EX LIBRIS 
 
 ^WPJW^J 
 
PROMETHEUS, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 ALEXANDER R. EAGAR, 
 
 B. A.,T.C.D. 
 
 DUBLIN: 
 
 E, PONSONBY, 116, GRAFT ON-S TRE E T. 
 
 LONDON i SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & Co. 
 
 1877. 
 
iOAN STACK 
 
 Dublin : Printed ajt the University Press. 
 By Ponsonby and Murphy. 
 
EaP? 
 
 TO 
 
 MY FATHKR AND MOTHER 
 
 THESE SONQS OF IDLE HOURS. 
 
 785 
 
Contents* 
 
 PROMETHEUS, ........ i 
 
 A DEATH-SONG, '. 5 
 
 SONNETS: 
 
 Doubt, . IO 
 
 Sin, . II 
 
 "Sursum Corda," . . .... . 12 
 
 Sarsfield and Walker, 13 
 
 " O Maiden mine, though loving were a sin," . ." 14 
 
 " The soldier captive 'mid a foreign band," . . 15 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SKYLARK: 
 
 Dedication, , 16 
 
 The Song, . . . . . . . . 17 
 
 The Wave, ......... 21 
 
 In Memoriam, U. G. E., 22 
 
 Memories, ......... 26 
 
 " We sing not the Songs of old," 29 
 
 To a Friend, 32 
 
 A Ma Chere, 35 
 
 A Poet to his Mistress, 37 
 
 Waking, 40 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Malo Mori, 41 
 
 Two sweet Mays, . . . , ...'-* . 42 
 
 "Don't You Remember ?" . . ... . 43 
 
 II Traviato, ........... 44 
 
 A Tale of the Rebellion, ' . . . . . 45 
 
 Sirius, .......... 48 
 
 THREE FRAGMENTS : 
 
 The Castle, . . ..... . 50 
 
 The Island, 52 
 
 The Death of Tyranny, . . - . . '*.. 53 
 
 King Love, 56 
 
 Cupid Caged, . ... . . , . 57 
 
 The Invocation of Venus, 58 
 
 Paris, . ... . . . . . . 62 
 
 Song, " Whither away," . . ... . . 67 
 
 Song, " Come away," . . . . . . 68 
 
 The Spirit of Summer, . . . . . . 7 
 
 The Spirit of Winter, . . . V ... . 72 
 
 Death, . . . '. .....% 74 
 
 Memento et Spera, ; . . . . . 77 
 
 Friends that are gone, . . . . . . . 78 
 
 Joan of Arc at the Stake, . . . . . 8j 
 
 Turkey and Servia, . . . . . . . 87 
 
 Russia and Poland, ....... 90 
 
 The Fontenoy Veteran, . . . . , . . 92 
 
 L'Envoi, . . . .... . 98 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GREEK: 
 
 I. From the Bacchae of Euripides, . . . . 101 
 
 II. From the Hecuba of Euripides, . . . . 106 
 
 III. The Epitaph of Bion, from Moschus, . . . 109 
 
" It is not only the eagle of Zeus that bathes in Helicon, nor is it only 
 the winged steed of the Muses that drinks of its water. The swallows dip 
 their wings therein, and even the very flies taste the sweet stream. They 
 do but sip, it is true; but do they not sip of Helicon ? " 
 
HIGH in the sombre stillness of the air, 
 Where strong-beaked eagles flap their dusky wings, 
 And the unjoying wailing tempest sings ; 
 Where Caucasus exalts his summit bare, 
 Stands a lone altar, strewn with bones ; and there 
 The children of the earth were wont to meet, 
 To pour their riches at the royal feet 
 Of Zeus, the god who loves his children's care, 
 Of Zeus, the god who loves not giftless prayer. 
 
 Here men would meet, what time the new-born day 
 Poured a bleak brightness on the altar-stone : 
 And then went up to heaven the dying moan 
 
 Of the struck steer, trembling beneath the ray 
 
 That lit the sacred knife upraised to slay. 
 
 And now his lustrous eyes are glazed with death, 
 And the pleased gods send down the living breath 
 
 Of air to fan the flickering flames that play 
 
 Around the sacrifice, as fierce as they. 
 B 
 
PROMETHEUS. 
 
 Here by the stone the son of Japet stood, 
 With wild eyes looking to the burning dawn ; 
 His shaggy eye-brows o'er his eyes down-drawn ; 
 His hair enridged and waving, like the flood 
 Of the dark Euxine, when the tempests hood 
 The heights of Heaven ; and his squared brow 
 Was smooth as crystal, not with peace for now 
 His swollen veins are marks of angry mood, 
 In the quick throbbings of the boiling blood. 
 
 " O Zeus," he cries, " O faithless and untrue, 
 Perjured and weak one, is it but for nought 
 That we have lives in rich oblation brought 
 
 To thee and all thy brother gods ? while you, 
 
 Helpless to aid us and unwilling, view 
 Us toiling on this earth, which is a hell, 
 For bootless profit and for pleasures fell ; 
 
 Ye helpless heartless ones, a fitter crew 
 
 To pray to us, than we from you to sue ! 
 
 " O mighty Zeus, to thee are paid the lives 
 Of unoffending kids and fleecy lambs, 
 And bearded he-goats and unyielding rams ; 
 For thee the young bull at the altar strives, 
 And his unequal bonds in sunder rives ; 
 
PROMETHEUS. 
 
 For thee he dies ; but thou canst not restore, 
 To him or to his giver, life once more, 
 When once his victims ruthless Hermes drives 
 To death, and Hades binds them in his gyves. 
 
 " Unpitying one, I saw, but yesterday, 
 
 A maiden led to yield to thee her breath ; 
 
 She closed her eyes to open them on death ; 
 Say, does the King of Life and Death obey 
 Thy cruel orders, Lord of Heaven ? say 
 
 Canst thou restore that maiden's life again ? 
 
 Thou canst not, Zeus! Then why, with labour- 
 pain, 
 
 Should we, to please thee, tread a thorny way, 
 To reach sad Nothingness's border grey ? 
 
 "Ah me! but yesterday I saw her lie, 
 
 White on the dusky marble ; robe and veil 
 Torn from her lithe light limbs ; and from her pale 
 Sad face dark hopeless eyes looked up on high, 
 Glancing a brief last glance upon the sky ; 
 And thou didst cover the blue sky with grey 
 And lightless mantlings of the clouds, that they 
 Might hide Heaven's beauty from the maiden's eye ; 
 The maiden doomed to look but once, and die. 
 
 B 2 
 
PROMETHEUS. 
 
 "Ah me ! I saw her naked white limbs shrink 
 From the cold marble, and her wind- wooed hair 
 Stirred with the slayer's breath ; and in her bare 
 Soft breast I saw his cruel fingers sink : 
 And her bright curls, which lay in many a link 
 Of gold across the marble road of life, 
 Were torn aside by thine accursed knife : 
 I saw no more, till, on the altar-brink, 
 I saw the snows her yielded life-blood drink. 
 
 "I saw no more ; and yet I seemed to see 
 Thee, sitting with the gods in thy high Heaven, 
 Playing with circlings of the planets seven, 
 Great cruel children ; and ye laughed at me, 
 And at my brethren of the earth, that we 
 
 (Still weaker children) paid you with the flower 
 Of rosy blood of girls and boys, each hour, 
 For gifts not given us by your decree ; 
 For gifts unheld, unsent, by such as ye." 
 
 But Zeus is Lord of Death and King of Pain, 
 And curbed his foe with vulture and with chain. 
 
A DEATH-SONG. 
 
 a JBeatfj ong* 
 
 GIVE me the cup, 
 And brim it with crimson wine ! 
 
 Fill, friend, fill it up 
 With the richest draught of the Rhine ! 
 
 Let the beaded ripples flow, 
 
 And the liquid rubies glow 
 On the wave divine. 
 
 This is the draught for me, 
 
 And my burning spirits crave it : 
 
 By the warm soft waves of a southern sea 
 
 Grew the purple fruit that gave it. 
 The seed was warmed in the bosom fair 
 Of a laughing maiden, whose golden hair 
 
 Was wreathed with such leaves as crown the bowl 
 And the white sun filled all the liquor rare 
 
 With a soul. 
 
A DEATH-SONG. 
 
 And the vines of that vineyard above the rest 
 Were purple and heavy ; but one was best, 
 And of all its clusters full and fair 
 The richest was sought for my goblet there. 
 It was plucked by a maid from the drooping vine ; 
 And now it is with us ! Then pour the wine, 
 Till I taste of the soul of the sunny Rhine, 
 And live in its life ; for death is nigh ; 
 I must sing one song before I die. 
 
 See, how the goblet is brimming o'er, 
 
 And the ripples are leaping to greet the light ! 
 Leap ! When ye saw the day before, 
 
 The crone that is shading her fading sight 
 From the light ye love, was a leaping child, 
 And her laughter wild 
 
 Was sweet as the songs of the maidens three, 
 Whose soft white limbs, to the supple knee, 
 Were red as they pressed this wine for me. 
 Leap ! for the days of their song are o'er, 
 And ye shall be seen in the light no more, 
 And I shall be still as you or they, 
 Ere the hills are dyed with the dawn of day. 
 
A DEATH-SONG. 
 
 Strike the lyre for me ! 
 And oh, for a harp of a thousand strings 
 To swell with the strain that my spirit sings ! 
 
 A strain that is meet with such wine to be. 
 As a hundred suns and a hundred showers, 
 And a hundred odours of Rhineland flowers, 
 
 Were given to ripen this cup of wine ; 
 So many a joy and many a pain, 
 And many an all but perfect strain, 
 
 Were given to swell in this song of mine. 
 Deep in the bass must there ever be 
 The low sweet sound of the saddened sea, 
 
 And the piercing wail of the sweeping wind : 
 And over it alj must the triumph swell 
 Of the song that was heard, as poets tell, 
 When Bacchanals tasted the stored bliss 
 Of a wine that was less divine than this. 
 
 The notes of triumph thrill my mind ; 
 And I long for the sound of striving men 
 And singing maidens to rise again 
 O'er the sea's deep bass; fora strain of the sea 
 Alone is meet with such wine to be. 
 
A DEATH-SONG. 
 
 Before I die 
 
 I must sing one song : what shall it be, 
 To be meet to chime with the strain of the sea, 
 
 To be sung when such wine is nigh ? 
 A song of round limbs gleaming bare 
 With opal light, and of yellow hair 
 Wreathed with purple clusters fair ? 
 A song of the Thracian mountain-crests, 
 And of Bacchanals staining their snow-white breasts 
 With the crimson blood of the fruit divine ? 
 A song of the mighty god of wine, 
 Pouring his gifts on the plain for men ? 
 Nay I shall sing not of him again ! 
 This goblet is better than his could be : 
 Then what is god Bacchus to thee or me ? 
 
 Nay, I shall sing of one I know ! 
 
 For her alone do the rubies glow 
 
 In the light-sought deeps of this cup of wine, 
 
 And for her alone is this song of mine. 
 
 I shall sing my song to the rose below ; 
 
 And the breezes that rich with its sweetness blow 
 
A DEATH-SONG. 
 
 Shall carry my song o'er the hills away, 
 
 Till the time when their brows are red with day. 
 
 They shall blow on her cheek and her forehead fair, 
 
 And then they shall leave in her gleaming hair 
 
 The scent of my song and the rose ; when I 
 
 Have passed away as the rose-leaves die. 
 
 And the morning, star, that is looking down 
 
 On the purple sheen of my goblet's crown, 
 
 Shall gleam with one wine-red ray, as he dies, 
 
 On the morn-grey light of her opening eyes. 
 
 This is the song that is meet to be 
 
 Sung with the strain of the deathless sea ; 
 
 This is the song that, in death divine, 
 
 I shall sing, with a cup of this peerless wine ! 
 
DOUBT. 
 
