which he 
 himself enjoyed under the flag of his adopted coun- 
 try extended to every member of the human race, 
 irrespective of caste or color. That flag he desig- 
 nated a " flaunting lie " so long as it shielded slavery 
 in the South, and he advised the Government to 
 
 Furl, furl the boasted lie! 
 
 Till Freedom lives again, 
 With stature grand and purpose high 
 
 'Among untrammeled men ! 
 Roll up the stany sheen, 
 
 Conceal its bloody stains; 
 For in its folds is seen 
 
 The stamp of rusting chains. 
 
 To extend this freedom to the black man of the 
 South and maintain the integrity of the Republic, 
 Halpine fought manfully at the Battle of Bull Run. 
 Transferred to the command of General David 
 
CHAKLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 187 
 
 Hunter, he became a staff-officer with the rank of 
 Major, and accompanied that General when he was 
 ordered to North Carolina. Here it was that Major 
 Halpine assumed the pen-name of "Miles O'Reilly" 
 and wrote his comical letters and witty songs. In 
 one of those songs he assailed Dahlgren for not 
 attacking Charleston according to his promise. The 
 song attracted a liberal share of public attention and 
 it was mooted abroad that the writer, Private Miles 
 O'Reilly, was imprisoned for his breach of military 
 discipline and would be court-marti ailed in a few 
 days. President Lincoln, on hearing the report and 
 taking it to be true, directed the Secretary of War to 
 issue an order for O'Reilly's release and the post- 
 ponement of his trial. Here the gifted Celt enthu- 
 siastically applied himself to the study of military 
 tactics, and in a comparatively short space of time 
 he was considered one of the best-informed officers 
 in the service on military affairs. It was he that 
 suggested the use of colored troops to General Hun- 
 ter, by whom the negroes were first turned to good 
 account as soldiers. 
 
 Recognizing his worth, the authorities promoted 
 Major Halpine to the rank of Colonel and transferred 
 him to the staff of Major-General Halleck, with whom 
 he went into active service in the Shenandoah Valley. 
 On the march towards Staunton he was the very soul 
 and centre of the army, acknowledged by all as the 
 
188 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 most daring in battle, the best story-teller in camp, 
 and the first to sympathize with and come to the 
 assistance of an afflicted associate in arms. Such 
 was the general verdict given by his comrades of 
 Col. C. G. Halpine before he resigned his commis- 
 sion towards the close of the Civil War. 
 
 When his command was ordered to Washington, 
 in consideration of efficient services rendered, he was 
 raised to the rank of Brigadier-General of Volunteers 
 and gazetted Major in the regular army. But here 
 he grew weary of inactive life. The cause of Free- 
 dom was triumphant. He could not expect to ren- 
 der much more service to his adopted country in 
 the capacity of soldier, and seeing that the struggle 
 was virtually ended he tendered his resignation to 
 the Government. The War Department conferred 
 upon him the rank of Major-General by brevet, and 
 sheathing his sword he once more assumed the pen 
 in the office of the New York Citizen. 
 
 After the close of the war he was elected to the 
 important and lucrative position of City Registrar, 
 which office he filled to the morning of his death. 
 
 When the wires flashed, the Fall of Richmond to 
 New York the people almost went wild with joy. 
 No class rejoiced over the triumph of the Govern- 
 ment more heartily than the citizens of Irish birth, 
 and, fired by the inspiration of the glad tidings, 
 General Halpine gave expression and form to their 
 
CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 189 
 
 loyal feelings in a remarkable poem from which the 
 following verses are quoted: 
 
 MUSHA, glory to God! for the news you have sint, 
 Wid your own purty fist, Mister Presidint Linkin! 
 And may God be around both the bed and the tint 
 Where our bully boy Grant does his aitin and thinkin'. 
 
 Even Stanton, to-night, we'll confess he was right 
 Whin he played the ould scratch wid our have-you-his-carkiss; 
 And to gallant " Phil Sherry" we'll drink wid delight, 
 On whose bright plume of fame not a spot o' the dark is ! 
 
 Let the chapels be opened, the altars illumed, 
 
 An' the mad bells ring out from aich turret an shteeple ; 
 
 Let the chancels wid flowers be adorned an' perfumed 
 
 While the soggarths God bless 'em give thanks for the people. 
 
 For the city is ours that " Mac" sought from the start, 
 An' our boys thro' its streets " Hail Columbia " are yellhV; 
 An' there's peace in the air, an' there's pride in the heart, 
 An' our flag has a fame that no tongue can be tellin'. 
 
 Who but a genuine Irish poet could give fitting 
 expression to the patriotic feelings of gladness that 
 filled every Irish heart on that eventful day ! Hal- 
 pine's heart was Irish to the core and therefore 
 ardently devoted to the institutions of the Republic. 
 Ireland was his mother; Columbia his spouse. What 
 he thought of his mother may be learned from his 
 splendid poem, " Stamping Out," which was written 
 in reply to an editorial in the London Times. The 
 editor of the British Thunderer said: 
 
190 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 " We must stamp out the fires of this Fenian insurrection, 
 and quench its embers in the blood of the wretches who are its 
 promoters. " 
 
 The fire of patriotism which had smoldered in the 
 breast of his loyal father was fanned to a flame by the 
 brutal threats of the Times, and Halpine exclaimed- 
 Aye, stamp away! Can you stamp it out, 
 This quenchless fire of a Nation's Freedom ? 
 
 Before General Halpine had attained to the age of 
 forty, death overtook and snatched him from the 
 scene of his labors and with the laurels fresh upon 
 his brow. He died in the Astor House, New York, 
 on the morning of the 3d of August, 1868, from the 
 effects of a drug taken for insomnia. His life went 
 out under circumstances much similar to those which 
 attended the closing scene of the late John Boyle 
 O'Reilly's remarkable career. There was a great 
 deal in common between the two men, mentally and 
 physically. 
 
 General Halpine was a splendid type of Celtic 
 manhood tall, stout and well proportioned. His 
 bearing was soldierly and commanding to such a 
 degree as to make him a marked man in any 
 gathering of people. In manners he was amiable, 
 courteous and refined, while his disposition to assist 
 the poor and unfortunate was such that no deserving 
 person ever appealed to him in vain. His death was 
 a great loss to periodical literature, and it has caused 
 
CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 191 
 
 a vacancy in New York which will not soon be filled 
 by another "Private Miles O'Reilly." 
 
 Following are a few of General Halpine's poems: 
 
 ON RAISING A MONUMENT TO THE IRISH LEGION, 
 
 To raise a column o'er the dead. 
 
 To strew with flowers the graves of those 
 Who, long ago, in storms of lead, 
 And where the bolts of battle sped, 
 
 Beside us faced our Southern foes; 
 To honor these th' unshriv'n, unhearsed 
 
 To-day we sad survivors come, 
 With colors draped, and arms reversed, 
 And all our souls in gloom immersed, 
 
 With silent fife and muffled drum. 
 
 In mournful guise our banners wave ; 
 
 Black clouds above the "sunburst" lower; 
 W T e mourn the true, the young, the brave 
 Who, for this land that shelter gave, 
 
 Drew swords in peril's deadliest hour 
 For Irish soldiers fighting here 
 
 As when Lord Clare was bid advance, 
 And Cumberland beheld with fear 
 The old green banners swinging clear 
 
 To shield the broken lines of France. 
 
 We mourn them ; not because they died 
 
 In battle, for our destined race, 
 In every field of warlike pride, 
 From Limerick's wall to India's tide 
 
 Have borne our flag to foremost place ; 
 
192 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 As if each sought the soldier's trade, 
 
 While some dim hope within him glows, 
 
 Before he dies, in line arrayed, 
 
 To see the old green flag displayed 
 For final fight with Ireland's foes. 
 
 For such a race the soldier's death 
 
 Seems not a cruel death to die, 
 Around their names a laurel wreath , 
 A wild cheer as the parting breath 
 
 On which their spirits mount the sky; 
 Oh, had their hope been only won, 
 
 On Irish soil their final fight, 
 And had they seen, ere sinking down, 
 Our em'rald torn from England's crown, 
 
 Each dead face would have flashed with light. 
 
 But vain are words to check the tide 
 
 Of widowed grief and orphaned woe; 
 Again we see them by our side, 
 As, full of youth and strength and pride, 
 
 They first went forth to meet the foe ! 
 Their kindling eyes, their steps elate, 
 
 Their grief at parting hid in mirth; 
 Against our foes no spark of hate , 
 No wish but to preserve the State 
 
 That welcomes all th' oppressed of earth. 
 
 Not a new Ireland to invoke, 
 
 To guard the flag was all they sought; 
 Not to make others feel the yoke 
 Of Poland, feel the shot and stroke 
 Of those who in the legion fought; 
 
CHARLES GRAHAM H ALPINE. 193 
 
 Upon our great flag's azure field 
 
 To hold unharmed each starry gem 
 This cause on many a bloody field, 
 Thinned out by death, they would not yield 
 
 It was the world's last hope to them. 
 
 Oh ye, the small surviving band, 
 
 Oh, Ivish race wherever spread, 
 With wailing voice and wringing hand, 
 And the wild kaoine of the dear old land, 
 
 Think of her Legion's countless dead! 
 Struck out of life by ball or blade, 
 
 Or torn in fragments by the shell, 
 With briefest prayer by brother made , 
 And rudely in their blankets laid, 
 
 Now sleep the brave who fought so well. 
 
 Their widows tell them not of pride, 
 
 No laurel checks the orphan's tear; 
 They only feel the world is wide, 
 And dark , and hard nor help nor guide 
 
 No husband's arm, no father near; 
 But at their nod our fields were won, 
 
 And pious pity for their loss 
 In streams of gen'rous aid should run 
 To help them say: " Thy will be done/' 
 
 As bent in grief they kiss the Cross. 
 
 Then for the soldiers and their chief 
 
 Let all combine a shaft to raise 
 The double type of pride and grief, 
 With many a sculpture and relief 
 
 To tell their tale to after days; 14 
 
194 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 And here will shine our proudest boast 
 
 While one of Irish blood survives: 
 * ' Sacred to that unf alt 'ring host 
 Of soldiers from a distant coast . 
 Who f >r the Union gave their lives. 
 
 " Welcomed they were with generous hand, 
 
 And to that welcome nobly true. 
 When war's dread tocsin filled the land. 
 With sinewy arm and swinging brand. 
 
 These exiles to the rescue flew. 
 Their fealty to the flag they gave, 
 
 And for the Union, daring death. 
 Foremost among the foremost brave, 
 They welcomed vict'iy and the grave, 
 
 In the same sigh of parting breath." 
 
 Thus be their modest history penned, 
 
 But not with this our love must cease; 
 Let pray ere from pious hearts ascend, 
 And o'er their ashes let us blend 
 
 All feuds and factions into peace. 
 Oh, men of Ireland! here unite 
 
 Around the graves of those we love, 
 And from their homes of endless light 
 The Legion's dead will bless the sight, 
 
 And rain down anthems from above ! 
 
 Here to this shrine by reverence led, 
 Let Love her sacred lessons teach ; 
 Shoulder to shoulder rise the dead, 
 From many a trench with battle red. 
 And thus I hear their ghostly speech: 
 
CHARLES G1UHAM IIALPINE. 195 
 
 ' ' Oh , for the old earth , and our sake , 
 
 Renounce all feuds, engendering fear, 
 And Ireland from her trance shall wake, 
 Striving once more her chains to break 
 
 When all her sons are brothers here. " 
 
 I see our Meagher's plume of green, 
 
 Approving nod to hear the words, 
 And Corcoran's wraith applauds the scene, 
 And bold Mat Murphy smiles, I ween 
 
 All three with hands on ghastly swords 
 Oh, for their sake, whose names of light 
 
 Flash out like beacons from dark shores 
 Men of the old race! in your might, 
 All factions quelled, again unite 
 
 With you the Green Flag sinks or soars ! 
 
 JANETTE'S HAIR. 
 
 OH! loosen the snood that you wear, Janette, 
 
 Let me tangle a hand in your hair, my pet; 
 For the world to me had no daintier sight 
 Than your brown hair veiling your shoulders white, 
 
 As I tangled a hand in your hair, my pet. 
 
 It was brown, with a golden gloss, Janette, 
 It was finer than silk of the floss, my pet; 
 
 'T was a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist; 
 
 Twas a thing to be braided, and jeweled and kissed; 
 T was the loveliest hair in the world, my pet. 
 
196 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, 
 It was sinewy, bristled, and brown, my pet; 
 But warmly and softly it loved to caress 
 Your round white neck and your wealth of tress 
 Your beautiful plenty of hair, my pet. 
 
 Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette, 
 
 Revealing the old, dear story, my pet; 
 
 They were gray with that chastened tinge of the sky, 
 When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly, 
 
 And they matched with your golden hair, my pet. 
 
 Your lips but I have no words, Janette 
 They were fresh as the twitter of birds, my pet; 
 When the spring is young, and the roses are wet 
 With the dewdrops in each red bosom set, 
 And they suited your gold-brown hair, my pet. 
 
 Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette, 
 T was a silken and golden snare, my pet; 
 
 But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore 
 The right to continue your slave evermore, 
 With my fingers enmeshed in your hair, my pet. 
 
 Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, 
 With your lips, and your eyes, and your hair, my pet; 
 In the darkness of desolate years I moan, 
 And my tears fall bitterly over the stone 
 That covers your golden hair, my pet. 
 
CHARLES GRAHAM H ALPINE. 197 
 
 NOT A STAR FROM THE FLAG SHALL FADE. 
 
 OCH ! a rare ould flag was the flag we bore 
 
 'T was a bully ould flag an' nice ; 
 It had stripes in plenty, and stare galore 
 
 'T was the broth of a purty device. 
 Faix, we carried it South, an' we carried it far, 
 
 And around it our bivouacs made ; 
 An' we swore by the shamrock that never a slitar . 
 
 From its azure field should fade. 
 
 Ay, this was the oath, I tell you thrue, 
 
 That was sworn in the souls of our boys in blue. 
 
 The fight it grows thick, an' our boys they fall, 
 
 An' the shells like a banshee scream; 
 An* the flag it is torn by many a ball 
 
 But yield it we never dhream. 
 Though pierced by bullets, ^et still it bears 
 
 All the stare in its tatthered field, 
 An' again the brigade, like to one man swears, 
 
 " Not a shtar from the flag we yield!" 
 
 T was the deep, hot oath, I tell you thrue, 
 That lay close to the hearts of the boys in blue. 
 
 Shure the fight it was won, afther many a year, 
 
 But two-thirds of the boys who bore 
 That flag from their wives and sweethearts dear 
 
 Returned to their homes no more. 
 They died by the bullet disease had power, 
 
 An' to death they were rudely tossed; 
 But the thought came warm in their dying hour, 
 
 " Not a shtar from that flag is lost ! " 
 
198 IRISH POETS AI\D NOVELISTS: 
 
 Then they said their pathers and aves through, 
 An', like Irishmen, died did our boys in blue. 
 
 But now they tell us some shtars are gone, 
 
 Torn out by the rebel gale; 
 That the shtars we fought for, the States we won, 
 
 Are still out of the Union's pale. 
 May their sowls in the dioul's hot kitchen glow 
 
 Who sing such a lying sh train; 
 By the dead in their graves it shall not be so 
 
 They shall have what they died to gain 
 
 All the shtars in our flag shall still shine through 
 The grass growing soft o'er our dead in blue ! 
 
 STAMPING OUT 
 
 [We must stamp out the fires of this Fenian insurrection, and quench ite 
 embers in the blood of the wretches who are its promoters London Times. ] 
 
 Aye, stamp away! Can you stamp it out 
 
 This quenchless fire of a Nation's Freedom ? 
 Your feet are broad and your legs are stout, 
 
 But stouter far for this you'll need 'em ' 
 You have stamped away for six hundred years, 
 
 But again and again the old cause rallies; 
 Pikes gleam in the hands of our mountaineers, 
 
 And with scythes come the men from our valleys. 
 
 The steel-clad Norman, as he roams, 
 Is faced by our naked gallow-glasses; 
 
 We lost the plains and our pleasant homes, 
 But we held the fields and passes ! 
 
CHARLES GRAHAM H ALPINE. 199 
 
 And still the beltone fires at night 
 
 If not a man were left to feed 'em 
 By widows' hands piled high and bright, 
 
 Flashed for the flame of Freedom ! 
 
 Aye , stamp away ! Can you stamp it out, 
 
 Or how have your brutal arts been baffled ? 
 You have wielded the power of rope and knot, 
 
 Fire, dungeon, sword and scaffold 
 But still , as from each martyr's hand 
 
 The Fiery Cross fell down in fighting, 
 A thousand sprang to seize the brand, 
 
 Our beltone fires re-lighting! 
 
 And once again through Irish nights, 
 
 O'er every dark hill redly streaming, 
 And numerous as the heavenly lights, 
 
 Our rebel fires were gleaming! 
 And though again might fall that flame, 
 
 Quenched in the blood of its devoted, 
 Fresh chieftains rose , fresh clansmen came 
 
 And again the Old Flag floated. 
 
 That fire will burn, that flag will float 
 
 By Virtue nursed, by Valor rended 
 Till with one fierce clutch upon your throat 
 
 Your Moloch reign is ended ! 
 It may be now, or it may be then, 
 
 That the hour will come we have hoped for ages 
 But, failing and foiling, we try again, 
 
 And again the conflict rages. 
 
200 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Our hate, though hot, is a patient hate 
 
 Deadly and patient to catch you tripping, 
 And your eyes are many, your crimes are great, 
 
 And the sceptre is from you slipping. 
 But, stamp away with your brutal hoof, 
 
 While the fires to scorch you are upward cleaving, 
 For with bloody shuttles, the warp and woof 
 
 Of your shroud the Fates are weaving! 
 
 THE FLAUNTING LIE. 
 
 ALL hail the flaunting Lie ! 
 
 The stars grow pale and dim 
 The stripes are bloody scars, 
 
 A lie the flaunting hymn ! 
 It shields a pirate's deck, 
 
 It binds a man in chains, 
 And round the captive's neck 
 
 Its folds are bloody stains. 
 
 Tear down the flaunting Lie ! 
 
 Half-mast the starry flag ! 
 Insult no sunny sky 
 
 With this polluted rag ! 
 Destroy it, ye who can! 
 
 Deep sink it in the waves ! 
 It bears a fellow-rnan 
 
 To groan with fellow-slaves. 
 
 Awake the burning scorn 
 
 The vengeance long and deep, 
 That, till a better morn, 
 
 Shall neither tire nor sleep ! 
 
CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE. 201 
 
 Swear once again the vow, 
 
 By all we hope or dream, 
 That what we suffer now 
 
 The future shall redeem. 
 
 Furl, furl the boasted Lie! 
 
 Till Freedom lives again, 
 With stature grand and purpose high 
 
 Among untrammeled men ! 
 Roll up the starry sheen, 
 
 Conceal its bloody stains; 
 For in its folds are seen 
 
 The stamp of rusty chains. 
 
 Swear, Freemen all as one 
 
 To spurn the flaunting Lie ! 
 Till peace and Truth and Love 
 
 Shall till the brooding sky; 
 Then floating in the air, 
 
 O'er hill, and dale, and sea, 
 'T will stand forever fair, 
 
 The emblem of the Free! 
 
 SAMBO'S RIGHT TO BE KILT. 
 
 SOME say it is a burnin' .shame 
 
 To make the naygurs fight, 
 An' that the thrade o' bein' kilt 
 Belongs but to the white. 
 But as for me, upon me sowl, 
 
 So liberal are we here, 
 I'll let Sambo be murthered in place o' myself 
 
 On eveiy day in the year. 
 
202 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 On every day in the year, boys, 
 An' every hour in the day, 
 
 The right to be kilt I'll divide with him, 
 An' divil a word I'll say. 
 
 In battle's wild commotion 
 
 I shouldn't at all object, 
 If Sambo's body should stop a ball 
 
 That was comin' for me direct; 
 An' the prod of a Southern bagnet, 
 
 So liberal are we here, 
 I'll resign, and let Sambo take it 
 
 On every day in the year. 
 
 On every day in the year, boys, 
 An' wid none o' your nasty pride, 
 
 All my right in Southern bagnet-prod 
 Wid Sambo I'll divide. 
 
 The men who object to Sambo 
 
 Should take his place and fight, 
 An' it's betther to have a naygur's hue 
 
 Than a liver that's wake an' white; 
 Though Sambo's as black as the ace o' spades 
 
 His finger a thrigger can pull, 
 An' his eye runs straight on the barrel-sights 
 
 From under his thatch o' wool. 
 
 So hear me all, boys, daiiin's! 
 
 Don't think I'm tippin' you chaff, 
 The right to be kilt I'll divide wid him, 
 
 An' give him the largest half ! 
 
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF "GOUGANE BAERA." 
 
 HERE is a romantic islet in Clonakilty Bay, 
 on the south coast of Ireland, where the sub- 
 ject of this memoir wrote his " Childe Harold " 
 "The Recluse of Inchidony." He was truly the 
 poet of nature, who found pleasure among the gloomy 
 glens of Desmond and " rapture on the lonely shore" 
 of Inchidony. There he communed with nature for 
 a considerable space of time and wrote that splendid 
 poem entitled "Gougane Barra," which Allibone, the 
 biographical compiler and literary critic, designates 
 as "the most perfect, perhaps, of all minor Irish 
 poems, in the melody of its rhythm, the soft, sweet 
 flow of its language and the weird force of its expres- 
 sion." A tradition connected with the shores of his 
 wild retreat suggested another of his pieces, " The 
 Virgin Mary's Bank." 
 
 James Joseph Callanan was born in the city of 
 Cork, in May, 1 795. His parents were in good cir- 
 cumstances, and gave the future poet all the educa- 
 tional advantages that could be had at that time in 
 his native city. Mrs. Callanan, a lady of piety and 
 
 (203) 
 
204 
 
 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 culture, directed the thoughts and aspirations of her 
 son towards the sacred ministry, from his boyhood. 
 
 Having made his classical studies in one of the 
 many Latin schools for which the city of St. Finn- 
 Barr has always been remarkable, he passed an ex- 
 aminaton for the ecclesiastical seminary of May- 
 
 nooth and entered there in 1812, when he was but 
 seventeen years of age. 
 
 Two years of student life in Maynooth convinced 
 both his spiritual director and himself that he had 
 no vocation to the sacred priesthood, and he left the 
 Seminary to enter Trinity College as an outpensioner. 
 
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 205 
 
 Owing to the thorough course of training which he 
 had received in Maynooth, his progress at Trinity 
 was both easy and rapid. In belles-lettres he excelled, 
 and during his University course took the Vice- 
 Chancellor's prizes for poetry and rhetoric. One of 
 his prize poems had for its subject the " Restoration 
 of the Spoils of Athens;" another, the " Accession of 
 George the Fourth." The latter theme, doubtless, 
 could have very little inspiration for one who loved 
 his country as tenderly and sincerely as Callanan 
 did. After devoting four years to hard study and 
 winning an enviable distinction in the best educa- 
 tional institutions of his country, young Callanan 
 returned to Cork. During his absence both his par- 
 ents had died; the friends of boyhood's days were 
 scattered far and wide, and those scenes that were so 
 dear to him in former years seemed to have lost their 
 charms. In the state of mind produced by those 
 changes, he joined a regiment of Irish soldiers which 
 was on the eve of leaving for Malta. Fortunately 
 some patriotic friends interfered in time to buy him 
 out of the service before the troops started from Cove, 
 and the poetic literature of their country profited by 
 the act. Shortly after his release, he was engaged as 
 tutor in the family of Mr. M. F. McCarthy of Mill- 
 street, a little town romantically situated on the 
 Blackwater. While acting in this capacity Callanan 
 found time to study the ancient Irish, and gather 
 
206 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 from the peasantry of the neighboring glens those 
 songs which he afterwards translated with so much 
 felicity and force into the English tongue. 
 
 Growing weary of his tutorship in Millstreet, he 
 returned once more to Cork, where he obtained a 
 position in the celebrated school of the learned 
 Dr. William Maginn who, like himself, was a 
 graduate of Trinity. The Doctor was a man of 
 keen discernment, and soon discovered that his 
 assistant possessed talents of a high order. He 
 encouraged him to translate the relics of the Mun- 
 ster bards, and introduced him to Blackwood's Maga- 
 zine, to which the Doctor himself had been for 
 some years a valued contributor. In that year 
 1823 six translations from the Gaelic language ap- 
 peared in Blackwood's from the pen of " a new Irish 
 poet." The poet was Callanan; and subsequently any 
 literary contribution that bore the mark of his genius 
 was welcomed to the editor's table. The shy, sensi- 
 tive tutor had now found a friend in his fellow- 
 townsman, and a broader sphere for the display of his 
 talents in Mr. Blackwood's publication, and he was 
 determined to make good use of his genius and 
 acquirements. But, unfortunately, the friend and 
 patron who had already won a wide popularity as the 
 " Sir Morgan O'Doherty " of Blackwood's soon gave up 
 his school, and emigrated to London for the purpose 
 of devoting all his time to literature. In London, 
 
JAMES JOSEPH CALLA.NAN. 207 
 
 Dr. Maginn became one of the most learned and 
 prolific writers of his age. So, in 1823, poor Cal- 
 lanan again found himself without an occupation. 
 Had he followed his friend to London there was 
 ample work for him to do on the countless publica- 
 tions of that monster city. But he loved his native 
 land too dearly to leave it, and he now resolved to 
 struggle at home. 
 
 Then it was that he took up his residence in the 
 little island above mentioned. From this strange, 
 wild abode he made frequent excursions along the 
 sea-coast of the County Cork, admiring the savage 
 grandeur of the scenery, and collecting from the 
 simple and generous people of those regions the 
 legends and traditions which had been handed down 
 to them through many generations. 
 
 A close student of his country's history, the strug- 
 gles of the brave but honest Gael against the crafty 
 and faithless invader had for him an absorbing 
 interest, and he devoted much of his time to collect- 
 ing and preserving any records that were calculated 
 to serve the future historian in meting out justice to 
 a traduced and injured people. He was also an 
 ardent lover of Nature, and the finest imagery we 
 find in his poems is not borrowed from the ancient 
 classics in which he was deeply versed, but taken 
 from those inspiring objects that constitute the glori- 
 ous scenery of " deep-valley'd Desmond." 
 
208 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Every stream, rock and river, every storied pass, 
 sombre glen and hoary fane, every giant cliff that 
 bares its breast to the tossing billows of the Atlantic, 
 every ruined fort and mountain lake from the Lee 
 around to the Kenmare river was as familiar to him 
 as the morning prayer which he never failed to recite. 
 Among those scenes he wandered day after day, lured 
 on by the spirit of Song and the voice of Nature, as 
 he tells us in one of his long poems: 
 
 Spirit of Song! since first I wooed thy smile, 
 How many a sorrow hath this bosom known 
 
 How many false ones did its truth beguile, 
 From THEE and NATURE ! While around it strown 
 Lay shattered hopes and feelings, THOU alone 
 
 Above my path of darkness brightly rose, 
 
 Yielding thy light when other light was gone: 
 
 Oh, be thou still the soother of my woes, 
 
 Till the low voice of Death shall call me to repose. 
 
 During his wanderings through the picturesque 
 barony of Beara, he succeeded in collecting a great 
 deal of information relative to local chiefs. Where 
 the village of Castle town nestles, at the western 
 extremity of Bantry Bay, in an angle of the Caha 
 hills, he found the manuscript of a poem which 
 stands unrivaled in the whole range of Gaelic com- 
 position, both for energy of expression and vehe- 
 mence of malediction. In the translation Callanan 
 has admirably retained its primitive power and 
 
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 209 
 
 vigor while adding to it those graces of euphony and 
 diction which characterize all his verses. This 
 piece is called "The Dirge of O'Sullivan Beare," sup- 
 posed to have been composed by the old nurse of the 
 murdered Chief, whose cruel fate is a striking illus- 
 tration of the brutal treatment received by the native 
 gentry at the hands of Anglo-Norman marauders. 
 Mortimer O'Sullivan, commonly called "Morty 
 Oge," was a descendant of 
 
 * 
 
 "Donal of the ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted/' 
 
 and a young man whose mettle had been tried in the 
 wars of Maria Teresa. After the battle of Fontenoy, 
 he received a commission in the Irish Brigade serving 
 in France, and was dispatched to Ireland in the 
 interest of his regiment. The gallant young soldier 
 naturally directed his course to that part of the 
 Green Isle over which his ancestors had reigned 
 since the close of the tenth century. As a scion of the 
 House of Beara, he was received with open arms by 
 the native population, and his recruiting expedition 
 became a pronounced success. A fine brigantine, 
 which he named the " Clann-na-Darra," after a sept 
 in his native place, carried the "Wild Geese," from 
 certain inlets of the Kenmare river, and from the 
 little harbor of Beal-a-Cravaun to convenient ports 
 in France. The young Colonel managed to win over 
 
 15 
 
210 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 to his standard a company of red-coats beneath 
 which pulsated warm Irish hearts just on the eve of 
 their departure from the city of Cork. This daring 
 act aroused the Government authorities and cast 
 some reflections on Mr. Puxley, the revenue officer 
 for the district in which the recruiting was chiefly 
 done. Puxley, who was himself a poltroon and the 
 son of a poltroon, took care to avoid a conflict with 
 O'Sullivan, whose reputation for skill and courage 
 was well known in the south of Ireland. But when 
 he ascertained that Colonel O'Sullivan was away on 
 the coast of France, he marched at the head of a 
 company of yeoman across the narrow neck of land 
 that divides Castletown harhor from Coulach Bay 
 with the heroic resolution of proving to the Govern- 
 ment that he was an active and efficient officer. 
 While in the neighborhood of the Irish officer's 
 former home he received information to the effect 
 that Denis O'Sullivan, a near kinsman to MortyOge, 
 resided there, and always extended the hospitality of 
 his house to the young chief whenever he came into 
 the vicinity. 
 
 Mr. D. O'Sullivan, who owned a smuggling craft, 
 was at the time somewhere on the coast of Galway; 
 but his wife (a fine old lady of three score) with a 
 serving girl was at home. Directing the footsteps 
 of his gallant yeomen to this house, Mr. Puxley had 
 
JAMES JOSEPH C ALLAN AN. 211 
 
 the doors and windows nailed up, and then setting 
 fire to the building, watched with complacency and 
 pleasure the progress of the flames. 
 
 Fortunately Mrs. 0' Sullivan and her servant de- 
 scended to the cellar and escaped through a subter- 
 ranean passage. A cat, driven by the heat on to the 
 burning rafters mewed most piteously while the 
 flames lapped everything within reach. Taking the 
 mewing of the cat for the dying groans of the noble 
 old lady, Puxley exclaimed in the midst of his 
 "loyall companie," " Hearken ye the squeals of the 
 old Papist!" 
 
 Subsequently this fiendish fellow being informed 
 that the husband of the old lady, whom he had 
 supposed to be dead, was landing some cases of 
 goods in the little cove of Pouleen, hastened to 
 the spot and from behind a huge rock, still pointed 
 out by tradition, shot down the old man in cold 
 blood. After this the authorities could not complain 
 of his inactivity. 
 
 Vengeance, however, was near at hand. On the 
 return of Col. 0' Sullivan the appalling news met 
 him on his native shore. Immediately mounting 
 his horse he rode over a spur of the Caha hills which 
 separates Coulach from Dunbuie (then the residence 
 of the revenue officer). At a short distance from 
 that ancient stronghold of the O'Sullivans he met 
 
212 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Puxley, who was also on horseback. A flash ! and 
 the latter fell to the ground mortally wounded. His 
 wife, who accompanied him on that morning, seeing 
 her husband fall, rode back terror-stricken to the 
 Castle of Dunbuie. 
 
 " Let her not escape to tell the tale," exclaimed 
 O'Sullivan's orderly. " Never/' replied the Colonel, 
 " shall it be said that an O'Sullivan shot a woman." 
 
 About nine months had passed away and Colonel 
 O'Sullivan was back again in his ancestral home by 
 the Atlantic. A company of soldiers came around 
 from Cork under the command of Capt. Fitzsimons, 
 and proceeded in the darkness of a rainy night to 
 the house where O'Sullivan was stopping. It is said 
 that one of his trusty men, named Scully, wet his 
 master's powder, and betrayed him into the hands of 
 the enemy. 
 
 The following translation by our author tells the 
 rest of that blood-stained and barbarous tale: 
 
 DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEARE. 
 
 THE sun on Ivera 
 
 No longer shines brightly; 
 The voice of her music 
 
 No longer is sprightly; 
 No more to her maidens 
 
 The light dance is dear, 
 Since the death of our darling, 
 
 O'Sullivan Beare. 
 
 
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 213 
 
 Scully! thou false one; 
 
 You basely betrayed him, 
 In his strong hour of need, 
 
 When thy right hand should aid him. 
 He fed thee he clad thee 
 
 You had all could delight thee; 
 You left him you sold him 
 
 May Heaven requite thee ! 
 
 Scully ! may all kinds 
 
 Of evil attend thee ! 
 On thy dark road of life 
 
 May no kind one befriend thee! 
 May fevers long burn thee , 
 
 And agues long freeze thee 
 May the strong hand of God 
 
 In his red anger seize thee I 
 
 Had he died calmly, 
 
 I would not deplore him ; 
 Or if the wild strife 
 
 Of the sea- war closed o'er him; 
 But with ropes 'round his white limb* 
 
 Through oceans to trail him, 
 Like a fish after slaughter, 
 
 T is therefore I wail him. 
 
 Long may the curse 
 
 Of his people pursue them; 
 Scully, that sold him, 
 
 And soldiers that slew him ! 
 
214 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 One glimpse of Heaven's light 
 
 May they see never ! 
 May the hearth-stone of hell 
 
 Be their best bed forever! 
 
 In the hole which the vile hands 
 
 Of soldiers had made thee , 
 [Jnhonored, unshrouded, 
 
 And headless they laid thee. 
 No sigh to regret thee, 
 
 No eye to rain o'er thee , 
 No dirge to lament thee , 
 
 No friend to deplore thee ! 
 
 Dear head of my darling, 
 
 How gory and pale 
 These aged eyes see thee, 
 
 High spiked on the jail ! 
 That cheek in the summer sun 
 
 Ne'er shall grow warm ; 
 Nor that eye e'er catch light, 
 
 But the flash of the storm ! 
 
 A curse, blessed ocean, 
 
 Is on thy green water, 
 From the haven of Cork, 
 
 To Ivera of slaughter; 
 Since the billows were dyed 
 
 With the red wounds of fear 
 Of Muiertach Oge, 
 
 Our O'SullivanBeare! 
 
JAMES JOSEPH CALL AN AN. 215 
 
 From 1823 to 1828 Callanan devoted all his time 
 to the congenial task of collecting and translating 
 those Irish manuscripts that escaped the vandalism 
 of the invader. For this work he was highly quali- 
 fied, according to the opinion of J. F. Waller, him- 
 self a poet of rare gifts and varied acquirements. 
 
 " Thoroughly acquainted/' writes Mr. Waller, " with 
 the romantic legends of his country, he was singu- 
 larly happy in the graces and power of language, and 
 the feeling and beauty of his sentiments. There is 
 in his compositions little of that high classicality 
 which marks the scholar; but they are full of exquis- 
 ite simplicity and tenderness, and in his description 
 of natural scenery he stands unrivaled." 
 
 Critics, of course, are not wanting who think our 
 author might have done more, had he applied his 
 well-cultivated mind more closely. About what he 
 might have done we care very little ; but for what he 
 has done we are grateful, and cherish his memory. 
 For critics and fault-finders there should be little 
 respect. Their strictures and opinions should pass 
 unheeded. Though they do not build, they are 
 nearly always pulling down. They are wreckers, and, 
 like those who lure mariners to destruction, they do 
 their work in the darkness. 
 
