I-NRLF 
 
 lt.5 flfiV 
 
 
 I 
 
POEMS OF J. S. LE FANU 
 
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU. 
 
 Frontispiece. 
 
THE 
 
 POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES 
 
 WITH A PORTRAIT OF /. S. LE FANU 
 
 LONDON 
 DOWNEY & CO. LIMITED 
 
 12 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN 
 1896 
 
The Dramatic and Musical rights in such of these Poems 
 as are still copyright are reserved. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 BEATRICE i 
 
 DUAN NA CLAEV THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE 87 
 
 SHAMUS O'BRIEN 113 
 
 PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE 12 
 
 MOLLY, MY DEAR 135 
 
 ABHAIN AU BHUIDEIL 137 
 
 vSoNG 143 
 
 MEMORY 145 
 
 % 
 
 THE STREAM , .146 
 
 A DOGGREL IN A DORMANT-WINDOW . . 148 
 
 APPENDIX 153 
 
 386986 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 WHEN in the year 1880 I wrote a memoir of 
 Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, as a Preface to his 
 " Purcell Papers," published by Bentley and Son, 
 I was not aware that, besides being the author of 
 the Irish poems contained in that collection of Irish 
 stories and of the celebrated " Shamus O'Brien," 
 Le Fanu had anonymously contributed half-a-dozen 
 other poems to the Dublin University Magazine 
 between the years 1863 and 1866; two of which, 
 " The Legend of the Glaive," and " Beatrice," ex- 
 hibit Le Fanu's genius in a new and unexpected 
 light. They show him to have been capable of 
 dramatic and lyrical creation on a distinctly higher 
 plane than he had hitherto reached, although the 
 forms in which the drama and the legend are cast 
 are clearly experimental and not always successful. 
 The same magnetic attributes of superhuman 
 
viii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 mystery, grim or ghastly humour and diabolic horror 
 which characterize the finest of his prose fictions 
 meet us again. But these qualities are often con- 
 veyed with a finer touch, and at times with a direct- 
 ness of suggestion that is overwhelming. Again, the 
 lurid terror of these narratives is happily relieved by 
 interludes of such haunting beauty of colour and 
 sound, that we cannot but lament the lateness of 
 this discovery of his highest artistic self. Indeed, 
 our literature can ill afford to lose lyrical drama with 
 such a stamp of appalling power as is impressed 
 on " Beatrice/' or old-world idylls so full of 
 Gaelic glamour as " The Legend of the Glaive." 
 Their excellence has decided me to undertake the 
 task of collecting and editing Le Fanu's poems. 
 In its prosecution I have been encouraged and 
 aided by Mr. Brinsley Le Fanu, the author's son, 
 and his nephew, Mr. Thomas Le Fanu, and the 
 publication of this volume practically completes 
 the brilliant series of Le Fanu's works. Cordial 
 acknowledgment is moreover due to the pub- 
 lishers, Messrs. Bentley and Edward Arnold, for 
 
INTRODUCTION. ix 
 
 permission to incorporate in the introduction to 
 this volume, extracts from Joseph Sheridan Le 
 Fanu's " Purcell Papers," and William Le Fanu's 
 " Seventy Years of Irish Life." 
 
 Le Fanu, as the readers of the "Purcell Papers," 
 and more recently of " Seventy Years of Irish Life" 
 by his brother, will know, showed unusual talent 
 for verse as a boy of fifteen years of age, as witness 
 these lines, in which, although the thought is 
 evidently as secondhand as that pervading Tenny- 
 son's boyish lyrics, the medium of its expression is 
 distinctly poetical. 
 
 " There is an hour of sadness all have known, 
 
 That weighs upon the heart we scarce know why; 
 We feel unfriended, cheerless and alone, 
 
 We ask no other pleasure but to sigh, 
 And muse on days of happiness gone by : 
 
 A painful r , lonely pleasure which imparts 
 A calm regret, a deep serenity, 
 
 That soothes the rankling of misfortune's dart, 
 And kindly lends a solace even to broken hearts." 
 
 Young Le Fanu was naturally a student, and 
 made good use of his father's excellent library, 
 
x INTRODUCTION. 
 
 But though of a dreamy and evidently unmethodical 
 disposition, he had his wits about him when they 
 were wanted, as the following anecdote chronicled 
 by his brother will show : 
 
 " One thing that much depressed the Dean was 
 his habitually being late for prayers. One morn- 
 ing, breakfast was nearly over, and he had not 
 appeared. My father, holding his watch in his hand, 
 said in his severest tones, ' I ask you, Joseph, I ask 
 you seriously, is this right ? ' ' No, sir/ said Joe, 
 glancing at the watch, ' I'm sure it must be fast.' " 
 
 This was an instance of precocious wit further 
 exemplified by the brilliant piece of doggerel sent as 
 
 a valentine to a very pretty Miss K a few years 
 
 later, from which we may quote the following : 
 
 " Your frown or your smile make me Savage or Gay 
 
 In action, as well as in song ; 
 And if 'tis decreed I at length become Gray, 
 
 Express but the word, and I'm Young. 
 And if in the Church I should ever aspire 
 
 With friars and abbots to cope, 
 By a nod, if you please, you can make me a Prior, 
 
 By a word you can render me Pope. 
 
INTRODUCTION. xi 
 
 If you'd eat, I'm a Crabbe ; if you'd cut, I'm your 
 Steel, 
 
 As sharp as you'd get from the cutler ; 
 I'm your Cotton whene'er you're in want of a reel, 
 
 And your livery carry, as Butler." 
 
 He had also an early eye for a humorous 
 situation, for on another occasion an elderly 
 woman, whom he had never seen before and never 
 saw after, looked at him as if she recognized him. 
 
 WOMAN. "O then, Masther Richard, is that 
 yerself?" 
 
 JOSEPH. "Of course it is myself. Who else 
 should I be ? " 
 
 WOMAN. "Ah, then, Masther Richard, it's proud 
 I am to see you. I hardly knew you at first, 
 you're grown so much. And how is the mistress 
 and all the family ? " 
 
 JOSEPH. " All quite well, thank you. But why 
 can't you ever come to see us ? " 
 
 WOMAN. "Ah, Masther Richard, don't you 
 know I daren't face the house since that affair of 
 the spoons ? " 
 
xii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 JOSEPH. " Don't you know that is all forgotten 
 and forgiven ? " 
 
 WOMAN." If I knew that, I'd have been up to 
 the house long ago." 
 
 JOSEPH. " I'll tell you what to do ; come up to 
 dinner with the servants. You know the hour, and 
 you will be surprised at the welcome you will get." 
 
 WOMAN." Well, please God, I will, Masther 
 Richard." 
 
 The tone of " O'Donoghue," an unfinished poem 
 written at fifteen, and of his later "Irish National 
 Ballads," was due to his mother, who, as a girl, had 
 been in her heart more or less of a rebel, and she, 
 not the Dean, was the critic of his boyish verse. 
 She told him of the hard fate which in '98 befell 
 many of those she knew and admired, including 
 the brothers Sheares, and bequeathed to William 
 Le Fanu a very interesting letter written, just before 
 his execution, by John Sheares to her father, Dr. 
 Dobbin, in which he defends himself from the 
 charge of connivance at assassination for which 
 he was about to suffer death. The character of 
 
INTRODUCTION. xiii 
 
 Sheares makes it impossible to doubt the truth of 
 these his dying words. She told him much of Lord 
 Edward FitzGerald and the fight he made for his 
 life, and showed him the dagger with which he 
 defended it* This dagger she possessed herself 
 of, taking it surreptitiously from its owner, Major 
 Swan, because, in her own words, 
 
 "When I saw the dagger in the hands with 
 which Lord Edward had striven in the last fatal 
 struggle for life or death, I felt that it was not 
 rightfully his who held it. I knew the spot in the 
 front drawing-room where it was laid, and one 
 evening I seized it, unobserved, and thrust it into 
 my bosom ; I returned to the company, where I had 
 to sit for an hour. As soon as we got home I 
 rushed up to the room which my sister and I 
 occupied, and plunged it among the feathers of my 
 bed, and for upwards of twelve years I lay every 
 night upon the bed which contained my treasure. 
 
 " When I left home I took it with me, and it has 
 been my companion in all the vicissitudes of life. 
 When he missed it, Major Swan was greatly 
 
xlv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 incensed, and not without apprehension that it had 
 been taken to inflict a deadly revenge upon him, 
 but after a time his anger and uneasiness sub- 
 sided." 
 
 At the age of twenty-five Le Fanu wrote the vig- 
 orous imitation of a street ballad bearing upon this 
 subject which will be found on pages 160 and 161. 
 
 From the year 1826 to 1831 the Le Fanu family 
 were on the most friendly terms with the peasantry 
 in the neighbourhood of Abington, in the county of 
 Limerick, the Dean of Emly being also Rector of 
 Abington. To quote William Le Fanu's account: 
 u They appeared to be devoted to us ; if we had 
 been away for a month or two, on our return they 
 met us in numbers some way from our home, took 
 the horses from the carriage, and drew it to our 
 house amid deafening cheers of welcome, and at 
 night bonfires blazed on all the neighbouring hills. 
 In all their troubles and difficulties the people came 
 to my father for assistance. There was then no dis- 
 pensary nor doctor near us, and many sick folk or 
 their friends came daily to my mother for medicine 
 
INTRODUCTION. xv 
 
 and advice ; I have often seen more than twenty 
 with her of a morning. Our parish priest also was 
 a special friend of ours, a constant visitor to our 
 home. In the neighbouring parishes the same 
 kindly relations existed between the priest and the 
 flock and the Protestant clergyman. But in 1831 
 all this was suddenly and sadly changed, when the 
 Tithe War came upon us." 
 
 A cousin of the Le Fanus, the Rev. Charles 
 Coote, the Rector of the neighbouring parish of 
 Doon, gave offence at the very commencement of 
 the agitation by taking active measures to enforce 
 the payment of his tithes. Wherever he or any of 
 his family went they were received with opprobrium, 
 and as frequent visitors to the Rectory at Doon, 
 the Le Fanus soon came to be treated in a similar 
 
 way. 
 
 Returning to Abingdon after a few years' ab- 
 sence, the young Le Fanus met on a steamboat, 
 the Garry Owen, plying between Limerick and 
 Kilrush, a famous character, one Paddy O'Neill, 
 whose music and song, fiddling and playing on the 
 
xvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 bagpipes cheered the passengers on the trip. He 
 was, moreover, a poet, and sang his own songs to 
 his own accompaniments. 
 
 As showing the friendly feeling again existing 
 between Joseph and the peasants, his brother 
 relates the following : 
 
 " One summer evening my brother, who was a 
 prime favourite of his, persuaded Paddy to drive 
 across with him from Kilrush to Kilkee, and there 
 they got up a dance in Mrs. Reade's lodge, where 
 some of our family were sojourning at the time ; I 
 am sorry to say I was away at the time and missed 
 the fun. The dance music was supplied by Paddy's 
 pipes and fiddle, and between the dances he 
 sang some of his favourite songs. Next day my 
 brother wrote some doggerel verses celebrating 
 the dance . . . ." A copy was presented to 
 the highly delighted Paddy, who, for years after, 
 sang them with much applause to the passengers 
 on the Garry Owen. 
 
 But as Le Fanu had seen the best side of Irish 
 peasant life, he had also seen its worst. His 
 
INTRODUCTION. xvii 
 
 feelings as his mother's son prompted him to 
 write " Shamus O'Brien " ; his personal ex- 
 periences during the Tithe War, drew him away 
 from the people's side in politics. He was none 
 the less "a good Irishman" in the National, not 
 Nationalist, sense of that title. 
 
 Besides the poetical powers with which he was 
 endowed, in common with his connections, the 
 great Sheridan, the Dufferms, and the Hon, Mrs. 
 Norton, Sheridan Le Fanu also possessed an 
 irresistible humour and oratorical gift that, as a 
 student of Old Trinity, made him a formidable 
 rival of the best of the young debaters of his time 
 at the " College Historical," not a few of whom 
 eventually reached the highest eminence at the 
 Irish Bar, after having long enlivened and charmed 
 St. Stephen's by their wit and oratory. 
 
 Amongst his compeers he was remarkable for 
 his sudden fiery eloquence of attack, and ready and 
 rapid powers of repartee when on his defence. But 
 Le Fanu, whose understanding was elevated by a 
 
 deep love of the Classics, in which he took 
 
 a 
 
xviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 University honours, and further heightened by an 
 admirable knowledge of our own great authors, was 
 not to be tempted away by oratory from literature, 
 his first and, as it proved, his last love. 
 
 Very soon after leaving college, and just when he 
 was called to the Bar, about the year 1841, he 
 bought the Warder^ a Dublin newspaper, of which 
 he was editor, and took, what many of his best 
 friends and admirers, looking to his high prospects 
 as a barrister, regarded at the time as a fatal step 
 in his career to fame. 
 
 Just before this period, Le Fanu had taken to 
 writing humorous Irish stories, afterwards pub- 
 lished in the Dublin University Magazine, such as 
 the " Quare Gander," " Jim Sullivan's Adventure," 
 " The Ghost and the Bone-setter," &c. 
 
 These stones his brother, William Le Fanu, was 
 in the habit of repeating for his friends' amuse- 
 ment, and about the year 1837, when he was 
 about twenty-three years of age, Joseph Le Fanu 
 said to him that he thought an Irish story in verse 
 would tell well, and that if he would choose him a 
 
INTRODUCTION. xix 
 
 subject suitable for recitation, he would write him 
 one. " Write me an Irish * Young Lochinvar,' " 
 said his brother, and in a few days he handed 
 him "Phaudhrig Croohore" Anglice, " Patrick 
 Crohore." 
 
 Of course this poemhas the disadvantage, not only 
 of being written after " Young Lochinvar," but also 
 that of having been directly inspired by it, and yet, 
 although wanting in the rare and graceful finish of 
 the original, the Irish copy has, we feel, so much fire 
 and feeling, that it at least tempts us to regret that 
 Scott's poem was not written in that heart-stirring 
 Northern dialect, without which many of the noblest 
 of our British ballads would lose half their spirit. 
 
 To return to the year 1837, Mr William Le 
 Fanu, the suggester of this ballad, who was from 
 home at the time, now received daily instalments of 
 the second and more remarkable of his brother's 
 Irish poems " Shamus O'Brien " (James O'Brien) 
 learning them by heart as they reached him, and, 
 fortunately, never forgetting them, for his brother 
 
 Joseph kept no copy of the ballad, and he had him- 
 a 2 
 
xx INTRODUCTION. 
 
 self to write it out from memory ten years after, 
 when the poem appeared in the Dublin University 
 Magazine. 
 
 Few will deny that this poem contains passages 
 most faithfully, if fearfully, picturesque, and that it 
 is characterized throughout by a profound pathos 
 and an abundant humour. Can we wonder then at 
 the immense popularity with which Samuel Lover 
 recited it in the United States ? For to Lover's 
 admiration of the poem, and his addition of it to 
 his entertainment, " Shamus O'Brien" owes its 
 introduction into America, where it is now so 
 popular. Lover added some lines of his own to 
 the poem, made Shamus emigrate to the States, 
 and set up a public-house. These added lines 
 appeared in most of the published versions of the 
 ballad, but they are indifferent as verse, and 
 certainly injure the dramatic effect of the poem. 
 
 "Shamus O'Brien" is so generally attributed to 
 Lover (indeed, we remember seeing it advertised 
 for recitation on the occasion of a benefit at a 
 leading London theatre as " by Samuel Lover ") 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxi 
 
 that it is a satisfaction to be able to reproduce the 
 following letter upon the subject from Lover to 
 William Le Fanu : 
 
 "ASTOR HOUSE, 
 
 " NEW YORK, U.S. AMERICA. 
 " September 30^, 1846. 
 
 " MY DEAR LE FANU, 
 
 "In reading over your brother's poem 
 while I crossed the Atlantic, I became more and 
 more impressed with its great beauty and dramatic 
 effect, so much so that I determined to test its 
 effect in public, and have done so here, on my first 
 appearance, with the greatest success. Now, I 
 have no doubt there will be great praises of the 
 poem, and people will suppose most likely that the 
 composition is mine, and as you know (I take for 
 granted) that I would not wish to wear a borrowed 
 feather, I should be glad to give your brother's 
 name as the author, should he not object to have it 
 known ; but as his writings are often in so different 
 a tone, I would not speak without permission to do 
 so. It is true that in my programme my name is 
 attached to other pieces, and no name appended to 
 the recitation. So far, you will see I have done all 
 
xxii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I could to avoid * appropriating ' the spirit of which 
 I might have caught here with Irish aptitude ; but 
 I would like to have the means of telling all whom 
 it may concern the name of the author, to whose 
 head and heart it does so much honour. Pray, my 
 dear Le Fanu, inquire, and answer me here by next 
 packet, or as soon as convenient. My success 
 here has been quite triumphant. 
 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 "SAMUEL LOVER." 
 
 The outlaw Kirby, who was " on his keeping " (i.e. 
 hiding from the police) at the time of his family's 
 residence in County Limerick, evidently suggested 
 much of the devil-may-care character of " Shamus 
 O'Brien" to Le Fanu. With a price upon his 
 head, owing to his connection with agrarian out- 
 rages, Kirby could not resist the temptation of going 
 to a hunt or a coursing match, narrowly escaping 
 cfapture on some of these occasions. 
 
 An informer, learning that Kirby would be at his 
 mother's house one Sunday night, communicated 
 the fact to Major Yokes, of Limerick, the most 
 active magistrate in the south of Ireland, who had 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxiii 
 
 more than once been baffled in his efforts to capture 
 the outlaw. 
 
 Old Mrs. Kirby was in bed when the Major and 
 two constables drew up to the door, but, fortunately, 
 her daughter, Mary, had gone to a wake in the 
 neighbourhood, and stayed out all night. Kirby, 
 who was sitting by the fire, his pistols on a table 
 beside him, sprang to his feet, and seizing them, 
 cried, "At any rate, I'll have the life of one of them 
 before I'm taken." "Whisht ! you fool," said his 
 mother. " Here, be quick ! put on Mary's cap, 
 take your pistols with you, jump into bed, turn your 
 face to the wall, and lave the rest to me." 
 
 He was scarcely in bed when there was a loud 
 knocking at the door, which his mother, having lit 
 a rush, opened as quickly as possible. In came 
 Major Yokes and the constables. " Where is your 
 son ? " said Yokes. " Plaze God, he's far enough 
 from ye. It's welcome yez are this night," she 
 said. " And thanks to the Lord it wasn't yester- 
 day ye came, for it's me and Mary there that strove 
 to make him stop the night wid us ; but, thank God, 
 
xxiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 he was afraid." They searched the house, but did 
 not like to disturb the young girl in bed, and find- 
 ing nothing, went, sadly disappointed, back to 
 Limerick. The news of Kirby's escape soon spread 
 through the country. Vokes was much chaffed, but 
 Kirby never slept another night in his mother's 
 house. 
 
 This incident, which is summarized from his 
 brother's book, does not occur in Le Fanu's 
 " Shamus," but Mr. Jessop has seized the situation, 
 and indeed improved upon it, for his libretto of the 
 opera of " Shamus O'Brien " by Dr. Stanford, 
 which has recently been received with such 
 pronounced popularity. 
 
 It is not as easy to see how the song, " I'm a 
 young man that never yet was daunted," quoted by 
 Mr. W. Le Fanu in his " Irish Recollections," 
 suggested to his brother the plot of " Shamus 
 O'Brien," beyond that it describes, though in- 
 coherently enough, the doings of an outlaw, who 
 breaks gaol at Nenagh, and gets off scot-free after 
 knocking down the sentry. 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxv 
 
 Le Farm's literary life may be divided into three 
 distinct periods. During the first of these, and till 
 his thirtieth year, he was an Irish ballad, song, and 
 story writer, his first published story being the 
 "Adventures of Sir Robert Ardagh," which ap- 
 peared in the Dublin University Magazine in 1838. 
 