 I KNOW, O Lord, that I am small to thee ; 
 
 That very weak my strongest faith appears ; 
 
 That very feeble are my doubts and fears ; 
 But these weak fears, O God, are strong in me. 
 I am not gifted with the strength I see, 
 
 For this I thank thee, Lord, in him who sears 
 
 My doubt-sore soul with bitter words, or sneers, 
 Or thanks that all his creeds untroubled be. 
 I look into my soul, my Lord, and there 
 
 I only trust the clearness of thine eye 
 Viewing the darkening floods, where not the glare 
 
 Of all earth's noons can show the deeps that lie. 
 Is there no time when all the waves are fair, 
 
 Save in the shallow seas that glass the sky? 
 
SIN. 
 
 WILT thou reject me, Lord, for that one stain 
 
 Which fell upon the mirror of my soul ? 
 
 Must it destroy the brightness of the whole ? 
 Wilt thou deny the wholesome latter rain 
 For but one tare amid the thriving grain ? 
 
 See, Lord, but one blot dyes the snowy roll ; 
 
 But one small rent is in the silken stole ; 
 Wilt thou not wear it, then, when thou dost reign ? 
 Alas ! the blight is on me, and my heart 
 
 May not by knife or burning saved be. 
 The spotted peach, for which the gardener's art 
 
 Is bootless, speaks to me, " My brother, we 
 Have both slow rotted from one poisoned part : - 
 
 And shall God break His laws to humour thee ? " 
 
'SURSUM CORD A: 
 
 "<Sursum Corfca/' 
 
 I SEE the triple mountain capped with snow ; 
 
 Above the clouds the peaks to Heaven rise, 
 
 The silver-shining summits kiss the skies, 
 And, lost in glory, spurn the earth below. 
 The sunlight clothes them in a golden glow, 
 
 While, o'er the lake, the gliding Zephyr sighs; 
 
 Below, the earth in all its beauty lies ; 
 Above, the grey clouds float and breezes blow. 
 E'en so, my heart, despising all that bears 
 
 The taint of earth, mount up, nor linger here : 
 One soul is godlike, that which ne'er despairs 
 
 To gain the height of heights, devoid of fear : 
 The grandest point on earth the spirit dares 
 
 Is but a step to reach a higher sphere. 
 
 MAC GILLYCUDDY'S REEKS, 
 March, 1874. 
 
SARSFIELD AND WALKER^ 13 
 
 Sarsfieto antr TOalfeer. 
 
 ERE the moon fled before the morning hours, 
 
 My spirit flew to that ecstatic shore 
 
 Where heroes who have passed, their warfare o'er, 
 Lead a new life in unimagined bowers ; 
 And there two walked among unfading flowers, 
 
 This clad in mail, and that a cassock wore : 
 
 One fought at Limerick, till the streets ran gore, 
 The other held fair Derry's maiden towers. 
 I wondering asked them why with linked hands 
 
 They roamed together ; and a halo shed 
 Its light around at their serene reply : 
 " Since our weak earthly bodies died, the bands 
 
 Of misty form, that severed us, are dead ; 
 
 But love and truth, which join us, do not die." 
 
I 4 SONNET. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 O MAIDEN mine, though loving were a sin, 
 
 Though each fond word were black as murder's 
 stain, 
 
 Though each kind deed were as the sin of Cain, 
 Still, if I hoped thy gentle heart to win, 
 My soul, untaught before, would then begin 
 
 To worship at love's shrine ; my busy brain 
 
 Would still invent some mode in which to gain 
 Thy better love than that of kith or kin. 
 And then, perchance, thou would'st believe that I 
 
 Did love thee with a love surpassing love ; 
 But now, when loving is no sinning, why 
 
 Will not thy heart to mine responsive move ? 
 Thou wilt not even love me ; I would die, 
 
 If by my death my loving I could prove. 
 
SONNET. 15 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 THE soldier, captive mid a foreign band, 
 Desires to see his country's flag once more ; 
 The sailor, wrecked upon a barren shore, 
 
 Paces the brown and sultry desert strand, 
 
 And looks out o'er the waste of wave- wet sand, 
 And o'er the waves (which ever rise and roar 
 With the same restless passion as of yore), 
 
 Longing to see again his motherland. 
 
 So I, my darling, when from thee apart 
 Amid the city's thousand joys and cares, 
 
 Felt a warm constant longing fill my heart 
 
 To see again the depths of those grey eyes, 
 Whose lightest love-glance was a worthy prize 
 For all my work, a goal for all my prayers. 
 
16 THE SONG OF THE SKYLARK. 
 
 Song of tfje 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 I WATCHED the little lark rise up from earth, 
 
 And pour his glad notes from his panting breast, 
 Singing the song of all sweet songs the best, 
 
 The song that tells the beauty of the birth 
 
 Of Love, fair king of sorrow and of mirth. 
 And, as he sang, he hovered o'er his nest, 
 As watching for his loved one's least behest. 
 
 What his song said, I knew ; and felt the dearth 
 
 Of words to tell the glorious mystery 
 
 That filled my heart ; but as I mused, thine eyes 
 Shone on my soul, and it burst forth in song 
 
 That blended with the lark's pure melody: 
 
 So my soul sang to thine, amid the strong 
 Sweet music of the bird that knows the skies. 
 
THE SONG OF THE SKYLARK. I; 
 
 Song of tfje Sftglarfe. 
 
 UP ! Up ! Up ! 
 
 To the realms of the Sun and Moon ! 
 
 Up ! Up ! Up ! 
 To the eyes of golden-haired Noon ! 
 
 With song welling forth like wine from the cup, 
 The Skylark soars on earth-scorning wings, 
 Singing a song -all of heavenly things ; 
 And this is the strain of the song that he sings. 
 
 " Leaving earth below, 
 
 Earth, all toil and sorrow, 
 To the land I go 
 
 Of a glad to-morrow. 
 Fairer than the snow 
 
 On the hills at morning ! 
 Brighter than the glow 
 
 Evening's sky adorning ! 
 
i8 THE SONG OF THE SKYLARK. 
 
 Better than the best 
 
 Of the bright stars seven ! 
 
 Dearer than the rest 
 
 Brought by dewy even ! 
 
 Loved-one of my breast ! 
 Rise with me to Heaven ! 
 
 " Darling, I can see 
 
 Earth and wave below me ; 
 White ships riding free 
 
 On the billows foamy ; 
 White waves leap to greet 
 
 Rippling inland fountains ; 
 White clouds drop to meet 
 
 Purple-crested mountains. 
 Cliff and rock and sea, 
 
 All are fair as morning ; 
 All are but, to me, 
 
 Gems thy crown adorning* 
 Love, I sing to thee, 
 
 All earth's beauties scorning. 
 
 " Come, my darling, come ! 
 Leave the earth behind thee ; 
 
THE SONG OF THE SKYLARK. 19 
 
 Leave thy ground-built home ; 
 
 Leave the ties that bind thee ; 
 Leave the toil of earth ; 
 
 Leave its care and sorrow ; 
 This will be our birth 
 
 To a glad to-morrow ! 
 Come to me ; we'll fly 
 
 Where the stars are shining, 
 To the lands that lie 
 
 Past the sun's declining, 
 To the fields on high 
 
 Bright as gold's refining. 
 
 " Come with me, my love ; 
 
 Fly from earth to Heaven, 
 To the home above 
 
 Of the sweet stars seven. 
 Wilt thou not ? Then down, 
 
 Down from Heaven I hover; 
 To thy bosom brown 
 
 Drops thy panting lover. 
 In thy humble nest 
 
 Near the drooping willow, 
 
 c 2 
 
THE SONG OF THE SKYLARK. 
 
 Safely I will rest 
 
 Listening to the billow, 
 While thy heaving breast 
 
 Is my head's soft pillow/' 
 
THE WAVE. 
 
 THE Billows were tossing in fierce commotion, 
 
 Clasping the careless Air, 
 When a young Wave rose from the depths of Ocean, 
 
 The home of her sisters fair: 
 The wild Wind wooed her fiercely 
 
 From the moment of her birth, 
 But he never could taste the longed-for bliss, 
 For she fled from his hated, chilling kiss, 
 
 She fled to the heartless Earth. \ 
 
 But the arrow-peaked rocks were cruel pillows 
 
 For the head of the gentle Wave ; 
 And Earth cast her back among the billows,- 
 
 He cast her back to her grave. 
 Before she sank in the Ocean, 
 
 She leaped once more to his breast : 
 " O love, there is bliss in a death like this ; 
 I die on thy bosom ! " One last short kiss, 
 
 And she sank to eternal rest. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 In JHemortam. 
 
 U. G. E. 
 OUit March i*]th, 1877. 
 
 A BRIGHT one spake to me, "Cease from thy tears ; 
 They will not draw thy darling back again ; 
 
 They will not give to gladden thy sad ears 
 Her loving voice ; or bring to ease thy pain 
 Her hand's soft touches ; why dostthou complain 
 
 vVith fruitless weeping and with idle sorrow ? 
 
 Forget thy grief to-day, and smile to-morrow." 
 
 My heart made answer, ere my lips could speak : 
 " Unearthly one, thou know'st not death or birth ; 
 
 Thou hast not dwelt with us ; and dost thou seek 
 To still the weeping of a child of earth ? 
 I do not envy thine unthinking mirth : 
 
 But get thee hence, and learn what sorrows be, 
 
 And then, when thou hast wept, come comfort me." 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 23 
 
 I weep because our darling lately died 
 In this sweet month of yellow daffodils, 
 
 When the green trees have donned their tufted pride, 
 And the slight willows bend to kiss the rills, 
 And the gay robin his pure love-song trills ; 
 
 When all began to feel the holy breath 
 
 Of living spring, our darling tasted death. 
 
 I see the early violets droop and die ; 
 
 They fall in youth, the children of a day ; 
 But all together on the cold earth lie ; 
 
 Some do not live, while others pass away. 
 
 Our darling died with no such fate as they ; 
 In the soft spring-time's fair and sunny hours, 
 Alone she fell among her sister flowers. 
 
 I weep because the clinging woodbine fades, 
 And the pale daisy dies, but for the year : 
 
 I weep because the comely woodland maids 
 Gather fresh roses ere the leaves are sere : 
 And the slight violets shall again appear. 
 
 But when sweet spring brings back the cooing dove, 
 
 Thou shalt return to me no more, my love ! 
 
24 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 The robin sings as sang he yester-eve ; 
 
 ^The crocus blooms as bloomed it yester-morn ; 
 The swaying oaks and beeches do not grieve ; 
 
 The stars look down unchanged and not forlorn ; 
 
 Perchance the spirits view my tears with scorn : 
 But I am not a spirit or a tree, 
 But a still loving heart that weeps for thee. 
 
 I watch the young moon floating in the sky, 
 A silver boat in golden-isled seas ; 
 
 Her silent-gliding prow is passing by 
 
 The gleaming shores of the sweet Pleiades ; 
 God send the beauteous boat a guiding breeze ! 
 
 For I am sure that it is bearing thee 
 
 To my bright heaven-isle to wait for me. 
 
 To my sweet heaven-isle where all is bright, 
 
 And true friends meet there, never more to part ; 
 
 Men call it Sirius ; and the guardian sprite 
 Sends his soft light into my inmost heart : 
 I know that there shall end all pain and smart : 
 
 And gazing on it oft, I long to be, 
 
 My loved-one, in that happy home with thee. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 25 
 
 For here the earth is loveless, and the sea, 
 Unmindful of thee, swells with joyous waves ; 
 
 But they, my best-loved friends, are laid with thee, 
 Forgotten by the world, in lonely graves. 
 On earth, we are but time's and chance's slaves. 
 
 Then let me dry my tears and hide my sorrow, 
 
 In the sweet longing for a glad to-morrow 
 
26 MEMORIES. 
 
 JHetnories. 
 
 PINK blossoms of woodbine seared with age, 
 
 And a leaf of ivy dried and sere ; 
 Their life-blood is staining the yellow page 
 
 Of a book unopened for many a year : 
 
 They were plucked in the glen when we walked alone : 
 And your arms were filled with the wild red rose, 
 
 And the ferns I tore from the stream-bathed stone, 
 And guelder-rose shedding its heaped snows. 
 
MEMORIES. 27 
 
 II. 
 