 It must be remembered that Callanan suffered for 
 many years from consumption, and finally sue- 
 
216 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 / 
 
 cumbed to that insidious disease. When its effects 
 were severely telling on his strength, in 1829 he 
 went as tutor with the family of a Mr. Hickey of 
 Cork, to Lisbon, indulging the fond hope that the 
 balmy air of a southern clime would restore his 
 shattered health. 
 
 After a few months' residence in Lisbon he grew 
 worse and suffered much mental agony from the fear 
 of dying in a foreign land. His ardent desire was 
 to be buried in Ireland. He craved to be taken back 
 to his own land in order that his ashes might mingle 
 with the land of his fondest affections. But vain 
 were his desires. He died in the capital of Portu- 
 gal, September 19, 1829, and 
 
 ' ' By the strangers' heedless hand 
 His lonely grave was made. " 
 
 At the age of thirty-four he resigned his pure and 
 gentle spirit into the hands of his Divine Master, 
 leaving behind him a reputation for scholarly 
 attainments, fidelity to the cause of Ireland and 
 devotion to the faith of his fathers. He was buried 
 not in the churchyard of the Irish Franciscans at 
 Lisbon, as has been said, but in the church of San 
 Jose, which was at that time in possession of the 
 Jesuits. The highly ornamental facade of that 
 church still stands, but the grave of James Joseph 
 Callanan is nameless and unknown. 
 
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 217 
 
 The last edition of his poems was published by 
 Daniel Mulcahy, Cork, in 1861. The biographical 
 notes of this, as well as of the earlier editions, are 
 very poorly written, arid do but little justice to the 
 character of that pious, high-souled and generous 
 man. The poems of this gentle bard are not numer- 
 ous; but such is the excellence of their quality that 
 they have been widely copied into our public school 
 books here, and are destined to transmit to coming 
 generations the unsullied name of their gifted author. 
 
 GOUGANE BARRA. 
 
 THERE is a green island in lone Gougane Barra, 
 
 Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow; 
 
 In deep-valley'd Desmond a thousand wild fountains 
 
 Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains, 
 
 There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow 
 
 Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow ; 
 
 As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning, 
 
 It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning. 
 
 And its zone of dark hills oh, to see them all bright 'ning, 
 When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning, 
 And the waters rush down, 'mid the thunder's deep rattle, 
 Like clans from the hills at the voice of the battle; 
 And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming, 
 And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming. 
 Oh! where is the dwelling in valley, or highland, 
 So meet for a bard as this lone little island ? 
 
218 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara 
 And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera, 
 Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean 
 And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion, 
 And thought of thy bards, when, assembling together, 
 In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather, 
 They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter, 
 And waked their last song by the rush of thy water ! 
 
 High sons of the lyre, oh! how proud was the feeling, 
 
 To think while alone through that solitude stealing, 
 
 Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number, 
 
 I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber, 
 
 And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains 
 
 The songs even echo forgot on her mountains; 
 
 And gleaned each grey legend, that darkly was sleeping 
 
 Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty were creeping! 
 
 Least bard of the hilLs ! were it mine to inherit 
 
 The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit, 
 
 With the wrongs which like thee to our country have bound me. 
 
 Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me, 
 
 Still still in those wilds may young liberty rally, 
 
 And send her strong shout over mountain and valley; 
 
 The star of the west may yet rise in its glory, 
 
 And the land that was darkest be brightest in story. 
 
 I, too, shall be gone; but my name shall be spoken 
 When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken; 
 Some minstrel will come, in the summer eve's gleaming, 
 When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming, 
 
JAMES JOSEPH CALL AN AN. 219 
 
 And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion, 
 Where calm Avon-JBuie seeks the kisses of ocean, 
 Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that river, 
 O'er the heart, and the harp that are sleeping forever. 
 
 THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK. 
 
 THE evening-star rose beauteous above the fading day, 
 As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came to pray; 
 And hill and wave shone brightly in the moonlight's mellow fall; 
 But the bank of green where Mary knelt was brightest of them 
 all. 
 
 Slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark appeared, 
 
 And her joyous crew look'd from the deck as to the land she 
 
 near'd; 
 
 To the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like a swan, 
 And her wings of snow o'er the waves below in pride and 
 
 beauty shone. 
 
 The master saw our Lady as he stood upon the prow, 
 
 And mark'd the whiteness of her robe and the radiance of her 
 
 brow; 
 
 Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stainless breast, 
 And her eyes looked up among the stars to Him her soul lov'd 
 
 best. 
 
 He show'd her to his sailors, and he hail'd her with a cheer; 
 And on the kneeling Virgin they gazed with laugh and jeer; 
 And madly swore, a form so fair they never saw before; 
 And they cursed the faint and lagging breeze that kept them 
 from the shore 
 
220 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 The ocean from its bosom shook off the moonlight sheen, 
 And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate their Queen; 
 And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a darkness o'er the land, 
 And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady on the strand. 
 
 Out burst the pealing thunder, and the lightning leap'd about, 
 And rushing with his watery war, the tempest gave a shout, 
 And that vessel from a mountain wave came down with thun- 
 
 d'ring shock; 
 And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on Inchidony's rock. 
 
 Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek rose wild and 
 
 high; 
 But the angry surge swept over them and hush'd their gurgling 
 
 cry; 
 
 And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest pass'd away, 
 And down, still chafing from their strife, the indignant waters 
 
 lay. 
 
 When the calm and purple morning shone out on high Dunmore, 
 Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchidony's shore; 
 And to this day the fisherman shows where the scoffers sank; 
 And still he calls that hillock green the * ' Virgin Mary's Bank. " 
 
 THE STAR OF HEAVEN. 
 
 SHINE on, thou bright beacon, unclouded and free 
 From thy high place of calmness, o'er life's troubled sea* 
 Its morning of promise, its smooth waves are gone, 
 And the billows roar wildly; then, bright one, shine on. 
 
 The wings of the tempest may rush o'er thy ray; 
 But tranquil thou smilest, undimmed by its sway; 
 High, high o'er the worlds 'where storms are unknown 
 Thou dwellest all beauteous, all glorious, alone. 
 
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 221 
 
 From the deep womb of darkness the lightning-flash leaps , 
 O'er the bark of my fortunes each mad billow sweeps; 
 From the port of her safety by warring- winds driven, 
 And no light o'er her course but yon lone one of Heaven. 
 
 Yet fear not, thou frail one, the hour may be near, 
 When our own sunny headland far off shall appear; 
 When the voice of the storm shall be silent and past, 
 In some Island of Heaven we may anchor at last. 
 
 But, bark of eternity, where art thou now? 
 The wild waters shriek o'er each plunge of thy prow, 
 On the world's dreary ocean thus shattered and tost. 
 Then, lone one, shine on! " If I lose thee, I'm lost!" 
 
 O SAY, MY BEOWN DRIMIN. 
 
 [From the Irish.] 
 
 SAY, my brown Drimin, thou silk of the kine, 
 Where, where are thy strong ones, last hope of thy line? 
 Too deep and too long is the slumber they take; 
 At the loud call of Freedom why don't they awake ? 
 
 My strong ones have fallen from the bright eye of day, 
 All darkly they sleep in their dwelling of clay; 
 The cold turf is o'er them; they hear not my cries, 
 And, since Louis no aid gives, I cannot arise. 
 
 Oh! where art thou, Louis? Our eyes are on thee! 
 Are thy lofty ships walking in strength o'er the sea ? 
 In Freedom's last strife if you linger or quail, 
 No morn e'er shall break on the night of the Gael. 
 
222 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 But should the king's son, now bereft of his right, 
 Come, proud in his strength, for his country to tight, 
 Like leaves on the trees will new people arise, 
 And deep from their mountains shout back to my cries. 
 
 When the Prince, now an exile, shall come for his own, 
 The isles of his father, his rights and his throne, 
 My people in battle the Saxon will meet, 
 And kick them before, like old shoes from their feet. 
 
 O'er mountains and valleys they'll press on their rout ; 
 
 The five ends of Erin shall ring to their shout. 
 
 My sons all united shall bless the glad day 
 
 When the flint-hearted Saxons they've chased far away. 
 
 LAMENT FOR IRELAND. 
 
 [From the Irish.] 
 
 How dimm'd is the glory that circled the Gael, 
 And fall'n the high people of green Innisfail ! 
 The sword of the Saxon is red with their gore, 
 And the mighty of nations is mighty no more ! 
 
 Like a bark on the ocean, long shattered and tost, 
 
 On the land of your fathers at length you are lost; 
 
 The hand of the spoiler is stretched on your plains, 
 
 And you're doom'd from your cradle to bondage and chains. 
 
 Oh, where is the beauty that beam'd on thy brow? 
 Strong hand in the battle, how weak art thou now! 
 That heart is now broken that never would quail, 
 And thy high songs are turned into weeping and wail. 
 
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 223 
 
 Bright shades of our sires! from your home in the skies, 
 Oh, blast not your sons with the scorn of your eyes! 
 Proud spirit of Gollam , how red is thy cheek , 
 For thy freemen are slaves, and thy mighty are weak! 
 
 O'Nial of the hostages! Con, whose high name 
 On a hundred red battles has floated to fame ! 
 Let the long grasses sigh undisturbed o'er thy sleep; 
 Arise not to shame us, awake not to weep. 
 
 In thy broad wing of darkness enfold us, O night! 
 Withhold, O bright sun, the reproach of thy light! 
 For freedom or valour no more can'st thou see 
 In the home of the brave, in the isles of the free. 
 
 Affliction's dark waters your spirits have bow'd, 
 And oppression hath wrapped all your land in its shroud, 
 Since first from the Brehon's pure justice you stray'd , 
 And bent to those laws the proud Saxon has made. 
 
 We know not our country, so strange is her face; 
 Her sons, once her glory, are now her disgrace. 
 Gone, gone is the beauty of fair Innisfail, 
 For the stranger now rules in the land of the Gael. 
 
 Where, where are the woods that oft rung to your cheer, 
 Where you waked the wild chase of the wolf and the deer ? 
 Can those dark heights, with ramparts all frowning and riven, 
 Be the hills where your forests wav'd brightly in heaven ? 
 
 O bondsmen of Egypt, no Moses appears, 
 
 To light your dark steps through this desert of tears! 
 
 Degraded and lost ones, no Hector is nigh 
 
 To lead you to freedom, or teach you to die! 
 
224 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 ADDRESS TO GREECE. 
 
 NURSLING of freedom ! from her mountain nest 
 
 She early taught thy eagle wing to soar, 
 With eye undazzled and with fearless breast, 
 
 To heights of glory never reached before. 
 
 Far on the cliff of time, all grand and hoar, 
 Proud of her charge, thy lofty deeds she rears 
 
 With her own deathless trophies, blazon'd o'er, 
 As mind-marks for the gaze of after years 
 Vainly they journey on no match for thee appears. 
 
 But be not thine, fair land, the dastard strife 
 
 Of yon degenerate race along their plains 
 They heard that call they started into life; 
 
 They felt their limbs a moment free from chains. 
 
 The foe came on: but shall the minstrel's strains 
 Be sullied by the story ? hush, my lyre. 
 
 Leave them amidst the desolate waste that reigns 
 Round Tyranny's dark march of lava fire 
 Leave them amid their shame their bondage to expire. 
 
 Oh, be not thine such strife! there heaves no sod 
 
 Along thy fields, but hides a hero's head; 
 And when you charge for freedom and for God 
 
 Then then be mindfuj of the mighty dead! 
 
 Think that your field of battle is the bed 
 Where slumber hearts that never feared a foe, 
 
 And while you feel, at each electric tread, 
 Their spirit through your veins indignant glow, 
 Strong be your sabre's sway for freedom's vengeful blow. 
 
JAMES JOSEPH CALL AN AN. -25 
 
 , sprung from those who by Eurotas dwelt ! 
 
 Have ye forgot their deeds on yonder plain, 
 When, pouring through the pass, the Persian felt 
 
 The band of Sparta was not there in vain ? 
 
 Have ye forgot how o'er the glorious slain 
 Greece bade her bard th' immortal story write ? 
 
 Oh ! if your bosoms one proud thought retain 
 Of those who perish'd in that deathless fight, 
 Awake! like them be free, or sleep with names as bright' 
 
 Relics of heroes, from your glorious bed, 
 
 Amid your glorious slumbers do ye feel 
 The rush of war loud thundering o'er your head ? 
 
 Hear ye the sound of Hellas' charging steel ? 
 
 Hear ye their victor cry ? the Moslems reel ! 
 On, Greeks! for freedom on, they fly they fly' 
 
 Oh, how the aged mountains know that peal, 
 Through all their echoing tops, while, grand and high, 
 Thermopylae's deep voice gives back the proud reply 1 
 
 Oh ! for the pen of him whose bursting tear 
 
 Of childhood told his fame in after days. 
 Oh! for that bard, to Greece and freedom dear, 
 
 The bard of Lesbos, with his kindling lays. 
 
 To hymn, regenerate land, thy lofty praise; 
 Thy brave unaided strife to tell the shame 
 
 Of Europe's freest sons, who, 'mid the rays 
 Through time's far vista blazing from thy name, 
 Caught no ennobling glow from that immortal flame. 
 
 16 
 
226 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Not even the deeds of him, who, late afar, 
 Shook the astonished nations with his might ; 
 
 Not even the deeds of her, whose wings ol war 
 Wide o'er the ocean stretch their victor flight; 
 Not they shall rise with half th* unbroken light 
 
 Above the waves of time, fair Greece, as thine; 
 Earth never yet produced in Heaven's high sight, 
 
 Through all her climates, offerings so divine, 
 
 As thy proud sons have paid at freedom's sacred shrine. 
 
 Ye isles of beauty, from your dwelling blue, 
 Lift up to Heaven that shout unheard too long; 
 
 Ye mountains, steep'd in glory's distant hue, 
 If with you lives the memory of that song 
 Which freedom taught you, the proud strain prolong: 
 
 Echo each name that in her cause hath died, 
 Till grateful Greece enrol them with the throng 
 
 Of her illustrious sons, who on the tide 
 
 Of her immortal verse eternally shall guide. 
 
 THE MOTHER OF THE MACHABEES. 
 
 THAT mother viewed the scene of blood; 
 
 Her six unconquer'd sons were gone. 
 Tearless she viewed beside her stood 
 
 Her last her youngest dearest one; 
 He looked upon her and he smiled. 
 Oh ! will she save that only child ? 
 
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 227 
 
 By all my love my son," she said, 
 
 " The breast that nursed the womb that bore, 
 Th' unsleeping care that watch'd thee, fed, 
 
 Till manhood's years required no more; 
 By all I've wept and pray'd for thee, 
 Now, now, be firm and pity me. 
 
 Look, I beseech thee, on yon heaven, 
 
 With its high field of azure light; 
 Look on this earth, to mankind given, 
 
 Array'd in beauty and in might ; 
 And think, nor scorn thy mother's prayer, 
 On him who said it and they were! 
 
 So shalt thou not this tyrant fear, 
 
 Nor recreant shun the glorious strife : 
 
 Behold! thy battle-field is near; 
 
 Then go, my son, nor heed thy life: 
 
 Go, like thy faithful brothers die, 
 
 That I may meet you all on high." 
 
 Like arrow from the bended bow, 
 
 He sprang upon the bloody pile 
 Like sunrise on the morning's snow 
 
 Was that heroic mother's smile: 
 He died ! nor fear'd the tyrant's nod 
 For Judah's law, and Judah's God. 
 
228 IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 MARY MAGDALEN. 
 
 To the hall of that feast came the sinful and fair: 
 She heard in the city that Jesus was there, 
 She mark'd not the splendor that blazed on their board, 
 But silently knelt at the feet of the Lord. 
 
 The hair from her forehead, so sad and so meek, 
 Hung dark o'er the blushes that burn'd on her cheek; 
 And so still and so lowly she bent in her shame, 
 It seem'd as her spirit had flown from its frame. 
 
 The frown and the murmur went round through them all, 
 That one so unhallow'd should tread in that hall. 
 And some said the poor would be objects more meet, 
 For the wealth of the perfumes she shower'd at His feet. 
 
 She mark'd but her Saviour, she spoke but in sighs, 
 She dared not look up to the heaven of His eyes; 
 And the hot tears gush'd forth at each heave of her breast. 
 As her lips to His sandals she throbbingly press'd. 
 
 On the cloud after tempests, as shine th the bow, 
 In the glance of the sunbeam, as melteth the snow, 
 He looked on that lost one her sins were forgiven; 
 And Mary went forth in the beauty of Heaven. 
 
 LINES TO THE BLESSED SACRAMENT. 
 
 THOU dear and mystic semblance 
 
 Before whose form I kneel, 
 I tremble as I think upon 
 
 The glory thou dost veil, 
 
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 
 
 And ask myself, can he, who late 
 
 The ways of darkness trod, 
 Meet, face to face and heart to heart, 
 
 His sin-avenging God ? 
 
 My ,udge and my Creator, 
 
 If I presume to stand 
 Amid Thy pure and holy ones, 
 
 It is at Thy command, 
 To lay before Thy mercy's seat 
 
 My sorrows and my fears, 
 To wail my life and kiss Thy feet 
 
 In silence and in tears. 
 
 Oh, God, that dreadful moment, 
 
 In sickness and in strife , 
 When Death and Hell seemed watching 
 
 For the last weak pulse of life. 
 When on the waves of sin and pain 
 
 My drowning soul was tost, 
 Thy hand of mercy saved me then, 
 
 When hope itself was lost ! 
 
 I hear Thy voice, my Saviour, 
 
 It speaks within my breast, 
 "Oh, come to Me, thou weary one, 
 
 I'll hush thy cares to rest." 
 Then from the parched and burning waste 
 
 Of sin, where long I trod, 
 I come to Thee, thou stream of Life, 
 
 My Saviour and my God. 
 
230 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 THE EXILE'S FAREWELL. 
 
 ADIEU, my own dear Erin, 
 
 Reeeive my fond, my last adieu; 
 
 I go, but with me bearing 
 
 A heart still fondly turned to you. 
 
 The charms that nature gave thee 
 
 With lavish hand, shall cease to smile, 
 
 And the soul of friendship leave thee, 
 Ere I forget my own green isle. 
 
 Ye fields where heroes bounded 
 
 To meet the foes of liberty; 
 Ye hills that oft resounded 
 
 The joyful shouts of victory; 
 
 Obscured is all your glory, 
 
 Forgotten all your former fame, 
 
 And the minstrel's mournful story 
 Now calls a tear at Erin's name. 
 
 But still the day may brighten 
 
 When those tears shall cease to flow, 
 
 And the shout of freedom lighten 
 Spirits now so drooping low. 
 
 Then, should the glad breeze blowing 
 
 Convey the echo o'er the sea, 
 My heart with transport glowing 
 
 Shall bless the hand that made thee free. 
 
JAMES JOSEPH CALL AN AN. 231 
 
 LINES TO ERIN. 
 
 WHEN dullness shall chain the wild harp that would praise thee, 
 When its last sigh of freedom is heard on thy shore, 
 When its raptures shall bless the false heart that betrays thee, 
 Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more! 
 
 When thy sons are less tame than their own ocean waters, 
 When their last flash of wit and of genius is o'er, 
 When virtue and beauty forsake thy young daughters, 
 Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more! 
 
 When the sun that now holds his bright path o'er thy mountains, 
 Forgets the green fields that he smiled on before, 
 When no moonlight shall sleep on thy lakes and thy fountains, 
 Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more! 
 
 When the name of the Saxon and tyrant shall sever, 
 When the freedom you lost you no longer deplore, 
 When the thoughts of your wrongs shall be sleeping forever, 
 Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more! 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 STILL green are thy mountains and bright is thy shore, 
 And the voice of thy fountains is heard as of yore. 
 The sun o'er thy valleys, dear Erin, shines on, 
 Though thy bard and thy lover forever is gone. 
 
 Nor shall he, an exile, thy glad scenes forget, 
 The friends fondly loved, 'ne'er again to be met 
 The glens where he mused on the deeds of his nation, 
 And waked his young harp with a wild inspiration. 
 
232 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Still, still, though between us may roll the broad ocean, 
 Will I cherish thy name with the same deep devotion ; 
 And though minstrels more brilliant my place may supply, 
 None loves you more fondly, more truly than I. 
 
 A LAY OF MIZEN HEAD. 
 
 IT was the noon of Sabbath, the spring- wind swept the sky, 
 And o'er the heaven's savannah blue the boding scuds did fly, 
 And a stir was heard amongst the waves o'er all their fields of 
 
 might, 
 Like the distant hum of hurrying hosts when they muster for 
 
 the fight. 
 
 The fisher marked the changing heaven and high his pinnace 
 
 drew, 
 
 And to her wild and rocky home the screaming sea-bird flew; 
 But safely in Cork haven the sheltered bark may rest 
 Within the zone of ocean hills that girds its beauteous breast. 
 
 Amongst the stately vessels in that calm port was one 
 Whose streamers waved out joyously to hail the Sabbath sun; 
 And scattered o'er her ample deck were careless hearts and free, 
 That laughed to hear the rising wind and mocked the frowning 
 sea. 
 
 One youth alone bent darkly above the heaving tide 
 His heart was with his native hills and with his beauteous bride, 
 And with the rush of feelings deep his manly bosom strove, 
 As he thought of her he had left afar in the spring-time of 
 their love. 
 
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN. 233 
 
 What checks the seaman's jovial mirth and clouds his sunny 
 
 brow? 
 Why does he look with troubled gaze from port-hole , side and 
 
 prow? 
 
 A moment 't was a death-like pause that signal ! can it be ? 
 That signal quickly orders the ' ' Confiance " to sea. 
 
 Then there was springing up aloft and hurrying down below, 
 And the windlass hoarsely answered to the hoarse and wild 
 
 " heave yo;" 
 
 And vows were briefly spoken then that long had silent lain, 
 And hearts and lips together met that ne'er may meet again. 
 
 Now darker lowered the threatening sky and wilder heaved the 
 
 wave, 
 
 And through the cordage fearfully the wind began to rave; 
 The sails are set, the anchor weighed what recks that gallant 
 
 ship? 
 Blow on ! Upon her course she springs like greyhound from the 
 
 slip. 
 
 O, heavens! it was a glorious sight, that stately ship to see, 
 In the beauty of her gleaming sails and her pennant floating free , 
 As to the gale with bending tops she made her haughty bow, 
 And proudly spurned the waves that burned around her flash- 
 ing prow ! 
 
 The sun went down and through the clouds looked out the 
 
 evening star, 
 
 And westward, from old Ocean's head, beheld that ship afar. 
 Still onward fearlessly she flew, in her snowy pinion-sweep, 
 Like a bright and beauteous spirit o'er the mountains of the deep. 
 
 IUBITEBSITT 
 
234 IRISH POETS AKD NOVELISTS: 
 
 It blows a fearful tempest 'tis the dead watch of the night 
 The Mizen's giant brow is streaked with red and angry light, 
 And by its far illuming glance a struggling bark I see. 
 Wear, wear! the land, ill-fated one, is close beneath your lee! 
 
 Another flash they still hold out for home and love and life, 
 And under close-reefed topsails maintain th' unequal strife. 
 Now out the rallying foresail flies, the last, the desperate 
 
 chance- 
 Can that be she ? Oh, heavens, it is the luckless " Confiance!" 
 
 Hark ! heard you not that dismal cry ? T was stifled in the 
 
 gale 
 Oh! clasp, young bride, thine orphan child and raise the widow's 
 
 wail! 
 
 The morning rose in purple light o'er ocean's tranquil sleep 
 But o'er their gallant quarry lay the spoilers of the deep. 
 
REV. MICHAEL MULLIN. 
 
 (RIN, prolific land of genius, has given birth to 
 the Poet-Priest and litterateur whose life and 
 labors we briefly here indite. Like many another 
 gifted Gael, he died far away from the land which 
 birth and boyhood had endeared to him by a thou- 
 sand sacrifices and hallowed associations. 
 
 Loughrea, on the banks of the "lordly Shannon," 
 claims the honor of giving birth to the Rev. Father 
 Mullin in the year 1833, when Ireland was fast 
 recovering from the baneful effects of the odious 
 Penal laws. O'Connell was then the uncrowned 
 king of his native land. Three years before the 
 birth of our poet, Catholic Emancipation, through 
 the matchless statesmanship of the Liberator, became 
 a startling reality, and the middle class of Catholics, 
 who had lost neither the virtues nor the traditions 
 of their race, could now reasonably indulge in the 
 hope of educating their sons for the learned profes- 
 sions. The parents of Michael Mullin dedicated 
 him to the service of the Church at the baptismal 
 font, and carefully shaped his career and studies to 
 the destined goal. His primary education was re- 
 ceived at St. Jarlath's College, the great seminary of 
 the West, and the alma mater of many a learned 
 
 (235) 
 
236 
 
 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Irishman. Here young Mullin gave unmistakable 
 evidence of the talents he possessed, and proved to 
 his professors that his mind was cast in no ordinary 
 mould. With an enthusiasm which overcomes all 
 obstacles he read whatever national literature had 
 escaped the vandalism of English officials in Ireland, 
 
 and stored away this well-digested knowledge in his 
 capacious mind for future use. 
 
 During the agitation of 1847 he entered the Na- 
 tional Ecclesiastical Seminary at Maynooth, near 
 Dublin, where he was destined to win high honors 
 in scholarship, and where the higher honors and 
 dignity of the Priesthood crowned the labors of his 
 youth and noble manhood. 
 
REV. MICHAEL MULLIN. 237 
 
 It has been said with truth that among the six hun- 
 dred students who thronged the recreation grounds 
 and lecture halls of that nohle institution, young Mr. 
 Mullin never made an enemy. His nature was such 
 as to attract and edify all who came in close relation- 
 ship with him. He was gentle and retiring as a con- 
 vent girl, simple and unassuming as a child. While 
 yet a mere } r outh the patriotic genius of the student 
 began to assert itself, and the editors of the Nation 
 soon discovered in him one of their most valued con- 
 tributors of prose and verse. From his initial con- 
 tribution " Clonfert " was able to take front rank 
 among a staff of writers that had attracted the atten- 
 tion and commanded the admiration of Lord Macau- 
 lay and some others of his coterie. 
 
 During his connection with the Nation he wrote 
 many exquisite lyrics and some ballads of superior 
 style and sentiment. As a specimen of the latter 
 we reproduce here the stirring and widely-popular 
 ballad, which first appeared under one of his assumed 
 names in the columns of the Nation: 
 
 \ 
 
 ARTHUR McCOY. 
 
 WHILE the snow-flakes of winter are falling 
 
 On mountain, and house-top and tree, 
 Come olden, weird voices recalling 
 
 The homes of Hy-Faly to me; 
 
238 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 The ramble by river and wild-wood , 
 The legends of mountain and glen, 
 
 When the bright, magic mirror of childhood 
 Made heroes and giants of men. 
 
 Then I had my drearnings ideal, 
 
 My prophets and heroes sublime, 
 Yet I found one, true, living and real, 
 
 Surpass all the fictions of time: 
 Whose voice thrilled my heart to its centre, 
 
 Whose form tranced my soul and my eye; 
 A temple no treason could enter: 
 
 My hero was Arthur McCoy. 
 
 As the strong mountain tower spreads its arms, 
 
 Dark, shadowy, silent and tall, 
 In our tithe-raids and midnight alarms, 
 
 His bosom gave refuge to all. 
 If a mind, clear and calm, and expanded, 
 
 A soul ever soaring and high, 
 'Mid a host gave a right to command it 
 
 A hero was Arthur McCoy. 
 
 While he knelt with a Christian demeanor, 
 
 To his priest or his Maker, alone, 
 He scorned the vile slave or retainer 
 
 That crouched round the castle or throne. 
 The Tudor, the Guelph, the Pretender, 
 
 Were tyrants, alike, branch and stem; 
 But who'd free our fair land, and defend her, 
 
 A nation, were monarchs to him. 
 
I;EV. MICHAEL MULLIN. 
 
 And this faith in good works he attested , 
 
 When Tone linked the true hearts and brave, 
 Every billow of danger he breasted 
 
 His sword-flash the crest of its wave. 
 A standard he captured in Gorey , 
 
 A sword-cut and ball through the thigh 
 Were among the mementoes of glory 
 
 Recorded of Arthur McCoy. 
 
 Long the quest of the law and its beagles, 
 
 His covert the cave and the tree; 
 Though his home was the home of the eagles, 
 
 His soul was the soul of the free. 
 No toil, no defeat could enslave it, 
 
 Nor franchise nor ''Amnesty Bill"- 
 No Lord, but the Maker who gave it, 
 
 Could curb the high pride of his will. 
 
 With the gloom of defeat ever laden 
 
 Seldom seen at the hurling or dance, 
 Where, through blushes, the eye of the maiden 
 
 Looks out for her lover's advance ; 
 And whenever he stood to behold it , 
 
 A curl of the lip , or a sigh , 
 Was the silent reproach that unfolded 
 
 The feelings of Arthur McCoy 
 
 For it told him of freedom o'ershaded 
 That the iron had entered their veins 
 
 When beauty bears manhood degraded, 
 And manhood 's contented in chains. 
 
240 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 But he loved that fair race, as a martyr, 
 
 And if his own death could recall 
 The blessings of liberty's charter, 
 
 His bosom had bled for them all. 
 
 And he died for his love. I remember, 
 
 On a mound by the Shannon's blue wave, 
 On a dark, snowy eve in December, 
 
 I knelt at the patriot's grave. 
 The aged were all heavy-hearted 
 
 No cheek in the graveyard was dry, 
 The Sun of our hills had departed 
 
 God rest you, old Arthur McCoy. 
 
 This ballad became extremely popular in Ireland. 
 It is to be found in almost every collection of Irish 
 ballad poetry that has appeared during the last forty 
 years, either in or out of Ireland. 
 
 Besides the ordinary course of studies in Maynooth, 
 which occupies eight years, and embraces Humani- 
 ties, Natural Philosophy, Logic and Metaphysics, 
 Ecclesiastical History, Scripture and Theology, young 
 Mr. Mullin spent a term of three years in the " Dun- 
 boyne Establishment." A certificate for this depart- 
 ment is the highest literary honor that can be con- 
 ferred on a young man in Maynooth, and it is 
 obtained only by men of marked ability. Here also 
 he won distinction among the master minds of his 
 country, and endeared himself to his fellow-students. 
 Having completed his extra course in Dunboyne, he 
 
REV. MICHAEL MULLIN. 241 
 
 was appointed to a Professor's chair. For some time 
 he lectured on English Rhetoric, with honor to him- 
 self and the great delight of the students. His 
 health, which was never rugged, gave way about this 
 time, and the brilliant Rev. Professor was obliged to 
 seek the bracing air of his native fields and floods in 
 the hope of wooing back his vanished strength and 
 intellectual vigor. 
 
 Appointed to a curacy in his native diocese of 
 Clonfert, he labored with an earnestness and humility 
 that won the admiration of his people. So well, 
 indeed, did he succeed as assistant pastor, that the 
 Bishop made him administrator of his own parish 
 in Loughrea. But the man who could lecture most 
 eloquently on learned subjects, write like an inspired 
 prophet and labor zealously for the salvation of souls, 
 was by no means a success in the administration of 
 an important parish. His tastes and mode of thought 
 were not in that direction, and Father Mullin soon, 
 resigned his charge into the hands of his Bishop, 
 with the understanding that he would be permitted 
 to join a religious order in Dublin. 
 
 A few months in the close confinement of a 
 monastery convinced him that his health was very 
 much impaired, and that he must seek other pursuits, 
 than those of a sedentary life. 
 
242 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 In 1864 he reached the shores of the New World, 
 whither the fame of his genius and varied attainments 
 had preceded him, and where Archhishop McCloskey 
 received him kindly and cordially. The Archbishop 
 of New York made Father Mullin Professor of 
 Metaphysics and Moral Philosophy in the Provincial 
 Ecclesiastical Seminary at Troy. The duties of this 
 position were too arduous for his delicate constitu- 
 tion, so he was transferred to parochial work in New 
 York City, where, his labor being light, he devoted 
 considerable of his time to writing for the Metro- 
 politan press. After some time spent here, endeavor- 
 ing to 
 
 " Woo back the withered flowers of health," 
 
 his physicians urged him to go West, with the hope 
 that the change of climate would serve to prolong 
 his precious life. In the University of Notre Dame, 
 Indiana, he taught a class, and wrote sketches for 
 the Ave Maria. 
 
 In Chicago he became editor of the Young Catholic 
 Guide, which in his hands gathered new life and 
 vigor. 
 
 Here it was that he learned the sad news of the 
 death of his parents in Ireland. The bereavement 
 broke his tender and affectionate heart, and ere its 
 shadows had cleared away he followed them to his 
 reward. 
 
REV. MICHAEL MULLIN. 243 
 
 He died far away from his own "sunny Erin" on 
 the 23d of April, 1869, and all that is mortal of him 
 now lies in Calvary Cemetery, Chicago, Illinois. 
 
 His writings, which are scattered through the 
 pages of different magazines arid periodicals in two 
 hemispheres, have never been collected. 
 
 His best known prose work is " The Two Lovers 
 of Flavia Domitilla," which first appeared in the 
 Catholic World, and helped, very materially, that 
 magazine in the days of its youth. This beautiful 
 Catholic story suffers nothing by comparison with 
 the late Cardinal Newman's "Calista." The plot is 
 full of absorbing interest, and the style in which it 
 is written attests the oft-repeated truth that " Father 
 Michael Mullin was a perfect master of English/' 
 
 A poem which he wrote, entitled " The Immaculate 
 Conception," attracted the attention of the illustrious 
 Cardinal Wiseman, who, in his day, had no superior 
 as a judge of the literary merit, of original composi- 
 tion appearing in any of the ancient or modern 
 languages. Among his writings in verse the " Celtic 
 Tongue " is undoubtedly the most widely known 
 and best appreciated. It has the characteristics of 
 true Celtic genius. With the glow and fervor of the 
 Celtic soul, it is pathetic and pithy, and, once read, 
 it haunts the memory like some bewitching spell. 
 
 We cannot better end this insufficient memorial of 
 
244 IRISH POETS AKD NOVELISTS: 
 
 a man of brilliant parts, of solid acquirements and 
 unsullied patriotism, than by giving in full his 
 
 LAMENT FOR THE CELTIC TONGUE. 
 
 Tis fading, oh, 'tis fading! like the leaves upon the trees! 
 In murmuring tone 'tis dying, like the wail upon the breeze! 
 'Tis swiftly disappearing, as footprints on the shore 
 Where the Barrow and the Erne, and Loch Swilley's waters 
 
 roar 
 
 Where the parting sunbeam kisses Lough Corrib in the West, 
 And Ocean, like a mother, clasps the Shannon to her breast! 
 The language of old Erin, of her history and name 
 Of her monarchs and her heroes her glory and her fame 
 The sacred shrine where rested, thro' sunshine and thro' gloom, 
 The spirit of her martyrs, as their bodies in the tomb; 
 The time- wrought shell, where murmur'd, 'mid centuries of 
 
 wrong, 
 
 The secret voice of Freedom, in annal and in song 
 Is slowly, surely sinking into silent death, at last, 
 To live but in the memories of those who love the Past. 
 
 The olden tongue is sinking like a patriarch to rest, 
 Whose youth beheld the Tyrian on our Irish coasts a guest; 
 Ere the Roman or the Saxon, the Norman or the Dane, 
 Had first set foot in Britain, o'er trampled heaps of slain; 
 Whose manhood saw the Druid rite at forest-tree and rock 
 And savage tribes of Britain round the shrines of Zernebock; 
 And for generations witnessed all the glories of the Gael, 
 Since our Celtic sires sung war-songs round the sacred fires of 
 Baal. 
 