 In 1844 he was united to Miss Susan Bennett, 
 the beautiful daughter of the late George Bennett, 
 Q.C. From this time until her decease in 1858, he 
 devoted his energies almost entirely to press work, 
 making, however, his first essays in novel writing 
 during that period. The " Cock and Anchor," a 
 chronicle of old Dublin city, his first and, in the 
 opinion of competent critics, one of the best of his 
 novels, seeing the light about the year 1850. 
 " Torlogh O'Brien " was its immediate successor. 
 Their comparative want of success when first 
 published, seems to have deterred Le Fanu from 
 using his pen, except as a press writer, until 1863, 
 when the " House by the Churchyard " was 
 published, and was soon followed by " Uncle Silas," 
 and other well-known novels. Finally, Le Fanu 
 
xxvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 published in the pages of the Dublin University 
 Magazine, " Beatrice " and " The Legend of 
 the Glaive," revised editions of which form the 
 specially notable feature in this volume of his 
 poems. 
 
 Those who possessed the rare privilege of Le 
 Fanu's friendship, and only they, can form any idea 
 of the true character of the man ; for after the death 
 of his wife, to whom he was most deeply devoted, 
 he quite forsook general society, in which his fine 
 features, distinguished bearing, and charm of con- 
 versation marked him out as the beau-ideal of an 
 Irish wit and scholar of the old school. 
 
 From this society he vanished so entirely, that 
 Dublin, always ready with a nickname, dubbed him 
 "The Invisible Prince," and, indeed, he was for 
 long almost invisible, except to his family and most 
 familiar friends, unless at odd hours of the evening, 
 when he might occasionally be seen stealing, like 
 the ghost of his former self, between his newspaper 
 office and his home in Merrion Square. Sometimes, 
 too, he was to be encountered in an old, out-of-the- 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxvii 
 
 way bookshop, poring over some rare black letter 
 Astrology or Demonology. 
 
 To one of these old bookshops he was at one 
 time a pretty frequent visitor, and the bookseller 
 relates how he used to come in and ask with his 
 peculiarly pleasant voice and smile, "Any more 
 
 ghost stories for me, Mr. ?" and how, on a 
 
 fresh one being handed to him, he would seldom 
 leave the shop until he had looked it through. 
 This taste for the supernatural seems to have 
 grown upon him after his wife's death, and 
 influenced him so deeply that, had he not 
 been possessed of a deal of shrewd common 
 sense, there might have been danger of his 
 embracing some of the visionary doctrines in 
 which he was so learned. But no ! even Spiritu- 
 alism, to which not a few of his brother novelists 
 succumbed, whilst affording congenial material for 
 our artist of the superhuman to work upon, did not 
 escape his severest satire. 
 
 Shortly after completing his last novel, strange 
 to say, bearing the title "Willing to Die," Le Fanu 
 
xxviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 breathed his last at his home, No. 18, Merrion 
 Square South, at the age of fifty-nine. 
 
 " He was a man," writes the author of a brief 
 memoir of him in the Dublin University Magazine ', 
 " who thought deeply, especially on religious sub- 
 jects. To those who knew him he was very dear ; 
 they admired him for his learning, his sparkling 
 wit and pleasant conversation, and loved him for 
 his manly virtues, for his noble and generous 
 qualities, his gentleness, and his loving, affectionate 
 nature." And all who knew the man must feel how 
 deeply deserved are these simple words of sincere 
 regard for Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu. 
 
 ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES. 
 
 RED BRANCH HOUSE, 
 
 WIMBLEDON, 
 June 6th, 1896. 
 
BEATRICE. 
 
 A VERSE DRAMA IN TWO ACTS. 
 ACT I. PROLOGUE. 
 
 IN Venice, in the Sala del Maggior Consiglio, in the 
 Ducal Palace, in the series of the Doges' portraits, 
 occurs a blank space with this inscription : " Hie 
 est locus Marini Falieri, decapitati pro criminibus." 
 His half-brother Andrea Faliero, suspected but not 
 convicted of complicity in his treason, suffered the 
 confiscation of all his lands and goods, and a 
 sentence, under pain of death to remain within the 
 liberties of Venice. His noble wife died soon after, 
 in a convent ; and he, with his infant daughter, 
 repaired to the island of Torcello, where working in 
 his boat as a fisherman, he maintained himself to 
 his death. His daughter Beatrice having been, by a 
 strange adventure, lost to him in her sixteenth year, 
 he left none on earth of his name and lineage. 
 
 , Palazzo on the Canale Grande. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Sad night is o'er the city of the Isles, 
 
 And o'er a palace that amid her glooming 
 
 B 
 
2 BEATRICE. 
 
 With a radiant halo smiles, 
 While music from its windows booming 
 Floats the voice of masque and measure 
 Through distant domes and marble piles, 
 And hymns the jubilee of youth and pleasure. 
 
 Between the ripple dimly plashing, 
 
 And the dark roof looming high, 
 
 Lost in the funereal sky, 
 
 Like many-coloured jewels flashing, 
 
 Small lamps in loops and rosaries of fire, 
 
 Verdant and blood-red, trembling, turning 
 
 Yellow and blue in the deep water burning, 
 
 From dark till dawning 
 
 Illumine all the wide concave, 
 
 And plash and stain the marble and the wave. 
 
 From balconies in air, 
 
 Th' emblazoned silken awning 
 
 Flows like a lazy sail ; 
 
 And gondoliers down there, 
 
 And masks upon the stair, 
 
 Hear music swelling o'er them like a gale. 
 
BEATRICE. 3 
 
 Italian grace and gaiety, 
 And silver-bearded policy, 
 Princes and soldiers, sage and great, 
 The craft and splendour of the State, 
 Proud dames, and Adria's fair daughters, 
 The sirens of Venetian waters, 
 Beautiful as summer dreams 
 Dreamed in haunted forest glade, 
 By silvery streams in leafy gleams, 
 Floating through the awful shade. 
 
 The noble palace peopled was right meetly, 
 
 And in its wide saloons the dance went featly, 
 
 And high above the hum 
 
 Swelled the thunder and the hoot 
 
 Of theorbo and viol, of the hautboy and the 
 
 flute, 
 And the roaring of the drum. 
 
 B 2 
 
4 BEATRICE. 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 A room in the same Palazzo, apart from the 
 Masques and Dancers. 
 
 [Young JULIO CONTARINI, leaning against a 
 pillar, looks sadly through the window, his 
 arms folded and his mask in his hand.] 
 
 FRANCESCO CORNARO. Old Andrea Aldini, dead 
 at last ! 
 
 Some pretty portraits and originals, 
 
 Ha, ha ! have lost a master. Died this evening 
 
 About sunset. 
 
 JULIO. One old fool less in Venice. 
 
 FRANCESCO. Nay, he'll be missed, missed at the 
 Faro table. 
 
 Ha, ha, ha ! Missed at other places too. 
 
 Made all he could of life no fool, think I 
 
 Eat his peach to the stone ah, ha ! 
 JULIO. Play out 
 
 The game ! still, where the flowers and music 
 were, 
 
 Linger, in deepening solitude and shadow, 
 
 And see the last lamp out ? 
 
BEATRICE. 5 
 
 FRANCESCO. Per Bacco ! yes. 
 
 Bravo ! Amen, say I ! 
 JULIO. The revel o'er, 
 
 Good bye ! glide out, and home, and come no 
 more 
 
 Gape under fathoms of oblivion 
 
 Turn up no more, save for a year or two, 
 
 In young men's jibing talk ? 
 FRANCESCO. Each has his turn. 
 
 JULIO. The moon is low already. The sky, how 
 clear ; 
 
 The stars blink strangely. 
 FRANCESCO. 'Twill be sultry weather. 
 
 JULIO (looking to the sky). Up there's a mighty 
 
 allegory. 
 FRANCESCO. Ay, sir, for lovers and astrologers. 
 
 But wherefore here, signer ? The dancers miss 
 
 you. 
 
 JULIO. I miss not them. 
 FRANCESCO. Come, come, you are no cynic. 
 
 Music and tread of dancers in the ear 
 
 Come ! this is life ! 
 
6 BEATRICE. 
 
 JULIO. And life's a bitter pill. 
 
 FRANCESCO. Pish ! affectation ! come ! It is en- 
 chanting. 
 JULIO. Hear see wonder how beautiful it is ! 
 
 The sneering laughter whispered lust pas- 
 tiles 
 
 And drilled musicians wax-lights rustling 
 silks 
 
 Better the scent of wild flowers on the air, 
 
 The tune of nightingales and ring of waves, 
 ; And simple love under the kind, cold moon. 
 
 I'm tired. 
 
 FRANCESCO. And so am I. 
 
 JULIO. Of me ? I'm going. 
 
 FRANCESCO. What ! going ? 
 JULIO. Ay, Francesco, cap and mantle, 
 
 Going. 
 
 FRANCESCO. To moonlight and to simple love ? 
 JULIO. I like to be alone I choose to think. 
 FRANCESCO. I could say where ha ! But I must 
 
 not tease. 
 JULIO. Ay, amen ! To the devil if you please 
 
BEATRICE. 7 
 
 To Pluto, signor, so I go alone. 
 Farewell, Franceso. 
 FRANCESCO. Fare ye well. He's gone. 
 
 [Exit JULIO. 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 The open sea near Venice. JULIO is seen alone in 
 his gondola rowing slowly* 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Here we hover, here we trace 
 Contarini's wondrous grace, 
 As across the mirror wide, 
 Like a phantom of the tide, 
 Boat and hero silent glide, 
 Sweeping slowly, far from shore, 
 Darkest sea with flashing oar 
 In that shadow, in that beam, 
 Now behold him like a dream. 
 
 Dark locks, many a curling fold, 
 Such as young Antinous wore, 
 Touched with lights of misty gold, 
 
BEATRICE. 
 
 Softly throw their shadow o'er 
 
 A broad low brow with pride o'erfraught 
 
 Brow like ivory sculptor-wrought 
 
 Into beauteous curves of thought ; 
 
 Oval face of Moorish tint, 
 
 Features well-nigh feminine, 
 
 Chiselled with a touch so fine, 
 
 So exquisite in every line ; 
 
 Pencilled eyebrow, dreamy lash, 
 
 Carmine lip, with dark moustache, 
 
 And haughty smile of pearly glint. 
 
 Soft as night, those eyes of his, 
 Gloomed with shadows of the abyss ; 
 Eyes of darkness, large and deep, 
 Where fires unfathomed play and sleep 
 Sometimes drowsed in haughty dreams, 
 Sometimes flaming cold and wild, 
 They've with fatal purpose smiled, 
 Or darkly glowed with passion's gleams. 
 
 What their colour, what their light ? 
 Canst thou fix the hues of night, 
 
BEATRICE. 9 
 
 Or colour of the thunder cloud 
 
 Wherefrom the lightning leaps ? 
 
 Or as the wave beneath the steeps 
 
 Where midnight blackness broods and sleeps, 
 
 Into hidden moonlight dashes, 
 
 Into sudden splendour flashes 
 
 And swallowed straight in blacker night 
 
 Blinds the gazer's dazzled sight. 
 
 SCENE. 
 The Island of Torcello. Moonlight. 
 
 \The fisherman* s casement from the rocks and 
 myrtles above, overlooking the water j the 
 light of a lamp shines from it ; a flight of 
 stone steps leads down to the water from the 
 door of the building. ] 
 
 [Julio's gondola; he ceases rowing and gazes."} 
 
 JULIO. How pretty this ! the waters seek 
 So wooingly this bosky creek ; 
 How lovingly the moonlight falls 
 On leafy cliff and cottage walls ! 
 
io BEATRICE. 
 
 How all its peaks and edges glimmer, 
 And all its myrtles softly shimmer, 
 Rear'd of shadows and of light, 
 Sweet creation of the night ! 
 From the rock's projecting crest, 
 Venturous as a martlet's nest, 
 The cot o'erhangs the water's breast. 
 Nets are clinging on the wall, 
 Spars and tackle loosely lie, 
 And the patched boat high and dry, 
 Gaff and anchor rusted all ; 
 O'er the waters softly swelling, 
 This thread of light, so pure and shy, 
 Seaward slanting from on high, 
 Glimmers from a fisher's dwelling. 
 
 (The casement opens, and BEATRICE, expecting her 
 father s return, sings a hymn.} 
 
 Hush ! oh ye billows, 
 Hush ! oh thou wind, 
 Watch o'er us, angels, 
 Mary, be kind ! 
 
BEATRICE. n 
 
 Fishermen followed 
 The steps of the Lord ; 
 Oft in their fishing boats 
 Preached He the Word. 
 
 Pray for us, Pietro, 
 Pray for us, John, 
 Pray for us, Giacomo, 
 Zebedee's son. 
 
 If it be stormy, 
 Fear not the sea ; 
 Jesus upon it 
 Is walking by thee. 
 
 Billows be gentle, 
 Soft blow the wind, 
 Watch o'er us, angels, 
 Mary, be kind ! 
 
 (The voice ceases.) 
 
 JULIO. Sure never voice so wildly sweet 
 Did the ear of listener greet. 
 
12 BEATRICE. 
 
 (Sings, answering her.) 
 
 Soft be the billows, 
 Gentle the wind, 
 Angels watch over thee, 
 Mary, be kind ! 
 
 (BEATRICE comes to the casement ', and looks out 
 timidly in the light of the lamp.) 
 
 JULIO. By heaven ! she is a pretty creature ; 
 
 What a charm in every feature ! 
 BEATRICE. That is not my father's boat, 
 
 Nor Leonardo's voice. 
 JULIO (to himself). I vote 
 
 We try a stave, for Cupid's wings 
 
 Waft music as they fly. She sings ! 
 BEATRICE (singing}. If thou be'st honest, 
 
 Stretch to thy oar, 
 
 Give thee good night, friend, 
 
 Come here no more. 
 
 (She closes the casement and goes back, the lamp still 
 burning) 
 
BEATRICE. 13 
 
 JULIO. Angels and fairest saints of heaven ! 
 Elysian dream ! 
 Oh ! could I deem 
 So beautiful a face, 
 So sweet and sad a grace 
 To mortal ever given ! 
 If I be honest ? ay, amen ! 
 I will be honest, so you come again. 
 I'll watch and listen for a glance, 
 Or song and pray to Venus or to Chance. 
 I'd count the watches of the long night o'er 
 To hear or see thee, wondrous maid, once more. 
 
 (Folds his cloak about him ; and, resting his cheek 
 upon his hand, watches the casement from which 
 issues the ray of the lamp, but in vain she 
 comes not again.} 
 
 (He sings). 
 A siren once her sea-girt home 
 
 With wild notes haunting, 
 Her spell upon the winged foam 
 
 And breezes chanting, 
 
14 BEATRICE. 
 
 By moonlight, as he floated near, 
 With a sweet madness thralled the ear 
 Of a lonely gondolier. 
 
 While he listens, while he dreams, 
 
 On billows rocking, 
 Sweeter every moment seems 
 
 That siren's mocking. 
 Other song will ne'er be dear, 
 Or singer to the heart or ear 
 Of that lonely gondolier. 
 
 Shadowed by that listening isle, 
 
 By her enchanted, 
 Her charm and music still beguile 
 
 His senses haunted. 
 And if that Spirit, strangely dear, 
 Will sing no more, no more appear, 
 Dies that lonely gondolier. 
 
 (Listening within, her finger to her lip.) 
 BEATRICE. Who can be the gondolier, 
 Whom I see not, only hear ? 
 
BEATRICE. 15 
 
 What can he want, the saucy youth ? 
 " Appear " and " sing," not I, in truth. 
 
 (A pause?) 
 His voice was wondrous sweet and clear. 
 
 (As he in his boat slowly recedes, JULIO sings again.) 
 
 JULIO. A siren once her sea-girt home 
 
 With wild notes haunting, 
 Her spell upon the winged foam 
 
 And breezes chanting, 
 By moonlight, as he floated near, 
 With a sweet madness thralled the ear 
 Of a lonely gondolier. 
 
 (The notes die away in the increasing distance. 
 She listens for some time.) 
 
 BEATRICE. And so the foolish dream is done; 
 I'm glad the saucy fellow's gone. 
 
 (A pause^ 
 
 Glad, too, he lighted here by night, 
 He'll never find it in daylight. 
 Yes, glad right glad he'll come no more. 
 
16 BEATRICE. 
 
 (Listens for a longer time.) 
 And so, the foolish dream is o'er, 
 'Tis very well it was not meet, 
 (Another pause as she listens vainly. She sighs. 
 
 And the song was wondrous sweet ! 
 (Opens the casement and looks out. A pause.) 
 Quite gone I'm glad it was too bold. 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 And yet the song was passing sweet ! 
 Thou tuneful gondolier ! whom sight 
 Of mine shall ne'er behold ; 
 For thy sweet song good-night ! 
 (She closes the casement^ 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 The Island of Torcello. Sunset. The fisherman* s 
 dwelling as bejore. 
 
 [BEATRICE in the casement, pensive, leaning on her 
 handJ] 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 There she sits with sea-gray eyes 
 Gazing o'er the sea, 
 
BEATRICE. 17 
 
 In sunset dreams, beneath the skies 
 
 That dreamlike flash and flee. 
 And floats there in the fading light 
 A tender thought of yesternight ? 
 Steals there the cold air along 
 A phantom echo of that song, 
 From the region ghostly high, 
 From the land of memory, 
 Where all things live that seem to die ? 
 
 Slowly shifting into rest, 
 Like the vapours of the west, 
 In many a hue and fold, 
 Moves her saddened reverie, 
 Whose moods may thus be told. 
 
 THE REVERIE OF BEATRICE. 
 
 The sea-breeze wakens clear and cold 
 
 Over the azure wide ; 
 Before his breath in threads of gold 
 
 The ruddy ripples glide, 
 And racing for the shingle 
 
i8 BEATRICE. 
 
 Their crystal chimes commingle, 
 
 As silver bells 
 
 In Paduan dells 
 From flying fleeces tingle. 
 
 rising of the winds, O flow of the waves ! 
 And the murmurous music of cliffs and caves, 
 And the billows that travel so far to die 
 
 In foam, on the loved shore where they lie. 
 
 1 lean my cold cheek on my hand, 
 
 And as a child, with wide-set eyes, 
 
 Listens in a dim surprise 
 
 To some high story 
 
 Of grief and glory 
 
 It cannot surely understand ; 
 
 Like that awed child, 
 
 To the Adriatic music wild 
 
 I listen, in a rapture lonely, 
 
 Not understanding, guessing only, 
 
 Its golden meaning not for me ; 
 
 Letting my fancies come and go, 
 
 And fall and flow, 
 With the eternal singing sea. 
 
BEATRICE. 19 
 
 v The gondola 0/JuLio CONTARINI is seen approach- 
 ing; it glides into the wooded creek. He is 
 disguised as a minstrel, and, standing in the 
 boat, lifts his cap.) 
 JULIO. Donna in that casement high, 
 
 Wilt thou brook my minstrelsy ; 
 
 Shall I sing or may I try ? 
 BEATRICE. And what art thou ? 
 JULIO. A gondolier, 
 
 Who can make music if thou'lt hear ; 
 
 A wandering minstrel, who will sing 
 
 For a bai6cco, anything. 
 BEATRICE. (Aside] Tishe. It is that voice so clear. 
 
 (Aloud) If my father find thee here, 
 
 Stranger, it will cost thee dear. 
 JULIO. What guerdon can I pay too dear 
 
 For the chance of being here, 
 
 Such as thou art stealing near ? 
 BEATRICE. (Aside] I'll hear him sing I'm surely 
 right- 
 
 'Twas he who sang but yesternight ! 
 