 My darling, my lost one, I seem to forget thee, 
 As earth hath forgotten thee, long, long, ago : 
 
 The woods are as wild as the day that I met thee ; 
 The hills are as bright in their mantles of snow : 
 
 But these are the woods and the hills far away, dear, 
 
 From where I first met thee ; they knew not the 
 
 dead : 
 And I feel that the trees which remember that day, 
 
 dear, 
 Are watching in vain for the sound of thy tread. 
 
 Are watching in vain, dear, and vainly are weeping, 
 And blossoms are peeping in vain through the 
 
 grass, 
 By the brown-bouldered banks where soft Caragh is 
 
 sleeping, 
 To waken, my darling, no more as we pass. 
 
 I never can know ; but I feel they regret thee : 
 I bade them farewell, darling, long, long, ago : 
 
 And I, with the earth, even seem to forget thee ; 
 But hast thou forgotten ? I never can know. 
 
28 MEMORIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 I have sinned, and hidden 
 The secret in my breast : 
 
 It hath sprung unbidden 
 Forth, to haunt my rest. 
 
 I have sinned, and weeping 
 
 Cried in bitter pain, 
 While I waked ; and, sleeping, 
 
 Waked to weep again. 
 
 Thou art ever near me ; 
 
 Thou my sin hast known ; 
 But, my darling, hear me ! 
 
 Leave me not alone ! 
 
 Something thou canst see, dear, 
 
 Deeper far within ; 
 'Tis my love for thee, dear ; 
 
 Guard me from my sin ! 
 
: WE SING NOT THE SONGS OF OLD." 29 
 
 " Me Sing not tfje Songs 
 
 THEY sang of all things ; songs for joy and sorrow, 
 And songs for small and great, for old and young, 
 
 And songs for feast to-night, for joust to-morrow ; 
 No hero's bier or bridal was unsung. 
 
 They sang of all things ; children in the meadows 
 Playing 'mid daisies' silver, cowslips' gold ; 
 
 Men toiling in the autumn's sun-red shadows ; 
 And tranquil rest and quiet for the old. 
 
 To-day they sang the war-song, 'mid the rattle 
 Of pagan arrows by wild eastern seas ; 
 
 To-morrow sang the praise of rest from battle, 
 In arbours slumberous with the hum of bees. 
 
 The music of wild birds in greenwood singing 
 Spake to the minstrels, " Brothers, bear your par f 
 
 In praise with us ;" the bells at sweet eve ringing 
 Blended with solemn music in each heart. 
 
30 " WE SING NOT THE SONGS OF OLD." 
 
 They sang to all things ; to the ship spice-laden, 
 The bird swift-flying to the waiting nest, 
 
 The youth war-willing, and the spinning madden, 
 The babe soft-sleeping on the milk-white breast. 
 
 And all things living, flowers that sleep at even, 
 Sweet-laden bees, and sweeter-burdened men, 
 
 Maids on low earth, and angels in high heaven, 
 Joined in the chorus with the minstrels then. 
 
 But we have learned to sing of deeper wonders 
 Than those which spring from glad earth's living 
 breath ; 
 
 With bared breast facing heaven's awful thunders, 
 Our minstrels ever sing that life is death. 
 
 We feel his shadow fill the air around us ; 
 
 We see it falling ever o'er our sight ; 
 We know that at our birth that shadow found us, 
 
 And, ever since, hath watched us day and night. 
 
 And day and night we sing the same dread story 
 Of death, in joy and sorrow, peace and strife. 
 
 But shall we ever share the final glory 
 
 Of those who saw and sang that life is life ? 
 
11 WE SING NOT THE SONGS OF OLD.' 1 31 
 
 They sang of all ; the great and small together ; 
 
 Seizing the weakest ray amid the dark, 
 Like diamonds that gleam in blackest weather, 
 
 Or flash to glory 'neath one flinty spark. 
 
 
32 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 You live in the creed that your mother taught you, 
 Without a doubt and without a fear ; 
 
 And, trusting the love of Him Who bought you, 
 To your Father's God your soul draws near : 
 
 Like a ship that sails on a stormless ocean, 
 
 Leaving behind a barren strand, 
 And breeze- borne glides with an equal motion 
 
 To the shore of a distant lovely land. 
 
 And I know that you thank the mighty Father, 
 Who sends that breeze from His home above, 
 
 And guides you, safe from the storms that gather, 
 To rest in the haven of His love. 
 
TO A FRIEND. 33 
 
 But not for all is that peaceful sailing j 
 Not for all does that fair breeze flow ; 
 
 And the toil of the bravest is unavailing 
 
 To guide their barks in the storms that blow. 
 
 Darkness above and about and before them, 
 And wild waves surging around the sides, 
 
 And the might of the lowering tempest o'er them, 
 And the wine-dark clouds that the lightning rides : 
 
 No sign in the storm of a star to guide them ; 
 
 The rocks are rising upon the lee : 
 Though the beacon-lights may beam beside them, 
 
 In the heavy darkness they cannot see. 
 
 But when night is gone, and the day is nearing, 
 They see the land o r er the curling wave, 
 
 And their friends of old on the shore appearing 
 To welcome among them the true and brave. 
 
34 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 III. 
 
 But what of those who have bravely striven 
 With heroes 1 spirit and giants' might, 
 
 To whom the strength has not been given 
 To pierce the gloom of that awful night ? 
 
 Though many a ship the Lord doth cherish, 
 And keep in the hollow of His hand, 
 
 How many a well-manned bark doth perish 
 Far from the shore of that lovely land ! 
 
 Why does not God in the night defend them 
 From tempest's fury and surging wave ? 
 
 Why does not God in safety send them 
 
 To the haven made for the true and brave ? 
 
 We know not why : but the Lord, Who gave them 
 The storm and darkness to blind them here, 
 
 E'en at that fearful hour may save them > 
 'Mid blackened clouds and the tempest drear. 
 
 For He knows the dangers that environ ; 
 
 He sees how the frail ships toss and reel ; 
 Will ye bind His Mercy with bands of iron ? 
 
 Will ye curb His Strength with chains of steel f 
 
A MA CHERE. 35 
 
 & ma 
 
 WHEN the lamps of the sky were lighted, 
 And the moon shone bright above, 
 
 My spirit was roaming, benighted, 
 Looking for her I love : 
 
 My body was wrapped in slumber, 
 My eyelids closed from the light. 
 
 But my spirit, on ways without number, 
 Was wandering out in the night. 
 
 "Whose is the name you are speaking ? 
 
 Weary one, will you not tell 
 Who is the one you are seeking ? 
 
 How may we know her well ?" 
 
 " I will whisper her name at even, 
 
 Or breathe it at dawn of day ; 
 And the planet that rules in heaven 
 
 Shall carry my thoughts away, 
 D 2 
 
36 A MA CHERE. 
 
 To rest in her pure white bosom, 
 And sleep on her eyes of light : 
 
 I will tell my thoughts to a blossom, 
 And send it to her by night ; 
 
 She shall taste of its fragrance, telling 
 
 Of vows that are known above, 
 And her heart 'neath the flow' ret swelling 
 
 Shall give to me all its love." 
 
 Then they laughed with light lips of scornim 
 
 And mockingly pointed at me ; 
 And I wandered on till the morning, 
 
 And woke without finding thee ! 
 
A POET TO HIS MISTRESS. 
 
 to fits JHistress. 
 
 CLOSER to me, my darling ; let thy loving hands 
 
 clasp mine ; 
 Look in my eyes, my darling, with those dove-soft 
 
 eyes of thine ; 
 Speak to my heart, my darling, with thine own 
 
 heart's constant beat ; 
 While I lie on the rock and listen, my love, to thy 
 
 murmurs sweet. 
 
 Thou would* st have me sing to thee, heart-loved ? 
 
 Alas ! I can sing no more ; 
 The songs are gone, and for ever, that I sang thee 
 
 in days of yore, 
 Ere I knew all the songs of the Ocean, the songs of 
 
 the Hill and Plain ; 
 And can I, knowing their music, sing my puny songs 
 
 again ? 
 
38 A POET TO HIS MISTRESS. 
 
 Thou hast taught me the songs of the Ocean : for he 
 
 ever sings of thee ; 
 And all things join in the chorus with the voice of 
 
 the aged Sea ; 
 And his full deep music is hallowed with the sound 
 
 of thy name, my sweet, 
 As he climbs on the rock's hard ledges to kiss, my 
 
 darling's feet. 
 
 Thou hast taught me the song that the sad wind 
 
 sings in the summer grass ; 
 'Tis to thee ; and I hear the green trees whisper to 
 
 thee as we pass ; 
 And the sweet pale flowers scatter their scent in a 
 
 song to thee, 
 As this rose ; and see, I have kissed it, if perchance 
 
 it may speak for me. 
 
 I heard the voice of a skylark, as I sang at the dawn 
 
 of day, 
 And I knew that a spirit was singing to wile thy soul 
 
 away ; 
 And I hushed my song to silence, as I lay on the 
 
 grassy ground, 
 Lest the spirit should hear me singing, and know 
 
 where my love is found. ,. 
 
A POET TO HIS MISTRESS. 39 
 
 Listen, my love, to the singing of birds and wind 
 
 and sea ; 
 Listen, my love, to their singing, and think that they 
 
 sing for me ; 
 For I know that my puny heart-songs would fall 
 
 from my lips in vain, 
 If I strove, amid the strains of those great ones, to 
 
 sing my songs again/ 
 
40 WAKING. 
 
 COLD fingers clasped in mine, 
 
 Cold fingers of a friend, 
 A friend for aye beloved 
 
 Unto the long world's end. 
 
 I dreamed of kisses warm ; 
 
 I could have sworn they passed 
 'Twixt your hot lips and mine, dear : 
 
 But I have waked at last : 
 
 Have waked to know that pain 
 And love-grief have an end : 
 
 I died to our old love-life, 
 And live again, thy friend. 
 
MALO MORI. 41 
 
 Jftalo JKort 
 
 IT is better to die than live, for life is the name of 
 
 sorrow, 
 And we gather our pleasures to-day, to give them to 
 
 death to-morrow, 
 And we sit in the shadow, and weep for the joys 
 
 that are lost for ever, 
 And the friends that shall come back, never ! 
 
 It is better to die than live, for death is the end of 
 
 weeping ; 
 We shall dream as the high God dreams, in his 
 
 everlasting sleeping ; 
 Our dreams shall be joys and friends, as his is the 
 
 world, for ever ; 
 
 They shall vanish at waking, never ! 
 
 
42 TWO. SWEET MA YS. 
 
 Sfoert Jftags. 
 
 THY hair was dark as night, love ; 
 Thy bosom soft and white, love ; 
 And bright thine eyes as light, love ; 
 Last sweet May. 
 
 Primrose and oxlip bell, dear, 
 Sweet in the shade-loved dell, dear ; 
 And fell my sin as hell, dear, 
 Last sweet May ! 
 
 The grave is sheer and steep, love ; 
 And hell is dark and deep, love ; 
 'Tis better sleep than weep, love, 
 This sweet May. 
 
 The world is morning-grey, dear ; 
 But God is good as day, dear : 
 That He may slay me pray, dear, 
 This sweet May. 
 
' DON'T YOU REMEMBER ? " 43 
 
 " 3@on't jfou Eemem&er? " 
 
 DON'T you remember that sunny day 
 (In spring the groves sweet blossoms bear), 
 
 We crowned her once with the silver may ? 
 Hawthorn boughs for a maid to wear. 
 
 Don't you remember that evening, now 
 (The summer woods rich odours bear), 
 
 Laburnum and lilac upon her brow ? 
 Purple and gold for a queen to wear. 
 
 Don't you remember another morn, 
 
 (The autumn winds pale dead leaves bear), 
 
 When she lost the blossom to find the thorn ? 
 Thorns are a crown for sin to wear. 
 
 Don't you remember a death of pain 
 (The winter storms sad wailings bear), 
 
 When the love that was lost was found again ? 
 Hawthorn boughs for the pure to wear. 
 