REV. MICHAEL MULLIN. 245 
 
 The tongues that saw its infancy are ranked among the dead, 
 And from their graves have risen those now spoken in their 
 
 stead. 
 
 The glories of old Erin with her liberty have gone, 
 Yet their halo linger'd round her, while the Gaelic speech 
 
 lived on; 
 
 For 'mid the desert of her woe , a monument more vast 
 Than all her pillar-towers, it stood that old Tongue of the Past! 
 T is leaving, and for ever, the soil that gave it birth, 
 Soon very soon, its moving tones shall ne'er be heard on earth. 
 
 O'er the island dimly fading, as a circle o'er the wave 
 Receding, as its people lisp the language of the slave, 
 And with it, too, seem fading, as sunset into night, 
 The scattered rays of liberty that lingered in its light. 
 For ah! tho' long, with filial love, it clung to motherland, 
 And Irishmen were Irish still, in language, heart and hand; 
 T' install its Saxon rival, proscribed it soon became, 
 And Irishmen are Irish now in nothing but in name ; 
 The Saxon chain our rights and tongues alike doth hold in thrall. 
 Save where amid the Connaught wilds and hills of Donegal 
 And by the shores of Munster, like the broad Atlantic blast, 
 The olden language lingers yet and binds us to the Past. 
 
 Thro' cold neglect 't is dying now; a stranger on our shore! 
 No Tara's hall re-echoes to its music as of yore- 
 No Lawrence fires our Celtic clans round leaguered Athaclee 
 No Shannon wafts from Limerick's towers their war-songs to 
 
 the sea. 
 Ah ! magic Tongue , that round us wove its spells so soft and 
 
 dear ! 
 Ah! pleasant Tongue, whose murmurs were as music to the ear! 
 
246 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Ah! glorious Tongue, whose accents could each Celtic heart 
 
 enthrall ! 
 Ah! rushing Tongue, that sounded like the swollen torrent's 
 
 fall! 
 
 The Tongue, that in the Senate was lightning flashing bright 
 Whose echo in the battle was the thunder in its might ! 
 That Tongue, which once in chieftain's hall poured loud the 
 
 minstrel lay, 
 
 As chieftain, serf, or minstrel old, is silent there to-day! 
 That Tongue whose shout dismayed the foe at Cong and Mul- 
 
 laghmast, 
 Like those who nobly perished there, is numbered with the Past! 
 
 The Celtic Tongue is passing and we stand so coldly by 
 Without a pang within the heart, a tear within the eye 
 Without one pulse for Freedom stirred, one effort made to save 
 The language of our fathers from dark oblivion's grave ! 
 Oh, Erin! vain your efforts your prayers for Freedom's crown, 
 Whilst offered in the language of the foe that clove it down; 
 Be sure that tyrants ever with an art from darkness sprung, 
 Would make the conquered nation slaves alike in limb and 
 
 tongue. 
 Russia's great Czar ne'er stood secure o'er Poland's shattered 
 
 frame. 
 
 Until he trampled from her heart the tongue that bore her name. 
 Oh, Irishmen, be Irish still! stand for the dear old tongue 
 Which, as ivy to a ruin, to your native land has clung! 
 Oh, snatch this relic from the wreck, the only and the last, 
 And cherish in your heart of hearts the language of the Past: 
 
ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 
 
 |R. ROBERT D. JOYCE was born in the village 
 of Glenisheen, Limerick, Ireland, in the year 
 of our Lord, 1830. He came of an old family well and 
 widely known within the borders of Galway for 
 daring as well as devotion to the cause of native 
 land. The stock also produced many men of letters. 
 
 The mother of our author was Elizabeth O'Dwyer, 
 a lineal descendant of the renowned bard and hunts- 
 man, John O'Dwyer of the Glens " Shawn O'Dhear 
 na Gleanna" who after the fall of Limerick became 
 a distinguished officer in the French army. 
 
 In the village school young Joyce evinced great 
 aptitude for learning, and gave promise of a bright 
 future. He was passionately fond of languages, and 
 when at an early age he went to Dublin to com- 
 plete his education, his familiarity with classic lore 
 astonished those who became his preceptors. His 
 college career was marked with great success; and 
 having secured a medical diploma in the Queen's 
 College, Dr. Joyce was appointed Professor of Eng- 
 lish Literature in the Preparatory Department of the 
 Catholic University. Soon after he was elected a 
 member of the Royal Irish Academy, Dublin, having 
 
 (247) 
 
248 
 
 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 for sponsors such distinguished men as the Earl 
 of Dunraven and Professor Ingram, the author of 
 " Who Fears to Speak of Ninety-eight ?" 
 
 Though these honors came thick and fast upon the 
 talented young medico and litterateur, they did not 
 
 satisfy him. British rule in Ireland did not suit his 
 ideas of freedom, and he could not and would not 
 enjoy such honors while his country smarted under 
 the tyrant's lash. His sympathy was with the 
 Fenian movement for Irish Independence, and his 
 pen contributed much, both in prose and verse to 
 
ROBERT DWYEB JOYCE. 249 
 
 fan the flame of rebellion. The eyes of English 
 officials were upon him and he knew it. Still greater 
 honors, and positions of emolument awaited him, 
 could he only be prevailed upon to trample under 
 foot his national aspirations and go over to the ranks 
 of his country's oppressors. 
 
 Rather than surrender his patriotic principles, 
 he followed the heroic example of his ancestors and 
 went into voluntary exile. In 1866 he commenced 
 the practice of his profession in Boston, where his 
 talents were immediately recognized, and his services 
 soon held in high esteem. Among the literary men 
 of the "Hub" who hailed the advent of the young 
 Irish poet may be mentioned such men as ex-Gov. 
 Long, John C. Abbott, Wendell Phillips and Dr. 
 Oliver Wendel Holmes; and all these remained his 
 firm friends and ardent admirers to the end. 
 
 His career in Boston was fraught with success. 
 From the exactions of an extremely busy profes- 
 sional life he snatched time enough to write a great 
 number of books, which became popular even in his 
 own day. During " office hours " his ante-room was 
 always crowded with sufferers, seeking advice and 
 medical treatment. Sick calls came to him not only 
 from every quarter of the great city, but also from 
 the surrounding towns that are now incorporated 
 with and in the city of Boston. He spoke kindly to 
 everybody who approached him, and never sent one 
 
250 IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 away, in a hurry. With the intelligent and educated 
 he conversed freely and leisurely, always choosing 
 some subject with which he knew his patient was 
 familiar. Irish history was his delight. Every phase 
 of Erin's long and eventful struggle seemed familiar 
 to him as the simple rudiments of the healing art. 
 Every stream, ruin and historic plain from Bantry 
 Bay to Lough Foyle, and from Kingston to Galway, 
 he knew, and loved with an undying love. How he 
 so familiarized himself with the topography of his 
 native land and that, too, during the busy days of 
 student life has always seemed little less than a 
 mystery to the writer, who had the honor of his 
 acquaintance. This fact is amply illustrated by his 
 " Ballads of Irish Chivalry," which not only com- 
 memorate great events in the struggles of the Gael, 
 but also vividly and faithfully describe the scene of 
 every battle. 
 
 It was on Erin's elder days, however, that the 
 poet-physician gloried to dwell. The days 
 
 When her Kings, with standard of green unfuiTd, 
 Led the Red Branch Knights to danger, 
 
 Ere the emerald gem of the Western world 
 Was set in the crown of a stranger, 
 
 seemed to have for Dr. Joyce a peculiar and fascinat- 
 ing charm. This period of Irish history it was that 
 inspired " Deirdre," his longest, best and most endur- 
 ing poem. Yet Erin was dear to him in her sorrow, 
 
ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 251 
 
 her sufferings and tears. He himself was a man of 
 sorrow and much grief. In his latter days he car- 
 ried about with him a bleeding heart, which thereby 
 was rendered all the more sensitive to the pains and 
 woes of others. Silently he suffered the throes of 
 mental agony that shook his well-knit frame; yet 
 betimes would his grief find expression in lines like 
 these: 
 
 No kindly counsel of a friend 
 
 With soothing balm the hurt can mend; 
 
 I walk alone in grief, and make 
 
 My bitter moan for her dear sake, 
 
 For loss of love is man's worst woe, 
 
 And I am suffering, and I know. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Earth, air and sun, and moon and star, 
 Oi man's strange soul but mirrors are, 
 Bright when the soul is bright, and dark 
 As now, without one saving spar": , 
 While the black tides of sorrow flow; 
 And I am suffering, and I know. 
 
 To my sad eyes that sorrow dims 
 The greenest grass the swallow skims, 
 The flowers that once were fair to me, 
 The meadow and the blooming tree 
 Dark as funeral garments grow; 
 And I am suffering, and I know. 
 
 This pathetic little song, found in " The Despair 
 of Ouhuliin," is nothing but an outward expression 
 
252 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 of the grief that drove the strong, sweet singer to an 
 untimely grave. 
 
 In the spring of 1883 he sickened, and died in the 
 Fall of the same year. Followed by the esteem of 
 her most distinguished citizens, and bearing with 
 him the deep affection of the poor whom he had 
 served, Dr. Joyce left Boston for Ireland early in 
 September, 1883. The close of the next month wit- 
 nessed his burial in the cemetery of Glasnevin. 
 
 About one month before his departure for Ireland 
 the writer, in company with a mutual friend, visited 
 Dr. Joyce in his rooms, on Chambers street, in 
 Boston, and enjoyed his conversation for a space of 
 two hours. Though but the shadow of his former 
 self, he yet seemed vigorous, and talked eloquently 
 nearly all the time. After some remarks relating to 
 his forthcoming trip to Ireland, he changed the con- 
 versation over to Irish history and literature. His 
 ruling passion was still strong. 
 
 The gentleman who accompanied the writer said: 
 " Come what may, Doctor, you have left your im- 
 press on the literature of our native land, and estab- 
 lished a lasting fame." 
 
 " Fame, I suppose," the writer remarked, " affords 
 very poor consolation to a man when about to close 
 his eyes to earthly things." 
 
 " On that point," rejoined the poet, " I do not 
 agree with you. I think it affords one great consola- 
 
EOBEET DWYEB JOYCE. 253 
 
 tion. It is a great deal to leave behind a name that 
 is likely to be cherished in the hearts of a grateful 
 people. 
 
 " I do not, however/' he continued, " draw all my 
 consolation from that source. The priest was with 
 me yesterday, and I am prepared for any kind of a 
 journey now. If the worst comes, I am not without 
 hope of a happy resurrection." 
 
 It is more than a quarter of a century since, under 
 the signature of "Feardana," Dr. Joyce's first verses 
 appeared in The Harp, a magazine then published 
 in the City of Cork, under the editorial management 
 of M. J. McCann the gifted author of "O'Donnell 
 Aboo." The force and spirit of his verses attracted 
 general attention among the Nationalists, and his 
 pen soon found employment in the columns of the 
 Hibernian Magazine also. " The Blacksmith of Lime- 
 rick," which appeared at this period, gained for 
 him a w T ide popularity, and established his reputation 
 as a poet on a firm and enduring basis. He became 
 a regular contributor to the Dublin Nation; and the 
 London Universal News, edited at that time by the 
 late John Francis O'Donnell, eagerly sought the 
 productions of his pen, for which he was well paid 
 in all instances. It was not in the domain of poetry 
 alone that " Feardana" (the song-maker) excelled; 
 he also wrote racy sketches for the press. A very 
 interesting novel "The Squire of Castleton," which 
 
254 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 appeared as a serial in the Dublin Irishman, received 
 high praise from the critics, and the opinion prevails 
 that, had he devoted his time and talents to fiction 
 instead of medicine, he would have outrivaled 
 Samuel Lover as a novelist. His "Irish Fireside 
 Tales" and "Legends of the Wars in Ireland, " col- 
 lected and compiled during the busiest period of his 
 professional career, are replete with genuine Irish 
 wit and humor. These works added to the fast- 
 increasing popularity of the author, and from them 
 the publisher reaped a rich harvest. 
 
 The writer of this sketch can never forget the im- 
 pression made upon his mind by the perusal of our 
 author's " Ballads of Irish Chivalry, Songs and 
 Poems," when they first appeared in 1872, from the 
 press of Patrick Donahoe, Boston. This work, which 
 was well received at home and abroad, contained all 
 the poems written by Dr. Joyce up to that date. 
 
 The appearance of this volume it was that evoked 
 the following beautiful tribute from the brilliant 
 Bard of Thomond, Michael O'Hogan: 
 
 TO ROBERT D. JOYCE, 
 
 ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS POEMS. 
 
 BOLD master of the Irish lyre! sweet mouth of song, all hail! 
 Feardana of the lofty verse ! Ard Filea of the Gael ! 
 As joys the thirsty traveler when a pure spring trickles near, 
 So burst thy living numbers on my soul's enraptured ear! 
 
ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 255 
 
 The silent, cloud-robed grandeur of the mountain solitude, 
 The boweiy vale , the flowery plain , the emerald- vested wood ; 
 The gaping breach, the 'league red town, the reckless battle- 
 throng 
 All glow before my spirit, in the pictures of thy song! 
 
 The mystic Spirit- world , with its fairy splendor gay, 
 Thy daring genius has unlocked with Poesy's magic key; 
 The sun-ray'd jewels of Romance, with all their pristine light, 
 Burst, flashing from thy wizard pen, upon our charmed sight! 
 
 Sweet Ollav of the golden lay! oh, would my simple praise 
 Add one bright floweret to the crown of thy immortal bays , 
 And place thy brilliant page a gem in every Irish hand 
 Feardana of romantic song were honored in our land ! 
 
 Then pour upon thy country's ear thy harp-notes wild and 
 
 strong, 
 
 And melt into our burning hearts the jewels of thy song; 
 And let thy eagle Muse tower up to heaven, on flashing wing, 
 Till Erin, with admiring soul, delights to hear thee sing! 
 
 Here, by old Shannon's noble flood, I drink thy tuneful lore, 
 And, as my spirit quaffs thy strain, I thirst and long for more! 
 Back on the spring-tide of thy verse I float to olden times, 
 And bathe my fancy in the rays of radiant Fairy climes! 
 
 "Deirdre" and "Blanid" are, however, the works 
 on which the fame of Dr. Joyce securely rests. They 
 are the crowning glory of his labors. The former 
 has been pronounced by no less a critic than James 
 Russell Lowell "the greatest epic of the nineteenth 
 century." 
 
256 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 To the writing of this, Dr. Joyce brought all the 
 information attainable on the subject. He had read 
 and digested everything that could be found pertain- 
 ing to the story of "Deirdre" and the sons of Usna, 
 before a single line of this gorgeous poem was writ- 
 ten. For fifteen years, it is said, he had been 
 endeavoring to " strike the proper strain." At last, 
 he succeeded, and in this wise: 
 
 About four o'clock, one fine St. Patrick's morning, 
 he was returning by way of St. Patrick's Bridge from 
 a sick call in South Boston. As usual, holding his 
 inseparable blackthorn in the middle, he strode 
 proudly along whistling " St. Patrick's Day in the 
 Morning." Immediately he struck the long-looked- 
 for keynote to his poem, and before reaching his 
 office that morning, u The Feast at the House of 
 Feilimid " was well under way. He went along the 
 rest of the journey in silence with bowed head and 
 vision introverted, composing: 
 
 It happened in Eman at the joyous time 
 When wood-flowers bloomed and roses in their prime 
 Laughed round the garden, and the new-fledged bird 
 'Mid the thick leaves his downy winglets stirred. 
 
 These are the initial couplets of Deirdre, in which 
 adventure, love and war are described with a force 
 and felicity of language unequalled in any epic we 
 have ever read. It contains many pictures of nature 
 
ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 257 
 
 exquisitely drawn. Email's palace garden is painted 
 thus: 
 
 Near Eman's hall, beyond the outward fosse, 
 There was a slope all gay with golden moss, 
 Green grass and lady ferns and daisies white, 
 And fairy-caps, the wandering bee's delight, 
 And the wild thyme that scents the upland breeze, 
 And clumps of hawthorn and fair ashen trees. 
 And at its foot there spread a little plain 
 That never seemed to thirst for dew or rain; 
 For round about it waved a perfumed wood, 
 And through its midst there ran a crystal flood 
 With many a murmuring song and eltin shout, 
 In whose clear pools the crimson-spotted trout 
 Would turn his tawny side to sun and sky, 
 Or sparkling upward catch the summer fly; 
 On whose green banks the iris in its pride, 
 Flaming in blue and gold, grew side by side 
 With meadow-sweet and snow-white ladies-gowns, 
 And daffodils that shook their yellow crowns 
 In wanton dalliance with each breeze that blew; 
 And there the birds sang songs for ever new 
 To those that loved them as friend loveth friend; 
 And there the cuckoo first his way would wend 
 From far-off climes and kingdoms year by year, 
 And rest himself and shout his message clear 
 Round the glad woods, that winter was no more, 
 And summer's reign begins from shore to shore. 
 
 18 
 
258 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 The poet's genius as a portrait painter is strikingly 
 illustrated in this passage: 
 
 Then rose an aged lord, with haughty air 
 And shaggy brows and grizzled beard and hair, 
 Whose fierce eye o'er the margin of his shield 
 Had gazed from war's first ridge on many a field, 
 Unblinking at the foe that on him glared , 
 And might be ten to one, for all he cared. 
 
 And who that has ever strolled through the lovely 
 vales of Erin can fail to recall and recognize this 
 autumn scene, depicted by the poet's pen: 
 
 Upon the spreading thorn 
 The fieldfares bickered at the ruddy haw, 
 The last fruit of the year; the thievish daw 
 Fought on the palace gable with his wife, 
 And the fierce magpie, born to ceaseless strife, 
 Swung on the larch and told his household woes, 
 Or plumed his tail and threatened all his foes 
 With vicious screams and angry rhapsodies; 
 And loud the finches chirruped in the trees. 
 
 And then, as so frequently happens there in the 
 late autumn: 
 Spiralling adown the sky, the first great feathery snowfiakes 
 
 made their way, 
 Till all the garden changed from brown to gray. 
 
 It is in battle bouts, however, that the author's 
 skill manifests itself to the best advantage : 
 
 Strong knee to knee, and bloody sword to sword 
 And the deep vale the echoing tenors roar'd. 
 
ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 259 
 
 The taking of the Fomorian stronghold hy the 
 three brothers, Naisi, Ainli and Ardan is referred to 
 in the following lines: 
 
 Mercy fled, 
 
 The field despairing; Rage, or coward Dread 
 Possessed all hearts; while raising her wild shriek 
 Slaughter with crimson wings and raven beak, 
 Flapped the black sky above exultingly, 
 Till, as the sinking moon from o'er the sea 
 Cast her last beams ere morn across the isle* 
 Weirdly they glimmered on the ghastly pile 
 Of pirate dead that cumbered all the strand, 
 Whereby strong Naisi stood, in his left hand 
 Holding aloft the grim and gory head 
 
 Of the Fomorian King! 
 
 There is nothing in the ^Eneid that surpasses this 
 in dramatic effect. That the reading public imme- 
 diately recognized the high merit of this work is 
 proved by the fact that ten thousand copies of it 
 were sold in one week after publication. 
 
 "Blanid" is an epic which equally abounds in 
 bold metaphor and beautiful simile. 
 
 Unlike the author of " Lalla Rookh," Joyce 
 
 " Had no heart nor hand, 
 
 For foreign theme in foreign land. " 
 
 He himself was Irish to the core, and all his themes 
 were Irish too. This truth he beautifully sets forth 
 in his proem to "Blanid." So far have we outrun 
 
260 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 the limits of our space that room can be given to 
 only one stanza of this preface: 
 
 Though many a field I've searched of foreign lore, 
 
 And found great themes for song, yet ne'er would 1 
 Seek Greece, or Araby, or Persia's shore 
 
 For heroes and the deeds of days gone by; 
 
 To my own native land my heart would fly, 
 Howe'er my fancy wandered, and I gave 
 
 My thoughts to her and to the heroes high 
 She nursed in ages gone and strove to save 
 Some memory of their deeds from dark oblivion's wave ! 
 
 " Deirdre " and " Blanid " were published by Rob- 
 erts Brothers, Boston, in the " No Name " series; and, 
 long before the authorship was known, their merit 
 was recognized. 
 
 THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK. 
 
 HE grasped the ponderous hammer, he could not stand it more, 
 To hear the bomb-shells bursting, and thundering battle's roar; 
 He said, " The breach they're mounting, the Dutchman's mur- 
 dering crew 
 I'll try my hammer on their heads, and see what that can do! 
 
 " Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron well; 
 Tis Sarsfield's horse that wants the shoes, so mind not shot or 
 
 shell;" 
 "Ah sure," cried both, " the horse can wait, for Sarsfield's on 
 
 the wall, 
 And where you go we'll follow, with you to stand or fall!" 
 
ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 261 
 
 The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed into the street, 
 His 'prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to meet; 
 High on the breach of Limerick with dauntless hearts they 
 
 stood, 
 Where bomb-shells burst, and shot fell thick, and redly ran the 
 
 blood. 
 
 "Now look you, brown-haired Moran; and mark you, swarthy 
 
 Ned, 
 
 This day we'll prove the thickness of many a Dutchman's head! 
 Hurrah! upon their bloody path, they're mounting gallantly; 
 And now the first that tops the breach, leave him to this and me." 
 
 The first that gained the rampart, he was a captain brave, 
 A captain of the grenadiers, with blood-stained dirk and glaive; 
 He pointed and he parried, but it was all in vain! 
 For fast through skull and helmet the hammer found his brain! 
 
 The next that topped the rampart, he was a Colonel bold; 
 Bright, through the dust of battle, his helmet flashed with 
 
 gold 
 
 " Gold is no match for iron/' the doughty blacksmith said, 
 And with that ponderous hammer he cracked his foeman's head. 
 
 " Hurrah for gallant Limerick! " black Ned and Moran cried, 
 As on the Dutchman's leaden heads their hammers well they 
 
 plied ; 
 
 A bomb-shell burst between them one fell without a groan, 
 One leaped into the lurid air, and down the breach was thrown. 
 
 Brave smith! brave smith! cried Sarsfield, beware the treacher- 
 ous mine ! 
 
 Brave smith! brave smith! fall backward, or surely death is 
 thine!" 
 
262 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 The smith sprang up the rampart and leaped the blood-stained 
 
 wall, 
 As high into the shuddering air went foeman, breach and all ! 
 
 Up, like a red volcano, they thundered wild and high, 
 Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foeman through the 
 
 sky; 
 And dark and bloody- was the shower that round the blacksmith 
 
 fell;- 
 He thought upon his 'prentice boys, they were avenged well. 
 
 On foeman and defenders a silence gathered down; 
 
 'T was broken by a triumph shout that shook the ancient town, 
 
 As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged and slew, 
 
 And taught King William and his men what Irish hearts could do. 
 
 Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river's side, 
 He hammered on the foe's pontoon, to sink it in the tide; 
 The timber, it was tough and strong, it took no crack or strain; 
 ' ' Mavrone / 't won't break !" the blacksmith roared ; ' ' I'll try 
 their heads again !" 
 
 He rushed upon the flying ranks; his hammer ne'er was slack, 
 For in thro' blood and bone it crashed, thro' helmet and thro' 
 
 jack; 
 
 He's ta'en a Holland captain beside the red pontoon, 
 And " Wait you here," he boldly cries; " I'll send you back full 
 
 soon!" 
 
 Dost see this gory hammer ? It cracked some skulls to-day, 
 And yours 't will crack, if you don't stand and list to what I 
 
 say; 
 
 Here! take it to your cursed King, and tell him, softly, too, 
 'T would be acquainted with his skull if he were here, not you!" 
 
ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 26& 
 
 The blacksmith sought his smithy and blew his bellows strong; 
 
 He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o'er it sang no song; 
 
 * * Ochone / my boys are dead !" he cried ; ' ' their loss I'll long 
 
 deplore, 
 But comfort's in my heart, their graves are red with foreign 
 
 gore. " 
 
 SWEET GLENGAKJFF'S WATER. 
 
 WHERE wildfowl swim upon the lake 
 
 At morning's early shining, 
 I'm sure, I'm sure my heart will break 
 
 With sadness and repining. 
 
 As I went out one morning sweet, 
 
 I met a farmer's daughter, 
 With gown of blue, and milk-white feet, 
 
 By sweet Glengariff's water. 
 
 Her jet-black locks, with wavy shine, 
 
 Fell sweetly on her shoulder, 
 And, ah! they make my heart repine 
 
 Till I again behold her. 
 
 She smiled and passed me strangely by, 
 
 Though fondly I besought her, 
 And long I'll rue her laughing eye 
 
 By sweet Glengariff's water. 
 
 Where wild fowl swim upon the lake 
 
 At early morning splendor, 
 Each day my lonely path I'll take, 
 
 With thoughts full sad and tender. 
 
IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 I'll meet my love, and, sure, she'll stay 
 To hear the tale I've brought her 
 
 To marry me this merry May, 
 By sweet GlengarifF's water. 
 
 THE GREEN AND THE GOLD. 
 
 IN the soft, blooming vales of our country, 
 
 Two colors shine brightest of all, 
 O'er mountain and moorland and meadow, 
 
 On cottage and old castle wall; 
 They shine in the gay summer garden, 
 
 And glint in the depths of the wold, 
 And they gleam on the banner of Ireland, 
 
 Our colors, the Green and the Gold! 
 Then hurrah for the Green and the Gold ! 
 
 By the fresh winds of Freedom outrolled, 
 As they shine on the brave Irish banner, 
 
 Our colors, the Green and the Gold! 
 
 In the days of Fomorian and Fenian, 
 
 These colors flashed bright in the ray; 
 And their gleam kept the fierce Roman Eagles 
 
 In Rome conquered Britain at bay; 
 When Conn fought his hundred red battles 
 
 And the lightning struck Dathi of old, 
 As he bore through Helvetia's wild gorges 
 
 Our colors, the Green and the Gold. 
 Then hurrah for the Green and the Gold ! 
 
 May they flourish for ages untold ! 
 May they blaze in the vanguard of freedom, 
 
 Our colors, the Green and the Gold! 
 
ROBERT DWYEB JOYCE. 265 
 
 In these dark days of doom and disaster, 
 
 Is it dead, the old love for our land ? 
 Are our bosoms less brave than our fathers ? 
 
 Comes the sword-hilt less deft to our hand ? 
 No! we've proved us the wide world over, 
 
 Wherever war's surges have rolled, 
 And we'll raise once again in Old Ireland 
 
 Our colors, the Green and the Gold! 
 Then hurrah for the Green and the Gold ! 
 
 And hurrah for the valiant and bold, 
 Who will raise them supreme in Old Ireland, 
 
 Our colors, the Green and the Gold' 
 
 THE RAPPAREE'S HORSE AND SWORD. 
 
 MY name is MacSheehy, from Feal's swelling flood, 
 A rapparee rover by mountain and wood ; 
 I've two trusty comrades to serve me at need 
 This sword at my side and my gallant gray steed. 
 
 Now where did I get them, my gallant gray steed 
 And this sword, keen and trusty, to serve me at need? 
 This sword was my father's in battle he died 
 And I reared bold Isgur by Feal's woody side. 
 
 I ve said it, and say it, and care not who hear, 
 Myself and gray Isgur have never known fear; 
 There's a dint on my helmet, a hole through his ear; 
 T was the same bullet made them, at Lim'rick last year! 
 
 And the soldier who fired it was still ramming down, 
 When this long sword came right with a slash on his crown; 
 Dhar Dhia! but he'll ne'er fire a musket again, 
 For his skull lies in two at the side of the glen! 
 
266 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 When they caught us one day at the castle of Brugh, 
 Of our black-hearted foemen, the deadliest crew, 
 Like a bolt from the thunder, gray Isgur went through, 
 And my sword! long they'll weep at the sore taste of you! 
 
 Together we sleep 'neath the wild crag or tree, 
 My soul ! but there ne'er were such comrades as we ! 
 I, Brian the Rover, my two friends at need, 
 This sword at my side and my gallant gray steed ! 
 
 THE CAILIN RUE. 
 
 WHEN first I sought her, by Cashin's water 
 
 Fond love I brought her, fond love I told; 
 At day's declining I found her twining 
 
 Her bright locks shining like red, red gold. 
 She raised her eyes then in sweet surprise then 
 
 Ah ! how unwise then such eyes to view ! 
 For free they found me, but fast they bound me, 
 
 Love's chain around me for my Cailin Rue. 
 
 Fair flowers were blooming, the meads illuming, 
 
 All fast assuming rich summer's pride, 
 And we were roving, truth's rapture proving, 
 
 Ah! fondly loving, by Cashin's side; 
 Oh love may wander, but ne'er could sunder 
 
 Our hearts, that fonder each moment grew, 
 Till friends delighted such love requited, 
 
 And my hand was plighted to my Cailin Rue. 
 
 Ere May's bright weather o'er hill and heather, 
 Sweet tuned together rang our bridal bells; 
 
 But at May's dying, on fate relying, 
 Fate left us sighing by Cashin's dells; 
 
ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 267 
 
 Oh! sadly perished the bliss we cherished! 
 
 But far lands flourished o'er the ocean blue, 
 So as June came burning, I left Erin mourning, 
 
 No more returning with my Cailin Rue. 
 
 Our ship went sailing with course nnf ailing, 
 
 But black clouds, trailing, lowered o'er the main, 
 And its wild dirge singing, came the storm out springing, 
 
 That good ship flinging back, back again! 
 A sharp rock under tore her planks asunder, 
 
 While the sea in thunder swallowed wreck ana crew; 
 One dark wave bore me where the coast towered o'er me, 
 
 But dead before me lay my Cailin Rue ! 
 
 THE SACK OF DUNBUI. 
 
 A. D. 1602. 
 
 THEY who fell in manhood's pride, 
 They who nobly righting died, 
 
 Fade their mem'iies never, never; 
 Theirs shall be the deathless name 
 
 Shining brighter, grander ever, 
 
 Up the diamond crags of Fame ! 
 Time these glorious names shall lift 
 Up from sunbright clift to clift 
 
 Upward ! to eternity ! 
 
 The godlike men o brave Dunbui! 
 
268 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Glorious men and godlike men, 
 Well they stemmed the Saxon then, 
 
 When he came, with all his powers, 
 Over river, plain and sea, 
 
 'Gainst the tall and bristling towers 
 Of the Spartan-manned Dunbui 
 Traitor Gael and Saxon churl, 
 Burning in their wrath to hurl 
 
 Ruin on the bold and free 
 
 Warrior men of brave Dunbui ! 
 
 Thomond with his traitors came, 
 Carew breathing blood and flame; 
 
 First he sent his message in 
 
 To the Southern gunsmen three, 
 
 Message black as hell and sin, 
 Sin and Satan e'er could be; 
 Would they, trusting f re res, betray, 
 Would they this, for golden pay ? 
 
 Demon, no! foul treachery 
 
 Never dwelt in strong Dunbui ; 
 
 Onward, then, that sunny June, 
 On they came in the fiery noon, 
 
 On where frowned the stubborn keep 
 O'er the rock-subduing flood; 
 
 First they took Beare's island, steep, 
 
 And drenched its crags in helpless blood. 
 Nought could save^ child's, woman's tears 
 Curse upon their cruel spears! 
 
 Oh, that sight was hell to see 
 
 By thy bristling walls , Dunbui ! 
 
ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 269 
 
 Nearer yet, they crowd and come, 
 
 With taunting and yelling, and thundering drum, 
 
 With taunting and yelling the hold they environ, 
 And swear that its towers and defenders must fall, 
 
 While the cannon are set, and their death-hail of iron 
 
 Crash wildly on bastion and turret and wall; 
 And the ramparts are torn from their base to their brow 
 Ho ! will they not yield to the murderers now ? 
 
 No! its huge towers shall float over Cleena's bright sea 
 
 Ere the Gael prove a craven in lonely Dunbui ! 
 
 Like the fierce god of battle , MacGeoghegan goes 
 From rampart to wall, in the face of his foes; 
 
 Now his voice rises high o'er the cannon's fierce din, 
 
 Whilst the taunt of the Saxon is loud as before, 
 But a yell thunders up from his warriors within, 
 
 And they dash through the gateway, down, down to the 
 
 shore. 
 
 With their chief rushing on, like a storm in its wrath, 
 They sweep the cowed Saxon to death in their path ; 
 Ah ! dearly he'll purchase the fall of the free , 
 Of the lion-souled warriors of lonely Dunbui ! 
 
 Leaving terror behind them, and death in their train, 
 Now they stand on their walls 'mid the dying and slain, 
 And the night is around them the battle is still 
 
 That lone summer midnight, ah! short is its reign, 
 For the morn springe th upward, and valley and hill 
 Fling back the fierce echoes of conflict again. 
 
270 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 And see how the foe rushes up to the breach, 
 Towards the green waving banner he yet may not reach, 
 For look how the Gael flings him back to the sea , 
 From the blood-reeking ramparts of lonely Dunbui ! 
 
 Night cometh again, and the white stars look down 
 From the hold to the beach, where the batteries frown; 
 
 Night cometh again, but affrighted she flies, 
 
 Like a black Indian queen from the fierce panther's roar, 
 
 And morning leaps up in the wide-spreading skies, 
 To his welcome of thunder and flame evermore ; 
 For the guns of the Saxon crash fearfully there, 
 Till the walls and the towers and the ramparts are bare, 
 
 And the foe make their last mighty swoop on the free 
 
 The brave-hearted warriors of lonely Dunbui ! 
 
 Within the red breach see MacGeoghegan stand, 
 With the blood of the foe on his arm and his brand; 
 And he turns to his warriors, and " Fight we," says he, 
 
 " For country, for freedom, religion, and all; 
 Better sink into death, and for ever be free, 
 
 Than yield to the false Saxon's mercy and thrall !" 
 And they answer, with brandish of sparth and of glaive: 
 " Let them come; we will give them a welcome and grave; 
 Let them come from their swords could we flinch, could we 
 
 flee, 
 When we fight for our countiy, our God, and Dunbui! " 
 
ROBERT DWYEK JOYCE. 271 
 
 They came, and the Gael met their merciless shock 
 Flung them backward like spray from the lone Skellig rock; 
 
 But they rally, as wolves springing up to the death 
 Of their brother of famine , the bear of the snow 
 
 He hurls them adown to the ice-fields beneath, 
 
 Rushing back to his dark norland cave from the foe; 
 So up to the breaches they savagely bound, 
 Thousands still thronging beneath and around, 
 
 Till the firm Gael is driven till the brave Gael must flee 
 
 In, into the chambers of lonely Dunbui! 
 
 In chamber, in cellar, on stairway and tower, 
 Evermore they resisted the false Saxon's power; 
 
 Through the noon, through the eve, and the darkness of night 
 The clangor of battle rolls fearfully there, 
 
 Till the morning leaps upward in glory and light, 
 
 Then, where are the true-hearted warriors of Beare? 
 They have found them a refuge from torment and chain; 
 They have died with their chief, save the few who remain, 
 
 And that few oh, fair Heaven! on the high gallows tree, 
 
 They swing by the ruins of lonely Dunbui ! 
 
 Long, in the hearts of the brave and the free 
 Live the warriors who died in the lonely Dunbni 
 
 Down Time's silent river their fair names shall go, 
 A light to our race towards the long-coming day; 
 
 Till the billows of time shall be checked in their flow 
 
 Can we find names so sweet for remembrance as they ? 
 And we will hold their memories for ever and aye , 
 A halo, a glory that ne'er shall decay; 
 
 We'll set them as stars o'er Eternity's sea, 
 
 The bright names of the warriors who fell at Dunbui ! 
 