 (Aloud) There's a baioccosv let's hear 
 c 2 
 
20 BEATRICE. 
 
 A song about a gondolier 
 And a sea-nymph singing near. 
 Have you none such ? 
 
 From the window she throws the coin, which he, 
 receiving, pierces with a blow of his dagger- 
 point, and kissing it, attaches it to a golden 
 chain that he draws from under his " tabarro? 
 and replaces next his heart. Beatrice laughs?) 
 
 JULIO. Her laughter sweeter is than singing- 
 How cheerily it thrills ! 
 Running music in its rills 
 How sparkling and how ringing. 
 Laugh on, laugh on, thou lovely one. 
 
 BEATRICE. And how, sir, could I choose but 
 
 smile 
 
 When I saw a coin so vile 
 Hung upon a golden chain, 
 Within a tabard to remain, 
 Like a relic or an order ! 
 Could Paliaccio aught absurder ? 
 (She laughs again.) 
 
BEATRICE. 21 
 
 JULIO. (Sings) The gift the gondolier has gained, 
 Dropped by her so laughingly, 
 A talisman until he die, 
 Worshipped with a kiss and sigh, 
 By her is yet disdained. 
 
 The folly she disdained, 
 If yet a folly, is a sign 
 Of a madness half divine 
 Thine the cause, the madness mine ! 
 
 And yet it is disdained. 
 
 The folly she disdained ! 
 Oh ! like the heart he laid it to, 
 The homely coin is metal true, 
 And like his heart is wounded through, 
 
 And like his heart is chained. 
 
 BEATRICE. Signor, thou art no gondolier 
 No golden chains such people wear. 
 Oh ! why didst thou come here ? 
 
 JULIO. As a spirit cannot sleep, 
 
 Cannot stay, but from the deep 
 
22 BEATRICE. 
 
 Rises at a spell, 
 So, enchantress, here am I. 
 BEATRICE. Ay, here thou art, but why 
 
 And who ? 
 JULIO.- Who ? it matters not to tell. 
 
 And why ? 'Tis loving thee so well 
 BEATRICE. In an old ballad I have read 
 What flatteries a gallant said, 
 And turned a maiden's foolish head. 
 JULIO. If thou knewest in my strange wooing, 
 
 In this voyage of my love, 
 How near I sail to my undoing, 
 By my Guardian Saint above ! 
 I swear thou wouldst believe my love. 
 BEATRICE. Art thou, then, that gondolier 
 Who last night was singing here ; 
 
 Tell me ere we part ? 
 JULIO. I am, indeed, that gondolier, 
 And thou that fatal siren art. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 And so the self-same way, 
 From day to day ; 
 
BEATRICE. 23 
 
 Sometimes in blithesome morn, 
 Sometimes by twilight lorn, 
 Or when the red sun braves 
 Westward the blazing sea, 
 Floating on a sky of waves 
 Or in night's lonely noon, 
 When wide in starlight quivers the lagoon 
 He, like a vision, came and went, 
 Or as sweet music surges and is spent. 
 Visits made in mystery, 
 Suddenness and secrecy, 
 For he knew his father's pride, 
 Ere Beatrice should be his bride, 
 Would lay her dead beneath the tide. 
 
 ik 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 The same^ on the next evening. JULIO and 
 BEATRICE conversing as before. 
 
 JULIO. And does thy father, all the year, 
 He and thy mother still live here ? 
 BEATRICE. My mother's dead 
 JULIO. Oh ! is she dead ? 
 
24 BEATRICE. 
 
 What has my careless folly said 
 I would not stir one grief in thee 
 For all the treasures on the sea. 
 BEATRICE. Not grief, but joy for evermore 
 
 That she to death is wed. 
 We say they die who go before, 
 
 'Tis we who stay are dead. 
 The earth her mouldering image shroudsx 
 But robed above the golden clouds, 
 She lifts adoring hands and eyes 
 To God, all glorious, good, and wise ; 
 And with the angels white and high 
 She walks the flooring of the sky 
 With crown of light, 
 In robe of white, 
 Where rolls the chant of victory. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 He knew what she knew not, the story 
 Of her lineage and its fall 
 Of Faliero's ancient glory 
 Of the Treason and the fall. 
 
BEATRICE. 25 
 
 Little dared he to her tell, 
 But she came to like him well ; 
 And from her rocky city citadel, 
 Above the waters' sway and swell, 
 To him she would the simple love 
 Of all her innocent life run o'er. 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 The same by moonlight, some nights later. 
 [BEATRICE \relating to JULIO how with her father 
 and LEONARDO, she sailed in the fishing boat to 
 visit the convent where her mother is buried.} 
 
 BEATRICE. They lifted me down from the giddy 
 
 plank 
 
 Into the boat that rose and sank : 
 The eager sails that rattle and slap 
 With thundering flap, 
 At a turn of the tiller filled at last, 
 And stooped the mast 
 As the wet rope raced through the mooring 
 
 ring. 
 On the mad waves their boat was free ; 
 
26 BEATRICE. 
 
 And like a wild-bird on the wing, 
 With sudden dive and soaring swing, 
 Still bending with the breeze away, 
 Away she swept on the laughing sea 
 'Mong waves and romping wind and spray. 
 
 Away the dancing island goes, 
 
 The sleeping headland dipt and rose, 
 
 The billows, that wild creatures be 
 
 Of the hearty and wondrous sea, 
 
 In sport and power 
 
 Welcome the boat with snort and plash 
 
 And riotous dash, 
 
 And hail of foamy shower. 
 
 High, spring high 
 
 Surge in your roaring glee 
 
 Fly, foam, fly ! 
 
 And whirling mist of the sea ! 
 
 The gusty wind be-stunned my ear 
 
 And drenched with pelting brine my hair ; 
 
 Delightful were to me 
 
 The frown and the flash of the billows free 
 
BEATRICE. 27 
 
 And the swell of the breezy sea ! 
 Laughing with tremulous fear and delight 
 Salt on my cheek and salt on my lips ; 
 With the joyful grips of my finger-tips 
 I held the oozy gunwale tight. 
 When on the shore she furled her wing 
 How beautiful was everything ! 
 Upon the mountain, sun and shade, 
 A splendour drowned in darkness made, 
 Purple and gold all blurred and barred ; 
 And fluttering wild flowers' flashing sheen, 
 Blue, argent, crimson, round were starred, 
 Like fairy fires beneath the green ; 
 Oh ! sweet was all I saw to me, 
 And all I heard an ecstasy ! 
 
 The winsome wind in all its moods, 
 The warble and the coo of woods, 
 The darkened sward and fragrant air, 
 The massy vault, the dripping well, 
 Whose darksome drops in music fell 
 Like gliding beads of murmured prayer. 
 
28 BEATRICE. 
 
 Where cypresses and long grass wave, 
 
 A young nun took me by the hand, 
 
 And passing many a grave, 
 
 With a sweet sadness softly said, 
 
 " Here, little girl, thy mother's laid ; 
 
 Oh, sister, pray that I 
 
 As well may live, as happy die." 
 
 She looked on the grave with a gentle sigh, 
 
 I often think she wished to die ; 
 
 And for these words so kind and sweet 
 
 I could have knelt and kissed her feet. 
 
 She was so young, that though a child, 
 
 I felt she clung to me ; 
 
 Sad was her face and never smiled, 
 
 Yet smiling seemed to be. 
 
 And oft when pale the evening skies, 
 And fading hues and outlines swim, 
 When stars are soft and waves grow dim, 
 That pretty lady's deep gray eyes 
 In twilight hours before me rise. 
 
 While homeward sailed our boat before 
 
BEATRICE. 29 
 
 The sweet air blowing from the shore, 
 I silent gazed the gunwale o'er 
 On all that glided from my view, 
 The darkening trees and gables gray, 
 While our boat swept moaning through 
 The waters of the bay. 
 
 While like a voice of other years 
 Returning in a dream, 
 So far, so sweet, and sad it fell 
 And moving, why I could not tell, 
 With its mysterious harmonies, 
 And faint remembered memories, 
 The fountain of my tears ; 
 From the gray belfry o'er the trees 
 Glided down the summer breeze 
 The grave note of the bell. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 And when the low farewell was spoken, 
 And when her light was gone, 
 And when the spell and dream were broken 
 And sea and sky were lone, 
 
BEATRICE. 
 
 Looking 'twixt the sea and sky 
 With desert gaze and weary sigh, 
 She holds communion with her soul. 
 And thus, alone, debateth she, 
 " A worker of mosaic, he ; 
 
 V 
 
 Or a carver fine, maybe, 
 
 Of those charmed heads and flowers, 
 
 Snakes and birds in marble bowers 
 
 I have pondered o'er for hours ? 
 
 And does he love me as he says ? 
 
 Or are his ways like others' ways ? 
 
 And will my hero come to-morrow 
 
 Will he come again ? 
 
 Oh ! why is love so like a sorrow 
 
 Hope so nearly pain ? " 
 
 All on her hand she laid her head ; 
 
 And with these thoughts her young brain rife, 
 
 Light slumber o'er her little bed 
 
 Winged away her waking care ; 
 
 But quiet days for her were fled ; 
 
 Without him sea and sky were dead ; 
 
 And before she was aware, 
 
 He grew the music of her life. 
 
BEATRICE. 31 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 A lovely Queen, her life laid down, 
 
 Lies here in splendid state ; 
 Upon her temples cold, the crown 
 
 Shows strangely fair and great. 
 Her lieges come, her lieges go, 
 
 And early pass, and late, 
 To look upon her, fallen so 
 
 From her high estate. 
 Beneath the starry tapers greeted 
 
 By the frozen eyes, 
 Where darkly in the coffin sheeted 
 
 The glimmering pallor lies 
 They see the lines of beauty rule, 
 
 Where all its glow is ended, 
 Corruption that is beautiful, 
 
 And sadness that is splendid. 
 
32 BEATRICE. 
 
 In marble beauty night and day, 
 E'en thus was Venice seen ; 
 
 Thus in the death of spirit lay 
 The Adriatic queen. 
 
 Man upon his journey hies 
 
 A chequered course and variable, 
 
 Walking through life as he is shown 
 
 By gleams through yawning darkness thrown - 
 
 By lights that fall from Paradise, 
 
 And hues that cross from hell. 
 
 Can we read his words or ways ? 
 
 Whence he acts, or whereto thinks ? 
 A vapour changing as we gaze, 
 
 An utterance of the sphinx. 
 Still the man our judgment baulks. 
 
 Good is he ? or, is he evil ? 
 At his right an Angel walks, 
 
 At his left a Devil. 
 
 Beside that beauty dead and cold, 
 With word of power and vengeful hand, 
 
BEATRICE. 33 
 
 I smite the coffin with my wand ; 
 As Death and Sin thou workest there. 
 Rise up, thou living monster old, 
 Reveal thy presence in the air ! 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 A gorgeous chamber in the Palazzo of NEROEA 
 overlooking the Canal. NEROEA alone. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 An icy fear and rapture dread 
 Ravish the heart and warn the head ! 
 This Wonder is no mortal Leman, 
 Spirit of the starry host 
 Lais Cleopatra's ghost 
 Saddest angel fairest Demon ! 
 Lo ! all human beauties, paling 
 In her lovely splendour, wane. 
 'Tis some antique dream exhaling 
 From the dead Apelles' brain ! 
 
34 BEATRICE. 
 
 Fell beauty ! Love akin to hate, 
 Indolent and coy she sate : 
 Loose her girdle o'er her hips- 
 Luxury in every wile 
 A mystic pain a loving guile, 
 The scarlet scorn of cruel lips, 
 The pearly danger of her smile 
 Her downward smile and glance oblique 
 Evil yet Madonna-like ! 
 Her girlish bosom's waving swell, 
 Her cheek's shy dimple, like the play 
 Of waters darkling in a well, 
 Lure not a lover but a prey. 
 In all her lithe limbs' modulations, 
 In the proud fulness of her throat, 
 In all her throbbing undulations, 
 The sorceries of beauty float. 
 
 Light at every stir up-throwing, 
 At every stir new marvels showing, 
 With enamelled pictures glowing, 
 Diamond-set and golden-chased, 
 
BEATRICE. 35 
 
 Heroes of Venetian story, 
 
 In loose chains of linked medallions, 
 
 Loop the lithe round of her waist 
 
 Riches floated here in galleons, 
 
 China silk and webs of gold 
 
 Round her throw an orient glory. 
 
 Green and crimson jewels burning 
 
 Glare and vanish at each turning, 
 
 Flash and vanish in each fold ; 
 
 As the fiery eyes of snakes 
 
 Glide through nooks of flowery brakes, 
 
 Glare and vanish in each fold. 
 
 She was a deep thought of the Muse, 
 Whom canvas, marble, words refuse : 
 Striving what she was to tell 
 Is but a yearning and farewell 
 And so mute as first it rose, 
 The vision brief and broken, 
 With me to darkness goes 
 Unspoken 
 
 But softly as an Orient Saint 
 D 2 
 
36 BEATRICE. 
 
 Shadowed on a holy floor, 
 
 On memory that thrill and taint 
 
 Will smile and burn for evermore. 
 
 Who enters ? Lo ! 
 
 Passing phantom-like the door 
 
 A silent Monk stands on the floor. 
 
 Is he anchorite or devil ? 
 
 High and gaunt this form of evil 
 
 Gliding noiselessly has sought her, 
 
 As a shadow on the water. 
 
 Marble-like beneath his cowl 
 
 Gleams the curve of his anguine scowl, 
 
 The broad cold eyes that greenly stare, 
 
 And ever seem to search and smile, 
 
 And find in all things something vile 
 
 Like insult and pollution scare. 
 
 She did not mean to greet him here 
 
 She rose as people rise in fear. 
 
 He stood there in his garment sooty, 
 
 She stood gleaming in her glory, 
 
BEATRICE. 37 
 
 Face to face, like Death and Beauty, 
 In a painted allegory. 
 
 (A fiause^ during which she gazes on him.) 
 
 NEROEA. How earnest thou here ? 
 SPALATRO. Your signoria's order. 
 
 NEROEA. I know thee not. 
 SPALATRO. Lady, thou know'st me not. 
 
 And yet, 
 
 Lady, thou know'st me well. 
 NEROEA. Who called thee hither ? 
 
 SPALATRO. Giacopo. 
 NEROEA. Then thou art 
 
 SPALATRO. Fra Spalatro. 
 
 NEROEA. Hast thou a sign ? 
 SPALATRO. Thy ring, signora ! Take it. 
 
 NEROEA. Ha ! yes, I've heard. Be frank with 
 
 me fear nothing. 
 SPALATRO. I fear nothing. 
 NEROEA. Nor I. Listen. My lover 
 
 My noble lover by a base girl cozened 
 SPALATRO. Alas ! Alas ! 
 
38 BEATRICE. 
 
 NEROEA. By a base hussy in 
 
 A fisher's cot 
 
 SPALATRO. Insufferably queer ! 
 
 NEROEA. My own mine always for a year and 
 
 more 
 Mine passionately till of late and now 
 
 (She pauses.) 
 
 SPALATRO. And now is cooling ? Thine and 
 
 some one else's ? 
 
 What can I do ? 
 
 NEROEA. What canst thou do ? Well, sir ? 
 SPALATRO. A philtre ? 
 NEROEA. No. 
 
 SPALATRO. Find out who is the rival ? 
 
 NEROEA. I know it. 
 SPALATRO. By my art inform thee how 
 
 'Twill end ? 
 NEROEA. Come, come. Can thine art do no 
 
 more ? 
 
 SPALATRO. Many things. 
 NEROEA. Name them. 
 
BEATRICE. 39 
 
 SPALATRO. I would first know, lady 
 
 What thou requir'st. 
 NEROEA. Why fear'st thou to say all, 
 
 If thou mean'st all ? 
 
 SPALATRO. We all are cowards, lady. 
 
 NEROEA. Cowards ? Thou sayest thou fearest 
 
 nothing. 
 SPALATRO. Nothing nothing ! never ! so long 
 
 as I am safe. 
 
 NEROEA. Safe and thy trade? 
 SPALATRO. Safe because, being wise, 
 
 I am a coward ; being coward safe. 
 NEROEA. Go on. 
 
 SPALATRO. Oh ! not before your ladyship. 
 
 NEROEA. Thy life is in my hand. 
 
 (SPALATRO smiles , arid bows very low.) 
 
 Is poison sure 
 
 As witchcraft, villain ? Ay, I've said it speak ! 
 SPALATRO. Some people think it surer that is 
 
 all. 
 
 NEROEA. Go on. 
 SPALATRO. I follow rather step by step. 
 
40 BEATRICE. 
 
 NEROEA. Go on. 
 
 SPALATRO. Nay, not before your ladyship. 
 NEROEA. What ? By St. Mark, wilt hold thy 
 peace ! Shall I 
 
 Play tempter to the Fiend, and drop again 
 
 Into his hollow ear his damned suggestion, 
 
 And wring my heart in syllables of terror, 
 
 That thou may'st smile ? Gaunt blasphemy, 
 away ! 
 
 And elsewhere, saint-like, cowl thy murderous 
 head, 
 
 And look like hell, and smile, and smell of death. 
 
 Oh God ! Why did I call thee here ? 
 (NEROEA passes through the curtain to the balcony.) 
 SPALATRO. Brava ! 
 
 Ever the same. They'd murder prettily. 
 
 For us, the danger and the mire of murder ; 
 
 For them its profit and romance. Is't so ? 
 
 Yea, by my soul ! Thou'lt put thy dainty hand 
 to't, 
 
 Beautiful Cannibal ! I know thy kind. 
 
 None of thine airs with me ! I seat me here. 
 
BEATRICE. 41 
 
 She'll come back presently in her right mind ; 
 And at my feet, a penitent henceforth 
 Sit gentle, and as she ought to be, afraid. 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 The balcony; NEROEA alone -, leaning over it. 
 Moonlight. 
 
 NEROEA. Ah ! ha, ha ha ! Thank God ! The 
 
 air, the moonlight. 
 
 Oh ! cooling floods, pour drowning o'er the fire 
 Of my hot temples, and my wild heart's bounds 
 Against this close-ribbed cage. Away, away ! 
 To die is better. Stars ! cold eyes of heaven 
 That wake and look and wake and never feel, 
 Is there no pity ? Spirits ! angels ! nothing, 
 No pity ? Is there duty, truth, or peace ? 
 Cares the great God for me or what I do ? 
 Is there peace anywhere ? tremendous God ! 
 Is time, from birth to death an agony ? 
 Were I a god, I could not deal in riddles ; 
 And with unreal lights and voices scare 
 
42 BEATRICE. 
 
 Poor creatures, starless, on a waste benighted. 
 The boatman's daughter ? the boatman's inno- 
 cent daughter ? 
 That drowned herself for love. I've thought of 
 
 her 
 
 For many a day. How beautiful she looked ! 
 And God is truth they say. She could not be 
 Unhappy, sure, and look so like an Angel ! 
 And to my aunt I said, " Preach as they may, 
 'Tis well that girl did right the girl's in 
 
 heaven ! " 
 
 My poor aunt at her prayers good, narrow soul, 
 So cold, and I God makes us differently 
 So reptile-cold some some of fire all fire ! 
 The fire the worm the worm that dieth not 
 The fire the fire. And I who said she was 
 In heaven ; that she did right lo ! here am I, 
 All lost for him ! and he all lost to me 
 And here am I, and there the dark sea sleeps. 
 Twas in the night she did it. What am I ? 
 She dared it, all alone, poor soul ! From night 
 To darker night, so easy and I dare not. 
 
BEATRICE. 43 
 
 How black it looks, that blind, remorseless mirror. 
 Oh, death ! Oh, death ! Oh anodyne appalling ! 
 Once quaffed, then cold for ever ! I'm no more 
 The brave girl I once was a coward grown. 
 I that was once so brave ; yet if I live, 
 She cannot no, she cannot. Fool ! she cannot. 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 The same gorgeous chamber in the Palazzo of 
 NEROEA, overlooking the canal. 
 