44 IL TRAVIATO. 
 
 E Cra&tato. 
 
 GOLD in the sun shone the gleaming gorse 
 That glowed on the barren strand ; 
 
 And gold in the sun shone the hair of a corse, 
 As it lay on the white sea-sand. 
 
 The lark in the heavens ceased to sing : 
 But the curlew shrieked the clearer, 
 
 And the raven whirled on his dusky wing, 
 And the white gull circled nearer ; 
 
 And the full sea moaned with a woman's moan, 
 As soft to her breast she drew him : 
 
 But the wind in the mountains laughed alone, 
 As she laughed alone that slew him. 
 
A 7 ALE OF THE REBELLION. 45 
 
 of tfje 
 
 IT was the time when summer died, 
 And seemed the sweeter as she faded, 
 When evening clouds the valleys shaded,- 
 
 I knelt upon the mountain side. 
 
 The sun had set ; one little rim 
 Still rose above the waters lowly ; 
 I watched the red tip sinking slowly, 
 
 I watched it, waiting there for him. 
 
 For he had promised once again 
 To meet me there before we parted, 
 And I was waiting, broken-hearted, 
 
 To see him coming up the glen. 
 
 He came, he leaped the narrow stream ; 
 He came, we spake not long together, 
 For, o'er the dry and purple heather, 
 
 We saw his comrades pike-heads gleam. 
 
46 A TALE OF THE REBELLION. 
 
 And then I thought his shone more bright, 
 And watched it through the glooming weather, 
 Till all, across the swelling heather 
 
 Slow marching, faded from my sight. 
 
 My heart fled from me, kneeling there ; 
 But, though my soul was sad and lonely, 
 I thought, " I'll pray for Ireland only ; " 
 
 And then I breathed a bitter prayer. 
 
 I knelt and prayed for victory : 
 
 I prayed yet scarce my prayer was spoken, 
 That, though my own heart might be broken, 
 
 My friends my people might be free. 
 
 And when the midnight shadows fell 
 
 They found me ; and I vowed to Heaven 
 My heart as sacrifice, that even, 
 
 For Ireland, whom I loved so well. 
 
 A month had fled, and Autumn rose ; 
 The dying leaves were slowly falling, 
 And wailing winds were sadly calling 
 
 Their loves, the winter storms and snows. 
 
A TALE OF THE REBELLION. 47 
 
 And then, one eve, across the plain, 
 
 And up the mountain's shaggy heather, 
 All blinded by the pelting weather, 
 
 I watched them marching back again. 
 
 Their work was o'er ; the rain-dimmed sun 
 Showed joy on all the faces round me; 
 But I alas, my sorrow bound me, 
 
 And all who left were there, save one. 
 
 God gave them peace ; but, even now, 
 He whom I loved, and loved him only, 
 He bent beneath the gallows lonely ; 
 
 And God had listened to my vow. 
 
48 S1RIUS. 
 
 String. 
 
 WHEN sweet-eyed spirits round the windows hover, 
 At the first breathing of the gloaming grey, 
 
 And the soft shadows of the evening cover 
 The sins and sorrows of the dying day ; 
 
 Then the sad moon, in nightly penance dreary, 
 Crosses the pathless desert of the sky, 
 
 And hastes, with pallid face and footsteps weary, 
 A soul that may not rest and dare not die. 
 
 But when she sinks beneath the rim of Ocean, 
 And hastens to her home afar from earth, 
 
 To hide her silent sorrows in devotion, 
 
 The sweet stars glitter with a fresher mirth. 
 
 They look on us with glances true and tender, 
 Piercing our spirits with their sleepless eyes ; 
 
 And one among them shines with tenfold splendour, 
 Brighter than all the children of the skies. 
 
SIRIUS. 49 
 
 Prince of all the gleaming sons of Heaven ! 
 
 Leader of the glad celestial host ! 
 Thou art to me the dearest joy of even ; 
 
 Thou art the friend my spirit longs for most. 
 
 1 know that thou canst hear me vainly calling, 
 
 In that undying heaven where thou art ; 
 I know that thou canst see my sad tears falling ; 
 
 1 know that thy keen sight can read my heart. 
 
 Wilt thou not speak to me, O child of glory, 
 And tell me why my heart so yearns for thee ? 
 
 I know that thou canst tell me all our story, 
 All that we knew ere earth began to be. 
 
 Thou wilt not speak ! And yet I love thee, spirit, 
 More than I love the children of this earth ; 
 
 And when I shall, in my last days, inherit 
 The dim great halls of him who knows no mirth, 
 
 Let me be laid where, in the flower-strewn meadows, 
 Over my head the long lush grass shall wave, 
 
 And do thou come with the soft midnight shadows, 
 And look upon me in my silent grave. 
 
 
50 THREE FRAGMENTS. 
 
 Jftafltnents. 
 
 THE CASTLE. 
 
 I BUILT a castle upon a steep 
 
 By a stately river's side ; 
 And black and stormy and broad and deep 
 
 Was that unattempted tide. 
 And I said to my soul, " For rest and sleep 
 
 Is this ever-silent tower : 
 
 For the wings of darkness with magic power 
 Brood on the battlements frowning high, 
 And the turrets are built in the silent sky, 
 Far from the noise of the earth, and above 
 All that you fear and hate and love : 
 And the river, flowing dark and wide, 
 Shuts you in with its murky tide : 
 
 So nought that you dread can enter here ; 
 
THREE FRAGMENTS. 51 
 
 And sound there is none save the wavelets breaking, 
 Far, far, below ; and the night-owl waking, 
 
 When the white moon rises in heaven clear. 
 
 Then sleep ! 
 
 For here in life is the peace of the grave." 
 And my soul looked down on the silent wave 
 From the castle-top. (From tower to sky, 
 From the cliff to the top of the turret high, 
 From the wave to the cliff's o'erhanging crest, 
 
 None of these heights was less or more 
 Than the depth of the blackening billow's breast, 
 
 And the breadth of the river from shore to shore.) 
 
 My soul was silent and ceased to weep, 
 For hope and fear were away for ever, 
 As far from her as sky from river ; 
 
 And soon sweet sleep 
 Hovered above her a silent spectre, 
 With a cup of gall and a vase of nectar ; 
 And Joys and Griefs in countless number 
 Floated around their mistress Slumber. 
 
 All was vain ! 
 
 The cliff and the walls and the turrets steep, 
 And the iron rocks and the river deep, 
 
 2 
 
THREE FRAGMENTS. 
 
 To shut out the children of Bliss and Pain, 
 Who tread in the steps of Thought, or of Sin; 
 For where Sleep can pass they can enter in. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 And first they fled to a green-cliffed isle, 
 Set like a star in the heaven of Ocean ; 
 
 V 
 
 Around it the sea-green wavelets smile, 
 
 And the sea-breeze fans it with placid motion. 
 No mortal eye hath seen it ever, 
 And a mortal foot shall tread it never: 
 For the glamour and spells of the moon surround u, 
 And by day-time the mists of Ocean bound it, 
 And the eyes of the mariners who pass 
 
 Are blinded by charms of might ; they see net 
 The waves that rise on the gleaming grass, 
 
 And the flowers that in all earth's countries be not. 
 For every blossom is sweet with scent, 
 
 And every breeze is with perfume laden, 
 And the sky hangs o'er like an azure tent : 
 
 The unseen isle, like a hiding maiden, 
 
THREE FRAGMENTS. 53 
 
 Stands in trie midst of its cloudy veil : 
 None has ever trod it, save spirits pale 
 Who share in the ever-blessed boon 
 Of the love of the daughter of the Moon. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE DEATH OF TYRANNY. 
 
 Then they fled away through the silent night, 
 
 Till they saw o'er the waves the lightnings flash, 
 And the storm-clouds flashing with lurid light, 
 
 And the sound of the awful thunder-crash. 
 Then my soul was filled with a sudden fear, 
 For her guide and she were drawing near 
 
 To the midst of the fury and turmoil. 
 But the moon-maid spake, " Am I not beside thee ? 
 Nothing of evil shall betide thee : 
 
 It is not for thee that the billows boil ; 
 Not for thee are the lightnings flashing, 
 Not for thee is the thunder crashing ; 
 But heaven and earth are joined in one 
 To crush the might of a tyrant's throne." 
 
54 THREE FRAGMENTS. 
 
 Then they pierced the depths of the stormy cloud, 
 Through the midst of the thunder pealing loud, 
 Through the midst of the lightning flashing bright, 
 And the beating rain of the wintry night. 
 And they saw that the waves were rushing o'er 
 A peaked rock on an iron shore. 
 
 N 
 
 The blasts of lightning cleft and tore it, 
 
 And the beating rain and storm- wind wore it ; 
 
 But still it lifted its steely form 
 
 Through the frowning heights of the raging storm. 
 
 And on its top was a woman bound, 
 
 Chained by her hands to the rugged ground. 
 
 Around her were beating the blasts of heaven, 
 
 And from overhead the planets seven 
 
 Seemed to look on. her fall and sadness 
 
 With rays that told of their joy and gladness : 
 
 And eagles, carried upon the storm, 
 
 Shrieked and pecked at her prostrate form. 
 
 And the songs of the nations filled the air ; 
 
 For maidens and stately men were there, 
 
 From all the corners of all the world, 
 
 'Neath Liberty's lightning-flag unfurled. 
 
 They filled the air and they filled the skies, 
 
THREE FRAGMENTS, 55 
 
 And sang, " She is conquered now at last ! 
 She has fallen, never more to rise ! 
 Bind her, ankle, and wrist, and throat, 
 
 To her lofty rock bind her sure and fast : 
 She shall never more o'er the dark sea float; 
 Never again shall we feel the harm 
 Of her glance, or the stroke of her mighty arm. 
 Sorrow and pain shall she send no more 
 To the hearts and dwellings on every shore. 
 Let her live unpitied in bitter pain, 
 And look for a refuge or help in vain ; 
 As she to us all long since has done, 
 Be it done to her till the death of the sun ! " 
 And the moon-maid laughed at the gnawing pains 
 Of the tyrant that writhed in her iron chains. 
 My soul was sick at the sight, and strove 
 
 To fly to the help of the panting maid : 
 
 One word in her ear her guardian said, 
 Which froze up the founts of pity and love ; 
 'Twas the victim's name : 
 
 And she said, " The bliss 
 
 Of revenge like this 
 
 I would buy with a year in burning flame." 
 
56 KING LOVE. 
 
 Iting ILofee. 
 
 THE gods, as some old poets sing, dear, 
 Found out that young Love was a King, dear ; 
 So they made him a throne of the red, red, gold 
 But the chill of the metal hard and cold 
 Took the blush from his rosy wing, dear. 
 
 They vowed that a monarch so great, love, 
 Should be robed in the mightiest state, lov ; 
 
 So with purple and ermine they wrapped him round, 
 But Love cannot live when his wings are bound ; 
 So they found out their error too late, love. 
 
 Their gold and their garments were fine, dear, 
 But they saw that Love could not but pine, dear ; 
 And though he is King of this rolling ball, 
 They found that the very best throne of all 
 For Love is in your heart and mine, dear. 
 
CUPID CAGED. 
 
 Cupttr Cagetr; 
 
 " O LOVE, thou hast dwelt in my cottage, 
 
 And nestled all day in my breast ; 
 Of the sweets of the wood and the meadow 
 
 I spared not to give thee the best. 
 I brought thee fresh dew of the valley, 
 
 And spoils of the golden-mailed bee, 
 In the silvery cups of white lilies ; 
 
 But all are untasted by thee." 
 
 " Fair maiden, though sweet is the honey, 
 
 And sweet is the dew from the flower, 
 Yet the food that I live on is sweeter 
 
 Who nestle with thee in thy bower. 
 I feed on thy rosy lips* kisses, 
 
 Or banquet alone on thy sighs ; 
 Or I revel from dawning to sunset 
 
 Till drunk with deep draughts from thine eyes/ 
 
58 THE INVOCATION OF VENUS. 
 
 Invocation of Fenus. 
 
