BOUGHT FROM Mulhern Donation Jj THE OETRY OF IRELAND. EDITED BY JOHN BOYLE Q'REILLY, EDITOR OF "THE BOSTON PILOT;" AUTHOR OF "SONGS FROM SOUTHERN SEAS; ' " SONGS, LEGENDS AND BALLADS;" "MOONDYNE;" "THE STATUES IN THE BLOCK;" "!N BOHEMIA," AND "THE KING'S MEN: A TALE OF TO-MORROW." WITH THE PUBLISHER'S SUPPLEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION. THE WHOLE FORMING A STANDARD AND A BIOGRAPHICAL PORTRAIT GALLERY OF HER POETS. ILLUSTRATED WITH OVER ONE HUNDRED CHOICE ENGRAVINGS. NEW YORK : GAY BROTHERS & CO., 3O, 32 A 34 READE STREET. ? 9 *:*: '.. COPYRIGHTED 1887, BY JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. COPYRIGHTED 1889, BY GAT BROTHERS & Co. PUBLISHERS' ANNOUNCEMENT. " THE Poetry and Song of Ireland " is the outgrowth of a most excellent collection of poems, for which the Publishers, in 1886. secured Mr. John Boyle O'Reilly as Editor, to make such revision and additions as seemed necessary, as well as to prepare biographical notices of all the poets embraced in the work. The first edition, issued in 1887, as prepared by Mr. O'Reilly (which is retained unaltered in the present volume), was so well received that the Publishers immediately decided to greatly enlarge the scope of the work and make it a Standard Encyclopaedia of Erin's Poetry and Song." The result will be seen in the " Publishers' Supplement," beginning at page 815, wherein selections in great number and variety are given from many authors not previously repre- sented in the compilation. The biographies of the poets appearing in the " Supplement " have, for the convenience of the reader, been arranged in the same alphabetical series with those printed in the previous edition. It is believed that the present edition of " The Poetry and Song" embraces selections from a larger number of the Irish poets than has hitherto appeared in any one volume. The principle followed in admitting new selections to the present edition of the work has been to admit verses of real merit, regardless of the degree of fame enjoyed by the author. In the biographical department of the work will be found a brief sketch of each poet. If in a few instances the sketches are not as full as might be desired, we trust that the difficulty of securing material of this kind will be taken into account, as much of it has never before appeared in permanent form. In con- nection with the biographies the publishers have given portraits of all poets whose likenesses they have been able to secure, having put forth no inconsider- able effort and expense in the attempt to secure portraits of all. The Publishers are greatly indebted, and desire to express their thanks to the many friends of the work who have given aid in the preparation of the present edition, and trust that the same kindly interest and co-operation will be extended by both old and new friends for the further enrichment of succeeding editions. The Publishers are confident that the compilation will prove to be a thor oughly representative one of the best work of the Irish poets, and will fill a long felt want in giving within the com pass of one volume a collection of verse worthy of the poetic genius of the " Land of Poets." They are assured that the present edition of " The Poetry and Song " will afford to all lovers of Ireland's muse a rich symposium of the choicest fruit of Erin's bards in every land and every age. 71 205 THE EDITOR'S SHARE IN THE WORK. Upon the appearance of the first edition of "Poetry and Song," a question was raised in the public press regarding Mr. John Boyle O'Reilly's share in the work as editor, and the publishers' right to use his name. Mr. O'Reilly has not conceded the necessity and importance of his publicly correcting these ad- verse comments. Under these circumstances the publishers, as a matter of public interest, and in order to protect their reputation, think themselves just- ified, and guilty of no breach of good faith, if to settle this question beyond all doubt they print herewith, in full, a fac-simile of the document drawn up in Mr. O'Reilly's own handwriting, outlining in advance the work he deemed proper to be done. which he afterward undertook, consummated, and received pay for as stipulated. The publishers not only had full authority to use the editor's name but it was obligatory upon them to do so, as will be seen by reference to the clause in which Mr. O'Reilly wrote " my name to follow the book and copyright." If further evidence were wanting as to whether Mr. O'Reilly personally edited the volume, his desire to be held fully responsible therefor, expressed in an unsolicited letter to the publishers, dated June llth, 1886, should be con- clusive. In this letter, written upon his completion of the work, he states in re- gard to his relation thereto <; The literary part is mine, the business part yours." The entire work prepared by Mr. O'Reilly, including the biographical sketches, is retained unaltered in the present volume which also contains the " Publishers' Supplement " to the second edition. INTRODUCTION. THE many-sided Celtic nature has no more distinct aspect than its poetic one. The Celt is a born poet or lover of poetry. His mental method is sym- bolic like a Persian rather than picturesque like an Italian or logical like an Anglo-Saxon. The Poet has been more highly honored by the Irish race than by any other, except perhaps, the Jews. But the Jewish poet was removed from the masses, a man apart, a monitor, a Prophet. The Irish poet and bard was the very voice of the people, high and low, sad and merry the song-maker, the croon- chanter, the story-teller, the preserver of history, the rewarder of heroes. In the old days of Celtic freedom, art and learning, the poet was part of the retinue or household organization of every Irish prince or chieftain. The claim of the poet in Arthur O'Shaughnessy's exquisite ode is nowhere more readily allowed than in Ireland: " WK are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams: World-losers and world -forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams; Yet we are the movers and shakers, Of the world forever, it seems. " With wonderful deathless ditties, We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory; One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's measure, Can trample a kingdom down. " A breath of our inspiration, Is the life of each generation; A wondrous thing of our dreaming, Unearthly, impossible-seeming, The soldier, the king and the peasant Are working together in one, Till our dream shall become their present, And their work in the world be done." T i INTRODUCTION. The true nature of a developed race is best tested by its abstractions. Not by the digging of mines, the building of cities or the fighting of battles, but by the singing of songs, the weaving of folk-lore, the half -unconscious plaint or laugh of the lilted melody. These are the springs from the very heart of the mountain, and the subtle meanings of the whole descending river of centuries are only the hidden voices of the fountain-head. To the end of the stream, the art-voice of a distinct people is distinct. An Irish song is as peculiarly Irish as a round tower or the interwoven decoration traced on a Celtic cross. The latest expressions of Irish poets are even more purely characteristic of the race than those of a century ago, or half a century. A century ago, the Irish mind had hardly begun to think in English, and the heart had absolutely no voice but the beloved and eloquent language of the Gael. All the cultivated poetry of the 18th century was cast in English moulds. The old songs of Ire- land were lost in the transition; and for a whole century or more the Irish people made no songs or only those of a rude versification. They carried the ancient wordless music in their hearts; the wandering piper and harper played the dear melodies and planxties to them; the ploughboy whistled and the milk- maid sung the archaic airs; and so they were preserved like the disconnected jewels of a queen's necklace, till the master-singer came, eighty years ago, and gathered them up lovingly and placed them forever in his precious setting of the " Melodies." Ireland's indebtedness to Thomas Moore is inestimable. English has now become the Irishman's native tongue; and his oriental mind is putting it to strange and beautiful uses. For instance: a few years ago, the lamented poet, Dr. Eobert Dwyer Joyce, who was a physician in Boston, was returning to Ireland in broken health (he returned only to die in the land of his love). A brother Irishman and poet of Boston, the Rev. Henry Bernard Carpenter, sent after him a "Vive Valeque," (the complete poem is contained in this collection,) a superb illustration of Celtic imagery, pathos, and rhythm: " O SADDEST of all the sea's daughters, lerne, dear mother isle, Take home to thy sweet, still waters thy son whom we lend thee awhile. Twenty years has he poured out his song, epic echoes heard in our street, Twenty years have the sick been made strong as they heard the sound of his feet. For few there be in his lands whom Apollo deigns to choose On whose heads to lay both his hands in medicine-gift and the muse. Double-grieved because double-gifted now take him and make strong again The heart long winnowed and sifted on the threshing-floor of pain. Saving others, he saved not himself, like a shipmaster staunch and brave Whose men leave the surge-beaten shelf while he sinks alone in the wave. The child in the night cries ' mother,' and straight one dear hand gives peace; lerne, be kind to our brother; speak thou, and his plague shall cease. Thou gavest him once as revealer song-breath and the starry scroll, Give him now as his heart's best healer, life-breath and balms for the soul." And nowhere could a bolder example of the facility of the Celt to use outer INTRODUCTION. vii things to express the inward image than these lines from John Savage's poem on " Washington :"- " Could I have seen thee in the council bland, Firm as a wall, but as deep stream thy manner; Or when, at trembling Liberty's command, Facing grim havoc like a flag-staff stand, The squadrons rolling round thee like a banner! " But among the latest and surely one of the best examples of true Celtic passion and poetry a voice as mystical and as spiritual as the winds of Ossian are the poems of Fanny Parnell. Crushed out, like the sweet life of a bmised flower, these " Land League Songs " are the very soul-cry of a race. The life of the singer was fast wearing away when they were written; and she hurried their publication in the form most suited to circulation among the poorest readers, wishing to see the little book before she died. All her poems breathe depths of love that seem like the actual breath of existence. Here is one that is the utterance of an antique Celtic soul: "As the breath of the musk-rose is sweetest 'mid flowers, As the palm like a queen o'er the forest-trees towers, As the pearl of the deep sea 'mid gems is the fairest, As the spice-cradled phoanix 'mid birds is the rarest, As the star that keeps guard o'er Flath-Innis shines brightest. As the angel-twined snow-wreaths "mid all things are whitest, As the dream of the singer his faint speech traiiscendeth, As the rapture of martyrs all agony endeth, As the rivers of Aidenn 'mid earth's turbid waters, As Una the Pure One 'mid Eve's fallen daughters, So is Erin, my shining one, So is Erin, my peerless one!" If there existed no other specimen of Gaelic verse, this poem, "Erin, my Queen ! " might be taken as a translation of a high order. In the form of her verse, as well as in its purpose, Fanny Parnell was an inspired Irish poet, ex- pressing in sound, sense, and sight the symbolic meaning of the Gael. In all the history of poetry, I know nothing more sadly beautiful than the song she wrote just before her death, when the awful vision must have already come to her in the night, and when the pure spirit was only held down strongly by one great sacrificial earthly love. With the shadow upon her face, she bravely wrote down as the title of her poem the words " POST-MORTEM, " and after them placed the date, "August 27, 1881," as if she had measured the dis- tance to be traversed, and had grown so familiar with the desolate path as to mark it as she went. I was in constant communication with her at this time, in relation to the publication of her book; and I know that if ever poet died with the love-cry on her lips, it was this dear singer in her death-song: viii INTRODUCTION. POST-MORTEM. AUG. 27, 1881. " SHALL mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? Shall mine eyes behold thy glory? Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the sun-blaze Breaks at last upon thy story? " When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, As a sweet, new sister hail thee, Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence, That have known but to bewail thee? " Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises, When all men their tribute bring thee? Shall the mouth be clay, that sang thee in thy squalor, When all poets' mouths shall sing thee? " Ah! the harpings and the salvos and the shoutings Of thy exiled sons returning! I should hear, though dead and mouldered, and the grave damps Should not chill my bosom's burning. " Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them 'Mid the shamrocks and the mos.ses, And my heart should toss within the shroud and quiver, As a captive dreamer tosses. " I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me, Giant-sinews I should borrow, Crying, ' O my brothers, I have also loved her, In her lowliness and sorrow. " ' Let me join with you the jubilant procession, Let me chant with you her story; Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, Now mine eyes have seen her glory." " No land in human history has evoked deeper or more sacrificial devotion than Ireland; and, it is fitting that her poets should be the voice of this pro- found feeling. There are joyous notes in their gamut, they sing at times mer- rily, boldly, amorously; but the unceasing undertone is there, like a river in a forest. -How touching is the question of D'Arcy McGee, written in a strange country, where he had earned fame and power: " AM I remember'd in Erin I charge you, speak me true Has my name a sound, a meaning In the scenes my boyhood knew ? Does the heart of the Mother ever Recall her exile's nume ? For to be forgot in Erin, And on earth is all the same." INTRODUCTION'. ix But the days of gloom and travail are passing away from Ireland, and her scattered children "are like the ocean sand." Generations intensely Irish in blood and sympathies have never seen Ireland. They have been born under American, Australian and Argentine skies; they wander by Canadian rivers and vast American lakes; they tend their flocks on South African and New Zealand valleys. And the fancy of the poet must feed on what it sees as well as on what it dreams. Arthur O'Shaughnessy's noble poem, " The Song of a Fellow Worker," unconsciously brings to mind a street in London for his life was passed in the vast city. In his almost peerless prefatory ode (to " Music and Moonlight,") he is abstract as a Greek of old one of the singers for man- kind, unrelated, unrestrained. There is a rare far-sighted philosophy in this dream of a poet, calmly placing his non-productive class highest and apart from the industrious, the potential, the ambitious, the utilitarian. "Among eminent persons," says Emerson, "those who are most dear to men are not of the class which the economist calls producers: they have nothing in their handp; they have not cultivated corn nor made bread; they have not led out a colony nor invented a loom." So sings Arthur O'Shaughnessy: " But we, with our dreaming and singing, Ceaseless and sorrowless we! The glory about us clinging Of the glorious futures we see, Our souls with high music ringing: O men! it must ever be That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, A little apart from ye. " For we are afar with the dawning And the suns that are not yet high, And out of the infinite morning Intrepid you hear us cry How, spite of your human scorning, Once more God's future draws nigh, And already goes forth the warning That ye of the past must die." Patriots, too, in other causes than Erin's are "the sea-divided Gael." No love for Ireland was ever more passionately laid around her feet than Father Abram Ryan's devotion to the South and her " Lost Cause. " There is no deeper note of manly dejection, no more poignant word of defeat than his "Con- quered Banner." The sweat and smoke-stain of the battle are on his face when the waved hand puts aside the beloved flag: " Furl the Banner, for 'tis weary. Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary, Furl it, fold it- it is best For there's not a man to wave it, And there's not a sword to save it, x INTRODUCTION. And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it; Furl it, hide it, let it rest." Father Ryan is a fitting voice for a Lost Cause. At his brightest he is sad. The shadow of the South's failure in the field seems hardly ever to lift from his spirit. His is the yearning of a soul that cannot compromise that walks with death " down the valley of Silence " sooner than accept new and strange condi- tions. But with the indestructible will of the poet and patriot he sends out " Sentinel Songs " to keep watch and ward over those who fell in the brave fight, that the victor may not trample on their graves and blot out their names forever: " Songs, march! he gives command, Keep faithful watch and true; The living and dead of the conquered land Have now no guards save you. " List! Songs, your watch is long, The soldiers' guard was brief; Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong Ye may not seek relief." Another phase of the Irish poetical nature, and a noble one, is moral, pro- phetic, and symbolical. This is well exemplified by William Allingham, a poet who touches two strong Irish keys, the peasant's song and the philosopher's vision, on consecutive pages as for instance, his popular "Fare well to Bally- shannoii and the Winding Banks of Erin," and his wonderful little poem, " The Touchstone." Another poem of Allingham 's seems to me to be one of the best examples of an Irish song, for its melody and spirit "Among the Heather." Observe the flow of these lines: ' ' One evening walking out, I o'ertook a modest colleen, When the wind was blowing cool and the harvest-leaves were falling: " Is our road by chance, the same? Might we travel on together? " " O I keep the mountain-side," (she replied,) "among the heather." But Allingham's "Touchstone" is a poem of another kind altogether. It is the utterance of a deep thought in allegory the only means of expressing it whole, or without the cheap setting of mere intellectuality. The very rhythm suits the story as if invented for it: "A man there came, whence none can tell, Bearing a touchstone in his hand; And tested all things in the land By its unerring spell." The poem will be read many times during a lifetime by him who reads it once; and it will never be forgotten. It will feed the mind with rare fancy to reflect on the strewn ashes, each grain of which " conveyed the perfect charm." INTRODUCTION. ri There is one remarkable feature absent from modern Irish poetry, from the work of poets born in Ireland and other countries: the song- maker is rare, and becoming rarer. Allingham has written only a few songs; McCarthy not many; Alfred Peroeval Graves a good many, and very good ones. In America, the poets of the Irish have had only one eminent song-maker, Dr. Robert Dwyer Joyce. His volume "Songs and Poems," is a most notable book of songs, written mainly to old Irish airs, which adds to their value and charm. Joyce had in a high degree the melody-sense and the brief one-idead and richly -chased song method. His ballads are stirring songs, as anyone knows who has ever heard the chorus of " The Iron Cannon " or " The Blacksmith of Limerick." In "Deirdre " and " Blanid," both noble epics, the songs interspersed are the high -water mark of Joyce's genius. We range the fields of literature to find more exquisite songs than " Forget me not," and " 0, Wind of the West that Bringest." Not only sweet to the ear but to the soul, the cry of the little blue- eyed blossom in the deadly embrace of the " bitter- fanged strong East wind: " " O woods of waving trees! O living streams, In all your noontide joys and starry dreams, Let me, for love, let me be unforgot! O birds that sing your carols while I die, O list to me! O hear my piteous cry Forget me not! alas! forget me not!" Joyce's life was a poem in its unrealities, achievements, agony and gloom. He died in the strength of manhood, beloved by the friends whom he had made, proudly secretive, but beyond hope, and heart-broken. He was so strong, so- wise, and so harmless to man or woman, that his life, under fair conditions, would have been as fair and natural as the flow of a river. He wrote his songs- in his happier years. He composed as he walked in the crowded city streets. On his daily rounds as an over-burdened physician, the strongly-marked face was usually pre-occupied, the sight introverted. He was always "making a> song," or working some of his characters in or out of difficult positions. A friend met him once in Boston and was passed unnoticed. He stopped the Doctor by touching his arm, and the spell was broken. " Oh man ! " cried the poet, with his rich Limerick utterance, " I was getting Deirdre down from the tower ! she's been up there for three months, with the ladder stolen; and I could'nt think how I was ever to get her down, without a balloon." But in the streets, too, the chill of the secret grief would strike his heart like a breath from the grave, and the powerful form would shudder with the spirit's suffering. It was then he wrote the woful nameless little song in "Blanid," which I have called in this collection " The Cry of the Sufferer." There was no> dainty seeking after artificial misery when Joyce wrote these lines: " The measured rounds of dancing feet, The Kongs of wood-birds \\ild and sweet, xii INTRODUCTION. The music of the horn and flute, Of the gold strings of harp and lute Unheeded all shall come and go For I am suffering, and I know! No kindly counsel of a friend With soothing balm the hurt can mend; I walk alone in grief, and make My bitter moan for her dear sake, For loss of love is man's worst woe, And I am suffering, and I know ! " Dr. Joyce won a distinct and deserved renown in America's literary capital. Respect and affection met him in the street, the garret, and the drawing- room. Old Harvard honored him with a degree. The poor, among whom he labored unceasingly, and to whom he gave unstintedly of money and gratuitous attendance, repaid him with love. A physician, who took his vacant place and much of his practice, and who did not know Joyce, has since said : ' ' He was an extraordinary man, and a very good man. His charity was never-ending. I find traces of it in every poor street and tenement-house I visit." The splendid " Hymnos Paionios," or song of healing, by the Eev. Henry Bernard Carpenter, was sent after him to Ireland as a message of love, when he went there to die. The poem reached him in time to bring joy to his heart with the knowledge that the men whom he loved in America had given love in return, and would keep his memory green. Very beautiful are these strong lines: " O saddest of all the sea's daughters, lerne, sweet mother isle Say how canst thou heal at thy waters the son whom we lend thee awhile? When the gathering cries implore thee to help and to heal thy kind, When thy dying are strewn before thee, thy living ones crouch behind, When about thee thy perishing children cling, crying, ' Thou only art fair, We have seen through their maze bewildering that the earth-gods never spare: ' And the wolves blood-ripe with slaughter gnaw at thee with fangs of steel; Thou, Niobe-Land of the water, hast many children to heal. Yet heal him, lerne, dear mother, thy days with his days shall increase, At the song of this Delphic brother, nigh half of thy pangs shall cease. Nor art thou, sweet friend, in a far land, all places are near on the globe, Our greeting wear for thy garland, our love for the festival robe. While we keep through glory and gloom two altar-candles for thee, Thy ' Blanid ' of deathless doom and thy dead but undying ' Deirdre.' " In adding to this fine collection of Irish poems, originally compiled some years ago by another hand, I am necessarily restricted in space and in the number of the later Irish and Irish- American poets represented. But the names here are likely to " hold their own " tiU another generation gleans the literary field and throws away the crumbling ears. It is remarkable that Boston, the literary centre of the Anglo-American stock, INTRODUCTION. xiii should also promise a similar harvest for the Irish-American. Here at one and the same time were Dr. Joyce, Rev. H. B. Carpenter, Louise Imogen Guiney, James Jeffrey Roche, Mrs. M. E. Blake and Katharine Con way poets winning garlands outside the limits of their own race. Indeed, no truer New England singer than Louise Guiney has come in a generation. Her " Gloucester Harbor " is a memorable poem. How striking are these stanzas: " North from the beautiful islands, North from the headlands and highlands, The long sea-wall, The white ships flee with the swallow; The day-beams follow and follow, Glitter and fall. " The brown ruddy children that fear not, Lean over the quay, and they hear not Warnings of lips; For their hearts go a-sailing, a-sailing, Out from the wharves and the wailing After the ships!" It may be that the sweetest songs are sung in sorrow. An Irish air " is full of farewells for the dying And murmurings for the dead. 1 ' It surely is true that "Affliction is a mother whose painful throes yield many sons, each fairer than the other." In the past, for nearly 1000 years, the Irish heart-song has been shaded by the woe of desolation. Dane and Saxon have oppressed and harried the land There is no sorrow so piteous as the cry of weakness in the strangling grasp of Power. This cry is heard in all the songs of the Gael even in the most joyous. The future has a hoarded summer time for Ireland when her ancient glory may be revived and surpassed. In the dream of Clarence Mangan he pictures the Irish realm of the 13th century: " I walked entranced Through a land of morn; The sun, with wondrous excess of li^ht. Shone down and glanced Overseas of corn, And lustrous gardens aleft and right. Even in the clime Of resplendent Spain, Beams no such sun upon such a land; But it was the time, 'Twas in the reign, Of Cahal Morof the Wine-red Hand." The despair of the past is now rarely expressed by an Irish poet and never xiv INTRODUCTION. by the poet of the exiled race. Those who have wholly sung for Americans have expressed as deep love as those who had to stay and see the mother- country in her sufferings. The poems of Daniel Connolly and James J. Eoche are notable illustrations, as for instance this fine poem from Mr. Eoche: ANDROMEDA. THEY chained her fair young body to the cold and cruel stone; The beast begot of sea and slime had marked her for his own; The callous world beheld the wrong, and left her there alone. Base caitiffs who belied her, false kinsmen who denied her, Ye left her there alone ! My Beautiful, they left thee in thy peril and thy pain; The night that hath no morrow was brooding on the main; But lo ! a light is breaking of hope for thee again. 'Tis Perseus' sword a-flaming, thy dawn of day proclaiming Across the western main. O Ireland ! O my country ! he comes to break thy chain ! When the foreign blight is removed from Ireland; when the valleys and hills and rivers ring with happy Irish voices, the voices of the owners of the land; when the long silence is broken by the whirr of busy wheels; when the dark treasures are dug from the earth and fashioned into lovely Art; when the nets of the fishers in lough and river and ocean are burdened daily with the heaping wealth; when the ships sail in and out on every tide from the harbor-serried coast; when Irish marbles and porphyries are carved into precious forms of beauty, and Irish metals are worked into shapes of loveliness and use; when the Irishman stretches out his hand to the world full of his kindred and rejoices in other men's joy instead of constantly grieving over his own grief then there shall come poets to Ireland with songs attuned to a new spirit, and the voice of the Celt shall be heard through a thousand years of triumph as it has been through a thousand years of pain. JOHN BOYLE O'EEILLY. LIST OF PORTRAITS. "Michael Joseph Balfe xxxviii -John Banim xxxix Right Rev. George Berkeley xl Joseph Brenan xli John Brougham xlii Very Rev. Thomas N. Burke xliii Rev. T. A. Butler xliv William Carleton xlv Gerald Carleton xlvi Henry Bernard Carpenter xlvi P. S. Cassidy xlvii Michael Cavanagh xlviii Joseph I. C. Clarke xlix Richard W. Collender 1 William Collins li Katharine E. Con way lii Rev. John Costello liii Daniel Crilly liv John Philpot Curran liv Thomas Davis Iv Francis Davis Iv. Eugene Davis Ivi Michael Davitt Ivii Aubrey De Vere Iviii Michael Doheny lix Eleanor C. Donnelly lix Bartholomew Dowling Ix Charles Gavan Duffy Ixii Maurice Francis Egan Ixiii Robert Emmet Ixiii Samuel Ferguson Ixiv Una (Mrs A. K. Ford.) Ixv William (iooghegan Ixv Minnie Gilmore Ixvii Oliver 3 Love Ditty 354 Charlemagne and the Bridge of Moon beams : '"4 The Minstrel's Motherland :t.V> Holiness to the Lord The Grave, the Grave XX11 TABLE OF CONTENTS. The Minstrel 356 The Rose 357 A Voice from the invisible World 357 A Song from the Coptic 357 Another Coptic Song 358 To Ebert 358 The Brother and the Sister 360 The Field of Kunnersdorf 361 The aged Landman's Advice to his Son. 362 And then no more 363 The Cathedral of Cologne 364 Dale and Highway :J64 A Sigh 365 The Sheik of Mount Sinai 365 Grabbe 366 Freedom and Right 368 To the Beloved One 369 Cheerfulness 369 Freedom 370 The Grave 371 The German's Fatherland 371 Be Merry and Wise 372 The Revenge of Duke Svverting 372 The Student of Prague 373 Andreas Hofer , 375 Tiie Death of Hofer 375 The Bereaved One 376 Song. When the Roses blow 377 Good Night 377 The Midnight Review 378 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. Dark Rosaleen 379 Shane Bwee ; or, the Captivity of the Gaels 380 A Lamentation for the Death of Sir Mau- rice Fitzgerald, Knight of Kerry Sars- field " 381 Part I 381 Part IT. 382 Lament over the Ruins of the Abbey of Teach Molaga 383 The Dawning of the Day 385 The Dream of John MacDonnell 385 The Sorrows of Innisfail 387 The Testament of Cathaeir Mor 387 Rury and Darvorgilla 390 The Expedition and Death of King Dathy 392 Prince Aldfrid's Itinerary through Ire- land 393 Kinkora 394 Lament for the Princes of Tyrone and Tyrconnell 395 O'Hussey's Ode to the Maguire 39S Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan 399 Welcome to the Prince 400 Lament for Banba . 401 Ellen Bawn 401 Love Ballad 4QZ The Vision of Conor O'Sullivan 403 Patrick Condon's Vision 403 Sighile Ni Gara 404 St. Patrick's Hymn before Tara 406 . APOCRYPHA. The Karamanian Exile 407 The Wail and Warning of the Three Khatettdeers 408 The Time of the Barmecides 409 The Mariner's Bride 410 To the Ingleezee Khafir, calling himself Djaun Bool Djenkinzun 410 MISCELLANEOUS. Soul and Country 411 Siberia 412 A Vision of Connaught in the Thirteenth Century 412 An Invitation 413 The Warning Voice 413 The Lovely Land 415 The Saw-Mill 415 Cean-Salla 416 Irish National Hymn 416 Broken-Hearted Lays 417 The One Mystery 418 The Nameless One 418 The Dying Enthusiast 419 To Joseph Brenan 420 Twenty Golden Years Ago 430 RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxiii Ah ! Cruel Maid 422 How oft, Louisa 422 Had I a Heart for Falsehood Framed 422 Oil Yield, Fair Lids 423 A Bumper of Good Liquor 423 We Two 433 Could I her Faults Remember 433 By Coelia's Arbor 433 Let the Toast Pass 434 O, the Days when I was Young 424 Dry be that Tear 434 What Bard, O Time, Discover 425 Alas ! Thou hast no Wings, oh ! Time. . 435 I ne'er could any Lustre see 425 When Sable Night 435 The Mid-watch 433 Marked You her Cheek ? 436 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH l xv ii The Deserted Village 437 The Traveller 433 The Hermit 439 TABLE OF CONTENTS. PAGE The Double Transformation 441 Stanzas on the taking of Quebec 442 Epitaph on Edward Purdon 443 Stanzas on Woman 443 An Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize 443 Epitaph on Dr. Parnell 443 A Prologue, written and spoken by the Poet Laberius, a Roman Knight, whom Caesar forced upon the Stage 444 Epilogue to the Comedy of " She Stoops to Conquer " 444 Emma 444 AUBREY DeVERE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ivii Song. Love laid down his golden Head. 445 Creep slowly up the Willow Wand 445 Spenser 445 Holy Cross Abbey 446 Self-Deception 446 Our King sat of old in Emania and Tara. 446 The Malison 448 Hymn, on the founding of the Abbey of St. Thomas the Martyr, ('A Becket) in Dublin, A. D., 1177 448 Dead is the Prince of the Silver Hand. . . 449 The Faithful Norman 4">0 St Patrick and the Bard 450 'Twos a Holy Time when the King's long Foemen 452 King Laeghaire and St. Patrick 452 The Bier that Conquered ; or, O'Donnell'fc Answer. A.D., 1257 454 Peccatum Peccavit 455 The Dirge of Athunree. A. D., 1316 455 Between Two Mountains 456 Ode. The unvanquished Land. ... 456 The Statue of Kilkenny. A. D. 1367 457 The True King. A. D., 1399 457 Queen Margaret's Feasting. A. D., 1451. 458 Plorans Flora vit A. D., 1583 459 War Song of MacCarthy 459 Florence MacCarthy's Farewell to his English Love 459 War Song of Tirconnell's Bard at the Bat- tle of Blackwater. A. D., 1597 460 The March to Kinsale. December, A. D., 1601 403 A. D., 1602 404 Dirge of Rory O'More. A. D.. 1642 464 Tli.- Bishop of Ross. A. D., 1650 465 Archbishop Plunket. A. D., 1681 465 A Song of the Brigjul.' 466 A Ballad of Sarsfteld ; or, the Bui-sting of 1 1 1. Guns. A.D.,1690 466 Oh that the Pines which Crown Yon Steep 466 The Last MacCarthymore 467 Hymn for the Feast of St Stephen 468 Grattan 468 Adduxit in Tenebris 468 The Cause 469 Gray Harper, Rest ! 469 Sonnet. Sarsfield and Clare 469 Song. A brighten'd Sorrow veils her Face 469 St. Columkill's Farewell to the Isle of Arran, on setting sail for lona 470 Sonnet. Christian Education 470 Death 470 The Graves of Tyrconnel and Tyrone on San Pietro, in Montorio 471 Wayside Fountains 471 THOMAS PARNELL. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cv The Hermit 472 A Night-Piece on Death 475 An Allegory on Man 476 Hymn to Contentment 477 THOMAS DAVIS. INTRODUCTION AND BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. (See page Iv.) 479 PART I. NATIONAL BALLADS AND SONGS. The Men of Tipperary 483 The Rivers 484 Glengai-iff 484 The West's Asleep 485 Oh ! For a Steed 485 Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers ... . . 486 A Ballad of Freedom 486 The Irish Hurrah 488 A Song for the Irish Militia 488 Our Own Again 489 Celts and Saxons 489 Orange and Green will Carry the Day. . . 490 PART II. NATIONAL SONGS AND BAL- LADS. The Lost Path 491 Love's Longings 492 Hope Deferred , 492 Eibhlin, a Ruin 4 '.'2 The Banks of the Lee 493 The Girl of Dunbwy 493 Duty and Love 494 Annie, Dear 494 Blind Mary 494 The Bride of Mallow 495 The Welcome 495 Tli- Mi-Na-Meala 490 Mai re Bhan a Stoir 497 Oh ! The Marriage 497 A Plea for Love .. 498 XXIV TABLE OF CONTENTS. The Bishop's Daughter. . , The Boatman of Kinsale. Darling Nell Love Chant A Christmas Scene The Invocation Love and War My Land The Right Road PAGE . 498 , 498 499 , 499 , 499 500 500 500 501 PART m. BALLADS AND SONGS IL- LUSTRATIVE OF IRISH HISTORY. A Nation Once Again Lament for the Milesians The Fate of King Dathi Argan M6r The Victor's Burial The True Irish King The Geraldines O'Brien of Ara Emmeline Talbot O'Sullivan's Return The Fate of the O'Sullivans The Sack of Baltimore Lament for the Death of Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill A Rally for Ireland The Battle of I imerick, August 27, 1690. PART IV. BALLADS AND SONGS IL- LUSTRATIVE OF IRISH HISTORY. The Penal Days The Death of Sarsfield The Surprise of Cremona (1702) The Flower of Finae The Girl I Left Behind Me Clare's Dragoons When South Winds Blow The Battle Eve of the Brigade Fontenoy (1745) The Dungannon Convention (1782) Song of the Volunteers of 1782 The Men of 'Eighty-Two Native Swords Tone's Grave PART V. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Nationality Self Reliance Sweet and Sad The Burial We Must Not Fail. O'Connell's Statue The Green Above the Red The Vow of Tipperary A Plea for the Bog-Trotters A Second Plea for the Bog-Trotters A Scene in the South William Tell and the Genius of Switzer- land. . 501 502 503 504 504 505 506 507 508 510 511 513 514 515 516 517 518 518 519 520 520 521 522 522 524 524 525 526 526 527 527 528 529 530 530 531 532 532 533 533 534 PAGE The Exile 535 My Home 536 Fanny Power 537 Marie Nangle ; or, the Seven Sisters of Navan 537 My Grave 538 Appendix 539 J. J. CALLANAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xliv The Recluse of Inchidony 551 Accession of George the Fourth 560 Restoration of the Spoils of Athens 563 The Revenge of Donal Comm 564 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Gougane Barra 575 . To a Sprig of Mountain Heath 576 Spanish War Song 576 SONGS, LYRICAL PIECES, &c. " Si Je Te Perds, Je Suis Perdu " 577 How Keen the Pang 577 Written to a Young Lady on entering a Convent 578 Lines on a Deceased Clergyman 578 Lines on the Death of an Amiable and Highly Talented Young Man, who fell a Victim to Fever in the West Indies. 578 And must we Part 579 Pure to the Dewy Gem 579 To * * * * *_Lacly, the Lyre thou bid'st me take 579 Stanzas. Hours like those I Spent with You 580 The Night was Still 580 Serenade. The Blue Waves are Sleeping 580 Rousseau's Dream 581 When each Bright Star is Clouded 581 Hussa Tha Measg Na Real tan More 581 SACRED SUBJECTS. The Virgin Mary's Bank 582 Mary Magdalen 583 Saul 583 The Mother of The Machabees 583 Moonlight 584 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE IRISH. Dirge of O'Sullivan Bear. 535 The Girl I Love 536 The Convict of Clonmel 587 The Outlaw of Loch Lene 587 JACOBITE SONGS. O Say, My Brown Drimin 588 The White Cockade 589 The Avenger. . .589 T.MJU-: OK I'ONTKNTS. XXV PAGE Tin- Lament of O'Gnive 590 On tin; Last Day 590 A Lay of Mizen Head 591 The Lament of Kirke Whit.- 592 Lines, written to a Young Lady, who, in the author's presence, had taxed the Irish with want of gallantry, proving her position by the fact of their not serenading, as the Italians, etc., do. . . 593 St;in/:is to Erin 593 Lines to Miss O. D , 594 Lines to Erin 594 Wellington's Name 595 Tli.- Exile's Farewell 595 Song. Awake thee, my Bessy, the Morn- ingis Fair 595 1 ).- la Villa del Cielo 596 The Star of Bethlehem 596 Lines to the Blessed Sacrament 596 Though Dark Fate hath reft me 597 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxvii The Winding Banks of Erne 598 The Abbot of Innisfallen 599 Abbey Asaroe 601 The Wondrous Well 602 The Touchstone 602 Among the Heather 602 The Statuette 603 The Ballad of Squire Curtis 603 SAMUEL FERGUSON. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixiii LAYS OF THE WESTERN GAEL. The Tain-Quest 604 The Abdication of Fergus MacRoy 612 The Healing of Conall Carnach 614 The Burial of King Cormac 618 Aideen's Grave 620 The Welshmen of Tirawley 623 Owen Bawn 628 Grace O'Maly 629 BALLADS AND POEMS. The Fairy Thorn 631 Willy Gilliland 632 The Forging of the Anchor 634 The Forester's Complaint 636 The Pretty Girl of Loch Dan 637 Hungary 637 Adieu to Brittany 688 Westminster Abbey 639 VERSIONS AND ADAPTATIONS. The Origin of the Scythians 640 The Death of Dermid 641 The Invocation 643 Archytas and the Mariner 648 VERSIONS FROM THE IRISH. Deirdra's Farewell to Alba 645 Deirdra's Lament for the Sons of Usnach 645 The Downfall of the Gael 646 O'Byrno's Bard to the Clans of Wicklovv. 647 Lament over the Ruins of the Abbey of Timoleague 648 To the Harper O'Connellan 649 Grace Nugent 649 Mild Mabel Kelly 649 The Cup of O'Hara 650 The Fair Haird Girl 650 Pastheen Fin 650 Molly Astore 651 Cashel of Munster 651 The Coolun 653 Youghall Harbor 653 Cean Dubh Deelish 653 Boatman's Hymn 653 The Dear Old Air 653 The Lapful of Nuts 653 Mary's Waking 65 1 Hopeless Love 654 The Fair Hills of Ireland 654 Torna's Lament for Core and Niall 655 Una Phelimy 656 JOHN BANIM. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxix Ailleen 658 Soggarth Aroon 658 The Fetch 659 The Irish Maiden's Song 659 The Reconciliation 660 CHARLES JAMES LEVER. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxvii Bad Luck to this Marching boi It's Little for Glory I Care 661 Larry M'Hale 663 Mary Draper 663 Now Can't You be Aisy ? 663 Oh ! Once we were Illigant People 663 Potteen, Good Luck to Ye, Dear 664 The Bivouac 664 The Girls of the West 665 The Irish Dragoon 665 The Man for Gal way 665 The Pope he Leads a Happy Life 666 The Pickets are Fast Retreating, Boys. . 666 Widow Malone 667 JOHN STERLING. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH , xiii The Mariners 668 The Dreamer on the Cliff 668 The Dearest. . . W.t xxvi TABLE OF CONTENTS. Lament for Daedalus ' 669 The Husbandman 670 Louis XV 670 BEV. CHARLES WOLFE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxxi Go ! Forget Me 672 The Burial of Sir John Moore 672 The Chains of Spain are Breaking 673 Oh ! Say not that my Heart is cold. . . . 673 Gone from her Cheek 673 Oh, My Love has an Eye of the Softest Blue 673 If I had thought Thou Could'st Have Died 674 JOHN ANSTEB. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxvii Dirge Song. Like the Oak of the Vale. 675 The Harp 675 The Everlasting Rose 676 If I Might Choose 676 Oh ! If, as Arabs Fancy. 676 WILLIAM CONGREVE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH H A Cathedral 677 JOHN PHILPOT CUBBAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH liv Oh ! Sleep 678 The Deserter's Lamentation 678 The Monks of the Order of St. Patrick, commonly called the Monks of the Screw 678 The Green Spot that Blooms o'er the Desert of Life 680 DB. WILLIAM MAGINN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxviii The Sack of Magdeburgh 681 The Soldier-Boy 682 The Beaten Beggarman 682 CHABLES GAVAN DUFFY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixii The Irish Rapparees 685 The Irish Chiefs 685 Innishowen 686 The Muster of the North. (1641) 687 The Voice of Labor 689 The Patriot's Bride 690 Sweet Sibyl 692 A Lay Sermon 692 O'Donnell and the Fair Fitzgerald 693 WILLIAM CABLETON. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xlv Sir Turlough, or the Church Yard Bride. 695 A Sigh for Knockmany 698 EDWABD WALSH. PAGE BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxvii A Munster Keen 699 Battle of Credran. (1257) 700 Margread Ni Chealleadh 701 O'Dono van's Daughter 702 Brighidin Ban Mo Store 703 Mo Craoibhin Cno 703 Aileen the Huntress 704 BOBEBT DWYEB JOYCE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxiv Forget me not 707 The Doves , 707 What is this Love ? 707 The Blacksmith of Limerick 708 In Life's young Morning ". . . . 709 The Cannon 710 The Mountain Ash 711 Song. (From "Blamd") 711 Song of the Sufferer 711 JAMES JEFFBEY BOCHE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cvii The V a s e 712 Andromeda 712 Netchaieff 713 A Sailor's Yarn 713 The Corporal's Letter 714 The Way of the World 715 For the People 716 LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxi Gloucester Harbor 717 Private Theatricals 717 Brother Bartholomew 718 A Ballad of Metz 718 The Rival Singers 719 An Epitaph for Wendell Phillips 720 The Caliph and the Beggar 720 KA.THABINE TYNAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxvi Waiting 721 Two Wayfarers 724 An Answer 724 Fra Angelico at Fiesole 725 Eastertide 725 Olivia and Dick Primrose 726 The Lark's Waking 726 Charles Lamb 727 August or June 727 Faint-hearted 727 Thoreau at Walden 728 A Sad Year. (1882) 728 A Song of Summer 729 A Bird's Song 729 TABLE OF CONTENTS. TXVll ABTHUR O'SHAUOHNESSY (WILLIAM EDGAR.) PAOK BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ciii Ode 780 Song of a Fellow-worker 731 A Parable of good Deeds 732 A Fallen Hero 734 Black Marble 735 In the Old House 736 REV. ABRAM J. RYAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cix The Conquered Banner 736 Sentinel Songs 737 March of the Deathless Dead 738 Song of the Mystic 738 Lines. (1875) 739 The Song of the Deathless Voice 740 FANNY PARNELL. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ciii Ireland, Mother ! 742 She is not dead! 742 Ireland 743 What shall we weep for? 744 Michael Davitt 745 To my Fellow-women 745 John Dillon 747 Buckshot Forster 749 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY, BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ciii The Fame of the City 751 Heart^hunger 751 Jacqueminots 752 My Native Land 752 Western Australia 753 Waiting 753 Living 754 Her Refrain 754 A Savage 755 Love's Secret 755 Love's Sacrifice 756 At Fredericksburg. (Dec. 13, 1862) 756 Released, Jan. 1878 758 A Nation's Test 759 LADY WILDE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxix The Brothers. A Scene from '98 762 The Voice of the Poor 763 Budris and his Sons 764 Suleima to her Lover 765 A la Sombra de mis Cabellos 766 The Itinerant Singing Girl 766 The Poet at Court 766 KATHARINE E. CON WAY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH lii Two Vines. . . 767 The first Red Leaf 767 Remembered 767 In Extremis 768 The Heaviest Cross of all 768 MARY E. BLAKE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH x i Women of the Revolution 769 How Ireland answered 771 With a Four-leafed Clover 772 The First Steps 772 The Little Sailor Kiss 773 Our Record 778 A Dead Summer 774 Sonnet 774 Dead 775 O'DONOVAN ROSSA. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cviii Jillen Andy 776 My Prison Chamber is Iron lined 778 A Visit from my Wife 779 A Visit to my Husband in Prison. (May, 1866) 780 Edward Duffy 781 In Millbank Prison, London. (1866) 782 Smuainte Broin Thoughts of Sorrow. .. 783 HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xlvi Vive Aleque 785 Fryeburg 787 A Vacation Prelude 789 The Reed 791 Theodosius 792 Beyond the Snow 796 The Syrens 796 Sonnet 797 A New England Winter Song 797 Ode to General Porfirio Diaz 798 PRANCES BROWNE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xli Losses 800 Songs of Our Land 800 JOHN SAVAGE, LL.D. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxi The Muster of the North 802 Shane's Head 805 Washington 806 THOMAS D'ARCY McQEE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxv Death of the Homeward Bound 808 The Ancient Race 80 The Exile's Request 810 The Sea-divided Gaels 810 The Gobhan Saer 811 The Death of Hudson. . . 811 TABLE OF CONTENTS OF THE PUBLISHERS' SUPPLEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION. LADY DTJFFERIN. PAGE BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixi Lament of the Irish Emigrant 815 Terence's Farewell 816 BISHOP BERKELEY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxix On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in America 816 JOHN PRAZER (J. De Jean). BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixiv The Poet and His Son 817 The Holy Wells 817 The Rejection 818 ROBERT EMMET. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixiii Arbor Hill 819 R. A. MILLIKEN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xcii The Groves of Blarney 820 HON. MRS. NORTON. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xcvi The Mother's Heart . . 821 Love Not 822 The Tryst 822 JOHN KEEGAN BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxv Caoch O'Leary 823 The " Holly and Ivy " Girl 824 The Irish Reaper's Harvest Hymn 825 LADY MORGAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xciii Kate Kearney . 825 DR. CAMPION. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . . . " Ninety-eight " PAGE . xlv . 826 MRS. K. I. O'DOHERTY (Eva). BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xcviii Shadows 827 The People's Chief 828 ELLEN DOWNING. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixi St. Agnes 829 I Love You. 829 The Grave of Maccaura 829 MICHAEL J. BALPE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxviii Killarney 830 CHARLES J. KICKHAM. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxvi Patrick Sheehan 831 The Irish Peasant Girl 832 Rory of the Hills 832 MRS. CRAWFORD. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH liii Kathleen Mavourneen 833 FATHER BURKE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xliii The Irish Dominicans 834 JOHN F. O'DONNELL. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . The Green Gift 835 On the Rampart Limerick 8J5G 'I'. MILE OF m.\TK.\T>. XXIX JOHN K. CASEY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xlv'ii Doiuil Kenny 83? Tin' Rising of the Moon 837 FRANCIS DAVIS. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH lv Nanny 888 On Again 839 DENNY LANE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxvii K ;i I e of Arraglen . 839 MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxix The Sword 840 Hymn of Freedom 841 The Wexford Massacre Cromwell, 1649. 841 JUDGE JOHN O'HAGAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH c ( Jurselves Alone 842 Paddies Evermore 842 Dear I,and 843 JOHN KELLS INGRAM. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxiii The Memory of the Dead 844 Two Sonnets 844 M. J. M'CANN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxi O'Donnell Abu 845 The Battle of Rat hd rum 846 The Battle of Glendalough 848 Cashel 849 JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxiii Earthly Glory a r >2 Life's Change 852 Adam Lux 852 OSCAR O. F. WILDE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxix Greftti D'ltalia 853 Li bert; fit is Sacra Fames 853 A Vision 854 BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH lx Tin- Brigade at Fontenoy, May 11, 1745. 854 JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxii The n'Kavanagh 855 The Invocation 856 The Sword-Gift 856 Th.- Leiwr 857 THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. PAOE BIOGKAIMIIC'AL SKETCH xc Prison Thoughts 857 The Young Enthusiast 858 W. P. MULCHINOCK. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .\c-iv Music Everywhere 859 The Rose of Tralee THEODORE O'HAHA. MO BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ri The Bivouac of the Dead 800 RICHARD HENRY WILDE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxviii My Life is like the Summer Rose 801 RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxx Kathleen M;-J Ben Heder 862 Adieu to Innisfail M;:; JOSEPH BRENAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xl To my Wife 864 A Dirge for Devin Reilly 865 Water Colors 867 MICHAEL DOHENY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Iviii Cuisla Gal Ma Croidhe 869 The Star of Glenconnel 869 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .xcvii A Fallen Star 870 Kane. Arctic Explorer 872 GEN. CHARLES G. HALPINE (Miles O'Reilly.) BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxi Janette's Hair 873 Honor the Brave 874 The Flaunting Lie 875 On Raising a Monument to the Irish Legion 875 Sambo's Right to be Kilt 877 JOHN BROUGHAM. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xlii My Old Woman and 1 877 The Hymn of Princes 878 MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH IxU Like a Lilac 878 Perpetual Youth 879 XXX TABLE OF CONTENTS. My Friend's Answer 879 When Mothers Watch 879 St. Patrick's Day 880 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cvi Sheridan's Ride 880 The Brave at Home 881 PATRICK SARSPIELD CASSIDY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xlvii Burial of MacSwyne of the Battle Axes. 881 To my Irish Goldfinch 883 A Kiss in the Morning 884 Why I Celebrate the Day 884 Pat's Marriage Certificate 885 Fanny Parnell 887 WM. GEOGHEGAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixv The Groves of Ballymulvey 889 The Bunch of May-Blossoms . 890 May 892 Memory's Book 892 Leaves that are Fairest 898 The Days of Long Ago 893 Winter 894 DANIEL R. LYDDY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxix Christmas Hymn 894 WILLIAM COLLINS. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH li A Glen in the Galtees 895 The Flag of Fontenoy 896 Sunday Morning in Ireland 897 The Mariner's Evening Hymn 898 DANIEL CONNOLLY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH liii One Summer Night 899 The Eyes of an Irish Girl 899 REV. JAMES KEEGAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxv Song for Ulster 900 Creigharee 900 They Told Me to Sing a Song of Mirth. 901 HON. W. E. ROBINSON. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cvii The American Flag 901 MRS. M. C. BURKE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xlii Little Shoes 902 The Beggar 902 THOS. AMBROSE BUTLER. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xliv An Irish Mariner 90S REV. JOHN COSTELLO. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH liii Sonnet 905 Erin 905 My Motherland 905 Human Life 906 The Tomb of Alexander 906 The Rose 906 The Poppy Flower 907 Two Sonnets 907 MRS. M. P. SULLIVAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxiv The Irish Famine 1880 908 A Paper Knife of Irish Oak 910 ISABEL C. IRWIN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxiii On an Infant's Death 910 T. C. IRWIN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxiv Minnie 911 Song of All Hallows' Eve 911 J. P. WALLER, LL.D. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxvi A Spinning- Wheel Song 912 Dance Light, For My Heart, It Lies Under Your Feet, Love 913 ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixix The Black '46 A Retrospect 914 Children and Lovers 914 Irish Spinning- Wheel Song 915 EUGENE DAVIS. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ivi Cross and Crown 915 A Reverie 916 T. D. SULLIVAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxiv O'Neil in Rome 917 The Old Exile 918 " God Save Ireland " 919 DR. WILLIAM DRENNAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixi When Erin First Rose . . .920 OF CONTENTS. XXXI HUGH FARRAR McDERMOTT. PAOK BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxiv The Parting Hour 921 A Hidden Sorrow 921 Come O'er the Hill 922 Meagher's Brigade 922 Light and Shade 928 EDWARD LYSAGHT. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxx The Man Who Led the Van of Irish Volunteers 924 Kate of Garnavilla , 925 LAWRENCE G. GOULDING. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixviii My Native Land 925 The Pen and Sword 926 Robert Emmet 927 Soggarth Aroon 927 Ireland and America 928 The Slanderer 929 O Erin ! I Adore Thee 930 St. Patrick's Day 930 T. O'D. O'CALLAGHAN. BIOGRAPH ICAL SKETCH xcvii Moonlight Musings 931 The River of Time 932 Lament for the Irish Fairies 933 In Memoriam : Gen. James Shields . . . 934 An Irish- American Land League Ballad. 936 Faith, Hope and Love 937 Our 'Prisoned Irish Chief 938 The March of Science . . 939 WILLIAM D. KELLY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxvi Fanny Parnell 940 An April Fancy 940 JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xlix Custer's Last Charge 941 At Liberty's Feet 942 A Decade of Love. . . 943 Speculum Vitte 943 Geraldine 944 On the Sound 944 MICHAEL J. WALSH. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxvii I n Memoriam 945 An Irish Song 945 O'Connell's Birthday Anniversary Cele- I. ration 946 Musings Reminiscent 946 GERALD CARLETON. PAOE BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xlv Aspiration 947 Thomas Moore 947 MINNIE GILMORE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixvi The River on the Plain 948 A Pioneer Poet 949 A Sorghum Candy-Pull 950 After the Ball 952 EDWARD J. O'REILLY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cii The Emigrant's Love 952 Life 953 July the Fourth 953 The Parting 953 MICHAEL SCANLAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxii Presenting the Shamrock 954 The Manchester Martyrs 955 A Prison Love Song 956 The Spell of the Coulun. . 957 A Christmas Chant 957 The Fenian Men 958 Autumn Leaves 959 Our Native Land 960 The Spirit of Dreams 961 The Tribute of Song 962 Love Comes but Once unto the Heart . 962 Adieu 962 The Beautiful City of Deny 963 MICHAEL CAVANAGH. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xlviii Mysteries 965 Leath Slighe'dir Eochail's Ceap-Ui- Chuinn 965 A Caoine for A. O'M. Cavanagh 966 My Irish Blackthorn 967 KATHARINE MURPHY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xrvi Sentenced to Death 968 THOMAS J. M'GEOGHEGAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 1\ \ \ \ i The Hero of the Hour .... 970 JOHN WALSH. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxvii The Feast of Gilla More 971 The Bride-Side 973 Westward H< ! 973 XXX11 TABLE OF CONTENTS. MARCELLA A. FITZGERALD, BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH A Christinas Thought 974 MRS. A. E. FORD. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixiv A Hundred Years From Now 975 The Captive 976 God Pity the Poor 977 The Green and Gold 977 MRS. FELICIA HEMANS. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxii The Rhine 978 Washington's Statue 979 The Better Land 979 A Parting Song ... 979 DANIEL CRILLY, M.P. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH liii " The End o' the Roads " 980 The Hills of Mourne 981 Thomas Davis 981 JOHN J. McGINNIS. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxvii My First Love 982 The Voice of Song 982 Exiled Reflections 983 Answering for Love 983 RICHARD W. COLLENDER. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 1 ASong 984 To H. W. Collender 985 An Elegy 986 The Knight of the Blue Plume 986 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cvi McFeeters' Fourth 989 An Old Sweetheart of Mine 990 The Drum 991 Babyhood 991 ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH lix The Maid of Erin 992 The Death of the Lily 993 JOHN LOCKE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxvii Morning on the Irish Coast 993 The Widow's Farewell to Her Son 994 A Thousand Leagues from Carlow Town 995 Milking-Time 995 Song of the Irish Mountaineer 996 MRS. JOHN LOCKE. PAGE BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxviii Echoes that Christmas Brings 997 Christmas Memories 998 Cis- Atlantic Musing 998 Ellie 999 A Patrick's Day Gift 1000 RICHARD MacHALE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxvii A Lost Friend 1001 To a Shamrock 1002 The Fallen 1002 I Long to Serve My Land 1003 The Manly Man 1003 REV. WM. J. McCLURE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxiii The Crushed Rose 1003 The Summer Rain 1003 Moore's Centenary 1004 The Shamrock and Laurel 1004 St. Patrick's Cathedral 1005 Easter Lilies .1005 JAMES MURPHY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xcv The Advent of the Milesians 1005 The Expulsion of the Moors 1008 St. Patrick's Day by the Mississippi . . . 1009 Our Cry 1010 PATRICK S. GILMORE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixvi Ireland to England 1011 REV. CHARLES P. MEEHAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xci Boyhood's Years 1012 REV. MATTHEW RUSSELL. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cix Our Midnight Mass 1013 The First Redbreast 1014 The Little Flower-Strewers 1015 ToT. D. Sullivan 1015 LOUISIANA MURPHY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xcvi "What Would You Do For Ireland ?". 1016 Song 1016 Chorus 1017 Song 1017 Ballad.... 1017 ROSA MULHOLLAND. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xciv Emmet's Love. . . 1018 TABLK OF CONTENTS. XXXlll The Builders 1020 A Fledgling 1021 Hope Deferred 1021 A. M. SULLIVAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxiii The Dying Boy 1021 M. J. O'MAHONY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ci A Welcome to a Friend 1022 Washington 1023 WILLIAM BOWLING. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixi Love's Longings 1024 Lines 1024 " Where is Little Mucco ?" 1024 MICHAEL DAVITT. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ivii Innisfail 1025 JAMES T. GALLAGHER. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 1020 Our Beloved Dead 1026 Annie 1027 True Love 1027 Tell Me You Love Me 1027 Grant and Death . . . . 1027 JAMES MARTIN. The March of the Irish Race. . .10','s PORTRAITS AND OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND AND GIVING PAGE WHERE POEMS OF EACH CAN BE FOUND IN THIS VOLUME. WM. ALLINGHAM. WM. ALLINGHAM, poet and writer, born 1828 at Ballyshannon, County Done- gal, Ireland, to which picturesque locality he often refers in his lyrics. At a very early age he displayed marked literary taste. He served in the English Customs, meantime contributing to the Athenaeum, Household Words and other periodicals. The first volume of his poems was published in 1850, followed in 1854 by his "Day and Night Songs." In 1869 he brought out "Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland," its characteristic features of Irish life being a subject new to narrative poetry. Retiring from the Customs in 1872 he in 1874 suc- ceeded James A. Froude as Editor of Frazer's Magazine. His marriage with Miss Helen Patterson, the artist, took place the same year. (Poems, page, 598.) JOHN ANSTER. JOHN ANSTER, LL.D., a distinguished poet and essayist, was born at Charle- ville, in the county of Cork in 1796. He entered Trinity college, Dublin, in the year 1810. Some of his earlier pieces were published before he took his degree. Subsequently to that period, he published a prize poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, and in 1819 he published his " Poems, with translations from the German." These were at once received into favor. The truth and vigor of the translated extracts from " Faust " were at once acknowledged, and it is said that the great German poet himself recognized their excellence. These extracts were reprinted in England and America, and their success encouraged A iister to undertake the laborious task of translating the entire poem, which xxxviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. he completed in 1835. The publication of this work established the reputation of Anster. It is a production of rare felicity and genius, and one of the few instances in which translation attains to the level of original composition. In 1837, Dr. Anster published a small volume of poems under the title of " Xeniola, " which contains majny ^pieces of merit. He also contributed largely to the lead- ing British periodicals, and was a constant writer in "The Dublin University Magazine/.' tod -the: "..North British Review." He was called to the Irish bar in 1824. During his later years he confined himself to the duties of his chair as regius professor of civil law in the University of Dublin. His literary services were recognized by a pension on the civil list, conferred upon him in 1841. (Poems, page 675.) MICHAEL JOSEPH BALFE. M. J. BALFE, one of the most distinguished of modern musicians and com- posers, was born in Dublin, May 15, 1808. In his eighth year he appeared in public in a concert at the Exchange, Dublin. At sixteen he removed to London and supported himself by performing in the orchestra at Drury Lane. In 1825, a Russian count, Mezzara, took him to Italy and educated him at his own ex- pense. For many years he remained in Italy, where he prodaced many of his operas, and won an European reputation. He wrote altogether about thirty BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND, xxxix years. The " Bohemian Girl" and * k A Talisman " are his best. For many years he was conductor in Her Majesty's Theatre, London. He died Oct. 20, 1870. A tahlet was erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey a few years ago. (Poem, page 830.) JOHN BANIM. JOHN BANIM, a talented and popular novelist, was born in Kilkenny, April 3, 1798. After a collegiate course, his artistic tastes urged him to adopt paint- ing as a profession. Studying faithfully and successfully for two years at the academy of the Royal Dublin Society, he returned to his native city as a portrait painter; he also edited the Leinster Gazette. In 1820, we find him again in Dublin engaged in literary pursuits, but discouraged and disheartened with the product of his labors, until the production of his tragedy of "Damon and Pythias." This play, which was brought out at Covent Garden Theatre, Macready and Charles Kemble supporting the principal characters, established his reputation. The first series of the popular " Tales by the O'Hara family " was published in 1825, the last in 1829. They are " The Peep o' Day," " The Smuggler," "The Disowned," " The Fetches, " and "The Nowlans." These tales were the, joint production of John and Michael Banim, and although highly sensational are well and powerfully written. John Banim was a hope- less invalid from his thirty-first year, and the close of his life was overshadowed by much privation and misfortune. Death ended his suffering in 1842 in the forty-fourth year of his age. (Poems, page 358.) MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY. MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY was a prominent member of the young Ireland party the disciples of Davis, the founders of the Irish Confederation. He was the author of the first prize Repeal Essay and a frequent contributor to the Nation, in prose and verse. After the failure of '48, he openly abandoned the national cause of Ireland as a cause lost and defeated forever, announcing this change boldly and explicitly, and advising his countrymen to make the best of British provincialism, disagreeable as it might be. He was for some years editor of the Cork Southern Reporter, and later on held a minor government position. He died February, 1889. He was a nephew of the renowned Bishop of Charles- ton, the late Dr. England. (Poems, page 840.) RIGHT REV. GEORGE BERKELEY. GEORGE BERKELEY, Bishop of Cloyne, was born at Dysart Castle, on the river Nore, March 12, 1683. He was educated in Trinity College, and in 1705 founded a society to "promote investigations in the new philosophy of Boyle, Newton xl BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. and Locke." He published many works, the principal of which is " The Prin- ciples of Human Knowledge." He was the friend of Steele. Addison and Swift. He conceived the idea of emigrating to America and establishing a college for the advancement of its people. He procured a charter for a college; about 5000 was subscribed, the government promised 20,000 more, and he threw all his private means into the undertaking. He landed at Newport, Khode Island, in 1729. The government grant not arriving, he returned home after three years, leaving his Rhode Island property to Yale College as an endowment. His house on Rhode Island still stands. He died in 1753. (Poem, page 816.) MRS. M. E. BLAKE. MRS. MARY E. BLAKE is one of Boston's sweetest poets. Her maiden-name was McGrath. She was born September, 1840, at Dungarvan, county Waterford, Ireland, and came to America when six years old. She married Dr. John G. Blake, of Boston, in 1865; and has resided since in Boston formerly in Quincy, Mass. Mrs. Blake is a poet of extensive range. She published a volume of " Poems" in 1882. (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Co.) (Poems, page 769.) JOSEPH BRENAN. JOSEPH BRENAN was one of the band of gifted young men who participated in the troubles of '48 in Ireland. After the failure of the movement, he was obliged to seek the shores of America. Here he devoted himself to the profes- sion of journalism and soon won a name by his poetic contributions to the jour- BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. xli nals and magazines of the day. He died in New Orleans in 1857, in the twenty- ninth year of his age. He was totally blind the year before his death. Joseph Brenan married Miss Mary Savage, a sister of Mrs. Col. Murphy, of San Fran- cisco, and of the late John Savage. Four children were the issue of the mar- riage, only one of whom survives a daughter who was named after Florence McCarthy, a bosom friend of Brenan's. She is now Sister Mary Angela of the Convent of Mercy, Omaha. He was born in Cork, Ireland. His poems are dis- tinguished for their power, pathos, and exquisite diction. (Poems, page 864.) FRANCES BROWNE. FRANCES BROWNE (The Blind Poetess) was born in the County Donegal, June 16, 1818. Her loss of sight was owing to a severe attack of small pox during her infancy, which left this deplorable mark of its presence. Her early educa- tion was acquired through the attention with which she listened to the instruc- tions given her sisters and brother; her natural literary tastes requiring but little assistance to grow to perfect fruition. As early as her seventh year, her desire for verse-making made itself manifest. In 1844 her first volume of poems was published and received with much favor. "The Legends of Ulster," a volume of " Lyrics " and " Miscellaneous Poems " soon followed. Taking up her residence in London, her sister accompanied her, acting as her amanuensis. Here she became a contributor to the leading periodicals of the day. Her novels " The Hidden Sin " and the " Ericksons " acquired much popularity. In 1861 she published " My Thoughts of the World." (Poems, page 800.) xlii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. JOHN BROUGHAM. JOHN BROUGHAM, dramatist, actor, and poet, was born in the city of Dublin in 1810. He came to the United States in 1842, and was connected with the stage until his death, which occurred in 1880. As a comedian he had few equals in his day. For a time he published in New York a comic paper. The Lantern, in which many of his fugitive pieces appeared. He was the author of many plays, poems and stories, of high literary merit. A volume of his select works has been published by Osgood & Co., Boston, Mass. (Poems, page 877.) MAEY C. BUEKE. MRS. BURKE was born in the city of Dublin. Ireland, and was brought bv her parents to this country when about six years old. Her father, William H. Dunn, was a lawyer, and practised in Philadelphia, where he was well known as a man of superior education, a witty, brilliant writer and speaker, a high-minded, gen- erous gentleman. He removed with his family to New York where, in 1854, his eldest daughter, Mary Catharine, then 20 years of age married the late Dr. John Burke, one of New York's best known and most successful physicians Mrs, Burke, encouraged by Dr. Huntington, Thomas D'Arcy McGee. and her father, had already written poems, which were published and praised, but an uncom- monly happy home, and the cares of a large family, interfered with a literary career which, under less fortunate circumstances, might have been more success- ful, as all that she has written has been most favorably received. Her poems are simple and natural, appealing from her own heart to others of the same mind. (Poems, page 902.) BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. xliii VERY REV. THOS. N. BURKE. VERY REV. T. N. BURKE, one of the most distinguished pulpit orators and lecturers of the age, was born in the city of Gal way, Ireland, in 1830. In his sixteenth year he went to Rome, where he studied for five years and was then elevated to the priesthood. He became a member of the Order of Dominicans, and labored as a missionary for many years in England and Ireland. He quickly distinguished himself by his zeal and energy and attracted public atten- tion by his eloquence as a speaker and his skill as a debater. He again went to to Rome, was made Superior of St. Clement's, and after a brief stay returned to Ireland and resumed his labors. While Provincial of his Order, in 1872, he visited the United States. Here he preached and lectured to vast audiences in all the principal cities of the Union. As indicated by his portrait, Father Burke had with a kindly disposition and a keen sense of humor an intensely combat- ive spirit. While on this tour the latter element of his character found full scope. The English historian Froude was on a mission to this country at the time, in order to win over the moral support of the American people for the English in their continued course of oppression of the Irish. Father Burke at once delivered a powerful lecture in New York in which he presented the 1 1 ish side of the case with remarkable power. This led to a vigorous contro- versy. In a debate wonderful for its eloquence and conclusiveness, Father Burke defeated the English representative, and sent him home baffled and crest- fallen. The lectures of the eloquent Father were printed in the leading daily papers of New York. No other priest from Ireland, not even Father Matthew, ever gained such wide popularity by means of his public utterances in the United States. His lectures were widely circulated in book form as well as in newspapers. They were first issued in two sumptuous volumes by P. M. Haverty. Another edition, in cheaper form, was soon put out by another publisher and had an extensive sale. Father Burke was the author of several volumes of ser- mons, lectures, and speeches. He died at Tallaght, in 1883. (Poem, page 834.) xliv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. REV. T . A. BUTLER. REV. THOMAS AMBROSE BUTLER is a native of Ireland, where he was born in the year 1837. He is at present a resident of St. Louis, Mo. He published a few years ago a meritorious volume of verse, entitled " The Irish on the Prairies and Other Poems." (Poem, page 903.) J. J. CALLANAN J. J. CALLANAN was born in Cork in 1795, and was intended by his parents for the priesthood. After a preparatory classical course in his native city, he entered Maynooth College at seventeen. At twenty, he found that he had mis- taken his vocation, and he left the college. The next year he took two prizes in a poetical competition, and this decided his profession. He entered Trinity College to study medicine, and continued there for two years. lie was full of literary projects; but they were not carried out. He was morbidly sensitive; and his unsettled aim and dependence increased his unrest. In 1S27 he was a teacher in a school in Lisbon, Portugal, where his fatal illness came upon him. His moral qualities were of a very high order. Those who knew him well speak of him as scrupulously truthful, and honorable almost to romance. He was meek and charitable in speech to a degree not very common in those days. He never spoke ill of man; no injury could provoke him to it. Ingratitude itself did not awaken in him a spirit of resentment. Add to these qualities a rare gentle- ness of manner, and it is no wonder that he was, as is told, very dear to all that had intercourse with him. (Poems, page 551.) BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. xlv DR. CAMPION. DR. CAMPION was born in Ireland in the early part of the present century. He was a physician by profession, but was known as a devoted student of Irish historical literature, and he was a poet of more than ordinary merit. Many of his poems, notably those on historical subjects, display uncommon power. He was an ardent patriot. (Poems, page 826.) WILLIAM CARLETON. WM. CARLETON, novelist, was born at Clogher, county Tyrone, 1798. In- tended for the Church he, in his twelfth year, started on foot to attend a classi- cal school in Minister. On the way the kindness of the peasantry provided him with bed and board. Disheartened, he returned, but had gained such a knowl- edge of the manners and customs of the people that, though the Church, perhaps, lost a gifted ornament, literature secured the most successful descriptive writer of the peasant character of Ireland. In turn village tutor in Louth and classical teacher in Dublin, he later devoted himself to literature, producing his Traits and Stories of the Irish peasantry. He died in Dublin, is*;;). (Poems, page 695.) GERALD CARLETON. GERALD CARLETON is a native of Gal way, Ireland, where he was born in xlvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. the year 1844. At an early age he engaged in journalism, and was for many years connected with leading British publications. He is best known as a pop- ular novelist. He came to the United States in 1866, and, exceping eight years which he spent in Europe, has since resided in New York. (Poems, page 947.) HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. REV. HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER, the successor of Rev. Thomas Starr King, and Pastor of Hollis St. Church, Boston, Mass., was born in Ireland in the year 1840. He sprang from two old and honored families in Kilkenny and Derry. His early training and taste for ancient and modern literature he de- BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. ilvii rived from his father, a clergyman of the once Established Church of Ireland, and an excellent classical scholar. After five years' residence at Oxford, where he was prizeman, honorman, and exhibitioner of his college, he was appointed by Her Majesty's Commissioners of Education in Ireland as tutor and assistant- master in the upper department of Portora Royal Collegiate School, often called "the Eton of Ireland." As a lecturer on classic and historic themes, he has obtained celebrity in the New England states and in Canada, where he began his career about twelve years ago. Discharging all the duties of the religious society, to which he has ministered for nearly eight years, Rev. Bernard Car- penter devotes his hard-earned leisure to the poetic studies to which he is most ardently attached. (Poems, page 785.) JOHN K. CASEY. JOHN KEGAN CASEY, better known by his nom de plume, "Leo," was "born in the county Westmeath, Ireland, in 1846. He soon made a name by his contributions to the national press, and he was arrested March 13, 1867, and confined in Roscommon jail. Being of a delicate constitution his health gave way under his harsh treatment, and he died suddenly of hemorrhage of the lungs shortly after his release from prison, 1870. He is the author of a volume of poems intensely national in spirit and of literary excellence. (Poems, page 837.) P. S. CASSIDY. PATRICK SARSFIELD CASSIDY was born in the county of Donegal, Ireland, Oct. 31, 1852. He came to the United States in his eighteenth year, and entered the field of journalism. While so engaged he managed to steal enough hours from xlviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. the night to enable him to write the thrilling tale, "Glenough: or Victims of Vengeance," and several others. He was a member of the staff of the Associated Press, New York, for eight years. During part of that time, he also wrote the editorial pages for two weekly newspapers, and contributed an article and poem each month to the Celtic Magazine, of which he was part owner. Starting with nothing behind him but a thorough honesty, a soldier-like res- olution, and a tireless desire to make the most of his opportunities, and he stead- ily forged ahead in newspaper life. For several years past he has been city editor of the New York Mercury, and his facile genius and enormous capacity for work finds outlet as contributor and special writer upon several weekly and monthly literary publications. He is a graceful and pleasing writer of verse, and several of his poems have achieved wide circulation and popularity. The warm impulsive heart of the man naturally gives itself expression through the medium of poetry. (Poems, page 881.) MICHAEL CAVANAGH. MICHAEL CAVANAGH was born in Cappoquin, county of Waterford. Ireland. His father was a cooper, and his mother the daughter of a farmer. She was instructed in the Irish language, and from her the son derived his first knowl- edge of his native tongue in print, as well as his love for the traditional lore with which her mind was well stored, and to which he added by the study and research of after-years. His connection with revolutionary movements in 1840, led to his self -expatriation from Ireland, and he came to America in the close of that year. For several years subsequently he worked at coopering, and it was not until 1868 that he commenced writing for a livelihood in the Emerald, a literary illustrated weekly published in New York. To this periodical he contributed several original Irish sketches and tales, some translations from Gaelic poetry '.UOGRAPHICAL SKETCH KS OF THK I'nKTS OP IRK LAND. xlix (which met the commendation of eminent Irish scholars), and an occasional English song on some Irish subject. He subsequently became connected with the Celtic Monthly Magazine, and it was in this periodical that the greater portion of his published poems, original and translated, appeared ; though many of his best English poems were pub- lished in the Boston Pilot. The specimens given in this volume may be consid- ered fair samples of his English poetry, though but few of his literary friends set the same value on them as they accord to his prose sketches of Irish home life, scenery, and character. The following lines are copied from the back of the photograph from which the above portrait of Mr. Cavanagh was engraved. MY EXCUSE. The graceless King before a " cat " His " tile " can sport -Her " wig" the "Queen," And surely when it comes to that, A "decent man " may wear his " hat " By fellow-Christians to be seen : Nor care a single, bare " traneen "' If, by some brainless swell's fiat Because his name be " Mick," or " Pat," He should, therefore, be counted " Green ! " CLOCH-ON-CUINNE. (Poems, p. 9fin ) ^ JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE. JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE was bom in Ireland at Kingstown, near Dublin, on July 31, 1846. With his family he crossed to London when a boy of twelve. In 1863 he entered the English Civil Service in the Department of the Board of Trad>, and remained thereuntil is<;s. Tlu- Irish National movement, which began in BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 1861, found in him an ardent disciple, and this it was which led to his resigna- tion from the Civil Service. He went to Paris from London and thence to America. In New York he entered the ranks of journalism, first associating himself with the Irish Republic, a weekly paper brilliantly edited by Michael Scanlan, the poet. In 1870 he entered the service of the New York Herald and remained with that paper thirteen years, filling almost every position on it from reporter to managing editor. In 1883 he left the Herald to take the managing editorship of the New York Morning Journal which position he still fills. Although in the centre of the maelstrom of journalism Mr. Clarke has found time for poetic and literary effort. Last year he published " Eobert Emmet, a Tragedy of Irish History." and stray verses from his pen appear from time to time in the press. He is always proud to say that his first verses that found their way into print appeared in the Dublin Irish People, edited by John O'Leary. (Poems, page 941.) RICH A ED W. COLLENDER. RICHARD W. COLLENDER was born in Cappoquin, county of Waterford, Ire- land, in the year 1841. He was educated in the famous school of Mount Mel- lerey, where, though a mere youth, he attracted notice by his talent and love of knowledge. He came to the United States in 18B9, and wrote for the Celtic Monthly Magazine and othe"r publications. Though splendid inducements were before him, his love of home prevailed, and he left, in 1883, for Ireland. Mr. Collender is an ardent Nationalist, and his vigorous posms have been among the most attractive features of United Ireland for some years past. He has also writ- ten many sketches, stories and novelettes, but his complete works have never been collected. His brother, Mr. Hugh M. Collender, is a wealthy merchant of BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. li New York. Mr. Collender was a school- mate and life-long friend of the Cappo- quin poet, John Walsh, and much of their best work was the result of collab- oration. (Poems, page 984.) WILLIAM COLLINS. WILLIAM COLLINS was born in the town of Strabane, County of Tyrone, Ire land, and came to America in his fourteenth year. He resided for many years in the neighborhood of the Upper Ottawa. Canada, and while yet a boy contrib- uted largely to the periodicals of the day. Having passed over to the United States, during the early period of the war, he enlisted in a Western regiment \ - " ~* and served till the close of the conflict. In 1866. he accompanied Gen. O'Neill in the Fenian invasion of Canada, and participated in the battle of Ridgeway, and the rout of the " Queens' Own." He has resided in New York for many years and is at present on the editorial staff of the New York Tablet. Mr. Col- lins has published a volume of poems that has had an extensive sale, besides several prose works of fiction. He is a contributor to many of the periodicals of the day. (Poems, page 895.) WILLIAM CONGREVE. WILLIAM CONGREVE, an eminent dramatist, was born of Dublin parents, at Bardsey Grange, near Leeds, in 1670. Returning to Dublin he n-reived his early education at Kilkenny and afterward at Trinity College, Dublin. While study- ing law at the Middle Temple, his love for literature asserted itst-lf, and srttin^ aside his legal studies he applied himself to writing for the stage. The novel Incognita was published under the fictitious name of "Cleophil." \\\< mmc-dy Ill BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. the " Old Bachelor " was received with great favor at the Drury Lane Theatre in 1693. He subsequently produced " Love for Love," " Double Dealer," " The Mourning Bride," and " The Way of the World." " Love for Love " is Congreve's masterpiece. The general tone of his writ- ings savors much of immorality, and their popularity indicates the spirit of the times. He was ruined by the adulation heaped upon him by the most distin- guished men of his time. Pope honored him by dedicating to him his Iliad. Dryden was extravagance itself in his praise. After years of suffering from blindness and bodily weakness he died January 19, 1729. (Poems, page 677.) KATHARINE E. CONWAY. Miss KATHARINE E. CONWAY was born of Irish Catholic parents at Roches- ter, New York, September, 1853. Her first literary work was contributed to the daily press of that city. She has since written much in prose and poetry for New York and other periodicals, and in 1883 produced a volume of poems en- titled " On the Sunrise Slope." She was for some years a member of the edi- torial staff of the Buffalo Catholic Union and Times, and is now connected with the Boston Pilot. (Poems, page 767.) BIOGRAPHICAL SKKiCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. liii DANIEL CONNOLLY. DANIEL CONNOLLY was born in Beleek, Fermanagh County, Ireland, in the year 183G. He came to America in 1851, and adopted the profession of journalism. He was for some time the special war correspondent of the Now York Daily News, during the Rebellion, and he became subsequently asso- ciate editor of the Metropolitan Record, a New York weekly. He is at present engaged in commercial business. His poetical contributions to the periodicals of the day are numerous, and are distinguished for their vigor of expression and strong patriotic feeling He has recently compiled an excellent collection of Irish poetry. (Poems, page 899.) REV. JOHN COSTELLO. REV. JOHN COSTELLO is at present parish priest at Athens, Pa. He has been for many years a well-known contributor to Irish and Catholic publications. He is an accomplished linguist, and has translated into English many of the gems of poetic literature from the various European languages. Some of his transla- tions are equal to those of Mangan and " Prout." (Poems, page 905.) MRS. CRAWFORD. MRS. CRAWFORD was born in the county of Cavan, Ireland, early in the pres- ent century. She wrote several pieces of merit, and is said, on good authority, to be the author of " Kathleen Mavourneen," for which Crouch furnished the music. (Poems, page 833.) DANIEL CRILLY. DANIEL CRILLY, poet, journalist, and politician, was born near Rostrevor, in the county of Down, Ireland, thirty-five years ago. He received his early edu- Hv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. cation in the National school of his native place, and afterward spent some time in the Catholic Institute, Hope Street, Liverpool whither his family removed and Sedgley Park College, Wolverhampton, England. After five years passed in the Cotton Exchange of Liverpool, his desire to enter political journalism proved irresistible. He became a contributor to the Dublin Nation, and eventually a member of its staff. In 1885, Mr. Crilly was elected a Member of Parliament for North Mayo. Besides his political articles and journalistic correspondence, and burdensome parliamentary duties, Mr. Crilly finds time to write many tales and sketches, and stirring songs and lyrics. He is one of Mr. Parnell's ablest lieutenants, and is one of the most trusted advisers in the Irish Parliamentary Councils. (Poems, page 980.) JOHN PHILPOT GUBRAN. JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN, a brilliant popular orator, was born at Newmarket, county Cork, July, 1750. His ready wit attracted the attention of the Eector, Eev. Wm. Boyse, who sent him to Middleton College, whence he was trans- planted to Trinity College, Dublin, in 1767. He studied Law at the Middle Temple and on his call to the Bar returned to Ireland in 1775. From 1783 to 1797 in the Irish Parliament he advocated emancipation and reform. There he was the " assistant most demanded," whilst in court " he was the advocate deemed essential." His defence of Hamilton Eowan stands unequalled. He resigned the Mastership of the Eolls in 1816, and died in London from an apoplectic attack, October, 1817, in the sixty-eighth year of his age. (Poems, page 678.) . BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. Iv THOMAS DAVIS. See memoirs and introduction by John Mitchel, preceding Poems, page 470. FRANCIS DAVIS. FRANCIS DAVIS, more widely known in his day by his nom deplume of "The Belfast Man," was a native of Cork. Ireland, where he was born in 1810. He Ivi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. removed to Belfast at an early age. where he lived till his death, supporting himself for many years by his occupation of weaver. He wrote for the Dublin Nation in its early years, and contributed to most of the national journals. Many of his finest productions were composed while busy with the loom. In his latter years he received from his townsmen a situation more congenial to his tastes. Shortly before his death he joined the Catholic church. His complete poetical works were published in Belfast a few years ago. He died in 1885. (Poems, page 838.) EUGENE DAVIS. EUGENE DAVIS was bora in Clonakilty, county of Cork, Ireland, March 23, 1857. He was educated at the University of Louvain, Belgium, and subse- quently in Paris. He was a contributor at an early age to the Dublin Irishman and Shamrock over the nom de plume of "Owen Koe," the series of articles being, "Hours with Irish Poebs," "The Orators of Ireland," and a novel of Belgo -Irish life entitled " The True Love and the False. " He contributed poetry also to the same papers. Mr. Davis spent a large portion of his life in Paris, where at one time he was the acting editor of United Ireland, when that journal was transferred to the French capital after having been suppressed in Dublin. He was expelled from France, with James Stephens, in March, 1885. at the request of Lord Lyons, the British Ambassador, for political reasons. He trav- elled, afterward, over almost the entire continent of Europe, and contributed articles, under the name of "Viator," on social life in Switzerland and Italy to the Sunday edition of the San Francisco Chronicle. In November, 1887, he returned to Ireland, and was appointed to a post on the editorial staff of the BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. Ivii Dublin Nation. Mr. Davis is the author of a series of articles entitled " Sou- venirs of Irish Footprints over Europe," which appeared in tne Dublin Evenimj Telegraph in the spring of 1889, and will soon be published in book form. A volume of his poems, entitled ' A Vision of Ireland, and other Poems," has recently been published, and he 'has edited the posthumous poems of the late J. K. Casey. (Poems, page 915.) MICHAEL DAVITT. * MICHAEL DAVITT was born near the village of Straid, County of Mayo, Ire- land, in 1846. He was the son of a farmer, who was evicted from his home during the terrible landlord clearances of that period. When four years of age, Michael went with his parents to England, and when still little more than a child had the misfortune to lose his arm, while engaged in working in a mill. In 1870, he was arrested in London and sentenced to fifteen years' penal servi- tude, for participation in the Fenian movement. He was released in 1877. Mr. Davitt founded the Land League at Irishtown, Mayo, April 20, 1879. He was afterward arrested and imprisoned in connection with the agitation. His sub- sequent career is identified with the history of the Land League and the National League. Mr. Davitt has published a record of his prison life, and is the author of numerous speeches and writings on contemporary Irish affairs. (Poem, page t025.) AUBREY DE VERE. THOS. AUBREY DE VERB, poet and political writer ; born in county Limerick in 1814. Educated at Trinity College, Dublin. Devoting his leisure to travel Iviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. and literature, almost every year since 1842 beheld some production of his pro- lific pen. Amongst his poetic works, are " Recollections of Greece," and 1843, " Poems Miscellaneous and Sacred ;" 1856, " Innisfail ;" 1861, " Alexander the Great ;" a dramatic poem. 1874. His prose works include " Church Settlement of Ireland," 1886, and in 1878 Correspondence Religious and Philosophical, entitled " Proteus and Amadeus. " (Poems, p. 445.) MICHAEL DOHENY. MICHAEL DOHENY, orator, poet and patriot, was born at Brookhill. Tipperary, Ireland, May -22, 1805. The son of a small farmer, the first twenty years of his life were passed on the farm. He devoted all his spare time to study, and when a young man entered the Temple in London as a law student, meantime sup- porting himself by the proceeds of his pen. After being admitted to the bar, he returned to Ireland and took up his residence in the town of Cashel, Tipperary. He was one of O'Connell's ablest lieutenants in the then great struggle going on for popular rights. He afterward joined the young Ireland organization and de- voted all his talents and energies to the revolutionary movement. After many vicissitudes he succeeded in making his escape, arriving in New York in 1849. There he resumed his profession, and became an active and untiring worker for the diffusion of Irish principles. His death occurred suddenly April ], 1863. He is the author of " The Felon's Track," descriptive of the abortive insurrection of BIOGRAPHICAL SKKTCHKS OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. lix '48. His poetic contributions to the periodicals of the day were numerous. (Poems, page 869.) ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. ELKANOK C. PONNI.I.I-V is a resident of the city of Philadelphia, wlu'iv she was born in the year 184S. She has been for many years one of the most popu- Ix BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. lar contributors to American Catholic periodicals. Many of her poems are on spiritual subjects, and she is the author of a number of prose works, most of them being of a religious character. Miss Donnelly is a sister of the Hon. Igna- tius Donnelly of Minnesota, author of "Atlantis," and the Shakespeare Bacon Cryptogram. (Poems, page 992.) BAKTHOLOMEW DOWLLNG. BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING was born in Listowel, county Kerry, Ireland, in 1817. His parents emigrated to Canada, but on the death of his father, while yet a mere child, his mother returned with him and her other children to her old home in Limerick, where he was educated and commenced a successful business career. In everything relating to Ireland he was an ardent enthusiast, and when the young Ireland movement culminated in disaster for the leaders in 1848, his personal interests were for the time shipwrecked with those of many of his brave companions. Later on, he resumed business in Liverpool, and from thence emigrated a second time to America, stimulated by the grand exodus of the Modern Argonauts to the golden shores of California. Here his career was varied and honorable. He successfully edited the San Francisco Monitor for some years, and in conjunction with his younger brother conducted a large farming business in Contra Costa County. In a brief notice like the present we have room to do him little more than passing justice by referring to the specimen poem from his pen which is to be found in this volume, and saying that when in 1863. at the early a,ge of 46, death summoned him to judgment, the close of his blameless and honorable life was cheered by the love of a host of warm personal friends. (Poem, page 854.) BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. Ixi WILLIAM DOWLING. WILLIAM DOWLING was born of Irish parents in Kingston, Upper Canada. While very young his father died, and the mother returned with her family to her old home in Limerick, Ireland. Here, under his mother's care and that of his elder brother Batholomew (whose biography appears in these pages) he received his education and imbibed a taste and love for all that was beautiful and true. On the death of his mother and the breaking up of the old home he emigrated to America, finally settling down in San Francisco, where he at present resides, surrounded by a large and happy family. Mr. Dowling has written pretty gems, which occasionally may be found in the newspapers without credit. But they have never been published as a collection. (Poems, page 1024.) ELLEN DOWNING. Miss ELLEN DOWNING was a Munster lady, and one of the most brilliant con- tributors to the Nation newspaper, during the '48 period. She had formed an attachment for one of the young Ireland writers, who was forced, on the failure of the movement, to seek refuge in America. In the new land he learned to forget his home vows. "Mary" sank under the blow, and in utter seclusion from the world lingered for a while, but ere long the spring flowers bloomed on her grave. She died a nun in one of the Convents of Cork. (Poems, page 829.) WILLIAM DRENNAN. DR. DRENNAN, a United Irishman, was born in Belfast, May 23, 1754. He was the son of Thomas Drennan, a Presbyterian minister. He took his degree of M.D. at Edinburgh in 1778, and after practising some years in Belfast and Newry, removed to Dublin in 1789. He originated the establishment of the Society of United Irishmen, and published a prospectus in June, 1791. He vigorously advocated the cause of Catholic Emancipation and Parliamentary Reform. In 1794, he was tried for sedition and acquitted. Relinquishing his practise in 1800, he returned to Belfast and commenced the Belfast Magazine. In 1815, he published a volume of " Fugitive Pieces," and in 1817 a translation of the " Electra" of Sophocles. He died in Belfast June 5, 1820. He first applied to Ireland the epithet: " Emerald Isle." He published some excellent hymns, and, says Dr. Drummond, " in some of the lighter kinds of poetry showed much of the playful wit and ingenuity of Goldsmith." (Poem, page 920.) LADY DUFFERIN. LADY DUFFERIN was the daughter of Thomas Sheridan, son of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and was born in the year 1S07. She married the Hon. Price Ixii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. Blackwood, afterward Lord Dufferin. After his death, she married the Earl of Gifford. when on his death bed. She was the mother of the present Earl of Dufferin. She was the author of some touching Irish ballads. She died in 1867. (Poems, page 815.) CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY, the son of a Monaghan farmer, of Celtic extrac- tion, was born in 1816. In his 10th year he went to Dublin, friendless and un- known; but determining on becoming an author, he obtained employment on the newspaper press. He next became the editor of an influential newspaper in Belfast. He returned to Dublin in 1841, and connected himself with " The Mountain" of the O'Connell party. In 1842 he started " The Nation," as an educational journal, to create and foster public opinion in Ireland, and to make it racy of the soil. In five years Mr. Duffy collected a party, afterward known as " Young Ireland. " In 1844 he was a fellow-prisoner with O'Connell in Rich- mond jail, Dublin; he acted in concert with O'Connell until 1847, when he left the Repeal Association, and was one of the founders of the Irish Confederation. He was tried for treason and felony in 1848-9, but after several ineffectual attempts, the prosecution was abandoned by the Government. He then re- sumed " The Nation," which had been suspended, which he limited to social reforms, such as landlord and tenant right, in support of which was formed the "Independent Irish Party" in Parliament. Mr. Duffy was elected in 1852 member for the borough of New Ross, but resigned his seat in 1856, on proceed- ing to Australia. He has since held office twice in the government of Victoria as Minister of Public Lands and Works, and was sent for by the governor to form an administration during a severe ministerial crisis of 1860, but declined on his excellency's hesitating to grant the power of dissolving Parliament. Mr. Duffy, on his arrival in Victoria, was presented with a handsome estate by the Irish of that colony. Mr. Duffy has been thrice married. He is a barrister, but has never practised. (Poems, page 685.) MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. MAURICE F. EGAN was born in the city of Philadelphia in 1852. He was edu- cated in La Salle College, and after completing his studies, he entered George- town College as one of the lay members of the Faculty. Shortly afterward Mr. Egan made a business of journalism, contributing meantime to most of the leading periodicals of the day. His poetical contributions to the Century Maga- zine were received with a general burst of welcome and pleasure from critics of eminence, among them being Longfellow and Stea,dman. Shortly before his death, Mr. Longfellow referring to Mr. Egan's "Preludes" wrote: "I have (D1HLAEBJL1S8 (B-.ASr.AIT ROBERT EMMET. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. liiii already read enough in it to see the elevated tone and spirit in \vlii li it is written; I recognize in these sonnets a certain freshness in the thought and manner of expression which is very attractive. Might I ask you to congratulate the author for me, both on the promise and the performance of his work." Mr. Egan edited for some years McGee's Illustrated Weekly, and the New York Free- man's Journal. He is at present professor of English literature in Notre Dame University, Indiana. Mr. Egan is the author of two volumes of poems, one of which was published in London, and of a volume of excellent Catholic stories entitled " The World Around Us." (Poems, page 878.) ROBERT EMMET. ROBERT EMMET, the Irish martyr, was born in Dublin, in 1778. He was educated at Trinity College, where he took a prominent part in the Historical Society and espoused the national side in the debates. Among his fellow stu- dents was the poet Moore. Emmet's subsequent career, and his execution in 1803, are too well known to require an extended notice. He was the author of several pieces of poetry, which are published in his memoir by Dr. Madden. (Poem, page 819.) SAMUEL FERGUSON. SAMUEL FERGUSON, poet and writer of historical romance, was born in Belfast, Ireland, in 1815. He was educated at the Belfast Academical Institute, also at the University of Dublin, which gave him the degree of LLD., in 1865. He Ixiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. was admitted to the Irish bar in. 1838. Ferguson (the original of which is McFergus) is a descendant from an ancient Celtic family; which ancestry is accountable for the wonderful power and energy, combined with the sweetness and descriptive beauty, which are the leading characteristics of his writings. During his earlier years, the practice of law becoming distasteful, his youth- ful imagination found more enjoyment in gratifying his natural love of litera- ture. He became a contributor to the Dublin University Magazine, in whose pages first appeared his fine romances of Irish History, "The Rebellion of Silken Thomas " and " Corbie McGilmore." His genius as ballad -writer alone is sufficient to build his poetic reputation. " The Forging of the Anchor " has of its own excellence become famous, and " The Welshmen of Tirawley " shows in every line the powerful poetic genius of the author. Samuel Ferguson's " Lays of the Western Gael " breathe the genuine spirit of the Irish bards. As a translator of Irish ballads he is unrivalled. The latter years of Ferguson's life have been devoted almost entirely to his profession, working faithfully and earnestly. He acquired a high and honorable position at the Irish bar, and has been honored if social title be an honor for a poet with a baronetcy. He died in August, 1886. (Poems, page 604.^ MARCELLA A. FITZGERALD. MARCELLA A. FITZGERALD was born in Frampton, Canada. Feb. 23d, 1845, a village established by her grandparents, who emigrated with their children from the county of Wexford, Ireland, in 1820. After her father's death her mother in 1851, went to California with her children to join her father, Martin Murphy the well-known Irish pioneer, who had traversed the continent, and in 1844 pitched his tent on the Pacific. Miss Fitzgerald has resided in California since childhood, receiving her education at the college of Notre Dame, San Jos. She has been a regular and a highly valued contributor to the press since 1865. A volume embracing many of her poems was published in 1886, by the Catholic Publication Society of New York. (Poem, page 974.) JOHN FRAZER. JOHN FRAZER was born near Birr, Kings County, Ireland, in 1809. and was a cabinet maker by trade. He possessed literary and poetic talents of a high order. He wrote under the assumed name of " J. De Jean." Died, 1849. A col- lection of his writings was published in Dublin after his death. (Poems, p. 817.) UNA (MRS. A. E. FORD). MRS. AUGUSTINE FORD, better known under her nom de plume of "Una." was bom in the county of Antrim, Ireland, and came to the United States at an early age. She completed her education at St. Martin's convent, Brown County, Ohio, and while yet a mere girl won wide recognition by her poetic contributions to the periodicals of the day. Her writings are intensely national, and those on sentimental subjects are characterized by a delicate play of fancy and beauty of SAITOIEJL BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. Ixv diction. Died, 1876. She was author of two volumes of poems. (Poems, p. 975.) JAMES T. GALLAGHER. A biographical sketch of Mr. Gallagher precedes his poems, page 1026. WILLIAM GEOGHEGAN. WILLIAM GEOGHEGAN. poet and journalist, was horn in the town of Bally- Ixvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. mahon, County Longford, Ireland, in the year 1844. His birth place is close by the classic shades of ' Sweet Auburn," which Oliver Goldsmith's gentle muse has rendered forever famous. He left Ireland at the early age of seventeen years, and making New York his future home adopted the profession of journal- ism. He rose to an honored place in its ranks. Impressions of the hallowed surroundings of his youth can be readily traced in many of his contributions to the American Journals and magazines, both in poetry and prose. He has been for over twenty years, and still is a contributor of serial stories, poems and other light literature to the leading periodicals of the day, and is at present a member of the staff of the New York Evening Sun. He revisited Ireland on two occa- sions since his first arrival in the United States, and drew vivid pen pictures of the scenic and social aspects of Ireland that have been widely read and appre- ciated for their gracefulness and simplicity of style. (Poems, page 889.) PATRICK SAESFIELD GILMORE. PATRICK SARSFIELD GILMORE was born in the county of Galway, Ireland, on Christmas Day, 1829. He came to the United States when nineteen years old, landing in Boston. His talents as a musical leader and organizer were soon recog- nized. He was installed as leader of the Boston Brigade Band. Later he organ- ized the Suffolk Band of Boston and the famous Salem Brass Band. His own band Gilmore's Band he organized in 1858. The musical jubilees in Boston in 1869 and 1870, particularly the latter, are red letter events in musical history. In 1878 he made a tour of Europe, taking his band with him and staying away from us for six months. He was sadly missed, but America was content to do without him for a while, that Europe might know that we could give her a few valuable hints about music. His two Boston jubilees together cost $1,000,000, and at the conclusion of the second one Mr. Gilmore was given $80.000 by the wealthy men of Boston. Ten years ago Mr. Gilmore published his national anthem "Columbia," which has steadily increased in popularity as it has advanced in age. Mr. Gilmore resides at present in New York. (Poem, page 1011.) MINNIE GILMORE. Miss MINNIE GILMORE is the daughter of Mr. Patrick Sarsfield Gilmore, the famous musician, and is about twenty -two years of age. She is the author of volume of poems that has been well received, and that gives bright promise oi future work in the same line. These poems have been written since she left convent school three years ago "A Boston girl by birth," she said to th< writer, "a Gothamite by adoption, a cosmopolitan by virtue of our Bohemian, strolling life, it may seem strange that my first work should be distinct!] western. The verses are simply the records of rose-colored impressions receivec during my first peep at life, when from the seclusion of a convent school I w transferred, for a year, to the wild, free life of the prairie. The country, whicl BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POKTS OP IRELAND. Ixvii I have loved 'from my youth up,'- -the primitive social atmosphere here, and above all, the life on horseback which I led. took my heart by storm, and I have been restive under civilization ever since. Literary habits ? Oh, none; beyond the inveterate habit of scribbling. I fear I have none." Miss Gilmore resides in New York City. (Poems, page 948.) OLIVER GOLDSMITH. OLIVER GOLDSMITH was born at Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ireland, November 10, 172S. His father was a poor curate of the Established Church. As a child, Oliver was remarkably dull, and was pronounced by his teacher an incorrigible dunce. Entering Trinity College (as a sizar) in his seventeenth year, he was noted for his inattention to his studies, and took his degree in 1749 as last on the list of graduates. After leaving the University he made futile efforts to enter the church, also to secure a livelihood in the professions of teaching, law and medicine. Disgusted and disappointed he travelled on foot over a considerable portion of the continent, paying for his food and lodgings by playing the flute. Arriving in England penniless, in 1756, he varied his occupation, as chemist's clerk, usher in a school, book-seller's apprentice, and medical practitioner. After a period of obscure drudgery, devoted to writing tales for children, articles for magazines and critical reviews, he became con- Ixviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. tributor to the Public Ledger. Under the title " Letters from a Citizen of the World," these publications attracted popular notice. His beautiful poem " The Traveller," the plan of which was sketched from his journeyings through Europe, was the beginning of his literary fame. "The Vicar of Waken" eld," " The Good-natured Man," " The Deserted Village " following in quick succes- sion, he was acknowledged one of the leading writers of his time. In 1773 his comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer" won a triumphant success at Covent Garden Theatre. He was surrounded by the leading artists, statesmen, and writers of the day; he was also a member of the famous Literary Club. His inability to keep out of debt made him the slave of booksellers; his historical works were written to meet the wants of these creditors, and are not up to the general standard of his writings. He died in 1774 deeply mourned by his friends and by the many recipients of his charity. (Poems, page 427.) LAWRENCE G. GOULDING. LAWRENCE G. GOULDING was born in Clare, Ireland, in 1838, where he was educated and studied law. He came to America when quite a young man, and made New York his home, where he has since resided. After devoting some time to law and journalism, Mr. Goulding entered the publishing business, in BIOGRAPHICAL SKKTCHKS OF THK 1'OKTS OF 1KKI.AXIX which he became extensively eneraged. He is the author of a valuable work entitled "The Catholic Churches of New York;" "Ireland's Destiny;" "An Epitome of Irish History." etc., etc. Mr. Goulding was an officer in the " gal- lant sixty-ninth " regiment, and for many years a commissioner of education. (Poems, page 925.) ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. ALFRED P. GRAVES was born in Dublin in the year 1840, but spent most of lis life in the South of Ireland. His portrayals of the feelings of the peasantry Ixx BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND are always true to nature, and the vein of humor that pervades his writings lends to them a peculiar charm, while never detracting: from their dignity. For some years past he has lived in London. England. (Poems, page 914.) GERALD GRIFFIN. , GERALD GRIFFIN, a most popular and talented Irish novelist and dramatist, was born in Limerick, December 12, 1803. As his parents desired him to study medicine he remained with an elder brother, Dr. Griffin, while they emigrated to the United States in 1820. His tastes inclining more to literature, he early contributed to Limerick newspapers, and in his nineteenth year wrote his drama of "Aguire." His brother, recognizing in Gerald the stamp of literary genius, encouraged him to go to London to work for fame and fortune. "Gisippus" was published while yet twenty, and at twenty-five "The Collegians " was written. Unable to procure a manager who would purchase his dramas, he grew despondent. His ambition to write for the stage receiv- ing a chill from which he never recovered, he turned his attention to writing for magazines and soon acquired a brilliant reputation. But success had come too late; his health had become undermined by his unceasing toil, long vigils and disappointments. His " Holland Tide," " Tales of the Munster Festivals," " The Rivals," " The Invasion," "The Duke of Monmouth," a second series of BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. Ixxi " Tales of the Munster Festivals," etc., prove his ahility to perform the tasks to which he set himself. His poems are creations of a singularly beautiful and chaste imagination. His deeply religious nature yearning after a more perfect life, found its desire gratified in joining the Society of Christian Brothers. He died in Cork, June 12, 1840. After his death his tragedy of " Gisippus " was successfully brought out at Drury Lane Theatre. " The Collegians " has been successfully dramatized by Dion Boucicault as "The Colleen Bawn." (Poems, page 199.) LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY, the only child of General Patrick Robert Guiney, was born in Boston, January 7th, 1861, her childish associations being mainly with camps and soldiers. She graduated from the Academy of the Sacred Heart, Elmhurst, Providence, R. I., in 1879, and began writing in the fol- lowing year, publishing " Songs at the Start " in 1884, and " Goosequill Papers " in 1885. (Poems, page 717.) CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE. (MILES O'REILLY). GEN. CHAS. G. HALPINE. better known under his nom de plume of Miles O'Reilly, was born in the county of Meath, Ireland, in the year 1829. His father was an Episcopal clergyman and a man of eminent abilities, who about 1840 became editor of the Dublin Evening Mail, the great Protestant organ of Ireland. Charles was educated at Trinity College, Dublin, and on graduating, engaged in journalism. After spending a few years in London, he sailed for New York in 1852, where he became connected with the leading metropolitan journals. In 1856, he moved to Boston where he edited the Carpet Bag, a comic paper, in conjunction with Mr. Shillaber (" Mrs. Partington ") and Dr. Shepley. Returning to New York, he became associate editor of the Times, and subse- quently founded a journal of his own. At the beginning of the war. he went out with his countrymen under Col. Corcoran, and participated in the first battle of the war, Bull Run. He was afterwards removed to Major Gen. Hunter's staff, and subsequently served on the staff of Major Gen. Halleck. After being breveted Major General, he tendered his resignation, and returned to New York. He was elected to the office of City Register, which he held till his death in 1868. He was connected with the Young Ireland party in his youth, and remained an ardent patriot to the time of his death His poem on " The Flaunting Lie " was written on the occasion of the return of Anthony Burns, a fugitive slave, from Boston to his Southern master by the United States authorities. It created a great sensation at the time, and as it first appeared in the N. Y. Tribune, it was for a time attributed to Horace Gieeley. The humorous poem. '' Sambo's Right to be Kilt." possesses a historical significance, as it po'verfully contributed to dissipate the absurd prejudice of the white soldiers airainst admitting colored troops into Ixxii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. the Union army. Gen. Halpine was the first man who advocated the use of colored troops in the army, and his commander, Gen. Hunter, was the first man who employed them. (Poems, page 873.) MRS. FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. , FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS, though born in England, may justly be placed among the poets of Ireland. Her father, whose name was Browne, was a native of Ireland and her mother was of Venetian decent and numbered in her history ,many of the Doges. She was born in 1793. It is said that at the early age of six years she had read Shakespeare and was familiar with all the characters of the great poet. When she was about seven years old her father retired to a wild and romantic spot on the sea shore of Wales. Here she lived for several years, reading and studying constantly, but receiving little practical help from others. When but eight years of age she began writing poetry, and a volume of her poems published in her fourteenth year attracted considerable attention. In 1812 she married Captain Hemans. but the marriage proved unhappy, and they lived but a few years together. Her character was as delicate and refined as her poems were pure and beauti- ful. Sir Walter Scott said to her, as she was leaving Abbotsford after a long visit, " There are some whom we meet, and should like ever after to claim as kith and kin : and you are one of those." Mrs. Hemans removed to Dublin, Ire- land, some years before her death, which occurred in that city in 1835. Her re- BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. luiii mains were interred in St. Anne's Church, Dublin. Lord Jeffrey, in a critique of unstinted praise, ranks Mrs. Hemans as "beyond all comparison the most touching and accomplished writer of occasional verses that our literature has yet to boast of." (Poems, page 978.) JOHN KELLS INGRAM. J. K. INGRAM was born in Dublin in the year 1822, and has been for many years a professor in Trinity College, Dublin. He is the author of " Who Fears to Speak of '98, " written at the time of the Young Ireland movement, one of the most spirited of Irish songs. He is at present engaged in an exhaustive work, to be entitled, " The History of Political Economy." He has never taken any part in political affairs. (Poems, page 844.) ISABEL C. IRWIN. MRS. WILLIAM H. IRWIN was bom in the city of Dublin, Ireland, but was brought here by her father William H. Dunn, together with her sister Mary, now Mrs. Burke, and her brother, John P. Dunn, who was distinguished during the war with the South as one of the most successful of the Herald correspondents, his letters being compared to those of Russell of the London Times. Isabel C. Dunn married, when about 20 years of age, Mr. William H. Irwin. She was Ixxiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. a. girl of remarkable personal attractions, witty and vivacious, who although she wrote much, seemed to care little for literary fame, which is to be regretted, as the few poems which were published possessed great merit. She and her sister. Mrs. Burke, reside in New York, where they enjoy the society of a large and appreciative circle of friends. (Poem, page 910.) THOMAS CAULFIELD IRWIN. THOMAS CAULFIELD IRWIN was born in Warrenpoint. county Down. Ireland, on May 4th. 1823. His fa,ther Thomas Irwin was a practising physician of the place and his mother Anne Maria Cooke was the daughter of Caulfield Cooke, a barrister in Dublin. No expense was spared on his education. He inclined to literature when a youth, and being independent in circumstances he wrote for amusement. He has been connected with literature, as a writer of poetry and prose since 1853. Seven volumes of his poetical compositions have been published, namely, "Versicles," 1856; "Poems," 1866; " Ballads, 1 ' 1865; "Songs and Ro- mances," 1878; "Pictures and Songs," 1880: "Sonnets on the Poetry and Problems of Life," 1881; " Winter and Summer Stories," and at present writ- ing, has a volume in press entitled "Poems, Songs and Sketches." He is the author of over one hundred and twenty stories and sketches, and a work in three volumes which is an antique romance, entitled " From Caesar to Christ," as also several dramas. It will be seen that Mr. Irwin is a, prolific writer. His produc- tions are noted for picturesque word-painting of scene and situation, in variety of subject, fancy and imagination, and artistic finish in the form and diction of his poetical compositions. He is at present on the staff of TJie Irish Times, Dublin. (See Poems page 911.) ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. DR. ROBERT DWYER JOYCE, an eminent physician and celebrated poet, was born in Ireland about 1831. His poems are exclusively Irish in their subjects, he having had an intense love and appreciation for the legends and literature of his native country. His first venture, a volume of ballads, romances and songs, was published in Dublin in 1861. All his subsequent writings were published in Boston, Mass., which city he made his residence during the last seventeen years of his life, and where he enjoyed a position as one of the leading lights in the literary and social world. In 1868 and 18T1, appeared " Legends of the Wars in Ireland," and "Fireside Stories of Ireland," followed by 1 ' Ballads of Irish Chivalry. ' ' His finest work, ' ' Deirdre, ' ' was published in 1 876. This immediately won universal popularity, 10,000 copies being sold in a few days. His last poem, " Blanid," also merits much praise and won much favor. His desire to write a long poem on " The Courtship of Imar " was not gratified, failing health making it necessary to cease all labor. In the hope of regaining strength he sought his native land, where he died BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. Ixiv on the 23d of October, 1883, in less than two months after reaching its shores. Dr. Joyce was one of the leading medical practitioners of Boston, and was greatly beloved by all who knew him. (Poems, page 707.) REV. JAMES KEEGAN. REV. JAMES KEEGAN was born in the county of Leitrim, Ireland, in the year 1860, and is at present attached to the church of St. Malachy, St. Louis, Mo. His numerous contributions, both in poetry and prose, to the daily press, and .several publications, have made his name well known to Irish- American readers. Father Keegan is a thorough Irish scholar, and many of his finest poems are translations or renderings from the too-long neglected bards of old. (Poemg, page 900.) JOHN KEEGAN. JOHN KEEGAN was born in 1809. on the banks of the Nore, in Queens County. [e received only a common-school education, and was all his life essentially a of the people. He was the author of many poems of singular beauty, lys a biographer: "All the different phases of Irish passion the fierce out- mrsts of anger the muttered tone of contempt all the deep and heart-muling sorrow of the people he was master of all. Not a side of the Irish character Ixxvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. was there that he did not probe and understand." He died in 1849. (Poems, page 82b.) REV. WILLIAM D. KELLY was born in Ireland in the year 1846. He was educated in Boston and Worcester, and having completed his course of theology was ordained a priest of the diocese of Boston. Rev. Mr. Kelly is well known for many years as a contributor to the journals and periodicals of the day, in prose and verse. His poems are numerous and of a high order of merit. (Poems, page 940.) CHARLES J. KICKHAM. CHARLES JOSEPH KICKHAM was born in the village of Mullinahone. in Tip- perary county, Ireland, in 1830. He was descended from a wealthy and highly respected family. In his eighteenth year he met with an accident which nearly destroyed his sight and hearing for the remainder of his life. He was an ardent nationalist, and at an early age wrote fugitive pieces for the periodicals. He joined the Fenian organization, was arrested and condemned to fourteen years penal servitude. He was released, after four years' incarceration. Many of his CILAIOLE BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. Ixxvii poems are very popular, especially in the South of Ireland. He also wrote a highly dramatic and powerful novel on the sufferings of the Irish peasantry " Sally Kavanagh : or the Untenanted Graves." He died at his home in Tip- perary in 1882. (Poems, page 831.) DENNY LANE. DENNY LANE was born in Cork about the year 1825, and after the establish- ment of the Nation became a contributor to that journal. " He had," says Mr. Duffy, "a singularly prolific mind, which threw out showers of speculation, covering a wide field of art. philosophy and practical politics." His poems are few. Mr. Lane still resides in the city of Cork, and has ever remained an ardent and consistent patriot. (Poem, page 839.) CHARLES JAMES LEVER CHARLES JAMES LEVER, a most successful Irish novelist, was born in Dublin, August 31, 1806. He was educated for the medical profession, having taken his degree at Trinity College, also a degree at Gottingen, where he afterward studied. During the cholera which visited Ireland in 1832, as medical super- intendent, he acquired notable repute for his ability and skill in coping with the disease. Shortly afterward he became attached to the British Legation at Brussels in his professional capacity. During this time he published as a serial the novel " Harry Lorrequer," which met with unbounded popularity. Other novels followed in rapid succession: " Charles O'Malley," " Jack Hinton," Our Mess," " The O'Donoghue," " The Dodd Family Abroad," " Arthur O'Leary," and a host of others, in fact a whole library of graphic sketches introducing amusing incidents of Irish life and character. His anonymous writings are almost as numerous, among the best of which are his " Diary of Horace Tem- pleton" and "Con Cregan." Most of his life was passed on the Continent, being appointed to a consular post on the Mediterranean. He died at Trieste in 1872. (Poems, page 661.) JOHN LOCKE. JOHN LOCKE was born near the town of Callan, in the historic county of Kilkenny, Ireland, in 1847, and died at his home. 2i0 Henry Street, New York City, on January 31st. 1889, at the comparatively early age of 42 years. As an Irish poet he became famous in Irish circles many years ago under the nom deplume of "The Southern Gael." As a patriot he was distinguished for the ardent love which he bore his native land, and which is voiced in his passionate and musical verses. He was quite familiar with the scenes, history and tradi- tions of Ireland. While yet in his teens he became connected with the Irish Ixxviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. Revolutionary or Fenian movement, and having participated in the <; rising " of March, 1867. he was arrested and imprisoned, and after his release in the same year he migrated to the United States and settled in New York. His bright talents and liberal education soon secured him employment on the staff of the Emerald, then one of the representative Irish -American journals, and in which many of his best poems appeared. He subsequently edited the Celtic Weekly, the Citizen and Celtic Monthly, besides contributing frequently to the Sunday Democrat, Irish -American, Boston Pilot, and other papers. His poems were always extensively copied, the best-known among them being his fine ballad entitled ' Dawn on the Irish Coast." Apart from his poetry, he wrote several stories and numerous short sketches, in which he cleverly depicted Irish scenery and Irish character. His two brothers are in the Catholic Priesthood the Eev. Joseph Locke, now in Eome, and the Rev. Michael A. Locke, of St. Augustine College, Villanova, Pa. (Poems, page 993.) MRS. JOHN LOCKE (MARY A. COONEY). MARY A. COONEY was born in the town of Olonmel, Tipperary, Ireland. She was educated in the National school of her native town, and when scarcely six- teen years of age was a welcome contributor to most of the Irish national period- icals of the day. The most of her poems were published in the Dublin Irishman, The Flag of Ireland, and The Shamrock. In the year 1879, Miss Cooney came to the United States, and meantime continued to contribute to both Irish and Irish- American serial publications. In 1881, she married the Irish poet, John Locke, whose untimely death has been regretted by the Irish people in all lands. Since her marriage Mrs. Locke has written less than formerly, but her p-oduc- tions are always welcome. She resides in New York City. (Poems, page 997.) ]L'- BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. Uxix SAMUEL LOVER.- SAMUEL LOVER, novelist, poet, musician and artist, was born in Dublin, Ireland, 1797. His paintings, which were exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1833, gained for him the notice of the public, and he became miniature painter to the local aristocracy, at the same time cultivating his taste for literature. "Legends and Shrines of Ireland," published in 1832 in Dublin, was his first venture; the illustrations were by himself. This book won such a reputation and became so popular, that a second edition was published in 1834. Taking up his residence in London he contributed largely to the literature of the time, also writing some of the wittiest novels in the English language. Of these " Rory O'More " and " Handy Andy " have been dramatized. His other works are " Treasure Trove," " Lyrics of Ireland," " Metrical Tales," and other poems. Next to Thomas Moore he is the best known and most popular writer of Irish songs. The best known of them are, " Rory O'More," " Molly Bawn," ** The Low-Backed Car," and "The Angel's Whisper." He was very popular in society, where he sang his own songs. His visit, to the United States in 1847 proved him a general favorite. He died in 18G8. (Poems, page 179.) DANIEL R. LYDDY. DANIEL R. LYDDY was born in the City of Limerick. Ireland, in the year 1842- he was the eldest son of Mr. P. Henry Lyddy, T. C., a prominent mer- chant and a member of the town council of that city. Mr. Lyddy was educated at the Jesuits' College. Crescent House, Limerick, and was notr.l as a class orator, and for his proficiency in the French and German languages. Ixxx BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. At an early age he became a leader in the National movement of twenty years ago and endured much suffering for his country's cause. He first visited the United States during the late Civil War. and returned making his home in New York in 1867. He was admitted to the bar in 1870, and subse- quently, on motion of the Solicitor General of the United States, was called to the bar of the Supreme Court of the United States which sits at the Capitol, Washington, D. C. In 1873, Mr. Lyddy was tendered the nomination by the young Democracy of New York for Judge of the Marine Court, which he de- clined in favor of Judge Spaulding. Mr. Lyddy was the founder and publisher of three journals and had a large and lucrative law practice. He wrote several works of fiction and some fugitive poems. At the bar he was an eloquent advocate, in the lyceum he was an in- structive lecturer, in conversation brilliant, and as a host almost without any superior. He died in New York of pneumonia after a week's illness, November 27th. 1887. He left surviving him three brothers, two of whom are members of the legal profession. (Poem, page 894.) EDWARD LYSAGHT was born in the county of Clare, Ireland, in 1763. ' He was educated at Trinity College, Dublin, and was called both to the English and Irish bar. A small collection of his writings was published in Dublin, shortly after his death, which occurred in 1811. (Poems, page 924.) BIOGRAPHICAL SKK'IVHKS < H-' THK 1'OKTS OF IRELAND. l xxx i MICHAEL JOSEPH McCANN. MICHAEL JOSEPH McCANN was born in Gal way, about the year 1824. His earlier studies, which were conducted under a private tutor, were followed by a successful collegiate course. While yet a very young man, scarcely more th.-in twenty, he accepted the professorship of sciences. French, etc , offered him by the illustrious Archbishop McHale, in St. Jarlath's College, Tuam, and the glow- ing testimonials bestowed upon him on leaving that Institute bore testimony to the brilliant manner in which he had for eight years filled that position. It was during that period memorable in Irish history for the Repeal " agita- tion, that the spirit of patriotism, which distinguished him throughout his life, found expression in the glorious war song, '* O'Donnell Abu," a song which is sung wherever the Irish race is represented, and which has been translated into four languages. This poem was set up by the printers of the Dublin Nation, and had a local reputation among the little community of printers long before the world heard of it. He had, prior to this, contributed some of the most spir- ited poems that appeared in the Spirit of the Nation* one of which, "The Battle of Glendalough. " was translated into French by the Vicomte O'Neill de Tyrone, Prefect of Paris, and recited at a banquet given to the descendents of nota- ble Irishmen in that city. His many contributions of prose and verse, extending over a period of more than thirty years, all breathe the same spirit love of Ire- ];md and hatred of the tyranny under which she groaned. Most of his poems are descriptive of battles and are literally his- torical episodes in verse, to secure the minute accuracy of which no labor was spared in searching out the rarest sources of information. In 1859 he published a magazine, The Irish Harp, of which he was editor, and which continued to appear until 1865. After the collapse of the Fenian Ixxxii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. movement he went to reside in London, still contributing to the Irish press lead- ers which were frequently copied verbatim into American papers. He died in London, January 31st, 1883. having laid down the pen only three days before his death, and leaving a number of unpublished poems, full of the love of country a love increased rather than diminished by a residence in England. His obit- uaries, appearing in many of the leading Irish papers, arid even in some of the pro-Irish English ones, bear testimony not only to his talents, but also to the unflinching integrity and honor of the man qualities which made him proof against many a tempting offer to wield his pen against his country's cause. He is buried in St. Patrick's Cemetery, near London, the place where he rests being fitly marked by a handsome Irish cross entwined with shamrocks and, bearing within its arms the twofold inscription God and my country, and O'Donnell Abu ! (Poems, page 845.) DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY, poet, born in Dublin 1820. Composed ballads, poems, and lyrics, chiefly based on Irish traditions, written in a patriotic spirit and published in 1850. The volume includes translations from nearly every European language. His translation of Calderon's poems into English verse, with notes, was published in 1853. He has also written "Bell-founder" and other poems, " Shelley's Early Life," etc. In 1871 he received a pension in con- sideration of his merit as a poet. He died in 1882. (Poems, page 297.) BIOGRAPHICAL SKKTCHES OF THH POKTS <>F IRK!. AND. Ixxxiii JUSTIN HUNTLY McCARTHY. H. MCCARTHY is a son of the eminent novelist and historian, Justin McCarthy. He is twenty- nine years of age. He is the author of a number of historical works on contemporary events, and he has produced the best farce since Sheridan. " The Candidate." He has also published two volumes of verse. He is a member of Parliament, and like his distinguished father, an ardent nationalist. (Poems, page 852.) REV. WILLIAM JAMES McCLURE. REV. WILLIAM MCCLURE was born of Irish parents at Dobb's Ferry, Westches- ter County, New York, November 23d, 1842. He received a " common school " education in his native place, and from childhood was noted for his love of re- tirement and reading. At the age of eighteen he entered upon mercantile life in the city of New York, and continued thereat until 1872, when, feeling the strength of his vocation to the priesthood, he put himself under the direction of Rev. Father T. S. Preston, now the Right Rev. Vicar-General of the Archdiocese of New York, and went to Seton Hall College, South Orange, N. J., then under the presidency of Rev. Father M. A. Corrigan, now the most Rev. Archbishop of New York. Mr. McClure's progress was such that he was enabled to take up philosophy in St. Therese College, Canada, in 1873. He entered the Great Sem- inary, Montreal, for his theological course in 1874, was ordained sub-deacon in 187, Deacon in the spring of 1*77, and priest, December 22d, 1877, by Bishop Fabre, of Montreal. On Rev. Father McClure's arrival in New York to com - 1 1 ii Mice his mission, Cardinal McCloskey, then Archbishop, appointed him as Ixxxiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. assistant to Rev. H. C. Macdowall, St. Agnes' Church, New York City. He was for a while assistant to Rev. Dr. McGlynn. St. Stephen's Church. In 1882 he was called to St. Ann's, as first assistant to Right Rev. Mgr. Preston, where he continued his priestly work, until appointed in 1886 by Archbishop Corrigan. Rector of the church of the Sacred Heart of Barrytown, Dutchess County. N. Y., the parish including Red Hook and Tivoli He is still (1889) in charge of that mission. Rev. Father McClure early evinced talent for literary pursuits, and from the period of his going to New York (1860), he continued to write, and found his pen moving into poetical lines, insomuch that he published, in 1869, a volume of poems, the principal one of which is kt Zillora; A Tale." His impressions of na- ture are shown by a number of smaller pieces; also his patriotism shines forth in uncompromising measures. During his priesthood Father McClure's poems have been mainly of a religious caste. They accumulated in ten years, so that in 1888, he made a selection of the whole body of his poetical pieces and published them in one volume, 12mo. pp. 190. The book has been well received. Some of the poems are given in the present work by permission of the Rev. author. Father McClure's sympathy for Ireland is well-known, and we take pleasure in publishing undoubted evi- dences of his love of the green land of his forefathers. Also some specimens are given of devotional poetry, and some inspired by external nature. (Poems, Page 1003.) HUGH FARRAR McDERMOTT. HUGH FARRAR MCDERMOTT was born at Enniskillen, Ireland, on the 16th of August, 1835. He was intended for the law, and was prepared for college by BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. 1 X X X V the Rev. Robert Elliot, a Methodist minister of Beltwebet, in the county Cavan. His parentage was Scotch-Irish. His mother's name was Helen Cairns. His father. Thomas Gould McDerrnott, failed in mercantile business in 1840. He came to this country the same year with his family, and purchased a homestead near Boston, where he soon afterward died. Mr. McDermott entered the late Judge Brigham's office in Boston, as a law student, but soon found a ready market for his sketches and a wide appreciation of his verses, and at seventeen he had made a local fame in literature. He was a writer on the Boston Post, Courier, Transcript, and Advertiser, and in New York on the Times, Tribune, Herald, and Leader. His literary successes have been many. G. P. Putnam's Sons have published two editions of his poems, and a third will soon be ready for the press. Several of his poems, notably " The Blind Canary," have been translated into many languages. Of one of Mr. McDermott's poems Oliver Wendell Holmes has said: " If I could sing as I once thought I could. I would make the air vocal with " Do Not Sing That Song Again." Of his poem "Self-Communing," the late Chauncey C. Burr said, in a published criticism: " Some lines of ; Self-Communing ' are as sublime and weird as Byron's 'Man- fred,' and others are as closely philosophical as the * De Natura Remm' of Lucretius. It is a poem of extraordinary power." (Poems, page 921.) THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. D'ARCY McGEE was born in Carlingford, Ireland, on April 13, 1^_'.\ and died the hands of a fanatic assassin in Ottawa, Canada, April 7, is;s. In 1M-J le emigrated to America, taking up his residence in Boston, where he l>ecame litor of TJie Pilot, the leading Irish- American newspaper in America. In h.">. he returned to Ireland, and was engaged by tin- Diihttii Freeman to report Parliamentary debates. In 1840, he joined the stall' of the I>nl>lin .\n. Ixxxvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. and became a leading figure in the Young Ireland movement. In 1849, he again came to America, where he published, during nine years, TJie New York Nation, afterwards The American Celt. He became nationally known as a lecturer, organizer and poet. In 1857, he went to reside in Montreal, Canada, where he published a paper called TJie Neiv Era. He was soon elected to Par- liament, and was re-elected every year till his death. He was twice a member of the Canadian ministry, as Secretary for Agriculture and Emigration, and once as President of the Executive Council. It was he who framed the draft for the confederation of the British American colonies, which has since been substantiated. He was returning from Parliament on the night of April 7, 1868, when he was shot at the door of his hotel by a man named Whalen, who was, it was charged on his trial, a Fenian agent; but was in all probability a self- acting lunatic. D'Arcy McGee published many books, all of deep research and wide interest. Particularly interesting are his " Irish Settlers in North America from the Earliest Periods to 1850" (Boston, 1857); " O'Connell and His Friends;" " Popular History of Ireland," etc. His poems were published by Sadlier and Co., New York, with an introduction by Mrs. Sadlier. (Poems, page 808.) THOMAS J. McGEOGHEGAN. THOMAS J. MCGEOGHEGAN was born in Bay View Avenue, Dublin, Ireland, in the year 1836. He went, when eight months old, to Ballymahon, county of BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IKK LAND. Ixxxvii Longford, whither his parents removed. He was sal, and ac- quired a proficiency in many languages. In his twenty-seventh year he published xc BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. poetical translations from the German and Irish, which appeared in the Dublin University. His German translations were afterwards collected and published under the title of ' ' Anthologica Germanica. ' ' His translations from the ancient Gaelic bards, show wonderful fidelity in adhering to the spirit and metre of the original. These won for him the friendship of Dr. Petre and Eugene O'Curry, which he prized very dearly. He became a regular contributor to the Dublin Nation, The United Irishman and The Dublin University, and for these he wrote exquisite translations, some of which are said to surpass even the original, such as " Lays of Many Lands, " and " Literse Orientales. " He also contributed numerous original poems, noted for their chaste expression and exquisite pathos. Among the best known are "Dark Kosaleen " and "0 Woman of Three Cows"(?)- Of the most exquisite sensibility and fine impulses, his life-long poverty and misery threw a cloud over his entire existence, and seeking solace in stimulants, which undermined his health, he broke down under the weight of disease, and at his own request was admitted to Meath Hospital, where he died June 13, 1849. (Poems, page 337.) THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. the well-known Irish nationalist and orator, was born in Waterford, Aug. 3d, 1823. He was educated by the Jesuits at Clongowes BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHKS OF THK 1'OKTS (>F IIIKLAND. xci and Stoney hurst Colleges, and entered public life in 184:*. with a great reputa- tion for his oratorical abilities. He became a zealous repealer, and soon joined the Young Ireland party. His fiery eloquence was instrumental in stimulating the quasi insurrection of 1848. He was arrested and tried for high treason, and, on the 23d of October of that year, was condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered. This sentence was commuted to penal servitude for life. In 1849, he was sent to Tasmania, from whence he escaped in 1852, coming to New York. In America he soon became distinguished as a popular lecturer and journalist. He was admitted to the New York bar, but never practised. When the war broke out he entered the Union army, and soon rose to the rank of brigadier- general. He commanded the Irish Brigade, and won distinction in many of the bloodiest battles of the war. At the conclusion of the conflict he was appointed by President Johnson Secretary of Montana, and died by accident- ally falling off a steamer in the Missouri, July 1st, 1867, while Acting Governor of that Territory. (Poems, page 857.) EEV. C. P. MEEHAN. REV. CHARLES P. MEEHAN was born in Dublin, Ireland, July 12th. 1812. His earliest recollections are associated with Ballymahon, county Longford, where his ancestors for thirteen centuries were the keepers and custodians of the shrine of St. Molaise, now one of the famous relics of the Royal Irish Academy. His first preceptor was an Irish head school-master. When a youth of sixteen he entered the Irish College. Rome, as a candidate for the priesthood. It was while p-azing on the broken flagstone, whose time-worn epitaph faintly indicated a Royal Prince of Tyrconnell as the occupant of the grave in St. Isidore'?, that he xcii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. was inspired with the idea which eventually resulted in the history of the exiled Earls. In 1835, after his ordination, Father Meehan returned to Ireland and was stationed as curate at Rathduin. When the Nation newspaper was started in 1842. Father Meehan became one of its most valued contributors. He pre- pared the ' Confederation of Kilkenny " for Duffy's Library of Ireland. Father Meehan's house was a favorite place of meeting for the young Ireland leaders and writers of the Nation. Some years later. Father Meehan published his ** Rise and Fall of the Irish Franciscan Monasteries and the Irish Hierarchy in the Sixteenth Century." In 1847, he issued a splendid translation of Manzoni's "La Monica di Monza," a continuation of the '* Promessi Sposi." Five years later appeared his English version of Father Marchesi's ''Dominican Sculptors, Architects and Painters." The "Flight of the Earls" is. however, his great and crowning work, having been pronounced by competent critics as superior to even the great works of Scottish romance. Father Meehan was the life -long friend of that erratic genius Clarence Mangan. and prepared him for death. He has recentlv edited a complete edition of Mangan's works, and though now in his seventy- seventh year, his prolific pen is as busy as ever. (Poem, page 1012.) RICHARD ALFRED MILLIKIN. RICHARD A. MILLIKIN was born in the county of Cork in 1767. He was for a time editor of a Cork magazine, and wrote several fugitive poems. He is best known by the humorous ballad, " The Groves of Blarney," written about 1798, in imitation or ridicule of the rambling rhapsodies then so popular among the Irish peasantry. He became conspicuous during the insurrection of 1 798 by his zeal and activity in the formation of yeomanry corps. He died in 1815, and was buried at Douglas, near Cork. (Poem, page 820.) BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. xciii THOMAS MOORE. THOMAS MOORE, the greatest Irish lyrist, was born in Dublin, May 28, 1779. In his eleventh year, an epilogue written by him was read at Lady Borrowe's private theatre, in Dublin. His teacher, Mr. Whyte, also instructor of Richard Brinslrv Sheridan, encouraged the dramatic tastes of his pupils, and Moore became noted even in his early youth for his proficiency in music and theatrical effects. On the opening of Trinity College to Catholics, Moore entered to study law; here he distinguished himself as a successful and brilliant student, and here he be- came the friend of Robert Emmet, who was also a student there. During this period Moore contributed to leading periodicals, and at home studied French, Italian and Music. His translation from the Greek " Odes of Anacreon " prov- ing a success, Moore threw aside his law and entered upon literature as a pro- fession. In 1803, he received a government appointment at Bermuda, but becoming dissatisfied, he appointed a deputy as substitute and travelled over the United States and Canada before returning to England. His '* Odes and Epistles " were published in 1806. Five years afterwards he married a young Irish actress, Miss Bessy Dykes, and settled in the neighborhood of his friend Lord Moira. For his Eastern romance "Lalla Roohk," published in 1817, he was paid 3000, and it was received with universal approbation. His news- paper contributions added greatly to his income, yet while enjoying literary success, he became indebted to the amount of 6000 through the dishonesty of his deputy. To cancel this debt was his most earnest ambition. During this period he travelled through France and Italy, writing "The Fudge Family in Paris," " Loves of the Angels," and " Rhymes on the Road." Clearing his in- debtedness, he returned to England, where he produced in 1825 a biography of R. B. Sheridan, in 1830 a "Life of Lord Byron," and completed in 1834 his " Irish Melodies," which have made him famous. His family relations were of the happiest character, and in his social life . he was universally admired and sought after. He died in 1852. (Poems, page 31.) LADY SIDNEY MORGAN. LADY SIDNEY MORGAN was born in Dublin between 1780 and 1786. Her father, MacOwen or Owenson, was an actor and a man of ability. In her four- teenth year Sidney published a volume of poems, and in 1804 her novel " St. Clair.or The Heiress of Desmond." appeared, and two years later her " Wild Irish ( iit-]," which established her reputation as a novelist. In 1812, she married Sir Thomas Charles Morgan, M.D., having at the time saved 5000 from her liter- ary labors. Altogether her works are said to have brought her l'-_'.">. <'>(). She visited Italy and France, whi^h resulted in sev<>r;tl volumes of sketches concern- ing those countries. Her novels on IrLsh life and manners attracted much BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OP IRELAND. attention and were of great benefit to Ireland, then in a very depressed condi- tion. In 1837 she removed to London, where she was the centre of a brilliant literary circle. She died in that city April 13th. 1859. It was her novels on Irish life that first suggested to Sir Walter Scott the idea of writing the Waverley series. (Poem, page 825.) WILLIAM PEMBROKE MULCHLNOCK. WILLIAM P. MULCHINOCK was born in Ireland and carne to America at an early age. He soon engaged in journalism and won a reputation by his stirring poems and lyrics. la 1850, he published in Boston a volume of poems which he dedicated to Longfellow, who was an admirer of his talents. He died when about twenty-five years of age. (Poems, page 859.) ROSA MULHOLLAND. Miss ROSA MULHOLLAND was born in the city of Belfast, Ireland. She has been for many years a prolific contributor, in poetry and prose, to many of the best periodicals in England and Ireland. Many of her stories were contributed to Charles Dickens's All the Year Round. Several of her writings have been BIOGRAPHICAL SKI.ICHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. xcv translated into other languages. Her collected poems were published a few years ago. Her best known stories are ' Hester's History," " The Wicked Woods of Tobereenil," " The Late Miss Hollingsford, " " Dummara." and " The Wild Birds of Killeeny." (Poems, page 1()18.) JAMES MURPHY. James Murphy, Irish novelist and poet, was born in Glynn. county Carlow, in 1839. He entered the Training College for Teachers in Dublin in 1858, and commenced to write poetry for the Irishman and Nation newspapers. In 1860 he was appointed Principal of the Public Schools at Bray, the famous marine re- sort near Dublin, which position he held for many years. He afterward was elected to the posts of Town Clerk and Chairman of the Municipal Board of Commissioners ; finally resigning these to accept the Professorship of Mathema- tics in Saint Gall's Catholic University College, Dublin, which he still continues to hold. Mr. Murphy commenced his story writing many years ago. His first novel. "The Cross of Glencarrig," appeared in 1872, and at once attracted great atten- tion. Its great power and the marvellous skill in construction of the plot, at once made him famous. Since then he has written "The Shadow on the Scaffold," "The Forge of Clohogue," " Convict No. 25, " " The Fortunes of Maurice O'DoniN'll," " The House on the Rath," " Huirh Roach tin- Ribhonman. " "The Shan Van Vocht," ''The Haunted Church." A /<>///, " LilnM-ta-." of the Fenian organ, the Dublin Irish l'r,'r. which was suppiv-srd by xcviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. the government. He also wrote some patriotic poetry for the Dublin Irish- man of those days. Since coming to the United States. Mr. O'Callaghan has written extensively for the various New York Irish American weeklies and for the New York dailies, more especially the Daily News, to which he has contri- buted many of his most characteristic verses. Mr. O'Callaghan is descended on the mother's side from the celebrated Shawn O'Dhear an Glanna (anglice, John O'Dwyer of the Glen) known as the Poet Huntsman, who flourished in Minister in the seventeenth century. His father. Innocent O'Callaghan. was a celebrated scholar and mathematician of Munster, whose name was familiar in his day throughout Ireland, and who died in. 1868. He is a cousin of the Irish poet, Doctor Robert Dwyer Joyce. (Poems, page 931.) MARY EVA KELLY (MRS. O'DOHERTY). MARY EVA KELLY, the baptismal and family name of Mrs. O'Doherty, is de- scended from one of the most ancient and respectable families in Connaught. She was born at Headford, near Tuam, in the. county of Galway. On the mother's side she is a lineal descendant from " Graunu-Waille," or Gra.ce O'Mal- ley, the " Dark Lady of Doonah," who equipped a fleet and successfully held her own in lar or West Connaught against all the available power of Elizabeth of England. She, therefore, by the right and virtue of ancient inheritance, pos- sesses that proud and haughty spirit, impatient of English domination, that breathes everywhere through her National Poems. While on a visit to San Francisco some few years ago, Mrs. O'Doherty yielded to the solicitations of many admirers of her genius to publish a volume of her poems. Mr. P. J. Thomas of that city, who well remembered the glories that .shone around the writers of the Nation in the memorable days of " '48," under- BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF TH K 1'oKTS <>F IKILLAM). xcix took the enterprise. The book was well gotten up and received a hearty indorse- ment by the reviewers. But the Grolden West has not been prolific of success for publishers. The echo of the songs did not reach the great masses of Irish readers this side of the Rocky Mountains, and the market on the Pacific coast was not encouraging. It is a pity that the collection has not been more gener- ally circulated, and known among the lovers of Irish national poetry. " Eva " besran to write when fourteen years old, but as few of her juvenile poems were published, no opinion can be formed of their merits. We may well suppose, however, that they indicated the latent genius which made the name of " Eva " familiar to the lovers of Irish song. It was the spirit of Grace O'Malley rather than the promptings of genius which urged her muse; for we are informed that she was tempted to write more from a patriotic feeling than a literary taste. Her early contributions to the Nation were over the signature of " Fionula," the daughter of King Leara (or Lir) who, the legend says, was, by the enchant- ter's wand, changed into a swan and doomed to glide over the rivers and lakes of Ireland until the Bell of Heaven should be heard ringing the call for the first mass. The "Lament for Thomas Davis," the first poem over the name of " Eva," was one of the best ever published in the \ntinn. SI ie contributed after- ward to the United Irishman after John Mitdiel had seceded from the O'Con- nell party. When John Martin published The Felon after Mitchel's exile, " Eva " contributed frequently to that journal. c BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE ^OETS OF IRELAND. Of her subsequent marriage to Dr. Kevin Izod O'Doherty, and her emigration to Queensland, Australia, a good deal could be written; but the space in our work is limited. We can only add that through many changes, she still lives, having brought up a family of four sons and one daughter, all of whom are grown to maturity. Some are married, and the gentle poet of " '48 " is sur- rounded by children and grandchildren, far away from the land she loved and labored for. She writes occasionally, bat not over her old signature. Collec- tively, her poems have been pronounced by the critics "a casket of Literary gems." (Poems, page 827.) JOHN FEANCIS O'DONNELL. JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNELL (" Caviare ") a well-known journalist and poet, was born in the town of Kilkenny in the year 1837. Most of his life was spent on the London daily press, but he found time, amid the varied occupations of his profession, to contribute to the Irish magazines and journals of the day. His poems are of a high order of merit, and it is a matter of regret that they have never been collected and published in permanent form. He died in 1874. (Poems, page 835.) JUDGE O'HAGAN. JOHN O'HAGAN was born in the county of Down, Ireland, in the year 1822. He early became connected with Messrs. Duffy. Davis and Dillon on the staff of the Dublin Nation. He possessed extraordinary endowments, being, says Mr. Duffy, "the safest in council, the most moderate in opinion, the most consider- Pxj . COL. THEODORE O'HARA. KKMiKAlMIK'AL SKETCHKS >!' T I IK 1'nKTS OF IRKI.AND. ci ate in temper of the young men, and after a time any of them would have had recourse to him, next after Davis, in a personal difficulty needing sympathy and discretion. " Mr. O'Hagan subsequently became an eminent Queen's counsel, and one of the leaders of the Equity Bar of Ireland, and is at present Judge of the Irish Land Commission. His principal literary production is a striking and effective translation into English of the Chanson de Roland. (Poems, page 842. ) COL. THEODORE O'HARA. THEODORE O'HARA was born in the town of Danville, Kentucky, in 1820. He was educated in the Catholic academy in Bardstown. in his native State. Ou completing his education, he devoted himself to the profession of journalism. On the outbreak of the Mexican war, he enlisted, obtaining the rank of Captain. On the occasion of the civil war he joined the Confederacy, and served on the staffs of Gens. Brecken ridge and Albert Sidney Johnson. He died at his planta- tion in Alabama in 1867. The Kentucky Legislature had his remains trans- ferred to his native State and buried in the cemetery at Frankfort in 1S7:_>. " The Bivouac of the Dead," the poem by which he is best known, was written on the occasion of the erection of a monument to the memory of the Kentucky soldiers who fell in the Mexican war. and whose remains had been removed to their native State for interment. (Poem, page 860.) M. J. O'MAHONY. MARTIN JOSEPH O'MAHONY was born on the 8th of November. 1848, in the city of Cork, Ireland. In early childhood he showed a remarkable aptitude for - music, singing when at the age of six years the works of the great mast- especinlly Mozart, tor whose music ho seems to have a particular love. ^ >ung cii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. O'Mahony had an exquisite voice, capable of singing when at the age of eight years such creations as the " Inflammatus" of Rossini, rendering the intricate and difficult passages with truly wonderful skill. He was educated by the Chris- tian Brothers at Peacock Lane Monastery. Besides music he, at the age of ten, showed a singular taste for poetry. In 1864, Mr. O'Mahony became connected with the Fenian movement, and was subjected to government prosecution. He shortly after came to the United States and at present resides in New York. He has written many dramatic sketches and stories of merit. (Poems, page 1022.) E. J. O'REILLY. EDWARD JAMES O'REILLY was born in the county of Cavan, Ireland. July 27th, 1830. He came to the United States in 1851. and became connected with some of the leading journals of New York City. Owing to the then prevailing agitation against foreigners, especially those of his race, much of his early liter- ary work was published under a nom de plume. Most of his poems appeared , over the signature of " Clio." He was a man of noble character, generous, patri- . otic, loved by his friends and esteemed by all who knew him. He died in New- York. September 9tu, I860. Almost every newspaper in New York had editorial regrets for the sudden and early death of Mr. O'Reilly. One said, " Those who knew his gentleness of heart, his integrity of purpose, his true manliness and his unaltering friendship, know how good a man and capable a journalist has passed away." Another touched on a prominent feature of his character thus: " He was a devoted husband and father; a most companionable man; true as steel to those he loved, and as an employee faithful to the last degree." Aside BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. ciii from his journalistic duties, Mr. O'Reilly had a most refined and cultivated taste for books, busying himself in the hours not devoted to professional duties, in gathering rare and curious volumes, his collection being a comprehensive and valuable one. Mr. O'Reilly was a member of the Bar. but the work and ways of the lawyer had no attraction for him. No man ever died who was more deeply regretted by those who knew him. (Poems page 052.) JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY was bom in Dowth Castle, county Meath, Ireland, June 28, 1844. His father, William David O'Reilly, was a scholar and an anti- quarian, and his mother, Eliza Boyle, was a woman of an extremely rare and beautiful nature. John Boyle O'Reilly became a journalist in early manhood, and at twenty-one years of age was a revolutionist, arrested, tried for high treason, and sentenced to twenty years imprisonment in an English penal colony. At twenty-five he escaped from West Australia, and came to America. He has lived in Boston since 18G9. He is the editor and part proprietor of The Pilot, perhaps the most widely known Irish -American newspaper. He has published five books: " Songs from the Southern Seas," " Songs, Legends and Ballads," "Moondyne," "The Statues in the Block," "In Bohemia," and in union with three other authors, "The King's Men: a Tale of To-morrow." (Poems, page 751.) ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. ARTHUR (William Edgar) O'SHAUGHNESSY was a poet of great beauty and simplicity. He was born March 14, 1844. Obtaining a position at the British Museum as transcriber, after two years he was promoted to the Natural History Department. A volume containing many of his best poems was published in 1870 under the title of an " Epic of Women." Among his other productions may be mentioned "Lays of France" and " Music and Moonlight." His " Songs of a Worker " were published in 1881 after his death, which occurred in January 30 the same year. (Poems, page 730.) FANNY PARNELL. FANNY PARNELL, second sister of the National leader of Ireland, Charles Stewart Parnell, was one of four daughters of John H. and Delia L. S. Panu-11, and was born at Avondale, the family estate, in county W irk low, Ireland, about the year 1848. She was carefully trained at home, and though a Prot. -slant, was sent, as many of the children of leading Irish families arc, from Iivland to have her education finished at a convent in Paris. The brightness which her early years has shown was augmented by a thorough education. CIV BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. la the roomy old house at Avondale Manor she passed some years. Here, in the midst of the wild and picturesque scenery of Wicklow and Wexford, she found much to nurture, not only her poetic temperament, but those national aspirations which have since distinguished the family. As romantic as any dreamy maiden could wish was the site of her home on the edge of the deep vale in which the Avon rushed on to meet the Avoca, which Moore has im- mortalized. Shortly after the foundation of the Irish People in Dublin, the organ of the Fenian Brotherhood, Fanny Parnell became a contributor to the poetic columns. Here, under the signature of "Alerta,'' she gave vent to her patriotic feelings. From the decline of the Fenian movement to the birth of the Land Agitation we find scarcely any literary work from her hand. Her lyre would only respond to one breeze nationality. A few years ago, when she first began to write the powerful "Land League Songs," her name was quite unknown. Before she had published half a dozen of those extraordinary poems, extraordinary for their magnetic and almost startling force, as well as rhythmical beauty, it was recognized by those who watched-for signs that the Land League had got that which crystallizes the efforts and aspirations of a popular movement a Poet. Every note she struck was true and strong and timely. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAM). cv Her death was mourned by the whole Irish race. She died suddenly on the 20th of July, 1882, at the Old Ironsides mansion, her mother's home, near Bor- dentown, N. J. She is buried in Mt. Auburn cemetery, near Boston, and her grave is decorated with flowers every year, on Memorial Day, by delegates from the Irish societies of Boston. (Poems, page 742.) THOMAS PAENELL. THOMAS PARNELL was bom in Dublin in 1GT9, in which city he received his education and was finally elevated to the ministry in 1703. In 1705, then Archdeacon of Clogher, he married a lady noted for her beauty and general excellence of character. His annual excursions to England, where he spent months at a time, living luxuriously, rather diminished than advanced his fortune. When the Whigs were in power, he was the friend of Addison, Congreve and Steele; during the ascendancy of the Tories, his former friends were neglected, and Swift, Pope, Gay and Arbuthnot became his companions. The death of his wife, in 1712, proved a severe blow, from the effects of which he never rallied. To drown his misery he had recourse to stimulants, and his intemper- nnre shortened his life. A collection of his poems was published by Pope. Although not a poet of the first rank, his poems merit considerable praise for their melodic sweetness, clearness of language, and generally pleasing style. He died July, 1717. The great National leader and agitator of Ireland, Charles Stewart Parnell, is a direct descendant of the poet; and his gifted sister, Fanny Parnell, inherited the poetic genius of her ancestor. (Poems, page 472.) cvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ was born in Chester County, Pennsylvania, March 12th, 1822. He was of Irish extraction. At an early age he entered an artist's studio in Cincinnati, and subsequently passed some time in New York and Boston, where he devoted himself to painting. In 1846, he removed to Philadel- phia. In 1850 he went to Italy, where he remained, with the exception of some brief intervals in America, until 1 872. His poetical works were published in three volumes in 1866. Died in New York, May llth, 1872. (Poems, p. 880.) JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY is of Irish descent, as his name implies, and is one of the most popular American poets of the day. He was born in Greenfield, MKKiKAPHICAL SK KETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. Indiana, in 1853. In early life he was a painter, but soon cast aside the brush for the pen. He first became known by his humorous poetical contributions to the journals and magazines in the western dialect, which won for him the title of "the Hoosier Poet." Mr. Riley has published a volume of poems that has met with a ready sale. He is an accomplished lecturer, and an artist of merit. (Poems, page 911.) HON. W. E. ROBINSON. WILLIAM ERIGENA ROBINSON was born at Unagh, near Cookstown, Tyrone County, Ireland. He came to the United States in 1836. and entered Yale Col- lege the following year, graduating in 1841. In 1844. he became assistant editor of the New York Iribune. under Horace Greeley, and subsequently edited the Buffalo Express, Newark Mercury, and the People, New York. He was admitted to the bar in New York in 1854. He served many years in Congress, and introduced the measure asserting the right of man to expatriation, whereby the European governments were compelled to renounce the slavish doctrine "once a subject always a subject." Mr. Robinson has been prominent in every movement in America, looking to the benefit of the Irish people. He resides at present in the city of Brooklyn. (Poem, page 901.) JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE was born in Queens county, Ireland, May 31, His parents emigrated in that year to Prince Edward Island, where he spent his BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. youth, being educated in St. Dunstan's College in that province. He has lived in Boston since 1866, contributing to various periodicals occasionally until 1883, when he joined the editorial staff of the Boston Pilot, with which he is still connected. (Poems, page 712.) O'DONOVAN EOSSA. JEREMIAH O'DONOVAN ROSSA, better known, perhaps, as a patriot and revo- lutionist than a poet, was born in Rosscarberry, county Cork, Ireland, in BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE I'oETS OF IRELAND. cix September, 1831. His life has been eventful. In isf>8, he was arrested and imprisoned for organizing the Phoenix Society, which was the immediate fore- runner of the great Fenian revolutionary brotherhood. In 18f>5 he was arrested ngain, this time for Fenianism, and sentenced to imprisonment for life. He was, with many other Irish patriots, released after seven years' imprisonment, and banished out of Ireland for twenty years. He is editor of a paper called United Ireland, in New York. Nearly all his poems were written in English prisons; but his fine translations from the Gaelic have been recently made. (Poems, page 770.) REV. MATTHEW RUSSELL, S.J. REV. MATTHEW RUSSELL, S. J., was born in Newry, county of Armagh, Ire- land, in 1834. He made his studies in Maynooth College and afVnvanl in France. He is at present the editor of the Irish Monthly Magazine. He has published three volumes of verse ''Emmanuel," "Madonn," and "Erin, Verses Irish and Catholic." Father Russell is a nephew of the late Cbarlrs Wil- liam Russell, for many years President of Maynooth College, and is a brother of Sir Charles Russell, the distinguished London lawyer. (Poems, page 10 1: REV. ABRAM J. RYAN. THE Rev. Abram J. Ryan, nationally known a.s "The Poet-Priost of 1 1n- South," was a Virginian by birth, lie died of an organic heart trouble, at ex BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. Louisville, Ky., on April 22, 1886, in the 46th year of his age. Father Ryan was pre-eminently the poet of the Southern Confederacy. He occupied in that ephemeral nation the enviable position described by the " very wise man " of whom old Fletcher of Saltoun wrote to the Marquis of Montrose, " who be- lieved that if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation. " Hemy Timrod, who died all too soon, had written some stirring lyrics for the South, but Father Ryan, who had just been ordained in 1861, threw himself heart and soul into the support of the Confederacy and followed its fortunes from beginning to end. (Poems, page 736.) The Rev. Wm. D. Kelly, a brother priest and poet, wrote the following tender sonnet on Father Ryan's death: , YOUR saddest tears, O April skies, drop down, And let the voices of your sobbing breeze, Sigh the most plaintive of their threnodies For him, who, girt with sacerdotal gown, "When war's wild tumult stirred each Southern town, And filled the land with its discordancies, Sang high above them all such melodies Their very sweetness won the South renown: Poet ! God rest thee, now thy songs are sung; * Father ! heaven gain thee, now thy toil is o'er; BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. cxi Whoever listened to thy tuneful tongue Telling the mystic socrets of its lore. Trusts that thy voice, celestial choirs among, Hymns the new song of love foreveruiore. JOHN SAVAGE. JOHN SAVAGE, LL.D., a talented poet and miscellaneous writer, was born in Dublin, Dec-ember 13, 1828. Receiving the advantages of a good education, and giving early evidences of artistic taste, he became a student at the Art School of the Royal Dublin Society. He was a prime actor in the Insurrection of '48, having edited a journal in the interest of the Young Ireland party, also assisting in arming the peasantry. For this interest, he was obliged to leave the country, and, escaping to New York, he contributed to a number of leading periodicals, and was connected with newspapers in New York, Washington and New Orleans. He edited the Manhattan, a monthly of much literary merit. An ardent supporter of the Union cause during the war of the Rrlx-lli<>ii ho wrote many popular war-songs. His publications include, besides, several vol- umes of poems, dramas, sketches and biographies. (Poems, page ^ cxii "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. MICHAEL SCANLAN. MICHAEL SCANLAN was born in Castlemahon, countv of Limerick. Ireland, in November, 1836, and came to the United States in 184!) . His family settled in Chicago, where, in subsequent years, the Scan Ian Brothers were well-known business men. The subject of this sketch, in very early years, took an active part in all movements looking toward the freedom of Ireland. Indeed Ireland has been the ;< dream and adoration " of his life. He was a leading spirit in the Fenian movement and soon became its American Laureate. " The Fenian Men," a stirring war chant, was the Marseillaise of the movement, sung to the tune of ''O'Donnell Abu." Many a poor fellow was sent to jail in Ireland, between 1866 and 1868 for having a copy of even a verse of it in his possession. In 186T Mr. Scanlan, together with a few others, "who thought ahead of their day," established The Irish Republic, a journal whose general motto was " Liberty ; her friends our friends, her enemies our enemies, " and whose special motto was ' The shortest road to the freedom of Ireland." Mr. Scanlan was editor of the Irish Republic which was first published in Chicago, where it was transferred to New York, and thence to Washington, D. C., where it ended its " brief and brilliant career." in 1873. In 1874 Mr. Scanlan was appointed to a clerkship in the Department of State, where he is still engaged in statistical work. He is a writer of strong nervous prose, and has a rare gift of humor, which, however, he has seldom used since he wrote the once-famous Dionysius O'Blake papers for the Irish Republic. (Poems, page 954.) JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA. JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA was born in the city of Cork. Ireland, in the year ls<>2. He received a thorough classical education, and when he was but little more th; BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. cxiii twenty years of age, he proceeded to London, where he wrote his poems of * Ru dreki," and won immediate recognition. In 1827 he came to the United States, where he continued in his profession of journalism. He died in New York City in 1845. His son, Judge George Shea, published a volume of his poems in 1846. (Poems, page 855.) EICHAED BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, the renowned wit, orator and dramatist, was born in Dublin, October 31, 1751. He was the son of Mr. Thomas Sheridan, the tragedian, and grandson of Doctor Sheridan, the friend and correspondent of Swift. An impulsive marriage, made before completing his law studies, com- pelled him to have recourse to literature as a means of support. In his dramatic productions he achieved wonderful success, writing the ever-popular comedies, " The Rivals," and " The School for Scandal," the farce " The Critic," and the opera "The Duenna." He became one of the proprietors of the Drury Lane Theatre in 1776. But the crowning glory of his life, was his Parliamentary career of thirty-two years. Here his unrivalled eloquence, and keen irony, found an ample field for their development, and the famous statesmen and orators, Burke, Pitt and Fox, had to look well to their laurels. His speech on the im- peachment of Warren Hastings was among his most brilliant orations. The burning of the Drury Lane Theatre and his extravagant habits, plunged him deeply in debt, and filled the latter days of his life with sorrow and disappoint ment. He died July 7th, 1816. (Poems, page 422.) JOHN STERLING. JOHN STERLING was a native of Waterford, born in 1806. His family settled in London in 1824, where he entered Trinity College. He did not take his de- gree. He was an intimate friend of Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Carlyle. He died in 1844. Archdeacon Hare published his works, and Carlyle -wrote his biography. (Poems, page 668.) A. M. SULLIVAN. ALEXANDER MARTIN SULLIVAN was born in the county of Cork, Iivland, in 6. Having received a good education, lie was engaged on the staff of the Nation, by its then proprietor, Charles Gavan Duffy. He afterward !><>- tme sole proprietor of the paper, which he comlm-tri! \vitli eminent ability for l years. He was prosecuted and imprisoned for the publication of certain an ides in the Nation, apropos of tho "Manchester .Martyrs" Allen, I^arkin cxiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OP IRELAND. and O'Brien. A few years before his death, he joined the English bar, and re- moved to London. Mr. Sullivan also founded Young Ireland, and The Weekly News, two weekly publications. He is the author of a volume of speeches and lectures, and two excellent historical works" The Story of Ireland " and " New Ireland." (Poem, page 1021.) MRS. MARGARET F. SULLIVAN. MRS. MARGARET F. SULLIVAN is the wife of Mr. Alexander Sullivan of Chicago, Ex-President of the Irish-American Land League. She is a distin- guished writer and is acknowledged as the ablest woman journalist America has produced Her prose writings are marked by great ability, and the poems from her pen make the reader regret that they are so few. She is the author of "Ireland of To-Day," one of the most valuable works published on modern Ireland. (Poems, page 908.) T. D. SULLIVAN. TIMOTHY DANIEL SULLIVAN was born in Bantry, county of Cork, Ireland, in the year 1827. He is a brother of the late H. M. Sullivan. Mr. Sullivan is editor and proprietor of the Dublin Nation, Weekly News, and Young Ireland. He has been a member of Parliament for many years, and recently completec Al" SWIFT BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. cxv his second term of office as Lord Mayor of Dublin. He is the author of many works on national subjects, and has published two or three volumes of i>oems that have attained wide popularity. He is an ardent and consistent patriot, and is held in high esteem by his fellow-countrymen everywhere. (Poems, page JONATHAN SWIFT. JONATHAN SWIFT, a most celebrated wit and satirist, was born in Dublin, 1667. He was sent to school in Kilkenny and later to Trinity College, Dublin. In 1688 he became secretary of Sir William Temple, a connection of Mrs. Swift by marriage, in whose service he remained six years. The position in this family was very humiliating to Swift's pride, although he acquired much bene- fit from his opportunities of increasing knowledge, and at the death of Sir William Temple, Swift edited his posthumous works. Failing to obtain a bishopric (which was his most earnest ambition), he was forced to be content as Dean of St. Patrick's, the duties of which office he assumed in 171:?. During his frequent visits to England, he was courted and enjoyed by the most illustrious minds of his day. He formed what was called the Scribblers' cxvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. Club, with Pope, Gay and Arbuthnot. His first important work " The Tale of a Tub," was published anonymously in 1704, " The Battle of the Books " soon followed. In 1724, by the anonymous " Drapier Letters " published in a Dublin newspaper, he defended the rights of the Irish people with such warmth and skill that he became universally popular. "Gulliver's Travels" appeared in 1726. His miscellaneous writings are chiefly religious and political pamphlets. During his later years he suffered from deafness and mental infirmities; in 1741 he passed into a condition of idiocy, from which death released him in 1745. In his will he made provision for the building of a hospital for the insane. (Poems, page 219.) KATHARINE TYNAN. KATHARINE TYNAN was born at Clondalkin, county Dublin, Ireland, in the latter part of 1861. She began her literary career in her twentieth year, win- ning almost immediate recognition. She has contributed to the London Month, Merry England, The Athenceum, and other leading publications. Her first vol- ume, " Louise de la Valliere and other poems," appeared in 1885, was well re- ceived and went into a second edition in a few months. (Poems, page 721.) JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. JOHN FRANCIS WALLER was born in the city of Limerick in the year 1810. He graduated from Trinity College, Dublin, studied law, and was for a time BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE 1'OKTS or IKKI.AND. ,-.\vii editor of the Dublin University Magazine- He has lived for many years past in England. Most of his latter day contrihutions in verse are written for religious publications, and are more or less didactic in spirit. (Poems, page 1)12.) EDWARD WALSH. EDWARD WALSH was born in Londonderry in the year 1805, and died in Cork on 6th August, 1850, in the forty-fifth year -of his age. His father, who was a small farmer in the county of Cork, eloped with a young lady much above his own position in life. Shortly after marriage his difficulties increased, and to avoid them, he enlisted in the militia, and was quartered in Londonderry, where his son was bom. Our author having received a good education, in early life became a private tutor. Some time after he taught school in Millstreet, county Cork, from which he removed in 1837, and went to teach in Toureen, where he first began to write for the Magazines. After some time he went up to Dublin, where he was elected schoolmaster to the convict station at Spike Island. In a year or two he left this place and became teacher at the Work- house in Cork, where he remained till his death. Two volumes of his poetical translations from the Irish have been published. He was a proficient in the fairy and legendary lore of the country. (Poems, page 699.) JOHN WALSH. JOHN WALSH, the sweet Munster singer who in this generation shared with his friend and compatriot, Charles J. Kickham, the proud distinction of being the "Poet of the People," was the author of hundreds of songs and ballads, many of distinguished poetic merit, and all thoroughly Irish and national, and most "racy of the soil." He was born in the immediate vicinity of Cappoquin, county of Waterford, was educated in the National school of that town and at the Seminary of Mount Mellerey. He graduated at the Normal school in Dublin, and was appointed a National-school-teacher in his native town, where he taught for several years. He subsequently taught the National school 06 Cashel Co., Tipperary, until his death, in February, 1881. He was buried on the " Rock of Cashel," close by the foot of the ancient " Round Tower." He was about forty years at the time of his death. He left a widow and six children. His wife's maiden name was Julia Cavanagh, and to her he addressed many exquisite love songs. His poems have never been collected, and probably never can be, for owinu; to their being written under various noms deplume for several National pub- lications, his claims to their authorship are unknown save to his intimate as- sociates. (Poems, page 971.) MICHAEL J. WALSH. MICHAEL J. WALSH was born in 1833, at Listowel, county Keny, Ireland. While yet a mere boy, he left Ireland for the Western World. For the past CXV111 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. forty years he has resided in New York. Though engaged in a commercial avocation he has found time to contribute both in prose and poetry to many of the Irish- American periodicals and journals. (Poems, page 945.) RICHARD HENRY WILDE. RICHARD HENRY WILDE was born in Dublin, Ireland. Sept. 24th. 1789, and died in New Orleans, Sept. 10th, 184-T. He was Attorney -General of the State of Georgia, and also served in Congress for many years. He published a work on BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND, cxix Tasso, in two volumes in 1842, which contains a number of original translations of the poems of that author. He also wrote a poem entitled "Hesprina," which was published by his son in 1867. During the last three years of his life, Mr. Wilde was professor of common law in the University of Louisiana. (Poem, page 861.) LADY WILDE ("SPERANZA.") LADY WILDE, the famous "Speranza," of the old Dublin Nation, is the mother of the poet and aesthete, Oscar Wilde, and the widow of the late eminent physician and archaeologist, Sir William Wilde, of Dublin. In the stormy days of "Young Ireland," from 1846 to 1848, the poems of "Speranza," next to those of Thomas Davis, were the inspiration of the National movement. Lady Wilde lives in London, where she is the centre of a distinguished literary and artistic circle. (Poems, page 762.) OSCAR WILDE. OSCAR 0. F. WILDE is the second son of " Speranza," Lady Wilde, and \\ .m born in Dublin in the year 1855. He is the author of a volume of poems which exx BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRKLAND. show that he inherits much of his mother's genius. He recently obtained notoriety by the identification of his name with the aesthetic craze in London. He visited the United States a few years ago, and made a successful lecture tour through the country. He resides in London, England. (Poems, page 853.) RICHAED D'ALTON WILLIAMS. EICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS, "Shamrock" of the Nation newspaper, was born in county of Tipperary, Oct. 8th, 1822. He was educated at Carlow College, and came to Dublin to study medicine. His first contribution to the Nation was as early as 1843, and at once attracted the attention of Mr. Duffy, then editor. He joined the '48 movement, and in conjunction with his friend. Kevin Izod O'Doherty, established the Irish Tribune paper. After the issue of a few num- bers, it was seized and the editors prosecuted by the government. On a third trial O'Doherty was convicted and transported to Australia, and Williams was ac quitted. He then completed his medical studies at Edinburgh, and emigrated to America in 185 1. He was for a time professor in Spring Hill College, MoLile. Ala. He died of consumption at Thibodeaux, Louisiana, July. 1862, aged 39. As a poet he excelled in humorous pieces, but in his later years his writings turned toward spiritual subjects. The Irish soldiers of a New Hampshire regiment being en- camped in the neighborhood of Thibodeaux, during the war. sought out the grave of the poet, and erected over it a handsome marble monument, with a fitting inscription. The poetical works of Williams have been edited and pub- lished by T. D. Sullivan, of Dublin. (Poems, page 862.) HKHJKAIMIK'AL SKKTOHKS OF THF. 1'oKTS <>F IKKLAND. cxxi REV. CHARLES WOLFE. REV. CHARLES WOLFE was born at Dublin in 1791, and was educated at Trinity College. He became a curate at Castle Caulfield. He died of con- sumption in 1823. He was only a boy when he wrote one of the most perfect and most celebrated odes in the English language, "The Burial of Sir John Moore." (Poems, page THE POKTRY AND SONG OF IRELAND. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE, AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION TO THE IRISH MELODIES. IT has often been remarked, and oftener felt, that our music is the truest of all com- ments upon our history. The tone of defiance, succeeded by the languor of despondency a burst of turbulence dying away into softness the sorrows of one moment lost in the levity of the next and all that romantic mixture of mirth and sadness, which is naturally produced by the efforts of a lively temperament to shake off or forget the wrongs which lie upon it. Such are the features of our history and character, which we find strongly and faithfully reflected in our music; and there are many airs which, I think, it is difficult to listen to without recalling some period or event to which their expression seems pecu- liarly applicable. Sometimes, when the strain is open and spirited, yet sliaded here and there by a mournful recollection, we can fancy that we behold the brave allies of Montrose * marching to the aid of the royal cause, notwithstanding all the perfidy of Charles and his ministers, and remembering just enough of past sufferings to enhance the generosity of their present sacrifice. The plaintive melodies of Carolan take us back to the times in which he lived, when our poor countrymen were driven to worship their God in caves, or to quit forever the land of their birth, (like the bird that abandons the nest which human touch has violated); and in many a song do we hear the last farewell of the exile, mingling regret for the ties he leaves at home, with sanguine expectations of the honors that await him abroad such honors as were won on the field of Fontenoy, where the valor of Irish Catholics turned the fortune of the day in favor of the French, and extorted from George II. that memorable exclamation, " Cursed be the laws which deprive me of such subjects !" Though much has been said of the antiquity of our music, it is certain that our finest and most popular airs are modern; and perhaps we may look no further than the last dis- graceful century for the origin of most of those wild and melancholy strains which wen- at once the offspring and solace of grief, and which were applied to the mind as music was formerly to the body, "decantare loca dolentia." Mr. Pinkerton is of opinion that none of the Scotch popular airs are as old as the middle of the sixteenth century; and thouirh musical antiquaries refer us for some of our melodies to so early a period as the fifth cen- tury, I am persuaded that there are few of a civilized description (and by this I moan to exclude all the savage ceanans, cries, f etc.) which can claim quite so ancient a date as Mr. Pinkerton allows to the Scotch. But music is not the only subject upon which mir taste for antiquity is rather unreasonably indulged; and, however heretical it may be to it from these romantic speculations, I cannot help thinking that it is possible to love our country very zealously, and to feel deeply interested in her honor and happiness, * There are some gratifying accounts of the gallantry of these Irish auxiliaries in Tin- C<> .//f which some genuine specimens may be found at the end of Mr. Walker's work upon the Irish Bards. Mr. Bun- Ing has disfigured his last splendid volume by too many of those barbarous rhapsodies. 28 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. without believing that Irish was the language spoken in Paradise * that our ancestors were kind enough to take the trouble of polishing the Greeks f or that Abaris, the Hyper- borean, was a native of the north of Ireland. J By some of these archaeologists it has been imagined that the Irish were early ac- quainted with the counterpoint, and they endeavor to support this conjecture by a well- known passage in Giraldus, where he dilates with such elaborate praise upon the beauties of our national minstrelsy. But the terms of this eulogy are too vague, too deficient in technical accuracy, to prove that even Giraldus himself knew anything of the artifice of counterpoint. There are many expressions in the Greek and Latin writers which might be cited with much more plausibility to prove that they understood the arrangement of music in parts; | yet I believe it is conceded in general by the learned, that however grand and pathetic the melody of the ancients may have been, it was reserved for the ingenuity of modern science to transmit the "light of song" through the variegating prism of harmony. Indeed the irregular scale of the early Irish (in which, as in the music of Scotland, the interval of the fourth was wanting) ** must have furnished but wild and refractory subjects to the harmonist. It was only when the invention of Guido began to be known, and the powers of the harp f f were enlarged by additional strings, that our melodies took the sweet character which interests us at present; and while the Scotch persevered in the old mutilation of the scale, J^ our music became gradually more amenable to the laws of harmony and counterpoint. In profiting, however, by the improvements of the moderns, our style still kept its * See advertisement to the Transactions of the Gaelic Society Dublin. t O'Halloran, vol. i., parti., chap. vi. J Id. ib., chap. vii. It is also supposed, but with as little proof, that they understood the diesis, or enharmonic interval. The Greeks seem to have formed their ears to this delicate gradation of sound ; and, whatever difficulties or objections may lie in the way of its practical use, we must agree with Merseime, (Preludes de V Harmonic, quest. 7,) that the theory of music would be im- perfect without it; and, even in practice, as Tosi, among others, very justly remarks, (Observations on Florid Song, chap. i., 16,) there is no good performer on the violin who does not make a sensible difference between D sharp and E flat, though, from the imperfection of the instrument, they are the same notes upon the piano-forte. The effect of modulation by en- harmonic transitions is j.lso very striking and beautiful. || The words irouaAui and erepo^wt'ia, in a passage of Plato, and some expressions of Cicero, in fragment, lib. ii., De RepubL, induced the Abbe Fraguier to maintain that the ancients had a knowledge of counterpoint. M. Burette, however, has answered him, I think, satisfactorily, (" Examen d'uii Passage de Platon," in the third volume of Histoire de V Acad.) M. Huet is of opinion (Pensees Diverses) that what Cicero says of the music of the spheres, in his dream of Scipio, is suffic- ient to prove an acquaintance with harmony ; but one of the strongest passages which I recollect in favor of the supposi- tion occurs in the Treatise, attributed to Aristotle. Ilepi Koo-^ou Mono-ucr; 6e ofeis a/ua cipitem et velocem, suavem tamen et jiicundam, crispatis modulis et intricatis notulis, efflciunt harmoniam," (Hist. Anglic. Script., p. 1075.) I should not have thought this error worth remarking, but that the compiler of the Dissertation on the Harp, prefixed to Mr. Bunting's last work, has adopted it implicitly. ft The Scotch lay claim to some of our best airs, but there are strong traits of difference between their melodies and ours. They had formerly the same passion for robbing us of our saints, and the learned Dempster was. for this offence, called "The Saint-stealer." POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKK. 29 originality sacred from their refinements; and though Carolan had frequent opportunities of hearing the works of Geminiani and other masters, we but rarely find him sacrificing his native simplicity to the ambition of their ornaments, or affectation of their science. In that curious composition, indeed, called his Concerto, it is evident that he labored to imitate Corelli; and this union of manners so very dissimilar produces the same kind of uneasy sensation which is felt at a mixture of different styles of architecture. In general, however, the artless flow of our music has preserved itself free from all tinge of foreign innovation,* and the chief corruptions of which we have to complain arise from the un- skilful performance of our own itinerant musicians, from whom, too frequently, the airs are noted down, encumbered by their tasteless decorations, and responsible for all their ignorant anomalies. Though it be sometimes impossible to trace the original strain, yet in most of them, " auri per ramos aura refulget,"f the pure gold of the melody shines through the ungraceful foliage which surrounds it; and the most delicate and difficult duty of a com- piler is to endeavor, as much as possible, by retrenching these inelegant superfluities, and collating the various methods of playing or singing each air, to restore the regularity of its form, and the chaste simplicity of its character. I must again observe that, in doubting the antiquity of our music, my skepticism extends but to those polished specimens of the art which it is difficult to conceive anterior to the dawn of modern improvement; and that I would by no means invalidate the claims of Ireland to as early a rank in the annals of minstrelsy as the most zealous antiquary may be inclined to allow her. In addition, indeed, to the power which music must always have possessed over the minds of a people so ardent and susceptible, the stimulus of persecution was not wanting to quicken our taste into enthusiasm; the charms of song were ennobled with the glories of martyrdom, and the acts against minstrels in the reigns of Henry VI Ik and Elizabeth were as successful, I doubt not, in making my countrymen musicians as the penal laws have been in keeping them Catholics. With respect to the verses which I have written for these melodies, as they are in- tended rather to be sung than read, I can answer for their sound with somewhat more confidence than their sense; yet it would be affectation to deny that I have given much attention to the task, and that it is not through want of zeal or industry if I unfortunately disgrace the sweet airs of my country by poetry altogether unworthy of their taste, their energy, and their tenderness. Though the humble nature of my contributions to this work may exempt them from the rigors of literary criticism, it was not to be expected that those touches of political feeling, those tones of national complaint, in which the poetry sometimes sympathizes with the music, would be suffered to pass without censure or alarm. It has been accordingly said that the tendency of this publication is mischievous,^ and that I have chosen these airs but as a vehicle of dangerous politics as fair and precious vessels (to borrow an image of St. Augustine) from which the wine of error might be administered. To those who identify nationality with treason, and who see in every effort for Ireland a system of hos- tility toward England to those too, who, nursed in the gloom of prejudice, are alarmed by the faintest gleam of liberality that threatens to disturb their darkness, like that * Among other false refinements of the art. our music (with the exception, pTliaj>s, of the air called "Mamma, Mamma," and one or two more of the same ludicrous description) has avoided that puerile mimicry of minimi noises, motions. Ac.. which disgraces BO often the works of even the great Handel himself. D'AleiiiU-rt ought to have had letter t**te than to become the patron of this imitative affectation, (>icoiini Prfliminnir,- of the eleventh century, after having defeated the Danes intwcntx - live engagement. * Munster. * The palace Of Brien. 4 This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favorite troops of Brien, when they were inter- rupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf by Fitzpat- rick,Princeof Ossory. The wounded men entreated that t)-y might be allowed to fight with the rest. "Let stakes," tlu-y said, "/*< utiick in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied to and mtpported by one of these stakes, to be placed in hit run k by the tide, of a sound man." "Between Mven nnil eipht litin dred wounded men," adds O'Halloran, pale, emaciated, and POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died ! The sun that now blesses our arms with his light, Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain ! Oh let him not blush, when he leaves us to- night, To find that they fell there in vain ! ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES. ERIN ! the tear and the smile in thine eyes Blend, like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies ! Shining through sorrow's stream, Saddening through pleasure's beam, Thy sons, with doubtful gleam, Weep while they rise! Erin ! thy silent tear never shall cease, Erin ! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase, Till, like the rainbow's light, Thy various tints unite, And form, in Heaven's sight, One arch of peace ! OH BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. OH breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are laid; .Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head! But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps, supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the fore- most of the troops nevei* was such another sight exhib- ited." History of Ireland, Book xii., Chap. I. And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE. WHEN he who adores thee has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind, Oh say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame . Of a life that for thee was resign'd ? Yes, weep, and however my foes may con- demn, Thy tears shall efface their decree; For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, I have been but too faithful to thee! With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; Every thought of my reason was thine : In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above, Thy name shall be mingled with mine! Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live The days of thy glory to see; But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee ! THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more! No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone that breaks at night. Its tale of ruin tells. HAM? TEHAI (DITCH TDKBiB'JBJE TE&IMlS 5. I -* * * ** */ I' ** * * .*""* POKMS OF THOMAS .MooliK. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb &he givrs Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. Oil THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT. OH think not my spirits are always as light And as free from a pang as they seem to you now ; Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow. No, life is a waste of wearisome hours Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns ; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns ! But send round the bowl, and be happy a while ; May we never meet worse in our pilgrim- age here Than the tear that enjoyment can gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear ! The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows ! If it were not with friendship and love intertwined ; And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind ! But they who have loved the fondest, the purest, Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed ; And the heart that has slumber'd in friend- ship securest, Is happy indeed, if 'twas never deceived. But send round the bowl, while a relic of truth Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine That the sunshine of love may illumine OIK youth, And the moonlight of friendship console our decline. FLY NOT YET. FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night, And maids who love the moon ! 'Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; 'Tis then their soft attractions sjlowinjr O O Set the tides and goblets flowing. Oh ! stay, Oh ! stay, Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, that oh ! 'tis pain To break its link so soon. Fly not yet, the fount that play'd In times of old through Ammon's shade, 1 Though icy cold by day it ran, Yet still, like souls of mirth, began To burn when night was near; And thus should woman's heart and looks At noon be cold as winter brooks, Nor kindle till the night, returning, Brings their genial hour for burning. Oh ! stay, Oh ! stay, When did morning evvr break, And find such beaming eyes awake As those that sparkle here 1 THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OK ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE. THOUGH the last glimpse of Erin with sor- row I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me ; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever wi- roiiin. ' Soli* Kona. near the Temple of Ammou. 34 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind. And I'll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful it wreathes, And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes ; Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair. 1 THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.' THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet !' Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh ! no it was something more exquisite still. 1 In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII., an Act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing glibbes or conlins (long locks) on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the pre- ference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers, (by which the English were meant,) or those who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has readied us, and is universally admired. Walker's Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards, p. 134. Mr. Walker informs us also that, about the same period, there were some harsh measures takin against the Irish minstrels. 3 " The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beau- tii'ul scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a noit to this romantic spot in the summer of the year 1807. * The rivers Avon and Avoco. 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best, Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace ! RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE. 4 RICH and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ; But oh ! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand. " Lady ! dost thou not fear to stray, So lone and lovely, through this bleak way? Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, As not to be tempted by woman or gold ?" " Sir Knight ! I feel not the least alarm, No son of Erin will offer me harm For though they love women and golden store, Sir Knight ! they love honor and virtue more !" On she went, and her maiden smile In safety lighted her round the Green Isle. And blest forever is she who relied Upon Erin's honor, and Erin's pride ! 4 This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote: " The people were inspired with such a spirit of honor, vircue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his ex- cellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value ; and such an impression had the laws and government of this monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of her clothes at jewels." Warner's History of Ireland, vol. . , book x. POEMS OK THOMAS MOOKE. 3.-, AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS MAY GLOW. As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow, While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while. One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes, To which life nothing darker or brighter can CJ O bring, For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting ! Oh ! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, lake a dead leafless branch in the summer's bright ray ; The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again 1 ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY. 8T. SENANUS. " On ! haste and leave this sacred isle, Unholy bark, ere morning smile : }for on thy deck, though dark it be, A female form I see ; And I have sworn this sainted sod Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod 1" THE LADY. " O father, send not hence my bark, Through wintry winds and billows dark ; I come with humble heart to share Thy morn and evening prayer; Nor mine the feet, O holy saint, The brightness of thy sod to taint." The lady's prayer Seiianus spurn'd ; The winds blew fresh, the bark return'cL Hut legends hint, that had the maid Till morning's light dehiy'd, And given the saint one rosy smile, She ne'er had left his lonelv i*le. HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR. How dear to me the hour when daylight dies, And sunbeams melt along the silent sea, For then sweet dreams of other days arise, And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee. And as I watch the line of light that plays Along the smooth wave toward the burn- ing west, I long to tread that golden path of rays, And think 'twould lead to some bright islf of rest ! TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE. WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK. TAKE back the virgin page, White and unwritten still ; Some hand more calm and sage The leaf must fill. Thoughts come, as pure as light, Pure as even you require ; But oh ! each word I write, Love turns to tire. Yet let me keep the book ; Oft shall my heart renew, When on its leaves I look, Dear thoughts of you ! Like you, 'tis fair and bright ; Like you, too bright and fair To let wild passion write One wrong wish there I Haply, when from those eyes Far, far away I roam. 36 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Should calmer thoughts arise Toward you and homo ; Fancy may trace some line, Worthy those eyes to meet, Thoughts that not burn, but shine, Pure, calm, and sweet ! And as the records are Which wandering seamen keep, Led by their hidden star Through winter's deep ; So may the words I write Tell through what storms I stray, You still the unseen light Guiding my way ! THE LEGACY. WHEN in death I shall calm recline, Oh bear my heart to my mistress dear; Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here. Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow To sully a heart so brilliant and light ; But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, To bathe the relic from morn till night. When the light of my song is o'er, Then take my harp to your ancient hall ; Hang it up at that friendly door, Where weary travellers love to calL 1 Then if some bard who roams forsaken, Revive its soft note in passing along, Oil ! let one thought of its master waken Your warmest smile for the child of song. Keop this cup, which is now o'erflowing, To grace your revel, when I'm at rest ; Nsver, oh ! never its bairn bestowing On lips that beauty hath seldom blest ! But when some warm devoted lover To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Oh ! then my spirit around shall hover, And hallow each drop that foams for him. " In every hoiwe was one or two harps, free to all travel- ten, who were the more caressed the more they excelled iu wnsk." O'Halloran. HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED How oft has the Benshee cried ! How oft has death untied Bright links that glory wove, Sweet bonds entwined by love ! Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth ! Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth I Long may the fair and brave Sigh o'er the hero's grave. We're fallen upon gloomy days, 1 Star after star decays, Every bright name that shed Light o'er the land is fled. Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth, But brightly flows the tear Wept o'er the hero's bier ! Oh ! quench'd are our beacon-lights Thou of the hundred fights !' Thou on whose burning tongue Truth, peace, and freedom hung !* Both mute, but long as valor shineth, Or mercy's soul at war repineth, So long shall Erin's pride Tell how thev lived and died. WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD. WE may roam through this world like a child at a feast Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest ; And when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, We may order our wings, and be off to the west ; 8 1 have endeavored here, without losing that Irish character which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to al- lude to the sad and ominous fatality by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent and integrity. ' This designation, which has been applied to Lord Nelson before, is the title given to a celebrated Irish hero, in a poem by O'Gnive, the bard of O'Neil, which is quoted in the Philo- sophical Survey of the South of Ireland, page 433: "Con, ol the hundred fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and up braid not our defeats with thy victories !" Fox " Ultimus Romanorum 1" POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKR But if hearts that feel and eyes that smile Are the dearest gifts that Heaven supplies, We never need leave our own Green Isle, For sensitive hearts and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her at home. (n England the garden of beauty is kept By a dragon of prudery, placed within call ; But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept, That the garden's but carelessly watch'd after all. Oh ! they want the wild sweet-briery fenee Which round the flowers of Erin dwells, Which warms the touch while winning the sense, Xor charms us least when it most repels. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her at home. In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-bye ! While the daughters of Erin keep the boy Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, Through billows of woe and beams of joy, The same as he look'd when he left the shore. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh ! remember the smile whicb a^ow ; her at home. EVELEEN'S BOWER OH ! weep for the hour When to Eveleen's bower The lord of the valley with false vows came The moon hid her light From the heavens that night, And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden** shame. The clouds past soon From the chaste cold moon, And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame; But none will see the day When the clouds shall pass away Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen'g fame. The white snow lay On the narrow pathway When the lord of the valley crost over the moor; And many a deep print On the white snow's tint Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen'i door. The next sun's ray Soon melted away Every trace on the path where the false loud came; But there's a light above Which alone can remove That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen'i fame. THE SONG OF FIONNUALA. 1 SILENT, O Moyle ! be the roar of thy water, Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. 1 To make thii story intelligible in a song would require a much ^rosier number of ver*cs than any one is authorized to inilii-t upon un niiilifiK-f at once; the reader raut therefore b n, nii-iit to It-urn, in a !.:. hut Fionnuala, tie daughter of l.ir, wa., l>y >r in-. Mi|iriii:itiir.-il JHIWIT, transformed 'uio a r-\vuii, :ind ruu'lciniH-d to \\aiuicr. tor ninny hundred yean <>'cr certain lake* uud river* of Ireland till the coming of 'hri-:i:ii;Hy. \\ln-n the rtrct couud of tin- nimm-beU wa* to bt 38 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. When shall the swan, her death-note singing, Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd ? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit from this stormy world ? Sadly, Moyle ! to thy winter wave weeping, Fate bids me languish long ages away ! Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, Still doth the pure light its dawning delay ! When will that day-star, mildly springing, Warm our isle with peace and love ? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit to the fields above ? LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD. LET Erin remember the days of old, Ere her faithless sons betray'd her ; When Malachi wore the collar of gold 1 Which he won from her proud invader ; When her kings with standard of green unfurl'd Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger;" Ere the emerald gem of the western world Was set in the crown of a stranger. On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,* When the clear cold eve's declining:, O 7 the signal of her release. I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations Irom the, Irish, begun under the diroction of the late Countess of Moira. 1 " This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the mon- arch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom lie encoun- tered successively hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory." Warner's //is-, of Ireland, vol. i., book ix. ' " Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland. Long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhe na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace' of the Ulster kin^g. allied Teagh na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Hed Bunch ; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bron-bhearg \ or the hous of the sorrowful soldier." O'Halloran's Introduction, iastical towers under t')e water. He sees the round towers of other days In the wave beneath him shining ! Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime. Catch a glimpse of the days that are over Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time For the long-faded glories they cover ! COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE. COME, send round the wine, and leave pointi of belief To simpleton sages and reasoning fools ; This moment's a flower too fair and brief To be wither'd a-nd stain'd by the dust of the schools. Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue, But while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl, The fool who would quarrel for difference of hue Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights .Sy my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree ? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneel not before the same altar with me? From the heretic girl of my soul shall I fly, To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss? No ! perish the hearts and the laws that try Truth, valor, or love by a standard like this! SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING. SUBLIME was the warning which Liberty spoke, And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke Into life and revenge from the conqueror ' chain ! POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKK. 89 Liberty ! let not this spirit have rest, Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west Give the light of your look to each sorrow- ing spot, Nor oh ! be the shamrock of Erin forgot, While you add to your garland the olive of Spain ! If the fame of our fathers, bequeath'd with their rights, Give to country its charm, and to home its delights, If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, Then, ye men of Iberia ! our cause is the same ; And oh ! may his tomb want a tear and a name, Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath For the shamrock of Erin and olive of Spain ! Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd The green hills of their youth among strangers to find That repose which at home they had sigh'd for in vain, Breathe a hope that the magical flame which you light May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright ; And forgive even Albion, while blushing she draws, Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause Of the shamrock of Erin and olive of Spain ! God prosper the cause ! oh! it cannot but thrive hii^ the pulse of one patriot heart is alive ;y devotion to feel and its rights to main- tain ; Then how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die ! Tb* finger of glory shall point where they He, While, far from the footstep of coward or slave, T young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave Beneath shamrocks of Erin and olives of Spain. BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE EN- BEARING YOUNG CHARMS. BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away ! Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known, To which time will but make thee more dear ! Oh the heart that has truly loved never foi- gets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns to her god when she sets The same look which she turn'd when he rose! ERIN ! O ERIN ! LIKE the bright lamp that lay on Kildare'a holy shrine, And burn'd through long ages of darkness and storm, Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on m vain, Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm ! Erin ! O Erin ! thus bright through the tears Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears ! The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, Thy sun is but rising when others are set ; And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung, 40 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. The full moon of freedom shall beam round thee yet. Erin ! O Erin ! though long in the shade, Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade 1 Unchill'd by the rain, and unwaked by the wind, The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour, Till the hand of spring her dark chain unbind, And daylight and liberty bless the young flower. Erin ! O Erin ! thy winter is past, And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last ! DRINK TO HER. DRINK to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh ; The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy. Oh ! woman's heart was made For minstrel hands alone ! By other fingers play'd, It yields not half the tone. Then here's to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy ! At beauty's door of glass When wealth and wit once stood, They ask'd her, " which might pass ?" She answer'd, " He who could. " With golden key wealth thought To pass but 'twould not do : While wit a diamond brought Which cut his bright way through ! Then here's to her who Ions: O Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy ! The love that seeks a home Where wealth and grandeur shines, Is like the gloomy gnome That dwells in dark gold mines. 9 But oh ! the poet's love Can boast a brighter sphere ; Its native home's above, Though woman keeps it here ! Then drink to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy ! OH BLAME NOT THE BARD.' OH blame not the bard if he flies to the bowers Where pleasure lies carelessly smiling at fame ; He was born for much more, and in happier hours His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. The string that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, Might have bent a bright bow to the war- rior's dart,* And the lip which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have pour'd the full tide of a patri- ot's heart ! But, alas for his country ! her pride is gone by, And that spirit is broken which never would bend. O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh. O r For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray ; Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires ; 1 We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards whom Spencer so severely, and perhaps truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, " were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which gave good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gra- cing of wickedness and vice, which with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue." 3 It is conjectured by Wormius that the name of Ireland is derived from Tr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of whic* weapon the Irish were once very expert. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 41 And the torch that would light them through dignity's way Must be caught from the pile where their country expires ! Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure's soft dream, He should try to forget what he never can heal ; Oh ! give but a hope let a vista but gleam Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel ! That instant his heart at her shrine would lay down Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored, While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword. 1 But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away, Thy name, loved Erin ! shall live in his songs ; Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs ! The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ; The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, Shall pause at the song of their captive and weep ! WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT. WHILE gazing on the moon's light, A moment from her smile I turuM, To look at orbs that more bright In lone arid distant glory burn'd. Hut too far Each proud star 1 8 the hymn attributed to Alo*ui. "I will carry my iT.x;d, hidden in myitleo, like Harmodiiu and Ariflogitou," For me to feel its warming flame- Much more dear That mild sphere Which near our planet smiling came ;' Thus, Mary, be but tho;i my cwn While brighter eyes unheeded play, I'll love those moonlight looks alone, Which bless my home and guide my way The day had sunk in dim showers, But midnight now, with lustre meek, Illumined all the pale flowers, Like hope that lights a mourner's cheek, I said, (while The moon's smile Play'd o'er a stream in dimpling blisa,) " The moon looks On many brooks, The brook can see no moon but this :' And thus I thought our fortunes run, For many a lover looks to thee, While oh ! I feel there is but one, One Mary in the world for me. ILL OMENS. WHEN daylight was yet sleeping under the billow, And stars in the heavens still ling'ring shone, Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow, The last time she e'er was to press it alone. For the youth, whom she treasured her heart and her soul in, Had promised to link the last tie before noon ; And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon ! As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses, 1 " Of each celestial bodle* as are risible, the Ron except d. the single moon, a* despicable as it Is in comparison to most of the othen*. l much more beneficial than they all pat to Ki'thrr." Whifton't Theory, Ac, * Thin image was irnggueted by the following thought, which ocean somewhere In Sir William Jones's "The moon took* upoi tnary night-flower*, the night-flow** sees bat one u*on." 42 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's kisses, Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces, She brush'd him he fell, alas ! never to rise " Ah ! such," said the girl, " is the pride of our faces, For which the soul's innocence too often dies !" While she stole through the garden where heart's-ease was growing, She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night- fallen dew; And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glowing, That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too ; But while o'er the roses too carelessly lean- ing, Her zone flew in two, and her heart's-ease was lost Ah ! this means," said the girl, (and she sigh'd at its meaning,) " That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost !" BEFORE THE BATTLE. BY the hope within us springing, Herald of to-morrow's strife ; By that sun whose light is bringing Chains or freedom, death or life Oh ! remember, life can be Mo charm for him who lives not free! Like the day-star in the wave, Sinks a hero to his grave, Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears 1 Bless'd is he o'er whose decline The smiles of home may soothing shine, And light him down the steep of years : But, oh, how grand they sink to rest Who close their eyes on victory's breast ! O'er his watch-fire's fading embers Now the foeman's cheek turns white, While his heart that field remembers Where we dimm'd his glory's light ! Never let him bind again A chain like that we broke from then. Hark ! the horn of combat calls Oh, before the evening falls, May we pledge that horn in triumph round I Many a heart that now beats high, In slumber cold at night shall lie, Nor waken even at victory's sound : But, oh, how blest that hero's sleep, O'er whom a wondering world shall weep ! AFTER THE BATTLE. . NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way, And lightning show'd the distant hill, Where those who lost that dreadful clay, Stood few and faint, but fearless still The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal, Forever dimm'd, forever crost Oh who shall say what heroes feel, When all but life and honor's lost ! The last sad hour of freedom's dream . And valor's task moved slowly by, While mute they watch'd till morning's beam Should rise and give them light to die ! There is a world where souls are free, Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ; If death that world's bright opening be, Oh ! who would live a slave in this ? OH 'TIS SWEET TO THINK. OH 'tis sweet to think that where'er we rove, We are* sure to find something blissful and dear ; And that, when we're far from the lips we love, 1 "The Irish Coma was not entirely devoted to rcartia. purposes. In the heroic ages our ancestors quaffed meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day." Walker. POEMS OF THOMAS 4:1 We have but to make love to the lips we are near! 1 The heart like a tendril accustom'd to cling, Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing It can twine with itself and make closely its own. Then oh what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be doom'd to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We have but to make love to the lips we are near. 'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise, To make light of the rest, if the rose is not there, And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes, 'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too, And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike, It will tincture love's plume with a differ- ent hue ! Then oh what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be doom'd tc find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We have but to make love to the lips we are near. THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS. THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay; 1 I believe it i* Marmontcl who nayf . " Qnniid on n'a pa* ce gut Crm aiint. Ufaul aitntr ct (jiit Con a." Then- Hre eo many matter-of-fact people who take curh jfnf uT'*i>rit at- thi* defence of inconstancy to bu the uciuul uiiil x 1 "iii'n- 1 '-'nti- ment.8 of him who write* them, that they compel one. in ^elf- defence, to be as matter-of-fact as themi-elvos, and to rein i ml thi-oi that Democritus was not the worse physiologist for hav Dir playfully contended that enow wap black, nor Erasmus ID ai.y (Ic-.'ree the le: wise for havinp written an Inyrulou* ,rn of folly. The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burnM, Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd ; Oh ! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And bless'd even the sorrow that made me more dear to thee. Thy rival was honor'd, while thou wi-rt wrong'd and scornM, Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd ; She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves, Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas ! were slaves ; Yet, cold in the earth, at thy feet I would rather be, Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee. They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale ! They say too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains, That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains Oh! do not believe them no chain could that soul subdue. Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too ! ON MUSIC. WHEN through life unblest we rove, Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes we used to love In days of boyhood meet our ear, Oh! how welcome breathes the strain! Wakening thoughts that long have slept Kindling former smiles again, In faded eyes that long have wept ! Like the gale that sighs along Uetls of oriental flowers POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Is the grateful breath of song That once was heard in happier hours; Fill'd with balm, the gale sighs on, Though the flowers have sunk in death ; So, when pleasure's dream is gone, Its memory lives in music's breath ! Music ! oh ! how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell ! Why should feeling ever speak, When thou canst breathe her soul so well ? Friendship's balmy words may feign, Love's are even more false than they ; Oh ! 'tis only music's strain Can sweetly soothe, and not betray ! THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. 'Tis believed that this harp which I wake now for thee Was a siren of old who sung under the sea ; And who often at eve through the bright billow roved To meet on the green shore a youth whom she loved. But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep, And in tears all the night her gold ringlets to steep, Till Heaven look'd with pity on true-love so warm, And changed to this soft harp the sea- maiden's form ! Still her bosom rose fair still her cheek smiled the same While her sea-beauties gracefully curl'd round the frame ; And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright rings, Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings ! Hence it came that this soft harp so long hath been known To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone ; Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To be love when I'm near thee and grief when away ! IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED. 1 IT is not the tear at this moment shed, When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how beloved was the soul that's fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept, Through a life, by his loss all shaded ; 'Tis the sad remembrance fondly kept When all lighter griefs have faded ! Oh ! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light, While it shines through our hearts, will improve them, For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, When we think how he lived but to love them ! And as buried saints the grave perfume Where fadeless they've long been lying, So our hearts shall borrow a sweet'ning bloom From the image he left there in dying ! LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. OH ! the days are gone when beauty bright My heart's chain wove ; When my dream of life, from morn till night. Was love, still love ! New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream ! Oh ! there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream ! 1 These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very nesr and dear relative, who died lately at Madeira. I'OKMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 45 Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth's past ; Though he win the wise, who trownM before, To smile at last ; He'll never meet A joy so sweet In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And at every close she blush'd to hear The one loved name ! Oh ! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot, Which first love traced; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste ! 'Twas odor fled As soon as shed ; 'Twas morning's winged dream ; 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream ! Oh ! 'twas a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream ! I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME. I SAW thy form in youthful prime, Nor thought that pale decay Would steal before the steps of time, And waste its bloom away, Mary 1 Yet still thy features wore that light Which fleets not with the breath ; And life ne'er look'd more purely bright Than in thy smile of death, Mary ! As streams that run o'er golden mines, With modest murmur glide, Nor seem to know the wealth that shines Within their gentle tide, Mary ! So, veil'd beneath the simple guise, Thy radiant genius shone, And that which charm'd all other eyes Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary ! If souls could always dwell above, Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere ; Or could we keep the souls we love, We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary ! Though many a gifted mind we meet, Though fairest forms we see, To live with them is far less sweet, Than to remember thee, Mary 1 THE PRINCE'S DAY. 1 THOUGH dark are our sorrows, to-day well forget them, And smile through our tears, like a sun- beam in showers ; There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, More form'd to be grateful and blessed than ours ! But just when the chain Has ceased to pain, And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers, There comes a new link Our spirit to sink Oh ! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant tc stay; But though 'twere the last little spark in our souls, We must light it up now, on our Prince's day. Contempt on the minion who calls you dis- loyal ! Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true ; And the tribute most high to a head that i* royal, Is love from a heart that loves liberty too. While cowards, who blight Your fame, your right, Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array, The standard of green In front would be scon * Thin oug was written Tor a (Pte In honor of the Priaot of Wales'* birthday, jrlvcu by my friend Major Bryan, at hi> MM in the county of Kilkenny. 46 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Oh ! my life on your faith ! were you sum- ruon'd this minute, You'd cast ever bitter remembrance away, And show what the arm of old Erin has in it When roused by the foe on her Prince's day. He loves the Green Isle, and his love is re- corded In hearts which have suffer'd too much to forget ; And hope shall be crown'd and attachment rewarded, And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet ! The gem may be broke By many a stroke, But nothing can cloud its native ray ; Each fragment will cast A light to the last ! And thus, Erin, my country ! though broken thou art, There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay ; A spirit that beams through each suffering part, And now smiles at their painon.the Prince's day ! LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. LESBIA hath a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth ; Right and left its arrows fly, But what they aim at no one dreameth 1 Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon My Nora's lid, that seldom rises ; Few its looks, but every one. Like unexpected light, surprises ! O my Nora Creina, dear ! My gentle, bashful Nora Creina 1 Beauty lies In many eyes, But love in yours, my Nora Creina 1 Lesbia wears a robe of gold, But all so close the nymph hath laced it, Not a charm of beauty's mould Presumes to stay where nature placed it ! Oh ! my Nora's gown for me, That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free To sink or swell, as Heaven pleases ! Yes, my Nora Creina ! My simple, graceful Nora Creiiia ! Nature's di-ess Is loveliness The dress you wear, my Nora Creina ! Lesbia hath a wit refined, But when its points are gleaming round ua Who can tell, if they're design'd To dazzle merely, or to wound us ? Pillow'd on my Nora's heart, In safer slumber Love reposes Bed of peace ! whose roughest part Is but the crumpling of the roses. O my Nora Creina, dear ! My mild, my artless Nora Creina ! Wit, though bright, Hath not the light That warms your eyes, my Nora Crenia 1 WEEP ON, WEEP ON. WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past, Your dreams of pride are o'er, The fatal chain is round you cast, And you are men no more ! In vain the hero's heart hath bled ; The sage's tongue hath waru'd in vain ' O freedom ! once thy flame hath fled It never lights again ! O O Weep on perhaps, in after days, They'll learn to love your name ; And many a deed may wake in praise That long has slept in blame ! And when they tread the ruin'd isle, Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, They'll wond'ring ask how hands so vile Could conquer hearts so brave ! " 'Twas fate," they'll say, " a wayward fate Your web of discord wove ; And while your tyrants join'd in hate, You never joiu'd in love ! PoK.MS OF THOMAS MOORE. Brt hearts fell off that ought to twine, And man profaned what Goa had given, Till some were heard to curse the shrine Where others knelt to Heaven !" BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE. 1 BY that lake, whose gloomy shore Skylark never warbles o'er, Where the cliff hangs high and steep, Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep. " Here, at least," he calmly said, " Woman ne'er shall find my bed." Ah ! the good saint little knew What that wily sex can do. 'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he Hew, Eyes of most unholy blue ! See had loved him well and long, Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong. Wheresoe'er the saint would fly, Still he heard her light foot nigh : o o * East or west, where'er he turn'd, Still her eyes before him burn'd. On the bold cliff's bosom cast, Tranquil now he sleeps at last ; Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er Woman's smile can haunt him there. But nor earth, nor heaven is free From her power, if fond she be ; Even now, while calm he sleeps, Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps. Fearless she had track'd his feet, To this rocky, wild retreat ; And when morning met his view, Her mild glances met it too. Ah ! your saints have cruel hearts ! Sternly from his bed he starts, And with rude, repulsive shock, Hurls her from the beetling rock. Glendalough ! thy gloomy wave Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave! Soon the saint (yet ah ! too late) Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate. When he said, " Heaven rest her soui !" Round the lake like music stole ; And her ghost was seen to glide, Smiling, o'er the fatal tide 1 1 This ballad Is founded upon one of the many stories re- nted of iSiiint Kevin, whose bed in the rock IB to be Been at ndaloutfh, a most gloomy and romantic spot In the county of Wtcklow. [This poem refers to the betrothed of Robert Emmet. She afterward became the wife of an officer, who took berio Sicily in the hope that travel would restore her spirit-, but h. r for Emmet was so great that the died of a oroken heart.] SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her sighing ; But coldly she turns from their gaze, ami weeps, For her heart in his grove is lying ! She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking ; Ah ! little they think who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! lie had lived for his love, for Ms country he died, They were all that to life hsvd entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his c?nntry b dried, Nor long will his love stay behind h>nu Oh ! make her a grave where the suul^ami rest, When they promise a glorious morrow ; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile froir the west, From her own loved island of sorrow I NAY, TELL ME NOT. NAY, tell me not, dear ! that thcP goblet drowns One charm of feeling, one fond regret ; Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Ne'er hath a beam Been lost in the stream That ever was shed from thy form or soul ; The balm of thy sighs, The spell of thine eyes, Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl ! Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me ! Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee ! They tell us that love in his fairy bower Had two blush-roses of birth divine ; He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower, But bathed the other with mantling wine. Soon did the buds, That drank of the floods, Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade ; While those which the tide Of ruby had dyed, All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid ! Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me ; Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee. AVENGING AND BRIGHT. AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of Erin 1 On him who the brave sons of Usna be- tray'd ! For every fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade. By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling, 4 When Ulad's' three champions lay sleep- in in trore: 1 The words of thie song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called " Deirdri ; or The Lamentable Pate of the Sons of Usnnch." 8 " O Naisi 1 view the cloud that I here see in the sky ! I ee over Eman gree:i a chilling clocd of blood-tinged red." Deirdri'f Song. Ulster. By the billows of war which so often high swelling Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore ! We swear to revenge them ! no joy shall be tasted, The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted, Till vengeance is wreak 'd on the murder- er's head ! Yes, monarch ! though sweet are our home recollections, Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall ; Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, and affections, Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all ! LOVE AND THE NOVICE. " HERE we dwell, in holiest bowers, Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers To Heaven in mingled odor ascend ! Do not disturb our calm, O Love ! So like is thy form to the cherubs above, It well might deceive such hearts as ours." Love stood near the Novice, and listen'd, And Love is no novice in taking a hint ; His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten 'd ; His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint. " Who would have thought," the urchin cries, " That Love could so well, so gravely disguise His wandering wings and wounding eyes ?" Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping : Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise ; lie tinges the heavenly fount with hii weeping, POKMS OF THOMAS MOORE. He brightens the censer's ilainc with his ngha. Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast, And angels themselves would admit such a guest, If he came to them clothed in piety's vest. WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. lie. What the bee is to the floweret, When he looks for honey-dew Through the leaves that close embower it, That, my love, I'll be to you ! She. What the bank with verdure glowing Is to waves that wander near, Whispering kisses, while they're going, That I'll be to you, my dear ! She. But they say the bee's a rover, That he'll fly when the sweets are gone ; And when once the kiss is over, Faithless brooks will wander on ! He. Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, If snnny banks will wear away, 'Tis but right that bees and brooks Should sip and kiss them while they may. THIS LIFE IS ALL CHECKER'D WITH PLEASURES AND WOES. THIS life is all checker'd with pleasures and woes, That chase one another like waves of the deep, Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows, Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep, closely our whims on our miseries tread, That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried ; And as fast as the rain-drop of pity is shed, The goose-plumage of folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup if existence would cloy With hearts ever happy and heads ever wise, Be ours the light grief that is sister to joy, And the short brilliant folly that flasbe* and dies ! When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Through fields full of sunshine, with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. 1 Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and have tasted The fountain that runs by philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the m.irg : n have wasted, And left their light urus all as empty as mine ! But pledge me the goblet, while idlenest weaves Her flowerets together ; if wisdom can see One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me ! O THE SHAMROCK ! THROUGH Erin's Isle, To sport a while, As Love and Valor wander'd, With Wit, the sprite, Whose quiver bright A thousand arrows squander'd ; Where'er they pass, A triple grass* " Proposlto florem pnetnllt offlclo." Proper*., lib. 1 eleg. SO. * Saint Patrick I* said to have made ne of that prrlt* of tho trefoil to which In Ireland we giro the name of Sham- rock, In explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan Irish. 1 do not know If there be any other reason for oar adoption of this plant as a national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, wa sometimes represented a* a beautiful child. 50 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming, As softly green As emerald seen Through purest crystal gleaming ! O the Shamrock, the green, immortal Sham- rock ! Chosen leaf Of bard and chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock ! Says Valor, " See, They spring for me, Those leafy gems of morning !" Says Love, " No, no, For me they grow, My fragrant path adorning !" But Wit perceives The triple leaves, And cries " Oh ! do not sever A type that blends Three godlike friends, Love, Valor, Wit, forever !" O the Shamrock, the green, immortal Sham- rock! Chosen leaf Of bard and chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock! AT THE MID-HOUR OF NIGHT. Ax the mid-hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved when life shone warm in thine eye, And I think that, if spirits can steal from the region of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky ! Then I sing the wild song which once 'twas rapture to hear, When our voices, both mingling, breathed like one on the ear ; "r landing npon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-colored grass In bei hand." And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, O my love ! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of souls' Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. ONE bumper at parting ! though many Have circled the board since we met, The fullest, the saddest, of any Remains to be crown'd by us yet The sweetness that pleasure has in k Is always so slow to come forth, That seldom, alas, till the minute It dies, do we know half its worth I But, oh, may our life's happy measure Be all of such moments made up ; They're born on the bosom of pleasure, They die 'midst the tears of the cup. As onward we journey, how pleasant To pause and inhabit a while Those few sunny spots, like the present, That 'mid the dull wilderness smile ! But Time, like a pitiless master, Cries " Onward !" and spurs the j> hours, And never does Time travel faster Than when his way lies among flowers. But come, may our life's happy measure Be all of such moments made up ; They're born on the bosom of pleasure, They die 'midst the tears of the cup. How brilliant the sun look'd in sinking, The waters beneath him how bright ! Oh ! trust me, the farewell of drinking Should be 'like the farewell of light. You saw how he finish'd by darting His beam o'er a deep billow's brim So fill up, let's shine at our parting, In full liquid glory like him. 1 *' There are countries," says Montaigne, " where they be- lieve the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields ; and that it is those souls repeat.'ng the word* we utter which we call Echo." THE MINSTREL BOY, POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 51 And oil ! may our life's happy measure Of moments like this he made up ; Twas born on the bosom of pleasure, It dies 'midst the tears of the cup ! TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; O 7 All her lovely companions Are faded and gone ; No flower of her kindred, No rosebud is nigh To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh fix. sigh ! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one ! To pine on the stem ; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them ; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may /follow, When friendships decay, And from love's shining circle Thy gems drop away ! When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown, Oh ! who would inhabit This bleak world alone ? THE YOUNG MAY MOON. Tin. young May moon is beaming, love, The glowworm's lamp is gleaming, love, How sweet to rove Through Morna's grove, NVliile the drowsy world is dreaming, love ! Tin- n awake ! the heavens look bright, my dear ! Ti> never too late for delight, my dear ! And the best of all ways To lengthen our days IB to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! Now all the world is sleeping, love, But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star, More glorious far, Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake .'till rise of sun, my dear, The sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, Or, in watching the flight Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear! THE MINSTREL BOY. THE minstrel boy to the war is gone, IB the ranks of death you'll find him, His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him. ' Land of song !" said the warrior bard, " Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee !" ["he minstrel fell ! but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under ; ["he harp he loved ne'er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder ; And said, " No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery ! y songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery !" HE valley lay smiling before me, Where lately I left her behind, fet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, TKat sadden'd the joy of my mind. i Founded upon an event of most melancholy important* Ireland, if, as we are told by oar Irian historian*, it nave ngland the first opportunity of enslaving us. The km.- cl einster ..ad conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgll a lighter to the king of Meath, though die had been for tome me married to O'Huark, prince of Brefflil. They carried on private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Kuark tended toon to go on a pilgrimage, and conjured him to em- race that opportunity of conveying her from a hu-band she eteated. MacMurcbad too punctually obeyed the Miuunons, A had the lady conveyed to bin capital of Fern*. The mun- ch Rodrick ecpoused the cause of O'Ruark. \\ bile MacMnr chad fled to England, and obtain*! the alsuiire of lUurr II 52 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. I look'd for the lamp which, she told me, Should shine when her pilgrim return'd, But though darkness began to infold me, No lamp from the battlements burn'd ! I flew to her chamber 'twas lonely As if the loved tenant lay dead ! Ah, would it were death, and death only 1 But no the young false one had fled. And there hung the lute that could soften My very worst pains into bliss, While the hand that had waked it so often, Now throbb'd to my proud rival's kiss. There was a time, falsest of women ! When Breffni's good sword would have sought That man, through a million of foemen, Who dared but to doubt thee in thought ! While now O degenerate daughter Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame ! And, through ages of bondage and slaughter, Thy country shall bleed for thy shame. Already the curse is upon her, And strangers her valleys profane ; They come to divide to dishonor, And tyrants they long will remain ! But, onward ! the green banner rearing, Go, flesh every sword to the hilt ; On our side is Virtue and Erin ! On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt. OH ! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN ! OH ! had we some bright little isle of. our own, In a blue summer oce'an, far off and alone, Where a leaf never dies in the still-blooming bowers, And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers ; Where the sun loves to pause With so fond a delay, That the night only draws A thin veil o'er the day ; Where simply to feel that we bieathe, that we live, Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give! There, with souls ever ardent, and pure as the clime, We should love as they loved in the first golden time ; The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the; air, Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there ! With affection as free From decline as the bowers, And with hope, like the bee, Living always on flowers, Our life should resemble a long day of light, And our death come on holy and calm as the night ! FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR. FAREWELL ! but whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. His griefs may return not a hope may remain Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw Its enchantment around him while ling'ring with you ! And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends ! shall be with you that night ; Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKK. 53 And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles ! Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice had raurmurd, " I wish he were here !" Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy ; And which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care, To bring back the features that joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd ! Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. YOU REMEMBER ELLEN. 1 You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, How meekly she bless'd her humble lot, When the stranger, William, had made her his bride, And love was the light of their lowly cot. Together they toil'd through winds and rains, Till William at length, in sadness, said, " We must seek our fortune on other plains ;" Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed. They roam'd a long and a weary way, Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, When now, at close of one stormy day, They see a proud castle among the trees. "To-night," said the youth, "we'll shelter there ; The wind blows cold, the hour is late :" So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, And the porter bow'd as they pass'd the gate. N<>\v, welcome, Lady!" exclaimed the youth ; This ballad was cntrgested by a well-known and interect- K ftoy told of a certain noble faintly in England. " This castle is thine, and these dark woods all." She believed him wild, but his words were truth, For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall ! And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves What William the stranger woo'd and wed ; And the light of bliss in these lordly groves Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed. OH! DOUBT ME NOT. On ! doubt me not the season Is o'er when folly made me rove, And now the vestal reason Shall watch the fire awaked by love. Although this heart was early blown, And fairest hands disturb'd the tree, Th^y only shook some blossoms down, Its fruit has all been kept for thee. Then doubt me not the season Is o'er when folly made me rove, And now the vestal reason Shall watch the fire awaked by love. And though my lute no longer May sing of passion's ardent spell, Oh, trust me, all the stronger I feel the bliss I do not tell. The bee through many a garden roves, And sings his lay of courtship o'er, But \\hen he finds the flower he loves He settles there, and hums no more. Then doubt me not the season Is o'er when folly kept me free, And now the vestal reason Shall guard the flame awaked by thee, I'D MOURN THE HOPES. I'D mourn the hopes that leave me, If thy smiles had left me too ; I'd weep, when friends deceive me, It'thou wert, like them, untrue. T.iit while I've thee before me, With heart so warm and i vrs so bright, 54 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. No clouds can linger o'er me, That smile turns them all to light ! 'Tis not in fate to harm me, While fate leaves thy love to me ; *Tis net in joy to charm me, Unless joy be shared with thee. One minute's dream about thee Were worth a long, an endless year Of waking bliss without thee, My own love, my only dear ! And though the hope be gone, love, That long sparkled o'er our way, Oh ! we shall journey on; love, More safely without its ray. Far better lights shall win me Along the path I've yet to roam The mind that burns within me, And pure smiles from thee at home. Thus, when the lamp that lighted The traveller, at first, goes out, He feels a while benighted, And looks round in fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing, By cloudless starlight on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering As that lio-lit which Heaven sheds. COME O'ER THE SEA. COME o'er the sea, Maiden ! with me, Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows ! Seasons may roll. But the true soul Burns the same where'er it goes. Let fate frown on, so we love and part not ; 'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not ! Then come o'er the sea, Maiden ! with me, Come wherever the wild wind blows ; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Bums tho same where'er it goes. Is not the sea Made for the free, Land for courts and chains alone ? Here we are slaves, But on the waves Love and liberty's all our own ! No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us ! Then come o'er the sea, Maiden ! with me, Come wherever the wild wind blows ; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same where'er it goes. HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED? HAS sorrow thy young days shaded, As clouds o'er the morning fleet ? Too fast have those young days faded, That even in sorrow were sweet ? Does time with his cold wing wither Each feeling that once was dear ? Come, child of misfortune ! corne hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. Has love to that soul so tender, Been like our Lagenian mine, 1 Where sparkles of golden splendor All over the surface shine But, if in pursuit we go deeper, Allured by the gleam that shone, Ah ! false as the dream of the sleeper, Like love, the bright ore is gone. Has hope, like the bird in the story* That flitted from tree to tree With the talisman's glittering glory Has hope been that bird to thee ? On branch after branch alighting, The gem did she still display, And when nearest and most inviting, Then waft the fair gem away ? 1 Our Wicklow gold mines, to which this verse aL odes, de- serve, I fear, the character here given of them. a "The bird, having -rot its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it ; but, as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again," n! Oh for the pomp that crown'd them, When hearts and hands of freeborn men, Were all the ramparts round them ! WREATH THE BOWL. WREATH the bowl with flowers of soul The brightest Wit can find us ; We'll take a flight toward heaven to-night. And leave dull earth behind us. Should Love amid the wreaths be hid, That Joy, the enchanter, brings us, No danger fear while wine is near, We'll drown him it' he stings us. Then wreath the bowl with flowers of soul The brightest W r it can find us ; We'll take a flight toward heaven to-night, And leave dull earth In-hind us. 'Twas nectar fed of old, 'tis said. Their Junos, Joves, Apollos ; And man may brew his in-i-tar too, The rich receipt's as follows: Take wine like this, let looks of bliss Around it well be blended. Then bring Wit's beam to warm the ft roam, And tln-iv's your iicrtar splendid ! 60 FOEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. So, wreath the bowl with flowers of soul The brightest Wit can find us ; We'll take a flight toward heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us ! Say, why did Time his glass sublime Fill up with sands unsightly, When wine, he knew, runs brisker through, And sparkles far more brightly ? Oh, lend it us, and, smiling thus, The glass in two we'll sever, Make pleasure glide in double tide, And fill both ends forever ! Then wreath the bowl with flowers of soul The brightest Wit can find us ; We'll take a flight toward heaven to-night, ~ O 7 And leave dull earth behind us. THE PARALLEL. YES, sad one of Siox 1 if closely resembling, In shame and in sorrow, thy wither'd-up heart It drinking deep, deep, of the same " cup of trembling" Could make us thy children, our parent thou art. Like thee doth our nation lie conquer'd and broken, And fallen from her head is the once royal crown ; In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken, And "while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down." 8 Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning, Die far from the home it were life to be- hold ; Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning, Remember the bright things that bless'd them of old. 1 These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were origi- nally Jews. 3 " Her rim is gone down while it was yet day. "'Jer. xv. 9. Ah, well may we call her like ,iee, " the Forsaken,'" Her boldest are vanish 'd, her proudest are slaves ; And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken, Have breathings as sad as the wind over graves ! Yet hadst thou thy vengeance yet came there the morrow, That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night, When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow, Was shiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy sight : When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City 4 Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drench'd her own lips, And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity, The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships : When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, And, a ruin, at last, for the earth-worm to cover, 6 The Lady of Kingdoms' lay low in the dust. OH, YE DEAD ! OH, ye Dead ! oh, ye Dead ! whom we know by the light you give From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live, Why leave you thus your graves, In far-off fields and waves, "Thou Bhalt no more be termed Forsakeu." Isaiah, Ixii. 4. " How hath the oppressor ceased ! the golden city ceased !" Isaiah, xiv. 11. "Thy pomp is brought down to the grave ?ud tu worms cover thee." Isaiah, xiv. 4. " Thou shall no more be called tin- Lady of Kiugaonm ." Igaiah, xlvii 5. POEMS OF THOMAS MOO I IK. 61 Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed ; To haunt this spot where all Those eyes that wept your fall, And the hearts that bewail'd you, like your own, lie dead ? It is true it is true we are shadows cold and wan ; It is true it is true all the friends we loved are gone ; But oh ! thus even in death, So sweet is still the breath Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd o'er, That ere, condemn'd, we go To freeze 'mid HECLA'S' snow, We would taste it awhile, and dream we live once more ! O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS. OP all the fair months, that round the sun In light-link'd dance their circles run, Sweet May, sweet May, shine thou for me ; For still, when thy earliest beams arise, That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies, Sweet May, sweet May, returns to me. Of all the smooth lakes, where day-light leaves His lingering smile on golden eves, Fair Lake, fair Lake, thou'rt dear to me ; For when the last April sun grows dim, Thy Xaiads prepare his steed" for him Who dwells, who dwells, bright Lake, in thee. 1 Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If aked why they do not return to their honi"-. they i Apollo, In his interview with Phaeton, as described by Orid " Deposuit radios propiusyue accederejussit." Every glory forgot, the most wise of the old Became all that the simplest and youngest hold dear. Is there one, who hath thus, through his or- bit of life, But at distance observed him through glory, through blame, In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife, Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same. Such a union of all that enriches life's hour Of the sweetness we love, and the great- ness we praise, As that type of simplicity blended with power, A child, with a thunderbolt, truly por- trays Oh no, not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mourns Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory is shiined O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong the urns Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind ! OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING. OH, the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing O'er files, array'd With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing ! When hearts are all high beating, And the trumpet's voice repeating That song, whose breath May lead to death, But never to retreating. Oh, the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing O'er files, array'd With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing 1 Yet, 'tis not helm or feather For ask yon despot, whether 1'oK.MS OF THOMAS MOORE. 63 His plmm'd bunds Could bring such hands And hearts as ours together. Leave pomps to those who need 'era Adorn but man with freedom, And proud he braves The gaudiest slaves That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. The sword may pierce the beaver, Stone walls in time may sever, Tis heart alone, Worth steel and stone, That keeps men free forever ! Oh, that sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing O'er files, array 'd With helm and blade, And in Freedom's cause advancing ! SWEET INNISFALLEN. SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well, May calm and sunshine long be thine ! How fair thou art let others tell, While but to feel how fair is mine ! Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, And long may light around thee smile, Ard soft as on that evening fell, When first I saw thy fairy isle ! Thou wert too lovely then for one, Who had to turn to paths of care Who bad through vulgar crowds to run, And leave thee bright and silent there ; No more along thy shores to come, But, on the world's dim ocean tost, Dream of thee sometimes, as a home Of sunshine he had seen and lost ! Far better in thy weeping hours To part from thee, as I do now, When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow. For, though unrivall'd still thy grace, Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, But, in thy shadow, seem'st a place Where weary man might hope to rest Might hope to rest, and find in thee A gloom like Eden's, on the day He left its shade, when every tree, Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way ! Weeping or smiling, lovely isle ! And still the lovelier for thy tears For though but rare thy sunny smile, 'Tis heaven's own glance when it appear?. Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few, But, when indeed they come, divine The steadiest light the sun e'er threw Is lifeless to one gleam of thine ! 'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAM- 'TWAS one of those dreams, that by music are brought, Like a light summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on, And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone. The wild notes he beard o'er the water were those, To which he had sung Erin's bondage and woes, And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er From Dinis' green isle, to Glena's wooded shore. He listen'd while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest, The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest ; And the echoes sung back from their full mountain choir, As if loth to let song so enchanting expire. It seem'd as if ev'ry sweet note, that died 1 1 Was again brought to life in some airier sphere, Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strain That had ceased upon earth was awaking again ! 84 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Oh forgive, if, while listening to music whose breath Seem'd to circle his name with a charm against death, He should feel a proud Spirit within him proclaim, " Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame: " Even so, though thy memory should now die away, 'Twill be caught up again in some happier day, And the hearts and the voice of Erin prolong, Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song !" FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE. FAIREST ! put on awhile These pinions of light I bring thee, And o'er thy own green isle In fancy let me wing thee. Never did Ariel's plume, At golden sunset hover Above such scenes of bloom, As I shall waft thee over ! Fields, where the Spring delays And fearlessly meets the ardor Of the warm Summer's gaze With only her tears to guard her. Rocks, through myrtle boughs In grace majestic frowning Like a bold warrior's brows That Love has just been crowning. Islets, so freshly fair, That never hath bird come nigh them But from his course through air He hath been won down by them, 1 Types, sweet maid, of thee, Whose look, whose blush, inviting, Never did Love yet see From heaven, without alighting. i In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth), IX Keating says, " There is a certain attractive virtue in the 6ol which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over X And obliges them to light upon the rock." Lakes, where the pearl lies hid, 1 And caves, where the diamond's sleeping, Bright as the gems thy lid Or snow lets fall in weeping. Glens, 1 where Ocean comes, To 'scape the wild wind's rancor, And Harbors, worthiest homes Where Freedom's fleet could anchor. Then, if, while scenes so grand, So beautiful, shine before thee, ^vide for thy own dear land Should haply be stealing o'er thee, Oh, let grief come first, O'er pride itself victorious Thinking how man hath curst What Heaven hath made so glorious ! AS VANQUISH'D ERIN. As vanquish'd ERIN wept beside The Boyne's ill-fated river, She saw where Discord, in the tide, Had dropp'd his loaded quiver. " Lie hid," she cried, " ye venom'd darts, Where mortal eye may shun you; Lie hid for oh ! the stain of hearts That bled for me is on you." But vain her wish, her weeping vain,- As time too weJl hath taught her Each year the Fiend returns again, And dives into that water ; And brings, triumphant, from beneath His shafts of desolation, And sends them, wing'd with worse death, Through all her madd'ning nation. o o Alas for her who sits and mourns, Even how beside that river Unwearied still the Fiend returns, And stored is still his quiver. than J " Nennius, a British writer of the niutli century, mentions the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he say, hung them behind their ears ; and this we find confirmed by a present made A. c. 1094, by Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable qni,n tity of Irisi/>d. vol. 11. I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE. I WISH I was by that dim Lake, 1 Where sinful souls their farewell take Of this vain world, and half-way lie In death's cold shadow, ere they die. There, there, far from thee, Deceitful world, my home should be Where, come what might of gloom and pain, False hope should ue'er deceive again ! The lifeless sky, the mournful sound Of unseen waters falling round The dry leaves, quivering o'er my head, Like man, unquiet even when dead These aye these shall wean My soul from life's deluding scene, And turn each thought, each wish I have, Like willows, downward toward the grave. As they, who to their couch at night Would win repose, first quench the light, So must the hopes, that keep this breast Awake, be quench'd, ere it can rest. Cold, cold, my heart must grow, Unchanged by either joy or woe, Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown Within their current turns to stone. SONG OF INNISFAIL, THEY came from a land beyond the sea, And now o'er the western main Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly, From the sunny land of Spain. 1 These verse* arc meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. " In the rnidsi of thfce gloomy rt-fjlons of Donegall (rays Dr. OinipN-ll) lay* lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of thi* fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were several islands ; but UK- of tin-in wnsdiirniiii-d with that called the Month of Pur gatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all 'hriwtcndom, and was the resort of penitent* and pilgrim* Vom almost every country in Europe." " It was," ai the- nnu' writer tells us, "one of the most di- mnl and dreary spots in the North, almost inaccessible, t hrongb deep glens and rugged mountains, fright ful with impending rocks, and the hollow murmur* or the western wind* iu dark avenm. peopled only with -neli fantastic beings as the mind lowcvcr gay, Is, from strange association, wont to appropriate o such gloomy srenes." Stricture* on Uu Library llittory m th< ,,<-. the name of the Hill of Allen, in the County 01 Kildare The Fiuians, or Fenii. were the celebrated Na- tional Militia of Ireland, which thin Chief commanded. The ti.troiliction of the Danes in the above song !s an anachronism common to moct of the Finian and Oxsianic legends. ' Th* name given to the banner Df the Irish. And the shout, that last O'er the dying pass'd, Was " victory 1" was " victoiy !' the Finian's cry. OH! COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS. OH ! could we do with this world of ours As thou dos 4 with thy garden bowers, Reject the weeds and keep the flowers, What a heaven on earth we'd make it ! So bright a dwelling should be our own, So warranted free from sigh or frown, That angels soon would be coming down, By the week or month to take it. Like those gay flies that wing through air And in themselves a lustre bear, A stock of light, still ready there, Whenever they wish to use it ; So, in this world I'd make for thee, Our hearts should all like fireflies be, And the flash of wit or poesy Break forth whenever we choose it. While every joy that glads our sphere Hath still some shadow hovering near, In this new world of ours, my dear, Such shadows will all be omitted : Unless they are like that graceful one, Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun, Still near thee, leaves a charm upon Each spot where it hath flitted 1 THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.* THE dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er, Thy triumph hath stain'd the charm thy sor rows then wore, And even of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom ro mains. 1 Written in one of those moods of hoj>'le#*ness and di- KiiHt which come occasionally over the mind, in contcapla- I ling the preftout i"Jite of Irish patriotism. 68 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart, That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art ; And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burn'd, Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn'd ? Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led, With eyes on her temple fix'd, how proud was thy tread ! Ah, better thou ne'er hadst lived that sum- mit to gain, Or died in the porch, than thus dishonor the fane. SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS. 1 SILENCE is in our festal halls, O Son of Song ! thy course is o'er ; In vain on thee sad Erin calls, Her minstrel's voice responds no more ; J It Is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that 'ifcese lines arc meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old and valued colleague in this wr.-^ gi r John All silent as the Eolian shell Sleeps at the close of some bright day, "When the sweet breeze, that waked its swell At sunny morn, hath died away. Yet, at our feasts, thy spirit long, Awaked by music's spell, shall rise ; For, name so link'd with deathless song Partakes its charm and never dies : And even within the holy fane, When music wafts the soul to heaven, One thought to him, whose earliest strain Was echo'd there, shall long be given. But, where is now the cheerful day, The social night, when, by thy side, He, who now weaves this parting lay, His skilless voice with thine allied ; And sung those songs whose every tone, When bai-d and minstrel long have past, Shall still, in sweetness all their own, Embalm'd by fame, undying last ? Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame, Or, if thy bard have shared the crown From thee the borrow'd glory came, And at thy feet is now laid down. Enough, if Freedom still inspire His latest song, and still there be, As evening closes round his lyre, One rav wron its chords from thee. LALLA ROOKH. In the eleventh year of the reign of Anrnngzebe, Abdalla, King of the Lesser Bucharia, a lineal descendant from the Great Zingis, having abdicated the throne in favor of his son, el ont on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Prophet, and, passing into India through the delightful valley of Cashmere, rested for a short time at Delhi on his way. He was enter- tained by Aurungzebe in a style of magnificent hospitality, worthy alike of the visitor and the host, and was afterward escorted with the same splendor to Surat, where he embarked for Arabia. During the stay of the Royal Pilgrim at Delhi, a marriage was agreed upon between the Prince, his son, and the youngest daughter of the Emperor, Lalla Rookh 1 a urincens described by the poets of her time as more beautiful than Leila, Shirine, Dewitde, or any of those heroines whose names and loves embellish the songs of Persia and Hindustan. It was intended that the nuptials should be celebrated at Cashmere ; where the young King, as soon as the cares of the mpire would permit, was to meet, for the first time, his lovely bride, and, after a few months' repose in that enchant- ing valley, conduct her over the snowy hihs into Bucharia. The day of Lalla Rookh's departure from Delhi was a splendid as sunshine aud pageantry could make it. The bazaars and baths were all covered with the richest tapestry ; hundreds of gilded barges upon the Jumna floated with their banners shining in the water; while through the streets groups of beautiful children went strewing the most delicious flowers around, as in that Persian festival called Gul Reazce, or the Scattering of the Roses, till every part of the city was as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khoten had passed through it. The Princess, having taken leave of her kind father, who at parting hung a cornelian of Yemen round her neck, on which was inscribed a verse from the Koran, and Having sent a considerable present to the Fakirs, who kept np tne perpetual lamp in her sister's tomb, meekly ascended chc palankeen prepared for her ; and, while Aurungzebe stood to take a last look from his balcony, the procession moved lowly on the rond to Lahore. Seldom had the Eastern world seen a cavalcade so superb. From the gardens in the suburbs to the imperial palace it was one unbroken line of splendor. The gallant appearance of the Rajahs and Mogul lords, distinguished by those insignia of the Emperor's favor, 1 the feathers of the egret of Cashmere in their turbnns. and the small silver-rimmed kettle-drums at the bows of their caddie? ; the costly armor of their Cavaliers, who vied, on this occasion, with the guards of the great Keder Khan.' in the 'Brightness of their silver battlc-axea and the 1 Tulip Cheek. 1 " One mark of honor or knighthood bestowed by the em- pero.- is the permisttion to wear a small kettle-drum at the bows of their saddles, which at first was invented for the training of hawks, and is worn in the field by all sports- men for ilia 1 eml." Fryer's Travels. " Those on whom the king has conierred the privilege must wear an ornament of jewels on the right side of the tar- bL, surmounted by a high plume of the feathers of a kind of egret." EljMnf tone's Account of Caubul. ' " Kheriar Khan, the Khakau. or King of Turquesun. be- massiness of their maces o' gold ; the glittering of the gill pineapples, 4 on the tops o r tne palankeens ; the embroidered trappings of the elephants, bearing on their backs tmU turrets, in the shape ot little antique temples, within which the ladies of Lalla Rookh lay, as it were enshrined : the rose- colored veils of t>*s Princess's own sumptuous litter.* at the front of which % fair young female slave sat iauning her through the cp'iains with feathers of the Argus pheasant's wing; and the lovely troop of Tartarian and Cashmeriaa maids of honor, whom the young King had sent to accompany his bride, ana who rode on each side of the litter, upon small Arabian horses; all was brilliant, tasteful, and magnificent, aud pleasoa even the critical and fastidious Fadladeen, Great Nazir or C'hamborlain of the Haram, who was borne in hi* palan kf".n immediately after the Princess, and considered him- self not the least important personage of the pageant. Fadladeen was a judge of everything, from the pencilling of % Circassian's eyelids to the deepest questions of science and literature ; from the mixture of a conserve of rose-leave* to the composition of an epic poem : and such influence had his opinion upon the various tastes of the day th&: u the cooks and poets of Delhi stood in awe of him. His political conduct and opinions were founded upon that line if Sadi, " should the Prince at noonday say, ' It is night, 1 ueclare that you behold the moon and stars." And his zeal for religion, of which Aurungzebe was a munificent protector,' was about yond the Gihon (at the end of the eleventh century,) when- ever he appeared abroad was preceded by seven hundred horsemen with silver battle-axes, and was followed by au equal number bearing maces of gold." Richardson's Duser- lotion prefixed to Ids Dictionary, " The kulxleh, a Urge golden knob, generally in the snap* of a pineapple, on the top of the canopy over -the litter or palanquin." Scott's Nottt on the JioJiardanufli. In the poem of Zobair, in the Moallakat, there is the following lively description of " a company of maidens seated on camels:" "They are mounted in carriages covered with costly awn ings and with rose-colored veils, the linings of which bar* the hue of crimson Andemwood. " When they ascend from the bosom of the vale, they sit forward on the saddle-cloths with ever/ mark of a voluptuous gayety " Now, when they have reached the brink of yon blue gush- big rivulet, they fix the poles of their tents like the Arabs with a settled mansion." This hypocritical emporor would have made a w*no; associate of certain Holy Leagues. "He held the cloak of religion," says Dow, "between bis action* and the vulgar ; and impiously thanked the Divinity for a success which he owd to his own wickedness. When he was mmdering and persecuting his brothers and their families, he was building s magnificent mosque at Delhi, as an offering to Ood for Hit assistance to him in the civil wars. He acted a* high priest at tne consecration of this temple; and nude a prctic* of attending divine service there, in the humMe di*Mi of s 70 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. BS disinterested as that of the goldsmith who fell in love with the diamond eyec of the idol of Jugghernaut. 1 During the first days of their journey, Lalla Rookh, who nad passed all her life within the shadow of the royal gardens Df Delhi, found enough in the beauty of the scenery through which they passed to interest her mind, and delight her ins- agination ; and when, at evening or in the heat of the day, they turned off from the high road to those retired and romantic places which had been selected for her encamp- ments, sometimes on the banks of a small rivulet, as clear as the waters of the Lake of Pearl ; 2 sometimes under the sacred shade of a Banian tree, from which the view opened upon a glade covered with antelopes; and often in those hidden, embowered spots, described by one from the Isles of the West,* as " places of melancholy, delight, and safety, where all the company around was wild peacocks and turtle-doves," she felt a charm in these scenes, so lovely and so new to her, which, for a time, made her indifferent to every other amusement. But Lalla Rookh was young, and the young love variety ; nor could the conversation of her ladies and the great chamberlain, Fadladeen, (the only persons, of course, admitted to her pavilion,) sufficiently enliven those many vacant hours, wnich were devoted neither to the pillow nor the palankeen. There was a little Persian slave who sung sweetly to the vina, and who, now and then, lulled the Princess to sleep with the ancient ditties of her country, about the loves of Wamak and Ezra, 4 the fair-haired Zal and his mistress Rodahver ; 6 not for- getting the combat of Rustam with the terrible White Demon. At other times she was amused by those graceful dancing-girls of Delhi, who had been permitted by the Brahmins of the Great Pagoda to attend her. much to the horror of the good Mussulman, Fadladeen, who could see nothing graceful or agreeable in idolaters, and to whom the very tingling of their golden anklets 7 was an abomination. Bet these and many other diversions were repeated till they fakeer. But when he lifted one hand to the Divinity, he with the other signed warrants for the assassination of his rela- tions." History of Hindostan, vol. iii., p. 235. See also the curious letter of Aurungzebe given in the Oriental Collections, vol. i., p. 320. 1 "The idol at Jaghernat has two fine diamonds for eyes. No goldsmith is suffered to enter the pagoda; one having stolen one of these eyes, being locked up all night with the idol. " Tavernier. * " In the neighborhood is Notte Gill, or the Lake of Pearl, which receives this name from its pellucid water. "Pennant's Hindostan. * Sir Thomas Roe. ambassador from James I. to Jehanguire. * " The Romance Wamakweazra, written in Persian verse, which contains the loves of W^mak and Ezra, two celebrated lovers who lived before the time of Mohammed." Note on the Oriental Tales. 5 There is much beauty in the passage which describes the slaves of Rodahver sitting on the bank of the river and throw- ing flowers into the stream in order to draw the attention of the young hero who is encamped on the opposite side. Vide " Champion's Translation of the Shah Nameh of Ferdousi." * Rustam is the Hercules of the Persians. For the particu- lars of his victory over the Sepeed Deeve, or White Demon, see Oriental Collections, vol. ii., p. 45. Near the city of Shiraz is an immense quadrangular monument in commemora- tion of this combat, called the " Kelaat-i-Deev Sepeed," or Castle of the White Giant, which Father Angelo, in his Gazophylacium Persicum, p. 12?, declares to have been the most memorable monument of antiquity which he had seen i-n Persia. Vide "Onseley's Persian Miscellanies." 7 " The women of the idol, or dancing-girls of the Pagoda, have little golden bells fastened to their feet, the soft harmo- nious tinkling of which vibrates in unison with the exquisite melody of their voices." Maurice's Indian Antiquities. "The Arabian princesses wear golden rings on their fingers, to which little bells are suspended, as well as in the flowing tresses of their hair, that their superior rank may be known." Vide "Calmet's Dictionary," art. B'lls. lost all their charm, and the nights and noondays were begin- ning to move heavily, when at length, it was recollected that, among the attendants sent by the bridegroom, was a young poet of Cashmere, much celebrated throughout the va ley for his manner of reciting the stories of the East, on whom his royal master had conferred the privilege of being admitted to the pavilion of the Princess, that he might help to beguile th tediousness of the journey by some of his most agreeable re- citals. At the mention of a poet, Fadladeen elevated his critical eyebrows, and, having refreshed his faculties with a dose of that delicious opium, 6 which is distilled from the black poppy of the Thebais, gave orders for the minstrel to b forthwith introduced into the presence. The Princess, whla." Air W. Janet, Botanical Observation*. The oriental plane. "The chenar Is a delightful trc. It* bole Is of a fine white and smooth bark and iu foliage, which grows in a tuft at tha summit, is of a or'gbt p*'n." Morler'i Traretf. 72 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. And every beauteous race beneath the sun, From those who kneel at Brahma's burning founts, 1 To the fresh nymphs bounding o'er Yemen's mounts ; From Persia's eyes of full and fawn-like ray, To the small, half-shut glances of Kathay ;" And Georgia's bloom, and Azab's darker smiles, And the gold ringlets of the Western Isles ; All, all are there ; each land its flower hath given, To form that fair young nursery for Heaven ! But why this pageant now ? this arm'd array ? What triumph crowds the rich Divan to-day With turban'd heads of every hue and race Bowing before that veil'd and awful face, Like tulip-beds of different shape and dyes' Bending beneath the invisible west-wind sighs ? What new-made mystery now for Faith to sign And blood to seal as genuine and divine, What dazzling mimicry of God's own power Hath the bold Prophet plann'd to grace this hour? "Vot such the pageant now, though not less proud, You warrior youth advancing from the crowd With silver bow, with belt of broider'd crape, And fur-bound bonnet of Bucharian shape, 4 So fiercely beautiful in form and eye, Like war's wild planet in a summer sky That youth to-day, a proselyte, worth hordes Of cooler spirits and less practised swords. 1 " Near Chittagong, esteemed as holy." " China. 1 " The name of tulip is said to be of Turkish extraction, and given to the flower on account of its resembling a turban." Beckmaris IRstory of Inventions. 4 " The inhabitants of Bucharia wear a vound cloth bonnet shaped much after the Polish fashion, having a large fur border. They tie their. kaftans about the middle with a girdle sf a kind of silk crape, several times round the body." nt Tart-ary, in I*irJb>rlon's Col. Is come to join, all bravery and belief, Th-e creed and standard of the Heaven-sent Chief Though few his years, the West already knows Young Azim's fame ; beyond the Olympian snows, Ere manhood darken'd o'er his downy cheek, O'erwhelm'd in fight and captive to the Greek, He linger'd there till peace dissolved his chains. Oh ! who could, even in bondage, tre>ad the plains Of glorious Greece, nor feel his spirit rise Kindling within him ? who, with heart and eyes, Cou4d walk where Liberty had been, nor set. The shining foot-prints of her Deity, Nor feel those god-like breathings in the air,. Which mutely told her spirit had been there* Not hb, that youthful warrior, no, too well For his soul's quiet work'd the awakening spell ; And now, returning to his own dear land, Full of those dreams of good that, vainly grand, Haunt the young heart; proud views of human-kind, Of men to gods exalted and refined ; False views like that horizon's fair deceit, Where earth and heaven but seem, alas, to- meet ! Soon as he heard an arm divine was raised To right the nations, and beheld, emblazed On the white flag Mokanna's host unfurl'd, Those words of sunshine, " Freedom to the- World," At once his faith, his sword, his soul obey'd The inspiring summons ; every chosen blade That fought beneath that banner's sacred text Seem'd doubly edged, for this world and the next ; And ne'er did Faith with her smooth band- age bind Eyes more devoutly willing to be blind In Virtue's cause never was soul inspired With livelier trust in what it most desired, Than his, the enthusiast there, who kneeling pale POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. With pious awe, before that silver veil, Believes the form to which he bends his knee Some pure, redeeming angel, sent to free This fetter'd world from every bond and stain, And bring its primal glories back again ! Low as young Azim knelt, that motley crowd Of all earth's nations sunk the knee and bow'd. With shouts of " Alia !" echoing long and loud; While high in air, above the Prophet's head, Hundreds of banners, to the sunbeam spread, Waved like the wings of the white birds that fan The flying throne of star-taught Soliman !' Then thus he spoke: "Stranger, though new the frame Thy soul inhabits now, I've track'd its flame For many an age,' in every chance and change Of that existence through whose varied range, As through a torch-race, where, from hand to hand The flying youths ti'ansmit their shining brand, From frame to frame the unextinguish'd soul Rapidly passes, till it reach the goal ! ".Nor think 'tis only the gross spirits, warm'd With duskier fire and for earth'fc medium form'd, That run this course; beings the most divine Fhus deign through dark mortality to shine. 1 Thin wonderful mror.c was called the " Star of the Genii." vVhen Solomon tr&.cned, the eastern writers* fay, 'he had a ;arpct of preen silk on which hi* throne was placed, being of * provisions length and breadth, and suflicicnt for all hit forces to Maud upon, the. meii placing thcinsclve? on hi right band and the spirits on bin left; and that when all were in order, the wind, at hit* command, took up the carpet, and transported it with all that were upon it. wherever he pleased ; the army of birds at the same time flying over their head*, uid forming a kind of canopy to shade them from the ran." -Sale'* Koran, vol. ii., p. 214. note. "The transmigration of souls was one of his doctrine*. " was the Essence that in Adam dwelt, To which all heaven, except the Proud One, knelt: 1 Such the refined Intelligence that glowM In Moussa's frame and, thence descending, f.ow'd Through many a prophet's breast* in I i shone, And in Mohammed burn'd ; till, hastening on, (As a bright river that, from fall to fall In many a maze descending, bright through all, Finds some fair region where, each labyrinth past, In one full lake of light it rests at last !) That Holy Spirit, settling calm and free From lapse or shadow, centres all in me !" Again, throughout the assembly at these words, Thousands of voices rung: the warriors' swords Were pointed up to heaven ; a sudden wind In the open banners play'd, and from behind Those Persian hangings that but ill could screen The Haram's loveliness, white hands were seen Waving embroider'd scarves, whose motion gave A perfume forth like those the HourU wave When beckoning to their bowers the immor- tal brave "But these," pursued the Chief, "are truths sublime, That claim a holier mood and calmer time Than earth allows us now ; this sword must first The darkling prison-house of mankind burst, 'And when we said onto the angels. "Worship Art tin " they all worshipped him except EUlis. < Lucifer.) who refused The Koran, chap. ii. 4 This is according to D'Hcrbelot's account of the doctrine* of Mokanna; "Sa doctrine 6tolt qne Dlen avolt pri on* forme et figure humaine depots qu'il eni commar.de aoz Anges d'adorer Adam, lu premier des homines. !-; MS OF THOMAS Moo UK. 75 Who had not heard of their first youthful loves ? tiorn by that ancient flood, 1 which from its spring In the Dark Mountains swiftly wandering, Knrieh'd by every pilgrim brook that shines With relics from Bucharia's ruby mines, And, lending to the Caspian half its strength, In the cold Lake of Eagles sinks at length ; There, on the banks of that bright river born, The flowers that hung above its wave at morn Btess'd not the waters as they murmur'd by, Witb holier scent and lustre than the sigh o And virgin glance of first affection cast Upon their youth's smooth current, as it pass'd ! Bui war disturb'd this vision far away From her fond eyes, summon'd to join the array Of Persia's warriors on the hills of Thrace, The youth exchanged his sylvan dwelling- place Vor the rude tent and war-field's deathful clash ; HIM Zelica's sweet glances for the flash Of Grecian wild-fire, and love's gentle chains For bleeding bondage on Byzantium's plains. after month, in widowhood of soul Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll Their suns away but, ah ! how cold and dim tfven summer suns when not beheld with him ! fe'rom time to time ill-omen'd rumors came, (Like spirit-tongues, muttering the sick man's name, Just ere he dies,) at length those sounds of dread Kell withering on her soul, " Axim is dead !" Oh, grief beyond all other griefs, when fate First leaves the young heart lone and deso- late i the wide world, without that only tie 1 The Amoo. which ri^eg in the Belur Tap, or Dark Mmin- Mien, and nmnlnjr nearly from cast to we>t, nplits Into two annehr*. one of which falls into the Caspian Sea, and the >L'.er into A.-al Xahr. <>r tho Lake ',{ Eai;le. For which it loved to live or fearM to die ; Lorn as the hung-up lute :hat ne'er hath spoken Since the sad day its master-chord wa broken ! Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was such, Even reason sunk blighted beneath its touch ; And though, ere long, her sanguine spirit rose Above the first dead pressure of its woes, Though health and bloom return'd, the delicate chain Of thought, once tangled, never clear'd again. Warm, lively, soft as in youth's happiest The mind was still all there, but turn'd astray ; A wandering bark, upon whose pathway shone All stars of heaven, except the guiding one! Again she smiled, nay, much and brigh'ly smiled, l>ut 'twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild; And when she sung to her lute's touching strain, 'Twas like the notes, half ecstasy, half pain, The bulbul* utters ere her soul depart, When, vanquish'd by some minstrtTs pow- erful art, She dies upon the lute whose sweetnes* broke her heart ! Such was the mood in which that mission found Young Zi'lica, that mission, which around The Eastern world, in evrry rrgion bU'St With woman's stnilc sought out its loveliest To gracr th:it galaxy of lips and eyes Which tin- Yfil'd Prophet destined for the skii's ! And such quick wercome as a spark ivr. Dropp'd on a bed of autumn's withrr'd leaves, Did every tale of these cntnusiaMs find In the wild inai'lrn's -sorrow-blight i'd mind, * The nightingale. 76 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. All fire at once, the maddening zeal she caught ; Elect of Paradise ! blest, rapturous thought ; Predestined bride, in Heaven's eternal dome, Of some brave youth ha ! durst they say "of some?" No of the one, one only object traced In her heart's core too deep to be effaced; The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twined With every broken link of her lost mind ; Whose image lives, though reason's self be wreck'd, Safe 'mid the ruins of her intellect ! Alas, poor Zelica ! it needed all The fantasy which held thy mind in thrall To see in that gay Haram's glowing maids A sainted colony for Eden's shades ; Or dream that he, of whose unholy flame Thou wert too soon the victim, shining came From Paradise, to people its pure sphere With soul* like thine, which he hath ruin'd here ! No had not reason's light totally set, And left thee dark, thou hadst an amulet In the loved image, graven on thy heart, Which would have saved thee from the tempter's art, And kept alive, in all its bloom of breath, That purity, whose fading is love's death ! But lost, inflamed, a restless zeal took place Of the mild virgin's 'still and feminine grace ; First of the Prophet's favorites, proudly first In zeal and charms, too well the Impostor nursed Her soul's delirium, in whose active flame, Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant frame, He saw more potent sorceries to bind To his dark yoke the spirits of mankind, More subtle chains than hell itself e'er twined. No art was spared, no witchery ; all the skill His demons taught him was employ'd to fill Her mind with gloom and ecstasy by turns That gloom, through which frenzy but fiercer burns ; That ecstasy, which from the depth ol sad- ness Glares like the maniac's moon, whose 'light is madness ! 'Twas from a brilliant banquet, where the sound Of poesy and music breathed around, Together picturing to her mind and ear The glories of that heaven, her destined sphere, Where all was pure, where every stain that lay Upon the spirit's light should pass away, And, realizing more than youthful love E'er wish'd or dream'd, she should forever rove Through fields of fragrance by her Azim's side, His own bless'd, purified, eternal bride ! 'Twas from a scene, a witching trance like this, He hurried her away, yet breathing bliss, To the dim charnel house; through all its streams Of damp and death, led only by those gleams Which foul corruption lights, as with design To show the gay and proud she too cao shine ! And, passing on through upright ranks of dead, Which to the maiden, doubly crazed by dread, Seem'd, through the bluish death-light round them cast, To move their lips in mutterings as she pass'd There, in that awful place, when each had quaff'd And pledged in silence such a fearful draught, Such oh ! the look and taste of that red bowl Will haunt her till she dies he bound her soul By a dark oath, in hell's own language framed, Never, while earth his mystic presence claim'd, While the blue arch of day hung o'er them both. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 77 i , by that all-imprecating oath, (n joy or sorrow from his aide to sever. She swore, and the wide charnel echo'd, " Never, never !" From that dread hour, entirely, wildly given To him and she believed, lost maid ! to Heaven ; Her brain, her heart, her passions all in- flamed, How proud she stood, when in full Haram named The Priestess of the Faith ! how flash'd her eyes With light, alas ! that was not of the skies, When round in trances only less than hers, She saw the Haram kneel, her prostrate worshippers ! Well might Mokanna think that form alone Had spells enough to make the world his own: Light, lovely limbs, to which the spirit's play Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray, When from its stem the small bird wings away ! Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smiled, The soul was lost ; and blushes, swift and wild As are the momentary meteors sent Across the uncalm, but beauteous firmament. And then her look ! oh ! where's the heart so wise, Could unbewilder'd meet those matchless eyt? Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal, Like those of angels, just before their fall ; Now shadow'd with the shames of earth now crost By glimpses of the heaven her heart had lost; In every glance there broke, without con- trol, The flashes of a bright but troubled soul, Where sensibility still wildly play'd, Like lightning, round the ruins it had made ! And such was now young Zelica so changed From her who, some years since, delighted ranged The almond groves that shade Bokhara's tide, All life and bliss, with Azim by her side ! So altered was she now, this festal day, When, 'mid the proinl Divan's dazzling array, The vision of that youth, whom she had loved, And wept as dead, before her breathed and moved ; When bright, she thought, as if from Eden's track But half-way trodden, he had wander'd back Again to earth, glistening with Eden's light Her beauteous Azim shone before her sight. Oh, Reason ! wh< shall say what spells renew, When least we look for it, thy broken clew ! Through what small vistas o'er the darkenM brain Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again ; And how, like forts, to which beleaguerers win Unhoped-for entrance through some friend within, One clear idea, waken'd in the breast By memory's magic, lets in all the rest ! Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with thee! But though light came, it came but par- tiafly ; Enough to show the maze in which thy sense Wander'd about, but not to guide it thence ; Enough to glimmer o'er the yawning wave, But not to point the harbor which might save. Hours of delight and peace, long left behind, With that dear form came rushing o'er her mind; But oh ! to think how deep her soul had gone In shame and falsehood since those moments shone ; And, then, her oath there madness lay again, And shuddering, back she sunk into bet chain 78 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee From light, whose every glimpse was agony ! Ye-t, one relief this glance of former years Brought, mingled with its pain, tears, floods of tears, Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills Let loose in spring-time from the snowy hills, And gushing warm, after a sleep of frost, Through valleys where their flow had long been lost ! Sad and subdued, for the first time her frame Trembled with horror, when the summons came (A summons proud and rare, which all but she, And she till now, had heard with ecstasy) To meet Mokanna at his place of prayer, A garden oratory, cool and fair, By the stream's side, where still at close of day The Prophet of the Veil retired to pray ; Sometimes alone but oftener far with one, One chosen nymph to share his orison. Of late none found such favor in his sight As the young Priestess ; and though since that night When the death-caverns echo'd every tone Of the dire oath that made her all his own, The Impostor, sure of his infatuate prize, Had more than once thrown off his soul's disguise, And utter'd such unheavenly, monstrous things As even across the desperate wanderings Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out, Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt ; Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow, The thought still haunting her of that bright brow Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye con- ceal'd, Would soon, proud triumph ! be to her re- veal'd, To her alone ; and then the hope, most dear, Most wild of all, that her transgression here Was but a passage through earth's grosser fire, From which the spirit would at last aspire, Even purer than before, as perfumes rise Through flame and smoke, most welcome to the skies And that when Azim's fond, divine embrace Should circle her in heaven, no darkening trace Would on that bosom he once loved remain, But all be bright, be pure, be his again : These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit Had chain'd her soul beneath the tempter's feet, And made her think even damning falsehood sweet. But now that shape, which had appall'd her view, That semblance oh, how terrible, if true ! Which came across her frenzy's full career With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe, As when, in northern seas, at midnight dark. An isle of ice encountei-s some swift bark, And, startling all its wretches from their sleep, By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep ; So came that shock not frenzy's self could bear, And waking up each long-lull'd image there, But check'd her headlong soul, to sink it iu despair ! Wan and dejected, through the evening dusk, She now went slowly to that small kiosk, Where, pondering alone his impious schemes, Mokanna waited her too wrapt in dreams Of the fair-ripening futui-e's rich success To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless, That sat upon his victim's downcast brow, Or mark how slow her step, how alter' (I now From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound Came like a spirit o'er the unechoing groitnd, From that wild Zelica, whose every glance Was thrilling fire, whose very thought a trance ! POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Upon his couch the veil'd Mokanna lay, While lamps around not such as lend their ray, Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray In holy Room, 1 or Mecca's dim arcades, But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids Look loveliest in shed their luxurious glow Upon his mystic veil's white glittering flow. Beside him, 'stead of beads and books of prayer, Which the world fondly thought he mused on there, Stood vases, fill'd with KishmeeV golden wine, And the red weepings of the Shiraz vine; Of which his curtain'd lips full many a draught Took zealously, as if each drop they quaff 'd, Like Zemzem's Spring of Holiness,' had power To freshen the soul's virtues into flower ! And still he drank and ponder'd nor could see Phe approaching maid, so deep his reverie ; \t length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke From Eblis at the fall of man, he spoke : " Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusement given, Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with heaven ; God's images, forsooth ! such gods as he Whom India serves, the monkey deity ;* Ye creatures of a breath, proud tilings of clay, To whom if Lucifer, as grandams say, 1 " The cities of Com (or Koom) and Kashan are full of mosques, mausoleum*, and sepulchres of the descendant* of All. the saints of Persia." 1 An island in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for its white wine. '"The miraculous well at Mecca; so called from the mur- muring of its waters." * The good Hannaman. " Apes are in many parts of India highly venerated, out of r--ar. every one lighted his lantern, and by degrees it com- nenoed into a custom." Present State qf China. The bands of Greece, still mighty though enslaved ; Hast faced her phalanx, arm'd with all its fame, Her Macedonian pikes and globes of flame ; All this hast fronted with firm heart and brow, But a more perilous trial waits thee now, Woman's bright eyes, a dazzling host of eyes From every land where woman smiles or sighs ; Of every hue, as Love may chance to raise His black or azure v *nner in their blaze ; And each sweet mode of warfare, from the flash That lightens boldly through the shadowy lash, To the sly, stealing splendors, almost hid, Like swords half-sheathed, beneath the downcast lid. Such, Azim, is the lovely, luminous host Now led against thee; and let conquerors boast Their fields of fame, he who in virtue arms A young, warm spirit against beauty's charms, Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall, Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all. Now, through the Haram chambers mov- ing lights And busy shapes proclaim the toilet's rites ; From room to room the ready handmaids hie, Some skill'd to wreathe the turban tastefully, Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade, O'er the warm blushes of the youthful maid, Who, if between the folds but one eye shone Like Seba's Queen, c^ald vanquish witt that one :' While some bring leaves of henna, to imbue The fingers' ends with a bright roseate hue, 4 So bright, that in the mirror's depth they seem Like tips of coral branches in the stream ; "Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes." Sol. Song. 4 " They tinged the ends of her finger* scarlet with hennt, so that they resembled branches of coral." POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. And others mix the kohol's jetty dye, 1 To give- that long dark languish to the eye,* Which makes the maicls, whom kings are proud to cull From fair Circassia's vales, so beautiful ! All is in motion ; rings and plumes and pearls Are shining everywhere: some younger girls Are gone by moonlight to the garden beds, To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads ; Gay creatures ! sweet, though mournful, 'tis to see How each prefers a garland from that tree Which brings to mind her childhood's innocent day, And the dear fields and friendships far away. The maid of India, blest again to hold In her full lap the champac's leaves of gold, 1 Thinks of the time when by the Ganges' flood, Her little playmates scatter'd many a bud Upon her long black hair, with glossy gleam Just dripping from the consecrated stream ; While the young Arab, haunted by the smell Of her own mountain flowers, as by a spell The sweet elcaya, 4 and that courteous tree Which bows to all who seek its canopy* Sees, call'd up round her by these magic scents, The well, the camels, and her father's tents - f Sighs for the home she left with little pain, And wishes even its sorrows back again ! 1 "None of these ladies," Kays Shaw, " taku themselves to be completely dressed, till they have tinged the hair and edges of their eyelids with the powder of lead-ore. Now, as this operation is performed by dipping first into the powder a small wooden bodkin of the thickuess of a quill, and then drawing it afterward through the eyelids over the ball of tlie eye, we shall have a lively image of what the Prophet (Jer. iv. 80) may be supposed to mean by renting the eya with, painting. This practice is no doubt of great antiquity; for besides the instance already taken notice of, we find that where Jezebel is said (2 Kings ix. 80) to have painted her /ace, the original words are. the adjusted her eytt wi'h the powder of lead-ore." Shaw't Travelt. J "The women blacken the Inside of their eyelids with a powder named the black kohol." 1 " The appearance of the blossoms of the gold-colored cam- pac in the black hair of the Indian women has supplied the Sanscrit poets with many elegant allusions." " A tree famous fur its perfume, and common on the bills ofTemen." " Of the genus mimosa, which droops its branches when- Tt-r any person approaches it, seeming as if it saJated tho*e who retire under its shade." Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls, Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound From many ajasper fount, is heard around, Young Azim roams bewilder'd, nor can guess What means this maze of light and loneli- ness. Here the way leads o'er tessellated floors Or mats of Cairo, through lono- corridors, * o o Where, ranged in cassolets and silver urns, Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns ; And spicy rods, such as illume at night The bowers of Tibet,* send forth odorous light, Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the road For some pure spirit to its blest abode ! And here, at once, the glittering saloon Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon ; Where, in the midst, reflecting back the ray In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain play> High as the enamell'd cupola, which towers All rich with Arabesques of gold and flo ver* And the mosaic floor beneath shines through The sprinkling of that fountain's silvery dew, Like the wet, glistening shells of every dye That on the margin of the Red Sea lie. Here too he traces the kind visitings Of woman's love, in those fair, living things Of land and wave, whose fate in bondage thrown For their weak loveliness is like her own ! On one side gleaming with a sudden graoe Through water, brilliant as the crystal vase In which it undulates, small fishes shine, Like golden ingots from a fairy mine, While on the other, latticed lightly in With odoriferous woods of Comorin,' Each brilliant bird that wings the air 11 seen ; Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleam between The crimson blossoms of the coral tree In the warm isles of India's sunny sea; " Cloves are a principal ingredient in the competition of the perfumed rods which men of rank keep constantly burn'&i In their presence." 1 " C'est d'ou rient le bols d'aloe*. qne le Arabef appellenl Oud Comari, et celul da sandal, qui s'y trupve en qnanlitl. 86 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Mecca's blue sacred pigeon, 1 and the thrush Of Hindostan," whose holy warblings gush At evening from the tall pagoda's top ; Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food' Whose scent hath lured them o'er the sum- mer flood,* And those that under Araby's soft sun Build their high nests of budding cin- namon ; In short, all rare and beauteous things that fly Through the pure element here calmly lie Sleeping in light, like the green birds* that dwell In Eden's radiant fields of asphodel ! So on, through scenes past all imagining More like the luxuries of that impious king,* Whom Death's dark Angel, with his light- ning torch, Struck down and blasted even in Pleasure's porch, Than the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent Arm'd with Heaven's sword for man's en- franchisement Young Azim wander'd, looking sternly round, His simple garb and war-boots' clanking sound But ill according with the pomp and grace And silent lull of that voluptuous place ! "Is this then," thought the youth, "is this the way To free man's spirit from the deadening sway Of worldly sloth ; to teach him, while he lives. > "In Mecca theie are quantities of blue pigeons, which none will affright or abuse, much less kill." "The pagoda thrush is esteemed among the first choristers of India. It sits perched on the sacred pagodas, and from thence delivers its melodious song." s Tavcrnier adds, that while the Birds of Paradise lie in this intoxicated state, the emmets come and eat off their legs : and that hence it is they are said to have no feet. 4 Birds of Paradise, which at the nutmeg season, come in flights from the southern isles to India, and " the strength of the nutmeg so intoxicates them that tney fall dead drunk to the earth." " The spirits of the martyrs will be lodged in the crops uf green birds." Gibbon, vol. ix., p. 421. Shedad. who made the delicious gardens of Irim, in imitation of Paradise, and was destroyed by lightning the first AUIP he attempted to enter them. To know no bliss but that which virtue gives And when he dies, to leave his lofty name A light, a landmark on the cliffs of fame ? It was not so, land of the generous thought And daring deed ! thy godlike sages taught It was not thus, in bowers of wanton ease, Thy freedom nursed her sacred energies ; Oh ! not beneath the enfeebling, withering glow Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow With which she wreathed her sword, when she would dare Immortal deeds ; but in the bracing air Of toil, of temperance, of that high, rare, Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe Life, health, and lustre into Freedom's wreath ! Who, that surveys this span of earth we press, This speck of life in time's great wilderness, This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas, The past, the future, two eternities, Would sully the bright spot or leave it bare, When he might build him a proud temple there, A name that long shall hallow all its space, And be each purer soul's high resting-place ! But no it cannot be that one whom God Has sent to break the wizard Falsehood's rod, A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws Its rights from Heaven, should thus profane his cause With the world's vulgar pomp ; no, no I see He thinks me weak this glare of luxury Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze Of my young soul : shine on, 'twill stand the blaze !" So thought the youth ; but even while he defied This witching scene, he felt its witchery glide Through every sense. The perfume, breath- ing round Like a pervading spirit ; the still sound Of falling waters, lulling as the song Of Indian bees at sunset, when they throng Around the fragrant nilica, and deer* POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 87 In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep !' And music too dear music ! that can touch Beyond all else the soul that loves it much - Now heard far off, so far as but to seem Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream ; All was too much for him, too full of bliss, The heart could nothing feel that felt not this ; Soften'd he sunk upon a couch, and gave His soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on wave Succeeding in smooth seas, when storms are laid ; He thought of Zeliea, his own dear maid, And of the time when, full of blissful sighs, They sat and look'd into each other's eyes, Silent and happy as if God had given Naught else worth looking at on this side heaven ! " Oh, my loved mistress ! whose enchant- ments still Are with me, round me, wander where I will- It is for thee, for thee alone I seek The paths of glory to light up thy cheek With warm approval in that gentle look To read my praise as in an angel's book, And think all toils rewarded, when from thee I gain a smile, worth immortality ! How shall I bear the moment when restored To that young heart where I alone am lord, Though of such bliss unworthy, since the best Alone deserve to be the happiest ! When from those lips, unbreathed upon for years, I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears, And find those tears warm as when last they started, Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted ! Oh, my own life ! why should a single day A moment keep me from those anus away ?" While thus he thinks, still nearer on tin- breeze Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies, Each note of which but adds new, downy links j 1 "My pumlit< a*ure me thai lh- plum tiefore u* (the nili- c* i their eeptmlica. luii named Iterance the brep are cup | 9*K-' to ileep on iu blowoms." Sir W. Jontt. To the soft chain in which his spirit sink>. He turns him toward the sound, and, fat away Through a long vista, sparkling with the play Of countless lamps, like the rich track which day Leaves on the waters, when he sinks from us ; So long the path, its light so tremulous: He sees a group of female forms advance, Some chain'd together in the mazy dance By fetters, forged in the green sunny bowers, As they were captives to the King of Flowers ;* And some disporting round, unlink'd and free, Who sccm'd to mock their sisters' slavery, And round and round them still, in wheeling flight Went, like gay moths about a lamp at night ; While others walk'd, as gracefully along Their feet kept time, the very soul of song From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly thrill, Or their own youthful voices, heavenlier still ! And now they come, now pass before his eye, Forms such as Nature moulds when she would vie With Fancy's pencil, and give birth to things Lovely beyond its fairest picturings ! A while they dance before him, then divide, Breaking, like rosy clouds at eventide Around the rich pavilion of the sun, Till silently dispersing, one by one, Through many a path that from the chamber leads To gardens, terraces, and moonlight meads, Their distant laughter comes upon the wind. And but one trembling nymph remain* behind, Beck'ning them back in vain, for they are gone, And she is left in all that light alone; No veil to curtain o'er her beauteous brow, In itsyouni; bashi'ulness more beauteous now; 15 ut a light, golden chain-work round her hair,' ' "They (Iffrrrcil it till the King of Flower- -hould aaoond hi* iliruue of enamelled foliage." BaharUoimth. * "On of the head-drew* of the Persian women It com- poped of a lijjht gulden chain-work.*?! with f mall pearl*. wiU a thin K"1<1 I''-'" 1 ' pendant, about the bi:;net "fa crowc : on which Is Impressed an Arabian prayer, and whlcb jpon the rheek ttel.nv '.!.c >i ' /Ai'itrav I 7' POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Such as the maids of Yezd 1 and Shirazwear, From which, on either side, gracefully hung A golden ajnulet, in the Arab tongue, Engraven o'er with some immortal line From holy writ, or bard scarce less divine ; While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood, Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood, Which, once or twice, she touch'd with hurried strain, Then took her trembling fingers off again. But when at length a timid glance she stole At Azim, the sweet gravity of soul She saw through all his features calm'd her fear, And, like a half-tamed antelope, more near, Though shrinking still, she came ; then sat her down Upon a musnudV edge, and, bolder grown, In the pathetic mode of Isfahan, 3 Touch'd a preluding strain, and thus began : " There's a bower of roses by BendemeerV stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long, la the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the birds' song. That bower and its music I never forget, But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, I think Is the nightingale singing there yet ? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer ? " No, the roses soon wither' d that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gather'd, while freshly they shone, And a dew was distill'd from the flowers that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was 1 " Certainly the women of Yezd are the handsomest women in. Persia. The proverb is, that to live happy, a man must &7e a wife of Yezd, eat the bread of Ycx.decas, and drink the wli.e of Shiraz." Tavernier. * Mu^muls are cushioned scats reserved for persons of dis- tinction. 51 The Persians, '.ike the ancient Greeks, call their musical shades or Perdas by the names of different countries or cities, w the mode of Isfahan, the mode of Irak, etc. A river which flowc near the ruins of Chilniinar. Thus memorv draws from delight, ere it dies, f An essence that breathes of it many a year ; Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm- Bendemeer ?" " Poor maiden !" thought the youth, " if thou wert sent, Wi-th thy soft lute and beauty's blandish- ment, To wake unholy wishes in this heart, Or tempt its truth, thou little knowst the art. For though thy lip should sweetly counsel wrong, Those vestal eyes would disavow its song. But thou hast breathed such purity, thy lay Returns so fondly to youth's virtuous day, And leads thy soul if e'er it wander'd thence So gently back to its first innocence, That I would sooner stop the unchain'd dove,. When swift returning to its home of love, And round its snowy wing new fetters twina, Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine !" Scarce had this feeling pass'd, when, sparkling thi-ough The gently-open'd curtains of light blue That veil'd the breezy casement, countless eyes, Peeping like stars through the blue eveirng skies, Look'd laughing in, as if to mock the pair That sat so still and melancholy there And now the curtains fly apart, and in From the cool air, 'mid showers of jessamine Which those without fling after them in play, Two lightsome maidens spring, lightsome a8 they Who live in the air on odors, and around The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground, Chase one another, in a varying dance Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance, Too eloquently like love's warm pursuit : While she, who sung so gently to the lute Her dream of home, steals timidly away, Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray, But takes with her from Azim's ..eart ihfci sigh POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKK. We sometimes give to forms that pass us by In the world's crowd, too lovely to remain, Creatures of light we never see again ! Around the white necks of the nymphs who danced Hung carcanets of orient gems, that glanced More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering o'er The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore; 1 While from their long dark tresses, in a fall Of curls descending, bells as musical As those that on the golden-shafted trees Of Eden shake in the Eternal Breeze, 1 Rung round their steps, at every bound more sweet, As 'twere the ecstatic language of their feet ! At length the chase was o'er, and they stood wreathed Within each other's arms ; while soft there breathed Through the cool casement, mingled with the sighs Of moonlight flowers, music that seem'd to rise From some still lake, so liquidly it rose ; And, as it swell'd again at each faint close, The ear could track through all that maze o of chords And young sweet voices, these impassion'd words : "A Spirit there is, whose fragrant sigh Is burning now through earth and air; Where cheeks are blushing, the Spirit is nigh, "Where lips are meeting, the Spirit is there ! a Hie breath is the soul of flowers like these ; And his floating eyes oh ! they resemble Blue water-lilies,* when the breeze Is making the stream around them tremble ! " Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power ! Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss ! "To the north wan a mountain which cpiirkled like ed wish tot music." Safe. ' The blue lotos, which grows in Cashmere and in Persia. Whose wanton eyes resemble blue water-llbcf agitated by c."- JayaJtva. Thy holiest time is the moonlight Lour, And there never was moonlight no *wet as this." " By the fair and brave, Who blushing unite, Like the sun and wave When they meet at night ! " By the tear that shows When passion is nigh, As the rain-drop flows From the heat of the *k y ! " By the first love-beat Of the youthful heart, By the bliss to meet, And the pain to part ! " By all that thou hast To mortals given, Which oh ! could it last, This earth were heaven ! "We call thee hither, entrancing Power! Spirit of Love ! Spirit of Bliss ! Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as this." Impatient of a scene, whose luxuries stolo, Spke of himself, too deep into his soul, And where, midst all that the young heart loves most, Flowers, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost, The youth had started up, and turn'd away From the light nymphs and their luxurious lay, To muse upon the pictures that hung round, 4 Bright images, that spoke without a sound, And views, like vistas into fairy ground But here again new spells came o'er hit All that the pencil's mute omnipotence Could call up into life, of soft and fair, 4 It has been j.'rnrraliy np|HM>cd thl the Mohammedan* prohibit all picture* of animal*; bat Todenni -how* thai. though the practice Is forbidden by the Koran, they are not more averse to painted figures and Images than other people. Prom Mr. Murphy's work. too. we find that the Aral* of Sp*i> had no objection to the Introduction of fltfuror iiitc painting 90 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Of fond and passionate, was glowing there; Nor yet too warm, but touch'd with that fine art Which paints of pleasure but the purer part ; Which knows even Beauty when half-veil'd is best, Like her own radiant planet of the west, Whose orb when half-retired looks loveliest J 1 There hung the history of the Genii-King,* Traced through each gay, voluptuous wan- dering With her from Saba's bowers,' in whose bright eyes He read that to be blest is to be wise ; Here fond Zuleika* woos with open arms The Hebrew boy, who flies from her young charms, Yet, flying, turns to gaze, and, half undone. Wishes that heaven and she could both be won ! And here Mohammed, born for love and guile, Forgets the Koran in his Mary's smile ; Then beckons some kind ano-el from above O With a new text to consecrate their love ! With rapid step, yet pleased and lingering eye, Did the youth pass these pictured stories by, And hasten'd to a casement, where the lisrht ' ~ Of the calm moon came in, and freshly bright The fields without were seen, sleeping as still As if no life remain'd in breeze or rill. Here paused he, while the music, now less near, Breathed with a holier language on his ear, As though the distance, and that heavenly ray Through which the sounds came floating, took away All that had been too earthly in the lay. Oh ! could he listen to such sounds unmoved, And by that light nor dream of her he loved ? Dream on, unconscious boy ! while yet thou mayst ; 1 This is not quite astronomically true. " Dr. Halley." says &eL, "has shown that Venus is brightest when she is about forty degrees removed from the sun ; and that then but only a fourth part of her lucid disk is to be seen from the earth." * King Solomon, who was supposed to preside over the- hole race of genii. 1 The (^nc-en of Sheba or Sab/i * The wile of J'otipuar, thuu uaai-.-d by the Oriental* 'Tis the last bliss thy soul shall ever taste. Clasp yet a while her image to thy heart, Ere all the light that made it dear depart. Think of her smiles as when thou sawst them last, Clear, beautiful, by naught of earth o'ercaat ; Recall her tears to thee at parting given. Pure as they weep, if angels weep in heaven ! Think in her own still bower she waits thee now, With the same glow of heart and bloom of brow, Yet shrined in solitude thine all, thine only, Like the one star above thee, bright and lonely ! Oh, that a dream so sweet, so long enjov'd, Should be so sadly, cruelly destroy'd ! The song is hush'd, the laughing nymph* are flown, And he is left, musing of bliss, alone; Alone ? no, not alone that heavy sigh, That sob of grief, which broke from some one nigh Whose could it be ? alas ! is misery found Here, even here, on this enchanted ground ? He turns, and sees a female form, close veil'd, Leaning, as if both heart and strength had fail'd, Against a pillar near; not glittering o'er With gems and wreaths, such as the others wore, But in that deep-blue, melancholy dress* Bokhara's maidens wear in mindfulni-ss Of friends or kindred, dead or far away j And such as Zelica had on that day He left her, when, with heart too full to speak, He took away her last warm tears upon hi* cheek. A strange emotion stirs within him, more Than mere compassion ever waked before ; Unconsciously he opes his arms, while she Springs forward, as with life's last energy, But, swooning in that one convulsive bound, Sinks ere she reach his arms, upon the ground ; Her veil falls off her faint hands clasp hi knees " Deep blue is their mourning color.' 1'OK.MS OF THOMAS MOOliE. 91 Tis she herself! 'tis Zelica he sees! But, ah, so pale, so changed none but a lover Could in that wreck of beauty's shrine dis- cover The once-adored divinity! even he Stood for some moments mute, and doubt- ingly 1 i.t back the ringlets from her brow, and gazed Upon those lids, where once such lustre blazed, Ere he could think she was indeed his own, Own darling maid, whom he so long had known In joy and sorrow, beautiful in botli ; Who, even when grief was heaviest when loth He left her for the wars in that worst hour Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower, 1 When darkness brings its weeping glories out, And spreads its sighs like frankincense about ! " Look up, my Zelica one moment show Those gentle eyes to me, that I may know Thy life, th} loveliness is not all gone, But iJtere, at least, shines as it ever shonp Come, look upon thy Azim one dear glance, Like those of old, were heaven ! whatever chance Hath brought thee here, oh ! 'twas a blessed one ! There my sweet lids they move that kiss hath run Like the first shoot of life through every vein. And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again ! Oh, the delight now, in this very hour When, had the whole rich world been in my power, I should have singled out thee, only thee, From the whole world's collected treasury To have thee here to hang thus fondly o'er My own best, purest Zulica once more !" It was indeed the touch of those loved lips Upon her eyes that chased their short eclipse, And, gradual as the snow at heaven's breath Melts off, and shows the azure flowers beneath, Her lids unclosed; and the bright eyes were seen The Borrowtal nycUnthe*. which begins to <-pred Its rich rtcr after sunset Gazing on his, not as they late had been, Quick, restless, wild, but mournfully serene ; As if to lie, even for that tranced minute, So near his heart, had consolation in it; And thus to wake in his beloved caress Took from her soul one half its wretched- ness, But, when she heard him call her good and pure. Oh, 'twas too much too dreadful to endure ! Shuddering she broke away from his em- brace, And, hiding with both hands her guilty face, Said, in a tone whose anguish would have riven A heart of very marble, " Pure ! Heaven !" That tone those looks so changed the withering blight o o That sin and sorrow leave where'er they light The dead despondency of those sunk eyes, Where once, had he thus met her by sur- prise, He would have seen himself, too happy boy 4 Iteflected in a thousand lights of joy ; And then the place, that bright unholy place, Where vice lay hid beneath such winning grace And charm of luxury, as the viper weaves Its wily covering of sweet balsam leaves; All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold As death itself; it needs not to be told No, no he sees it all, plain as the brand Of burning shame can mark whate'er th* O hand, That could from Heaven and him such brightness sever, 'Tis done to Heaven and him she's lost for- ever ! It was a dreadful moment; not the tears, The lingering, lasting misery of years Could match that minute's anguish all the wont Of sorrow's elements in that dark burst Broke o'er his soul, and, with one crash of fate, Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate ! " Oh ! curse me not," she criel, a* wild he tOSs'.l 92 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. His desperate hand toward heaven " though I am lost, Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me fall ; No, no 'twas grief, 'twas madness did it all! Nay, doubt me not though all thy love hath ceased I know it hath yet, yet believe, at least, That every spark of reason's light must be Quench'd in this brain, ere I could stray from thee ! They told me thou wert dead why, Azim, why Did we not, both of us, that instant die When we were parted ? oh ! couldst thou but know With what a deep devotedness of woe I wept thy absence o'er and o'er again Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain, And memory, like a drop that, night and Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away ! Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home, My eyes still turn'd the way thou wert to come, And all the long, long night of hope and fear, Thy voice and step still founding in my ear O God ! thou wouldst not wonder that, at last, When every hope was all at once o'ercasfe, When I heard frightful voices round me say, Azim is dead! this wretched brain gave way, And 1 became a wreck, at random driven, Without one glimpse of reason or of heaven All wild and even this quenchless love within Turn'd to foul fires to light me into sin ! Thou pitiest me ! I knew thou wouldst that sky Hath naught beneath it half so lorn as I. The fiend who lured me hither hist ! come near, Or thou too, thou art lost, if he should hear Told me -juch things oh ! with such devil- ish art, As wonld have ruin'd even a holier heart Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere, Where blest at length, if I but served him here, I should forever live in thy dear sight, And drink from those pure eyes eternal light 1 Think, think how lost, how madden'd I must be, To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee ! Thou weepst for me do, weep oh ! that 1 durst Kiss off that tear! but, no these lips are curst, They must not touch thee ; one divine caress, One blessed moment of forgetfulness I've had within those arms, and that shall lie, Shrined in my soul's deep memory till I die ! The last of joy's last relics here below, The one sweet drop in all this waste of woe, My heart has treasured from affection's spring, To soothe and cool its deadly withering ! But thou yes, thou must go forever go ; This place is not for thee for thee ! oh no, Did I but tell thee half, thy tortured brain Would burn like mine, and mine go wild again ! Enough, that g?r!'< le.'g-.* x.eie tiiii. larts^ once good, Now tainted, chill'd, and broken, are his food, Enough, that we are parted that there rolls- A flood of headlong fate between our souls, Whose darkness severs me as wide from tbee As hell from heaven, to all eternity !" 1 " Zelica ! Zelica !" the youth exclaim'd, i In all the tortures of a mind inflamed Almost to madness "by that sacred heaven,. Where yet, if prayers can move, thou'lt be forgiven, As thou art here here, in this writhing heart, All sinful, wild, and ruin'd as thou art ! By the remembrance of our once pure love, Which, like a church-yard light, still burn* above The grave of our lost souls which guilt in thee Cannot extinguish, nor despair in me ! I do conjure, implore thee to fly hence If thou hast yet one spark of innocence, Fly with rne from this place " I'OK.M> ol THOMAS MOORE. 93 "With thee! O bliss, *Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this. What ! take the lost one with thee? let her rove I5y thy deai side, as ..i tnose days of love, When we were both so happy, both 60 pure Too heavenly dream ! if there's on earth a cure 1 ' >r the sunk heart, 'tis this day after day To be the blest companion of thy way; To hear thy angel eloquence to see Those virtuous eyes forever turn'd on me ; And in their light rechasten'd silently, Like the stain'd web that whitens in the sun, Grow pure by being purely shone upon ! And thou wilt pray for me I know tliou wilt At the dim vesper-hour, when thoughts of guilt Come heaviest o'er the heart, thou'lt lift thine eyes, Full of sweet tears, unto the darkening skies, And plead forme with Heaven, till I c:in dare To tix iny own weak, sinful glances there ; Till the good angels, when they see me cling Forever near thee, pale and sorrowing, Shall for thy sake pronounce my soul forgiven, And bid thee take thy weeping slave to heaven ! Oil yes, I'll fly with thee " Scarce had she said These breathless words, when a voice deep and dread As that of Monker waking up the dead From their first sleep so startling 'twas to both I Jung through the casement near, "Thy oath ! thy oath !" O Heaven, the ghastliness of that maid's look ! " 'Tis he," faintly she cried, while terror shook Her inmost core, nor durst she lift her eyes, Though through the casement now naught but the skies And moonlight fields were seen, calm as before " 'Tis he, and I am his all, all is o'ei Go fly this instant, or thou'rt ruin'd too My oath, my oath, O God ! 'tis all too true, True as the worm in this cold heart it is I am Mokanna's bride his, Azim, his Tin- dead stood round us while I spoke that vow, Their blue lips echo'd it I hear them now! Their eyes glared on me while I pledged iba bowl, 'Twas burning blood I feel it in my soul ! And the Veil'd Bridegroom hist ! I've seen to-night What angels know not of so foul a night, So horrible oh ! never mayst thou see What there lies hid from all but hell and me ! But I must hence off, off I am not thine, Nor Heaven's, nor Love's, nor aught that is divine Hold me not ha ! thinkst thou the fiends that sever Hearts cannot sunder hands? thus, then forever !" With all that strength which madness lends the weak, She flung away his arm ; and, with a shriek, Whose sound, though he should linger out more years Than wretch e'er told, can never leave his ears, Flew up through that long avenue of light, Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night Across the sun, and soon was out of sight ! Lalla Kookh could think of nothing all day but the misery of these two young lovers. Her gayety was gone, and she looked pen- sively even upon Fadladeen. She felt too, without knowing why, a sort of uneasy pleasure in imagining that A/im must have been just such a youth as Feramor/. ; just a* worthy to enjoy all the bleanugt, without any of the pangs, of that illusive passion, which too often, like the sunny apples of Istkahar, 1 is all sweetness on one side, And all bitterness on the other. As they passed along a sequestered river after sunset, they saw a young Hindoo uirl upon the bank, whose employment seemed to them so strange, that they stopped their palankeens to observe her. Sin- had lighted a small lamp, filled with oil of cocoa, and * In the territory buried at Casbin ; and when one desires another to assev- erate a matter he will ask him if he dare swear by the Holy Grave." * Mahadi. In a single pilgrimage to Mecca, expended viz millions of dinars of gold. * " The inhabitants of Ilejaz, or Arabia Petrsea, called ' The People of the Rock.' " * " Those horf e*. called by the Arabians Eochlanl, of whom t written genealogy hat. been kept for 8000 years. They are aid to derive their origin from King Solomon's steedti." 1 " Many of the figures on the blade* of their swords ar gold or silver, or in mnrqtietry with small gems." Men from the regions near the Volga's mouth Mix'd with the rude, black archers of the South ; And Indian lancers, in white turban'd ranks From the far Sinde, or Attock's sacred banks, With dusky legions from the Land of Myrrh,' And many a maee-arm'd Moor and Mid-Sea Islander. Nor less in number, though more new and rude In warfare's school, was the vast multitude That, fired by zeal, or by oppression wrongM, Round the white standard of the Impostor throng'd. Beside his thousands of Believers, blind, Burning, and headlong as th^ Satniel wind, Many who felt, and more who fear'd to feel The bloody Islamite's converting steel, Flock'd to his banner : Chiefs of the Uzbek race, Waving their heron crests with martial grace ;* Turkomans, countless as their flocks, led forth From the aromatic pastmvs of the North , Wild warriors of the turquoise hills," and those Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows Of Hindoo Kosh, in stormy freedom bred, Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent's bed. But none, of all who own'd the chief's com- mand Rush'd to that battle-field with bolder hand Or sterner hate than Iran's outlaw'd men, Her Worshippers of Fire" all panting then For vengeance on the accursed Saracen ; Vengeance at last for their dear country spurn'd, Her throne usurp'd, and her bright shrines o'erturn'd. From Yezd's 1 * eternal Mansion of the Fire, Azab or Saba. " The chiefs of the Uzbek Tartars wear a plume of white heron's feathers in their turbans." " In the mountains of Mishapour and Tous In Khorassan they find turquoises." >: The Ghebers or Quebres, those original natives of Persia who adhered to their ancient faith, the religion of Zoroaster, and who, after the conquest of their country by the Arab*, were either persecuted at home or forced to become wan- derer* abroad. >* " Ye/d. the chief residence of those ancirnt native* who I worship the Sun and the Fire, which latter tat/ have car* 96 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Where aged saints in dreams of heaven expire ; From Badku, and those fountains of blue flame That burn into the Caspian, 1 fierce they came, Careless for what or whom the blow was sped, So vengeance triumph'd and their tyrants bled! Sucli was the wild and miscellaneous host That high in air their motley banners toss'd Around the Prophet-Chief all eyes still bent Upon that glittering veil, where'er it went, That beacon through the battle's stormy flood, That rainbow of the field, whose showers were blood ! Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set, And risen again, and found them grappling yet; While steams of carnage, in his noon-tide blaze, Smoke up to heaven hot as that crimson haze" By which the prostrate caravan is awed In the red desert when the wind's abroad ! " On, Swords of God !" the panting Caliph calls, <: Thrones for the living heaven for him who falls !" " On, brave avengers, on," Mokanna cries, " And Eblis blast the recreant slave that flies !" Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day They clash they strive the Caliph's troops give way ! Mokanna's self plucks the black banner down, And now the orient world's imperial crown Is just within his grasp when, hark, that shout ! Some hand hath check'd the flying Moslems' rout, fully kept lighted, without being once extinguished for a moment, above 3000 years, on a mountain near Yezd, called /Vter Quedah, signifying the House or Mansion of the Fire, lie is reckoned very unfortunate who dies oft' that mountain." 1 "When the weather is hazy, the springs of naphtha (on an Island near Baku) boil up the higher, and the naphtha often takes fire on the surface of the earth, and runs in a name into the tff. to a distance almost incredible." 2 Savary says "Torrents of burning sand roll before it. the flrma:nent is enveloped in a thick veil, and the sun appears of the colo.' of blood. Sometimes whole caravans are buriod in H." And now they turn they rally at their head A warrior (like those angel youths, who led, In glorious panoply of heaven's own mail, The Champions of the Faith through Beder's vale,)' Bold as if gii'ted with ten thousand lives, Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and d fives At once the multitudinous torrent back, While hope and courage kindle in his track, And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes Terrible vistas through which victory breaks ! In vain Mokanna, 'midst the general flight, Stands like the red moon, on some stormy night Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by, Leave only her unshaken in the sky ! In vain he yells his desperate curses out, Deals death promiscuously to all about, To foes that charge and coward friends thai fly, And seems of all the great arch-enemy ! The panic spreads "A miracle !" throughout The Moslem ranks," A miracle !" they shout, All, gazing on that youth, whose coming seems A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams ; And every sword, true as o'er billows dim The needle tracks the load-star, following him ! Right toward Mokanna now he cleaves his path, Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath- He bears from Heaven withheld its awful burst From weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst, To break o'er him, the mightiest and the worst ! But vain his speed though, in that hour of blood, Had all God's seraphs round Mokanna stood, With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall, Mokanna's soul would have defied them all ; Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong For human force, hurries even him along ; ' "In the great victory gained by Mohamm.su at Beder, h was assisted by tlm-c thousand angels, led by Gabriel mounted on his horse Iliaziira." OF THOMAS .MOOKK. 97 In vain lit- st rubles 'mid tin- \vdired array Of flying thousands, he is home away; And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows Iu this forced flight is murdering, us he goes! AB a grim tiger, whom the torrent's might Surprises in some parch'd ravine at night, Turns, even in drowning, on the wretched flocks Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks, And, to the last, devouring on his way, Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay ! u Alia il Alia !" the glad shout renew Alia Akbar I" 1 the Caliph's in Merou. Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets, And light your shrines and chant your zira- leets ;* The Sword of God hath triumph'd on his throne Your Caliph sits, and the Veil'd Chief hath flown. Who does not envy that young warrior now, To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow, In all the graceful gratitude of power, For his throne's safety in that perilous hour ! Who doth not wonder, when, amidst the acclaim Of thousands, heralding to heaven his name 'Mid all those holier harmonies of fame Which sound along the path of virtuous souls, Like music round a planet as it rolls ! He turns away, coldly, as if some gloom Hung o'er his heart no triumphs can il- lume ; Some sightless grief, upon whose blasted gaze Though glory's light may play, in vain it plays ! Yes, wretched Azim ! thine is such a grief, 1 Jeyond all hope, all terror, all relxjf ; A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break, Or warm, or brighten, like that Syrian Lake* 1 The Tecbir, or cry of the Arabs. "Alia Acbarl" sayc Ockley, " mean* (4od i most mighty." 1 " The ziraleet Is a kind of chorus which the women of the Cast sing npon joy fill occasions." ' The Dead Sea, which contains neither animal nor regeta- Mu life. Upon whose surface iimni and Mimtner shed Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead ! Hearts there have been o'er which this wigltt of woe Came by lonf use of suffering, tame arid slow , But thine, lost youth ! was sudden over thee It broke at once, when all seem'd ecstasy ; When Hope look'd up, and saw the gloomy past Melt into splendor, and bliss dawn at last 'Twas then, even then, o'er joys so frebhly blown, This mortal blight of misery came down; Even then, the full, warm gushings of thy heart Were check'd like fount-drops, frozen as they start ! 'And there, like them, cold, sunless relics hang, Each fix'd and chill'd into a lasting pang ! One sole desire, one passion now remains, To keep life's fever still within his veins, Vengeance ! dire vengeance on the wretch who cast O'er him and all he loved that ruinous blast. For this, when rumors reach'd him in his. flight Far, far away, after that fatal night, Rumors of armies, thronging to the attack Of the Veil'd Chief, lor this he wing'd him back, Fleet as the vulture speeds to flags unfurl'd, And eaine when all seemM lost, and wildly hurl'd Himself into the scale, and saved a world ! For this he still lives on, careless of all The wreaths that glory on his path lets fall ; For this alone exists like lightning-tire To speed one bolt of vengeance, and expire! But safe as yet that spirit of evil li\ With a small band of desperate fugitives. The last sole stubborn fragment, left unriven, Of the proud host that late stood fronting Heaven, He gain'd Merou breathed a short cnr*e of blood POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. O'er his lost throne then pass'd the Jihon's flood, 1 And gathering all whose madness of belief Still saw a savioui in their down-fallen Chief, Raised the white banner within Neksheb's gates, 1 And there, untamed, the approaching con- queror waits. Of all his Haram, all that busy hive, With music and with sweets sparkling alive, He took but one, the partner of his flight, One, not for love not for her beauty's light For Zelica stood withering midst the gay, Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday From the Alma-tree and dies, while overhead To-day's young itower is springing in its stead !" No, not for love the deepest damn'd must be Touch'd with heaven's glory, ere such fiends as he Can feel one glimpse of love's divinity ! But no, she is his victim : there lie all Her charms for him charms that can never pall, As long as hell within his heart can stir, Or one faint trace of heaven is left in her. To work an angel's ruin, to behold As white a page as Virtue e'er unroll'd Blacken, beneath his touch, into a scroll Of damning sins, seal'd with a burning soul This is his triumph ; this the joy accurst, That ranks him among demons all but first ! This gives the victim that before him lies Blighted and lost, a glory in his eyes, A light like that with which hell-fire illumes The ghastly, writhing wretch whom it con- sumes ! But other tasks now wait him tasks that need All the deep daringness of thought and deed With which the Dives* have gifted him for mark. Over yon plains, which night had else mad dark, Those lanterns, countless as the winged lights That spangle India's fields on showery nights,* Far as their formidable gleams they shed, The mighty tents of the beleaguerer spread, Glimmering along the horizon's dusky line, And thence in nearer circles, till they shine Among the founts and groves, o'er which the town In all its arm'd magnificence looks down. Yet, fearless, from his lofty battlements Mokanna views that multitude of tents ; Nay. smiles to think that, though entoil r d r beset, Not less than myriads dare to front him yet ; That friendless, throneless, he thus stands at bay, Even thus a match for myriads such as they ! " Oh for a sweep of that dark angel's wing, Who brush'd the thousands of the Assyrian king* To darkness in a moment, that I might People hell's chambers with yon host to night ! But come what may, let who will grasp the throne, Caliph or Prophet, man alike shall groan ; Let who will torture him, Priest Caliph King- Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring With victims' shrieks and bowlings of the slave, Sounds that shall glad me even within my grave !" Thus to himself but to the scanty train Still left around him, a far different strain : " Glorious defenders of the sacred Crown I bear from heaven, whose light nor blood shall drown Nor shadow of earth eclipse ; before whose gems The paly pomp of this world's diadems, The crown of Gerashid, the pillard throne 7 > The ancient Oxns. 1 A city of Transoxiania. 1 " Yon never can cast your eyes on this tree but you meet Ihere either blossoms or fruit; and as the blossoms drop tnderneath on the ground, others come forth in their stead. 1 ' 4 The demons of the Persian mythology. Carreri mentions the fire-flies in India during the rainy season. " Sennacherib, called by the orientals King of Moussal." T There were said to be under this throne or palace of Khos- rou Parviz a hundred vaults filled with " treasures so immense, thai some Mohammedan writers tell us, their Prophet, to en 99 Of Parviz, 1 and the heron crest that shone,* Magnificent, o'er All's beauteous eyes,* Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies : Warriors, rejoice the port, to which we've pass'd O'er destiny's dark wave, beams out at last ! Victory's our own 'tis written in that Book Upon whose leaves none but the angels look, That Islam's sceptre shall beneath the power Of her great foe fall broken in that hour When the moon's mighty orb, before all eyes, From Neksheb's Holy Well portentously shall rise ! Now turn and see !" - They turn'd, and, as he spoke, A sudden splendor all around them broke, And they beheld an orb, ample and bright, 4 Rise from the Holy Well, and cast its light Round the rich city and the plain for miles,* Flinging such radiance o'er the gilded tiles Of many a dome and fair-roof 'd imaret, As autumn suns shed round them when they set! Instant from all who saw the illusive sign A murmur broke " Miraculous ! divine !" The Gheber bow'd, thinking his idol Star Had waked, and burst impatient through the bar Of midnight, to inflame him to the war ! While he of Moussa's creed saw in that ray The glorious Light which, in his freedom's Had rested on the Ark," and now again Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain ! courage his disciples, carried them to a rock, which at hie command opened, and gave them a prospect through it of the treasure* of Khosrou." Universal History. 1 Chosroes. 1 "The crown of Qerashid Is cloudy and tarnished before the heron tuft of thy turban." From one of the elegies or ongs in praise of Ali, written in characters of gold round the gallery of Abbas's tomb. ' " The beauty of All's eyes was so remarkable that, when- ever the Persians would describe anything va *v InvoJv they say it is Ayn Hali, or the ey* c* ' 1L'' * We are not told more of uu HICK of toe Impostor, man tnat it was "nne machine qu'il disoit Cfre la Inne." Accord- ing to Richardson, the miracle is perpetuated in Nekscheb ' Nukabab, the name of a city in Transoxiania, where they re is a well in which the appearance of the moon is to ii night and day. 11 " 11 aniusa pendant deux moil le penple de la vllle de Nekh- ichcb en faisant sortir toutes les nuits da fonds d'un puits un liimineux semblable a la lime, qni portoit sa lumiere )uqu'a la distance de pluslcnrs milles." D'Herbtlot. Hence he was called Sazendfih Mah, or the Moon-maker. ' The Shechiuah, called Saklnat in the Koran ; vide Sale. "To victory !" is at once the cry of all Nor stands Mokanna loitering at that call ; But instant the huge gates are flung aside, And forth, like a diminutive mountain-tide Into the boundless sea, they speed their course Right on into the Moslems' mighty force, The watchmen of the camp,- who, in their rounds, Had paused, and even forgot the punctual sounds Of the small drum with which they count the night/ To gaze upon that supernatural light, Now sink beneath an unexpected arm, And in a death-groan give their last alarm. " On for the lamps that light yon lofty screen, 8 Nor blunt your blades with massacre sc mean ; There rests the Caliph speed one lucky lance May now achieve mankind's deliverance !" Desperate the die such as they only cast Who ventui-e for a world, and stake their last But Fate's no longer with him blade for blade Springs up to meet them through the glim- mering shade, And as the clash is heard, new legions soon Pour to the spot, like bees of Kauzeroon,* To the shrill timbrel's summons, till, at length, The mighty camp swarms out in all its strength, And back to Neksheb's gates, covering the plain With random slaughter, drives the adven- turous train ; Among the last of whom, the Silver Veil Is seen, glittering at times, like the white sa. Of some toss'd vessel, on a stormy night, Catching the tempest's momentary light ! "The parts of the night are made known as well by in- strnmcnts of music as by the rounds of the watchmen with cries and small drams." " The Serraparda, high screens of red cloth stiffened witk cane, used to enclose a considerable space round the rojraJ tents." The tents of princes were generally Illuminated. Norrien tells u* that the tent of the Bey of Glrge was dlstinjniiched from the other tents by forty lanterns being suspended bcfort it. Vldt " Banner's Obsenrations on Job." " Prom the groves of orang-trees at Kauzeroon the DMS cull a celebrated honey." 100 POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKE. And hath not this brought the proud spirit low? Nor dash'd his brow, nor check'd his daring ? No, Though half the wretches whom at night he led To thrones and victory lie disgraced and dead, Yet morning hears him, with unshrinking crest, Still vaunt of thrones and victory to the rest ; And they believe him ! oh, the lover may Distrust that look which steals his soul away ! The babe may cease to think that it can play With heaven's rainbow; alchymists may doubt The shining gold their crucible gives out, But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last. And well the Impostor knew all lures and arts That Lucifer e'er taught to tangle hearts ; Nor, 'mid these last bold workings of his plot Against men's souls, is Zelica forgot. Ill-fated Zelica ! had reason been Awake through half the horrors thou hast seen, Thou never couldst have borne it Death had come At once and taken thy wrung spirit home. But 'twas not so a torpor, a suspense Of thought, almost of life, came o'er the intense And passionate struggles of that fearful night, When her last hope of peace and heaven took flight : And though, at times, a gleam of frenzy broke, As through some dull volcano's veil of smoke Ominous flashings now and then will start, Which show the fire's still busy at its heart ; Yet was she mostly wrapp'd in sullen gloom, Not such as Azim's, brooding o'er its doom, And calm without, as is the brow of death, While busy worms are gnawing under- neath ! But in a blank and pulseless torpor % free From thought or pain, a seal'd-up apathy, Which left her oft, with scarce one living thrill, The cold, pale victim of her torturer's will Again, as in Merou, he had her deck'd Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect ; And led her glittering forth before the eyes Of his rude train, as to a sacrifice ; Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride Of the fierce Nile, when, deck'd in all the pride Of nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide ! l And while the wretched maid hung down her head, And stood, as one just risen from the dead, Amid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tell His credulous slaves it was some charm or spell Possess'd her now, and from that darken'd trance Should dawn ere long their Faith's deliver- ance. Or if, at times, goaded by guilty shame, Her soul was roused, and words of wildness came, Instant the bold blasphemer would translate Her ravings into oracles of fate, Would hail Heaven's signals in her flashing eyes, And call her shrieks the language of the skies ! But vain at length his arts despair is seen Gathering around ; and famine comes to glean All that the sword had left unreap'd ; in vain At morn and eve across the northern plain He looks impatient for the promised spears Of the wild hordes and Tartar mountaineers ; They come not while his fierce beleaguerers pour Engines of havoc in, unknown before, 2 O 7 * 1 " A custom, still subsisting at this day, seems to me lo prove that the Egyptians formerly sacrificed a young virgin to the god of the Nile ; for they now make a statue o-f earth in shape of a girl, to which they give the name of the Betrothed Bride, and throw it into the river." Savary. a That they knew the secret of the Greek fire among the Mussulmans early in the eleventh century, appears from Dow's Account of Mamood I. : " When he had launched this fleet, he ordered twenty archers into each boat, and five others with fire-balls, to burn the craft of the Jits, and naphtha to set the whole river on fire." The Agnee aster, too, in Indian poems, the Instrument of Fire, whose flame cannot be extinguished, is supposed to signify the Greek Fire. Vide " Wilks's South of India," vol. i., p. 471. The mention of gunpowder as in une among the Arabians, long before its supposed discovery in Europe, is introd iced POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 101 And horrible as new; 1 javelins, that fly Enwrcath'd with smoky flames through the dark sky, And red-hot globes that, opening as they mount, Discharge, as from a kindled naphtha fount, 1 Showers of consuming fire o'er all below; Looking, as through the illumined night they go, Like those wild birds* that by the Magians oft, At festivals of fire, were sent aloft Into the air, with blazing fagots tied To their huge wings, scattering combustion wide ! All night, the groans of wretches who ex- O ' O piri In agony beneath these darts of fire King tli rough the city while, descending o'er Its shrines and domes and streets of syca- more ; Its lone bazaars, with their bright cloth of gold, Since the last peaceful pageant left unroll'd ; Its beauteous marble baths, whose idle jets Now gush with blood ; and its tall minarets, That late have stood up in the evening glare Of the red sun, unhallow'd by a prayer ; O'er each in turn the terrible flame-bolts fall, And dcatli and conflagration throughout all The desolate -jity hold high festival ! by Ebn Fadhl, the Egyptian geographer who lived in the thirteenth century. " Bodies," he says, " in the form of scor- pions, bound round and filled with nitrous powder, glide along, making a gentle noise ; then, exploding, they lighten as it were, and burn. But there are others, which, cast into the air, stretch. along like a cloud, roaring horribly, as thunder roars, and on all sides vomiting out flames, burst, burn, and reduce to cinders whatever come* in their way." The his- torian Ben Abdalla, in speaking of Abulualid in the year of Hegira 712. says, " a fiery giobe, by means of combustible matter, with a mighty noise suddenly emitted, strikes with the force of lightning, and shakes the citadel." Vide the extract* from "Casiri's Biblioth. Arab. Hispan.," in the Appendix to " Berrington's Literary History of the Middle Aget." : The Greek fire, which was occasionally lent by the Em- l/fror* to their allies 'M'e Hanway's " Account of the Spring* of Naphtha at Haku" (which is called by Lieutenant I'otiiiigiT. .Icmla Mook- hee, or the Flaming Mouth), taking fin-, mul running into the W. At the great festival of fire, called the Sheb Seze. thi-y used to set fire to large bunches of dry combustibles, fasten. <' round wild beasts and birds, which being then let loose, the air and earth appeared one great illumination ; and as these terrified creatures naturally fled t<> tin- wood for shelter, it i n*v to conceive the conflagrations they produced." Mokanna sees the world is his no more ; One sting at parting, and his grasp is o'er. "What! drooping now?" thus, with un- blushing cheek ? He hails the few who yec C^h If/car him >i Of all those famish'd slave's arouhd'him'lyiliir, And by the light ox'blazin tc n\ "What! drooping hoV? now;" win:; ui length we press Home o'er the very threshold of success; When Alia from our ranks hath thinn'd away Those grosser branches, that kept out his ray Of favor from us, and we stand at length Heirs of his light and children of his strength, The chosen few who shall survive the fall Of kings and thrones, triumphant over all ! Have you then lost, weak murmurers us you are, All faith in him who was your light, your star ? Have you forgot the eye of glory, hid Beneath this veil, the flashing of whose lid Could, like a sun-stroke of the desert, wither Millions of such as yonder chief brings hither * Long have its lightnings slept too long but now All earth shall feel the unveiling of this bro* ' To-night yes, sainted men ' this very night, I bid you all to a fair festal nte, Where, having deep refresh'd each weary limb With viands such as feast heaven's cherubim, And kindled up your souls, now sunk and dim, With that pure wine the dark-eyed maids above Keep, seal'd with precious musk, for those they love, 4 I will myself uncurtain in your sight The wonders of this brow's ineffable light; Then lead you forth, and with a wink disperse Yon myriads, howling through the universe!" Eager they listen while each accent darts New life into their chill'd and hope-sick hearts ; Such treacherous life as the cool draught supplies To mm upon the stake, who drinks and dies ! "The righteous shall be given to drink of pare win* scaled; the seal whereof shall br mask." A'oran. cbj IxxxilL 102 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Wildly they point their lances to the light Of the fast-sinking sun, and shout, "To- night !" " To-night," their chief re-echoes in a voice Of fiend-like mocke)'y t&at bids hell rejoice ! Deluded victims never hath this earth Seen m/ourning -haif ~so mournful as their mirth ! Here, to the few whose iron frames had stood This racking waste of famine and of blood, Faint, dying wretches clung, from whom the shout Of triumph like a maniac's laugh broke out ; There, others, lighted by the smouldering fire, Danced, like wan ghosts about a funeral pyre, Among the dead and dying strew'd around ; While some pale wretch look'd on, and from his wound Plucking the fiery dart by which he bled, In ghastly transport waved it o'er his head ! 'Twas more than midnight now a fear- ful pause Had follow'd the long shouts, the wild ap- plause, That lately from those royal gardens burst, Where the veil'd demon held his feast accurst, When Zelica alas, poor ruin'd heart, In every horror doom'd to bear its part ! Was bidden to the banquet by a slave, Who, while his quivering lip the summons gave, Grew black, as though the shadows of the grave Compass'd him round, and ere he could repeat His message through, fell lifeless at her feet ! Shuddering she went a soul-felt pang of fear, A presage that her own dark doom was near, Roused every feeling, and brought reason back Once more, to writhe her last upon the rack. All round seem'd tranquil even the foe had ceased, As if aware of that demoniac feast, His fiery bolts ; and though the heavens look'd red, 'Twas but some distant conflagration's spread. But hark ! she stops she listens dread- ful tone ! 'Tisher tormentor's laugh and now, a groan, A long death-groan comes with it can this be -The place of mirth, the bower of revelry ? She enters Holy Alia, what a sight Was there before her ! By the glimmering light Of the pale dawn, mix'd with the flare of brands That round lay burning, dropp'd from life- less hands, She saw the board, in splendid mockery spread, Rich censers breathing garlands over- head, The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaff'd, All gold and gems, but what had been the draught? Oh ! who need ask, that saw those livid guests, With their swoln heads sunk blackening on their breasts, Or looking pale to heaven with glassy glare, As if they sought but saw no mercy there ; As if they felt, though poison rack'd them through, Remorse the deadlier torment of the two ? While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain Would have met death with transport by his side, Here mute and helpless gasp'd ; but aa they died, Look'd horrible vengeance with their eyes' last strain And clench'd the slackening hand at him in vain. Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare The stony look of horror and despair Which some of these expiring victims cast Upon their souls' tormentor to the last; Upon that mocking fiend, whose veil, now raised, Show'd them, as in death's agony they sjazed, Not the long-promised light, the brow whose beaming Was to come forth, all-conquering, all- redeeming, But features horribler than hell e'er traced On its own brood ; no Demon of the Waste/ 1 "The Afghauns believe each of the numerous solitndei and deserts of their country to be inhabited by a lonely demoi POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 103 No churchyard ghole, caught lingering in the light Of the blest sun, e'er blasted human sight r With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those The Impostor now, in grinning mockery, shows v There, ye wise saints, behold your Light, your Star Ye would be dupes and victims, and ye are. Is it enough ? or must I, while a thrill Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still ? Swear that the burning death ye feel within Is but the trance with which heaven's joys begin ; That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgraced Even monstrous man, is after God's own taste ; And that but see ! ere I have half-way said My greetings through, the unconrteous souls are fled. Farewell, sweet spirits ! not in vain ye die, If Eblis loves you half so well as I. Ha, my young bride! 'tis well take thou thy seat ; Nay, come no shuddering didst thou never meet Tbe dead before? they graced our wed- ding, sweet; And these, my guests to-night, have brimm'd so true Their parting cups, that thou shalt pledge one too. But how is this ? all empty ? all drunk up ? Hot lips have been before thee in the cup, Young bride: yet stay one precious drop remains, Enough to warm a gentle Priestess' veins ; Here, drink and should thy lover's conquer- ing arms Speed hither, ere thy lip lose all its charms, Give him but half this venom in thy kiss, And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss ! "For me I too must die but not like these Vile, rankling things, to fester in the breeze ; To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown, Whh all death's grimm-ss added to it own, whom they call the Choice Becabau, or Spirit of the Waste. They often illustrate the wildness or any sequestered tribe, y saying they are wild as the Demon of the Waste." And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes Of slaves, exclaiming, 'There his godship lies !' No, curse'd race, since first my love drew breath, They've been my dupes, and shall be, even in death. Thou seest yon cistern in the shade, 'tia filled With burning drugs, for this last hour dis- till'd ;' There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet's frame ! There perish, all ere pulse of thine shall fail Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale. So shall my votaries, wheresoe'er they rave, Proclaim that Heaven took back the Saint it gave ; But I've but vanish'd from this earth awhile, To come again, with bright, unshrouded smile ! So shall they build me altars in their zeal, Where knaves chall rninistei, ar.I fooio shaL kneel ; Where Faith may mutter o'er her mystic spell, Written in blood and Bigotry may swell The sail he spreads for heaven with blusts for hell ! So shall my banner through long ages be The rallving sign of fraud and anarchy; Kings yet unborn shall rue Mokanna's name, .And, though I die, my spirit, still the same, Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife, And o-uilt, and blood, that were its bliss in O t life! But, hark! their battering engine shakes the wall Why, let it shake thus I can brave them all. No trace of me shall greet them when they come, And I can trust thy faith, for thou'lt be dumb. Now mark how readily a wretch like me In one bold plunge commences Deity!" ' " II donna da poison dans le vin a tons ses gent, et se jetti liii-r.u-ine cnsnltc dans tine cnvo pleine de drogues brulante* et consumantes, afln qn'll no restAt rien Ac tou* les membra* du son corps, et quo cenx qni restolent de sa secte pnlsseni croire qu'll Itoit mont6 au cit \ ce qnl ne manqna pas d ar river." D'Uertxlot. 104 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. He sprung, and sunk as the last words were said Quick closed the burning waters o'er his head, And Zelica was left within the ring Of those wide walls the only living thing ; The only wretched one, still cursed with breath, In all that frightful wilderness of death ! More like some bloodless ghost, such as, they tell, In the lone Cities of the Silent 1 dwell, And there, unseen of all but Alia, sit Each by its own pale carcase, watching it. But morn is up, and a fresh warfare stirs Throughout the camp of the beieaguerers. Their globes of fire (the dread artillery lent By Greece to conquering Mahadi) are spent ; And now the scorpion's shaft, the quarry sent From high balistas, and the shielded throng Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along, All speak the impatient Islamite's intent To try, at length, if tower and battlement And bastion'd wall be not less hard to win, Less tough to break down than the hearts within. First in impatience and in toil is he, The burning Azim oh ! could he but see That monster once alive within his grasp. Not the gaunt lion's hug, nor boa's clasp, Could match that gripe of vengeance, or keep pace With the fell heartiness of hate's embrace ! Loud rings the ponderous ram against the walls ; Now shake the ramparts, now a buttress falls, But still no breach " Once more, one mighty swing Of all your beams, together thundering!" There the wall shakes the shouting troops exult " Quick, quick discharge your weightiest catapult Right on that spot, and Neksheb is our own!" 1 ''They have all a great reverence for burial-grounds, which they sometimes call by the poetical name of Cities of the Silent, and which they people with the ghosts of the departed, who ti f . each at the bead of his own grave, invisible In mortal eyes." 'Tis done the battlements come crashing down, And the huge wall, by that stroke riven in two, Yawning like some old crater rent anew, Shows the dim, desolate city smoking through ! But strange! no signs of life naught living seen Above, below what can this stillness mean? A minute's pause suspends all hearts and eyes "In through the breach," impetuous Azim cries ; But the cool Caliph, fearful of some wile In this blank stillness, checks the troops a while. Just then, a figure, with slow step, advanced Forth from the ruin'd walls ; and, as there glanced A sunbeam over it, all eyes could see The well-known Silver Veil ! " 'Tis he, 'tis he, Mokanna, and alone !" they shout around j Young Azim from hut sreed springs to the ground "Mine, Holy Caliph ! mine," he cries, "the task To crush yon daring wretch 'tis all I ask. * Eager he darts to meet the demon foe, Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow And falteringly comes, till they are near ; Then, with a bound, rushes on Azim's spear,. And, casting off the veil in falling, shows Oh ! 'tis his Zelica's life-blood that flows ! " I meant not, Azim," soothingly she said,. As on his trembling arm she lean'd her head, And, looking in his face, saw anguish there Beyond all wounds the quivering flesh can bear " I meant not thou shouldst have the pain of this ; Though death with thee thus tasted is a bliss Thou wouldst not rob me of, didst thou but know How oft I've pray'd to God I might die so ! But the fiend's venom was too scant and slow ; To linger on were maddening and I thought If once that veil nay, look not on it caught FOEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 1U5 The eyes of your fierce soldiery, I should be Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly. But this is sweeter oh ! believe me, yes 1 would not change this sad, but dear caress, This death within thy arms I would not gi\v For the most smiling life the happiest live ! All that stood dark and drear before the eye Of my stray'd soul is passing swiftly by; A light comes o'er rae from those looks of love, Like the first dawn of mercy from above ; And if thy lips but tell me I'm forgiven, Angels will echo the blest words in heaven ! O But live, my Azim ; oh! to call thee mine Thus once again ! my Azim dream divine ! Live, if thou ever lovedst me, if to meet Thy Zelica hereafter would be sweet, Oh, live to pray for her to bend the knee Morning and night before that Deity To whom pure lips and hearts, without a stain, As thine are, Azim, never breathed in vain, And pray that he may pardon her, may take Compassion on h*r soul for thy dear sake, And naught i ^^embering but her love to thee, Make her all thine, all His, eternally ! Go to those happy fields where first we twined Our youthful hearts together every wind That meets thee there, fresh from the well- known flowers, Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours Back to thy soul, and thou mayst feel again For thy poor Zelica as thou didst then. So shall thy orisons, like dew that flies To heaven upon the morning's sunshine, rise With all love's earliest ardor to the skies ! And should they but, alas ! my senses fail Oh foV one minute ! should thy prayers prevail If pardon'd souls may from that world of bliss lie veal their joy to those they love in this, I'll come to thee in some sweet dream and tell O Heaven ! I die Dear love ! farewell, farewell !" Time fleeted years on years had pass'd away, And few of those who, on that mournful day, Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see The maiden's death, and the youth's agony, Were living still when, by a rustic grave Beside the swift A moo's transparent wave, An aged man, who had grown aged there By that lone grave, morning and night in prayer, For the last time knelt down and, th * O the shade Of death hung darkening over him, there j.lay'd A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek That brighten'd even death like the last streak Of intense glory on the horizon's brim, When night o'er all the rest hangs chill and O O dim, His soul had seen a vision while he slept ; She for whose spirit he had pray'd and wept So many years, had come to him, all drest In angel smiles, and told him she was blest i For this the old man breathed his thanks, and died. And there, upon the banks of that loved tide, He and his Zelica sleep side by side. The story of the Veiled Prophet of Kho- rassan being ended, they were now doomed to hear Fadladeen's criticisms upon it. A series of disappointments and accidents had occurred to this learned ehamberlain during the journey. In the tirst place, those cou- riers stationed, as in the reign of Shah Jehan, between Delhi and the western coast of India, to secure a constant supply of mangoes for the royal table, had, by some cruel irreg- ularity, failed in their duty; and to eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was, of course, impossible. 1 In the next place, the elephant, laden with his fine antique porce- lain, 3 had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, shat- 1 "The celebrity of Ma/.aiiong i* owing to Its mangoea, which are certainly the beet fruit I ever tasted. The parent tree, from which ail thnxc of thix specie* have been grafted, is honored during the fruit reason by a guard of xepoys ; and in the reign of Shah Jehan. couriers were stationed between Delhi and the Mahratta coast, to secure an abundant and ftvsb supply of mangoes for the royal table." J/r*. GnAan't Journal of a Residence in India. * This old porcelain is found in digging, and "if it is * teemed, it i not because it has acquired any new degree itely old' as to have been used under the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran, too, supposed to be the identical ':opy between the leaves of which Moham- med's favorite pigeon used to nestle, had been mislaid by his Koran-bearer three whole days ; not without much spiritual alarm to Fadladeen, who, though professing to hold, with nther loyal and orthodox Mus- sulmans, that salvation could only be found in the Kor?r ;? was strongly suspected of be- lieving, in tos heart, that it could only be found in his own particular copy of it. When to all these grievances is added the obstinacy of the cooks, in putting the pepper of Canara into his dishes instead of the cinnamon of Serendib, we may easily suppose that he came to the task of criticism with at le?"t a sufficient degree of irritability for " V e purpose. " In order," said he, importantly swinging about his chaplet of pearls, " to convey with clearness my opinion of the story this young man has related, it is necessary to take a re- view of all the stories that have ever " My good Fadladeen !" exclaimed the Prin- cess, interrupting him, "we really do not deserve that you should give yourself so much trouble. Your opinion of the poem we have just heard will, T have no doubt, be abundantly edifying, without any furiluT waste of your valuable erudition. " " If that be all," replied the critic, evidently morti- fied at not being allowed to show how much he knew about everything but the subject immediately before him, " if that be all that is required, the matter is easily despatched." He then proceeded to analyze the poem, in that strain (so well known to the unfortunate bards of Delhi) whose censures were an in- fliction from which few recovered, and Avhose very praises were like the honey extracted from the bitter flowers of the aloe. The chief tlrey give large sums for the smallest vessels which were used onder the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang, at which time porcelain began to te used by the Enipj.oFs," (about the year 442.) Dunn's fJoUeetioit Oj Curious Observations, &c., a bad translation of ome parts of the " Lettrea Edifiantes et Curieuses" of the HiBBionary Jesuits. personages of the story were, if he right! x understood them, an ill-favored gentleina"., with a veil over his face ; a young lady, whose reason went and came according as it suited the poet's convenience to be sensible or otherwise ; and a youth, in one of those hideous Bucharian bonnets, who took the aforesaid gentleman in a veil for a Divinity. " From such materials," said he, " what can be expected ? after rivalling each other in long speeches and absurdities, through some thousands of lines as indigestible as the fil- berds of Berdan, our friend in the veil jumps into a tub of aquafortis ; the young lady dies in a set speech, whose only recommendation is, that it is her last ; and the lover lives on to a good old age, for the laudable purpose of seeing her ghost, which he at last happily accomplishes and expires. This, you will allow, is a fair summary of the story; and if Nasser, the Arabian merchant, told no better, our Holy Prophet (to whom be all honor and glory !) had no need to be jealous of his abilities for story-telling." 1 With respect to the style, it was worthy of the matter: it had not even those politic contrivances of structure which make up for the commonness of the thoughts by the pe- culiarity of the manner, nor that stately poetical phraseology by which sentiments mean in themselves, like the blacksmith's apron' converted into a banner, are so easily gilt and embroidered into consequence. Then as to the versification, it was, to say no worse of it, execrable ; it had neither the copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness of Hafiz, nor the sententious march of Sadi; but appeared to him, in the uneasy heaviness of its movements, to have been modelled upon the gait of a very tired dromedary. The licences, too, in which it indulged were unpardonable ; for instance, this line, and the poem abounded with such " Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream." 1 " La lecture de ces fables plaisoit si fort aux Arabes, que, quand Mohammed les entretenoit de THistoire de 1'Anciep Testament, ils les meprisoient, lui disant que celles qne Nas- ser leur racontoient etoient beaucoup plus belles." Cette preference attira a Nasser la malediction de Mohammed et de tons ses disciples. * The blacksmith Gao, who successfully resisted the tyrant 7ohak, and whose apron became the rova] standard of Persia. POEMS OF THOMAS MOOIiK. 107 *' Wliat critic that can count," said Fadla- deen, " and has his full complement of fingers to count withal, would tolerate for an instant such syllabic superfluities ?" He here looked round, and discovered that most of his audi- ence were asleep ; while the glimmering lamps seemed inclined to follow their exam- ple. It became necessary, therefore, how- ever painful to himself, to put an end to his valuable animadversions for the present, and he accordingly concluded, with an air of dignified candor, thus: "Notwithstanding the observations which I have thought it my duty to make, it is by no means my wish to discourage the young man ; so far from it, indeed, that if he will but totally alter his style of writing and thinking, I have very little doubt that I shall be vastly pleased with him." Some days elapsed, after this harangue of the Great Chamberlain, before Lalla Rookh could venture to ask for another story. The youth was still a welcome guest in the pavil- ion, to one heart, perhaps, too dangerously welcome ; but all mention of poetry was, as if by common consent, avoided. Though none of the party had much respect for Fad- ladeen, yet his censures, thus magisterially delivered, evidently made an impression on them all. The Poet himself, to whom criti- cism was quite a new operation, (being wholly unknown in that Paradise of the Indies Cashmere,) felt the shock as it is generally felt at first, till use has made it more tolerable to the patient; the ladies be- gan to suspect that they ought not to be pleased, and seemed to conclude that there must have been much good sense in what Fadladeen said, from its having set them all so soundly to sleep; while the self-complacent chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea of having, for the hundred and fiftieth time in his life, extinguished a poet. Lalla liookh alone and Love knew why persisted in bfing delighted with all she had heard, and in resolving to hear more as speedily as pos- sible. Her manner, however, of first return- ing to the subject was unlucky. It wa> while they rested during the heat of noon near a fountain, on which some hand h:ul nidely traced those well-known words from the Garden of Sadi, "Many, like me, havo viewed this fountain, but they are gone, and their eyes are closed forever !" that she took occasion, from the melancholy beauty of this passage, to dwell upon the charms of poetry in general. "It is true," she said " few poets can imitate that sublime bird which flies always in the air, and never touches the earth ; it is only once in many ages a genius appears, whose words, like those on the Written Mountain,' last for- ever; but still there are some, as delightful perhaps, though not so wonderful, who, if not stars over our head, are at least flowers along our path, and whose sweetness of the moment we ought gratefully to inhale, with- out calling upon them for a brightness and a durability beyond their nature. In short," continued she, blushing, as if conscious of being caught in an oration, " it is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his re- gions of enchantment, without having a critic forever, like the Old Man of the Sea, (Sinbad,) upon his back !" Fadladeen, it was plain, took this last luckless allusion to himself, and would treasure it up in his mind as a whetstone for his next criticism. A sudden silence ensued ; and the Princess, glancing a look at Feramorz, saw plainly she must wait for a more courageous moment. But the glories of Nature, and her wild, fragrant airs, playing freshly over the cur- rent of youthful spirits, will soon heal even ' The huma. a bird peculiur to the East. It Is supposed to fly constauily in the air, and never touch the ground. It it looked upon as a bird of 'happy omen ; and that every bead it overbade* will in time wear a crown. Richardson. In tfci terms of alliance made by Fuzzel Oola Khan with Hyder in 1760, one of the stipulations was, "that he should have the distinction of two honorary attendants standing Deride him, holding fans composed of ihe feathers of the huma. according to the practice of his family." WiUa't South qf India. He adds in a note : " The hnma is a ftibnlons bird. The head over which its shadow once passes will assuredly be circled with a crown. The splendid little bird suspended orer the throne of Tippoo Sultann, found at Seringapatam in 17W, wa intended to represent this poetical fancy. 1 ' * To the pilgrims to Mount Sinai we must attribute the in- scriptions, figures, Ac., on those rocks, which hare from thence acquired the name of the Written Mountain." Fotoy. M. Oebclin and others have been at much pains to attach om mysterious and Important meaning to these Inscriptions ; but Nicbuhr, a well as Volney, think* that they must hare been executed at idle hours by the travellers to Mount Sinai, " who Hi-Hod \vith cutting the unpolished rock with any pointed instrument; adding to their names, and the date of their journeys, some rude figure*, which Wespeak the band o/ a people but little skilled In *he arts." Xltbvhr. 108 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. deeper wounds than the dull Fadladeens of this world can inflict. In an evening or two after, they came to the small Valley of Gar- dens, which had been planted by order of the Emperor for his favorite sister Rochinara, during their progress to Cashmere, some years before ; and never was there a more sparkling assemblage of sweets, since the Gulzar-e-Irem, or Rose-bower of Irem. Every precious flower was there to be found that poetry, or love, or religion has ever consecrated from the dark hyacinth, to which Hafi compares his mistress's hair, to the Cdmaldta^ by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of Indra is scented. 1 As they sat in the cool fragrance of this delicious spot, and Lalla Rookh remarked that she could fancy it the abode of that flower-loving nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay, or of one of those Peris, those beautiful creatures of the air, who live upon perfumes, and to whom a place like this might make some amends for the Paradise they have lost, the young Poet, in whose eyes she appeared, while she spoke, to be one of the bright spiritual creatures she was describing, said, hesitatingly, that he remembered a story of a Peri, which, if the princess had no Dbjection, he would ventui-e to relate. " It is," said he, with an appealing look to Fad- ladeen, " in a lighter and humbler strain than the other ;" then, striking a few careless but melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus PARADISE AND THE PERI. ONE morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood disconsolate ; And as she listen'd to the springs Of life within, like music flowing, And caught the light upon her wings Through the half-open portal glowing, " The Camalata (called by Linnaeus, Ipomcea) is the most beautiful of its order, both in the color and form of its leaves and flDwers ; its elegant blossoms are 'celestial rosy red, love's proper hue,' and have justly procured it the name of Cumalata. or Love's Creeper." Sir W. Jones., "Camalata may also mcau a mythological plant, by which all desires are granted to euch as inhabit the heaven of Indra ; and if ever flower was worthy of Paradise, it is our charming Ipnmnpa." ff>. She wept to think her 1'ecreant race Should e'er have lost that glorious place ! "How happy," exclaim'd this child of air, " Are the holy spirits who wander there, 'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall; Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, And the stars themselves have flowers for me. One blossom of heaven out-blooms them all ! Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere, With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear, 3 And sweetly the founts of that valley fall ; Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, And the golden floods that thitherward stray,' Yet oh, 'tis only the blest can say How the waters of heaven outshine them all! Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far As the universe spreads its flaming wall ; Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years, One minute of heaven is worth them all !* The glorious Angel, who was keeping The Gates of Light, beheld her weeping ; And, as he nearer drew and listen'd To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'd Within his eyelids, like the spray From Eden's fountain, when it lies On the blue flower, which Brahmins sa Blooms nowhere but in Paradise ! 4 " Nymph of a fair but erring line !" Gently he said " One hope is thine. 'Tis written in the Book of Fate, The Peri yet may be forgiven Who brings to this eternal gate The gift that is most dear to Heave t Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin ; 'Tis sweet to let the pardon'd in 1** Rapidly as comets run To the embraces of the sun : *ke of Cait i " Numerous small islands emerge from th mere." " The Allan Kol or Golden River of Tibf as abundance of gold in its sands." Pinkerton. * " The Brahmins of this province insist ' nt the blue Canv par, flowers only in Paradise." Sir W. Jot i. 1'OKMS OF THOMAS MOOKK. 109 Fleeter than the starry brands Finns* at night from angel-hands' At those dark and daring sprites, Who would climb the empyreal heights, Down the blue vault the Peri Hies, And, lighted earthward by a glance Tli at just then broke from morning's eyes, Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse. Hut whither *hall the spirit go To find this gift for Heaven? "I know The wealth," she cries, " of every urn, In which unnumber'd rubies burn, Beneath the pillars of Chilminar ; J I know where the Isles of Perfume arc* Many a fathom down in the sea, To the south of sun-bright Araby ; 4 I know, too, where the Genii hid Thejewell'd cup of their king Jamshid,' With life's elixir sparkling high But gifts like these are not for the sky. Where was there ever a gem that shone Like the steps of Alla's wonderful throne ? And the drops of life oh ! what would they be In the boundless deep of eternity ?" While thus she mused, her pinions fann'd Tht air of that sweet Indian land, "Whose air is balm ; whose ocean spreads O'er coral banks and amber beds ; 6 Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem ; Whose rivulets are like rich brides, Lovely, with gold beneath their tides ; 1 "The Mohammedan* s-uppose that Tailing stars arc the firebrands wherewith the good angels* drive away the bad when they approach too near the empyreum or verge of the heavens." > "The Forty Pillars so the Persians call the ruins of Per- si'polis. It is imagined by them that this palace, and the edifices at Baalbec, were built by Genii, for the purpose of biding in their subterraneous caverns immense treasures, which still remain there." 1 Diodorns mentions the Isle of Panchaia, to the south of Arabia Felix, where there was a temple to Jupiter. This it- laud, or rather cluster of isles, has disappeared" sunk (says Grandorfi) in the abyss made by the fire beneath their foun- dations." Voyage to the Indian. Ocean. 4 The Isles of Panchaia. * "The cup of Jamshid, discovered, they say, when digging for the foundations of Persepolis." " Like the Sea of India, whose bottom is rich with pearls and ambergris, whose mountains on the coast are stored with gold and precious stones, whose gulfs breed creatures that yield ivory, and among the plants of whose shores are ebony, red wood, and the wood of Hainan, aloes, camphor, cloves, nodal-wood, and all other spices and aromatics; where par- rots and peacocks are birds of the forest, and musk and civet U ''Uectrd upon the lands." T^arflf of f IPO Mnhnrninnlnn*. Whose sandal-irroves and bowers of sp'.ce Might be a Peri's Paradi-e ! But crimson now her rivers ran With human blood the smell of death Came reeking from those spicy bowers, And man, the sacrifice of man, Mingled his taint with every breath Upwafted from the innocent flowers ! Land of the Sun ! what foot invades Thy pagodsand thy pillar'd shades 7 Thy cavern shrines and idol stones, Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones F 'Tis he of Gazna' fierce in wrath He comes, and India's diadems Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path. His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, Torn from the violated necks Of many a young and loved Sultana; 1 * Maidens within their pure Zenana, Priests in the very fane, he slaugh And chokes up with the glittering wrecks Of golden shrines the sacred waters! Downward the Peri turns her gaze, And through the war-field's bloody haze. Beholds a youthful warrior stand, Alone, beside his native river, The red blade broken in his hand And the last arrow in his quivei. " Live," said the Conqueror, " live to share The trophies and the crowns I bear !" Silent that youthful warrior stood Silent he pointed to the flood All crimson with his country's blood, Then sent his last remaining dart, For answer, to the invader's heart. False flew the shaft, though pointed well ; The tyrant lived, the here fell ! Yet rnark'd the Peri where he lay, And when the rush of war was past, Swiftly descending on a ray Of morning light, she caught the last ' The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow, About the mother-tree, a pUlar'd thad."3IUton. " With this immense treasure Mamood returned to Ohizni, and in the year 400 prepared a magnificent festival, where he displayed to the people his wealth in golden throaet and other ornaments, in a great plain without the city of Ohizni." Ferithta. "Mahmoud of Gazna, or Glii/ni. who conquered India in the beginning of the eleventh centiny." "It Is reported that the huntini; equipage of the SnlUB Mahmoud was so magnificent, that he kopt Tour hundred _-r- hounds and bloodhounds, each of which \\ ore a colfcr set \\ uk jewels, and a covering edged with go'd and pear*/ 110 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Last glorious drop his heart had shed, Before its free-born spirit fled ! " Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight, " My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. Though foul are the drops that oft distil On the field of warfare, blood like this, For Liberty shed, so holy is, 1 It would not stain the purest rill That sparkles among the bowers of bliss ! Oh ! if there be, on this earthly sphere, A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, 'Tis the last libation Liberty draws From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause. " Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave The gift into his radiant hand, " Sweet is our welcome of the brave Who die thus for their native land. But see alas ! the crystal bar Of Eden moves not holier far Than even this drop the boon must be That opes the gates of heaven for thee !" Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, Now among Afric's Lunar Mountains, 9 Far to the south, the Peri lighted ; And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains Of that Egyptian tide, whose birth Is hidden from the sons of earth, Deep in those solitary woods, Where oft the Genii of the Floods Dance round the cradle of their Nile, And hail the new-born Giant's smile ! s Thence, over Egypt's palmy groves, Her grots, and sepulchres of kings, 4 1 Objections may be made to my use of the word liberty, in this, and more especially in the story that follows it, as totally inapplicable to any state of things that has ever existed in the Eaet ; but though I cannot, of course, mean to employ it in that enlarged and noble sense which is so well understood at the present day, and, I grieve to say, so little acted upon, yet it is no disparagement to the word to apply it to that national independence, that freedom from the interference and dicta- tion of foreigners, without which, indeed, no VBerty of any kind can exist, and for which both Hindoos and Persians fought against their Mussulman invaders with, in many cases, a bravery that deserved much better success. * " The Mountains of the Moon, or the Monies Lunce of an- tiquity, at the foot of which the Nile is supposed to arise." " Sometimes called," says Jackson, " Jibbel Kumrie, or the White or Lunar-colored Mountains ; so a white horse is called by the Arabians a moon-colored horse." 1 "The Nile, which the Abyssinians know by the name of Abey and Alawy, or the Giant." 4 Vide Perry's " \ iew of the Levant," for an account of the The exiled Spirit sighing roves ; And now hangs listening to the doves In warm Rosetta's vale' now loves To watch the moonlight on the wings Of the white pelicans that break The azure calm of Mceris Lake.* 'Twas a fair scene a land more bright Never did mortal eye behold ! Who could have thought, that saw this night Those valleys and their fruits of gold Basking in heaven's serenest light ; Those groups of lovely date-trees bending Languidly their leaf-crown'd heads, Like youthful maids, when sleep descending Warns them to their silken beds ; T Those virgin lilies, all the night Bathing their beauties in the lake, That they may rise more fresh and bright When their beloved Sun's awake ; Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem The relics of a splendid dream; Amid whose fairy loneliness Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard, Naught seen but (when the shadows, flitting Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam) Some purple- wing'd Sultana* sitting Upon a column, motionless And glittering, like an idol-bird ! Who could have thought, that there, even there, Amid those scenes so still and fair, The Demon of the Plague hath cast From his hot wing a deadlier blast, More mortal far than ever came From the red desert's sands of flame ! So quick, that every living thing Of human shape, touch'd by his wing, Like plants where the simoom hath pass'd > At once falls back and withering ! The sun went down on many a brow, Which, full of bloom and freshness then, Is rankling in the pesthouse now, And ne'er will feel that sun again ! sepulchres in Upper Thebes, and the numberless grots, cov- ered all over with hieroglyphics, in the mountains of Tipper Egypt. " The orchards of Rosetta are filled with turtle-deves." Savary mentions the pelicans upon Lake Mceris. 7 "The superb date-tree, whose head languidly recline? like that of a handsome woman overcome with sleep." 8 " That beautiful bird, which, from the stateliness of '*s port, as well as the brilliancy of ita colors, has obtained th title of Sultana." POEMS OF Tlln.MAS MCM>|;I:. Ill And oh ! to see the unburied heaps On which the lonely moonlight sleeps rhe very vultures turn away, And sicken at so foul a prey ! Only the fierce hysena stalks 1 Throughout the city's desolate walks At midnight, and his carnage plies Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets The glaring of those large blue eyes Amid the dai'kness of the streets ! " Poor race of men !" said the pitying spirit, " Dearly ye pay for your primal fall Some flowerets of Eden ye still inherit, But the trail of the serpent is over them all !" She wept the air grew pure and clear Around her, as the bright drops ran ; For there's a magic in each tear o Such kindly spirits weep for man ! Just then, beneath some orange-trees, Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze Were wantoning together, free, Like age at play with infancy Beneath that fresh and springing bower, Close by the lake, she heard the moan Of one who, at this silent hour, Had thither stolen to die alone. One who in life, where'er he moved, Drew after him the hearts of many ; Yet now, as though he ne'er were loved, Dies here, unseen, unwept by any ! None to watch near him none to slake The fire that in his bosom lies, With even a sprinkle from that lake Which shines so cool before his eyes. No voice, well known through many a day, To speak the last, the parting word, 'Which, when all other sounds decay, Is still like distant music heard ; That tender farewell on the shore < )f this rude world, when all is o'er, 1 Jackson, speaking of thu plague that occurred In West Barbary wtien he was there. ay*. " The bird? of the air fled away from the abodes of men. The hyaenas, on the contrary, visited the cemeteries,' &c. " Gondar was full of hya-ims from the time it turned dark till the dawn of day, seeking the different pieces of slaughtered carcasses, which this cruel and unclean people expose In the streets without burial, and who firmly believe that these ani- mals are Falashta from the neighboring mountains, trann- formed by magic, and come down to eat human flesh in the dark is safety." -Hruc*. Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark Puts off into the unknown dark. Deserted youth ! one thought alone Shed joy around his soul in death That she, whom he for years had known, And loved, and might have call'd his own. Was safe from this foul midnight'* breath ; Safe in her father's princely halls, Where the cool air from fountains falls, Freshly perfumed by many a brand Of the sweet wood from India's land, Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd. But see, who yonder comes by stealth, This melancholy bower to seek, Like a young envoy sent by Health, With rosy gifts upon her cheek ? 'Tis she far off, through moonlight dim, He knew his own betrothed bride, She who would rather die with him Than live to gain the world beside! Her arms are round her lover now, His livid cheek to hers she presses, And dips, to bind his burning brow, In the cool lake, her loosen'd tresses. Ah ! once, how little did he think An hour would come when he should shrink With horror from that dear embrace, Those gentle arms, that were to him Holy as is the cradling place Of Eden's infant cherubim ! And now he yields now turns away, Shuddering as if the venom lay All in those proffer'd lips alone Those lips that, then so fearless grown, Never until that instant came Near his unask'd, or without shame. " Oh ! let me only breathe the air, The blessed air that's breathed by thee, And, whether on its wings it bear Iloaling or death, 'tis sweet to me ! There, drink my tears, while yrt thry fall, Would that my bosom's blood wen- liaim, And, well thou knowst, I'd shed it all, To give thy brow one mimitr's calm. N"ay, turn not from me that dear faoo Am I not thine thy own loved bride The one, the chosen one, whose place In life or death is by thy side ? llli POEMS O*' THOMAS MOO11E. Thinkst thou that she, whose only light In this dim world from thee hath shone, Could bear the long, the cheerless night That must be hers when thou art gone ? That I can live, and let thee go, Who art my life itself? No, no When the stem dies, the leaf that grew Out of its heart must perish too ! Then turn to me, my own love, turn, Before like thee I fade and burn ; Cling to these yet cool lips, and share The last pure life that lingers there !" She fails she sinks as dies the lamp In charnel-airs or cavern-damp, So quickly do his baleful sighs Quench all the sweet light of her eyes ! One struggle and his pain is past Her lover is no longer living ! One kiss the maiden gives, one last, Long kiss, which she expires in giving ! " Sleep," said the Peri, as softly she stole The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast " Sleep on in visions of odor rest, In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd The enchanted pile of that holy bird Who sings at the last his own death lay, 1 And in music and perfume dies away !" Thus saying, from her lips she spread Unearthly breathings through the place, And shook her spai-kling wreath, and shed Such lustre o'er each paly face, That like two lovely saints they seem'd Upon the eve of doomsday taken From their dim graves, in odor sleeping ; While that benevolent Peri beam'd Like their good angel, calmly keeping W T atch o'er them till their souls would waken ! But morn is blushing in the sky ; Again the Peri soars above, Bearing to Heaven that precious sigh Of pure, self-sacrificing love. High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate, The Elysian palm she soon shall win, For the bright spirit at the gate Smiled as she gave that offering in ; And she already hears the trees Of Eden, with their crystal bells Ringing in that ambrosial breeze That from the throne of Alia ewells : And she can see the starry bowls That lie around that lucid lake. Upon whose banks admitted souls Their first sweet draught of glory take !" But ah ! even Peris' hopes are vain Again the Fates forbade, again The immortal barrier closed " Not yet," The Angel said, as, with regret, He shut from her that glimpse of glory " True was the maiden, and her story, Written in light o'er Alia's head, By seraph eyes shall long be read. But, Peri, see the crystal bar Of Eden moves not holier far Than even this sigh the boon must be That opes the Gates of Heaven for th-ee." Now, upon Syria's land of roses' Softly the light of Eve reposes, And, like a glory, the broad sun Haners over sainted Lebanon : O 7 Whose head in wintry grandeur towers, And whitens with eternal sleet, While summer, in a vale of flowers, Is sleeping rosy at his feet. To one who look'd from upper air O'er all the enchanted regions there, How beauteous must have been the giow, The life, the sparkling fro-m below ! Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks Of golden melons on their banks, O f More golden where the sun-light falls j Gay lizards, glittering on the walls* Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright 1 "In the East they suppose the Phoenix to have fifty orifi- ces it his bill, which are continued to his tail ; and that, after living one thousand years, he builds himself a funeral pile, *ings a melodious air of different harmonies through his fifty organ pipes, flaps his winjjs with a velocity which sets tire to tie wood, and consumes hiinse-if." a On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thousand goblets, made of stars, out of which souls predestined to enjoy felicity drink the crystal wave. From Chateaubriand's "Mo- hammedan Paradise," in his Beauties of Christianity. 8 Richardson thinks that Syria had its name from Suri, a beautiful and delicate species of rose for which that country- has been always famous ; hence, Suristan, the Land of Hose*. 4 " The number of lizards I saw one day in the great court of the Temple of the Sun at Baalbec amounted ir many tboo POEMS OF THOMAS MOO1JF, 113 As they were all alive with light; And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks Of pigeons, settling on the rocks, With their rich restless wings, that gleam Variously in the crimson beam Of the warm west, as if inlaid With brilliants from the mine, or made Of tearless rainbows, such as span The unclouded skies of Peristan ! And then, the mingling sounds that come, Of shepherd's ancient reed, 1 with hum Of the wild bees of Palestine, Banqueting through the flowery vales ; And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, And woods, so full of nightingales ! a But naught can charm the luckless Peri ; Her soul is sad her wings are weary Joyless she sees the sun look down On that great temple, once his own,' Whose lonely columns stand sublime, Flinging their shadows from on high, Like dials, which the wizard, Time, Had raised to count his ages by ! Yet haply there may lie conceal'd Beneath those chambers of the Sun, Seine amulet of gems, anneal'd In upper fires, some tablet seal'd With the great name of Solomon, Which, spell'd by her illumined eyes, May teach her where, beneath the moon, [n earth or ocean lies the boon, Che charm, that can restore so soon An erring spirit to the skies. Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither ; Still laughs the radiant eye of heaven, Nor have the golden bowers of even (n the rich west begun to wither ; When, o'er the vale of Baalbec winging Slowly, she sees a child at play, Among the rosy wild-flowers singing, As rosy and as wild as they ; Chasing, with eager hands and eyes, winds ; the ground, the walls, and stones of the ruined build- ing* were covered with them." Bruce. 1 " The syrinx, or Pan's pipe, is still a pastoral instrument In Syria " J " The river Jordan is on both sides beset with little, thick, and pleasant woods, ainonj' which thousands of nightingales warble all together." TTitomot. 1 The Temple of the Sun at Baalbec. The beautiful blue damsel-fl That flutter'd round the jasmine stems, Like wing6d flowers or flying gems : And, near the boy, who tired with play, Now nestling 'mid the roses lay, She saw a wearied man dismount From his hot steed, and on the brink Of a small imaret's rustic fount* Impatient fling him down to drink. Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd To the fair child, who fearless sat, Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd Upon a brow more fierce than that, Sullenly tierce a mixture dire, Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire 1 In which the Peri's eye could read Dark tales of many a ruthless deed ; The ruin'd maid the shrine profaned Oaths broken and the threshold stain'd With blood of guests ! there written, all, Black as the damning drops that fall From the denouncing Angel's pen, Ere Mercy weeps them out again ! Yet tranquil now that man of crime (As if the balmy evening-time Soften'd his spirit) look'd and lay, Watching the rosy infant's play : Though still, whene'er his eye by chancr Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance Met that unclouded, joyous gaze As torches, that have burn'd all night Through some impure and godless rite, Encounter morning's glorious rays. But hark! the vesper-call to prayer, As slow the orb of daylight sets, Is rising sweetly on the air, From Syria's thousand minarets ! The boy has started from the bed* Of flowers, where he had laid his head, And down upon the tVairrant sod 4 " Yon behold there a considerable number of a remarkable species of beautiful insects, the elegance o. wnosc appear- ance, and their attire, procured for them the name of Dam scls." * Imaret " hospice ou on loge ct mmrrlt, gratis, les |>61erin pendant trois jours." Toderini. "Such Turks as at the common hours of prayer are on the road, or so employed as not to find convenience to attend the mosques, are still obliged to execute that duty: nor are they ever known to (all, whatever business they are then about, but pray immediately when the hour alarms them, in that very place they chance to stand on." Aaron HUT* Trvlt 114 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Kneels, with his forehead to the south, Lisping the eternal name of God From pui'ity's own cherub mouth, And looking, while his hands and eyes Are lifted to the glowing skies, Like a stray babe of Paradise, Just lighted on that flowery plain, And seeking for its home again ! Oh 'twas a sight that heaven that child A scene which might have well beguiled Even haughty Eblis of a sigh For glories lost and peace gone by ! And how felt Ae, the wretched man Reclining there while memory ran O'er many a year of guilt and strife, Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, Nor found one sunny resting-place, Nor brought him back one branch of grace ! ; ' There was a time," he said, in mild, Heart-humbled tones, "thou blessed child! When young, and haply pure as thou, I look'd and pray'd like thee ; but now " He hung his head each nobler aim And hope and feeling, which had slept From boyhood's hour, that instant came Fresh o'er him, and he wept he wept ! Blest tears of soul-felt penitence ! In whose benign, redeeming flow Is felt the first, the only sense Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. " There's a drop," said the Peri, " that down from the moon Falls through the withering airs of June Upon Egypt's land, 1 of so healing a power, .So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour That drop descends, contagion dies, And health reanimates earth and skies ! Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin, The precious tears of repentance fall ? Though foul thy fiery plagues within, One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all !" And now behold him kneeling there O By the child's side, in humble prayer, While the same sunbeam shines upon 1 The Nncia, or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt pre- llsely on St. John's Day, in June, and is supposed to have the iffect of stopping the plague. The guilty and the guiltless one, And hymns of joy proclaim through heaven The triumph of a soul forgiven ! 'Twas when the golden orb had set, While on their knees they linger'd yet, There fell a light, more lovely far Than ever came from sun or star, Upon the tear that, warm and meek, Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek : To mortal eye this light might seem A northern flash or meteor beam But well the enraptured Peri knew 'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw From heaven's gate, to hail that tear Her harbinger of glory near 1 " Joy, joy forever ! my task is done The Gates are pass'd, and heaven is won ! Oh ! am I not happy ? I am, I am To thee, sweet Eden ! how dark and saJ Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam," And the fragrant bowers of-Amberabad ! " Farewell, ye odors of earth, that die, Passing away like a lover's sigh ; My feast is now of the Tooba tree, 3 Whose scent is the breath of Eternity ! " Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief, Oh, what are the brightest that e'er have blown, To the lote-tree spring by Alla's throne, 4 Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf! Joy, joy forever! my task is done The gates are pass'd, and heaven is won !" " And this," said the Great Chamberlain, " is poetry ! this flimsy manufactTire of the brain, which, in comparison with the lofty and durable monuments of genius, is as the a The Country of Delight the name of a province in the kingdom of Jinnistan or Fairy Land, the capital of which it called " The City of Jewels." Amherabad is another of the cities of Jinnistan. * " The tree Tooba, that stands in Paradise, in the palace of Mohammed." Touba signifies eternal happiness. 4 Mohammed is described, in the fifty-third chapter of the Koran, as having seen the angel Gabriel " by the lote-tree, beyond which there is no passing : near it is the Garden of Eternal Abode." This tree, say the commentators, stands in the seventh heaven, OD ihe right hand of the throne of God. POEMS OF THOMAS MOO I IK. 115 filigree-work of Zamara beside the eter- Jiul architecture of Egypt!" After this gorgeous sentence, which, with a few more of the same kind. Fadladeen kept by him for rare and important occasions, he proceeded to the anatomy of the short poem just re- cited. The lax and easy kind of metre in which it was written ought to be denounced, he said, as one of the leading causes of the alarming growth of poetry in our times. If some check were not given to this lawless facility, we should soon be overrun by a race of bards as numerous and as shallow as the hundred and twenty thousand streams of Basra. ' They who succeeded in this style deserved chastisement for their very success ; as warriors have been punished, even after gaining a victory, because they had taken the liberty of gaining it in an irregular or unestablished manner. What, then, was to be said to those who failed ? to those who presumed, as in the present lamentable in- stance, to imitate the licence and ease of the bolder sons of song, without any of that grace or vigor which gave a dignity even to negligence; who, like them, flung the jereed 8 carelessly, but not like them, to the mark ; " and who," said he, raising his voice to excite a proper degree of wakefulness in his hearers, " contrive to appear heavy and constrained in the midst of all the latitude they have allowed themselves, like one of those young pagans that dance before the Princess, who has the ingenuity to move as if her limbs were fettered, in a pair of the light- est and loosest drawers of Masulipatam !" It was but little suitable, he continued, to the grave march of criticism to follow this fantastical Peri, of whom they had just heard, through all her flights and adventures between earth and heaven, but he could not help adverting to the puerile conceitedness of the Three Gifts which she is supposed to curry to the skies, a drop of blood, forsooth, a sigh, and a tear ! How the first of these articles was delivered into the Angel's " radi- ant hand" he professed himself at a loss to 1 " It ie paid that the rivers or streams of Basra were reck- oned in the time of Belal Ben Abl Bordeh, and amounted to the number of one hundred and twenty thousand streams." i " The name of the javelin with which the Easterns exer- ttae." discover ; and as to the safe carriage of tlio sigh and tear, such Peris and such poets were beings by far too incomprehensible for him even to guess how they managed such matters. " But, in short," said he, " it is a waste of time and patience to dwell longer upon a thing so incurably frivolous, puny even among its own puny race, and such as only the Banian Hospital* for Sick Insects should undertake." In vain did Lalla Rookh try to soften this inexorable critic ; in vain did she resort to her most eloquent commonplaces, re- minding him that poets were a timid and sensitive race, whose sweetness was not to be drawn forth,* like that of the fragrant grass near the Ganges, by crushing and trampling upon them ; that severity often destroyed every chance of the perfection which it demanded ; and that, after all, per- fection was like the Mountain of the Talis- man, no one had ever yet reached its summit.* Neither these gentle axioms, nor the still gentler looks with which they were inculcated, could lower for one instant the elevation of Fadladeen's eyebrows, or charm him into anything like encouragement or even toleration of her poet. Toleration, indeed, was not among the weaknesses of Fadladeen ; he cai'ried the same spirit into matters of poetry and of religion, and, though little versed in the beauties or sublimities of either, was a perfect master of the art of persecution in both. His zeal, too, was the same in either pursuit ; whether the game before him was pagans or poetasters, worshippers of cows, or writers of epics. * "This account excited a desire of Tisiting the Banian Hoc pital, as I had heard much of their benevolence to all kinds of animals that were either sick, lame, or infirm, through age or accident. On ray arrival there were presented to my view many horses, cows, and oxen, in one apartment; in another, dogs, sheep, coats, and monkeys, with clean straw fur them to repose on. Above-stairs were depositories for seeds of many sorts, and flat, broad dishes for water, for the nseof birds and insects." Partorui. It is said that all animals know the Banians, that the most timid approach them, and that birds will fly nearer to them than to ot her people. Vidt Grandprv. " A very fragrant grass from the banks of the Ganges, near Heridwar, which in some places covers whole acres, and dlf roses when crushed a strong odor." Sir W, Jontt on Uu Spikenard of tht Anciml*. "Near this is a curious hill, called KohTallsm, the 'Moun- tain of the Talisman,' because, according to the tradltlocs r f the country, no person tver succeeded in gaining lu summit " 116 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. They had now arrived at the splendid city of Lahore, whose mausoleums and shrines, magnificent and numberless, where death seemed to share equal honors with Heaven, would have powerfully affected the heart and imagination of Lalla Rookh, if feelings more of this earth had not taken entire possession of her already. She was here met by mes- sengers, despatched from Cashmere, who in- formed her that the King had arrived in the valley, and was himself superintending the sumptuous preparations that were making in the saloons of the Shalimar for lie-r reception. .The chill she felt on receiving this intelli- gence, which to a bride whose heart w:is free and light would have brought only images of affection and pleasure, convinced O -f. J her that her peace was gone forever, and that she was in love irretrievably in love with young Feramorz. The veil, which this passion wears at first, had fallen off, and to know that she loved was now as painful as to love without knowing it had been delicious. Feramorz too what misery would be his, if the sweet hours of intercourse so imprudently allowed them should have stolen into his heart the same fatal fascination as into hers; if, notwithstanding her rank, and the modest homage he always paid to it, even he should have yielded to the i r .ri'Aence of those long and happy interviews, where music, poetry, the delightful scenes of Tiature all tended to bring their hearts close together, and to waken, by every mesns, that too ready pas- sion, which often, like the young of the desert-bii'd, is warmed into life by the eyes alone I 1 She saw but one way to preserve herself from being culpable as well as un- happy, and this, however painful, she was resolved to adopt. Feramorz must no more be admitted to her presence. To have strayed so far into the dangerous labyrinth was wrong, but to linger in it, while the clue was yet in her hand, would be criminal. Though the heart she had to offer to the Kinor of Bucharia might be cold and broken. O C9 ' it should at least be pure : and she must only try to forget the short vision of happiness she had enjoyed, like that Arabian shepherd, > "The Arabians believe that the ostriches hatch their rounu by only looking at them." who, in wandering into the wilderness, caught a glimpse of the Gardens of Irira and then lost them again forever !* The arrival of the young Bride at Lahore was celebrated in the most enthusiastic man- ner. The Rajas and Omras in her train, who had kept at a certain distance during the journey, had never encamped nearer to the Princess than was strictly necessary for her safeguard, here rode in splendid caval- cade through the city, and distributed the most costly presents to the crowd. Engines were erected in all the squares, which cast forth showers of confectionery among the people ; while the artisans, in chariots adorned with tinsel and flying streamers, ex- hibited the badges of their respective trades through the streets. Such brilliant disulays of life and pageantry among the palaces, and domes, and gilded minarets of Lahore, made the city altogether like a place of enchant- ment particularly on the day when Lalla Rookh set out again upon her journey, when she was accompanied to the gate by all the fairest and richest of the nobility, and rode along between ranks of beautiful boys and girls, who waved plates of gold and silver flowers over their heads 3 as they went, and then threw them to be gathered by the populace. For many days after their departure frcm Lahore, a considerable degree of gloom hung over the whole party. Lalla Rookh, who had intended to make illness her excuse for not admitting the young minstrel, as usual, to the pavilion, soon found that to feign in- disposition was unnecessary. Fadladeen felt the loss of the good road they had hitherto travelled, and was very near cursing Jehan- Guire (of blessed memory !) for not having continued his delectable alley of trees, 4 at 2 Vide Sale's Koran, note, vol. ii., p. 484. 3 Ferishta. " Or rather," eays Scott, upon the passage of FerishU, frcm which this is taken, " small coin, stamped with the figure of a flower. They are still used in India to distribute in char- ity, and, on occasion, thrown by the pursebearers of the great among the populace." 4 The fine road made by the Emperor Jehan-Guire from Agra to Lahore, planted with trees on each side. Thjs road is 250 leagues in length. It has " little pyramids or turrets," says Bernier, " erected every half league, to mark the ways, and freqent wells to afford drink to passengers, and to water the yountr trees " POEMS OF THOMAS MOO! IK. 117 Ka, who had nothing now to do all day but to be fanned by peacocks' feath- ers and listen to Fadladeen, seemed heartily weary of t*ie life they led, and, in spite of all the Great Chamberlain's criticisms, were tasteless enough to wish for the poet again. One evening, as they were proceeding to their place of rest for the night, the Princess, who, for the freer enjoyment of the air., had mounted her favorite Arabian palfrey, in passing by a small grove heard the notes of a lute from within its leaves, and a voice, which she but too well knew, singing the i O O following words : " Tell me not of joys above, If that world can give no bliss, Truer, happier thau the love Which enslaves our souls in this ! " Tell me not of Houris' eyes ; Far from me their dangerous glow, If those looks that light the skies Wound like sonic that burn below ! " Who that feels what love is here, All its falsehood all its pain Would, for even Elysium's sphere, Risk the fatal dream again ? * Who that midst a desert's heat Sees the waters fade away, Would not rather die than meet Streams again as false as they ?" The tone of melancholy defiance in which these words were uttered, went to Lalla llookh's heart ; and, as she reluctantly rode on, she could not help feeling it as a sad but sweet certainty, that Feramorz was to the full as enamored and miserable as herself. The place where they encamped that even- ing was the first delightful spot they had come to since they left Lahore. On one side of them was a grove full of small Hindoo temples, and planted with the most graceful trees of the East ; where the tamarind, the cassia, and the silken plantains of Ceylon were mingled in rich contrast with the high fan-like foliage of the Palmyra, that favor- ite tree of the luxurious bird that lights up the chambers of its nest with fire-flies.' In ' " The baya. or Indian gross-beak." the middle of the lawn where the pavilion Mom!, there was a tank surrounded by small mango-trees, on the clear cold waters of which floated multitudes of the beautiful r-d lotus;* while at a distance stood the ruin* of a strange and awful-looking tower, which seemed old enough to have been the temple of some religion no longer known, and which spoke the voice of desolation in the midst of ail that bloom and loveliness. This singular ruin excited the wonder and conjectures of all. Lalla Kookh guessed in vain, and the all-pretending Fadladeen, who had never till this journey been beyond the precincts of Delhi, was proceeding most learnedly to show that he knew nothing whatever about the matter, when one of the ladies suggested that perhaps Feramorz could satisfy their curiosity. They were now approaching his native mountains, and this tower might be a relic of some of those dark superstitions which had prevailed in that country before the light of Islam had dawned upon it. The Chamberlain, who usually preferred his own ignorance to the best knowledge that any one else could give him, was by no means pleased with this officious reference ; and the Princess, too, was about to interpose a faint word of objection, but, before either of them could speak, a slave was despatched for Fer- amorz, who, in a very few minutes, appeared before them, looking so pale ami unhappy in Lalla Rookh's eyes, that she already re- pented of her cruelty in having so long ex- cluded him. That venerable tower, he told them, was the remains of an ancient Fire-Temple, built by those Ghebers or Persians of the old re- ligion, who, many hundred years since, had fled hither from their Arab conquerors/ pre- ferring liberty and their altars in a foreign land to the alternative of apostasy or p< cution in their own. It was impossible, he added, not to feel interested in the many * " Here is a large pagoda by a tank, on the water of which float multitude? of the beautiful red lotus ; the flower if larger than that of the white water-lily, and is the most lovely of the nymphtcas I have seen." Mrt. GraAatn't Journal qf a Betl- dence in India. "On ICH volt, pensdcute's par les KSalife*. e rotlrcrdan* let montagncBdu Herman: plnsieure choifircnt pour retra.i* la Tartarie et la Chine ; d'autres s'arCterrnt snr les txmU di Gange, a 1'ust dc Delhi."-lT. AnywtU, Mfmoirtt dt F AcuA tmie. torn, zxzi., p. 34. 118 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. glorious hut unsuccessful struggles which had been bade by these original natives of Persia to cast off the yoke of their bigoted conquerors. Like their own fire in the Burn- ing Field at Bakou, when suppressed in one place, they had but broken out with fresh flame in another ; and, as a native of Cash- mere, of that fair and holy valley, which had in the same manner become the prey of strangers, 1 and seen her ancient shrines and native princes swept away before the march of her intolerant invaders, he felt a sympathy, he owned, with the sufferings of the perse- cuted Ghebers, which every monument like this before them but tended more powerfully to awaken. It was the first time that Feramorz had ever ventured upon so much prose before Fadladeen, and it may easily be conceived what effect such pi'ose as this must have produced upon that most orthodox and most pagan-hating personage. He sat for some minutes aghast, ejaculating only at intervals, " Bigoted conquerors ! sympathy with Fire- Worshippers !" 8 while Feramorz, happy to take advantage of this almost speechless hor- ror of the chamberlain, proceeded to say that he knew a melancholy story, connected with the events of one of those brave struggles of the Fire- Worshippers of Persia against their Arab masters, which, if the evening was not too far advanced, he should have much pleasure in being allowed to relate to the Princess. It was impossible for Lalla Rookh to refuse ; he had never before looked half so animated, and when he spoke of the Holy Valley his eyes had sparkled, she thought, like the talismanic characters on the scimitar of Solomon. Her consent was therefore most readily granted, and while Fadladeen eat in unspeakable dismay, expecting treason and abomination in every line, the poet thus began his story of the Fire-Worshippers: 1 " Cashmere," says its historians, " had its own prince? 4000 years before its conquest by Akbar in 1585. Akbar would have found some difficilty to reduce this paradise of the In- dies, situated as it is within such a fortress of mountains, but its monarch, Ynsef Kha>. t , was basely betrayed by his Omrahs." Pennant. * Voltaire tells as that in his tragedy Les Guebres, he was generally supposed to have alluded to the Jansenists 1 and I should not be surprised if this story of the Fire-Worshippeis n-ere found capable of a similar rtoubleness of application. THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 'Tis moonlight over Oman's sea ;* Her banks of pearl and palmy isles Bask in the night-beam beauteously, And her blue waters sleep in smiles. 'Tis moonlight in HarmoziaV walls, And through her Emir's porphyry halls, Where, some hours since, was heard th swell Of trumpet and the clash of zel,* Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell ; The peaceful sun, whom better suits The music of the bulbul's nest, Or the light touch of lovers' lutes, To sing him to his golden rest ! All hush'd there's not a breeze in motion ; The shore is silent as the ocean. If zephyrs come, so light they come, Nor leaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven; The wind-tower on the Emir's dome* Can hardly win a breath from heaven. Even he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps Calm, while a nation round him weeps ; While curses load the air he breathes, And falchions from unnumber'd sheaths Are starting to avenge the shame His race hath brought on Iran's 7 name. Hard, heartless Chief, unmoved alike 'Mid eyes that weep and swords that strike ; One of that saintly, murderous brood, To carnage and the Koran given, Who think through unbelievers' blood Lies their directest path to heaven. One who will pause and kneel unshod In the warm blood his hand hath pour'd, To mutter o'er some text of God Engraven on his reeking sword ;* Nay, who can coolly point the line, The letter of those words divine, To which his blade, with searching art, Had sunk into its victim's heart ! 1 The Persian Gulf. < Gombaroon, a town on the Persian side of the Ooif. A Moorish instrument of music. " At Gombaroon, and other places in Persia, they b*v towers for the ourpose of catching the wind, and cooling the aonses." 7 " Iran is the true general name for the empire of Pers a. 1 8 " On the blades of their scimitars tome verse from th Koran is usually inscribed." POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 119 Just Alia ! what must be Thy look, When such a wretch before Thee stands Unblushing, with Thy sacred book, Turning the leaves with blood-stain'd hands, And wresting from its page sublime His creed of lust and hate and crime ? Even as thos* bees of Trebizond, Which from the sunniest flowers that glad With their pure smile the gardens round, Draw venom forth that drives men mad !' Never did fierce Arabia send A satrap forth more direly great ; Never was Iran doom'd to bend Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight. Her thronehad fallen her pride was crush 'd Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush'd O 7 In their own land, no more their own, To crouch beneath a stranger's throne. Her towers, where Mithra once had burn'd, To Moslem shrines oh shame ! were turn'd, Where slaves, converted by the sword, Their mean, apostate worship pour'd, And cursed the faith their sires adored. Yet has she hearts, 'mid all this ill, O'er all this wreck, high, buoyant still With hope and vengeance; hearts that yet, Like gems, in darkness issuing rays They've treasured from the sun that's set, Beam all the light of long-lost days ! And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow To second all such hearts can dare ; As he shall know, well, dearly know, Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there, Tranquil as if his spirit lay Becalm'd in heaven's approving ray ! Sleep on for purer eyes than thine Those waves are hush'd, those planets shine. Sleep on, and be thy rest unmoved By the white moonlight's dazzling power: None but the loving and the loved Should be awake at this sweet hour. And see where, high above those rocks That o'er the deep their shadows fling, Yon turret stands ; where ebon locks, 1 " There is a kind of Rhododendron about Trebizond, nooe flowers the bee feeds upon, and the honey thence drives toad " As glossy as a heron's win<; Upon the turban of a king,* Hang from the lattice long and wild, 'Tis she, that Emir's blooming child. All truth and tenderness and grace, Though born of such ungentle race;-- An image of youth's fairy fountain Springing in a desolate mountain !' Oh. what a pure and sacred thing Is Beauty, curtain'd from the sight Of the gross world, illumining One only mansion with her light ! Unseen by man's disturbing eye, The flower that blooms beneath the sea Too deep for sunbeams doth not lie Hid in more chaste obscurity ! So, Hinda, have thy face and mind, Like holy mysteries, lain enshrined. And oh, what transport for a lover To lift the veil that shades them o'er I Like those who all at once discover In the lone deep some fairy shore, Where mortal never trod before, And sleep and wake in scented airs No lip had ever breathed but theirs ! Beautiful are the maids that glide On summer-eves through Yemen's 4 dale**. And bright the glancing looks they hide Behind their litters' roseate veils ; And brides, as delicate and fair As the white jasmine flowers they wear, Hath Yemen in her blissful clime, Who, lull'd in cool kiosk or bower,* Before their mirrors count the time,* And grow still lovelier every hour. * " Their king? wear plumes of black herons' feathers upon the right side, as a badge of sovere'.gnlty." * " The Fountain of Youth, by a Mohammedan tradition, U situated in pome dark region of the East." Arabia Felix. " In the midst of the garden is the chioek, that in, a larg room, commonly beautified with a fine fountain in the midst of it. It is raised nine or ten step*, and enclosed with gilded lattices, round which vines, jessamines, and honeysuckle* make a son of green wall ; large trees are planted round this place, which is the scene of their greatest pleasures." Ladf M. W. Montagu. The women of the East are never without their looking- glasses. " In Barbary." bays Shaw, " they are MO fond of theii looking-glasses, which they hang upon their breasts, that they will not lay them aside, even when, after the drudgery of th day, they are obliged to go two or three miles with a pitcher or a goat's fkln to fetch water." TVotW*. In other parts of Asia thi-y wear I'ttlo lookin? glasse* 120 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. But never yet hath bride or maid In Araby's gay Harams smiled, ^hose boasted brightness would not fade Before Al Hassan's blooming child. Light as the angel shapes that bless An infant's dream, yet not the less Rich in all woman's loveliness ; With eyes so pure, that from their ray Dark Vice would turn abash'd away, Blinded like serpents, when they gaze Upon the emerald's virgin blaze ! l Yet, fill'd with all youth's sweet desires, Mingling the meek and vestal fires Of other worlds with all the bliss, The fond, weak tenderness of this ! The soul, too, more than half divine, Where, through some shades of earthly feeling, Religion's soften'd glories shine, Like light through summer foliage stealing, Shedding a glow of such mild hue, So warm, and yet so shadowy too, As makes the very darkness there More beautiful than light elsewhere ! Such is the maid who, at this hour, Hath risen from her restless sleep, And sits alone in that high bower, Watching the still and moonlight deep. Ah ! 'twas not thus, with tearful eyes And beating heart, she used to gaze On the magnificent earth and s-kies, In her own land, in happier days. Why looks she now so anxious down Among those rocks, whose rugged frown Blackens the mirror of the deep ? Whom waits she all this lonely night? Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep For man to scale that turret's height ! So deem'd at least her thoughtful sire, When high, to catch the cool night-air O ' O their thumbs. "Hence and from the lotus being considered the emblem of beauty) is the meaning of the following mute Intercourse of two lovers before their parents : "He. with salute of deference due, A lotus to his forehead prest ; She raised her mirror to hie view, Then turned it inward to her breast." Asiatic Miscellany, vol. ii. > " They say that If a snake or serpent fix his eyes on the no 'tis fix'd my awful doom Is fix'd on this side of the tomb We meet no more why, why did Heaven Mingle two souls that earth has riven, Has rent asunder wide as ours ? Oh, Arab maid ! as soon the powers Of light and darkness may combine, AB I be link'd with thee or thine ! Thy father " " Holy Alia save His gray head from that lightning glance ! Thou knowst him not he loves the brave : Nor lives there under heaven's expanse One who would prize, would worship thee. And thy bold spirit, more than he. Oft when, in childhood, I have play'd With the bright falchion by his side, I've heard him swear his lisping maid In time should be a warrior's bride. And still, whene'er, at Haram hours, I take him cool sherbets and flowers, He tells me, when in playful mood, A hero shall my bridegroom be, Since maids are best in battle woo'd, And won with shouts of victory ! Nay, turn not from me thou alone Art form'd to make both hearts thy own. Go join his sacred ranks thou knowst The unholy strife these Persians wage : Good Heaven, that frown ! even now thou glowst With more than mortal warrior's rage. Haste to the camp by morning's light, And, when that sword is raised in fight, Oh, still remember love anrf I Beneath its shadow trembling lie ! One victory o'er those Slaves of Fire, Those impious Ghebers, whom my sire Abhors" " Hold, hold thy words are death !" The stranger cried, as wild he flung His mantle back, and show'd beneath The Gheber belt that round him clung. 1 " Here, maiden, look weep blush to see All that thy sire abhors in me ! Yes /am of that impious race, Those Slaves of Fire who, morn and even, Hail their Creator's dwelling-place Among the living lights of heaven !' Yes jTam of that outcast few To Iran and to vengeance true, Who curse the hour your Arabs came To desolate our shrines of flame, And swear, before God's burning eye, To break our country's chains, or die ! Thy bigot sire nay, tremble not He who gave birth to those dear eyes With me is sacred as the spot From which our fires of worship rise ! But know 'twas he I sought that night, O O * > " They (the Ghebers) lay so mnch streos on their cushe* or girdle, as not to dare to be an instant without it." "Pour se distinguer des idolatres de 1'Inde, les Guebres se ceignent tons d'un cordon de laine, ou de poil de chameau," Encyclopedie Franfoise. D'Herbelot says this belt was generally of leather. 2 " They suppose the throne of the Almighty is. seated In the snn, and hence their worship of that luminary." "As to fire, ths Ghebers place the spring-head of it in that globe of tire, the sun, by them called Mythras, or Mihir, to which they pay the highest reverence, in gratitude for thok'd. and spoke her wrongs through thee God ! who could then this sword withstand ? Its very flash were victory ! But now, estranged, divorced forever, Far as the grasp of Fate can sever Our only ties what love has wove Faith, friends, and country, sunder'd wide ; And then, then only true to love, When false to all that's dear beside ! Thy father Iran's deadliest foe Thyself, perhaps, even now but no Hate never look'd so lovely yet ! No sacred to thy soul will be The land of him who could forget All but that bleeding land for thee ! When other eyes shall see, unmoved, Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, Thou'lt think how well one Gheber loved, And for his sake thou'lt weep for all ! But look " With sudden start he turn'd And pointed to the distant wave, Where lights, like charnel meteors, burn'd Blnely, as oYr some sramanV grave; And fiery darts, at interval^, 1 Flew up all sparkling from the main, As if each star that nightly falls, Were shooting back to heaven again. " My signal lights ! I must away Both, both are ruin'd, if I stay. Farewell, sweet life ! thou clingst in vain Now, vengeance, I am thine again !" Fiercely he broke away, nor stoppM, Nor look'd but from the lattice dropp'd Down mid the pointed crags beneath, As if he fled from love to death. While pale and mute young Iliuda stood, Nor moved, till in the silent flood A momentary plunge below Startled her from her trance of woe ; Shrieking she to the lattice flew, " I come I come if in that tide Thou sleepst to-night I'll sleep there too, In death's cold wedlock by thy side. Oh, I would ask no happier bed Than the chill wave ray love lies under; ; Sweeter to rest together dead, Far sweeter, than to live asunder !" But no their hour is not yet come Again she sees his pinnace fly, Wafting him fleetly to his home, Where'er that ill-starr'd home may lie; And calm and smooth it seem'd to win Its moonlight way before the wind, As if it bore all peace within, Nor left one breaking heart behind ! The Princess, whose heart was sad enough already, could have wished that Feramorz had chosen a less melancholy story ; as it is only to the happy that tears are a luxury. Her ladies, however, were by no means sorry that love was once more the poet's thenu> : for when he spoke of love, they said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree which grows over the tomb of the musician, Tan-Sein. 1 1 " The Mamelukes that were tn the other boat, when tt wa dark, used to shoot up a sort of fiery arrows Into the air, winch, in some measure, rcsomhU'd lightning or foiling stare." 1 " At Gnaltor is a small tomb to the memory of Tan-Sein. a musician of Incomparable skill, who flourished at the court of Akbar. The tomb is overshadowed by a tree, concerning which a superstitious notion iirevails. that the chewinp oflto ! leaves will give an extraordinary melody to the vj ;e. ' ; Joumevfrom Agra to On:(t. !"j it". Ilimttr, Ktq 1-24 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Their road all the morning had lain through a very dreary country through valleys, cov- ered with a low bushy jungle, where, iu more than one place, the awful signal of the bam- boo staff, 1 with the white flag at its top, reminded the traveller that in that very spot the tiger had made some human creature his victim. It was therefore with much pleasure- that they arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen, and encamped under one of those holy trees, whose smooth columns and spreading roofs seem to destine them for natural temples of religion. Beneath the bade, some pious hands had erected pillars,' 2 ornamented with the most beautiful porce- lain, which now supplied the use of mirrors to the young maidens, as they adjusted their hair in descending from the palankeens. Here while, as usual, the Princess sat listen- ing anxiously, with Fadladeen in, one of his loftiest moods of criticism by her side, the young poet, leaning against a branch of the tree, thus continued his story : The morn has risen clear and calm, And o'er the Green Sea" palely shines, Revealing Bahrein's groves of palm, And lighting KishmaV amber vines. Fi'esh smell the shores of Araby, While breezes from the Indian Sea Blow round SelamaV sainted cape, And curl the shining flood beneath, Whose waves are rich with many a grape, And cocoanut and flowery wreath, Which pious seamen, as they pass'd, Have toward that holy headland cast Oblations to the genii there For gentle skies and breezes fair ! 1 "It is usual to place a small white triangular flag, fixed to bamboo staff of ten or twelve feet long, at the piece where a tiger has destroyed a man. The sight of these flags imparts a certain melancholy, not perhaps altogether void of appre- hension." Oriental Field Sports, vol. ii. * " The Fieus indica is called the Pagod Tree and Tree of Council.* ; the first from the idols placed under its shade ; the second, because meetings were held under its cool branches. In some places it is be.ieved to be the haunt of spectres, as the ancient spreading oaks of Wales have been of fairies ; in others are erected beneath the shade pillars of stone, or posts, elegantly carved and ornamented with the most beautiful por- celain to supply the use of mirrors." Pennant. The Persian Gulf. 4 Islands in the Gulf. Or Sclemeh, the genuine name of the headland at the en- lri>c<> of the Gulf, commonly called Cape Musseldom. The nightingale now bends her flight* From the high trees, where all the nisfht She sung so sweet, with none to listen ; And hides her from the morning star Where thickets of'pomegranate glisten In the clear dawn, bespangled o'er With dew, whose night-drops would not stain The best and brightest scimitar' That ever youthful sultan wore On the first morning of his reign! o o And see the sun himself ! on wing* Of glory up the east he springs. Angel of light ! who from the time Those heavens began their march sublime, Has first of all the starry chdir Trod in his Maker's steps of fire ! Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere When Iran, like a sun-flower, turn'd To meet that eye where'er it burn'd? When, from the banks of Bendemeer To the nut-groves of Samarcand Thy temples flamed o'er all the land ? Where are they ? ask the shades of them Who, on CadessiaV bloody plains, Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem From Iran's broken diadem, And bind her ancient faith in chains : Ask the poor exile, cast alone On foreign shores, unloved, unknown, Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates,' Or on the snowy Mossian Mountains, Far from his beauteous land of dates, Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains t Yet happier so than if he trod His own beloved but blighted sod, Beneath a despot stranger's nod ! Oh ! he would rather houseless i-oam Where Freedom and his God may lead, Than be the sleekest slave at home That crouches to the conqueror's creed ' " The nightingale sings from the pomegranate-groves in the day-time, and from the loftiest trees at night." ItusaeTt Aleppo. 7 In speaking of the climate of Shiraz, Francklin says, " The dew is of such a pure nature that, if the brightest scinii tar should be exposed to it all night, it would not receive the least rust." 8 The place where the Persians were finally defeated by the Arabs, and their ancient monarchy destroyed. Derbeud. " Les Turcs appellent cette ville Demir Capt Porte de For ; ce sont les Caspiae Port"! des anciens." 1OEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. (s Iran's pride then gone forever, Quench'd with the flame in Mil lira's caves? No she has sons that never never Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves, While heaven has light or earth lias graves. Spirits of fire, that brood not long, Hut flash resentment back for wrong ; And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds Of vengeance ripen into deeds, Till, in some treacherous hour of calm, They burst, like Zeilan's giant palm, 1 Whose buds fly open with a sound That shakes the pigmy forests round ! Ves, Emir ! he who scaled that tower, And, could he reach thy slumbering breast, Would teach thee, in a Gheber's power How safe even tyrant heads may rest Is one of many, brave as he, Who loathe thv haughxy race and thee; * O J Who, though they know the strife is vain, Who, though they know the riven chain iSnaps but to enter in the heart Of him who rends its links apart, Yet dare the issue, blest to be Even for one bleeding moment free, And die in pangs of liberty ! Thou knowst them well 'tis some moons since Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags, Thou satrap of a bigot prince ! Have swarm'd among these Green Sea crags ; Yet here, even here, a sacred band, Ay, in the portal of that land Thou, Arab, darest to call thy own, Their spears across thy path have thrown ; Here ere the winds half-wing'd thee o'er Rebellion braved thee from the shore. Rebellion ! foul, dishonoring word, Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd The holiest cause that tongue or sword Of mortal ever lost or gain'd. How many a spirit, born to bless, * sunk beneath that withering name, 1 "The Talpot or Talipot Palm Tree. Tha sheath which envelop? the flower la very large, and, when it bursts, make? u explosion like the report of a cannon." Thunbery. Whom but a day's, an hours success, Had walled to eternal fame! As exhalations, when they burst From the warm earth, if ehill'd at first, If check'd in soaring from the plain, Darken to fogs, and sink again ; But if they once triumphant spread Their wings above the mountain-head, Become enthroned in upper air, And turn to sun-bright glories there ! And who is he that wields the might Of freedom on the Green Sea brink, Before whose sabre's dazzling lijjht* o o The eyes of Yeman's warriors wink ? Who comes embower'd in the spears Of Kerman's hardy mountaineers? Those mountaineers that truest,- last, Cling to their country's ancient rites, As if that God, whose eyelids cast Their closing gleam on Iran's heights, O O 01 Among her snowy mountains threw The last light of His worship too ! 'Tis Hafed name of fear, whose sound Chills like the muttering of a charm: Shout but that awful name around, And palsy shakes the manliest arm. 'Tis Hafed, most accurst and dire (So rank'd by Moslem hate and ire) Of all the rebel Sons of Fire ! Of whose malign, tremendous power The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour, Such tales of fearful wonder tell, That each affrighted sentinel Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes, Lest Hafed in the midst should rise ! A man, they say, of monstrous birth, A mingled race of flame and earth, Sprung from those old, enchanted kings Who in their fairy helms, of yore, A feather from the mystic wings Of the Simoorgh resistless wore ; And gifted, by the fiends of fire, Who groan'd to see their shrines expire, 1 " When the bright ciraitcrs muku the eye* . ''. vc be wink." Tht Moltakat, I'oetm qf Arnru. * Tahmnras, and other ancient kings of Persia ; * hose ad* venture* in Fairy Land, among the Perls and Dives, may b found in Richardson's Dissertation. The griftln Simoorgh, they say, took some feathers from her bread for Tahrauraa, with which he adorned his helmet, and transmitted Uiea afterward to his descendants. 126 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. With charms that, all in vain withstood, Would drown the Koran's light in blood ! Snch were the tales that won belief, And such the coloring fancy gave To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief, One who, no more than mortal brave, Fought for the land his soul adored, For happy homes and altars free, His only talisman the sword, His only spell-word, Liberty ! One of that ancient hero line, Along whose glorious current shine Names that have sanctified their blood ; As Lebanon's small mountain-flood Is render'd holy by the ranks 1 Of sainted cedars on its banks !* 'Twas not for him to crouch the knee Tamely to Moslem tyranny : 'Twas not for him, whose soul was cast In the bright mould of ages past. Whose melancholy spirit, fed With all the glories of the dead, Though framed for Iran's happiest years, Was born among her chains and tears ! 'Twas not for him to swell the crowd Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow'd Before the Moslem as he pass'd, Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast ; No far he fled indignant fled The pageant of his country's shame ; While every tear her children shed Fell on his soul like drops of flame ; And as a lover hails the dawn Of a first smile, so welcomed he The sparkle of the first sword drawn For vengeance and for liberty ! But vain was valor vain the flower Of Kerinan, in that deathful hour, Against Al Hassan's whelming power. In vain they met him, helm to helm, Upon the threshold of that realm He came in bigot pomp to sway, 1 In the Lettres Edifiantes, there is a different cause as- igned for its name of holy. "In these are deep caverns, which formerly served as so many cells for a great number of recluses, who had chosen these retreats as the only witnesses upon the earth of the severity of their penance. The tears of these pious penitents gave the river of which we have just treated the name of the Holy River." Vide Chateaubriand's '* Beauties of Christianity." " Tis riTulet," says Dandini, "is called the Holy River, Yarn the tedar-sainU' anong which it rise*. 1 ' And with their corpses block'd his way ; In vain for every lance they raised Thousands around the conqueror blazed j For every arm that lined their shore, Myriads of slaves were wafted o'er, A bloody, bold, and countless crowd, Before whose swarm as fast they bow'd As dates beneath the locust-cloud ! There stood but one short league away From old Harmozia's sultry bay A rocky mountain o'er the Sea* Of Oman beetling awfully, A last and solitary link Of those stupendous chains that reach From the broad Caspian's reedy brink Down winding to the Green Sea beacb Around its base the bare rocks stood, Like naked giants in the flood, As if to guard the gulf across ; While on its peak, that braved the sky A ruin'd temple tower'd so high That oft the sleeping albatross 4 Struck the wild ruins with her wing, And from her cloud-rock'd slumberiu,. Started to find man's dwelling there In her own silent fields of air ! Beneath, terrific caverns gave Dark welcome to each stormy wave That dash'd, like midnight revellers, in ; And such the strange, mysterious din At times throughout those caverns roll'd,-* And such the fearful wonders told Of restless sprites imprison'd there, That bold were Moslem who would dare, At twilight hour, to steer his skiff Beneath the Gheber's lonely clifl*' On the land side, those towers sublime,. That seem'd above the grasp of Time, Were sever'd from the haunts of men By a wide, deep, and wizard glen, * This mountain is my own creation, as the " stupeuc OB chain" of which I suppose it a link does not extend qcile e far as the shore of the Persian Gulf. These birds sleep in the air. They are most common about the Cape of Good Hope. * "There is an extraordinary hill in the neighborhood, called Kohe Gubr, or the Guebre's mountain. It rises in the form of a lofty cupola, and on the summit of it, they say, are the remains of Atush Kudu or Fire Temple. It is supersti- tiously held to be the residence of Beeves or Sprites, and many marvellous stories are recounted of the injury and witch- craft suffered by those who essayed in former days to ascend or explore it." Pottinger's Beloochistan. PnK.MS nl-' TIIo.MAS MOOKK. 1-27 So fathomless, so full of gloom, No eye could pierce the void between; It se Dispersed and wild, 'twixt earth and sky Hangs like a shatter'd canopy ! There's not a cloud in that blue plain But tells of storm to come or past ; Here, flying loosely as the mane Of a young war-horse in the blast; There, roll'd in masses dark and swelling,. As proud to be the thunder's dwelling ! While some, already burst and riven, Seem melting down the verge of heaven ; As though the infant storm had rent The mighty womb that gave him birth. And, having swept the firmament, Was now in fierce career for earth. On earth 'twas all yet calm around, A pulseless silence, dread, profound, More awful than the tempest's sound. The diver steer'd for Ormus' bowers, And moor'd his skiff till calmer hours; The sea-birds, with portentous screech, Flew fast to land ; upon the beach The pilot oft had paused with glance Turn'd upward to that wild expanse ; And all was boding, drear, and dark As her own soul, when Hinda's bark Went slowly from the Persian shore. No music timed her parting oar,* Nor friends upon the lessening strand 4 " The sweet-scented violet is one of the plants most es- teemed, particularly for its great use in Sorbet, which they make of violet sugar." Hasselquist. "The sherbet they most esteem, and which is drunk by the- Grand Signor himself, is made of violets and sugar." Tavernier. ' " Last of all she took a guitar, and sung a pathetic air in the measure called Nava, which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers." Persian Tiles. * "The Easterns used to set out on their longer vr with music." POEMS OF THOMAS MOO UK. 131 Lingered to wave the unseen hand, Or speak the farewell, heard no more ; But lone, unheeded, from the bay The vessel takes its mournful way, Like some ill-destined bark that steers In silence through the Gate of Tears. 