 [An hour later. Fra SPALATRO, smiling ', his hand 
 on the door at which he stands. NEROEA, pale 
 and seated near a lamp, looking sternly at 
 
 SPALATRO. Now, madam, all is clear. No oracles. 
 Each understands the other. It shall be 
 Ay it shall come to pass, not by my hand, 
 But by a sure one, lady. 
 
 NEROEA. There, there, there go ! 
 
 SPALATRO. Thou know'st young Giacopo ? 
 
 NEROEA. For God's sake, go. 
 
44 BEATRICE. 
 
 SPALATRO. Your Excellenza's most devoted friend, 
 And grateful slave, I do obey thee, lady ; 
 So fare thee well, and Fortune grant thee all 
 things. [Exit SPALATRO. 
 
 (An interval of silence ', during which she gazes 
 wildly at the door through which he departed.) 
 
 NEROEA. Tis gone and I am of the dead alone. 
 I've talked with horror. They have murdered 
 
 me. 
 
 I fear myself and walk the world a ghost. 
 Hark ! There he goes, a message on the wave, 
 And leaves me here this hour's eternal slave. 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 The Island of Torcello. Moonlight. 
 [The fisherman's cottage; a small lamp in the 
 casement. The door is open. BEATRICE leans 
 upon the door-post, her hand from within upon 
 the hatch; JULIO on the rude steps, without, his 
 hand on hers.~] 
 
BEATRICE. 45 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 As on that night they talked alone, 
 Changed, on a sudden, Julio's tone ; 
 Paled his cheek, and thrilled his tone 
 As if a changeless dark or light 
 Deathless summer mortal blight 
 The chance or fear of all his life 
 With that hour began or ended, 
 On a girlish word depended. 
 " Oh ! Beatrice, be thou my wife ! " 
 Well had the tiny shaft been shot, 
 And Cytherea's graceful son, 
 Laughing saw his work was done ; 
 And in a true love knot 
 Tied up all his arrows now, 
 Fancy-tipt and fiery-shafted, 
 Smiling too, unstrung his bow. 
 
 Through her heart the sweet voice wafted 
 O'er the frowning hills of life 
 Down the shadowy steeps of life 
 A call of unseen Fate resembled. 
 
46 BEATRICE. 
 
 Then upleapt a sudden fear, 
 
 Love for a moment chilled and trembled. 
 
 She heard the voice so sweetly rise, 
 
 Like a bugle in the skies, 
 
 And she looked in Julio's eyes 
 
 Now so awful, yet so dear. 
 
 Days of childhood glad and kind 
 Away with all their treasures fleet, 
 Like early bloom on autumn wind, 
 Whirled before her pausing feet. 
 Vanishes the cottage wall, 
 The homely stair, the roses all 
 And the old lamp's friendly spark 
 The sameness and the safety o'er her 
 And the great wide world before her 
 Flashes through the weltering dark ! 
 
 Long although the journey colder, 
 Darker than these fears of mine 
 With my hand upon thy shoulder 
 And the other locked in thine ; 
 
BEATRICE. 47 
 
 And my head upon thy breast, 
 
 All is light and all is rest ! 
 
 So she thought, and both were still, 
 
 Then she, trembling, sighed, " I will." 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 The Island of Torcello. The night following . 
 [BEATRICE is seen approaching the window of a 
 ruin Jus building^ 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 In red and golden billows 
 Across the waning skies 
 The sunset glory wafted 
 In eastern darkness dies : 
 Soft floats the gray of twilight 
 Against the rosy tide, 
 And now the hosts of heaven 
 The welkin radiant ride. 
 From Lido and Murano 
 The bells have ceased their ringing, 
 In groves of island gardens 
 
48 BEATRICE. 
 
 The nightingales are singing ; 
 The cheer of distant mariners, 
 The ripple of the sea, 
 The song upon the waters 
 Sound sweet and lonelily. 
 The Moon reginal sailing 
 Down Adria's mighty lake 
 A silver largess showers, 
 That sparkles in her wake. 
 
 Cowering from the silvery beams, 
 
 The shadowed evergreens among, 
 
 Mid leafy crags and dewy bowers, 
 
 And ruin-haunting flowers, 
 
 Grimly couchant, dreams 
 
 A building of another age 
 
 Bowed and furrowed as a sage, 
 
 And as a monster strong ; 
 
 And through their shattered sockets deep, 
 
 Flashed by a hellish furnace, 
 
 Its wicked windows wince and peep 
 
 From under their beetling cornice. 
 
BEATRICE. 49 
 
 Here in these glimmering dungeons sunk, 
 
 Dwells Spalatro, mysterious monk. 
 
 Holy, perchance, or darkly wise, 
 
 Some hinted he projected gold, 
 
 Some whispered that he poisons sold, 
 
 And up and down the gamut told 
 
 Of Magic's impious mysteries. 
 
 About this Friar 
 
 All fain had known or more or less. 
 
 But the web of thought for all was ravelled, 
 
 They could not tell, 
 
 They dared not guess 
 
 For his knowledge where he travelled, 
 
 Than the door of Heaven higher, 
 
 Or lower than the gates of Hell. 
 
 With Spalatro there dwelt another 
 
 Slave or brother, 
 
 An ugly, loathsome/wight, 
 
 All as Gehazi white 
 
 With mildew of a leprosy. 
 
 Him Spalatro, with cynic joy, 
 
 Called his Beauty and his Boy. 
 
50 BEATRICE. 
 
 He looked the child of Death and Sin ; 
 Bald were his leprous head and chin, 
 Impish the bestial peak of his ear, 
 His hanging mouth and goggle leer. 
 O'er his warped shape this hideous knave 
 Wore the red frock of a galley slave. 
 He ever busy, ever by, 
 Hung like his parted shadow nigh, 
 That could not quit him quite. 
 Glooming, hovering hither and forth, 
 Now stretched a still stain on the earth, 
 Watching him as he walked or stood, 
 Watching as he pondered or passed, 
 With the glare of a Fiend in servitude, 
 Who in his master eyes a prey, 
 Will be commanded, will obey, 
 But will suffer him never to win away, 
 Knowing well that his labour o'er, 
 His hour of lordship will come at last ; 
 Will come, and change no more. 
 In those lone, cavernous rooms, 
 Like the foul spirits in the tombs, 
 
BEATRICE. 51 
 
 By that furnace throbbing redly, 
 Among the phials sealed with clay, 
 Glasses crooked and ashes gray, 
 Pottering o'er their business deadly, 
 The two thus smouldered life away. 
 
 The glow this night 
 
 Of furnace light, 
 
 While around the moonlight reigns, 
 
 Trembles through the deep-barred panes 
 
 That stare, like the eyes of a sullen beast, 
 
 Blood-red upon the holy east. 
 
 (BEATRICE taps at the window.) 
 
 SPALATRO. What makest thou, tapping at my 
 
 window, hey ? 
 BEATRICE. Pardon, good father, I know not 
 
 where else 
 
 In all the world to look for help. 
 SPALATRO. Ay, help ! 
 
 Ay, always help. The same cry, ever help ! 
 BEATRICE. My soul is troubled, and thy holy 
 counsel 
 
 E 2 
 
52 BEATRICE. 
 
 SPALATRO. Bah ! Holy Policinello ! Penance 
 
 shrift ! 
 
 How know'st thou I'm in orders ? If I be, 
 ? Tis all one ; for I'm here by the Abbot's order, 
 Preparing medicines, not to hear confessions. 
 Trouble ! ha, ha ! We've all our troubles, Baby. 
 Go to the Carmelites. 
 
 (Shutting the window.) 
 
 BEATRICE. One moment, Father ! 
 
 SPALATRO. Moment ! I crave my meat like any 
 
 other ; 
 
 I must work for it. Life's made up of moments. 
 BEATRICE. Here, Father, are two sequins I've 
 
 no more. 
 Oh ! sir, for Jesus' love, do not refuse me. 
 
 (He takes the money.) 
 Oh ! thanks, good Signor ! 
 SPALATRO. But I can't confess thee. 
 
 BEATRICE. 'Tis no confession 'tis an omen, sir. 
 
 I'm frighted by an omen, and implore 
 SPALATRO. Omen ! what omen ! Come, come, 
 in a word. 
 
BEATRICE. 53 
 
 BEATRICE. A dream, good sir. 
 SPALATRO. Ho ! dreams ! and what's thy name ? 
 BEATRICE. Tis Beatrice, Signer. 
 SPALATRO. So, Beatrice, 
 
 Whose daughter art thou, girl, hey ? 
 BEATRICE. Leonardo's, 
 
 The fisherman's, who dwells hard by. 
 SPALATRO. I know, 
 
 I've heard (aside By heaven, 'tis she) -an 
 honest man. 
 
 His cottage hangs above the water, eh ? 
 
 A worthy fisherman as there's in Venice ; 
 
 And a steep flight of steps down to the water ; 
 
 I've seen his cottage in the creek hard by. 
 
 Is it not so ? 
 BEATRICE. Just so (Aside How friendly grows 
 
 he!) 
 
 SPALATRO. (A side Ha ! by St. Mark, I knew 
 it !) Aye, I know 
 
 Thy mother's dead ? I know and now, good 
 child, 
 
 Pray what's the matter ? 
 
54 BEATRICE. 
 
 BEATRICE. In my sleep a dream there came, 
 
 Voices talking first I heard, 
 
 Talking of a wedding coming, 
 
 Of my wedding, as I think. 
 
 " With a Doge's ring he'll wed me," 
 
 Said a voice I thought was mine ! 
 
 'Twas not I who spoke, and yet 
 
 I thought within myself 'twas mine. 
 SPALATRO. Oh ! ho ! 
 
 By Lido many a Doge's ring 
 
 Under the surges' boom and swing, 
 
 Mid the dip and wheel of the sea-bird's wing, 
 
 Full fathom five, 
 
 Deeper than maiden cares to dive, 
 
 Lies low. 
 BEATRICE. And my mother was beside me, 
 
 White and cold, and smiling sweetly, 
 
 Like an angel, smiling sweetly. 
 
 Blessed mother, white and cold, 
 
 In a nun-like robe of white 
 
 White and cold as if cold moonlight, 
 
 Warp and woof, were spun and shuttled, 
 
BEATRICE. 55 
 
 Cold the hand she stirred my hand with. 
 Up got I, and went forth with her. 
 Smiling, white and cold, she led me 
 Down the steps and into the ripple. 
 Nothing felt I of the water ; 
 Though deeper into the water, 
 Side by side, we trod together 
 Deeper and deeper beneath the water. 
 And when I waked, I felt the water 
 From my face receding cold, 
 From my face and feet receding. 
 Water over my bosom gliding, 
 Coldly from my limbs subsiding, 
 Gliding like my sleep from me, 
 And while from death I was emerging 
 From the wide and lonely sea, 
 Gentlest winds and waves were dirgeing 
 With a far, faint melody 
 A far, faint, fearful minstrelsy, 
 O'er the dead men in the sea. 
 SPALATRO. A broken dream, and fancies wild 
 Away with them, thou silly child ! 
 
56 BEATRICE. 
 
 BEATRICE. I cannot, Father 'tis in vain, 
 
 The fancies of my dream remain 
 
 Wheeling wildly in my brain, 
 
 Till my eyes are drowsed with pain. ' 
 SPALATRO. Into the sea, and down the stairs ? 
 
 Folly, child ! Go say thy prayers. 
 BEATRICE. Stay, Father ! When I try to 
 pray, 
 
 'Tis lips and beads, and only they, 
 
 Thought and spirit are far away ! 
 SPALATRO. Try it again ; the saints will soften ; 
 
 A good thing can't be tried too often ; 
 
 Ave and pater every tittle ; 
 
 Try all the saints, the big and little. 
 BEATRICE. The mighty mill-wheel over-shot 
 
 With solemn feet and bearded spray 
 
 That spins and spins for aye and aye, 
 
 Ever changing, changes not, 
 
 But with circling foam and feet 
 
 Will the self-same measure beat 
 
 Ever coming, ever going, 
 
 Parting now, now backward flowing 
 
BEATRICE. 57 
 
 So these fancies in my brain 
 
 Rise and sink, and rise again. 
 SPALATRO (calling). Boy ! how is the crucible ? 
 BOY (within). Candescent only, not yet candent. 
 SPALATRO. Let it burn a little stronger, 
 
 Now ! I cannot stay much longer. 
 
 What's the matter ? 
 
 BEATRICE. I saw the dream 'twixt night and 
 morning. 
 
 Father ! think you 'tis a warning ? 
 SPALATRO. Tell me no one hears within 
 
 Have you harboured thought of sin ? 
 BEATRICE. No. 
 SPALATRO. Come, speak truth, there's no one by ! 
 
 (Aside) Pretty parrots, how they lie ! 
 BEATRICE. No, I tell thee, Father, truly. 
 SPALATRO. Little rogue ! why so unruly ? 
 
 Think you not, I know full well 
 
 Many a thing I never tell ; 
 
 How beneath a window-sill, 
 
 Myrtle-shadowed, o'er the water, 
 
 Music, on the air of night, 
 
58 BEATRICE. 
 
 Rises like a sudden light ; 
 And the Noble, pretty daughter, 
 Ha ! the Noble whose disguise 
 Cheats, perchance, all other eyes, 
 Is seen as clear, I tell you true, 
 By me, as he is seen by you. 
 
 (Looking upwards.) 
 
 BEATRICE. No, Father! Mary ! Mother ! No ! 
 
 SPALATRO. Her eyes are innocent. A good 
 
 dream so, 
 
 Tf it means that you must die. 
 There, don't tremble, do not cry, 
 'When the good hour, clothed in fear, 
 Of endless rapture draweth near, 
 Be the bless'd one old or young, 
 A welcome clear 
 The angels hear 
 
 Thro' all the bells of heaven rung 
 'Twas your mother, come to tell 
 The tidings of that silverous bell. 
 Why sobbing, child ? 
 
BEATRICE. 59 
 
 BEATRICE. I used to see her always near, 
 
 Till the sable veil of care, 
 
 Fold by fold bedraping me, 
 
 Hid her as the cloud the star. 
 
 'Tis some evil 'tis not she. 
 
 Hell's near us always heaven so far ! 
 SPALATRO. Ay, heaven so far, yet very near 
 
 The blinking stars that now you see, 
 How far, 
 
 Measured by miles, each star 
 
 'Twixt number and immensity, 
 
 Twixt thought and madness hung they be 
 
 So many miles in space tremendous, 
 
 The living brain 
 
 Contends in vain 
 
 To seize the sum stupendous. 
 
 Yet those stars 
 
 Whose distance Time cannot repeat, 
 
 With friendly motion, 
 
 Nightly on the breast of ocean 
 
 Rock and glimmer at our feet. 
 
 (Calling] Boy ! how is it ? 
 
60 BEATRICE. 
 
 BOY (within). Well, but not ripe as yet, so please 
 you, Father. 
 
 SPALATRO (to BEATRICE again). Not all God, 
 
 nor yet all'devil ; 
 Good commanding useth evil. 
 Thy open casement courts communion 
 With the great soul of the night ; 
 And thy spirit, held in union, 
 Gave sight; 
 
 As each flower, its breath exhaling, 
 Feeds the incense of the night ; 
 So each soul its thought retailing 
 Tints and streaks its spirit-light. 
 With each holy aspiration, 
 Crossing shapes of pain and sin, 
 Sprung of midnight's inspiration, 
 On the outer air steal in. 
 Thence our dreams their meanings borrow 
 From the sounds that not in vain, 
 O'er the shoreless wastes of sorrow, 
 O'er the furnace of all pain, 
 Quiver on the sleeping brain. 
 
BEATRICE. 61 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 For with the mist pale dreams looked in, 
 Their feet were up and down upon the stair ; 
 Her sleep, as in the grave the sleep of sin, 
 Without a turning, yet with gasp and scare 
 Broke never ; for the spirits busy there, 
 Weighed on her will and made the awful air 
 Her prison till she saw the long night out, 
 And had her warning and her doubt. 
 SPALATRO. I fain would help thee only be thou 
 
 frank ; 
 Under the sacred seal behold the tonsure. 
 
 (He withdraws his cowl.) 
 Thou may'st tell all ; and in my ear 'tis locked 
 As in a kist of adamant. Besides, 
 My art hath told me much concerning thee. 
 Thou hast a lover rogue ! ah, ah ! who comes 
 Rowing his gondola, alone by night, 
 By day whene'er he knows old Leonardo 
 Is out o' the way. He loves thee well ; and thou 
 Lov'st him. See, I know all, or next to all. 
 Come, daughter, hath he talked of marriage? Say. 
 
62 BEATRICE. 
 
 BEATRICE. He hath. 
 
 SPALATRO. And thou'st consented ? 
 
 BEATRICE. Yes. 
 
 SPALATRO. 'Tis well 
 
 Tis very well ! But say the day and hour, 
 If he hath named them, and I'll tell thee straight 
 If the stars favour thee. Nay, pretty child, 
 Dost fear to tell me ? 
 
 BEATRICE. No, good Father, no- 
 
 Heaven knows I trust thee. He will come to- 
 night 
 
 At twelve o'clock, and in his gondola 
 Convey me where a priest shall wed us. 
 
 SPALATRO. Good ! 
 
 I'm glad I'm very glad. At twelve o'clock, 
 No sooner, thou art sure ? ha, well ! Alone, too 
 'Tis good. Then let me see thy hand. It is 
 A good hand, wench ! and fortunate ; the thumb 
 Is Venus, and these lines converging, good 
 And this cross line quite excellent, beside 
 To-day I made, for Julio Contarini, 
 A youth who hath a venture for to-night, 
 
BEATRICE. 63 
 
 A scheme that shows the planets all conjoin 
 To avour enterprise and love this night. 
 There, there 'tis all most fortunate ! Thy dream 
 Was but a cheat of envious spirits grudging 
 Thy coming bliss ; who'd dash the interval 
 Although th' event they cannot mar. Most like 
 The youth's impatient champs the iron time, 
 And frets and spurns against the tedious hours. 
 Thou'lt hear of him before the noon of night 
 Unless my art beguiles me. Hi thee home 
 Who knows how suddenly his hasty love 
 May bid him to thy door ? Away ! The stars 
 Befriend thee the good spirits greet thee go, 
 In fortune's name, be happy. 
 
 (He closes the window.) 
 BEATRICE. Thou good man ! 
 
 Thou good Samaritan ! thou comforter ! 
 If ever blessing followed mercy's steps, 
 May mine pursue thee. Now all's bright and clear, 
 Joy above joy ! and I am safe as though 
 A radiant angel took me by the hand. 
 
 Exit BEATRICE. 
 
64 BEATRICE. 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 The interior of Spalatro's Laboratory. The same 
 night and hour. 
 
 SPALATRO (closing the window). 
 
 She's gone damned little fool ! I cannot help it. 
 Ho, there ! Apollo ! A baiocco quick 
 From the bag there. On with thy blue tabarro 
 Thy cap and get thee down unmoor the boat 
 I join thee in a moment and we pull 
 Swift for the city. 'Tis just eight o'clock ; 
 Give me yon nail and hammer ; get thee gone. 
 
 {Exit ATTENDANT. 
 
 SPALATRO pierces the coin with the nail, changes 
 his cassock and cowl for a tunic and a cap and 
 feather, buckles on a sword, and puts on a pair 
 of shoes with roses, then with a short cloak 
 and gloves on, and quite disguised^ he follows 
 to the boat.) 
 
BEATRICE. 65 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 The Piazetta. About nine c? clock. 
 \_Saunterers, music, and laughter. Enter SPA- 
 LATROfrom the quay alone ; he pauses between 
 the pillars and draws his cloak about him.'] 
 