 O GODDESS of laughter and sighing, 
 
 Thou giver of pleasure and pain, 
 Of wisdom that's seasoned with folly, 
 
 Of madness that throbs in the brain ; 
 Who dwellest in palace and hovel, 
 
 Who rulest in cottage and tower ; 
 O'er heroes who charge in the conflict, 
 
 O'er maidens who weep in the bower. 
 We own thee, the mighty, the awful, 
 
 The Queen of the timid and brave ; 
 Who burnest the breast of the monarch, 
 
 Who rendest the heart of the slave ; 
 We know thee ; we feel thee ; we fear thee ; 
 
 More dread, in thine anger, than fire ; 
 Oh, visit us not in thy fury ! 
 
 Oh, shatter us not in thine ire ! 
 
THE INVOCATION OF VENUS. 59 
 
 But come to us, gentle and dove-like, 
 And not in thy splendour and might, 
 
 As thou cam'st to the shepherd Anchises, 
 All beaming with heavenly light. 
 
 When Eris cast into the banquet 
 
 The Hesperidan apple of gold, 
 Through the midst of the mighty Celestials, 
 
 To the feet of their monarch, it rolled. 
 He took it, and read, "To the fairest," 
 
 But dreaded the wrath of his bride ; 
 And a mortal decided the contest 
 
 On Ida's deep-shadowed side. 
 So down from their thrones in the Heavens, 
 
 The goddesses swept to the Earth, 
 From the bridal of golden-haired Thetis, 
 
 From feasting and dancing and mirth. 
 They came to a glade in the forest 
 
 Of Ida, the mother of trees, 
 Where the elm and the pine and the cypress 
 
 Are swayed by the murmuring breeze. 
 And Hera came down in her chariot, 
 
 With the mien and the air of a Queen ; 
 And Pallas, whose cold blue eye glittered 
 
 As bright as the far-flashing sheen 
 
60 THE INVOCATION OF VENUS. 
 
 That shone from the joints of her armour, 
 
 In the gleam of the god of the day ; 
 And she looked, in her helmet, like Ares 
 
 The King of the bloodthirsty fray. 
 Then Paris, the noble, the god-like, 
 
 Was stricken with awe at the sight ; 
 And the woodland was covered with glory, 
 
 Encircling the goddesses bright. 
 
 But when thou didst descend on the mountain, 
 
 The amaranths sprang at thy feet, 
 And mossroses grew in thy footsteps, 
 
 And lilies and violets sweet : 
 The primrose and pink were thy carpet, 
 
 And tulips of yellow and red ; 
 And woodbine entwined with the myrtles 
 
 And cypress, to shelter thy head. 
 Thy limbs were like ivory polished ; 
 
 Thy bosom, as foam on the rills ; 
 And thy cheeks as the rose of the sunset 
 
 That shines on the snow-covered hills. 
 Then Paris, the noble, the god-like, 
 
 Rejoiced in the light of thine eyes, 
 And he looked not at Pallas or Hera, 
 
 But gave thee, Venus, the prize. 
 
THE INVOCATION OF VENUS. 61 
 
 And thou wert the goddess who bore him 
 
 To Sparta, the land of the free ; 
 From the fountains of shadowy Ida, 
 
 O'er the waves of the silvery sea : 
 To fill him with love of fair Helen, 
 
 The beautiful queen of his host ; 
 Till his city was burned into ashes, 
 
 And honour and glory were lost. 
 
 O goddess, thou only art mighty ; 
 
 Thou only art Queen over all, 
 The beggar who pines in his hovel, 
 
 The noble who feasts in his hall. 
 Thine are the charms which encircle 
 
 Our hearts with a manacle strong ; 
 The charms of soft glances of passion, 
 
 The charms of sweet fragments of song ; 
 The charms of low murmurs and sighings, 
 
 Of kisses that pierce to the soul 
 Black tresses that float on the breezes, 
 
 Bright eyes that can dart and can roll. 
 Then dwell with us, Venus, we pray thee ; 
 
 Without thee, we live but in vain : 
 Dispenser of joy and of sorrow, 
 
 /.nd giver of pleasure and pain ! 
 
62 PARIS. 
 
 LIFT me gently, hero brothers , 
 Lay me where my dying eye 
 
 May behold the sunny forests 
 Where the western breezes sigh. 
 
 Let me, once more, see Scamander 
 
 Gilded by the setting Sun ; 
 Ere he sinks on Ocean's bosom, 
 
 When his daily course is run. 
 
 He shall rise again to-morrow, 
 Beaming with his wonted light ; 
 
 But for me, when day is ended, 
 Nought is left but endless night. 
 
 Night ! aye, night without a morrow ! 
 
 Sleep, from which I ne'er shall wake ! 
 Bring me water, brothers ; water ! 
 
 Till my burning thirst I slake. 
 
PARIS. 63 
 
 Where is now Laconian Helen, 
 Beaming with her sunny smiles ? 
 
 Curses on her radiant glances ; 
 Curses on her winning wiles ! 
 
 Curses on the day I landed 
 On the King of Sparta's strand ! 
 
 Curses on the bark that bore me 
 O'er the waves to Hellas' land ! 
 
 Would that Zeus had, with his lightning, 
 Sunk it deep beneath the wave ! 
 
 Would that 'neath the blue ^Egean 
 I had found a watery grave ! 
 
 Or that, on the day my mother 
 Hapless mother! brought me forth, 
 
 Some fire-breathing wind had swept me, 
 Scorched and lifeless, from the earth ! 
 
 " Helen prays to see me, longing 
 
 To behold my face again " 
 Sooner would I clasp an adder 
 
 Than endure the stinging pain 
 
64 PARIS. 
 
 And the anguish of her presence, 
 Or her voice's hateful tone ; 
 
 And her face, though once beloved, 
 Now, to me, has odious grown. 
 
 I remember, when QEnone 
 
 Held my head upon her knee ; 
 
 From Mount Ida to the sunset 
 None were happier than we ! 
 
 I was then a simple shepherd ; 
 
 Now, a palace is my home : 
 Yet I'd rather dwell on Ida 
 
 Than beneath this lofty dome. 
 
 Once the sun was shining brightly, 
 When I plucked a blushing rose, 
 
 Placed it in CEnone's bosom, 
 
 Spake, " E'en thus my passion glows.' 
 
 Scarcely had she touched the flow'ret 
 When there came a gentle breeze, 
 
 Blew the light and tender petals 
 Far o'er Ida's thousand trees. 
 
PARIS. 65 
 
 " Ah, my Paris" said the maiden, 
 
 " If the rose were not so gay, 
 Then, perchance, it might have longer 
 
 Bloomed beneath the summer ray ; 
 
 " Better is the true devotion 
 
 Of the sun-flower to the sun : 
 He looks down on many others, 
 
 She looks up to only one ! 
 
 " Thou hast sworn that when CEnone 
 
 Is not dearest to thy soul, 
 Xanthus, backwards, to his fountains 
 
 Shall his golden waters roll. 
 
 " Yet I know that thou wilt leave me, 
 And wilt seek a foreign shore ; 
 
 But, ere Death has closed thine eyelids, 
 Thou shalt see my face once more." 
 
 Now the dews of death are rising 
 On my forehead pale and cold ; 
 
 Soon my body shall be lying 
 
 Lifeless 'neath the yellow mould, 
 F 
 
66 PARIS. 
 
 And I cannot die in quiet 
 Till I see her once again ; 
 
 Nought, save her beloved presence, 
 Can relieve my burning pain. 
 
 Lift me gently, hero brothers, 
 Bear me to GEnone's side ; 
 
 All my ancient love returning 
 Bears me on its rushing tide ; 
 
 If I live, that life is only 
 
 Pleasant which my darling shares 
 If I die, then Death is welcome, 
 
 If (Enone's life he spares ! 
 
SONG. 67 
 
 Song. 
 
 WHITHER away, whither away, golden-armoured Bee ? 
 " Over the fields, over the fields, to a Rose that is 
 
 loved by me ; 
 
 For my bosom glows with love of the Rose." 
 
 Happy Bee ! 
 
 Whither away, whither away, silver-vested Boat ? 
 " Over the waves, over the waves, on the white sea- 
 foam I float 
 
 In the arms of a kind and loving Wind." 
 
 Happy Boat ! 
 
 Whither away, whither away, joyous-beating Heart ? 
 " Over the hills, over the hills, till I join and never 
 
 part 
 
 With the Maiden sweet whom I long to meet." 
 
 Happy Heart ! 
 
 F 2 
 
68 SONG. 
 
 Song. 
 
 COME away, come away, 
 From a land where the poor are the children of 
 
 sorrow, 
 And wearily long for a lingering morrow 
 
 To banish the wrongs of a wretched to-day ; 
 From a land that is woe to the humble and lowly, 
 Where joys there are none save in pleasures unholy, 
 
 Come away ! come away ! 
 
 Come away, come away, 
 O'er a sea where the soft breeze shall gently blow 
 
 o'er thee, 
 And Heaven in the blue waves be mirrored before 
 
 thee, 
 
 And warm sunbeams kiss thee the whole of the day ; 
 Where at night on the waters the moonlight is 
 
 beaming 
 
 On the silvery bridge o'er the ripples a-gleaming ; 
 Come away ! come away ! 
 
SONG. 69 
 
 Come away, come away, 
 
 To an island, the hope of the lingering morrow, 
 Where rest is awaiting the children of sorrow, 
 
 And nought shall be known of the wrongs of 
 
 to-day ; 
 We shall dwell in the flower-woods, humble and 
 
 lowly, 
 
 Nor dream of the rich and their pleasures unholy ; 
 Come away ! come away ! 
 
70 THE SPIRIT OF SUMMER. 
 
 Spirit of Summer. 
 
 SPIRIT of the Summer night, 
 
 Wrapped in breezes flower-scented ; 
 
 Hovering (when the moon gleams bright 
 Like a white-robed queen, blue-tented), 
 
 O'er the lightly-rippled stream, 
 
 Where thine unseen footsteps gleam 
 
 On the silver bridge that leads 
 
 Far from earth to dewy meads : 
 
 Where the simplest flower that blows 
 
 Is far fairer than the rose ; 
 
 Where sweet odors from the trees 
 
 Hover in each gentle breeze ; 
 
 And the humblest song bird there 
 
 With the skylark might compare. 
 
 Spirit of the Summer night, 
 All the placid streams do greet thee ; 
 
THE SPIRIT OF SUMMER. 
 
 And the wavelets, gleaming bright, 
 
 Throb, and rise, and leap to meet thee. 
 Praying thus, they cry to thee, 
 11 O'er thy bridge of silver, we 
 Long to flee afar, to rest 
 In thy land, where all are blest. 
 Bear us on thy wings sublime, 
 Bear us, spirit, to that clime/' 
 Spirit of the Summer night, 
 Bear me to that country bright : 
 There I would for ever be, 
 If 'twere but to dwell with thee ! 
 
72 THE SPIRIT OF WINTER. 
 
 Spirit of Winter . 
 
 SPIRIT of the Winter wild, 
 
 Crowned with rays of flashing lightning ; 
 Sister of the Summer mild, 
 
 O'er thy path of snow-fields bright'ning, 
 Hasten to the ice-built dome, 
 Where the storm-winds have their home : 
 Glacier-columns stand below ; 
 And, above, a roof of snow, 
 Silver-gleaming, flashing bright, 
 In the dawn of northern light. 
 Round it flaming circles run, 
 Painted by the scarlet sun ; 
 And, amid those circles fair, 
 Thou, O spirit, dwellest there. 
 
 Spirit of the Winter wild, 
 All the icy lakes adore thee ; 
 
THE SPIRIT OF WINTER. 
 
 Flowers, the friends of Summer mild, 
 
 Droop and fall and die, before thee ; 
 For they fear thine icy breath 
 And thy touch of freezing death, 
 As thou sweepest slowly past ; 
 After thee, the Northern blast 
 Blows the dead leaves of the trees 
 O'er a hundred stormy seas. 
 Spirit of the Winter wild, 
 Mother Nature's rudest child, 
 With thy storm blasts o'er the sea 
 Bear my sorrows far from me. 
 