1 And where was stern Al Hassan then ? Could not that saintly scourge of men From bloodshed and devotion spare One minute for a farewell there ? No close within, in changeful fits Of cursing and of prayer, he sits In savage loneliness to brood Upon the coming night of blood, With that keen, second-scent of death, By which the vulture smift's his food In the still warm and living breath !' Whilo o'er the wave'his weeping daughter Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter, As a young bird of Babylon, Let loose to tell of victory won, Flies home, with wing, ah ! not unstain'd By the red hands that held her chain'd. And does the long-left home she seeks Light up no gladness on her cheeks ? The flowers she nursed the well-known groves, Where oft in dreams her spirit roves Once more to see her dear gazelles Come bounding with their silver bells ; Her birds' new plumage to behold, And the gay, gleaming fishes count, She left, all filleted with gold, Snooting around their jasper fount. 1 Her little garden mosque to see, And once again, at evening hour, To tell her ruby rosary 4 In her own sweet acacia bower. 1 " The Gate of Tears, the straits or passage into the Red Bea, called Babelmandeb. It received this name from the danger of the navigation and the number of shipwrecks by which it was dietini;uished ; which induced them to consider as dead all who had the boldness to hazard the passage tlnough it into the Kthiopic ocean." - " I have been told that, whensoever an animal falls down Jfud. one or more vultures, unseen before, instantly appear." ' " The Empress of Jehan-Gnire used to divert herself with feeding tame flab, in her canals, some of which were many years afterward known by fillets of gold which nhe caused to \c put round them." 4 Le Tespih, qui cst un cbapclct, compose' de 09 petitct onles d'agathe, de jaspe, d'ambre, de corail, on d'antre nmti- ire prticieuse. J'en ai vn nn snpcrbe au Seigneur Jcrpos ; 11 *toit de belles et grosses perles parfaites et egales, estlme' ~ente mille piastres." Toderini. Can these delights, that wait her LOW, Call up no sunshine on her brow ? No ; silent, from her train apart, As if even now she felt at heart The chill of her approaching doom, She sits, all-lovely in her gloom As a pale angel of the grave ; And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave, Looks, with a shudder, to those towers, Where, in a few short awful hours, Blood, blood, in steaming tides shall run, Foul incense for to-morrow's sun ! " Where art thou, glorious stranger ! thou, So loved, so lost, where art thou now ? Foe Gheber infidel whate'er The unhallow'd name thou'rt doom'd to bear, Still glorious still to this fond heart Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art ! Yes Alia, dreadful Alia ! yes If there be wrong, be crime in this, Let the black waves that round us roll Whelm me this instant, ere my soul, Forgetting faith, home, father, all Before its earthly idol fall, Nor worship even thyself above him. For oh ! so wildly do I love him, Thy Paradise itself were dim And joyless, if not shared with him !" Her hands were clasp'd her eyes upturn'd, Dropping their tears like moonlight rain , And though her lip, fond raver, burn'd With words of passion, bold, profane, Yet was there light around her brow A holiness in those dark eyes, Which show'd though wandering earth- ward now, Her spirit's home was in the skies. Yes, for a spirit pure as hers Is always pure, even while it errs ; As sunshine, broken in the rill, Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still ! So wholly had her mind forgot All thoughts but one, she heedel not The rising storm the wave that east A moment's midnight, as it pass'd Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread Of gathering tumult o'er her head Clash'd swords, and tongues that seem'd lo ri With the rude riot of the sky. 132 TOEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. But hark ! that warwhoop on the deck That crash, as if each engine there, Masts, sails, and all were gene to wreck, Mid yells and stampings of des-pair ! Merciful Heaven ! what can it be ? Tis not the storm, though fearfully The ship has shudder' d as she rode O'er mountain waves " Forgive me, God ! Forgive me," shriek'd the maid, and knelt, Trembling all over. for she felt O * As if her judgment-hour was near; While crouching round, half dead with fear, Her handmaids clung, nor breathed, nor stirr'd When, hark ! a second crash a third ; And now, as if a bolt of thunder Had riven the laboring planks asunder, The deck falls in what horrors then ! Blood, waves, and tackle, swords and men Come mix'd together through the chasm ; Some wretches in their dying spasm Still fighting on and some that call " For God and Iran !" as they fall. Whose was the hand that turn'd away The perils of the infuriate fray, And snatch'd her breathless from beneath This wilderment of wreck and death ? She knew not for a faintness came Chill o'er her, and her sinking frame Amid the ruins of that hour Lay like a pale and scorched flower, Beneath the red volcano's shower ! But oh ! the sights and sounds of dread That shock'd her, ere her senses fled ! The yawning deck the crowd that strove Upon the tottering planks above The sail, whose fragments, shivering o'er The stragglers' heads, all dash'd with gore, Flutter'd like bloody flags the clash Of sabres, and the lightning's flash Upon their blades, high toss'd about Like meteor brands' as if throughout The elements one fury ran, One general rage, that left a doubt Which was the fiercer, Heaven or man ! Once, too but no it could not be 'Twas fancy all yet once she thought, While yet her fading eyes could see, 1 The meteor* that Pliny calls " Faces." High on the ruin'd deck she caught A glimpse of that unearthly form, That glory of her soul, even then, Amid the whirl of wreck and storm, Shining above his fellow-men, As, on some black and troublous night, The star of Egypt,' whose proud light Never has beam'd on those who rest In the White Islands of the West, Burns through the storm with looks of flame That put heaven's cloudier eyes to shame But no 'twas but the minute's dream A fantasy and ere the scream Had half-way pass'd her pallid lips, A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse Of soul and sense its darkness spread Around her, and she sunk, as dead ! How calm, how beautiful comes on The stilly hour, when storms are gone ; When warring winds have died away, And clouds, beneath the glancing ray, Melt off, and leave the land and sea Sleeping in bright tranquillity, FYesh as if day again were born, Again upon the lap of Morn ! When the light blossoms, rudely torn And scatter'd at the whirlwind's will, Hang floating in the pure air still, Filling it all with precious balm, In gratitude for this sweet calm ; And every drop the thunder showers Have left upon the grass and flowers Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem* Whose liquid flame is born of them ! When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze, There blow a thousand gentle airs, And each a different perfume bears, As if the loveliest plants and trees Had vassal breezes of their own To watch and wait on them alone, And waft no other breath than theirs ! When the blue waters rise and fall, In sleepy sunshine mantling all ; And even that swell the tempest leaves Is like the full and silent heaves 8 " The brilliant Canopus, unseen in European climates." 3 A precious stone of the Indies, called by the ancient* ceraunium, because it was supposed to be found in plac<>i where thunder had fallen. Tertnllian says it has a glittering appearance, as if there had been fire in it ; and others supi'O^ it to be the opal. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest, Too newly to be quite at rest ! Such was the golden hour that broke Upon the world, when Him la woke From her lone: trance, and heard around O ' No motion but the water's sound Rippling against the vessel's side, As slow it mounted o'er the tide. But where is she ? her eyes are dark, Are wilder'd still is this the bark, The same, that from Harmozia's bay Bore her at morn whose bloody way The sea-dog tracks ? no strange and new Is all that meets her wondering view. Upon a galliot's deck she lies, Beneath no rich pavilion's shade, No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes, Nor jasmine on her pillow laid. But the rude litter, roughly spread With war-cloaks, is her homely bed, And shawl and sash, on javelins hung, For awning o'er her head are flung. Shuddering she look'd around there lay A group of warriors in the sun Resting their limbs, as for that day Their ministry of death were done. Some gazirg on the drowsy sea, Lost in unconscious reverie ; And some, who eeem'd but ill to brook That sluggish calm, with many a look To the slack sail impatient cast, As loose it flagg'd around the mast. Blest Alia ! who shall save her now ? There's not in all that warrior-band One Arab sword, one turban'd brow, From her own faithful Moslem land. Their garb the leathern belt that wraps Each yellow vest 1 that rebel hue The Tartar fleece upon their caps' Yes yes her fears are all too true, And Heaven hath, in this dreadful hour, Abandon'd her to Hafed's power ; Hafed, the Gheber ! at the thought Her very heart's-blood chills within ; He, whom her soul was hourly taught To loathe, as some foul fiend of sin, i The Ohebers are known by a dark yellow color which the raeu affect in their clothes." " The Kolah, or cap, worn by the Persians, is made of the tkin of tho sheep of Tartary." Some minister whom hell had scut To spread its blast where'er he went, And ^ing, as o'er our earth he trod, His shadow betwixt man and God ! And she is now his captive, thrown In his fierce hands, alive, alone ; His the infuriate band she sees, All infidels all enemies ! What was the daring hope that then Cross'd her like lightning, as again, With boldness that despair had lent, She darted through that armed crowd A look so searching, so intent, That even the sternest warrior bow'd Abash'd, when he her glances caught, As if he guess'd whose form they sought ? But no she sees him not 'tis gone, The vision, that before her shone Through all the maze of blood and storm, Is fled 'twas but a phantom form One of those passing rainbow dreams, Half light, half shade, which Fancy's beami Paint on the fleeting mists that roll In trance or slumber round the soul ! But now the bark, with livelier bound, Scales the blue wave the crew's id motion The oars are out, and with light sound Break the bright mirror of the ocean, Scattering its brilliant fragments round. And now she sees with horror sees Their course is toward that mountain hold, Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze, Where Mecca's godless enemies Lie, like beleaguer'd scorpions, roll'd In their last deadly, venomous fold ! Amid the illumined land and flood Sunless that mighty mountain stood , Save where, above its awful head, There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red, As 'twere the flag of destiny Hung out to mark where death would be 1 Had her bewilder'd mind tho power Of thought in this terrific hour, She well might marvel where or how Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow Since ne'er had Arab heard or known Of path but through the glen alone. But every thought is lost in fear. 134 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. When, as their bounding bark drew near The craggy base, she felt the waves Hurry them toward those dismal caves That from the deep in windings pass Beneath that mount's volcanic mass And loud a voice on deck commands To lower the mast and light the brands ! Instantly o'er the dashing tide Within a cavern's mouth they glide, Gloomy as that eternal porch Through which departed spirits go ; Not even the flare of brand and torch Its flickering light could further throw Than the thick flood that boil'd below. Silent they floated as if each Sat breathless, and too awed for speech In that dark chasm, where even sound Seem'd dark, so sullenly around The goblin echoes of the cave Mutter'd it o'er the long black wave, As 'twere some secret of the grave ! But soft they pause the current turns Beneath them from its onward track ; Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns The vexed tide, all foaming, back, And scarce the oar's redoubled force : Can stem the eddy's whirling course When, hark ! some desperate foot has sprung Among the rocks the chain is flung The oars are up the grapple clings, And the toss'd bark in moorings swings. Just then, a day-beam through the shade Broke tremulous but, ere the maid Can see from whence the brightness steals, Upon her brow she shuddering feels A viewless hand, that promptly ties A bandage round her burning eyes ; While the rude litter where she lies, Uplifted by the warrior throng, O'er the steep rocks is borne along. Blest power of sunshine ! genial Day, What balm, what life is in thy ray ! To feel thee is such real bliss, That had the world no joy but this, To sit in sunshine calm and sweet, It were a world too exquisite For man to leave it for the gloom, The deep, cold shadow of the tomb ! Even Ilinda, though she saw n.ot where Or whither wound the perilous road, Yet knew by that awakening air, Which suddenly around her glow'd, That they had risen from darkness then, And breathed the sunny world again ! But soon this balmy freshness fled For now the steepy labyrinth led Through damp and gloom 'mid crash of boughs, And fall of loosen'd crags that rouse The leopard from his hungry sleep, Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey, And long is heard from steep to steep, Chasing them down their thundering way . The jackal's cry the distant moan Of the hya3na, fierce and lone ; And that eternal, saddening sound Of torrents in the glen beneath, As 'twere the ever-dark profound That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death ! All, all is fearful even to see, To gaze on those terrific things She now but blindly hears, would be Relief to her imaginings ! Since never yet was shape so dread, But fancy, thus in darkness thrown, And by suh sounds of horror fed, Could frame more dreadful of her own. But does she dream ? has fear again Perplex'd the workings of her brain, Or did a voice, all music, then Come from the gloom, low whispering near " Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here ?" She does not dream all sense, all ear, She drinks the words, " Thy Gheber's here. 1 * 'Twas his own voice she could not err Throughout the breathing world's extent There was but one such voice for her, So kind, so soft, so eloquent ! Oh ! sooner shall the rose of May Mistake her own sweet, nightingale, And to some meaner minstrel's lay Open her bosom's glowing veil, 1 Than Love shall ever doubt a tone, A breath of the beloved one ! Though blest, 'mid all her ills, to think She has that one beloved near, Whose smile, though met on ruin's brink, 1 "A frequent, image among the oriental poets. 'The night- ingales warbled their enchanting notes, and rent the thim veils of the rose-bud and the rose.' " POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 135 Has power to make even ruin dear, Yet soon this gleam of rapture, cross'd By fears for him, is chill'd and lost. How shall the ruthless Hafed brook That one of Gheber blood should look, With aught but curses in his eye, OD her a maid of Araby A Moslem maid the child of him Whose bloody banner's dire success Has left their altars cold and dim, And their fair land a wilderness ! And, worse than all, that night of blood Which comes so fast oh ! who shall stay The sword that once has tasted food Of Persian hearts, or turn its way ? What arm shall then the victim cover, Or from her father shield her lover? '' Save him, my God !" she inly cries '* Save him this night and i-f thine eyes Have ever welcomed with delight The sinner's tears, the sacrifice Of sinners' hearts guard him this night, O O 7 And here, before Thy throne, I swear From my heart's inmost core to tear Love, hope, remembrance, though they be Link'd with each quivering life-string there, And give it bleeding all to Thee ! Let him but live, the burning tear, The sighs, so sinful yet so dear, Which have been all too much his own, Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone. Youth pass'd in penitence, and age In long and painful pilgrimage, Shall leave no traces of the flame That wastes me now nor shall his name E'er bless my lips, but when I pray For his dear spirit, that away Casting from its angelic ray The eclipse of earth, he too may shine RedoemM, all-glorious and all Thine! Think think what victory to win One radiant soul like his from sin; One wandering star of virtue back To its own native, heavenward track ! Let him but live, and both are Thine, Together Thine for, blest or cross'd, Living or dead, his doom is mine, And ii he perish, both are lost !" The next evening Lalla Rookh was en- treated by her ladies to continue the relation of her wonderful dream ; but the fearfd interest that hung round the fate of Hinda and her lover had completely removed every trace of it from her mind much to the dis- appointment of a fair seer or two in her train, who prided themselves on their skill in interpreting visions, and who had already remarked, as an unlucky omen, that th< Princess, on the very morning after the dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blos- soms of the sorrowful tree Nilica. 1 Fadladeen, whose wrath had more than once broken out during the recital of some parts of this most heterodox poem, seemed at length to have made up his mind to the infliction ; and took his seat this evening with all the patience of a martyr, while the poet continued his profane and seditious story thus : To tearless eyes and hearts at ease The leafy shores and sun-bright seas That lay beneath that mountain's height Had been a fair, enchanting sight. 'Twas one of those ambrosial eves A day of storm so often leaves At its calm setting when the West Opens her golden bowers of rest, And a moist radiance from the skies Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes Of some meek penitent, whose last, Bright hours atone for dark ones past, And whose sweet tears, o'er wrong forgiven, Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven I 'Twas stillness all the winds that late Had rush'd through Herman's almond groves, And shaken from her bowers of date That cooling feast the traveller loves,* Now, lull'd to .languor, scarcely curl The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam, Limpid, as if her mines of pearl Were melted all to form the stream. And her fair islets, small and bright, With their green shores reflected there, 1 "Bloocom* of the sorrowful Nyctanthi-- ;:ive durable color to filk." Hrmark* on the husbandry of Ilfttyal, p. 300. "Nlllca It one of the Indian name* of tlitu flower." Sir tP. Jontf. "The Persian* call it Onl." t'arreri. 1 " In part* of Kcrmnn, whatever i!;itc arc r taken from ibt trees by the wind, they leave for tliof who iuve not any, at for trrivi'lliT*. 1 ' 136 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Look like those Peri isles of light, That hang by spell-work in the air. But vainly did those glories burst On Hinda's dazzled eyes, when first The bandage from her brow was taken, And pale and awed as those who waken In their dark tombs when, scowling near, The searchers of the grave 1 appear, She, shuddering, turn'd to read her fnte In the fierce eyes that flash'd annum ; And saw those towers all desolate, That o'er her head terrific frown'd, As if defying even the smile Of that soft heaven to gild their pile. In vain, with mingled hope and fear, She looks for him whose voice so dear Had come, like music, to her ear Strange, mocking dream ! again 'tis fled. And oh ! the shoots, the pangs of dread That through her inmost bosom run, When voices from without proclaim, " Hafed, the Chief" and, one by one, The warriors shout that fearful name ! He comes the rock resounds his tread How shall she dare to lift her head, Or meet those eyes, whose scorching glare Not Yeman's boldest sons can bear? In whose red beam, the Moslem tells, Such rank and deadly lustre dwells, As in those hellish fires that light The mandrake's charnel leaves at night!" How shall she bear that voice's tone, At whose loud battle-cry alone Whole squadrons oft in panic ran, Scatter'd, like some vast caravan, When, stretch'd at evening round the well, They hear the thirsting tiger's yell ! Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down, Shrinking beneath the fiery frown, Which, fancy tells her, from that brow Is flashing o'er her fiercely now ; And shuddering, as she hears the tread Of his retiring warrior band. Never was pause so full of dread ; Till Hafed, with a trembling hand, Took hers, and, leaning o'er her$ said, 1 " The two terrible angels, Monkir and Nakir, who are called ' The Searchers of the Grave.' " * " The Arabians call the mandrake ' The Devil's Candle,' c account of its shining appearance in the ni^ht." " Hinda !" that word was all he spoke ; And 'twas enough the shriek that broke From her full bosom told the rest Breathless with terror, joy, surprise, The maid but lifts her wondering eyes To hide them on her Gheber's breast ! 'Tis he, 'tis he the man of blood, The fellest of the Fire-Fiend's brood. Hafed, the demon of the fight, Whose voice unnerves, whose glancet blight, Is her own loved Gheber, mild And o-lorious as when first he smiled O In her lone tower, and left such beams Of his pure eye to light her dreams, That she believed her bower had given Rest to some habitant of heaven ! Moments there are, and this was one, Snatch'd like a minute's gleam of sun Amid the black Simoom's eclipse Or like those verdant spots that bloom Around the crater's burning lips, Sweetening the very edge of doom ! The past the future all that fate Can bring of dark or desperate Around such hours, but makes them caat Intenser radiance while they last ! Even he, this youth though dimni'd *ad gone Each star of hope that cheer'd him on His glories lost his cause betray'd Iran, his dear-loved country, made A land of carcases and slaves, One dreary waste of chains and graves Himself but lingering, dead at heart, To see the last, long-struggling breath Of liberty's great soul depart, Then lay him down, and share her death Even he, so sunk in wretchedness, With doom still darker gathering o'er him. Yet in this moment's pure caress, In the mild eyes that shone before him, Reaming; that blest assurance, worth O ' All other transports known on earth, That he was loved well, warmly loved Oh ! in this precious hour he proved How deep, how thorough-felt the glow Of rapture, kindling out of woe ; How exquisite one single drop POEMS OF THOMAS MOOIIK. I ' Of bliss, thus sparkling to the top Of misery's cup how keenly quaff'd, Though death must follow on the draught! She, too, while gazing an those eyes That sink into her soul so deep, Forgets all fears, all miseries, Or feels them like the wretch in sleep, Whom fancy cheats into a smile, Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while ! The mighty ruins where they stood, Upon the mount's high rocky verge, Lay open toward the ocean's Hood, Where lightly o'er the illumined surge Many a fair bark that all the day Had lurk'd in sheltering creek or bay Xow bounded on and gave their sails, Yet dripping, to the evening gales, Like eagles, when the storm is done, Spreading their wet wings in the sun. The beauteous clouds, though daylight's star Had sunk behind the hills of Lar, Were still with lingering glories bright, As if to grace the gorgeous west, The spirit of departing light That eve had left his sunny vest Behind him, ere he wing'd his fi-ight. Never was scene so form'd for love! % Beneath them, waves of crystal move In silent swell heaven glows above, And their pure hearts, to transport given, Swell like the wave, and glow like heaven ! But ah ! too soon that dream is past Again v again her fear returns ; Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast, More faintly the horizon burns, And every rosy tint that lay On the smooth sea has died away. Hastily to the darkening skies A glance she casts then wildly cries, "At night, he said and, look, 'tis near Fly, fly if yet thou lovest me, fly Soon will his murderous band be here, And I shall see thee bleed and die. Bash ! heardst thou not the tramp of men Sounding from yonder fearful ^U-u ? Perhaps even now they climb the wood. Fly, fly though still the west is bright, He'll come oh ! yes he wants thy blood I know him he'll not wait for night !" In terrors even to agony She clings around the wondering Chief; "Alas, poor wilder'd maid ! to me Thou owest this raving trance of grief. Lost as I am, naught ever grew Beneath my shade but perish'd too My doom is like the Dead Sea air, And nothing lives that enters there ! Why were our barks together driven T.i in ath this morning's furious heaven? Why, when I saw the prize that chance Had thrown into my desperate arms, When, casting but a single glance Upon thy pale and prostrate charms, I vow'd (though watching viewless o'er Thy safety through that hour's alarms) To meet the unmanning sight no more Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow? Why weakly, madly met thee now ? Start not that noise is but the shock Of torrents through yon valley hurl'd Dread nothing here upon this rock We stand above the jarring world, Alike beyond its hope its dread In gloomy safety, like the dead ! Or, could even earth and hell unite In league to storm this sacred height, Fear nothing thou myself, to-night, And each o'erlooking star that dwells Near God will be thy sentinels ; And, ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow, Buck to thy sire " To-morrow ! no-'* The maiden scream'd " thou'lt never see To-morrow's sun death, death will be The night-cry through each reeking tou Unless we fly ay, fly this hour ! Thou art betray'd : some wretch who knew That dreadful glen's mysterious clew- Nay, doubt not by yon stars, 'tis tru Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire; This morning, with that smile so dire He wears in joy, he told me all, And stamp'd in triumph through our hall, As though thy heart already beat Its last life-throb beneath his feet ! Rood heaven, how little dream'd I then His victim was my own loved youth ! Fly send let some one watch the glen By all my hopes of heaven, 'tis trith ! M 138 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Ob ! cjolder than the wind that freezes Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd, Is that congealing pang which seizes The trusting bosom when betray'd. He felt it deeply felt and stood, As if the tale had frozen his blood, So mazed and motionless was he ; Like one whom sudden spells enchant, Or some mute marble habitant Oi the still halls of Ishmonie! 1 But soon the painful chill was o'er, And his great soul, herself once more, Look'd from his brow in all the rays Of her best, happiest, grandest days ; Never, in moment most elate, Did that high spirit loftier rise ; While bright, serene, determinate, His looks are lifted to the skies, As if the signal-lights of Fate Were shining in those awful eyes ! 'Tis come his hour of martyrdom In Iran's sacred cause is come ; And though his life has pass'd away Like lightning on a stormy day, Yet shall Li* death-hour leave a track Of glory, permanent and bright, To which the brave of after-times, The suffering brave, shall long look back With proud regret, and by its light Watch through the hours of slavery's night For vengeance on the oppressor's crimes ! This rock, his monument aloft, Shall speak the tale to many an age ; And hither bards and heroes oft Shall come in secret pilgrimage, And bring their warrior r.ons, and tell The wondering boys where Hafed fell, And swear them on tbose lone remains Of their lost country's ancient fanes, Never- while breach of life shall live Within them never to forgive The accursed race, whose ruthless chain Has left on Inn's neck a stain Blood, blood alone can cleanse again ! Such are tLe swelling thoughts that now Enthrone themselves on Hafed's brow ; 1 For an account )f Ishmonie. the petrified city in Upper Egypt, where it is said there are many statues "f men, womer., fee., to be teen to this day, vide Perry's " View of the Levant. " And ne'er did saint of Issa* gaze On the red wreath, for martyrs twined, More proudly than the youth surveys That pile, which through the gloom behind, Half-lighted by the altar's fire, Glimmers, his destined funeral pyre ! Heap'd by his own, his comrades' hands, Of every wood of odorous breath, There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands, Ready to fold in radiant death The few still left of those who swore To perish there, when hope was o'er The few to whom that couch of flame, Which rescues them from bonds and shame, Is sweet and welcome as the bed For their own infant Prophet spread, When pitying Heaven to roses turn'd The death-flames that beneath him burn'd !' With watchfulness the maid attends His rapid glance, where'er it bends Why shoot his eyes such awful beams '{ What plans he now ? what thinks or drea. .u ? Alas ! why stands he musing here, When every moment teems with fear ? " Hafed, my own beloved lord," She kneeling cries " first, last adored ! If in that soul thou'st ever felt Half what thy lips impassion'd swore, Here, on my knees that never knelt To any but their God before, I pray thee, as thou lovest me, fly Now, now ere yet their blades are nigh Oh haste the bark that bore me hither Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea East, west, alas, I care not whither, So thou art safe, and I with thee ! Go where we will, this hand in thine, Those eyes before me smiling thus, Through good and ill, through storm Mad shine, The world's a world of love for us ! 2 Jesus. 1 "The GhebtTs say that when Abraham, their great prophet, was thrown into the fire by order of Nimrod, the flame tnriu-rl instantly into 'a bed of roses, where the child sweetly reposed.' " Of their other prophet Zoroaster, there is a story told in Dion Prusceits, Oral. 36, that the love of wisdom and virtue leading him to a solitary life upon a mountain, he found it one clay all in a flame, shining with celestial fire, out of which he came without any harm, and instituted certain sacrifices to God, who, he declared, then appeared to him. Vide " Patric' on Exodus." ii. 2. POEMS OF THOMAS M < >< > I ,' K. 139 On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell, Where 'tis no crime to love too well ; Where thus to worship tenderly An erring child of light like thee Will not be sin or, if it be, Where we may weep our faults away, Together kneeling, night and day, Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine, And I at any God's, for thine !" Wildly these passionate words she spoke Then hung her head, and wept for shame ; Sobbing, as if a heart-string broke With every deep-heaved sob that came. While he, young, warm oh ! wonder not If, for a moment, pride and fame, His oath his cause that shrine of flame, And Iran's self are all forgot For her whom at his feet he sees, Kneeling in speechless agonies. Xo, blame him not, if Hope a while Dawn'd in his soul, and threw her smile O'er hours to come o'er days and nights Wing'd with those precious, pure delights Which she, who bends all-beauteous there, Was born to kindle and to share ! A tear or two, which, as he bow'd To raise the suppliant, trembling stole, First warn'd him of this dangerous cloud Of softness passing o'er his soul. Starting, he brush'd the drops away, Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray ; Like one who, on the morn of fight, Shakes from his sword the dew of night, That had but dimm'd, not stain'd its light. Yet though subdued the unnerving thrill, Its warmth, its weakness linger'd still So touching in each look and tone, That the fond, fearing, hoping maid Half counted on the flight she pray'd, Half thought the hero's soul was grown As soft, as yielding as her own, And smiled and bless' d him, while he said, " Yes if there be some happier sphere, Where fadeless truth like ours is dear ; It' there be any land of rest For those who love and ne'er forget, Oh ! comfort thee for safe and blest We'll meet in that calm region yet !" had she time to ask her h-art If good or ill these words impart, When the roused youth impatient 11 v, To the tower-wall, where, high in view, A ponderous sea-horn 1 hung, and lilc-w A signal, deep and dread as those The Storm-Fiend al his rising blows. Full well his chieftains, sworn and true Through life and death, that signal knew; For 'twas the appointed warning-blast, The alarm to tell when hope was past, And the tremendous death-die cast ! And there, upon the mouldering tower, Has hung his sea-horn many an hour, Ready to sound o'er land and sea That dirge-note of the brave and free. They came his chieftains at the call Came slowly round, and with them all Alas, how few ! the worn remains Of those who late o'er Kerman's plains Went gayly prancing to the clash Of Moorish zel and tymbalon, Catching new hope from every flash Of their long lances in the sun And as their coursers charged the wind, And the white ox-tails stream'd behind,* Looking as if the steeds they rode Were wing'd, and every chief a god ! How fallen, how alter'd now ! kow wan Each scarr'd and faded visage shone, As round the burning shrine they came ; How deadly was the glare it cast, As mute they paused before the flame To light their torches as they pass'd ! 'Twas silence all the youth had plann'd The duties of his soldier-band ; And each determined brow declares His faithful chieftains well know theirs. But minutes speed night gems the skies And oh how soon, ye blessed eyes That look from heaven, ye may behold Sights that will turn your star-fires cold ! Breathless with awe, impatience, hope, The maiden sees tin- veteran group > " Tin- -hell called Siianko*. common to India. Africa, and the Mediterranean, and mill lined In many part? a a inmnx* for blowing alarmf or giving t>ignal: It tend* forth a deer and hollow pound." 1 " The- flncrt ornament for the horc 10 made of fix larg flying u-T-rN of long white hair, taken out of the Uil- of wlM IX.MI that are to be found In eome place* of the Irdle*." 140 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Her Htter silently prepare, And lay it at "her trembling feet ; And now the youth, with gentle care, Has placed her in the shelter'd seat, And press'd her hand that lingering press Of hands, that for the last time sever ; Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness, When that hold breaks, is dead forever. And yet to her this sad caress Gives hope so fondly hope can err ! 'Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess Their happy flight's dear harbinger ; 'Twas warmth assurance tenderness 'Twas anything but leaving her. " Haste, haste !" she cried, " the clouds grow 7 O dark, But still, ere night, we'll reach the bark : And by to-morrow^s dawn oh, bliss ! With thee upon the sunbright deep, Far off, I'll but remember this As some dark vanish'd dream of sleep ! And thou " But ha ! he answers not Good Heaven ! and does she go alone? She now has reach'd that dismal spot Where, some hours since, his voice's tone Had come to soothe her fears and ills, Sweet as the angel IsrafilV When every leaf on Eden's tree Is trembling to his minstrelsy Yet now oh now, he is not nigh " Hafed ! my Hafed ! if it bo Thy will, thy doom this night to die, Let me but stay* to die with thee, And I will bless thy loved name, Till the last life-breath leave this frame. Oh ! let our lips, our cheeks be laid But near each other while they fade ; Let us but mix our parting breaths, And I can die ten thousand deaths ! You too, who hurry me away So cruelly, one moment stay Oh ! stay one moment is not much He yet may come for him I pray Hafed ! dear Hafed ! " All the way, In wild lamentings that would touch A heart of stone, she shriek'd his name To the dark woods no Hafed came ; No hapless pair you've looked your last ; i " The angel Israfil, who has the most melodious voice of lU God'e creatures p ule. Your hearts should both have broken then : The dream is o'er your doom is cast You'll never meet on earth again ! Alas for him, who hears her cries ! Still half-way dow r n the steep he standi, Watching with fix'd and feverish eyes The glimmer of those burning brands *Z7 O That down the rocks, with mournful ray, Light all he loves on earth away ! Hopeless as they who, far at sea, By the cold moon have just consign'd The corse of one, loved tenderly, To the bleak flood they leave behind ; And on the deck still lingering stay, And long look back, with sad delay, To watch the moonlight on the wave, That ripples o'er that cheerless grave. But see he starts what heard he then ? That dreadful shout ! across the glen From the land side it comes, and loud Rings through the chasm ; as if the crowd Of fearful things that haunt that dell, Its ghouls and dives, and shapes of hell, Had all in one dread howl broke out, So loud, so terrible that shout ! "They come the Moslems come!" h* cries, His proud soul mounting to his eyes, " Now, spirits of the brave, who roam Enfranchised through yon starry dome, Rejoice for souls of kindred fire Are on the wing to join your choir !" He said and, light as bridegrooms bound To their young loves, re-climb'd the steep And gain'd the shrine his chiefs stood round Their swords, as with instinctive leap, Together, at that cry accurst, Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst. And hark ! again again it rings ; Near and more near its echoings Peal through the chasm oh ! who that then Had seen those listening warrior-men, With their swords grasp'd, their eyes of flame Turn'd . on their chief could doubt the shame, The indignant shame with which they thrill To hear those shouts and yet stand still ? POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKK. HI He read their thoughts they were his own u What ! while our arms can wield these blades, Shall we die tamely? die alone? Without one victim to our shinies, One Moslem heart where, buried deep, The sabre from its toil may sleep - No God of Iran's burning skies ! Thou scornst the inglorious sacrifice. No though of all earth's hope bereft, Life, swords, and vengeance still are left. W.-'ll make yon valley's reeking caves Live in the awe-struck minds of men, Till tyrants shudder when their slaves Tell of the Ghebers' bloody glen. Follow, brave hearts ! this pile remains Our refuge still from life and chains ; But his the best, the holiest bed, \\ ho sinks entomb'd in Moslem dead !" Down the precipitous rocks they sprung, W tiile vigor more than human strung Each arm and heart. The exulting* foe Stul through the dark defiles --t-c v-. Track'd by his torches' lurid fire, Wound slow, as through Golconda's valt The mighty serpent, in his ire, Glides on with glittering, deadly trail. No torch the Ghebers need so well They know each mystery of the dell, So oft have, in their wanderings, C'n-ssM the wild race that round them dwell, The very tigers from their delves Look out, and let them pass, as things Untamed and fearless like themselves ! There was a deep ravine that lay Yet darkling in the Moslem's way ; Fit spot to make invaders rue The many fallen before the few. The torrents from that morning's sky Had fill'd the narrow chasm breast-high, And, on each side, aloft and wild Huge cliffs and toppling crags were piled., The guards, with which young Freedom lines The pathways to her mountain shrines. Here, at this pass, the scanty band Of Iran's last avengers stand ; Here wait, in silence like the dead, And listen for the Moslem'; *,read So anxiously, the carrion bird Above them flaps his wing unheard ! They come that plunge into the water Gives signal for the work of slaughter. Now, Ghebers, now if e'er your blades Had point or prowess, prove them now Woe to the file that foremost wades ! They come a falchion greets each brow. And, as they tumble, trunk on trunk, Beneath the gory waters sunk, Still o'er their drowning bodies press New victims quick and numberless; Till scarce an arm in Hafed's band, So fierce their toil, hath power to stir, But listless from each crimson hand The sword hangs, clogg'd with massacre. Never was horde of tyrants met With bloodier welcome never yet To patriot vengeance hath the sword More terrible libations pour'd ! All up the dreary, long ravine, . By the red, murky glimmer seen Of half-quench'd brands, that o'er the flood Lie sc\ttei d icutd snd burn in blood. What ruin glares ! what carnage swims ! Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs, Lost swords that, dropp'd from many a hand, In that thick pool of slaughter stand ; Wretches who wading, half on fire From the toss'd brands that round them %, 'Twixt flood and flame, in shrieks expire ; And some who, grasp'd by those that die, Sink woundless with them, smother'd o'er In their dead brethren's gushing gore ! But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed, Still hundreds, thousands more succeed ! Countless as toward some flame at night The North's dark insects wing their flight, And quench or perish in its light, To this terrific spot they pour Till, bridged with Moslem bodies oVr, It bears aloft their slippery tread, And o'er the dying and the dead, Tremendous causeway ! on they pass. - Then, hapless Ghebere, then, alas, What hope was left for you ? for you, Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice Is smoking in their vengeful eyes 142 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew, And burn with shame to find how few. Crush'd down by that vast multitude, Some found their graves where first they stood ; While some with harder struggle died, And still fought on by Hafed's side, Who, fronting to the foe, trod back Toward the high towers his gory track; And, as a lion, swept away By sudden swell of Jordan's pride From the wild covert where he lay, 1 Long battles with the o'erwhelming tide, So fought he back with fierce delay, And kept both foes and fate at bay ! But whither now ? their track is lost, Their prey escaped guide, torches gone By torrent-beds and labyrinths cross'd, The scatter'd crowd rush blindly on " Curse on those tardy lights that wind," They panting cry, " so far behind Oh for a bloodhound's precious scent, To track the way the Gheber went !" Vain wish confusedly along They rush, more desperate as more wrong : Till, wilder'd by the far-off lights, Yet glittering up those gloomy heights, Their footing, mazed and lost, they miss, And down the darkling precipice Are dash'd into the deep abyss ; Or midway hang, impaled on rocks, A banquet, yet alive, for flocks Of ravening vultures, while the dell Re-echoes with each horrible yell. Those sounds the last, to vengeance dear, That e'er shall ring in Hafed's ear, Now reach'd him, as aloft, alone, Upon the steep way breathless thrown, He lay beside his reeking blade, Resign'd, as if life's task were o'er, Its last blood-offering amply paid, And Iran's self could claim no more. One only thought, one lingering beam Now broke across his dizzy dream 1 " In this thicket, upon the banks of the Jordan, wild beasts are wont to har'x>r, whose being washed out of the covtrt by the overflowings of the river gave occasion to that llnsion of Jeremiak, ' He shall come up like a lion from the netlliny of Jordan. 1 ' MaundrelVs Aleppo Of pain and weariness 'twas she His heart's pure planet, shining yet Above the waste of memory, When all life's other lights were set. And never to his mind before Her image such enchantment wore. It seem'd as if each thought that stain'd, Each fear that chill'd their loves was past, And not one cloud of earth remaiu'd Between him and her glory cast ; As if to charms, before so bright, New grace from other worlds was given. And his soul saw her by the light Now breaking o'er itself from heaven ! A voice spoke near him 'twas the tone Of a loved friend, the only one Of all his warriors left with life From that short night's tremendous strife " And must we then, my Chief, die here? Foes round us, and the shrine so near !" These words have roused the last remains Of life within him " What ! not yet Beyond the reach of Moslem chains !" The thought could make even Death forget His icy bondage with a bound He springs, all bleeding, from the ground, And grasps his comrade's arm, now grown Even feebler, heavier than his own, And up the painful pathway leads, Death gaining on each step he treads. Speed them, thou God, who heardst their vow !. They mount they bleed oh save them now Tli-e crags are red they've clamber'd o'er, The rock- weed's dripping with their gore Thy blade too, Hafed, false at length, Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength Haste, haste the voices of the foe Come near and nearer from below One effort more thank Heaven ! 'tis past, They've gain'dthe topmost steep at last. And now they touch the temple's walls, Now Hafed sees the Fire divine When lo ! his weak, worn comrade fall* Dead on the threshold of the sbrine. " Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled ! And must I leave thee withering here, The sport of every ruih'an r s tread, The mark for every coward's spear ? No, by yon altar's sacred beams !" 143 He cries, and, with a strength that stems Not of this world, uplifts the frame Of the fallen chief, and toward the flame Bears him along ; with death-damp hand The corpse upon the pyre he lays, Then lights the consecrated brand, And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze Like lightning bursts o'er Oman's Sea. " Now, Freedom's God ! I come to Thee," The youth exclaims, and with a smile Of triumph vaulting on the pile, In that last effort, ere the fires Have hurm'd one glorious limb, expires ! What shriek was that on Oman's tide ? It came from yonder drifting bark, That just has caught upon her side The death-light and again is dark. o o It is the boat ah, why delay'd ? That bears the wretched Moslem maid ; Confided to the watchful care Of a small veteran band, with whom Their generous Chieftain would not share The secret of his final doom ; But hoped when Ilinda, safe and free, Was render'd to her lather's eyes, Their pardon, full and prompt, would be The ransom of so dear a prize. Unconscious, thus, of Ilafed's fate, And proud to guard their beauteous freight, Scan e had they clear'd the surfy waves That foam around those frightful caves, O / When the curst war-whoops, known so well, Came echoing from the distant dell. Sudden each oar, upheld and still, Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side, And, driving at the current's will, They rock'd along the whispering tide. . While every eye, in mute dismay, Was toward that fatal mountain turn'd, Where the dim altar's quivering ray As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd. t Oh ! 'tis not, Ilinda, in the power Of fancy's most terrific touch To paint thy pangs in that dread hour Thy silent agony 'twas such As those who feel could paint too well, But none e'er felt and lived to tell ! 'Twas not alone the dreary state Ol a lorn spirit, crush'd by fate, When, though no more remains to dread, The panic chill will not depart ; When, though the inmate Hope be dead, Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart. No pleasures, hopes, affections gone, The wretch may bear, and yet live on, Like things within the cold rock found Alive when all's congeal'd around. But there's a blank repose in this, A calm stagnation that were bliss To the keen, burning, harrowing pain Now felt through all thy breast and brain That spasm of terror, mute, intense, That breathless, agonized suspense, From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching The heart had no relief but breaking ! Calm is the wave heaven's brilliant lights, Reflected, dance beneath the prow ; .Time was when, on such lovely nights, She, who is there so desolate now, Could sit all-cheerful, though alone, And ask no happier joy than seeing That star-light o'er the waters thrown No joy but that to make her blest, And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being That bounds in youth's yet carelt-si breast, Itself a star, not borrowing light, But in its own glad essence bright. How different now ! but, hark, again The yell of havoc rings brave men I In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand On the bark's edge in vain each hand Half draws the falchion from its sheath ; All's o'er in rust your blades may lie ; He, at whose word they've scatter'd death. Even now, this night, himself must die ! Well may ye look to yon dim tower, And ask, and wondering guess what meani The battle-cry at this dead hour Ah ! she could tell you she, who leans Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast, With brow against the dew-cold mast Too well she knows her more than life, Her soul's first idol, and its last, Lies bleeding in that murderous strife But see what moves upon the height ! Some signal ! 'tis a torch's light. What bodes its solitary glare? 144 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. In gasping silence toward the shrine All eyes are turn'd thine, Hinda, thine Fix their last failing life-beams there. Twas but a moment fierce and high The death-pile blazed into the sky, And far away o'er rock and flood Its melancholy radiance sent ; While Hafed, like a vision, stood Reveal'd before the burning pyre, Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire Shrined in its own grand element ! " 'Tis he !" the shuddering maid exclaims, But while she speaks, he's seen no more; High burst in air the funeral flames, And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er ! One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze, Where still she fix'd her dying gaze, And, gazing, sunk into the wave, Deep, deep, where never care or pain Shall reach her innocent heart again ! Farewell farewell to thee, Araby's daugh- ter ! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea ;) No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. Oh ! fair as the sea-flower close to thee grow- ing, How light was thy heart till love's witch- ery came, Like the wind of the south 1 o'er a summer lute blowing, And hush'd all its music and wither'd its frame ! But long, upon Araby's green sunny high- lands, Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With naught but the sea-star 7 to light up her tomb. 1 " Thie wind (the Samoor) so softens the strings of lutes, that they can never be tuned while it lasts.' * " The star-fish. It is circular, and at night very luminous, r**cmblinc the fill moon fiirrounded by rays." And still, when the merry date-season is burn- ing, And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, The happiest there, from their pastime return- ing At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses Her dark-flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away. Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero ! forget thee, Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee, Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart. Farewell ! be it ours to embellish thy pillow With everything beauteous that growe in the deep ; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ; With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed chamber, We, Peris of ocean, by moonlight have slept. We'll dive where the gard^- of coral lie " darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian 4 are sparkling, And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. 1 " Some naturalists have imag-'ned that amber is a concre- tion of the tears of birds." " The bay Kieselarke, which ,8 otherwise called the Oold- u Bay. tin sand whereof shines a* fire." POEMS OF THOMAS MOOIZK. 145 Farewell! farewell! until pity's sweet ibu n tain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain, They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in the wave. The singular placidity with which Fadla- deen had listened, during the latter part of this obnoxious story, surprised the Princess and Feramorz exceedingly; and even in- clined toward him the hearts of these unsus- picious young persons, who little knew the source of a complacency so marvellous. The truth was he had been organizing for the last few days a ruost notable plan of persecution against, the poet, in consequence of some passage* 1 , that had fallen from him on the second evening of ree-ital, which appeared to this worthy Chamberlain to contain lan- guage and principles for which nothing short of the summary criticism of the chabuk 1 would be advisable. It was his intention, therefore, immediately on their arrival at Cashmere, to give information to the King of Bucharia of the very dangerous senti- ments of his minstrel : and if, unfortunately, that monarch did not act with suitable vigor on the occasion, (that is, if he did not give the chabuk to Feramorz, and a place to Fad- ladeen,) there would be an end, he feared, of all legitimate government in Bucharia. He could not help, however, auguring better both for himself and the cause of potentates in general ; and it was the pleasure arising from these mingled anticipations that diffused such unuHiial satisfaction through his fea- tures, and made his eyes shine out, like pop- pies of the desert, over the wide and lifeless wilderness of that countenance. Having decided upon the Poet's chastise- ment in this manner, he thought it but humanity to spare him the minor tortures of criticism. Accordingly, when they as- sembled next evening in the pavilion, and Lalla Rookh expected to sec all the beauties Tbc application of whiti or rod*." of her bard melt away, OIK- 1>\ one, in the acidity of criticism, like pe:irl> in the jup of the Egyptian Queen, he agreeably disap- pointed her by merely saying, with an iron- ical smile, that the merits of sneh a poem deserved to be tried :it a much higher tribn nal ; and then suddenly passing off into a panegyric upon all .Mussulman sovereigns, more particularly his .-intrust and Imperial master Aurungzebe, the wisest and best of the descendants of Timur, who, among other great things he had done for mankind, had given to him, Fadladeen, the very profit- able posts of Betel-carrier and Taster of Sherbets to the Emperor, Chief Holder of the Girdle of Beautiful Forms, 1 and Grand Nazir, or Chamberlain of the Haram. They were now not far from that forbidden river,' beyond which no pure Hindoo can pass; and were reposing for a time in the rich valley of Hussun Abdual, which had always been a favorite resting-place of the Emperors in their annual migrations to Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the Faith, Jehan-Guire, wandered with his be- loved and beautiful Nourmahal ; and here would Lalla Rookh have been happy to re- maki forever, giving up the throne of Bucha- ria and the world for Feramorz and love in this sweet lonely valley. The time was now fast approaching when she must see him no longer, or see him with eyes whose every look belonged to another ; and there was a melancholy preciousness in these last mo- ments, which made her heart cling to them as it would to life. During the latter part of his journey, indeed, she had sunk into a deep sadness, from which nothing but the presence of the young minstrel could awake her. Like those lamps in tombs, which only light up when the air is admitted, it was only at his approach that her eyes became smiling and animated. But here, in this dear valley, every moment was an age ot * Ills' bus-lues's was, at elated periods, to measure the ladle* of the Haram by a port of regulation-girdle, whoso limit* It was not thought jiraceful to exceed. If any of them outgrew this standard of nlmpe. they were reduced by abstinence till they came within it* hound*. The Attock. "Akbar on his way ordered a fort to be built upon th Nllab, which he called Attock. which means In the Indian Innjjnajre Forbidden; for by the superstition of the Hindoo* I It watt held unlawful to cro that rirer oir't //irufcy fu~ 146 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. pleasure; she saw him all day, and was, therefore, all day happy, resembling, she ften thought, that people of Zinge, 1 who attribute the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly over their heads. a The whole party, indeed, seemed in their liveliest mood during the few days they passed in this delightful solitude. The young attendants of the Princess, who were here allowed a freer range than they could safely be indulged with in a less sequestered place, ran wild among the gardens and bounded through the meadows, lightly as young roes over the romantic plains of Tibet. While Fadladeen, besides the spirit- ual comfort he derived from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the saint from whom the valley is named, had opportunities of gratifying, in a small way, his taste for victims, by putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate little lizards,* which all pious Mussulmans make it a point to kill ; taking for granted, that the manner in which the creature hangs its head is meant as a mimicry of the attitude in Avhich the Faithful say their prayers ! About two miles from Hussun Abdual were those Royal Gardens, which had grown beautiful under the care of so many lovely eyes, and were beautiful still, though those eye-s could see them no longer. This place, with its flowers and its holy silence, inter- rupted only by the dipping of the wings of birds in its marble basins filled with the pure water of those hills, was to Lalla Rookh aii that her heart could fancy of fragrance, cool- ness, and almost heavenly tranquillity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, " It was too delicious ;" 4 and here, in listening to the 1 " The inhabitants of this country (Zinge) are never affected with sadness or melancholy : on this subject the Sheikh Abu- al-Kheir-Azhari has the following distich : " ' Who is the man without care or sorrow (tell), that I may rub my hand to him. " ' (Behold) the Zingians, without care or sorrow, frolick- eome with tipsiness and mirth.' " ' The philosophers have discovered that the cause of this cheerfulness proceeds from the influence of the Star Soheil or Canopus, which rises over them every night." Heft Aklim, or the Seven Climates, translated by W. Ousley, Esq. 1 The star Soheil or Uanopus. "The lizard Stellio. The Arabs call it Hardnn. The Turks kill it, for they imagine that by declining the head it ximics them when they say their prayer*." //a.^A/?s<:. "As you enter at that Bazar without the <;ate at Danias- sweet voice of Feramorz, or reading in his eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the most exquisite moments of her whole life were passed. One evening when they iiad been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal, the Light of the Haram, 6 who had so often wan- dered among these flowers, and fed with her own hands, in those marble basins, the small shining fishes of which she was so fond, the youth, in order to delay the moment of separation, proposed to recite a short story, or rather rhapsody, of which this adored Sultana was the heroine. It related, he said, to the reconcilement of a sort of lovers' quarrel, which took place between her and the Emperor during a Feast of Roses at Cashmere ; and would remind the Princess of that difference between Haroun-al-Raschid and his fair mistress Marida, which was so happily made up by the sweet strains of the musician Moussali. 6 As the story was chiefly to be told in song, and Feramorz had unluckily forgotten his own lute in the valley, he borrowed the vina of Lalla Rookh's little Persian slave, and thu* began : THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. WHO has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,* Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave ? cus, you see the Green Mosque, so called because it hath A Bteple, faced with green glazed bricks, which render it rerj resplendent ; it is o T erd at the top with a pavilion of tke same stuff. The Turks say tills Mosque was made in that place because Mohammed, being come so far, would not enter the town, saying it was too delicious." Thevenot. Nourmahal signifies Light of the Haram. She was after- ward called Nourjehan, or the Light of the World. "Haroun Al Raschid, cinquieme Khalife des> Abassides, s'etant uu jour brouiile avec Maridah, qu'il aimoit cependant jupqu'a 1'exces, et cette meeintelligence ayant deja dure quelque temps commenca a s'ennuyer. Giafar Barmaki, sou favori, qui s'en appercfit, commanda a Abbas ben Ahnaf excellent poete de ce temp^-la, de composer quelques ven- sur lo sujet de cette brouillerie. Ce poete executa Tordre de Giafar, qui fit chanter ces vers par Monssali en presence dn Khalife, et ce Prince nit tellement louche de la tendresse de vers du poete et de la douceur de la voix du musicien, qu'U alia aussitflt trouver Ivlaridah, et fit sa paix avec elle." D'Herbelot. 7 " The rose of Cashmere, for its brilliancy and delicacy of odor, has long been proverbial in thf East." POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 147 Oh ! to see it at sunset, when warm o'er the lake Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws, Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes ! When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown, And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells, Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging, And here, at the altar, a zone ^of sweet bells Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing. Or to see it by moonlight, when mellowly shines The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines ; When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars, And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars Is broken by laughs and light echoes oJ feet From the cool shining walks where the young people meet. Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks, Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one Out of darkness, as they were just born of the sun. When the spirit of fragrance is up with the day, From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away; And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover The young aspen trees till they tremble all over. When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes, Al it-ii remaining In bloom." Mentioned In the Toostk Jthangttry. <>r v Jehan-Gulre," where there 1* an account of Uic oer'i flowers about Caahmere. 148 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Look lovely then, because 'twas night ! And all were free, and wandering, And all exclaim'd to all they met That never did the summer bring So gay a Feast of Roses yet; The moon had never shed a light So clear as that which bless'd them there ; The roses ne'er shone half so bright, Nor they themselves look'd half so fair. And what a wilderness of flowers ! It seein'd as though from all the bowers And fairest fields of all the year, The mingled spoil were scatter'd here. The lake, too, like a garden breathes, With the rich buds that o'er it lie, As if a shower of fairy wreathes Had fallen upon it from the sky ! And then the sounds of joy, the beat Of tabors and of dancing feet ; The minaret-crier's chant of glee Sung from his lighted gallery, 1 And answer'd by a ziraleet From neighboring Haram, wild and sweet ; The merry laughter, echoing From gardens where the silken swing 8 Wafts some delighted girl above The top leaves of the orange grove ; Or, from those infant groups at play Among the tents that line the way, Flinging, unawed by slave or mother, Kandfuls of roses at each other ! And the sounds from the lake, the low whisp'ring in boats, As they shoot through the moonlight ; the dipping of oars, And the wild, airy warbling that everywhere floats, Through the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores Like those of Kathay utter'd music, and gave 1 " It is the custom among the women to employ the Maa- zeen to chant from the gallery of the nearest minaret, which oi< that occasion is illuminated, and the women assembled at the house respond at intervals with a ziraleet or joyous efcorns." 2 '-The swing is a favorite pastime in the East, as promot- tig u circulation of air, extremely refreshing in those sultry climates." Itichardxon . "Tiiu swings are adorned with festoons. This, pastime is accompanied with music of voices and of instruments, hired by the masters of the B wings. "Tntrenat. An answer in song to the kiss of each wave !' But the gentlest of all are those sounds, lull of feeling, That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing, Some lover who knows all the heart- touch- ing power Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour. Oh ! best of delights, as it everywhere is, To be near the loved one, what a rapture is his, Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide O'er the Lake of Cashmere with that one by his side ! If woman can make the worst wilderness dear, Think, think what a heaven she must make of Cashmei'e ! So felt the magnificent Son of Acbar, 4 When from power and pomp and the trophies of war He flew to that valley, forgetting them all With the Light of the Haram, his youug Nourmahal. When free and uncrown'd as the conqueror roved By the banks of that lake, with his only be- loved, Ue saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match, And preferr'd in his heart the least ringlet that curl'd Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world ! There's a beauty, forever unchangingly bright, Like the long sunny lapse of a summer- day's light, Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splen- dor. * " The ancients having remarked that a current of watet made some of the stones near its banks send forth a sound, they detached t-ome of them, and being charmed with the de- lightful sound they emitted, constructed Kiii or musical 1 struments of them." 4 Jehan-Ouire, the son of the Great Acbar. This was not the beauty oh ! nothing like this, That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss, But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes, Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, Like the glimpses a saint has of heaven in his dreams ! When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace, That charm of all others, was born with her face ; And when angry for even in the tranquil- lest climes Light breezes will ruffle the flowers some- times The short, passing ' anger but seem'd to awaken New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken. If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings ! Then her mirth oh ! 'twas sportive as ever took wing From the heart with a burst like the wild- bird in spring ; Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages, Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages. 1 While her laugh, full of life, without any control But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul ; And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brightened all over, Like any fair hike that the IMV. /.< is upon, When it breaks into dimples, and laughs in the sun. Such, sucli were the peerless enchantments, that gave Nourmahal the proud Lord of the East for her slave ; And though bright was his Haram, a living parterre Of the flowers' of this planet though treas- ure's were there, For which Solomon's self might have given all the store That the navy from Ophir e'er wing'd to his shore, Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all, And the Light of 1 is Haram was young Nourmahal ! But where is she now, this night of joy, When bliss is every heart's employ ? When all around her is so bright, So like the visions of a trance, That one might think, who came by chance Into the vale this happy night, He saw that City of Delight* In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers Are made of gems and light and flowers ! Where is the loved Sultana ? where, When mirth brings out the young and fair, Does she, the fairest, hide her brow, In melancholy stillness now ? Alas how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love ! Hearts that the world in vain has tried, And sorrow but more closely tied ; That stood the storm when waves were rough, Yet in a sunny hour fall off, Like ships that have gone down at sea, When heaven was all tranquillity i A something light as air a look, A word unkind or wrongly taken Oh ! love that tempests never shook, A breath, a touch like this has shaken. And ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words begin ; > In the wan of the Dives with the Peris, whenever the former took the latter prisoners, "they shut them up In iron *, and hung them on the highest trees." * In the Malay language the samo word i guide* women flowers. * The capital of Shaduklam. 150 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. And eyes forget the gentle ray They wore in courtship's smiling day ; And voices lose the tone that shed A tenderness round all they said ; Till fast declining, one by one, The sweetnesses of love are gone, And hearts, so lately mingled, seem Like broken clouds, or like the stream, That smiling left the mountain's brow, As though its waters ne'er could sever, Yet, ere it reach the plain below, Breaks into floods that part forever Oh, you that have the charge of love, Keep him in rosy bondage bound, As in the fields of bliss above He sits, with flowerets fetter'd round ; Loose not a tie that round him clings, Nor ever let him use his wings ; For even an hour, a minute's flight, Will rob the plumes of half their light. Like that celestial bird whose nest Is found beneath far Eastern skies Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, Lose all their g'ory when he flies ! l Some difference, of this dangerous kind, By which, though light, the links that bind The fondest hearts may soon be riven ; Some shadow in love's summer heaven, Which, though a fleecy speck at first, May yet in awful thunder burst ; Such cloud it is that now hangs over The heart of the imperial lover, And far hath banish'd from his sight His Nourmahal, his Haram's light ! Hence is it, on this happy night, When pleasure through the fields and groves Has let loose all her world of loves, And every heart has found its own, He wanders, joyless and alone, And weary as that bird of Thrace, Whose pinion knows no resting-place. In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes This Eden of the earth supplies Come crowding round the cheeks are pale, The eyes are dim : though rich the spot With every flower this earth hath got, What is it to the nightingale If there his darling rose is not?" In vain the valley's smiling throng Worship him, as he moves along ; He heeds them not one smile of hers Is worth a world of worshippers. They but the star's adorers are, She is the heaven that lights the star ! Hence is it too that Nourmahal, Amid the luxuries of this hour, Far from the joyous festival, Sits in her own sequester'd bower, With no one near to soothe or aid, But that inspired and wondrous maid, Namouna, the enchantress ; one O'er whom his race the golden sun For unremember'd years has run, Yet never saw her blooming brow Younger or fairer than 'tis now. Nay, rather, as the west-wind's sigh Freshens the flower it passes by, Time's wing but seem'd, in stealing o'er To leave her lovelier than before. Yet on her smiles a sadness hung, And when, as oft, she spoke or sung Of other worlds, there came a light From her dark eyes so strangely bright, That all believed nor man nor earth Were conscious of Namouna's birth ! All spells and talismans she knew, From the great Mantra, 8 which around The air's sublimer spirits drew, To the gold gems 4 of Afric, bound Upon the wandering Arab's arm, To keep him from the SiltimV harm. And she had pledged her powerful art, Pledged it with all the zeal and heart O Of one who knew, though high her sphere, What 'twas to lose a love so dear, To find some spell that should recall Her SelimV smile to Nourmahal ! 1 " Among the birds of Tonquin is a species of goldfinch which sings so melodiously that it is called the Celestial Bird. It* wings, when it is perched, appear variegated with beauti- ml colors, but when it flies they lose all their splendor." 3 " You may place a hundred handfuls of fragrant herbs and flowers before the nightingale, yet he wishes not, in his con- stant heart, for more than the sweet breath of his beloved " He is said to have found the great Mantra spell or talis- man, through which he ruled over the elements and spirits of all denominations." 4 " The gold jewels of Jiunie, which are called by the Arabi ' El Herrez,' from the supposed charm they contain." ' "A demon supposed to haunt woods, &c., in a humam shape." 8 The name of Jehan-Guire before his accession to 1 he throne POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 151 'Twas midnight through the lattice, wreathed With woodbine, many a perfume breathed Krom plants that wake when others sleep, From timid jasmine buds that keep Their odor to themselves all day, But, when the sunlight dies away, Let the delicious secret out To every breeze that roams about ; When thus Namouna : " 'Tis the hour That scatters spells on herb and flower ; And garlands might be gather'd now, That, twined around the sleeper's brow, Would make him dream of such delights, Such miracles and dazzling sights As genii of the sun behold, At evening, from their tents of gold Upon the horizon where they play Till twilight comes, and, ray by ray, Their sunny mansions melt away ! Now, too, a chaplet might be wreathed Of buds o'er which the moon has breathed, Which, worn by her whose love has stray'd, Mignt brin or some Peri from the skies, DO * Some sprite, whose very soul is made Of flowerets' breaths and lovers' sighs, And who might tell " " For me, for me," Cried Nourmahal impatiently, " Oh ! twine that wreath for me to-night." Then, rapidly, with foot as light As the young musk-roes, out she flew To cull each shining leaf that grew Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams For this enchanted wreath of dreams. Anemones and seas of gold, 1 And new-blown lilies of the river, And those sweet flowerets that unfold Their buds on Camadeva's quiver;* The tube-rose, with her silvery light, That in the gardens of Malay Is call'd the Mistress of the Night,' So like a bride, scented and. bright, She comes out when the sun's away. Amaranths, such as crown the maids "Hemasagara, or the Sea of Gold, with flowers of the trighiest gold color " " The delicious odor of the blossoms of this tree justly five* it a place in tne ouiver of Camadeva, or the God of Love." The Malayans style the tube-rose (Folianthet tuderosa) lam.' or the Mistress of the Night." That wander through Zainara'> shades ;' And the white moon-flower, as it shows On Serendib's high crags to those Who near the isle at evening sail, Scenting her clove-trees in the gale ; In short, all flowerets and all plants, From the divine Amrita tree,* That blesses heaven's inhabitants With fruits of immortality, Down to the basil* tuft, that waves Its fragrant blossom over graves, 7 And to the humble rosemary, Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed To scent the desert* and the dead, All in that garden bloom, and all Are gather'd by young Nouwnahal, Who heaps her baskets with the flowers And leaves, till they can hold no more ; Then to Namouna flies, and showers Upon her lap the shining store. With what delight the enchantress views So many buds, bathed with the dews And beams of that bless'd hour : iier gianc* Spoke something past all mortal pleasures, As, in a kind of holy trance, She hung above those fragrant treasures, Bending to drink their balmy airs, As if she mix'd her soul with theirs. And 'twas, indeed, the perfume shed From flowers and scented flame that fed Her charmed life for none had e*er Beheld her taste of mortal fare, Nor ever in aught earthly dip, But the morn's dew, her roseate lip. Fill'd with the cool inspiring smell, The enchantress now begins her spell, Thus singing as she winds and weaves In mystic form the glittering leaves: " In Zamara (Sumatra) they load an idle life, parsing the day in playing on a kind of flute, crowned with garland* of flower*, among which the globe ninaranthus mostly prevails." " The largest and richest sort (of the Jamba' or RUM Apple) is called ' Amrita, 1 or immortal, tad the mvtholoL-iti of Tibet apply the same word to the celestial tree bearing am- brosial fruit." Sweet basil, called 'Rayhan 1 in Persia, and generally found in churchyards. ' " The women in Egypt go, at least two days in the week, to pray and weep at the sepulchres of the dead ; and the cus- tom then is to throw upon the tombs a sort of herb, which the Arabs call rUian, and which I* our sweet basil." J/ Lttt. 10. " In the Great Desert are found many ta!k of l* and rofomary." 152 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. * I know where the winged visions dwell That around the night-bed play ; I know each herb and floweret's bell, Where they hide their wings by day. Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. " The image of love that nightly flies To visit the bashful maid, Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs Its soul, like her, in the shade. The hope, in dreams, of a happier hour That alights on misery's brow, Springs out of the silvery almond-flower, That blooms on a leafless bough. 1 Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. " The visions that oft to worldly eyes The glitter of mines unfold, O / Inhabit the mountain-herb, 2 that dyes The tooth of the fawn like gold. 3 The phantom shapes oh, touch not them That appal the murderer's sight, Lurk \n the fleshly mandrake's stem, That shrieks when torn at night ! Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. "The dream of the injured, patient mind, That smiles at the wrongs of men, Is found in the bruised and wounded rind Of the cinnamon, sweetest then ! Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade." 1 "The almond-tree, with whit} flowers, blossoms on the bare branches." a An herb on Mount Libauus, which is said to communicate a yellow golden hue to the teeth of the goats and other ani- mals that graze upon it. 3 Niebuhr thinks this may be the herb which the Eastern alchymists look to as a means of making gold. "Most of those alchymical enthusiasts think themselyes sure of suc- cess if they could but find out the herb which gilds the teeth and gives a yellow color to the flesh of the sheep that eat it." Father Jerome Dandini, however, asserts that the teeth of the goats at Mount Libanus are of a silver color ; and adds, "this confirms me that which I observed in Candia ; to wit, that the animals that live on Mount Ida eat a certain herb, which renders their teeth of a golden color; which, according x> my judgment, cannot otherwise proceed than from the No sooner was the flowery crown Placed on her head than sleep came down, Gently as nights of summer fall, Upon the lids of Nourmahal; And suddenly a tuneful breeze, As full of small, rich harmonies As ever wind that o'er the tents Of Azab 4 blew was full of scents, Steals on her ear and floats and swells, Like the first air of morning creeping Into those wreathy, Red Sea shells, Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping ;' And now a spirit, form'd, 'twould seem, Of music and of light, so fair, So brilliantly his features beam, And such a sound is in the air Of sweetness when he waves his wings, Hovers around her, and thus sings : " From Chindara's 8 warbling fount I come, Caft'd by that moonlight garland's spell ; From Chindara's fount, my fairy home, Where in music, morn and night, I dwell Where lutes in the air are heard about, And voices are singing the whole day long, And every sigh the heart breathes out Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song ! Hither I come From my fairy home, And if there's a magic in music's strain, I swear by the breath Of that moonlight wreath Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again. For mine is the lay that lightly floats, And mine are the murmuring, dying notes, That fall as soft as snow on the sea, And melt in the heart as instantly ! And the passionate strain that, deeply going, Refines the bosom it trembles through, As the musk-wind, over the water blowing, Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too ! " Mine is the charm whose mystic sway The spirits of past delight obey ; Let but the tuneful talisman sound, mines which are under ground." Dandini, Voyage to Mount Libanus. The myrrh country. 6 "This idea was not unknown to the Greeks, who repre- sent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in shell* on the shores of the Bed Sea." "A fabulous fountain, where instrument! are said to b constantly playing." POEMS OF THOMAS MOOUK. 153 And they come, like genii, hovi-ring rouml. And mine is the gentle song that bears From soul to soul the wishes of love, As a bird that wafts through genial airs The cinnamon seed from grove to grove. 1 *' 'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure The past, the present, and future of pleasure ;* When memory links the tone that is gone With the blissful tone that's still in the ear ; And hope from a heavenly note flies on To a note more heavenly still that is near ! " The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me, Can as downy soft and as yielding be As his own white plume, that high amid death Through the field has shone yet moves with a breath. And oh, how the eyes of beauty glisten When music has reach'd her inward soul. Like the silent stars that wink and listen While Heaven's eternal melodies roll! So, hither I come From my fairy home, And if there's a magic in music's strain, I swear by the breath Of that moonlight wreath, Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again." 'Tis dawn at least that early dawn* Whose glimpses are again withdrawn, As if the morn had waked, and then Shut close her lids of light again. 1 " The Pompadour pigeon, by carrying the fruit of the cin- namon to (litre-rent places, is a great disseminator of this vain- able tree." * "Whenever onr pleasure arises from a succession of rounds, it is a perception of complicated nature, made up of a teneation of the present eonnd or note, and an idea or remem- brance of the foregoing, while their mixture and concurrence produce such a mysterious delight as neither could have pro- duced alone. And it is often heightened by an anticipation of the succeeding noten. Thus sense, memory, and imagina- tion arc- conjurctively employed." Gerard on Taste. Madame de Stael accounts upon the same principle for the gratification we derive from rhyme: "Elle est I'image de l'eperancu et dn souvenir. UH son nous fait dlsirercelui qui doit lui rt'pondre, et quand le second retentit, il nous rappclle cclui que vient de nous dchapper." * " The Persians have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim and the Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real daybreak. They ac- count for this phenomenon in a most whimsical manner. They say that as the sun rises from behind the Kohi Qaf (Mount Caucasus), it passes a hole perforated through that mountain, and that darting its rays through it, it is the cause of the Soobhi Kazim, or this temporary appearance of day- break. AK it ascends, the earth is again veiled in darkness, until the sun rises above the mountain and brings with it the Soobhi Sadig, or real morning." Scott Waring. And Nourmahal is up, and trying The wonders of her lute, whose strings Oh, bliss ! now murmur like the sighing From that ambrosial spirit's win- And then, her voice 'tis more than human Never, till now, had it been given To lips of any mortal woman To utter notes so fresh from heaven ; Sweet as the breath of angel sighs, When angel sighs are most divine. " Oh ! let it last till night," she cries, " And he is more than ever mine-.'' And hourly she renews the lay, So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness Should, ere the evening, fade away, For things so heavenly have such fleetness ! But, far from fading, it but grows Richer, diviner as it flows ; Till rapt she dwells on every string, And pours again each sound along, Like echo lost and languishing In love with her own wondrous song. That evening (trusting that his soul Might be from haunting love release 1 By mirth, by music, and the bowr) The imperial Selim held a feast In his magnificent Shaliraar ;* t In whose saloons, when the first star Of evening o'er the waters trembled, The valley's loveliest all assembled, All the bright creatures that, like dreams, Glide through its foliage, and drink beams Of beauty from its founts and streams.* And all those wandering minstrel-maids, Who leave how can they leave ? the shades Of that dear valley, and are found Singing in gardens of the Soutn Those songs that ne'er so sweetly sound As from a young Cashmerian's mouth. 4 " In the centre of the plain, as it approaches the Lake, one of the Delhi emperors. I believe Shah Jehan, constructed a spacious garden called the Shalimar, which is abundantly stored with fruit-trees and flowering shrub*. Some of the rlr- ulete which intersect the plain are led into a canal at the back of the garden, and, flowing through its centre, or occasionally thrown into a variety of water-works, compete the chief beau- ty of the Shalimar. To decorate this spot the Mogul princis of India have displayed an equal magnificence and U<" ; es- pecially Julian Gheer, who, with the enchanting Noor Mahl, made Kashmire his usual residence during the summer months." Forittr. " It is supposed that th Caehmcrians are indebUd fef their beauty lo their waters.' 154 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. There, too, the Haram's inmates smile ; Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair, And from the Garden of the Nile, Delicate as the roses there ; J Daughters of love from Cyprus rocks, With Paphian diamonds in their locks ; 9 Like Peri forms, stich as there are On the gold meads of Candahar ;* And they, before whose sleepy eyes, In their own bright Kathaian bowers, Sparkle such rainbow butterflies,* That they might fancy the rich flowers That round them in the sun lay sighing Had been by magic all set flying ! Everything young, everything fair From East and West is blushing there, Except except Nourmahal ! Thou loveliest, dearest of them all, The one, whose smile shone out alone, Amidst a world the only one ! Whose light, among so many lights, Was like that star, on starry nights, The seaman singles from the sky, To steer his bark forever by ! Thou wert not there so Selim thought, And everything seem'd drear without thee ; But ah ! thou wert, thou wert and brought Thy charm of song all fresh about ihee. Mingling unnoticed with a band Of lutanists from many a land, And veil'd by such a mask as shades The features of young Arab maids, 6 A mask that leaves but one eye free, To do its best in witchery, She roved, with beating heart, around, And waited, trembling, for the minute When she might try if still the sound Of her loved lute had magic in it. The board was spread \vith fruits and wine, With grapes of gold, like those that shine 1 " The roses of the Jinan Nile, or Garden of the Nile, (at- tached to the Emperor of Morocco's palace.) are nm'<|iiallcd, and mattresse? are made of their leaves 1'or the meii of rank to recline upon."' * " On the side of a mountain near Paphos there is a cavern which produces the most beautiful rock-crystal. On account of its brilliancy, it has been called the Paphian diamond." * There is a part of Caudahar called Peria, or Fairy-Land." 4 " Butterflies, which are called, in the Chinese language, Flying Leaves.' " * "' The Arabian women wear black masks with little clasps, prettily ordered." Carreri. Niebuhr mentions their showing at one eye in conversation. On Casbin's hills ; pomegranates full Of melting sweetness, and the peara And sunniest apples that Cabul In all its thousand gardens bears. Plantains, the golden and the green, Malaya's nectar'd mangusteen ;* Prunes of Bokara, and sweet nuts From the far groves of Samarcand, And Basra dates, and apricots, Seed of the sun, 7 from Iran's land ; With rich conserve of Visna cherries,* Of orange flowers, and of those berries That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles Feed on in Erac's rocky dells. All these in richest vases smile, In baskets of pure sandal-wood, And urns of porcelain from that isle* Sunk underneath the Indian flood, Whence oft the lucky diver brings Vases to grace the halls of kings. Wines too, of every clime and hue, Around their liquid lustre threw; Amber Rosolli, the bright dew From vineyards of the Green feeagus'hing ," And Shiraz wine, that richly ran As if that jewel, large and rare. The ruby for which Kublai-Khan OfFer'd a city's wealth, 11 was blushing, Melted within the goblets there ! And amply Selim quaffs of each, And seems resolved the floods shall reach His inward heart, shedding around A genial deluge as they run, That soon shall leave no spot undrown'd, For Love to rest his wings upon. lie little knew how blest the boy Can float upon a goblet's streams, Lighting them with his smile of joy ; As bards have seen him in their dreams " The mangusteen, the most delicate fruit, in the world ; the pride of the Malay Islands." 7 "A delicious kind of apricot, called by the Persian* ' Tokm-ek-shems,' signifying sun's seed." 8 " Sweetmeats in a crystal cup, consisting of rose-leaves in conserve, with lemon or Visna cherry, orange flowers," &c. * " Mauri-ga-Sima, an island near Formosa, supposed to have been sunk in the sea lor the crimes of its inhabitants. The vessels which the fishermen and divers bring up from it are sold at an immense price in China and Japan." i The white wine of Kishma. 11 " The King of Zeilan is eaid to have the very finest rnby I that was ever seen. Kublai-Khan sent and offered the valu ! of a city for it, but the king answered he would not give it for i the treasure of the world." Marco Polo. POEMS OF THOMAS Moo UK. 155 Down the blue Ganges laughing glide Upon a rosy lotus wreath, 1 Catching new lustre from the tide That with his image shone beneath. But what are cups without the aid Of song to speed them as they flow ? And see a lovely Georgian maid, With all the bloom, the freshen'd slow ' O Of her own country maidens' looks, When warm they rise from Teflis' brooks:' And with an eye whose restless ray, Full, floating, dark oh he, who knows His heart is weak, of Heaven should pray To guard him from such eyes as those ! With a voluptuous wildness flings Her Enowy hand across the strings Of a syrinda, 1 and thus sings : "Come hither, come hither by night and. by day We linger in pleasures that never are gone; Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away, Another as sweet and as shining comes on. And the love that is o'er, in expiring gives birth To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss ; And oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this. Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh As the flower of the Amra just oped by a bee; And precious their tears as that rain from the sky, 4 Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. Oh ! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth, When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss; And own, if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this. "Here sparkles the nectar that, hallow'd by love, Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere, Who for wine of this earth left the fountain! above, And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have here. And, bless'd with the odor our goblets give forth, What spirit the sweets of this Eden would miss? For oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this." * The Georgian's song was scarcely mute, When the same measure, sound for sound, Was caught up by another lute, And so divinely breathed around, They all stood hush'd, and wondering, And turn'd and look'd into the air, As >f they thought to see the wing Of Israfil,* the angel, there ; So powerfully on every soul That new enchanted measure stole. While now a voice, sweet as the note Of the charm'd lute was heard to float Along its chords, and so entwine Its sound with theirs, that none knew whether The voice or lute was most divine, So wondrously they went together: " There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, When two that are link'd in one heavenly tie, With heart never chanirinix and brow never o o cold, Love on through all ills, and love on till they die ! One hour of a passion so sacred is worth Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss ; And oh ! if there be an Elysium on eaith, It is this, it is this." "The Indians feign that Cupid was first seen floating Sown the Ganges on the Nymphtxa Nelumbo." ' "Tcflii> is celebrated for itn natural warm baths." * " The Indian syrlnda or guitar." 4 " The Nisan. or drop* of spring raui, which ttey believe So produce pearls if they full Into belli." " Around the exterior of the Dewan Khann (a building of Shah Allnm's) in the cornice arc tin- following lines in letters of L'old upon a ground of white marble 'If there b a par* diM' upon earth, it Ic thK it IK thlc.' "Franklin. * "Tht- An;,'pl of Mu-lr. who h the mod nirlodlon* \n\if of all Cixl'i. rrfatlirri'." Stt*. 156 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words, But that deep magic in the chords And in the lips that gave such power As music knew not till that hour. At once a hundred voices said, "It is the mask'd Arabian maid !" While Selim, who had felt the same Deepest of any, and had lain Some minutes rapt, as in a trance, After the fairy sounds were o'er, Too inly touch'd for utterance, Now motion'd with his hand for more : " Fly to the desert, fly with me, Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; But oh ! the choice what heart can doubt Of tents with love or thrones without ? " Our rocks are rough, but smiling there The acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less For flowering in a wilderness. " Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope As gracefully and gayly springs As o'er the marble courts of kings. " Then come thy Arab maid will be The loved and lone acacia tree, The antelope, whose feet shall bless With their light sound thy loneliness. " Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine through the heart, As if the soul that minute caught Some treasure it through life had sought ; " As if the very lips and eyes Predestined to have all our sighs, And never be forgot again, Spai'kled and spoke before as then ! " So came thy every glance and tone, When first on me they breathed and shone ; New, as if brought from other spheres, jTet welcome as if loved for years ! u Then fly with me, if thou hast known No other flame, nor falsely thrown A gem away, that thou hadst sworn Should ever in thy heart be worn. " Come, if the love thou hast for me Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, Fresh as the fountain under ground, When first 'tis by the lapwing found. ' " But if for me thou dost forsake Some other maid, and rudely break Her worshipp'd image from its base, To give to me the ruin'd place ; " Then, fare-thee-well ! I'd rather make My bower upon some icy lake When thawing suns begin to shine, Than trust to love so false as thine !" There was a pathos in this lay, That, even without enchantment's art, Would instantly have found its way Deep into Selim's burning heart ; But breathing, as it did, a tone To earthly lutes and lips unknown ; With every chord fresh from the touch Of music's spirit, 'twas too much Starting, he dash'd away the cup, Which, all the time of this sweet air, His hand had held, untasted, up, As if 'twere fix'd by magic there, And naming her, so long unnamed, So long unseen, wildly exclaim'd, " O Nourmahal ! O Nourmahal ! Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, I could forget forgive thee all, And never leave those eyes again." The mask is off the charm is wrought And Selim to his heart has caught, In blushes, more than ever bright, His Nourmahal, his Haram's Light ! And well do vanish'd frowns enhance The charm of every brighten'd glance ; And dearer seems each dawning smile For having lost its light a while ; And, happier now for all her sighs, As on his arm her head reposes, She whispers him, with laughing eyes, " Remember, love, the Feast of Roses !" Fadladeen, at the conclusion of this light rhapsody, took occasion to sum up his opin- 1 The Hndhnd, or lapwing, is soppo* ed to have the powet of discovering water under ground. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 161 ion of the young Cashmerian's poetry, of which, he trusted, they had that evening heard the last. Having recapitulated the epithets " frivolous" " inharmonious" " nonsensical," he proceeded to say that, viewing it in the most favorable light, it re- sembled one of those Maldivian boats, to which the princess had alluded in the relation of her dream (p. 130) a slight, gilded thing, sent adrift without rudder or ballast, and with nothing but vapid sweets and faded flowers on board. The profusion, indeed, of flowers and birds which this poet had ready on all occasions, not to mention dews, gems, &c., was a most oppressive kind of opulence to his hearers ; and had the unlucky effect of giving to his style all the glitter of the flower-srarden without its method, and all O 7 the flutter of the aviary without its song. In addition to this, he chose his subjects badly, and was always most inspired by the worst part of them. The charms of pagan- ism, the merits of rebellion, these were the themes honored with his particular enthusi- asm ; and, in the poem just recited, one of hi.< most palatable passages was in praise of that beverage of the Unfaithful wine; " being, perhaps," said he, relaxing into a smile, as conscious of his own character in th- Haram on this point, " one of those bards, whose fancy owes all its illumination to the grape, like that painted porcelain, 1 so curious and so rare, whose images are only visible when liquor is poured into it." Upon the whole it was his opinion, from the speci- mens which they had heard, and which, he begged to say, were the most tiresome part of the journey, that whatever other merits this well-dressed young gentleman might possess poetry was by no means his proper avocation : " and indeed," concluded the critic, " from his fondness for flowers and for birds, I would venture to suggest that a florist or a bird-catcher is a much more suit- able calling for him than a poet." They had now begun to ascend those bar- ren mountains which separate Cashmere 1 " The Chinese had formerly the art of painting on the sides of porcelain vessels flan and other animals, which were only | n -rcejitiblc whon the vessel was full of some liquor. They are every now and then trying to recover the art of this inting, but to no purpose." Dunn. from the rest of India; and, as the heaU were intolerable, and the time of their en- campments limited to the few hours neces- sary for refreshment and repose, there was an end to all their delightful evenings, and Lalla Rookh saw no more of Fwamorz. She now felt that her short drearu of happiness was over, and that she had nothing but the recol- lection of its few blissful hours, like the one draught of sweet water that serves the camel o across the wilderness, to be her heart's re- freshment during the dreary waste of life that was before her. The blight that had fallen upon her spirits soon found its way to her cheek ; and her ladies saw with regret though not without some suspicion of the cause that the beauty of their mistress, of which they were almost as proud as of their own, was fast vanishing away at the very moment of all when she had most need of it. What must the King of Bucharia feel, when, instead of the lively and beautiful La)U Rookh, whom the poets of Delhi had de- scribed as more perfect than the divinest images in the House of Azor, 1 he should r ceive a pale and inanimate victim, upon whose cheek neither health nor pleasure bloomed, and from whose eyes Love had fled, to hide himself in her heart ! If anything could have charmed away the melancholy of her spirits, it would have been the fresh airs and enchanting scenery of that valley, which the Persians so justly called the " Unequalled." But neither the coolness of its atmosphere, so luxurious after toiling up those bare and burning mountains; neither the splendor of the minarets and pagodas, that shone out from the depths of its woods, nor the grottos, hermitages, and miraculous fountains,* which make every spot of that region holy ground; neither the countless waterfalls that rush into the valley from all those high and romantic mountains that en- circle it, nor the fair city on the lake, whose * An eminent carver of idols. Mid in the Koran to be father to Abraham. " I have such a lovely idol a* is not to b met with In the house of A*or."//q/l*. "The pardonable superstition of the sequestered Inhabit- ant* has multiplied the places of worship of Mahadeo, of Bcschan. and of Brama. All Cashmere I* holy land, and mi racolous fountains bound." Jfn/or R : and, as thy sorrows fiow, I'll ti^e the luxury of woe. ANACREONTIC. FRIEND of my soul ! this goblet sip, 'Twill chase that pensive tear ; *Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, But, oh ! 'tis more sincere. Like her delusive beam, 'Twill steal away thy mind : But, like affection's dream, It leaves no sting behind ! Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade ; These flowers were cull'd at noon ; Like woman's love the rose will fade, But, ah ! not half so soon ! For though the flower's decay'd, Its fragrance is not o'er ; But once when love's betray'd, The heart can bloom no more ! ELEGIAC STANZAS. How sweetly could I lay my head Within the cold grave's silent breast ; Where sorrow's tears no more are shed, No more the ills of life molest. For, ah ! my heart, how very soon The glittering dreams of youth are past And long before it reach its noon, The sun of life is overcast. " Neither do I condemn thee ; go, and sin no more I" St. John, viii. 11. O WOMAN ! if by simple wile Thy soul has stray 'd from honor's traek,. 'Tis mercy only can beguile, By gentle ways, the wanderer back. The stain that on thy virtue lies, Wash'd by thy tears, may yet decay ; As clouds that sully morning skies May all be wept in showers away. Go, go be innocent, and live The tongues of men may wound thee sore But Heaven in pity can forgive, And bids thee " go, and sin no more I" TO ROSA. AND are you then a thing of art, Enslaving all, and loving none ; And have I strove to gain a heart Which every coxcomb thinks his own? Do you thus seek to flirt a number, And through a round of danglers run, Because your heart'? ineimd slumbpr Could never wake to feel lor one f Tell me at once if this be true, And I shall calm my jealous breast, Shall learn to join the dangling crew, And share your simpers with the rest*. POEMS OF THOMAS MooKK. 103 But if your heart be not so free, Oh ! if another share that heart, Tell not the saddening tale to me, But mingle mercy with your art. THE SURPRISE. CHLORIS, I swear, by all I ever swore, That from this hour I shall not love thee more. " What ! love no more ? Oh ! why this alter'd vow?" Because I cannot love thee more than now! A DREAM. I THOUGHT this heart consuming lay On Cupid's burning shrine : I thought he stole thy heart away, And placed it near to mine. I saw thy heart begin to melt, Like ice before the sun ; Till both a glow congenial felt, And mingled into one ! WRITTEN IN A COMMON-PLACE BOOK, CALLED " THE BOOK OP FOLLIES ;" To which every one that opened it sJiould contribute iomething. TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES. THIS tribute's from a wretched elf, Who hails thee, emblem of himself ! The book of life, which I have traced, Has been, like thee, a motley waste Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er, One folly bringing hundreds more. Some have indeed been writ so neat, In characters so fair, so sweet, That those who judge not too severely, Have said they loved such follies dearly! Yet still, book ! the allusion stands : For these were penn'd by femalf hands; The rest, alas ! I own the trntlj, Have all been scribbled so uncouth, That Prudence, with a withering look, Disdainful flings away the book. Like thine, its pages here and there Have oft been stain'd with blots of care ; And sometimes hours of peace, I own, Upon some fairer leaves have shown, White as the snowings of that heaven By which those hours of peace were give*. But now no longer such, oh ! such The blast of Disappointment's touch ! Xo longer now those hours appear ; Each leaf is sullied by a tear : Blank, blank is every page with care, Not even a folly brightens there. Will they yet brighten? Never, never I Then shut the book, alas ! forever ! THE BALLAD. THOU hast sent me a flowery band, And told me 'twas fresh from the field ; That the leaves were untouch'd by the hand, And the purest of odors would yield. And indeed it was fragrant and fair ; But, if it were handled by thee, It would bloom with a livelier air, And would surely be sweeter to me ! Then take it, and let it entwine Thy tresses, so flowing and bright ; And each little floweret will shine More rich than a gem to my sight. Let the odorous gale of thy breath Embalm it with many a sigh ; Nay, let it be withcr'd to death, Beneath the warm noon of thine eye. And, instead of the dew that it bean, The dew dropping fresh from the tree ; On its leaves let me number the tears That affection has stolen from thee 1 164 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. THE TEAR. ON beds of snow the moonbeam slept, And chiJly was the midnight gloom, When by the damp grave Ellen wept Sweet maid ! it was her Lindor's tomb ! A warm tear gush'd, the wintry air Congeal'd it as it fiow'd away : All night it lay an ice- drop there, At morn it glitter'd in the ray ! An angel wandering from her sphere, Who saw this bright, this frozen gem, To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear, And hung it on her diadem ! SONG. HAVE you not seen the timid tear Steal trembling from mine eye ? Have you not mark'd the flush of fear, Or caught the murmur'd sigh ? And can you think my love is chill, Nor fix'd on you alone ? And can you rend, by doubting still, A heart so much your own ? To you my soul's affections move Devoutly, warmly, true ; My life has been a task of love, One long, long thought of you. If all your tender faith is o'er, If still my truth you'll try ; Alas ! I know but one proof more I'll bless your name, and die ! ELEGIAC STANZAS. "Sicjuvat perire." WHEN wearied wretches sink to sleep, How heavenly soft their slumbers lie ! How sweet is death to those who weep, To those who weep and long to die ! Saw you the soft and grassy bed, Where flowerets deck the green earth's breast ? 'Tis there I wish to lay my head, 'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest ! Oh ! let not tears emoalm my tomb None but the dews by twilight given ! Oh ! let not sighs, disturb the gloom None but the whispering winds of heaven ! A NIGHT THOUGHT. How oft a cloud, with envious veil, Obscures'yon bashful light, Which seems so modestly to steal Along the waste of night ! o o 'Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrong* Obscure with malice keen Some timid heart, which only longs To live and die unseen ! SONG. SWEETEST love ! I'll not forget thee ; Time shall only teach my heart, Fonder, warmer, to regret thee, Lovely, gentle as thou art ! Farewell, Bessy ! Yet, oh ! yet again we'll meet, love, And repose our hearts at last : Oh ! sure 'twill then be sweet, love, Calm to think on sorrows past. Farewell, Bessy ' Still I feel my heart is breaking, When I think I stray from thee, Round the world that quiet seeking, Which I fear is not for me ! Farewell, Bessy ! Calm to peace thy lover's bosom - Can it, dearest ! mast it be ? Thou within an hour shalt lose him. He forever loses thee ! Farewell, Bessy ! POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 166 THE GENIUS OF HAK.MoNV AN IRREGULAR ODE. "Ad harmoniam cancre mnndum." Victro, De fiat. Dear., lib. iii. THERE lies a shell beneath the waves, In many a hollow winding wreathed, Such as of old Echo'd the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed : This magic shell From the white bosom of a syren loll, As once she wander'd by the tide that laves Sicilia's sands of gold. It bears Upon its shining side, the mjstic notes Of those entrancing airs The genii of the deep were wont to swell When heaven's eternal orbs tneir midnight music roll'd ! Oh ! seek it wheresoe'er it floats ; And if the power Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear, Go, bring the bright shell to my bower, And I will fold thee in such downy dreams As lap the spirit of the seventh sphere When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his ear, And thou shalt own That, through the circle of creation's zone, SVhere matter darkles or where spirit beams ; From the pellucid tides that whirl The planets through their maze of song, To the small rill that weeps along, Murmuring o'er beds of pearl ; From the rich sigh Of the sun's arrow through an evening o o sky,' To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields On Afric's burning fields ;' Oh ! thou shalt own this universe divine Is mine ! That I respire in all and all in me, One mighty mingled soul of boundless har- mony ! 1 Heraclidcs, upon the allegories of Homer, conjecture* that the idea of the harmony of the spheres originated with this poet, who, in representing the solar beams as arrows, snppos es them to emit a peculiar sonnd in the air. 3 In the account of Africa which d'Ablanconrt has translated, there is mention of a tree in that country whose branches, when shaken by the hand, produce very sweet sounds. , welcome, mystic shell ! Many a star has ceased to burn,' Many a tear has Saturn's urn O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept, Since thy aerial spell Hath in the waters slept ! I fly With the bright treasure to my choral sk y, Where she, who waked its early swell, The syren with a foot of fire, Walks o'er the great string of my Orphic Lyre,' Or guides around the burning pole The winged chariot of so,nie blissful soul ! While thou, O sou of earth ! what dreams shall rise for thee! .Beneath Hispania's sun Thou'lt see a streamlet run, Which I have warm'd with dews of melody. Listen ! when the night wind dies Down the still current, like a harp it sighs ! A liquid chord is every wave that flows, An airy plectrum every breeze that blows ! There, by that wondrous stream, Go lay thy languid brow, And I will send thee such a godlike dream, Such mortal ! mortal ! hast thou heard of him," Who, many a night, with his primordial lyre, Sate on the chill Pangsean mount, And looking to the orient dim, Watch'd the first flowing of that sacred fount, From which his soul had drunk its fire ! Oh ! think what visions, in that lonely hour, Stole o'er his musing breast ! What pious ecstasy Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power, Whose seal upon this world imprest' The various forms of bright divinity ! * Alluding to the extinction, or at least the disappearance, of some of those died stars which we are taught to consider as KIIIIH attended each by its system. * Porphyry says that Pythagoras held the sea to be a tear. ' The system of the harmonized orb* was styled by the an- cients " The Great Lyre of Orpheus." * Orpheus. 7 In one of the Hymns of Orpheus, he attribute* a figured seal to Apollo, with which he imagines that deity to hart stamped a variety of forma npon the universe. 166 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove, 'Mid the deep horror of that silent bower, 1 Where the rapt Samian slept his holy slumber ! When, free From every earthly chain, From wreaths of pleasure and from bonds of pain, His spirit flew through fields above, Drank at the source of nature's fontal number," And saw, in mystic choir, around him move The stars of song, Heaven's burning min- strelsy ! Such dreams, O heavenly bright, I swear By the great diadem that twines my hair, And by the seven gems that sparkle there,* Mingling their beams ~ O In a soft iris of harmonious light, O mortal ! such shall be thy radiant dreams ! SONG. WHEN Time, who steals our years away, Shall steal our pleasures too, The memory of the past will stay, And half our joys renew. Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flower Shall feel the wintry air, Remembrance will recall the hour When thou alone wert fair ! Then talk no more of future gloom ; Our joys shall always last ; For hope shall brighten days to come, And memory gild the past ! Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl, I drink to love and thee : 1 Alluding to the cave near Samos, where Pythagoras de- TOted the greater part of his days and nights to meditation, and the mysteries of his philosophy. 3 The Tetractys, or Sacred Number of the Pythagoreans, on which they solemnly swore, and which they called nayav ct.tva.ov $v6GO$, "The Fountain of Perennial Nature." * This diadem is intended to represent the analogy between the notes of music and the prismatic colors. Thou never canst decay in soul, Thou'lt still be young for me. And as thy lips the tear-d^op chase, Which on thy cheek they find, So hope shall steal away the trace Which sorrow leaves behind ! Then fill the bowl away with gloom! Our joys shall always last ; For hope shall brighten days to come, And memory gild the past ! But mark, at thought of future years When love shall lose its soul, My Chloe drops her timid tears, They mingle with my bowl ! How like the bowl of wine, my fair, Our loving life shall fleet ; Though tears may sometimes mingle there, The draught will still be sweet ! Then fill the bowl ! away with gloom ! Our joys shall always last; For hope will brighten days to come> And memory gild the past ! PEACE AND GLORY. WRITTEN AT THE COMMENCEMENT OP THB PRESENT WAR. WHERE is now the smile that lighten'd Every hero's couch of rest ? Where is now the hope that brighten'd Honor's eye and pity's breast ? Have we lost the wreath we braided For our weary warrior men ? Is the faithless olive faded, Must the bay be pluck'd again ? Passing hour of sunny weather, Lovely in your light a while, Peace and Glory, wed together, Wander'd through the blessed isle. And the eyes of peace would glisWn, Dewy as a morning sun, When the timid maid would listen To the deeds her chief had done. Is the hour of meeting over ? Must the maiden's trembling feet POEMS OF THOMAS MooKK. 1G7 Waft her from her warlike lover To the desert's still retreat ? Fare you well ! with sighs we banish Nymph so fair and guest so bright ; Fet the smile with which you vanish Leaves behind a soothing light ! Soothing light! that long shall sparkle O'er your warrior's sanguine way Through the field where horrors darkle, Shedding Hope's consoling ray ! Long the smile his heart will cherish, To its absent idol true ; While around him myriads perish, Glory still will sigh for you ! TO CLOE. IMITATED FROM MARTIAL. I COULD resign that eye of blue, Howe'er it burn, howe'er it thrill me ; And though your lip be rich with dew, To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me. Phat snowy neck I ne'er should miss, However oft I've raved about it ; And though your heart can beat with bliss, I think my soul could live without it. In short, I've learn'd so well to fast, That, sooth my love, I know not whither I might not bring myself at last To do without you altogether ! LYING. { DO confess, in many a sigh My lips have breathed you many a lie, And who, with such delights in view, Would lose them for a lie or two ? Nay, look not thus, with brow reproving; Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving ! If half we tell the girls were true, If half we swear to think and do, Were aught but lying's bright illusion, The world would be in strange confusion 1 If ladies' eyes were, every one, As lovers' swear, a radiant sun, Astronomy should leave the skies, To learn her lore in ladies' eyes ! Oh, no ! believe me, lovely girl, When Nature turns your teeth to pearl, Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, Your yellow locks to golden wire, Then, only then, can Heaven decree, That you should live for only me. And now, my gentle hints to clear, For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear ! Whenever you may chance to meet A loving youth whose love is sweet, Long as you're false and he believes you, Long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures : o * And while he lies, his heart is yours : But, oh ! you've wholly lost the youth The instant that he tells you truth ' WOMAN. AWAY, away, you're all the same, A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng ! Oh ! by my soul, I burn with shame, To think I've been your slave so long! Still panting o'er a crowd to reign, More joy it gives to woman's breast To make ten frigid coxcombs vain, Than one true manly lover blest ! Away, away your smile's a curse Oh ! blot me from the race of men, Kind, pitying Heaven ! by death or worse, Before I love such things again ! A VISION OF PHILOSOPHY. 'TWAS on the Hed Sea coast, ut morn, we met The venerable man; a virgin bloum Of softness mingled with the vigorous thought That tower'd upon his brow ; as when \\ The gentle moon and tin- full radiant sun 168 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Shining in heaven together. When he spoke, 'Twas language sweeten'd into song such holy sounds As oft the spirit of the good man hears Prelusive to the harmony of heaven When death is nigh ! and still, as he unclosed His sacred lips, an odor all as bland As ocean breezes gather from the flowers That blossom in Elysium, breathed around ! With silent awe we listen'd, while he told Of the dark veil which many an age had hung O'er Nature's form, till by the touch of time The mystic shroud grew thin and luminous, And half the goddess beam'd in glimpses through it ! Of magic wonders that were known and taught By him (or Cham or Zoroaster named) Who mused, amid the mighty cataclysm, O'er his rude tablets of primeval lore, 1 Nor let the living star of science sink Beneath the waters which ingulf'd the world ! Of visions, by Calliope reveal'd To him, 2 who traced upon his typic lyre The diapason of man's mingled frame, And the grand Doric heptachord of heaven ! With all of pure, of wondrous and arcane, Which the grave sons of Mochus many a night Told to the young and bright-hair'd visitant Of Carmel's sacred mount ! s Then, in a flow Of calmer converse, he beguiled us on Through many a maze of garden and of porch, Through many a system where the scatter'd light Of heavenly truth lay like a broken beam From the pure sun, which, though refracted all Into a thousand hues, is sunshine still, 1 Cham, the son of Noah, is supposed to have taken with nim into the ark the principal doctrines of magical, or rather of natural science, which he had inscribed upon some very durable substances, in order that they might resist the ravages of the deluge, and transmit the secrets of antediluvian knowl- edge to his posterity. 2 Orpheus. * Pythagoras is represented in Jamblichus as descending with great solemnity from Mount Carmel, for which reason the Carmeiitcs have claimed him as one of their fraternity. This Mochus or Moschns, with the descendants of whom Pythagoras conversed in Phoenicia, and from whom he derived tne doctrines of atomic philosophy, is supposed by some to be the same with Moses. And bright through every change ! he spoke of Him, The lone, eternal One, who dwell* above, And of the soul's untraceablc descent From that high fount of spirit, through the gi'ades Of intellectual being, till it mix With atoms vague, corruptible, and dark : Nor even then, though sunk in earthly dross, Corrupted all, nor its ethereal touch Quite lost, but tasting of the fountain still ! As some bright river, which has rpll'd along Through meads of flowery light and mines of gold, When pour'd at length into the dusky deep, Disdains to mingle with its briny taint, But keeps a while the pure and golden tinge t The balmy freshness of the fields it left ! And here the old man ceased a winged train Of nymphs and genii led him from our eyes. The fair illusion fled ! and. as I waked, I knew my visionary soul had been Among that people of aerial dreams Who live upon the burning galaxy !* A BALLAD. THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. WRITTEN AT NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA. " They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterward heard of. As he had frequently said in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses." Anon. " La poesie a ses monstres comme la nature." D'Alemberi. " THEY made her a grave too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true ; And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,* Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, She paddles her white canoe. " And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, And her paddle I soon shall hear ; 4 According to Pythagoras, the people of dreams are soul* collected together in the galaxy. 6 The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles diftan. from Norfolk, ani the lake in the middle of it (about se^ en miles long) is called Drummond's Pond. POEMS OF THOMAS MOO I IK. Long and loving our life shall be, And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, Wlu'ii the footstep of death is m-.-ir !" Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before ! And when on the earth he sunk to sleep, If slumber his eyelids knew, He lay where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew ! And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake, And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, " Oh ! when shall I see the dusky Lake, And the white canoe of my dear ?" He saw th e Lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface play'd " Welcome," he said, " my dear one's light !" And the dim shore echo'd for many a night The name of the death-cold maid ! Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark, Which carried him off from the shore ; Far he follow'd the meteoY spark, The wind was high arid the clouds were dark, And the boat return'd no more. But oft from the Indian hunter's camp, This lover and maid so true Are seen at the hour of midnight damp, To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp, And paddle their white canoe ! AT NIGHT. These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has Tor Its de- ncea Cupid, with the words " At Night" written ovr him. AT night, when all is still around, How sweet to hear the distant sound Of footstep, coming soft and light ! What pleasure in the anxious beat With which the bosom flies to meet That foot that comes so soft at night ! And then, at night, how sweet to say " 'Tis late, my love !" and chide delay, Though still the western clouds are bright; Oh ! happy, too, the silent press, The eloquence of mute caress, With those we love exchanged at night ! ODES TO NEA, WRITTEN AT BERMUDA. THE SNOW-SPIRIT. No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep An island of lovelier charms ; It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep, Like Hebe in Hercules' arms ! The tint of your bowers is balm to the eye, Their melody bairn to the ear ; But the fiery planet of day is too nigh, And the Snow-Spirit never comes here ! The down from his wing is as white as the pearl Thy lips for their cabinet stole, And it falls on the green earth as meltfog, my girl, As a murmur of thine on the soul ! Oh ! fly to the clime where he pillows the death As he cradles the birth of the year ; Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath, But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here ! How sweet to behold him, when borne on the gale, And brightening the bosom of morn, He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil O'er the brow of each virginal thorn ! Yet think not, the veil he so chillingly casts, Is the veil of a vestal severe; No, no, thou wilt sec, what a moment it laa*v Should the Snow-Spirit ever come here 170 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. But fly to his region lay open thy zone, And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim, To think that a bosom as white as his own Should not melt in the day-beam like him Oh ! lovely the print of those delicate feet O'er his luminous path will appear Fiy ! my beloved ! this island is sweet, But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here ! II. THERE'S not a look, a word of thine My soul has e'er forgot ; Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine, iSTor given thy locks one graceful twine Which I remember not ! There never yet a murmur fell From that beguiling tongue. Which did not, with a lingering spell, Upon my charmed senses dwell, Like something heaven had sung. Ah ! that I could, at once, forget All, all that haunts me so And yet, thou witching girl ! and yet To die were sweeter than to let The loved remembrance go ! No ; if this slighted heart must see Its faithful pulse decay, Obi let it die, remembering thee, Ana, like the burnt aroma, be Consumed in sweets away ! LINES, WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA. OH ! there's a holy calm profound In awe like this, that ne'er was given To rapture's thrill ; *Tis as a solemn voice from heaven, And the soul, listening to the sound, Lies mute and still ! 'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh, Of slumbering with the dead to-morrow In the cold deep, Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow No more shall wake the heart or eye, But all must sleep ! Well ! there are some, thou stormy bed, To whom thy sleep would be a treasure ; Oh ! most to him Whose lip hath drain'd life's cup of pleasure, Nor left one honey-drop to shed Round misery's brim. Yes he can smile serene at death : Kind Heaven ! do thou but chase the weeping Of friends who love him ; Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath No more shall move him. THE STEERSMAN'S SONG. WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE, 28-TH APRIL. WHEN freshly blows the northern gale, And under courses snug we fly ; When lighter breezes swell the sail, And royals proudly sweep the sky ; 'Longside the wheel, unwearied still I stand, and as my watchful eye Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill, I think of her I love, and cry, Port, my boy ! port. When calms delay, or bi'eezes blow Right from the point we wish to stuer t When by the wind close-haul'd we go, And strive in vain the port to near ; I think 'tis thus the fates defer My bliss with one that's far away, And while remembrance springs to her, I watch the sails, and sighing say, Thus, my boy ! thus. But see, the wind draws kindly aft ; All hands are up the yards to square, And now the floating stu'n-sails waft Our stately ship through waves and air. FOEMS OF THOMAS MOOKE. Oh ! then I think that yet for me Some breeze of fortune thus may spring, Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee ! And in that hope I smiling sing, Steady, boy ! so. LINES, WRITTEN ON LEAVING PHILADELPHIA. AJJONE by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved, And bright were its flowery banks to his eye; But far, very far were the friends that he loved, And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh ! O Nature ! though blessed and bright are thy rays, O'er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown, Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays In a smile from the heart that is dearly our own ! N or long did the soul of the stranger remain Unblest by the smile he had languish'd to meet; Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again, Till the threshold of home had been kiss'd by his feet ! But the lays of his boyhood had stolen to their ear, And they loved what they knew of so humble a name, And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear, That they found in his heart something sweeter than fame. Nor did woman O woman ! whose form and whose soul Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue ; Whether sunn'd in the tropics or chill'd at the pole, If woman be there, there is happiness too ! Nor did she her enamoring magic deny, That magic his heart had relinquishM so long, Like eyes he had loved was her eloquent eye Like them did it soften and weep at hia song! Oh ! blest be the tear, and in memory oft May its sparkle be shed o'er his wandering dream ! Oh ! blest be that eye, and may passion as soli, As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam ! The stranger is gone but he will not forget, When at home he shall talk of the toil he has known, To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met, As he stray'd by the wave of the Schuyl- kill alone ! LINES, WRITTEN AT THE COHO8, OR FALL OF THB MOHAWK RIVER. FROM rise of morn till set of sun I've seen the mighty Mohawk run, And as I mark'd the woods of pine Along his mirror darkly shine, Like tall and gloomy forms that pass Before the wizard's midnight glass ; And as I view'd the hurrying pace With which he ran his turbid race, Rushing, alike untired and wilil, Through shades that frown'd and flo\\vr that smiled, Flying by every green recess That woo'd him to its calm cares*, Yet sometimes turning with the win.. As if to leave one look behind ! Oh ! I have thought, and thinking sigh'd How like to thee, thon In-art U->s tide, M:iy be the lot, the life of him. Who roams along thy water's brim ! 172 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Through what alternate shades of woe And flowei'S of joy my path may go ; How many an humble, still retreat May rise to court my weary feet, While still pursuing, still unblest, I wander on, nor dare to rest ! But urgent as the doom that calls Thy water to its destined falls, I see the world's bewildering force Hurry my heart's devoted course From lapse to lapse, till life be done, And the lost current cease to run ! May heaven's forgiving rainbow shine Upon the mist that circles me, As soft as now it hangs o'er thee ! BALLAD STANZAS. by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, " If there's peace to be found in the world, A heart that is humble might hope for it here !" It was noon, and on flowers that languish'd around In silence reposed the voluptuous bee ; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. And " Here in this lone little wood," I ex- claim'd, " With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed, How blest could I live, and how cairn could I die ! " By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips, Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine !" A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG. WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE. FAIXTLY as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past ! Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl I But when the wind blows off the shore, Oh ! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past ! Utawas tide ! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle ! hear our prayers, Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past I BLACK AND BLUE EYES. THE brilliant black eye May in triumph let fly All its darts without caring who feels 'em > But the soft eye of blue, Though it scatter wounds too, Is much better pleased when it heals 'em ' Dear Fanny ! The soft eye of blue, Though it scatter wounds too, Is much better pleased when it heals 'em. The black eye may say, " Come and worship my ray " By adoring, perhaps, you may move me (** POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 173 But the blue eye, half hid, Says, from under its lid ** J love, and am yours, if you love me !" Dear Fanny ! The blue eye, half hid, Says, from under its lid **I love, and am yours, if you love me I" Then tell me, oh, why, In that lovely blue eye, Not a charm of its tint I discover ; Or why should you wear The only blue pair That ever said " No" to a lover ? Dear Fanny ! Oh, why should you wear The only blue pair That ever said " No" to a lover ? LOVE AND TIME. Tis said but whether true or not Let bards declare who've seen 'em That Love and Time have only got One pair of wings between 'em. In courtship's first delicious hour, The boy full well can spare 'em ; So, loitering in his lady's bower, He lets the srray-beard wear 'em. Then is Time's hour of play; Oh, how he flies away ! Bat short the moments, short as bright, When he the wings can borrow ; If Time to-day has had its flight, Love takes his turn to-morrow. Ah ! Time and Love, your change is then The saddest and most trying, When one begins to limp again, And t'other takes to flying. Then is Love's hour to stray ; Oh, how he flies away ! But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel And bless the silken fetter, Who knows, the dear one, how to deal With Love and Time much better. So well she checks their wanderings, So peacefully she pairs 'em, That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings, And Time forever wears 'era. This is Time's holiday ; Oh, how he flies away ! DEAR FANNY. " SHE has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool ; She has wit, but you mustn't be caught so:" Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool, And 'tis not the first time I have thought so; Dear Fanny, 'Tis not the first time I have thought so. "She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly; 'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing s*^a- son :" Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny That Love reasons much better than Rea- son ? Dear Fanny, Love reasons much better than Reason. FROM life without freedom, oh, who would not fly ? For one day of freedom, oh ! who would not die? Hark ! hark ! 'tis the trumpet ! the call of the brave, The death-song of tyrants, and dirge of the slave. Our country lies bleeding oh, fly to her aid ; One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade. In death's kindly bosom our last hope re- mains 174 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains. On, on to the combat; the heroes that bleed For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed. And oh, even if freedom from this world be di'iven, Despair not at least we shall find her in heaven. MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOUNDETH. THE TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY. MERRILY every bosom boundeth, Merrily, oh! Where the song of freedom soundeth, Merrily, oh ! There the warrior's arms Shed more splendor ; There the maiden's charms Shine more tender; Every joy the land surroundeth, Merrily, oh ! merrily, oh ! Wearily every bosom pineth, Wearily, oh ! Where the bond of slavery twineth, Wearily, oh ! There the warrior's dart Hath no fleetness ; There the maiden's heart Hath no sweetness Every flower of life declineth, Wearily, oh ! wearily, oh ! Cheerily then from hill and valley, Cheerily, oh ! Like your native fountains sally, Cheerily, oh ! If a glorious death, Won by bravery, Sweeter be than breath Sigh'd in slavery, Round the flag of freedom rally, Cheerily, oh ! cheerily, oh ! SIGH NOT THUS. SIGH not thus, oh, simple boy, Nor for woman languish ; Loving cannot boast a joy Worth one hour of anguish. Moons have faded fast away, Stars have ceased their shining j Woman's love, as bright as they, Feels as quick declining. Then, love, vanish hence, Fye, boy, banish hence Melancholy thoughts of Cupid's lore , Hours soon fly away, Charms soon die away, Then the silly dream of the heart is o'er H THOU ART, O GOD. "The day is thine, the night also is thine : thou hast pre pared tne light and the sun. Thou hast set all the borders of the earth : thou hast made summer and winter " Psalrr Irxiv. 16, 17. THOU art, O God, the life and light Of all this wondrous world we see; Its glow by day, its smile by night, Are but reflections caught from Thee. Where'er we turn thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are Thine ! When day, with farewell beam, delays Among the op'ning clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze Through golden vistas into heaven Those hues that made the sun's decline Sq soft, so radiant, Lord ! are Thine ! When night, with wings of starry gloom, O'ershadows all the earth and skies, Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume la sparkling with unnumber'd eyes That sacred gloom, thoie fires divine, So grand, so countless, Lord ! are Thine. When youthful spring around us breathes, Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; And every flower the summer wreathes Is born beneath that kindling eye. Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine, >And all things fair and bright are Thine ! THE BIRD LET LOOSE. THE bird let loose in eastern skies, 1 When hast'ning fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam. 1 The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elerated pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she Is destined. But high she shoots through air and light, Above all low delay, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way. So grant me, God, from every care And stain of passion free, Aloft, through Virtue's purer air, To hold my course to Thee ! No sin to cloud, no lure to stay My soul, as home she springs ; Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom in her wings. FALLEN IS THY THRONE. FALLEN is thy throne, O Israel ! Silence is o'er thy plains; Thy dwellings all lie desolate, Thy children weep in chains ! Where are the dews that fed thee On Etham's barren shore ? That fire from heaven which led the, Now lights thy path no more. Lord ! thou didst love Jerusalem Once she was all Thy own ; Her love Thy fairest heritage,* Her power Thy glory's throne,' Till evil came and blighted Thy long-^oved olive-tree ; 4 And Salem's shrines were lighted For other gods than Tlu-o. Then sunk the star of Solyma Then pass'd her glory's day, * "I have left mine heritage; I have given the dearly b* oved of my soul into the hand of her enemies." Jer. xil. ?. " Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory." Jer. xiv SI 4 " The Lord called thy name a green olive-trot ; Out atx> i goodly fruit,-' Sic.Jer. xi. 16 176 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Like heath that in the wilderness' The wild wind whirls away. Silent and waste her bowers, Where once the mighty trod, And sunk those guilty towers, Where Baal reign'd as God. 4 Go" said the Lord " ye conquerors ! Steep in her blood your swords, And raze to earth her battlements, 9 For they are not the Lord's. Till Zion's mournful daughter O'er kindred bones shall tread, And Hinnom's vale of slaughter* Shall hide but half her dead !" O THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURN- ER'S TEAR "He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds." Psalm cxlvii. 3. O THOU who. dry'st the mourner's tear, How dark this world would be, If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to Thee ! The friends who in our sunshine live, When winter comes, are flown ; And he who has but tears to give, Must weep those tears alone. But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe. When joy no longer soothes or cheers, And even the hope that threw A moment's sparkle o'er our tears Is dimm'd and vanish'd too, Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom, Did not Thy wing of love Come, brightly wafting through the gloom Our Peace-branch from above ! 1 "For he shall be like the heath in the desert." Jer. ivii. 6. 2 " Take away her battlements ; for they are not the Lord's." -Jer. v. 10. * " Thereioie, behold, the clays come, saith the Lord, that it thai! no more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son of flinnom. but the Valley of Slaughter ; for they shall bury in Tophet till r,here be no place." Jer. vii. 32. Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray ; As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day ! BUT WHO SHALL SEE. BUT who shall see the glorious day When, throned on Zion's brow, The Lord shall rend that veil away Which hides the nations now ? 4 When earth no more beneath the fear Of His rebuke shall lie! 6 When pain shall cease, and every tear Be wiped from every eye." Then, Judah, thou no more shalt mouro Beneath the heathen's chain ; Thy days of splendor shall return, And all be new again. 7 The fount of life shall then be quafl'M In peace by all who come ;' And every wind that blows shall waft Some lonsr-lost exile home. THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. THIS world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given ; The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow There's nothing true but Heaven ! And false the light on glory's plume, As fading hues of even ! And love and hope and beauty's bloom Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb There's nothing bright but Heaven ! 4 " And he will destroy in tliif mountain the face of the cov- ering cast over all people, and the veil that is spread over all nations." ha. xxv. 7. 6 " The rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth." Isa. xxv. 8. " And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes ; neither shall there be any more pain." Rev. xxi. 4. 7 " And he that sat upon the throne said, Behoid, I make all things new." Rev. xxi. 5. * "And whosoever will, let him take the water of lif freely." Rev. xxii. 17. POK.MS OF TlIo.MAS MOOKE 177 Poor wand'rers of a stormy day ! From wave to wave we're driven, And fancy's flash and reason's ray Serve but to light the troubled way There's nothing calm but Heaven ! ALMIGHTY GOD! CHORUS OP PRIESTS. ALMIGHTY God ! when round Thy shrine The palm-tree's heavenly branch we twine, 1 (Emblem of life's eternal ray, And love that "fadeth not away,") We bless the flowers, expanded all," We bless the leaves that never fall, And trembling say " In Eden thus The tree of life may flower for us !" When round Thy cherubs smiling calm, Without their flames 3 we wreathe the palm, O God ! we feel the emblem true Thy mercy is eternal too. Those cherubs, with their smiling eyes, That crown of palm which never dies, Are but the types of Thee above Eternal Life, and Peace, and Love ! SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL. MIRIAM'S SONG. " Aid Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand ; and all the women went oat after her with timbrels and with dances.' 1 Exod. xv. 20. SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has triumph'd His people are free ! Sing for the pride of the tyrant is broken, His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid :ui redeem mankind." Observations on the Palm. How vain was their boasting, the Lord hath but spoken, And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ; Jehovah has triumph'd His people are free ! Praise to the conqueror, praise to the Lord ! His word was our arrow, His breath was our sword. Who shall return to tell Egypt the story Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride ? For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of glory, 4 And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! Jehovah has triumph'd His people are free ! O FAIR ! O PUREST ! SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTER.* O FAIR ! O purest ! be thou the dove That flies alone to some sunny grove, And lives unseen, and bathes her wing, All vestal white, in the limpid spring : There, if the hovering hawk be near, That limpid spring in its mirror clear Reflects him, ere he can reach his prey, And warns the timorous bird away. Oh, be like this dove ; O fair ! O purest ! be like this (lore. The sacred pages of God's own Book Shall be the spring, the eternal brook, In whose holy mirror, night and day, Thou'lt study Heaven's reflected ray ; And should the foes of virtue dare, With gloomy wing, to seek \ee there, Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie Between Heaven and thee, and trembling fly ! Oh, be like this dove ; (.) fair ! O purest ! be like this dove. " And it came to pa**, that in the morning watch the Lord looked unto the host of the Egyptians through the pillar of ftn and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptian*." Erod. xlv. 24. In St. Atiguxttne's Treatise upon the Advantage* of a Soil tnry Life, addressed to his sister, there is a pudge from which the tin m-lit of this Kong was taken. THE POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. 1 lAsaperstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that wnen child smiles in its Bleep, it is " talking with angels."] A BABY was sleeping, Its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild raging O O sea; Arid the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling, And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh come back to me !" Her beads while she number'd, The baby still slumber'd, Ar.d smiled in her face as she bended her knee; " Oh blest be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with tb^e. " And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 1 The beautiful superstition on which this gong has been founded, has an Oriental as well as u Western prevalence ; and, In all probability reached the Irish by being borrowed from the Phoenician?. Amongst the Rabbinical traditions which are treasured by the Jews, is the belief, that before the crea- tion of Eve, another companion WHB assigned to Adam in Para- dise, who bore the name of Lilith. But proving arrogant and disposed to contend for superior.ty, a quarrel ensued ; Lilith pronounced the name of Jehovah, which it is forbidden to utter, ind fled to conceal herself \i tn> sea. Three angels, Sennoi, Sansennoi, and Sammangelypk, were despatched by the Lord of the Universe toer.mpe'. her to return ; but on her obstinate refusal, he was traaefonnea Jnto a demon, whose delight is In debilitai ing and destroying 1'ifanta. On condition that she was not to be forced to go back to Paradise, she bound herself by n oath to refrain from inluring such children as might be pro- tected by having lusoribrd on them the name of the mediating ingels hence the p.-ao',ice of the Eastern Jews to write the names of Scnn&l, Snnsennoi, and Sammangcloph, on slips of paper and bind ihe-n on their infants to protect them from Lilith. The ecory will be found In BUXTOW'S Synagoga Jiidoica. in. iv. p. 81 ; and in BEN SIBA, as edited by BARTO- torci. In I lie fi-n volume of his ItMiotheca Rabbinlca, p. 00. Etni-'.c Ilvjnick-ch, a Rabbinical writer, quoted by STKUE- LI.N. aays, " tvhen a child laughs in U iltep. In the night of the i. or the uo\\ moon, that Lilith laughs and toys with it. Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me i And say thou wouldst rather They'd watch o'er thy father! For I know that the angels are whispering with thee." The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe'a father to see ; And closely caressing Her child, with a blessing, Said, " I knew that the angels where whis- pering with thee." THE FAIRY BOY. [When a beautiful child pines and diet, the Irish peasant b- lii-vcs thu healthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left in its place.] A MOTHER came when stars were paling, Wailing round a lonely spring ; Thus she cried, while tears were falling, Calling on the Fairy King : " Why, with spells my child caressing, Courting him with fairy joy, Why destroy a mother's blessing, Wherefore steal my baby-boy ? " O'er the mountain, through the wild-wood, Where his childhood loved to play, Where the flowers are freshly springing, There I wander day by day ; and that it is proper for tin- mother, or any one that tb infant laugh, to tap it on the noe. and say ' Lilith. iM-^ont : thy abode if not here.' This should bo raid throe time*, and each repetition accompanied by a gentle tap." See Ailtn'n Ac- count of the Tradition, Rite*, and Certmonitt of Uu Jticr, ch, x. p. 1G8-0 ch. xvl. p. 991. 180 ^OEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. There I wander, growing fonder Of the child that made my joy, On the echoes wildly calling To restore my fairy boy. "But in vain my plaintive calling, Tears are falling all in vain, He now sports with fairy pleasure, He's the treasure of their train ! Fare thee well ! my child, forever, In this world I've lost my joy, But in the next we ne'er shall sever, There I'll find my angel boy." TRUE LOVE CAN NE'ER FORGET. [It IB related of Carolan, the Irish bard, that when deprived of sight, and after a lapse of twenty years, he recognized his first love by the touch of her hand. The lady's name was Bridget Cruise ; and though not a pretty name, it deserves to be recorded, as belonging to the woman who could inspire inch a passion.] " TRUE love can ne'er forget ; Eondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, My darling one !" Thus sung a minstrel gray His sweet impassion'd lay, Down by the Ocean's spray, At set of sun. But wither'd was the minstrel's sight, Morn to him was dark as night, Yet his heart was full of light, As thus the lay begun : " True love can ne'er forget ; Fondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, My darling one !" " Long years are past and o'er, Since from this fatal shore Cold hearts and cold winds bore My love from me." Scarcely the minstrel spoke, When forth, with flashing stroke, A boat's light oar the silence broke, Over the sea. Soon upon her native strand Doth a lovely lady land, While the minstrel's love-taught hand Did o'er his wild harp run : " True love can ne'er forget ; Fondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, My darling one !" "Where the minstrel sat alone, There that lady fair had gone, Within his hand she placed her own. The bard dropp'd on his knee ; From his lips soft blessings came, He kiss'd her hand with truest flame, In trembling tones he named her name, Though her he could not see ; But oh ! the touch the bard could tell Of that dear hand, remember'd welL Ah ! by many a secret spell Can true love find his own ; For true love can ne'er forget ; Fondly as when they met, He loved his lady yet, His darling one ! NYMPH OF NIAGARA. NYMPH OF NIAGARA ! Sprite of the mist ! With a wild magic my brow thou hast kiss'd ; I am thy slave, and my mistress art thou, For thy wild kiss of magic is yet on my brow. 1 I feel it as first when I knelt before thee, With thy emerald robe flowing brightly and free, 8 Fringed with the spray-pearls, and floating in mist Thus 'twas my brow with wild magic you kiss'd. Thine am I still ; and I'll never forget The moment the spell on my spirit was set ; Thy chain but a foam-wreath yet stronger by far Than the manacle, steel- wrought, for captive of war ; Written immediately after leaving the Falls. * The water in the centre of the groat fall is 'ntPtisely greea and of aem like brilliancy. Pt - IX en ~ W O w POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 181 For the steel it will rust, and the war will be o'er, And the manacled captive be free as before ; While the foam- wreath will bind me forever to thee ! I love the enslavement and would not be free ! Nymph of Niagara! play with the breeze, Sport with the fauns 'mid the old forest trees ; Blush into rainbows at kiss of the sun, From the gleam of his dawn till his bright course be run ; I'll not be jealous for pure is thy sporting, Heaven-born is all that around thee is court- ing Still will I love thee, sweet Sprite of the mist, As first when my brow with wild magic you kiss'd ! HOW TO ASK AND HAVE. u On, 'tis time I should talk to your mother, Sweet Mary," says I ; " Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary, Beginning to cry : " For my mother says men are deceivers, And never, I know, will consent ; She says girls in a hurry who marry At leisure repent." " Then, suppose I would talk to your father, Sweet Mary," says I ; " Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary, Beginning to cry : " For my father, he love me so dearly, He'll never consent I should go If you talk to my father," says Mary, "He'll surely say 'No. 1 '" " Then how .ihall I get you, my jewel ? Sweet Mary," says I ; " If your father :mw the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear, And the pretty stars were made to shine, And the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear, And maybe -you were made for mine ! The wicked watch-dog here is snarling lie takes me for a thief, you see ; For he knows I'd steal you, Molly darling And then transported I should be. O ! Molly, fiii-i? of the Kin-;, rebnt- led their rahimnif*. They wild, at last. " Plunge yonr High- tic-ss. all Ireland cannot rule this Earl." " Then," wild Hunry *'hc i the iniin to rule all Ireland." and he took tb" golden chain from hif neck and threw it over the ohoiildeu ol th Knrl, who returned, with honor, to hi* government.] On, Moina, I've a tale to tell Will glad thy soul, my girl : The King hath given a chain of gold To our noble-heart ril Karl. 188 POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. His foes, they rail'd the Earl ne'er quail'd- But, with a front so bold, Before the King did backward fling The slinderous lies they told : And the King gave him no iron chain No he gave him a chain of gold ! Oh, 'tis a noble sig.ht to see The cause of truth prevail : An honest cause is always proof Against a treacherous tale. Let fawning false ones court the great, The heart in virtue bold Will hold the right, in power's despite, Until that heart be cold : For falsehood's the bond of slavery, But truth is the chain of gold. False Connal wed the rich one With her gold and jewels rare, But Dermid wed the maid he loved, And she clear'd his brow from care : And thus, in our own hearts, love, We may read this lesson plain, Let outward joys depart, love, So peace within remain For falsehood is an iron bond, But love is the golden chain ! GIVE ME MY ARROWS AND GIVE ME MY BOW. [In the Great North American lakes there are islands bear- ing the name of " dlanitw" which signifies " THE GREAT SPIRIT," and Indian tradition declares that in these islands the Great Spirit concealed the precious metals, thereby show- ing that he did not desire they should be possessed by man ; and that whenever some rash mortal has attempted to obtain treasure from " The Manitou Isle," his canoe was always overwhelmed by a tempest. The " Palefaces," however, fear- less of" Manitou's" thunder, are now working the extensive -lineral region of the lakes.] TEMPT me not, stranger, with gold from the mine, I have got treasure more precious than thine, Freedom in forest, and health in the chase, Where the hunter sees beauty in Nature's bright face : Then give me my arrows and give me my bow, In the wild-woods to rove where the blue rapids flow. If gold had been good, THE GREAT S had given That gift, like his othei-s, as freely from heaven ; The lake gives me whitefish. the deer gives me meat, And the toil of the capture gives slumber so- sweet : Then give me my arrows and give me ray bow, In the wild-woods to rove where the blue rapids flow. Why seek you death in the dark cave to nnd, While there's life on the hill in the health- breathing wind? And death parts you soon from your treasure so bright As the gold of the sunset is lost in the night Then give me my arrows and give me my bow In the wild-woods to rove where the blu rapids flow. THE HOUR BEFORE DAY. [There is a beautiful saying amongst the Irish peasantry to inspire hope under adverse circumstances : " Remember," they say, " that the darkest hour of all is the hour before day.") BEREFT of his love, and bereaved of his fame, A knight to the cell of an old hermit carae : " My foes, they have slander'd and forced me to fly, Oh ! tell me, good father, what's left but to die?" " Despair not, my son ; thou'lt be righted ere long For heaven is above us to right all the wrong ; Remember the words the old hermit doth say, ' 'Tis always the darkest the hour before day !' " Then back to the tourney, and back to the court, And join thee, the bravest, in chivalry's sport; Thy foes will be there and thy lady-love too, And show both thou'rt a knight that is gal- O ZJ lant and true !" He rode in the lists all his foes he o'erthrew, POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 189 And u sweet glance he caught from a soft eye of blue : And he thought of the words the old hermit did say, For her glance wan as bright as the dawning of day. The feast it was late in the castle that night, O * And the banquet was beaming with beauty and light ; But brightest of all is the lady who glides To a porch where a knight with a fleet courser bides. She paused 'neath the arch, at the fierce ban- dog's bark, She trembled to look on the night 'twas so dark ; But her lover he whisper'd, and thus did he say : " Sweet love, it is darkest the hour before day." MACARTHY'S GRAVE. A LEGEND OF KILLARNEY. THE breeze was fresh, the morn was fair, The stag had left his dewy lair. To cheering horn and baying tongue Killavney's echoes sweetly rung. With sweeping oar and bending mast, The eager chase was following fast, ^ O t When one light skiff a maiden steer'd Beneath the deep wave disappear'd : While shouts of terror wildly ring, A boatman brave, with gallant spring And dauntless arm, the lady bore But he who saved was seen no more ! Where weeping birches wildly wave, There boatmen show their brother's grave, And while they tell the name he bore, Suspended hangs the lifted oar. The silent drops thus idly shed, Seem like tears to gallant Ned ; And while gently gliding by, The tale is told with moistening eye. No ripple on the slumb'ring lake Unhallow'd oar doth ever make ; Ail uiulisturb'd the placid wave Plows gentiy o'er Macarthy's grave. ST. KKV1X. A LEGEND OF GLENDALOUGH AT Glendalough lived a young saint, In odor of sanctity dwelling, An old-fashion'd odor, which now We seldom or never are smelling ; A book or a hook were to him The utmost extent of his wishes ; Now, a snatch at the " Lives of the SaintB ;" Then, a catch at the lives of the fishes. There was a young woman one day, Stravaffin 1 along by the lake, sir ; She look'd hard at St. Kevin, they say, But St. Kevin no notice did take, sir. When she found looking hard wouldn't do, She look'd soft in the old sheep's eye fashion ; But, with all her sheep's eyes, she could not In St. Kevin see signs of soft passion. " You're a great hand at fishing," says Kate , "'Tis yourself that knows how, faith, to hook them ; But, when you have caught them, agra, Don't you want a young woman to cook them ?" Says the saint, " I am ' sayrioiis inclined? I intend taking orders for life, dear." "Only marry," says Kate, "and you'll find You'll get orders enough from your wife, dear." " You shall never be flesh of my flesh," Says the saint, with an anchorite groaa, sir; " I see that myself," answer'd Kate, " I can only be * bone of your bone,' sir. And even your bones are so scarce," Said Miss Kate, at her answers so glib, sir, " That I think you would not be the worse Of a little additional rib, sir." The saint, in a rage, seized the lass, He gave her one twirl round his head, sir, And, before Doctor Arnott's invention, Prescribed her a watery bed, sir. Sauntering. 190 POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER, Oh ! cruel St. Kevin ! for shame ! When a lady her heart came to barter, You should not have been Knight of the Bath, But have bow'd to the order of Garter. THE INDIAN SUMMER. [The brief period which succeeds the autumnal close, called " The Indian summer" a reflex, as it were, of the early por- tion of the year strikes a stranger in America as peculiarly beautiful, and quite charmed me.] WHEN summer's verdant beauty flies, And Autumn glows with richer dyes, A softer charm beyond them lies It is the Indian summer. Ere winter's snows and winter's breeze Bereave of beauty all the trees, The balmly spring renewal sees In the sweet Indian summer. And thus, dear love, if early years Have drown'd the germ of joy in tears, A later gleam of hope appears Just like the Indian summer : And ere the snows of age descend, Oh trust me, dear one, changeless friend, Our falling years may brightly end Just like the Indian summer. THE WAR-SHIP OF PEACE. [The Americans exhibited much sympathy toward Ireland vhen the famine raged there in 1847. A touching instance was then given how the better feelings of our nature may employ even the enginery of destruction to serve the cause of humanity; an American frigate (the Jamestown, I believe), was dismantled of all her warlike appliances, and placed at the disposal of the charitable to carry provisions.] SWEET Land of Song! thy harp doth hang Upon the willows now, While famine's blight and fever's pang Stamp misery on thy brow ; Vet take thy harp, and raise thy voice, Though faint and low it be, And let thy sinking heart rejoice In friends still left to thee ! Look out look out across the sea That girds thy emerald shore, A ship of war is bound for thee, But with no warlike store ; Her thunder sleeps 'tis Mercy's breath That wafts her o'er the sea ; She goes not forth to deal out death, But bears new life to thee ! Thy wasted hand can scarcely strike The chords of grateful praise ; Thy plaintive tone is now unlike Thy voice of former days ; Yet, even in sorrow, tuneful still, Let Erin's voice proclaim In bardic praise, on every hill, Columbia's glorious name ! AN HONEST HEART TO GUIDE US. As day by day We hold our way Through this wild world below, boys, With roads so cross, We're at a loss To know which way to go, boys : With choice so vex'd When man's perplex'd, And many a doubt has tried him, It is not long He'll wander wrong, With an honest heart to guide him. When rough the way, And dark the day, More steadfastly we tread, boys, Than when by flowers In wayside bowers We from the path are led, boys : Oh ! then beware The serpent there Is gliding close beside us ; 'Twere death to stay So speed the way, With an honest heart to guide us. If fortune's gale Should fill our sail, POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVKK'. While others lose the wind, boys, Look kindly back Upon the trnck Of luckless mates behind, boys: II' we won't heed A friend in need, May rocks ahead abide us ! Let's rather brave Both wind and wave, With an honest heart to guide us ! THE BIRTH OF SAINT PATRICK. ON the eighth day of March it was, some people say, That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first saw the day ; While others declare 'twas the ninth he was born, And 'twas all a mistake between midnight O and morn ; For mistakes will occur in a hurry and shock, And some blamed the babby and some blamed the clock 'Till with all their cross questions sure no one could know, If the child was too fast or the clock was too slow. Now the first faction fight in owld Ireland, they say, Was all on account of Saint Pathrick's birth- day, Some fought for the eighth for the ninth more would die, And who wouldn't see right, sure they blacken'd his eye ! At last, both the factions so positive grew, That each kept a birthday, so Pat then had two, Till Father Mulcahy, who show'd them their sins, Said " No one could have two birthdays, but a twins" Says he, " Boys, don't be fightin' for eight or for nine, Don't be always dividin' but sometimes combine ; Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the mark, So let that be his birthday." "Amen," says the clerk. " If he wasn't a twins, sure our hist'ry will show That, at least, he's worth any two saints that we know !" Then they all got blind dhrunk which corn- plated their bliss, And we keep up the practice from that day to this. THE ARAB. [The intcrcuting fact on which this ballad IB founded occui- rcd to Mr. Davidson, the celebrated traveller, between Mount Sinai and Suez, on his overland return from India in 1839. He related the dory to me shortly before his leaving England on his last fatal journey to Tinibuctoo.] THE noontide blaze on the desert fell, As the traveller reach'd the wish'd-for well ; But vain was the hope that cheerM him on, His hope in the desert the waters were gone. Fainting, he call'd on the Holy Name, And swift o'er the desert an Arab came, Arid with him he brought of the blessed thins: O O That fail'd the poor traveller at the spring. "Drink!" said the Arab, "though I must fast, For half of my journey is not yet past ; Tis long e'er my home or my children I see, But the crystal treasure I'll share with thee." " Nay," said the weary one, " let me die, For thou hast even more need than I ; And children hast thou that are watching for thee, And lam alone one none watch for n.." "Drink!" said the Arab. "My children shall see Their father returning fear not for me : For HE who hath sent me to thee this Will watch o'er me on my desert way " 192 POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. FAG-AN-BEALACH. ' [This song occurs in a scene of political excitement de- scribed in the etory of " He would be a Gentleman," but might equally belong to many other periods of the history of Ireland, a harassed land, which has been forced to nurse in cecret many a deep and dread desire.] FILL the cup, my brothers, To pledge a toast, Which, beyond all others, We prize the most ; As yet 'tis but a notion Wv <*are not name ; But soon o'er land and ocean 'Twill fly with fame ! Then give the game before us One view holla, Hip ! hurra ! in chorus, Fag-an-Bealach. We our hearts can fling, boys, O'er this notion, As the sea-bird's wing, boys, Dips the ocean. 'Tis too deep for words, boys, The thought we know, So, like the ocean bird, boys, We touch and go ; For dangers deep surrounding, Our hopes might swallow ; So, through the tempest bounding, Fag-an-Bealach. This thought with glory rife, boys, Did brooding dwell, 'Till time did give it life, boys, To break the shell ; 'Tis in our hearts yet lying, An unfledged thing, But soon, an eaglet flying, 'Twill take the wing ! For 'tis no timeling frail, boys, No summer swallow, 'Twill live through wintei-'s gale, boys, Fag-an-Bealach. Lawyers may indite us By crooked laws, Soldiers strive to fright us From country's cause ; But we will sustain it Living dying Point of law or bay'net Still defying ! Let their parchment rattle - Drums are hollow So is lawyers' prattle Fag-an-Bealach. Better early graves, boys Dark locks gory, Than bow the head as slaves, boys, When they're hoary. Fight it out we must, boys, Hit or miss it, Better bite the dust, boys, Than to kiss it ! For dust to dust at last, boys Death will swallow Hark ! the trumpet's blast, boys, Fasr-an-Bealach. Pronounced Faug-a-bollagh, meaning "'c'.eur the road, " dear the way." THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. [The mystery attendant upon the Councils of Venice tn cveased the terror of their rule. A covered bridge between the Ducal palace and the State prison served as a private pas- sage, by which suspected or condemned persons were trans- ferred at once from examination to the dungeon hence it wai called " The Bridge of Sighs."] ABOVE the sparkling waters, Where Venice crowns the tide, Behold the home of sorrow So near the home of pride ; A palace and a prison Beside each other rise, And, dark between, a link is seen It is " The Bridge of Sighs." Row, gondolier, row fast, row fast,. Until that fatal bridge be past. But not alone in Venice Are joy and grief so near ; To-day the smile may waken, To-morrow wake the tear ; 'Tis next the "House of mourning" That Pleasure's palace lies, 'Twixt joy and grief the passage brief Just like " The Bridge of Sighs." o o Row, gondolier, row fast, row fast, Until that fatal bridge be past POKMS OF SAMUEL LOVF.K. Who seeks for joy unclouded, Must never seek it here ; But in a purer region And in a brighter sphere ; To lead the way before us, Bright hope unfailing flies : This earth of ours, to Eden's bowers Is but a " Bridge of Sighs." Fly, fly, sweet hope, fly fast, fly fast, Until that bridge of sighs be past. THE CHILD AND AUTUMN LEAF. by the river's bank I stray'd Upon an autumn day ; Beside the fading forest there, I saw a child at play. She play'd among the yellow leaves The leaves that once were green, And flung upon the passing stream, What once had blooming been : Oh ! deeply did it touch my heart To see that child at play ; It w*s the sweet unconscious sport f '>f childhood with decay. P air child, if by this stream you stray, When after-years go by, The scene that makes thy childhood's sport, May wake thy age's sigh : When fast you see around you fall The summer's leafy pride, And mark the river hurrying on Its ne'er-returning tide ; Then may you feel, in pensive mood, That life's a summer dream ; And man, at last, forgotten falls A leaf upon the stream. FORGIVE, BUT DON'T FORGET. I'M going, Jessie, far from thee, To distant lands beyond the sea ; I would not, Jessie, leave thee now, "With anger's cloud upon thy bn>\v. Remember that thy mirthful frieml Might sometimes teane, but ne'er off 'end ; That mirthful friend is sad the while, Oh, Jessie, give ;i parting smile. Ah, why should friendship .larshly chide Our little faults on either side ? From friends we love we bear with those, As thorns are pardon'd for the rose : The honey-bee, on busy wing, Producing sweets yet bears a sting; The purest gold most needs alloy, And sorrow is the nurse of joy. Then, oh ! forgive me, ere I part, And if some corner in thy heart For absent friend a place might be Ah ! keep that little place for me ! " Forgive Forget," we're wisely told, Is held a maxim good and old ; But half the maxim's better yet : Then, oh ! forgive, but don't forget! THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME. TIIK hour was sad I left the maid, A lingering farewell taking, Her sighs and tears my steps delay'd I thought her heart was breaking ; In hurried words her name I bless'd, I breathed the vows that bind me, And to my heart, in anguish, press'd The girl I left behind me. Then to the East we bore away To win a name in story ; And there, where dawns the sun of day, There dawn'd our sun of glory ! Both blazed in noon on ALMA'S height. Where, in the post assign'd me, I shared the glory of that fight, Sweet girl I left behind me. Full many a name our banners bore Of former deeds of daring, But they were of the days of yore, In which we had no sharing ; But now, our laurels, freshly won, With the old ones shall entwined be, Still worthy of our sires, each son, Sweet girl I left behind me. 194 POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. The hope of final victory Within ray bosom burning, Is mingling with sweet thoughts of thee And of my fond returning: But should I ne'er return again, Still worth thy love thou'lt find me, Dishonor's breath shall never stain The name I'll leave behind me ! THE FLAG IS HALF-MAST HIGH. A BALLAD OF THE WALMER WATCH.* A GUARD of honor kept its watch in Wal- mer's ancient hall, And sad and silent was the ward beside the Marshal's pall ; The measured tread beside the dead through echoing space might tell How solemnly the round was paced by lonely sentinel ; But in the guard-room, down below, a war- worn veteran gray Recounted all THE HERO'S deeds, through many a glorious day : How, 'neath the red-cross flag he made the foes of Britain fly ' Though now, for him," the veteran said, " that flag is half-mast high !" " I mark one day, when far away the Duke on duty went, That Sou It came reconnoitering our front with fierce intent ; But when ais ear caught up our cheer, the cause he did divine, He could not doubt why that bold shout was ringing up the line; He felt it was the Duke come back, his lads to reassure, And our position, weak before, he felt was then secure," > Arthur. Field-Marshal the Duke of Wellington, died on the 14th of September, US52, at Walmer Castle, where MB body lay in state under a guard of honor. * This incident, which occurred in the Pyrenees, ig related In Napier's " History of the Peninsular War." He beat retreat, while we did beat adv&nce, and made him fly Before the conquering flag that now is drooping half-mast bighi j And truly might the soldier say HIS presence ever gave Assurance to the most assured, and bravery to the brave ; His prudence-tempered valor his eagle- sighted skill, And calm resolves, the measure of a hero went to fill. Fair Fortune flew before him ; 'twas conquest where he came For Victory wove her chaplet in the magic of his name, But while his name thus gilds the past, the present wakes a sigh, To see his flag of glory now but drooping half-mast high ! In many a bygone battle, beneath an Indian sun, That flag was borne in triumph o'er the sanguine plains he won ; Where'er that flag he planted, impregnable became, As Torres Vedras' heights have told in glit- tering steel and flame. 'Twas then to wild Ambition's Chief he flung the gauntlet down, And from his iron grasp retrieved the ancient Spanish crown ; He drove him o'er the Pyrenees with Victory's swelling cry, Before the red-cross flag that now is droop- ing half-mast high ! And when once more from Elba's shore the Giant Chief broke loose, And startled nations waken'd from the calm of hollow truce, In foremost post the British host soon sprang to arms again, And Fate in final balance held the world's two foremost men. The Chieftains twain might ne'er again have need for aught to do, So, once for all, we won the fall at glorious Waterloo ; 1'OK.MS OF SA.Ml KL LO V JLlt 105 The work was dune, -i:l Wellington his savior-sword laid by, And now, in grief, to mourn our Chief the flat; is half-mast hisjh ! I CAN NE'ER FORGET TIIEE. IT is the chime ; the hour draws near When you and I must sever ; Alas ! it must be many a year, And it may be forever. How long till we shall meet again ; How short since first I met thee ; How brief the bliss how long the pain For I can ne'er forget thee ! You said my heart was cold and stern, You doubted love when strongest ; In future years you'll live to learn Proud hearts can love the longest. Oh ! sometimes think when press'd to hear, When flippant tongues beset thee, That all must love thee when thou'rt near ; But one will ne'er forget thee ! The changeful sand doth only know The shallow tide and latest ; The rocks have mark'd its highest flow The deepest and the greatest : And deeper still the flood-marks grow ; So since the hour I met thee, The more the tide of time doth flow The less can I forget thee ! LOVE AND HOME AND NATIVE LAND. o'er the silent deep we rove, More fondly then our thoughts will stray To those we leave to those we love, Whose prayers pursue our watery way. When in the lonely midnight hour The sailor takes his watchful stand, His heart then i'eels the holiest power Of love and home and native land. In vain may tropic climes display Their glittering shores their gorgeoui shells ; Though bright birds wing their dazzling way, And glorious flowers adorn the dells, Though Nature, there prolific, pours The treasures of her magic hand, The eye, but not the heart, adores : The heart still beats for native land. MEMORY AND HOPE. OFT have I mark'd, as o'er the sea We've swept before the wind, That those whose hearts were on the shore Cast longing looks behind ; While they whose hopes have elsewhere been, Have watch'd with anxious eyes To see the hills that lay before Faint o'er the waters rise 'Tis thus as o'er the sea of life Our onward course we track, That anxious sadness looks before, The happy still look back ; Still smiling on the course they've pass'd, As earnest of the rest : 'Tis Hope's the charm of wretchedness, While Mem'ry woos the blest. MOLLY CAREW. OCH IIONK ! and what will I do ? Sure my love is all crost Like a bud in the frost ; And there's no use at all in my going to bed, For 'tis dhrames and not sleep cornea into my head, And 'tis all about you, My sweet Molly Carew And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame ; You're complater than Nature In every feature, The snow can't compare With your forehead so fair, 196 POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. And I rather would see just one blink of your eye Than the purtiest star that shines out of the sky; And by this and by that, For the matter o' that, You're more distant by far than that same ! Och hone ! weirasthru ! I'm alone in this world without you. Och hone ! but why should I spake Of your forehead and eyes When your nose it defies Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in rhyme ? Though there's one Burke, he says, that would call it sm^lime. And then for your cheek ! Throth, 'twould take him a week Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather. Then your lips ! oh, mac/tree ! In their beautiful glow, They a patthern might be For the cherries to grow. 'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know, For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago ; But at this time o' day, 'Pon my conscience I'll say Such cherries might tempt a man's father ! Och hone ! weirasthru ! I'm alone in this world without you. Och hone ! by the man in the moon, You tase me always That a woman can plaze, For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat Magee, As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me, Though the piper I bate, For fear the owld chate Wouldn't play you your favorite tune ; And when you're at mass My devotion you crass, For 'tis thinking of you I am, Molly Carew, While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep, That I can't at your sweet purty face hy hearth The fearful housewife clears Ye, whose tiny sounds of mirth The nighted carman hears Ye, whose pigmy hammers make The wonderers of the cottage wake Noiseless be your airy flight, Silent as the still moonlight. Silent go and harmless come, Fairies of the stream Ye, who love the winter gloom, Or the gay moonbeam Hither bring your drowsy store, Gather'd from the bright lusmore, Shake o'er temples soft and deep The comfort of the poor man's sleep. GILLI MA CHREE. Gilli ma chree, Sit down by me, We now are joiu'd, and ne'er shall sever This hearth's our own, Our hearts are one, And peace is ours forever ! When I was poor, Your father's door Was closed against your constant lover ; With care and pain I tried in vain My fortunes to recover. I said, " To other lands I'll roam, Where Fate may smile on me, love ;" I said, " Farewell, my own old home !" And I said, "Farewell to thee, love !" I might have said, My mountain maid, "Come, live with me, your own true lover; I know a spot, A silent cot, Your friends can ne'er discover. Where gently flows the waveless tide, By one small garden only ; Where the heron waves his wings HO wide. And the Jnnet sings so lonely !" 206 THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. I might have said, My mountain maid, " A father's right was never given True hearts to curse With tyrant force That have been blest in heaven." But then, I said, "In after-years, When thoughts of home shall find her, My love may mourn with secret tears Her friends thus left behind her." Oh ! no, I said, My own dear maid, For me, though all forlorn, forever That heart of thine Shall ne'er repine er slighted duty never. From home and thee, though wandering far, A dreary fate be mine, love ; I'd rather live in endless war, Thau buy my peace with thine, love. Far, far away, By night and day, 1 toil'd to win a golden treasure ; And golden gains Repaid my pains In fair and shining measure. I sought again my native land, Thy father welcom'd me, love ; 1 potir'd my gold into his hand, And my guerdon found in thee, love? Sing Gilli ma c/iree, Sit down by me, We now are join'd, and ne'er shall sever; This hearth's our own, Our hearts are one, And peace is ours forever. OLD TIMES ! OLD TIMES ! OLD times ! old times ! the gay old times 1 When I was young and free, And heard the merry Easter chimes Under the sally tree. My Sunday palm beside me placed My cross upon my hand A heart at rest within my breast, And sunshine on the land ! Old times ! Old times ! It is not that my fortunes flee, Nor that my cheek is pale I mourn whene'er I think of thee, My darling, native vale ! A wiser head I have, I know, Than when I loiter'd there ; But in my wisdom there is woe, And in my knowledge care. Old times ! Old times 1 I've lived to know my share of joy, To feel my share of pain To learn that friendship's self can cloy, To love, and love in vain To feel a pang and wear a smile, To tire of other climes To like my own unhappy isle, And sing the gay old times ! Old times ! Old times ! And sure the land is nothing changed,' The birds are singing still ; The flowers are springing where we ranged, There's sunshine on the hill ! The sally, waving o'er my head, Still sweetly shades my frame But, ah, those happy days are fled, And I am not the same ! Old times ! Old times ! Oh, come again, ye merry times ! Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm And let me hear those Easter chimes, And wear my Sunday palm. If I could cry away mine eyes, My tears would flow in vain If I could waste my heart in sighs, They'll never come again ! Old times ! Old times 1 A PLACE IN THY MEMORY, DEAREST. A PLACE in thy memory, dearest, Is all that I claim, To pause and look back when thou hearest The sound of my name. Another may woo thee, nearer, Another may win and wear; T1IK I'OEMS OF GEliALI) (1UIFFIX. I care not though he be dearer, If I am remember'd there. Remember me not as a lover Whose hope was eross'd, Whose bosom can never recover The light it hath lost; As the young bride remembers the mother She loves, though she never may see; As a sister remembers a brother, O dearest ! remember me. Could I be thy true lover, dearest, Couldst thou smile on me, I would be the fondest and nearest That ever loved thee ! But a cloud on my pathway is glooming, That never must burst upon thine ; \nd Heaven, that made thee all-blooming, Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. Remember me, then ! Oh, remember, My calm, light love ; Though bleak as the blasts of November My life may prove. That life will, though lonely, bo sweet, If its brightest enjoyment should be A smile and kind word when we meet, And a place in thy memory. FOR I AM DESOLATE. TUB Christmas light 1 is burning bright In many a village pane, And many a cottage rings to-night With many a merry strain. Young boys and girls run laughing by, Their hearts and eyes elate I can but think on mine, and sigh, For I am desolate. There's none to watch in our old cot, Beside the holy light, No tongue to bless the silent spot Against the parting night.* 1 The Christmas a light l>lusced by the priest, and lighted it eunsct, on ChrlMmat) eve. In Irish houses. It is a kind of .mplety to snuff, touch, or use it for any profane parpoocb after. * It in the custom, in Irish Catholic families, to sit up till I've closed the door, and hither come To mourn my lonely fate ; I cannot bear my own old home, It is so desolate. I saw my father's eyes grow dim, And clasp'd my mother's knee; I saw my mother follow him My husband wept with me. My husband did not long remain His child was left me yet, But now my heart's last love is slain, And I am desolate ! THE BRIDAL WAKE. THE priest stood at the marriage board The marriage cake was made, With meat the marriage chest was st< red, Deck'd was the marriage bed. The old man sat beside the tire, The mother sat by him, The white bride was in gay attire ; But her dark eye was dim. Ululah ! Ululah ! The night falls quick the sun is set; Her love is on the water yet. I saw a red cloud in the west, Against the morning light Heaven shield the youth that she loves beet From evil chance to-night. The door flings wide! Loud moans the gale; Wild fear her bosom fills It is, it is the banshee's wail ! Over the darken'd hills. Ululah ! Ululah ! The day is past ! the night is dark ! The waves are mounting round his bark. The guests sit round the bridal bed, And break the bridal cake : But they sit by the dead man's head, And hold his wedding wake. midnight on Christmas eve, in order to join in devotion at that hour. Few ceremonies of religion have a more t>plen- did and Imposing effect than the morning ma**, which. IB cine*, it> celebrated soon after the nour alluded to, and Ions before daybreak. 208 THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. The bride is praying in her room, The place is silent all ! A fearful call ! a sudden doom ! Bridal and funeral. Ululah! Ululah! A youth to Kilfieheras" ta'en That never will return again. Where graceful droop and clustering dani The osier bright and rustling willow ; The hawthorn xcents the leafy dale, In thicket lone the stag is belling, And sweet along the echoing vale The sound of vernal joy is swelling. AD ARE. O SWEET Adare, O lovely vale, O soft retreat of sylvan splendor ! Nor summer sun nor morning gale E'er hail'd a scene more softly tender. How shall I tell the thousand charms, Within thy verdant bosom dwelling, When lull'd in Nature's fostering arms, Soft peace abides and joy excelling ! Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn The slumbering boughs your song awaken, Or linger o'er the silent lawn, With odor of the harebell taken ! Thou rising sun, how richly gleams Thy smile from far Knockfierna's mountain, O'er waving woods and bounding streams, And many a grove and glancing fountain ! Ye clouds of noon, how freshly there, When summer heats the open meadows, O'er parched hill and valley fair, All coolly lie your veiling shadows ! Ye rolling shades and* vapors gray, Slow creeping o'er the golden heaven, How soft ye seal the eye of day, And wreathe the dusky brow of even ! In sweet Adare the jocund Spring His notes of odorous joy is breathing, The wild-birds in the woodland sing, The wild-flowers in the vale are breathing. There winds the Hague, as silver clear, Among the elms so sweetly flowing ; There fragrant in the early year Wild roses on the banks are blowing. The wild-duck seeks the sedgy bank Or dives beneath the glistening billow The name of a churchyard near Kilkee. THE POET'S PROPHECY. IN the time of my boyhood I had a strange feeling, That I was to die in the noon of my day ; Not quietly into the silent grave stealir-g, But torn, like a blasted oak, sudden away. That, e'en in the hour when enjoyment was keenest, My lamp should quench suddenly hissing in gloom, That e'en when mine honors were freshest and greenest, A blight should rush over and scatter their bloom. It might be a fancy it might be the gloom- ing Of dark visions taking the semblance of truth, 1 And it might be the shade of the storm that is coming, Cast thus in its morn through the sunshine of youth. But be it a dream or a mystic revealing, The bodement has haunted me year after year, And whenever my bosom with rapture was filling, I paused for the footfall of fate at mine ear. With this feeling upon me all feverish and glowing, I rush'd up the rugged- way panting to Fame. I snatch'd at my laurels while yet they were growing, And won for my guerdon the half of a name. THE POEMS OF GERALD GKIFFIN. 209 My triumphs I view'd from the least to the brightest, As gay flowers pluck'd from the fingers of Death, And whenever Joy's garments flow'd richest and lightest, I look'd for the skeleton lurking beneath. Oh, friend of my -heart ! if that doom should fall on me, And thou shouldst live on to remember my love Come oft to the tomb when the turf lies upon me, And list to the even wind mourning above, Lie down by that bank where the river is creeping All fearfully under the still autumn tree, When each leaf in the sunset is silently weeping, And sigh for departed days thinking of me. But when, o'er the minstrel, thou'rt lonelily sighing, Forgive, if his failings should flash on thy brain, Remember the heart that beneath thee is iy in g Can never awake to oflend thee again. Remember how freely that heart that to others "Was dark as the tempest-dawn frowning above, Burst open to thine with the zeal of a broth- er's, And show'd all its hues in the light of thy love. TWILIGHT SONG. DEWY twilight ! silent hour ! Welcome to our cottage bower ! See, along the lonely meadow, Ghost-like, falls the lengthen'd shadow, While the sun, with level shine, Turns the stream to rosy wine ; And from yonder busy town Homeward hies the lazy clown. Hark ! along the dewy ground Stc.-ils the sheep-bell's drowsy sound; While the ploughman, late returning, Sees his cheerful fagot burning, And his dame, with kindly smile, Meets him by the rustic stile ; While beneath the hawthorn mute Swells the peasant's merry fiute. Lass, from market homeward speed ; Traveller, urge thy lagging steed Fly the dark wood's larking danger ; Churl, receive the 'nighted stranger He with merry song and jest Will repay thy niggard feast, And the eye of Heaven above Smile upon the deed of love. Hour of beauty ! hour of peace ! Hour when care and labor cease ; When around her hush'd dominion Nature spi'eads her brooding pinion, While a thousand angel eyes Wake to watch us from the skies, Till the reason centres there, And the heart is moved to prayer. THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. MY darling, my darling, while silence is on the moor, And lone in the sunshine, I sit by our cabin door ; When evening falls quiet, and calm overland and sea, My darling, my darling, I think of past times and thee ! Here, while on this cold shore, I wear out my lonely hours, My child in the heavens is spreading my bed with flowers; All weary my bosom is grown of this friend- less clime Hut I long not to leave it ; for that were a shame and crime. 