 SPALATRO (aside). About this time walks Giacopo 
 
 beneath 
 
 The cloister of the Doge's palace, here. 
 Disguised, he said, as an old Spanish merchant. 
 He must break tryst, and come away with me. 
 Lo, ha ! there goes a stooped and weak-kneed 
 
 sage 
 
 In ruff, Toledan hat and cloak and ay 
 How well he does it 'slife ! J Tis exquisite 
 So stiff and feeble, and so lightly jolted 
 Out of his way by gay-voiced youths, ha, ha ! 
 Thou comic Death ! I have a job for thee. 
 
 (He crosses the arcade beneath the Doge's palace.) 
 
 Good evening, Don Gonzales. 
 GIACOPO. Who ? why ? so ! 
 
 Your reverence in such a trim ! Zooks, sir, 
 
66 BEATRICE. 
 
 You make one laugh you make an old man 
 
 laugh 
 
 Until he shakes to pieces ; ha, ha, ha ! 
 SPALATRO. Come round the corner. 
 
 ( They walk to the quay.) 
 
 Never mind this business, 
 Beppo can wait. Put off this masquerade, 
 And go upon an errand will enrich thee. 
 
 GIACOPO.- What fee ? 
 
 SPALATRO. Three hundred crowns. 
 
 GIACOPO. What service ? 
 
 SPALATRO. Thou know*st Leonardo's cottage ? 
 
 GiACOPO. Ay, the place 
 
 I've tracked young Julio Contarini to 
 About that pretty wench, his daughter, eh ? 
 
 ( SPALATRO nods.) 
 
 And the same lady ? 
 SPALATRO. Ay. 
 
 GIACOPO. Oh ! come bella ! 
 
 SPALATRO. Ay, handsome as a devil ! and her 
 purse 
 
BEATRICE. 67 
 
 So long. Come this way. 
 
 (The clock of St. Marti s tolls the hour.) 
 
 Tempus fugit ! Here, 
 
 Take this (gives him the baioccd), come this way 
 nearer the water's edge. 
 
 (They talk low for a few minutes.) 
 
 GlACOPO. And who pays ? 
 
 SPALATRO. I who else ? 
 
 GIACOPO. We've had some dealings. 
 
 SPALATRO. Many. 
 
 GIACOPO. None quite'so large as this. Suppose 
 
 You should forget. 
 
 SPALATRO. Why, then you knock my brains out. 
 GlACOPO. Ha, ha ! I trust thee ; there's my hand. 
 SPALATRO. Enough. 
 
 Eleven o'clock. May fortune smile. 
 GlACQPO. 'Tis nothing. 
 
 (GlACOPO runs down the stone steps and springs 
 into his gondola, rowing swiftly round to the 
 
 opposite side of the city.) 
 F 2 
 
68 BEATRICE. 
 
 SCENE. 
 
 The Island of Torcello. Eleven tf clock. The 
 moon has set. The fisherman 's cottage. 
 
 \Thelamp burning. BEATRICE leaning from the 
 window watching; she stretches her hands 
 towards the seaJ] 
 
 BEATRICE. From the dark come forth, oh ! dearest, 
 Fold my heart unto thy breast. 
 
 Oh ! poor heart, what is't thou fearest ? 
 Why this sadness and unrest ? 
 
 'Tis a change from death to life, 
 
 From a recluse to a wife ; 
 
 With my love my life is spent, 
 
 And marriage is a sacrament. 
 
 GiACOPO (rowing at a distance unseen, sings.) 
 Lo Merlo non a testa 
 Col tal-la-ral-lal-la-ral-tal-la-ral-la, 
 La testa non a lo Merlo 
 Povero Merlo ! come fara pensar ? 
 BEATRICE. -What's that ? 
 
 Every little foolish thing 
 
BEATRICE. 69 
 
 Startles and dismays me now. 
 
 Idle fellows always sing, 
 
 As by night they homewards row, 
 
 Rowing cheer'ly home by night, 
 
 Home to kindred and to light, 
 
 Home to kindred. Where art thou ? 
 
 Mother, would I had thee nigh me, 
 
 Just to bless me as I go ; 
 
 Hold the lamp, and smiling by me, 
 
 Kiss and bless me as I go. 
 
 GIACOPO (nearer he sings.) 
 
 For jolly weddings in the town 
 Laughing bells ring up and down ! 
 With partridges and Cyprus wine, 
 And honey-cates, a feast divine ; 
 Every fellow fills his skin, 
 Till the comely bride looks in. 
 Ring on finger, merry girl ! 
 In each ear a Roman pearl ; 
 Then to loving groom and lass 
 Carol we and fill the glass. 
 
70 BEATRICE. 
 
 ('BEATRICE removes the lamp hastily from the 
 window ', and looks out in alarm. GIACOPO'S 
 gondola enters the creek. He runs it on the 
 shingle, and steps on the stairs.) 
 
 GlACOPO (beckoning^ cap in hand, towards the 
 window, softly). 
 
 Signora. 
 
 BEATRICE, Lo ! who's there ? 
 GIACOPO. A messenger. 
 
 BEATRICE.- From whom ? Oh ! speak thy news. 
 GIACOPO. From Signer Julio. 
 
 BEATRICE. In Heaven's name, man, speak out. 
 
 What hath befallen ? 
 GIACOPO. Why, nought but good, Signora. He 
 
 awaits 
 
 Thee in the chapel yonder, with a priest. 
 BEATRICE. Thank God ! 'tis well. 
 GIACOPO. 'Tis very well, Signora. 
 
 Here's a note. 
 
 (She runs to the door, and he gives it to her.) 
 BEATRICE (aside"]. How wickedly he looked ! 
 
BEATRICE. 71 
 
 Methought but for a moment ! What is it ? 
 A dream ! oh, Heaven ! yet all too good, and still 
 It seems unreal, and I'm frightened. 
 GlACOPO (calling). Come ! 
 
 BEATRICE (answering]. I come, sir, I but take my 
 
 beads and mantle. 
 (Lower) Oh, happy, happy hour ! God send us 
 
 safe! 
 
 So near, and yet as far as Paradise, 
 Until thou hold'st me, Julio. 
 GIACOPO (without). Come, lady. 
 
 BEATRICE (answering). I come, I come, sir. Only 
 this 
 
 (She places on the table, beside the lamp, a note 
 with these words ;) 
 
 " Father, dearest, to-morrow I return a bride. 
 
 Forgive, and still love Beatrice." 
 GIACOPO. Come down, 
 
 Young woman ! by the mass ; or else you come 
 
 The day after the fair ! 
 BEATRICE. Good sir, a moment. 
 
72 BEATRICE. 
 
 GiACOPO (watching her through the window). 
 She stands and prays before the crucifix 
 So let her. Quiet all. 
 
 (He listens seaward?) 
 
 Even so shall I : 
 
 We all will make our peace 'tis right some day. 
 All sinners. I'd a left this trade long since 
 If the vile skinflints had but paid fair wages. 
 But how's a proper man to live and save ? 
 There ever is a right and wrong and this 
 Is wrong, quite wrong ; though it must come 
 
 some way, 
 
 Fever or plague, to all of us, some day. 
 She's coming. 
 
 BEATRICE (descending the steps with a small 
 bundle in her hand, and her mantle about her; 
 in a low tone) 
 Ho ! Signer Gondolier. 
 
 GIACOPO. Here by the boat. 
 
 BEATRICE, How dark it is ! 
 
 GiACOPO. Ay, lady, very dark ! 
 
BEATRICE. 73 
 
 BEATRICE (looking up at the window, says 
 softly) 
 
 Farewell ! 
 GiACOPO (assisting her into the boat) 
 
 There, sit where thou art. 
 BEATRICE. Thanks, sir. 
 
 GIACOPO. No ; facing t'other way. 
 BEATRICE. Thanks, sir ; I will (changes},. 
 
 (He pushes off the boat and rows swiftly.) 
 
 How far is it, sir ? 
 GiACOPO.- Hold thy tongue. 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 How know we, girl, 
 Who's near. 'Tis Julio's order 
 BEATRICE (whispering to herself).- Yes ; so dark. 
 He's right he's always right. Beloved ! 
 
 (Silence^ during which GiACOPO rows the boat 
 swiftly for some, time.) 
 
 GIACOPO. What meanest thou 
 
 Over thy shoulder looking still at me ? 
 
74 BEATRICE. 
 
 Wilt look ahead or no ? We may run foul 
 
 O } something. Look ahead. Look out. (Aside) I 
 wish 
 
 She'd pray. (Aloud) Hast ne'er a hymn ? Come 
 now, thou may'st 
 
 Be heard. 
 
 BEATRICE. What's that an island ? 
 GiACOPO. Ay, the Lido. 
 
 BEATRICE. Voiceless and huge. How black in 
 the black air 
 
 Down, like a ship forsaken, drifting on us. 
 
 Dream-haunting Lido, pass away, oh ! quickly. 
 
 Father ! mother ! shall I the roses see 
 
 Of sweet Torcello more ? To-morrow ; yes, 
 
 To-morrow. So, good-night, and bless me, father ! 
 
 Oh ! bless your little Beatrice. 
 GIACOPO. Wilt sing ? 
 
 Wilt sing a hymn or no ? 
 BEATRICE. I will. 'Tis meet, sir, 
 
 On such a night so happy and so fearful. 
 
 May God forgive us all. Oh ! Julio, soon ; 
 
 Oh ! soon. 
 
BEATRICE. 75 
 
 (She sings.) 
 
 As in a boat, the Lord of life 
 
 Was ever king so lorn ? 
 Among the roaring billows' strife 
 
 Slumbered, travel-worn. 
 
 The twelve Apostles did despair 
 
 Amid the storm prevailing ; 
 And standing round Him, filled the air 
 
 With fearful words and wailing. 
 
 His face so sweet, and king-like form 
 
 Upraising at their cry, 
 With sign and word He stilled the storm, 
 
 And laid the billows by. 
 
 And thus He is for ever nigh, 
 
 E'en when He seems to sleep, 
 When seas are white, and black the sky, 
 
 The Lord my soul will keep. 
 (She shrieks) Jesu ! 
 
76 BEATRICE. 
 
 (A swift blow descending with the edge of the oar, 
 despatches her, and GIACOPO knots a heavy 
 stone in her dress, and throws her over the 
 gunwale.) 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 In a line both straight and long, 
 Shadowy boat and boatman dart, 
 With strokes as quivering, swift and strong 
 As ever shook a maniac's heart. 
 Ghostly boatman, fleetly soaring 
 Over Adria's inky swell, 
 Like the Stygian spectre oaring 
 Fiercely through the mirk of hell ; 
 Sudden stopped he in the dark, 
 Stood to watch and stooped to hark. 
 Thro' the black and soundless hollow, 
 Listened to a fear that spoke not, 
 Scanned pursuit that did not follow. 
 On his deed the lightning broke not, 
 To her shrieks the thunder woke not ; 
 Shadowy sea and shadowy sky 
 But her shroud and canopy. 
 
BEATRICE. 77 
 
 Nought he saw and nothing heard, 
 Not a sound and not a word, 
 Not the skimming of a bird ; 
 Breathless still, with crouching stride, 
 Scowled he, searching far and wide. 
 Black and still, above and under, 
 Nature seemed to gather thought, 
 All things giving pause to ponder 
 On the deed that he had wrought. 
 
 Till headlong through the midnight flying, 
 
 He sees a pallor flash before him, 
 
 Like a halo in the air ; 
 
 Two eyes, not dead, but ever dying, 
 
 Back in piteous wonder stare. 
 
 He headlong through the darkness flying, 
 
 With sparry pinion smites the wave. 
 
 " Bah ! I saw her in the flood 
 
 Sinking to her crystal grave, 
 
 Like a sculptured maiden lying, 
 
 Like a marble splashed with blood, 
 
 Stretched and walled beneath the flood." 
 
78 BEATRICE. 
 
 Yet haunting look and haunting cry ! 
 Tho' a moment sped you by, 
 In his tortured ear and eye 
 Ye shall live eternally. 
 
 Gliding onward, now he neared 
 The voiceless buildings of the town, 
 Rising shadows that appeared 
 Like a black navy bearing down, 
 By demons darkly steered. 
 Swart against a sky of lead 
 The outline of the houses gloom, 
 Like damned ones in the day of doom, 
 When sun and moon are dead. 
 
 As the sea doth grope its way 
 Thro' the windings of a cave, 
 Black as ink the lazy wave 
 Up that street so dark and sly 
 Lapped its way with crook and croon ; 
 While the breeze through carvings high 
 Went humming like a faint bassoon 
 Till he has backed his weary oar 
 And stepped beneath his stooping door. 
 
BEATRICE. 79 
 
 SCENE. 
 A rich chamber in the Palazzo #/" NEROEA. 
 
 [Late on the evening following, one small lamp 
 burning y JULIO having, by means of a bribe, 
 learned from GIACOPO, whom he knew to be 
 one of the Society of Venetian bravos, and who 
 craftily undertook, by means of his opportuni- 
 ties, to unravel the mystery of her fate, what 
 had befallen BEATRICE, and who had proctired 
 her death, resolving to avenge it, visits 
 NEROEA. NEROEA discovered alone. Enter 
 JULIO.] 
 
 NEROEA. Oh ! Julio (rising with extended arms). 
 JULIO. There good e'en stop there ! sit down. 
 NEROEA. Oh ! thou art pale ; thou'rt tired ? 
 JULIO. Ay, very tired. 
 
 NEROEA. -Oh ! dearest, art thou ill ? 
 JULIO. Ill ? Sick to death ! 
 
 NEROEA. Nay, noble Julio, thou art pale ! 
 JULIO. What ! pale ? 
 
 I am not pale. There's another very pale. 
 
8o BEATRICE. 
 
 No, 'tis the crimson that thine eye hath 
 
 dazzled. 
 
 NEROEA. What crimson ? 
 JULIO (waving his arms towards the draperies) 
 
 This, and this hast eyes ? and all. 
 
 Thou art a Catholic, and wouldst not have 
 
 A poor girl buried without bell or dirge. 
 
 There is no dirge like that the wind doth pipe ; 
 
 The hoarse waves wake an honest lamentation. 
 
 A captain in my galley, when a slave 
 
 Was drown'd 'twas near the Lido, where the 
 Doge 
 
 Sinks his ring deep ; they're never found again 
 
 Told me the ears of drowning men are filled 
 
 With peals of sweet bells till they hear no more. 
 
 'Tis thou art pale, 
 
 NEROEA. Pale, Julio ! I ? 
 
 JULIO. Ay, pale 
 
 As funeral flames in sunshine. I am sick. 
 
 Were I a girl, I'd choose a time 
 NEROEA. For what ? 
 
 JULIO. To die in. 
 
BEATRICE. 81 
 
 NEROEA. Die ! 
 
 JULIO. Ay, die, I'd have you drop 
 
 In your first summer, blooming, fragrant all ; 
 For with what measure thou dost mete withal, 
 To thee again it shall be measured. When 
 The first small wrinkle, like the worm of death, 
 Creeps on thy beauty then all's blasted. 
 
 Faugh ! 
 Thou shalt not stay for that. I am a beast. 
 
 NEROEA. A beast ! Ah, Julio (she laughs). 
 
 JULIO. Ay viribus editior 
 
 By strength I took thee ; thou cam'st not to me. 
 Dost love me ? 
 
 NEROEA. Love ? Oh, Julio ! love and fear, 
 So near, and yet so strange ; so loved, so 
 
 awful ! 
 
 Thy smile means even more than I can read, 
 And on thy laughter waits an echo faint 
 From a far place of pain and scorn. Alas ! 
 
 JULIO. Dost love me ? 
 
 NEROEA Julio, to death ! 
 
 t 
 JULIO. Love whom ? 
 
82 BEATRICE. 
 
 N EROE A. Oh, whom but Julio thee my Emperor ! 
 
 JULIO. My Caesar's image, wench, and super- 
 scription 
 Gold, gold ! 
 
 NEROEA. My Julio, him alone I love. 
 
 JULIO. Thou liest ! Why dost thou stare? 
 
 Thou liest ! 
 
 What is to stare at ? Yet I do believe 
 Thou lov'st thy Julio, ev'n as he loves thee. 
 Ha! 
 
 NEROEA. What's the matter ? 
 
 JULIO. Lies. 
 
 NEROEA. Oh ! cruel, cruel ! 
 
 JULIO. Cruel as cats that toy with mice ; and yet 
 I'll do the kindest deed to-night that e'er 
 The stars wept over. 
 
 NEROEA. Thou wert always kind. 
 
 JULIO. And I'll be kinder. What is life? What's 
 
 good in't ? 
 
 Love bleeding lies ; fair truth sunk, never more 
 So silver clear to speak, how many fathoms 
 Canst tell, beneath the grass-green sea ? 
 
BEATRICE. 83 
 
 NEROEA. Thou'rt ill, 
 
 Oh, Julio, very ill. 
 JULIO.- No, only kind. 
 
 There, sit you still. What's life ? 
 NEROEA. Julio, don't talk of life. 
 JULIO. Of t'other thing 
 
 Mayhap. If I cried Death, and stamped my 
 foot, 
 
 'Twould bring up what ? Ha ! seest thou 
 
 nothing ? 
 NEROEA. No. 
 
 Why wilt thou talk so wildly, Julio ? 
 JULIO. Ha ! 
 
 Thou'rt frightened, silly bird, because 'tis dark. 
 
 It will be darker. 
 
 NEROEA. Let me call for lights. 
 
 JULIO. Not now ; I'll have them by-and-by; not 
 now. 
 
 We hear, methinks, the clearer for the dark. 
 
 There was an old man cried 
 NEROEA. - When ? 
 
 JULIO. In the night 
 
 G 2 
 
84 BEATRICE. 
 
 Last night, they say- and plucked his silver 
 
 locks out, 
 
 And beat his wrinkled numb-skull with his fists, 
 And howled as shrill and hollow as the caves 
 Of ^Eolus above the cold, wild sea. 
 NEROEA. Would they brought lights ! 
 JULIO. What's that ? Ay, time enough- 
 
 Ay, lights and hands I'll warrant them by-and- 
 
 by 
 
 There's something in this room to carry out. 
 I'm sick. 
 
 NEROEA. I told thee thou wert ill, my Julio 
 JULIO. And by a serpent wounded. I've been mad. 
 Held to my lips an adder's tongue, and woo'd 
 The coils of slimy death. Thou pretty witch, 
 I am no longer mad, but know thee, cold, 
 And dead, and damned. Thou "serpent, lift thy 
 
 neck, 
 
 And hiss thy last at me. Dust shalt thou eat. 
 Thy sides are painted with the blood of her 
 Thou'st crushed and swallowed. Murderous 
 cannibal ! 
 
BEATRICE. 85 
 
 ( NEROEA cries wildly ', and rushes towards him. ) 
 
 Off, Beldame ! Judgment ho ! 
 NEROEA. Mercy ! Oh God. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Lo where the guileless blood she planned to shed ; 
 
 Her own is gliding on the polished floor ; 
 The ambition and the zealous hate are dead, 
 
 The story of the humbler true love o'er. 
 
 The last oak of a noble forest towers 
 
 The old Faliero, silent and alone, 
 Disdaining, through his brief and darkening 
 hours, 
 
 Like feebler miseries, to bend or moan. 
 
 Now by a stranger hand the lamp is placed, 
 And little Beatrice no longer lights 
 The star he steered by on the moonless nights ; 
 And when, like spirits lost, the sea-bird shrieks, 
 And when close-reefed across the roaring waste, 
 O'er breakers thundering in the shrilly winds ; 
 His starless boat his wild home darkly seeks, 
 
86 BEATRICE. 
 
 His eye at last the soulless beacon finds, 
 Thrills to his heart the ray of other years 
 Starred dimly in the dark by gathering tears. 
 