272 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 SARSFIELD'S RIDE; OR, THE AMBUSH OF SLIAV 
 
 BLOOM. 
 
 [The generally-received historical account of the exploit related in the 
 following ballad differs in several points from the traditionary version. And 
 yet the latter should not be despised, for the peasantry of Limerick and 
 Tipperary have stories of the incident, all agreeing with regard to the ride of 
 Galloping O'Hogan. The songs also of the time preserve the name of that 
 celebrated horseman and outlaw in connection with the affair. It maybe also 
 stated that in every song and story of the time, King William is always nick- 
 named "Dutch Bill," a cognomen by which he is even to the present day 
 remembered in many parts of Munster.] 
 
 PAET THE FIBST. 
 
 " COME up to the hill, Johnnie Moran, and the de'il's in the 
 sight you will see: 
 
 The men of Dutch Bill in the lowlands are marching o'er valley 
 and lea; 
 
 Brave cannon they bring for their warfare, good powder and 
 bullets galeor, 
 
 To batter the grey walls of Limerick adown by the deep Shan- 
 non shore ! " 
 
 They girded their corselets and sabers that morning so glorious 
 
 and still; 
 They leapt like good men to their saddles, and took the lone 
 
 path to the hill; 
 And deftly they handled their bridles as they rode thro' each 
 
 green, fairy coom, 
 Each woodland, and broad rocky valley, till they came to the 
 
 crest of Sliav Bloom ! 
 
 " Look down to the east, Johnnie Moran, where the wings of 
 
 the morning are spread, 
 Each basnet you see in the sunlight it gleams on an enemy's head ; 
 
ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 273 
 
 Look down on their long line of baggage, their huge guns of 
 
 iron and brass, 
 That, as sure as my name is O'Hogan, will ne'er to the William- 
 
 ites pass ! 
 
 " Spur, then, to the green shores of Brosna see Ned of the 
 
 hills on your way 
 Have all the brave boys at the muster by Brosna at close of the 
 
 day; 
 I'll ride off for Sarsfield to Lim'rick, and tell what I've seen 
 
 from the hill 
 If Sarsfield won't capture their cannon, by the Cross of Kildare, 
 
 but we will!" 
 
 Away to the north went young Johnnie, like an arbalist bolt in 
 
 his speed, 
 Away to the west brave O'Hogan gives bridle and spur to his 
 
 steed; 
 Through the fierce highland torrent he dashes, through copse 
 
 and down greenwood full fain, 
 Till he biddeth farewell to the mountains, and sweeps o'er the 
 
 flat lowland plain ! 
 
 You'd search from the grey Rocks of Cashel each side to the 
 
 blue ocean's rim, 
 Through green dale, and hamlet, and city, but you'd ne'er find 
 
 a horseman like him ; 
 With his foot, as if grown to the stirrup, his knee, with its 
 
 rooted hold ta'en, 
 With his seat in the saddle so graceful, and his sure hand so 
 
 light on the rein ! 
 
 19 
 
274 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 As the cloud-shadow skims o'er the meadows, when the fleet- 
 winged summer- winds blow, 
 
 By war- wasted castle and village, and streamlet and crag doth 
 he go; 
 
 The foam-flakes drop quick from his charger, yet never a bridle 
 draws he, 
 
 Till he baits in the hot, blazing noontide by the cool fairy well 
 of Lisbui ! 
 
 He rubbed down his charger full fondly, the dry grass he heaped 
 
 for its food, 
 He ate of the green cress and shamrock, and drank of the sweet 
 
 crystal flood ; 
 He's up in his saddle and flying o'er wood track and broad 
 
 heath once more, 
 Till the sand 'neath the hoofs of his charger is crunch'd by the 
 
 wide Shannon's shore ! 
 
 For never a ford did he linger, but swam his good charger 
 
 across 
 It clomb the steep bank like a wolf-dog- then dashed over 
 
 moorland and moss. 
 The shepherds who looked from the highland, they crossed 
 
 themselves thrice as he passed, 
 And they said 'twas a sprite from Crag Aeivil went by on the 
 
 wings of the blast. 
 
 PAET THE SECOND. 
 
 Dutch Bill sent a summons to Limerick a summons to open 
 
 their gate, 
 Their fortress and stores to surrender, else the pike and the gun 
 
 were their fate. 
 
ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 275 
 
 Brave Sarsfield he answered the summons: " Though all holy 
 
 Ireland in flames 
 Blazed up to the skies to consume us, we'll hold the good town 
 
 for King James." 
 
 Dutch Bill, when he listed the answer, he stamped, and he 
 
 vowed, and he swore 
 That he'd bury the town, ere he'd leave it, in grim fiery ruin 
 
 and gore; 
 From black Ireton's Fort with his cannon he hammered it well 
 
 all the day, 
 And he wished for his huge guns to back him that were yet 
 
 o'er the hills far away. 
 
 The soft curfew bell from Saint Mary's tolled out in the calm 
 
 sunset air, 
 And Sarsfield stood high on the rampart and looked o'er the 
 
 green fields of Clare; 
 And anon from the copses of Cratloe a flash to his keen eyes 
 
 there came, 
 'Twas the spike of O'Hogan's bright basnet glist'ning forth in 
 
 the red sunset flame ! 
 
 Then down came the galloping horseman with the speed of a 
 culverin ball, 
 
 And he reined up his foam-flecked charger with a gallant gam- 
 bade by the wall; 
 
 And his keen eye searched tower, fosse and rampart they lay 
 all securely and still 
 
 And then to the bold Lord of Lucan, he told what he'd seen 
 from the hill! 
 
276 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 The good steed he rests in the stable, the bold rider feasts at the 
 
 board, 
 But the gay, laughing revel once ended, he'll soon have a feast 
 
 for his sword. 
 And now he looks out at the window, where the moonbeams 
 
 flash pale on the square, 
 For Sarsfield, full dight in his harness, with five hundred bold 
 
 troopers, is there! 
 
 He's mounted his steed in the moonlight, and away from the 
 
 North Gate they go, 
 Where the woods cast their black spectral shadows, and the 
 
 streams with their lone voices flow; 
 The peasants awoke from their slumbers, and prayed, as they 
 
 swept through the glen, 
 For they thought 'twas the great Garodh Earla that thundered 
 
 adown with his men ! 
 
 The grey, ghastly midnight was 'round them, the banks they 
 
 were rocky and steep; 
 The hills with one sullen roar echoed, for the huge stream was 
 
 angry and deep ; 
 But the bold Lord of Lucan he cared not, he asked for no light 
 
 save the moon's, 
 And he's forded the broad, lordly Shannon with his galloping 
 
 guide and dragoons. 
 
 The star of the morning out glimmered, as fast by Lisearly they 
 
 rode; 
 As they swept round the base of Comailta the sun on their 
 
 bright helmets glowed. 
 
ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 277 
 
 Now the steeds in the valley are grazing, and the horsemen 
 
 crouch down in the broom, 
 And Sarsfield peers out like an eagle on the low-lying plains 
 
 from Sliav Bloom. 
 
 PART THE THIRD. 
 
 O'Hogan is down in the valleys, a watch on the track of the 
 
 foe, 
 Johnnie Moran from Brosna is marching, that his men be in 
 
 time for a blow. 
 All day from the bright blooming heather the tall Lord of Lucan 
 
 looks down 
 On the roads, where the train of Dutch Billy on its slow march 
 
 of danger is bowne. 
 
 The red sunset died in the heavens; night fell over mountain 
 
 and shore; 
 The moon shed her light on the valleys, and the stare glimmered 
 
 brightly once more; 
 Then Sarsfield sprang up from the heather, for a horse tramp 
 
 he heard on the waste, 
 Twas O'Hogan, the black mountain sweeping, like a specter of 
 
 night, in his haste! 
 
 " Lord Lucan, they've camped in the forest that skirts Bally- 
 nee ty's grey tower; 
 
 I've found out the path to fall on them and slay in the dread 
 midnight hour; 
 
 They have powder, pontoons, and great cannons Dhar Dhia! 
 but their long tubes are bright ! 
 
 They have treasure galeor for the taking, and their watchword 
 is 'Sarsfield!' to-night." 
 
278 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 The star of the midnight was shining when the gallant dragoons 
 got the word, 
 
 Each sprang with one bound to his saddle, and looked to his 
 pistols amd sword; 
 
 And away down Comailta's deep valleys the guide and bold 
 Sarsfield are gone, 
 
 While the long stream of helmets behind them in the cold moon- 
 light glimmered and shone. 
 
 They stayed not for loud brawling river, they looked not for 
 togher or path, 
 
 They tore up the long street of Cullen with the speed of the 
 storm in its wrath; 
 
 When on old Ballyneety they thundered, the sentinel's chal- 
 lenge rang clear 
 
 " Ho! Sarsfield's the word," cried Lord Lucan, "and you'll soon 
 find that Sarstield is here! " 
 
 He clove through the sentinel's basnet, he rushed by the side of 
 
 the glen, 
 And down on the enemy's convoy, where they stood to their 
 
 cannons like men; 
 His troopers with pistol and saber, through the camp like a 
 
 whirlwind tore, 
 With a crash and a loud-ringing war-cry, and a plashing and 
 
 stamping in gore ! 
 
 The red-coated convoy they've sabered, Dutch Billy's mighty 
 
 guns they have ta'en., 
 And they laugh as they look on their capture, for they'll ne'er 
 
 see such wonders again; 
 
ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 279 
 
 Those guns, with one loud roaring volley, might batter a strong 
 
 mountain down, 
 Wirristhru for its gallant defenders, if they e'er came to Limerick 
 
 town! 
 
 They rilled them and rammed them with powder, they turned 
 down their mouths to the clay. 
 
 The dry casks they piled all around them, the baggage above 
 did they lay; 
 
 A mine train they laid to the powder, afar to the greenwood 
 out thrown 
 
 " Now, give us the match! " cried Lord Lucan, " and an earth- 
 quake we'll have of our own!" 
 
 O'Hogan the quick fuse he lighted it whizzed then a flash 
 
 and a glare 
 Of broad blinding brightness infernal burst out in the calm 
 
 midnight air; 
 A hoarse crash of thunder volcanic roared up to the bright stars 
 
 on high, 
 And the splinters of guns and of baggage showered flaming 
 
 around through the sky! 
 
 The firm earth it rocked and and it trembled, the camp showed 
 
 its red pools of gore, 
 And old Ballyneety's grey castle came down with a crash and a 
 
 roar; 
 The fierce sound o'er highland and lowland rolled on like the 
 
 dread earthquake's tramp, 
 And it wakened Dutch Bill from his slumbers and gay dreams 
 
 that night in his camp ! 
 
280 
 
 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Lord Lucaii dashed back o'er the Shannon ere the bright star of 
 
 morning arose, 
 With his men through the North Gate he clattered , unhurt and 
 
 unseen by his foes; 
 Johnny Moran rushed down from Comailta not a foe was alive 
 
 for his blade, 
 But his men searched the black gory ruins, and the deil's in the 
 
 spoil that they made ! 
 
IAMKS CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 ERENGER, the Galilean Nightingale, was 
 ushered into life in the humble dwelling of 
 a tailor, and Burns Nature's " bonnie bard" first 
 opened his eyes to the reality of existence in a peas- 
 ant's lowly cot. Like these illustrious favorites of 
 the lyric muse, the subject of our present paper was 
 born in humble, inauspicious circumstances His 
 father, a native of Limerick County, about 1801 set- 
 tled in Fishamble street, Dublin, where he married 
 a Miss Smith, who became the mother of James 
 Clarence, in the early part of that eventful year (1803) 
 which witnessed the noble Emmet's death upon a 
 scaffold and hailed the birth of gentle Gerald Griffin. 
 Of his school-boy days we know little more than 
 that he received the rudiments of an education in 
 Derby lane. What the direction of his young ideas 
 was the school registers say not. But this tabella 
 erassa is not a proof that he was devoid of talent; for 
 it is a fact well attested by experience that those who 
 run most successfully through their college curricu- 
 lum very seldom distinguish themselves in the broad 
 arena of the world. 
 
 (281) 
 
282 HUSH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 We do know, however, that the youthful Mangan 
 had a gentle, loving spirit, and that as attorney's 
 clerk he supported his mother and two sisters, who 
 were dependent on him for sustenance; he toiled all 
 day over mechanical formulas of law, in order to 
 fulfill his filial and fraternal obligations, and pro- 
 longed his vigils far into the night in pursuit of 
 knowledge. A few years of well-directed labor and 
 almost undivided attention sufficed to make him a 
 prodigy of linguistic learning. Besides being versed 
 in most of the modern and two or more of the 
 ancient languages, he acquired an immese fund of 
 general knowledge; but at what cost of energy and 
 application those students alone can calculate who 
 have laid down the principle that to acquire a great 
 store of knowledge requires great labor. In the lan- 
 guage of ^Eneas: 
 
 Tantse molis erat Romanam condere gentem. 
 
 Thus passed his youth in acquiring the means to 
 an end of triumph and literary fame. His triumphs, 
 in a worldly point of view, were indeed like angels' 
 visits few and far between. "His fate," says John 
 Mitchel, "was the common fate of poets he loved 
 and was disappointed." An avalon of beauty and 
 ineffable bliss dawned upon his vigorous imagina- 
 tion, and his feelings found expression in song. The 
 maiden on whom he lavished his love was enraptured 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 283 
 
 for a while by the sweetness and depth of his effu- 
 sions. She encouraged his advances until every fibre 
 of his soul was entwined round her, until she became 
 a part of his very existence; and then, meanly bar- 
 tering the pure and generous affections of a noble 
 soul for the luxuries of a rich dwelling, she tore him 
 from her heart and rudely cast him into " outer 
 darkness." 
 
 One of his translations gives color and form to 
 his own feelings on this occasion: 
 
 AND THEN NO MORE. 
 
 I SAW her once, one little while, and then no more; 
 Twas Eden's light on Earth awhile, and then no more. 
 Amid the throng she pass'd along the meadow-floor; 
 Spring seem'd to smile on Earth awhile , and then no more. 
 But whence she came, which way she went, what garb she 
 
 wore , 
 I noted not. I gazed awhile, and then no more. 
 
 I saw her once, one little while, and then no more; 
 'T was Paradise on earth awhile, and then no more; 
 Oh! what avail my vigils pale, my magic lore ? 
 She shone before mine eyes awhile, and then no more. 
 The shallop of my Peace is wrecked on Beauty's shore; 
 Near Hope's fair isle it rode awhile, and then no more! 
 
 1 saw her once, one little while, and then no more; 
 
 Earth looked like Heaven a little while, and then no more. 
 
284 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Her presence thrill'd and lighted to its inner core 
 My desert breast a little while , and then no more. 
 So may, perchance, a meteor glance at midnight o'er 
 Some ruin'd pile a little while, and then no more! 
 
 I saw her once, one little while, and then no more; 
 
 The earth was Peri-land awhile, and then no more. 
 
 Oh, might I see but once again, as once before, 
 
 Through chance or wile, that shape awhile, and then no more. 
 
 Death soon would heal my griefs! This heart, now sad and sore, 
 
 Would beat anew a little while , and then no more ! 
 
 False Frances was the first and the last that thrilled 
 his "desert breast." He soon became callous to the 
 beauties of the world. Life for him had no more 
 attractions. With the Latin poet he could sadly but 
 sincerely say: "Nihil amplius volo." Like Edgar 
 Allen Poe, he " loved and lost/' and like him, too, 
 he fell into despair. 
 
 Among his original compositions there is a grim 
 and ghastly poem, entitled "The Nameless One/' 
 which is an epitome of the inner-Mangan. It runs 
 thus: 
 
 THE NAMELESS ONE. 
 
 ROLL on, my song, like the rushing river 
 
 That sweeps along to the mighty sea ; 
 God will inspire me while I deliver 
 
 My soul to thee. 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANOAN. 285 
 
 Tell thou the world when my bones are whit'ning 
 
 Amid the last homes of youth and eld, 
 That there was once one whose veins ran lightning 
 
 No eye beheld. 
 
 Tell how his manhood was one drear night hour 
 
 How shone for him 'mid the grief and gloom 
 No star of all that Heaven sends to light our 
 
 Path to the tomb. 
 
 Roll on my soul, and to after ages 
 
 Tell how, disdaining all earth can give, 
 He would have taught men from Wisdom's pages 
 
 The way to live. 
 
 Tell how the nameless, condemned for years long 
 
 To herd with demons from hell beneath, 
 Saw things that made him with groans and tears long 
 
 For even death. 
 
 Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, 
 
 Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love, 
 With spirits shipwrecked and young hopes blasted, 
 
 He still, still strove. 
 
 And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, 
 
 And want and sickness, and homeless nights, 
 He bides in calmness the silent morrow 
 
 That no day lights. 
 
 And lives he still ? Yes, old and hoary 
 At forty- nine, from despair and woe, 
 He lives, enduring what future story 
 
 Will never know. 
 
286 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Such is the picture of Mangan's inner life; such, 
 alas! was the life of a consummate poet, an ardent 
 patriot, a man of splendid talents and liberal acquire- 
 ments. In his social relations, unlike the majority 
 of literary men, he seldom referred to his trials or 
 triumphs. Since the year 1828 to the time of his 
 death he had been before the public as a regular con- 
 tributor to the best, magazines of the Irish metropo- 
 lis; and even when O'Connell shook the senate halls 
 of England the influence of Mangan's pen was felt 
 and his genius acknowledged. Yet he seldom had a 
 word to say even to friends about his own projects or 
 achievements. It is not so with the genus irritabile 
 of our times. 
 
 Honest John Mitchel, the poet's faithful friend, 
 describes him as a man under the middle height, 
 with a finely formed head, clear blue eyes, and 
 features of a peculiar mold and delicacy. His coun- 
 tenance bore traces of sorrow, and his figure, though 
 well shaped, was meagre more from care and ill-usage 
 than by nature. Like most men of true genius, he 
 was shy, sensitive and sympathetic almost to a fault; 
 and though he would enter warmly into conversation 
 with intimate friends, he seldom sought society. 
 
 He had no ostensible connection with the " Young 
 Ireland Association;" yet there was not a mem- 
 ber of that brilliant constellation of Irish genius 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 2S7 
 
 more active in disseminating the doctrine of physical 
 force and resistance to tyrants. He held, perhaps, 
 the first rank among the staff of poetical writers 
 whose productions gave a high literary standing to 
 the Nation almost from the initial number. 
 
 All his poems are pregnant with the fire of that 
 patriotism which hade the genius of Davis to vibrate; 
 and as no species of writing has such influence on 
 the human heart as poetry, and as few men, accord- 
 ing to Mitchel, were better acquainted with the mani- 
 fold sounds and exquisite notes of the Irish harp 
 than James Clarence Mangan, it may be safely 
 asserted that his harmonious songs caused many a 
 Celtic heart to pulsate with patriotic emotion, 
 
 From the shelving shore of Antrim 
 
 To the sunny slopes of Beare. 
 
 From the establishment of the United Irishman by 
 Mitchel until its suppression in '48, Mangan con- 
 tributed regularly to its columns, and his splendid 
 translations from Spanish, French and German 
 formed a new feature of newspaper literature in Ire- 
 land. His translations from the Gaelic were very 
 considerable, and selected from the most mournful 
 pieces of the Munster Bards. " Patrick Sarsfield " 
 and "Dark Rosaleen" lost nothing of their original 
 vigor and intensity under his master hand. Nor did 
 the " Cathaleen Ni Houlihan " lose any of her warmth 
 
288 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 and beauty in exchanging her "Bearla fina" for an 
 Anglican robe. " Cathaleen Ni Houlihan" was a 
 poetical name for Erin. 
 
 LET none believe this lovely Eve outworn and old; 
 Fair is her form, her blood is warm, her heart is bold 
 Though strangers long have wrought her wrong, she will not 
 
 fawn, 
 Will not prove mean, our Cathaleen Ni Houlihan. 
 
 We will not bear the chains we wear, nor wear them long; 
 We seem bereaven, but mighty Heaven will make us strong. 
 The God who led through Ocean Red all Israel on 
 Will aid our Queen, our Cathaleen Ni Houlihan. 
 
 He has, according to competent authority, by which 
 the English version was compared with the original 
 manuscript, given us an excellent translation of St. 
 Patrick's Hymn before Tara. This Irish MS., which 
 Usher believed to be 1260 years old, is still preserved 
 in Trinity College, Dublin. In these translations 
 from the language of the Brehon Law, it is said 
 that, " while retaining all the phraseology of the 
 originals, they have lost nothing of their primitive 
 energy and beauty." His rendition of German into 
 English was equally clever and successful. Most 
 literary connoisseurs prefer his translation of 
 Schiller's beautiful poem, " The Ideal," to that of 
 Bulwer from the same original. This is Mangan's 
 version : 
 
JAMES CLAKENCE MANGAN. 289 
 
 THE IDEAL. 
 
 EXTINGUISHED in the darkness lies the sun 
 
 That lighted up my shrivelled world of wonder; 
 Those fairy-bands Imagination spun 
 
 Around my heart have long been reft asunder. 
 Gone forever is the fine belief 
 
 The all too generous trust in the Ideal ; 
 All my divinities have died of grief, 
 
 And left me wedded to the rude and Real. 
 
 This needs no commentary. 
 
 There is one of his productions which seems to 
 bespeak alike the prophet and the poet his 
 
 IRISH NATIONAL HYMN. 
 
 O IRELAND, ancient Ireland 
 
 Ancient yet forever young 
 You, our mother-home and sireland, 
 
 You, at length have found a tongue. 
 The flag of freedom floats unfurled, 
 
 And as the mighty God existeth 
 
 Who giveth victory, when and where he listeth, 
 Thou yet shalt wake and shake the nations of the world. 
 
 For this dull world still slumbers, 
 
 Weetless of its wants and loves; 
 Though, like Galileo, numbers 
 
 Cry aloud: " It moves, it moves!" 
 
 ?$fta5 
 
 [uffiv; 
 ^rmtf^ 
 
290 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 All march, but few decry the goal; 
 
 Oh, Ireland, be it thy high duty - 
 To teach the world the might of Moral Beauty, 
 
 And stamp God's image on the struggling soul. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Go on, then, all rejoiceful, 
 
 Marching on thy career unbowed ; 
 Ireland, let thy noble voiceful 
 
 Spirit cry to God aloud. 
 
 Man will bid thee speed, 
 
 God will aid thee in thy need. 
 The time, the hour, the power are near; 
 
 Be sure thou soon shalt form the vanguard 
 
 Of that illustrious band whom heaven and man guard , 
 And these words come from one whom some have called a seer. 
 
 One specimen more and we shall draw this brief 
 and imperfect paper to a close. Such a specimen as 
 this will not surely tire any true lover of poetry. It 
 is a translation of Bucket's 
 
 DYING FLOWER. 
 
 AND woe to mel fond, foolish one, 
 
 To tempt the all-absorbing ray, 
 To think a flower could love a sun 
 
 Nor feel her soul dissolve away; 
 But vainly in my bitterness 
 
 I speak the language of despair: 
 In life, in death, I still must bless 
 
 The sun, the light, the cradling air. 
 
JAMES CfLARENCE MANGAN. 291 
 
 Mine early love to them I gave; 
 
 And now that yon bright orb on high 
 Illumines but a wider grave, 
 
 For them I breathe my final sigh. 
 
 How often soared my soul aloft, 
 
 In balmy bliss too deep to speak ; 
 When zephyrs came and kissed with soft 
 
 Sweet incense-breath my blushing cheek ! 
 When beauteous bees and butterflies 
 
 Flew round me in the summer beam, 
 Or when some virgin's glorious eyes 
 
 Bent o'er me like a dazzling dream. 
 
 This is a poem with a moral, aimost perfect in 
 rhyme and rhythm, abounding in alliteration and 
 sparkling with beauty of thought and expression. 
 
 Strange to say that an admiring public should 
 neglect a man of Mangan's taste and talent; but such 
 neglect is almost the common inheritance of genius. 
 Spencer, the " sweet, foreign songster of the Mula," 
 ended his days in a public hospital; Tasso could 
 seldom get a good suit of clothes; and Dry den, who 
 lived a life of penury, died in distress. Like those, 
 Mangan was destitute of the comforts of a home, and 
 like them he was driven to drinking to excess. Dr. 
 Petrie obtained a situation for him in the Library of 
 Trinity College, but this succor came too late to stay 
 the ravages of want and despair. Nor could all the 
 efforts of the learned Father Meehan effect more than 
 
292 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 to " gently slope" his pathway to a premature grave. 
 Even when a mere skeleton he still wrote for the 
 newspapers, to procure him the necessaries of life. 
 
 The Rev. C. P. Meehan has left us the best memoir 
 of Mangan which has so far been written. The 
 reverend author of the " Flight of the Earls " fre- 
 quently assisted Mangan while living, and adminis- 
 tered to him the last Sacraments when dying. A 
 poet himself, a nationalist and a scholar, he was well 
 qualified for such a work. 
 
 We wish, however, he had given us a more strik- 
 ing picture of the coterie of literary worthies 
 Meagher, Mangan, Mitchel, Duffy and Williams who 
 were wont to meet one evening of each week in his 
 own little study, at the rectory on Exchange Street, 
 for the discussion of matters, literary and political. 
 But, unfortunately, the writer's modesty deterred 
 him from bringing out in bold relief a group in 
 which he himself was a prominent and important 
 figure. 
 
 From 1832 to 1834 Mangan was associated with 
 Dr. O'Donovan, O'Keeffe, O'Curry and Dr. Petrie in 
 writing and arranging the " Ordinance Survey 
 Memoir of Ireland"; and it was during this period 
 that he made most of his translations from the Irish 
 language. O'Donovan and O'Curry rendered many 
 remains of the Irish bards into English prose, and 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 293 
 
 Mangan turned the literal translations into verse 
 with a felicity which astonished his literary contem- 
 poraries. The distinguished archaeologist, Petrie, 
 was at that time editor of the Dublin Penny Journal, 
 for which our author wrote almost regularly over the 
 pseudonym of " Clarence." After completing his 
 engagement on the " Survey " business he became a 
 writer in the Dublin University Magazine, and 
 through the pages of that brilliant periodical he first 
 appeared in the character of translator from Conti- 
 nental languages. He had an intimate acquaintance 
 with German and Spanish, and needed no outside 
 assistance to select the choicest garlands from 
 foreign gardens. During his incumbency as Libra- 
 rian of Trinity College he published in the University 
 Magazine a series of translations under the caption 
 of " Litene Orientales." These, of course, were the 
 pure emanations of Mangan 's own muse with a savor 
 of Orientalism given thereunto. The best known o\ 
 this batch are "The Time of the Barmecides/' and 
 "Boating Down the Bosphorus." These possess 
 much merit and seem to grow in popularity with 
 the lapse of time. 
 
 When Thomas Davis was struck down in the 
 midst of his labors and the flowering of his intellec- 
 tual strength, Charles Gavaii Duffy attempted to 
 supply his place by inducing Mangan to write more 
 
294 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 frequently for the Nation. But he could not get him 
 to pull in harness for any considerable time at a 
 stretch; and although his poetry, in many very 
 many respects, is superior to anything Davis wrote, 
 he could not fill the place made vacant by the death 
 of the latter. 
 
 In the Fall of 1848 he was a patient at St. Vin- 
 cent's Hospital, and while there arranged with the 
 patriotic publisher, John O'Daly, for the issuing of 
 the "Poets and Poetry of Munster." 
 
 This little work gained at once a wide popularity, 
 and the profits accruing from large sales relieved 
 the pressing wants of the translator and editor. 
 But early in the next year he was to be found in 
 the hospital again this time in the Meath Hospital. 
 Finding that the end was approaching, he sent for 
 his faithful friend, Father Meehan, who watched 
 over him day after day. 
 
 As the Poet-Priest entered the sick-room on the 
 morning of June 19th, 1849, Mangan said to him: 
 " I feel that my hour is near, and I want to be 
 anointed." 
 
 On the evening of the following day he expired 
 with the Saviour's name upon his lips, his hands 
 crossed upon his breast and his eyes firmly fixed 
 upon the symbol of Redemption, which was held up 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 295 
 
 to his waning vision by his true friend and spiritual 
 Father. 
 
 Such is the outline of Mangan's career. He lived 
 forty-six years, and in that short span accomplished 
 a great deal. " He might have done more," it is 
 true, and he certainly would under different circum- 
 stances. We thank him for all he has done, instead 
 of finding fault because he has not done more. 
 
 Many of his original poems and translations have 
 found a permanent place in the best standard works 
 of English literature, and his name occupies a warm 
 corner in the affection of the Irish race, both at 
 home and abroad. 
 
 Ireland has raised a monument to his memory in 
 Glasnevin; and when the proud ones, who sneered at 
 his threadbare coat and shunned him for his poverty, 
 shall be remembered only in connection with his 
 fame, his songs shall perpetuate untarnished and 
 unimpaired the brilliant genius and ardent patriot- 
 ism of James Clarence Mangan. 
 
 The following ballad was written under the inspi- 
 ration of the " physical force " doctrines of the 
 " Young Irelanders," and it is certainly well calcu- 
 lated to rouse an oppressed and plundered people to 
 action. Subsequently it became a favorite among the 
 members of the Fenian Brotherhood: 
 
IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 HIGHWAY FOR FREEDOM. 
 
 " MY suffering country SHALL be freed, 
 
 And shine with tenfold glory!" 
 So spake the gallant Winkelreid, 
 
 Renowned in German story. 
 " No tyrant, ev'n of kingly grade, 
 
 Shall cross or darken my way ! " 
 Out flashed his blade, and so he made 
 
 For Freedom's course a highway! 
 
 We want a man like this, with power 
 
 To rouse the world by one word; 
 We want a chief to meet the hour, 
 
 And march the masses onward. 
 But chief or none, through blood and fire, 
 
 My Fatherland, lies thy way! 
 The men must fight who dare desire 
 
 For Freedom's course a highway ! 
 
 Alas ! I can but idly gaze 
 
 Around in grief and wonder; 
 The People's will alone can raise 
 
 The People's shout of thunder. 
 Too long, my friends, you faint for fear, 
 
 In secret crypt and by-way; 
 At last be Men ! J3tand forth , and clear 
 
 For Freedom's course a highway ! 
 
 You intersect wood, lea, and lawn, 
 With roads for monster wagons, 
 
 Wherein you speed like lightning, drawn 
 By fiery iron dragons. 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 297 
 
 So do! Such work is good, no doubt; 
 
 But why not seek some nigh way 
 For MIND, as well ? Path also out 
 
 For Freedom's course a highway ! 
 
 Yes ! up ! and let your weapons be 
 
 Sharp steel and self-reliance ! 
 Why waste your burning energy 
 
 In void and vain defiance, 
 And phrases fierce and fugitive ? 
 
 Tis deeds, not words, that /weigh 
 Your swords and guns alone caft give 
 
 To Freedom's course a highway. 
 
 THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS. 
 
 d 
 
 (Translated from the Irish.) 
 
 [This ballad, which is of homely cast, was intended as a rebuke to the 
 saucy pride of a woman in humble life, who assumed airs of consequence 
 from being the possessor of three cows. Its author's name is unknown, but 
 its age can be determined, from the language, as belonging to the early part 
 of the seventeenth century. That it was formerly very popular in Munster 
 maybe concluded from the fact that the phrase, "Easy, oh, woman of the 
 three cows!" has become a saying in that Province, on any occasion upon 
 which it is desirable to lower the pretensions of a boastful or consequential 
 person.] 
 
 O, WOMAN of Three Cows, agra! don't let your tongue thus 
 
 rattle! 
 
 O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle. 
 I have seen and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's 
 
 true 
 A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you. 
 
298 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their 
 
 despiser, 
 
 For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser; 
 And Death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty 
 
 human brows. 
 Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three 
 
 Cows! 
 
 See where Mononia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants: 
 ' T is they that won the glorious name , and had the grand 
 
 attendants ! 
 
 If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows, 
 Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows! 
 
 The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to 
 
 mourning; 
 Movrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their 
 
 returning 
 Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven 
 
 to house ? 
 Yet you give yourself these airs, O, Woman of Three Cows! 
 
 O, think of Donnell of the Ships, the Chief whom nothing 
 
 daunted 
 
 See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled , unchanted! 
 He sleeps, the great O' Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse 
 Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three 
 
 Cows! 
 
 OHuark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined 
 
 in story 
 Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest 
 
 glory 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 299 
 
 Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress 
 
 boughs, 
 And so, for all your pride, will yours, O, Woman of Three 
 
 Cows ! 
 
 Th' 0'Carrolls,also, famed when Fame was only for the boldest, 
 Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest; 
 Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse ? 
 Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three 
 Cows ! 
 
 Your neighbor's poor, and you it seems are big with vain ideas, 
 Because, forsooth, you've got three cows, one more, I see, than 
 
 she has. 
 
 That tongue of yours wags more at times than Charity allows, 
 But, if you're strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows! 
 
 9 
 THE SUMMING UP. 
 
 Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful 
 
 bearing, 
 
 And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing, 
 If I had but four cows myself, even tho' you were my spouse, 
 I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three 
 
 Cows! 
 
300 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 THE FAIR HILLS OF EIRE, O! 
 
 TAKE a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth, 
 
 And the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
 And to all that yet survive of Eibhear's tribe on earth, 
 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, O ! 
 In that land so delightful the wild thrush's lay 
 Seems to pour a lament forth for Eire's decay 
 Alas ! alas ! why pine I a thousand miles away 
 
 From the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
 
 The soil is rich and soft, the air is mild and bland, 
 
 Of the fair Hills of Eire, ! 
 Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land 
 
 Oh, the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
 
 Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove; 
 Trees flourish in her glens below, and on her heights above, 
 Oh, in heart and in soul, I shall ever, ever love 
 
 The fair Hills of Eire, O! 
 
 A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael, 
 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
 A tribe in battle's hour unused to shrink or fail 
 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
 For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured, 
 To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword 
 Oh, woe of woes, to see a foreign spoiler horde 
 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, O I 
 
 Broad and tall rise the Cruachs in the golden morning's glow 
 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
 O'er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow 
 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, ! 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 301 
 
 Oh, I long, I am pining, again to behold 
 The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old ; 
 Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold 
 Are the fair HiUs of Eire, O! 
 
 The dew-drops lie bright 'mid the grass and yellow corn 
 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
 The sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn 
 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
 The water-cress and sorrel till the vales below; 
 The streamlets are hush'd, till the evening breezes blow, 
 While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow 
 
 Near the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
 
 A fruitful clime is Eire's, through valley, meadow, plain, 
 
 And the fair land of Eire, O! 
 The very ' ' Bread of Life " is in the yellow grain 
 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, 0! 
 Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields, 
 Is the lowing of the kine and the calves in her fields, 
 And the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields 
 
 Of the Gaels, on the fair Hills of Eire, O! 
 
 SOUL AND COUNTRY. 
 
 ARISE! my slumbering soul, arise! 
 And learn what yet remains for thee 
 
 To dree or do ! 
 
 The signs are flaming in the skies; 
 A struggling world would yet be free, 
 And live anew. 
 
302 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 The earthquake hath not yet been born, 
 That soon shall rock the lands around, 
 
 Beneath their base. 
 Immortal freedom's thunder horn, 
 As yet, yields but a doleful sound 
 To Europe's race. 
 
 Look round, my soul, and see and say 
 If those about thee understand 
 
 Their mission here ; 
 
 The will to smite the power to slay 
 Abound in every heart and hand, 
 Afar, anear. 
 
 But, God! must yet the conqueror's sword 
 Pierce mind, as heart, in this proud year ? 
 
 Oh, dream it not! 
 
 It sounds a false, blaspheming word, 
 
 Begot and born of moral fear 
 
 And ill-begot! 
 