74 DEATH. 
 
 O LORD, Thou hast given us Life 
 
 And the clinging of heart to heart, 
 Hate, and the wounds of Strife, 
 
 Love, with a keener smart, 
 Joys that are but for an hour, 
 
 And Grief to cleave us in twain, 
 And Hope, with a healing power, 
 
 To render us whole again ; 
 To purge man's heart from his sorrow, 
 
 And raise him again if he fall ; 
 To point to a happier morrow ; 
 
 And we thank Thee, Lord, for them all. 
 
 We thank Thee for holy Rest, 
 When toils of the day are done ; 
 
 For Reason, to choose the best, 
 And Sight, to behold the sun : 
 
DEATH. 
 
 We thank Thee for Labour meet 
 
 Of hand and of heart and mind ; 
 For Sleep ; and the visions sweet 
 
 That follow his feet behind : 
 For Love, though his eyes are sad, 
 
 And he breathes with a poisoned breath, 
 And he smites when our hearts are glad ; 
 
 But we thank Thee most for Death. 
 
 How sweet, to a love-lorn maiden, 
 
 Is Sleep with its visions bright ! 
 Though her soul is with sorrow laden, 
 
 It rests in the gentle night. 
 She hears a voice in her ear, 
 
 Ere she wakes again to weep ; 
 And she sees a form that is dear, 
 
 Unseen, save in blessed Sleep. 
 But in that sweet Sleep of all, 
 
 That form shall she ever see, 
 And that voice on her ears shall fall 
 
 Through ages eternally. 
 
 How sweet, when the day is done, 
 Is Sleep to the weary brain ! 
 
76 DEATH. 
 
 We glory in pleasures unwon, 
 
 And wake but to find them vain. 
 But in that last soft sweet Sleep 
 
 Countless the joys we shall find ; 
 How long and how high and how deep ! 
 
 Unknown to an earthly mind. 
 Faces of lost ones dear 
 
 Shall hover around us again ; 
 And the bliss that we hoped for here ; 
 
 Nor waking, to find it vain. 
 
 We thank Thee, Lord, for the Joys 
 
 Thou hast given on earth to man ; 
 Though too fast his pleasure cloys, 
 
 And his days are but a span : 
 We thank Thee for Love and Strife, 
 
 And the glancing of happy eyes, 
 For the burning bliss of Life, 
 
 And Reason, that never lies. 
 We thank Thee for Friends that are dear ; 
 
 We thank Thee for living breath ; 
 For our Knowledge and Pleasure here ; 
 
 But we thank Thee most for Death ! 
 
MEMENTO ET SPERA. 
 
 JHemento et 
 
 WHEN first we met, her step was light, 
 As we walked by the sounding sea; 
 
 And the white-foamed billows, in sunset bright, 
 Re-echoed sweet minstrelsy : 
 
 But the sound of her voice was as sweet to me, 
 
 And brighter her eyes than the sun-dyed sea. 
 
 We met again, and her cheek was pale, 
 
 As we sat by the moaning sea, 
 Which ever sounded a sad soft wail 
 
 Of mournful minstrelsy : 
 And still her voice was as sweet to me 
 As the gentle sound of the silver sea. 
 
 We shall meet again ; in a lovely land, 
 
 By the shore of a crystal sea, 
 And hear the strains of a holy band 
 
 Of angel minstrelsy : 
 
 And her voice shall again sound as sweet to me 
 As it sounded of old by the glorious sea. 
 
78 FRIENDS THAT ARE GONE. 
 
 Jfrientrs tfjat are 
 
 WHERE hast thou borne them, Death, the friends 
 
 whom we loved and cherished, 
 The eyes that glowed and shone with the light 
 
 and fire of truth ? 
 Has the health-flush left those cheeks ? Have the 
 
 rippling hair-waves perished, 
 That lay like crowns on the brows that beamed 
 
 with the blood of youth ? 
 Are those sweet voices hushed, that once, when hope 
 
 was high, 
 Re-echoed with silver laughter in years that have 
 
 gone by ? 
 
 Where hast thou borne them, Death ? Mid blos- 
 soms with honey laden, 
 
 Do they hear the songs of birds that have not a 
 mortal birth ? 
 
 Where pleasant trees drop odours on youth and 
 on happy maiden, 
 
FRIENDS THAT ARE GONE. 79 
 
 Do they wander in woodlands fairer far than those 
 
 of earth ? 
 Where weariness sinks into rest ; where pleasures 
 
 never cloy : 
 And the sounds of the summer streams are songs of 
 
 ceaseless joy. 
 
 Where hast thou borne them, Death ? I hear the 
 
 sea-breeze sighing, 
 
 Still ; and the sound of laughter rides on the 
 wings of the wind, 
 
 Still ; but another laugh, that is dead and yet undy- 
 ing, 
 
 And a still small voice re-echo of days that are 
 left behind. 
 
 From whence are those sweet tones wafted, King of 
 our souls ? and where 
 
 Does that rippling laughter float on the silken sum- 
 mer air ? 
 
 Where hast thou borne them, Death ? Thou earnest 
 
 in robes of glory, 
 
 And beauty and brightness shone from the orbs of 
 thine azure eyes ; 
 
8o FRIENDS THAT ARE GONE. 
 
 Not as thou comest, with rest, to the head that is 
 
 bent and hoary ; 
 Not with the crown of fame that thou makest the 
 
 soldier's prize : 
 With lovely looks thou did'st lure them out of the 
 
 light of day, 
 And lead them, with lover's wiles, to thy kingdom far 
 
 away. 
 
 Where hast thou borne them, Death ? Oh, speak 
 
 from thy bosom hollow ! 
 Lift up, at length, the veil that lies on thy brow of 
 
 snow ! 
 Thou hast taken our friends away, O Death, and 
 
 how can we follow ? 
 Thou hast taken our friends, and where thou hast 
 
 laid them how can we know ? 
 Bring them not back to this earth of parting and 
 
 grief again, 
 But bring us to where they rest, to the land where 
 
 dwells no pain ! 
 
JOAN OF ARC AT THE STAKE. 81 
 
 3toan of &rc at tfje State. 
 
 To the stake ! To the stake ! 
 
 The witch to the stake ! 
 
 Let us hear the winds play 'mid the flames ! why 
 delay 
 
 To hurry the witch to the stake ? 
 Bring her forth from the gaol 
 To the faggots dire 
 And the death of fire : 
 Ha ! witch, does thy courage fail ? 
 
 To the stake ! to the stake ! 
 Holy pleasure we take 
 
 In the death of the God-hated : 
 Bring her forth : let her see 
 To what wage and fee 
 
 Witches are fated, 
 a 
 
82 JOAN OF ARC AT THE STAKE. 
 
 Mid the roll of drums that mock her, she comes 
 
 In her flashing mail. 
 White ! were not black more meet 
 For the winding sheet 
 Of the servant of sin ? And upon her brow 
 Her helmet gleams in the sun's white beams : 
 Witch, doth thy master aid thee now ? 
 Does her courage fail ? 
 No ; her cheek is pale, 
 But she stands as straight as e'er she stood ; 
 And with steadfast eye she looks on high : 
 
 Can a witch pray to God ? 
 I know not : perchance 'tis to Satan her master 
 She prays to defend her from death and disaster! 
 Witch, he hath failed thee at last ! 
 And we hold thee fast, 
 
 Nor can Hell's black bands loose from our hands 
 Thee, doomed to the stake ! 
 To the stake ! to the stake ! 
 
 And the helm on her brow ! 
 Smite it off! smite it off! and now 
 Let us see her shake 
 In fear of death. 
 
JOAN OP ARC AT THE STAKE. 83 
 
 No, she draws her breath 
 
 More calmly than we : 
 
 And about her, see 
 
 How her golden hair floats on the wind ! 
 Is her beauty from Hell ? Then Hell is kind : 
 
 Agnes Sorel is not so fair, 
 
 Her forehead is bare, 
 
 Unruffled by fear or sorrow. 
 
 What ! doth she not dread the morrow 
 In flames of Hell ? or earthly fire 
 To-day ? 
 
 What doth the priest say ? 
 
 " Wreak ye your ire 
 
 In torments of fire 
 On the victim fated ! 
 
 'Tis true she is fair : 
 
 What need ye care ? 
 She is not the less hated 
 
 By God and man. 
 
 Many fairer fell to be servants of Hell !" 
 Ah ! witch, thy earthly span 
 
 Is well-nigh done ; 
 
 Thy course is run 
 G 2 
 
S 4 JOAN OF ARC AT THE STAKE. 
 
 Of sin and of Satan's work. 
 Thou canst not shirk 
 
 The last dread stage of fire ; 'tis well 
 
 If thy soul 'scape Hell ! 
 
 She is bound to the stake ; 
 Those chains will break 
 Her tender limbs ; beware, lest ye take 
 Their prey from the flames as ye smite her ! 
 Fire the faggots now ; the blaze will light her 
 Out of the earth. 
 And sing ; for mirth 
 Is due when a witch is slain ! 
 We should joy in her pain, 
 When she feels the rod of an angry God. 
 Fire the pile ! Fire the pile ! 
 Let her body vile 
 Be consumed in the flame, 
 And the witch's name 
 Perish for aye ! 
 
 What is this ? The witch would pray ! 
 She is filled with fear for her soul ; is a 
 crucifix here ? 
 
JOAN OF ARC AT THE STAKE. 85 
 
 What should she want with the holy rood ? 
 In her hand 'twere useless wood ! 
 
 How the soldiers laugh 
 As she wishes to pray ! 
 The priests keep away, 
 For her soul is lost. 
 See ! a soldier takes 
 
 A walking- staff: 
 
 Will he smite her ? No, he breaks 
 And binds it with twine, 
 
 And the fragments crossed 
 Form the blessed sign. 
 There, witch, is a cross for thee ! 
 Pray quickly ; for we 
 
 Will not be delayed : 
 We have come to see thee die ! 
 
 Her prayer is said. 
 
 Fire the pile ! Fire the pile ! 
 How the flames mount on high ! 
 
 For many a mile 
 The blaze can be seen ! 
 How the torment keen 
 
86 JOAN OF ARC AT THE STAKE. 
 
 Of the fiery flame 
 
 Thrills through her frame ! 
 
 To such a doom God-hated 
 Witches are fated. 
 
TURKEY AND SERVIA. 
 
 ana Serbia. 
 
 AN APPEAL TO BOTH HOUSES. 
 July, 1877. 
 
 MY Lords and Gentlemen, the East is red 
 With blood of battle and with slaughter dire : 
 
 On Christian flesh the Turkish hounds are fed ; 
 And Christian roofs are prey for Moslem fire ; 
 
 And Christian blood like water flows ; but then, 
 
 'Tis not your blood, my Lords and Gentlemen ! 
 
 The Turk is tyrant o'er a hapless land ; 
 
 He wrings the tribute from his helpless slaves ; 
 They toil for him and for his robber-band ; 
 
 One rest they have, in their dishonored graves. 
 Their sons are torn away and slain ; but then 
 They* re not your sons, my Lords and Gentlemen ! 
 
88 TURKEY AND SERVI A. 
 
 And in the eve, when day's sore toil is done, 
 
 The Christian slave has rest from his hard lot : 
 
 But, in the glowing of the setting sun, 
 
 He sees the red flames of his burning cot, 
 
 His children slaughtered ; and his wife but then 
 
 Your wives are safe, my Lords and Gentlemen ! 
 
 He strikes the tyrant, battling for the right ; 
 
 You watch the conflict safely from afar : 
 What is it to you which may win the fight ? 
 
 Save that investments totter during war ! 
 You have for birthright what he claims ; and then 
 You need not care, my Lords and Gentlemen ! 
 
 My Lords and Gentlemen, I have been told 
 That England helped the slave to break his chain, 
 
 Giving to aid him both her blood and gold, 
 To blot out from the earth a damning stain : 
 
 It was not many years ago ; but then 
 
 You did not rule, my Lords and Gentlemen ! 
 