 In summer evenings, when the isles grow dim, 
 And seas float silvery round the darkened shore, 
 Never again awakes the distant hymn, 
 The laughing, sweet-voiced welcome in the door, 
 The loving prattle and the glad surprise, 
 When down the rocky stair the true step flies 
 To meet him at the gunwale by the shore. 
 That laughing, loving welcome as of yore, 
 That dancing step will wake again no more. 
 
 The cold sea breaks along the pebbles there, 
 The door is dark the stair is but a stair 
 And through the straggling roses, weeds wave 
 
 high, 
 And summer breezes wildering rock and sigh. 
 
DUAN NA CLAEV THE LEGEND OF THE 
 GLAIVE. 
 
 GAESA THE EXPLOIT IMPOSED. 
 
 Fair-shoulder, Fionula fair, 
 
 The wondrous child of Lir's old race, 
 
 Answered the hero of the raven hair, 
 Of the strong hand and princely grace, 
 The great Cathair. 
 
 " Five leagues hence doth the Norseman lie 
 
 Beneath his cromlech gray ; 
 Three miles round no soul draws nigh 
 
 From eve till dawn of day. 
 Nor friend of man, nor horse, nor hound, 
 Nought that hath life must cross that ground ; 
 And in that cromlech, side by side, 
 The dead man and his sword abide. 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 
 
 And if thou lovest me as thou swarest, 
 And for my love thou greatly darest, 
 Alone to-night thou'lt seize for me 
 The giant glaive of the King of the Sea. 
 And so, for aye, his fame and thine, 
 And, with thy fame more humbly mine 
 Like three harps sounding in the hall 
 
 To the same high story, 
 
 Of hero glory, 
 Shall ring for ever in the ears of all." 
 
 Oh ! who'd have dreamed that beneath the 
 
 grace 
 
 Of that rich and wondrous form and face, 
 In the midnight blue of her dewy eye, 
 As she dropt her gaze with a blush and sigh, 
 Alas ! could lie 
 Such cruelty ? 
 Or who could deem 
 That beauty's talisman should gleam 
 A spell to blast him, not to bless 
 From the white brow of the sorceress ? 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 89 
 
 THE HERO DEVOTES HIMSELF. 
 Her little sandalled foot before, 
 Flushed with the wildering light of beauty, 
 He kneeled and swore 
 " Lady, this moment overpays, 
 The long eclipse of future days 
 'Tis my joy to dare, to die my duty, 
 If only from my endless night 
 One lingering star ascends of light 
 Worthy of thine auroral crown, 
 And of true love's forlorn renown. 
 
 The story of my adoration, 
 Like a jewel from the sea 
 Where I am lost, returned shall be, 
 
 A relic and a decoration ; 
 And minstrels mingle, in the Feats of Fame, 
 My requiem with thy living beauty's flame." 
 
 With those words Cathair is gone, 
 And Fionula is alone. 
 
 The hero's hair blew back and showed 
 His gleaming eyes and forehead broad ; 
 
90 THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 
 
 His marble face and haughty head, 
 In resolve already dead. 
 
 On to the altar and the knife, 
 Like one renunciant of his life, 
 Who nears the sacrificial goal 
 Holding in his hand his soul 
 On, on he paces, mute, alone, 
 By moss-grown cairn and druid stone, 
 Broad fields of corn and sloping meadow, 
 And level light and lengthening shadow, 
 By purpling hills and yellow woods, 
 And blazonry of western clouds 
 That o'er pale green and amber sky, 
 Weltering in cold and crimson, lie. 
 
 Bathed in the evening's spirit tender, 
 A brown bird sitting on a spray 
 Whistles its happy soul away, 
 
 And thrills with life the silent splendour. 
 The glorious moment wanes and dies, 
 And Night rides up the Eastern skies- 
 Line behind line, and hand in hand, 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVES 91 
 
 In sable cloaked, the aerial band, 
 From pole to pole, ascending far, 
 In every helm a blinking star ; 
 While their voiceless march before 
 Like dust the white mist rises hoar. 
 
 So darkness and the dew and hush 
 
 Of night came down on slope and bush, 
 
 And every glen and blue ravine 
 
 Was filmed with smoky haze 
 And autumn's glow and russet green 
 
 Grew blurred and waste before the gaze 
 
 Of Cathair as he went by, 
 And beetling mountain, stark and high, 
 And fringe of hedgerow 'gainst the sky, 
 And wild flowers 'neath his foot that lay, 
 Together melted into gray, 
 
 Together in gloom were lost. 
 
 As through the Lisses three he crossed, 
 He knows that unseen shapes are near, 
 And tittered words are in his ear, 
 Now here and now there, 
 
92 THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 
 
 Faint harping and singing 
 
 And fairy spurs ringing, 
 And the whirr of their coursers' shrill 
 
 tremble in air, 
 
 And hovering glee and hovering pain 
 Their fearful burthen o'er his brain, 
 
 Their dreadful fancies shedding ; 
 As swiftly o'er the throbbing sward, 
 
 Through haunted vapours treading, 
 He sees loom black before his tranced regard 
 Morrua's forest, nobly wild, 
 Afar in billowy verdure piled. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SPIRITS. 
 
 Far ^behind him crept blackness and flickering 
 
 glimmer, 
 To the northward, slow mounting, the tempest was 
 
 rising, 
 
 While luridly glaring all earth lay expecting, 
 Voiceless and breathless, the yell of the tyrant. 
 
 Thus he entered the high, vacant halls of the forest : 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 93 
 
 No bird in its branches, no antler beneath them, 
 Nor boom of the beetle, nor bay of the wild dog. 
 Only, Priestess of Mystery, glides a White Shadow, 
 On her lip her forefinger and faithful he followed, 
 Well knowing his fate led him on to the combat, 
 Well knowing a mandate of silence upon him. 
 The trunks of the great trees like time-furrowed 
 
 castles, 
 Gray glimmered through darkness impassive and 
 
 awful, 
 Broad at base and at battlement broader the oak 
 
 boles. 
 
 And a canopy dusky, snake-twisted, of branches, 
 Like crypts of cathedrals, low-groined and broad- 
 pillared, 
 Stretched mazily this way and that in perspective. 
 
 As sweet the evening glories faded 
 
 O'er Fionula's bower, 
 A lone sad voice the maid upbraided, 
 
 Charming the twilight hour. 
 With parted lips and hand to ear 
 
94 THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 
 
 She hearkened to the melody 
 So wildly and so faintly clear, 
 
 At the open casement dreamily. 
 The lonely splendour of a star 
 
 Lay trembling in her virgin tear ; 
 And with the music, nigh or far, 
 
 There fell upon her heart a fear ; 
 Swift round her ivory throat she drew 
 
 The cloak that doth in crimson fold her 
 Swift round her shoulder, veined with blue, 
 
 And polished as a statue's shoulder ; 
 Then snapped the jewel in her cloak, 
 
 Still through the casement wildly gazing, 
 Like one whom spirit-songs have woke 
 
 From earthly sleep to sights amazing. 
 The Princess to the postern hied, 
 
 Upon her throat the jewel's spark ; 
 Her hand her pearly ear beside, 
 
 Her great eyes gleaming through the dark. 
 
 "From close of flower, till song of lark, 
 By mist or moonshine, hill and hollow 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 95 
 
 To follow still and still to hark 
 To hearken still and still to follow" 
 
 Strange music of an ecstasy 
 
 'Twas hardly sound, and came unsought ; 
 She smiled, and listened to the lay 
 
 As listening to a sad, sweet thought. 
 Glares in the west a stain of blood, 
 
 The Wizard North its black storm raises- 
 And eastward o'er Morrua's wood, 
 
 One great white star portentous gazes. 
 
 Sitting, spinning in the hall, 
 
 With lamps alight, the sunset after, 
 The whirring task her maids speed all 
 
 With silvery song and girlish laughter. 
 But, like an apparition, she 
 
 Is lost and lost and lost for ever, 
 And O their loving eyes shall see 
 
 The splendrous Fionula never. 
 Lost ; but her love she'll never find 
 
 Sooner the foam wreath in its wake, 
 
96 THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 
 
 O'er ocean's waste, in ocean's wind, ] 
 The flying ship shall overtake. 
 
 Through the woods of Morrua and over its root- 
 knotted flooring, 
 The hero speeds onward, alone, on his terrible 
 
 message ; 
 When faint and far-off, like the gathering gallop of 
 
 battle, 
 The hoofs of the hurricane louder and louder 
 
 come leaping, 
 There's a gasp and a silence around him a swooning 
 
 of nature, 
 And the forest trees moan, and complain with a 
 
 presage of evil. 
 And nearer, like great organ's wailing, high-piping 
 
 through thunder, 
 Subsiding, then lifted again to a thousand-tongued 
 
 tumult, 
 And crashing, and deafening and yelling in 
 
 clangorous uproar 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 97 
 
 Soaring onward, down-riding, and rending the 
 
 wreck of its conquest, 
 The tempest swoops on : all the branches before it 
 
 bend, singing 
 Like cordage in shipwreck ; before it sear leaves 
 
 fly like vapour ; 
 Before it bow down like wide armies, plumed heads 
 
 of the forest, 
 In frenzy dark-rolling, up-tossing their scathed 
 
 arms like Maenads. 
 Dizzy lightnings split this way and that in the blind 
 
 void above him ; 
 For a moment long passages reeling and wild with 
 
 the tempest, 
 In the blue map and dazzle of lightning, throb 
 
 vivid and vanish ; 
 
 And white glare the wrinkles and knots of the oak- 
 trees beside him, 
 While close overhead clap the quick mocking 
 
 palms of the Storm-Fiend. 
 
 Now southward drift the din and glare, 
 
 H 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 
 
 Like navies battling in the air ; 
 On boom the thunder and the wind, 
 And wreck and silence lie behind, 
 While whirlwind roars and lightning 
 
 burns, 
 
 The hero neither tires nor turns. 
 'Mid the wild wail of shrilly boughs, 
 And pealing thunder's claps and soughs ; 
 And by the lightning's livid tapers, 
 And the black pall of eddying vapours, 
 
 He follows the White Shadow's call, 
 That never swerved for flash or wind, 
 And never stops nor looks behind, 
 
 But leads him to his funeral. 
 
 The forest opens as he goes, 
 
 And smitten trees in groups and rows 
 
 Beneath the tempest's tune, 
 Stand in the mists of midnight drooping, 
 By moss-grown rocks fantastic stooping, 
 
 In the blue shadows of the yellow 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 99 
 
 THE CROMLECH. 
 
 And in the moonlight, bleached as bones, 
 Uprose the monumental stones, 
 Meeting the hero suddenly 
 With a blind stare 
 Dull as despair. 
 
 The formless boulder that blocked the door 
 Like a robed monster broad and hoar 
 He twice essayed to earth to throw 
 With quivering sinew, bursting vein, 
 
 With grinding teeth and scowling brow. 
 From his dark forehead with the strain, 
 Beads start and drop like thunder-rain ; 
 And in the breathless tug and reek, 
 All his lithe body seems to creak. 
 
 The mighty stone to earth is hurled, 
 Black gapes the violated door, 
 Through which he rushes to rise no more 
 Into this fair, sad world. 
 
 H 2 
 
ioo THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 
 
 THORGIL AND HIS GLAIVE. 
 Where high the vaults of midnight gape 
 In the black waste, a blacker shape 
 And near against a distant dark, 
 He could the giant Norseman mark 
 A black tarn's waters sitting by ; 
 Beneath a brazen, stormy sky, 
 That never moves but dead doth lie, 
 And on the rock could darkly see 
 The mighty glaive beside his knee. 
 The hero's front and upreared form, 
 Loomed dim as headlands in a storm. 
 No more will flicker passion's meteors 
 O'er the dead shadow of his features, 
 Fixed in the apathy eternal 
 That lulls him in repose infernal. 
 The cornice of his knotted brows 
 A direful shadow downward throws 
 Upon his eyeballs dull and stark, 
 Like white stones glimmering in the dark ; 
 And, carved in their forlorn despair, 
 His glooming features changeless wear 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 101 
 
 Gigantic sorrow and disdain, 
 
 The iron sneer of endless pain. 
 
 From the lips of the awful phantom woke 
 
 A voice, and thus, by the tarn, it spoke : 
 
 " Son of Malmorra, what canst thou gather 
 here ? " 
 
 The spell was broke that struck him dumb, 
 And held his soul aghast and numb, 
 
 With a wild throb, 
 
 A laugh, and sob, 
 The frenzied courage came again 
 Of Cathair, the Prince of men. 
 With planted foot, with arm extended, 
 And his ferine gaze distended, 
 Back flowed the cataract of his hair 
 From the gleaming face of the great Cathair ; 
 And he shouted lion-voiced, 
 Like one defying who rejoiced : 
 " Thorgil, king of the wintry sea, 
 Of the nine-gapped sword and minstrel glee, 
 Of mountains dark and craggy valleys, 
 
102 THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 
 
 Of the golden cup and the hundred galleys, 
 
 Malmorra's son, myself, have sworn 
 
 To take thy sword or ne'er return ! " 
 
 The Norseman's phantom, black and dread, 
 
 Turned not, lifted not his head. 
 
 Mute, without anger or alarm, 
 
 As shadow stretches, stretched his arm ; 
 
 Upon the hilt his hand he laid, 
 
 The metal dull one bell-note made 
 
 One cold flash from the awakened blade 
 
 Flecked the waste sky with flying glare, 
 
 Like northern lights 
 
 That sport o' nights, 
 Shuddering across the empty air. 
 High overhead, where died the light 
 Through the wide caverns of the night, 
 The imprisoned echoes, whispering first, 
 Afar in moaning thunders burst. 
 Mortal armour nought avails 
 Shearing the air, the enchanted blade 
 Of Thorgil a strange music made ; 
 The brazen concave of the sky 
 Returns its shrilly sigh, 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 103 
 
 Above around along 
 With the roaring shiver of a gong. 
 Black night around him floating, and booming of 
 
 the sea 
 Have borne away the hero on the spirit-maelstrom 
 
 free; 
 
 The shadows round him deepen in his soft and 
 dreamless flight 
 
 The pause of a new birth, 
 A forgetting of the earth, 
 Its action and its thinking, 
 A mighty whirl and sinking, 
 A lapsing into Lethe, and the ocean caves of night. 
 
 TIR NA N-OGE THE LAND OF THE YOUNG. 
 
 A silvery song is in his ears, 
 
 A melody all sad and lone, 
 
 The voice that Fionula hears, 
 
 And follows still by brake and stone. 
 
 It is the voice of early years, 
 
 The early love long dead and gone. 
 
 His wounded head is on her knee, 
 
 Her hand his sable locks among ; 
 
104 ITHE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 
 
 And still the song enchantingly 
 
 By that remembered voice is sung 
 
 And dreamily he opes his eyes. 
 
 Beneath in rosy lustre lies, 
 
 With many a shivered line of gold, 
 
 A misty lake in many a fold 
 
 Of wood, and slope, and rock, and hill, 
 
 And riven peak, and winding rill. 
 
 Long golden reeds and floating lilies tell 
 
 Their secrets and rejoicings to the breeze, 
 
 And every flowery star and bloomy bell 
 
 That glow like oriel windows 'neath the trees, 
 
 In gules and azure mottling the soft sward, 
 
 In fragrance and dim music sigh, 
 
 And sleep, and wake, but never die. 
 
 Such is the blessed mystery 
 
 That of their weakness is the ward. 
 
 Here memory doth the hour beguile 
 
 And never too much pains or cheers, 
 
 Here all things sad are with a smile, 
 
 And all rejoicing is with tears. 
 
 Through everything there thrills a gladness, 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 105 
 
 Through everything there throbs a sadness ; 
 And memory, love, and gratitude 
 A glory shed on every mood. 
 
 FlONULA. 
 
 How to this hour she is sometimes seen by night in 
 Munster. 
 
 By the foot of old Keeper, beside the bohreen, 
 
 In the deep blue of night the thatched cabin is seen ; 
 
 'Neath the furze-covered ledge, by the wild mountain 
 
 brook, 
 Where the birch and the ash dimly shelter the 
 
 nook, 
 
 And many's the clear star that trembles on high 
 O'er the thatch and the wild ash that melt in the 
 
 sky. 
 " Shamus Oge >; and old Teig are come home from 
 
 the fair, 
 And the car stands up black with its shafts in the 
 
 air, 
 A warbling of laughter hums over the floor, 
 
io6 THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 
 
 And fragrant's the flush of the turf through the 
 
 door. 
 Round the glow the old folk, and the colleens, and 
 
 boys 
 Wile the hour with their stories, jokes, laughter, and 
 
 noise ; 
 Dogs stretched on the hearth with their chins on 
 
 their feet lie, 
 
 To her own purring music the cat dozes sweetly ; 
 Pretty smiles answer, coyly, while soft spins the 
 
 wheel, 
 The bold lover's glances or whispered appeal. 
 
 Stealing in, like the leather-wings under the thatch, 
 A hand through the dark softly leans on the latch, 
 An oval face peeps through the clear deep of night, 
 From her jewels faint tremble blue splinters of 
 
 light. 
 
 There's a stranger among us, a chill in the air, 
 And an awful face silently framed over there ; 
 The green light of horror glares cold from each 
 
 eye, 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE GL\IVE. 107 
 
 And laughter breaks shivering into a cry. 
 A flush from the fire hovers soft to the door, 
 In the dull void the pale lady glimmers no more. 
 The cow'ring dogs howl, slowly growls the white 
 
 cat, 
 And the whisper outshivers, " God bless us ! what's 
 
 that ? " 
 
 The sweet summer moon over Aherloe dreams, 
 And the Galtees, gigantic, loom cold in her beams; 
 From the wide flood of purple the pale peaks up- 
 rise, 
 Slowly gliding like sails 'gainst the stars of the 
 
 skies ; 
 
 Soft moonlight is drifted on mountain and wood, 
 Airy voices sing faint to the drone of the flood, 
 As the traveller benighted flies onward in fear, 
 And the clink of his footsteps falls shrill on his ear. 
 There's a hush in the bushes, a chill in the air, 
 While a breath steals beside him and whispers, 
 
 " Beware ! ;> 
 While aslant by the oak, down the hollow ravine, 
 
io8 THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 
 
 Like a flying bird's shadow smooth-gliding, is seen 
 Fionula the Cruel, the brightest, the worst, 
 With a terrible beauty the vision accurst, 
 Gold-filleted, sandalled, of times dead and gone 
 Far-looking, and harking, pursuing, goes on ; 
 Her white hand from her ear lifts her shadowy hair, 
 From the lamp of her eye floats the sheen of 
 
 despair ; 
 
 Her cold lips are apart, and her teeth in her smile 
 Glimmer death on her face with a horrible wile. 
 Three throbs at his heart not a breath at his lip, 
 As the figure skims by like the swoop of a ship ; 
 The breeze dies and drops like a bird on the wing, 
 And the pulse of the rivulet ceases to ring ; 
 And the stars and the moon dilate o'er his head, 
 As they smile out an icy salute to the dead. 
 
 The traveller alone signs the cross on his breast, 
 Gasps a prayer to the saints for her weary soul's 
 
 rest ; 
 
 His "gospel" close pressed to the beat of his heart, 
 And fears still to linger, yet dreads to depart. 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE GLAIVE. 109 
 
 By the village fire crouched, his the story that 
 
 night, 
 While his listeners around him draw pale with 
 
 affright ; 
 
 Till it's over the country " God bless us, again ! '' 
 How he met Fionula in Aherloe glen. 
 
SHAMUS O'BRIEN 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
SHAMUS O'BRIEN. 
 
 Jist afther the war, in the year '98, 
 As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate, 
 'Twas the custom, whenever a pisant was got, 
 To hang him by thrial barrin 3 sich as was shot. 
 There was trial by jury goin' on by daylight, 
 And the martial-law hangin' the lavins by night. 
 