 To leave the world a name is nought; 
 To leave a name for glorious deeds 
 
 And works of love 
 A name to waken lightning thought, 
 And fire the soul of him who reads, 
 
 This tells above. 
 Napoleon sinks to-day before 
 
 Th' ungilded shrine, the single soul 
 
 Of Washington; 
 
 Truth's name, alone, shall man adore, 
 Long as the waves of time shall roll 
 Henceforward on! 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 303 
 
 My countrymen! my words are weak, 
 My health is gone, my soul is dark, 
 
 My heart is chill 
 Yet would I fain and fondly seek 
 Too see you borne in freedom's bark 
 
 O'er ocean still. 
 
 Beseech your God, and bide your hour 
 He cannot, will not long be dumb; 
 
 Even now His tread 
 Is heard o'er earth with coming power; 
 And coming, trust me, it will come, 
 Else were He dead! 
 
 CAHAL MOR OF THE WINE-RED HAND. 
 
 (A rieion of Connaught in the Thirteenth Century.) 
 
 I WALKED entranced 
 
 Through a land of morn; 
 The sun, with wondrous excess of light, 
 Shone down and glanced 
 
 Over seas of corn, 
 
 And lustrous gardens aleft and right. 
 Even in the clime 
 
 Of resplendent Spain 
 Beams no such sun upon such a land; 
 But it was the time, 
 
 Twas in the reign 
 Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. 
 
 Anon stood nigh 
 
 'By my side a man 
 Of princely aspect and port sublime. 
 Him queried I, 
 
304 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 "Oh, my lord and khan, 
 What clime is this, and what golden time?" 
 When he" The clime 
 
 Is a clime to praise, 
 
 The clime is Erin's, the green and bland; 
 And it is the time, 
 
 These be the days 
 Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand!" 
 
 Then I saw thrones 
 
 And circling fires, 
 
 And a dome rose near me, as by a spell, 
 Whence flowed the tones 
 
 Of silver lyres 
 
 And many voices in wreathed swell; 
 And their thrilling chime 
 
 Fell on mine ears 
 
 As the heavenly hymn of angel-band 
 " It is now the time, 
 
 These be the years 
 Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand ' ; ' 
 
 1 sought the hall, 
 
 And, behold! a change 
 From light to darkness, from joy to woe 
 Kings, nobles, all, 
 
 Looked aghast and strange 
 The minstrel-group sate in dumbest showl 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 305 
 
 Had some great crime 
 
 Wrought this dread amaze , 
 This terror ? None seemed to understand. 
 'Twas then the time, 
 
 We were in the days 
 Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. 
 
 I again walked forth ; 
 
 But lo I the sky 
 
 Showed fleckt with blood, and an alien sun 
 Glared from the north, 
 
 And there stood on high, 
 Amid his shorn beams, a Skeleton! 
 It was by the stream 
 
 Of the castled Maine, 
 One autumn-eve, in the Teuton's land 
 That I dreamed this dream 
 Of the time and reign 
 Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red hand! 
 
 LAMENT FOR BANBA. 
 
 OH, my land! oh, my love! 
 
 What a woe, and how deep 
 Is thy death to my long-mourning soul! 
 God alone, God above, 
 
 Can awake thee from sleep 
 Can release thee from bondage and dole ! 
 Alas, alas, and alas, 
 
 For the once proud people of Banba I 
 
 21 
 
306 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 As a tree in its prime, 
 
 Which the axe layeth low, 
 Didst thou fall, O, unfortunate land! 
 Not by Time, nor thy crime, 
 
 Came the shock and the blow. 
 They were given by a false felon hand ! 
 Alas, alas, and alas, 
 
 For the once proud people of Banba ! 
 Oh, my grief of all griefs 
 
 Is to see how thy throne 
 Is usurped, whilst thyself art in thrall! 
 Other lands have their chiefs, 
 
 Have their kings; thou alone 
 Art a wife yet a widow withal. 
 Alas, alas, and alas, 
 
 For tjie once proud people of Banba ! 
 The high house of O'Neill 
 
 Is gone down to the dust, 
 The O'Brien is clanless and banned; 
 And the steel, the red steel, 
 
 May no more be the trust 
 
 Of the faithful and brave in the land ! 
 
 Alas, alas, and alas, 
 
 For the once proud people of Banba ! 
 True, alas! Wrong and wrath 
 
 Were of old all too rife, 
 
 Deeds were done which no good man admires; 
 And, perchance, Heaven hath 
 Chastened us for the strife 
 And the blood-shedding ways of our sires ! 
 Alas, alas, and alas, 
 For the once proud people of Banba ! 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 But, no more! This our doom, 
 
 While our hearts yet are warm, 
 Let us not over-weakly deplore ! 
 For the hour soon may loom 
 
 When the Lord's mighty hand 
 Shall be raised for our rescue once more ! 
 
 And our grief shall be turned into joy 
 For the still proud people of Banba! 
 
 THE TIME OF THE BARMECIDES, 
 
 (Translated from the Arabic.) 
 
 MY eyes are tilm'd, my beard is gray, 
 
 I am bow'd with the weight of years; 
 I would I were stretched in my bed of clay, 
 
 With my long lost youth's compeers! 
 For back to the Past, tho' the thought brings woe, 
 
 My memory ever glides 
 To the old, old time long, long ago, 
 
 The time of the Barmecides 
 To the old, old time long, long ago, 
 
 The time of the Barmecides. 
 
 Then Youth was mine, and a fierce wild will, 
 
 And an iron arm in war, 
 And a fleet foot high upon Ishkar's hill, 
 
 When the watch-lights glimmer'd afar; 
 And a barb as fiery as*any I know 
 
 That Khoord or Beddaween rides, 
 Ere my friends lay low long, long ago, 
 
 In the time of the Barmecides. 
 Ere my friends lay low long, long ago, 
 
 In the time of the Barmecides. 
 
308 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 One golden goblet illumed my board, 
 
 One silver dish was there ; 
 At hand my tried Karamanian sword 
 
 Lay always bright and bare. 
 For those were the days when the angry blow 
 
 Supplanted the word that chides 
 When hearts could glow long, long ago, 
 
 In the time of the Barmecides; 
 When hearts could glow long, long ago, 
 
 In the time of the Barmecides. 
 
 Through city and desert my mates and I 
 
 Were free to rove and roam, 
 Our diaper 'd canopy the deep of the sky, 
 
 Or the roof of the palace dome 
 Oh! ours was that vivid life, to and fro, 
 
 Which only sloth derides 
 Men spent Life so, long, long ago, 
 
 In the time of the Barmecides. 
 Men spent Life so, long, long ago, 
 
 In the time of the Barmecides. 
 
 I see rich Bagdad once again, 
 
 With its turrets of Moorish mould, 
 And the Khalif s twice five hundred men 
 
 Whose binishes flamed with gold ; 
 I call up many a gorgeous show 
 
 Which the pall of Oblivien hides 
 All pass'd like snow, long, long ago, 
 
 With the time of the Barmecides; 
 All pass'd like snow, long, long ago, 
 
 With the time of the Barmecides! 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 309 
 
 But mine eye is dim, and my beard is gray, 
 
 And I bend with the weight of years 
 May I soon go down to the house of clay 
 
 Where slumber my Youth's compeers! 
 For with them and the Past, though the thought wakes woe, 
 
 My memory ever abides; / 
 
 And I mourn for the times gone long ago, 
 
 For the times of the Barmecides ! 
 I mourn for the times gone long ago, 
 
 For the times of the Barmecides ! 
 
 THE POET'S PREACHING. 
 
 (From the German of Sails Seewis.) 
 
 SEE how the day beameth brightly before us! 
 
 Blue is the firmament, green is the earth 
 Grief hath no voice in the universe-chorus 
 
 Nature is ringing with music and mirth. 
 Lift up the looks that are sinking in sadness 
 
 Gaze! and if Beauty can capture thy soul, 
 Virtue herself will allure thee to gladness 
 
 Gladness, Philosophy's guerdon and goal. 
 
 
 Enter the treasuries Pleasure uncloses 
 
 List! how she thrills in the nightingale's lay! 
 Breathe! she is wafting thee sweets from the roses; 
 
 Feel ! she is cool in the rivulet's play ; 
 Taste ! from the grape and the nectarine gushing 
 
 Flows the red rill in the beams of the sun 
 Green in the hills, in the flower groves blushing, 
 
 Look ! she is always and everywhere one. 
 
310 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Banish, then, mourner, the tears that are trickling 
 
 Over the cheeks that should rosily bloom; 
 Why should a man, like a girl or a sick ling, 
 
 Suffer his lamp to be quenched in the tomb ? 
 Still may we battle for Goodness and Beauty; 
 
 Still hath Philanthropy much to essay: 
 Glory rewards the fulfillment of Duty; 
 
 Rest will pavilion the end of our way. 
 
 What, though corroding and multiplied sorrows, 
 
 Legion-like, darken this planet of ours, 
 Hope is a balsam the wounded heart borrows 
 
 Ever when Anguish has palsied its powers; 
 Wherefore, though Fate played the part of a traitor, 
 
 Soar o'er the stars on the pinions of Hope, 
 Fearlessly certain that sooner or later 
 
 Over the stars thy desires shall have scope. 
 
 Look round about on the face of Creation ; 
 
 Still is GOD'S Earth undistorted and bright; 
 Comfort the captives to long tribulation, 
 
 Thus shalt thou reap the more perfect delight. 
 Love! but if Love be a hallowed emotion, 
 
 Purity only its rapture should share; 
 Love, then, with willing and deathless "emotion 
 
 All that is just and exalted and fair. 
 
 Act! for in Action are Wisdom and Glory. 
 
 Fame, Immortality these are its crown; 
 Wouldst thou illumine the tablets of stoiy, 
 
 Build on ACHIEVEMENTS thy Dome of Renown. 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 311 
 
 Honor and Feeling were giv'n thee to cherish, 
 Cherish them, then, though all else should decay, 
 
 Landmarks be these that are never to perish, 
 Stars that will shine on thy duskiest clay. 
 
 Courage! Disaster and Peril once over, 
 
 Freshen the spirit as showers the grove, 
 O'er the dim graves that the cypresses cover 
 
 Soon the Forget-me-not rises in love. 
 Courage, then, friends! Though the universe crumble , 
 
 Innocence, dreadless of danger beneath, 
 Patient and trustful and joyous and humble, 
 
 Smiles through the ruin on Darkness and Death. 
 
 TO JOSEPH BRENNAN. 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 FRIEND and brother, and yet more than brother, 
 Thou , endow'd with all of Shelley's soul ! 
 
 Thou, whose heart so burneth for thy mother, 
 
 That, like his, it may defy all other 
 Flames, while time shall roll! 
 
 Thou, of language bland and manner meekest, 
 
 Gentle bearing, yet unswerving will 
 Gladly, gladly list I when thou speakest, 
 Honor'd highly is the man thou seekest 
 
 To redeem from ill! 
 
 Truly show'st thou me the one thing needful ! 
 
 Thou art not, nor is the world yet blind. 
 Truly have I been long years unheedful 
 Of the thorns and tares that choked the needful 
 
 Garden of my mind ! 
 
312 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Thorns and tares, which rose in rank profusion 
 
 Round my scanty fruitage and my flowers, 
 Till I almost deemed it self-delusion, 
 Any attempt or glance at their extrusion 
 From their midnight bowers. 
 
 Dream and waking life have now been blended 
 
 Long time in the caverns of my soul 
 Oft in daylight have my steps descended 
 Down to that dusk realm where all is ended, 
 Save remed'less dole I 
 
 Oft, with tears, I have groan'd to God for pity 
 Oft gone wandering till my way grew dim 
 
 Oft sung unto Him a prayerful ditty 
 
 Oft, all lonely in this throngful city, 
 Raised my soul to Him ! 
 
 And from path to path His mercy tracked me 
 
 From many a peril snatcned He rne ; 
 When false friendship pursued, betray 'd, attacked me, 
 When gloom overdark'd and sickness rack'd me, 
 
 He was by to save and free ! 
 
 Friend ! thou warnest me in truly noble 
 
 Thoughts and phrases ! I will heed thee well- 
 Well will I obey thy mystic double 
 Counsel, through all scenes of woe and trouble, 
 As a magic spell ! 
 
 Yes! to live a bard, in thought and feeling! 
 
 Yes ! to act my rhyme , by self-restraint 
 This is truth's, is reason's deep revealing, 
 Unto me from thee, as God's to a kneeling 
 
 And entranced saint ! 
 
wn^ 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 313 
 
 Fare thee well ! we now know each the other, 
 Each has struck the other's inmost chords. 
 
 Fare thee well, my friend and more than brother, 
 
 And may scorn pursue me if I smother 
 In my soul thy words ! 
 
 IRELAND UNDER IRISH RULE. 
 
 (From the Irish.) 
 
 I FOUND in Innisfail the fair, 
 
 In Ireland, while in exile there, 
 
 Women of worth, both grave and gay men, 
 
 Many clerics and many laymen. 
 
 I travelled its fruitful provinces round, 
 And in every one of the five I found , 
 Alike in church and in palace hall, 
 Abundant apparel and food for all. 
 
 Gold and silver I found, and money, 
 Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey, 
 I found God's people rich in pity, 
 Found many a feast and many a city. 
 
 I also found in Armagh the Splendid , 
 Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended, 
 Fasting, as Christ hath recommended, 
 And noble councillors untranscended. 
 
 I found, besides, from Ara to Glea, 
 In the broad rich country of Ossorie, 
 Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each, 
 Great chess-players, men of truthful speech. 
 
314 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 I found in Heath's fair principality, 
 Virtue, vigor, and hospitality; 
 Candor, joy fulness, bravery, purity, 
 Ireland's bulwark and security. 
 
 I found strict morals in age and youth, 
 I found historians recording truth; 
 The things I sing of in verse unsmooth, 
 I found them all I have written sooth. 
 
 O MARIA, REGINA MISERICORDLE ! 
 
 THERE lived a knight long years ago, 
 Proud, carnal, vain, devotionless. 
 Of God above, or Hell below, 
 
 He took no thought, but, undisrnay'd, 
 
 Pursued his course of wickedness. 
 His heart was rock ; he never pray'd 
 To be forgiven for all his treasons; 
 He only said at certain seasons, 
 " O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 
 
 Years roll'd, and found him still the same, 
 Still draining Pleasure's poison-bowl; 
 Yet felt he now and then some shame; 
 The torment of the Undying Worm 
 
 At whiles woke in his trembling soul; 
 And then, though powerless to reform, 
 
 Would he, in hope to appease that sternest 
 Avenger, cry, and more in earnest, 
 " O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 315 
 
 At last Youth's riotous time was gone, 
 And loathing now came after sin; 
 With locks yet brown he felt as one 
 Grown gray at heart; and oft with tears 
 
 He tried, but all in vain, to win 
 From the dark desert of his years 
 
 One flower of hope; yet, morn and e'ening, 
 He still cried, but with deeper meaning, 
 " O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 
 
 A happier mind, a holier mood, 
 
 A purer spirit, ruled him now; 
 No more in thrall to flesh and blood, 
 He took a pilgrim-staff in hand, 
 
 And, under a religious vow, 
 Travel'd his way to Pommerland. 
 There enter'd he an humble cloister, 
 Exclaiming, while his eyes grew moister, 
 " O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 
 
 Here, shorn and cowl'd, he laid his cares 
 
 Aside , and wrought for God alone ; 
 Albeit he sang no choral prayers, 
 
 Nor Matin hymn nor Laud could learn, 
 
 He mortified his flesh to stone. 
 For him no penance was too stern ; 
 And often pray'd he on his lonely 
 Cell-couch at night, but still said only, 
 " O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 
 
316 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 And thus he lived long, long; and, when 
 
 God's angels called him, thus he died. 
 Confession made he none to men, 
 
 Yet, when they anointed him with oil 
 
 He seem'd already glorified; 
 His penances, his tears, his toil 
 
 Were past, and now, with passionate sighing, 
 Praise thus broke from his lips while dying, 
 " O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 
 
 They buried him with Mass and song 
 
 Aneath a little knoll so green; 
 But, lo! a wonder sight! Ere long 
 
 'Rase, blooming, from that verdant mound, 
 
 The fairest lily ever seen; 
 And, on its petal-edges round, 
 
 Relieving their translucent whiteness, 
 Did shine these words in gold-hued brightness: 
 " O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 
 
 And, would God's angels give thee power, 
 
 Thou, dearest reader, might behold 
 The fairness of this holy flower, 
 
 Up-springing from the dead man's heart 
 In tremulous threads of light and gold ; 
 Then wouldst thou choose the better part ! 
 And thenceforth flee Sin's foul suggestions; 
 Thy sole response to mocking questions, 
 " O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 
 
REV. FATHER RYAN 
 
 THE POET-PRIEST OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 jHE first collection of Father Ryan's Poems, 
 made under his own supervision, contains a 
 preface, in which the author says: 
 
 ' ' These verses (which some friends call by the higher title of 
 Poems to which appellation the author objects) were written 
 at random off and on, here, there, everywhere just when the 
 mood came, with little of study and less of art, and always in a 
 hurry. 
 
 "Hence they are incomplete in finish as the author is; though 
 he thinks they are true in tone. His feet know more about 
 the humble steps that lead up to the Altar and its Mysteries 
 than of the steps that lead up to Parnassus and the home of the 
 Muses. And souls were always more to him than songs." 
 
 This Southern Celt was as modest in his estima- 
 tion of self as he was truly gifted. Though he knew 
 right well and loved the " steps that led up to the 
 Altar," and served the Altar faithfully, the ascent to 
 Parnassus was to him no difficult task. Yet would 
 he sign himself the least of all the bards. It would 
 seem that in a note to Longfellow he made use of 
 language somewhat similar, as we find reference 
 
 (317) 
 
IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 made to it in the following extract of a letter written 
 to Father Ryan by the Cambridge Poet: 
 
 v'-V 
 
 M/^^PN 
 
 " CAMBKIDGE, Dec. 14, 1880. 
 
 * * * j have read enough of your poetiy to see the 
 fervor of feeling and expression with which you write, and the 
 melody of the versification. 
 
 "Of course, you will hardly expect me to sympathize with 
 all the 'verses connected with the war.' Yet, in some of 
 them, I recognize a profound pathos and the infinite pity of it 
 all. * * * 
 
KEV. FATHER RYAN. 319 
 
 " P. S. When you call yourself ' the last and least of those 
 who rhyme,' you remind me of the graceful lines of Catullus to 
 Cicero: 
 
 " ' Gratias tibi maximas Catullus 
 Agit, pessimus omnium poeta: 
 Tanto pessimus omnium poeta, 
 Quanto tu optimus omnium patronus.'* 
 
 " * Last and least ' can no more be applied to you than ' pes- 
 simus' to Catullus." 
 
 In this comparison a high compliment is paid to 
 the Poet-Priest; and coming from such a distin- 
 guished personage as Longfellow it was certainly 
 appreciated. 
 
 Late in the Fall of 1880 Father Ryan gave read- 
 ings from his own poems in the Academy of Music, 
 Baltimore, Md. The proceeds of these public read- 
 ings were destined to found a Ryan Medal in the 
 Loyola College of that city, and Rev. E. A. McGurk, 
 S. J., presided on the occasion. The audience was 
 made up of the most fashionable and cultured citi- 
 zens of Maryland, who were anxious to hear the 
 Poet of their " Lost Cause," and to pay to him the 
 homage of their appreciation. 
 
 Before reading "A Land Without Ruins/' which 
 formed one of his selections on that evening, he pre- 
 
 ' Catullus sends his thanks to thee, 
 
 With most sincere regards 
 Thou greatest of all Patrons, as he 
 Is least of all the bards. 
 
320 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 faced it with a few words. The lines were applicable 
 to Ireland, Poland and the South: 
 
 ' ' A land without ruins is a land without memories ; a land 
 without memories is a land without a history. A land that 
 wears a laurel crown may be fair to see ; but twine a few sad 
 cypress leaves around the brow of any land, and, be that land 
 barren, beautiless and bleak, it becomes lovely in its consecrated 
 coronet of sorrow, and it wins the sympathy of the heart and 
 of history. Crowns of roses fade; crowns of thorns endure. 
 Calvaries and crucifixions take deepest hold of humanity ; the 
 triumphs of might are transient; they pass and are forgotten; 
 the sufferings of right are graven deepest on the chronicle of 
 nations. " 
 
 A touching incident, in which originated the 
 poem entitled " A Death," was thus related by him 
 during the course of his readings: 
 
 ' ' Some years ago the small-pox came to Mobile and raged as 
 an epidemic. A great many people died. I attended many. 
 I was sent for one evening late, by an outcast of the city, the 
 leader of the unfortunate class to which she belonged. Noted 
 for her beauty, she had fallen away, drifted away from the 
 paths of virtue, lured by the wiles of others. I attended her 
 for thirteen days, and until she died a beautiful death. The 
 very words I 'use in the poem or rhyme I am about to read are 
 the words she used to me." 
 
 Father Ryan here read his charming lines " A 
 Death." The words to which he alluded are thus 
 expressed in his verses: 
 
REV. FATHER RYAN. 321 
 
 I have wandered too far, far away, 
 Oh! would that my mother were here; 
 Is God like a mother? Has he 
 Any love for a sinner like me ? 
 
 The recitation deeply affected the audience. As 
 an introduction to the beautiful poem which came 
 next in order the gifted poet said : 
 
 ' ' There came a time when the yellow fever swept the South ; 
 the politicians were at that time wrangling. The sympathy of 
 the North came down with sandals of mercy on her feet to the 
 poor fever-stricken South, and met her in the sanctuary of her 
 deepest woe. The hands of the North and South were thus 
 clasped once more." 
 
 Under these circumstances it was that Father Ryan 
 wrote " Reunited/' which he then read with fine 
 effect. So genuinely hearty was the reception given 
 Father Ryan on this occasion by the best families of 
 the South that the writer, who had the privilege of 
 being one of the audience could not help consider- 
 ing, contrary to the dictum of scripture, that this 
 man was a " prophet in his own country." 
 
 The South may be called " his own country," as he 
 resided there from the cradle to the grave. 
 
 Father Ryan was born in Limerick, Ireland, in 
 April, 1840, and baptized in the old church where 
 the Florentine Campanaro discovered hilg lost bells, 
 as he sailed up the Shannon on a fine summer 
 
 22 
 
322 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 evening long ago. While Abram was yet a child his 
 parents came to the United States and settled at 
 Norfolk, Virginia. By industry and tact they sur- 
 rounded their new home with all the ordinary com- 
 forts of life, and devoted not a little of their atten- 
 tion to the education of the future poet and his two 
 brothers. For more than two centuries the family 
 to which Mr. Kyan belonged had given scholarly and 
 zealous priests to the Irish Church, and his ambition, 
 which harmonized with the fondest wish of his pious 
 wife, was to devote one of his sons, at least, to the 
 service of the grand old Church in his adopted land. 
 With this end in view, after having completed his 
 primary studies at home, Abram was sent to St. 
 Vincent's College, Cape Girardeau, Mo., and placed 
 under the watchful care of the Vincentian Fathers, 
 by whom he was educated and prepared for the 
 sacred ministry. In college he gave promise of a 
 brilliant future, and his Rev. Professors spared no 
 labor in drawing out and cultivating the talents he 
 possessed. It is a doctrine, practiced everywhere 
 among the members of this noble Order, never to 
 use two words where one suffices, nor yet a long 
 word where a short one can be made to answer the 
 purpose. Hence their style is remarkably expres- 
 sive, terse and energetic. Young Ryan, given to 
 literary composition at an early age, very naturally 
 
KEY. FATHER RYAN. 323 
 
 adopted this principle of his devoted teachers, and, 
 as a consequence, his style is direct, precise and 
 without redundancy. 
 
 .After his ordination, the Rev. A. J. Ryan was 
 appointed to missionary duty at Knoxville, Tenn., 
 where he endeared himself to all classes of society, 
 but especially to the poor. 
 
 During the first year of the Civil War his brother 
 David, who was then attending college, joined the 
 Confederate ranks. He possessed a large share of 
 the priest's poetic genius, and his sympathy with the 
 South was equally ardent and strong. 
 
 This brother, who in a short time rose to the 
 command of a company, was killed in one of the 
 early engagements. The event is commemorated in 
 the following tender, tearful lines: 
 
 IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER. 
 
 YOUNG as the youngest who donned the gray, 
 
 True as the truest that wore it , 
 Brave as the bravest he marched away 
 (Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay), 
 Triumphant waved our flag one day 
 He fell in the front before it. 
 
324 IPJSH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Firm as the firmest where duty led, 
 
 He hurried without a falter; 
 Bold as the boldest he fought and bled, 
 And the day was won but the field was red 
 And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed 
 
 On his country's hallowed altar. 
 
 On the trampled breast of the battle plain, 
 
 Where the foremost ranks had wrestled, 
 
 On his pale, pure face not a mark of pain 
 
 (His mother dreams they will meet again) , 
 
 The fairest form amid all the slain, 
 Like a child asleep he nestled. 
 
 In the solemn shades of the wood that swept 
 
 The field where his comrades found him, 
 
 They buried him there and the big tears crept 
 
 Into strong men's eyes that had seldom wept. 
 
 (His mother- God pity her! smiled and slept, 
 Dreaming her arms were around him). 
 
 A grave in the woods with the grass o'ergrown, 
 
 A grave in the heart of his mother 
 His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone ; 
 There is not a name, there is not a stone, 
 And only the voice of the wind maketh moan 
 O'er the grave where never a flower is strewn, 
 But his memory lives in the other. 
 
 The Mobile Register published this eulogium of 
 the deceased poet: 
 
 ' ' No man of genius ever shrank with greater dread from the 
 glare of renown. From his early manhood he has worn the 
 
KEY. FATHER RYAN. 325 
 
 vestments of a priest, and in the solemn pursuits of his office 
 he has spent the power of his life, and through many years of 
 feebleness and pain 
 
 To the higher shrine of love divine 
 
 His lowly feet have trod; 
 He wants no fame , no other name 
 
 Than this a priest of God. 
 
 " But his fame is not his own, it is his country's; and his 
 name fills a page in her history to be cherished by her people for 
 ever. 
 
 ' < When the camp-fires of the war between the States began 
 to cast their lurid glare upon the passions of a people for the 
 first time they profoundly stirred Abram J. Ryan, then a frail 
 and slender youth, who had just entered the priesthood of the 
 Catholic Church. His brother, Captain David Ryan, was 
 among the first to enter the Army of the Confederates, a hope- 
 ful young soldier; and in a little while the young priest was 
 found among the Southern host to administer where he could 
 the consolations of religion to the wounded and dying. 
 
 ' ' From the stirring scenes of sacrifice and slaughter which a 
 civil war can alone unfold Father Ryan received his first pro- 
 found impressions. The cradle of his poetic genius was rocked 
 upon the stormy waves of revolution/' 
 
 Then it was that the sweet, strong voice of the 
 Poet-Priest was heard throughout the land, cheering 
 on the serried hosts and inspiring the champions of 
 a cause in which he sincerely believed to deeds of 
 greater valor. 
 
 What could be more war-inspiring than these lines 
 from the " Sword of Lee!-" 
 
326 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS' 
 
 i 
 
 Out of its scabbard never hand 
 
 Waved sword from stain as free, 
 Nor purer sword led braver band, 
 Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, 
 
 Nor cause a chief like Lee. 
 
 11 The Conquered Banner/' which is included in 
 the selections we have made from the poems of our 
 author, has taken its place among the greatest 
 lyrics of our language, and there it will remain as 
 long as English is spoken. 
 
 " Their Story Runneth Thus," by far his longest 
 poem, is not without defects, but it has many fine 
 qualities which should have won for it a wider 
 recognition than it has ever received. His descrip- 
 tion of a nun in this plaintive poem is poetically 
 beautiful: 
 
 As silent as a star-gleam came a nun, 
 
 In answer to his summons at the gate; 
 
 Her face was like the picture of a saint, 
 
 Or like, an angel's smile her down-cast eyes 
 
 Were like a half -closed tabernacle, where 
 
 God's presence glowed; her lips were pale and worn 
 
 By ceaseless prayer; and when she spoke 
 
 And bade him enter, 'twas in such a tone 
 
 As only voices own which day and night 
 
 Sing hymns to God. 
 
 In answer to the question " Who sent you here, 
 my child?" put by the Superioress of the convent 
 
REV. FATHER RYAN. 327 
 
 where Ethel sought admission, the young postulant 
 is made to say: 
 
 " A youthful Christ," she said, 
 " Who, had he lived in those far days of Christ, 
 Would have been His beloved Disciple, sure, 
 Would have been His own gentle John; and would 
 Have leaned, on Thursday night, upon his breast, 
 And stood, on Friday eve, beneath His cross 
 To take His mother from Him when He died. 
 He sent me here, he said the word last night 
 In my own garden, this the word he said 
 Oh! had you heard him whisper: ' Ethel, dear! 
 Your heart was born with veil of virgin on 
 I hear it rustle eveiy time we meet, 
 In all your words and smiles; and when you weep 
 I hear it rustle more. Go wear your veil 
 And outward be what inwardly thou art, 
 And hast been from the first. And, Ethel, list: 
 My heart was born with priestly vestments on, 
 And at Dream- Altars I have ofttimes stood, 
 And said such sweet Dream-Masses in my sleep 
 And when I lifted up a white Dream-Host, 
 A silver Dream-Bell rang and angels knelt, 
 Or seemed to kneel, in worship. Ethel, say 
 Thou wouldst not take the vestments from my heart 
 Nor more than I would tear the veil from thine. 
 My vested and thy veiled heart part to-night 
 To climb our Calvary and to meet in God 
 And this, fair Ethel, is Gethsemane.' " 
 
328 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Unlike most poets, Father Ryan loved the Cross 
 better than the Crown, and his sympathies were 
 always with the weak and the oppressed. After the 
 war he moved to Mobile, where he enjoyed the con- 
 stant friendship of the Right Rev. Bishop Quinlan, 
 who admired both the talents of the poet and the 
 zeal of the priest. 
 
 In 1880, or thereabout, he was induced by a bril- 
 liant young lawyer of Mobile named Harris Taylor 
 to collect and publish his poems in book form. This 
 was done at Mr. Taylor's expense, and the book 
 proved popular immediately on issuing from the 
 press. So great a favorite did it become that in five 
 years ten different editions were struck off to supply 
 the public demand. 
 
 At this time he went on his lecturing tour through 
 the North, where he was received with remarkable 
 cordiality, and thousands thronged to hear him. 
 Every one was anxious, then, to listen to his brilliant 
 lectures and " touch the hem" of the poet's garment. 
 
 Father Ryan led a busy and laborious life, and the 
 constant strain began to tell upon his health before 
 he had reached his forty-fifth year. 
 
 One month before his death he went to the Monas- 
 tery of St. Boniface, Louisville, Kentucky, with the 
 intention of making his annual retreat, after which 
 he proposed to finish in the retirement of that place 
 his " Life of Christ." 
 
REV. FATHER RYAN. 329 
 
 But his work was done, and the Master called him 
 home on the 22d of April, 1880, before he had reached 
 the age of fifty. His body lay in state at the 
 Franciscan Monastery for two days. On the 24th 
 the ex-Confederate soldiers of the city attended in a 
 body his Requiem Mass in the Church of St. Boni- 
 face, and a funeral escort, consisting of distinguished 
 ex-Confederate officers, Judges of the United States 
 and State Courts, conducted his remains to the 
 depot, whence they were conveyed to Mobile for in- 
 terment. In the sad funeral procession a floral 
 Cross and Crown were borne, bearing the inscrip- 
 tion: 
 
 * ' Love and sympathy of the ox-confederate soldiers of Louis- 
 ville." 
 
 Never was poet more loved and honored in any 
 country than this sweet singer in his own Sunny 
 Southland. 
 
 He was forty-six years at the time of his death, 
 and had lived nearly all his years " south of Mason 
 and Dixon's line." As a poet all concede to him an 
 exalted place. Miss Early, in her " Songs of the 
 South," has this to say: 
 
 ' * In my estimation the two finest songs called forth by the 
 war were " The Conquered Banner" and " All Quiet Along the 
 Potomac To-night," the former by Father Ryan and the latter 
 by Lamar Fontaine. Both these evince genuine talent." 
 
330 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 As an orator his reputation is also an enviable one. 
 General Gordon, in a speech delivered at New 
 Orleans on the occasion of unveiling Sergeant Jas- 
 per's monument, styled Father Ryan "the rainbow 
 of poesy and the thunderbolt of oratory." 
 
 Whatever he may have been before, since the close 
 of the civil war the poet of the " Lost Cause" has been 
 socially, nearly at all times, a sad and silent man. 
 He seldom gave expression to his sorrows, except in 
 verse, and lived as much as possible alone. No 
 doubt he thought and felt much more than pen or 
 voice ever made manifest. Gentleness characterized 
 his every act, and he was exceedingly fond of chil- 
 dren. 
 
 The end has crowned his labors; but his memory 
 shall be as lasting as that of the cause which he 
 immortalized in song. 
 
 THE CONQUERED BANNER. 
 
 FUEL that Banner, for 'tis weary; 
 'Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; 
 
 Furl it, fold it, it is best; 
 For there's not a man to wave it, 
 And there's not a sword to save it, 
 And there's not one left to lave it 
 In the blood which heroes gave it; 
 And its foes now scorn and brave it; 
 
 Furl it, hide it let it rest! 
 
REV. FATHER RYAN. 331 
 
 Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; 
 Broken is its staff and shattered; 
 And the valiant hosts are scattered 
 
 Over whom it floated high. 
 Oh! r tis hard for us to fold it; 
 Hard to think there's none to hold it; 
 Hard that those who once unrolled it 
 
 Now must furl it with a sigh. 
 
 Furl that Banner ! furl it sadly ! 
 Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 
 And ten thousands wildly, madly, 
 
 Swore it should forever wave; 
 Swore that foeman's sword should never 
 Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
 Till that flag should float forever 
 
 O'er their freedom or their grave ! 
 
 Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, 
 And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 
 
 Cold and dead are lying low; 
 And that Banner it is trailing! 
 While around it sounds the wailing 
 
 Of its people in their woe. 
 
 For, though conquered, they adore it! 
 Love the cold, dead hands that bore it! 
 Weep for those who fell before it ! 
 Pardon those who trailed and tore it! 
 But, oh! wildly they deplore it, 
 Now, who fold and furl it so. 
 
332 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Furl that Banner! True, 'tis goiy, 
 Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, 
 And 'twill live in song and story, 
 
 Though its folds are in the dust; 
 For its fame on brightest pages, 
 Penned by poets and by sages 
 Shall go sounding down the ages, 
 
 Furl its folds though now we must. 
 
 Furl that Banner, softly, slowly! 
 Treat it gently it is holy 
 
 For it droops above the dead. 
 Touch it not unfold it never, 
 Let it droop there, furled forever, 
 
 For its people's hopes are dead ! 
 
 LINES 1875. 
 
 "Why does your poetry sound like a sigh." Letter to Father Ryan. 
 
 f down where the wavelets are kissing the shore , 
 
 And ask of them why do they sigh ? 
 The Poet's have asked them a thousand times o'er, 
 But they're kissing the shore as they kissed it before, 
 And they're sighing to-day and they'll sigh evermore. 
 
 Ask them what ails them: they will not reply; 
 But they'll sigh on forever and never tell why ! 
 
 " Why does your poetry sound like a sigh?" 
 
 The waves will not answer you; neither shall I. 
 
REV. FATHER RYAN. 333 
 
 Go stand on the beach of the blue, boundless deep, 
 
 When the night stars are gleaming on high, 
 And hear how the billows are moaning in sleep, 
 On the low lying strand by the surge-beaten steep. 
 They're moaning forever wherever they sweep. 
 
 Ask them what ails them: they never reply; 
 
 They moan, and so sadly, but will not tell why? 
 
 " Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?" 
 
 The waves will not answer you ; neither shall I. 
 
 Go list to the breeze at the waning of day, 
 
 When it passes and murmurs " good-bye" 
 The dear little breeze, how it wishes to stay 
 Where the flowers are in bloom, where the singing birds play t 
 How it sighs when it flies on its wearisome way ! 
 
 Ask it what ails it: it will not reply; 
 
 Its voice is a sad one, it never told why. 
 . " Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?" 
 
 The breeze will not answer you; neither shall I. 
 
 Go watch the wild blasts as they spring from their lair, 
 
 When the shout of the storm rends the sky; 
 They rush o'er the earth and they ride thro' the air 
 And they blight with their breath all the lovely and fair, 
 And they groan like the ghosts in the ' * land of despair. " 
 
 Ask them what ails them: they never reply; 
 
 Their voices are mournful, and they will not tell why. 
 ' Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?" 
 
 The blasts will not answer you; neither shall I. 
 
,334 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Go stand on the rivulet's lily-fringed side, 
 
 Or list where the rivers rush by; 
 The streamlets which forest trees shadow and hide, 
 And the rivers that roll in their ocean ward tide, 
 Are moaning forever wherever they glide ; 
 
 Ask them what ails them: they will not reply; 
 
 On sad voiced they flow, but they never tell why. 
 
 " Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?" 
 
 Earth's streams will not answer you; neither shall I. 
 
 Go list to the voices of air, earth and sea, 
 
 And the voices that sound in the sky; 
 Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me 
 There's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in each key, 
 And thousands of sighs swell their grand melody. 
 
 Ask them what ails them: they will not reply. 
 
 They sigh sigh forever but never tell why. 
 
 * c Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?" 
 
 Their lips will not answer you; neither will I. 
 
 ERIN'S FLAG. 
 
 UNROLL Erin's flag! fling its folds to the breeze! 
 
 Let it float o'er the land, let it flash o'er the seas! 
 
 Lift it out of the dust let it wave as of yore, 
 
 When its chiefs with their clans stood around it and swore 
 
 That never! no, never! while God gave them life, 
 
 And they had an arm and a sword for the strife, 
 
 That never! no, never! that banner should yield 
 
 As long as the heart of a Celt was its shield; 
 
 While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield, 
 
 And his last drop of blood was unshed on the field. 
 
REV. FATHER RYAN. 335 
 
 Lift it up ! wave it high' 'tis as bright as of old! 
 
 Not a stain on its green, not a blot on its gold, 
 
 Tho' the woes and the wrongs of three hundred long years 
 
 Have drenched Erin's Sunburst with blood and with tears! 
 
 Though the clouds of oppression enshrined it in gloom, 
 
 And around it the thunders of Tyranny boom. 
 
 Look aloft! look aloft! Lo, the clouds drifting oy: 
 
 There's a gleam through the gloom, there's a light in the sky; 
 
 Tis the Sunburst resplendent far, flashing on high! 
 
 Erin's dark night is waning, her day-dawn is nigh! 
 
 Lift it up ! lift it up I the old Banner of Green ! 
 The blood of its sons has but brightened its sheen. 
 What though the tyrant has trampled it down, 
 Are its folds not emblazoned with deeds of renown ? 
 What though for ages it droops in the dust, 
 Shall it droop thus forever ! No! no! God is just! 
 
 Take it up! take it up! from the tyrant's foul tread, 
 Let him tear the Green Flag we will snatch its last shred, 
 And beneath it we'll bleed as our forefathers bled, 
 And we'll vow by the dust in the graves of our dead, 
 And we'll swear by the blood which the Briton has shed, 
 And we'll vow by the wrecks which through Erin he spread, 
 And we'll swear by the thousands who, famished, unfed, 
 Died down in the ditches, wild-howling for bread, 
 And well vow by our heroes, whose spirits have fled, 
 And we'll swear by the bones in each coffinless bed, 
 That we'll battle the Briton through danger and dread; 
 That we'll cling to the cause which we glory to wed, 
 Till the gleam of our steel and the shock of our lead 
 Shall prove to our foe that we meant what we said 
 That we'll lift up the green, and we'll tear down the red! 
 
336 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Lift up the Green Flag- ' oh ' it wants to go home , 
 Full long has its lot been to wander and roam. 
 It has followed the fate of its sons o'er the world, 
 But its folds, like their hopes, are not faded nor furled. 
 Like a weary-winged bird, to the East and the West, 
 It has flitted and flitted; but it never shall rest, 
 Till, pluming its pinions, it sweeps o'er the main, 
 And speeds to the shores of its old home again, 
 Where its fetterless folds o'er each mountain and plain 
 Shall wave with a glory that never shall wane ! 
 
 Take it up ! take it up ! bear it back from afar ! 
 That Banner must blaze 'mid the lightnings of war. 
 Lay your hands on its folds, lift your gaze to the sky, 
 And swear that you'll bear it triumphant or die, 
 And shout to the clans scattered far o'er the earth 
 To join in the march to the land of their birth. 
 And wherever the exiles, 'neath heaven's broad dome, 
 Have been fated to suffer, to sorrow and roam, 
 They'll bound on the sea, and away o'er the foam, 
 They'll sail to the music of ' ' Home , Sweet Home !" 
 
 SONG OF THE MYSTIC. 
 
 I WALK down the Valley of Silence- 
 Down the dim , voiceless valley alone ! 
 
 And I hear not the fall of a footstep 
 Around me, save God's and my own; 
 
 And the hush of my heart is as holy 
 As hovers where angels have flown ! 
 
REV. FATHER RYAN. 337 
 
 Long ago was I weary of voices, 
 
 Whose music my heart could not win; 
 Long ago was I weary of noises 
 
 That fretted my soul with their din ; 
 Long ago was I weary of places 
 
 Where I met but the human and sin. 
 
 I walked in the world with the worldly; . 
 
 I craved what the world never gave; 
 And I said: " In the world each Ideal 
 
 That shines like a star on life's wave, 
 Is wrecked on the shores of the Real, 
 
 And sleeps like a dream in a grave. " 
 
 And still I did pine for the Perfect, 
 
 And still found the False with the True; 
 
 I sought 'mid the Human for Heaven, 
 But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue: 
 
 And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal 
 Veiled even that glimpse from my view. 
 
 And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human, 
 And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men; 
 
 Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar 
 And I heard a voice call me; since then 
 
 I walk down the Valley of Silence 
 That lies far beyond mortal ken. 
 
 Do you ask what I found in the Valley ? 
 
 Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine. 
 And I fell at the feet of the Holy, 
 
 And above me a voice said: " Be mine." 
 And there arose from the depths of my spirit 
 
 An echo " My heart shall be thine." 
 
338 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Do you ask how I live in the Valley ? 
 
 I weep and I dream and I pray. 
 But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops 
 
 That fall on the roses of May; 
 And my prayer, like a perfume from censers, 
 
 Ascendeth to God night and day. 
 
 In the hush of the Valley of Silence 
 I dream all the songs that I sing; 
 
 And the music floats down the dim Valley, 
 Till each finds a word for a wing, 
 
 That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, 
 A message of Peace they may bring. 
 
 But far on the deep there are billows 
 That never shall break on the beach ; 
 
 And I have heard songs in the silence, 
 That never shall float into speech; 
 
 And I have heard dreams in the Valley, 
 Too lofty for language to reach. 
 
 And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley 
 Ah ! me , how my spirit was stirred ! 
 
 And they wear holy veils on their faces, 
 Their footsteps can scarcely be heard; 
 
 They pass through the Valley like Virgins, 
 Too pure for the touch of a word ! 
 
 Do you ask me the place of the Valley, 
 Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care ? 
 
 It lieth afar between mountains, 
 And God and His angels are there; 
 
 And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, 
 And one the bright mountain of Prayer! 
 
THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE 
 
 POET, HISTORIAN AND STATESMAN. 
 
 jHE subject of this paper was descended from 
 a family remarkable for devotion to the 
 cause of oppressed Ireland. His maternal grand- 
 father took an active part in the rising of 1798, 'and 
 suffered for his participation in that movement. On 
 the father's side, also, there were patriots whose 
 devotion to the old land was tested and found true. 
 
 Thomas D'Arcy McGee, the second son of James 
 McGee and Dorcas Catherine Morgan, was born on 
 the 13th day of April, 1825, at Carlingford, in the 
 County Louth. His mother was a woman of educa- 
 tion and refinement, an enthusiastic lover of her 
 country, its music and its ancient lore. The lullaby 
 she chanted over his cradle thrilled with the spirit 
 of " ninety-eight," and Thomas, from his infancy, 
 breathed an atmosphere of patriotism. 
 
 Eight listless years had passed over the future 
 poet's head, by the shores of Carlingford Bay, when 
 his father, James McGee, there serving as a coast- 
 guard, was transferred to Wexford, whither the 
 family accompanied him. Here the cultured mother 
 instilled into the youthful mind of the bard those 
 
 (339) 
 
340 
 
 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 legends and traditions which years and years after- 
 wards formed the ground-work for many a thrilling 
 ballad. 
 
 That gentle, loving mother died while Thomas was 
 
 yet a boy, and the darling of her heart wept over her 
 grave, 
 
 Near the Selskar's ruin'd wall, 
 
 as only poets can weep. Though dead, her lessons 
 lived in his heart to prompt and guide him through 
 all the changes of a busy and eventful life. 
 
THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE. 341 
 
 Years went on, and young McGee was busy with 
 the cultivation of a great mind. He attended a day 
 school in the town of Wexford, where his progress 
 was so rapid that after a few years he became his 
 own master. At the age of sixteen he had read a 
 great many books on the history of his native land. 
 Poetry was his chief delight, and, like Collins, he 
 was willing to walk many a weary mile, provided 
 the hope of procuring some old volume of legendary 
 lays at the end of the journey was held out to him. 
 
 In 1842, when he was only seventeen years of age, 
 he resolved to seek fame and fortune on the shores 
 of the New World, where 
 
 There is honor for the men of worth 
 And wealth for those who toil. 
 
 The parting from the land that contained the ashes 
 of his forefathers and the green grave of his idolized 
 mother was to him a source of keen, heart-rending 
 sorrow. Thus he pours forth his agonizing wail as 
 Ireland receded from his sight, and the good ship 
 Leo disappeared in the dim horison. 
 
 Tell me truly, pensive sage, 
 Seest thou signs on any page ? 
 Know'st a volume yet to ope, 
 Where I may read of hope of hope ? 
 
 Dare I seek it where the wave 
 Grieves above Leander's grave ? 
 Must I follow forth my quest 
 In the wider, freer West ? 
 
342 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 He did "follow forth his quest" in the great and 
 beauteous West where he won fame and fortune. 
 
 He was not long in Boston when the rejoicing of 
 the multitude ushered in the ever "glorious 4th of 
 July." The youthful immigrant delivered a speech 
 on the great National anniversary that astonished 
 everyone and secured for himself a position from Mr. 
 Patrick Donohue on the Boston Pilot. 
 
 This boy from the banks of the Slaney soon gained 
 the editorial management of the Pilot, and in this 
 capacity did good service for his religion and race. 
 His mighty genius developed rapidly, and in three 
 years he was offered the editorial chair in the office 
 of the Dublin Freeman's Journal. He returned to 
 his native land a man of mark at the age of twenty 
 and assumed the chief place in the office of that 
 enterprising journal. The Freeman's views were 
 entirely too tame for one who was accustomed to 
 speak his mind in no uncertain or faltering tones. 
 He would not be permitted to change its character, 
 so he decided to change his place, and went over to 
 the office of the Nation, where he worked with 
 Duffy, Davis, Mitchel and Devin Reilly for the 
 propagation of " Young Ireland " doctrines. There 
 was not in any metropolis of Europe at that time a 
 paper so ably edited or one that could boast of such 
 a galaxy of genius as the Dublin Nation. Mitchel, 
 
THOMAS D'AKCY M'GEE. 343 
 
 McGee, Duffy, Davis and Devin Reilly were men of 
 great minds, and in their hands the pen was truly 
 " a mighty instrument." That brilliant band of 
 agitators, editors, orators and poets has never since 
 been equalled in Ireland 
 
 When shall Erin see their like again? She sadly 
 needs such men to-day 
 
 O'Connell, the great Liberator, died in 1847. An 
 attempt at Rebellion was made in 1848. The after 
 tale is easily told. In that short and abortive strug- 
 gle Thomas D'Arcy McGee did faithfully and well 
 all that was assigned to him. While addressing his 
 countrymen in Wicklow he was arrested and lodged 
 in prison. After obtaining his liberty, he went over 
 to Scotland pursuant to the orders of the " Irish 
 Executive," with the intention of securing the 
 co-operation of the Irish operatives in the contem- 
 plated rising. While thus engaged in Scotland the 
 chiefs of the Confederation were arrested at home. 
 McGee managed to return to Derry where he was 
 sheltered by the learned Catholic Bishop of the 
 North, Dr. Maginn. After an interview with his 
 young wife, he made his way to Galway whence he 
 sailed a second time for the United States, the Land 
 of Freedom, dressed in the garb of a clergyman. It 
 was while being borne away from the shores of 
 Hibernia that he penned the following ballad, 
 entitled: 
 
IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 PARTING FROM IRELAND. 
 
 OH, dread Lord of heaven and earth! 
 
 Hard and sad it is to go 
 From the land I loved and cherished 
 
 Into outward gloom and woe. 
 Was it for this, Guardian angel! 
 
 When to manly years I came , 
 Homeward as a light you led me 
 
 Light that now is turn'd to flame ? 
 
 I am as a shipwreck'd sailor, 
 
 By one wave flung on shore , 
 By the next torn struggling seaward 
 
 Without hope forevermore. 
 I am as a sinner toiling 
 
 Onward to Redemption's Hill 
 By the rising sands environ'd, 
 
 By siroccos baffled still. 
 
 How I loved this nation ye know , 
 
 Gentle friends, who share my fate, 
 And you, too, heroic comrades, 
 
 Loaded with the fetter's weight. 
 How I coveted all knowledge 
 
 That might raise her name with men, 
 How I sought her secret beauties 
 
 With an all-insatiate ken. 
 
 God ! it is a maddening prospect 
 
 To see this storied land, 
 Like some wretched culprit writhing 
 
 In a strong avenger's hand, 
 
THOMAS D'ABCY M'GEE. 345 
 
 Kneeling, foaming, weeping, shrieking, 
 
 Woman- weak and woman-loud, 
 Better, better, Mother Ireland, 
 
 We had laid you in a shroud ! 
 
 If an end were made, and nobly, 
 
 Of this old, centennial feud 
 If, in arms, outnumbered, beaten, 
 
 Less, Ireland! had I rued; 
 For the scattered sparks of valor 
 
 Might relight thy darkness yet, 
 And thy long chain of Resistance 
 
 To the Future had been set. 
 
 Now their Caxtle sits securely 
 
 On the old accursed hill , 
 And their motley pirate standard 
 
 Taints the air of Ireland still; 
 And their titled paupers clothe them 
 
 With the labor of our hands, 
 And their Saxon greed is glutted 
 
 From our plundered fathers' lands. 
 
 But our faith is all unshaken, 
 
 Though our present hope is gone; 
 England's lease is not forever 
 
 Ireland's welfare is not done. 
 God in Heaven, He is immortal 
 
 Jusiire is His sword and sign 
 If this world is not our ally, 
 
 We have One who is Divine. 
 
346 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS' 
 
 Though my eyes no more may see thee, 
 
 Island of my early love ! 
 Other eyes shall see the Green Flag 
 
 Flying the tall hills above; 
 Though my ears no more may listen 
 
 To the rivers as they flow, 
 Other ears shall hear a paean 
 
 Closing thy long caoine of woe. 
 
 These energetic verses faithfully mirrored the 
 mind of the defeated patriot as he turned a second 
 time from his native land, leaving nothing but shat- 
 tered hopes and disaster behind him 
 
 On the 10th of October, 1848, he reached Phila- 
 delphia, and fifteen days later he issued the first copy 
 of the New York Nation, which was not destined to 
 equal the career of its Dublin namesake. The paper 
 was well received, and for a time promised to bring 
 wealth and additional fame to its proprietor and 
 editor. The Young Irelander was a radical, smart- 
 ing keenly under the sting of an ignominious defeat, 
 . and undertook in the columns of the Nation to 
 attribute the failure of the 'Forty-eight rising to the 
 interposition of the bishops and priests. He strenu- 
 ously maintained that the priests used all their 
 mighty influence in preventing the young men of 
 Ireland from joining the insurgents. Archbishop 
 Hughes came quickly to the defence of the Irish 
 
THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE.. 347 
 
 priesthood, and in a series of letters ably refuted the 
 assertions of the young refugee 
 
 It could not be expected that Mr. McGee could 
 hold his own against Archbishop Hughes, the victor 
 of a dozen controversial fields. As a result the New 
 York Nation went under; and at the solicitation of 
 numerous friends the editor removed with his family 
 to the city of Boston, in 1850, where he commenced 
 the publication of the American Gelt. A year later 
 he removed the publication to New York City, and 
 continued it there till its suspension in 1858. In 
 January, 1855, McGee again visited Ireland, the 
 political disabilities under which he labored having 
 lapsed. He wrote a series of able papers for the 
 Celt, entitled " Ireland Re-visited," which were the 
 beginning of the movement for colonization that 
 developed later on. 
 
 It is said that the radical revolutionist of twenty 
 summers becomes a stern conservative at forty. So 
 it was with McGee, and the change in his principles 
 evoked severe criticism from the ranks of the Physi- 
 cal Force party. In a letter to Thomas Francis 
 Meagher, the brilliant orator and patriot, he sets 
 forth his reasons for altering his opinions. Among 
 other reasons he assigns the following: 
 
 " Having discovered, by close self-examination, that the read- 
 ing chiefly of modern books, English and French, gave very 
 superficial and false views of political science, I cheerfully said 
 
348 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 to myself, ' My friend, you are on the wrong track. You think 
 you know something of human affairs; but you do not. You 
 are ignorant very ignorant of the primary principles that 
 govern and must govern the world. You can put sentences 
 together; but what does that avail you when, perhaps, these 
 sentences are but the husks and pods of poisonous seeds ? 
 Beware ! look to it ! you have a soul ! What will all the fame 
 of talents avail you if you lose that ? ' Thus I reasoned with 
 myself, and then setting my cherished opinions before me, one 
 by one, I tried, judged and capitally executed every one save 
 and except those which I found to be compatible with the fol- 
 lowing doctrines: 
 
 " 1st. That there is a Christendom. 
 
 " 2d. That this Christendom exists by and for the Catholic 
 Church. 
 
 ' ' 3d. That there is in our age one of the most dangerous 
 and general conspiracies against Christendom that the world 
 has yet seen. 
 
 "4th. That this conspiracy is aided, abetted and tolerated 
 by many because of its stolen watchword Liberty. 
 
 1 ' 5th. That it is the highest duty of a Catholic man to go 
 over cheerfully, heartily and at once to the side of Christendom 
 to the Catholic side and to resist, with all his might, the 
 conspirators who, under the stolen name of ' Liberty/ make war 
 upon all Christian institutions." 
 
 These are a few of the cogent reasons given by Mr. 
 McGee for changing his political doctrines. It must 
 be acknowledged that his discoveries were based on 
 solid truths, and the wonder is that they were not 
 made sooner. The watchwords of conspirators 
 
THOMAS D'ABCY M'GEE. 349 
 
 Liberty, Equality and Fraternity are filched from 
 Catholic writers, stolen from Catholic Christianity, 
 and used with telling effect by popular demagogues 
 and impious opponents of Christian teachings. 
 
 McGee was not only a brilliant orator, but also a 
 deep thinker and a writer of inimitable force and 
 unequalled skill. His lectures on " The Catholic 
 History of America " are the best ever written on 
 the subject. " Irish Settlers in North America " 
 contains an important part of the annals from which 
 the future historian of the Irish race in North 
 America will be obliged to draw. 
 
 In 1862, he published his " History of Ireland " 
 in two 12mo volumes; and, although this work is 
 not what the history of Ireland should be, it is 
 undoubtedly one of the best we have. "The Refor- 
 mation in Ireland," from his ever busy and gifted 
 pen, is a marvel of learning, logic and research, 
 which proves at the same time that he was a true 
 lover of his native land and the faith of his fathers. 
 "O'Connell and his Friends," "The Jesuits" and 
 " Irish Writers " are works that bear the impress of 
 his powerful mind. To Mr. McGee must be given 
 the credit of originating the " Catholic Colonization " 
 idea. 
 
 He, it was, who conceived the idea, and formulated 
 the plan of locating the immigrants from Ireland on 
 
350 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 the broad, fertile prairies of the great West. It was a 
 project worthy of the man, and one which, if effectu- 
 ated, would have proved exceedingly beneficial to the 
 whole Irish race in the United States. While advo- 
 cating this colonizing scheme in the columns of the 
 Celt, he summoned the Buffalo Convention for the 
 purpose of furthering the movement. This Conven- 
 tion was composed of one hundred Irish Americans. 
 The resolutions and suggestions of the Convention 
 met with considerable opposition in different quar- 
 ters, and were lost sight of until D'Arcy McGee had 
 been gathered to the grave. 
 
 Removing to Canada, he commenced in Montreal 
 the publication of the New Era. On the second 
 year of his residence in the Province his friends and 
 countrymen elected him to the Canadian Parliament, 
 and thenceforth his public career was both brilliant 
 and successful, even to that fatal moment when the 
 assassin's hand struck down the noble exile at the 
 very threshold of his lodgings. 
 
 This lamentable event took place on the 7th day 
 of April, 1868, in the city of Ottawa, and threw all 
 the land into mourning for the illustrious dead. In 
 him Ireland lost a champion of her rights, the 
 Catholic Church a devoted son, and Canada her best 
 and most brilliant statesman. 
 
 The Requiem for his eternal repose was chanted in 
 
THOMAS D'AKCY M'GEE. 351 
 
 the Cathedral of Ottawa. He lies buried in Mount 
 Royal, near Montreal, on a sunny slope which faces 
 the St. Lawrence. " Here," writes a distinguished 
 lawyer of Montreal, " sleeps the greatest poet, orator, 
 statesman, historian the best, the truest friend, 
 counsellor and guide of the Irish race in America. 1 ' 
 
 He died far away from the land of his love, on 
 which all his fondest and dearest hopes were centred, 
 from the sacred spot that clasps the ashes of his dead, 
 and the home where the golden hours of his youth 
 sped swiftly away. 
 
 Often, when the labor of the day was done, would 
 he go back in spirit to those scenes hallowed by a 
 thousand memories. His fondest hopes ever turned 
 eastward to the shores of Erin and found expression 
 in pathetic poems like the 
 
 WISHING CAP. 
 
 WISHING cap, wishing cap, let us away 
 To walk in the cloisters, at close of day, 
 Once trod by the friars of orders gray, 
 In Norman Selskar's renown 'd abbaye 
 
 And Carmen's ancient town; 
 For I would kneel at my mother's grave, 
 Where the plume y churchyard elms wave, 
 
 And the old war- walls look down. 
 
 Two nations mourned his untimely death, and 
 innumerable prayers were offered for the repose of 
 
352 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 his immortal spirit. May he join the celestial sin- 
 gers, and rest in everlasting glory! 
 
 As a poet McGee ranks high, indeed. The lamented 
 Henry Giles, a man of national reputation, writing 
 of McGee, says: "How varied the poems were that 
 he breathed forth upon the woes and wrongs of Ire- 
 land ! How noble the strains in which he celebrated 
 that beautiful land of much calamity and countless 
 wrongs!" 
 
 The Dublin Nation of May, 1857, referring to our 
 author's published poems, speaks thus: " We might 
 search in vain, even through the numberless volumes 
 of English poems and lyrics, for any that equal in 
 their passion, fire and beauty his verses entitled 
 1 The War,' ' Sebastian Cabot to his Lady,' ' The Celt's 
 Salutation,' and many others." 
 
 The London Athenaeum, which could have very lit- 
 tle sympathy with McGee, in an article on Canadian 
 poetry, wrote: "They have one true poet within 
 their borders that is Thomas D'Arcy McGee. In 
 his younger days the principle of rebellion inspired 
 him with stately verse; let us hope that the con- 
 servative principles of his more mature years will 
 yield many a noble song in his new country." 
 
 We might keep on quoting the words of praise 
 that were bestowed on the poetry of McGee almost 
 ad infinitum. He touched the chords of charity and 
 
THOMAS D'ABCY M'GEE. 353 
 
 friendship, war, peace and patriotism, and each he 
 swept with a master hand. 
 
 THE HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 PALER and thinner the morning moon grew , 
 Colder and sterner the rising wind blew ; 
 The pole-star had set in a forest of cloud, 
 And the icicles crackled on spar and on shroud, 
 When a voice from below we heard feebly cry: 
 " Let me see, let me see my own land ere I die." 
 
 '* Ah, dear sailor, say, have we sighted Cape Clear? 
 
 Can you see any sign ? Is the morning light near ? 
 
 You are young, my brave boy; thanks, thanks for your hand 
 
 Help me up, till I get a last glimpse of the land. 
 
 Thank God, 'tis the sun that now reddens the sky; 
 
 I shall see, I shall see my own land ere I die. 
 
 " Let me lean on your strength, I am feeble and old, 
 And one-half of my heart is already stone-cold. 
 Forty years work a change ! when I first crossed the sea 
 There were few on the deck that could grapple with me; 
 But my youth and my prime in Ohio went by, 
 And I'm come back to see the old spot ere I die. " 
 
 'Twas a feeble old man, and he stood on the deck 
 His arm round a kindly young mariner's neck , 
 His ghastly gaze fixed on the tints of the east, 
 As a starveling might stare at the noise of a feast. 
 The morn quickly rose and revealed to his eye 
 
 The land he had prayed to behold , and then die ! 
 
 24 
 
354 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Green, green was the shore, though the year was near done; 
 
 High and haughty the capes the white surf dashed upon; 
 
 A gray ruined convent was down by the strand, 
 
 And the sheep fed afar, on the hills of the land! 
 
 " God be with you, dear Ireland!" he gasped with a sigh; 
 
 " I have lived to behold you I'm ready to die." 
 
 He sunk by the hour, and his pulse 'gan to fail, 
 As we swept by the headland of storied Kinsale ; 
 Off Ardigna Bay it came slower and slower, 
 And his corpse was clay-cold as we sighted Tramore. 
 At Passage we waked him, and now he doth lie 
 In the lap of the land he beheld but to die. 
 
 THE CELTIC CROSS. 
 
 THROUGH storm, and fire, and gloom, I see it stand, 
 
 Firm, broad, and tall 
 The Celtic Cross that marks our Fatherland, 
 
 Amid them all ! 
 Druids, and Danes, and Saxons vainly rage 
 
 Around its base; 
 It standeth shock on shock, and age on age, 
 
 Star of our scattered race. 
 
 O, Holy Cross! dear symbol of the dread 
 
 Death of our Lord, 
 Around thee long have slept our Martyr-dead, 
 
 Sward over sward ! 
 An hundred Bishops I myself can count 
 
 Among the slain 
 Chiefs, captains, rank and file, a shining mount 
 
 Of God's ripe grain. 
 
THOMAS D'AKCY M'GEE. 355 
 
 The Recreant's hate, the Puritan's claymore, 
 
 Smote thee not down; 
 On headland steep, on mountain summit hoar, 
 
 In mart and town; 
 In Glendalough, in Ara, in Tyrone, 
 
 We find thee still, 
 Thy open arms still stretching to thine own, 
 
 O'er town, and lough and hill. 
 
 And they would tear thee out of Irish soil, 
 
 The guilty fools! 
 How time must mock their antiquated toil 
 
 And broken tools! 
 Cranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp retired, 
 
 Baffled and thrown; 
 William and Anne to sap thy site conspired 
 
 The rest is known! 
 
 Holy Saint Patrick, Father of our Faith, 
 
 Beloved of God! 
 Shield thy dear church from the impending scathe, 
 
 Or, if the rod 
 Must scourge it yet again, inspire and raise 
 
 To emprise high, 
 Men like the heroic race of other days, 
 
 Who joyed to die ! 
 
 Fear! Wherefore should the Celtic people fear 
 
 Their Church's fate ? 
 The day is not the day was never near 
 
 Could desolate 
 
356 IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 The Destined Island, all whose seedy clay 
 
 Is holy ground 
 Its Cross shall stand till that predestined day, 
 
 When Erin's self is drowned! 
 
 SALUTATION TO THE CELTS. 
 
 I 
 
 HAIL to our Celtic 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 Though fallen the state of Erin, and changed the Scottish land 
 Though small the power of Mona, though unwaked Le welly n's 
 
 band- 
 Though Ambrose Merlin's prophecies degenerate to tales, 
 And the cloisters of lona are bemoan 'd by northern gales 
 
 One in name and in fame 
 
 Are the sea-divided Gaels. 
 
 III. 
 
 In Northern Spain and Brittany our brethren also dwell; 
 Oh! brave are the traditions of their fathers that they tell; 
 The eagle and the crescent in the dawn of history pales 
 Before their fire, that seldom flags, and never wholly fails: 
 
 One in name and in fame 
 
 Are the sea-divided Gaels. 
 
THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE. 357 
 
 IV. 
 
 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 past or future honors of the far-dispersed Gaels: 
 
 One in name and in fame 
 
 Are the sea-divided Gaels. 
 
 THE EXILE'S REQUEST. 
 
 OH, Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off lands a sign, 
 Let it be some token still 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 art of Italie. 
 
 For I was born in Ireland I glory in the name 
 I weep for all her sorrows, I remember well her fame! 
 And still my heart must hope that 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 streaming rains, 
 Her lovely limbs are mangled with slavery's ancient chains, 
 Yet, Pilgrim, pass not over with heedless heart or eye, 
 The Island of the gifted, and of men who knew to die. 
 
 Like the crater of a fire-mount, all without is bleak and bare, 
 But the vigor of its lips still show what fire and force were there, 
 Even now in the heaving craters, far from the gazer's ken, 
 The fiery heel 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 still 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 art of Italie. 
 
358 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 THE LIVING AND THE DEAD. 
 
 BRIGHT is the Spring time, Erin, green and gay to see; 
 But my heart is heavy, Erin, with thoughts of thy sons and thee; 
 Thinking of your dead men lying as thick as grass new mown 
 Thinking of your myriads dying, unnoted and unknown 
 Thinking of your myriads flying beyond the abysmal waves 
 Thinking of your magnates sighing, and stifling their thoughts 
 like slaves ! 
 
 Oh! for the time, dear Erin, the fierce time long ago, 
 
 When your men felt brave, dear Erin, and their hands could 
 
 strike a blow ! 
 When your Gaelic chiefs were ready to stand in the bloody 
 
 breach 
 Danger but made them steady; they struck, and saved their 
 
 speech ! 
 
 But where are the men to head ye, and lead you face to face, 
 To trample the powers that tread ye, men of the fallen race! 
 
 The yellow corn, dear Erin, waves plenteous o'er the plain; 
 But where are the hands, dear Erin, to gather in the grain ? 
 The sinewy man is sleeping in the crowded churchyard near, 
 And his young wife is keeping his lonesome company there, 
 His brother shoreward creeping, has begged his way abroad, 
 And his sister tho' for weeping, she scarce could see the road. 
 
 No other nation, Erin, but only you would bear 
 A yoke like yours, oh! Erin, a month, not to say a year; 
 And will you bear it for ever, writhing and sighing sore, 
 Now learn learn now, or never, to dare, not to deplore 
 Learn to join in one endeavor your creeds and people all 
 'Tis only thus can you sever your tyrant's iron thrall. 
 
THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE. 359 
 
 Then call your people, Erin, call with a Prophet's cry 
 
 Bid them link in union, Erin, and do like men or die 
 
 Bid the hind from the loamy valley, the miller from the fall 
 
 Bid the craftsman from his alley, the lord from his lordly hall 
 
 Bid the old and the young man rally, and trust to work not 
 
 words, 
 And thenceforth ever shall ye be free as the forest birds. 
 
 TO A FKIEND IN AUSTRALIA.* 
 
 OLD friend! though distant far, 
 
 Your image nightly shines upon my soul; 
 
 I yearn toward it as toward a star 
 
 That points through darkness to the ancient pole. 
 
 Out of my heart the longing wishes fly, 
 
 As to some rapt Elias, Enoch, Seth; 
 Yours is another earth, another sky, 
 
 And I I feel that distance is like death. 
 
 Oh! for one week amid the emerald fields, 
 Where the Avoca sings the song of Moore; 
 
 Oh! for the odor the brown heather yields, 
 To glad the pilgrim's heart on Glenmalure ! 
 
 Yet is there still what meeting could not give, 
 
 A joy most suited of all joys to last; 
 For, ever in fair memory there must live 
 
 The bright, unclouded picture of the past. 
 
 Charles Gavan Duffy. 
 
360 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Old friend! the years wear on, and many cares 
 And many sorrows both of us have known; 
 
 Time for us both a quiet couch prepares 
 A couch like Jacob's, pillow'd with a stone. 
 
 And oh ! when thus we sleep may we behold 
 The angelic ladder of the Patriarch's dream; 
 
 And may my feet upon its rungs of gold 
 Yours follow, as of old, by hill and stream! 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 I. 
 
 MEN seek for treasure in the earth; 
 
 Where I have buried mine, 
 There never mortal eye shall pierce, 
 
 Nor star nor lamp shall shine ! 
 We know, my love, oh! well we know, 
 
 The secret treasure-spot, 
 Yet must our tears forever fall, 
 
 Because that they are not. 
 
 II. 
 
 How gladly would we give to light 
 
 The ivory forehead fair 
 The eye of heavenly-beaming blue, 
 
 The clust'ring chestnut hair 
 Yet look around this mournful scene 
 
 Of daily earthly life, 
 And could you wish them back to share 
 
 Its sorrow and its strife ? 
 
THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE. 
 
 m. 
 
 If blessed angels stray to earth, 
 
 And seek in vain a shrine, 
 They needs must back return again 
 
 Unto their source divine: 
 All life obeys the unchanging law 
 
 Of Him who took and gave, 
 We count a glorious saint in heaven 
 
 For each child in the grave. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Look up, my love, look up, afar, 
 
 And dry each bitter tear; 
 Behold, three white-robed innocents 
 
 At heaven's high gate appear! 
 For you and me and those we love, 
 
 They smilingly await 
 God grant we may be fit to join 
 
 Those Angels at the Gate. 
 
 THE EXILE'S DEVOTION. 
 
 I'D rather be the bird that sings 
 
 Above the martyr's grave, 
 Than fold in fortune's cage my wings 
 
 And feol 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. 
 
362 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 O Native Land! dost ever mark, 
 
 When the world's din is drown'd, 
 Betwixt the daylight 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! 
 
 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-covered hill! 
 Still in the mirror of the mind 
 
 The land I love I see; 
 Would I could fly on the western wind, 
 
 My native land, to thee! 
 
THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE. 363. 
 
 THE DYING CELT TO HIS AMERICAN SON. 
 
 MY son, a darkness falleth, 
 
 Not of night, upon my eyes; 
 And in my ears there calleth 
 
 A voice as from the skies; 
 I feel that I am dying, 
 
 I feel my day is done, 
 Bid the women hush their crying 
 
 And hear to me, my son! 
 
 When Time my garland gathers, 
 
 Oh! my son, I charge you hold 
 By the standard of your fathers 
 
 In the battle-fields of old! 
 In blood they wrote their story 
 
 Across the fields, my boy; 
 On earth it was their glory, 
 
 In heaven it is their joy. 
 