 My Lords and Gentlemen, keep close the sword 
 
 Of help within its gilded shield, and pray 
 That, when your day of trouble comes, the Lord 
 
TURKEY AND SERVIA. 
 
 May look on you as you look on, to-day, 
 At his poor servant's dying pangs ; and then 
 Sleep with pure souls, my Lords and Gentlemen ! 
 
90 RUSSIA AND POLAND. 
 
 Russia antr 
 
 " Vengeance is mine, I will repay : " 
 saith the Lord. 
 
 Is the blood-red sword of Vengeance 
 
 Sheathed, in the Heavens high ? 
 Is Truth but an idle fable ? 
 
 Is Justice but a lie ? 
 Is God but a madman's raving, 
 
 The dream of an idiot's brain ? 
 That you dare to scoff at your sister, 
 
 When she cries in her bitter pain. 
 
 You have taken her diadem falsely, 
 And cast her down from her throne, 
 
 And seized on her fertile acres, 
 To add them all to your own ; 
 
 Like Ahab, whose own fair vineyards 
 
RUSSIA AND POLAND. 91 
 
 But widened his wild desires, 
 Till he murdered righteous Naboth 
 For the heritage of his sires. 
 
 But there, where the blood of Naboth 
 
 Was poured on the cursed sod, 
 His slayer was also stricken 
 
 By the hand of a righteous God ! 
 The guilt of that one red murder 
 
 Drew down the Avenger's sword : 
 O slayer of thousand-thousands, 
 
 Will you flee from the hand of the Lord ? 
 
 No ! though the Lord may linger 
 
 And the feet of His coming be slow, 
 At last He will raise up the wronged ones 
 
 And lay the usurper low : 
 For Truth can never be vanquished ; 
 
 And Justice can never lie ; 
 And the tyrant can never escape it, 
 
 The Vengeance that comes from on high ! 
 
92 THE FONTENOY VETERAN. 
 
 Jfontenog Feteran. 
 
 [A veteran of the Irish Brigade, returned to his home on the shore 
 of Lake Caragh, County Kerry, describes to his grandchildren the 
 Battle of Fontenoy.] 
 
 YES, Garrett, my armour is dusty ; 
 
 My helmet is shorn of its crest ; 
 In its scabbard my good sword is rusty 
 
 And well has it earned its rest ! 
 
 Full oft, in the thickest of danger, 
 That blade has been flashing, my boy : 
 
 It has drunk of the blood of the stranger 
 On the field of the great Fontenoy ; 
 
 When the cry, " Think of beautiful Ireland ! " 
 Was heard through the midst of the fight, 
 
 And we struck down the foes of our sireland ; 
 Then, Norah, that corslet was bright. 
 
THE FONTENOY VETERAN. 93 
 
 How gaily Lake Caragh is shining, 
 
 Unrippled by wavelet or breeze ! 
 The beams of the sun-god, declining, 
 
 Are tinting the mountains and trees. 
 
 And see how the water is beaming 
 With sparkles of green and of white, 
 
 And the flashes of red that are gleaming 
 On the face of the mirror all bright! 
 
 And hark, how from vast Carraun * Tuathill 
 
 The eagles are screaming afar ; 
 And the Reeks stand, like sons of fMacCumhaile, 
 
 White-crested and panting for war ! 
 
 t 
 Ah ! children, you see but the flashing 
 
 And gleam of the sun on the lake, 
 Where the ripples round Oulaght are plashing, 
 
 And the tall fir-trees quiver and shake : 
 
 But I see again the red battle 
 
 When the Roses were dabbled in gore, 
 
 * Pro. " Tual." t Pro. " MacCual," 
 
94 THE FONTENOY VETERAN. 
 
 And, through flame and through musketry's rattle, 
 The Lily and Shamrock we bore. 
 
 The spring-time the woods was adorning 
 The birds were all singing in joy, 
 
 When we rose, at the dawn of the morning, 
 In sight of the fair Fontenoy. 
 
 And we saw how our foes were advancing ; 
 
 Their red banners shone in the light, 
 And the glittering sun-beams were glancing 
 
 From helmets and sabres all bright. 
 
 And then, how each hero's heart bounded 
 'Neath corslet and green-braided vest ! 
 
 When the notes of the trumpet resounded, 
 What passions were stirred in each breast ! 
 
 Each thought of the green shores of Erin, 
 Of mountain, and foam-sparkling lake ; 
 
 Of his once happy home ; and the tear in 
 His mother's fond eye, for his sake ! 
 
THE FONTENOY VETERAN. 95 
 
 Each thought of the altars forsaken, 
 
 Of Sassanach sabre and fire ; 
 When he heard the drum's rattle awaken 
 
 The depths of his slumbering ire. 
 
 We shouted, " For Erin ! " and springing 
 To saddle, each drew his bright blade : 
 
 The cheer in my ear is still ringing 
 That rose from the " Irish Brigade ! " 
 
 We charged, like a torrent that, rushing 
 From deep mountain-glens to the sea, 
 
 Tears down the tall rowan-trees, crushing 
 The branches and trunks in its glee. 
 
 The Sassanach quailed, and we drove them 
 
 Before us, like dust in the wind ; 
 And the sky 'gan to thunder above them, 
 
 The Irish and Death were behind ! 
 
 The evening star saw us returning 
 With laughter and triumph, my boy ; 
 
 But deep was the sorrow and mourning 
 In England, for red Fontenoy. 
 
9 6 THE FONTENOY VETERAN. 
 
 Around our gay bivouac sitting, 
 That even, we laughed in our glee : 
 
 We slept, and the dream-shadows flitting 
 Declared that our country was free. 
 
 The vision was gone with the morrow ; 
 
 The wrongs of our island remained : 
 And we woke up again to our sorrow, 
 
 And wept for fair Erin enchained. 
 
 But still, we had driven before us 
 The British, like chaff in the gale ; 
 
 One such battle would surely restore us 
 To mountain, and river, and dale, 
 
 If we fought with the green banner streaming 
 
 Above us, the green sod below, 
 And our own sun-burst brilliantly gleaming 
 
 To light our array 'gainst the foe. 
 
THE FONTENOY VETERAN. 9; 
 
 Ah! children, my hair has turned hoary ; 
 
 The vigour has fled from my hand ; 
 No more, in the fore-front of glory, 
 
 Can I fight for my dear native land. 
 
 But look at that lake, and those mountains, 
 Our forests and sweet purling rills ; 
 
 And hark to the roanof the fountains 
 
 That rush down our snowy-capped hills. 
 
 Our mountains, our forests, no longer ! 
 The land was ours once, to the sea : 
 
 In the days when the Right was the stronger, 
 In the days when fair Erin was free. 
 
 Her sons are the bravest in danger ; 
 
 Her daughters, the fairest on earth: 
 Then, say, should the hand of a stranger 
 
 Still rule o'er the land of our birth ? 
 
 H 
 
A BEAM of the grey light lingered, 
 And danced at my darling's feet, 
 
 When she stooped in the dale, and lingered 
 'Mid violets purple-sweet ; 
 
 And my song with the dawn-light lingered 
 On the parted lips of my sweet. 
 
 The violets faded for ever, 
 
 But faded on her white breast ; 
 The light of grey dawn for ever 
 
 In her morn-lit eyes found rest : 
 And my song may be lost for ever 
 
 From the world, if but there it rest. 
 
TRANSLATIONS FROM GREEK POETS. 
 
jfrom tije Baccfjae of (flhtrtptoes* 
 
 Chorus. Parados. 
 STROPHE I. 
 
 FROM Asia r s plains and Tmolus' sacred hill 
 I come ; in Bromius' honour I fulfil 
 
 Sweet toil and labour dear, 
 
 While mighty Bacchus I revere. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE I. 
 
 From road, from house, come out and join our band ! 
 Let every Bacchant pure and holy stand : 
 
 For as the Gods decree 
 
 Shall Dionysus worshipped be. 
 
 STROPHE II. 
 
 How blest is he who knows the godly rites, 
 Who leads a pious life, and who delights 
 
102 FROM THE BACCH^E OF EURIPIDES. 
 
 His soul with holy dances on the hills, 
 When pure he stands and washed in sacred rills ! 
 Who honours the orgies of Kybele grand 
 With crown of green ivy, and thyrsus in hand, 
 
 And worship due to Bacchus pays ! 
 O Bacchants! O Bacchants! bring Bromius here, 
 Whom, God and the son of a God, we revere, 
 
 To Hellas' wide and spacious ways ! 
 From Phrygian hills to Grecian homes, 
 Bacchus himself, the mighty, comes ! 
 
 ANTISTROPHE II. 
 
 Whose mother bore him, ere his destined hour, 
 
 Delivered by the winged lightning's power ; 
 
 His natal day was still with sorrow rife, 
 
 The flaming thunderbolt consumed her life ! 
 
 But Zeus him received in his thigh, and concealed 
 
 (Lest his birth should to Hera the proud be revealed) 
 
 With clasps of finely-fashioned gold. 
 When Fate had ordained, he brought him to light, 
 The bull-horned God, and his coronal bright 
 
 Was snakes in many a gleaming fold ! 
 And thence the Maenads in their hair 
 The beast-devouring serpents wear. 
 
FROM THE SACCH^E OF EURIPIDES. 103 
 
 STROPHE III. 
 
 O Thebans, the nurses of Semele fair, 
 The garlands of ivy entwine in your hair : 
 Abound in the yew with its berries all bright, 
 And make yourselves Bacchants with oak and 
 
 with pine, 
 And sew on your garments of fawn-skin so light, 
 
 The bunches of wool, and locks snowy and fine : 
 And consecrate around the saucy wands : 
 The whole earth soon shall join our joyous bands ! 
 When Bacchus the orgies shall lead, 
 
 Away ! to the hill ! to the hill ! 
 At his bidding a crowd of fair women attend, 
 Removed from the shuttle and loom at his 
 will. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE III. 
 
 O chamber of darkness in hallowed Krete ! 
 Where Zeus had his dwelling the Kuretes' seat ! 
 Whose triple-plumed priests once invented for me 
 The circlet of leather which sounds in my hand : 
 They mingled their shouts with the happy and free, 
 And musical pipes of the Phrygian band. 
 
104 FROM THE BACCH^E OF EURIPIDES. 
 
 To Rhea then they gave the leathern round, 
 
 With Bacchic cries and revels soon to sound. 
 
 The Satyrs, insane in their joy, 
 
 Obtained it from her by request ; 
 Its sounds in their revels triennial inspire 
 Deep pleasure and joy in our Bacchus' s 
 breast ! 
 
 j . 
 
 EPODOS. 
 
 When, on the lofty mountain's brow, 
 The Bacchant flings to earth, ah, how, 
 
 How mighty is his joy ! 
 From bands of revellers he springs ; 
 In sacred fawn-skin clad, he sings 
 
 His bliss without alloy : 
 
 His pleasure is the slaughtered he-goat's blood, 
 Whose flesh, uncooked and bleeding, is his food : 
 From Phrygian, Lydian, shores he crossed the sea : 
 Great Bromius our leader is : Evoe ! 
 
 The plain, beneath the mountains, 
 
 Is spread, a milky sea ; 
 With wine are filled its fountains, 
 
 And nectar of the bee ; 
 Like a Syrian censer's fume. 
 
FROM THE BACCHJE OF EURIPIDES. 105 
 
 The Bacchant whirls a torch of pine : 
 
 Upon his thyrsus see it shine ! 
 Room for the Bacchant ! Room ! 
 
 He directs the wandering dance, 
 
 Raging in a frenzied trance, 
 And shaking his beautiful hair to the wind : 
 Such songs with his music and shouts are combined ; 
 11 Come, Bacchanals, come ! the delight of the 
 
 land 
 
 Of Tmolus, the mount of gold, solemn and grand ! 
 In praise of your God let the rattling drums sound : 
 With Phrygian shouts wake the forests around ! 
 Evce ! to the God who delights in Evce ! 
 When sweetly the lotos, that hallowed tree, 
 Its music harmonious and sacred distils, 
 With the Bacchants away ! to the hills ! to the 
 
 hills ! " 
 
 As a colt with its dam rushes wild o'er the lea 
 The Maenads exult in their Bacchanal glee. 
 
io6 FROM THE HECUBA OF EURIPIDES. 
 