 It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon : 
 If he missed in the judges he'd meet a dragoon ; 
 An' whether the sogers or judges gev sentence, 
 The divil a much time they allowed for repentance. 
 An' it's many's the fine boy was then in his keepin', 
 Wid small share iv restin', or atin', or sleepin' ; 
 An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned to sell it, 
 A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet 
 Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day, 
 They'd the heath for their barrack, revenge for their 
 pay. 
 
II 4 SHAMUS O'BRIEN. 
 
 An' the bravest an' hardiest boy iv them all 
 Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town iv Glingall. 
 
 His limbs were well set, an' his body was light, 
 An' the keen-fanged hound had not teeth half so 
 
 white. 
 
 But his face was as pale as the face of the dead, 
 And his cheek never warmed with the blush of the 
 
 red; 
 
 An' for all that he wasn't an ugly young bye, 
 For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his eye, 
 So droll an' so wicked, so dark and so bright, 
 Like a fire-flash that crosses the depth of the 
 
 night ; 
 
 An' he was the best mower that ever has been, 
 An* the illigantest hurler that ever was seen. 
 In fincin' he gev Patrick Mooney a cut, 
 An* in jumpin* he bate Tim Malowney a fut ; 
 For lightness iv fut there was never his peer, 
 For, by gorra, he'd almost outrun the red deer ; 
 An* his dancin' was sich that the men used to 
 
 stare, 
 
SHAMUS O'BRIEN. 115 
 
 An' the women turn crazy, he done it so quare ; 
 An', by gorra, the whole world gev it in to him 
 there. 
 
 An' it's he was the boy that was hard to be caught, 
 An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought, 
 An' it's many's the one can remimber right well 
 The quare things he done ; an' it's oft I heerd 
 
 tell 
 
 How he freckened the magisthrates in Cahirbally, 
 An' escaped through the sodgers in Aherloe Valley ; 
 An* leathered the yeomen, himself agin' four, 
 An' stretched the two strongest on ould Galtimore. 
 
 But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer 
 
 must rest, 
 
 An' treachery preys on the blood iv the best. 
 Afther many a brave action of power and pride, 
 An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak 
 
 side, 
 
 An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast, 
 In the darkness of night he was taken at last. 
 
 I 2 
 
u6 SHAMUS O'BRIEN. 
 
 Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon, 
 For the door of the prison must close on you soon, 
 An' take your last look at her dim lovely light, 
 That falls on the mountain and valley this night 
 One look at the village, one look at the flood, 
 An' one at the shelthering, far-distant wood. 
 Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill, 
 An' farewell to the friends that will think of you 
 
 still ; 
 
 Farewell to the patthern, the hurlin', an' wake, 
 And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake. 
 
 An' twelve sodgers brought him to Maryborough 
 
 gaol, 
 
 An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin 5 all bail. 
 The fleet limbs wor chained, an' the sthrong hands 
 
 wor bound, 
 An' he laid down his length on the could prison 
 
 ground. 
 An' the dreams of his childhood kem over him 
 
 there, 
 As gentle an' soft as the sweet summer air ; 
 
SHAMUS O'BRIEN. 117 
 
 An 5 happy remembrances crowding on ever, 
 
 As fast as the foam-flakes dhrift down on the river, 
 
 Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone 
 
 by, 
 
 Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye. 
 But the, tears didn't fall, for the pride of his heart 
 Would not suffer one drop down his pale cheek to 
 
 start ; 
 
 An' he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave, 
 An' he swore with the fierceness that misery gave, 
 By the hopes of the good, an' the cause of the 
 
 brave, 
 
 That when he was mouldering in the cold grave 
 His enemies never should have it to boast 
 His scorn of their vengeance one moment was 
 
 lost; 
 His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be 
 
 dhry, 
 For undaunted he lived, and undaunted he'd die. 
 
 Well, as soon as a few weeks was over and gone, 
 The terrible day iv the thrial kem on ; 
 
ii8 SHAMUS O'BRIEN. 
 
 There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to 
 
 stand, 
 
 An* sogers on guard, an' dhragoons sword-in-hand ; 
 An* the court-house so full that the people wor 
 
 bothered, 
 An* attorneys an' criers on the pint iv bein' 
 
 smothered ; 
 
 An' counsellors almost gev over for dead, 
 An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead ; 
 An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big, 
 With his gown on his back, and an illigant new 
 
 wig; 
 
 An' silence was called, an' the minute 'twas said 
 The court was as still as the heart of the dead. 
 An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock, 
 An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock. 
 
 For one minute he turned his eye round on the 
 
 throng, 
 
 An' he looked at the bars, so firm and so strong, 
 An' he saw that he had not a hope, nor a friend, 
 A chance to escape, nor a word to defend : 
 
SHAMUS O'BRIEN. 119 
 
 An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone, 
 As calm and as cold as a statue of stone ; 
 And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste, 
 An' Jim didn't undherstand it, nor mind it a taste. 
 An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, an' he says, 
 "Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you 
 plase ? " 
 
 An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread, 
 
 An' Shamus O'Brien made answer, and said, 
 
 " My lord, if you ask me, if in my life time 
 
 I thought any treason, or did any crime 
 
 That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here, 
 
 The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear, 
 
 Though I stood by the grave to receive my death 
 
 blow, 
 
 Before God and the world I would answer you, no; 
 But if you would ask me, as I think it like, 
 If in The Rebellion I carried a pike, 
 An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the 
 
 close, 
 An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, 
 
120 SHAMUS O'BRIEN. 
 
 I answer you, yes, an' I tell you again, 
 
 Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that 
 
 then 
 In her cause I was willing my veins should run 
 
 dhry, 
 An* that now for her sake I am ready to die." 
 
 Then the silence was great, an' the jury smiled 
 
 bright, 
 
 An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light; 
 By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould 
 
 chap, 
 
 In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap. 
 Then Shamus' mother in the crowd standing by, 
 Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry, 
 " Oh, judge, darlin', don't, oh, don't say 1 the word, 
 The crathur is young, have mercy, my lord ; 
 He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin' 
 You don't know him, my lord, oh, don't give him to 
 
 ruin 
 
 He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted 
 Don't part us for ever, we that's so long parted. 
 
SHAMUS O'BRIEN. 121 
 
 Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my 
 
 lord, 
 An* God will forgive you, oh, don't say the word ! " 
 
 That was the first minute that O'Brien was shaken, 
 When he saw he was not quite forgot or forsaken ; 
 An' down his pale cheeks at the words of his 
 
 mother, 
 
 The big tears wor runnin' fast, one after th'other. 
 An' two or three times he endeavoured to spake, 
 But the sthrong manly voice used to falther and 
 
 break ; 
 But at last by the strength of his high-mounting 
 
 pride, 
 He conquered and masthered his griefs swelling 
 
 tide, 
 " An'," says he, " mother, darlin', don't break your 
 
 poor heart, 
 
 For sooner or later the dearest must part ; 
 And God knows it's betther than wandering in fear 
 On the bleak, trackless mountains among the wild 
 
 deer, 
 
122 SHAMUS O'BRIEN. 
 
 To lie in the grave where the head, heart, and 
 
 breast 
 From thought, labour, and sorrow for ever shall 
 
 rest. 
 
 Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more, 
 Don't make me seem broken in this my last hour, 
 For I wish when my head's lyin' undher the raven, 
 No thrue man can say that I died like a craven ! " 
 Then towards the judge Shamus bent down his 
 
 head, 
 An' that minute the solemn death-sintence was said. 
 
 The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high, 
 An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky- 
 But why are the men standin' idle so late ? 
 An' why do the crowds gother fast in the street ? 
 What come they to talk of ? what come they to see ? 
 An 1 why does the long rope hang from the cross- 
 tree ? 
 
 Oh ! Shamus O'Brien pray fervent and fast, 
 May the saints take your soul, for this day is your 
 last ; 
 
SHAMUS O'BRIEN. 123 
 
 Pray fast an' pray strong, for the moment is nigh, 
 When sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you 
 must die. 
 
 An' fasther an' fasther the crowd gathered there, 
 Boys, horses and ginger-bread, just like a fair ; 
 An' whiskey was selling, an' cussamuck too, 
 And ould men and young women enjoying the 
 
 view. 
 
 An' ould Tim Mulvany, he med the remark, 
 There wasn't sich a sight since the time of the Ark ; 
 An' be gorra 'twas thrue for him, divil such a 
 
 scruge, 
 Sich divarshin and crowds was known since the 
 
 deluge. 
 
 For thousands was gothered there, if there was one, 
 Waitin' till such time as the hangin' id come on. 
 
 At last they threw open the big prison gate, 
 An' out came the sheriffs and sodgers in state, 
 An' a cart in the middle, an' Shamus was in it ; 
 Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute. 
 
124 SHAMUS O'BRIEN. 
 
 An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien, 
 Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin' ; 
 A wild wailin' sound kem on by degrees, 
 Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' thro' 
 
 trees. 
 
 On, on to the gallows, the sheriffs are gone, 
 An' the cart an* the sodgers go steadily on ; 
 An' at every side swellin' around of the cart, 
 A wild sorrowful sound that 'id open your heart. 
 
 Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand, 
 An' the hangman gets up wid the rope in his 
 
 hand; 
 An' the priest having blest him, goes down on the 
 
 ground, 
 
 An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look around. 
 Then the hangman dhrew near, and the people 
 
 grew still, 
 Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts went 
 
 chill ; 
 An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made 
 
 bare, 
 
SHAMUS O'BRIEN. 125 
 
 For the gripe iv the life-stranglin' cord to prepare : 
 An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last 
 prayer. 
 
 But the good priest done more, for his hands he 
 
 unbound, 
 And with one daring spring Jim has leaped to the 
 
 ground ; 
 Bang, bang ! go the carbines, and clash go the 
 
 sabres, 
 He's not down ! he's alive still ! now stand to him 
 
 neighbours. 
 Through the smoke and the horses he's into the 
 
 crowd, 
 
 By the heavens he's free ! than thunder more loud 
 By one shout from the people the heavens were 
 
 shaken 
 One shout that the dead of the world might 
 
 awaken. 
 
 Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, 
 But if you want hanging it's yourselves you must 
 hang; 
 
126 SHAMUS O'BRIEN. 
 
 To night he'll be sleepin* in Aherloe Glin, 
 
 An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him again. 
 
 The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, 
 
 An' father Malone lost his new Sunday hat ; 
 
 An' the sheriffs wor both of them punished 
 
 severely, 
 An' fined like the divil, because Jim done them 
 
 fairly. 
 
127 
 
 PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE. 
 
 Oh, Phaudhrig Crohoore was the broth of a boy, 
 
 And he stood six foot eight, 
 And his arm was as round as another man's 
 
 thigh, 
 
 'Tis Phaudhrig was great, 
 And his hair was as black as the shadows of night, 
 And hung over the scars left by many a fight ; 
 And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, 
 
 and loud, 
 
 And his eye like the lightnin' from under the cloud. 
 And all the girls liked him, for he could spake civil, 
 And sweet when he chose it, for he was the divil. 
 An' there wasn't a girl from thirty-five undher, 
 Divil a matter how crass, but he could come round 
 
 her. 
 
 But of all the sweet girls that smiled on him, one 
 Was the girl of his heart, an' he loved her alone. 
 
128 PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE. 
 
 An' warm as the sun, as the rock firm an' sure, 
 Was the love of the heart of Phaudhrig Crohoore ; 
 An' he'd die for one smile from his Kathleen 
 
 O'Brien, 
 For his love, like his hatred, was sthrong as the lion. 
 
 But Michael O'Hanlon loved Kathleen as well 
 As he hated Crohoore an' that same was like hell. 
 But O'Brien liked him, for they were the same 
 
 parties, 
 The O'Briens, O'Hanlons, an' Murphys, and 
 
 Cartys 
 
 An' they all went together an' hated Crohoore, 
 For it's many the batin' he gave them before ; 
 An' O'Hanlon made up to O'Brien, an' says he : 
 " I'll marry your daughter, if you'll give her tome.'* 
 And the match was made up, an' when Shrovetide 
 
 came on, 
 
 The company assimbled three hundred if one : 
 There was all the O'Hanlons, an' Murphys, an' 
 
 Cartys, 
 An' the young boys an' girls av all o' them parties ; 
 
PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE. 129 
 
 An' the O'Briens, av coorse, gathered strong on 
 
 that day, 
 
 An' the pipers an' fiddlers were tearin' away ; 
 There was roarin', an 1 jumpin', an' jiggin', an' 
 
 flingin', 
 
 An' jokin', an' blessin', and kissin', and singin', 
 An' they wor all laughin' why not, to be sure ? 
 How O'Hanlon came inside of Phaudhrig Crohoore. 
 An' they all talked an' laughed the length of the 
 
 table, 
 
 Atin' an' dhrinkin' all while they wor able, 
 And with pipin' an' fiddlin' an 5 roarin' like tundher, 
 Your head you'd think fairly was splittin asundher ; 
 And the priest called out, " Silence, ye blackguards, 
 
 agin ! " 
 
 An' he took up his prayer-book, just goin' to begin, 
 An' they all held their tongues from their funnin' 
 
 and bawlin', 
 
 So silent you'd notice the smallest pin fallin' ; 
 An' the priest was just beg'nin' to read, whin the 
 
 door 
 
 Sprung back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore 
 
 K 
 
130 PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE. 
 
 Oh ! Phaudhrig Crohoore was the broth of a boy, 
 
 An' he stood six foot eight, 
 An' his arm was as round as another man's thigh, 
 
 'Tis Phaudhrig was great 
 An' he walked slowly up, watched by many a bright 
 
 eye, 
 As a black cloud moves on through the stars of the 
 
 sky, 
 An' none sthrove to stop him, for Phaudhrig was 
 
 great, 
 
 Till he stood all alone, just apposit the sate 
 Where O'Hanlon and Kathleen, his beautiful bride, 
 Were sitting so illigant out side by side ; 
 An' he gave her one look that her heart almost broke, 
 An* he turned to O'Brien, her father, and spoke, 
 An' his voice, like the thunder, was deep, sthrong, 
 
 and loud, 
 An' his eye shone like lightnin' from under the 
 
 cloud : 
 
 " I didn't come here like a tame, crawlin' mouse, 
 But I stand like a man in my inimy's house ; 
 In the field, on the road, Phaudhrig never knew fear 
 
PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE. 131 
 
 Of his foemen, an' God knows he scorns it here ; 
 So lave me at aise, for three minutes or four, 
 To spake to the girl I'll never see more." 
 An' to Kathleen he turned, and his voice changed 
 
 its tone, 
 For he thought of the days when he called her his 
 
 own, 
 Though his eye blazed like lightnin' from under the 
 
 cloud 
 
 On his false-hearted girl, reproachful and proud, 
 An' says he : " Kathleen bawn, is it thrue what I 
 
 hear, 
 That you marry of your own free choice, without 
 
 fear? 
 
 If so, spake the word, an' I'll turn and depart, 
 Chated once, and once only, by woman's false 
 
 heart." 
 
 Oh ! sorrow and love made the poor girl dumb, 
 An' she thried hard to spake, but the words 
 
 wouldn't come, 
 For the sound of his voice, as he stood there fornint 
 
 her, 
 
 K 2 
 
132 PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE. 
 
 Wint could on her heart as the night wind in 
 
 winther. 
 
 An' the tears in her blue eyes stood tremblin' to flow, 
 O'er her cheek pale as marble, like moonshine on 
 
 snow; 
 Then the heart of bould Phaudhrig swelled high in 
 
 its place, 
 
 For he knew, by one look in that beautiful face, 
 That though sthrangers an' foemen their pledged 
 
 hands might sever, 
 
 Her true heart was his, and his only, for ever. 
 An' he lifted his voice, like the agle's hoarse call, 
 An' says Phaudhrig, " She's mine still, in spite of 
 
 yez all ! " 
 
 Then up jumped O'Hanlon, an' a tall boy was he, 
 An' he looked on bould Phaudhrig as fierce as could 
 
 be, 
 
 An' says he, " By the hokey ! before you go out, 
 Bould Phaudhrig Crohoore, you must fight for a 
 
 bout." 
 With that then, said Phaudhrig, "I'll do my 
 
 endeavour," 
 
PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE. 133 
 
 An' with one blow he stretched proud O'Hanlon for 
 
 ever. 
 In his arms he took Kathleen, an' stepped to the 
 
 door; 
 
 And he leaped on his horse, and flung her before ; 
 An' they all were so bother'd, that not a man stirred 
 Till the galloping hoofs on the pavement were 
 
 heard. 
 
 Then up they all started, like bees in a swarm, 
 An' they riz a great shout, like the burst of a 
 
 storm, 
 An' they ran, and they raced, and they shouted 
 
 galore ; 
 But Kathleen and Phaudhrig they never saw more. 
 
 But them days are gone by, himself is no more ; 
 An' the green grass is growin' o'er Phaudhrig 
 
 Crohoore, 
 
 For he couldn't be aisy or quiet at all ; 
 As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall. 
 And he took a good pike for Phaudhrig was 
 
 great 
 
134 PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE. 
 
 And he fought, and he fell in the year ninety- 
 eight. 
 
 An' the day that Crohoore in the green field was 
 killed, 
 
 A sthrong boy was sthretched, and a sthrong heart 
 was stilled. 
 
135 
 
 MOLLY, MY DEAR. 
 
 Since last I held your hand, dear Molly, 'tis many's 
 
 the year, 
 But altho' you have wed with another, I still was 
 
 true, 
 For I never could fancy a girl, dearest Molly, but 
 
 you, 
 And the love of my heart was still with you, Molly, 
 
 my dear. 
 
 When last I held your hand, you were goin' to be 
 
 married, my dear, 
 But I knew by the paleness no cold words of yours 
 
 could disguise, 
 And I knew by the tears that were dimming your 
 
 beautiful eyes, 
 That in spite of them all, dear Molly, you loved me 
 
 alone. 
 
136 MOLLY, MY DEAR. 
 
 Since last I held your hand ? I am changed from 
 
 what I was then, 
 
 In battle, in danger, in storm, in strife I have stood, 
 Won honour and glory and riches as much as I 
 
 would ; 
 But in this world, dear Molly I'll never be happy 
 
 again. 
 
137 
 
 ABHAIN AU BHUIDEIL. 
 
 ADDRESS OF A DRUNKARD TO A BOTTLE OF 
 WHISKEY. 
 
 From what dripping cell, through what fairy glen, 
 Where ; mid old rocks and ruins the fox makes his 
 
 den ; 
 Over what lonesome mountain, 
 
 Acuishla machree ! 
 Where gauger never has trod, 
 Sweet as the flowery sod, 
 Wild as the breath 
 Of the breeze on the heath, 
 
 And sparkling all o'er like the moon-lighted 
 fountain, 
 
 Are you come to me 
 Sorrowful me ? 
 
 Dancing inspiring-^- 
 My wild blood firin' ; 
 
138 ABHAIN AU BHUIDEIL. 
 
 Oh ! terrible glory 
 
 Oh ! beautiful siren- 
 Come, tell the old story 
 Come, light up my fancy, and open my 
 
 heart. 
 
 Oh, beautiful ruin 
 My life my undoin 5 
 Soft and fierce as a pantheress, 
 Dream of my longing, and wreck of 
 
 my soul, 
 I never knew love till I loved you, enchanthress ! 
 
 At first, when I knew you, 'twas only flirtation, 
 
 The touch of a lip and the flash of an eye ; 
 But 'tis different now 'tis desperation ! 
 I worship before you, 
 I curse and adore you, 
 And without you I'd die. 
 
 Wirrasthrue ! 
 I wish 'twas again 
 The happy time when 
 I cared little about you, 
 
ABHAIN AU BHUIDEIL. 139 
 
 Could do well without you, 
 
 But would just laugh and view you ; 
 
 Tis little I knew you ! 
 