 By St. Patrick's hand 'twas planted 
 
 On Erin's sea-beat shore, 
 And it spread its folds, undaunted, 
 
 Through the drift and the uproar; 
 Of ail its vain assaulters, 
 
 Who could ever say he saw 
 The last of Ireland's altars ? 
 
 Or the last of Patrick's law ? 
 
 Through the western ocean driven, 
 
 By the tyrant's scorpion whips, 
 Behold! the hand of Heaven 
 
 Bore our standard o'er the ships! 
 
364 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 In the forest's far recesses, 
 
 When the moon shines in at night, 
 
 The Celtic cross now blesses 
 The weary wanderer's sight! 
 
 My son, my son, there falleth 
 
 Deeper darkness on my eyes; 
 And the Guardian Angel calleth 
 
 Me by name from out the skies. 
 Dear, my son, I charge thee cherish 
 
 Christ's holy cross o'er all; 
 Let whatever else may perish, 
 
 Let whatever else may fall. 
 
 THE VIRGIN MARY'S KNIGHT. 
 
 A BALLAD OF THE CRUSADES. 
 
 [In the "Middle Ages," there were Orders of Knights especially devoted to 
 our Blessed Lady, as well as many illustrious individuals of knightly rank 
 and renown. Thus the Order called Servites, in France, was known as tes 
 esclaves de Marie; and there was also the Order of "Our Lady of Mercy," 
 for the redemption of captives; the Templars, too, before their fall, were 
 devoutly attached to the service of our Blessed Lady.] 
 
 BENEATH the stars in Palestine seven knights discoursing stood, 
 But not of warlike work to come, nor former fields of blood, 
 Nor of the joy the pilgrims feel prostrated far, who see 
 The hill where Christ's atoning blood pour'd down the penal 
 
 tree; 
 Their theme was old, their theme was new, 'twas sweet and 
 
 yet 'twas bitter, 
 
 Of noble ladies left behind spoke cavalier and ritter, 
 And eyes grew bright, and sighs arose from every iron breast, 
 For a dear wife , or plighted maid , far in the widow'd West. 
 
THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE. 365 
 
 Towards the knights came Constantine, thrice noble by his 
 
 birth, 
 
 And ten times nobler than his blood his high out-shining worth; 
 His step was slow, his lips were moved, though not a word he 
 
 spoke, 
 
 Till a gallant lord of Lombardy his spell of silence broke. 
 " What aileth thee, O Constantine, that solitude you seek? 
 If counsel or if aid thou need'st, we pray thee do but speak; 
 Or dost thou mourn, like other freres, thy lady-love afar 
 Whose image shineth nightly through yon European star?" 
 
 Then answer 'd courteous Constantine ''Good sir, in simple 
 
 truth, 
 
 I chose a gracious lady in the hey-day of my youth; 
 I wear her image on my heart, and when that heart is cold, 
 The secret may be rifled thence, but never must be told. 
 For her I love and worship well by light of morn or even, 
 I ne'er shall see my mistress dear, until we meet in heaven; 
 But this believe, brave cavaliers, there never was but one 
 Such lady as my Holy Love, beneath the blessed sun." 
 
 He ceased, and pass'd with solemn step on to an olive grove, 
 And, kneeling there, he pray'd a prayer to the Lady of his love. 
 And many a cavalier whose lance had still maintain'd his own 
 Beloved to reign without a peer, all earth's unequalled one, 
 Look'd tenderly on Constantine in camp and in the fight; 
 With wonder and with generous pride they mark'd the light'ning 
 
 light 
 
 Of his fearless sword careering through the unbelievers' ranks, 
 As angry Rhone sweeps off the vines that thicken on his banks. 
 
366 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 " He fears not death, come when it will; he longeth for his love, 
 And fain would find some sudden path to where she dwells 
 
 above. 
 
 How should he fear for dying, when his mistress dear is dead?" 
 Thus often of Sir Constantine his watchful comrades said; 
 Until it chanced from Zion wall the tatal arrow flew, 
 That pierced the outworn armor of his faithful bosom through; 
 And never was such mourning made for knight in Palestine, 
 As thy loyal comrades made for thee, beloved Constantine. 
 
 Beneath the royal tent the bier was guarded night and day, 
 Where with a halo round his head the Christian champion lay; 
 That talisman upon his breast what may that marvel be 
 Which kept his ardent soul through life from every error free ? 
 Approach! behold! nay, worship there the image of his love, 
 The heavenly Queen who reigneth all the sacred hosts above, 
 Nor wonder that around his bier there lingers such a light, 
 For the spotless one that sleepeth WAS THE BLESSED VIRGIN'S 
 KNIGHT ! 
 
 AMERGIN'S ANTHEM ON DISCOVERING INNISFAIL. 
 
 BEHOLD! behold the prize 
 Which westward yonder lies ! 
 Doth it not blind your eyes 
 
 Like the sun ? 
 By vigil through the night, 
 By valor in the fight, 
 By learning to unite 
 
 T may be won! 't maybe won! 
 By learning to unite, 't may be won! 
 
THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE. 367 
 
 Of this, in Scythian vales, 
 Seers told prophetic tales, 
 Until our Father's sails 
 
 Quick uprose; 
 
 But the gods did him detain 
 In the gen'rous land of Spain, 
 Where in peace his bones remain 
 
 With his foes, with his foes 
 Where in peace his bones remain with his foes. 
 
 Sad Scotia! mother dear! 
 
 Cease to shed the mournful tear 
 
 Behold the hour draws near 
 
 He foretold; 
 
 And, ye men, with one accord, 
 Drop the oar and draw the sword, 
 For he only shall be lord 
 
 Who is bold, who is bold 
 He only shall be lord who is bold ! 
 
 They may shroud it up in gloom 
 Like a spirit in the tomb, 
 But we hear the voice of doom 
 
 As it cries; 
 
 Let the cerements be burst, 
 And from thy bonds accursed, 
 Isle of Isles, the fairest, first, 
 
 Arise! arise! 
 Isle of Isles, the fairest, first, arise! 
 
368 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Couch the oar and strike the sail, 
 Ye warriors of the Gael ! 
 Draw the sword for Innisfail! 
 
 Dash ashore ! 
 
 With such a prize to gain, 
 Who would sail the seas again! 
 Innisfail shall be our Spain 
 
 Evermore! evermore! 
 Innisfail shall be our Spain evermore! 
 
 THE CELTS. 
 
 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 wave they made their 'biding-place r 
 
 These Western shepherd-seers. 
 
 Their ocean-god was Man-a-nan, M'Lir, 
 
 Whose angry lips, 
 In their white foam, full often would inter 
 
 Whole fleets of ships; 
 Cromah, 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. 
 
THOMAS D'AKCY M'GEE. 369 
 
 Great were their deeds, their passions, and their sports; 
 
 With clay and stone 
 They piled on strath and shore those mystic forts 
 
 Not yet overthrown; 
 On cairn-crown'd hills they held their council-courts; 
 
 While youths alone, 
 With giant dogs, explored the elk resorts, 
 
 And brought them down. 
 
 Of these was Finn, the father of the bard 
 
 Whose ancient song 
 Over the clamor 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 fear'd, 
 
 The primal poet sprung. 
 
 Ossian ! two thousand years of mist and change 
 
 Surround thy name 
 Thy Finian heroes now no longer range 
 
 The hills of fame. 
 The very name of Finn and Gaul sound strange 
 
 Yet thine the same 
 By miscalPd lake and desecrated grange 
 
 Remains, and shall remain! 
 
 The Druid's altar and the Druid's creed 
 
 We scarce can trace, 
 There is not left an undisputed deed 
 
 Of all your race, 
 
370 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 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. 
 
 Oh, 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 ! 
 
 THE IRISH WIFE. 
 
 I WOULD not give my Irish wife for all the darnes of the Saxon 
 
 land * 
 
 I would not give my Irish wife for the Queen of France's hand: 
 For she to me is dearer than castles strong, or land, or life 
 An outlaw, but I'm near her! to love, till death, my Irish wife! 
 
 Oh ! what would be this home of mine a ruin'd, hermit-haunted 
 place 
 
 But for the light that nightly shines upon its walls from Kath- 
 leen's face ? 
 
 What comfort in a mine of gold what pleasure in a royal life 
 
 If the heart within lay dead and cold if I could not wed my 
 Irish wife ? 
 
 I knew the law forbade the banns I knew my king abhorred 
 
 her race 
 Who never bent before their clans, must bow before their ladies' 
 
 grace. 
 
THOMAS D'ABCY M'GEE. 371 
 
 Take all my forfeited domain; I cannot wage, with kinsmen, 
 
 strife; 
 Take knightly gear and noble name, but I will keep my Irish 
 
 wife! 
 
 My Irish wife has clear blue eyes my heaven by day, my stars 
 
 by night 
 And twin-like truth and fondness lie within her swelling bosom 
 
 white. 
 My Irish wife has golden hair Apollo's harp had once such 
 
 strings 
 Apollo's self might pause to hear her bird-like carol when she 
 
 sings! 
 
 I would not give my Irish wife for all the dames of the Saxon 
 
 land 
 
 I would not give my Irish wife for the Queen of France's hand ! 
 For she to me is dearer than castles strong, or lands, or life 
 In death I would be near her, and rise beside my Irish wife! 
 
 IF WILL HAD WINGS, HOW FAST I'D FLEE. 
 
 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; 
 And the emerald lustre of Paradise beams 
 Over homes that cluster round singing streams. 
 
372 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 I, sighing, alas! exist 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 relight, 
 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. 
 
 For she never was weary of blessing me, 
 When morn rose dreary on thatch and tree; 
 She evermore chanted her song of faith, 
 When darkness daunted on hill and heath. 
 
 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. 
 
 A LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK. 
 
 SEVEN weary years in bondage the young St. Patrick pass'd, 
 Till the sudden hope came to him to break his bonds at last; 
 On the Antrim hills reposing with the North star overhead 
 As the grey dawn was disclosing " I trust in God," he said 
 " My sheep will find a shepherd and my master find a slave, 
 But my mother has no other hope, but me, this side the grave." 
 
 Then girding close his mantle, and grasping fast his wand, 
 He sought the open ocean through the by-ways of the land. 
 The berries from the hedges on his solitary way, 
 And the cresses from the waters were his only food by day. 
 
THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE. 373 
 
 The cold stone was his pillow, and the hard heath was his bed, 
 Till looking from Benbulben, he saw the sea outspread. 
 
 He saw that ancient ocean, unfathomed and unbound, 
 That breaks on Erin's beaches with so sorrowful a sound. 
 There lay a ship at Sligo bound up the Median sea, 
 " God save you, master mariner, will you give berth to me ? 
 I have no gold to pay thee, but Christ will pay thee yet." 
 Loud laughed that foolish mariner, "Nay, nay, He might 
 forget!" 
 
 " Forget! oh, not a favor done to the humblest one, 
 
 Of all His human kindred, can 'scape th' Eternal Son!" 
 
 In vain the Christian pleaded, the willing sail was spread, 
 
 His voice no more was heeded than the sea-birds overhead 
 
 And as the vision faded, the ship against the sky, 
 
 On the briny rocks the Captive prayed to God to let him die. 
 
 But God, whose ear is open to catch the sparrow's fall, 
 At the sobbing of his servant frowned, along the waters all 
 The billows rase in wonder and smote the churlish crew, 
 And around the ship the thunder like battle-arrows flew; 
 The screaming sea-fowl's clangor, in Kishcorran's inner caves, 
 Was hushed before the anger of the tempest-trodden waves 
 
 Like an eagle-hunted gannet, the ship drove back amain, 
 To where the Christian captive sat in solitude and pain 
 " Come in," they cried, " oh, Christian, we need your company, 
 For it was sure your angry God that met us out at sea." 
 Then smiled the gentle heavens, and doffed their sable veil 
 Then sank to rest the breakers and died away the gale. 
 
 So sitting by the Pilot the happy captive kept 
 
 On his rosary a-reck'ning, while the seamen sung or slept. 
 
374 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Before the winds propitious past Achill, south by Ara, 
 
 The good ship gliding left behind Hiar Connaught like an 
 
 arrow 
 
 From the southern brow of Erin they shoot the shore of Gaul, 
 And in holy Tours, Saint Patrick findeth freedom, friends, 
 
 and all. 
 
 In holy Tours he findeth home and Altars, friends and all; 
 
 There matins hail the morning, sweet bells to vespers call; 
 
 There's no lord to make him tremble, no magician to endure, 
 
 No need he to dissemble in the pious streets of Tours; 
 
 But ever, as he rises with the morning's early light, 
 
 And still ere while he sleepeth, when the North star shines at 
 
 night; 
 
 When he sees the angry ocean by the tempest trod , 
 He murmurs in devotion ' ' Fear nothing ! Trust to God ! " 
 
SAMUEL LOVER 
 
 
 
 POET, PAINTER AND NOVELIST. 
 
 COVERS are given to poetry," wrote Shak- 
 speare, and the subject of our memoir was 
 no exception to the general rule. On the 24th of 
 February, 1797, Samuel Lover was born in the city 
 of Dublin. His parents were people of means and 
 education. His first studies were made at a boys' 
 academy in his native city, where he applied him- 
 self with so much ardor that his health gave way, 
 and, acting on a physician's advice, his parents pro- 
 cured him a comfortable lodging with a farmer in 
 the County Wicklow, where he could enjoy fresh air 
 and plenty of exercise. At this plastic period the 
 wild and beautiful scenery of Wicklow made a deep 
 and lasting impression on his mind. Rambling at 
 will among the romantic vales, and conversing with 
 the noble and generous peasantry, he gained not only 
 physical strength but also a large fund of knowledge 
 relative to the habits and customs of the people 
 whose traits he was destined to describe in song and 
 story. 
 
 The memory of his sojourn in Wicklow remained 
 
 (375) 
 
376 
 
 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 with Lover, and in after years he gave to it a more 
 tangible form in these verses, entitled: 
 
 MY MOUNTAIN HOME. 
 
 MY mountain home ! rny mountain home ! 
 
 Dear are thy hills to me ! 
 Where first my childhood loved to roam 
 
 Wild as the summer bee; 
 The summer bee may gather sweet 
 
 From flowers in sunny prime ; 
 And memory brings with wing as fleet, 
 
 Sweet thoughts of early time. 
 Still fancy bears me to the hills 
 
 Where childhood loved to roam 
 I hear, I see your sparkling rills, 
 
 My own, my mountain home! 
 
SAMUEL LOVER. 377 
 
 At the age of sixteen Samuel was taken from 
 school and placed in his father's office, there to be 
 initiated into the keeping of accounts uncongenial 
 business for a poet ! and so it proved in the case of 
 young Lover, who gave more of his time to study 
 and sketching than to his father's accounts. For 
 this his father remonstrated with him, but to no 
 purpose. The young poet-painter would follow the 
 strong bent of his nature, despite all the remon- 
 strances of an anxious parent. So, with the firm 
 resolution of cleaving his own way in the world he 
 left the paternal mansion and patiently applied him- 
 self to the study of art. For three years he labored 
 with indomitable zeal and perseverance, during all 
 this time supporting himself principally by copying 
 music and sketching portraits, which in those days 
 were in good demand. Like Gerald Griffin, young 
 Lover more than once felt the pangs of want; but his 
 purpose never weakened, even in the darkest hour 
 of adversity. 
 
 Having spent three years in study he came before 
 the public as a marine and miniature painter. He 
 was then only twenty years old, and towards the close 
 of 1818 he became the most popular artist in Dublin. 
 In literary circles he was also recognized as a man 
 of considerable poetic genius; and, when Moore 
 visited his native city, the citizens invited him to 
 
378 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 write a poem for the occasion. On the evening of 
 the banquet in honor of the great Irish melodist, 
 Lover was there with his song brimful of Irish 
 humor. 
 
 The song describes a caucus of the gods, who were 
 to elect a poet laureate for Mount Olympus. 
 
 Scott, Southey, Lord Byron and Campbell were 
 nominated for the exalted position and received some 
 votes, but Moore was the successful candidate. We 
 have room here for three or four verses only: 
 
 T other day Jove exclaimed, with a nod most profound, 
 While the gods of Olympus in state sat around, 
 "I have fully resolved, after weighty reflection, 
 To soon set a-going a poet's election. " 
 " A good thought, Jupiter boy!" 
 
 While the gods were discussing matters appertain- 
 ing to election, Juno put in a claim for woman's rights: 
 
 " I request, though," said Juno, " you'll let it be known 
 Why this right of election the gods have alone; 
 On this point as on others I differ from you , 
 And insist every goddess shall have a vote, too." 
 ' ' Brave Juno ! stand up for your rights. " 
 
 Then Jupiter said, " Let it be so, my dear, 
 Let th' election commence; bid the poets appear; 
 The polling concluded, whoever is found 
 To have carried most votes shall our poet be crowned." 
 " Fair play, Jupiter boy!" 
 
SAMUEL LOVER. 379 
 
 Here each delegate introduced some favorite : 
 
 But Mercury said he ' ' should now bring in sight 
 
 A bard who was every one's pride and delight 
 
 Who Melpomene, Venus, Thalia, could lure; 
 
 They all knew who he meant, and so need he say Moore ?" 
 
 Some time after the festivities of this evening 
 Moore desired to be introduced to the rising poet, 
 whom he warmly thanked for the high compliment 
 he had received on his return from abroad. Moore's 
 mother requested a copy of the verses ; and ever after 
 that. Lover remained an esteemed friend of the Moore 
 family 
 
 His repution as a portrait painter being established, 
 and with a fast-increasing fame as a poet, Lover mar- 
 ried a cultured young lady named Miss Berrel, the 
 daughter of a Dublin architect, a man of marked 
 ability and liberal means. The Berrels were an old 
 Catholic family, very much devoted to the ancient 
 faith; and Lover, who was born and raised a Protes- 
 tant, had no difficulty in promising never to inter- 
 fere with his wife in the full and free exercise of her 
 religion. He kept his promise, and his domestic life 
 was a happy one. 
 
 In 1828 he became Secretary of the Royal Hiber- 
 nian Academy, and faithfully discharged the duties 
 of that office up to the time of his removal to Lon- 
 don, where the latter part of his life was spent. 
 
380 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Dividing his time about equally between the brush 
 and pen, paintings, poems and stories issued from 
 his studio in rapid succession, and for each piece of 
 work the compensation received was ample. His 
 many-sided mind developed some new talent almost 
 every month; and not the least profitable was the 
 aptitude he had for caricaturing, in a humorous way, 
 certain politicians of his time. His " Irish Horn 
 Book," published in 1831, illustrates this statement. 
 This book contained many clever etchings by Lover, 
 a^id most of the satirical articles were from his 
 trenchant pen. 
 
 In 1832 appeared his " Legends and Stories of Ire- 
 land," chiefly made up of articles which he had writ- 
 ten for the magazines. The same year he painted a 
 picture of the celebrated violinist, Paganini, which 
 won a world-wide fame. This portrait, when sent 
 the following year to the Art Exhibition at the Royal 
 Academy, London, attracted general attention and 
 took the prize from the miniatures of Ross and the 
 renowned Thorburn. Having painted very fine por- 
 traits of the Duke of Wellington, Lord Cloncurry, 
 Sir John Conroy and others, he was invited by the 
 Duchess of Kent to paint a portrait of Princess Vic- 
 toria. Circumstances, however, which he could not 
 control prevented his going to England. In failing 
 to go to England for this purpose it was said he lost 
 
SAMUEL LOVER. 381 
 
 a great opportunity, as he might have gained for 
 himself the title of " Portrait-painter to her gracious 
 Majesty." Lover, however, was both too patriotic 
 and sensible to attach much value to such a distinc- 
 tion. When it was noised abroad that such an offer 
 was made, a Dublin punster remarked that in case 
 of the Irishman's acceptance the " Court chronicler 
 would have to announce a Lover instead of a Hayter* 
 as the incumbent of the office." 
 
 He settled permanently in London in 1837, where 
 he devoted most of his time to hard work. Among 
 his intimate friends at that time were Rev. Dr. Crolly, 
 Father Prout, Mrs. Jamieson, Miss Landon, Lady 
 Blessington and Thomas Campbell, the poet. 
 
 Here his pen was kept as busy as his brush, and 
 his brain seldom rested. He wrote songs for operas 
 and stories for half a dozen magazines. For Mme. 
 Vestris, then very popular in England, he wrote and 
 set to music, " Under the Rose," " The Angel's Whis- 
 per," " The Fqur-Leaved Shamrock," " The Land of 
 the West," and many other pieces which became im- 
 mensely popular and were sung daily in the streets 
 of London. In London he dramatized his first real 
 novel, " Rory O'More," and its representation on 
 the stage was a complete success. For one hundred 
 and eight nights it drew a crowded house. Speaking 
 
 * Sir George Hayter then held the office. 
 
382 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 of its popularity the Athenteum said that " Rory 
 O'More a triple glory in song, story and drama 
 was the attraction of the day, and that Samuel Lover 
 seemed to communicate his own sweet temperament 
 to all around him." 
 
 In this story the author endeavored to do justice 
 to the character of his countrymen, and of his efforts 
 an English magazine says: 
 
 " Hearty, honest, comic, sensible, tender, faithful and coura- 
 geous Rory is the true ideal of the Irish peasant the humble 
 hero who embodies so much of the best of the national char- 
 acter, and lifts simple emotion almost to the height of ripened 
 judgment. " 
 
 Lover's principal recreation consisted in giving 
 informal receptions to his intimate friends and 
 associates. It is related that on being presented at 
 one of those social gathering to Madame Malibran, 
 the brilliant artiste exclaimed in broken English: 
 " Will you lend me the loan of a gridiron? " 
 
 At one of his little entertainment^, a young lady 
 of high social standing who had been for years an 
 ardent admirer of the Irish people remarked that 
 she was meant for an Irishwoman. 
 
 " Cross the channel, Madam," said Lover, " and 
 thousands of people well say you were meant for an 
 Irishman." 
 
 A great success as miniature painter, Lover now 
 
SAMUEL LOVER. 383 
 
 turned his attention to song-writing, and in that also 
 he excelled. 
 
 The Dublin University Magazine has well said that 
 " as poet, painter and novelist, Lover won sufficient 
 celebrity to make the fame of three different men." 
 
 In the preface to the fifth edition of his " Poetical 
 Works," he designates a few of the rules that should 
 be observed in order to write a good song. 
 
 " A song," he says, " must be constructed for sing- 
 ing rather than for reading; and hence, to accommo- 
 date the vocalist, it should be built up of words hav- 
 ing as many vowels and as free from guttural and 
 hissing sounds as possible." 
 
 Moore and Burns, he considers, masters of the art 
 of song-writing, and points out the many beauties of 
 their songs by reason of the liberal use of open- 
 vo welled words. 
 
 Of the three hundred poems written by himself, 
 all but fifty are songs adapted to old airs generally 
 native Irish airs. It is impossible to attempt any- 
 thing like a criticism of these within the limits of 
 this brief paper; but, in passing, it may be said that 
 "Rory O'More," "The Angel's Whisper" and "The 
 Fairy Boy " are favorites and very deservedly so 
 wherever the English language is spoken. Unlike 
 the hedge poets he seldom indulged in classical 
 allusions. His metaphors and similes are home- 
 
384 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 spun, the very soul of simplicity and all the better 
 for that. 
 
 The late Dr. Shelton Mackenzie, who knew Lover 
 well and was qualified to pass judgment on his 
 works, wrote in the Philadelphia Press: 
 
 " Samuel Lover was the author of many admirable ballads, 
 humorous and pathetic, which are likely to last even as long 
 as Moore's beautiful melodies. I need only mention * Molly 
 Carew,' ' Widow Machree,' ' The Low Back Car/ ' The Bowld 
 Sojer Boy,' and the 'Four-leaved Shamrock.' He also wrote 
 novels and plays, of which ' Handy Andy ' is the best known, 
 owing to its being several times dramatized. 
 
 "Incredible as it may appear," the same distinguished writer 
 goes on to say, " ' Handy Andy,' the man and his nickname, 
 was not a mere creation and creature of the imagination. 
 Years before Lover wrote anything concerning that singular 
 character I had heard a good deal about him. My knowledge 
 arose in this manner: 
 
 " One stormy day, traveling in the mail-coach from the 
 County Cork to that of Limerick, whither I was going to 
 spend the Christmas at my uncle's, it was my misfortune to 
 be upset, with the total wreck of the vehicle, within a mile of 
 Kilmallock. As the snow was three feet deep, and no convey- 
 ance could be obtained, my only fellow-traveler determined that 
 we should not encounter the fatigue of walking into Kilmallock, 
 but spend the evening in the only tavern of the little village 
 where the accident had happened. 
 
 " ' It's a plain place,' he said, * but they can supply as good a 
 rasher of bacon and eggs as ever was served up; and their beds 
 are clean and comfortable to a degree. ' 
 
SAMUEL LOVER. 385 
 
 ' ' It required little persuasion to induce me to act on this 
 advice, given on my companion's personal experience, and we 
 made out that Christmas Eve in the little village tavern. 
 
 " Ere we parted my friend told me that, in the ancient chiv- 
 alry of Ireland there were four hereditary knights, all of them 
 Fitzgeralds and each of them having living representatives. 
 These were the White Knight, the Red Knight, the Knight of 
 Kerry, and the Knight of Glin. He himself was the last of 
 these, deriving his title from the Castle of Glin, which stands 
 in the center of a fine estate near the River Shannon, and has 
 been owned by one branch of the Fitzgerald family for more 
 than six hundred years. 
 
 ' ' That evening as we sat by the cheerful turf fire in the 
 humble hostelry which had received us, the Knight of Glin 
 told me a great deal about Handy Andy. This was fully thir- 
 teen years before Mr. Lover had introduced that worthy to the 
 readers of Bentley's Miscellany. 
 
 " ' His name,' the Knight said, ' is Andrew Sullivan, but he 
 had such a propensity for doing and saying things in a way 
 they ought not to be done or said, that from an early age every 
 one spoke of him and to him as ' * Handy Andy " he being the 
 unhandiest fellow in the world. His misfortune was that he 
 took everything said to him in a natural sense. One morning 
 when I was shaving with cold water, Andy, good-natured 
 enough, brought me up a small jug of hot water. ' Where am 
 1 to empty this ? ' he asked , pointing to the mug of cold water 
 I had been using. I told him to throw it out of the window, 
 (of course, meaning the water only); but matter-of-fact Andy 
 raised the window, and pitched not only the water, but also the 
 China mug that held it, into the yard below, and then looked 
 
 26 
 
386 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 cheerfully at me as if he deserved praise for having carried out 
 my instructions to the letter. 
 
 " ' On another occasion when I was high sheriff of the county, 
 I had to give a big dinner at Glin Castle to the Judges of 
 Assize, the Grand Jury and the members of the bar. Several 
 baskets of champagne for consumption on that occasion were 
 obtained from the city of Limerick. There was need of many 
 servants to wait on table, and Andy was put into livery. 
 Unfortunately my caterer was an Englishman, who seeing 
 Andy doing nothing, called out: ' You Hoirish feller there, just 
 put this champagne into that 'ere tub of h'ice, h'and look shard 
 that no feller takes some of it !' 
 
 " 'Andy literally carrying out his instructions did put the 
 wine into the tub, uncorking bottle after bottle of it to the 
 extent of two dozen; and when champagne was called for at 
 dinner, dragged in the tub, and told how he really had poured 
 the wine into the ice, as he had been ordered. Fortunately 
 there was more of the generous fluid, so no very great harm 
 was done. It was impossible, no matter how angry one might 
 be , to avoid laughing at the numerous and curious blunders of 
 Handy Andy. He has grown gray in my service, and though 
 I dismiss him every three months or so on some new aggrava- 
 tion, he slips back again and I cannot continue angry with him/ 
 
 " Many other illustrations of this original character were 
 told me by the Knight, but my limited space does not permit me 
 to mention them." 
 
 These and many other ludicrous incidents in the 
 life of Handy Andy, Mr. Lover strung together on a 
 slender thread, and, in the end, landed his hero up 
 among the peers of the realm the proper place for 
 a booby to end his days. 
 
SAMUEL LOVER. 387 
 
 Lover's eyesight began to fail in 1844, and he was 
 obliged to abandon painting altogether, though this 
 was his chief means of support. In order to make 
 up for the loss he had sustained in this way, he 
 arranged a literary and musical entertainment which 
 he called " Irish Evenings." This species of amuse- 
 ment was not so common in those days as it is with 
 us, and the " Evenings " took immensely both in 
 England and Ireland. This entertainment consisted 
 of an olla podrida of his own most popular songs and 
 stories. He selected two young ladies to assist him 
 with the songs, while he always kept for himself the 
 recital of the stories. The proceeds from this source 
 relieved him for a time from financial embarrass- 
 ments, and the enthusiastic receptions which awaited 
 him everywhere he appeared in Ireland were ex- 
 tremely gratifying to his genial Irish heart. 
 
 He repeated his " Evenings " throughout the large 
 cities of the United States in the fall of 1846. Here 
 he did not meet with that measure of success that, 
 attended his efforts at home, owing principally to 
 the fact that entertainments of that character were 
 nothing new in our Eastern cities, even at that early 
 day. His mission to the United States was not a 
 failure, however, and, unlike so many literary snobs 
 who come out from "h'old H'england" in the capacity 
 
383 IKISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 of tourists, he was able to appreciate the worth and 
 progress of our Republican institutions. 
 
 At Niagara Falls he wrote a poem commencing: 
 
 Nymph of Niagara! sprite of the mist! 
 With a wild magic, my brow thou hast kiss'd; 
 I am thy slave, and my mistress art thou, 
 For thy wild kiss of magic is yet on my brow. 
 
 During his visit to America, Lover's wife died, and 
 shortly after his return to England the death of his 
 favorite daughter made his life desolate, and unfitted 
 him for a long time for any kind of work. 
 
 Subsequently, his publishers induced him to edit a 
 volume of poems containing the best selections from 
 the bards of Erin. This work he accomplished in a 
 very creditable manner. His notes and comments 
 on the different epochs of Irish poetry are to the 
 present day models of English composition. 
 
 When the Burns' Centenary Festival was held in 
 Glasgow, January, 1859, Lover was invited to repre- 
 sent the poets of Ireland there. Called on to respond 
 to "the ladies," he remarked that it was proper, meet 
 and natural that a lover should be chosen to reply to 
 such a toast. 
 
 " Rival Rhymes in Honor of Burns," are the pro- 
 ducts of his pen, though published under the nom de 
 plume of Ben Trovato. These are imitations of Father 
 Prout, Longfellow, Hood, Thackeray, Campbell and 
 
SAMUEL LOVER. 389 
 
 Lord Macaulay. In one of these imitations he felici- 
 tiously enumerates the different names by which 
 poets go in different countries : 
 
 In France they called them Troubadours, 
 
 Or Menestrels by turns; 
 The Scandinavians called them Scalds, 
 
 The Scotchmen call their's Burns. 
 
 A writer of his acquaintance having given his 
 opinion on the relative merits of Moore and the 
 author of Rory O'More, Lover replied- 
 
 ' ' I think there is more of the ' touch of nature ' in my writ- 
 ings than in his. I think, also, there is more feeling, and 
 beyond all doubt lam much more Irish." 
 
 Though writing to a Scotchman, Lover seemed to 
 have felt proud of his Irish blood, birth and feeling, 
 and he has left proof positive that he loved his race 
 and country. 
 
 As mentioned heretofore, Lover was fond of 
 entertaining his literary friends at his own residence 
 in London. Very often he gave them not only a 
 good dinner, but a little to pay their craving credi- 
 tors also. Among his guests one evening was a 
 needy friend whom Lover could not accommodate 
 with " a loan." 
 
 After supper was over, and while chatting over 
 their punch, it was agreed upon that each one should 
 write a verse embodying his individual opinion of 
 
390 IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 the host. Slips of paper were procured, and, in a 
 short time, everybody's brain and pencil went to 
 work. The nameless verses were all deposited in a 
 satchel, well shaken, then extracted one by one and 
 read in the presence of the whole company. Among 
 many flattering squibs the following was found : 
 
 What he is IVe had cause to discover, 
 
 And thus doth experience tend 
 He may be sublime as a Lover, 
 
 But very so-so as a friend. 
 
 An American writer describes the poet, painter 
 and novelist in the Atlas, published in Boston at the 
 
 time of Lover's visit to the States : 
 
 
 
 ' ' But who is that lively little gentleman whom everybody is 
 shaking hands with, and who shakes hands with eveiybody in 
 turn? He is here, there and everywhere, chattering away 
 delightfully, it would seem, and dispensing smiles and arch 
 looks in profusion. How his black eyes twinkle, and what fun 
 there is in his face ! He seems brimful and running over with 
 humor, and looks as if Care never had touched him. And then 
 listen to that Milesian brogue ! Reader, perhaps you have never 
 heard an educated Irishman talk! Well, if so, you have lost a 
 treat. That natty, dear duck of a man, as the ladies say, is 
 a universal favorite everywhere. He is at once poet, painter, 
 musician and novelist. He writes songs, sets them to music, 
 illustrates them with his pencil, and then sings them as no one 
 else can. 
 
 " Hurrah! we have Rory O'More in our midst. Sam Lover, 
 I beg to introduce you to the American public." 
 
SAMUEL LOVER. 391 
 
 About the end of 1867 close application to work 
 and old age combined began to tell on our author's 
 health, which, early in the following year rapidly 
 failed. In the seventy-second year of his age he 
 calmly passed away, on the 6th day of July, 1868, at 
 St. Helier's, Jersey, England. 
 
 On the 15th of the same month he was buried in 
 Kensal Green, London. The Marquis of Donegal in 
 command of the Irish Volunteers, of which Lover 
 was an old member, attended his funeral. 
 
 We cannot close this memorial of one who did so 
 much during his long life to vindicate his country's 
 right to the proud title of " Queen of Song " without 
 quoting the tablet to his memory placed in one of 
 the aisles of St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin. The 
 inscription runs thus: 
 
 "In memory of Samuel Lover, poet, painter, novelist and 
 composer, who in the exercise of a genius as distinguished in its 
 versatility as in its power, by his pen and pencil illustrated so 
 happily the characteristics of the peasantry of his country, that 
 his name will ever be honorably identified with Ireland." 
 
 THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK. 
 
 I'LL seek a four-leaved shamrock 
 
 In all the fairy dells, 
 And if I find the charmed leaves, 
 
 Oh, how I'll weave my spells. 
 
392 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 I would not waste my magic might 
 On diamond, pearl or gold; 
 
 For treasures tire the weary sense 
 Such triumph is but cold. 
 
 But I would play the enchanter's part 
 In casting bliss around; 
 
 Oh ! not a tear nor aching heart 
 Should in the world be found, 
 Should in the world be found. 
 
 To worth I would give honor, 
 
 I'd dry the mourner's tears; 
 And to the pallid lip recall 
 
 The smile of happier years. 
 And hearts that had been long estranged, 
 
 And friends that had grown cold, 
 Should meet again Hike parted streams, 
 
 And mingle as of old. 
 Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, 
 
 Thus scatter bliss around; 
 And not a tear nor aching heart 
 
 Should in the world be found, 
 
 Should in the world be found. 
 
 The heart that had been mourning 
 
 O'er vanished dreams of love, 
 Should see them all returning, 
 
 Like Noah's faithful dove. 
 And Hope should launch her blessed bark 
 
 On Sorrow's dark'ning sea, 
 And Mis'ry's children have an ark, 
 
 And saved from sinking be. 
 
SAMUEL LOVER. 393 
 
 Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, 
 
 Thus scatter bliss around , 
 And not a tear nor aching heart 
 
 Should in the world be found, 
 
 Should in the world be found. 
 
 RORY O'MORE. 
 