210 THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. They bear to the churchyard the youth in their health away I know where a fruit hangs more ripe for the grave than they But I wish not for death, for my spirit is all resign'd, And the hope that stays with me gives peace to my aged mind. My darling, my darling, God gave to my feeble age A prop for my faint heart, a stay in my pil- grimage ; My darling, my darling, God takes back his gift again And my heart may be broken, but ne'er shall my will complain. YOU NEVER BADE ME HOPE, 'TIS TRUE. You never bade me hope, 'tis true I ask'd yon not to swear ; But I look'd in those eyes of blue, And read a promise there. The vow should bind with maiden sicjhs CJ That maiden's lips have spoken But that which looks from maiden's eyes Should last of all be broken ! f JKE THE OAK BY THE FOUNTAIN. LIKE the oak by the fountain, In sunshine and storm ; Like the rock on the mountain, Unchanging in form ; Like the course of the river, Through ages the same ; Like the mist, mounting ever To heaven, whence it came. So firm be thy merit, So changeless thy soul ; So constant thy spirit, While seasons shall roll ; The fancy that ranges, Ends where it began ; But the mind that ne'er Changes Brings glory to man. THE PHANTOM CITY. A STORY I heard on the cliffs of the west, That oft, through the breakers dividing, A city is seen on the ocean's wild breast In turreted majesty riding. But brief is the glimpse of that phantom sa bright, Soon close the white waters to screen it, And the bodement, they say, of the wonder, ful sight, Is death to the eyes that have seen it. I said, when they told me the wonderful taU? My country, is this not thy story ? Thus oft, through the breakers of discord we hail A promise of peace and of glory. Soon gulphed in those waters of hatred again. No longer our fancy can find it, And woe to our hearts for the vision so vain ;, For ruin and death come behind it. WAR! WAR! HORRID WAR! WAR ! War ! Horrid war ! Fly our lovely plain, Guide fleet and far Thy fiery car, And never come again, And never, Never come again ! Peace ! Peace ! smiling Peace ! Bless our lonely plain, Guide swiftly here Thy mild career, And never go again ! And never, Never go again ! TIIE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 211 GONE! GONE! FOREVER GONE. GONE, gone, forever gone Are the hopes I cherish'd, Changed like the sunny dawn, In sudden showers perish'd. Wither'd is the early flower, Like a bright lake broken, Faded like a happy hour, Or Love's secret spoken. Life ! what a cheat art thou ! On youthful fancy stealing, A prodigal in promise now ; A miser in fulfilling ! SONNETS. ADDRESSED TO FRIENDS IN AMERICA, AND PRE- FIXED TO " CARD-DRAWING," ONE OF THE TALES OF THE MUNSTEK FESTIVALS. FRIENDS far away and late in life exiled Whene'er these scatter'd pages meet your gaze, Think of the scenes where early fortune smiled The land that was your home in happier days The sloping lawn, to which the tired rays Of evening stole o'er Shannon's sheeted flood The hills of Clare, that in its softening haze Look'd vapor-like and dim the lonely wood The cliff-bound Inch the chapel in the glen, Where oft, with bare and reverent locks, we stood, To hear the Eternal truths the small dark maze Of the wild stream that clipp'd the blossom'd plain, And toiling through the varied solitude, Upraised its hundred silver tongues and babbled praise. That home is desolate ! our quiet hearth Is ruinous and cold and many a sight And many a sound are met of vulgar mirth, Where once your gentle laughter cheer'd the night. It is as with your country. The calm light Of social peace for her is quenched too Rude Discord blots her scenes of old de- light, Her gentle virtues scared away like you. Remember her when in this tale you meet The story of a struggling right of ties Fast bound and swiftly rent of joy of pain Legends which by the cottage fire sound sweet ; Nor let the hand that wakes those memo- ries (In faint but fond essay) be unremsmberM then. WAR SONG OF O'DRISCOL. FROM the shieling that stands by the lone mountain river, Hurry, hurry down with the axe and the quiver ; From the deep-seated Coom, from the storm- beaten highland, Hurry, hurry down to the shores of your island. Hurry down, hurry down ! Hurry, hurry, ts its quickening breath before ; The glad sea rose to meet it and each wave, Retiring from the sweet caress it gave, Made summer music to the listening shore. So slept my soul, unmindful of thy reign ; But the sweet breath of thy celestial grace, I lath risen oh, let its quickening spirit chase From that dark seat, each mist and secret stain, Till, as yon clear water, mirror'd fair, Heaven sees its own calm hues reflected there. THE WAKE OF THE ABSENT. 1 THE dismal yew and cypress tall, Wave o'er the churchyard lone, Where rest our friends and fathers all, Beneath the funeral stone. Unvex'd in holy ground they sleep : Oh, early lost ! o'er thee No sorrowing friend shall ever weep, Nor stranger bend the knee. Mo chuma ! lorn am I ! Hoarse dashing rolls the salt-sea wave Over our perish'd darling's grave. The winds the sullen deep that tore His death-song chanted loud, The weeds that line the clifted shore Were all his burial-shroud ; For friendly wail and holy dirge And long lament of love, Around him roar'd the angry surge, The curlew scream'd above. Mo chuma ! lorn am I, My grief would turn to rapture now, Might I but touch that pallid brow. The stream-born bubbles soonest burst, That earliest left the source: It Is the ciiftoni ainitiii; tin- jic.-i-antry In tome pans of Ireland, when any member of a family has been lost at s>e* (at In any other way which reiulrr* the performance of the cus- tomary funeral rite liiipl<->. in celebrate the "wake." exactly In the same way as if the corpse wa* actually pr?M-ui POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. Buds earliest blown are faded first, In Nature's wontod course ; With guarded pace her seasons creep, By slow decay expire, The young above the aged weep, The son above the sire : Mo chuma ! lorn am I, That death a backward course should hold, To smite the young and spare the old. ON PULLING SOME CAMPANULAS IN A LADY'S GARDEN. OH, weeds will haunt the loveliest scene The summer sun can see, And clouds will sometimes come between The truest friends that be. And thoughts unkind will come perchance, And haply words of blame, For pride is man's inheritance, And frailty is his name. Yet while I pace this leafy vale, That nursed thine infancy And hear in every passing gale A whisper'd sound of thee, My 'nighted bosom wakes anew To Feeling's genial ray, And each dark mist on Memory's view Melts into light away. The flowers that grace this shaded spot Low, lovely, and obscure Are like the joys thy friendship brought Unboasted, sweet, and pure. Now wither'd is their autumn blow, And changed their simple hue, Ah ! must it e'er be mine to know Their type is faded too ? Yet should those well-remember'd hours Return to me no more, And, like those cull'd and faded flowers, Their day of life be o'er In memory's fragrant shrine conceal'd, A sweeter joy they give, Than aught the world again can yield Oi I again receive. THEY SPEAK OF SCOTLAND'S HEROES OLD. THEY speak of Scotland's heroes old, Struggling to make their country free, And in that hour my heart grows cold, For, Erin, then I think of thee ! They boast their Bruce of Bannockburn, Their noble Knight of Ellerslie ; To Erin's sons I proudly turn My country, then I smile for thee. They boast, though joiu'd to England'^ power, Scotland ne'er bow'd to slavery ; An equal league in danger's hour My country, then I weep for thee. And when they point to our fair Isle, And say no patriot hearts have we, That party stains the work defile My country, then I blush for thee. But Hope says, " Blush or tear shall never Sully approving Fame's decree." When Freedom's word her bond shall sever My country, then I'll joy in thee. But oh ! be Scotland honor'd long, Be envy ever far from me, My simple lay meant her no wrong My country, it was but for thee ! O'BRAZIL, THE ISLE OF THE BLEST, A SPECTRE ISLAND, SAID TO BE SOMETIMES VISIBLE ON THE VERGE OF THE WESTERN HORI- ZON, IN THE ATLANTIC, FROM THE ISLES ON ARRAN. ON the ocean that hollows the rocks wher* ye dwell, A shadowy land has appear'd, as they tell ; Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, And they call'd it O'Brazil, the Isle of the Blest. From year unto year, on the ocean's blue rim, The beautiful spectre show'd lovely and dim ; POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 215 The golden clouds curtain'd the deep where it lay, And it look'd like an Eden, away, far away ! A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, Jfn the breeze of the Orient loosen'd his sail; From Ara, the holy, he turn'd to the west, For ihovfrn Ara was holy, O'Brazil was blest. He heard not the voices that call'd from the phore not the rising wind's menacing roar ; ", kindred, and safety he left on that day, And he sped to O'Brazil, away, far away ! Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy Isle, O'er the faint rim of distance reflected its smile ; Noon burn'd on the wave, and that shadowy bore ^eem'd lovelily distant, and faint as before : T.one evening came down on the wanderer's o track, A.nd to Ara again he look'd timidly back ; Oh ! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, Yet the Isle of the Blest was away, far away ! Rash dreamer, return ! O ye winds of the main, Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again ; Rash fool ! for a vision of fanciful bliss, To barter thy calm life of labor and peace. The warning of reason was spoken in vain, He never revisited Ara again ; Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, And he died on the waters, away, far away ! To you, gentle friends, need I pause to reveal The lessons of prudence my verses conceal ; How the phantom of pleasure seen distant in youth, Oft lures a weak heart from the circle of truth. All lovely it seems like that shadowy Isle, And the eye of the wisest is caught by its smile ; But, ah ! for the heart it has tempted to stray From the sweet home of duty, away, far away! Poor friendless adventurer ! vainly might he Look back to green Ara, along the wild sea ; But the wandering heart has a guardian above, Who, though erring, remembers the child of his love. Oh, who at the proffer of safety would spurn, When all that he asks is the will to return ; To follow a phantom, from day unto day, And die in the tempest, away, far away ! LINES ADDRESSED TO A SEAGULL, SEEN OFF THE CLIFFS OF MOHER, m THE COUNTY OF CLARE. WHITE bird of the tempest ! oh, beautiful thing, With the bosom of snow, and the motionless wing; Now sweeping the billow, now floating on high, Now bathing thy plumes in the light of the sky; Now poising o'er ocean thy delicate form, Now breasting the surge with thy bosom so warm ; Now darting aloft, with a heavenly scorn, Now shooting along, like a ray of the morn ; Now lost in the folds of the cloud-curtainM dome, Now floating abroad like a flake of the foam ; Now silently poised o'er the war of the main, Like the spirit of charity brooding o'er pain ; Now gliding with pinion, all silently furl'd, Like an Angel descending to comfort the world ! Thou seera'st to my spirit as upward I gaze, And see thee, now clothed in mellowest rays, Now lost in the storm-driven vapors that fly Like hosts that are routed across the broad sky Like a pure spirit, true to its virtue and faith 'Mid the tempests of nature, of passion, and death ! Rise ! beautiful emblem of purity ! rise On the sweet winds of heaven, to thine OWTJ brilliant skies, 216 THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. Still higher ! still higher ! till lost to our sight, Thou hidest thy wings in a mantle of light ; Aud I think how a pure spirit gazing on thee Must long for the moment the joyous and free When the soul, disembodied from nature, shall spring, Unfetter'd, at once to her Maker and King ; When the bright day of service and suffer- ing past, Shapes fairer than thine shall shine round her at last, While the standard of battle triumphantly furl'd, She smiles like a victor, serene on the world ! THE SISTER OF CHARITY. SHE once was a lady of honor and wealth, Blight glow'd on her features the roses of health ; Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, And her motion shook perfume from every fold: Joy revell'd around her love shone at her side, And gay was her smile, as the glance of a bride ; And light was her step, in the mirth-sound- ing hall, When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul. She felt in her spirit the summons of grace, That call'd her to live for the suffering race ; And, heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home, Rose quickly, like Mary, and answer'd, "I come !" She put from her person the trappings of pride, And pass'd from her home with the joy of a bride ; Nor wept at the threshold, as onward she moved, For her heart was on fire, in the cause it approved. Lost ever to fashion to vanity lost, That beauty that once was the song and the toast, No more in the ball-room that figure we meet. But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat. Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name, For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ; Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth, For she barters for Heaven the glory of earth. Those feet that to music could gracefully move, Now bear her alone on the mission of love ; Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem, Are tending the helpless or lifted for them ; That voice that once echo'd the song of the vain, Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain ; And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl, Is wet with the tears of the penitent girL Her down-bed a pallet ; her trinkets a bead ;. Her lustre one taper that serves her to read ; Her sculpture the crucifix nail'd by her bed ; Her paintings one print of the thorn- crown'd head; Her cushion the pavement that wearies her knees ; Her music the psalm, or the sigh of disease ; The delicate lady lives mortified there, And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer. Yet not to the service of heart and of mind Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined ; Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. She strengthens the weary she comfort* the weak, And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick ; Where want and afiiiction on mortals attend, The Sister of Charity there is a friend. Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his- breath, Like an angel she moves, 'mid the vapor of death ; POEMS OF GERALD GKIITIX. 217 Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword, Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord. How sweetly she bends o'er each plague- tainted face With looks that are lighted with holiest grace ! How kindly she dresses each suffering limb, For she sees in the wounded the image of Him! Behold her, ye worldly ! behold her, ye vain ! Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain ; Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days, Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. Ye lazy philosophers self-seeking men Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen, How stands in the balance your eloquence weigh'd, With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid ? TO MEMORY. OH, come ! thou sadly pleasing power, Companion of the twilight hour Come, with thy sable garments flowing, Thy tearful smile, ail-brightly glowing Come, with thy light and noiseless tread As one belonging to the dead ! Come, with thy bright, yet clouded eye, Grant me thine aid, sweet Memory ! She comes, and pictures all again, The " wood-fringed" lake the rugged plain The mountain flower the valley's smile, And lovely Inisfallen's isle. The rushing waters roaring by Our ringing laugh our raptured sigh, The waveless sea the varied shore The dancing boat the measured oar The lofty bugle's rousing cry The awaken'd mountains deep reply. Silence resuming then her reign, In awful p( werj o'er hill and plain. She paints, and her unclouded dyes Can never fade, in feeling's eyes, For dipp'd in love's immortal stream, Through future years they'll brightly beam. Oh, prized and loved, though lately known, Forget not all, when we are gone Think how our friendship's well-knit band Waited not time's confirming hand. Think how despising forms control, Heart sprung to heart, and soul to POU! And let us greet thee, far or near, As cherish'd friend as brother dear. THE SONG OF THE OLD MEN- DICANT. A MAN of threescore, with the snow on hit brow, And the light of his age"d eye dim, Oh, valley of sorrow ! what lure hast thou now, In thy changes of promise for him ? Gay Nature may smile, but his sight has grown old Joy sound, but his hearing is dull ; And pleasure may feign, but his bosom i cold, And the cup of his weariness full. Once warm with the pulses of young twen-ty- three, With plenty and ease in thy train, Thy fair visions wore an enchantment for me That never can gild them again. For changed are my fortunes, and early and lute From dwelling to dwelling I go : And I knock with my staff at our tirsl mother's gate, And I ask for a lodging below. 1 Farewell to thee, Time ! in thy passage with me, One truth thou hast taught me to know, Though lovely the past and the future may be^ The present is little but woe ; i This beautiful sentiment occur* lu Chaucer 218 POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. For the sum of those joys that we find in life's way, Where thy silent wing still wafts us on, Is a hope for to-morrow a want for to-day, And a sigh for the times that are gone. WOULD YOU CHOOSE A FRIEND ? WOULD you choose a friend? Attend! attend! I'll teach you how to attain your end. He on whose lean and bloodless cheek The red grape leaves no laughing streak ; On whose dull white brow and clouded eye Cold thought and care sit heavily ; Him you must flee : 'Tween you and me, That man is very bad company. And he around whoso jewell'd nose The blood of the red grape freely flows ; Whose pursy frame as he fronts the board Shakes like a wine-sack newly stored, In whose half-shut, moist, and sparkling eye The wine-god revels cloudily Him you must flee : 'Tween you and me, That man is very bad company. But he who takes his wine in measure, Mingling wit and sense with pleasure, Who likes good wine for the joy it brings, And merrily laughs and gayly sings : With heart and bumper always full, Never maudlin, never dull, Your friend let him be : 'Tween you and me, That man is excellent company. POEMS OF DEAN SWIFT. CORINNA. THIS day (the year I dare not tell) Apollo play'd the midwife's part ; Into the world Corinna fell, And he endovv'd her with his art. But Cupid with a Satyr comes : Both softly to the cradle creep ; Both stroke her hands and rub her gums, While the poor child lay fast asleep. Then Cupid thus: "This little maid Of love shall always speak and write." "* And I pronounce" (the Satyr said) " The world shall feel her scratch and bite." EPIGRAM. As Thomas was cudgellM one day by his wife, He took to the streets and fled for his life : Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble, And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble ; Then ventured to give him some sober ad- vice. But Tom is a person of honor so nice, Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, That he sent to all three a challenge next morning ; Three duels he fought, thrice ventured his life ; Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his wife. LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW- PANE AT CHESTER. The Dean scorns to have been roused to anger at Cheater by the extortion of his landlord, If we may judge by some linei beginning MY landlord is civil, But dear as the d 1 ; Your pockets grow empty, With nothing to tempt ye. And bis rage seems to have been inflated to the degree of oo signing the whole population to destruction as follows : THE walls of this town Are full of renown, And strangers delight to walk round 'em ; But as for the dwellers, Both buyers and sellers, For me, you may hang 'em or drown 'em. ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD; OR THB RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTT. WHEN Cupid did his grandsire Jove entrea-t To form some beauty by a new receipt, Jove sent, and found, far in a country scene, Truth, innocence, good-nature, look serene : From which ingredients first the dexterous boy Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy. The Graces from the Court did next provide Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride : These Venus clears from every spurious grain Of nice, coquet, affected, pert, and vain : Jove mix'd up all, and his best clay employ'd Then call'd the happy composition Floyd. > An elegant Latin reralon of this poem i* in Die sixth Tolume of Dry den' i Miscellanies. 220 POEMS OF DEAN SWIFT. WOULD-BE POETS. ALL human race would fain bo wits, And millions miss for one that hits. Young's universal passion, pride, Was never known to spread so wide. Say, Britain, could you ever boast Three poets in an age at most ! Our chilling climate hardly bears A sprig of bays in fifty years; While every fool his claim alleges, As if it grew in common hedges. What reason can there be assigned For this perverseness in the mind ? Brutes find out where their talents lie- A bear will not attempt to fly; A foundered horse will oft debate Before he tries a five-barred gate; A dog by instinct turns aside, That sees the ditch too deep and wide. But man we find the only creature Who, led by Folly, combats Nature; Who, when she loudly cries Forbear, With obstinacy fixes there; And where his genius least inclines, Absurdly bends his whole designs. Not empire to the rising sun, By valor, conduct, fortune Avon; Not highest wisdom in debates, For framing laws to govern states; Not skill in sciences profound, So large to grasp the circle round; Such heavenly influence require, As how to strike the Muse's lyre. TWELVE ARTICLES. I. LEST it may more quarrels breed, I will never hear you read. II. By disputing I will never, To convince you, once endeavor. III. When a paradox you stick to, I will never contradict you. IV. When I talk and you are heedless, I will show no anger needless. V. W T hen your speeches are absurd, I will ne'er object a word. VI. When you, furious, argue wrong, I will grieve and hold my tongue. VII. Not a jest or humorous story Will I ever tell before ye : To be chidden for explaining, When you quite mistake the meaning. VIII. Never more will I suppose You can taste my verse or prose. IX. You no more at me shall fret, AVhile I teach and you forget. X. You shall never hear me thunder When you blunder on, and blunder. XI. Show your poverty of spirit, And in dress place all your merit; Give yourself ten thousand airs; That with me shall break no squares. XII. Never will I give advice Till you please to ask me thrice : Which if you in scorn reject, 'Twill be just as I expect. LESBIA. LESBIA forever on me rails; To talk of me she never fails : Now, hang me, but, for all her art, I find that I have gain'd her heart. My proof is thus : I plainly see, The case is just the same with me; I curse her every hour sincerely, Yet, hang me, but I love her dearly. EPIGRAM ON THE BUSTS IN RICHMOND HERMITAGE. 1732. LEWIS the living learned fed, And raised the scientific head : Our frugal Queen, 1 to save her meat, Exalts the head that cannot eat. 1 Queen Anne, THE POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. BETTER KNOWN AS "FATHER PROUT." VERT-VERT, THE PARROT. FROM THE FKKNCH OF THE JESUIT GRESSET. original Ziniocence. ^At AP '. what evils I discern in Too great an aptitude for learning! And fain would all the ills unravel Tnat aye ensue from foreign travel ; Far happier is the man who tarries Quiet within his household "Laix-s:" Read, ami you'll find how virtue vanishes, iluw foreign vice all goodness banishes, And how abroad young heads will grow dizzy, Proved in the underwritten Odyssey. In old Nevers, so famous for its Dark narrow streets and Gothic turrets, Close on the brink of Loire's young Hood, Flourished a convent sisterhood Of Ursulines. Now in this order A parrot lived as parlor-boarder ; Brought in his childhood from the Antilles, And sheltered under convent mantles : Green were his feaihers, green his pinions, And greener still were liis opinions; F<>r vice had not yet sought to pervert This bird, who had been christened Vert- Vert , Nor coulU the wicked world defile him, Safe from its snares in this asylum. Fresh, in his teens, frank, gay, and grafi-ms, And, to crown all, somewhat loquacious; i we examine close, not one, or he, ' Had a vocation for a nunnery. 1 The convent's kindness need I mention! Need I detail each fond attention, 1 " Pr m>n rqnet dlgne d'ftrr rri COU\DL' Or count the tit-bits which in Lent he Swallowed remorseless and in plenty f Plump was his carcass ; no, not higher Fed was their confessor, the friar ; And some even say that our young Hector Was far more loved than the " Director." * Dear to each novice and each nun He was the life and sou) of fun ; Though, to be sure, some hags censorious Would sometimes find him too uproarious. What did the parrot care for those old Dames, while he had for him the household! He had not yet made his " profession," Nor come to years called " of discretion ;" Therefore, unblamed, he ogled, flirted, And romped like any unconverted ; Nay sometimes, too, by the Lord Harry ! He'd pull their caps and "scapulary." But what in all his tricks seemed oddest, Was that at times he'd turn so modest, That to all bystanders the wight Appeared a finished hypocrite. In accent he did not resemble Kean, though he had the tones of Kembl* But fain to do the sisters' biddings, He left the stage to Mrs. Siddonn. Poet, historian, judge, financier, Four problems at a tim^ he'd anbver He had a faculty like Caesar's. Lord Althorp, baffling all his teazers. Could not surpass Vert- Vert in puzzling . " Goodrich" to him was but a gosling. 1 * "Sou vent IW.-*.i IVniporU tnr le !'#r." At thU remote |*r1od It l forgotten tht " Pr-p*rUr P < <>o" wn also known M "OooM Goudrii-b." whn *nb*^u chancellor of tin exchequer O. T 222 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Placed when at table near some vestal, His fare, be sure, was of the best all, For every sister would endeavor To keep for him some sweet hors d'oeuvre. Kindly at heart, in spite of vows and Cloisters, a nun is worth a thousand ! And aye, if Heaven would only lend her, I'd have a nun for a nurse tender ! l Then, when the shades of night would come on, And to their cells the sisters summon, Happy the favored one whose grotto This sultan of a bird would trot to : Mostly the young ones' cells he toyed in (The aged sisterhood avoiding), Sure among all to find kind offices, Still he was partial to the novices, And in their cells our anchorite Mostly cast anchor for the night ; Perched on the box that held the relics, he Slept without notion of indelicacy. Rare was his luck ; nor did he spoil it By flying from the morning toilet ; Not that I can admit the fitness Of (at the toilet) a male witness ; But that I scruple in this history To shroud a single fact in mystery. Quick at all arts, our bird was rich at That best accomplishment, called chit-chat; For, though brought up within the cloister, His beak was not closed like an oyster, But, trippingly, without a stutter, The longest sentences would utter ; Pious withal, and moralizing His conversation was surprising ; None of your equivoques, no slander To such vile tastes he scorned to pander ; But his tongue ran most smooth and nice on " Deo sit laus" and " Kyrie eleison ;" The maxims he gave with best emphasis Were Suarez's or Thomas a Kempis's ; In Christmas carols he was famous, " Orate, fratres," and " OREMUS ;" If in good humor, he was wont To give a stave from "Think well on't /" f Or, by particular desire, he Would chant the hymn of " Dies irae." 1 "Les petits soins, les attentions fines, Sont n6s, (lit on, chez les Ursulines." " Pensez-y-bien," or " TJiink well on't" a* translated by the titular bishop, Richard Clmiloner, is the most generally adopted devoiional tract among the Catholics of these islands. Paour. Then in the choir he would amaze all By copying the tone so nasal In which the sainted sisters chanted (At least that pious nun mv aunt did) jBJijs fatall ftenotame. The public soon began to ferret The hidden nest of so much merit, And, spite of all the nuns' endeavors, The fame of Vert-Vert filled all Nevers; Nay, from Moulines folks carne to stare at The wondrous talent of this parrot; And to fresh visitors ad libitum Sister Sophie had to exhibit him. Drest in her tidiest robes, the virgin, Forth from the convent cells emerging, Brings the bright bird, and for his plumage First challenges unstinted homage ; Then to his eloquence adverts, " What preacher's can surpass Vert- Vert's ? Truly in oratory few men, Equal this learned catechumen; Fraught with the convent's choicest lessons, And stuffed with piety's quintessence ; A bird most quick of apprehension, With gifts and graces hard to mention : Say in what pulpit can you meet A Chrysostom half so discreet, Who'd follow in his ghostly mission So close the ' fathers and tradition ? ' ' Silent meantime, the feathered hermit Waits for the sister's gracious permit, When, at a signal from his mentor, Quick on a course of speech he'll enter ; Not that he cares for human glory, Bent but to save his auditory ; Hence he pours forth with so much unctio That all his hearers feel compunction. Thus for a time did Vert- Vert dwell Safe in his holy citadelle ; Scholared like any well-bred abbe, And loved by many a cloistered Hebe ; You'd swear that he had crossed the same bri As any youth brought up in Cambridge.' Other monks starve themselves ; but his skin Was sleek like that of a Franciscan, And far more clean ; for this grave Solon Bathed every day in eau de Cologne. 1 Qnwt Pons Asinonun j TOEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 223 Thus he indulged each guiltless gambol, Blessed bad be ne'er been doomed to ramble ! For in his life there came a crisis Such as for all great men arises, Such as what NAP to Russia led, Such as the " FLIGHT" of Mahomed ; O town of Nantz ! yes, to thy bosom We let him go, alas ! to lose him ! Edicts, O town famed for revoking, Still was Vert- Vert's loss more provoking! Dark be the day when our bright Don went From this to a far-distant convent! Two words comprise that awful era Words big with fate and woe "It, IRA!" Yes, " he sh;ill go ;" but, sisters ! mourn ye The dismal fruits of that sad journey, Ills on which Nantz's nuns ne'er reckoned, When for the beauteous bird they beckoned. Fame, Vert- Vert ! in evil humor, Cue day to Nantz had brought the rumor Of thy accomplishments, ' acumen," u Novf," and "esprit" quite superhuman : All these reports but served to enhance f by merits with the nuns of Nantz. flow did a matter so unsuited For convent ears get hither bruited ? Some may inquire. But " nuns are knowing," ''And first to hear what gossip's going. 1 ' 1 ' Forthwith they taxed their wits to elicit From the famed bird a friendly visit. Girls' wishes run in a brisk current, But a nun's fancy is a torrent ; * To get this bird they'd pawn the missal Quick they indite a long epistle, Careful with softest things to fill it, And then with musk perfume the billet ; Thus, to obtain their darling purpose, They send a writ of habeas corpus. Off goes the post. When will the answer Free them from doubt's corroding cancer ! .v -thing can equal their anxiety, Except, of course, their well-known piety. Things at Nevers meantime went harder Than well would suit such pious ardor ; It was no easy job to coax This parrot from the Nevers folks. "Les r6v6ron(les mires A tout Mvolr ue sont pa* lc dernirrr^" 1 " I>e1r *Mr s ant dl.vnt itn coa, DVuitrc* an brn: on ne Mlt pas bUn jii." "Qaalein inlnUtruin ftilmlnis alitein. Cm ri*x dcoruni roenum In are* raft* Cumuli-It, ex|.ertu n 226 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY Scared at the sound " Sure as a gun, The bird's a demon !" cried the nun. " the vile wretch ! the naughty dog ! He's surely Lucifer incog. What ! is the reprobate before us That bird so pious and decorous So celebrated ?" Here the pilgrim, Hearing sufficient to bewilder him, Wound up the sermon of the beldame By a conclusion heard but seldom " Ventre Saint Gris !" "Parbleu !" and " Sacre 1" Three oaths! and every one a whacker! Still did the nuns, whose conscience tender Was much shocked at the young offender, Hoping he'd change his tone, and alter, Hang breathless round the sad defaulter : When, wrathful at their importunity, And grown audacious from impunity, He fired a broadside (holy Mary !) Drawn from Hell's own vocabulary ! Forth like a Congreve rocket burst, And stormed and swore, fiared up and cursed ! Stunned at these sounds of import Stygian, The pious daughters of religion Fled from a scene so dreau, BO horrid, But with a cross first signed their forehead. The younger sisters, mifd and meek, Thought that the culprit spoke in Greek ; But the old matrons and "the bench " Knew every word was genuine French ; And ran in all directions, pell-mell, From a flood fit to overwhelm hell. 'Twas by a fall that Mother Ruth 1 Then lost her last remaining tooth. " Fine conduct this, and pretty guidance !" Cried one of the most mortified ones ; " Pray, is such language and such ritual Among the Nevers nuns habitual ? 'Twas in our sisters most improper To toach such curses such a whopper ! He shan't by me, for one, be hindered From being sent back to his kindred !" Tliis prompt decree of Poll's proscription Was signed by general subscription. Straight in a cage the nuns insert The guilty person of Vert-Vert ; < " Toutes pensent 6tre 4 la fin du monde. Etsur son nez la m6re Cun^gonde Se laissant cheoir, perd sa derniere dent!" Some young ones wanted to detain him ; But the grim portress took "the paynim" Back to the boat, close in his litter ; 'Tis not said this time that he bit her. Back to the convent of his youth, Sojourn of innocence and truth, Sails the green monster, scorned and hated, His heart with vice contaminated. Must I tell how, on his return, He scandalized his old sojourn ? And how the guardians of his infancy Wept o'er their quondam child's delinquency f What could be done ? the elders otten Met to consult how best to soften This obdurate and hardened sinner, Finished in vice ere a beginner ! 2 One mother counselled " to denounce And let the Inquisition pounce On the vile heretic ;" another Thought "it was best the bird to smother !" Or " send the convict for his felonies Back to his native land the colonies." But milder views prevailed. His sentence Was, that, until he showed repentance, " A solemn fast and frugal diet, Silence exact, and pensive quiet, Should be his lot ;" and, for a blister He got, as jailer, a lay-sister, Ugly as sin, bad-tempered, jealous. And in her scruples over-zealous. A jug of water and a carrot Was all the prog she'd give the parrot : But every eve when vesper-bell Called sister Rosalie from her cell, She to Vert- Vert would gain admittance, And bring of " comfits" a sweet pittance. Comfits ! alas ! can sweet confections Alter sour slavery's imperfections ? What are " preserves" to you or me, When locked up in the Marshalsea ? The sternest virtue in the hulks, Though crammed with richest sweetmeats, sulk* Taught by his jailer and adversity, Poll saw the folly of perversity, 1 Implicat in termini*. There must have been af>epi:.toe, else- bow conceive A finish (see Kant), unless the propositioa of Ocel- lus Lueanus be adopted, viz., avapxov icai artAturaiei 'o *uv. Gresset simply hes it " II f ut an sc616rat Prof6s d'abord, et sans noviciat." POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Ill And by degrees his heart relented : Duly, in fine, " the lad" repented. His Lent passed on, and sister Bridget Coaxed the old abbess to abridge it. The piodigal, reclaimed and free, Became again a prodigy, And gave more joy, by works and words, Than ninety-nine canary-birds, Until his death. Which last disaster (iSothing on earth endures!) came faster Then they imagined. The transition From a starved to a stuffed condition, From penitence to jollification, Brought on a lit of constipation. Some think he would be living still, If given a " Vegetable Pill ;" But from a short life, and a merry, Poll sailed one day per Charon's ferry. By tears from nuns' sweet eyelids wept, Happy in death this parrot slept, For him Elysium oped its portals, And there he talks among immortals. But I have read, that since that happy day (So writes Cornelius a Lapide, 1 1'roving, with commentary droll, The transmigratior of the soul), That still Vert-Vert this earth doth haunt, Of convent bowers a visitant ; And that, gay novices among, He dwells, transformed into a tongue ! 1 This author Appears to have been a favorite with Front, who takes every opportunity of recording bis predilection. Had the Or- der, however, produced only sucli writers as Cornelius, we fear lli-re would have been little mention of tne Jesuits in connection witli literature. Gresset's opinion on the matter Is contained In an e|.it>tle to his coti/rer* P. Buujeant, author of the ingenious tre&tise A'ur /'Ame des Betet : Moins reverend qu'aimable per*, Vi-iis dont 1'esprit, le caractiro, Et le? airs, ne .-ont point monti* Sur le ton sotternent austere De cent tritttes palernit&s, Qul, manquant du talent cle plaire, Et de toute Ivgcrvto. Pour dissimuler la mist-re I>'un esprit bans amenita, Affichent laseverite; Et ne sortant de leur taniero Qne sous la lugubre bannit-ro De la grave formulHc, lleritiors de la triste em-luine De quelqne pedant Ignore, Bt'l'oricent qnelquo lonrd volume, Aux antres Latins en t*rre. THE SILKWORM. A 1'OKM. From the Latin of JEKOMI VIDA. CANTO FIRST. I. LIST to my lay, daughter of Lombardy, Hope of Gonzaga's house, fair Isabella ! Graced with thy name, the simplest melody, Albeit from rural pipe or rustic shell, Might all the music of a court excel ; Light though the subject of my song may seem, 'Tis one on which thy spirit loves to dwell ; Nor on a tiny insect dost thou deem Thy poet's labor lost, nor frivolous my theme. n. For thou dost often meditate how hence Commerce deriveth aliment ; how Art May minister to native opulence, The wealth of foreign lands to home impart, And make of ITALY the general mart. These are thy goodly thoughts how best to raise, Thy country's industry. A patriot heart Beat in thy gentle breast no vulgar praise! Be then this spinner-worm the hero of my lay* in. Full many a century it crept, the child Of distant China or the torrid zone ; Wasted its web upon the woodlands wild, And spun its golden tissue all alone, Clothing no reptile's body but its own.* So crawled a brother- worm o'er mount md glen. Uncivilized, uncouth ; till, social grown, He sought the cities and the haunts of men Science and Art soon tamed the forest denizen. IV. Rescued from woods, now under friendly roof Fostered and fed, and sheltered from the blast, Full soon the wondroua wealth of warp and woof Wealth by these puny laborers amassed, Repaid the hand that spread their green re- past: Right merrily they plied their jocund toil, 1 Tenul no honoa nee gloria Uo I 228 POEMS OF FkANCIS MAHONY. And from their mouths the silken treasures? cast, Twisting their canny thread in many a coil, While men looked on and smiled, and hailed the shining spoil. v. Sweet is the poet's ministry to teach How the wee operatives should be fed ; Their wants and changes ; what befitteth each ; What mysteries attend the genial bed, And how successive progenies are bred. Happy if he his countrymen engage In paths of peace and industry to tread ; Happier the poet still, if o'er his page Fair ISABELLA'S een shed radiant patronage ! VI. Thou, then, who wouldst possess a creeping flock Of silken sheep, their glossy fleece to shear, Learn of their days how scanty is the stock : Barely two months of each recurring year Make up the measure of their brief career ; They spin their little hour, they weave their ball, And, when their task is done, then disap- pear Within that silken dome's sepulchral hall ; And the third moon looks out upon their funeral. VII. Theirs is, in truth, a melancholy lot, Never the offspring of their loves to see ! The parent of a thousand sons may not Spectator of his children's gambols be, Or hail the birth of his young family. From orphan-eggs, fruit of a fond embrace, Spontaneous hatched, an insect tenantry Creep forth, their sires departed to replace : Thus, posthumously born, springs up an annual race. VIII. Still watchful lest their birth be premature, From the sun's wistful eye remove the seed, While yet the season wavers insecure, While yet no leaves have budded forth to teed With juicy provender the tender breed ; Nor usher beings into life so new Without provision 'twere a cruel deed ! Ah, such improvidence men often rue ! 'Tis a sad, wicked thing, if Malthus telleth true IX. But when the vernal equinox is passed, And the gay mulberry in gallant trim Hath robed himself in verdant vest at last ('Tis well to wait until thou seest him With summer-garb of green on every limb), Then is thy time. Be cautious still, nor risk Thine enterprise while the moon is dim, But tarry till she hangeth out her disk, Replenished with full light, then breed thy spin- ners brisk. x. Methinks that here some gentle maiden begs To know how best this genial deed is done :-- Some on a napkin strew the little eggs, And simply hatch their silkworms in the sun ; But there's a better plan to fix upon. Wrapt in a muslin kerchief, pure and warm, Lay them within thy bosom safe ; ! nor shuo Nature's kind office till the tiny swarm Begins to creep. Fear not ; they cannot do the* harm. XI. Meantime a fitting residence prepare, Wherein thy pigmy artisans may dwell, And furnish forth their factory with care : Of seasoned .timber build the spinner's cell And be it lit and ventilated well ; And range them upon insulated shelves, Rising above each other parallel : There let them crawl there let the little elve On carpeting of leaf gayly disport themselves. XII. And be their house impervious both to rain And to th' inclemency of sudden cold : See that no hungry sparrow entrance gain, To glut his maw and desolate the fold, Ranging among his victims uncontrolled. Nay, I have heard that once a wicked hen Obtained admittance by manoeuvre bold, 1 Tu conde sinu velamiru- teeU. Nee piuU'iu roseas inter fovisse pkpillw POEMS OF FRANCIS MAIIONY. 229 Slaughtering the insects in their little den ; If I had caught her there, she had not come again. XIII. Stop up each crevice in the silkworm house, Each gaping orifice be sure to fill ; For oftentimes a sacrilegious mouse Will fatal inroad make, intent on ill, And in cold blood the gentle spinners kill. 1 Ah, cruel wretch ! whose idol is thy belly, The blood of innocence why dost thou spill ? Dost thou not know that silk is in that jelly ? Go forth, and seek elsewhere a dish of vermicelli. XIV. When thy young caterpillars 'gin to creep, Spread them with care upon the oaken planks ; And let them learn from infancy to keep Their proper station, and preserve their ranks Not crawl at random, playing giddy pranks. L<'t them be taught their dignity, nor seek, Dressed in silk gown, to act like mounte- banks : Tnns careful to eschew each vulgar freak, Sober they maun grow up, industrious and meek. xv. Their minds kind Nature wisely pre-arranged, And of domestic habits made them fond ; Rarely they roam, or wish their dwelling changed, Or from their keeper's vigilance abscond : Pleased with their home, they travel not be- yond. Else, woe is me ! it were ,1 bitter potion To hunt each truant and each vagabond : Haply of such attempts they have no notion, Nor on their heads is seen u the bump of loco- motion." XVI. The same kind Nature (who doth all things right) Their stomachs hath from infancy imbued Straight with a most tremendous appetite ; And till the leaf they love is o'er them strewed, Their little mouths wax clamorous for food. 1 Itnprobus IrrepUt Ubulls, MevlUjue per omnM, C*rowc lean, they doff with ease their old accou- trement. XXX. N^r are the last important days at hand The liquid gold within its living mine Brightens. Nor nourishment they now de- mand, Nor care for life ; impatient to resign The wealth with which diaphanous they shine ! Eager they look around imploring look, For branch or bush, their tissue to entwine; Some rudimental threads they seek to hook, And dearly love to find some hospitable nook. XXXI. Anticipate their wishes, gentle maid! Hie to their help ; the fleeting moment catch. Quick be the shelves with wicker-work o'er- laid: Let osier, broom, and furze, their workshop thatch, With fond solicitude and blithe dispatch. So may they quickly, mid the thicket dense, Find out a spot their purposes to match ; So may they soon their industry commence, And of tlie round cocoon plan the circu inference. XXXII. Their hour is come. See how the yellow flood Swells in yon creeping cylinder ! how t.-enu Exuberant the tide of amber blood ! How the recondite gold transparent gleams, And how pellucid the bright fluid seems ! Proud of such pregnancy, aud duly skilled In Dsedalean craft, each insect deems The glorious purposes of life fulfilled, If into shining silk his substance be distilled ! XXXIII. Say, hast thou ever marked the clustering grape Swollen to maturity with ripe prodiice, When the imprisoned pulp pants to escape, And longs to joy "emancipated" juice In the full freedom of the bowl profuse? So doth the silk that swells their skinny coat Loathe its confinement, panting to get loose : Such longing for relief their looks denote Soon in their web they'll find a " bane and anti- dote." XXXIV; See ! round and round, in many a mirthful maze, The wily workman weaves his golden gauze ; And while his throat the twisted thread pur- veys, New lines with labyrinthine labor draws, Plying his pair of operative jaws. From morn to noon, from noon to silent eve, He toileth without interval or pause, ' His monumental trophy to achieve, And his sepulchral sheet of silk resplendent weave. xxxv. Approach, and view thy artisans at work ; At thy wee spinners take a parting glnno*- : For soon each puny laborer will lurk Under his silken canopy's expanse Tasteful alcove ! boudoir of elegance ! There will the weary worm in peace repose, And languid lethargy his limbs entrance; There his career of usefulness will close ; Who would not live the life and die the death of those ! i Query, wit/imtl pine* f I'. Drril. ' Mllle lepiint rvlpcnnlqiir VIM, mquo orblbus Orl>M AiRlotncrwil, tlonec ewoo M> crc<>r comlant B|N>nU> sui. T'it ei eiloiuli gloria Oil t 232 POEMS OF FRANCIS MA HO NY. XXXVI. Mostly they spin their solitary shroud Single, apart, like ancient anchoret ; Yet oft a loving pair will, 1 if allowed, In the same sepulchre of silk well met, Nestle like ROMEO and JULIET. From snch communing be they not debarred, Mindful of her who hallowed Paraclet ; Even in their silken cenotaph 'twere hard To part a HELOISE from her loved ABELARD. XXXVII. The task is done, the work is now complete; A stilly silence reigns throughout the room! Sleep on, blest beings! be your slumbers sweet, And calmly rest within your golden tomb Rest, till restored to renovated bloom. Bursting the trammels of that dark sojourn, Forth ye shall issue, and rejoiced, resume, A glorified appearance, and return To lite a winged thing from monumental urn. XXXVIII. Fain would I pause, and of my tuneful text Reserve the remnant for a fitter time : Another song remains. The summit next Of double-peaked Parnassus when I climb, Grant me, ye gods ! the radiant wings of rhyme ! Thus may I bear me up th' adventurous road That winds aloft an argument sublime! But of didactic poems 'tis the mode, No canto should conclude without an episode. XXXIX. VENUS it was who first invented SILK LINEN had long, by CERES patronized, Supplied Olympus : ladies of that ilk No better sort of clothing had devised Linen alone their garde de robe comprised. Hence at her cambric loom the "suitors" found PENELOPE, whom hath immortalized The blind man eloquent : nor less renowned Were "Troy's proud dames," whose robes of lin- en * swept the ground." Thus the first female fashion was for flax ; A linen tunic was the garb that graced 1 Quin et nonnullae paribus cotntnunia curls Afsociant opera, et nebnlA cluuduntur eftdem. Exclusively the primitive "Almack's." Simplicity's costume 1 too soon effaced By vain inventions of more modern taste. Then was the reign of modesty and sense. Fair ones were not, I ween, more prude and chaste, Girt in hoop-petticoats' circumference Or stays Hnni soi the rogue qui mal y pense. XLl. WOOL, by MINEKVA manufactured, met With blithe encouragement and brisk de- mand ; Her loom by constant buyers was beset, "Orders from foreign houses" kept her hand 5 Busy supplying many a distant land. She was of woollen stuffs the sole provider, Till some were introduced by contraband : A female called AHACHNE thus defied her, But soon gave up the trade, being turned into spider. XLII. Thus a complete monopoly in wool, "Almost amounting to a prohibition," Enabled her to satisfy in full The darling object of her life's ambition, And gratify her spiteful disposition. VENUS' she had determined should not be Suffered to purchase stuffs on no condition; While every naked Naiad nymph was tree To buy her serge, moreen, and woollen drapperie- XL11I. Albeit "when unadorned adorned the most," The goddess could not brook to be outwitted How could she bear her rival's bitter boast, If to this taunt she quietly submitted ! OLYMPUS (robeless as she was) she quitted, Fully determined to bring back as fine a Dress as was ever woven, spun, or knitted ; Europe she searched, consulted the CZARINA, And, taking good advice, crossed o'er ''the wall' to CHINA. XLIV. Long before Europeans, the Chinese Possessed the compass, silkworms, and gun* powder, 1 Tantum nuila Venus mrerehftt iininerls cxpers Etnviiiani <>b I'orniain texinui in visa Minerv* POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONV. 233 en- And types, and tea, and other rarities. China (with gifts since Nature hath do wed her) Is proud ; what laud hath reason to be prouder ? Her let the dull " Barbarian Eye" respect, And be her privileges all allowed her; She is the WIDOW (please to recollect) Of ONE the Deluge drowned, PRIMORDIAL INTEL- LECT ! XLV. The good inhabitants of PEKIN, when They saw the dame in downright dishabille, Were shocked. Such sight was far beyond the ken Of their CONFUCIAN notions. Full of zeal To guard the morals of the commonweal, They straight deputed SYLK, a mandarin, Humbly before ihe visitant to kneel With downcast eye. and offer Beauty's queen A rich resplendent robe of gorgeous bombazine. XLVI. Venus received the vesture nothing loath, And much its gloss, its softness much ad- mired, And piaised that specimen of foreign growth, So splendid, and so cheaply too acquired ! Quick in the robe her graceful limbs attired, She seeks a mirror there delighted dallies; So rich a dress was all could be desired. How she rejoiced to disappoint the malice Of her unfeeling foe, the vile, vindictive PALLAS !' XLVII. But while she praised the gift and thanked the giver Of spinner-worms she sued for a supply. Forthwith the good Chinese filled Cupid's quiver With the cocoons in which each worm doth lie Snug, until changed into a butterfly. The light cocoon* wild Cupid showered o'er Greece, And o'er the isles, and over Italy, Into the lap of industry and peace; And the glad nations hailed the long-sought "Golden Fleece." 1 1 Kettulit Inslgnes tunicas, nihil imlii:.i ln. * ' Grallam opus Ausonils dinu volvunt tila put-Ill*. TIIE SilANDON BELLS.' dabbata jiaiiQo, JFunera plaugo, .Solcmuu clango. Iiiacrip. on an old 3+il WITH deep affection And recollection I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would. In the days of childhood, Fling round rny cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee, With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I've heard bells chiming Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine, While at a glib rate Brass tongues would vibrate But all their music Spoke naught like thine; For memory dwelling On each proud swelling Of the belfry knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I've heard bells tolling Old " Adrian's Mole " in, Their thunder rolling From the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame ; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter ' The spire of Sbandon, built un the ruin* of oM Shandon Cwil* (for which we the plates In 1'aratu Ilylirrnia"), Is a pr<>miiim1 object, from whatever tide the traveller approach** <>ur U-autiru) city. In a vault at III foot sleep some tfenerattoof ul ttio wrii*r> kith and kin. 234 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly ; Oh ! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. There's a bell in Moscow, While on tower and kiosk o! In Saint Sophia The Turkman gets. And loud in air Culls men to prayer From the tapering summit Of tall minarets. Such empty phantom 1 freely grant them ; Bat there is an unthera More dear to me, Tis the bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. THE RED-BREAST OF AQUITANIA. A HUMBLE BALLAD. " Are not, two sparrows sold for a farthing T yet not one of them shall fall to the ground witlwut your J?at/ier. n ST. MAT- THEW, x. 29. ' Gallos ab Aquitanis Garumna flutnen. JULIUS C^CSAR. " Sermons in stones, and good In every thin:;." SIIAKKSPKAKK. " Genius, left to shiver On the bank, 'tis said, Died of tuat cold river." TOM MOOKB OH, 'twas bitter cold As our steamboat rolled Down the pathway old Of the deep Garonne, And the peasant lank, While his sabot sank In the snow-clad bank, Saw it roll on, on. fe Gascon And he hied him home farmer hieth to his cot- To his toil de ckaume ; And for those who roam River trip from Tou- louse to Bordeaux. Thermome- ter at -0. tinow 1 foot and a half deep. Use of wooden iiioos. age, and drinketli a On the broad bleak flood Cared he? Not a thought; For his beldame brought His wine-flask fraught With the grape's red blood. He wnrmeth And the wood-block blaze his cold n i i shins at a Fed his vacant gaze Good e b> e u, As we trod the maze him - Of the river down. Soon we left behind On the frozen wind All farther mind Of that vacant clown. Ye Father ineetetli a stray ac- quaintance in u small bird. But there came anon, As we journeyed on Down the deep Garonne, An acquaintancy, Which we deemed, I count. Of more high amount, For it oped the fount Of sweet sympathy. Not ye 'Twas a stranger dressed famous alba- T , trossofti.at In a downy vest, Colcrtdse, but a pooro robin. 'Twas a wee Red-breast (Not an "Albatross "), But a wanderer meek, Who fain would seek O'er the bosom bleak Of that flood to cross. Ye sparrow And we watched him oft crossing > . . , . ,. rivermaketh As he soared nlott ' lire-ship. Delusivo hope. Ye fire-ship runneth HI knots an hour: 'tis no go for ye sparrow. )n his pinions soft, Poor wee weak thing, And we soon could mark That he sought our bark, As a resting ark For his weary wing. But the bark, fire-fed, On her pathway sped, And shot far ahead Of the tiny bird, And quicker in the van Her swift wheels ran, As the quickening fan Of his wino-lets stirred. Yebyrdeis Vain, vain pursuit ! led a wildc n , ., . <.,. i goose chnce 1 Oil Without Il'Ult ! For his forked foot Shall not anchor there, Though the boat meanwhile Down the stream beguile For a bootless mile The poor child of air ! adown y river. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHOXV 2.33 Symptom* And 'twas plain at last offatiiroe. a f 4. Ti mr.an- He was flagging tast, W: That his hour had past In that effort vain ; Far from either bank, Sans a saving plank, Slow, slow he sank, Nor uprose again. Mort.fy* bird*. And the cheerless wav Just one ripple gave As it oped him a grave In its bosom cold, And he sank alone, With a feeble tnoan, In that deep Garonne, And then all was told. Te old man But our pilot ejrav tyebelir. T,-.. ' J weepetb for Wiped a tear away soune lost T ,, , j Tv- ln ye bay f In the broad JLJiscaye That sight brought back On its furrowed track The remembered wreck Of long-perished joy Condole- And the tear half hid nee of re ladyea.Vke In soft BeautV 8 lid otlcJuitneur _ . . * >rt. But they tell us the day '11 come, when Dai leJ Will purge the whole country, and driv All the Sassenachs into the channel, Nor leave a Cromwellian alive. Blarney Castle, etc. Curse the day clumsy Noll's ugly corpus, Clad in copper, was seen on our plain ; When he rowled over here like a porpoise In two or three hookers from Spain ! And bekase that he was a freemason Ee mounted a battering-ram, And into her mouth, full of treason, Twenty pound of gunpowder he'd cram. O Blarney Castle, etc. So when the brave boys of Clancarty Looked over their battlement-wall, They saw wicked Oliver's party All a feeding on powder and ball ; And that giniral that married his daughtei Wid a heap of grape-shot in his jaw That's bould Ireton, so famous for slaughter- - And he was his brother-in-law. Blarney Castle, etc. They fired off their bullets like thunder, That whizzed through the air like a snake ; And they made the ould castle (no wonder!) With all its foundations to shake. While the Irish had nothing to shoot off But their bows and their arras, the sowls ! POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Waypons fit for the ware of old Plutarch, And perhaps mighty good for wild fowls. O Blarney Castle, etc. Och ! 'twas Crommill then gave the dark toket- Foi in the black art he was deep; And though the eyes of the Irish stood open, They found themselves all fast asleep! With his jack-boots he stepped on the water, And he walked clane right over the lake ; While his sodgers they all followed after, As dry as a duck or a drake. Blarney Castle, etc. Then the gates he burnt down to a cinder, And the roof he demolished likewise ; Oh! the rafters they flamed out like tinder, And the buildin'^a/W up to the skies. And he gave the estate to the Jeffers, With the dairy, the cows, and the hay ; And they lived there in clover like heifers, As their ancestors do to this day. Blarney Castle, etc. THE LAMENT OF STELLA. A BURLESQUE ON THE LAMENT OF DANAE, BY SIMOXIDES. WHILE round the churn, 'mid sleet and rain, It blew a pei feet hurricane, Wrapped in slight garment to protect her, Methought I saw my mother's spectre, Who took her infant to her breast Me. 'fin small tenant of that chest While thus she lulled her babe : " How cruel Have been the Fates to thee, my jewel' But, caring naught for foe or scoffer, Thou sleepest in this milky coffer, Coopered with brass hoops weather-tight, Impervious to the dim moonlight. Th? shower cannot get in to soak Thy hair or little purple cloak ; Heedless of gloom, in dark sojourn. Thy face illuminates the churn ! Si null is thine ear, wee babe, for hearing, But grant my prayer, ye gods of Erin ! And may folks find that this young fellow Does credit to his mother Stella" EPITAPH ON FATHER PROUT. SWKET upland ! where, like hermit old, in peace sojourned This priest devout ; Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep imirned The bones of Prout ! Nor deck with monumental shrine or tapering column His place of rest, Whose soul, above earth's homage, meek yet solemn, Siis 'mid the blessed. Much was he prized, much loved ; his stern re- buke O'erawed sheep-stealers ; And rogues feared more the good man's single look Than forty Peelers. He's gone ; and discord soon I ween will visit The land with quarrels; And the foul demon vex with stills illicit The village morals. No fatal chance could happen more to crass The public wishes ; And all the neighborhood deplore his loss, Except the fishes ; For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled herring Preferred to gammon. Grim Death has broke his angling-rod ; his ber- ring Delights the salmon. No more can he hook up carp, eel, or trout, For fasting pittance, Arts which Saint Peter loved, whose gate to Prout Gave prompt admittance. Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keep His sainted dust ; The bad man's death it well becomes tc weep, Not so the just. THE ATTRACTIONS OF A FASHIONABLE IRISH WATERING-PLACR THE town of Passage Is both large and spacious. And situated Upon the say. 240 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 'Tis nate and dacent, And quite adjacent To come from Cork On a summer's day ; There you may slip in To take a dipping, Foment the shipping That at anchor ride ; Or in a wherry Cross o'er the ferry To Carrigaloe, On the other side. Mud cabins swarm in This place so charming, With sailor garments Hung out to dry ; And each abode is Snug and commodious, With pigs melodious In their straw-built sty. 'Tis there the turf is, And lots of murphies, Dead sprats and herrings, And oyster shells ; Nor any lack, ! Of good tobacco Though what is smuggled By far excels. There are ships from Cadiz, And from Barbadoes, But the leading trade is In whisky-punch ; And you may go in Where one Molly Bowen Keeps a nate hotel For a quiet lunch. But land or deck on, You may safely reckon, Whatsoever country You come hither from, On an invitation To a jollification, With a paris-h priest That's called " Father Tom." l Of ships there's one fixt For lodging convicts, The Rev. Thomas England, P. P., known to the literary world Vj "a life" of the celebrated friar, Arthur O'Leary, chaplain to a el nh which Curran, Yelverton, Earls Moira, Charlemont, etc., etc.. xtnliHshed in 1750. under the designation of "the Monks of the *< i*.-O. T. A floating "stone Jug" Of amazing bulk ; The hake and salmon, Playing at backgammon, Swim for divarsiou All round this "hulk;" There " Saxon" jailers Keep brave repailers, Who soon with sailors Must anchor weigh From th' em' raid island, Ne'er to see dry laud, Until they spy land In sweet Bot'ny Bay. FROM CRESSET'S FAREWELL TO THE JESUITS. To the sages I leave here's a heartfelt farewell ! 'Twas a blessing within their loved cloisters to dwell, And my Nearest affections shall iling roum" them still : Full gladly I mixed their blessed circles among. And oh ! heed not the whisper of Envy's foul tongue ; If you list but to her, you must know them but ill. DON IGNACIO LOYOLA'S VIGIL IN THE CHAl'KL OF OUR LADY OF MONTSERRAT WHEN at thy shrine, most holy maid ! The Spaniard hung his votive blade, And bared bis helmed brow Not that he feared war's visage grim, Or that the battle-field for him Had aught to daunt, I trow ; "Glory!" he cried, " with thee I've done I Fame ! thy bright theatres I shun, To tread fresh pathways now : To track thy footsteps, Saviour God ! With throbbing hart, with feet unshod : Hear and record my vow. POKMS OF FRANCIS MAIIONY. 241 Ye>, THOU shalt reign ! Chained to thy throne, The mind ot % man thy sway shall own, And to its conqueror bow. Genius his lyre to Thee shall lift, And intellect its choicest gift Proudly on Thee- bestow." Straight on the marble floor he knelt, And in his breast exulting felt A vivid furnace glow ; Forth to his task the giant sped, Earth shook abroad beneath his tread, And idols were laid low. India repaired half Europe's loss; O'er a new hemisphere the Cross Shone in the azure sky ; And, from the isles of far Japan To the broad Andes, won o'er man A bloodless victory! THE SONG OF THE COSSACK. COME, arouse thee up, my gallant horse, and bear thy rider on ! The comrade thou, and the friend, I trow, of the dweller on the Don. Pillage and Death have spread their wings! 'tis the hour to hie thee forth, And with thy hoofs an echo wake to the trumpets of the North ! Nor gems nor gold do men behold upon thy saddle-tree ; But earth affords the wealth of lords for thy master and for thee. Then fiercely neigh, my charger gray ! thy chest is proud and ample ; Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample ! Europe is weak she hath grown old her bulwarks are laid low ; She is loath to hear the blast of war she shrinketh from a foe ! Come, in our turn, let us sojourn in her goodly haunts of joy In the pillared porch to wave the torch, and her palaces destroy ! Proud /is when first thou slakedst thy thirst in the flow of conquered Seine Aye shall thou lave, within that wave, thy blood red flanks again. Then fiercely neigh, my gallant gray ! thy chest is strong and ample ! Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample! Kings are beleaguered on their thrones by their own vassal crew ; And in their den quake noblemen, and priests are bearded too ; And loud they yelp for the Cossacks' help to keep their bondsmen down, And they think it meet, while they kiss our feet, to wear a tyrant's crown ! The sceptre now to my lance shall bow, and the crosier and the cross Shall bend alike, when I lift my pike, and aloft THAT SCEPTRE tOSS ! Then proudly neigh, my gallant gray ! th chest is broad and ample ; Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample ! In a night of storm I have seen a form ! and the figure was a GIANT, And his eye was bent on the Cossack's tent, and his look was all defiant ; Kingly his crest and towards the West with his battle-axe he pointed ; And the " form " I saw was ATTILA ! of tint earth the scourge anointed. From the Cossack's camp let the horseman'* tramp the coming crash announce ; Let the vulture whet his beak sharp set, on the carrion field to pounce ; And proudly neigh, my charger gray! Oh I thy chest is broad and ample ; Thy hoofs shaH prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample! What boots old Europe's boasted fame, o which she builds rdiauc*, When the North shall launch its avalanche on her works of art and science f Hath she not wept her cities swept by our hordes of trampling stallions? And tower and arch crushed in the march of our barbarous battalions? Can wf not wield our fathers' shield ? the same war-hatchet handle ? Do our blades want length, or the reapers? strength, for the harvest of the Vandal ? 242 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Then proudly neigh, nay gallant gray, for thy cliest is strong and ample ; And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes tram- ple ! POPULAR RECOLLECTIONS OF BONA- PARTE. THEY'LL talk of HIM for years to come, In cottage chronicle aud tale ; When for aught else renown is dumb, His legend shall prevail ! Then in the hamlet's honored chair Shall sit some aged dame, Teaching to lowly clown aud villager That narrative of fame. Tis true, they'll say, his gorgeous throne France bled to raise ; But he was all our own ! Mother! say something in his praise Oh, speak of him always ! " I saw him pass : his was a host : Countless beyond your young imaginings My children, he could boast A train of conquered kings ! And when he came this road, 'Twas on rny bridal dav. He were, for near to him I stood, Cocked hat and surcoat gray. I blushed ; he said, ' Be of good cheer ! Courage, my dear !' That was his very word." Mother ! Oh, then this really occurred, And you his voice could hear ! " A year rolled on, when next at Paris I, Lone woman that I am, Saw him pass by, Girt with his peers, to kneel at Notre Dame. I knew by merry chime and signal gun, God granted him a son, And oh ! I wept for joy ! For why not weep when warrior-men did, Who gazed upon that sight so splendid, And blessed th' imperial boy ? Never did noonday sun shine out so bright! Oh, what a sight !" Mother ! for you that must have been A o-lorious scene ! " But when all Europe's gathered strength Burst o'er the French frontier at length, 'Twill scarcely be believed What wonders, single-handed, he achieved. Such general ne'er lived ! One evening on my threshold stood A guest 'TWAS HE ! Of warriors few He had a toil-worn retinue. He thing himself into this chair of wood, Muttering, meantime, with fearful air, 'Quelle guerre f oh, quelle guerre /' " Mother ! and did our emperor sit there, Upon that very chair ? " lie said, ' Give me some food.' Brown loaf I gave, and homely wine, And made the kindling fireblocks shine,. To dry his cloak with wet bedewed. Soon by the bonny blaze he slept, Then waking chid me (for I wept) ; 'Courage!' he cried, 'I'll strike for all Under the sacred wall Of France's noble capital !' Those were his words : I've reasured up With pride that same wine-cup ; And for its weight in gold It never shall be sold !" Mother ! on that proud relic let us gaze. Oh, keep that cup always! "But, through some fatal witchery, He, whom APoPB had crowned and blessed,, Perished, my sons ! by foulest treachery : Cast on an isle far in the lonely West. Long time sad rumors were afloat The fatal tidings we would spurn, Still hoping from that isle remote Once more our hero would return. But when the dark announcement drew Tears from the virtuous and the brave When the sad whisper proved too true, A flood of grief I to his memory gave. Peace to the glorious dead !" Mother ! may God his fullest blessing saea. Upon your aged head ! POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 243 ADDRESS TO THE VANGUARD OF THE FRENCH UNDER THE DCKE D'ALBN^ON, 1521. OLKMCNT MAkOT. SOLDIER! at length their gathered strength our might is doomed to feel Spain and Brabant comiliunt Bavaria and Cas- tile. Idiots, they think that France will shrink from a foe that rushes on, And terror damp the gallant camp of the bold Duke d'Alenjon ! But wail and woe betide the foe that waits for our assault! Back to his lair our pikes shall scare the wild boar of Hainault. La Meuse shall flood her banks with blood, ere the sons of France resign Their glorious fields the land that yields the olive and the vine ! Then draw the blade ! be our ranks arrayed to the sound of the martial fife ; In the foeman's ear let the trumpeter blow a blast of deadly strife ; And let each knight collect his might, as if thare hung this day The fate of France on his single lance in the hour of the coming fray : As melts the snow in summer's glow, so may our helmets' glare Consume their host; so folly's boast vanish in empty air. Fools ! to believe the sword could give to the chil- dren of the Rhine Our Gallic fields the land that yields the olive and the vine ! Can Germans face our Norman race in the con- flict's awful shock Brave the war-cry of " BRITANXY !" the shout of " LANOUEDOC !" Dare they confront the battle's brunt the fell encounter try >Vhen dread Bayard leads on his guard of stout gendarmerie ? Strength be the test then breast to breast, ny, grapple man with man ; Strength in the ranks, strength on both flanks, and valor in the van Let war efface each softer grace ; on stern Bel- lu na's shrine We vow to shield the plains that yield the olive and the vine ! Methinks I see bright Victory, in robe of glory dressed, Joyful appear on the French frontier to the chief- tain she loves best ; While grim Defeat, in contrast meet, scowls o'er the fceman's tent, She on our duke smiles down with look of blytbe encouragement. E'en now, I ween, our foes have seen their hopes of conquest fail ; Glad to regain their homes again, and quaff their Saxon ale. So may it be while chivalry and loyal hearts com- bine To lift a brand for the bonny land of the olive and the vine I ODE ON THE SIGNAL DEFEAT OF THE SULTAN OSMAN, BY THE ARMY OF POLAND AND HER ALLIES, SEPTEM- BER, 1621. FROM THE LATIN OF CASIMIR SARBIEWSKI. As slow the plough the oxen plied, Close by the Danube's rolling tide, With old Galeski for their guide The Dacian farmer His eye amid the furrows spied Men's bones and armor. The air was calm, the sun was low. Calm was the mighty river's flow, And silently, with footsteps slow, Labored the yoke ; When fervently, with patriot glow, The veteran spoke : " Halt ye, my oxen ! Pause we her* Where valor's vestiges appear, And Islam's relics far and near Lurk in the soil ; While Poland on victorious spear Rests from her toil. 244 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Ay ? well sho may triumphant rest, Adorn with glory's plume her crest, And wear of victory the vest, Elate and flushed : Oft was the Paynim's pride repressed HERE IT WAS CRUSHED ! Here the tremendous deed was done, Here the transcendant trophy won, Where fragments lie of sword and gun, And lance and shield, And Turkey's giant skeleton Cumbers the field ! Heavens 1 I remember well that day, Of warrior men the proud display, Of brass and steel the dread array Van, flank, and rear ; How my young heart the charger's neigh Throbbed high to hear! How gallantly our lancers stood, Of bristling spears an iron wood , Fraught with a desperate hardihood That naught could daunt, And burning for the bloody feud, Fierce, grim, and gaunt ! Then rose the deadly din of fight ; / O Then shouting charged, with all his might, Of Wilna each Teutonic kuight, And of St. John's, While flashing out from yonder height Thundered the bronze. Dire was the struggle in the van, Fiercely we grappled man with man, Till soon the Paynim chiels began For breath to gasp ; When Warsaw folded Ispahan In deadly grasp. So might a tempest grasp a pine, Tall giant of the Apennine, Whose rankling roots deep undermine The mountain's base : Fitti"g antagonist? to twine In stern embrace. Loud rung on helm, and coat of mail, Of musketry the rattling hai\; Of wounded men loud rose the wail In dismal rout : And now alternate would prevail The victor's shout. Long time amid the vapors dense The fire of battle raged intense, While VICTORY held in suspense The scales on high : But Poland in her FAITH'S defence Maun do or die ! Rash was the hope, and poor the chance, Of blunting that victorious lance ; Though Turkey from her broad expanse Brought all her sons, Swelling with tenfold arrogance, Hell's myrmidons ! Stout was each Cossack heart and hand, Brave was our Lithuanian band, But Gallantry's own native land Sent forth the Poles ; And Valor's flame shone nobly fanned In patriot souls. Large be our allies' meed of fame ! Rude Russia to the rescue came, From land of frost, with brand of flame A glorious horde : Huge havoc here these bones proclaim, Done by her sword. Pale and aghast the crescent fled, Joyful we clove each turban ed head, Heaping with holocausts of dead The foeman's camp : Loud echoed o'er their gory bed Our horsemen's tramp. A hundred trees one hatchet hews ; A hundred doves one hawk pursues; One Polish gauntlet so can bruise Their miscreant clay : As well the caliph kens who rues That fatal day. What though, to meet the tug of war, Osman had gathered from afar Arab, and Sheik, and Hospodar, And Copt, and Guebre, Quick yielded Pagan scimitar To Christian sabre. Here could the Turkman turn and trace The slaughter-tracks, here slowly pace POEMS OF FRANCIS MA IK) NY. 245 The field of downfall and disgrace, Where men and horse, Thick strewn, encumbered all the place With frequent corse. Well might his haughty soul repent That rash and guilty armament ; Weep for the blood of nations spent, His ruined host; His empty arrogance lament, And bitter boast. Sorrow, derision, scorn, and hate, Upon the proud one's footsteps wait; Both in the field and in the gate Accursed, abhorred ; And be his halls made desolate With fire and sword !" Such was the tale Galeski told, Calm as the mighty Danube rolled; And well I ween that farmer old, Who held a plough, Had fcught that day a warrior bold With helmed brow. But now upon the glorious stream The sun flung out his parting beam, The soldier-swain uuyoked his team, Yet still he chanted The live-long eve : and glory's dream His pillow haunted. ODE ON THE TAKING OF CALAIS, ADDRESSED TO HENRY H., KINO OF FRANCE, BT GEORGE BUCHANAN. HENRY ! let none commend to thee FATE, FORTUNE, DOOM, or DKSTINY, Or STAR in heaven's high cauopy, With magic glow Shining on man's nativity, For weal or woe. Rather, king ! here recognize A PROVIDENCE all just, all wise, Of every earthly enterprise The hidden mover ; Aye casting calm complacent eyes Down on thv Louvre Prompt to assume th- right's 'let Mercy unto the mct-k dispense, Curb the rude jaws of insolence With bit and bridle, And scourge the chiel whose frankincenae Burns for an idol. Who, his triumphant course amid, Who smote the monarch of Madrid, And bade Pavia's victor bid To power farewell ? Once Europe's arbiter, now hid In hermit's cell. Thou, too, hast known misfortune's blast ; Tempests have bent thy stately mnst, And nigh upon the breakers cast Thy gallant ship : But now the hurricane is passed Hushed is the deep. For PHILIP, lord of ARAOON, Of haughty CHARLES the haughty son, The clouds still gather dark and duu, The sky still scowls; And round his gorgeous galleon The tempest howls. Thou, when th' Almighty ruler dealt The blows thy kingdom lately felt, Thy brows unhelmed, unbound thy belt, Thy feet unshod, Humbly before the chastener knelt, And kissed the rod. Pardon and peace thy penance bought; Joyful the seraph Mercy brought The olive-bough, with blessing fraught For thee and France ; GOD for thy captive kingdom wrought Deliverance. Twas dark and drear ! 'twas win-ter's reign I Grim horror walked the lonesome plain ; The ice held bound with crystal chain Lake, flood, and rill ; And dismal piped '.he hurricane His music shrill. But when the gallant GUISE displayed The flag of FRANCE, and drew the blade, Straight the obsequious season bade Iu rigor cease ; 246 TOEMS OF FRANCIS MAIIONY. And, lowly crouching, homage paid The PLEUR DE Lrs. Winter his violence withheld, His progeny of tempests quelled, His canopy of clouds dispelled, Unveiled the sun And blithesome days unparalleled Began to run. 'Twas then beleaguered Calais found, With swamps and marshes fenced around, With counterscarp, and moat, and mound, And yawning trench, Vainly her hundred bulwarks frowned To stay the French. Guise ! child of glory and Lorraine, Ever thine house hath proved the bane Of France's foes ! aye from the chain Of slavery kept her, And in the teeth of haughty Spain Upheld her sceptre. Scarce will a future age believe The deeds one year saw thee achieve Fame in her narrative should give Thee magic pinions To range, with free prerogative, All earth's dominions. What were the year's achievements? first, Yon Alps their barrier saw thee burst, To bruise a reptile's head, who durst, With viper sting, Assail (ingratitude accursed !) Rome's Pontiff-King:. O To rescue Rome, capture Plaisance, Make Naples yield the claims of France, While the mere shadow of thy lance O'erawed the Turk : Such was, within the year's expanse, Thy journey-work. But Calais yet remained nnwon Calais, stronghold of Albion, Her zone begirt with blade and gun, In all the pomp And pride of war; fierce Amazon! Queen of a swamp ! But even she hath proven frail, Her walls and swamps of no avail ; What citadel may Guise not scale, Climb, storm, and seize ? What foe before thee may not quail, gallant Guise ! Thee let the men of England dread. Whom Edward erst victorious led, Right joyful now that ocean's bed Between them rolls And thee ! that thy triumphant tread Yon wave controls. Let ruthless MARY learn from hence That Perfidy's a foul offence ; That falsehood hath its recompense ; That treaties broken, The anger of Omnipotence At length have woken. May evil counsels prove the bane And curse of her unhallowed reign ; Remorse, with its disastrous train, Infest her palace ; And may she of God's vengeance drain The brimming chalice! MICHEL ANGELO'S FAREWELL TO SCULPTURE. I FEEL that I am growing old My lamp of clay ! thy flame, behold ! 'Gins to burn low : and I've unrolled My life's eventful volume ! The sea h>as borne my fragile bark Close to the shore now, rising dark, O'er the subsiding wave I mark This brief world's final column. 'Tis time, my soul, for pensive mood, For holy calm and solitude ; Then cease henceforward to delude Thyself with fleeting vanitv. The pride of art, the sculptured thought, Vain idols that my hand hath wrought To place my trust in such were naught But sheer insanity. What can the pencil's power achieve ? What can the chisel's triumph give ? POEMS OF FRANCIS MA1I"\Y. 247 A name perhaps on earth may live, And travel to posterity. But can proud Rome's Pantheon tell, If tor the soul of Raffaelle His glorious obsequies could queli The JUDGMENT-SEAT'S severity! Yet why should Christ's believer fear, While gazing on yon image dear? Image adored, maugre the sneer Of miscreant blasphemer. Are not those arms for me outspread ? What mean those thorns upon thy head ? And shall I, wreathed with laurels, tread Far from thy paths, Redeemer? THE SONG OF BRENNUS, t)R THK INTRODUCTION OF THE GRAPE INTO FRANCE. TnnH- l '77ta Night before Larry.* WHEN Brennus came back here from Rome, These words he is said to have spoken : ** We have conquered, my boys ! and brought home A sprig of the vine for a token ! Cheer, my hearties ! and welcome to Gaul This plant, which we won from the foeman ; Tis enough to repay us for all Our trouble in beating the Roman ; O Bless the gods ! and bad luck to the geese ! Oh ! take care to treat well the fair guest, From the blasts of the north to protect her; Of your hillocks, the sunniest and best Make them hers, for the sake of her nectar. 'She shall nurse your young Gauls with her juice ; Give life to ' the arts' in libations ; While your ships round the globe shall produce Her goblet of joy for all nations E'en the foeman shall taste of our cup. > His l.u.ly wus laid out In state In the church of St. Mnna Uo- londa (tbu Pnntlieon), whither all Home flocked to honor the Illus- trious dead. Ills last nnd most glorious work, "The Trniisflgnrt- tlon." was placed above his bier; while Leo's |H>ntilk-al hand trcwed flowers and burnt Incense over tbo cold rniuiiii o!'iU'jirt- -<1 Ketiius. Life The exile who Hies to our hearth She shall soothe, all his sorrows redressing ; For the vine is the parent of mirth, And to sit in its shade is a blessing." So the soil Brennus dug with his lance, 'Mid the crowd of Gaul's warriors and sages ; And our forefathers grim, of gay France Got. a glimpse through the vista of ages And it gladdened the hearts of th Gauls! WINE DEBTOR TO WATER. Arm "i THE STATUE OK MO AT TDK FOOT OP TUB MAUSOLEUM OF POPK JUUU* II. IK TH CHURCH Of ST. PETBB AD VISCULA, EOMK TUB MASTUFIKCB OV M1CUAKL A.M.K.Ul, STATUE! whose giant limbs Old Buonarotti planned, And Genius carved with meditative hand, Thy dazzling radiance dims The best and brightest boasts of Sculpture's fa- vorite land. What dignity adorns That beard's prodigious sweep ! That forehead, awful with mysterious horns And cogitation deep, Of some uncommon mind the rapt beholder warns. In that proud semblance, well My soul c.an recognize The prophet fresh from converse with the skies; Nor is it hard to tell The liberator's name, the Guide of Israel. Well might the deep respond Obedient to that voi--i-, When on the Red Sea shore he waved his wand, And bade the tribes ivjoice, Saved from the yawning gulf and the Egyptian'* bond! Fools ! in the wilderness Ye raised a calf of gold ! Had ye then worshipped what I now behold, Your crime had been far less For ye had bent the knee to one of godlik mould ! LINES ADDRESSED TO THE TI15EK. BY ALK8SANDRO GUI. PI. TIMEK! my early dream. My boyhood's vision of thy clav-ir stream Had taught my mind to think That over saiuls of guld Thy limpid waters rolled, And cvi-i -verdant laurels grew upon thy brink. 252 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. But far in other guise The rude reality hath met mine eyes. Here, seated on thy bank, All desolate and drear Thy margin doth appear, With Creeping weeds, and shrubs, and vegetation rank. Fondly I fancied thine The wave pellucid, and the Naiad's shrine, In crystal grot below ; But thy tempestuous course Runs turbulent and hoarse, And, swelling with wild wrath, thy wintry waters flow. Upon thy bosom dark Peril awaits the light confiding bark, In eddying vortex swamped ; Foul, treacherous, and deep, Thy winding waters sweep, Enveloping their prey in dismal ruin prompt. Fast in thy bed is sunk The mountain pine-tree's broken trunk, Aimed at the galley's keel ; And well thy wave can waft Upon that broken shaft The barge, whose sunken wreck thy bosom will conceal. The dog-star's sultry power, The summer heat, the noontide's fervid hour, That fires the mantling blood, Yon cautious swain can't urge To tempt thy dangerous surge, Or cool his limbs within thy dark insidious Hood. I've marked thee in thy pride, When struggle fierce thy disemboguing tide With Ocean's monarch held ; But, quickly overcome By Neptune's masterdom, Back thou hast fled as oft, ingloriously repelled. Often, athwart the fields A giant's strength thy flood redundant wields, Bursting above its brim Strength that no dike can check : Dire is the harvest-wreck ! Buoyant, with lofty horns, th' affrighted bullock swims! But still thy proudest boast, Tiber! and what brings honor to thee most, Is, that thy waters roll Fast by th' eternal home Of Glory's daughter, ROME ; And that thy billows bathe the sacred CAPITOL* Famed is thy stream for her, Clelia, thy current's virgin conqueror, And him who stemmed the march Of Tuscany's proud host, When, firm at honor's post, He waved his blood stained blade above the broken arch. Of Romulus the sons, To torrid Africans, to frozen Huns, Have taught thy name, flood ! And to that utmos-t verge Where radiantly emerge Apollo's car of flame and golden-footed stud. For so much glory lent, Ever destructive of some monument, Thou makest foul return ; Insulting with thy wave Each Roman hero's grave, And Scipio's dust that fills yon consecrated urni THE ANGEL OF POETRY. TO L. E. L. LADY ! for thee a holier key shall harmonize th chord In Heaven's defence Omnipotence drew an avenging sword ; But when the bolt had crushod revolt, one angel, fair though frail, Retained his lute, fond attribute! to charm thai gloomy vale. The lyre he kept his wild hand swept ; the music he'd awaken Would sweetly thrill from the lonely hill where he sat apart forsaken : There he'd lament his banishment, his thoughts to grief abandon, And weep his full. 'Twas pitiful to see him weep, fair Landon ! 1'OKMS OF FKANVIS MA1IXY. l\i- w.-pt his fault! Hell's gloomy vault grew vocal with his song; Hut all throughout derision's shout burst from the guilty throng : God pitying viewed his fortitude in that unhal- lowed den ; Freed him from hell, but bade him dwell amid the sons of men. Lady ! for us, an exile thus, immortal Poesy 'Came upon earth, and lutes gave birth to sweet- est minstrelsy ; And poets wrought their spellwords, taught by that angelic mind, And music lent soft blandishment to fascinate mankind. Religion rose ! man sought repose in the shadow of her wings ; Music for her walked harbinger, and Genius touched the strings : Tears from the tree of Araby cast on her altar burned, But earth and wave most fragrance gave where Poetry sojourned. Vainly, with hate inveterate, hell labored in its rage, To persecute that angel's lute, and cross his pil- grimage ; Unmoved and calm, his songs poured balm on sorrow all the while; Vice he unmasked, but virtue basked iu the radiance of his smile. Oh, where, among the fair and young, or in what kingly court, In what gay path where pleasure hath her favor- ite resort, Where hast thou gone, angelic one? Back to thy native skies ? Or dost thou dwell in cloistered cell, in pensive hermit's guise ? Methinks I ken a denizen of this our island nay. Leave me to guess, fair poetess ! queen of the matchless lay! The thrilling line, lady! is thine; the spirit pure and free ; And England views that angel muse, Landon ! revealed in THKK ! .V GOOD DllY ACCORDING TO BfiRANGKK, 8ONOSTBR. MY dwelling is ample, And I've set an example For all lovers of wine to follow ; If my home you should ask, I have drained out a cask, And I dwell in the fragrant hollow. A disciple am I of Diogenes Oh ! his tub a most classical lodging i. 'Tis a beautiful alcove for thinking ; 'Tis, besides, a cool grotto flor drinking: Moreover, the parish throughout You can readily roll it about. Oh ! the berth For a lover of mirth, To revel in jokes, and to lodge in ease, Is the classical tub of Diogenes ! In politics I'm no adept, And into ray tub when I've crept, They may canvass in vain for my vote. For besides, after all the great cry and hubbub, REFORM gave no "ten pound franchise" to mj tub ; So your " bill " I don't value a groat ! And as for that idol of filth and vulgarity, Adorned now-a-days, and yclept Popularity, To my home Should it come, And my hogshead's bright aperture darken, Think not to such summons I'd hearken. No! I'd say to that ghoul grim and gaunt, Vile phantom, a vaunt! Get thee out of my sight ! For thy clumsy opacity shuts out the light Of the gay, glorious sun From my classical tun, Where a hater of cant and a lover of fun Fain would revel in mirth, and would lodge i ease The classical tub of Diogenes ! In the park of St. Cloud there stare at you A pillar or statue Of my liege, the philosopher cynical : There he stands on a pinnacle, And his lantern is placed on tin- ground, While, with both ey tiv-,1 wholly on The favorite haunt of Napo' 254 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAIIONY. " A MAN !" he exclaims, " by the powers, I have found !" But for me, when at eve I go sauntering On the boulevards of Athens, " Love " carries my lantern ; And, egad ! though I walk most demurely, For a man I'm not looking full surely ; N-ay, I'm sometimes brought drunk home, Like honest Jack Reeve, or li'ke honest Tom Buncombe. Oh ! the nest For a lover of jest To revel in fun, and to lodge in ease, Is the classical tub of Diogenes. THE CARRIER-DOVE OF ATHENS. A DREAM, 1822. HELEN sat by my side, and I held To her lip the gay cup in my bower, When a bird at our feet we beheld, As we talked of old Greece in that hour ; A nd his wing bore a burden of love, To some fair one the secret soul telling Oh, drink of my cup, carrier-dove ! And sleep on the bosom of Helen. Thou art tired rest awhile, and anon Thou shalt soar, with new energy thrilling, To the land of that far-off fair one, If such be the task thou'rt fulfilling; But perhaps thou dost waft the last word Of despair, wrung from valor and duty Then drink of my cup, carrier-bird ! Aud sleep on the bosom of Beauty. Ha ! these lines are from Greece ! Well I knew The loved idiom ! Be mine the perusal. Son of France, I'm a child of Greece too ; And a kinsman will brook no refusal. " Greece is free!" all the gods have concurred To fill up our joy's brimming measure Oh, drink of my cup, carrier bird ! And sleep on the bosom of Pleasure. Greece is free ! Let us drink to that land, To our elders in fame! Did ye merit Tims to struggle alone, glorious band ! From whose sires we our freedom inherit? The old glories, which kings would destroy, Greece regains, never, never to lose 'em ! Oh, drink of my cup, bird of joy! And sleep on my Helen's soft bosom. Muse of Athens ! thy lyre quick resume ! None thy anthem of freedom shall hinder : Give Anacreon joy in his tomb, And gladden the ashes of Pindar. Helen ! fold that bright bird to thy breast, Nor permit him henceforth to desert you Oh, drink of my cup, winged guest ! And sleep on the bosom of Virtue. But no, he must hie to his home, To the nest where his bride is awaiting ; Soon again to our climate he'll come, The young glories of Athens relating, The baseness of kings to reprove, To blush our vile rulers compelling! Then drink of my goblet, dove! And sleep on the breast of inv Helen. THE FALL OF THE LEAVES. FROM THE FRENCH OF MILLEVOYE. AUTUMN had stripped the grove, and strewed The vale with leafy carpet o'er Shorn of its mystery the wood, Arid Philomel bade sing no more Yet one still hither comes to feed His gaze on childhood's merry path; For him, sick youth! poor invalid! Lonely attraction still it hath. "I come to bid you farewell brief, Here, O my infancy's wild haunt ! For death gives in each falling leaf Sad summons to your visitant. 'Twas' a stern oracle that told My dark decree, ' The woodland bloom. Once more 'tis given thee to behold. Then comes tlH inexorable tomb ! ' Th' eternal cypress, balancing Its tall form like some funeral thing O In silence o'er my head, Tells me my youth shall wither fast, Ere the grass fades yea, ere the last Stalk from the vine is shed. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONT. I die ! Yes, with his icy breath Fixed Fate has frozen up my blood ; And by the chilly blast of Death Nipped is my life'^j spring in the bud. Fall! fall, transitory leaf! And cover well this path of sorrow ; Hide from my mother's searching grief The spot where I'll be laid to-morrow. But should my loved one's fairy tread Seek the sad dwelling of the dead, Silent, alone, at eve ; Oh, then with rustling murmur meet The echo of her coming feet, And sign of welcome give ! " Such was the sick youth's last, sad thought: Then slowly from the grove he moved ; Next rnoon that way a corpse was brought, And buried in the bower he loved. But at his grave no form appeared, No fairy mourner: through the wood The shepherd's tread alone was heard In the sepulchral solitude. LINES ON TliE BURIAL OF A FRIEND'S DAUGHTER AT PASSY, JULY 16, 1832. FROM THE FRENCH OF CHATEAUBRIAND. ERE that coffin goes down, let it bear on its lid The garland of roses Which the hand of a father, her mourners amid, In silence deposes 'Tis the young maiden's funeral hour! .From thy bosom, earth 1 sprung that young '- budding rose Kii.l 'tis meet that together thy lap should in- close The young maid and the flower! N T ever, never give back the two symbols so pure Which to thec we confide ; Pn. in the breath of this world and ita plague-spot secure, Let them sleep side by side They shall know not its pestilent power! 80011 the breath of contagion, the deadly mildew, Or the fierce scorching sun, might parch up ;i they grew The young maid and the flower! Poor Eli/.a! for thee life's enjoyments have fled, But its pangs too are flown ! Then go sleep in the grave ! in that cold bridal bed Death may call thee his own Take this handful cf clay for thy dower! Of a texture wert thou far too gentle to last ; 'Twas a morning thy life! now the matins are past For the maid and the flower! PRAY FOR ME. A BALLAD. FROM THE KKFvrn or MILLEVOTH. ON 1118 DEATH-BED AT TKB VIL- LAGE OF NECIiLY. SILENT, remote, this hamlet seems How hushed the breeze ! the eve how