 Oh ! terrible darling, 
 How have you sought me, 
 Enchanted, and caught me ? 
 See, now, where you've brought me 
 To sleep by the road-side, and dress out in rags. 
 Think how you found me ; 
 Dreams come around me 
 The dew of my childhood, and life's morning 
 
 beam ; 
 
 Now I sleep by the road-side, a wretch all in rags. 
 My heart that sang merrily when I was young, 
 Swells up like a billow and bursts in despair ; 
 And the wreck of my hopes on sweet memory flung, 
 And cries on the air, 
 Are all that is left of the dream. 
 
 Wirrasthrue ! 
 My father and mother, 
 The priest, and my brother 
 
140 ABHAIN AU BHUIDEIL. 
 
 Not a one has a good word for you. 
 But I can't part you, darling, their preaching's all 
 
 vain ; 
 
 You'll burn in my heart till these thin pulses stop ; 
 And the wild cup of life in your fragrance I'll 
 drain 
 
 To the last brilliant drop. 
 Then oblivion will cover 
 The shame that is over, 
 
 The brain that was mad, and the heart that was 
 sore ; 
 
 Then, beautiful witch, 
 I'll be found in a ditch, 
 
 With your kiss on my cold lips, and never rise 
 more. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
143 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The autumn leaf was falling 
 At midnight from the tree, 
 
 When at her casement calling, 
 "I'm here, my love," cried he. 
 
 ' Come down and mount behind me, 
 And rest your little head, 
 
 And in your white arms wind me, 
 Before that I be dead. 
 
 " You've stolen my heart by magic, 
 
 I've kissed your lips in dreams : 
 Our wooing, wild and tragic, 
 
 Has been in ghostly gleams. 
 The wondrous love I bear you 
 
 Has made one life of twain, 
 And it will bless or scare you, 
 
 In deathless peace or pain. 
 
'144 SONG. 
 
 " Our dreamland shall be glowing, 
 
 If you my bride will be 
 To darkness both are going, 
 
 Unless you ride with me. 
 Come now, and mount behind me, 
 
 And rest your little head, 
 And in your white arms wind me, 
 
 Before that I be dead." 
 
145 
 
 MEMORY, 
 
 One wild and simple bugle sound, 
 Breathed o'er Killarney's magic shore, 
 
 Awakes sweet floating echoes round 
 When that which made them is no more. 
 
 So slumber in the human breast 
 Wild echoes that will sweetly thrill 
 
 Through memory's vistas when the voice 
 That waked them first for aye is still. 
 
 Oh ! memory, though thy records tell 
 Full many a tale of grief and folly, 
 
 Of mad excess, of hope decayed, 
 Of dark and cheerless melancholy. 
 
 Yet, memory, to me thou art 
 
 The dearest of the gifts of mind, 
 For all the joys that touch my heart 
 
 Are joys that I have left behind. 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 THE STREAM.* 
 
 When moonlight falls on wave and wimple, 
 And silvers every ending dimple, 
 
 That onward, onward sails : 
 When fragrant hawthorns wild and simple 
 
 Lend perfume to the gales, 
 When the pale moon in heaven abiding, 
 O'er midnight mists and mountains riding, 
 Shines on the river smoothly gliding 
 
 Through quiet dales 
 
 I wander on in solitude, 
 
 Charmed by the chiming music rude 
 
 Of streams that fret and flow, 
 For by that eddying stream she stood, 
 
 On such a night I trow : 
 For her the thorn its breath was lending, 
 On this same tide her eye was bending, 
 And with its voice her voice was blending 
 
 Long, long ago. 
 
 * See Appendix, page 158. 
 
THE STREAM. 147 
 
 Wild stream ! I walk by thee once more, 
 I see thy hawthorns dim and hoar, 
 
 I hear thy waters moan, 
 And night winds sigh from shore to shore 
 
 With hushed and hollow tone ; 
 But breezes on their light way winging, 
 And all thy waters' heedless singing, 
 No more to me are gladness bringing 
 
 I am alone. 
 
 Years after years, their swift way keeping, 
 Like sere leaves down thy current sweeping, 
 
 Are lost for aye, and sped 
 And Death the wintry soil is heaping 
 
 As fast as flowers are shed. 
 And she who wandered by my side, 
 
 And breathed enchantment o'er thy tide, 
 That makes thee still my friend and guide 
 
 And she is dead. 
 
 L 2 
 
148 
 
 A DOGGREL IN A DORMANT-WINDOW. 
 
 Among the gray roofs nooked, 
 
 As Chronos in the skies, 
 Red chimneys, old and crook'd, 
 
 Like headstones round me rise. 
 
 The chimneys, crook'd and old, 
 
 My neighbours in the air, 
 Like gods of dingy gold, 
 
 Bend sadly here and there. 
 
 The crows to roost returning 
 In their misty woods below 
 
 The hill-tops dimly burning 
 In the sun's refracted glow 
 
 Like purple shadows sailing 
 
 Across the sea-green sky, 
 Like far waves hoarsely wailing 
 
 Call dimly as they fly. 
 
A DOGGREL IN A DORMANT-WINDOW. 149 
 
 My senses, sadly dreaming, 
 
 Just hear and see them fly, 
 Like bygone shadows streaming 
 
 Along pale memory's sky. 
 
 From the gray tower with its corbels, 
 
 And its belfry arching fair, 
 The mellow curfew warbles 
 
 Its old tune on the air ; 
 
 It sails above me welling 
 Like long soft summer waves, 
 
 Still quivering on and swelling 
 Across the village graves. 
 
 My lattice open flies, 
 
 The dewy evening air, 
 Fresh from the starry skies, 
 
 Just stirs my silvered hair. 
 
 Come forth, my graceful pipe, 
 
 My halfpenny pipe of clay, 
 With Latachia ripe 
 
 We'll wile the hour away. 
 
ISO A DOGGREL IN A DORM ANT- WINDOW. 
 
 Then musical by space, 
 Up from the gloaming street 
 
 Float sounds and songs apace, 
 And random prattle sweet 
 
 Bold fellows laughing boldly 
 With soft-tongued maidens near, 
 
 Old people prating oldly, 
 And children's voices clear. 
 
 And in their faint gradations, 
 While changeless stars gleam o'er us, 
 
 I hear three generations 
 All chiming in one chorus. 
 
 The twilight deepens fast, 
 
 My pipe grows like a star, 
 Or a distant smithy's blast, 
 
 Or a lighthouse flash from afar. 
 
 A lonely man am I, 
 
 In my dormant-window thinking, 
 So lowly, and so high, 
 
 The dreamy vapour drinking. 
 
A DOGGREL IN A DORMANT-WINDOW. 151 
 
 The vapour hangs and dozes, 
 And the stars no more I see ; 
 
 The opening film discloses 
 A loved pale face to me. 
 
 The sad face smiling there, 
 
 The young face as of yore, 
 Inexorably fair, 
 
 To speak or change no more. 
 
 The brown hair now is gray, 
 
 Of him you loved, but to 
 Your lovely shadow years away 
 
 His lonely heart beats true. 
 
 And now my pipe is out, 
 
 I drop it in the weeds, 
 It served its little bout, 
 
 And quietude succeeds. 
 
 And when my glow is o'er, 
 
 In ashes quenched my fire, 
 When its fragrance is no more 
 
 And spark and smoke expire ; 
 
152 A DOGGREL IN A DORM ANT- WINDOW, 
 
 O'er me may some one say, 
 As I, of you to-day, 
 Beneath the nettles and the flowers 
 Where lies my worn-out clay ; 
 
 He did in his allotted hours 
 What fellows sometimes shirk 
 
 In this enormous world of ours, 
 His halfpenny- worth of work. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 NOTE TO "SHAMUS O'BRIEN." 
 
 THE following note was prefixed to " Shamus 
 O'Brien " on its first appearance in The Dublin 
 University Magazine. 
 
 "The following attempt to throw into metrical 
 form, without departing from the southern Irish 
 idiom, a legend of the troubles of '98, was written for 
 a dear and gifted relative, and with a view to recita- 
 tion, for which the author feels it to be much better 
 suited than for presentation in cold type to a 
 critical public. He relies, however, upon their 
 good nature at least as much as he dreads their 
 justice ; and is also comforted by the following 
 considerations: The friend whom he has men- 
 tioned gave a copy of the ballad to our fellow- 
 countryman, Samuel Lover, immediately before 
 
154 APPENDIX. 
 
 his departure for America, and there, aided by 
 those talents which make Mr. Lover's entertain- 
 ments so delightful, its success was at once so 
 flattering and decisive as to induce the author to 
 place it at the disposal of his old friend, Anthony 
 Poplar. It is unnecessary to say that had not the 
 unlucky coincidence of the name of the hero and 
 the subject of the ballad with certain incidents in 
 the melancholy history of the last two years, made 
 it unavailable, with propriety, for the purposes of 
 public recitation in Ireland, the author would 
 immeasurably have preferred sending the legend 
 before his countrymen with the great and peculiar 
 advantages it enjoyed at the other side of the 
 water. Such as it is, however, it is heartily at 
 their service." 
 
APPENDIX. 155 
 
 NOTE TO "PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE." 
 
 IN The Dublin University Magazine there is a 
 paper on " Hibernian ballads " which Sheridan Le 
 Fanu describes as an, "extract from the legacy of 
 the late Francis Purcell, P.P. of Drumcoolagh." 
 " I have observed, my dear friend " (says the 
 writer), " among other grievous misconceptions 
 current among men otherwise well-informed, and 
 which tend to degrade the pretensions of my native 
 land, an impression that there exists no such thing 
 as indigenous modern Irish composition deserving 
 the name of poetry a belief which has been 
 thoughtlessly sustained and confirmed by the un- 
 conscionable literary perverseness of Irishmen 
 themselves, who have preferred the easy task of 
 concocting humorous extravaganzas, which carica- 
 ture with merciless exaggeration the pedantry, 
 bombast, and blunders incident to the lowest order 
 of Hibernian ballads, to the more pleasurable and 
 
156 APPENDIX. 
 
 patriotic duty of collecting together the many, 
 many specimens of genuine poetic feeling, which 
 have grown up, like its wild flowers, from the warm 
 though neglected soil of Ireland. 
 
 "In fact, the productions which have long been 
 regarded as pure samples of Irish poetic composi- 
 tion, such as c The Groves of Blarney,' and * The 
 Wedding of Ballyporeen,' ' Ally Croker/ &c., &c., 
 are altogether spurious, and as much like the thing 
 they call themselves c as I to Hercules.' 
 
 "There are to be sure in Ireland, as in all 
 countries, poems which deserve to be laughed at. 
 The native productions of which I speak, frequently 
 abound in absurdities absurdities which are often, 
 too, provokingly mixed up with what is beautiful ; 
 but I strongly and absolutely deny that the pre- 
 vailing or even the usual character of Irish poetry 
 is that of comicality. No country, no time, is 
 devoid of real poetry, or something approaching to 
 it ; and surely it were a strange thing if Ireland, 
 abounding as she does from shore to shore with 
 all that is beautiful, and grand, and savage in 
 
APPENDIX. 157 
 
 scenery, and filled with wild recollections, vivid 
 passions, warm affections, and keen sorrow, could 
 find no language to speak withal, but that of 
 mummery and jest. No, her language is imperfect, 
 but there is strength in its rudeness, and beauty in 
 its wildness ; and, above all, strong feeling flows 
 through it, like fresh fountains in rugged caverns. 
 
 " And yet I will not say that the language of 
 genuine indigenous Irish composition is always 
 vulgar and uncouth : on the contrary, I am in 
 possession of some specimens, though by no means 
 of the highest order as to poetic merit, which do 
 not possess throughout a single peculiarity of 
 diction. The lines which I now proceed to lay 
 before you, by way of illustration, are from the pen 
 of an unfortunate young man, of very humble 
 birth, whose early hopes were crossed by the un- 
 timely death of her whom he loved. He was a 
 self-educated man, and in after-life rose to high 
 distinctions in the Church to which he devoted 
 himself an act which proves the sincerity of spirit 
 with which these verses were written : 
 
158 APPENDIX. 
 
 ' When moonlight falls on wave and wimple, 
 And silvers every circling dimple 
 
 That onward, onward sails : 
 When fragrant hawthorns wild and simple 
 
 Lend perfume to the gales, 
 And the pale moon in heaven abiding, 
 O'er midnight mists and mountains riding, 
 Shines on the river, smoothly gliding 
 
 Through quiet dales 
 
 * I wander there in solitude, 
 Charmed by the chiming music rude 
 
 Of streams that fret and flow. 
 For by that eddying stream she stood, 
 
 On such a night I trow : 
 For her the thorn its breath was lending, 
 On this same tide her eye was bending, 
 And with its voice her voice was blending 
 
 Long, long ago. 
 
 1 Wild stream ! I walk by thee once more, 
 I see thy hawthorns dim and hoar, 
 
 I hear thy waters moan, 
 And night-winds sigh from shore to shore, 
 
 With hushed and hollow tone 
 But breezes on their light way winging, 
 And all thy waters' heedless singing, 
 No more to me are gladness bringing 
 
 I am alone, 
 
APPENDIX. 159 
 
 c Years after years, their swift way keeping, 
 Like sere leaves down thy current sweeping, 
 
 Are lost for aye, and sped- 
 And Death the wintry soil is heaping 
 
 As fast as flowers are shed. 
 And she who wandered by my side, 
 And breathed enchantment o'er thy tide, 
 That makes thee still my friend and guide 
 
 And she is dead.' 
 
 "These lines I have transcribed in order to 
 prove a point which I have heard denied, namely, 
 that an Irish peasant for their author was no more 
 may write at least correctly in the matter of 
 measure, language, and rhyme; and I shall add 
 several extracts, in further illustration of the same 
 fact, a fact whose assertion, it must be allowed, 
 may appear somewhat paradoxical even to those 
 who are acquainted, though superficially, with 
 Hibernian composition. The rhymes are, it must 
 be granted, in the generality of such productions, 
 very latitudinarian indeed, and as a veteran votary 
 of the muse once assured me, depend wholly upon 
 the vowls (vowels), as may be seen in the following 
 stanza of the famous ' Shanavan Voicth ' ; 
 
160 APPENDIX. 
 
 * " What'll we have for supper ? " 
 Says my Shanavan Voicth ; 
 " We'll have turkeys and roast beef, 
 And we'll eat it very suueet^ 
 And then we'll take a sleep? 
 Says my Shanavan Voicth.' 
 
 " But I am desirous of showing you that, although 
 barbarisms may and do exist in our native ballads, 
 there are still to be found exceptions which furnish 
 examples of strict correctness in rhyme and metre. 
 Whether they be one whit the better for this I have 
 my doubts. In order to establish my position, I 
 subjoin a portion of a ballad by one Michael 
 Finley, of whom more anon. The gentleman 
 spoken of in the song is Lord Edward Fitzgerald : 
 
 The day that traitors sould him and inimies 
 
 bought him, 
 The day that the red gold and red blood was 
 
 paid 
 Then the green turned pale and thrembled like the 
 
 dead leaves in autumn, 
 
 And the heart an' hope iv Ireland in the could 
 grave was laid, 
 
APPENDIX. 161 
 
 * The day I saw you first, with the sunshine fallin' 
 
 round ye, 
 My heart fairly opened with the grandeur of the 
 
 view : 
 For ten thousand Irish boys that day did surround 
 
 ye, 
 
 An' I swore to stand by them till death, an' fight 
 for you. 
 
 1 Ye wor the bravest gentleman, an' the best that 
 
 ever stood, 
 And your eyelid never thrembled for danger nor 
 
 for dread, 
 An' nobleness was flowin' in each stream of your 
 
 blood 
 
 My blessing on you night an' day, an 5 Glory be 
 your bed. 
 
 ' My black an* bitter curse on the head, an' heart, 
 
 an' hand, 
 That plotted, wished, an' worked the fall of this 
 
 Irish hero bold ; 
 God's curse upon the Irishman that sould his native 
 
 land, 
 
 An' hell consume to dust the hand that held the 
 thraitor's gold. 5 
 
 M 
 
162 APPENDIX. 
 
 *' Such were the politics and poetry of Michael 
 Finley, in his day, perhaps, the most noted song- 
 maker of his country ; but as genius is never with- 
 out its eccentricities, Finley had his peculiarities, 
 and among these, perhaps the most amusing was 
 his rooted aversion to pen, ink, and paper, in 
 perfect independence of which, all his compositions 
 were completed. It is impossible to describe the 
 jealousy with which he regarded the presence of 
 writing materials of any kind, and his ever wakeful 
 fears lest some literary pirate should transfer 
 his oral poetry to paper fears which were not 
 altogether without warrant, inasmuch as the recita- 
 tion and singing of these original pieces were to 
 him a source of wealth and importance. I recollect 
 upon one occasion his detecting me in the very 
 act of following his recitation with my pencil, and 
 I shall not soon forget his indignant scowl, as 
 stopping abruptly in the midst of a line, he sharply 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " ' Is my pome a pigsty, or what, that you want a 
 surveyor's ground-plan of it ? ' 
 
APPENDIX. 163 
 
 "Owing to this absurd scruple, I have been 
 obliged, with one exception, that of the ballad of 
 ' Phaudhrig Crohoore,' to rest satisfied with such 
 snatches and fragments of his poetry as my memory 
 could bear away a fact which must account for 
 the mutilated state in which I have been obliged to 
 present the foregoing specimen of his composition. 
 
 " It was in vain for me to reason with this man 
 of metres upon the unreasonableness of this de- 
 spotic and exclusive assertion of copyright. I well 
 remember his answer to me when, among other 
 arguments, I urged the advisability of some care 
 for the permanence of his reputation, as a motive to 
 induce him to consent to have his poems written 
 down, and thus reduced to a palpable and enduring 
 form. 
 
 " 1 1 often noticed,' said he, ' when a mist id be 
 spreadin', a little brier to look as big, you'd think, 
 as an oak tree ; an' the same way, in the dimness 
 iv the nightfall, I often seen a man tremblin' and 
 crassin' himself as if a sperit was before him, at the 
 sight iv a small thorn bush, that he'd leap over with 
 
 M 2 
 
164 APPENDIX. 
 
 ase if the daylight and sunshine was in it. An' 
 that's the rason why I think it id be better for the 
 likes iv me to be remimbered in tradition than to 
 be written in history/ 
 
 " Finley has now been dead nearly eleven 
 years, and his fame has not prospered by the 
 tactics which he pursued, for his reputation, so far 
 from being magnified, has been wholly obliterated 
 by the mists of obscurity. 
 
 * * * # # 
 
 " It is due to the memory of Finley to say that 
 the ballad of * Phaudhrig Crohoore,' though bear- 
 ing throughout a strong resemblance to Sir Walter 
 Scott's 'Lochinvar,' was nevertheless composed 
 long before that spirited production had seen the 
 light." 
 
 Mr. Wm. Le Fanu, in his delightfully entertain- 
 ing " Seventy years of Irish Life, 7 ' tells us that he 
 once recited " Phaudhrig Crohoore " at Lord 
 Spencer's (then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland). The 
 Primate (Beresford), after the recital, informed 
 
APPENDIX. 165 
 
 Lady Spencer that the poem was the work of an 
 Irish peasant who could neither read nor write 
 one Michael Finley. "Were you aware of this, 
 Mr. Le Fanu ? " asked the Primate. " I was, your 
 Grace," answered Mr. Le Fanu. " And you may be 
 surprised to learn that I knew the Michael Finley, 
 who wrote the ballad, intimately ; in fact, he was 
 my brother. In one particular your Grace is mis- 
 taken ; he could read and write a little." The 
 Primate, Mr. Le Fanu adds, took the matter in 
 very good part and seemed much amused at the 
 mistake. 
 
 This sort of deception seems to have had a strange 
 fascination for Sheridan Le Fanu. The wonderful 
 parish priest of Drumcoolagh Father Purcell 
 was another of his mythical authors. 
 
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