 YOUNG Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn, 
 He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the dawn; 
 He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, 
 And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. 
 " Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, 
 (Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye), 
 " With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about; 
 Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out." 
 " Oh! Jewel," says Rory, " that same is the way 
 You've thrated my heart for this many a day ; 
 And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? 
 For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 
 
 " Indeed, then," says Kathleen, " don't think of the like, 
 
 For I half gave a promise to sootherin' Mike ; 
 
 The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound " 
 
 " Faith," says Rory, " I'd rather love you than the ground." 
 
 " Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; 
 
 Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hatin' you so!" 
 
 "Oh," says Rory, " that same I'm delighted to hear, 
 
 For drames always go by conthraries, my dear; 
 
 Oh! jewel, keep dramin' that same till you die, 
 
 And bright mornin' will give dirty night the black lie ! 
 
 And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ? 
 
 Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 
 
394 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 " Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've tazed me enough, 
 Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; 
 And I've made myself drinkin' your health quite a baste, 
 So I think after that, I may talk to the priest." 
 Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm 'round her neck, 
 So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, 
 And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light, 
 And he kissed her sweet lips; don't you think he was right ? 
 "Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me no more. 
 That's eight times to-day you have kiss'd me before. " 
 " Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure, 
 For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More. 
 
 MOLLY BAWN. 
 
 OH, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining, 
 
 Lonely waiting here for you ; 
 The stars above are brightly shining, 
 
 Because they've nothing else to do. 
 The flowers late were open keeping, 
 
 To try a rival blush with you , 
 But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping, 
 
 With their rosy faces washed with dew. 
 
 Oh, Molly Bawn oh, Molly Bawn. 
 The pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear, 
 
 And the pretty stars were made to shine; 
 The pretty girls were made for the boys, dear, 
 
 And maybe you were made for mine. 
 The wicked watch-dog here is snarling, 
 
 He takes me for a thief, you see; 
 He knows I'd steal you, Molly, Darling, 
 
 And then ' ' transported " I would be. 
 
 Oh, Molly Bawn oh, Molly Bawn. 
 
SAMUEL LOVEK. 395 
 
 THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. 
 
 A BABY was sleeping, 
 
 Its mother was weeping, 
 For her husband was far on the wild, raging sea, 
 
 And the tempest was swelling, 
 
 Round the fisherman's dwelling 
 And she cried: " Dermot, darling, oh! come back to me!" 
 
 Her beads while she numbered, 
 
 The baby still slumber'd 
 And smiled in her face as she bended her knee; 
 
 "Oh! blest be that warning, 
 
 My child's sleep adorning, 
 For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. 
 
 ' ' And while they are keeping 
 
 Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 
 Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me 
 
 And say thou wouldst rather 
 
 They'd watch o'er thy father, 
 For I know that the angels are whispering with thee." 
 
 The dawn of the morning 
 
 Saw Dermot returning, 
 And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ; 
 
 And closely caressing 
 
 Her child with a blessing, 
 Said: " I knew that the angels were whispering with thee. 
 
396 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 THE FAIRY BOY. 
 
 [When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish peasant believes the 
 healthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left in its place.] 
 
 A MOTHER came, when stars were paling, 
 
 Wailing 'round a lonely spring; 
 Thus she cried while tears were falling, 
 
 Calling on the fairy King: 
 " Why with spells my child caressing, 
 
 Courting him with. fairy joy; 
 Why destroy a mother's blessing, 
 
 Wherefore steal my baby boy ? 
 
 " O'er the mountain, through the wild wood, 
 
 Where his childhood loved to play; 
 Where the flowers are freshly springing, 
 
 There I wander, day by day. 
 " There I wander, growing fonder 
 
 Of the child that made my joy; 
 On the echoes wildly calling, 
 
 To restore my fairy boy. 
 
 " But in vain my plaintive calling, 
 
 Tears are falling all in vain; 
 He now sports with fairy pleasure, 
 
 He's the treasure of their train! 
 <c Fare thee well, my child, forever, 
 
 In this world I've lost my joy; 
 But in the next we ne'er shall sever, 
 
 There I'll find my angel boy ! " 
 
REV. FRANCIS MAHONY 
 (FATHER PROUT). 
 
 sHERE are, indeed, few pseudonyms in the 
 broad extent of English literature that have 
 attained greater celebrity than that of " Father 
 Prout," the classic sage of Watergrasshill, near Blar- 
 ney. Even the renowned names of Sir Morgan 
 O 'Dougherty and Barry Cornwall pale before that 
 synonym of wit, waggery, and linguistic lore, so 
 often appended to the spiciest articles that ever 
 adorned the pages of Frazer's Magazine. 
 
 The city of St. Finbar, on the " banks of the Lee/' 
 reckons this literary genius among the number of its 
 illustrious sons. In that delightful old capital of 
 Munster he was born in the year 1804, of parents 
 who were neither rich nor poor, but could boast of a 
 long line of ancestors whose martial renown haloes 
 the vicinity of Dromore Castle, the cunabulum of the 
 sept of the O'Mahonys, in the Kingdom of Kerry. 
 " By the pleasant waters of the river Lee " Francis 
 Sylvester Mahony grew to the estate of a gossoon, and 
 went to school, where, it is said, " he picked up with 
 equal facility the Munster brogue and the rudiments 
 
 of an education." At the early age of twelve years, 
 
 (397) 
 
REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 399 
 
 before Frank had had much time for dreaming 
 among the " Groves of Blarney " or kissing the 
 " Eloquent Stone," being destined by his parents for 
 the holy priesthood, he was shipped off to the Con- 
 tinent and placed under the guidance of those great 
 masters of scholastic learning, the Jesuit Fathers, 
 who were soon compelled to recognize the brilliant 
 talents of the laughing, lively Cork boy. Under 
 these teachers, both in St. Acheul and at their semi- 
 nary in Paris, Frank was wont to say that he 
 " breathed a very atmosphere of Latinity and im- 
 bibed Greek with as much facility and gusto as an 
 Irish beggarman would buttermilk." However dis- 
 posed we may be to take the latter part of this 
 declaration cum grano salis, it is certain that those 
 erudite masters of belles-lettres seldom cultivated a 
 young mind more fertile and susceptible than was 
 that of the future author of the " Prout Papers." 
 Even before he entered the Jesuit novitiate in the 
 suburbs of Paris, where he was destined to try his 
 vocation for the Order, he could turn his ideas into 
 Latin hexameters with eloquence and ease, while he 
 spoke that classic tongue with a fluency and accent 
 which would do credit to a Roman of the Augustan 
 age. French and Italian were to him a second ver- 
 nacular, and of the Germanic language and literature 
 he was by no means ignorant. 
 
400 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Having received deaconship in the Jesuit College 
 at Rome, Rev. Francis Mahony set out for Ireland, 
 from which he had been so long absent; but on his 
 way thither he was told by no less a personage than 
 the Provincial that his superiors thought that the 
 young deacon had no vocation at least for their 
 Society and therefore would not be admitted to the 
 priesthood by them. 
 
 The Rubicon was already passed, the indelible 
 character was stamped, and, undeterred by this ad- 
 monition, Frank pursued his course to the shores of 
 his native land and gained admission to the Jesuit 
 College of Clongowes Wood, Kildare, in order to test 
 still further his vocation to labor in the ranks of 
 Loyola's sons; for hitherto he had not the remotest 
 intention of becoming a secular priest. Apropos of 
 a secular priest, the learned padre was asked by the 
 wits of Frazer's Magazine, soon after he had discon- 
 tinued his sacerdotal functions, for the definition of 
 a " circular priest," when he immediately answered: 
 
 Ens rotundum 
 
 Per universum mundum, 
 
 Nihil agens, sed omnia rapiens. 
 
 There is more of a display of learning than of truth 
 in this answer. 
 
 In September, 1830, the Roman deacon entered 
 Clongowes College and was soon promoted to the 
 
REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 401 
 
 Chair of Rhetoric by the Rev. Peter Kenny, then 
 President of that institution, and afterwards known 
 in this country as the " great Jesuit of the West." 
 Among his rhetoricians were two young men des- 
 tined in the near future to be classed among the con- 
 tributors of Frazer's and Bentley's, and to impress 
 the names of John Sheehan, " The Irish Whisky 
 Drinker," and F. S. Murphy on the literary records 
 of the period. 
 
 Soon after the Rev. Frank's inauguration at Clon- 
 gowes, the " boys got a free day, " for which a 
 coursing party was gotten up, and the master of 
 rhetoric, at the head of his disciples, started out 
 bright and early, making a bee line for Maynooth, 
 where the party took dinner. On their return, the 
 learned youths were entertained at the house of a 
 country squire, where the head of the family treated 
 them with characteristic Irish generosity, until one 
 of the guests frankly confessed that he had "no 
 remembrance of the number of songs sung, of -patri- 
 otic toasts and healths proposed, of speeches made, 
 or of decanters emptied." The party broke up late, 
 and, starting for the college, they were overtaken by 
 a terrible thunderstorm which completely unnerved 
 the majority of the youths, who, fortunately, were 
 picked up in the nick of time by some passing dray- 
 men, and landed about midnight at the gate of their 
 
 27 
 
402 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 alma mater. This luckless episode put a period to 
 the career of Rev. Frank in his native Isle, and in a 
 few days after he was in a position to exclaim, with 
 the hero of Virgil's epic, " Feror exul in altum;" 
 and he might have added, " Ad litora Hibernise nun- 
 quam rediturus," for, living, he never more beheld 
 the shores of Ireland. Arriving in the Eternal City, 
 where he formed the acquaintance of his distin- 
 guished fellow- townsman, Barry, the painter, he 
 resumed and completed his theological studies, and 
 was ordained a priest, having previously obtained an 
 exeat from Dr. Murphy, the bishop of his native 
 diocese. As a priest he returned to London, where 
 he acted as curate to the celebrated Dr. Magee; but 
 after due consideration consideration which came, 
 alas ! too late he concluded that he had entered the 
 fold without being among those of whom the High 
 Priest said, " Ego elegi vos," and thenceforth re- 
 frained from obtruding himself on the sanctuary. 
 
 The belief that the Rev. Francis Mahony returned 
 to Ireland after his ordination, and served in the 
 capacity of curate under a veritable Father Prout, P.P. 
 of Watergrasshill, whose name the young scribe 
 assumed in writing for the Cork papers, was very 
 common at one time. But the fact is, after his de- 
 parture from Clongowes in the autumn of 1830, he 
 never returned until he came to mingle his dust with 
 
REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 403 
 
 the ashes of his sires under the shadow of Shandon 
 steeple, whose " chimes " he praised in exquisite and 
 immortal verse. 
 
 Though Father Prout, forced by conscientious con- 
 siderations, retired from sacerdotal duties, he always 
 wore a dark infra genua threadbare coat, for which 
 he seemed to evince as much attachment as did his 
 fellow-poet, Mangan, for his weather-worn umbrella; 
 and from the day he was raised to the sub-deaconate 
 until a short time before his death, when he obtained 
 a dispensation from Rome, he was faithful to the 
 recitation of the divine office, and he never suffered 
 a scoff or jeer directed against the sacerdotal charac- 
 ter to escape unreproved. 
 
 But in one of his best and most serious papers, 
 "Literature and the Jesuits," he indulges in droll- 
 eries. "The Groves of Blarney," writes he, in this 
 learned paper, " do not better deserve the honor of a 
 pilgrimage than this (Clongowes) venerable institu- 
 tion. Lady Morgan wishes to explore the learned 
 cave of these literary cenobites, but the Sons of 
 Ignatius ' smelt a rat,' and acted on the principle of 
 the Irish Saint Senanus, who wrote: 
 
 ' ' ' Quid f oeminis 
 Commune est cum monachis? 
 Nee te, nee ullam aliam 
 Admittamus in insulam. ' 
 
404 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 However, it is seldom that he considers Lady 
 Morgan or her sex worthy of his steel, while he 
 always seems ready and willing to leap astride his 
 Rosinante and "tilt a spear" with Dr. Denis Lard- 
 ner, or that mortal whom Shelley styles 
 
 " The sweetest lyric of his saddest song." 
 
 " the poet of all circles and the idol of his own." 
 The learned padre handles Tommy without gloves 
 in " The Rogueries of Tom Moore/' where he bare- 
 facedly accuses the lyrist of pilfering from the Greeks 
 and Romans, and even the French, to increase the 
 volume of his song: 
 
 ' ' The best of all ways 
 To lengthen our lays 
 Is to steal a few thoughts from the French, my dear." 
 
 But the melodist's plagiarisms do not stop here, 
 nor even in India, whence he returns spoliis Orientis 
 onustum, but he must descend to the petty larceny 
 of appropriating one of Prout's own juvenile effu- 
 sions to a " Beautiful Milkmaid," who was accus- 
 tomed to cross his path when yet a tyro in Greek 
 and Latin lore. To use Prout's inimitable language, 
 " Everything was equally acceptable in the wa}^ of 
 song to Tommy, and provided I brought grist to his 
 mill, he did not care where the produce came from 
 even the wild oats and thistles of native growth 
 
REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 405 
 
 on Watergrasshill, all was good provender for his 
 Pegasus. He saw my youthful effusion to an Irish 
 milkmaid, grasped it with avidity, and I find he has 
 given it word for word, in an English shape, in his 
 ' Irish Melodies.' Let the intelligent reader judge 
 if he has done common justice to my young muse: 
 
 IN PULCHRAM LACTIFERAM. 
 
 CARMEN, AUCTORE PROUT. 
 
 Lesbia semper hinc et inde, 
 
 Oculorum tela movet; 
 Captat omnes, sed deinde, 
 
 Quis ametur nemo novit 
 Palpebrarum, Nora cara, 
 
 Lux tuarum non est foris, 
 Flainma micat ibi rara, 
 
 Sed sinceri lux amoris. 
 Nora Creina sit regina, 
 
 Vultu, gressu tarn modesto! 
 Haec, puellas inter bellas, 
 
 Jure omnium dux esto. 
 
 Lesbia vestes auro graves 
 
 Fert et gemmis, juxta normam, 
 Gratiae sed, eheu! suaves 
 
 Cine tarn reliquere form am. 
 Norae tunicam praeferres 
 
 Flante zephyro volantem, 
 Oculis et raptis erres 
 
 Contemplando ambulantem ! 
 
406 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Veste Nora, tarn decora, 
 
 Semper indui momento, 
 Semper purae sic naturae 
 
 Ibis tecta vestimento. 
 
 Lesbia mentis praefert lumen, 
 
 Quod coruscat perlibenter, 
 Sed quis optet hoc acumen 
 
 Quando acupuncta dentur? 
 Norse sinu cum recliner, 
 
 Dormio luxuriose , 
 Nil corrugat hoc pulvinar, 
 
 Nisi crispae ruga rosae. 
 Nora blanda, lux amanda 
 
 Expers usque tenebrarum, 
 Tu cor mulces per tot dulces 
 
 Dotes, fons illecebrarum ! 
 
 Compare this with Moore's " Nora Creina," and 
 you will see that it lacks nothing of the original in 
 rhyme, rhythm or euphony, and that Prout is as 
 great a master of the mechanism of verse in the 
 Latin as Moore in the English tongue. It is in this 
 paper, also, that " The Bells of Shandon " first 
 appeared, and gained for the gifted author a place 
 among the poets of his country. This beautiful 
 ballad has been printed in innumerable newspapers 
 and magazines, and consequently must be familiar 
 to every lover of literature. 
 
KEY. FRANCIS MAHONY. 
 
 THE SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 With deep affection 
 And recollection 
 I often think of 
 
 Those Shandon Bells, 
 Whose sounds so wild would, 
 In days of childhood, 
 Fling round my cradle 
 
 Their magic spells. 
 On this I ponder 
 Where'er I wander 
 And thus grow fonder, 
 
 Sweet Cork, of thee; 
 With thy bells of Shandon 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasanj; waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 I've heard bells chiming 
 Full many a clime in, 
 Tolling sublime in 
 
 Cathedral shrine, 
 While at a glibe rate 
 Brass tongues would vibrate 
 But all their music 
 
 Spoke naught like thine; 
 For memory dwelling 
 On each proud swelling 
 Of the belfry knelling, 
 
 Its bold notes free, 
 
 407 
 
408 
 
 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Made the bells of Shandon 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 I've heard bells tolling 
 Old ''Adrian's Mole "in, 
 Their thunder rolling 
 
 From the Vatican, 
 And cymbals glorious 
 Swinging uproarious 
 In the gorgeous turrets 
 
 Of Notre Dame; 
 But thy sounds were sweeter 
 Than the dome of Peter 
 Flings o'er the Tiber, 
 
 Pealing solemnly 
 O! the bells of Shandon 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 There's a bell in Moscow, 
 While on tower and kiosk, O! 
 In Saint Sophia 
 
 The Turkman gets, 
 And loud in air 
 Calls men to prayer 
 From the tapering summits 
 
 Of tall minarets. 
 
REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 409 
 
 Such empty phantom 
 I freely grant them, 
 But there's an anthem 
 
 More dear to me 
 Tis the bells of Shandon 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 The first of the Prout Papers, " An Apology for 
 Lent," appeared in Frazer's for April, 1834, and won 
 its author a place among the best and most brilliant 
 of those whose contributions made that magazine 
 one of the raciest and most readable publications in 
 the British Isles. Started by Hugh Frazer in 1830, 
 this magazine was placed under the editorial man- 
 agement of William Maginn, LL.D., a fellow towns- 
 man of Prout's, and also of the talented Daniel Mac- 
 Use, (" Alfred Croquis,") whose etchings illustrated 
 and adorned the pages of that monthly, which reck- 
 oned among its staff, Southey, Carlyle, Ainsworth, 
 Thackeray and Coleridge. Yet even among such 
 literary geniuses the editor of the " Reliques " does 
 not hesitate to say that "as a philologist, as a wit, 
 as a lyrist, as a master of persiflage, Frank Mahony 
 stepped conspicuously to the front with his earliest 
 contribution to Frazer's Magazine." In many of the 
 dead and most of the modern tongues he was facile 
 
410 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 princeps; and this fact we might illustrate by numer- 
 ous examples, if the limits of this paper allowed. 
 His polyglot edition of Mr. Milliken's " Groves of 
 Blarney" is serio-comic. The idea of clothing this 
 quaint rhapsody in an Athenian mantle or Gallican 
 surtout is in itself sufficient to test the risible facul- 
 ties of a Stoic philosopher. Imagine how the follow- 
 ing lines appear in Greek, to say nothing of the 
 Latin rendering: 
 
 There is a stone there 
 That whoever kisses, 
 Oh! he never misses 
 To grow eloquent. 
 'Tis "he may clamber 
 To a lady's chamber 
 Or become a member 
 Of parliament: 
 A clever spouter 
 He'll turn out, or 
 An out-and-outer 
 1 'To be let alone;" 
 Don't hope to hinder him, 
 Or to bewilder him; 
 Sure he's a pilgrim 
 From the Blarney Stone. 
 
 " The Athenians," says Father Prout, "-thought 
 that the ghosts of departed heroes were transferred 
 to our fortunate island, which they call, in the war 
 songs of Hermodius and Aristogiton, the ' land of 
 
REV. FRANCIS MAHONY, 411 
 
 O's and Macs;' and so the * Groves of Blarney ' have 
 been commemorated by the Greek poets many cen- 
 turies before the Christian era." When our author 
 took a place among the confreres of Frazer's Magazine, 
 he was thirty years of age, and before he had com- 
 pleted his thirty-second year, those twenty-four papers 
 which constitute the " Reliques of Father Prout " 
 had indelibly stamped his name in brilliant char- 
 acters on the roll of literary worthies. Speaking of 
 the merits of these papers, a writer in the Universal 
 Review, after much praise, winds up in the following 
 energetic language: " They are a mixture of tory- 
 ism, classicism, sarcasm and punch." Of these 
 papers, " A Plea for Pilgrimages " is perhaps in 
 "larky fun" the richest, as the one on the Jesuits is 
 certainly the most learned. In this latter paper, 
 which he illustrates with apt and ample quotations 
 from the poets, he evinces throughout his undying 
 gratitude to the sons of Loyola who have equally 
 distinguished themselves in the Republic of Letters 
 and the Monarchy of the Church. 
 
 Contrasting the neglect with which Barry the 
 painter was treated while living, and the public 
 honors paid him when dead, he aptly quotes Fon- 
 taine's " Ode to Chateaubriand," which, like Gold- 
 smith's " Bed by night and chest of drawers by 
 day," will serve here in the double capacity of illus- 
 
412 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 trating the policy above referred to, and at the same 
 time demonstrating our author's ability as a trans- 
 lator from the French : 
 
 ODE TO CHATEAUBRIAND. 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 I 'VE known a youth with genius cursed 
 I Ve marked his eye hope-lit at first , 
 Then seen his heart indignant burst , 
 
 To find its efforts scorned. 
 Soft on his pensive hour I stole, 
 And saw him draw, with anguish'd soul, 
 Glory's immortal inuster-roll, 
 
 His name should have adornM. 
 
 His fate had been, with anxious mind, 
 To chase the phantom Fame to find 
 His grasp eluded; calm, resigned, 
 
 He knows his doom he dies. 
 Then comes Renown, then Fame appears, 
 Glory proclaims the coffin hers, 
 Aye, greenest over sepulchres 
 
 Palm-tree and laurel rise. 
 
 After severing his connection with Frazer's, Father 
 Mahony returned to the Continent, where he spent 
 his remaining years, between Rome and Paris, in 
 the capacity of special correspondent to the London 
 Daily News and Globe, writing under the assumed 
 name of u Don Jeremy Savonarola." Occasionally, 
 
REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 413 
 
 during these years of absence, he contributed to the 
 Cornhill Magazine, edited by his old chum Thackeray, 
 and also to Charles Dickens' publication, Bentley's 
 Miscellany. He recited his breviary regularly and 
 though well he knew and loved "Vida" and "Virgil/' 
 it is said he knew and loved the Roman Psalter still 
 better. On account of failing sight, he received, a 
 short time before his death, a dispensation from the 
 divine officje substituting, as is customary in such 
 cases, the Rosary. 
 
 At length came warnings of the final summons 
 that summons which consigns alike to the same 
 common clay the brightest genius and the most 
 stupid dullard and Father Mahony sent to the 
 parish church of St. Roch for Abbe Rogerson, who 
 attended immediately, and found his penitent well 
 disposed to receive the last rites of the Church. As 
 there is much misunderstanding as to the dispositions 
 and circumstances in which Father Mahony died, we 
 shall quote here the words of his confessor, Abbe 
 Rogerson, referring to this disputed question. Find- 
 ing Father Mahony sitting in an arm-chair, poorly 
 clad and waiting with anxiety the coming of a fellow- 
 priest, the Abbe now writes: 
 
 ' ' Thanking me for patient and persevering attention to him 
 during his sickness, he asked pardon of me and of the whole 
 world for offenses committed against God and to the prejudice 
 
414 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 of his neighbor, and then sinking down in front of me with his 
 face buried in his two hands, and resting them on my knees, he 
 received from me, with convulsive sobs, the words of absolution. 
 His genial Irish heart was full to overflowing, * * * and 
 he was as a child wearied and worn out after a day's wander- 
 ings when it had been lost and found again, when it had hun- 
 gered and was again fed. I raised him up, took him in my 
 arms, and laid him on his bed as I would have treated such a 
 little wanderer of a child, and left him without leave-taking on 
 his part , for his heart was too full for words. " 
 
 These words are conclusive. Prejudice or incre- 
 dulity need no further proof on this head. On the 
 morning following the scene just narrated, Abbe 
 Rogerson, on entering the room of his penitent, was 
 greeted with the words, " Holy oils," and knowing 
 their import, the good priest hastened to anoint the 
 dying priest and litterateur. " Hoi} 7 oils" were the 
 last articulate sounds that passed Father Mahony's 
 lips. On the 18th of May, 1866, he tranquilly 
 breathed his last in the presence of his sister and 
 his confessor, and on the twenty-seventh day follow- 
 ing his remains arrived from Paris in his native 
 city, where his body lay in state at St. Patrick's 
 church till the morning of the 28th, when, after a 
 Mass of Requiem, Bishop Delaney pronounced the 
 final absolutions, and all that was mortal of the Rev. 
 Francis Mahony, the brilliant wit and inimitable 
 humorist, was deposited in the family vault at Old 
 
REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 415 
 
 Shandon, there to await the resuscitating summons 
 surge ad judicium. 
 
 DON IGNAOIO LOYOLA'S VIGIL 
 
 IN THE CHAPEL OF OUR LADY OF MONTSERRAT. 
 
 WHEN at thy shrine , most Holy Maid i 
 The Spaniard hung his votive blade : 
 
 And bared his helmed brow- 
 Not that he feared war's visage grim, 
 Or that the battle-field for him 
 
 Had aught to daunt, I trow: 
 
 " Glory!" he cried, " with thee I've done! 
 Fame! thy bright theatres I shun, 
 
 To tread fresh pathways now; 
 To track THY footsteps, Saviour, God! 
 With throbbing heart, with feet unshod; 
 
 Hear and record my vow. 
 
 ' Yes, Thou shalt reign! Chained to Thy throne 
 The mind of man Thy sway shall own, 
 
 And to it's conqueror bow. 
 Genius his lyre to Thee shall lift, 
 And intellect it's choicest gift 
 
 Proudly on Thee bestow." 
 
 Straight on the marble floor he knelt. 
 And in his breast exulting felt 
 
 A vivid furnace glow; 
 Forth to his task the giant sped, 
 Earth shook abroad beneath his tread, 
 
 And idols were laid low. 
 
416 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 India repaired half Europe's loss; 
 O'er a new hemisphere the Cross 
 
 Shone in the azure sky; 
 And, from the isles of far Japan 
 To the broad Andes, won o'er man 
 
 A bloodless victory ! 
 
 THE TRI-COLOR. 
 
 A PROSECUTED SONG. 
 
 COMRADES, around this humble board, 
 
 Here's to our banner's by-gone splendor! 
 There may be treason in that word 
 All Europe may the proof afford 
 All "France be the offender; 
 
 But drink the toast 
 
 That gladdens most, 
 
 Fires the young heart and cheers the old: 
 May France once more 
 
 Her tri-color 
 Blessed with new life behold ! 
 
 List to my secret. That old flag 
 
 Under my bed of straw is hidden, 
 Sacred to glory ! War-worn rag ! 
 Thee no informer thence shall drag, 
 Nor dastard spy say 'tis forbidden. 
 France, I can vouch, 
 Will from its couch, 
 The dormant symbol yet unfold, 
 And wave once more 
 
 Her tri-color 
 Through Europe, uncontrolled) 
 
REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 417 
 
 For every drop of blood we spent, 
 
 Did not that flag give value plenty ? 
 Were not our children as they went 
 Jocund, to join the warrior's tent, 
 Soldiers at ten, heroes at twenty? 
 FRANCE ! who were then 
 Your noblemen ? 
 
 Not they of parchment must and mould! 
 But they who bore 
 
 Your tri-color 
 Through Europe, uncontrolled! 
 
 Leipsic hath seen our eagle fall, 
 
 Drunk with renown, worn out with glory; 
 But, with the emblem of old Gaul 
 Crowning our standard, we'll recall 
 The brighest days of Valmy's story! 
 With terror pale 
 Shall despots quail, 
 When in their ear the tale is told, 
 Of France once more 
 Her tricolor 
 Preparing to unfold ! 
 
 Trust not the lawless ruffian chiel, 
 
 Worse than the vilest monarch he ! 
 Down with the dungeon and Bastile ! 
 But let our country never kneel 
 To that grim idol, Anarchy! 
 Strength shall appear 
 On our frontier 
 
 28 
 
418 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 France shall be Liberty's stronghold! 
 Then earth once more 
 The tri-color 
 With blessings shall behold ! 
 
 O my old flag! that liest hid, 
 
 There where my sword and musket lie 
 Banner, come forth! for tears unhid 
 Are filling fast a warrior's lid, 
 Which thou alone canst dry. 
 A soldier's grief 
 Shall find relief, 
 
 A veteran's heart shall be consoled 
 France shall once more 
 
 Her tri-color 
 Triumphantly unfold ! 
 
 PRAY FOR ME. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 [From the French of Milleroye, on his death-bed at the village of Neuilly.] 
 
 SILENT, remote, this hamlet seems 
 
 How hushed the breeze ! the eve how calm ! 
 Light through my dying chamber beams, 
 
 But hope comes not, nor healing balm. 
 Kind villagers ! God bless your shed ! 
 
 Hark ! 'tis for prayer the evening bell 
 Oh, stay! and near my dying bed, 
 
 Maiden, for me your rosary tell! 
 
REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 419 
 
 When leaves shall strew the waterfall 
 
 In the sad close of autumn drear, 
 Say, " The sick youth is freed from all 
 
 The pangs and woe he suffered here." 
 So may ye speak of him that's gone ; 
 
 But when your belfry tolls my knell, 
 Pray for the soul of that lost one 
 
 Maiden, for me your rosary tell! 
 
 Oh! pity her in sable robe, 
 
 Who to my grassy grave will come ; 
 Nor seek a hidden wound to probe 
 
 She was my love! point out my tomb; 
 Tell her my life should have been hers 
 
 'T was but a day! God's will! 'tis well; 
 But weep for her, kind villagers! 
 
 Maiden, for me your rosary tell! 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LEPANTO. 
 
 LET us sing how the boast of the Saracen host 
 
 In the gulf of Lepanto was scattered, 
 When each Knight of St. John's from his cannon of bronze, 
 
 With grape-shot their argosies battered. 
 Oh ! we taught the Turks then that of Europe the men 
 
 Could defy every infidel menace 
 And that still o'er the main float the galleys of Spain, 
 
 And the red-lion standard of Venice ! 
 
 Quick we made the foe skulk, as we blazed at each hulk, 
 
 While they left us a splinter to fire at; 
 And the rest of them fled o'er the waters, blood red 
 
 With the gore of the Ottoman pirate ; 
 
420 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 And our navy gave chase to the infidel race, 
 
 Nor allowed them a moment to rally; 
 And we forced them at length to acknowledge our strength 
 
 In the tent, in the field, in the galley! 
 
 Then our men gave a shout and the ocean throughout 
 
 Heard of Christendom's triumph with rapture. 
 Galleottes eighty$ine of the enemy's line 
 
 To oiir swift-sailing .ihips fell a capture ; 
 And I firmly maintain that the number of slain 
 
 To at least sixty thousand amounted: 
 To be sure, 'twas sad work if the life of a Turk 
 
 For a moment were worth being counted. 
 
 We may well feel olate, though I'm sorry to state, 
 
 That albeit by the myriad we've slain 'em, 
 Still, the sons of the Gross have to weep for the loss 
 
 Of six thousand who fell by the Paynim. 
 Full atonement was due for each man that they slew, 
 
 And a hecatomb paid for each hero; 
 But could all that we'd kill give a son to Castile, 
 
 Or to Malta a brave cavalhero ? 
 
 St. Mark for the slain intercedes not in vain 
 
 There's a mass at each altar in Venice; 
 And the saints we implore for the banner they bore 
 
 Are Our Lady, St. George and St. Denis. 
 For the brave, while we grieve, in our hearts they shall live, 
 
 In our mouths shall their praise be incessant; 
 And again and again we will boast of the men 
 
 Who have humbled the pride of the Crescent. 
 
REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 421 
 
 ODE TO THE WIG OF FATHER BOSCOVICH, 
 
 THE CELEBRATED ASTRONOMER. 
 
 [From the Italian of Julius Caesar Cerdara.] 
 
 WITH awe I look on that peruke, 
 
 Whore learning is a lodger, 
 And think, whene'er I see that hair 
 Which now you wear, some ladye fair 
 
 Had worn it once, dear Roger! 
 
 On empty skull most beautiful 
 Appeared, no doubt, those locks, 
 
 Once the bright grace of pretty face; 
 
 Now far more proud to be allowed 
 To deck thy " knowledge box." 
 
 Condemned to pass before the glass 
 
 Whole hours each blessed morning, 
 'Twas desperate long, with curling-tong 
 And tortoise shell, to have a belle 
 Thee frizzing and adorning. 
 
 Bright ringlets set as in a net, 
 
 To catch us men like fishes ! 
 Your every lock concealed a stock 
 Of female wares love's pensive cares, 
 
 Vain dreams, and futile wishes! 
 
 That chevelure has caused, I'm sure, 
 
 Full many a lover's quarrel; 
 Then it was decked with flowers select 
 And myrtle sprig; but now a WIG, 
 
 'Tis circled with a laurel ! 
 
422 IBISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Where fresh and new, at first they grew, 
 
 Of whims, and tricks, and fancies, 
 Those locks at best were but a nest; 
 Their being spread on learned head 
 Vastly their worth enhances. 
 
 From flowers exempt, uncouth, unkempt- 
 Matted, entangled, thick! 
 
 Mourn not the loss of curl or gloss. 
 
 Tis infra dig. THOU ART THE WIG 
 OP ROGER BOSCOVICH ! 
 
 MICHAEL ANGELO'S FAREWELL TO SCULPTURE. 
 
 I FEEL that I am growing old 
 My lamp of clay! thy flame, behold, 
 'Gins to burn low; and I've unrolled 
 
 My life's eventful volume I 
 The sea has borne my fragile bark 
 Close to the shore now rising dark, 
 O'er the subsiding wave 1 mark 
 
 This brief world's final column. 
 
 'Tis time my soul, for pensive mood, 
 
 For holy calm and solitude; 
 
 Then cease henceforward to delude 
 
 Thyself with fleeting vanity. 
 The pride of art, the sculptured thought, 
 Vain idols that my hand hath wrought 
 To place my trust in such were naught 
 
 But sheer insanity. 
 
REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 423 
 
 What can the pencil's power achieve ? 
 What can the chisel's triumph give ? 
 A name perhaps on earth may live, 
 
 And travel to posterity. 
 But can proud Rome's Pantheon tell 
 If for the soul of Raffaelle 
 His glorious obsequies could quell 
 
 The JUDGMENT-SEAT'S severity ? 
 
 Yet why should Christ's believer fear, 
 While gazing on your image dear ? 
 Image adored, maugre the sneer 
 
 Of miscreant blasphemer. 
 Are not those arms for me outspread ? 
 What mean those thorns upon thy head ? 
 And shall I, wreathed with laurels, tread 
 
 Far from thy paths, Redeemer? 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF FATHER PROUT. 
 
 BY DENIS FLORENCE M'CARTHY 
 
 IN deep dejection, but with affection, 
 
 I often think of those pleasant times, 
 In the days of Frazer, ere I touched a razor, 
 
 How I read and revelled in thy racy rhymes; 
 When in wine and wassail we to thee were vassal, 
 Of Watergrass Hill, O renowned " F. P." 
 May " The Bells of Shandon" 
 Toll blithe and bland on 
 The pleasant waters of thy memory 
 
424 IRISH POETS AND NOVELISTS: 
 
 Full many a ditty, both wise and witty, 
 
 In this social city have I heard since then 
 (With this glass before me, how the dreams come o'er me, 
 
 Of those attic suppers, and those vanished men!) 
 But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken, 
 Or hath left a token of such joy in me, 
 As " The Bells of Shandon 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the River Lee." 
 
 The songs melodious, which a new Harmodius 
 Young Ireland wreathed round its rebel sword, 
 With their deep vibrations and aspirations, 
 
 Fling a glorious madness o'er the festive board; 
 But to me seems sweeter the melodious metre 
 Of the simple lyric that we owe to thee 
 Of " The Bells of Shandon 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the River Lee. " 
 
 There's a grave that rises on thy sward, Devises, 
 Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar; 
 And a white stone flashes o'er Goldsmith's ashes 
 
 In the quiet cloister of Temple Bar; 
 So, where'er thou sleepest, with a love that's deepest 
 Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee, 
 While the " Bells of Shandon 
 Shall sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the River Lee." 
 
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