 JJtom tfje 5?ecuim of <S5urtptoes. 
 
 Choral Ode (avpa, Trwrias avpa). 
 STROPHE I. 
 
 BREEZE of the ocean, breeze of the sea, 
 
 That bearest afar o'er the briny foam 
 The ships that swift on their white wings flee, 
 
 Where is the wretched home 
 That e'en now waits o'er the swelling wave 
 For me a slave ? 
 
 Is it in the Dorian land ? 
 
 Or where, on.Phthia's strand, 
 The fields with the richest of plenty glow, 
 
 And Apidanus' river-children flow ? 
 
 ANTISTROPHE I. 
 
 Or shall I fly with sea-sweeping oar 
 
 To one of the isles in the far-off sea, 
 Where palm-trees tall, ne'er seen before, 
 
FROM THE HECUBA OF EURIPIDES. 107 
 
 And laurel, sacred tree, 
 O'er Leto fair their branches spread 
 On her child-birth bed ? 
 
 Shall I dwell in those sad shades ? 
 
 Or, with the Delian maids, 
 Shall I hymn the bow of Artemis fair 
 
 And the golden fillet that binds her hair ? 
 
 STROPHE II. 
 
 Or, in the city where Pallas rules, 
 
 In fair- throned Athena's saffron cloak, 
 
 With subtle working of mingled threads 
 Shall I the steeds to the chariot yoke ? 
 
 Or shall I picture the Titan brood, 
 
 Whom the Son of Kronos lulls to sleep, 
 To slumber long and slumber deep, 
 
 With his fire that burns the blood ? 
 
 ANTISTROPHE II. 
 
 Woe to our children ! And woe, our sires ! 
 
 And woe to the land that gave us birth ! 
 Captive, enslaved by Argive spears, 
 
 And smitten, in clouds of smoke, to earth ! 
 
io8 FROM THE HECUBA OF EURIPIDES. 
 
 But I must dwell by a foreign sea, 
 And, a captive, cross the ocean wave ; 
 For Asia now is Europe's slave : 
 
 Or Death shall my bridegroom be ! 
 
THE EPITAPH OF BION. 109 
 
 JJtom JKosdjus. 
 
 " The Epitaph of Bion." 
 
 SING, springs, a dirge ; lament, O Dorian wave ; 
 
 Ye rivers, weep o'er lovely Bion's grave : 
 
 Join in our sorrow, every tree and leaf; 
 
 Ye blossoms, bow your clustered heads in grief; 
 
 And you, red roses, and anemones, 
 
 Weep for the lord of rustic melodies : 
 
 In the sad strain unite, O flower blood-red, 
 
 Fair hyacinth ; the tuneful youth is dead 1 
 
 Maids in the hills of Sicily who reign, 
 Song-loving Muses, raise the mournful strain ! 
 Ye nightingales, who, 'mid the thick leaves sing, 
 Among the glens by Arethusa's spring, 
 Tell all your fellow-birds that he is dead, 
 The sweet-voiced herdsman, and with him has 
 fled 
 
THE EPITAPH OF BION. 
 
 The soul of music ; and the Dorian strain 
 Is lost, for Bion cannot sing again ! 
 
 Maids in the hills of Sicily who reign, 
 Song-loving Muses, raise the mournful strain ! 
 *Swans, whose white plumage Strymon ever laves, 
 Sing your sad dirges, sailing o'er the waves, 
 Such as ye sing when your own death is nigh. 
 Let all the CEgrian damsels hear your cry ! 
 The Dorian Orpheus from the earth has fled ! 
 Tell the Bistonian nymphs that he is dead ! 
 
 Maids in the hills of Sicily who reign,-:- . 
 Song-loving Muses, raise the mournful, strain ! 
 The darling of the herd shall sing.no more ! . . v 
 Beneath the lonely oaks, in days of yore, 
 He sat and sang ; but now his only strains 
 Are songs of death where gloomy. Pluto reigns. 
 Upon the ancient mountains silence falls : 
 No soft-eyed cow to her strong comrade calls ; 
 They wander, without feeding, o'er the plain, 
 And their soft lowings mourn the gentle swain. 
 
 Maids in the hills of Sicily who reign, 
 Song-loving Muses, raise the mournful strain ! 
 
THE EPITAPH OF BION. 
 
 Apollo, and the black-cloaked Priapi, 
 
 And Satyrs, wept that thou so young should'st die, 
 
 O Bion : and the Pans for the song sighed ; 
 
 And the sweet fountains at their sources dried, 
 
 Weeping for thee. Among the rocks of yore 
 
 Fair Echo cried ; but she will cry no more, 
 
 Since she no longer can re-echo thee. 
 
 And, at thy death, the fruit fell from the tree, 
 
 And every blossom faded, and the sheep 
 
 Would give no milk, nor would the hive-bees keep 
 
 Their sweet honey ; why should they store it, 
 
 when 
 Thou can'st not come to gather it again ? 
 
 Maids in the hills of Sicily who reign, 
 Song-loving Muses, raise the mournful strain ! 
 The dolphin never grieved in days of yore 
 Among the morning waves ; never before 
 With so much sorrow did the nightingale 
 Sing on the rocks ; nor the sad swallow wail 
 On the tall mountains ; nor, upon the sea, 
 Did the gull shriek, weeping Alcyone ; 
 Never before did the white waves so ring 
 With the sad sea-mew's shriek ; nor did the winjr 
 
THE EPITAPH OF BION. 
 
 Of Memnon's bird so often beat around 
 The hero's tomb, at the first morning-sound, 
 Mourning the rosy-fingered Dawning' s son, 
 Bion, as now they mourn that thou art gone ! 
 
 Maids in the hills of Sicily who reign, 
 Song-loving Muses, raise the mournful strain ! 
 The nightingales and swallows (whom he pleased 
 And whom he taught to sing) the branches seized, 
 And sang a sad and sweetly-sounding strain, 
 Responding to each other's cries ; again 
 The other birds took up the plaintive sound ; 
 And, grieving, you, O ring-doves, cooed around ! 
 
 Maids in the hills of Sicily who reign, 
 Song-loving Muses, raise the mournful strain ! 
 O well-beloved, who shall touch the flute 
 That thy mouth kissed, since those sweet lips are 
 
 mute ? 
 
 Who is so bold ? Thy breath still fills the reeds ; 
 On thy sweet songs, within, sad Echo feeds. 
 To Pan I bear it : he can play : in dread 
 Lest thou shoulds't vanquish him, although thou'rt 
 
 dead ! 
 
THE EPITAPH OF BION. 1 1 3 
 
 MaSds in the hills of Sicily who reign, 
 Song-loving Muses, raise the mournful strain ! 
 And Galatea weeps, who once loved thee, 
 And with thee sat beside the tossing sea. 
 Thy song was sweeter than the Cyclop' s lay, 
 So lovely Galatea fled away 
 
 From him, and looked on thee with eyes of love ; 
 And now, forgetful of the waves, above 
 The sandy beach she sits on the high rocks, 
 And ever watches o'er thy scattering flocks. 
 
 Maids in the hills of Sicily who reign, 
 Song-loving Muses, raise the mournful strain ! 
 With thee must die the gifts the Muses gave ; 
 Maidens' sweet kisses cease within the grave : 
 Around thy tomb the Loves in sorrow weep, 
 And Cypris loves thee with a love more deep 
 Than that she lavished on the gentle boy, 
 Adonis, at whose death died all her joy. 
 
 Maids in the hills of Sicily who reign, 
 Song-loving Muses, raise the mournful strain ! 
 Clear-sounding stream, this is thy second grief! 
 Another woe, black river ! First, the chief 
 I 
 
1 14 THE EPITAPH OF BION. 
 
 Of all thy children, Homer died (and he 
 Was cherished by the Muse Calliope). 
 'Tis said that all thy countless streams did weep, 
 And that thy bitter wailings filled the deep : 
 And now thou mournest for a second son, 
 Sharing-the grief of many an other one ! 
 Both, of thy streams of Helicon the first 
 Drank; Arethusa quenched the other's thirst. 
 
 One sang of Tyndarus' thrice-lovely child ; 
 
 % 
 And Thetis' son, and of his anger wild, 
 
 And Menelaus, and his wretched reign : 
 
 The other sang hot war, or grief and pain, 
 
 But Pan he hymned, and pleased the shepherds 
 
 all; 
 
 And with a song he graced both herd and stall ; 
 He milked a heifer ; played upon the pipe ; 
 Taught love to those who were for loving ripe ; 
 The son of Cypris cherished in his breast ; 
 And left to Aphrodite all the rest. 
 
 Maids in the hills of Sicily who reign, 
 Song-loving Muses, raise the mournful strain ! 
 In all the cities shall thy dirges be ; 
 More than for Hesiod Askra weeps for thee : 
 
THE EPITAPH OF BION. 1 1 5 
 
 The Theban woods thee, more than Pindar, 
 
 bless; 
 
 And lovely Lesbos mourns Alcaeus less. 
 Less for Archilochus fair Paros grieves 
 Than thee ; and noble Mitylen6 leaves 
 Her grief for Sappho to lament for thee ; 
 And all in whom the poets' spirits be 
 Mourn because Bion thus untimely sleeps : 
 Sicelides, the Samian glory, weeps ; 
 And he, whose smiling eyes were fair to see, 
 Cydonian Lycidas, laments for thee : 
 Among the men who dwell by Halys' wave, 
 Philetas weaves a garland for thy grave ; 
 In Syracuse, Theocritus ; and I 
 Mid the Ausonians raise thy funeral cry. 
 No stranger am I to the rustic flute ; 
 I learned from Bion : now his voice is mute, 
 And I am left to sing the Dorian strain 
 In place of him who ne'er shall sing again ! 
 To others, master, thou didst leave thy gold : 
 To me, the song I learned from thee of old ! 
 
 Maids in the hills of Sicily who reign, 
 Song-loving Muses, raise the mournful strain I 
 
1 1 6 THE EPITAPH OF BION. 
 
 When mallows perish in the garden's shade, 
 And green parsley and curling anise fade, 
 They live again at close of winter drear ; 
 They live and flourish for another year. 
 But we, the great and strong, the prudent, die 
 But once ; and then in hollow earth we lie, 
 And, unawakened from our slumber deep, 
 We sleep a long, a never-ending, sleep. 
 But not wrapped up in silence dost thou lie ; 
 The nymphs have sent the frog to sing close by : 
 I do not envy this last minstrelsy, 
 For his sad song is no-wise sweet to me. 
 
 Maids in the hills of Sicily who reign, 
 Song-loving Muses, raise the mournful strain ! 
 Didst thou drink poison, Bion ? Could it meet 
 Such lips as thine, and not turn pure and sweet ? 
 Who mixed or gave to thee a draught so strong, 
 When thou wert speaking ? Since it 'scaped thy 
 song. 
 
 Maids in the hills of Sicily who reign, 
 Song-loving Muses, raise the mournful strain ! 
 Just is the end of all men here below ! 
 But I am weeping in my bitter woe, 
 
THE EPITAPH OF BION. 
 
 For Bion's death ; and if it might but be 
 That I, like Orpheus, could undying see 
 The depths of Hell, or like Alcides, sent 
 In days of old, or as Ulysses went ;- 
 I too would enter gloomy Pluto's door, 
 That I might see fair Bion's face once more ; 
 And if he sings for the dread King of Hell, 
 That I might hear his sweetest song as well. 
 Do thou for Cora sing some herdsman's strains, 
 Some pleasant song of Sicily's fair plains : 
 She knows the sunny slopes of JEtna well, 
 Where she has often danced ; and she can tell 
 The Dorian song ; nor will thy music be 
 Slighted by her, but as Eurydice 
 Was given back to dwell with living men, 
 So thou, O Bion, wilt return again ! 
 And, oh, if I could play the lyre as well 
 As Orpheus, I, for thee, would play in Hell. 
 
 THE END. 
 
TB 79629